Finder's Keeper Read online

  Finder’s Keeper

  Laura Anne Gilman

  Faery Cat Press

  Copyright © 2013 by Laura Anne Gilman

  Cover Design: Natania Barron

  Production: April Steenburgh

  eBook ISBN 978-1-951612-89-4

  Previously published in Defiance: Tales of the US Civil War, Drollerie Press 2013

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Finder’s Keeper

  About the Author

  Also by Laura Anne Gilman

  Finder’s Keeper

  the basic sensations always came first. she’d learned to ride them, trust them to show her the way. sometimes they were pleasant. more often, more and more often, they were…not.

  here and now, the smell of carrion in her nostrils. an acrid tang of gunpowder on her tongue. her nasal passages were filled, an unbearable assault. her vision was blurred, as though from tears, or sweat. mist layered the unquiet scene, half-hiding slow-moving forms.

  she knew it for a dream, and was not afraid.

  a glance revealed the moon overhead. clouds blood-red scudded past. it was not full moon. time distant, then. important to remember. important to remember everything.

  it was so difficult to breathe. difficult to concentrate. softness and cloth underfoot, heavy burden over tired shoulders. urgency like thick sugar syrup swirling through veins chilled by more than mist.

  something waited. something called. something important, long-gone and missing. remember. remember. She must remember.

  * * *

  Lightning crashed nearby, cutting through the silence, and her eyes opened, staring at the wide-beamed roof overhead. She blinked once, then again, until the tinge of red-scented smoke disappeared, and the steady beat of rain on the roof filled her ears. Her muscles, tensed, slowly softened again, and her wide gray eyes closed. Within a heart's beat, she was asleep, the not-a-dream forgotten.

  Davida Sanderson leaned in the doorway of her home and looked out into the wet mountain morning, taking in the damage from the previous night’s storm. The worst had passed through in the early hours, knocking trees sideways and tearing the expensive wooden shingles off her roof. But despite the work to be done in repairs, she couldn't help but feel cheerful. The mid-summer sun was shining, the wind was fresh and tasting of pine, and she had two new piglets fattening for the winter, courtesy of Josiah and Lizabeth Burns. She’d Found their sow, who'd gone missing three days before. It had been an easy use of her Skill, more common sense than anything else. But they insisted on paying. For her trouble, they said, and she accepted that. They would not be beholden to her, she knew, just as she would not be beholden to them.

  The folk who lived in and around this small town led their own lives, and left their neighbors to do the same. The War was something left to the outside world, not foolishness they’d bother over. This place was a refuge from the madness outside, a small circle of rare calm in this small state so recently removed from Virginia proper. Even Davida’s Skill, her gift for Finding things gone missing, hadn’t done more than raise an eyebrow or two when she came to live among them some eighteen months before.

  In truth, Davida thought with genuine amusement, to most of them her skills were no more worthy of comment than Enis's midwifery, or Jonathan's prowess at brewing.

  Yes, Davida thought, she’d done right in leaving that familiar, comforting, suffocating city of her birth. No-one here cared who she had been, or why she had left Boston, only who she was now. And now she was simply Davida. Davida the Finder. Davida the woman who lived, as they said in their appealingly slow speech, peaceable-like up the hill a ways.

  Of course, the young woman told herself with a wry twist to her lips, there were some as were more difficult to live peaceable with than others. The body lumbering up her path, crossing the tiny stream that bordered her house, was proof of that.

  "Good mornin' Master Elkins" she called out, determined that nothing ruin this morning. "It was kind of you to come out all this way to check on me, but I assure you, the storm left us quite untouched.”

  Joseph Elkins came up to the porch, his battered hat tilted back from his forehead as he squinted up at her. "Could have been bad" he said gruffly. "You need a man about this place, keep you well."

  Davida took a deep breath, bending down to pick Patterson up. The small grey cat curled in her arms, purring contentedly. "A man could have done nothing in the face of that storm" she said lightly. "We simply stayed inside and prayed for the worst to pass us by, as it did. I hope all is well in town, as well?"

  "Well enough." he said shortly.

  “And your sisters? They are well?” She was baiting him to no purpose, she knew. He would have checked on his sisters even earlier than this, assuring himself that “them foolish hens” were well. No-one could say that he didn’t care for his family, in his own brusque way. Sadly for all concerned, he could not, would not understand that she did not wish to be cared for in the same way. She’d had enough of cosseting already, enough to last her until she died.

  And, in truth, the man made her flesh crawl. Joseph Elkins wanted her for his next wife. Not for her Finding, which he called a foolish game, nor her skill at needlework, which was lamentable. He didn’t even want her for her family’s wealth, for the name Sanderson meant little to the residents of this reclusive West Virginia town. His eyes, and his hands, and the set of his mouth, all made clear that her primary interest to him was her body, well-fleshed from years of easy town living. And if her hands were harder now that she did so many chores for herself, and if her hair, once the toast of her small circle of suitors, was more often bound into a tight braid than released in a torrent of red curls down her back, then none of that dimmed his ardor any.

