The Moorchild by Eloise McGraw Page B

back toward her. He was telling some tale that held the others spell-struck and gaping.
    Saaski glanced regretfully at the smithy and cottage, just a few steps along the rutted street; she could not reasonably get close enough to hear the story—though doubtless she would hear it on every side tomorrow. Hitching up her heavy load, she picked her way down onto the street and across it. She was enjoying the feel of the cool grassy mud under her feet when she realized the buzzing of the voices had ceased. Peering around the fringe of her bracken fronds, she saw the group by the well standing silent, every head turned her way. Even old Fiach’s dog was gawking at her.
    She halted, her throat closing with alarm. What could it have to do with her? Then she saw the storyteller’s face.
    It was the shepherd. The Tom Noddy with his “pixie.” He’d actually done what she said, and come to ask Yanno himself if he had a child. So had he asked Yanno? Or just gathered the village to set them gaping with his tomfool tale?
    Either way, Yanno would know how far she’d strayed today.
    Whirling away, she stomped on to the cowshed, yanked open the door, flung her heavy bundle to the earth floor and kicked it hard. She stood a moment flexing her hands, which were sore from clinging to the bindweed. Then she grabbed the wooden rake from where it leaned near the doorway, furiously cleared away Moll’s old bedding, and began to spread the new.

7
    Yanno appeared in the shed doorway before she had finished spreading the bracken in Moll’s stall.
    “Leave that,” he said. “Come into the room with me.”
    He turned away at once. Saaski hesitated, then dropped the ferns she was holding and reluctantly followed him out of the lean-to and into the cottage. From the dooryard she darted a glance toward the storytelling group; it was scattering, as if every listener had suddenly remembered a task. Beyond them up the street she glimpsed Anwara’s blue shawl.
    Yanno lifted the latch, ducked under the low door frame, and stepped down heavily onto the sunken earth floor, shoving aside one of Anwara’s hens that was disputing the way with him. Saaski caught the bird and tossed it outsidein a flurry of feathers and wild clucking, then followed Yanno and stood warily meeting his eyes.
    “Shepherd came to my smithy an hour ago,” Yanno said without preamble. “Asked me did I have a child so high.” He held out a big hand. “ ’Twas you he saw this morning?”
    Saaski nodded.
    Yanno studied her a moment, then made a half-embarrassed gesture. “Said he thought t’was a pixie. One he’d seen afore.”
    “Said it to me, too,” Saaski mumbled. “He’s some kind of noddikins, is what I thought.”
    “He’s cousin to Cattila—young Hungus’s wife, up the street here. Name’s Mikkel. Never heard he was addled.” Yanno paused. “Maybe not too bright. You never saw him afore, then?”
    Saaski swallowed, tried to say “never,” ended by shrugging.
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Means I dunno! I might’ve—when I was little, and kept running off. Can’t recollect.”
    “Ahh, that could be it,” said Yanno, and he sounded oddly relieved. Then he frowned again. “Where was it this morning? That he ran onto you?”
    “Well, um, up above the Highfield, like.”
    “That’ll be wasteland, but Torskaal land. Our grazing. He lives other side of the moor. Never comes our way.”
    “It was on the moor, then,” said Saaski unwillingly.
    “Aye, there ’tis! Now, I’ve told you! Stay on village land! You’re ever in mischief! I’ll lay odds you was plaguing his sheep.”
    “I wasn’t! I was just—I fell asleep.”
    “ Asleep? In the middle of the moor there? Child, that’s daft.”
    Well, I was sleepy, Saaski thought. However, she knew better than to say it. Yanno did not like argufying young ones. Instead she chewed her lip and looked elsewhere.
    Yanno turned away with an exasperated gesture. “Eh, then, you listen to me! Stay off