Man into fox—fox into man—which?” Boy Tikat asks me that when we meet, only I stop his silly mouth with food, best way then. But truth—truth is not one on top, not the other underneath. Fox and man-shape side by side, never enough room, and below, oh, below! Below is nothing, such an old, old nothing, long ago it turns into a something. True. Even nothing wants, sometimes even nothing grows hungry to hear voices, songs, smell morning earth, drink water, munch up a pigeon. Me? A finger of nothing, a toe—but me even so, doing what I want. Nyateneri wants this, man-shape wants that, I do what I want. But when old nothing calls, I go.
And old nothing is stirring—cold, heavy, sleepy nothing feels him, tricky magician at the inn, alone in a little place, gone to earth like a fox—yesyes, and that other, it feels that one too, reaching, searching, almost knowing, almost sure. Over the inn, all around, power gropes for power—dogs know it, chickens know it, even weather knows it. Bright, hot sun, not a cloud, day after day, and always the smell of rain, but no rain. Old nothing says in me, “Find out. Find out.”
So. Nyateneri is far away, and man-shape sits all rosy in the taproom again, tells long stupid stories, asks, listens, watches. Inn is swarming like a dead log full of grubs— always pilgrims, peddlers, canal bargemen, soldiers on leave, once or twice a sheknath hunter with his razor-silk net, his double lances. Rosseth too sad to talk, Marinesha too busy, never liked man-shape anyway. Gatti Jinni will talk all day, keep the red ale coming, but what does little angry-face know? Same for Shadry, the cook, stupid as the potboys he beats. Boy Tikat keeps all away from man-shape, never even looks across the taproom. Fat innkeeper lumbers in and out and in, fetches and serves, shouts at soldiers when they pinch Marinesha. He looks hard at man-shape every time—nice smile back, every time, why not? No pigeon feathers on this smile.
“The girl,” says old nothing. “The girl.” But she spends most times with wicked magician, only goes back to her room at night. If a soft, so soft fox slips under her arm, nuzzles close, then she whispers, “There you are,” and bends her head to me. “Small one, where is Lal, where is Nyateneri, do you know? The tafiya—” that is her name for him—“the tafiya says they are fools, and will be eaten by rock-targs and fall in a river and drown, and not to worry about them. But I do. Tell me where my friends are, small one.” Over and over until she falls asleep holding me too hard.
No use to old nothing in that, but what to do about it? Humans talk one way to a bedtime toy, another way to another human. Take the man-shape in her bed? Say, “Hello, only me, we have slept like this nights on nights.” Wake Lal and Nyateneri, that scream would, wherever they sleep now. Best to wait until very early morning, first twilight, sometimes she walks a little by herself. Best to wait, I tell old nothing.
But the sky is pulling tight. Every day, one horizon to the other, sky and air creaking as power gropes for power. Wind grinds, aches; water comes apart—you can taste, see it in the least little dog-puddle, hear it in stone floor of the taproom, hear it in voices. At the inn, peddlers struggle to lift packs, sit down and cry. Soldiers drink and nothing happens, pilgrims forget prayer words, fight each other— bargemen, everyone sick, stumble into doorposts, say Shadry poisons them. And all of it the working of him upstairs, all of it. I know. Hide, keep hiding, yes, pull the air tight, tight over him, that other must not find him. Oh, never mind foxes, people, no matter pilgrims even— no matter if everything tears, splits down the middle like a water beetle hatching itself into a thunderwing, and what then? What hatchling comes then, do they wonder, those two? Nono, never mind that, never mind. Magicians.
Old nothing: “The girl.” So outside with man-shape, out into dusty twilight, museful stroll in the courtyard, contemplate naril tree, a turn through the orchard, a turn back. Now she comes—little sharp steps, quick turn to look here, there, every moment afraid of meeting boy Tikat. See her, sad round ordinary face, and behind it the white fire—but not her fire, nothing to do with her, poor thing—see her coming just so, so many paces this way, so many that way, an invisible cage, real enough to throw a shadow. Sorry for a human? Not possible, not for me, not. And still.
Forward Grandfather man-shape: dim, gentle smile, peaceful movements, not to frighten in the dusk. Beautiful evening, sweet birds singing (truth: hardly a one, not these nights), how good to find even more loveliness abroad. Such a fortunate old gentleman. Walk with, a little?—perhaps toward the highway and back? Even politeness happily accepted, this age.
No word, no nod, but she takes man-shape’s arm and we walk. Prattle, mumble, pat her hand sometimes, first time walking so in twenty years, imagine. But where are her companions? The tall brown woman, elegant as rain? The black one with her long, graceful eyelids like ships’ sails? Man-shape will say anything. She is shivering, not in the flesh but all the way down, beyond bones. “In danger.” Other words, too, but so low I hear only those.
