MID-DAY: BIRDS
Bast sprinted most of the way to the little dell, and by the time he arrived he was sweating like a hard-run horse. His shirt stuck to him unpleasantly, and as he walked down the sloping bank to the water he drew it over his head and used it to wipe the sweat from his face.
A long, flat jut of stone pushed out into Littlecreek there, forming one side of a calm pool where the stream turned back on itself. A stand of willows overhung the water, making it private and shady. The shoreline was overgrown with thick bushes, and the water was smooth and calm and clear.
Bare-chested, Bast walked out onto the rough jut of stone. When he was fully dressed, his face and long, dexterous hands made him look rather lean, but without his shirt, his shoulders were surprisingly muscled, more what you might expect to see on a fieldhand, rather than a shiftless sort that did little more than lounge around an empty inn all day.
Once he was out of the shadow of the willows, Bast knelt down to dunk his shirt in the pool. Then he wrung it over his head, shivering a bit at the chill of it. He rubbed his chest and arms briskly, shaking drops of water from his face.
He set the shirt aside, grabbed the lip of stone at the edge of the pool, then took a deep breath and dunked his head. The motion made the muscles across his back and shoulders flex. A moment later he pulled his head out, gasping slightly and shaking water from his hair.
Bast stood then, slicking back his hair with both hands. Water streamed down his chest, making runnels in the dark hair, trailing down across the flat plane of his stomach. He shook himself off a bit, then stepped over to a dark niche made by a jagged shelf of overhanging rock. He felt around for a moment before pulling out a knob of butter-colored soap.
He knelt at the edge of the water again, dunking his shirt several times, then scrubbing it with the soap. It took a while, as he had no washing board, and he obviously didn’t want to chafe his shirt against the rough stones. He soaped and rinsed the shirt several times, wringing it out with his hands, making the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense and twine. He did a surprisingly thorough job, though by the time he was finished, he was completely soaked and spattered with lather.
Bast spread his shirt out on a sunny stone to dry. He started to undo his pants, then stopped and tipped his head on one side, tapping the heel of his hand against his temple, as if trying to jog water from his ear.
It might have been because of water in his ear that Bast didn’t hear the excited twittering coming from the bushes that grew along the shore. It was a sound that could, conceivably, be sparrows chattering among the branches. A flock of sparrows. Several flocks, perhaps.
And if Bast didn’t see the bushes moving either? Or note that in among the hanging branches of the willow there were colors normally not found in trees? Sometimes a pale pink, sometimes a blushing red. Sometimes an ill-considered yellow or a cornflower blue. And while it’s true that shirts and dresses might come in those colors…well…so did birds. Finches and jays. And besides, it was fairly common knowledge to the young men and women of the town that the dark young man who worked at the inn was woefully nearsighted and a bit of a fool besides.
So the birds tittered in the bushes as Bast worked at the drawstring of his pants again, the knot apparently giving him some trouble. He fumbled with it for a moment before he grew frustrated and gave a great, catlike stretch, his body bending like a bow.
Finally he managed to work the drawstring loose and shucked free of his pants. He wore nothing underneath, and when he tossed them aside there was a squawk from the willow of the sort that could have come from a larger bird. A heron perhaps. Or a crow. And if a branch shook violently at the same time, well, perhaps a bird had leaned too far from its branch and nearly fell. It certainly stood to reason some birds were more clumsy than others. Luckily, at the time, Bast was looking the other way.
Bast dove into the water then, splashing like a boy and gasping at the cold. After a few minutes he moved to a shallower portion of the pool where the water rose to barely reach his narrow waist.
Beneath the water, a careful observer might note the young man’s legs looked somewhat…odd. But it was shady there, and everyone knows water bends light strangely, making things look other than they are. And besides, birds are not the most careful of observers, especially when there are other, more interesting places to focus their attention.
