'Please. I mean you no harm. I only come to ask for food.'
The man kept his pole at the ready. His eyes gleamed palely in a golden face outlined with shining hair. 'Drink of the water, Dark One. It will be enough to sate you!'
Vandien sensed the test in the man's words, but didn't know what answer would clear him. 'I cannot drink the water of this place. I have been warned against it. I come from beyond the Gate. My friend came before me through the Gate, and I have come to fetch her back.'
'Silence your lies, Dark One! Did you think to find fools here?' The man made the pole whistle through the air. Vandien retreated a few steps.
'I will not ask even food then. Only this: Have you seen my friend, driving a wagon and a team of grey horses? Tell me, and I will go. I mean to do no harm.'
'Your being here is harm enough! The wrongness of you cries aloud in our ears. You are a corrupter, aseducer of innocents, come to charm our young ones into venturing through the Gate.'
'No! I swear it! By my coming and my going, I seek to make a way for two of your own people to return. For Jace and Chess! Do you know those names? Jace told me she kept the farm near the Gate. Chess is her son.'
The rod cut the air and Vandien fell back before it. Muscles flexed under the man's tawny skin with each swing. He handled the rod in a strange way; Vandien could not tell now if it was skill or foolishness. He did know now that he could not predict how the next swing would come; this man feinted by no rules Vandien knew. 'Get back, Dark One! Back to the black road! Stay to the way that is made for you!'
The scrape of heavy wood and the opening of the door came to Vandien's ears. He looked back to find the woman framed in the doorway, but the glance nearly cost him, for the rod whistled suddenly past his ear. Vandien stumbled backwards through the vines. 'Back!' the man roared, following him as he retreated.
'But he spoke of Jace!' the woman called hesitantly. 'And Chess, long gone from us.'
'He is a Dark One, and a rogue as well!' the man roared back. 'What did the Limbreth say to us? We were warned of him. Do not listen to him, though he comes to you with honeycombs in his hands, and the moon's own words on his lips. He is dark and unclean, not touched by the Limbreth and the Jewels. He will defile us! Back!'
A fanatic, Vandien decided. And decided too that he would not be fool enough to fight him, for there would be no winning. Even if he downed and defeated the man, neither he nor the woman would willingly part with any food or news of Ki. Best to take what little advantage he could. This time when the rod swished by, Vandien was ready for it, stepping in with a ready grip and a wicked twist. The rod went flying, the man leaping after it. Vandien did not attack, but turned and fled, leaping over the vines. The distance he gained let him stoop and rip free one more globe, although the man had regained his rod and was again in pursuit, and he was large and long-legged. Only Vandien's iron-willed leap through the thorn bushes saved him, for the rod whistled over his head close enough to stir his curls. Vandien scrabbled back up to the road and then looked back, grinning and panting. The big farmer would go no farther than the thorn bushes.
'My thanks for the food, and the pleasant talk! Now will you tell me if you have seen my friend go by, upon a tall wagon with yellow wheels?'
'Damn you to the darkness of the black road! The Limbreth knows of you already. Unclean you come into his lands, no pilgrim but a plunderer! He knows of your coming and upon you his wrath will fall. By no intent of mine have you taken the food of this land! Do not spatter me with your thanks!'
'The team was grey?' Vandien called, sweetly inquiring, but the man stumped off, his rod still cutting the air. 'May as well eat it now as later,' Vandien advised himself, and sat on the road to do so.
When he resumed his journey, his feet were dead clods on the ends of his legs, but at least his belly was full, and the road was downhill now. Marsh began to edge it, and he trotted on, hearing the mutter of water.
The sound of the cool running water rapidly became a torment to him. His scratches stung, his clothing clung to his sweaty body and he could smell himself. He wished he knew, in days, how long it had been since he had been able to drink his fill of cold water. The aftertaste of the fruit in his mouth had becomecloyingly sweet, and a sip from his waterskin did nothing to dispel it. Worse, he could smell the running water; it smelled of purity, coldness and the night. It occurred to him that he might have to try a mouthful of it. The amount left in his waterskin would not be enough to take both him and Ki back to the Gate. Perhaps he had best try it now before he was completely out of water. Vandien thumped that thought flat and gave his head a vigorous shake. He limped on.
