White Order
XVIII
Cerryl stepped out of the warmth of the kitchen into the comparative cool of the porch, his stomach almost feeling distended from the amount of mutton stew he had eaten. His arms and legs and back all ached. He'd spent most of the past eight-day up in the higher woods with Viental and Brental, learning how to judge when a tree could be felled and whether it should be. That part had come easily. Not so easy had been working with the ax and the two-man saw.
The ax bothered him, in the same way the mill blade did-the darkness of the honed iron feeling both like fire and ice at the same time. The oiled and honest iron of the ax even felt hot to his touch, nearly hot enough to burn his fingers, calloused or not.
Perhaps Erhana would come out on the porch after she helped her mother clean up after dinner. Cerryl hoped so. He walked to the north end of the porch and looked toward the higher hills, where he'd spent most of his time lately. The low buzz of insects and the scattered chirps of crickets rose out of the growing dusk.
“Dylert's got lots of woods up there,” said Rinfur from behind him. “They say the family patent goes back to his great-grandsire.”
“Too many woods,” puffed Viental, standing on the top porch step. “Too long a day. Too much logging. I need to lie down.”
“That's not because of your logging,” laughed Rinfur. “It's your earing. You swallowed enough stew for three of you. And one of you is more than enough.”
“Most funny,” said Viental. “We should make you saw the trees. Your horses do all the hard work.”
Rinfur laughed, a good-natured tone in the sound. “That's 'cause I'm smarter than they are.”
“Not much,” answered the stocky laborer as he started down the Porch steps.
“Just enough,” admitted Rinfur, stepping up beside Cerryl and standing there silently for a time. Behind them, in the kitchen, the sounds of voices and crockery and pans continued.
To the north, the sun that had dropped behind the hills backlit a low cloud into a line of fiery pink.
“Like this time of day,” said Rinfur. “Quiet... not too hot, not too cold, and the work's done, the belly full.” Cerryl nodded.
“Think I'll walk over to the stable, see how the gray is doing. Worry about that hoof still.” With a nod, Rinfur turned and crossed the porch, leaving Cerryl alone at the railing.
The youth ran his hand through hair still slightly damp from a quick rinse before dinner. He watched as the cloud slowly faded into gray. The door from the kitchen opened, and he turned. “Oh... I didn't know you were out here, Cerryl,” blurted Erhana, her hands around a book.
“I was waiting for my lesson,” he answered with a careful smile. “This is the more advanced grammar.”
“I can try.”
Erhana shrugged and sat on the bench. Cerryl sat beside her, careful not to let his leg touch hers. She opened the book, and Cerryl followed her as she slowly read aloud.
“... the cooper fashions barrels from staves of wood. Barrels are used to store flour and grains. Some barrels hold water and wine ...” Cerryl wondered if all grammar books said things that people already knew, but he said nothing and tried to match what Erhana read with the letters on the page.
“It's getting dark,” Erhana said after a while. “Can you even see the book?”
“I can still see it,” answered Cerryl. “What's an 'acolyte'?”
“That's not in the copybook.”
“I know, but I wondered.”
“I can't help you if you ask me about things that aren't in the books.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Why do you want to learn your letters?” Erhana asked abruptly, closing the grammar book and letting it rest on her trousered legs.
“I need to learn things,” Cerryl answered, shifting his weight on the hard surface of the bench.
“They don't write about sawmills in books, silly boy.” Erhana laughed. “Not about how the mill works, anyway.”
“They should,” Cerryl offered. “Everyone knows about coopers and fullers and smiths.”
“Of course. You begin to read by learning how the words you know are written.”
Cerryl refrained from wincing at Erhana's self-satisfied tone.
“Isn't there a book that has all the words you don't know?”
“That's a dictionary. Siglinda has one. They have lots and lots of words and how to spell them and what they mean.”
Cerryl fingered his chin. Where could he find one? “A dictionary?”
“That's right.” Erhana sighed.
In the momentary silence, Cerryl could hear voices in the kitchen. He strained to pick out the words.
“... no sense in telling him now ... good thing he was up in the woods when Wreasohn came ...”
“Have to tell him sooner or later, Dylert...”
“Can't stay here, not forever ...”
“Hush... he's still on the porch. We'll talk about it later.”
“Best let Erhana help him with his letters, then. Poor lad.”
In the growing darkness, Cerryl swallowed. Something awful had happened to Syodor and Nail... but what? And why? Who would harm a partly crippled old miner and his consort who were helping a cousin raise sheep?
“You're quiet, Cerryl,” ventured Erhana.
“Oh, I was still thinking about dictionaries,” he lied quietly. “They must be hard to come by.”
“I guess so. Siglinda always says hers is worth its weight in gold.” Erhana shrugged. “I don't know as they're worth that much.”
“Books aren't cheap,” he pointed out. “They have to be copied page by page.”
“Siglinda says there are lots of scriveners in Lydiar. When I'm rich, I'll hire one and have him copy all the books I want.”
The porch door opened, and Dyella peered out. “Are you still out here, Erhana?”
“Yes, Mother.” Erhana stood, clutching the grammar. “I'm coming.”
“Best you be. Canning the early peaches we are tomorrow.” Dyella glanced toward Cerryl. “And more logging for you as well, Cerryl.”
“Another side slope.” Dylert's voice rumbled out from the kitchen.
“Yes, ser,” said Cerryl, easing his way toward the steps. “I'll be ready.”
“Till the morn,” said Dylert just before Dyella closed the door behind Erhana.
Cerryl's boots clumped on the planks of the porch, noisy because he was too tired to move silently. He walked slowly down the steps and the path to his room. His legs and back still ached. He glanced back at the house, looming up like a black blot in the late twilight. What had happened to his aunt and uncle? Had they died in a plague? Of the bloody flux? In an accident?
Around him, the chorus of insects rose and fell, rose and fell as he meandered slowly down toward the finish lumber barn.
Why didn't Dylert want to tell him? How could he find out?
He almost stumbled as he opened the door to his cubby room. The screeing glass? That he could try.
After closing the door, and the window door as well, he eased the silver-rimmed mirror from its hiding place and set it on the stool. Then he sat on the edge of the pallet and began to concentrate, trying to visualize Syodor's weathered face, strong hands, and leather eyepatch, Nail's gray hair and probing eyes.
The mists swirled ... finally revealing a burned-out cot. The roof timbers were black, the mud-brick walls cracked. The windows, ringed in black, gaped like a skull's eye sockets. Lines of blackness seared the grass around the walls.
“No ...” Cerryl tightened his lips, refusing the tears that welled up inside him. “No.”
He sat, rigid, on the edge of the pallet, well into the full darkness of night, the blank mirror on the stool before him showing nothing.