The Moorchild (17 page)

I see your mama! That ugly one . . .

. . . a danger to the Band.

Do a shape change, or a color change, or go dim-like . . .

Aye, a bit of trouble—about this size.

She descended to the street at the far end, slipping hastily through the thicket of hawthorn that screened Old Bess’s little hut. Without waiting to knock she pushed open the door and stumbled in. Then she stood, leaning breathless against it, unable to go farther or think what to say.

Old Bess was peering at her in alarm. “God’s mercy, child! What is it?” She stood up, pushing her stool aside without looking at it. “Saaski?”

“Am I Folk, then?” Saaski blurted, in a voice that sounded weirdly unlike her own. “Did you know it?”

Slowly Old Bess’s face cleared; the frown of alarm gave way to something like deep relief. For a moment she stood as if gathering herself. Then she went to Saaski, gently took her damp cloak, and drew her to the bench where they had often sat together over the books.

“I have always suspected it,” she said.

“The—the runes?”

“That, and other things I noticed—very early. Perhaps before you can remember.”

“I’m beginnin’ to remember. I—I’m tryin’ to, now. I never did, afore. Mebbe I tried
not
to. I think I was scared.”

“Aye,” said Old Bess. “And I suspect
I
scared you.” She spoke almost to herself, and before Saaski could ask her
what she meant, she said firmly, “Now tell me what has happened.”

Saaski obeyed—or tried to. But she started tail end to, with Tinkwa’s
Don’t you remember,
then jumped back to Tam’s tomfool notion, then she had to explain who Tam was, and about Tinkwa, and before that the little man . . .

And suddenly she knew who that little man was. He was old Nottoslom who used to take the younglings out on the moor some nights, when they guarded the red-horned cows.

“Saaski? Go on, child.”

“Aye—well—this Tinkwa, he kept plaguin’ me, always after Da’s bagpipes, and I—lately I’ve been afeard . . . the neighbors and them . . . ” She hesitated, lifting her eyes to Old Bess’s, whose unsurprised nod told her she need not explain. “And Mumma told me to stay outa sight, and so did Tam, and I—I thought of the fern seed and I cotched Tinkwa and I looked at his hand, his palm, like the gypsy did mine, and it was—it was
like
mine, and—”

Tinkwa. Of course!
The bold ones, the braggarts, Tinkwa and Zmr and Els’nk—

“And you began to remember,” prompted Old Bess.

“I’m still at it,” Saaski quavered. She pulled in a deep breath, feeling dizzy and unsettled, not sure whether to be frightened or elated, or what would happen next. There were so many puzzles . . . She burst out with the most baffling. “If I’m Folk, how’s it come I live
here,
in Torskaal—and not in the . . . the Mound, or whatever ’tis?”
The Gathering. Rough crystals twinkling far overhead . . . greenish light. The earthen door of Schooling House.
“Did I—used to? I think I did.”

“Do you so?” said Old Bess softly. She hesitated, took Saaski’s hand, and held it in a firm, sustaining grasp. “Have the neighbors ever called you a changeling?”

Saaski blinked, drew her hand away. It was no kind of answer she’d expected. “Eh, haven’t they then! Call me ‘imp,’ too, and ‘flibberjib’—I’ve heard ’em, they
want
me to hear. Well, that’s nothing—they call their own young ’uns that, if they’ve vexed enough.”

“When they call
you
that—I think they mean it. I think it’s true.”

After a still moment Saaski whispered, “What’s a changeling, then? I thought it was some block of wood, like, stuck in a baby’s cot ’stead of the—” She broke off.

“Instead of the baby.”

Saaski could do nothing but swallow—and it was hard to do that. A real live baby—stolen away forever?
Mumma and Da’s
real baby?

Old Bess went on. “It’s not always a block of wood or a straw mannikin. Sometimes—it’s said—they leave one of their own in exchange.”

In exchange.

Why, you’ll be ’changed, m’dear.

Wintertime. Cold. Fright. Smoky room; a man who wore iron, smelled of iron. Faces coming and going. Being picked up and jounced, dizzily trying to get her breath between screams. Straw tick crackling underneath her instead of soft fresh leaves and fern.

You’ll be startin’ all over.

“Why ever would they do that?” Saaski whispered.

