by Gayle Greeno
“You fool!” he sputtered, “Never give anybody more hostages.”
“Why not, if it’s a good cause?” she whispered as T’ss sniffed Jenret’s bonds, bumped Rawn’s shoulder.
Towbin, deep and reassuring, sounded out. “Yulyn, which side you want me to choose? Not worth much for name or fame, but I’m a Normal, another pawn to hold.”
She wheeled at his voice, a tiny smile breaking like an errant wave. “Of course they’d need someone very special to guard you, thwart your escape. Someone you can’t work your wiles on.” A glance in Garvey’s direction. “Would you take me as one of your band, or grant me neutral status? Your choice—as long as Towbin stays with me.”
Overrun with confusion and by unexpected, distrusted comrades-in-arms, Garvey stood openmouthed, finally drew himself up. “Didn’t know we was holding a membership drive. This goes on we’ll have to set up a dues-paying structure for the privilege.” He shifted back and forth, obviously uneasy. “Who’s left to carry word back?”
Faertom and Addawanna were still unaccounted for, Jenret thought, a Resonant and an Erakwan. Still, they’d be believed if they went to Swan Maclough or the Monitor, detailed the situation.
He saw Faertom had finally revealed himself, hanging on the periphery with a nervous anticipation, intent on being noticed and acknowledged. Noticed he’d been, but so far totally ignored.
Garvey shied a rock in his direction, an intentional miss but close enough to make Faertom jump, nearly break and run. “You’re shunned, lad. Word’s gone out from your da that you’re formally cast off. Don’t want you here, can’t have you here. You broke the rules, the strictures. You want to be the Normals’ lapdog, that’s your choice, but people tire of pets sometimes, abandon them, kill’em if they be too much trouble.”
And Faertom was running, stumbling down the slope, not caring if trees lashed him, stones reared up to trip him. His eyes were swollen with unshed tears, the skin across his face stretched hot and taut, as if it would split from the force inside. Banned, shunned! Cast off! Who would want him? Who would hear him out? His family had shunned him? Even his mother? That he couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe. He wailed low and long like a wounded animal, the hurt resounding inside, leaking out in gasps that did nothing to relieve the pressure. Shunned! But Jenret needed him to rally help—needed him as a friend, an equal, a fellow-Resonant, not as a pet dog. Somehow that fragment of insight offered a precious shard of sanity to cling to, rebuild his dignity. Jenret and Sarrett, Yulyn and Towbin counted on him.
He slowed, staggering, leaned into a tree and hugged it to keep from falling, thinking hard. Darl! Reach Darl Allgood, that was the best hope they had. Did he dare reach out to Darl from this distance? Would Darl, for all his years of care and caution, be open to receiving mindspeech?
A hand on his shoulder nearly lofted him straight up the tree, so convinced was he of being totally alone, bereft of all human comfort and contact. “Nex’ time Addawanna wan new trail blaze through woods, she hire you,” the Erakwan woman scolded. “Take deer many seasons wear trail deep’n wide as whad you done.”
Resting his chin on his chest, panting, he listened to the chiding, grasping the lifeline of connection it offered. “We have to return, tell everyone what’s happened quick as we can,” he pushed away from the tree, rubbed pitch from his cheek with sudden resolution. They needed him and he wouldn’t fail!
“Yes,” she agreed. “Mebbe we find Seeker on way, big khatt kin spread word. You no be doin foolishness, however you do it, shouting ‘help! help!’ in mind.” He spun to face her, wondering how she could possibly have known, read his thoughts. “You young, ebry-ting you tink show on face. Dis best said out loud. Very loud.”
Parm sat in the deepening twilight, a bit chilly but content, knowing he’d be more content with supper very shortly. The faster winter approached, the earlier supper arrived each night. He faced northwest in the direction of the Research Hospice and let his mind float, wing free to seek ’speech with Saam, as promised. As much as he cleaved to Harrap, touching another ghatti mind gave a sense of familiarity, homeyness, the comfort one absorbed from conversing with one’s own.
