And then he had noticed the dark man, his uncle Elijah, sitting in a corner of the room, carving a small piece of wood. Elijah's brow was heavy, and his white hair made his sun-blackened skin seem even darker. Elijah had looked up then, and their eyes met. Peter was frightened of the dark man's blue eyes, so blue and deep. It was unnatural. Father had said that his, Little Peter's, eyes looked just like that, but Peter didn't believe him.
The dark man looked back down to his carving, and Peter listened to his mind. He heard a great storm, saw flashes of lightning, and was frightened. At that moment the dark man's mind clamped shut, Peter heard nothing, and looked up to see Elijah's blue eyes, now burning, look at each person in the room. And at last those terrible eyes fell on Little Peter, and rested there. Peter was frozen in that gaze, terrified. For a long time the dark man pinned him there, until Peter saw him savagely form the word no with his lips. And then he went back to his carving.
Since that time as Peter listened in the night, he had sometimes tentatively listened for the dark man who lived in a solitary room in the cellar. But always he heard nothing, could not find his strange uncle who could shut his mind. And when they met by chance in the house, the huge, dark man would stare down at him until Peter wasn't able to stop himself, and would run away. They never spoke, never acknowledged the other's existence in the house, but Peter watched every move the dark man made, and he knew the dark man watched him, too.
Once Peter had seen him in the yard, where the tombstones were: old Elijah had stood over the grave with the single word Deb marked on the stone. It was the grave where they had laid Elijah's wife within a month of their first coming to the inn. Little Peter couldn't understand why the dark man had a look of fury, instead of a look of grief. His uncle had stared heavenward, into the sky; and Little Peter felt a burning of hatred deep in his bowels, and he knew it came from Elijah. He had run away from him then, as always, but he never forgot that hot burning.
He hated his uncle Elijah. And tonight he had decided to kill him.
He felt a little warmer now that he was dry. He touched the blanket; it was still too wet to use. Never mind, he thought, I have a lot to do before I'll want to sleep.
Little Peter lay on the bed again, but this time without covers. He spread-eagled and gradually relaxed his body. He let his mind wander.
In the next room his father and mother were asleep. His father was having a dream in which he was flying through the air, and the ground was a brown ocean below him. Peter was tempted to follow his father's wanderings—but when he listened to dreams he often fell asleep. Mildly disappointed, he let his mind wander to the room where Guy and John slept. Guy, age twelve, was the only one home: John had been apprenticed to a carpenter in Switten a year ago and would come home only once a year. Guy himself would be going to Linkeree in the spring. But now Guy was busy forcing open the trunk where John was storing his belongings while he was gone. Peter almost laughed aloud. John had expected it, and had placed a large deer's head in the trunk, and nothing else. His real valuables were stored here, in Peters room, because John trusted him.
Sure enough, he heard Guy's reaction of consternation and shame at having been so fooled. He listened to Guy plan a revenge when John returned. Peter knew that Guy would soon forget; he always did.
Peter started listening outside the inn. Next door, in the stable, he heard old Billy Lee, the aging horse-boy, viciously cursing the master's favorite mare, for having bitten the horse-boy's apprentice that evening. At the same time he was firmly brushing it down, and now and then caressing its nose and patting its shoulder. For all that his words were angry, the only emotion Peter could hear in the old man was love for the great beast. But Billy Lee was through now, and as he left the horse, Peter's mind listened on through the town, chasing the idle dreams and conversations of his neighbors.
He woke up suddenly, cold and afraid. He had dozed off in his wanderings. Quickly he listened through the house. No one was awake yet. The sky was still dark, though the rain had stopped. He could still do it. Calming himself, he lay out flat again, and now he prepared to kill the dark man in the cellar.
He had discovered the power today. He had been walking through the weeds near the stable watching the rain clouds come in the dusk. He stumbled, and suddenly a swarm of wasps rose buzzing at his feet. He ran, but was stung several times. His arms and legs were swelling, his face hurt excruciatingly, but dominating the pain was a fierce anger. He saw one of the wasps hovering a few feet away, and instinctively he seized the whole of the insect's structure in his mind and then he mentally squeezed it, broke the fine muscles and ripped open the tiny brain. The wasp fumbled in mid-flight and was lost in the weeds.
