Authors: Barbara Campbell
Foxfire (51 page)
Hircha moved back into her hut. Young Lorthan moved into Ennit's. Callie presented his bride-gifts to Ennit and Lisula, who gladly gave permission for him to marry Ela at the Fall Balancing.
And Madig grew stronger.
By Midsummer, he was able to close his fist around the ball of grain Colla had made for him. By the full moon, he took his first wobbling steps around the fire pit. When he emerged from his hut, the whole village cheered. Red-faced and sweating, he lurched to the next hut and back, dragging his right foot and leaning heavily on the crutch Othak had so thoughtfully crafted.
Othak spent part of every day with Madig. He accompanied him on his walks. Told him all the goings-on in the village. Sat beside him when Griane came to check on her patient's progress.
At the end of each visit, Othak took her aside to ask how soon Madig's speech would return. She invariably shrugged and told him she simply didn't know. He invariably sighed and told her he would pray. His voice conveyed only concern. His smile conveyed only hope. But those pale eyes remained as cold as frozen ice on the lake.
After yet another polite exchange, Griane stormed home and hurled her healing bag across the hut. “Othak's enjoying himself.”
“Aye,” Hircha replied, patiently gathering up the supplies that had spilled out. “But if he had any proof, he'd have come out with it.”
“He's just waiting for Madig to accuse Rigat.”
Callie squeezed her hand. “As long as Madig's speech is garbledâ”
“It's getting clearer every day,” Griane interrupted. “When I told him he was as stubborn as a bullock, he said, âSo are you.' ”
“What he said,” Hircha corrected, “was âOh ah oo.' ”
“If I can understand him, so can Othak! If he's not hanging around Madig, he's hovering over poor Gortin. And don't tell me he's just concerned about Gortin's health,” she added, glaring at Callie.
“Oh, he's concerned,” Callie replied. “Like a raven's concerned about a dying rabbit.”
Hircha gaped at him. “I've lived with you half my life. And I swear that's the first time I've heard you speak ill of anyone.”
“Well, I'm sick of it, too! To hear Othak talk, Nemek's death was part of some plot so I could become Memory-Keeper.”
“He dared say that?” Griane demanded.
“He never comes out and says anything directly. But it's there. In those sidelong glances. Or the thoughtful pauses. Or that wondering shake of his head.” Callie stroked his chin with his thumb. “Such a tragedy,” he said, mimicking Othak's nasal voice. “To lose our beloved Memory-Keeper. Who would have thought it possible?”
“Anyone who got within three paces of him and smelled the wounds.” Griane silently asked Nemek's forgiveness before turning to Hircha. “Have
you
heard anything?”
you
heard anything?”
“When has anyone ever gossiped to me? I'm surprised Othak said as much to Callie.”
“He didn't,” Callie replied. “Ela overheard him talking with Rothisar and some of the other hunters. And Sion came to me the other day.”
“Sion?” Griane echoed. It was a rare day that Sion spoke three sentences in a row, never mind initiating a conversation.
“He said he'd heard Othak talking about all of us. Rigat and Keirith, mostly. But you and Hircha, too.”
Slowly, it all came out, and what it amounted to was a subtle campaign to plant suspicion in people's minds. Whose families had suffered most in the Zherosi attack? Those whose deaths benefited their family: Nemek, the Memory-Keeper; Seg, Rigat's keenest rival. Who could see that a wound went untreated or knew which herbs could be fatal if administered improperly?
“And Conn?” Hircha asked. “Did Othak mention how I benefited from my husband's death?” When Callie hesitated, her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Of course. Because I secretly wanted Keirith and could only get him if Conn was out of the way. Nay, it's really quite clever. If you overlook the fact that Keirith and I had fourteen years to make up our minds.”
She took a deep breath, clearly fighting for calm. Then she fixed them with a gaze as cold as Othak's. “We have to do something. Before he turns the whole tribe against us.”
Griane nodded. “I'll talk with Gortin now. While Othak's still with Madig.”
Moments later, she was standing outside Gortin's hut, softly calling his name. But it was Othak who appeared in the doorwayâas if he had guessed her intentions.