Old Bess shrugged. “Some think they covet the human
babies because they’re comelier. Others say they’re ridding the troop of their old and feeble—or the misbegotten.”

Saaski gazed at her in silence, feeling herself sink down, down, deep into a despairing knowledge from which the fog was clearing.

Well! You’re misbegotten. Father’s that fisher lad . . .

A red jewel, on a chain, glowing like a drop of blood against a worn green weskit.

Aye, you’re neither one thing nor yet quite t’other. Pity, but there ’tis . . .

Not me! It was Talabar.

Talabar.

Oh, is it you, little duckling?

But I don’t want to! I won’t! I’m scared . . .

Oh, aye, the fisherman! He was lovely. Pawel, his name was . . . or maybe Harel . . .

But I’m half Folk, too! What if I never work out ’mongst the humans?

Hsssst! It’s settled.

“I told ’im! I
told
’im I’d never work out ’mongst the humans!” Saaski cried out. “I said so, I did! He wouldn’t listen! He just—”

“Who wouldn’t listen?” said Old Bess.

Saaski broke off, gulped a breath. “Him,” she said softly. “The Prince.” After a moment, and a few hard swallows, she said, “I mind how it was, now. He told me. My da’—he was from Outside. But my mumma’s Moorfolk. So I’m cotched in the middle.
Pity, but there
’
tis,”
she quoted bitterly.

Old Bess sat still as her own clasped hands. “Aye, I’ve
heard the tales . . . a young bride stolen from her husband—a lad beguiled by love. Never knew if they were true . . . Did they say your father’s name?”

Pawel . . . or maybe Harel . . .
Had she ever sorted out his name, that so-beautiful Talabar? “I dunno. Can’t recollect. Yet.” Saaski’s jaw clamped with sudden rage. “I mean to keep tryin’. And chance I remember, I’ll find ’im and pay ’im out, I will! It’s his doin’, all of it!”

“Surely hers also,” Old Bess said.

Saaski looked at her a moment without really seeing her. “Nay, not hers. She’s Folk. She wouldn’t . . . know better.” This produced a puzzled frown, but there was no sense getting into love and hate and all that, it was too hard to explain. Besides, there was a question she had to ask. “Does Mumma know about me, then? Does Da’?”

“I tried to tell them, long ago.
They
wouldn’t listen, either. They didn’t want to believe me. Your mumma—couldn’t bear to.”

“Can’t blame ’em, can you? Once they believed you, they’d want their own baby back. And there
I’d
be.” Saaski stood up, hitched the bagpipes onto her shoulder, picked up her cloak. “I best tell ’em now, though.”

“Wait—stay a minute. Wait, child—”

“No use waitin’, is there? I’ll never work out! I suspicion they’ll believe it this time—less’n they know already.” Blindly Saaski turned toward the door, flung it open.

“Wait—shall I go with you?”

“Nay, nay, I best . . . go alone.”

“It will be hard, hard, hard for Anwara,” whispered Old Bess, but she was speaking to herself.

Closing Old Bess’s door behind her, Saaski noticed the familiar rune, still glimmering there. It was twice-familiar now; she could read it without guessing.

It was nearing dusk. The rain had stopped, but except for one long golden slit across the west, clouds still darkened the sky and draped like a wet purple blanket over the looming slopes of the moor. In the low-slanting light, the grassy patches along the meandering village street glowed vivid green.

She paused for a wary glance toward the smithy and home. The street was oddly deserted; nobody at the well, nobody gossiping in doorways, not a child in sight. Old Fiach’s dog was stretching itself near the old man’s usual bench, yawning, hobbling away. Must be the rain drove
everybody inside, Saaski told herself. Relieved of the usual need to slip home unnoticed, she paid no further heed to the track her feet followed from long habit. Her thoughts were on the unknown paths ahead.

How to tell them? There seemed no way but just to blurt it out. Likely it would be no surprise—if they’d known—or feared—or tried to deny—all along. No guessing what they’d say or feel. Might be glad it was over. Anyway, the telling had to be done.

But what then? What then?

Can’t stay here, she thought. Never did work out, never will. People taking their smithing away from Da’ now, king-and-queening it over Mumma. Just get worse and worse.

Can’t go back where I came from, wouldn’t work out there either . . .
he
said. Likely they wouldn’t have me.

