Chapter 46: The Truth Mirror
The third day, Violet brought a jar of wine. Not bought. Astrid had dug it out from the Silver Spring cellar. Fruit wine her mother had brewed in her youth. Stored over ten years. Sweet to the point of cloying. Violet had tasted it and nearly spat it out. Too sweet. But Greta should like it. Eagle Clan people had strong tastes.
The two eagle heads at the valley entrance were still there. Their wind-dried eye sockets stared at her. She was used to it. Gray Ear was used to it too. He didn't even turn an ear when they entered. Just lay down in the doorway and waited.
Greta wasn't at the stove today. She was in the vegetable plot pulling weeds. When she saw Violet come in, she stood and brushed the dirt from her knees. Her eyes went first to the wine jar in Violet's hand.
"What wine?"
"Fruit wine. Very sweet."
"Sweet is good. Give it here." Greta took the wine jar. Lifted the lid and sniffed. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. "Alright. Better than what you brought before."
She carried the wine jar into the house and poured two bowls. One she pushed toward Violet. The other she held herself. She drank a large mouthful and narrowed her eyes.
"What are we telling today?"
"You said yesterday—the day he died, you stood at the cliff's edge. Then you threw up."
Greta's hand paused. She didn't answer. Drank another mouthful of wine and set the bowl down.
"That comes later. Today we won't talk about death. Today we'll talk about how he annoyed me."
Violet didn't press. She lifted her bowl and drank a sip. Too sweet. So sweet her throat tightened.
"Where did you live after you married?"
"On the ice plains. Lived there a year. I said it was cold. He said we'd go somewhere else. We went south. Walked for months. Walked to this valley. He said it was warm here. Good for planting vegetables." The corner of Greta's mouth curved. "I planted the vegetables. And him? He wrote poetry. Wrote one poem after another. Read them to me. I'd listen and fall asleep. He'd say, 'You fell asleep.' I'd say, 'I wasn't asleep. Listening with my eyes closed.' He'd say, 'You were snoring.' I'd say, 'Eagle Clan doesn't snore.'"
The corner of Violet's mouth lifted.
"He was like that. His mouth never yielded. But his hands never rested. I planted vegetables, he helped water them. I cooked, he helped tend the fire. I washed clothes and hung them on the line. He'd wait till I wasn't looking and hang his clothes together with mine. When they dried, two sleeves tangled together. Couldn't pull them apart."
"On purpose?"
"Of course on purpose. Every time he said, 'The wind did it.' What wind in a valley? He just wanted me not to be able to untangle them. If I couldn't untangle them, I'd have to call him over to help. Called him over, he'd stand there watching. Hands not moving. I'd say, 'Are you going to untangle it or not.' He'd say, 'I'm looking.' I'd say, 'Looking at what.' He'd say, 'Looking at you being angry.'"
Greta laughed. Not the nostalgic, sad kind of laugh. A real laugh, finding it genuinely funny. She laughed until her teeth showed. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes gathered together.
"Did you hit him?"
"I hit him. He ran. After two steps, he turned and said, 'Princess, you can't catch me.' I chased. Caught him. Smacked him on the back of the head. He said, 'Well hit.' I said, 'Say one more word.' He said, 'Well hit. Hit once more. This side hasn't been symmetrically smacked yet.'"
Violet laughed aloud.
"He was like that. You thought he was honest, but he was full of mischief. You thought he was bad, and he was so honest you couldn't do anything about him." Greta repeated the words from yesterday, but the tone was different this time. Lighter. As if speaking of something small that happened every day. "One morning, I woke up and found something on my face. Touched it. Black. He had waited till I was asleep and drawn a mustache on my face with burnt charcoal."
"What kind of mustache?"
"Handlebar mustache. The kind that curls up on both ends. After drawing it, he even dotted on two moles." Greta rolled her eyes. "I looked at myself in the water basin and nearly didn't recognize myself. I said, 'Are you tired of living?' He said, 'Princess, you look beautiful this way.'"
"What did you do?"
"I didn't wipe it off. I went to the vegetable plot to pull weeds. Wore those two strokes of mustache all morning. The birds passing by all fled in fright. He crouched in the doorway watching me. Laughed all morning. At noon, I came back to cook. Put an entire sack of salt into his soup."
"Did he drink it?"
"He drank it. First sip, said nothing. Second sip, said nothing. Third sip—he finished the whole bowl. After finishing, he said, 'Today's soup was a little salty. But very good.' I said, 'You don't find it salty?' He said, 'Salt you put in—even salty is sweet.'"
