Passage tsk-3 Read online

  In the late afternoon, Dag asked Berry if they might pull in briefly at another Lakewalker ferry camp, this one on the south side of the Grace. Berry, Fawn knew, was anxious to ride this rise past Silver Shoals, lest the Fetch be grounded above that hazard and have to wait again for the next upstream storm. But she eyed Dag and nodded, saying only, “Make it quick, Lakewalker.”

  The deserted landing was nothing but a bare patch on the bank, the camp up over the bluffs invisible from shore. This ferry served not a wagon road but merely a patrol trail, and so had few farmer customers. Dag hiked off alone, inviting neither Fawn nor Remo, not that Remo would likely have accepted.

  The Pearl Riffle patroller had obeyed Berry’s boat-boss orders without comment or complaint, but had kept equally silent between work shifts. Whit’s most ham-fisted overtures of would-be friendship seemed to slide right over him. Fawn didn’t think he even talked to Dag, though she did catch him watching the older man as if he were trying to figure something out and couldn’t. Hod was skittish around Remo, but then, Hod was skittish around everyone.

  Hawthorn took the goat ashore to graze for an hour. Remo volunteered to do the same for Copperhead, which surprised Fawn, till she noticed it gave him an excuse to settle down well away from the rest of the crew. Whit followed Berry around. Fawn, between chores at last, announced, “I think I’ll walk up to meet Dag.”

  The path up from the shore along the hillside was slick with damp yellow leaves, in need of pruning, and unpeopled. A half-mile up it, she met Dag coming back through the gray-brown woods. From his set face, she guessed his errand had not prospered.

  “No luck?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “I tried not to repeat my mistakes. I told ’em my name was Dag Otter Hope, and made them think I was a private courier. I might as well have spared my pride. They didn’t have any extra knives. Well, it wasn’t a big camp, no surprise.”

  “That’s a pity.” Fawn turned to stroll beside him. They were not only out of earshot of the Fetch right now, they were out of groundsense range. It seemed a good chance to ask. “Your Remo doesn’t look too happy. I wondered what you were thinking of doing about him.”

  “He’s not my Remo.”

  “He’s following you, it seems.”

  “Just because we’re on the same boat doesn’t mean I’ve adopted him.”

  “Is he going to be in a whole lot of trouble back at Pearl Riffle for deserting?”

  Dag sighed. “Maybe. I’m not sure he grasps the difference between banished and resigned.”

  “He doesn’t say much.” Fawn considered this. “Or anything.”

  “He’s listening, though.” Dag cocked his head. “Think back to when I came to West Blue, before we were wed. It was the first time in a longer life than Remo’s that I’d ever slept in a farmer house, ate at the family table. Listened to farmers talk to each other. Remo’s never even been an exchange patroller, never been away from his home camp before, any more than Whit. I think it won’t hurt to just let his new impressions accumulate for a while.”

  “Mm,” said Fawn. “Yesterday afternoon while he was on break from his oar, he went and stole Hawthorn’s raccoon kit. He huddled up in a little dark hidey-hole in amongst the stores, and coaxed it to curl up on his lap. And just sat, hunched up around the one little live thing that wasn’t mad at him. Till Hawthorn finally missed it, and found him and made him give it back.”

  “Nobody on this boat is mad at Remo.”

  “Nobody on this boat seems real to Remo, ’cept you. And you aren’t best pleased with him.”

  Dag made a noncommittal noise.

  Fawn lifted her chin and went on, “I don’t think it’s good for Lakewalkers to be cut off sudden from everything they know. They get to pining.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Dag sighed.

  She cast him a sharp glance. Yeah.

  “Hod’s looking better,” Fawn observed after a few more paces, trying for a lighter note. “His skin’s a nicer color, and he moves brisker, now he’s getting the good of his food. He hardly uses your stick. He watches you. He watches Remo watching you, too.” She bit her lip. Maybe not as light as all that. “Jealous isn’t quite the right word. Neither is envious. But…Hod does make me think of a dog with one bone, somehow.”

  Dag nodded. “It’s the beguilement. Can’t say as I’ve had any fresh ideas about that, yet.”

  “You trying? Because—ow!” Fawn grimaced and stopped. The branch she’d carelessly shoved out of her face had whipped back, proving to be from a thorny honey locust. After scratching her scalp, it had snagged in her hair.

