along,” he told her. “Who taught it to you, Hizzoner the Elf King?”
“Nobody taught me,” Saaski retorted, her bright day suddenly dimming. “You making game of me?”
“I’m not, then!” he said promptly. “That’s a magic music if ever I heard any. And I suspicion I have heard some, now and again, out here on this moor.” He looked away, over the waste of rocks and heather and towering cloud pillars, his three goats nibbling in the foreground, and far behind them a gray, narrow curtain of rain brushing the horizon.
Following his gaze, Saaski could see only her familiar playground, the one place where she need not guard her tongue and mind her ways. Perhaps that was magic, in a way—but not in the way Tam meant. She said, “ You tootle a bit, then, and I’ll see can I follow.”
Tam was willing, and after a few blunderings Saaski caught his rhythm and began to play along, over and under his little pipe’s shrill melody like a bramble vine twining a sapling. Next, her bagpipes became a tree—a sonorous, solemn drone-song with the chanter wailing, and Tam twined it with brambly whistlings. Well pleased with themselves, they stopped to get their breath and follow the goats over a rise. From here they could see, nestled in the next hollow, the tinker’s little two-wheeled cart with its raggedy hood, and next to it a reed hut of the sort shepherds build, with an ox skin roofing the space between. The pony grazedat its tether a little distance away; the old dog drowsed by a cart wheel.
“Bruman is there?” asked Saaski. “He is making the shoes and boots and leathern things?”
“Sleeping it off, more likely.”
Saaski rolled her eyes at him. Old Bess had no good word for drunkards—including Yanno’s dead pipe-playing da’—nor did Anwara. Saaski had never seen one, that she knew of—only the village men getting merry on a feast day, or coming unsteadily home in the dusk from Sorcha the alewife’s, up near the mill.
Tam laughed at her, showing the little gap at the side of his grin. “Eh, well, that’s Bruman. He mended a leathern bucket for an old fisher t’other day and got paid in muxta, so what else could he do but set to and drink it up? He’s been worse lately,” Tam added, the smile fading. “It’s his leg, I reckon. Pains him somethin’ fierce now-days. So he drinks hisself blind. One day he’ll stumble into a bog and that’s the last anybody’ll see of him. I told ’im so, t’other day! Right to his face, I did.”
“Whad’he say?” asked Saaski, wide-eyed.
“Eh—just growled at me.” Tam glanced away, shrugging. “Said the bog sounded right restful. Said he’d make shift to find one and step in! Aye, sure. Then what’d me and the pony and goats and ol’ Warrior do with ourselves, I wonder?”
Saaski had no answer, but he did not seem to expect one. “What’s he look like—Bruman?” she asked, finding her mental image becoming too odd to be convincing.
“Just a whiskery, rough-lookin’ fella,” said Tam in surprise.“Limps, y’know, leans on that crutch he made for hisself. I’ll show you. Tomorrow, next day, he’ll be back in his senses. Come up and I’ll take you to see him.”
But a day or two later, when Saaski climbed to the goats’ grazing place, she had a different question on her mind. She and Tam piped a few tunes together, then the mist turned to rain and they had to pull up their hoods and huddle in the lee of an outcrop until it stopped. It seemed a good time to talk. “You know a fisherman called Fergil?” she asked Tam.
Tam glanced at her oddly. “Not rightly, no. Not meself. But Bruman does a job for ’im now and again. ’Twas Fergil paid ’im in muxta last week.” He paused, scanning her face. “A-course I’ve heard tell of ’im. Haven’t you?”
Instead of answering, she asked another question. “What’ve you heard tell of him?”
“Same as you, likely. He’s a lack-witted old hermit, like. They do say he
“Nobody taught me,” Saaski retorted, her bright day suddenly dimming. “You making game of me?”
“I’m not, then!” he said promptly. “That’s a magic music if ever I heard any. And I suspicion I have heard some, now and again, out here on this moor.” He looked away, over the waste of rocks and heather and towering cloud pillars, his three goats nibbling in the foreground, and far behind them a gray, narrow curtain of rain brushing the horizon.
Following his gaze, Saaski could see only her familiar playground, the one place where she need not guard her tongue and mind her ways. Perhaps that was magic, in a way—but not in the way Tam meant. She said, “ You tootle a bit, then, and I’ll see can I follow.”
Tam was willing, and after a few blunderings Saaski caught his rhythm and began to play along, over and under his little pipe’s shrill melody like a bramble vine twining a sapling. Next, her bagpipes became a tree—a sonorous, solemn drone-song with the chanter wailing, and Tam twined it with brambly whistlings. Well pleased with themselves, they stopped to get their breath and follow the goats over a rise. From here they could see, nestled in the next hollow, the tinker’s little two-wheeled cart with its raggedy hood, and next to it a reed hut of the sort shepherds build, with an ox skin roofing the space between. The pony grazedat its tether a little distance away; the old dog drowsed by a cart wheel.
“Bruman is there?” asked Saaski. “He is making the shoes and boots and leathern things?”
“Sleeping it off, more likely.”
Saaski rolled her eyes at him. Old Bess had no good word for drunkards—including Yanno’s dead pipe-playing da’—nor did Anwara. Saaski had never seen one, that she knew of—only the village men getting merry on a feast day, or coming unsteadily home in the dusk from Sorcha the alewife’s, up near the mill.
Tam laughed at her, showing the little gap at the side of his grin. “Eh, well, that’s Bruman. He mended a leathern bucket for an old fisher t’other day and got paid in muxta, so what else could he do but set to and drink it up? He’s been worse lately,” Tam added, the smile fading. “It’s his leg, I reckon. Pains him somethin’ fierce now-days. So he drinks hisself blind. One day he’ll stumble into a bog and that’s the last anybody’ll see of him. I told ’im so, t’other day! Right to his face, I did.”
“Whad’he say?” asked Saaski, wide-eyed.
“Eh—just growled at me.” Tam glanced away, shrugging. “Said the bog sounded right restful. Said he’d make shift to find one and step in! Aye, sure. Then what’d me and the pony and goats and ol’ Warrior do with ourselves, I wonder?”
Saaski had no answer, but he did not seem to expect one. “What’s he look like—Bruman?” she asked, finding her mental image becoming too odd to be convincing.
“Just a whiskery, rough-lookin’ fella,” said Tam in surprise.“Limps, y’know, leans on that crutch he made for hisself. I’ll show you. Tomorrow, next day, he’ll be back in his senses. Come up and I’ll take you to see him.”
But a day or two later, when Saaski climbed to the goats’ grazing place, she had a different question on her mind. She and Tam piped a few tunes together, then the mist turned to rain and they had to pull up their hoods and huddle in the lee of an outcrop until it stopped. It seemed a good time to talk. “You know a fisherman called Fergil?” she asked Tam.
Tam glanced at her oddly. “Not rightly, no. Not meself. But Bruman does a job for ’im now and again. ’Twas Fergil paid ’im in muxta last week.” He paused, scanning her face. “A-course I’ve heard tell of ’im. Haven’t you?”
Instead of answering, she asked another question. “What’ve you heard tell of him?”
“Same as you, likely. He’s a lack-witted old hermit, like. They do say he
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