by Diane Duane
The young man was shaking his head. “No, I’ve been with the monks, far away down the valley in Cuera, where the Bishop rules. I sang what you sing at night. But you say Maria, seies salidada, and I say Ave Maria, gratia plena—”
Mariarta smiled to herself. Scolars often preferred to do their good secretly, and if he wanted to be secret, she didn’t mind. “It’s suppertime,” she said, burning to get him home, where everyone would see him and be astonished. “Come to our house and dine.”
He bowed to her. “Bien engraziament,” he said, and picked up his satchel from the ground.
Mariarta hurried to get the bucket and yoke, but the deep voice behind her said, “Ah no: let me carry that for my hostess.” The scolar hoisted the yoke onto his shoulder as if it was nothing, and went on up the path.
They came to the street. “This way,” Mariarta shouted, running off to the right: “this is where I live!” If everyone in the street turned to look at her in surprise, that was exactly what Mariarta wanted. And they all saw the scolar following her, and everybody stared at the stranger. And why shouldn’t they? Mariarta thought proudly. Twice, maybe three times a year, someone came through the village who people there didn’t know. And this was her stranger—
“Here!” Mariarta cried as they came to the house, and the scolar gazed at the gold letters over the doors, still flushed faintly with the rose light in the west. Quei che vegn da cor va a cor, said the curves and swirls of the letters Mariarta’s father had carved twenty years ago when he married her mother.
The scolar smiled. “‘What comes from the heart, goes to the heart,’” he said. “May it be so.” And he walked around to the kitchen door.
Mariarta went after him in time to see her mother, in the doorway, looking with surprise at the young man who put the yoke and bucket down. Mariarta remembered her manners. “Mam,” she shouted, “here is someone who God has sent to dine with us!”
“‘Whom’,” her mother said. “Don’t screech, Mati. Young sir, come into the kitchen and warm your outsides, and take a glass of vinars to warm the rest. Mati, fetch your father.”
Off Mariarta ran across the kitchen and into the low-ceilinged frontway. There across the stone floor the cattle looked over the half-doors of their big dim-lit shed, the left-hand side of the bottom of the house. Stairs led to the hall with the storage-presses, and the bedrooms, but Mariarta knew her father would be in the big warm room at the right-hand back of the house, the solér. She ran to its carved door and knocked.
Only silence answered. This was a game Bab had been playing with her, ever since he taught her about knocking. Mariarta would burst in before he gave her leave, and he would scold; and the next time her bab would wait longer. Now she waited, and danced from foot to foot in an ecstasy of impatience, clenching her fists and making faces with the unbearableness of it.
“S’avonza!” he finally said. Mariarta pulled the door-hook and pushed the heavy door open. Her father was sitting behind his big wooden table to the right of the door, near the shiny black fireplace-stove. One window-shutter on the far side of the room was open, letting in some of the sunset light that managed to slide between their house and dil Curtgin’s. The parchments on his table crackled in the breeze from the window, and her father put down his knife and pen. “Well?”
“There’s a man here!” Mariarta said.
Her father nodded. “So the whole town knows by now, since I heard you tell them so. Mariarta, when a mistral’s daughter has important news, she does not run about in the street bawling it to the five winds, like a bullock out of its shed.” He frowned, and Mariarta got subdued and unhappy. But then her bab made an absurd cow-face at her, and bawled “Owwwwwww’oooh! Owwwwwww’oooh!”, so exactly like a bullock that Mariarta laughed. “That’s how you sounded.” her bab said. “Once, I forgive you. Don’t do it again. We’ll have more important visitors some day.”
“When?”
“Who knows? Meanwhile, we’ll ask this young man for his news after dinner. Your mother will want help. But help me first, though,” he said as Mariarta started for the door. “Go see Stiafen Cadieli, and Old Gian at the mill, and Flep and Clau. Tell them the councilors should come here after the guest’s fed, to talk to him. Go on now, or you’ll be late to help your mam.”
“But I want to see him—!”
Her bab frowned. “You have seen him. You will again, later. Go on.”
She knew that tone of voice. Mariarta ran out.
