R. L. LaFevers (6 page)

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in the between times, when it is neither light nor dark, day or night," he muttered to himself, then creaked to a standing position.

Wat opened his mouth to speak.

"Never mind." He dismissed Wat's unspoken question with a wave of his hand. "What's done is done. You'd best stay with me till it's all forgotten." He turned on his heel and began walking out of the clearing.

Wat stood up, carefully cradling the nestlings in the bag. Something deep inside him had decided to trust this man. His outrage on behalf of the birds was equal to Wat's own, and his dislike for the people of the village seemed almost as strong. Maybe Wat could find shelter with him. The birds needed to be somewhere safe. Perhaps this musty old hermit had a cave somewhere, one he'd be willing to share with Wat and the birds. Reminding himself that it wasn't only himself any longer, Wat made his decision and shouldered the bag. As he fell into step behind the stranger, he asked, "How long do you think it will be till the whole thing is forgotten?"

"Years, boy, years," the old man replied. "You're not easily forgotten once you've been seen."

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***

Chapter 7

They walked on, the old man saying nothing and staying just far enough ahead of Wat to make conversation impossible. They went deeper into the forest, picking out a path where there was none and venturing farther than Wat had ever dared on his own. The trees, taller, thicker, more gnarled, seemed like ancient sentinels standing guard over the secrets of the woods.

As the sun burned off the morning mists that swirled about their feet, Wat's thoughts turned to the young birds who lay so quiet in the sack. They needed food and water. Wat needed to go hunting for them, somehow.

Near midmorning they came to a cottage that was so old and broken-down it looked as if the forest had begun to reclaim it. Vines crawled over the chimney and covered the thatched roof while ivy grew unchecked up its walls.

"Do you live here?" asked Wat when he caught up to the old man at last.

"When it suits me," was his reply. He pushed open the

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door of the cottage, which immediately collapsed to the floor, stirring up a storm of dust and cobwebs.

Wat sneezed and waved his hand in front of his face, trying to chase away the worst of the dust. "And when was the last time it suited you?" he asked dryly.

"Not for a while," the old man admitted. He walked over to peer up the chimney. "We'd better check for nests before we light the fire," he commented.

Once the dust had settled, Wat looked about the room. In one corner there was a small bed with a sagging straw mattress. A large, rough table that looked as if it had been fashioned from a fallen tree stood in the center of the room. Beside the table were two equally rough benches.

Against the wall, wobbly-looking shelves held chipped pieces of crockery and earthenware jars. Wat thought if he shouted, or perhaps even sneezed again, the whole thing would tumble to the floor. A fine dusting of cobwebs covered all.

"Don't just stand there gawking," the old man called out to Wat. "Come see what fate has delivered into our hands."

Wat moved over to where the old man stood. He stared down at the fallen door, which had landed on a rather large mouse.

"Dinner," said the old man.

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Wat looked up at him, horrified.

"Not ours, you young fool! For your falcons. If they've not eaten in a while, they will greatly appreciate this tender morsel. Find them a makeshift nest for now, then go fix them their meal."

Wat looked around the room. There was an old wooden bucket with a plank missing. No good for carrying water, but it would make a fine tree hollow. He picked it up and held it out for the old man's inspection. "Can I use this?"

"Certainly, certainly. I don't care what you use," the old man said absently, his attention still on the bed he was examining. "It's been a long time since these old limbs have slept in a bed," he mumbled. He reached down and tested the mattress. "Needs new stuffing." He turned back to Wat. "Go tend to your birds!"

The old man turned his back on Wat and began examining his pots and jars. "Valerian, skullcap, wormwood, yarrow," he muttered to himself. "Yes, yes. All here as they should be." Without turning around, he called to Wat, "Do I have to light a fire under you?"

Wat stopped gawking at his surroundings. He carried the sack over to the bucket and reached for the young birds. Even when his hand reached into the sack, they made no noise or movement, and he feared the worst. When his fingers

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touched them, however, they stirred and made a feeble attempt to fend him off with their talons. One at a time he pulled them out of the bag, noticing their rumpled feathers. They certainly looked worse for wear. He laid the sack in the bucket for padding and placed the birds on top of it. "I'll hurry with your dinner, I promise," he whispered.

Wat gingerly picked up the mouse by its long tail and carried it outside. He'd never skinned an animal before. When hunting had still been permitted, he'd been too young, and now that he was old enough, hunting was forbidden. He sat down outside the cottage door, trying to figure out the best way to go about the task. He pulled out his knife and decided to cut the skin from the neck and scrape it off.

As his knife worked on the mouse, he mulled over the last few hours. Even though he hadn't started out with a plan, he needed to form one now. He needed to pay attention and not risk the young birds further. The shock at finding this odd man in the forest had left him confused and distracted. He'd expected to find himself alone, just him and the birds together, making do with what the forest provided, living on their own. But now there was another person to be dealt with. Someone who could offer them shelter and perhaps some protection, which he liked. Someone to tell him what to do and when, which he didn't care for a bit.

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Once the mouse was skinned, he had to decide the best way to feed it to the nestlings. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine how the mother falcon would have done this. His mind filled with the image of her, back from the kill. She had held the prey still in her talons and ripped the feathers away with her sharp beak. She would most likely have done the same in order to tear the meat from the carcass.

Opening his eyes, he used the tip of his knife to pull small gobbets of meat from the mouse carcass. It was surprising how little meat there actually was on a plump mouse. He hoped it would be enough. It would certainly be better than nothing.

