“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
Ree didn’t like the emphasis on
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 consumption. 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.
To disguise his embarrassment, Ree extended a clawed finger toward the animal. It sniffed, then made an inquiring mew. “Yeah, I’m part cat these days.” Ree scratched behind the cat’s ears and smiled a little when the animal leaned into his tentative gesture. He nodded to the old man. “By the back door. Rats, mice, birds, and at least one rabbit.” He shrugged. “It’s a good thing it’s been cold.”
Garrad grunted. “Sounds about right. Damn cat thinks he’s got to hunt for me as well as himself.” He studied Ree before he added. “Looks like he likes you. Normally he’d scratch anyone as ain’t family.”
Ree wondered if he meant his family or the cat’s family. It seemed Garrad didn’t care for the affection of any creature he didn’t feel attached to. At least he liked Jem.
Garrad was right about the snow, which started coming down shortly after, carried on a harsh wind. Over the next few days Ree had to do everything needed to get the place ready for a hard winter, from getting the hay in, to chopping wood, to repairing the henhouse roof—all with the old man barking orders from a wheelbarrow.
Two weeks later, he was barking orders standing up and leaning on a stick, while that damn cat wended his
