Magesong (13 page)

"They should all be kept in one place, in the center of
the village.  That way, if anyone can't come we will still have his bucket. 
I'll have my son Jonn make sure they stay full.  And we should make some
extras.  Celvake, do you still have those seasoned staves?  Could you make more
buckets?"

"Those are barrel staves.  I would have to . . .
hmm," he cocked his head.  "Okay, I think I can do it, but I'll need
the help of one of the boat builders.  Yothan would be my first choice." 
Then he suddenly smiled big, as he always did when saying something only half
in jest.  "Can I come eat at your house tonight, Syliva?"

Syliva thought about Aksel's cooking spree the night before,
took note of how gaunt Celvake had become, and tried to return the smile. 
"Why sure.  What would you like?  Lentil soup, or soup with lentils in
it?"

Kurnt looked at both of them.  "I'll take care of you,
Cel.  Yothan too.  No need to give Syliva extra work."

"Thank you, Kurnt," she said, trying not to sound
too surprised.  "That's very generous.  Oh, and one more item.  We'll have
to keep a fire watch.  The roof of the meeting lodge seems the best place.  And
I think this would be a good job for the youngsters, the ones old enough not to
fall off.  As long as we give them short watches, say an hour each, they should
have fun doing it and do very well.  Maybe Haron would like to be in charge of
this."

Kurnt nodded.  "I think that's a good idea,
Syliva."

As the men turned away, Celvake lecturing Kurnt on the
intricacies of bucket making, Syliva called to her son, who was telling the
story of the fire to some late-coming girls.  "Jonn, I'm going home
now."

He grinned.  "Okay, I'm staying here."

The scent of wood smoke, mixed with the coppery odor of
blood, crossed the farmyard as Syliva opened the gate.  Not the smoke of the
wildfire.  She hung the shovel on its hook in the tool shed and saw that the
newly-sharpened tools had all been returned to their proper places.  The
chopping block glistened from a fresh washing, the dirt around it freshly raked
over.

He had been here, butchering a goat while they fought the fire. 
How could he have not heard the great horn?

She wanted to know which one Aksel had slaughtered, and
looked for the hide, but it wasn't hanging in the usual place or anyplace she
could see.  Maybe it wasn't a goat.  Maybe it was just a couple of rabbits. 
She walked over to the smokehouse and tugged on the door.  It didn't budge. 
She pulled hard, but it was solid as a stone wall.  Then she saw.

He had nailed it shut.  Not with just one or two nails — he
had used dozens, along the top and bottom as well as the side.  She knew what
he was trying to do; he wanted to keep the yeggmen out.  But it seemed, like
everything else he did these days, to be too much.  It would take half an hour
of nail-pulling just to check the meat.

Not finding her husband in the house, Syliva went to the
barn and called for him.  He didn't answer.  She wandered past the empty pens,
patting ol' Nels, their ox, on the head as she paused to listen.  Something
creaked in the loft.  Probably the cat, she thought as she climbed the ladder,
and so she started in surprise seeing Aksel there, hunkered down by the loft
doors, bow and arrow in hand.

"Didn't you hear — what are doing up here with your
hunting bow?"

His eyes took up the squint.  "Watching for them."

"The thieves?"

"Anyone who would deny us.  And I'm going to take other
measures as well."

"They're not going to strike in broad daylight while
we're here," she said slowly, trying to look past the hardness of his
face.  "Are you feeling well?"

"I'm not going to starve, Syliva.  I know what it's
like to be hungry.  Once when I was young, my father wouldn't let me eat for
three days just because I pinched some apples from the neighbors."  His
voice rasped with fury, as if he lived the punishment again.  "I got so
hungry.  All that food was there, and I was hungry!"  She went to him and
laid her hand on his shoulder.  His breathing slowed, and he came back to the
present, but his eyes remained steely.

"No one is going to deny us," he said.  "I
heard what Taila Keyvern said about Jonn.  They can't force us to give up food,
or drive us away from our home.  If anyone tries," he brushed past her,
unable to meet her stare, "I'll kill them."

She followed him out into the yard, but he just kept going
and didn't look back, vanishing into the forest at the foot of the mountain.

