by Jean Winter
“Oh Kadent! I do wish you would take Felvyt's standing offer to buy this place and move into the city near me,” his mother urged. “How am I supposed to sleep at night when I am in constant worry over your and the children's safety?”
“We are perfectly fine here, Mother, as I have been telling you for sixteen years. It is even safer now with Lyra. She is a skilled nurse.” J'Kor nodded toward her with pride. “Ahskr owes his life to her.”
Ahskr snapped his tail, somehow understanding that they were talking about him, and did his best to look like a good enough boy to warrant a tasty scrap from someone's plate. Breht became his hero with a sly exchange under the table.
“But you would be so much happier in Caldreen among all our friends.”
“Your friends, Mother, not 'ours,'” J'Kor reminded. “And I am happy here.”
“Why, just the other day that becoming, young Lady Pryn was asking about you again,” Lady J'Kor said, pretending not to hear him. “She is so disappointed every time you do no' show at one o' my gatherings. I would so like to see the two o' you get to know one another better.”
“Because her family is politically influential? Aye, I can see how that would be convenient for you.”
This earned a stern look. “She is a very sweet, very talented, very beautiful woman.”
“—Who has had people waiting on her her whole life and does no' know the difference between a sheering blade and a pruning knife.”
“There is more to you than sheep and this farm, Kadent. You know that. You and she could connect in other ways.”
“Mother, I am done with trying to make it work.' I have told you before, I am no' interested in dealing with any complicated relationships!”
Her snort of laughter was suppressed, but not before Lyra accidentally inhaled a bit of salad. A severe coughing fit followed causing everyone to stop and stare. “Excuse me,” she croaked apologetically. “Piece of lettuce.” She regained control and dropped her head, catching J'Kor's irritated glare on the way down.
Lyra didn't eat anything more until she was sure she could lift her chin with a straight face. The conversation eventually continued.
“The children need a mother and you need a companion.”
“That is what Lyra is for.”
“Kadent Allegron Domisev J'Kor, I am no' speaking o' a nanny/housemaid/bedroom playmate. They need a woman they can respect and look up to and you need someone o' your own social and intellectual level. At least give Miss Shasmae a chance.”
Whatever J'Kor may have been feeling, he kept carefully masked. “When is your next party, Mother?” he finally said.
“In two weeks,” she responded, pleased. “I will send you a formal invitation with the details.”
The meal finished soon after that and Lyra was clearing the table when Jos'lie approached her again. “You do braids. My hair? Like yours?” She pointed in admiration at Lyra's own arrangement.
“I sure can, Miss Jos'lie, but I think your father would like me to finish cleaning up first.” Lyra blinked back her throbbing headache that had exploded upon standing up and moving around again.
“Ooh! I help?” she asked eagerly.
Oh, the oft uttered question from lips too young, and rarely heard again when not! Every parent's lament.
Lyra looked into the exuberant eyes burning with anticipation. “As a matter of fact, I could use a helper, but go ask your father first. He may want you to play with him or your grandmother, instead.”
A minute later Jos'lie was bounding back and positioning herself joyfully at the sink, awaiting instructions.
Well, what she lacked in fine motor skills, Jos'lie made up for with sheer enthusiasm. She jabbered on and on about her “fav-rit” colors and “spet-shul” toys in her room for a while, then Lyra turned the dish job into a helpful work song.
You swipe your right hand up, you swipe your right hand down,
You swipe your right hand up, and you swirl it all around.
You do the splishy sploshy till it's smooth and shiny clean,
That's what I rea—lly mean.
Jos'lie was so delighted by the song that they sang it through together for every plate and dish. When she begged for more, Lyra did her best to come up with a chorus for the impromptu number.
Oh, oh, oh, bubbles! Bubbles!
Washing out my troubles!
Scrubbing up a froth when I'm feeling really wroth
Makes the work go better. I just love it when it's wetter.
Bubble, bubble, toil and trou—ble!
