The Ozark trilogy Read online

  I held up the last dress and looked it over dubiously; it had alternating narrow stripes of the Brightwater green and scarlet, with a neck cut low in front and rimmed in back by a high ruff of ivory lace that would require me to put my hair up. It had long sleeves caught at the wrists with lace-trimmed wide cuffs as well, and the stripes themselves were shot with silver-and-gold threads.

  I’d seen nothing like it here; only modest high-necked round-collared gowns without ornament even to their cut. The Lewis crest was a green cedar tree on an azure field, with a narrow border of cedar-trunks russet round, and except for a button or two that bore that device I’d seen only the plain and the spare. Even Rozasham, presumably dressed for company, had been wearing a dress of a heather blue with a skirt scarcely full enough to swing with her hips as she walked, and plain little round white buttons down its high front.

  True, I was a guest. And true, the conditions on a Quest demanded a certain amount of spectacle, and I had to abide by them. But I could see nothing in the garments that Tambrey had hung for me that would not of looked foolish at the Lewis supper table.

  Well, there was my nightgown ... it was moss green flannel and had the proper cut and simplicity, and I couldn’t see that the Lewises would recognize it for what it was if I could keep my own face straight. I belted it with a narrow braid of gold cord, since it had no proper waist, and added a single silver pendant—a small flower meant, I believe, to represent a violet, but innocuous enough for any occasion—on a narrow green velvet ribbon. Then I used a matching ribbon to tie my hair back simply at the nape of my neck and looked at the effect in the long glass mirror in my guestchamber.

  My grandmother would of been scandalized, my mother would of fainted, but I was of the opinion that I could get away with it. I only had to remember not to let a servingmaid see me in it tomorrow morning when she brought up my pot of tea. That would have meant the word going out that I’d either been too lazy to change into my nightgown and had slept in my dress, or that I’d been so addled I’d worn my nightgown to supper, neither of which would do.

  Kingdom Lewis had just one product for sale—cedar; cut from the progeny of the three seedlings the family had somehow managed to nurse through the whole trip to this planet, and which now they alone seemed to have the skill to grow. Under any other touch the trees turned brown and died, like grass not watered, but the Lewises had the green thumb, one and all of them, and the rows of cedars grew stately in every spare field of the small Kingdom and all along its narrow roads. Even in the great Hall inside Castle Lewis, a giant cedar grew out of earth left open for its roots in the time of building, dropping its needles everywhere for the staff to sweep up but smelling like heaven, and every windowsill had a small seedling growing in a low bowl.

  Nor had they stinted themselves in the use of the timber; The Castle gleamed with it, and the table at which I sat down to supper was a single massive slab of russet cut from the heart of an ancient monster of a tree and rubbed till it glowed like coals burned low in a hearth. They had had sense enough not to cover it up with some frippery cloth, either, and had set chairs round it of the same glowing wood.

  Me in my nightgown, I drew one up and sat down, spreading my napkin in my lap, and I said, “This table is beautiful, Rozasharn of McDaniels. I’ve never seen anything to match it.” Nor had I.

  “My husband’s great-great-grandfather made it with his own hands,” she answered, “and I do its polishing with mine.”

  “It was a single plank?”

  “That it was; they waited a very long time for a cedar to grow the proper size for this, and while they waited the Lewises ate off plain boards laid across trestles. Then the one bee made this table and all the chairs ... and no polish or oil has ever been set to it except by a Missus of this Castle, all these years.”

  “I’ve seen a few housethings made from cedar,” I said. “Chests, usually.” And I stroked the satiny wood. “But nothing like this.”

  “Magic-chests’” breathed a child at my right hand, and aimed my head to see him better. He was young, and his chair not tall enough to bring him much above the edge of the tabletop, but not young enough to be willing to submit to the indignity of sitting on a stack of pillows; he made do by craning his neck.

  “My son, Salem Sheridan Lewis the 44th, called Boy Salem,” said his father from the head of the table, and he introduced the other five children that had joined us for the meal. And the Granny, the youngest on Ozark and one of the sternest—fifty-nine-year-old Granny Twinsonel. I bid them all a good evening, and helped myself to the soup.