Old nothing: “What danger?” What danger?—caught between stupid magicians, what else? But no care for that, old nothing needs more. Never says what it needs—feels, feels, hungers, always sure about that, but never the words. Very hard on a poor fox, all this living sideways through three worlds. I say, “Indeed, these mountains can be most perilous. There are bandits, there are nishori, rock-targs—”
Shakes her head—“Not those, none of those. My friends—they have gone to fight a wizard, and there is no fighting him. I know this, I know this!” Trembling in the body now, brown eyes full of tears, but none fall. “He cannot be killed—I know!”
There, old nothing? Is that it, what you want? Man-shape chuckles, much hand-patting, says, “Take heart, my dear, there never was a wizard who could not die. All the stories about bargains with Uncle Death, about elixirs, hearts hidden in golden caskets or hollow trees or the moon—all stories, child, and you may believe me.” And a comfort to me, as much as the girl—an immortal magician, the thought of it, the injustice. Old nothing would never permit, surely.
But she is not comforted, never even lets me finish, but pulls her arm away, crying, “No, no—I told them, I did tell them, but they would not understand. He cannot be killed!” Staring at me, pale face pleading, wanting so much for nice white mustache to understand. Me? Oh, I look up, down, away toward the highway, away toward the inn. Well-pump squealing, a few drunken drovers singing, no one in sight. But something watches. I know what I know.
Her voice, low, quiet, but tearing too, like the sky. “I was dead once. I drowned in a river. Lal found me.” Every night, the same whisper into bedtime fox’s fur, telling herself the same story again, maybe this time it comes out differently? She says, “Lal promises me and promises me that I am alive now. But all I understand is death.” No Uncle Death—always supposed to call him “Uncle Death,“ even foxes. Lukassa says, ”Everything I knew before the river has been taken from me. In that emptiness, death sits and talks to me and tells me things. Lal and Nyateneri cannot ever defeat Arshadin, cannot ever kill him. He is just like me—there is no one to kill.”
“Ah,” sighs old nothing, a long, long breath across all my lives. “Ah.” Very good for old nothing, but man-shape still has to make words. Man-shape pulls mustache, rumples side-whiskers, rounds kindly blue eyes. “Well, child, if your friends have gone off to do battle with a dead wizard, the worst that can happen to them will be a long walk back. Dead is dead, whoever you are, and you may believe me.”
But now she is the one looking away, not hearing at all. Turn, quickly, and there he is, stumping along, big pale hands shut tight, big bald head down, dirty apron slipping off his waist—who but fat innkeeper himself? Lukassa’s hand slides through man-shape’s hand like snow. Not another word, not a glance, straight past innkeeper, proud as princesses she has never seen, walking back to her invisible cage. And in me, of me, old nothing: “Ah.” All slow and dozy again, got whatever it wanted, time to sleep now—good, let it sleep, sleep, turn, grumble, sleep more, stop playing with fingers and toes. Time to leave poor foxes alone for a while.
Innkeeper looks after Lukassa, rubs his head, slow look at man-shape. Oh, too much not to laugh, too much to ask! Quick-quick, squeeze it into rumbly old chuckle, a greeting to fat fool who tumbles his own house upside down, every room to pieces, every guest out of bed, all for such a few, few pigeons. Always stares at man-shape, never speaks, never serves. Imagine if I tell him, “Hello, new foxhound is no good, waste of money. More birds in soon?” Instead a deep bow, one gentleman to another, a smile, a compliment on beautiful evenings always served at his inn. Man-shape will say anything.
Grunt. “None of my doing.” Grunt. “You see my stable boy anywhere?” In the stable, surely? Grunt. “Looked there.” Rubs head again, yanks off dangling apron. “Bloody boy, never where he’s supposed to be these days.” Not angry, not quite sad—not quite anything, only tired. Interesting.
“Ah, well,” says man-shape, “on a night like this, it would be a shame if your boy isn’t out singing foolish songs under some little girl’s window. Don’t be hard on him when he returns, mine host—leave him the one bit of his childhood, yes?”
Not listening at all—nobody listens to Grandfather man-shape lately—but the last words, ah, those catch him. Scowls heavily, angry enough now. “What do you know about it? What do you know about it, heh? The idiot brat wouldn’t have had a bloody childhood, if not for me. Worst day’s work I ever did in my life, but I did it, what else should I have done, heh? No bloody choice.” White, lumpy face redder and redder, even through the dusk, little pale eyes squinting and burning. “What does anybody know of it? And what did I ever get out of it but aggravation and a bellyache and”—stops himself then, hard to do, skids along just a bit further—“and plain bloody inconvenience? Heh?”
My. Even man-shape looks around for answers, not that mine host bothers to wait. Another scowl, another nice grunt, and away back toward the inn, bawling for stable boy. “Rosseth! Rosseth, damn your miserable skin, Rosseth!” How pretty, evening song of one fat innkeeper, leave man-shape to listen. Something tasty rustles beside pathway, hurrying home. Never gets there.