by Andy Giesler
Now, Watcher Witless knew three things about his wife.
One was that she showed him no kindness nor charity nor patience—nor did he give her reason to. Because of that, it had been long years since she’d called him darling, or he’d called her precious.
The second was that when he’d left home to take the second watch, his wife had been asleep in bed and snoring quite loud.
But the third thing troubled him the most, so he asked the voice about it. “Say there! If you’re my wife, as you says you is, which I’m not saying you ain’t, why does your voice sound like a man’s?”
For a moment, the voice was silent. Then it called in answer, “Because, my darling, it’s proper chilly out here, and I’ve caught myself a cold. You know how hoarse I get! Open the gate and let me in, that your arms might warm me, my darling!”
And as he thought on it, he thought yes, folks do get colds, and folks with colds get hoarse. Well. It all sounded right and proper to him.
He was just about to climb down the ladder and open the gate when he thought more clearly, and the real reason of it struck him. He saw the wrongness of it: his wife, formerly sleeping, now outside the wall and calling him darling?
He saw the lie, and he knew the truth.
So he called back down:
“Say there, Bekkie, you scandalous wife! I know what you’re up to. You get you back to Hunter Hem’s farmstead and spend a cold night with him, for I’ve seen the way you look at him when he struts about the village!”
For which the voice had no answer.
And for a time it was again a quiet night, until a voice rose up from the darkness below:
“Dearest child! Sweet boy! Open the gate and let me in!”
Now, Watcher Witless very nearly went right down to the gate and opened it. But then, wise watcher that he was, it struck him that no person he knew would be outside the wall on a dark, quiet night calling him a child, and certainly not a sweet one. So after a moment of pondering, he called back down, “Say there! Who’s that in the darkness calling me a child?”
To which the voice said warmly, “It’s me, sweet boy! It’s me, your doting mother!”
Now, Watcher Witless knew three things about his mother.
One is that, though he wasn’t entirely sure what doting was, he was fairly sure his mother had never done it on him—nor had he given her reason to. And he felt very sure she had never called him dear child, let alone sweet boy.
The second was that his mother didn’t have a man’s voice. But, wise watcher that he was, he quickly realized that his mother must have caught cold and gone hoarse, just as his wife had.
But the third thing troubled him the most, so he asked the voice about it. “Say there! So you’re my mother—who’s been dead these many years?”
For a moment, the voice was silent. Then it called in answer, “Of course, sweet boy. I’m the smoke of your mother’s spirit from the Village of the Dead, come down from the stars to visit. Open the gate and let me in, that I might tell you all the secrets of the skies.”
And as he thought on it, he thought yes, a loving mother might come down from the stars to visit her beloved son. Or, if not a beloved son, then at least she might visit some critter who had long ago issued forth from her loins. Well. It all sounded right and proper to him.
He was just about to climb down the ladder and open the gate when he thought more clearly, and the real reason of it struck him. He saw the wrongness of it: his mother, who’d been dead these many years and who had never much cared for him as far as he could recall, making the difficult journey from the Village of the Dead and down from the stars to visit her unloved son?
He saw the lie, and he knew the truth.
So he called back down:
“Say there, Ma. I know what you’re up to. You get you back to the Village of the Dead! The secrets of the skies, is it? Ye’ve come to me with gifts from Gebohra Muerta, to poison me, and to poison all the World That Is!”
For which the voice had no answer.
And for a time it was again a quiet night, until a voice rose up from the darkness below:
“Open the gate, you fool, and let me in!”
Now, Watcher Witless very nearly went right down to the gate and opened it. But then, wise watcher that he was, it struck him that no person he knew would be outside the wall on a dark, quiet night calling him a fool. So after a moment of pondering, he called back down, “Say there! Who’s that in the darkness calling me a fool?”
To which the voice said roughly, “It’s your Weaver Who, back from pilgrimage. Now get down here and open that gate!”
