The Falcon in the Barn (Book 4 Forest at the Edge series) (7 page)

Mahrree sniffed. “Sometimes he does so well.
Three nights, no incidents. He almost smiles then . . . it’s all
back again. I make him tell me what he sees. Shem said that’s what
the book said to do; make him speak it and realize it’s not
real.”

Hycymum shifted nervously. “What does he
see?”

Mahrree could tell she really didn’t want to
know it all, but it helped her to say it out loud. “Variations on
the same theme: dirtied men in black. Daggers and knives. Sometimes
swords. His family, lying still in pools of blood. He arriving
moments too late.”

Hycymum shuddered. “How often do you give him
that stuff?”

“
That’s the problem; I quit
after he’s had a few good nights. He’s fine on his own for a night
or so, but then it starts again.”

“
So just keep snuffing
him.”

“
Sedating
him,”
Mahrree clarified.

“
Whatever. Just a little
each night.”

“
We don’t know how it might
affect him, taking it for so long,” Mahrree fretted. “No one knows,
not even Dr. Brisack. I’m supposed to report to him each week about
Perrin’s reactions.”

“
Lovely,” Hycymum said with
uncharacteristic sarcasm. “Using Perrin as a test squirrel! If
Chairman Mal knew that his citizens were being tested
on—”

“
He likely would ask for a
copy of the results for himself,” Mahrree told her mother. “I
haven’t sent back any reports, though. I don’t want them to know
what’s going on here. I just keep praying.”

“
I know,” Hycymum said. “I
talked to Rector Yung the other day. He told me he sees you quite
frequently.”

Mahrree nodded. “He’s a sweet man. I feel he
says to me exactly what Hogal would have advised. He’s trying to
get Perrin to talk to him, but on mornings like this?”

She sighed and wiped away another tear.

“
Mother, last night we sat
on the sofa together talking about the day, the new lieutenants,
the obnoxious captain. About how he and Shem need to come up with
new facial codes for Lemuel Thorne so he won’t know they’re talking
about him. He even smiled last night. I felt safe snuggling up to
him the way I always did. Then, only a few hours later, he was
screaming through the house, swinging that sword—”

Hycymum patted her daughter again. “Someday,
he just might hit something or
someone
. And then there will
be a tragedy.”

Half an hour later Mahrree left her mother’s,
a bit dehydrated but feeling lighter for the good cry. She skirted
the marketplace and took a longer way home, by the old rectory that
used to belong to Hogal and Tabbit Densal but was now cared for by
a tiny old man who worked in his front garden. Morning, noon, and
night Yung was outside pulling the weeds from his manicured beds of
vegetables or pruning fruit trees that still had a few late
blossoms. The fruit, Mahrree knew, would be shared with whomever
passed and wanted an apple or a pear.

And then there were his herbs. Mahrree
stopped a couple of houses away to watch the narrow man trimming
his basil and parsley, already green and bushy, into tiny trees.
The leaves which he clipped off he carefully gathered. Something in
Mahrree’s chest burned, then crumbled, as she watched him.

She’d always had dreams—glorious, baffling
dreams—about a large house of faded gray wood. There were fuzzy
elements that remained whenever she woke, and she desperately tried
to hold on to them, yet the details faded away as she grew more
alert. But there were a few constants: always the house, and
mountains, and children—more than two—and window boxes filled with
herbs.

That was most puzzling thing about the
dream—the herbs. She never tried to grow any herself because there
wasn’t any aspect of gardening that ever struck her as
enjoyable.

But in her dreams she sat in a garden and
weeded,
happily
. She decided some time ago that the dream
was symbolic, although she could never grasp what the symbols
meant.

Once, briefly a few years ago, she
entertained the notion that maybe the house was a peek at some
future life, a distant reality, if only she could perform well and
long enough.

But it was impossible. There were no more
children in her future. Even if she didn’t have to take The Drink
that cramped her womb into a barren nothingness, she and Perrin
were in their mid-forties now, too old to be new parents again.

