The Nothing Within Page 6

  So in the few breaks Ma gave me, time I could use to play, there wasn’t much of nobody to do it with. Oh, the other children would include me if I asked. They had to, to be polite. But somehow, polite and play don’t go together. That being so, to occupy myself I’d wander, as much as you can wander within the village wall.

  Back then, few walls were so strong and high and grand as they are today, but every village had one, just as we do now. Surecreek’s wall was something proper, built up by dozens of generations of folks who came before, ever since the Reckoning. Runner Aimis used to say the smallest villages had little more than a line of brambles and rotted logs that you might mistake for a wall if you squinted hard enough. Still, every village had a wall. Except Market of course. It didn’t have one then, just as it don’t have one now.

  Even though Surecreek was a fair-sized village, it was only just so big within its wall. By that age I’d walked over every bit of ground in that place. I could have made my way around it blindfolded.

  That was a joke. It’s okay to laugh.

  Really, it’s okay.

  Hm. Anyhow.

  From the youngest age, I’d gotten a taste of the wide world that almost nobody else did.

  Runners see villages all over the World That Is, running messages and packages or escorting others, nothing but their clubs and slings and strong legs to protect them. But runners stay to well-trod roads and paths. They see the same places over and over.

  Drovers? When livestock needs moving, they see the world the same way runners do, and usually with runners for company.

  Planters see the world outside the village walls. They see the pastures and fields where we’ve managed to push back the old woods far enough for the sun to get in. But they don’t leave sight of a village wall if they can help it.

  Me, though? I was raised on pilgrimage. Before I could walk, Ma was toting me all over the World That Is, til I was old enough to tote myself. We used the roads and paths of course, and we walked the Old Ways too, just like other travelers. But we also roamed down hills and up valley sides, through heavy woods so thick and ancient you felt the silence listening to you, along rivers and creeks nobody else waded through, and by secret ways that I won’t speak of, because then they won’t be secret no more.

  I knew the wide world was out there, and I ached for it.

  I told Leeleh that once. She didn’t say nothing for a long while. Then she said, “Root, don’t say that no more.” She worried so easy. I didn’t care to worry her more, so I didn’t speak of it again. But still—I ached for it.

  I couldn’t have it, though, except on Pilgrimage with Ma. Just imagine me walking to the gate and asking Watcher Kedra or Watcher Johsif, “You mind if I go outside and stretch my legs a bit?”

  “Yes,” they would have told me. “Yes, Little Weaver, we do mind. Ever so very much.”

  But I could walk along the wall on the inside and listen to the out, and there was nothing for them to mind about that.

  Later, when I was seven or eight I guess, it struck me that if somebody could move as quiet as a dead’un, and if they could somehow stay awake after their ma fell asleep, and if they had the urge to wander? Why, they could wander Surecreek, even up to the wall, deep into the night. Deep when the sounds and smells from beyond the wall were so much more interesting, anyhow.

  Then later still, when I was ten, it occurred to me that the only thing between me and the wide world was the inclination to do a little climbing.

  That’s why a few days after dear old Vernie’s passing, I wandered around the wall past nightfall driven by a mighty purpose, for grief had turned my boredom to a restless rage.

  Where others saw the Pit as needful, I saw something cruel. Where other saw the village wall as a comfort, I saw strangling confinement. And though it shames me to say it, I’ll say what’s true: Where others saw Surecreek as a safe and loving home, I saw only torment.

  I needed the breeze to clear my head. I needed the trees and herbs and underbrush to comfort me.

  I needed out of Surecreek.

  I don’t suppose most folks could have made that climb. But most folks hadn’t spent years walking along our wall, feeling every thumbspan of it as high as they could reach or leap, and climbing parts of it half-way up in secret. And most folks might wrongly trust their eyes while climbing, rather than trusting in the truth of their fingers and their bare-naked toes.

  So, soft as a shepherd, deep into the night—out I went.

