The Tale of Oriel by Cynthia Voigt

onions, turnips. It waits on the stoop, mornings. I’m never left to go hungry. Because if I die they don’t know what worse will happen to them. They’re afraid. That’s why I have this cottage,” she said, nodding her head, tapping at the side of her head with a crooked forefinger. “They drove me out of Selby, the men of Selby, and they keep me here. Sit down. As long as you’re here. You’re safe enough with me. I’ve built no fire, and the shutters hide my light. Should the soldiers come, I know a safe place.” She seated herself on the solitary stool.
    â€œWe wish to trade our fish for bread,” Oriel said.
    She didn’t seem to be looking at them; or, if she was looking at them she didn’t seem to be seeing them. “There’s the bed,” she said. “There’s the floor.”
    A stool, a small square table, the bed—and the room was crowded. “Have you bread, Granny?” Oriel asked again.
    â€œNot for days. Can you tell them? But you must not name me Granny. For I’m not. There’s no one to call me Granny, there never was nor will be,” she said. “But you’re safe here, I promise. Even if it is spring, now. Spring is the hardest time, when the armies have been emptied by the battles of the year before, and over the winter. Summer isn’t easy, for in summer they’ll take even a boy to fill up empty places, and he’ll never be seen again. A girl, too, poor thing— Don’t you think about it. There’s no ease in thinking on it. Autumn is dangerous, too, because what’s left then’s the soldiers who have lived through. Good soldiers fight and fall, as all know—the Captains live, and live, and live forever, while good soldiers die in their hundreds. Those that live—or hide away, as I’ve heard, in hay wains, or run away, I’ve heard, I’ve seen them sometimes, like wolves at the edges of the woods, some days. Winter is best, if you have shelter, if you have food, if you have fuel. Do you want to see my babies?” she asked, hopping up from the stool. “How did you come here? I watch the woods.”
    Oriel didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t know what she was asking, and he didn’t think it mattered what he answered. But she was like a clay bowl that had been dropped on a stone floor, and shattered into pieces—and she made him uneasy. She wheeled around, standing in front of the bed. Blue veins stood out on her naked legs. Her hair straggled down over her shoulders. “You shan’t have my babies. Not one, not any, not boy nor girl, lass that will be, nor lad. I am their guard.”
    Oriel looked at Griff, who spoke. “We came by boat,” Griff said, his voice quiet. “We came by water.”
    â€œThen you must go away,” she said, “and by water. Go to an island. The islands are too far, far away, for the armies to reach, they’re afraid of water, they know nothing of boats. Go to an island and be safe. I’ve heard of one, an island all for boys, and the biggest boy cares for the others. The boys live, and farm, and fish, all together. There is no trouble among them. In storms they gather around the fire. The house is of stone, and it has many rooms, room for all the boys. In winter they stay inside, safe, warm, fed. In troubles, the biggest boy settles their troubles for them, the biggest boy decides, and when he gets too old he goes away. Because it’s men who make soldiers, and battles,” she confided. “Not boys. Would you eat some bread?” she asked. “Sit, let me feed you. There’s the bed, there’s the floor. Are those fish? Tell the men of Selby, from me, I thank them for the fish.”
    Oriel tried to tell her, again. “We didn’t come from Selby.”
    â€œOnce the sun sets we can have a small fire, just a little one, just enough to cook a fish over.