Exile's Song (25 page)

Margaret knew that Darkover had been rediscovered more than a hundred Terran years before—the history disk had grudgingly disclosed that much. She regarded Jerana with wonder, because few people in the Federation were this old without taking the treatments which extended life.

“
Domna
Alton wishes to hear you sing, Jerana, and to make a record of your singing.”

“Really? Why, I haven’t performed in decades! It has been thirty years since I sang in public, if it has been a day!” She looked pleased. “Come in, girls, come in!” She rubbed her gnarled hands together. “Alan! Alan, where are you, lazy boy! My great-grandson. Here come tend to these fine horses!” She herded them into the cottage, and seated them beside the hearth while she gave a steaming cauldron a stir and kept up a stream of reminiscences.

After a hearty meal of stew and bread, Jerana settled on a stool while Margaret sorted out her recording equipment. The old woman was completely at ease after the things had been explained to her, grinning and showing her gums. Margaret could tell she was tickled by all the attention, and felt pleased to give the old woman a treat.

Rafaella took a guitar down from the wall and tuned the strings easily. It was an old instrument, the wood polished by years of use, and belonged in a museum. Jerana chuckled over it. “That boy of Everard’s was here a time back, and he wanted to take my old friend back to Thendara with him, to put in that collection that Everard has. I told him that since my husband died, it’s the only lover I have.”

Then she began to sing in a clear, steady voice which belied her years. Margaret was lost in the music, so lost she did not notice when tears began to roll down her cheeks. The words bought some emotion welling up, something nameless and precious, and when that song was done, she felt at peace for the first time in days.

It was late when Jerana ceased her singing, and Margaret had recorded two dozen pieces. The old woman showed them to a large bed in the back of the cottage, and Margaret hid her discomfort at the idea of sleeping with another person. It didn’t matter. She could hardly keep her eyes open. Rafaella was yawning, too. She pulled off her boots, yanked off her tunic and trousers, and climbed under the covers, so Margaret did the same.

Sleep came almost immediately, and, for once, she did not dream.

M
argaret woke at first light with a feeling of oppression and a sound like bees buzzing in one ear. Still muzzy, she shifted beneath the soft covers, and found that Rafaella had rolled over and pillowed her head against Margaret’s shoulder. She glanced at the fiery head resting upon her, and smiled a little. Rafaella was snoring ever so delicately. Gently she rolled the woman away, and the slight sense of suffocation left her.
I guess it is a good thing I’ve never married, since sharing a bed makes me so uncomfortable.
As soon as the thought came into her mind, Margaret knew it was not entirely true. She had not really minded sleeping with Rafaella the night before.

There were sounds from the main room of the cottage, and Margaret heard the voice of Jerana lifted in song. The good, warm smell of porridge wafted in the chill morning air, and she felt a lassitude in her limbs. She was enjoying the sensation of relaxation when Rafaella snorted abruptly and stopped snoring. A moment later she sat up, pulling down the covers with her movement.

“I smell breakfast,” she announced.

Margaret laughed at this. Rafaella had a healthy appetite, and she wondered how the woman maintained her slim figure while eating so much. “Yes. I can hear Jerana.” The cool air made her shiver, and she pushed away her covers, rose, put on her discarded garments, then pulled her hair into a semblance of order. Her clothes smelled of horse and sweat and the trail now, and she thought longingly of the huge tub at Master Everard’s house, scented with balsam and hot enough to redden her skin.

While they ate breakfast with old Jerana and her silent great-grandson Alan, the ancient singer pondered aloud on her career as a performer, the inadequacy of present-day vocalists, and scandals of the past. Margaret was sorry she had not kept her recorder out, for it was fascinating to hear old gossip told with a lip-smacking glee.

When they were done, Alan and Rafaella went out to see to the horses, and Margaret sat and sipped the last of her morning tea. She felt grubby and longed for clean clothes and a bath, but her belly was full of hot porridge, and her heart felt feather-light. She was quietly happy, and realized she had not felt that way in a very long time.

“I think,” Jerana interrupted her thoughts, “that if you go to the village over the hill, you might find Gavin useful.”

“Gavin?”

Jerana gave her disquieting cackle and nodded her head. “Gavin MacDougal was a good singer in his day, though he never joined the Guild. He is a bit cantankerous, but he does know music. Now, don’t you tell him I said so! He’s proud enough without that. And I warn you, he does not like your Rafaella at all.”

“But why?”

“Gavin thinks a woman’s place is by the hearth, and he disapproves of the Renunciates. As if they needed his approval! He was a stuck-up youngster, and now he is an arrogant old man. He wanted to marry me once—he is only ninety now, and I thought him too young at the time—and he has never really forgiven me for picking my Padric instead. You wouldn’t think it to look at me now, but once I had all the men after me. I was a real beauty. Oh, I ramble these days. Let me tell you, Marguerida, age is a blessing, but it is also a curse. Some days you almost can’t remember your name.”

Margaret thought of Ivor, getting feebler before her eyes, and nodded. “Yes, my teacher was like that. He was sharp as a whip when it came to music, but with day-to-day things, his mind was getting very . . . I don’t know. Muddled?”

