Read Online Jeanne G'Fellers - Sister Lost, Sister Found by Jeanne G'Fellers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeanne G'Fellers
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a kitchen blade.” Terry placed several bread slices in the hearthside warmer. “All Taelachs carry blades, just as your father and other men do. Taelachs use them for most everything they do, even eating.”
“Well, I don’t see one. The rest of the sack is filled with wax-sealed spice pots and dried herbs. I can smell them without opening the bundles.”
“So can I,” said Terry. Once the gravy bubbled at the proper consistency, she placed it to the side and retrieved the nut-brown toast. “We’ll sort through them later. Open the last sack so we can eat. I’ve lots to do, and you’ve snares to check, then hopefully meat to smoke this afternoon.”
“Yes’m.” Rankil’s stomach growled as she opened the last sack. Granny laughed at the noise and layered another ladle of gravy onto Rankil’s plate.
“Growing girl needs to eat. Now, tell me what’s in the last sack before your food gets cold.”
Rankil thrust her hand into the sack and pulled out a corked bark cylinder. She set it on the table and reached in again, pulling out another, then another. The majority of the sack contained the odd tubes.
“What are these?” Granny took the one she offered, fingers scraping across the bark until she found and popped the end cork. She placed a finger into the cylinder and pulled out a rolled piece of hide. It was painted with a large symbol and a corresponding picture. She held it out.
“What’s on it?”
“A picture, marks of some sort, and a mark like the one on the bags. What are they?”
The old woman’s face creased into what Rankil had come to know as frustration. “Seeing as you’ve never been to Rallings or beyond, I guess you wouldn’t know. They’re learning scrolls. I recognize them from when my sons went to the town scribe for lessons. Raskhallak forbid a woman should read and write.” Terry’s expression darkened. Her late husband, a Raskhallak devotee, had believed reading to be inappropriate and above the capabilities of a female. “Looks like they want you to read.”
“Me?” exclaimed Rankil between bites of breakfast. “But I’m not smart enough for—” Rankil ceased when Terry’s dark expression came to include her. “But those are just scribbles. How do I learn from that? Where do I start?”
“From what I’ve picked up, each symbol stands for a sound. Put the sounds together in figure shape form and they make words.” Terry sipped her tea. “Is that all there is in the last sack, scrolls?”
Rankil choked down a half-chewed bite then shook the bag. “No, there’s something in the bottom. Hear it?”
“I do.” Granny took the sack and fished to the bottom. She clasped one of the final treasures and, trying hard to contain her amusement, pulled it from the bag. “And you doubted me.” She drew the blade and held it up, the double-edge glistening in the morning sun. Long ties, beaded into an intricate pattern dangled from the leather sheath. “A boot knife.” She replaced the knife in its sheath then held it out. “Try it on.”
“But I don’t have a boot to lash it to,” replied Rankil in a disappointed voice.
Terry thrust her hand back into the sack. “Well, you do now,” she said, and pulled out a pair of lightweight moccasin-style boots. “They feel like deer hide.”
“They are.” Rankil clasped them to her chest before trying them on.
“Do they fit?” asked Terry after a moment.
“They feel a bit snug, but maybe they’ll stretch a little.” Rankil loosened the lacings then stood, pushing her feet a little deeper into the boots. “Which side do I put the knife on?”
“Lash it so it rests on the outside leg of the hand you use most.”
“That’d be the left.” Rankil tied the blade like she’d seen her father do on many occasions, being careful to thread the ties through the boot’s support loops.
“Left, huh?” Terry shook her head. “You’ve been very lucky.”
“What do you mean?” Rankil paced the room with her
“Well, I don’t see one. The rest of the sack is filled with wax-sealed spice pots and dried herbs. I can smell them without opening the bundles.”
“So can I,” said Terry. Once the gravy bubbled at the proper consistency, she placed it to the side and retrieved the nut-brown toast. “We’ll sort through them later. Open the last sack so we can eat. I’ve lots to do, and you’ve snares to check, then hopefully meat to smoke this afternoon.”
“Yes’m.” Rankil’s stomach growled as she opened the last sack. Granny laughed at the noise and layered another ladle of gravy onto Rankil’s plate.
“Growing girl needs to eat. Now, tell me what’s in the last sack before your food gets cold.”
Rankil thrust her hand into the sack and pulled out a corked bark cylinder. She set it on the table and reached in again, pulling out another, then another. The majority of the sack contained the odd tubes.
“What are these?” Granny took the one she offered, fingers scraping across the bark until she found and popped the end cork. She placed a finger into the cylinder and pulled out a rolled piece of hide. It was painted with a large symbol and a corresponding picture. She held it out.
“What’s on it?”
“A picture, marks of some sort, and a mark like the one on the bags. What are they?”
The old woman’s face creased into what Rankil had come to know as frustration. “Seeing as you’ve never been to Rallings or beyond, I guess you wouldn’t know. They’re learning scrolls. I recognize them from when my sons went to the town scribe for lessons. Raskhallak forbid a woman should read and write.” Terry’s expression darkened. Her late husband, a Raskhallak devotee, had believed reading to be inappropriate and above the capabilities of a female. “Looks like they want you to read.”
“Me?” exclaimed Rankil between bites of breakfast. “But I’m not smart enough for—” Rankil ceased when Terry’s dark expression came to include her. “But those are just scribbles. How do I learn from that? Where do I start?”
“From what I’ve picked up, each symbol stands for a sound. Put the sounds together in figure shape form and they make words.” Terry sipped her tea. “Is that all there is in the last sack, scrolls?”
Rankil choked down a half-chewed bite then shook the bag. “No, there’s something in the bottom. Hear it?”
“I do.” Granny took the sack and fished to the bottom. She clasped one of the final treasures and, trying hard to contain her amusement, pulled it from the bag. “And you doubted me.” She drew the blade and held it up, the double-edge glistening in the morning sun. Long ties, beaded into an intricate pattern dangled from the leather sheath. “A boot knife.” She replaced the knife in its sheath then held it out. “Try it on.”
“But I don’t have a boot to lash it to,” replied Rankil in a disappointed voice.
Terry thrust her hand back into the sack. “Well, you do now,” she said, and pulled out a pair of lightweight moccasin-style boots. “They feel like deer hide.”
“They are.” Rankil clasped them to her chest before trying them on.
“Do they fit?” asked Terry after a moment.
“They feel a bit snug, but maybe they’ll stretch a little.” Rankil loosened the lacings then stood, pushing her feet a little deeper into the boots. “Which side do I put the knife on?”
“Lash it so it rests on the outside leg of the hand you use most.”
“That’d be the left.” Rankil tied the blade like she’d seen her father do on many occasions, being careful to thread the ties through the boot’s support loops.
“Left, huh?” Terry shook her head. “You’ve been very lucky.”
“What do you mean?” Rankil paced the room with her
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