Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar (35 page)

The old man looked at him, disbelieving, as if he thought that Ree was addled. Then he made a croaking sound that alarmed Ree until he realized it was laughter, or at least the laughter of someone who must be dying of thirst. “The cows need the milk out, boy, or they get infected teats, and eventually they die. You ain’t going to set there and eat while the animals starve.”

Ree remembered the gigantic creatures outside. Sitting here eating while they starved seemed like a good idea, but something warned him he shouldn’t say so. “I’m not?”

“No, you’re not,” the old man said, and continued studying Ree with an evaluating look that implied that, as far as his sums were concerned, Ree came up short. “I don’t suppose you know one end of a cow from the other?”

Ree shook his head, unable to speak. To make things worse, Jem had wandered away, still wrapped in the quilt, and now there was a creaking sound from the kitchen.

“Don’t you worry none. It’s the water pump. I guess he was thirsty,” the old man said, and rasped in a slightly louder tone, “I could use a cup of water meself.”

When Jem came back into the room carrying a water cup, the old man was giving Ree very odd instructions. They started with: “You get yourself out there and around the side of the house. The lean-to has ... a lot of stuff. There’s a wheelbarrow there. Bring it in.”

Ree left the old man sipping water and went to the lean-to—trying to ignore the desperate animals that surrounded him—and got the wheelbarrow, a sturdy thing with a big wheel, back into the room.

The old man was talking to Jem in almost confidential tones. “Brothers, are you?” Ree heard him say, as he pushed the door open.

“Uh, no. We’re ... friends,” Jem said, and that clear skin of his betrayed a raging flush.

Ree’s stomach tightened, but the old man only said, “Ah. My brother—” Then he saw Ree and said, “Ah, you got the wheelbarrow. Good.”

 

Thus started the strangest few hours of Ree’s life. Outside it was snowing hard, but the old man, wrapped in the quilt, sitting as comfortably in the wheelbarrow as the combined efforts of the three of them could make him, only said, “You might as well get snow on your fur now as later. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better this winter.”

“Go to the barn there,” he said. “That’s where their food is.” He gestured at the animals who surrounded them as soon as they were outside. Although he ignored the cows and the goat, he patted the horse’s head with his gnarled fingers, and his eyes looked almost wistful.

Ree pushed the wheelbarrow to the barn, where he opened a door that ran on some sort of track and required much less effort than he expected. Then he pushed the old man in.

Like a king on a throne, the man barked out despotic orders.

“Pump water for them now, then hit them on the nose if they drink too much.”

Ree pumped water from the biggest water pump he’d ever seen, which poured clear, cool liquid onto a trough. “Now, hit them on the nose. A cow will drink till it bursts, boy.”

So Ree hit them on the nose, all of them, even the maybe-goat, It tried to bump him back, causing the old man to unleash his cackle once more. But the respite didn’t hold. “Now up that ladder. Can those paws of yours climb ladders?”

Ree, whose arms already felt like they would fall off their sockets from pumping the water, could only nod. “Good. Up the ladder. There’s sacks of feed up there. Pour about half of one of them into the hopper.”

This was easier said than done. The sacks weighed enough for Ree wonder if the animals ate lead, but what poured into the hopper seemed to be some sort of grain.

“Now get your arse down here and milk the cows.”

Ree, sweat pouring down his body, under his fur, came down the ladder on legs that felt like they’d fall out under him. He’d walked for whole days and not been this tired. No wonder the farmers he’d seen in town were both muscular and cranky.

“The milking stool’s there,” the old man said, pointing with a finger that looked like the end of a branch, all brown and gnarled. “Milk the cows into that there pail. The cows, you fool, not the bull.” This as Ree tried to sit next to a cow who, on second look, displayed a rather prominent pair of balls.

“I guess he wouldn’t like it if I tried to milk him,” Ree said, weakly.

“I bet he wouldn’t. That’s right, sit there where Spotty can’t kick you. No, what are you doing? You don’t squeeze the udders like that.” The old man showed Ree the motion. It was simple, and yet harder work than it looked. His fingers ached by the time he was no longer getting any milk out of the teats. He retreated from the stall, shaking his hands to try to loosen his fingers. And people thought doing this was romantic and good?

