and too right. He knew me when I was only myself without any world-trappings
.
‘The only father I knew never scattered gifts. He came home angry. He washed the town off himself as quick as he could—’
‘That’s not your father,’ said the Bard in a scribbly hiss. ‘Don’t try and claim that one.’ He cleared his clogged voice and spat again, and Dot could see and hear him shaking his head against the pillow.
‘Like I say, he was the only one—’
‘
Your father
—’ The Bard hoisted himself upon one rail of an arm, that was ragged with either flesh or shirt, Dot couldn’t tell which. A slat of light bounced off his yellow-white hair, and made a faint glow on the wall. ‘You knew your father just fine; he led you away from here as if he had a halter on your neck. He sent you back to us, all hung about and decorated with his cloths and jewels—you may think it’s you, but it’s just Morri Simpsim, making trouble again. All that’s missing is the bullet-belt and the foreign gun. And the soldier mates hanging off him for his money’s sake. The feeble mind is the same. Why could you not have grown up strong, like your mother, worthy of Bonneh as no other man could be—not even
I
.’ He fell back on the bed, breathing hard. The golden dust above him swirled.
There was other furniture in the cow-house. There was a wooden chest on Dot’s right. An unlit lamp stood on it, and beside it the Three’s House, hooked closed.
‘I am sure my mother has always respected and admired you,’ he said.
‘And I am sure she has not, for how could she? I was an embarrassment with my wives and my slave-men and my “wisdom”. I preached purity and lived a prince’s life. Bonneh preached nothing and lived purity. Her vow held her steady, and not all my glamour and power could ever budge that woman. She was before me as my lesson every day, yet did I ever learn?’
The Three’s House was quite a lot smaller than the House of the Many—but then, everything here had shrunk with the years: the curve of the river, the mothers, the Bard himself. Dot took the House to the doorway where he could see it. Oh, yes—smaller, and so much lighter. So brown, so worn. Even the healing hands of the accordion-man in Port-of-Lords could do nothing for this. It hardly
existed
as an instrument.
‘Take it,’ rasped the Bard. ‘Take the damned thing. Everything else you’ve taken, you might as well.’
‘Can it still sound?’
‘As much as it ever did. Go on, take its weight off my mind. And your weight, too. Leave me to die in peace and with nothing.’
Dot left the cow-house and walked back up the road tothe village. Samed had got the balloons out; bright dots of colour were bounding and flying at the end of strings. There was a tiny pop as one burst, then a tiny child-wail. Dot held the dusty accordion to his chest, where he knew its ancient concertina-folds would leave long stripes of disintegrating paper. He felt haggard from exposure to the Bard’s bitter breath; his belly was sore from the tension it had carried all day.
He walked up the rise to the remains of the tea-tent. The tables and benches were weather-warped but still strong, and he sat where the last piece of worn cloth would shield him from the village. The breeze was very soft and steady, the sunlight yellow-gold, the shadows long.
He undid the catch. It was a while since the accordion had been used; Dot had to open it very carefully so that it didn’t tear itself apart, so that the fragile cardboard didn’t split in several places and take away the instrument’s last breath. He eased it open and closed slowly several times, wondering whether it could play a single note without breaking.
And as he wondered and worked the house’s hallway, Anneh idled out a side-door of the house just as she always had, her arms full of thatch, three piglets and a chicken following behind. She could go only so far, to the limits of her yard and beyond that to her
.
‘The only father I knew never scattered gifts. He came home angry. He washed the town off himself as quick as he could—’
‘That’s not your father,’ said the Bard in a scribbly hiss. ‘Don’t try and claim that one.’ He cleared his clogged voice and spat again, and Dot could see and hear him shaking his head against the pillow.
‘Like I say, he was the only one—’
‘
Your father
—’ The Bard hoisted himself upon one rail of an arm, that was ragged with either flesh or shirt, Dot couldn’t tell which. A slat of light bounced off his yellow-white hair, and made a faint glow on the wall. ‘You knew your father just fine; he led you away from here as if he had a halter on your neck. He sent you back to us, all hung about and decorated with his cloths and jewels—you may think it’s you, but it’s just Morri Simpsim, making trouble again. All that’s missing is the bullet-belt and the foreign gun. And the soldier mates hanging off him for his money’s sake. The feeble mind is the same. Why could you not have grown up strong, like your mother, worthy of Bonneh as no other man could be—not even
I
.’ He fell back on the bed, breathing hard. The golden dust above him swirled.
There was other furniture in the cow-house. There was a wooden chest on Dot’s right. An unlit lamp stood on it, and beside it the Three’s House, hooked closed.
‘I am sure my mother has always respected and admired you,’ he said.
‘And I am sure she has not, for how could she? I was an embarrassment with my wives and my slave-men and my “wisdom”. I preached purity and lived a prince’s life. Bonneh preached nothing and lived purity. Her vow held her steady, and not all my glamour and power could ever budge that woman. She was before me as my lesson every day, yet did I ever learn?’
The Three’s House was quite a lot smaller than the House of the Many—but then, everything here had shrunk with the years: the curve of the river, the mothers, the Bard himself. Dot took the House to the doorway where he could see it. Oh, yes—smaller, and so much lighter. So brown, so worn. Even the healing hands of the accordion-man in Port-of-Lords could do nothing for this. It hardly
existed
as an instrument.
‘Take it,’ rasped the Bard. ‘Take the damned thing. Everything else you’ve taken, you might as well.’
‘Can it still sound?’
‘As much as it ever did. Go on, take its weight off my mind. And your weight, too. Leave me to die in peace and with nothing.’
Dot left the cow-house and walked back up the road tothe village. Samed had got the balloons out; bright dots of colour were bounding and flying at the end of strings. There was a tiny pop as one burst, then a tiny child-wail. Dot held the dusty accordion to his chest, where he knew its ancient concertina-folds would leave long stripes of disintegrating paper. He felt haggard from exposure to the Bard’s bitter breath; his belly was sore from the tension it had carried all day.
He walked up the rise to the remains of the tea-tent. The tables and benches were weather-warped but still strong, and he sat where the last piece of worn cloth would shield him from the village. The breeze was very soft and steady, the sunlight yellow-gold, the shadows long.
He undid the catch. It was a while since the accordion had been used; Dot had to open it very carefully so that it didn’t tear itself apart, so that the fragile cardboard didn’t split in several places and take away the instrument’s last breath. He eased it open and closed slowly several times, wondering whether it could play a single note without breaking.
And as he wondered and worked the house’s hallway, Anneh idled out a side-door of the house just as she always had, her arms full of thatch, three piglets and a chicken following behind. She could go only so far, to the limits of her yard and beyond that to her
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