The Moorchild (16 page)

But Saaski would not touch rowan. She would run off up to the moor instead, and Yanno would have to search her out and carry her, stubborn jawed and unrepentant, back to the cottage. There was no doing anything with her.

Every village family supplied fuel for the Midsummer fire; it was bad luck not to. So Anwara fetched the rowan each year—and endured the smiles exchanged by her neighbors not quite behind her back.

Besides rowan, St. John’s wort was everywhere for the two whole days of Midsummer—garlands of it, woven in with yarrow and orpine and corn marigold, hanging on door lintels or around the necks of farm beasts. Not around Moll’s neck—or she’d have stayed in the byre, unmilked, unless Anwara took over one more of Saaski’s rightful tasks. But yellow flowers were everywhere else as June neared its end, and every year Saaski threaded her way through the dangers, longing for Midsummer to be done.

This year, the familiar dread was but part of the heavy, nameless foreboding of something hanging over her, which persisted even though the pox was well past and the children back to pestering her.

The children she ignored; she had endured their taunts and careless malice all her life. What was new and frightening was the grown-ups’ grim attention, grown-ups’ sidelong glances, grown-ups’ voices dropping to mutterings as
she passed. It was not mere young ones’ mischief that was brewing; the village was uniting against her.

It had turned against Anwara and Yanno, too. Several householders had taken their smithing to the village over the moor. Yanno’s anvil was sometimes silent all the morning, and he more silent still.

“They’ll soon tire of a league’s walk for a handful of nails,” Anwara scoffed. “And the wives of their grumbling.”

But she herself was being cold-shouldered by wives and men alike, wherever her tasks took her. Saaski had seen it—and seen Anwara’s expression when she turned away, her head still high.

It’s my doing,
Saaski told herself, miserable but confused. She knew well what a blunderhead of a daughter she was—her spinning nubbly, her apron ties forever half torn off. She splashed the milk, she burned the bread. One look at Bretla or Annika showed how far short she fell of the daughter Anwara wanted. But Anwara kept an impassive front.

“She’s not backward about scoldin’ me for every little thing,” Saaski told Tam, the day before Midsummer’s Eve, as they wandered after the goats. “But when there’s others around—savin’ Da’, a-course—she’s on my side. Stands by me, she does. Acts like I was no different from the others.”

She let me keep the bagpipes, too, and go to the moor, Saaski thought, feeling the familiar surge of guilty gratitude, mixed with the knowledge, more hopeless every day, that she
was
different from the others—freaky-odd—and there was nothing she could do about it. She could never even find a gift that pleased Anwara.

“Eh, then, why shouldn’t she act so?” Tam said staunchly.

“ ’Cause they’ve all started takin’ it out on her, that’s why!” she retorted. “Turn up their noses, like, when she bids ’em good morning. And—they
say
things.”

“What things?” Tam was scowling.

“Ask her how is it I’m feared of rowan—and yellow flowers and such. ‘Oh, it’s powerful odd, it is!’ ” she mimicked, “ ‘Contrarious!’ What’s so contrarious,” Saaski burst out, “about runnin’ shy of poisons?”

Tam was silent a moment. “Most folks don’t think of ’em as poisons,” he said at last.

Saaski eyed his profile, then looked away, over the moor. “But bogeys and them
do,
you mean. Well, I know that, don’t I? Why else is such stuff ever’where around at Midsummer?” It made her cross to think of it. “Seems to me bogeys just got good common sense,” she snapped.

Anyway, that was all fool’s talk, like Yanno’s “overlooking,” and half the street blaming her for the pox. She was no bogey; she was certain-sure of that. She glanced at Tam suspiciously. “Here—you won’t be hangin’ St. John’s wort on the goats?”

Tam’s still face relaxed into his sidewise grin as he glanced at her. “Nay, they’d likely eat it.”

She tried to smile back, but it was an effort. After a moment of gathering her nerve, she said, “D’
you
think I’m a bogey? Or a witch or such?”

“Don’t be a noddy! How could I think such a thing?”

“Well—what
do
you think?”

He was silent much longer, chewing his lip, his snub-nosed,
good-natured profile troubled.
It’s something too bad to tell me,
she thought, as she had once before. But when he turned to face her, his blue eyes met hers squarely.