Now, Watcher Witless knew three things about his village’s Weaver Who.
One is that she’d hurt her leg of late and was in no condition to pilgrimage. And, in fact, he’d seen her no fewer than three times that very afternoon, hobbling about the village and clearly in some good bit of pain.
The second was that her voice…well, as he thought on it, he realized her voice actually was very much like a man’s.
But the third thing troubled him the most, so he asked the voice about it. “Say there! If you’re our Weaver Who, why should you call me fool?”
For a moment, the voice was silent. Then it called in answer, “Because you are a fool?”
“But Weaver Who,” he yelled down, “You always call me a dolt.” And that made him mightily suspicious.
Then the voice called up, loud and angry, “Open the gate, you dolt, or I will climb this wall and skin you in the village Common!”
So Watcher Witless called back down, “Hey there, it’s you after all, Weaver Who! I’m real sorry for delaying you. I’ll be down right quick!”
Then he climbed down the ladder.
And he raised the beam.
And he pulled back the first latch.
And just as he began to pull the second latch, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a man’s voice behind him said gently, “What are you doing, dear child?”
So Watcher Witless explained it all to his pa, Watcher Wary, who had just arrived at midnight to take the third watch, while Watcher Witless’s daughter, Watcher Wakeful, climbed the ladder to wake the sleeping Watcher Weary, curled against the balustrade.
Old Watcher Wary always showed his son kindness and charity and patience, even though Watcher Witless gave him no reason to. Now and again, he even doted. So once he’d heard the story of it, he patted his son’s shoulder and shook his head and explained the wrong paths that Watcher Witless had taken that evening. “Get you to sleep, son,” he said, “and get good rest. And tomorrow, Grandmother Root willing, you’ll watch us better than you did this night.”
The fire is down, the stars are up,
And that is all I have to tell.
Now, count your blessings, this dark night,
That your wise watchers watch you well.
2
Shepherd Gabriel and the Favorite Place
Gabriel charged along the edge of Slowbird creek, half lost reflecting on his conversation with Surecreek’s weaver. She’d had no idea where her daughter might go. But she’d known other things. Things that had startled him.
His destination was only a hunch hung on a half-remembered remark. He wouldn’t have remembered at all, except that he knew the place, too, and he enjoyed visiting it now and again. The place Young Root had mentioned wistfully after Festival nearly thirteen years before.
A little waterfall northwest of Surecreek, just off Slowbird Creek.
Just ahead.
He slowed to a jog, then a walk, then crept toward the clearing as quietly as he could. If he was right, she’d see him coming no matter the direction of his approach. His only hope was keeping to cover and hiding in the noise of the waterfall.
Through the brush, Gabriel saw something moving. Someone. He slid up to an old maple and peered around the edge. Saw the mismatched, baggy, stolen clothes. The new pink skin, the head burned clear of hair or eyebrows. The absolute focus as the y
oung woman crouched, ready to grab something from beneath the water. And even though he’d half expected what he saw, he couldn’t suppress a low moan.
Before he’d finished moaning, he was on the forest floor with a sharp stone to his throat.
“Who are you?!” she demanded.
“Oh God,” he whispered, staring up at her. “Aura Lee.”
The young woman loosened her grip on his throat. “How do you know that name?”
He lay there a moment, lost. Looking up at her, then looking away from the face he couldn’t bear. Her, as he hadn’t seen her since the Reckoning. He could remember almost nothing from that time clearly, but when he saw her, he fell in on himself. He thought he’d forgotten how to weep. “How could I not know that name?” he asked.
She pressed the stone harder against his throat. “You’re Shepherd Gabriel,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
“You here to kill me?”
“No,” he said simply, unable to look at her.
Still holding him down, she took the stone from his throat.
“You shouldn’t believe me,” he said.
“Well, I don’t guess I do. But I figure you’re more likely to speak with me civilized if I don’t threaten to cut a hole in your neck. At least if I don’t threaten it quite so obvious. You figure that, too?”
