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  "Fabric, spices, and news mostly. We used to get metals, but since the war heated up…" Macey stopped mid-sentence and shied back to her work.

  "It's okay to talk about it," he said with a smile. It was impossible not to love this rosy-cheeked woman. "I'm not going to turn you in." Even if he knew who to turn them in to, he doubted he could get there now anyway. "You saved my life. I owe you everything."

  "I just… It's still shameful. I weren't raised a scavenger."

  "The only shame would be in letting all the metal and goods sit out and rust. Worse yet, if the Hyzoi found some way to use them against us. You said yourself the road is taken. Nobody from Sel City is coming."

  "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

  "I am. But if the king himself came and tried to arrest you, he would have to kill me to do it."

  "Don't say such things." Her eyes, glinting in the light, revealed her approval nonetheless. "You can't have any oaths higher than king and country."

  "I gave my life for them," he said. "And they left me for dead."

  "That's not true," she said. "Everybody died but you. That's not the same."

  "Well, I'm here because of you and your good sense. So, I want you to give me a new name."

  "Me?" She tried to look surprised, but her smile worked against modesty.

  "Yep. Anything you want."

  "I wouldn't know any good names." She stood up, dumping the bone into the stew pot. She began dipping the thin slices of meat into a marinade, made from salt and grape sugar. Then she arranged them neatly onto a flat metal tray, hammered from a breastplate.

  "You sure I can't help with that?" he said.

  "No, no. This is women's work. You just get better. Bowen will have plenty for you to do when the goats are kidding next week."

  Now that he was feeling better, sitting still in this cottage made him crazy. They didn't have any books, except a hand written almanac Bowen used to record natural events every year. "I have to do something," he said. "Please, let me help."

  "You know how to use a whet stone? Bowen's been complaining no end about how he can't get an edge on that new axe, since the last one broke. You'd think it was something special to hear him go on about it, instead of how he has six new ones. Well, mostly new."

  The man tossed the blanket off his shoulders, welcoming the cold air as a token of the first task she had permitted him. The bruises on his hands were still obvious, but he didn't feel much pain anymore. He grabbed the flat stone and leather strap, sitting next to Bowen's chair on the wooden porch, and brought them inside. He pulled the extra chair free of the table, so he wouldn't contaminate the meat she was preserving for the winter with shards, and picked up the hatchet sized throwing axe Bowen had rested near the fireplace.

  He dipped his fingers into the clay cup of water Macey had on the table, and began rubbing each precious drop of water into the thirsty rock. With the reservoir gone and the vineyards sucking up every spare drop of rain, there wasn't much more than what man and beast needed for drinking. Macey wouldn't wash her hands until after she used mud to remove the blood and leaves to scrape away the mud.

  The piece Bowen had chosen to replace his broken axe was a very good weapon. Balanced just above the leather wrapped handle, it had a semicircle blade which curled into a barbed point on the top, designed to dig into flesh and offer leverage against the crusty protrusions over most Hyzoi vital organs. All the weapons fashioned in Sel served two purposes: prying and cutting. Despite the visual appeal of the weapon, the man's soldier instincts knew it would be a poor device for splitting wood. If he had access to more weapons, he could probably find something better. However, his place was not to question Bowen's choice. Macey had given him leave only to work with this one.

  After turning the axe every way so he could examine the reflection on the fine edge from many sides, the man knew what to do. Bowen had ground a good angle onto the blade for utility work. However, this axe had a convex bevel. Putting a standard angle on the edge of it worked against the original design. This wedge came from a smith with access to a giant flywheel type sharpening stone, which turned fast and ground metal efficiently. Fixing the edge by hand would be a full day's work, at the least. Carefully setting the head against the stone, he began slowly scraping it across the flat rock.

  The rhythm of the grinding took over the small cottage. Macey began humming a song to match. Once her tray was set, she carried it out and set it on a stump in full view of the sun. When she came back in, she took two small handfuls of water from the cup to wash the last remnants of mud off her hands. Then she opened a vaporous bottle and rubbed a teaspoon of clear alcohol on her hands.