Still furious, Peter had turned back to the buzzing horde at the site of the ruined nest. One by one, faster and faster, he destroyed them, and then, panting with the exertion, he walked over and looked at the twisted bodies strewn around the nest. A strange feeling washed over him. He shuddered, and a chill ran from his limbs to his head. He had killed them with his mind. He started to laugh, delighted in the realization of his power. And he turned, and saw the huge dark man watching him from his dapple stallion. He hadn't heard him ride up.
For a full minute their eyes had locked. And this time, his power still strong in him, Little Peter refused to give way to those heavy brows and the rinsing gaze. He stood—afraid but standing—until Elijah, expressionless, dismounted in one quick movement, rung on the reins, and led his horse smoothly around the corner of the stable.
Peter was drained, felt like a wrung-out rag. He turned away, and stepped into the wasps with a crunch. The pain of the wasp-stings returned and he stumbled to the wall of the house. It was then he thought of using his power to heal himself. He imagined his own body, held it in his mind, and began to smooth out the pain, to carry away the poison. In fifteen minutes not a trace remained of the swelling. He had never been stung.
His mind could heal and his mind could kill. Tonight he would kill the dark man as he slept in his shadowy cellar room. Slowly and carefully Little Peter pictured Elijah's body in his mind. Every detail must be perfect. He pictured him lying on his back, breathing slowly, his eyes shut, his mouth frowning.
Inside the great barrel chest Peter found the heart, pumping rhythmically. In Peter's mind the heart began to slow, to writhe, to twist out of shape. He made the lungs begin to collapse. He moved down to the liver, made it release bile into the blood. And now in Peter's mind the heart had stopped. He had done it.
Suddenly Peter flew straight up into the air and slammed into the beam above him. Then he was slammed down to the floor. His mind spun. He didn't know what was happening. He couldn't breathe from the force of the blows. He was lifted up again and held in midair. His back arched, farther, painfully arched until his heels touched his head. He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn't come. His body flew straight out, and he hit the wall, and fell crumpled to the floor.
He didn't dare move. A strange hot burning started in his stomach, a great nausea. He retched and heaved, but couldn't vomit. A great pain tore at his head. Then cold washed through his body. He shivered miserably. His skin itched terribly. Huge boils erupted on his skin; and then, suddenly, he was blind. Agonizing cramps seized his muscles. The floor was a thousand knives cutting his bare skin. He wept, beyond panic, crying for mercy in his mind.
Slowly he felt the pain ebb away, the itching stop. He was on the cold sheets of his bed. He sobbed hysterically, wheezing and shuddering, aching from his great exertions. His sight returned. The first light of dawn was coming through the window. And there in the doorway stood Elijah, the dark man, his face terrible. He had done this with his mind.
“Yes.” The thought pulsed in his brain and his head throbbed. Peter stared with fear at Elijah as he walked to his bed.
“You will never use this power again, Little Peter.”
Peter whimpered.
“This power is evil; It brings pain and suffering, Peter, as you
suffered tonight. You will never use this power again. Never to kill, never to heal, never to wash the forehead of a dry world, however you may wish it. Do you understand, Little Peter?”
Peter nodded.
“Say it.”
Peter struggled to form the words, then said, “I'll never use it again.”
“Never, Peter.” The blue eyes softened. “Now sleep, Little Peter.” And cool hands stroked Peter's body, and took away the pain, cool fingers drew the terror from his mind. And he slept, and dreamed a long time of his uncle Elijah.
• • •
Peter's uncle Elijah was dead. They stood around the hole where they had placed his coffin, and sang a slow hymn. Perer's father, old now, and soon to join his brother, read words from the Holy Book.
Elijah had died with a great, wracking cough that seemed to split and rip him inside. Sitting by his deathbed, Little Peter had looked for a long time into his eyes without speaking. And then he had said to him, “Heal yourself, Elijah, or let me.” Elijah shook his head.
