Lois Bujold - Legacy

She sat in the bottom of the boat facing him, their legs interlaced, and shared food and wine till she’d succeeded in fulfilling several of Hoharie’s recommendations at once by driving him into a dozy nap. He woke at length more overheated than even farmer hats and the flickering yellow-green willow shade could contend with, and hoisted himself up to strip off his shirt and arm harness.

Fawn opened one eye from her own replete slump, then sat up in some alarm as he lifted his hips to slip off his trousers. “I don’t think we can do that in a narrow boat!”

“Actually, you can,” he assured her absently, “but I’m not attempting it now. I’m going into the water to cool off.”

“Aren’t you supposed to get cramps if you swim too soon after a heavy meal?”

“I’m not going swimming. I’m going floating. I may not move any muscles at all.”

He selected a dry log about three feet long from the top of the wrack, wriggled it loose, and slipped into the water after it. The surface of the water was as warm as a bath, but his legs found the chill they sought farther down, flowing over his skin like silk. He hung his arms over his makeshift float, propped his chin in the middle, kicked up some billowing coolness, and relaxed utterly.

In a little while, to his—alas, still purely aesthetic—pleasure, Fawn yanked her shift over her flushed face, unwedged a log of her own, and splashed in after him. He floated on blissfully while she ottered around him with more youthful vigor, daring to wet her hair, then her face, then duck under altogether.

“Hey!” she said in a tone of discovery, partway through this proceeding. “I can’t sink!”

“Now you know,” he crooned.

She splashed him, got no rise, then eventually settled down beside him. He opened his eyes just far enough to enjoy the sight of her pale bare body, seemingly made liquid by the water-waver, caressed by the long, fringed water weeds as she idly kicked and turned. He looked down meditatively at the yellow willow leaves floating past his nose, harbinger of more soon to come. “The light is changing. And the sounds in the air. I always notice it, when the summer passes its peak and starts down, and the cicadas come on. Makes me…not sad, exactly. There should be a word.” As though time was sliding away, and not even his ghost hand could catch it.

“Noisy things, cicadas,” Fawn murmured, chinned on her own log. “I heard ’em just starting up when I was riding to Raintree.”

They were both quiet for a very long time, listening to the chaining counterpoint of bug songs. The brown wedge of a muskrat’s head trailed a widening vee across the limpid water, then vanished with a plop as the shy animal sensed their regard. The blue heron floated in, but then just stood folded as though sleeping on one leg. The green-headed ducks, drowsing in the shade across the marsh, didn’t move either. The clear light lay breathing like a live thing.

“This place is like the opposite of blight,” murmured Fawn after a while. “Thick, dense…if you opened up, would its ground just flow in and replenish you?”

“I opened up two hours ago. And yes, I think it may,” he sighed.

“That explains something about places like this, then,” she muttered in satisfaction.

A much longer time later, they regretfully pulled their wrinkled selves up onto the wrack and back into the boat, dressed, and pushed back to start for home. The sun was sliding behind the western trees as they crossed the wide part of the lake, and had turned into an orange glint by the time they climbed the bank to Tent Bluefield. Dag slept that night better than he had for weeks.

F awn woke late the next morning, she judged by the bright lines of light leaking around the edges of their easterly tent flaps. The air inside was still cool from the night, but would grow hot and stuffy soon. Wrapped around her, Dag sighed and stirred, then hugged her in tighter. Something firm nudged the back of her thigh, and she realized with a slow smirk that it wasn’t his hand. I thought that picnic would be good for him.

He made a purring noise into her hair, indicating the same satisfying realization, and she wriggled around to turn her face to his. His eyes gleamed from under his half-closed eyelids, and she sank into his sleepy smile as if it were a pillow. He kissed her temple and lips, and bent his head to nuzzle her neck. She let her hand begin to roam and stroke, giving and taking free pleasure from his warm skin for the first time since he’d been called out to Raintree. He pulled her closer still, seeming to revel in her softness pressing tight to him, skin to skin for the length of her body. This needed no words now, no instruction. No questions.

A hand slapped loudly three times against the leather of the tent flap, and a raspy female voice called, “Dag Redwing Hickory?”

Dag’s body stiffened, and he swore under his breath. He held Fawn’s face close to his chest as if to muffle her, and didn’t answer.

The slaps were repeated. “Dag Redwing Hickory! Come on, I know you’re in there.”

A frustrated hiss leaked between his teeth. All his stiffening, alas, slackened. “No one in here by that name,” he called back gruffly.

The voice outside grew exasperated. “Dag, don’t fool with me, I’m not in the mood. I dislike this as much as you do, I daresay.”

“Not possible,” he muttered, but sighed and sat up. He ran his hand through his sleep-bent hair, rolled over, and groped for his short trousers.

“What is it?” Fawn asked apprehensively.

“Dowie Grayheron. She’s the alternate for Two Bridge Island on camp council this season.”

“Is it the summons?”

“Likely.”

Fawn scrambled into her shift and trailed after Dag as he shoved through their tent flap and stood squinting in the bright sun.

An older woman, with streaked hair like Omba’s braided up around her head, stood drumming her fingers on her thigh. She eyed Dag’s bed-rumpled look in bemusement, Fawn more curiously. “The camp council hearing for you is at noon,” she announced.

Dag started. “Today? Short notice!”

“I came around twice yesterday, but you were out. And I know Fairbolt warned you, so don’t pretend this is a surprise. Here, let me get through this.” She spread her legs a trifle, pulled back her shoulders, and recited, “Dag Redwing Hickory, I summon you to hear and speak to grave complaints brought before the Hickory Lake Camp Summer Council by Dar Redwing Hickory, on behalf of Tent Redwing, noon today in Council Grove. Do you hear and understand?”

“Yes,” Dag growled.

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s done.”

“But I’m not Dag Redwing,” Dag put in. “That fellow no longer exists.”

“Save it for the grove. That’s where the argumentation belongs.” She hesitated, glancing briefly at Fawn and back to Dag. “I will point out, you’ve been summoned but your child-bride has not. There’s no place for a farmer in our councils.”

Dag’s jaw set. “Is she explicitly excluded? Because if she has been, we have a sticking point before we start.”

“No,” Dowie admitted reluctantly. “But take it from me, she won’t help your cause, Dag. Anyone who believed before that you’ve let your crotch do your thinking won’t be persuaded otherwise by seeing her.”

“Thank you,” said Dag in a voice of honeyed acid. “I think my wife is pretty, too.”

Dowie just shook her head. “I’m going to be so glad when this day is over.” Her sandals slapped against her heels as she turned and strode off.

“There’s a woman sure knows how to blight a mood,” Dag murmured, his jaw unclenching.

Fawn crept to Dag’s side; his arm went around her shoulders. She swallowed, and asked, “Is she any relation to Obio Grayheron?”