The Bear and His Daughter, page 13
part #2 of Tales from the Canon of Tarn Series
That’d be good.
Either way, they were counting on her—again.
The sun came out suddenly and the snow went from grey to that crazy, unbearable white.
Liz closed her eyes and used the flask to reflect the sun up into her face, the radiance warm and red against the inside of her eyelids, taking her to another place, a place that was warm and safe—and then it too was gone.
She opened her eyes.
She was still standing on the path, of course. She hadn’t moved. She looked at the flask.
Could she say that she’d lost it in the snow? And then what? He’d just drink from the wooden barrel behind the house and it would be worse.
Did anyone else out there know what it was like to feel like this? To be scared out of your wits by the person who was supposed to protect you? The hate and the love and the fear and the respect, and above all, the endless need for their approval and acknowledgment that you don’t really want—but that you need—all at the same moment?
Liz realized that she was starting to understand the trap that Mother had fallen into. And then, for some reason, she thought of all that fur stretching down in the shed. All those empty eyes, slitted in the dark. A snow marten stepping on an iron spring plate. SNAP! “A trap kills two ways,” Father would say. “Two ways only: fast or slow.” That’s why they set their traps like they did, why they took such good care of the gear. A fast kill was always better, for lots of reasons. And it usually was fast. Fast and painless and true. It was the slow trap, the one that malfunctioned, the one that you knew, the one that you saw and understood and fought against, the one you had to maim yourself to escape—that was the horror.
Liz looked down the path. The winter crow cawed.
“Bad luck,” she whispered to the silver flask.
At that same moment, a single snowflake landed in the flask’s center and stuck there. She looked at the snowflake for a moment, then lifted the flask to her mouth and breathed on it, the heat of her breath vanishing the flake immediately, its unique, crystalline patterns melting against the shining silver—but what’s that?
It was an engraved design.
There, in the steam of her breath—and gone.
She breathed on the flask again and tilted it slightly to the light.
She looked at it.
Unmistakable.
The engraved design had been rubbed and buffed away to almost nothing. Worn by use and polish and the habit of years, nothing more than the faintest edges left, the barest trace, smooth to the touch, the shape of the inscribed mark invisible unless you caught the light and the angle just right. As she had, just now.
The Dallanar Sun.
Acasius’s Star.
The symbol of the Tarn.
It was inscribed on Father’s flask.
And, for some reason, it made all the sense in the world.
35
Liz opened the door to the skinning shed. Father looked up, his forehead glimmering with sweat. His teeth were clenched, hot breath steaming in the cold. The dead faces of the fur stared at her, countless eye slits creased in silent smiles. The wrapped body of the dead ranger lay flat atop the far workbench, a tight bundle of fur and leather, another mute witness.
In her absence, Father had cut his pants leg up the side seam with his bone-handled knife. His right leg was propped up on a stool. He was icing his bare knee with a handful of snow. He’d pulled another workbench up beside him and set an empty clay cup on it. Wet boot prints marked the plank floor, little clods of snow spattered and melting beneath his stretched-out leg.
And his knee . . . .
His knee looked horrible: a mottled and purple mess, puffy and veiny, almost black in certain places, a deep cleft of scar tissue running a raw and puckered curl above the kneecap. It stank, too. That was at least part of the feverish smell. Liz didn’t see how Father’s pants leg could fit over the swollen mass.
She made to speak, but then swallowed. It was hard not to look at his knee—she’d never seen it exposed like this. She’d never seen anything like it.
Father winced and grunted, noticing her gaze. “Pretty nice, eh Lizzy? Some sight?”
“Yes, Father.” Liz nodded. Her hands were cold.
And then she realized what she had to do.
“Give it here.” Father motioned with his free hand. “Give it. Or pour it in there.” He cocked his head at the clay cup on the workbench beside him, wiped at his mouth.
Liz stepped into the shed, but she didn’t get closer to him, and she didn’t hand him the flask. There was no way he could reach her, not with his knee like that.
Instead, she looked him in the eye.
“I know you’re not who you say.” She raised the flask in front of her deliberately, her gaze steady. “I know you’re someone else.”
He looked at her for a long moment, sighed, and closed his eyes.
“This is who you are,” she continued, lifting the flask. “You’re my Father—but this is who you are. Who you really are. I know you’re not—.”
His eyes still shut, Father held up his hand and Liz stopped. The snow in his hand dripped on the floor. The horrible smell was everywhere. He sat like that for a few moments. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, bright with pain and need.
