Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar Read online

  Jem leaned on him as they picked through cold mud and patches of burrs that caught in Ree’s fur and hurt his bare feet. Jem gasped the first time he stood on one of the burr patches; then he started coughing and couldn’t stop.

  If that wasn’t enough, as soon as the cows saw them, they started bawling and hurried over to them, complaining as loudly as they could. Being sandwiched between the bodies of animals big enough to squash him wasn’t how Ree wanted to die. He held tight to Jem, his heart pounding in his chest while his nose twitched with the smell of food. They were too big. He had to stand on his toes to see over their backs. He tried to breathe slowly, to pretend he wasn’t scared. That was one thing he’d learned—you never let anything know you were frightened.

  If he fooled the cows, they were dumber than the ugly hobgoblin he and Jem had found in the hills. But the animals didn’t do anything to stop them going to the farmhouse, and they didn’t try to hurt him or Jem. Ree almost cried when he saw the door. Jem was still coughing when Ree hauled the door open and pushed him inside. He slammed the door closed and put his back against it, panting. The cows were complaining outside, loud enough to wake the ...

  Ree swallowed. The too-familiar reek of waste and sickness fouled the room. He blinked, and the shape on the floor a few paces ahead resolved into an old man whose face twisted into a grimace of pain but who still found strength to glare. But he wasn’t dead. And that was good. Or perhaps bad, as the grimace of pain became a concentrated look of something like hatred.

  The rough wooden door at his back was the only thing that kept Ree’s knees from buckling. He swallowed again. Jem bent over, still coughing, his whole body shaken by those wracking coughs.

  Jem. I have to look after Jem. He darted forward, his toe-claws clicking on the wooden floor and catching in a woven rug near where the old man lay. Catching the younger boy’s shoulders, he helped him to sit near a hearth large enough to stand in. Someone, presumably the old man, had piled wood in the center and topped the wood with a collection of twigs and fluffy stuff Ree didn’t recognize.

  Ree looked at the old man. He vaguely remembered his mother telling him how old people always expected you to be polite. “Sir?” His voice trembled. “If you could tell me ... Is there a fire starter around here? My friend is sick. He needs warmth.”

  The old man’s blue eyes softened. The hatred—Ree wondered if it had been hatred or fear—abated. “There on your right side, on the mantel,” he said in a raspy voice, as if he were holding back pain.

  It took Ree several tries and some colorful curses to get enough of a spark from the flint to light the fire. First the fluffy stuff caught and burned in the blink of an eye, but by then the twigs were burning and the bigger logs were starting to catch.

  Ree breathed in slowly, almost a hiss. An echoing hiss came from the fireplace, followed by a gray cat twice the size of any cats he had ever seen in Jacona. The animal sniffed, meowed. “Sorry,” Ree found himself saying. “I didn’t see you in there.”

  The cat made a sound that could have been a complaint, then walked up to the old man’s face and rubbed its forehead against his cheek, meowing. Ree stared in amazement. Crazy animals inside and out. All he wanted was food and warm clothes for Jem.

  But the old man wasn’t screaming or anything, and he clearly needed help, too. “Sir,” he said again, hesitating. “You ... are hurt?”

  “Caught my feet in the hearthrug three days ago,” he said. “I ain’t been able to get up since, and the livestock to look to, and the snow coming down, and no way to light the fire.”

  Ree hesitated. It went through his mind like lightning that the old man couldn’t even get up to light the fire. That meant he couldn’t chase them away or hurt them, or denounce them. He couldn’t defend clothes or food, and Ree could look after Jem and they could leave.

  He looked at the old man, but the man was studying Jem, with an intent, concentrated frown. Not as if he disapproved of Jem, but more as if he were trying to add something together. And perhaps trying not to show his own pain. By the flickering light of the fire, it hit Ree that boy and man had the same profile. The man’s face was just aged and weathered and seemed to have frozen in that expression Jem only got when he was riding high on stubborn.

  Jem looked back at the man, his eyes wide and guileless. “We’ll help,” he said, softly. “Won’t we Ree? We’ll stay till you’re back on your feet.”

