He left satisfied. Unfortunately, the fellow did not heed my advice, and a few days later I heard that a great explosion had toppled his house, burying him beneath it.
My business suffered sorely in the next few weeks, and rumours persisted that my repairs were dangerous to person and property. Those devils the joiners were busy, too, exploding valuable objects I had repaired, and applying caustic substances to the skin of men, women, and even children, just so people would think my repairs were at fault.
I did not know what to do to improve my trade. I considered killing all the other menders and joiners, but there were a great many of them, and most had myrmidons to protect them.
Of course, I might have bought myself some more myrmidons and set them upon my enemies, but, quite honestly, I had taken my fill of leading myrmidons about and having them follow me everywhere. Besides, I had an ally far more powerful than any myrmidon, this being my old friend God, and, one morning, I decided to go to the church, to call upon His aid.
Now, as I entered the place, I surprised two rogues, dressed all in rags, who were kneeling down at the front. When they saw me, they ran out through the rear door.
I walked up to where they had been kneeling, and I saw they had been performing a ritual there, for there was blood upon the floor, and a dead shrew, and pine needles, and dozens of small white stones, arranged in a circle. In the centre of a circle was a human hand, cut off at the wrist and covered in chalk dust.
As I my eyes fell upon the hand, I gasped, for a vision entered my head. I saw a great white hand, set upon green fields, and pointing up to heaven, and I knew this was not some idle musing, but a message, sent to me from God, that I should leave Stanneck now and journey west once more to build this beautiful structure.
This view was confirmed when I returned to my stall in the marketplace. As I approached, I was thankful I had made my pious visit to the church, for I saw that Otter, the thieving carpenter, was waiting there, with several of his friends, and a mixed group of myrmidons, and it was plain he was angry. He was probably telling them I had stolen money from him, while conveniently omitting any mention of the beautiful pot which he had so wrongfully taken from me.
My blood ran hot at his impertinence, and I nearly ran at the group, with a will to kill them all. But then my reason took hold, and I said to myself, “Control your fury, Yreth, for to fight against men is one thing, and you could surely defeat a group of six others, for you are fearless in battle. To fight myrmidons, though, is a different matter. You will be killed, and your death will be unjust. Besides, you are using your peace-name of Glissa here, and it would be ill-omened to set into a great fight under that name.”
I decided to leave Stanneck without a moment’s delay. I went directly to the inn, and took those possessions I had left there in my chest, including my clothes, a quantity of gold, and a number of jewels I had purchased with my earnings.
While I was in my room gathering my possessions together, I heard a noise from below. Looking down from the window, I saw a crowd of people and myrmidons, with Otter at the head, striding towards the inn. In the crowd, I saw menders and joiners, and many of my old customers.
“This does not look good,” I thought. “Who knows what lies he has spread about me.”
I quickly left the inn by the back door and escaped through an alleyway. Then I watched around a corner as Otter and his friends banged on the door of the inn.
I was angry at Otter, and keen for vengeance against him for forcing me to leave the city in this way. Then a good idea came to me. “If the thieving Otter is here with his myrmidon,” I thought, “I will warrant nobody is guarding his shop.”
I quickly escaped down an alley and made my way to his shop. Sure enough, nobody was there to guard it. So, I lifted up the panel in the floor to see if his money box was still there. However, it was gone. I prayed then, saying, “God, lead me to Otter’s wealth, if you deem it right that I should have vengeance against him.”
Then I looked up to heaven, and suddenly, there up in the rafters, I saw the money box. I quickly took a shutter-pole and knocked the box down to the ground. It broke open, revealing more than a hundred crowns, together with five gold arrans.
It was clear Otter had done well for himself that summer, but I immediately made sure he would be a pauper in the autumn. I placed all the money in my purse, then I entered his house to see if there were any other objects which I might take to anger him further.
I looked around several rooms, and I took a china spoon and a silver incense tray, but really there was very little worth having. Next, though, I came to his kitchen, and what do you suppose I found there? It was a small child, in mud-stained clothes, who was trying to reach a tray of cream tarts which was laid upon the table.
I am a kind fellow, even when I am filled with anger, and so I took one of the tarts from the tray and passed it down to the child, saying, “There you are, my little one.”
As I watched the child eat the tart, I could not help but laugh, for it made such a mess of the meal, and put cream all over its chin and nose. My longing for vengeance left me then, and I was filled with feelings of charity and goodness.
“It is not right,” I said, “that a tiny child such as you should have such a cruel and dishonest father. Come. I shall adopt you as my very own.”
With that, I lifted the child up into my arm, and took the tray of tarts, together with a fresh loaf of bread.
I quickly left the house, then, walked directly to the city gates and said goodbye to Stanneck, walking west along the merchant’s road.
