Moons' Dreaming (Children of the Rock)

by Krause, Marguerite

  She quieted. Jordy resumed his usual pace, and Tob relaxed. A moment later, the low roof of the goat shed loomed out of the rain on their left, and Jordy turned Stockings into the yard. The stable came into view, one lamp-lit door open, and the chicken coop, and the house. They were home.

  Tob jumped down from the wagon and ran to open the double doors on the east side of the stable. Jordy coaxed and threatened the horse until he had the wagon properly lined up in front of the double doors. At the last moment Stockings seemed to remember the procedure, and backed readily on Jordy’s command, rolling the wagon into its accustomed place.

  “Ho,” Jordy said. “Good girl.”

  Tob ducked gratefully into the dry stable. Splashing footsteps gave them a few seconds’ warning of Pepper and Matti’s arrival. Tob grinned as his sisters clamored for Jordy’s attention.

  “Dad, you’re home!” Pepper cried.

  “Pick me up, pick me up,” Matti insisted, knowing exactly what she wanted.

  “Just a minute, now,” Jordy said. He led Stockings clear of the traces and hitched her to the grooming stand. Then he turned back toward the doorway, arms outstretched. “Come on, then.”

  Matti ran to meet him, pale braids bouncing against her shoulders, and was swung, squealing, into the air. Jordy pretended to drop her, and hugged her instead, then planted her firmly back on the floor. This made room for Pepper, who received similar treatment amid complaints from her father that she was getting too big and heavy to lift. Tob shook his head. A man who lifted bales and crates and bundles of all shapes and sizes day after day, complaining about a fifty-pound child. Pepper wrapped her arms and legs around him for a moment, clinging fiercely until Jordy’s firm tone warned her that enough was enough. Then she slid reluctantly to the ground.

  “I made a mash for Stockings,” she said.

  “I helped,” Matti added.

  “Mama baked a pie. When are we going to eat?”

  “Mama finished that rug last week. The one with the geese in the picture.”

  “Stockings is very dirty. If you don’t wash her legs we won’t be able to see her stockings anymore and we’ll have to change her name.”

  Tob turned his back on the controlled chaos around the grooming stand. It wasn’t quite so simple to close out his sisters’ continuing chatter, but he managed it. As much as he loved them, their non-stop questions and comments would take a bit of getting used to after the long, companionable silences that filled most of his and Jordy’s days on the road.

  He took off his dripping cloak and spent several minutes hanging wet tarps up to dry, sweeping the wagon, and coiling lines and straps loosely to allow the air to get at them. When he finished, his damp clothes were steaming from his exertion. He walked down the aisle toward the grooming stand. Jordy had stripped off his outer cloak and sweater as his work warmed him. In addition, he’d rolled his tunic sleeves up past his elbows, probably while he was washing the mud out of Stockings’ coat. He saw Tob approaching and stepped back, brush in hand.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “She’s cleaner than we are,” Tob replied. In fact, Stockings looked extremely comfortable, having fallen asleep, one hind leg cocked, during his father’s ministrations.

  Jordy snorted and put the brush down. “That’s not saying much. But she’ll do for now. Come along, girl.” He patted Stockings’ shoulder to wake her, then untied her halter and led her toward her box. Tob clambered up into the loft and forked some hay into her trough. Jordy removed the lead rope as he turned her into the box. She went directly for Pepper’s mash and began to eat.

  Jordy latched the half door securely as Tob swung down beside him. “You finished with the wagon?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tob looked around, suddenly aware of the quiet in the stable. “Where are they?”

  “I sent them to ask your mother to warm the bath house for us.” They returned to the wagon, where Jordy pulled the chest containing their traveling gear from under the driver’s seat and balanced it on his shoulder, leaving Tob to collect their damp cloaks and sweaters. Outside, the rain had lightened a bit. Together, they pushed the stable doors closed and hurried across the yard to the house.