  “Hold up.” Dag reached over and gently detangled her, snapped the branch, and bent it down away from the trail. “I do purely hate these evil trees. Find ’em on patrol all over Oleana. They don’t bear fruit, their wood’s not good for much, and there’s just no excuse for those thorns.”

  “I suppose a hedge of them would be good for stopping unwanted visitors.”

  “Better for a bonfire.” Dag hadn’t released the branch; he had an absent look on his face that made Fawn suddenly uneasy. “Nobody would miss this tree. If a malice was to ground-rip a tree like this, it would be a positive good.” He paused. “Remember that mosquito I ground-ripped back in Lumpton Market?”

  “Yes. It made you very sick.”

  “I’ve been wondering ever since what would happen if I tried something else.”

  “Dag, I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.” Just what kind of mood was he in right now, after whatever frustrations he’d encountered up at that camp?

  “Yes, but see—medicine makers. I’ve been wondering about medicine makers. The senior ones do have craft secrets. They have such dense grounds—it’s pretty much a marker of the gift. Not necessarily long groundsense ranges, mind. Hoharie would never make a patroller, but she can give ground reinforcements day after day. I always thought that was a natural ability, but what if it’s something else? I never saw…”

  “No more mosquitoes,” said Fawn firmly. “No more bugs of any kind. Mind what happened to your arm?”

  “Yes, but what about this here tree? It never would be missed.”

  “It’s about a hundred million times bigger than a mosquito.”

  “I grant you, that mosquito did make me itch. Maybe this would make me all thorny and sessile.”

  “What, are you saying that no one would be able to tell?” And at his bland look, added insincerely, “Sorry.” His lips twitched.

  Fawn couldn’t imagine what taking in the ground of a whole tree would do to a person. Neither could Dag, she suspected. But he was getting an alarmingly intent look on his face, eyeing the thorn-studded branches and bole. The spines were three-pronged and stuck out in jagged packs from every possible part of the repulsive thing.

  “Use some sense,” she begged. “At least don’t start with a whole tree. Start with something smaller.” She scrabbled in the pocket of her skirt, found a few tiny lumps still stuck in the seams, and freed one. “Here.”

  Dag held out his hand to receive the gift. “An oat?”

  “I was feeding Daisy and Copperhead earlier.”

  “One oat?” He stared down at his palm.

  “If you ate an oat it wouldn’t make you sick, even if you ate a whole bowl of oats. Not like a big bowl of mosquitoes. Or of nasty thorns. Even Copperhead wouldn’t eat off that tree!”

  “That’s…an interesting parallel. Huh. We do take in the ground of our food and convert it—everyone does. Lakewalkers, farmers, animals, every living thing. Natural ground reinforcement.” He glanced up and down the trail. They were quite alone. He closed his palm, rubbed his hook across the back of his hand, and opened it again. The oat was gone. He wiped a faint gray powder off against the seam of his trouser leg. “Huh,” he said again. His face was suddenly very sober.

  “What did it do?” Fawn asked anxiously.

  He rubbed his left arm. “Well, I can feel that bit of ground stuck in me.
Not near as unpleasant as the mosquito’s. Got any more oats in your pocket?”

  “Remember, your fever and swelling didn’t come on right away. Give that one a day. Then try another. Maybe.”

  “Berry’s got a whole barrel of oats on the Fetch,” Dag said thoughtfully. “There’s a notion to test. If you can eat it safely, can you ground-rip it safely? I think I’d rather just eat my food, but I can see where this might be faster in some emergency.”

  “I don’t know, Dag. I think maybe you need a Lakewalker partner for this sort of experiment.” Someone who could tell if he was doing dreadful things to his ground—and warn her, so she could put her foot down. Because, remember that catfish. “Do you think Remo would be any help?”

  Dag let his breath trickle out through pursed lips. “I’m not sure I would want to try this in front of young Remo. This is a pretty disturbing sort of groundwork for any Lakewalker who’s seen a malice operate.”

  “Has Remo?”

  Dag’s brows twitched up. “Maybe not, Spark. There’s been no reports of malice finds in the Pearl Riffle patrol area for quite a few years. If he’s never exchanged, then no, he’s not had that chance yet.”

