Black Spring (13 page)

N
ow I come to a time which remains among the most painful of my life so far; I still cannot think of my fourteenth year without suppressing a sharp anguish. It is well said that troubles are never lonely.

As Petar Oseku was a close blood relation, I should have known that it was only a matter of time before vendetta touched my own family. Perhaps, underneath, I did know, and kept the knowledge from myself; perhaps it was simply that I was young, and so consumed by the minor joys and sorrows of my life that I never thought of looking beyond my own concerns. The world of my girlhood is so far away, and there is much I have forgotten, but I find it difficult now to believe that I was then so blind.

Whatever the reason, it was a shock when my father was named to avenge the death of Johannik, Petar Oseku’s middle son. His youngest, Orlu, was still to cross the threshold of manhood, and my father was Johannik’s oldest male relation. My parents had known since the vendetta was first declared that it would be that way, unless the wizards of the two villages negotiated a blood settlement. For complex legal reasons that no one except the wizards understood, the Wizard Ezra had declared at the beginning that this would be impossible, and so the relentless logic of the vendetta reached into my own house. It was again the beginning of winter, two and a half years after Petar Oseku died.

My mother and father had not thought to warn me of this danger, out of a feeling of mercy perhaps, or because they assumed I would already know, although I think it most likely that it was because they considered me too young to be included in the conversation. And so, when the bloodied sheet was hung from the Red House (the back window, because the house belonged to the master, and not my father), it came like a bolt of lightning out of a blue sky. I had been on an errand, to buy some eggs from Fatima, and I was walking slowly, taking care not to swing my basket, and watching my step in case I tripped. I arrived at the back courtyard, unlatched the gate, and looked up: and there was the sheet, hanging like a blasphemy from our own window.

I knew at once what it meant. I don’t know how I didn’t drop the basket then and there, but I did not: instead, I carried it into the kitchen and placed it with special care on the table. My mother was preparing a lamb casserole with lemon and egg sauce, and she thanked me and took the eggs as if that day were the most ordinary in the world. I remember the light that shafted through the door fell coldly on her face, and her skin looked waxy and slightly blue, as if she were a corpse herself. She said not a word about the sheet, not a word about my father. Her face was closed and stern, as expressionless as a rock.

That night, when I went to bed and cried until there were no more tears to cry, she came in when she thought I was asleep and stroked my hair, but that was the only time through those endless months when she thought to treat me with gentleness. My father acted much as his brother had and refused to hurry his task; shortly after the sheet was hung, the winter snows blocked the roads and earned him a respite. Every day when I walked out the door, I saw the sheet, frozen stiff and hung with icicles, and every time I shuddered. All that long, dark winter, death hung over our household, bruising the very air with dread.

My mother was never the most demonstrative of women, but that winter it was as if her soul withered inside her. She became a different person: harder and less forgiving. It was a lonely time for me. I felt as if she had abandoned me and had wandered off into some rocky, barren place where I was unable to follow her. Sometimes I hated her. Other women were softer with their daughters, and I would watch them from the corner of my eye with burning envy as they held their girls in their arms and kissed their faces. Oh, I have long forgiven her; it was sorrow that froze the loving woman inside her. But it made a hard time harder for me.

I wasn’t close to my father; although he was fond of me, I knew that he had always wanted a son, and to have only a single child, a daughter at that, was a trying disappointment in his life. Sometimes after a night of drinking he would beat my mother, but in that he was no worse than many of the men in the village, and better than some, since he never hurt her beyond a few bruises. I was, if anything, afraid of him. I’m not sure that I ever really loved him. But for all that, he was my father, and I didn’t want him to die.

Lina was not so insensitive as to crow with excitement when the vendetta came to the Red House, but she couldn’t conceal her interest. Vendetta was something that excluded her, and she hated that: she always wanted to be at the center of everything. I turned to her in my loneliness, and our friendship, which had become a little distant in the previous couple of years, blossomed again under her quick sympathy. I think she really did feel sorry for me and did her best to console my grief; she could be a charming and thoughtful companion when she chose.

Curiously, perhaps, I found most solace in Damek’s company at that time; he said very little, but there was something in him that responded with profound empathy to another’s suffering. One day he found me weeping behind the woodstack, where I had hidden after some hard words from my mother. I was insensible to his presence until he laid his hand upon my shoulder, which made me jump. I looked up through my tears, embarrassed to be discovered, and he squatted down and offered me a kerchief to mop my face.

“It won’t hurt so much in a while,” he said gruffly when my sobs had subsided.

My awkwardness vanished, because I knew that Damek wouldn’t tell anybody that he had found me crying like a baby. “It doesn’t feel like it,” I said at last.

“It always feels bad to begin with,” he said. “But then you get used to it, and it’s not so bad.” I wanted to ask him how he knew but stopped myself; we all knew Damek never talked about his past before the Red House. He stared at his feet, as if he were looking there for more words, and we sat in silence for a while as I gathered myself together.

