The Lightning Tree

  brushed self-consciously at his clothes.

  “I … I haven’t quite got round to that yet,

  Reshi.”

  The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “I

  don’t ask a …” He stopped and sniffed,

  then eyed the dark-haired man narrowly.

  “Are you drunk, Bast?”

  Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”

  The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine

  then, have you been drinking?”

  “I’ve been investigating, ” Bast said,

  emphasizing the word. “Did you know

  Crazy Martin runs a still?”

  “I didn’t,” the innkeeper said, his tone

  making it clear he didn’t find this

  information to be particularly thrilling.

  “And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a

  handful of unfortunately strong affect

  compulsions. And a touch of tabard

  madness from when he was a soldier.”

  “Well, yes …” Bast said slowly. “I

  know, because he set his dog on me and

  when I climbed a tree to get away, he

  tried to chop the tree down. But also,

  aside from those things, he’s crazy too,

  Reshi. Really, really crazy.”

  “Bast.” The innkeeper gave him a

  chiding look.

  “I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not

  even saying I don’t like him. But trust me.

  I know crazy. His head isn’t put together

  like a normal person’s.”

  The innkeeper gave an agreeable if

  slightly impatient nod. “Noted.”

  Bast opened his mouth, then looked

  slightly confused. “What were we talking

  about?”

  “Your advanced state of investigation,”

  the innkeeper said, glancing out the

  window. “Despite the fact that it is

  barely three bells.”

  “Ah. Right!” Bast said excitedly. “I

  know Martin’s been running a tab for the

  better part of a year now. And I know

  you’ve had trouble settling up because he

  doesn’t have any money.”

  “He doesn’t use money,” the innkeeper

  corrected gently.

  “Same difference, Reshi,” Bast sighed.

  “And it doesn’t change the fact that we

  don’t need another sack of barley. The

  pantry is choking on barley. But since he

  runs a still …”

  The innkeeper was already shaking his

  head. “No, Bast,” he said. “I won’t go

  poisoning my customers with hillwine.

  You have no idea what ends up in that

  stuff …”

  “But I do know, Reshi,” Bast said

  plaintively. “Ethel acetates and methans.

  And tinleach. There’s none of that.”

  The innkeeper blinked, obviously taken

  aback. “Did … Have you actually been

  reading Celum Tinture?”

  “I did, Reshi.” Bast beamed. “For the

  betterment of my education and my desire

  to not poison folk. I tasted some, Reshi,

  and I can say with some authority that

  Martin is not making hillwine. It’s lovely

  stuff. It’s halfway to Rhis, and that’s not

  something I say lightly.”

  The innkeeper stroked his upper lip

  thoughtfully. “Where did you get some to

  taste?” he asked.

  “I traded for it,” Bast said, easily

  skirting the edges of the truth. “I was

  thinking,” Bast continued. “Not only

  would it give Martin a chance to settle

  his tab. But it would help us get some

  new stock in. That’s harder, the roads as

  bad as they are …”

  The innkeeper held up both hands

  helplessly. “I’m already convinced,

  Bast.”

  Bast grinned happily.

  “Honestly, I would have done it merely

  to celebrate you reading your lesson for

  once. But it will be nice for Martin, too.

  It will give him an excuse to come by

  more often. It will be good for him.”

  Bast’s smile faded a bit.

  If the innkeeper noticed, he didn’t

  comment on it. “I’ll send a boy round to

  Martin’s and ask him to come by with a

  couple bottles.”

  “Get five or six,” Bast said. “It’s

  getting cold at night. Winter’s coming.”

  The innkeeper smiled. “I’m sure Martin

  will be flattered.”

  Bast paled at that. “By all the gorse no,

  Reshi,” he said, waving his hands in

  front of himself and taking a step

  backwards. “Don’t tell him I’ll be

  drinking it. He hates me.”

  The innkeeper hid a smile behind his

  hand.

  “It’s not funny, Reshi,” Bast said

  angrily. “He throws rocks at me.”

  “Not for months,” the innkeeper pointed

  out. “Martin has been perfectly cordial to

  you the last several times he’s stopped

  by for a visit.”

  “Because there aren’t any rocks inside

  the inn,” Bast said.

  “Be

  fair,

  Bast,”

  the

  innkeeper

  continued. “He’s been civil for almost a

  year.

  Polite

  even.

  Remember

  he

  apologized to you two months back?

  Have you heard of Martin ever

  apologizing to anyone else in town?

  Ever?”

  “No,” Bast said sulkily.

  The innkeeper nodded. “That’s a big

  gesture for him. He’s turning a new leaf.”

