had been a beauty to him, then friend, and finally sister. She would not run away; she would see through his rough form. He was sure of it.
He took a step toward the water and something moved downwind of the house.
He peered closer. Two men crept along in the grass, their helmets and knives shining in the moonlight.
Whatever their intent, they would flush River like untrained dogs bark and flush quail from the brush. Except once River ran, you did not catch her.
Those two would have to go. Silently, but they would have to go. Hunger waited to see if there were more of them, and when he saw they came alone, he descended the riverbank and quietly entered the dark waters.
Prunes stood in the shadow of a tree. Across the yard, Gid peered between the cracks of a shutter on that side of the house just to make sure there were only five of them. Prunes scratched his neck, and when he looked back at Gid something monstrous and dark rose, it seemed, from the very earth.
It was bigger than a man. Shaggy. Then Prunes recognized it from the stories of the creature at Whitecliff.
He shouted a warning.
Gid turned, but it was too late.
The dark shape engulfed him. Only the silhouette of Gid’s lower half was visible in the moonlight.
Prunes watched in horror as Gid struggled, cried out, and then was silenced. The thing shook him out like a wife shakes a rug. It cast Gid’s body aside in a heap.
The creature raised its head and chuffed like a horse. Then it turned and looked straight at Prunes across the yard.
He’d fought in a number of battles, nearly lost his life a dozen times. But nothing had ever put fear into him like the gaze of that rough beast.
By all that was holy . . .
His bladder released. He dropped his knife and backed up in horror.
Sugar stood in the barn, filling a barrel with barley and oats for the horse. They had a long ride ahead and the animal would need rich food. Legs stood by her side.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
Sugar hadn’t heard a thing, she was so lost in thought. Zu Hogan’s daughter sat at the table back in the house with Talen, making him open and close the doors in his being, whatever that meant, over and over again. For the last hour all River had done was sit there, holding Talen’s hand at the table, telling him to open and close, again and again, telling him that she had to be sure he could hold himself to himself.
In her mind, Sugar knew it was a great evil they practiced at the table. But in her heart she could not help but want to learn it as well, for when River had told her what her mother was, it had come, not as a shock, but a loss. Because she didn’t believe Mother was wicked.
“The story is never what you first hear,” Mother had always said. And she’d practiced that philosophy. When Sugar was a little girl and had been accused of stealing a village boy’s carved cherrywood horse, her mother had believed her denials. And later that day, when Sugar finally confessed and showed her mother the horse, her mother had not sent her away. She’d taken her in her arms and stroked her hair and kissed her forehead and said, “It’s a brave thing to admit to a lie. Foolish to lie in the first place. But brave to put the lie out in the sun for everyone to see.” She’d hugged her tight. “Your bravery is as fine as peas and fatty beef,” Mother had said. “Fat peas and fatty beef.” From that time forward “fat peas and fatty beef” had been their saying.
How many times had Mother seen through her mistakes to what was praiseworthy? Even when Da was teaching her to fight. She’d believed Sugar would find a young man in Koramtown and raise splendid children. And they’d talked about what they’d do together with Sugar’s future children, all the wonderful places she and Mother had visited with Legs in tow which they would visit with Sugar’s children. The crabbing bay, their waterfall in the woods, the patch of wild blueberries by the buttes. And Mother would come stay with her in Koramtown and join in the knitting hours and teach Sugar’s daughter how to knit just as she’d taught Sugar.