Chapter 9
There was only porridge for breakfast, but nobody minded because there was the promise of roasted sheep to come. All eight of them crowded into the cellar under the inn to do the last Haedath and exchange the final greetings of the old year. Then they held the silence in contemplation of the twelve months just gone. Tomorrow’s silence would be in contemplation of the year to come.
Yaret was not sure which of the two was worse. She had considered suggesting that they skip the contemplation of the last year; but no-one else had brought the matter up and in any case the past would not just go away. So now she stared dutifully at the floor until she realised that Dil, also staring at the floor, was weeping.
“What is it?” said Elket, her arm around him.
“You need to ask?” said Shuli, though not loudly.
“Armendo,” said Dil through his tears. “I miss Armendo.”
“Armendo’s friendship was a great gift,” Yaret told him. “So try to remember the happy times you had with him.” She knew that this advice was trite and next to useless.
“I am,” Dil answered mournfully. “That’s the trouble.”
“Then think about something else,” said Shuli, not unkindly. Dil took a great gulp and then was silent.
No, she should definitely have suggested that they skip this bit, thought Yaret. She herself had no wish to reflect on the last few weeks; so instead she began to make a mental list of things to do today. Finish the cloaks and spindles, check the donkeys, look for any further signs of bear; prepare the food and supervise the roasting of the sheep.
Her mind strayed further forward, worrying about keeping everybody warm and fed all through the winter, until she checked it. Future plans were tomorrow’s task. And everyone else was looking solemnly thoughtful. So stick to the rules.
With a reluctant sigh she let her mind stray back through random images of the year just gone: the long spring days spent weaving, tending crops and chickens, spinning and talking through the evenings, waiting for the summer dawn when she would set out on her journey. Gramma giving her the last of the old wrinkled apples, her grandfather handing her the letter. Well. That was all done with now.
But the joy of travelling alone! The donkeys were sufficient company. The hills rose and fell along her path and the sun pulled her west and south. She wouldn’t be doing that any more. No more journeying. No need.
But a quiet voice inside her head spoke. Maybe there will be a need. She stopped and listened to it.
There’s no more cloth to sell. But there are other needs more urgent now. Those Riders of the Vonn: their garb so drab, their lives so vivid, their quest so clear although they never told her what it was.
She knew it all the same, from Eled’s murmured words and from the scroll. In the long term, they hoped to end their exile from their homeland; but their immediate task was to fight the stonemen and the darkburns.
That was enough, for it was surely her desire too. Although she had never seen a battle she felt at that moment that it was both her wish and duty to avenge her dead. They stood now at her shoulders in the shadows of the room – perhaps in her imagination only; but that was irrelevant. They had no words yet they did not condemn her.
All the same she could not see how that duty might be fulfilled. It shouldn’t be left to the Vonn alone: but what could she do from here, so far away? And she was needed here by the children. She could not abandon them.
She thought back through the events of the last autumn. Her evening story was all told, yet there was so much that she hadn’t touched on. So many things that the Vonn had said and done, leading her to see the world with altered eyes. Wherever she had travelled to before, her thoughts had always centred on Obandiro. But now Obandiro was gone; and her thoughts were drawn towards Farwithiel and the bleak Gyr hills and past the strangely watchful Darkburn Loft to the boundaries of Kelvha. And somewhere indistinct, called Thield; and somewhere yet more hazy called Caervonn.
The world was huge and beautiful and dangerous and beckoning. But she could not go anywhere. Her place was here.
She raised her head and looked around at all the faces in the thin, wan morning light from the open hatchway. The faces looked equally thin and wan. Some had eyes closed; only Shuli met her glance. Shuli’s former scowl had gone. She looked full of glee and Yaret smiled. After another minute she said,
“Time for gifts now.”
At that, everyone woke up with a buzz of anticipation which she hoped would not be disappointed. But it seemed they were determined to be happy.
