The River's Gift (3 page)

The
Lady moved ponderously into Ariella's room, her eyes shaded with one hand
against the sunlight. She cast a critical eye on Ariella's indifferent sewing
and made a tsking sound.
"Next to nothing done, as
usual!
I suppose you've been daydreaming again! Well, let me hear you
recite your lesson."

Ariella
would have preferred lessons in history, Greek, not mathematics, but Lady
Magda's learning was not in any of those fields. Her "lesson" was the
next in an interminable number of saints' lives which Ariella was to learn by
heart each day. Since these pious bits of prose were hardly complicated,
varying only in the details of
how
each saint met his or her (usually spectacularly painful and gory) end, it was
quite easy for Ariella to rattle her day's lesson off to Lady Magda's reluctant
satisfaction without ever having to put much effort into learning it.

The
Lady sniffed as Ariella finished, and she shook her head. "At least no one
can claim you are ignorant!" she said plaintively. "Though what a
well-bred lady would make of your needle-skills, I'm at a loss to say! Off with
you, child. Pray bring your Papa to the hall; it's almost time to dine."

Ariella
gladly left her embroidery frame and flew across the room to the door as Lady
Magda bleated, "And don't run! A lady does not run!" quite uselessly
behind her.

Her
Papa would be in his study, working with his steward. He took care with even
the smallest details of the needs of his small-holders and serfs and the crops
and beasts they raised for him. If someone had a sick child, he knew about it
and had sent to learn if the family needed anything. If someone suffered
a blight
, then the portion that came to the Manor was
reduced or eliminated for that year. And as a result, in a good year, no one begrudged
the Lord his share, and often little additional gifts in the way of flowers and
herbs, game, nuts, or wild berries found their way to the Manor's kitchens.

Lord
Kaelin and his steward were just closing up the great books in which all the
accounts and doings of the Manor were recorded when Ariella presented herself
at his door, not the least out of breath. Lord Kaelin turned at the sound of
her light footstep, smiling and holding out his hand.

"My
Wild Swan!" he exclaimed fondly, as he always did. "Come to make
certain I eat, eh?"

The
steward smiled, and slipped out of the room without saying anything, as Ariella
seized her father's hand and kissed it, then cuddled into his embrace. "Of
course, Papa," she replied as he stroked her hair. "If I don't come
in remind you, you'll spend all day in this dark little hole!" She lowered
her voice. "Papa," she continued plaintively, "can't we send
Lady Magda home? She doesn't teach me anything that the Abbot couldn't. And the
Abbot has more learning than she does."

"But
the Abbot cannot teach you the skills of a lady—" Lord Kaelin began.

"Nor
do I need them!" she replied instantly. "I've no intention of ever
leaving Swan Manor and you."

Her father simply
shook his head and rose to his feet. "We'd best be getting down to the
great hall," was all he said, and she knew that once again she had lost
this particular argument.

The
next day, when she returned to the forest, she wondered if she would see the
Kelpie again and was a little disappointed when she reached the riverbank and
he did not appear. But when she had finished with the last of her large
patients, she felt a tugging at the hem of her skirt.

When she looked to see what it was, she got
something of a shock. Holding on to her hem was the oddest little creature she
had ever seen in her life. It looked rather like a little man, and rather like
a tangle of ancient briar root, all clothed in a patchwork garment made of
leaves carefully stitched together.

The
little creature pulled off his hat when he saw he'd gotten her attention, and
then he coughed. It was a nasty sound, indeed, and she immediately knew it
wasn't a healthy cough.

"If
ye please, mum," the little man said hoarsely. "If ye'd be havin'
anythin'—"

"Of
course!" she replied, instinctively dropping down into a crouch so that
her face was level with his. She fished out her packets of herbs and made up
two sets, tying them up in two large leaves with a bit of grass.
"Here," she said, handing him the first, done up in plaintain.
"You take this, put it in boiling water, and breathe the steam as often as
you can. Then you take this"—she handed him a packet done up in a dock
leaf—"and you make tea with it, and drink it with lots of honey. Wrap up in
wool and keep yourself very warm, and if the cough hasn't gone off in three or
four days, come back and see me."

The
little man's gnarled, brown face was flushed with gratitude. "Thenkee,
mum," he said, and then—vanished. She hadn't even blinked her eyes, and
he was gone.

She
stood up, slowly, and turned when she heard something like a chuckle behind
her.

There
stood Merod, coat shining blue-black in a shaft of sunlight driving down
through the tree-canopy.
:He
won't be the last of your patients, mor— Ariella,:
the Kelpie said in her mind.
:They
trust you now.:

"Because
I didn't hurt you?" she asked, settling herself on the riverbank and
dangling her feet in the cool water.

:Because
you kept your
word,:
Merod
corrected her.
:And
now both Underhill and Overhill are open to you.
Now you may come and go, and look and know, and no door shall be locked against
you.:

So
it proved, as the summer days passed and Ariella found herself playing
physician to a bewildering variety
of
uncanny creatures. She splinted broken bones, treated wounds, and dosed fevers.
She tended odd little babies, in cradles that looked to have been grown rather
than carved, for croup and colic and all the little ailments that made human
babies fretful. She learned that when you tend to a tree-spirit, you must also
tend to her tree; that an otter-maid is as full of mischief as a
"natural" otter; and that a sylph could only take in medicine through
the air. All of her charges healed with unbelievable swiftness, and it wasn't
often that she needed to use her magical powers to mend them, for they had a
touch of that gift themselves. It was only when the hurt was caused by the hand
of man—usually due to the touch or presence of iron—that she had to exert that
touch of healing to set things right.

