The Tale of Oriel by Cynthia Voigt Page A

Meanwhile,” the old woman said, “there’s bread. It makes you sick to eat fish uncooked, lads sometimes don’t know that.”
    She brought a round loaf down from the shelf and held it against her chest while she sawed off pieces with a long knife. Oriel sat beside Griff on the floor, their backs against the door, their legs pulled in close because there was no room to stretch them out. She gave them bread, which filled his mouth with its taste and its promise of sustenance, and he thanked her.
    â€œMen of Selby keep me supplied with bread. For if they don’t, what if I were to return to my houses? When my man left,” the old woman said, “he left me with my three houses all in a row, one to live in with my babies and the other two for my keep. He said, he couldn’t stand the babies. He said he was sick of the babies. As if he had no idea how babies get into a woman’s belly, for all the babies he’d gotten out of my belly? This was before. Before they said I had to leave, before they told me to go away, before they moved me into this house and brought me food. The men of Selby know the soldiers will come here first, whenever the soldiers came this is the first place, and they took my babies. The soldiers came and took them. This, I swear it to you, this the men of Selby knew. I hold them responsible. They can’t deny it and they will. But they’re afraid. Of me. As much as they are afraid of the soldiers. The soldiers aren’t afraid. How did you get here? I watch the woods.”
    â€œBy boat,” Griff said. “We came by boat.”
    She nodded silently and after a while her eyes closed and her head fell forward onto her chest. The smell of fish filled the room. Oriel looked at Griff. They rose to their feet.
    But as soon as they moved she was awake, and standing. “Time for the fire, it’s safe now. Come, you—” she pointed at Oriel, “there’s tinder ready, you start the fire and you—” she pointed at Griff, “we’ll bring the babies out.”
    They could have left the house, and easily. Oriel knew that, but he chose not to. There would have been no difficulty in pushing her aside, lifting the bar on the door, and returning to the boat. Once they were out of the house she couldn’t have caught them. But there was something fearsome to her, and he feared it. What he knew of fear was that you had to know its face, or it would drive you the way it wanted you to go.
    Also, he thought, blowing on the sparks in straw to bring the fire to life, there was something in her madness—because he had no doubt that she was mad—that was so weak he didn’t want to hurt it. She was like the fish he’d pulled out of the water, gasping for air before he took pity on it and smashed its head with a stone.
    An old woman was different from a fish. You couldn’t just smash in an old woman’s head, no matter how much that seemed the only kindness you might do her. Not as if she were a fish. Not when she was too mad to know what she was.
    â€œIt’s too soon! Too early for the babies!” she shrieked now. “You can’t go near them, I’ll stop you!” She beat at Griff with her hands, without even making them into fists.
    Griff backed away, his back to the door, and slid down to where he had sat before. The old woman stood panting over him, then turned around to look at the bed, then turned back to the fire.
    â€œGood lads, good lads,” she said. “How did you get here?”
    Oriel answered her again, his voice calm, as the fire flamed among pieces of wood as thick as his wrist, growing steadily warmer and brighter, “We came by boat.”
    â€œLads are good. I believe. It’s soldiers are bad, and men, because you can’t make soldiers out of lads. I believe. I wish I were sure.” She had hunkered down by the fire beside Oriel and her hair shielded her face like a