“Everywhere, hasn’t it?” She shot a merry grin over her shoulder, stroked her cord once more, and danced out to the kitchen.
Nattie leaned over and picked up the new cord from the bench, running it thoughtfully through her fingers.
“I didn’t know she was going to do that,” Dag apologized weakly.
“You never do, with her,” Nattie said. “She’ll be keeping you alert, I expect, patroller. Maybe more than you bargained for. Funny thing is, you think you know what you’re doing.”
“I used to.” He sighed. “Though that may have been because I was only doing the same things over and over.”
Spark returned from the kitchen, towing her mother to see their finished work.
Dag trusted Fawn wouldn’t mention the last wrinkle about the blood. Tril and Nattie handed the cords back and forth; Tril gave one a tug, nodding thoughtfully at its strength. She squared her shoulders and dug in her apron pocket.
“Nattie, do you remember that necklace Mama had with the six real gold beads, one for every child, that broke that time the cart went over in the snow, and she never found all the bits and never had it fixed?”
“Oh, yes,” said her sister.
“The piece came to me, and I never did anything with it either. It’s been in the back of a drawer for years and years. I thought you might could use the beads to finish off the end knots of these cords of Fawn’s.”
Fawn, excited, looked into her mother’s palm and picked up one of the four oblong gold beads, peering through the hole. “Nattie, can we? Dag, would it work all right?”
“I think it would be a fine gift,” Dag said, taking one that Fawn pressed upon him to examine. Actually, he wasn’t altogether certain it wasn’t a prayer. He glanced at Tril, who gave him a short, nearly expressionless nod. “Very beautiful. They would look really good against that dark braid and make the ends hang better, too. I’d be honored to accept.”
Beads and cords were put into Nattie’s clever hands, and she made short work of affixing the old gold to the ends, trimming the last bit of cord below the anchoring knots into neat fringes. When she finished, the two lengths—one a little darker, one with a coppery glint—lay glimmering in her lap like live things. Which they were, in a sense.
“That’ll look well, when Fawn goes up to your country,” said Tril. “They’ll know we’re… we’re respectable folks. Don’t you think, patroller?”
“Yes,” he said, hearing the plea in her voice and hoping he didn’t lie.
“Good.” She nodded again. Nattie took charge of the cords, putting them away until the day after tomorrow when she undertook to bind them about the unlikely pair. Tangled and blessed, the cords would complete the ground link, if both hearts willed it, sign and signifier of a valid union that any Lakewalker with groundsense must witness.
Faithfully made. Dag was certain he would remember this hour of making as long as he lived, as long as he wore the cord curled around his arm, and how Spark had poured her heart’s blood so furiously into it. And if her true heart stops, I’ll know.
Chapter 18
One day was Dag’s first thought upon awakening the next morning.
He’d expected this wedding-eve day to be one of quiet preparation for the small family ceremony, with perhaps time to meditate with proper seriousness on the step he was about to take—also to calm the tiny voice screeching in the back of his mind, What are you doing? How did you end up here? This wasn’t in your plans! Do you have any idea what’s going to happen when you get home? To the last question a simple No seemed to Dag a sufficient answer. More complicated questions, such as, How are you going to protect Spark when you can’t even protect yourself? or What about half-blood children? he tried to ignore, although the last thought led directly to, Would they be sawed-off and fiery?
and kept on going from there.
But after breakfast there descended upon the Bluefield farm not the one or two neighbor girlfriends of Fawn’s he’d been led dimly to expect, but two girlfriends, five of their sisters, four sisters-in-law, a few mutual cousins, and an indeterminate number of mothers and grandmothers. They were like a plague of locusts in reverse, bringing quantities of food with hands that produced and put in order instead of consuming and laying waste. They talked, they laughed, they sang, they—or at least the younger ones—giggled, and they filled the house to bursting. The male Bluefields promptly fled to the far corners of the farm.
Dag, fascinated, lingered. For a time.
Being introduced to the young women wasn’t too bad, even though he mainly garnered either intimidated silences or nervous titters in return. The bolder ones, however, observing Fawn’s aid to him, wanted to try their hands at it too, and he was shortly ducking being fed and watered like some strange new pet.
Fattened for the slaughter, he tried not to think. An even more giggly troop, albeit led by a sterner matron, along with Fawn, who refused to explain anything, cornered him with strings and proceeded to measure various parts of his body—happily for his shredding equanimity, not that one—and floated away again in gales of laughter. Nattie’s weaving room, ordinarily a quiet refuge, was jammed, and the kitchen was not only crowded but intolerably overheated from the busy hearth. By noon, Dag followed the men into self-imposed exile, although he lurked close enough to listen to the singing floating out through the open windows. With all the males gone, some of the songs grew unsurprisingly rowdy; this was to be a wedding party, after all. He was glad Fawn was not to be deprived of these flourishes due to her strange choice of partner.
The female help left before supper, although with plans to return again in the morning for the final push, but it wasn’t till afterward that Dag found his thinking time. He settled by himself on the front porch, dangling his legs over the edge and watching the quiet river valley turn from gold-green to muted gray as the sun set. In the eaves of the old barn, the soft, tawny mourning doves called in their soft, tawny voices. It was Dag’s favorite view on the whole farm, and he thought whoever had originally sited this house must have shared the pleasure. He felt strangely unanchored, all his old certainties falling behind, and no new ones to replace them. Except for Spark. And she made an unlikely fixed point in his spinning world, because she moved so fast he feared he’d miss her if he blinked.
He caught sight of Rush walking down the lane in the gathering shadows. After the bowl episode, the twins had stopped aiming barbs at him, but only because they now avoided talking to him at all. If he couldn’t make friends, perhaps intimidation would do instead? Whit by contrast had become rather fascinated with Dag, following him about as though afraid he’d miss another magic show.
Dag tried treating him as a particularly feckless young patroller, which seemed to work. If only his arm hadn’t been broken he might have offered to teach Whit archery, which would have made a good way to move them along amiably. As it was, his idle comment about it made Whit say, showing willing to a degree that surprised him, “When you come back, maybe?”
Which made him wonder: were they ever coming back? Half of Dag’s original intent for the marriage proposal had been to repair Fawn’s bridges here in case of some dire need—in case of his death, bluntly. A Lakewalker would be trying to join his bride’s family, to fit in as a new tent-brother; and the family in turn would expect to receive him as one. Farmer kin took in new sisters, not new brothers, and they weren’t trained up to the reverse. It had taken Dag some time to realize that the only members of the family he really needed to please in order to carry off Fawn were the elders, and they had quite expected her to be carried off sometime by someone in any case. Dag was a stretch of custom, but not a reversal. The questions this begged for Dag’s own homecoming niggled hard, the more so since Fawn could not anticipate most of them.