by Peter David
It wasn’t until that moment that I truly understood that I was lacking something that others, such as Tacit, possessed. There are some for whom the good of mankind is their primary concern, and others who basically put their own considerations before everyone else. I was among the latter. Truth to tell, if Tacit hadn’t been my friend, it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least. But watching Tacit’s heroics frustrated me, because I saw what he was doing and realized that it was something I wasn’t capable of.
I should have admired him for it.
Instead I felt a cold envy growing within me for this person, for my friend. I resented that which came so easily to him, or at least appeared to.
Momma was screaming in fury, and her son Edmond didn’t seem to be doing much of anything except cower. Tacit dropped from overhead, and one quick slash of his short sword severed the cords that held the weaver in place. He grabbed one of the flaming sticks from the bundles beneath their feet, holding it at the nonflaming end, and waved the torch with one hand into the faces of the crowd while swinging his sword with his other hand. “This way!” he shouted to the girl, spotting one small area where the flame wasn’t especially high. Without waiting for her to acknowledge it, he threw an arm around her waist and vaulted. The wood shifted under his feet and threw off his trajectory. As a result, he cleared the pyre, but he came down, falling on top of the weaver and landing in a heap.
Immediately the mob was upon them. They pulled Tacit free from the girl. She struggled mightily in their grasp, and it was the most emotion I’d seen from her since this whole misbegotten adventure started.
Tacit was even more determined to give a good accounting of himself, but he had inhaled too much smoke while rescuing the girl. He was hacking away, but it wasn’t with his sword; his coughing was so violent that I half-expected one of his lungs to be ejected from his mouth. No matter how noble the heart or pure the determination of any warrior, it does him no good if he can’t draw a breath. Tacit was borne to the ground and held immobile, his arms and legs pinned like a butterfly’s.
“Let him go!” shouted the weaver.
“Friend of yours?” asked Momma contemptuously.
“I never saw him before!”
“So a complete stranger decided to risk his neck for you. How idiotic.”
It was disconcerting to realize that I was in agreement with someone whom I considered to be only slightly smarter than a mushroom I’d just mashed beneath my foot. It had been idiotic. And Tacit hadn’t listened to me, and now the weaver was still going to die and she was likely going to have company. They’d probably just tie up the both of them and toss them on the pyre, which was burning rather rapidly and with great enthusiasm.
“He’s some do-gooder. This isn’t his problem. Let him go.”
“He made it his problem,” Momma said firmly, “and that was his decision. So now he’ll share your fate, you cheat and harlot.”
Well, that appeared to be that. Tacit was going to die … horribly, it seemed. His grandstanding heroics had come to nothing. I was going to be without the one friend I had. Nothing had been accomplished.
I wondered if a sudden wave of bravery would overtake me. But no … nothing surfaced. I was no more inclined to risk my neck now than I was before, even if Tacit’s life was on the line. He’d been the one who decided to risk it. Let him bear the burden of that decision.
Gods, he infuriated me, Tacit did, for being so concerned about this girl that he’d run off and leave me behind. That he’d throw away his life, in fact, for this utter stranger. What sort of friends could we truly be if that friendship meant so little to him, that he was willing to risk ending it—and himself—all to save someone he didn’t even know?
And suddenly I wanted to save him. And I wanted to make it look easy. I rose from behind the brush and slowly made my way toward the crowd.
They didn’t see me at first. They were busy hauling out large quantities of rope and tying up Tacit and the weaver. But then one of them spotted me, and pointed me out, and then another did and another, and within moments all attention was focused on me. The shouting of the crowd had died off, and the only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire.
If I moved too quickly, my limp would be evident and make me look weak. So instead I moved very slowly, very ponderously. I said nothing. When one says nothing, it heightens both the interest and importance of the words when they eventually come. I must have looked a rather bizarre sight … a rather young man, wielding a staff, coming toward them with no hurry, as if the imminent disaster which awaited Tacit and the weaver were of no consequence to me.
I drew within a few feet of them and then stopped. I surveyed the lot of them, adopting a gaze and attitude so imperious that one would have thought I could have caused them to discorporate with a single harsh word.
Still nothing was said. Finally, Momma couldn’t take it any longer, and she said angrily, “What do you want, boy?” But she sounded no more comfortable with my curious presence than did anyone else.
I appeared to ponder the situation a moment longer, and then I said slowly, “How much.”
They looked at one another, these judges, jury members, and executioners. “How much what?” one of them asked.
As if the question was so self-evident that I couldn’t believe the fool had needed to pose it, I said, “How much did she take?”
They looked at one another, and then at Momma, who seemed confused by the question. It was Edmond who spoke up, which was rather unexpected considering he hadn’t said anything until that point. “Fifteen sovs,” he said.
I sighed inwardly. Somehow I’d had a feeling it would be about that much. But in order to pull it off, I had to be as casual as possible.
I shook my head and gave a small, derisive laugh. “All this over fifteen sovereigns.” I reached into my jerkin and pulled out the twenty that Tacit had handed me earlier. “Twenty sovs to put an end to this sorry affair. Take it or leave it.” As if I didn’t give a damn about their opinion … indeed, as if the entire matter were already decided … I tossed the coins. Like a cloud of gold they hovered in the air and then fell to the ground.