  Cyril met them at the door. She smiled at Tob and deftly relieved him of his burdens. After she deposited them in her wash tub near the hearth she returned and helped Jordy lower the chest to the floor next to the door. The quality of the smile she bestowed on her husband made Tob uncomfortable, so he turned away. Not that his parents would complain that he was intruding on their privacy. When they were busy looking at one another like that, they didn’t notice anyone else.

  By the time Tob finished struggling with his mud-caked bootlaces, his mother was back at the hearth, stirring something over the fire, her long, heavy black braids fastened together behind her back to keep them out of her way. Jordy sat on the chest near Tob and drew off his second boot.

  Matti trotted in from the other room. “Which shirt do you want?” she asked Tob. “Blue or green?”

  Tob stroked his chin pensively. “Green.”

  Matti whirled and raced back the way she’d come. “See, I told you!” her shrill voice carried back to them. “He wants green.”

  “Those two,” Jordy said. He waved Tob to bath house. “You go first, lad. I want to tell your mother about Kessit.” Cyril looked around from her cooking. “Just don’t be too long.”

  “No, sir.” He left as his mother put down her cooking spoon and gazed expectantly at Jordy.

  * * *

  Sometime during the course of supper the patter of the rain faded and ceased. Through the window, Jordy could see the light in the yard take on a reddish cast as the clouds thinned just in time for sunset.

  He pushed back from the table with a sigh. “You can clean those boots out on the porch, Tob. I’ll see to the harness.”

  The boy nodded, his mouth still full of a last piece of lamb. Before any of them could move from the table, however, they were interrupted by a sharp rapping on the front door.

  Cyril’s expression told Jordy she wasn’t expecting visitors. Neither was he. He rose and went to open the door. The women facing him were not neighbors. Both wore the black of the Mothers. One was young, tall and skinny, her damp red hair pulled tightly back, her expression tired. The other’s ageless, serene face he recognized immediately.

  “Jenil.”

  “This is semi-official business, carter Jordy,” she replied. “You should invite us in.”

  Jordy stepped aside. “Would it be anything else?” he asked. “Enter, and welcome.”

  Jenil swept past him in a swirl of heavy cloth. Her young shadow showed less self-assurance. “Come,” Jenil said over her shoulder.

  The girl jumped as though she’d been stung, and hurried across the threshold. Jordy closed the door. His family were on their feet, watching with varying degrees of curiosity.

  “Tob,” Jordy said, “outside. Pepper, take Matti and prepare the wash water for your mother.” The children scattered and disappeared. Cyril retreated toward the hearth.

  Jenil stopped beside his chair and turned toward him. “My business involves your wife as well.”

  “We’ll see,” he countered. “Sit you down.”

  Jenil sank gracefully into his chair, and Jordy pulled out the bench so that he could face her across the table. The girl hovered uncertainly behind Jenil until Cyril stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her to a chair. Then Cyril stepped watchfully back from the table once more, and Jordy eyed his visitor.

  “Well?” he said.

  “I’ll be brief,” she said. “This is Iris. She’s had a difficult couple of years. I’ve decided to remove her from an unfortunate situation.”

  Jordy frowned, puzzled. “You want me to transport her to her family?”

  “Just the opposite. I want you to keep her.”

  “What?”

  The Greenmother’s professionally benign smile became something more rue
ful and therefore, if anything, more alarming. “You and I have never liked one another. But there are a few areas in which I trust you. This is one of them. You have a good family. Iris needs that.”

  Jordy didn’t know what to say. He looked at his wife. Cyril’s expression was neutral, leaving the decision to him. Then he looked at the girl—Iris—but her gaze was fixed on the table in front of her.

  “We don’t buy and sell people here in Broadford,” he told the Greenmother. “You’re treating her as goods to be disposed of.”

  “I’m acting in her best interest. Somebody has to. You know I wouldn’t get myself in debt to you if it weren’t important.”

  “What does the girl herself want? Iris?” When she refused to look up at him he turned back to Jenil. “Is there something wrong with her? Does she understand when spoken to?”