So she shoved the dream back into a section
of her mind she called, “Mysterious and frustrating. Maybe
symbolic. Definitely perplexing.” She hoped recategorizing it might
make the brutal fantasy go away. But still she dreamed, every year,
a dozen times. She’d wake up smiling, see the faint outline of the
house, then wretchedly watch it dissolve like sugar in water.

There was simply nowhere to go with it, so
she tried to ignore it, as she tried to ignore the small dog
yapping at her right now through a fence. And, just like the dog,
there’s only so long you can pretend that you don’t notice it. It’s
only your mind that’s not accepting the harsh reality—

Mahrree, in pure frustration, kicked the
fence with all her might. The mangy beast yelped as if she’d
actually hit it and ran for the house while Mahrree began walking
as if she hadn’t the faintest idea why the animal was now barking
at her from the safety of the porch.

She slowed her gait in front of Rector Yung’s
house, and he automatically looked up. His narrow eyes turned into
slits as his gentle and wide smile took over most of his face.

“
Mrs. Shin! How lovely to
see you. May I interest you in some fresh basil? It’s just growing
wild on me this year. Or parsley?”

Earlier something in Mahrree’s chest had
burned, then crumbled. Now the fragments tried to smolder pitifully
again as she stared at the herbs the rector offered her.

“
Thank you.” She arranged
them in her hand and their pungency filled her nose. For some
reason the scent reminded her of that night years ago when she ran
into the forest to question Guarders, surprised herself by finding
a female one, then ran back out again because the woman knew her
name. She’d sat sobbing under a pine tree so fragrant that,
whenever she passed a similar species, the scent brought back the
memory with embarrassing intensity.

The combination of basil and parsley was only
slightly similar to a pine, but still she could see that night so
clearly before her, and the woman, hooded in a black cloak, who
chided her—

She looked back at the sweetness of Rector
Yung as an escape from that recollection, but still it remained,
somehow blurring him into the picture where he didn’t belong.

“
Mrs. Shin,” he said
gently, reading all sorts of mixed emotions on her face, “how are
you?”

It wasn’t a pleasantry; it was a deeply
concerned question. All she could do in response was shrug. Rector
Yung put a fatherly arm around her waist—even as short as Mahrree
was, so was Rector Yung so that he could never put an arm around
anyone’s shoulders—and he gave her a little squeeze that conveyed
far more warmth and love than she’d felt from the entire
village.

“
May I drop by later? When
he’s home?”

Mahrree sighed heavily. “He was very bad last
night.”

Yung nodded once. “I know. Shem told me. I
have some ideas that might help.”

Mahrree stared at the herbs scenting her
hands. “You can try, but I don’t know how he’ll respond.”

Yung squeezed her again. “If you’re worried
that I’ll be offended by his reactions, don’t be. Nothing offends
me.” Then, as if he just thought of it, he continued with, “Have
you ever fed a puppy that was abandoned by its mother?”

Mahrree looked blankly at him. “Uh, no? Is
this another Flax-Waves saying?”

Yung smiled. “Well, sort of. When a puppy is
abandoned, others need to step in and feed it. But often the puppy
doesn’t want the milk that can sustain it. Maybe it’s too hurt from
its loss, or it doesn’t recognize the milk source, or it’s just too
weak or sad. But still you try, hour after hour. Because if you
don’t, that poor creature suffering through no fault of its own
will die
,” he whispered the last words, and Mahrree closed
her eyes.

He nudged her gently to open her them again.
“But we don’t quit, Mrs. Shin. Hour after hour, day after day,
until some of the milk gets into that mouth. We keep trying until
something opens up and accepts what all of us are trying to give
him.”

Tears trickled down her cheeks, even though
she was sure she was on empty. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I
agree. We never give up. I’d invite you for dinner, but those are
angry affairs now.” Her chin trembled violently until she regained
control of it again.

To his credit, Rector Yung pretended he
didn’t notice. “I have other plans for dinner anyway. But I’ll be
by later, just to see if our puppy’s interested yet. If not, I’ll
try again, and again, and again.”

