by Paula Guran
Bast spread his shirt out on a sunny stone to dry. He started to undo his pants, then stopped and tipped his head on one side, trying to jog loose water from his ear.
It might be because of the water in his ear that Bast didn’t hear the excited twittering coming from the bushes that grew along the shore. A sound that could, conceivably, be sparrows chattering among the branches. A flock of sparrows. Several flocks, perhaps.
And if Bast didn’t see the bushes moving either? Or note that in among the hanging foliage of the willow branches there were colors normally not found in trees? Sometimes a pale pink, sometimes blushing red. Sometimes an ill-considered yellow or a cornflower blue. And while it’s true that dresses might come in those colors . . . well . . . so did birds. Finches and jays. And besides, it was fairly common knowledge among the young women of the town that the dark young man who worked at the inn was woefully nearsighted.
The sparrows twittered in the bushes as Bast worked at the drawstring of his pants again. The knot apparently giving him some trouble. He fumbled with it for a while, then grew frustrated and gave a great, catlike stretch, arms arching over his head, his body bending like a bow.
Finally he managed to work the knot loose and shuck free of his pants. He wore nothing underneath. He tossed them aside and from the willow came a squawk of the sort that could have come from a larger bird. A heron perhaps. Or a crow. And if a branch shook violently at the same time, well, perhaps a bird had leaned too far from its branch and nearly fell. It certainly stood to reason that some birds were more clumsy than others. And besides, at the time Bast was looking the other way.
Bast dove into the water then, splashing like a boy and gasping at the cold. After a few minutes he moved to a shallower portion of the pool where the water rose to barely reach his narrow waist.
Beneath the water, a careful observer might note the young man’s legs looked somewhat . . . odd. But it was shady there, and everyone knows that water bends light strangely, making things look other than they are. And besides, birds are not the most careful of observers, especially when their attention is focused elsewhere.
An hour or so later, slightly damp and smelling of sweet honeysuckle soap, Bast climbed the bluff where he was fairly certain that he’d left his master’s book. It was the third bluff he’d climbed in the last half hour.
When he reached the top, Bast relaxed at the sight of a hawthorn tree. Walking closer, he saw it was the right tree, the nook right where he remembered. But the book was gone. A quick circle of the tree showed that it hadn’t fallen to the ground.
Then the wind stirred and Bast saw something white. He felt a sudden chill, fearing it was a page torn free from the book. Few things angered his master like a mistreated book.
But no. Reaching up, Bast didn’t feel paper. It was a smooth stretch of birch bark. He pulled it down and saw the letters crudely scratched into the side.
I ned ta tawk ta ewe. Ets emportant.
Rike
Afternoon: Birds and Bees
With no idea of where he might find Rike, Bast made his way back to the lightning tree. He had just settled down in his usual place when a young girl came into the clearing.
She didn’t stop at the greystone, and instead trudged straight up the side of the hill. She was younger than the others, six or seven. She wore a bright blue dress and had deep purple ribbons twining through her carefully curled hair.
She had never come to the lightning tree before, but Bast had seen her. Even if he hadn’t, he could have guessed by her fine clothes and the smell of rosewater that she was Viette, the mayor’s youngest daughter.
She climbed the low hill slowly, carrying something furry in the crook of her arm. When she reached the top of the hill she stood, slightly fidgety, but still waiting.
Bast eyed her quietly for a moment. “Do you know the rules?” he asked.
She stood, purple ribbons in her hair. She was obviously slightly scared, but her lower lip stuck out, defiant. She nodded.
“What are they?”
The young girl licked her lips and began to recite in a singsong voice. “No one taller than the stone.” She pointed to the fallen greystone at the foot of the hill. “Come to blacktree, come alone.” She put her finger to her lips, miming a shushing noise.
“Tell no—”
“Hold on,” Bast interrupted. “You say the last two lines while touching the tree.”
The girl blanched a bit at this, but stepped forward and put her hand against the sun-bleached wood of the long-dead tree.