And now he was dead, covered with thick shovelfuls of wet soil that slopped on his coffin. He had died willingly: he had had the power to keep himself alive, and had refused to use it.
Peter tried to remember his fear of him, but that was long ago. After that one, terrifying night, Elijah's eyes had never frightened him again. That blue, still deep, was no longer hard: it was awash with softness.
At first Peter had stopped using the power out of fear of Elijah. But gradually his fear had ended. He passed through puberty, became a man in body, taller than Elijah, who was not so large as he had once thought. And he began to view Elijah as an equal, another man plagued with the same curse. He began to wonder what had happened to Elijah, how he had discovered the power. But he never dared to ask.
And now, standing alone at Elijah's grave, the ceremony over and the others gone, he was grateful for the lesson Elijah had taught that night. Oh, Peter now and then felt a pang of regret in remembering those nights of listening. But as he had abandoned his power out of fear before, so now he discarded it out of gratitude, out of respect for Elijah, out of love.
Peter knelt and scooped a handful of dirt off the new pile. He squeezed it into a ball in his hand. It became hard, like steel, this piece of earth. He walked off into the road of the town of Worthing, tossing the ball into the air and catching it, until it broke into dust in his hands. He felt very sad, looking at the grains of dirt. He brushed them off on his pants and walked on.
21. The Tinker
Night came to the forest as suddenly as an owl stooping, and John Tinker barely had time to pile leaves together under the blue maple tree. He lay down and looked through the branches above him. Occasionally a star shone through the shifting pattern, and John Tinker wondered which of them might be the particular star he dreamed of.
And as he slept that night the dream came again, and again he woke sweating and trembling in the cold of predawn light. Rushing through the night the star had come toward him, with the terrible roaring in his ears, until it was larger than the sun, then larger still, and he felt it swallow him up. It was hot, so that he could barely breathe, so that he sweated until he was too dry to sweat and his body was sandpaper. Then he woke shivering and panting, with the finches perched on a high root, watching him.
He smiled at the finches and reached out his hand. Playfully they backed away, then came closer, toying with him as if he were part of their mating dance. Then at once they both leapt onto his hand, and he brought them close. Looking at the male, John Tinker cocked his head. The male finch cocked his head, too. John Tinker blinked. The finch blinked. Then with a soft laugh John Tinker threw his arm out straight and the finches were in flight, making tight, incredibly quick circles around the glade. And on their wings John Tinker rode their mad flight with them in the sickening drop of the organs of the birds diving, the exhilaration of rising quickly, looping, turning tighter and tighter until the wings are exhausted and straining. Then a few minutes of panting and rest, the finches on a branch, John Tinker on the ground, feeling the birds' weariness and slight shoulder pain as if it were his own. Hard flight, and then sweet pain. He smiled, and removed himself from the birds.
He got up and gathered his tinker's tools, the wooden mallets and shapers, the melting pot, and most important the thin patches and scraps of tin that he would shape into Goodwife Wimbles new spoon handle, Goodwife Smith's vegetable pan, or Sammy Barber's strophook. The scraps were tied to his clothing and his staff, and as he walked they jangled and clanked so loudly that whenever he came to town the wives would be on their porches waiting long before he was in sight. “Tinker's in town,” he'd hear them calling, and he knew business would be good. Had to be good. Not another tinker between Hux and Linkeree, not in all the broad Forest of Waters, and John Tinker was smart enough not to come to the same town twice in a twelve month.
But it was near winter now, and John Tinker was coming home. To Worthing, the darkest, least-known little town in the forest, where no one came to him asking for tin. What they wanted in Worthing was a winter's worth of magic. What he would give them he would call a winter's worth of pain.
After only an hour John Tinker struck the road, knowing the spot to be about a quarter-mile out of town. He rarely used the roads, for in these days robbers murdered passersby to take their wealthy And though he knew many of them and had often tinkered for them and spent the night, he knew that if they saw him on the road he'd be dead before they had time to notice it was John Tinker, the forest man, or John Bird, the magician with the finches.
