Califia's Daughters (8 page)

This time there was no nod, just a long and thoughtful look from his dark eyes. Dian broke it by standing up with the tray.

“I have to get on, there's work waiting for me in the orchard.”

“Can we help there?” asked Isaac.

“Certainly not. Don't worry, we'll put you to work soon enough when your guest status lapses. I personally would recommend going down to the millpond for a swim, then up to the greenhouses. You'll find them interesting. Just follow the road to the end.” She called the puppies in, holding the screened door for them to return to their kennel. “Come see us tomorrow, Teddy, and bring your daddy if you can.”

A good-bye hug was administered to Culum, and the boy's thin hand slid into Isaac's. When they came to the corner of the barn, the boy stopped and turned around.

“Good-bye, Culum,” said a high voice, thready with disuse. It took an instant before the realization hit Isaac like an electrical jolt:
Teddy!
And again it came: “Good-bye, Dian.” He looked up at Isaac, and smiled like a cherub.

His father stared openmouthed at his son, then bent to snatch him up.

“That's right,” he choked out, “it's Culum and Dian.” Then, in sudden terror that making too much of the miracle would drive it away, he submerged his emotions into a display of casual high humor. “Good-bye, Culum-and-Dian, we'll see you again soon!” he shouted, then tossed the child up onto his shoulders and jogged about in a maniac circle, Teddy grabbing two handfuls of the black curls and hanging on for dear life, shrieking with laughter at each jolting step. Isaac threw up a hand in salute to woman and dog, and the pair vanished around the corner.

. . . THEY KEPT ONLY THOSE FEW MEN WHOM THEY REALIZED THEY NEEDED
FOR THEIR RACE NOT TO DIE OUT.

S
IX

T
HE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED WERE HECTIC FOR EVERY
pair of hands in the village. The last cutting of hay was brought in, the walnuts harvested, wine grapes crushed and set to ferment, late blackberries picked and bottled, apples and grapes laid on grass trays to dry in the sun. It was a time of reveling in the earth's bounty, a time of aching muscles and sunburned skin and dusty, sweat-caked hair, of full stomachs and the intoxicating smells of summer from every corner. It had been a good season, and every pantry, root cellar, and storage shed was packed to its ceiling. Since the frost had left the ground the previous spring, all the Valley's efforts had gone into the earth, and those efforts, this year, were richly rewarded. Seven years before, people had died because the food did not last the winter. Three years ago the hay crop had been inadequate, and good breeding stock had been slaughtered. But this year (please God, bar disasters) there was plenty.

Then suddenly, in the last week of September, the major crops were in, the most urgent jobs done, and the children were back in the schoolroom full-time, fingernails still black from berries and walnut husks, minds grudgingly buckling under the demands of math and poetry, history and—Ling's task—rudimentary Chinese. With the greatest of pressures off, a half-day of semi-official lethargy crept over the adults, and Dian found herself sitting in the sun doing absolutely nothing.

The nights had begun to turn cold, so the sun baking her trousers and shirt was delicious. At the moment the only sounds were distant ones: kids at recess play behind the schoolhouse, hens clucking in the farmyard, the rhythmic mutter and splash of the windmill on the hill as it pulled water up into the small pond in front of her. The red of her closed eyelids and the unobtrusive sounds had a hypnotic effect, and she was half asleep when she heard Culum's tail thump on the dirt, followed by the distinctive creak of a body settling on the wooden bench beside her chair. She opened one eye, to discourage the intruder, and found herself looking into the trimly bearded face of Isaac. Opening the other eye, she studied him for a moment as he sat studying her and was visited by a vague and completely irrelevant thought.

“Did you shave your beard just for the journey down?” she asked idly. When he nodded, she closed her eyes again, saying, “It would take more than a smooth face to disguise you as a woman.”

“There was some considerable discussion on that,” he agreed solemnly. “I suggested padding a shirt with a couple of melons, but we decided I'd just have to go flat-chested and keep strangers at a distance.”

Dian snorted, and then to Isaac's astonishment erupted into girlish giggles. When they had subsided a bit, she told him, “I was picturing you decked out like the Whore of Babylon, or one of those bizarre women from Kirsten's old books, a ‘movie star' with tall shoes and painted eyes and rattly jewelry.” She sat up to face the grinning man. “What can I do for you?”

“You can start by making me a cup of coffee.” He cut into her protests. “Now, you can't put me off like you did last month. I know you have a supply of those beans, so don't give me any stories about medicinal uses and celebrations. Surviving this last month is celebration enough.”

