Tale of Gwyn by Cynthia Voigt Page B

his eyes fixed on the fire.
    Gwyn waited with her parents, Blithe and Guy, and Burl behind them. Tad had stayed at the Inn, not wanting to come. He would lay out drink and cups, and the bread and meats Mother had prepared that day. He would serve the guests if they needed anything while the family was gone. Flames licked upward as the sky overhead darkened and lowered. Heat burned on Gwyn’s face. She heard Blithe make little choking sounds; and she turned her head to see her oldest sister move to stand away, her back to the pyre, tears running down her cheeks. Guy tried to comfort her within the circle of his arms.
    It was not Granda Blithe wept for, Gwyn knew. The pyre to which Blithe turned her back burned in memory only. Blithe pushed Guy away, wrapping her arms around herself as if she wrapped them around the grief she clutched so close. She should have stayed with Tad then, Gwyn thought, if she couldn’t look straight at the end of things.
    Afterward, when the people had drunk and eaten and bid farewell, the family sat alone in the kitchen. Blithe and Guy had gone upstairs, where they would share Tad’s room. Burl rinsed plates and cups at the basin, while Rose dried them on a cloth and put them away. Gwyn fed up the fire, leaving Da to sit with Mother. She heated a final pitcher of cider.
    â€œHe had a long life, and a good one,” Mother said. “He made a quiet end.”
    A murmur of assent went around the kitchen, and Gwyn asked the question that had been in her mind all day. Bending over the fire to ladle cider into mugs, she asked her parents, “Did he forget Uncle Win was dead then?”
    They exchanged a look as she set the drinks down before them.
    â€œAye, he must have,” her mother said.
    Gwyn served the mugs of cider. Rose and Burl sat down with them.
    â€œWin was ever the favorite,” Da explained to Gwyn. “I think that loss was always fresh in him. And his mind wandered, at the end.”
    â€œDon’t you mind?” Gwyn asked her father.
    â€œOsh and why should I mind? He was a favorite with all of us, wasn’t he, wife?”
    She nodded, but her face did not, as Da’s had, soften at the memory.
    â€œI wish I’d known him,” Gwyn said.
    â€œHe was good with people,” Da told her, “and with animals too; he had the right touch. But he had a temper—he wasn’t a good man to cross. Even when he was young—”
    â€œEspecially when he was young,” Mother agreed.
    â€œHe must have been handsome,” Rose said.
    â€œThat he was, wasn’t he, wife?”
    â€œAye, he was that. He was a lovely lad. You,” she said to Gwyn, “have a tongue like his. It often got him into trouble. Or out of it. But he was vain, always washed and combed, and dressed proud. He loved the fairs—”
    â€œBecause he wore his finest clothes?” Gwyn guessed.
    â€œOh, he would strut around.” Da smiled. “One eye on the girls.”
    â€œBoth eyes on the girls,” Mother corrected.
    Gwyn tried to picture him. “What color was his hair?”
    â€œBrown, light brown. When he was a boy it was yellow,” Da said.
    â€œHis eyes?”
    â€œBrown, dark brown,” her mother said. “Velvety.”
    â€œHow old was he, when—” Gwyn started.
    â€œOh well,” Da said. “We’ll have a full day tomorrow, or the next, if as Tad tells us the Messenger is due. It’ll mean the stabling of three horses, Burl.”
    â€œThe goats can stay in the barn with the cows.”
    â€œAnd we’ll have baking to do,” Mother said to Gwyn. “When we’ll get Granda’s room cleared out, I don’t know.”
    â€œTad said it’s only for the one night,” Gwyn reminded her.
    â€œAye, but with guests already in the house.”
    â€œBesides, Tad sometimes gets messages wrong,” Rose reminded them.
    â€œNot anymore, he’s learned how.