  “She understands. She’s just shy.” Jenil rose from her chair. “Iris, look at me.” The girl raised her eyes immediately. “I’m going now. Remember what I said.”

  “But I haven’t agreed yet,” Jordy protested.

  The Greenmother faced him, quite serious now. “You are my choice, carter Jordy. There are others who would buy her, you know. To their profit, not to hers. She cannot stay with me. Choose.”

  Jordy stood and ran one hand through his hair. “All right. She can stay. But only as long as she wants to.”

  “Good. I won’t stay the night myself, thank you,” Jenil continued smoothly, knowing as well as Jordy did that he hadn’t intended to ask her to. “Good night.”

  “Safe journey,” Jordy responded automatically and moved to open the door for her. He stood on the porch and watched as she strode briskly across his yard and out of sight. Then he went back inside.

  Cyril was clearing their empty bowls into the dish water on the hearth. Iris had resumed her original posture, eyes downcast, motionless.

  Jordy’s head hurt. Dealing with Dreamers always made his head hurt. What he needed was to regain his objectivity, distance himself from the problem. “I’ve got to oil that harness,” he told his wife, and went to the stable to think.

  * * *

  Vray sat stiffly where she was for many minutes after the carter left, waiting for his wife to tell her what to do. The woman, however, said nothing. It was unexpected to find one of the horse people in central Rhenlan. But the woman’s cinnamon-brown skin, wide face, and almond-shaped eyes were distinctive of the plains dwellers who roamed the lands east of Soza. She finished straightening up after the family’s meal, then refilled a pot with something that smelled like cider and hung it on a spit over the banked fire. After a long while one of the little girls poked her head through the curtained doorway near the hearth.

  “Mama?” she asked in a small voice. The woman looked up. “The water’s hot.” The woman circled the table as though Vray were not there and picked up a low basket filled with muddy clothing. The little girl popped back out of sight, her mother following.

  In the next room the two little girls began chattering, their words not quite audible, although Vray could not help but strain to hear them. Asking about the stranger sitting at their table, certainly. She couldn’t hear any reply from the woman, and after a few more moments passed began to feel more uneasy than ever. Was she supposed to offer to help with something? How was she going to learn to live among these people?

  For a few more minutes she simply sat, uncertain how to behave, unable to summon up the courage to do anything one way or another. In the end, basic practicality forced her to leave the table and walk to the front door. Her bladder needed to be relieved. This was a farm. The appropriate facilities would be outside.

  She walked away from the house, then stopped near the middle of the yard and looked around. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, painting the clouds that lingered in the northwest shades of red and purple. To the east, the sky was clear and dark enough to show the first bright stars. In front of her, directly across the yard from the house, was a large building that smelled distinctly of horses. Beyond it and to her right, a chicken coop stood silhouetted against the eastern sky. To her left, the yard sloped gently downhill. Vray thought she could pick out another one or two smaller buildings in that direction, and a low line of hedge or fence. The privy, fortunately, was immediately recognizable at the end of a well-worn path that angled downhill from the house.

  When she came out of the privy the sky overhead was black and studded with stars. She started back toward the house, a looming shadow against the lingering light in the western sky. She wasn’t ready to go back inside. From a nearby tree came the hoot of an owl. Vray hugged herself under her cloak.

  The door to the house closed with a sharp thump, and footsteps descended the path toward her. Vray didn’t stop to think. She left the path and moved quickly up the hill, at an angle away from the house. Although it was too dark to see her feet, the ground was smooth and she didn’t stumble.

  She emerged onto level ground only a few paces away from the stable. Half of a large double door stood open, spilling yellow lamp light a dozen feet across the yard. The effect was too peaceful, too normal. She could almost hear the voice of her nurse, spinning a sweet tale about hard-working Keepers and mellow light bathing the farmyard at the end of the day. Vray made a sour face in the darkness. Tales and songs. How much did they neglect to reveal of what lay beneath the surface of an event, or behind people’s actions?

  Or, she chided herself, within a picturesquely lighted old barn?