“You’re right, Lizzy.” He nodded and cleared his throat. The words surprised her. “I didn’t know how much I missed it, how much I needed it, until now. That’s my fault. Mine alone. But the things that’ll come in the next days—they’ll change everything. You don’t understand now, Lizzy, but you will—.”
“I don’t believe you!” she spat suddenly, all restraint gone, her face going hot.
She wasn’t crying, but she was so sad and scared and angry, head spinning, her cheeks flushed, and everything was trying to come out at once.
“I don’t believe you! How can you do this to us? How—?” She was shaking. “We just want you to—to take care of us! How it was before!”
She choked and coughed a little and cleared her throat. And then she looked him in the eye, her chin up, barely knowing what she was saying but knowing that it was now or never. “I don’t know what they did to you, or how this happened.” She gestured at his knee and lifted the flask, waving it at him. “But this isn’t right, Dad! You’re hurting us! It’s worse and worse! I won’t let you do it!”
And then—without really thinking—she pulled her hunting knife from its sheath and got ready. For what? She didn’t really know. But she had to do something.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered. The knife shook in her hand. “I’m not.”
He looked at her, his eyes softening.
“I know, Liz,” he said gently. “I know.”
“I won’t let you do this. I have to stop it.”
“Yes.” He nodded, something tender and resigned and terrible coming into his face, their eyes locked together, seeing into each other. “I’ve been where you are now,” he said. “Exactly where you are. I know how you feel. But—.”
She shook her head, lifted her chin. “If you do something to Teagan or Evan—anything again—I’ll take them away. If you touch them again—at all, one thing—I’ll take them from you. We’ll run.” She pointed her knife at his ruined knee. “We’ll run away and you won’t be able to catch up. You’ll never find us. Ever. You’ll be here and we’ll be gone. We’ll never come back.”
She had moved closer to him as she said this, unconsciously, not realizing that she was now within his reach.
He snatched her wrist, lightning quick, twisted it, took the knife away from her in one smooth movement, spun her around, and pulled her to his chest, one huge arm around her waist. His skin was hot with fever. She punched at his enormous arm, screaming now, but she might as well have been hitting the side of a mountain. And now she was crying—but not just crying, sobbing with grief and rage and frustration. “You can’t do this! You can’t do this! It keeps getting worse! I won’t let you. I won’t let you! I won’t!” She squirmed, trying to get away, clawing at the flesh on his arm, but her nails were dull and short and his huge arm felt not like flesh but warm iron. And then he was holding her knife out in front of her in his other hand, showing her the well-oiled blade, turning it slightly, as if showing it to the ranger’s corpse, to all the dead animals watching with their slitted eye holes.
“Put the flask on the bench, Lizzy,” Father said.
His voice was absolutely calm, his command irresistible. She moaned, went limp, and set the flask down flat on the bench. The light from the door caught the silver just right, and she saw the traces of the six-pointed star. And she hated it. And then she spat at it—but she had no spit. She could feel Father’s chin on the top of her head, heavy and coarse. She could feel his hot breath in her hair. That horrible, strange smell.
“Do what you want to me,” she said softly, vacantly, staring at the open door. “Do what you want. But if you hurt Teagan again, or Evan . . . .” She swallowed. “I’ll take them. When you’re sleeping. We’ll run. Mother will come with us. She already wants to.”
He squeezed her hard and she suddenly realized that he was shuddering. Shaking. His whole huge body shaking, a strange, thick noise coming from his throat. He held her tight to his chest and then, in a single, swift movement, he reversed his grip on her knife and drove it straight down into the flask, the blade punching through silver and wood, clear fluid hiss bursting, burying the blade hilt deep in the dead center of the symbol of the Tarn. He squeezed her again, then cleared his throat.
“I want you to go on up home now, Lizzy,” Father whispered over her head. She could feel his deep voice through her whole body. “I’ll stay down here tonight. I’ll get the little stove going here. Have your mother bring me some of that stew. I’ll be down here. Need to be clear for what’s coming. Totally clear. No choice now. We’re dead otherwise. Should’ve done it before—but I didn’t . . . . I wasn’t—.” He shook his head, his beard rasping the top of her head. “You go on. You’re fine. You just go on now.”
Then he let her go and gently pushed her toward the door. She stumbled a little and opened the door and walked back up to the cabin and did what he’d told her to do.
