Moon Flights

Gifts

In the fullness of spring, with flowers everywhere and the scent of them filling the nose, Dall Drop-hand, Gory the Tail’s third son, quarrelled with his father and brothers, and went off to find adventure.

“You’ll regret it,” his father said.

“You’ll come crawling back as soon as your belly gripes,” said his oldest brother.

“You’ll find out nobody wants a fool whose only talent is dropping things,” said his second-oldest brother.

His younger brothers and two of his sisters merely jeered. But the last sister cried, and hugged him, and begged him to stay. The others watched, still laughing, and he turned away.

“Wait,” she said. “I’ll give you a parting gift.”

“The only parting gift he needs is a kick in the pants,” said his father. But he stood aside to let the girl scamper to her bed and pull out her treasure, a bit of wood carved in the likeness of a knife. She had found it lying loose among the leaves while nutting the year before. She ran back to her brother, and put it in his hand.

“Take this,” she said. “You may need it.”

It was only wood, and not very sharp, but hers was the only kind voice that day. “Are you sure, Julya?” he asked.

“I am,” she said, standing straight as young children do, upright as a pine, and she flung her arms around him and kissed him. Then she stood back, and he was bound to go, a gawky lad of no particular beauty or skill, out into the world all alone, at the very season when food was shortest, for no one can live on flowers.

He walked off down the path that led to the ford, and stopped to drink deeply of that fast, cold water. He would have taken some in a waterskin, but he had no waterskin. Still it was spring, with water running fast in every brook and rill, and he was sure he would find water at need. Food was another matter. He had no bow, no line for setting snares. In all this wealth of flowers, no fruit had set but wild plums, and they were green and hard as pebbles still. His eye fell on a ruffle of green leaves trembling in the moving water. They looked very much like the greens his mother grew in the back garden. He picked off a piece, and tasted it. Yes. The very same. He picked a handful, and stuffed them into his shirt and set off away from the stream, on a path that narrowed here to a foot’s width from little travel.

By midafternoon, he had passed through the woods near the stream and come out into open country, fields grown up into tall grass and flowers that reached his waist. He had lost the path in that tall growth, and found it again by stumbling over its groove; now he walked slowly, letting his feet feel their way and hoping no snake lurked below, where he could not see through the lacework of white and yellow. In the distance, the land rose in billows to blue hills, but he could not tell how far off they were.

At sunfall, he was still in the fields, wading slowly through the flowers. He trampled out a circle his own length, with the groove of the footpath running across it, and sat down. The footpath made a little tunnel, forward and back, under the tall growth. If he’d been a small animal, he could have used it as a private road and traveled hidden. The thought amused him; he wondered what it would be like to be so small, to see the meadow as a forest. For him, the footpath would make a comfortable hole for his hip, when he lay down to sleep.

The leaves he’d gathered were a limp, unappetizing mess when he pulled them from his shirt, but he ate them anyway and tried not to think of his family at their supper. He lay down then, and sat up quickly as his sister’s gift poked him in the side. He pulled it out and rubbed his finger along the rib of wood. There was still enough light to see that it gleamed a little, where his sister had rubbed it with fat, but not enough to see the design that his finger felt, something carved, not deeply, into it. He kissed the thing, blessing the sister who had given it—useless though it was, it had been her treasure—and lay down to sleep with it in his hand.

He woke in darkness, uneasy, at first not knowing where he was. His shirt had rucked up, baring his back to the chill spring breezes; he yanked it down one-handed but could not go back to sleep. Around him, over him, the grass and flower-stalks rustled in the breeze. So did something else; he sat up, eyes wide. Was that more than star-shadow, that dark movement on the trail? Meadow mice, probably, or the slightly larger field rats. A stoat? A fox?

Laughter ringed him in so suddenly that he felt a shock like cold water. They were all around him, tattered shadows in the starlight, holding weapons that already pricked his back, his sides. Weapons that glinted slightly in that faint light. Laughter stilled to uneasy silence.

“Mortal man, you trespass.” That voice was high, higher than his youngest sister’s, but very clear.

“I’m not a man,” he said. His voice broke on the absurdity of that; he had told his father he was man enough, when his father called him boy once too often.

“Not a man?” the voice asked, mocking. Laughter rimmed the circle again, and again died. “And what, pray, art thou if not man? Art too tall for rockfolk, too uncomely for elvenkind, and having speech canst not be a mere beast, despite the smell…” More laughter.

He found his voice again. “I’m a boy.” Most of the elder folk were kinder to children than adults; he would claim that protection if he could. Surely if his father considered him a mere boy, so also would beings far older than his father.

“I think not,” the voice said. “I think thou art man grown, at least in some things…” The voice insinuated what things, and he felt himself going hot. “And since we found thee asleep athwart our high road, man-grown as thou art, I say again: mortal man, you trespass. And for your trespass, mortal man, you shall be punished.”

The shift of tone, from common to formal and back again, jerked at his mind, confused him. He fell back on childhoods excuse. “I didn’t know…”

“Did not know what? That this was our highway, or that it was forbidden to such as you?”