  At sundown, Bowen came home to see the man gently rubbing a few drops of water across the top of the stone with the blade of the axe.

  "Looks like you've done that before," Bowen said as he hung his floppy purple hat on a peg near the door.

  "So it would seem," the man said. He scraped the edge carefully along the leather strap, eyeballed the curve once more, then offered it with two hands to Bowen.

  "Did you stop for water on the way back?" Macey asked.

  Bowen nodded. He held the axe blade up and turned it so he could get a close look at the edge. He almost poked his eye before he stopped copying the unfamiliar action, and just ran his thumb along it. A tiny bloom of blood trailed down the side. Trying to suppress his shock he said, "That's really something."

  "Why'd you have to cut yourself to test it?" Macey teased. She began ladling stew into three bowls.

  "Didn't think that axe could cut anything," Bowen laughed, smearing the blood on his red shirt. "I'm grateful for it."

  "It's the least I could do, after all you've done for me. I won't forget the kindness you have shown me here. I only wish I could do something more."

  "Well, there's the kidding coming soon," Bowen said with a nod. "And a lot of grapes this year, I'd be happy to have a hand with the work."

  "Of course," the man said.

  "And you can't leave before winter with no idea where you're going," Macey insisted.

  "I can't burden you so long," the man said.

  "Nonsense. We had Macey's brother here until he up and married last spring. And he was terrible company, with his sulking all the time."

  "Hush," Macey said. "He just needed some time to find the right woman."

  "Never thought Ada would be the right woman for anyone," Bowen laughed. "Anyhow, you're welcome to stay as long as you like. I wouldn't turn down some help tying up vine rows in the spring, either."

  Macey brought the extra chair in from the porch, and they all sat around the small, round table. She said, "But if you're going to stay on a bit, we are going to need to call you something."

  Bowen nodded and scratched his beard.

  "I'm leaving it up to Macey," the man said.

  "Is that so?" Bowen turned to his wife and furrowed his brow.

  "Elwood," she said.

  "Macey?" Bowen reached out and put his rough hand gently on her arm. "Are you sure?"

  "I've been thinking about it all day," she said.

  "But that was…"

  "I know. It was the name I had picked out for our son. But we never had a son. And I always liked that name. So if this is my only chance to give it to somebody, I want to. Anyway, it's only until he remembers his own name."

  "I would be honored," the man said, looking at their faces. Just past the prime of his life, he was probably about the right age for their son. "Henceforth, I am Elwood of Winigh."

  "Until you remember," Bowen repeated.

  "Maybe," Elwood said. "Or maybe forever. If my old name was so great, why can't I remember it? This one will probably suit me better anyway."

  They both shrugged. Macey wiped a tear from one eye.

  "Thank you both," Elwood said. "It is a name better than I deserve."

  "Hush," Macey said. "Now eat… Elwood."

  Chapter Three

  Elwood of Winig
h sliced into the side of a wind-blown berm of snow with a round metal shield. His thick goatskin mittens were sticky, but they kept his hands from freezing to the metal. He lifted a tall mound of icy white drift and carried the heavy load to the chute, which Bowen had fastened years before on the outside of the chimney. The heat from the fire would melt the snow and deliver water through a tube to the cottage. It always amazed Elwood how little water came out of such a huge volume of snow. He'd even checked for leaks a few times.

  Next, he mucked out the stable and pulled a bale of grapevine down from the rafters. He removed the old, gnarled branches the goats chewed on but usually left behind, preferring the dried leaves and soft shoots. After the kidding last fall, they'd thinned the heard down to twenty. The shaggy white mountain goats rushed in to start gnawing on the new bale before he could even cut the twine. He laughed as they pushed him aside with their wide, curled horns. They'd eventually gnaw the tie off.

  Pulling his soft fur hat down tight over his ears, he left the goats behind and went to the chicken coop. He lifted half a dozen warm eggs out from under the hens, and dropped a handful of dried grape seeds onto the frozen dirt. The birds clucked and raced in to gobble the soft pits.

