“Relax…quiet…you need to sleep…”
“No. Aldoff. He will find me.” Her voice was no more than a raspy whisper.
“No one will find you. No one will take you.”
The chill certainty in his tone made her shiver, even as she slipped back into sleep, as she realized she had yet to see his face.
When she woke, for the third time since she had bolted from Aldoff, Cigne did not move, but slowly opened her eyes, waiting to see if the throbbing resumed within her skull.
The place where she lay was no longer lit by a glow lamp, but by the diffuse, grayish light of afternoon, of a ten month afternoon. She could still hear the background hum of the wind, as low as it ever got during the tenth month.
Slowly…slowly, she inched her head sideways, toward the strongest light. Overhead, she saw the vaulted ceiling, one composed of beams supporting fitted planks, all of golden wood. While she was not a crafter, she recognized the workmanship as the sort that only skilled crafters or the merchants who sold and traded their works could afford.
Her eyes focused on the strange oval window, framed carefully within golden wood as well.
Through the clear off-planet glass, she could see trees, not the brittle bud spruces, but firs with heavier and darker trunks and, between the dark spruces, heavy bare-limbed trees. She had heard of the trees that had leaves that shed like the scrub bushes, but had never seen any so large before.
Click.
Her head jerked toward the sound. She winced as a muted throbbing began behind her eyes.
The man who stood inside the heavy door he had just eased shut could not have been much taller than she was. Slender, wiry, with golden hair curled tightly against his skull, he studied her without stepping toward her, without moving a muscle.
“How do you feel?”
“Not good.” Her voice rasped over the two words.
“Thirsty?”
“Yes.”
He turned toward a narrow alcove.
Cigne heard the sound of running water. Running water—she thought she had left that luxury when Aldoff had insisted they leave the Plains Commune for the woods beneath the mountain hills.
“Here.”
She had not heard him, nor seen him move, but he was kneeling next to her, offering a smooth cup.
Cold—that the water was. The chill eased the soreness in her throat, a soreness she had not felt before.
As close as he was, she could smell him. A scent of spice, a clean scent, so unlike Aldoff, and so different from the odor of sweat and dirt that had cloaked her farmer father and brothers.
Rather than dwell on his scent, she fixed her thoughts on the smoothness of the cup, with its simple yet elegant curves, and comfortable handle. A handle heavy without seeming so.
The glazed finish of the pottery held within it a web of fine lines, indicating it was hardly new.
Cigne had not realized how tightly she had gripped the cup until her fingers began to tremble.
“You can have more later…”
She surrendered the cup reluctantly and tried to keep from tensing her muscles as he eased her head onto a single thin pillow.
“Shouldn’t lift your head at all, but your eyes are clear.” He spoke softly, as though he were talking to himself, rather than to her.
With the pillow under her head, she took in the room more fully.
She lay on an elevated double width pallet, under a soft gray and red coverlet. On the far side of the large central room were two of the strange oval windows, wider than any she had seen—one opposite her. Before the other stood a desk. From the simple lines and the flow of the wood, Cigne saw it was the work of a master crafter, just like the rest of the woodwork she could see.
Even the grains of each plank in the wall between the twin off-planet windows seemed identical. Her mental efforts to compare the planks intensified the throbbing in her head. Cigne closed her eyes, still listening.
She could feel the man moving away from her, although she could not hear footsteps. When she eased her eyes back open, he was setting the old cup upon the desk.
She shivered, despite the warmth of the coverlet. But she could feel her eyes getting heavier.
The dwelling remained silent except for the moaning of the ten month winds.
LXIII
The woman sat on one side of the narrow drop table and picked up the empty cup one more time, studying the webwork of lines underneath the porcelain-smooth glaze. A simple cup, heavy, with a handle ample for a man, finished in a uniform off-gray. On one half was a golden diamond, faded. On the other was a stylized spruce tree, green and brown.
When she studied the two designs closely, she could see precise brush strokes, finely done under the heavy and clear glaze. Both the cup and the two designs were unique in small ways, almost in the feel of the cup and the sense of the designs. Both the object and its decoration had been produced by a skilled hand.
Cigne shook her head. The man who had rescued her from the ten month wind and storms, winds and storms which still were striking the surrounding hills periodically, had produced both house and cup. Or so he had said.
If he had, he was extraordinarily skilled. If he had not, he was rich, or a thief, or both.
Greg—that was the name he had offered. But she had refused to use it. So far she had avoided any form of address.
Click.
Cigne kept her eyes on the cup as he walked to the other side of the table.
“Feeling better?”
She nodded, but did not meet his eyes. The old legends had been dismissed by most, but she remembered to be wary about “the old man of the hills” with the demon-yellow eyes. Still, he had been nothing but gentle when easily he could have taken advantage of her.
He had not pressed when she had refused to discuss why she had been out in the storm or from whom or what she had fled.
