by Jane Yolen
“Fe-fi’s again.”
“I am comprehending that piece of alienness slowly. Digestion is difficult. The grinding continues.”
“Perhaps,” I replied cooly, “it should not continue.”
“But I am working triple,” Necros said, twisting his head back in such alarm that the lumps of heart pounded madly in front of my mouth. “And we have salvaged all but the ship’s shell and the room where the poet lives.” His voice was strained by his effort to show me his chin.
“It is true that the boxes grow full and my desires descend,” I admitted. “How long will this salvage take?”
He shrugged. “The poet’s voice weakens. He speaks again and again of the night.” He dared to lower his chin. “Night is, I am beginning to think, the ultimate alien season. Perhaps I will comprehend it soon.”
“Perhaps you will,” I said, turning without giving him any promises.
The next work section I was sleeping, with my body pressed along the sleek gray ship’s side, dreaming of mating. I had grown so much with the salvage that I was now nearly half the length of the alien vessel, and my movements were slow.
Necros found me there and quivered in all his sections. I heard a deep grinding in his sack which he coyly kept from my sight.
“The poet is dead,” he said, “and I have salvaged him. But before he died, I made up one of his own strange poems and sang it into the translator. He liked it. Listen, I too think it quite fine.”
We all stopped our work to listen, raising our chins slightly. To listen well is of the highest priority. It is how one acknowledges order.
Necros began:
The old poet fades.
Transfigured into the night,
Not-true becomes true.
“What do you think? Does it capture the alien? Is it true salvage?”
A small one-year shook his head. “I still do not know what night is.”
“Look out beyond the ship,” said Necros. “What is it you see?”
“I see our great Oneness.”
Necros nodded, letting ripples of pleasure run the entire length of his body. “Yes, that is what I thought, too. But I comprehend it is what he, the alien, would call night.”
I smiled. “Then your poem should have said: Transfigured into Oneness.”
Necros shivered deliciously and his sack began its melodious grinding again. “But they are the same, Oneness/Night. So Not-true becomes True. Surely you see that. Truly it is written that with salvage all becomes One.”
And indeed, finally, we all comprehended. It was fine salvage. The best. The hollow ship rang with our grinding.
“You shall share my box this section,” I said.
But so full of his triumph, Necros did not at first realize the great honor I had bestowed upon him. He chattered away. “Next time I must try to use all the alien seasons in a poem. Seasons. I must think more about the word and digest it again, for I am not at all sure what it means. It has sections, though, like a beautiful body.” And he blushed and looked at me.
“They are called Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall.”
I ran them into my mouth and agreed. “They are indeed meaty,” I said. “Next time we meet such aliens we will all salvage their poems.” Then I spoke the haiku back to him, once quickly before it was forgotten:
The old poet fades,
Transfigured into the night.
Not-true becomes true.
Smiling, I led the way back across the platform to the boxes, leaving the one-years who were not yet ready to mate to finish salvaging the ship’s hull.
The Bull & the Crowth
THERE WAS ONCE A shoemaker named Jamie Green and oh, but he was a bonny man. He could measure and fit a shoe faster than you could say Jack Derrystones, and not another cobbler could outdo him at his last. He had fitted mayors and mistresses, and made riding boots for a baron.
He had a fine eye for the horses, too. And one for the ladies also. But best of all, Jamie Green loved to play on the fiddle and the crowth.
Of his fiddling, well, there’s nought to be said excepting he could squeak a note or three and it wasn’t all that unpleasing to the ear. He could pick out enough dance tunes to play along with a band, though it was better when the band was loud and the crowd three drinks past caring.
But of his playing on the crowth, this must be said: where he plucked, he should have fiddled, and where he fiddled, he should have plucked and it would be better for all if he never laid a hand to it at all, at all. But never a body would he listen to if they said ill of his notes.
“Why, my crowth sings like the birds,” Jamie would say. “It is the Irish nightingale itself you hear whenever I settle myself to play.” For of course it followed that he was prouder of his playing than of his leatherwork. And it was sad that he could not see that at the last he was a master while at the crowth he was but a poor apprentice.
It happened on a holyday that a great fair was to be held just a short way down the road. And Jamie Green was not the man to be left home by himself. After all, at a holyday fair there were sure to be horses and women and song. So Jamie closed up his shop and picked up his crowth and set his feet upon the road. The wind was fair on his face and the sun bright on his hand.
“I shall go and play with my friends on the green,” thought Jamie to himself. “And won’t they be pleased to see me coming,” for there is no liar like the one who lies to himself. He has a fool indeed for an audience.
Jamie had not gone but half the way there when suddenly what should be blocking the road before him but a giant red bull. It had horns as wide as the doorways to hell and a wicked knowing gleam in its eye. It snorted and pawed the ground, striking fire from the rocks with each blow.
Jamie looked this way and that, up the road and down, and fortunately he spied a sturdy tree but a few paces behind. He gave no more thought to the holyday fair, but putting one foot in back of the other, slowly and quietly, he crept to the tree. Then, smiling at the bull, he upped with a hand and pulled himself onto a branch. The bull roared, but Jamie scrambled higher into the tree, away from those great flashing horns.
