by Trish Mercer
Perrin let out a low whistle once he was sure the captain wasn’t at the door listening.
“Here for me? My, my, Captain Thorne. Sounds like you have plans.”
He looked up at the ceiling again.
“So I ask again, how much longer?”
---
Thorne cracked his neck as he strode to the stables. Soldiers parted for him to pass as they always did—the sure sign of respect and fear. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the parchment message, wrapped several times and sealed with the largest amount of wax he dared apply. He stopped in front of the messenger’s horse just as the corporal was about to mount it.
“One more for the pack, Corporal,” Thorne said crisply as he handed it to the soldier.
The young man glanced at the addressee name on the outside before he placed it in the pack.
“No one asked you to read the name, soldier!” Thorne snapped. “You get that pack to Idumea as swiftly as you always do, and let nothing detain you. Understood?”
The corporal saluted. “I’ve never let you down, sir. All of your messages reach Idumea, sir. All of them.”
Thorne stepped back to let the messenger begin his long ride eighty miles to the south. He folded his arms and scowled.
There had never been a message sent to the Administrative Headquarters quite like this one.
Lannard had been most fruitful the past two seasons, even bringing Thorne notes about what his teacher said. Together they’d roll their eyes at her assertions, then Thorne would take the notes and gingerly pocket them. Many copies had been sent in the past three seasons, with messages of praise coming back from Idumea.
And now the file was thick. Bulging, even. Genev had requested one more update, and Thorne watched it ride away: the final report of so many discussions and thinly veiled debates that she allowed her students to carry out, bits here and there that, like snowflakes, individually would have been nothing. But all of it packed together created one massive, icy snowball, dangerous and painful.
Now it was up to Administrator Genev to hurl it.
---
Peto jogged over to Rector Yung’s house after helping Deckett move hay for the cows, and found the old man outside inspecting his herbs. He smiled when he saw Peto.
“Did you hear the news?” Peto called.
“About?”
“The expedition! It’s back and headed to Idumea. My father saw them going by this morning.”
“Well!” Yung said, getting to his feet. “That is something, isn’t it. News should be coming soon, then, I suspect.”
“And now I’ve finally figured it out,” Peto announced.
Yung frowned. “Figured out what, son?”
“The peach pits! The ones you gave me last Harvest? You told my mother I’d know what to do with them, and for the past five moons I’ve been trying to understand what you meant.”
Yung looked truly lost. “What I meant?” He leaned on a short shovel.
Peto was all energy. “You meant that they are my future, didn’t you? Not kickball, but maybe growing trees? Apparently Tabbit Densal really liked trees so maybe somewhere it’s in my blood, but I was thinking, an orchard? I don’t know, that seems kind of dull, and I know that’s an immature attitude, but then today it hit me: the ruins! They’re going to need orchards there, aren’t they? And that’s what you meant by the pits, right? To take them on an adventure to the ruins and plant an orchard and find my future there!” Peto beamed at the rector who still wore a puzzled expression.
After an awkward and silent moment, Yung said, “Oh, the peach pits! The ones I dropped off at your house when the pipers were replacing that burst pipe, right?”
Peto’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Well, yeah. You told my mother, ‘Peto will know what to do with them.’”
Yung smiled apologetically. “I said that because it was clear your mother had no idea as how to plant peach pits. Peto, sometimes a peach pit is just a peach pit . . . a means to getting more peaches, which you seem to love. I thought you’d plant them around your house.”
“That’s it?!”
Yung bobbled his head back and forth. “Well . . . yes.”
Peto’s shoulders sagged. “So you don’t think I should go to the ruins or anything to plant them?”
The old man shrugged. “Well, I don’t see any harm if you want to, but it’s certainly not any of my business—”
“I don’t believe this!” Peto threw his arms in the air and clomped around the garden. “For moons I’ve been trying to understand the meaning of the peach pits, and here you tell me they’re only for growing more peaches? For crying out loud!” he exclaimed as he started for the road. “The pits are only for getting more peaches—”
“Unless,” and once again Yung’s quiet calm voice cut through Peto’s complaining and pierced his heart, “unless the Creator wanted you to get something more out of them.”
Peto spun around to face the rector who was already busily hoeing around his basil. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Yung shrugged again. “I suppose that would be between you and the Creator.” He glanced up at Peto, nodded once, and went into his home, leaving Peto gaped mouth and even more confused.
---
Mahrree always thought of herself as a patient woman. But during the next few days she began to wonder if all people who thought themselves patient were really fooling themselves as she was. The fact that there was no school to occupy her mind didn’t help much.
The week did allow her, however, to work in the Briters’ farm with a clear view of the message towers and the fort. If anything interesting was going to happen, she had a front row seat.
Then again, that front row seat was making her a little bit crazy. Every time she heard hoof beats she’d look up from whatever patch of dirt she was watering, or run from the henhouse to see who was going to the fort. And considering how often horses came and went, she was spending more time spying on nobody interesting than she was helping the Briters.
