Innkeeper's Song

by Peter S. Beagle

  He makes man-shape carry him all the way through the marketplace, eyes closed, face hidden in rags. Much sympathy, ever so much fluttering, so many anxious questions for man-shape. “No, no, he will recover, only a little care and patience, as we all need. No, no, thank you, righteousness is never heavy. Gracious concern, decency, very kind, thank you, thank you.” A few coins, even, pushed nobly into man-shape’s fingers, coat pockets. Small coins.

  On the road out of town now, and he says, “I can walk, perhaps a little. Help me walk.” An arm around man-shape’s neck, full weight on the shoulder, easier carrying him. “You marvel at what has become of me. How I could have come to such a state.” Sees me more interested in track of a starik at last on the damp ground, more curious about frogs in the ditches—same ditch, two frogs, one green and delicious, one red-brown, nasty taste, why is this? His smile, as torn as his clothing. “Well, you are a wise fox, and no mistake. I have ill-used and insulted you—forgive me if you can.” I do not forgive, I do not speak to him, all the miles to the inn, but he has fainted by then, so he never knows.

  TIKAT

  Of course I knew him. With that red soldier’s coat of his and that way he had of walking—two steps forward, the third just a bit to the side—the distance didn’t matter, nor that his face was half-hidden by the ragged man in his arms. I dropped my basket at Rosseth’s feet (we were gathering windfalls and acorns for the hogs) and set off running.

  I met him in the courtyard. The dogs were all barking madly, swirling around his ankles, and Gatti Jinni was shouting at them from a window. As I drew near, he set the ragged man on his feet, holding him up with an arm around his waist. The man sagged over his arm, coughing. He was very old, far older than my redcoated friend, and the sound of those coughs told me that there was no strength left in him, none at all. I thought he was dying. Redcoat looked at me over his head and said in the quick, shrill bark I knew, “My horse-thieving colleague. How pleasant to see you again.”

  “The Mildasis didn’t get you,” I said. Lame, if you like, but what would you have said to a person who had last brought you your breakfast in his teeth? He showed them now, white as I remembered. “Would you be feeding and currying a little gray horse if they had? Look sharp, boy, here’s a friend for the ladies.” I went slowly to him, and he let the old man fall against me. When I lifted him the heaviness of him amazed me, and even frightened me somewhat, for he should have weighed nothing at all, as little flesh as covered his fragile bones. But my knees bent under those bones all the same, and I staggered a step forward, which made Redcoat laugh mightily. I would have fallen—I’ll tell you straight—but he gripped my shoulders and set me upright again.

  “More to him than there seems, aye? Well, the old surprise us betimes, fellow thief. This one, now, his bones are full of darkness and his blood’s thick and cold with ancient wisdom, mysteries. Weighs a deal, that sort of thing—wears a man out just taking himself from place to place.” So he buzzed and chuckled while I strained to carry the old man as far as the inn door, where Gatti Jinni stood blinking slack-mouthed. I was grateful when Rosseth came up and helped me, never saying a word.

  Karsh came out then. He pushed Gatti Jinni aside and stood scowling as we danced the poor creature along like a cumbersome piece of furniture. Behind me, Redcoat was still laughing: the sound of it prickled in my palms. Karsh looked at Rosseth, not at me. He never looked straight at me.

  “Another one,” he said. As sad for myself as I woke and worked and slept each day then, for that moment I pitied Rosseth with my whole heart, to be hearing that slow, offended voice every day of his life. Yet one thing I also realized was that in his own heart Rosseth did not hear Karsh at all. He heard the voice, the orders; he was always respectful, always responsible, quick and keen to jump to any task—but there was a way in which he always eluded his master, just as the words to say how it was escape me. Karsh knew it, too—you could see that he knew, and that he didn’t like it. I do not believe that Rosseth knew that.

  Now he only shook his head and answered cheerfully, “Not one of mine this time, sir, but a visitor to see Mistress Lal and Mistress Nyateneri. We’ll take him to their room and let him rest there till they return.” He nodded to me, and we began dragging and pushing the half-conscious old man toward the inn once again.

