In Green's Jungles tbotss-2 Read online

  Fava nodded. "That was why the other children associated him with them, I feel sure."

  Mora said, "There aren't any, are there, Papa? That's what you always say."

  "There are stories." He helped himself to more veal. "We heard one tonight."

  "There are the old houses, " Mora said. "Not like ours, but old houses of theirs that nobody wants." Her slow speech may have given her words more weight than she intended. "People see those, and at night they see travelers camping in them, and they imagine there's a town full of them that we can't find."

  "Incanto believes in them, " her father declared.

  "What do you know about them, Incanto?"

  His mother reached across him to prod my arm. "Do eat something. Why, you've hardly touched your food."

  To satisfy her I swallowed another bite. "I've been fasting up until this meal. What I've eaten already is more than enough for me."

  "You didn't talk about my story." It was her accusatory tone again. "You said all the stories had been about duty. Mine was about ghosts and witchcraft."

  "In that case I was mistaken. I apologize, humbly and contritely."

  Mora asked, "Do you believe in witchcraft, Incanto? In stregas and stregos, like my grandmother? In ghosts?"

  "I believe in ghosts." I recalled Hyacinth's ghost and its effect upon Pig very vividly, but I chose not to mention that memory. "The best man I've ever known told me once, long ago, that he had seen one, the ghost of an elderly man with whom he had lived and whom he had assisted. He wouldn't have lied to me-or to anybody, if he could help it-and he was a careful observer."

  I spoke to Inclito's mother. "It was Turco's ghost who did his duty, or that was how it seemed to me. Turco felt that it was his duty as your husband to protect you from Casco, and from two men whom he feared were like Casco, or might become like him. You didn't see that in either of them?"

  She shook her head, and I said, "The dead must look at people differently."

  Inclito nodded. "I think so too. Men and women, it's the same. A girl is crazy about some man. Her mother likes him too, but she won't say so. Her father knows he's a loafer and a thief. I see it all the time."

  Mora told me, "You haven't answered Papa's question about the Vanished People yet, and you haven't said anything about witches. If you believe in ghosts, you have to believe in witches, too."

  "I believe that there are people who are called witches by others, " I said. "Some of them may find it to their advantage to help the belief in witchcraft along."

  Mora said, "Then you believe in witches but not in witchcraft, " and Fava tittered.

  "You may put it like that if you want. I think it's fair. May I ask you a question about your story, Mora? You said that the giant's daughter did badly in her lessons, I believe-or at least you seemed to imply it. Did she do badly in all her subjects? Or only in some."

  "The story's over now, " Mora declared.

  Fava put in, "I know a girl who gets the answer before the teacher does."

  "In arithmetic? I thought so. There are people who do not know all the good qualities they possess. Mora is one, I believe."

  Seeing that Inclito's mother was about to speak again, I added, "The man who warned Casco was a strego, a male witch, if you like. How he got into the orchard I do not know, but from what our hostess said it certainly cannot have been difficult. As for warning a man about to desecrate a grave, no great amount of wisdom is required to know that no good can come of such things. If the adder had not bitten Casco, he would have been ostracized when what he had done became widely known."

  There were nods all around the table.

  I said, "I've been called wise several times tonight. I know that I am not, but I'm wise enough to know that strong emotions of any kind often make people act very foolishly. I include myself. When the emotion is a good one-love, for example-they are often foolish in admirable ways. Anger, hatred and greed lead to acts of the kind we heard about in our hostess's story."

  Inclito nodded again and swallowed. "Greed for foreign cards, you mean."

  "That and food, " I told him. "I had resolved to eat very little tonight, and look at this." While we had been talking, I had practically cleaned my plate. "And various other things as well."

  He pointed with his table knife. "You believe in the Vanished People."

  "Because I put one in my story? It was only a story, as I told you from the beginning."

  "Because Mora keeps trying to get you to say you don't, and you won't."

  I conceded that he was right. "There's another continent on the other side of the sea. Do you know about it? I realize that we're far from the sea here."

