Reave the Just and Other Tales

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  “So the council watches for Suriman constantly, seeking any sign that the most evil of warlocks yet lives. And Prince Chorl watches also. His daughter is little better than a madwoman now, sorrowing over the loss of the man who changed her, and because the Prince blames himself his anger cannot be assuaged.

  “All considered,” the Roadman concluded his tale in Lessom’s voice, “it has been a tumultuous time. Surely you have felt it here? Magic and battles on such a scale have repercussions. Has nothing changed at all—nothing out of the ordinary? Do not the cows talk, or the pigs sprout wings? Has no thing occurred which you might call strange? Is everything truly just as it has always been?”

  With a gasp, Lessom sagged as the pig’s gaze released him. Titus turned his eyes on Levit.

  Now think! he demanded. Make no mistake. What answer was this Roadman given?

  Yoel’s son appeared to search his memory. “They were silent,” he said slowly. “I could not see them, but I heard their boots on the floor, and the benches shifting. Then Horrik said, ‘You came. That was strange. We have never seen a Roadman before.’

  “Everyone laughed, and the Roadman with them. After that my father took Destrier to a room for the night, and people left the alehouse. I heard nothing else.”

  Think, Titus grunted urgently. Nothing was said of me? Of Fern? Did not that clod-brain Jessup speak against me?

  Levit glanced at Lessom. “Nothing.”

  Lessom nodded and echoed, “Nothing.”

  For a time, the pig did not speak. Both boys slumped on the dirt, wearied by Titus’ coercion. Beside them Fern tended the fire uncomfortably; she wanted sleep, but she was full of a fear she could not name. Images of Florice seemed to resonate for her like wind past a hollow in a wall, as though they might convey another connection; yet the connection eluded her. Such things were matters of time, and her grasp on them remained imprecise.

  Then Titus snuffled, Ah, but they squirmed. I can see it. They dropped their eyes and twisted in their seats. And this Destrier noticed it. He was sent to notice such things.

  Hell’s blood! I must have time!

  Like Titus, Lessom and Levit needed time. Their parents would not speak kindly to them for staying out so late. Yawning and shuffling, they left the hovel.

  But Titus continued to fret. He paced the floor as though his hooves were afire. Fern tried to rest, but she could not be still when the pig she loved was in distress. “Yes?” she murmured to him, “yes?” hoping that the sound of her concern would comfort him.

  No, he retorted harshly. You do not know what you are saying. It is not enough.

  As though he had judged and dismissed her, he did not speak again that night.

  The next morning, however, he ventured out early to watch Prince Chorl’s Roadman ride away from Sarendel-on-Gentle. And when he returned to the hovel, he was full of grim bustle. I must take action, he informed her. Any delay or hindrance now will be fatal. And he showed her an image which instructed her to prepare a double—no, a treble—portion of the herbs and paste with which he fed her thrice daily.

  She obeyed willingly, because he instructed her. When his concoctions were done, she bathed thoroughly; she combed out her hair and let the sun dry it until it shone. Then, guided by images, she draped her limbs with her scantest, most inadequate rags.

  Cold, she thought when she saw how ill she was covered. A moment later, she thought another word, which might have been, Shame.

  Shame? The pig’s disgust was as bright as fire. Shame will not kill you. My need is extreme. Extreme measures are required. Nevertheless he allowed her to remain concealed in her hovel while he roamed the village; when he returned, they remained there together until the sun had set.

  By that time, Sarendel had newer, more personal news to replace Destrier’s unexpected visit. Meglan’s husband, Wall, had fallen ill. According to the children who brought the tale, he writhed on his bed like a snake, vomiting gouts of bile and blood, and his skin burned as though his bones were ablaze. Meglan and her children were beside themselves, fearing his death at any moment.

  Meglan? Fern had little impression of Wall, but Meglan farmwife was vivid to her. Meglan’s kindnesses, of which Fern had known many, came to her through veils of time—carrots and shawls, cabbages and sandals and smiles. She felt tugging at her the same concern, the same impulse to respond, which she had often felt for Sarendel’s pigs.

