Cuckoo's Egg

by C. J. Cherryh

  " Duun—"

  Duun did not look back. There were tears back there. Rage. It was Thorn's nature.

  So was it Thorn's nature to come trailing back into the house, finally, when it was dark, when Duun had made a fire and sat on the sand before the hearth. Duun had cooked food. He had eaten. He had brought Thorn's supper outside and set it wordlessly on the step. Thorn was not to be seen.

  But it was in Thorn's nature to admit defeat when night came.

  Thorn came and stood on the sand beside him. "Two hundred twenty-four," Thorn said.

  Duun's ears pricked. "Plus nine. Minus four. Eighty-two. Six."

  "One forty-one."

  "Ah. You can."

  Thorn knelt. Leaned on his hands. "What in the world comes in two hundred twenty-fours?"

  "Stars. Trees. Kinds of grass. The ways of a river. The stubbornness of a child. The world is wide, young Thorn. I can reckon the speed of the wind, name the stars, the cities of the world. I can read a man's intent in the pupils of his eyes."

  Duun swung around and struck, open palmed. Thorn's open palm was there to meet it, stopped it, held and trembled.

  "Ah. You are hatani, are you? Back away, little fish. You're not ready to take me. Drop the hand."

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  It was a trap. Thorn refused it. Thorn held still, eyes wide and white-rimmed, palm trembling against his palm, and Duun lowered his ears.

  "Now what will you do?" Duun asked.

  "Let me go." The tremor grew. "Let me go, Duun."

  Duun reached out his maimed right hand and encircled Thorn's wrist gently with the span of his two fingers. Pulled. The hand refused to leave contact with his palm. The arm shook. Thorn's eyes were dilated, watched his feverishly.

  "What are you going to do now, little fish? You have a problem now, don't you? You've let me get two hands into it."

  Thorn lifted his other hand. It froze in that lifting, trembling.

  "Not wise. Not wise at all," Duun said. "You're overmatched. You'd better stop. Don't you think?"

  "Let go,."

  "Relax. Relax and trust me."

  "No!"

  "There was a time I told you, do you remember?— when you took up the knife, I said that you would take it up when I told you; and when I told you, you would lay it down. This is the time, Thorn. Now I tell you to let go. Do you hear me? I tell you to lay it down, Thorn."

  The tremor grew. The palm slowly left his palrn. Duun clenched his hand on Thorn's wrist and jerked him against his chest. Thorn, utterly off his balance, collapsed against him. Duun grinned, grasped him by both arms, claws out, shook him back in that grip and stared into eyes face to face. "I would have torn your throat out just then. Do you believe it?"

  "No."

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  "Why would I not?"

  "I don't know, Duun!"

  Duun let him go. Thorn collapsed onto his rump and sat up and rubbed his arms. There would be bruises and clawmarks. Duun knew.

  "Are you a fool, then?" Duun asked. "Why did you do that?"

  "You would have hit me," Thorn said, perfect logic.

  "Yes," Duun said.

  Another change. Thorn sat with his jaw loose, stunned silence in his watering eyes. The boy discovered chaos in the world, sums that had no right answer. "The world's full of two-way bad choices." Duun said.

  "Numbers always work out. You can trust them. That's why we learn numbers. To set some order in the world. There's no other part of life where things work out. Do you see that?"

  "Yes." Thorn's teeth chattered. "I see."

  "You are hatani. Wei-na-hatani, little fish. A small one. A hatani is not the weapons. Is not the knife, the gun. A hatani is not these things. I told you that the time would come to lay these things down. Now you have no need of them. You can pick up the knife and lay it down again. A hatani is not the knife. Do you understand? Not the skin or the claws or the eyes. Do you understand? I teach you. You become hatani. Inside."

  Thorn blinked rapidly. Gasped for breath. "Duun, where did you get me?"

  "Where do you think?"

  "I don't know."

  "But you trust me. Don't go to every morsel, little fish. Some are traps.

