Finder's Keeper Read online

  The midwife looked unconvinced, but let the matter drop in favor of more immediate gossip. A drummer had come through town just before the storm, and he had left a number of newspapers behind when he moved on. Enis had come to tell Davida the news which had been read to her the night before.

  The younger woman sat back with a fresh mug of tea and listened to the older woman speak of the advances and retreats of the forces beyond their mountains, and the doings in Washington. Fleetingly she recalled her life in Boston. The choice of newspapers, and the rampant gossip. The sound of hooves against cobblestone, and the calling of merchants, the sounds of the city filtering in through fine glass windows...

  But another memory superseded those familiar ones. A memory of an experience that never existed.

  * * *

  textures, deeply unpleasant. an assault upon her skin. she could feel the cold. too-soft bodies underfoot. mustn’t think of it. mist rising. morning. a grey, sad morning. mountains to her back, mountains ahead. not familiar views.

  her feet, unerring, leading the way through mounds of blue and grey cloth. horseflesh torn underfoot. she spares only a glance of sympathy, her steps tracing further into the morass. her skills say something has been lost. something to be found. quickly, quickly. before all is lost forevermore.

  The hammered metal mug fell from suddenly nerveless fingers, crashing to the plank floor and bouncing harmlessly into a corner.

  “Davida?”

  Enis reached across the table to enclose the Finder’s fingers in her own warm clasp, heedless of the steaming tea pooling across the rough-hewn table and soaking into her sleeve. “Child, what do you see?”

  Davida shook her head, coming out of the Finding reluctantly, as though trapped within.

  “Child? What did you see?” Enis asked again, her voice soft and persuasive. She knew from experience that now was a tricky time, when even the clearest Finding could be brushed from the memory by too jarring a return, or too harsh a question.

  “I... I don’t know. Nothing was clear, but I was looking for something... something I had lost. Something I had to find.”

  The midwife say back with a satisfied little grunt, sounding, Davida thought irreverently, much like the piglets in the barn.

  “I told you so. Something you’ve lost. Well, it t’aint likely to have gone straying too far, since you’ve not left us since ye came here. Just sniff about for a few days. Even if you don’t recall what it was has gone missing, you’re likely to find it all the same. And then you’ll remember how it came to be misplaced.”

  Davida nodded slowly, standing to take a cloth off the shelf and mop of the spilled tea. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” But she didn’t sound convinced to either of them.

  And a few hours later, watching Enis disappear though the woods with an ease that belied both her age and her bulk, Davida wondered. And worried.

  * * *

  The next day was Sunday, and Davida took the afternoon for herself, simply enjoying the quiet of the midsummer day.

  The animals fed, and her supper dishes washed, the Finder took her rocking chair out on the porch and watched the sky shade into darkness, the sun setting behind her house. Surely there was no better way to worship the Lord than to admire His handiwork, she thought comfortably. The gentle rock of the slat-back chair soothed her as much as the feel of Patterson’s fur under her hand. This, she thought peacefully, was what she had been missing in her father’s house, in all the grand city of Boston. Contentment. Strange, that she should find herself here. And yet, the Lord provides, the Lord does indeed provide, so long as you’re willing to stir yourself somewhat for it.

  The last rays of sunlight were gilding the stream when Davida looked up to see Robert Whelkins step forward from the shadows to the side of the house. Had she been her grandmother, with her grandmother’s Skill, she would have sensed his distress long before his arrival. The anguish on that careworn face cut through the protective layers of calm she had woven about herself. So much for the illusion of solitude. Even here, they found her.

  With a resigned sigh, she bid her peace farewell and rose out of the rocker to grasp his shaking hand and draw him up to the porch beside her.

  “Tell me.”

  Her voice was no longer gentle, but instead carried an iron certainty which he could not have resisted had he wished to.

  “Ruth Ann.. My Ruthie...” His voice broke.

  Her grip tightened, all pity gone from her posture. “Tell me, Robert. Tell me what I need to know.”

  The older man swallowed hard, nodding miserably. “We were..” he stopped, collecting his thoughts. “She’s wearing blue. That calico she likes so much. Bonnet... her bonnet strings had broken, I was holding it for her. Her stockings were torn,” his voice caught, then he continued. “She was wearing those half boots her Mama brought for her, those ones that pinched her toes, but she loved them so...”

  The litany faded from Davida’s awareness as a picture formed behind her eyelids. The five-year-old appeared as her father described her, the colors and shapes of her attire matching his description.

  little girl. in the darkness. softness all around. not scared. brave girl not to be scared. should she be scared? what is that softness? why so dark? darker than night, darker than under-the-covers. soft wuffling. scraping, slipping noise. little whimpers. nostrils flare, sniffing. smell. musk. wet fur. fur, not hair. sleepy. little girl sleepy? wetfursmell sleepy. fursmellwetnotafraid.