A number of times since Isaac's arrival, Dian had found herself on a team with the man, who had insisted on working on the backbreaking jobs along with the women. Some residents had found it disconcerting and protested that he shouldn't be allowed to put himself at risk of injury, but Dian thought it somewhat refreshing.

“You're a good worker,” she said, and sat up. “Yes, let's have some coffee. I just hope no one else smells it,” she said in a conspiratorial aside.

They went up to her house, stopping on the way to pay tribute to the younger generation of kennel inhabitants, who were not yet allowed free run of the village. Despite his protests that, really, cider would do, Dian threw a handful of kindling on the remains of the morning's fire and rummaged about for the ancient, blackened frying pan and the equally ancient grinder, the burrs of which were so worn that they would only accept one bean at a time. She and Isaac took turns stirring. The green nubs slowly browned and released their oils, but Dian and Isaac were half roasted themselves before the beans were done. As Dian stirred, wiping the sweat trickling into her eyes, she remarked, “Kirsten claims that Before they used to have a powdered coffee you could just stir into hot water. I wonder if it could possibly have tasted as foul as she says it did?”

Finally the handful of beans were shiny and black, and Dian dumped them onto a plate to cool, then replaced the pan over the fire with the water kettle, ducking her face under the faucet for a moment before screwing the grinder onto the table for the next stage. The crisp beans crackled through the metal burrs as Isaac worked the handle, a generous handful of chicory was added to the grounds to stretch them, and finally the drink was ready to assemble.

All in all it was a good hour before they had their mugs of coffee. Dian peered doubtfully into a lopsided and extremely ugly pottery jar and pulled out a handful of equally lopsided and rather well done cookies: these had brown lumps instead of the unidentifiable yellow of the previous batch. She carved off a few of the blacker edges into the slops bucket and told Isaac, “Susanna has decided that I don't eat enough, so she brings me these. They should go well with the burnt coffee, don't you think?”

Dian shoved her boot into the ribs of Culum, who had claimed the room's patch of sun, and when he had shifted over, she dragged up a pair of chairs. She and Isaac settled into the soft cushions, filled with a ridiculous sense of accomplishment and a pleasant feeling of easy companionship. They sipped the hot liquid and dutifully consumed a number of Susanna's cookies. Dian eased her head back on her chair, propped her heels up on Culum's side, and closed her eyes again, unaware that Isaac was watching her with a curious smile on his face.

“I'm not really just being lazy,” she said. “I was helping out on the Hall roof last night. It was so nice and cool, and with the moon full, it's been easier to do it at night. I think it may be too dark tonight, though.” She did not sound regretful.

“It's going to be an impressive building.”

“Isn't it? Old Will, Kirsten's brother, laid out the plans nearly thirty years ago. We started it just before he died. Took us ten years just to get the material together. Have you any idea how long it takes to fell, haul, and mill thirty-eight sixty-foot eight-by-twenties?”

“I can imagine.”

“Yes, you have done some carpentry, haven't you? In fact, didn't I see you the other day, working on one of the windows in the Hall?”

“You did. The upper half of the middle window on the east end is mine, all mine.”

“I shall admire it when next I'm dangling off the roof attaching shingles. Is that what you've decided to do here, then? Carpentry?” As long as he wasn't felling trees, she added mentally.

“Some, I suppose. Actually, I've been spending a lot of time up at the greenhouses. We didn't have them in Oregon, but when I was a child the place I lived in had a big one. Not as big as the ones here, but to a child it seemed huge, a whole world filled with warm air and luscious plants. Orchids and ferns, mostly.”

“Where was that?”

He paused, and then spit out his reply. “In a filthy pit of a place called Ashtown.” The open loathing in his voice brought her eyes open.

“In Oregon?”

“Yes. Queen Bess has it now, I heard. Hardly surprising, they well suit each other. She wasn't around yet when I lived there, but I doubt it's changed much since I left.”

“I'm surprised she wanted it, if it was that foul.”

“You know what Ashtown is like? I found a dead otter on a riverbank one time. It looked sleek and alive from even a short distance, but when you looked underneath, it was all maggots and rot. That's Ashtown.”

Dian thought it time to move to a safer topic.

“How do you get along with Glenda the Good?”

“Glenda . . . ? Oh, you mean Glenn, at the greenhouses? She is somewhat otherworldly, isn't she? Half the time she doesn't seem to know I'm there, unless I make a mistake, and all of a sudden she's standing next to me squinting down at this potential disaster, tut-tutting to herself. You know what she said to me yesterday?”

“That you need to learn some French songs to sing to the broccoli seedlings?”

