Free The Caller by Juliet Marillier Page B

living in the burned-out house. She had once been a powerful presence. Now, it seemed she was reduced to the wise voice and the tiny bright beings who allowed it to be heard. I wished I knew what she had once been. And what of her people? Had they all faded away for want of folk who believed in them?
    Diminished the Lady might be, but she could still teach. I spent hours with the drum, watching a pinch of earth dance on its ox-hide surface in response to my gentle tapping. I sang and made the skin vibrate; the grains of earth bounced and made mysterious patterns there, answering my voice. By placing my ear close to the drum skin, I learned to understand the tiny high speech of the wee folk, who would fly above it as they spoke, though, in truth, they preferred to give me their opinions in dumb show, as on that first day. For approval, leaping and clapping of hands. For disapproval, hands placed dramatically over eyes, or the back turned, or simply flying away. For excitement, dancing, somersaults, shrieks. I came to believe they were both independent of the White Lady and linked to her. After all, I thought, this was not so different from the household in the north, where the Lord was surrounded by retainers so loyal that they had waited three hundred years for him to wake from his enchanted sleep. Perhaps they, too, would die if they lost their Guardian. Perhaps it was the same in every Watch – the spirit of the Watch existed not only in its Guardian, but in every one of the folk who lived there, something that was shared among them, so although they were separate, they were at the same time one. That felt like a wondrous, deep knowledge; the thought filled me with awe.
    Winter advanced. Sombre clouds filled the sky. The wind beat on our modest refuge. The rain hurled itself against the walls as if to topple them, or came straight down in drenching sheets, turning the farmyard to a quagmire and forcing us to bring Snow and the chickens inside with us. The ducks were untroubled, finding shelter among the reeds that fringed the now-swollen stream.
    There was a brief dry spell, and Silva dashed out to pull the last of the root vegetables and dig her broken beanstalks into the soil. The respite was soon over. On a day of howling gales and heavy rain, a day when it would have been foolish to attempt a walk to the cairns, the three of us huddled in the biggest of the outhouses with the animals, waiting for the worst to pass. I had insisted Whisper join us; surely no-one would be abroad in such a storm. We had a little fire burning in a brazier, but the wind poked icy fingers between the shutters and under the door. The chickens perched in a row up on a shelf, muttering to each other and casting nervous glances at Whisper. Snow was bedded down on straw in a corner, content to be out of the weather.
    It was time to be more open with Silva. Whisper and I had agreed, earlier, that she should not be left on her own, and we had kept to that. But we could not stay here forever; when my training was complete, we would have to move on, and she would indeed be alone. Her hard work and generosity were allowing us to survive here; I owed her as much of the truth as I could risk telling.
    ‘Silva.’
    ‘Mm?’ It was unusual to see her idle; even in moments of relative repose, her hands were usually busy with something: plaiting onions for drying, shredding herbs, mending a torn garment. Today she was sitting quietly by the goat, her shawl hugged around her shoulders, and I was reminded of how alone she really was.
    ‘I need to explain more of my story to you. Mine and Whisper’s.’
    She turned her gaze on me; it was very direct. ‘I’ve guessed some of it. I think I know where you come from. People whisper about that place. I won’t say the name.’
    That surprised me. ‘Maybe it’s the same place. I told you before that there’s hope there, a plan to change the future. Winter’s passing, and you need to know more about that plan