Violet looked at her. When Greta said this, her voice was flat. As if speaking of some small thing not worth mentioning. But her fingers tapped twice on the table's edge. Different from her usual rhythm. Before it had been hard. Now it was very slow.
"Any more?" Violet asked.
"Plenty. So many. Every morning he woke before me. Tended the fire. Boiled water. Put the porridge on. Then came back and lay beside me. Pretended to sleep. I'd wake, and he'd have his eyes closed, snoring. I'd get up, and he'd open one eye and look at me. I'd say, 'What are you pretending for.' He'd say, 'I'm not pretending. I was waiting for you to get up first.' I'd say, 'You first.' He'd say, 'You first.' We'd argue about that until the porridge burned."
"Who won?"
"No one won. The porridge burned. He drank the burned part. I scraped off the burned part and drank the rest underneath. He drank the burned bowl and said, 'The burned part tastes good.' I said, 'Your mouth is broken.' He said, 'It's not broken. Anything you cook tastes good.'"
Greta lifted her bowl and drank another mouthful of wine. More than half the bowl was gone now. Her face had reddened a little. Couldn't tell if it was the wine or something else.
"Did he ever do something that made you truly angry?" Violet asked.
"He did. He killed my chicken."
"Killed it?"
"Killed it and made soup. That chicken I had raised from a chick. It laid eggs for three years. He killed it. Simmered a whole pot of soup. Carried it before me. I said, 'That's my chicken.' He said, 'I know.' I said, 'You know and you still killed it.' He said, 'You've gotten thin lately. Need to replenish.'"
"Did you drink it?"
Greta was silent for a moment. She drank the last mouthful of wine from her bowl. Set the bowl on the table. Turned it in a circle.
"I drank it. Crying as I drank. He sat across from me, watching. Didn't speak. When I finished, he took the bowl and washed it. Came back and sat beside me. Offered me his sleeve to wipe my tears. I said, 'No, it's dirty.' He said, 'It's clean. I just changed today.' I wiped. His sleeve got soaked. He said nothing. Rolled up his sleeve. Showed the scar on his arm. Bitten by a Thorn Wolf. I asked him, 'Does it hurt.' He said, 'Doesn't hurt.' I said, 'Liar.' He said, 'You crying hurts more than this.'"
Violet lowered her head and looked at the wine in her own bowl. Ripples circled across the surface. Her hand was shaking.
"He was that kind of person. You thought he was bullying you, and he was protecting you. You thought he didn't take you seriously, and he held you as his life." Greta's voice had gone hoarse. "Those last few years, his health declined. Couldn't walk anymore. So we settled in this valley. Went nowhere. Every day he sat in the doorway, sunning himself. I planted vegetables. He watched me. I watched him. Some days we didn't say a single word. But it didn't feel stifling."
"Were you afraid?"
"Afraid of what?"
"Afraid he would leave."
Greta was silent for a very long time. The fire in the stove had gone out. The soup in the pot had gone cold. She didn't add firewood.
"Not afraid. Afraid was useless. The day he left, I held his hand. He said, 'Greta, I waited for you my whole life. You wait one more stretch for me. You're not losing out.' I said, 'Shut up.' He said, 'Alright.' Then he didn't speak again."
Violet's eyes grew wet.
"After he left, I thought about going with him. I walked to the cliff to the north. The wind was strong. I thought—jump and it's over. Then I threw up." Greta lowered her head. Looked at her own hands. "Finished throwing up. Crouched at the cliff's edge. I thought, 'How could you come at a time like this.' The one in my belly moved once. I didn't jump. I went back."
"What happened after?"
"After, the child was born. A son." The corner of Greta's mouth curved. Not a smile. That expression that says, you can't do anything about him. "More willful than me. Better at tormenting people than his father. When he was three, he waited till I was asleep and drew a mustache on my face with charcoal. Exactly the same as his father had drawn. I woke up and looked in the water basin. Thought his father had come back to life."
Violet smiled.
"When he was five, he let out the whole coop of chickens I'd raised. I said, 'Why did you let the chickens go.' He said, 'They wanted to go out and see.' I said, 'How do you know they wanted to go out.' He said, 'They told me.' I said, 'You understand chicken speech?' He said, 'I do. They said being shut here is too boring.'"
"What did you do?"
"I didn't hit him. I crouched down and told him, 'If the chickens run off, there'll be no eggs to eat.' He thought about it for a while. Went out on his own and found the chickens. Came back with three chickens in his arms. His face covered in chicken feathers." Greta shook her head. "He was like his father. Looked honest. Bad to the bone. But when he was bad, you couldn't hate him for it."
