Melle grew stronger slowly. There was a meek, patient note in her voice when she was unwell that I hated to hear. I wanted to hear her clear laugh, her quick step through the rooms. She went about the house now, but tired easily, and whenever there was a rainy day or the wind coming down from the Carrantages chilled the summer evening, she had a fire in the tower room and sat huddled by it in the heavy shawl of undyed brown wool that my father’s mother had woven for her. Once, sitting there with her, I said without thinking about it, “You’ve been cold ever since Drummant.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have. That last night. When I went to sit with the little girl. That was so strange. I don’t think I ever told you about it, did I? Denno had gone downstairs to try to stop her sons from quarreling. Poor Daredan was so worn out, I told her to go sleep a while, I’d stay with Vardan. The poor little thing was asleep, but she always seemed to be just about to wake up, with the twitches and spasms that ran through her. So I put out the light and was drowsing along beside her, and after a while I thought I heard somebody whispering or chanting. A kind of droning. I thought I was in our house in Derris and Father was leading a service downstairs. I must have been nearly asleep myself. And it went on and on and then it died away And I realised that I wasn’t back home but at Drummant, and the fire had burned nearly out, and I was so cold I could hardly move. Cold to the bone. And the little girl was lying still as death. That scared me, and I got up to look at her, but she was breathing. And then Denno came in, and gave me a candle to come back to our room with. And Canoc wanted to go find Parn, so he left, and the door closing blew out the candle. And the fire was out. You woke, so I sat there in the dark with you, and I couldn’t get warm. You remember that. And the whole ride home, my feet and hands were like lumps of ice. Ah! I wish we’d never gone there, Orrec!”
“I hate them.”
“The women were kind to me.”
“Father says Ogge was afraid of us.”
“I return the compliment,” Melle said with a little shudder.
When I told this tale to Gry—for I told Gry everything but the things I kept secret from myself—I could ask her what I hadn’t wanted to ask my mother: Could Ogge Drum have come into that room while she was there? “Father says the Drums work their power with words, spells, as well as eye and hand. Maybe what she heard…”
Gry did not like that idea at all, and resisted it. “But why would he use it on her, not on you or Canoc? Melle couldn’t do him any harm!”
I thought of Canoc saying, “Wear your red gown, so he can see the gift he gave me.” That was the harm. But I hardly knew how to say it. All I could say was, “He hated us all.”
“Did she tell your father about that night?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if she thinks it’s important. You know, she doesn’t… she doesn’t think about the gifts, the powers, very much. I don’t know even what she thinks about me, now. About the wild gift. She knows why we sealed my eyes. But I don’t think she believes…” I stopped, unsure of what I was saying and feeling myself on dangerous ground. Automatically I put my hand out to Coaly’s warm curly back as she lay stretched out beside my leg. But even Coaly couldn’t guide me in this darkness.
“Maybe you should tell Canoc,” Gry said.
“It would be better if Mother did.”
“You told me.”
“But you’re not Canoc,” I said, an obvious fact which contained a great deal of unsaid meaning. Gry understood it.
“I’ll ask Parn if there’s anything people can do… about that power,” she said.
“No, don’t.” Telling Gry was all right, but if the story went further I would have betrayed my mother’s confidence.
“I won’t say why I’m asking.”
“Parn will know why.”
“Maybe she already does… When you came to our place, that night. When Melle fainted. Mother said to Father, ‘He may have touched her.’ I didn’t know what she meant, then. I thought maybe she meant Ogge had tried to rape Melle, and hurt her.”
We sat brooding. The idea that Ogge had cast a wasting spell on my mother was hideous yet vague, hard to contemplate. My mind slid away from it, drifting to other things.
“She hasn’t said anything about Annren Barre since she was at Drummant,” Gry remarked, meaning her mother not mine.
“They’re still quarreling at Cordemant. Raddo said it’s an open feud between the brothers. They’re living at opposite ends of the domain, they won’t get within eyesight of each other for fear of going blind or deaf.”
“Father says neither of the brothers has the full gift, but their sister Nanno does. Nanno says if they go on quarreling she’ll make them both into mutes, so they can’t speak the curse.” She laughed, and so did I. Such grotesque cruelties were funny to us. And I was suddenly light-hearted, too, because Parn was no longer talking of betrothing Gry to the boy at Cordemant.
“Mother says wild gifts are sometimes just very strong gifts. And it takes years to learn to use them.” Gry’s voice was husky as it always was when she said something important.
I made no answer. None was needed. If Parn had meant that she believed my gift to be strong and to be ultimately controllable, she was saying that I might, in time, be a fit match for Gry. That was enough for us.
“I want to try the Ashbrook path,” I said, jumping up. Sitting and talking was all very well, but getting outside and riding was much better. I was full of hope and energy now, because Parn Barre who was wise had said I would be able to use my eyes again, and marry Gry, and kill Ogge Drum with a glance if he ever dared come near Caspromant….
We rode along the Ashbrook. I asked Gry to tell me when we came to the destroyed hillside. We reined in the horses there. Coaly went running on ahead. When Gry called her back she came, but with a whimper, which was eloquent, since she very seldom said anything at all. “Coaly doesn’t like it here,” Gry said.