Had I simply tried to hand the money over, there might have been temptation on their part for dickering. But when people see money on the ground, they have no choice but to obey the impulse to grab it as quickly as possible. Which was precisely what they did. Immediately they were on their knees, scrambling after the fallen sovereigns.
“Wait!” shouted Momma, but her cries received no attention whatsoever and quickly she realized that if she didn’t try to lay claim to the coins, she’d wind up with nothing. So she joined in the scrabbling about. Edmond, for his part, simply stood there, looking confused.
No one was paying any attention to Tacit and the weaver. Indeed, they appeared almost as puzzled as Edmond.
With a tilt of my head, I indicated that they should follow me, and promptly they did. Within moments we had obtained the safety of the brush while the erstwhile mob was still rummaging around on the ground, trying to find all the coins I’d thrown there. The fire, meantime, was burning fiercely. Indeed, burning so fiercely that Tacit couldn’t help but let a look of concern cross his face.
Sensing his concern, the weaver said, “Allow me.” She reached out, appearing to caress the air, and then her fingers moved together as if she were playing “cat’s cradle” with invisible string. Perhaps the point where they’d chosen to try and toast her had no threads, but the area where we were now hiding, a safe distance from the madding crowd, apparently possessed what the weaver needed.
Immediately there was a crack of thunder from overhead, and then the skies ripped open. At first there were only a few splatterings of rain, but within moments we were faced with a genuine downpour. It descended upon the fire and, in no time at all, reduced the whole pyre to a huge pile of smoldering ashes. By that point, the three of us had withdrawn from the area entirely, the weaver pulling a hood up from the back of he
r cloak to afford her some protection from the rain. Lucky her.
We hightailed it through the woods, wanting to put as much mileage between ourselves and the mob as possible. After all, there was really nothing to prevent the crowd from keeping the money and throwing Tacit and the girl (and me, for that matter) on the fire anyway once things dried out. There was a network of caves that Tacit used for shelter on those nights when the Elderwoods proved inclement, and that was where we headed. We said nothing during that part of the trip. There seemed little to say.
Once we made it to shelter, Tacit pulled some wood from his stockpile and gathered it at the front of the cave. “Now let me just get it lit up …” he began.
The weaver extended a finger and made a small circling motion with it. Lightning cracked from overhead and slammed downward into the cave. The blast sent both Tacit and me tumbling backward in alarm and confusion. The weaver never even budged. She just sat there with a smug smile as the lightning struck the tinder. Within moments a warm fire was crackling.
“Very flamboyant,” said Tacit, pulling himself together as best he could. Me, I was still waiting for my heart to climb down out of my throat.
“No less flamboyant than a harebrained rescue stunt,” retorted the weaver.
Clearly Tacit took offense at her tone. “I was doing it to save you,” he said.
“You were doing it to show off.”
There was so much contempt in her voice that I almost felt as if I’d discovered a kindred spirit.
Tacit threw up his hands in disgust. “That’s it. It is now official. Chivalry is dead.”
“Stupidity is alive and well, however,” said the weaver. “I assure you that if the situation had been reversed, I’d have left you to your fate.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Tacit couldn’t even bring himself to look in my direction.
“You know,” I said slowly, “I don’t know who’s the bigger fool … you or him. Him because he thought you mattered … or you because you don’t know enough to be grateful.”
She stared at me long and hard, and something in her face seemed to shift. She lowered her gaze. “I don’t like being in someone’s debt,” she said, almost to herself, wringing the rain from her cloak.
“Well … you are. You’re in his,” and I indicated Tacit.
“What, not yours?”
“No,” I said.
“You,” Tacit said, pointing at me. He smiled and shook his head. “You … I knew you’d come through. Damn, but you’re an inventive little cuss. I should have known that when things really got difficult, you’d step in. You were right: I was foolhardy. You were the real hero. You used your brains and you got the job done, rose to the occasion to save her and me. You’re the noblest, bravest one of all.”
Noblest. Bravest. What rot. There was no bravery in buying oneself out of difficulty. I hadn’t risen to any occasion. I should have felt ashamed, I suppose. Instead, all I felt was annoyed that he didn’t realize how stupid I’d made him look. Naturally, I said the only thing I could say, given the circumstance.
“Thanks.”
The rain was beginning to lighten, and the weaver was clearly preparing to depart. “Wait,” Tacit said. “What’s your name?”
“None of your business. Names have power. I’m not about to give you power over me.”
At this, Tacit began to bristle. I thought he’d shown remarkable restraint to that point. “Power over you? I … we … saved your damned life. You’d be a broiled corpse if it weren’t for us. If owing someone your life doesn’t give them power over you, I don’t know what does. Deny it if you want, be arrogant to us if it pleases you, but you’re not fooling either of us. In addition to having a weakness for liquor and gambling, it seems you also have a weakness for common decency.”
