by Barb Hendee
He drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes.
His hand was still in mine, and I gripped down more tightly on his fingers. Something about him moved me.
“Don’t go back into the city,” I said. “You shouldn’t be on your own. Stay with us and have dinner. There’ll be music afterward, and you should have others about you.”
His eyes opened. “What’s your name?”
“Helga.”
He nodded. “I’m Saul.”
I liked his name.
He did stay for dinner, and I sat with him, offering whatever comfort I was capable of, which wasn’t much, as by nature I am not a giver of comfort.
The following night, he came back and brought me a bouquet of late-season roses. No man had ever brought me flowers. The next night, he brought a small box of almonds rolled in sugar and cinnamon.
I was being courted.
We walked among the wagons and closed stalls in the darkness, talking softly of small things, and soon we found ourselves drifting through the trees on the edge of the encampment until we reached the meadow where Gustavo had been kicked those years ago.
Slowly, Saul sank down to sit on the grass, and I sank down beside him.
He kissed me gently, and I kissed him back. There was no question of what we both wanted. With the same gentle movements, we removed each other’s clothes, and I lay back in the grass.
I loved the feel of his hands and his mouth.
I was in love.
That was a sweet autumn of stolen moments. We both performed our duties by day and slipped away at night whenever possible, exploring each other’s bodies and whispering soft words to each other.
Even then, we both knew it was the fleeting love of a season. I would never be a soldier’s wife, and he would never resign his post and join a band of traveling Móndyalítko.
That is not to say that parting didn’t cause us sorrow, but when winter set in, I kissed him good-bye, and our wagons rolled southwest, leaving him behind.
I hoped to simply hold the memories in my heart.
But Saul left me with a good deal more than memories, and about a month later, I began throwing up my breakfast. Before long, it was clear I was with child. Thankfully, among my people, this caused a woman no shame, and a new life was reason for celebration. My mother and Alondra both sought to care for me through the most difficult months as my body grew more unwieldy. I found that I didn’t like being pregnant and vowed to never put myself through such an ordeal again.
In early summer, just as the raspberries ripened in the fields of Yegor, my pains began.
I was lucky, and my labor was brief, and with the help of my mother and Alondra, I delivered a baby girl into the world with a fair amount of ease.
I named her Renata, and her birth was the last moment of ease she ever gave me.
She came out screaming and didn’t stop for nearly a year. Even with other women helping when they could, I got little sleep and neither did anyone else in my wagon. I felt worn and exhausted much of the time.
Almost as soon as she could form words, Renata used them to tell me when she didn’t like something—and she didn’t like much. She was picky about food and clothing and the blankets on her bed.
As the years passed, and she turned six, this only grew worse.
She looked a good deal like me, with a stocky build and thick dark hair, and my mother often said, “Oh, Helga, don’t be hard on her. She reminds me a good deal of you.”
“Of me? Was I so difficult?”
“Don’t you remember?”
I did not. Did Renata take after me?
Somewhere in her childhood, though, I came to realize how much I loved her. I loved her small hands and her serious face, but she also caused me great trials. Renata was born to be disappointed. She often looked at me with great expectation, as if waiting for me to do or provide or produce something wonderful, and I never had a single clue what she wanted or expected. For her tenth birthday, I made her a beautiful doll, and she only sighed when she saw it.
“My friend Onya’s mother gave her a new dress for her birthday.”
“Did you want a new dress? You should have asked.”
She sighed again. “You know I’d never ask for anything.”
This was the way of our life together, her looking at me in expectation, and me never once living up to whatever it was she wanted—as I never knew what it might be.
When she reached the age of sixteen, she began to prove very useful to the family. Renata worked hard. She was a fine cook and seamstress. She sang like a dove and helped with performances. I was proud of her.
She was prone to bad dreams, though, and would sometimes crawl into bed with me and let me hold her. These moments filled me with love. But in her waking hours, she never stopped looking at me with a challenge of expectation that I could never understand or meet. Perhaps the fault was mine.
However, in her twentieth winter, she proved to be an anchor for me in time of tragedy and change. We stopped, as always, at a town called Salihorsk, only to be told that an illness had struck, and we must be careful. We settled our wagons outside town and only went in to conduct performances.
We should have moved on.
Within days, my mother fell ill with a fever and a red rash on her face, and my father followed soon after. Mother died first. Other members of our family fell ill, and in the end, it was the youngest and eldest we lost, including Uncle Gaelan.
Griffin was now our leader. By then he’d been married for well over a decade, with two young sons, Gerard and Gersham.
I was so lost in mourning my parents, especially my mother, that I didn’t think much on the change in leadership. Alondra was no better. She had loved our mother so. It was Renata who cooked meals and cared for us and kept her sharp eyes open.
“You look out for Griffin,” she whispered to me one night. “He does not value you as Uncle Gaelan did.”
She was right, and I paid mind to her words.