  Good, Titus said. Such concern looks well.

  And he showed her an image in which she went alone to Meglan’s home, bearing small portions of her broth and paste. Alone she knocked at the door until she was answered. Alone she repeated Meglan’s name until Meglan was brought to her. Then, still alone, she spoke to Meglan. In words, she explained how the broth and paste should be administered to save Wall.

  Alone?

  Spoke? In words?

  Explained—?

  Fern flinched against the wall of the hovel as though Titus had threatened to strike her.

  I will teach you, Titus replied patiently. If you are willing, you will be able to do it.

  “No,” she protested in fright.

  Come now, Fern, Titus went on, filling her mind with the colors of calm. You will be able to do it. I have made you able. Did you not hear yourself speak just now? That was a word. You know both “yes” and “no.” And you know names. Each new word will be a smaller step than the one before—and you will not need many to save Wall.

  Alone? she cried fearfully.

  If you love me, you will do this. Meglan will have no tolerance for pigs at such a time.

  Fern did not know how she understood him; yet she comprehended that he needed her—and that his need was greater than she could imagine. With her crumbling resistance, she gestured toward the rags she wore.

  You will feel no shame, he promised her. There can be none for you, when you do my bidding.

  There: another connection. Through her fright and distress, an involuntary excitement struck her. She had always contrived to cover herself better than this; but now she did not because Titus had instructed her. His bidding— She acted according to his wishes, not her own.

  Other connections trembled at the edges of her mind, other links between what he wished and what people did. However, his urgency and his steady promises distracted her. While she readied her small portions of herbs and paste, he taught her the words she would need.

  When she left the hovel, she went in a daze of fear and shame and excitement. No, not shame— There can be none for you, when you do my bidding. What she felt was the strange, uneasy eagerness of comprehension, the unfamiliar potential of language. Ignoring how her breasts and legs showed when she walked, she crossed the village and did as Titus had instructed her.

  She was almost able to recognize what she gained by wearing her worst rags. They caught the attention of the farmer who opened the door, a friend of Wall’s; they trapped him in pity, embarrassment, and interest, so that he was not able to send her away unheard. Instead, he went to fetch Meglan, thinking that Meglan would be able to dismiss Fern more kindly.

  And when Meglan came to the door, Fern astonished her with words.

  “I know herbs,” said Fern, slurring each sound, and yet speaking with her utmost care, because of her love for Titus. “These can heal Wall. A spoonful of the broth. A touch of the paste on his tongue. Four times during the night. His illness will break at dawn.”

  Meglan stared as though the sounds were gibberish. All Sarendel knew Fern did not speak; she could not. Then how could these sounds be words?

  But Titus had taught her one more: “Please.”

  “‘Please’?” Meglan cried, on the verge of sobs. “My husband whom I love dies here, and you say, ‘Please’?”

  Fern could not withhold her own tears. Meglan’s grief and the burden of words were too great for her to bear. Helpless t
o comfort the good farmwife—and helpless to refuse her pig—she could only begin again at the beginning.

  “I know herbs. These can heal—”

  Another woman appeared at Meglan’s shoulder, a neighbor. “Is that Fern?” she asked in surprise. “Did I hear her speak?”

  Grief twisted Meglan’s face. If Fern could speak, the farmwife could not. Taking both broth and paste, she turned her back in silence and closed the door.

  Fern went weeping back to her hovel.

  Titus had no patience for her nameless sorrows. When she entered the hovel and stumbled to the scraps and leaves which she used as a pallet, he fixed her with his eyes, compelling her with silver and blindness until he had seen what was in her mind.

  After that, however, his manner softened. It was hard, I grant, he told her. But you have done a great thing, though you do not know it. The next steps will be less arduous. That is a better promise than the one I gave you earlier.

  Then he nuzzled and comforted her, and filled her head with solace, until at last she was able to stop crying and sleep.

