“Well, Rumal, you are welcome,” the old woman said. “I live here alone with my grandson – my daughter died when he was born, and his father’s away in the lowlands in the service of King Rafael, across the Kadarin to the south. My name is Mhari, and I have dwelt here in this hut most of my life; we make a kind of living from the nut-farming, or we did until I grew too old for it; it’s hard for Rory to look after the trees at all seasons, and care for me too, but he’s a good lad, and he went to sell our nuts in the market at Nevarsin, and bring home flour for porridge, and herb-medicines for my old bones. When he’s a wee bit older, perhaps, he can find him a wife and they can make a living here, for it’s all I have to leave him.”
“I think the porridge is boiling over,” said Romilly, and hurried to the fire, to move the kettle a little further from the flame. When it was done, she dipped up a bowl for the old woman, and propped her up to eat it, then shook out Mhari’s pillows and soothed her bedcovers and settled her down for the night.
“You are neat-handed as a girl,” said Mhari, and Romilly’s heart stopped till she went on, “I suppose that comes from handling birds; I never had the hands for that, nor the patience, either. But your porridge will be cold, child; go and eat it, and you can sleep there in Rory’s pallet by the fire, since it’s not likely he’ll be home in this storm.”
Romilly settled down by the banked fire to eat her bowlful, then rinsed the bowl in the barrel of water, set it near the fire to dry and stretched out, wrapped in her cloak, by the hearth. It was a hard bed, but on the trail she had slept in worse places, and she lay awake for a time, drowsily listening to the beating storm outside, and to the occasional drop of water which made its way down the chimney to sizzle briefly in the fire. Twice she woke during the night to make certain the fire was still alive. Toward morning the noise of the storm died away a little, and she slept heavily, to be wakened by a great pounding on the door. Mhari sat upright in her bed.
“It is Rory’s voice,” she said, “Did you draw the bolt, then?”
Romilly felt like a fool. The last thing she had done before settling down to sleep was to lock the inside door – which of course the crippled old woman could never have done. No wonder the voice outside sounded loud and agitated! She hurried to the door and drew the bolt.
She looked into the face of a huge burly young man, be-whiskered and clad in threadbare sacking and a cloak of a fashion which had not been worn in the Hellers since her father was a child. He had his dagger out, and would have rushed at her with it, but he heard old Mhari’s cry.
“No, Rory – the boy meant no harm-he cared for me and cooked my supper hot – I bade him sleep here!”
The rough-looking young man let the dagger fall and hurried to the box-bed. “You are really all right, Granny? When I felt the door locked, and then when I saw a stranger within, I was only afraid someone had come, forced his way in and done you some harm-”
“Now, now, now,” old Mhari said, “I am safe and sound, and it was well for me that he came, for the fire was near out, and I could have frozen in the night!”
“I am grateful to you, whoever you are, fellow,” said the big young man, sliding his dagger into its sheath and bending to kiss his grandmother on the forehead. “The storm was so bad, and all night I could think only of Granny, alone here with the fire burnt out and no way to feed herself. My hearth is yours while you have need of it,” he added, in the ancient mountain phrase of hospitality given a stranger. “I left my shelter the moment the rain died, and came home, though my hosts bade me stay till sunrise. And you are well and warm, that’s the important thing, Granny dear.” He looked tenderly on the old woman. Then, flinging off his cloak on to a bench, he went to the porridge-pot still hanging by the fire, dipped up some with the ladle, thick and stiff after the night by the hearth, and began to munch on the heavy stuff from his fingers. “Ah, warm food is good – it’s cold as Zandru’s breath out there still, and all the rain has frozen on the trees and the road – I feared old Horny would slip and break a leg. But I traded for some grain, Granny, so you shall have bread as well as porridge, and I have dried blackfruits as well in my bag; the miller’s wife sent them for you, saying you would like the change.” He turned to Romilly and asked, “Could I trouble you to get the saddlebags from my beast? My hands are so cold they are all but frozen, and I could not unfasten the tack till they are warm again; and you have spent the night in the warm.”