Charo and Elket already knew they were getting the woollen cloaks as their gifts for winterfest, and had assured her that they did not mind waiting another day for her to finish hemming them. There was only one precious needle – Yaret was trying to make more from bone, but without much success – so she set to the task of sewing straight away, while the other gifts were distributed.
Dil was appointed official donkey-keeper, and was presented with a halter, along with a warning of his heavy responsibilities. He couldn’t stop grinning. Charo had cut the halter from an old belt found in a cellar. He had greased it with lamp oil and sliced and knotted it together cleverly.
Shuli was given the hazelwood bow which Yaret had made, but with a warning.
“The string is cordweed so it may not last. And I think the bow still has too much draw-weight. I need to adjust it, or it might just take your ear off,” Yaret told her. “So be careful. Maybe we can use some of the sheepskin for a cheek-guard.”
Despite the warning Shuli was grinning as widely as Dil. That was important. Keep the two youngest happy, and it was easier for the rest.
It was with some doubt that she handed the carding comb and the bundle of raw wool from the bottom of her grandmother’s washing tub to Lo and Renna. This might not be seen as a gift at all, but just as work.
“I’ve nearly finished these,” she said, and produced two wooden spindles, still a little rough around the weights. “Can you spin? If not, I can teach you.”
“We can spin,” said Lo eagerly. “And card as well. What do you want us to make?”
“Just make the yarn for now,” said Yaret, “and meanwhile you can decide what you want it knitted into.” Although her looms were useless, knitting could be done with a pair of sticks.
“I can knit,” said Lo. She sounded glad, and Yaret realised that she had been needing a way to be productive. She should have guessed that. Renna said nothing but picked up one of the unfinished spindles and caressed it.
“We’ll rub them down to make them smooth,” said Yaret, and she nodded.
Then there was Ondro. For him she had only a shoulder-bag with a drawstring and strap, sewn out of a torn sack. It wasn’t pretty but she hoped it would be useful. He seemed happy to receive any gift at all.
“My gift to everybody is the sheep,” he said. “And the lamb that will be born soon – if it survives. You can share looking after that.”
Then, unexpectedly, every head turned round to look at Charo. He cleared his throat and stood up, his head almost touching the cellar ceiling. She realised that he had grown in the weeks since she had met him.
“We’ve got a present for you,” he said, addressing Yaret. “I found it in the forge.” Reaching underneath his bedding, he produced a long thin object wrapped in a sack.
Yaret knew before she unwrapped it what it would be: one of the swords that had hung on the forge’s wall. She had noted some time ago that the swords had disappeared and had suspected Shuli. But then they had been pushed out of her head by more immediate concerns.
What was totally unexpected was the scabbard that the sword was in. It was made of old, discoloured leather, but perfectly sound.
“Where on earth did you find the sheath?” she asked.
Charo looked a bit embarrassed. It was Shuli who replied.
“I found it, in Holvet’s pig-sty. I think he used it to wedge open the door. But don’t worry, we’ve cleaned it.”
Yaret sniffed at the leather. “Ah, yes,” she said with amusement. Then she drew the sword. It emerged with a faint hissing whisper. It had been scrubbed and oiled; the children stared at it with a kind of fascination which Yaret had to admit she shared.
“I wonder whose sword it was,” she mused. Swords had been so rare in Obandiro that this was probably antique; or perhaps was one that Shay the blacksmith had made himself, to test his skills. Thank you, Shay.
“You’d better go outside to try it,” advised Charo. So they all climbed up the ladder into the cold air which had the metallic tang of ice. In the frosty yard Yaret practised sweeping the sword through the air, using the moves Eled had shown her and which she had practised in Farwithiel with a stick.
Then she tried some of the more complex lunges and blocks she had watched Parthenal perform on that morning outside the hollow tree. They made more sense with the sword than with a stick, even though she could not wield it with anything like the right speed and accuracy, and her muscles were soon aching. It had been very evident that Parthenal knew how to handle a sword. And Rothir, too, fighting those stonemen at the Gyr… She had tried not to think about that much. But now she needed to remember.