“Either—both. I was only trying to get away from home…” That sounded lame as a three-legged cow in the night, with sharp points pricking him.

“You drew a circle across our highway,” the voice said. “You drew a circle and then lay athwart, your loins on the path, and you thought nothing of it? No loss to the world then, such an oaf as you.”

“But a circle is holy,” he said. “A circle protects…”

Hisses all around him, as sharp as sleet on stubble; his belly went cold.

“A circle with a line across it negates the protection of the circle,” the voice said. “And when that line is our highway—you have made a grave error, mortal man, and you will indeed be punished. Away from home, you wanted to go? Away from home you shall go indeed, never to return…”

His fists clenched, in his fear, and in the heart hand his sisters gift bit into the insides of his fingers. But what use a little wooden knife-shape against the creatures here, whose sharp weapons were surely harder and sharper than wood?

He had to try. He shifted the knife forward in his hand, and the blade caught the starlight and flashed silver.

“Ahhhh… so you would fight?”

“I… just want to go,” he said. He felt one of the weapons behind prick through his shirt, and jerked forward, away from that pain. The shadows in front retreated, as if that knife were a real weapon. He waved it experimentally, and they flinched away.

“Do you know what you bear?” the voice asked.

“It’s a knife,” he said.

“Thou art a fool, mortal man,” the voice said. “Stay away from our highways; thy luck may change.” The pricks at his side and back vanished; a huddle of dark shapes ran together, vanishing into the tunnel beneath the grass.

Dall stood up, his heart pounding. He could see nothing across the field but a blurred line where he had come from, his body pushing the grass and flowers aside, but nothing ahead. Yet now he knew the footpath was perilous, he could not go back to it. He did not know what those beings were. He never wanted to see them again.

From the line of his passage the day before, he struck out at an angle, pushing his way through the waist-high growth. As anyone who has ever tried it, he found walking in the dark more difficult than he expected. Where the surface of the flowers seemed level, the land below dipped and rose beneath his feet, here a hummock like a miniature hill just high enough to catch his toe, and there a hollow deep enough to jar his teeth when he staggered into it. He pushed on, careless of the noise he made and any hazards he might wake, until—witless with fatigue—he caught his foot on yet another hummock and measured his length in the tall growth, falling hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. And there he slept, overcome by all that had happened, until the sun rose and an early bee buzzed past his ear.

In the morning, he could scarcely understand his panic of the night. He stood, stretched, and looked around him. His backward path was clear, a trampled line that twisted and turned like that of a fleeing rabbit. He thought he had gone straight, but by day he could see that he had not come half so far from the… the highway… as he hoped.

Remembering that, he looked again at his sisters gift. Clearly wood, carved to the likeness of a knife, and polished. In the low slanting light, he could see the incised design he’d felt before. He ran his forefinger over it, but nothing happened, and the lines themselves meant nothing to him. Whatever it was, it had driven away those… whatever they were.

He was hungry, but he often woke hungry at home, and nothing to eat until chores were done. He was thirsty, but he would come to water soon; all he had to do was go on. He looked around at the wide, green, flower-spangled world, and saw nothing he knew. He told himself he was happy about that. No father and brothers to bully him; no sisters to scold and laugh.

As morning wore on, hunger and thirst vied for his attention. Thirst won; by afternoon, he could think of nothing but water… and no water could he see, or sign of it. No friendly line of trees beside a brook or river… all around the grass lifted and flattened in the wind, billowing… the hills as distant as ever, flat and shimmery against the pale sky. He went on, into the lowering sun, hoping to get to the hills… surely he would find trees and water there.

Instead, he trod on something that yielded beneath his foot, and sharp pain stabbed his leg. With a gasp and cry, he threw himself away from whatever it was, and caught a glimpse of a long, sinuous body, checkered brown and yellow, as he landed hard on his side. He scrambled to his feet, but whatever it had been did not follow him. His leg burned and throbbed; the pain ran up and down his leg like scalding water. Groaning, he sat down again, and pulled up his trews. Two tiny dark holes a thumbwidth apart, and a rapidly purpling bruise around them. He felt sick and shaky. It must have been a serpent, but the little grass and water snakes near home had been smaller. They never bit anyone—of course he’d never stepped on one…

Suddenly his mouth was full of sour mucus; he spat, and blinked away tears. Poison. It was some kind of poison. His mother’s mother, before she died, had said something about poison from evil creatures. Cut it out, she’d said, or cut it off. The wooden knife could not be sharp or strong enough, but it was all he had.

He touched the point of it to one of the fang-marks, but he could not make himself push it in… the pain was already beyond bearing, and how could he cause more. Thick yellow ooze came from the wound, running down over his leg like honey. He stared, blinked, and realized he felt better. The flow of liquid stopped. He moved the knife point to the other fang-mark, holding his breath… and again, the thick yellow oozed out, ran down his leg. His belly steadied back to the simple ache of hunger; his mouth was dry again. As he watched, the fang-mark closed over, leaving a dry pale dimple. The other one still gaped; he moved the knife tip back to it, and it too closed over.