The girl cleared her throat again, then paused, her lips moving silently as she ran through the beginning of the poem until she found her place again. “Tell no adult what’s been said, lest the lightning strike you dead.”
When she spoke the last word, Viette gasped and jerked her hand back, as if something had burned or bitten her fingers. Her eyes went wide as she looked down at her fingertips and saw they were an untouched, healthy pink. Bast hid a smile behind his hand.
“Very well then,” Bast said. “You know the rules. I keep your secrets and you keep mine. I can answer questions or help you solve a problem.” He sat down again, his back against the tree, bringing him to eye level with the girl. “What do you want?”
She held out the tiny puff of white fur she carried in the crook of her arm. It mewled. “Is this a magic kitten?” she asked.
Bast took the kitten in his hand and looked it over. It was a sleepy thing, almost entirely white. One eye was blue, the other green. “It is, actually,” he said, slightly surprised. “At least a little.” He handed it back.
She nodded seriously. “I want to call her Princess Icing Bun.”
Bast simply stared at her, nonplused. “Okay.”
The girl scowled at him. “I don’t know if she’s a girl or a boy!”
“Oh,” Bast said. He held out his hand, took the kitten, then petted it and handed it back. “It’s a girl.”
The mayor’s daughter narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you fibbing?”
Bast blinked at the girl, then laughed. “Why would you believe me the first time and not the second?” he asked.
“I could tell she was a magic kitten,” Viette said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I just wanted to make sure. But she’s not wearing a dress. She doesn’t have any ribbons or bows. How can you tell if she’s a girl?”
Bast opened his mouth. Then closed it again. This was not some farmer’s child. She had a governess and a whole closet full of clothes. She didn’t spend her time around sheep and pigs and goats. She’d never seen a lamb born. She had an older sister, but no brothers . . .
He hesitated, he’d rather not lie. Not here. But he hadn’t promised to answer her question, hadn’t made any sort of agreement at all with her. That made things easier. A great deal easier than having an angry mayor visit the Waystone, demanding to know why his daughter suddenly knew the word “penis.”
“I tickle the kitten’s tummy,” Bast said easily. “And if it winks at me, I know it’s a girl.”
This satisfied Viette, and she nodded gravely. “How can I get my father to let me keep it?”
“You’ve already asked him nicely?”
She nodded. “Daddy hates cats.”
“Begged and cried?”
Nod.
“Screamed and thrown a fit?”
She rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve tried all that, or I wouldn’t be here.”
Bast thought for a moment. “Okay. First, you have to get some food that will keep good for a couple days. Biscuits. Sausage. Apples. Hide it in your room where nobody will find it. Not even your governess. Not even the maid. Do you have a place like that?”
The little girl nodded.
“Then go ask your daddy one more time. Be gentle and polite. If he still says no, don’t be angry. Just tell him that you love the kitten. Say if you can’t have her, you’re afraid you’ll be so sad you’ll die.”
“He’ll still say
no,” the little girl said.
Bast shrugged. “Probably. Here’s the second part. Tonight, pick at your dinner. Don’t eat it. Not even the dessert.” The little girl started to say something, but Bast held up a hand. “If anyone asks you, just say you’re not hungry. Don’t mention the kitten. When you’re alone in your room tonight, eat some of the food you’ve hidden.”
The little girl looked thoughtful.
Bast continued. “Tomorrow, don’t get out of bed. Say you’re too tired. Don’t eat your breakfast. Don’t eat your lunch. You can drink a little water, but just sips. Just lay in bed. When they ask what’s the matter—”
She brightened. “I say I want my kitten!”
Bast shook his head, his expression grim. “No. That will spoil it. Just say you’re tired. If they leave you alone, you can eat, but be careful. If they catch you, you’ll never get your kitten.”
The girl was listening intently now, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“By dinner they’ll be worried. They’ll offer you more food. Your favorites. Keep saying you’re not hungry. You’re just tired. Just lay there. Don’t talk. Do that all day long.”
“Can I get up to pee?”
