by Anne C Miles
“Enough extra to do with the bears about, but I suppose I can air the quilts and,” she tapped the table thoughtfully, “a pie. We’ll need pie for a visitor. Who could it be?”
She squinted, suddenly suspicious. “Have you paid the tax yet? I don’t fancy entertaining a cantor. You’ll have to prepare, hide the lute.”
Dane laughed and rose to scrape his plate into the scrap pail. “I have the gold from the last cabinets we sold. It’s enough. I’ll pay it today. I have to go to town and pick up supplies. Don’t worry, deema.”
The gnome nodded, shooing him from the dishes. “Enough of that, get along with you now. You’ll be hard pressed to finish this order as it is. I don’t know what you were thinking, promising this lute so quickly.” She herded him toward the door. “You’d think you could just sing the lute into being, to make such promises.”
Dane stopped and stiffened in the doorway. The Song was not a topic he took lightly, ever. He couldn’t, and she knew it. He turned to look at Pezzik.
Sheepish, she met his gaze. “Get on with you. I’ll take care of the steading until you return tomorrow.” Her voice softened, less gruff.
As if drawn by his thoughts, a ghostly form blurred into focus near the hearth. A small woman with short blond hair blinked in the sunlight. Dane’s eyes fastened on her, the first of many fae who would flicker forth as he crafted this new lute. He’d learned as a boy not to be surprised by them. Sometimes many appeared, especially when he and his father worked together. Other times, there were only a few. They never remained long.
“It’s begun,” he whispered softly. Pezzik whirled in response, her eyes lighting on the figure.
“That one’s barely formed,” she said. “Hardly good for a chat.”
Dane laughed at the gnome’s disappointment as the fae touched the table and dissipated. “I’m sure there will be more. This lute must be special.” He headed toward his workshop, leaving Pezzik muttering to herself.
Cabinets, tables, and chairs usually filled Dane’s workshop. Today, he was plying his clandestine trade. An order had been received. Dane would fill it out of sight of the Conclave. He was dewin. In hiding and untried, but dewin none the less.
We serve the Storm King first, Pa would say. The transformation of their workshop felt like ritual. Special tools, braces, holdfasts, molds, and frame saws emerged from hidden nooks under the floorboards or secret compartments in the cabinets. Essences brewed for mystic varnishes, glues, and dyes lined a small shelf.
Wood curls pillowed his work from the night before. Dane checked the form for imperfections and set it aside. He swept the shavings into a small pile and threw them into the fire. His eyes wandered to the narrow leather box above the hearth. He removed the scrolls within. One he unrolled—a map. Tunebells connected him to his mother. The contents of this box brought his father to mind.
Dane traced spidering lines of ink. The smell of pipe tobacco enveloped him. Pa’s voice rumbled in Dane’s mind, full of travel stories that even now seemed fantastic.
He rerolled the map and replaced it, touching the other scroll as little as possible. He drew out gold from a side compartment. The tax must be paid, or he would indeed become a target for the cantor.
Dohnavur thrummed. The brook that ran through the center of town gurgled in harmony with the sounds of wagons creaking and hoofbeats on cobbled streets. Shopkeepers nodded as Dane passed. If the gaze of some lingered, brows slightly furrowed and sad, he refused to consider why. Today he had important business.
The mercantile stood in the center of town across from the inn, flanking the village green. Dane nodded at Poll, the broad man behind the counter. Poll flashed his teeth and retrieved a bundle from one of the shelves. He placed it in front of Dane with a flourish.
“That,” he said, “is frippery. Are you having something made for Bell, a gift to soothe her ire?”
Dane shrugged, smiling easily at the large man. “You think a gift would tame her?” He scooped up the package.
Poll shook his head with a wry smile. His eyes flicked to the door behind Dane. “Going to be in town long?”
“Till morning,” Dane said. “I have to pay my due to the Conclave and run a few errands. I’ll sleep at the inn tonight and set out for home at dawn.”
Poll grimaced at the mention of the Conclave. “Aye, there’s a visitor in town, saw him go into the tavern. Tall man. Seemed to be looking for someone. Might be trouble, might not. You should get a look.”