  While she slept, new connections swam and blurred, seeking clarity. She had gone to Meglan because Titus bade her. She had bathed her body and combed her hair and donned her worst rags on his instructions. She had prepared new stores of broth and paste at his behest. Were all these things connected in the same way? One thing will lead to another because it must. Had the pig foreseen Wall’s illness? Was time no barrier to him, neither the past nor the future?

  For a moment, as if time were no barrier to her as well, she seemed to see through the veils of the past. She saw that the ease and comfort and companionship of her life were new—that her life itself had changed. How did it come about that all her needs were supplied by children who had taken no notice of her until Titus adopted her?

  What had he done? He had filled her with images. And she had done his bidding. One thing will lead to another— Did the children also find images in their minds, new images which instructed them in Titus’ wishes?

  These connections were like the surface of the Gentle. They caught the sun and sparkled, gems cast by the water, but they were too full of ripples and currents to be seen clearly.

  And they vanished when the pig awakened her. It is morning, he informed her intently. You must be prepared to speak again soon. His concentration was acute; his eyes seemed to focus all of him on her. Hear the sounds. They are words. When I have given them to you, they will be yours. At first, they will be difficult to remember. Nevertheless they will belong to you, and you will be able to call on them at need.

  Words? she thought. More words? But he left her no opportunity for protest. When she tried to say, “No,” he brushed that word aside. It will become easier, I tell you, he snapped. And I have no time for subtlety.

  She surrendered to his bidding scant moments before a tentative scratching at her door curtain announced a visitor.

  Held by his gaze, she spoke the first of his new words.

  “Enter.”

  Expecting children, she was filled with chagrin when she saw Meglan come into her hovel. Only the strength of her love for her pig—or the strength of his presence in her mind—enabled her to rise to her feet instead of cowering against the wall.

  Meglan herself appeared full of chagrin. Fern could look at the farmwife because Meglan was unable to look at Fern. Her gaze limped aimlessly across the floor, lost among her pallid features, and her voice also limped as she murmured, “I know not what to say. I can hardly face you. My husband is saved. You saved him—you, who speaks when none of us knew you could—you gave no hint— You, whom I have treated with little concern and no courtesy. You, who came in rags to offer your help. You, whom I have considered at worst a beggar and at best a half-wit. You and no other saved my husband.

  “I cannot— I do not know how to bear it. You deserve honor, and you have been given only scorn.

  “Fern, I must make amends. You have saved Wall, who is as dear to me as my own flesh. Because of you, he smiles, and lifts his head, and will soon be able to rise from his bed. I must make amends.” Now she looked into Fern’s eyes, and her need was so great—as great as Titus’—that Fern could not look away. “I will tell the tale. That I can do. I will teach Sarendel to honor you. But it is not enough.

  “I have brought—” Meglan opened her hands as if she were ashamed of what they held, and Fern saw a thick, woolen robe, woven to stand hard use and keep out cold. “It is plain—too plain for my heart—but it is what I have, and it is not rags. And still it is not enough.

  “If you can speak—if you are truly able to speak—please tell me how to thank you for my husband’s life.”

  Fern, who had never owned a garment so rich and useful, might have fallen to her knees and wept in gratitude. To be given such a gift, without begging or dishonesty—! But Titus’ need was as great as Meglan’s. He did not let her go.

  Instead of bowing or crying, she answered, “Thank you.” The words stumbled in her mouth; they were barely articulate. Yet she said them—and as she said them she felt an excitement which seemed like terror. “I helped Wall because I could. I do not need tales.”

  That is safe, Titus commented. She will talk in any case.

  “Or gifts,” Fern went on. Belying the words, she gripped the robe tightly. “Yet it would be a kindness if I were given an iron cookpot and a few mixing bowls.”

  Damnation! Titus grunted. That came out crudely. I must be more cautious.

