She had used to say that to herself, lying in bed in the high, still bedroom of the inn: Why not just stay here, never go back…But she had never imagined what she would do if she stayed, how she could fit into the life of the town, which was complete without her. She came, needing help and willing to help, and learned to spin and card from the women, and went up to the Long Meadow with the children, and went down to Three Fountains with the traders, and made people laugh by her mistakes in speaking, and then left again. This was not her home; she had always called it her home, but she had no home; she stayed at the inn, there was no room here or anywhere that was hers.
She stood still under the iron gateway with her hands clenched.
“Irena.”
She turned and saw him smiling at her.
“Come to my house,” he said.
She went with him without speaking.
In the hall of the two hearths she stopped, and he stopped and turned to face her.
“Let me go north for you,” she said. “To the City. Lord Horn won’t send me. He’ll send the man. Let me go for you.”
As she spoke she saw the long roads across the twilit plain, the towers glimmering, the gates, the beautiful grey streets that went upward to the palace. She saw herself, the messenger, walk those streets. She did not believe it yet she saw it.
“With me,” the Master said. “You will go with me.”
She stared, utterly taken aback.
“The man leaves tonight. Tomorrow: meet me in the morning by Gahiar’s yard.”
“You can—We can go together?”
He gave one nod. His face was grim and set, but the incredulous blissfulness growing in her sang out O my master, my love, together!—but in silence; always in silence.
Sark walked on a few steps. “I shall be lord,” he said very softly, his voice light and dry. “Not he, and not he, but I.” He looked round at Irene with a curious smile. “Are you not afraid?” he said, with the old mockery.
She shook her head.
After early breakfast she left the inn; where the south road entered the street she turned left, passing Venno the carpenter’s shop and old Geba’s cottage. She strode along quickly, her stout shoes kicking her skirt aside so the striped stockings flashed. Her hands were closed and her lips set. The unpaved way ran beside the stonecutter’s yard, deserted. She waited there, restless at first, pacing among the cedars and the blocks of roughcut stone, then sinking into a passivity of waiting, so that when she saw him come at last it was without relief and even without much understanding. Her feelings seemed detached from her mind and senses. She watched him come, a lithe, lean, dark man with a dark handsome face, and it was as if she had never seen him before and did not know him. He walked rapidly, rather stiffly, and did not halt as he came past the stonecutter’s yard. He seemed not to look at her. “Come on,” he said. She joined him on the road. He looked as usual, only that he wore a duffel coat and a sheathed knife or dagger on a loose belt, as the traders had done when they went down the mountain, but there was some change in him; he looked as he always looked but she did not know him.
The road turned a little. Now their backs were to the town, and to the threshold far behind. The way began to slope down into a cutting between high, reddish banks of earth.
“Come on!” he repeated. She had only slowed her pace to stay with him.
She went on a little way.
“Master,” she said, turning. He had stopped. He stared at her. His eyes and face were very strange. He came on, walking directly towards her as if he were blind. She was afraid of him.
“Wait there,” he said; his voice was thin and she saw that his jaw was trembling. “Wait. I—” He had stopped again. He looked around, his head shaking, looked up at the banks of the cutting, and past her at the road. He took one more step forward, and then with a whistling, whimpering cry tried to turn, his knees giving; he stumbled onto hands and knees and then lurching and staggering plunged back up the road. They had come no more than a hundred yards past the stonecutter’s yard. She caught up with him there. “Master,” she said, “don’t, it’s all right—” She tried to take his arm. He pushed her off with the blind strength of panic, throwing her right across the road, and ran on towards the town, making that thin, whistling cry.
She picked herself up, her head spinning a little and her forearm scraped on stone. She dusted her skirt, and stood dazed for a little while. She went slowly to a roughcut block of granite nearby and sat down on it, her arms pressed in against her belly and her head sunk between her shoulders. She felt a little sick, and kept wanting to urinate; at last she crept over to the ditch under the old cedars and squatted there. Up beside Geba’s cottage the pair of scrawny goats blatted softly. She returned to the stone and stood staring down at it, the chisel marks and the patterns in the rock.