In turn, she had not pressed him on how he could so easily dare the gusts that felled bigger men.
“Still don’t want to go back?” He waited for her answer.
This time, this time, she shook her head.
“What about Denv?”
“I have no money. No goods. No trade. Besides…a woman who cannot…without…” She stopped and looked up to see his reaction, but the smooth face with the near-elfin face remained impassive.
Finally, he spoke slowly.
“Forget money. Never a real barrier. Nor goods. You know enough.”
Her chin moved as if to nod, but she halted the movement almost before it started.
“Real problem elsewhere.”
She did not have to nod.
“No children?”
She looked down at the smooth inlays of the table, taking refuge in the abstract design of the dark and the light wood. Wondering how he had been able to set such intricate and curving strips of hardwood within the boundaries, and to match the repeating patterns so identically time after time.
“He blames you.”
Cigne could not trust her voice and continued to study the inlaid pattern of the table.
“Wondered about the bruises. Figures. Need population. Fewer children, but no recognition yet. Macho types. So far.”
His laugh, while gentle, was mirthless, and chilling, as if he understood something that no one else could possibly see.
Both his words and laugh had not been addressed to her, and she did not answer. Not that she had understood all that he had said, but the tone had been clear. He had not sounded pleased.
Cigne shivered.
Although “Greg” had not raised his voice around her, she could not forget how he had carried her through the winds that had staggered and stopped Aldoff, those winds that the strongest of the hill runners feared. She recalled the unyielding strength of his arms, a strength that made Aldoff seem childlike, and she reflected on his speed and the silent way he moved, so quickly he seemed not to cast a shadow.
“Money and a child—what a good widow needs…,” he
mused.
Cigne frowned, but looked up at the amused sound in his voice. He stood between the table and the nearer portal window.
As she glanced toward him, his eyes caught hers, and she was afraid to look away.
“Do you really want your heart’s desire, lady?”
Cigne looked down at the table, afraid to answer, afraid not to.
“Be careful with wishes, lady. Certain you will never return?”
“I am sure. I will never go back.”
“Suppose not. Not if you were willing to try the spout winds.” He turned halfway toward the oval transparency before his desk. “And the other makes sense. Especially if you could get to Denv. Not that it would be a problem.”
“Denv? Not a problem? It is kays and kays away.”
“No problem.”
He sat down in the strange leaning chair by his desk and pulled off the light black boots.
“Listen for a time, lady. Just listen.”
The lilt in his voice seemed more pronounced, and she looked toward him, but he was gazing into the window.
“Listen?” she asked.
“Just listen.” He turned back toward her, but she would not meet his eyes and stared at the dark spruces in the afternoon light.
“A long time ago, in a place like this, the people were dying, for each year they had less food, and each year there were fewer of them. The winter lasted into the summer and the summer was cold and short and filled with storms. And the summer storms were like the ten month storms, while the winter storms hurled boulders the size of houses and ripped gashes the size of canyons into the high plains.
“In this old time, a young man escaped from the cold and storms in a silver ship sent by the Great Old Empire That Was. And he went to the stars to learn what he could learn. He wished a great wish, and it was granted. And he came back to his place, and it was called Old Earth. And he broke the winter storms of the high plains. And he taught the people how to grow the grains and make the land bear fruit they could eat. But the storms elsewhere still raged, and the people in those places away from the high plains sickened and died, and the ten month storms raged through all the year but the short summer. And still the trees would not grow.
“The young man wished another great wish, and it was granted. But the price for the second wish was that he must leave his people forever. He climbed back to the stars, and in time he sent them the Rain of Life.
“The trees grew once more, and the people no longer sickened, and the summers returned. And the people were glad. In their gladness, they rejoiced, and as they rejoiced they forgot the young man and the two great wishes.
“As the great years of the centuries passed, the young man climbed back from the stars and returned to the place he had left. But it was not the same place. He was still young in body, but old in spirit. And his people were gone, and those who now tilled the soil and cut the trees turned away when they saw him. For they saw the stars in his eyes and were afraid.
“The women he had once loved had died and were dust, and those who saw him feared him and would have nothing to do with him
“But his wishes were granted.”
Cigne shivered at the gentle voice telling the fable that she knew was not a fable. She said nothing, but looked back down at the inlaid pattern on the table, endlessly repeating itself.
“There is a danger in wishing great wishes.”
She lifted her head, though she did not look at him, and spoke. “There is danger in not wishing.”
This time he nodded. “True. All wishes have their prices, and the price we agree to pay is the lesser of the prices we pay. Are you certain you wish to pay such a price? For you will pay more dearly than the spoken word can tell.”
Holding back a shiver, she nodded.
“Then listen again.”
He stood and turned toward the window. A single note issued from his lips, lingering in the late afternoon gloom like a summer sunbeam trapped out of season.
