“Tamer’s Tale” by JunoMagic
8. Midwinter Fortunes
They had gathered in the house of the village chief for the midwinter festivities.
They: a handful of fishers, craftsmen, shepherds, their wives and children. Men who were as gnarled and bent by weather and wind as the pines clinging to the hills of Himling; women with eyes that were so tired no smile was left to them, labouring from before sunrise to well after sunset, day after day, year after year. The careless, bright years of childhood were over almost before they had begun, and between mending nets and taking care of the sheep and goats time for laughter and play was scarce.
It was a harsh life on the island of Himling, that little bit of hill and heather forgotten between the sky and the sea when the world was changed.
Midwinter festivities: a scrawny wether that was not deemed good enough to stud, roasted on a spit, a pot of salted fish with the last potatoes and soused cabbage, a pudding for the silver penny that had never seen saffron or rice, or indeed a silver penny. The music a fiddle, a lap harp, and a bag pipe, to accompany windblown voices too rough to carry a tune. Stories of long forgotten days and far away places—but everything was far away from Himling, and Himling itself was longer forgotten in most of those far away places than many of the stories told around the fireplace that night.
The wizard was there, of course. A guest of honour. He was the one to keep away the storm floods from their harbour and the blight from their fields. Adoration and awe were his due. Yet they feared him, too. Sailing to trade their fish and their warmest and finest wool off at Harl, the men had returned with darkening rumours to Himling last autumn. It seemed the wizard had returned to Himling flying at the edge of a storm, a grey storm crow bearing portents of doom, an impression made worse by the fact that he would not speak of his travels or give any news. He would not bring darkness and danger to them, surely; he was their wizard, after all, and wasn’t he sworn to protect them? And forgotten by the world at large as they were, wouldn’t darkness and danger forget them, too? Nevertheless, they were afraid. Thus they feared the wizard deeply and liked him even less, though they honoured him.
Tamer was there, too. Anger was in her heart again though this time not stirred by the wizard, but felt for the wizard as she watched how they treated him. Polite they were, to be sure. They gave him his due, to be sure. But she could see the invisible wall with which they surrounded him, a wall of suspicion, a wall built of unspoken words: You are the stranger, you have walked darkness and danger, do you dare bring that to us, darkness and danger, wizard?
She glared at Amloth when the smith’s wife went to serve the wizard.
Don’t you dare and not to smile at him, her glowering gaze told the squat woman in no uncertain terms. Don’t you dare not to greet him kindly as you set the bowl on the table in front of him.
Amloth, however, schooled to meekness by a lifetime of fists and flares of temper meted out to her by her husband, whispered friendly words and even laughed softly at the wizard’s gentle reply.
Tamer leaned back in her corner, satisfied. But the wizard met her eyes with a sad knowing look. Let them be sullen, he seemed to say, let them be…
She lowered her head. It was not the housekeeper’s place to stand up for her master.
There would be others, perhaps even in high places, who had treated him with disdain and suspicion, yet he served them, too. Unfailing in his loyalty, unswerving in his courage.
She raised her head again and met his eyes. She felt tears rise to her eyes as she asked her silent question: Why may I not be loyal to you? And who will give me courage?
But the answer in his eyes was the same it had always been since he had come to know her heart’s desire: No. No.
Then it was time for fortune telling. The wizard’s calling and his duty. He swirled around tea leaves and dregs of coffee, scattered runes and knuckle bones, and traced lines in palms with skin like leather to presage a gentle spring with warm weather, to tell of a healthy child and three lambs this year; to give advice: replace that boat, or a storm will claim you. And: You will marry and be with child ere the next midwinter feast.
She closed her eyes and listened to his words, dreaming of the one caress he could not deny her, of the sound of his voice rough yet gentle, and of his touch, so tender she could almost feel his fingers stroking along her ear and down her neck. She wondered at this fortune telling, though. What fortunes could you tell on Himling? Anyone could see that Medui would marry and be pregnant ere the next year was out—she was sixteen and Odo the shepherd had declared his undying love for her. What would a gentle spring and a warm summer be to old Tolgawho was wheezing with a wasting sickness? Tamer could hear in the wizard’s voice that he had indeed seen the storm that would claim Glawo’s life. She doubted the new boat could save his life.
“And now Tamer, my lord!”
“Yes, you have to tell Tamer her fortune!”
“Yes, tell her to marry Jehan, he’ll thank you for it!”
Her eyes flew open, and she did not have a chance to glare and spit at those towing her to her feet before she was pushed forward and seated on the stool before the wizard. Then Amloth took her palm and turned it around for the wizard to read and tell her to marry, to marry Jehan, who watched with his calm-sad gaze from across the room. And Amloth giggled, happy, with the warm wine flushing her face, and her husband nodded approvingly, and neither noticed Tamer’s reluctance, or the way the wizard had drawn back.
Tamer’s heart was in her mouth as she felt the wizard’s hand under hers.
…she would be grateful to poor Amloth forever.
Of course he would tell her to marry Jehan, and she knew that she would. She would be the boatwright’s wife, the wizard’s housekeeper, mother and grandmother, and Tamer no more. But she would have this one touch, this one touch for Tamer, and Tamer alone.
He did not need to ask which was the hand she used more in her every day life. He knew.
How curious to see him in his bearded disguise again, she thought. But it distracted neatly from the fire in his eyes and the timelessness to his brow. A small trick but an efficient trick.
He began to stroke her palm with his index finger, tracing and retracing lines that were still soft with youth, not yet engraved, still changeable, and not yet fated. Each touch sent fire through her veins and shivers down her spine.
“What do you see?”
“Will Jehan be a happy man?”
“Let’s hear it!”
“What do you see?”
Suddenly she felt him hesitate.
She felt him search for words.
She raised her head and stared, felt her mouth open in a soft sound of surprise, but his look stopped her. Shock? Surprise? Painful acceptance? Desire?
“She’ll marry Jehan on midsummer’s eve,” the wizard said. “And her daughter will be born before the year is out.”
This got the men laughing and hooting, shouting good-natured obscenities, thumping Jehan on the back in praise of his manliness—and Jehan smiled at her and the wizard, a wide, hopeful smile that cut to her heart.
But the wizard did not smile.
They walked home in silence after the feast, in bitter winds and clouds of snow. The wizard’s house was warm and dark, the embers of a well-banked fire still aglow. She hung their cloaks up to dry and locked the door for the night.
Then she turned to the wizard.
Her heart was beating heavily, she felt almost liquid inside, light headed with amazement and apprehension.
He stood with his back to her, looking up the narrow stairs to the small room under the roof where he slept. She could hear him sigh, a deep, husky sigh. When he turned, his beard was gone again, the timelessness of his face obscured by conflicting emotions she could not even begin to understand.
She swallowed hard.
“You did not see Jehan’s child,” she said finally.
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he slowly shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “I did not see Jehan’s child.”
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