Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (8 page)

Learning requires emotion.

—Observer of a misplaced sister

Dawn had yet to reveal its face when the bell behind the smoker shed sounded. Rankil thought it part of some wishful dream until Granny Terry roused her with a poke of her cane. “Rankil, the bell. Dress and go see what they’ve left.”

Still tying her waist lacings, Rankil scurried out the door and through the garden, the grass lapping cold at her toes. Yawning, she leaned against the shed’s splintering outer wall and opened the box, crying with joy when she saw the contents. Kaelan had left three bulging sacks, each a wealth of Taelach information. Rankil hefted the sacks over one shoulder with an easy toss then turned toward where she believed the giver might hide. “Thank you!” she cried in Autlach, then hurried back to the house and Terry.

Once Kaelan was certain Rankil was inside, she made her way to the garden and began staking the hide markers that were to be Rankil’s first lessons. “The girl is stout,” she mumbled while setting the markers. “Grabbed up those bags like they were empty. She’ll be a formidable opponent by the time she’s through growing. Might be a proper beau for Myrla by that time, too.” Tempted as she was to observe Rankil’s excitement, Kaelan returned to her mount. Clan duty called. There were a number of store pots to be fired before summer’s end and, after all, she had promised Recca.

Kathump
! Granny Terry jumped when Rankil dropped the sacks onto the table. “Gracious! Did they leave an entire side of beast?”

“No, Granny Terry, three sacks for you. THREE!”

“You mean for you.”

“For me?” Rankil picked at the complicated knot at the top of one. “And they’re marked with some kind of odd symbols. I’m having trouble with the . . . okay, there it is.” She spilled the contents across the table.

Terry placed the kettle to heat then drew her rocker close. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

Rankil scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. “There’s so much I don’t know where to start.”

“Try the beginning.” Terry chuckled. “Pick up something and describe it to me.”

“Yes, Granny Terry.” Rankil untied the first cloth-wrapped bundle, revealing chalk sticks and a small slate, similar to the one Rankil had seen her father use for crop tallies. “A reusable scribe board, Granny.”

“What an unusual gift. What else is there?”

Rankil gasped when the wrapping fell away from the second sizable bundle. “New clothes. Skirts with attached leggings.” She passed both sets to Terry who smiled.

“I’m glad to see I wasn’t the only one upset by your raggedness.”

“Matching tunics, too.” Rankil placed these in her lap as well, drawing the old woman’s fingertips across the fronts. “Feel. They’ve piping at the collar and cuff.”

“So they do.” Terry nodded. “These new things mean we can use the green fabric for the finery it was meant for.” She placed the garments on the bench. “Now, I know there is more than that in three sacks. What other treasures have your people left for you?”

Rankil remained silent as she unwrapped the next bundle. Not all the gifts were intended exclusively for her. “Something for you, Granny.” She draped a fringed shawl over her grandmother’s sloping shoulders. “However do they tat such patterns?”

“I wish I knew.” Terry’s face shone thanks for the unexpected kindness. She held the fringe to her face. “How does it look on me?”

“Pretty.”

Terry blushed. “I always wanted a Taelach shawl.” She settled back into her seat, rocking as she drew it across her shoulders. “But only the finest ladies can afford them. And the fact this one came by honest means makes it all the more special.”

“You deserve it.” Rankil turned back to the sack. The bottom contained a sleeping roll. The inside liner was of the softest fur and the top blankets protected by a water repellant hide coverlet.

“Why would they give me this?” Rankil placed the end in Terry’s lap.

“They’d no idea what you did and didn’t have so they’ve made certain all your needs are met.” Terry stroked the liner’s inner corner. “Letcher bear fur. And it’s been cured free of stench. Just as well they gave this. I’d been wondering how we were going to handle the winter with the blankets we have.” The kettle began to whistle. “Tell me what else you find as I cook.” She shuffled to the fireside, pushed the kettle’s rod from the flame and began heating the previous day’s roast drippings for gravy.

“You need me to milk the nassie?” Rankil hoped the chore had already been done. There was so much here just for her, and she had just begun. She’d never dreamed of such luxury. Why, she was rich!

