Shattered Stone

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  When Anchorstar climbed into the wagon at last, he looked terrifying in his calmness. He lifted the reins without comment, backed the horses, and turned them toward the south as the Deacons were directing—there was nowhere else to go. To the north lay only Dunoon. And that, of course, would be forbidden to him.

  When Anchorstar had gone, when the wagon could no longer be seen down the road and people had at last begun to return to the square, Zephy and Meatha slipped out through the housegardens, past the plum grove, and into the Landmaster’s southern whitebarley field. The grain was tall and heavy-headed, ready for harvest, and they would be dealt with harshly if they were caught there, knocking heads off the stalks as they crept through. They slipped along as gently as they could, trying not to shake the stalks, planning that when they came out onto the road at the end of the field they would run to catch up with the wagon.

  But three mounted Deacons guarded the road, Zephy’s blood went cold as she stared up at their closed, stern faces. “A donkey,” she cried, desperate for an excuse. “Have you seen a brown donkey? Dragging her halter rope. . .”

  The Deacons did not comment They stared back toward the village in clear command as to the direction the girls should take. There was nothing you could do, there was no way to battle Deacons. Defeated, they turned around and started back up the road.

  “I hate them!” Meatha whispered vehemently.

  “They don’t have to be so overbearing just because—just because . . . Oh, to Urdd with the flaming Deacons!”

  Meatha seemed utterly destroyed. Zephy watched her, concerned. Sometimes you couldn’t tell with Meatha; there was something about her, a kind of delicate, tight-strung stubbornness that . . . Then Zephy caught her breath as Meatha dissolved into sudden shaking sobs. Alarmed, Zephy shoved her into the whitebarley where she would not be seen, and put her arms around her. She could feel the wracking sobs, could feel Meatha’s heart pounding. She looked down the road, terrified that the Deacons would come, then pushed Meatha deeper into the field, propelling her away from the road until they were well out in the middle of the tall stand of grain.

  Never in her life had she seen Meatha so out of control. She had seen her cry silent tears when she was hurt by someone, but never tears like this, crying as if her very soul was lost.

  When it seemed Meatha could cry no longer, she stared up at Zephy, her face blotched, her eyes swollen. “He spoke to me, Zephy. Anchorstar spoke to me. He couldn’t tell me all of it, and now they’ve driven him away. There was something . . .” She pressed her fist to her mouth, then at last began again, “It was like a fog, when you know things are in it but you can’t see them. He said we must talk together. There is something I must do. For Anchorstar, something I must do for him,” she said with awe. And then the hopelessness of her defeat seemed to fill her and shake her utterly, and she dissolved into tears again, her face growing so white Zephy was frightened for her. “He said that the Children . . . that the Children . . . Oh, I wish I understood . . .

  “It wasn’t anything in words, just in knowing. Then he made me go away from him in my mind. He wanted his mind free because he could feel the Deacons coming.

  “And when he drove away I tried to speak with him, but I couldn’t. There was nothing. And now it’s too late.” She sat staring miserably at the whitebarley that made a wall around them.

  “It’s not too late. We’ll think of something.” Zephy’s anger surged at the Deacons, at her own helplessness. “Don’t cry! It doesn’t help to cry/”

  Only a faint rustle of the whitebarley told Zephy they were not alone; she blanched with fear as they crouched, frozen; it would do no good to run.

  The heavy sheaves parted.

  And Thorn of Dunoon stood looking down at them, his red hair catching the sun, his eyes quiet and concerned.

  “It’s all right, the Deacons have gone back. You can come out now. Here . . .” He knelt and lifted Meatha as easily as he might lift a new fawn and began to make his way back through the whitebarley toward the road. Zephy followed him in silent confusion.

  Then in a flash of memory she saw a picture of Thorn and Anchorstar beside the goats, facing Kearb-Mattus together. Thorn of Dunoon—and Anchorstar!

  They went up the road quickly and through the plum grove to a vetchpea patch on the other side, pausing to talk only when they were at last sheltered.

  And there in the shade of the heavy vines Thorn told them about Anchorstar and about how the old man had come to him at night on the mountain. If he paused sometimes, perhaps it was to remember.

