Whispering Woods

CHAPTER 7

For certain, thought Gull as he sawed at the reins, this new job would free his mind from brooding. He suddenly had a thousand new tasks amidst a company of strangers on a strange road through a haunted forest.

Good, he added cantankerously. He'd be too busy to mourn.

The wagon train lurched and bumped through the depths of the Whispering Woods. The trail was not hard. Since the trees were climax forest, so old they hardly grew, they formed a solid canopy that sheltered the leaf and mold floor, depriving brush of sunlight. Only mountain laurel or rhododendron, taller than Gull and wiry, could have slowed them, and they avoided those clumps. Mistletoe hung in curtains from oak trees, but was tender enough to shear. Indeed, the only obstacles were the contours of the land, with its rocky streambeds and drop-offs, kettle holes and ridges.

The biggest obstacle wore on the humans-the ceaseless whispering. Gull and Greensleeves were used to it, but it got on the others' nerves.

The whispering was like the sea, old Wolftooth had said. (And how did he fare? And Seal and the rest?) Or a chorus that hissed, trading secrets and comments, like old women at the fountain or geese overhead. The susurrus bubbled at every hand, here, then there, as if ghosts gibbered behind. But turning and twisting revealed nothing except more squeaking.

The mad whispering had kept everyone from White Ridge away, which was why Brown Bear had been the village woodcutter. Bear had feared nothing, and had dragged his skinny terrified son along, until that boy too was tall and strong, and from a lifetime of felling trees that might crush him, or worse, came to fear almost nothing.

Yet Towser's entourage darted fretful glances at the looming trees and close canopy above, illuminated only by splinters of sunlight, so it always appeared dusk in the wood. Even the scout, a burly man in a fur vest, stayed within sight of the chuck wagon.

And who knew, thought Gull, but that some monster might dash out of the twilight depths. In a morning's ride he'd come deeper than ever into the forest. He'd never seen anything bigger than bears, but he'd seen some strange tracks.

With a "Haw!" he turned the team, driving them up a slope toward the scout atop a low ridge. The mules' shoes bit through leaf cover to strike loam. The wagon wheels slewed sideways, and for a moment Gull thought they might topple. But the team found purchase and the wagon straightened, and so they continued. The scout moved on, hunting the flattest passage northwest. Gull glanced behind. The other drivers followed his ruts and mounted safely.

So far they'd been lucky in finding passage. There might come a time they'd have to push, or lever the wagons up the slope, or fell trees. But that would be later, and they'd solve any problems then.

This was his life now. Freighting wagons and mounts he never knew existed three days ago. The gods surely sent a man odd twists when the whim struck.

What other surprises lay in store?

The wagons-his wagons-were well built, sturdy yet springy, high-wheeled to climb over rocks and ruts, yet narrow as an arm span, long-bodied, sides and ends sloping toward the belly so loads would shift centerward and low. They would not tip easily. There were five wagons altogether, four canvas-topped and one a solid box. Gull drove the chuck wagon, which rattled with iron cooking pots and grills and cranes, boxes of apples and crocks of oil, bags of flour and salt. With him were Greensleeves, the fat cook, and her skinny helper.

Next came the women's wagon: six of the most beautiful women Gull had ever seen, dancing girls in swirling silks and satins, a rolling harem for Towser. The dancing girls flitted through the wagon train like songbirds, riding in different wagons, but Gull noted one or another always attended Towser.

At the center, safest from harm, was Towser's box wagon, gaudy with gold filigree and carved faces and painted scenes of the world. The wizard spent most of the day and night inside. A squint-eyed clerk in gray drove with ink-stained hands. An important man, Gull decided, since he doled out the pay.

Close behind came the astrologer's wagon, which held, if Gull had glimpsed aright, a eunuch who acted as nurse and herbalist; an astrologer like a withered apple; and a partidressed female who carried a tall lyre, obviously a bard.

Last came the men's wagon. There were four bodyguards. Each was a big man, big as Gull. Three drove wagons, wrestling reins all day. By turns one scouted their passage, watched for danger, and knocked down game if possible. Mostly they existed to protect Towser, with their lives, if necessary.

Eighteen people, Gull counted, each paid at least two gold crowns a day (though probably Gull was the poorest after the cook's boy). A fabulous sum Towser laid out every day just to live in comfort and style. He'd dismissed money as unimportant, but he could afford to: he had heaps.

Mulling, daydreaming, or not thinking at all, Gull drove and rocked with the wagon. White Ridge lay far behind now. If nothing else, perhaps he could leave some sorrow behind too.

Noon found them eight or nine miles into the forest.

