The Ropemaker by Peter Dickinson

Gathering most years, to trade and gossip, and last year Da had taken both her and Anja with him. But no one had been to the winter Gathering since she could remember, and there’d been no question of Meena going even to the midsummer one because of her hip.
    “I’ll ask him, if you like,” said Tilja.
    “You’ll do no such thing. You’ll tell him. From me.”
    Tilja grinned at her and got a scowl back, but that evening at supper she said, “Meena wants me to go with her to the Gathering.”
    “Me too,” said Anja.
    Da frowned, and was starting to shake his head when Ma said, with sudden, unusual firmness, “Yes, they must go. They’ll need a horse.”
    “Not Calico,” said Tilja quickly.
    “I can spare Tiddykin for a day or two,” said Ma. “She’s not up to carrying the pair of you, so—”
    “Three of us,” interrupted Anja, perfectly aware there wasn’t any question of her going, but characteristically not missing the chance of a bit of spoiling and petting to make up for it. This time, though, she’d misjudged the mood.
    “Anja, be quiet,” said Ma. “You’ll have to walk the whole way, Tilja, but you won’t get there and back in a day, this time of year, anyway, so you can stay with Grayne, and you won’t get too tired. All right, my dear?”
    Tilja glanced anxiously at Da. She’d scarcely ever heard Ma take charge like this before—that was his job. He didn’t look surprised or put out, though, but simply nodded and that was that.
    Aunt Grayne looked like a plumper, jollier version of Ma. She had married a farmer’s son whose family owned a rich bit of land by the river. His father had died when Tilja was a baby, and he was the farmer now. Their house was larger and newer than Woodbourne, with glass in the kitchen windows, but they didn’t give themselves airs.
    Despite what Ma had said, it had seemed a weary distance to walk, all the way from Woodbourne, and by the time Tilja led Tiddykin into the yard she was far too tired to pay much attention to what was going on, and fell asleep almost as soon as she’d finished her supper. But next morning, when they were alone in the kitchen, Grayne said, “Tilja, I’m truly sorry for you. I know what it’s like. It happened to me, too, you know, having a little sister who could hear the cedars, when I couldn’t.”
    “Oh, Aunt Grayne, why didn’t they tell me long, long ago?”
    “Because you don’t start hearing the cedars the moment you’re born, or even as soon as you can talk. You sort of grow into it. I wouldn’t know, of course, but that’s what your mother says. It wasn’t too late for you last summer, even. . . .”
    “That’s why Ma took me to the lake!”
    “Yes, but then, when she realized Anja was starting to listen to the cedars . . . As I say, I’m sorry, Tilja. I know how it feels.”
    “You really minded?”
    “I don’t think I stopped crying for a month. There were times when I felt I could have killed Selly.”
    Yes, thought Tilja. Aunt Grayne had known how it felt.
    “But you’re happy now?” she said.
    “Yes, of course. Very. I often dream about Woodbourne, but . . .”
    “But you don’t come there. That’s why we always have to visit you.”
    “Yes, I decided if I had to stop loving it . . . I don’t know how I can help you, my dear. The best I can tell you is that you’re going to have to make a life of your own, and that’s good. If you’d been able to hear the cedars you’d have had no choice. You would have belonged to Woodbourne all your life—just as much as Woodbourne would have belonged to you—more, perhaps. You’d have had to marry somebody and have children, so that there’d be a daughter who could hear the cedars and belong to Woodbourne when her time came. Your grandmother . . . no, that’s her story, if you can ever get her to tell you. She’s very fond of you, by the way.”
    Tilja was still trying to think of an answer when they heard Meena’s hoarse shout from the