“Hel-lo? Here we are again, nightly report.” Well, almost nightly, since most nights he didn’t have a jot to report. Hylan journeyed aimlessly along, dragging her goat cart, undoubtedly clear as to her destination but never bothering to enlighten Harrap or him. Luckily, Harrap waxed content with little, as did he, and the journeying wasn’t unpleasant, traveling at a walking pace, scuffling with Barnaby, examining things nose-to-nose. The fuzziness of a red-and-black-banded caterpillar bespoke a hard winter. Had Saam noticed any?
“And about time. We’ve been waiting. Anything new? Anything different?” A hesitation after the last question, a hopeful hesitation.
Parm mulled over a hundred new and delicious discoveries, but suspected Saam wouldn’t chitchat about woolly bears. The distant mindvoice made him ache with loneliness. “Noooo. Not really.” He paused, hoping for a comment, anything to prolong the conversation, actually make it a dialogue, not a dry report. “Ah ... oh? I told you about the trees, didn’t I? The saplings?” Hylan’s carefully packed cargo consisted of saplings, each one’s tender root system balled in dirt and burlap. “Isn’t it nice she wants to plant trees?”
“Has she planted any yet?”
“Well... no.” A distracted shoulder lick. A distinct possibility Barnaby had fleas. “I would have said so, wouldn’t I?” Well, of course he would have. He wasn’t a blockhead.
“No, you’re not a blockhead, but you do take your own sweet time in telling us what’s happening.”
It stung, although Parm had weathered such complaints before. The fact that too few took him seriously was to their detriment, not his. After all, Harrap bore the same problem without complaint. “I might remind you, Saam, that we don’t know what we’re looking for, what might be important—if anything. Hylan keeps herself to herself, has done nothing suspicious. All I can do is keep an open Bmind, enjoy what I see traveling, make sure Harrap stays safe and well.”
A grumbling, distant sigh from Saam. “I know. I’m sorry. It must feel like a haliday sometimes, aimlessly wandering for the joy of the journey. Wish I could get Mahafny to do the same, relax a bit, let her worries ease. There may be nothing to all of this, but somehow they,” he meant the humans, “feel this interconnects with the Resonants, that Hylan poses a threat.”
Parm hackled. Too easy to forget their charge. “She’s confused, conflicted about having Harrap and me along, wishes she were on her own, but I think she’s a true solitary, prefers it that way.”
“Not outgoing, charmingly gregarious like you?” Parm could imagine Saam’s whiskers rising up and back in a grimace-smile.
“No. Harrap’s been reduced to talking to himself, out loud and internally, and to me. He’s worn my ears off!”
“Perish the thought! Any idea precisely where you are? I’d best go soon, things to do.”
The certainty of having worthwhile business to attend to made Parm thrum with jealousy, but he conquered it as unworthy. “Still on the same course, think a village comes up shortly.” He scrunched his face, orange and black segments colliding, strove to recall its name. “It’s called ... it’s.... Oh, bosh! I’ve forgotten, mislaid it.”
“A whole village?”
“No, the name. It floated clean out of my head.” A certain shame to that, but he’d been filtering out so much of what Harrap said, bone-weary with his Bondmate’s barrage of words. He brightened, “It has a Bethel. That was Harrap’s excuse for continuing on this road with Hylan, that there was another Bethel coming up.” Given the number of Bethels, large and small, scattered throughout Canderis, Harrap’s excuse could hold forever.
A distant hallo floated on the air. “Parm! Supper!” Given his recurrent boredom, mealtimes were the highlight of his day. “I’ll tell you the name tomorrow night. Promise to remember. Got to go now, he needs me.”
>
“Now who’s cutting the conversation short?”
“I know, I know. It’s just soooo boring sometimes.”
Prancing steps betraying his anticipation, Parm edged away, eagerly sniffing as Saam’s final comment came. “Well, see that you remember. And happy eating.”
Would that Seeker-Shepherd and his nosy-poke ghatt never leave her alone? Never go off about their own business ? The prolonged contact, the forced conviviality had worn Hylan thin, made her want to scream to be left alone, in peace. A task to do, a monumental one, and saddled with him. She wanted all her wits about her for this, the time margin so dangerously thin, the stakes so great. Only seven octs to winter solstice, to the New Year, and it must be accomplished by then. And the need, the pressing, aching need to purify her soul to be worthy of the task.
