Ennis and Hieram

For the sake of the Lady! Last week was terribly brief, la? My sister came and woke me to tell me our father is much better, and I was very annoyed with her!!! Why she felt she needed to wake me I can’t say. She could equally have waited until morning, though I was grateful for the news.

My father is sitting up again, though his skin is still faintly green, as if he were having a hard time with his stomach. But he talks to us, and even jokes a little, and that is very heartening. I sit by his knee and count off the records to him so that he can keep track of what has been happening since he fell ill. We have three new stone heads, found in a field near Eeling, and a sword that belonged to the Red King, back in the lost days, which someone gave us when their father died. We are lucky that the people take the Museum so seriously; for many of them, the Museum has religious significance, and by giving things of value to our displays, they can win favor with the Gods. My father works not only with the things in the Museum but with the people, as an advisor. People treat him with respect, as he has his own kind of access to sacred ears.

Ennis came today to shoe the horses. It was a cold day - winter is touching the air these last few days - and he was bundled in a thick jacket, with the shoeing apron over his legs, and once again I did not recognize him at first. I went to watch the shoeing, as it has interested me since I was small, and after a time of measuring and trimming, Ennis straightened his back and shot me a sidewise smile which pierced me to the core. I was suddenly certain that he knew I knew his secret.

I went on watching, wondering what I would say to him. Should I apologize for following him that day? Or should I make light of it? I stood there, uncertain, until the Duke’s son Hieram, who I didn’t get to tell you about last week, strode into the courtyard and made a coarse joke about poor Ennis, bent over under the horse.

I was drawing my breath to protest - Hieram never fails to raise my hackles - when Ennis answered him quietly, perfectly placid. I was amazed by his indifference, until I grasped the joke in what he said, and snorted.

Hieram stopped suddenly - as if he had been shot - for he saw the joke only a beat after I, and turned around, all threat. But Ennis went on placidly working, looking like a dull groom about his work, while Hieram watched him narrowly. I suppose he was soothed by Ennis’ apparent humility, for after a moment he relaxed and went away inside.

“Gone to strengthen his Blood, la?” Ennis said to the horse’s hoof, and I snorted again, and was rewarded by that quick smile, which warmed me through. The smile told me we were conspirators, so when my mother called me to lunch, I went away with a light step, knowing he was seeing me all the way in.

Too fast

I do hate how the Hands take themselves away while I am still shaping a sentence. Last sevenday, I was still considering what to say about my father’s illness and my place as nurse - when I was whisked away, back to my own bed. I must find some way to make the Hands stay until I am done with what I must say.
Who are you, out there? For whom do I write these things? I wish I could see you, oh owner of these aging Hands. Who else reads these things I write? I wish that I could know.

And yet, if I did know, would I be able to speak so freely about what is so close, so private, to my heart?

Hieram, the Duke of Aneth’s stupid son, has

Unfairness and Discomfort

My father has taken ill. Although he is back in the King’s graces, I feel certain that there is someone else determined to do him harm. He became ill after eating a number of fruits that were sent here in a gift-basket for him; he cannot resist figs, and there were a number in the basket.

I had eaten some of the apples and one of the pears, and nothing came of it; but he was ill so suddenly after eating them that I suspect the sender knows he is fond of figs, and tried to poison him.

It is all so petty! Why would someone want to hurt him, except for silly political intrigues, or because he behaved in a way that was not perfectly correct? I am tired of the Lords of the House - they demand nothing short of slobbering flattery from those who are not of the Blood. Think of the sleep my father lost and how he was nearly ruined, simply by defending the King’s possessions from a greedy lord!

I have not seen Ennis all this week. My discovery of his secret has made me both grateful for his absence, so I may take time to know how I feel, and somewhat impatient for his return, for on examining my feelings, I find I wish very much to talk to him about his talent. I will find a way!

In the meantime, I must nurse my father, so

Ennis' Secret

I'm afraid I don't know what I said last time. I have nothing to look at to confirm what I wrote.

...Oh, yes - I was talking about Ennis' secret, la?

I followed him, and I didn't know what to do. He seemed so impossible to reach, so much possibility for embarrassment!

I was torturing myself with all the horrid possibilities when he turned into a small. old, unused lane. Curious, I followed. It seemed so strange that my childhood friend could be hiding something; I didn't believe it. Still, I drew back behind a tree when he came to an old wine-making barn, decrepit and filthy, and looked around. I feel sure he did not see me, and when I dared to look he was nowhere in sight.

I felt a shiver creep down my back, but I crept out and looked all around the place. It looked just as falling-down as before, but I saw a footprint on the doorsill, and I knew he'd gone inside. So I peeped in at the windows.

They were all so dirty I couldn't see through them - except one, which had a small corner clear. Carefully, I peered through.

At first, I couldn't see anything, but I saw something moving off to the left. I thought it must be Ennis, walking back and forth. Then things became clearer, and I saw that he had removed some kind of covering which was letting light in through the ceiling. Before him was a large old table, covered with something lumpy. I looked and looked, trying to see what it was - and then he pulled at it and I saw it was a cloth covering something else.

When he paced by, pulling the cloth back, I almost lost my breath. On the table were several machines, some of the most beautiful I had ever seen. Different metals had been used, and they gleamed black and silver, coppery and yellowy-gold. Wooden knobs stuck out like a backbone from one, and some lovely and transparent things, like billowfish spines, rose from another. I could see the inner workings, and more innards scattered over the table. He was creating these machines, in secret.

Why he hid them, I can't say. I have not seen him since. I watched for awhile, but looking at someone's back while they file and drill and screw things together is dull, and after a time I gave up.

