Moonshine

by Susan Dexter

  What else? Tristan paused in the doorway, frowning. Excitement must not distract him from his responsibilities. There was something he still had to do. Something he’d forgotten. What else had Blais said?

  The chickens! Tristan pulled the cottage door shut and flung a lock-spell at the weathered panel. The spell should hold, but no matter if it did not. There was nothing much inside to steal. Just the books. Few folk in Dunehollow could read, so those were safe. Tristan hurried toward the chicken coop.

  The hens had all gone to roost. They were pale puffs of feathers in the gloom of the chicken house. Tristan closed the door and walked in a slow circle around the coop, weaving wards of protection as he went. His lips moved constantly, and his fingers did the same, spinning the spell till it completely enclosed the coop. There! Now let the fox come! The sneak-thief would find no profit in this night’s skulking.

  Beachcombing

  Tristan stood among grass-fringed dunes and listened to the sea. He could see, in a general sort of way. The sand was white, and there were still the stars. All the same, he missed the moon’s light.

  His feet knew the coast path well. He’d had small need of his eyes thus far. But here at the end, wind and waves reshaped the land on a daily basis. Tristan let his ears guide him over the last bit. Better to go around the higher dunes than to climb the wrong one and be buried in a sudden landslip of sand coming down its far side.

  In the few minutes it had taken Tristan to secure the cottage and walk to the coast, the moon had fully entered the eclipse. If one knew where to look, the round face was still visible over the restless sea. There it was—a circle of dark gray, rose-red toward the bottom. It did not shine. It was hard to make out unless he squinted, Tristan found.

  The full darkening would last for little over an hour. The tide was just coming in. Tristan strode swiftly across the wet sand. He must make the most of every special moment.

  He stopped at the foamy wave edge. Not that he cared whether he got his boots wet, but what he looked for would be hidden by even an inch of water. Especially in such poor light. The waves crashed in. They sloshed over the flat sand till they spent themselves, then slipped back. Tiny objects rolled and came to rest, stranded.

  Tristan fixed his attention on the frothy edge of the waves’ farthest reach. What had the sea yielded up? Stones and pebbles glistened. Not likely that they were truly pearls, or opals. Certainly there were no diamonds, but each was worth a look.

  One skein of foam did not dissolve into the sand. It proved to be a scattering of white pebbles, perfect rounds, ovals and teardrops. Each tiny stone was of breath-catching purity. Tristan collected them carefully and put the precious handful into his sack, deep in a corner for safety.

  Thomas was busy trying to catch a ghost crab. He stalked. He pounced. Alas, the crabs could retreat under the sand whenever they chose. Thanks to that tactic, the cat had caught nothing yet, and he might not. The difficulty of the hunt did not cause Thomas to abandon it.

  Tristan picked up three water-smoothed moonstones, a rough garnet, and a dark green pebble the size of a quail’s egg. He found a knot of driftwood shaped like a heart, smooth and white as ivory. All went into the sack.

  A hollow glass ball rolled out of a wave and stopped by Tristan’s boots. It had escaped from some fisherman’s net, perhaps on the far side of the Great Sea. Riding the currents, the float had come to land at last. Wizards saw things in such globes—lost objects, or the misty future. Glass globes were never a match for costly spheres of solid crystal, but they served and were treasured. Blais would be glad of this one. Tristan tucked it inside the front of his pullover.

  Polished nuggets of granite offered no hint of any use they might have. But their color was intense. They must be of some value. Blais would know. Tristan gathered them too.

  Nimble fingers and sharp young eyes, Blais often said. Finding stones of power was the one magical thing Tristan was honestly good at. If he gleaned well this night, Blais would be pleased. Possibly pleased enough to reconsider letting him keep Thomas? Tristan thought not. That was nothing to do with him at all, but only with Thomas being a cat.

  Thomas had caught a crab. Or else the other way round—the cat gave a sharp squeak as pinchers fastened onto his nose. Thomas clawed the crab loose with both his front paws and tossed it high. The ghost-crab scuttled for safety as it landed, but Thomas pursued it. He played toss-and-catch with the crab several more times, till he came to a large rock jutting out of the sand. Thomas cracked the crab against the rock. Then he set to work getting the crab out of its shell, bite by bite.

