Gene Wolfe - Return to the Whorl

Hoof came again. We agreed that although I must remain here for the present, there is no need for him to remain as well. He will try to arrange for a boat to take him to Lizard. I gave him money for that purpose and this record, too, as far as the bandits. Without prompting, he asked if he might read it. I said he was welcome to, but asked him not to show it to you until I have a chance to speak to you. He said he would not. I begged him to keep it safe, explaining how important it is to me. He promised to make every effort. He is a good boy-too serious, if anything. He tried to tell me something but wept too much to get it out. We embraced and parted.

He has told me a little about his adventures before he found us in Dorp. I must get him to tell me more when next I see him, and set them down, with Hide's adventures in Gaon. I must not fail to do this.

When the apprentice visited me in my cell, I talked to him about writing, and the making of books. He brought a pen, ink, and paper such as they use in the Red Sun Whorl, and wrote out a few sentences for me: "You are the only client who could leave our oubliette, but chose to stay. You must have been in many terrible places if this one does not seem terrible to you." (I believe I am quoting him correctly except for his spellings; he used those of his city, which I cannot recall with any precision and which differ in many respects from ours.)

"I have been in places that were more dangerous than this, but in none more terrible," I told him.

"You must have been in Nessus. You said you walked a long way beside Gyoll."

"On another visit, yes. This time we went directly from our own whorl to the Broken Court."

"You can do that?" His eyes were wide.

"Go straight to the Broken Court? Clearly we can. We did."

He shook his head in disbelief. He does not have what is called an attractive face; although his piercing eyes smiled once or twice, I do not believe I ever saw a smile reach his lips.

"You could write a book yourself, if you chose. Nettle and I had a great many other things to do when we were writing what people call The Book of the Long Sun now; but every evening when the twins were asleep, one or the other of us would work on our book, and sometimes both of us worked together."

He picked up his pen and seemed about to speak.

"It's really only a matter of deciding what you would say if you were telling a friend. You have friends, I'm sure."

He nodded. "Drotte and Roche and Eata. Drotte's a little older than I am. So is Roche. Eata's a little younger."

"But you are friends, all four of you?"

He nodded again.

"Then pretend you are talking to Drotte and Roche. You must speak your best, and not show off as you might be inclined to do if you were talking with Eata."

"I see." He remained troubled.

"Unless we were writing some part of our book about which Nettle knew much more than I, I would write first."

"Like you were talking?"

"Exactly. When she had time, Nettle would read what I had written, correct my spelling and grammar-she is better at both-and add passages of her own. Still later, I would re-write, incorporating what she had written into our text and perhaps adding a few thoughts of my own. After that, she would make a fair copy and we would consider that section done."

"Look at that!" His pen jabbed at his capital Y "If Master Palaemon had written it, it would have been beautiful."

"Leave beauty to your words. If your letters can be read, for them that is beauty enough."

"You said your wife copied out everything you wrote."

"She did; but that was the least of the many things she did. At times we had to imagine actions and conversations. She is very good at that. In a hundred instances, she refreshed my memory on important points. While it's true that she writes a better hand than I, that was much less important."

"I never forget. I don't understand how anybody does."

"You're fortunate," I told him, "and will have a great advantage when you come to write a book of your own."

He shook his head. "I won't, until I have a scribe to make my writing look better."

"Will you have one?" When I looked only at his rags, I found it difficult to believe; but when I raised my eyes to his narrow, intense face I found it easy.

"When I'm a master. Master Gurloes has Master Palaemon write for him, mostly. But Master Malrubius used to make a scribe come and help him twice a week. They have to, if we tell them to. They're afraid of us."

"Understandably so." I looked around my little cell for the last time, conscious I would leave it soon and a trifle wistful already; it had been a haven of rest and prayer.

"You're not."

"Can you be sure? Perhaps I'm secretly terrified."

He shook his head with an obstinacy that recalled Sinew's. "I've seen a lot of that. You're not afraid at all."

"Because I'm not really here."

"That judge is afraid."

"He doesn't know, you see." I tried not to smile. "Or if he does by this time, he may be afraid that my daughter and I will leave him here. As we might."

"She's a witch, isn't she?"

To the best of my recollection I did not answer. "What do you say we pay a call on him? Will you show me where you've put him?"

For a moment or two he considered the matter, hand upon chin. "I shouldn't let you out…"

"I wouldn't ask you to. I'll let myself out."

"If one of the journeymen saw you, it would be bad." He was still considering. "Only in that black robe he might think you were one of us, if he didn't see your face."

"It would be better if I had a hood, wouldn't it?" I made one for myself in imitation of the journeymen I had seen, and added the decorations worn by Master Gurloes, thinking my white beard and hair deserved them. "Will this pass, do you think?"

"Blacker." (He was certainly a young man of courage.) "Ours are fuligin. Like soot."

I did what I could.

"I might be able to get you a sword. Want me to try?"

I shaped a sword such as I had seen in the hands of their journeymen, with a two-handed grip and a long straight blade.

"Can I hold it for a minute? Is it real?"

"Of course you can." I gave it to him. "No, it isn't."

"It feels heavy." Holding it clearly gave him pleasure.

"It's my old friend Pig's, as well as I remember it. Could you carry it for me? I'm no longer young, I'm afraid."

"We don't do that."

We went out, I through the door and he through the doorway.

To town this morning, determined to make my report, sat until midafternoon in Gyrfalcon's reception room, and returned here. Tomorrow I intend to go to Marrow's first-or at least, to the house that was his. I do not doubt that he is dead; Hoof would never lie to me about such a matter. But as I sat with little to do but think, it occurred to me that Marrow may have left a message for me. That is worth investigating, surely. It cannot be a waste of time worse than I endured today.

When the Prolocutor had me sacrifice in the Grand Manteion, I thought it no worse than a minor waste of time as well. Now I see clearly that it tipped the scales toward failure. Had I not acceded to his request, I might have found Silk, whom I heard was staying at our inn, although only when it was too late. Time wasted can never be recovered. I mean time that accomplishes nothing, and in which we have no enjoyment.

I have been playing with Oreb and scratching Babbie's ears. None of which I count as time wasted. I enjoy it, and so do they. Besides, I feel entitled to a little recreation after so much dreary sitting and staring. I find I cannot pray when others who are not praying are present.

No, I find nothing of the sort. I did not try. I will go again tomorrow, and if Gyrfalcon (who sent me out as much as Marrow and the others) keeps me cooling my heels again, I will pray. Perhaps others will join me. There's a cheering thought! I'm looking forward to trying already.