I have spent four days now thinking about this. I felt odd about Ennis before, confused and unhappy, and to this now is added some other strange emotion. I can't understand what it is. It is like excitement, or glee, or fierce happiness, but I am scared to death to come face to face with him, for I fear it would show in my face. I fear he will see it there and know I have been spying on him. I am so proud of him! How can I tell him so without letting him see I followed him?

The King has forgiven my fa

Hope

I've been sleeping better and better.

There has been no word of the Duke's doings, and the King has been perfectly civil to my father, so we are hoping nothing will come of the Duke's displeasure.

Yesterday, I discovered Ennis's secret. He doesn't know I know yet, and I'm not sure how to approach him about it.

I saw him ahead of me on the road, and followed him awhile. I was of two minds, as always with him: to catch him up or to leave him alone, not burden him with my approach, unless I had something to speak to him about. I would do anything to avoid the horrors of the last time we saw each other. No true ill, just terrible embarrassment on my part. But more about that later.

I walked awhile, watching him, trying to think of something to say to him. I searched my mind for any subject on which to converse, any reason to approach him. Perhaps I could

Machines

The Hands came so strongly and quickly tonight, it was almost a shock. I sat in the Hands' window, looking outside for awhile. The world outside is grey and sheets with rain. The buildings in this place are sharp and ugly. When I see them I know I am in no dream, for I could not imagine such things.

So with that question, where am I? Some other world I can enter through the door of sleep? Perhaps the Afterworld? How can I know? The thought makes me shiver, and I can see goose pimples rise on the Hands' arms. I must not let go, for I have so much to say, so many questions.

Hands, who are you? Can you answer me?

--I waited here for twenty minutes, and the Hands did not answer, did not even move from the typing machine. I will keep trying, each time I come.

The machines here are not like the machines at home. Yes, we have machines, though we do not move around in the strange, sleek waggons that the people here seem to use. Our machines are not work-machines, as yours seem to be. We do not use them to replace our bodies, for that would be blasphemous. Our Gods made our bodies as they are so that they can do the work at hand, and to give the work away is to shun the gifts we are given.

Our machines look different, and are for different purpose.

For example, we do not cover our machines in sleek metal clothing. The workings of machines are part of their marvelousness, and should be there for all to see. My father, who tends many machines in the Museum, says that the best machines show inspiration in their workings, and inspiration is of the spirit. Therefore by looking at the workings of the machines, people may be lifted in spirit, may be closer to inspiration, and thence to the Gods.

I understand what he is saying but I do not see the inspiration. It does not move me.

Still, I think the machines are beautiful. Their movements are carefully designed to please, the sounds they make and the way they work together are like a dance, like a symphony. I love to watch them.

Once, during the Night of Dance, Ennis and Amela and I ran through the middle of a wandering group of Hush Motors. Their gently-waving fingers brushed against our faces. We laughed and ran in circles, and the Hush motors shushed at us, tickling. I knew the adults would -

Oh. Here it co

Sleepless

I'm sorry it's been so long!

I haven't been to visit the Hands for more than a moon, and the last time was only a quick peek before I was drawn back again. There was no time to write.

I have been sleeping badly.

My father is in trouble with the Duke of Aneth, which makes him in trouble with the King. When the Duke is angry with you you must walk very carefully! I know my father is not sleeping well either, for late at night when I am turning and turning in my bed I can hear him through the floor, pacing and pacing.

It's a stupid reason, too. The Duke took a fancy to a sword in the museum and would take it away. My father said he couldn't take it, it belonged to the King's grandfather, and a King's sword is too important for a Duke to use.

He made a mistake. The Duke was stung; he doesn't like being made to feel small, and my father, who is usually so diplomatic, didn't speak carefully enough. I think he was tired, and angry that the Duke thought he could take such a thing, as if it belonged to him. My father feels that the Duke is too free with the King's things, with the King himself even, but he would never normally say such a thing. The King is so easygoing, it is easy for people to forget themselves with him, but everyone knows the Duke takes advantage of this kindness of the King's.

So now the Duke is poisoning the King's ear with false tales about my father. The king, sweet man that he is, can hardly believe it, and shakes his head in disbelief, or so I hear. But the Duke will win, in the end. And that is what takes my father's sleep: how long?

The terrible thing, the thing I can't tell anyone, is that I'm not sleepless because of my father's trouble. I have troubles of my own.

The other day I saw Ennis again. He was working with his father, unloading hay from the waggon, and he had his shirt off. When I saw it I didn't know what to do, because that feeling I had before that he was someone I didn't know came back, but I was also embarrassed, because I wanted to say hello. I stood there, feeling stupid and watching him work, and the longer I stood there the worse it got. Finally, I thought I would sneak away before he saw me, but of course as soon as I moved, he looked up.

He smiled at me and waved, and suddenly I could see the old Ennis inside that big person, and it felt wonderful to have him back!!! I smiled back, I think, but then the sun shone on his skin and the moment was over. I felt embarrassed again, and I ran off. I could feel him looking after me as I went, but there was nothing I could do.

Ever since then I've been anxious all the time. It's so strange. I look everywhere for him, terrified I might see him; but when I don't see him I'm somewhat disappointed. It's horribly confusing. I can hardly sleep, thinking how foolish I must have looked and wondering what to do next time.

So, trying to get away from that thinking, for it is useless as well as hopeless, I have been raiding the library for books, and reading long into the night. If I get tired enough, I will sleep. If not, well, then I turn and turn.

In the meantime, I can hear my father down below: tramp, tramp, tramp. My mother says we look like a couple of ghosts. She can't stand how tired we look. I don't blame her. If I had anot