“Among my people, women die on land but men at sea, and therefore we call the kind of grave you make ‘a woman’s boat.’ When a man dies as Uncle Anskar did, a hide is stretched and painted for him and hung in the house where the men meet to talk. It is never taken down until no man living can recall the man who was honoured so. A hide like that was prepared for Anskar, and the painters began their work.
“Then one bright morning when my father and I were readying the tools to break ground for the new year’s cropwell I remember it!—some children who had been sent to gather birds’ eggs came running into the village. A seal, they said, lay on the shingle of the south bay. As everyone knows, no seal comes to land where men are. But it sometimes happens that a seal will die at sea or be injured in some fashion.
Thinking of that, my father and I and many others ran to the beach, for the seal would belong to the first whose weapon pierced it.
“I was the swiftest of all, and I provided myself with an earth-fork. Such a thing does not throw well, but several other young men were at my heels, so when I was a hundred strides away I cast it. Straight and true it flew and buried its tines in the thing’s back. Then followed such a moment as I hope never to see again. The weight of the fork’s long handle overbalanced it, and it rolled until the handle rested on the ground.
“I saw the face of my Uncle Anskar, preserved by the cold sea brine. His beard was tangled with the dark green kelp, and his life rope of stout walrus hide had been cut only a few spans from his body.
“My Uncle Gundulf had not seen him, for he was gone to the big isle. My father took Anskar up, and I helped him, and we carried him to Gundulf’s house and put the end of the rope upon his chest where Gundulf would see it, and with some other men of Glacies sat down to wait for him.
“He shouted when he saw his brother. It was not such a cry as a woman makes, but a bellow like the bull seal gives when he warns the other bulls from his herd. He ran in the dark. We set a guard on the boats and hunted him that night across the isle. The lights that spirits make in the ultimate south flamed all night, so we knew Anskar hunted with us. Brightest they flashed before they faded, when we found him among the rocks at Radbod’s End.”
Hallvard fell silent. Indeed, silence lay about us everywhere. All the sick within hearing had been listening to him. At last Melito said, “Did you kill him?”
“No. In the old days it was so, and a bad thing. Now the mainland law avenges bloodguilt, which is better. We bound his arms and legs and laid him in his house, and I sat with him while the older men readied the boats. He told me he had loved a woman on the big isle. I never saw her, but he said her name was Nennoc, and she was fair, and younger than he, but no man would have her because she had borne a child by a man who had died the winter before. In the boat, he had told Anskar he would carry Nennoc home, and Anskar called him oath-breaker. My Uncle Gundulf was strong. He seized Anskar and threw him out of the boat, then wrapped the life rope about his hands and snapped it as a woman who sews breaks her thread.
“He had stood then, he said, with one hand on the mast, as men do, and watched his brother in the water. He had seen the flash of the knife, but he thought only that Anskar sought to threaten him with it or to throw it.”
Hallvard was silent again, and when I saw he would not speak, I said, “I don’t understand. What did Anskar do?”
A smile, the very smallest smile, tugged at Hallvard’s lips under his blond mustache. When I saw it, I felt I had seen the ice isles of the south, blue and bitterly cold. “He cut his life rope, the rope Gundulf had already broken. In that way, men who found his body would know that he had been murdered. Do you see?”
I saw, and for a while I said nothing more.
“So,” Melito grunted to Foila, “the wonderful valley land went to Hallvard’s father, and by this story he has managed to tell you that though he has no property, he has prospects of inheriting some. He has also told you, of course, that he comes of a murderous family.”
“Melito believes me much cleverer than I am,” the blond man rumbled. “I had no such thoughts.
What matters now is not land or skins or gold, but who tells the best tale. And I, who know many, have told the best I know. It is true as he says that I might share my family’s property when my father dies. But my unmarried sisters will have some part too for their marriage portions, and only what remained would be divided between my brother and myself. All that matters nothing because I would not take Foila to the south, where life is so hard. Since I have carried a lance I have seen many better places.”
Foila said, “I think your Uncle Gundulf must have loved Nennoc very much.”
Hallvard nodded. “He said that too while he lay bound. But all the men of the south love their women. It is for them that they face the sea in winter, the storms and the freezing fogs. It is said that as a man pushes his boat out over the shingle, the sound the bottom makes grating on the stones is my wife, my children, my children, my wife.”
I asked Melito if he wanted to begin his story then; but he shook his head and said that we were all full of Hallvard’s, so he would wait and begin next day. Everyone then asked Hallvard questions about life in the south and compared what they had learned to the way their own people lived. Only the Ascian was silent. I was reminded of the floating islands of Lake Diuturna and told Hallvard and the others about them, though I did not describe the fight at Baldanders’s castle. We talked in this way until it was time for the evening meal.
VIII. The Pelerine
BY THE TIME we had finished eating, it was beginning to get dark. We were always quieter then, not only because we lacked strength, but because we knew that those wounded who would die were more liable to do so after the sun set, and particularly in the deep of the night. It was the time when past battles called home their debts.
In other ways too, the night made us more aware of the war. Sometimes—and on that night I remember them particularly the discharges of the great energy weapons blazed across the sky like heat lightning. One heard the sentries marching to their posts, so that the word watch, which we so often used with no meaning beyond that of a tenth part of the night, became an audible reality, an actuality of tramping feet and unintelligible commands.
There came a moment when no one spoke, that lengthened and lengthened, interrupted only by the murmurings of the well—the Pelerines and their male slaves—who came to ask the condition of this patient or that. One of the scarletclad priestesses came and sat by my cot, and my mind was so slow, so nearly sleeping, that it was some time before I realized that she must have carried a stool with her.
“You are Severian,” she said, “the friend of Miles?”
“Yes.”
“He has recalled his name. I thought you would like to know.”
I asked her what it was.
“Why, Miles, of course. I told you.”
“He will recall more than that, I think, as time goes by.”
She nodded. She seemed to be a woman past middle age, with a kindly, austere face. “I am sure he will. His home and family.”
“If he has them “
“Yes, some do not. Some lack even the ability to make a home.”
“You’re referring to me.”
“No, not at all. Anyway, that lack is not something the person can do something about. But it is much better, particularly for men, if they have a home. Like the man your friend talked about, most men think they make their homes for their families, but the fact is that they make both homes and families for themselves.”
“You were listening to Hallvard, then.”
“Several of us were. It was a good story. A sister came and got me at the place where the patient’s grandfather made his will. I heard all the rest. Do you know what the trouble was with the bad uncle?