A Further Continuation Of The Eleventh Part
In Which I Describe My Travels West, During Which Time I Educated A Child Until A Sad Thing Happened
The road leading west from Stanneck is none other than the famous Golden Way portrayed in Tybalt’s masterpiece of the same name, and it has changed little since Tybalt’s day. The road is very wide, paved with fine white brick, and lined with numerous shrines and statues, although sadly many of these have been chipped or broken over the years.
This road stretches thirty miles, connecting Stanneck with the city of Uot. Many merchants travel the route, as well as farmers, craftsmen, pilgrims, philosophers. All manner of people, in fact, so I was never short of company.
I walked this route, carrying the child in one arm, and the tray of tarts in the other, placed near enough that the child might take the tarts as it wished.
I had thought the child to be a boy, for it had a very ugly face, and I named it Daleth, after the famous falconer. Later, though, I passed a clear stream, and I took the child down there to wash it, but no sooner had I undressed it than I discovered it was actually a girl, and so I was obliged to change the name to Dalit.
Now, from the moment I had taken the child from Otter’s house, it had not spoken, and I had soon realized this was because it had never learned how to speak. Can you imagine what kind of father would raise a child in this way, caring so little about it that he did not even teach it to speak? I was disgusted and greatly angered when I thought about this. I knew, too, I must break this barrier of silence if I was to teach the child other, more important things. Therefore, as I walked, I spoke to the child at great length, asking it to speak, and repeating phrases it might learn, such as “My name is Dalit,” and “Please give me another cream tart,” and “Father, how dearly I love you.” (This latter phrase, incidentally, I intended for the child to use in reference to me, not to its previous father, the contemptible Otter.)
As I walked, my efforts attracted the attention of other travellers, and, as people are wont to do everywhere, they started to offer their tiresome opinions, telling me the child was tired and needed a rest, or it was sad and should be spanked to release the tears, or it should be kept out of the sun, and so on.
One woman said, “Those cakes cannot be good for your little girl. You should be giving her goat
milk, and good clovebread.”
Then I said, “I am sure the child knows better than you what foods it likes.”
She said, “Liking is not needing. She will eat those tarts until her hair turns grey, but it is only because she knows no better. If you were a good father, you would be her guide in matters of food.”
I replied, “Who am I to force my tastes on this dear child’s lips? If I were partial to strong wine and well spiced beef, my preferences would not make these things any more appropriate for a child’s digestion. It follows, then, I cannot rely upon my own preferences in feeding this infant, and since I cannot, I certainly will not rely upon the fancies of a stranger, met upon the road.”
She said, “These are not my fancies. I can see from the little girl’s face she wants goat milk.”
I said, “If she truly wants it, let her ask for it herself. Such appetites may encourage her to learn to speak.”
The woman became cross at me then. A short time later, she stopped a farmer’s wagon which was coming in the other direction, and bought a cup of goat milk. Then she followed close behind me, trying to win the child’s favour by making strange faces and pointing at the milk. I ignored the woman, but I found her antics annoying, for she distracted the child from my speech lessons.
The woman’s husband followed behind me too. He was a merchant with a cloth hat and red face, and he made frequent comments and criticisms about me to his wife, but in a loud voice so I might hear too, saying such things as, “If that man really wants the child to speak, he should beat it. A beating would gain its attention.”
After a time, I became angry and turned upon him. I said, “I will make this child speak, for it is my desire to do so, and I am not easily prevented from obtaining the things I want. Moreover, I will not teach the child through beatings, as a brute would do, but rather shall smother my child with love and kindness, giving it whatever its heart desires, and squeezing all the evil out of its nature.”
Of course, they scoffed at me, saying this was no way to raise a child, and boasting of how many children they had raised (although I could see none present, so it was clear they must all have either died or run off). Still, you will be pleased to hear I was publicly vindicated in my views just an hour later, as I will now explain.
I had left the road to relieve myself in a group of trees, leaving the child sitting on a big stone at the roadside, under a tree. It was a fair walk from the trees to the road, and on my way back, a stall caught my eye. There were many such stalls along the roadside. At these places, merchants and farmers sell goods to the passing travellers, usually food and drink, although some offer other services to aid to a traveller, such as repairing wheels or selling you a new pair of shoes.
The stall I had noticed sold pastries, chingo, and all manner of other sweet things. They looked exceedingly good, and I thought to myself, “The child will enjoy those treats,” so I spent a grotec or two and bought myself a large assortment of these foods, and bottle of sweet strawberry juice as well, for I knew this was a drink the child would relish.
When I returned to the child, I found a large group of people were gathered around there. That terrible woman and her husband had taken hold of my little one and were trying to make it drink goat’s milk and eat bread. They were pulling at the child’s lips and trying to place these things in its mouth, saying “Come, my child, it is very good for you,” although the child clearly did not wish to be a part of their feast.
I was furious at this sight. I drew my throwing-razor and ran forward, ready for battle. But as I drew close, the child showed this wicked couple exactly what it thought of their food, for it vomited all over them, giving them both a good dousing! I immediately forgot my anger and burst out laughing at the spectacle of these two in their dripping clothes.
