Changeling's Island - eARC, page 14
Tim dabbed the liquid from the tin onto the place on the sheep’s neck where the wool was blackened and spinning off.
“You can let her go now,” he said.
The sheep gave a plaintive “baa,” stood up and limped her way toward the others—who had stopped running in circles now.
The old woman looked at Mike and Bunce, in a sideward fashion that Mike remembered all too well. So that was the issue! “Is that one o’ them New Zealand Huntaways? He needs a bit more training. Big dog, but good for some work, I reckon.”
She couldn’t see much, Mike knew then. “No. I’m afraid not. He’s a wolfhound. I thought he was going to savage the sheep. I don’t know how he got out, and I promise he won’t come here again.”
“Ach. The wee folk think he’s all right. I haven’t had a dog for years. They don’t usually like them much.”
Mike noticed she wasn’t looking at him anymore, but staring intently at his daughter, eyes wide. He wondered, briefly, if he’d been wrong. Then she turned her head sideways slightly, just as his mother had in her last years. She stood very still, and then shook herself, brushing her hand over her eyes. “Well. Thank yer. It would have taken us a while without yer and the dog,” she said.
She sounded quite mild and reasonable, and if it hadn’t been for the tone she’d used on Bunce, who was now lolling peacefully against his side, it might have fooled some people. Mike wasn’t easily fooled anyway, and he’d had some advance warning. His intelligencer had indeed said the old woman was a real tartar, and he wasn’t wrong. But it appeared she was disposed to be pleasant. Mike had to wonder why. “I was going fishing,” he said, “And I saw you with cows earlier, and it struck me I hadn’t said thank you for the fish.”
She nodded. “The boy said it was a good flathead.”
“Biggest I’ve ever seen! It must have been nearly two feet long. It weighed six pounds.” He guessed that, like his mother, she wouldn’t do kilograms and centimeters. “It was really good eating. Thank you.”
She gave a little snort of laughter. “Yer new here? I’ve seen a few of them rock flathead that’d reach the ground from a man’s waist. A big man, mind.”
“We’ve only been here two and a bit years, and the ones I’ve caught wouldn’t reach the ground from my knees. I’m afraid I don’t know much, but I love the place.”
“Yer do, do yer? Yer bought that block up Pine Scrub way?”
“Yes, the old Masterson place.” Mike had learned by now. That was thirty years and three owners back, but that was how islanders knew the place.
She looked at his daughter again. “Well. Yer like a cup of tea, after that? Yer can take the track down to the beach. Good fishing down there.”
Mike had heard enough from the friends he’d asked to know that was an almost unheard-of offer. Was the old girl looking on his daughter as a favorable catch for her grandson? Mike wasn’t ready to agree, but…his mother had had macular degeneration too. It was hard not to feel some sympathy. And the kids would do exactly what they pleased, anyway, if he’d been anything to go by. Tim was a good year or so younger and half a head shorter than his girl, not a likely candidate when they were that age. “That’d be really nice. Let me just put this menace of a dog back in the car, and I could give you a lift down.”
“We’ve got the old ute in the corner of the paddock. Brought some fencing up here. Yer can follow us down.”
So they did. They got into the vehicles. “I thought I was going to die when Bunce came running. I don’t know how he got out, Daddy,” said Molly, when the door closed.
“I think your Bunce just used up a lifetime’s luck, Molly. I thought it was going to end badly, myself.”
“Tim’s gran is strange. Like, why doesn’t she look at you when she’s talking to you?” she asked.
“Because she’s trying to see you, Molly. I think she’s got macular degeneration.”
“What?”
“Macular degeneration. Like Nan Susan had. You probably don’t remember. You were only seven when she died.”
“I do remember her, sort of. She used to touch my face.” His daughter was silent for a while as they drove down the rutted track. “Like, you mean she’s blind, Daddy?”
“She can’t see too well. She sees better out of the edges of her vision. In the center it’s a blur, from what I recall.”
“But…but she’s, like, out chasing sheep. And driving!”
