The Wind-Witch

by Susan Dexter

  “Our looms are smaller,” Kellis explained. “Not in a great frame like this—and upright. Our weavers hang the beam from a tree, tie rocks to the warp ends to keep the tension.”

  “You’d need a very tall tree to get much length,” Druyan observed.

  He nodded. “They don’t weave beltrans unless they’re near the forest. The loom’s easy to transport, though—and it needs to be. We move with the flocks, follow the herds whenever the grass fades. A loom must travel easily, because it’s often.”

  “So you know how to card wool, then?” Druyan asked craftily. She’d wound on all the way, and now she took the ends from him, deftly tying them in little bunches to the clothbeam, one after another. Kellis glanced about the room—shadowy the farther one ventured from the one unshuttered window. He could not help but see the sacks of rolled fleeces, a half score of them, waiting. He shut his eyes.

  “Yes,” he said wearily. “I’m afraid I do know how to comb wool.”

  “Good,” Druyan answered brightly. He didn’t bother with the stupid things some men would have said. He didn’t plead that he was a warrior, that the task was beneath him. She approved of that. “You can start anywhere.”

  She watched out the corner of her eye as he walked to the sacks. A set of combs lay atop the nearest, and a sheaf of dry teasels stood ready to hand, to refresh the combs as need be. Kellis untied one sack, unrolled the fleeces within, and inspected the creamy wool, sinking his fingers deep to gauge the length of staple.

  “Lady, do you want me to sort as I go, or should I card the tops first and leave the coarse stuff for later?”

  The question fairly stunned her. Dalkin would have carded all the wool together, the choice and the so-dirty-’twas-next-to-useless, Druyan thought—at least till she’d caught him at it. She considered how she’d want the job done, not merely how she was likely to get it. “There’s plenty of room in here,” she finally decided. “Why don’t you sort today while the light’s good? Chuck all the belly wool in that far corner—if we have enough of the better fleece, then perhaps I won’t spin that at all. Just boil it clean and use it to restuff a few of the bed pallets.”

  Kellis nodded agreement and set to work, opening sacks and picking through the fleeces within. Druyan took up her shuttle and wove a few inches of plain weave to settle the warp threads, beat fimily till she had a solid edge against the clothbearn. When she looked up again, she was startled to behold half a dozen fluffy white piles, growing in a ragged circle about the sacks and Kellis.

  He must actually know what he’s doing, she marveled. Most folk—even many spinners—sorted f`leeces crudely, into clean-enough and not-clean-enough to spin. If Kellis was making more than two piles, then he must be aware of such subtle nuances as length of staple, texture, the abundance or lack of crimps along the locks of wool. And when he began carding, he therefore wou1dn’t be mingling fibers fine enough for the lightest of summer gowns with those better suited to being woven into a hearth rug. While her mind chewed that over—beyond amazement, almost dazed by such good fortune—her shuttle flew back and forth like a barn swallow with chicks to tend. Thread by thread, she began to create the pattern of the weave.

  She wasn’t using a second color in this cloth, so Druyan had threaded three harnesses when she set the warp, to weave an intricate texture, subtle as the shadows of grass blades in a held. She lost herself in the work for a long while, and by the time Enna disturbed her the light was going and her shoulders were aching. She had, however, done better than a cubit of fine cloth, and set the shed patterns into her head so firmly that it would be second nature to her for so long as she required it to be.

  “Lady, the bread’s just out of the oven, and the meat’s resting, ready to carve. Will you leave this awhile?”

  Druyan straightened, putting a nursing hand to the cramp in the small of her back. “Before I starve or go blind?” she teased. She could hear voices in the kitchen; they’d all be waiting to hear whether they could eat yet. “Yes, Enna. The light’s faded, we’d better leave off for today.”

  Enna nodded and retreated to her domain. A couple of sharp cornrnands preceded her into the kitchen proper, and there was a sudden clatter of crockery.

  Kellis got to his feet and laid down the combs atop one of the sacks. “Lady? Shall I feed the horses?”

