Perrin made another small mark on the map on his wall and sighed in pleasure. It was a good map. Big. Detailed. And it covered nearly the entire third wall of his office.
Professor Carteesh, who helped create it, called it a topographical map, detailing Salem and the mountains to the west. Carteesh had invited Perrin to the university, and at the end of Harvest Season they, along with Peto, had created the astonishing piece of art.
Well, to be fair, Carteesh and Peto, along with a few students with far more experience, had labored several days to draw in and code the elevations, rivers, rock faces, meadows, and any other detail that might be necessary for General Shin to know as he plotted future paths of escape for Salemites.
Perrin was allowed to draw in some of the little trees.
Still, he was quite proud of it. Every now and then he pulled out his quill and inked in a few more trees when no one was looking.
But the smaller maps of possible routes which surrounded the main map were completed by Peto and Perrin themselves. Exploded views, Carteesh liked to call them. So far father and son had been on many camping expeditions, tromping over unfamiliar land, often accompanied by shepherds, trappers, and ranchers who knew better the terrain and could recommend where possible routes could be. They’d eliminated several sections of the mountain range, but had four good possibilities so far. The Snowing Season had halted their explorations, however, and allowed Perrin more time to focus on his map-making skills and train the new tower watchmen.
And oh, were there towers! Salem craftsmen worked far more efficiently than anyone in the world, and its seamstresses were most creative in stitching banners in not only various colors but also shapes and patterns. Now Salem, Norden, and even the dissenter colonies had towers with signal fires and chimes and dozens of banners. He had to design the towers four times wider than what they had in the world in order to accommodate the fifty banners stacked neatly in shelves. That also meant the towers had more room for men to lay down and take naps, eat meals, and set up a table for a game or two when there was no news.
But when there was news, the towers were marvelous to watch. Perrin peered out his window again to gaze in admiration at the imposing edifice which stood between Shem’s and his house, convenient for both men. At the top of the long pole flapped the narrow light blue and white striped banner of General Shin. It always waved when he was at home, so people knew where they could find him. Each tower throughout Salem had a General Shin banner in case a message needed to be relayed to him from another location.
Each tower also had chimes which the workers would strike to let the locals know when a new message had been sent up. The week when he trained all of his new watchmen, Salem, Norden, and everywhere else clanged and chimed for hours, practicing. Salemites didn’t mind. In fact, several people made new chimes to make the tones coming from their towers more harmonious.
Guide Gleace also had a banner. He chose bright orange with one white stripe as his signal, and when Gleace had a message to relay, first went up his banner. It worked quite well several weeks ago when the guide was at the northern reaches of Norden, and saw a violent storm coming over the mountain range. He rushed to the tower watchmen and told them to warn everyone south. First they sent up the bright red warning banner, followed by Gleace’s orange one, then several triangle and rectangle banners in different colors spelling out STORM.
The next tower picked up the message, put up their banners and clanged their chimes, and so the warning spread all the way south within half an hour. Children, animals, and laundry were brought in, windows were shuttered, and when the winds howled and the hail pelted, very few Salemites were without shelter.
A few hours after the storm had passed, Guide Gleace pounded on the Shins’ front door. Perrin opened it to find Gleace breathless but beaming.
“It worked, didn’t it, General? Everyone got the message about the storm? You got it, right?”
“I did, Guide, and with time to spare. I think everyone now sees the need to memorize what each banner means. But I think we need to run the meaning of the flags in the newspaper again since a few of our neighbors were over here asking what the message meant just as the hail was starting.”
Gleace leaned against the door frame. “I’ve been surveying the damage all the way home, and checking in here and there to see how well the messaging was received. This may sound awful, but Perrin,” he lowered his voice, “despite the destruction of the hail, I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun! The towers are wholly inspired. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I desperately need a nap.”
But today Perrin’s tower was silent, although one down the road showed a blue banner with white dots flapping. A baby boy had been born that day. Yesterday there was a pink striped banner, just like Hycymum had made, signaling the birth of a baby girl.
Smiling, Perrin turned back to his office, and one map on his wall made him stop, as it almost always did.
Terryp’s map.
Not the original, of course. A copy, similar to one he had made. In fact, it was Carteesh who introduced Perrin to Professor Stone, head of the archaeology department, a few moons ago. She had been most eager to meet Perrin.