  What could Ree say to that? They could leave, could take clothes and food, enough to survive the winter, but in Jem’s eyes he’d never be the same. And perhaps not in his own eyes either, if he knew he’d left an old man to die. Much less an old man who looked like Jem. He’d killed a man once, but that was different.

  So he crossed his arms and tried to look strong. “Of course. But first you need some warmth. He needs a blanket, sir. He’s got something that makes him cough. Cold too long and not enough food.”

  The old man looked from Jem to Ree. “I lost two boys to consumption,” he said, and shrugged. “No healers for miles.” He pointed. “There’s beds with quilts in that there room. It was my boys’ room.”

  Ree found a cold, empty-smelling bedroom with quilts piled high on two large beds. It looked like a metal stove had been added, probably to replace the magic ones that Ree remembered being sold at marketplaces. The hole in the wall where the stove chimney let out had been plastered over, but it looked crude and rough beside the faded paint on the rest of the walls.

  Ree peeled two quilts off the bed and carried them back into the middle room. Now that his heart had stopped trying to leap out of his chest, and with firelight warm and buttery in the room, it looked almost cozy.

  Jem huddled by the fire, with his ragged clothes and bones showing under his skin, wasn’t so good. Ree dropped one quilt around the younger boy’s shoulders; then he laid the other one over the old man. “Sir? You need food, too.” He was asking the old man’s permission to feed him as much as stating fact.

  The old man sighed. “There’s stew in there.” He pointed into the hearth, where a pot of something hung on an hinge. “It’s been so cold, it’s probably still good. You can swing it over the fire and it will be bubbling nicely in no time. My wife’s recipe.” He cast a look at Jem. “He needs to eat. But you and I have something to do, before we eat.”

  “We do?” Ree swung the pot over the fire. His stomach growled when he smelled it. He and Jem had tried to roast things over camp fires, but they hadn’t had real cooked food in ... much too long.

  The man gave a cackle like a whiplash, and Ree wondered if it was just the pain making him mean. How could he look so much like Jem and act like he hated the entire world?

  “This is a working farm,” he said. “Ain’t no one been working at it for days. The cattle will be starved, and the cows’ll need milking.”

  Ree had a vague memory of going to a fair with his mother once, and a pretty lady who milked a cow and for a coin poured some milk in people’s cups for drinking. Ree’s mother had bought him some milk, and it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. But he was hungry now and stew would do. “Why do we need to milk them? We have stew.”

  The old man looked at him, disbelieving, as if he thought that Ree was addled. Then he made a croaking sound that alarmed Ree until he realized it was laughter, or at least the laughter of someone who must be dying of thirst. “The cows need the milk out, boy, or they get infected teats, and eventually they die. You ain’t going to set there and eat while the animals starve.”

  Ree remembered the gigantic creatures outside. Sitting here eating while they starved seemed like a good idea, but something warned him he shouldn’t say so. “I’m not?”

  “No, you’re not,” the old man said, and continued studying Ree with an evaluating look that implied that, as far as his sums were concerned, Ree came up short. “I don’t suppose you know one end of a cow from the other?”

  Ree shook his head, unable to speak. To make things worse, Jem had wandered away, s
till wrapped in the quilt, and now there was a creaking sound from the kitchen.

  “Don’t you worry none. It’s the water pump. I guess he was thirsty,” the old man said, and rasped in a slightly louder tone, “I could use a cup of water meself.”

  When Jem came back into the room carrying a water cup, the old man was giving Ree very odd instructions. They started with: “You get yourself out there and around the side of the house. The lean-to has ... a lot of stuff. There’s a wheelbarrow there. Bring it in.”

  Ree left the old man sipping water and went to the lean-to—trying to ignore the desperate animals that surrounded him—and got the wheelbarrow, a sturdy thing with a big wheel, back into the room.

  The old man was talking to Jem in almost confidential tones. “Brothers, are you?” Ree heard him say, as he pushed the door open.

  “Uh, no. We’re ... friends,” Jem said, and that clear skin of his betrayed a raging flush.

