Mbaba struck a match and held it lit in one hand while with the other she filled St. Bea's mouth with blue-green chips of bread from her barrel. She touched the match to the bread, took down one of the long stems, and inhaled; a dark bubble ascended from the bottom of the pipe to the top above the liquid level, where it burst and let out its smoke. Above the metal mouth ropes of thick, rose-colored smoke twined up around the chains, ascending to the dome; all around Mbaba was a rosy mist, the smoke coming from her nostrils and mouth. The smell of St. Bea's-bread is a good smell, dry and spicy, toasted, warm, a smell with a lot of insides. It doesn't taste like it smells; it tastes… like everything. Like anything. All at once. It tastes like other things to eat: dried fruit sometimes, or sour grass, or hazelnuts. And charred wood too, and dandelions; grasshopper's legs; earth, autumn mornings, snow. And thinking of it then and smelling it made me jump out of bed with the rug around me and run across the cold floor to where Mbaba motioned to me, grinning. I wriggled down next to her; she grunted as she took down a stem of the pipe for me. And so we two, me and my mother's mother, sat and smoked and talked.
"When we wandered," Mbaba said, and a bubble of laughter rose inside me because she was going to tell when-we-wandered. It could have been any story on this morning, because Mbaba knew as many stories as there were things in the carved chests, but this is the one she told:
"When we wandered, and this was a great long time ago, before any now alive were thought of or their cords thought of or even Little Belaire itself thought of, St. Andy got lost. St. Andy got lost seven times when we wandered, and this was one of the times. He got lost because he had to pull St. Roy's wagon and the treasures of Big Belaire that were kept in it, and the whole of our history. On this time I'm speaking of, St. Andy wandered alone, pulling the wagon, until he came to an encampment. There were fires burning where people sat to warm themselves. St. Andy's wagon was a source of great amazement to them, even though they couldn't figure out how to get a lot of the drawers open. St. Andy would have liked to sit down and warm himself too, and maybe have a bite to eat, but he was kept busy by the people of the place showing off the ingenious wagon. Finally he said, 'If you'll let me sit down and thaw out a little, I can work a miracle or two and entertain you.' Well, they let St. Andy sit, but didn't offer him any food or drink. St. Andy got tired of waiting for them to offer and decided to put everybody in good spirits with a miracle.
"This was the first miracle he did. He took from a drawer of the wagon a silver glove that whistled when you wore it, and a ball that whistled the same note. St. Andy showed them both off, and the people were interested, I imagine. But then St. Andy threw the whistling silver ball as hard as he could off into the darkness. They could hear it clattering in the trees. St. Andy stood holding out his hand with the glove on it. And pretty soon back comes the ball and lands in St. Andy's hand again, as gently as a bird. Everyone was astonished. St. Andy threw the ball again and again as the people whistled and clapped. But the ball took a long time to get back each time, and soon the whistling and clapping stopped, and finally people said, 'Well, we're very bored with this miracle, let's have a different one.' St. Andy thought there were a lot of tricks you could do with the silver ball and glove, but he didn't know how any were done; the men were prodding him with sticks and making remarks, so St. Andy put aside the ball and glove and said, 'I'll show you another miracle. I'll show you a man eat raw meat who has no teeth.' And he opened his mouth to show them he was toothless as a melon, just like me.
"They agreed that might be interesting, but said they had no raw meat, only cooked meat. St. Andy was very hungry and said that would be fine. They brought the meat and set it before him - and he suddenly threw open his mouth to show a full set of perfect luminous white teeth. He chomped and tore the meat with his mouth open, gnashing the amazing teeth so all could see and hear.
"After he had eaten his fill, he stood up to leave while everyone was still impressed. They weren't too overcome not to take the silver ball and glove for themselves, so I can't prove to you that part of the story is true. But for the rest, see here":
And, as often at the end of a story, Mbaba got up and went to the carved chests, her eyes flitting over the drawers, touching the signs with her fingers till she found the right one. From it she drew out a wooden case carved in the shape of a mouth; and from the mouth case, her eyes sparkling, Mbaba drew out St. Andy's perfect, luminous white teeth.
"False teeth," she said. "Fits all." And she popped them in her mouth, fit them in with her tongue, and opened wide for me to see. I was screaming with laughter. She looked like she had a huge mouthful of something, and when she opened her mouth it was - teeth! "That's how he did it, that's how," she said, "with these very teeth, which are as old as anything and still good as new."
That was at my birth-time, in my seventh year; almost ten years ago now.
What is it?
Nothing. Go on now.
What was it I said that startled you?
Go on.
Well… Seventh years. Every seventh year, you visit a gossip who knows your cord well, to have the System looked at for you, and learn what state you're in. I don't know why it happens every seventh year, except that there are a lot of things we count off by sevens. And it seems-from the two sevens I've lived through - that seventh years are the ones where you are, somehow, most yourself. There are other times you could consult a gossip; for the untying of a knot, or anytime you don't understand yourself. But everyone goes in their first seventh year, and every seventh year thereafter - fourteen, twenty-one, twenty-eight - and the first seventh year is a rose year as well.
But to explain about the rose year, I have to tell you about the Four Pots, and Dr. Boots's List who makes them, and before that about the League, and the Storm which ended the angels' world… maybe my story doesn't really have any beginning after all.
Second Facet
The gossip Mbaba took me to was an old woman named Painted Red, who was a friend of Mbaba's from youth. Painted Red was, Mbaba remembered, of Water cord when she was young, and her name had been Wind, before she learned to read the System and gossip.
"She hasn't always known our cord," Mbaba said as she got me ready to go. Her breath was faintly visible in the cold. "Only in the last few years has she studied it."
"Not since I was born?"
"Well, yes, since before that," Mbaba said. "But that's not really so many years, you know." We were ready. "She's very wise, though, they all say, and knows Palm well, and all its quirks."
"What are its quirks?"
"You!" she said, and tugged my ears. "You should know, of anyone."
"She lives near Path," Mbaba said as we went along, "because she likes to feel the feet of those going by."
St. Roy - I mean Little St. Roy, of course, not Great St. Roy - said that Path is drawn on your feet. Little Belaire is built outward from a center in the old warren where it began, built outward in interlocking rooms great and small, like a honeycomb, but not regular like a honeycomb. It goes over hills and a stream, and there are stairs and narrow places, and every room is different in size and shape and how you go in and out of it, from big rooms with pillars of log to tiny rooms all glittering with mirrors, and a thousand other kinds, old and changeless at the center and new and constantly changing farther out. Path begins at the center and runs in a long spiral through the old warren and the big middle rooms and so on to the outside and out into the aspen grove near Buckle cord's door on the Afternoon side. There is no other way through Little Belaire to the outside except Path, and no one who wasn't born in Little Belaire, probably, could ever find his way to the center. Path looks no different from what is not Path: it's drawn on your feet. It's just a name for the only way there is all through the rooms which open into each other everywhere, which you could wander through forever if you didn't know where Path ran.