“Because I want your opinion,” she told him as she led him to a glass case in the hallway. “What do you think of that?” and she pointed to—
“Terryp’s map?!” he cried. “Wait, you have Terryp’s map? I thought I did!”
“You may very well have had one of his original maps, General Shin,” Professor Stone told him as he peered at the old parchment, the fading ink, and the familiar handwriting. “Terryp suspected King Querul would want the map he made of the ruins, so he made several copies, just as you did, hoping that at least one would survive. Which of the maps was the first map, we don’t know. Maybe yours, maybe this one, maybe another one we don’t have. There may have been as many as six, according to some letters of his we smuggled to Salem.”
But Perrin had just stared at what he thought was forever lost.
“Does this map look similar to yours?” Professor Stone queried.
“Oh yes,” he murmured reverently, hunched over to get closer to the small map. “I spent many long nights trying to copy his handwriting. That swoop right there, and the way he crosses the T, and all those little trees . . . exactly as on the copy I had.”
Professor Stone grinned at Professor Carteesh. “Then it’s really a Terryp, I dare say!”
“I agree!” Professor Carteesh beamed. “General Shin’s probably the best expert we’ll ever get here.”
Perrin stood back up. “I never thought I’d see it again. To know that Terryp made more than one copy? On the one hand, I feel that kind of diminishes the importance of the map I had. But on the other hand, I can’t help but admire Terryp’s forethought. I feel like I’m meeting his twin brother somehow.”
“The map will always be very important,” Professor Stone said. “No matter how many copies there are.”
Perrin ran his finger along the glass enclosure, wishing he could touch the actual parchment, just one more time. “I suppose we could make copies again,” he said wistfully. “I still remember when my father found me reading Terryp’s stories, and he told me that Terryp had made a map—of a real place, not the pretend places he made up. Oh, how I wanted that map! I was so disappointed when Father told me it had been destroyed. That’s why I was so thrilled to find the one I did half buried in my father’s storage room. Maybe that was the one destined for the fire, yet never made it there. And here’s yet another one! Terryp’s still around and kicking, all over the world!”
He hadn’t noticed that Professor Stone had vanished until she came rushing out of a nearby office, a stack of papers in her hand. “General Shin, I had no idea! But here . . . for the boy you were, the man you are now . . .” Her chin was waggling as Perrin looked down to see what was in her hands.
His jaw dropped nearly to his chest.
Carteesh chuckled. “We had the same thought as yo
u, many years ago. It’s a woodcut, identical to the map under the glass. One of my predecessors made it, in conjunction with an art professor.”
“There must be . . .” Perrin staggered, “must be dozens of prints here!” He barely dared touch the one on top.
“We make hundreds every year,” Carteesh explained, thoroughly enjoying both Professor Stone and Perrin near tears. “The art students make the paper and age it under the sun, then print new copies. They’re presented to those who make the journey to Terryp’s land each year. I understand your family is planning to go once you’ve completed some of your security measures—”
“Don’t wait!” Professor Stone exclaimed, shaking the stack of freshly printed maps that looked decades old. “Take them now. Paper your whole washing room if you like. Most everyone in the world has several copies.”
“Just when I thought Salem couldn’t surprise me with anything else . . . I only need one.” He gingerly lifted a copy and gazed at it.
But every child should have Terryp’s map in her bedroom, he thought.
“And my granddaughter, for her wall,” he said, taking another off the pile.
“And my son Peto, of course.” Third copy.
“Perhaps one for my bedroom, since we all know little boys never really grow up. Mahrree needs to see this.
“And . . . not a bad idea, putting one in the washing room,” he said as he lifted a fifth copy.
Perrin chuckled again as he smiled at his office copy of Terryp and patted it approvingly. He never added trees to it, but his trees looked identical to the ones already there.
Since seeing Terryp’s map, there hadn’t been any new surprises. Well, aside from meeting the men who tried to ride zebras. For his first few weeks in Salem, Perrin had felt that every day and every turn had dumped upon him another avalanche of information. Finally he’d tunneled out of it all and was beginning to feel as if he could get back to normal life, or at least start a normal life.
