In Stone's Clasp (4 page)

Jareth gazed at the autumn sky reflected in the lake, at the trees who now wore garments of gold and russet and brown instead of green. The breeze, not yet the biting wind of winter, tousled his golden hair. Autumn was a melancholy season, but still sweet and tender; the last haunting note sounded before winter, like the final chord of a
kyndela’s
song.

The sun ducked briefly behind one of the puffy white clouds that ambled across the sky and Jareth felt the chill. The harvests were fast approaching: grain, fruit and vegetable, and then the slaughtering of the animals for winter food storage. Jareth found he felt better if he walked among the fields, orchards and stables before the time of reaping came. There was a soft brush of sorrow and then acceptance, from the wheat or the apples or the sheep. They grasped even better than he their roles. He knew, as they knew, that next spring the wheat would sprout again, the orchards would be redolent with the scent of apple blossoms, and lambs would dot the green hills like little white clouds come to earth. But there could not be rebirth without death, and that always made Jareth sorrowful.

He walked through the wheat, his golden hair akin to their golden heads, saying his own farewell, then joined the others in bringing sickle to stalk.

Others talked animatedly, eager for the festival that would be coming in a few days. Truth be told, Jareth was no less eager than they. For the closest villages to Skalka Valley would be coming for the festival, to barter their own harvests and to participate in a lavish feast, followed by dancing and an enormous bonfire.

He had not seen nor heard from the lovely Taya Relaanan since that day several months ago when he had asked the earth and trees to find her little sister Vikka. He was taken with the girl, and had thought the interest was at least somewhat mutual, but perhaps it had been only gratitude that shone in her eyes when she accepted the flower.

The thought of the young woman, whose hair put the glory of the sun to shame and whose face haunted his dreams, made Jareth’s loins ache. He shifted position and tried to concentrate on his task. But once she had floated into his mind, Taya had taken up residence. Jareth desperately hoped he would see her at the festival.

And then what? He was no stranger to the delights of the flesh. Tall, handsome, well-formed, he would have drawn women to him like bees to honey even had he not been the Spring-Bringer. More than one village girl—and some from other villages as well—had come to him in the night, climbing quietly into his bed. They had given him great pleasure, and Jareth ensured that they, too, left satisfied. He suspected that some of them had not wanted him for himself, but had coupled with him in hopes of conceiving a child blessed with his so-called “magical” talents. To bear such a child would bring her honor. And more than one girl had desired a more formal union and had offered a gift made by her own hands as a bride price, for in Lamal, women did the asking. Jareth had accepted none of these hopeful young women. No, the
Kevat-aanta
did not have to go without a willing woman in his bed unless he so chose.

Surprising everyone, including himself, he often did so choose. At first, when he was younger, the coupling was exciting. But as time passed, Jareth realized he wanted a deeper connection than attraction and mutual desire. His feelings toward the women who shared his bed were like that of most people toward the forest and earth—pleasant, but nothing very deep. The earth itself had taught him what it was like to have a powerful bond, and he wanted one with a woman—one woman, to share a lifetime with.

Taya was more than just beautiful. He’d seen beauty before and while he was not unmoved by it, he wanted more. Taya carried herself as if she was proud of who she was. He suspected she would push him and challenge him if she were his wife—and she would be a mate who would be a partner and friend, not just a bedfellow.

You’ve only met her once, Jareth. You’re assuming a great
deal. Anyone who chooses you will have to share your burden, and that is no small thing.

Cursing himself, he returned to his task. In thinking of Taya, he had closed down the connection between himself and the grain. Now, he deliberately opened it again, concentrating on accepting the wheat’s pain as he brought the scythe down again and again, sending the tall stalks falling gently to the brown soil.

When Taya and her family disembarked from the wagon and her eyes fell on Jareth, he felt himself blush and ducked behind a nearby tree. What kind of hold did this girl have over him? He was behaving like an infatuated boy, and he was a man grown at twenty! He forced himself to step out from the shelter of the tree, but Taya had moved on. Jareth contented himself with greeting her parents, accepting their thanks yet again for his rescue of Vikka, and calmed his nervousness by picking up the giggling child and carrying her around on his shoulders for the next little while.

His anxiety did not diminish as the day slipped past, the golden sunlight waning to twilight as the three villages bartered and haggled over various goods. He noticed that there was a beautiful woolen blanket, in shades of blue and gold and green, that Taya had brought which never left the wagon. Idly he wondered why she had bothered to bring it if she hadn’t planned to barter it, then turned his attention to the feast that was being brought out.

With three villages providing food, it was a lavish spread indeed: bread of all varieties, soups, roasted fish, fowl and meats, mustards and jellies and nuts, and bowl and after bowl of raw, roasted, and stewed vegetables every color of the rainbow. Skalka Valley’s most famous contribution was also the most popular. The valley was known for the quality and quantity of the honeywine it produced. Jareth was able to calm the bees that made the golden fluid that was the heart of the drink, rendering the honey itself uncommonly delicious and enabling the beekeepers to painlessly extract more combs, though Jareth insisted that the bees must always have plenty for themselves. “It’s their food,” he maintained. “They share it with us, not the other way around.”

