CHAPTER 16
“So suppose,” Catriona said, “you really start at the beginning. I really don’t know a whole lot of what’s going on here, you know. There’s you, there’s your brother, and there’s your wife. And Bibby, but we’ll leave her out for the moment. Let’s start with your wife.”
“Ashya.” He spoke the name in a flat tone, as if he was trying to ward himself off from something unpleasant, unsavoury.
“Ashya. How long were you married?”
“Two years. It would be three now, except… It would be three. She was very beautiful—well, you’ve seen her cousin. Excepting Ashya was fair, not dark. And she wanted—she always wanted more. She wanted me, or at least wanted to be married to me, goodness knows why. I think she thought I was something important, something—something I was not. Am not. But she wanted to marry, so we married. She was just eighteen then. She was beautiful,” he repeated, as if that explained everything. Cat decided she couldn’t stand this woman.
“Ashya hated it here,” he continued. (Ah, the muckiness! Cat knew there had been something behind it.) “She wanted to be in town, wanted a larger house, wouldn’t understand that I need to be where the clay is, where I can run the kiln. I believe she thought I would be giving up pottery. Why she thought that, I shall never know; I’m a craftsman, a potter; my work is who I am. I don’t know what she thought, or why—I never understood her. It was all right at first, I suppose; she still expected something to happen. And then something did happen, but it was not what she wanted.”
“Bibby,” Cat guessed.
“Yes, Bibby. She was miserable with being pregnant, hated how it changed her body, hated how it tied her down. I thought it’d be all right once the babe was born, that she would like being a mother, having a little one to occupy her, but it just got worse. She didn’t like the feeding, didn’t like holding the babe, hated the diapers, hated the crying. I tried to do what I could, but I had my work to do. I mean, Bibby—how could she not love her?” His gaze was turned inward, his eyes showing the reflection of his pain. “Then, one day, it came to a head. Bibby, she was small, just six or seven months, maybe eight. I was working, had to get clay, had a set of dishes to finish. I suppose I should have paid closer attention, should have taken some time to give her space, Ashya—but I had a big order to fill, and I was focused on that. She wanted to go to the town, wanted to go shopping—and so she just went.”
“What? You mean she just left the baby?”
“Yes. She’d put Bibby down to sleep, and I suppose thought she’d keep sleeping. Or that she could keep herself entertained if she woke up. Or—really, I suppose she didn’t think at all. She didn’t, not usually. I didn’t know she was gone; I was busy here in the workshop. Then I went into the cottage for something and I found the babe alone, crawling around on the floor, about a foot away from the fire. If I had been ten seconds later, she would have been right in it.” His voice still held traces of the anger he had felt that day. “I picked up the babe, and I went after her, after Ashya. I found her in the town, in some shop, buying goo-gahs, while her child had near been burned to death! I don’t even remember what I said—I do remember shouting at her, I probably should have controlled myself better—but I made her come back home. She wasn’t happy.
“That’s when she told me she was divorcing me. She—well, she broke the marriage chain, and she said she wanted to leave. I tried to get her to stay, at least for Bibby’s sake, but she was adamant. She was going to go away.”
Cat had stood up and moved across the room as he spoke. He looked up at her now, as she went to the carved cupboard, squatted down, and reached into the bottom shelf. She came back to the table and presented her open palm to him.
“Was this hers?” she asked.
A look of sadness crossed his face as he looked on the mangled, tarnished silver bird.
“Yes; yes, this was her marriage chain. She tore it off, snapped it, and flung it away; I never knew where it landed. And I didn’t have the heart to look for it.”
Cat sat back down, leaning her elbows on the table and putting her chin in her hands.
“And then?”
A slight shudder ran over his frame.
“And then she saw the bowls,” he said quietly. “Those bowls.” He awkwardly got up from his chair and limped over to the open trap door. He frowned down at the turquoise dishes for a second, then tipped the trap door shut with his foot. “They had only come out of the kiln that morning and were sitting on the table, barely cooled off. There were five of them then; one had broken in the kiln, but there were two complete pairs left, and one single one. I’ve never had a glaze like that, ever; and I still don’t rightly know to this day what made it come out like that, or if I can do it again. But I wouldn’t want to, either, not after what happened.”
Cat’s eyes were glued to his face.
“What did happen?”
“Ashya saw the bowls and wanted them. Perhaps she saw something special about them, I don’t know—she was an Unissima, you know—”
“Yes, Ouska said.”
“She did? She would. She never liked Ashya, you know. Anyway, Ashya, she wanted the bowls, and she reached out and took one, and then she was gone.”
“What do you mean, gone? Dead?”
“No, gone. Vanished. Disappeared. And so was the bowl. One second they were here, and then they weren’t. And I don’t know where they went. She is probably dead, for all I know.” He fell silent.
“Hmm,” Cat said, thinking of her own experience with the bowl. “I doubt it. But, look, that’s not the end of the story, is it?”
