The River's Gift (5 page)

Merod,
however, was a constant friend and companion, and he traded tales of life among
the Faerie for her own stories gleaned from the histories and chronicles in the
library of the Abbey. He had a lively curiosity about the world outside the
forest and was as eager for such stories as a child.

On
the rare occasions when it rained during the day, she took her horse and rode
to the Abbey to delve among the books or absorb more knowledge of herbs and
physik from the Infirmarian and his helpers. When it rained, it was no use
going out to the forest; the animals kept to their dens, and Merod had no place
for her to take shelter. Besides, rain made the Kelpie wild and restless and
not much good as a conversationalist.

And
once each week on Sunday, rain or shine, she and her father rode out together,
with Lady Magda trundled along in a horse-litter, to attend holy services at
the Abbey chapel.

So
the summer passed. Then, before she quite realized it, the summer was gone and
the busy season of harvest was upon them. The summer had been perfect for
growing, and it seemed that there was
an abundance
,
even an overabundance, everywhere Ariella looked. And while this meant great
things for the continued prosperity of Swan Manor and those that depended on
the harvest, Ariella knew that until the last fruit was picked and nut gathered
in, she would bid farewell to her days of relative leisure. Every hand was
needed for such a rich harvest-season, and even Lady Magda would not be spared.
The reapers had already been out in the first hay-field, and it was time for
all the Manor-folk to set to.

"We
start haying tomorrow," she sighed to Merod after one of the swimming
lessons he had insisted on. He was determined that she learn to swim, and swim
well, after being taken unaware by the current and getting a fright and a
lung-full of water. Now she swam, if not as well as one of the otter-maidens,
at least well enough to keep herself out of trouble. She usually stripped to
her short chemise to swim, having no fear that any humans would come this way
without warning, and feeling no embarrassment in Merod's presence.

Now
she combed out her hair with her fingers to help it dry as she sat in a patch
of sun, with Merod reclining at his ease beside her, and reluctantly broached
the subject of the upcoming harvests and her inevitable absence until they were
over. Would Merod be angry with her? Would he feel betrayed? She didn't want to
hurt his feelings, but she did have her duty to the Manor—

:So
you'll have your
hands full for some time, I expect. If we need your skills, we'll find a way to
let you know
,:
the Kelpie replied matter-of-factly. .:I'
ll
miss your company,
of course, but
—: he
cocked his head to the side.
:Why
are you
looking at me so oddly?:

"How
did you know I would have to help with the harvest?" she asked, feeling
her eyes widen with surprise.

He laughed.
:I
have seen more
than three hundred harvests come and go. Do you think I wouldn't recognize the
signs of an especially good one? And of course, if the harvest is good, your
father will have hired extra hands at the hiring fair and still you and every
person in the Manor will need to add your labor.:

She
echoed his laughter.
"Of course.
I keep
forgetting you are as old as the hills themselves," she replied teasingly.

:Not quite as old as the hills, but old
enough.:
He gave her another of those brief, feather-light touches to the cheek with his
nose, so close to a kiss that they gave her chills.
:Go
in good conscience and do your
duty.
I'll
miss you,
but remember what I've told
you.:

He
didn't need to repeat it; anything she did to add to the peace and happiness of
the lands about the Manor made a difference in the lives of the Faerie folk. So
when she made her way back from the forest for what she knew would be the last
time for many days, she had the comfort of knowing that though she would
sacrifice a little freedom, she would still be adding to the peace of her
friends.

The
hay was the first of the crops to be gathered in, and it needed a steady space
of at least a week with hot sun, no rain, and little dew, for once it was cut,
it had to cure before it could be brought into the barns. First the reapers
made their way down the fields like an advancing army, sweeping at the succulent
grasses with their scythes and leaving the green stems flat on the ground
behind them like a vanquished army. Every harvest— though thankfully, never at
Swan Manor—reapers lost limbs and lives to a careless swipe of the blades. A
good hand with a scythe was worth any three common laborers, and Lord Kaelin
rewarded his reapers well.

It
was the job of the less skilled to come along behind them and rake the hay into
neat rows for the turning, while the harvesters moved across the fields with
the precision of clockwork, stopping only to sharpen their instruments. In
fields already harvested, where the hay had sufficiently dried, the hay-wains
lumbered, with their own crews of rakers, forkers (who tossed clumps of hay up
onto the wagons), loaders, and a driver. The hot, still air was full of the
sounds of insects buzzing, the reapers chanting, the rakers humming, and the
sweet scent of newly mown hay. All of this was thirsty work, and Ariella and
Lady Magda labored up and down the rows with the old women and small children
with their buckets of cool water. For once Lady Magda eschewed her heavy black
and gray gowns for a simple linen chemise and apron, bundling her hair up beneath
a kerchief and leaving her dignity back in the Manor.

When
the hay was in, it was time for the grain—oats, wheat, barley and rye—all three
scythed and harvested in much the same manner as the hay. The weather remained
perfect, hot and
still,
and the golden grain fell before
the scythes, rich with the promise of the well-fed winter.

From
the fields, the wains went to the threshing circles, where threshers beat the
sheaves to loosen the grain from the straw. Ariella worked with the winnowers,
tossing basketfuls of grain into the air for the breeze to carry away the
lighter chaff while the grain dropped back to the ground.

