Loneliness sang to her instead, and in the morning, sorrow came calling.
A Fire in Winter
When Tegan opened the door, Lucilla stood there with a basket in her hands. The smell of fresh roasted potatoes wafted from the wrapping cloth. She couldn’t meet the girl’s gaze as she stepped back to let her into the house. Her small face was tearstained and rosy with cold. The imprint her little feet had left in the snow seemed impossibly lonely.
“Come in,” Tegan said.
“I have to go back and help Aunt Mara. My da isn’t well.”
“I’m sorry.”
The girl ignored that. She’d probably heard it a lot already, and her mother hadn’t been gone long. Tegan remembered how much she’d hated the words when they’d come from her uncles. Khamish came to the door then.
“Does he need treatment?”
“Reckon not. He just won’t stop drinking.”
“That’s a type of sickness,” Khamish said severely.
“Auntie told me to bring this for you in payment and to say we’re having the funeral tomorrow. It’s too cold for burying, so we’re having a fire instead.”
She’s too young to carry such messages.
Khamish sighed. “Mara didn’t need to send anything.”
“People are already bringing food,” Lucilla said. “I have to go now.”
With that she turned and trekked back through the white, hopping between trampled patches with silent concentration. Tegan watched until her small back vanished from sight, and then she stared at the branches of the tree that half shadowed the cottage, liberally frosted in ice. The contrast of dark and light soothed her aching heart.
Khamish touched her arm. “Come in from the cold. We’ll make some nice soup with those potatoes and the herbs I’ve put by. How’s your shoulder, by the way?”
“It seems to be healing well enough.”
“I’ll have a look.”
Tegan lacked the energy to argue. While there was residual soreness, she thought it was forming a healthy scar. There was none of the burning that accompanied an infection, and Khamish had changed the bandages regularly after Szarok had left. Because it was better to be careful, she let the healer inspect the site.
“How does it look?” she asked.
“You’ve a pretty new scar.”
“That’s about what I expected.”
“I imagine you’ve got many, most down where nobody can see.” With that surprising pronouncement, Khamish went into the kitchen to put together a pot of soup.
Stunned, Tegan assisted, but the words played over in her mind, until she had to ask, “How do you know?”
The older woman dried her hands, seeming unsurprised by the question, or even curious why it had taken her so long to ask it. “After a while you get to recognize it. I see the same shadow on Advika, though she’s got more years behind her.”
“I know she’s from the ruins, too.”
Khamish nodded. “Reckon you two could share some stories, if you’re inclined.”
“Not usually,” Tegan said.
“Advika neither. But sometimes it’s good to know that somebody’s walked your path before and they’re all right somewhere down the road.”
“Yes.” She let out a breath. The vise that started tightening when she found out Mrs. Gwynne didn’t make it loosened a little. “Why were you so willing to take me in, before?”
“Mostly I’m lonesome and you need teaching.”
Stung, she said, “I’ve studied with two doctors already.”
Khamish laughed. “Not like that, me duck. You already know plenty about treating ailments. I’m talking about your heart.”
Tegan raised a brow, reluctantly amused. “You’re teaching my heart.”
“Not so much as you’re learning to be true to yourself. But I’ll play my part, too.”
Talking to Khamish sometimes made her head ache—in a good way. If nothing else, her teacher kept her from dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. She pretended to understand this cryptic comment and tidied up the kitchen after the soup had finished cooking. They ate a little for dinner, and late that night a patient came from three houses down with an upset stomach. Tegan handled it without waking the older woman, but the neighbor seemed reluctant to go home.
“Such a shame about Netta Gwynne,” she said.
Since Tegan was in no mood for such a chat, she ended the visit quickly. Maybe it was a little rude to usher the woman out so fast, but she only had a little gas, and Tegan suspected she wanted firsthand gossip. Is this what town life is like? In Winterville they’d regarded Dr. Wilson with a combination of fear and reverence, so nobody ever stopped by with mild symptoms and a hankering to chat. The fact that he’d kept a Mutie named Timothy in the laboratory as part of his experiments had likely contributed to his isolation. Even after Tegan had joined him to assist with research, keeping others at a distance just seemed … natural. But even while traveling with Company D, she’d done the same thing.