“The Tree-Father is resting before the council meeting,” he informed her.
“Perhaps he could spare me a moment first.”
Before Othak could speak, she heard Gortin's voice, bidding her to enter. Suppressing a triumphant smile, she sidled past Othak.
Although fresh bracken had been strewn on the dirt, the hut smelled old and musty. As she approached Gortin, she realized the odor came from him. Bits of food clung to his robe. The gods only knew when it had been washed last. Or when Gortin had bathed.
She crossed to the doorway and flung back the hide. “You need fresh air, Tree-Father. And a bigger fire to add some light and cheer.”
Ignoring Gortin's protests, she crouched beside the fire pit and added a bundle of twigs to the glowing peat bricks. The fire blazed into life, revealing Othak's disapproving frown.
“I can see to the Tree-Father's needs.”
“Apparently not,” she snapped.
The bowls near the fire pit were crusted with yesterday's porridge, while the pot . . . dear gods, she wasn't sure if the dark sludge in the bottom was burned porridge or stew. She fetched another pot and set some water to boil. If she accomplished nothing else, at least poor Gortin would have clean dishes.
“Don't fuss,” Gortin urged. “Unmarried men are apt to be untidy.”
She smacked his hand lightly with the heather scrub brush, ignoring Othak's indignant sniff. “Either I do it or I send a girl to see to things.”
Gortin and Othak looked equally horrified; likely, she was the only female who had ventured into their hut in years.
She made a whirlwind of herself, hoping to drive Othak away, but he just watched her with his arms folded across his chest.
“Really, Griane,” Gortin chided, “if this is why you came to see meâ”
“I was hoping you'd visit Catha,” she lied. “The babe's ailing. Nothing serious,” she added quickly, “but your presence might ease Catha's mind. You know how she's been.”
After losing Nemek and young Nionik, Catha clung to her remaining children. She barely let poor Arun out of her sight, and when her newborn broke out in suppurating pustules, she had fallen into hysterics, even after Griane assured her it was only a milk-rash.
Gortin sighed. “Forgive me, my dear, but I'm feeling so weak . . . and with the council meeting to attend . . .” He sighed again, then brightened. “Othak, perhaps you would go.”
“Of course, Tree-Father. After I help you to the longhut.”
“Mother Griane will help me. You go along.”
Othak fixed her with his pale gaze. Then he returned Gortin's smile. “Yes, Tree-Father.”
After Othak ducked outside, Gortin watched the doorway for several moments. Then he said, “Sit down, Griane. And tell me what you didn't want Othak to hear.” He smiled at her start of surprise. “I may be dying, Griane, but I still know when you're worried.”
“You're not dying.”
“The Midsummer battle of the Oak and the Holly was the last I'll ever witness. And we both know it. But I'm not afraid. It'll be a relief to shed this tired old body and fly to the Forever Isles. I only wish I could live long enough to see our land free again. And . . .”
Impulsively, she squeezed his hand. “What, Tree-Father?”
His rheumy gaze lingered on the doorway. “I wish I could be certain Othak is the best man to follow me.”
“Who else is there?”
Gortin shook his head in gentle reproof.
“Keirith,” she whispered.
“Rigat has great power, but he is too young, too impulsive. And I think his life-path takes him on another journey.” He waited for her to nod before adding, “It should have been Keirith. He was born to lead our people. Just as Darak was. And Tinnean. And you, Griane. What an extraordinary family. Faelia, a leader in this rebellion. Callie, our Memory-Keeper. Truly, the gods have chosen you for great things.”
“I wish the gods would leave us alone.”
Once, Gortin would have chided her. Now, he simply patted her hand. “Those the gods choose for the greatest tasks are always given the hardest paths.”
“It's one thing to hear about it in a tale and another when you're the one stumbling along the path.”
“You're worried about Darak and the children.”
“Of course I'm worried! Rigat promised to . . . to bring me word from time to time, but it's been nearly a moon since I've seen him. And even longer since Darak . . .” Emotion choked her voice, and she swallowed hard.
“What can I do?” Gortin asked quietly.
This time, she was the one to glance at the doorway.
