Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found (9 page)

“There you are.” Tisph stepped from the shadows, his worried voice masking the look of perverse infatuation on his face.

Terry came to the door, held it open, and beckoned Rankil in. “Hang your kill on the porch until we’ve eaten. Did you wash the greens?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rankil, trying hard not to shake, did as she was bid. She piled the greens into a bowl then carried it and a bottle of oil dressing to the table, Tisph watching through narrowed eyes the entire time.

“The girl’s hands are dirty.” He raised a thick brow at Rankil. “She and I should go down to the water hole and wash before we eat.”

“No time,” said Terry quickly and to Rankil’s immense relief. “The food’s growing cold. Use the basin. The water is clean enough for a quick wash.” Tisph mumbled under his breath but followed her suggestion, pulling behind and pressing himself into Rankil as she bent over the basin. “Nice hair.” He whispered in her ear. “Better than that tangle you used to own. Goes nice with those knee skirts. Tells me you know what you are.” His wet hand found its way down her side to pull the blade from her boot. He placed the dagger on the shelf above the basin. “Women don’t go armed.” He shoved it to the rear of the shelf. “I’m surprised Terry allowed such a thing.” His cold hand scratched up her thigh and abdomen, pausing on the soft flesh of her neck before it returned to the basin. “You will help me saddle up after sup, won’t you? You know how I love to spend time with my favorite niece and with you being gone so long—”

“She doesn’t have time.” Terry’s stomach soured as she became aware of her great-grandson’s advances. “She has to clean the dishes, and then I have a stack of darning for her to do before bed. You’re able to do it yourself, I’m sure.”

“Then maybe I should just stay the night and head out in the morning.” Rankil jerked away as Tisph dried his hands on the rear of her tunic. “Maybe Rankil could show me the snares she’s been catching so much with.”

“Soap bake is tomorrow.” Terry handed Rankil a filled plate then turned her away from the table and toward the hassock. “Stick around, we could use an extra pair of hands to stir the ash pot and dip the stones.”

“Figures,” mumbled Tisph. “I’ll just head back after sup. I’m needed at the farm anyway. What with Archell running off like he did.”

“Archell’s run off?” Terry poured Rankil a mug of tea and again pushed her away from the table. “When did this happen?”

“Five days back. He took off after I whipped him for those stupid songs he keeps singing. The nassies could care less if they get sung to or not. To top it all, the thief took three of my best string. I say good riddance. Never was as much a worker as he was an eater. He should be thinking of women at his age.” Tisph turned to Rankil’s direction at the mentioning, his eyes flashing their fantasies as he chewed. “Not just about his songs and nassies. It’s not right.”

“Did you look for him?” asked Terry, attempting to turn his attention back to her.

“No.” He faced her again and took another helping of greens Rankil hoped he’d choke on. “I don’t have time for a half-wit.”

Terry stabbed her fork into a fish fillet, just missing the back of her great-grandson’s still grimy hand. “You don’t have time to look for your own son?”

“Not during harvest, I don’t. I only got to come up here ’cause it’s another day or two before the dark grain is ready to cut. Figured he might have headed this way looking for Rankil. He was always following her about.” He leered at his niece. “Not that I blame him.”

Terry rose from the table to refill her mug, catching his shin with her cane as she passed. “I’m sorry, Tisph.” The apology was the sweetest sounding lie she could muster. “Hard to know where you are going when your eyes don’t work. Poor Rankil by and large gets knocked in the leg. Guess today was your turn.” Rankil smothered a laugh with her last bite of bread. She typically took heaping seconds but dared not in her uncle’s presence. Granny had fed her well all summer, causing a growth spurt that failed to go unnoticed by Tisph’s undressing gaze.

“The mountains suit Rankil.” His eyes fixated on her from over the top of his mug, their depth of blackness adding to her fears. “You would think she’d been raised here by the look of her. Yes, she looks fit and firm.” His eyes now focused on her chest. “She still doesn’t talk much. Don’t believe I’ve heard a word from her all evening. What’s wrong, girl? Granny Terry got you afraid to speak? You run from her, too?”

“No sir.” The reply echoed childhood fear and pain.

