they would return next week, leading a train of servants all carrying baggage stuffed with treasure, to rejuvenate the village, for his pahe to take his position as Prince with a new magnificence. And Tighe would be crying by this stage of the fantasy because as he built it up higher and higher he knew in his heart how impossible it was. And he was crying, too, for the absence in the heart of his imaginings, the thing he could not permit himself to think. He was crying for the nothing in the middle of his dream, the unspeakable void that cleaved to an image of hispas, like the goat, simply stepping over the edge of the world and into death.
Nobody said anything about that. His Grandhe never mentioned it. It was the truth, but it was unsayable.
There was a meeting, maybe half the entire village of Cragcouthie gathering on main-street shelf. Grandhe Jaffiahe herded him out for that, but left him between his two deputies. ‘Now you’ll be quiet when I address the village, boy,’ he had said to Tighe before coming out. He did this thing, ordering Tighe to stick his tongue out of his mouth and then grabbing it agonizingly between his thumb and finger to compel attention. ‘You’ll be quiet?’ Tighe had mumbled his assent, unable to speak or even nod with his tongue pinched that way. So when they had come out on to the shelf he stood between his Grandhe’s two deputies, who often kicked him about the lower leg, or pinched his bare arms, just to keep him silent.
Grandhe spoke to the crowd. ‘The Princedom needs a Prince,’ he said, ‘few would deny. Yet are we certain that our Prince has departed for ever? These are hard times, people, hard times.’ People were nodding and fragments of Grandhe’s speech went about the group in various mouths.
Hard times, true. Princedom needs. Are we certain
? ‘I say’, orated Grandhe, raising both his arms, ‘that our Princedom needs a Prince. The boy, my grandchild, will be of adult age by the year’s end and then he can take up the burden of the office – if our Prince has not returned. If he does not return, then let us crown the boy Prince at the year’s end.’ This would be ten months past his coming into adulthood, but Tighe didn’t say anything. The crowd was murmuring approvingly.
‘And until that time’, said Grandhe, dropping his voice and his arms at the same time, ‘I – your Priest, your intermediary between God and the people – will care for the boy. He shall live in my house, my own grandchild.’
Somebody cheered and there was a polite smattering of applause. But a drizzle was starting up, droplets swarming through the air, and people started dispersing and making for shelter. Grandhe’s deputies grabbed Tighe painfully by the tender parts of his arms, up near the armpits, making sure (it seemed to Tighe) to dig their nails in, and practically carried him back to his Grandhe’s house.
His pas’ house was emptied now and shuttered. Tighe slept in the main space of his Grandhe’s house, curled on the uncomfortable floor. By day he would mope inside, whilst his Grandhe went about the village ordering his affairs as a man of renewed wealth. There was a certain amount of restrained debate in the village about whether debts should be inherited. The people who felt they had a right to parts of the goats, or to the whole carcasses, would sometimes petition Grandhe. But Grandhe called theDoge and the Doge said that the law permitted no such thing. Besides, people were more than a little frightened of Grandhe.
In fact, the law was hazy. If Tighe’s pas were really dead then their debts died with them. But, claimed the creditors, there was no hard proof they
were
dead. Grandhe had not inherited the wealth, he was merely tending it until they returned, and therefore he was tending the debts as well as the animals. The Doge ruled on law, but that didn’t stop a few people hammering on Grandhe’s door and demanding payment. People were intimidated by
Nobody said anything about that. His Grandhe never mentioned it. It was the truth, but it was unsayable.
There was a meeting, maybe half the entire village of Cragcouthie gathering on main-street shelf. Grandhe Jaffiahe herded him out for that, but left him between his two deputies. ‘Now you’ll be quiet when I address the village, boy,’ he had said to Tighe before coming out. He did this thing, ordering Tighe to stick his tongue out of his mouth and then grabbing it agonizingly between his thumb and finger to compel attention. ‘You’ll be quiet?’ Tighe had mumbled his assent, unable to speak or even nod with his tongue pinched that way. So when they had come out on to the shelf he stood between his Grandhe’s two deputies, who often kicked him about the lower leg, or pinched his bare arms, just to keep him silent.
Grandhe spoke to the crowd. ‘The Princedom needs a Prince,’ he said, ‘few would deny. Yet are we certain that our Prince has departed for ever? These are hard times, people, hard times.’ People were nodding and fragments of Grandhe’s speech went about the group in various mouths.
Hard times, true. Princedom needs. Are we certain
? ‘I say’, orated Grandhe, raising both his arms, ‘that our Princedom needs a Prince. The boy, my grandchild, will be of adult age by the year’s end and then he can take up the burden of the office – if our Prince has not returned. If he does not return, then let us crown the boy Prince at the year’s end.’ This would be ten months past his coming into adulthood, but Tighe didn’t say anything. The crowd was murmuring approvingly.
‘And until that time’, said Grandhe, dropping his voice and his arms at the same time, ‘I – your Priest, your intermediary between God and the people – will care for the boy. He shall live in my house, my own grandchild.’
Somebody cheered and there was a polite smattering of applause. But a drizzle was starting up, droplets swarming through the air, and people started dispersing and making for shelter. Grandhe’s deputies grabbed Tighe painfully by the tender parts of his arms, up near the armpits, making sure (it seemed to Tighe) to dig their nails in, and practically carried him back to his Grandhe’s house.
His pas’ house was emptied now and shuttered. Tighe slept in the main space of his Grandhe’s house, curled on the uncomfortable floor. By day he would mope inside, whilst his Grandhe went about the village ordering his affairs as a man of renewed wealth. There was a certain amount of restrained debate in the village about whether debts should be inherited. The people who felt they had a right to parts of the goats, or to the whole carcasses, would sometimes petition Grandhe. But Grandhe called theDoge and the Doge said that the law permitted no such thing. Besides, people were more than a little frightened of Grandhe.
In fact, the law was hazy. If Tighe’s pas were really dead then their debts died with them. But, claimed the creditors, there was no hard proof they
were
dead. Grandhe had not inherited the wealth, he was merely tending it until they returned, and therefore he was tending the debts as well as the animals. The Doge ruled on law, but that didn’t stop a few people hammering on Grandhe’s door and demanding payment. People were intimidated by
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