Singer from the Sea (35 page)

G
ARTH
S
ENTITH STOOD IN HIS STIRRUPS TO LOOK OVER THE
top of the last rise that separated him and his weary charge from the sloping meadows leading down to the shore of Merdune Lagoon and the town of Midling Wells. He was so long silent that the quiet penetrated Genevieve’s fog of exhaustion.

She looked up and murmured, “Have the wells run dry, the town blown away or been flooded by the lagoon?”

He turned with a little smile. “No, Imogene. The weather is good, the way is clear, and the town looks its usual sleepy self. I’m merely being cautious. Normally, I come here in midsummer during the flower harvest. There are many roses and tuberoses upon these long, sunny slopes, along with lavender and fragrant thyme, and many of my most popular scents derive from them, at least in part.”

“So they’ll be surprised to see you now.”

“A little surprised, but not shocked, for I’ve occasionally visited here out of season. And they won’t be shocked at you, either, for I’ve often spoken of my children.”

“What do we do now?”

“We ride down into the village and stop at Fentwig’s house, which is where I usually stay.”

The horses stepped to the top of the rise, and for the first time, Genevieve saw the sea. It foamed like lace at
the edge of the long meadows, receding into blue haze, endless, eternal. The wind in her nostrils came from it, bringing an odor she had never smelled before: something deep, briny, primal. Her eyes remained fixed on that blue as the horse started down the long slope, and she came to herself with a start and an exclamation only when Garth took her by the shoulder.

“I asked if you were looking forward to a good night’s rest?” he said, peering into her face. “Were you asleep already?”

“Daydreaming,” admitted Genevieve. “I could use a bed, and a bath.”

“Fentwig’s House is near the bathhouse, which is clean and well maintained. I suggest you make do with a sponge bath tonight, and tomorrow visit the baths before we set sail.”

“We sail tomorrow?”

“Possibly. Or as soon as we find a boat we can hire or rent or borrow. During this cold and windy season, many of Merdune’s fishermen neglect their traps and nets in favor of work by the fireside or in the barns.”

They rode down the long slope, where flat rosettes of green showed amid the dried stalks of summer flowers. “The green stuff is called Icefern or Evergrow,” said Garth. “It has a resinous, sharp smell that goes well with other scents.”

“How did you get into the perfumery business?” asked Genevieve.

“It was my grandmother’s, then my mother’s, then mine,” he said. “It provides a good living.”

As they neared the village, a few people out on the streets stopped and stared at them. “Few visitors come from this direction,” murmured Garth. “But, considering everything, I think it was best to avoid the trails. If that dusty villain in the caverns figured out where you and your friend went, he might have sold the information to someone who would come after you.”

“I think Zebulon Coffin would have let me die of hunger or thirst while he was making up his mind what to do with me.”

“I’ve met people like him.” Garth nodded sagely.
“Men of customary inaction who can be spurred to sporadic excess. Such men often start ill-planned projects that they lack either energy to complete or the wit to abandon.”

“That’s Zeb,” she agreed.

Garth nodded, murmuring, “I’m disturbed by what you tell me about those caverns. Knowing that the Lord Paramount has great stockpiles of extravagant goods, many of them simply rotting away, would bother many citizens of Haven. Is this what the taxes levied by the Council are actually spent for?”

He grimaced and laid a cautionary finger across his own lips. “Still, caution is in order. All we will say to Fentwig is that we lost our way in the dark and missed the trails.”

They had come close enough to the town to catch the sound of voices and the honking of geese, near enough to smell wood-smoke and roasting meat. Genevieve was suddenly ravenously hungry, and she clucked to her tired horse who put his ears forward and hastened his steps, no doubt in equal anticipation of food and rest.

A narrow livestock gate at the upper or western end of town led to a short street that debouched upon a paved square, and on the north side of the square was a sprawling timber-and-wattle building with a thatched roof and a curly sign above the door, “Fentwig’s House.” When they dismounted, the stocky, white-haired innkeeper came bustling out, breaking into a smile when he saw Garth.

“You must have lost yourself good and proper,” cried the host. “What are you doing coming down from the woods that way? You’re miles from either of the passes!”

“Went astray in the dark,” admitted Garth, with a moue and a shake of his head. He turned to Genevieve, bowing in Fentwig’s direction. “Fentwig, my friend, this is my daughter, Imogene. I’ve told her all about your delectable food and comfortable beds.”

