Nearer. It was nearer now, the place where the boughs swayed and the songs of birds rose in the early morning light. He strode clumsily ahead, the faintest of blue flickers occasionally dancing at the tip of his stick. The breeze brought him a weak, flower-like aroma as he bore toward the final corner.
He rested again, breathing heavily, almost gasping now. When he moved to cross this street, his gait was stiff, awkward. Once he fell, but there was no traffic and he recovered and staggered on.
The sky had grown pink beyond the small park which now lay before him. His staff, from which the final light had faded, swung clumsily through a patch of flowers which closed immediately, undisturbed, behind it. He did not hear the faint hiss of the aerosols as he crossed the fake grass to slump against the bole of a standard model mid-town park area tree, but only breathed the fragrance he had hoped might be there, smiling faintly as the breezes bore it to him, eyes following the dance of the butterflies in the still fresh light of the new-risen sun.
His staff slipped from his fingers and his breath came short and rushed as unnumbered mornings past joined with this one to smear all colors and smells into a greater reality which finally told the story he had always wondered at, through to its vision past objects. One of the butterflies, passing too near on its beam, was overtaken by his life's final throb, to settle, fluttering, upon his upturned wrist near to the dragonmark it bore.
With a blare and a rattle, the city came alive about him.
XII
Strange feelings came and went. Each time that they came they were a little stronger; each time they departed some residuum remained. It was difficult to pin them down, Dan thought, as he drove a peg into a fence post, but perhaps they had something to do with the land itself--this place that felt so familiar, so congruent to his tastes....
A cow strayed near, as if to inspect his work.
No, go that way, he willed. Over there, and his wrist felt warm, as with power overflowing, spilling from his fingertips, and the cow obeyed his unspoken command.
...Like that, he decided. It feels right, and I get better at it all the time.
A peg shattered under a hammer blow and a splinter flew toward his face.
Away! he commanded, without thinking.
Reflex-like, something within him moved to stop it, and the fragment sped off to the right....And like that.
He smiled as he finished the work and began collecting his tools. Shadows were growing across the pasture as he looked back along the lengths of fencing he had repaired. It was time to wash, to get ready for the dinner, the performance.
For three days now he had stayed at Nora's uncle's place, sleeping in the barn, turning his hand to odd jobs the old man had been unable to get to. In that time, his familiarity with the language had grown, just as Mor had said it would, almost as if he were remembering....
Mor ... He had not thought of him for a time. It was as if his mind had locked away the entire experience of his journey to this place in some separate, off-limits compartment. It was just too bizarre, despite the fact that he walked where he now walked. But now, the effects of distancing made him cast back, examining that magical walk, wondering how his absence was being taken in his own world. He was surprised to find that his own past, now, was beginning to feel dream-like and unreal. Whereas this land...
He drew a deep breath. This was real, and somehow it felt like home. It would be good to meet more of the neighbors.
As he cleaned the tools and stored them in their places, he thought about the evening's steer roast at the field in toward town. Real country living this, and he was enjoying it. He could think of worse places to be stuck for life. And afterwards, of course, he would play for them.... He had been itching to get his hands on his guitar all day. There seemed peculiar new effects--para-musical, as it were--that he could manage in this place, and he wanted to experiment farther. He wanted to show these things off, for the neighbors, for Nora....
Nora. He smiled again as he stripped off the heavy workshirt belonging to her Uncle Dar and walked back to bathe in the creek before donning his own garments. She was a pretty little thing. It was a shame to see her so frightened by the local inventor of a few mechanical toys....
And if this--Mark Marakson--were indeed Michael's son ... He could almost see some genetic factor operating both in the aptitudes and the total lack of appreciation for possible reactions to their operation. Too bad he wasn't back home and in the business. He and Michael would probably have gotten along well.
But, as he washed the sweat and dust from his body, another thought came to trouble him. Why was he here? Mor had spoken with some urgency, as if his presence were a necessary thing. For what? Something involving Mark's creations. He snorted. It did seem to have been something of the sort, mentioned only in the vaguest of terms. But what mechanical menace could a society this simple turn out in a single generation? And why call upon him to combat it? No. He felt under-informed and the subject of an enigmatic old man's alarmist fantasies. But he did not feel victimized. When he got his bearings, he would learn more about this place, though he already felt it to be in many ways preferable to the society from which he had strayed. Why, he might yet become a genuine minstrel....
He dried himself with a piece of rough sacking and donned the loose, long-sleeved white shirt he had worn upon his arrival. He changed back into his black denim trousers, but retained the boots he had been given. They fit him well and seemed functionally superior to the shoes he had worn on his hike between the worlds.
He combed his hair, cleaned his fingernails and grinned at his reflection in the water. Time to get his guitar and meet Nora and her uncle. Things were looking up. He whistled as he walked back toward the house.
There were bonfires and lanterns casting impressive shadows. The remains of feasting were even now being gathered up from about the field. At first, Dan felt as if he should not have had those extra glasses of wine, and then he felt that he should have. Why not? It was a festive occasion. He had met a great number of the villagers, anxious for some diversion after the unpleasant events of several days past, and he had succeeded with some grace in parrying questions concerning his homeland. Now he was ready to perform.
He dallied a little longer, until the bustle had ceased and people began seating themselves about the low hill he was to occupy. The lanterns were moved nearer, encircling it.
He made his way forward then, breaking the circle, mounting the rise, the instrument case a familiar weight in his right hand. There came a soft flutter of applause and he smiled. It was good to feel welcome after only a few days in a new place.
When he reached the top, he removed the guitar from its case and put on the strap. He tuned it quickly and started to play.
Partway through the first tune, he began feeling at ease. The good mood grew within him as he played several more and began singing in his own tongue. Then he attempted the first of a group he had tried translating into theirs. It was well-received, and he swung immediately into another.
Looking out over his audience, he could only distinguish the expressions on the nearest faces--smiling or concentrating--in the lantern light. The listeners farther back were partly hidden by shadows, but he assumed similar attention from their immobility, from their joining in the applause whenever he rested. He saw Nora off to the left, seated near her uncle, smiling.
He broke into a virtuoso number of his own composition, a rousing piece which kept increasing in tempo. He suddenly wanted to show off. He rocked back and forth as he played. A breeze tousled his hair, rippled his garments....