The fat cook roused from her pallet, groped her way to the front of the swaying wagon, grabbed Gull's shoulder with burn-scarred hands and wheezed, "Find a flat spot and circle the wagons, Big Boy. We'll eat." The cook's boy had already jumped out the back to gather windfalls for firewood.

Smoothly, the teams pulled the wagons around- even the stock knew the routine-and drivers set the brakes while everyone else hopped down to work. Two dancing girls toted canvas buckets to fetch water from a stream. The bodyguards consulted with the returned scout, two took up crossbows and belted on swords, then walked circles around the camp while the others loosed harnesses. The clerk disappeared inside Towser's wagon, one dancing girl exited to make room for another. The nurse helped fan the fire; the bard settled on a rock and tuned her lyre and sang. Only the old astrologer got to lay a blanket in the sun for a nap.

Gull also got to work. He had plenty of it.

The animals-eight mules and twelve horses-kept their collars but were turned out to forage and drink. Hoof tool in hand, Gull checked each foot for cracks or stones lodged under shoes. That was eighty hooves, and some of these formerly abused animals gladly stomped his foot when he got careless. He talked to each, patting, gentling. It would take time to win their confidence: even Flossy and Knothead would bite if they got a chance. Come evening, Gull would have to curry hides and comb matted manes, check for harness chafing or flybite infections and other problems. If needed, he'd erect a bellows and tiny anvil and reshoe. Plus he must oil harness, replace worn sections, fix broken iron, grease axles, watch wheels for cracks and splits, check leather springs for tears. Plus drive one wagon all day and fret over four more.

Clearly his days would run from before dawn to after dark. Watching Greensleeves the while.

Speaking of which, where had she gone?

Camp rang with the clanging of pots and grills, chopping of firewood, singing and plucking of the bard, chattering of the girls and women, rude jesting from the two idle bodyguards.

But no sign of his sister.

Gull fumed. He couldn't really watch her-she melted away like smoke. The gods and her native luck would have to protect her. He'd be too busy "Hey, Big Boy!" Sweating over the fire, the fat cook held up a plate. "Come and get it or it goes to the pigs!"

Gull shifted his mulewhip to the middle of his back and took the tin plate. Boiled salt pork, a slab of fresh corn bread, and pickled somethings. A mug of warm ale. Gull was impressed. The long winter past but crops not up, food had been lean in White Ridge. He hadn't eaten corn bread in three months, nor drunk ale in two. Furthermore, the pork was rich and spicy, the bread golden crumbly, the pickles crunchy sweet, the ale tangy brown. He told the cook so, and she smiled.

"Glad you like it. It's damned hard work. Where's your little sister? I've got her plate here."

Mouth full, Gull shook his head. "She doesn't eat, usually. She finds mast in the forest. Or lives on air, like a fairy."

The cook wiped her face with a fat arm, loaded another plate. "That's why she's so thin. I'll fix that. Hey, Bad Boy, come and get it!"

Intent on eating, Gull lurched as someone belted his shoulder. His plate plopped on the ground.

Beside him, the scarred man in leather laughed. He wore black head to toe: laced tunic, breeches, flop-top boots, arm bracers, short-cropped hair. Not much older than Gull, he'd yet been hard used. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw. The flesh was puckered and rough, as if rasped off, and he lacked an ear. White furrows pulled his eye wide open, a sardonic glare.

He sneered at the bruises on Gull's face, as if the woodcutter had already lost a fight. "Whatsa matter? Your hands slippery with horse sweat? Move aside! I won't be smelling horseshit while I eat."

Meekly, Gull nodded, turned to go. "Yes, sir."

The bully's arm extended for his plate. Gull suddenly whirled back, slammed his elbow below the man's ribs, driving halfway into his guts.

The man heaved and doubled. But even short-winded, he whipped a knife from his belt and twisted, slashed at Gull's arm.

But Gull had moved on. He backpedaled, planted a clog against a backside.

The cook bleated as the bodyguard toppled into the firepit, glancing off an iron crane, scattering ashes into food.

Still, he rolled with the fall, spun, and threw the knife.

A crack snapped against the ears, and the knife flickered toward the trees like a glittery butterly. Gull had snaked out his whip and tagged the knife in the air.

The whole camp watched, stunned, even the fallen bodyguard. Grinning, Gull looped the whip over his head, flicked. The invisible tip sizzled at the bodyguard's head like a wasp. He yelped as his single ear split.

Gull flipped again. Like a trained snake, the whip swirled thrice around his neck, settled its viper's tongue on his breast. Unhurriedly he unwound it from his throat.

The bodyguard checked his ear, found bright blood. "Next time I'll kill you!"

