Wynter's Thief, page 2
So I eat, trying not to gulp the food.
When I have finished, she asks, “When did you last eat, Fox?”
“Not since yesterday’s yesterday,” I say, picking the last crumbs from the front of my shirt. “I have work here for once, but still the food isn’t exactly plentiful.”
“What work are you doing?”
“I empty chamber pots for the innkeeper, and he pays me in stale bread and leftovers from his guests. But for the past two days he forgot to feed me. Or perhaps he considers what he’s given me to be payment in advance. People seldom bother keeping their word to a thief.”
“Is that the only work you do? Emptying chamber pots?”
“If I’m lucky. It’s either that, or nothing. And it’s mostly nothing. The longest I’ve ever worked was in London, emptying barrels from latrines into the city’s cesspits, choking half to death in the stinking fumes. I was free of suspicion there. Even a branded thief is hardly likely to creep off with a bucketful of stolen crap. I worked there one summer long till I got a fever and couldn’t stand. Mostly I’m forced to thieve for food. But it is not my choice, Wynter.”
She sighs deeply. “It is hard to have no choices, no power over your own life.”
“What would you do, Wynter, if you had choices? Would you still divine?”
“Not for water.” She is silent a long while, thinking. Then she says, “There is one gift I have that I would use all alone, if I could. I have used it only once before and was cursed mightily for it, by my father. Yet it is the best, most joyful thing I do.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
Smiling a little, she shakes her head. “Some things are best not spoken of. Truth to tell, Fox, I think I am safer locked away in here. If I was free, I wouldn’t know what I could reveal of myself and what I ought to keep secret. Only my father talks with me, and I believe what he says. I do not think I would be safe in the world.”
“It is a perilous place, to be sure. But now you are talking with me, and any secrets you tell are safe.”
“You do not know all my traits, Fox.”
“Then tell me, so I will know.” Smiling, I settle back on the step, leaning against the wagon side, and wait expectantly for her to speak.
Instead, she looks sad. “I think you should go, Fox.”
“Why? I will not judge you harshly, I swear.”
“I think you should go.” Something in her voice defies argument. She may be small and captive, but I see the strength of steel in her.
I say, standing up, “Then I will take my leave. Thank you for the supper, Wynter. I hope we talk again.”
“We may. Be off, Fox. Quick!”
So I run away between the trees, and when I look back, I see a young man approach the wagon from the direction of the manor. The sight of him startles me; did she sense he was coming, that eldritch maid? He is alone, bearing a plate of food. He takes it to Wynter, and they speak for a moment or two. I wait until he is gone, then wander off and find a twisted old peach tree to climb, where I settle myself between forked branches. It pleases me that I can glimpse, through the rustling leaves, the soft glow of her wagon. Satisfied in belly and mind, I lie back to sleep, safe above the troubles of the world and near to the stars that seem, this extraordinary night, wondrously aligned in my favour.
Perhaps because I have talked of him, I dream of Meredith. Yet it is more than a dream; it is a powerful remembering.
In the dream, I am four or five summers old. On a clear night in midwinter, we are breaking into a merchant’s home to get food. There is a small window-hole at the back of the house, and Meredith lifts me so I can see inside. It is so dim I see only vague shapes, and the glimmer of pottery on shelves; but I smell cheeses, pies, fresh-baked bread and crab apples.
“’Tis the larder,” I whisper down to Meredith. He lifts me so I can grip the window ledge and wriggle onto it. The stones are icy, and I tremble from cold. Pulling myself across the wide ledge, I hang half in, half out, peering through the dark to see what is directly below. Fortune is with me; plump sacks of flour or apples stand there, so I lower myself onto them, and then to the floor.
I work quickly, taking a leather bag tucked into the rope wound several times about my waist, filling it with booty from the shelves. Going mainly by smell in the dark, I take cheeses, small pies and loaves of crusty bread. When the bag is full, I tie it closed with one end of the rope I unwind from around my middle. Standing on the sacks under the window-hole, I throw the other end of the rope out to Meredith. He pulls slowly, and soon the bag is across the ledge and outside.