He looked at her, questioning. She shook her head impatiently.
“Your brother—Sepp? What happened with him?”
“Sepp.” Guy gave a brief, affectionate snort. “My little brother.” With a grin he held up his hand at the level of his nose to show just how short Sepp was; then he suddenly sobered.
“He’s younger than you?” asked Cat, to keep him talking.
“Yes, he and I are the youngest in the family; that’s why we were always together. There’s five brothers ahead of us, and two sisters—like I said, he’s the Septimissimus. Seventh son of the Septimus. Aunt tell you that, too?”
Cat nodded.
“Anyway, we always knew that, of course, about him being Septimissimus. Hadn’t made much difference so far. He’s usually a silly fellow, likes to joke, good-humoured—I’m the dull one who always wants to think things over, gets all dark and gloomy. But he was coming up on twenty-eight (you know how that works, right?)—”
“How what works?”
“The Septimus, or Septimissimus. When he turns twenty-eight, four sevens—four for the seasons and the times of the day, and seven for the number of the sons—that’s when his powers come into full force.”
“Oh, that’s connected to age? Does it matter if his father is still alive? It’s just that with the Unissima—”
“No, it doesn’t matter. An Unissima is different; she’s a woman, for one.”
Cat laughed.
“Yes, I had figured out that much!”
He grinned at her briefly.
“As I was saying,” he repeated with emphasis, “an Unissima is different. Anyway, with the Septimissimus, it’s the twenty-eighth birthday that matters. For the full powers, anyway; there’s usually something you can see before then—it sort of builds to it. And what was building with Sepp was his temper. He got more and more—well, ‘morose’, I suppose is the best word. Just in a mood. Angry, snappish. That isn’t like him—wasn’t like him.” He fell silent, sadness descending on his face.
“Go on,” prompted Cat gently, as much to pull him back out of his despondence as to find out what happened.
“We were all waiting for something to happen, for his powers to show. The day after his birthday—yes, Friday, I think—he came around here—”
“Wait, so you didn’t meet him in the town? Ouska said you did.”
“I don’t think
—oh yes, I did; you’re right. I had been in to deliver some finished wares to someone. Saw him on the street, and he didn’t even say hello to Bibby. Almost snapped at her, he did, the chuckle-head. So I told him a thing or two about what I thought of that, and went home.”
That didn’t sound like a screaming match on the streets, Cat thought.
“And then?”
“He came after me, an hour or so later, and apologised. He’s really fond of Bibby, and usually spoils her rotten, so he felt bad that he’d almost made her cry. But, see, that was just it—he’d usually never do that to her. It was one of the things that showed he was really not himself.”
“So, did you find out what was wrong?”
“Eventually. It took some digging and prodding, and”—his mouth quirked up at one corner—“about two cups of Uncle’s applejack. He is—was—worried about his powers. I mean, he’s never been particularly confident in himself, but we all knew he was the One, and that the powers would just come when he turned twenty-eight.”
“Does that bother you—him being so special, I mean, and you just his brother?”
He looked at her in surprise.
“Why would it? It’s not like it’s any particular privilege. If anything, it’s a responsibility to bear. I sometimes think Sepp would be—would have been—glad to be rid of it, but it’s his gift, and so he needs to use it. We all have our gifts; they are there to serve others—at least that’s what most of us think.” He had that cynical twist to his mouth again; Cat knew he was thinking of his wife.
“So then what happened?”
“Well, he thought he had ruined his powers. Spoiled them. First, with hankering after a life ‘out there’—he wanted to know what else there was, wanted to see the world beyond Ruph. We sometimes talked of it, of what lies beyond our village and our valley; but I was content with thinking and talking of it, whereas he wanted to go and see for himself. But we knew he could not, that his place was here. The Septimissimus is needed; he cannot just go wherever he pleases. But that wasn’t all. You see—you know that rocking chair, in the cottage?”
“Yes, of course. I did spend a whole night in it once already.”
He gave her a quick, sidelong glance, questioning. Oh, Cat thought, I suppose he was unconscious that night; he doesn’t remember.
“Anyway, the rocking chair?”
“Well, if you have sat in it, you’ll know it’s an, uh, unusual piece of furniture. Sepp—made it.”
Cat had the feeling she was missing something. That last statement had been said in a rather significant tone.
“Uh… yes?”
“He’s the Septimissimus! He’s not supposed to be a craftsman!”
“Oh! Oh, yes, I remember Ouska saying that! Oh dear. So why did he?”
“It’s almost as if he couldn’t help himself. He’s done it ever since we were little—picked up bits of wood, stuck them together, whittled them into different shapes, that sort of thing. And he got better and better at it. At first I didn’t notice—I mean, I was just little myself, and I was busy smooshing around clay and getting myself all mucky with it.” He flashed his brief grin again. “Then, when we were maybe five and six, one day I suddenly got to wondering why our father had no trade or craft like his brothers. I went and asked Uncle about it—he and Aunt have always had time for us, almost more so than our own father and mother. With nine children, and the Septimus work, well, I suppose you can’t blame our parents,” he added matter-of-factly.
