The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter by Brent Hayward Page B

far wall, the reflection of the gallery of cages, and—near the centre—the empty one, the glaring space.
    Her missing cherub represented the Main Gate—the bridge leading into Nowy Solum, and South Gate, spanning it, welcoming or threatening all those leaving or visiting the city. From her window, the chatelaine could not see these parts, but she had an awful feeling just then, a crawling on her skin, and she wondered if someone or something unpleasant might be arriving just now—or would arrive shortly—through the unprotected gates.

    “We came over the sand for two days. We left our home ’cause my boy was not right in the head but then a light come down and touched him, changed him, put ideas in him. Only he don’t know what they mean and he needs someone to unlock ’em. Or explain ’em. See? A light come down from the sky and we needed to leave home.”
    Path’s father had paused to take a sip of murky water. Then he choked for a while. In the lantern light, his skin appeared pale. His hands shook. Path was perched on the table, in his sling. Because of his position, he could not see much of this hovel, nor of their host—just a wall of dry reeds.
    “A finger of light touched him?”
    “Yes.” His father wiped at his chin. “That’s what I said. Didn’t see it happen, though. He was outside, in the garden. Watching for lizards. He would scare lizards away. That’s what he did.” Another pause. Father glanced at son, who stared back, unblinking. “There’s not many people where we live. After this here light hit him, he was a new boy. Smarter. Not like the boy we tried to raise. I didn’t believe him at first. But he was different.”
    “You do now?”
    “What’s that?”
    “You believe him now?”
    “He talks in his sleep. Says things no one could understand. Words no one knows. He’s changing every day. He speaks in a voice I don’t know. He talks about places I don’t know. But I guess that ain’t saying much. We’re stopping in almost every home, to see if the right words will come, but he’s said nothing so far.”
    “Any women travelling with you?”
    “Women? I don’t see why . . . My wife, you see, she got ill a long time ago.”
    The stranger chuckled wetly.
    “Stop talking,” path said. “He’s making fun of you. I’m not getting anything here. This is not the place. So just stop talking.”
    His father, who looked as if he had run out of oxygen, acquiesced.
    Then the man who owned this property, and who had reluctantly given them water, said, “Your boy’s right about one thing. You talk too much.” He spat on the floor of his own home, which was not dirt, like the floor in path’s home had been, but a sheet of real tin. “You talk and talk.”
    Path craned his neck again to try see the stranger. Fragments of the vision had begun to flicker once more in the perimeters of his mind but no directions or clarifications were presented. He saw a girl, alone, and then crowds of vague people. He saw a vast, cold void where surely nothing could live. What had his father been saying? Did he truly talk in his sleep? Everything seemed like a dream now—
    Abruptly the homeowner’s face loomed. He was grinning. He had a hole where his nose should have been and only one eye. He said, “You don’t look very capable. If you’re heading into Nowy Solum, I give you a day, at best. Now get your dad to hold your cup up, drink yer water, and get on out of here.”
    Path said, “We were thirsty.”
    “Show yer gratitude, boy.” A knife appeared in the man’s hand. “You’re done here.”
    Path’s father swiftly hoisted path. “We’ll be going,” he said. “Thanks for the water.”
    Later, at another house, a large and ugly woman told them her husband was out back, and that he would eviscerate the pair of them if they did not get off the property. From the wedge of gloom behind the woman’s huge body, a child watched with saucer eyes.
    The door was slammed in their