“That’s good,” said Shuli, evidently impressed. Yaret realised that they were all staring at her new sword slightly open-mouthed. “Will you teach me those moves?”
“When you’re old enough.”
“Twelve is old enough.”
Yaret didn’t refute this, because that argument could wait. She held the sword upright. It was a good size for her, unlike Eled’s, which she remembered thinking a monstrous, dangerous object the first time she had picked it up. This sword was also hugely dangerous, yet it did not fill her with the same revulsion. Instead she was aware of a certain apprehensive pleasure.
“That is a… that is a wonderful gift,” she said, for the sword was certainly a thing of craft and beauty. Whether she would ever be able to wield it properly was another matter altogether. But she would practise, just in case.
“There were two others in the forge as well,” said Charo. “Not as good; they looked like old ones that had been repaired. I thought that they could be for me and Elket, because, you know, if we’ve got them we ought to learn to use them safely.” Shuli, to Yaret’s surprise, made no protest. “Or Ondro could have one if he wants.” He glanced at Ondro, who shook his head.
“Not for me,” he said. “I’d only cut my own leg off.”
Yaret laughed, and bowed to everyone in general.
“Thank you all,” she said, her surprise and wary pleasure at the gift still growing like a fast-blooming flower. So they didn’t see her just as a big sister, but as a warrior of some sort. She was aware of something shifting: perhaps it was her own view of herself.
“And now you all have to come and look at my new cellar!” burst out Shuli.
“We will,” promised Yaret, “as soon as we’ve set the food to cook.”
So once the mutton had been prepared and spitted over the fire, and the roots within it, they all tramped, chattering, up to the north-side of the town. Shuli insisted on stopping at the nearest junction to dance the Rannikan. Everyone joined in – even Renna, for a few seconds; and Ondro, who was slow and kept forgetting the sequence. But he performed it with a wide, earnest smile on his face, sending Dil into fits of helpless giggles.
Yaret’s attempt was almost as brief as Renna’s. She stumbled on her false leg, which refused to move as fast as she would like. So she bowed out and watched the others, laughing and clapping along, and trying not to think about the last time she had danced it. And the fact that she would never dance it properly again. The contest was declared a draw between Shuli and Charo.
“But I’ll win next year,” said Dil.
Breathless now, they continued north along the Dondel brook. Its banks were decorated with small icicles, although the ice had not yet laid its sheen across the water. As they passed the bridge, Yaret noticed that Shuli kept glancing at it.
“What are you looking for?”
Shuli hesitated. Then she muttered, “What happened to the stoneman? It wasn’t there when I last looked.”
“I moved the body,” Yaret murmured back. “Not much of it left. I got the other stones out of the head first, just in case.”
“Where are they?”
“Safe,” said Yaret.
Dil piped up, “There was a lin on the bridge just now, wasn’t there?”
“Better say the rhyme, then,” said Elket indulgently, although she had been looking the other way and could not have seen the lin herself. As Dil stopped to recite the lin’s grace, she said to Yaret, “He’s always seeing lins these days. He used to see a hob quite regularly at school.”
“The hob? Is that still there?” But even as Yaret spoke she realised that of course it would not be, not any more.
Elket looked surprised and then amused. “I never saw it,” she said.
Meanwhile Shuli had dived along a narrow bridleway near the bridge, towards a row of stone-built cottages. She marched down to the furthest house in the row and stopped in the ruined doorway, arms akimbo.
“Come on!” she urged.
Inside the roofless cottage was a snow-spattered sludge of ash and charcoal, the same as now lay in all the houses. Rain and snow had cleaned the streets to some extent but was taking longer to deal with more sheltered spots. The walls and flag-stoned floor remained intact, though black with greasy soot. Shuli led them to where the staircase to the upper floor must once have been; underneath it, a flight of stone steps descended through the flag-stones to the darkness of a cellar.