  Don't I teach you? Use your wits. Add only what can be added. Remember all the figures, even so. Never lose one. That one will surely come from behind and kill you. There are no second tries in the world. Nothing is twice."

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  "How can you know anything?"

  "Remember all the numbers. Even the long-ago ones. Never drop any.

  You don't know when they'll be needed. Reject nothing. You don't know what you might need. I give you these things."

  " Where did you get me? "

  "I pulled you from the river, little fish. You were drowning and I saved you."

  "Is that truth, Duun?"

  "I lied." Duun reached out the finger of his hand and brushed Thorn's cheek, where a light down had grown. Hair began to grow and darken elsewhere on Thorn's body. Thorn's hope and his despair. (It's worse than nothing, Thorn cried, before the mirror in the bath. I'm all in patches, Duun!) Other signs were on him. "I tell you, I think you should cut this, little fish; you're right: it's here and there— I'd make it even."

  "Stop it. Don't distract me! I want an answer, Duun."

  "Ah. You uncover my tricks, do you?"

  "I want an answer, Duun."

  "The minnow has hatani tricks."

  "I want an answer, Duun."

  Duun pursed his lips. Laid his ears back. "Put that answer with my hand.

  Beat me and I'll answer you."

  Thorn's shoulders slumped. His head bowed. True defeat. Then he glanced up with a piercing, anxious look.

  "Duun— Duun, tell me the truth. One truth. Be fair to me. Do you know?"

  "Yes," Duun said, and gazed at him steadily until Thorn turned his face away.

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  IV

  Faith am I when all you trust has died;

  Truth am I when all you know has lied.

  Choice I bring when the choice you had is sped; Promise am I when all other faith has fled.

  Vengeance am I but I come to you at cost;

  One gain am I when all else you want is lost.

  Thorn sang. It was a hatani song. Duun listened, as to the other lessons, listened half-dreaming as he played. There was a sweetness in Thorn's voice, all unsuspected, a skill in his hands which ran upon the strings.

  Perhaps it was a native fierceness that made the boy love this song; perhaps it was the innocence of that downlands child who questioned a hatani's scars, happy in ignorance. Perhaps Thorn only loved the tune. He sang it well.

  Duun took over the dkin and strummed out a new rhythm with his two-fingered right hand. Rapped the beat on the sounding-board, and Thorn with native skill took the beat on the small drum.

  The young head bent to the music, young eyes looked up slyly from beneath a fall of dark hair, lately shaven lips widened in a grin. Thorn had given up on the hair of his face. That on his body he still cultivated.

  Besides, the razor burned. (You look better, Duun had told him, when Thorn had done the deed and crept out for approval. And Thorn looked profoundly relieved.)

  Vulnerable. Oh, vulnerable, young Thorn.

  Green beneath the summer sun,

  White beneath the snow,

  All fair my land,

  And fair the one I know

  Whose paths run down

  To mine in evenglow.

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  Love and women and things of the world.

  "A hatani has no kin," Duun said while his hands played on. "When you are hatani to the heart you will not have me."

  The drum stopped. But there was no question. Thorn had betrayed himself and Duun had gone no further; Thorn kept his own counsel, grown wary in his years. And having done that much, Duu
n kept the melody going, gentle harmony. "When I lost the most of my hand, I thought I would never play. I recovered that. Other things I lost. You gain no virtue from loss you never know. There will never be love, Thorn. Never. Do you know that word?— Take up the beat."

  Thorn picked it up, bowed his head till his eyes were hid.

  "I tell you," Duun said in the low beat of the strings, the counterpoint of the drum. "There's always something left to lose. When you think there's nothing more you're a fool, Thorn; there's something till you're dead. And after that— gods know. Do you know how old you are?"

  Thorn looked up. The beat skewed. recovered itself.

  "They know in the city. I know. The meds don't come. Half a year and they don't come. You know why, Thorn?"

  A move of the head. No. There was dread in Thorn's eyes.

  "Well," Duun said, "they don't. Maybe they know what you are."

  The beat kept up, regular as heartbeat and as painful.

  "What am I?"