  "Must be, " Inclito said, "or the backside of this one." He traced a circle through the gravy on his plate.

  "People there call the Vanished People the Neighbors. They are conscious of living beside them, and the name they give them reflects that."

  I drew breath, conscious of having eaten too much, and conscious, too, that there was more food to come, although I was resolved not to touch it. "As for me, I have walked with them, and sat with them around their fire. Thus I know that they exist. They have gone elsewhere-found a new home circling another short sun. But they have our permission to revisit this one whenever they choose."

  Fava's eyebrows went up. "Who gave them permission?" At that moment I was only too conscious that those full, fair eyebrows were in reality nothing more than smudges of color drawn across her forehead.

  "I did."

  "Have you been there?" Mora wanted to know. "To the continent on the other side of the sea?"

  Studying her broad, coarse face, so earnest and intent, I realized that she was not nearly so unhandsome as I had at first thought. Her features suffer in comparison to Fava's, and she is more than a trifle over-fleshed even for her not inconsiderable stature; but there is a hint and more of her grandmother's beauty behind the big, hooked nose and the wide mouth. "What difference does it make whether I say that I have or that I have not?" I asked her. "If I've lied to you about sitting with the Neighbors at their fire, I would lie about my travels, too, wouldn't I? Fishermen lie about their fish, and travelers about the foreign towns they have visited-or at least we travelers certainly have that reputation."

  Fava burst out, "What were you called before you came here and became Incanto?"

  "Rajan, " I told her. "I've had other names, but I think that's the one you're looking for."

  She leaned toward me, so intent on impressing me with her sincerity that she actually allowed her blue-green eyes to glitter in the candlelight. "I'm not looking for you, Incanto. I mean that."

  "You are a strego!" Inclito's mother exclaimed.

  I said, "I am not, madam. But I intend to cure you if I can. If someone will furnish me with paper when this excellent meal is over, I'll write out some instructions for you. They will not be difficult, and if you follow them exactly as I set them down I believe that you will soon notice an improvement in your condition."

  What happened next was so farcical that I hesitate to tell it. Oreb darted through an open window, circled the table, and settled on my shoulder, croaking, "Bird back!" and "Bad thing!"

  5

  In Green's Jungle

  Atteno the stationer has let me stay in his shop again tonight, and furnished me with a pallet he bought today for my sake, a pillow, sheets, and three blankets; but I slept so much yesterday (in a barrel in the alley when the shop was open) that I find I am unable to get to sleep tonight. Unable as yet, I should write.

  So here I sit in my usual place in the shopwindow, burning Atteno's oil in his lamp and writing on paper I have appropriated from him, having used up all he gave me earlier while I finished describing Inclito's dinner of night-before-last. It was the most I have ever written in a single sitting, to the best of my memory. Even when my wife and I were composing our book about Silk, I never wrote so long a time without some sort of break or interruption, or wrote so much.

  Not a lot
has happened since Oreb burst in upon us, although I have received two letters. My friend the shopkeeper (I have got to find some way to repay him for the paper I have taken) was delighted. "People of quality write letters, " he declared as he endeavored to conceal his pleasure. "It's the mark of quality, and a good education." No one in Blanko can set pen to paper without putting the little squares of silver they term "cardbits" here into his pocket, and he is very conscious of it. Since I began this rambling account of my journey back to the Whorl by copying what I remembered of the letter from Pajarocu into it, I will copy them out here as well.

  Two young men with huge dogs on leashes just walked past the shop; seeing me behind these panes of bull's-eye glass, they saluted. They had slug guns slung across their backs in the fashion I saw our troopers in Gaon use. I returned their salutes-and at once, without the mumbling of a single spell or the offering of some poor, sad monkey's life to Thelxiepeia, I was fifteen again, and by no means the youngest of General Mint's Volunteers. Once a trooper, always a trooper. No doubt Spider felt the same way, or much more so. We ought to have put something of that in our book, but it is too late now.