“It took me ages to dig the steps out,” Shuli told them as she climbed down. “But it was worth it.” Carefully she lit a flint-lamp sitting on a small barrel at the bottom. Once its wick was glowing, she set it down and spread her arms. “My kingdom!”
“My word. It’s extraordinary,” breathed Yaret.
This cellar was big. Bigger than the cottage above it, surely: it must have reached right under next door too. The broad supporting pillars of rough stone and the beams above her head were so massive that it made her think the cellar must be older than the houses.
And it held much more than one small barrel. It had furniture. At least, it had two chairs, a broken table, a cupboard with its door hanging off, and an old bedstead propped up on its end against one wall. The wall opposite the bed was lined with shelves: and they were laden. There were dusty jars and pots and boxes, piles of cloth and paper, strange useless ornaments; all sorts of unidentifiable objects sat in the shadows under a cloudy layer of fine ash.
“I’ve cleaned it all once already but the ash gets in again,” said Shuli. “Everybody can choose one thing each for their winterfest gift. Anything you like. Only I’ve already chosen that.” She pointed to the wall, where a curved sword was propped up on two nails.
“You didn’t find that in here, surely?” Yaret asked.
“No. I found it in the Dondel – it was the stoneman’s. It’s a bit big for me now but I’ll grow into it.”
Dil had already run over to start inspecting the contents of the shelves and hold them up towards the light.
“Another lantern!” he exclaimed. “That’s not my gift, I’m just saying it because it’s a useful thing.”
“It’d be more useful if we had more lamp-oil,” Elket commented.
“We’ll grow that in the summer,” Yaret said. “There’s a flax field on the east-side. With any luck it’ll have self-seeded. Or even gold-cabbage seeds would do.” She was picking up pots and jars to examine them. None of them contained food but many could be put to use for storage or for cooking.
Turning to the piles of cloth, she unfolded them. There were four long robes of mildewed linen and three short tunics of frayed, moth-eaten wool. She recognised one of her grandfather’s woven patterns – it was one of her own favourites – and felt her heart turn over. She stood quite still, holding the worn-out garment to her heart.
None of the others seemed to notice. They were too busy examining the jumbled objects on the wall of shelves. Dil gave a cry as he picked up something from the bottom shelf. Blowing a small flurry of ash off it, he handed it to Elket.
“For you,” he said. It was a lutine. When Elket plucked the strings they made a dull, tuneless sound; after tightening them, she tried again, and then smiled with pleasure.
“Shuli? Can this lutine be mine?”
Shuli assented with a lordly gesture. Yaret was relieved, for a lutine would make the long evenings of winter dark more bearable. At present she felt the weight of keeping everybody occupied with discussion, story, song: now they could try to learn to play the lutine too.
“I’d like this, please,” said Lo, holding up a double candlestick of earthenware, glazed in a blue as bright as a clear winter sky. Renna held out a small carved wooden box, opening it to show that it was empty.
“You’re welcome,” Shuli said.
Dil was hovering over the shelves, unable to decide.
“I like this,” he said, picking up a pottery horse that pulled a tiny wooden cart. “But I like that too.” It was a child’s puzzle, a wooden castle with interlocking pieces. “I’ll have…. I’ll have… the castle.” Reluctantly, he put down the horse and cart.
Charo picked them up. “May I choose this?” When Shuli nodded, he handed the horse and cart ceremonially to Dil.
“Happy winterfest, Dil,” he said.
“Oh,” said Dil and Elket together, Elket in something like dismay, and Dil in delight.
“But then you’ll have nothing,” said Dil. He looked appealingly at Shuli, who just shrugged.
“His choice,” she said.
“And can this be my choice?” Yaret said, still grasping the tunic to her chest.
“I don’t think clothes should count,” said Elket.
“This one is special.”
“It counts, then,” Shuli said. “Things that are just useful and boring don’t count. Like the lantern, and that pile of plates. That’s for everybody.”