  Duun looked at him sidelong. "Hatani. Like me. Self-sufficient."

  Thorn only stared at him, knowing his tricks. (Foul, Duun-hatani. Wicked and foul.)

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  "You have a wound, little fish. You bleed into the water. Don't you know this?"

  Thorn's jaw set. His eyes were alive with thoughts. "I didn't feel the wind, Duun-hatani. You caught me."

  "—again."

  "Meds."

  Duun looked up.

  "You talked about meds, Duun, and cities. What about them?"

  "Oho. The minnow takes to deeper water."

  "You mean to say something, Duun-hatani. You never say anything you don't want to say."

  "Deeper still."

  "You called them. Did you?"

  "No." The music grew under Duun's fingers, shifted and changed.

  "They called you."

  "Ellud called."

  "Why?"

  "To ask how you are. I told them. Improving, I said. Growing. They were satisfied."

  "What's Ellud? Why does he want to know? Why do the meds care? Why do they look at me and never at you?"

  "Ssss. There's time. There's a little time, isn't there?"

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  "Time for what?"

  "Tksss. Fool. Walk and breathe at once, can you?"

  The beat picked up again, changed, became another thing, strong and temperful.

  "Defy me, do you?" Duun launched into a thing more complex.

  The beat followed. "Time for what?" Thorn asked. Duun shrugged.

  "For Sheon."

  "The city? The meds?" Thorn's eyes grew wild, dilate. "Gods— go there?"

  "Did I teach you profanity? No. I taught you respect. You're still a child.

  What a leap of reason. Did I say go to the city?"

  "What do you mean— time?"

  "That." And Duun launched out on another tune. "Time was, I thought you might beat me, little fish. I thought you might come at me in my sleep.

  Fair or foul, I said. You ever think of that?"

  "I thought of it."

  "Why didn't you?"

  A long hesitation. "I like my own sleep, Duun-hatani."

  "Ah."

  Thorn gave him a wary look. Duun grinned at him in no merry way. So Thorn got the joke as well. Jaw set. Eyes flickered in alarm.

  (Guard your sleep, little fish. The rules just changed.) 39

  Cuckoo's Egg

  Thorn smiled suddenly, darkly, without humor, and complicated the drum-pulse, making irreverent changes in hatani songs.

  (What is a hatani? Duun. Duun is Duun. Like the sun. You become Duun, little fish, and never ask what Duun might be. Duun is the trees and the mountain, environment. Duun is faith kept. You sing the song. Hear the words, Thorn, wei-na-mei, minnow in my brook.)

  * * *

  Thorn poured the tea, sitting cross-legged on the riser in the room before the fire. His hand trembled and there was a shadow about his eyes, a bruising where no one had struck. "Eat," Duun said, on its other side. "You'll climb the mountain today."

  Shadowed eyes lifted to him. Shoulders were already slumped. Perhaps Thorn thought of protest. If so he gave it up. Thorn knew the game.

  "The black thread," Duun said, sipping at the tea. "Across the door last night. It's a very old trick. Did you know that?"

  "No."

  Duun grinned and swallowed down a mouthful. "Eat. Eat. You'll break your neck on the rocks."

  Thorn filled his mouth and choked it down. He had shaved. He had washed himself. He had waked last night with a knife being laid at his pillow. "You're dead," Duun had whispered, ever so softly, the fifth night, the fifth night of Thorn's sleeplessness.

  Thorn had started up, grasped Duun's wrist and lost that battle too, in the pitch black, in the haze of sleep caught for night upon night in fitful snatches.

  "You'll try to sleep today," Duun said quietly, over tea. "It might be wise."

  Thorn looked at him in bleak dismay.

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  Duun grinned. "On the other hand, it might not be. Want to sleep, minnow? You might take me now, face to face."

  "No. There's a pebble in the pot, Duun-hatani."

  Duun stopped in mid-sip. Looked at the haggard face.

  "I've drunk no tea," Thorn said.

  Duun set the cup down on the riser, in front of his crossed ankles.