An hour or so later, slightly damp and smelling of sweet honeysuckle soap, Bast climbed the bluff where he was fairly certain he’d left his master’s book. It was the third bluff he’d climbed in the last half hour, hunting for a particular tree.
When he reached the top, Bast relaxed at the sight of the holly. The branch and nook were right as he remembered, but the book was gone. A quick circle of the tree showed it hadn’t fallen to the ground.
The wind stirred and Bast saw a white flicker like a tiny flag. He felt a sudden chill, fearing it might be a page torn loose. Few things angered his master like a mistreated book.
But no. Reaching up, Bast didn’t feel the leather cover of the book that he expected, instead his fingers found a thick strip of birch bark held there with a stone. He pulled it down and saw the letters crudely scratched into the side.
I ned ta tawk ta ewe. Ets emportent.
Rike
Bast had just made his way back to the lightning tree when he saw a young girl emerge into the clearing wearing a bright blue ruffled dress.
As she made her slow approach, Bast idly stirred the leather sack and made a pull. Looking down, he saw gold glittering against a flat black piece of slate. Lines of delicate engraving etched a chain into the stone. In the sunlight, it shone as bright as gilding.
The little girl didn’t pause at the greystone, trudging straight past and up the side of the hill. She was younger than many of the children who came to the tree, perhaps six or seven. She wore fine slippers and had deep purple ribbons twining through her carefully curled hair.
Bast had never seen her before, but Newarre was a small town. Even if he hadn’t known her he could have guessed by her fine clothes and the smell of rosewater that this was Viette, the mayor’s youngest daughter.
She climbed the low hill with grim determination, carrying something furry in the crook of her arm. When she reached the top of the hill she stopped and stood there, sweating a little and slightly fidgety, but still waiting.
Bast eyed her quietly for a moment, then slowly climbed to his feet. “Do you know the rules?” he asked seriously.
Viette stood, purple ribbons in her hair. She was obviously slightly scared, but her lower lip stuck out defiantly as she looked up at him. She nodded.
“What are they?”
The young girl licked her lips and began to recite in a singsong voice. “No one taller than the stone.” She pointed to the fallen greystone at the foot of the hill. “Come to blacktree, come alone.” She put her finger to her lips, miming a shushing noise. “Tell no—”
“Stop,” Bast interrupted sharply, startling the girl a bit. “You say the last two lines while touching the tree.”
The girl blanched a bit at this, but stepped forward and put her hand against the sun-bleached wood of the long-dead tree.
The girl cleared her throat again, then paused, her lips moving silently as she ran through the beginning of the poem until she found her place again. “Tell no adult what’s been said, lest the lightning strike you dead.”
As she spoke the last word, Viette gasped and jerked her hand back, as if something had stung her. Her eyes went wide as she looked down at her fingertips and saw they were an untouched, healthy pink. Bast hid a smile behind his hand.
“Very well then,” Bast said. “You know the rules. I keep your secrets and you keep mine. I can answer questions or help you solve a problem.” He sat down again, his back against the tree, bringing him down to eye level with the girl. “What do you want?”
She held out the tiny puff of white fur she carried in the crook of her arm. It mewled. “Is this a magic kitten?” she asked.
Bast took the kitten in his hand and looked it over. It was a sleepy thing, almost entirely white. One eye was blue, the other green. “It is, actually,” he said, sounding slightly surprised. “At least a little.” He handed it back.
She nodded seriously. “I want to call her Princess Icing Bun.”
Bast simply stared at her. “Okay,” he said.
The girl scowled at him. “I don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy!”
“Oh,” Bast said. He held out his hand, took the kitten, then petted it and handed it back. “It’s a girl.”
The mayor’s daughter narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you fibbing?”
Bast blinked at the girl, then laughed. “Why would you believe me the first time and not the second?” he asked.
“I could tell she was a magic kitten,” Viette said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I just wanted to make sure. But she’s not wearing a dress. She doesn’t have any ribbons or bows. How can you tell if she’s a girl?”
