Authors: Gael Baudino
Varden blinked in surprise, although Roxanne had not thought that particular emotion possible for Elves. But then he smiled in return. “And upon you and yours,” he said. He came forward, offering his hand, and helped Roxanne to her feet. “And what brings you this far into Malvern today, Mistress Weaver? I would think that you would have returned home to sleep.”
“To sleep?”
“You were awake all night. I had supposed that all humans needed sleep. Or maybe I am mistaken?”
It was her turn to blink. “I see. And was I the evening's entertainment? A naked witch parading about, chanting and waving a knife?” Had they been spying on her? Her methods could only appear crude and primitive compared with those of the Elves, but still, common courtesy . . .
Varden shook his head. “By no means, madam. We had our own . . . commemoration . . . last night, but we saw you enter the forest at sunset, and we felt your worship merge with ours. It was a blessed night.”
“I was out in the fields this morning.”
“True. And we were among our trees. Our separate kindreds have each their own concerns.” He bowed and offered his arm. “Will you walk with me, Lady? I would speak with you this morning.”
His use of the old title unnerved her a little. “I . . . have herbs to gather . . .”
“Roxanne, my name is Varden. And my business had somewhat to do with yours. May I go with you to collect herbs?”
She laughed suddenly. “Could there be any question, Varden? I might as well forbid Kay to enter his church as tell an Elf not to walk at will in Malvern.”
The starlight in his eyes flickered. “And I might as well show disrespect to my Creatrix as accompany a witch without her leave.”
Roxanne stopped her laughter. Varden was an Elf, and she, a mortal, was essentially trespassing in his forest. And yet he treated her with deference and courtesy. She took his arm, wondering at him and at his ways. “Yes . . . yes, of course you have my leave, Varden,” she stammered.
The path wound through the forest, branch and leaf pressing in on both sides, and they traveled it in silence. Varden's steps were steady, and Roxanne's were no less sure, though she paused once to loose her skirt from the greenery, wishing as she did that she had not given up her breeches and shirt.
Varden waited patiently for her, watching, and, “It is about Charity,” he said quietly as they continued.
“Charity?” said Roxanne. “She is indeed why I'm here today. Her nightmares?”
“It is so. How much can you do for her with herbs and philters?”
Roxanne could not read the tone of his voice. “How much? As much as I can. I can help her to rest at night. If the dreams are very bad, I might have to find out what is troubling her.”
Varden seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “And what methods might you use for that?”
The path took them up the side of a low hill, swung out of the trees and into the sunlight, and skirted a meadow that lay like a bright carpet of wildflowers. “Methods?” Roxanne looked at him, but he was gazing at the blossoms. Still that sense of discomfort about him . . . something that, like surprise, she had not thought possible for Elves to manifest. “Why do you ask me of methods, Varden? Yours are infinitely more effective than mine, I'm sure.”
But Varden stopped, reached down, and plucked a scarlet bloom. It glowed in the sun like a small, petaled flame. “Our meeting, Roxanne, is perhaps overdue,” he said. “My people and yours are sundered in many ways, but we hold some things in common, and therefore it may be that we should share others. True, my folk have knowledge. But yours do also, and it should not be overlooked or held cheap. You love Charity. As do I. The girl's nights are troubled. I would ease them, but I cannot touch the life of a mortal without great cause. I . . . could assist your efforts, though, were you willing.”
He extended the flower to Roxanne and, after a moment, she took it. His gravity and the sense of weight behind his words confused her. “I don't understand,” she said. “Charity is just having nightmares.”
He made a small, indefinite movement of his head. “I helped Charity once, in the days before Andrew found her orphaned and abandoned. Perhaps it would be better to say that I helped Andrew to help her, for in many ways my hands were tied. I find now that my work is unfinished, and still my hands are tied. You are a witch, Roxanne. Your power is great, though perhaps you doubt it sometimes. May I help you to finish the work that I began years ago?”
The flower glowed in her hand. “Charity doesn't remember anything of her life before Andrew found her,” she said. “Am I to assume that her dreams have something to do with that time?”
“It is so.” The Elf started along the path once again, and Roxanne walked at his side.