He came to a bridge and paused to gaze longingly at the white rush of water that foamed past beneath him. Its damp breath rose to bedew his skin, teasing and soothing his face. He thought of going down to the brink, of letting his sore feet and scratched legs trail in it for just a moment or two. 'Like last time?' he asked himself sarcastically. 'Onward!' He raised his eyes to the faint damnable glow of the Limbreth. And saw the wagon.
'Ki!'
His feet forgot their lameness. The two grey horses raised their heads, and a third horse trotted a few paces uneasily. Vandien wanted to laugh aloud with relief as he skipped and cursed his way over the stretch of river gravel to the wagon. 'Ki!' he bellowed again, feeling joyous, triumphant and righteously annoyed with her. She didn't answer. Probably sleeping, while he wore his feet out chasing her. He sprang up to the cuddy seat and slammed the door open. The cuddy was dark.
He didn't need to see the empty bed; the inside of the cuddy smelled dank and abandoned. He rose on the seat to stare around in all directions. ' Ki ! ' he bellowed into the whispering rush of the river's song. But he saw no sign of her, heard no answering whistle. She was gone.
He crouched on the seat again, taking in the sight of the strange horse, Ki's casually abandoned camp, harness dropped on the ground and left there. Fear squeezed his guts slowly. None of this was like Ki. She wouldn't go off and leave her wagon like this. Vandien ran a hand through his hair; practicality asserted itself.
Dried fruit and hard bread were in the cupboards. He chewed mouthfuls as he rummaged through his corner of the cuddy. Reluctantly he pulled clean clothes on over his sweaty body. He was more determined than ever not to bathe in that mysterious rush of water. He gingerly dragged soft low boots on over his tender feet. His face was grim as he groped for the rapier on its hook and buckled its belt about himself. The weight of it was oddly reassuring. He had seen nothing in this land that he would use it on, but it gave him a sense of readiness and competence.
The food and plenty of water from the casks comforted his belly and throat, the clean light clothes were fresh against his skin, but his weary mind still whirled. Where was Ki, and why had she left the wagon? He had never known her to leave it willingly, and certainly she wouldn't have left it this way, untidy and unsecured, harness growing damp on the ground.
Sigurd and Sigmund had come to stare curiously up at him as he perched on the cuddy seat. Sigurd lipped at his boot toe and Vandien absently parceled out dry fruit to them.
'Where'd she go?' he asked them, and Sigmund flicked his ears in reply.
When Vandien leaped down from the seat, his foot caught and he fell. Cursing, he snatched at the sodden mass of cloth he had stumbled in. Ki's skirt. It slipped from his suddenly nerveless hands as ugly fears raised their hissing heads. He lifted it again gingerly. Ki's skirt, made heavy by the constant dew off the racing water; beneath it, her blouse. Slowly he spread the garments before him. No rips of blood. Ki had removed them voluntarily. He wadded them up and tossed them into the back of the wagon. Andhere was another riddle: more garments, but these were strange to him, as strange as the battle harness beneath them. He looked at the warhorse that still kept a cautious distance. 'You and me both, my friend,' he told it. 'But this time she's the one on foot and bootless. Where would she go? Not far over these river rocks barefoot; not if I know Ki. Not b
ack to the Gate, for I would have passed her. If she went by boat, I may as well forget her. There's no way for me to follow. No, my friend horse, I think she's gone on down the road, and with your rider, if I read these signs rightly. Naked as the dawn. I'll be damned.'
He leaned back against the wagon and began to laugh. It had hit him suddenly; this was how he made Ki feel when he took off on one of his ridiculous side trips, on a moment's impulse with the explaining saved for later. But somehow it wasn't sporting for her to turn the tables on him like this. Well.
For only a few breaths longer he leaned against the wagon. Then he gave a whistle, and the greys raised their heads. Sigurd put his ears back and bared his teeth as well.
'Fine,' Vandien agreed affably. 'Then Sigmund can have all the grain when he comes to harness.' Vandien reached over the lip of the wagon and flipped open the grainbox. He stirred the contents, letting it rattle through his fingers. Sigurd's ears came forward and he gave an anxious whinny. 'I thought you might see it my way,' Vandien observed.
