"Like way-wall," I said.

"Way-wall?" she said smiling. "There's no such thing."

Everybody laughed gently, as though an old joke had been told at just the right time. Their laughter woke the tiger cat named Fa'afa, who was always near Zhinsinura. She touched its head and it rested again.

"You know," she said, "the League had no love for the truthful speakers. Perhaps it was that their women wouldn't join the League in the very ancient times, or then help out after the Storm when they might have, but only kept to themselves. Then perhaps it was the League's pride, that you all had survived without their help. It was only long after women had gone to others to tell them the League was dissolved that Olive went to the warren. The League thought never to make peace with you; and there were some, to the League's shame, who tried to prevent Olive. Well. All that is old.

"But we have grown old differently, in all those lifetimes since then. I know how differently: I visited your warren often, oh, so long ago it's neither light nor dark now. There was a boy there - well, a boy, an old, old man now if he's lived - who asked me to stay there with him, with you all. I wanted to, though I was afraid; in the end he was more sensible; but I think we both knew we would end up in a corner. And even so, I think the harder way is to come here from there. Your girl could because she is a cousin; you… well. I don't say it to frighten you."

She looked away, raising her long bony arm to shake down her bracelets. The evening bell rang. She thought; then said: "Yes, there is a thing you don't know. Yes, there is a way to learn it, though not this time of year; and it's too soon for you, anyway. Stay; listen and learn; and don't ask for what's not given you." She moved the sticky stone from the twentieth to the twenty-first day. "You say she ties riddles for you. Well, I'll tie you another. I'm not afraid to tell it because ay, though it's not a riddle at all you'll think it's one; and bee, if you're going to stay here I think it will have to be by your way and not ours; and see, it's the day and the time for it anyway.

"This is the riddle: you can tie a string around your finger to remember something, until you forget there's a string tied around your finger. Then you will have forgotten doubly, and for good. This calendar is the string tied around our finger - and the letter from Dr. Boots is how we forget it, doubly and for good.

"You can look for a path through that. I know your famous Path. If you want to find it here, think this: path is only a name for a place where you find yourself. Where you're going on it is only a story. Where you've been on it is only another. Some of the stories are pleasant ones; some are not. That's dark and light."

I sat with my head bowed before her and the September tile between us and listened; and I might have understood, too, if I had ever in all my growing up been told a story that wasn't true.

"Did she send you away?" Once a Day asked. She sat amid baskets of apples that were being brought in through the way-wall, helping the children sort from them the bad ones, which would spoil the others.

"No," I said. "I don't think she did."

She polished on her starred robe and held up for me an orange apple that blushed red like a cheek. "I'm glad," she said.

I had been wrong about her speech. There was no mask put over it to hide from me; only an opacity filling it up, from within, filling up its transparency as fog fills up transparent autumn mornings. Yet overhead the sky is blue. Zhinsinura had offered me every way not to enter into their secrets; what she didn't know was that I had already gone in, by the pool in the forest, no, long before then, in a game of whose-knee in Little Belaire that seemed now as long ago as a time when angels flew; and I had always known there was no way out. I had never truly looked behind me to see.

She was right, you know, I think, about way-wall: that there's no such thing.

Yes?

I mean it wasn't a thing, like a door; only a condition. A condition of the air in the doorway, air altered, as ice is only altered water.

Was it?

I think it had been done long before, in order to heat the place. You said a hot breath blew from it. I think it was just an engine, to make heat…

Maybe so. And the little house on the wall, in the warren, was only a bombom, a barom, a thing to tell the weather. Is it all only and merely and just? Why is it you know so much and understand nothing at all?

I'm sorry.

No; no. It's only that this is the hard part of the story, the part that was hardest to live through, the part hardest to tell rightly; and if you don't understand it, the story won't make sense. You must try to imagine me there, angel; you must imagine me, because if you don't imagine me I won't exist. None of it will exist.

Yes. Go on.

In October Twenty-eight Flavors was an argument of odors. There was a long counter there, wood-grained like the tables, behind which rose a great mirror, black-flecked and dull: and on it were drawn in white two people, a man with an apron and a tall hat, and a boy to whom he offered what looked like a giant version of the Four Pots. It was in Twenty-eight Flavors that the List kept and made their medicines. From the ceiling hung brown roots strung in loops, and on the plastic were heaps of wrinkled leaves and the crushed buds of flowers; in the great stainless-steel ovens and sinks behind the mirror, things were baked and washed and mixed: the kitchen, they called it. Brown Houd, who knew much of such things, went among them with a confusion in his cup, looking and grinning.

A confusion?

They made confusions from leaves and such, boiling them with water. There were confusions to wake you up, others to put you to sleep. There were confusions that made you strong or weak, stupid or smart, warm or cool. "It confuses the dark and light," Houd said, "and gives you a pause: for a while you think only about the confusion, and not about everything."

"Everything?"

"That's Relativity," he said.

In that crowded house were also hung the long golden leaves to dry, which Houd and others there smoked in little pipes, racks and racks of it, smelling as it looked, dry and golden. It hung near the calendar, whose October tile of the two children raking orange leaves to burn was changed by Houd to November's: those two walking arm-in-arm, scared perhaps, past leafless trees through which black crows cawed. One curled brown leaf was tossed past them, on a curved black line that meant Wind.

I think Houd was a child of November, like me. Often he would sit much of the day on a huge stump on the edge of the stone plaza Service City occupied, well wrapped up, and there he could be visited. The white smoke from his pipe was like the smoke from the orange leaves the calendar children burned, but the leaves that piled up around his stump were gray, and he himself was the color of November: nut-brown and whorled like wood.

"It's not like your bread," he said to me; "it won't do you any good to inhale it; inhale it enough and it'll kill you, so the angels said, who smoked it by the bale… I only tell you that because it does taste good, once you get used to it." He offered the pipe to Once a Day, who refused it with a grimace, and to me. It was an acrid, harsh taste, that fit the day, autumnal and burnt and brown.

He sniffed the air and put the pipe back between the teeth that liked it. "You know things now that you won't know again in the year. It's in this month, they say, that you can see the City."

"The City," someone said, in a low tone of delighted horror, and the children said, "Tell it, tell the City."