A Gathering Of Stones

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The house proved to be in better condition than he’d expected. There were two stories, the roof was reasonably intact and whatever leaked through the shakes was generally soaked up by the cross laid double floor of the second story. He decided to camp in the kitchen; there was a fireplace, a brick oven, several benches and a table that must have been built where it stood since it was far too big to fit through any of the doors. There was a washstand at the far end, close to the fireplace; that part of the kitchen was built over an artesian spring that was still gurgling forth a copious flow of cold pure water, the overflow caught and carried away by a tiled waste channel that split in two parts as it dipped under the back wall. One part flowed under the room next door and emptied into what had once been a large and flourishing vegetable garden-Simms found some tubers and herbs there that made a welcome addition to the stores he was carrying; the other part went to the barn; he found that ditch by falling into it when he poked about in the store sheds and corrals behind the house. In one of those sheds, a low, thickwalled, sod-roofed cube, he found a dozen ceramic jars almost as tall as he was, the tops sealed with a mixture of clay and wax. He put a hand on each of them, red beans, peas, lentils, flour, barley and wheat, old but untouched by rot or mildew. He tried shifting one of the jars; if he put his shoulder to it, he could tilt it and rock it across the floor, but getting it all the way to the house was something else. He’d have to use Neddio to haul them, something the horse wasn’t going to like much. Wood first, though. He stepped outside, got a flurry of snow in the face; in the gusts and between them, the snow was coming down harder. He didn’t have all that much time left before nightfall when even the dim gray twilight would vanish.

He cobbled together harness and collar with bits of rope and the saddle blanket, tied the ends of the harness rope to the front corners of a piece of canvas he’d found rolled up in a closet in the kitchen and began hauling wood back to the house, everything he could scavenge. He worked steadily for the next several hours, back and forth, rails, posts, bits of barn roof, rafters, stall timbers, anything he could chop loose and pile on the canvas, back and forth, the wind battering them, the snow coming down harder and harder, smothering them. Until, at last, there was no wood left worth the effort of hauling it.

He cut the canvas loose and left it in the small foyer, took Neddio around to the shed and hitched him to one of the jars. Hauling proved slow, awkward work; Neddio balked again and again, he detested those ropes cutting into him, that weight dragging back on him. Simms patted him, coaxed him, sang him into one more effort and then one more and again one more.

Heading out of the house for the last of the jars, he heard a mule bray and a moment later, a second one.

“Visitors? Yah yah, Neddio, you can stand down a while till I see what’s what.” He stripped off his heavy outer gloves, tossed them inside, slapped the horse on the shoulder and waited until the beast had retreated into the semi-warmth of the parlor, then he followed the sound of the braying. He groped his way to the wall, found the gap. He could see about a foot from his nose, after that nothing but the flickering white haze so he was very wary of leaving the shelter of the wall, it would be all too easy to get so turned around and confused he couldn’t find his way back to the house. He stood in the gap, leaning into the wind and listening. The mules were off to his left, not far from the wall though he couldn’t see them. He whistled, whistled again. The sound died before it reached them, sucked into the keening of the wind. That was no good. He began to sing, a calling song he’d learned from his outlander grandmer when he was a child. She died when he was six, but he still remembered her songs and the things she’d taught him. He sang across the wind, willed the mules to hear him and come. He sang until he was hoarse-until two dark shapes came out of the snow and stopped before him.

They were hitched to, a light two-wheel dulic, the reins loose, dragging on the ground. The driver was a large lump mounded along the driver’s bench, unconscious or dead. Didn’t matter, the mules were alive, he had to get them into shelter.

Still singing, he teased them closer and closer until he could take hold of a halter and retrieve the reins. He led them along the driveway and took them into the parlor, stripped off their harness and chased them into the corner where he’d spread some straw he’d retrieved from under a section of barnroof and piled up for bedding. After a minute’s thought, he pulled the improvised harness off Neddio and sent him after them; the last jar could stay in the shed until they needed it. If they did.

Now for the driver, he thought. Dead or alive? Well, we’ll see.

