Bedtime Story

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The boy's hair was as black as hers, but his eyes were the eyes of another.

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The knock arrived at the door in the evening. An old man in town had fallen sick, and his daughter had come asking for Jehan's mother's help. A lot of people come here for her now, even some of the wealthier ones. Last week a young scribe had come running, saying his master's wife was having pains and would Jehan's mother please send some of her herbs. This time, though, Jehan's mother had to leave. Jehan knew it meant it was one of the more serious cases.

"It's still raining, Mom," Jehan said, pointing outside.

"I know, I'll be careful," his mother replied. She ruffled Jehan's hair, ignoring his squirm, as she buttoned up her cloak. "You'll see me in the morning. Be good, alright?" She turned, looking at someone standing behind Jehan.

"Quit looking so worried," the person behind Jehan said. "Neither of us are five anymore. Right, Jehan?"

The red-haired man they called Dustfinger smiled down at Jehan. Jehan looked away.

"Remember to close the windows before you sleep," said Jehan's mother, "or you'll catch a cold. And if the- "

"Yes, yes, we know," said Dustfinger, kissing her briefly as he opened the door. "Hurry now, before the rain pours heavier."

Jehan stared out at his mother riding off into the distance, and slowly, reluctantly, closed the door. A silence followed. He shifted from one foot to the other, scrubbing his toes against the soft earth on the floor. He yelped when suddenly, something small and furry clampered up his legs and snaked around his waist, sniffing at his pockets curiously.

"Gwin, stop that," said Dustfinger, clicking his tongue. But the marten didn't budge and kept sniffing. It tickled.

Jehan reached into his pocket and pulled out the leftover piece of bread he'd forgotten he still had. The marten immediately nipped it in his mouth and scampered off, climbing onto Dustfinger's shoulder where he stared at Jehan with his tiny black eyes.

"Greedy little thing," laughed Dustfinger.

Jehan climbed onto the bed while Dustfinger played with his pet. His original plan was to pretend to be tired and go to sleep. But right now was still very early and only babies went to sleep that early, and he didn't want to seem like a baby, even if he was tired, which he wasn't. So he just stared up at the ceiling, cursing the sky for raining because otherwise he'd be out there playing with his friends and wouldn't have to be sitting here awkwardly with Dustfinger. He even wished Brianna was here, but of course she was at the castle as always with Her Kindliness, though it was true that she came back to visit more often now.

"The rain... Someone once told me the rain was the White Women's tears because they've forgotten how to cry."

Why was Dustfinger still trying to talk to him? But Jehan thought about that sentence and frowned. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Aha. So you haven't lost your voice after all."

"You - " Jehan's angry retort, however, died in his throat when he saw Dustfinger's grin, so playful that Jehan couldn't really stay angry at all.

"What's that in your hand?" Dustfinger asked him, standing up and approaching the bed.

Jehan's instinct was to hide it, but decided it was stupid to do so. Dustfinger already saw it anyway. Jehan looked at him and back at the book he held in his hands. "Here," he said, handing it to Dustfinger. He really didn't know himself why he did that. Maybe because he wanted to see Dustfinger's reaction.

Dustfinger took the book hesitantly, almost as if he was afraid of touching it. "I'm not so good at reading. It takes me a long time."

"It's not a book that you read," said Jehan.

Dustfinger glanced at him, but Jehan just looked out the window at the steady sheet of rain. He listened to the pages rustling as Dustfinger began leafing through the small brown book, page by page, pausing for long moments in-between each flip.

"They're beautiful," said Dustfinger quietly.

Jehan could hear the awe in his voice. Jehan nodded, though he still kept his eyes on the window.

With every rustle of the page, Jehan could picture what Dustfinger was seeing in his eyes. Delicate sketches of the farm, the animals, the trees, the goose, Brianna and the other sister Jehan had never met before... and of course, his mother. Drawn from so many different angles, showing so many different expressions... They were there, all of them, as fresh as if they had manifested themselves on the pages overnight, even though the corners are all yellowed by now.

The rustling sound stopped. Dustfinger had gotten to the last page. "Is this him?" Dustfinger paused; from the corner of Jehan's eyes he could see Dustfinger raise his head. "He looks like you... Or I should say, you look like him."