“Why would she run from me?” asked Terry. “I know how to treat a child, a skill that wasn’t passed down given Archell has run for safer ground.”

“Hold up, old woman.” Tisph pounded the table. “Family or not, elder or not, no woman is going to speak to me in that manner as long as I’m alive.”

“Really?” Terry drew the bread knife from its block and waved it his direction, her anger and disgust rising to a pitch as she spoke. “I can remedy that. The only reason you came here was for young Rankil, and we all know it. Leave her be. Go to Rallings and buy a whore if you’re hurting for what Quyley doesn’t want to give you. Not that I blame her the way you stink of manure. Rankil isn’t to be touched.”

“Put down the knife.” Tisph grabbed for the blade, but Terry countered with a wild swing that sliced the back of his hand. “Damn fool! You cut me!”

“Good!” She bellowed, backing away. “I’m telling you to leave. NOW!”

“Leave? You’re throwing out your own kin ’cause  of a Taelach?” Tisph wrapped a towel around his bleeding extremity, his blame for the situation now centering on his silver-headed niece. “White witch! You’ve cast one of your spells on her, haven’t you?” He drew back from Rankil’s blue-eyed gaze, sure she would inflict him with some similar effect. “That’s fine, just fine. You care for the old bitch. You two deserve each other. Hateful and disrespectful, the both of you. I’ll be damned if me or mine come back here again. I doubt Danston will either when I tell him what’s going on.” Tisph reached for his boot knife. “White witches are getting thick again. It may be time for another hunt. And, Terry, I’d hate to see you hurt, but you know how accidents happen.”

Terror and protectiveness for her caregiver threw Rankil into a mental fury. She wanted Tisph to stop. She wanted him to leave and never return. The horror grew when he grasped his blade.
NO!
The call was internal and focused at her uncle.
You leave us be!

“Witch! Get outta my head!” He aimed the knife at Terry. “Outta my head or I kill her.”

“I’m out.” Rankil found herself intuitively backing from something she wasn’t sure how she achieved in the first place.

“Now, girl, it’s high time we get to know each other better.” Tisph jerked her close and forced his mouth over hers, “Ow!” then pushed her away as Terry sank the bread knife into his thigh. “Damn!” He shoved Terry to the floor and tossed the bloodied knife against a far wall. “I thought you were blind, old crone.”

Terry felt for the cane he kicked from her reach. “I’m not so blind I can’t see how sick you are, boy.”

“She’s Taelach, old woman. And if she were Autlach she’d be marrying age. That’s old enough for me any day.”

Rankil kicked and screamed as he forced his mouth to hers again, the cries a smothering high-pitched squeal Tisph’s nassie echoed in its nervous nicker. She pushed against his embrace, trying to repeat the internal cry that had threatened him earlier. Tisph ignored her pleading and thrust a hand up her tunic, the other, still gripping his blade, tugged at her waist lacings.

“Tisph, NO!” Terry found her way to the fireside, grasped one of the iron pots and threw it at him. He deflected the heavy kettle and sent it skittering out the open door.

“Back off!” He took Rankil by the scruff of the neck and threw her toward Terry’s bedroll. “Do as I say, or I’ll be forced to hurt you, maybe Terry, too. Unroll the bed.”

Rankil drew into a sobbing ball on top of the rolls. “No, please. Don’t hurt Granny. She’s been nothing but kind. Don’t hurt her.”

“Then do as I say.” Tisph shoved Terry into the rocker and bound her wrists with kitchen rags. “Too bad you’re blind. This is going to be good to watch.” He turned back to Rankil, his face lit with a perversion so extreme she forced back the urge to vomit. Grinning, he sheathed the knife and removed his belt. “Let’s play a game.”

Rankil shrieked as the thin leather laid her skin open, jaw to high cheekbone, the gash continuing above her brow and into her hairline.

“That’s for all the times you ran from me.” Tisph swung again, this time the leather ripping across the arm protecting her face. “And that’s for trying to mind phase me, you stupid whore.” Rankil remained silent as he whipped her several more times, her urge to cry out, to fight suppressed by her fear for Granny Terry’s safety. She fell limp, helpless with shock when he removed her bloodied tunic, unable to think or speak as he rolled her onto her stomach and jerked down her knee skirts. Rankil drove her head under a pillow and clutched it about her ears, wishing she understood what was happening. What had she done so wrong?