  He had made good progress carding, Druyan saw—there was a great heap of rolags lying ready for her spindle. After supper, she thought, by the kitchen fire’s warmth and light. He’d been so silent, she’d forgotten his task while she was busy at her own—never noticed him sitting down to it, in fact, once he’d done sorting.

  “Dalkin can help you,” she said, giving her loom a last glance, trying not to be tempted back to it. “Get him out from under Enna’s feet while she sets the meal out, he’ll live longer.” She smiled. “Mind he doesn’t slip extra corn to that pony of his—we’re eating hams from pigs that weren’t half so well fattened.”

  It was pushing things just a touch, to expect Enna to tolerate Kellis at table with them. He made that reality less awkward by staying behind in the barn watering the stock after Dalkin had finished doling out feed and returned to his own supper. Druyan took Kellis his portion later, after angrily adding more bits of meat to the stew and the breadcrusts Enna had left cooling in the crockery bowl by the door. The scraps put down for the cats were more generous, Druyan noted. Not that carding wool was fieldwork, but the man was thin enough almost to see through—and with Enna bound that he’d not have one morsel more than would keep life in his body, likely to remain so, just when every other creature on the place was laying on fat to better withstand the winter cold.

  She heard humming as she entered the barn and paused a moment to listen. Dalkin slept in the kitchen, but that was not to be thought of for Kellis—he still had a bed in the unused stall and seemed content with the arrangement. That door was shut, but Valadan’s stood ajar, and she could see Kellis within, busy with brushes. He was humming as he worked—or perchance singing a song that was all but wordless—Druyan caught what seemed like a word now and again, the same one or two, repeated like a chorus.

  The song ceased when Valadan pricked his ears at her and nickered softly. The stallion’s winter hair was thick, but it shone no less than had his summer coat, in the lantem’s buttery glow, and his mane and tail fell tangle—free as rain, testament to Kellis’ diligence.

  “I should think you’d be weary of brushing,” Druyan commented lightly as she set the cloth-draped bowl down on a nearby bench. Kellis put the brushes carefully away and dusted his hands clean against his trews. He was cleanshaven—he’d presented himself for work that way one morning, with his hair cropped, too, at about the level of his earlobes. Druyan had no idea how he’d managed that. The hairline was ragged at the back, where he’d had trouble reaching. The shears they used on the sheep were bronze and were kept in the barn, but she hated to think of him trying to get right down to his skin with those.

  “Easier to curry him than to comb burrs out of fleece,” Kellis said, giving the stallion’s neck a pat. “Different brushes, another grip, eases the cramps out. The wool grease is good for the hands, though. I should have asked before whether you had any.”

  Keeping clear of iron had done much to heal him, of course, but Druyan had frequently observed Kellis plucking herbs as he chanced upon them in field or dooryard, rubbing the crushed leaves and juices onto his skin, and knew by that token that his hands still bothered him. She was sorry she had not thought of the wool grease, either. She knew how soothing ’twas, if only on the surface. And there were herbs she might have added to it. . .

  “It would help Enna’s hands, too,” Kellis offered. “My people fill mitts with fleece and herbs, warm them by the tire. The patient sleeps with them on, and usually come morning the joints are less swollen.”

  Druyan frowned, considering. “It certainly wouldn’t harm her. It grieves me I’m not a better healer—all Enna’s joints go stiff when th
e weather turns wet—which is most days, here—but her hands always seem the worst, and I have never known what else to do for her. She’s in a lot of pain sometimes. Too much for willow tea to deal with.”

  “Hard to do without hands. You can’t favor them like a bad leg—if they hurt, you just have to use them anyway.”

  He made the statement matter-of-factly and did not seem to notice how Druyan flushed. “If the wool grease helps her, I’ll tell Enna whose suggestion it was,” Druyan said lamely. “I’m sure you’d rather eat in the kitchen once the weather gets really cold.”

  “I’m fine here, Lady,” Kellis said, and sounded sincere, even anxious that she believe him. Possibly he didn’t want to eat close by the kitchen knives, any more than Enna wanted him there. Among the animals, he might feel safer.

