Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (4 page)

Danston stepped through the doorway, his angular face speaking beyond words as he drew into the firelight to scrutinize his daughter. Rankil could all but hear the thoughts that darkened his expression. Meelsa had been right. Their middle daughter was beginning to take shape, her slim hips filling, her chest angling into something more than muscle. She’d be almost pretty if she weren’t so tall, if she weren’t so pale, if she weren’t one of
them
. Danston’s frown deepened.

“She ready? I haven’t got all day. There’ll be extra work with her gone.”

Meelsa nodded and placed the sling of spices in Rankil’s hands. “Danston or Sallnox will be up every moon cycle to check on things.” The words sounded like a warning.

Rankil scurried out the door and stood behind the nassies, her usual place when they went into the fields. Danston mounted, took the packer’s reins and led the nassies from the compound, Rankil trotting behind. As they passed Tisph’s house she could see Archell peeping through the shutter slats.

“Rankil dankle?”

She held up a hand to him as she passed, her voice strong to encourage him. “Sing me a song, Archie.” She shouted. “Sing me a sweet one then sing me away.”

He rushed to the door, threw it wide and sang her away in the morning haze.

“Rankil girl my heart’s own true—I wish that I could go with you—Please tell me you’ll come back someday—So in the hills we’ll once more play.

“Rankil dankle Rankil roo—Take my songs away with you— Rankil Rankil please don’t go—Archell he will miss—you—so . . . Goodbye, Rankil.”

Luck, fortune, or fate—call it what you will, sometimes it’s all we have.

—Taelach Wisdom

Granny Terry had lived a very long time. How long she couldn’t say—old enough to be set in her ways but not so aged she couldn’t bend a little every now and again. She was tiny, crouched in the awkward stoop that came from an overburdened back, and fiercely independent, having little use for those who had made her earlier life so complicated. She complained and swore insult when Danston presented her with Rankil but secretly thought it grand to have someone around.

“Well,” she told Danston in her warbling croon, “if you have to push someone off on me I’m glad you had sense enough to make it Rankil. She’s the only one of my family who doesn’t whine and carry on about a little hard work. Never heard more than two words from her.”

“Now, Granny Terry,” Danston gave the old woman a childlike pat on the head. “Rankil is a hard worker. She should be a big help. You need someone about whether you’ll say it or not.”

Terry swatted his shin with her cane. “Don’t lower me and don’t tell me what I need, boy.” She turned away and walked toward the nassies’ sound and smell, chck-chcking a pleasant greeting to them. “Where is that girl? Come here, Rankil, and let me see you with these old hands of mine.”

Danston nodded to his daughter then began to unload the pack animal. Rankil slid from her perch and minded the request, slouching so she wouldn’t appear so tall. Terry expected a girl, not a skinny, half-grown Taelach. The old woman grinned up at her, reached a crooked finger to her face, and traced the line of her jaw. “Which one of your parents named you? There’s not a thing in the world rank about you. You’ve grown into a fine young woman. And so tall! How old? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

Rankil ignored her father’s hard stare. “I think I’m fifteen, if you please.”

“Fifteen?” Granny Terry’s toothless grin spread all the wider. “Never knew there was such size in the family, Danston. I believe she’s as tall as you. Must come from Meelsa’s side.” She took Rankil by the arm and led her to the porch, registering the lack of skirt sounds in her grandchild’s strides as they walked. “Bring in Rankil’s things when you finish unloading that pack mount, boy. My granddaughter and I are going to get reacquainted.”

As Danston watched them disappear into the house, his rage became overwhelming. He mumbled, spat and cursed, damning his white witch child and his decision to let her live. Why had he let Meelsa talk him into permitting a Taelach to care for Terry? And Rankil had such a smug look on her face when she’d spoke! Almost superior. She’d best behave if she knew what was good for her. Danston, brooding and still cursing, hung the meat quarter in the smoke shed and tossed the food stuffs onto the porch. He dropped Rankil’s only other set of clothes into the dirt, stepping on them as he walked into the one-room house. His ill will rolled into repulsion with what he saw. Rankil sat pretty as you please at the same table as Granny Terry, munching a fresh-baked spice cake while she listened to one of the old woman’s countless stories.