At twilight, old Paiva stepped in front of the huge bonfire, a burning branch in her hand. Ivo, the headman, had presided over most of the events thus far, but now they were headed into ritual space, and that was Paiva’s realm.

“We have been blessed by the gods,” she said in a voice that carried. Not for the first time, Jareth marveled at the strength that still dwelt in the increasingly feeble body. He felt a surge of affection for her. Of all the residents of Skalka Valley, she alone had continued to treat him as she always had.

“We have plenty of food for the winter. We have good friends in nearby villages. And tonight, we have the warmth of the sun contained in the fire. Burn!”

She thrust the brand forward. The bonfire had been well-made and doused liberally with oil, and all gasped and clapped as the yellow licking flames chased away the darkness. Paiva was now a black figure outlined by the crackling glow.

“Come forward and free yourselves from the burdens you have carried this year. Let the fire take and transform your suffering.”

This was an old, old tradition, and everyone knew how to proceed. They formed an orderly line, accepting small bundles of dried wheat stalks from which the precious grain had been extracted, and stepped forward. One by one, some weaving a little thanks to the drink they had imbibed earlier, they whispered what they wished to be free of, and tossed the sheaf onto the flame. When Jareth reached the fire and felt the heat bathe his face, he realized he knew exactly what his longing was. He was honored and envied, but no one knew the pain he suffered.

Speaking aloud, but softly so that this private moment would not be overheard, he said firmly, “I wish to be free of my doubt.”

He hurled the sheaf forward, watched as it twisted and blackened in the fire, and took a deep breath. No calm certainty rushed to bathe him yet, but Paiva often reminded those who participated in this ancient rite that sometimes it took a while for the wish to be answered. But the gods always heard their petitioners.

He stepped aside, his heart speeding up when Taya moved toward the fire a few moments later. Jareth couldn’t hear what she said, but he noticed that she was smiling when she walked away.

It took time for the ceremony to be completed, but at last everyone had participated and the mood shifted from sacred to celebratory. There was much laughter and passing of honeywine sacks as everyone gathered around the fire. A chill was in the air at night now, and the warmth was welcome.

He looked about for Taya, but didn’t see her. Then the crowd parted slightly and she stood alone for a brief moment. Fire bathed her in yellow and orange, and to Jareth, she looked like the sun come to life. Perhaps feeling his gaze, Taya turned slowly. Their eyes met and her lips curved in a slight smile. Summoning his courage, Jareth stepped forward and—

A small hand curled trustingly around his. He looked down to see little Altan beaming up at him.

“Guess what, Jareth? The
huskaa
of Two Lakes heard me singing and playing this afternoon and he has agreed to take me on as a
huskaa-lal!
”

This was a high honor and at any other time, Jareth would have been thrilled for Altan. But tonight…He glanced up.

Taya was gone. The stab of disappointment was surprising in its keenness.

“Jareth?” Altan tugged on his hand. Jareth forced a smile.

“That’s wonderful, Altan. I’m very proud of you. You have a lot of talent and you’ve worked very hard. You’re going to make a fine
huskaa.
” The words were true and he tried to sound like he meant them. He must have succeeded, for Altan’s brow unfurrowed and he beamed up at his friend.

“Come and sit!” Altan urged. “He’s starting to play. I want to be just like him when I grow up. And just like you, too.”

Jareth’s heart melted. It was always hard to resist Altan. Somehow, he always felt he owed the Lukkari family a debt for their lost daughter, although Paiva had assured him that his presence at Altan’s birth had not been responsible for Ilta Lukkari’s death. Indeed, Altan’s mother claimed loudly and repeatedly that it was “the Spring-Bringer’s presence” that had graced Altan with life and talent.

What did it matter if he sat and listened to songs all evening? Taya was nowhere to be seen. Jareth sighed, found a spot on one of the logs provided as seats, pulled Altan into his lap, and decided to make the best of it.

The
huskaa
was worth listening to. He went through a repertoire of standard songs, some merry, some sad. Jareth thought he had never heard the Ice Maiden song cycle, “Circle of Ice,” performed so powerfully. As the evening wore down, Altan did too. He was asleep in Jareth’s arms by the time the performer turned to more adult themes. As he listened to one of the singer’s original compositions, written specifically for this night, Jareth grew wistful.

Jareth’s thoughts turned to Taya. Others were pairing off, leaving the ring of firelight or sitting holding hands. The harvest was about bounty and family, about facing the coming darkness and deprivation of winter together. And once again, he would be alone.

There was a soft smattering of applause. The
huskaa
nodded his thanks and went into another equally soft, sweet song. Jareth rose, carrying Altan. The little boy shifted and his arms went around Jareth’s neck.

Jareth went to Altan’s house and lay the boy down on his pallet. Altan woke up briefly. Sleepily he said, “I love you, Jareth.”

“I love you too,” Jareth said, stroking the child’s soft golden hair and pulling the blanket around him. “Now sleep, little one.”