The strange part is that the terrible crying is no worse for me when they are together than when they are only it alone. One nature, one desire, it must be. For the rest, all I knew was that they desire evil—though I cannot know what evil means anymore, nor if they know themselves—and that they are real, whether I see them truly or not. And that they must have the burning old man.
“Well,” I will say to him. “We have a long journey to go, and they are in our way.”
This time he was the one who took my hand. We walk toward them, and they thicken to meet us, without moving, as frightened creatures can make themselves look bigger. Beside me, the old man raised his other hand, leveling all five fingers at them. The fire under his nails spreads out around us, blue and green; the flames have the raging heads of animals—sheknaths, nishori, rock-targs—and they grow larger with every step we take. Those waiting will not take even one step backward, but they were afraid all the same. It is afraid of him.
The old man smiles for them, letting the doors of his furnace face swing apart just a little, to show what lies beyond. I said, “By your leave,” as someone will be taught to say politely, and they part, too, just enough to let us into their midst. Then they closed around us, towering together out of sight, talking hotly together in my bones. But the fire-animals surround us, too, and they talk their own talk, they hiss and snarl their own by-your-leaves; and where we will walk there was always just room for us to pass.
Suddenly it has all been too much for someone dead. Too strange, too lonely, too mad. If not for the old man, I think I might lie down, here on the other side of never, lie down here among the bright-eyed stones and the whispering pairs of insect legs and the tips of folded wings and let it do as it will do with me. But it wanted only the old man—why I do not know, nor why this is not to be allowed. Only that it is not to be allowed. I hold onto his hand, fluttery with fire, and he looked down at me and smiles his ravaging smile, and so we will pass on.
Bargain, bargain. Our bargain. Evil it may be, but evil can suffer injustice, too. The wail of wrong follows me still, long after it has stopped following, long after we were through and past and on our way back to the riverbed. Or did we go back to the gates of death themselves, or even beyond them, where the calling has at last ended, too? Where is the old man supposed to be, besides not with it? Where does he want to be? Each time I look sideways at him, he will be looking at me, and though his face was solemn each time, the fire behind his skin is laughing. It sounds like paper, someone wrapping presents. How do I know this? Who wraps presents for no one?
On the road back—or was it forward? was it to or from?—we will follow no songs, meet no hungry shadows, journey through no beast-markets that turn out to be worlds that turn out to be all sawdust and broken pots. Only the two of us, traveling silently in darkness forever, and I did not have forever anymore. Now I am tired, as I could not be before, and the longer we walk the less I knew where we are going. I did not know before, but then I will have the singing to follow, and the star. Now I almost wish that someone were still bellowing my name, which is not my name. I could follow that, wherever it leads, and then the old man would follow me. But the dark is drawing in and in—I can feel it nudging at my shoulders—and it is laughing, too, and now I will begin to be afraid. As though I were alive.
When he turns I was ready, even so. I said, “No. We are for the riverbed. No. You need my help if you mean to find peace.” But he will rear up over me, fire racing from one hand to another to soar out behind him in a blue-white mantle, while he opens his mouth to chuckle flaming venom straight into my eyes. I put my hands up vainly in front of me, and I cried out for someone, because I am at the end of endless night and the end of myself. But who comes when no one calls?
THE FOX
Man-shape! He stole the man-shape! Felt it go, felt it go—a cold whisper, knife slipping out of a wound. Never, never, never before, no one dares such tampering, such thieving. Beautiful Grandfather man-shape, beautiful white mustache, red soldier’s coat, such smiling cheeks, such bright listening eyes, beautiful freedom to stand, sit, talk, laugh, sing, drink red ale—all gone, all scooped away, and insides with it. Rap on my belly, hear the echo, that was Grandfather man-shape. Gone, gone.
The other. Not wicked old magician, that other, his master, the one who held him prisoner. Snatches the sun first, now the man-shape, hoho, what can a poor fox do against such power? Hoho, more than he likes, foolish magician. Not even old nothing ever touches man-shape, not once in so much coming and going on its errands in this world. Oh foolish, careless, vain magician, this is no fox to trouble so lightly.
But this is a fox to sit under Marinesha’s naril tree and think very fast in a very little moment. Sundown at last, still hot as one fox’s plundered heart, no wind at all, not under the tree. I sit watching until the inn’s windows come drifting out at me, bright and hard as snowflakes.
Chimney dribbles down roof, roof ripples sweetly—sad, sad for nice warm pigeons—eaves wriggle like eyebrows. Crashes, shatterings, screamings inside, fat innkeeper roaring like sheknath looking for lady sheknath. Lightnings raking down the sky straight for magician’s room—it is all in there, in that room, wind and fire and darkness, yesyesyes. Man-shape, too.
So, fox—fox forever now, unless so quick and so clever—back to that room? Yes, and yet. No time, no time for and yet—but what is this? The little white mad burning one. Lukassa. Away in the wind, beyond the wind, far beyond friends, innkeepers, pet foxes, Lukassa where humans are not to go. Away there in that place, and after a griga’ath that was wicked old magician. Lukassa.
No concern of mine, no more than magicians’ wars. My business is all with man-shape, all. Let them spit their spells at each other, let them smash each other’s playthings, conjure each other back and forth across this world, that—only let them keep magic hands off what belongs to old nothing and me. Old nothing says, “Find him. Find the thief. Explain to him.” So. Lukassa is Lukassa’s business now.
And yet.
Old nothing and I, we have no friends. Agreements, yes—conveniences, yes—friends, no, not possible. Hard enough telling humans apart, never mind feelings, wonderings. Nyateneri, Lukassa—a nice saddlebag, nice warm arms at night, no more. Kiss nose as much as they like, who cares? Not possible.
“Find,” says old nothing. More crashes, more shrieks, more windows turn to snow. Fat innkeeper’s inn twists and grinds in the earth. People shaken, spilled out into the courtyard, running, fighting, falling down. Up in magician’s room, backed against empty, splintered windowframe. Him, that other. Face says I win, I win, shoulders not so sure. Old nothing: “There. Now.”