  Salem was a patient child; when the introductions had gone all the way around and the grownups were eating, he said it again, but this time he was asking.

  “Magic-chests?” he asked me. “All of cedar?”

  “Usually,” I told him. “Because it keeps everything so safe.”

  His dark blue eyes shone, and I found him a handsome child despite the lack of three front teeth and the presence of a crazy-quilt assortment of scrapes and scabs and scratches. I expect he had fallen out of one or more of the cedar trees recently.

  “What’s in a magic-chest, Responsible of Brightwater?” he asked me then, and he held very still, waiting for me to answer. Which meant he’d asked it before, and it had done him no good. It would do him no good this time, either.

  “Herbs and simples and gewgaws,” I said casually. “And garlic.”

  “In a cedar chest?” The child was shocked, and I chuckled.

  As it happened, the Magicians did keep their garlic in their magic-chests, but they saw to it that the smell of the stuff was on hold while it was in there.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Garlic.”

  “When I am a Magician of Rank,” said the boy with utter solemnity, like a Reverend pronouncing a benediction, “I won’t do that. Or I’ll make a Spell to take the smell off so it doesn’t spoil the wood.”

  Smart little dickens, that one. I could tell by the twitch at the comer of his stern father’s lips that this was a favorite child— the name told me that in any case—and that his promise was noticed. But the Master of the Castle spoke to him in no uncertain terms.

  “When you are a Magician of Rank!” he said. “Many a long, long year of study lies between you and that day. Boy Salem, if it ever comes—which I doubt. And many a difficult examination. You had best get your mind off garlic and concentrate on learning the Teaching Story you were set this week—you didn’t have it right yet last night, as I recall.”

  “Or,” added a sister who looked to be about thirteen, with the same pansy blue eyes but considerably less scuffed up and battered as to the rest of her, “you’ll end up like your cousin Silverweb.”

  “I’d not be such a ninny as that,” scoffed the boy, “not ever! You know that, Charlotte.”

  “Silverweb of McDaniels?” I set my soup spoon down and used my napkin hastily. “Has something happened to her?”

  “Nothing serious, Responsible,” said Rozasham of McDanieIs, “and nothing that can’t be mended. She’s been left too long unmarried, and this is where that sort of thing leads to.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “Well,” said Rozasham, “as I understand it Silverweb decided you needed somebody to be guardmaid—or companion, who knows? to be company at any rate—on your Quest. And that young one packed a pair of saddlebags, stole a Mule from the McDaniels stables, and started off after you.”

  “She didn’t get far,” observed her husband, handing the meat platter down the table. “Her daddy caught up with her before noon the following day and took her straight back to Castle McDaniels.”

  “For a licking,” said the one they called Boy Salem.

  “Not for a licking,” corrected Granny Twinsorrel. “Boy Salem, you’ll never make a Magician if you don’t learn to turn on your brain before you begin rattling off at the mouth. Young women of fifteen don’t get lickings, it wouldn’t be proper.”

/>   The boy snorted, and wrinkled up his nose.

  “Not fair,” he said. “Not fair atall.”

  “What did they do to her?” I asked reluctantly, not really sure I wanted to know. I had high hopes for Silverweb, and I bore a certain guilt for having ranked her when I was at Castle McDaniels.

  “Packed her off to Castle Airy in disgrace,” said Salem Sheridan. “And to the tender care of all three of the Grannys there. Seven weeks and a day, she’s to be servingmaid to those grannys. I do expect that will have some effect on her.”

  Poor wretched Silverweb ... I knew what that would mean. She’d hem miles and miles of burgundy draperies, and then be made to take the hems out and do them over till her fingers bled. She’d boil vats of herbs half as tall as she was, stirring them for hours at a time with a wooden staff. And she’d pick nutmeats—they’d have her doing that with bushels of nuts, staining her fingers black where they weren’t bleeding. And scrubbing the Castle corridor floors with gritty sand. And worse.

  “Oh, what ever made her take such a notion?” I asked, cross in spite of feeling sorry for her.