“I’m leaving.” He cast his daughter a vicious stare that caused her to shrink back. She knew the look—her worst scars were hidden in it. “I need to speak to Rankil before I go.”

When they stepped from the porch, Danston snatched her by the hair.

“She told me to sit there—” began Rankil.

“Listen here, you sorry, white-haired beggar,” he whispered. “I won’t have you thinking you deserve the way Granny Terry treats you.” His hand twisted tighter into her hair, bringing her to her knees. “She has no idea how worthless you are. You’re to keep that in mind in everything you do.” Rankil’s spice cake soured as she stared up at him, but she knew better than to cry out. It might bring Granny Terry, and that would ruin everything.

“Yes, sir.”

Danston bent down and placed his face against hers, their similar features lining in perfect symmetry. Though she seemed pale against his swarthy skin, their resemblance was undeniable. “You never know when I might show up to check on you. If I see you doing anything other than what you should, I’ll drag you back home and give you to your uncle.”

Rankil’s reply cracked in her dry mouth. “Yes, sir.”

He dragged a fistful of hair from her head as he released. “That’s my girl,” he said in a loud voice. “You be good. I’ll be back in a half-cycle to check on you. Goodbye, Granny Terry.”

“Goodbye, Danston.” Terry appeared in the door with a bundle of spice cakes. “Take these with you and mind you don’t eat them all on the way home.”

Danston pointed for Rankil to clear her eyes and collect her belongings then he took the lead reins of the pack mount before straddling his own. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

“Go home,” said Terry. “You’re interrupting my day.” She touched her granddaughter’s cuff. “I’ve some darning for you.”

Confident of his authority, Danston rode away. He was soon a black smudge against the cresting sun, Rankil’s fears decreasing with every fading click of his nassies’ iron-shod hooves. When she was certain he was gone, she stared out over the hillside for a bit then turned back to the house. Granny Terry sat in her rocker, patching her worn apron. She turned toward Rankil and patted the hassock by her feet.

“Sit with me, child.”

Rankil obeyed, dropping her things by the hassock and reaching for the sewing basket, only to be gently swatted away. “I’d rather talk.” Terry set the apron to the side and ran her hand over Rankil’s face, pausing at her frowning eyes. “Such a brave young girl and so polite. I don’t see how Danston can see fit to be so mean to you.”

Rankil stared at her then jerked back. No matter what Granny Terry said she couldn’t reveal the truth. “I get what I deserve.”

Terry sniffed and brushed the hair from Rankil’s face, prompting her to pull back again. “Don’t defend him. I know how the family treats you. One of their own! You and Archell both. The two brightest, beaten because you’re different.”

Rankil’s expression grew panicked. “No, ma’am, I’m not diff—”

“Stars, girl.” Granny Terry took Rankil’s hands in her own and began to stroke the palm, regarding the calluses and scars one by one, allowing there were far too many for such a tender age. “There’s nothing wrong with being different. Imagine how boring life would be if we were all the same. Being different is what makes you special. Archell’s songs can light the gloomiest of days, and your spirit is like none I’ve ever known. You’re a fighter, a skill I am afraid you’ve need of.” Rankil tried to back away, but Granny Terry held her firm, with strength surprising for one so frail. “I may be blind, but I can see. I knew you were special the first time you crawled into my lap as a babe.” Her unseeing eyes regarded Rankil with a curious expression. “What you are is nothing to be ashamed of, Rankil, and nothing worth being flogged over.”

“I—”

“You what? You thought I didn’t know? That this blind old woman doesn’t know a Taelach from an Autlach? Would you have me treat you like they do for it?”

Rankil looked toward the door. Terry knew. This changed everything. “I’d know my place.”