“She's beautiful, Varden,” she said. “She's . . . she's like this flower . . . but she came up in the middle of the village instead of here in the forest. Whatever you did for Charity, Varden, thank you. The whole village owes you its thanks.”
“The village owes me nothing. But I fear the flower will be blighted unless we take care to guard it.”
“I would do anything to guard it, Varden.”
“And so, if the herbs do not help, what then?”
“If they don't help . . . well . . .” Roxanne considered for several minutes, then: “I would question her first. If that achieved nothing, I would, with her permission, look into her mind and try to feel what she feels. Perhaps the view gained by another might give insight. That failing . . . why, I could scry . . . or . . .”
“Or . . . or what, Roxanne?” There was concern in his voice, concern and . . . apprehension.
Inwardly, Roxanne started. Was Varden hiding something?
“I could, if necessary, step between the Worlds,” she said, “go back into her past, find out what happened, and help her to deal with it in her waking life.” She spoke of it almost casually, but the task she described was both difficult and fatiguing. She stepped between the Worlds each time she stood in Circle, whether worshiping or working magic, but time was an element she did not often invoke. She hoped that lesser means would suffice.
But Varden looked grave. “All right,” he said quietly, as though to himself.
They reached a small meadow bordered by a stream and sheltered by tall poplar and oak. Varden helped her to find the best of the herbs that she needed, and as she bent to cut leaf or stalk, murmuring as she did a quiet request for the plant's permission, the Elf stood, watching her, his arms folded and his calm face bespeaking his worry more eloquently than any frown he could possible wear.
Her pouch was full when she finished, and Varden smiled. “We speak to the plants, too.”
“It has always been our way.”
“Indeed.” His eyes flicked to the pouch. “These are what you intend to use for Charity?”
“Yes,” said Roxanne. “With the addition of a little white sandalwood. It doesn't taste very good . . . but then neither does heal-all.”
“White sandalwood,” said the Elf. “A costly substance in this land. How did you come by it?”
“My mother bought it years ago at the Century Fair in Maris. She passed what was left to me before she died, along with the house, the looms, and her . . . her tools.” She suddenly felt awkward. Here she was, standing in a forest clearing with an old leather pouch in hand and a knife stuck in her embroidered belt . . . talking with an immortal. She thought for a moment of her house: the looms set up in what had once been her parents' bedroom, her own tiny room that she kept much as it had been when the Goddess had taken her mother five years ago.
She still slept on a straw pallet next to the oak chest that held her unused wedding clothes.
“I . . . suppose I'll find someone to pass them to when my time comes,” she said, realizing suddenly that her silence had grown too long. “I . . . I have no children myself.”
A shade of sadness crossed the Elf's face. “Nor husband?” he said. “Nor lover?”
Roxanne forced a smile. “Who wants a village wise-woman for a wife? There's something of the strange and forbidden about us, even if no one thinks of the word
witch
. My mother was fortunate enough to find one of our own people to handfast with. I'm not so lucky. Witches are getting scarce, and who but a witch would understand a witch?” But she looked away quickly.
There was a gentle touch on her shoulder. “The Lady teaches us in many ways,” said Varden. “May you find happiness.”
Roxanne dragged a sleeve across her forehead, wiping some moisture away . . . blotting her eyes as she did. “Thank you, Varden. It must be nice to have folk of one's own kind about.”
“It is comforting, though my people are fading, also.” The Elf's tone was matter-of-fact, and as such, was heartbreaking. Was so much leaving the world, then? Was it all to go? Closing her eyes, Roxanne bent her head, reaching out in her mind to the land and forest about her, pulling them into herself as though she were gasping air. The land would go on. Maybe everything of her people, everything of the Elves—everything of magic—might fail, but the land would go on. And that was what mattered.
Varden's hand was still on her shoulder. Maybe, she thought, maybe in these last days of their kindreds, maybe this touch was the important thing. Elf and human meeting, speaking of mutual concerns. Events, Roxanne was sure, were not random things, but were tied up in patterns, intricate dances of cause and effect that depended not only upon past and future lives, but also upon the delicate and distant touch of divine hands.
