Innkeeper's Song

by Peter S. Beagle

  I cannot be letting this happen. It will not hold—he knows. I try to push Rosseth from me—but it is not Rosseth, it is Lukassa catching my aching hand and drawing it into herself, over herself, over Lal as though she were dressing her in my touch. The river-surge of Lal’s belly against my mouth; the dear clumsiness of Lukassa’s knee bumping me somewhere, Lal’s broken fingernail scratching my hip. No, no, it will not hold. Lukassa. Lukassa’s hair on me. No.

  LAL

  Someone’s hands are under me, someone’s mouth is on each breast. My eyes are wide open, but all I can see is someone’s hair. Rosseth breathes my name; Lukassa whimpers, oh, oh, oh, oh, each soft cry a burning blessing against the scar on the inside of my thigh. I start to tell her who put it there, but someone else is murmuring, “Lal” into my mouth, kissing the old agony to oblivion. I put my arms around everyone I can reach, throwing all my doors and windows wide to let the wild comfort enter.

  THE FOX

  Almost wide enough—maybe wide enough? Maybe for a little, little fox with soft fur? Along the wall, hurry, front paws on the ledge—nose, whiskers, ears can fit through. Hello, pigeons.

  One quick look back, no one sees me. Hard to see Nyateneri, all those legs. Crying, laughing, poor bed thumps and grunts, last bottle breaks on the floor. Too noisy for a fox, much more peaceful somewhere else. Squeeze down small, push very hard—one paw, two paws, one shoulder, now head, now other shoulder—and here’s one whole fox on nice broad tree branch, laughing, so clever in the moonlight. There is a Fox in the moon.

  If Nyateneri called me, come back. Might come back.

  Moon-Fox: Too late. Too late. Nothing holds. Go see pigeons.

  Nyateneri’s voice: joy, pain, despair, who cares? Not for me, no call for me. I run up the moonlight to the roof, toward lovely fluffy window, lovely bloodrustle that wants me there.

  ROSSETH

  It must be Lukassa. I cannot see her face—the bedside candle has long since been kicked over to smother in tallow—but the smell is Lukassa’s, and the hair in my mouth, and the small, sharp teeth set in my wrist. Not right, not right, it should be Nyateneri—Nyateneri’s wounded hand guiding me oh unbelievable, Nyateneri’s long legs folding me in, keeping me fast. But everything is moonshadow and wine bottles, except for this, and Nyateneri has slipped from me, though I can smell her so close, as though my head were still in her lap and a few feet away those two men, a few minutes dead. And I can hear Lal laughing, low and beautiful—if I reach one hand to my left, so, I can feel that laughter on my palm. Between this finger and that, Lal’s whisper: “Rosseth, boy, so strong in me, so kind, so lovely in me. Rosseth, Rosseth, yes, like that, yes please, my dear, my dear.” The name Karsh gave me, the name I have always hated, so beautiful, my name. If I could hide in the way she says my name and never come out again.

  But I am not in her, not in any way, even in this dancing darkness. It is Lukassa welcoming me—Lukassa arching back to kiss me, who never speaks to me, giving me her breath for mine—Lukassa’s buttocks searing my incredulous hands. Too stupid even to bumble my way into the woman I most desire, how can I possibly be joining and joying two others at once? There are legends about such men, but I am only Rosseth—no knight, but only Rosseth the stable boy, such wits as he had flown to the moon, leaving his imbecile body tossing in this bed like a toy boat on the wild Bay of Byrnarik, that I have never seen. Someone was going to take me there, someone was going to take me to play all day on Byrnarik Bay bay bay, where Lukassa is taking me now. It was a song. There was a song.

  Someone’s hand is on my back, my hip, caressing, insistent, pushing hard, then yielding as I yield, moving with me on Byrnarik Bay. Lal’s voice, a sudden shrill whisper, the way her sword must sound springing from its cane lair. “Rosseth? Rosseth?”

  NYATENERI

  In the end, it was my hair that betrayed me, as I really might have expected. Rosseth’s hair is all tight curls— mine is as coarse and shaggy as his, but fatally straight beyond any deception. Once Lal’s fingers clenched in my hair, it would have been all over even if, by some chance, the magic had held together.