And there were places in the forest where his name wasn't known at all, but where he had come once, covered with tin, to a cabin with no smoke from the chimney because the people inside were too sick to cut wood. He appeared in the doorway, and feebly a dying old woman lifted a knife, or a six-year-old boy struggled to lift an axe to protect his delirious parents. John Tinker whispered a soft word then, and smiled, and the finches would fly from his shoulders and alight on the bed of the sick. When he left the folk slept peacefully and there was wood in the hearth.
They awoke healthy and whole, and soon forgot John Tinker, whose name they never knew, except that every now and then as a mother covered her sleeping son in the night she remembered the hands of the healer, and as a man regarded his wife early in the morning while sleep still covered her eyes he thought of the large man with birds for friends who touched her and let her sleep.
Sammy Barber looked out the window of his shop on the main square, and saw the flashes of light from John Tinker's tin. He hurried back to the chair where Martin Keeper was covered with soap, waiting for a shave.
“Tinker's in town.”
Martin Keeper sat bolt upright. “Dammit and the boy's the only one at the inn.”
“Too late, anyway, he's already turned in.” Sammy fingered his razor. “Might as well go home with a shave as go home with stubble, now, don't you think, Master Martin?”
Martin grunted and sat back in the chair. “Make it quick then, Sammy boy, or it'll cost you more than the tuppence you hope to gain.”
Sammy set to work scraping at Martin's face. “I don't see why you don't like him, Martin. Sure, he's a cold man—”
“If he's a man—”
“He is your cousin, Master Martin.”
“Which is a lie.” Martin was turning red under the remnants of shaving soap. “His father and my father were cousins, but after that I swear no relationship except that he gets free lodging in my inn.”
Sammy shook his head as he stropped his razor. “Then why,” Master Martin, does your little boy Amos have his eyes?
Martin Keeper jumped from the chair and turned on the little barber savagely. “My boy Amos has my eyes, Sammy boy, blue like mine, blue like his mother's. Give me the towel.” He wiped his face quickly, missing a few places, including a spot of soap on the end of his nose which made his face look ludicrous. Sammy restrained his smile as the big innkeeper strode out of the sh
op. When the door slammed shut he went ahead and laughed, a giggle high in his head that shook his whole fat body.
“Blue like mine, he says. Blue like my wife.” He sank into the chair still warm from Martin Keeper's body and giggled and sweated until he fell asleep.
Amos, Martin's son, sat on the tall stool in the common room, where he was to tend the desk—which meant an hour or two of looking through his father's counting book and wishing he could go outside. It was another thing to keep desk in winter, when the fire roared and everyone was inside drinking and singing and dancing to keep warm. Now it was the last few days of warm weather before the cold rains came, and then it would be winter and deep snow, and he wouldn't be able to swim until the thaw. His fingers itched to take off all his clothes and dive into West River. Instead he turned pages in the counting book.
A jangling noise distracted him and he looked up to see a tall man standing in the door, shutting out the light; It was John Tinker, the winter tenant of the south tower, the man that no one spoke of and everyone knew. Amos was afraid, of course, just as everyone else in Worthing was afraid. And he was even more afraid because for the first time in his life he had to see the Tinker all by himself, without his father's hand on his shoulder to calm him and make him safe.
John Tinker walked up to the wide-eyed boy at the counter. Amos only stared at him. John Tinker looked into his eyes and saw blue. Not common blue. Not the eyes of every blond forest dweller. Deep, uninterrupted, unfathomable blue, surrounded by a clear, veinless white. Eyes that could never twinkle or look merry or speak of friendship, but eyes that could see. The same blue eyes that John Tinker had, and it made him sad somehow to know that this boy, his cousin Amos, had those same true eyes. Amos had a gift. Not John Tinker's gifts, perhaps, but a gift, and John Tinker shook his head and reached out his hand and said, “Key.”
The Worthing Saga Page 47
