Tattered Souls - Part 3

Ceolfred, leaning against the side of his cabin, looks up as he finishes tamping the bowl of his pipe and frowns. On the far side of the clearing, his nephew is angrily attacking the forest’s verge with axe and saw. Something’s eating away at the young man, gnawing him from within, as he hacks at vines and deadwood. Rastellion’s been here for four days now, and he’s scarcely had a word for his father or uncle beyond the terse civilities of the table and the brief exchanges required by work around the cabin.

On the other hand, Ceolfred muses, it’s been months since the place has been in such good shape. The vegetable garden has been turned and prepared for spring, with a new fence built around it; the chicken coop has been mended; even that draft under the northern eaves is patched. And now Rastellion’s chopping back the encroaching forest as if it were guilty of some unforgiveable personal affront. All chores Ceolfred himself would have done by now, were it not for the constant bother of catering to his brother-in-law, Rastellion’s lamed and sour-faced father, Cuthberd. A shadow of the man Ceolfred remembers courting his younger sister, all those years ago.

Across the clearing, Rastellion growls an oath, tossing down the saw and reaching for the axe again, to whack at a particularly thick vine. The older man sighs. He recognizes the signs: it’s a girl. Probably that pretty red-headed one that came wandering up here on her own the previous autumn, with some fool notion that by offering to work on the non-existent family farm she’d free Rastellion to make a new life for himself in Bree. Running from her own feelings, Ceolfred thinks to himself; or, more like, trying to force the boy to admit his. But the girl had seemed sincere in her affections, if a bit extreme in her responses. Which, after all, is the privilege of youth.

He puffs his pipe, then straightens and strides over to the well – these twinges in his back are new, too; didn’t have those five years ago – and fills a bucket with the clear, mineral-laced water, to offer his nephew. “Here, boy, take a break. I’d say you’ve earned it.”

Rastellion looks over at him, shrugs, and takes a final swing to sever the suborn vine. He leans both axe and saw against a nearby stump, then sits on it as he accepts the bucket. “Thanks.” He drinks, and some of the water splashes down on his bare chest, raising goose-flesh in the still-chill air of early spring. He reaches for his shirt.

“Not lost all your muscles with city living,” Ceolfred observes, deadpan.

Rast huffs out a breath. “Bree had its attractions,” he replies, obliquely, tugging the shirt over his head. “But maybe it’s not for me after all.”

“Hmmm,” Ceol replies, noncommittally. To judge by the quality of the new tack on Whitey and the few new articles of clothing the boy brought with him – not to mention the money he’d sent back after Yule, to help pay for his father’s upkeep – the young man’s done quite well for himself in Bree. Remarkably well.

The hunter puffs on his pipe and lets the companionable silence stretch for a bit. Rast takes another drink and works at a splinter under one fingernail. A wren, apparently deciding that the violent wood-chopping is over for the day, essays a trill from a nearby tree.

“You mentioned something about a mill?” Ceolfred finally prompts.

Rastellion glances at his uncle, his face bleak with whatever thoughts have carried him off. “I … what?” He blinks once or twice, then turns away, nodding. “Aye. There’s this miller’s widow, friend to that Zandrianna I’ve mentioned, who wants t’ sell her mill but keep th’ millhouse.”

Rastellion summarizes the situation for Ceolfred, how Rossiath’s husband had taken ill; how their son had neglected his work and squandered their savings in gambling, finally being killed over the debts now left to his widowed mother. The debts she has to sell her property to cover. “So, I thought – since I don’ want t’ go back t’ farming – maybe if I bought th’ mill, fixed it up… well, might be that pa could handle it, even though lame. Give ‘im somethin’ t’ do sides jus’ stewin’ by the fire all day. And then I could…” Rastellion trails off. “Well, don’t matter.”

Ceolfred rubs his chin. “Cuthberd knows farming, but he’s never run a mill before. What, think you could just stick him into’t and he’d be churnin’ out flour for the mayor’s bakery the next day?” He looks down at his pipe, which has gone out, and fishes in his pocket for the implements with which to relight it.

The younger man snorts. “I ain’t been in town so long as t’ get that foolish! Nah, th’ widow as owns th’ mill, she all but ran it while her husband was ill, and then when her son was off cavortin’. I dare say she’d be running it now, but for th’ repairs she she can’t afford. I figure she can show pa what he needs t’ do.”

Ceolfred raises an eyebrow at this. “Really? Your pa, take telling? And from a woman? Cuthberd’s so contrary he’d gripe an egg back into a chicken.”

Rastellion actually grins at this, the first bit of cheer his uncle’s seen on his face. “Maybe. But you don’t know Rossiath! She’d scold the egg back out of the chicken, and then have the hen herself scramble and serve it, with apologies for not having the proper spoons to hand.”