  “So he wouldn’t know malice magic if he saw it.”

  “Maybe not.”

  Leaving the thorny honey locust unmolested, to her intense relief, Dag started back down the trail. He hugged Fawn close to his side as they dodged hindering branches.

  “So,” said Fawn, “if dense ground marks a medicine maker, and long groundsense range marks a patroller, what do you call someone who has everything?”

  “Knife maker. Sir. Or ma’am.”

  “There are women knife makers?” She had only met Dar, Dag’s hostile knife maker brother. Hostile to farmer brides, anyhow.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “So what do you call someone who hasn’t got either density or range?”

  “A farmer,” Dag replied with a twitch of his lips, then looked down. “Sorry.”

  Except that he actually was, a little. Fawn tossed her head.

  “Only it isn’t so,” he went on more thoughtfully. “We meet a sprinkling of farmers near the threshold of ground function—at least, we do if we get out of the camps to patrol, and are paying attention. Aunt Nattie. You, in a way.”

  “Me?” said Fawn, surprised. “I’ve got no groundsense range. I’ve got no groundsense to have a range.”

  “None at all,” he agreed cheerfully. She almost poked him. “But you have unusual ground…not density, though there’s that, too, but brightness. Your ground is very beautiful, you know. Why do you think I call you Spark, Spark?”

  “I thought it was a pet name. For a pet,” she added provokingly.

  He gave her a pained look, but said, “No, it’s pure description. As natural as it would be to call red-haired Sassa Carrot Top.”

  “Carrot tops are green. I’m a farmer girl, trust me.” Still, she had to smile a little. Was beauty in the groundsense of the beholder? Evidently. Other Lakewalkers had not seemed as entranced by her ground as Dag. Maybe it was a matter of taste, as the old lady said as she kissed the cow—Fawn smiled outright in memory at Aunt Nattie’s old saw. Yet—elusive thought—what if it was so? What if it was neither flattery nor infatuation, but true report? Dag was a truthful sort of fellow, by preference. What if Dag really did see her as brighter, the way sensitive or sore eyes squinted at the sun? The way thirst saw water…? She asked abruptly, “What do I give you?”

  “Breath.”

  “No, seriously.” She stopped; he turned to face her.

  “I was serious.” He wore his serious smile, anyhow.

  “Back when Hod first came on the Fetch, you said I didn’t know what I gave you, every day. Do you?”

  In that moment, she discovered the difference between stopped and stopped cold. “What?” he said.

  “What do I give you in your ground?”

  A slow blink. He wrapped her in a hug, bent his head, and explored her mouth in a long kiss. Not evading the question—testing it. He released her at last, his brows drawn in, and she came down off her toes.

  “Balance,” he said. “You—untangle me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Dag…” she protested. “If you can’t figure this out and tell me, who else can?”

  He ducked his head in wry accord. “You make my ground disappear. No, that’s not right,” he continued, as she began to protest again. “Imagine…imagine your muscles all full of knots, pulled and sore and stiff, fighting you with every move you try to make. Now imagine your muscles when they’re working smooth and warm, effortlessly, without thought. To will is to have is to be, all one. Like a perfect shot.”

  “Hm?” He wasn’t there yet, but he had hold of the tail of something, she could tell. Something elusive.

  “When I make a perfect shot with my bow. Which happens from time to time, though never often enough. I don’t just mean get the arrow into the target, which I can do pretty consistently. In a perfect shot, everything’s there the same as any ordinary shot, yet not. For that fleeting moment, it’s like—my worries, my body, my bow, the target, even the arrow disappear. Only the flight is left.” His hand closed, opened.

  “My left-hand groundwork is like the flight of the arrow without the arrow.”

  He stared down as if his words had fallen into his palm as unexpectedly as a jeweled tooth.

  He just said something important. Hang on to that, farmer girl, even if you don’t quite get it yet. “So why am I not beguiled, yet Hod is? You’ve done groundwork on us both. The why and how has to lie somewhere in the space between us three.”

  His mouth slowly closed; the gold of his eyes turned flat and unreflective. But he said only, “We’re keeping Berry,” and walked on.