Bast opened his mouth. Then closed it again. This was not some farmer’s child. She had a governess and a closet full of clothes. She didn’t spend her days around pigs and goats. She’d never seen a lamb born. It was an easy question. What wouldn’t be easy was an angry mayor storming through the front door of the Waystone, demanding why his daughter suddenly knew the word ‘penis.’
Still, it was simple enough to answer. Bast would rather tell the bigger truth than the smaller one anyway. “Bows and dresses don’t matter much,” he said. “She decided she’s a girl, so she’s a girl.”
Viette looked at him suspiciously. “But how do you know what she decided?” Her eyes widened. “Can you talk to kittens?”
“I can,” Bast said smugly.
The little girl’s eyes went wide, and she visibly swelled with excitement. She drew in a breath, then paused and let it out slowly. “They said you were sly….”
“I am,” Bast admitted.
“Anyone can talk to kittens, can’t they?”
Bast grinned at the girl. He’d have to watch this one. In a couple years she’d give Kostrel a run for his money. “They can if they want to.”
“What I mean,” she said, emphasizing the word, “is do kittens talk to you?” Then she quickly added, “So’s you can understand them?”
“No,” Bast said. Then amended his answer to be perfectly honest. “Hardly ever.”
She scowled furiously. “So how do you know she decided to be a girl?”
He hesitated. He’d rather not lie. Not here. But he hadn’t promised to answer her question, hadn’t made any sort of agreement at all with her, in fact. That made things easier.
“I tickle the kitten’s tummy,” Bast said. “And if it winks at me, I know it’s a girl.”
This seemed to satisfy Viette, and she nodded gravely. “How can I get my father to let me keep it?”
“You’ve already asked nicely?”
She nodded. “Daddy hates cats.”
“Screamed and thrown a fit?”
She rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ve tried all that, or I wouldn’t be here.”
Bast thought for a moment. “Okay. First, get some food that will keep good for a couple days. Biscuits. Apples. Nothing with a strong smell. Hide it in your room where nobody will find it. Not even your governess. Not even the maid. Do you have a place like that?”
The little girl nodded.
“Then go ask your daddy one more time. Be gentle and polite. If he still says no, don’t be angry. Just tell him you love the kitten. Say if you can’t have her, you’re afraid you’ll be so sad you’ll die.”
“He’ll still say no,” the little girl said matter-of-factly.
Bast shrugged. “Probably. But here’s the second part. Tonight, pick at your dinner. Don’t eat it. Not even the dessert.” The little girl started to say something, but Bast held up a finger to stop her. “If anyone asks, just say you’re not hungry. Don’t mention the kitten. When you’re alone in your room tonight, eat some of the food you’ve hidden.”
The little girl looked thoughtful.
Bast continued. “Tomorrow, don’t get out of bed. Say you’re too tired. Don’t eat your breakfast. Don’t eat your lunch. You can drink a little water, but just sips. Just lay in bed. When they ask what’s the matter—”
She brightened. “I say I want my kitten!”
Bast shook his head, his expression grim. “No. That will spoil it. Just say you’re tired. If they leave you alone, you can eat, but be careful. If they catch you, you’ll never get your kitten.”
The girl was listening intently now, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“By dinner they’ll be worried. They’ll offer you more food. Your favorites. Keep saying you’re not hungry. You’re just tired. Just lay there. Don’t talk. Do that all day long.”
“Can I get up to pee?”
Bast nodded. “But remember to act tired. No playing. The next day, they’ll be scared. They’ll bring in a doctor. They’ll try to feed you broth. They’ll try everything. At some point your father will be there, and he’ll ask you what’s the matter.” Bast grinned. “That’s when you start to cry. No howling. Don’t blubber. Just tears. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
Bast raised an eyebrow.
The little girl rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh ten years too old for her. Then she stared Bast right in the face, blinked, blinked again, and suddenly her eyes welled up with tears until they spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
As an artist, Bast admired natural talent when he saw it. He clapped expansively, his face solemn as a judge.