"Next time you try," Gull replied, "I'll pop your eye."

He reached for the bodyguard's plate, and the cook gave it. "Good enough. A man who wastes food can do without. Hey, Slow Boy, come and get it!"

Most of the camp had run to see the bully test the newcomer. The bully picked himself out of the dust and walked into the forest. As Gull ate, another bodyguard, wrinkled and bronzed, grinned gap-toothed and signaled a thumbs-up.

"One friend, one enemy," Gull mused. "Not a bad morning's work."

Greensleeves returned as Gull hitched the last team in place. She carried something long and gray-black. As Gull turned, it snarled.

A badger.

Despite the foaming fangs, his sister hugged the beast to her breast, for it was heavy. It lay docile to petting, yet was clearly wild. One ear was gnawed, probably by a wildcat.

Leaning backward, Gull joked, "You could name it after that bodyguard. But leave him here, Greenie. He won't ride in a wagon."

Cooing, blathering, Greensleeves stroked the striped head, toyed with stiff whiskers, tickled its muzzle. The animal liked the scratching. Finally she put it down, and it scuttled belly down into the brush. Then she yawned, wide-mouthed like a child.

Gull chuckled, caught her by the waist, hoisted her onto the wagon seat. Inside, the cook crooned, "Ha, there's the little darling! Come here and nap with Felda, sweetie." All dirty feet and knees, Greensleeves tumbled into the back to curl like a dog.

Gull limped around the wagons, checking one last time. As he passed the women's wagon, a blob of spittle landed before him. The leather-clad bodyguard perched on the box. His ear had scabbed, but swollen twice its size. He sneered, "You won't live the night, shit shoveler."

Grinning, Gull put a hand to his head. "What's that? I can't hear you. There's something wrong with my ear."

Veins bulged in the bodyguard's neck. Two wagons down, the crinkled bodyguard silently guffawed.

Gull finished inspecting, then called to the clerk on Towser's wagon. "Ready to roll."

The clerk spoke into the wagon, then nodded. "Move out."

To the click of brakes and slap of reins and cluck of drivers, the wagon train uncoiled and wheeled down the trail picked out by the sheepskinned man the cook called Slow Boy. Creak, rattle, clunk, into the depths of the Whispering Woods.

Gull wondered how far the woods extended, where they ended, what came next. Then he hollered at Knothead to take the proper side of a rock, the stupid mangy lop-eared peabrained son of a blind piebald pig.

Anyone not driving was free to walk. The bard always did, toting her lyre and whistling birdcalls. The dancing girls hopped from one wagon to another, into Towser's when summoned.

Yet Gull was surprised when a white-clad dancing girl caught the edge of the chuck wagon seat. "Give me a hand!"

Gently, Gull hauled her aboard, then returned to his driving. In this stretch, he could easily scrape a tree and break a wheel. Yet he risked a glance. Penetrating the makeup, he guessed she was only slightly older than Greensleeves, still a girl. She rode in silence a way, then offered, "That was clever how you snipped Kern's ear."

Gull chuckled at the memory. "Oh, that was nothing. I flick flies off my mule's ear without a twitch. He was testing my mettle. Now we know where we stand."

"Well, ignore his threats. He only beats people who give in. He made our last freighter's life hell."

So that's why the man hid among the horses, Gull thought, and died by a fireball.

Gull clucked to urge his teams around a stand of birch. "Do you speak from personal experience?"

"Aye," she said frankly. "I slept with him once, but he hit me. So no more."

Ah, thought Gull, she was grateful he'd bashed Kem. "What did Towser say about that?"

"What? The hitting?"

"No, the sleeping."

"Oh. We're allowed to pleasure the men as long as they pay for it. We're in Towser's employ, after all."

"And what do you do for Towser?" Just making conversation, Gull didn't expect a reply.

Yet she smiled and answered. "Not as much as you'd think. He frets about his health and stars too much to enjoy a romp."

"Eh? His health and stars?"

"Aye." She stretched like a cat, yawning. "He has the notion-you won't tell him I said so?"

"What?" Gull looked sidelong. The girl's hair was dark, cut short at the sides to kiss her cheeks, with the rest braided down her back, twined with white ribbons. All her clothes were white with yellow and blue piping: sheer blouse, vest brocaded in flowers, pantaloons, slippers bound with more ribbons. He returned to studying his mules. "No. You can trust me."