“She looks tired out,” said the innkeeper’s wife, also stout and white haired, who had just emerged onto the stoop. “Come in, both of you. Miss Sentith, it’s good to meet you. You’d like a bath, I daresay.”

“Gar … Papa suggested I visit the baths tomorrow,” said Genevieve as she stepped through the open door into
a neat little foyer, and from that into a large room with a warm stove in its middle.

“Aha,” cried Mrs. Fentwig. “He hasn’t been here for months, so he doesn’t know! We now have a bath-room, two, in fact, one for ladies and one for gentlemen. We already had water piped in for other things, so Fentwig decided to bring water from the nearest hot spring uphill. We built a room, all nicely tiled, and the cooper made us half a dozen comfortable tubs. It’s all clean and toasty warm in there, so you have a bath, dear, you look as though you could use one. Nothing like hot water to soothe away a long day on a horse!”

“Go along, Imma,” said Garth, waving her away in Mrs. Fentwig’s care. “Take your packet with you. Meantime, I’ll see to getting us some rooms.”

“Roast leg of lamb for supper tonight,” Fentwig cried after Genevieve’s departing form. “Boned and rolled around a stuffing of dried mushrooms, mint, basil, thyme, and parsley, with roast garlic and sea-potatoes on the side.”

“Oh,” said Garth, rubbing his hands together and turning with his back to the fire. “How fortunate I feel.”

“Up at the Highlands, were you? Did you buy those bottles you were set on?”

“I did. Lovely little things they are, too. Here’s a sample.” And again, he dug out the little bottle and presented it for inspection. “Wouldn’t any woman, old or young, like a dear bottle like that, sitting before the mirror on her pretty-shelf?”

“Well, Mrs. Fentwig would, for sure, and our daughters no less. When you come this way next, Sentith, bring one for each of my womenfolk.”

So they chatted about nothing very much while Genevieve lay in a curtained cubicle, warm water up to her chin, half floating, the scented steam gathering on her face, for Mrs. Fentwig had come in to whip the bathwater with a bundle of herbs that had lent a soft, clean smell, like rain in a garden. Though Genevieve had been careful not to think of Aufors during all the miles she had ridden for the last two days, the warm water loosened all her constraints and her mind flew to him like iron to a magnet,
clinging. Oh, Aufors! The touch of the water was the warmth of his mouth, the embrace of the flannel was the touch of his hands, and there was a tremor inside her, a molten feeling, as though she had become a little fire mountain, flowing with white hot stone, no longer rigid and hard but liquid, shapeless, capable of running over or around everything, anything in its path. Oh, this was a twitch of the loins indeed!

She had not really known she was in love with him until the moment of leaving him. She had wanted to be with him, surely, because he flattered her and she felt wonderful in his company, but she had not known this feeling until he held her. Barbara had been right, quite right, a twitch of the loins was unmistakable! Oh, she would willingly
give up
being part of the nobility if that would let her be with Aufors. She would love to be common, common as he! As Alicia’s first husband had been! And safer for it!

She sighed, giving up thought. Thought did no good at all.

So determined, she dozed until the water began to cool, at which point she came out of the water like a pearl from the waves and dove into the folds of the thick towel that had been warming on the pipes from the hot spring, and thence into clean garments while the tub glugged itself empty. She was rosy and warm when she went back through the common room into the kitchen where both the Fentwigs were busy.

“Imma, my dear, but you look rested.”

“I am, Papa. The lovely bath was almost enough to make me forget my disappointment in Upland.”

“Disappointment, my dear?” asked Mrs. Fentwig. “Who would disappoint such a lovely child?”

Which led to the story of the bad cold and how she had seen absolutely nothing, so the whole trip had been less than amusing. “But, I feel very well, now, and I’m looking forward to the sail home.”

“Sail, Sentith? This time of year?” Fentwig opened his eyes wide, miming astonishment.

“Now should be possible,” said Garth. “It’s windy, I grant you, but—”

“Windy! This season is a good bit more than windy. If you’re going to sail south, well, you’ll have to wait a few days on the Northerlies, which’ll be even breezier! The islands of the Drowned Range don’t protect the lagoon as well as once they did, now they’re being drowned all over again!”

“Still, it’s the quickest way home,” said Garth comfortably. “Eight or ten days instead of twice that on a horse! We can sail close to shore and put in if there’s a gale, and I’m sure you’ll find someone to take us.”

