Ren looked up at her from beneath the brim of his too-large hat. He nodded. She pulled off her own mittens and gave them to him. “Put these on.” Then she pushed her hands into her pockets. The boy didn’t smile or answer, but he put on the mittens.
Alys noticed that he’d stopped skipping. She pulled out a hand and felt his forehead. There was heat in there, like a coal in a pot. “Feeling poorly?”
He shrugged. She took one of his mittened hands in hers and held it as they walked. His fingers softened in hers and they kept on like that in silence. Every once in a while the wind picked up and bit her cheeks and brought tears to her eyes, and once it lifted the hat off Ren’s head so that she had to chase it and bring it back to him. She felt the heat rising off him when she returned the hat to his head. This wouldn’t do. She’d promised Enid to care for him.
The children of Gwenith were given tents where they could warm themselves in the dead of winter. They weren’t allowed to sleep in these winter shelters, but they could take brief refuge in the worst weather. If Alys could get Ren settled into one of the shelters, then she could watch both pastures while he slept.
Alys switched her bag so it hung down her front and she kneeled in front of Ren and hitched him onto her back. She tucked her arms securely under his knees and felt his arms tighten around her neck. He was heavier than she expected. The tent couldn’t be far, she told herself.
And yet it was. By the time they reached it Alys’s arms were burning and trembling and she sank to her knees with relief. She untied the flap and pulled the boy inside.
The floor of the tent was layered with animal pelts that smelled of damp. The walls and ceiling were made of tallowed hide that did little more than break the wind and keep out the worst of the rain and snow. Beneath the pelts, though, Ren would be warm enough, and dry.
She took off Ren’s hat and boots and stuffed the mittens back into her own pockets. Then she cocooned him in her wool blanket and settled him in the skins. She couldn’t see his face in the dark, but she felt his trembling. Then one of his thin hands tightened around her wrist, not letting go.
“You’ll be fine,” Alys said. “I’ll come for you in the morning.”
He held on harder, his grip stronger than she would have thought possible for such a slip of a boy. His fingertips dug into the cords of her forearm.
She could have wrenched her arm free, but instead she sighed. “Ren, if I stay here and they find out, I’ll be punished.”
Ren loosened his hold on her and curled in on himself. She touched her wrist where his fingers had pressed into her, and hesitated. She would go now, she told herself. And she’d come back for him at dawn, just like she’d promised. She would say goodnight and leave. That is what she would do.
She felt around with her hand and found the silky cap of his hair just peeking between the pelts. She wondered briefly whether it was brave or foolish for Madog and Enid to have had children. If Ren had belonged to Alys, she couldn’t imagine sending him out here all alone. But then again, he wasn’t alone now, was he? And Alys had a choice about that.
Then she was decided. She turned toward the tent flap and tied it shut from the inside. She pulled off her own boots and crawled between the pelts. She’d never slept beside anyone before, unless she counted the time that she’d sat up all night with Delwyn. But then she hadn’t been asleep herself. She drew Ren to her and wrapped her arms around him, so close that she could feel his trembling in her own body. She pulled the pelts up so that only their noses and foreheads emerged. “Go to sleep,” she said.
“I don’t want to sleep,” he said. “If I fall asleep, you’ll leave.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
Ren’s body gentled, and he slid his hands under hers. She closed her eyes and wondered if she might actually sleep.
“Alys,” he said.
“Yes, what?”
“Have you ever thought of running away?”
Alys sucked in a breath and felt it steam around her when she exhaled. “Yes,” she said.
“Why don’t you?”
“Afraid to go off alone, I suppose. But if I could go anywhere, and without a worry about the distance, then I suppose I’d want to go to the Lakes.”
“I want to live by the sea. Dad said you can see it from the mountains. He said you can see for miles up there. You can see all of Byd, and the sea beyond, and there’s always snow. He said we can all go there and he’ll build us a house and then we’ll never be tired again because the twins and I can sleep all night and play all day. But every time Mam says we should leave, Dad says it’s not time yet. We should wait until the twins are older, he says. But I don’t want to wait. I want to go now.”