"Hmmm…" she demurred, then plunged in. "Towser has the notion that working magic drains his 'vital juices.' He's always carping about 'balancing the salts' and 'maintaining electricity,' whatever that means. That's why he has a nurse in attendance, Haley, the eunuch. Sloppy green potions six times a day, poured in one end or squirted up the other. Ridiculous. And he worries about the influence of the stars, so he fetches along that witch, Kakulina, his personal astrologer. All she does is draw star charts and mumble absurdities. I should have her job. She doesn't have to humor someone who talks constantly of his bowels and his birthstone."

Amused by his boss's queer notions, Gull smirked. "You could have asked to be muleskinner."

"I should have. I couldn't be cook, that's for sure. I never learned how."

"Can't cook?" Gull gurgled. "Every child in my village learns that!"

The girl extended a slippered foot over the seat, let it bob with the sway of the wagon. Sunlight dappled her powdered face, making her look artificial and unhealthy. "When I was a child, my parents sold me to a bawdy house. Eleven mouths were too many to feed. And I was too pretty to keep. I learned how to set a table, serve tea and ale, mull wine, dance and sing, to duck a hurled bottle, to recognize disease, to hide my money so the other girls wouldn't steal it, to beg a man not to slash me. Later, when I was old enough, I learned how to arouse a man, how to fulfill his fantasies-"

"You don't need to tell me the rest."

The girl stared straight ahead. "Anyway, they never taught me how to cook."

"Doesn't sound like a jolly life."

She shrugged thin shoulders. "It's not the worst job in the world. I don't have to gut fish, or plow, or lean over tanning vats, or muck out hogs. I don't have to please six or seven men a night, only one, and Towser doesn't require much. And I've been saving my money. Someday I'll have a business of my own."

"Oh?" Gull was amused and bemused. In some ways, this woman reminded him of poor Cowslip, practical and level-headed. Yet dainty and aloof, she was unlike any woman he'd ever met. "What kind of business?"

"A shop for gentlemen and ladies. A milliner's. I'll sell only the finest hats and gloves. In some big city."

The driver nodded. "People will always need clothes, so you won't starve. It's good to see ambition. All I ever learned is how to cut wood and shape timber. And whack mules in the head. That would have been enough, too, but my luck ran out three days ago."

"Don't dwell on it, then. Be glad for the home you had. Some of us were denied even that."

They rode in silence a while, then Gull asked, "How did you come to work here?"

"Towser bought my contract a year ago. He was very queer about it, too."

"How queer?" This woman was one surprise after another.

The dancing girl frowned in recollection. "He had all us girls paraded into the main hall, then he had each don this silver medallion he took from a box. We took it in turns and never did learn why. Then he bargained for me, and my mistress let me go."

Gull could make no sense of that, just shrugged. "How are you called?"

"Lily. Towser has me dress in white. The other girls are Rose, who's sweet but dense; Orchid, who thinks she's a queen; Peachblossom, friendly enough; Jonquil, fit to butcher hogs; and Bluebonnet, such a bitch she could birth puppies."

"Thanks for the warning," Gull drawled.

Yet he brooded. The dancing girls were named after flowers, as had often been the women in his village. None of them would have been named Lily, a delicate flower grown fussily in gardens. A cowslip was a hardy wildflower that flourished in manure piles.

Then thoughts of home and all he'd lost crowded his mind, let him say no more.

In the midafternoon, the scout waved the train to halt. From a low rise ahead, he mimed Gull should walk. Curious, the woodcutter handed the reins to Lily and limped up there.

The crinkled bronzed man was taking his turn. He draped a crossbow across a knotty arm and pointed to the ground. "What d'ya make?"

Careful not to step on the evidence, Gull dropped to one knee and examined the trail. Groundwater trapped by a ledge made the earth muddy. Twin wheel tracks scarred the loam. Deep dimples were space a foot apart.

"Rivet heads on an iron rim," said Gull. "Not like our wheels. They're smooth. Someone's ahead of us. Maybe… four wagons?" He fingered the edge of the tracks. Sharp-cut but dry, they crumbled at his touch. "Two days ahead, I'd guess."

He straightened, tottered through a break in the trees. "They came from more north, changed their minds, hooked this way. That's why we haven't seen them before. Are they going the same place we are?"

"Couldn't tell you, bucko," chortled the man. "I don't know where we're going meself. Me name's Morven, by the way. Thirty years on the water, I was, until the sight of blue made me puke. So I hauled anchor and tacked inland, signed on with this scurvy wizard and his bully-dogs. What are you called?"

"Gull." He shook the man's bony hand. Morven had gray in his curly hair and beard. His face was wrinkled as a crab's from squinting into wind and sun. Dressed in a faded blue shirt and white breeches and sandals on crooked feet, he reminded Gull of old Wolftooth, the only man in White Ridge to have traveled.

Another squint. "Gull like a sea gull?"

