Peter Beagle - Innkeeper's Song

On the road back—or was it forward? was it to or from?—we will follow no songs, meet no hungry shadows, journey through no beast-markets that turn out to be worlds that turn out to be all sawdust and broken pots. Only the two of us, traveling silently in darkness forever, and I did not have forever anymore. Now I am tired, as I could not be before, and the longer we walk the less I knew where we are going. I did not know before, but then I will have the singing to follow, and the star. Now I almost wish that someone were still bellowing my name, which is not my name. I could follow that, wherever it leads, and then the old man would follow me. But the dark is drawing in and in—I can feel it nudging at my shoulders—and it is laughing, too, and now I will begin to be afraid. As though I were alive.

When he turns I was ready, even so. I said, “No. We are for the riverbed. No. You need my help if you mean to find peace.” But he will rear up over me, fire racing from one hand to another to soar out behind him in a blue-white mantle, while he opens his mouth to chuckle flaming venom straight into my eyes. I put my hands up vainly in front of me, and I cried out for someone, because I am at the end of endless night and the end of myself. But who comes when no one calls?

Man-shape ! He stole the man-shape! Felt it go, felt it go—a cold whisper, knife slipping out of a wound. Never, never, never before, no one dares such tampering, such thieving. Beautiful Grandfather man-shape, beautiful white mustache, red soldier’s coat, such smiling cheeks, such bright listening eyes, beautiful freedom to stand, sit, talk, laugh, sing, drink red ale—all gone, all scooped away, and insides with it. Rap on my belly, hear the echo, that was Grandfather man-shape. Gone, gone.

The other. Not wicked old magician, that other, his master, the one who held him prisoner. Snatches the sun first, now the man-shape, hoho, what can a poor fox do against such power ? Hoho, more than he likes, foolish magician. Not even old nothing ever touches man-shape, not once in so much coming and going on its errands in this world. Oh foolish, careless, vain magician, this is no fox to trouble so lightly.

But this is a fox to sit under Marinesha’s naril tree and think very fast in a very little moment. Sundown at last, still hot as one fox’s plundered heart, no wind at all, not under the tree. I sit watching until the inn’s windows come drifting out at me, bright and hard as snowflakes.

Chimney dribbles down roof, roof ripples sweetly—sad, sad for nice warm pigeons—eaves wriggle like eyebrows. Crashes, shatterings, screamings inside, fat innkeeper roaring like sheknath looking for lady sheknath . Lightnings raking down the sky straight for magician’s room—it is all in there, in that room, wind and fire and darkness, yesyesyes. Man-shape, too.

So, fox—fox forever now, unless so quick and so clever—back to that room? Yes, and yet. No time, no time for and yet —but what is this? The little white mad burning one. Lukassa. Away in the wind, beyond the wind, far beyond friends, innkeepers, pet foxes, Lukassa where humans are not to go. Away there in that place, and after a griga’ath that was wicked old magician. Lukassa.

No concern of mine, no more than magicians’ wars. My business is all with man-shape, all. Let them spit their spells at each other, let them smash each other’s playthings, conjure each other back and forth across this world, that—only let them keep magic hands off what belongs to old nothing and me. Old nothing says, “Find him. Find the thief. Explain to him.” So. Lukassa is Lukassa’s business now.

And yet.

Old nothing and I, we have no friends. Agreements, yes—conveniences, yes—friends, no, not possible. Hard enough telling humans apart, never mind feelings, wonderings. Nyateneri, Lukassa—a nice saddlebag, nice warm arms at night, no more. Kiss nose as much as they like, who cares? Not possible.

“Find,” says old nothing. More crashes, more shrieks, more windows turn to snow. Fat innkeeper’s inn twists and grinds in the earth. People shaken, spilled out into the courtyard, running, fighting, falling down. Up in magician’s room, backed against empty, splintered windowframe. Him, that other. Face says I win, I win , shoulders not so sure. Old nothing: “There. Now.”

Lukassa is Lukassa’s business.

Help her, help wicked magician. Never.

Care for a human, one human, no end to it. Not possible. I am who I am.

Old nothing: “You are my little finger, my baby toe, my whisker, my wart. Bring me to him, now, quickly. This is he, this is the one whose hunger disturbs my sleep. You shall have back the man-shape, I will lap up his power along with it. I will make him my left hand.”

Rotten board behind oven again? Stroll in the front way, like a guest, bite Gatti Jinni’s bottom, walk between fat innkeeper’s legs, pause a moment to wet his shoes—who would notice tonight? I start toward the inn. I stop. Old nothing: “What now?” I do not answer.

“What now, fingernail? Whisker?” So soft old nothing’s voice in me, it might be evening breeze barely stirring my fur. “Is a human more to you than the human shape? Choose then. This is interesting.” Everything interests old nothing when it is awake—everything, and nothing at all.

At night, just before sleeping, she asks, always, “ Fox, fox, what is your name ?” I have no name, she has lost her own. Alike that way, a little. Old nothing: “Choose.” I take two steps left, four steps straight up. Left again? Left, yesyes, four steps around a corner, one behind the other. And there. Magicians make such fuss of journeys.

Same darkness, why imagine any different? Same thin black road under my feet, same bad sky. Dull place, I always forget. I come here sometimes because old nothing never does. Cannot? No knowing. Hard to know things here, too sideways, too slithery. Sit still, fox, sit empty, listen. Never anything to see in this place, anyway. Listen for her.

I wind the griga’ath first. Smell cold, they do, not hot at all—under the fire, a sweet distant chill, smell of winter drawing near in summer. No mistaking. Ears go back, fur stands up, already on my feet unaware. No fear of gri-ga’aths , never me, only the body. Then I hear Lukassa.

Different here, around this corner. Time has no meaning, end is just the same as beginning, space is not real. Lukassa and griga’ath —perhaps behind me, perhaps beside, anywhere, underneath even. I might be facing them, never know it. But I hear Lukassa, because I am listening. Where man-shape was, that place hears her.

One short, small cry—why more, with no help ever, and a griga’ath turning? I answer—fox-bark only, words gone with man-shape. A moment later, just above me in the dark, there, Lukassa, almost lost in the fire-shadow around her. Griga’ath wants to swallow her, make her a living part of its fire. They cannot all do that, but this one can, could devour pretty me if I look away once. So. Fox sits back, very carefully, barks again.

Lukassa turns. Brown eyes gone gray with haze of being here. Wrong for humans here, wrong as bones being on outside. Cannot see me, not those eyes, cannot see anything but griga’ath . Wicked bloody magician should have told her what happens. Too late, after all.

But Lukassa: “My fox!” and I do not want this, but two words go through me like cold iron. “My fox!” and she is away from griga’ath and to me, kneeling, reaching across all nowhere to hold me. A calamity, she is, a weeping, laughing confusion of fear, exhaustion, joy, madness, ignorance, love. For this sake I let man-shape go. A favor, pigeons. Come and eat me.