Chapter Six - The Stablegirl

‘Well, all I'm saying is, shouldn't they be doing this themselves?’

Ren looked up. Trin's ruddy brow was coated in sweat, and the shovel in his hands was noticeably trembling. He tried not to smile.

‘Maybe.’ he said instead, bringing his own shovel down with a thunk. It wedged itself a couple of inches into the frosty ground, and the wooden haft shook painfully in his cold fingers. 'But would you, if you had us to do it, instead?'

Trin grunted irritably, lifting his shovel again. It was past midday, and the sun was at its brightest, setting the damp fields aflame with pale light, but it had done little to soften the wintry ground. The lazy heat of the summer was retreating like a frosty breath, and their progress had been painfully slow. Ren looked back the way they had come; a fresh line of brown dirt dug out of the grass, maybe two hundred yards long, now. He could see a few of the older men pacing through the fields, checking for sickness in the crop, unhurried, unbothered, and tried not to scowl.

‘I don't see why they need this hedge anyway.’ Trin grumbled almost to himself, stamping the heel of his boot into the head of the shovel. It growled back at him, reluctantly sinking a little deeper in the soil. For all his attempts at indifference, Ren couldn’t help but agree with him. It did seem like a waste of a day. Particularly one so fine. He looked north, tracing a flight through the low hills, over hedges and runaway streams, through the gleaming grass and the falling auburn of the leaves. Then he looked back at his shovel, and this time, he did scowl.

‘Think they need us busy more than they need another hedgerow.’

The afternoon drew on at an interminable crawl, inching across the grass like shadows beneath the sun. Ren worked quietly, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his brow. Trin struggled on beside him, red-faced and panting, shirt sticking wetly to his rosy skin. Nevertheless, they beat on, struggling against the stubborn soil, foot by foot, inch by painful inch, as the afternoon waned indifferently overhead.

‘Tired, Trin?’

Ren looked up to find two other boys coming towards them over the gleaming field. Seril first, full of restless energy, grey eyes twitching like tall grass, hands endlessly fidgeting with his shirt buttons. He couldn’t have been a year younger than Ren, but he was a full head shorter, hair a mess of tangled brown. Behind him, thick as a barn door and taller than most of the men already, moving with the clumsy unease of a boy who had grown a little too swiftly, was Tomon, looking down at them with slow, kind eyes.

‘I’ll manage.’ Trin shot back, straightening. ‘Finished the southern pasture, already?’

Seril smiled twitchily, lifting a shovel in one hand. ‘Of-of course. Best d-diggers on the farm. H-Hector said you could use our help.’ Seril had a peculiar way of speaking, as though his words were getting tangled up in the hurry to leave his mouth. ‘Said you’re m-making slow work of it.’

‘Can’t see how you’d help that.’ Trin scowled, and went back to his shovel, grumbling.

‘Hector didn’t say that.’ Tomon was frowning down at Seril, confused.

‘I know he d-idn’t, Tomon.’ Seril sighed.

Tomon’s frown deepened. ‘But…’

‘Whatever Hector said,’ Ren interrupted him. ‘…two more shovels won’t hurt.’

Tomon hesitated, then gave him a broad, happy smile. Seril scowled, giving Ren a nervous look with a short, barking laugh, and the two of them set their shovels to work. Ren was glad to have them, even with Seril’s constant chatter. It had been a long day, and a couple more shovels would make the end of it come a little faster. Tomon more than Seril, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. The two of them made for an odd pair. From a distance you might think they were father and son. But the farm was not a large place, and there were few others old enough to work. Just Dina and Helen, in truth. Ren wondered what they would be doing as the boys laboured at their shovels. Probably washing clothes. Maybe scrubbing floors in the kitchen. He realised he didn’t envy them.

The sun was hanging low in the west when they reached the tree line on the hill beside the farm, and sagged panting against the trees, turning to look back at their day's work. The ruddy daylight gleamed through the boughs, throwing great, swaying shadows across the grass behind them. But the line of dirt was still visible, straight and true across the shaded grass.

‘Done.’ Trin said with a heavy sigh, dropping his shovel and slumping against a tree trunk.

‘At last.’ Ren agreed, sitting down beside him. The others came and lay down, too, and Trin and Seril began to bicker lopsidedly. Ren sat, quite at ease with his own thoughts, letting his eyes drift closed, breeze cooling his fevered brow. Beside them, the little line of gravestones at the edge of the trees lay quietly in the loam. He wasn’t all that used to company, up here on the hill. Made for a better escape at night. Moonlit walks don’t attract nearly as much conversation.