He turned his attention again to the massive map on his wall and traced with his finger one of the four routes he and Peto had established. They’d be usable once all of the undergrowth was removed, which Perrin initially thought would be a huge undertaking, until he remembered where he lived.
Guide Gleace’s recorded vision about the temple site had gone out to all of Salem, and when the people heard about General Shin’s plans, nearly everyone volunteered to help. In the upcoming Weeding Season, the first Clearing Party would go out, removing brush in careful ways as to create a subtle trail. Hundreds of people had signed up to help, where Perrin was hoping that maybe half a dozen would join him and Peto. Sometimes, his job was just too easy.
No, almost all of the time his job was just too easy, he thought as he heard a knock on his office door.
“Come in,” he called.
The door opened and there stood four university students, two girls and two boys, beaming.
“We got all of your supplies, sir!” one of them announced. “They’re downstairs in your gathering room. The storehouse said if you need anything else—”
“Rector Bustani has an open order for me, I know. Thank you. I think that’s everything, then . . .” He hoped they’d pick up the hint.
But the four of them fidgeted.
“Sir,” said one of the boys, “are you sure we can’t come and help?”
Perrin tried to hide his smirk. This wasn’t the first group of adventurous youth assigned to be his “interns” for a couple of moons, nor was it the most eager. His office had been nearly overrun for the past eight moons by students who were at the university studying botany, geography, army history, art, and musical poetry.
He still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up with that intern—apparently someone thought that trail blazing was poetic, or just had a more sarcastic sense of humor than most—but all of the students had been happy to teach him about the land and vegetation, evaluate how soldiers may react to diversions, draw up sketches of trickier terrain, and write a lyric or two about the whole thing.
Mahrree had her own sets of interns, helping her gather information and interview former scouts for the world history text she was drafting.
At first they’d both found the extra help each morning a bit invasive—they were accustomed to working alone. But soon the enthusiasm of the interns grew on them, and they said sad goodbyes when one group was finished, and happily welcomed the next ones who showed up at their door.
It was Salem’s way, they were told, to let students work side by side with adults in a variety of careers so that they could better appreciate how all of Salem functioned, and discover ways that they wanted to contribute back. Apparently the sign-up list to work with Perrin and Mahrree was four years long.
Perrin looked into the eyes of each of his pleading interns. “Look, I’ve already promised each of you a spot in the Clearing Party. That’ll be in a mere six weeks, and you’ll get to pack in with you not only your camping and food supplies, but hatchets and rakes and shovels and all other kinds of gear that will leave you absolutely exhausted at the end of a week. Yes, look how excited each of you is to work your bodies to the bone. Now, salivate on that for a while, because as I’ve told you before: this first Marking Party will go a lot slower because we have to measure distances and slash trees—”
“We can help!” one of the young women declared, and produced seemingly out of nowhere a long knife with a curved blade.
“Whoa,” Perrin said, instinctively stepping back from the girl’s gleeful display. She gave a few experimental swipes to show him she knew how to use it—which she didn’t—while the rest of her group followed Perrin’s cue and sidled away from her.
Perrin licked his lips. He’d heard about the new-style scythe a blacksmith had been making for his neighbors who were trying to clear brush, and he suddenly felt very thirsty. “That’s one of those new machetes, I think they’re calling it?”
“Yes it is, General Shin!”
“And who in the world—I mean, who in their right mind gave that to you?”
“My father. I know how to slash the birches and aspens. I’ve been carving up the trees near our house.”
“And I’m sure your parents are most pleased about that. Would you . . . would you just put that away, please? And, uh, where’d your father get that?”
“The storehouse,” she said as she gingerly slid the long blade back into a leather belt on her waist. “They just received their first supply, and thought two should go to you. They’re down in the crates. Do you need more?”
A third would have been quite useful, Perrin considered, until then he had another thought. “Who made these?”
“Mr. Herrero,” she told him.
Perrin’s heart sank. It was one thing to take whatever you wanted, just because someone would give it if you asked.
It’s quite another when you know who would be giving it to you.
Mr. Herrero had a bad leg, a crooked spine, and a wife prone to illness. Yet the man was blessed with dogged determination, if not an adequate body. Anything he created took him twice as long as it would a healthy man. It must have taken him weeks just to make the first supply of machetes.
