by Gayle Greeno
“No, lad, what made your hair hackle was deeper than that, ”Muscadeine mindspoke, expanding his mental converse to encompass Jenret. “Your subconscious sensed tangible anger, hatred emanating from her, a crazed, twisted fear of anyone with mind powers. Your consciousness did as well, but you denied it. Oh, you didn’t identify yourself as a Resonant, but she responded to it, may be a touch sensitive herself .”
“Besides, you told her where you were headed, didn’t you, Faertom?” Jenret asked. “Even if you didn’t, odds are good that anyone heading for the Hospice has something to do with Resonants. ”
Shamed, Faertom hung his head, the mane of tawny hair shielding him from their concern and pity. Fool, fool! Triply a fool! His father’d have had his hide for being so gullible, so open with “outsiders” like that woman. He dragged the words from the depths of his fears, “What are we going to do? Spy on her? What?” His stomach pressed higher, tighter against his heart, crushing it. Would—did Resonants kill to protect themselves? Not break the strictures? Would he? And if they did, didn’t that give credence to the suspicions and buried fears of so much of the Normal world?
With a lurch he realized the others had ridden ahead and halted, gifting him the space and privacy to steady himself. Drumming his heels into Twink’s barrellike gray sides, he coaxed her into a canter instead of her usual amble. He’d never keep pace with them, mentally or physically, given Twink’s usual sedate pace. Fool, Faertom, fool! he chided himself bitterly.
“Perk up, lad,” Muscadeine spoke as if he gentled a frightened horse being broken to the saddle. “We need to know if she’s a menace to herself or to anyone else. Help if we can. Nothing more. But we have to be sure. ”
He nodded, unsure whether to believe or disbelieve, as he caught up and they rode into the afternoon sun and down the steep Tetonord trails toward the main thoroughfare to Gaernett, traveling single file toward the unknown. Speech hindered their thoughts, silence a welcome privacy, and to Faertom the time passed in the blink of an eye as they drew into a sheltered, brambled dip just below the rotting, tilted fence that served as demarcation line between a house and the encroaching woods. In the other direction he could just make out the roadway when he squinted. A shabby cottage, tilted with age, a faint smoke thread, more a shimmer of diminished heat, danced in the sky, chimney canted toward the road, but there was no hint of the woman who lived there.
Ashamed of himself, shamed for his friends, he whispered out loud, as if speech emphasized their community, their common bond with everyone, Normal and Resonant alike. Or was that worse, pretending to be what they were not? “But what excuse, what reason do I have for stopping by again? She made it clear she doesn’t enjoy visitors. What are you going to tell her?”
Muscadeine leaned against his horse, arms comfortably crossed on his chest, while Jenret stood at a little distance, as if unaligned with either. Not judging, Faertom suspected, but assessing, assessing which way the wind blew, where his loyalties would lie. “I’m not telling her a thing, lad, because Wycherley and I aren’t coming. Three unannounced visitors might frighten her. She’s seen you before, so you won’t be as much of a threat.” He turned, working at the buckle on his saddlebag and delved inside, pulling out a wrinkled paper sack exuding a fruity, rich scent that made everyone, most especially the horses, involuntarily follow it. “Custables,” he swung the sack in his fist. “While she may manage a few apple trees this far north, it’s usually impossible to grow custables. Harrap liberated a few from the courtyard espaliers where they’re sheltered long enough to ripen. A peace offering, so to speak.”
Faertom nodded, numb. Despite a lifetime of self-protective tricks, deception for protection, his brain would never match Muscadeine’s nimble strategies. “But what’re you doing if you’re not going inside with me?”
A flash of teeth beneath Muscadeine’s mustache reminded Faertom of a predator, a well-fed one. “Why, listening, Paertom—to everything that’s said ... and unsaid.”
Jenret slapped his reins against his palm, distaste clear on his face. “What right, Muscadeine, what right do we have to do that? How often have you drilled us not to enter another’s mind unbidden?” he reached to stroke Rawn. “Even the ghatti sensed from the very beginning that such a thing was wrong.”