Grass rustled; he jerked up, stared. Unwinking eyes stared at him from a narrow head on a long, coiled body. Another serpent, this one much larger. A pink forked tongue flickered out; he flinched, scooting backward, and held the knife forward. The serpent’s head lowered.

Slowly, trembling, he clambered to his feet. He wanted to back away but what if there was another one…? Holding the knife toward the serpent, he dared a quick glance behind him.

At his back stood someone he had never seen, someone who had appeared… he almost forgot the serpent, in that astonishment, but the serpent moved, and that caught his eye. Slowly, without appearing to move at all, it lowered its coils until it lay flat to the ground, and then, too fast to follow, whipped about and vanished into the grass.

“You’re very lucky,” the person said.

Dall could say nothing. He shook his head a little in his confusion. How could a full-grown man, dressed in fine leathers and a shirt with a lace collar, and boots to the thigh, have walked up on him without making a noise?

“I surprised you,” the person said. “As you surprised the serpent’s child.”

“I don’t know you,” Dall said. He could think of nothing else to say.

“Nor I you,” the stranger said. “But it needs no names to befriend someone, does it?”

“I—I’m Dall,” Dall said. He almost added Gory the Tail’s third son, but didn’t because he had left home and could no longer claim his father’s name.

“And I am Verthan,” the stranger said. “You’re a long way from a village, Dall. Gone hunting a lost sheep?”

“No… I left home,” Dall said.

“You travel light,” the stranger—Verthan—said. “Most men setting out would take at least a waterskin.”

“Didn’t have one,” Dall muttered.

“Then you’re thirsty, surely,” Verthan said. “Have a drink of mine.” He unhooked from his belt a skin dyed scarlet, bound in brown.

Dall reached for it, his mouth suddenly dryer than ever, but then pulled his hand back. He had nothing to trade, nothing at all, and the deepest rule he knew was hearth-sharing. He shook his head and shrugged.

“Nothing to share? You must have left in a hurry.” Verthan shook his head. “You’ve set yourself a hard road, lad. But you’ll not go much farther without water—water you must have.”

Dall felt the words as if they were a hot summer wind in the hayfield; he felt dryness reach down his throat to his very marrow.

“I’ll tell you what,” Verthan said. “Why not trade your knife? Come evening, if you’ll travel with me, we’ll come to a place where you can gather early fruits, and we can trade it back to you. How’s that?” He held out the waterskin. Dall could see the damp surface of it; he could almost smell the water inside it; he could certainly hear it as the man shook it.

His hand jerked, as if someone had caught it from behind, and he felt the edges of the knife against the insides of his clenched fingers. The memory of the snake venom oozing out, and the sickness leaving… the memory of Julya’s face, as she handed him the knife… He shook his head, mute because his mouth was too dry to speak.

Verthan’s expression sharpened into anger, then relaxed again into humor. “You are not as stupid as you look,” he said. Then, as wind blows a column of smoke, he blew away, and where he had stood a rustle in the grass moved off downslope.

Dall’s knees loosened and he slumped down into the grass, frightened as he was of the grass and all that lived in it. He sat huddled a long time, hardly even aware of his thirst and hunger, while fear fled ice-cold up and down his veins.

Some while later, when fear had worn itself out, he became aware of something wet touching his hand. Too tired now to jump away, he looked. The wooden knife in his heart hand, blunt as it was, had poked a little way through the grass stems into the soil beneath. The wet soil, he now saw, for the base of the grass stems around it glistened with water, and his hand and the knife.

At once his thirst returned, fierce as fire, and he scrabbled at the place, digging with the knife. He could see it, he could smell it… when he had opened a space the size of his cupped palm, he pushed his face into it and sucked in a half-mouthful of water flavored with shreds of dry grass and dirt. He spat out the mud, and swallowed the scant water. The tiny pool refilled; he drank again, this time with less mud in his mouth. Again. Again. And again. Each a scant mouthful, but each restoring a little of his strength.

When he had drunk until he could hold no more, he sat up and looked again at his sister’s gift. Through his mind ran the events since he’d left home—the attack of the little people, the snakes, the phantom of the air, his thirst. Each time the thing had saved him, and he did not understand how. It looked like something an idle boy might whittle from any handy stick of wood. He himself had no skill at carving, but he had seen such things: little wooden animals and people and swords. As far as he knew—which seemed less far than the day before—none of those were magical. And so… his mind moved slowly, carefully, along the unaccustomed paths of logic… this must not be what it looked like. It must be something else. But what?

By now the sun hung low over the hills. He looked around. He had no idea where to go, or how to avoid the dangers he now knew inhabited these apparently harmless meadows. Only the gift that had saved him… could it help him find his way?

He bent again to the tiny pool of water, and then stood, holding the knife as always in his heart hand. How could he tell it his need? His hand twitched, without his intention. The thought came into his mind that he had not needed to tell the knife what his need was before. He held out his hand, palm up, and opened it. The knife squirmed on his hand—he almost dropped it in a moment of panic—and the tip pointed the way he least expected, downslope and back the way he had come. Toward that perilous footpath. Even—if he thought about it—toward home.