Surely there’d be other blacksmiths learning how to make them, but until then . . .
Suddenly Perrin realized two would be adequate.
“What about that belt,” he gestured to the girl’s waist.
“A scabbard, sir? Yep, you have two of those as well.”
“And who made those?”
“My father.”
Perrin knew he was a fit man who enjoyed tinkering with leather. The guilt he felt for accepting the belts eased a little.
Even after living in Salem for many moons, he still struggled with the idea of just taking things. For a time it became easier, because whenever he went to the storehouse it was a faceless, nameless building filled with supplies just for him, it seemed.
Until he met Mr. Herrero, limping in one afterno
on with a bag of nails he’d completed, pleased and winded. “Sorry it took a little longer today,” he apologized to the rector on duty. “Had a little problem with the forge this morning.” He balanced precariously on his crutch as he unloaded his gleaming nails on the counter.
“Not a problem. And another beautifully crafted set, just in time for Genera Shin,” the rector told Mr. Herrero, and poured a small amount of the nails into a bag for Perrin.
He could hardly bear to take them, which he used later for something inconsequential, because he’d never before realized the effort that went into producing something as seemingly simple as nails.
While everything was for free in Salem, he realized that, truthfully, nothing was. Everything came with a price, and he worried every day that he wasn’t yet paying his fair share.
Perrin kept one of those nails in his desk drawer to remind himself why he was securing Salem. He was doing it for people like Mr. Herrero.
No, for Mr. Herrero. For a man who would need extra time and help for himself and Mrs. Herrero.
For every Salemite who willingly offered what they could, and who cheerfully trusted he’d do the same.
Just like the four young Salemites standing before him, smiling in hope that they could tag along.
Perrin knew that he couldn’t let these innocent, happy Salemites see him wielding a long blade again. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have any knives, and in his desk he still had . . . well, never mind.
He just wasn’t sure how he’d respond with such a weapon in hand, ready to cut down ferocious, attacking . . . vegetation.
“I appreciate your forethought and earnestness, soldiers—”
They always grinned when he called them soldiers.
“—but this first trip is solely a family affair, and Assistant Zenos, Peto, and I will undoubtedly argue about a few things, accuse each other of making mistakes, and maybe even play a prank or two. Right now you see us as far better than that, and I can’t afford such a hit to my reputation among Salemites, so once again, the answer is no. None of you can come along on this trip, because I still want you to look at me with that faint glow of adulation, and hearing me snore at night will absolutely destroy everything.”
The interns laughed, a bit hesitantly because they weren’t sure if it was appropriate. He had this group for only a week, and they still didn’t quite know him. In two more weeks, they’d relax around him. Almost.
“I promise I’ll have lots of tedious, detailed work for you to do when I get back, and I’ll let you know about every step of the Norden Route, all right?”
Their shoulders sagged, and the girl with the machete longingly fingered the handle.
“Again, excellent work on getting me supplied, soldiers. Now, I know how all of you feel about this so . . . just one group hug before you leave. And make it brief, please.”
Salemites were huggers; Perrin had to make peace with that. Still he struggled with the notion of such open affection, but when everyone was hugging at the same time, it lent an air of ridiculousness that he could embrace. Figuratively.
“Now out!” he commanded cheerfully, and saluted away his troops.
They headed down the hall and the stairs, and he heard them call out a farewell to Mahrree, who was likely looking at the piles in her gathering room and wondering how they got there.
And the machete. Two of them.
Perrin sucked in his breath and knew he couldn’t jog down the stairs to find them just yet. He hadn’t touched such a long weapon—uh, gardening implement—since he gave up his father’s sword to Lemuel Thorne over a year ago.
Now, new blades awaited him. While the machete was shorter than a sword, it was bigger than a long knife, had that deliciously clever curve to it, and was naively sharp on only one edge because it’s only purpose was to hack at vines. Salemites were so good and kind they’d never think of using it to hack off someone’s body parts, but the commander in him thought of that, very first thing, when he’d heard the description.
Still the world was too much with him, and there were days when he wondered if he’d ever fully convert to a Salemite life.
Never mind, he told himself. His job was to secure these tender folks, not necessarily become one of them.