He shivered as he plunged into the wind and snow, groped over to the dulic and climbed into it. He burrowed through layers of scarves and cloaks until he could get his fingers on the man’s neck, poked about until he discovered the artery and rested his fingertips on it. The man’s heart was beating strongly, but he was very very cold. Something not wholly natural about the chilly flesh, he didn’t know what it was, but it bothered him. Still, he couldn’t leave him out here to freeze. Offing someone when the blood was hot, well, that was a thing could happen to anyone, cold blood was different, and by damn his blood and everything else was cold. He pried up the massive torso, gritted his teeth under the weight and length of the man, got as much of him as he could wrapped around his shoulders and began the laborious process of getting back to the ground without injuring his load or doing serious damage to himself.

Ten sweaty staggering minutes later, he laid the stranger out on the tiles in front of the kitchen fire. He left him there and went to fetch in the gear and other supplies from the dulic, piled the pouches and blanket roll on the table and went back for a second load. There was more baggage than he’d expected, this was no wandering beggar, whatever else he was.

When the last load was in and piled on the table, he went to look at his patient. The man hadn’t changed position and wasn’t showing any signs of waking. Simms touched his brow. No fever. He was still cold but not quite so deathly chill. You’ll do for a while. I sh’d get those wet clothes off, but that can wait. Dulic first, then I deal with the door an’ take care of the stock, then it’s your turn, friend. Plenty of time for you. I be glad, though, when you wake and tell me what in u’ffren you’re doin’ out here. Wonderin’ makes me itch.

After he pulled the dulic back of the house and rolled it into a shed, he inspected the door he’d knocked down; he and Neddio had tramped back and forth across it dozens of times but even Neddio’s iron shoes had done little to mark the massive planks of mountain oak, glued together and further reinforced by horizontal and diagonal two-by-fours of the same oak nailed onto the planks with hand-forged iron nails. He muscled the door into the opening, propped it against the jamb, walked one of the jars against it to keep the wind from blowing it down again.

The two mules were tail switching and fratchetty, they kicked at Neddio if he went too close to them, nipped at Simms when he shifted some of the straw into another corner for his horse, even followed him, long yellow teeth reaching for arms and legs or a handy buttock, when he went to lay a fire in the parlor fireplace, though they didn’t like the fire much and retreated to their corner when it started crackling briskly. Keeping a wary eye on them, he dragged one of the parlor benches to the hearth and spread corn along it from a corn jar in the foyer. He rolled an ancient crock from the kitchen, filled it with water, took a look round and was satisfied he’d done what he could to make the beasts comfortable.

In the kitchen, he filled the tin tank in the brick stove and kindled a fire under it so he’d have hot water to bathe his patient; he laid another fire in the stoke hole, filled one of the stranger’s pots from the spring, dropped in dried meat from his own stores and lentils and barley from jars in the parlor, along with some of the tubers and herbs from the garden and set it simmering on the grate. He put teawater to heating beside the stew and went to inspect the stranger.

He was a long man, six foot five, six, maybe even seven with shoulders of a size to match his length. He had been a heavy man, big muscles with a layer of fat; he’d lost the fat and some of the muscle, his skin hung loose around him. He w’d make a han’some skel’ton. Simms smiled at the thought and drew his fingers over the prominent bones of the man’s face. Beautiful man. Thick coarse gray hair in a braid that vanished down the cloak. Brows dark, with only a hair or two gone gray. Eyelashes long and sooty, resting in a graceful arc on the dark poreless skin stretched over his cheekbones. Big, powerful man, but Simms got a feeling of fragility from him, as if the size and strength were illusions painted over emptiness. Beautiful shell, but only a shell.

He turned the stranger onto his stomach, eased his head around so his damp hair was turned to the fire and began stripping the sodden clothing off him, boots first, boot liners, knitted stockings, two pairs, wool and silk with the silk next to the silk. Gloves, fur lined. Silk glove liners. Fur-lined cloak. Silk-lined woolen undercloak. Wool robe, heavily embroidered over the chest, around the hem and sleeve cuffs. Silk under-robe. Wool trousers. Silk underwear. Whoever he was, he was a man of wealth and importance. What he was doing crossing the Grass in winter, alone… itch itch, wake up an’ talk t’ me, man, ‘fore my head explode.

