A few rows away, his boyhood friend Larr placed his basket down and straightened. Their eyes met. Larr frowned, stretched and rubbed the small of his back, then continued with his task. Jareth felt a stab of sorrow. The huskaas might sing his praises as highly as they did that of the gods, but Jareth knew he was no better a man than Larr or any other. A distance had grown between them since that day that Jareth had been unable to bridge. Jareth was the Spring-Bringer, who could touch the earth and make things grow, but the gift had come with a high price. It had forever set him apart from everyone else.
What Paiva did not know—what no one knew—was how fearful Jareth was that the gift would one day disappear as mysteriously as it had come. Each time Jareth held a handful of seeds, sensing the adult plant dormant within—all that life within one small space—he wondered if it would be the last. Each time he knelt in the snow and asked summer to slip into autumn, or winter to turn to spring, his heart raced with worry that this time, the earth would not listen. He cherished his bond with the earth, and was glad that through it he could take good care of his village, but he wondered sometimes if Larr were happier than he. Jareth’s parents had passed a few years ago, and he had no siblings or other kin. The most popular man in the village lived alone.
Jareth picked up his pace and grabbed more handfuls of the little miracles. A high voice calling his name caught his attention. It was six-year-old Altan Lukkari, dust flying from his bare feet, short legs pumping as he ran. Jareth smiled. He had assisted Paiva in bringing this bright little boy into the world. But in Jareth’s eyes, Altan would always have a shadow—the stillborn twin sister their mother had named Ilta, who would never get to run barefoot on dirt paths on a warm summer day. Ilta had died in the womb, the birth-cord meant to give life wrapped tightly around her little neck, bestowing death instead. The sight of the tiny, grayish-green corpse had horrified Jareth, and he wondered if he would ever be able to look upon Altan without thinking of the tragic Ilta.
“I thought you were supposed to be practicing your kyndela,” Jareth chided halfheartedly. The last huskaa who had come to the valley had been impressed by Altan’s sweet voice and ability to remember songs and had given the child an old kyndela. Altan had taken to it and now spent most of his time teaching himself to play. His parents had promised him that he could be apprenticed to the huskaa of Two Lakes when he was thirteen if he continued to show such dedication to the craft.
“I was, but Mama sent me to find you,” Altan gasped. “Oooh…” He squatted and reached for a handful of berries, popping them into his mouth. Juice dribbled down his face and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Those are good.”
“Yes, they are,” Jareth agreed, “but I doubt your mother sent you to find me so you could eat berries. What’s going on?”
“The headman from Two Lakes is here. He needs your help. His youngest daughter has gone missing.”
By early afternoon, Jareth and Orvo Relaanan, the headman, arrived in Two Lakes. It looked like everyone in the village had turned out to meet them, but two women stood in the forefront of the gathered crowd. One was Kivi, the headman’s wife. In the prime of life, she remained a handsome woman, with a full figure and only a few wrinkles around her blue eyes.
And her eldest daughter…
Jareth tried not to stare, but it was difficult. Taya Relaanan, his own age or slightly younger, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She was petite, like her mother, with large eyes the color of the sky in autumn and a soft, pink mouth. It struck him that if he were to hold her, her head would barely reach his heart, and then blushed at the thought. Her breasts nicely filled out the front of her dress, but the sash about her waist accentuated her trimness. Right now, her eyes and mouth were swollen with crying. When she looked up at him, lip quivering and hope in her eyes, Jareth was lost.
He had been determined to find the little girl from the moment he had heard her worried father speak, the man’s big, rough hands clasping and unclasping. But now Jareth’s resolve was doubled. He couldn’t bear to see this lovely young woman cry anymore. He found himself longing to hear what her laughter sounded like.
Jareth jumped from the wagon seat. “Where was Vikka last seen?” he asked, trying to regain his composure.
“Right outside the house,” Taya said. Her voice was soft and husky from crying. “I was inside spinning and she was carding the wool for me. When I came out she was gone.”
