“Good day, Miss Strand.”
I carry the piece of stationary toward home. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know how to write anything except my name and figures. My grandfather, may the ground keep him safe, taught me so that I could track our earnings and expenditures, not that we. . . .
I fold the paper in half and again, and tuck it under my blouse where the vest will hold it. The paper feels harsher there than it does to my hands.
The giant is working at the foot of one of the cherry trees that grow in a row along the road leading out of the village. Under a crust of damp earth, the soil is bone dry.
In spring the cherry trees are pink, the first blush after long, pale winter. Now that I know that he could care less about me I’m not shy anymore. “What are you doing?”
He keeps working for a while before he answers. “Healing the tree.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
He works for a moment, then slowly lifts his hand. A fat, dark bug squirms between his fingers. He drops it in a bucket. I look in there—he’s caught dozens of them. They crawl over each other and around the edges of the bucket, round and round.
“Do you go to the Godrent sometimes?” I ask.
“Yep.” He doesn’t look at me. I don’t mind.
“What do you do there?”
“How do you know about the Godrent?”
“I found it and told my mother. She told me not to go there.”
“She named it?”
“She knew the name, if that’s what you mean. That is its name, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly.” He speaks easy and slow, like he doesn’t care what I or anybody thinks. That makes me smile.
“So what is its name?”
“Goaderen.”
“Is that giantish?”
He sits back on his heels and puts his hands on his hips. His long hair, stringy from rain, drips onto his soaked shirt. In stories giants always have thick beards but he has none. His face is soft, as soft as his brown eyes as he looks over his broad shoulders at me. “It’s just an old name, like Strand, or Fulwen.”
“Do you do magic there?”
“No one does magic.” He brushes his hands on his trousers down stained, threadbare lines. “Magic visits people, if they know how to invite it.”
“So do you invite it?”
He smiles, and it makes him look younger than I am. “Why are you so curious all of a sudden? You haven’t been messing around up there, have you?”
“No.” The idea scares me.
“Good. Those trees are old. They can’t take much abuse.”
“I would never!” The idea of hurting the trees shocks me, even though I’m afraid of them.
His look changes. His youth fades; his eyes look sad but his mouth turns up a little. “I know you wouldn’t mean them, or anyone, any harm.” He reaches into a pocket stretched by overuse and pulls out the bits of egg. They’ve crumbled now. “So, what was all this about?”
“I got scared.”
“Of what? Me?”
“No.”
“You really meant this for me?” His words are warm and sound like he might laugh in a bit.
I warm up, not in the face but in my belly, and I’m not ashamed anymore. I almost laugh, as if his almost-laugh has gotten inside me, too. “I know why I’m alone. I just don’t understand why you and Mr. Grantler are. I couldn’t stand it that your baskets were empty. I wanted you to know—but I thought—” I don’t know how to say it.
He picks up a long metal tool and pokes gently around the roots of the cherry tree. His big hand makes the tool seem light and as easy to use as a knife, but in my hands it might as well be a fire poker. “You thought I wouldn’t like an egg from you.”
“Yes.” It doesn’t hurt to say it, because I can tell he doesn’t mind.
He pokes around some more, not really digging. “So, you like my neighbor too.”
My chest feels tight all of a sudden and the paper scratches my skin. “Yes. Why? Do you think there’s something wrong with that?”
“No.”
I can tell he’s not saying something. “Don’t you like him? You seem as friendly to him as to anyone.”
“He’s a good neighbor. Respectful.” I wonder if he’d feel the same if he’d heard Mr. Grantler’s tone earlier. He digs with more purpose and suddenly he bends down and uses his hands. Out come several fat bugs, some in mashed pieces. I feel a little sorry for them, and horrified too, not just for them but for the tree that couldn’t defend itself from them.
“He invited me into his shop,” I tell him.
He doesn’t seem interested.
“He gave me a piece of stationary. It’s beautiful.”
“Nice of him.” The giant sits back on his heels. “Why didn’t you give him the pieces of egg? Or did you give him a whole one?”
The idea of giving Mr. Grantler anything less than perfect horrifies me. I’m ashamed again, for giving the broken egg to the giant, as if he deserved less than Mr. Grantler.
I sit there and think about my answer while the giant digs around the cherry tree. He works gently, with care, but when he finds a nest of bugs he’s as swift and sure as a heron spearing a frog.
I say, finally, “I didn’t give him anything, but it doesn’t matter.” I shouldn’t have given him the broken egg. It was like handing him garbage I’d thrown away.
The giant stands, towers over me, gathers his things and walks away. He rips away something from me as he goes, but it comes pouring back when he stops and looks at me. “Want to come along?”
I follow him. He keeps slowing down his long, slow strides until I realize and learn to walk side by side with him.
“Why doesn’t it matter?” he asks.
“What?”
He stops, bucket in one hand, bag of tools slung over his other shoulder, axe tucked into his belt. “Why doesn’t it matter that you didn’t give him anything?”