He fetched the water from the tank and began bathing the stranger, concentrating at first on his hands and feet, check-

ing carefully for any signs of frostbite, pleased to see there were none. He didn’t understand why the man didn’t wake up, worried about it and was frustrated by his own ignorance. If his family hadn’t been so opposed to anything that smelled of witchery, if he’d had the drive and intelligence to go out and get training, beyond the little he picked up from his grandmer, if and if and if… Beautiful beautiful man, if he die, it’s my fault, my ignorance that kill ‘im. He dried the man, rubbing and rubbing with the soft nubby towel he’d found in one of the pouches, and still he didn’t wake, he yielded to Simms’ manipulations like a big cat to a stroking hand, it was almost as if his body recognized Simms and cooperated as much as an unminded body could.

He folded the towel, put it under the man’s head. I need clothes for you. I hope you don’ mind, I been goin’ through your stuff. He touched the man’s face, drew his forefinger along the elegant lips. Wake up, wake up, wake… He sighed and got to his feet.

The table was spread with the pouches and things he’d already pulled from them. He unbuckled the pouch that held the man’s spare clothing. Robes, rolled in neat, tight cylinders. He shook them out, chose one and set it aside. The blankets, I’d better have them. Another pouch. Meat, apples, trailbars wrapped in oiled silk-he set those aside as he came on them. A large leather wallet with papers inside. He tossed that down without exploring it, none of his business, at the moment anyway. A plump, clunk-clanking purse. He opened it. Jaraufs and takks, Jorpashil coin. Another towel, in an oiled silk sac along with bars of soap and a squeeze tube with an herb-scented lotion inside.

He gave over his explorations, carried the robe and lotion back to the man. Kneeling beside him, he rubbed the lotion all over him, enjoying the feel of him, the brisk green smell of the lotion. Y’ walk in circles I can’t even sniff at, everythin’ say it. He felt a pleasant melancholy as he contemplated the probable impossibility of what he wanted. When he was finished with the rubdown, he rolled the sleeper over, spread one of the blankets on the hearth; after sweat and swearing and frustration, he finally got the dry robe on him and shifted him bit by bit onto the blanket.

Weary beyond exhaustion, weary to the bone, Simms got heavily to his feet. The soup was sending out a pleasant smell, filling the kitchen with it, making it feel homier than any place he’d been in for years. He stirred the thick, gummy liquid, tasted it, smiled and shifted it from the grate to the sand bed where it could simmer away without burning. The tea water was boiling; he dropped in a big pinch of tea leaves, stirred them with a whisk and set the pot on the sand to let the leaves settle out. He picked up the wet, discarded clothing, hung it on pegs beside the fireplace to dry out and went into the parlor to check on the horses. The water in the crock was low; he emptied what was left onto the floor and fetched more from the kitchen. Neddio was sleeping in one corner, the mules were dozing in another. The truce seemed to be holding. He put out more grain, thinking: feed ‘em well while I got it and hope the storm blow out before we in trouble for food. He checked the fire, threw a chunk of fence post on and left it to catch on its own.

Back in the kitchen he stripped and straddled the waste channel, scooped up water and poured it over himself, shuddering at the bite of that icemelt, feeling a temporary burst of vigor as he rubbed himself dry on his visitor’s towel. He hung it on a peg, pulled on his trousers, turned to pick up his shirt and saw the man watching him.

“Well, welc’m to th’ world, breyn stranger.” He pushed his arms into the sleeves and began buttoning his shirt. “Was wonderin’ when y’d wake.” He went to check the soup, tasted it and turned, holding up the ladle. “Hungry?”

“What is this place?”

“I’m as temp’ry as you, blown here by the wind. Whoever lived here left long time ago.” He started ladling soup in a pannikin. “Name’s Simms Nadaw, out of Dirge Arsuid.”

“Long way from home.”

“Way it goes.”