Yaret picked up a pair of dusty boots and turned them over. “Badly stained. Sound enough otherwise. Are these useful and boring enough not to count, Shuli?”
“Yes. And too big for you. They’re really wide. I already tried them on.”
Yaret nodded. “They’re not for me; they’re for Charo. His are splitting down the seams.” She handed the boots over to Charo, who immediately began to prise his battered old boots off to try them.
“All right,” said Shuli. “I suppose. Now there’s only Ondro left without a gift. What would you like, Ondro?”
“This’ll do me,” said Ondro, holding up a metal tankard. “What’s in the barrel?
“It’s wine, I think,” said Shuli. “I tried a little bit. It’s fruity and quite strong.”
“Let’s try a little bit more then, shall we?” Ondro said. He looked at Yaret and after a moment’s hesitation she nodded. She had visions of Ondro rolling drunk and carolling down the streets; but he had spent weeks in the cellar alongside several barrels of beer without asking to broach them.
Now he uncorked the spigot and caught half a tankardful of dark liquid before sealing it up again.
“I’d best just test it,” he said. He took a sip and raised his eyebrows. “Well.” He handed the tankard to Yaret.
“Whew,” she said after one taste. It took her breath away. “Three sips each. We could use that as antiseptic. What on earth is it made from?”
“Plums, I think,” said Shuli. “There used to be a plum tree in their garden.”
“You know who lived here?”
“An old lady and her husband. I didn’t know them.”
“Well… We give our thanks to them.”
They took turns to sip the wine and say variations on Whew. Yaret pictured that old man and lady, picking plums. Telling each other where they’d missed some. Don’t overfill that bucket; mind your sleeve. Busy and careful. Turned to ashes.
As we all shall be, eventually. Enjoy the wine for now.
“That’s enough for you, Dil,” she said, and as she spoke she heard a noise right overhead.
She froze. So did everyone else. It had been a thump, not loud, but quite distinct: a sound like someone stepping into the room above them. And they had been making a fair amount of noise down here. Too much noise.
“The bear,” mouthed Dil, tankard clutched in both hands, his eyes wide.
The bear. It was entirely possible. Or stonemen...
Either way, she had no bow and arrow. Incredibly stupid of her to forget. Danger hadn’t heard of winterfest.
She stepped silently over to the wall and lifted down the curved stoneman’s sword. Handing her knife to Ondro, she gestured to him to follow her. Then she crept stealthily up the narrow stone staircase and slowly put her head up to look out.
No bear. Two people. She saw the feet first, then the legs. One wore long skirts.
Not stonemen. Nor the old couple she had just been imagining: this pair was young. They looked astonished to see her emerging from the floor; almost as astonished as she was to see them – and what was more, to recognise their faces.
“Anneke!”
The former schoolmistress put both her hands up to her mouth.
“Then there is someone here! Berlo saw the footprints.” She turned to the young bearded man who stood beside her. “So you were right,” she said.
Yaret realised that Anneke was heavily pregnant. That was something she hadn’t known before she left Obandiro last summer. But Anneke looked healthy: not ragged or begrimed. They were all still staring at each other when Ondro emerged from the trapdoor and went over to take Anneke’s arm.
“Come down,” he said, “come down out of the wind,” speaking as gently as he might to an anxious sheep.
So the couple descended the steps and at once the lamplit cellar was full of greetings and exclamations of delight. Dil ran over and hugged his former teacher. Elket hugged her too, and Charo patted her shoulder in an awkward but affectionate way. Even Shuli looked pleased, which made Yaret think that Anneke must have been a good schoolmistress.
The young man was, of course, her husband: Berlo, who was originally from a village fourteen miles away. They had gone back to stay with his parents two days before the stonemen came, they explained, tumbling over each other’s words, for Anneke to rest before her baby arrived.
“I didn’t like the new teacher as much,” said Dil reproachfully.
