Spires of Spirit (2 page)

Svengard had his mouth full of ham. He squinted at Elizabeth and shook his head, but when he swallowed, he spoke. “'Twas about fourscore years ago she was born. Ugly thing. Still is. Always had that bad leg, and always had that hoarse voice. People made fun of her, especially the little ones. She used to laugh about it herself, until she understood what it all meant. Father died. Mother passed on giving her life.

“She got by, though she had to beg a lot. Couldn't even make a good whore: too ugly . . . and that brace got in the way. Francis' father used to make them for her out of charity . . . until he got too old and young Francis took over the forge. Now it's the youngster does it.”

Svengard fell silent. Andrew wondered if he was thinking about charity. “You said she had to beg.”

“Until she learned the leatherwork, aye. Then she made her own way. People didn't like to deal with her much, but they did. And there was some that still laughed. She just sort of holed up in that house of hers and got real strange.”

Elizabeth was wiping her youngest's face. “It sounds as though she had much to be bitter about.”

“Well,” said Svengard, “she used to laugh. She could have stayed that way. But, no, she just got bitter and nasty. Then she went and killed my sheep.”

James looked at Svengard. His young eyes were troubled. “It doesn't sound fair . . .”

“God takes care of everything,” said the shepherd through another mouthful.

“Sometimes I wonder . . .” said Andrew, lapsing into thought.

“First thinking, and now wondering! Watch it, Andrew: next thing you'll be out dancing in the forest with the Elves! God help you, you'll have a changeling in your cradle!”

“I'll be all right,” said Andrew softly.

***

The Leather-woman was much on Andrew's mind over the next weeks. The tool belt, to be sure, was a constant reminder, but it was more than that: the memory of the thin, crippled old woman tottering down the road, alone, with no family and no friends and only a stick to lean on . . . The image haunted him.

She used to laugh
, Svengard had said. But had she not been given sufficient cause to stop laughing? Andrew, pausing in the middle of planing a tabletop, considered. What might her life have been if no one had laughed at her? What if everything could have been turned around? For a moment, Andrew saw her, crippled still, and hoarse still, but seated under the oak tree in the square, playing with the children, telling them stories, bringing out herbs to heal a cut or scrape or illness. Loved . . .

He laid his work aside and sat down on his bench, for his sight had turned blurry. Jaques Alban, the village priest, had condemned her (though he would not move against her, even with the Inquisition firmly in control in the cities to the north), but Alban, most everyone agreed, was a fool, and so, though Andrew had no doubt that the Leather-woman had destroyed Svengard's flock, he discovered, in the other pan of the balance, many years of loneliness and pain, and he was not at all sure that the latter was not the heavier.

Why had it happened that way? Why not another way?

Near noon, Elizabeth found him with his head in his hand. Concerned when he could not answer her questions, she could only hug him and make him eat what she had brought him.

“I'm just dizzy, my love,” he murmured between tasteless mouthfuls. “I'm thinking too much. Maybe Sven's right.”

“There's nothing wrong with thinking,” said Elizabeth.

“I wonder.”

Uncharacteristically, he gave up on his work that day and wandered out to the forest, away from the tilled fields. The trunks were shadowy, indistinct, but all the same, they were familiar things. Trees. Good, solid trees. Wood, living and growing.

The sight of them calmed him. Here were earth and water and wind, and sunlight dappling the mossy forest floor. He breathed the air and sighed. Hermits, he was sure, had the right idea to leave the random and quarreling houses of men and dwell in the woods, finding peace among the trees. Perhaps they spoke with the Elves, and why should they not? Jaques Alban had assured the villagers that, like the Leather-woman, the Elves were beings to be avoided, soulless creatures who led godless lives . . . but everyone knew about Alban; and in any case Andrew knew that the priest had no more knowledge of the Fair Folk than he did himself. Far more likely there were mistaken ideas in currency, even among the priests, for anyone who knew the woods as well as the Elves knew it could not but be, like the hermits, and in accordance with their own ways, gentle and godly folk.

He rested, leaning against a thick oak, and as his thoughts calmed, he resolved to help the Leather-woman, regardless of her spitting and her evil deeds. Maybe he could undo something of what had been done. And would it not be a godly task to win a soul back from evil?

