Emily froze, staring at her; then her eyes lost focus, and Alea knew she was looking back into the past, to the parties and socials of her youth, to her beloved Whitman courting her, the births of her children, the years of long work and little rest caring for them, the fear of battle, the agony when she was wounded, the panic when Whitman took a bullet and lay so long near death, the joy at his recovery, the marriages of their children, the births of their grandchildren, then the agony and grief of Whitman’s death, leaving her heart frozen. Not long after, she’d felt completely swamped by her own Mother Cumber’s dying and passing the care of her brood on to Emily, who stood fast though she knew she couldn’t be strong enough, couldn’t be wise enough, but hang it, she had managed, had led wisely, and her children and grandchildren still lived, still prospered, and their love and care had finally thawed the frost around her heart …
Her eyes focused again on Alea’s; she gave a little nod. Yes. It was good.
“Well, then, you’ve nothing to fear from death.” Alea pressed her hand. “If your soul’s born again, it will be to an even better life than this—and if you cross the river and come to the Afterworld, you’ll find it a place of peace and love and plenty.”
Emily Cumber stared at her in disbelief. Could they be true? Could all those children’s tales be true?
“They’re tales for us all, not for children alone.” Alea patted her hand. “Remember Danu; remember Toutatis; remember the one god whom we see in a thousand forms. There’s peace there, and comfort—and Whitman waiting.”
Hope kindled in the old woman’s eyes.
By the door, her daughter watched in amazement.
Alea talked long then, telling her again the tales of her childhood, the myths of gods and goddesses in which she had ceased to believe. Now, though, at the brink of death, the gateway to the undiscovered country, she listened with almost desperate attention, eager for the words of hope that she had forgotten for so many years.
When Alea’s voice grew hoarse, Moira took up where she left off, until finally the old woman gestured her to silence, then beckoned to her daughter and cawed something incomprehensible. Achalla looked to Alea and the healer told her, “She bids you summon all the clan to her bedside now.”
Achalla stared at her mother a moment, then turned and hurried out of the room.
Alea and Moira sat by the old woman, one holding each hand, until her children and grandchildren began to file into the room. As it grew crowded, Alea relinquished Emily’s hand and stepped back into the shadows, Moira with her.
Emily Cumber didn’t speak, only raised her hands in blessing, eyes locking one by one with each of her brood. Then, finally, she beckoned weakly to her eldest daughter. Slowly, Achalla came to her bedside and knelt. Emily laid her hand on Achalla’s head and cawed to her brood in a tone of command. Alea spoke up from the shadows. “She says that Achalla shall be your grandmother now, all of you, and care for you in Emily Cumber’s place.”
Fear shone in Achalla’s eyes, fear of the awesome responsibility, and she clutched at Emily’s hand. “Don’t leave us, Gram! We’re lost without you! I’m lost!”
But Emily only shook her head an inch to each side, smiling with affection, fairly radiating love—and, so loving, her eyes dulled, and she died.
Regan led them out of the woods and gestured at a clearing. “Here’s home.”
Gar and Kerlew stared. The clearing had been widened by axe and saw, more than a hundred yards across; stumps stood all about it. The logs had been stacked to form cabins, chinked with mud and thatched with, brush. They stood in a circle around a broad swath of lawn where goats and sheep grazed. “This is no camp—this a village!” Kerlew blurted.
“A village it is, a hundred fifty men and women, some of them born and grown here, and thirty children—so all that stops us from being a clan is kinship.” Regan turned, her rifle leveled at Gar’s midriff. “But we’re marrying one another, and the children will be kin soon enough. We’re calling ourselves the Weald clan—it’s an old name for a big forest—and we don’t have much use for small bands.”
“Even less for loners.” Jase gave Kerlew a slap that skimmed the top of his head. Kerlew’s head snapped back; he turned to glare at the youth.
“Oh, you’d wish our Jase ill, would you?” said a young woman, and gave Kerlew another slap.
“What are you staring at, big man?” Regan reached up to backhand Gar across the cheek. “You’ll give us your wares now, and no trading about it!”
“Yeah!” said an older man. “You want respect? Here’s the respect a loner gets.” He slammed a kick at Gar’s shin.
Gar sidestepped, but the glancing blow connected enough to hurt. “What are you talking about? The clans honor peddlers! Nobody will hurt them because they need the goods we trade!”
“We’re an outlaw clan,” another middle-aged woman said, striding up to him. “We make our own rules.” She slammed a punch at Gar’s belly.
Gar blocked it without thinking. “What about hospitality? We’re your guests!”
“Guests, aye, but we didn’t say you wouldn’t have to pay for your food and lodging,” Regan sneered.
“Just hand us your pack—that will do for your fee,” a younger woman said, then turned on Kerlew. “Him, though, we’ll use for sport.”
“Which part of him do you want, cousin?” another young woman asked with a grin.
“Off with you!” Kerlew stepped back, but waved them away, too, glaring. “Or I’ll lay a satire on you!”
The whole band burst out laughing.
“Oh yes, let’s hear your satire, my lad,” an older woman wheezed, wiping her eyes. “It must be a good one; you’ve got us laughing before you begin!”
“Oh, I’m so afraid,” Jase sneered, and the others chorused agreement.
“Afraid you should be,” Kerlew said, his face grim, and began to chant,
The girls shouted with anger and pressed in.
Alarmed, Gar started reaching out with his mind for sticks and rifle stocks.
“Aria! Your face is changing!” one of the girls cried.
Arla looked at her and screamed. “Am I like you, Betsy? Oh, I hope not!”
“Why?” Betsy asked in panic. “What do I look like?”
“Your nose is growing into a hook and your jaw into a nut cracker!” Arla cried. “You’ve warts all over!”
Gar stared but could only see the pleasant features each girl had naturally. They, though, were obviously seeing something else.
“Give us back our faces, sorcerer!” a third girl screamed and lifted her rifle.
“Beware!” Gar cried. “He can’t lift the spell if he’s dead!”
“Curse you!” the girl cried, dropping her rifle, and went for Kerlew with her bare hands.
Kerlew was stunned but had enough presence of mind to duck and dodge, finding breath to cry,