Cerryl edged along the south side of the spring until he reached the rock embankment from which the waters flowed. There, in the long shadows and the gathering dusk, he looked at the dark waters bubbling over the rock ledge and into the narrow basin, then at the mockgrape vines clinging to the reddish rocks above the ledge.
Where did the water come from?
He frowned and looked at the ledge, then at the dark-silvered and rippled surface of the pond, so much like a mirror, and so unlike it. Could he make the mirror trick show him where the water started?
He squinted at the twilight-dark springwater, imagining . . . what? Was there a hole in the red sandstone that led to the depths of the earth? Cerryl took a deep breath, his lips pressed tightly together, the empty bucket at his feet forgotten for the moment.
Silver mists swirled across the pond, silver mists, Cerryl realized, that only he could see. “Nall and Syodor couldn’t, anyway,” he murmured under his breath, puzzled over why he had even to say that, but knowing that he did, knowing that his whispered words were a sort of defiance that were somehow important, if only to him.
The gray-haired image of Nall flitted through the mists, and Cerryl pushed it away, seeking the source of the waters. Darkness spilled across the water, only darkness.
After a time, as his head began to ache, he finally took another deep breath, a gasping one, before bending down to pick up the bucket and dip it into the spring. Water splashed across the ragged bottoms of his trousers, across his bare feet, and onto the dry clay of the path.
He lifted the heavy bucket and turned back downhill, bare feet sure on the beaten clay path. Once he slipped past the juniper barely his own height at the base of the trail, his eyes went toward the south path.
A deep breath followed when he saw the distant figure of Syodor, still more than a kay away on the lower part of the south path. Cerryl stepped up his pace, but slowly, so that the water wouldn’t slosh out of the bucket.
“Uncle Syodor’s on the bottom of the south path now,” he announced as he stepped into the house.
“Cerryl . . . you took a time. Be not good woolgathering out in the twilight. The demons abide then.”
“I am sorry, Aunt Nall,” he said dutifully, lugging the pail across the room to the hearth.
Without looking at Cerryl, she checked the biscuits in the baking tin before replacing the tin sheet that served as a cover. “Bein’ sorry like as not save you from bein’ carried off.”
“I got back before full dark.”
“See as you do.” She lifted the bucket and poured water into the gray crockery pitcher, then set the bucket on the floor to the right of the hearth.
“Put the pitcher on the table.”
Cerryl carried the pitcher from the worktable to the eating table.
Behind him, Nall lifted the lid on the cookpot, stirring the heavy soup with the long-handled wooden spoon.
“Yes, Aunt Nall.” Cerryl glanced at the corner where he had been sitting before he’d gotten the water. Then he waited.
Shortly, the heavyset woman turned as the door squeaked.
“Evening, woman.” The one-eyed and gray-haired man set the heavy iron hammer on the rough, one-plank table inside the door and the patched canvas pack beside the table on the floor with a thud. Dust puffed from the fabric, settling slowly toward the polished floor stones that had come from an abandoned grinding mill.
“How was the day?” Nall replaced the tin cover on the ancient iron cookpot and stepped away from the hearth composed of battered yellow and brown bricks.
“Better since I’m seeing you.” Syodor laughed, moving toward his consort. He hugged Nall, the gnarled and stubby fingers of his hands meeting for a moment before releasing her.
“Supper be a-waiting. The day?” Nall smiled, then bent and swung the iron arm and the cook pot back out over the coals, ignoring the squeal of the ancient iron swivel bracket.
“The day be fine. One bit of malachite, looks to be solid, and mayhap Gister will pay a copper for it. A fine pendant it would make for a lady, ground and polished.”
“Aye, and he’ll cut it and wrap it in two silvers and then sell it for a gold.” Nall checked the biscuit tin once more. “Best you wash up.”
“Wash up . . . that be all you think of, woman?”
“After all your grubbing through tailings and tunnels? Should I be thinking of aught else?”
Syodor turned and walked toward the pitcher and wash table in the corner on the far side of the room from the hearth.
“You as well, Cerryl.”
“Right, lad,” added Syodor with a grin.
Cerryl waited for Syodor, then washed his own hands with the heavy fat-and-ash soap, rinsing them with the clean water from the pitcher.