Wolf Hunting (22 page)

“AND DOES VITZI LOVE YOU AS YOU LOVE HER?”

“Vitzi has loved me almost from the first moment we met. My parents will not agree to let us be together. They say it is not right and proper, not suitable.”

Now in his journeys from place to place, the Meddler had seen many young people kept apart by parents who had ambitions for them. As he looked around him at this large and prosperous farm, he thought that certainly Letu’s parents had ambitions for their son’s marriage.

Perhaps there was a neighboring property that was the dower of some plain woman. The Meddler could imagine her, a spinster, doubtless, with a disposition like sour milk and only her wealth to recommend her.

The Meddler vowed then and there that he would not see the handsome and courteous Letu robbed of the woman he so clearly adored.

“May I step around to the kitchen and so gain a glimpse of your beloved?”

“By all means,” Letu said. “Do so while I inform my father of your arrival, and arrange to have an extra plate set at the table. Do not speak with her, though. The kitchens will be busy this time of day, and I would not have harsh words spoken to Vitzi for her inattention.”

The Meddler agreed to this condition, and when they reached the farmhouse, he slipped around back to the kitchens. There was a great deal of activity there, and he wondered how he might pick Letu’s Vitzi from the others. Then he saw there was no need. Not only was there only one girl beautiful enough to have awakened such a forlorn passion in a young man’s heart, the head cook was busy shouting orders to her staff.

This one was ordered to pull the bread from the ovens, that one to check the pastries. Finally the cook’s command fell on the beautiful young woman.

“Vitzi,” the cook said sharply, “put another pie in the ovens. I have just been told another guest will be here for supper.”

Vitzi moved to do as ordered, and the Meddler slipped away, thrilled and delighted by the beauty and elegance of the young woman. He resolved to repay Letu’s hospitality by making it possible for him to join his beloved.

Letu’s father, whose name was Olenu, proved to be a man whose prosperity was evident in how his gut slopped over his belt, but whose calloused hands showed that he still worked hard. He welcomed the Meddler to his table, explaining that Letu’s mother was not present.

“My wife has taken most of our children with her into town for market day. She will return tomorrow morning.”

“Perhaps I shall pass her on the road,” the Meddler said, and he thanked the deities for granting him this relative freedom to act.

When the evening meal was over, Olenu excused himself, repeating Letu’s invitation to stay the night. The Meddler accepted, but he refused a room in the house.

“This is too grand a place for me,” he said. “I’d be happier outside.”

“We have bunkhouses where the harvest crews sleep in season,” Letu offered. “They are empty now.”

“That would be fine,” the Meddler said. “Come and see me when the sun is set and darkness has come. Perhaps we can find a solution for your problem. Bring with you a change of clothing, and whatever money you can lay your hands on without raising suspicion.”

Letu looked doubtful, but he agreed. They parted then, and the Meddler went by the kitchens. Vitzi was standing by herself, eating a slice of the pie that had been served for dessert.

The Meddler walked up to her, and greeted her with a smile. “I am the guest who enjoyed that very pie. Tonight I will be sleeping in the harvester’s bunkhouse. Come and see me when it is dark. I have spoken with your beloved.”

Vitzi’s eyes had widened at a stranger speaking so familiarly to her, but at the mention of her beloved, the astonishment vanished.

“I will be there,” she promised, and turned away.

The Meddler spent the time before darkness securing a pair of riding horses from one of the fields. He tied them behind the bunkhouse. He found tack and saddlebags, and packed these with good things from the abundant fields. He even made up a cozy bedroll, thrilling a little at the thought of what it would see that night.

After dark, the two lovers came—first Letu, then Vitzi. Both were nervous, but when the Meddler explained his plan, they looked at each other with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, their hands reaching unconsciously to clasp.

“Can we really do this?” said Letu. “Just ride away?”

“Of course,” said the Meddler. “Go to a place where there is a disdu who can link you in marriage. When you are wed by both law and by love, then your parents cannot separate you.”