  Growing up in a society where a woman was merely an extension of the man, be it father or husband, whom she answered to, Davida learned early on to stay quiet, to guard her thoughts and cloak her actions until the time came and she was able to free herself. And so she had, only to encounter the middle-aged man standing now on her front steps.

  If this town was a haven, Davida thought wryly, then Joseph Elkins was a living reminder that beyond the woods which surrounded them, past the furthest outlying farms, there existed a world that still thought a woman incomplete without a man, that a woman alone was a frail and delicate thing. But the women of her family had never been frail, or delicate. Their Skill did not allow for it.

  She thought briefly of shutting the door in his face and waiting until he left to continue with her morning chores, but, no matter how greatly she wished it, she would not. Not from any ingrained manners, but because the animals needed feeding.

  Smoothing down the sleeves of her dress, so much rougher in texture than the ones she wore in her father’s house, Davida set her mouth in a determined line and stepped forward off the porch, stopping at the small wooden lean-to and picking up a bucket of grain. She said, over her shoulder,

  “Again, I thank you for your concern, but all is well here.”

  Elkins licked his upper lip thoughtfully, watching her wrestle with the lean-to’s door, obviously hoping that she would ask him for help. When pigs fly, she thought, managing to get the badly-hung door closed once again. When she turned and headed for the barn behind her house, Elkins was there in step with her, not talking, not offering to carry the bucket, simply there, like a hornet one was unable to swat for fear for fear of its sting.

  The barn itself was a welcome change from his brooding silence. The piglets squealed happily as she filled their trough with sweet grain, and the brown she-goat rubbed her nobby head against the wooden slats of her pen, straw hanging from the corners of her mouth in a comical manner. Davida pulled a small pail from a hook in the wall and entered the small pen, speaking softly all the while. Goats were changeable creatures, but if you treated them with respect and caution, they were amiable.

  Reaching for the small three-legged stool hung out of nanny’s reach on the wall, Davida tucked her skirts underneath her and began milking.

  The splishing sounds merged with the grunts of the piglets and the gentle breathing of the goat. And still Joshua said nothing, but merely stood, leaning against the pen door, and watched her. Or rather, watched her hands as they competently squeezed milk from the goat’s teats. Davida felt herself start to flush, and beat it down sternly. She would not allow him to intimidate her. This was her home, her animals, her hard-won livelihood. And it had been hard-won, she would be the first to acknowledge that. The life of a banker’s daughter had not prepared her for the harsher realities of living on her own: the early mornings, the physical labor — even the simple act of paying the men who had built her five-room home of planks and stone had been difficult. A young woman of her station did not deal with common workmen. But she wasn’t in Boston any longer, and things were different here. A difference she had sacrificed much to claim. And so she had learned, and learned well. This life was hers now, and no man with his mind set on her like she was an animal herself would change that!

  With that set in her mind, she finished with the goat and stood abruptly, placing the milk out of harms way while she replaced the stool and let herself out of the stall. “If you’ll excuse me now, Master Elkins. I’ve dishes to wash, and sheets to air. And a
man would just be in my way.”

  With that, he had no choice but to take his leave, replacing his hat, and saying a brusque farewell.

  * * *

  Davida carried the pail to the cold shed outside her home, and poured the milk carefully into the large pitcher set in the earthen floor. Wiping her hands on her apron as she exited the shed, the young woman watched her unwelcome guest walk, stiff-necked and silent, back down the road, out of sight. "But not out of mind, more's the pity," she thought, pulling absently at the end of her braid.

  "That man is downright determined to take you to wife," a voice said behind her. Davida closed her eyes, refusing to give Enis the satisfaction of seeing her jump. She turned slowly, smiling down at her nearest neighbor. "Come to check on me as well?" she asked, knowing full well that the older woman had. Enis laughed, hiking her gingham skirt up enough to jump up onto the porch rather than going around to the stairs. "Aren't you going to offer me something to drink after my long journey? And none of that swill Jonathan foists on you in payment! I want some of that fine Boston tea you hoard."

  Davida laughed in return, following her up the stairs and holding open the heavy oak door for the other woman to enter. "I hoard it, as you say, only to ensure that you have your taste."

  The two settled themselves in the kitchen, Enis falling comfortably into the rocking chair Davida had bartered with the town’s cooper to make, patterned after the one she left in her father’s home. The younger woman first poured them each a mug of tea from the kettle sitting on the potbellied stove that was her pride and joy, then curled herself onto the canvas-covered bench placed against the outside wall, her simple grey skirt tucked under her legs.

  Taking a long sip of her tea, Enis let out a sigh of contentment. "I was out all night with Susannah. She was convinced the babe was coming, and wouldn't let me sleep for her fears. What sleep could be gotten, under the racket of the storm."

  "Poor Susannah. Doesn't she know that you're never wrong about such things?"

  The midwife snorted. "No more than she would come to you for Finding, child. There are folk who can't take the gifts the good Lord gives us, be it from fear or ignorance or obstinate disapproval. But I needn't be telling you that, do I?"

