shivering calmed. John slept soundly in the hearth.
After that, his mother took up the book every night. The third garden was the river where fishes jumped in and out of the water. The fourth was the sea with its scuttling crabs, then came the orchards. The ‘cottage’ he had spied grew with each appearance, becoming a great house then a palace with a towering chimney. By day, John's stomach ached as before. But when darkness fell, Saturnus's Feast filled Bellicca's ruined hall. Night after night the fruits of the old god's gardens entered on a procession of platters until John could lean back against the hearth's ancient stones, close his eyes and recite the words with his mother. When he asked his mother how she could voice the alien symbols, her expression darkened.
‘A clever man told me their meaning,’ she said shortly. ‘A man who could speak any tongue under the sun.’
Couldn't tell the truth in any of them, John remembered. He leaned forward to ask more but at that moment his mother's cough returned. He bit his tongue.
As the winter deepened, she tired more quickly. Her arms sank under the weight of the volume. At last John took it from her hands and began to recite the words of the dishes himself. He saw his mother sink back gratefully against the wall of the hearth. His voice was enough to feed her, she said. When he spoke, she felt no hunger or cold. Every night, he ventured deeper into the book and its gardens. Every night the dishes of the Feast multiplied and his mother smiled as if she could taste the rich flavours and feel the warmth of the fires.
They made the chestnut bread. Loaves of Paradise, his mother called the charred twists of paste. Bellicca's people had fed themselves the same way. Saturnus's people had always lived in the Feast, she told him. Now she and John would do the same.
Of course they would, John thought as he foraged for scraps among the bare branches. The Feast was theirs. He scooped up the last wizened chestnuts from the frozen ground and searched the orchards for fruit. Each night, after he read, he pressed himself against his mother for warmth and felt her shiver through the hours of darkness until dawn came. Then it was time to forage again.
The bounty of Buccla's Wood thinned. The chestnuts gave out and the remaining apples were brown with rot. John's red fingers ached with cold but he did not care. They had only to get through until spring, he knew. His mother was only waiting for the roads to reopen. Then they could leave. They could take the Feast and leave . . .
So his days passed. Breaking the ice in the trough, a sudden clatter startled him. He looked up as a ragged shape fell through the frost-rimed branches, a wood pigeon, its slack wings spread by the fall. Above, a hawk circled.
John ran back to his mother with the prize still warm in his hands. He plucked the pigeon with cold-numbed fingers then took the knife and cleaned it as best he could. He set the bird over the fire. When it was done, he broke it in two. But his mother waved her share away.
‘You eat.’
Her shelter was the book, she told him. Her sustenance was the words inside. He nodded, tearing the hot flesh off the bird. After-wards he gripped the pages with greasy fingers, conjuring blazing fires against the cold and tables groaning with food. His mother corrected him when he erred, making him repeat the phrases until he was sure. Each morning the ice in the trough grew thicker. She took only water now. When she coughed she turned away so he would not see the blood. The Feast would carry them through the winter, John repeated to himself. The roads would reopen. To Carrboro or Soughton.
Every night John read further. Every night the banquet grew richer. His mother slept for most of the day now, saving her strength for when she roused herself to listen. At last he reached the final page. But as his fingers turned that leaf, his mother raised her hand.
‘Wait.’
He looked up, puzzled. The
After that, his mother took up the book every night. The third garden was the river where fishes jumped in and out of the water. The fourth was the sea with its scuttling crabs, then came the orchards. The ‘cottage’ he had spied grew with each appearance, becoming a great house then a palace with a towering chimney. By day, John's stomach ached as before. But when darkness fell, Saturnus's Feast filled Bellicca's ruined hall. Night after night the fruits of the old god's gardens entered on a procession of platters until John could lean back against the hearth's ancient stones, close his eyes and recite the words with his mother. When he asked his mother how she could voice the alien symbols, her expression darkened.
‘A clever man told me their meaning,’ she said shortly. ‘A man who could speak any tongue under the sun.’
Couldn't tell the truth in any of them, John remembered. He leaned forward to ask more but at that moment his mother's cough returned. He bit his tongue.
As the winter deepened, she tired more quickly. Her arms sank under the weight of the volume. At last John took it from her hands and began to recite the words of the dishes himself. He saw his mother sink back gratefully against the wall of the hearth. His voice was enough to feed her, she said. When he spoke, she felt no hunger or cold. Every night, he ventured deeper into the book and its gardens. Every night the dishes of the Feast multiplied and his mother smiled as if she could taste the rich flavours and feel the warmth of the fires.
They made the chestnut bread. Loaves of Paradise, his mother called the charred twists of paste. Bellicca's people had fed themselves the same way. Saturnus's people had always lived in the Feast, she told him. Now she and John would do the same.
Of course they would, John thought as he foraged for scraps among the bare branches. The Feast was theirs. He scooped up the last wizened chestnuts from the frozen ground and searched the orchards for fruit. Each night, after he read, he pressed himself against his mother for warmth and felt her shiver through the hours of darkness until dawn came. Then it was time to forage again.
The bounty of Buccla's Wood thinned. The chestnuts gave out and the remaining apples were brown with rot. John's red fingers ached with cold but he did not care. They had only to get through until spring, he knew. His mother was only waiting for the roads to reopen. Then they could leave. They could take the Feast and leave . . .
So his days passed. Breaking the ice in the trough, a sudden clatter startled him. He looked up as a ragged shape fell through the frost-rimed branches, a wood pigeon, its slack wings spread by the fall. Above, a hawk circled.
John ran back to his mother with the prize still warm in his hands. He plucked the pigeon with cold-numbed fingers then took the knife and cleaned it as best he could. He set the bird over the fire. When it was done, he broke it in two. But his mother waved her share away.
‘You eat.’
Her shelter was the book, she told him. Her sustenance was the words inside. He nodded, tearing the hot flesh off the bird. After-wards he gripped the pages with greasy fingers, conjuring blazing fires against the cold and tables groaning with food. His mother corrected him when he erred, making him repeat the phrases until he was sure. Each morning the ice in the trough grew thicker. She took only water now. When she coughed she turned away so he would not see the blood. The Feast would carry them through the winter, John repeated to himself. The roads would reopen. To Carrboro or Soughton.
Every night John read further. Every night the banquet grew richer. His mother slept for most of the day now, saving her strength for when she roused herself to listen. At last he reached the final page. But as his fingers turned that leaf, his mother raised her hand.
‘Wait.’
He looked up, puzzled. The
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