“She’s a tough old woman. From what I’ve heard she’s run this place on her own, and raised her son, with not much help. And there is nothing much for her to hit, except us. And they’re in front of us. I wouldn’t say anything to her about it; she’s probably very touchy about the subject. Your Nan Susan was. She was a very independent woman, and I’d guess Tim’s grandmother is the same or worse.”
The elderly ute was in front of them, driven, Mike thought, quite fast for someone with vision problems. They stopped in front of the old house, and Tim got out of the driver’s seat. Ah. That explained it.
They parked in the deep shade and opened all the windows enough for air for Bunce, without letting him out.
The house was what real-estate people called “a restorer’s dream.” Having restored a Victorian terrace house long ago, Mike Symons could see there would be a little truth in that. Parts of the building were stone, and old. But it had been built onto, added to as needed, and not with any thought about preservation, just about extra rooms and an indoor toilet. There wasn’t much of a garden…for pretty. A little grass, and a few belladonna lilies next to the veranda, was about it. A huge veggie garden, though, dominated the side of the house. The other side was an orchard, and behind that, rather tumbled-down sheds and a barn. It all said “been here forever,” and the garden filled Mike with envy. He said so. “We try to grow our own veg,” he said rather proudly.
That got a wry snort. “Funny how things change. When I was growin’ up buying yer veggies from the store was real posh. For the rich people. And they was old cabbage and carrots, come over on the boat, mostly. Now they fly them in, and growing yer own is suddenly the thing to do. We always did it because we had to do it. You want some spuds?”
“I’d love some,” said Mike, seriously, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground, but also seeing signs of a struggle to make ends meet and knowing what that meant. He wasn’t going to take food they couldn’t spare just because he was a lousy gardener. “But my parents were real battlers, and the old man never let us take anything from anyone without giving something in exchange. That was just how he was, and it rubbed off a bit, I suppose. I still can’t do it. Now if there is something I could do for you, that’d be fine, but it looks like you do everything better than I can.”
She gave him that sideways stare he remembered so well from his own mother’s later years. Nodded. “I don’t take charity myself. But I’ve got a good crop not even the boy can eat us out of. I end up feeding a lot of it to the hens, the cow and the pigs.”
“Well, look, I have to go into Whitemark once a week on Wednesdays, and often to fetch guests. If you ever need to go in, or get something brought from town, it’s on my way. I have a trailer for wire and things. I’d call that a fair exchange for some potatoes.”
She nodded again. “I don’t ask no favors, but getting into town is difficult.”
“I’m going anyway, and I can’t grow things the way you can.”
“Yer haven’t got the soil out there. Now, the boy should have the kettle boiling.”
They had tea in cups that were plainly old and cherished and hadn’t been out of the dresser for years. The cups, the dresser and the table would have made an antique dealer quiver. Someone needed to make sure they didn’t steal the old duck blind, thought Mike, as he asked about fishing, and learned a few generations’ worth of information about time and tide and wind. “Yer wasting yer time this afternoon. It’s blowing northeasterly and the water’s low. Not when it’s this warm and bright.”
“Should change by this evening, Nan. Wind is going to shift. Fish’ll feed on the incoming tide,” said Tim, who just happened to be looking at the back of the top paperback.
“Get your nose out of them books! Time enough for that at night. We’ve got company, Tim. Where’s yer manners? Yer learning the weather, though, boy, but we got them sheep to shift because of it. Going to take a while to get them out of the beach paddock and up to the sheds. We got crutching to do.”
It was plainly an invitation to take their leave. “Well. I suppose we’d best get going.”
“I’ll get you a box for the spuds. How are you fer carrots and tomatoes?”
* * *
Mary Ryan was also treading on eggs. There was no getting around it, being able to get into town, and as much as she hated the very idea, go into the Centerlink Office and ask for some Social Services support, was becoming more important with each passing day. The boy needed clothes, and he…used things. Electricity. Soap. Toothpaste. Cooking oil. For him…she’d take their damned charity, just so long as they didn’t take him away. If they did that, her heart was going to break, this time. She’d avoid having to ask for help to the last.
