Robin Hobb: Words Like Coins

She counted the chickens as they emerged from the coop. They’d all survived the night, but there were only crushed shells and smeared yolk on the straw inside the nesting boxes. She stood, fists clenched. How had the rats got in? She’d find their hole later today.

She milked both cows, and gave each a measure of grain and a drink from the covered bucket outside the stall before she turned them out to find whatever grazing they could in the dusty pasture. Every day they gave less milk, poor creatures.

The well in the yard had a good tight cover. She unpegged the wooden hatch in the top and swung it open. Dark and the cool of water greeted her. She scowled to see that the edge of the hatch had been gnawed. The rats could smell the water. If they chewed through and drowned in the well, all the water would be spoiled. What could she do to stop them? Nothing. Not unless she sat on top of the well all night and guarded it. With a sinking heart, she knew that was exactly what she would have to do. The creek had gone dry weeks ago. The well was their last source of water. It had to be protected.

The bucket dropped endlessly before she heard the small splash. She jogged the rope up and down until the bucket tipped and took in water. Drake had promised to put up a proper windlass for the bucket, but for now, it was hand-over-hand to haul it up. Every day, its trip was longer as the water receded. Her straining fingers nearly lost their grip when a small gray face suddenly peered at her from the other side of the well cap. Its staring eyes were the color of verdigris. The hands it lifted seemed disproportionately long. The creature cupped them, begging and bared pointed teeth as she mouthed the foreign word. Please. Please.

Mirrifen set the dripping bucket down. As she stepped back in astonishment, the small creature collapsed.

Cautiously Mirrifen took two steps around the well cap. The pecksie lay where she had fallen. Yes, unmistakably a ‘she' now, for her pregnant belly protruded from her bony frame. Mirrifen stared. A real pecksie. Witch Chorly had never bothered to teach her the spells against them. Not enough of them to worry about now, the sour old woman had declared. Keep your mind to practical matters. Go chop some kindling. Pecksies! Pesties, I say. Just be glad they’re gone.

Her knowledge of pecksies was small. They dressed in leaves, fur and feathers, and would thieve anything they could carry. They detested cats, and some pecksies had webbed feet. They were reputed to be dangerous, but she couldn’t recall why. The little creature collapsed by the well didn’t look dangerous. Her bark cloth garments contrasted oddly with silvery gray skin. She was half the size of a cat, and thin. She was curled around her pregnant belly and knobs of spine jutted out from her back. Her bare feet were long and narrow. A fine gold chain showed at the nape of her neck.

As if she felt Mirrifen’s scrutiny, the pecksie slowly turned her face up. Her chapped lips parted and a small tongue licked uselessly at them. Eyes green as a cat’s opened to slits. The pecksie stared up at her, pleading silently. Then her eyes closed again.

Mirrifen didn’t pause to think. She dipped a finger in the milk bucket and held it to the pecksie’s lips. A drop fell, wetting them, and the pecksie gaped after it, shuddering. Mirrifen dripped milk into the small mouth. Funny little mouth, with a split upper lip like a kitten’s. At the third drop, the pecksie blindly seized Mirrifen’s fingertip in her mouth and suckled at it. At a hint of pointed teeth, Mirrifen jerked her hand away. The pecksie’s eyes fluttered opened. Mirrifen spoke to her. I’ll tip the bucket and you can dip up some with your hands.

The pecksie pulled herself to a sitting position, her belly in her lap. She leaned into the tipped bucket, scooping up handful after handful of milk and slurping it down. When Mirrifen took the bucket away, the creature’s diminutive chin was dripping. She ran a red tongue around her mouth. Thank-you, she rasped. She closed her eyes tightly. Her words were oddly accented. I thank you. I am bound now. Still, I thank.

That’s all I can do for you, I’m afraid, Mirrifen replied. Can you walk?

The little woman shook her head wordlessly. She stretched out one swollen leg. A crusted slash ran the length of it. The flesh around it was puffy. Rat, she grimaced.

Sorry, Mirrifen said.

The little woman stared at her. Slowly, she curled up and closed her eyes.

Mirrifen rose. She secured the hatch to the well, took up the water and milk buckets and carried them into the kitchen. The lid on the porridge was dancing wildly. She hooked it off the fire, stirred in milk, and covered it again. She went to the door of Jami’s room and eased it open. Jami still slept, curled protectively around her belly. Just as the pecksie had been.

Mirrifen hurried through the house and back to the well. The pecksie still lay there. On the roof, a crow cawed, protesting his prior claim on the carcass. Mirrifen took off her apron, knelt and picked up the pecksie in a fold of the fabric. Silently, she carried her back to the house and into her own bedroom.

She emptied a small chest of the coffers and bags that held the beads, special twines, feathers and carved rods of a hedge-witch. Silly of her to cling to those fragments of a future now passed. She lined the chest with her shawl and set it on the floor. The pecksie revived enough to lift her head and look about doubtfully as Mirrifen set her in it. Then she lay back with her injured leg stretched out straight and closed her eyes. The open collar of her tunic revealed a small charm around her neck. Mirrifen peered at it. She couldn’t read it all, but made out the symbol for birth. So. Pecksies used charms, too. She toyed with an idea, then dared herself.

Moving slowly, Mirrifen hovered her hand over the pecksie’s leg. After a moment, her palm detected the heat of an infection. It had reached the pecksie’s knee. As Mirrifen moved her hand, she sensed fever building in the little woman.

The paraphernalia scattered on the bed beckoned her. Mirrifen surrendered to the impulse. She had never made a fever charm for so small a person. Did she even remember which beads and what order the spindles and rods went in? She carved the beads smaller and separated yarn to get cord of the right weight. A charm had to be precisely tuned to the person it would serve. When she was finished, a fever charm slightly bigger than her thumbnail dangled over the pecksie’s makeshift bed. Mirrifen sat watching her sleep. After a few moments, the lines in her brow loosened and she lapsed into deeper rest.

Mirrifen! Are you here? Mirrifen!

Jami sounded alarmed. Mirrifen leaped up and hurried to the kitchen. Absorbed in her charm making, she’d forgotten not only Jami but the simmering porridge. I’m here, Jami!

Oh, Mirrifen! I worried when I couldn’t find you. You weren’t at the cow shed or the chicken house and—

There’s no need to be frightened. I’m right here.

That’s not it. Look. Just look at the milk bucket.

What?

Don’t you see those silvery smears on the edge? That’s pecksie dust! A pecksie has touched our milk bucket!

When she touched it, her fingertip came away smudged silver-gray, like the pecksie’s skin. Wash it off! Wash it off! Jami wailed.

Why? she asked as wiped her hands on her apron. Is it poisonous?

Who can know? They’re such dirty, wicked little things! Jami’s arms clasped her belly to shield her unborn child. I saw one by the chicken shed. It sneered at me, and vanished.

Mirrifen took a breath. Jami, sit down. I’ll get your breakfast. As Jamie sank into her chair, Mirrifen asked, How do you know so much about pecksies? I thought they were rare and kept to wild places. She set a bowlful of steaming porridge in front of Jami.