36
Father stayed down in the skinning shed the rest of the day, all that night, and for the rest of the next three days. Mother had gone down there when Liz had come back up; she’d spoken with Father for some time and then they’d set up a schedule for his meals and what Mother called his “treatment.” Mother would go down to the shed three times a day with food, clean linen, and plenty of tea. Evan and Liz would bring wood for the little iron stove. Mother had sent Teagan to old man Jarlund with a note and Teagan had returned with a sack filled with three jars of various sizes, each packed with dried herbs of some sort. Liz had asked Mother about the herbs and Jarlund’s note, but received only the vague answer that they’d help Father’s leg. (All of Liz’s other questions had received similar short replies—factual, but no more.) That night, up in the loft, Liz told her brothers about what had happened in the skinning shed. They stared at her with open disbelief until she showed them her empty sheath.
“Left my knife where he stuck it through his flask,” she said. “Mother hasn’t brought it back, not sure she knows. Didn’t want to mention it.”
Tucked in between them all, little Narmos listened to her with great interest as he sucked his paws, something calm and wise in his huge grey eyes.
37
In the early evening of the third night, Father came back up to the house and sat them down around the kitchen table. They all took some tea and Mother set two lamps on the table top.
Father looked different, indeed. He was still using his walking stick, but he didn’t wince with each step. He looked gaunt, kind of hollowed out, but his eyes were clear. He was wearing clean clothes, and he’d shaved. Mother had given him a haircut, too. Liz looked at him skeptically when she sat down. He returned her gaze, his look calm and lucid.
He really does look different, Liz thought.
And so what? Was a haircut supposed to erase everything? She’d believe it after ten full years of proper behavior. She looked away from him. The hounds were in their kennel and Narmos and Soldier were lying beside the fire, the little bear cub sprawled over the big mastiff’s back, both of them snoring away to beat all.
“I’m going down to Korfort tomorrow morning,” Father said, cupping his tea in his massive hands. “I’ll be taking Evan, Soldier, and the sled with me. The plan is to hire a sleigh in the village, but if we can’t do that, it’ll be a good four weeks for us to get down and back—unless we can hire a sleigh down there for the return. Liz, Teagan, you two will tend the trap lines and bring the catch straight to Jarlund. We’ve made arrangements with him to clean it and bring it to the village when it’s ready. That should free up enough time for you two to keep the lines open without worrying about stretching. That clear?”
“Yes, Father,” Liz said, a little impatiently, waiting for the rest of it.
“Yes, sir,” Evan said.
Teagan nodded, staring at the table top.
Father looked at them earnestly. “The most important thing, however, is this: You’re not to mention anything that’s happened up here. Just like we said before. Not to anyone. Not a whisper. No dead bears. No dead rangers. Nothing. Just a regular winter, trapping on the mountain. That’s it. And you’re not to go down to the village, for any reason.”
Father looked at Teagan, his eyes kind. “Teagan, you must not speak a word of this to anyone. Not Barnabus’s boys. Not Fonhammer’s kids. Nobody. Someone comes by, you’re not to say anything. Do you understand, son?”
In spite of himself, Teagan looked up at these words and nodded. “Yes, Father.”
“Good.” Father sipped his tea. “Lizzy, in addition to your other tasks, you’ll keep working on Narmos’s leg. It’s straightening out nicely and the new food is helping, but I want us to finish strong. Keep tightening that binding, keep him from chewing on it, and we should be able to take it off a week or so after I get back. Alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Liz said with a frown.
That’s it?
What was this?
There had to be more.
“Very well,” Father said, and made to scoot his chair back.
“May I ask a question, sir?” Liz asked.
“No,” Mother said simply. Her gaze was direct. “You may not. There’s plenty of work to do. We’ll talk about all this after Father returns.”
“You promised,” Liz said bluntly.
“We need to wait,” Mother said. “To be sure.”
“And meanwhile,” Liz said brashly, her impatience making her bold, “a dead ranger lies strapped to a board down in the shed? Just another part of the grand, mysterious ‘plan’? A ranger that you both know, and we don’t get to understand what’s going on—.”
“Lizzy,” Father interrupted her, his tone stopping her cold. But it wasn’t like before, not the scary tone of an angry drunk. It was something else. “We don’t know what’s happening yet. That’s the truth. Do your chores and carry on, and when I get back, after I have a better picture, I’ll tell you everything we know and explain what we think happened. You have my word.” His eyes were plain, serious, and absolutely commanding. It was as if all the authority of his huge size had somehow crystallized behind his gaze and voice—as if he was accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed to the letter. And not just commands to his children, but also to . . . to . . . .