Mahrree leaned her head against his shoulder,
thinking that her father Cephas would have done the same for
her.

As she left to go home a few minutes later,
she turned back to wave at Rector Yung, but he had already gone
into his house.

Mahrree sniffed the herbs and wondered if the
only reason the man’s garden was so immaculate was because he
worked out there all day, waiting for her.

Chapter 3
~
“May I have five minutes—”

S
hem stepped out of
Perrin’s office and quietly closed the door. In a way he was a bit
jealous of Perrin, napping on a stack of paper on his desk. Shem
needed a nap, too, but—

He paused when he saw that the only person in
the forward command office was Lemuel Thorne. The captain wore a
thin smile that suggested he’d planned for them to be alone.

“
Is he
resting
again?” Thorne’s tone had an edge to it.

Shem ignored it. “He is. Make sure he’s not
disturbed.” Shem made for the stairs, but Captain Thorne blocked
his way.

“
I will, and Master
Sergeant? I want to help.”

It was the twinkle in his eye that so annoyed
Shem. “I don’t need your help, and neither does the colonel.”

“
Ah, but you do,” Thorne
simpered. “I’m supposed to be
learning
from you. I believe
this may be something I’m to learn?”

Shem was too drained for this
train-the-new-Guarder-who-doesn’t-know-he’s-a-Guarder nonsense. The
Quiet Man had thought initially that he could make a game of this,
but that idea soured quickly.

However, the eager expression in Thorne’s
eyes suggested he was willing and ready to do anything, even take
over the fort if necessary. In fact, he seemed to hope just
that.

“
Look, Captain, this isn’t
the time, nor is this anything—”

“
But I’m supposed to be
learning!”

“
No!” Shem snarled in a
loud whisper. “This isn’t about you, or your training, or anything
else. You’re here to help this fort, and that’s all I have for you.
What’d you spend all those years in Command School for, huh? Use
that
training.”

“
But—”

“
Leave the colonel alone!
You need to understand something: Shin is like a brother to me, and
I
alone
will take care of him.”

As he barreled down the stairs he heard
Thorne call after him, “How’s that supposed to help me? Zenos! Get
back here!”

---

Thorne scowled after Zenos, who hadn’t
bothered to show the respect the captain deserved.

A crashing noise behind him spun Thorne
around, and he realized it came from behind the colonel’s closed
door. It sounded as if a tin lunch bucket had been knocked off the
desk, and now there was the commotion of someone getting up
abruptly from the desk.

“
Stupid Zenos,” Thorne
murmured. He braced for impact, waiting for the door to be jerked
open and to face the bleary-eyed colonel who would again look past
him and mumble incoherently—

Maybe . . . maybe that’s what Zenos was
doing: something to the colonel to keep him confused, tired, angry.
But why?

Wait—wasn’t that what brothers did to each
other? Antagonize and demoralize? Not having one, he didn’t know.
But he was sure that’s how it should be.

Thorne held his breath, watching the door,
but instead all he heard was awkward lumbering in the office, then
the sound of the colonel dropping heavily into his big chair
again.

Thorne exhaled and sat in his own chair, much
smaller and less comfortable than what the colonel occupied.

Zenos had said Lemuel should use his Command
School training to help, so what do second-in-commands do when the
commander is incapacitated?

They command.

Thorne’s lips parted in a growing smile. He
liked that big chair, and Zenos was essentially saying it was his,
in a way.

Of course it was. Lemuel Thorne was born to
do this.

---

Shem was headed to the mess hall when the
private caught his arm. “Excuse me, sir, but the surgeon’s been
looking for you.”

Shem sighed. He’d been dreading this, and he
had a feeling the surgeon had been, too. A few minutes later he
entered the surgery wing, hoping that he was there to discipline a
wounded recruit, but the area was quiet.

Except for the surgeon, whose last
name—appropriately or inappropriately, depending upon whom you
asked—was Stitch. His heavy white eyebrows appeared even more
foreboding as he looked up from his desk.