Viette dipped a tiny curtsey in return, crisp as a fencer’s salute. “I didn’t even show you the lip…” she said.
“I’m sure it’s devastating,” Bast said without a hint of mockery, then continued. “So you lay there. Just the tears. Don’t say anything until your father comes and asks. Then you say you miss your kitten. Remember you’re supposed to be weak. You haven’t eaten in days. Just the tears and you say you miss your kitten so much you don’t want to be alive any more.”
The little girl thought about it for a long minute, petting the kitten absentmindedly with one hand. Finally she nodded, “Okay.” She turned to go.
“Hold on now!” Bast said quickly. “I gave you two answers and a way to get your kitten. You owe me three things.”
The little girl turned around, her expression an odd mix of surprise and embarrassment. “I didn’t bring any money,” she said, not meeting his eye.
“Not money,” Bast said. “You pay with favors, labors, secrets….”
She thought for a moment. “Daddy hides his strongbox key inside the mantle clock.”
Bast nodded approvingly. “That’s one.”
The little girl looked up into the sky, still petting her kitten. “I saw mama kissing the maid once.”
Bast raised an eyebrow briefly at that. “That’s two.”
The girl put her finger in her ear and wiggled it. “That’s all, I think.”
“How about a favor, then?” Bast said. “I need you to fetch me two dozen daisies with long stems. And a blue ribbon. And two armfuls of gemlings.”
Viette’s face puckered in confusion. “What’s a gemling?”
“Flowers,” Bast said, looking puzzled himself. “Maybe you call them balsams? They grow wild all over around here,” he said, making a wide gesture with both hands.
“Do you mean geraniums?” she asked.
Bast shook his head. “No. They’ve got loose petals, and they’re about this big.” He made a circle with his thumb and middle finger. “They’re yellow and orange and red….”
The girl stared at him blankly.
“Widow Creel keeps them in her window-box,” Bast continued. “When you touch the seed pods, they pop.”
Viette’s face lit up. “Oh! You mean touch-me-nots,” she said, her tone more than slightly patronizing. “I can bring you a bunch of those. That’s easy.” She turned to run down the hill.
Bast called out before she’d taken six steps. “Wait!” When she spun around, he asked her, “What do you say if somebody asks you who you’re picking flowers for?” She rolled her eyes again. “I tell them it’s none of their tupping business,” she said imperiously. “Because my daddy is the mayor.”
After Viette left, Bast lay back against the grass of the hill and closed his eyes. He’d barely been dozing for a quarter hour when a high whistle pierced the air. It wasn’t loud, but the sound of it made Bast sit bolt upright as quickly as if it had been a scream.
The whistle came again, and Bast found himself on his feet like a puppet with a string tied round its heart. He fought the urge to run like a dog called to dinner, and instead forced himself to stretch and roll his neck, running his fingers through his still-damp hair.
Looking down from the top of the hill, Bast didn’t see any children waiting by the greystone. He cast about a bit, and for someone as nearsighted as he was supposed to be, he didn’t seem to have any trouble picking out the slim figure standing in the shadows of the trees two hundred feet away.
Bast sauntered down the hill, across the grassy field, and under the gently shifting shadows of the wood. An older boy stood there. His lean face was sharp and smudgy, softened a little by a boyishly pug nose. He was barefoot, with ragged hair, and as Bast came close he shifted his weight with the anxious energy of a stray dog, half-bristling with defiance, half-ready to run.
“Rike.” Bast’s voice held none of the friendly, bantering tone he’d used with the town’s other children. “How’s the road to Tinuë?”
“A long damn way from here,” the boy said bitterly, not meeting Bast’s eye. “We live in the ass of nowhere.”
“I see you have my book,” Bast said.