  "I won't ask my question," Thorn said hoarsely. "That was foul. I'll take you fair. With warning."

  Duun drew in a long breath. Thorn had braced himself. Centered himself against the chance of a blow. And Thorn trembled.

  For a long moment Duun did not move. Then he held up his left hand in a slight gesture that meant no attack forthcoming, and reached to his belt with the two fingers of this right.

  He laid the pebble on the smooth surface.

  Thorn glanced at it. There was only that. His eyes lifted, strangely clear.

  "I would have given it to you before you left," Duun said. "I would have given it to you when you told me. But, minnow, you offered me quarter.

  To offer that to me—"

  "I'm sorry, Duun."

  "The thread was clever. To change the rules was cleverer. Then pride blinded you. Minnow, you've changed the rules. Do you understand?"

  A hoarse whisper. "Yes, Duun-hatani."

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  "Be wary of everything, minnow. And never grant quarter to a hatani. Fair is a teaching-game. Fair is a box I drew. Should I have used all I had and discouraged you? Now the walls are down, minnow. What will you do?"

  "I'd be a fool to tell you, Duun-hatani."

  Duun nodded slowly. Thorn picked up his bowl to eat. Set it back then, with a soft click of the spoon against the bowl and looked up at him.

  "Yes," Duun said. "It would be good to wonder what's in the food.

  Wouldn't it? Eat, minnow. I give you that grace. It's quite safe."

  Thorn edged back on the riser, set his leg over the edge. "You said no quarter. I believe you."

  "And not my telling you it's safe?"

  "No." Thorn got to his feet and walked across the sand, gathered up his weapons from the shelf, his cloak from beside the door. He stopped there and looked back.

  Turned and left then. Running, feet thumping down porch steps.

  Duun sipped at his tea and set it down at his knee. Thorn expected a little start. Such things he took for granted.

  Duun got up, gathered up his own weapons, and his cloak.

  No quarter then.

  * * *

  Thorn ran, ran, knowing that there was no time. There was no time to rue the attack, no time for any regret, only the running and the land— ("Wind and land, wei-na-ya: wind and land.") ("Scent-blind: but my knee aches when it rains—") 42

  Cuckoo's Egg

  Turn and turn and turn: a fool's need rules his wit; a wise man's wit governs need.

  ("A hatani
dictates what another's need will be.") Fool, to do what a hatani said to do!

  Thorn caught his breath and sprang for the rocks, bare feet doing what claws might do, shaping themselves to stone as Duun's could not, clinging with their softness: bare hands clinging where Duun's hands might not—swinging on a branch that gave a shortcut round the cliffside, dropping to a slant where Duun's feet would skid, where Duun's leg might fail—

  The wind, O fool, the wind is at your face; Duun had checked the wind this morning. There was no corner Duun-hatani did not see around before his quarry even saw the turn—

  The pebble in the tea—

  Upland or downland? Do what Duun said and surprise him with obedience? Or do the opposite?

  Run and run: he was quicker than Duun, that was all he was. He had grown up in these hills; and so had Duun. Thorn was more agile. He could take the high slope on his bare feet at greater speed than Duun—

  —but Duun knew that.

  Wild choice, then. Logic-less. He darted downslope.

  Wind in his face, wind carrying his scent; and he had to get around that bend first, around the mountain shoulder.

  Duun was at his back. It was not the pain Thorn dreaded, though pain there would be. It was Duun. Duun himself.

  * * *

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  The wind carried scent and Duun breathed it— fool, Duun thought, at the edge of the rocks; but twice a fool is a hunter too secure. There was the easy temptation— to win at once, to take the rash chance, the wide chance.

  But it was hatani he hunted. No more minnow, but fish in dark water.

  He smelled the wind and knew Thorn's direction and his distance; he knew the branch of the trail that gave access to the cliff and knew the way Thorn could take that he could not— he knew every track in the hills.

  Thorn knew he knew. That was the conundrum: how well he had taught the fish.

  And what kind it was, how native-adept, what skill was bred into its bone and blood… what intelligence, what instincts.