Hite! Lither! Dollorum dello,
The taker's feet are shod in yellow
Wiss! Morah! Dollorum deen,
Her body's shroud in grassy green
Tood! Nimmel! Dollorum du,
The taker's bib is bright and blue
Ruut! Panlo! Dollorum day,
The taker's eyes are dim and gray
She could feel the searchings of Perdoneg over her head like a tangible roof, a hard sky alive with eyes and ears, hunting but too far away. He looked too far, unaware that she flew toward him. Like a chant, in rhythm to the beat of Mothball’s wings in the heavy hot air of midsummer sun, she murmured spells of concealment and hiding. She did not venture near the cities and avoided springs and rivers whenever she could. Her eyes became dull with searching the bright empty sky for dragonfire, and though once she saw black smoke blooming like a bitter flower in the distance, she did not see the dragon with her own eyes. Always he pulled at her with his mind, called to her but from too far away.
The hills were not kind to Marwen, for they hid their springs, and there was little food to forage. Only Cudgham-ip grew fat, for though Marwen’s supplies ran out quickly, she was careful to feed him.
She crossed the northern bay and entered Verduma further up the coast, avoiding the border cities. When finally she landed on the lush Verduman coast, she had eaten almost nothing for many winds, but she felt safe. She felt lost. Perdoneg had lost her and did not suspect that she would fly to his hill where he slept between foragings like a great black worm.
There was a weatherworn shack near the beach where she had landed, and for a moment she thought it was the shack she had seen in the spring. Flowers grew thick around the salt-bleached boards of the house and spilled out of window baskets and grew in ledges along the roof. The sweet-pepper smell of grasses and flowers filled the salt air. But it was not the same shack she had seen in the spring. She thought she might beg for a little bread there or perhaps buy some for the favor of sharpening a knife or two, but first she must bathe. Under the noonmonth sun Marwen swam in the sea until her fingertips and toes were wrinkled. By then her hunger was keen enough to give her courage to knock at the east window of the shack. She could see the shadow of a bed and a chair, and a bake-box was blackening over the fire.
A little face appeared, peeping above the sill, a girl with flowers braided into her hair. In a moment a larger and thinner version of the child’s face came to the window, her mother.
“What pretty hair she has, momma,” the little girl said. The woman put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and said nothing.
“Please,” Marwen said, “I have had little but stickstem roots to eat for days. Have you any bread for a traveler?”
“We are poor,” she said simply. “My husband is sick.” The woman began to turn away.
Marwen put her hand on the windowsill.
“I have some gift with healing, perhaps I could help.”
The woman pushed the little girl away gently with a whispered word and faced Marwen.
“Are you from Venutia?” the woman asked.
Marwen nodded. “But my father was Verduman.”
“Come in,” the woman said.
When Marwen’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she could see, beneath the blankets on the bed, a tall man with black hair, beard, and moustache. He was thin and had an old goiter on his neck, but Marwen could smell no sickness on him.
“She says she’s a healer,” the woman said to her husband.
Marwen sat on a stool at the man’s bedside. The little girl came up behind her and fondled Marwen’s hip-length braid until her mother drew her away.
“You bring no tools or medicine,” he said. His voice was strong and full.
“I bring only my magic,” Marwen said. She sat very still, her hands folded as is seemly for the Oldwife.
“Don’t believe in magic,” he said gruffly.
“Have you no Oldwife nearby? Who did the tapestry for your child?”
“The woman sent for one by way of her sister when her time came. Stuff. That’s what I say—stuff. No such thing as magic.”
He leaned toward Marwen in a confidential manner. “I hear that up north is a dragon who wants to do battle with the ol’ wizard, but the wizard won’t show. Now, maybe the dragon has magic.”
He chuckled and drew the covers up under his chin.
Marwen recited silently to herself from the Tenets on anger. She kept her back straight and her hands still.
“What is the nature of your illness?” she asked quietly.
“Tired,” he said. “Always so tired. Can’t walk. The Oldwife that did for my wife, she gave me some herbs. Only made me tireder. Magic, huh! Stuff.”
Marwen was having difficulty remembering the words of the Tenets. She knew she could cast no spell in the face of such doubt, and her stomach was growling. “Your wife and child are hungry,” she said tersely, and then she took a deep breath. “But you must be hungry, too.” From her apron pocket she drew out a smallish stickstem root, warm from being next to Cudgham-ip who yawned as she took it out. She placed it in front of the man.
“What do you dream of, man?” she said. “Do you dream of roast podhen, pollberry pie, hot grainbread?” The stickstem root assumed the appearance, weight, and smell of each food as she spoke it.
The man reached out and tentatively touched the bread before it resumed its true identity as a root.
“It’s warm,” he said, and his voice was full of wonder. “Woman!” he said, calling to his wife, “are you not baking grainbread with the last of the barrel?”
“Aye,” she said.
He smiled broadly. “’Tis a quick and tricky hand you’ve got there, but ’tis no magic.”
Sure enough, she could now smell the bread baking. She was faint from hunger.
“Come here, child,” Marwen said to the little girl. “Do you have a doll?” The little girl shook her head. Marwen held up the stickstem root.
“This is a toy you might like. Shake it!”
The little girl shook the root and a musical tune played, an ancient tune to which long ago someone had put words about the Taker.
Marwen squirmed uncomfortably at the sound, for which tune the root should play, she had not chosen.
The man’s face showed delight and amazement.
“Give it to me, child,” he said holding out his hairy clublike hand.
The child ran to the other side of the little house and huddled under the table. The man roared and threw back his covers. He chased the girl around the room until, slipping under his reaching arms, the child hid behind Marwen.
“Mine, mine,” the little girl whimpered.
Before Marwen could stop him, the man crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the root. He shook it, and again the little tune played. He danced a little jig and sang: “Hite! Lither! Dollorum dello, the Taker’s feet are shod in yellow.”
“Stop,” Marwen said. He stopped, and she put her arm around the child who was caressing her braid again and pulling on her spidersilk sheath.
“Now do you believe my magic?” Marwen said to the man. “You’re not so tired now. I seem to have healed you.”
The man’s wife bent and drew from the oven a large loaf of grainbread.
“The bread is ready. You would honor us in sharing some,” she said softly. “No gifted one need beg bread in my home.”
Marwen smiled at the woman. But just as Marwen rose, the child screamed a single clear note of pain and terror.
She looked down to see the child taking her hand out of her apron pocket in which the ip slept. On her hand were two round drops of red blood.
“Oh, Mother,” Marwen whispered. “Oh, Mother, help.” She gathered the child in her arms and laid her on the bed.