The Narrow Road Between Desires, page 7
“A faerie stone?” Rike blurted.
Bast needed to nip that in the bud. “Faerie stone?” he said in a tone so scathing Rike flushed red. “You’re too old for nonsense.” Bast gave the boy a look. “Do you want my help or not?” he asked.
“I do,” Rike said in a small voice.
“Then bring me a river stone.” Bast pointed imperiously off in the direction of the nearby stream. “You have to be the one to find it, too,” he improvised. “Can’t be anyone else. Can’t be traded for. And you need to gather it the proper way so we can use it for the charm: dry on the bank where the sun has touched it, hole pointed up at the sky.”
Rike nodded.
Bast struck his hands together sharply once. It sounded like a tiny thunderclap. Rike went racing like a hound after a hare.
Laying back in the grass, Bast plucked a stem of grass and chewed it. He rubbed his chest idly, delighting in the lightness there. True, he had a bargain he was bound to honor. And Rike had been insistent upon ‘soon,’ and Bast had sworn, so it needed tending to today. And yes, he already had plans, and this was going to complicate them…
But who didn’t enjoy a bit of a challenge every now and then? And if he had a little extra on his plate, what better day than Midsummer for fitting extra in? Bast would have paid ten times the price to be out from under the boy’s thumb. Fifty times. He smiled like a cat who knows which window in the creamery is loose. There was still work ahead, but as an artist, Bast felt a certain satisfaction with what he’d begun.
AFTERNOON: STILL
With no children waiting, Bast skipped stones in the nearby stream. He snuck up on a frog and startled it. He flipped through Celum Tinture, glancing at the illustrations: Calcification. Titration. Sublimation. He pulled a pair of embrils, then spent a long while puzzling at the pairing of the Empty Scales and the Winter Tree.
Brann, happily unbirched with a well-bandaged hand, brought him two sweet maple buns wrapped in a fine white handkerchief. Bast ate the first and set the second to one side.
Viette brought armloads of flowers and a fine blue ribbon. Bast wove the daisies into a crown, incorporating the ribbon so it ran twisting through the stems in an elaborate braided pattern.
Finally, looking up at the sun, Bast saw it was nearly time. He removed his shirt and filled it with the wealth of red and yellow touch-me-nots. He added the handkerchief and crown, then fetched a stick and made a bindle so he could carry the lot without the risk of crushing them.
He headed past the Oldstone Bridge, then up toward the hills and around a bluff until he found the place Kostrel had described. It was tucked tidily away. The stream curved and eddied into a lovely little pool perfect for a private bath.
Bast walked upstream, peering intently at the water as he went. He was forced to detour around a piece of boggy ground, then an outcrop of stone, then came upon an absolutely impenetrable patch of wild raspberry that forced him to turn back. He headed downstream to the Oldstone Bridge, then crossed the stream and headed back, exploring the other bank.
He met with fewer obstacles this time, and was able to stay much closer to the stream. He eyed the water closely, tossing in a leaf, a piece of bark, a handful of grass. He peered up at the sun. He listened to the wind. He scurried up and down the bank a dozen times.
Eventually he either learned what he set out to, or simply became bored. Returning to the secluded shaded pool, he hunkered down behind some bushes and was almost nodding off until the crackle of a twig and a scrap of song snapped him sharply awake. Peering down, he saw a young woman making her careful way down the steep hillside to the water’s edge.
Silently, Bast scurried upstream with his bundle. Three minutes later he was kneeling on a piece of grassy waterside where he had left the bright pile of flowers.
He picked up a yellow blossom, held it close, and when his breath brushed the petals, its color changed into a delicate blue. He dropped it in the water, watching as the current slowly carried it away.
Bast gathered up a handful of posies, red and orange, and breathed on them again. They too changed until they were a pale and vibrant blue. He scattered them onto the surface of the stream. He did this three more times until there were no flowers left.