Something flashed among the shadows of the trees, and Andrew started when he realized that it was a pair of eyes . . . then started again as the figure to whom they belonged came forward: a young man dressed simply in green and gray, with a gray cloak fastened at his throat. His face was almost womanly, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and deep blue eyes that mirrored more light than Andrew expected.

“Be at peace,” said the stranger. “Forgive me if I frightened you.”

Andrew pulled off his cap, felt absurd, put it back on again. “What can I do for you, messire?”

The young man smiled. “Is that the village of Saint Brigid?” he said, pointing. His voice was quiet: pitched just loud enough to carry, no more.

“Indeed it is, messire.”

“There is no need to call me
messire
. My name is Varden.”

“God bless you, Varden. I'm Andrew.”

“Blessings upon you this day, Andrew. There is a woman in the village who works leather, is there not?”

“Aye, messire . . . er, Varden. She lives in a hut on the other side of town. I fear I must warn you: she is a witch.”

“A witch? Indeed?”

“She has done evil.”

A smile. “I thought you said that she is a witch.”

“I did . . . uh . . . I thought I did . . .”

“Peace to you, Master Carpenter.” Varden laid a light hand on his shoulder.

“Uh . . . thank you.” Andrew peered at Varden through the dappling of leaf shadows. The brooch that fastened the stranger's cloak had the fashion of an interlaced moon and star, and, indeed, the light in his eyes seemed like that of the stars on a clear night. Andrew found that his hands were shaking. “May I ask . . . what brings you to Saint Brigid?”

“I want to look in on the woman. I am . . . concerned about her.” Varden looked Andrew full in the face. “Do you know her name?”

Andrew realized that he did not. She had always been the Leather-woman. He admitted as much to Varden.

“Perhaps that will be remedied someday,” said Varden. “I must go now. Farewell.”

He bowed and then he was gone, his gray cloak blending into the trees, his footfalls silent. Andrew suddenly wondered how Varden had known to call him
Master Carpenter
.

***

When Andrew returned home, he was still shaking. Elizabeth noticed, and her eyes were thoughtful as he told his story. “I imagine he was some kind of traveler,” said Andrew. “Maybe a relative?”

“Maybe. I wonder . . .” Elizabeth looked at the unshuttered window where the last of the afternoon sunlight was glowing.

Dinner was quiet that evening, and, afterward, Andrew stayed up into the night. Long after Elizabeth and the children had retired upstairs, he sat watching the fire as it burned low, the dying embers flickering redly, and if thinking was bad, then he was most assuredly becoming addicted to the pernicious habit, for he mused alternately on the Leather-woman and on Varden. He was suspecting something about the latter, but he was afraid to admit it to himself. Then, too, Varden's question about the Leather-woman's lack of a name kept coming back to him. She did not even have a name anymore. Had it come to that? Names were . . . names were important. They could not just be forgotten.

Eventually, he could stand it no longer, and he rose, threw on his cloak, and went out. Unseen, he made his way through the village, his boots crunching on the stones of the street. Finally, the last house but one was behind him, and the Aleser Mountains bulked against the horizon, visible only because they blacked out the stars. Closer was the small hut—thatched unevenly, full of holes—where the Leather-woman lived.

Cautiously, he crept forward, stepping with care, wishing he could move as silently as the young man in the forest. His mouth was dry and tasted of fear, but he forced himself to press on: around the rocks, through the heather, up to the wall of the hut.

There was a fair-sized crack at about eye level, and yellow light glimmered uneasily from it. With a prayer that he might not be blasted, Andrew peered through it.

Across the shabby room was a table, and there the Leather-woman sat on a flimsy stool, her back to Andrew. She was chanting tonelessly, and from her movements, he judged that she was mending. Aside from a dying fire, a small candle was the only light, and he wondered that she was not blind. He wondered, too, how and what she ate: he did not see much resembling food in the house. She was thin, too thin, and he suddenly became afraid that she would die . . . and she had no name. And who would bury her?

The Leather-woman moved, dropping her work and covering her face with her hands. A low sob drifted through the dark air. It had no more resonance than a gong of lead, but Andrew heard it, and he heard also her hoarse murmur: “Let me go.”

His vision was blurring again, and he stepped back and wiped his eyes. When he looked again, the Leather-woman had turned around and was glaring at the chink as if she had sensed his presence. Hastily, he retreated.

