by Andy Giesler
His voice got louder and clearer, and I realized I truly was hearing his voice, but no, no, it wasn’t his voice. It was some other voice much like it. A voice that was going on softly in that gentle Alter way. It was going on about Outcasts, and shepherds, and weavers, and most ’specially about what to do with me.
So I asked, “Can I have a say in this?”
The voice, whoever’s it was, stopped, though a couple of other voices made little gasping sounds. Then I made a gasping sound of my own, because I’d tried to lever myself up with my left arm. That reminded me how it felt when my whole body seemed nothing but pain. I laid back down again with a whuff.
Somebody stepped over and kneeled down beside me and wiped something cool and wet across my brow. Which I’ll tell you, felt awful good.
“The little rabbit joins us,” said a woman’s voice, perhaps my ma’s age. “Good. We feared you might not wake at all.”
I nodded slow and collected my thoughts.
“Prepare yourself. I’ll lift your head that you may drink. Make your body gentle and help me not, or you’ll suffer more than needs be.”
Her hand was soft, and her arm was strong. She slipped them behind my neck and lifted me enough to bring a mug to my lips, and I grunted with the pain of it, but I accepted the drink. The smell of it was like a kiss on my cheek. Fellworry, deeprose, other wholesome things. This woman knew mending.
She held me there long enough to drain the mug, her arm not so much as quivering, then she laid me back down as gentle as she’d lifted me.
“Thank you,” I said.
Her voice smiled. “Thank you for being awake. This is much less easy for one who sleeps. You will drink more when you wake again, and perhaps eat. But before you sleep, I am called Rachel, a healer of the Family Yoder. Will you share your name with me?”
“Root,” I said before I could think better of it. My stomach squeezed real brief with fear at telling my true name, but somehow it just wouldn’t stay tight.
“Root? Ah.” And Rachel paused just a moment, but long enough for all the warmth to drain from her voice and leave a colder one in its place. “You bear the First Weaver’s name. Your staff made us wonder. So. You are a weaver, then.”
I was so muzzy with pain and sleep I couldn’t keep my lies straight. Didn’t even want to keep them straight no more. I was so weary of lies, and of living among liars. These folk seemed to mean me no harm. I set caution aside.
“No,” I said. “I was born Root, as my ma was a weaver. But I left the weaver’s path some long while back to apprentice as a woodsmith.”
“Oh! A woodsmith!” And now the warmth was back in this Alter woman’s voice, and more besides, as well as in the voices of at least three other Alters who murmured in a circle around me. For Alters they were, and there’s few things an Alter appreciates more than a woodsmith. I suppose somebody leaving the weaver’s path to become one must have seemed an extra treat.
“Good. Good. Woodsmith Root,” Rachel said, stroking my hair. “Good. We thank you for trusting us with your name. Now rest. The healing cup will tend your wounds while you sleep. When next you wake, we’ll speak more.”
You know what? Deeprose is a lovely thing.
Between the warmth in my belly against the cool night air, and the sound of a fire popping, and her hand gentle on my head, I don’t suppose I took three more breaths before I was off and away once more.
3
Together
I didn’t know how long I’d slept before we first spoke, nor how long I slept after. But when I woke, despite the angry throbs in my back and shoulder, I felt more whole than I had in some time. In years, really.
When I woke, Rachel was beside me. “Woodsmith Root joins us,” she said soft to the others. I heard some bodies move toward me. Again, Rachel’s soft, warm hand stroked my head. Then a different hand took up mine, a hand that was large and firm and rough from hard work. For some reason, it jiggled my hand up and down real brief.
“Woodsmith Root,” said the voice, rumbling deep like Abram’s as he set my hand free. “I am called Aaron, of the family Rote. I am a farmer. I am also a deacon of the second southwest church district of Nyehoff. Do you know what this means, a deacon?”
I nodded. “I think so. Something like a weaver, but for Alters.”