  These simple actions served as meditation. The mechanical work felt good to his muscles. There was a kind of peace in the tools and maintenance of everyday life. Heat, food, and clothing were his entire world, and he wouldn't ask for anything more. In these snowy mountains, Elwood found a piece of heaven. Yet in his soul he felt as if he were lost or hiding. It didn't matter. He couldn't remember those things. He felt satisfied, and for reasons he could not explain, the honest labor felt like a relief from stresses he could not name.

  He took the eggs to Macey before they froze in his basket. Then he went to the huge vat where they stored frozen grape juice all winter. When they harvested the ripe purple grapes from the maze of vines, running on wooden fences all up and down the side of the mountain around the cottage, they smashed them into juice in this great wooden press. They collected the seeds for the birds, and baled the vines for the goats. Once the juice froze in the cold winter, they slid it out of the barrels, and stored the ice cylinders in this vat. Elwood hacked one of the cylinders in half with a nearby sword, stained red. Then he tied the cover back over the vat and carried the brick of juice into the cottage.

  "Bowen'll be mighty grateful for you taking over his chores," Macey said.

  "I just like a chance to get out and move around," Elwood said. He placed the slushy red cylinder into a barrel they kept near the fireplace just for melting grape juice. Then he pulled his mittens off and set them by the fire to dry. The grapes juice made his gloves sticky. They were tinted a reddish purple. It didn't match the red and purple of the salvaged clothes, however. Those were bright colors. The grape stain had a natural brownish hue. Elwood preferred the grape stain. It felt earthy and real, while the brighter colors felt pretentious and fake.

  "I worry about him," Macey said. "If I'd have known he was going to be sick so long, I would have planted more peppers. At this rate, I'll be out of them before winter's up. Stew's going to be mighty bland in the spring." She carefully removed the spicy seeds with her cooking stiletto and placed them on a piece of plate mail hammered into a flat tray. When she finished, she set the tray near the fire, but not too close, to dry the seeds.

  "He's a tough old badger," Elwood said as he patted her shoulder. "He'll be up when there's anything important to do next spring."

  "He'd be up now, if you two hens would stop clucking and let him sleep," Bowen interrupted from the small adjoining bedroom.

  "Time for breakfast," Macey said with a smile so bright it almost made up for the sun being behind dark clouds outside.

  "No stew," Bowen said with a groan.

  "You need it," she insisted.

  "Not for breakfast. No more peppers for breakfast."

  "I hate to say it," Elwood interjected, "but it's lunch time."

  "Can't I have some bread this once?"

  She was already cutting a slice of brown bread with raisins, and smearing thick goat butter on the top. "You want jam?"

  "Jam with milk, butter with juice." Bowen coughed. Elwood had heard this chant fifty times in as many days. He knew how it would end when Bowen cleared his throat. "God gives goats 'n grapes."

  "Juice it is." She already had the tray ready. This was a wooden tray with inlaid stones arranged as flowers beneath a thick lacquer. Elwood had ordered it especially for her from one of the trade wagons. It was her most prized possession. She carried it in and fussed over Bowen the whole time while he ate.

  Bowen insisted it was part of her magic. Whenever any neighbors were sick, Macey would show up with her hot pepper stew and minty salve.

  Elwood crouched by the fire, warming his hands between removing layers of clothing and untying strips of fabric. Macey quilted heavy coats, of course. But she always insisted on wrapping everybody's arms in strips of purple fabric before they went out in the cold. When he put all his outerwear into the basket of cloaks and similar fabrics, Elwood sat down with his whetstone and began slowly applying drops of water. He was grinding away at a twisted and barbed hunting knife when Macey finally came back in.

  "Guess he just woke for food, because he's fast asleep again already."

  "It's been two weeks," Elwood said between long slides across the rock.

  "I've never seen him so down," Macey whispered. "It worries me."

  "Not me." When she looked up in surprise, he winked. "He's got your magic to keep him alive."

  "Hush, you. I'm no witch."

  "Is exactly what a witch would say."

  "I'm so glad you're here," Macey laughed. "I'd be out of my skin with nobody to talk to for so long."