Now that he was in the tree, Jamie’s courage returned and also his thirst for horses, women, and song. He hoped that the bull would go away, leaving him the road to the fair. But no one had told the beast of this plan. Indeed, taking a position beneath the tree, the bull settled itself down for a long, long wait. Its head rested on the ground, but the horns still flashed their invitation, and the bull’s eyes never closed.
“Go on!” shouted Jamie at last. “Get on with you.”
But the bull only blinked its eyes once, twice, and again.
And Jamie thought, “Well, what’s to be done? Surely I cannot stay in this perch all day.”
But stay he did. One minute after another, one hour after another, till his backside had got weary with sitting and his temper grown shorter as the day had grown longer.
Still the great bull did not move, but blinked its eye and stared up.
“Well,” Jamie said at last, weariness giving him ideas, “I have heard that music can charm even the wildest beast, and I have never seen wilder. Perhaps if I play this bull a soothing tune, it will leave off the winking of its eye and the flashing of its horns, give me a smile, and fall fast asleep at the foot of my tree. Then I can get down and go about my business at the holyday fair.”
So, slowly, slowly, slower than slow, so as not to annoy the great lumbering beast, Jamie got out the crowth and bow from the leather bag.
And down below the bull lay staring.
Then Jamie, without even waiting to tune, struck up his favorite song. He plucked and fiddled, he fiddled and he plucked, till the tree’s limbs fair quivered with the melody and the branches fair shook with the notes. It went so well, he even hummed as he played.
Well, it was loud. And it was long. But it did nothing to soothe the bull. Instead, with a horrible bellow and a shake of its head, the bull turned up its tail and fled.
Jamie Green looked down at his crowth and then back to the fleeing bull. He forgot that he had wanted the beast to leave and remembered only the insult to his song.
“Stop, stop,” he cried. “Come back. Come back and I’ll change the tune.”
But the bull did not stop running till it came to the farmer’s barn where it went in and kicked the gate closed after it.
And what of Jamie Green? He went on to the holyday fair. And at his coming, when they saw he was carrying his crowth, his friends bellowed loudly as any bull. But they were surprised when he played not a single note. And to this day, so they say, Jamie Green has stuck to his last and has never played another tune.
The River Maid
THERE WAS ONCE A rich farmer named Jan who decided to expand his holdings. He longed for the green meadow that abutted his farm with a passion that amazed him. But a swift river ran between the two. It was far too wide and far too deep for his cows to cross.
He stood on the river bank and watched the water hurtle over its rocky course.
“I could build a bridge,” he said aloud. “But, then, any fool could do that. And I am no fool.”
At his words the river growled, but Jan did not heed it.
“No!” Jan said with a laugh. “I shall build no bridge across this water. I shall make the river move aside for me.” And so he planned how he would dam it up, digging a canal along the outer edge of the meadow, and so allow his cows the fresh green grass.
As if guessing Jan’s thoughts, the river roared out, tumbling stones in its rush to be heard. But Jan did not understand it. Instead, he left at once to go to the town where he purchased the land and supplies.
The men Jan hired dug and dug for weeks until a deep ditch and a large dam had been built. Then they watched as the river slowly filled up behind the dam. And when, at Jan’s signal, the gate to the canal was opened, the river was forced to move into its new course and leave its comfortable old bed behind.
At that, Jan was triumphant. He laughed and turned to the waiting men. “See!” he called out loudly, “I am not just Jan the Farmer. I am Jan the River Tamer. A wave of my hand, and the water must change its way.”
His words troubled the other men. They spat between their fingers and made other signs against the evil eye. But Jan paid them no mind. He was the last to leave the river’s side that evening and went home well after dark.
The next morning Jan’s feeling of triumph had not faded and he went down again to the path of the old river which was now no more than mud and mire. He wanted to look at the desolation and dance over the newly dried stones.
But when he got to the river’s old bed, he saw someone lying face-up in the center of the waterless course. It was a girl clothed only in a white shift that clung to her body like a skin.
Fearing her dead, Jan ran through the mud and knelt by her side. He put out his hand but could not touch her. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.
Fanned out about her head, her hair was a fleece of gold, each separate strand distinguishable. Fine gold hairs lay molded on her forearms and like wet down upon her legs. On each of her closed eyelids a drop of river water glistened and reflected back to him his own staring face.
At last Jan reached over and touched her cheek, and at his touch, her eyes opened wide. He nearly drowned in the blue of them.
He lifted the girl up in his arms, never noticing how cold her skin or how the mud stuck nowhere to her body or her shift, and he carried her up onto the bank. She gestured once towards the old river bank and let out a single mewling cry. Then she curled in toward his body, nestling, and seemed to sleep.
Not daring to wake her again, Jan carried her home and put her down by the hearth. He lit the fire, though it was late spring and the house already quite warm. Then he sat by the sleeping girl and stared.
She lay in a curled position for some time. Only the slow pulsing of her back told him that she breathed. Then, as dusk settled about the house, bringing with it a half-light, the girl gave a sudden sigh and stretched. Then she sat up and stared. Her arms went out before her as if she were swimming in the air. Jan wondered for a moment if she were blind.
