In the Night Garden

“The pass is fast, don’t fear, don’t fear!” she cried, shrinking from the dark. We never shrink—but we have pity for those who do.

“Of course it is, it is our pass, our mountain. We have no need of you to guard it—come away, girl, away from the dark.” I touched her hand with my paw, but she drew it away and curled her lips back.

“Duty may not be shirked,” she hissed.

“Who gave you this duty? Surely not us, yet we are masters of this place.”

She pulled up her shield to cover her, not unlike a blanket, and spoke echoes into all the chambers of the mountain.

“I am she who is called Widow, who was given this post in the long night now forgotten, and who will not now abandon it…”

THE

SOLDIER’S

TALE

DO YOU KNOW WHAT VESICANT MEANS?

I didn’t think so. What good can such vocabularies perform for hedgehogs snuffling in stone? But I know—I know now.

The farm where I was young was thick and furred with wheat. I had two brothers, and they had me, and we had nothing else in the world but a father whose knees knocked hollow in the wind. I seem to remember plow horses and mules and chickens squawking in the dust, pigs and roving deer and great shaggy cows. But if ever I saw them, I was too young to do much but pull at the tail of one or the ear of another. In my youth the livestock of our country slowly dwindled to nothing at all—there were no blights or famines, no locusts or one-eyed witches poking fingers at the fields, but there were strange tales of a far-off kinswoman in need, and there were letters sealed in green wax, written on vellum so thin I could see my hands through it. But I could not read them, only pull at their edges like a mule’s flicking tail.

“Kin may not be denied,” my father grunted, and off went our dappled horse and our last milk cow.

My father took the plow onto his own shoulders with straps and brass buckles and with much pain. Grimacing through many red and screaming welts on his broad back, he tilled our fields. We grew up, my brothers and I. We were often hungry, though not too often. But I sometimes think that if we had not once had plow horses and mules and chickens squawking in the dust, pigs and roving deer and great shaggy cows, we would not have given so much to have them back again.

One evening when the blue lay deep and even as water on the wheat, a lone man came striding up our walk with a sword at his hip and velvet in his coat and a warm helmet on his head. He led a cluster of horses behind him, stamping in the dust. He was recruiting for a King who lived so far from us that his name was to our ears as an oar presented to a mountain-dweller. This King was in need of soldiers for his conquests, which the man assured us were innumerable and glorious. This is what all Kings say. They are words a monarch learns before mother and father.

I learned the word mercenary from this man.

The recruiter offered his horses in exchange for the strongest and wisest of our sons.

“In a land without horses, what use is a boy?” he reasoned.

My oldest brother thought this was very exciting. That is what oldest brothers always think. My father looked at the horses, and at his son, and at the clear, cold sky.

“Kin may not be denied,” he grunted.

And my brother vanished down the walk, asking to try the recruiter’s sword a bit before he could get one of his own. We were glad of the horses, and my father released the straps and brass buckles and laid the plow onto better-muscled shoulders than his own. He had some peace, and so had we.

One afternoon, a year hence, when the gold lay hot and breezy on the wheat, another lone man came striding up our walk with a sword at his hip and velvet in his coat and a warm helmet on his head. He led a cluster of cows behind him, lowing in the dust. He was recruiting for the same King, who had conquered much, yet lived still so far from us that his name was to our ears as snowshoes presented to a desert hermit. This King was yet in need of more soldiers for his battles, which, we were promised, were mighty, clamorous, and righteous. This is what all recruiters say. They are words those tasseled creatures learned before hunger and thirst.

I learned the word impressments from this man.

The recruiter offered his cows in exchange for the second strongest and second wisest of our sons.

“In a land without cows, what use is a boy?” he reasoned.

My older brother thought that his destiny called him with long, bright horns. That is what older brothers always think. My father looked at the cows, and at his son, and at the hazy, yellow sky.

“Kin may not be denied,” he grunted.

And my second brother vanished down the walk, his back straight and tall, his gaze on the path, never speaking to the recruiter at all. We were glad of the cows, and my father and I tasted milk for the first time in years. It was sweet and thick—I learned to strain cheese and in the silence of an empty house, we set to building a butter churn.

One morning, a year hence, when the silver lay pale and wet on the wheat, yet another lone man came striding up our walk with a sword at his hip and velvet in his coat and a warm helmet on his head. He led a cluster of chickens behind him, pecking at the dust. He was recruiting for the same King, who had conquered much, yet lived still so far from us that his name was to our ears as a feather bed presented to a scale-bound fish. My brothers, this man said, were dead and cold, and on a field without wheat, rain was filling up the hollows of their ears. Yet they died with honor, and we ought to have been proud.

This is what all soldiers say. They are words we learn before left and right.