  5

  An Evening Stroll

  I smelled the wolves before I heard them. Lucky I guess.

  Three times lucky. Once lucky that I was downwind of them. Twice lucky that it rained fierce the day before. I hope you’ve never smelled the musk of a wet wolf, but if you have, you know what I mean.

  Third time lucky? We’ll get to that.

  Even with summer almost on us, it was cold as Gebohra Muerta’s nipples that night. I was in the woods, in a place I knew well from rootcraft gathering with Ma, a ways from Surecreek’s walls. Lush and fragrant. Sheepsbane, corpsebreath, bitterwort, eldergreen, sow’s balls. A nameless little runnel sings soft there in no hurry to find the Crystalwash, gentle on its shy and winding way. I loved that place. Still do. Visit when I can.

  So I might have been too comfortable, there in a beautiful place shuddering with the lovely sounds and feels and smells of late spring. But at that simple age, it hadn’t occurred to me that a safe and beautiful place in the sunshine with Ma might be a different place altogether when I was alone without nobody’s permission a good touch past midnight.

  I was rubbing eldergreen between my palms, drinking in that lovely, prickly smell, when I wondered why it stopped smelling so lovely as it ought. In fact it, smelled something like a wet sheep, only much, much angrier.

  I held my breath and listened—hard. That’s when I heard a footfall so soft it wasn’t hardly there at all. Then I heard another to the left of it. Didn’t even occur to me to call out “Who’s there?” because nobody I’d care to meet was in the wild outside Surecreek’s wall after midnight.

  I felt my heart kicking my chest from the inside like it wanted to get out. That made good sense. At that moment it would have been safer just about anyplace else but inside of me. I crept away from the sound and toward a big old ash tree that wasn’t far behind me, back near the little creek, trying to be quieter than the invisible footfalls of whatever thing was creeping through the night. If I managed to reach the old ash, maybe I could climb it, or maybe I could hide behind it. Either way, if I kept real quiet, the thing out there would likely pass me by.

  That was my plan.

  Plans are ornery things.

  There I was, walking backward and full of my big plan, when I discovered a stone. And by “discovered” I mean I tripped on it, arms flailing, and I bloodied my thick head on the stone’s sister not far behind. I didn’t cry out. Ma would be real proud if she knew, I thought.

  That’s about when the growling started. And I knew that growl. I’d heard its like twice before.

  First time I was real little, on pilgrimage with Ma and two other weavers. We’d set camp somewheres between Muddy Bend and Ashland, out northwest in the Divide. After singing some songs it was off to bed, leaving Weaver Almeda of Littleford to the first watch. Not much later she woke us and whispered that something was snuffling just beyond the firelight. That’s when we heard the growling. A lone wolf first, then the others joined it one by one. There were four of us, with me being just a nubbin and Weaver Almeda of Littleford being quite elderly. There were maybe six wolves, so they must’ve figured we were easy pickings.

  Anyhow. Those wolves learned that three worthy weavers ain’t an easy meal, even when one of them’s well past breeding. And I learned that a wolf tastes about as good as you’d expect, which is not quite as good as it smells.

  The second time I heard that growl was in Surecreek, back when I was foolish enough to wander at night but not yet so foolish as to do it on
the wrong side of the wall. I was hugged up to the wall not far from our house, listening to the frogs and crickets suss out whose song owned the night, when just the same thing happened as in the Divide. Out beyond the wall one voice started growling, then after a few heartbeats the others joined one by one, three of them all together. I couldn’t tell what they were growling after, but whatever it was took a good long while to die, during which time the frogs and crickets let that poor critter’s cries own the night.

  Wolves ain’t the worst thing in the wild, but they’re not even nearly the best, neither. Big one? Her shoulder can be waist high on a sturdy lumberman, and she can fit a foolish ten-year-old girl’s head in her jaws without even opening up the whole way. Which I was about to find out in a memorable way, even if there’d be nothing left of me to remember it.

