She pointed over her shoulder at a meek-looking little Elator, all neat thin bones and slim small feet with a narrow bird face at the top of it all. “They call me Little Flitch, ma’am.” He bowed. “Dodir put me to scouting out the shadow routes, and I’ll venture I’ve spotted most of them.”
Which I think he had. I got three or four of the men to drive the wagon with me, and we went around the city sunwise, left to right, up and over, while he showed us every pass over the surrounding hills and hole through the stone escarpments while the turnips became almost hysterical with anticipation. The last two we had left were Big-blue and Molly-my-dear, and these two planted themselves at a saddle of the hills after several sexy little minuets and suggestive remarks. Little Flitch was very taken with the whole group; he said he’d flick among them in the dark hours, keeping them apprised of what happened.
And after that, I really couldn’t stay awake. I thought of Peter and Himaggery, probably drinking themselves silly beside the fire, and couldn’t find it in me to go to them or try to help them. I couldn’t. I had hardly known Mavin, and yet every time I thought of it, it made me want to die from sorrow and shame.
Why? Because . . . because if anyone understood the true meaning of the star-eye, it had probably been Mavin. How did I know? I simply knew. It was in her face. If anyone had been free, it had been she. If anyone had followed their own unerring choice as to the reality of what was good, it had been Mavin. She had had her sorrows, too, and her joys, but she had never blamed anyone else for either. She had not been sentimental. I had envied her. I thought of me drudging away there in Chimmerdong, doing my blasted duty for all I was worth, and I envied Mavin. I was still doing my duty and still envying her. She shouldn’t have done it.
But then, if she hadn’t, Peter would be lying in her place now. And perhaps that was most grievous of all, that tiny chill of joy that it had not been Peter.
And perhaps that is what was bothering him, too. Perhaps he, too, had that tiny joyful pulse that it had not been he. Oh, grievous indeed. Sighing, I left my bed and went to find them. They were drunkenly telling Mavin stories beside the fire. I sat and drank with them until the fire went out, then wrapped Himaggery and Peter warmly in blankets against the cold and staggered back to my own bed. “Mavin,” I whispered to the night. “I’m still doing my duty, lady. And those you loved are safe. At least for now.”
Morning came. Little Flitch made the rounds of the turnips and came back to say they had grown during the night. I went to see for myself. When I had first met Big-blue and Molly-my-dear, they had been about the size of my head. They had grown some on the trip, not a lot, for we were constantly moving and there was little time to root and feed. This morning they looked doubled in size, quirkier than ever, full of volatile good humor that could turn in a moment into malicious games.
“Oh, Jinian, lots of shadows. Lots of thick ones, all full of juices.” So Molly-my-dear addressed me, jigging heavily upon her root hairs. “Fat, so fat, like a moon, like the sun, I am glorious, so glorious.” She began to swing on my trouser bottom, laughing like a maniac.
“Isn’t she beautiful,” giggled Big-blue. “Like a great waterox cow, she is, bigger than big. And the seeds, you know”—giggle, nudge—”they’re ready! “
I didn’t know what to make of this. No such slowness on the part of Little Flitch, however, who begged them with every show of sincerity to give him their seeds, all of them, to be planted at once.
“That’s good,” said Big-blue. “If there had been many more shadows, we couldn’t have eaten them all. We need more of us, Jinian. Little Flitch can have the seed.”
“But surely,” I said, “they won’t grow in time to-” I didn’t finish, ashamed of myself. I had forgotten I was a Wize-ard. There was a spell. Of course. Hatching to Follow. A spell to make things come to fruition very quickly. They rolled about, laughing, seeming to read my mind.
“Oh, You Wizardly ones, so silly,” said Molly-my-dear. “Gardener knows how to do that. He does it all the time. You or him, makes no never mind.”
And so was our morning spent, Little Flitch’s and mine, in planting turnip seed. These two had not been the only ones ready, and by noon there were vast tracts of fertile soil scratched and sewn and spells muttered over. Fronds of green were showing by afternoon.
And at noon Peter and Himaggery emerged from their tent, physically somewhat the worse for the late and spirituous vigil they had held, but otherwise the better for it. And Peter came to me.
“We’re taking Mavin down to the Tower. When the Tower is raised again, we will build a catafalque for her there. Until then, it is a good place for her to lie.” He was silent then awhile, staring out with bleak eyes at the ruined city. “During the trip here, I thought it might be better to give it up. Better not to love anyone than to feel like that when they go. Better just shut all the feeling down. I really did think that, Jinian. I was even trying to do it. And I felt so guilty. She had wanted just to hold me for a time when I escaped, just for a moment or two, but I was in such a fever to get to you. I felt I didn’t deserve to live.”
So