The next day was her visiting day.  Lovisa looked glum.  The
young woman had apparently not bathed in a fortnight as well.  Jasperwort tea
would help that a little, but what she most obviously needed was Farlo's
return.  And she would not leave her house, even when Syliva pleaded with her,
refusing to come live under Syliva's care for even one night.

As she crossed the center of the village, Syliva waved at
Krissa Barlsen, who sat rigidly atop the meeting lodge in her brother's
trousers, keeping a studious watch on the surrounding forest.  Krissa would be
seventeen on the day after Midsummer.  Not so far away — she had better start
making gifts for the grandchildren.  What kind of festival would that be?  It
was supposed to be the greatest of the year.  How could she keep it from
turning into a disaster?

She found Kestrin waiting for her outside her house. 
Kestrin's dad had suffered stomach pain all the day before.  An extra dose of
starseed hadn't really helped, so she told Kestrin not to give it to him
anymore.

Kestrin walked a short way with her as she went.  "I'm
going cook up some essence of alseflower for him," Syliva said, not as
pleasantly as she would have liked.

"That will ease the pain, and he should be able to eat."

Kestrin looked directly into her eyes.  "Do you know
what it is?"

Meeting her gaze levelly, Syliva answered, "No.  But I
am getting good ideas about what it is not.  Eliminate the common causes first —
"

"Then work on the more rare possibilities,"
Kestrin said with mock tiredness, quoting an old lesson.  "Speaking of
rare possibilities, here comes Kevas.  He's with his dad."

The two men strode up the path.  Kurnt touched the brim of
his straw hat and said, "Good morning."  His son stood behind him,
holding a heavy staff like a hiking stick.  Syliva saw that his business was
serious.

"What is it, Kurnt?"

"Oh, nothing really, just lost a goat in all the
excitement over that fire yesterday.  I don't know how it could have got out,
but one did."

Kestrin turned to Kevas.  "What is that you're
carrying?"

He shrugged.  "It’s only a walking stick."

"No it isn't; it's too thick — and look it's
iron-shod.  What were you going to do if you found your goat here?  Knock me on
the head with it?"

"Don't be stupid."

"Your the one who's stupid, carrying something like
that."

"Oh yeah?  Well there
are
yeggmen about, and
they're clever.  You should know that better than most folk.  And that goat was
penned.  You know what I think?  I think the fire was started by whoever stole
our goat and old Plinna's turnips."

"That's enough of that," Kurnt said to his son.

Syliva looked at him; Plinna was his neighbor.  "Plinna
had turnips stolen?"

"Two sacks full.  While he was away at the fire."

She stared at him in silence.

"You've got a fairly big flock, Syliva.  Would you do
me a favor and take a head count, see if the stray jumped in with yours
somehow?  He's a black with white legs."  She nodded.  "Sorry to
bother you, Miss Kestrin," he said, touching his hat again.

They watched the two men until they were out of sight, then
Kestrin muttered, "I should have broken that stick over his head."

The sun floated in a clear sky, as directly overhead as it
ever did in the Pallenborne, by the time Syliva got back to her house.  Jonn
tended goats in the far yard, the one with young firs and leafless scrub brush,
and he was letting them gnaw the lower branches off the firs.

"Why are you letting them eat my fir trees?" she
called out.

"Dad says to let them eat everything in this
yard."

"He does?  Well, Dad didn't ask me if they could eat my
young trees, and it looks like they've had enough for now.  Why don't you move
them to the south yard."

Jonn shrugged.  "Okay."

"Wait a minute."  She counted the flock, not
seeing a black one with white legs.  "They're all here, aren't they?  Did
dad slaughter a goat yesterday?"

"Not one of ours," Jonn said.  "They're all
here."

"Well what's in the smokehouse then?"

"I don't know, but it smells like goat meat to me.  Maybe
dad found a stray one."

"A stray one. . . .  He better not have," she
mumbled to herself.  "Jonn, where is he right now?"

"Still inside, I think.  I've heard hammering from
inside the house all morning."

"Hammering?"  Syliva shook her head.  "Just take
the flock to the south yard," she said to Jonn.  Then low, to herself as
she turned toward the house, "I need to find out what's what."

Inside, the house was dark and hot.  "Aksel," she
called, but only quiet, punctuated by the creak of the floorboards answered
her.