  “Like I said,” said Rozasharn, “she’s been left too long unmarried. Silverweb’s going on sixteen, and that’s far too old. It’s a wonder she’s not done worse.”

  “And she may have,” put in one of the older children. “Our daddy says Silverweb of McDaniels could very well of dressed like a man and kidnapped that baby out of your church, Responsible of Brightwater! He says she’s plenty big enough and strong enough—and bold enough, too.”

  “I was there,” I protested, “and I can’t believe that, not atall! I’m sure it was a man ... and I’m sure it wasn’t Silverweb of McDaniels. She’s a fine young woman. I give you my word on that; she’s just maybe a bit strong-minded.”

  “She ought to have a husband and two babies to occupy her energy by now,” said Salem Sheridan, “and I fault her parents for that. Though I agree she’s got to be punished for running off, and for taking the Mule without permission, and the rest of it. That’s fitting, and expected.”

  “She’ll live through it,” said Granny Twinsorrel. “And maybe she’ll learn a thing or two about pride.”

  “Now, Granny—” Rozasharn began, but the woman cut her off sharp.

  “Pride is all that’s keeping that one spinster,” said Granny Twinsorrel, “simple pride. Her father’s offered her three marriages, each one fully suitable, each of me men with land and a homeplace and a good future ahead of him. And Miss Yellow-Haired High-and-Mighty wouldn’t accept any one of the three. Two fine men from Kingdom Guthrie, and one of our own—and none of them good enough for her. Pride, that is, and it’ll lead her to no good end.”

  “They say,” said Rozasharn, “that she has ambitions. And if that’s true, she’ll make no marriage, Granny Twinsorrel.”

  She has ambitions. In front of the children, that would mean that Silverweb intended to become a Granny the hard way, and go virgin to her grave; and there was no reason for a woman to do that unless she had her eyes out for a chance to become a Magician as well as a Granny. Which was “having ambitions.”

  I frowned into my soup, but went back to eating it. Silverweb was none of my business, and no reason for her to come between me and my supper

  The rock that whistled past my ear went into the bowl of mashed sweet potatoes, which weren’t enough to slow it down any, and on beyond to hit the far wall with a resounding smack. Whoever had thrown it had put considerable muscle behind it, and I couldn’t say it made my stomach calm. But not a one of me Lewises moved, or paused in their eating, or turned a hair, so far as I could tell. An Attendant stepped forward from the door and picked up the rock, and went off with it somewhere, while the Lewises went right on with their meal.

  “Rozasharn of McDaniels,” I said, my voice more a quiver than I’d intended it to be, “how many more of those are we likely to be favored with this evening?”

  “Half a dozen, maybe,” she said. “Maybe a few more, maybe a few less.”

  “Well, don’t you mind having rocks thrown at you like that?”

  “Gracious, child,” said Granny Twinsorrel, “those rocks aren’t being thrown at us. It’s a bit of fuss in your honor— started about the time you crossed the border of Kingdom Lewis, I calculate, which is why we were a mite disorganized when you arrived, and will stop when you move on. We don’t plan to pay the fool thing any attention, it will only make it worse.”

  “Nobody’s been either hurt or bothered,” said Rozasharn soothingly. “You’ll notice there’s not even dust in the potato dish.”

  “We can put up with it,” said Boy Salem, backing her up. “Besides, I like to see what it does.”

  What it did next may have amused Boy Salem, but it didn’t amuse me in the slightest. Nobody wants a live lizard in her soup, and since Rozasharn of McDaniels was so calm about all this I strongly wished it had been in her bowl instead of mine.

  “Teh.” said Granny Twinsorrel. “Now that was rude.”

  “Can I fish it out?” asked Boy Salem. “Is it real? Can I get it out for you?” He was fairly hopping up and down in his chair

  It was real enough, about four inches long, and a bright poisonous green. It put back its narrow head and hissed at me, and I fancied it was a little warmer there among the potatoes and the jebroots than it cared to be.

  “Never mind, Boy Salem,” I said disgustedly “I’d best do it myself, I believe.”

  Granny Twinsorrel’s voice came sharp and sudden. “Don’t you put silver to it, young woman!” she told me. “It’s not the creature’s fault. Use your fingers.”