TEN
'Mother!' Chess shook Jace's shoulder. The woman came awake more slowly than the boy. Her maturity and stoicism helped her to substitute sleep for food. She had lain down at the coming of the light and slept deeply, although it was not a refreshing sleep. Chess had no such patience. He had tossed restlessly in the dirty smelly hovel, creeping often to the door crack, until the air flowed in cool and moist and he smelled the night. His belly had kept him awake all day; now it bade him seek food.
'Mother!' He shook her again. 'It's gone again. It's safe for us to go out.'
Jace sat up slowly and looked at Chess sadly. 'There's no hurry, child. We have all the dark before us, and only one errand: to check the Gate. I have no hopes that tonight will be any different. Vandien won't force his way in, and we shan't force our way out. It is time for us to talk, Chess; the time is upon us for setting aside of false hopes, and the accepting of what is.
'I'm thirsty,' Chess interrupted. 'And hungry. I wish we hadn't let the horse go.'
'Aren't you listening?' Jace demanded sharply. 'Chess, we have no more food. And if the horse were still with us, I should still give it back its freedom. Hunger and thirst do not change right and wrong.'
'Wrong and right do not change hunger and thirst, either,' Chess grumbled softly to himself. 'I'm listening, Mother. You are saying it is time for us to give up and die.'
Jace sighed. 'Must you put it so? Why be angry about what we have been given? Sometimes the fruit is sweet, and sometimes it is sour. It is always fruit, and we eat it. So it is with the days we are given. Some are sweet, and some are not. If the last of our days are not as sweet as some have been, they are, none the less, the days that are given to ...' 'Words! Words, words, words! You cover up our life with words, and our deaths too! Mother, I am thirsty! Those are words, too. Don't you hear them?'
But Jace didn't hear. She caught hold of Chess abruptly, pulling his face close to her own and sniffing at him. 'You have a foulness to your speech and a foulness to your breath as well!' Suspicion lit Jace's eyes, but she couldn't bring herself to voice it.
'I ate it!' Chess's voice was fiercely defiant. 'When my belly wouldn't let me sleep, my nose found it. And I ate it. It gagged me and it made me thirst, but it gave me enough in my stomach to let me sleep. And why not? Vandien ate of it, and he is not the only one I have seen. At the tavern I saw men and women eat plates full of it, steaming and hot and running with juices.'
'Ah! Ah! Ah!' The hoarse gasps frightened Chess; then her grip loosened, and for the first time in his life, Chess felt his mother push him harshly away. Shock made his knees go weak and he fell to the dirt floor. Drawing in his knees, he stared up in sudden terror at the amazing spectacle of his mother towering over him in rage.
'How could you?' she demanded. Tears streaked her dusty face, but rage gave her control of herself. Her voice was steady and hard as stone. 'You have eaten the flesh of another creature. What will you do next? Will you kill? Will you? but it is beyond me to imagine what one such as you will do! You are incomprehensible to me! No one could hunger enough to justify what you have done, not even one whose bones were pushing out through the flesh. That fish was a creature as alive as we, it knew the joys of leaping up a stream, of feeling the cold water to enjoy the water. It possessed a moving life, no less sacred than your own, and it ...'
'Happily gobbled up other living moving things to sate its hunger!' Chess pushed up from the floor. He faced his mother, standing as tall as his nine years would let him, fired with an anger as great as hers.
' It is not sentient!' hissed Jace.
Chess glared at her, having no reply. He whirled suddenly. A bash of his shoulder flung open the rattly door and he fled into the night. 'Chess!' Jace wailed after him, but his steps did not even pause. He was angry and hurt and ashamed, his child's mind filled to bursting with conflicting thoughts and feelings. He had eaten the body of a fellow creature; his mother valued the life of a fish over his; his mother could never forgive him for the atrocious thing he had done; his mother would rather see him starve than let him eat a fish that was dead anyway. The salt and fish taste filled his mouth as he ran panting. He found himself at the public well.
He flung himself at the water, to drink and pant, and drink again. But the taste of his sin wouldn't go away. Long after his thirst was slaked, he drank the lukewarm water, drank until he felt it slosh inside him. But still the taste of the salt fish filled his mouth like an obscenity. He rose and walked heavily away.
He scarcely noticed where his steps took him. He could not go back to the coop; in his mind he saw the door closed and held against him. He would not risk confronting the unbearable reality of such a thing. Unconsciously, his steps strayed toward the homey sound of folk talking and laughing.