  He told them how Anchorstar had appeared suddenly, coming so silently in the night that even the guardbucks didn’t hear him, and had spoken to him about the Children of Ynell. He told how Anchorstar had known about the spark in Thorn’s own being that made him like Ynell. Did Thorn leave something out, hold something back, or did Zephy only imagine that? Yet why would he? He had given them his trust implicitly: for Thorn’s confession to them of his own skills put his very life in their hands.

  He told them how he had slipped into Anchorstar’s wagon before Anchorstar started his act, had been there inside all the time the juggler was doing his tricks, then had ridden out with him, the two of them laying a plan to get Anchorstar to Dunoon. “For he would speak with you two,” he said matter-of-factly, brushing a gnat from his face—a flock of them buzzed among the vetchpea vines, annoying in the later afternoon heat. “He would speak with you both,” he repeated in answer to Zephy’s surprised look. “For you are the only two older ones in Burgdeeth.”

  “The only two older what?” Zephy whispered, going cold.

  “The only two . . .” He studied her as he waited for her to understand. But she refused to understand and only stared at him blankly.

  “The only two Children of Ynell,” Meatha breathed at last her eyes never leaving Thorn’s.

  “I’m not . . .” Zephy began. But she could not say more, she could not deny it not after the vision in the tunnel. “I’m not . . .” she tried again, almost inaudibly. Then she gave it up and sat staring at Thorn. She did not speak of the tunnel. Nor did Meatha.

  “I have a trace of the gift,” Thorn said. “But only a trace. Anchorstar will need all three of us.” He would say nothing more. He bent the talk instead to laying out the plan he had discussed with Anchorstar. It sounded simple enough, to bring the wagon through Burgdeeth after midnight, after the Singing was finished and people had gone to bed. Simple, and dangerous. For if Anchorstar were caught Thorn felt he would be killed.

  “Couldn’t he leave his horses and wagon somewhere and go on foot?” Zephy asked. “It would be safer.”

  “But how?” Thorn said. “Near Burgdeeth they would be seen, and anywhere off in the hills there would be no one to care for the horses. Tied animals run out of grazing, loose animals stray . . .” he gazed at her, questioning, and she realized what a silly question it had been. His eyes were such a dark green, like the river where it ran deep and still. And direct, so direct they made her self-conscious—yet they made her trust him, too. She felt that the three of them were bound together suddenly in something as bizarre and terrifying as anything she could imagine. The three of them . . . You three—and three—the words seemed to echo from a long way off. You three—you will reach out—if you are the chosen. She stared at Thorn and felt her spirit twist in sudden confusion.

  It was Meatha who seemed transported into a joy of spirit so absolute that Zephy was sobered by it, for Meatha was lifted into a passion that encompassed her utterly. Was this what Anchorstar was capable of? And then she thought, could he be other than what they believed, could he be leading them into something evil?

  But Thorn—Thorn would not deceive them.

  And when she thought of the stone in the tunnel she knew that an aura of otherness, of mystery and wonder, truly did exist. She thought of telling Thorn about the stone.

  But she would wait. If Anchorstar had tricked them, tricked Thorn, then it would be too la
te; and she vowed to keep the thought of it hidden when at last she faced Anchorstar.

  It was nearly evening when they left the housegardens and went to fetch Loke and the bucks. They took the bucks to be bedded down with Nida and Dess, watered and fed them, then stood leaning silently on the rail. “The Singing will begin soon,” Thorn said. “We’d best make a spectacle of it. More eyes than mine saw you two staring at Anchorstar in the square when everyone else had gone. And saw you leave it, too. We’d best make it appear that Anchorstar is well out of our thoughts, that we’re wild with the pleasure of Market Night. Do you remember last year, Zephy, when you danced ‘Jajun Jajun’ alone atop the Storemaster’s wagon, with Shanner and half a dozen clapping and playing for you?”

  Did he remember that? She flushed, feeling as simple and hot-faced as any Burgdeeth girl. “Tonight,” he said lightly, “we’ll dance ‘Jajun Jajun’ as it’s never been danced before.” His smile was so full of easy friendliness that she couldn’t help but smile back. But she thought later, I’m not so shy with other boys. What’s the matter with me?