  Ree’s stomach tightened, but the old man only said, “Ah. My brother—” Then he saw Ree and said, “Ah, you got the wheelbarrow. Good.”

  Thus started the strangest few hours of Ree’s life. Outside it was snowing hard, but the old man, wrapped in the quilt, sitting as comfortably in the wheelbarrow as the combined efforts of the three of them could make him, only said, “You might as well get snow on your fur now as later. It’s going to get much worse before it gets better this winter.”

  “Go to the barn there,” he said. “That’s where their food is.” He gestured at the animals who surrounded them as soon as they were outside. Although he ignored the cows and the goat, he patted the horse’s head with his gnarled fingers, and his eyes looked almost wistful.

  Ree pushed the wheelbarrow to the barn, where he opened a door that ran on some sort of track and required much less effort than he expected. Then he pushed the old man in.

  Like a king on a throne, the man barked out despotic orders.

  “Pump water for them now, then hit them on the nose if they drink too much.”

  Ree pumped water from the biggest water pump he’d ever seen, which poured clear, cool liquid onto a trough. “Now, hit them on the nose. A cow will drink till it bursts, boy.”

  So Ree hit them on the nose, all of them, even the maybe-goat, It tried to bump him back, causing the old man to unleash his cackle once more. But the respite didn’t hold. “Now up that ladder. Can those paws of yours climb ladders?”

  Ree, whose arms already felt like they would fall off their sockets from pumping the water, could only nod. “Good. Up the ladder. There’s sacks of feed up there. Pour about half of one of them into the hopper.”

  This was easier said than done. The sacks weighed enough for Ree wonder if the animals ate lead, but what poured into the hopper seemed to be some sort of grain.

  “Now get your arse down here and milk the cows.”

  Ree, sweat pouring down his body, under his fur, came down the ladder on legs that felt like they’d fall out under him. He’d walked for whole days and not been this tired. No wonder the farmers he’d seen in town were both muscular and cranky.

  “The milking stool’s there,” the old man said, pointing with a finger that looked like the end of a branch, all brown and gnarled. “Milk the cows into that there pail. The cows, you fool, not the bull.” This as Ree tried to sit next to a cow who, on second look, displayed a rather prominent pair of balls.

  “I guess he wouldn’t like it if I tried to milk him,” Ree said, weakly.

  “I bet he wouldn’t. That’s right, sit there where Spotty can’t kick you. No, what are you doing? You don’t squeeze the udders like that.” The old man showed Ree the motion. It was simple, and yet harder work than it looked. His fingers ached by the time he was no longer getting any milk out of the teats. He retreated from the stall, shaking his hands to try to loosen his fingers. And people thought doing this was romantic and good?

  He walked up to the second cow and almost cringed as the old man’s voice cracked out like a whip, “No, wait up.”

  What had he done wrong now? Was this another type of cow that couldn’t be milked? He looked wearily at the old man.

  “My hands ain’t broken. Just wheel me up to where I can reach the teats.”

  Ree wondered if it was meant kindly, but he couldn’t tell with that gruff voice. Perhaps the man just thought he’d done it wrong, which he was sure he had. But then the almost-for-sure goat came bumping against his knee and the old man said in what was unmistakable amusement, “You milk Jesse. She never liked me. Was my boy’s pet.” Then in a more serious tone, “Goat milk is good for sickly young ones. We’ll warm up some for your friend, shall we?”

  Ree didn’t like the emphasis on friend, but the old man looked as calm or as irascible as ever, and he seemed to want Jem to get better.

  But before they took the milk in, they had to feed the chickens. This wasn’t such hard work, but Ree couldn’t understand how small creatures covered in feathers, creatures who couldn’t even figure out how to fly, could be so scary. They crowded around him like mobs when noblemen handed out food to the poor.

  While they ate, the old man—Ree had parked him next to the nests—picked out more than a dozen eggs. “These will be good too,” he said.

  When they got to the house, Jem had food laid out on earthenware bowls and the smell filled the air. Ree thought he was too tired to eat until he had his first mouthful. The old man watched them eat, his eyes intent, then said, “You two.” His voice still rasped, but less than before. “What’re you doing here?”