Dane arched a brow and turned toward the door. Poll was his oldest friend and a former neighbor, one of the few who knew of his secret craft. If he worried for Dane, he had reason, but at times he was worse than Pezzik. “You know I don’t go running to meet trouble, old friend, unless I’m coming to visit you. But thank you.” A draft ruffled his hair as he pulled the door open.
Dane’s smile faded as he approached the Chapterhouse, a large building with a steep-pitched roof and arc-shaped window. Best get it over with. He shouldered his satchel and composed his features into a semblance of respect, opening the arched entry. He made the sign of the arc, working the honorific carefully. A badly worked arc could raise your taxes, it was rumored.
Stone walls supported a steeply pitched roof held up by ancient beams. The arc-shaped window and candles cast the only light. Dim and smoky, the air hung thick with cloying incense. It filled the space with haze. The Quiet Hall held benches where the faithful knelt to contemplate the cyntae. At one end, three acolytes stood, hands joined as they chanted, monotone, invoking blessings for the day. Young men and women joined the Conclave to have regular meals, thinking the life easier than farming or a trade. Apprenticeships were hard won in lean times. Dane didn’t fault the students. But the price exacted in return was costly.
An arched corridor to Dane’s right led to a small office, where the high cantor of the Heyewelde, Nadir Crawe, hunched over a desk. The high counter, some called him, if they thought he couldn’t hear.
The man muttered to himself. A tome in front of him held long rows of numbers. He tutted and clicked his teeth, running a bony finger along the rows. Finally, he looked up. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly before he straightened his shoulders. The cantor gestured to a carved chair before his desk. “Dane, my son.”
Dane sat and placed his pouch of gold on the desk. “First fruits given.” Formal. He wanted this done.
The cantor nodded, possibly mistaking Dane’s formality for piety.
“First fruits accepted,” he said, eyes gleaming with unconcealed avarice as Dane slid the pouch toward him. Dane knew better than to wait for him to count it. He rose, bowing slightly from the waist, and made the sign of arc again. “’Tis all there, every penny.”
“Of course,” Nadir murmured, tucking it into a drawer. “I would expect no less from you, my son.”
Because I’d have to suffer more of your odious presence if I didn’t bring it all. Dane pursed his lips. “I’d love to stay and chat, Cantor, but I have a project that needs finishing…” He trailed off, hoping for dismissal.
Nadir steepled his fingers and eyed Dane for a long moment. The silence stretched. Dane suddenly was reminded of a jackdaw. Nadir’s eyes were deep pools, his lean face all angles and hooked nose. He fixed Dane with his gaze. Silent. Searching.
He nodded, his expression carefully beneficent. “Of course, my son. We must speak at length soon. There are matters of...education...to tend to.” Nadir’s eyes drifted to the ledgers. “You may show yourself out. Blessings of the arc to you.”
The cantor would lecture on the Apokrypha and its Arcanum for hours if you did not object, and sometimes even if you did. Education. Whatever one called it, such a session meant attempting not to sleep upright in the carved wooden chair. The cantor spoke in a singsong monotone on purpose, Dane was sure of it. He muttered quiet thanks to the Storm King for his good fortune as he stepped into the early evening.
Dane turned toward the inn. He needed to get home early in the morn. That l
ute would not make itself, no matter what Pezzik thought, and now he truly needed the rest of the fee. He promised himself he would only drink enough to be sociable. After all, he had to get gossip to share with Poll.
High Cantor Siles glared at the jackdaws before him. They clustered thick in his private courtyard, covering the trees and hedges. Their beaks gaped, soundless. He played a chord on his harp. The silence ripped like a veil. A cacophony of shrieks and screeching sliced the midnight air, rending the hush. The volume swelled, the sounds ruffling the courtyard pool. Images formed in it, starlight whorling. The scenes resolved into story.
The cantor tracked the pictures playing across the water. The bard, the renegades in Baehnt, a rider sent north. The young man in a garden, a dock, an old woman. The birds that were not birds bore witness, their report rippling forth in astonishing detail. He stilled the harp strings. Silence closed in, absolute and unyielding. The images vanished.
