It was some time before she met the Treeci. First there were days of walking here and there, weeding a bit of garden, checking the nets to see if anything worth eating had been caught, raking shellfish from the River to dry upon the shore, carrying the dried shells to the pier, where great, wobbly baskets bulged with this reeking harvest awaiting the next Riverboat.
“Not many stop here,” creaked old Stodder. “Let’s see, there’s River Queen, and Moormap’s Fish (Moormap died, but his daughter’s husband kept the Fish), and the Gift, o’ course, and the Startled Wind … “ He went on with his enumeration, Riverboats afloat, Riverboats long gone.
After their supper they sat on the rickety porch beneath the trees to watch the moons assemble before the old man and the other old woman stumped off to their own falling-down houses in the woods. Pamra stood looking after them, wondering why they did not live together. It would mean only one house to heat, less wood to cut. Far off in the trees came a plangent, bell-tolling sound, and she remembered the creatures Thrasne had mentioned.
“Treeci?” she asked old Joy.
“Treeci,” whispered Joy, face in the lamplight alive with old memories, eyes gentle as doves. “Treeci. Honoring the moons.”
They went next day to rake shells, Pamra, Lila, and Joy. Three Treeci came through the trees, calling in bell-like voices, then in human sounds. “Joy! We greet!”
The old woman waved. “Binna! Werf! Come meet a visitor from over the River. Her name is Pamra. And the baby, Lila.” The Treeci bowed, acknowledging the introduction, while Pamra stared.
They were as tall as she, standing upright on legs not unlike her own, with feathered buttocks that curved as hers did into a narrow waist. The long, two-toed feet might have been human feet stuffed into feathery socks except for the knifelike talons. Above the waist the likeness to humans was less. The arms, ending in three-fingered hands, were fully feathered with long, wing like primaries; their breasts were keeled; their large-eyed faces were full of candid intelligence. “Pamra,” they said, bowing again.
She bowed in return to Binna, to Werf, then turned to bow to the third member of the group, feeling Joy’s hand tugging at her as she did so. She looked down to see the old woman shaking her head, embarrassed, whispering, “No, don’t bow. That’s a male. You don’t bow to them.”
“Why?” It was startled out of her, not really a question. “Shhh. Later.”
“Are you having a pleasant visit?” Binna asked her, taking no notice of this gaffe. The words were clearly articulated, slightly accented but in a pleasant way. Though the lower part of each Treeci face was visored by their shallow beaks, those beaks were soft and flexible, protruding little, moving almost as lips did.
“Yes, thank you.” They talked of the weather for a few moments, of the tides. The third, unnamed Treeci wandered to the shore and stood there, watching the water.
“I came to tell you, Joy,” said Werf, “there’s a new bed of inedible shellies just below the big rocks, beyond the frag grove. Good dye shells! They’re small now, but by Conjunction after this one, they should be good size for your gathering.”
“That’s kind of you,” she responded warmly. “Will you return with us and take tea?”
They demurred, demurred again, then accepted. It had the pace and quiet predetermination of a ritual. At the house they were joined on the porch by Bethne to drink tea out of fragile old cups as they recited memories of former times, so many memories it was obvious they were more than acquaintances. Joy had brought six cups. Without saying anything to anyone, Werf filled the extra cup and carried it to the rock,
where the third Treeci perched in lonely silence. The two conversed in low tones. Werf returned. No one seemed to notice. Before leaving, Werf retrieved the cup and set it upon the table with the others.
“We rejoice in your friendship,” they called as they were leaving. “May your lives extend.”
Joy gathered up the cups. “If you could get me a pail of water, child, I’d get these washed.”