  War looms-not only for Blanko, but for me. To give myself due credit, I never imagined that by leaving Evensong and her pretty little boat on the Nadi I would throw them off indefinitely. A week? Ten days, perhaps, although it seemed much longer. Very well, I have fought them before, and in place of a slug gun and the black-bladed sword I have Hyacinth's azoth. Let them beware.

  * * *

  I have drawn the three whorls just as I used to in Gaon. Not because I have been away, or slept, or made love to any woman. No, merely because I ceased writing for an hour or so to play with Oreb and wrestle my conscience. But midnight has come and gone-I heard the clocks strike.

  How much do I owe my devil-son? I swore I would not tell, and I will not. But what constitutes telling? If I were to take down the big bar on the door and go out into the street, stop a passerby, and explain everything to him as I would like to, that would be telling beyond all doubt. But what if I were to write it here? Who would ever read it?

  Fava's letter was badly folded and sealed with a blurred impression of a flower. If this were New Viron, it would surely be her name-flower. Here I cannot say. A wide-petaled, short-stemmed flower badly stamped into pink wax. She did not trust poor Mora to do it for her, clearly.

  She is a fellow-pupil at Mora's palaestra, they say, and a very bright one. No doubt she is, but she cannot do well in penmanship, unless she has discovered some cheat beyond my imagining. Both of them wear masks for Mora's family, I believe: Fava is by definition brilliant in all of their classes, and Mora is by definition slow or worse. But it cannot be that simple. Mora would write a small hand, very neat, if I am any judge of women's characters.

  She came to the barrel in which I slept in a simple gown, such as she must wear to her palaestra; and yet she wore such small and childish jewelry as she had, and scent, too. What ran through her head as she thus dressed herself to visit me? I can only guess.

  First the gown. It was a palaestra day, and she was not quite sure that she could nerve herself to miss her classes. Alternately, she hoped to find me quickly and come late to palaestra. She would merely have been marked tardy in that case, perhaps.

  Perhaps. It was a favorite word of Patera Silk's, and I try to avoid it for that reason. What right have I (I ask myself) to Silk's words? Yet I have striven to pattern myself on him in many other ways, most of all in his way of thinking. Can I think like Silk without employing the words he did? If in fact I thought more like Silk, I would have thought of that much sooner. It is nothing to say, "I will be logical." It is everything to be logical, provided that I act from good motives.

  Good motives cannot excuse bad actions, as I told Mora. I was stern-I hope not too stern. I know what she is going through, poor child.

  And she is a child. "I won't ask you to disrobe, " I said, "because it doesn't matter whether I know. You'll know if I'm right, and that's enough."

  She nodded solemnly, sitting cross-legged on the bare ground in front of my barrel, with her clean blue gown spread over her knees. Several persons saw us talking there. What must they have thought?

  "The time of maturity varies between individuals. For a few it may be as early as eleven, and there are a few for whom it comes after eighteen. In general, the larger the individual the slower the onset."

  I paused to let that sink in.

  "In speaking of the size of the individual, I mean weight as well as stature. You are of large stature. You are aware of it, from what I've seen." (I dodged the word perhaps.) "You may even be too acutely aware of it. You are also fleshy, as I am. I try to fight it, though for other reasons. I am not telling you that you must fight it, too. If you are satisfied-"

  She shook her head.

  "Then you can correct it. If you succeed, you will be a woman sooner. Talk to your grandmother about what it means to be a woman. There will be a flow of blood, and if you are not prepared you may find it deeply unsettling."

  She nodded. "Do you think someday I might…?" She dropped her gaze to the ground between us.

  "Good girl!" Oreb assured me.

  "You're still too young to be concerned with marriage, " I told her. "But yes, I do."

  She looked up, and her shy smile was gold.

  "Mora, you envy beautiful women. That is natural, but-"

  "Like Fava."

  "Fava is not a beautiful woman, or even a pretty girl, which is what she pretends to be. You and I know what Fava is."