He had seen enough.
“Go,” he said.
The jackdaws shimmered, dissolving into formless shadow, a black cloud blocking all light, all hope, all joy. High Cantor Siles shuddered, robbed of sight and sound, cut off from all but the dank stench. They smelled like a grave, wet earth and rotting flesh. He inhaled, tasting their corruption.
“Go!”
As one, they vanished.
Siles turned and slowly made his way back to his study, brow furrowed. The air still tasted like death.
CHAPTER THREE
SARA HEADED TO the Tank. She wanted nothing more than to bury her anxiety in the dirt that filled the huge greenhouse complex. The Tank was part of a work-study cooperative between the university and the state. Dozens of students worked here, growing hydroponic plants and assisting bioengineers with rare hybrids.
Work provided Sara with a welcome respite from the pressures of art. She could slip in among the plants and just be. No thinking. Sara slipped on her lab coat and protective gloves and read the clipboard hanging under her name. She was tasked to harvest forty industrial hemp plants in the south sector and to observe the Solidago varietals, noting their color, height, and general health.
Sara scanned the wall, reading the other names and clipboards that marched across the pegboard. Brandon, Heather, Amy, Toby, and Scott. She stopped at Scott. Scott Black, who looked like he’d walked straight out of a magazine ad.
Scott’s clipboard was missing. He must be working today.
Quickly, Sara ducked into the small bathroom and rearranged her tousled hair. She rummaged in her bag for lip gloss and applied it. Now if she ran into Scott, she wouldn’t feel like a complete loser. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection and headed for her station.
Carefully, she worked the custom chopper designed for hand harvesting. She just had to cut and bundle the plants. She fell into a rhythm. Her anxiety melted among the greenery. By the time she had the last bundles stowed and wheeled into the drying room, it was nearly time to leave. She ran to the Solidago. She scanned the fact sheet, smiling as she read the information associated with the golden flowers. Such beautiful lore for such humble plants.
Kentucky state flower. The name Solidago means to make whole. For many, these bright blooms symbolize encouragement and growth. They may be given to show support after a loss or in a difficult time. It is often thought that these flowers can help reduce depression. Goldenrod gives us determination so we may endure to reach the goal. The Ojibwe described the formation of the roots as gripping the earth in preparation for the difficult times ahead. Yellow is thought to stand for creativity and inspiration in life. For this reason, the blooms are a good choice for an artistic path. Solidago arrangements may also include other creative yellow blooms. Erroneously thought to cause allergies
Sara studied them, noting size and health on her chart. “I wish you could heal me,” she whispered. The flowers rustled in reply, nodding. It had been a long day. The gnome’s face flashed into Sara’s mind. One tall bloom stretched, bending to brush Sara’s cheek and comfort her.
Sara shook her head to clear it, feeling the weight of the day. There was obviously a draft in here. She glanced at her watch. Almost quitting time. She finished her notes and headed to stow her gear. She was so intent on leaving, when she literally ran into Scott, she didn’t have time for her normal terror-of-a-gorgeous-guy to set in.
Instead, she bounced off him. When he turned around, she fixed him with a level look. “You really need to watch where you’re standing when I’m in a hurry.”
Sara grinned at her own comment, a little embarrassed.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Scott. He laughed, backing up and gesturing to the hooks behind him. “Sara, right?”
Sara blinked. He knew her name. She’d often passed Scott and waved but had never really spoken to him. “That’s me,” she said. “I also answer to klutz.”
Scott shook his head. “Starry-eyed? Dreamer?” He flashed his own grin. “But never klutz.”
Sara swallowed, her face warming. “Thank you, kind sir,” she drawled. “I do so rely on the kindness of strangers.” Mentally she kicked herself as she pushed past him to hang up her clipboard. How many dudes would get a Streetcar reference?
“You must think I’m pretty rough.” Scott didn’t miss a beat.
Sara faced him, gaping. She recovered and grinned. “I’ve always been adaptable to circumstances.”