Then, picking up the handkerchief and daisy crown, he sprinted back downstream, across the bridge, then around and over to the cozy little hollow with overarching elm. He’d moved so quickly that Emberlee was just arriving at the water’s edge.
Softly, silently, he crept up to the spreading elm. Even with one hand carrying the handkerchief and crown, he went up the side as nimbly as a squirrel.
Soon Bast lay along a low branch, sheltered by leaves, breathing fast but not hard. Emberlee was removing her stockings and laying them carefully on a nearby hedge. Her hair was a burnished golden red, falling in lazy curls. Her face was sweet and round, a lovely shade of pale and pink.
Bast grinned as he watched her look around, first left, then right. Then she began to unlace her bodice. Her dress was a cornflower blue, edged with yellow, and when she spread it on the hedge, it flared and splayed like the wing of a bird. Perhaps some fantastic combination of a finch and a jay.
Dressed only in her shift, Emberlee looked around again: left, then right. Then she shimmied free of it, a fascinating motion. She tossed the shift aside and stood there, naked as the moon. Her creamy skin was amazing with freckle. Her hips wide and delightful. The tips of her breasts were brushed with palest of pink.
She scampered into the water, making a series of small, dismayed cries at the chill of it. They were, on consideration, not really similar to a crow’s at all. Though they could, perhaps, be slightly like a heron’s.
Emberlee washed a bit, splashing and shivering. She ran a cake of soap between her hands, then soaped herself. She dunked her head and came up gasping. Wet, her curling hair clung to her, the color of ripe cherries.
That was when the first of the blue touch-me-nots arrived, drifting on the water. She glanced at it curiously as it floated by, then began to lather soap into her hair.
More flowers followed. They came downstream and spun circles around her, caught in the slow eddy of the pool. She looked at them, amazed. Then sieved a handful from the water and brought them to her face, drawing a deep breath to smell them.
She laughed delightedly and dunked under the surface, coming up in the middle of the flowers. The water sluiced her pale skin, but the blossoms clung to her, tangling in her hair and pressing to her skin as if reluctant to let go.
That was when Bast fell out of the tree.
There was a brief, mad scrabbling of fingers against bark, a bit of a yelp, then he hit the ground like a sack of suet. He lay on his back in the grass and let out a low, miserable groan.
He heard a splashing, and then Emberlee appeared above him. She held her white shift in front of her. Bast looked up from where he lay in the tall grass.
He’d been lucky to land on that patch of springy turf. A few feet to one side, and he’d have broken hard against the rocks. Five feet the other way and he would’ve ended wallowing in mud.
Emberlee knelt beside him, her skin pale, her hair dark. One posy clung to her neck. It was the same color as her eyes, a pale and vibrant blue.
“Oh,” Bast said happily as he gazed up at her. His eyes were slightly dazed. “You’re so much lovelier than I had hoped.”
Emberlee rolled her eyes, but still favored him with a fond smile.
He lifted a hand as if to brush her cheek, only to find it holding the crown and knotted handkerchief. “Ahh,” he said, remembering. “I’ve brought you some daisies too. And a sweet bun!”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the daisy crown with both hands. She had to let go of her shift to do this. It fell lightly to the grass.
Bast blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.
Emberlee tilted her head to look at the crown. The ribbon was a striking blue, but it was nothing near as lovely as her eyes. She lifted it with both hands and set it proudly on her head. Her arms still raised, she looked down at Bast and drew a long deliberate breath.
Bast’s eyes slipped from her crown.
She smiled at him indulgently.
Bast drew a breath to speak, then stopped and drew another through his nose. Honeysuckle.
“Did you steal my soap?” he asked incredulously.
Laughing happily, Emberlee bent to kiss him.
* * *
Bast made a wide loop up into the hills north of town. It was wild and rocky up that way. No soil deep or flat enough to plant, the ground too treacherous for grazing.