I asked her to describe the place. The grass was growing back, she said, but it still had a strange look. “All crumbled. Just lumps and dust. Nothing has any shape.”
“Chaos.”
“What’s Chaos?”
“It’s in Mother’s story about the beginning of the world. At first there was stuff floating around, but none of it had any shape or form. It was all just bits and crumbs and blobs, not even rocks or dirt, just stuff. With no forms or colors, and no ground or sky, or up and down, or north and south. No sense to anything. No direction. Nothing connected or related. It wasn’t dark, it wasn’t light. A mess. Chaos.”
“Then what happened?”
“Nothing ever would have happened if bits of stuff hadn’t stuck together a little, here and there. So the stuff began to make shapes. First just clods and lumps of dirt. Then stones. And the stones rubbed together and made sparks of fire, or melted one another till they ran as water. The fire and the water met and made steam, fog, mist, air—air the Spirit could breathe. Then the Spirit gathered itself together and drew breath, and spoke. It said everything that was to be. It sang to the earth and fire and water and air, singing all the creatures into being. All the shapes of mountains and rivers, the shapes of trees, and animals, and men. Only it took no shape itself, and gave itself no name, so that it could remain everywhere, in all things and between all things, in every relation and every direction. When everything is unmade at the end and Chaos returns, the Spirit will be in it as it was in the beginning.”
After a while Gry asked, “But it won’t be able to breathe?”
“Not until it all happens over again.”
Enlarging it, going into detail, and supplying an answer to Gry’s question, I had gone somewhat beyond the bounds of my mother’s story I often did so. I had no sense of the sacredness of a story, or rather they were all sacred to me, the wonderful word-beings which, so long as I was hearing or telling them, made a world I could enter seeing, free to act: a world I knew and understood, that had its own rules, yet was under my control as the world beyond the st
ories was not. In the boredom and inactivity of my blindness, I lived increasingly in these stories, remembering them, asking my mother to tell them, and going on with them myself, giving them form, speaking them into being as the Spirit did in Chaos.
“Your gift is very strong,” Gry said in her husky voice.
I remembered then where we were. And I was ashamed of bringing Gry here, as if I’d wanted her to see what my power had done. Why had I wanted to bring her here?
“That tree,” I said, “there was a tree—” And I blurted out, “I thought it was my father. I thought I’d— I didn’t even know what I was looking at—”
I could say no more. I signaled Roanie to go on, and we left the ruined place. After a while Gry said, “It’s starting to grow back, Orrec. The weeds and the grass. I guess the Spirit is still in it.”
♦ 13 ♦
Autumn went along much as summer had, with no great events to mark it. We heard that ever since our visit the quarrel between Brantor Ogge and his elder son Harba, that began on the boar hunt, had grown into enmity. Harba had taken his wife and people down to Rimmant and was living there, while the younger son, Sebb, was ensconced in the Stone House of Drummant, treated as the heir and brantor-to-be. But Sebb and Daredan’s daughter Vardan had been ill all summer and was wasting away, going from seizure to convulsion to paralysis, and such mind as she had ever had was gone. We heard all about this from a travelling blacksmith’s wife. Such people are great and useful gossips, carrying news from one domain to the other all over the Uplands, and we listened eagerly, though the woman’s callous relish of details of the child’s illness disgusted me. I didn’t want to hear all that. I felt that I was in some way responsible for the girl’s misery.
When I asked myself how that could possibly be, I saw in my mind’s eye the face of Ogge Drum, pouched and creased, with drooping eyelids and an adder’s gaze.
Gry couldn’t come to visit me often while the work of harvest was going on and every hand was needed every day. And there was no need for her to give Coaly and me further training; we were by now, as my mother said, a six-legged boy with an unusually keen sense of smell.
But along in October, Gry rode Blaze over for the day, and after Coaly and I had shown her whatever our new achievements were, we settled down, as always, to talk. We discussed the quarrels at Cordemant and Drummant, and remarked sagely that as long as they were busy feuding with their own people they were less apt to invade and poach and thieve across their borders. We mentioned Vardan. Gry had heard that the child was dying.
“Could it have been Ogge, do you think?” I asked. “That night. When my mother was there, and heard… He could have been casting his power on the girl.”
“And not on Melle?”
“Maybe not.” I had worked out this hopeful idea some while ago and it had seemed plausible to me; spoken, less so.
“Why would he put the wasting on his own granddaughter?”
“Because he was ashamed of her. Wanted her dead. She was…” I heard the thick, weak voice, Do you do, do you do. “She was an idiot,” I said harshly. And I thought of the dog Hamneda.
Gry did not say anything. I had the sense that she wanted to speak but found she couldn’t.
“Mother’s been much better,” I said. “She walked all the way to the Little Glen with Coaly and me.”
“That’s good,” Gry said. She did not say and I would not think that, six months ago, such a walk would have been nothing to Melle; she would have gone on with me and climbed to the spring in the high hills and come home singing. I would not think the thought but it was there.
I said, “Tell me what she looks like.”
