Wild Magic

› › ‹ ‹

Faan talked constantly to herself and to anyone who’d listen, mixing the Fadogur she was learning with her birthtongue in a hash of sound that gradually grew more comprehensible.

With Ailild trotting behind her, she poked her nose everywhere, handled everything; got into every drawer and cabinet she could manage to open and there were few beyond her. She disrupted the Kassian Tai’s meditations, knocked plant pots off the altar when she tried to climb up on it, nearly pulled the Hive over, got Areia One-eye stung by the angry bees. Panote began latching his door when he exercised after he pulled a muscle to keep from stepping on her. Jea put a hook on his door the second time he turned around and found Faan watching with fascination as he put on his makeup. Dawa played with her, sang with her, but even he couldn’t give her all the time and attention she wanted. And every time Reyna went out at night, she howled and screamed until she wore herself out-and everyone else.

Nothing was the same at the Beehouse.

His round of nursing visits finished for the day, Reyna came home and stood shifting from foot to foot as he waited for Panote to answer the bell. He’d made Faan stay home this time because he was going down to Ladroa-vivi Batt and into some tenements where he wouldn’t take a dog, let alone a child. He yanked on the bee again, banged on the door. “Pan, it’s hot out here,” he yelled, “What’s going on?” He kicked at the door and waited.

When Panote drew the slide back and saw Reyna, he twisted his face into a sorry grimace. “It’s Faan, she’s disappeared.” He closed the shutter and pulled the door open. “We looked everywhere except your rooms.”

“My rooms?”

“Couldn’t get in. You must’ve jogged the latch when you went out.”

“I didn’t.” Dropping his basket of remedies, Reyna ran across the entry and up the stairs. He tugged at his door, but the hook was down and it wouldn’t open. “Kick it open.”

They found the mahsar curled nose on tail in front of the lowboy where Reyna kept his clothing. A drawer was open the width of a finger. When Reyna pulled it all the way out, Faan was inside, curled up in a nest of rumpled silk, deep asleep and sucking her thumb, every underrobe Reyna owned damp with drool and smeared with dust. He swore and with exasperated gentleness shook her awake, lifted her from the drawer and stood her on her feet. “Little pest. Punishing me, weren’t you,” he muttered. “Go tell the others, Pan.”

As the beat of Panote’s feet faded, Reyna scowled down at the smudged sleepy child. “Nayo,” he said. “This is a nayo-nay, Faan.” He took one Of the under-robes from the drawer, shook it out, draped it over his arm, and showed her the stains on the silk. “Look at that, Fa. Dirty.”

Faan heaved a sigh. “Dirty.”

“You don’t sleep in drawers, Fa. You sleep in your crib. Say it. I sleep in my crib.”

“Sleep m’ crib.”

“I’m angry with you, baby. I’ve got to wash all these again, maybe I’ve got nothing to wear tonight.”

Faan flung herself at Reyna, wrapped her arms about his waist, crushing the silk of his underrobe. “Mamay Reyna,” she wailed, “Mammy, Mamay, don’ be mad. Din’ mean to. Din’ din’.”

Reyna detached her. “Vema vema, honey. I know. You didn’t think. Just don’t do this again. Oh, we spoil you silly, we do, we do.” He hoisted Faan onto his arm, drew a finger down a tearstreak. “Let’s go wash your face, hmm? What a face.”

Chapter 3. Honeychild Explores And Finds More Than She Wants

On the Day of First Honey, one week before the Midsummer fest, Reyna left before Faan was awake to visit. the hives in the Abey-zaza Grove; lea went with him to collect changa, ponny and bala-ua to flavor the Honey-bread.-

Kassian Tai was on the roof, getting ready to brew next year’s mead. Beside her Areia One-eye was bending over a heavy stoneware pot, moving the paddle through the hot bubbling liquid that would end as chunks of honey taffy they’d hand out to the children of the Edge on Midsummer’s Day.

Panote was at the back door listening to Utsapisha gossip and tell stories while her daughters and granddaughters went like a storm through the House, dusting and straightening, scrubbing floors and windows, bagging everything that needed a washing-except the Salagaums’ clothing, they didn’t do clothing, and the sacred linens which the Kassian cared for herself. Utsapisha was a collection of wrinkles folded about thick old bones and her life had been harder than most, but she hadn’t let age or aches kill her interest in everything going on around her. Panote liked her stories; they were earthy and full of zest and a sly malice that he knew he should deplore, but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed.

