Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 24

The Mother

I awoke once more to the bubbling sounds of their easy banter and the comforting smell of the delicious evening meal already beginning to simmer. I was sorry to have missed Merlin’s departure, but grateful to share the simple chores of his daughter’s day. The way of keeping a home was new to me, and I had always thought it woman’s work, but now it held my interest. I realized that as my world had changed so too had I.

I watched her carefully from a distance, moving around the ancient homestead like a queen travels through her kingdom. Her domain was uncluttered and simple, elegant in both design and adornment. The space was functional in its layout. A small room filled with harvest bounty was attached to the simple kitchen, and it was here that Sea Lass spent the early part of her day. She sang as she worked and gestured for me to enter as she continued with her daily routine.

Sacks of the pale grain they called rice sat patiently on the floor, waiting to be cooked and presented for our sustenance and satisfaction. Her attention was focused on the many plants and herbs that hung root to tip from the substantial wooden beams that lined the ceiling. She had plucked a mixed handful and laid them sequentially on the table before us. Without surprise I recognized none, for botany held little importance in my past existence. Most were dry and brittle and seemed well ready to be thrown out.

Once again, she must have caught those thoughts, for, smiling, she rolled some desiccated foliage vigorously between her palms and held them up to my face. I inhaled deeply with closed eyes and drank in the infused power of the rugged landscape. The pungent aroma released by the heat of her hands spoke of the season of their past growth, the sun, the rain, the soil, and the gentle balance of their place within it.

Whether to season our food or to heal affliction, her purposeful actions freed the dormant vitality from the withered leaves of a plant that seemed long dead.

I held a stem gently between my calloused fingers, as I teased its clump of roots I saw the dirt land on the crude wooden countertop like the white soot from the chimneys of my homeland. She drew me from this idle action with a question, “Where do you come from?” was all she asked. From the roots and the soil I looked up into the wide brown eyes of a curious child, and realized I had all but forgotten my past.

I closed my eyes to banish time and distance, as memory began to conjure the dark phantoms of my own history. They opened slowly and fixed upon the delicate root and soil that lay before me, and speech gave my past both voice and life.

“Sea Lass,” I began, “The place from where I come is a mother blessed with beauty and fertility. She wears robes of living green, and all its shades cover her hills and valleys in a complete and seamless embrace. In her western reaches she is adorned with rock and mountains. It is in place both harsh and generous, and she wears this landscape like precious jewelry. She has always given openly, so that man and beast may live and prosper from one generation to the next.” My eyes closed once more to search with my thoughts the visions I had left behind, and she waited quietly and patiently for more.

“On all sides she is held by the sea, sometimes gently caressed, and sometimes savagely pounded by the fury of her wild lover. From ocean and sky she draws the weather, and it falls as rain. This rain is what keeps her and makes her whole, and it is the rain that speaks her very moods. Sometimes it falls light and gentle like a mist that delights the senses, but sometimes it drives heavy cold and hard and carries the taste of ocean salt, like tears. From these heavenly tears of sorrow and joy, all life does come.” My memories now welled up within me and spilt out in truth unstoppable.

I spoke slowly so that she could more easily understand, “I knew no parents, my father died at the hands of the Norse raiders and my mother was taken never to return, but that was longer ago than I remember. When God takes with one hand he gives with the other, and for a child with nothing I had something beyond measure. I had the land of my ancestors written upon my heart. Its people, my people, were written upon my soul. With the passage of time, my body grew strong and I acquired the skills of war.”

My voice bounced within the confines of the small room, “In this great land, my land, where farmers till and toil, a man with a sword has his place and purpose, for farmers are bound by land and family, and I was without either. The short sharp iron gave me a way to carve my niche and fill my belly, I did not prosper, but I did survive. Battles were my bread and their spoils my butter, for morality does not feed the body. The scarred furrow of war was the trough at which I drank, and at this trough I did drink deeply.”

Silence settled in the room around us, my thoughts returned from my world to theirs. Her head was bowed, and her hands rested on the rough-hewn countertop. I had spoken for the first time of my parents and my homeland. I looked down upon the delicate plant that lay before me, and my thoughts journeyed home once more. Vividly my mind’s eye beheld the savage Norsemen, and once again my mind’s ear heard the screams from the darkness, but to these thoughts and memories, I could never give a voice.

As the lass looked down at the plant that I had been holding, a solitary tear fell upon its coiled roots, and the grey soil that still tenaciously clung to it turned mud black.