“Those silly rumors about Rigat being responsible for Madig's condition?” Gortin shook his head. “I've already assured people they couldn't be true.”
“Othak is the one spreading the rumors. And not only about Rigat.”
By the time she finished repeating what Callie had told her, Gortin was trembling. “He was always frightened,” he whispered. “As a child. Afraid to stand up to his father. Afraid to embrace his power. And jealous. So terribly jealous of Keirith's gift. As I was.”
“You conquered your jealousy. Othak's has festered.”
“I had hoped . . . once Keirith was cast out . . .” Gortin shook his head. Then he straightened, a glimmer of the old strength shining on his face. “You've only confirmed my doubts about Othak's ability to lead the tribe after I'm gone. When Keirith returns, I'll announce that he will be my successor.”
“Even if Keirith agreed, the tribeâ”
“I am still Tree-Father. The tribe will accept my choice. We need a strong man to lead us. One with a clear gift of vision. And one who puts the needs of his people first.”
As he struggled to rise, Griane took his arm and handed him his blackthorn staff. Gortin caressed the wood, worn smooth by the generations of Tree-Fathers who had gripped this symbol of their authority. The hand clutching her arm trembled, but Gortin's expression was both determined and serene.
“After the council meeting, I'll speak with Othak about these rumors. And seek the gods' wisdom on how I should break the news to him about my choice of successor.”
She guided him to the longhut, aware of the curious glances from those who had grown used to seeing Othak at his side. Every step of the way, Gortin talked, his voice carefully raised to be heard by all: praising her treatment of Madig; dismissing the rumors that linked Rigat to his seizure; commending Rigat for his part in the rebellion; and assuring her that her husband and children would soon return.
“What a happy day that will be. For the entire tribe. We'll need Darak and Keirith to guide us in the days to come.”
By the time they reached the longhut, he was shaking with exhaustion, but his smile was triumphant. “Did you see how they stopped and listened?” he whispered, excited as a child. “In all my time as Tree-Father, I've never gotten so much attention. If Struath were here, he would scold me for pride.”
“If Struath were here, he'd scold you for stealing attention from him.”
Gortin pursed his lips, then burst out laughing, drawing astonished looks from the elders filing into the longhut.
“You're in a cheerful mood today,” Trath muttered.
“I'm enjoying the sting of Mother Griane's words. They remind me how good life is.”
Trath snorted. “If it's all the same, Mother Griane, I enjoy life just fine without the sting of your words.”
“Aye, Alder-Chief.” She lowered her gaze demurely, and Trath snorted again.
Her amusement faded as she walked toward her hut. She had desperately wanted to ask Gortin to find Rigat, but she doubted he had the strength to seek a vision. Still, if she'd managed to thwart Othak, her visit was successful.
She returned to her hut and told Hircha what Gortin intended, then repeated the story when Callie returned from the council meeting. And after they all retired to their pallets, she vowed to go to the boulder on the morrow and offer another sacrifice to the Oak and the Holly, beseeching them to bring Darak and the children home safely.
The scream jolted her awake. It took her a moment to recognize Othak's voice. Even before she made out the words, she knew what had happened.
Torchlight flickered in the darkness, illuminating men hurrying through the village. Women peeped from doorways, their faces tight with fear. A cluster of people had already gathered at the priests' hut by the time she reached it. Lisula's sorrowful expression told her she was too late.
Gortin was sprawled in the dirt. Othak crouched beside him, weeping. As she bent down, he screamed, “You did this!”
Shocked, she drew back.
“Don't be a fool,” Trath said. “Griane's been in her hut all night.”
“She asked him to seek a vision! And it killed him!”
“That's not true,” Griane protested.
But Gortin had seen how anxious she was. And he was kindhearted enough to attempt to help. Seeking a vision might have exhausted him, but Griane had been a healer for more than thirty years and she knew it had not killed him.
As she bent to examine Gortin, Othak shoved her. “That's enough!” Trath seized Othak's arm and yanked him to his feet. “Stop acting like a hysterical woman. You're Tree-Father now.” He peered around the circle of onlookers. “Sion. Rothisar. Carry Gortin inside.”
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