She stopped. Only silence and the gentle sweep of leaves. “Father!” she tried again and strained, listening.
He was not there.
Clo looked back at the town. The village gates, though open, were empty. The wagon tracks leading to them were also empty. No donkey, no man. Her father was not here, and he was not simply delayed.
One last time: “Father!”
Only the shush-shush-shush of the trees answered.
Clo sat, leaning back against the rough bark of a pine. The seed of foreboding that had split and sprouted and taken root now blossomed thick and bitter.
What to do?
What to do?
What to do?
Clo, wall-jumper, turnip-picker, corner-skulker, was not a hand-wringer, but in the many many times and in the many many ways they had fled a village, never had her father failed to meet her. Always, he had made her promise, should the morning bells ring five without his return, she should leave the town. “Do not stay,” he would instruct her. “Do not tempt fate by delaying. You must not stay.” And always, he would promise in kind, he would meet her at the forest edge under the tallest pine. “Always, Clo. Always.”
Never had he told her what to do should she find herself there alone.
Shush-shush-shush, the trees said. Shush-shush-shush.
“Always,” Clo whispered. She folded her hands on her lap. “Always.”
CHAPTER THE SECOND
WHEREIN THE POCKMARKED SWINEHERD CURLS HIS LIP
FROM HER PERCH, CLO WATCHED THE SKY FADE FROM PINK to gray and gradually brighten into a pale, washed blue. The town, in the distance, came to life: little figures—men and oxen and sheep and horses—moved in and out of the gates, and the murmurings of the village—shouts and cries and clatterings—came now and again on the wind. With increasing agitation, Clo heard the tower bells chime six.
Then seven.
Then eight.
Then nine.
At ten, the sun had grown too strong, and she backed a little into the forest, settling herself against a mossy stump. Here, she could still see the village and the paths that wove around it, but in the shadows, she felt less desperate. So she would wait. What else was there to do but wait? He would come. Always.
By now, thought Clo, if her father had come home, they would have already breakfasted together. She would have warmed yesterday’s cold crust over the fire, sliced the onions thin. He would have asked her how she slept—Clo, did the rats keep away?—and she would have fibbed and said they had. By now, he would already have fallen into a deep sleep on his pallet on the floor, and she, surely, by now would already be outside picking weeds from their garden. She squinted hard at the little town, imagining herself there scratching in the dirt around the tubers, yanking out rogue shepherd’s purse and goosefoot, scurrying to the well and back for water, tending to her seedlings, going about her morning as it should have happened.
At eleven, the trees stopped saying shush, shush, shush and fell into a quieter, steadier ssssssss.
Not much later, Clo’s stomach began its own rumbling monologue, complaining that, in her mistaken anticipation of pastries from her father’s pockets, she had not eaten. She untied her sack and, looking over her collection of turnips, took the smallest of the little crop. She rubbed it clean on her tunic and ate it like an apple. Afterward, her mouth felt dry and puckered; she smacked her lips and swallowed and wished desperately she had something to drink, but her father was the one who always carried the skins of water. Always.
At two, full of midday heat and the steady hum of insects, a stillness settled over the town: the little figures in the distance were resting. Clo watched an emerald beetle climb steadily up a tree trunk until it disappeared into the leafy canopy.
By five, when the sun was beginning to dip in the sky, Clo’s little plant of foreboding had itself gone to seed. She felt within her a whole garden of dread rooting and sprouting and twisting its vines.
Smoke was now rising from the village cooking fires. Clo thought of the suppers she usually prepared—working quietly around her father’s sleeping form—to share with him before he went to work: a simple, thin soup, a hunk of bread. She imagined herself pulling from the embers the loaf she had shaped, ladling out the steaming broth and its soft scraps of potato and turnip into their bowls, hiding from her father that she was giving him the meatiest pieces. Though she was now too full of anxiety to be hungry, she thought of the comfort of those foods with longing.
By the time the bells tolled six and lights from the village showed against the deepening sky, Clo, who was not a hand-wringer, was, in fact, wringing her hands in earnest. She twisted her fingers and bit her lips and stood and paced and stared at the town. Should she return? Should she remain? Should she go on? What had become of her father?
Her feet padding steadily across the carpet of needles and moss and leaves, she reconsidered his goodbye to her the evening before. Had there been anything amiss? No… not amiss. Not exactly amiss. She had been sewing by the fire while he shuffled about, wrapping his brushes, his rags, his potatoes, his pots, and placing them in his can. She had shown him her poor attempt at patchwork—I’m trying to mend your winter tunic, Father—and he had sighed, looking over her stitches—I’m afraid the cloth is too worn to hold together, lambkin. He had kissed her as he always did on the crown of her head, the pale bristle of his chin scratching her brow. If only I had stronger thread for you, my daughter, that tunic might see another winter. But all the same, you are good to try. Good to try to keep us warm as the days grow shorter. His smile had been small. He had pulled his cloak over his narrow shoulders, fastened its dark button. Good night, my lambkin, my daughter so full of care. Good night, Father, good night.
As she wrung her hands and paced to and fro, a flash of movement on the village wall caught her eye. Clo stopped, squinted. A little figure wobbled atop the stones. The figure swayed, then tumbled, and was lost against the darkness of the structure. Clo stared.
In a moment, she caught sight of the figure moving across the field. It was striding quickly but unevenly, as though struggling under a weight. It did not, Clo thought, have her father’s gait. Though she did not share—fully share—the townsfolk’s opinion of her father as a gray and wizened, stooped and shuffling old man with a leg and an arm and a foot in the grave, she could not help but admit that he moved more… hesitantly than he once had. She frowned, her little garden of dread stirring again. Yes. Hesitantly. Especially in recent months. This figure, moving with long legs and impatient speed, could not be her father. It was, however, moving directly toward her.
Clo stepped back into the shadows of the trees.
The figure continued its quick advancement. It was burdened; as it drew closer, Clo could see a pack slung over its shoulder. And it was a boy. A boy a bit older than herself, perhaps fifteen. He was tall and thin and, thought Clo, when she could finally see his face, mottled with angry pockmarks. His nose was as large and bulbous as a branch of cauliflower.
She stepped behind a thick trunk, hoping he would not see her.
It did not matter that she hid; he came straight to her.
He circled the tree and stopped in front of her. Pushing a shock of bright red hair from his eyes, he stared at Clo, his eyes traveling up and down her person. His lip curled. Just slightly. A slight sneer. She pressed her spine against the tree trunk.