  Karsh grunted and spat. He made no move to interfere, but stared hard at us with his pale eyes as we struggled by him. We had reached the threshold when he said, not loudly but very clearly, “A visitor, is it? More likely another body for the tickberry patch.” I did not understand what he meant, but the color came up in Rosseth’s neck. He called for Gatti Jinni to come and help us, but Gatti Jinni had faded away into one of the musty places he knew. So we got the old man up the stairs by ourselves.

  I had thought I could go in. I knew that the room would smell of her, and that it might be hard to look at the bed where she slept and wonder if someone who had been dead could ever dream of someone living. But I had no more than lifted the latch and pushed the door an arm’s-length open when I saw the velvet sash hanging across the back of a chair. It was the sash I had traded my first real woven cloth for at Limsatty Fair; it was the sash she was wearing when she drowned. I shut the door and turned away.

  Rosseth meant to be gentle. He said, “Tikat, they left by moonlight, they’ll be gone all day. She—Lukassa—she isn’t in there.” I remember that he flushed again when he said her name. Trying so hard to spare others’ feelings must be very embarrassing, I suppose.

  “I’ll send Marinesha up,” I said. “I am sorry.” Then I ran back down the stairs as though all the beasts out of my walking nightmares in the Northern Barrens were after me together, so fast that I stumbled and fell to my knees in the courtyard. If Karsh had been there still, he would have split his fat belly with laughing, and well enough I would have deserved it. But I had suddenly come to the end of my tracking at that door. I had followed Lukassa through deserts, forests, across rivers and mountains, tracing out every least shadow of a memory of her passage that all these had kept for me—but into that room I would not follow, not if my one love stood beckoning in the doorway, no more, no. “Let her come to me if she will,” I said to the dusty chickens clucking and scattering all around. “She must come to me.”

  And a foolish vow that was, as you will see—aye, and unkind as well, for all the while I yet believed her to be under a spell that kept her from knowing me. But I was very weary—I’ll say that much for myself—and very angry, and full of despair; and just then, there on my knees, I did not love anyone, and I never had.

  MARINESHA

  If it hadn’t been for Tikat, I would have gotten through that entire week without breaking a single plate. Oh, that may sound very silly to you, but you might not feel like that if Karsh were always after you about accidents and clumsiness and all kinds of things you couldn’t possibly help. And I’d managed, in spite of his nagging and his sneaking up on me and shouting—I mean, if that wouldn’t make you drop something—I’d managed not even to chip so much as a teacup or a panikin all week, even with all the hullabaloo that was going on about those stupid pigeons; and then here comes Tikat calling for me when I’m not in the least expecting it, in that nice rough country voice of his that never got my name quite right, and of course I dropped the porringer, who wouldn’t? And of course I turned right around and slapped him—he understood that. Tikat was a gentleman, I don’t care where he came from.

  “I’m sorry, Marinesha,” he said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just came to say Rosseth wants you upstairs.”

  “Oh, does he indeed?” I said. Because I didn’t want him to think that I was someone who jumped whenever Rosseth snapped his fingers. “Well,” I said, “you can go tell the Lord Rosseth that the Princess Marinesha will be there in good enough time to suit herself, and if that doesn’t suit him, there’s a delightful man in the kitchen who wants him downstairs this minute.” Because Shadry absolutely hated Rosseth; it was dreadful
what he used to put that boy through. I was sorry after I’d said that about Shadry. I said to Tikat, “I’ll be up when I can, I just have to clean away these pieces and hope Karsh doesn’t notice.” But I knew he would.

  Tikat had the prettiest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. You wouldn’t imagine a village boy like him having such long, thick eyelashes, the color of warm afternoon sun on the courtyard dust when it’s getting late. And he was tall, much taller than Rosseth, and there was that voice; and if he’d only paid a little attention to his hair, it would have looked like—I don’t know. Like a beautiful bird or an animal, all by itself. Not that I ever gave him more than “good morning” or “good evening,” I’m sure, but he was always very courteous to me, so that shows you.