  Jem almost dropped his milk, but Ree answered with only the slightest quiver in his voice. “We needed food and warmth, and we thought this place might be abandoned.”

  “Ha!” The old man’s laughter was as harsh as his voice. “Ain’t abandoned while I’m here.” He turned his head to meet Ree’s eyes. “You’re one of them hobgoblins, ain’t you?”

  Ree sighed. As if what wild magic had made of him wasn’t obvious. “Yeah. So what?”

  “You got guts.” More of that rasping laughter. “There’s bad critters come out of the forest, and some of ’em look near as human as you. You’re lucky you never got a pitchfork in your belly.”

  “That’s why we stayed in the forest.” Ree looked at Jem. The younger boy was so frail-looking, so thin. “But Jem needed warmth.” He nodded to the old man. “And it looks to me like you could use a bit of help.” His chest tightened at his daring.

  The man matched his stare. “Yeah, I could. You’re a good worker, boy. Twice as good as many bigger men.”

  It was said in such a gruff voice that Ree needed a while to absorb the compliment. Not just that he’d said he was good, but that he’d called him “boy” and compared him to men. That he wasn’t thinking Ree was an animal.

  It didn’t mean he wouldn’t change his mind and denounce him when he got better.

  For now, it was enough. Ree ducked his head and minded his manners. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And you,” the old man said, leveling a finger at Jem. “Hurry up and get well so you can lend a hand around here.” Ree bridled, seeing the little tremor that shook Jem, and would have said something, only before he could, the old man added, “That’s your job, right now. Getting better.”

  Later the old man—Garrad, he said his name was—had Ree wheel him into the other bedroom, behind the hearth. It was bigger, with a bigger bed. They arranged the man on the bed and covered him with quilts, set a candle on the bedside table.

  As the boys turned to go, he said, “That, on the wall. That’s my wife and boys.”

  On the wall was a painting done on a board, like the ones done by traveling painters before the magic disappeared. “We used to be better off,” he said.

  The painting showed a blond woman and three little boys, maybe between ten and three. They all bore a startling resemblance to Jem.

  “The oldest one, the Imperial army took him. Year my wife died. The other two were dead already. Of the coughing consumpt
ion. Buried out back.” He looked at Jem, his eyes dreamy in the firelight. “Where do you come from, boy?”

  “Jacona, sir,” Jem said.

  “And do you know your father?”

  Jem shook his head, and the man sighed. “Ah, well,” he said. “Sometimes we have to trust the gods.”

  “I think he thinks I’m his grandson,” Jem said later, as they snuggled under the deep quilts in the big bed in the room Ree had first entered.

  Ree shrugged. “I think he thinks you could be.”

  “I feel sorry for him,” Jem said, solemnly. “He doesn’t have anyone.”

  “People would say we don’t have anyone, either.”

  Jem gurgled a little laughter. “We have each other, silly.”

  Ree nodded and cuddled closer. Perhaps it was a good thing Garrad liked Jem. That way even if he denounced Ree, Jem would be safe. That was really all that mattered.

  The next morning, Garrad woke Ree up by calling his name, before the sun had got up enough in the sky to cast more than a mild glow. “You have to get the hay in,” he told him. “Before it’s all wet and rots. And we ought to chop up some more wood, in case we’re snowed in. I don’t like the look of those clouds.”

  By the middle of the day, when Ree could no longer feel his arms, they’d gone in to a lunch that Jem had prepared. Bread and butter with milk and eggs. “Found out how to make bread in an old notebook,” Jem said.

  “My wife’s book. She was a great cook, your Gr—” He cut it off abruptly and turned it into a cough, but Ree heard it and felt reassured that Jem would be looked after. He had to remember that when he felt like flinging off in the middle of work, whenever Garrad called him a fool or an idiot.

  The old man started another complaint. “Ain’t been this helpless since I got the white fever years back.” His face twisted. “I suppose that damn cat’s been piling up food for me.” The cat purred as if recognizing its name and rubbed against Garrad’s legs.