Even with the boy’s directions, it was hard to find Martin’s still. He had to give the crazy bastard credit, between the brambles, rockslides, and fallen trees, Bast never would have found it accidentally. What at first looked like a willow brake turned out to be the entrance to a scrubby little box valley. At the back of the valley was an overhang above a shallow cave with three quarters of a shack built out of it.
Bast slowed as soon as he saw the front door of the shack. He had some small experience sneaking in and out of places folk wanted to keep private. As such, he knew a hundred simple, vicious tricks used to discourage the overly curious.
Bast found excitement bubbling up in him as he began to slowly search for whatever Martin had set up to guard his still. Most folks showed reasonable restraint, knowing the people mostly likely snooping were neighbors. It was one thing to set a trap that might leave someone scratched or limping so you could tell who’d been nosing in your secrets. But you still needed to live in the community, so there were limits to what most folk would do.
But Martin wasn’t known for restraint, or even pleasantness, much less a desire to be a peaceful part of the community. Bast knew this better than anyone, as less than a minute after he’d first met the huge man, Martin had thrown a hatchet straight at his head before charging in, both fists swinging, shouting something about demons and barley. Bast would have liked to hear everything more clearly, but he’d been busy running through the trees like a rabbit with a hot coal up its ass.
After asking around a bit, Bast discovered that while this was extreme, it wasn’t out of character for the great bear of a man. He was widely regarded as the best distiller and poacher in town, hobbies he pursued openly, with a flagrant disregard for the king’s law.
But despite the fact that he sold his meat cheap and fletched the best arrows in town, Bast quickly learned what folk appreciated most about Martin was that the wild-eyed man came to town infrequently, and kept those visits brief.
So Bast found himself grinning as he swept his gaze around the shack. He could hardly guess what sort of safeguards a true maniac like Martin would devise to keep his precious secrets safe.
But half an hour of careful searching later, Bast hadn’t found a thing. No stumble-wire to drop a bank of stone down where the path went narrowly between two rocks. No fishhooks dipped in piss and hung face-high, hidden in the branches. No deadfalls. No crossbows. No jaw-traps. Nothing. Bast didn’t find as much as a string of bells or a shallow hole covered in old leaves.
Confused and disappointed, Bast wasn’t hoping for much when he finally entered the shack. But opening the door, he found himself surprised a second time.
The inside was as tight and tidy a little space as Bast had ever seen. Dried flowers and herbs hung in bundles from the rafters. A rug of woven grass covered the floor. The still wasn’t some slipshod contraption bunged together out of old pots and pine pitch either. It was a work of art.
A great covered copper kettle twice the size of a washbasin dominated the back of the shack, emerging from a huge, well-mortared fieldstone smoulder-stove. A wooden trough ran all along the ceiling, and only after following it outside did Bast realize it was for bringing in rainwater, and could be diverted into several different channels or used to fill the cooling barrels.
There were basins and buckets, a large screw press and a set of smaller presses using stones. Lines of bright copper tubing crossed the room, some passing through a collection of makeshift glass containers on a high shelf that looked like they held flowers, brightly colored fruit, and other things Bast could only guess at.
Eyeing the twists and spirals of copper running between the barrels and bottles and basins, Bast had the sudden urge to flip through Celum Tinture and learn what all the different pieces of the still were called. What they were for. Only then did he realize he’d left the book somewhere again…
So instead, Bast rooted around until he found a box filled with a mad miscellany of containers. Two dozen bottles of all sorts, clay jugs, old canning jars…. A dozen of them were full. None of them were labeled in any way.
Bast lifted out a tall glass bottle that he guessed had once held wine. He pulled the cork, sniffed, then took a careful sip. His face bloomed into a sunrise of delight. Despite the fact that this place reminded him of his master’s workshop, Bast had half-expected it to taste of char and turpentine.
But this was…well…he wasn’t sure entirely. He took another drink. There was something of apples about it. Some spice? It smelled ever so slightly of cinnas fruit and violets, and…honey?