“You didn’t have a chance to get to know her,” said Anneke, ruffling his hair. Dil put his arms around her waist again and Yaret realised what she herself had failed to offer him in comfort. Not motherly enough. Ah well. Ondro stood one of the old chairs upright and tested it before gesturing to Anneke to sit down.
“The first time we came home,” said Berlo, “we saw Obandiro… like this. And still smoking. So we went back to my parents’ house. Every so often I rode over this way to look for any sign of life. Last week I saw some smoke down on the south-side, which made me wonder… and then I saw somebody moving around.”
“Who?” said Dil accusingly.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. But when I went back and told Anneke, she decided we should both come here and see.”
“His parents were running out of food,” put in Anneke.
“And no-one’s selling anything to anybody. We decided if we left they’d have enough for the winter. We knew where there was some food stored in Obandiro; but if we really needed to, we could always go back to my parents. So we came over today in the cart.”
“You’ve got a cart? Then you’ve got a horse?” asked Dil excitedly.
“We’ve got a cart-horse, parked up outside the town,” said Berlo. “And a cart with quite a lot of things in it. We won’t need to borrow much from you.”
“I didn’t know about this cellar,” said Anneke, gazing around. “I know of a couple of other well-stocked cellars, though. As well as the store-room underneath the schoolhouse.”
“There’s a store-room underneath the schoolhouse?” Shuli was both astounded and indignant.
Yaret laughed and Anneke turned around to look at her.
“I know your face, but not your name,” she said. “Of course you’re too old to have been taught by me.” So Yaret introduced herself, as did Ondro. But the sisters Anneke already seemed to know.
“I haven’t seen you for a few years,” she said thoughtfully. “How are you, Lo? And Renna?”
She held out her hand. Renna walked over and took it. And then to Yaret’s amazement, she spoke.
“We’re all right now,” she said. Her voice was thin and fluting. Everybody else just stared at her.
Anneke did not seem to notice. She smiled and kept holding Renna’s hand while asking questions about where and how they all lived. Some of these Renna actually answered. Dil was eager to answer the rest.
“How much room do you have in your cellars on the south-side?” Berlo asked.
“Not much. But there are at least two other cellars where there might be room for you. There’s a dead deer hanging in one of them, but we could move it,” Yaret said.
“I give you this cellar,” Shuli announced grandly. She spread her hands open. “This is my winterfest gift to you. You may use anything in it. Only the sword’s mine.” She pointed to the sword which was now leaning against the barrel.
“There’s wine in that barrel,” Dil announced. “I’ve had some. It’s really strong. You should try it, Anneke! Have a drink!”
“Wine might not suit the baby,” replied Anneke with a laugh; but Yaret was worried. What would the teacher think of her offering the children wine? Especially when it was closer to brandy.
“Your baby,” Elket said. “When is it due?”
“About a month now, or a little less.”
So that was another worry, although Anneke and her husband seemed quite calm about it. Once Berlo had tried a sip of wine, and exclaimed his own “Whew,” they all left the cellar. Carrying their gifts, they began to walk back to the south-side to show the couple the inn. While Dil was dancing around Anneke, Yaret fell into step beside Ondro.
“It’ll be good to have them here,” Ondro said with satisfaction. “Good for the children.”
“Yes. Only what about this baby? Maybe she should go back to Berlo’s parents before it’s born. I know nothing about midwifery.”
“I do. I’ve birthed enough lambs.”
“Ondro, it’s not the same.”
“It’s not so different. I’ve birthed one or two babies too, on farms when there was no time to fetch the midwife.” He pointed at Renna. “I birthed her.”
“What?”
“Her mother sent a runner for me. It’s not so bad. We’ll manage.”
“I hope so,” Yaret said. On a day of astonishments, this was just one more.
A year of astonishments. Why had she foreseen and feared one single change? They never stopped.
And tomorrow would see the fresh year start: the first year of this new, impaired, yet still extraordinary world.