To what? To whom?
“You have my word, Liz,” he repeated.
And for the first time in a long while, Liz actually believed him. She nodded, grudging affirmation, and pushed her braid over her shoulder. A slight smile touched his lips. He scraped his chair back from the table. They all did the same.
“Oh yeah,” Father said, as if he’d just remembered something. He pulled Liz’s knife from behind his back, flipped it in the air, caught it deftly by the point, and held it across the table, the antler handle extended toward her. One of Mother’s eyebrows went up. The blade’s oiled edge gleamed wickedly in the lamplight. “Sharpened it for you.”
38
Early the next morning, Father, Evan, and Soldier packed up and left.
And then the waiting began.
And it was a little bit like torture, Liz realized.
All the crazy waiting. This stupid, silly, endless waiting for days on end with Mother unwilling to say a word about anything. Liz knew that she was right about Father and the Tarn. The flask had proved it. (At least she thought that it had.) But that was just a general connection. The specifics, the details—that’s what she wanted to know about. And what does Mother gain by not telling me? What was she hiding? And why was she hiding it? It was enough to drive a person crazy . . . .
So when Liz wasn’t working the trap lines, doing her chores, or taking care of Narmos—who was getting bigger and smarter by the day—she was talking with Teagan about everything that had happened over the last week, compiling all the information. Teagan was more than happy to oblige. And Tee looked different, too. Not all hunched over and scared. Somehow, his instincts were telling him that he didn’t have to be as frightened. Or that he didn’t have to be scared in the same way, at least. He’d stopped rubbing his scar almost entirely and he seemed more articulate, especially when they talked about Narmos. He actually seemed . . . well, he actually seemed happy. Liz realized that it had been a long time since she’d seen him like that.
“He’s gonna be a war bear, Tee,” Liz said one night as they played with the cub by the fire. Narmos looked up at her words, stood up on his back legs, and attacked her hand as if to emphasize the point she was making, then dropped and rolled around with his funny little growl, rump pointed at the ceiling, keeping his eyes on her all the while.
Either way, they were counting on her—again.
The sun came out suddenly and the snow went from grey to that crazy, unbearable white.
Liz closed her eyes and used the flask to reflect the sun up into her face, the radiance warm and red against the inside of her eyelids, taking her to another place, a place that was warm and safe—and then it too was gone.
She opened her eyes.
She was still standing on the path, of course. She hadn’t moved. She looked at the flask.
Could she say that she’d lost it in the snow? And then what? He’d just drink from the wooden barrel behind the house and it would be worse.
Did anyone else out there know what it was like to feel like this? To be scared out of your wits by the person who was supposed to protect you? The hate and the love and the fear and the respect, and above all, the endless need for their approval and acknowledgment that you don’t really want—but that you need—all at the same moment?
Liz realized that she was starting to understand the trap that Mother had fallen into. And then, for some reason, she thought of all that fur stretching down in the shed. All those empty eyes, slitted in the dark. A snow marten stepping on an iron spring plate. SNAP! “A trap kills two ways,” Father would say. “Two ways only: fast or slow.” That’s why they set their traps like they did, why they took such good care of the gear. A fast kill was always better, for lots of reasons. And it usually was fast. Fast and painless and true. It was the slow trap, the one that malfunctioned, the one that you knew, the one that you saw and understood and fought against, the one you had to maim yourself to escape—that was the horror.
Liz looked down the path. The winter crow cawed.
“Bad luck,” she whispered to the silver flask.
At that same moment, a single snowflake landed in the flask’s center and stuck there. She looked at the snowflake for a moment, then lifted the flask to her mouth and breathed on it, the heat of her breath vanishing the flake immediately, its unique, crystalline patterns melting against the shining silver—but what’s that?
It was an engraved design.
There, in the steam of her breath—and gone.
She breathed on the flask again and tilted it slightly to the light.
She looked at it.
Unmistakable.
The engraved design had been rubbed and buffed away to almost nothing. Worn by use and polish and the habit of years, nothing more than the faintest edges left, the barest trace, smooth to the touch, the shape of the inscribed mark invisible unless you caught the light and the angle just right. As she had, just now.
The Dallanar Sun.