“The bucket’s on the porch. There’s enough in it for morn sup. You can finish up after we eat. I stopped when I heard the bell.” Rankil brought in the bucket then dove into the second sack. Another blanket roll lay at the top.

“They sent a roll for you, too, Granny.” Rankil left the bedding tied and reached back into the bag. “What the—” She pulled out a light wooden case with a beautifully carved top. The lid was hinged with brass and key locked, the bone key hanging from a string wedged into the top. The lid creaked as she folded it back. “Granny!”

The elderly woman spun on her heels to face Rankil. “Something wrong?”

“Arrows! A box full of arrows and a small bow!”

“A short bow unless I miss my guess.” The meat pan sizzled as Terry poured milk over her roux. “I’ve treated enough Hunt riders to know the bow is the choice for most Taelachs when they fight. You’ll have to practice at it to be as good as others your age, I’ll wager. Knives and bows, that’s what the Taelach use, even the wee ones. I suspect there’ll be a knife for you in the sacks as well.”

“A knife?” Rankil’s forehead creased in confusion. “But we’ve plenty of knives. Why would we need more?”

“Not a kitchen blade.” Terry placed several bread slices in the hearthside warmer. “All Taelachs carry blades, just as your father and other men do. Taelachs use them for most everything they do, even eating.”

“Well, I don’t see one. The rest of the sack is filled with wax-sealed spice pots and dried herbs. I can smell them without opening the bundles.”

“So can I,” said Terry. Once the gravy bubbled at the proper consistency, she placed it to the side and retrieved the nut-brown toast. “We’ll sort through them later. Open the last sack so we can eat. I’ve lots to do, and you’ve snares to check, then hopefully meat to smoke this afternoon.”

“Yes’m.” Rankil’s stomach growled as she opened the last sack. Granny laughed at the noise and layered another ladle of gravy onto Rankil’s plate.

“Growing girl needs to eat. Now, tell me what’s in the last sack before your food gets cold.”

Rankil thrust her hand into the sack and pulled out a corked bark cylinder. She set it on the table and reached in again, pulling out another, then another. The majority of the sack contained the odd tubes.

“What are these?” Granny took the one she offered, fingers scraping across the bark until she found and popped the end cork. She placed a finger into the cylinder and pulled out a rolled piece of hide. It was painted with a large symbol and a corresponding picture. She held it out.

“What’s on it?”

“A picture, marks of some sort, and a mark like the one on the bags. What are they?”

The old woman’s face creased into what Rankil had come to know as frustration. “Seeing as you’ve never been to Rallings or beyond, I guess you wouldn’t know. They’re learning scrolls. I recognize them from when my sons went to the town scribe for lessons. Raskhallak forbid a woman should read and write.” Terry’s expression darkened. Her late husband, a Raskhallak devotee, had believed reading to be inappropriate and above the capabilities of a female. “Looks like they want you to read.”

“Me?” exclaimed Rankil between bites of breakfast. “But I’m not smart enough for—” Rankil ceased when Terry’s dark expression came to include her. “But those are just scribbles. How do I learn from that? Where do I start?”

“From what I’ve picked up, each symbol stands for a sound. Put the sounds together in figure shape form and they make words.” Terry sipped her tea. “Is that all there is in the last sack, scrolls?”

Rankil choked down a half-chewed bite then shook the bag. “No, there’s something in the bottom. Hear it?”

“I do.” Granny took the sack and fished to the bottom. She clasped one of the final treasures and, trying hard to contain her amusement, pulled it from the bag. “And you doubted me.” She drew the blade and held it up, the double-edge glistening in the morning sun. Long ties, beaded into an intricate pattern dangled from the leather sheath. “A boot knife.” She replaced the knife in its sheath then held it out. “Try it on.”

“But I don’t have a boot to lash it to,” replied Rankil in a disappointed voice.

Terry thrust her hand back into the sack. “Well, you do now,” she said, and pulled out a pair of lightweight moccasin-style boots. “They feel like deer hide.”

