dusting before supper; and to cooking after mat, which was not so bad—one could filch a little while one worked, and Sasha did learn, in dusting off the lids of the smallest pots and rearranging things, where more of the spices were—and where other things were, some of which had clay seals, and some of which had scratches in those seals he thought might be magic signs; or perhaps—because aunt Uenka had had her marks, too, although she had no reading or writing—they might simply say what they were: things like mushrooms and moss and lichens, wormwood and what he thought was belladonna, and other things he had no idea at all.
Uulamets spent all the rest of his time reading and writing, by window light and by candle, except when he went out to the river and came back with a pair of good-sized fish, which he gave Sasha to clean; Pyetr offered his help at turnip peeling while Sasha cleaned the fish at the edge of the yard.
Of a sudden wings fluttered and cracked, and Sasha looked up in alarm as a raven settled to the ground and strutted solemnly over to pick at the offal.
It was the first bird, the first living creature he had seen in all this place except the fish they had for dinner, and by the way it looked at him, with a single black liquid eye—the other was put out—he was quite glad to feed it the offal, only so it let the fish alone.
"Be welcome," Sasha said to the creature, and it dipped its head in the way of its kind, which might have been a bow, or only an inspection of its dinner. "I don't suppose there's a flock about? A rabbit or two? A deer?"
The raven looked coldly up at him with a fish liver in its beak, and after due consideration, bolted it whole.
"Quite," Sasha said. "Too many questions. Excuse me, brother Raven."
It gulped another mouthful and regarded him again with not quite disinterest.
One did not take such a creature for ordinary, not in this forest. He was glad enough to leave it the offal and take the fish up to the house, not without a backward glance.
But it was only a fish-loving raven.
"There's a black bird down by the river," he said to Uulamets , who was still at his studies.
"He comes and he goes," Uulamets said, without looking up, so he took the fish to the boiling pot and threw it in, washed the fish-smell off his hands and took to the spice-bottles.
While Pyetr drowsed in the corner, or wisely pretended to, to evade quarrels.
The boy was a good cook, Pyetr decided, give or take the fact it was fish stew again. And he was not in a mood to complain. He had made up his mind to keep his head down and take Sasha's very sensible advice, in fact, since he was weak as a day-old kitten, and since the old man and his stick1 were not inconsiderable.
But he kept score, and reckoned up the tab at this irregular inn, and assessed whether there was anything valuable to be had, beyond a clean shirt and maybe a coat or a blanket or two-reckoning that Uulamets would have worked at least that out of the boy in the time it took him to heal.
In particular he kept his eye on Uulamets and the old man's access to the stewpot and the tea, this evening, in the case their kindly host decided to add to the recipe.
Uulamets sat all day long hunched over a book, following the lines with his finger—only rousing himself to give Sasha more orders.
Maybe that was all he ever did in this desolation—sit at that table all day and read that book, and set his fishing lines and cook and read that book again.
God knew what he was reading, or what could occupy him hours on end, just the occasional whisper of a turned page, about every candlemark or so.
Old man in a dead woods, reading his book till the words ate up his mind.
Except he enjoyed Sasha's cooking.
"Good," Uulamets said, tapping his spoon on the bowl. "More."
And when Sasha had filled his bowl again:
"Set one outside," the old man
Uulamets spent all the rest of his time reading and writing, by window light and by candle, except when he went out to the river and came back with a pair of good-sized fish, which he gave Sasha to clean; Pyetr offered his help at turnip peeling while Sasha cleaned the fish at the edge of the yard.
Of a sudden wings fluttered and cracked, and Sasha looked up in alarm as a raven settled to the ground and strutted solemnly over to pick at the offal.
It was the first bird, the first living creature he had seen in all this place except the fish they had for dinner, and by the way it looked at him, with a single black liquid eye—the other was put out—he was quite glad to feed it the offal, only so it let the fish alone.
"Be welcome," Sasha said to the creature, and it dipped its head in the way of its kind, which might have been a bow, or only an inspection of its dinner. "I don't suppose there's a flock about? A rabbit or two? A deer?"
The raven looked coldly up at him with a fish liver in its beak, and after due consideration, bolted it whole.
"Quite," Sasha said. "Too many questions. Excuse me, brother Raven."
It gulped another mouthful and regarded him again with not quite disinterest.
One did not take such a creature for ordinary, not in this forest. He was glad enough to leave it the offal and take the fish up to the house, not without a backward glance.
But it was only a fish-loving raven.
"There's a black bird down by the river," he said to Uulamets , who was still at his studies.
"He comes and he goes," Uulamets said, without looking up, so he took the fish to the boiling pot and threw it in, washed the fish-smell off his hands and took to the spice-bottles.
While Pyetr drowsed in the corner, or wisely pretended to, to evade quarrels.
The boy was a good cook, Pyetr decided, give or take the fact it was fish stew again. And he was not in a mood to complain. He had made up his mind to keep his head down and take Sasha's very sensible advice, in fact, since he was weak as a day-old kitten, and since the old man and his stick1 were not inconsiderable.
But he kept score, and reckoned up the tab at this irregular inn, and assessed whether there was anything valuable to be had, beyond a clean shirt and maybe a coat or a blanket or two-reckoning that Uulamets would have worked at least that out of the boy in the time it took him to heal.
In particular he kept his eye on Uulamets and the old man's access to the stewpot and the tea, this evening, in the case their kindly host decided to add to the recipe.
Uulamets sat all day long hunched over a book, following the lines with his finger—only rousing himself to give Sasha more orders.
Maybe that was all he ever did in this desolation—sit at that table all day and read that book, and set his fishing lines and cook and read that book again.
God knew what he was reading, or what could occupy him hours on end, just the occasional whisper of a turned page, about every candlemark or so.
Old man in a dead woods, reading his book till the words ate up his mind.
Except he enjoyed Sasha's cooking.
"Good," Uulamets said, tapping his spoon on the bowl. "More."
And when Sasha had filled his bowl again:
"Set one outside," the old man
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