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THE WORLD IN BLACK AND WHITE

WREN

B y the time I am well enough to stand, the Traders have gone, and with them, the faint whisper of hope that had breathed some small amount of life into the dying coals banked in my heart.

It has been all of two days, not even, but their caravan is already high enough on the golden mountain path that only a faint cloud of dust is visible.

They must have left early, been loaded before the third day of trade even commenced, taken their bright eyed ponies and flame red wagons before the sun was awake, before the traditional feast, the parting songs, the last, lingering moments of short-lived romance.

Lorcan is studiously silent around my neck. Every now and again it feels like he is about to speak, but stops himself. I am glad he doesn’t try to offer comfort. It would be water into a sieve.

“BoneKeeper?” There is a hesitant knock at my door, but I’m unusually slow to respond. It feels like moving through mud, the effort to turn draining what little energy I had.

“Yes?” Though my voice is dull with fatigue and pain, it’s enough for the two women hovering at the threshold, and they come in like ptarmigans, feathers fluffed, feet skittish.

“Oh. Oh, Keeper!” Bri’s voice is horrified, but Grace shushes her quickly, and when Bri speaks again, it is with forced cheerfulness, a hard, crackling sound at odds with her careful, gentle movements. “We heard you were…indisposed…and brought you some bread and soup. Grace?”

At the prompt, Grace drags a broken table in front of me, tutting under her breath at the state of the previously abandoned cottage, exchanging silent looks with her friend. Bri keeps chattering, filling the empty space with tumbling, meaningless words.

“...and I told Dav that we were coming, so he decided to fill a sack with some small things…you know children, they just get it into their heads that they don’t like something that week, so we have more carrots and potatoes than we know what to do with, and I’ll ask you, what sort of child doesn’t like fried potatoes… ”

I’m only catching the scattered edges of her monologue, finding it surprisingly difficult to focus for too long on one thing. I don’t understand what has happened to me; the hollowness in my stomach is a gnawing pit and a sickening, dense rock heavy enough to make me curl forward despite myself.

“Keeper.” Hesitancy, then, “I’m so sorry,” with so much sympathy in her voice my eyes fill, and it takes every last ounce of control I have left in me not to let them overflow.

If I start to cry, I may never stop. “You’ll feel better with a little food.

Grace is going to help you. You don’t have to do anything.

We’re here.” She pauses, swallowing hard, and Grace takes over, spooning a small amount of soup into my unresisting mouth.

“We’re here,” she repeats Bri’s words, then, “and we’re sorry we weren’t here sooner.

We didn’t know is all I can say. We just didn’t know.

” Clearing her throat, she takes a deep breath, then pushes forward, trying to keep her tone level and emotionless.

“Councilman Rannoch and the Father mentioned you had…some injuries. Would you like I to look at them or?—”

Lifting my eyes to her face, I shake my head in a shadow of movement. It’s enough, and though she presses her lips together in a thin line, she nods to herself and just offers me more soup.

“It was a strange day today for most of the village. The, uh, the Traders left early, if you didn’t hear them this morning.” Bri is clearly trying to break the news gently, but the words force themselves out in reluctant stutters of sound.

“Why?” Again they exchange heavy glances before Bri responds.

“There was some disagreement between the Traders and the Councilmen. It was enough that the trade was called early, that they took back sacks and sacks of grain they had only just unloaded. The Father attempted to…there was no…I’m not sure.

I’m not sure what happened; it was so far from where most of the villagers were.

The Councilmen tried to explain it away afterwards, but there is unrest. Everyone knows how badly we needed this trade; it seemed like a miracle when the wagons came. ”

“They took back grain?” My voice is a raw, bloody scrape, but I’ve never heard of such a thing. To take back the trade offer, and after so long without a trade at all. The women nod in unison, lips pursed in silent disapproval.

“Enough for at least a month, as long as we used shallow cups to measure. And left our dusty ore and dull, useless jewels sitting in pointless piles. What sense is there in arguing over small things when we can’t eat rocks?