“They are.” Rankil clasped them to her chest before trying them on.

“Do they fit?” asked Terry after a moment.

“They feel a bit snug, but maybe they’ll stretch a little.” Rankil loosened the lacings then stood, pushing her feet a little deeper into the boots. “Which side do I put the knife on?”

“Lash it so it rests on the outside leg of the hand you use most.”

“That’d be the left.” Rankil tied the blade like she’d seen her father do on many occasions, being careful to thread the ties through the boot’s support loops.

“Left, huh?” Terry shook her head. “You’ve been very lucky.”

“What do you mean?” Rankil paced the room with her new armament, stopping once to tighten the ties. The weight felt odd, almost distracting as it slapped against her calf. And the boots— they might be soft, but she knew blisters were inevitable.

Terry peered up at her with a sneer she’d seen on many others but never on her grandmother. It mimicked their attitude but proved so close to real that Rankil shuddered. “Bad enough you are a stinking white hair,” Terry snarled. “But you’re left-handed as well. Double bad luck makes you worthy of the fires.”

“Burn witch, burn,” mumbled Rankil. The words that used to frighten her now did nothing but infuriate. “I’ve heard it before. I guess that’s why m’ma never let me slice things when Danston was around.”

“It’s pure grace your mother had the sense to save you from that fate.” Terry began clearing the table. “Now, hurry up. The milker is bawling.” Rankil resacked her treasures and placed them in the heavy trunk, filling the old case. She grabbed the bucket and made the straightest path to the little barn, through the garden.

There she saw it, a hide marker pinned to the post at the garden’s edge, an inked sketch with a group of figure shapes and another of the round markings she’d seen on the sacks. It was self-explanatory. The word was the picture—flowers and vegetables neat in rows. The picture was where she was, so was the word and the round symbol. Garden. “Garden!”

Rankil twirled around and around, stepping over rows and ridges as she repeated herself. “GARDEN!” She slowed to look at the marker again, careful to trace out all eight looping letters. She still couldn’t say what they meant individually, but together they meant one thing. “GARDEN!”

Her mind whirling with the knowledge and its possibilities, Rankil picked up the bucket and headed again to the barn. She’d gone three steps when another hide caught her eye, then another. Suddenly, the garden was filled with pictography. It was all so easy to see—ground, dirt, white roots, fence. Kaelan had been thorough in placing Myrla’s simple, but lifelike, interpretations in the most thought provoking spots. “Thank you!” She collapsed in the center of the garden, her arms and mind heaped with pictures and words. Rankil’s education had begun.

Emotions have taste: Fear is rancid, Hate is bitter, but love—love is strong, sweet and sour. Its flavor lingers, even when the acrid taste of fear overwhelms.

—Tekkroon saying

The week, then moon cycle, then the entire summer slid by, Rankil’s knowledge growing with each of Kaelan’s lessons. She never saw her mentor—Kaelan took great pains to remain unseen, but Rankil knew she watched, testing her knowledge whenever possible. Learning was fun. One morning a trail of hide markers led to the forest where trees, plants and several slower moving animals were labeled. Another sunrise found Rankil scarce awake, staring at the milk nassie. It was marked front to back, each piece of the baying animal’s anatomy labeled with the descriptive word. Rankil considered leaving the tags but giddily removed them when she found that even the complaining animal’s udder had been labeled. Things were perfect—as long the family stayed away. They made rare appearances that went well as long as Rankil appeared as she had been, ignorant, timid and obedient.

Then Tisph visited. He arrived late morning and lingered into the evening, unswayed by Terry’s insistence Rankil was spending the day checking her snares and gathering greens. He poked through cabinets and boxes, searching for some sign Rankil had done less than what was required of her, but he found none. Terry had been certain all evidence of Taelach contact were hidden under the front porch boards.

Rankil returned at dusk, two fat hoppers and a sack of greens in her hand. She froze when she saw her uncle’s thick-necked nassie grazing on the front lawn then turned, darting for the barn and her ragged clothes. But it was too late. She’d been spotted.