  Tristan would have considered a crab harvest of his own, but he didn’t much care for raw shellfish. Anyway, the crabs were always too quick for him. Thomas had been lucky—or especially stubborn—to catch one.

  Something felt warm under Tristan’s fingers. That wouldn’t be a crab, but Tristan was surprised to find that it was a stone. He scooped damp sand carefully away on both sides. The stone was smooth, but irregularly so. Along one side was a scooped-out spot. It fitted his left thumb as if the scoop had been the fingerskin of a glove. Tristan felt his mouth fall open.

  A firestone. There was no doubt of it. He had handled Blais’ stone often enough to know what a firestone felt like.

  Firestones didn’t come from the sea. Not ever. This stone must have been carried down to the beach by one of the little streams. Several wound among the dunes when the rains came heavy. Sometimes they reached the sea. Sometimes they were lost under the beach, dwindling away. When they were strong, though, they could carry good-sized stones.

  Tristan couldn’t make out the stone’s color, but he knew it would be gray in daylight, the color of ashes. He walked slowly up the beach. He’d find driftwood at the stormtide line. The folk of Dunehollow collected the cast-up wood, but they never quite got the beach clean. More storm-wrack was forever washing in. Tristan collected a few brittle sticks and laid them carefully across one another.

  He turned the firestone about. How did it wish to be held? There would be a correct way, Tristan knew. Blais’ stone was notably fussy.

  His first instinctive grasp still felt best. The stone wanted his left thumb atop it. Then it rested snugly against his first finger. A second scooped spot there exactly fit his fingertip.

  The smooth stone had been born in fire. It still held fire in its heart. That was the warmth he had felt, in the cool sand. He could call that warmth forth. Tristan spoke the words of the spell. As he did, he made summoning passes with his right hand. Words and gestures finished exactly together, and Tristan pointed the stone at the heap of sticks.

  Fire shot out of his hand. It licked the driftwood with a sharp crack!

  Tristan was so startled, he nearly dropped the stone. He closed his fingers hastily around it. Despite the flame, it wasn’t hot enough to blister him. The firestone still felt no more than warm.

  Tristan scrambled for more wood. He fed the fire carefully until it took proper hold of the fuel. He stared in wonder at the stone in his hand. Usually a firestone yielded a few fat sparks! Blais’ stone never put out a tongue of flame. Not even when his master spoke the spell himself.

  The firelight made the seacoast seem dark around it. Two green sparks came floating out of the blackness, a handspan above the ground. Thomas blinked approvingly at the fire. He laid down a small fish he’d seized from the shallow surf.

  Thank goodness! the cat said. Cooked food is almost the only worthwhile invention humans can claim.

  Tristan decided that the cat hadn’t expected him to be able to provide fire. Tristan chose not to mention that he’d been without the means until quite recently. He got out his brass knife and whispered a honing spell over the blade. In moments Thomas’ fish was cleaned, spitted, and well on its way to being roasted.

  * * * *

  The sky clouded over while they feasted. Tristan didn’t care about searching the beach further. He’d already gleaned treasure beyond any of his hopes. No sense being
greedy. The hour was late, and now that he was fed, he was drowsy. Tristan walked back to the cottage slowly, carrying Thomas. That turned out to be another thing humans were good for.

  * * * *

  Tristan felt too weary to bother with the ladder that led to the half-loft. His bed was no more than a nest of blankets on a straw mattress. Plenty of room on Blais’ pallet, if he scooped a few books out first. And no ladder. Thomas agreed and hurried to claim a comfortable spot.

  Tristan laid his firestone carefully inside a carved wooden box. The box already held a few smooth pebbles, a knotted bit of string and a rainbow-glinting feather—treasures from other expeditions. Tucked into a leather pouch, it could be hung from his belt. Tristan put the pouch under Blais’ pillow. As he slept, his fingers kept touch with it, and his dreams were full of wonders.

  * * * *

  Thomas batted at Tristan’s bare toes. Fine sport, till Tristan woke wondering what was pricking his skin. He pulled his feet to safety beneath the blanket, mumbling. Thomas renewed his attack, liking the challenge, but the thick wool foiled his every effort.