He walked up to the second cow and almost cringed as the old man’s voice cracked out like a whip, “No, wait up.”

What had he done wrong now? Was this another type of cow that couldn’t be milked? He looked wearily at the old man.

“My hands ain’t broken. Just wheel me up to where I can reach the teats.”

Ree wondered if it was meant kindly, but he couldn’t tell with that gruff voice. Perhaps the man just thought he’d done it wrong, which he was sure he had. But then the almost-for-sure goat came bumping against his knee and the old man said in what was unmistakable amusement, “You milk Jesse. She never liked me. Was my boy’s pet.” Then in a more serious tone, “Goat milk is good for sickly young ones. We’ll warm up some for your
friend
, shall we?”

Ree didn’t like the emphasis on
friend
, but the old man looked as calm or as irascible as ever, and he seemed to want Jem to get better.

But before they took the milk in, they had to feed the chickens. This wasn’t such hard work, but Ree couldn’t understand how small creatures covered in feathers, creatures who couldn’t even figure out how to fly, could be so scary. They crowded around him like mobs when noblemen handed out food to the poor.

While they ate, the old man—Ree had parked him next to the nests—picked out more than a dozen eggs. “These will be good too,” he said.

When they got to the house, Jem had food laid out on earthenware bowls and the smell filled the air. Ree thought he was too tired to eat until he had his first mouthful. The old man watched them eat, his eyes intent, then said, “You two.” His voice still rasped, but less than before. “What’re you doing here?”

Jem almost dropped his milk, but Ree answered with only the slightest quiver in his voice. “We needed food and warmth, and we thought this place might be abandoned.”

“Ha!” The old man’s laughter was as harsh as his voice. “Ain’t abandoned while I’m here.” He turned his head to meet Ree’s eyes. “You’re one of them hobgoblins, ain’t you?”

Ree sighed. As if what wild magic had made of him wasn’t obvious. “Yeah. So what?”

“You got guts.” More of that rasping laughter. “There’s bad critters come out of the forest, and some of ’em look near as human as you. You’re lucky you never got a pitchfork in your belly.”

“That’s why we stayed in the forest.” Ree looked at Jem. The younger boy was so frail-looking, so thin. “But Jem needed warmth.” He nodded to the old man. “And it looks to me like you could use a bit of help.” His chest tightened at his daring.

The man matched his stare. “Yeah, I could. You’re a good worker, boy. Twice as good as many bigger men.”

It was said in such a gruff voice that Ree needed a while to absorb the compliment. Not just that he’d said he was good, but that he’d called him “boy” and compared him to men. That he wasn’t thinking Ree was an animal.

It didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind and denounce him when he got better.

For now, it was enough. Ree ducked his head and minded his manners. “Thank you, sir.”

“And you,” the old man said, leveling a finger at Jem. “Hurry up and get well so you can lend a hand around here.” Ree bridled, seeing the little tremor that shook Jem, and would have said something, only before he could, the old man added, “That’s your job, right now. Getting better.”

 

Later the old man—Garrad, he said his name was—had Ree wheel him into the other bedroom, behind the hearth. It was bigger, with a bigger bed. They arranged the man on the bed and covered him with quilts, set a candle on the bedside table.

As the boys turned to go, he said, “That, on the wall. That’s my wife and boys.”

On the wall was a painting done on a board, like the ones done by traveling painters before the magic disappeared. “We used to be better off,” he said.

The painting showed a blond woman and three little boys, maybe between ten and three. They all bore a startling resemblance to Jem.

“The oldest one, the Imperial army took him. Year my wife died. The other two were dead already. Of the coughing consumption. Buried out back.” He looked at Jem, his eyes dreamy in the firelight. “Where do you come from, boy?”

“Jacona, sir,” Jem said.

“And do you know your father?”

Jem shook his head, and the man sighed. “Ah, well,” he said. “Sometimes we have to trust the gods.”

 

“I think he thinks I’m his grandson,” Jem said later, as they snuggled under the deep quilts in the big bed in the room Ree had first entered.

Ree shrugged. “I think he thinks you could be.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Jem said, solemnly. “He doesn’t have anyone.”

