tw.thestoneoffarewell-第58部分

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s　even　better。　Perhaps　I'll　just　　ask　around；　find　out　if　any　young　monks　have　shown　up　at　the　Sancellan　Aedonitis　lately。
　　He　gave　a　bitter　snort　as　he　watched　the　river　of　habited　forms　swirl　past。
　　Elysia；　Mother　of　God；　I　wish　Eolair　was　with　me。　That　damned　Hernystirman　loves　this　kind　of　nonsense。　He'd　track　her　down　quick　enough；　with　his　smooth　ways。　What　am　I　doing　here？
　　The　Duke　of　Elvritshalla　rubbed　his　fingers　along　his　unnaturally　smooth　jaw。　Then；　startling　even　himself；　he　began　to　laugh　at　his　own　hopeless　foolishness。
　　Passing　priests　eddied　nervously　around　the　big…bellied　northern　monk；　who　was　evidently　caught　up　in　some　kind　of　religious　fit　Isgrimnur　roared　and　bellowed　with　laughter　until　the　tears　coursed　down　his　chafed　pink　cheeks。
　　
　　
　　Thunderstorm　weather　lay　on　the　swamp　like　a　blanket；　damp　and　oppressively　hot。　Tiamak　could　feel　the　storm's　yearning　hunger　to　exist；　its　prickly　breath　made　the　hair　stand　up　on　his　arms。　What　he　would　not　give　for　the　storm　to　break　and　a　little　cool　rain　to　fall！　The　thought　of　raindrops　splashing　on　his　face　and　bending　the　leaves　of　the　mangroves　seemed　like　a　dream　of　the　most　benevolent　magic。
　　Tiamak　sighed　as　he　lifted　his　pole　from　the　water　and　laid　it　across　the　thwarts　of　his　flatboat。　He　stretched；　trying　without　success　to　unkink　the　muscles　of　his　back。　He　had　been　poling　for　three　days　and　had　suffered　two　near…sleepless　nights　filled　with　worry　about　what　he　should　do。　If　he　went　to　Kwanitupul　and　stayed　there；　would　he　be　betraying　his　tnbesmen？　Could　they　ever　understand　a　debt　he　owed　to　drylanders…or　owed　to　a　few　drylanders；　anyway？
　　Of　course　they　wouldn't　understand。　Tiamak　frowned　and　reached　for　his　waterskin；　sloshing　a　generous　mouthful　around　before　swallowing　it。　He　had　always　been　thought　of　as　strange。　If　he　did　not　go　to　Nabban　to　plead　his　people's　case　with　Duke　Benigaris；　he　would　simply　be　a　strange　traitor。　That　would　be　the　end　of　it　as　far　as　the　elders　of　Village　Grove　were　concerned。
　　He　took　his　kerchief　from　his　head　and　dipped　it　over　the　side　of　the　boat　into　the　water；　then　arranged　it　atop　his　hair　once　more。　Blessedly　cool　water　dribbled　down　his　face　and　neck。　The　bright；　long…tailed　birds　perched　in　the　branches　overhead　stopped　screeching　for　a　moment　as　a　dim　rumble　rolled　across　the　swamp。　Tiamak　felt　his　heart　beat　faster。
　　 He　Who　Always　Steps　on　Sand；　let　the　storm　e　soon！
　　His　boat　had　begun　to　slow　when　he　had　stopped　poling。　Now　the　stern　began　to　swing　gradually　out　to　the　middle　of　the　watercourse；　turning　him　sideways　so　that　he　faced　the　bank…or　rather；　what　would　have　been　the　bank　if　this　were　a　dryland　river。　Here　in　the　Wran　it　was　only　a　tangle　of　clustered　mangroves　whose　roots　held　in　just　enough　sand　for　the　colony　of　trees　to　grow　and　prosper。　Tiamak　made　a　resigned　noise　and　pushed　his　pole　back　into　the　water　once　more；　straightening　the　boat　and　prodding　it　forward　through　a　thick　clump　of　lilies　which　clutched　at　his　passing　hull　like　the　fingers　of　drowning　swimmers。　It　was　several　more　days　to　Kwanitupul；　and　that　was　if　the　storm　he　was　praying　for　did　not　bring　heavy　winds　in　its　train；　winds　which　might　uproot　trees　and　make　this　part　of　the　Wran　an　unpassable　snarl　of　roots　and　trunks　and　broken　branches。