That was an order Gry never disobeyed; when I asked her to be my eyes, she tried as best she could to see for me. “She’s thin,” she said.
I knew that from her hands.
“She looks a little sad. But just as beautiful.”
“She doesn’t look ill?”
“No. Only thin. And tired, or sad. Losing the baby…”
I nodded. After a while I said, “She’s been telling me a long story. It’s part of Hamneda’s story. About his friend Omnan, who went mad and tried to kill him. I can tell you part of it.”
“Yes!” said Gry in a contented tone, and I could hear her settle herself to listen. I reached out to Coaly’s back and left my hand there. That touch was my anchor in the unseen real world, while I launched out into the bright, vivid world of story.
Nothing we had said about my mother had been dire, or even discouraging, yet without saying it we had said that she was not well, that she was not getting better, that she was getting worse. We both knew it.
My mother knew it. She was bewildered and patient. She tried to be well. She couldn’t believe that she couldn’t do what she had used to do, or half what she had used to do. “This is so foolish,” she would say, the nearest she ever came to complaint.
My father knew it. As the days shortened and the work lessened and he was home longer and more often, he had to see that Melle was weak, that she tired easily, that she ate little and had grown thin, that some days all she could do was sit by her fire in her brown shawl and shiver and doze. “I’ll be well when it gets warm again,” she would say. He would build up her fire and seek what else he could do, anything to do for her. “What can I bring you, Melle?” I could not see his face, but I heard his voice, and the tenderness of it made me wince with pain.
My blindfold and my mother’s illness worked together in one way that was good: we both had time to indulge our love of storytelling, and the stories carried us out of the dark and the cold and the dreary boredom of being useless. Melle had a wonderful memory, and whenever she searched it she found in it another story she had been told or had read. If she forgot part of the tale, she, like me, filled in and invented freely, even if it was a story from the holy texts and rituals, for who was to be shocked and cry heresy, here? I told her she was a well: she let down the bucket and it came up full of stories. She laughed at that. And she said, “I’d like to write down some of the things in the bucket.”
I couldn’t prepare the linen and ink for her myself, but I could tell Rab and Sosso, our two young housekeepers, how to go about it, and they were happy to do anything for Melle.
These two women were Caspros through their fathers, neither of whom had had any gift of the lineage. They inherited their position in the household from their mothers, who, together with my mother, had trained them thoroughly. During Melle’s illness they took full control of domestic matters, running the house according to her standards, and always plotting how to make her life easier. They were warmhearted, energetic women. Rab was engaged to be married to Alloc, though neither seemed to be in a hurry to marry. Sosso had announced that in her opinion there were enough men underfoot already.
They learned to stretch the canvas and mix the ink, and my father devised a kind of bed table, and Melle set to writing down all she could remember of the sacred tales and songs she had learned as a girl. Some days she wrote for two or three hours. She never said why she was writing. She never said that it was for me. She never said that to write was to affirm that one day I’d be able to read what she wrote. She never said that she wrote because she knew she might not be here to speak. She said only when Canoc anxiously scolded her for wearing herself out at the writing, “It makes me feel that everything I learned when I was a girl isn’t just going to waste. When I write it down, I can think about it.”
So she would write in the morning, and rest in the afternoon. Towards evening Coaly and I would come to her room, and often Canoc, and she’d go on with whatever hero tale we were in the midst of, or a story of the time when Cumbelo was King, and we’d listen to her, there by the hearth, in the tower room, in the heart of winter.
Sometimes she said, “Orrec, you go on with it now.” She wanted to know, she said, if I remembered the stories, if I could tell them well.
More and more often she began the story, and I ended it. One
day she said, “I’m too lazy to tell a story. Tell me one.”
“Which one?”
“Make one up.”
How did she know I made stories up, following them in my mind through the long dull hours?
“I thought about some things Hamneda might have done while he was in Algalanda, that weren’t in the story.”
“Tell them.”
“Well, after Omnan left him in the desert, you know, and he had to find his way alone…I thought about how thirsty he was. It was all dust, the desert, as far as the eye could see, hills and valleys of red dust. Nothing growing, no sign of a spring. If he didn’t find water, he’d die there. So he began walking, going north by the sun, for no reason except that north was the way home to Bendraman. He walked and he walked, and the sun beat on his head and back, and the wind blew the dust in his eyes and nostrils so it was hard to breathe. The wind got stronger and began to blow the dust in circles, and a whirlwind rose up in front of him and came towards him, picking up the red dust and whirling it high. He didn’t try to run away, but stood still and held out his arms, and the whirlwind came on him and picked him up, whirled him up into the air, coughing and choking with the dust. It carried him over the desert, whirling him round all the time and choking him. Finally the sun began to set. Then the wind dropped. And the whirlwind died down, and sank down, and dropped Hamneda at the gates of a city. His head was still whirling, he was too dizzy to stand up, and covered all over with red dust. He crouched there with his head down, trying to catch his breath, and the guards at the gate peered at him. It was twilight. One said,
“Somebody left a big clay jar there,” and the other one said, “It’s not ajar, it’s a figure, a statue. A statue of a dog. It must be a gift to the king.” And they decided to carry it into the city…”
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