This time Jehan did turn around and meet Dustfinger's gaze. He examined Dustfinger's face for anything that might show through. Jealousy? Pity? Guilt? But he could find nothing.

"My mother says that too," said Jehan finally. "She says I have his eyes."

"And his nose... and his mouth," said Dustfinger, looking down at the book. "Except for the hair, you can be twins." He closed the book and laid it in Jehan's lap. "Your father was a talented man. No wonder your mother chose him."

Jehan wasn't imagining it. There was a trace of wistfulness in Dustfinger's face. "She doesn't like to talk about him," Jehan said, stroking the cover of the brown book softly.

"Do you remember him?"

Jehan shook his head. "I was two when he died."

He thought Dustfinger would say I'm sorry, that must have been hard, you poor boy, any of those phrases he has heard a million times from other people. But instead Dustfinger sat down on the bed, scratching Gwin behind his ears, and said, "I don't remember mine either. In my dreams, his face changes each time."

Jehan looked up. "How did... how did your father die?"

If Jehan's mother had been here, she would have berated him for being so rude. But Dustfinger just smiled at him, a smile that was barely there. "I don't know. The people who brought me up didn't know. They only said they'd found me, just a babe, wrapped in a blanket and placed outside their tent."

"Then... he could still be alive," said Jehan. "And your mother, too!"

Dustfinger shook his head, laughing a laugh that sounded hollow. "When I was your age, I once ran away to the city, looking at every passerby hoping to see someone with hair of this color." He pointed at his red locks. "I really thought I could find them, that they were still alive and well and would welcome me back with open arms."

"But you don't know - maybe they're still - "

"No, I do know," said Dustfinger, and something in his eyes made Jehan shut up at once. "The old woman who raised me all those years - before she died, she finally told me the truth. She knew my mother, and my father too. My mother was another strolling player. My father..." Dustfinger's voice grew bitter. "He was a drunk on the streets. And the very curse of my mother."

"What? Why?" asked Jehan. "Didn't your mother love him?"

Dustfinger jerked his head up, as if just realizing who he was talking to. "Perhaps," he said lightly.

Jehan tugged at a straw under the blanket and absently poked Gwin with it. Curled into a ball next to Jehan's pillow, Gwin twitched but didn't stir. "So why did the old woman lie to you for so long?"

"She wanted to protect me from the truth." Dustfinger turned to Jehan. "Because sometimes the truth hurts more than lies."

Is that why you're not telling me everything? To protect me from the truth, too? But Jehan didn't say this out loud. He might not understand it all completely yet, but he understood enough to know this at least.

The rainfall had slowed down outside. It was only a light drizzle now.

"Alright," said Dustfinger. He stood up and closed the windows. "Time to sleep."

"I'm not sleepy," protested Jehan.

Dustfinger flicked his fingers and the flame in the oil lamp dimmed. Jehan never knew how he did that. "Nonsense, you're yawning."

"I'm not," mumbled Jehan, even as another yawn came. But he obediently lied down and Dustfinger drew the blanket over him. "Dustfinger?"

"Yes?" The dim light made it hard to make out Dustfinger's features, but Jehan could see his pale eyes reflecting off the flame in the lamp.

"Do you think the White Women will let my father go, like they let you go?"

There was a long pause before Dustfinger replied. "No... No, I'm afraid not."

"Then do you think I'll get to see him when I go to the White Women too?"

Dustfinger knelt down besides the bed. His smile was gentle. "Yes, but only when you're an old, old man."

"Will he know it's me by then?"

"He'll always know it's you," said Dustfinger, brushing Jehan's hair from his forehead like his mother would. It felt kind of nice. "Shhh, go to sleep. Enough questions."

Jehan closed his eyes, but before he drifted to sleep he thought about the way Dustfinger looked at him, with care but with sadness too. He wondered if it was because he was thinking of another boy, with darker skin and the ability to breathe fire just as well as Dustfinger, who used to glue to Dustfinger like glue but had gone away somewhere a while ago and still hadn't come back... Why was that? Didn't he miss Dustfinger?

I guess I'll just have to ask him tomorrow, Jehan thought drowsily. Dustfinger wasn't so bad after all, though he wasn't Jehan's father. At the very least Dustfinger seemed to be one of the few grown-ups who listened to Jehan's questions and answered them, even if sometimes with lies. But they were pretty lies.

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