I wasn’t afraid, she said to herself, but she did not know if that was true or false: his fear had so dominated and absorbed her.
He will never forgive me for seeing him like that, she thought, and knew that it was true, and could not bear the knowledge.
She left the stonecutter’s yard, walking slowly past Geba’s cottage and Venno’s shop.
I could go, I could go on to the City, if it wasn’t for him, she said to herself, vengefully, ragefully; but that she knew was false. Neither with him nor alone would she come to the City. It was all false, all lies and boasts and stupid daydreams. There was no way.
She stayed on only that one day and night more. She did not much want to stay at all, now. It was all spoilt, here. And she had left everything unsettled on the other side. She would get a place to live and so on and then she would come back here; maybe; if she felt like it. She was nobody’s servant. She would do what she liked.
Her heart pounded as she set out on the south road, but it was fear of fear, nothing more; she walked on steadily.
She did not look back. You don’t look back, over your shoulder. She had learned that long ago, a child afraid of the dark, in the weird night aisles of the tree nursery, running. If you look back it will get you. In the city streets downtown, footsteps behind you and a long way to the next street crossing. You go on and you don’t look back. The way down was steep and the woods very thick; she had never been so aware of the crowding of the trunks and mesh of branches. She tried to walk silently and then tried not to walk silently, for that was fear. At last she heard ahead the murmur of water, Third River, the stream at the foot of the mountain. It was beautiful, that sound of water running, the only music of the ain country. For you hardly saw the birds and they never sang, and the people of Tembreabrezi never sang, not even the children. The wind whispered or made its lonesome roaring in the high branches, but only the water sang aloud, for it rose from the places deeper than fear. She came to the stream, wide and shallow at the ford, gleaming and glancing under the old, moss-grown, leaning alders, quarreling cheerfully with every boulder in its course. She crossed, and then turned and knelt to drink. Now water ran between her and the mountain, and her heart was easier.
She was moving in the familiar half-trance of steady walking, the body alert and the mind occupied with thoughts so long and slow they cannot be put in words, for there are no words long enough, nor sentences, when her body carefully but without warning brought her to a halt, and only when she was standing stockstill, listening, did her mind ask, What was that?
The noise had been ahead of her. What she feared was behind her—but there! the white bulk lunging by the turn, ahead, there!—She held a branch she had picked up on the mountain for a walking stick—so she had called it to herself—and swung it up before her in a rage of terror and struck out. The blow was straight in his face but his arm was up as he broke through the thickets, and he took the blow on it. He stood, his head fallen back a little, his mouth open, his breath loud. His eyes were the eyes of the bull with a mans body in the narrow room. Her hand clutching the broken stick was numb. She took one step backwards on the path, a second, her eyes
on him.
His gaping mouth shut, opened. “I can’t,” he said, thick and gasping, and shook his head. “Can’t get out.”
He sat down then, letting himself down heavily and shakily onto the weed-thick verge of the trail. He sat with his head bowed and arms lying on his knees, the heavy, simple posture of exhaustion. Her legs now were shaky with the aftermath of shock. She sat down crosslegged at a little distance from him, put down the broken stick, and rubbed her cramped right hand.
“You got lost?”
He nodded. His chest rose and fell. “Past the gate.”
“You left town two days ago.”
“The path kept going on.”
“You stayed on it? Past the—where the gate should have been?”
“I thought it had to come out somewhere.”
“You’re crazy,” she murmured, contemptuous, admiring the obstinate courage.
“It was stupid,” he said in his hoarse, thick voice. “I finally turned around. But I thought I’d lost the path.” He was mechanically rubbing the arm that had taken her blow. It was the white of his shirt she had seen in the thickets. Not very white close up, streaked with dirt and sweat.