"Yes. One landed on our threshold the day I was born. First and last ever seen in our village."

"Then you're fated to go to sea one day."

"Perhaps," Gull shrugged. "I don't guess the gods' intentions. They do as they will with us. I can't even guess my employer's intentions, other than keeping his livestock happy."

"Keepin' anythin' happy's enough for one man. And that includes wives. I ought to know. I've had thirteen."

Gull grinned. "Is that why you're so far inland?"

The grin shot back. "Let's say I shear clear o' seaports and let be. Come. We'll give old Puckerbutt the bad news."

They walked toward the wagon train. "Puckerbutt?"

"Tow's clerk, the pinchpenny, the nipcheese. Him as pays us, when he remembers."

"We'll see he remembers, won't we?"

"Oh, aye. But he'll never love givin' out money. Any more than Kem's going to kiss you for splitting his ear." He chuckled anew. "By the Lance of Ages, I'd give a month's pay to see it again! The look on his face! Hey, Puckerbutt! Haul your fat arse down here!"

Even Towser left his wagon to inspect the mysterious tracks. He decided there was nothing for it but to continue trending northwest, try to find a parallel track if possible.

And as the train got under way again, Gull suddenly knew their destination.

Northwest.

Where one moon ago, a shooting star, rocketing from the heavens, had crashed, shaking the earth and setting the forest ablaze.

A portent of doom-and so it had proved for White Ridge.

What would that mean when Gull and Greensleeves got there?

Gull lay on his side and stared at the dying fire. He was exhausted, yet he couldn't sleep.

Past midnight of the busiest day of his life, he'd only just crawled into his bedroll under the chuck wagon. He'd stowed Greensleeves in the chuck wagon with Felda, the cook, but had opted to sleep outside, where he could monitor the stock, rise quickly if wolves or bears came skulking. Toward that end, he'd hung his longbow and quiver and double-bitted axe in the axles. Then he'd collapsed on his bedroll.

And brooded on where he was.

Miles from his valley, farther than he'd ever journeyed. And every turn of these wheels carried him and Greensleeves farther away. Gull had never been homesick before, because he'd never been away from home.

Now he wondered, Would it have been so bad if he and Greensleeves had died with the rest? Would all his family be together then, in some better place?

A hiss. "Gull!"

He started at the rustle behind him, flipped quickly, and reached up for his axe.

A whiff of perfume, a slim hand pressing his mouth, then nimble fingers tugged his blanket roll open, and Lily slipped inside. Her white powdered face was ruddy by the light of dying embers, her feet cold, her body warm. Giggling, she planted painted lips on his and kissed greedily.

"We can be together if we're quiet!" she whispered. "You needn't pay me. No one will know. I'll grant your every desire!"

Blood thundered in Gull's skull like a hammer on an anvil. Lily pressed close, chewed on his lips, groped under his kilt.

"Wait!" Stunned by the surprise, his mind still far off in White Ridge, Gull grabbed her wrists.

Thinking he teased, Lily ducked and bit him on the nipple. She was drawing a reaction from under his kilt, but he tugged her hands away.

Red lips pouted. "What? Is there something else you prefer? I know all sorts of ways-"

"Hush up-honey." He'd almost said "child." She'd seen worlds more than he, yet she was so young and perky he felt like her big brother. "I don't want…"

Her confusion was turning to anger. "Men never know what they want! That's why they come to us! I can-"

"Heavens above! Would you listen?" His thoughts jumbled. Part of him knew what it wanted, but he plowed on. "It's not you, Lily. You're very pretty and very sweet. It's me. I'm…"

She waited, used to it. Finally he blurted, "I'm still in mourning. Being with you would be-too much happiness too soon. It'd dishonor the memory of my village, and my family. Do you understand?"

Leaning back, she studied his face, shook her berib-boned hair. "I don't… That's… Never has a man given me that excuse. Too tired, or too much drink. But never…" She was baffled, and Gull felt a sudden rush of sympathy for her. She offered affection the only way she knew how, and he'd rebuffed her.

Yet an old saying of his mother's came to Gull's mind. "A simple hug shows more love than all the loving in the world."

And thoughts of his lost home only made him sad.

Suddenly he hugged her close, her head against his breast. Perfume wafted from Lily's dark hair. "Just let me hold you a while, please?"

Gently, carefully, she hugged him back. Finally she understood, for she was lonely and homesick too. "You're a strange man, Gull, but a good one-Ouch!"

Lily bleated, then screamed. Ripped from his arms, she was hauled by her hair from under the wagon.

"What the…? Out of the way, alley cat!" grated a voice. "I'm here to kill your boyfriend!"