He did not want to go that way. Surely, with the knife’s help, he could go on the way he wanted, into the hills… he might find more dangers, but the knife would protect him. It might even feed him.

His hand fell with the sudden weight of the knife, and lost its grip; the knife disappeared into the tall grass.

Dall cried out, wordless surprise and fear, and threw himself into the grass, feeling among the springy stems for something stiff, unyielding, wooden. Nothing. He tried to unthink the thought he’d had, promising the thing that he would follow its guidance always, in everything, if it would only come back.

Always? The question hung in the air, unspoken by mortal voice, but ringing in Dall’s ears like the blow of a hammer.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered aloud. “Julya gave it to me, and she loved me…”

A gust of wind flattened the grass over his head; pollen stung his eyes. He turned to blink and clear them, and there it lay, on top of the grass he had flattened while sitting on it. He reached out gingerly, wondering if it would let him touch it, and picked it up.

No heavier than at first. No less plain wood than at first. It lay motionless in his hand and when he stood he was facing the way the blade had pointed.

“All right then,” he said. “Show me.”

With water enough in his belly, the worst of the day’s heat past, and the sun and high ground behind him, he made quick progress down and across the slope. Now his feet found good purchase wherever he trod, now the wind at his back cooled him without burning his face.

In the last of the light, he came to a stream fringed with trees. Was it the same stream he had crossed at the ford near his home? He could not tell, in the gloom. The knife had led him between the fringing trees to a flat rock beside the water, and there he drank his fill again, and there he found ready to hand the green leaves he knew could be eaten safely. He fell asleep on the rock, warded on three sides by clean running water, and woke before dawn, cold and stiff but otherwise unharmed, the knife still in his hand.

He expected the knife to lead him back home, to return it to his sister Julya, but instead it led him upstream, and insisted (for its guidance strengthened as the day went on) that he stay within the trees beside the stream, and on this hither side. Because of the trees, he could not see the land around, but he knew it rose by the ache in his legs from climbing, always climbing, ever more steeply as the waters note changed from the quiet gurgle lower down to the high, rapid laugh as it fell over taller and taller rocks.

Near the stream he found a few early berries, gleaming red, and ate them, along with more of the greens. He pried loose a few clingshells from rocks and sucked out the sweet meat inside; he managed to tickle one fish in the noon silence, when the knife had made it clear (how he was still not sure) that he should rest by the stream awhile. Always he had water to drink, so by nightfall he was well content to sleep again, this time in a hollow between oak roots.

Midmorning the next day, following the stream ever higher, he came out of the woods into a wide bare land of low grass, with here and there tussocks of reeds and an occasional gnarled shrub. Now he could see over the land—see how the trees traced out the stream below in its twists and turns and joinings with others… see little columns of smoke far in the distance that might have come from farmhouse chimneys… see the great green sea of grass breaking on the hills’ knees, washing up this high as grass that would not cover the top of his foot.

Upslope, where the stream leaped in silver torrents from rock to rock, the land heaped up in mounds as far as he could see, all the way to the pale sky. Off to his right a great rocky wall, blue-shadowed and white-topped, had risen as if from nowhere… far higher than the hills he’d seen from home.

You wanted adventure. Again that voiceless voice, those words with no breath, hung in the air. Now will you follow? Or shall I take you home?

Against the memory of home—sweeter now than it had been when he left—came the memory of that first night and day of terror, and then the pleasanter but still strenuous days of travel since. What finally determined him to keep going was the memory of Julya. She would be glad to see him come home, but she alone had believed he might do something… become something. For her he would keep going until he could bring her… something worth the gift she had given him.

“I’ll go on,” Dall said.

Silence. He scrubbed one leg with the other foot, and waited. The knife lay quiescent in his hand. That had not, he realized, been the question. It had been follow or go home, not go on or go home.

“I’ll follow,” he said.

The knife twitched, and Dall headed on up the steepening slope, following the knife and the cold rush of water.

Finally, legs trembling with fatigue, he staggered up yet another slope to find that the water gushed from a cleft in the rocks beside the thread of trail. Above him the slope broke into vertical slabs of rock, bare and forbidding in the evening shadows beneath a darkening sky. Dall looked back, where the land beyond sloped down again, down and down into a purple gloom that hid every place he had ever been. Did the knife expect him to climb those rocks? He was sure he could not. He looked around for someplace to sleep, finally creeping between two massive boulders each bigger than his family’s hut, but an insistent breeze chilled him wherever he tried to curl up, and he could not really sleep.

He was awake, and just this side of shivering in the chill, when he heard the cry. He was on his feet, peering wide-eyed into the darkness, when he felt the knife twitch in his hand. “But it’s dark,” he said. “I can’t see where I’m going.” He thought perhaps the knife would glow, giving light for him to see. Instead, it pricked his fingers, a sharp sting.

