They travelled the day in the light, with birdsong and laughter and the trickle of small streams running down southerly to join the River Del. The sunlight was warm and golden, and the way was smooth for their feet. Thewson Killed a small wild goat and was restored to good humor by fresh meat to eat and more hung to smoke over their afternoon fire for later meals. Medlo flounced himself into a better humour and then teased Jasmine into laughter, finally making a playlet with her for their amusement. He took the part of a gentleman of Rhees, intent upon seduction, and assigned Jasmine the role of a lady of the court intent upon marriage. They fluted and trilled and made delicate hand gestures and posturings to underline sentiments of such outrageous insincerity that the others laughed aloud, except for Thewson who only watched them in studied incomprehension. Jaer was glad to forget his own thoughts in watching their silliness, the two in appearance so different yet as much alike in manner as brother and sister or at least two weaned at the same tit.
Then late, as the sun sank toward the forest over their left shoulders, Medlo resolved to try Leona’s plan to send possible pursuers away from their trail. He turned to Jaer, tugging at his sleeve to evoke velvet and lace, as he had done in his role as gentleman of Rhees. ‘Jaer, dear boy,’ he twittered. ‘Up ahead is the town of Yenner-po-tau, which you’d have no reason to know, dear boy, is a most inappropriate place for warriors and people of violence. Oh, most inappropriate, dear love.’
Since Medlo and Jasmine had been whispering together for the last half hour, Jaer had been expecting something of the kind. ‘What do you want me to do about it, Medlo?’
‘Oh, simply think about the town, dear boy. How exquisite it is, with its tiny porcelain houses set in the lovely wee gardens. Quite jewel-like and lovely. You would do well there, love. As a gardener, we think. Come let Jasmine and me tell you all about it—such a dear, sweet little place.’
Sighing ruefully, Jaer walked beside them. Evidently both Jasmine and Medlo had visited the town – or created it out of their imaginations – for they trilled endless details about it into Jaer’s uninterested ears. All in all, Jaer felt it sounded better than Anisfale, but he had done enough gardening with Ephraim and Nathan out of necessity not to feel passionate about more of it. By the time night had come, however, and the strips of goat meat had been hung again in the smoke of a fire which they watched contentedly, Jaer was at least willing to accept that he could be a little man with a short-handled hoe who went about the porcelain village cultivating flowers. As he drifted into sleep he heard the mannered, musical voices of Jasmine and Medlo telling him who he was.
He was Pah-bau, gardener, walking under the sweetness of flowering trees, standing with other villagers in the evening to watch the colours of the sunset and calling them i-dau, smoky pink, and i-chau, silver pink, and sanu-dan-do, the colour of bruised sky. He was Pah-bau, in the village of peace, a worker in the fields of tranquility, and he rejoiced in the feel of the soft wind filtered through massed barriers of trees.
But storm came. He dreamed storm. Clouds came, heavy and ominous, with sagging bottoms, black udders swollen from the weight of rain. Lightning came. Darkness came. The people fled, and Jaer found herself alone in the forest, a voice from the sky calling implacably, Tell me where you are.’ Jaer would not answer, began to run, but the horror pursued. The gryphon was there again, plucking her out of the storm as a flower is plucked up by a grazing beast.
She woke, held tight in Leona’s arms, with Terascouros throwing wood onto the fire while Thewson circled the edge of the firelight, listening.
Terascouros turned toward her, shrilling, ‘So you could not stay in the little town they made for you?’
‘Indeed.’ The old woman was suddenly as though younger by an accession of anger. ‘Why was I not told you had this habit of switching about, boy to girl? This isn’t the first time.’
Jaer was shivering uncontrollably. ‘As long as I was the little man, it was all right. But I – I – something knew’
‘No,’ said Jaer weakly. ‘There was no reason to say anything-’
‘There was good reason not to,’ grated Medlo. ‘It was none of your business.’
‘Mine!’ she shouted. ‘Mine, more than any!’ She stood taller, her old body stretching upward, hair breaking from its loose knot to fly about her like smoke. ‘It has been my business for fifteen years, fifteen years of listening, wandering, listening, running, sitting silent, getting away when they hunted, telling fortunes, reading visions, hiding outside filthy enclaves, avoiding filthy villages. It has been my business since you were born!’
She was in a perfect rage. Thewson was trying to listen to something far off, and he tried to shush her. It did no good.
‘Sixteen years ago she came, Mute Mawen, of the Sisterhood, to tell us the one we waited for would soon be born. Signed us, that is, for she could not speak, would not write. Always strange she was. Talked to birds, talked with little animals. Came back and signed us that the one would be born soon, soon. Didn’t say where, when, just soon. Who believed that? Some might have if not for Sybil, but Sybil put an end to that. Then she was gone, and I heard the baby crying in the far dark, one time. Two times. Each time the cry came,