"Where is he now?"
Greta's smile slowly faded. Her fingers stopped on the table's edge.
"Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Gone is gone. Don't know where." Greta's voice hardened. Not hard toward Violet. The hardness of I don't want to say any more. "He grew up. Learned what happened back then. He blamed me. Said I shouldn't have let his father walk alone. Said I should have chased after him. Said I shouldn't have lived."
Violet's fingers tightened for an instant.
"He was wrong." She said.
"Wrong. Right. What's the difference? He's gone. Gone seven years. Hasn't even sent a letter."
Greta stood and walked to the stove. Her back to Violet.
"No more today. You go."
Violet stood. Didn't press. She collected the bowls. Washed them. Set them back on the stove.
"Greta."
"Yes."
"What's his name?"
"Whose?"
"Your son."
Greta was silent for a long time. On the stove, the pot of cold soup had formed a thin film over its surface.
"Ald. After his father's name. Aldric's Ald."
Violet memorized it.
She turned and left. By the time she walked out of the valley, the sun had swung west. Gray Ear followed her out and walked at her heels. His tail didn't wag.
She mounted her horse. On the ride back to Water City, she turned Greta's words over in her mind. Drawing mustaches on faces. Putting salt in the soup. Pretending to sleep and fighting over who would get up first. Killing the chicken and making soup. Wiping tears with sleeves. You crying hurts more than this. The son who let the chickens go, then brought them back, saying Being shut here is too boring. Ald. Left seven years ago. Hasn't come back.
By the time she returned to Water City, the sky was nearly dark. Leon was on the city wall. No torch in his hand. She climbed the wall and stood beside him.
"What was the story today?" He asked.
"She told how he annoyed her. Drew mustaches. Put salt. Fought over who would get up first. Killed the chicken she raised and made soup. She drank it crying."
Leon was silent for a moment.
"What happened after?"
"After, he died. She stood at the cliff's edge. Then threw up. The child came."
"A son?"
"A son. More willful than her. Better at tormenting people than his father. Later the son left. Seven years now. Hasn't come back."
Leon said nothing. Wind blew from the north.
"She's going to ask me to find him." Violet said.
"You agreed?"
"No. But she will ask. It's not for herself. It's for that son."
Leon looked at her. "Will you go looking?"
"I will. But not now. The beast tide hasn't come yet."
The two of them stood watching the northern sky. The moon emerged from behind the clouds. Silver-white. Shone on the city walls.
Violet pulled her coat tighter. The old one. The one Leon had stitched.
"Leon."
"Yes."
"When you were little, did you ever draw a mustache on your mother's face?"
The corner of Leon's mouth moved. "I did. She chased me and beat me. Never dared draw one again."
Violet smiled.
She walked down from the wall and returned to her small house. Moon Silver had turned over in its nest. Belly up. Four small paws curled. Its eyes had opened. Just yesterday. The eyes were deep blue. Not the pale yellow of Gray Ear. Not the silver-white of moonlight. A very deep, deep blue. Like the sky at winter dusk.
She scooped Moon Silver from its nest and held it in her palm. It looked at her. Blinked. Opened its mouth and yawned. Showed a pink tongue and two rows of tiny white teeth the size of rice grains.
"Who do you look like?" She whispered.
Moon Silver couldn't answer. It buried its face into the gaps between her fingers. Nuzzled. Went still.
She placed it back in its nest and blew out the lamp.
In the darkness, Moon Silver's fur glowed in the moonlight. Silver-gray. Like a small wisp of fog.
She closed her eyes.
What to bring tomorrow? Greta said wine in exchange for stories. The wine was finished. The story wasn't yet told.
She turned over.
That blurry figure appeared again. Still couldn't see the face clearly. But she remembered one thing. That person had said something. She hadn't heard it clearly at the time. Still couldn't remember it now. But she remembered the tone. Not comfort. A command. Don't cry or Stand up? She couldn't recall.
She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heartbeat was steady.
Outside the window, moonlight streamed in and fell on Moon Silver. The silver-gray fur brightened a moment. Then dimmed.
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End of Chapter Forty-Six
He drew mustaches on her face. She put salt in his soup. He killed her chicken and made soup. She drank it crying. He said, "You crying hurts more than this." He died. She stood at the cliff's edge. Then threw up. The son came. More willful than her. Better at tormenting people than his father. The son also left. Seven years now. Greta hasn't asked Violet. But Violet knows. She will ask. Not for herself. For that son. Going again tomorrow. The wine is finished. The story isn't yet told.