Carol Berg - THE SOUL WEAVER

“I got me a wife from Vristal town, and in five springs I had two sons and a daughter living, and only one babe buried. My eldest Hugh come a fine sheepman and works shoulder to shoulder with me. My daughter took all of us in hand since she was ten when her mam died of lung fever, and she’s never missed a day’s cooking nor spinning nor churning.

“My Tom, though, is a wild boy, born with only one hand. His mam spoilt him young. He spends his days running the hills and playing his whistle what he made from tonguegrass. Oh, he’ll help as he will with shearing and herding, but his heart ain’t in his work, only in his music and the hills. I told him that when he come to manhood, he’d see how he’d have to work twice as hard as a whole man just to feed himself.

“Twas on one night just gone Tom come late to the hold, and the moon was in his eyes. ’Pap,‘ he said, ’I’ve seen a road that goes no place you’ve ever been.‘

“There’s a deal of roads I’ve never been,’ says I, ‘but not inside three days’ walking. If a sheep can find its way there, I’ve been on it.’

“No, Pap. This road goes into a new land. The sky is purple and black and filled with lightning, and the stars are green, but the land is not. It’s a broken place, Pap, and I’ve got to go there so to see what it may be.’

“I beat my boy, then, for I thought he’d been at the drink in Vristal town, and no matter what you’ve seen me put down this night, we don’t favor hard drink in my hold. But when I beat him, Tom didn’t say naught, nor argue, nor cry out as he might on another day, but only looked at me quiet with the moon in his eyes.

“The next night Tom come home late again. ‘Pap,’ he says, ‘I’ll take you to the road. The one-eyed man says I belong in that land and not here, but I want you to see it before I go. Mayhap you’ll believe me and not think me unfit to be your son.’

“Have you gone and tangled yourself with a jongler?’ I said. ‘Jonglers are thieves and gamblers and liars.’

“He’s no jongler, Pap. He’s a bent man, no taller than your waist, but a beard down to his belt. He’s got only one eye what’s purple in the center of it, and a growed-together flap of skin where the other eye should be.’

“You’ve been at the drink again, Tom,’ says I. ‘I’ve got to beat it out of you.’

“I understand, Pap,’ was all he said, and he took his beating so like a man, I lost the heart to strike him and dropped the cane after only five strokes.

“You’ll go out no more these nights,’ I said. ‘You’ll work till you drop, so’s you can’t go drinkin’.‘

“Got to go, Pap. Got to see what’s down that road where the sky’s purple and black.’

“I tied him to his bed with double knots at his arms and his legs, but he was gone at sunrise, the ropes wound neat and laid on his mat. His brother and me followed his tracks till we found his things: his spare shirt, his knife, all but his whistle that he’d made for himself. They was all laid neat in a pile on a flat rock, and no footprint led away from that place. That was eighteen day ago. We’ve found naught of him since then. I’ve come here looking for jonglers, especially a one-eyed man what’s bent and no taller than my waist. I’m afeared for my Tom, as I think he’s been taken to evil purpose. He’d not been in the drink. I see it now. Some jongler put these tales in his head, for my Tom’s a good boy, as is only come seventeen. And that’s my tale, so if you have a need, pour ale atop it, as that’s what I intend to do.”

The silence was deep. Only the pop and hiss of the hearth fire convinced me I hadn’t suddenly lost all hearing. The story itself carried little weight with me. To lose a son young, whether to disease or drink or to the ever-present Leirans who snatched boys to serve in the army was common among the poor of the Four Realms. And to blame the child’s fate on fairies or monsters was the usual practice. But I felt the father’s grief vividly. Until those years in Zhev’Na when I had watched the Lords stealing Gerick’s soul, I had thought seeing one’s newborn infant dead the most grievous of sorrows. But far worse was losing a child nearing adulthood, seeing life’s fullest promise dashed so bitterly.

In selfish relief, I reached for Gerick’s hand that lay on the scuffed table. His fingers were stone-cold. I glanced up quickly. His skin was chalky, his eyes huge and dark. “Gerick, what is it?”

“Nothing,” he whispered, pulling his hand from mine and averting his eyes. “Nothing. It’s just a story.”

Though the old man was a mesmerizing storyteller, the tale of a drunken sheepherder’s son paled in comparison with Gerick’s own strange adventures. “I think the boy ran away,” I said. “There was violence between him and his father. Perhaps this tale is the man’s way to explain it. What do you think?”

Gerick shrugged, color rushing back into his cheeks.

“I suppose I’d run away if I was beaten like that or tied to my bed. Can we go up now?”

I laid down a coin for the landlord, and we climbed the stairs, leaving the laggards draining their mugs and mumbling about getting home before the sun came up.

Sleep would not come. The rope bed and its straw-filled pallet seemed to develop a new lump or sag wherever I settled. I drifted in and out of dreams and worries and plans that seemed important, yet were indistinguishable by morning. Every time my eyes flicked open, I saw Gerick sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, wide awake. His elbows were propped on his drawn-up knees, his hands clasped and pressed to his mouth.

When I woke from my last fitful nap, just after sunrise, Gerick was not in the room. I gathered up our last pack and hurried downstairs to find him. The Fire Goat’s common room was bustling with every sort of person, from tradesmen to officials with ruffled silk doublets and gold neck-chains.

“Two for Vanesta. Anyone here bound for Vanesta?”

“Party of six for Fensbridge, looking for a strong swordsman.”

The shouts came from every corner of the room. Concern about the bandits who plagued the mountain roads prompted travelers journeying any distance to join with other groups for mutual protection. Evard’s soldiers were off fighting the war in Iskeran or hunting down those who failed to pay their taxes and tributes to support the interminable conflict. None were left to keep the roads safe from highwaymen, and the number of highwaymen increased every day that men got more desperate to feed themselves and their families. Local officials like Graeme Rowan were outmanned, their territories too large to patrol in a year of trying.

“Two women for Yurevan. To accompany a family or larger mixed party. No ruffians. No peasants.”

I pushed through the smoky, crowded room toward the door, fending off a disheveled man who smelled of wine and leered broadly at me, saying he’d take me wherever I wanted to go. I pulled my widow’s cap down lower and escaped into the yard, searching for Gerick.

The muddy yard was packed with horses, wagons, baggage, and even more people, generally of poorer aspect than those inside. A familiar lanky form moved down a string of eight or ten horses, offering each a private word along with a handful of grain from a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. I would have sworn each beast looked more cheerful after Paulo had stroked its neck and whispered in its ear. One of the string was Gerick’s gray gelding, Jasyr, and another was my chestnut mare, Kelty, brought along not to sell, but to be available if Gerick and I should choose to ride.

Across the yard by the fence, Radele was helping a young woman load several heavy boxes into a wagon. He shared a laugh with her, then tugged his soft-brimmed hat down low over his face and slouched against our cart. The rugged little pony was harnessed and ready. I waved to get Radele’s attention. He saluted and tipped his head toward a far corner next to the stable, where Gerick was engaged in earnest conversation with the despondent storyteller from the night before. My fists and stomach unclenched.