Bast nodded. “But remember to act tired. No playing. The next day, they’ll be scared. They’ll bring in a doctor. They’ll try to feed you broth. They’ll try everything. At some point your father will be there, and he’ll ask you what’s the matter.”
Bast grinned at her. “That’s when you start to cry. No howling. Don’t blubber. Just tears. Just lay there and cry. Then say you miss your kitten so much. You miss your kitten so much you don’t want to be alive any more.”
The little girl thought about it for a long minute, petting her kitten absentmindedly with one hand. Finally she nodded, “Okay.” She turned to go.
“Hold on now!” Bast said quickly. “I gave you what you wanted. You owe me now.”
The little girl turned around, her expression an odd mix of surprise and anxious embarrassment. “I didn’t bring any money,” she said, not meeting his eye.
“Not money,” Bast said. “I gave you two answers and a way to get your kitten. You owe me three things. You pay with gifts and favors. You pay in secrets . . . ”
She thought for a moment. “Daddy hides his strong box key inside the mantle clock.”
Bast nodded approvingly. “That’s one.”
The little girl looked up into the sky, still petting her kitten. “I saw Mama kissing the maid once.”
Bast raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s two . . . ”
The girl put her finger in her ear and wiggled it. “That’s all, I think.”
“How about a favor, then?” Bast said. “I need you to fetch me two dozen daisies with long stems. And a blue ribbon. And two armfuls of gemlings.”
Viette’s face puckered in confusion. “What’s a gemling?”
“Flowers,” Bast said, looking puzzled himself. “Maybe you call them balsams? They grow wild all over around here,” he said, making a wide gesture with both hands.
“Do you mean geraniums?” she asked.
Bast shook his head. “No. They’ve got loose petals, and they’re about this big.” he made a circle with his thumb and middle finger. “They’re yellow and orange and red . . . ”
The girl stared at him blankly.
“Widow Creel keeps them in her window-box,” Bast continued. “When you touch the seed pods, they pop . . . ”
Viette’s face lit up. “Oh! You mean touch-me-nots,” she said, her tone more than slightly patronizing. “I can bring you a bunch of those. That’s easy.” She turned to run down the hill.
Bast called out before she’d taken six steps. “Wait!” When she spun around, he asked her. “What do you say if somebody asks you who you’re picking flowers for?”
She rolled her eyes again. “I tell them it’s none of their tupping business,” she said. “Because my daddy is the mayor.”
After Viette left, a high whistle made Bast look down the hill toward the greystone. There were no children waiting there.
The whistle came again, and Bast stood, stretching long and hard. It would have surprised most of the young women in town how easily he spotted the figure standing in the shadow of the trees at the edge of the clearing nearly two hundred feet away.
Bast sauntered down the hill, across the grassy field, and into the shadow of the trees. There was an older boy there with smudgy face and a pug nose. He was perhaps twelve and his shirt and pants were both too small for him, showing too much dirty wrist at the cuff and bare ankle below. He was barefoot and had a slightly sour smell about him.
“Rike.” Bast’s voice held none of the friendly, bantering tone he’d used with the town’s other children. “How’s the road to Tinuë?”
“It’s a long damn way,” the boy said bitterly, not meeting Bast’s eye. “We live in the ass of nowhere.”
“I see you have my book,” Bast said.
The boy held it out. “I wann’t tryin to steal it,” he muttered quickly. “I just needed to talk to you.”
Bast took the book silently.
“I didn’t break the rules,” the boy said. “I didn’t even come into the clearing. But I need help. I’ll pay for it.”
“You lied to me, Rike,” Bast said, his voice grim.
“And din’t I pay for that?” the boy demanded angrily, looking up for the first time. “Din’t I pay for it ten times over? Ent my life shit enough without having more shit piled on top of it?”
“And it’s all beside the point because you’re too old now,” Bast said flatly.
“I aren’t either!” the boy stomped a foot. Then struggled and took a deep breath, visibly forcing his temper back under control. “Tam is older’n me and he can still come to the tree! I’m just taller’n him!”
