Выбрать главу

He could have made cakes, he thought, if he had had flour and oil and fire. Cakes with berries. He had made them for Mauryl very often.

And the instant he thought of flour and oil and fire he thought of Mill, and Fields, and when he thought of Fields, then he thought of Men and Houses, Oxen, and Fences, recognitions that tumbled in on him disorderly as the squabbling birds, one thought chasing the other, one seizing a perch and fleeing or falling off in its turn, so chaotic that he struggled not to wonder about anything, and tried not to think beyond the necessity to place his feet one in front of the other and to keep moving, light-headed as he was.

But this morning, on this Road, the thoughts refused to stop coming. The whole woods chattered and rang with birdsong. It was full of Words for him, and Words brought thinking that conjured more Words. His wits wandered, his feet strayed. He turned an ankle painfully in a hidden hole in the pavings, which did nothing to stop the dizzying spate of Words trees, mosses, leaves, stones, sky, directions, the names of birds and the track of a Badger all these things crowded into his head until it ached, and he might have wandered in complete confusion if not for the stone Road that came and went beneath the leaves.

Long and long before the supply of Words seemed exhausted before each had confounded the last he knew Oak from Ash, knew Acorn and leaf and every sound that came and went. The knowing poured in on him more abundant than the recognition but he could not, it seemed, exhaust the forestʼs store of Words.

In weariness of knowing things, in a muddle of sights and sounds, he sat down to rest and slept without intending to, until he blinked at a sky that had dimmed toward dark.

He had come through so much that was difficult and let his eyes close when the going became safer. Now he set out on another night of walking he dared not sleep when the Shadows came, and he followed the Road as he had before.

Meanwhile the jumble of Words, though less than the rush by day, wanted to come back again, clamoring within that grayness in his mind, where Mauryl was, or might be. He knew Moon and Stars, and now he learned Marten and Fox.

But he tried to still the tumult and to hear only Mauryl, if Mauryl should send a Word to him out of that grayness.

He tried to hear Owl, who had not appeared all day long, but the creature that was singing now was, the song said to him, Frog, saying that it might soon rain.

He was thinking that when a wayward breeze brought the scent of smoke wafting down the Road smoke, and the smell of something that might possibly be supper: he was not quite convinced that it was, but it smelled so like supper cooking that the hunger the berries had wakened in the morning became more and more urgent as he walked.

Fire was warmth and light, and fire also meant Men, his awareness informed him. Whatever seemed to be cooking or burning, he thought from moment to moment it might be good to eat. It smelled like that, although it certainly seemed overdone.

But he was still fearful, and not knowing how to call out to men who might themselves be afraid of Shadows in this woods, he decided it would be safer to go up soft-footed, as Maurylʼs tempers had taught him, and to know them first, whether they were in a good mood or otherwise, or whether it was in fact supper they were about, and not just wood or rubbish afire.

He left the Road, and followed that smell of smoke up the wind as quietly and stealthily as he could over the dry leaves. He spied firelight shining through the brush and branches, and treading now with greatest caution, he slipped up to spy on the place.

They were indeed men. They had a small fire going in a spot cleared of leaves. They were not old like Mauryl. They were not young like himself. They went clothed in brown cloth and leather, clothes rougher than his own white shirt and breeches. They had beards, dark and full; they were cooking something on a stick above the fire, he had no notion what, but it struck the edges of a Word, and at once dismayed him and advised him that eating living thingswas permissible. It was something men did by their nature that heshould perhaps do, if they offered him a share of their supper.

Sirs, he said, stepping into the light, and instantly all four men were on their feet. Metal flashed they had knives, and drew them and threatened him with them, with anger and fear on their faces.

Sirs, he said, quietly, please, sirs, Iʼm very hungry. May I have supper?

He ainʼt no woodsman, one said, and with a squint across the fire: Who are you?

Tristen, sir.

Sir, another said, and elbowed the first man in the ribs. Sir, ye are.

Where from? the first asked. Lanfarnesse?

He pointed in the direction from which the Road came. From the keep, sir. Maurylʼs fortress. Ynefel.

One changed knife-hands to make a sign over his heart, hasty and afraid. The others looked afraid, too, and backed away, all to the other side of their fire.

Please, Tristen said, fearing this meant no. I need something to eat.

His speech, the third man said, ainʼt Elwynim, nor Lanfarnesse, nor any countrymanʼs, thatʼs certain. O gods, I liked it little enough beinʼ here. Lanfarnesse rangers be hanged, we shouldnʼt ever have come here, I said so, I said it, theyʼs naught good in this forest, I told ye it hove on to Marna Wood.

The Names echoed through his bones, Words, confusing him, opening lands and fields and hills and Words Mauryl had said.

You! the first man said. Whatever ye be, ye take yourself out away from here! We hainʼt no dealinʼs wiʼ you nor your cursed master. Get away wiʼ ye, ye damned haunt!

Please, sirs! If you could only spare a little

One threw something at him it struck him and fell at his feet, a round, light something that he realized was a chunk of bread.

Away, then! the man cried. Ye got what ye wanted, now take yerself away from us! Go back where ye belong!

He picked up the bread, wary of more things thrown. Thank you, he said faintly, and bowed. Mauryl would call it rude, not to give them thank you.

Ye give us no filthy thanks, they said. Ye got what ye asked. Now begone, away! Leave us be, ye cursed thing, in the name of the good gods and the righteous!

I mean no harm, he protested. But one bent and picked up a stick of wood and threatened to throw it, too.

Get on wiʼ ye!

The wood flew. He left the firelight. Something crashed after him through the brush and hit him in the back, painfully.

He began to run, fearing they were chasing him, fended branches with his elbow, the bread in the other hand, as branches tore his hair and his face, snagged and broke against his shirt and trousers. He dodged through the trees upslope and down again the way he had come, and finding the Road, he set out running and running on the uneven stones until he caught a stitch in his side and his knees were shaking under him.

At least, he thought, looking back, the men had not chased him. He walked a while, with his knees still shaky and weak. A spot on his back hurt where they had hit him the stick of wood, he decided, and was glad it had not been one of their knives. His mouth was dry, and now that he had bread to eat, between the dryness of his mouth and the lump of distress in his throat, he could scarcely swallow. Still, he was hungry enough that he tore off tiny morsels and forced them down, still walking, only desiring to be far away from the men and their anger as soon as possible.