She hated to do it but feared she had no choice. Docile Harrap might be, but with a reservoir of quiet strength, certitude, and faith that would drown her if she weren’t wary, didn’t take precautions. Sometimes her own certainty quailed in the presence of his. No choice. None at all. She’d put off the decision as long as she could; if he stayed, insisted on clinging like a burr in wool, he must remain docile—but on her terms. And it might well enhance her credibility to have a Shepherd on a leash, so to speak. Pretend to at least the tacit approval of the Shepherds, no small thing.
Having done his share by gathering water, setting up their night camp, Harrap waited patiently for his supper, the patchwork-marked ghatt scampering to his side from wherever he’d been. She’d always insisted, made a point of preparing all the meals herself. Tonight would be no different. However, she’d slipped off earlier to a nearby farmstead, the one where she’d planned the meeting for later tonight—her first ordeal, oh, pray to all that was holy, all that was right, that it went well—to purchase a dainty for supper.
Unwrapping the crock with shaking hands, she dished out the smearkas onto their plates. Harrap craned to look. “Oh, pot cheese!” he smacked his lips. “Fresh, nice large curd. Just the thing to moisten our bread.”
“Does the ghatt like it as well?” What to do about the ghatt, the one he called Parm, still gave her pause. Barnaby’ d been less trouble with him around, although she felt he’d deserted her sometimes. Had no wish to hurt an animal, but from what she knew about Seeker Bondmates, something must be done about him as well. Just in case. Would it work on a ghatt? If so, how much? As to whether Parm liked it or not, he licked his chops, rose on hind legs to sniff, rubbed against her thigh.
Starting to hand over the plate, she halted, pretending to have forgotten something. “I’ve something you might enjoy with it, some dried herb seasoning that livens it up, heightens the flavor.” A suggestive eyebrow cock at Harrap to see if he’d agree. He nodded and she reached back into the cart, found the leather bag, sprinkled on the dried flakes. Pinched a smaller portion on the ghatt’s dish. None for Barnaby, naughty dog, so fickle.
“Aren’t you having any?” Harrap inhaled with pleasure as the plate came his way again, wooden spoon at the ready.
“No, the taste of plain smearkas is enough for me. I prefer the seasoning on meat, myself.” Liar! Even the thought of the word seared her tongue as if someone had thrust a red-hot coin between her teeth. If he could swallow, so could she, no time for pity or regret. Would he notice, would the ghatt notice? If she could but once have them consume it, it boasted an addictive power, enough to ensure future doses would become easier and easier. Until by the end they’d beg her for it, willing to lick it off her fingers, off the very roadway itself, ignoring dust and dirt. Anything for more. Not her own craving, but she understood it.
She spooned at her own plain share of smearkas, forced some into her mouth, swallowed. It’s the only way. They won’t leave me alone otherwise. Someday they’ll understand, when our world is secure again. Always someone, something, must be sacrificed. That was a given. Not her greatest sacrifice yet, but it would come, she knew. Pray she’d be worthy of it. She knew, as well, that there’d be no acknowledgment of her efforts until after the fact. Those in power always ignored, denied, were blind. But then, she’d never asked for thanks—or expected it—in all her life. Why start now? A monumental task, but at least she could begin the scourging so necessary to save Canderis.
“Well?” Marius van Mees growled, half-shielding her behind him, the partway open barn door further obscuring her so that Hylan Crailford stood in dimness, barely visible to the revelers, the passers to-and-fro at this ostensible naming day celebration for van Mees’s youngest son. She gripped the forked witch hazel rod tighter between protesting fingers already indented by its shape. Sweat beaded her upper lip, her whole face filmed with sweat, greasy with trepidation. The sound lurching up in her throat a barely articulated “No” in response. More a keening “nnn,” indicating defeat once again.
He’d assured her most of the village would congregate here tonight, either for the naming party or to admire his new heifer, bought at lavish expense to improve his herd. Human fodder for her inspection, to cull who passed from those who didn’t. Somehow she’d recognized him in that pasture, three days ago, when he’d been admiring his new purchase preparatory to claiming it from the breeder. Not that she’d known his name or who he was, but she marked the pursed mouth, the darting, distrustful eyes that nearly singed whatever they viewed. Let them come in contact too long with your flesh and you’d be sorry. The aggressive stance, almost a fighting readiness, yet the quick withdrawal from close contact with a stranger, this and more, almost the rabid scent of him, had whispered to her. Yes, this, this, this was a man ceaselessly vigilant when it came to detecting Gleaners. A man keyed to the tightest pitch to insure the welfare of family and loved ones against outsiders, any and every one a threat if their beliefs deviated from his.
