Gene Wolfe: Nightside the Long Sun

Silk nodded his agreement. “The gods smile on us, my son, or so it is written. It’s a wonder they don’t laugh aloud.”

“Do you think they’re really spyin’ on us, Patera, the way the Ayuntamiento keeps tellin’ us? Or do they bring on rain? Rain and storms, that’s what my old father used to say, and his before him. I’ve noticed myself that it’s true pretty often. Lord Pas must know that we could use some these days.”

“I really don’t know,” Silk confessed. “I saw one around noon today, and it hasn’t rained yet. As for spying upon Viron, what could a Flier see here that any foreign traveler couldn’t?”

“Nothin’ I know about.” The seller spat. “That’s supposed to bring on rain, too, Patera. Let’s hope it works this time. Lookin’ for a good sacrifice, are you?”

Silk’s face must have betrayed his surprise, because the seller grinned, revealing a broken front tooth. “I know you, Patera—that old manteion on Sun Street. Only you went right on past the sheepfold today. Guess they haven’t been workin’ out for you.”

Silk endeavored to appear indifferent. “I’ll recognize the beast I want when I see it.”

“‘Course you will—so let me show you mine.” The seller raised a soiled finger. “No, wait a bit. Let me ask you one question first. I’m just an ignorant man, Patera, but isn’t a child the best sacrifice of all? The very best gift that a man or even a whole city can make to the gods? The greatest and the highest?”

Silk shrugged. “So it’s written, though no such victim has been offered here within living memory. I don’t believe that I could do it myself, and it’s against the law in any case.”

“Exactly what I’m gettin’ at!” Like a conspirator, the seller glanced warily from side to side. “So what’s nearest to a child, eh? Only on the right side of the law? What is it, I ask you, Patera—you and me bein’ flash grown men and not no sprats—that half those high-bred females up on the Palatine is givin’ suck to on the side? A catachrest, isn’t that it?”

With a showman’s flourish, the seller reached beneath the stained red cloth that draped his table and produced a small wire cage containing an orange-and-white catachrest. Silk was no judge of these animals, but to him it appeared hardly more than a kitten.

The seller leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Stolen, Patera. Stolen, or I couldn’t possibly sell it, even to you, for—.” He licked his lips, his restless gaze taking in Silk’s faded black robe and lingering on his face. “For just six little cards. It talks. It walks on its hind legs sometimes, too, and it picks up things to eat with its little paws. It’s exactly like a real child. You’ll see.”

Looking into the animal’s melting blue eyes (the long, nycterent pupils were rapidly narrowing in the sunlight) Silk could almost believe him.

The seller tested the point of a long-bladed knife with his finger. “You recollect this, don’t you, Tick? Then you better talk when I tell you to, and not try to get away, neither, when I let you out.”

Silk shook his head.

If he had seen the motion, the seller ignored it. “Say shop. Talk for the rev’rend augur, Tick. Say shop! ” He prodded the unhappy little catachrest with the point of his knife. “ Shop! Say it!”

“Never mind,” Silk told the seller wearily. “I’m not going to buy him.”

“It’d make you a fine sacrifice, Patera—the finest you could have, inside of the law. What was it I told you? Seven cards, was that it? Tell you what. I’ll make it six, but only for today. Just six cards, because I’ve heard good things about you and hope to do more business with you in the future.”

Silk shook his head again.

“Told you Tick was boilin’, didn’t I? I knew it, and believe me I put crimp on the lad that did it, or I wouldn’t have got Tick here half so cheap. Talked about rollin’ him over to Hoppy and all that.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Silk said.

“So now I’m goin’ to let you steal him off me. Five cards, Patera. You can—talk, you little faker, say somethin’—you can go through the whole market, if you like, and if you can find a nice catachrest like this any cheaper, bring me there and I’ll match the price. Five cards, we’ll say. You won’t be able to touch one half this good for five cards. I promise you that, and I’m a man of my word. Ask anybody.”

“No, my son.”

“I need the money bad, Patera. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I do. A man has to have some money to buy animals so he’s got somethin’ to sell, see?” His voice fell again, so low this time that it was scarcely audible. “I put mine into a few cold ’uns. You take my meanin’, Patera? Only they warmed up an’ went bad on me ’fore I could move ’em. So here’s what I say—five cards, with one of ’em chalked. How’s that? Four down, see, right now. And a card next time I see you, which I will on Molpsday after this comin’ Scylsday, Patera, I hope.”

“No,” Silk repeated.

“Word,” the little catachrest said distinctly. “Shoe word, who add pan.”

“Don’t you call me a bad man.” Sliding the slender blade between the wires, the seller prodded the catachrest’s minute pink nose with the point of his knife. “The rev’rend augur’s not interested in seein’ any cully bird, you flea-bit little pap-sucker.” He glanced up hopefully at Silk. “Are you, Patera? It is a talkin’ bird at that. Naturally it doesn’t look exactly like a child. It’s a good talker, though—a valuable animal.”

Silk hesitated.

“Berry add word,” the catachrest told him spitefully, gripping the wire mesh of his cage. “Pack!” He shook it, minute black claws sharper than pins visible at the tips of his fuzzy white toes. “Add word!” he repeated. “Add speak!”

No god had spoken through the Sacred Window of the old manteion on Sun Street since long before Silk had been born, and this was an omen beyond question: one of those oracular phrases that the gods, by means no mere human being could ever hope to understand, insert at times into the most banal speech. As calmly as he could manage, Silk said, “Go ahead and show me your talking bird. I’m here, so I might just as well have a look at it.” He glanced up at the narrowing sun as if on the point of leaving. “But I’ve got to get back soon.”

“It’s a night chough, Patera,” the seller told him. “Only night chough I’ve had this year.”

This cage as well appeared from under the table. The bird crowded into it was large and glossy black, with bright red legs and a tuft of scarlet feathers at its throat; the “add speak” of the catachrest’s omen was a sullen crimson, long and sharp.

“It talks?” Silk asked, though he was determined to buy it whether it could or not.

“They all do, Patera,” the seller assured him, “all of these here night choughs. They learn from each other, don’t you see, down there in the swamps around Palustria. I’ve had a few before, and this ’un’s a better talker than most, from what I’ve heard it say.”

Silk studied the bird with some care. It had seemed quite plausible that the little orange-and-white catachrest should speak: it was in fact very like a child, despite its fur. There was nothing about this downhearted fowl to suggest anything of the kind. It might almost have been a large crow.

“Somebody learned the first ’un back in the short sun time, Patera,” the seller explained. “That’s the story they tell about ’em, anyhow. I s’pose he got sick of hearin’ it jabber an’ let it go—or maybe it give him the air, ’cause they’re dimber hands for that—then that ’un went home an’ learned all the rest. I bought this ’un off of a limer that come up from down south. Last Phaesday, just a week ago it was. I give him a card for it.”