“Really?” The older man chuckles. “Well, I’d like to meet this formidable woman! Still, I suppose your father will remember something about millwork…” He pauses at the confused look Rast gives him. “From when he was ‘prenticed? Din’ you know?” Rast shakes his head. “Well, now, there’s a thing,” Ceolfred says, finally getting the pipe lit and giving it a few puffs. “And here I thought that’s what gave you the idea.”

“He was ‘prenticed?” Rast frowns. “Pa’s never talked much about … before. Before mother died, I mean. And what with … how things were between …” Rastellion trails off, looking uncomfortable.

“Y’ mean how he weren’t on speakin’ terms with me or any of th’ family, even before m’ sister died?” Ceolfred finishes, baldly. Rastellion nods, and his uncle shrugs. “Still, I thought he’d have told you something.”

“He never liked it when I asked about the past. He’d say ‘yesterday gathers no crops’ or that sort o’ thing, then assign me more chores, ‘T’ give you somethin’ useful t’ think on,’ as he’d put it.”

The other nods, puffs, attempts a smoke ring, and produces only a smoke blob. He glares as it wobbles away on the morning’s light breeze. “M’ own uncle was a miller,” he says, after a few moments. “My sister – your ma – an’ I worked for him sometime, when things were busy. Tha’s how we met your pa. Back then he was my uncle’s new junior ‘prentice. He an’ your ma, well, they fell hard for each other. Started sneakin’ off together, when they thought no one knew. But my father – well, he’d have none of it. Had other plans for Ellanah’s wedding.” He draws on the pipe a few more times, remembering.

“Finally came t’ a head one night when your pa shows up an’ asks for leave t’ court her. Stubborn ol’ coot, Cuthberd, even back then. Stubborn young coot. Well, my father flat out rejects him, right there, in front o’ everyone. But Ellanah, she pipes up, sayin’ she loves him an’ wants t’ marry him. An’ when my father refuses, she just ups from the table and walks out the door with your pa. Din’ even grab her shawl.”

Rastellion has turned toward his uncle at this tale, his eyes gone a bit wide. He keeps quiet as Ceolfred taps the stem of his pipe against his front teeth. A woodpecker, on the far side of the clearing, hammers a percussive echo.

“Well,” the hunter continues, “father shouts after them that if she leaves with him, she’s not ever to return. Ellanah just keeps walking, don’t even look back.” He snorts. “They were two of a kind, yer parents. A real love match.” He draws on his pipe, realizes it’s gone out again, and starts to empty the bowl out on the ground. “That was it for Cuthberd’s ‘prenticeship, too. He packed up th’ next day and went back to your farm, Ellanah with him. Hadn’t even been at the mill two years. But, I dare say, he remembers a bit, even now.”

“So that’s why we never…” Rastellion begins.

Ceolfred nods. “That’s why your family never spoke with mine; why you never even met your grandmother.” He lowers his voice, though the cabin is out of easy earshot. “An’ that’s why bein’ here is harder for your pa than I guess you must know – not jus’ havin’ t’ ask for help, but havin’ to ask it from his wife’s kin. Not that I ever held it against him, not her leavin’, nor her death neither.”

Rastellion shakes his head, bemused. “Pa? A love match? Hard t’ imagine.”

“Mebbe not that hard,” his uncle demurs. “Not if you’d known him back then.” He tucks his pipe back into his jerkin, then meets the young man’s eyes. “So, speaking of such things, what ever came of that girl you followed up here last autumn?”

Rastellion’s expression hardens at the sudden question, and he starts looking around for his tools. “Nothing. I should get back to work.”

Ceolfred reaches out and puts a restraining hand on the young man’s knee. “Rast. What happened?”

“What happened?” Rastellion’s eyes are bleak as he swings his gaze back to meet his uncle’s. “What happened is what always happens when I start t’ care ‘bout someone. She up an’ finds someone richer, someone handsomer, someone better.” HIs fists clench. “She din’ even have the decency t’ tell me in person. Just ran around wit’ him behind my back soon as he shows up in Bree, then runs off with him.” He turns to stare back off into the forest. “That’s what carin’ gets you.”

The hunter recoils slightly from the bitter anger in his nephew’s voice. “And this is th’ girl that came up here, on her own, last fall? Immalaine, wasn’t it?”

Rastellion gives a single, savage nod.

Ceolfred frowns. “Now, I just met her that one time, sure – but, Rast, she din’ seem that way at all. Not like Giselle. You sure ‘bout this?”