‘Wh-what do you think he wants?’

Ren opened his eyes. Seril was pointing at a small, dark shape walking towards them across the grass, frowning. The figure seemed in no particular hurry. They sat watching as it came easily up the slope after them, till the long shadows of the trees danced around its boots. The man said nothing as he approached, bent low over the line of torn earth, inspecting their work. His work clothes were stained and worn, his hands almost black with dirt. He stopped a few paces short, scratching at his stubbled beard, and the grey caught the fading sunlight like rusted iron.

'Good work.' he grumbled reluctantly, eyeing each of them in turn. They lingered on Ren for a moment longer than the others, something close to a frown knotting his weathered brow, and Ren felt Trin bristling beside him, but Hector was already looking past them into the trees. He was the eldest of the farmers by some distance, older even than Ren’s grandfather, but he had the lean, wiry frame of many years constant toil, and moved like a man far younger than he was. When he did speak, which was rarely, his voice had the rustic lilt of the South Realm, lazy like a mug of ale in the sun. He had always been a man of few words, and fewer smiles. Age made a man wise, people kept telling Ren, and the farm folk listened to Hector well. Especially the boys, who he worked harder than they thought entirely proper, though they’d not be fool enough to tell him.

‘Raka be good, we’ll have the new row by spring.’ Trin said nervously.

‘Aye, boy.' he said, still looking past them. 'Sun’s almost gone. You should be gettin’ inside.'

‘W-what should we be afraid of?' Seril scoffed. ‘Bonemen come to eat us before supper?’

Hector fixed him with a dark eye. ‘Bonemen? No, boy. Folk in the towns are saying there’s Black Hand abroad again. First time in years.’ he told him, rubbing his hands together against the cold. ‘Woods aren’t safe for boys at night.’

‘Ain’t no Brothers in the South Realm.’ Trin told him obstinately. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘That so, boy?’ Hector asked him, fixing him with sullen eyes. Trin gulped. ‘I’ll make sure to tell your ma that, once they’ve snatched you.’

‘Heard something from up near Overwood way...’ Seril said quietly, blinking. ‘Smith’s boy.’

‘Just after their old man comes visiting, again.’ he spat in the dirt, giving Ren a dark look. ‘An’ him with his death mark, too. Trying your luck, ain’t you, daydreamin’ out here?’

Hector stared at him, and Ren stared back. The breeze had a chill edge to it, and he almost shivered. But he was nearly a man now, and as used to the dark looks as he was to Hector’s tall tales. Besides, he had walked the woods at night more times than he could count; there were no shadows but his own, and no masked men had come to steal him away. No wraiths guarding the narrow line of gravestones. He stared back at the old farmer unperturbed, frowning, and the other boys shifted nervously, eyes on the dirt.

‘Ha!’ Hector laughed suddenly, turning his eyes on the others. ‘Not so grown yet ol’ Hector can’t put a fright in you! Trees’s just trees. Ought to be more afraid of my boot than anything else. Now get you inside, before I set it to work!’

They scrambled to their feet, each according to their way, scrambling, stumbling, hurrying, frowning, and set off across the grass towards the flickering lights of the farm, chased by wraiths in black across the darkening grass.

*

It was not far to the farm, but the boys spoke little, eyeing the lengthening shadows around them with nervous eyes. Not Ren, of course, but that wasn’t new. When they reached the first of the buildings, they diverged without a word; all save Ren and Trin, who found themselves not yet ready for their dinner, and set instead to wandering aimlessly for a while through the twilit buildings. The farmers were filtering in from the fields, weary from the day's work, sighing into the warmth of newly kindled fires. In spite of himself, Hector's taunting was lingering in the back of Ren's mind like a bad smell, but he tried not to dwell on it. Tried to ignore the usual suspicion glared in his direction from the retiring farmers. His death mark. He’d heard it before, and he’d hear it again. Besides, walking always cleared his mind, and the soft jibes and bantering of the farmers as they came in from the fields soon distracted him from his darker instincts.

'Hey!'