Standing on the sacks, I wait, my hands under my arms for warmth. Of a sudden, I hear a hound barking somewhere in the house, and a man shouts. I call softly, urgently, to Meredith, and the end of the rope is thrown in across the ledge. I grip it and he pulls me up. In our haste the rough edges of the stones tear my tattered shirt, scrape my bare belly, and I squeal. The dog barks in earnest then, there are more shouts, and I hear footsteps. I fall into Meredith’s arms, and he sets me on my feet, scoops up the booty, grabs my hand, and we run. Down narrow alleys we flee, where the cobbles are slick with ice, along Butcher’s Street, where we skid across frozen offal, and out along Mill Lane towards the edge of town. Dogs bark behind us, and I realise the merchant has raised the hue and cry, and the town’s constable has set his hounds on us.
Terror falls on me, and I can hardly breathe for cold and fear. We come to the towering walls of the mill, ghostly against the stars, and the great shape of the waterwheel rising out of the black waters of the pond. Meredith slithers down the frosty bank into the water. I slide down after him, gasping as the icy waters enfold me, and climb onto his back, my arms about his neck. In one hand I hold the bag of food. Our feast is safe, for the bag, well greased with fat, is waterproof.
Meredith swims with me across the pond. The coldness numbs my arms, and I am terrified I will drop the bag, or let go of him. Behind us, the dogs stop at the water’s edge, snarling and barking. A man joins them, shouting at them to attack, but they stay at the edge, whimpering. I tighten my arms about Meredith’s neck, hear his breaths hoarse and hard and his teeth chattering with cold. Though he swims quietly, the splash and ripple of the water sounds loud in the night air. I hope the constable has not brought his bow, else if he sees us, he will surely shoot.
But we reach the other side without harm, and I slither from Meredith’s back, still holding the bag, my feet in soft mud and weeds. He pulls himself up onto the grass then hauls me out. In the brittle moonlight the ground is covered with frost, but I am numb, beyond feeling.
The dogs are barking again on the far side of the pond. Meredith grips my hand and we make a break for it. The cold has turned my naked feet to blocks of wood and I stumble often, but Meredith pulls me up and drags me on. We run through woods, where shadows lie black across the glimmering ground and bare trees stand stark against the wintry stars. The woods are familiar, our winter home. We come to an embankment on the other side of the trees, far from houses and roads, where a mighty oak leans over, its ancient roots sheltering a small cave. Panting and gasping, we crawl in, scraping our backs on the tangle of bushes across the opening. For long moments we sit still, listening. Outside there is no sound.
“We lost the hounds,” says Meredith. “A good night’s work, little Fox.”
“We have pies,” I stammer, teeth clattering.
Meredith reaches for a blanket we have stored in the back of our cave. He helps me off with my sodden clothes, already crackling with ice, and wraps the blanket around me. I watch as he builds a fire from twigs and the charred remains of our last one, takes the knife he wears on his belt and uses the blade to strike sparks from his flint. Soon we have a small blaze going. Then he removes all his clothes, except his breeches, and spreads them with mine across the thicket in the entrance. The cave fills with smoke, and we cough as the warmth of the flames seeps into our skin. At last we feast on the night’s treasure. But still I shake and shiver, and when we have finished eating, Meredith leans against the wall at the back of the cave, and, still in the blanket, I crawl into his arms for comfort. “Tell me a story,” I say.
“I have been thinking of one, Fox. A tale of heat and blazing sun, of desert sands, and strange beasts with humped backs and feet the size of meat platters.”
“Is it a true story?” I ask, settling more cosily within the circle of his arms, warm at last.
“Aye, true,” he replies. “My own father, a great merchant, sailed to such a land and traded with the strangers there for exotic spices and oils, which he brought back to England and sold for a fortune. The land was called Arabia, and it was ruled by a great king called a sultan, who wore flowing robes of pure white silk and had a hundred stallions more splendid than any animal we will ever see in England.”