  The first growl was a deep one. Deeper than those I’d heard in the past, or so it seemed. The second one, to its left, was deeper still. The third and fourth came in about the same time so it was hard to tell them apart. After six or seven, I stopped being much interested in exactly how many there were, or whose voice was whose.

  Once they were all growling, the sound rose real sudden into that song you’ve heard, far in the distance—on the other side of a village wall, I hope. The wolf’s song that—just as it’s about to reach the stars—breaks into an eerie yip-yip, yip, yip-yip!

  Though wolves love singing to the sky, they don’t often do it when they hunt. A stalking wolf is as still as death’s breath. But if a whole pack of ‘em corner something that can’t so much as nip at them? Then they sing. I think it’s for the same reason we thank Grandmother Root before Common supper. Just to show they’re grateful for the delicious thing to come. At least that’s what I think now. Back then I had no opinion about the reason for it. I just knew their song was so beautiful it shivered me deep.

  Even though I was the delicious thing to come.

  They went back to growling as they moved in, and I did the only thing I could think to do. I stumbled to the old ash quick and loud. Did my best to ignore the blood oozing hot down the back of my neck. I slipped once and bloodied my knees but scrambled back up. Quiet wasn’t a choice no more anyhow, what with my ears ringing and my legs shaking and my head spinning from that crack I took. Once I reached the tree, I put my back to it and took two steps forward, one-two, leaving enough room to swing my staff behind me, but not enough room for a wolf to be there without getting whacked.

  Woodsmith Abram made my staff for me. It was small, as suited my size, and slender, so I could feel my way with it all day without tiring. But still, it was a good and proper staff. Hickory-hard, a touch taller than me, and as straight as a razor. I grabbed it tight and faced the wolves.

  Then I laughed. Not sure why. It just gushed up from inside where my heart was still trying to beat its way out to safety. I guess if you’re gonna be somebody’s supper anyhow, you might as well have a little fun doing it.

  I set myself for the Shepherd’s Dance, left foot forward, right foot behind, my staff held firm, my knees bent just so, every bone and muscle waiting, my body relaxed. One slow, deep breath from the chest, then gentle ones from the belly. Just like Ma taught me.

  I listened as well as I could, my ears sharp at what was coming despite the fierce ringing. My head felt like a rowdy mason had set up his workshop in there. Near as I could tell, they were all coming direct from the front, not so much as bothering to circle me in. They felt no need, I supposed. Eight or ten, maybe as many as a dozen creeping up on scrawny, lonesome me.

  Two of them were ahead of the others. With all the growling, it was hard to make out exactly where they were, but I thought I had the measure of it. About five paces off, then four.

  Three. Coming in slow. Two.

  And loud enough to shake the leaves, I hollered.

  Then I spun.

  6

  An Evening Stroll Ended

  From the sound of its voice, I had a good idea where the lead wolf’s head was. I spun around once with everything I had in me, swinging my staff in an arc high to low, and I was rewarded by the feel of a crack! as my staff met the wolf’s skull. It hit hard enough to numb my hands and leave my shoulders tingling. There was a yelp and a stumble as the wolf did its best to put some distance between us, the other wolves tumbling out of its way with indignant yips.

  While the first wolf was just starting to scramble away, I spun back around in the other direction, another full circle, intending to level the same attention at the second one’s head. But when I hit the first one it must have surprised the whole pack, because the growling stopped dead, making it hard to judge where the second was. Between that and my double spin, which left me a little off balance, instead of a joyous crack and shudder, I just felt the dull thump of hitting that second wolf on the neck or shoulder.

  Even so, it backed away, and that was enough to give them all pause. The growling picked up again, softer now and less joyful, and the pack sounded to be moving back a step or two. Not wanting to let them find their courage, I kept it up, hollering my voice raw and spinning and swinging that staff in my best childish imitation of the Shepherd’s Dance.

