LITMIR.BIZ

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of the Vivacia. The sight of the empty shelves near wrenched her heart from her chest. All her possessions had been neatly and tightly stowed in several open crates in the room. Planking, nails and a hammer were on the deck. This, then, had been the task Brashen had been called away from. She sat down on the ticking mattress on her bunk and stared at the crates. Some industrious creature inside her wanted to crouch down and hammer the planks into place. Defiance bid her unpack her things and put them in their rightful places. She was caught between these things, and did nothing for a time.

      Then with a shocking suddenness, grief throttled her. Her sobs could not come up, she couldn’t even take a breath for the tightness in her throat. Her need to cry was a terrible squeezing pain that literally suffocated her. She sat on her bunk, mouth open and strangling. When she finally got a breath of air into her lungs, she could only sob. Tears streamed down her face, and she had no handkerchief, nothing but her sleeve or her skirts, and what kind of a terrible heartless person was she that she could even think of handkerchiefs at a time like this? She leaned her head into her hands and finally allowed herself simply to weep.

      They moved off, clucking and muttering to one another like a flock of chickens. Wintrow was forced to trail after them. He didn’t know what else to do. He had been in Bingtown for five days now, and still had no idea why they had summoned him home. His grandfather was dying; of course he knew that, but he could scarcely see what they expected him to do about it, or even how they expected him to react.

      Dying, the old man was even more daunting than he had been in life. When Wintrow had been a boy, it had been the sheer force of the man’s life-strength that had cowed him. Now it was the blackness of dwindling death that seeped out from him and emptied its darkness into the room. On the ship home, Wintrow had made a strong resolve that he would get to know something of his grandfather before the old man died. But it was too late for that. In these last weeks, all that Ephron Vestrit possessed of himself had been focused into keeping a grip on life. He had held on grimly to every breath, and it was not for the sake of his grandson’s presence. No. He awaited only the return of his ship.

      Not that Wintrow had had much time with his grandfather. When he had first arrived, his mother had scarcely given him time to wash the dust of travel from his face and hands before she ushered him in and presented him. Disoriented after his sea voyage and the rattling trip through the hot and bustling city streets, he had barely been able to grasp that this short, dark-haired woman was the Mama he had once looked up to. The room she hurried him into had been curtained against the day’s heat and light. Inside was a woman in a chair beside a bed. The room smelled sour and close, and it was all he could do to stand still when the woman rose and embraced him. She clutched at his arm as soon as his mother released her grip on him, and pulled him towards the bedside.

      ‘Ephron,’ she had said quietly. ‘Ephron, Wintrow is here.’

      And in the bed, a shape stirred and coughed and then mumbled what might have been an acknowledgement. He stood there, shackled by his grandmother’s grip on his wrist, and only belatedly offered a ‘Hello, Grandfather. I’ve come home to visit.’

      If the old man had heard him at all, he hadn’t bothered with a reply. After a few moments, his grandfather had coughed again and then queried hoarsely, ‘Ship?’

      ‘No. Not yet,’ his grandmother replied gently.

      They had stood there a while longer. Then, when the old man made no more movement and took no further notice of them, his grandmother said, ‘I think he wants to rest now, Wintrow. I’ll send for you later when he’s feeling a bit better.’

      That time had not come. Now his father was home, and the news of Ephron Vestrit’s imminent death seemed to be all his mind could grasp. He had glanced at Wintrow over his mother’s shoulder as he embraced her. His eyes widened briefly and he nodded at his eldest son, but then his Mother Keffria began to pour out her torrent of bad news and all their complications. Wintrow stood apart, like a stranger, as first his sister Malta and then his younger brother Selden welcomed their father with a hug. At last there had been a pause in Keffria’s lament, and he stepped forward, to first bow and then grip hands with his father.

      ‘So. My son the priest,’ his father greeted him, and Wintrow could still not decide if there had been a breath of derision in those words. The next did not surprise him. ‘Your little sister is taller than you are. And why are you wearing a robe like a woman?’

      ‘Kyle!’ his mother rebuked her husband, but he had turned away from Wintrow without awaiting a reply.

      Now, following his aunt’s departure, he trailed into the house behind them. The adults were already discussing the best ways of moving Ephron down to the ship, and what must be taken or brought down later. The children, Malta and Selden, followed, trying vainly to ask a string of questions of their mother and continually being shushed by their grandmother. And Wintrow trailed after all, feeling neither adult nor child, nor truly a part of this emotional carnival. On the journey here, he had realized he did not know what to expect. And ever since he had arrived, that feeling had increased. For the first day, most of his conversations had been with his mother, and had consisted of either her exclamations over how thin he was, or fond remembrances and reminiscing that inevitably began with, ‘I don’t suppose you remember this, but…’ Malta, once so close to him as to seem almost his shadow, now resented him for coming home and claiming any of their mother’s attention. She did not speak to him but about him, making stinging observations when their mother was out of earshot, ostensibly to the servants or Selden. It did not help that at twelve she was taller than he was, and already looking more like a woman than he did a man. No one would have suspected he was the elder. Selden, scarcely more than a baby when he had left, now dismissed him as a visiting relative, one scarcely worth getting to know, as he would doubtless soon be leaving. Wintrow fervently hoped Selden was right. He knew it was not worthy to long for his grandfather to die and simply get it over with so he could return to his monastery and his life, but he also knew that to deny the thought would only be another sort of lie.

      They all halted in a cluster outside the dying man’s room. Here they lowered their voices, as if discussing secrets, as if his death must not be mentioned aloud. It made no sense to Wintrow. Surely this was what the old man had been longing for. He forced himself to focus on what was being said.

      ‘I think it best to say nothing at all about any of it,’ his grandmother was saying to his father. She had hold of the door knob but was not turning it. She almost appeared to be barring him from the room. From his father’s furrowed brow, it was plain that Kyle Haven did not agree with his mother-in-law. But Mother had hold of his arm and was looking up at him beseechingly and nodding like a toy.

      ‘It would only upset him,’ she interjected.

      ‘And to no purpose,’ his grandmother went on, as if they shared a mind. ‘It has taken me weeks to talk him around to our way of seeing things. He has agreed, but grudgingly. Any complaints now would but reopen the discussion. And when he is weary and in pain, he can be surprisingly stubborn.’

      She paused and both women looked up at his father as if commanding his assent. He did not even nod. At last he conceded, resentfully, ‘I shall not bring it up immediately. Let us get him down to the ship first. That is the most important thing.’

      ‘Exactly,’ Grandmother Vestrit agreed, and finally opened the door. They entered. But when Malta and Selden tried to follow, she stepped briskly to block them. ‘You children run and have Nana pack a change of clothes for you. Malta, you dash down to Cook and tell her that she’ll need to pack a food hamper for us to take, and then make arrangements for meals to be sent down to us.’ His grandmother was silent when she looked at Wintrow, as if momentarily puzzled as to what to do with him. Then she nodded at him briskly. ‘Wintrow, you’ll need a change of clothes as well. We’ll be living aboard the ship now until… Oh, dear.’

      Colour suddenly fled from her face. Bleak realization flooded it. Wintrow had seen that look before. Many a time had he gone out with the healers when they were summoned, and many a time there was little or nothing their herbs and tonics and touches could do for the dying. At those times, it was what he could do for the grieving survivors that mattered

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