The harsh glare of torches stained the darkness. He found himself at the edges of the market square. Huddling in the soft shadow of a wall, he peered out at the folk that laughed and talked so loudly. His water-heavy stomach muttered sadly at the sight of fresh melons piled in heaps. Sweetness flavored the air as the farmer split one open to display its juiciness. Another farmer paused to speak to the melon merchant; his donkey shifted restlessly at the delay. Its panniers were heavy with a soft orange-fuzzedfruit that Chess didn't know, but the warm aroma tantalized his nostrils. He hunkered down in the shadows, holding his belly tightly.
A woman's sudden shriek of laughter spooked the donkey. A toss of his long-eared head and a hitch of his rump were all it took to send half a dozen of the ripe fruit tumbling from the overladen panniers. The farmer swore bitterly and with a jerk led the beast on to its own stall in the market. Chess remained crouching in the darkness, staring at the half-squashed fruit in the dust. The man did not want it, and no others seemed interested. He darted out of the shadows to snatch them up. Like a mouse with a crumb he fled back to the wall's shelter with his loot.
The juice ran stickily over his chin and his teeth grated on the rough pit. He ate eagerly, ignoring the dust and grit that adhered to the squashed side. Two and then three he devoured before he felt his hunger ease. Three remained in his lap, and belatedly he thought of his mother. Conflicting emotions still stormed in him, but love decided him, love as much a habit as a feeling. He would risk his mother's wrath to share with her this bit of fruit, warm and sweet as a memory of their soft dark world. He rose with the fruit jumbled in his hands and slipped out into the street.
'Ho!' came the shout just as a heavy bootshod foot came down on his small bare one. With a cry of pain Chess dropped his fruit and hopped out of the way. But a heavy hand settled on his shoulder and gripped it before he could slip away into darkness. He smelled the sourness of wine and stared up in terror into a heavy grizzled face. Large brown eyes measured him shrewdly, but softened suddenly.
'Did I break your foot, little man?' the stranger asked, and the kindness in his voice was unmistakable. Chess could only shake his head, wordless. He stooped to retrieve his twice
-bruised fruit, but a swipe of a large hand knocked it back into the dust. 'No, little one, it's all spoilt now. But don't think old Mickle will send you home to face a scolding and a slap. I stepped on your foot and spoiled the fruit. So I'll be the one to put it to rights. So!'
The heavy hand on his shoulder turned him about. Mickle leaned heavily on him and propelled him through the market to the stall of the fruit merchant. Chess was speechless with fright. He had no inkling of what the man intended, and could only think of his mother alone in the dismal hut, and the rising of the terrible sun that must come eventually. If the drunk's hand had not been so tight on his shoulder, he would have squirmed away and vanished into the darkness, to seek his mother again, no matter what scolding and disdain he might find. But Mickle's grip was tight.
'A dozen of your plumpest!' he told the merchant loftily in a drink-furred voice. 'Hold out your basket, boy!' When Chess just stared at him helplessly, Mickle leaned down and squinted at his empty hands. 'So that's the trouble of it! No basket to hold out. No wonder you spilled the fruit, darlin'. Hold on to those peaches, farmer. We'll be back.'
The next few hours passed in a sort of delightful horror for Chess. Mickle purchased a basket, large enough to hold a dozen peaches and to spare. The room in the basket seemed to trouble him, so that he added a melon and two crusty loaves of warm bread. And then a bit of cloth, to cover it over and keep the dust from the fruit and the warmth in the bread. And a pair of sandals for the boy, so that the next time his feet were trod upon, they would have some protection. And then a brush, to smooth the wildness of his hair. When it was smoothed, so neat a head of hair deserved a hat, and a feather or two to make it perky. But then the tunic was too ragged for such a fine head, so Mickle must have a blue cloak to cover over the ragged brown garment. From stall to stall he wandered with him, with many a genial belch and lurch. His hand was ever on Chess's shoulder. Mickle carried the heavy basket; Chess's hands were curled defensively against his thin chest under the soft blue cloak. Mickle bought him gooey sweets that the vendor passed over to him in a curled leaf cup. After Chess had eaten one, he found his tongue and courage to ask, 'Why are you so kind to me?'
The Limbreth Gate tkavq-3 Page 14