  Well, you couldn’t be shy with the music playing; you couldn’t be shy when you were singing. Caught up in the rhythm of the music and the blaze of lantern light that drove back the darkness, they danced and sang and forgot everything else. Zephy forgot her shyness in the laughter of Thorn’s eyes, in his voice as they sang the old songs.

  She played her gaylute for the singing but quickly handed it to Meatha when Thorn swept her into a Sangurian reel that lifted her, made her forget the danger that lay ahead of them—the music was a river that carried them churning wildly down its length so no other thought was possible.

  Again and again she saw Mama dancing with Kearb-Mattus. She was embarrassed when Mama danced the wild, clapping Rondingly with him, for he did not know the steps and stumped clumsily beside her. In spite of his strange appeal, the Kubalese was not made for dancing. And Mama made a spectacle of herself, clapping and whirling like a girl. It was embarrassing to see her own mother behaving with such abandon.

  Late in the night Elij presented Thorn with a sheaf of whitebarley and claimed Zephy as partner. He was so drunk he could hardly keep his feet Zephy tried to stay out of his way, but she was well-trodden on before the music stopped and she turned away from him—only to be pulled back to face him.

  “What’s th’ matter, Zephy? One more dance—one dance . . .” His arm went around her too tight and when he saw Thorn approaching, his grip tightened further and his voice came loud and slurred. “How c’n you lower yourself to dance w’th a—w’th a goatherd!”

  She stared at Elij, then pushed him away and went boldly to Thorn. Elij’s gaze followed her, his eyes like ice.

  When the music stopped again, Elij was beside them, his voice carrying across the square, “A girl pregnant by a goatherd—a Cherban goatherd—would be driven from Cloffi in rags.”

  Zephy’s face flamed. Someone snickered. She could not look at Thorn. Someone else hooted, and several boys began to laugh. When she did glance sideways at Thorn, she saw his fists clenched as if he were trying to hold his temper.

  “C’me here, Zephy Eskar. Come over here and let’s see what the young goatherd finds so appealing. C’m on—let’s pass it around a little . . .”

  Thorn had him down, pounding him, and Elij so drunk he could hardly fight back. Thorn’s fury made Zephy go cold as she grabbed his arm, dragged at him. “He’s drunk, Thorn, he’s too drunk . . .” And Thorn, comprehending finally, pulled back and stood up, ashamed, Elij crouching before him in the street. The catcalls and laughter were ugly, were all directed at Thorn; though no one made a move toward him. “Come on,” Zephy whispered. He stood belligerently, furious. Then he seemed to collect himself, and took her arm at last, and led her away from the street. She wondered if his fury would spill over and lash out at her, too. It was strange that the Deacons, who had watched from their elevated seats at the side of the square, had not come forward to beat Thorn. What devious punishment did they have in their minds for later?

  Fog had begun to drift in from the river and settle between the buildings as they stood together in a side street “I’m sorry,” Thorn said, “to cause talk like that about you. Goatherd. It’s not a nice word in Burgdeeth.”

  “It wasn’t you that caused Elij’s rudeness. If I’d been nice to him, if I’d danced with him—he stepped all over my feet” she said trying to make light of it.

  “Does he—does he court you?”

  “Me?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream at him. “Me and Elij Cooth? Oh no, Thorn. I wouldn’t have him.”

  “That shows good taste,” Thorn said, grinning. “I never thought you’d have him. But sometimes . . .” he paused and studied her. “Usually a girl has little choice.”

  She grinned back. “I’d feed him painon bark and ashes and make him so sick he’d be sorry he ever known me.”

  Thorn smiled. He was so close she trembled. Surely he would kiss her. She was terrified. Then when he didn’t, when he took her hand instead and turned back toward the square, there was an emptiness like lead inside.

  In the square, the music was quieter. Elij had gone and interest in the fight had died away. Other couples had drifted off, and the crowd was smaller. Soon four of the Deacons retired. The fog settled down thicker, fuzzing the lantern light to a glistening haze, then growing brighter as the moons rose behind it.

  When the music was stilled and the square empty at last, Zephy and Thorn and Meatha met in the housegardens, each going separately through back ways. There they woke Loke where he slept wrapped in blankets by the donkey pen.