Ren started. He was standing beside the open door of the stables, and Faia, the stablegirl, was standing before him, pulling vainly at one end of a short rope. The other was attached to an enormous horse, easily more than twice the girl's height, ruddy chestnut flanks glistening in the torchlight. It made for a rather ridiculous scene, the skinny little girl dragging irritably at the rope as the beast backed stubbornly away from the open doors, pulling her with it.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

'H-help?' Faia stammered, gritting her teeth.

Ren blinked, then grabbed hold of the rope and dug in his heels. Trin was right behind him, round cheeks reddening.

'Hold.'

Faia eased her hands up the rope until her fingers were just a few inches from the horse's muzzle, making soft noises under her breath. She lifted one hand slowly, and, reaching up, placed it on the animal's great brown nose, rubbing it gently. The giant beast seemed to soften, then, and slowly stopped pulling on the rope. The stablegirl exhaled, narrow shoulders slumping wearily.

'Come.' she told them seriously. 'Inside.'

Together they led the plough-horse into the stables, steering him carefully towards his stall. The other animals watched on curiously, poking their heads out of their lodgings, snickering in the torchlight, as they led the big stallion carefully between them, keeping him well clear of the inquisitive heads either side. Once he was stabled, Faia drew the bolt home behind him, exhaling with relief.

'Red trouble.' she grumbled. Faia was younger than Ren by several years, barely yet ten, by his reckoning. Rosy cheeks, slender limbs, full of restless energy. She made Ren curious. Barely spoke, and when she did, she rarely managed more than a couple of words at a time. She was like an infant learning to speak, nervous and unsure, but with the horses she was calmer than lake-water on a windless day. Wasn’t exactly normal for someone her age to be looking after the horses, either, but it’d been some years already since anyone cared to change it.

'Doesn't help.' Trin said thoughtfully. 'How big he is.'

Faia laughed girlishly. 'No. Big. For plough.'

Ren supposed she was right. Although he couldn’t help but think they might save themselves the trouble having two ponies do the same work.

'How is Wil?' he asked.

'Bored.' the girl told him. 'No run.'

'I would’ve liked to, today.' Ren replied sadly. 'But, Hector...'

Faia giggled again. 'Dig?'

'Dig.' Ren agreed. Trin grumbled beside him, scowling.

'What about Pol?' he asked.

'Fat.' Faia replied disapprovingly. 'Less treats.'

Trin gave the girl a hurt look. 'Here, don't you be mean to her!'

'She’s got a point, Trin.'

'Nonsense!' Trin replied. 'Just a little winter weight.'

Ren thought better of arguing with him.

'Here.' the stablegirl said, suddenly serious, handing them both feed bags from a shelf behind her. 'Dinner. Feed?'

Ren smiled and took the bag solemnly, leaving her to the other horses. Wil snorted happily as he approached, dipping his disheveled grey head excitedly over the gate. Much smaller than Red, and far less trouble. Ren put a hand on his nose, giving him some of the feed out of his hand. The pony snatched it up hungrily, and was shortly snuffling against his bare palm, nudging him pointedly.

'Alright, alright.' Ren told him, tipping the rest of the feed into his trough. Will snorted excitedly again and buried his nose in his dinner. Ren patted the animal on the neck fondly. Wil was his grandfather's horse, in truth, but Derin seldom rode anymore. Hadn’t taken Ren long to realise that running the pony was a perfect excuse to go exploring, and besides, he could go much farther by horseback than on foot.

He glanced over at Trin, standing contentedly beside Pol's stable, holding an already empty sack in his hand. The paint pony was hurriedly slurping up every grain from her trough, apparently unaware of Trin stroking her patchwork nose as she ate. Beyond him, Faia was approaching Red again, one hand held out to calm him.

'Stay.' the stablegirl muttered as she tipped feed into the plough-horse’s trough. The stallion's big head reached over the stable door, butting against her shoulder, and she almost stumbled. Instead, the skinny girl drew herself up to her full height and made a loud, disapproving sound, waving her hands in front of the horse's eyes. Red snorted irritably, but backed off, retreating into his stall. Faia turned without a second thought and bounded on towards the next trough, swinging the feed bag like a satchel in one hand. Ren watched her go. The girl had nerve. He watched as she moved about the stables, greeting each horse by name as she approached, stroking their brows as she tipped dinner into the troughs. Unlike Red, the other animals greeted her with gentle fondness, nuzzling her hands as she approached, snorting at her contentedly. Ren turned back to Wil. The pony was looking at him dolefully, waiting for seconds.