Again sudden rage and misery swept over her.
Pawel—or maybe Harel . . .
Eh, if I could just recollect his name, she thought, that wicked jobbernowl, wouldn’t I make him sorry . . .

. . . wager that fisherman’s sorry now he ever took up with the Folk . . . five-and-fifty years older the minute he stepped Outside . . .
Her anger sagged as she remembered. By now that Pawel or Harel or whoever was likely dead and gone.
Time runs different in the Mound.

Aye, well. First the telling. Then what? Get out of Torskaal. Away from Mumma and Da’, she thought. Rid ’em of me afore they’re made to get rid of me themselves. Run away.

Run away where? Never been anyplace else—except the Mound.

Tam.
Come up here to the moor. Goats and me’ll look after you.

He would, too. And never let on he knew where she was hiding. But what about that Bruman? Likely blab any secret for a jug of muxta. Not Tam, then . . .

There was a hoarse shout, so close and fierce it all but stopped her heart. A handful of sand—or something stinging—hit her full in the face. Another peppered her neck, her arm. Abruptly she was surrounded by figures, swarming out of nowhere, yelling and rushing at her, shaking yellow flowers, waving iron spades and hayforks, poking her with them no matter how she dodged. The iron seared wherever it touched, and the caustic pollen set her choking and coughing. Another blast of sand—no, it was salt, they were throwing salt, she could tell because it stung like angry bees . . . A big cross made of rowan came at her, loomed—

Sobbing with fear, she shrank away, beating at the weapons, the poisons, the enemies, turned and leaped—almost flew—toward the nearest house wall and ran up it, her cloak sliding away, the bagpipes jouncing about on her back, to dive into the rough straw of the thatch. Shaking uncontrollably, turning hot then icy cold, stinging all over, she scrambled frantically higher until she could go no farther. There she clung, hugging the rough straw pinnacle, the blood beating like a drum in her ears. Below her, fists and hayforks gestured, voices shrieked and bellowed, the big cross swayed.

Blurred with her tears and her panic, the contorted faces swam below her. She peered down at them, shivering. Was this
hate,
which Tam had tried to make her understand?

She blinked hard to clear her vision. The scene finally
righted itself; she got her bearings. There, close by, was her own cottage roof, and Moll’s byre. This was the smithy thatch she was huddled on. She’d nearly made it home—but they’d all been hiding, waiting. They’d treed her like an animal. Now what?

Quick, get harder to see, then slide down t’other side. Disappear, like.
Do a shape change, or a color change, or go dim-like. . . .

She tried her desperate best.
Never could do it.
She squinted anxiously down at her arms, wrapped around the weathered dirty-gray straw of the pinnacle, and gulped with relief to find them going dirty-gray, too. A bit too greenish—she’d always found green easiest to achieve. But near enough to the thatch color. Her bare legs and feet, huddled up nearly under her, were fading to greenish gray, too. Now to shrink as small, as thin as possible, and sit still as a lump of earth, or a hank of that straw . . . but keep the eyes moving, to watch for tricks.

The howling din below her faded into a gasping silence, as if every throat had sucked in air at once. But they were still staring.

It’s me dress—me apron,
she thought, her frail hope of escape tumbling into nothing. No good, they could still see that white on rusty red, and she’d lost the cloak. Worse, they gaped up at her now as if she were some kind of hairy-scary thing, which made her shrink and hurt inside as well as out and feel shamed, without knowing what she had done that was shameful.

“Look at that. Look at the creetur,” a hushed voice said.

“Godamercy,” quavered another.

There was a small flurry of movement as a dozen hands came up to sign rapid crosses.

“Eh, there we are, then,” whispered a third.

She could see
them
plain enough in the queer low-slanting light, make out the upturned faces with their wide, staring eyes and afrighted expressions, all just alike. The neighbors. The villagers. Ebba and Siward and the miller and the potter and the weaver and their wives, and Helsa and even old Fiach—a score or more—and in the doorway, penned in by them like captured prisoners, Yanno and Anwara, pale as specters, staring, too.

“D’ye believe me now?” came a shrill voice. Helsa was pointing a shaking finger. “D’ye see what I’ve been a-telling you all this time? Does it look like a child
now,
that creetur? Well, does it?”

There was a confused chorus of “ayes” and “nays,” and a nervous shifting as those in the front burrowed into the middle, looking over their shoulders, and those in the middle backed up.