An Exchange of Gifts Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  ABOUT ANNE MCCAFFREY

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Text copyright © 1995 by Anne McCaffrey.

  Cover art copyright © 1995 by Pat Morrissey.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidepress.com

  DEDICATION

  To Ceara Rose McCaffrey—

  A little tale for a little granddaughter that she may enjoy more when she’s a tad older.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Little Hut was vacant. Meanne heaved a sigh of relief. Her memory of the place had been vague, cloaked in the mists of a happy childhood. She had only seen it on those long ago days when her father had felt kindly toward her and taken her on rides in this forest, an area he had not even mentioned in the past ten years. She needn’t worry that the hunting lodge at the edge of the forest would be tenanted by anyone from the City. Her father was long past riding and any interest in hunting—game on four legs, that is.

  The little hut was also filthy. She shuddered, but the impetus that had driven her so far from all she knew, and had once loved and respected, was still a force in her blood and brain.

  Pine boughs—that’s what she would need for bedding. She had brought what she could in the bundle on her old pony. Silverheels wouldn’t be missed by anyone now that the old groom who had taught her to ride and accompanied her younger self on pony rides had died. She had worried about overworking the loyal little creature, but Silverheels had seemed glad to be of use again and had trit-trotted beside the horse she had used for the initial stages of her flight. She’d turned the elegant blooded gelding loose near the Town after smearing the saddle with blood from the cut she’d made on her arm. That should prove to old Stepano, the Bailiff, that she had, indeed, come to grief for he’d surely ‘spell’ the blood to be sure it was hers. She’d also scraped the saddle with her dagger, cut the saddlebag thongs so that theft would appear to have been a motive in her demise. Artfully, she’d snagged some threads from her habit—the new one her father had insisted on having made for her so that she would show off well to the Baron when he came to inspect the goods—on the tongue of the rein buckle. Since her arm was bleeding rather more than she had anticipated, she smeared the neck of her new habit with it, slashed the fabric and then buried it in the loose dirt by the roadside, leaving a piece of the fabric visible in the shallow grave. She’d been rather pleased with such artful touches. Then, walking backwards, she had even brushed away the tracks she and Silverheels made as they departed the scene of the crime. She’d not taken the road, but gone across moonlit fields until she was well away before she returned to the track that would eventually bring her to her destination: The forest hut of golden memories and happier times.

  In those days, occupied by the old charcoal maker, it had been neat and tidy, homely with a charm that her ancestral seat could never have. There had been a lovely kitchen garden which she had noticed because, even then, growing things attracted her. The garden was now overgrown and the hut had been vacant a long time.

  Meanne stood in the center of the main room—for there was a sleeping alcove off it on one side, a larder on the other side and a storage room. Not that it stored anything but empty shelves and empty containers. Not all the pots, flasks, and bottles had been broken, she noticed when she peered about the space. And there was an old kettle and one rusted pot still on hooks by the fireplace. She kicked up a wooden spoon as she crossed the floor and nearly stubbed her toe on a rusted poker.

  “A start at least,” she said for she hadn’t been able to pilfer much from the kitchen beyond two spoons, a long fork, and a sharp carving knife over the course of the last week when she had made visits, ostensibly to talk to the cook about special viands to tempt her father’s failing appetite. What was really failing was his digestion, no longer able for the constant rich foods he insisted on having served to impress his new wife and her visitors. Pots and pans had been beyond her ability to purloin.

  “Where to start next?” she said, looking about her for something to clean up the leaves and debris that had spilled in through a door that had been left slightly ajar. “Maybe I’d better get the bedding first… No, I’d better get water. If there is a pail… A hot cup of herb tea would make the work go faster.” She’d a jar of honey from the apiary stuffed in her pack. “Ah, but Silverheels should be first, I think. And he’ll need to drink.”

  So she grabbed up the old kettle and, taking Silverheels’ halter rope, led him to the stream she could actually hear rippling nearby.

  Silverheels whickered eagerly, almost pulling her in his haste to get to the stream. Herself thirsty, she knelt beside him and drank, too. Sweet water, clear and cold. She hadn’t tasted its like in years. Maybe there was something wrong with the well in her father’s court. But it was the time of year when even well-preserved meats could have turned…

  There was wild cress by the stream and she grabbed a handful of the succulent leaves, chewing them to ease her hunger pangs. Silverheels was not above nibbling cress and cow parsley, and there was more than enough for both of them.

  As well she had had her drink from the spring, for the kettle was holed. Now, how did one plug a hole? She knew there must be a way. She’d think about that while she got a fire going in the hearth. That is, if she wanted a hot cup of herb tea. And she did.

  She gathered small twigs—for she had watched fires being built every day of her life—and returned to the hearth. She needn’t have bothered for ample bits and pieces were already lying in the fireplace.

  It took her rather longer than she thought it should to strike sparks from her flint but she eventually succeeded and got a little blaze going… Which immediately started to smoke her out of the hut. Something blocked the chimney to keep it from drawing properly.