The first Annual Marking Party would begin tomorrow morning. While Peto and Perrin had decided they should go in the middle of Weeding Season, when the snow even in the highest elevations was melted, this year would be different. Shem, the other member who would always accompany them, according to Guide Gleace’s wishes, didn’t want to risk missing the birth of his first baby, who would be making its appearance in the middle of Weeding Season, and was already dubbed “Shemalla” by Peto. So the three men were leaving two full moons before that, on the 70th Day of Planting Season.
The timing concerned Perrin a little, as he evaluated the map again. They were starting with the most northern route, just outside of Norden. That way they could drop off Calla at her parents’ house, and all of her sisters could fawn on her bulging belly while her husband was stomping around in the forests. Perrin wasn’t worried about her delivering early and without Shem; he was worried about snow.
He and Peto had become quite the camping, hiking, riding, and tracking experts over the last year, heading out every other week while the temperatures were still warm in search of viable elk routes to the ancient temple site. Their trips came to a halt when the first snow began to fall. They felt pretty confident about the routes they’d chosen, because they had tested them by taking Mahrree on each one. The theory was that if someone unaccustomed to riding, and on an ancient mule, could make it up there, then most of Salem had a chance. The only problem was getting Mahrree back home again, because she never wanted to leave the temple ruins.
Each time they returned, Mahrree would say to Perrin, “Now can we head over to Terryp’s land? I’m doing better on horseback, and I think we could—”
“Later, Mahrree. I promise. There’s nowhere I want to go more than Terryp’s land, but I need to secure Salem first.”
He kept putting her off until the first snows came, and she quit asking.
Then in the middle of Snowing Season, Peto’s geography teacher told him about seeing a herd of elk high up in a canyon which he was sure led to the ancient temple plateau. Peto, who was now always eager to be back on a horse and up into the mountains, convinced Perrin they should try to find it despite the weather, because what if Salemites had to travel in the snow?
Perrin couldn’t argue with that, and he’d heard about snow caving and ice fishing, which he couldn’t wait to try.
So the two of them headed out in what Salemites told them was a mild snow year, although the “mild snow” was easily three feet deep by the time they reached the climb to the top of the canyon.
The route promised to be serviceable, but only in Weeding Season, since the last couple hundred feet was up a steep and rocky slope which the snows couldn’t completely cover. Leaving the horses below them, Peto and Perrin climbed the uneven surface, noticing that it was easier to negotiate the rocks rather than whatever smooth surface was to the side, and under about five feet of snow at the top.
Even now as he remembered it, Perrin took out a thin piece of charcoal and labeled that route, “Back Door” on his map. The top of the peak was only a few hundred paces from the ancient temple, but the climb was treacherous. It’d be a fifth route, but only for the daring or desperate.
And, as he remembered that trip, he shivered, because while going up took quite some time, going down was shockingly fast.
Perrin had sat down on the summit to the side of the rocky face to catch his breath, shifted his position slightly to be more comfortable, then . . .
Well, it was still a jumble in his head. More of a tumble, really. Straight down. He flailed, he fought, he tried to find ways to stop himself, but he was sliding, fast and infuriated, down the smooth snowy slope—
And hit two young trees which didn’t slow hi
m down at all, but decapitated one of the poor pines—
And then he shot past Clark and his friend who only nickered in question—
Then everything abruptly came to a halt.
Because he was flailing and would have continued shouting, except that falling through the thin ice into the freezing river had completely taken his breath away.
Even now Perrin could feel that cold. He’d always feel that cold.
He’d also always hear Peto’s laughter, echoing in that canyon as he hurriedly made his way down to help fish Perrin out of the river.
Last night, when Perrin was over at the Zenoses to finalize details for their upcoming trip, he asked Shem one last time if there was any possibility of snow on the trail.
“If there is,” Shem said, “I’ll breathe real hard on it and melt it, all right?” He’d been amused at hearing about Perrin’s sliding and swimming adventure. Even more amused that one of Perrin’s longer locks of hair had frozen, and Peto had broken it off just to see if he could.
Perrin, in his office, said only, “Ha, ha, Shem. Yes, very funny.”
It was time. He really needed to check his supplies, as well as the, uh, tools for marking the trees and cutting out deadwood.