  But horses and cattle grew thick pelts to keep themselves warm. Humankind did not. By midwinter, the water in the barn buckets would be freezing right to the bottom of the pails, some nights, and you couldn’t have a fire for warmth in ia barn. Even if she gave him thick blankets, she couldn’t allow Emma to deny the man a little warmth for part of the evening. There had to be some way. . .

  Well, didn’t she intend to do an hour or so’s worth of spirming before the fire, that night and every night until the needful task was done? What with plying and skeining, didn’t the work take most of the winter evenings? And didn’t spinning go more than twice as fast as carding? Why should Kellis have his evenings idle? she might ask, if Enna pressed. No harm his doing a few more hours of carding, handy to where she and her spindle were.

  Enna was predictably discomfited when Druyan brought Kellis back with her from the barn. Kellis wasn’t much happier, Druyan thought—he hitched himself as far back around the edge of the hearth as he could manage, so that he was absolutely out from underfoot and where Enna’s gaze would be least likely to fall upon him—pa1ticularly once she’d set Dalkin to sharpening the knives and cleavers. Druyan lodged a protest at that, unable to bear the noise of the grindstone and Enna’s instructions as to how sharp she wanted the implements to be.

  “Enna, I believe he’d get a truer edge if he did that when he could see. Tomorrow, and outside.”

  “I’d like it done now, Lady.” She fixed Dalkin with a glare, to be sure he knew what the order was.

  The grindstone whirred uncertainly to life again. Druyan’s spindle twirled its way toward the floor. Metal screeched against sandstone. Druyan wound thread about the spindle’s shaft, dropped it spinning once more. The thread thinned, broke. She cursed under her breath, then spoke aloud. “That’ll do, Dalkin. If the cutlery’s too dull to manage the breakfast ponidge, there’ll be time to hone the cleaver before you start chores. Take the dogs out to the sheepfold”

  Dalkin abandoned the grindstone happily, whistling for the sheepdogs and making his escape ere the order could be countermanded. When the door had been slammed twice to close it against the wind nosing outside, the only sounds in the kitchen were the hissing of the fire and the soft brushing of the carding combs working against one another. The spindle traveled in hypnotic silence to the floor, trailing sturdy newmade thread.

  Druyan began to hum, the comforting simple rhythm of an ancient carol. When that palled, she shifted tunes to a many—versed ballad about fate—crossed lovers, and stayed with that till she’d run out of verses in her head, even though every verse and chorus hummed just alike. By then the spindle was filled, and she wound the thread off into a skein, ready for dyeing. She thought about colors, mentally tallied the dyestuffs she had already gathered in. The room was still quiet save for the snap of beanpods under Enna’s fingers, the whisper of the combs in Kellis’ hands.

  “Do your people sing, Kellis?” Druyan asked lightly.

  He gave a start, and the right-hand comb scraped the inside of his left wrist rather than the wool waiting on the left—hand comb. The flrelight washed his face with gold as he looked at Druyan, giving his nose back the straightness it must once have had. The wound on his forehead had finally healed to a pink line that ran crookedly from his hairline to the outer corner of his right eyebrow, and that brow, no longer prisoned by caked blood, raised when something surprised him, even if the rest of his face held carefully illI st. t did so now, went up like a startled horse’s head. He glanced across the hearth at Enna, sorting dried beans and half turning her back, still put out about the matter of the grindstone. “If you ask it, Lady,” he said, clearly reluctant, obviously preferring to huddle out of sight, overlooked.

  Druyan maweled to herself, that Enna should waste so much of her precious energy safeguarding herself from a man who was manifestly scared to death of hen “Give us a tune,” she said to Kellis, suddenly full of mischief. “To pass the time.”