“Some lunatic,” opined Mrs. Fentwig. “Like Weird Wigham.”

“Weird Wigham, exactly,” cried Garth. “The very person!”

“Who is Weird Wigham?” begged Genevieve.

Garth said, “Why, Imogene, he’s a strange old youngster or young oldster who rejoices in doing the different on weekdays and the ridiculous on holidays. And he has a boat, which is the most relevant thing about him.”

“Dinner first,” pronounced Mrs. Fentwig, much to Genevieve’s approval. “Then a good sleep, and Wigham tomorrow.”

Wigham was a long armed and stringy fellow who leapt through life with a jerky lack of conviction, like a marionette handled by an unpracticed puppeteer. His white hair billowed around his head like a fume of smoke. His protruding ears were reddish, as was his skin elsewhere, though little of it showed, for he was habitually dressed in a brightly woven shirt covered by stout canvas overalls stuffed into a pair of enormous red boots. Wigham’s boat was called the
Unlikely Duck
, though it was referred to by Wigham himself as
Unlikely
, which leant a strange flavor to the conversation.

“Unlikely’ll
get there,” said Wigham.
“Unlikely
, she’s a good old girl.”

Old she was, as even Genevieve could see, though she looked well enough kept. She had a small, clean galley below, and beyond it a tiny cabin with two bunks hung high on the bulkheads with slant-backed cupboards below, out of the headroom of the table and benches, plus a tiny
cubby forward, with a short bed athwartships and one tiny porthole. “You can have the cubby, girl,” said Wigham. “Your pa an’ I’ll do with the cabin. Since it’s only me taking you and your pa’s indifferent as a sailor, we’ll anchor near shore at night to get our rest.”

“The wind’s blowing the wrong way, isn’t it?” Genevieve asked, for she hadn’t taken time to rebraid her hair, and it streamed northward like a flag.

“Now it is. The Northerlies’ll be comin’ any day, how-somever, and once they do, they’ll be goin’ on an’ on until we’re sick of ‘em.”

“Will we see the Golden Talking Fish of Merdune Lagoon?” she asked. “Prince Thum—ah, yes, someone I met on this trip said someone named Prince Thumsort talked about them.”

She knew she had made a faux pas, but she thought she had covered it until she saw that Garth’s face was white, and no less Weird Wigham’s. This individual took himself onto the top of his cabin with a leap and a cackle and there began to do a rooster dance, hands tucked into armpits and elbows flapping, crowing as he bowed and pranced, head darting this way and that.

“He’s dancing to avert ill luck,” murmured Garth.

“I’m sorry,” she faltered. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Well, he doesn’t know who Thumsort is.” Garth smiled. “But he caught on to the ‘Prince’ part of the title. Weird isn’t fond of the nobility.”

“Don’t know who he is,” crowed Wigham from his perch, “but he’s no business talking of … them.”

“The man she spoke of comes from over in Sealand,” called Garth. “You know they haven’t good sense over there.”

“Well, I know
that.
Nowhere near the sea! Not good sense at all. Well, young lady, your papa should have warned you. That’s not something we talk of here in Merdune. Don’t take them lightly. Nosir.”

Genevieve actually started to say that the Duchess of Merdune had been there at the time, but caught herself before the words came out. Instead, she apologized, saying she was very sorry, she hadn’t realized.

“Those particular fish,” whispered Garth, “are said to be magical by some, and it is considered unlucky to speak of them.”

Weird came down from the cabin top and the two men set about their business, Wigham ignoring her ostentatiously, though Garth nodded and smiled behind his back to indicate that Wigham’s displeasure would pass.

Soon they agreed that Wigham would lay in ship’s supplies and see to the sails, Garth would see to the foodstuffs, and meantime Imogene might buy herself a few books at the Midling Wells shop, for the boat offered no amusement and the weather might be too chilly for spending much time on deck. They would set sail when Weird Wigham, in his sole opinion (this intention delivered in a declamatory voice, with one or two flaps of the wings) declared that the Northerlies were underway.

So for three days they stayed at Fentwig’s House, eating well and catching up on their sleep. Genevieve spent some of the time walking along the shore, well wrapped against the chill, tirelessly investigating the shoreline. There were many shells to be picked up, and in some places stone walls and truncated chimneys protruded from the surf, the remains of farms that had been swallowed by the sea when the waters rose. At two houses just above the waterline, people were busy moving house, barns, fences, and stock to higher ground.