Through Jos'lie's clapping and cheering, Lyra laughed as she was mercilessly bombarded by flying suds from the girl's hands. It earned an actual chortle from Lady J'Kor who had been observing from her sofa seat, though the old woman tried to hide her amusement behind a crisp, gloved hand. From his chair, J'Kor was watching, as well. Watching with shadowed countenance. Most decidedly not amused. Lyra's laugh died in her throat.
His subsequent grin was only for his daughter's sake and Lyra quickly and quietly finished her work, not getting at all what she had done wrong.
The promised hair braiding session took place on Jos'lie's bed and Lyra had her work cut out for her. The exuberant young thing had a hard time keeping still. Jos'lie happily cradled her new doll tightly to her chest, telling Lyra all about all the things in her room while Lyra struggled against sluggish fingers and a mental perception clear as podmash soup. Despite the simple joys of playing with a little girl's hair again, the exertions of the day had really taken their toll.
All things considering, the swirl of the reverse braid didn't turn out too bad, but Lyra was silently rejoicing when she heard the final goodbyes of Lady J'Kor taking her leave. J'Kor was soon at Jos'lie's door.
“Impressive,” he said of the hairdo.
“Well,” Lyra responded, her perfectionist nature needling at her, “it's tight and secure and she can sleep in it for at least one night. Did your mother leave … happy?”
“She likes you,” he grinned, “—understanding that you are an emotionally traumatized simpleton who is unconditionally dedicated to her cherished only son, that is.”
“I bee-ootiful, Papa!” Jos'lie innocently rejoiced, skipping to her father and giving him a big hug.
“Aye, you are, Princess. Did you tell 'Na Lyra thank you?”
The girl flew back to Lyra who braced herself for impact. “Thank you, Mama Lyra! You are best! I sleep with you an' Papa to-night?”
“No' this time, sweetbee,” J'Kor said. “'Na Lyra is very tired. She needs to go right to bed—no more playing with you.”
A guffaw came from Breht heading toward his room. “What Papa really means, midget,” he said, sticking in his head, “is that it is his turn to play with 'Mama Lyra.'”
“Breht,” J'Kor warned.
Breht shrugged it off, turning to his father, a shock of tousled, golden brown hair hanging in his eyes as he said, “Hey Fa'r, can I go bust the clock at Oquim's tomorrow? He is having a bunch o' friends over.”
A brow was raised in expectation.
Breht huffed. “I mean, Fa-ther, with your permission, I would like to spend the day at the Giv'kyrist's tomorrow for a social assemblage with other similarly-aged acquaintances.”
“Will it be supervised?”
“Aye,” Breht droned. “I knew you would ask even though nobody else's parents are worried about that kind o' thing anymore. Father, I am fifteen.”
“Exactly, son.”
“You do no' trust my judgment?”
“Well, the time when you and your buddies thought it would be 'epic' to set fire to the haystack by the Fayk's barn is still a little too fresh in my memory.”
Breht leaned against the wall. Sullen. “So can I go?”
“I have work for you in the morning, but when that is done, you can harness up Whinnee and take the wagon for the rest o' the day.”
“Aw, Father, you said the khar was going to help outside, too. Why do I still have to work?”
Chuckling, J'Kor rustled his son's hair with a playful hand. “Son, that is a very important question. And the day you can truly appreciate the answer will be the day my lifelong stewardship as a father is fulfilled.”
With a frown, Breht mumbled an, “Aye, sir,” and stalked off.
J'Kor shook his head, turning back to his easier-to-handle daughter. “Say goodnight to 'Na Lyra, Princess, then get yourself dressed for bed and I will read to you.”
“Okay!” she responded brightly. “Goo' moonrise, Ma Lyra!” Jos'lie hugged her. “I love you!”
“'Na Lyra, baby. 'Na—with an 'N'.”
“No Papa,” she giggled. “Ma—ma.”
Lyra felt, perhaps, just as uncomfortable with the newly branded title as J'Kor looked with it. But what could be done? The girl appeared quite decided on the matter. Lyra hugged Jos'lie back then wearily shuffled away to get herself ready for bed. Please let the rest of the night go quietly, she started to pray.