Once the night went quiet, Tegan donned her jacket and stepped outside to gaze up at the sky. It was ridiculous—she knew it was—but she couldn’t stop herself from asking the silent question. Are you out there? Are you well? One month. Two months. Twelve. How long before she stopped whispering to the stars? And maybe she didn’t really want to stop. Because if she did, it would be like accepting he was gone, forever-gone. The ice on the tree branches cracked and fell, spearing into the snow. In the silence, her heart pounded like thunder, and then she heard it, faint but unmistakable:
I. Am. Here.
Her pain eased enough to let her sleep. The next day, they carried the soup to the Gwynne household, but the family seemed to have moved. Khamish headed across town without asking any of the neighbors. She guessed they must be staying with Mr. Gwynne’s sister. A crowd gathered in the front yard proved her right; the mourners had apparently gathered to accompany the family. Khamish set the food inside, and then she came out to where Tegan waited with the others.
Farrell Gwynne spotted Tegan and his face flushed. Letting go of Lucilla’s hand, he lurched toward her and landed a vicious shove. Her bad leg gave, toppling her into a snowbank. Gwynne loomed over her with a face so devastated that she couldn’t even blame him. So instead of fighting, she stayed down.
“You … Why did you … Better if I’d died instead of her. Why weren’t you there?”
“I’m sorry,” Tegan whispered.
The man’s sister hauled him away with a whispered admonition about frightening the children. For a little longer she sat in the cold, feeling it trickle through her layers until it reached the skin. The icy air burned her lungs, and Tegan might have sat there forever if Lucilla hadn’t come over to offer a small hand. When she didn’t immediately take it, the girl shook her arm with impatient demand.
“Don’t feel bad,” she said.
Tegan struggled to her feet first, then she wrapped her mittened fingers around Lucilla’s. “I’m trying not to.”
“If you do, I have to, too. I begged you to stay.”
Realization dawned then, and Tegan crouched, peering into the child’s face. Big, haunted eyes stared back at her. In that moment she understood what she must say. And it had to be true. “Let’s feel sad that she’s gone, not because we did wrong.”
The simple hiccup of a yes reminded Tegan of Szarok. On impulse, she scooped the girl up and set her on her hip. I’m strong enough to carry her. I am. Later, Lucilla would be asked to support her father and look after her brothers and sisters, but for today she deserved somebody who could hold her. Her dad and auntie both had their arms full. Without meaning to, Tegan caught Khamish’s gaze, and the older woman smiled with her eyes.
More than half of Peckinpaugh turned out for the service. When she’d picked Lucilla up, she didn’t realize she would be walking quite so far. Despite aching arms, she didn’t regret it, even as they marched through town to a spot overlooking the sea. Someone had already built the pyre, and the b
earers moved through the assembled mourners with the pine box that held Netta Gwynne and her youngest. Lucilla hid her face against Tegan’s shoulder as Khamish stepped to the center.
There’s no holy man?
Normally at such times, they read from a small, worn book. But Khamish only tipped her face to the sky and said, “Nobody who goes is ever gone. We don’t understand why the spirits call as they do, but when our time comes, we each must answer. If Netta misses us, she’ll visit in our dreams.”
“In dreams,” the rest echoed.
That seemed to be the cue. An older man came forward with a torch and he offered it to Farrell Gwynne, who shook his head fiercely and looked away. Khamish took it. The healer lit the pyre in multiple places, and the fire blazed up. They must have treated the wood to make it burn so hot. Tegan backed away, awed at the ferocious hunger of the flames; they flickered orange with white-hot flares. For a while everyone just stood, warmed by the ending of two lives, and the pillar of smoke rose up, pungent with pine and fir needles. Beneath the crackle of the flames, Tegan listened to the crash of the icy sea below.