  Davida opened her eyes, unsurprised to find herself shaking inwardly. Finding was always draining, even such a small and easy one as this. She knew Ruthie, had tugged at the child’s braids in passing, and exchanged a cheerful “good morning” when they passed each other on the storefront-lined street which comprised the town proper. That made all of the difference, made it easier and more draining all at once. Not that Robert cared about the details of what she did, she thought, reminded that he was still waiting for her news. She unclenched her fingers from around his callused ones, and nodded at his hopeful glance. “A bitch gave birth recently?”

  Robert blinked, his mouth pursing in thought. “I... yes. Her cousin’s dog had a litter last month. I told her that if she was a good girl we could pick one... but that’s almost a mile from our house!”

  Davida leaned back with a tiny shrug, feeling the shakes begin already. She didn’t try to determine how lost things ended where they did. Her job was simply to find them.

  Robert shot off the porch, stopping only briefly to look back in concern. “Will ye be all right?”

  She closed her eyes and willed her body to stop shaking. He’s already half-gone, she thought wistfully. Already with his daughter.

  “Yes. I will be fine. Go to Ruthie, Robert. She should be in her own bed.”

  The farmer nodded, and was gone.

  Monday morning rose on Davida already hard at work. She had woken well before dawn touched the mountainside, cleaning the goat’s stall and soaking the laundry left undone yesterday. Now, with daylight slipping in through the one window, she threaded her shuttle though the loom without conscious thought, her eyes on the pattern, but her mind far away. Another Finding had come to her during the night, although this one was fainter than her waking dream. It was becoming harder for her to dismiss, even as she resisted.

  It was too vague to be reliable, she scolded herself, and this was no time to set off on a wild goose chase for Lord-knew-what. Not with autumn coming, and soldiers wandering. But that was the curse of her family, the curse her mother, and her mother’s mother had labored under until the moment they died. The Skill wasn’t something to be put down and picked up at whim. It was there, sure as breathing, and, like breathing, could be dangerous to refuse.

  Davida felt a pain form between her eyes. If something was lost, and needed Finding, they came to her. That was all. She need not advertise, or proclaim her skills, and still they came. There was no turning aside from that need in their eyes, no matter the claims of work, or family. Or simple, overwhelming exhaustion. Even here, apparently, in this refuge, she was bound. But by whom?

 

  Her shuttle slowed, stopping halfway between warp and weave. The memories were so clear. Of her mother tossing a servant’s woolen cape across her shoulders and rushing out into the Boston night despite her father’s strict orders not to. Of her aunt, who had sworn with her wedding vows never to spark a fire without tinder, instead of using her God-given Skill. Of the stories she had heard from her grandmother, of the women in her family who had stood proudly, using their Skills as they saw fit, and not as they were told to. Or the ones who had been pressed to their deaths, or forced from their homes by folk frightened of what they could not do themselves.

  Davida’s blue-grey eyes widened at the memories, and she forced herself to resume weaving. As a child, she too had not understood the intense need to serve, had clung to her mother when she would have gone off with the strangers who needed her more than her own kin. In the face of such abandonment, Davida’s brothers had grown to be independent, almost arrogant men, sure in their ability to care for themselves. From childhood alliances, they had shown a comfortable sort of loving scorn for their sister, especially after her courses began, and her Skill manifested itself.

  Now, with the grip of her Skill upon her, Davida sorrowed that she had not been given the chance to meet her mother, woman-to-woman, and share the painful joy of their inheritance.

  Rising from the loom, she turned down the lamp and went to stand in front of the one window in the room. The sun was just visible over the tree line, heralding another calm summer day. In Boston, they would be looking for the first reddening of leaves already. But here, the leaves were still green and full, and she could go outside without anything heavier than her shawl to cover her.

  Letting the light touch her upturned face, Davida thought of the things she had to do this day. Allyson was expecting her to discuss the sale of her weavings, and then she should stop at Beeknan’s store to pick up some more flour. She had discovered a taste for the coarser meal used here, and found that it went just as well with many of her cook’s recipes as the more expensive wheat flour. And, of course, she would need more oil. Her inability to sleep this past week had driven her to read in the darkest hours of the morning, and therefore used more of the lamp fuel than she had planned.

  But still she hesitated, standing by the window while the light grew stronger.

  the ground soft underfoot, dry and sere. black clouds lifting off the field. black with powder, not rain. a battle. a battle but recently passed.

  She shook her head, but the image remained. Her body trembled with the effort, and she was unsurprised to feel a sheen of sweat under her arms and upon her brow. It was a Finding, then. She wasn’t going mad, it was only her Skill. Only undeniable, only unrefusable.

  Davida closed her eyes, trying to remember more of the not-a-dream of the previous night. The pieces were starting to fall into place, slower than usual; slower and more confusing. If only she had something to focus on! Someone to pin this Finding to, and follow it through to the source. That was what she required of her clients, a definite focus to wrap her Skill around and give it grounding. Without that, she was like a ship in a storm, at the mercy of the magical elements. Indeed, without a focus, her Skill should not have been awoken at all.

  Enis’ words came back to her then, and she frowned, resting her head against the wooden window sash. Could it be? Could she, unknowingly, have lost something? Davida shook her head, trying to dislodge that thought. For a Finding to come this strongly, this persistently, she would have had to have lost something of great importance to her — not the sort of thing one would forget, certainly!