Everything was different now. One generation had been wiped out in a single winter and replaced by the next. In the end, though, Griffin’s disdain for me proved not such a bad thing, for I had no interest in pleasing him, either.
When we reached Kéonsk for the following autumn fair, he came to me. “You can do your readings in the morning, but I see no reason why you should be excused from other duties or be treated any differently from anyone else.”
I nodded. “Fine. If I’m like anyone else, then I can decide when I wish to do readings and when I don’t. And I’m not doing them every day.”
He frowned, but he was the one who’d started us down this path.
After that, I set my own schedule and spread word for when people might visit. I had less privilege under Griffin, but a good deal more freedom, and I much preferred this.
I never forgot Renata’s loyalty and how she’d cared for Alondra and me over that dark winter.
Then, in Renata’s twenty-second summer, in Yegor, I noticed a change in her, and she was not as attentive as usual to her duties, often distracted. I wondered about the cause until I came around the side of a wagon one day and saw her holding hands with a young man from the line of Kaleja. The expressions on both their faces could not be missed.
They were besotted.
I was happy for them, happy for my girl. After that one autumn so long ago, I never saw Saul again and heard later that he’d been reassigned, but the glow of those months never left me completely, and I was glad for my Renata to bask in the same happiness.
I wondered where this would take them. Her falling in love with a young man from one of the families was different from me falling for a Väränj soldier. Renata’s attachment could end in marriage.
As the summer ended, though, I noticed Renata becoming agitated and looking around a good deal, as if seeki
ng him out and not finding him. I saw them together one day, and he appeared uncomfortable, but then I made out her face. She looked at him with the same demanding expectation with which she so often looked at me. Only a person already lost in the throes of great love can endure that look on a long-term basis.
He was not such a man.
When we rolled out of Yegor in the autumn, I knew Renata’s sweet affair had ended badly, and I tried to be kind to her. She appeared so lost and confused, but how could I explain the problem? Few people wished to live their lives as a constant disappointment to someone else. If I’d tried to explain this, she wouldn’t have understood.
With another month, though, it was clear that her brush with love had left her with more than memories, just as mine had.
She was with child.
The prospect of a new life filled me with joy, and I saw my girl blossom as well. She appeared to forget her young man—whose name I cannot remember—and prepare for the birth of the child. Alondra was equally excited.
The three of us now traveled in our family wagon, and soon there would be a fourth. How could we not be pleased? The months swept by.
In the very early spring, we’d not yet begun the journey for Yegor, and we were encamped in a village in the southwest. In the afternoon, I’d gone into the village to purchase some bread and cheese, and then I stopped at a tavern to buy a small jug of red wine to bring home as a treat.
I’d just reached the bar when I felt the nag at the back of my head. It was strong, and fear washed through my stomach. There was a lit candle on one table, and I dropped into a chair, staring at the flame.
Blessed fire in the night
Show me what is in the sight
Show me what brings fight or flight
Blessed fire in the night
The tavern vanished and the mists rose. When they cleared, I saw my Renata lying on her back in a bed in our wagon. Her face was a mask of agony, and she cried out.
Leaving the bread and cheese behind, I ran.
When I reached our wagon, Alondra and our cousin Matilda were both there with Renata. Matilda had delivered many babies and was considered our family’s midwife. When I saw her face, I went cold.
She came from the bunk and met me at the door.
“Renata’s pains have come early, and the baby is breech. I’ve tried, but I cannot turn it. I will keep trying.”
I pushed past her and went to my girl, kneeling and grasping her hand. “It’s all right.”
She gripped down on my fingers. “Mama, it hurts.”
My stomach lurched, and I’d have done anything to take her pain into myself. “I know.”
That was the longest night of my life.
After hours and hours of torment, Renata finally gave birth to a breech baby—a tiny girl. With unspeakable relief, I laid the baby on my daughter’s chest. “What shall we name her?”
“Jolene,” she whispered. “I always wanted to be named Jolene.”
I smiled. “Jolene.”
Within moments, Renata began to bleed and there was nothing any of us could do to stop it. All my relief changed to panic as I tried to help Matilda, but the bleeding did not stop, and my daughter died while I was helpless to do anything.
My Renata was gone.
I don’t remember much of the weeks that followed. There is only so much anyone can take, and I had neared my limit. A parent should not outlive a daughter, and the world seemed a dark place.
I later learned that Alondra had cared for Jolene in those early days. One of the young women from our caravan was nursing a baby, and Alondra went to her for help. It was months before I came back to myself to lend a hand, and I was ashamed that Alondra had been so burdened alone.
“It’s been no burden,” she assured me. “Jolene is a dear child.”
And she was.
She rarely cried, and she learned to laugh early. We soon moved her to drinking bottles of goats’ milk and cared for her entirely by ourselves. It hurts to admit this, but I did not love her then. I think a part of me blamed her for Renata’s death, even though I knew such feelings weren’t fair.
A year passed.
