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The soldiers had let the storytellerÆs escort cut into the front of the line.
To
pay for his privilege, though, he apparently gave those nearby an explanation
of
her presence, and Gilly watched the news spread like a wave across the room,
and
out the door. GillyÆs table quickly began to fill again; the soldiers, trying
hard to behave with civility, introduced themselves and their friends to the
storyteller, and asked eager questions that the storyteller, with no apparent
effort, replied to without answering. They resorted to volunteering
information:
that the stew she was now eating was better than they had eaten for some
time,
but still was pretty bad; that the big, meaty beans in it were fallow beans,
so-called because they were grown in fallow fields; that the kitchen had been
re-built at last, which explained the improvement in the food. She looked up
from her nearly empty bowl and said, ôYou know the difference, donÆt you,
between information and stories?ö She glanced at Gilly, and it seemed she was
curious and not intending to be mocking.
ôYou will be paid,ö he gruffly said. ôThese soldiers here are just intrigued
by
you, and making idle conversation as best they can. We never see anything new
here.ö
She stood up, then, and stepped up onto the bench, and from there to the
tabletop. She did not need to call for quiet; the only sound came from the
soldiers, summoned by fleet-footed rumor, who struggled to get in the crowded
doorway. She said in a loud, clear voice, ôI am a gatherer, a carrier, a
teller
of tales. I have come to trade with you, tale for tale. Once, when I was
walking
through the southland, along the edge of a lake, I found an old man, who sat
on
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a stone by the water and wept with sorrow. æOld man,Æ I said . . .ö
Sitting directly below her, Gilly could clearly see the thin scars that
criss-crossed her hands. She shaped the old man in the air, with words and
gestures telling how he was haunted by the ghosts of three women, each of
whom
blamed him for her untimely death. She stood balanced, poised, with her
weight
on her toes like a dancer. The tassel at the end of her braid bounced
lightly,
softly, communicating the rise and fall of the story, and then signaling its
ending.
The soldiers pounded the tabletops and roared appreciation. And then her
hands
smoothed the air like a magician soothing a troubled ocean, and the voices
fell
silent. ôI am sure you have heard of Haprin,ö she said. ôBut do you know that
Haprin has a spring that bubbles out of the ground so hot, you can boil eggs
in
it? And yet no one goes near that spring, not even in dead of winter, because
it
is a place of bad luck. Long ago, when Shaftal was a young and wild land. . .ö
The refectory became so jammed with soldiers that no one could reach the food
line any more, and the listeners passed plates of hot stew hand to hand,
across
the room, and even out the door. In the rapt silence that followed her sixth
storyùa love story, this time, with a satisfying endingùthe night bell could
be
heard to ring. She glanced down at Gilly, and Gilly got stiffly to his feet.
ôWill you return tomorrow, storyteller?ö
ôYou owe me six stories,ö she said, speaking to the crowded room.
One of the captains, whom Gilly had spoken with that afternoon, promptly
said,
ôMy company will pay.ö He named a place and time for her to meet with them
the
next day. She bowed, and descended, and though Gilly had to hold his ears
against the din of acclaim, she did not seem to hear it.
ôIÆll accompany you to the gate!ö he shouted.
Once outside, he regretted his offer, for the footing was worse than he had
expected. She held out her arm, though, saying, ôItÆs hobnail season already.ö
ôHobnail boots are too heavy for me,ö said Gilly. When he leaned on her, she
was
steady as stone, despite her light build. And that strength spoke to him
again
of the past she claimed she could not remember. He said, ôYour body betrays
that
you are a knife fighter.ö
ôI have a warriorÆs scars,ö she confirmed. ôSometimes, I feel how muscle and
bone remembers a long training. But I have been weaponless a long time, I
think.ö She added, after a moment, ôDo you suspect me, Lucky Man? Do you think
I
am trying to disguise myself? I canÆt disguise a self I do not know.ö
ôOnly when I noticed your scarred hands did it occur to me to doubt your
tale,
peculiar though it is.ö
She said, with just a trace of humor, ôOh, a storyteller can be most
dangerous.
Your caution is very sensible. Since I donÆt care who hears my tales, or who
tells them in return, simply send me away!ö
ôI am sure you donÆt care. I think you are truly indifferent about
everything.ö
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ôThe people who remember are the ones who live passionately. They believe
they
have something to protect or a future to anticipate. I am not that kind. What
kind are you, Lucky Man?ö
He could not answer her, and the rest of the journey to the gate, they walked
in
silence. The clouds were breaking up, and a brisk wind began to blow. As the
storyteller went out the gate, the wind blew back her cloak, and in the faint
light of the gate lamps, her red silk shimmered like flame.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ôLieutenant-General? May I have a word with you?ö
Clement had found one comfortable chair in the garrison, and had it put by
the
fireplace in her own spartan quarters. There she sat, with a washed uniform
hanging nearby to dry in the heat of the brisk fire. She had slept in that
chair
no few nights, but now it was Davi who slept, curled in ClementÆs lap, with
her
thumb in her mouth.
ôCome in,ö she said to the sergeant at the door. ôBut be quiet.ö
ôIt looks like snow again,ö he said in a low voice. ôUnbelievable weather.ö
ôIt was this bad when we first came here, thirty-five years ago. ItÆs been
this
bad every year since then.ö
ôWell.ö The sergeant was a relatively young man, probably Shaftali-born. The
habit of complaining about the weather was endemic, though, even among those
who
had never known anything else.
ôCome closer to the fire,ö she suggested. ôWhatÆs on your mind?ö
ôTen days weÆve been here. The sick kids are getting better, and youÆve found
that one you wanted. The companyÆs wondering when weÆll head back to
Watfield.ö
ôDo they want to make that journey?ö
ôIf they have to do it,ö he said honestly, ôtheyÆd rather now than later.ö
ôWell, IÆm thinking theyÆll be trapped here all winter. I know itÆs not what
they expected.ö
The sergeant looked more relieved than apprehensive. ôI donÆt know that
theyÆd
mind. Conditions in Watfield are pretty bad.ö
ôItÆs dirty work here, too.ö [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]