At the end of the street was the mill, close to where the dirt road sloped down near the river. This early in the season the stones were still. Old Gion himself was by the barn-shed, leaning over the half door with another man and looking in.
Mariarta climbed on the half-door beside them and looked into the shed. The other man was Flep, so that was another part of her errand done. “Bab asks me to tell you both to come to him tonight,” she said. “There’s a guest, a scolar—”
“Hmm, well,” Gion said. “Tell your bab we’ll come. But what do you think, Flep? What’s her problem?”
From inside the shed came a mighty bellow. A wickedly horned head with one horn broken off short swung into the light, tossing the hay of her stable-bedding into the air. Mariarta looked at the golden-brown cow with delight. Old Crutscha was queen-cow of the Tschamuts herd, the pride of the town—for every year she beat off any other pugniera that was brought against her. The Selvese muttered and tried to buy in fighting cows who would give them the advantage, but it did them no good. It was always Crutscha who led the town’s herd, fighting any rebellious cow into submission, helping defend the herd against the wolves that got into the pastures. Bulls were no use for this: they were too testy, and too rare to be risked. Herd leadership needed a crafty cow, fiery in battle but thoughtful and wise—a pugniera who would give the town a good name at the cattle-fights in the summer. Everybody in town doted on Crutscha, and brought her treats in her winter quarters. But lately she had not been well, and her bawling could be heard constantly.
Flep shook his head. “She’s had nothing but the best. Beer in the mash, hot milk— She’s just tempery. It’ll pass.”
“A week she’s been like this,” Gion said. “It’s not good for a pugniera to be tempery. She gets in the habit, shortly she’s no better than a bull—”
Crutscha bellowed, the small leaden stable-bell around her neck jangling. From behind them came an answering sound—a deeper ringing, more mellow.
It was Urs the stableboy, walking past with one of the big pasture-bells on its embroidered strap. He had just been polishing it, to judge by its shine. Urs was ringing the bell hard, like someone about to go out for the chalandamarz, the spring race that the boys do, ringing the bells to wake the grass. Urs caught Mariarta’s eye, grinning. He was skinny and dark-haired, and his eyes always glittered as if a joke was waiting to come out. Mariarta grinned back at him: he was one of her particular friends.
At the same moment Crutscha bellowed louder than ever, hitting the half-door with one horn, so that Mariarta almost fell off it. Then Crutscha put her head over the door and reached out toward Urs, sticking her tongue out as if she wanted to lick the bell.
“Is that it,” Gion said then. “Here, Urs, bring it over. That’s it, Flep. She wants to be in the pasture, the good creature.”
He opened the half door. “Come here then, you beast, come on,” he said, and put the bell on Crutscha. She mooed, a much more cheerful sound, shaking her head so the bell rang loud in the small space. Then she turned straight to her manger. Shortly no sound was to be heard but satisfied crunching, and the bong, bong of the bell as she moved.
“That’s her made happy,” Gion said. “But the grass up there must be ready now. We’ll ask the mistral about taking them up, eh Mati?”
“I’ll tell bab she’s eating again,” Mariarta said, and went back up the track to the street.
Urs went with her. “Is it really a scolar?” he whispered. “Did you see his book?”
; “A mistral’s daughter doesn’t babble news,” she said proudly. Urs made a face at her, as he always did when he thought she was acting important. She grimaced. “I didn’t see it. But he has a bag he wears on his back. I bet it’s in there.”
“Maybe he has gold,” Urs said, awed by the thought.
Mariarta looked at him scornfully. “You orob, you know scolars are always poor. It’s other people they always give the gold to.”
“Are you really going to look in the bag?” Urs said, as they stopped by the mill. “You won’t do it. You’ll be afraid your father will catch you.” His eyes glittered, wicked and cheerful. “And there’s probably a spell on the bag—monsters will come out and hack you up so fine the hens’ll be able to peck you up.”
“I’m not afraid,” Mariarta hissed at him. She ran off, feeling furious. Urs always teased her until she itched with anger, as if the föhn was blowing, and he made her do things to show she was brave. Then she would get in trouble with her bab or mam. Orob! she thought again.
