Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (3 page)

“Why don’t they send me away if they hate me so much?” she mumbled into his damp tunic.

“They’re scared of Rankil in a way—Whitehairs always are enslaved.”

Rankil looked up from the folds of his shirt, her startled face streaked with the dirt that clung to the fabric. “You’ve seen someone like me before? When? Where? Tell me!”

Archell chewed his bottom lip as if determining just how much information to supply. “Saw a Whitehair once before—That’s all I’ll say, there is no more.”

“Don’t dodge me!” Rankil grasped his arm. “Tell me, Archie, please!”

Archell pushed her away and climbed onto a small boulder perched on the brook’s edge, mumbling one of his countless songs under his breath as he moved. Rankil recognized the melody as one he sang when he was being beaten, when he hurt the most.

“Come on, Archell, please, I have to know.” She drew onto the cooled stone’s top and pulled his head up to meet hers. “Please, Archie, for me.”

He jerked back. “No, no, Rankil dankle, you’ll run away—leave poor Archell all alone—with no friend to call his own.”

Rankil scooted behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his solid back. “You know I’d never leave you like that. Please tell me. I’d tell you if I ever met someone with your song voice.”

Archell’s reply echoed in his chest, vibrating the ear pressing his spine. “Rankil dankle would?”

“Sure would, Archie.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “Dah took Arch to Rallings once—down on the river shore—for Arch to tote and haul for him—brought two nassies, needed more—went into the market square—Archell found them right in there—cooped up in a wagon cage—the big ones they were shouting rage.”

Rankil stopped him. “Big ones? Men?”

“No, no, Rankil dankle. They weren’t men, that was plain—Is hard for Archell to explain—five tall women, dirtied up—as tall as Dah and twice as tough—wrapping pretty, long haired ones—protecting them as best they could—shielding small girls from the hurt—of those who taunted throwing dirt.” Archell paused to look back at her. “Rankil dankle?”

“Go on, please.”

He sighed again then continued. “Babes were caged up, too, my girl—silver heads with pretty curls—sleeping in their parents’ arms.” He stopped again.

“Archie?”

He turned, folding his legs so he could face her. His eyes were clenched shut, contorted with the effort of speaking clear, unrhyming sentences. “They burned them,” he sputtered. “They piled wood underneath the wagon and set it ablaze in the middle of the square. No one cried or screamed, not even the babies, just sat curled in each other’s arms like they were asleep and burned. The air stunk, smelled like the smokehouse at butchering time. Now see . . . see . . .” His bottom lip quivered.

Rankil grappled for something to say. “Burned them? Babies with the adults? Why, Archell, why? What did they do? What could they have done to deserve burning?”

Archell pointed to her, his answer as senseless as the act he had witnessed. “They called them witches and cannibals. Whitehairs. They died because they were what you are, Rankil Danston. Taelach.”

Rankil did receive a beating that night, not for the cress being bitter but for being tardy in her return. She and Archell spent the entire afternoon discussing what he had seen in town, Rankil prodding him for details until his singsong voice became hoarse. The beating hadn’t hurt half as much as usual because now Rankil was angry—angry with those who had let her believe she was alone, furious with them for their being a part of a people who burned her kind for existing.

She took her lashes without tears then crawled to her corner of the main room, her anger feeding into pure loathing as she wrapped her threadbare blanket about her throbbing shoulders. Drawing up in a ball, her arms circling her knees, she pretended to sleep. They always left her alone after a beating. Perhaps they felt guilty. Rankil didn’t care as long as she remained undisturbed.

“You need to remind the girl of her place before I do, Meelsa.” Rankil’s father glared at his daughter’s curled figure. “She’s getting smart-mouthed, questioning her place, Raskhallak’s requirements. Why, I even caught her yawning during prayer. Blasphemous witch! Lashes don’t seem to teach a thing anymore either. The more I give the quieter she gets. And where have her tears gone? All women have tears when they’re beat. It’s how I know the stopping point with you and the other girls.”

Meelsa paused to bite her lip then refilled his mug from the wine keg. “She’s just a child, Danston, and still learning.”

Danston’s thin mustache twitched in agitation. “Stars, woman, she’s fifteen. You’d birthed Tessa by that age. If she don’t know by now she never will.”

“Yes, Danston.” Meelsa set his mug before him then wet a rag in the bucket by the door.