Back inside the cottage, the old man was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, Wat went over to the little falcons in the bucket. Seeing his approach, they lifted their talons in his direction. Wat smiled wryly at their efforts to defend their bucket against a one-eyed, cripple-footed boy. He hoped it was a sign their spirits hadn't been damaged by their adventures.

Wat sat down on the floor in front of the bucket. "Hush now. I'm just going to feed you, that's all." He held out a tiny strip of meat to the smaller one, who was hissing louder. The bird couldn't resist the morsel. He reached out with

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his razor-sharp little beak and grabbed for the meat. Wat could see the lump sliding down his throat as the bird swallowed. The falcon squawked for more before Wat had even given the second bird a piece.

"Not so interested in defending your territory now that I have food, are you, greedy one? Now wait your turn." He fed a strip to the second bird, who gobbled it down in the same way as the first and was immediately ready for another piece.

The mouse meat disappeared with surprising speed. "That's it, that's all there is," Wat told the birds. Wanting to make sure they understood, he held out his empty hands to show them. Apparently disbelieving, the smaller one pecked at Wat's finger.

"Ouch!" Wat snatched his hand back. "That's not meat! That's my thumb."

"Thumb. Meat. It's all the same to them," said the old man from the doorway. "Besides, I can see from here that their crops are full. They've had enough for now."

Wat leaned forward and noticed two small, pinkish pouches bulging out of the birds' throats that hadn't been there before.

"Leave the birds and come with me. We have much to do to make this cottage ready for nightfall."

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Once again, Wat had to quicken his pace to keep up with the old man. His twisted foot ached from the distance they had already walked, but he forced himself to put the pain out of his mind.

"Where are we going?" he asked, trying to distract himself.

"To collect new mattress stuffing, for one. To see what we can find to eat, for another."

They walked until they came to a place where the forest floor was covered with leaves. The old man handed Wat an empty sack. "Your back is younger than mine. Pick up these leaves we'll need to stuff the mattress."

Wat reached up to a nearby tree. "Wouldn't these leaves be softer?"

Long, bony fingers clamped around Wat's wrist. "No." The old man's face was suddenly inches from his, frightening in its intensity. "You must never take leaves or branches from a tree without its permission."

"W-why?"

"Because a tree is a sacred thing. Besides," he said, motioning with his other hand, "there is plenty here on the ground, and that is good enough for me." He let go of Wat and moved away.

Wat stared at his wrist. The old man's touch had been dry

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and rough ...and something else. Something he couldn't name. Wat's skin felt as if it were humming where the old man had touched it.

Wat shook his head and began stuffing the leaves into the sack, keeping his eye on the old man as he did so.

The old man searched about on the ground, poking the soft earth with his walking stick. Not finding what he was looking for, he moved on to try again. "Aha!" he said at last. He bent over to pick something up. To Wat, it looked remarkably like an old pig snout. "Dinner!" the old man proclaimed.

Wat wasn't worried. "For the falcons."

"No! Of course not. Ours. They wouldn't eat it anyway."

Wat wasn't sure he would either. The old man looked up and saw Wat watching him. "A parsley root. It will be good boiled and mashed," he explained. He turned his attention back to the root, inspecting it closely, and asked, "Do you have any other family? A brother perhaps? Or a father?"

Wat shook his head. "My mother never spoke of my father. Whenever I asked she grew so saddened and upset that I stopped asking. The only thing I know is that he played her false." A flutter of shame and loss quivered in his chest. His mind scuttled away from the familiar pain of that subject, looking for something else to latch onto. He

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stopped gathering leaves as a thought occurred to him. "She did say I had a grandfather."

"Did she, now?" The old man dropped the root into his pocket. He folded both of his hands on the top of his staff and studied Wat. "And, what of him?"

Wat shrugged. "I don't know. He lived far away, where she said we couldn't go, so I've never met him." Wat smiled. "But my mother had stories she used to tell."

"And what did your mother tell you of him?"

"Well..." Wat thought a moment. "Mostly that he was very old and a little mad."

Wat glanced up at the old man. His great, thick eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. He looked both amused and annoyed. "Come," he said to Wat abruptly. "That should be enough mattress stuffing. We need to go tickle some trout. One parsley root won't fill our bellies worth spit." He turned and headed to where the shadows lengthened between the trees.

Wat fastened his bag and threw it over his shoulder, then followed. The thicker trees blocked the sun's rays, and gooseflesh popped up along his arms. He forced himself not to shiver.

"Do you smell it?" the old man whispered. He stopped walking and Wat nearly bumped into him.

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"Smell what?" Wat sniffed. Something was different. He sniffed again. It smelled richer, cooler, damper. "Water?" he asked.

"Ha! Excellent!" The old man reached out and gave Wat a thump on the back. "Splendid, splendid!" He turned and continued on his way down the path. Wat followed, feeling somewhat like he had just passed a very important test. Of what, he wasn't certain, but he didn't mind. It was a pleasant feeling.

Before long the cheerful gurgling of a stream reached Wat's ears. "I can hear it," he ventured, hoping for more approval.

"Well, of course you can," answered the old man, not at all impressed. "You're half blind, not half deaf!"

Not quite knowing what to say, Wat kept silent.

Before long, the stream came into sight. The old man held his finger in front of his lips and motioned for Wat to sit on a nearby rock. He watched as the old man rolled up his sleeves and pulled the hem of his robe up through his legs and tucked it into his belt. Wat marveled at the spindly, white legs, wondering how the old man managed to get around on them. They reminded him of old knotted alder branches.

The old man walked down to the water's edge and