Bast took a third drink, grinning. Whatever you cared to call it, it was lovely. Smooth and strong and just a little sweet. Unseen, Bast lifted the bottle in a toast to the absent master of the still. Martin might be mad as a badger, but he obviously knew his liquor.
* * *
It was better than an hour before Bast managed to make it back to the lightning tree. Celum Tinture was there, having slid off a smooth rock to lay in the grass, apparently unharmed. For the first time he could remember, Bast was glad to see the book. He flipped it open to the chapter on distillation and read for half an hour, nodding to himself at various points, flipping back to look at diagrams and illustrations. Turns out the thing was called a condensate coil. He’d thought it looked important. And expensive, being made entirely of copper.
Eventually he closed the book and sighed. There were a few clouds rolling in, so no good could come of leaving the book unattended. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he shuddered to think what would happen if the wind tumbled the book into the grass and tore the pages. Or if there was a sudden rain….
So Bast wandered back to the Waystone Inn and slipped through the back door. Stepping carefully, he made his way into the taproom, opened a low cupboard, and tucked the book inside. He made his silent way halfway back to the stairs before he heard footsteps behind him.
“Ah, Bast,” the innkeeper said nonchalantly. “Have you brought the carrots?”
Bast froze, caught awkwardly mid-sneak. He straightened up and brushed self-consciously at his clothes. “I…I haven’t quite got round to that yet, Reshi.”
The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “Bast, I don’t ask a…” He stopped and sniffed, then eyed the dark-haired man narrowly. “Are you drunk?”
Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”
The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine then, have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been investigating,” Bast said, emphasizing the word. “Did you know Crazy Martin runs a still?”
“I’d heard,” the innkeeper said, his tone making it clear he didn’t find this information to be particularly thrilling. “And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a handful of unfortunately strong affect compulsions. And a touch of tabard madness from when he was a soldier, unless I miss my guess.”
“Well, yes…” Bast said slowly. “I know, because he set his dog on me and when I climbed a tree to get away, he tried to chop the tree down. And also set fire to the tree. And then he went to get his bow. But also, aside from those things, he’s crazy too, Reshi. Really, really crazy.”
“Bast,” the innkeeper said reproachfully, giving him a chiding look.
“I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not even saying I don’t like him. But trust me. I know crazy. His head isn’t put together like a normal person’s.”
The innkeeper gave an agreeable if slightly exasperated nod. “Noted.”
Bast opened his mouth, then looked slightly confused. “What were we talking about?”
“Your advanced state of investigation,” the innkeeper said, glancing out the window. “Despite the fact that it is barely past noon.”
“It’s Midsummer, Reshi,” Bast said plaintively, as if that explained everything.
The innkeeper merely blinked at him, his expression not changing.
Bast rolled his eyes. “You know how early it gets light on Midsummer, Reshi? Today is twice as long as some days we get in the winter.” As he continued, the innkeeper’s incurious stare seemed to erode Bast’s surety, but he pushed on. “What I’m saying is that if it were winter right now, Reshi. I mean, if today were in winter then it would already practically be evening by now.” He hesitated. “With how early I got up, I mean.”
The innkeeper was quiet for a long moment. Then he drew a deep breath and continued in a level tone. “If that stunning logical syllogism isn’t proof of your sobriety, I don’t know what is, Bast. Notwithstanding…”
“Oh, yes!” Bast said excitedly. “I know Martin’s been running a tab, and I know you’ve had trouble settling up because he doesn’t have any money.”
“He doesn’t use money,” the innkeeper corrected gently.
“Same difference, Reshi,” Bast sighed. “And it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t need another sack of barley. The pantry is choking on barley. But since he runs a still…”
The innkeeper was already shaking his head. “No, Bast,” he said. “I won’t go poisoning my customers with hillwine. You have no idea what can end up in that stuff.”