“Maks. Passing through everywhere, lighting nowhere. Recently at least.”

“Right. Feel good enough to sit up?” He took the pannikin and a spoon to the hearth and set it on the tiles, went back to the stove. “Get some of that down you. Start warming your insides well as your out.”

“Give it a try.” After a small struggle Maks managed to raise himself high enough to fold his long legs and get himself balanced with his shoulder to the fire. “Weaker ‘n I thought. Soup smells good.” He tasted it. “Is good.”

“Hot anyway.” Simms spread a square of cheesecloth over his mug, poured himself some tea, rinsed the cheesecloth and repeated with another mug, then filled another pannikin with soup. Over his shoulder he said, “You want some tea? It’s yours, I poke through y’ things, they over there.” He nodded at the table.

Maks looked amused. “See you found my mug.”

“That I did. Take it that mean yes.”

“Take it right.” He set the pannikin down. “The mules?”

“Parlor. With Neddio. M’ horse. Bad tempered mabs, an’t they.”

“Not fond of freezing, that’s all.”

“Mmh. Shu’n’t keep ‘em so hungry then, they were doin’ their best to eat ol’ Neddio. Me too. Got toothmarks on my butt. Want some more soup?”

“Just the tea for now. I don’t want to overload the body.”

“Odd way o puttin’ it.” Simms took the tea to him, collected the empty pannikin and rinsed it in the channel. He turned it upside down over the tank and went back to leaning, on the wall beside the stove, enjoying the warmth radiating from the bricks while he ate his soup. He was immersed in flickering shadows while his visitor was centered in the glow of such light as there was in the kitchen. The firelight loved Maks’ bones, it slid along them like melted butter, waking amber and copper lights in his dark skin, face and hands and the hollow where his collar bones met.

“Listen to that wind howl. Bless ol’ Tungjil, I wouldn’t want to be out there now.” He had a rich deep voice, flexible, musical, Simms thrilled each time the man spoke; he had trouble concealing his response to the sound, but he worked at it, he didn’t want to disgust him or turn him hostile.

“Blessings be, on heesh an’ we.” Simms finished his soup, rinsed his pannikin and spoon in the channel, set them on the stove. “We were both Iuckier’n we deserve running across a place like this.” He gaVe himself some more tea. “Too bad the steader were chase out, a spring like this ‘n is flowin’ gold.”

“Chased out?”

“‘M a Reader, Maks; walls remember, walls talk. Blood and screams, ‘s what they tol’ me. But it was all a long long time ago. Ne’er been this way b’fore. You know how long Grass storms us’ly last?”

“It’s still early winter. This one should blow out around three days on.”

“I put the dulic in a shed out back. I don’ know how much good it’s gonna do you if there’s a couple feet of snow on the ground.”

“We’ll see what we see.” He chuckled, a deep rumbling that came up from his heels. “There’s no horse foaled that’d carry me.” He yawned, screwed up his face. “My bladder’s singing help,” he said, “you have any preference where I empty it?”

“You see the spring here, they led a channel off from it under the tiles the next room over, what we call straffill in Arsuid, there a catch basin, for baths I s’pose. Got a hole in the floor, a spash-chute on th’ wall, leadin’ to the hole. You wanna shoulder t’ lean on?”

Maks bent and straightened his legs, rubbed at his knees. “Give a hand getting on my feet, if you don’t mind, breyn Nadaw.”

“Simms, y’ don’ mind.” He offered his hands, braced himself and let Maks do most of the work. When the big man was on his feet, standing shaky and uncertain, he moved in closer, clasped Maks about his thick, muscular waist, grunted as long fingers dug into his shoulder and the man’s weight came down on him, not all of it, but enough to remind him vividly of the effort it took to haul hiin inside.

“Not too much?” ‘

He could feel the bass tones rumble in the center of his being as well as in his head, he felt the in-out of Maks’s breathing, the vibrations of his voice, the slide of muscles wasted but still bigger than most and firm. “It’s not something I’d do for the fun of it,” he said, almost breathless, though that definitely didn’t come from fatigue.

“Let’s go then.”