That was the least of it all, though. It was the girl. When the feller’s daughter had spoken, she’d turned to look at her, and it had been another moment of the sight. Out of the edges of her vision, she’d been able to see the girl was slim and young, awkward as a young colt. But in what she’d seen…a woman, middle-aged, hair graying a little, and…changing the flowers on the grave.
That would have been terrible enough a seeing of the future if she hadn’t recognized the headstone. She felt guilty enough that she couldn’t tend it herself the last few years.
You’d best be nice to the girl who would tend your husband’s grave. She’d never had anything much to do with these modern girls, and this one hadn’t said much.
It was only while Tim was driving her down to the house that it suddenly occurred to her that it was a family lot.
She’d recognized John’s headstone. But that might not be the graveside where the woman had been. Mary would be buried there too. It could be her own.
Or it could be her grandson’s grave. Did she want anyone else to have that heartbreak? And did she have any choice? She saw what she saw. Could she change it? Could she ever have? That, too, was too terrible a thought.
It had taken all her strength to keep calm. The girl’s city-feller father helped, talking about fishing and vegetables. She wouldn’t normally have told a blow-in much—islanders kept their fishing secrets to themselves—but it could be a good thing. And besides, this blow-in was a neighbor, and, for all he knew nothing, he had manners, and seemed to love the place. One got to take it for granted, because that was the way it was. They still saw it with new eyes.
CHAPTER 13
Áed had gotten the fenodree to let the Cu out. Fenn was better with cold iron than he was. He’d ridden the great hound like a horse, clinging to the wild, rough fur, as it bounded through the tussocks. The beast was a better defender than a horse. But he’d felt the need in the land for these things. The old ones understood the hunter…the fenodree had threatened dire retribution if the Cu touched one of the sheep. That had been a matter of some concern to Áed, but the Cu…once the sheep milled, it was no longer a chase, and it lost interest. Áed knew various tricks to mislead the hound at need, if he’d had to.
Ah, but when the hound gave voice, it had brought back the running of the Faerie hunt to Áed. He’d nearly forgotten himself in the glee of it, and the land’s hunter-people with him.
At the house, once the people were inside, they let the Cu out again, brought it water. It seemed to accept the small fae. Some dogs did. Others never could.
“Teach it to herd sheep, and save me some work,” said the fenodree, using his strong, stubby fingers on the dog’s hair, as he sometimes did to the cow, and often to his furry self. The cow liked it and so did the dog, thumping his big tail on the ground.
“It’s a hunting dog. And it’s the dog of the girl.”
“The girl. Hmm. The old ones’ women are out, gathering spirit honey. Means something.”
The fenodree had many years of experience with them, and his kind remember well, even if they do not understand much. They love the tending of the land and livestock. Most Faerie creatures look down on them.
* * *
“How did he get out?” exclaimed her father, as Bunce got up from where he’d been lying next to the Nissan and bounded over to them, his long wire-haired tail flailing in delight at seeing them. “I locked the doors. We’ll have to change his name to Houdini. Well, at least he didn’t run off and chase sheep…I hope. I’ll have to leave him behind if I’m coming here.”
“The little folk let him out,” said Tim’s nan, just like Mum who was always blaming the fairies, when she knew it was Dad. Only the old woman sounded perfectly serious about it. “You bring him anytime.” She paused. “You c’n come fish anytime too.”
Something must have impressed the old dragon. Tim had said she was one, but you had to meet her to really understand it. But Dad was pleased. He said all the right stuff. Molly was still dealing with it all. Tim…he seemed so normal.
This wasn’t.
When they were bumping their way to the gate, her dad said, “Why so silent, Molly?”
“I dunno.”
“Give, girl. I’ll pester you otherwise. Or I’ll set your mum on you,” he said, teasing, but somehow serious.
“Oh, Daddy. It’s just…She’s weird. The house is weird.”
“In what way?” he asked, steering around a pothole.