“The very word! Where is he, your teacher?”

“He died last week, right after we arrived.” She found tears welling in her eyes and blinked them away as quickly as she could.

“That is terrible! I can see you miss him greatly.

There, there, lambie, you just cry all you like. It is healthy to weep!”

“I did so much crying that I feel as if I should have used up all the tears I have.” But Margaret found herself weeping again, the old woman’s kindness releasing her still fresh grief. She mopped her face with her sleeve after a few minutes, and snuffled noisily. “We had been traveling together for many years, going to planets to study the indigenous music. He was very precious to me.”

“Death is a path we are all on, though so far I haven’t reached the end of it. I have outlived a husband, two sons, one daughter, and three grandchildren. Now Alan is married, and when his wife has her child, I will be a great-great-grandmother, and here I still am. Sometimes I think it is unnatural to live this long.”

Margaret decided it would be rude to mention that citizens of the Federation often lived two centuries, with the help of treatments. It seemed unfair that Ivor had not been one of them. “So, Gavin is cantankerous?”

“Hmmph! He is a crabby old man, but then, he was a crabby young man. He knows a lot of songs. I have to give him that. And there is an inn in the village, too, so you can be at your ease.”

Margaret reddened and wondered if Jerana knew how she longed for a bath. “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, Jerana.”

“Pah! It was my pleasure. Singing last night made me feel seventy again!”

 

Rafaella and Margaret set out a little later, their food-bag stuffed with a fresh loaf, some cheese, and salted meat, Jerana’s parting gift. They had gone about an hour beyond the tiny hamlet when Margaret began to feel queasy. Her stomach roiled, and her head ached, but she said nothing to her companion.

They paused beside a gurgling creek for a midday meal, and Margaret dipped her wooden cup into the water and drank thirstily. Then she sat on a rock and did not move for several minutes, feeling achy and tired. She dragged herself to her feet and nearly stumbled.

“Are you all right, Marguerida?”

“I think the altitude must be affecting me. I have lived most of my life at sea level, and even though these hills are not very high, my body is reacting. I can’t seem to catch my breath.”

“You look pale.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine after I eat some bread and cheese.”

But she wasn’t. They had not gone a mile from the creek when her stomach rebelled and spewed up her lunch and much of her breakfast. She barely managed to dismount before it happened.

“You are sick,” Rafaella insisted as Margaret stepped away from her mess. The guide looked very worried.

“No, really. I am fine now. It is just the altitude, or maybe my belly didn’t like something I ate.” She rinsed her mouth out with some clear water, then pulled herself back onto the horse. “How far is it to this village where Gavin lives?”

“Another three hours, at least. Perhaps we should camp here instead.”

“No. I feel better now.” That was true. She was very thirsty, but having emptied her stomach had made her feel less breathless and weak somehow.

The trail wound higher and higher, growing narrower and rougher for a while. Then it broadened out, and Margaret realized they were on the ridge of the hills. She glanced back the way they had come. The River Kadarin was a serpentine flash of silver in the distance, far below. The ascent had been so gradual she had not really noticed.

It was close to sunset when they arrived at the village. It was much larger than the one Jerana lived in, with several roomy houses of stone between humbler cottages. The inn was marked by a swinging sign with a picture of a deerlike beast painted on it. They brought their horses to a halt before it, and a sharp-eyed boy ran out to greet them.

“Ho, Rafaella! Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Valentine. You have grown two inches since my last visit.”

The boy puffed his chest out and grinned. “True. I am now in Tomas’ hand-me-downs, but his old boots are already too small.”

“And how are your parents?”

“Last winter was hard on Ma—her joints hurt something dreadful. But she perked up when it got warmer, like she alwus does. And Pa is Pa. Come in. I will stable the horses, and Ma just cleaned the front bedroom.”

Margaret dismounted, her head spinning. She took some deep breaths, then waited for the giddiness to pass. She had been feeling less and less well during the past hour, but she had not said anything to Rafaella. She didn’t want to spend the night on the trail. She wanted a bed and a bath! And supper. No! The thought of food made her queasy again. All she needed was some sleep, and she would be fine again.

Inside the inn was a deep-beamed taproom. Several men in rough tunics were drinking mugs of beer and lounging around tables, talking quietly. Margaret could hear their voices, but their dialect was so thick she could not follow it. They looked at her with mild curiosity, but no more than that. Two or three of them greeted Rafaella in a friendly way, and Margaret was glad her guide was well-known there.

The room was smoky from the large fireplace, and the smell of burning wood and beer nearly overwhelmed her. She willed herself to stand up straight and ignore her spinning head. She had disgraced herself once that day, and she did not intend to do it a second time. She was grateful when they left the taproom, climbed a narrow staircase, and were shown to a large, airy room on the upper floor.

Margaret sank onto the bed, leaned back on the pillow, and let her body go slack. Distantly she heard the voice of Rafaella and another woman, probably Valentine’s mother, but she felt too weak to listen. Strong hands tugged her boots off, and she felt her tunic being pulled over her head. She tried to protest, but she couldn’t get the words out.

“I just need to sleep,” she mumbled, and closed her eyes.