“So, Uncle told me. At first, I tried to make Sepp stop. We had a few rows about it—I remember taking away a little toy rocking horse he’d been making, and breaking a tiny little chair once. He got back at me by smashing a pinch pot I’d made and was particularly proud of. I think we both had bloody noses that day.” He chuckled at the memory. “So then, rather surprising in a six-year-old, I realised it was pointless to try to stop him. And I didn’t know how serious it was; I was only a kid. So after that, I worked on hiding what he was doing. It took me a while to make him understand, but once he did, he only did his woodwork where nobody but me could see him. And I hid his projects, put them where no one could see them. In fact,” he added, “once we were older, and I became a potter, I used quite a few of them for firing my kiln.”
Cat gasped.
“You burned your brother’s work?”
He shrugged. “Well, it was work that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. And he agreed for me to do it; we didn’t have room to keep it any longer. Besides, I didn’t destroy it entirely—well, yes, it burned up, but I used the ashes for my glazes. Or used to, before—” He stopped.
“Before what?”
He took a deep breath. “Before I was married. Once Ashya was in the cottage, we didn’t really dare to keep doing this. We didn’t want her knowing about it.
“The glazes from his furniture ashes were the best I had, too, apart from—” His gaze slid to the trap door that hid the turquoise bowls. “I haven’t had any that good in quite some years, just the brown ones.”
“Oh,” said Cat, “are those on the pieces in the cupboard? They’re kind of a green, or blue, quite different from your other stuff I’ve seen.”
“Yes, they are. That’s why they’re in there; I didn’t really want anyone asking questions. Well, you see, that’s the thing—probably because they were Sepp’s work, there was something, well, different about them, and so the glazes from those ashes came out really different.”
“So when did he stop making furniture?”
“That’s just it, he didn’t. He started making that rocking chair when Bibby was born, for Ashya to use to rock her to sleep. I don’t know if you saw, but it has a bird carved in the back—the bird was supposed to be for my wife, like the bird she had on the wedding chain. But by the time it was finished, the bird was Bibby, anyone could see that. And by then Ashya had gone, the chain was broken. And I suppose I should have put the chair in the fire, but I couldn’t bear to. So I kept it—it’s not like anyone ever comes here to see it. Usually. As a matter of fact”—he looked up, as if a startling thought had just occurred to him—“if you’ve sat in it, you’re the first one, other than me and Bibby. And Sepp.
“Come to think of it, where did you come from?”
Cat was not ready to tell him her story yet, although she was surprised it had taken him this long to come around to wondering about it.
“What happened with Sepp, and the chair?” she asked.
“Well, you see, Sepp was really worried that his breaking the rules, and doing this craftsman’s work, had squandered his powers. As I said, we always knew that he would attain the powers when he was twenty-eight—but he turned twenty-eight last week, and nothing happened. At least he didn’t think anything had happened. To be fair, we do not know just what was supposed to happen—if the onset of powers would be gradual or sudden, if he would know, if others would know, or if anyone could see or feel what happened. Our father has been gone more than two years, and there hadn’t been a Septimus for decades before then. No, there is no one Sepp could have asked. So he was worried that he ruined the Gift of the Septimissimus, that he spoiled it by using another gift, and perhaps put his powers into that instead of where they belonged.
“I suppose by then the applejack was settling in a little too well. He was starting to talk nonsense, saying he was worthless and without any gift, and that he wouldn’t even have the sense to recognise a gift when he saw it, and he might as well leave because he was useless to us, and other balderdash of this sort. So I tried to make a point. He knew what had happened to my wife—or he knew that something happened that had to do with a thing I had done. I thought perhaps seeing what it was would snap him out of his mood, would perhaps turn his attention to my failure and away from what he saw as his own.” The bleak look came over Guy’s face again, and his voice became bitter. “Fool that I was! Bloody fool!”
Cat frowned.
“What did you do?”
“I took him in here, and I brought out the bowls. Oh, yes, I can touch them. Nothing happens to me when I pick them up; I tried often enough. So I took them out of their hiding place, to show him just what happened to my wife. To show my brother—” his voice dropped, and the self-reproach in it was so strong Cat found it hard to bear. Guy forced himself to continue. “To show my brother what happened, to try to bring him out of himself. I put one on the table and was getting the others. And he picked it up. He picked it up!” His voice broke. “I turned around and just saw him do it. He took it, and he was gone. Just—just like her.” He dropped his head in his hands. “It was my doing. Both of them. Mine. My fault…”
Cat was silent.
Then she took a deep breath.
She would have to tell him.