“Did he have the humped beasts, too?” I ask.
“Aye, hundreds, but they were worth nothing compared with his stallions. The prized horses lived with him in his magnificent tent in the desert, and slept on carpets as soft as moss, and ate dates and pomegranates and fruits such as we have never seen.”
“What was his tent like?”
“It was huge, stretched across golden poles, and made of crimson and gold silk that billowed in the desert winds, and was guarded by fierce men with great curved swords.”
“Did he have enemies?”
“Aye, other tribes who wanted to steal his horses and water from his well. There was danger everywhere in the desert, and not just from men. There was quicksand, deep pits with sand as slippery as a barrel of eels, which, if you walked on it, sucked you down and you were never seen again. And there were huge storms of wind and sand, that rolled as high as castle towers across the land and engulfed everything caught in them, both men and beasts. All that were overtaken died, as surely as if they drowned in ocean waves.”
I ask, enthralled, “Did anyone ever escape those storms?”
“Ah – one did,” Meredith replies. “There is a tale of one of the sultan’s sons, a brave lad called Rasheed, who was almost caught one day in such a storm. The cloud of sand was so high it blocked out the sun, and it rolled across the desert faster than an arrow flies. But Rasheed rode his stallion before that vast wall of sand, rode swifter than the wind, and the sand never caught him.”
While he speaks he makes gestures in the air, and, against the fire’s radiance, his hand describes the vast sandstorm rolling, and in the smoke I see the dust and feel the mighty wind of it, and hear the pounding of the hooves of Rasheed’s horse.
Meredith continues, “After that, Rasheed’s father held races every year to encourage the young warriors to ride fast, but Rasheed always won. He became famous in the land and married the most beautiful and valiant woman in the world. Her name was Yasmin, and they had twelve sons, all legendary horsemen.”
“Did your father tell you this?”
Meredith is silent a while, for he does not often speak of his father. At last he says, “He told me about Arabia’s markets and trade. A travelling minstrel told me the real tales of the land, about its heroes and their glorious deeds. That minstrel gave me a love of stories. I always wanted to be like him, to travel the length and breadth of England bearing news and telling wondrous tales. But my father wanted me to be a merchant like him. He said storytelling was for women. To toughen me up, he sent me off with the king’s army, to fight in France. I was fourteen summers old. He said battle would make a man of me.”
“And did it make you a man?”
“No, Fox. It did the opposite. It made me less than a man, turned me into a heartless machine, murdering because I was told to, doing things that went against my nature and everything I believe. It would have destroyed my soul if I had not fled the battleground.”
He hesitates, his eyes on the fire, seeing something far beyond. I wait for him to go on.
Sighing heavily, he says, “I ran away from the battle, and as I was leaving I came across an enemy soldier. He was sorely wounded and could not walk. He was a lad just like me, Fox. I helped him, and we left the fighting together, leaning on each other for support. But we were both hurt, confused, and by accident went back towards the edge of the battle. We were discovered by soldiers of my army. They slit the throat of the lad I was helping and said I’d be tried for treason, and hung.”
“What’s treason?” I ask.
“Speaking against the king, or refusing to fight for him. It’s the worst crime you can commit in this land.”
“Worse than thievery?”
“Far worse. But they didn’t hang me; I escaped. I couldn’t go home, because my father would have named me a coward and delivered me back to the army to be hung, drawn and quartered. It’s a long, slow death, the most terrible anyone can suffer. I’m a hunted man, Fox. That’s why I daren’t stay in one place for long, even for work, in case I’m recognised. It’s why I have to thieve for a living and can’t look after you properly. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for it.”
“You do look after me properly,” I say. “My belly is full of pork and apple pie. I’m warm. And I have my own minstrel to tell me tales.”
He chuckles, and in the comfort of his closeness, I doze.