The supplication continued through the bedtime routine until Lyra finished on her knees in formal prayer in the vanity closet. By that time, however, she did not quite have the energy to pull herself up again when she was done. A shadow fell upon her.
“What happened to you?” J'Kor said.
“Well, if you must know I was—” She could go ahead and say it. Her origins were not a secret anymore. “I was praying, and now I can't seem to get back up.” Lyra stared at her useless legs buckled under her, feeling stupid.
“Praying?” J'Kor hooked his arms under hers so he could haul her up. “You should no' be praying, you should be resting. No one is listening anyway so do no' waste your breath.”
Out of necessity, Lyra had to hold on to him while he helped her get to the bed. “On the contrary, my lord, if God and I weren't talking to each other, I would have been dead long ago.”
She was only seven when she had accidentally come upon a feeding whorlock while alone in the woods gathering firewood. The image of the adult male's long, jagged, blood-stained fangs and two sets of staring, pale pink eyes became forever horrifically burned into her memory. Its extra set of clawed forelimbs had barely missed her scrambling up a tree, terrified and crying. She had screamed for help for an hour before her voice gave out.
Lyra remembered huddling against the limb in hopeless longing while the heavily muscled mammal paced patiently around the base of the tree, until she recalled what her parents had always taught her to do when she was afraid. She decided to try praying for help. A few minutes later a noise in the distance like a thrashing, hurt creature lured the whorlock away and Lyra was able to jump down and run home. After that, she had become a firm believer in prayer.
Incidentally, it was also that episode that inspired her to learn how to throw razor stars and Lyra never entered the woods again without her loaded armband.
Gray eyes watched her in thinly veiled disbelief. “So, you are saying that your deity actually talks back?”
“Well, most of the time the answers come as feelings or impressions.” If this was the beginnings of an interrogation, Lyra figured she ought to answer the same: honestly.
He laughed shortly. “Feelings?” And shook his head. “Sounds like an easy way to imagine that some mystical being is talking to you. A person could rationalize having all kinds o' 'feelings.'”
Exhausted as she was, Lyra offered her best patient smile. “I can understand your skepticism, my lord. I know history is replete with those who have done terrible things under the supposed direction of some greater power. Carnal man, unfortunately, has always had a propensity for taking a righteous principle and twisting it into something loathsome and evil. But,” Lyra paused as she sought for the right words, “the true whisperings of the Spirit stem from motives of love, humility, and submission to God's will. That is the difference between real and imagined communication with Him.”
“Yet, you still believe that war—bloodshed—has its place,” he pointedly reminded.
“I suppose, but, my lord, a mother who kills to protect the lives of her children—or a people who fight back only to save themselves from extinction—would you blame them for their actions? Would you consider them evil?”
“It would probably depend on how they fought back.” He strode to the wardrobe to undress. “For instance, do they mean to completely annihilate the race that oppresses them?”
If it wasn't an interrogation before, it was now, but Lyra refused to get flustered. A familiar proverb came to mind. A soft answer turneth away ire. She rolled onto her side to face him and said simply, “No, my lord. We do not.”
He got into the bed and likewise faced her, his head in his hand over a propped elbow. “Well, good luck convincing me that there is really some greater power out there. It is just what you want to believe.”
Lyra thought of something, a specific question suddenly itching to slide out. “My lord, hasn't a thought or idea ever come to you so strongly that you couldn't ignore it? That you just knew it was the right thing to do?”
The response this time was much longer in coming. “The human brain is a remarkable thing, Lyra,” he finally said, “able to formulate creative opinions and options no' previously conceived.”
It was a good intellectual answer, but Lyra knew she had hit a mark—somewhere. “Yes, that is true, my lord, but sometimes the brain also receives a little push in the right direction.”
J'Kor, regarding her as hopeless, decided to move on. “So what did you discuss with your god tonight?”
“Are you sure you really want to know?” Do I really want to tell him?
“Try me.”
