CHAPTER 23
The three young people stared at the older woman, wide-eyed and speechless.
“I suspected it before now,” she said, “but now I am certain.”
Cat could tell it was not easy for her to continue.
“I had a sister,” she began. Cat drew together her eyebrows in a puzzled frown. Ouska saw her unspoken question. “She was my father’s daughter, not my mother’s. My brother and sister were small when my father married my mother, and she raised them as her own. Nevertheless, I was the only daughter born to her. We lost her when I was twenty-two, and I believe my sister missed her as much as I did. She was just going on twenty-five, but she wanted guidance. You see, she was in love. So was I—Uncle and I, we had just come to an understanding, and I was wrapped up in my own happiness.
“It’s the regret of my life that I did not listen to the Knowing that day, when it told me my sister was in trouble and needed my help. I felt it, but I was still so new to the Knowing that I did not heed its urgency. I delayed, shrugged it off. When I finally went to her, it was too late. You see, she was with child—that, too, she had hid from the world, just as they had hid their love for one another, she and Salmor.”
The brothers’ heads came up at that, slack-jawed with surprise.
“Yes, she bore your father’s child. I know that now—but all these years, I was not sure if it really was his. That day, she miscarried. Lost the babe… and then we lost her.” Ouska’s voice was heavy with remembered sadness. “It is my firm belief your father did not know of it, any of it, to his last day. He was a good man, Salmor; he grieved my sister, but he had not known. He married your mother some time later, and a year afterward they celebrated your brother’s birth as that of his first son. But he wasn’t. Ardanna’s child was. He lived for a few hours, the little mite; he drew his last breath just a few minutes before his mother.
“I was never sure of the Septimi, did not know whether they all had to be sons of one mother for the seventh to be the Septimus, or no. Uncle did not know, either. And neither of us was certain that Ardanna’s child really had been Salmor’s. If he was, then you, Sepp, are the seventh son of your mother, but the eighth of your father; it’s Guy who is the seventh son of the seventh son. But I did not know whether it mattered, and I did not want to speak of it without certainty, did not want to do an injustice to your father or cause unnecessary grief. So I bided my time, waited until you reached your full age. Watched, and waited.
“You came of age last year,” she said to Guy, “but I was still unsure. We hardly knew what to expect, any of us. All I saw was that you became—well, more clumsy, more prone to hurting yourself, to breaking things. And is there not also something with your work? Something odd that began to happen right about that time?”
Suddenly the image of the pottery pieces with the peculiar holes flashed through Cat’s mind. Guy frowned.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, there is. The day of my birthday, I had a kiln full of work which was riddled with holes, like something had bored its way through them in the firing. I don’t know why it happens, but ever since, every time I fire there is at least one piece that has these holes through it.”
“He’s been hiding them in the cupboard in the workshop,” said Cat to Ouska.
“Well, I thought there was something else, even though I had not seen it. But I was never sure if any of it was a sign of the power, even an odd one, or if it came from the hurt that wife of yours had given you.”
Guy winced at her words.
“Have you never wondered why she left just then?” Ouska continued. “Have you not asked yourself why she threw herself at you the way she did, those years ago? Oh yes, do not shake your head at me. She went after you. I watched it happen, and did not stop it.
“You see, Guy,” and she turned her head and looked full at Cat, “I always knew you were to wed an Unissima. And that woman was the only one there was. It galled me to see it—such an empty-headed, vain, nasty… No matter. She was an Unissima, and it’s my belief the Knowing told her you were more than a potter in the Wald. She kept her mouth shut about what she felt—she had that much sense, at least, probably did not want you to be snatched up by some other woman. Or perhaps she was never quite sure what it was she was feeling. But she threw herself at you; she made you marry her. I will not say that you were not taken in by her; she was a bewitching strumpet—likely still is, from what my senses tell me.”
There was a small light that was beginning to dawn in Guy’s eyes, a light of understanding.
“So then last June,” Ouska continued, “you turned twenty-eight. She must have looked for some event, expected some great change—and when it didn’t come, she threw a tantrum and left. Oh yes, I know that too—you don’t think I believed those foolish stories about your temper and her innocence? Don’t forget that I’ve known you since you were swaddled.
“You were left with the babe, and I had nothing to point to that told me whether you were the Septimissimus or not. So I waited yet longer. Until last week, when you, Sepp, reached your birthday—and less than nothing happened. You vanished, as well.”
She picked up one of the brown bowl shards from the table.
“It’s to do with these, isn’t it?” she asked, with her direct glance at Guy and then Sepp.
“Yes,” replied Cat for them. “It’s what’s left of a bowl—Guy made it—”
“Of course,” Ouska said. “I recall now—you told me of one that had brought you here, did you not?”
“Yes. And there are more of them in the workshop.”
The older woman got up off the bench.
“Show me,” she said.