“I cannot see it.”
Saaski drew it in the dirt of the pathway with her toe.
“What does it mean, child? Do you know?”
“It means ‘Keep away,’ ” Saaski told her, with a little grin.
Old Bess smiled, then gave her brief, rare laugh. “So. I am safe from mischief, am I? For a time, anyway.”
Whose mischief? Saaski wondered, as they started together along the street. Who makes the marks? Why do I know them—some of them—and what they mean?
She had no idea of the answer. But the questionsthemselves had roused in her the familiar restlessness, the confused feelings of yearning and loss, that had plagued her since she could remember. The only cure was the pipes, and playing them long and loud. When they reached the blacksmith’s cottage she skipped in, leaving Old Bess to press on with her quest for roots and mushrooms. With luck, Anwara was up in the Lowfield, or tending the hens, or . . .
But Anwara was there, a hank of brown fleece on her shoulder, fingers busy with the drop-spindle as she paced from hearth to cupboard and back again. A new-spun skein lay on the table, half hiding the little bunch of red-and-white daisies, still slightly drooping, in their mug.
Saaski eyed the flowers, dissatisfied. She would have to do better.
“You have been long with my mother,” Anwara remarked with a penetrating look. “If you went there, indeed!”
“I did! She showed me her books.”
“Showed you her books?” Anwara’s voice was astonished; her fingers missed their catch and the spindle fell dangling and twirling, unwinding the arm’s length of thread she had just wound on it. Saaski pounced, captured it, and returned it. Absently Anwara wound up the thread again, her surprised gaze still on Saaski. “Well-and-all! I’m sure she never showed me any of them.” The spindle began its smooth down-and-up motion and her fingers their rhythmic dance as she added, “Not that I ever plagued her to look at them—great, dusty bundles—whatever would I think to see?”
Maybe, thought Saaski, that is why she never showed you them.
Yet she herself had not plagued or even asked, justlooked—and wished—and Old Bess had known it. Perhaps Old Bess knew everything. Everything in the world. Except not all the runes.
Anwara resumed her spinning-walk. When her back was turned, Saaski tugged the old trundle bed from under her cot and snatched out the bagpipes.
“I’ll fetch the cow now, Mumma,” she sang out, already halfway to the door.
“Now? It’s not time yet!”
But Saaski was gone. Anwara caught her spindle and came to the doorway. The sun was but halfway down toward the great shoulder of the hills. Angrily she called Saaski back to gather eggs and scrub the hearth. By then Saaski was nowhere to be seen.
Aware of amused glances from neighboring doorways—nobody else’s children could disappear so fast—Anwara clamped her vexation between her teeth and turned back into the house.
A moment later, Saaski slithered down the far side of an apple tree, hitched the pipes to her shoulder, and hurried on up the path toward the wasteland—and the moor beyond. Forbidden or not, she was going straight there. Maybe if she did not tell anybody, nobody would ask—or really care—how far she strayed. . . . Except Anwara. Anwara always asked. But perhaps she would lie to Anwara. Or just—not answer.
It no longer mattered. She had to go back to the moor. She could no longer stay away from the only place she had ever felt she belonged.
PART III
11
When Saaski was willing to mind—which was most of the time—she was as biddable as any other village child. When she had decided to balk, nothing could move her. Anwara might scold, Yanno might thunder and even raise his great blacksmith’s hand, though he could never bring himself to strike her. She remained passive, her strange eyes mirror-dark and her pointed face sad. But once her household tasks were done, she waited only till Anwara glanced away,
Saaski drew it in the dirt of the pathway with her toe.
“What does it mean, child? Do you know?”
“It means ‘Keep away,’ ” Saaski told her, with a little grin.
Old Bess smiled, then gave her brief, rare laugh. “So. I am safe from mischief, am I? For a time, anyway.”
Whose mischief? Saaski wondered, as they started together along the street. Who makes the marks? Why do I know them—some of them—and what they mean?
She had no idea of the answer. But the questionsthemselves had roused in her the familiar restlessness, the confused feelings of yearning and loss, that had plagued her since she could remember. The only cure was the pipes, and playing them long and loud. When they reached the blacksmith’s cottage she skipped in, leaving Old Bess to press on with her quest for roots and mushrooms. With luck, Anwara was up in the Lowfield, or tending the hens, or . . .
But Anwara was there, a hank of brown fleece on her shoulder, fingers busy with the drop-spindle as she paced from hearth to cupboard and back again. A new-spun skein lay on the table, half hiding the little bunch of red-and-white daisies, still slightly drooping, in their mug.
Saaski eyed the flowers, dissatisfied. She would have to do better.
“You have been long with my mother,” Anwara remarked with a penetrating look. “If you went there, indeed!”
“I did! She showed me her books.”
“Showed you her books?” Anwara’s voice was astonished; her fingers missed their catch and the spindle fell dangling and twirling, unwinding the arm’s length of thread she had just wound on it. Saaski pounced, captured it, and returned it. Absently Anwara wound up the thread again, her surprised gaze still on Saaski. “Well-and-all! I’m sure she never showed me any of them.” The spindle began its smooth down-and-up motion and her fingers their rhythmic dance as she added, “Not that I ever plagued her to look at them—great, dusty bundles—whatever would I think to see?”
Maybe, thought Saaski, that is why she never showed you them.
Yet she herself had not plagued or even asked, justlooked—and wished—and Old Bess had known it. Perhaps Old Bess knew everything. Everything in the world. Except not all the runes.
Anwara resumed her spinning-walk. When her back was turned, Saaski tugged the old trundle bed from under her cot and snatched out the bagpipes.
“I’ll fetch the cow now, Mumma,” she sang out, already halfway to the door.
“Now? It’s not time yet!”
But Saaski was gone. Anwara caught her spindle and came to the doorway. The sun was but halfway down toward the great shoulder of the hills. Angrily she called Saaski back to gather eggs and scrub the hearth. By then Saaski was nowhere to be seen.
Aware of amused glances from neighboring doorways—nobody else’s children could disappear so fast—Anwara clamped her vexation between her teeth and turned back into the house.
A moment later, Saaski slithered down the far side of an apple tree, hitched the pipes to her shoulder, and hurried on up the path toward the wasteland—and the moor beyond. Forbidden or not, she was going straight there. Maybe if she did not tell anybody, nobody would ask—or really care—how far she strayed. . . . Except Anwara. Anwara always asked. But perhaps she would lie to Anwara. Or just—not answer.
It no longer mattered. She had to go back to the moor. She could no longer stay away from the only place she had ever felt she belonged.
PART III
11
When Saaski was willing to mind—which was most of the time—she was as biddable as any other village child. When she had decided to balk, nothing could move her. Anwara might scold, Yanno might thunder and even raise his great blacksmith’s hand, though he could never bring himself to strike her. She remained passive, her strange eyes mirror-dark and her pointed face sad. But once her household tasks were done, she waited only till Anwara glanced away,
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