“I suspicion you might be Folk,” he said.

For a moment she could only gape at him. It was so unexpected—so nonsensical—such a silly thing to say. And she’d never thought Tam silly. She hardly knew how to react without hurting his feelings. In the end she forced a bogus little laugh that embarrassed her. “Better than suspicionin’ I’m a witch, I guess.”

Tam flushed. “I’m not just raggin’ you! I’ve wondered about it. Often. Mebbe I’m a lackwit. Leastwise I can see
you
think so.”

“I don’t!” Saaski touched his hand in brief apology. “It’s only . . . seems a tomfool kind of notion.”

“It’s not, then! Don’t they hang around you? Let you see ’em? Can’t you see ’em whether they let you or not?”

For an arrested moment she considered this, but then remembered the runes, the paths. “Always been able to see—things. Ever’body can do somethin’ special, can’t they? You can juggle.” She shrugged. “The Folk just want me pipes.”

“But—” Abruptly, Tam changed his tack. “Your eyes change color, too. Warrant you didn’t know that.”

“So do yours,” she retorted. Indeed, right now, as always when he was serious, their bright blue had darkened to indigo. She laughed at his astonished expression. “Warrant
you
never knew
that.
”

His slow grin acknowledged it. She went on wryly, “If I
was anything to do with
Them,
catch me livin’ in Torskaal! I’d live in that Mound, or whatever ’tis, wouldn’t I? Eatin’ honey all day long—no gossips to plague me . . . ”

Tam made no answer. But after a moment he shrugged and gave up the argument. “So it was a tomfool notion. You asked me—so I just said it.”

“I doubt it’s what they’re sayin’ down to the village,” Saaski told him. “Behind Mumma’s back—Da’s, too. They’ll be sayin’ whatever ’tis to their faces soon, I reckon. Then I’ll know.”

Tam’s own expression turned grim as he studied her. “I know one thing a’ready,” he said. “Y’oughta stay away from all them rattletongues. Keep outa sight—leastways till Midsummer’s over. Come up here to the moor. Goats’n me’ll look after you.”

So he’d heard what the rattletongues were saying. Something too bad to tell her.

The goats had found a thistle patch. Tam took out his shepherd’s pipe. “Come on—we need cheerin’ up.”

She swung the bagpipes around to the front of her, and they began to fill the air with tunes. But for once Tam’s uncritical friendship, even the piping, failed to clear her mind of troubles, of growing fear. Plainly there was reason for fear; both Tam and Anwara had told her to keep out of sight.

Only wish I could, she thought. For a moment she longed for Tam’s notion to be more than fancy. Ever so lucky, those Moorfolk. Kept out of sight whenever they chose.

That put her in mind of a tale she’d always heard about
Midsummer’s Eve. Maybe it was true. Maybe, since the Folk let her see them, she could coax one to do a good turn.

She left Tam presently and headed downward, but she did not go home. As soon as he and the goats were hidden behind the crest of the moor, she turned across the slope and picked her way through the summer-dry bogs to the patch of thornbushes where Bruman had spied on her a fortnight or so ago. To make sure he would not spy today, she peered behind every bramble bush before settling herself on the same mossy rock she had chosen before.

Detaching the chanter, she piped a brief, meandering tune without filling the bag to bring in the strident chorus of the drones. The sound would carry, but not far; she wanted to reach only one pair of ears, which she suspected might be nearby. The tune finished, she lay back and closed her eyes.

Very soon she felt the bag move stealthily beneath her hand. In an instant she was upright, grabbing a thin wrist. She held it tight, peering into the narrow, startled face of one of
Them.
It was the one who had called himself Tinkwa—the one always after her pipes.

“Leave go,” he said uneasily, trying to twist free.

“When a pig can fly,” she retorted.

“Well, I won’t nobble ’em this time, you’ve caught me out!”

“Nor next time, neither. I’ll take care of me pipes, right enough. That’s not what I’m after.”

He quit struggling and said curiously, “What are you after?”

She started to answer, then on a sudden thought pulled
him closer and peered at the palm of his hand. It was pale brown and smooth—like hers. Indeed, smoother. There was not even a curved crease around the thumb. But the wavery, rippling-brook line crossing below the long fingers was strongly marked. That was the only line she had
not
seen among the many on Old Bess’s palm. Could that mean anything? Likely nothing.
Should’ve looked at Tam’s,
she thought.