  She moved cautiously forward. Only one lantern was lit, hung close to the doorway, so she could make out little of the interior. The musty fragrance of hay hinted at the presence of a loft.

  The carter sat on a stool in front of a wagon, vigorously applying a cloth to the set of harness straps in his lap. Vray hadn’t dared look at him during his conversation with Jenil, so she was glad of the opportunity to study him from the safe obscurity of the darkness beyond the circle of light. Her first thought was that he was too small to be a carter. Then she immediately revised her estimation. He was actually quite average in size for a Keeper man, but she had been expecting broad shoulders and brawny arms. She guessed his age at something past middle age, perhaps forty. His complexion was pale, the backs of his hands sprinkled with freckles and fine hair that glinted gold in the lamp light. The hair on his head was a sandy yellow, combed straight back from his forehead and showing signs of thinning. He wore no beard. The lines of his face suggested that he smiled more often than frowned, but his eyes as he looked back at her seemed an icy shade of blue.

  Vray’s thoughts froze. He was looking at her!

  He stopped what he was doing and rested the hand holding the cloth on his knee. “Come in, my girl. Don’t look away,” he added, as she automatically began to lower her eyes.

  She jerked her head up and found that it wasn’t as difficult as she had feared to meet his steady gaze. She came slowly forward until she was standing only a few feet in front of him.

  “Have you known Jenil long?” he asked.

  “No.” Vray’s voice sounded rusty to her own ears, and she hastily cleared her throat. “I don’t really know her at all.”

  The blue eyes narrowed, appraising her. “You have friends though, among the Mothers?”

  “No.”

  His expression softened. “No friends? A child your age? That’s not right.”

  An unwelcome lump formed at the back of her throat. Sympathy from this stranger, to whom she was an uninvited guest dumped on his doorstep, was the last thing she’d expected. It had been a long, wet, exhausting day. She didn’t understand why she suddenly had the urge to pour out her life history. Considering how muddled her emotions were, she didn’t trust any of them.

  “I survive,” she answered shortly.

  To her relief he changed the subject. “Sit down,” he instructed her. The straw-covered floor was not uncomfortable. “What do you do, Iris?”

  She stared at him blankly. “Do?”

 
“Aye. Do you cook? Work in the fields? Study a craft?”

  “Mostly I clean things.” She had no intention of telling him that when she hadn’t been slaving in Soza’s kitchen, the things she had cleaned had been diseased bodies, to ready them for burial. Honorable enough duty, but not very good to remember.

  His response was a considered silence. Vray swallowed nervously, wondering if she should elaborate, at least about the kitchen. Before she could come to a decision he said, “In this family we all do our share of cleaning. You’ll have to diversify your talents, my girl.” He paused, inviting a response.

  Vray only felt more lost. “Oh,” she offered.

  He put the harness on the ground and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “All right, child, perhaps I’m asking too much too quickly. We’ll take our time, find out where your talents lie. Tomorrow you can help Cyril with her cooking. Have you ever milked a goat, or fed chickens?”

  “No, carter Jordy.”

  “Jordy will do. As for the animals, Cyril will teach you. Have you ever done any needlework?”

  Her eyes were drawn automatically to the sleeves of his tunic, dangling less than a foot away from her. She saw that what she had at first taken for a textured weave in the fabric was, in fact, unusually rich embroidery on ordinary cloth. “Not like that,” she said.

  “I’m not surprised. Take a closer look.” He extended one arm toward her. “Go on.”

  Gingerly, she picked up the edge of the sleeve and straightened it. As a princess she had been taught some intricate needlework, but nothing to match this. It was not, she decided, that the stitches themselves were especially small, for they were not. But they crossed over and under one another in ways her eyes could not unravel.

  “You like it,” his voice said gruffly above her head.

  “It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

  “If you have patience and a good eye, Cyril will teach you, I’m sure.”

  She dropped the sleeve and sat back abruptly. He looked startled, worried, and offended all at once.

  “Now what did I say? What’s the matter, my girl? Speak up!”