He paused a moment, like maybe I’d dropped a turd in his sweet potatoes. Then he said, “Yes. Something like.”
He didn’t say nothing for a spell, which felt familiar and comfortable. I was content to enjoy the quiet ’til it broke all on its own. Finally he said, “If you wish to share it, we would know how you came to be injured. But if not, your business is your own, and we will not ask you further. Either way, we pledge to watch over you however you need, for however long you’ll accept our care.”
Which, I will just say right now, was a puzzlement to me.
All I knew of the Alters was what Abram had told me, and given how he was, that wasn’t much. I knew he was a kind and gentle man, and I knew he’d been treated most awful at the Alters’ hands. Also, of all the Alter holy stories Abram told me, the ones with vengeance and murder were the most exciting, so those had stuck with me. I’d been living with that in my head: with the idea that Alterfolk were a cruel and impatient people.
Yet these Alters seemed nothing like that. Which brought to mind one of Abram’s stories that was exciting even though it had kindness in it. Some fellow, foolishly traveling alone to Market, is left for dead by Outcasts at the roadside. After good and proper folk pass by him without so much as tarrying, a lone Outcast tends to him and takes him to safety.
So I thought: maybe each Alter decides which stories to live by, whether by wrath or by love. Which ain’t so different from us Weaverfolk, I guess.
I was sick from hiding the truth. I was weary from clenching my whole body for the last three years. I decided to trust them. “Outcasts,” I said. And I told them the story of how Aylee and Eulee took me from the road and mistreated me for years, and of how I’d finally managed to sneak away.
I left out how I’d killed Eulee, and why I was alone on the Market road when Aylee and Eulee took me. Yet, as a wonderment and a gift, Aaron didn’t ask no more than I cared to tell. He seemed straight and true when he promised not to poke at my business.
As I reached the end of my story, my heart started kicking like it does. “Aylee,” I said. “She knows the woods so good. She might have tracked me. She might come after you with her bow for helping me.”
“That an Outcast did this is no surprise. No others would use a bow. We understood the danger. But our wise healer says you’re not to move for two more days at least. If Outcasts visit before then, we’ll see what happens. Until then, we’re content to wait with you.”
“I surely do appreciate your kindness, but you don’t know the awfulness of this Outcast. How many of you are there?”
And that gave him pause. Then he said, “Surely a woodsmith can count?”
“Oh, I can count well enough, but only what I can feel or hear.”
Well. What followed was a proper Alter silence, no doubt in part because in Altland, folks without sight went straight to the Pit. After a moment, I felt something waving right in front of my face. Decided not to say nothing about it. That would only confuse things.
“Yet…you’re a woodsmith,” Rachel said softly. “How can you be, without seeing?”
“Only an apprentice woodsmith,” I said. “The Outcasts took me before I was made a worthy woodsmith.”
“Even so,” said Aaron, “a woodsmith needs his eyes.”
“I guess you get used to things when you’ve got no choice in it. I make do. You’d make do.”
After a moment, Aaron said, “We have taken counsel among ourselves while you slept. Your need is greater than ours. We will take you to your village if you wish to share its name. If you do not wish to share it, we will go with you to Market, that the shepherds and your weavers may guide you.”
It was
sad and clear that they wouldn’t be taking me to Surecreek. And if they took me to Market, I had a real good idea of just exactly where the shepherds and weavers would guide me. I’d been in there once before, and this time I didn’t think I’d be able to get back out.
“If you don’t mind me asking, where are we now, and where are you going?”
“We are near the west bank of the Highcrest, a day’s walk south of Newbridge. We travel to Mannsfield to trade knowledge of healing.”
Which was real gratifying, I’ll tell you. With all my guessing and figuring, stealing bits of truth that Eulee didn’t mean to share, I’d been right. When I left their home, I hoped to reach Through by way of Newbridge, and from there make my final journey. And even though I missed Newbridge by a day? It seemed a job well done given the circumstance. And if these good Alters were heading toward Newbridge, too, why, that suited me just fine.
