Bast stood then, slicking back his hair with both hands. Water streamed down his chest, making runnels in the dark hair, trailing down across the flat plane of his stomach.
He shook himself off a bit, then stepped over to a dark niche made by a jagged shelf of overhanging rock. He felt around for a moment before pulling out a knob of butter-colored soap.
He knelt at the edge of the water again, dunking his shirt several times, then scrubbing it with the soap. It took a while, as he had no washing board, and he obviously didn’t want to chafe his shirt against the rough stones. He soaped and rinsed the shirt several times, wringing it out with his hands, making the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense and twine. He did a thorough job, though by the time he was finished, he was completely soaked and spattered with lather.
Bast spread his shirt out on a sunny stone to dry. He started to undo his pants, then stopped and tipped his head on one side, trying to jog loose water from his ear.
It might be because of the water in his ear that Bast didn’t hear the excited twittering coming from the bushes that grew along the shore. A sound that could, conceivably, be sparrows chattering among the branches. A flock of sparrows. Several flocks, perhaps.
And if Bast didn’t see the bushes moving either? Or note that in among the hanging foliage of the willow branches there were colors normally not found in trees? Sometimes a pale pink, sometimes blushing red. Sometimes an ill-considered yellow or a cornflower blue. And while it’s true that dresses might come in those colors … well … so did birds. Finches and jays. And besides, it was fairly common knowledge among the young women of the town that the dark young man who worked at the inn was woefully nearsighted.
The sparrows twittered in the bushes as Bast worked at the drawstring of his pants again. The knot apparently giving him some trouble. He fumbled with it for a while, then grew frustrated and gave a great, catlike stretch, arms arching over his head, his body bending like a bow.
Finally he managed to work the knot loose and shuck free of his pants. He wore nothing underneath. He tossed them aside and from the willow came a squawk of the sort that could have come from a larger bird. A heron perhaps. Or a crow. And if a branch shook violently at the same time, well, perhaps a bird had leaned too far from its branch and nearly fell. It certainly stood to reason that some birds were more clumsy than others. And besides, at the time Bast was looking the other way.
Bast dove into the water then, splashing like a boy and gasping at the cold. After a few minutes he moved to a shallower portion of the pool where the water rose to barely reach his narrow waist.
Beneath the water, a careful observer might note the young man’s legs looked somewhat … odd. But it was shady there, and everyone knows that water bends light strangely, making things look other than they are. And besides, birds are not the most careful of observers, especially when their attention is focused elsewhere.
An hour or so later, slightly damp and smelling of sweet honeysuckle soap, Bast climbed the bluff where he was fairly certain that he’d left his master’s book. It was the third bluff he’d climbed in the last half hour.
When he reached the top, Bast relaxed at the sight of a hawthorn tree. Walking closer, he saw it was the right tree, the nook right where he remembered. But the book was gone. A quick circle of the tree showed that it hadn’t fallen to the ground.
Then the wind stirred and Bast saw something white. He felt a sudden chill, fearing it was a page torn free from the book. Few things angered his master like a mistreated book.
But no. Reaching up, Bast didn’t feel paper. It was a smooth stretch of birch bark. He pulled it down and saw the letters crudely scratched into the side.
I ned ta tawk ta ewe. Ets emportant. Rike
Afternoon: Birds and Bees
With no idea of where he might find Rike, Bast made his way back to the lightning tree. He had just settled down in his usual place when a young girl came into the clearing.
She didn’t stop at the greystone and instead trudged straight up the side of the hill. She was younger than the others, six or seven. She wore a bright blue dress and had deep purple ribbons twining through her carefully curled hair.
She had never come to the lightning tree before, but Bast had seen her. Even if he hadn’t, he could have guessed by her fine clothes and the smell of rosewater that she was Viette, the mayor’s youngest daughter.
She climbed the low hill slowly, carrying something furry in the crook of her arm. When she reached the top of the hill she stood, slightly fidgety, but still waiting.
Bast eyed her quietly for a moment. “Do you know the rules?” he asked.
She stood, purple ribbons in her hair. She was obviously slightly scared, but her lower lip stuck out, defiant. She nodded.
“What are they?”
The young girl licked her lips and began to recite in a singsong voice. “No one taller than the stone.” She pointed to the fallen greystone at the foot of the hill. “Come to blacktree, come alone.” She put her finger to her lips, miming a shushing noise.
“Tell no—”
“Hold on,” Bast interrupted. “You say the last two lines while touching the tree.”
The girl blanched a bit at this but stepped forward and put her hand against the sun-bleached wood of the long-dead tree.
The girl cleared her throat again, then paused, her lips moving silently as she ran through the beginning of the poem until she found her place again. “Tell no adult what’s been said, lest the lightning strike you dead.”
When she spoke the last word, Viette gasped and jerked her hand back, as if something had burned or bitten her fingers. Her eyes went wide as she looked down at her fingertips and saw they were an untouched, healthy pink. Bast hid a smile behind his hand.
“Very well, then,” Bast said. “You know the rules. I keep your secrets and you keep mine. I can answer questions or help you solve a problem.” He sat down again, his back against the tree, bringing him to eye level with the girl. “What do you want?”
She held out the tiny puff of white fur she carried in the crook of her arm. It mewled. “Is this a magic kitten?” she asked.
Bast took the kitten in his hand and looked it over. It was a sleepy thing, almost entirely white. One eye was blue, the other green. “It is, actually,” he said, slightly surprised. “At least a little.” He handed it back.
She nodded seriously. “I want to call her Princess Icing Bun.”
Bast simply stared at her, nonplussed. “Okay.”
The girl scowled at him. “I don’t know if she’s a girl or a boy!”
“Oh,” Bast said. He held out his hand, took the kitten, then petted it and handed it back. “It’s a girl.”
The mayor’s daughter narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you fibbing?”
Bast blinked at the girl, then laughed. “Why would you believe me the first time and not the second?” he asked.
“I could tell she was a magic kitten,” Viette said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I just wanted to make sure. But she’s not wearing a dress. She doesn’t have any ribbons or bows. How can you tell if she’s a girl?”
Bast opened his mouth. Then closed it again. This was not some farmer’s child. She had a governess and a whole closetful of clothes. She didn’t spend her time around sheep and pigs and goats. She’d never seen a lamb born. She had an older sister, but no brothers …
He hesitated; he’d rather not lie. Not here. But he hadn’t promised to answer her question, hadn’t made any sort of agreement at all with her. That made things easier. A great deal easier than having an angry mayor visit the Waystone, demanding to know why his daughter suddenly knew the word “penis.”