Acasius’s Star.
The symbol of the Tarn.
It was inscribed on Father’s flask.
And, for some reason, it made all the sense in the world.
35
Liz opened the door to the skinning shed. Father looked up, his forehead glimmering with sweat. His teeth were clenched, hot breath steaming in the cold. The dead faces of the fur stared at her, countless eye slits creased in silent smiles. The wrapped body of the dead ranger lay flat atop the far workbench, a tight bundle of fur and leather, another mute witness.
In her absence, Father had cut his pants leg up the side seam with his bone-handled knife. His right leg was propped up on a stool. He was icing his bare knee with a handful of snow. He’d pulled another workbench up beside him and set an empty clay cup on it. Wet boot prints marked the plank floor, little clods of snow spattered and melting beneath his stretched-out leg.
And his knee . . . .
His knee looked horrible: a mottled and purple mess, puffy and veiny, almost black in certain places, a deep cleft of scar tissue running a raw and puckered curl above the kneecap. It stank, too. That was at least part of the feverish smell. Liz didn’t see how Father’s pants leg could fit over the swollen mass.
She made to speak, but then swallowed. It was hard not to look at his knee—she’d never seen it exposed like this. She’d never seen anything like it.
Father winced and grunted, noticing her gaze. “Pretty nice, eh Lizzy? Some sight?”
“Yes, Father.” Liz nodded. Her hands were cold.
And then she realized what she had to do.
“Give it here.” Father motioned with his free hand. “Give it. Or pour it in there.” He cocked his head at the clay cup on the workbench beside him, wiped at his mouth.
Liz stepped into the shed, but she didn’t get closer to him, and she didn’t hand him the flask. There was no way he could reach her, not with his knee like that.
Instead, she looked him in the eye.
“I know you’re not who you say.” She raised the flask in front of her deliberately, her gaze steady. “I know you’re someone else.”
He looked at her for a long moment, sighed, and closed his eyes.
“This is who you are,” she continued, lifting the flask. “You’re my Father—but this is who you are. Who you really are. I know you’re not—.”
His eyes still shut, Father held up his hand and Liz stopped. The snow in his hand dripped on the floor. The horrible smell was everywhere. He sat like that for a few moments. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, bright with pain and need.
“You’re right, Lizzy.” He nodded and cleared his throat. The words surprised her. “I didn’t know how much I missed it, how much I needed it, until now. That’s my fault. Mine alone. But the things that’ll come in the next days—they’ll change everything. You don’t understand now, Lizzy, but you will—.”
“I don’t believe you!” she spat suddenly, all restraint gone, her face going hot.
She wasn’t crying, but she was so sad and scared and angry, head spinning, her cheeks flushed, and everything was trying to come out at once.
“I don’t believe you! How can you do this to us? How—?” She was shaking. “We just want you to—to take care of us! How it was before!”
She choked and coughed a little and cleared her throat. And then she looked him in the eye, her chin up, barely knowing what she was saying but knowing that it was now or never. “I don’t know what they did to you, or how this happened.” She gestured at his knee and lifted the flask, waving it at him. “But this isn’t right, Dad! You’re hurting us! It’s worse and worse! I won’t let you do it!”
And then—without really thinking—she pulled her hunting knife from its sheath and got ready. For what? She didn’t really know. But she had to do something.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered. The knife shook in her hand. “I’m not.”
He looked at her, his eyes softening.
“I know, Liz,” he said gently. “I know.”
“I won’t let you do this. I have to stop it.”
“Yes.” He nodded, something tender and resigned and terrible coming into his face, their eyes locked together, seeing into each other. “I’ve been where you are now,” he said. “Exactly where you are. I know how you feel. But—.”
She shook her head, lifted her chin. “If you do something to Teagan or Evan—anything again—I’ll take them away. If you touch them again—at all, one thing—I’ll take them from you. We’ll run.” She pointed her knife at his ruined knee. “We’ll run away and you won’t be able to catch up. You’ll never find us. Ever. You’ll be here and we’ll be gone. We’ll never come back.”
She had moved closer to him as she said this, unconsciously, not realizing that she was now within his reach.
