Call of the Herald (6 page)

Chase pulled the rough but warm blanket
around his shoulders as he curled up in front of the fire. Everyone
else slept, but he could not. His thoughts would not allow it. He
had been ready to face the repercussions of his actions, but he had
not been prepared for Osbourne and Catrin to pay the price in his
stead. He decided he didn't like the taste of guilt and
remorse.

Catrin was gentle and fragile, and he was
supposed to protect her. He had promised Uncle Wendel that he would
always look after her, but when she and Osbourne had needed him
most, he had failed them. Running his thumb over the locket that
hung around his neck, he vowed to do better. Somehow he would
shield her from the harshness of this world.

* * *

Wendel sat upright as he woke with a start.
Darkness covered the land, and the wind made the rafters creak. But
he was accustomed to hearing those noises; something else had
disturbed his sleep, but he no idea what. Straining his hearing, he
listened for anything out of the ordinary but heard nothing
distinct, only brief hints that someone was moving outside the
cottage. Creeping through the darkness, with the precision of
intimate familiarity, he dressed and reached beneath his bed to
retrieve Elsa's sword. Touching it normally brought tears to his
eyes, but this was the first time in more than a decade that he
unsheathed it with the intent of using it, and he moved with
purpose.

Using skills he had long since abandoned,
Wendel crept without a sound to where Catrin slept. Her chest rose
and fell, and her eyelids twitched as they do only when one dreams.
Seeing her safe relieved much of his anxiety, but Wendel was not
yet satisfied. Perhaps the noises he'd heard were made solely by
the wind, but he knew he would never be able to sleep without
checking.

The predawn air carried a chill, and dense
fog hovered above the ground. As Wendel emerged, the air grew
still, as if he had somehow intruded on the wind and chased it
away. The world seemed more like the place of dreams, and Wendel
wondered if he could still be asleep. The snap of a branch in the
distance startled him, but he could see nothing from where the
noise had come. Could it have been a deer?

After checking around the cottage, he checked
the barns, careful not to let the horses hear him, lest they give
him away. Shadows shifted and moved, and the fog constantly changed
the landscape, but Wendel found no signs of anyone about. Still his
anxiety persisted, and he waited for what seemed an eternity for
the coming of the false dawn. Across the barnyard, a shadow moved,
and Wendel froze. Shifting himself from a sitting position to a
more aggressive stance, he watched and waited. Again he saw
movement, and he moved in to intercept. Out of the night came a
blade to match his own, but before the blades met, he knew whom he
faced. "Was that you I heard sneaking around the cottage?" he
asked.

"You woke me while you were out here stomping
around," Benjin said with a lopsided smile.

"We're getting old," Wendel said.

"I may be fat, lazy, and out of practice,"
Benjin said, "but watch who you're calling old."

"Catrin will be up soon. I don't want her to
know we were both out here like a couple of worried hens."

"She won't hear it from me," Benjin said, and
with a wave over his shoulder, he wandered back to his cabin.

Catrin was still asleep when Wendel returned
to his bed, but it seemed only moments later that she began to
stir.

Chapter 3

Anything worth having is worth working for.
Anything you love is worth fighting for.

--Jed Willis, turkey farmer

* * *

Catrin woke, feeling oddly refreshed, happy
to have slept well, and ready to face the day with more optimism
than she would have thought possible. After dressing, she stirred
the stew, which hung over the banked coals of the fire. More
flavorful than it was the night before, it made for a good morning
meal.

She stoked the fire and hung a pot of water
over the flames, warming it for her father, who said washing with
cold water made his bones ache. Benjin wandered in from outside,
looking barely awake but smiling appreciatively as Catrin handed
him a mug of stew. While he ate his breakfast, Catrin ladled a mug
for her father, who had begun to stir. She knew he would be hungry
when he emerged. He grunted in acknowledgment as he accepted the
food, and she left them to their meal.