He crept down the stairs, pausing halfway to see if Mahrree was in the gathering room. Seeing that it was empty, he snuck over to the neat piles of crates and carefully pulled the lid off the first one.
Again, that was easy. Sitting right on top were two long, curved blades attached to oak handles. Perrin rubbed his sweaty palm on his trousers before lifting one of the machetes. He held it up so that the sunshine coming from the window could glint along the steel.
Oh yes, that was sharp. He held the machete parallel, and frowned. No, Mr. Herrero—nor any Salemite for that matter—didn’t know much about balance of the blade. And it was kind of fat, now that he analyzed it. What’s the point of a fat blade when all you really need is the sharp bit on the sides?
If only it were a two-edged blade . . .
He sighed and hacked the air experimentally. The faint whizzing sound was similar to what he would hear when he practiced with his swords. But while that sound had had a subtle ring to it, the machete seemed to bang the air.
“But it’s serviceable,” he decided.
“For slicing flies?” Mahrree came into the room. “Because I think you just chopped one in two.”
“For cutting out brush, and maybe marking the trees,” he told her. He tossed the machete into the open crate where it clunked apologetically.
“Seems like a nasty piece of steel.” Mahrree peered into the crate. “Could do some damage in the wrong hands,” she said, with a great deal of meaning.
“True, it could. But without style.”
“Not like your father’s sword, then?”
“No, not at all,” Perrin said, before he realized he’d just given himself away.
Mahrree folded her arms. “Why, Perrin? Why were you hoping that it would be like a sword?”
“I wasn’t,” he told her, almost not lying. “I was just . . . curious. Been a year, you know, since we left. I was just wondering if I still had any . . . ability. If I’d know what to do.”
“And do you?”
“I could a great deal of damage with a weapon like that,” he whispered to her. “A great deal.”
“It’s not a weapon,” she whispered back, her tone tight.
“Anything can become a weapon, Mahrree.”
“Yes, I was afraid of that. Just . . . try not to look at it that way.”
“I’m trying. Oh, I’m trying!”
“Look at it instead as . . . what you’d use to mark the trees.”
“This is far too aggressive a tool for that,” he told her.
“So what will you use?”
“Knives,” he said. “Pocket knives. We don’t want the cuts too deep, or the trees will be damaged. That’s what Peto and his professors concluded. Cuts should be only as deep as half a finger’s width.”
“Be careful. You have very large fingers. Mark only fat trees.”
Perrin chuckled. “Kind of the plan, yes. Since there are white-barked aspens and birches along every trail we’ll be clearing, they’re the perfect choice, especially since the markings heal into black slashes which are easily noticed.”
“And look like bear claw slashes,” Mahrree smiled. “But did you figure out what to do for distances greater than fifty paces?”
“Since we’ll make a slash for every ten paces an average person should walk—” he started to explain, until his wife interrupted.
“And you’re using Peto Paces, not the too-long-of-legs-Perrin-or-Shem paces, correct?”
“Yes, yes, yes, you were right about that. The test groups all agreed that Peto’s stride is the most reasonable. The angle of the slashes will tell people in which direction to go. Follow the way the slashes point, take ten paces for every slash, then look for the next marked tree. Getting back to your question, should a distance be sixty or seventy paces, we’ll just go with five slashes, then mark another tree with one or two more so folks just keep going.”
“And no strangers will suspect that Salem has seven fingered bears,” Mahrree added.
“Yes, that likely would arouse suspicion. The hope is that the slashes will be infrequent enough to not seem unnatural. Mahrree,” he began to grin, “I really think this is going to work!”
“Oh, I know it is,” she smiled back. “And then, when you return from this trip, can we plan going to Terryp’s land?”
He hated to see her expression fall. He hadn’t even answered her, but she could read it on his face.
“Once Salem is secure, I know,” she said quietly, and offered him a forced smile.
“We’ll go someday, I promise. I really want to, but—”
She only sighed and headed to the kitchen to leave him with his crates and plans.
---
Mahrree thought she’d gotten up early the next morning, but Perrin was already up and in his office, rolling up a few more maps and blank paper. In a way—only a very small way, because she didn’t see the appeal of sleeping on dirt—Mahrree was jealous. No wonder he didn’t feel the need to make the journey to Terryp’s land; he was already playing Terryp.