“No, that was last week's lesson. Yesterday I was about to transplant some seedlings into two-inch pots, and I had an old broken spoon to move them with. I thought she was off in the next house, but just as I was getting ready to scoop a few out, there she was, laying a finger on my wrist.” His bass voice changed, to Glenn's fluting whisper. “‘Oh, no, Isaac, you must never use metal on these tiny babies. Violence against their roots at this stage predisposes them to receiving violence later in their lives, and they will call to themselves all the destructive pests of air and earth. Damp fingers on the leaves, Isaac,'” he trilled, “‘damp fingers only, and they will give their best for us humans.'”

She watched Isaac's black bearded face relax from his pinched, thin-lipped, myopic caricature of the head gardener. He laughed, a deep, easy rumble, and she smiled, liking him. She let her head fall back again, enjoying the beat of the sun on her body.

“Yes, Glenn is a fine person, though, as you say, not entirely of this world. She's great with kids, though some adults find her difficult to work with.”

“I don't. She's different, but not difficult.”

“Are you glad you came, Isaac? From Oregon?”

“Yes.”

“No regrets, no homesickness?”

“No regrets. I'm too busy to be homesick.”

“And Teddy?” The boy talked to Dian sometimes, when Susanna brought him by the kennels. Not exactly conversations, but a few words now and then to let Dian know he was there.

“It's amazing, more than I could have hoped for. You and your dogs have done miracles—no, don't laugh. You didn't know him before. Up there, he had me and Mim—Miriam—and one or two others, but now he has a community. He talks. I will be forever grateful to you.” He said this quietly, openly.

One corner of Dian's mouth twitched in a sleepy smile; her eyes had drifted shut; the sun was lulling her; she half-wished the man would leave.

“Dian.”

“Um,” she grunted.

“Dian, I need to talk to you.”

His dead-serious tones ripped away her somnolent ease, and Dian sat up warily, lowering her boots to the floor.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I know you were up pounding nails half the night and I should let you have a nap, but this really can't wait much longer. I've been trying to see you for a week, but between the work and Teddy and your comings and goings, this is the first chance I've had.” He stopped to peer into the bottom of his cup, as if to draw inspiration from the cracked glaze, and Dian braced herself for some disastrous revelation or request: that he was dying of some blood disease, perhaps, or wanted her to help him leave the Valley for greener pastures.

“Dian, everyone here has been remarkably generous with me, from the very beginning. You and I both know that Miriam would have given almost anything not to have had to take Teddy and me back with her. Another group might have demanded payment; Mim would have had to pay it. Instead, you welcomed me, accepted my problem son, and asked nothing of me other than not getting into trouble. Nobody other than Ling, who needed to know, even tried to find out why I left Oregon. I'd like to tell you.”

“Why?” she asked bluntly, uneasy with the potential intimacy of this conversation.

“Let me explain first. It was partly because of Teddy that I made the break, in hopes that the change would do what in fact it has—freed him to make a fresh start. However, looking back, I suspect that a big part of Teddy's problems were my own. If I could have pulled myself together, I might have helped Teddy. I couldn't.

“You see, I loved my wife, very deeply. Too deeply, maybe, for this day and age. When she died I couldn't stand to look at anyone but Teddy, couldn't bear to touch anyone but him and Miriam. For months I simply couldn't function, not socially, and certainly not as a male. I have had two children by other women, but after Emma died the thought of sleeping with someone who had known her, who had grown up with her, made me nauseated—literally, physically, sick. Once upon a time, if a man didn't want to sleep with someone, he didn't. Hell, if a man didn't want to sleep with
anyone
, it was nobody's business but his own. Not anymore.” His words were bitter, but his voice was simply resigned. “By this spring, Emma had been gone for a year, and some of the women started to get impatient. I understood it—really, what good is it if a man is fertile but won't do anything?—but when this trip came up, it was like a word from heaven. When I suggested to Mim that Teddy and I be allowed to come, as a kind of goodwill gift, I think the town was actually relieved to see me go. Being allowed to bring Teddy as well was a bit of a problem, but by that time he was so withdrawn he made them nervous, so between that and Mim's backing me, they gave in and let me take him.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Dian asked again. “You should tell it to Judith, not me.”

“Just, please, bear with me,” he said, under a tight control that Dian could not fully understand and deeply mistrusted. “It has to do with the fact that, now the push of harvest is slacking off, there are a number of women here who are going to start getting impatient when all I do is transplant seedlings and haul firewood. It also has to do with the fact that, after being married for eight years, I know that I need a wife—one wife, some one person I can talk to and work with—don't interrupt me, damn it!—and sometimes sleep next to. It has to do with my wanting you to be that person in my life, here.” His voice ran down and he sat, waiting for her response.