The
harvest wasn't over yet—in fact it was just begun. Next
came
peas, beans, and other vegetables that would be dried for winter preservation.
Ariella was out in the rows with the other women and children, filling her
apron with pods and emptying it in the barrow a boy brought up. After the beans
and peas came the root vegetables, turnips and mangle-wurzles, beets, onions,
and leeks. Then
came
the hops, then the berries,
apples and nuts. Nor was this the end; rushes had to be cut and dried for
strewing on the floors, herbs gathered and hung to dry, honey gathered from the
hives. Not even the blossoms were spared the gathering-in; lavender, roses and
other flowers were stripped of their petals or preserved whole for
sweet-scented sachets and potpourris or to be candied, and
all
of this
needed people's hands, Ariella's among them. She worked from the
first light of false dawn to the last hint of twilight, fell into her bed exhausted,
and woke to do it all over again. Every bucket of grain, every round, white
turnip, every apple and honeycomb meant a pleasant and comfortable winter for
the people of Swan Manor. No one would go hungry, and there would be extra to
sell for things the Manor didn't produce for itself, and still more to sell for
luxuries— spices and cakes of white sugar for cooking, oranges to stick full of
cloves and hang to scent the air, silks for gowns, dye-stuff—Twelfth-Night
gifts. . . .

Ariella
indulged herself with imagining what she might buy from peddlers at the Harvest
Fair as she
worked,
sweat dripping down her neck and
even off the tip of her nose. And all the while, in the last field of barley to
be mowed, a single uncut sheaf stood in the very middle, a sheaf that would be
left untouched until the very last apple and nut of the harvest was gathered
in.

Finally,
at long last, in the final honey-gold moments of an autumn afternoon, the
entire population of the Manor gathered behind Lord Kaelin and the chief
reaper, each of whom had tiny silver sickles in their hands. Everyone was
dressed in his or her best, and even the poorest wore a bright ribbon or two
and a wreath of flowers in their hair. Ariella, like the other unmarried
maidens, wore her hair unbound and streaming down her back, with a wreath of
flowers, wheat, and ribbons crowning her head.

In
a body, they all paraded into the fields, singing to the Corn Maiden, for they
had come to bring her in.

With
great ceremony, Lord Kaelin and Toby, the chief reaper, took careful hold of
the last sheaf and bent to cut the stalks off as near to the ground as they
could. When the sheaf was cut, they handed it to Toby's wife and Ariella, who
swiftly bound it up and made it into a humanlike shape. With bits of outworn
clothing they gowned the Corn Maiden, and Ariella crowned the doll with her own
wreath.

Then
they passed the Corn Maiden to the rest, who bore her in triumph to the
groaning trestle-tables arranged in front of the Manor, as the last rays of the
sun gilded the tops of the trees.

They
set the Corn Maiden in the place of honor above the feast as men lit the great
torches of pitch and straw that had been set about the
tables,
and the folk of the Manor took places on the seats of log that had been set
around the makeshift tables.

An
ox
had been
roasted whole for this feast, nor was that
all; the kitchen staff had outdone themselves, with every other tasty dish that
could be imagined. There was enough to stuff everyone to capacity and still
have leftovers to share out.

Ariella's
only regret was that Merod could not be here; she imagined how his eyes would
sparkle at the fun and how he would toss his head and perhaps even join in the
dancing.

The
air hummed with laughter and talk, the torchlight shone on happy faces, and
once the edge was off her hunger, Ariella nibbled and watched, taking it all
in.

She
glanced to the side to see how Lady Magda fared. Even that Lady had lost some
of her haughty reserve, unbending enough to smile and joke with the Abbot at
her other side.

The
small army of Manor-folk decimated the piles of food. As the stars came out and
circled overhead, the ox was reduced to a skeleton, the mounds of vegetables
melted away like snow in the spring, the bread developed gaping holes and the
pies and cakes eroded to pitiful remnants of their former glorious selves. Now
it was time for the traditional toasts, and Lord Kaelin stood up, tankard in
hand, to begin them.

Something
icy, foreboding and grim seized Ariella's heart, and she swiftly turned her
gaze from the expectant faces below her to her father's countenance.

As
that cold hand gripped her soul and froze her where she sat, she saw, as if in
a nightmare, her father open his lips—try to speak—a puzzled look came into his
eyes—he blinked in shock and surprise—and toppled over, crashing into the table
before him. Ariella screamed and leapt for him, arms outstretched as her chair
fell over backwards.

Pandemonium.
Men shouted
,
women screamed or wailed, children began crying. Some
rushed for the high table, some to get water, some shouted confused instructions.
Ariella frantically turned her father over, crying out his name—but the icy
hand that held her heart was the chill and unforgiving hand of death, and she
knew he could no longer hear her.

Someone
pulled her away, more people held her, keeping her from her father's side. She
screamed and wept, fighting them, trying to get back to his side, thinking
surely there must be something she could do, yet knowing there was nothing to
be done.

Then
the moment of shock passed and the grief came, and her legs gave out beneath
her. Hands held her up, the Abbot's, the steward's; there was nothing in her
heart and mind but loss, nothing in her soul but grief, nothing in her world
but tears. She collapsed, her throat closing, her body knotted about
itself
, her hands reaching for something she could never
grasp. Animal moans of grief spilled from her, and she shook as though with
fever.

They led her away, knotted and tangled in
her terrible grief, unable to see, to think, to feel anything now but a vast
and lonely emptiness.

They took her to her room, coaxed her to
drink something—something bitter, but not
so
bitter
as the tears that burned her eyes and scorched her cheeks.

She fell from tears
into darkness and knew nothing more for a day and a night.

The
next days passed as in a nightmare from which there was no waking. Ariella wept
until her eyes were sore and swollen, and still there were tears left over. The
Abbot murmured words meant to comfort that she did not hear
,
Lady Magda plied her with platitudes she ignored. She tried to go to the
forest more than once, but those watching her prevented her, and she didn't
have the strength to fight them. Finally the Abbot brought the Infirmarian, and
there was more of the bitter drink, and her days faded into a haze of drug and
tears.