As he reentered the village, his thoughts were whirling again.
Let me go
. The murmured plea and the moan that went with it were, in his opinion, enough to rive the gates of hell itself.

And she could die. And without even a
name
.

He was so lost in thought that he did not at first notice that he was no longer alone in the street. Someone had appeared from between the buildings and had fallen in step beside him.

“Good evening, Master Carpenter. Are you going my way?”

Andrew cried out in fear, but he recognized Varden's smile and shining eyes even in the darkness. Indeed, a soft light, like a shimmer, appeared to hover about the young man.

His cry, though, had been heard, and a shutter opened above his head. “Andrew? Is tha' you?” came the gruff voice of the smith.

“Uh . . . it is, Francis,” said the carpenter. He noticed that Varden had faded quietly back into the shadows.

“Wha' in God's holy name are you doing out in the middle o' the night, man?”

“Uh . . . taking a walk.”

“Ach! Yer brain is addled with wood chips and sawdust! D'ye need help?”

“No thank you, Francis. I'm on my way home.”

“Good night to you then. May God sit on yer pillow!”

The shutter banged to, and Varden reappeared. “It seems,” he said, “that you are indeed going my way.”

“Where?”

“To your house. I want to talk with you.”

“To me? But . . . but why?” The carpenter was both baffled and frightened.

Varden took him gently by the arm and guided him away from the smith's window. “It appears that we share a concern.” With light, soundless steps, he accompanied Andrew to his house and entered quietly behind him.

The carpenter hung up their cloaks on the wooden pegs by the door and turned to face his guest. Even among the commonplace furnishings of the house, Varden kept his shimmer and his mystery. It was as though some wild thing had entered to pay a visit to its domestic kindred, bringing with it an ambiance of forest and river, mountain and lake.

Varden smiled. “Be at peace, Andrew.”

“What is it you want, Varden?”

“May we sit?” Varden gestured to the chairs by the fire. Andrew nodded and guided his guest to one of the seats, then sat down facing him, watching him in silence for some time.

Varden at last spoke. “You are worried about the Leather-woman.”

“I am.”

“I watched you at her house this night.”

“I shouldn't have done that.”

“Should not have done what? Shown compassion for a fellow creature? Exhibited concern for her welfare? I believe you are a Christian, Andrew. Are these things not good for one of your faith to do?”

Andrew passed a hand over his face. “She'll more than likely curse me for a meddler . . . like she did Svengard.”

“The shepherd?” Varden shifted as though sitting in a chair was not something to which he was accustomed. “Perhaps. But have you ever seen a starving dog? Frightened creatures—creatures in pain—will snap even at a hand extended in compassion and friendship. And the Leather-woman has been starving for a long time by your reckoning of the years.”

Andrew watched the flames of the fire. The pine crackled and spat. “Did you find out what her name is?”

“I did not. That information appears to have been lost.”

Andrew looked up. Exposed by the open collar of Varden's tunic was a pendant in the form of a moon and rayed star. It caught the light and sent a flash across the fireplace stones. “Who are you, Varden? Are you an Elf?”

Varden's voice was soft. “I am.”

Andrew was silent. He had said the word. He should have been terrified, but instead he felt only relief: there seemed to be nothing even remotely frightening about Varden. He laughed quietly, releasing the last of the tension. “I've never talked to an Elf before.”

“I have never guested with a human before.”

“Why did you decide to start?”

Varden grew serious. “For this reason: the Leather-woman has lived for eighty years. She is old, and bitter, and she has done evil, and she will continue to do it. Her life could have been otherwise, but it was confounded.”

“How do you know that for certain?”

Varden leaned toward Andrew. “I will tell you this, Andrew: each life lived is many lives. There are patterns of chance and circumstance that form and change with each breath we take. It is so even with Elves, and those of your race are even more affected because in many ways you walk your lives in blindness. There was another life open to the Leather-woman. You saw it in your daydream: she could have been loved, and she could have loved in return. But she was denied that life and that love. Perhaps it could be set down to fate, destiny, happenstance, caprice.” He shrugged. “Regardless, her sorrow is great, and my people are troubled. Other creatures we would heal, or release from their burden of life, but we cannot so deal with the Leather-woman. Her help must come from human hands.”