Shiner Pete walked over to his wife and touched her arm. She pulled her arm out of reach and turned her back on her husband. Pete faced the blues. "You all know those bulls killed my daughter, May. Johnjay's sister. You know May was a cripple and couldn't run. What you don't know is what May meant to Johnjay—"
"Bah!" A woman in bullhand's stripes stood in the blues. "Bulls kill bullhands; bullhands don't kill bulls! You're in harness, Shiner. Get out of the Ring!"
"I have a say! He's my son!" Shiner Pete stared down the woman. "Those bulls were too old and you all know it. They were old and mean." He looked around at the people of Miira. "Hell. If I'd been there, I would've killed 'em myself!" The people in the stands rose and shouted in anger. Shiner Pete held up his hands for quiet, but the noise continued until the harness man lowered his arms and stood motionless.
Waxy looked at Johnjay. "Say something, Johnjay."
Johnjay looked at Waxy. The priest's face looked very old. Johnjay looked down at the sawdust, then up at his mother. Her back was toward him. He talked to her mind. "Mother, I am your son."
This time she answered. "No son of mine kills bulls."
Johnjay looked at the bullhands in the blues. "Look at you. You call yourselves bullhands, yet when was the last time you worked a bull?" He pulled at his own gray and maroon striped robe. "This rag says I'm a bullhand. But I work harness with my father. My sister... May wore one of these robes, and she painted pictures. That was what she was doing in the kraal. She was painting pictures of those damned bulls so you and your children wouldn't forget what a bull looked like. That was when those damned animals killed her!" He spat on the sawdust. "Then I killed them. And if I could do it over again, I would!" He folded his arms.
Waxy sighed, bowed his head for a moment, then roared at the blues. "Spit it out, troupers! What does the Town of Miira say?"
A voice. "Put his trunk on the lot!" And more voices—all saying the same thing.
"On the lot! Put his trunk on the lot!"
Waxy looked at Little Will. "You brought the charge. You're Master of the Bulls. Can Johnjay pay off the bullhands?"
Johnjay's mother shook her head. "There is no price that can be set." Her back was still toward her son. "Let his trunk be put on the lot."
Waxy's voice faltered. "For... for how long?"
Little Will turned and pointed her bullhook at her son. "Let Johnjay not be within sight of the Town of Miira until... until the last bull dies." The mother looked at her son. "When Reg dies, Johnjay may return."
Waxy turned to the blues. "What about the rest of you?" A roar of assent from the blues washed the Ring. Waxy made the entry as Johnjay turned and walked from the ring.
He went to his house, gathered his things, then began walking north on the road toward the Emerald Valley. As he reached the incline to the Snake Mountain Gap, he heard the people of Miira singing "Black Diamond."
He sent his thought. "Good-bye Father."
There were tears staining the answer. "Good-bye, Johnjay. It won't be forever."
"Good-bye, Father."
"Good-bye, Johnjay."
Johnjay looked over the houses of the Town of Miira. "Mother?" There was no answer. "Good-bye, Mother." John-jay began to climb the incline.
TWENTY-TWO
It was at night at the peak of the Snake Mountain Gap. Tarzaka the fortune teller prepared her fire and set out her cobit cakes. She sat alone watching the flames from her fire fight back the gap's dark, when a stranger wearing the bullhand's gray and maroon paused by her fire. His hair was black and his frame was gaunt. Hell was in his eyes. She motioned toward her fire. "Come and join me, bullhand. It is a lonely road we travel."
The man studied her for an instant, then shook his head. He turned and continued down the road.
Tarzaka held up her hand. "Wait."
He looked at her. "What do you want?"
She shrugged. "What do you want?"
He almost smiled. "To be alone."
"It is a strange person who wishes to be alone at night in the Snake Mountain Gap. It is said that many ghosts walk these walls." She pointed toward him. "One who wears the bullhand's stripes should know these things."
He laughed. It was a laugh of pain, not humor. He faced away from the fire, toward the night-blackened chasm. He raised a fist. "Damn ghosts! Damn you, ghosts! If you have any power, come to me and use it!"
Tarzaka gasped. "Don't!"
The stranger turned toward her, his face displaying none of the humor of his voice. "You fear ghosts, fortune teller?"
Tarzaka shrugged. "Who does not? Does it pay to tempt fate?"
The bullhand laughed. Still the laugh was a cry of pain. He stopped laughing and pointed at her. "Fate does not kiss the hand of those who pay homage to it, fortune teller. It is just there."
Tarzaka trembled at the bullhand's words. "These are hard things you say. What is your name?"
The bullhand studied the fortune teller for a long time. Then he tossed his wrap of belongings next to the fire. "My name... my name is No One. That is my name." He moved to the fire and squatted next to it. His eyes studied the woman in blue. "Your name, fortune teller?"
She wet her lips. "I am called Tarzaka." She studied the bullhand for a few moments. "Your name is a strange one."
He pulled cobit dough from his wrap and placed it by the fire. When he had finished, he looked at the fortune teller. "No One is my name." He again gave a humorless grin. "Would you share my cobit in exchange for a fortune, Tarzaka?"
She studied the bullhand. "You, No One, do not believe in fortunes."
"I thought it might be amusing." He shook his head. "I believe in them, Tarzaka; I do not believe in yours."
Her eyebrows raised. "And why not?"
"You play games with cards, balls, and wishes, Tarzaka. You do not tell fortunes."
"And did Momus himself whisper this in your ear?"
"I need no advice from myths." The bullhand drew back the left side of his mouth into a half-smile. "Instead, Tarzaka, why don't I tell you your fortune?"
The fortune teller laughed. "There would be no more point in doing so than if I asked you to watch me handle bulls."
The person called No One laughed, stood, and walked to the wall of the road cut. As he scraped mud from the rocks, he called back to the fortune teller. "Then my fortune has no value, Tarzaka." He returned to the fire, packing and shaping the mud with his hands. "And a fortune that has no value, you may have for nothing."
Tarzaka snorted. "Perhaps you should pay me."
No One sat cross-legged across the fire from the fortune teller and placed a ball of mud upon one of the fire's rocks. After he had done so, he motioned with a muddy hand toward his cooking cobit. "I think you might find a bullhand's predictions amusing, but of course you are right. Take your price."
The fortune teller leaned forward, picked up the hot cobit bread, broke it in half, and returned one half to the rock. She felt the other half with her fingers. "It is done. You should take yours before it burns." She looked at No One. The light from the fire danced upon his face, showing it to be painted with stripes of mud. She swallowed. "Your bread, No One. It burns."
No One grinned. "When the spirits are upon me, Tarzaka, I may only eat cinders." He closed his eyes and spoke as he passed his hands over the mudball. "Hugga Bugga, Mumbo Jumbo, and Razzamatazz, come to me that I might see what is to be—"
Tarzaka spat a mouthful of cobit into the fire: "You make free with the friendship of the fire, bullhand! I will not sit still and hear you ridicule my profession!"