I wake in the fork of the peach tree in the orchard, and for two heartbeats think I am a child again and the branches are Meredith’s arms. Lying very still, I look up between the leaves at the stars. I am put in mind again of Meredith’s last words to me before he died. Often I have thought of them, and this night they come back to me more strongly than ever, doubtless because I have dreamed of him. Be true to your heart, little Fox, he had said, just before they dragged him off to the gallows-tree.
But I am not true to my heart, for I am a thief and wish not to be. I turn my head and look across the shadows to where the wagon is, its canvas cover gleaming under the starlight. The lamp no longer burns within, and I suppose she is asleep, the maid who also wishes not to be what she is forced to be.
My gaze returns to the stars, still brilliant though dawn approaches, and I wonder again if they are, this strange night, aligned in my favour. But common sense says they are not, for nothing in this bitter world is in my favour. No matter what I wish for – whatever my hopes or dreams or desires – they all are blotted out by one irrevocable truth: that I am branded on my face with what I am. A thief, ill-fated and unworthy – and the only certain thing in my life is the tree on which I will surely, in the end, be hanged.
Narrative 2: Wynter
My palms sweat and the divining wand feels slick in my hands. I long to throw it away. I do not need it, but my father says it is a part of what I do, and people expect it. People’s expectations press heavily on me this day, and spoil the work I love. Today they have brought me to the other side of the village, opposite the place where I found water yesterday. The men have given up digging and say I was mistook. So I must try again, yet I know already the rocks beneath my feet are as dry as ancient bones. The knowing disheartens me, and I do not even pray to the saints for their help; I will not waste their time. Instead I put all my will into ignoring the shoving, yabberous crowd all around. I can barely hear the earth for all their noise. I glimpse my father at the edge of the crowd and catch his eye. He lifts his arms and calls out, “Be silent! How can a body think, with all this racket?”
They stop talking then, though I am still intensely aware of the jostling behind me, the shuffling of dozens of feet in the dust. Used to my needs, my father commands folk to stay where they are. Their discordant energies and jabbering thoughts follow me like the jangle of pebbles in a brass bowl, and their impatience and want nip at my heels, distracting me. Alone I walk until I am a stone’s throw ahead of them. Then I stop and close my eyes to listen, all my being tuned to nature. And in the peace I hear it.
It is the song of the unquiet earth, the creak and groan of a thousand times a thousand thirsting stalks of wheat, the hollow rumble of dry rocks far below, the secret rushing of an underground river too deep to be touched. I hear the hot sighing of the wind and the gossip of grasshoppers and field mice in the gigantic stems that are their world. Somewhere across the field a hedgehog dies, and its painful gasps distress me. I open my eyes and am almost blinded by the white-hot waves of air. There is a murky redness in the wind, and little sparks fly up from wheat when the life goes out of it. All the harvest will die if there is no water soon. The smell of death is strong here. It is strong in the people behind me, too. Somewhere a mother holds a babe that is dying, but she does not know it. None of them know anything; they are like unwitting sheep bleating in the heat, knowing only that they thirst. And with all my being I want to help them, but in their fatal blindness they cannot see what I see, cannot know what I know. I turn around and tell them.
“There is no water here,” I say. “It is where I showed you yesterday.”
There is a disturbance in the crowd, and a man approaches, dark with doom. The priest. He comes and stands in front of me, close and overbearing, his heart-colours the muddy blood-black of hate. “You are a deceiver,” he says. “You cannot find water. It is a gift only God can give.”
“He has given it through me, but you will not see it,” I say.
“That is blasphemy.”
“Then test me on it, Father. Take your villagers back to where they were digging yesterday and command them to finish. There is water, but it is deep.”
Long he looks into my eyes, and a coldness goes through me. He is dangerous, this priest. All my being prickles with the warning, and my strongest instinct is to flee; but I stand straight and still, watching his face. If I give way just a hair’s breadth, he will devour me. The air around him wavers stormy green and red, and his closeness sucks away my strength. It is a relief when he turns and roars at the villagers. “Back to your homes, fools! You have believed the devil and will suffer for it. Away! Away!”