  Tristan stretched, then yawned. He’d been out on the beach for much of the night. He had slept less than usual. He might have been groggy, or grumpy, but he felt very well. Indeed, he felt so well, so excited and contented both at once, that he could not lie still once Thomas had pestered him awake.

  A firestone! Just wait till Blais saw it! At long last he was coming into his power. All his years of hard work and patient study were bearing fruit. The long wait for the harvest would be well worth it, Tristan was certain. He felt as if nothing could ever, ever go wrong again.

  He lit a fire on the hearth, modulating the spell carefully. No need for streams of fire indoors. He cooked porridge.

  Tristan wished wistfully for a bit of bacon, but it had been months since a flitch of it last hung by the chimney. They could really only afford bacon after the autumn hog-butchering.

  Maybe there’d soon be more coin on hand for buying a wider variety of food—or more bartering, anyway. Perhaps the farmer who wanted the cabbage-moth spell kept pigs. It was possible. Anything was possible, this morning. This wonderful morning!

  While the porridge bubbled, Tristan fed the cow. He milked her again, then turned her out into the orchard, with a stern warning to chew only the grass. She must not nibble the bark from the young fruit trees. That settled, he went into the coop to let the hens out.

  Tristan broke the wards with a flick of his left hand. He bent and pushed the hen-door up, leaning against the spot where it always stuck. Usually the chickens were eager to come out, unless rain was falling.

  Today no hens appeared, though the sun shone bright enough. Tristan opened the larger door and went into the coop to chase the hens out. While they were off their nests foraging, he would gather any new-laid eggs. The hens, who preferred to hatch their chicks out, sometimes remembered to object. They got stubborn. They would peck viciously at Tristan’s hands if he tried shifting them bodily. The boldest would fly at him. When he’d been smaller, he’d run from the coop to escape them many a morning.

  Thomas prudently remained outside the coop, safe from savage hens and misunderstandings. He washed his paws. He combed his whiskers. Tristan did not emerge. Neither did the hens.

  Finally, Thomas could stand the suspense no longer. He poked his nose around the corner of the large door, one cautious inch. His whiskers quivered, but he touched nothing.

  What smells? he asked, twitching his nostrils.

  Tristan made a choking sound, but said nothing. His green eyes were as wide as a human’s would go. The expression on his face was strange. Thomas studied him, fascinated. No cat dizzy on fresh catnip looked half so silly. Thomas couldn’t imagine what would make a wizard look that way. Not even an apprentice wizard.

  He shifted his attention to the interior of the hen house, seeking clues. There were feathers everywhere. They were scattered on the floor and in the nests. A few drifted slowly through the air. More of a mess than even silly chickens usually managed to make, Thomas thought. Red splatters splashed the walls and dappled some of the feathers. Thomas sniffed delicately. Blood.

  There were bloody tracks too, here and there. The marks were a bit bigger than Thomas’ paws. They had not been made by a cat, not even a bobcat or lynx. One plainly showed toenails, a dog’s paw print. Thomas sniffed carefully. Dog-family, anyway. Fox, he said.

  The patient fox had found a way past the wards after all. By the time he had gone out again, not a single hen was left alive inside the coop.

  Disaster

  “I don’t know what went wrong,” Tristan said, too dazed to speak above a whisper. “I set the wards just the way Blais always does.” He’d already run through the spell a dozen times, in his mind. He’d called on the strength of the earth, summoned the watchfulness of the moon and the stars, just as he should…

  The moon! He hadn’t allowed for the eclipse in the formula! Tristan’s stomach lurched. He had set the wards just as Blais always did. But he should have adjusted them instead. How could a dark moon keep watch? And earth alone could not keep out a fox—foxes made their dens in holes dug in that same earth. Foxes knew all of earth’s secrets.

  Tristan sat down heavily on the edge of a wooden nest-box. He felt sick. Every breath of air stank of old feathers. The coop always smelled nasty to him. Only the chickens could stand it, not having proper noses. Sunlight pouring in through the hen-door quickly heated the small space and made the stench stronger. The coppery reek of spilled blood turned Tristan’s stomach. He lurched hastily toward the door.