Another cry, and hoarse shouts. Shaking with fear, Dall started that way, only to run into one of the rocks. He scrabbled back; his foot landed on loose rubble, and he fell, rocks rolling about him and down below, loud and louder. He slid with them, flung out his arms and tried to stop himself. He had scrambled up over a ledge… and now his legs waved in the cold air, his belly lay against a sharp irregular edge, his bruised, skinned fingers dug in.

He pulled himself up a little, panting with fear, and felt around with his use-hand for a better purchase. Then his foot bumped the rock below, and he remembered where the foothold had been. He let himself slide backward, into the air and darkness, and another rock fell from the ledge, bounced loudly below, and hit something that clanged louder than his mother’s soup-kettle.

This time he heard, though he did not understand the words, the angry voice below. He pressed himself against the cold rock, shivering. But his heart hand cramped, and he had to move, and again rocks fell from under his feet, and he lost his grip on the rock, falling his own length in a rattle of small stones to land on something that heaved and swore, this time in words he’d heard before. Hard hands clamped on his bare ankle, on his arm, angry voices swore revenge and stank of bad ale and too much onion… and without thought his heart hand swept forward, and the hand on his ankle released it with a hiss of pain, and with another swipe the grip on his arm disappeared.

“Back!” he heard someone say, panting. “It’s not worth it—” And there was a scramble and rattle and clang and clatter of rocks on stone, and metal on rocks, and shod feet on rocks and someone falling and someone cursing—more than one someone—all drawing away into the night and leaving him crouched breathless and shaking.

He drew a long breath and let it out in a sigh that was almost a sob. Like an echo of his own, another sigh followed, then a groan. He froze, staring into darkness, seeing nothing… he could hear breathing. Harsh, irregular, with a little grunt at each exhalation. Off to his left a little, the way the knife pulled at him now. He took a cautious step, his left foot landing on a sharp pebble—a quick step then, and his foot came down on something soft, yielding.

The scream that followed knocked him to the ground like a blow, his fear came so strongly. Once there he fell asleep all at once, heedless of his scrapes and bruises and the danger.

In the first cold light of dawn, the man’s face might have been carved of the stone he lay on, flesh tight to the bone with care and pain. Dall stared at the face. Longer of jaw than his father’s, it still had something of the same look in the deep lines beside the mouth, the deep-cut furrows of the brow.

Color seeped into the world with the light. That dark stain, almost black at first, was blood—bright red where it was new, the color of dirty rust where it had dried. The man’s shirt had once been white, and edged with lace; now it was filthy, soaked with blood, spattered with it even where it was not soaked. His trews were cut differently than any Dall had seen, fitted closer to his legs, and he had boots—real leather boots—on his feet. They were caked with dried mud, worn at the instep, with scuffed marks on the side of the heels. The dangling ends of thongs at his waist showed where something had been cut away. Dall could smell the blood, and the sour stench of ale as well.

The man groaned. Dall shuddered. He knew nothing of healing arts, and surely the man was dying. Dead men—men dead of violence, and not eased into the next world by someone who knew the right words to say—could not rest. Their angry spirits rose from their bodies and sought unwary travelers whose souls eased their hunger and left the travelers their helpless slaves forever. Such tales Dall’s grandda had told by the winter fireside; Dall knew he was in danger more than mortal, for he knew none of the right words to smooth a dying man’s path.

He tried to push himself up, but he was too stiff to stand up and his ankle—he could just see, now, that it was swollen as big as a cabbage and he could feel it throbbing—would not bear his weight even as he tried to get away on hands and knees.

The man shifted in his blood-soaked clothes, groaned again, and opened his eyes. Dall stared. Bloodshot green eyes stared back.

“Holy Falk,” the man said His voice was breathy but firm, not the voice of a dying man. He sounded more annoyed than anything else. He glanced down at himself and grimaced. “What happened, boy?”

Dall gulped, swallowed, and spoke aloud for the first time in days. “I don’t know… sir.”

“Ah… my head…” The man lay back, closed his eyes a moment, and then looked at Dall again. “Bring water, there’s a good lad, and some bread…”

The incongruity made Dall giggle with relief. The man scowled.

“There’s no bread,” Dall said. His stomach growled loudly at that. “And I don’t have a waterskin.”

“Am I not in the sotyard…?” The man pushed himself up on one elbow, and his brows raised. “No, I suppose I’m not. What place is this, boy?”

“I don’t know, sir.” This time the sir had come easily.

“Are you lost too, then?”

“I—aren’t you dying, then?”

The man laughed, a laugh that caught on a groan. “No, boy. Not that easily. Why did you think—?” He looked down at himself, and muttered “Blood… always blood…” then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. When he next looked up, his face was different somehow. “Look here, boy, I hear a stream. You could at least fetch some water from there… I have a waterskin…” He patted his sides, then shook his head. “Or I suppose I don’t. It must’ve been thieves, I imagine. Were there thieves, boy?”