Granny Terry’s sightless eyes stared so hard that Rankil stopped. “Have they run you that far into the ground?” She made a gentle sound with her tongue in way of sympathy. “Ah, but they have, haven’t they?” Then, in one fluid movement, Terry pulled Rankil into her lap and began to rock. “I used to do this when you were little, every time I visited at the New Pass feast. Do you remember?”

Rankil stiffened and pushed away, retaking her seat on the hassock. “No, I don’t.” And she remembered Meelsa’s late attempt at nurturing.

“Well, I did, Rankil, and I tried to talk them into letting me take you then.” Granny Terry’s foot tapped with the chair’s rhythm. “Even then they worked you far too hard.”

Rankil said nothing.

“I think,” continued Terry, “that you’re in need of a bit of mothering. I may be old, but I can teach you more than them who dare call themselves your parents. You need me, child, and I you. You’re safe, Rankil. No one will harm you here.”

“Safe?”

“Safe to be yourself. To be who you are.”

Rankil sniffed and looked at the ground. “I’m nobody.”

Terry shook her head. “I know otherwise and in time, I hope you’ll come to know differently, too. Now, would you do me a favor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Go to the large chest in the corner and bring me the measure guides and ribbon-tied pack from the bottom.”

Rankil sprinted to the chest and returned quickly. “Here, ma’am.”

“Open the pack, child, and tell me what you find.”

The ribbon unraveled when Rankil pulled on it and the wrapping cloth fell away in ceremonious fashion. “Cloth, ma’am. Am I to sew you a dress?” She stared at the velvet folds, awed by the material’s simple elegance.

“Does the weave suit you?”

Rankil shrank back, her fingers loosening from the fabric she normally wouldn’t dared touched. Tessa had a dress of a similar, though not as luxurious, fabric and had once smacked Rankil for touching the hemline. “Oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t! If Danston found out I had such a thing he’d—”

“This is your home now!” The old woman’s face drew with frustration. “And I won’t have a young person from my house romping about in rags. Worn things are fine for when you’re mucking the barn, but the rest of the time”—Terry smiled at her— “I want you smartly dressed. Now hold up the fabric so I can check your length.” Rankil held the cloth to her front. It was the perfect shade to complement her pale complexion, the color of trees in high summer, dark and shimmering with morning dew. “Don’t worry about your growth.” Granny Terry drew the cloth across Rankil’s chest. “We can make seams and hems that can be let out as you need them. My, but you’re all leg. Now, let me have the measures so I can size your top.”

“But, ma’am,” whispered Rankil in fear of speaking out of turn. “You can size from the clothes Meelsa sent me with.”

“Those clothes are stretched in the belly. They must have been Sallnox’s. They’ll never fit you right. And they didn’t send you with any proper boots either, did they?”

“No, ma’am.” Rankil blushed.

“Stars,” Terry could feel the heat burning the young girl’s cheeks. “What’s wrong now? That I noticed or the fact you’ve never had any?”

“Both, ma’am,” she squeaked.

“Quit calling me ma’am. I’m your Grandmother Terry, Granny Terry.”

“Yes, ma—yes, Granny Terry.”

“Better. The boots are just one of your needs.” Terry motioned for Rankil to bend close. “I believe, young lady,” she said between feels of Rankil’s matted hair, “that you could use a bath and a good cut.”

“I try to keep it braided back from my face.”

“You’ve managed a braid of sorts, but your hair is split. I’ll need to cut off most of it to get above the breaks.”

Rankil gulped. What would happen when her father returned? “Cut my hair? Danston would never let me have short hair! It’s not proper.”

“Taelachs sometimes do.”

The remark confused one unfamiliar with Taelach customs and demanded clarity. Rankil sat on the hassock and looked inquiringly at her grandmother. “You know about the Taelach, Granny Terry?”

Granny Terry’s sightless eyes gave her a long, considering stare, first alarmed and then angered. “Nobody ever told you about you own kind?”

“Only Archell, and it wasn’t much. He was afraid I would run away.” Rankil pulled a handful of snap beans from the sling-full Terry had picked early that morning and began breaking them into edible portions. She had best keep busy lest Terry lose her indulgent mood. “Granny Terry?”