What a lonely place.
“It’s time,” Khamish said.
“Good-bye, Ma.” Among those gathered in grief, only Tegan heard Lucilla’s whisper, and she cradled her closer in response.
The exodus began in twos and threes, townsfolk returning to their homes. Soon only a small group remained. Tegan glanced back at them in following Khamish toward the path that led away from the bluff. Ten men stood by, likely volunteers who had offered to keep the flames burning long and hot enough to finish the job properly. They had lots of chopped wood set by, so there would be a glow on the rise deep into the night.
“I’ll take Lucilla home,” she told Khamish.
“Go on then.”
Their paths parted in the center of town. Only a few businesses remained open, two public houses and a general goods store. Tegan couldn’t remember ever feeling part of anything like this before. In the ruins, it was impossible; with the Wolves, unthinkable; and then during the war, there was only endless passing through. She reached her destination with all the feeling gone in her arms. Lucilla slid down and lowered her eyes.
“You can come see me anytime,” Tegan said.
That didn’t win a smile, nor did she expect one. The girl nodded before trudging up the steps to where her aunt waited. Mara waved with all the weariness in the world. Tegan wished there was more she could do, but she’d made a deal with Lucilla. Normal sadness, that’s all. Despite her thick boots, Tegan couldn’t feel her feet. Her hip hurt from the fall, and so did her thigh, the old injury aggravated by the cold. To make matters worse, the wound on her shoulder throbbed like mad now that she wasn’t holding Lucilla. While she’d noticed the pull, a little pain seemed worth it. Yet now she ached in three places.
She was limping by the time she reached the cottage. The smell of mulled wine wafted out to her, more inviting than anything but Szarok’s scent-marking. Inside, Khamish waited with two mugs, and she sprinkled some powder into Tegan’s before passing it over.
“What’s that?”
“A cure for what ails you.”
That seemed like a good idea. She downed the drink without tasting it. “How awful.”
“The medicine?”
“This whole day.”
“You were good to Lucilla. She’ll remember that.”
“I lost my mother, too.” Whatever she’d expected to blurt out, it wasn’t that.
Khamish only nodded. Words were unnecessary in the right kind of silence. They ate a quiet meal of leftover soup and bread, and Tegan sighed as the medicine kicked in. Her pain thinned down first to an ache and then a gentle soreness. Afterward, she forced herself to wash the dishes. Though she hurt from old wounds, she imagined old age must be worse.
“You’re a good girl.” The healer sank into a chair with a tired sigh.
“I could be,” she said.
I want to be.
Not just because it made people like her. Because it was right.
“Come, me duck. This is something you should learn.”
To Tegan’s surprise, it was nothing related to healing or midwifery. Khamish held up some yarn and fine long needles. Though Tegan had watched her knitting many nights before bed, she’d never yet seen anything finished come out of this work basket. There was just a long gray tube that coiled at the bottom like a snake.
That was the magic word.
Learn.
It started a fire in her chest, the best kind, carrying the memory of swimming lessons and speaking in Uroch on an island that reeked of wild birds. Oh, Szarok, she thought. Those may have been the happiest days of my life. Tegan pictured herself at Khamish’s age, teaching another girl everything she knew, and it seemed … right, but also heartbreaking. This could be my house someday. With utter focus, she kept the tears in check and studied her teacher’s hands. When the time came, she took the needles and reproduced the stitches with clumsy determination. She failed more than once and tried again, until at last Khamish said:
“Do you understand now?”
“It’s like our work,” she answered. “Trying is the important part.”
“That, and it gives your heart and mind a rest. When you’re working a pattern, you aren’t thinking about what you did or should’ve done.”
“Thank you. I did need to learn this.” The loss binding her chest unraveled a little more.
One day I might take full breaths again.
One day.
