Arc 5: These Quiet Moments

5 – 1

“If this writer has learned anything about the people who call this great land home, it is this: the truth of their character is never more visible than in times of disaster and the strange, confused days that follow them.”

Montrose Rainsford, from his untitled, unfinished autobiography

- - -

I take a moment and step back to roll my sleeves up to my elbows and swipe the back of my hand across my sweat-dappled brow. After that, I see to the tie that holds my hair up and away from my neck. While the autumn day is cool and the lake's wind refreshing, there is still the warmth from the sun and the exertion of cleaning up. Three days it's been since the fire's end, and it is only today that I have strength enough to help. All but a few moments of the previous two I spent asleep in bed, rousing only to eat and use the toilet. Clarke and Edith were equally stricken, though both recovered faster than I.

It was Edith who needed only a night's rest and a hearty meal before she was back on her feet and hauling wheelbarrows full of charred, sodden timber to empty, waiting wagon beds. Clarke followed an uninterrupted day-and-night's slumber later, stopping long enough to burn her tongue on a cup of tea before going to those made sick and hurt by the dead, drowned fire. Both have been hard a-work, sunrise to set, ever since. Both of them have dreamed of each other, and of me, every night when they slept. Threads of that magic which bound us together still linger, growing thinner by the passing hour.

I should think that it would have been unsettling, given our first reactions to it. With a grunt, I lift up a thick, jagged piece of what was once a doorframe and drop it into a wheelbarrow's empty belly with a dull clangor. It was comforting in my sleeping hours to know that, while tired and hungry at day's end, both of my friends were alive and well. After a few, deep breaths of cool, clean autumn air I clap the worst of the grime from my palms and turn back to the house I've been helping demolish since breakfast.

Demolishing what remains after the fire and flood were done with it, I should say. Little more than frame, rafters, and pieces of roof piled atop a foundation of stone. Looking at the hollow, emptied corpse of what once was home to someone causes guilt and shame to churn in my belly. Knowing that there are dozens of sights exactly like this all across the northern stretch of Valdenwood makes it worse. I feel responsible. I am responsible. The crowbar I've been using to break down the debris into manageable size is warm and heavy in my hands. It shatters easy enough. That's not the problem. It's that there's so very much of it.

What could I, could we, have done, though? I set the crowbar aside and take up another armful. The broken wood's jagged edges scrape sore, red lines across my bared forearms. If we'd done nothing, more would have been lost. Lives, in addition to the homes they lived in. It hadn't been wrong to say that doing something, doing anything, was better. Timbers go in the barrow, now half-full. Walking among the consequences of that something, seeing its aftermath with my own eyes, makes me doubt it anyway.

Nobody's dead, though. I take up the bar again and drive it's prying edge into an unfortunately intact stretch of shingles. Not one. Wounded and sick aplenty, but all on track to live and heal through Clarke's healing touch. Complaints abound, but after hours with nothing to do but sit and be miserable, I suppose it's to be expected. Some patients stretch her patience rather thin. Among them is Harlan, who refuses to admit he needs rest even as he coughs his lungs out. It's good to see that even sick, the old donkey is true to form.

Not that I would ever say so to Clarke.

With noon in the hour and the barrow full, I lean the crowbar against the intact foundation and take up the barrow's wooden handles, polished shiny and smooth by years of use. The haphazard pile I made isn't stable, so I have to stop a few times on my way to the square, where the wagons and food await, to pick up an errant piece.

Mrs. Knott, who I recall as kind and welcoming, and Bronwyn Alderwood, who I don't, took it upon themselves to see to the matter of food. They've crafted a line of stalls, each piled high with food and drink for the hungry and parched. After the wagons leave with the morning's haul, away to be piled elsewhere until it's decided what to do with it, half a dozen trestle tables are hauled out to fill those spaces. Food always smells better when hungry, I've found, and has a taste to match. I tear a fresh-baked hunk of bread down the middle, breathing in the steamy scent. My belly growls as I pile strips of pale fish, browned just so at the edges, and smear a pat of thick, yellow butter into the bread with my fingers.

I haven't time to be mannerly. The bread crisps and crunches wonderfully between my teeth, warmth and salt from the butter and fish on my tongue. I wash that first, delicious bite down with a swig of cool, tart cider and it is here, with grease on my chin and a belch rising up my throat, that Edith finds me.

