see? So she said, but I tell you, Arin, this is my wife. You'll like her."
"I hope so," said Arin soberly. "Best tell Da."
"After milking." He finished the brindle cow, and took both buckets into the kitchen.
His mother gave him one look and said "Who?" Gird looked at her. "Is it so obvious?"
"To a woman and a wife? Did you think I was blind, lad? No, you're a lad no more. Man, then. You've found a woman, and bedded her, and now you want to marry."
"True, then. What d'you think?"
She looked at him, a long measuring look. "About time, I think. If you're ready. You've spent long enough sulking—"
"I know," he said, to forestall what was coming. She shook her head at him, but didn't continue the familiar lecture.
"Well, then—I don't know where the fee's coming from, but you can earn that. What's her parrion?"
"Herbcraft and cooking." He held his breath; his mother had always talked of finding a wife with a parrion to complement hers: another weaver or spinner, perhaps a dyer.
"Well enough. No lad—man—takes advice of his mother, but you think now, Gird—is she quarrelsome? The house will be no larger for cross words." That was said low; Arin's wife was still in the other room, and she had brought, his mother had said once, a parrion of complaining.
"Not—quarrelsome." She had said she was freespoken, but nothing in her voice had sent the rasp along his skin.
"Best tell your father." She gave him a quick smile. "If she's brought you laughter again, Gird, I'll give her no trouble. It's been a long drought."
His father, still hunched over his breakfast, brightened when Gird told him. Arin's wife said nothing, briskly leading her oldest out the front door. His father leaned close.
"Comely, is she?"
"She's—" Gird could not think of words. She had been starlight and scent, warmth and strength and joy, all wrapped in one. "She's strong," he offered. His father laughed.
"You sound like the lad you were. Strong didn't give that gleam to your eye, I'll warrant. There's more to the lass than muscle. When will you go to her father?"
"Soon. I—I'm not sure."
His father whistled the chorus of "Nutting in the Woods" and laughed again. "Young men. By the gods, boy, I remember your mother—" Gird was shocked. His mother had been his mother—that capable, hard-handed woman in long apron, spooning out porridge or carding wool or weaving—all his life. His father had gone on. "Hair in a cloud of light around her face, and she smelled like—like—I suppose all girls do, in their spring. Never a young lad can resist that, Gird; we all go that way, rams to the ewes and bulls to the cows, and spend the rest of our days yoked in harness—but it's times like this make it worthwhile."
"Eh?" He had not followed all that; his father's words brought back Mali's scent, as if she stood next to him, as if she lay—and he pulled his mind back with an effort.
His father thumped the table. "To see sons ready to wed themselves, strong sons: that's what's worth the work, Gird. To see you with your eyes clear and your mind on something but the past."
Gird shrugged. The self of yesterday, the self that had had nothing to hope for, was gone as if it had never lived.
" 'Tis the Lady's power," said his father. "She can bring spring to any field." This no longer embarrassed Gird; he had returned whole-hearted to his family's beliefs.
His visit to Fireoak began auspiciously. Mali's own mother had seen his mother's weaving at the tradefair years before.
"She has the parrion for the firtree pattern," the woman said. She was as tall as Mali, but spare, her dark hair streaked with gray. "If she has not the parrion for the barley pattern, I would be glad to trade." Gird knew that his mother had wanted the barley pattern for years, and had never been able to work it out herself. She had bestowed the firtree pattern on Arin's wife's aunt; surely she would trade with his wife's mother. He nodded: no commitment, but possibility.
Mali
"I hope so," said Arin soberly. "Best tell Da."
"After milking." He finished the brindle cow, and took both buckets into the kitchen.
His mother gave him one look and said "Who?" Gird looked at her. "Is it so obvious?"
"To a woman and a wife? Did you think I was blind, lad? No, you're a lad no more. Man, then. You've found a woman, and bedded her, and now you want to marry."
"True, then. What d'you think?"
She looked at him, a long measuring look. "About time, I think. If you're ready. You've spent long enough sulking—"
"I know," he said, to forestall what was coming. She shook her head at him, but didn't continue the familiar lecture.
"Well, then—I don't know where the fee's coming from, but you can earn that. What's her parrion?"
"Herbcraft and cooking." He held his breath; his mother had always talked of finding a wife with a parrion to complement hers: another weaver or spinner, perhaps a dyer.
"Well enough. No lad—man—takes advice of his mother, but you think now, Gird—is she quarrelsome? The house will be no larger for cross words." That was said low; Arin's wife was still in the other room, and she had brought, his mother had said once, a parrion of complaining.
"Not—quarrelsome." She had said she was freespoken, but nothing in her voice had sent the rasp along his skin.
"Best tell your father." She gave him a quick smile. "If she's brought you laughter again, Gird, I'll give her no trouble. It's been a long drought."
His father, still hunched over his breakfast, brightened when Gird told him. Arin's wife said nothing, briskly leading her oldest out the front door. His father leaned close.
"Comely, is she?"
"She's—" Gird could not think of words. She had been starlight and scent, warmth and strength and joy, all wrapped in one. "She's strong," he offered. His father laughed.
"You sound like the lad you were. Strong didn't give that gleam to your eye, I'll warrant. There's more to the lass than muscle. When will you go to her father?"
"Soon. I—I'm not sure."
His father whistled the chorus of "Nutting in the Woods" and laughed again. "Young men. By the gods, boy, I remember your mother—" Gird was shocked. His mother had been his mother—that capable, hard-handed woman in long apron, spooning out porridge or carding wool or weaving—all his life. His father had gone on. "Hair in a cloud of light around her face, and she smelled like—like—I suppose all girls do, in their spring. Never a young lad can resist that, Gird; we all go that way, rams to the ewes and bulls to the cows, and spend the rest of our days yoked in harness—but it's times like this make it worthwhile."
"Eh?" He had not followed all that; his father's words brought back Mali's scent, as if she stood next to him, as if she lay—and he pulled his mind back with an effort.
His father thumped the table. "To see sons ready to wed themselves, strong sons: that's what's worth the work, Gird. To see you with your eyes clear and your mind on something but the past."
Gird shrugged. The self of yesterday, the self that had had nothing to hope for, was gone as if it had never lived.
" 'Tis the Lady's power," said his father. "She can bring spring to any field." This no longer embarrassed Gird; he had returned whole-hearted to his family's beliefs.
His visit to Fireoak began auspiciously. Mali's own mother had seen his mother's weaving at the tradefair years before.
"She has the parrion for the firtree pattern," the woman said. She was as tall as Mali, but spare, her dark hair streaked with gray. "If she has not the parrion for the barley pattern, I would be glad to trade." Gird knew that his mother had wanted the barley pattern for years, and had never been able to work it out herself. She had bestowed the firtree pattern on Arin's wife's aunt; surely she would trade with his wife's mother. He nodded: no commitment, but possibility.
Mali
Similar Books
