A Meeting At Corvallis

Much else had changed. A ditch and bank surrounded the steading, and on top of it was a fence of thick posts and barbed wire; not a real fortification like a Mackenzie dun, as this part of the Corvallis lands had been spared outright war, but it was enough to help deter hit-and-run bandits and sneak thieves who'd know there were ready weapons behind it. One of the silos had a watch-post on top, as well as fodder within. Off to one side rectangular beehives stood on little wheeled carts, dreaming the winter away in their coats of woven straw.

New barns and sheds had been built, and four smaller houses behind the main dwelling. Like most surviving farmers the Fi

At last the Fi

Tonight windows were bright with lamplight and voices spilled out of the farmhouse, and more showed where the eastern guests were bedded down in barns. One had been cleared for dancing. Corvallan country-folk weren't quite as isolated as rustics elsewhere, since they had a real city within a day's travel. Still, a visit on this scale was a welcome excuse for sociability, and the Mackenzies were old friends here. A violin tuning up made Juniper's fingers itch for the feel of her own fiddle, and a snatch of song came clear through the slow soughing of the wet wind, as a dozen voices joined in the chorus:

"-I'll ride all night and seek all day, till I catch the Black Jack Davy!"

" I thought Dad would go on forever," Edward said. "He wouldn't take it easy, no matter how often Gert and I told him to."

"It happened during harvest, didn't it?" Juniper said.

"The tail of it, end of July, the last of the wheat. We were watering a team, and he scraped the sweat off his forehead with his thumb and said, Got us a hot one this year, then stopped and said Oh, shit! and dropped down dead. At least it was quick, not like Mom."

Juniper made a sign and smiled. "He was well over eighty this year, wasn't he? He told me once that after making it back alive from Frozen Chosin he swore he wanted to die on his own land, and on the hottest day of the year with sweat dripping into his eyes. There's always Someone listening when you make a wish, you know."

The farmer laughed ruefully. "Yeah, he told me that story too when I was a kid-showed me where he'd frozen a couple of his toes off, too. I think his Korea stories made me decide on the Air Force-anything but the Marines! 'Course, if I hadn't, I'd never have met Gert. Speaking of which, let's get back before she gets di

Juniper nodded and they turned to walk back down the row of maples; a pair of well-trained Alsatians fell in behind them. Gertrud Fi

"Reminds me of my own mother, a little, she does, but don't tell her that. I wouldn't risk that di

Edward Fi

"Stop, stop, before I drool down my plaid, for Her sweet sake! I had way-bread and hard cheese for lunch, eaten damp!"

"How come Eilir isn't with you?" Fi

"She's with Astrid, on Dunedain business." She winked at him. "To be sure, she's also with John Hordle."

"Little John Hordle? I've heard of him. He's the one put down Mack, Baron Liu's mad dog, isn't he?"

"With help. And with him is Alleyne Loring, who's a good friend of Astrid now."

Fi

Juniper frowned for a second, then shrugged. "He stayed in Dun Juniper, said he had something to do there."

Then she shook off whatever was troubling her and went on: "And then tomorrow we can talk seriously about the Faculty Senate."

"Damn right," Edward Fi

Mathilda Arminger bobbed her head enthusiastically with the beat and tapped her hands on her knees, perched on a truss of hay. The floor of the big barn had been cleared, except for the loose-boxes behind her that held the farm's draught-horses and some of the visitors' riding mounts; lanterns made it bright, in a flickery way that shifted as draughts swung them from the rafters. Juniper Mackenzie was perched on a bale she'd spread with her plaid not far away, her legs tucked beneath her, gri

Not much like home, Mathilda thought; neither the tinkle and buzz of Society-style music, nor the a capella rap and norteno which were the alternatives, nor the hoarded classical vinyl that her mother adored, even played on a wind-up gramophone. But I like it. Makes you want to jump! Home seemed more and more distant now anyway, most of the time. It had been a while since she cried quietly into her pillow for her mother.

The tune built to a conclusion and died away. The dance broke up in laughter and talk, and people headed over to the rough trestle table of planks spread with drinks and nibblements, with hot cider in a big, bubbling pot suspended over a metal brazier, and root beer and soda water as well. Edward Fi