All the while Ren spoke—more words at once than she’d ever heard spill out of him—Alys held herself still. She didn’t breathe, or blink. “Your dad and mam talk about running away?”
She felt the boy stiffen in her arms. “I’m not supposed to talk about that.”
“I’d never tell, Ren. Not ever.”
He relaxed again. “You could come with us. Dad said he’d show me the sea.”
Alys had to laugh at that. The sea. She’d heard tell such a thing existed, that Byd was surrounded on all sides by a vast border of blue, deeper and wider than any lake. She felt a sudden urge to see it herself. Just to think of all that blue water.
Maybe she’d go there, she thought to herself. Someday. Maybe Pawl and Beti would go with her. She smiled at the thought of them. And then at the thought of that brown-eyed boy and his black brush of hair. So black it was like starless night. And then, something about his black-as-night hair, and the wanting she felt inside of her, the yearning and the hoping, something about all of those things made her think of the hole. And of time running out. Of Alys’s hourglass tipped over. Alys almost never dreamed anymore, but when she did, it was of that hole, that bottomless rip that needed mending, that she felt growing all the time, fraying and rending. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of all that nothing.
“Go to sleep now, Ren. No more talking.”
FIFTEEN
She woke to muffled quiet. Ren had pulled away from her in the night and he lay flat on his back, arms and legs outstretched, snoring. His hair was damp against his forehead and he no longer shivered.
Alys untied the flap to the tent and snow spilled in on her feet. A foot at least had fallen in the night and the world was white outside. Dawn was just beginning to blush the horizon. They’d almost slept too long. She shook Ren awake and tossed him his boots. She’d have to hope that no ill had befallen the sheep. If it had, she’d be better off freezing to death in the woods than going back to Defaid.
As she and Ren made their way through the snow, they were joined by the dogs, and the sight of them unstitched the worry in Alys’s chest. The dogs were too placid for there to have been any trouble in the night. She and Ren might make it through this unscathed.
She gestured at the dogs with her chin, squeezed Ren’s hand. “Notice the dogs,” she said, “how calm they are. That means the sheep are fine. That’s good.”
Ren nodded, hummed, kicked snow, showed no sign of interest. Alys spied the gray of rabbit fur, a flash against the snow not twenty feet ahead of them. She tapped Ren’s shoulder, pointed. The rabbit sank into the snow and was gone. “He’s going to be some owl’s dinner before the day is out,” Alys said. “And that rabbit will never hear it coming. Or see it.” Alys spread her arms and blew a silent puff of air between her lips, then quick as a flash she wrapped herself around Ren and lifted him in the air until he cackled. As she set him down, she saw his cheeks flushed with cold and delight. He reached for her hand again and they walked on.
“I had a dream last night,” Ren said. He kicked more snow. “I was watching the sheep and I was so tired and I just couldn’t stay awake. I was sitting under that tree right over there.” He pointed to a large evergreen with branches as wide as a house just at the edge of the sheep pasture. “It was sum
mer and everything was green and soft and warm. And then a lady came and told me that I should follow her and then I could sleep.”
Alys stopped. “What sort of lady?”
“A strange sort, I reckon. And she floated, so quiet. I’ve dreamed about her before.”
“When was that?”
“Last time I was in the pastures.” Ren squinted, thinking. “I was right in that field over there, under that tree, like I told you. I thought the lady was real, because she seemed so real, but then I woke up.”
Alys looked down at Ren. Enid and Madog must have decided not to tell him about the soul eaters. But how could the child protect himself if he didn’t know? Then Alys chastised herself for judging them. What did Alys know about being a parent? And what good would a warning do the child anyway? If the soul eaters wanted him, they’d surely have him.
“Did the lady tell you her name?”
Ren smiled. “Not this time, but last time she did.”
Alys stopped and turned Ren to her. “What was her name, Ren, do you remember?”
“Of course I remember. It was Angelica, and she told me not to forget. She said I should come and find her.”