“Don’t be so moralistic, Wycherley. Every sailor knows to trim his sails to the winds before he’s driven off course. Don’t parrot my lectures back at me if you can’t comprehend the deeper significance of the rules, what they’re for.”
With a conscious effort that left him trembling, Jenret mastered his emotions, conquered the urge to spring at the larger man, pound sense into him. As a Seeker Veritas he adhered to a stringent code of honor, and he’d assumed as a neophyte Resonant that similar strictures would apply. Must. That, indeed, made it almost palatable to acknowledge his Resonant abilities, that codes, rules, structures existed to contain him, channel his gift, not let him trample over others as his elder brother Jared had once done so long ago and to such disastrous effect.
Rawn nudged him, black whiskers tickling just above his collar. “Our rules are fewer than you believe. After all, our ultimate commandment is to Seek the Truth. And you know as well as I that in times of danger the privacy rule is void if someone’s life is in jeopardy. Why else have we ghatti been asked to search minds to identify Resonants, regardless of whether that human takes part in a formal Seeking?”
“Yes, I know why, he snapped. ”To protect foolish innocents, myself included. But I don’t have to like it, do I?“
“No, but some graciousness might be in order. If you can’t win, at least grin.”
“Sanctimonious ghatt!” He exhaled heavily, forced his features smooth, squared his shoulders. Never would he consider Muscadeine his superior except, perhaps, during the training sessions, and perhaps this should be viewed an extension of that, but he wasn’t convinced.
“Call it a ‘field trip,’ if you must.”
“Then you’ll have no objection to Rawn listening in as well?” And enjoyed seeing Muscadeine taken aback. Strangely enough, he caught a flood of relief emanating from Faertom, as if a share of the burden had been lifted. Ghatti were scrupulously impartial.
Thrusting the sack of apples into Faertom’s big hands, Muscadeine smothered a foxy grin. Easier to lure in Wycherley than he’d thought, even if it was for his own good. Fine sport to joust with Wycherley like that, and rare sport he’d make of him until he finally wed Doyce Marbon.
The door’s warped planks rattled, moaned under the hammering, and at last she rejoined the present, reluctant to admit more than the random shudders of the wind buffeted this, her refuge. She shivered, the morning’s meager fire long burned to ashes, remains of the past, as was she. The one warmth against the empty cold in her heart was a ball of white and tan fur on her lap, imprisoned against her rib cage by arms rigid with fear at the burning memories that now refused to remain in the past. Barnaby, the terrier, squirmed, whined to alert her to the presence of strangers. Not that she needed his warning. Somehow she knew—had always known—long before their eyes torched her soul.
Setting the dog on the floor where it dashed in circles between her and the door, she rose without hurrying and checked the mirror, eyes flat and gray as slate casting back their reproach at her, once fine blonde hair overwhelmed with wiry, curly gray poking in all directions as if she’d sustained a lasting fright. And perhaps she had, Hylan Crailford decided as she pushed both palms back from her temples, imprisoned the hair with a yarn remnant she’d wrapped round her wrist. Yes, a lasting fright that had always enshrouded her, would always enshroud her until the end. But the end loomed soon if she had her way, if she resurrected the courage she’d buried these past fifty years. Hadn’t she scourged herself in penance for her weakness before? Now was not the time to quail or falter, and the grim cross-hatching of torn, scabbed-over skin on her back reminded her of her resolve.
A flurry of knuckles, more tentative, and a hesitant,
husky voice. “Mistress, be ye in?”
Ah, too bad, too bad, the young man who’d stopped for water a few days ago, the one who’d made her heart stop dead at his resemblance to the long dead Terranova Owensdatter—friend, idol, betrayer. Beyond doubt he served as an emblem, a reminder and a reproach to her cowardice, harbinger of change, whether he knew it or not, and over his innocence hovered death, death for so many if she didn’t act—and soon. Terra had betrayed her once and Hylan had lived, but she’d never let herself be so betrayed again. “Hush, Barnaby, hush,” she consoled the dog, prayed she wouldn’t have to whip him, though she would if necessary. In cruelty is kindness, beyond pain, redemption. Terra had taught her that, or rather her death had. “Who’s there?” she asked, and her voice, if nothing else, held a remnant of eager youth. “What do you want?” She craved a suitable answer, but it never came, never would, no matter how long she’d listened for it. Instead, she opened the door. Time to create her own answers to those fearful questions.