- - -

If those gossamer threads of magic had not informed me otherwise, I would suspect that there was some strange power that Edith possessed, a power that allowed her to never feel something so trivial as 'weariness'. It's in how she carries herself. With the straight, solid line of her body and the steady set of her shoulders, she seems to dare each day to try and tire her out. Even in the seconds after we drowned the fire, when we were all near-to unconscious with the strain, I saw nothing of it in her steel-gray eyes.

Now, though, as I press my lips together to keep that rollicking belch contained, I see a glimmer of amusement in them. She'd been helping with the wagons all morning, and carried with her the strong scent of horse, mule, and donkey. It reminds me of home, and of Soulful and Doleful after a day on the road. “And how're ye now?” she asks me.

For just a moment, longing for home rousing from its well-hidden place in the depths of my heart, I forget. So when I part my lips to answer her, what instead comes out is a low, long, loud belch. I can feel the eyes of people staring at me. Bronwyn Alderwood among them, the old fishwife.

I'm not looking at Edith, instead down at my plate, but I can hear the smile in her voice as she carries on, as though I'd answered her. “Oh, not-so-bad, thanks ye for askin'. Mind if I joins ye?”

I turn my plate on the table, embarrassment churning in my belly, and nod. “Please.”

After the clatter of her sitting and digging into her food, quiet descends between the two of us. Somehow, I suspect through the bond of those gossamer-thin threads, I'm aware that there's something she wants to talk about with me. What, I can't say, nor do I wish to break the silence. I take another bite, wiping the grease from my chin with the back of my hand, and wait.

I don't wait very long. In frustration, born from what lingered of my embarrassment, I snap, “What is it?!” rather more harshly than I intended. For her part, Edith gives me a look of confusion over a forkful of fish. “You've something you want to talk about.” I say, gently. “What is it?”

She sets her fork down and gives me a searching look. “Does ye really not know what it is yer feelin's about Clarke?” I don't answer. I don't have an answer beyond 'no', and that, it seems, is not to her satisfaction. She sees it, of course, bound as much to me as I am to her. Or perhaps simply observant. Surprised, she says, “How can's ye not?!” I shrug, feeling helpless and confused. I know I should. “How is it ye've come this far's in life without yer mother's talkin' withs ye 'bout this?”

Now I mean to snap at her, and do. “My mother taught me everything I needed to know as her daughter! To ride, to forage, to – to dance! I–”

Her steel-gray eyes go wide, surprise in them. She lifts her hands and interrupts me. Her voice, for all its gentle tone, still has strength enough to stop me in my tracks. “I means no offense,” she tells me, and I know she means it as both explanation and apology. It's still nice to hear her say, “Ye've my apologies.”

I accept them with a nod, eyes on my plate. Had I meant to sharpen those words so keenly? In that moment, I had felt as if Mother's competence in raising me had been questioned. No, insulted, and had reacted accordingly. I don't think it had been, but I'm so confused. This tense, awkward quiet can't continue, so I muster my courage enough to mumble, “What is it, then?” I look up to see that Edith's just put a forkful of food in her mouth, confusion knitting her brow. “I should think you know what I'm feeling, so...” I take a deep breath and let it out. “What is it?”

She tortures me by taking the time to chew and swallow before answering. “Ye've a yearnin's for her. Finds her attractive.”

My throat pinches, my voice rises, and I truly don't intend to shriek, “I what?!”

Edith shrugs, unconcerned with both my volume and the onlookers it garnered. She waits until they've lost interest in us to answer, which I'd appreciate more if I weren't gaping at her in shock. “Ye finds her attractive, is what I said. Open yer ears.” Then, with some concern, she asks, “Have ye not felt this ways before?”

“No!” I exclaim, quieter than before, yet still louder than I intended. Hesitantly, I ask, “Should I have?”

Edith drums her fingers on the table in a thoughtful manner before answering, “Maybes. Could be's ye've not met anyone's ye could feel a yearnin's for 'til now.”

I think back, to the entirety of my life spent among my family. I never went into town with Father or Mother when they would go. I never really wanted to. “That must be it,” I say. At least I know what it is, now.

But Edith isn't finished with me. Her eyes are impish, her smile teasing, as she says, “Them eyes o' hers is mighty blues, eh?”

My heart beats fast as I smile. “Like the open sky,” I answer.