But she was going to look inside that bag.
***
It was a long time before Mariarta got her chance. Dinner had to be gotten through first. Still, it was hard to be impatient with that night’s dinner.
This time of year was not much different from winter in terms of what you got to eat. There might be toasted cheese, and some cold wheat porridge from the morning, sliced and fried in lard, or on Sundays, in butter. There would be a piece of wheat bread, or some oat bread if the wheat was getting scarce. It was a long time since the pig was killed; a scrap of bacon from the dwindling flitches hanging smoke-blackened in the chimney, or a chunk from the salt-meat crock, might go into a pot of barley soup for Sunday dinner; but until the sow farrowed, this would get less likely. To drink, there would be barley-water, for the cows weren’t yet in milk. The supplies in the pantry were dwindling, and would do so until summer. Mariarta had been watching her mother’s worried looks at the store cupboards, and noticed how their key never left her mam’s belt.
So when Mariarta returned and was set to scrubbing the big table in the kitchen, she was astonished to see the porridge that had been boiling now set aside. The smaller butter-tub sat on the sideboard, with a great scoop out of it; and one of the old dry-spiced sausages that her mam tempted her bab with. Ten whole slices of it lay on one of the earthen plates: soup that smelled of oats and bacon was simmering in the pot that hung from the crane. Her mam was rasping half a hard sweet cheese to go into it, the cheese that bab washed in wine and dried under the eaves. Onda Baia was stirring the soup pot, muttering: she kept glancing at the guest on the far side of the fire, where he sat in the chimney-seat talking to her father. Baia’s glances weren’t friendly, which confused Mariarta.
When the table was clean, her mother brought five bowls from the cupboard above the sideboard. “Be careful,” she said. Mariarta laid them out gingerly on the table, stroking the bright, smooth painted clay as she put each one down. Normally they all ate out of one pot in the middle of the table, except at Christmas and Easter.
Her mother gave her the tin spoons one at a time, polishing each one on her apron. Mariarta put one by each bowl. “Nothing more,” her mam said, smiling at her: “not till the soup’s done.” She glanced at the cushioned seat under the window. Night was coming on fast; it was already dim in the kitchen. Being close to the fire, Mariarta’s father had not yet lit the tallow-dip hanging by the window in its tray. Mariarta crept to the seat, hitched herself onto it as silently as she could, and stared at her guest.
He was even younger than he had seemed before; the firelight showed a face that hadn’t started a beard yet. “A long walk,” he said to her father. “And a ways to go yet before I’m done....”
Onda Baia muttered something else to the soup, laid the ladle down and went out. “Not too much further, signur Guigliem,” her father said, raising his cup to the scolar. Mariarta saw to her surprise that they were both drinking real white wine, instead of “Adam’s wine”, as her father called water.
It was all too much for Mariarta to bear. “Guigliem, is that your name? We have a Guigliem here, it’s the miller’s son who had the tree fall on him and now he can’t talk—”
Her father’s expression was too kindly to be a warning. “Not my daughter’s problem, as you can see,” he said.
The young man smiled. “Guigliem I am, but to keep us all from being confused, you can say ‘of val Schatla’, since that’s where I came from.”
“I thought you came from the Chrusch’via,” Mariarta said, bemused. “And the Devil teaches you spells there, and when he’s done teaching you, eleven out of twelve of you get away, and the twelfth scolar gets turned into a crow.”
“My daughter is educated,” Mariarta’s father said to Guigliem, “and knows the old stories.”
Mariarta wriggled with pleasure at being praised. The scolar laughed. “I’ve seen many a crossroads, duonna, but I never saw old Malón at even one of them. And crows I’ve seen, but none of them were anyone I knew.”
“The table’s laid,” Mariarta’s mother said. “Will you gentlemen sit? Mariarta, go fetch your aunt.”
Mariarta scrambled off the seat. As she did, her leg brushed something cool and smooth. She looked down in surprise—at the scolar’s bag. I could have gotten in it, and now I’ve lost my chance! Urs is going to make fun of me—
Out Mariarta went into the frontway, to find her aunt. Off to her right in the darkness, Onda Baia was kneeling on the stones, praying under her breath.