  Sing, she bade him, and there was no way Kellis could tell her—not in front of the other, hostile woman—that his folk sang sometimes for a quite different purpose than passing the hours, and that he had not had a song on his lips for a very long while. She only innocently intended a little entertaimnent to lighten the work, and if he refused he’d be uncooperative, ungrateful, and deserving rebuke. She had no idea what she was asking. He couldn’t say what it . meant, when his people sang together, couldn’t speak of the bindings made and reinforced within the clan, between families, between lovers. He couldn’t tell her that the solitary songs were only for mourning, were so brimming with grief that a lonely person might die just from chance-hearing one . . . His wrist burned, where the misstroke of the comb had scored it, and he tried to let that little pain distract him from the greater agony.

  He should sing her one of their weaving songs, she would like that. It was probably what she wanted. But Kellis knew none of those—weaving had not been his craft. He ransacked his mind for something safe, a tune that might not start his pain and loss pouring out of him in a flood he could not stem, a flood that would tear out his heart. He had refused to sing that grief out when he should have, refusing to let himself heal because that healing was an unearned comfort. He did not deserve, it. He deserved much the reverse. The result of that denial, however it came about, was a chained wolf, mad from imprisonment and too dangerous to release.

  Well, then, a song that could ner touch his dangerous heart. Something he had learned by rote, something thereby safe, a song that only told a story, or better still merely played with sounds. Something he had known so long that he would not remember where he had first heard it, or from whose lips. A song sung so often that all the meaning in it had been used up. . .

  Druyan couldn’t understand a single word of what Kellis sang—pressed, he revealed ’twas a hunting song and did not translate it—but the sound made a pleasant background to chores. His voice was rich, full and expressive, never rough. Even Meddy, lying at his feet and worrying a bit of fleece into felt with her teeth, seemed to appreciate the diversion, and thumped her white-tipped tail when he got to what sounded like a chorus.

  Meddy. . .

  “What’s that dog still doing in here?” Druyan asked, which was not exactly the sort of applause one accorded a performance.

  Meddy, who knew very well what “dog” meant and knew trouble when she heard it better than any other creature on the farm, being so often the maker of it, strove to hide once more in the shadows, but Kellis snared her by the ruff without even losing the combs.

  “Can’t that boy even be trusted to count so high as two?” Druyan wondered, while Kellis rescued the bit of wool . Enna began exclaiming angrily as she discovered bits of dog—chewed beans scattered across her formerly immaculate floor. “You’d think Dalkin would have noticed she didn’t go out with Rook. One and the other one—how hard’s that to keep track of?”

  Kellis was still holding Meddy’s fur, looking down into her unrepentant blue eyes. “That was ill-done, little sister. I had already combed that wool.” Meddy’s tail brushed the floor in hopeful apology. “Shall I take her out?” Kellis asked of Druyan.

  “That would be best.” There wa
s something odd about his expression, but Druyan couldn’t name it. “When the animals are tended in the morning, come back to the hall—where the loom is. Plenty more wool.” He half smiled, and the puzzling glimpse vanished. “Good night, Kellis.”

  When he—and the brown and white wriggle of Meddy had gone out, Enna dropped the door bar into place and added a new touch—an iron meat skewer thrust through the latch. There were already three iron horseshoes hanging above the door, and Druyan thought Enna might have buried a nail or two under the threshold—there was freshturned dirt there, less than Meddy left with her clandestine but irresistible excavations. None of that had impeded Kellis’ passage through the doorway, but Enna remained hopeful. Druyan raised a brow of her own, when the older woman turned from the door.

  Enna was as unrepentant as Meddy. “Now the dogs have got onto trusting that villain, I’m the only one can keep us safe from being murdered in our beds, seems to me.” She walked past Druyan, and something in her skirt clanked faintly as she moved.

  Half a Pail of Water

  Kellis proved to be as handy with the sheep as he had been at carding their shom wool. As the weather warmed into spring, the flock was let out into the marsh to forage once more, but it was the shearing time and the larnbing season, too, so every evening the sheep were brought back to the shelter of the fold again, lest lambs birthed into a sudden last-of-winter storm be lost. ’Twas easy enough to lose a ewe to a difficult confinement, so someone had to sit watch with the flock through the night, ready to give whatever help was needed. Increasingly, that someone was Kellis, even if he had spent long hours shearing by day.