“We’ve searched the areas where we know the children play,” her mother said. “No one has seen her.”
Jareth nodded absently, his mind already working. His eyes fell on the stool and the abandoned pile of wool Taya had mentioned, and he knelt on the ground. He had never tried anything like this before and he hoped it would work. If it didn’t…
Taking a deep breath, he placed his big hands on the soil, feeling the yellowing blades of grass, the small stones, the earth itself. He had touched it so before, coaxing the seasons to change. But this time was different.
“Tell me,” he whispered, his eyes closed. “Tell me about the little girl, who sat on a stool here earlier today.”
He heard voices murmuring at him, but he ignored them. He strained to listen for the voice of the earth, praying to the gods who had given him this gift that it would answer.
Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same. I am the flesh that was once living beings, and the anchor to the roots of the trees and grass and all growing things. Earth am I, and I shall speak.
The child scorned the stool, and pressed herself to me as she worked, singing songs of harvest and coming snow. Passed the hours so, golden sun streaming over and warming us both. Up she leaped, with a shout of joy, and away she ran. The long-eared one surprised her and she gave a merry chase. More, I know not.
Relief and awe commingled swept through him. The earth had deigned to respond to his question.
Jareth opened his eyes. “She ran after a rabbit,” he said. He moved farther along the ground, searching with eyes and fingers for tracks. He found them, and again knelt and asked the grass for aid.
Grass am I, green in my youth, dry and yellow as the winter comes. I cover the earth and grasp it safely in my roots, holding it here instead of letting it rush away with the wind and rain and snow. Grass am I, and I shall speak.
The long-eared one was not afraid, for the child could not hope to catch one as fleet as he. Across me they came, both laughing and free. Their path took them to the forest, where the trees and the moss and the stone stand guardians over things more ancient than the season’s grass. More, I know not.
Hope surged in Jareth. Despite his initial uncertainty, every time he asked, he received an answer. Once at the forest’s edge, Jareth placed his hands on the gnarled roots of a tree and again asked for its wisdom.
Farther he went into the forest, listening to the trees and the stones and the soil tell him of the carefree flight of the little girl. Hushed and reverent, the small crowd followed him. Vikka had been gone only a few hours, but her sense of adventure was great and it took some time before he found her, curled up sleeping in a hollow area beneath an overhanging pine bough. If he had not known where to look, he would have walked right past her.
Thank you, he thought, tears of gratitude stinging his eyes. Thank you for keeping her safe.
He moved aside the sheltering bough and she blinked sleepily. She was clad in a white underdress with a red over-tunic, stained now from grass and dirt. Her eyes were large and trusting and her hair was such a pale shade of yellow it was almost white.
“Hello,” she said, smiling and unafraid.
Charmed, Jareth smiled back at her. She was the cutest little girl he’d ever seen. If I am ever a father, I want a daughter just like her.
“Looks like the warm day lulled you to sleep,” he said gently, kneeling and extending his arms. Vikka crawled into them, her smooth brow furrowing as she realized the import of what had happened from the faces of her family and village
standing behind Jareth.
“Oh,” she said as he picked her up. “They will be angry with me—the rabbit was so funny I had to follow him….”
“Shh, shh, sweetheart,” soothed her father, taking the precious burden from Jareth’s arms. “We’re not angry. We were worried about you, that’s all. You’re lucky the Spring-Bringer found you or you might have slept away the night in the woods.”
Still drowsy, Vikka looked at Jareth. “Thank you, Spring-Bringer,” she said, yawned, and slipped her hands around her father’s neck.
“Yes,” said Taya, her eyes shining. “Thank you, Spring-Bringer.”
He knew that everyone thought he had magic, but he could have sworn that it was Taya who was magical. His heart sped up and his tongue cleaved to his throat. Unable to speak, he offered her what to others might seem a paltry gift.