Lighting her lantern, Catrin left the warmth
of the cottage and walked into the damp coolness of the early
morning air. Millie, a gray and white tabby cat, greeted her at the
door, weaving in and out of her legs. By the time she reached the
feed stall, a mob of cats surrounded her, demanding attention and,
more emphatically, food. Catrin kept a supply of dried meat scrap
and grain in an old basin, and she used a bowl to scoop out enough
for all of them.

A parade of scampering felines following in
her wake, Catrin put the food outside the barn. The cats fell on
it, each wanting their share and more, and they were soon begging
again. Catrin stopped and looked at the cats trailing her. "Now
listen to me. If I feed you any more, you'll get fat and lazy and
not catch any mice," she said, shaking her finger and smiling. The
cats looked at her and dispersed to various hay bales and horse
blankets, content to preen or nap for the moment.

Catrin mixed oats and sweet grain into neatly
organized buckets. Some horses required special herb mixtures in
their feed, and Catrin took great care to be certain the mixtures
went into the correct buckets. Giving an animal the wrong herbs
could have dire consequences, and it was not a mistake she wished
to repeat. A week of cleaning Salty's stall after giving him oil of
the posetta by mistake had left a lasting impression on her.

Growing impatient, the horses banged their
water buckets and pawed the floor to let her know they wanted their
food immediately. Benjin came into the barn and started dumping the
small buckets into the larger buckets that hung in the stalls. He
knew the order; this was a dance they had performed many times.

"How much wikkits root did you put in Salty's
feed, li'l miss?"

"Two small spoons of wikkits and a large
spoon of molasses," Catrin replied, and Benjin chuckled.

"You did good; looks like you mixed it in
fine. Never thought I'd see a horse eat around a powder, but he'll
eat the grain and leave a pile of powder in the bucket. I'm telling
ya, he does it just to spite me," he said, walking into Salty's
stall. He gave the gelding a light pinch on the belly. Salty
squealed and stomped and grabbed Benjin's jacket in his teeth,
giving it a good shake. Without missing a beat, Benjin emptied the
feed into the bucket and patted Salty on the forehead.

"Nice horsy," he said, and Catrin had to
laugh. "Ah, there is that smile, li'l miss. It's good to see it
again," he said with a wink.

She made no reply, unsure of what to say, and
returned to her work. As she opened a bale of hay, mold dust
clouded the air. They had lost too much hay to mold this year, and
she knew not to feed the horses moldy hay. There was not much more
they could have done to prevent the problem, though. The weather
had turned bad at harvest time, and they had not been able to get
the hay fully dry before bailing it. Forced to store the hay damp,
they salted it to reduce moisture, stave off mold, and help prevent
fire. Mold claimed much of the hay nonetheless, but at least it had
not caught fire.

Her grandfather had lost a barn to a fire
caused by wet hay. When hay dries, it goes through a process called
a sweat, where it sheds water and produces heat. If packed too
tightly, intense heat can build up and cause spontaneous
combustion. The lesson had been passed to her father then down to
Catrin. It was something she planned to teach her own children
someday.

The moldy bale of hay she threw to the steer,
which could eat just about anything, and she grabbed another bale
for the horses. After giving each horse two slices of hay, she
collected the water buckets, carrying them to the well her father
and Benjin had dug long ago. It was something the men took great
pride in, and Catrin was glad to have it. Her father often said it
was not deep enough for his liking, and he feared it would run dry
during droughts, but it had yet to fail them.

He once explained to Catrin that they were at
the upper edge of an artesian basin. Water became trapped between
layers of rock and was subjected to immense pressure. If you were
to penetrate the rock anywhere along the basin, water would rise on
its own, possibly forming a small fountain. Some places in
Harborton had such wells, which had been allowing water to escape
for hundreds of years.

After dumping out the dirty water, she gave
the buckets a good scrubbing before refilling them; then she and
Benjin hung them in the stalls. Afterward, they took hay and water
to the horses that were out to pasture. The routine soothed Catrin;
the rhythm of life on the farm was predictable and comforting. The
tasks were familiar, and she could perform them skillfully, which
gave her great pride. She liked nothing better than to do something
well; doing a mediocre job was one of her greatest fears.