“Those are the rules,” Bast said.
“It’s a shite rule!” the boy shouted, his hands making angry fists. “And you’re a shite little bastard who deserves more of the belt than he gets!”
There was a silence then, broken only by the boy’s ragged breathing. Rike’s eyes were on the ground, fists clenched at his sides, he was shaking.
Bast’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
The boy’s voice was rough. “Just one,” Rike said. “Just one favor just this once. It’s a big one. But I’ll pay. I’ll pay triple.”
Bast drew a deep breath and let it out as a sigh. “Rike, I—”
“Please Bast?” He was still shaking, but Bast realized the boy’s voice wasn’t angry any more. “Please?” Eyes still on the ground, he took a hesitant step forward. “Just . . . please?” His hand reached out and just hung there aimlessly, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Finally he caught hold of Bast’s shirtsleeve and tugged it once, feebly, before letting his hand fall back to his side.
“I just can’t fix this on my own.” Rike looked up, eyes full of tears. His face was twisted in a knot of anger and fear. A boy too young to keep from crying, but still old enough so that he couldn’t help but hate himself for doing it.
“I need you to get rid of my da,” he said in a broken voice. “I can’t figure a way. I could stick him while he’s asleep, but my ma would find out. He drinks and hits at her. And she cries all the time and then he hits her more.”
Rike was looking at the ground again, the words pouring out of him in a gush. “I could get him when he’s drunk somewhere, but he’s so big. I couldn’t move him. They’d find the body and then the azzie would get me. I couldn’t look my ma in the eye then. Not if she knew. I can’t think what that would do to her, if she knew I was the sort of person that would kill his own da.”
He looked up then, his face furious, eyes red with weeping. “I would though. I’d kill him. You just got to tell me how.”
There was a moment of quiet.
“Okay,” Bast said.
They went down to the stream where they could have a drink and Rike could wash his face and collec
t himself a little bit. When the boy’s face was cleaner, Bast noted not all the smudginess was dirt. It was easy to make the mistake, as the summer sun had tanned him a rich nut brown. Even after he was clean it was hard to tell they were faint remains of bruises.
But rumor or no, Bast’s eyes were sharp. Cheek and jaw. A darkness all around one skinny wrist. And when he bent to take a drink from the stream, Bast glimpsed the boy’s back . . .
“So,” Bast said as they sat beside the stream. “What exactly do you want? Do you want to kill him, or do you just want to have him gone?”
“If he was just gone, I’d never sleep again for worry he’d come slouching back.” Rike said, then was quiet for a bit. “He went gone two span once.” He gave a faint smile. “That was a good time, just me and my ma. It was like my birthday every day when I woke up and he wasn’t there. I never knew my ma could sing . . . ”
They boy went quiet again. “I thought he’d fallen somewhere drunk and finally broke his neck. But he’d just traded off a year of furs for drinking money. He’d just been in his trapping shack, all stupor-drunk for half a month, not hardly more than a mile away.”
The boy shook his head, more firmly this time. “No, if he goes, he won’t stay away.”
“I can figure out the how,” Bast said. “That’s what I do. But you need to tell me what you really want.”
Rike sat for a long while, jaw clenching and unclenching. “Gone,” he said at last. The word seemed to catch in his throat. “So long as he stays gone forever. If you can really do it.”
“I can do it,” Bast said.
Rike looked at his hands for a long time. “Gone then. I’d kill him. But that sort of thing ent right. I don’t want to be that sort of man. A fellow shouldn’t ought to kill his da.”
“I could do it for you,” Bast said easily.
Rike sat for a while, then shook his head. “It’s the same thing, innit? Either way it’s me. And if it were me, it would be more honest if I did it with my hands, rather than do it with my mouth.”
Bast nodded. “Right then. Gone forever.”
“And soon,” Rike said.
Bast sighed and looked up at the sun. He already had things to do today. The turning wheels of his desire did not come grinding to a halt because some farmer drank too much. Emberlee would be taking her bath soon. He was supposed to get carrots . . .