“Going to be dark early tonight, Dessie. See those big clouds?”’
“Snow, Dardie?”
“Probably. We’ll be glad to have this wood.”
“I hope that the fox gets home to his den before the snow comes. He will, won’t he?”
“Of course he will. We’d better, too. Let’s try to run, Dessie—here along the trail—“
She regarded doubtfully the almost shapeless blobs of wrappings which concealed her feet. “My feet don’t run very well, Dardie. Too many coverings on them, maybe. And they’re cold now-“
Not frostbite—not frostbite! he prayed. They had been lucky so far. Of course they were always cold, and very often hungry. But they had had no accidents, nor serious illnesses.
“Run!” he commanded sharply, and Dessie’s short-legged shuffle became a trot.
But, when they reached the screen of second-growth brush at the end of the north field, she halted in obedience to old orders. Dard shrugged off the bundle of firewood and dropped to his hands and knees, crawling forward under cover until he could look down across the broken field-stone wall to the house.
Carefully he examined the sweep of snow about the half-ruined dwelling. There were the tracks he and Dessie had made about the yard. But the smooth expanse of white between house and main road was unbroken. There had been no invaders since they had left. Thankfully, though without any lessening of his habitual apprehension, he went back to gather up the wood.
“All right?” Dessie shifted impatiently from one cold foot to the other.
“All right.”
She jerked the sled into motion and plodded on along the wall where the snow had not drifted. There was a faint gleam of light in one of the windows below. Lars must be in the kitchen. Minutes later they stamped off snow and went in.
Lars Nordis raised his head as his daughter and then his brother entered. His smile of welcome was hardly more than a stretch of parchment skin over thrusting bones and Dard’s secret fear deepened as he studied Lars anxiously. They were always hungry, hut tonight Lars had the appearance of a man in the last stages of starvation.
“Good haul?” he asked Dard as the boy began to shed his first layer of the sacking which served him as a coat.
“Good as we could do without the axe. Dessie got a lot of pine cones.”
Lars swung around to his daughter who had squatted down before the small fire on the hearth where she began to methodically unwind the strips of burlap which were her mittens.
“Now that was lucky! Did you see anything interesting, Dessie?” He spoke to her as he might have addressed an adult.
“Just a fox.” she reported gravely. “It was watching us—from under a tree. It looked cold—but Dardie said it had a home—“
“So it did, honey,” Lars assured her. “A 1ittle cave or a hollow tree.”
“I wish I could have brought it home. It would be nice to have a fox or a squirrel—or something-to live with us.” She stretched her small, grime-encrusted, chapped hands out to the fire.
“Maybe someday . . .” Lars’ voice trailed oil He stared across Dessie’s head at the scanty flames.
Dard hung up the cobbled mass of tatters which was his outdoor coat and went to the cupboard. He lifted down an unwholesome block of salted meat as his brother spoke again.
“How are supplies?”
Dard tensed. There was more to that question than was merely routine. He surveyed the pitiful array on the shelves jealously.
“How much?” he asked, unable to keep out of his voice the almost despairing resentment he felt.
“Maybe enough for two days-if you can put up such a packet.”
Swiftly Dard’s eyes measured and portioned. “If it is really necessary-“ he couldn’t stop that half-protest. This systematic robbing of their own, too scanty hoard-for what? If Lars would only explain! But he knew Lars’ answer to that, too: The less one knew, the better, these days. Even in a family that could be so. All right, he’d make up that packet of food and leave it here on the table and in the morning it would he gone—given to someone be didn’t know and would never see. And within a week, or maybe a month it would happen again ….
“Tonight?” He asked only that as he sawed away at the wood-like meat.
“I don’t know.”
And at the tone of his brother’s answer Dard dropped the dull knife to turn and watch Lars’ face. There was a new light in the man’s eyes, a brightness about him that his younger brother had never seen since Dessie’s mother had died two years before.
“You’ve finished,” Dard said slowly, hardly daring to believe what might be true, that they might be free!
“I’ve finished. They’ll pass the word and then we’ll be sent for.”
“’Honey,” Dard called to Dessie, “bring in the pine cones. We’ll have a big fire tonight.”
As she scampered toward the shed Dard spoke over her head.
“There’s a heavy snow on the way, Lars.”
“So?” the man at the table did not appear worried.
“Well, snow’s never stopped them from coming before.” He was relaxed, at peace.
Dard was silent but his eyes flickered beyond Lars’ shoulder to the objects leaning against the wall. They were never mentioned, those crutches. But in deep snow! Lars never went outside in winter, he couldn’t! How could they get away unless the mysterious others had a horse or horses. But perhaps they did. That was always his greatest fault- worrying over the future—borrowing trouble ahead, as if they didn’t have enough already to go around!
Dessie was back to feed the fire slowly one cone at a time. Dard scraped the meat slivers into the iron pot and added a shriveled potato carefully diced. Then he grew reckless and wrenched off the lid of a can to pour its treasured contents to thicken the water. If they were going away they’d need feeding up to make the trip and there would be little sense in hoarding supplies they could not carry with them.
“Birthday?” Dessie watched this move in wide-eyed surprise. “But my birthday’s in the summer, and Daddy’s was last month, and yours,” she counted on her fingers, “is not for a long time yet, Dardie.”
“Not a birthday. Just a celebration. Get the spoon, Dessie, and stir this carefully.”
“’Celebration,” she considered the new word thoughtfully. “I like celebrations. You going to make tea, too, Dardie? Why, this is just like a birthday!”
Dard shook the dried leaves out on the palm of his hand Their aromatic fragrance reached him faintly. Mint, green and cool under the sun. He sensed that he was different from Lars-colors, scents, certain sounds meant more to him. Just as Dessie was different in her way-in her ability to make friends with birds and animals. He had seen her last summer, sitting perfectly still on the wall, two birds on her shoulders and a squirrel nuzzling her hand.
But Lars had gifts, too. Only he had been taught to use them. Dard shook the last crumbling leaf from his hand into the pot and wondered for the thousandth time what it would have been like to live in the old days when the Free Scientists had the right to teach and learn and experiment. It probably had been another kind of world altogether-the one which existed before the Big Burning, before Renzi had preached the Great Peace.
All he could remember of his early childhood in those days was a vague happiness. The purge had come when he was eight and Lars twenty-five, and after that things simply got worse and worse. Of course, they’d been lucky to survive the purge at all belonging to a Scientific family. But their escape had left Lars a twisted cripple. He and Lars and Kathia had come here. But Kathia was different—she forgot everything, mercifully. And after Dessie had been born five months later it had been like caring for two babies at once. Kathia had been sweet and obedient and lovely, but she lived in her own dream world and neither of them had ever tried to bring her out of it. Seven, almost eight years now, they bad been here. But in all that time Dard had never quite dared to believe they were safe. He lived always on the ragged edge of fear. Maybe Kathia had been the luckiest one of all.
He took over the stirring of the stew and Dessie set the table, putting out the three wooden spoons, the battered crockery howl, the tin basin and the single chipped soup dish, the two tin cups and the graceful fluted china one which had been Dessie’s last birthday gift after he had found it hidden on a rafter out in the barn.
“Smells grand, Dard. You’re a good cook, son.” Lars offered praise.
Dessie bobbed her head in agreement until her two pencil-thick braids flopped up and down on shoulders where the blades, as she moved, took on the angular outlines of wings. “I like celebrations!” She announced. “Tonight may we play the word game?”