Chapter 18 #2
‘No. But I wish you’d told me sooner. Remain wary, keep an eye out for strangers, for god-hounds.
Don’t wander far from the cottage. And you can’t go into the village.
Only Anselm and Gida know you’re here.’ I consider what I need to do about the Hadderholms and their knowledge; probably best not to draw attention to Rhea’s existence.
Drop into conversation that she’s gone back home to my distant cousins?
Can I make them forget they ever saw her?
Possibly. Or should I simply deal with both permanently?
My mind shies away from that avenue as once it never would.
I’ve changed, lived here too long to blithely decease my neighbours, those who’ve relied on me, helped me.
I shake my head and rise, slowly and with some undignified grunting as my joints object.
‘Keep training. One day you might need to defend us both.’
‘And Arlo,’ she says, innocently.
For once, I’m not irked at her. I understand, now, why the summer husband is so important to her.
He’s gentle, he’s not a typical male, he’d never force himself on her; and his silence is appealing when men talk so very much about so very little and for so fucking long.
She might not be able to converse with Arlo, but she can hear her own voice for a change.
‘Mehrab?’ I look at her, standing beside me, expression so beseeching.
‘Yes?’
‘You have my secret. When will you share yours?’
I hesitate, consider confession, wonder if it is indeed good for the soul. Shake my head, then point at the target, smouldering out in the pond. ‘My secrets are too many to recount. No one’s earned the right to them. Back to your task.’
Her face falls, disappointed and hurt. The truth is that if she heard everything I’d done, I fear her good opinion of me would not long survive – and I’m surprised to find that matters to me.
* * *
‘Where do the hind-girls come from, Mehrab?’ Rhea’s sitting at her books tonight; I made her send the summer husband up to her room to make sure she concentrates on something other than him. Murcianus’ Magical Creatures is open in front of her.
I shrug. ‘I’ve never seen them anywhere but this continent.’
‘How many times?’
I pause. I’m grinding herbs for a delivery to Reynald; the last of his wished-for fungi have sprouted and they must be turned to powder quickly or their power’s lost. ‘A few or five? They’re migratory, travelling in herds.
No one, as far as I’m aware, has bothered to track their patterns or how the herds form. ’
‘There’s an old story. “The hind-girls dance along the narrow forest courses, throwing their heads with such abandon that sometimes the antlers of one get caught in those of another. But their feet are sure on these paths of beaten earth for they know those ways of old.” But I can’t remember the rest. Think my grandmother used to read it to me as a warning not to be too independent or you’d find yourself discontented with life and wanting more. ’
‘Oh, what a terrible thing.’ We laugh.
‘Perhaps there was some book or study stored in the library at Cwen’s Reach, before it was destroyed.
’ Then she explains: ‘The Citadel was a great place of learning where the Little Sisters of St Florian gathered all manner of books, wrote down tales big and small, grand and mundane. Perhaps it’s something they recorded.
But the Citadel fell long ago, its books dispersed or destroyed – but perhaps such a document is in a private library somewhere, mouldering on a shelf, eaten by moths, or lying in a ruin. Perhaps it’s just a wish or a memory.’
‘Even where I’m from the Fall of the Citadel echoed,’ I say mildly, carelessly.
‘And where’s that, Mehrab?’ She gives me a sly look, which I ignore. She harrumphs and asks, ‘Why do you think the hind-girls leave their lives, Mehrab?’
‘Why does any woman walk into the woods and never return? It all becomes too much? An existence one sought or inherited is not what one wants in the end? Escape? Sins you can’t survive by any other means?
Exhaustion? A thirst for freedom? A song that leads you away?
Any of those things. Any number of others. ’ I scratch my head.
‘But the antlers? The feet?’
‘Spend long enough in a new and strange environment, you either adapt or die. Those that adapted needed horns for self-defence, toughened feet to walk those forest paths. They changed, survived. Or perhaps the result of mating with stags? Fauns?’ I tilt my head, thinking.
‘I wonder if they ever die, though? I’ve never seen the body of one, nor even read of one. ’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Nor me.’
I shrug. ‘Perhaps they simply aren’t found. Perhaps the herds take them somewhere, some sacred place. Somewhere they can remain free.’
‘What a nice thought,’ Rhea muses softly.
‘Are you ready to join them when next they pass by? Abandon your shoes?’ I grin.
She looks at the boots by the door, their soft leather now scuffed with wear.
The pretty blue pair she arrived in lie in the clothing chest in her room, beside the blue silk dress wrapped in tissue with sprigs of lavender in its folds.
‘I don’t think I’m ever going to be a barefoot girl with horns. Too hard to do my hair.’
‘I suspect hairstyles aren’t the prime concern of women who walk away from everything, Rhea.’ I shrug. ‘Never say never, my girl. You can’t know what life will give or take and how much of you it’ll take with it.’
‘Is that why you left your home far across the sea, Mehrab? What did life take from you? And how much of you did it take with it?’ she asks quietly, gently.
I rise. ‘Goodnight, Rhea. Sleep well.’