　　He　Who　Always　Steps　on　Sand；　he　amended　his　prayer；　let　a　cooling　but　gentle　storm　e　soon！
　　His　heart　felt　unutterably　heavy。　How　could　he　choose　between　two　such　awful　possibilities？　He　could　go　as　far　as　Kwanitupul　before　choosing　whether　to　stay　there　in　accordance　with　Morgenes'　wishes　or　to　go　on　to　Nabban　as　Older　Mogahib　and　the　rest　had　ordered。　He　tried　to　soothe　himself　with　that　idea；　but　wondered　if　such　thinking　was　not　in　fact　just　like　allowing　a　wound　to　fester；　when　instead　he　should　grit　his　teeth　and　clean　it　out　so　the　healing　could　start？
　　Tiamak　thought　of　his　mother；　who　had　spent　most　of　her　life　on　her　knees；　tending　the　cookfire；　grinding　grain　in　the　pestle；　working　every　day　from　the　darkness　before　dawn　until　it　was　time　to　crawl　into　the　hammock　at　night。　He　had　little　respect　for　the　village　elders；　but　now　he　felt　a　sudden　fear　that　his　mother's　spirit　might　be　watching　him。　She　would　never　understand　her　son　turning　his　back　on　his　people　for　the　sake　of　strangers。　She　would　want　him　to　go　to　Nabban。　Serve　his　own　folk　first；　then　take　care　of　his　personal　honor；　that　was　what　his　mother　would　say。
　　Thinking　of　her　made　it　seem　very　clear。　He　was　a　Wrannaman　first：　nothing　would　change　that。　He　must　go　to　Nabban。　Morgenes；　that　kind　old　man；　would　understand　his　reasons。　Afterward；　after　he　had　finished　his　duties　to　his　people；　he　would　go　back　to　Kwanitupul　as　his　drylander　friends　had　asked。
　　The　decision　lifted　part　of　the　load　of　worry　from　Tiamak's　shoulders。　He　decided　he　might　as　well　stop　soon　and　scare　up　something　for　a　noon　meal。　He　reached　down　and　tested　his　fishing　line；　tied　to　the　back　of　the　flatboat。　It　seemed　light；　as　he　pulled　it　up　he　saw　to　his　disgust　that　the　bait　had　been　eaten　again；　but　whatever　had　dined　at　his　expense　had　not　waited　around　to　pay　respects。　At　least　the　hook　was　still　there。　Metal　hooks　were　painfully　expensive　items…he　had　paid　for　this　one　with　an　entire　day　of　work　as　an　interpreter　in　the　market　at　Kwanitupul。　The　next　month　at　market　he　had　found　the　parchment　with　Nisses'　name　on　it；　and　had　paid　a　full　day's　wages　for　that　as　well。　Two　expensive　purchases；　but　the　fishook　had　indeed　proved　much　sturdier　than　the　ones　he　whittled　of　bone；　which　usually　broke　on　the　first　snag。　The　Nisses　parchment…he　patted　protectively　at　the　oilskin　bag　lying　at　his　feet…if　he　was　correct　about　its　origins；　was　a　gem　beyond　price。　Not　bad　work　for　two　days'　marketing。
　　Tiamak　hauled　in　the　line；　wrapping　it　gently；　then　steered　the　boat　over　closer　to　the　bank　of　mangroves。　He　poled　along　slowly；　waiting　until　the　mangrove　roots　gave　way　for　a　while　to　a　short　stretch　of　soggy　dirt　cluttered　with　waving　reeds。　Bringing　the　boat　as　close　to　the　edge　of　the　watercourse　as　he　could；　he　pulled　his　knife　from　his　belt　and　dug　in　the　wet　soil；　at　last　turning　up　some　spitfly　roe。　He　wrapped　the　shiny　things　in　his　kerchief；　saving　one　only　to　bait　the　hook。　This　done；　he　tossed　the　line　back　into　the　water　to　trail　behind　the　boat。　As　he　poled　out　into　the　middle　of　the　stream　once　more；　thunder　grumbled　in　the　distance。　It　seemed　to　be　farther　away　than　last　time。　He　shook　his　head　sadly。　The　storm　was　in　no　hurry。