I don’t know if I can explain without repeating the taunts from childhood that still haunt me, silently, in the street. I hold up my hands, stained from dyes. He doesn’t look at them, just at me, my face, his eyes open and searching like he can’t find what I’m trying to show him, even though it’s right there in front of him.
“We can’t even afford to use the cloth we weave to make clothes. My mother’s sister gives us hand-me-downs.” I stop because it’s complaining and my mother told me never to complain.
I’ve wasted a half-day’s work. My mother told me to spend the day out enjoying the holiday like all the other young people. I’ve had more of a holiday than I’d wanted by now. “I’d better go home.”
“Miss Strand, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about your dad.”
I bite my lip.
“Not because he didn’t deserve it, but because you and your mom shouldn’t have to work day and night to get him out of debtor’s prison. There’s no one in this village should look down on either of you for all you’re doing. But I don’t care what anyone thinks. Except.” He looks long at me and hope comes alive inside me. It scares me. “We could work together to help your mom buy him out. I would do that, and more, with you. Even marry you, if you’d like that.”
I stand like an idiot, feet rooted, staring at him while marry and buy and free circle like leaves in the wind inside, blown around by anger—my father doesn’t deserve prison—
“I love you, Miss Strand.” He said it sure as sky is blue, as if he’d said it often since a first time, long ago. “I have to go heal some trees on the hill now.” He walks away, as if there’s nothing more to say. I want to go after him but I don’t want to shout at him and that would be the only reason, the only way I could speak right now. I have to keep my mouth closed to keep the raging sc
reams inside me.
To say my father deserves to be in prison is to say that my mother and I deserved to fall with him. We stood beside him while men wrote down what every bit of furniture and every wall in the house was worth, tearing our home down even though they didn’t take a thing out. We were the ones thrown out. We moved down to the river where I was shunned for growing up in a nice house and for having nice clothes and for being afraid and growing thin because we didn’t know how to shop for and eat what poor people eat.
I never realized how rich we were. I thought the rich ones all lived on the hill, and owned books, and played musical instruments worth more than the house I grew up in.
My face is wet and my nose is stuffed up and the rock in my belly now presses against my heart.
He loves me? I don’t believe it. He doesn’t know me.
I finally have the words and I chase after him with those words in my mouth. They race out of me, breathless. “You’ve never spoken two words to me before today, never even looked at me.”
He makes a strange noise, like a huh, but like it hurts. “I’ve looked at you a lot. I saw how nice you were to everyone, so kind. You used to smile when you looked at me, when you still remembered how to smile. And I saw how hard you worked, you and your mother both, for nothing—”
“For my father. I love my father and he does not deserve to be in prison.” The hot words burn my face.
“His actions destroyed your family.”
Those words blast me like a cold wind. “I love him, and he loves us. If it would get him out of prison I’d marry you but only because—” I stop, thank goodness, because I can see the pain in his eyes. He stands strong and tall and gentle, noble and kind, bearing the brunt of my anger and disregard though I don’t disregard him. I wanted him to have that egg. “I’ve always liked you, always. I never knew you looked down on my father, never knew—” I leave him there on the road that leads up the hill to the rich houses, my chest so heavy I can barely run with the weight of it.
I’m lost because I run toward my old house, not the one by the river and there they all are, the boys and girls dressed with ribbons. I cover my face—I can barely see anyway—and I hear the familiar bell.
He catches me and helps me back into the stationary shop. He gives me a large handkerchief scented with sharp, herbal perfume that clears my mind enough that I’m embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Grantler.” I puff through my nose, messing up the soft silk.
“Not at all, Miss Strand.” His voice is cool and calm. “Please, have a seat.” He settles me into a chair. He walks neatly behind his long, polished desk and opens a tiny cabinet, returns with brandy. I can smell it even through my runny nose. “Here,” he says.
“Thank you but I don’t drink.”
“I insist.” He pushes the delicate glass against my lips. The brandy burns my tongue. I don’t swallow much, just enough to sear my throat. I nod and he sets the glass aside, a beautiful, crystalline roundness like a piece of soap bubble with an amber-plum pool in the bottom. As long as I don’t look at him I feel like I’m hidden away from the village, boxed safely inside perfectly ordered shadows. “Are you injured?” he asks.
“No. I’m all right.”
“What has happened?”
I can’t tell him. I don’t want to tell anyone. This is so much worse than being alone and lonely—someone I’d always admired loves me but in ways that don’t match his tender eyes. How could anyone gentle believe my father deserves prison?
“Was someone cruel to you?”
I have to admit it. “No.” He didn’t mean to be. He only said what everyone thinks. They don’t see how much my father suffered, and is suffering, for trying to take care of us. He only wanted us to live a good life in a good house. We didn’t know until it was too late that the money had all run out. At least I didn’t. I think mother suspected. She started to look pinched and worn just before they took everything from us.
“Then what is it?” The impatient edges around the words feel unnaturally sharp.
I’ve just smeared wetness and slime all over his silk handkerchief and ruined his day. I should expect worse than sharp words. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Grantler.”
“So you’ve said.”
