Read Online Woman Who Loved the Moon by Elizabeth A. Lynn - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth A. Lynn
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snow.
On a day when the sun at noon was a copper coin seen through cloud, she heard a knock at her door. She thought, Someone in trouble? Her gift had given her no warning. She stood, laying the flute aside, moving slowly with weariness and hunger, for her snares had shown empty for three days. She went to the door and opened it.
A woman stood under the icicled eaves. She wore a long green cloak, trimmed with rich dark fur. From her fingers dangled two partridges.
“Favor and grace to you,” she said. Her voice was low and gentle. “My name is Jael. We are neighbors on the mountain. I have heard your music in the evenings; it gives me much delight. I wished to bring you a gift.” She held out the birds. Her hair, escaping from its hood, was the bright auburn of a harvest moon.
Akys stepped back. “Will you come inside? It’s cold on the doorstep.”
“Gladly,” said the stranger. She dropped her hood back, and stepped into the small, smoky house.
Taking the birds from the slim hands, Akys said, “I didn’t know I had any neighbors.”
Her quick eyes caught the tint of gold as the cape shifted. Who was this woman, dressed so richly and strangely, who called her “neighbor” and brought her food?
“My name is Jael,” said Jael again. “I am new come to this place. I lived before in”—she seemed to hesitate—”Cythera, west of here. Now I live near the Lady’s well.”
“I do not know that place, Cythera,” said the witchwoman. She began to strip the feathers from the birds. “Are you alone?” she murmured.
Jael nodded. “I have no man,” she said.
“Then will you eat with me tonight?” said Akys. “It is hard to come to a new home alone, especially in winter. And they are your birds, after all.”
Jael came to the hearth, where Akys sat cleaning the birds. Kneeling, she stretched out her hands to the warmth. Her fingers were slender, unscarred by work. On her wrists wire bracelets shone gold in the firelight. The flame seemed to leap toward them.
She glanced up, into Akys’ gray eyes. “Forgive my silence,” she said. “I may not speak of my past. But I mean you no harm.”
“I can see that,” said Akys. “I accept your gift and your silence.” She has a vow, she thought. Perhaps she has left wealth and family behind, to serve the Lady. That is noble in one so beautiful and young.
She picked up the bellows and blew the fire up, and dropped the cleaned partridge in the pot. “I am alone, too,” she said matter-of-factly.
“So I see,” said Jael, looking around at the one room with its narrow pallet, and single chair. “You’ve not much space.”
Akys shrugged. “It’s all I need. Though I never thought to have visitors. I might get another chair.”
Jael tucked her feet beneath her and settled beside the fire. “Another chair,” she agreed quietly, “for visitors—or a friend.”
Through the rest of the short, severe winter the two women shared food: birds, coneys, dried fruits, nuts, and clear water. In the thaws, when the snow melted and the streams swelled, they made hooks and lines to catch fish. They hunted the squirrels’ stores from the ground, and gathered wood for the hearth. Jael’s hands and cheeks grew brown, chapped by wind and water.
“Akys!” she would call from the house, flinging wide the door.
And Akys, kneeling by the stream, water bucket in hand, felt her heart lift at that clear, lovely call. “Yes!”
“Can I stuff quail with nuts?”
“Have we enough?”
“I think so.”
“Slice them thin.” She brought the bucket to the house. Jael was chopping chestnuts into bits. She watched warily over Jael’s shoulder, wondering as she watched how the younger woman had managed, alone. She did not know the simplest things. “Be careful with that knife.”
“If I dull it,” Jael said, “you’ll have to get the smith to sharpen it for you again.”
“I don’t want you to cut yourself,” said Akys.
Jael smiled. “I never
On a day when the sun at noon was a copper coin seen through cloud, she heard a knock at her door. She thought, Someone in trouble? Her gift had given her no warning. She stood, laying the flute aside, moving slowly with weariness and hunger, for her snares had shown empty for three days. She went to the door and opened it.
A woman stood under the icicled eaves. She wore a long green cloak, trimmed with rich dark fur. From her fingers dangled two partridges.
“Favor and grace to you,” she said. Her voice was low and gentle. “My name is Jael. We are neighbors on the mountain. I have heard your music in the evenings; it gives me much delight. I wished to bring you a gift.” She held out the birds. Her hair, escaping from its hood, was the bright auburn of a harvest moon.
Akys stepped back. “Will you come inside? It’s cold on the doorstep.”
“Gladly,” said the stranger. She dropped her hood back, and stepped into the small, smoky house.
Taking the birds from the slim hands, Akys said, “I didn’t know I had any neighbors.”
Her quick eyes caught the tint of gold as the cape shifted. Who was this woman, dressed so richly and strangely, who called her “neighbor” and brought her food?
“My name is Jael,” said Jael again. “I am new come to this place. I lived before in”—she seemed to hesitate—”Cythera, west of here. Now I live near the Lady’s well.”
“I do not know that place, Cythera,” said the witchwoman. She began to strip the feathers from the birds. “Are you alone?” she murmured.
Jael nodded. “I have no man,” she said.
“Then will you eat with me tonight?” said Akys. “It is hard to come to a new home alone, especially in winter. And they are your birds, after all.”
Jael came to the hearth, where Akys sat cleaning the birds. Kneeling, she stretched out her hands to the warmth. Her fingers were slender, unscarred by work. On her wrists wire bracelets shone gold in the firelight. The flame seemed to leap toward them.
She glanced up, into Akys’ gray eyes. “Forgive my silence,” she said. “I may not speak of my past. But I mean you no harm.”
“I can see that,” said Akys. “I accept your gift and your silence.” She has a vow, she thought. Perhaps she has left wealth and family behind, to serve the Lady. That is noble in one so beautiful and young.
She picked up the bellows and blew the fire up, and dropped the cleaned partridge in the pot. “I am alone, too,” she said matter-of-factly.
“So I see,” said Jael, looking around at the one room with its narrow pallet, and single chair. “You’ve not much space.”
Akys shrugged. “It’s all I need. Though I never thought to have visitors. I might get another chair.”
Jael tucked her feet beneath her and settled beside the fire. “Another chair,” she agreed quietly, “for visitors—or a friend.”
Through the rest of the short, severe winter the two women shared food: birds, coneys, dried fruits, nuts, and clear water. In the thaws, when the snow melted and the streams swelled, they made hooks and lines to catch fish. They hunted the squirrels’ stores from the ground, and gathered wood for the hearth. Jael’s hands and cheeks grew brown, chapped by wind and water.
“Akys!” she would call from the house, flinging wide the door.
And Akys, kneeling by the stream, water bucket in hand, felt her heart lift at that clear, lovely call. “Yes!”
“Can I stuff quail with nuts?”
“Have we enough?”
“I think so.”
“Slice them thin.” She brought the bucket to the house. Jael was chopping chestnuts into bits. She watched warily over Jael’s shoulder, wondering as she watched how the younger woman had managed, alone. She did not know the simplest things. “Be careful with that knife.”
“If I dull it,” Jael said, “you’ll have to get the smith to sharpen it for you again.”
“I don’t want you to cut yourself,” said Akys.
Jael smiled. “I never
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