“Like…I mean…Like there’s no pictures on the walls. But you can see there used to be some. The paint is a different color. Now there’s just those two old photographs on the mantelpiece. And it’s…it’s so bare. I mean, Tim said there was no TV. But I looked in the kitchen. There’s, like, nothing. I think the only electric thing is the light, and an old fridge.”
“Hon, I think she’s pretty poor and had a tough time of it, and she can’t see. Look, you know we battle a bit for cash, but I’d guess they’re much worse off, and I can’t take against someone for that. And those pictures…that’s her wedding photograph, and the man in uniform in the other picture was her husband, at a guess. That’s not a reason to take against someone, either.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But she must have let Buncie out.”
“Oh? Why? I mean, when?”
“I dunno. But there was a bowl with water in it. He didn’t do that himself.”
“So…does this mean you’re not friends with young Tim anymore?” There was an edge to her father’s voice.
She was silent for a bit. She hadn’t really thought about it. It’d been more like backing away. But it was unfair, really. It wasn’t him. “Of course I am. I just didn’t know what he was talking about before. I thought he was just a bit spoiled and wanted to go back to Melbourne.”
“Does he?” asked her father, sounding slightly surprised.
“He said so on the bus a couple of times.”
“Oh, and there I thought he was doing well as a farm boy. He seems pretty good at it,” said her father.
“You should see him fishing.”
“What does he do? Look professional, unlike me?”
“Oh, Daddy…no, he just kinda looks so intense, sort of like a cat staring at a rat-hole. Or Bunce when he’s sure you’re going to throw the ball.”
“Maybe I daydream too much to be a good fisherman, then,” said her father. “But there are more fish here than in Melbourne.”
They continued through the paper-bark thickets and out onto the road. “So…why are they so poor?” Molly asked. “I mean, like, not even a TV.”
“I don’t know, dear. Not my business. Maybe it’s just not a very profitable farm.”
“But I mean, cattle prices are up.”
“I didn’t know you were an expert,” said her father with a chuckle.
“Some of the other kids at school were talking about it. Peter’s dad is buying a new boat.”
“I suppose it could be more complicated. I think how big the farm is, and how much debt it has, count for a lot. Farming has always been pretty tough. A bit like keeping a B&B out at West End.” He sighed. “You know, the truth is there are also other problems sometimes. Debt. Bad investments. Gambling. Alcohol.”
“There were old beer bottles outside the back door, in a crate. I saw when I went into the kitchen.”
* * *
Reptilian eyes stared unblinking out of the dead understory of dry ti-tree leaves. The magical hold Maeve the selkie had on the creature was tenuous and weak. It would rather hunt mice than do her bidding, and it was too stupid to do much. But there were limits on her ability, and this land put more obstacles in her way.
The baby snake had washed down to the sea in a flood, some years ago, and she’d tossed it up on a raft of driftwood and old dry seaweed, bespelled it, and planned to take the creature across to the place where the key lay. Cold-blooded creatures, especially fish, were hers to command. Snakes and other reptiles were harder to manage, but she had some power there, too.
But a savage westerly wind had foiled her plan, bringing up waves and pushing the sea debris back, and the snake had slithered out onto the large island, and not where she wanted it.
She had all but forgotten the useless creature until it came down to the dunes, hunting.
The copperhead was nearly the same length as the selkie was now. Fat, poisonous…and a set of magical eyes for her to watch the boy. When it was not distracted by prey, or lazy with digesting them, that was. She’d seen how the lesser spirits took delight in the great Cu. A defender they thought they had.
Land dog against water dog…in deep water, he would be hers. But he had big, sharp young teeth and a fearlessness about him.
* * *
Tim’s mind was not taken up, much, with the happenings around the dog, and the strangeness of Nan actually inviting people into the house. He had books. New books. And as there wasn’t a lot of other entertainment here, once the farm work was done, that was something to get excited about. Also it was kind of nice to see people. He’d had a call from Jon McKay and there was more work on the boat waiting for him, and a chance to be a deckie again.
