A gray-haired man with a bone flute stepped forward into the hush and began a melody Fawn found haunting; it made the hairs stir on her arms. Disturbed, she studied that pale length of bone, its surface burned about with writing, and was suddenly certain it was someone’s relative. Because thighbones came in pairs, but hearts came one by one, so what did Lakewalker makers do with the leftovers, in all honor? The tune was so elegiac, it had be some prayer or hymn or memorial; Fawn could see a few people’s lips moving on words they obviously knew by heart. A hush followed for a full minute, with everyone’s eyes downcast.
A rattle like a snake from the tambourine, and a sudden spatter of drumming, broke the sorrow to bits as if trying to blow it out the windows. The fiddlers and flute players and tub-thumpers struck up a lively dance tune, and patrollers swung out onto the floor. They did not dance in couples but in groups, weaving complex patterns around one another. Except for the shifting about of partners in blithe disregard of anyone’s sex, it reminded Fawn a lot of farmer barn dances, although the patrollers seemed to do without a caller. She wondered if they were doing something with their groundsenses to take the place of that outside coordination. Intensely complex as the patterns seemed, the dancers seldom missed a step, although when someone did, it was greeted with much hooting and laughter as the whole bunch rearranged themselves, picked up the pulse, and started again. The bells rang merrily. Dag stood at the back of the musicians, keeping steady time, punctuating his rhythms with well-placed spurts of jingling, watching it all and looking unusually happy; he didn’t talk or sing, but he smiled a bit as the jokes flew by.
The younger patrollers’ appetites for fast dances seemed insatiable, but at length the wheezing musicians traded out for a couple of singers. Outside, the long summer sun had gone down, and the room was hot with candles and lamps and sweaty bodies. Dag unscrewed his tambourine and came to sit at Fawn’s feet, catching up on his beer-drinking with the aid of what seemed a bucket brigade of well-wishers.
One song was new to Fawn, another to a known tune but with different words, and a third she’d heard her aunt Nattie croon as she spun thread, and she wondered if it had originated with farmers or Lakewalkers. The singers were a man and a woman from Chato’s patrol, and their voices blended beguilingly, hers pure and fair, his low and resonant. By this time, Fawn wasn’t sure if the song about a lost patroller dancing in the woods with magical bears was fantasy or not.
The man with the bone flute joined them, making a trio; when he sent a preamble of notes into the air for the next song, Dag set his half-full glass rather abruptly on the floor. His smile over his shoulder at Fawn more resembled a grimace. “Privy run. Beer, eh,” he excused himself, and levered to his feet.
Three sets of eyes marked his movement in concern: Mari’s, Utau’s, and one other older comrade’s; Mari made a gesture of query, Should I… ? to which Dag returned a small headshake. He trod out without looking back.
“Fifty folk walked out that day,” the song began, and Fawn quickly twigged to Dag’s sudden retreat, because it turned out to be a long, involved ballad about the battle of Wolf Ridge. It named no names in its weaving of poetry and tune, of woe, gallantry, sacrifice, and victory, subtly inviting all to identify with its various heroes, and under any other circumstances Fawn would have found it thrilling. Most of the patrollers, truly, seemed variously thrilled or moved; Reela swiped away a tear, and Saun hung openmouthed in the intensity of his listening.
They do not know, Fawn realized. Saun, who had patrolled with Dag for a year and claimed to know him well, did not know. Utau did, listening with his hand over his mouth, eyes dark; Mari, of course, did, with her glances at the archway out which Dag had quietly vanished, and through which he did not return. The song finished at last, and another, more cheerful one started.
When Dag still did not return, Fawn slipped out herself. Someone else was exiting the commode chamber, so she tried outside. It was blessedly cooler out here, the blue shadows relieved by yellow light from the cheery windows, from the lanterns flanking the porch door, and, across the yard, from above the stable doors. Dag was sitting on the bench outside the stable, head back against the wall, staring up at the summer stars.
She sat down beside him and just let the silence hang for a time, for it was not uncomfortable, cloaking them like the night. The stars burned bright and seeming-close despite the lanterns; the sky was cloudless. “You all right?”
she asked at last.
“Oh, yeah.” He ran his hand through his hair, and added reflectively, “When I was a boy, I used to just love all those heroic ballads. I memorized dozens. wonder if all those other old battle songs would have seemed as obscene to their survivors?” Yet he claims not to sing. Unable to answer this, Fawn offered, “At least it helps people remember.”
“Yes. Alas.”
“It wasn’t a bad song. In fact, I thought it was awfully good. As a song, I mean.”
“I don’t deny it. Not the fault of the song-maker—whoever it was did a fine job.
If it were less effective, it wouldn’t make me want to weep or rage so bad, I suppose. Which was why I left the room. My groundsense was a little open, in aid of the music-making. I didn’t want to blight the mood. Pack thirty-eight tired, battle-nervy patrollers into one building for a week, and moods start to get around fast.”
“Do you often make music, when you’re out on patrol?” She tried to picture patroller song and dance around a campfire; the weather likely didn’t always cooperate.
“Only sometimes. Camps can be pretty busy in the evenings. Curing hides and meat, preserving medicinal plants we pick up while patrolling, keeping logs and maps up to date. If it’s a mounted patrol, a lot of horse care. Weapons training for the youngsters and practice for everyone. Mending, of clothes and boots and gear. Cooking, washing. All simple tasks, but they do go on.”
His voice slowed in reminiscence. “Patrols vary in size—in the north they send out companies of a hundred and fifty or two hundred for the great seasonal wilderness sweeps—but south of the lake, patrols are usually smaller and shorter. Even so, you’re like to be in each other’s hair for weeks on end with no entertainment but each other. After a while, everyone knows all the songs.
So there’s gossip. And factions. And jokes. And practical jokes. And revenge for practical jokes. And fistfights over revenge for practical jokes. And knife fights over—well, you get the idea. Although if the emotions are allowed to melt down into that sour a soup, you can bet the patrol leader will be having a very memorable talk with Fairbolt Crow about it, later.”
“Have you ever?”
“Not about that. Although all talks with Fairbolt tend to be memorable.” In the shadows, he scratched his nose and smiled, then leaned his head back and let his eyes rest on the mellow windows across the yard. The singing had stopped, and dance tunes had begun again; feet thumping on the floor made the whole building pulse like a drum.
“Let’s see, what else? On warm summer nights, gathering firewood is always a popular activity.”
Fawn considered this, and the amusement underlying his voice. “Should think that would be wanted on cold nights, more.”
“Mm, but you see, on warm nights, no one complains if folks are gone for two hours and come back having forgotten the firewood. Bathing in the river, that’s another good one.”
“In the dark?” said Fawn doubtfully.
“In the river is even more the question. Especially when the season’s turned frosty. Walks, oh sure, that’s believable, when everyone’s been out slogging since dawn. Scouting around, too—that draws many selfless volunteers. Some dangerous squirrels out in those woods, they could mount an attack at any time.