  By the time she had doused the fire and got rid of the smoke, it was nearly dark. Silverheels had found a little patch of grass so she put hobbles on his fetlocks as she’d seen the grooms do on her father’s Progresses. Then she unpacked her precious seedlings and the packets she had brought with her, and settled them on the window ledge, checking to be sure the dirt was moist enough. She’d noticed rabbit tracks on her way to and from the stream, so she couldn’t risk leaving the starts where rabbits would find them all too appealing. In the woods beyond the hut, she found enough evergreen boughs to cushion her bones from the hard-packed ground…because the slats of the bed were missing…and by spreading her cloak and all the clothing she’d brought with her, she managed to get herself comfortable enough to sleep.

  She did get to sleep—just before dawn—having had to argue herself out of fear because of all the night noises she had not expected to have to identify. Squeakings and scratchings, odd clicks and soft thuds and wind noises which sounded more threatening, and hootings and an amazing vocabulary of sounds that kept her from the repose she so earnestly sought.

  She ached when she finally conceded defeat on the matter of sleep. By the time night had fallen her second night in the hut, she had about conceded defeat on every attempt she had initiated to establish herself suitably and with a modicum of comfort in the hut. It had seemed such a good idea—living by herself without having to consult half a dozen people to gain permission to accomplish the most routine of matters. She hadn’t had a warm meal or drink yet, and had sustained herself on cress, the berries she had been able to gather, and the h
eel end of her last loaf of bread dipped in stream water to soften it to fill her achingly empty stomach. Silverheels was better equipped to survive in their new surroundings than she. Something blocked the chimney, and she hadn’t a clue how to clear the obstruction though she had watched the sweeps go up the massive chimneys often enough. They’d had special brooms and funny round flat brushes and she hadn’t even managed to make a proper besom out of twigs and water reeds. Grow things she could, make things she couldn’t.

  Only stubborn pride kept her from dissolving into tears. And that made her even madder since she had managed much more complicated procedures than building a decent fire or making something to sweep with.

  “I will cope. I will succeed. I will manage. I will eat. I will clean. I will cook and have hot food made by my own hands to pacify my stomach. I will, I will, I will succeed.” With each ‘I will’ she had pounded her fists on the rickety table, lifting sufficient dust and grime from its planks to start her coughing.

  “Anything I can do, lady?” a timid little voice asked when her spasm eased.

  Whirling she saw a small figure on the doorstep: a figure with a bundle on a stick over its shoulder.

  “You startled me,” she said. Then more suspiciously, “Who are you? How did you come here?”

  “’Scuse me, lady, but I’m Wisp, ’cause that’s all I am, a wisp of a thing, not much good for changing a thing in the world,” said the boy for when he stepped inside, the light from the grimy window gave her a good view of his anxious, pointed little face.

  “Wisp?” She couldn’t be afraid of this poor little wight. He looked much too young. Then she saw the red weal of an obvious lash mark on his neck. It was not alone. “And you’ve run away…” When she saw his eyes dilate, she added, with a wry grin, “like me?”

  He relaxed for he’d looked about to run back into the failing light.

  “Yes, lady.” His answering grin was onesided and as charming as a troubadour’s. It was echoed in his large, very blue eyes, and it quite entranced Meanne. He lowered his bundle from his shoulder.

  “And did you know this hut was empty or did you come upon it by chance?”

  “By chance,” he said in an apologetic tone. “And you?”

  “Know it was empty? I’d hoped it was,” she said, looking about her at the mess. “But it isn’t quite as I remembered it. Nor do I seem able to do anything about the state it’s in.” She allowed herself a deep, frustrated sigh.

  “Being a lady, how would you know what it takes to set a hut to rights,” he said, kindly but somewhat contemptuously. He went right to the fireplace and peered up the chimney. “It’s blocked.”

  “That much I figured out for myself,” she said tartly.

  “That’s easily fixed.”

  “How?” She knew she sounded derisive.

  “Leave it to Wisp, lady,” he said as he darted out the door.

  Almost the next instant she heard footsteps overhead, rather alarmingly heavy steps for so frail a boy: but then maybe the roof was not all that sturdy. Then there was a scraping noise echoing down the chimney. Curious, she peered up the flue and naturally got a face full of soot and the nests of the birds which had found the unused chimney an excellent place to build.

  Coughing again, Meanne sternly kept her hands at her sides, not wanting to rub soot into her skin or her clothes—which would have to last her quite a while. She daren’t open her eyes. She stood there, listening to Wisp’s heavy footsteps on the roof, the remarkably loud thud he made, dropping to the ground outside the door before he reentered.

  “Oh!”

  The little word not only was apology but surprise and politely suppressed amusement.

  “I had to look, didn’t I?” Meanne said in a long suffering voice.

  “So’s you’d know what had blocked it up,” Wisp said, and how he managed to keep his voice from shaking with laughter, Meanne didn’t know. But she blessed him for that courtesy. “Let me get water, lady…”

  “My name is Meanne,” she said, stretching her foot out behind her for the stool which she knew was in her general vicinity. Meanne was not her true name but what she had called herself as a child so that it had become more her name than that which she had been christened with. She sat down, keeping her eyes closed and waiting for his return.