A second note joined the first, both singing simultaneously, before being replaced by a second pair, then a third.
Though she had never heard of the songs of an old man who looked young, she listened. Though she feared the demon who might kill with gentleness, though she had never heard of the double melody, and its double price, she listened. And she heard, taking in each note and storing it in her heart, though she knew each would someday wound as deeply as a knife.
A tear welled up in one eye, then the other, as she began to cry. And still she listened, and heard the sadness, and the loneliness, and the loves left long since behind, but not forgotten.
His arms reached around her shoulders, warm around her, and the song continued, along with her tears. The tears become sobs, and the sobs subsided.
As the last note died away, his lips fell upon hers, and her lips rose to his. She let her body respond to his heat and his song, knowing that the child would be a daughter, her daughter, for whom she would pay any price. For whom she would have to pay any price.
And one tear, and one kiss—they were for the old man who looked young and never had been.
One tear and one kiss, and a single great wish.
LXIV
The man glanced out the window, letting his eyes slide by the oval window that had once been the viewport of a ship even more ancient than he was.
His peripheral vision caught a movement, a dash of red, and his attention recentered on the scene outside. Outside, where the warmth of late spring slowly removed the last of the long winter snows. Outside, where only a scattered handful of snowdrifts remained, and where the golden oaks were putting forth the first leaves of the new season.
The figure in red was a woman, wearing a clinging pair of leather pants and a thinnish leather jacket. The jacket was doubtless imported, reflected the blond-haired man with a quirk to his lips. No local dyes or fabrics glittered that brightly, and the emerging local ethic opposed the use of synthetics except where no alternatives existed.
Looking around the central and golden wood-paneled room, he stepped back from the window. His smile was part amusement, part anticipation.
The winter, with the exception of a few pleasant interludes with those who needed what little he had to offer, had been long, as were all winters on Old Earth. While he could not refuse those in need, most were ignorant of the life beyond the High Plains. As he had once been. Only one had been farther than Denv. Denv, while a model of the environmentally oriented and integrated community, remained laudably practical.
The woman whose shiny leather boots now clicked on the stone walkway he had built years ago seemed haughtier than his earlier visitors, as if she might attempt to control him.
Control him?
He chuckled at the thought. Some had, but not by attempting to do so.
“Will you stoop that low?” he asked the empty air.
He grinned a cold grin in response to his own question.
Clack, clack.
The heavy wooden knocker sounded smartly, twice.
He opened the door without a word, surveying the woman who stood on the stones before him, waiting for her to speak. Her face was pale, and her shoulder-length hair was black. So were her eyes.
“You don’t look like the old devil of the hills.” Her voice was hard, like the shiny finish of her black leather pants and glittering red jacket. The accent was Old Earth, unlike the clothing.
“If I were a devil, would you expect me to look like one?” He did not smile, for the imported fragrance with which she had doused herself was overpowering, far more effusive to him than it would have been to most men. The perfume and her attitude both repelled him, while freeing him to toy with her.
“Not very big, either,” observed the black-haired woman.
“Am what I am.” He paused. “Would you care to come in?”
“What’s the price?”
“For what?”
He had almost stopped questioning those who came, stopped denying since denia
ls did no good. Perhaps his acceptance was a sign of age, age that had not showed in his face or body, or perhaps he had repressed the anger because he feared its release.
But this woman, with her hard and demanding attitude, her expensive imported clothes, who used her body for her own ends, deserved questioning, deserved contempt.
“For what you are rumored to provide.” Her painted lips tightened.
“Rumored to provide?”
“Off with the innocence, old devil. Those little girls, that boy. They all look like you. Never seen anyone else around here who looks so much like you.”
He stepped back and half bowed, satirically gesturing toward the main room.
“Please enter, lady. What little I have is yours for the moment.”
“Thanks.” Her heels clicked as she walked past him into his home.
Her eyes widened as she took in the paneling, the few carvings, the inlay work in the small table by the wall, and the antique books in the shelves.
“You must collect at double mastercraft.”
He almost chuckled at her overtly mercenary nature.
“Not a credit. No need to.”
“Not a credit,” she mimicked. “Then how did you get all this?”
“Magic.”
For the first time, the hard and self-assured expression on her face faded.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“I am Gramm Lostwin Horsten’s daughter.”
“And he is?” the former devilkid answered in a bored tone.
“Head Councilman of Denv.”
“I am suitably impressed.” So Lostwin had descendants around, descendants who had done well. Well indeed by their forebearer.
He smiled at the recollection of those times, and noticed that the brassy woman backed away.
She was not as young as her outfit proclaimed, well past first youth, and probably past thirty, perhaps even older if the devilkid genes ran strongly in the blood.
“Take it you have no offspring, and your husband may look to greener forests?”
The Forever Hero Page 85