Alys gripped Ren’s hand so tightly that he yelped, and she apologized. “Don’t you ever tell anyone from Defaid about that dream. And if you ever see one of those floating women . . .” Alys held him by the shoulders. “If you ever see one, Ren, promise me you’ll run.”
Enid’s worried outline was the first that Alys made out as they approached the Gate, and at the sight of her, Ren trotted ahead. Enid seemed as if she were about to run toward him, but then Alys saw Madog place a hand on her shoulder and she stayed put until Ren reached her. Then Enid felt his forehead and bent down to wrap her arms around him, looking at Alys over his shoulder. Madog reached down and picked up the boy to carry him home.
“I’ll find you later,” Enid said to Alys.
“Ay,” Alys said. She must tell Enid about Ren’s dream.
When Alys reached home she was met by Father, who was headed outside the Gate for wood. The kitchen was cold and empty. “Mother’s feeling poorly again today,” he said. Then he was gone.
Alys thought she might not be able to sleep, and yet she did, fitfully. She found herself dreaming not of the hole, but of floating women. In snow, in mud. Made of leaves, made of feathers. And right in the middle was the sensation of being shaken from sleep. But it was too soon, too soon for waking. Alys felt as if a great weight were on her, pressing down her limbs, even as another force was trying to drag her up. She struggled to open her eyes, to speak.
“Wake up, child. I need you.”
Alys felt a hand clamping her shoulder and she looked up at Mother, or at a version of Mother unlike any she’d seen before. She still wore her nightclothes, and her usually calm, implacable face was clenched. Her hair, which Alys had only ever seen coiled and pinned at the base of her head, hung down around her shoulders, long and unkempt.
“It’s early still, child. But I’m ill and I need you. Get yourself dressed and come out to the kitchen.” As Mother left, she held onto the doorframe for a long moment before continuing on.
Alys assumed Mother would need her to take over the day’s chores, so she dressed for work, and in layers of wool stockings to keep out the snow. She nearly forgot her whistle, but at the last moment she pulled it on.
Mother sat at the kitchen table with nothing in front of her. At Alys’s place she had set a cup of strong tea and a plate with a thick slice of brown bread and some cheese. “It’s not much, child, but you’ll need it. Now eat it quick.” She nodded at Alys, short and sharp like always, but Alys could tell there was something terribly wrong with Mother, and she felt a nugget of fear in her chest. She’d never in her life had to worry about Mother. Mother never got sick. But now Mother clutched her belly as if she were trying to hold her insides together. “I need you to go to the old place.”
Alys stopped chewing for a moment, but she knew better than to ask a question that was about to be answered.
“There’s something I need you to bring me from the root cellar. Something it’s not safe to keep here,” Mother said. “And I need you to do something else for me.” Mother put her hands on the table and forced herself to standing. She went back to the bedroom she shared with Father and returned with a small bundle wrapped in layers of rough cloth. She retrieved a basket from a hook in the kitchen and placed the bundle inside. Alys watched Mother’s movements while she ate, not really tasting the salty cheese and days-old bread. Then Mother sat down, the basket in front of her on the table. “In back of the house there’s a large oak tree, you remember the one. I want you to bury this parcel beneath that tree.”
There were many things Alys could have said or asked, but she stuck to practicalities, because she knew that’s what Mother wanted her to do. “The ground will be hard.”
“Ay,” Mother said, “but you’ll manage. Go into the house through the kitchen door and get yourself a shovel. Father keeps tools there still. Dig a hole deep enough that the wolves can’t get to it. Then I want you to go in the root cellar. You’ll find a shelf with some jars. The one I need has a label on the bottom with scratches on it. Six scratches. Inside you’ll find some roots. Knobby old things. I want you to put one of those roots in a piece of linen. Tie it up good and tight and tuck it away on your person. Don’t put it in a basket, not even in a pocket. Put it somewhere private, do you understand?”
Alys did. Mother didn’t want Elder Miles poking his nose into it, whatever it was.
