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the humming went away.
Then, starting in the east and progressing westward across the sky, the stars
steadied, as if precipitating out of solution and pasting themselves against
the bowl of the heavens.
There were stars in the dirt, as well. He pulled his feet up on the boulders
and looked down. Things sparkled and glinted between the few blades of grass.
Soon these glows faded and the land settled into night with a breezy sigh, as
if all the Realm were a woman lying back on a pillow.
No, indeed, Michael thought; this is not Earth, whatever its outward
resemblance.
He sat on the rocks for some time before he heard the voices. They came from
the creek, but he couldn't see who was speaking; there was no light but the
stars and the now-faint glow from the hut's windows.
Concentrating on the source, forcing his pupils to their maximum dilation, he
discerned a low-slung boat-
shadow gliding down the creek, as well as a few figures standing on the prow.
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The boat nudged the bank and he heard footsteps coming toward him.
He stood up on the rocks. "Who's that?" he called out.
The hut door swung open. Spart stood silhouetted against the swirling,
furnace-orange light. The approaching shadows passed through the shaft of
light from the door and were outlined briefly. There were four, brownish-green
in color or perhaps solid green and they were naked. Three were male, one
female. They were obviously Sidhe, with the same elongated features and
spectral grace, and each carried a broad, stubby log.
They surrounded Michael and at a signal, simultaneously dropped the logs from
their shoulders into the dirt.
"
Dura
," said the female. The beauty of her voice made Michael shudder.
"Your wood, boy," the Crane Woman said from the hut door.
He turned and cried out. "What do I do with it?" . But the hut door closed and
the naked Sidhe walked away. The female glanced back at him with some
sympathy, he thought, but she said nothing more. They
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Bear, Greg - Songs of Earth and Power Vol. 1 - The Infinity Concerto were
absorbed in the blackness.
He remained standing on the boulder awhile, then sat. The four logs rested on
their ends, each about a foot and a half wide and a yard tall. He was no
carpenter like his father; he couldn't calculate how many board-feet there
were in the logs, or how much of a house he could build with them.
Not a very large one.
He leaned back and closed his eyes again.
"Whose boy are you?"
He thought he was dreaming. He wiped his nose reflexively.
"Hoy ac! Whose house?"
Michael spun around on the boulders and looked in the voice's direction. There
was only a log.
"
Rup antros, jan wiros
," said the voice, like that of the Sidhe woman but with a fuzzy quality. "
Quos maza
."
"Where are you?" Michael asked softly. The night air was quite chilly now.
"
All around, antros. It's true. Your words are Anglo-Saxon and Norman and mixes
from the misty north and the warm south. Ah, I knew those tongues once, at
their very roots& affrighted many a Goth and
Frank and Jute
& "
"Who are you? Who?"
There was silence for a moment, then the voice, much weaker, said, "
Maza sed more kay rup antros. It's strange to be broken for a human's house.
Why so privileged? Still, all wood is passing; the imprint, must fade
& "
The voice did indeed fade. Though it was still and quiet thereafter, Michael
got no sleep that night.
Chapter Six
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He was almost as cold as the rocks he sat on when the dew settled around him
in the early dawn. The sky turned from black to gray and mist slid over the
mound and creek in glutinous layers. Narrow vapor trails four or five feet in
length shot through the mist with quiet hissing noises. Michael was too
chilled to care.
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He twisted his stiff neck around and noticed the logs were no longer standing
around the boulders.
Sometime during the night, they had fallen into jumbles of neatly cut beams
and boards. The bark of each log lay folded next to its partitioned innards.
Michael wasn't encouraged. Like a lizard, he waited for the sun to come up and
warm his blood. He hadn't resolved anything during the night the hours had
been spent in a cold stupor but the conviction of his inadequacy had
solidified.
The sun appeared in the east, a distant red curve topping a hill beyond the
main branch of the river.
Without thinking, Michael uncurled his arms and legs and stood on the rock to
catch the first rays of warmth. His bones cracked and his legs almost
collapsed under him, but he staggered and kept his balance. His clothes were
soaked with dew.
The hut was quiet and dark, likewise the village. In a few minutes, however,
just when he thought he might be catching some warmth from the new day, he
heard activity from the Halftown houses. Curls of smoke began to rise from
their stone and mud-brick chimneys.
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He heard a woman singing. At first, he was too intent on just getting warm to
pay much attention, but as the voice grew near, he angled his head and saw a
young Breed female fording the stream on the flat rocks, barefoot. She wore
cloth pants ending at the knees and a vest laced together with string. Her
hair was raven black uncharacteristic, he thought but her face bore the
unmistakable mark of the Sidhe, long with prominent cheeks and a narrow,
straight nose. She carried four buckets covered with cloth caps, two in each
hand. She glanced at Michael on her way to the Crane Women's hut.
"
Hoy
," she greeted.
"Hello," Michael returned. She stopped before the door, which opened a crack.
A long-fingered hand stretched out and took two buckets, withdrew, then
emerged to take two more. The door closed and the woman reversed her course.
She paused, cocked her head at Michael, then started toward him.
"Oh, God," he said under his breath. He was just warm enough to shiver and he
badly needed to piss. He didn't want to talk to anyone, much less a Breed [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]