  But this time he was different. I can’t tell you how different he was—if I said he was pale as this or shaking like that, then you’d think that was the difference, that thing, and it wasn’t. Only that I hadn’t seen him like that before. He said, “Marinesha, you will have to tell him yourself. I can’t go back up there.”

  “What is it?” I said. “What’s the matter with you?” His voice was so low. I mean, it isn’t as though I didn’t know what the trouble was. There probably wasn’t even a guest who didn’t know that he’d come all this terrible journey to find his girl, and then that pale, whispering little—well, I’ll just say that little thing—just turned away and pretended she didn’t even know him. I thought it was shameful, and I thought the other two put her up to it, the showy, arrogant pair of them, and I wasn’t the least bit shy about saying so. Which took the wind out of a certain stable boy, I can tell you, but what did I care for that? Tikat had manners, and if there is one thing in this world I respect, there you have it. Manners.

  But all he said was, “I can’t—I am a coward—I cannot,” and he was past me and gone, almost knocking Shadry over as he came through, which made me laugh—I couldn’t stop myself. So after that there was nothing to do but smooth down Shadry, hide the bits of the broken porringer, and go up to Rosseth. He had just finished settling the oldest man I ever saw onto a straw mattress on the floor. The old man’s eyes were closed, and he was the color of old snow. I was servant to a hedge-doctor once—hardly more than a baby, I was—and I have seen dead people, many of them. I would have thought he was dead, except that Rosseth was talking to him. He was saying, ”There you are, sir, as comfortable as anyone at The Gaff and Slasher. I’m sure your friends will be returning by this evening. If there’s anything more I can do for you.“ But the old man said never a word.

  “The only thing you can do for that one,” I said from the doorway, “is to ask him where he wants his body sent, and what sort of priests should meet the coach.” Rosseth spun around and glared at me, but I just smiled. Rosseth always hated it when I did that, just smiled at him in that way. I said, “And the best thing you can do for yourself is pray that Karsh doesn’t miss that spare mattress. He’d turn out your insides to stuff a new one.”

  Rosseth gave that long, long, patient sigh that was always his way of annoying me. He said, “This gentleman has only come to see his friends. He won’t be staying the night.”

  “He won’t last the night,” I said. Rosseth put a finger to his lips, but I certainly didn’t pay that any mind. I said, “Those three sluts will come back to find a dead man waiting for them.” Which suited me well enough, and I laughed right there, just thinking about it. “Poor things. The only kind of man they won’t be able to get any use out of. I don’t suppose.”

  Oh, wasn’t Rosseth furious at me, though? I did it on purpose, I don’t mind telling you that. Because ever since those women came to the inn, Rosseth had been growing more and more impossible, especially in the last week or two. We’d been used to having our nice restful chats, when Karsh wasn’t around, and sometimes our little walks in the woods or even an afternoon in Corcorua— but now he couldn’t talk about anything except Lal’s beautiful hands or Nyateneri’s elegant ways, or how charming and friendly that Lukassa was, once you got to know her. So tedious, so tiresome. I’m afraid I’d just run out of patience with his daydreaming, that’s all.

  “Marinesha,” he said to me—like that, through his teeth—“Marinesha, come here and sit down.” He sat down himself by the mattress and beckoned me over. I stood where I was, thank you very much, until he said, “Please,” really rather nicely. Then I went and sat across from him, on the other side of the old man, and I said, “Well?” Just that, you see.

  Rosseth said, “You know something about healing. More than I do, unless it’s a horse. Tell me what to do.”

  “I’ve told you already,” I said. “Ask him where he wants to be buried. He hasn’t eaten for days, by the look of him, and he must have gotten caught in that squall that came up over town this morning. And he’s very old. That’s all that’s wrong with him, but there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Well, Rosseth looked so stricken at that that I really felt sorry for him. Some people look nicer when they’re sad, and Rosseth was one of those. I asked, “Why should a stranger trouble you so? I’m sure he’s a good old man, but he’s no uncle of yours. Or is he?” I added that last because Rosseth is an orphan—I mean, I am, too, which gave us anyway that much in common—but at least I’d always known my parents’ names and where they came from, and poor Rosseth didn’t even know where he was born. So the man could have been a relative of his, you see, like anyone.

