The Writer And The Witch by Robin Sloan Page B

there where the river met the
road, out in the open, with no walls and no friends.
    The writer stood up and brushed off his knees. He
crouched in a sprinter’s stance, fingers stretched down to the ground. He
flexed his muscles—and pulled up a tiny trap-door. It was his
cache: always secure, because he was always sitting on it. There wasn’t much
in the shallow pit, but it was enough to begin again. He knelt and massaged
the soil of his garden, making it ready for new seeds.
    # # #
    YEARS PASSED .
    The writer was transformed utterly. He had a
thick, black beard. He had improved his regimen; now he lifted heavy
river-rocks every day, and balanced on one foot with them. He ate
a carefully-metered diet of fish, nuts, and vegetables. His
body was lean and strong. His eyes were sharp and clear.
    But even more impressive than his own transformation
was the transformation of the space around him.
    His shelter had become a house. It was very
small—what use did he have for space?—but it had walls, cleverly engineered
with the help of the woodcutter’s son, a carpenter. They could lift up like
awnings or shut down tight at night. The wall facing the road even had a door—not
so he could leave, of course, but so he could invite travelers into his home
and offer them shelter.
    He slept not on hard ground but on a thick straw
mat that he could roll up and put aside when he woke.
    The leafy trees that bowed in around his house
were festooned with banners and garlands. The monks from the forest temple
made regular visits now. People from nearby villages came, too, offering
small gifts in exchange for blessings.
    The road was busier; the New Capital was growing
fast, and all of its tributaries swelled with traffic. And so benedictions
were not all that he traded in. The writer also sold information.
    He was, after all, the eyes of the bridge. He
knew who came and went, carrying what, and when. Merchants paid him to tally
their rivals’ shipments. The secret police in the New Capital paid him to
watch for men with northern accents, leading covered carts, traveling
by night.
    You might be wondering if he was lonely. No; he
had friends, monks and merchants alike. He had companionship from time to
time, too: liaisons arranged by those merchant friends. Women he paid
in gold.
    He had carved out a strange little kingdom,
there where the river met the road, just beyond the bridge.
    # # #
    HIS FATHER CAME EVERY YEAR ,
sometimes several times a year, and his mother too. She brought him
fresh-baked bread from home and copies of his favorite books.
Then, one day, she came alone, and she told the writer that his father had died
in the fields.
    His father.
    She didn’t return after that, and soon the writer
heard that she, too, had died.
    His father and mother had lived to be very old,
and in their passing, the writer had realized something very important.
    His stationary life, his refusal to walk even a
step, had halted the witch’s curse. But it had done more than that: It had also
revealed the blessing inside the curse, because in all these years, the writer
had not aged a day.
    The witch’s curse of rock and ice had made him
immortal.
    # # #
    NINETY-NINE YEARS RUSHED UNDER the short stone bridge, and the writer’s life and legend grew together.
    The monks sent novices to sit beside him for days
at a time, to learn patience, discipline and stillness. Without fail, each
novice would grow bored and restless. He would rise to dip his toes in the
river. The writer would make him gather firewood, or repair his roof, or carry
messages to his merchant friends. Then, when the novice’s master returned,
the writer would report: Oh yes, your student sat beside me. His mental
endurance is astonishing for one so young.
    That same master having done exactly the same
thing twenty years before.
    Pilgrims arrived from far away. They brought
offerings from their homes—gems, heirlooms, spices. They were surprised when
the writer smiled and