“Yes.”
“And though I could sure be wrong, seems like right now you haven’t got near so much fight in you as I have in me. That sound right to you, too?”
“Sounds right.”
“Well then, we got us an understanding.” She let his throat free and sat back on her haunches. “You do anything that’s not neighborly, I suppose I might do something about it.”
“Brave words for an apprentice woodsmith facing down a shepherd,” Gabriel said.
She paused and seemed to think about that for a moment. “Maybe not so much brave. Maybe I just know some things about myself that you don’t.”
“Maybe I know them, too,” he replied.
3
Beyond the Pit
“Well then,” I said to Shepherd Gabriel, “we got us an understanding.” I set his throat free and sat back on my haunches. “You do anything that’s not neighborly, I suppose I might do something about it.”
Shepherd Gabriel said, “Brave words for an apprentice woodsmith facing down a shepherd.”
I paused to think about that a moment. “Maybe not so much brave. Maybe I just know some things about myself that you don’t.”
“Maybe I know them, too,” he said. And when he said it he didn’t sound proud nor nothing of the kind. He just sounded real sad.
I probably don’t need to tell you, even though I sounded smooth as pond ice when I spoke to Gabriel, I could hardly think straight for the twisting of my guts and the kicking of my heart. Shepherd Gabriel seemed well and truly whupped for no reason I could imagine, but he was still a shepherd. He worried me.
After I let him go, he just sat there on the ground, looking at me then looking away then looking back at me again. I decided to give him a moment to knit hisself back together. Maybe not the wisest thing, letting him catch his breath. But it seemed the decent thing.
Finally, when I couldn’t stand it no more, I said, “Well, Shepherd Gabriel, you still need to tell me how you know that name. Aura Lee.” The name I’d heard inside my head three years before. The name that was spoken by a voice I thought nobody else could hear.
He took a long breath and sat up straighter. Looked at me a moment, then he asked, “How do you know it?”
I wasn’t sure how much I cared to share with him right then, so I just said, “I heard it once.”
He thought on that, then asked, “Where?”
“Seems to me I’ve been real generous with you just now,” I said. “What with not killing you and all.” I had no idea whether I could’ve killed him. And even if I could’ve, I wouldn’t’ve. Still. “So how about you answer a question straight?” I asked.
“You heard it somewhere in the middle of your head,” he said softly.
And I’ll say, that pulled me up short. “Maybe,” I said. “How do you know that?” And wouldn’t you know it? He went on not answering my questions.
He sat up into a squat. That troubled me. I must’ve grabbed the rock harder or flinched or something, because he waved his hand and shook his head, like as to say I needn’t worry. Then he said, “Deborah, you need to come with me.”
“My name is Root,” I said.
“Okay. Root. But you still need to come with me.”
“Why would I do that? And where would we go?”
“We’ll go to Haven. The shepherds’ home. And you’ll go because there’s so much you need to know. It’s dangerous for you not to know. If we go there, I’ll tell you what you want to know, and I’ll keep you safe.”
I squinched up my face at him. “Shepherd Gabriel, have you forgotten how to speak in the last couple of heartbeats?”
“Of…of course not,” he said, seeming confused.
“Well then, explain why I would go with you to the shepherds’ village, where I’m not sure I care to go, to be surrounded by folks I’m not sure I care to be surrounded by, when you can talk fine right here and tell me what I need to know?”
He chuckled outright. I got the feeling he didn’t do that often. “There are some things I can’t explain, that you wouldn’t understand, unless I can show you. But fair is fair. I’ll answer a few things now if you’ll agree to come with me for the rest.”
And you know what? I still feel a little bit wrong about what I did next. Because I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no, neither. And clear as clear, he thought I meant yes. Sometimes it’s as much of a lie to say nothing as to say something.
I’m sorry for that. But I’d probably do it again.