The way he’d taken her measure as she’d tramped through the field, desperate for a hedge to shelter her while she did her business, not realizing his presence at first, so intent on her bodily needs. That he’d suspected her, popping up almost out of nowhere like that. The distant sight of the Shepherd, standing patiently in the road by the cart, waiting, had offered some reassurance, gave a modified relaxation to his stance, though his eyes still glowed like two burning coals of suspicion. How to approach him, snare him into helping?—for in doing so he’d be helping himself. How to be one of Us, not one of Them, she who had so little truck with humanity.
“A bit leery of strangers in these parts,” he’d offered in wary apology as she stripped a handful of leaves, clenched them tight. Dry, ready to fall, but the best she’d have when she regained her privacy.
“Aren’t we all?” The leaves crackled in her hand, she opened her fingers, watched the pieces float and fall. “With good reason. Half-feared myself to travel so, but when needs must, you must.”
Van Mees had smiled with self-satisfaction. “Nothing’s safer than staying home with people you know and trust, though I swear these days I’m not sure of some of them any longer. They can hide anywhere, be anyone. You must have ... strong needs.”
“Ah, feared that I’ll find ... Them. Feared that I won’t.”
“Feared that you won’t?” It nearly burst from him. “Bless the Lady every day you don’t! That we’ve held Them at bay a little longer!”
“No, you don’t understand.” Had she caught him up with her, made him complicitous?
Anger now, and a challenge, face thrusting at hers. “Then explain it to me. What are you doing? What’s your game?”
Tongue tucked over front teeth, sucking thoughtfully, she’d held her ground, made it clear she was assessing him, his intent, his strength of character. At last, “I’m a dowser ... a diviner ... but what I divine now is Gleaners. Can always tell.” Never let him guess her uncertainty, only her faith guiding her, and that one fateful contact with Vesey Bell and Evelien Annendahl Wycherley to point the way before she’d known, understood what they represented. The harbinger of her skills. Now she must hone them, perfect the
m. Otherwise, what sense in planting?
“You be sure of that? Fantodding sure?” Nothing left but to reel him in, his desire as overpowering as her own. “What’s it get you, gain you?” More cannily, “Do ye charge?”
“What I earn is salvation, the satisfaction of erasing, expunging, one more Gleaner from this world. I’ve been called to do this, it’s my mission.” The vague fears enshrouded her again, entwining themselves in her mind, whispering, shrieking that she wasn’t strong enough, brave enough. Made her panic at the seduction she attempted. No, not seduction—he stood more than willing on his own. “There’s so little time!” She’d almost whispered, a plea, a confession of her need for allies. “So far to travel, so many to search out, accord their just deserts.”
“Then I might be able to help us both. I swear we’ve been harboring a Gleaner in town, but mayhap my sight’s been clouded by my fears. Hate to accuse anyone unjustly, but hate more to let them dig in deeper, gain a hold over us.” And he’d begun to rapidly sketch out his plans for his son’s naming day three nights hence, if she wanted to attend, tune her skills, satisfy his curiosity. Avid curiosity that danced around him like heat waves.
And now here she stood, sheltering behind the door. “No,” she repeated again, forcing confidence into her voice. “Not them,” she indicated the last group of four who’d walked by, tossing greetings and good-natured japery at van Mees that he thought more highly of his new heifer than of his newborn.
“That’s good,” he replied unperturbed. “They’re all old friends. ’Twould have hurt.”
Another party fast approaching. “Sure you’ve the stomach for this?” Asking herself, asking him? Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. One success to bolster the confidence worn down by the long road, then word would spread, fire-fast, people rushing to meet her as she traveled, following behind and ahead of her, rejoicing. It had to be. Van Mees glimpsed only part of what was at stake, his smoldering eyes scouring the earth, not the skies for the havoc the Gleaners would bring with them from above, destroying a way of life. She gripped the forked twig harder, readied herself.