  "He'll come around. Two days ago he didn't have the strength to ask for bread."

  "That's true. That's a good sign."

  "I'm thinking of building another grape press in the summer," Elwood said. He paused to look closely at the edge he was sharpening. He rolled the blade so the firelight would show him the tiny bumps along the curve. Those tiny bumps gave the cutting line a fine serration, which made the knife so much sharper. "Last fall we had too many grapes for just one."

  "Wouldn't that be fine, having two. We'll be the envy of all the neighbors."

  Elwood laughed.

  "I hope you will stay until summer," she said. "You're welcome as long as you like. Heaven knows, Bowen's feeling his age. An extra pair of strong hands is more than he'd ever hoped for."

  "I'll stay as long as you let me."

  "Can't be keeping you too long." Macey stirred the perpetual stew. "You'll be up and wanting a wife of your own, no doubt."

  Elwood rolled his eyes. This conversation had been going on for over a month. "I don't know what I want. Maybe I already have a wife. I can't remember."

  "I think you'd remember if you had a wife."

  Elwood concentrated on the blade's edge. Like so many times before, he tried to remember something that simply wasn't there. "I don't think I'm going to remember anything. I think that part of my brain was ruined in the battle. As far as I know, I was born the day you pulled me out of the mud."

  "Well, then you have to make your mind up about what to do. It's not right, a man living alone into his years."

  "I rather think you have already made up your mind about somebody you'd like to see me with." Elwood narrowed his eyes and tipped his head to one side.

  Macey turned from her pot and sat down in her chair. It was a rare moment when her hands were not doing something. "I wouldn't presume to say…"

  "Out with it, woman," Elwood said, lowering his voice so it sounded exactly like Bowen.

  She smiled, but didn't let it break her stride. "Well, there is the winter holiday coming up, and my family's expecting us to visit."

  "Macey, you wouldn't happen to have a younger sister you never mentioned before?" He felt a sense of dread gnawing inside him. Why should it bother him?
These people had given him his whole life. Why did he cringe inside when she tried to give him even more?

  Against their nature, Bowen cooed and whipped two goats into pulling the three of them on a sleigh through the snow. The soft snow had crusted on the top, so the tips of the skis stayed above the crunching plates of ice despite the back of the vehicle dragging below the surface and leaving a churned wake behind them.

  Well after noon, the mid-winter clouds kept the day dark and cold. Instinct or forgotten training urged Elwood to keep his mouth closed to preserve heat and water. Nothing prompted Macey to do the same. "It never ceases to amaze me how you keep those beasts running."

  "Have to," Bowen said. "If they stop, this whole thing'll sink, and we'll have a terrible time getting it going again."

  Elwood continued to scan the trees as he held a basket of cakes Macey baked for the feast. He felt at ease in the mountain forests. He stopped to talk occasionally. Then habit drew him back, and his eyes began darting from space to space between trees and rocks. He scanned the ridgeline above them and the distant valley below.

  Having never left the household before in his memory, Elwood felt a surprising amount of apprehension on this trip. He didn't expect trouble. He knew he came from far away, originally. But this felt new and he couldn't relax.

  "My parents passed on, of course," Macey said to Elwood, over the top of two chickens she plucked so they would be ready to start cooking the moment the sleigh reached the party. "But my aunt Lanny, who lived with them, is still around. My oldest sister runs the place. She never married, poor thing, but she keeps a few young families around to run the old vineyard. My nephew stayed with us before you came. Now he's married and living back at Aunt Lanny's homestead with the rest of the family."

  Elwood had already heard the family roll a dozen times in the last two weeks. He knew where this was headed, and decided to cut it short. "What about your younger sister?"

  Macey half blushed and half smiled when he asked. "Jewel's probably your age, best I can tell by looking. She's thinner than me, with lighter hair. Keeps it longer. I was almost married when she was born. My mother died soon after. That's when Aunt Lanny came and raised us. For me, it wasn't long. But Jewel's never known any other. Calls her mother and everything. Of course, I was there for a lot of Jewel's upbringing. She's stayed with us years and years, off and on, in your same bed."