He helped me up and studied my face. “Nobody would know you’ve been crying,” he said. “Better that way, eh?” He smiled, and I gave him a wobbly smile back. He had a very sweet smile, I remember. After that I sometimes sought his company when my spirits oppressed me. He never asked questions: we would merely talk idly of this or that until I felt better. It was simple kindness, and I have never forgotten it.

Perhaps you will find this difficult to understand, as Damek has since become so cruel, but maybe the cruelest people, those who are most crafty in the ministration of hurt, are those who fully understand what it means to feel pain. I sometimes wonder if that boy lives somewhere inside Damek still, or if Damek murdered him in his manhood. If he did, that might have been his worst crime.

When the thaw came, my father went to kill his man and duly traveled to the palace to pay the Blood Tax, and on his return we held the honoring feast. You will no doubt find it strange of me, given what I think and believe about the vendetta, but when I looked at him sitting at the head of the long table with the soft flush of rushlight on his face, I was proud of him. It was the only time in my life I felt such a surge of affection toward my father; he was gentle with me that evening, and called me his dear as he stroked my cheek. I treasure that memory still, since it is one of the few times in my life when I felt some sense of redemption in our relationship. It is one of the paradoxes of the North, that the vendetta, the evil thing at our heart, is what brings out our most noble character.

The day after the truce elapsed, my father was shot dead on the road just outside the village. As with most of these killings, it occurred at dawn. The news was brought to us by Johka of the Low Pastures, who found his body. I remember it vividly: Fatima had just arrived with eggs and gossip for my mother, and I was making a tea, when there was a knock on the kitchen door. Johka was standing on the threshold, clutching his hat in his hands, and before he said a word, all the blood drained from my mother’s face. Fatima nodded to Johka, indicating that this was women’s business, and he mumbled his sympathies and went away. My mother stood, unseeing and unhearing, as Fatima took her elbow and made her sit down. It was only then that she began to weep.

For all the unhappiness it caused, the death of my father did not seriously affect our circumstances: my mother and I were protected because we worked at the Red House, and the master’s family was immune from vendetta. We were not in danger, as others were, of losing our home and our livelihood. But my father was scarcely cold in his grave when disaster struck and our lives changed forever.

A
s is so often the case, it was a small chance that exerted the greatest leverage upon our existences. One evening in the late spring, the master saddled up Ruby, the impetuous chestnut mare, since he intended to ride to the manse to conduct some business. Normally my father would have performed this task, but since he was no longer with us, we were a little shorthanded in the stables. Had my father been there, he would have advised the master to choose another mount: Ruby had in the past few days developed a tiny sore on her ribs, which chafed against the saddle girth. She was fiery at the best of times — one of the reasons the master liked to ride her — but the abrasion made her irritable. The master had ridden less than half a mile before Ruby threw him. His head hit a stone when he fell, and he lay unconscious on the path for hours before the alarm was raised. The men set out from the Red House with lamps when he failed to return and found him at midnight. Ruby was grazing peacefully nearby with her leg through one of the reins.

He was laid across his horse and brought home, as if he were already a corpse. In truth he was barely alive. He was near dead from exposure alone — he was drenched through with the dewfall — and although the head injury had not broken the skin, it showed an ugly bruise across his temple.

Lina was waiting up for him, curiously calm in the midst of the hubbub, and when she saw her father coming home through the rising mist, she didn’t move or make a cry. She watched, her eyes dark and luminous in the lamplight, as he was brought in and made comfortable in his bed while the doctor was sent for. Only her paleness — she had turned absolutely white when she saw the horse — and the small drop of blood on her lip where she had bitten it, betrayed her bitter anxiety. I confess that I was mightily relieved: had she behaved in her usual manner and had hysterics, I don’t know how we would have coped. Instead she pulled a chair close to the bed and sat next to the master, holding his hand and stroking his brow. Damek stood uncertainly by the doorway, impeding everyone who wanted to enter or leave the chamber. He reminded me of a swan I saw once, whose mate had been fatally injured by a gunshot: it stayed day and night beside the wounded one, uselessly starving itself, unable to help and equally unable to leave.

The doctor arrived within the hour, and we were all banished from the chamber. It was the same doctor who tended your dog bite, sir, although he is much older now; a city-educated man, as you know, who possesses a store of something that cannot be taught: ordinary human compassion. Lina waited wordlessly with the rest of us outside the room, her head bowed, her hands twisting nervously together, and when the doctor at last emerged, her eyes sought out his with a silent plea of such ferocity and passion I saw him sway with the force of it.

For a moment it seemed he would pass by without making any comment, but then he changed his mind. He sighed, and taking Lina’s hand in both of his, he met her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “My condolences.”

Lina drew in her breath sharply but said nothing.

“He is dead, then?” said Damek quickly, from behind Lina.

“Nay,” the good man answered. “I fear he will die before the dawn. I should be very surprised if he should wake before then.”

Lina threw aside the doctor’s hands, flung open the bedchamber door, and scrambled to her father’s side. Snatching up his hand, she cried, with a piteous desolation, “Papa! Papa! Wake up!” When she saw no answering change on her father’s face, a violent storm of grief possessed her; she let go of his hand and threw herself to the floor in an attitude of the deepest despair.