  “I know,” Bast muttered, moving

  toward the back door. “But if he’s here

  when I get home tonight, I’m eating

  dinner in the kitchen.”

  Rike caught up with Bast before he even

  made it to the clearing, let alone the

  lightning tree.

  “I’ve got it,” the boy said, holding up

  his hand triumphantly. The entire lower

  half of his body was dripping wet.

  “What, already?” Bast asked.

  The boy nodded and flourished the

  stone between two fingers. It was flat

  and smooth and round, slightly bigger

  than a copper penny. “What now?”

  Bast stroked his chin for a moment, as

  if trying to remember. “Now we need a

  needle. But it has to be borrowed from a

  house where no men live.”

  Rike looked thoughtful for a moment,

  then brightened. “I can get one from Aunt

  Sellie!”

  Bast fought the urge to curse. He’d

  forgotten about Sellie. “That will do …”

  he said, reluctantly, “but it will work

  best if the needle comes from a house

  with a lot of women living in it. The

  more women the better.”

  Rike looked up for another moment.

  “Widow Creel then. She’s got a

  daughter.”

  “She’s got a boy, too.” Bast pointed

  out. “A house where no men or boys

  live.”

  “But where a lot of girls live …” Rike

  said. He had to think about it for a long

  while.
“Old Nan don’t like me none,” he

  said. “But I reckon she’d give me a pin.”

  “A needle,” Bast stressed. “And you

  have to borrow it. You can’t steal it or

  buy it. She has to lend it to you.”

  Bast had half expected the boy to

  grouse about the particulars, about the

  fact that Old Nan lived all the way off on

  the other side of town, about as far west

  as you could go and still be considered

  part of the town. It would take him half

  an hour to get there, and even then, Old

  Nan might not be home.

  But Rike didn’t so much as sigh. He just

  nodded seriously, turned, and took off at

  a sprint, bare feet flying.

  Bast continued to the lightning tree, but

  when he came to the clearing he saw an

  entire tangle of children playing on the

  greystone, doubtless waiting for him.

  Four of them.

  Watching them from the shadow of the

  trees at the edge of the clearing, Bast

  hesitated, then glanced up at the sun

  before slipping back into the woods. He

  had other fish to fry.

  The Williams farm wasn’t a farm in any

  proper sense. Not for decades. The fields

  had gone fallow so long ago that they

  were barely recognizable as such,

  spotted with brambles and sapling trees.

  The tall barn had fallen into disrepair

  and half the roof gaped open to the sky.

  Walking up the long path through the

  fields, Bast turned a corner and saw

  Rike’s house. It told a different story than

  the barn. It was small but tidy. The

  shingles needed some repair, but other

  than that, it looked well loved and

  tended-to. Yellow curtains were blowing

  out the kitchen window, and there was

  flower box spilling over with fox fiddle

  and marigold.

  There was a pen with a trio of goats on

  one side of the house, and a large well-

  tended garden on the other. It was fenced

  thickly with lashed-together sticks, but

  Bast could see straight lines of

  flourishing greenery inside. Carrots. He

  still needed carrots.

  Craning his neck a bit, Bast saw

  several large, square boxes behind the

  house. He took a few more steps to the

  side and eyed them before he realized

  they were beehives.

  Just then there was a great storm of

  barking and two great black, floppy-

  eared dogs came bounding from the

  house toward Bast, baying for all they

  were worth. When they came close

  enough, Bast got down on one knee and

  wrestled with them playfully, scratching

  their ears and the ruff of their necks.

  After a few minutes of this, Bast

  continued to the house, the dogs weaving

  back and forth in front of him before they

  spotted some sort of animal and tore off

  into the underbrush. He knocked politely

  at the front door, though after all the

  barking his presence could hardly be a

  surprise.

  The door opened a couple inches, and

  for a moment all Bast could see was a

  slender slice of darkness. Then the door

  opened a little wider, revealing Rike’s

  mother. She was tall, and her curling

  brown hair was springing loose from the

  braid that hung down her back.

  She swung the door fully open, holding

  a tiny, half-naked baby in the curve of her

  arm. Its round face was pressed into her

  breast and it was sucking busily, making

  small grunting noises.

  Glancing down, Bast smiled warmly.

  The woman looked fondly down at her

  child, then favored Bast with a tired

  smile. “Hello Bast, what can I do for

  you?”

  “Ah. Well,” he said awkwardly, pulling

  his gaze up to meet her eye. “I was

  wondering, ma’am. That is, Mrs.

  Williams—”

  “Nettie is fine, Bast,” she said

  indulgently. More than a few of the

  townfolk considered Bast somewhat

  simple in the head, a fact that Bast didn’t

  mind in the least.

