The Raven's Warrior. Vincent Pratchett

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ that first night, but after wakening to the sounds of warm conversation and the smell of the evening meal already beginning to cook, they quickly faded and disappeared. I heard a rooster crowing proudly over his domain, but continued to lie motionless pretending to be asleep and listening carefully for tones of treachery in a language I did not understand. For the next hour I lay with body still but ears active, expecting anything. Only when I was sure that there would be nothing did I stand up and walk into the main room.

      Merlin and the Sea Lass greeted me warmly and bid me sit down upon the cushions that leaned against the thick stone walls. Together they examined and discussed my torn arm, obviously pleased by its steady healing. She held my wrist quietly with three fingers as if listening to much deeper rhythms, and then both looked upon my tongue as if it was a visual gateway to the inner workings of my battered body.

      Finally and most strangely she steadied my head between her gentle hands and gazed directly into my eyes. I thought it might be her way of spell casting, but I had not the strength to resist and so stared back into the liquid brown beauty that were hers.

      Her father interrupted tersely, indicating points on my body with a well-seasoned finger, and then smoothly she drew her pouch. My body was already jumping up and back even before my eyes told it the painless needles were coming. I would not bear this witchcraft again, and I braced myself for a fight.

      The two were wide eyed at my agility, and their easy laughter rang in my ears. Sea Lass spoke for both as Merlin tried to collect himself. “Judging by your many scars, you have no fear of sword or spear, yet you are terrified by the small steel that will help to make you whole. Father, show him what he fears.”

      Merlin, still smiling, held out the tiny shard to me as if presenting a flower, and I looked at it with wonder. It was a perfect round bladed miniature sword. I took it and pushed against it with my finger. It bent like spring grass on a windy day. Remarkably it rebounded back to its original shape. I had never seen metal so small, so alive, and so skillfully created. “My father made them,” the Sea Lass said, “He is a master.”

      I quickly caught the beauty of her eyes and spoke strongly, “Just because he owns me does not make him my master.” She mimicked my tone and replied, “That is both honest and profound, but I was referring to his ability to create with metal.” I realized as they began to laugh again that both her statements were indeed true, and that I had misunderstood. I pensively allowed the needle treatment to continue.

      Afterwards I was served a delicious breakfast of rice-gruel, fruit, and honey, and felt more an honored guest than a slave. As I feasted, Sea Lass offered a well-packed lunch to her father as he turned to me and spoke, “I go now to tend the land. You are still very weak, stay with Selah and help her with the household chores. We will speak more this evening.” With that he left, stuffing his lunch inside the chest of his simple work shirt, and I was alone with the one who had already begun to enchant me.

      She moved with grace and lightness around the house, unconcerned by my presence and sometimes singing sweetly in her own language. I wondered why they trusted me, for even weak I am a dangerous man. As I stared at her back, I reasoned that she would not be hard to kill. She turned to me and smiled innocently, untouched by the darkness of my thoughts. Holding two buckets she invited me to follow her while she drew milk from the cows.

      Outside she flung down oats for the clucking hens, stopped and stooped by the path, looking upon a bustling nest of large black ants. As we approached the fields, she walked to the hedgerow and seemed to speak to the briers. The cows came running to her like large happy pets, and soon both buckets were overflowing with their frothy white bounty.

      As she looked up into the clear blue sky at the high flying birds, I found myself doing the exact same thing. “What is your forecast?” she asked softly. It seemed a strange question for such a beautiful day. “A fair and sunny spring day,” was how I answered. Smiling now, she said, “If we move quickly, we will be back to the house before the rains unleash.” No sooner were we inside placing the buckets of milk on the table, than the skies opened up and the heavy downpour began.

      I was quiet for a while, grateful for the warmth and dryness of the house, unsure about questioning her arcane powers, but curiosity overruled and I asked her how she knew. “The hens, the ants, the hedgerow, and the high flying birds all told me the same story of the rainstorm coming,” she said, smiling at the look on my face. “Don’t worry; talking to the world around us is not witchcraft. It is the wisdom of the old ways, passed from mother to daughter since time was young.”

      I heard her words without really understanding, but knew clearly that those words, if uttered in my world, were more than enough to have her bound, burned, and scattered by the winds. As if reading my thoughts, she placed a comforting hand on my good shoulder and spoke in a tone that was both calm and reassuring.

      “Vincent, when you see that the hens will not stray far from where they sleep, you know that a storm is coming.” She continued evenly, “The dirt piled in beads around the opening of the ant’s nest is spread wide and funnel shaped on a fine day. When they build the opening high and narrow, it is because they feel the changing weather. Not even the tiny creatures want their home flooded and their family drowned.”

      She handed me a cup of warm milk and tea.

      “The leaves on the briers turn toward the coming storm and curl up like cups to catch the water. The birds that fly so high are riding and rising on huge pockets of air displaced upward by the next one moving in and under from the direction of the distant ocean. It is not witchcraft; it is just listening to the world of nature as it speaks to us.”

      I could hear Merlin returning from his day, and as his daughter rushed to meet him, I heard the raven’s distant call carried upon the winds. The life that I had lived had evaporated like the desert dew. It had risen from me somewhere over the blistering sands. I weighed the memory of my former grim existence, and knew in heart that it was not worth fighting for. I had fallen helpless and frail into this strange world, like a child lost in an unknown wilderness. There was no escape. I closed my eyes to bring the darkness and drew deep breath to drink it in.

      Exhaling long and slow, I took my first step on a road that I had never walked. Within my soul, the words gathered and then, “I surrender,” tumbled out through my parched cracked lips.

Dreams

      Merlin’s return was marked by a kiss from his daughter. If they had heard my submission they made no response. His sharp eyes smiled to me warmly. His hands were blackened and his clothes held the odor of a clean fire’s smoke. As he prepared to wash, the Sea Lass threw in the finishing spices to the evening meal and bid me set the bowls on the large round table.

      While we ate, the Sea Lass talked to her father happily about her day. She pantomimed as she spoke, so that I could guess her meaning. I was entertained by her gestures as she spoke about the state of the animals, the eggs collected, and the sudden downpour. The food that we ate was fresh and hearty, flavored artfully with spices the likes of which I had never before tasted. Sharing a family meal was also something I had never tasted, and I was grateful to be part of it.

      Eventually the animated conversation came my way as Merlin knowingly caught my eye and asked, “Vincent, what did you dream last night?” I felt like one struck by lightning as the memory of my night visions flooded back into my consciousness.

      I gathered the details in my mind and prepared to speak my dreams. “Merlin,” I began, “I dreamt of a mountain of fire. The three of us were strangely walking toward it instead of running away. We could see the smoke rise up and darken the sun, and we could hear the mountain roar and cry out with the pains of birth, and СКАЧАТЬ