He snatched her wrist, lightning quick, twisted it, took the knife away from her in one smooth movement, spun her around, and pulled her to his chest, one huge arm around her waist. His skin was hot with fever. She punched at his enormous arm, screaming now, but she might as well have been hitting the side of a mountain. And now she was crying—but not just crying, sobbing with grief and rage and frustration. “You can’t do this! You can’t do this! It keeps getting worse! I won’t let you. I won’t let you! I won’t!” She squirmed, trying to get away, clawing at the flesh on his arm, but her nails were dull and short and his huge arm felt not like flesh but warm iron. And then he was holding her knife out in front of her in his other hand, showing her the well-oiled blade, turning it slightly, as if showing it to the ranger’s corpse, to all the dead animals watching with their slitted eye holes.
“Put the flask on the bench, Lizzy,” Father said.
His voice was absolutely calm, his command irresistible. She moaned, went limp, and set the flask down flat on the bench. The light from the door caught the silver just right, and she saw the traces of the six-pointed star. And she hated it. And then she spat at it—but she had no spit. She could feel Father’s chin on the top of her head, heavy and coarse. She could feel his hot breath in her hair. That horrible, strange smell.
“Do what you want to me,” she said softly, vacantly, staring at the open door. “Do what you want. But if you hurt Teagan again, or Evan . . . .” She swallowed. “I’ll take them. When you’re sleeping. We’ll run. Mother will come with us. She already wants to.”
He squeezed her hard and she suddenly realized that he was shuddering. Shaking. His whole huge body shaking, a strange, thick noise coming from his throat. He held her tight to his chest and then, in a single, swift movement, he reversed his grip on her knife and drove it straight down into the flask, the blade punching through silver and wood, clear fluid hiss bursting, burying the blade hilt deep in the dead center of the symbol of the Tarn. He squeezed her again, then cleared his throat.
“I want you to go on up home now, Lizzy,” Father whispered over her head. She could feel his deep voice through her whole body. “I’ll stay down here tonight. I’ll get the little stove going here. Have your mother bring me some of that stew. I’ll be down here. Need to be clear for what’s coming. Totally clear. No choice now. We’re dead otherwise. Should’ve done it before—but I didn’t . . . . I wasn’t—.” He shook his head, his beard rasping the top of her head. “You go on. You’re fine. You just go on now.”
Then he let her go and gently pushed her toward the door. She stumbled a little and opened the door and walked back up to the cabin and did what he’d told her to do.
36
Father stayed down in the skinning shed the rest of the day, all that night, and for the rest of the next three days. Mother had gone down there when Liz had come back up; she’d spoken with Father for some time and then they’d set up a schedule for his meals and what Mother called his “treatment.” Mother would go down to the shed three times a day with food, clean linen, and plenty of tea. Evan and Liz would bring wood for the little iron stove. Mother had sent Teagan to old man Jarlund with a note and Teagan had returned with a sack filled with three jars of various sizes, each packed with dried herbs of some sort. Liz had asked Mother about the herbs and Jarlund’s note, but received only the vague answer that they’d help Father’s leg. (All of Liz’s other questions had received similar short replies—factual, but no more.) That night, up in the loft, Liz told her brothers about what had happened in the skinning shed. They stared at her with open disbelief until she showed them her empty sheath.
“Left my knife where he stuck it through his flask,” she said. “Mother hasn’t brought it back, not sure she knows. Didn’t want to mention it.”
Tucked in between them all, little Narmos listened to her with great interest as he sucked his paws, something calm and wise in his huge grey eyes.
37
In the early evening of the third night, Father came back up to the house and sat them down around the kitchen table. They all took some tea and Mother set two lamps on the table top.
Father looked different, indeed. He was still using his walking stick, but he didn’t wince with each step. He looked gaunt, kind of hollowed out, but his eyes were clear. He was wearing clean clothes, and he’d shaved. Mother had given him a haircut, too. Liz looked at him skeptically when she sat down. He returned her gaze, his look calm and lucid.
He really does look different, Liz thought.
And so what? Was a haircut supposed to erase everything? She’d believe it after ten full years of proper behavior. She looked away from him. The hounds were in their kennel and Narmos and Soldier were lying beside the fire, the little bear cub sprawled over the big mastiff’s back, both of them snoring away to beat all.
“I’m going down to Korfort tomorrow morning,” Father said, cupping his tea in his massive hands. “I’ll be taking Evan, Soldier, and the sled with me. The plan is to hire a sleigh in the village, but if we can’t do that, it’ll be a good four weeks for us to get down and back—unless we can hire a sleigh down there for the return. Liz, Teagan, you two will tend the trap lines and bring the catch straight to Jarlund. We’ve made arrangements with him to clean it and bring it to the village when it’s ready. That should free up enough time for you two to keep the lines open without worrying about stretching. That clear?”
