over and over again, like a curse, or a prayer.
The old man was trying to stop her, to seize her wrists, but she turned a fierce bright intolerable gaze on him that; made him shrink away into a huddle.
“I am guilty,” the girl said in a hard voice. “If he dies, I have killed him. For I was stupid and wrong and stubborn, and he was right—we should have left the camp at once, not lingered arguing until that black rogue of a Perushka dog struck him treacherously from behind with a knife.”
And then she bent over him and did the thing she meant to do, and he felt a pain beyond all of the other intervals of pain, bright, blinding, incredible . . . and the blackness came again, and the deep sleep, and there were no dreams for a long time thereafter.
HE FELT like a drowning man must: the sleep that engulfed him was like a black, lightless sea, from which he emerged at intervals into the dim light of day, to gulp a breath or two of air before sinking below the suffocating waves again.
Once again he came swimming slowly up out of the black sea of sleep into the daylight, they were arguing.
“This person must remind the young woman that she has not slept in two days. She cannot long continue in this manner, or old Akthoob will have two invalids on his hands. . . .”
“I am fine; this is the crisis; if he comes through this night safely, then he may yet mend . . . but it takes great concentration . . . I must guide his sleeping body to repair itself, for flesh can heal, and bone can mend, but the lung . . .”
The girl, he saw fuzzily, was kneeling beside him, her face blank and dead, her gaze turned inwardly. A small spiral of green smoke crept from a pot clasped between her knees and as she breathed in this spicy smoke it seemed to him that her spirit departed from its house of flesh and left only—vacancy.
Over her thin shoulder he saw the long bony face of the old man. Slitted black eyes were narrowed thoughtfully, and his mouth was pursed as in distaste.
The old man said, in a low muttering voice: “Zoromesh . . . Zoromesh . . . it must be that . . . but why did the girl lie to us?”
None of this made any sense to him, so he let go and sank effortlessly once again down into the black sea of sleep whose smothering waves rose hungrily about him to suck him down to silence and restful ease.
And after this there were no more dreams at all.
ii. Zoromesh
HE OPENED his eyes and gazed incuriously upon strangeness.
There was a rough rocky roof above him, and stalactites dangled therefrom like pendent spears of stone.
Curled up against his side, the great grey wolf slept, its nose buried in its tail, like a huge friendly dog. Bazan, that was the brute’s name, he remembered.
He lay quite comfortably on folded blankets, and saddlebags were heaped behind him, and be felt warm and cozy. A great lassitude enveloped him. There was no urgency in anything, no importance, and no hurry. He did not even feel curious, although nothing of what he saw around him did he at once understand.
Somewhere behind him, further back in the cave, a horse blew out its breath and stamped restlessly. He remembered that he had owned a horse once, a black Feridoon pony, but he could not recall its name or what had become of it.
The air about him was pleasantly cool and fresh, although it did savor somewhat of unwashed wolf, horse, and man-sweat. A fire was crackling off to his left, and he turned his head to look at it. Someone with patient labor had scooped out a hollow place in the hard-packed, rocky, earthen floor of the cave, lined it carefully with smooth flat stones, and a small neat fire of spicy wood and dry leaves crackled merrily thereupon. The blue smoke that rose from the flames smelled deliciously of pungent herbs.
A bracket of tough black wood was built above the flames, and a thick earthenware pot was suspended just above the fire. Within it some fluid seethed and bubbled. It was a good sound; a pleasant, homey sound. He
The old man was trying to stop her, to seize her wrists, but she turned a fierce bright intolerable gaze on him that; made him shrink away into a huddle.
“I am guilty,” the girl said in a hard voice. “If he dies, I have killed him. For I was stupid and wrong and stubborn, and he was right—we should have left the camp at once, not lingered arguing until that black rogue of a Perushka dog struck him treacherously from behind with a knife.”
And then she bent over him and did the thing she meant to do, and he felt a pain beyond all of the other intervals of pain, bright, blinding, incredible . . . and the blackness came again, and the deep sleep, and there were no dreams for a long time thereafter.
HE FELT like a drowning man must: the sleep that engulfed him was like a black, lightless sea, from which he emerged at intervals into the dim light of day, to gulp a breath or two of air before sinking below the suffocating waves again.
Once again he came swimming slowly up out of the black sea of sleep into the daylight, they were arguing.
“This person must remind the young woman that she has not slept in two days. She cannot long continue in this manner, or old Akthoob will have two invalids on his hands. . . .”
“I am fine; this is the crisis; if he comes through this night safely, then he may yet mend . . . but it takes great concentration . . . I must guide his sleeping body to repair itself, for flesh can heal, and bone can mend, but the lung . . .”
The girl, he saw fuzzily, was kneeling beside him, her face blank and dead, her gaze turned inwardly. A small spiral of green smoke crept from a pot clasped between her knees and as she breathed in this spicy smoke it seemed to him that her spirit departed from its house of flesh and left only—vacancy.
Over her thin shoulder he saw the long bony face of the old man. Slitted black eyes were narrowed thoughtfully, and his mouth was pursed as in distaste.
The old man said, in a low muttering voice: “Zoromesh . . . Zoromesh . . . it must be that . . . but why did the girl lie to us?”
None of this made any sense to him, so he let go and sank effortlessly once again down into the black sea of sleep whose smothering waves rose hungrily about him to suck him down to silence and restful ease.
And after this there were no more dreams at all.
ii. Zoromesh
HE OPENED his eyes and gazed incuriously upon strangeness.
There was a rough rocky roof above him, and stalactites dangled therefrom like pendent spears of stone.
Curled up against his side, the great grey wolf slept, its nose buried in its tail, like a huge friendly dog. Bazan, that was the brute’s name, he remembered.
He lay quite comfortably on folded blankets, and saddlebags were heaped behind him, and be felt warm and cozy. A great lassitude enveloped him. There was no urgency in anything, no importance, and no hurry. He did not even feel curious, although nothing of what he saw around him did he at once understand.
Somewhere behind him, further back in the cave, a horse blew out its breath and stamped restlessly. He remembered that he had owned a horse once, a black Feridoon pony, but he could not recall its name or what had become of it.
The air about him was pleasantly cool and fresh, although it did savor somewhat of unwashed wolf, horse, and man-sweat. A fire was crackling off to his left, and he turned his head to look at it. Someone with patient labor had scooped out a hollow place in the hard-packed, rocky, earthen floor of the cave, lined it carefully with smooth flat stones, and a small neat fire of spicy wood and dry leaves crackled merrily thereupon. The blue smoke that rose from the flames smelled deliciously of pungent herbs.
A bracket of tough black wood was built above the flames, and a thick earthenware pot was suspended just above the fire. Within it some fluid seethed and bubbled. It was a good sound; a pleasant, homey sound. He
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