The boy held it out, causing the cuff of his shirt to slide up, revealing more thin, smudgy arm. “I wann’t tryin’ to steal it,” he muttered quickly. “I just needed to talk to you.”
Bast looked down at the book, scowling. But while he was almost certainly a fool, he was not the sort to worry over a penny’s worth of thread. The sun seemed to go behind a cloud for a moment as Bast took hold of the book, then frowned when he felt the weight of it.
“I din’t break the rules,” Rike said quickly, his eyes still on the ground. “I din’t even come into the clearing. But I need help. And I’ll pay.”
Bast wanted to refuse. Instead he said, “You lied to me, Rike.”
“And din’t I pay for that?” the boy demanded, anger threading through his sullen voice. “Din’t I pay for it ten times? En’t my life shit enough without having more shit piled on top?”
“And we both know you’re too old,” Bast said grimly.
“I aren’t either!” the boy stomped a foot, then clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, visibly struggling to keep his temper. “Tam is a year older’n me and he can still come to the tree! I’m just taller’n him!”
“It’s not my fault you broke the rules, boy,” Bast said, and while his face didn’t change, there was a thread of menace woven through his voice.
Rike’s head snapped up then, his eyes burning. “I en’t your boy!” he snarled, his anger tearing out of him. “And it en’t my fault your rules are shite!” Rike’s voice was thick with scorn, “I don’t know why I even bother with you!”
Rike jabbed his finger angrily at Bast, shouting so savagely his teeth showed. “Everyone knows you en’t worth a tinker’s damn!” Rike’s eyes were wide and wild as a dog with the froth, so furious they were almost blind as he continued, “You’re a worthless little bastard, and you deserve more of the belt than you get!”
There was a long silence broken only by the boy’s ragged breathing. Rike’s eyes were fixed on the ground again, his fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking.
Bast’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
“Jus—” The boy’s voice broke, and he swallowed hard. He tried again. “Just one.” Rike’s voice was rough, as if he’d hurt it shouting. “Just one favor. Just this once. I’ll pay anything. I’ll pay triple.”
Rike unclenched his fists with an obvious effort. He was still shaking, but all the anger was gone. “Just…please?”
Eyes still on the ground, Rike took a hesitant half-step forward. His hand reached out and hung there aimlessly, then the boy timidly caught hold of Bast’s shirtsleeve, tugging it once before letting his hand fall back to his side. His voice was thin as a broken reed. “Please, Bast?”
At the sound of Rike speaking his name, Bast felt himself sweat cold. He felt weak as wet paper. Like his lungs were full of water. Like his bones were cold iron. Like the sun had gone black in the sky.
Then everything came rushing back. Bast put one hand against a nearby tree. He could feel the rough flake of pine bark on his fingertips. He gasped for breath and realized he was already breathing. He took a half-step away from the boy, just out of arm’s reach…and was surprised his legs were capable of supporting his weight.
Rike looked up, eyes full of tears. His face was twisted in a knot of anger and fear. A boy too young to keep from crying, but still old enough so he couldn’t help but hate himself for doing it. “I just can’t fix this on my own.”
Bast drew a deep breath, then let it out again. “Rike…”
“I need you to get rid of my da,” the boy said in a broken voice. “I can’t figure a way. I could stick him while he’s asleep, but my ma would find out. He drinks and hits at her. And she cries all the time and then it’s worse.”
Bast stood very still. Perfectly still, as if he were about to flinch.
But Rike was looking at the ground again, words pouring out of him in a gush. “I could get him when he’s drunk somewhere, but he’s so big. I couldn’t move him after. They’d find the body and the azzie would come get me. I couldn’t look my ma in the eye then. Not if she knew. I can’t think what that would do to her, if she knew I was the sort of person that would kill his own da.”
He looked up then, his eyes furious and red with weeping. When he spoke, his voice was flat and cold. “I would though. I’d kill him. I just need your help.”
There was a moment of silence between them no longer than a breath.
“Okay,” Bast said.