“That’s it?” demanded Relish. “She gave up that easily? I don’t believe it.”
“Her words were brave,” I replied, “even as anguish tore at her heart.”
“Well, how was I to know that?”
“By crawling into her skin, Relish,” I said most gently. “Such is the secret covenant of all stories, and songs and poems too, for that matter. With our words we wear ten thousand skins, and with our words we invite you to do the same. We do not ask for your calculation, nor your cynicism. We do not ask you how well we are doing. You either choose to be with us, word by word, in and out of each and every scene, to breathe as we breathe, to walk as we walk, but above all, Relish, we invite that you feel as we feel.”
“Unless you secretly feel nothing,” Purse Snippet said, glancing back at me and I saw dreadful accusation in her eyes-her numbness had been burnt away, making my time short indeed.
“Is this what you fear? That my invitation is a deceit? The suspicion alone belongs to a cynic, to be sure-”
“Belongs to the wounded and the scarred, I should think,” said Apto Canavalian. “Or the one whose own faith is dead.”
“In such,” said I, “no covenant is possible. Perhaps some artists do not feel what they ask others to feel, sir, but I do not count myself among those shameful and shameless wretches.”
“I see that well enough,” Apto said, nodding.
“Get back to the tale,” demanded Tiny Chanter. “She asks him to stay while she eats. Does he?”
“He does,” I replied, my eyes on Lady Snippet’s back as she strode ahead of me. “The darkness of the hut was such that she could see little more than the glint of his eyes as he watched her, and in those twin flickers she imagined all manner of things. His love for her. His grief for all that he had lost. His pride in the food he had provided, his pleasure in her own as she bit into and savored the delicious meat. She believed she saw amusement as well, and she smiled in return, but slowly her smile faded, for the glitter now seemed too cold for humour, or perhaps it was something she was not meant to see.
“When she had at last finished and was licking the grease from her fingers, he reached out and settled a hand upon her belly. ‘Two gifts,’ murmured he, ‘as you shall discover. Two.’ “
“How did he know?” demanded Relish.
“Know what?” asked Brash Phluster.
“That she was pregnant, Relish? He knew and so too did she, for there was a new voice inside her, deep and soft, the tinkle of frost in a windless night.”
“What then?” demanded Tiny.
“A moment, if you please. Purse Snippet, may I spin you a few lines of my tale for you?”
She looked back at me, frowning. “Now?”
“Yes, Lady, now.”
She nodded.
“The brothers were very quick to act, and before a breath was let loose from their glowing sister, why, the man she had loved the night before was lying dead. In her soul a ragged wind whipped up a swirl of ashes and cinders, and she almost stumbled, and the tiny voice inside her-so precious, so new-now wailed piteously for the father it had lost so cruelly-”
Tiny bellowed and spun to Relish, who shrank back.
“Hold!” I cried, and an array of sibling faces swung snarling my way. “Beneath that tiny cry she found a sudden fury rising within her. And she vowed that when her child was born she would tell it the truth. She would again and again jab a sharp-nailed finger at her passing brothers and say to her sweet wide-eyed boy or girl: ‘There! There is one of the men who murdered your father! Your vile, despicable, treacherous uncles! Do you see them! They sought to protect me-so they said, but they failed, and what did they then do, my child? They killed your father!’ No, there would be no smiling uncles for that lone child, no tossing upon the saddle of a thigh, no squeals, no indulgent spoiling, no afternoons at the fishing hole, or wrestling bears or spitting boars with sticks. That child would know only hatred for those uncles, and a vow would find shape deep within it, a kin-slaying vow, a family-destroying vow. Blood in the future. Blood!”
All had halted. All were staring at me.
“She would,” I continued with a voice of gravel and sharp stones. “She… could. If they would not leave her be. If they dogged her day after day. Her virginity was now gone. They had nothing left in her to protect. Unless, perhaps… an innocent child. But even then-she would decide when and how much. She was now in charge, not them. She was, and this was the sudden, blinding truth that seared through her mind at that instant: she was free.”
And then I fell silent.
Tiny gaped, at me and then at Relish. “But you said Callap-”
“I lied,” replied Relish, crossing her arms and happily proving that she was not as witless as I had first imagined.
“But then you’re not-”
“No, I’m not.”
“And you’re-”
“I am.”
“The voice-”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll tell it-”
“If you leave me to live my life? Nothing.”
“But-”
Her eyes flashed and she advanced on him. “Everything. The truth! Hate’s seed-to become a mighty tree of death! Your death, Tiny! And yours, Midge! And yours, Flea!”
Tiny stepped back.
Midge stepped back.
Flea stepped back.
“Are we understood?” demanded Relish.
Three mute nods.
She whirled then and shot me a look of eternal gratitude or eternal resentment-I couldn’t tell which and really, did it matter?
Did I then catch a wondering smile from Purse Snippet? I cannot be certain, for she quickly turned away.
As we resumed our journey Apto snorted under his breath. “Flick goes the first knife this day. Well done, oh, very well done.”
The first. Yes, but only the first.
A voice from back down the trail made us turn. “Look everybody! I brought Nifty’s head!”
There is a deftness that comes of desperation, but having never experienced desperation, I know nothing of it. The same woeful ignorance on my part can be said for the savage wall that rises like a curse between an artist and inspiration, or the torture of sudden doubt that can see scrolls heaped on the fire. The arrow of my intent is well trued. It sings unerringly to its target, even when that target lies beyond the horizon’s swollen-breasted curve. You do not believe me? Too bad.