“I didn’t see them,” Dall said. Odds on this man was a thief himself. “I heard yells in the dark. Then I fell…”

Now the man’s eyes looked at him as if really seeing him. “By the gods, you did fall—you look almost as bad as I feel. You saved my life,” the man said. “It was a brave thing, to come down on unknown dangers in the dark, and take on two armed men, a boy like you.”

Dall felt his ears going hot. “I… didn’t mean to,” he said.

“Didn’t mean to?”

“No… I fell off the cliff.”

“Still, your fall saved me, I don’t doubt. Ohhhh…” Another groan, and the man had pushed himself up to sitting, and grabbed for his head as if it would fall off and roll away. “I don’t know why I drink that poison they call ale…”

“For the comfort of forgetting,” Dall said, quoting his father.

A harsh laugh answered him. “Aye, that’s the truth, though you’re over-young to have anything worth forgetting, I’d say. You—” The man stopped suddenly and stared at the ground by Dall’s hand. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

Dall had forgotten the knife, but there it lay, glinting a little in first rays of the sun. He reached and put his hand over it. “My sister gave it to me,” he said. “It’s only wood…”

“I see that,” the man said. He shook his head, and then grunted with pain. Dall knew that sound; his father had been drunk every quarter-day as long as he could remember. The man pushed himself to hands and knees, and crawled to the tiny stream, where he drank, and splashed water on himself, and then, standing, stripped off his bloody clothes. There was plenty of light now, and Dall could see the bruises and cuts on skin like polished ivory, marked as it was with old scars on his sides.

While the man’s back was turned, Dall pushed himself up a little, wincing at the pain—he hurt everywhere—and picked up the wooden knife. If it could mend a serpent bite, what about a swollen ankle? And for that matter the bloody scrape some rock had made along his arm? He laid the knife to his arm, but nothing happened. Nor when he touched it to his ankle.

The man turned around while Dall still had the knife on his ankle. “What are you doing?” he asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Dall said, pulling his hand back quickly. “Just seeing how bad it hurt if I touched it.”

“Hmmm.” The man cocked his head. “You know, boy—what is your name, anyway?”

“Dall Drop—Dall, son of Gory,” Dall said.

“Dall Drop? That’s one I haven’t heard.”

“My father calls me ‘Drop-hand’,” Dall said, ducking his head.

“Drop-body, if last night was any example,” the man said, chuckling. Dall felt himself going hot. “Nay, boy—it’s not so bad. Your dropping in no doubt scared those thieves away. Maybe it was all accident, but you did good by it. Let’s see about your wounds…”

“They’re not wounds,” Dall said. “Just cuts and things.”

“Well, cuts or whatever, they could use some healing,” the man said. He looked around. “And none of the right herbs here. We’ll have to get you down to a wood, and you can’t walk on that ankle.”

“’M sorry,” Dall muttered.

“Nonsense,” the man said. “Just let me get the blood off this—” He took his wadded shirt back to the creek. Dall gaped. Was he going to pollute the pure water with his blood? But the man sat down, pulled off one of his boots, and scooped up a bootful of water, then stuffed his shirt into the boot and shook it vigorously. The water came out pink; he dumped the wet shirt on the ground, emptied the bloody water into a clump of grass, and did it again. That was bad enough, but at least he wasn’t dipping the shirt itself in the water.

After several changes of water, he came back to Dall with the sopping mess of his shirt, wrung it out, and reached for Dall’s foot. “This’ll hurt, boy, but it’ll help, too.”

It did hurt; every movement of the foot hurt, and the wet shirt was icy. The man wrapped it around his ankle, and used the sleeves to tie it tightly. Dall could feel his bloodbeat throbbing against the tight wrapping.

“Now, boy, give me your hand.”

Dall had reached out his hand before he thought; the man took it and heaved him up in one movement.

“You’ll have to walk; I’m still too drunk to carry you safely on this ground,” the man said. “I can help, though. Let me guide you.”

“Sir,” Dall said. His foot hurt less than he expected as he hobbled slowly, leaning on the man’s shoulder. The other aches also subsided with movement, though his cuts and scrapes stung miserably.

It was a slow, painful traverse of the slope, down and across, even when they came to the thread of a path the man said he’d followed the night before. “Sheep are not men,” the man said, when they came to the first drop in the path. He slid down first, and Dall followed. The man caught him before his bad ankle hit the path. That was almost all the man said, other than the occasional “Mind this” and “That rock tips.”

The sun was high overhead when the path widened abruptly at the head of a grassy valley, where several sheep trails came together. Ahead, smoke rose from a huddle of low buildings. Dall could smell cooked food for the first time in days; his stomach growled again and he felt suddenly faint. He sagged; the man muttered something but took more of his weight. “Come on, boy—you’ve done well so far,” he said.

Dall blinked and gulped, and managed to stand more on his own feet. The man helped him down the wider track to an open space where someone had placed a couple of rough benches around a firepit. No one was visible outside the buildings, but from the smell someone was busy inside them. The man lowered Dall to one of them, then bent to unwrap his ankle. “I need a shirt, boy, if I’m to talk someone into giving us food. And down here I should be able to find the right leaves for your injuries.”