  I waited for her to protest. When she did not, I said, "It is only natural for you to envy them. It's foolish, but it does no harm. You must be careful, however, that your envy does not turn to hatred."

  She nodded, her face serious. "I'll try."

  "Bear in mind always that they may envy you."

  "My family, you mean. My father." Her voice held an edge of bitterness.

  "You believe that you would be happier if your father were not rich, if you were not his only child, and if he did not love you as he does. Believe me, Mora, you are wrong."

  "He wants you to stay with us."

  "I know. He pressed me to last night."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "Because I wasn't sure I would be welcome."

  "Grandmother thinks you're wonderful! Probably you didn't see it, but she kept telling Papa to make you stay, the way she looked at him and the things she said."

  "I did see it, Mora. And hear it, too. It wasn't your grandmother's welcome that concerned me."

  She was baffled. "Papa's going to write you a letter. He said so."

  "I would prefer one from you."

  The solemn nod again. "When I get back home."

  "Fava will try to dissuade you, I feel sure."

  "I won't tell her." She fell silent, then burst out, "They'll burn her if they find out."

  I tried to make my voice noncommittal. "In that case, she is foolish to remain."

  "Are you going to tell Papa? He'll burn her himself. He hates them."

  "Most people do. I may tell him, or I may not. Certainly I won't unless I find it necessary."

  "Don't you hate them, too?" Beneath their heavy, dark brows her eyes were puzzled.

  "No, " I said. "Mora, I have been to Green, and I have come back. I know that's hard for you to credit, but it is the truth. I have."

  Trying to be helpful, Oreb added, "Good Silk!"

  She ignored him. "They say the inhumi kill everybody that goes there."

  "I know they do. They're wrong. Haven't you asked her about it?"

  Mora's voice fell to a whisper. "We don't talk about that."

  "You don't talk about her real nature?"

  Mora shook her head, unwilling to meet my eyes.

  "How is it that you know?"

  "I guessed."

  "Have you ever seen her when she wasn't-Fava?"

  Mora's "No" was whispered, too. Much louder: "I don't want to. " />
  "I don't blame you. Mora, there was an inhumu who was a son to me. Can you believe that?"

  "No, " she repeated.

  "That, too, is the truth. For a long while you did not so much as suspect what Fava was, and for still longer you must have been unsure. It wasn't like that for me. I was in real and imminent danger of death, and he helped me and let me see him as he was. I was so badly frightened that it did not seem strange to me."

  "I was in trouble, too."

  "I know you were, and that's one reason I don't want Fava burned. One of many."

  "It's hard for me to think of you being afraid of anything. Were you really?"

  I cast my mind back to the pit; it seemed very long ago. "I was resigned to death by then, I believe. I had lost hope, or almost lost it, yet I was very frightened."

  "You said I had to make her go away."

  I nodded.

  "But this one helped you."

  I nodded again. "Then and afterward. He stayed with me, you see. With us. Others saw him as a boy about your age, Mora. I saw the inhumu. That was a part of our agreement-that he would not deceive me as he deceived others. When my real son and I went aboard the lander that would carry us to Green, he boarded it too. I hated him then, just as I had come to hate him while we were on my sloop. Brave men taunt the things they fear, Mora, and he did too."

  "She's not afraid of me."

  "She should be. You said that if you told your father, he would have her burned alive."

  "He'd burn her himself, only she knows I won't. How did you find out?"

  "From the story she told, first of all. There was an undercurrent in it, a stream of things left unsaid. Your father sensed it just as I did, though he may not have been conscious of it. He was puzzled because the little boy in the story did not go back to his family, remember?"

  Mora nodded.

  "We were supposed to believe he was afraid that the mother who had set out to kill him in her desperation would try to kill him again. That didn't ring true, and your father rejected it out of hand, as I did. A boy too young to know his own name could have had only the vaguest notion of his mother's intention, and would have forgotten the entire incident in a day or two. Then Fava suggested that he got away from the Vanished People, who periodically recaptured him. That was ridiculous and made the real answer obvious, as ridiculous solutions frequently do."