“I know such a place,” Vitzi said shyly. “It is a small temple where I stayed when I was coming here to live. The temple is maintained by a kidisdu who prefers the company of birds to that of people, but he is a kind man, and surely he will welcome us.
”

“It is a good omen,” rejoiced the Meddler, “for many birds mate for life. Go there and be happy.”

The young pair rode away, and the Meddler slept well, with very pleasant dreams. He intended to be away shortly before dawn, for he did not wish to be questioned about the whereabouts of the young lovers.

But that night there was thunder and there was lightning. The winds howled and the rains fell in torrents. Tornadoes howled and carried cattle and horses into the sky. The Meddler feared to go out in such weather, and so Olenu found him in the bunkhouse when he sought him there in the morning.

“Where is my son?” Olenu bellowed. “Where is Vitzi? You helped them get away. Don’t even try to deny it. I have found those among the servants who saw you carrying things here and there, even one who saw you leading a pair of horses. Speak from your own desire or I will have the information beaten from you!”

The Meddler did not doubt this was true, but he held his silence, thinking nobly that every word he withheld gave the young lovers more time to escape. Olenu raised a hand as if to strike the Meddler, then he lowered it He ceased shouting, but the levelness of his tone was no less terrible.

“Let me tell you something, Traveler, for I can see in your eyes that you are one of those who would believe himself righteous for taking a beating in silence.”

The Meddler straightened proudly, glad he was cutting such a noble figure.

Olenu continued. “Anyhow, I can always beat you later. Would you like to know the history of the girl called Vitzi and why I do not wish my son to marry her? I will tell it to you then. Vitzi is the love child of my wife, the fruit of an indiscretion early in our marriage.”

“Early …”

The farmer smiled a touch cruelly. “Vitzi was conceived shortly after Letu was weaned. My wife was suffering mind phantoms and dark sorrows, as some women do after a child is born. In this state, she was easily seduced by a man who no longer walks this earth. There was one problem that kept my wife from hiding her infidelity from me. I was serving in the army, far from home, for the better part of a year during the time the little one must have been conceived. My wife and I had reasons to remain married, and so rather than divorce in disgrace and anger, my wife went away for a time. Vitzi was raised by strangers.

“A few years ago, Vitzi’s foster parents died. My wife begged me to have the girl brought here for her final training, and in order that a good marriage could be arranged for her. I agreed. My wife had been faithful and good to me in the years that followed her one error, and the deities enjoin us to compassion and mercy. We brought Vitzi here and introduced her as the orphaned daughter of friends.

“Letu became infatuated with Vitzi, but more the fool I, I did not notice. I knew nothing of his feelings until the boy—and I call him one, though you would certainly name him a young man—came to me yesterday, begging my permission to make Vitzi his bride. I refused. He could not wed his own half-sister.”

The Meddler straightened and tossed back his head. “And there you were a fool. Since when has refusal ever cooled the heart of love? I found Letu by the gate, sobbing out his heart, doubtless thinking of taking to the road to soothe his aching heart.”

“Better if he had,” Olenu said with ice in his voice. “I suspect rather that Letu was thinking of running off and putting his suit to his mother, hoping she would see matters differently than did I. Doubtless your finding him crying like a child put shame in him.”

“Even so,” the Meddler replied, no less proud, “I am glad to have helped the young couple. The deities will not punish them for their innocent love.”

“What do you think this is then?” Olenu said, waving his arm wildly at the storms that still raged all around. “Don’t you understand even now? I explained the situation to the boy. Vitzi is innocent, but Letu knew. He knew!”

PLIK FINISHED HIS STORY on that dramatic note, and Firekeeper highly approved. There was no need to tell more. The point was made.

“So this Meddler,” she said aloud, “is not bad person, but dangerous one, even so.”

Harjeedian made a disapproving sound. “Dangerous can be very bad, especially for an organized society.”

“True,” Firekeeper said. “What I mean is he do what he think is good, but he not learn enough and he cause harm instead. He not think.”

“That’s how I see it,” Plik agreed. “I chose that story from those I have read, because it was fairly representative of the Meddler’s actions.”

Firekeeper moved to where she could see Truth.

“What about you, great cat? You are the one who may know more than any of us. Have you any wisdom with which to guide us?”