“Your offer of Market’s real kind. More than kind. But do you think I might just come along with you as far as Newbridge? I’ve got, well, I’ve got a friend at Through who I hope might help me.”
Aaron thought a moment. Finally, he said, “We will. We will go with you to Newbridge, and from there we will see you safely to Through.”
That was more than I hoped or cared for, since I might not be entering Through by the front gate. But I decided getting to Newbridge would count for a great deal. Once we were there, I’d find some way to take my leave of them.
“Thank you,” I said. “Your kindness leaves me humble.”
Hearing a proper Alter response seemed to please them.
“It is well,” Rachel said. “Now. Tea and broth are a blessing, but you must have food for mending. Rest while we prepare the Common supper.”
4
Apart
Besides the three days they’d already spent watching over me, those good folks waited with me three more, ’til I’d eaten and drank and rested enough to settle my body, and ’til I could move on my own. Then, without much fuss, we packed up camp and headed north to Newbridge.
The East Highcrest Road up from Altland was a proper road, and well traveled. Rather than taking that one for their journey, Aaron and Rachel’s troop had taken the West Highcrest Road, which was hardly fit to be called a road for most of its length. That suited the Alters, since they didn’t care to meet any more of us peculiar folk than they had to.
Which was good. I didn’t care to, neither.
It was a long day’s walk to Newbridge, and a quiet one with Alters for company, though one fellow named Samuel entertained us with whistling like none I’d heard. Since we hadn’t started early, we had to make camp again before we reached the village. When we bedded down, I was anxious to cross at Newbridge the next morning and be on my way to Through—where, fool that I was, I hoped Miller Daivit might give me aid for my final journey. Yet it turned out well that we stopped, for when I woke next morning, I saw things more clear as they truly were.
That I had no good reason to visit Through.
Visiting there would take me at least two days off my path each way, with no real sureness of getting help when I arrived. Eulee’s list told me where I had to go in the end, and more or less when I had to be there, and a visit to Through might make me miss the needful time. These good Alter folk were giving me all the help I needed, and they were going in the direction I needed to go, besides.
And as sometimes happens, seeing the truth of things was a sadness. Three years past, when Miller Daivit was the only person in the World That Is who I dared ask for help, I saw no other place but Through where I might go. But I understood that morning with a clearer mind: I wouldn’t be going to Through for his help no more. I’d be going for other reasons.
And just then, I had no time for other reasons.
That morning I told Rachel I’d like to travel on with them a bit longer, up a ways past Newbridge. She said she’d speak with Aaron on it. A few moments later, she said that would be well with them.
We stopped at Newbridge to trade for provisions, though no longer than my Alter friends could bear being in a village full to brimming with us wicked Weaverfolk. I wondered how they’d fare once they reached Mannsfield and started their sharing, since that village was a good pinch larger than Surecreek.
Well. A good pinch larger than Surecreek used to be.
Nothing exciting happened the rest of that day, nor that night, nor the morning of the next. Right around noon we reached the Old Crossing, where the Old Way from Mannsfield to the Somber crosses another Old Way that goes from noplace to noplace else.
To us back then, the Old Ways were curious things. Some folks said they were dried up rivers, but that seemed silly to me. No river runs so straight nor true as the Old Ways. Now we know the reason of them from so very long ago, of how they were wondrous roads beyond our imagining. But when I was young, we didn’t know just what to make of them. Weavers ain’t much for roads, preferring secret paths in the woods. But when they do use a road, it’s most likely an Old Way. And though it had been ten years or more, I knew this place well. And I knew where I needed to go from here.
I thanked the Alters for their kindness, and I managed to stop myself from wishing that Grandmother Root would smile on them, which to them would feel about like Gebohra Muerta smiling, I guess. But I wished them good fortune and all good things in their travels.