  Which it did not. It is a most curious sensation to feel even the smallest enchantment leaving you. I do not mean to be insulting when I say that it is not like anything you can imagine. It is like nothing I can imagine, even now, and I have known it three times in my life. Poets and hedge-wizards mutter of the passing of great wings, of a sense of being abandoned by a god after having been used and exalted almost beyond bearing. This is nonsense. The way it is… do you know how it is when a bubble bursts on your wrist, leaving nothing behind but a little cold gasp, already gone out of the skin’s memory by the time the slogging mind even begins to realize—yes? So. Nothing more.

  Perhaps, then, you also understand that the person under a spell can only know it by the way it affects other people. For all the nine years that I was Nyateneri, daughter of Lomadis, daughter of Tyrrin, it was never once a woman who looked back at me from any shiny helmet or any muddy stock-pond. The breasts that tormented and emboldened Rosseth; the soft skin, the curved, supple mouth, the rounded grace of carriage—all that was always a trick, the only one I knew that might gull for a while those who meant to kill me. I was disguised—disguised well enough to travel and live with real women on terms of daily intimacy without arousing the slightest suspicion—but I was not transformed, neither in fact nor in my own sense of myself. There was never a moment in those eleven years when I believed that I was truly Nyateneri.

  And even so. Even so, in that overburdened bed, with Lal all around me, with Lukassa’s hand prowling between us and my hand at last finding Rosseth, with the greedy, glorious astonishment of their three bodies answering itself in mine—whose name was real, whose gender was forever? It was Rosseth’s innocent desire that had brought mine growling out of a long, long winter sleep; who was it, then, who wanted his mouth no less because of Lal’s rich mouth, his hands no less because of once-dead Lukassa’s tremulous caresses? Was it I—a man, as we say—or Nyateneri, the woman who never existed? All I know is that I kissed them all, woke to their kisses, no more or less as Nyateneri than as the man who was not Rosseth when Lal cried out and buried her hands in his hair. There were no census-takers in that bed that night, no border patrols.

  LAL

  For one moment—no longer than the instant it takes for me to yank Nyateneri’s head back by the hair, hard, and stare through the shivering dark into that strange, familiar face above me—for that moment I am Lal-Alone again, cold and empty and ready to kill. Not because the woman in bed with me has turned out to be a man, but because the man has deceived me, and I cannot, cannot, allow myself to be deceived—day or night, bed or back alley; it is the only sin I recognize. My sword-cane is propped in a corner—oh, naked, foolish Lal!—but my fingers have crooked and bunched themselves for a slash that will crumple Nyateneri’s windpipe, when the soft cry comes: “He taught me, the Man Who Laughs!” And I let both hands drop, and Nyateneri laughs himself, herself, and kisses me like a blow and moves slowly in me. And I scream.

  Something is happening in the dovecote overhead: vaguely protesting burbles, fretful noises as though the birds were jumping on and off their perches. What can the drovers, the sailor, the holy couple imagine must be going on in here? What would that sly fat man think if he crept up the stairs, flung open the door and saw us now, this minute, tumbling over each other like a moonlight circus, all naked rope-dancers and slippery beasts? What would I think, if Lukassa’s mouth and throat were not a sweet curtain across my mind, if I were not suddenly, suddenly about to do my own dance, Lal’s dance, up there, high up there in the night-blooming night, up there above the pigeons, Lal’s dance on no rope at all, nothing under me but the love of three strangers, who will not let me fall?

  THE FOX

  Up there in the rafters, three left, what does he want? Three tricky pigeons, just out of reach, yes, make attics and attics full of pigeons—why such roaring, such waking of
poor tired everybody? Fat innkeeper shouts, swears, bangs in and out of rooms, slams through cupboards, looks under floors, under beds—in beds, even. Dogs in the courtyard, the stable, on the stairs, sniffing and yelping, just like fat innkeeper. Boy Rosseth runs here, runs there, two and three places at once, looking guilty and happy. Boy Tikat helps—that is a worry, this one knows too much about too much. Should have let him starve, kind fox.

  Days and days, all for a few bony little pigeons. Nyateneri, Lal, Lukassa, they go on riding out, riding back, never a thought for someone hiding all the hot day in the fields, shivering all night in a hollow log. No chance even to take man-shape, not with boy Tikat here. Northern Barrens is better than this. Convent is better, except for nasty food.

