Jo Clayton: A Gathering Of Stones

Maks bent and straightened his legs, rubbed at his knees. “Give a hand getting on my feet, if you don’t mind, breyn Nadaw.”

“Simms, y’ don’ mind.” He offered his hands, braced himself and let Maks do most of the work. When the big man was on his feet, standing shaky and uncertain, he moved in closer, clasped Maks about his thick, muscular waist, grunted as long fingers dug into his shoulder and the man’s weight came down on him, not all of it, but enough to remind him vividly of the effort it took to haul hiin inside.

“Not too much?” ‘

He could feel the bass tones rumble in the center of his being as well as in his head, he felt the in-out of Maks’s breathing, the vibrations of his voice, the slide of muscles wasted but still bigger than most and firm. “It’s not something I’d do for the fun of it,” he said, almost breathless, though that definitely didn’t come from fatigue.

“Let’s go then.”

He lay listening to the wind howl outside and the steady breathing of the man he shared the hearth with. Now and then he heard Neddio or the mules moving about in the parlor, the clop of iron shoe on wood floor. He turned his head. The fire was low, but he could leave it for a while yet. He closed his eyes and went back to listening to Maks. Maks… it was his name… it fit in his mouth with a familiar easiness… it wasn’t the whole name. He thinks I’d recognize the whole name. Maybe so maybe not. He wanted to touch Maks, but he didn’t dare, not now, not when he might wake and know he was being touched. Not yet. Simms drew his hands down his own chest. What was wrong with him? He was lively enough when he came out of that trance or whatever it was, unperturbed by his condition, but there was that… that something… The man’s spirit was so vital, so… absorbing, entrancing… Simms smiled into the fire-broken darkness… it obscured that other thing. Almost. Part of him wanted Korimenei here so she could work her magic on Maks. Part of him didn’t want to share Maks with anyone, anything. Even if their enforced cohabitation came to nothing, there would be at least three days alone with him, time out from the world.

Round and round in his head, was he sick with something? Will he love me will he hate me will he look through me like I’m nothing? Round and round until he had to move, do something. He slipped out of his blankets and added wood to the fire, chunks of tough hard fence post that’d burn all night. He bent over Maks before rolling into his blankets again, touched his fingertips light, light, feather-light to the man’s brow.

It took him almost an hour to get to sleep.

The house rumbled and rattled and shook under the blast of the wind as the blizzard settled around them.

Maks slept heavily while Simms fed the mules and Neddio, used an old cedar shake to scoop up their droppings and carry them into the straffill where he dumped them down the hole. He brewed tea, ate one of Maks’ trailbars and put a new pot of soup to simmering on the stove. He washed his shirt, trousers, socks and underclothing in the waste channel, looked over Maks’ clothing, brushed the mud and debris off the outercloak, washed the undercloak and the other things, hung them all to drip dry on a cord he’d stretched between two pegs in the straffill. It helped the morning pass. Now and then he went over to Maks, squatted beside him, worried about the long sleep, but there was no sign of fever or other distress, so he went away again and let him sleep on.

Maks woke an hour past noon. He stretched, yawned, looked relaxed and lazy as a cat in the sun. He turned to Simms, gave him a wide glowing smile that sent flutters running round Simms’ interior. “What’s the time?”

“You couldn’t tell it from out there,” he nodded at the shuttered window, “but it’s a little after noon.”

“Ahhhh. Perfect. I hate mornings. Best way to greet the sun is sound asleep.”

Simms chuckled. “So I see.”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those pests who leaps out of bed at dawn caroling blithely. They should be swatted like flies.”

Another chuckle. “Ne’er uh blithe, but up, yeh. When I wan’t workin’.”

Maks raised his brows at that, but didn’t ask for explanations. He closed his eyes, turned his head from side to side. After a minute, he said. “Today, tomorrow, I think. Day after that we can move.” He pushed the blankets off and got to his feet. He was steadier, visibly stronger.

Simms finished sewing a button on his shirt, tied off the thread and cut it with one of his sleeve knives. “Tea on the stove. More soup, should be ready by now.” He rolled a knot in the end of the thread, turned the shirt inside out and started examining the seams.

Maks wandered out. Simms could hear him talking to the mules. He came back in the kitchen, looked through his packs, found a currycomb and a stone and went out again. A little later as Simms was putting a new edge on the frayed hems of his trousers, he heard splashing in the straffill, Maks whistling a cheerful tune. Maks came in, glanced at him, went to the stove and filled his mug. He looked at the tea. “You sure this isn’t going to crawl out and jump me?”

“Wake y’ up.”

“One way or another. You’ve had a busy morning.”

“Help the time pass, keeping y’ hands busy. ‘Sides, I been puttin’ off a lotta this, might’s well catch up while we stuck here.”

Maks nodded. “Not a bad idea.” He ladled out a pannikin of soup, glanced at Simms. “Want some?”

“After I finishthis, I think.I’ll take some tea, if you don’t mind.”

Maksim brought him the tea, fetched the pannikin and ate his soup while he squatted beside Simms and watched him set small neat stitches.

Simms was quietly happy; he said nothing because he felt no need to talk, and he was pleased that Maks seemed equally comfortable with the silence. He finished one cuff and began on the other. Maks set the pannikin down and sipped at the tea. The fire flickered and shadows swayed around them in a slow hypnotic dance, the wind howled and icemelt drafts whispered through the room. Maks set the mug down and gave Simms’ shoulder a squeeze, got to his feet and wandered out again.

He was back a moment later with the mules’ harness, some rags and a bottle of oil. After some maneuvering, he settled at the edge of the hearth, pulled a blanket round his shoulders and began working oil into the leather, cleaning it and working supple the places where the damp had stiffened it. Filled with the small peaceful sounds of their labor, the hiss and snap of the fire with the muted noised of the storm as background, the silence wrapped like a blanket about the two men as they went on with their work. Finally Maks spoke, his voice lazy and undemanding. “Arsuid’s a long way south of here.”

Simms chuckled, a small soft sound. “Y’ mean I got rocks in m’ head ridin’ into this kinda weather.” He glanced at Maks, met his eyes and looked away from the laughter in them, not because he didn’t like it, he liked it far too much. “C’d say the same, don’ y’ think?”

“So you could. Never visited Arsuid. What’s it like?”

“Yesta’day. Ev’ry yesta’day.”

Maks thought about that a minute. “I see what you mean. It can get boring if nothing changes.”

“‘Pends where y’ sit.”

“More so on whether you’re a sitter or sat on.”

“Y’ know ‘t.”

“Spite of that, Arsuiders seem to stay put.”

“T’s so. Arfon, he like to keep his folk hoverin’ round. Way I got loose, well, y’ might say I was flung out.”

“Feel like telling it, or is it none of my business?”

Simms tucked the needle into the cloth, dropped his hands and frowned at the fire. “Don’ know the whole, ‘s more confusin’ than entertainin’.” He snapped thumb against middle finger, shook his head. “Here tis. Arfon got a itch for a talisman of Is own. He a jeaaalous god, yehhh. An’ there was this sorceror came by, call hisseif Lazul. Turn out, wan’t so.”