  Ashamed to be begging again, Fern could no longer face the farmwife. Because Titus required it, however, she gestured at her fire and her few bowls. “My knowledge of herbs is more than I can use with what implements I have. If I could cook better, I could help others as I have helped your husband.”

  Tears welled in Meglan’s eyes. “Thank you. You will have what you need.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed Fern’s cheek. Then she turned and hurried from the hovel as though she were grieving—or fleeing.

  There. Titus sounded like Jessup rubbing his hands together over an auspicious bargain. Was that not easier? Did I not promise that it would be less arduous? Soon we will be ready.

  For the second time, Fern felt her own tears reply to Meglan’s. “No.” She had no recollection that she had ever been kissed before. Her surprise at Meglan’s gesture startled another surprise out of her—an unfamiliar anger. “No,” she repeated. Almost in words, almost using language for herself, she faced the pig’s strange gaze and showed him her shame.

  Titus shook his head. You did not beg. Now he sounded condescending and desirous, like Horrik the tanner. You answered her question—a small act of courtesy and self-respect. Consider this. He showed Fern an image of Meglan coming to the hovel to offer gratitude, carrying not a robe but a cookpot and some bowls. Would you have felt shame then? he asked. No. You were not shamed by the gift she chose to give you. It is only because you named your own need that you think you have done wrong.

  But it was not wrong. It was my bidding.

  Perhaps we will have enough time. Perhaps you will be able to save me. Take comfort in that, if you cannot forget your shame. Perhaps you will be able to save me.

  As I saved Wall? she almost asked. Was that not also your doing?

  But she lacked the language for such questions. And the pig distracted her, nuzzling her hand to express his affection and gratitude, wrapping her mind in azure and comfortable emerald; and so the connection was lost.

  After that, her life changed again. The roaming and scavenging which had measured out her days came to a complete end. Feeling at once grand and unworthy in her new robe, she sat in her hovel while Titus went out alone and came back; while children supplied her with food and water and firewood and herbs; while first one or two and then several and finally all of Sarendel’s good people came to visit her. Some scratched at her curtain and poked their heads inside
simply to satisfy their curiosity or resolve their doubt. But others brought their needs and pains to her attention. Meglan’s tale had inspired them to hope that Fern could help them.

  Red-eyed from sleeplessness, and strangely abashed in the presence of a woman whom she had scarcely noticed before, Salla farmwife brought her infant son, who squalled incessantly with colic. Had the boy been a pig, Fern would have known what to do. However, he was a boy, and so it was fortunate that Titus stood at her side to instruct her. (A bit of the paste, diluted four times. Mint and sage to moderate the effect. There.) When Salla left the hovel, she added her son’s smiles and his sweet sleep to Meglan’s tale.

  And later Salla brought Fern the gift which Titus had told Fern to request—a mortar and pestle, and a set of sturdy wooden spoons.

  Horrik came, bearing an abscessed thumb. After Fern had treated it with a poultice which she had never made before, he lingered to stare and talk like a man whose mind drooled at what he saw. Yet he did not take it unkindly when at last Titus succeeded at urging her to dismiss him. Smiling and bowing, the tanner left; still smiling, he brought to her the gift she had requested, a keen flensing knife.

  Karay’s daughter had been afflicted with palsy from birth. The weaver was so accustomed to her daughter’s infirmity that she would not have thought to seek aid, were it not for the strange fact that Fern could now speak. Perhaps if a mute half-wit could learn language and healing, a palsy could be cured. So Karay set her forlorn child in the dirt beside Fern’s fire and asked bluntly, “Can you help her?”

  In response, Fern prepared a broth not unlike the one she ate herself, a paste not unlike the one she had given Salla’s infant. “And ale,” she added. “Mix it in ale. Let her drink at her own pace until she has drunk it all.”

  Once Karay had seen that this rank brew indeed put an end to her daughter’s palsy, she gave Fern a curtain of embroidered velvet to replace the hovel’s burlap door. And also, because she was asked, she delivered to Fern a cupful each of all the dyes she used in her weaving.