Legacy - Lois McMaster Bujold [136]
“Noisy things, cicadas,” Fawn murmured, chinned on her own log. “I heard ’em just starting up when I was riding to Raintree.”
They were both quiet for a very long time, listening to the chaining counterpoint of bug songs. The brown wedge of a muskrat’s head trailed a widening vee across the limpid water, then vanished with a plop as the shy animal sensed their regard. The blue heron floated in, but then just stood folded as though sleeping on one leg. The green-headed ducks, drowsing in the shade across the marsh, didn’t move either. The clear light lay breathing like a live thing.
“This place is like the opposite of blight,” murmured Fawn after a while. “Thick, dense…if you opened up, would its ground just flow in and replenish you?”
“I opened up two hours ago. And yes, I think it may,” he sighed.
“That explains something about places like this, then,” she muttered in satisfaction.
A much longer time later, they regretfully pulled their wrinkled selves up onto the wrack and back into the boat, dressed, and pushed back to start for home. The sun was sliding behind the western trees as they crossed the wide part of the lake, and had turned into an orange glint by the time they climbed the bank to Tent Bluefield. Dag slept that night better than he had for weeks.
18
Fawn woke late the next morning, she judged by the bright lines of light leaking around the edges of their easterly tent flaps. The air inside was still cool from the night, but would grow hot and stuffy soon. Wrapped around her, Dag sighed and stirred, then hugged her in tighter. Something firm nudged the back of her thigh, and she realized with a slow smirk that it wasn’t his hand. I thought that picnic would be good for him.
He made a purring noise into her hair, indicating the same satisfying realization, and she wriggled around to turn her face to his. His eyes gleamed from under his half-closed eyelids, and she sank into his sleepy smile as if it were a pillow. He kissed her temple and lips, and bent his head to nuzzle her neck. She let her hand begin to roam and stroke, giving and taking free pleasure from his warm skin for the first time since he’d been called out to Raintree. He pulled her closer still, seeming to revel in her softness pressing tight to him, skin to skin for the length of her body. This needed no words now, no instruction. No questions.
A hand slapped loudly three times against the leather of the tent flap, and a raspy female voice called, “Dag Redwing Hickory?”
Dag’s body stiffened, and he swore under his breath. He held Fawn’s face close to his chest as if to muffle her, and didn’t answer.
The slaps were repeated. “Dag Redwing Hickory! Come on, I know you’re in there.”
A frustrated hiss leaked between his teeth. All his stiffening, alas, slackened. “No one in here by that name,” he called back gruffly.
The voice outside grew exasperated. “Dag, don’t fool with me, I’m not in the mood. I dislike this as much as you do, I daresay.”
“Not possible,” he muttered, but sighed and sat up. He ran his hand through his sleep-bent hair, rolled over, and groped for his short trousers.
“What is it?” Fawn asked apprehensively.
“Dowie Grayheron. She’s the alternate for Two Bridge Island on camp council this season.”
“Is it the summons?”
“Likely.”
Fawn scrambled into her shift and trailed after Dag as he shoved through their tent flap and stood squinting in the bright sun.
An older woman, with streaked hair like Omba’s braided up around her head, stood drumming her fingers on her thigh. She eyed Dag’s bed-rumpled look in bemusement, Fawn more curiously. “The camp council hearing for you is at noon,” she announced.
Dag started. “Today? Short notice!”
“I came around twice yesterday, but you were out. And I know Fairbolt warned you, so don’t pretend this is a surprise. Here, let me get through this.” She spread her legs a trifle, pulled back her shoulders, and recited, “Dag Redwing Hickory, I summon you to hear and speak to grave complaints brought before the Hickory Lake Camp