She pulled the hood up over her head, and seemed to glower from deep within it. She rose and headed for the cave exit, and then stopped momentarily and said, “Sharee.”
“Is that your real name?”
But she didn’t reply. Instead she drew her cloak tightly around her and walked out.
Neither of us spoke for a moment, and then Tacit reached over and patted me on the shoulder. “The hell with her,” he said. “The important thing, Po, is … you proved what you’re made of today.”
Oh yes. I’d proven it, all right. I was made of spite and craven fear that could only be overcome when I thought that I might be able to make my one friend in the world feel inadequate. I was a definite prince among men.
He pressed half of the sovereigns that remained to him into my hand. “It’s the least I could do,” he said.
“I can appreciate that,” I said. “I always do the least I can do.”
He laughed. He thought I was kidding.
I wasn’t sure if I felt more sorry for Tacit or for myself.
That night … I dreamt of her. At least, I thought I did.
I was sleeping in the stables, which was where I had taken to spending a good deal of my time in the evening. I wasn’t expecting to dream of Sharee. I thought I had put her out of my mind. But she was hovering over me in my dream, looking down, and there was something in her eyes that I couldn’t quite fathom. Then her face drew near and her lips pressed against mine. They were both warm and cold at the same time, which was most puzzling. When our mouths came in contact, I felt something like a spark, as if lightning had struck me, and suddenly—for just a moment—the world seemed to be not itself, but a shimmering array of multicolored ribbons, glistening in glorious blue, green, every color imaginable. For that instant, I saw the world the way that weavers must see it. It was astounding, amazing …
I opened my eyes, sat up suddenly … but there was no one there. And as I settled back into the straw, a recollection of the shimmering threads racing through my mind, I suddenly remembered that I always dreamt in shades of gray, not color.
Chapter 6
Resentment can be a powerful motivation if properly utilized.
It was from that point on that my resentment for Tacit grew with each passing day. I hid it effortlessly, however. As far as he was concerned, we remained bosom friends. Indeed, he perceived a marked change in my attitude and actions from that day forward. I was far more aggressive than I had been, more eager to participate in various ventures. Whereas before Tacit had to offer me a share of whatever money we took in, in short order I was more than happy to take whatever he felt was due me. I was always quick to bring it home and stash it away in the corner of the stables that I had staked out for my own. I had gotten my hands on a small strongbox, and managed to loosen a few boards in the floor so that I could secret it away. No one knew of its existence, not even my mother. Every so often I would take it out simply to let the coins run through my fingers and clink into the box. I felt as if I was building toward something. I just wasn’t entirely yet sure what that might be (although every so often Madelyne would mutter something about “destiny” again).
Sometimes I found myself thinking about Sharee. I wasn’t quite sure why I did, but Tacit could somehow always tell when she was in my thoughts. He would kiddingly, but firmly, whack me upside the head and say, “You’re thinking about her again. Stop it.”
“She was rather attractive,” I’d say, or something to that effect.
“She’s a weaver. To rescue one is not a bad thing. Weavers are favored by karmic forces and such endeavors as the saving of a weaver’s life can rebound to one’s benefit at the most unexpected times. But they are not like you and I, Po. They have their own concerns and priorities, their own world, and we merely stand on the outside of that world looking in. You do not want to go too close, I assure you, and you certainly do not want to open yourself up emotionally. That way lies disaster.”
“I know, I know,” I’d say, and I’d manage to put her out of my mind for a good long time, but every so often she would creep back in with the stealth of an invisible cat, and we’d have the same conversation again.
As for Madelyne, she continued to ply her trade. But such a life takes a fast toll on a woman. It is easy to be a remote, untouchable beauty and stay that way for many, many years. And if a stunning tapestry is hung upon a wall, it remains unsullied and a work of art. However, if one drapes it across the floor of a pub and all manner of men tread upon it with their heavy boots, it’s going to be worn rather thin, and rather quickly. Such was the case with my mother. The wrinkles in her face deepened, her body sagged from the constant wear. The spark in her eyes became dimmer and dimmer through the passing years as she became resigned to her rather pathetic status in life. Men were not quite as quick to seek her out, as she became less pleasing to the eye.
My feelings toward her remained mixed. She was, first and foremost, my mother, the one who had borne me, protected me in infancy when others would have just as soon left me to die. I suspect that many other mothers would willingly have left me to my fate. Not her, because she believed that my fate was one of great importance. On the other hand, it is difficult to maintain respect for one who may be utterly deluded. She was, in the final analysis, a harmless enough creature. I suppose I should even have been flattered that her dreams for my future were the way that she defended herself against encroachment of unfortunate reality into her own life.
As for me, I worked on my own means of defense.
Tacit was a formidable fighter. I personally had little patience for fights. If I could walk away, run away, or in some other manner simply keep clear of them, then that would have suited me just fine. However, I was quite aware that sometimes combat was unavoidable. Indeed, my first encounter with Tacit had been a consequence of one of those instances. On that occasion, Tacit had been there to prevent me from being smashed into a meat sack of shattered bones. But I couldn’t count on him always being there; my natural and burgeoning cynicism prompted me not to count on anyone for anything.
