bright and clear, and once more we had a view of the red and gray orb, a waxing crescent now showing visible details—part of an animal face, like a wolf or a jackal.
“It’s getting closer ,” Gamelpar said, performing his usual rather impressive stretches. The exercises hurt the old man, and their effect diminished through the day’s journey, but they were essential. He would stand on his good leg, arms out, then rotate his body and hips around until balance became difficult—hop to recover, and stretch out again, leaning his head back as if to let out a silent howl.
Vinnevra stood with arms by her sides, waiting for us to make up our minds, she would folow wherever we went, that was her
destiny, she deserved nothing more . . . and so on. Al in slack posture and blank, staring eyes—staring away, away from us, away from everything.
“You both look gloomy,” Gamelpar muttered as he finished.
“What I would not give for a bunch of plump, cheerful shopkeepers.”
“What would we do with them?” I asked.
“Make jokes. Dance in rings. Eat wel.” He smacked his lips.
The old man’s rare expressions of humor were almost as disconcerting as the girl’s appraising silences.
We walked off, taking a long inland route around the mountain. I had seen gentle pastures with hummocky terrain and water-worn tablelands on that side of the peak, and beyond, more and more trees until another bare and arid strip that stretched right up to the dense, high forest.
Two days between.
Two dreadful, silent days.
And then, suddenly, Vinnevra was cheerful again.
She stil did not say much, but she recovered a lightness in her step, a set to her eyes, a vibrant, swinging motion of her long arms and skinny legs that spoke eloquently that for her, at least, the worst of the disappointment was over, it was time to feel young again, to look around attentively and feel a glimmer of hope.
Her energy passed on to Gamelpar and we made better time.
Here, winding through hummocks and eroded plateaus, Gamelpar became convinced we were now back in decent hunting territory.
He showed us how to make a snare from stiff cane and plaited grass loops, and we worked for a time stretching them over one after another of a circle of fresh-looking burrows.
We carried stones to block off the open holes.
“Not rabbits,” Gamelpar said as we stood aside to wait.
“Probably good to eat, though.”
He then took his stick a few meters away and dug a hole in the sandy soil. After a while, a muddy dampness seeped into the bottom of the hole, and we al took turns digging deeper. Soon there was water—muddy, far from sweet, but wet and essential. If we were patient, we could drink our fil.
Then the first of the snares bobbed and danced and we had a little brown animal, like a lump of fur with eyes, the size of two skinny fists. That last night before we reached the forest, we captured four, set a low, smoky fire with dry shrubs and scrap twigs, and ate the fatty, half-raw meat.
Does the Lifeshaper come to these poor beasts when they are born?
I ignored that blasphemy. The old spirit had no respect.
I slept wel—no dreams. We were as far from the ditch and the Captive as we could take ourselves. Of course, who knew how fast it could travel on its grotesque floating plate?
But for the moment, neither terribly hungry nor terribly thirsty, I was able to watch the stars on both sides of the silver and pale brown sky bridge—as wel as the crescent wolf-faced orb, now as wide as two thumbs.
Gamelpar remembered seeing a smal wandering star of that color just after the brightness and the fires in the sky. Since, he had ignored its habits and routines—and while he alowed they might be one and the same, there was no way of teling. But my old spirit roused to suggest it was not a moon and could not possibly be in orbit around the wheel—that just wouldn’t work—but was more likely a planet, and it was growing closer day by day.
I stil had
“It’s getting closer ,” Gamelpar said, performing his usual rather impressive stretches. The exercises hurt the old man, and their effect diminished through the day’s journey, but they were essential. He would stand on his good leg, arms out, then rotate his body and hips around until balance became difficult—hop to recover, and stretch out again, leaning his head back as if to let out a silent howl.
Vinnevra stood with arms by her sides, waiting for us to make up our minds, she would folow wherever we went, that was her
destiny, she deserved nothing more . . . and so on. Al in slack posture and blank, staring eyes—staring away, away from us, away from everything.
“You both look gloomy,” Gamelpar muttered as he finished.
“What I would not give for a bunch of plump, cheerful shopkeepers.”
“What would we do with them?” I asked.
“Make jokes. Dance in rings. Eat wel.” He smacked his lips.
The old man’s rare expressions of humor were almost as disconcerting as the girl’s appraising silences.
We walked off, taking a long inland route around the mountain. I had seen gentle pastures with hummocky terrain and water-worn tablelands on that side of the peak, and beyond, more and more trees until another bare and arid strip that stretched right up to the dense, high forest.
Two days between.
Two dreadful, silent days.
And then, suddenly, Vinnevra was cheerful again.
She stil did not say much, but she recovered a lightness in her step, a set to her eyes, a vibrant, swinging motion of her long arms and skinny legs that spoke eloquently that for her, at least, the worst of the disappointment was over, it was time to feel young again, to look around attentively and feel a glimmer of hope.
Her energy passed on to Gamelpar and we made better time.
Here, winding through hummocks and eroded plateaus, Gamelpar became convinced we were now back in decent hunting territory.
He showed us how to make a snare from stiff cane and plaited grass loops, and we worked for a time stretching them over one after another of a circle of fresh-looking burrows.
We carried stones to block off the open holes.
“Not rabbits,” Gamelpar said as we stood aside to wait.
“Probably good to eat, though.”
He then took his stick a few meters away and dug a hole in the sandy soil. After a while, a muddy dampness seeped into the bottom of the hole, and we al took turns digging deeper. Soon there was water—muddy, far from sweet, but wet and essential. If we were patient, we could drink our fil.
Then the first of the snares bobbed and danced and we had a little brown animal, like a lump of fur with eyes, the size of two skinny fists. That last night before we reached the forest, we captured four, set a low, smoky fire with dry shrubs and scrap twigs, and ate the fatty, half-raw meat.
Does the Lifeshaper come to these poor beasts when they are born?
I ignored that blasphemy. The old spirit had no respect.
I slept wel—no dreams. We were as far from the ditch and the Captive as we could take ourselves. Of course, who knew how fast it could travel on its grotesque floating plate?
But for the moment, neither terribly hungry nor terribly thirsty, I was able to watch the stars on both sides of the silver and pale brown sky bridge—as wel as the crescent wolf-faced orb, now as wide as two thumbs.
Gamelpar remembered seeing a smal wandering star of that color just after the brightness and the fires in the sky. Since, he had ignored its habits and routines—and while he alowed they might be one and the same, there was no way of teling. But my old spirit roused to suggest it was not a moon and could not possibly be in orbit around the wheel—that just wouldn’t work—but was more likely a planet, and it was growing closer day by day.
I stil had
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