“Please, Tisph, no.” Terry pulled against her restraints, jerking the rocker across the floor. “She’s too young. A child. She’s never harmed you. She can’t help what she is. Please! NO!”

“She was born. That’s enough.” Tisph wrapped the belt around his niece’s long neck and twitched her head from under the pillow, Rankil gurgling as the leather squeezed her windpipe.

“What’s wrong?” Tisph tightened the belt. “You don’t like this game? You wish Danston had killed you at birth? I tried to convince him, but Meelsa cried so hard for your life that he gave in to her.” He tugged the leather until Rankil’s eyes rolled back. “Beg me to quit, and I just might.” He brought her just short of unconsciousness then tore the leather from her throat and bound her arms behind her back. Blood trickled across her face, into her mouth and nose, smearing with her tears. “Not much of a fighter, are you? I expected more than this.”

Rankil could hear his sickening whistle as he unknotted then dropped his leggings—the same bouncing whistle that always landed Quyley in the birth bed some time later. Terry’s pleas were reduced to a murmur.

“Rankil, child. Don’t worry over me. Fight him. Run. Get away.” Tisph rewarded the words with a slap that tipped the rocker back, knocking the breath from the old woman.

“I won’t have you ruining my fun.” He pulled Rankil’s head back to see his, a face of deep evil, a possessed darkness that loved nothing or no one.

“Who’s going to save you now? Where you going to run?” He rewarded her screams and kicks with a volley of fists to her head and back then forced her to her knees, face down on the blankets. “You’re not pretty anymore, white witch. The ugliness is shining through. It makes killing you all the easier. Not like anyone misses a Taelach. You bitches don’t have souls.” His hands scraped her flesh, drawing her back.

It proved too much. Rankil wretched on the bed and passed out, oblivious to the worst, unaware of the booming call of her salvation.

“DAH, DON’T YOU DARE!”

***

She dreamed of Archell. He sang to her in a baritone so pure he seemed right beside her.

“Rankil dankle, Rankil roo—Archell’s come to help you through—To sing you all my little songs—And help you sort the right from wrong.”

Rankil stirred, vaguely aware of the intense pain in her arms, her face, her groin. They felt tight and raw. Archell’s song was too real, too close, too—

“Rankil dankle, please wake up.”

He sat on the floor beside her, smoothing her silver head with his hand. He had grown and his lower jaw showed the beginnings of a beard. But it was Archell, Archell right down to a sliver of greens wedged between his teeth. He kissed her forehead, stroked her hair and continued his song.

“Skinny Rankil Rankil roo—Archell’s come to help you through—To keep you safe from all that’s bad—And stay here until you’re good as new.

“Valiant Ranky, danky, roo—Archell’s come to be with you— No more tears or cries of pain—’Cause Rankil’s strong—she’s Taelach fame.”

He laid a hand to her shoulder now to show he knew, and she need not tell him.

“Don’t be frightened, Rankil. Dah won’t be back. Ever. Archell’s seen to that.”

Death is the end of a journey—near-death just a bend in the road.

—Taelach wisdom

Despite Terry’s diligent medical attention and Archell’s constant companionship, Rankil became gravely ill, her deep cuts reddening with poison, her fever soaring until she lapsed out of consciousness. Terry could do little. She placed hot cloths on the wounds in hopes of pulling the infection to the surface, but it didn’t help. The care proved exhausting, so much so Terry failed to notice it was time for their Taelach acquaintances to return.

At daybreak, Archell finally slept, curled at his cousin’s side. He had eaten or spoken little since burying his father, and his eyes remained vacant. Archell’s gentle nature prevented self-forgiveness for what he had done in Rankil’s defense. Terry wondered if he would ever find the strength. She dared not wake him now, so she pulled a quilt over him and went about the morning chores.

Wearied to shaking, her forehead against the milk nassie’s side as the bucket filled, she began to sing. Archell’s tunes were contagious, easy to sing and pleasant to the ear. She supposed he’d create one in Rankil’s memory.