“Someone sick?” asked Danston between chugs.

“Sallnox has a black eye.” She took the compress to the children’s room and returned a moment later.

“I saw it earlier. The boy’s a fool for messing with stud nassie. Lucky it didn’t kick his head in.”

“Yes.” Meelsa’s voice trembled. She swallowed hard and took a place on the bench end nearest him. “Yes, he is.”

Danston peered at her for a moment, strumming his fingers on the table. “That
is
how Sallnox got his eye black, isn’t it? Because if someone is lying to me—” He grabbed Meelsa’s arm. “They’d best come clean right now.”

Meelsa wilted in his grasp. “Sallnox wouldn’t admit to it.” She blurted. “He went to whip her for not listening, but she hit him before he could, then outrun him and has kept away from him since.”

“Rankil hit Sallnox? She put the bruise on his cheek? Why, I otta scoop up the little white witch and—” Danston released his grasp to pound the table. “Damn!”

“I’m sorry.” Meelsa dropped her head.

“You should be!” seethed Danston. “This is your fault more than anyone else’s. I told you to keep her under control.” He lunged out, knocking Meelsa’s empty mug into her lap. “Dammit, woman, now I’m going to have to make one of the stalls into a pen for her.”

“But your brother,” sobbed Meelsa. “He’ll use her.”

“We all use her for the heavy work,” replied Danston. “Even you.”

Meelsa withdrew from the table to refill her mug, putting crucial distance between them before she spoke. “Tisph fancies her in a man’s way. Put her in the barn, and she won’t be fit to work. He’ll use her up.”

Rankil let out an involuntary squeak when she heard that, prompting a suspicious glower from her father.

“You sure she’s sleeping?” asked Danston around his mug.

Meelsa stopped to gaze into the corner. Rankil curbed her anxiety and held her breath to a sleeper’s slow, even pattern. She had a talent for feigning sleep. It let her hear things the other children didn’t, keeping her one step ahead of them. “Yes, she’s out. Feeling her lashes is all.”

“I knocked her good.” Danston flexed one of the red, stiffened knuckles on his right hand. “Say, where’d she get the gash on her right calf? Could leave her a cripple if it gets infected.”

“Tilnor gave it to her yesterday for working slow.” Meelsa remained by the fireside, her arms by her sides. “Rankil swears she hadn’t stopped. Said her skirts snagged on a stone. Tilnor struck her with the plow nassies’ reins before she could get herself loose. I sewed up the cut. She heals fast so it’ll be fine.”

“That’s what she gets for being clumsy.” Danston rubbed his chin. “I shouldn’t of let her live. A Taelach witch in the house is bad luck. If you hadn’t just miscarried twice—”

“You took pity on me, Danston. I know.” Meelsa closed her eyes and bowed her head. “But caging her won’t cure the problem with Tisph.” She pleaded. “If anything, it’ll make things easier for him and harder on her. She won’t be fit to work.”

Danston’s dusty boots tapped the floor in a deliberate fashion. “Tisph might like a pinch or two, but I doubt he’d sink to that.”

“You know he will.” She braced for a violent response to her brashness. “The last hunt left him with a taste for Whitehairs. The barn won’t work. There’s got to be another answer.”

Danston slid forward in his seat. “Like what?”

“How about Granny Terry?”

“No!” Danston’s glare set Meelsa’s heart to racing. He rose and strode to where she stood, menacing over her. “Where’d you ever get the idea that I’d ever send a Taelach to care for my granddah’s m’ma?”

“Please.” She placed her finger to her mouth. “The babes are sleeping.”

“Your baby is eight passes old,” grumbled her husband. “She’s not going to Granny Terry’s. I told you Tessa’s going.”

“But—” Meelsa ignored his upheld hand. “Do you think Tessa can look after Granny Terry like Rankil can? Send Tessa, and you’ll always be sending one of the boys up to the cottage to split wood and bring in game. Rankil can do it all by herself. She’s good at snaring and fishing. Always has been. Send her. That way she can’t be trouble and stays clear of your brother.”

“Those chores are man’s work. Rankil shouldn’t be doing them. Besides, Granny Terry doesn’t know Rankil is Taelach.”

“Rankil does those chores here every day,” replied Meelsa in a tone stronger than she usually dared. “And Terry’s been blind since long before Rankil was born. She’ll never know one way or the other, and she’s always been partial to Rankil on her visits. Send her, please. It’s the only answer.”

