sincerely sorry; but as a practical matter it would make little difference.
He swallowed a good deal of the slice and chewed the rest energetically.
“Witch,” croaked a muffled voice.
“Go,” Silk mumbled. He swallowed again. “Fly home to the mountains. You’re free.”
He turned the rest of the slices, cooked them half a minute more, and ate them quickly (relishing their somewhat oily flavor almost as much as he had hoped), scraped the mold from the remaining bread and fried the bread in the leftover liquid, and ate that as he once more climbed the stair to his bedroom.
Behind and below him, the bird called, “Good-bye!” And then, “Bye! Bye!” from the top of the larder.
OREB AND OTHERS
Teasel lay upon her back, with her mouth open and her eyes closed. Her black hair, spread over the pillow, accentuated the pallor of her face. Bent above her as he prayed, Silk was acutely conscious of the bones underlying her face, of her protruding cheekbones, her eye sockets, and her high and oddly square frontal. Despite the mounting heat of the day, her mother had covered her to the chin with a thick red wool blanket that glowed like a stove in the sun-bright room; her forehead was beaded with sweat, and it was only that sweat, which soon reappeared each time her mother sponged it away, that convinced him that Teasel was still alive.
When he had swung his beads and chanted the last of the prescribed prayers, her mother said, “I heard her cry out, Patera, as if she’d pricked her finger. It was the middle of the night, so I thought she was having a nightmare. I got out of bed and went in to see about her. The other children were all asleep, and she was still sleeping, too. I shook her shoulder, and she woke up a little bit and said she was thirsty. I ought to’ve told her to go get a drink herself.”
Silk said, “No.”
“Only I didn’t, Patera. I went to the crock and got a cup of water, and she drank it and closed her eyes.” After a moment Teasel’s mother added, “The doctor won’t come. Marten tried to get him.”
Silk nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”
“If you’d talk to him again, Patera…”
“He wouldn’t let me in last time, but I’ll try.”
Teasel’s mother sighed as she looked at her daughter. “There was blood on her pillow, Patera. Not much. I didn’t see it till shadeup. I thought it might have come out of her ear, but it didn’t. She felt so cold.”
Teasel’s eyes opened, surprising them both. Weakly, she said, “The terrible old man.”
Her mother leaned forward. “What’s that?”
“Thirsty.”
“Get her more water,” Silk said, and Teasel’s mother bustled out. “The old man hurt you?”
“Wings.” Teasel’s eyes rolled toward the window before closing.
They were four flights up, as Silk, who had climbed all four despite his painful right ankle, was very much aware. He rose, hobbled to the window, and looked out. There was a dirty little courtyard far below, a garret floor above them. The tapering walls were of unadorned, yellowish, sunbaked brick.
Legend had it that it was unlucky to converse with devils; Silk asked, “Did he speak to you, Teasel? Or you to him?”
She did not reply.
Her mother returned with the water. Silk helped her to raise Teasel to a half-sitting position; he had expected some difficulty in getting her to drink, but she drank thirstily, draining the clay cup as soon as it was put to her lips.
“Bring her more,” he said, and as soon as Teasel’s mother had gone, he rolled the unresisting girl onto her side.
When Teasel had drunk again, her mother asked, “Was it a devil, Patera?”
Silk settled himself once more on the stool she had provided for him. “I think so.” He shook his head. “We have too much real disease already. It seems terrible…” He left the thought incomplete.
“What can we do?”
“Nurse her and feed her. See she gets as much water as she’ll drink. She’s lost blood, I believe.” Silk took the voided cross from the chain around his neck and fingered its sharp steel edges. “Patera Pike told me about this sort of devil. That was—” Silk shut his eyes, reckoning. “About a month before he died. I didn’t believe him, but I listened anyway, out of politeness. I’m glad, now, that I did.”
Teasel’s mother nodded eagerly. “Did he tell you how to drive it away?”
“It’s away now,” Silk told her absently. “The problem is to prevent it from returning. I can do what Patera Pike did. I don’t know how he learned it, or whether it had any real efficacy; but he said that the child wasn’t troubled a second time.”
Assisted by Blood’s stick, Silk limped to the window, seated himself on the sill, and leaned out, holding the side of the weathered old window frame with his free hand. The window was small, and he found he could reach the crumbling bricks above it easily. With the pointed corner of the one of the four gammadions that made up the cross, he scratched the sign of addition on the bricks.
“I’ll hold you, Patera.”
Teasel’s father was gripping his legs above the knees. Silk said, “Thank you.” He scratched Patera Pike’s name to the left of the tilted
