Jo Clayton: A Gathering Of Stones

He fetched the water from the tank and began bathing the stranger, concentrating at first on his hands and feet, check-

ing carefully for any signs of frostbite, pleased to see there were none. He didn’t understand why the man didn’t wake up, worried about it and was frustrated by his own ignorance. If his family hadn’t been so opposed to anything that smelled of witchery, if he’d had the drive and intelligence to go out and get training, beyond the little he picked up from his grandmer, if and if and if… Beautiful beautiful man, if he die, it’s my fault, my ignorance that kill ‘im. He dried the man, rubbing and rubbing with the soft nubby towel he’d found in one of the pouches, and still he didn’t wake, he yielded to Simms’ manipulations like a big cat to a stroking hand, it was almost as if his body recognized Simms and cooperated as much as an unminded body could.

He folded the towel, put it under the man’s head. I need clothes for you. I hope you don’ mind, I been goin’ through your stuff. He touched the man’s face, drew his forefinger along the elegant lips. Wake up, wake up, wake… He sighed and got to his feet.

The table was spread with the pouches and things he’d already pulled from them. He unbuckled the pouch that held the man’s spare clothing. Robes, rolled in neat, tight cylinders. He shook them out, chose one and set it aside. The blankets, I’d better have them. Another pouch. Meat, apples, trailbars wrapped in oiled silk-he set those aside as he came on them. A large leather wallet with papers inside. He tossed that down without exploring it, none of his business, at the moment anyway. A plump, clunk-clanking purse. He opened it. Jaraufs and takks, Jorpashil coin. Another towel, in an oiled silk sac along with bars of soap and a squeeze tube with an herb-scented lotion inside.

He gave over his explorations, carried the robe and lotion back to the man. Kneeling beside him, he rubbed the lotion all over him, enjoying the feel of him, the brisk green smell of the lotion. Y’ walk in circles I can’t even sniff at, everythin’ say it. He felt a pleasant melancholy as he contemplated the probable impossibility of what he wanted. When he was finished with the rubdown, he rolled the sleeper over, spread one of the blankets on the hearth; after sweat and swearing and frustration, he finally got the dry robe on him and shifted him bit by bit onto the blanket.

Weary beyond exhaustion, weary to the bone, Simms got heavily to his feet. The soup was sending out a pleasant smell, filling the kitchen with it, making it feel homier than any place he’d been in for years. He stirred the thick, gummy liquid, tasted it, smiled and shifted it from the grate to the sand bed where it could simmer away without burning. The tea water was boiling; he dropped in a big pinch of tea leaves, stirred them with a whisk and set the pot on the sand to let the leaves settle out. He picked up the wet, discarded clothing, hung it on pegs beside the fireplace to dry out and went into the parlor to check on the horses. The water in the crock was low; he emptied what was left onto the floor and fetched more from the kitchen. Neddio was sleeping in one corner, the mules were dozing in another. The truce seemed to be holding. He put out more grain, thinking: feed ‘em well while I got it and hope the storm blow out before we in trouble for food. He checked the fire, threw a chunk of fence post on and left it to catch on its own.

Back in the kitchen he stripped and straddled the waste channel, scooped up water and poured it over himself, shuddering at the bite of that icemelt, feeling a temporary burst of vigor as he rubbed himself dry on his visitor’s towel. He hung it on a peg, pulled on his trousers, turned to pick up his shirt and saw the man watching him.

“Well, welc’m to th’ world, breyn stranger.” He pushed his arms into the sleeves and began buttoning his shirt. “Was wonderin’ when y’d wake.” He went to check the soup, tasted it and turned, holding up the ladle. “Hungry?”

“What is this place?”

“I’m as temp’ry as you, blown here by the wind. Whoever lived here left long time ago.” He started ladling soup in a pannikin. “Name’s Simms Nadaw, out of Dirge Arsuid.”

“Long way from home.”

“Way it goes.”

“Maks. Passing through everywhere, lighting nowhere. Recently at least.”

“Right. Feel good enough to sit up?” He took the pannikin and a spoon to the hearth and set it on the tiles, went back to the stove. “Get some of that down you. Start warming your insides well as your out.”

“Give it a try.” After a small struggle Maks managed to raise himself high enough to fold his long legs and get himself balanced with his shoulder to the fire. “Weaker ‘n I thought. Soup smells good.” He tasted it. “Is good.”

“Hot anyway.” Simms spread a square of cheesecloth over his mug, poured himself some tea, rinsed the cheesecloth and repeated with another mug, then filled another pannikin with soup. Over his shoulder he said, “You want some tea? It’s yours, I poke through y’ things, they over there.” He nodded at the table.

Maks looked amused. “See you found my mug.”

“That I did. Take it that mean yes.”

“Take it right.” He set the pannikin down. “The mules?”

“Parlor. With Neddio. M’ horse. Bad tempered mabs, an’t they.”

“Not fond of freezing, that’s all.”

“Mmh. Shu’n’t keep ‘em so hungry then, they were doin’ their best to eat ol’ Neddio. Me too. Got toothmarks on my butt. Want some more soup?”

“Just the tea for now. I don’t want to overload the body.”

“Odd way o puttin’ it.” Simms took the tea to him, collected the empty pannikin and rinsed it in the channel. He turned it upside down over the tank and went back to leaning, on the wall beside the stove, enjoying the warmth radiating from the bricks while he ate his soup. He was immersed in flickering shadows while his visitor was centered in the glow of such light as there was in the kitchen. The firelight loved Maks’ bones, it slid along them like melted butter, waking amber and copper lights in his dark skin, face and hands and the hollow where his collar bones met.

“Listen to that wind howl. Bless ol’ Tungjil, I wouldn’t want to be out there now.” He had a rich deep voice, flexible, musical, Simms thrilled each time the man spoke; he had trouble concealing his response to the sound, but he worked at it, he didn’t want to disgust him or turn him hostile.

“Blessings be, on heesh an’ we.” Simms finished his soup, rinsed his pannikin and spoon in the channel, set them on the stove. “We were both Iuckier’n we deserve running across a place like this.” He gaVe himself some more tea. “Too bad the steader were chase out, a spring like this ‘n is flowin’ gold.”

“Chased out?”

“‘M a Reader, Maks; walls remember, walls talk. Blood and screams, ‘s what they tol’ me. But it was all a long long time ago. Ne’er been this way b’fore. You know how long Grass storms us’ly last?”

“It’s still early winter. This one should blow out around three days on.”

“I put the dulic in a shed out back. I don’ know how much good it’s gonna do you if there’s a couple feet of snow on the ground.”

“We’ll see what we see.” He chuckled, a deep rumbling that came up from his heels. “There’s no horse foaled that’d carry me.” He yawned, screwed up his face. “My bladder’s singing help,” he said, “you have any preference where I empty it?”

“You see the spring here, they led a channel off from it under the tiles the next room over, what we call straffill in Arsuid, there a catch basin, for baths I s’pose. Got a hole in the floor, a spash-chute on th’ wall, leadin’ to the hole. You wanna shoulder t’ lean on?”