Not that Djoh had any complaints about that. It would give him another few minutes with Oskah's daughter Marthuh. She was the beauty of Blue Springs, and Djoh’s mindspeak let him know that she thought well of him. His brief visits with her were moments of light in a life that was otherwise mostly dark routine and hard work.

After breakfast his father showed him what was to be done and left on horseback for Oskah’s farm. Djoh worked furiously all morning with a speed and deftness that might even have made his father smile. By not stopping for lunch, he managed to finish the first load by early afternoon. With some help from Nee he loaded it into the wagon and headed out.

Djoh reached Oskah’s farm by late afternoon. He was surprised to see how much it had grown. Unlike most local barns, Oskah’s new barn was built of stone, by the combined effort of all the stonemasons in the Blue Springs country. With the walls finished, Djoh saw that it was also three times as large as any other barn he’d seen. It could probably hold a good part of the town’s population under its roof. Surely it had to be the largest building to go up in these parts since the Wasting.

“I see you’re early,” said his father. He immediately set his two apprentices to helping Djoh unload the wagon.

When that job was done, Djoh expected more work. It was too bad that Marthuh hadn’t come into view while he was working, but you couldn’t expect good luck in everything.

“You’ve done a good job, lad,” said Peetuh. “Take the rest of the afternoon off.”

Djoh tried to thank his father without stammering or staring. His father had never done such a thing before. Had he just possibly guessed his son’s hopes of a match with Marthuh? With his father’s support, Djoh’s hopes wouldn’t be totally vain. Peetuh was Blue Springs’ only carpenter and a man widely respected for sobriety and hard work. His son and heir would be a fit match for any farmer’s daughter, even a farmer like Oskah.

Djoh walked to the big sycamore in the northwest field, the place where he and Marthuh had first talked last fall. Snow blanketed the field, and the tree was only a skeleton’s arm and hand stretching toward the gray sky. The sun’s hint of warmth was already fading, and his breath swirled white. By the time he reached the tree, he was beginning to wonder if he should have used the time working. It would have kept him warm, at least.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand brushed his shoulder. “Just me,” said a familiar voice, teasingly.

“Hello, Marthuh. I was hoping you’d come.” And if he hadn’t been daydreaming, his mindspeak would probably have told’ him she was waiting. To hear another’s thoughts, Djoh had always needed to concentrate.

Marthuh’s blond hair and fair skin were almost as white as the fresh snow. She might have looked colorless, except for her sparkling green eyes, bright as gemstones. They made her the most alive and beautiful thing Djoh had ever seen—or ever would see, he suspected.

“The baking’s done, so I can stay awhile.”

“Me too,” he replied. Unconsciously he moved around to the rear of the sycamore, where no one might see them accidentally from the house. Marthuh followed. Djoh’s breath was becoming labored, and he no longer noticed the chill air.

“I don’t like it out here,” said Marthuh. “1 want to move back into Blue Springs where it’s not so lonely.”

Oskah was so rich that he usually spent only spring and fall at his farm. This year he’d stayed on into the winter, to see the new bam completed. Djoh was the last man to complain about that, since it allowed him many more visits with Marthuh. His father had a countryman’s disdain for Blue Springs and seldom stayed overnight even when work took him there.

Djoh had never spent a night in the town in all his eighteen

years.

“If it was up to me, I’d build you a big townhouse . . Djoh trailed off in midsentence as he realized how hopeless that wish sounded, even to himself. It would take a miracle to even put them into a small cottage together.

“Do you mean that? Oh, Djoh, I wish we could spend more time together, but . . . every time I mention your name to my father, he just glowers.”

Marthuh moved closer, until Djoh could feel her heart beating. Without thinking or trying to read her thoughts, he took her in his arms and kissed her. Her lips opened in response, until he felt as if he’d fallen into a whirlpool. He tightened his grip and ran his fingers through hair that felt like new comsilk.

Before he knew what had happened, his coat was on the ground and then the two of them were on top of the coat, limbs twining. His fingers groped for the hooks at the back of her dress. She moaned softly. He was drowning in her warmth, her scent, her softness—

“What in Peeoryah’s goin’ on here?” roared a male voice. Djoh lurched to his feet, suddenly aware of the halfdressed girl on his coat and the stinging cold. “I—I—I don’t know! Nothing, really! We were just——”

“I can see, damn you!” Oskah punched Djoh in the chest, knocking him hard against the tree. He could feel the bark through his shirt. Then Oskah was trying to hit him again; he tried to push away the fist. Something jarred his head, and his nose began to bleed. His watering eyes made out half a dozen figures headed toward the tree, one of them in billowing skirts.

“You no-count half-caste!” shouted Oskah. “We know what you are! And everybody knows about your mama and that storyteller who came to town and stayed at her daddy’s farm. We had to run that sumbitch off when we found him talkin’ to one of the horses. Should of burned him like in the Old Days, but people hereabouts have gotten soft. Maybe you’re a Witchboy yourself!”

“Watch who you call Witchboy!” said Peetuh. His tone boded ill for rich farmers who left the hard work to hired hands. “What’s going on here?”

“That pretty-boy son of yours was ’bout to bundle with my

little Marthuh. I aim to put a stop to that kinda crap, if 1 have to geld the little bastard!”

“Girl don’t look like she was pushin’ him away none,” said Peetuh, his voice clear and cold. “I say we let bygones be bygones and I’ll keep him clear of here.”

Even through tears and blood, Djoh could see that Marthuh’s red-faced father wasn’t buying that idea.

“That little storyteller’s get you call your son needs a good lesson, or he’ll be back like an egg-suckin’ snake that’s got its first taste of yolk—”

A fist the size of a blacksmith’s hammer sacked into Oskah’s jaw. He fell as if he’d been laid out with a fencepost. He lay twitching for a few moments, then shook his head and tried to rise. His wife began to howl.

“You fat hunk of blubber,” growled Peetuh. “You ever say another word about my son’s blood or bein’ ‘cursed’ and I’ll come back here and pull your head right off’n your shoulders. Hear me?”

Oskah nodded cautiously. He was feeling his head as if surprised to find it still attached to his body.

Peetuh’s arm rose again, this time to brace Djoh as they walked back to the wagon. Djoh’s last sight was of a slackfaced Marthuh still lying on his jacket, a blubbering and cursing Oskah being helped to his feet by his hired men, and a wailing Marthuh’s mother.

Djoh found he was still dazed. Was it the beating, or was it seeing his father throw away probably the best job of his life to stand up for a despised son? And what was all this about a storyteller?

About the time they reached the wagon, they heard a bellow from Oskah.

“Don’t neither of you ever put foot on this land again! Hear me? You do and I’ll have my man Jacot put an arrow twixt your eyes. My man in town’ll settle our accounts, Peetuh. You hear me?”

Peetuh shook his head in disgust and helped Djoh up onto his seat. To Djoh the trip back home was like a dream. He was still half dazed, and something new ached every time the wagon jolted.