She opened her belt pouch and got out the bread Sofir had given her—she had eaten all the cheese but only half the hard, dark bread at Third River—and handed it across the path.
He looked up; took it slowly; and ate it as she had never seen anyone eat bread: holding it in both hands and bringing his head forward to it, as if he were drinking or praying. It was very soon gone. He raised his head then and thanked her.
“Come on,” she said, and he stood up at once. She felt the inward lurch and turn of pity, the body’s blind compassion for the wound, seeing his heavy obedience and the white, weary face. “Let’s go,” she said as she would have said it to a child, and led off down the path.
After Middle River she asked him if he wanted to rest; he was late, he said; they went on.
They came down the last slope, across that beloved water, into the beginning place. She did not pause, for his fear drove her. She led on straight across the glade, between the high pine and the laurels, across the threshold.
At the top of the path in the heat and light of broad day and the sound of a jet dying off in the east and the reek of burning rubber from somewhere over the hill she stopped and let him catch up to her. “OK.?” she asked with a little triumph.
“O.K.,” he said. He was grey and wrinkled like a man of fifty, a bum with a two-day beard, a drunk or junkie, stooped and shaky.
“Oh, man,” she said with awe, “you look terrible.”
“Need something to eat,” he said.
Since they had walked so far together they walked on farther together.
“You come every week?” she asked.
“Every morning.”
That soaked into her for a while.
“You can always get in? The gate’s always there?”
He nodded.
After a while she said, “I can always get out.”
They came out of Pincus’s woods. The light over the waste pastures was so bright it stopped them. A bank of smog lay translucent brown over the city westward. The sun burned through the haze with bleared, blinding radiance, all the air blurred with smog and burning with light. Each grass stem cast its shadow. The piercing rattle of a cicada swelled and died away and a bird called once, sharply, in the woods behind them. Their eyes stung, there was already sweat on their faces.
“Look,” he said. “About your sign. I’m sorry. But I can’t keep out.”
“All right. I know.”
She hunched her shoulders, staring out over the fields to the distant freeway. The running metal thread of cars flicked and stabbed the sunglare back. “It doesn’t belong to me. Mostly I cant even get there any more.”
They set off across the fields.
“I get here about five-thirty in the morning, usually,” he said.
She kept silent.
“But I can’t get to the town on the mountain and back before work…” He was thinking aloud, slowly. “Next weekend. Labor Day. I get Sunday and Monday off. I can come then. They were—It seemed like they were asking me to come back.”
“They were.”
“O.K. So I could come then and stay a long time.” He mumbled off into silence again, then said abruptly, “So if you want to.”
After fifteen or twenty paces he said, “You helped me get out.”
Irene cleared her throat and said, “O.K. When?”
“Six in the morning all right? Sunday.”
“Fine.”
As they came up the bank below the gravel road he turned right.
“My car’s parked this way.”
“O.K. So long then.”
“Hey!”
He went shambling on.
“Hey, Hugh!”
He turned.
“You want a ride? You said you were late. Where do you live, anyway?”
“Kensington Heights.”
“O.K.”
As they walked toward the paint factory she said, “That must be a long walk from here. You don’t have a car?”
“Rent on the crappy apartment costs too much,” he said with sudden lucid violence.
“My stepfather’d sell you a car for fifty dollars.”
“Yeah?”
“It’d run all week.”
