Gene Wolfe - Return to the Whorl

His eyes were on the ground. "No, Your Cognizance. If I had brought Pig-if some way I could have…"

"Forbear. For children, eh? For sprats, these ifs."

There was no reply.

"The, um, ceremony. Nuptials, eh? You recall them?"

"Yes, Your Cognizance."

"Well? Ah-distinctly?"

"Very distinctly, Your Cognizance."

"I, um, homily. Curtailed, eh? Yes-ah-abbreviated while the sacred fire, eh? But the, um, reading first. You were not, er, inattentive."

"I hope not, Your Cognizance."

"I, um, advanced to the ambion, eh? Took up the Writings?"

"Yes."

"And, um, then? What next, Patera? Please elucidate."

"You found the passage in which marriage-"

"No! You-ah-erroneous. Previous to that."

"Wait a minute." His forefinger drew small circles over his right cheek. "I remember. You opened the Writings, apparently at random, read a passage, and appeared to reject it. You turned to the passage on marriage then."

"Did I, er, communicate the first passage, Patera?"

"Read it aloud, you mean? No, you read it silently, then opened the book at a different place."

"Have you-ah-formed an, er, theory to account forum?"

"Only the obvious one, Your Cognizance." As he spoke, he felt an icy tendril of dread that he could not have explained. "The initial passage was not suitable for a wedding."

A toss of Remora's head cleared his eyes of his lank hair. "It was, um, suitable, Patera. Your own word, eh? It was-ah-cogent. Very. I, um, declined, eh? Nonetheless. An error. Ah-hubris. Knew better than the gods, eh? At my, um, time of life, I should be wiser." Remora rose. "If you will, er, be unoffended by a brief absence? I shall return presently. Will you, um, enjoy the fine weather?"

"Certainly, Your Cognizance. I'll be here when you return."

"Capital. I shan't be long."

"Good Silk!" Oreb called by way of farewell.

His hands were still now as he watched Remora's retreating back. A minute passed, then two. A rockwren sang in the tree in which Oreb perched, then flew away, singing still.

"Poor Silk," Oreb remarked with simple sympathy. "Poor, poor. Poor Silk!"

He rose and began to pace the length of the little garden, left toward the docks and the sea, right toward the farms and the mountains, then left again. "I am a prisoner in a cell," he told Oreb, "and that tall man in black will return with my death warrant. I know it, and can't do a thing about it. Tell Nettle I loved her, please. Will you do that?"

"Bird tell."

"Thank you." He sat again, his head in his hands. "I loved Sinew, too. And Hoof and Hide and Krait. Jahlee and Seawrack. I should not have loved any of them-they were almost as selfish as I am, Oreb. But I did, and I asked the Greater Scylla on the Red Sun Whorl how I could find Seawrack again."

Oreb whistled sharply.

"She taught me how to communicate with her sister here. That was our bargain; but I have not used the information. I would never have used it while Nettle was alive."

"Good Silk!"

"Most of all, I loved Silk. I tried to model myself on him, and see what a mess I made of it. When at last I was given the chance to actually do something for him, I failed."

Returning with a worn volume, Remora had caught the last few words. "You did not-um-miss the mark. Ah-Horn. Yes, Horn."

"You are too kind, Your Cognizance. I did."

Resuming his seat, Remora said, "Possibly you have-umobserved that I have been calling you Patera?"

"Yes, Your Cognizance. Many people do, because of the robe, though I am aware that I am no augur. I've grown tired of objecting and generally let it pass."

"I, er, comprehend." Remora held up his book. "The Chrasmologic Writings, hey? From, um, your own Sun Street Quarter. Salvaged from the-ah-conflagration. By me, Patera. See where the cover's scorched?"

"Yes, Your Cognizance." He touched the discolored leather tentatively, as though it were a serpent. "This was Silk's? He used to read from this-from this copy-at manteion when I was a boy?"

"Um-ah-no. Not, er, exactly, Patera. Yet you are-humnearly correct. A-ah-near miss. To the point now, eh? Permit me."

"Of course, Your Cognizance."

From his branch, Oreb called, "Watch out!"

"It was from this that I read at the, er, nuptials. I have-ahsearched? Scrutinized it to discover the passage I rejected. Erroneously, eh. Hubris. I, um, conceived that it would be better if you did not, hum? But in error. In error. Not irretrievable, eh? I retrieve it now. Right the wrong."

The vague ache he felt in his chest at times had returned. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, recalling the swords of the torturer's tower. Men were required to lay their heads upon the block, to be lopped off by those swords; and they did it, often with great courage.

"Will you-ah-peruse it, Patera? I have, um, marked the place."

Someone else, someone very far away, said, "I cannot imagine that there is anything in the Writings that I should not read or hear read, Your Cognizance."

"It's, um, here."

The open book lay in his lap. He grasped it with both hands and raised it until his shadow no longer fell upon the print.

Though trodden beneath the shepherd's heel, the wild hyacinth blooms on the ground.

He wept; and another distant voice, Remora's, said, "Horn did not fail us, Patera. Calde. You see that now?"

Silk nodded.

The three volumes of this account were written almost entirely by their protagonist, the former Rajan of Gaon, who described in considerable detail his (?) search for the fabled town of Pajarocu and tragic adventures on Green, as well as his reign in Gaon and journey to New Viron. These we have left as he composed them, save for correction of obvious errors, division into chapters, and titling those chapters and his volumes.

He left us no written record of his brief sojourns in Old Viron and the West Pole, but he spoke of them often. In this volume we have re-created them to the best of our ability, based upon those conversations. What is most certain is the point most frequently doubted by those who have read earlier drafts of the present volume: that he abandoned his search for Silk in order that his chance-met friend's vision might be restored. He agreed to accompany Hari Mau to Gaon if Hari Mau would transport Pig to the West Pole. Both men might easily have broken their promises; both men kept them. We three who knew him well (as this account shows) find it easy to believe that he acted as he did. Readers who did not must bear in mind that he could not be certain that Silk was still in the Whorl. It may have seemed to him that Silk had quitted Old Viron, and might well have left the Whorl for Blue. It should also be borne in mind that the divine Silk was possessing Pig. (Pig appears to have visited the manse in which Silk had lived with Hyacinth for this reason.) In benefiting Pig, he was also benefiting Silk.

We are indebted to His Cognizance Patera Remora for his account of their final interview. His Cognizance could not reveal the details of our protagonist's shriving; nor would we wish him to.

Following that interview, he was seen only by Daisy, who was returning to her father's boat for her sewing basket and found him provisioning the Seanettle, assisted by a strikingly beautiful young woman who had only one arm. Just as Hoof wrote his own accounts of certain events in which the rest of us played no part, Daisy will append hers of their meeting.

This Book of the Short Sun (as we have tided it) has been issued by us, two brothers and their wives, residents of Lizard Island and citizens of New Viron. We are Hoof and Daisy, Hide and Vadsig. This is the second year of Blazingstar's caldeship.