Out in the courtyard, where Areia One-eye had deposited her to keep her out of the way of the cleaning, Faan crawled under a flowering bush, stretched out on her stomach with her doll under her arm, and watched the fountain frogs jump about. She liked frogs. She’d forgot her temperstorm-for a while, anyway. Put it aside until Reyna came home. Ailiki was prowling about the bushes, pouncing on grasshoppers and eating them.

Two of Utsapisha’s granddaughters came hurrying across the court with bundles on their heads, chattering with animation and completely forgetting to close the doors behind them.

. and Dahlina just stood there lookin’ like a fish with heaves.”

“Yeh, y’ know, the Pigg was doing it with Tohlin all the time Dah was thinking he was after her.”

“Th’ Pigg! chooee, chooee, who’d want that loser…”

Their voices faded as they wound through the house. Faan crawled out and trotted after them.

Still chattering, they swept out the back door. Utsapisha was dozing in the armchair Panote had brought her. She twitched as her granddaughters passed, but didn’t open her eyes. Panote was gone for the moment, fetching a mug of tea for her.

The door was open, the morning crisp and bright and beckoning.

Faan followed the girls out and down Vallaree Wynd, the rutted unpaved lane at the back of the House.

Ailiki lolloped along after her, running off to nose at the patches of grass and weeds growing in a dun and gray-green strip along back walls and rickety pole fences and send small lives skittering off in terror; she came trotting back, sniffed at Faan’s legs, followed her a while, then veered off to run up a pole to a second floor balcony and peer in through the windows there. She danced along the balcony’s rail, leapt across to the roof next door, came down to the alley by way of a dry and dying vine, ran back to follow Faan again.

There was a burnt-out building rotting back to earth around a bend in the wynd, with children playing in the weeds and mud where the house had been, girls six, seven, eight years old. Faan stopped to watch; she’d never met children before, all her life she’d lived with adults. The girls stopped their screaming and chasing about to stare at her, then went back to their game.

Faan walked toward them, talking as she plowed through the weeds, mixing words she’d got from her mother and words she’d picked up from the Kassian and the others at the House. “Troks,” she said. “To de’mai. Ball. Me.” She reached for the battered wooden sphere as it hit the ground by her feet, but one of the girls running after it pushed her roughly aside, knocking her down. The girl scooped up the ball and threw it. An older girl ran past Faan, came back and picked her up, shoved her toward the wynd. “Go way, baby,” she said, “you too little, we don’ want you.” She ran back to the game.

Faan stood in the weeds with her mouth open. She started to cry, but no one came to soothe her. The children ignored her, the wynd was empty of adults, the granddaughters with their bundles had turned off somewhere. She stopped crying after a few minutes, then picked her way over the ruts and stood in the middle of the wynd looking around. She couldn’t see the Bee-house, but Ailiki was nearby and she had her doll. She brushed it off. “Dirty girl. Bad. Angry with you, baby.”

Clutching the doll to her ribs, she went confidently off down the wynd. Someone always turned up when she needed help.

The sounds of the game died behind her. The backs of the houses were shut tight. A ragged, stinking old man was sprawled along a wall, his mouth open with flies walking in and out of it. She moved as far from him as she could. “Dirty,” she said to the doll. She was getting tired and hungry; she wanted Reyna Ma-may to come get her and cuddle her and feed her honey-sweetened milky coffee as he did sometimes. She held her doll out in front of her and shook it. “Bad baby,”

she said Ailiki came lalloping back to her and rubbed against her ankles, her fur soft and tickling. Faan tried to start walking again, but Ailiki was in front of her, leaning into her legs, trying to turn her so she’d go back the way she’d come.

She leaned down, tried to push Ailiki out of her way, overbalanced, fell heavily on her hands and knees, dropping the doll. “Bad Liki,” she said. She groped for the doll, got laboriously onto her feet, and went trudging on down the Wynd.

Ailiki sat on her haunches and whined, but Faan ignored her. The mahsar groaned and trotted after her.