Tharrin, wiping his mouth and spitting raisin stones on the floor, followed Morca across to the hearth, sat down on a stool and bent to unwind his muddy leggings.
"Come on, old girl," he said, as she set the steaming tub at his feet. "What's the use of a house full of caterwauling, eh? Life's too short. Look here"-pulling her reluctantly down on his knee-"this'll put a smile on your face. You didn't know I was a silver diviner, did you?"
"What you talking about?" replied Morca sulkily, yet making no move to get up.
"I can find silver anywhere. Look!" And, suddenly thrusting his hand down the front of her smock, before she could grab his wrist he drew it out with a coin held up between his fingers. "Fifty meld! And all for you, my pretty Morca! You just take that to market tomorrow along with the cheese and butter, and buy yourself something nice. And don't you dare go telling me anything about taverns and Deelguy girls again. It's you I love; and you ought to know that by this time."
Morca stared; then took the coin between her finger and thumb and bit it.
"Where'd you find this?"
"In between your deldas!"
On the other side of the hearth Maia, holding her stitching up to the light from the fire, suppressed a gurgle of laughter.
"Go on, take it!" persisted Tharrin. "It's not stolen, I'll tell you that much. It's yours, fair and square. Come on, now, give us a kiss!"
"Well-" Morca paused, only half-appeased. "What's all this leading up to? You're off to Thettit, I suppose, and see you back when we do?"
"Never in the world! Why, I'm taking the boat out tomorrow, soon as young Maia's mended that hole in the net. When you come back from market the place'll be stacked with carp, perch, trout-anything you like. Make another eighty meld, easy. Come on, Nala," he called to the nine-year-old, "just you get that banzi laid down to sleep, now! and you, Kelsi, see to covering down the fire: you can pull out that big log and dip it in the tub here; I'm done with the water. I don't know about the rest of
you, but I'm tired out. Give over stitching, now, Maia; you'll only spoil those big blue eyes! You can finish it tomorrow! Come on, my lass," he said, putting his arm round Morca's waist and fondling her, "just you be getting that big belly into bed, and I'll be along to remind you how you came by it."
Fifty meld was more money than the house had seen for weeks. But impulse and unpredictability were Tharrin's hallmarks, and Morca had learned better than to provoke further absurd replies by pressing him to tell how the windfall had been come by. All the same, she would have given half of it to know where he had been that day.
3: THE NET
The setting moon, shining through a crack in the shutters, fell upon the dirty, ragged bedclothes and on the one bare leg which Maia, asleep in her shift, had thrust out to lie along a bench beside the bed. The bed had become too narrow for both herself and Nala, and Maia, who, however bitterly she might quarrel with Morca, was for the most part generous and kindly towards her sisters, had taken to sleeping with one leg out on the bench so that Nala could be more at ease. On summer nights such as this the arrangement was not really troublesome, except that turning over was tricky. However, Maia usually fell asleep quickly and slept sound.
In the foetid air behind the closed wooden shutters, flies buzzed and droned about the room, and from time to time the gnawing of a mouse sounded from somewhere along the wall by the hearth. Tharrin, awake beside the sleeping Morca, drew the curtain a crack and lay watching the shaft of moonlight as it slowly travelled across Maia's bare shoulders and tumbled curls.
Moonlight is commonly believed to induce dreams, and certainly Maia was dreaming. Tharrin could hear her murmuring in her sleep. Yet into the world within her solitary head he could not follow.
At first her dream was formless, possessed of no images from the waking world; there was only an awareness of shining, misty distance; an empty place of opalescent light. Then, looking down, she saw that she was clothed all in
flowers; not merely hung about with them, as on the waterfall the evening before, but clad in a long robe made entirely of scented, brilliant blooms such as she had never seen in her life.
"I am the Queen of Bekla!" she pronounced; yet without speaking; for miraculously, her every thought was a royal utterance automatically heard by multitudes waiting silently round her. Slowly, magnificently, she paced between them towards her carriage; for, as she knew, she was to ride through the city to some sacred destination, there to fulfil her role of queen.
The carriage, curved and faintly lustrous like a shell, stood waiting. To either side of its red-painted pole was harnessed a white, long-horned goat. Each, scarlet-plumed and gold-tasselled, was hung about, as though for market, with all manner of fruit and vegetables-beans in their long pods, bunches of carrots; marrows and pendent green cucumbers. Some shadowy, half-seen person was waiting to lead them, but she waved him aside.
"I will drive them: they are mine." And, grasping the shaft of a cloven-headed goad which stood in a holster beside her seat, she pricked and urged them forward.
Now, as though swimming in choppy water, she was rocking on through unseen crowds like waves, swaying, moving up and down as her goats bore her through an applauding city all tumult. Between her legs she was holding a hollowed gourd full of ripe figs, and these she tossed in handfuls to either side.
"They're for everyone! Everyone is to have them!" she cried. There was scrambling, tussling and a smell of crushed figs, but of all this she was aware without discerning anyone out of a concourse formless as lake-mist. Yet she knew that even in the midst of their admiration she was in deadly danger. A great, fat man was guzzling and stuffing himself with her figs. He had the power to kill her, yet she drove past him unharmed, for a black girl was holding him back.
Amid the cheering crowds she reached her destination. It was the ash-tree by the lake. Reining in her goats she scrambled out, climbed to the bough over the water and lay along it, looking down. Yet it was not her own face she saw below her, but that of an old, gray man, gazing kindly yet gravely up at her from the green depths. He was himself a denizen of water-ways and water; that much she knew. She wondered whether he was actually lying
stretched beneath the surface, or whether what she saw was only a reflection and he behind her. Yet as she turned her head to look, the boughs began to sway and rustle, a bright light dazzled her and she woke to find the moonlight in her eyes.
For some time she lay still, recalling the dream and repeating in her mind a proverb once told to her by her father.
If you want your dream made real, Then to none that dream reveal. If you want your dream to die, Tell it ere the sun is high.
She remembered the dream vividly; not merely what she had seen, but chiefly what she had felt-the all-informing atmosphere of a splendor composed of brilliant yet come-by trappings, their bizarre nature unquestioned while the dream held sway. The splendor-and the danger. And the strange old man in the water. She could not tell whether or not she wanted that dream to come true. Anyway, how could it?
Ah, but suppose she took no steps to stop it coming true? Then it might come true in its own way-in some unexpected, unbeautiful way-like the disregarded prophecies in the hero-tales that Tharrin sometimes told, or the ballads sung by Drigga, the kindly old woman who lived up the lane. And if it were to come true, would she know at the time, or only afterwards?
She felt hungry. Listening intently and holding her breath, she could just catch the sound of Morca's regular breathing from behind the curtain. The girls were forbidden to help themselves to food. Morca would have liked to be able to lock the cupboard-like recess that served for a larder, but a Gelt lock was a luxury far beyond the household's means. Maia had never even seen one.