  * * *

  thunder. slow roll over the mountains drowning the low dying cries. for the first time sound reached her. she covered her ears in denial. she had not come to far only to fail. she could not fail. it was unthinkable.

  moving slowly, slowly though her pulse urged her to run. there. where the wind seemed to call from the trees. in the shelter of those trees she would Find what she traveled here for.

  Davida awoke with a start, having fallen into a daze between one scoop of grain and the next. That made three times during the day she had slipped into a Finding, with no warning, no catalyst. This simply didn’t happen! And yet only a fool would deny that it was, and she was many things, the good Lord know, but never foolish.

  “This will never do,” she said sternly, not sure if she was speaking to herself or the piglets who scrambled at her feet for their meal. “This will not do at all, my girl. Aunt Miriam would be ashamed of you, and for good reason. Hiding from your Skill like some insipid mouse? You’ve been so proud of your strength of character? Well, now’s the time to draw upon it. Else you might just as well return to Boston and suffocate yourself in someone else’s idea of what you should be and what you should do.”

  Her mind still clouded with Finding, Davida found herself on the path that would lead her through the wooded copse to Allyson’s house, her musket crooked under one arm as a precaution against predators that might mistake her for an easy meal. Although she’d never fired the weapon in anger, her time out of the city had been spent acquiring an understanding of what to do. Despite the oncoming dusk, her movements through the trees were sure and steady, and she allowed no hint of uncertainty to cross her face when she told her friends what she was planning to do.

  Allyson, a gentle young woman a few years younger, for all that she was married and had a babe in her arms, did not understand the Finder’s urgency.

  “Of course we’ll look after your place,” she reassured Davida. “But you cannot be thinking of going off on your own! Please, Davida, for the love of God be reasonable. Heaven only knows what travels the roads these days. There are soldiers everywhere, Confederate and Yankee both. Hardened men, who would think nothing of—” and she blushed and broke off her words. Her husband, a solid man a number of years older, took over for her. “She’s right, Davida. There’s no need f’r this. You’ve said yourself, you’ve no call t’be Finding anything, for nothing’s been lost. This is merely some freakish dream, nothing t’fret for.”

  Davida smiled wearily, anxious to be on her way now that she’d decided on her course. “Please, my friends. No arguments. I must do this, and swiftly. I fear I may have delayed too long already.”

  She stopped, bemused at those words. There here been no feeling of urgency in her Findings, nothing to indicate time was of the essence, and yet the memory of carrion birds circling overhead could not be erased from her mind, and the remembrance of those cold shadows in the clouded sky made her shiver.

  “I must go,” she repeated. “Will you do as I ask?”

  Martin nodded finally, his homely face shrouded with worry. “A’ course,” he said, his voice rumbling low and comforting. “An’ pray you Godspeed as well.”

  Davida kissed them both once, touched the baby’s forehead with one gentle finger, and then was gone back into the dusk, her mind already listing the items she would need to purchase, to take with her.

  She arrived at her home some hours later and saw, without surprise, a shadowy form sitting on her porch. A small lamp, carefully shuttered, threw no light, but she knew who it was.

  “News travels fast in a small town as well as a large one,” she said by way of greeting. Joseph Elkins rose slowly, stiffly. His face was creased in a frown, disapproval sketched plainly in the set of his shoulders.

  Standing by the low wooden steps, Davida stared up at the man who was attempting to bar her from her own home, and felt her temper stir. Despite her red hair, she had taught herself to be a cautious soul, but there was something about this man that could rile her.

  “Have you something to say, Mister Elias, or did you come all this way twice in one week simply for your health?” She could hear the chill in her voice, but it seemed to have no effect on her unwanted visitor.

  “You can’t be serious, lighting out on some fool notion all on your own. T’ain’t seemly. There’s no man in the town would want you after that, not even me.”

  Davida set her teeth to keep from saying something she might regret. “Again, I thank you for your concern, but this is something I must do.”

  “You’re of an age where a man’s hard to come by, Miz Sanderson. Might be, you come back from this foolishness and you’ll find yourself set as an old maid. And if you insist on making a cake of yourself, I won’t be there to save you from that fate, neither.”

  And that, Davida thought grimly, was outside of enough. Fists clenched at her hips, she advanced on him with the wrath and glory of God in her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mister Elkins, but I’ve long ago made my peace with that notion.” She stopped to take a deep breath, and poked one angry finger at his chest. “And I’ll tell you more, Mister Elkins. It would take a worse threat than spinsterhood to drive me into your arms!”

  His mouth opened, then shut with an audible click. Davida backed off just enough to allow him a clear path to the stairs. “Go home, Mister Elkins. Leave me be, for pity’s sake.”

  He swooped his lean body to pick up the lantern, opened it enough to see his path, and strode down the stairs and off into the darkness, the small yellow glow bobbing through the trees like a solitary will o’ the wisp.

  She sighed, and pushed open the door. There was much to do, if she was to leave at first light, and worrying at what others might think would take strength even a woman of her family didn’t have.