　　It　was　late　afternoon　when　he　passed　out　of　the　overhanging　thicket　of　mangroves　and　emerged　into　unshadowed　sunlight　once　more。　Here　the　waterway　grew　wider　and　deeper。　A　sea　of　reeds　rolled　out　toward　the　horizon；　all　but　motionless　in　the　oppressive　heat；　crisscrossed　with　the　shining　tracks　of　other　watercourses。　The　sky　was　gray　with　threatening　clouds；　but　the　sun　burned　brightly　behind　them。　and　Tiamak　could　not　help　but　feel　more　lighthearted。　An　ibis　rose；　white　wings　flapping　slowly；　then　settled　down　into　the　reeds　a　short　distance　away。　To　the　south；　past　miles　of　marsh　and　swamp　forest；　he　could　see　the　dark　line　of　the　Nascadu　Mountains。　To　the　west；　invisible　beyond　an　endless　prairie　of　cattails　and　mangroves；　lay　the　sea。
　　
　　Tiamak　poled　distractedly；　momentarily　caught　up　in　a　correction　he　had　decided　to　make　in　his　great　work　of　scholarship；　a　revision　of　The　Sovran　Remedies　of　the　Wranna　Healers。　He　had　suddenly　realized　that　the　shape　of　the　cattail　itself　might　have　something　to　do　with　its　use　among　the　men　of　the　Meadow　Thrithings　as　a　marital　potion；　and　was　planning　the　wording　of　a　footnote　that　would　delicately　suggest　this　connection　without　seeming　too　clever；　when　he　felt　a　strange　vibration　against　his　back。　He　turned；　startled；　and　saw　that　his　fishing　line　was　pulled　taut；　humming　like　the　plucked　string　of　a　lute。
　　For　a　moment　he　was　sure　it　must　be　a　snag…the　pull　was　so　strong　that　it　had　imparted　some　of　its　tension　to　the　stern　of　the　boat…but　as　he　leaned　over　he　saw　some　silver…gray　thing　rise　briefly　toward　the　surface；　wriggling；　then　dive　down　into　the　blackish　water　again。　A　fish！　As　long　as　Tiamak's　arm！　He　gave　a　small　cry　of　delight　and　began　to　pull　on　the　line。　The　silver　thing　seemed　to　leap　up　at　him。　For　a　split　instant　one　pale；　shiny　fin　appeared　above　the　water；　then　it　vanished　beneath　the　boat；　stretching　the　line　tight。　Tiamak　heaved　and　it　gave　a　little；　but　not　much。　It　was　a　strong　fish。　A　sudden　image　of　the　line　snapping　and　his　next　two　days'　worth　of　meals　swimming　away　filled　Tiamak's　heart　with　sick　horror。　He　lessened　the　tension　on　the　fishing　line。　He　would　let　the　fish　tire　itself；　then　he　could　reel　it　in　at　his　leisure。　In　the　meantime；　he　would　keep　an　eye　open　for　a　dry　patch　where　he　could　build　a　fire。　He　could　wrap　the　fish　in　minog　leaves；　and　surely　there　would　be　wild　quickweed　growing　somewhere　nearby。。。　In　his　thoughts　he　could　already　taste　it。　The　heat；　the　recalcitrant　thunderstorm；　his　betrayal　of　Morgenes　（as　he　still　saw　it）　and　all　else　receded　in　the　warm　glow　of　the　contemplated　meal。　He　tested　the　line　again；　rejoicing　at　the　firm；　steady　pull。　He　had　not　had　fresh　fish　in　weeks！
　　A　splash　impinged　on　his　reverie。　Tiamak　looked　up　to　see　a　rainbow　of　ripples　spreading　beside　the　shoreline；　a　couple　of　long　stone…throws　away。　There　was　something　else　as　well：　a　moment　later　he　picked　out　a　row　of　low　bumps　like　tiny　islands　moving　smoothly　through　the　water　toward　his　boat。
　　Crocodile！　Tiamak's　heart　quailed。　His　wonderful　dinner！　He　tugged　hard　at　the　line；　but　the　fish　was　still　beneath　the　flatboat　and　resisting　fiercely；　the　line　burned　his　palms　as　he　struggled　unsuccessfully　to　wrestle　the　fish　to　the　surface。　The　crocodile　was　a　dark　blur　just　below　the　surface；　the　motion　of　its　powerful　tail　sending　eddies　across　the　still　water。　Its　craggy　back　breached　for　just　a　moment；　a　hundred　cubits　from　where　Tiamak　sat；　then　it　was　gone…diving　toward　his　fish！
　　There　was　no　time　to　think；　no　time　at　all。　His　dinner；　his　fishing　hook；　his　line；　all　would　be　lost　if　he　waited　a　moment　longer。　Tiamak　felt　a　black　rage　flare　into