  Davida did not respond. Her own kin had indeed been like that, despite a colorful history of similarly-Skilled women on her mother’s side. Or perhaps because of that history, she thought, not for the first time.

  Her father had taken his wife’s ability to sense truth from falsehood as simply another facet of her, nothing more or less than her flaming red hair, or the way that she could never do anything on time, things to be trained out of her, or smothered until only an acceptable spark remained. “A woman like that needs a keeper,” her father would say, proudly holding his wife’s pale-white hand in his own as though she were one of his fine-boned horses needing his tight rein. And keep her he did, right up until the point his control overwhelmed her, and she gave up and died, the perfect, docile wife in death that she had strived to be in life.

  Unable to deal with a grieving adolescent daughter and not yet ready to give her a stepmother, Eli Sanderson had sent his unruly twelve-year-old daughter to his sister’s home in New Jersey. There, much to everyone’s surprise, she had thrived. Coming home to Boston seven years later, after her aunt’s death, the sullen hellion had become a poised young lady, firmly in control of both Skill and temper.

  Davida had made a number of discoveries while in exile in Cape May, the most important of those being that not every woman answered to a man. Her aunt, a strong-willed widow of somewhat independent means, had turned down offers of remarriage and gone her own merry, if discreet way. Davida was determined to do the same thing, only skipping the stage of submission to some man with the power of Lord and master over her. After all, her mother had thought to balance Skill and family, only to have her husband deny her the right to minister to those in need. That, as much as the ague, had killed her. Davida knew that, deep in a silent part of her soul.

  Then nineteen, Davida told herself then that she was strong enough to stand on her own, and follow where her Skill led. And if her father, and the rest of Boston society, thought her odd, then so be it. A small price to pay for her peace of mind.

  * * *

  But a year later her father had died as well, and Davida discovered that the rest of the Sandersons had even less patience with what they scornfully termed her “eccentricities.” They were determined to see her married off, and her inheritance — and her existence — firmly held by some man deemed acceptable to them. Her brothers might have offered support, but Josiah had gone to fight for the North, and Isaac had donned the grey uniform of the Southern States. And so Davida had run, taking only the money and jewels she herself held, and placing her life in the hands of the Lord and her own skill. And that running had led her to this shelter.

  At the time, she had thought that someday she would return to Boston, when the War was over and her brothers back home. But now, when she sat alone by the quiet refuge of her fireplace, Davida wondered if she would ever leave this place, if her brothers would ever return home, or welcome her back among them. Was she not, after all, the family disgrace?

  Shaking off those thoughts, Davida brought her attention back to the woman sitting across from her. Enis was older than Davida’s father had been at the time of his death, and yet her laugh was still that of a young girl’s, and her husband of thirty years adored the ground her heavy boots trod on. Her gaze was steady, her voice firm, and her instinct for childbirth unerring. She treated the young Finder as an equal, beginning when Davida had first come to her with a severe inflammation of the throat, and Davida often thought wistfully of how her life might have been different had she been born to a couple like Enis and John.

  “And are you suggesting that I marry Master Elkins?” the younger woman asked, bringing the conversation away from the state of her floor —muddy — and back to their original subject.

  “Oh my dear, not even in jest!” Enis made a superstitious gesture under the table. “If you’ve a hankering to be married, I’m sure we could find someone more...” The midwife stopped, searching for the right word.

  “Yes?” Davida prompted, a small devil of mischief lurking in her eyes.

  “Appreciative,” Enis said finally, assessing her friend carefully. “Someone who’ll notice ye’ve a mind as well as flesh.”

  Much to her mortification, Davida felt a flush creep up her neck to her cheeks. The curse of her fair skin; Enis could always see when one of her jibes struck home.

  “You’ll marry some day,” Enis said, reaching over to pat the younger woman’s hand consolingly. “I simply wish for you t’have a man who’ll see you for all that you are, not just a body to keep him warm come winter nights. And not as something to be owned, either. You stay away from William Bradley as well, Davida Sanderson. That one wants you only for the right to choose who you’ll Find for.”

  Enis’s words stirred something in Davida’s memory, and she frowned.

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “I don’t know. I think... I think I had a Finding last night.”

  “Had a... “ Enis put her mug down on the table with a firm thud. “You had a Finding come on you, without a soul bringing it to you?”

  Davida stared at the line of copper pans hanging on the wall across from her, lips pursed in a gentle frown. “I... I’m not sure.

  Enis leaned back, her voice cajoling. “No-one came by, an’ no-one mentioned anything lost? Not even in passing?” That was how the Skill worked in Davida, that someone would tell her what they had lost, describe it for her, and she would feel the “tug,” avision that showed her where the object was. But to have something pull her on its own...

  “Did you lose something, child?”

  Davida blinked, looking startled. “I never thought of that.” She paused, casting her memory back over the past few days. “No, I don’t think so. It didn’t feel like anything familiar, and yet...” She shrugged, uncomfortable with the memory. “No. I couldn’t have. Ah, Enis, you know it doesn’t work that way. How could I Find something that wasn’t missing? It must have been a dream, is all.”