” Bri is almost frantic, tears thick in her throat; Grace murmurs small, unintelligible comfort to her.

“I’m sorry, Keeper.” Bri takes a deep breath.

“We’re not here to add further upset. I just… I have children.”

“No one could do anything?” I ask, too stunned to think clearly, and Grace sighs.

“The Father tried. Councilor Rannoch. A few of the Traders — your emerald-eyed one was particularly vocal. But it wasn’t enough by half. Too many accusations made, some ugly words spoken. It has been a long time since the last Trade happened, and women were free to their own devices in the night.”

Bri shrugs uncomfortably, fussing around the small, empty room. “It’s hard on the men, maybe…” she mumbles, an excuse in her voice. Grace narrows her eyes, clearly picking up an argument that started before they came to my door.

“The men in our village were happy enough to dance with anyone during the season, Bri. And with no recriminations. Yet somehow the women doing the same was enough to salt earth? Something is happening, something is changing here, and the longer we pretend it isn’t, the more it sinks into our skin, the harder it will be to scrub out.

” She turns to me, brow furrowed. “Nickolas is suggesting, quietly of course, that the hunt is becoming too taxing for women. That the Hunters narrow down to only the strongest men, to preserve rations, until after the Storms. And then we’ll reevaluate.

” She shakes her head angrily. “Reevaluate what?”

“Grace…” Bri whispers, looking around her, an edge of fear tightening her jaw, and Grace snorts.

“This is what I mean, Bri. Since when have we had to look and see who may be listening? And there’s talk of changing Children’s Month.

Of recording names following the father’s line instead of the mother’s.

” Snorting scornfully, she shakes her head.

“What good would that do, after the Dancing Month? I ask you!” Turning to me, Grace studies me with careful eyes.

“Keeper,” and her voice is cautiously respectful, every word chosen with care, “have you…heard any warnings. From the bones? About the shifting sands in the village?”

“Don’t press her,” Bri shushes her friend quickly. “We’re not here for…we’re sorry, Keeper. Or — do you prefer — we heard you called by another name. Maybe only by friends though?”

Their voices pulse in and out in strange rhythm, like a heartbeat, and I’m doing my best to concentrate on their unexpected kindness, on their gentleness, so different from the things I have known in my life here. But it’s taking all my effort to force my chest to move in-and-out, in-and-out.

“Wren…” Her voice is hesitant, but strengthens when I don’t protest. “Are you — are you alright? Truely? Grace is a talented healer. If there are…if you have a need she can…” Bri is trying, desperately, and Grace sinks to her heels in front of me, taking my hands.

“If we can help , Wren. In any way. Are you alright?”

I swallow, pressing my lips together, and then, “I’m just so…I’m just so sad .” The words choke my throat, fill my eyes, empty my heart. I sound like a child, lost and faintly surprised, and the women exchange a long, laden look.

“Ah. Well. That I have not found a tincture for, not one I can make anyway. The only cure is time.”

“Time I have in abundance. Acres and acres of time.” Shaking my head, I make an effort to come back to myself, to settle into my skin which doesn’t seem to fit the same way as it did three days ago, a week ago, a month ago.

Forcing an approximation of a smile, I take a deep breath.

“I’m very thankful to you both for your thoughtfulness.

Sincerely. And I don’t wish to upset you in any way?—”

“But it’s time for us to go.” Grace’s voice is wry but understanding, and she squeezes my hands before letting go and standing. “We tend to overstay our welcome at the best of times, Keeper, and this is not the best of times.”

Bri pulls the small table closer to the chair where I am sitting, then places the soup tureen and bread on it, guiding one of my hands to it.

“Here is the rest of your meal, for when you want it.” She hesitates, then cajoles in a mother’s voice, “Please eat. It will help. And maybe a blanket? Your skin is cold. Can we?—”

Grace breaks in, interrupting Bri’s fluttering hands with fond exasperation.

“She can’t help but be a goose to any gosling she sees.