  This one morning. All cloudy, a thin mist, cold gray sweat. I strike off toward the mountains, trotting only, looking for birds, rabbits, maybe a kumbii—big juicy red mole-thing, my size almost. No kumbii, nothing nice, nothing but the smell of a storm coming, and one stupid lizard, falls over its own feet when it sees me. Bad to eat lizards, poison your eyes, make your teeth fall out. I eat half.

  My fur hisses. Storm is rolling up from the east, green and black, all squirming with lightning. Frogs growing restless in the little slow creeks—maybe a pretty frog for me? Two frogs, even? I go softly along creek bank, just to see. A dog howls.

  No dog I know. Bays again, closer—big, running hard. And still no smell of him, no taste in my whiskers, no shiver in my blood that says dog, dog. Morning yet, but too misty now to see more than trees, stones, the ribs of a falling-down fence. But I hear his breath.

  Up the bank and away then, straight through brambles, tickberries, handshake thorns, places where dogs will not go. This dog will. Bushes crash and crackle behind me—a whine for a thorn, another long bell for a poor little fox that never harmed him, and here he comes, here he comes with the first thunder baying on his heels. But I am already among the plowed fields, flying over cart-ruts, jinking this way, that way across terraces, grape arbors—hoho, I run like what I eat, how not, only better. Nobody runs like me.

  More thunder, closer than he is, but not loud enough. Under all the rattling and groaning, always his breath, wind in hard lost places. And now the rain. Thunder is nothing, but this rain smashes me down, rolls me in muddy smashed cornstalks—and always, heavier, colder than the rain, his gray breath over me, inside me. On my feet in one breath of my own, never fear, and gone for the deep trees off to the right. Never look back, what for? Rabbits never look back at me. Down beyond those trees an orchard, and beyond orchard the inn, where nice old twinkly grandsirs find shelter from storms under Ma-rinesha’s skirts. Catch me there, wicked dog with no smell, catch me there.

  But something happens. Nothing happens. In and out of wild trees, orchard flashes past, inn is no closer. How is this? I can see it, even through wind and rain and mist—see chimneys, courtyard, bathhouse, stable, even my nice tree, branches blowing against women’s window. I run and I run, should be there three times over now, but no running to the moon, no reaching the inn. Dog bays on my left—I swing away toward the town, double back in a little. But each time I try, the inn is further away, dog a bit nearer, and my fur wetter, dragging at my legs. Nobody runs like me, but nobody runs forever.

  Rabbits don’t look back. People look back. Under a tall tree, I turn and take the man-shape at last—what dog would ever hunt man-shape like a poor fox? This dog. Out of the mist and rain, now I see him, all howling jaws, wet teeth, stupid long ears, coming through the storm like a fire on four feet. Yes, yes, and so much for human mastery. Two bounds, welcome back my own four feet, off again where he wants me to go, straight for the town. No catching me, no escaping him.

  The storm blows by us, dog and me, as we run, back toward the bad country where Mildasis live. Mist thins, thunder mumbles itself away over the rooftops, last lightning is lost in noonday sun. I remember a stone culvert, small, small culvert, drains slops from the marketplace, too narrow for a great ugly dog like this dog—howl for me there all day and night, he can. Best speed now, no chance for him to head me away. Sweet me, best speed now.

  But the culvert is running like a river, rainwater surging high up the sides. I see dark dead things spinning past— rats, birds, me if I jump down there. No time to think, yes, no, time only for one lovely sailing leap, so pretty, a fox-fish, swimming in the air. Down and gone then, and one bark later his clumsy feet booming behind me again. Nothing for it but the market—nothing but a basket, a heap of cabbages, a turned-over barrow, any earth for such a tired little fox with his muddy tail dragging on the ground.

  Empty market, everyone still hiding from the storm. Dirty canvas over all the barrows, awnings sagging with rain. I look left, right, a fruitstall, ten strides and a scramble to a hamper half full of squashy green things. Almost through the scramble, and a hand clenches the back of my neck—hard, hard, hurting, nobody touches me like that, even Nyateneri. I turn in my skin, jaws snapping on nothing. Another hand clamps across my hips, both hands lift me high, holding me stretched out like a dead rabbit. But my teeth are alive, and this time they take a mouthful of wet sleeve and a bony wrist between them, my beautiful teeth. A voice without words speaks my name, and I am so still, nice teeth not closing, not even loosening a thread. I know this voice. I know this voice.