Twice that week she noticed Lannard exercising Thorne’s horse, with his unkempt hair flowing behind him like a ragged flag. She had to smile at him. Lannard had done quite well this year, and likely would be moved out of her ‘special’ class next season. His scores on the Mid-Year Department of Instruction Exam—and Mahrree thought it funny that the first letters of those words spelled out MY DIE, since many of the boys complained how taking it “killed” them—were nearly the highest in the school.
She’d noticed that he’d been taking thorough notes, and Offra told her once that he overheard Thorne asking Lannard for details about what they discussed in class.
Last week, after she received the form from Idumea with the boys’ scores, Mahrree unexpectedly met Thorne at the tower. Even though the scowling demeanor of the captain always made her uncomfortable, she made a point of mentioning to him that she was grateful for his interest in Lannard.
When she told him how his concern had made Lannard a more attentive student over the past year, Thorne’s features had contorted into such an odd smile that Mahrree thought his entire face would rearrange itself.
All he said in response was, “I was most fortunate to find him.”
His response solidified Mahrree’s evaluation of Lemuel Thorne: most definitely peculiar.
Over the past couple of seasons she had frequently noticed the captain, and got the impression that he was watching her. She would have chalked it up to paranoid imagination, except that she usually never imagined those kinds of things.
And usually Mahrree didn’t think of Thorne, especially on days like today when her mind wandered all over the place, and a little too late she remembered to turn off the spigot that now flooded her buckets with frigid water.
“I’m supposed to be watering . . . seedlings?”
She spied Peto carrying another bale of hay to the barn, and smiled that sometime in the past two seasons he’d found his muscles. He’d never be as brawny as Perrin ha
d become baling hay, but the boy’s build was finally looking like a man’s. He nodded over to Mahrree before he entered the barn.
So often Mahrree felt as if she knew only half of her son. She was grateful he wasn’t as distant or unruly as her students, but Peto didn’t share much with his family beyond his humor and teasing.
Perrin said that was a man thing. Especially a son thing. “Trust me, Mahrree. I rarely told my mother anything at that age. And I turned out all right.”
“Only because your father sent you to the Densals when you were eighteen.”
“That’s why we have Shem. And Rector Yung. They can straighten him out for us if he gets too obnoxious.”
Whenever Mahrree looked in Peto’s eyes there seemed to be a great deal going on in them, yet none of it was coming out. He spoke to her, but only in teasing, and he gave her quick hugs when he was sure no one was looking.
Still, Mahrree worried that she was running out of time. Some universities would begin in less than half a year, and her son would be gone. So desperate was she with wanting to hear something from Peto about his future that she had even told him she could help try to convince Perrin to let him go to Idumea if he wanted.
But he had shaken his head, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “I just need to wait.”
She wished she knew what that meant, and hoped he had someone nudging him the correct directions, as her father had frequently nudged her. In so many ways Peto was like his Grandfather Cephas. He was larger in build, thanks to Perrin, yet his eyes and hair reminded Mahrree of a man she hadn’t seen since she was fifteen.
But the rest of Peto was pure Perrin, from his winks, to his laugh, to his features, to his voice, to his forehead rubbing when he was frustrated. If her son was physically the combination of her two favorite men, maybe the rest of him was as well. She just needed to—as he reminded her—wait.
Mahrree really hated waiting.
It had now been four days since the expedition returned to Idumea, Mahrree grumbled to herself as she emptied the last bucket on what she hoped was a row Jaytsy had already planted. Some news of any kind should have reached them by now.
She trudged over to the canal and turned the handle to flood another section of farm—she was quite certain young Mrs. Briter had told her to water that area—when she heard yet another horse racing up the cobblestones. She almost didn’t bother to look up because it was early enough in the morning that the shifts were changing, and horses were traveling—
The rider on this one, however, was wearing red.
An Administrative messenger, in a hurry.
With her fists clenched by her face in excitement, she glanced at the tower by her house and saw a blue banner. Usually the banners came down once the messengers reached the fort road, but this one stayed up.
Mahrree began to bounce, partly to keep warm in the cool air, partly to see if anyone else would be coming. The thundering noise alone told Mahrree that what was rambling up the road was big, important, and from Idumea.
She wasn’t disappointed. Only a few moments later two large black coaches sped up the road and into the compound of the fort.
“Yes!” Mahrree cried and threw her fists in the air. “FINALLY!”
A couple of soldiers walking along the road looked over and offered her uncomfortable smiles.
Mahrree bit her lip and said, “Yes, it’s finally a beautiful day, isn’t boys?”
They nodded obligingly and gave her the casual salute that the soldiers frequently sent the wife of their commander.
Mahrree giggled, picked up her skirt, and went running to the barn. The 6th Day of Planting Season, 338 would be unforgettable!
As she made her way to the barn she even composed her first song, a rather tuneless ditty that she sang under her breath and went something like, “Terryp, Terryp, Terryp! We’re coming, coming, coming! Tee-hee, tee-hee, tee-hee!”
She burst through the barn doors, sending a handful of chickens squawking and flapping, and startling her children and son-in-law who were busy with the morning chores.
“A messenger and two coaches! Just went up the road!”
Her three children stopped and looked at each other.