Dall’s ankle had turned unlovely shades of green and purple; now his foot was swollen as well. The man shrugged into the wet, dirty shirt, and headed for one of the huts as if he knew it. Dall glanced around, and caught sight of someone peeking around a house-wall at him. A child, younger, smaller. He looked away, then looked back quickly. A boy, wearing a ragged shirt much like his own over short trews… barefoot as he was. The boy offered a shy smile; Dall smiled back. The boy came nearer; he could have been Dall’s younger brother if he’d had one.

“What happened to you?” the boy asked. “Did he beat you?”

“No,” Dall said. “I fell on the mountain.”

“You need to wrap that,” the boy said, pointing to his ankle. “Are you hungry?”

“I have nothing to share,” Dall said.

“You’re hurt. It’s Lady’s grace,” the boy said. “Don’t you have that where you come from?”

“Yes… I just…”

“I’ll get something,” the boy said, and was gone like a minnow in the stream, in an instant.

He was back in a moment, with a hunk of bread in his hand. “Here, traveler; may the Lady’s grace nourish us both.”

“In grace given, in grace eaten, blessed be the Lady.” Dall broke the bread, giving a piece back to the boy, and looked around for the man. He had disappeared; an empty doorway suggested where he’d gone. Dall took a bite of bread and the younger boy did also.

The bread tasted better than anything he’d ever eaten, so much better that he forgot the pain in his foot, and his other pains. He could’ve eaten the whole piece, but he set aside a careful half for the man, in case no one shared with him.

But the man was coming back now, carrying a jug and another loaf. “I see you’ve made friends,” he said.

“I saved you a bit,” Dall said. “It’s Lady’s grace.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “I suppose we could all use grace.” He ate the piece Dall had set aside, then broke the loaf he carried. “Here—you could eat more, I daresay. And here’s water.”

Dall wanted to ask if this too had been given as Lady’s grace, but he didn’t. The man sat a few minutes, eating, and taking sips of the water. Then he stood. “I’d best be going to work,” he said. “There’s a wall to mend.” He nodded at the far end of the village, where one wall of a sheepfold bulged out, missing stones at the top. Dall started to push himself up and the man shook his head. “Not you, boy. You’re still hurt. Just rest there, and one of the women will be out to tend you shortly. She’s boiling water for boneset tea for you.”

That night Dall lay on straw, his injured ankle wrapped in old rags. Sleeping under a roof again after so many nights in the open made him as wakeful as his first nights on the trail. He could hear the breathing of others in the cottage, and smell them all too. He wanted to crawl outside into the clean night air scented with growing things, but that would be rude. Finally he fell asleep, and the next morning ate his porridge with pleasure. Cooked food was worth the discomforts of the night, he decided.

He and the man stayed in the village for six hands of days; the man worked at whatever chores anyone put him to, without comment or complaint. As Dall became able to hobble around more easily, he too worked. It was strange to do the familiar work he had grown up with, but for strangers. When he dropped something—less often than before—he waited for the familiar jibes, but none came. Not even when he dropped a jug of new milk and broke the jug.

“Never mind,” said the woman for whom he’d been carrying that jug and two others. “Its my fault for giving you more than you could carry, and the handle on that one’s been tricky for years.” She was a cheerful dark-haired woman with wide hips and a wider smile; all her children were like her, and the boy who had first given him bread was her youngest.

One evening after supper, Dall had an itch down his back, and scratched at it with the point of the wooden knife. The man watched him, and then asked, “Where did you get that knife?”

“I told you—my sister gave it to me.” Dall sighed with relief as the tip found the perfect itchy spot to scratch.

“And where did she get it?”

“She found it in the woods last fall; we were all out nutting together, and she was feeling among the leaves in between the roots, and there it was.”

“By itself?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see her find it. Why, what could have been with it?”

The man sat down, heavily. “Dall, I carved that knife myself, two winters gone. I had thrown away my sword—oh, aye, I had a sword once, and mail that shone like silver, and a fine prancing horse, too. I had a dagger yet, and while I was snowed in, that first winter of my freedom, I whittled away on the kindling sticks. Most I burnt, but a few I kept, for the pleasure of remembering my boy’s skill. Then spring came, and when I set out again I tossed them in the stream one summer’s day to watch them float away.”

“So the knife is yours,” Dall said.

“I threw it away,” the man said. “Like my sword. And unlike my sword it has come back, in a hand that valued it more.” He cleared his throat. “I just wondered… if any of the others were found. Some flowers—mostly rose designs, over and over—and one fairly good horse.”

“I don’t know,” Dall said. “But if the knife is yours…” He held it out.

The man shook his head. “No, lad. I threw it away; it’s yours now.”

“But it’s special,” Dall said. “It saved me—” He rattled on quickly, sensing the man’s unwillingness to hear, about the little people in the grass, and the serpent’s bite, and the strange being that appeared from nowhere and vanished back into nowhere, and the water…

The man stared at him, open-mouthed. “That knife?”

