“Hmm. And yet I heard someone very like you tell a soldier that she wished to speak with me, to ask me a question. Then I find you in my grove, filling the basin with your last coin, and even your spare shirt—and you have no question.” He paused. Paks watched as the shadow of his robe came closer. She shivered. “But I have questions, if you do not. Look at me!” At his command, Paks’s head seemed to rise of its own accord. Her eyes filled with tears. “Mmm, yes. You came to me once before for advice, if I recall. Was my counsel so bad that you refuse it now—Paksenarrion?”
Paks could not speak for the lump in her throat; tears ran down her face. She tried to turn away, but his strong hand caught her chin and held her facing him.
“Much, I see, has happened to you since I last saw you. But I think you are not a liar, whatever you’ve become. So you will ask your question, Paksenarrion, and take counsel with me once again.”
Paks fought the tightness in her throat and managed to speak. “Sir, I—I can’t. There’s nothing you can do—just let me go—”
“Nothing I can do? Best let me judge of that, child. As for going—where would you go, without money or pack?”
“Anywhere. East, or south to the hills . . . it doesn’t matter—”
“There’s enough dead bones in those hills already. No, you won’t go until you’ve told me what your trouble is. Come now.”
Paks found herself walking behind the Kuakgan to his house, her mind numb. She saw without amazement the door open before he reached it; he ducked slightly to clear the low lintel. Paks ducked too, and stepped down onto the cool earthen floor of a large, long room. Across from her, windows opened on the grove which came almost to the Kuakgan’s house. The ceiling beams were hung with bunches of pungent herbs. At the far end of the room gaped a vast fireplace, its hearth swept and empty. Under the windows were two tables, one covered with scrolls, and the other bare, with a bench near it.
“Come,” said the Kuakgan. “Sit here and have something to drink.”
Paks sank onto the bench and watched as he poured her a mug of clear liquid from an earthenware jug. She sipped. It was water, but the water had a spicy tang.
“Mint leaves,” he said. “And a half-stick of cinnamon. Here—” He reached down a round cheese from a net hanging overhead. He sliced off a good-sized hunk. “Eat something before we talk.”
Paks was sure she could not eat, but the creamy cheese eased past her tight throat and settled her stomach. She finished the cheese and the second mug of water he poured her. By then he had sliced a half-loaf of dark bread and put it in front of her. She took a slice; it was nutty and rich.
Master Oakhallow sat at the end of the table, his hood pushed back, eating a slice of bread spread with cheese. Paks glanced at him: the same brown weather-beaten face, heavy dark eyebrows, thick hair tied off his face with a twisted cord the color of bark. He was gazing out the window beside him, frowning slightly. She followed his gaze. A black and white spotted bird clung to the trunk of the nearest tree; as she watched, it began to hammer on the bark. The strokes were loud and quick, almost like a drum rattle. Paks wondered why its head didn’t split. She’d never seen anything like it, though she had heard that sound before without knowing its source. Bark chips flew from the tree.
“It’s a woodpecker,” he said, answering her thought. “It seeks out insects under the bark, and eats them. A forest without woodpeckers would be eaten by the little ones devouring the trees.”
Paks felt her muscles unclenching, one by one. “Is it—are there more than one kind?”
The Kuakgan smiled. “Oh, yes. Most of them are speckled and spotted, but some are brown and white or gray and white, instead of black and white. There are little ones and big ones—bigger than this—and many of them have bright color at the head. This one has a yellow stripe, but it’s hard to see so far away.”
“How can they pound the tree like that without hurting themselves.?”
He shrugged. “They are made for it; it is their nature. Creatures are not harmed by following their natures. How else can horses run over rocky ground on those tiny hooves? Tiny for their weight, I mean.” He reached to the jug and poured another mug of water for Paks, and one for himself.
Paks took another slice of bread. “I heard a bird when I came in; it sang three notes—” she tried to whistle them.
“Yes, I know the one. A shy bird. You’ll never see it; it’s brown on top, and speckled gray and brown below. It eats gnats and flies, and its eggs are green patterned with brown.”
“I thought most birds—except the hawks and carrion-crows—ate seeds.”
“Some do. Most sparrows are seed-eaters. There’s one bird that eats the nuts out of pine cones. Watch, now—” He took a slice of bread and crumbled it on the broad windowsill, then took a slender wooden cylinder from his robe and blew into it. A soft trill of notes came out. Paks saw the flickering of wings between the trees, and five birds landed on the sill. She sat still. Three of the birds were alike, green with yellow breasts. One was brown, and one was fire-orange with black wings. Their tiny eyes glittered as they pecked the crumbs and watched her. When the bread was gone, the Kuakgan moved his hand and the birds flew away.
Paks breathed again. “They’re so beautiful. I never saw anything so beautiful—that orange and black one—”
“So. You will admit that you haven’t seen everything in this world you were so eager to leave?”
She hunched her shoulders, silent. She heard a gusty sigh, then the scrape of his stool as he rose.
“Stay here,” he said, “until I return.”
She did not look up, but heard his feet on the floor as he crossed the room, and the soft thud of the door as he closed it behind him. She thought briefly of going out the window, but the grove was thick and dark there as the sun lowered. The spotted bird was gone, the hammering coming now from a distance. She put down the rest of her slice of bread, her appetite gone. The room darkened. She wondered if he would be gone all night; she looked around but saw no place to sleep but the floor. From the grove came a strange cry, and she shivered, remembering the rumor that the Kuakgan walked at night as a great bear.
She did not hear the door open, but he was suddenly in the room with her. “Come help me bring in some wood,” he said, and she got up and went out to find a pile of deadwood by the door. The last sunglow flared to the west. They broke the wood into lengths and brought it in. He lit candles and placed them in sconces along the walls, then laid a fire in the fireplace, but did not light it. He went out again and came back with a bundle that turned out to be a hot kettle wrapped in cloth. Inside, a few coals kept several pannikins warm. As he unwrapped the cloth, a delicious smell of onions and mushrooms and meat gravy rose from the kettle. Paks found her mouth watering, and swallowed.
“Hebbinford’s best stew,” he said, setting the dishes out on the tables. “And you were always one for fried mushrooms, weren’t you? Sit down, go on—don’t let it get cold. You’re too thin, you know.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Paks miserably.
“Nonsense. I saw your look when you smelled those mushrooms. Your body’s got sense, if you haven’t.”
Paks took a bite of mushrooms: succulent, hot, flavored with onions and meat. Before she realized what she was doing, she saw that the mushrooms were gone, and so was the stew. She was polishing the bowl with another slice of the dark bread. Her belly gurgled its contentment; she could not remember when she’d eaten so much. Not for a long time, not since—she looked up. Master Oakhallow was watching her.
“Dessert,” he said firmly. “Plum tart or apple?”
“Apple,” said Paks, and he pushed the tart across. She bit into the flaky crust; sweet apple juice ran down her chin. When the tart was gone, the Kuakgan was still eating his. Paks cleaned her chin with a corner of the cloth that had been around the kettle. She found herself holding another slice of bread, and ate that. She felt full and a little sleepy. He finished his tart and looked at her.