  A big light shape behind one of the boxes caught his eye. Tristan stooped for a better look, his heart thudding in his throat. Was there a survivor?

  The pale shape was a chicken. It was the barred hen, the one that always laid the largest eggs. She was limp when Tristan lifted her, and quite dead. The fox had eaten his fill. Then, maybe, he’d carried off a hen for his next meal. After that he had kept on killing till he ran out of hens. The slaughter was total. That was a fox for you.

  Tristan carried the barred hen outside and buried her beneath the arching raspberry canes. She had been a fine egg layer. Hardly his friend, but he could not think of her as meat. When he gathered eggs, she’d always pecked harder than any other hen. However swift his retreat, she’d always gotten him. She’d never abandoned the pursuit till she’d landed at least one blow. Still, she’d been murdered. It didn’t make her dinner.

  Thomas watched the interment with a solemn expression. After a moment his pink tongue stole out to brush over the tip of his nose. He regretted the loss of a chicken dinner. Burying meat struck him as utter foolishness.

  Tristan brushed dirt from his hands. The hen was buried. What should he do now? He wanted to be busy. Too busy to think about the disaster he’d caused. He still had a sore spot in the pit of his stomach, though the fresh air was better than the stink inside the coop. He was cold. The sun’s warmth didn’t seem to touch him.

  What were he and Blais to do? The eggs from the hens were often the only fresh food they could count on. The cow was elderly and might go dry any day, despite Blais’ spells. They had the orchard and the garden, and Tristan was reasonably good at snaring wild rabbits. Blais traded his charms and medicines for grain and fish—but the chickens were their security. Had been.

  He’d almost rather the fox had eaten him, Tristan thought miserably. Just possibly, Blais would feel the same way. Tristan plodded back toward the cottage, his shoulders slumped. Thomas gave the hen’s little grave an appraising look, then sighed and followed the boy. He could always sneak back later. Say under the cover of night.

  Tristan spent the morning cleaning out the chicken coop. He scrubbed down the walls. He put piles of bloody feathers into the midden. He shoveled up a year’s worth of manure and dug it into the edge of the vegetable patch. He removed the old nests and set the boxes in the sun to air. Work helped him think, distracted him if he got stuck.
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  His negligence had let the fox get at the hens. There was no escaping that guilt, Tristan decided. There were no excuses. It hadn’t been deliberate, but it was his fault nonetheless, whatever Blais might say. It was up to him, therefore, to find a way to replace the birds.

  So, just before sun-high, Tristan set off for Mistress Dalzell’s cottage.

  * * * *

  Mistress Dalzell kept chickens. Red and brown hens bustled importantly in her dooryard, bobbing their heads, seeking every sort of beetle and worm. Suspected food not in plain sight was scratched after. A green-tailed rooster strutted about, not so busy overseeing his wives that he failed to notice the cat following at Tristan’s heels.

  The rooster ran at them with his wings raised, a nasty look in his yellow eyes. Thomas halted. He made himself large, to discourage the rooster. His hair stood on end. His tail fluffed out. He humped his back, flattened his ears, and hissed loudly.

  Stalemate. The rooster allowed the cat to pass, but the two kept one another under careful surveillance.

  Mistress Dalzell was boiling laundry. A great iron kettle hung over a fire in the side yard. She stirred the pale linens round with a stick, lifting out a bedsheet as Tristan walked the last few feet toward her. He waited politely while she flopped the sheet into the rinse tub. Then—thinking himself very clever—he helped her drape the wet sheet over her drying-line and pegged it down securely for the wind to work on. With two sets of hands, no corner dragged in the dusty yard.

  “There’s a good lad! Perfect timing!” Mistress Dalzell shoved a wisp of damp hair from her eyes with the back of her left wrist. “Bide just a bit, I’ll soon have another one.”

  Tristan cheerfully lent a hand with the work. Mistress Dalzell’s good will was a treasure he intended to catch and hold tight to. When the laundry-boiling was done at last, the woman ducked into her cottage and fetched out a plate of raisin biscuits.