Mariarta went to her. “It’s dinner—”
Onda Baia kept praying.
“Onda, what’s the matter? Don’t you like the scolar?”
Mariarta stepped back at the furious, frightened look in her aunt’s eyes. “Like him? Mad child, don’t you see? He’s a witch, or something worse! What kind of decent person doesn’t stay home and work their land? No one walks the roads but gypsies who trick and steal, and soldiers who loot and kill, and traveling merchants who cheat you and run away.” Her voice was a hiss. “Travelers are the Devil’s people. They won’t settle, they won’t stay still! And the old blood will tell, for you’re too friendly by half with such, you and your father both—”
“Baia,” came Mariarta’s mother’s voice, quite cool. She was standing in the door to the kitchen, her face in shadow. “As for travelers, there are also saints who walk the world, looking for hospitality. And poor people who have no homes, whom we must help because God sends them to us. Now, dinner is ready. If you don’t want yours—”
Onda Baia went straight into the kitchen.
Mariarta’s mother came to stand by her. “Mati—did your aunt frighten you?”
“A little,” Mariarta said. But it was more than that. The old blood will tell. You and your father both—
“Your aunt was raised old-fashioned, that’s all,” Mariarta’s mother said in her ear. “New things come down the road, and old stories whisper in her ear, and they both frighten her. You mustn’t let that happen to you. You were right to say God had sent us someone to share dinner with: He did. Now go on in. The soup will get cold.”
***
She sat next to the scolar right through dinner, and was hard put to know what was better to look at—his smooth young face with its pale blue eyes, or the soup, all thick with melting cheese. She had a piece of sausage to herself, and another half a one the scolar gave her. He was kind. Mariarta thought of just asking him outright to let her see the inside of his bag: that would be so brave, even Urs wouldn’t be able to say anything.
But as soon as they finished eating, her father’s council began to arrive. They gathered around the table with Guigliem, and were given wine, and Mariarta’s father sat at the head of the table, so that Mariarta knew the council was in session.
The scolar told them his name again. They asked him about the roads he had walked on leaving val Schatla, about the towns there, when he had left, and why. Mariarta was more interested in th
e bag. Her mother had told her to sit in the window-seat until it was her bedtime, but the bag had fallen on the floor. The tallow-dip was lit now. It would be hard to get at the bag without being seen...
“So they sent you away to be a student,” Flep said. The emphasis he put on the last word was amused, for everyone knew what Mariarta thought of the guest.
Guigliem smiled. “Not in the scola nera. I would hardly have arrived on foot without a solida of my own if I were accomplished in the black art.”
“But it’s well known that scolars can only do their wealth-making for others, never themselves.”
“Then it’s a wonder there are any at all,” said Guglielm. “What’s the point in learning a trade that will never do the craftsman any good, or maybe get you turned into a crow at the Crossroads?” They all laughed. “No, I was in minor orders in the Bishop’s monastery school at Cuera, where my father sent me before he died. I thought that after I took the tonsure I might work for the monks in Mustér, doing cattle-breeding for them. But word came that my old stepfather has died, too. I’m needed at home in val Schatla. So home I go, with my tonsure growing out. Just a farmer again.”
“A learned one, though,” said Mariarta’s father.
Guglielm looked wry. “Oh aye...I can speak Latin to the cows. But will they give enough extra milk afterwards to make a difference? And what’s the point of speaking to them in Daoitscha? The milk would probably curdle.”
All the councilors laughed. Mariarta’s father sat quiet, smiling.
Guglielm looked around with sudden concern. “Pardon me if I’ve spoken out of turn,” he said. “I did get the impression there’s no saltér here—”
Mariarta blinked. Why should the scolar care where the Austriac bailiff was? He was only a little fat man who barely spoke Romansch; even his Daoitscha was poor, coming out of him in short thick-sounding phrases, with panting in between. He walked around Tschamut as if he owned it, and the one time Mariarta had tried to ask her bab why Reiskeipf acted that way, her bab had growled and stalked away, giving her no answer. She hadn’t raised the subject again.