“Yes, Father,” Liz said, a little impatiently, waiting for the rest of it.
“Yes, sir,” Evan said.
Teagan nodded, staring at the table top.
Father looked at them earnestly. “The most important thing, however, is this: You’re not to mention anything that’s happened up here. Just like we said before. Not to anyone. Not a whisper. No dead bears. No dead rangers. Nothing. Just a regular winter, trapping on the mountain. That’s it. And you’re not to go down to the village, for any reason.”
Father looked at Teagan, his eyes kind. “Teagan, you must not speak a word of this to anyone. Not Barnabus’s boys. Not Fonhammer’s kids. Nobody. Someone comes by, you’re not to say anything. Do you understand, son?”
In spite of himself, Teagan looked up at these words and nodded. “Yes, Father.”
“Good.” Father sipped his tea. “Lizzy, in addition to your other tasks, you’ll keep working on Narmos’s leg. It’s straightening out nicely and the new food is helping, but I want us to finish strong. Keep tightening that binding, keep him from chewing on it, and we should be able to take it off a week or so after I get back. Alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Liz said with a frown.
That’s it?
What was this?
There had to be more.
“Very well,” Father said, and made to scoot his chair back.
“May I ask a question, sir?” Liz asked.
“No,” Mother said simply. Her gaze was direct. “You may not. There’s plenty of work to do. We’ll talk about all this after Father returns.”
“You promised,” Liz said bluntly.
“We need to wait,” Mother said. “To be sure.”
“And meanwhile,” Liz said brashly, her impatience making her bold, “a dead ranger lies strapped to a board down in the shed? Just another part of the grand, mysterious ‘plan’? A ranger that you both know, and we don’t get to understand what’s going on—.”
“Lizzy,” Father interrupted her, his tone stopping her cold. But it wasn’t like before, not the scary tone of an angry drunk. It was something else. “We don’t know what’s happening yet. That’s the truth. Do your chores and carry on, and when I get back, after I have a better picture, I’ll tell you everything we know and explain what we think happened. You have my word.” His eyes were plain, serious, and absolutely commanding. It was as if all the authority of his huge size had somehow crystallized behind his gaze and voice—as if he was accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed to the letter. And not just commands to his children, but also to . . . to . . . .
To what? To whom?
“You have my word, Liz,” he repeated.
And for the first time in a long while, Liz actually believed him. She nodded, grudging affirmation, and pushed her braid over her shoulder. A slight smile touched his lips. He scraped his chair back from the table. They all did the same.
“Oh yeah,” Father said, as if he’d just remembered something. He pulled Liz’s knife from behind his back, flipped it in the air, caught it deftly by the point, and held it across the table, the antler handle extended toward her. One of Mother’s eyebrows went up. The blade’s oiled edge gleamed wickedly in the lamplight. “Sharpened it for you.”
38
Early the next morning, Father, Evan, and Soldier packed up and left.
And then the waiting began.
And it was a little bit like torture, Liz realized.
All the crazy waiting. This stupid, silly, endless waiting for days on end with Mother unwilling to say a word about anything. Liz knew that she was right about Father and the Tarn. The flask had proved it. (At least she thought that it had.) But that was just a general connection. The specifics, the details—that’s what she wanted to know about. And what does Mother gain by not telling me? What was she hiding? And why was she hiding it? It was enough to drive a person crazy . . . .
So when Liz wasn’t working the trap lines, doing her chores, or taking care of Narmos—who was getting bigger and smarter by the day—she was talking with Teagan about everything that had happened over the last week, compiling all the information. Teagan was more than happy to oblige. And Tee looked different, too. Not all hunched over and scared. Somehow, his instincts were telling him that he didn’t have to be as frightened. Or that he didn’t have to be scared in the same way, at least. He’d stopped rubbing his scar almost entirely and he seemed more articulate, especially when they talked about Narmos. He actually seemed . . . well, he actually seemed happy. Liz realized that it had been a long time since she’d seen him like that.
“He’s gonna be a war bear, Tee,” Liz said one night as they played with the cub by the fire. Narmos looked up at her words, stood up on his back legs, and attacked her hand as if to emphasize the point she was making, then dropped and rolled around with his funny little growl, rump pointed at the ceiling, keeping his eyes on her all the while.