It’s in her nature. Don’t be offended.” Their interplay brings a wobbly and faint, but real smile to my lips, and pulls echoes from both of theirs.

“Sincerely, Keeper. Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile.

Think carefully before opening the door to us again; Bri will have laced curtains and woven rugs over every inch of this cottage by the time she steps across the threshold again. ”

Bri huffs indignantly, but looks around with considering eyes. “It could use a little brightening up…”

Grace laughs in reply. “Sun and Earth. I’ll take her now, before things get any worse. Can we—” She pauses, and Bri takes over. It’s like a pantomime, a little show of happiness they’re putting on for me, to bring some light into the dull room.

“Can we come back? If we haven’t caused too much ruckus this time, we’d like to see you tomorrow, if you’ll have us. ”

I don’t understand them, not entirely. Friendship hasn’t been a dish on the table for me in this village, and all gifts offered have come with strings.

Even Tahrik is a treasure box of stolen moments, nothing as ordinary and extraordinary as just having people drop by.

I answer more coldly than I intend to, but I can’t keep the confusion from my voice.

“I’m well enough. You don’t have to return.” Even to my ears it’s a sharp reply, and I try to soften it. “Though I thank you.”

“We don’t have to, Wren. But we’re asking if we can .” Bri is patient, has taken no slight from my cutting response.

“If…I suppose…” Something is wrong inside me that I can’t say yes, please, I’m lonely.

But if friendship colors my world and then is ripped away — I shiver.

What will the Council do to anyone who shows me kindness?

I learned long ago to snuff love, but don’t know the lines of where any show of sympathy or solace is permitted.

And I can’t bear the weight of souls that only went to the Gods because of me.

“I would leave some time between…I think it safer…maybe only if the Council is otherwise occupied…”

No other words need to be said. Their faces show clear understanding, and blossoming worry.

It’s not their fault; Bri has a husband and children, Grace — I don’t know, but it would be much to risk for small reward.

When she speaks, she is slow and thoughtful.

“We’ll take the caution to heart, and thank you for it.

So perhaps we’ll let you rest tomorrow.” I nod, ignoring the stinging beetles of disappointment scuttling through my stomach.

It’s the right thing to do, the wise thing to do, staying away from my door.

But it adds to the loss of Kaden’s laughter, to the hollowness of my home, to the pain from the bruises still flowering on my skin.

So when she continues, her words tighten my lungs and sting the bridge of my nose.

“But — we will be back. And soon. You’ll find us like brambles, Wren.

Once we catch on something, we’re terribly difficult to remove.

Come on, Bri, we have other stops to make this morning. ”

Bri grins at her friend, raising a knowing brow. “Are we going to the mill this morning as well, Grace? To…fill your sack with flour?” Grace smacks Bri lightly, and Bri laughs in return, nudging her .

“Enough, enough. Let’s let the poor Keeper have peace.”

“Of course. We’ll just go and get…your wheat ground, hmmm? Dav said Rik is working this morning. Perhaps he can help you put mortar to pestle and break your grain?”

“Leave off, you washerwoman,” Grace mutters, blushing furiously, calling out a farewell over her shoulder as they leave together.

Exhaustion hits me like a physical force, a punch to the stomach, blunt and brutal.

It is a better path for him, if that’s where his feet walk I try to convince myself.

What we have are moments outside time. We exist only between blinking, bloodstained lids.

Slowly, painfully, my body feeling bent to breaking from the weight of my blessing, I stumble to the door and check the lock, once, twice, and then I collapse into my bed, curling up in a tight ball.

Little Keeper. Lorcan sounds so very sad, raindrops of sorrow dripping down my spine. But I don’t know what to say, how to answer him.

Shall I tell you a story, Wren?

Pulling him off my spine, I wrap him around my hand and press him to my cheek, taking comfort in the edges of his teeth, the curve of his metacarpus, the cold line of his capitate.

Once upon a time he begins, voice soft and lulling, and if he can feel the stain of my tears as I drift to sleep, he is kind enough not to say a word.