"Never mind," said Airic. "I still have the orb of Ekkert. Unlimited power is mine to command."
He searched about among his pouches, his expression growing strained. Tentatively he peered into one, then upended it with an impatient shake. The lone bead from Isolf s girdle dropped out and bounced into a nearby plate, where it lodged in a spot of congealed fat. Without speaking, Isolf fished it out, wiped it out, and quickly stitched it back into its place in the design on her belt.
"Power is never what it appears," said Skrymir.
Airic slumped into a chair. "Nothing! I've gotten nothing, after all I've been through! All the years I labored-" Suddenly a cunning smile overspread his features. "But at least I have the honey mead. I have beaten you, jotun. Your knowledge is mine."
"Yes, I've been fairly bested," said Skrymir, reaching for an old ragged cloak hanging on a peg. "All I have is now yours, Airic. Mankind will no longer be troubled by jotuns meddling in their affairs." Taking a walking staff from the corner, he turned toward the door with a farewell wave to Isolf and a gentle smile of weary peace. He truly looked much smaller in stature now, a withered little hobgoblin of a creature.
"Yes! Go! I already foresee-I foresee-" Airic shut his eyes and stretched out his hand in a compelling gesture.
"What do you foresee?" asked Isolf.
His eyes snapped open. "I foresee nothing! He's given me hindsight in the mead instead of foresight! The true gift was in the milk! Stop him before he's gone! Come back, jotun! You tricked me!"
"You tricked yourself, you arrogant fool!" Isolf said, turning to look for Skrymir, but the stooped, ragged figure had vanished, with a chuckle still echoing in the earthen halls.
Mocking the chuckle, a contented purring sound rose to Isolf s ears. Kettir and kettlingur were beneath the table, avidly lapping up the milk and the jotun's last gift of knowledge along with it. More kettir came scampering in from the hall and the scullery, guided by the unfailing kettir instinct for knowing when their fellows have fallen upon favorable circumstances involving food.
"Kettir!" gasped Airic. "Those horrid little beasts will have the last of the jotun knowledge!"
Their clever little tongues cleaned out every crevice and polished the floor to a glossy sheen. Fantur had his head inside the cup, lapping noisily. With a despairing wail, Airic lunged for the cup. Fantur leaped away as if scalded, slinging the cup over the stones toward Isolf. The kettir scattered before Airic, tangling among his legs. Isolf seized the disdained cup and drained out the last drops of milk, making scarcely a swallow.
"No! That's mine! It's wasted upon you!" roared Airic, snatching the cup from her hands. It popped from his grasp as if it were greased, and shattered on the flagstones. Airic frozen, clenching his fists. For a moment Isolf feared he would kill her, but Airic sank into a chair and buried his face with a groan of defeat. The kettir assembled upon the hearthstone, bathing themselves and each other after their milky feast. Chancing to open his eyes and glimpse them, he groaned afresh, with deeper misery.
"Don't despair so," said Isolf. "Surely you've learned something from your travails."
"Nothing except the pain of hindsight. Nothing a man can do is worth anything worthwhile at all," said Airic bitterly. "The moment he thinks he's got wealth or influence or power, he takes a look at it and realizes it's nothing but trash and illusion. My life is nearly over, wasted and foolishly spent on trivialities. I'm old and I've been a fool. There's nothing left for me but to die. I never dreamed he would put the knowledge into something as common and simple as milk, when he's so famous for his honey mead."
"Skrymir offered you his most priceless secrets, and you refused to take them," said Isolf. "Now all of them have gone down the throats of the kettir. At least someone will possess some of the gift. And better womankind and kettir than your sort."
"But what knowledge has the jotun given you and those wretched beasts?" Airic demanded. "Do you feel different, now you've got some of the jotun's knowledge? Can you see the future? Things far off? Do you hear voices?"
Aide's questions went unanswered. Isolf packed up her few possessions and a large basket of young kettlingur. The adult kettir followed her down from the mountain to the settlements, where they very promptly ensconced themselves in nearly every home and byre and fishing shack. No woman walked without a kettir at her heels, and no hearth was long vacant of its kettir protectors.
Travelers from far places carried away many of the attractive and affectionate little beasts without seriously reducing their thriving population. Strangely enough, no matter how far they were carried away, a few kettir with amazing skills of navigation managed to find their way home again, and some of them several times, and even over water to get there. Isolf read the jotun's gift in their eyes and smiled in her quiet way when people marveled.
For many years she went about her business of healing the bodies and woes of mankind, as befit her status as village wisewoman. Cats and cradles always sat upon her hearth, and her daughters grew up as wise and clever as Isolf at seeing beyond the things directly before their eyes. Her sons were fey warriors, knowing when to go to battle and when to stay home with their women and kettir.
Isolf never saw Skrymir again, though she and her favorite kettir often walked the mountain trails looking for a ragged old wanderer with a walking staff. Many times she felt that he was close, giving her warnings and intuitions that saved her and her clan much grief. In times of serious trial she thanked him silently for the small swallow of jotun knowledge he had afforded her. The kettir, with their large alert ears seemed to hear Skrymir's voice far better, and their gleaming eyes that penetrated the dark seemed to see him lurking and watching. What else those green and golden orbs perceived was denied to human eyes.
Kettir cleared the barns and cheered the hearts of many lonely people and imparted their secret knowledge to those who had the skill to hear them. Kettir in the future would be both revered as gods and hated as devils, hunted and destroyed as such by ignorant and devilish humankind. Both a blessing and a cursing had been given to mankind, and all because of a lonely mortal maid and a cup of spilled milk.
Papercut Luck by Patricia B. Cirone
Ling Mei crouched so close to the brazier that the rising steam caressed her face. She poked at a bamboo shoot, moving it around, then prodded the chopped cabbage. Her heart was not in her task; even the gentle swaying of the boat failed to soothe her.
The side of the junk scraped against the Guo's, moored next to it. Grandmother Guo peered over. "Why are you cooking all that food, child?" she called harshly. "No sense in it. Your family is gone. They won't be eating supper here, not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever again."
Ling Mei set her chin stubbornly and continued to cook the dinner. "They will be back, honorable grandmother."
"Hunh. What the soldiers take away, they don't bring back." The old woman hunched her shoulders and returned to tending her own family.
Ling Mei looked longingly at the bustle in the other junk: the babies playing, the children helping their grandmother to cook, the parents, aunts, and uncles cleaning the day's catch and mending a patch on the sail. She compared it with the desolate quiet of her own junk. A tear trickled out of the corner of her eye.
Ling Mei stopped poking at the now limp vegetables and emptied them over the rice she had already prepared. She ate and ate and ate until she felt sick. It had been stupid to cook so much-enough for a whole family-but she had hoped cooking as though she expected her family would somehow bring them.