Maggie took Manuel to the farthest stall. Reynard pretended to be asleep, but listened to their quiet converse. “I presume thou wilt stay nearby?” Maggie asked Manuel.
“Of course.”
“May we call you Widsith, the Pilgrim, once more?”
“It is been too long since I heard that name.”
“How long gone this time, and where to?” Maggie asked.
“Thou wert a beautiful young girl.”
“How long?”
“In the years I felt, maybe forty. Long enough to visit China and live by their ways. They are ruled by Mongols now, the same who oft rise out of the grass like hornets and plague the west.”
“Crafters too clever by half,” Maggie said doubtfully.
“Methinks the world groweth now by itself,” Manuel—Widsith—said. Which name would Reynard call him? Were any of those names privileged and private?
Maggie asked, “Didst thou marry?”
They had moved almost out of Reynard’s hearing. His body ached all over. He could barely turn his head.
“I married for a time,” Widsith said, “there, and later, once in the Philippines, islands named after a king of mixed abilities at best.”
“Thou didst vow to return to Maeve,” Maggie said.
“And I have.”
“She is very old.”
“I did not mean to be away so long.”
“Dost still love her?”
“Of course,” Widsith said.
“Even whilst thou wert here, I remember thou wast not faithful.”
“My time with Maeve was all I wanted. I did not volunteer—the town volunteered me! Can I see Maeve now?”
“She hath ruled from seclusion the last few years. She wanteth not, of all men, that thou shouldst see her so old.”
“Her age meaneth little to me.”
“And thou wouldst make her young again? How?”
“I will persuade.”
“Maeve doth treasure the time she was given, and is stubborn she needeth no more.”
“That is not her decision!” Widsith insisted.
“Did Calybo fill thine own cask of years?”
“He did. It is my due.”
“So thou couldst leave at any moment, spend yet another forty years beyond the island, and abandon Maeve, leave her alone yet again all that time!”
“I shall stay a while. A long while.”
Maggie huffed. “Thou dost believe that, in truth? Once thou hast done delivering thy tales, thou wilt not flee on another long voyage?”
“Who tendeth thine allotment, Maggie?”
“None beyond the pacted years. Sad, is it not? I will never leave, and so never see the finished lands.”
“Wouldst thou like that?”
“No,” Maggie said. “Despite all, I am a widow, but I am happy here.”
“Was he a good man?”
“The best.”
“Wilt thou marry again?”
“None I have met. Hath the boy you brought here, at such cost, greater value than our town?”
“Certes he is a mystery I would love to solve.” Widsith spoke now in a low, soft tone, barely audible from Reynard’s position. “Hast thou wondered what it would be like to meet the Crafters in person, have they persons—to submit this boy like a proper writ?”
Listening to the distant converse, Reynard shivered, but knew not what he could do, nor where he could flee. In the morning, he would explore and try to find out.
“No,” Maggie said. “I am dubious thou hast so much courage thyself.”
“I have seen many strange lands, the results of much Crafter plotting. I might summon courage, to answer questions I have long held.”
“Most likely thou’lt hand this boy to the Travelers, to carry bundled and helpless to the cities around the waste. And then thou shalt leave, renewed of years, to gather more evidence of Crafter plots. And for that, for a ready ship, maybe thou’lt again seek out the Spanish and offer thy services!”
“They are done with me. Anutha did inform thee I was caged with the boy?”
“She did.”
“Comb I favor from Cardoza like sparks from a cat’s fur?”
“No,” she admitted.
“And Maeve?”
“I am sure she is already asleep. We all need sleep. Go take thine own rest. I must play captain to the sentries.”
And that was the last Reynard heard before ache and sleep overwhelmed him.
Of Childers and Bone-wives
REYNARD FELT something nuzzle his bare foot and opened his eyes. He had slept soundly, the sleep of fear and pain giving way to healing, as if, all else aside, his simply being on this island soothed him like a balm.
Again, Reynard’s foot was nuzzled. He looked down the length of the cot and saw, in a ray of sunshine falling through a narrow crack in the roof of the fold, the familiar, silly face of a goat, rolling and sliding its lower jaw back and forth, chewing cud.
He had slept through the day and into the next. He looked around for Manuel, but the old man—he would have to stop thinking of him that way!—was nowhere to be seen. Doubtless the Pilgrim had wandered off to attend to other business—perhaps this Maeve, his wife. Or to arrange to trade Reynard for Traveler favors.
But this morning, Reynard was anything but afraid. He rose and discovered that his body had a kind of liquid vibrancy, as if it liked being here, liked waking—despite his fears. But he was thirsty and very hungry. And then he spotted, in one corner of the stall, a small table supplied with a loaf of bread and a pewter flagon. He sniffed the flagon: mead, sweet and pale. He sipped, then took a bite of bread, hearty and dense. In a few minutes, the small breakfast was gone and he was not so very hungry. The goat remained, watching him and chewing philosophically.
But the goat was not alone.
Something moved up into the light beside the goat and stared at Reynard. It was a child, naked… but small, little more than knee-high, all its limbs proportioned to that size, appearing perhaps five or six years of age, with scrubby brown hair and black eyes… neither a boy nor a girl. Just too small.
The goat turned its head, poked at the child with some irritation, and the child vanished.
But there were others in the manger. They walked, moved, flitted like moths—four, five, six. He stopped counting. One paused nearby, held up a hand, and smiled.
“Greetings,” Reynard said. The child danced around him, still smiling, and then popped like a bubble. A tiny musical note followed, and the goat bleated, then moved away into the shadows—bored.
Strangeness everywhere, Reynard decided, and looked around. Beside the table he found an iron chest, opened to reveal worn leather shoes and patched clothes folded neatly. He stripped down, then knocked out the shoes and shook the breeches and shirt and vest. His uncle had taught him that on faraway isles, one had to be careful about creatures dwelling in clothes and footwear. Would the spirit children hide there as well?
He tried the new garments and the shoes. The shoes had holes in their toes, through which his own toes poked, but the breeches and shirt fit reasonably well. The vest was too tight and so he left it off. He then put into the chest the garments that had presumably belonged to a now-dead blunter. Waste not, want not.
A few minutes later, he pushed through the wicker gate of the fold and emerged in watery sunlight. The fold was a few dozen yards from an intact manor house with stone walls and a slate roof. Apparently the fight had not reached this far. Both house and the fold were surrounded by tall trees, all rustling naturally enough in a light breeze. Above the trees the sky was still hazy with smoke, but the sun shone through warmly, and he felt encouraged that he had been left so long to sleep and recover from another awful night.