I remember the day I came to love her.
She walked early. She did everything early. At just past a year, she was a tiny thing, smaller than any other baby her age, and yet she was nearly running.
One day, I took her outside with me so I could do some washing, and I set her on the ground. In a flash, she was off, racing for the hens pecking at the earth. With a squeal of laughter, she scattered them, and then she turned and looked at me and threw her arms in the air and laughed again.
“Mama!”
I went to her swiftly and scooped her up. Her face was alive with delight.
“Grandmama,” I corrected, for I’d never overlook Renata or allow her to be forgotten.
The child put both her hands on my face and something changed inside me. She was an odd little thing who took delight in small pleasures and who loved to laugh.
“Jo,” I said.
In that moment, the name Jo suited this tiny ball of joy in my arms, and that name stuck with her for life.
Jo was as different from her mother—or from me—as fire was from frost. As she grew, she remained slender and small boned. Her eyes were so light brown they glowed. Her hair was thick and light brown as well, unusual for our people. Her skin was ivory. She was the prettiest little thing I ever saw.
She loved everyone and everyone loved her.
By the time she was five, she was the center of my world. She was delighted by everything and always made me feel like a good grandmother. I disliked leaving her with Alondra even long enough to conduct my readings—but I did.
The years passed, and she grew from a pretty child into a beautiful girl. She sang and danced and told stories and became quite a draw in our performances. Some people simply liked to see her. She was like a woodland sprite.
In the night, she and I talked about many things.
“Do you mind having to do so many readings to earn money for the rest of us?” she whispered.
No one had ever asked me this before.
“No,” I answered. “I have the gift, and I need to use it. Do you mind singing and dancing?”
“I love both,” she whispered back. “But I love telling and hearing stories more.”
She did love stories. She was a terrible cook and couldn’t sew a stitch, but no one minded. Her lithe body rarely stopped moving unless she was asleep. She seemed to run everywhere.
In her seventeenth year, we traveled along a southwest road in late winter and stopped near a stream to make camp. I was just lighting a campfire when she came to me with a queer expression.
“Grandmama?”
I jumped up, fearing she was ill. “What’s wrong?”
“Something is bothering the back of my neck . . . like an itch but not. I don’t know what it is.”
Hurrying over, I took her arm and ushered her inside our wagon. I didn’t want anyone else to hear. Quickly, I lit a candle and set it on the table.
“What’s happening to me?” she asked.
“I think you have the gift. Sit. Focus on the flame and on the nag at the back of your neck and repeat the same string of words in your mind. They’ll help you focus.”
I gave her the litany, and she stared at the flame. I’d never seen this happen in someone else before and I watched without speaking. Suddenly, her face went blank, and then she sucked in a loud breath of air.
“Grandmama!” she cried. “I saw upstream. A horse has died in the stream and is rotting. The water flowing our way is contaminated. Don’t let anyone drink it.”
I leaned forward long enough to say, “Don’t tell anyone you saw this. Not yet.”
Then I rushed to spread the warning. Thankfully, no on
e had used any of the water yet. Our men traveled upstream, pulled out the dead horse, and collected buckets of clean water from above.
I let everyone think it was me who’d been shown the image.
Alone with Jo, I asked her, “Do you want to let everyone know? We can, but life will change for you. You’ll have a more respected place, but you’ll also have to live as I do, using your gift to earn money.”
She looked at me, and I could see in her sweet face that she was torn. “Would I be able to help you? To take some of the work from you?”
“Probably not. Griffin would set you up in a different wagon.”
She hesitated. “Could we keep the secret a little longer, then?”
This was what I’d wanted. I wanted to protect her. “Yes,” I assured her. “As long as you like.”
So our family had another Mist-Torn, but Jo and I kept it to ourselves for now. I wanted her to enjoy her youth a little longer.
In the late spring, when we arrived back at Yegor, though, I began to realize there would be new problems to face. At seventeen, Jo was so unbelievably lovely and so full of life that every young man from every family in the meadow began to take notice.
One of them was always stopping by with wildflowers or sweets until I ended up chasing them off. Jo handled them as she handled everything, with a warm smile or laugh, but no encouragement. As of yet, no one had stolen her heart.
That summer was the first time I saw Jago Taragoš following her with his eyes. The other young men were a nuisance, but nothing more. Jago worried me. He was a valued shifter, a panther, but his expression often held no emotion at all.
I mentioned my worries to Alondra by the fire one night.
She glanced over at him. “There’s little he can do besides look at her. He was married two years ago.”
Was he? I tried to remember and then did. Yes, he’d married a girl from the line of Džugi.
“Which one is she?” I asked.
Alondra’s eyes scanned the families, all by their fires for the evening. “That one, with the shiny hair.”
The young woman was pretty, with a fine figure and black silky hair. But as I watched her, I noticed she seemed nervous, afraid of her own shadow, and Jago never once glanced in her direction. He only watched Jo.