I stand. “I’ll return this to you after I’ve washed it.” I clutch the silk and start to leave but he sets his hand on my arm. He forces me down with the lightest of touches.
“Tell me what happened.”
I owe him at least that much. Besides, he’ll likely hear rumors around the village about me. I’d rather he knew the truth than whatever people will make up. I wonder how many people noticed me walking with Mr. Fulwen—I can’t think of him as the giant anymore. I know too much of the thoughts within his body, though I still know very little. “It was something Mr. Fulwen said.”
“What did he say to you?” His voice has sharpened even more.
I want to be grateful for his concern, but I’m worried about what he might say or do to Mr. Fulwen, and I don’t want him to know even a piece of all that Mr. Fulwen had said to me. “It’s personal.”
Mr. Grantler steps back from me and sets his hand on a shelf. He strokes the wood with his white gloves. They’re still perfectly clean. “It’s time,” he says. He’s staring at me, his pale face smooth and calm, decided.
“Time for what?”
“Time that I do what I’ve been wanting to do for months. I’m sending you to my aunt’s house, Miss Strand. I won’t hear any argument.”
“What? Mr. Grantler, I can’t leave my mother.”
“I’ll take care of your mother, and you can take care of my aunt, and I will visit.” He speaks as if it’s all settled. “Your situation—ever since you spoke to me I’ve been—” He finally looks away. “You deserve better than your current circumstances. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“What arrangements? Where is your aunt?” I didn’t even know he had an aunt.
“Miss Strand, you are a kind and gentle person of modest birth who deserves much better than the squalor you’ve been forced to endure. I will lift you out, clean you off, and in return I hope—” He hesitates, and I’m afraid not only of my suspicions of what he really wants but how much I want someone to take care of me, in exchange for things he’s afraid to say out loud. “I hope you will be generous in your regard to me.”
I stand and let the silk handkerchief drop onto the seat. “You and Mr. Fulwen seem to mean well, but I can’t accept the help either of you offer.” I start to leave but this time he grips my arm.
“What kind of offer did Mr. Fulwen make you?”
I pry his hand off with fingers made strong by hard labor and leave.
I go to the oaks, drawn to the Goaderen. I’ve wasted an entire day. I should have never made or thought to offer that decorated egg, and kept the two men I admired most as distant dreams. Up close they’re—
I don’t have words or even feelings other than confusion and pain for what they are to me. I want the pain and fear the oaks offer instead, maybe because part of me hopes Mr. Grantler might save me, or Mr. Fulwen will help me find what I need.
Another part of me, the truer part, doesn’t want to be saved or helped. I desperately want change, even if the change does me harm. I don’t look back at the village this time. This time I crest the hill and walk along the broad saddle to the next hill, slowing as I approach the Goaderen.
Fat, squat trunks hold up a few twisted, half-naked limbs, ugly and beautiful. They’re like Grandfather, strong and frail. Spaced wide at the outer ring, they stand close in the center, their attention turned eternally inward.
I’m frightened of the center tree but I go anyway. Dry branches, acorn shells and dead leaves shatter under my feet.
Magic visits people, if they know how to invite it.
I think the mag
ic is inviting me. I place my hand on the bark, and this time I refuse to recoil when it shocks me. My palm goes cold and my fingers heat up as if I’m holding them too near the stove.
Something pours inside me through my palm, hot and cold at once. It fills me, and makes me stronger.
The cold reminds me that I’ve always been alone inside my own skin. When I die I won’t be able to hide in my mother’s shadow, or hope for my father’s freedom. I’ve been beside these people, and I love them as much as they love me, but they are not part of me. I’m of their flesh, but if they eat and I don’t, I will starve.
I stop being afraid. I stop being hurt.
I pull my hand away, so calm I have almost no thoughts at all. I want this sense that I can live my life, and that no one but myself has been holding me back, to stay with me.
The magic exposed secrets I’ve kept from myself. My grandfather taught me figures hoping that I would help my father. My father didn’t ask, and I didn’t offer. I was a child, easily hurt by the regard of others, whether I really knew their honest feelings toward me or not, and I never tried to do anything about it. I was a child helping my mother bring back a father into our lives who was little more than a child himself.
We could still help him.
I won’t, though, not yet. To help him, I first have to be capable, not helpless. I have to anchor myself on the shore before I can throw a rope to drag him from the stormy seas he’s fallen into.
Like a child, he went into those seas thinking he could manage without first knowing how to sail.
The clarity begins to slip and I hurry back to the village. I hurry, but I start to feel that urge to go home to my mother, and pain as the groups around the fountain stare unabashedly at my apparent madness, and dread as I run, panting, up the rich hill road to Owa. “Mr. Fulwen?”
He stands on the thick lower branches of a walnut tree, far above the ground. His arms spread to steady himself, he gazes down at me. All but a final glint of clarity is gone, but I see that clarity in him. He drank it like mother’s milk from early childhood, in rites older than the Goaderen. He lives his life alone. He is evidence that people can live alone, happily and forever.
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, 28 Page 10