Over
the course of time, Merod thawed, and soon they were true friends. Indeed, she
had never had a real friend, for there were no young people of her own age and
rank anywhere near Swan Manor, and Lady Magda would not consent to let her even
speak with those below her, as she used to do when she was a child. Of course,
all the young people of her age were far too busy working in the gardens and
fields, tending flocks and herds, and hard at labor at loom, dairy, kitchen, or
elsewhere to have any time for friendship with Lord Kaelin's daughter. She had
not realized how lonely she was until she met Merod, who seemed to be the tacit
leader of
all of the
Faerie hereabouts.

There
were none of the Great Ones of Faerie present in her forest, somewhat to her
disappointment; according to Merod, there was too much Cold Iron about for them
to be comfortable, so she never saw any of the tall, proud, and fearfully
beautiful Elvenkind. But the lesser spirits were here in abundance.

:It
is because your
father treats the land with kindness, and he is generous and thoughtful,:
Merod told her as they strolled together
along the bank of the river one sunny day.
:And
he
treats his people with kindness. They are happy, the land is happy and healthy,
and we can flourish. Other places are not so good for
us.:

"How
is that?" she asked.

:Where
there is greed and misery, such dark thoughts drive us away—and sometimes open
the doors of Underhill to the
Dark
Faerie.:
Merod wouldn't say anything more than that, but she didn't need him to elaborate.
She had heard enough tales, both from traveling musicians and horn the people
of the Manor, to know what he was talking about. The worst that Merod's kind
ever indulged in was a bit of mischief, throwing a bit of a fright into
someone who deserved it. But there were others—the Kelpies who did drown
wayfarers, the Night Hags, the Willowisps that lured the lost into bogs to
perish, a hundred and one other nasty creatures who seemed to live only to
cause misery and death. If Merod was to be believed—and he'd been truthful with
her up to now—the presence of these creatures was due as much to the ill-doing
of humans as it was to their own will and desires.

That
was certainly
cause
for some uneasy thoughts. Were
mortals as much the cause of their own misfortune as all that? It made her feel
obscurely guilty.

"Have
you ever seen any of the Great Ones?" she asked, to turn her mind
elsewhere.

He laughed.
: Of course! I have been here far longer
than your kind. Long before sheep ever grazed on the Downs, the Great Ones came
to this river to bathe and hold revels. I would take them for rides beneath the
waves—they cannot drown, of course, and they thought it fine sport. And one
day, one of them even gave me a gift. Shall I show it to you
?:

She
flushed with excitement. "Oh yes! Please!"

He
plunged into the water and soon returned bearing a green silk pouch in his
teeth.
:Open
it,:
he urged, placing it in her hand.
She obeyed, and three transparent spheres, filled with a rainbow mist, as
fragile as bubbles, rolled into her hand.

She
gazed at them, half afraid to touch them with her fingers.

:You
can't hurt them, they won't break, not until I want them to,:
Merod told her,
and emboldened, she rolled them in her hand and held them up to the light,
entranced by the opalescent colors that played inside.

"What
are they?" she asked.

:Wishes
—of a kind,:
Merod told her.
:The
Great Faerie never give anything without conditions attached, and they are
inclined to twist everything into a riddle. I haven't the faintest idea why I
was given these in the first place. The Great One told me that I might want
them one day—but that the first one would make me mortal, and the other two had
to be
shared.:
He tossed his head and snickered.
:Ive
never seen a reason to want to be mortal, and I doubt I ever will, so they're
really rather useless. I have magic enough for everything I need
!:

"That's
certainly true," Ariella agreed, rolling the spheres back into their pouch
and handing it back to him. "I'm sure I wouldn't know what to do with
them. But they're lovely to look at."

:That's
why I keep them, instead of giving them to one of the nixies to play with,:
he told her, and
he plunged back into the river to replace his treasures in their hiding-place.

She
continued to walk slowly along the bank, knowing that he would come out of the
water beside her wherever she went.

:By
the way,:
Merod said, emerging again from the river and resuming the conversation as if
it had never been interupted, :W
hy
were you so late today?:

Ariella
made a face. "Lady Magda got it into her head that if she worked on that
stupid altar-cloth with me, I'd probably make more progress, so I had to sit
there sewing until she began to yawn and couldn't keep her eyes open
anymore."

Merod stopped, and she turned to look at him.
:
You
know, I've never understood why you waste
your time with that nonsense when you're needed elsewhere. The other mortals
here need your healing, too—why do you spend hours making patterns in thread
?:

"Because
Lady Magda says—" she began.
:ls
it wrong to help others?:
Merod asked. "Well—no." Ariella fidgeted uneasily, for Merod had put
his finger—well, hoof—on exactly what bothered
her the
most about Lady Magda's decrees. For some time now, she had wanted to offer her
healing skills to the folk of the Manor, but Lady Magda absolutely forbade her
to "mingle" with the common people except at harvest, when every hand
was needed, hers included. "No, and it seems to me that it's really wrong
to be spending time on such foolery and fripperies when there are people who
need help."

:Has
this woman power
over you? Can she compel you to remain indoors? Or is it only that you fear
her disapproval: