The Moorchild Read Online Free Page B

they take a fancy to ’em. But she tired of him afore the baby was born—sent him back Outside. I wager that fisherman’s sorry now he ever took up with the Folk.”
    Moql studied the Prince’s beaky profile, his closed eyes, his beard that waggled slightly with every word, puzzling over the tale and why he was telling it. It seemed to have nothing to do with her morning’s blundering. “Why is the fisherman sorry now?” she asked.
    One bright eye opened to peer at her from under a tangled eyebrow. “Why, that lad’d be five-and-fifty years older, from the minute he stepped Outside again. Likely found a young brother workin’ his nets and boat, friends dead and gone.”
    Moql was not sure what friends meant. Or brother, either.
    “Time runs different in the Mound,” the Prince remarked, and closed the eye again.
    She knew about that, in a general way, without understanding quite what it meant to the fisherman. “What happened to the baby that was near to bornin’?” she hazarded.
    “Aye! That’s the question!” cried the Prince. He sat straight up and jabbed a long finger at her.
    However, he offered no answer. Moql gave it up and turned to watch for Pittittiskin, who at that moment scrambled onto the ledge, along with Talabar. Talabar was a beauty—her floating hair more silvery than most, her tilted eyes a purer lavender, the curve of her cheek more gentle. She swept a smiling, surprised glance from Moql to the Prince.
    “So, Talabar,” the Prince greeted her genially. “Was’t you coaxed that fisher lad into the Mound, love? Tall young fella, black hair? Quite a time ago?”
    She pondered a moment, a long, graceful finger gently patting her pursed lips. Moql watched anxiously from her low stone seat, wanting her to remember about the fisher lad and explain what he had to do with this blundering morning.
    She was rewarded as Talabar’s face suddenly cleared. “Oh, aye. The fisherman!” she exclaimed. “His name was Pawel—or maybe Harel. He was lovely—so handsome!”
    “Ah,” said the Prince. “And he was among us here for quite a space, was he not, m’dear?”
    “He was, Prince. Fergil! That was his name, I think. Yes, Fergil. But he kept wanting me to go home with him.”
    “They always do. I’ve warned you.”
    Talabar shrugged her delicate shoulders. “So finally I said, Yes, I will, if you go first. So he left, but of course I stayed here. There was going to be a baby!” She smiled and shrugged again. “It was a long time ago.”
    “This long,” said the Prince, and pointed to Moql. Suddenly everybody was looking at Moql. She stared up at them, going numb all over as she finally caught a glimmering of what this all had to do with her.
    Talabar smiled down at her. “Oh, is it you, little duckling? What a dear baby you were! Sweet as honeycomb!” With a light touch on Moql’s hair she turned back to the Prince. “That’s all you wanted of me?”
    “That’s all. Run along, m’dear.”
    Talabar left, glancing back for one more smile and a little wave to Moql, who sat gazing after her like a small stone image, trying to comprehend. She, she herself, was that baby. Talabar was her mother. She whispered the word, trying it out, with no idea how to react to it. The younglings teased about mothers, but never knew—nor asked—which was whose. What did you do if you found out? Would everything be different? Would anything? Not for Talabar. She had jumped lightly off the ledge and gone back to her life. Not for me, either, then, Moql was just deciding, when the Prince spoke to her.
    “So—it’s all clear now, little one. That’s your trouble,” he said genially. “Father’s that fisher lad.”
    Father? Moql’s muddled thoughts had gone no further than mother. Fathers were never even teased about. They barely existed. “Why is that a trouble?”
    “Well! You’re misbegotten. Half human, y’see. Danger tothe Band, having you around.” He smiled at Moql, then turned to