“People would say we don’t have anyone, either.”

Jem gurgled a little laughter. “We have each other, silly.”

Ree nodded and cuddled closer. Perhaps it was a good thing Garrad liked Jem. That way even if he denounced Ree, Jem would be safe. That was really all that mattered.

 

The next morning, Garrad woke Ree up by calling his name, before the sun had got up enough in the sky to cast more than a mild glow. “You have to get the hay in,” he told him. “Before it’s all wet and rots. And we ought to chop up some more wood, in case we’re snowed in. I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

By the middle of the day, when Ree could no longer feel his arms, they’d gone in to a lunch that Jem had prepared. Bread and butter with milk and eggs. “Found out how to make bread in an old notebook,” Jem said.

“My wife’s book. She was a great cook, your Gr—” He cut it off abruptly and turned it into a cough, but Ree heard it and felt reassured that Jem would be looked after. He had to remember that when he felt like flinging off in the middle of work, whenever Garrad called him a fool or an idiot.

The old man started another complaint. “Ain’t been this helpless since I got the white fever years back.” His face twisted. “I suppose that damn cat’s been piling up food for me.” The cat purred as if recognizing its name and rubbed against Garrad’s legs.

To disguise his embarrassment, Ree extended a clawed finger toward the animal. It sniffed, then made an inquiring mew. “Yeah, I’m part cat these days.” Ree scratched behind the cat’s ears and smiled a little when the animal leaned into his tentative gesture. He nodded to the old man. “By the back door. Rats, mice, birds, and at least one rabbit.” He shrugged. “It’s a good thing it’s been cold.”

Garrad grunted. “Sounds about right. Damn cat thinks he’s got to hunt for me as well as himself.” He studied Ree before he added. “Looks like he likes you. Normally he’d scratch anyone as ain’t family.”

Ree wondered if he meant his family or the cat’s family. It seemed Garrad didn’t care for the affection of any creature he didn’t feel attached to. At least he liked Jem.

 

Garrad was right about the snow, which started coming down shortly after, carried on a harsh wind. Over the next few days Ree had to do everything needed to get the place ready for a hard winter, from getting the hay in, to chopping wood, to repairing the henhouse roof—all with the old man barking orders from a wheelbarrow.

Two weeks later, he was barking orders standing up and leaning on a stick, while that damn cat wended his way around his and Ree’s ankles. Jem wasn’t coughing as much, and his bones weren’t so obvious beneath the skin. He’d picked up on feeding the chickens and making bread every morning, too.

When Garrad tried to scold him for this, it set off a staring match between two identical sets of blue eyes, and Jem had won.

Jem and the horse were the only things the old man seemed to care for. He had not a good word for the people of the nearby town, and when Jem had said—after Garrad had spent half an hour telling Ree exactly what he’d done wrong when repairing the roof—that they could leave and he’d call the people of the town to look after Garrad, he’d started off a tirade. “Them? They never bothered even when I buried my wife. They let my son be taken off without trying to stop the Imperials. I’d rot in all the hells before asking
them
for help.”

Sometimes, amid the orders and complaints, Garrad talked of how his farm had been much more prosperous, how the forest had once been a hunting reserve for the Emperor himself, but no one took care of it or even tried to keep it safe any more. There’d been talk in Three Rivers that bandits claimed whole duchies for themselves and the Empire did nothing to stop them. Hobgoblins came out of the woods and killed people and livestock until they were killed, Garrad told him. He’d lost half his cattle to hobgoblins before he got a pitchfork in one’s guts and sent its companions running for safer prey. When Ree shivered at that story, the old man gave his rusty laugh. “You got lucky, boy. Really lucky.”

Ree couldn’t disagree, when he was warm and fed and had a safe bed for the first time in years, perhaps ever. His mother hadn’t lived so well, and the work was better than many of the things he’d done to survive. If the best he could hope for from Garrad was tolerance because of Jem, well, he could live with that. And he would, as long as he had it. Even though it made Ree sick to think about killing humans, he didn’t regret killing that one, no matter that he’d been too terrified to know what he was doing. The big bastard would have killed Jem, and Jem had brought back the little bit of human Ree still had.