“This knife,” Dall said. He held it out again. “Your knife. You made it; the magic must be from you.”

“’To ward from secret treachery, from violence and from guile, from deadly thirst and hunger, from evil creatures vile…’” The man’s voice trailed off. “It can’t be…” His fingers stretched toward it, then his fist clenched. “It can’t be. It’s gone; what’s loosed cannot be caught again.”

“That’s silly,” Dall said. He felt silly too, holding out the knife. “When we let the calf out of the pen, we just catch it and bring it back.”

“Magic is not a cow, boy!” The man’s voice was hoarse now; Dall hardly dared look at his face for the anger he expected to see, but instead there were tears running down the furrows beside his mouth. “I forswore it…”

And will the wind not blow? And will not the spring return? The man’s head jerked up; he must have heard it too.

Dall took a small step forward, and laid the knife in the man’s hand, folding the man’s fingers around it. As he stepped back, he saw the change, as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud. Light washed over the man, and behind it the man’s filthy old shirt shone whiter than any cloth Dall had seen. His scuffed, worn boots gleamed black; his mud-streaked trews were spotless. On his tired, discouraged face, a new expression came: hope, and love, and light. What had seemed gray hair, once clean, now gleamed a healthy brown.

And the knife, the simple wooden knife, stretched and changed, until the man held a sword out of old tales. Dall had never seen a sword at all, let alone such a sword as that.

Vows are not so easily broken, or duties laid aside. Dall had no idea what that was about, but the man did; his quick head-shake and shrug changed to an expression of mingled awe and sorrow. He fell to his knees, holding the sword carefully, hilt upright. Dall backed away; a stone nudged the back of his legs and he sat down on it. He watched the man’s lips move silently, until the man looked straight at him out of those strange green eyes, eyes still bright with tears.

“Well, boy, you have done quite a work here.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dall said.

“I’m glad you did,” the man said. He stood, and held out his hand. “Come, let me call you friend. My name’s Felis, and I was once a paladin of Falk. It seems Falk wants me back, even after—even now.” He looked at the sword, the corners of his mouth quirking up in what was not quite a smile. “I think I’d better find this wood where your sister found the knife I carved, and see if any of the other bits washed up there. Something tells me the road back to Falk may prove… interesting.”

Dall took the proffered hand and stood.

“What about me?” he asked.

“I hope you will travel with me,” the man said. “You saved my life and you brought me back my knife… my life, actually, as a servant of Falk. And surely you want the sister who found it to know that it saved you.”

“Go home?” Dall’s voice almost squeaked. He could imagine his father’s sarcasm, his brother’s blows.

“It seems we both must,” Felis said. “We both ran away; the knife called us both. But neither of us will stay with your father, I’m sure. What—do you think a boy who has saved a paladin remains a drop-hand forever?”

In the days of high summer, when the trees stood sentinel over their shade at noon, still and watchful, and spring’s racing waters had quieted to clear pools and murmuring riffles, Dall no longer Drop-hand returned to his home, walking across the hayfield with a tall man whose incongruous clothes bore no sweat-stains, even in that heat. Gory the Tall recognized Dall the moment he came out of the trees, but the man with the spotless white shirt and the sword he did not recognize. Dall’s brothers stood as if struck by lightning, watching their brother come, moving with the grace of one who does not stumble even on rough paths.

That evening, in the long soft twilight, Felis told of Dall’s courage, of the magic in the knife he’d carved, of his oaths and his need to return.

“Then—I suppose this is yours too,” said the youngest girl, Julya. She fished out of her bodice a little flat circle of wood carved with rose petals and held it out to him. Dall could hear the tears in her voice.

Felis shook his head. “Nay, lass. When I carved the flowers, I thought of my own sisters, far away. If it has magic, let it comfort you.” He touched it with his finger. Then the air was filled with the perfume of roses, a scent that faded only slowly. The girl’s face glowed with joy; she sniffed it again and tucked it back into her clothes.

“And he really saved you?” Dall’s oldest brother asked.

“I slipped and fell,” Dall said.

“At exactly the right moment,” Felis said, a wave of his hand shutting off the gibes Dall’s brothers had ready. “I hope he’ll come with me, help me find the rest of the carvings I must find before I go back to my order.”

“But—” Gory the Tall peered through the gloom at his son and at Felis. “If he’s not the boy he was…”

“Then it’s time for him to leave,” Felis said. He turned to Dall. “If you want to, that is.”

He was home without blows and jeers; he had triumphed. If he stayed, he would have that to fall back on. Stories to tell, scars to show. If he left, this time it would be for such adventures as paladins find—he knew far more about real adventures now than he had… and he was no longer angry and hurt, with every reason to go and none to stay.

An evening breeze stirred the dust, waking all the familiar smells of home. At his back, Julya pressed close; he could just smell the rose-scent of the carving in her bodice. But beyond that, he could smell the creek, the trees, the indefinable scent of lands beyond that he had only begun to know.

“I will go with you,” he said to Felis. And then, to his family, “And someday I will come home again, with gifts for you all.”