  “The kettle…” His tone was apologetic when he came back in.

  “Had a hole. Did you manage to keep any in it?”

  “Yes…Meanne.” He struggled to get her name out.

  “If I am living in this hut, I’m no lady, Wisp.”

  “I doubt that, Lady Meanne,” he said.

  “If you please, just Meanne. We’re in this together,” she said as she felt him carefully dab her eye sockets with cold water. When she decided they were clean enough, she opened her eyes.

  Wisp had the hugest grin plastered across his face which he instantly wiped off when he realized that she was looking at him.

  “That’s all right, Wisp. Why don’t we both laugh and get it over with?” Which is what they did, collapsing with their laughter against the table. Until she inadvertently caught him by the shoulder and he gasped in pain and wrenched himself away.

  “Now, let me minister to you, Wisp, for cool water is as kind to the weal as it is to the sooty eye. And it’s all we have, although I saw willows by the stream, and willow bark lotion is soothing for many hurts.”

  He held back for a moment longer and then, when she tugged at the hem of his tunic, turned around and let her carefully peel the cloth from his back.

  “Now that was cruelly done, Wisp,” she said in a matter of fact voice, though she had never seen such marks on so young a person. For all her father’s excesses, he would never have permitted one of his servants to be so treated. “I’ve nothing to put on…”

  “Nor I.” Wisp flipped his top back over his scored back. “I’ll just fix us a fire.” He managed a little grin. “You’ll need hot water to wash.”

  “In what do we put it?”

  “I’ve a small pot in my bundle…”

  “Then you have arrived in exile better equipped than I,” she said.

  “Exile?” Wisp asked, darting a look over his shoulder at her.

  “Well, we are exiles, are we not, from all that we once knew.”

  “Yes, we are at that,” he said and withdrew a good sized pot from his bundle. She was surprised by it but grateful.

  She got the herbs for tea and the honey from the store room while he had produced a battered tin cup.

  “There’s only the one,” he said bashfully. “Then we shall share it as well as our current misfortunes,” she said blithely.

  They did, taking turns to sip the warm brew and appreciate this small luxury.

  “While there’s still some light, La…Meanne,” he said when they had finished their drink, “I shall get more boughs for a bed.”

  “No, you shall not, Wisp, for you might tear open what healing has started. Besides, I know where the evergreens are. I shall be right back.” When she returned, she found that he had swept the main room of the little hut down to the packed dirt and even that made a vast improvement in the place. He had a threadbare blanket and two good shirts to cushion his body but she had brought as much of the tenderer, well plumed boughs as she could to give him comfort on the floor of the storage room. He wasn’t so tall that he wouldn’t fit in the space available.

  “We shall be fine tonight,” she said, “with something warm in our stomachs.” She did not add, ‘and company so I will not magnify out of proportion all the noises of the night.’ She could not succumb to silly fears in the presence of this brave young lad. She did wonder, though, what crime he had committed to have earned such a beating. No matter, he knew how to unplug chimneys, clean soot-filled eyes, and make a proper broom.

  She did sleep that night, unbother
ed by the night noises or maybe knowing that she was no longer alone in the hut. The denizens which had plagued her solitude retreated from Wisp’s added company.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next morning when she awoke, the fire was cheerfully burning on the hearth. There was no sign of Wisp—and then he came running in the door, both small hands clasped tight together in front of him.

  “Eggs, La…Meanne.”

  “Is there a farm so near?” She hadn’t counted on other settlers in this part of the forest.

  “No, but wild fowl. See, these are speckled eggs.”

  “They’ll taste as well, speckled or not,” she said, her mouth salivating for the treat. “Only,” and now she groaned, “however will we cook them?”

  He pointed to the flat rock balanced on the trivet just above the spritely fire. He must have done it before she got up. “It’s hot enough to fry ’em now.”

  He knelt by the hearth and cracked the first one, which sizzled when it hit the stone. It was hot enough to keep the white from spreading far. When it was cooked, he carefully slid his knife blade beneath it, and then flipped it onto a piece of slate, which he handed to her.

  “I scrubbed all the stones with sand from the stream, Meanne,” he said. Then he turned back to cook his own egg.

  “Never has hen fruit tasted so good,” Meanne said, savoring her first forkful. “I think this will come in handy for you,” she added, handing him the spoon she had filched.

  “Food of the gods,” he said with an unexpected display of panache and grinned so cockily at her that she could only laugh.

  They had two eggs apiece, and she had never felt so delightfully well fed.

  “Now, we must plan how to use the sunlight in this day,” she said. “I’ve seeds and seedlings that had best be planted as soon as possible…”

  “Sooner than cleaning this place fit for you?” Wisp asked, gesturing about.

  “The plants must be a priority. From those herbs and simples, I shall make my living.”