At his feet, blooming in a patch of sunlight, was a single flower. He bent, his fingers closing on the green stem, and whispered softly, “I would give you to this lady, as a token of my feelings for her.”
Wildflower am I, petals red as blood, heart blue as sky, I follow the sun on its path from dawn to dusk. Wildflower am I, and I shall speak.
I sense what you feel for this woman, and know this, that I offer myself freely, gladly, as a token of your love.
He winced as he plucked it, hearing the stem break with a snap, feeling it die between his fingers. Almost overcome with the sensation, he turned and handed it to Taya.
“This is for you,” he said, his voice trembling. She took it between her own slender fingers and trailed it over her cheek. And at that gesture, Jareth envied the flower.
3
Jareth gazed at the autumn sky reflected in the lake, at the trees who now wore garments of gold and russet and brown instead of green. The breeze, not yet the biting wind of winter, tousled his golden hair. Autumn was a melancholy season, but still sweet and tender; the last haunting note sounded before winter, like the final chord of a kyndela’s song.
The sun ducked briefly behind one of the puffy white clouds that ambled across the sky and Jareth felt the chill. The harvests were fast approaching: grain, fruit and vegetable, and then the slaughtering of the animals for winter food storage. Jareth found he felt better if he walked among the fields, orchards and stables before the time of reaping came. There was a soft brush of sorrow and then acceptance, from the wheat or the apples or the sheep. They grasped even better than he their roles. He knew, as they knew, that next spring the wheat would sprout again, the orchards would be redolent with the scent of apple blossoms, and lambs would dot the green hills like little white clouds come to earth. But there could not be rebirth without death, and that always made Jareth sorrowful.
He walked through the wheat, his golden hair akin to their golden heads, saying his own farewell, then joined the others in bringing sickle to stalk.
Others talked animatedly, eager for the festival that would be coming in a few days. Truth be told, Jareth was no less eager than they. For the closest villages to Skalka Valley would be coming for the festival, to barter their own harvests and to participate in a lavish feast, followed by dancing and an enormous bonfire.
He had not seen nor heard from the lovely Taya Relaanan since that day several months ago when he had asked the earth and trees to find her little sister Vikka. He was taken with the girl, and had thought the interest was at least somewhat mutual, but perhaps it had been only gratitude that shone in her eyes when she accepted the flower.
The thought of the young woman, whose hair put the glory of the sun to shame and whose face haunted his dreams, made Jareth’s loins ache. He shifted position and tried to concentrate on his task. But once she had floated into his mind, Taya had taken up residence. Jareth desperately hoped he would see her at the festival.
And then what? He was no stranger to the delights of the flesh. Tall, handsome, well-formed, he would have drawn women to him like bees to honey even had he not been the Spring-Bringer. More than one village girl—and some from other villages as well—had come to him in the night, climbing quietly into his bed. They had given him great pleasure, and Jareth ensured that they, too, left satisfied. He suspected that some of them had not wanted him for himself, but had coupled with him in hopes of conceiving a child blessed with his so-called “magical” talents. To bear such a child would bring her honor. And more than one girl had desired a more formal union and had offered a gift made by her own hands as a bride price, for in Lamal, women did the asking. Jareth had accepted none of these hopeful young women. No, the Kevat-aanta did not have to go without a willing woman in his bed unless he so chose.
Surprising everyone, including himself, he often did so choose. At first, when he was younger, the coupling was exciting. But as time passed, Jareth realized he wanted a deeper connection than attraction and mutual desire. His feelings toward the women who shared his bed were like that of most people toward the forest and earth—pleasant, but nothing very deep. The earth itself had taught him what it was like to have a powerful bond, and he wanted one with a woman—one woman, to share a lifetime with.
Taya was more than just beautiful. He’d seen beauty before and while he was not unmoved by it, he wanted more. Taya carried herself as if she was proud of who she was. He suspected she would push him and challenge him if she were his wife—and she would be a mate who would be a partner and friend, not just a bedfellow.