‘That’s enough.’ Ren told him, and Wil tilted his head sadly. Ren stroked his cheek. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll go riding. I promise.’

‘Ren.’ Faia called from the far end of the stable. She was sitting at a small table in the middle of the tack room, rummaging in a sack-cloth bag she had lifted onto her lap. ‘Food.’

Ren hesitated. He guessed that, apart from the horses, Faia rarely had company at dinner time. He glanced over at Trin, but he was busy trying to palm an apple he had produced from his pocket to Pol. So he went unhurried down the narrow corridor between the stables, flanked by the snickering of the horses, towards the stablegirl and her little dinner table, surrounded by rows of saddles creaking on their shelves. She had set a loaf of fresh bread down on the uneven surface, flashing Ren a nervous smile and hurriedly unwrapping a paper bundle in her small hands.

‘See!’ she said proudly, holding up her hands. ‘Cheese!’

Ren smiled back at her and sat down on the stool opposite. Faia produced a small knife from somewhere nearby and began to carefully slice into the soft bread, eyes serious. Ren waited patiently, listening to the gentle whir of the breeze against the stable walls. There was something very calming about the company of animals, he decided. It is a rare thing, the lack of idle talk that endures still in stables, in long grass beneath a shepherd's feet. Horses didn’t know what a death mark was. Probably wouldn’t care much if they did. The strange little girl who watched over them didn’t seem to care, either. There was none of the other farmer’s suspicion in her eyes. She just seemed glad to have guests.

‘Eat!’

Faia was holding out a slice of bread, eyeing him earnestly. Ren took it politely, noticing the generous portion of the cheese the girl had laid on it. He thanked her, taking a bite, stomach rumbling happily.

‘Water?’ the strange girl asked suddenly, pulling a battered water skin from the sack cloth bag.

‘Thank you.’ Ren replied, taking a small sip. Then he sat back and made a great show of eating his bread and cheese, closing his eyes appreciatively. This seemed to placate Faia, who watched him for a few moments before taking up a piece of bread herself and consuming it with the ravenous urgency of a hungry wolf pup. Ren continued to eat as slowly as he could manage, watching as the stablegirl quickly demolished the remainder of the bread, and the cheese besides. She must have been starving. Ren frowned. In the torchlight of the table, he could see that the girl's arms and hands were crisscrossed with dozens of pale, mottled scars, long since healed, like cobwebs over frosty water. How had she come by those? It occurred to him he did not know very much about the girl. In fact, he couldn’t place when she had arrived at the farm. She had no parents that Ren could think of, and he knew better than to ask. He knew that pain better than most. But he had never heard the girl complain about her lot. If anything, she seemed quite content, alone with the horses. Even slept in the tack room amongst the saddles, and rarely joined the other farmers for meals in the hall. Ren watched as she tore hungrily at her food, oblivious. The farm was not a kind place to those who did not fit.

‘You should come with me.’ Ren told her suddenly. Faia looked up at him curiously. ‘For dinner I mean. We have plenty to share.’

The girl thought about it for a moment, frowning seriously.

‘No.’ she said at last. She hesitated for a moment and looked up at Ren with a shy smile. ‘Thank you.’

Ren smiled back.

Then the stablegirl was suddenly on her feet, darting away towards the horses, clucking disapprovingly.

‘No!’

Ren turned in time to see Trin looking up at her guiltily, hurriedly shoving his hand back into his pocket. ‘What?’

‘Fat!’ Faia told him, taking hold of his sleeve and pulling hard. Trin's face turned decidedly sheepish as his hand emerged from his pocket, chubby fingers clutching another apple. As Ren watched, Faia darted in and snatched it out of his grasp, jumping back out of reach as Trin lunged after it.

‘Hey!’ Trin exclaimed, reaching for her again, but Faia danced backwards away from his fingers, and the horses snickered.

‘She’s earned that, I reckon.’ Ren told him, grinning. ‘Serves you right.’

Trin hesitated, looking up at him irritably. Then he made an exasperated sound and turned back to Pol, putting an apologetic hand on the unsatisfied pony's cheek. Faia, for her part, seemed quite unperturbed by the exchange. She was leaning nonchalantly against one of the stable doors, taking a bite of the apple as one of the horses nuzzled her shoulder, and Ren suddenly felt rather less sorry for her.