Then the girl leaped up in one fluid movement and began to sway, to dance upon the hearthstones. Her feet beat swiftly and she turned round and round in dizzying circles. She stopped so suddenly that Jan’s head still spun. He saw that she was now perfectly dry except for one side of her shift; the left hem and skirt were still damp and remained molded against her.
“Turn again,” Jan whispered hoarsely, suddenly afraid.
The girl looked at him and did not move.
When he saw that she did not understand his tongue, Jan walked over to her and led her back to the fire. Her hand was quite cold in his. But she smiled shyly up at him. She was small, only chest high, and Jan himself was not a large man. Her skin, even in the darkening house, was so white it glowed with a fierce light. Jan could see the rivulets of her veins where they ran close to the surface, at her wrists and temples.
He stayed with her by the fire until the heat made him sweat. But though she stood silently, letting the fire warm her first one side and then the other, her skin remained cold, and the left side of her shift would not dry.
Jan knelt down before her and touched the damp hem. He put his cheek against it.
“Huttah!” he cried at last. “I know you now. You are a river maid. A water spirit. I have heard of such. I believed in them when I was a child.”
The water girl smiled steadily down at him and touched his hair with her fingers, twining the strands round and about as if weaving a spell.
Jan felt the touch, cold and hot, burn its way down the back of his head and along his spine. He remembered with dread all the old tales. To hold such a one against her will meant death. To love such a one meant despair.
He shook his head violently and her hand fell away. “How foolish,” Jan thought. “Old wives and children believe such things. I do not love her, beautiful as she is. And as for the other, how am I to know what is her will? If we cannot talk the same tongue, I can only guess her wants.” He rose and went to the cupboard and took out bread and cheese and a bit of salt fish which he put before her.
The water maid ate nothing. Not then or later. She had only a few drops of water before the night settled in.
When the moon rose, the river maid began to pace restlessly about the house. Wall to wall she walked. She went to the window and put her hand against the glass. She stood by the closed door and put her shoulder to the wood, but she would not touch the metal latch.
It was then that Jan was sure of her. “Cold iron will keep her in.” He was determined she would stay at least until the morning.
The river maid cried all the night, a high keening that rose and fell like waves. But in the morning she seemed accommodated to the house and settled quietly to sleep by the fire. Once in a while, she would stretch and stand, the damp left side of her shift clinging to her thigh. In the half-light of the hearth she seemed even more beautiful than before.
Jan left a bowl of fresh water near the fire, with some cress by it, before he went to feed the cows. But he checked the latch on the windows and set a heavy iron bar across the outside of the door.
“I will let you go tonight,” he promised slowly. “Tonight,” he said, as if speaking to a child. But she did not know his language and could not hold him to his vow.
By the next morning, he had forgotten making it.
For a year Jan kept her. He grew to like the wavering sounds she made as she cried each night. He loved the way her eyes turned a deep green when he touched her. He was fascinated by the blue veins that meandered at her throat, along the backs of her knees, and laced each small breast. Her mouth was always cold under his.
Fearing the girl might guess the working of window or gate, Jan fashioned iron chains for the glass and an ornate grillwork for the door. In that way, he could open them to let in air and let her look out at the sun and mo
on and season’s changes. But he did not let her go. And as she never learned to speak with him in his tongue and thereby beg for release, Jan convinced himself that she was content.
Then it was spring again. Down from the mountains came the swollen streams, made big with melted snow. The river maid drank whole glasses of water now, and put on weight. Jan guessed that she carried his child, for her belly grew, she moved slowly and no longer tried to dance. She sat by the window at night with her arms raised and sang strange, wordless tunes, sometimes loud and sometimes soft as a cradle song. Her voice was as steady as the patter of the rain, and underneath Jan fancied he heard a growing strength. His nights became as restless as hers, his sleep full of watery dreams.
The night of the full moon, the rain beat angrily against the glass as if insisting on admission. The river maid put her head to one side, listening. Then she rose and left her window place. She stretched and put her hands to her back, then traced them slowly around her sides to the front. She moved heavily to the hearth and sat. Bracing both hands on the stones behind her, she spread her legs, crooked at the knees.
Jan watched as her belly rolled in great waves under the tight white shift.
She threw her head back, gasped at the air, and then, with a great cry of triumph, expelled the child. It rode a gush of water between her legs and came to rest at Jan’s feet. It was small and fishlike, with a translucent tail. It looked up at him with blue eyes that were covered with a veil of skin. The skin lifted once, twice, then closed again as the child slept.
Jan cried because it was a beast.
At that very moment, the river outside gave a shout of release. With the added waters from the rain and snow, it had the strength to push through the earth dam. In a single wave that gathered force as it rolled, it rushed across the meadow, through the farmyard and barn, and overwhelmed the house. It broke the iron gates and grilles as if they were brittle sticks, washing them away in its flood. Then it settled back into its old course, tumbling over familiar rocks and rounding the curves it had cut in its youth.