  The part of me with a thimbleful of good sense was wondering what it would feel like when the pack started eating my guts. But that part wasn’t spinning and swinging. The part that was spinning and swinging half-believed she could drive off this hungry pack, just her and her skinny little staff and her squeaky little voice. That fierce part of me barked a grunt, more excited than afraid or angry, and paused to reset her stance and firm up her grip for another swing.

  That’s when I felt it.

  Something you need to understand. When your eyes don’t work, sometimes you just—you just know something, and you couldn’t say why. Know there’s a tree to the left and a drop to the right. Know the door’s closed. Know when folks are whispering about you even without seeing them look at you. It’s not magic. There ain’t no such thing, not like in stories. I just think your body’s smart enough to get by without something, whatever the something might be, even if it’s as important as sight.

  I knew a good-sized pack of wolves was hunched before me, tensed and ready to spring for their meal. Knowing that was as simple as listening.

  But all of a sudden, for no reason I could claim, I knew just as well that one of them had gotten behind me. Right between me and the old ash. That close. It must have snuck back there during all the fidget and fuss of thumping the others. And it occurred to me that a wolf who’d figured out so fast that it ought to get downwind behind me, one that could do it so quick and quiet, was probably the smartest and most dangerous in the pack.

  That was the bad news.

  The good news was this: that smart and dangerous wolf probably thought it was about to surprise me real good, and it had no notion I could do anything about it.

  One more time I yelled, and I swung. A good and proper swing. Ma would have been proud. But maybe not so proud when my staff found nothing behind me and kept on going around through empty space, pulling me along with it, spinning me the rest of the way and landing me on my butt in the damp and the mold, the pack growling all the while.

  It was still there, I was sure of it. It must have seen me coming and darted out of the way. And…yep. As I scrambled back up quick, I still felt it—and now I could finally hear it. Just there. The softest scrunch of last fall’s leaves to the right of where it had been.

  Gathering up every pinch of strength left to me, I bellowed for my life, not wasting the time on a spin but thrusting forward quick and hard, grunting when I connected. But there wasn’t the satisfying crack I’d hoped for, or even the almost-satisfying feel of a furry, meaty thump. Instead, my staff just sort of—stopped. Stopped dead like it hadn’t moved in the first place.

  Confused, I gave a hard tug, knowing my back was to the other wolves, something it ought never to be. I tugged, then I tugged again, but my staff stayed fast, like it had suddenly sprouted roots and tur
ned back into the tree it was going to be before Lumberman Josiah cut it down for me.

  Then I cried out in surprise. Because the next time I tugged it, my staff tugged back.

  Then somebody laughed.

  “That’s a good grip, Little Weaver,” said a shepherd, sounding calm like she was sitting at the Common table for supper admiring a pretty basket I’d made at Learning.

  One of our village shepherds. Lydia, I thought, though it was hard to tell. She sounded near the same as Rachel. Folks said they looked much alike, too. Like twins almost, though folks said Rachel looked even more worn down and smooth, as shepherds will get with age.

  Remember, I said I was three times lucky? This was the third time, and the one that mattered most.

  “I don’t suppose we should interfere,” said Shepherd Rachel, real thoughtful-like. “It would almost be insulting, what with her having this well in hand.”

  This whole situation must have puzzled those wolves, because for a moment they’d stopped growling or advancing. Put off, I guess, by two folks who seemed unperturbed by their pack.

  They didn’t stay confused, though. Next I knew, they were growling and moving up again.

  “Let’s interfere just a little,” said Lydia.

  What happened next? Well I could scarcely say.

  First my cloak pulled forward with the wind of their passing, then I heard something like the Shepherd’s Dance, except that I’d only ever heard weavers dance it. Never a shepherd. Beautiful. There’s no other word. Just beautiful. Their staffs swung through the air so fast they made a sound that put to mind a high whistle and a low thrum at once, like the biggest bumblebees you can imagine were buzzing about that grove with wrathful glee. And in-between those swings came a crack or a thump or a yip or the sound of a wolf running off into the woods.