  TEN

  The thin radiance of moonlight through fog made the street much too light, a diffused brightness. One couldn’t be sure whether there was clarity of vision or only the glittering haze masking things unseen. Zephy peered out of the alley. “Why couldn’t it be dark.”

  “It wouldn’t be dark so close to Fire Scourge,” Meatha whispered reasonably. The full moons behind the fog were like two lamps in their brilliance. Meatha shifted deeper into the shoulder-narrow alley, pressing against Zephy who was, in turn, pressed against the damp stone.

  The bright fog would surely set the wagon off too plainly, though Zephy guessed it was better than the bare full moons shining down. The night was utterly silent; strange, after so much music. She felt as if an echo of music still vibrated, unheard. Meatha sighed, nervy with apprehension, then slipped out of the alley and away, a dark shape beside the wall disappearing at once into the fog. She would stand watch between Zephy and the square, prepared to whistle softly if anyone appeared in the street. It had taken Thorn a long time to teach them the whistle of the river-owl. Thorn would be in the square now. And Loke, with the bucks, would be watching from the north end of town. Even in the silence the wagon should not be heard, for the wheels and the horse’s hooves would be wrapped with rags.

  Alone, Zephy felt very exposed, even in the narrow alley. She hardly dared breathe for listening. Once she thought she heard a door open softly. But it could have been inside a house. She tried to see deeper into the mist. If someone were standing across the street, would she see them? But of course there was no one; all Burgdeeth slept after the night of dancing. The dampness of the stone against which she was pressed chilled her. She stood away from the wall shivering, disliking the fog suddenly.

  Among the coastal countries, Aybil and Farr, Pelli and Sangur, fog was said to be the breath of SkokeDirgOg, and men kept to their closed houses. How much superstition men lived by. If it were not for Tra. Hoppa, would she and Meatha be the same? Were they being as foolish now, just as believing of falsehood when they put their trust in Anchorstar as they were doing?

  But to speak to Anchorstar, to speak without words, that was not superstition. That was real, something they had done themselves—or, Meatha had.

  And did Meatha see truly? Or was her vision as warped as the Cloffi history of Ere? Was what she thought truth just another
falsehood?

  A faint hollow sound shook her, a ghost of a sound. Then almost at once the wagon was looming out of the fog, its muffled hoofbeats like blunt whispers, the horses warm-smelling; the wagon was nearly on top of her, the muffled wheels and rag-shod hooves sucking strangely at the damp street. For an instant Anchorstar’s face was above her, his eyes looking into hers, speaking a message she could not doubt; how could she ever have doubted him, the direct, honest warmth of his gaze that seemed to see right into her, to bare his own soul for her. Then he was gone, swallowed up. From the back of the wagon Thorn reached down to touch her cheek, then he too was gone; the wagon had disappeared, gone as if it had never been. No sound remained. Ahead in the fog, had Loke joined them? They must meet the river high above the last fields where the path was rough and stony; to use the lower road would have been foolish. She shivered at what tomorrow would bring. It seemed a wild plan, to slip out of Burgdeeth during the reaping. To stand before Anchorstar in a meeting that, Zephy felt, would change her life in ways that terrified her.

  She slipped out into the street. Meatha would be finding her way home now. The fog made distances seem different; she quailed as something moved close by, then saw it was her own fog-distorted shadow against a door. She found her stairway and climbed it, lifting the door with all her strength to keep it from creaking. She climbed the two flights and the ladder, undressed in darkness, and was in bed at last. But she couldn’t sleep. She thought of Thorn’s green-eyed gaze, and Anchorstar’s dark, penetrating look, that were in some way alike. Both challenged and both comforted her. Then she dropped into sleep as suddenly as a stone drops into water.

  *

  The chanting of Prayer Morning woke her. She tried to slip back into sleep, felt as exhausted as if she had not slept at all. She pulled the covers up, but the Deacons’ voices raised in unison were so insistent that at last she rose. She washed and dressed in a stupor with the chanting annoying her. The demanding voices seemed to destroy what little privacy she had. Outside, the fog still shrouded Burgdeeth, veiling the houses below her. She scowled down at the fog-muffled street and thought about dumping her dirty washwater down on the Deacons’ righteous heads; and that shocking idea made her feel a good deal better.