They were distressed at my leaving, Grandmother bless them. “We can’t leave you here with no village nearby,” Aaron said. “Come with us to Mannsfield. We’ll look after you a while longer, and we’ll consider it a blessing.”
“You folks are kinder than I could have hoped, and kinder than I can ever return,” I said. “But though this seems to you like noplace, to me it’s someplace for certain. My skins are full, but if I can ask another favor, and if you’d spare me a few days’ food, I’d be more grateful to you than I already am, if such a thing is even possible.”
It took some persuading to take my leave, but in the end, they sent me on my way with more food than I’d asked. In saying good-bye, Aaron grabbed my hand and jiggled it up and down as he had before, which I wasn’t sure what to make of. Rachel kissed my brow and touched my arm, which might be as much affection as an Alter is able to show. The others—there were five others—they each said their good-byes and wished me well, though without no more brow kissing nor hand jiggling, just a friendly “Good-bye” from a friendly Alter distance.
I listened as they walked away, then I listened some more to nothing at all. Then, after a while, I picked up my pack and began the walk north to the Divide, whether to hope or to fear, I couldn’t just say.
Yes, honeybee, that’s right.
Oh, now. Please don’t shush him, ma’am. This will be an awful dull affair if I’m the only one who says anything. Besides, he said something that needs saying.
Yes, honeybee, you’re entirely and surely most very right. That is just where I was going. I was going to find the Hidden Folk. I didn’t know who I was going to find, of course. Maybe nobody else could have found them, except themselves, but I can take no great credit for that. I’d not have known when and where to find them either, but for two lucky things.
First, that I was raised by a weaver.
And second, that when he was reeking of the Strong Drink, one of the most awful Outcasts to taint the World That Is regaled me with his stories of chimeras.
Oh my. You know what? I entirely forgot to tell you that, didn’t I? Gracious, I do forget things that matter sometimes. I surely apologize.
I never did say how Eulee’s list showed me the answer to everything.
5
The Truth I Saw
In the years since I met Shepherd Gabriel by the banks of Slowbird Creek, I kept rounding back on two things he said.
First, he said the Nothing was behind it all. It made some folks shepherds, and some folks chimeras, and it made me…well. Whatever I was.
And second, he said shepherds had a tool to wake the Nothing.
Despite my growing mistrust of shepherds, I believed him. He seemed earnest when he said it, and it made a funny kind of sense to me, and like I said, I was good at hearing truth from lies. And those two things made me wonder: Why were there chimeras at all?
It’s not like shepherds were running around using their tools to make chimeras. Shepherds hated chimeras. When a chimera happened, shepherds descended like a hailstorm and put it down. So I knew chimeras were happening some other way, and that the shepherds couldn’t find it or stop it. Because if they could find it or stop it? Why, there would be no chimeras at all.
Best I could guess, there were other tools someplace that the shepherds didn’t hold. Maybe shepherds lost some tools. Maybe some were left from so very long ago. Maybe Gebohra Muerta herself walked the World That Is making chimeras with tools of her own. And maybe one of those tools woke the Nothing within me.
I didn’t care which of those was true. All I cared was to find one of those tools. It might return me to how I was for those three wondrous years after my Honeynock. Or if things went the other way? If I became a chimera? That wasn’t so bad, neither. Then some shepherds or weavers would find me and end my troubles at last.
So I had every reason to find one of those tools. And if I could find where chimeras happened, might be I could find a tool there. But if the shepherds couldn’t find them, how could I? And the answer to that was clear.
I couldn’t.
Except for Eulee.
Not long after I learned Eulee’s list, I noticed something peculiar: nearly every chimera showed up not real far from a weaver holy place. But noticing that didn’t help me much. Without sharing secrets about weaver holy places, I can say they’re scattered all over the World That Is. I could have spent the rest of my life walking those holy places, and yet still not manage to step on every handspan of land near them. So I gave up. I’d been content, in a way, before I was like a shepherd. I decided to find some way to escape Aylee and Eulee and become content again.