I asked, “Am I a shepherd?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “But you’re something like a shepherd.”
“Hunh. Let’s round back on that later. But first, there’s something…something my ma said, just before she…well. Before she took me to the Pit. She did as she ought, I suppose. Weaver’s Burden. But before she did it, she said something that troubles me. I was sick from the Unkind Cup, so I don’t recall it clearly, but she…is…” Then I asked the question that I wasn’t sure I wanted answered: “Is she really my ma?”
And to my surprise, he answered without hints or fluff. “She is really your ma because she raised you. But she didn’t give birth to you.”
Then I asked a question that seemed even more unlikely, but still. Somehow I think I knew. “Am I…am I your sightless friend’s daughter? The Shepherd Lee?”
“Not exactly. Not in the way you mean. You’re…it’s complicated. I don’t think I can explain it right now.”
“Try.”
He shook his head. “Root, that question needs to wait for Haven.” He stood and brushed off his cloak. “We should get started now. It’s a long walk.”
“Shepherd Gabriel?”
“Yes, Root.”
“I know you’re a shepherd, and I’m just an apprentice woodsmith. But if we were to fight, you and me, who do you suppose would win?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, but it sounded to me like he was sure. Then, to his credit, he said, “You would, most likely. But I’m not completely sure.”
“Well then. If you want, you can answer my question. Or if you want, you can try taking me to Haven. But if you try taking me to Haven, we’ll find out who’d win.”
“All right,” he said. “It won’t make sense to you, but I’ll tell it to you as simply as I can. Surecreek knew the woman who bore you as the Shepherd Lee. So very long ago, her name was Aura Lee Rosada. She called herself Lee.”
“So very long ago?” I asked. “You don’t mean before the Reckoning. Before the World That Is?”
“I do mean that.”
“You’re saying she was alive back then?”
“She was.”
/>
“And I suppose you were, too?”
“I was, too.”
Which I knew was a lie. Nobody could be alive from so far back. So many years they couldn’t be counted. When I was a girl on pilgrimage, I’d heard the Humble Weaver say it was more than fifty generations since the Reckoning, and maybe more like a hundred. He had to be lying.
Didn’t he?
“So, Shepherd Lee. Aura Lee. She’s my ma?”
“That’s…complicated. She’s not your ma in quite the way you understand it. There’s no better way to say this quickly, and I doubt you’ll believe me, but you wanted the truth. You’re not Aura Lee’s daughter, not exactly. In a way, you’re Aura Lee.”
Which was pure nonsense. Yet he didn’t seem to be lying. “I am not no such thing.”
He shrugged. “You wanted the truth. I can’t make you like it.”
He was itching to leave. I figured he’d tell me no more, holding back answers to make me come with him. So I asked him something easier, hoping to warm him up to better answers. “What does an Aura do?”
He seemed not to understand the question, so I said, “I’m Apprentice Woodsmith Deborah. Or was. Not sure what I am now. But I was to be a woodsmith. You’re Shepherd Gabriel. You’re a shepherd. My ma is Weaver Root. She’s a weaver. So, my other ma, she was Aura Lee. Is an aura some kind of shepherd?”
“Ahhhh…” And he crouched there for a while, almost like he was trying to remember the answer. Thanks to my years with Woodsmith Abram, the wait didn’t try me.
“So very long ago, folks weren’t named for their trades,” Gabriel explained. “They were named for their families. Aura Lee’s family name was Rosada. As for the first part of her name, ‘Aura Lee?’ Back in that time, some folks made their trade by singing.” He sounded sad, like he missed that time. And a time when some folks’ trade was singing? I half missed it, too, even though I’d never seen it. “Aura Lee’s father loved the music of a great and famous singer called…bless it. I can’t recall his name. Anyway, her father’s favorite tune was called ‘Aura Lee.’ So when she was born, he gave her that as a name. ‘Aura’ isn’t a trade. Aura Lee’s just a pretty name from a pretty song.”