“Yes?” Deck asked Mahrree, leaning on his pitchfork.
“You silly boy, don’t you know what that means?”
“Another proclamation, law, or tax?” Peto suggested, matching Deck’s pose on his own pitchfork.
“No!”
“Oh, I know,” Jaytsy said with a twinkle in her eye as she covered a crate full of butter with a cloth. “It means that Father has been promoted and you’re all moving to Idumea tomorrow.”
“Now, stop it!” Mahrree stomped her foot.
“Oooh, you got a foot stomp, Jayts. Good job!” Peto nodded.
“You have to know just how far to push her, Peto,” Jaytsy told him instructively. “Next I’m going for an arm-folding.”
“And you got it, Jayts,” Deck nudged her. “Without even trying.”
“Deckett,” Mahrree said impatiently, “don’t let them drag you into this. I still like you, but that can change.”
Peto shook his head. “I’m feeling left out. Deck got a threat. I’ve got nothing right now. I must be losing my touch. Mother, can I go out stealing chickens tonight? I’ll bring them right over here, I promise.”
“Will the three of you be serious for once!” Mahrree nearly shouted.
“Ah, well done, Peto,” Jaytsy said. “You got her yelling, and at all three of us. No, little brother, you haven’t lost your touch.”
Peto stood straighter to remind Jaytsy he was now a full two inches taller than her.
Mahrree finally shook her head, trying not to smile.
Deck pointed at her. “I see it. Around the edges. Just can’t stay mad at us, can you?”
“Do NONE of you care about the expedition’s findings?!”
“Apparently not as much as you, Mother,” Jaytsy laughed. “I’m interested but not maniacal.”
“I am NOT maniacal!” Mahrree insisted.
“And I’m not emotional!” Jaytsy countered.
“And I’ve never stolen a cow!” Peto added.
Everyone looked at him.
He put on a ponderous face. “Wait—did I miss what we’re doing? Hmm, let me think . . .”
Mahrree threw her hands up in the air. “Enough of you! I’m going to see your father. He’ll care—”
“No, you’re not,” a voice said behind her in the doorway.
Mahrree spun around to face Shem.
“Not that he doesn’t care, but there’s a great deal of information pouring into the fort right now. Perrin sent me down to tell you not to come up.” Then, noticing that Mahrree was eyeing the gap in the doorway, Shem closed it behind him. “When he saw the coaches arriving, he wanted to make sure you stayed put.”
Mahrree gripped Shem’s arms. “What’s going on up there?”
“Calm down, calm down. For a non-maniacal woman you’re a little crazy right now. I know what’s still hiding in bottom drawer of your dresser,” he whispered loudly in her ear with a wink to her children. “Don’t make me pull out that bottle of sedation and use it on you.”
Mahrree held up her hands in surrender, took a few deep breaths, and produced The Dinner smile. “Shem,” she said in her best sing-song voice. “What is going on up there?”
“I honestly don’t know. It’s highly top secret, for the commander’s eyes only. The Administrators’ messenger even booted out Captain Thorne,” Shem said with no small satisfaction. “But I do know there will be a presentation tonight, mandatory for the entire village, about the findings. Soldiers are putting up the notices right now. All entertainments for the evening are cancelled.”
“That is serious,” Deck nodded.
“May cause a riot,” Peto agreed.
“Shem, what did he look like, when he sent you here?” Mahrree asked.
“Who, Perrin?”
“Of course, Perri
n!” she shouted. She held up her hands and tried her compose herself again. “I mean, what kind of look did he give you? Any clues?”
Shem shook his head. “No clues. No look.”
“Oh, come now! There’s always a ‘look.’”
“Not today.”
“How can that be?”
“Because he had nothing to give me yet!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!” Shem was growing exasperated. “He gave me the ‘I don’t have anything to give you’ look,”
“So he did give you a look!”
Shem grumbled. “Peto, go get the sedation . . .”
Chapter 30 ~ “Mother! Sit DOWN!”
Mahrree had endured long days before: the first Guarder attack when Perrin didn’t come home for days; when Perrin left for Idumea after his parents’ death without a word to anyone . . .
She started to see a pattern. The longest days were when her husband was away and she didn’t know what he knew.
Just like today.
Shem was only joking about the bottle—mostly. Her family tried to keep her occupied, and Shem promised he’d send word as soon as he knew something, but no more information came that morning or that tedious afternoon when she pretended to mend socks for the Briters. Mahrree wolfed down dinner and washed the dishes, some even twice just for good measure, waiting until it was finally time for them to go to the amphitheater.
Jaytsy, Deckett, Peto and Mahrree left with time to spare and planned to get a spot on the front row, but the amphitheater was almost filled when they arrived half an hour early. Apparently everyone was eager for the news.
The talk about moving to new lands in the west had accelerated in the last few days once word reached Edge that the expedition had returned. Mahrree had no desire to leave her house, but her twentieth wedding anniversary was in a little over a year, and she and her husband had their own expedition to plan.
Mahrree sat down with Peto, Jaytsy and Deckett on a bench in the middle of the amphitheater, much to Mahrree’s disappointment, and listened to the excited conversation around them.