Handsome—Terra’s broad, open features sat better on a man—and young, scarce twenty, she judged as Faertom stared at her. “Well?” Watched him step backward, nervous, as he held out the crumpled paper sack.
Secrets swarmed behind his open face, although the broad brow appeared serene, untroubled. Ah, already he’d learned how to dissemble, fabricate—so like Terra. Still, what choice did he have? What choice she? “I ... I wanted to thank ye for the water the other day. Twink was powerful thirsty, as was I. I ... I brought ye these ... for enjoyment’s sake.” Resolute, he stepped forward, not too close, and laid the sack in her outstretched arms. When had she stretched them out as if she longed to embrace him?
Curiosity overcoming fear, Barnaby burst from behind her legs, shrill barking splitting the air, as did his switchlike tail. He mock-growled and scampered around Faertom’s legs, ears perked, waiting to see if someone might play. Even the dog, even the dog wasn’t always to be trusted. Faertom bent to rub his ears, toss a wind-fallen stick for him to chase. “I don’t glean much enjoyment from anything,” she commented, drawing his attention back to her, “or require much. But I thank you for thinking of me, no matter how misguided it may have been.” She opened the sack, peered inside, hefted a gold-green globe of a custable. “Still, a change in diet is always welcome.” Why did the lad still hold his empty hands in front of him, as if beseeching her for something? What she had to give he wouldn’t want. Only the believers would and they were few and far between. Could she convince him to repent? Doubtful, especially if he had Terra’s strong will in addition to her looks.
Angry at herself, she whistled the terrier to her, shoved him inside with her foot, and began to shut the door in his face. His mouth opened as if to say more, but she hushed him with a finger to her lips, turned it into a tentative farewell wave. Through the cracks in the planking she could see him standing, dumbfounded, before he finally convinced his legs to obey and move off. Such a waste. But then, wasn’t much of life a waste?
Yes, she would scourge the madness from her body, from her mind, from the very land itself! If nothing else, she’d save the land from these marauders. There was Then and Now, a Before and an After, although she wasn’t really sure there was an After. Worst of all was Before Then. There had been something there once, faint as yesterday’s cook fire smoke. Ah, if she could only retrieve it, breathe on yesterday’s coals and fan them to life, life Before the intangible danger that clouded her visions.
Eyes leaking with a sadness he couldn’t begin to identify, Faertom staggered toward the dell where the horses were hidden. Saw Muscadeine frantically gesturing to him to hurry, mount up, and ride. Jenret’s face frozen with shock, hands wooden on the reins. Strange, strange that neither spoke aloud or mindspoke him. He got as far as a querulous “Why... ?” when Rawn hissed him into silence. The chill he’d buried tight trickled down his spine, his hair rising along his neck and forearms.
The lanterns, the particolored ribbons and streamers hanging from wagons arranged in a crescent, a fire at the center where people gathered, clapping hands in time to the tune squeezed from the old concertina, made it a festival, a carnival of celebration. At least judging by six-year-old Hylan’s jubilation level it qualified, as she dashed from person to person, tugging on sleeves, aprons, being hugged, patted, fed sweets. After all, she was their mascot—Terra had gifted her with that honor. “You’re the Fifty-first, love. Our extra lucky one.” And, of course, children were lucky, all children blessed, Terra had shared that secret with her. That and so many more—had even promised her a special Lady’s Medallion like the ones Corneil had given the others, with its special secret etched on the back, the outline of a human brain. Some wore them openly, others secreted them at home in their velvet-lined boxes. If she had one, she’d wear it proudly, though she’d rather it had a flower on the back, not the inside of somebody’s head.