Finding herself thirsty, she walked over to
the well for a drink and was disturbed to see a shiny black
carriage under the trees. A squire tended a fine black mare, and
Catrin was dumbfounded to see Master Edling speaking with her
father. He was garbed in formal black robes, the blue embroidery as
bright as a bluebird. He seemed out of place on the farm, a place
of sweat and dirt, far from the pristine halls of the Masterhouse.
Her father did not look happy, but neither did he appear to be
angry, at least not with Master Edling.

Frozen in anxious suspense, Catrin stood very
still, hoping no one would notice her and fighting the urge to
flee. Benjin came to her side, carrying a spare water bucket.

"Don't let them get the best of you, li'l
miss. They are no better than the rest of us, no matter how
prettily they dress or how clean they keep their fingernails," he
said, filling the bucket. He pushed her toward her father as he
carried the bucket to the squire. Her father shot her a steely
glance and pointed to the cottage, an unspoken command. Catrin
followed the two men into the cottage, cowed.

Her father offered Master Edling a seat and
served summerwine and cheese. After a respectful interval, he
turned to Catrin.

"Master Edling has come for two reasons.
First, he is here to represent the Council of Masters. They've
decided, due to the serious nature of the 'incident,' it would be
best if you did not attend the public lessons--at least until this
has all been sorted out," he said.

Catrin heard his words, and she understood
what the council meant.
We don't think you should appear in
public again--ever,
she thought, shrinking in on herself.

"Second, Master Edling has volunteered to act
as your tutor. He must still instruct the public lesson days, but
he will come here on the off days to give you lessons. Quite kind
of him, I'd say," he said with a nod to Master Edling. "I should be
getting back to work, so I'll leave you to your lesson. If you'll
excuse me, Master Edling."

"Yes, yes, indeed," Master Edling said,
absently waving him from the room.

Catrin felt trapped, forced into isolation.
Master Edling's visit was just the beginning. Keeping her away from
town would only make her appear guilty of some crime. People would
start to believe the crazy stories about her. She would be shunned
for the rest of her life. Master Edling was not there to tutor her,
she thought; he'd come only to see if she had grown horns or
sprouted wings. Her mood dropped from fear into anger then to
frustration. Her rage was building, seeking release, and it took
great effort not to lash out. She had committed no crime. She had
only tried to save her friend. As thanks, they would ruin her life,
and it made her want to scream.

"Miss Volker?" Master Edling said,
interrupting her mental torment. "I think that will do for today,"
he said, giving her one of his most disgusted looks. "I do not
believe you heard a single word I said, did you? I could give you
the same lesson on the morrow, and you would know no difference,"
he added in disgust. Catrin could not argue with him; she had not
even realized he had begun his lecture, but his attitude only
fueled her anger.

Master Edling stood and left without another
word, his robes billowing around him. Catrin doubted he would
return; he had seen what he had come to see. She was no monster or
evil murderer, just a rude farm girl who had ignored and insulted
him. His departure was bittersweet; while Catrin was not sorry to
see him go, his leaving was like the death knell for her
friendships. She wondered if she were destined to live as a hermit
because of one freak incident.

Her father came back into the cottage,
looking concerned. "Is your lesson over so quickly?" he asked.
"Master Edling barely spoke a word as he left." His movements made
it clear he was not pleased.

Catrin could not look him in the eye. She
stared at the floor, stifling her tears. "I'm so sorry, Father. I
was angry and confused, and I was thinking about everything and
what it all meant and--" Her voice cracked, and she knew she was
going to cry.

"Slow down, Cat. Don't get too upset on me.
Let's just talk about this," he said gently, and Catrin did her
best to steel herself and try to keep her emotions under
control.

"I don't think Master Edling believes I am a
worthy student."

"Are you?"

"No, sir, I don't think I am," she replied
sadly.