I looked down at my feet. She had changed me into her image of me. Her dream was devouring mine. Now I was a man-wolf. My black claws dug into the loose gravel. Moving on all fours, with my weight lower, I clawed my way up the slope toward her. When I was close enough to see the dried salt track of tears on her cheeks, I growled, “Tell me what?”
It was all the permission she needed. “They think Swift ran away to sea, for so we made it seem, he and I. Oh, do not look at me like that! You don't know what it was like around here! Papa was a perpetual storm cloud and Swift near as bad. Poor Nim slunk around like a whipped dog, ashamed to win praise from Papa because his twin could not share it. And Mama, Mama was like a madwoman, every night demanding to know what ailed them, and both of them refusing to answer. There was no peace in our house anymore, no peace at all. So when Swift came to me and asked me to help him slip away, it seemed the wise thing to do.”
“And what sort of aid did you give him?”
“I gave him money, money that was mine, to use as I pleased, money I had earned myself helping with the Gossoin's lambing last spring. Mama often sent him to town, to make deliveries of honey or candles. I thought up the plan for him, that he would start asking neighbors and folk in town about boats and fishing and the sea. And then, at the last, I wrote a letter and signed Papa's name as I have become accustomed to doing for him. His eyes . . . Papa can still write, but his hand wanders for he cannot see the letters he is forming. So, of late, I have written things for him, the papers when he sells a horse and such. Everyone says that my hand is just like his; probably because he taught me to make my letters. So . . .”
“So you wrote a letter for Swift saying that his father had released him and that he could go forth and do as he pleased with his life.” I spoke slowly. Every word she spoke burdened me more. Burrich and Molly quarreled, and he took to drink again. His sight was failing him, and he believed he had driven his son away. Hearing these things rent me, for I knew I could not mend any of them.
“It can be difficult for a boy to find any sort of work if folk think he is a runaway apprentice or a lad whose work still belongs to his father.” She spoke the words hesitantly, trying to excuse her forgery. I dared not look at her. “Mama packed up six racks of candles and sent Swift into town to deliver them and to bring back the money. When he said good-bye to me, I knew he meant to take that opportunity. He never came back.” Around her, flowers bloomed and a tiny bee buzzed from one to the next, seeking nectar.
I slowly worked through her words. “He stole the candle money to travel on?” My estimate of Swift dropped.
“It wasn't . . . it wasn't exactly stealing. He'd always helped with the hives. And he needed it!”