Then the child heard me laughing, and looked towards me. When it saw the plate of excellent food and drink I carried, it reached out happily with its arms and said, “More cakes!” in a voice as clear and distinct as you can imagine.
I was excited beyond measure to hear these clear words from the child’s own mouth. I walked over to the child then, and picked it up. Then I turned to the others and said, “You see, thanks to my caring love, this child has learned to speak. You would be wise to think upon your actions. Your foolish ways have brought you nothing but a set of stinking clothes, which, in my opinion, is a very fitting punishment.”
Of course, they disagreed, but my wisdom was clear to see, and I heard the people who stood around saying, “He is quite right,” and “What fools they were to meddle in a good man’s dealings with his child,” and so on.
After that, the child learned to speak very quickly. In fact, no sooner than a day had passed before the child was telling me stories about the moon, and talking spiders, and all those other amusing tales that children have.
Although the stories were not profound or instructive, I was still very proud to hear the child prattle on so. I have read, in a number of authoritative sources, that it normally takes a child years to learn to speak properly, and yet, under my careful instruction, this child had learned to speak in a little over a day.
I realized I had a natural gift for raising children, and I decided to devote myself to this task for a time, for surely, I reasoned, if I could teach the child to talk in a day, what wonders could I teach it in a month? I would educate this child in so many wonderful skills that people would come from all around to see it demonstrate its talents and to hear its wisdom.
That night, I bedded down in one of the roadside shrine-shelters. While the child slept, I worked by candlelight, formulating a series of rules which I planned to follow in raising the child.
In the first place, I decided the child should be fed only those foods which its natural appetites commends to it. Human judgement may be fallible, but the dictates of nature never are, and if people would only follow their natural drives and impulses more often, they would stay healthy and live long. If the child wanted cakes, then cakes were right for it—“a sweet meal for a sweet infant,” as they say—and it would be wrong to give it anything other than cakes.
Secondly, I decided I would not wash the child again, except to remove stains. This was not because I found the task disagreeable (although I did), but because I realized washing is probably not good for children. After all, if you cherished a dog or ferret or cow, you would not wash it. Why then should you wash a child, whose skin is so much more sensitive to the abrasive effects of water than these other creatures? Besides, it is clear children do not enjoy being washed, but rather revel in all manner of dirt and filth, and, once again, because this is a dictate of nature, it must been seen as a wise and useful preference.
Thirdly, I decided the child should not be beaten. Some people maintain that regular beatings teach a child to bear pain, but it is my opinion that precisely the opposite is the case: those children who are never beaten and are permitted to behave in whatever way suits them will ultimately become bold and reckless warriors, whereas those who are beaten learn only to become the slaves and tools of others.
This rule, I might add, is not some vague and abstract philosophy, but a wisdom based on my own experiences. When I was a child, I was never beaten, and far from being made puny by it, I became very fit and strong. One day, when I was 12 years of age, my father had been drinking wine, and he got it into his head that now was the time to begin beating me, so he started hitting me with a stick. It made me so angry I snatched the stick from my father and turned it upon him, striking him again and again until he cried out for mercy. Since that day, I have been widely feared as a formidable fighter.
Fourthly, and finally, I decided the child should not spend its time in foolish or wasteful pursuits, such as playing with dolls or blocks or coloured beans, but, rather, should always be engaged in useful and profitable activity. As an adjunct to this, I vowed to myself not to speak to the child in a foolish
way as many parents do, but rather to treat it as an equal, and to address it in the same sober and respectful tone I would use in dealing with any lord or patron. In this way, I knew, the child would develop a noble and refined attitude, and this, combined with the wizardly skills I planned to teach it, would give it an early start in making its way in the world.
What plans I had for this child, and what a great success she would have been! I can remember looking by candlelight at the little face sleeping there and thinking upon the glorious future that awaited her, and the wealthy suitors who would someday bid against each other, offering me large sums of gold for her hand in marriage.
The whole prospect set my mind in such a spin that I was not able to sleep, so I went to the tent of a doctor who was nearby and bought from him a little bottle of wormsblood, and by means of a few drops of that powerful medicine, I was very soundly asleep in a few minutes, and I stayed that way, alas, until well into the next morning.
As you may guess from my sorry tone, a terrible thing happened during the night which utterly spoiled all my ambitions for this child, and removed from her the great opportunities which lay ahead. When I finally awoke the next morning, the child was gone! Moreover, my bags had been opened and their contents spilled out over the floor, indicating that thieves had visited me as I slept.
I cared nothing for the property, of course, for a child is more valuable than any jewel—unless it is an extremely large jewel, of the sort that nobles wear.
I quickly ran out onto the road, and began calling for the child. This caused a great commotion among the other travellers, who said to me, “What is wrong? How may we help you?”
I explained that my child had been stolen, and before long there were a hundred people, travellers, merchants, farmers, and even a group of hunters with dogs, all of them calling out for Dalit, and searching through bushes and ponds.
The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography Page 22