  I knew that much, but I didn’t sass the Granny; I reached into my soup with two careful fingertips, caught the little animal by the tip of its tail, and lifted it out into the air still spitting.

  “Can I have it?” demanded Boy Salem. The child was outrageous, and his brothers and sisters stared at him in amazement. Eben Nathaniel Lewis the 17th, twelve years old and already with a rigid look to him like his father, turned that look on Boy Salem in a way that would of frozen the child stiff if it’d had any power behind it.

  “A Spelled creature like that, Boy Salem?” said Eben Nathaniel. “Your head’s addled!”

  The Granny stepped over to my chair and took the lizard from me, which was a good deal more appropriate than letting Boy Salem have it for a pet, and a servingmaid slipped the bowl of soup away and replaced it with a fresh one, and handed me a new spoon.

  Whereupon a small frog, same shade of green, croaked up at me from among the vegetables. And I set the silverware down again.

  If this was the beginning of an adventure, I didn’t fancy it; there were quite a few nasty and downright dangerous things that would fit into a soup bowl.

  “Keep changing the bowls,” ordered Granny Twinsorrel, without a tremble to her voice, and we sat there while the process went on.

  Bowl three, a much larger frog, darker green.

  Bowl four, a skinny watersnake, banded in green and scarlet and gold, and about as long as my forearm.

  Bowl five had a squawker in it, which was at least a change from the reptiles.

  “Granny?”

  “Hush, Rozasham,” said the woman; she was made of ice and steel, that one was, and she hadn’t yet even bothered to behave like a Granny ... certainly she’d yet to speak like one.

  “You, young woman,” she said, “just keep changing the bowls; and you, Responsible, you keep taking the creatures out. We’ll see how this goes.”

  She stood at my left hand and I passed her whatever I got with each bowl. I must say the children were fascinated, especially when, after the tenth move, the bowl itself suddenly grew larger.

  The Granny made a small soft noise—not alarm, but it showed she’d taken notice—and Salem Sheridan Lewis set down his own spoon and spoke up.

  “I don’t like that,” he said. “I don’t like that atall.”

  I didn’t like it either and I didn’t know that I was g
oing to like what came next in my alleged soup. There were several possibilities ... it could go from harmless creatures to poisonous ones, and I moved back from the table enough to dodge if a snake that killed was to appear coiled up before me next. It could go to nasty creatures, along the line of the squawker but dirtier—say, a carrion bird. Or it could go to things, and that left a wide latitude of choices.

  “Responsible of Brightwater.” said Salem Sheridan, “put your spoon in that bowl—this has gone too far.”

  But Granny Twinsorrel raised her hand, her index finger up like a needle, and shook her head firmly.

  “No, Salem Sheridan,” she said, “we’ll see it out awhile yet.”

  “Responsible of Brightwater is our guest!” Rozasham of McDaniels protested.

  “As were Halliday Joseph McDaniels the 14th and his wife and son, at Castle Brightwater not too many days past,” said the Granny.

  “I am sorry about that,” I said, keeping my eye on the soup bowl as I talked, “but I was truly not expecting mischief right in the middle of a Solemn Service. And I am sorry that yourall’s supper is being spoiled on my account, I assure you.”

  “This is more fun than supper,” said Boy Salem.

  “This is more fun than a picnic,” said Charlotte, and there was general agreement among the young ones. And I had to admit that from their point of view it was all very entertaining; no doubt they’d be pleased to have me back any time, even if it meant they all went hungry while I was there.

  The entity responsible for all this fooled us, next go-round. It was neither a coiled poison-snake, nor a carrion bird, nor yet a loathsome mess of stuff mixed and coiled—another possibility—that gazed up at me. It made the children clap their hands, all but Eben Nathaniel, who was old enough to know better. And I felt Granny Twinsorrel’s hand come down hard and grip my shoulder.

  “Is it real, too?” breathed one of the little girls, before Boy Salem could put in his two cents’ worth.

  “Certainly not,” said their big brother Eben Nathaniel with contempt. “There’s no such thing.”