  Rosseth said, “Look at him. He’s somebody, he’s important.” At that I got angry all over again, and I said, “Why? Because he’s a friend of theirs? That’s what it is, that’s why you’re going on like this, isn’t it?” But Rosseth just shook his head.

  “Look at him, Marinesha,” he kept saying. “Look at him.” So finally I took my first real look at that old man’s face—I mean, past the smudgy, gappy old mouth, past the lines and wrinkles and scratches, and the dirt ground into them all, past the awful grayness, past everything, past the features themselves, if you understand me. And I don’t know—I don’t know—looking at him just started to make me happy, in a funny way. It made me want to cry, too, but it was the same thing. I don’t know, I just stared and stared, and Rosseth did too, and we didn’t talk any more.

  By and by we heard Karsh shouting downstairs for Rosseth. I said, “You go on. I’ll just bide with him for a little.” So Rosseth looked at me a moment, and then he smiled and touched my shoulder, and he said, “Thank you,” and went out. And I sat there by the mattress, watching that old man, and presently I went and got a cloth to clean his face with a bit. Because there was no reason he ought to be dirty, even if he was old and sick and maybe dying. And while I was doing it, he opened his eyes.

  “Oh,” he said. “Marinesha.” Just as though we’d known each other forever, and he was surprised to see me, but pleased, too. He had a thoughtful sort of voice, with just the least bit of an accent. He said, “My, I feel rather like a kitten getting its face washed by its mother. A refreshing way to wake up, I must say.” When he smiled, it didn’t matter that there were teeth gone.

  I was very shy with him, all of a sudden. I couldn’t help wishing that he’d gone on sleeping, just a while longer. I stood up quickly, and I said, “Sir, are you feeling better? What can I do for you?” Just like Rosseth, after all.

  He laughed then. I don’t know how to tell you about his laugh. A shaky little gasp of a laugh it was, this side of a cough, really, but you wanted to hear it again. He said, “Well, you could go on standing there in the sunlight—I wouldn’t ask for more than that—but I think my friends are on the stairs. I know you don’t much care for them, and I’d not want to shame you after such kindness.”

  And the next thing, there they were, the three of them, banging the door open and filling the room with their clatter and swagger. They stood there with their mouths open and their eyes popping, exactly like a row of fish in the market, and then the black one stammered out, “Rosseth told us—” and Miss Nyateneri swung her shoulders a
nd demanded, “Where have you been?” like the boldface she was. As for that other one, she went straight to him and dropped on her knees beside the mattress. She put her hands between his, showing off that great vulgar emerald she always wore. He touched it, and he smiled and said something like, “So, it finds its way home again,” which I didn’t understand. But she was crying, of all things, and then he said, “Be still, be still. You are where you should be. Be still now.”

  Nobody gave me any more of a glance than they would a dish of dog scraps, of course, not when I opened the door and not when I closed it behind me. But I stood on the landing for a moment, not eavesdropping, just getting myself ready for what was waiting downstairs—dirt and smoke and food smells, Karsh and Shadry yelling, Gatti Jinni waiting his chance to get me in a corner, farmers and soldiers already laughing-drunk in the taproom, guests badgering me to do forty different tasks for them at once, and my own chores going on till midnight, longer if I wasn’t lucky. What I had to do, you see, was make myself forget how nice it was just being alone with that old man—at least until I could get off with it by myself somewhere. I mean, otherwise who’d ever go downstairs?

  LAL

  Of course we were jealous, both of us—how could we not have been jealous? Here we were, Nyateneri and I, having journeyed at great risk and labor to a far country to aid our dearest master, having searched for weeks longer after that, day on dreary day, just for some sign of his presence in the world—and then having to stand and watch while he ignored us to greet a stranger, Lukassa, as though she were his long-lost daughter. Yet how could it have been different? He always went where the need was greatest, immediately, without having to be told. My life is witness to this, as is Nyateneri’s.