  Fawn matched his pace, satisfied that her question had not been dismissed; his sudden abstraction only marked the wheels in his head turning creakily in unaccustomed directions. So maybe I should keep that axle grease coming, huh?

  12

  Despite the delay from Dag’s fruitless errand, the Fetch made another eight downriver miles before darkness drove them to shore. At supper, Berry opined that they would reach Silver Shoals by tomorrow, if the river didn’t fall overnight. Dag smiled into his mug of fizzy cider as he watched Fawn’s and Whit’s eyes light up at the news. They both quizzed Berry and Bo about the famous rivertown, which filled the time until Hawthorn and Hod carried the dirty dishes to the back deck to wash up. This looked to take a while, as Hawthorn was attempting to teach his raccoon kit to ride on his shoulder at the same time. There was still a long stretch of evening left, and it wasn’t raining, windy, or excessively cold.

  “Bow lessons?” suggested Dag to Whit. “It’s been a few days.” Since before the distractions of Glassforge and Pearl Riffle.

  Whit looked up eagerly, but said, “Isn’t it too dark? The moon won’t be up for a while, and even then it’s none too full.”

  “The Fetch has plenty of lanterns, if Berry’ll lend us a couple.”

  Berry nodded, looking interested.

  “Set up one by the target, the other by us,” Dag continued. “Easy.”

  “Sounds like a waste of good rock oil. And lanterns,” said Bo.

  “Whit will aim by it, not at it. Or so we hope,” said Dag. Whit grinned sheepishly. “You need to learn to shoot in all kinds of light. If you were a Lakewalker, I could teach you to shoot in complete darkness, by groundsense. Those slow-moving trees in broad daylight are getting too easy for you. We’ll have to shift you on to peppier targets soon. But tonight we can borrow Copperhead’s and Daisy-goat’s spare straw bale and set it up above the bank a ways.”

  Fawn said, “Wait, who has to go grope for the misses in the dark? We’ll be losing my good arrows!” Arrow retrieval had been her job in Whit’s prior camp-side lessons, mostly due to an understandable protectiveness of her craftwork.

  “Not a one,” Dag promise
d. “You collect the hits, and I’ll undertake to find the misses.” He cast a mock-stern eye on Whit. “That means you’d better tighten your aim, boy.”

  With Fawn carrying the lanterns, Whit thumped off to lug the straw bale onto shore. Berry followed after. Bo got up to poke the fire, then settled back with his feet to the hearth. Dag finished his tankard of cider in a more leisurely way.

  Remo had listened to all this with a frown. Now he said, “You’re really teaching that mouthy farmer boy Lakewalker bow-work? Why?”

  “That would be my tent-brother, yes, and because he asked.”

  Remo hesitated. “I suppose it’s been a long time since you had a chance to handle a bow yourself,” he said more quietly. “Were you good, once?”

  Remo hadn’t heard all the Dag stories from Saun, it seemed. Maybe it was the livelier Barr that Saun had struck up his acquaintance with. From his tone, Dag guessed Remo was attempting to apologize. Pity he isn’t better at it. Dag let a couple of tart replies go, including I was a fairly dab hand last week, in favor of “Come on along and make yourself useful, if you like. There are some things I just can’t show Whit about his left-hand grip, for one.”

  Remo looked taken aback at the notion.

  Dag added evenly, “You know, if you’re going to be living with farmers, it’s time you started learning how to talk to ’em.”

  “I’m not going to be living with farmers!”

  “Well, it doesn’t appear you mean to be living with Lakewalkers, either. What, do you figure to perch up a tree with the squirrels and eat acorns all winter? It’s got to be one or the other.”

  Remo’s lips compressed. Dag just shook his head and rose to stroll after Fawn and Whit. He called over his shoulder, “If you change your mind, come on out.”

  Whit had set up his bale on some deadfall a reasonable distance upstream, that being the direction with fewer trees and more level footing, and was arguing with Fawn over where to place the lantern. They compromised on a nearby broken cottonwood stump. Fawn pinned the increasingly tattered cloth target with the two concentric circles painted on it to the bale. The white fabric showed up well in the modest yellow glow. They returned to the boat, and Whit ran inside to get his bow and arrows. When he came back out, Remo followed slowly, though only as far as the boat’s front rail, on which he leaned.