This is Her work, she thought, reaching up and laying her hand on his, feeling the cool energies of the stars shimmering through his flesh. And then she not only felt the starlight, she saw it too. It was as though she floated in a night sky, gems of bright fire scattered through the darkness, gleaming.
She stayed there for some time, and when she at last came back to the forest clearing, her sorrow was gone. The land would continue. Forever. And there would always be something of magic in it. The Lady taught in many ways, and Her hands lay always upon the life of the world.
Roxanne smiled at Varden, felt sure of the future. This was not faith: though she could not put into words what she had seen, somewhere among the stars was the knowing of the thing, and she did not need definition or utterance to confirm it. “Thank you, Varden,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustle of forest leaves.
“Such is the way my people see,” said the Elf softly. “Thus do we face our fading with courage, though with regret. The world changes. We learn.” He squeezed her shoulder gently. “Let us go and help Charity.”
For a moment, before they turned to the path that led to the village, she looked into his eyes and saw more than she had before.
***
The herbs did not work. Charity tossed and turned throughout the night, her murmurings vague and confused. The infusion had only drugged the visions; it had not banished them. Worse, Charity's system was delicate, and the girl spent her days foggy and half asleep from the aftereffects, a situation that bothered her intensely . . . when she could collect her wits enough to be bothered by anything.
Roxanne tried not to show her worry when she visited the carpenter's house a week after her meeting with Varden. She told Elizabeth to discontinue the infusions and let Charity sleep naturally, but she went home with a furrowed brow. She should have guessed from Varden's involvement that this would be no ordinary case of nightmares, and she began to suspect that whether the Elf had in the past offered his help directly to Charity or indirectly through Andrew, the nature of that help had been more magical than mundane.
Charity was a quiet girl, just approaching the threshold of womanhood. She was indeed much beloved by the entire village, and the fact that her life before the age of seven was a complete unknown had largely been forgotten. But now Roxanne started to wonder what had happened. What could come back to haunt a young woman so? And what . . . what had Varden done?
She dropped by the house again the next day. Charity was awake and alert, helping her mother with the baking. Elizabeth sent her to sit and talk with Roxanne.
“I'm sorry the herbs made you feel so bad,” said the witch.
Charity smiled, her lake-blue eyes sparkling. “It is well, I'm sure, Mistress Weaver. You tried to help me, and there is no harm done.”
Roxanne examined the girl's face. Did she resemble anyone in the village? Some knowledge of her birth might dispel some of the mystery about her. But, no, she seemed to belong only to herself. She was indeed a wildflower that had sprung up among them. “I spoke to Varden last week,” she said. “He was concerned about you.”
Charity's face lit up. “Varden! How wonderful! Did he take you to dance with the Elves?” She turned to Elizabeth. “Mother, Roxanne has talked with Varden!”
Elizabeth straightened from her kneading, eyed Roxanne with a half smile. “I'm sure it was about time the two of you became acquainted.”
“Tell me about it, Mistress Weaver,” said Charity.
Roxanne looked back and forth from Elizabeth to Charity. “Well, he didn't take me to dance with the Elves—”
“Oh, I'm sure he will, someday,” Charity broke in.
“Charity,” Elizabeth reprimanded.
“Your pardon, Mistress,” said Charity. She smiled. “I like Varden.”
“Obviously,” said Roxanne.
And your feelings are returned
, she thought. “He was worried about your bad dreams, and he wanted to help. He mentioned that he had helped you once before . . . years ago. Before Andrew found you.”
A shade crossed Charity's face, and Elizabeth, who had begun kneading once again, stopped. “I can't remember anything before Father found me,” said the girl. She started to shake. “I've . . . tried to, sometimes, but I can't. If Varden says that he helped me, then he did, but I . . . I . . . I can't tell you anything of it.”
She was telling the truth, Roxanne knew. It was obvious that she could not remember. But it was equally obvious that Charity was not
supposed
to remember.
The witch looked at Elizabeth. The woman's face was calm, but guarded. If Elizabeth was keeping silent, she had her reasons, and much as Roxanne hated working without full knowledge of the circumstances involved in the matter, she had to respect them.