At length, tired and satiated on treats as four Apostle moons partnered the Lady in the night sky, she settled under a wagon, held a spoke, cheek resting against it as she peered between them. The tune came unbidden, a set of words she’d heard and liked the sound of: “HO-se-A BA-ze-Lon, HO-SE-A BA-ze-Lon, HO-se ...” and a yawn. She’d venture out when Terra was free to play, but right now she talked intently with Corneil and Wim. Lucky, lucky Terra to have two such beaus, or so she deemed them with the romance of a child. Some said Wim liked Shoshana Garvey, the quarry master’s daughter, but she rarely could get away, absent again tonight. Naturally Wim would prefer her Terra to Shoshana, didn’t everyone? Terra stood up for her, and she’d stand up for Terra.
Wim Jonk acted so intense, so darkly scowling at times but passionate for everything. Nothing touched Wim lightly, but Terra always teased him out of the worst of his excesses. And Corneil Dalcroze, almost as new here as Hylan, so sunny, open, blond hair bleached blonder by the sun, that she found him equally enchanting. Especially the way he spoke, a lilting syncopation of words that danced and frolicked like a stream cascading over stones. A strange depth there as well, something more sensed than understood on her part. Once he’d turned to Terra when he’d thought she ranged out of earshot and said, “She’s a wonder, a pet, but it’s not right for her to be here. We know the risks we run by gathering, but she has no idea.” Wim had come then, argued against Corneil as he so often did, and sided with Terra that Hylan should stay. She’d been touched by Wim’s support, but the concern in Corneil’s voice left her shivery, unsure. Had she done something bad again? Didn’t deserve to be part of them?
The spoke hurt her face, so she pillowed her cheek against the hand clutching it, toyed with the ribbon woven through them. So pretty. And so was her Terra, Terranova Owensdatter, her cousin. Eighteen, with a braided crown of tawny hair, a queenly, deeply curved figure, a bosom to comfort, console, when she laid her head against it, desolate at being away from home, lodged with strangers, though Terra was a stranger no more.
Hylan sighed, sucked at a knuckle, refusing to stick her thumb in her mouth. “Too old for that,” Terra had chided, and worked to break her habit. More proof she was bad. But the longing returned when she thought about her mother, anxious how she fared. This pregnancy was a hard one, her mother bedridden, unable to cope. And no matter what Hylan had done, how much she tried to help, she only got in the way, her father’s temper already short-fused with worry. She’d been whipped more than once, briskly switched, for the things she’d broken, spilled, burned in her attempts to help, until she was convinced she was intrinsically bad, worthless, and beatings her just deserts.
“Evan, she’s trying so hard,” her mother had protested one night when she thought Hylan was asleep, awash with tears and shame after the last whipping. “I know, lass,” her father had replied, “but I’ll either beat the goodness into her or the evil out of her, one way or the t’other.”
“There’s no evil in the child, it’s your own frustrations, your own fears that you’ve pinned on her. Evan, best we send her away for a while, till the baby’s
born. Then you’ll have just me to worry about. Me to beat if you need someone to whip.”
“Never! Never have I laid a hand on you! But children need to be castigated, disciplined for their own good when they do wrong.”
“But you can’t expect of her what you’d expect of an older child, an adult. You make mistakes, you try, you grow, you learn.”
But her father had ignored that, mulling over her mother’s earlier statement. “But where can we send her? Who’d have her? Your family’s dead and gone, and mine’s too far.”
“Nay, not all my family. My cousin Owen Edricsen and his family live two towns over. We’re not close, haven’t seen each other much, my grandfather saw to that. Said if Owen’s pa didn’t want him, he’d have no truck with them, stock or limb. But Owen and I’ve always gotten on the few times we’ve met. He’s a good man, keeps himself and his family to himself on the farm. Let me write him, please!”
So that was how Hylan found herself living with Terra and her family that summer, eager for autumn and the birth of a brother or sister to end her exile. She’d prove to her father how good she was then. Without Terra she’d have died of loneliness, convinced she’d been abandoned because she was bad. But Terra persuaded her otherwise, tucked her under her wing and, wonder of wonders, Hylan stopped breaking and spilling things, gained confidence.