You’ve only met her once, Jareth. You’re assuming a great deal. Anyone who chooses you will have to share your burden, and that is no small thing.
Cursing himself, he returned to his task. In thinking of Taya, he had closed down the connection between himself and the grain. Now, he deliberately opened it again, concentrating on accepting the wheat’s pain as he brought the scythe down again and again, sending the tall stalks falling gently to the brown soil.
When Taya and her family disembarked from the wagon and her eyes fell on Jareth, he felt himself blush and ducked behind a nearby tree. What kind of hold did this girl have over him? He was behaving like an infatuated boy, and he was a man grown at twenty! He forced himself to step out from the shelter of the tree, but Taya had moved on. Jareth contented himself with greeting her parents, accepting their thanks yet again for his rescue of Vikka, and calmed his nervousness by picking up the giggling child and carrying her around on his shoulders for the next little while.
His anxiety did not diminish as the day slipped past, the golden sunlight waning to twilight as the three villages bartered and haggled over various goods. He noticed that there was a beautiful woolen blanket, in shades of blue and gold and green, that Taya had brought which never left the wagon. Idly he wondered why she had bothered to bring it if she hadn’t planned to barter it, then turned his attention to the feast that was being brought out.
With three villages providing food, it was a lavish spread indeed: bread of all varieties, soups, roasted fish, fowl and meats, mustards and jellies and nuts, and bowl and after bowl of raw, roasted, and stewed vegetables every color of the rainbow. Skalka Valley’s most famous contribution was also the most popular. The valley was known for the quality and quantity of the honeywine it produced. Jareth was able to calm the bees that made the golden fluid that was the heart of the drink, rendering the honey itself uncommonly delicious and enabling the beekeepers to painlessly extract more combs, though Jareth insisted that the bees must always have plenty for themselves. “It’s their food,” he maintained. “They share it with us, not the other way around.”
At twilight, old Paiva stepped in front of the huge bonfire, a burning branch in her hand. Ivo, the headman, had presided over most of the events thus far, but now they were headed into ritual space, and that was Paiva’s realm.
“We have been blessed by the gods,” she said in a voice that carried. Not for the first time, Jareth marveled at the strength that still dwelt in the increasingly feeble body. He felt a surge of affection for her. Of all the residents of Skalka Valley, she alone had continu
ed to treat him as she always had.
“We have plenty of food for the winter. We have good friends in nearby villages. And tonight, we have the warmth of the sun contained in the fire. Burn!”
She thrust the brand forward. The bonfire had been well-made and doused liberally with oil, and all gasped and clapped as the yellow licking flames chased away the darkness. Paiva was now a black figure outlined by the crackling glow.
“Come forward and free yourselves from the burdens you have carried this year. Let the fire take and transform your suffering.”
This was an old, old tradition, and everyone knew how to proceed. They formed an orderly line, accepting small bundles of dried wheat stalks from which the precious grain had been extracted, and stepped forward. One by one, some weaving a little thanks to the drink they had imbibed earlier, they whispered what they wished to be free of, and tossed the sheaf onto the flame. When Jareth reached the fire and felt the heat bathe his face, he realized he knew exactly what his longing was. He was honored and envied, but no one knew the pain he suffered.
Speaking aloud, but softly so that this private moment would not be overheard, he said firmly, “I wish to be free of my doubt.”
He hurled the sheaf forward, watched as it twisted and blackened in the fire, and took a deep breath. No calm certainty rushed to bathe him yet, but Paiva often reminded those who participated in this ancient rite that sometimes it took a while for the wish to be answered. But the gods always heard their petitioners.
He stepped aside, his heart speeding up when Taya moved toward the fire a few moments later. Jareth couldn’t hear what she said, but he noticed that she was smiling when she walked away.
It took time for the ceremony to be completed, but at last everyone had participated and the mood shifted from sacred to celebratory. There was much laughter and passing of honeywine sacks as everyone gathered around the fire. A chill was in the air at night now, and the warmth was welcome.
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