The hand she held twisted suddenly free. Tinkwa eluded her grab, but lingered just out of reach, eyeing her with a bright green, curiosity-filled gaze. She peered back, speculating, puzzling.

“What
are
y’after?” he asked again.

She had to make an effort to remember.

“Oh. Aye. Fern seed,” she told him. “I’ve heard tell it’ll make y’go invisible, so nobody knows you’re there.”

His wide, mobile mouth turned up at one corner with amusement—and down at the other with mischief. “Fern seed, is it? Eh, well, if you was to go out on the moor and find a fern patch—stroke of midnight, mind, Midsummer’s Eve—you could get some. If you’re quick.”

“Aye, and the Folk’d be quicker!” scoffed Saaski. “I know that well enough. But
you
could get me some.”

He laughed outright, a thin, trilling sound that sounded like an odd birdcall. “And why would I want to do that?”

“ ’Cause I’ll let you play me pipes.”

He was suddenly attentive, his eyes narrowed to lavender slits. “D’you mean right now?” He was already reaching for the bag.

Saaski pulled it away. “I don’t! D’you think I’m a witling? I mean after you bring the seed!”

He eyed her measuringly. “How long c’n I have ’em for?”

“Y’can’t
have
’em at all! You can play the chanter.
I’ll
hold the bag.”

He turned away scornfully. “That’s no bargain.”

“Well, you’d be off with ’em in a minute, and I’d never see ’em again!” As his grin admitted it, she leaned toward him, coaxing. “You could get me just a pinch of fern seed! ’Twon’t take much.”

“So why d’you want it, anywise?”

She hesitated, then told him. “I need to hide.”

To her surprise, his narrow face abruptly looked uneasy. “Who from, this time?” he said.

As she stared at him, uncomprehending, a piercing whistle sounded from somewhere farther up the slope, followed by an angry, birdlike twittering. As Tinkwa’s glance flashed toward it, Saaski grabbed his wrist again—not an instant too soon.

“Let go, he’ll skin me alive!” he whispered, struggling.

“Who will?”

“Pittittiskin! Can’t you hear ’im?”

The name streaked across her memory like a shooting star and vanished into the general dark.

“Leave me go!” begged her captive again.

“Will you bring the fern seed?” she demanded.

“Eh, there’s no such thing, y’oughta know that!
We
don’t use such—we just wink out! Y’never
could
do it,” he added with an exasperated tug. He glanced at her face and grew
more temperish. “When you was one of us! Don’t you remember nothin’ at all?”

When you was one of us?

He was gone before she realized she had loosed him. It had ceased to matter. She’d forgotten what she’d wanted of him and no longer cared.

When you was one of us.

I think you might be Folk.

She sat oblivious of the day around her, scattered words picking away at the locks of memory.

Wink out.

Pittitiskin.

Y’never could do it.

Slowly the shadows of the thornbushes lengthened over the moor’s woven grasses, then clouds gathered to blur their edges and the birds fell silent; yet she sat on, still as the rock she perched on, her mind reverberating with fragments of speech, echoes of voices.

Clumsy youngling!

Moql. Moql’nkkn.

What’s your name, m’dear?

Moql’nkkn.

Oh, is it you, little duckling?

Time runs different . . .

She can’t hide.

Hssst! Stop makin’ a bother.

Help me!

Time runs different . . . in the Mound. In the Mound . . . in the Mound . . .

A cold patter of raindrops roused her. She stirred at last, focused on the fast-dimming moor around her, slid stiffly down from her rock, pulled her cloak to cover the pipes, and fumbled her hood up. For a moment she stood, feeling upside-down, inside-out, groping for where to go, what to do next.

The answer came without real thought. She headed down the slope, moving dazedly, then ever more urgently—giving a wide berth to the great pile of rowan wood, high as a cottage roof by now, looming ready for tomorrow’s sundown on the wasteland’s highest knoll. She crossed the hillside well above the village street, now all but running.

And all the time her mind was a tangle of half-heard voices, half-glimpsed figures, half-puzzling knowledge. The
door that had been locked was creaking open, and memories came back in jolts and lumps and finally floods.

Schooling House.