Scott tipped an imaginary hat and walked away, whistling. Sara watched him go, surprised by the exchange. There was more to this guy than a pretty face. She grinned all the way home.
As she fell into bed, her last thoughts were of golden flowers, reaching to comfort her. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Sara woke, burrowing under her duvet with a groan. She bolted upright, immediately regretting it. Her head was pounding.
“Rough night?” Jane said from the doorway. “You look like hell.”
Sara glared. Her roommate was entirely too cheerful.
“I made coffee,” Jane said, nonplussed. “On my way to spin class, but it’s the first day of school again… econ!” She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Wish me luck? And get moving.”
Really, she should get her own place. “What is it? Six a.m.? I hate you,” she said to the empty doorway. “A lot.”
Sara padded to the bathroom, peering into the mirror. Dry, cracked lips, circles under her eyes, a mop of curls framing her heart-shaped, freckled face. She did look like hell. Her eyes seemed more brown than green or gold today. She winced. A new cut on her hand was bleeding.
She tried to remember last night’s dream, but all she came up with was...an enormous broken tree? Blood seeping from it?
That was it. She was definitely signing up for a sleep study. This has to end.
She found a large Band-Aid printed with butterflies in the cabinet and applied it to her hand. Today was a Marilla day, and she wasn’t going to be late because of more crazy sleepwalking.
Sara rehearsed her day. Second semester, senior year. This was it. Soon the grind would be over. She would be in the Real World, with her bachelor’s degree. If she graduated. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth.
Science elective, yuck. Sara had never been good with formulas. Luckily, her work at the Tank counted as a lab. She also had to meet sometime soon with Polly Worden, her advisor. Sara ran a brush through her hair as she checked her ancient clock radio. It was never set right. She always messed up the time when she hit snooze. It flashed now, 3:16. Light dappled the high-ceilinged room from tall transom windows. The iron radiator hummed.
She was going to be late.
Sara jumped into her standard wardrobe: jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt with black Chucks. A bit of lip gloss and she was out the door. She fumbled with her keys in the cold, cursing. Her coat, hat, scarf, and gloves were in the car, a temperamental ’72 Karmann Ghia. Sara finally opened the door. She gunned the engine and threw on her coat and gloves, praying for warmth as the car slowly slid
away from the curb.
Ornate Victorian homes reproached her like grand Southern belles, offended by her noisy car. The stone lion next to her building stood sentry in the gray morning light, frost coated. Her car coughed once as she passed it, coughed again, and settled into a purr.
The nursing home didn’t really smell fetid, but she still breathed through her mouth in self-defense. The Nero Care facility off Highway 71 was top-notch, world famous.
But it made her cringe.
Sara buried her head in the bouquet she carried as she ambled past the nurses’ station. She gripped the doorknob to Marilla’s room. She breathed. This was a moment of hope. In her mind’s eye, Marilla sat up, made fun of her like she used to, demanded ice cream. Coffee fudge ripple, her favorite.
Sara pulled the heavy door, and hope vanished, destroyed by the reality of coma. Monitors beeped, measuring her twin’s heart, her breathing, her blood pressure. Marilla lay pale, unresponsive, like she had since D-day. Eight months ago. Sara blinked away tears and made a beeline for the vase on the side table. She pasted a smile on her face and forced her mood into submission. She would be cheerful. Happy thoughts. Rainbows. Butterflies.
“Hi, Rilla! Mellow greetings! Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Traffic was hell, and I had those weird dreams again. Remember how I used to dream when we were kids? I’ve totally gotten worse.”
She eyed her sister before walking into the adjoining bath. The fading mass of daisies went into the trash. Sara chattered while she worked, washing out the vase, refilling it with water and adding flower preservative. Flowers calmed her. It’s why she worked at the Tank. She claimed the roses and grabbed scissors from the room’s small desk. “This time was a doozy. I even scored a new wound.” Sara held out her injured hand. It throbbed. Marilla’s eyes didn’t open. She had read Marilla heard her, anyway. She kept talking.