  “Nettie,” Bast said, smiling his most

  ingratiating smile.

  There was a pause, and she leaned

  against the doorframe. A little girl

  peeked out from around the woman’s

  faded blue skirt, nothing more than a pair

  of serious dark eyes.

  Bast

  smiled

  at

  the

  girl,

  who

  disappeared back behind her mother.

  Nettie looked at Bast expectantly.

  Finally she prompted. “You were

  wondering …”

  “Oh, yes.” Bast said. “I was wondering

  if your husband happened to be about.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said. “Jessom’s

  off checking his traps.”

  “Ah,” Bast said, disappointed. “Will he

  be back anytime soon? I’d be happy to

  wait …”

  She shook her head, “I’m sorry. He’ll

  do his lines then spend the night skinning

  and drying up in his shack.” She nodded

  vaguely toward the northern hills.

  “Ah,” Bast said again.

  Nestled snugly in her mother’s arm, the

  baby drew a deep breath, then sighed it

  out blissfully, going quiet and limp.

  Nettie looked down, then up at Bast,

  holding a finger to her lips.

  Bast nodded and stepped back from the

  doorway, watching as Nettie stepped

  inside, deftly detached the sleeping baby

  from her nipple with her free hand, then

  carefully tucked the child into a small

  wooden cradle on the floor. The dark-

  eyed girl emerged from behind her

  mother and went to peer down at the

  baby.

  “Call me if she starts to fuss,” Nettie

  said softly. The little girl nodded

  seriously, sat down on a nearby chair,

  and began to gently rock the cradle with

  her foot.

  Nettie stepped outside, closing the door

  behind her. She walked the few steps

  necessary to join Bast, rearranging her

  bodice unself-consciously. In the sunlight

  Bast noticed her high cheekbones and

  generous mouth. Even so, she was more

  tired than pretty, her dark eyes heavy

  with worry.

  The tall woman crossed her arms over

  her chest. “What’s the trouble then?” she

  asked wearily.

  Bast looked confused. “No trouble,” he

  said. “I was wondering if your husband

  had any work.”

  Nettie uncrossed her arms, looking

  surprised. “Oh.”

  “There isn’t much for me to do at the

  inn,” Bast said a little sheepishly. “I

  thought your husband might need an extra

  hand.”

  Nettie looked around, eyes brushing

  over the old barn. Her mouth tugging

  down at the corn
ers. “He traps and hunts

  for the most part these days,” she said.

  “Keeps him busy, but not so much that

  he’d need help, I imagine.” She looked

  back to Bast. “At least he’s never made

  mention of wanting any.”

  “How about yourself?” Bast asked,

  giving his most charming smile. “Is there

  anything around the place you could use a

  hand with?”

  Nettie smiled at Bast indulgently. It was

  only a small smile, but it stripped ten

  years and half a world of worry off her face, making her practically shine with

  loveliness. “There isn’t much to do,” she

  said apologetically. “Only three goats,

  and my boy minds them.”

  “Firewood?” Bast asked. “I’m not

  afraid to work up a sweat. And it has to

  be hard getting by with your gentleman

  gone for days on end …” He grinned at

  her hopefully.

  “And we just haven’t got the money for

  help, I’m afraid.” Nettie said.

  “I just want some carrots,” Bast said.

  Nettie looked at him for a minute, then

  burst out laughing. “Carrots,” she said,

  rubbing at her face. “How many

  carrots?”

  “Maybe … six?” Bast asked, not

  sounding very sure of his answer at all.

  She laughed again, shaking her head a

  little. “Okay. You can split some wood.”

  She pointed to the chopping block that

  stood in back of the house. “I’ll come get

  you when you’ve done six carrots’

  worth.”

  Bast set to work eagerly, and soon the

  yard was full of the crisp, healthy sound

  of splitting wood. The sun was still

  strong in the sky, and after just a few

  minutes Bast was covered in a sheen of

  sweat. He carelessly peeled away his

  shirt and hung it on the nearby garden

  fence.

  There was something different about the

  way he split the wood. Nothing dramatic.

  In fact he split wood the same way

  everyone did: you set the log upright, you

  swing the axe, you split the wood. There

  isn’t much room to extemporize.

  But still, there was a difference in the

  way he did it. When he set the log

  upright, he moved intently. Then he

  would stand for a tiny moment, perfectly

  still. Then came the swing. It was a fluid

  thing. The placement of his feet, the play

  of the long muscles in his arms …

  There

  was

  nothing

  exaggerated.

  Nothing like a flourish. Even so, when he

  brought the axe up and over in a perfect

  arc, there was a grace to it. The sharp

  cough the wood made as it split, the

  sudden way the halves went tumbling to