She spied on him for a moment, happily murmuring to himself as he rearranged his pack, then she headed downstairs to make breakfast. That’s when she was even more astonished.
Peto was also already up, evaluating the supplies Mahrree had bundled together last night.
“Sure it’ll be enough?” he asked her.
“You said you’d be fishing and hunting along the way, remember?”
Peto eyed the small crate of elk jerky. “What if Father’s not accurate with his bow and arrow anymore?”
“Well, then, be careful not to lose too many arrows shooting the fish in the river.”
Peto chuckled. “I’ll get the horses ready, so get breakfast going.”
“You’re ordering me? You’re not a real lieutenant, you know,” she called after him as he, laughing, headed out the door.
An hour later Calla and Shem arrived by wagon at the Shins’ house, and Mahrree could tell it was going to be a difficult time—for Shem.
“You’re still fine?” he asked Calla as he helped her down. “No problems?”
“Shem, we rode an entire three hundred paces. I’ll feel fine. And yes, I can handle the miles to Norden. Please, do not ask again.”
As Shem loaded his pack on the horse he’d ride later, Calla confided to Mahrree, “It’ll be a little nice to get some breathing room from him. It’s one thing to be attentive, it’s another to shield me like he’s in battle. He wanted to lift me into the wagon! If I can climb the stairs in the house, I can climb into the wagon. What will he be like in eight weeks?”
“That’s when you will want him to lift you, and hope he’s strong enough to do so,” Mahrree chuckled. “After the baby comes, you’ll want him to baby y
ou for a time. Hopefully he won’t be tired of doing it by then.”
Calla smiled dreamily at her husband who kept glancing over at her as if she’d do some fantastic trick at any moment. “I shouldn’t tease about him. He tossed all of our down comforters into the back of the wagon in case I wanted to lay down and rest along the way.”
“That sounds rather comfortable,” Mahrree admitted.
“It does, doesn’t it? He’s so thoughtful.” She grinned at him.
He grinned goofily back.
Mahrree suppressed a groan. They were the cutest couple, but she had to agree with her husband: sometimes they became just a bit too gooey. Perrin had taken to leaving the room whenever Shem started rubbing Calla’s belly and crooning at it.
Calla turned back to Mahrree. “I forgot to tell you. Exciting news! I got a message yesterday that one of the rectors in Norden thinks a collection of old journals he’s been given has accounts from early scouts to the world, so I plan to read through all of them—”
“Calla, Calla, I appreciate all of your help, but please—take some time to enjoy being with your family.”
“I will. I have only three interviews to conduct, then—”
“Just relax, for once, will you?”
Calla sighed. “I can’t. I just know I’ll miss Shem so much I’ll burst! And not in a good way.”
“Is there a good way to burst?”
“But Mahrree, if I’m doing research for your history book, I’ll feel like I’m with him again, in the past. Besides, you’ve met my family. They can be a bit . . . smothering.”
“Unlike here?”
“So you get it, right?” Calla said, her honeyed eyes developing a slightly cynical glint which, Mahrree had to confess, she’d likely taught her. “Hiding out in the cellar of a rectory reading old journals will be the only peace and quiet I’ll have.”
The women laughed, and Peto came around the corner. “You women and your plans. I’m telling you, these poor men are lucky I’m dragging them away for five days. It will do them some good.”
Mahrree scowled at him. “And what do you know about what men need?”
Peto folded his arms. “Enough. They need time to reconnect with nature, become one with the trees, to not worry about women. Next year Deck’s coming with us. I told him and Jaytsy that yesterday. Too bad he has so much calving right now, but that’s why next year we’ll be going in the middle of Weeding Season.”
“So you’re planning to leave us women and babies all alone?” Calla asked with feigned dismay.
“All alone with plenty of male neighbors and brothers-in-law.”
Calla laughed. “That’s true. All right, Peto. You can take away our men each Weeding Season, so you can free them from the constraints of their wives. Remind them what they are missing by not being single.”
Peto nodded curtly. “Knew you’d see it my way.” He mounted on his horse as his mother shook her head.
“So many words he’s going to have to eat, Calla,” Mahrree murmured. “My poor boy will be sick with them.”
Chapter 31--“I think Peto even enjoyed
the cook.”