He didn’t get the joke, such as it was. He was dumb with fatigue. In her car he sat hunched up in the deathseat. He was bigger than anybody who had ever ridden in the car with her, it was full of him. He smelled of dried sweat, rank fear-sweat. The hair on the backs of his big, white hands was brassy gold. His thighs were thick. She said nothing to him as she drove except to ask directions. She let him out at the sixplex apartment house he showed her, and drove away relieved to be rid of the crowding bulk and presence. She had not told him where she lived although they had driven past the farm. Did she live there? She didn’t live anywhere else at the moment. For all she knew Rick and Patsi had made it up again by now, but screw them. Her mother wouldn’t mind having her home again for a while, and it would be O.K. if she could just keep out of Vic’s way so no trouble got started. She would be sleeping with Treese and that might discourage him. Or maybe not. But anyhow there was nowhere else to go until she found a place of her own. Maybe downtown. Did her mother need her nearby or was she just clinging to her mother? She ought to try. If only there was somebody who wanted to share an apartment downtown. At a stoplight she reached back to pick up and look at the alarm clock that lay on top of her stuff in the carton in the back seat. It was two-fifteen. She could go home and dump her stuff, and wash and eat something, and then start looking for an apartment. Maybe there would be something she could afford by herself. The Sunday papers were good for finding rentals, and there would still be time to go look at a place. Maybe she would find a place to live today, and not have to sleep at the farm at all, if she was lucky.
5
It was as if he had been blind and she had come to him, and his eyes had cleared to see her. Seeing her he saw the world, for the first time; there is no other way to see. Each act and object had its meaning, now, for when she had touched him her touch had taught him the language of life. Nothing was changed, but now it made sense. Apples three for twenty-nine and the canned snack pudding on sale eighty-nine for the first sixpack, all right, but that was the numbers and the words, and now he understood the equations, the grammar: the beauty of the world. The faces he had never seen before, because he had been afraid to look at the beauty of the world. People stood in line at his checkstand, restless and docile, obedient to hunger, their own hunger, their children’s. Mortal creatures have to eat, so they were here, in the lines, pushing the wire baskets. So they would come to die. They were very fragile. They were spiteful, hateful when they were tired out and their money couldn’t get them what they wanted or even what they needed; he felt their anger but it no longer angered or frightened him, for all th
ings now contained the idea of her and were transfigured by it. The face of a little boy carried through the checkline by a tired mother, the dignity and patience of the little face and the heavy, unconscious grace of the mother’s holding arm, made him want to cry out, as if he had cut or burned his hand. Things hurt. He had been numb. The anesthetic had worn off, he was alive, feeling pain. But within the pain, the reason for the pain, was joy. Beneath every word he said or heard, within everything he saw and did, lay her name, and around her name like a halo, an armor of light, the unshaken joy.
He looked at every blonde woman who came through the store. None had hair like hers, soft and pale, finely curled like a fleece, but he looked at them with tenderness and liking because they resembled her by so much at least, by being blonde. But there would be no woman like her, here. No woman here could speak her language. Her voice was clear and soft. His last day of the three days in the town on the mountain she had worn a green dress, a soft, narrow dress fitted to her round, slight body. Her wrists and neck were delicate and very white. In her all other women were beautiful, but there was none like her. There could not be, for she was alone, there, in the other land, where the soul became itself.
In books, men said that they could die for such and such a woman. He had always thought it made poetry but no sense, a mere habit of words. He understood it now as meaning exactly what it said. He felt in himself the longing, the yearning to give so greatly to the beloved that nothing was left, to give all, all. To protect and guard her, to serve her, to die for her—the thought was unendurably sweet; again he caught his breath as if a knife had gone into him, when that thought came to him.
“You haven’t gone and joined that Swami Maha-Jiji or whatever it is, have you, Buck?”
He laughed.
“You got that sort of cross-eyed look they get, those hairy krisheners,” Donna said.
She teased him in all sympathy, and he could not long resist her. He told her as much of the miracle as he could. “I met this girl,” he said. Donna said, “I knew you did!” with delight and satisfaction. But of course she wanted to know more, and he regretted having said even so much. It was wrong. He could not talk about anything from the evening land here. There was no way to say it. “I met this girl” was not true. The truth was that he had seen a princess, that he loved her, that he would give his life for her. How could Donna understand that?
The Beginning Place Page 10