Danston lowered his hand. “Won’t Tessa be disappointed?”

“Nah.” Meelsa sniffed at her eldest daughter’s lazy demeanor. “She’s dreaded going since you told her.”

“Time the girl grew up.” Danston swallowed the last of his brew and motioned Meelsa for a refill. “Who’s she sweet on these days?”

“Jinwall Mustin.”

“That boy?” Danston chuckled. “He’s only seventeen, too young to care of a wife proper.” Danston ignored the distraught in his wife’s eyes. “But I’ll visit his dah in a day or two. He’s been asking about Tessa since he lost his second wife last moon cycle. He’s promised that matched nassie team of his in trade. It’d be a good placing, push us up a notch or two to be known as part of Mustin’s family. Tessa will make a good m’ma for those four little ones he’s been left with.” Danston rambled on, deep in matrimonial plans for his eldest daughter. “Who knows, she might even give him a few more before he gets too old for baby making. Yep, I’m looking forward to seeing that team in the barn.” He pushed away from the table and stretched. “It’s settled. Rankil goes. Find her clothes that fit. Blasted tree, she is, all limb.”

“She’s outgrown every dress in the compound.” Meelsa’s reply couldn’t hide her concern over Tessa’s future. “Even my castoffs won’t fit anymore. I can send her with a set Sallnox has outgrown.” She sniffled. “But that’s all we’ve got. If you want her to stay in dresses, you’ll have to wait until we weave enough to make some up.”

“Don’t go wasting new cloth on her. Leggings will do if they’re long enough. Granny Terry will never be the wiser. I’ll take her at first light.”

Rankil snuggled a little more under her blanket. She was going to Granny Terry’s! No more beatings. No more names. No more ducking Uncle Tisph. No more—her elation crashed—no more Archell. There’d be no one to listen to his songs. How would he get along without her? He was strong, she assured herself as she drifted off. Archell had advantages she didn’t. He was male and Autlach. He’d survive where she couldn’t.

Meelsa woke Rankil long before she roused the other children. “Here.” She shoved leggings and a tunic at her daughter. “Your dress is too short. Sallnox’s old rags are all I’ve got left.”

Rankil rose to her feet, tugged off her dress, and slid on the clothes. She liked the feeling of the leggings and kicked experimentally, enjoying how her strides were longer when free of a skirt’s layered weight. The leggings were from the set Sallnox had outgrown several passes back and were just shy of threadbare, but they were long enough, Rankil’s slim build so lost in the folds that her mother passed her an old piece of strap for a belt. “You can’t travel if your leggings won’t stay up.”

“Travel?” Rankil managed to sound surprised.

Meelsa dished a bowl of steaming mush from the hearth, poured a generous coating of syrup over it, and set it on the table. “That’s right, travel. Can’t walk half the morning on an empty stomach either, so get that belt on and sit. Danston is saddling up.” Rankil did as told and wolfed down the mush as fast as her mouth could manage the heat. Eating at the table? New clothes? Breakfast served to her? Sweetening when everyone else seldom bothered with it? She’d never been treated this way! Her mother placed a filled carry sling on the table then plopped down beside her.

“Danston is sending you to Granny Terry’s. She’s always done well by herself but is beginning to lose out on the heavier chores. Help her with what she needs done.” She reached to smooth her daughter’s knotted hair, looking confused when Rankil cringed away. “Do you hear what I’m saying, daughter?”

Daughter? Rankil had never heard the word applied to her, nor did she remember seeing such a maternal look on Meelsa’s face. It seemed misplaced, far too late to be believable, but she answered as not to disturb the gentle mood. “Yes ma’am, I hear.”

“You take good care of her. This is the only chance you’ll ever get to live outside this compound.” Meelsa leaned close as her husband’s thick steps sounded on the porch. “Use it to your good. There won’t be more chances.” She sat back and pushed Rankil to her feet when the door began to creak, and her face tightened to the austere knot she normally presented her lankiest offspring. “Sallnox planted a large garden at the cabin this spring. The vegetables should coming in about now. Dry and store them like you were taught and smoke out as much game as you can snare. It’s up to you to make sure there’s enough food and wood for winter. I’ve packed spices enough to see you through until fall and Danston is strapping a nassie with a smoked beast quarter and a sack of black grain.”