  The hands turn me, one lets go. I hang in the air before his face, and I do not move. Nyateneri would not know him. Lal would not know him. He is gray, gray everywhere, all the way through—bones, blood, heart, all gray. Gray as rain, thin as rain, too, clothes so ragged and wet he might as well be wearing rain. They would never know him. But he is who he is all the same, somewhere in one place that is not yet gray, and I wait for him to tell me that I can move.

  After a long time, he says my name again, in a human voice now. Nyateneri knows my name, but never speaks it, never. He says, “You put me to much trouble. You always did.”

  Dog. No dog anywhere—no feet thumping forever after me, no cold empty breath. I say, very small, “The dog with no smell. You.”

  He laughs then, tries to laugh, that way of his, but it comes out like blood. “No, no, no, you were always a flatterer, too. The storm, yes, I can still manage a bit of a storm for a bit, but no more shape-shifting, never again. No, the dog was just part of the storm, like the illusion of the inn, and all that was only to drive you here to me. A troublesome business, too, as I said. You have grown strong and clever, while I have been busy growing old.”

  Long ago, long ago, longer than Nyateneri knows, he never needed hands to hold me, phantoms to call me to his will. I say, “Flattery yourself. What do you want of me?”

  I feel the trembling as he sets me down gently. He looks around, still no market folk returning, crouches before me. “Lal,” he says. “Nyateneri. A few miles only, but I am too sick, too weary to go to them. Help me, take me there.”

  No command, a request only, a kindness to an old— what? friend? colleague? companion? I have none. “Why do you bother with me? You are a magician, you can call storms and storm-dogs to hound a poor fox to your feet. Call one now to carry you where you want to go. Call a sheknath.”

  Rags already steaming in the sunlight, he is still shaking, holding himself. “That was the last of my strength, that show, and well you know it. Take your human form, little one, just for a while. I need an arm, a shoulder, nothing more.”

  “Walk,” I say. “Fly. If I were a magician, I would fly everywhere.” I sit back on my haunches, smile at him. Nothing nice like this for days, not since the pigeons.

  Two children run through the market, stop to splash in the puddles. He sinks back behind a pile of boxes, lets his gray breath out. I think he could not get up if he had to. He says, “Please. What hounds me is real and near. It must not find me in this place. Only take me to Nyateneri, to my Lal. You know who is asking you.”

  Better and better. “And who am I to make an enemy of your enemy? A simple fox, corn in the mill between two great wi
zards? Not for me, thank you, my master.” And I turn away, a fox in the sunlight, looking for a place to curl up sweetly and nibble the mud-clumps out of his tail.

  O, never take your eyes off them, not while they breathe, never do that. No hand on me this time, but the terrible bite of a magician’s will: snap, my poor neck again, shake almost to break my back, and bang, down among the boxes beside him, whining for breath. He leans over me, says in my head, “Make one sound, one miserable whimper. You know who is asking you.” Voices now, wheels on stone, rattle of awnings as people begin opening their stalls. He huddles even lower, nothing but gray rags to look at him. “Take the form,” he says. “As you are wise.”

  Who thinks of me? No one thinks of me. Save their manners, their honesty for others, strangers, never for me. I say to him, “You said your strength was gone. Liar. Ask a favor, then kill me for saying no. Old, hunted, alone, no wonder.”

  Again the red ghost of that laugh, making my fur rise and my ears flatten back. “And no wonder you are still a fox, still, after so long and long a time, so much subtle knowing. Don’t you ever ponder on it, why you should still be a fox?” Footsteps, heavy, this is my fruitstall, same stamping as fat innkeeper’s feet. “Now—take the form!” and man-shape stands up among the broken boxes, lifting a gray beggar in its arms. Just so he held me, a few moments before, but I am more gentle. As I must be.

  Fruitstall man gapes, scratches his head. Wants to roar, but at what? Nice old blue-eyed uncle helping nice old smelly unfortunate? Stands there making funny small sounds as man-shape bears its helpless burden past. Man-shape smiles, nods, human to understanding human. Burden snatches a handful of dried apricots from a jar as we go by.