Gene Wolfe - Return to the Whorl

"To judge between us," said one man, who had spoken less than the others. I believe his name is Ziek.

I explained that it would be quite useless for me to judge unless they would obey me as a judge, and one by one they pledged themselves to do so. Scylla is their principal goddess, I found, just as she was ours in Viron. That being the case I made them swear by Scylla, and by the Outsider, and by whatever gods might still linger here on Blue, and because I saw that had impressed them, by the Vanished People themselves.

When they had done so, I said, "Hear my judgment. You have so embittered yourselves, and forsworn yourselves, and tangled yourselves among competing claims and allegations that no peace is possible among you. There is no need, however, for you to torment yourselves as you have been doing. Am I to assume that you are all going to the same place?"

They were, to a town on the coast called Dorp.

"Then my judgment is that you must go there separately. You," I pointed to the largest of them, a man called Nat who seemed to be the richest too, "are to leave at once. How many of these horses and mules are yours?"

He had sixteen.

"Take them and go. Travel as fast as you can. We will rest here for a time before we follow you. When we ride again, it will be with the blond man in front, the one with the red cap between my son and me, and this one [by which I meant Ziek] behind my daughter. In an hour or so, I will send him ahead just as I'm sending you. In another hour another, and so on."

Nat protested. "What if I'm robbed? One man alone can't resist."

"Of course he can. He may be killed, but that is the risk he runs when he quarrels with his friends. Have your drivers collect your animals and go."

"Man go," Oreb seconded me.

He looked at me for a few seconds that seemed much longer, his eyes blazing with hatred. "I won't!"

"Then arrest him," I told the other three. "You've sworn to do as I tell you. Drag him off his horse and throw him down."

He drew a needler, but I struck his wrist with my staff. We have him still, I regret to say, with a valet, two drivers, eight horses, and ten mules. I had intended to have Hide untie him and remove his gag tonight so that he could eat, but I was tired and Hide was busy unloading and unsaddling our own horses, and hobbling them, and I forgot. From his size and the redness of his face, a missed meal is more apt to help then harm him, I believe. It will be enough to feed him in the morning before we let him go.

I am sleepy enough for two, but before I sleep I ought to say here that here we have four horses, not counting Jahlee's mule. That makes twenty-three animals, not counting Oreb, who seems to have gone exploring: Nat's mount, his valet's and his pack animals, my own mount and Hide's, the white mule, and two pack horses we took from the bandits, loaded with our scant baggage and some loot.

Her husband held the lamp while the woman poured warm water on his wounds. "What happened to you?"

He shook his head, and her husband snorted.

She said, "He doesn't know. Can't you see his face?" Then to him: "You can put that one down now. Hold out the other one. Over the bucket."

He obeyed as meekly as a child.

"Your cousin Firefly-"

"Firebrat," her husband said.

"He didn't know his name after he fell that time."

"You fall?" the husband asked. "Hit your head?"

"What's your name?"

He hesitated. "Horn."

"Don't want us to know," the husband remarked.

"They're clean now," the woman said. "Lots of people say wash them in wine, but water that's boiled is about as good, and wine costs."

He nodded gratefully.

She picked up the bucket, which was of wood bound with iron, carried it to the sink, and poured out pink water. "Where you from?"

"Lizard." (It had slipped out.)

"Lizard sent you? Who is he?"

"Are we in the Whorl?"

Her husband said, "Still here. They're tryin' to run us out, but we'll run them out 'fore we're through."

The woman sniffed. "Big talk."

"Then I'm from Viron. I was born there, and I grew up there." He felt a twinge of fear. "You're not at war with Viron here?"

The husband said, "They don't care about us out here."

"Where are we?" He looked around the kitchen as if the hulking black stove or the strings of onions suspended from the ceiling might provide a clue.

"Endroad." The wife tore a clean rag with a sound that made him think of blood and smoke and the rattle of buzz guns.

The husband nodded confirmation. "Endroad. 'Bout as far from Viron as you can get, without you go into the wild."

"We're not really there," the woman said briskly. "Hold out your arm. That one's starting to bleed again." She wound clean, worn cloth about it. "Take you about an hour to get to Endroad when the sun comes back."

"Nearest place, though," her husband explained.

"Only place," she corrected him.

"I don't want to become a burden to you."

Neither answered.

"I suppose I am already, but when you've finished bandaging those, I'll go."

"Knife cuts?" The husband sounded a trifle more friendly.

"I don't-" He recalled the knife on the floor. How threatening it had looked! "Yes," he said. "I believe so."

"Ah! Tried to fight him off." Slyly, "Was it a godlin'?"

That was a new word to him.

The woman said, "A godling would've killed him."

"Big one would've," her husband agreed.

He wanted to ask her what godlings were, but sensed that he should not. "I saw your light." That seemed safe. "I had gone to sleep in a field. In one of your fields, I suppose. When I woke, it was the only light that I could see anywhere, and so I walked toward it. I-I hope-"

"If you drink you get into these fights," the woman told him severely. "Leave that to the young ones."

"Only house hereabouts," her husband said, "'cept manse."

Surprised, he looked up. "Is there an augur here?"

"Not no more."

The woman tied the last knot and straightened up. "There used to be. Still belongs to the Chapter, they say." She eyed him narrowly. "Some woman's there now. Came out from the city, I guess. You know her?"

"I don't know." He stood. "What's her name?"

"Don't talk much," the woman said.

Her husband lowered the lamp and set it on the battered table. "She went over there to be friends, but she just shut the door on her. Said she was sick."

"She looked sick, too." The woman hesitated. "Want something to eat? I guess we could spare something."

He shook his head. "I don't wish to impose on you any more. I'll leave now." He glanced at the open window, wincing inwardly at the utter darkness beyond it. "Have you any idea how long it will be until shadeup?"

"Shadeup?" The husband spat through the window.

The woman said, "Forgotten, haven't you."

"Forgotten what?" There was a stick in the corner, a rough stick far from straight that he decided must be his.

"Darkday. Sun goes out. Gone out now."

Vaguely he recalled an incident on Sun Street, the altar in the middle of the street, with the sacred window in which Echidna had appeared, the heat that had followed the darkness, and the blazing fig tree. "I know," he said.

"You'll get hurt." The woman spoke as if the words had been forced from her. "You'll get hurt again. You stay here until the sun comes back."

He looked from one to the other. "Don't you know…?"

"No tellin'." There was anger as well as resignation in the husband's voice. "Gods been blowin' it out to make us go."

The woman sighed. "Something's wrong in your head, or you'd know."