She didn’t regret a minute she’d spent with Szarok, not a single word or look. Once her mother had said, Love is what makes the hurt worthwhile, with a faraway look, and Tegan hadn’t understood. Not then. But now, gazing down the years, she suspected her mama had been longing for her father, a man Tegan couldn’t remember. He might have even died before she was born, because she’d only asked about him once. And now there could be no answers.
“You’re most welcome.”
“I’m wondering … why don’t you ever finish anything you make?”
Khamish regarded her somberly. “A fortune-teller told me long ago that when I finished my first scarf, that would be the day I died. I figure if I keep at it, I can live forever.”
Tegan’s eyes widened. “Truly?”
“No.” The other woman broke out into delighted chuckles. “You’re a gullible little thing. The knitting soothes me, but I’m too lazy to stop and start again. Plus, I’d have to find good homes for all the bits and bobs.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling foolish.
“You’re looking done in. Sleep well.”
Nodding gratefully, Tegan set her small section of knitting in the basket and stumbled down the hall to her bed. She slept the night through and woke feeling almost human. The sun was out, and there were patients to see. Death comes for us all in time. Fear of it shouldn’t keep us from living.
* * *
For the next two months she learned from Khamish as the snow fell. Sickness came and went. She tended Lucilla through a fever and watched over her as she recovered. Sometimes, on clear days, she climbed to the top of the bluff and looked out over the gray and churning sea. This late in the year, no ships passed by, but she imagined them.
Carrying James and Millie and—
No.
Szarok would not be on board, sailing back to her. So she imagined him happy instead, and usually that was enough to make her heart sing, just for him. I am here. And again, I am here. As the weather warmed, Tegan made that pilgrimage until people watched and waved as she went through town. Some thought she must be waiting for a lover; she heard the whispers. Others said she was surely mourning for poor Netta Gwynne.
Yet no one ever asked or dug into her secrets. Sometimes Farrell Gwynne walked with her; they never spoke. He hadn’t apologized for the shove, but she suspected he didn’t even remember. The wildness of his grief had faded into terrible weariness that left him hollow, like a straw man that los
t all its stuffing over a long winter.
That day, as they climbed, he turned to her with a tentative look, delicate as daybreak. “This morning I saw a blue jay.”
Cautiously, she replied, “The trees are budding.”
Quietly, while she worked and watched and learned, the snow had melted, leaving the world dark and fresh and ready for life to begin anew.
In her soul as with the weather, spring had come at last.
Exodus
By Uroch standards, Tcharr was unquestionably beautiful. “You reek of humanity.”
At the moment she was also furious. Szarok didn’t attempt to block the strike. As his head snapped back, he noted that she hadn’t used her claws, so her fury had limits. Still, he tasted blood from where his fangs sliced the lining of his cheek. Spitting it out would be disrespectful, a sign that he didn’t accept her rebuke, so he swallowed.
“You were gone too long,” she snarled. “Rroclaw whispers of war.”
“Apologies,” he replied.
Rzika, the oldest of the People, stepped forward. One of the first to Awaken, she didn’t have much time left, but she had seen to his training and chosen his mate with great care. Most Uroch formed their own heart-bonds, but since he had been elevated to vanguard, certain freedoms had been lost. As Tcharr was the strongest female, they must fortify the tribe together. She was also the obligation he’d mentioned to Tegan.
“Peace, consort.” Rzika made a staying gesture at Tcharr by flourishing her claws, then addressed him. “What news, vanguard?”
After so long, it felt good to be surrounded by the familiar sounds and smells of home. The complex and layered scents told him volumes about how his people had fared in his absence, and not all of it good. Sour notes spoke of fear and pleading, probably with Rroclaw. As he swept the crowd, only a few would meet his gaze.
“I found our home,” he growled.
Now he had everyone’s attention. Cheers rose up, and he imagined Tegan’s reaction to the cacophony of sound. Would she be frightened? Since he had been away, he understood how the noise could sound aggressive to untutored ears. A silent onlooker might suspect the People were plotting some vicious attack instead of celebrating.