“Sure?” Rast spits. “Of course I’m sure. She lied ‘bout seein’ him after he showed up in Bree, started t’ avoid me, made plans t’ run off wit’ him! How much surer could it be? Couldn’t even bother t’ finish her goodbye letter when he showed up t’ take her away.” He stands and reaches for the axe. “Seems I’m not cut out t’ be anythin’ more than a nobody rottin’ away here in the downs. Anythin’ more’s jus’ askin’ for grief.” He strides back to the vine and starts hacking again.

“A nobody; that’s what we are?” the older man murmurs, but Rastellion seems oblivious to the insulting implications of his words. Ceolfred puts his hands on his knees and chews his lip, wondering how to reach the young man. Of everything that could have happened, being rejected by another girl – and one for whom he obviously cared deeply – was about the worst thing that could have happened to Rastellion in the wake of his failed engagement with Giselle. That, and …

His musings are interrupted by the clang of a cowbell from the cabin’s porch. Ceolfred grits his teeth and shuts his eyes. It’s a wonder I’ve not murdered that sour bastard, he thinks. Or left him out to sleep with the bears. He stands, turns, and starts to walk back toward the small house, where Cuthberd is leaning on the crutch and waving the bell he uses when Ceolfred’s beyond easy shouting distance. “What is it?” Ceolfred calls, when he’s partway across the clearing. To his surprise, he sees that, his brother-in-law’s not alone.

“Messenger,” Cuthberd replies, gesturing at the slight, dark-haired fellow waiting on the stoop. “Got a letter for m’ son. Says ‘e’ll only give it t’ Rast.”

Well, this is new, Ceolfred thinks. Maybe a proper explanation from that girl, after all. He turns and calls back to his nephew. “Rast! Got a courier for you here. Come on over.” He continues forward to greet his visitor. “Come on in. I can boil water if you want tea, or I’ve got sommat stronger that’ll warm you right up.”

The messenger grins. “If it’s quick,” he says. “I can’t stay long.”

When Rastellion joins the other inside the cabin, the messenger shifts a half-finished glass of brandy to his left hand and hands over an envelope of coarse, heavy paper. Rastellion looks at the handwriting on the front. “From Zandrianna,” he says, face impassive.

“Business?” Ceolfred asks, “that Association of yours?”

Rastellion shakes his head. “Nah. She’d have used the seal then.” He strikes the edge of the envelope against his open palm a few times. “No, this’ll be ‘bout that other matter.”

“’Bout that new girl you let get away?” Cuthburd queries, from the fireside chair he’s reclaimed. “Good riddance, I say. Jus’ after my money, she was.” The envelope crackles as Rast’s hand tightens on the paper, and Ceolfred shoots his brother-in-law a withering glance. The other man snorts and returns his attention to the fire and his glass.

The courier, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the tense exchange, finishes off his own drink, but waves off Ceolfred’s offer of a refill. “I’ve got to be heading back to Trestlebridge, then on to Bree,” he says. “But I was told there might be a reply?”

Rastellion weighs the envelop in his hand for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. No, there’s nothing more to say. Goodbye is goodbye.” He meets the messenger’s eyes. “You can let Zandrianna know I’ll be back in a week, maybe two. And..." He swallows. "And tell her to start thinkin' 'bout who might take over for me."

The other man shrugs. “As you say.” He offers his hand to Ceolfred. “Thanks for the drink. With your leave, I’ll water my horse, then be off.”

Ceolfred nods and watches the man step back out of the small cabin. Then he turns to his nephew. “Rast, you should at least read the letter before you decide not to reply. Maybe she…”

“No,” Rastellion interrupts him, angrily. “Why prolong it? Immalaine made her choice quite clear. What’s done is done.”

“But…”

“No!” At this, the young man takes three quick steps across the room and tosses the unopened envelope into the fire. The flames lick at the parchment, and its edges start to curl. He rounds on his uncle. “I won’t be made a fool of again.”

Ceolfred sighs. “Right. Well.” The wuffle of the messenger’s horse sounds from outside. “I’ll just see our visitor off then, shall I?” He starts towards the door.

Rastellion follows. “And I have vines to chop,” he says, exiting behind his uncle and striding off, back across the clearing.

Left alone in the cabin, Cuthberd reaches for the poker. He hooks it about the heavy envelope and, with a slight tug, pulls it deeper into the coals. “There,” he mutters to himself, as fingers of fire tear open the message. “Mebbe now the boy’ll see sense an’ stay home, where he belongs.”

He sets the poker down and, as the sound of chopping resumes from outside, watches the greedy flames dance higher about the blackening paper. Watches with eyes that see through the blaze to distant, happier days; eyes that, unnoticed by any, gleam wetly in the ruddy light.