“He can walk,” said Lutha. “He can run and climb.” Like a little goat. “Most of the way, at least.”
“Partway. But of such complexity, interesting patterns are made,” he said in the falsely cheerful tone one adopts for reassuring children.
“I suppose it does,” she said doubtfully. Certainly this whole business was complex enough. “When do we go?”
“Since you were expected today, I left Cochim-Mahn this morning. It took me all of today to get here to meet you, and now it is late. Soon Lady Day departs with all her blessings and the time of whispering comes. When the Lady comes again, we will go.”
“Shortly after dawn tomorrow then,” commented Trompe.
The man shivered, almost undetectably, and nodded. “I will sleep in here, or perhaps in your vehicle.”
“Because,” said Lutha, moved by an obscure impulse, “because it is better not to be out in the dark?”
Again that shiver, almost unnoticeable. “Because of the pattern, matron,” he said in a dignified voice. “Which alternates dark and light, activity and quiet, whisper and shout, sleep and waking …”
“Do I offend in asking about the night?” she asked. “I am curious about … the things that go about in the dark.”
“Bernesohn Famber was also curious, or so I am told by the rememberers. Outlanders are often curious about Dinadh and the Dinadhi. Why do we paint our faces and sometimes our bodies? Why do we sing all the time? Why do we do this, or that? We tell you all the same things. All is part of the pattern; the light and the dark.” He gestured vaguely. “If one wishes to learn details, one must consult a songfather who is schooled in such things. I am a simple person, a mere yahsdi’ imicha dimicha’a.”
She translated mentally. One-who-is-assigned-to-do-what-needs-doing. A man of all work, perhaps. A handyman. She started to ask him how far they would have to go on the morrow, the words drying in her mouth as she saw his face, suddenly alert, listening.
She cocked her head. There was a sound, distant, but not faint. A song, rising from the canyon.
“Forgive me,” said Chahdzi. “I will return shortly.”
He left the room and went out into the open, where he threw his arms open to the sky and began a breathy song, evidently addressed to thin air.
“What’s he doing?” asked Trompe.
“You’re the empath,” she said.
“All I can pick up is a feeling of concern, a desire which he is repressing.”
She listened, translated, nodded. “He’s singing to Weaving Woman, begging her to keep the patterns clear and straight.”
Afar, the song faded into silence, only the echoes remaining for a moment more. Chahdzi stood with bowed head. In a few moments he turned and came back to them.
“How far do we have to go then, tomorrow?” Lutha asked.
He shook his head, as though reminding himself of where he was. “A day. A long day spent in going quickly. Which is why I look at the boy, to see how fast we can go. Climbing down the walls is not easy.”
“Perhaps we won’t get there in one day,” she said casually.
“One must,” he said. Impersonal imperative. One must, that’s all.
“Dangerous to be out after dark, is it?” Trompe’s head was cocked, picking up all the little signals.
Chahdzi smiled, ducking his head slightly. “Danger has a place in the pattern, surely. And pain. Slidhza b’dasya a yana chas-as imsli t’sisri.”
Again Lutha translated to herself, fumbling with the word order. A wise person doesn’t use his own shuttle to weave sorrow. Or perhaps, a wise shuttle won’t weave grief.
“I do not understand,” she said.
He shrugged again, a habitual gesture. “It is foolish to create dark patterns for ourselves, matron. Weaving Woman will include enough darkness, whether we wish or no. Let us hope for a bright pattern tomorrow, if we are her beloved children.” He pointed to the child. “That one is. Everyone says so.”
“Now, why is that?” Trompe asked, amazed.
“He knows.” Chahdzi smiled. “Everyone says he knows.”
“Knows what?” asked Lutha, wonderingly. “Knows what, Chahdzi?”
“Knows,” he said softly. “What is. Patterns. What comes next.”
Though his words were not unlike other comments the Dinadhi had made about Leely, they were no more explanatory. The boy himself showed no signs of knowing what needed doing, unless sleeping was it.
“Will you eat with us?” asked Lutha.
“I accept your generous offer of food,” he said, looking away from her in obvious discomfort.
His tone made her realize that he would have gone hungry had she not offered, and also that one did not say “eat with us” on Dinadh. Damn! She hadn’t given sufficient thought to some of the stuff she’d found in the culture chips!
“Since I do not know your taste,” she said carefully, “will you do us the courtesy of choosing for yourself?”
He went happily to the food unit, where he stood for a long time in contemplation of the listed menu, mumbling to himself.
“I like very much the taste of cheese,” he said, pointing at a certain item and using their own word, cheese, which evidently did not exist in his own language. “But I cannot eat of it unless …”
She came to his assistance, reading labels. “It’s all right. Everything in here is dosed with the necessary enzymes. Trompe and I have commented that you have no dairy beasts on Dinadh.”
“It is said we brought milk creatures from our former world,” he murmured. “But here, Weaving Woman could not permit them. Here our pattern changed.”
“Human-owned flocks of grazers and browsers have ended a good many patterns,” grunted Trompe. “Once man killed off the natural predators and let them multiply.”
“So it is said,” agreed Chahdzi, glancing at Lutha from the corner of his eyes as she manipulated the food-service unit. Something light for herself and for Trompe. She would feed Leely when he wakened. As for Chahdzi, who was obviously apprehensive that they might watch while he ate, she would make the matter simple.
She handed him the warmed packet of cheese and cereal-food, saying,