*

‘You look tired.’

Ren looked up from pulling off his boots, and found his grandfather watching him from his favourite armchair, moustache twitching. He had a leather-bound book lying across his knees, and a pair of slightly lopsided spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. Derin cared for his books with the deference of priceless artefacts, stacked all along the wall behind him like a University of Uldoroth in miniature. He spent most of his time reading one tome or another, nose twitching beneath the weight of his glasses, sitting in the warm glow of a fire. Tonight was no different. The old hound was curled happily at his feet, snuffling from several layers of coiled, well-fed fur.

‘And hungry.’ Ren replied, going back to his boots.

His grandfather chuckled, setting the book down beside him. He cleared his throat, lifting the spectacles from his nose.

‘Hector have you digging all day?’ he asked. Ren finished pulling off his boots and left them where they fell, scattered carelessly across the threshold. He straightened, quite happy to leave them there, then caught his grandfather's raised eyebrow, and turned back reluctantly, stacking them a little more neatly beside the door.

‘Nearly.’ Ren answered as he came over, holding his aching hands out to the fire. The old hound strained to its feet unsteadily, nuzzling at his fingers, and he scratched behind one of its ears, eliciting a soft snuffling sound from its jowly face. 'Managed to catch our breath when he was telling us to get scared of our own shadows. You’re lucky you’re too old to have to work.’ He did not tell his grandfather about the mention of his death mark. No use in getting him riled.

His grandfather rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve done my share! You’d best ignore Hector, anyway. He’d have a cat fearing its milk.’

‘I know.’ Ren agreed, flexing his weary fingers absently.

‘Come,’ he looked up to find his grandfather watching him. Derin pointed at the other armchair, gesturing Ren towards it. ‘Dinner’s a little way off, yet. Long enough for you to tell me what’s eating at you.’

Ren might have frowned. But he’d learned long since there was no use hiding anything from his grandfather. Unless he was sleeping, anyway. So he slid himself wearily into the deep cushions of the chair, sighing as he sagged into the pillows.

‘Faia...’

‘The stablegirl?’ his grandfather prompted. ‘What about her?’

‘What... happened to her?’ he paused, looking up at his grandfather. ‘I mean, where are her parents? Where did she come from?’

‘Ah.’ his grandfather paused, stroking his moustache and sitting back in his chair. ‘She just, sort of, appeared.’

'What do you mean, appeared?’

‘Exactly what I said.’ his grandfather replied, fingers idly tugging at his moustache. ‘Few years ago now, coldest day of winter. Came stumbling across the fields, near frozen solid and cut from head to toe. Looked like she'd been dragged through a thicket of brambles, back burned all silver, too.’ Derin paused. ‘Mute as the day she was born, and scared witless besides. Took half the day to persuade her to come inside.’

‘What happened to her?’ Ren could not help himself.

‘Wouldn't say. Hasn't told anyone since, neither, far as I know.’ his grandfather hesitated, frowning. ‘Barely said a word for months. Thin as a rake, eyes the size of saucers. Move to sharply and she'd yelp like a kicked dog and vanish.’

Ren frowned, looking away.

‘The farmers took her in, fed her, clothed her, tended her wounds.’ Derin continued. ‘Took months, but she started to get a bit more comfortable. Even started talking a little. Still couldn’t get her near the kitchens, though. Then someone happened to take her to the stables. And… Well, that was that.’ he paused, looking over at Ren curiously. ‘What has you so interested all of a sudden?’

Ren hesitated, lowering his eyes. Derin sighed.

‘Your mother?’

Ren stole a look up at his grandfather, then back at the fire. He was surprised to feel a little water swelling in his eyes, and he swallowed the knot in his throat, embarrassed.

‘Ah.’ his grandfather came over and knelt down in front of him so that their eyes were level, smiling softly. ‘You don’t need to worry about that. You’ve got your grandmother and me.’

He smiled kindly, putting a hand on his grandson’s shoulder. Ren nodded, giving him a faint smile back.

‘Now!’ Derin exclaimed, jumping to his feet. He took one step away from his chair, then spluttered suddenly, wracked by coughs, and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief. Ren put a hand out to steady him, but he shrugged it off, waving him away.

‘I’m fine, boy, leave me be.’ he told him, straightening. 'Smells like dinner’s almost ready. Let's help your grandmother with the table.’