All the shutters stood closed and barred.  When she tried to
open one, she found the bar wedged tight.  No, nailed.  He had nailed the
shutter down, with dozens of nails, more than the smokehouse door.  She went to
the next window — nailed tight.  And so was the next window.  And the next. 
And every shutter on the ground floor.

She went down the stone steps to the cellar door.  It, too,
had been spiked shut.  An enormous iron nail had been driven so deep into the
solid oak that the head lay buried.

Her pulse quickened with her racing thoughts, and she felt
her stomach tightening.  She heard a near silent footfall on the step directly
behind her.

"Mother?"

Syliva whirled with a gasp.  "Oh Jonn, you scared
me."

"Are you okay?"

"Yes.  Fine.  Say, would you go and get something to
pry this door open."

Jonn nodded.  "I know what."  He ran up the steps
and returned a minute later with an iron file.  He slipped it between the door
and the frame and heaved.  The spike came out like a thorn from flesh.

Syliva opened the door slowly, suddenly afraid, suddenly
sure of what she would find behind it.

And it was all there.

Kegs of cheese, barrel of flour, basket of dried fish, sacks
of turnips.

She whispered to herself, "How could you?  How could
you?" then blinked away tears and turned to her son.  He looked at her
plainly; he hadn't yet figured it out.

"Jonn, would you go see if your father is anywhere
upstairs.  I need to talk to him."

He jogged up the steps, and she turned back to the looted
foodstuffs.  
The turnips.  The spirit-damned turnips!  Did he set the fire
in the forest
?  Shivering in the slight cool of the underground room, she
could no longer hold back the tears.  This wasn't right.  This was a bad dream.

She heard Jonn padding back down the steps in his quiet
way.  What was she going to tell him, that his father is worse than a thief? 
But when she turned, Aksel stood there.

He wore only a pair of leather walking-shorts, with a large
butchering knife thrust through the belt, and he carried a two-pound hammer
gripped in one hand.  His chest looked terribly sallow.

Then she saw his eyes and knew, all mysteries vanishing
quick as fog struck by hurricane winds. 

The whites of his eyes had turned yellow.  Fenwolf fever in
its last stage.  How could she have been such a fool?  Had she been so worried
about everyone else that she missed it in her own husband?  That didn't matter
anyway; Aksel was mad now.  Yes, she had to make herself think it — he was
insane and had been for weeks.

"My own wife," he said with a grim smile, giving
her a nod before swaggering down the last steps.

That smile was a monstrous thing, terrible to behold.  Her
stomach turned over as she backed away, deeper into the stone-lined cellar.  He
advanced, pausing in the doorway to look at the place where the spike had been.

Syliva braced herself to speak calmly and soothingly, but as
the first words formed, her tears began to run fast, and she could not keep the
cry out of her voice.

"I want you to listen to me, Aksel — "  She
thought it important for him to hear his name.  " — and think about what I
say.  You are very sick, and the sickness is making you believe things that are
not true."

He leaped into the room, striking the near wall full force
with the hammer.  The sudden violence of it made her jump.  Fragments of stone
whizzed through the air like musket balls, one imbedding itself in a flour
barrel, another in Aksel's face.  He didn't seem to feel it.

"So now I don't even think right, do I?"  Blood
trickled down the side of his face.

"It's the disease.  It has hold of your mind."

"Do you want me to take some more medicine?" he
said, suddenly calm.

She was getting through to his real self.  "I have to
cook it.  It will take a little — "

"You witch!" he screamed, stepping forward to
smash in the lid of a barrel with a single blow from the hammer.  "I know
what you've been doing.  You've been poisoning me with those teas of yours.  Oh
yes, I noticed it the first time."

His mouth grew small, his face twisted with secret
amusement.  "I poured them out the window when you turned your back.  So I
know, you see.  But no more.  No more for you, and no more for me."  He
raised the heavy hammer, looking at it then at her.

He took three quick steps before she could move, the hammer
whistling past her ear, grazing her shoulder as she dodged away, somehow
putting an empty barrel between the two of them.  As he recovered from the
missed blow and tried to turn his momentum toward her, she pushed the barrel
over and rolled it at him.  But he easily hurdled it, raising the hammer once
more.