“Well,” Lyra rolled to her back, staring up at the ceiling, “I thanked the Creator for another day to live, and the kind hands that watched over me while I was sick. Then I expressed gratitude for the experience of meeting your children, and asked His blessings upon you on behalf of them.” He needs you. Lyra turned her head to him. “You are a good father, my lord. That, I could see today.”
J'Kor watched her a moment, then just said quietly, “Was that all? Your prayer, I mean?”
Keep being honest. Give him a chance. “I asked for the continued safety and welfare of my children. I have three, by the way, and they are with one of my sisters. I prayed that they be comforted and that, perhaps, somehow they may know I was alive and thinking of them.” Lyra's voice quieted for fear of becoming emotional. “Then, I asked for continued strength and fortitude and then … then I prayed that every night here not be so … dramatic.” She dared not look at him.
There was a pause. Then, “Last night was no' dramatic at all.”
Lyra's short laugh came out like an anemic cough. “That doesn't count. I was unconscious.”
“Well, I suppose after that performance today, you have earned at least one drama-free night. But,” he added quickly, “let it be clear that I am granting you this, no' an imaginary being.”
“My lord,” Lyra's grin was even more anemic than her laugh, “that is how He usually works—through others. The Holy Spirit is able to dwell in every man, Believer or no.”
“No. No one is coercing me to grant your wish. The decision is mine alone. Understood?”
“Understood, my lord.” Now, can I please just go to sleep?
Lyra was fast drifting off when he suddenly said, “You surprised me, you know. You put on quite a show today. It was impressive.” Then he rolled away, his back to her. “Perhaps keeping you one more day will no' hurt—for Jos'lie's sake, o' course. I would never be forgiven if I had you hauled away while she was here.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled. And before her next breath was drawn, Lyra was out.
The lurch of the bed from Jos'lie bounding onto it, nearly bucked Lyra's heart into fibrillation. “Good morrow, Mama Lyra! Good morrow, Papa!”
She had to coax the organ down from her throat before she could speak again. “Oh, Miss Jos'lie! You surprised me!” It looked like the girl's braids had made it reasonably well
through the night.
With a laugh, Jos'lie tried to squeeze in between them. The gap was not quite wide enough and she pushed against J'Kor's back, grunting, as he was not, as yet, admitting consciousness and lay like a rock. “Papa, Papa! Move!”
Finally, J'Kor stretched and yawned in exaggerated fashion only to roll the wrong way—onto his daughter!
“No, no, no!” the girl shrieked with laughter. “T' ot'er way!”
“What?” He peered around sleepily. “Who said that? Where is that voice coming from?”
“From here. Under you, Papa!” She beat on his shoulder with her one free arm.
J'Kor's expression was a model of perfect confusion. “Where?”
“Mama Lyra, make Papa move!”
Lyra, already scooting against the edge of the mattress, didn't have a chance to respond, for J'Kor continued his careful roll the rest of the way over his daughter and ended up fully against her. “Oh, good morrow, Sugarpip. How are you feeling this morning?” He grinned.
“Honestly, a little suffocated at the moment,” she said with a nervous laugh, keenly aware of the length of his body against hers, his heart beating against her rib cage.
“Papa,” Jos'lie popped up from behind him, “I right here!”
“Jos', baby, is that you? When did you get here?”
“You squash' me, Papa. Like a bug!” she squealed with delight.
“Oh, do you want me to do it again?”
Jos'lie started crawling away, laughing, “No! No!”
“Excuse me, 'Na Lyra,” J'Kor said. “I am afraid this has become a weekly ritual in the last couple years.” Rolling away, he caught Jos'lie's leg to pull her back. “I probably should have warned you.” Letting out a tremendous squeal, Jos'lie suddenly changed direction, lunging toward Lyra and crawling into her embrace. “Mama Lyra, save me!”
A long arm was wrapped over the both of them, Jos'lie wedged between Lyra and the arm's owner. “Now I have you both. Bwah, ha, ha!”
Jos'lie wailed for Mama Lyra to “do somt'in'.”
“Never fear, Miss Jos'lie,” Lyra told her calmly. “This bug crusher has to let go.”