Mother shuddered, and Alys nearly reached out to her, but didn’t. Mother had never liked to be touched. She had a yellow cast to her skin that Alys didn’t like. If Alys had seen anyone else in the village looking like this, she’d think the person was dying. That the poor soul had the fever, or worse. “Mother,” Alys said.
“Ay, child.” Mother looked up at Alys and there was pain in her eyes.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right here, alone? Should I get someone to come stay with you?”
Mother closed her eyes briefly, breathed in and out. “No, child, there’s none can help me now. None save for you.”
SIXTEEN
Alys walked out into a village coated in white from last night’s snow. The sky was gray but bright, and light reflected from every surface. Alys pressed mittened hands to her eyes. This was morning, she thought to herself. True morning, not the twilight of dawn that she was used to. Around her, villagers went about their morning business. Women taking their wash to the lines. Older girls carrying buckets to the wells. Not a single child of Gwenith was among them—they were all still asleep in their beds.
There was a jar of dark honey in Alys’s basket. The parcel that Alys was to bury was still with Mother. It wouldn’t do to knock on the Elder’s door and explain that there was something Mother wanted her to bury at the old place. Instead, Alys was to explain that Mother was ill—which was true. And that this was why Alys had been awakened early to go in search of something to make her feel better—which was also true. And that was the end of the truth. Alys was also to explain to Mistress Miles that Mother was sending her in search of slippery elm.
When the door opened, it wasn’t Mistress Miles, as Alys had been expecting. It was her youngest daughter, Cerys, the girl Alys had once dreamed of frightening with her tales of The Beast. Cerys was the same age as Alys, and not quite so tall, but her body curved in and out the way a woman’s did. Alys didn’t spend much time pondering her own body in the seconds it took her to dress and undress, but she knew its outlines well enough, and that it was as straight up and down as it ever was. The blue wool dress that Cerys wore was finer than any of Alys’s, but not so much finer as to explain why it moved so differently on her. And even for a child of Defaid, Cerys was rosy. The word ripe came to Alys’s mind. Cerys’s lips were red like the High Elder’s apples, and her cheeks were pink. There was a dusting of freckles on her nose and her hair was buttercup yellow. Golden cur
ls sprung loose from her braid, and here and there along her hairline.
When Cerys smiled, she showed teeth. “Oh Alys,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here. I was just on my way to see Mai.” Mai was Cerys’s special friend, daughter of another of the town’s Elders. Alys didn’t say anything in response, because there wasn’t anything to say. Then Cerys laughed, wrinkled her brow, and looked at Alys as if she weren’t sure what to make of her visit. As if it weren’t obvious why Alys would be standing on Elder Miles’s doorstep.
Finally, Mistress Miles filled the doorway behind her daughter, and Alys explained to her about the slippery elm. She took the basket from Alys, then looked at her daughter. “Don’t be late for supper.”
“Course not, Mam,” and Cerys laughed and waved a hand and rushed off, her skirts swirling in the snow. Alys looked after her for one long moment, then back at Mistres Miles’s charmless face. She wondered how soon Cerys might begin to resemble her.
“Wait,” Mistress Miles said and closed the door. Then after some minutes the door opened again. Mistress Miles shoved an iron bracelet at Alys. It was engraved with the number one. “Elder Miles says you should be quick about it. You’re to be back through the Gate by the noon bell, no later. Or he’ll send riders after you.”
Alys bit her tongue. “Thank you, Mistress Miles. That’s very kind.”
Mother was waiting for Alys when she returned to the house, and once she saw the basket safely hooked on Alys’s arm, she turned and retreated to her bedroom without another word. Alys might have told her that there wasn’t near enough time for her to get to the old place, bury the parcel, retrieve the medicine, and make the long walk back by noon. It would take her twice that time. But Alys could see that Mother was past caring. A sour scent rose off her, and something else, too, something that Alys didn’t want to think about. There was nothing for it—Alys had the time she had. She would just have to hope that she wasn’t caught where she shouldn’t be. She’d take the long way around the fields, through the fforest if need be. She’d purposely sprain her ankle by way of explanation for her delay, if it came to that.
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