Truth did not reply with so much as a whisker twitch, but Eshinarvash, who had been so quiet for these days of travel that Firekeeper occasionally had to remind herself that he was not one of Cousin-kind, gave a great shuddering sigh and shook out his mane.

“It seems to me that whoever was buried there beneath the earth—although I still have difficulty with the idea that one could be so buried for such a long time and live—it seems to me that the person’s plans were very well laid, very carefully thought out. Is this the Meddler’s pattern?”

Plik spoke, and Firekeeper jumped slightly. She kept forgetting in this company, where Plik so often spoke in the human languages, that she was not the only one who had the ability. Indeed, Blind Seer had teased her that Plik spoke the human languages far better than Firekeeper did.

“Well laid if we simply look at getting him out of that place,” Plik said, “but perhaps not so if we look at the larger consequences. Remember there were six figurines.
Two of those are broken and represent pawns that have died One represents a queen driven into exile and a diminishment of power. The last we know of represents a certain jaguar who, if my nose does not deceive me, feels no great love for this Voice who may also be the Meddler.”

“True,” Eshinarvash said, “and did he—Voice or Meddler—expect the finding of that place to also be the finding of those figurines? As the tale was told, Firekeeper found them beneath running water, hidden away as best anything could be hidden in that place. Could the Voice have known she would grow so curious about the path of running water? I think not.”

Blind Seer, who had been suffering some from the heat, and so had fallen silent, spoke with a certain amount of pride.
“If the Voice had known my Firekeeper, he would have expected her to look there, but I do not think he knows her—of her, perhaps, but if he knows her it is through the tools she helped to break. Melina, at least, underestimated any who stood against her and that was
her undoing. Had she been content to visit New Kelvin quietly, we might never have been sent
against
her
and
her
hunt for power would have been
successful.”

Plik raised a paw.
“A moment. Our human
friends
grow restive.”

Firekeeper was content to let Plik do the translating. She looked over at Truth. The jaguar’s silence was peculiar, more than could be explained by the fact that the jaguar was traveling by day and over a greater distance than would usually be her wont.

Firekeeper wished for a sense of smell acute enough to tell her something of the jaguar’s mood. Freshly reminded that there were many who would overhear her should she ask Blind Seer his opinion, she held her questions until they should be alone.

Alone. Firekeeper went to where Blind Seer was keeping up his steady pace. He was panting hard.

“Rest,” she suggested. “You can find us again come nightfall.”

“Promise you won’t do anything foolish?” the wolf asked, already slackening his pace and veering toward the shady growth alongside the road.

“Promise,” Firekeeper replied. “At least not without you.
”

XI

WATCHING THE SHAGGY GREY WOLF VANISH beneath the spreading branches, Plik felt a strong desire to follow. He wasn’t habitually nocturnal, but the maimalodalum rarely pushed through the heat of the day as humans seemed to do at need.

But then what need did the maimalodalum have to push and hurry? Their community wasn’t huge. Those of the yarimaimalom who hunted regularly shared their surplus. Remnants of orchards planted long ago still gave fruit and nuts. Foraging brought in other foods. Their own garden patches rounded out the rest.

Center Island offered ample habitations, either after the fashion of the yarimaimalom or in the towers or other semi-ruined structures. What maintenance must be done rarely forced the need for working in the heat or rain. Those of the maimalodalum who were scholarly by inclination, as Plik was, found plenty to occupy their remaining time.

In all his long life, Plik could not ever recall a time when he had continued to move on when he was weary, had gone without food or drink because there was no time to stop. Indeed, although his body might manage to masquerade as human, his habits were anything but.

But,
he thought as he tried to find at least one part of his backside that wasn’t saddle-bruised,
there are compensations for the discomfort of these hours in the saddle.
Many compensations indeed. I have heard the eagles and ospreys talk of human farms and fields, but it is another thing to see them for oneself. And the buildings! I know we have bypassed the larger towns and villages, but even the temple complexes where we have stopped are remarkable. No wonder both Harjeedian and Derian referred to the towers on Center Island as “ruins.” By their standards, they were.