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toward him and away in a silent dance, eyes half-open in invitation, lips curved as though about to speak. ‘So beautiful,’ he murmured, wanting to touch her, holding himself from doing so only with difficulty. ‘So beautiful.’
A burst of laughter as some Riverfront tavern opened a door and spat revelers into the street. Blint would be bringing the crew back shortly. If Blint saw her, he would sell her to the family, or to the Awakeners, though what good she would be to either, Thrasne could not imagine. No. He wouldn’t do that. She had fled from them, family and Awakeners both. The woman who had fled was gone. This was his own Suspirra now. He plotted furiously, discarding one notion after another.
Then he thought of the ventilation shaft beneath his own watching post. Up went the net once more as he guided it from the owner-house roof, down into the shaft, suspended there in its netting bag from the pole grating upon which he so often sat, where none could see it, wonder at it, touch it – save Thrasne himself.
When Blint and crew returned, he was crouched beneath the owner-house window, finishing the carving of Delia and the child. That night, for the first time since he had made her, he did not even look at the small carving of Suspirra.
2
Night on the River in the township of Thou-ne. Lanterns gleaming along the River walk, on the quays and jetties, where the oily water throws back slippery reflections, fish-belly lights, momentary glimmers. Rain misting the cobbles into fishscale paths, River sucking at the piers with fish-mouth kisses, all watery and dim, silver and gray, evasive as dark bodies turning beneath dark water. Lantern man strolling along beside his wagon, wagon boy tugging, head down, sliding a little on the slick stones. Fish-oil cans in the wagon; fill the lanterns; trim the wicks; light the lanterns; then move on. Behind these two the lantern light lies in liquid puddles on the stones, pools of light, wetter than water as the crier follows after, ‘Dusk falls, night comes, let all abroad take themselves to home and hearth.’ The call so well known over lifetimes it comes out in drawn vowels, ‘Uhhhs aaaahs, aiiit uhmmms, aaaad ohhhhm arrrrh.’
Peasimy Flot trots along the River path, behind the crier, stepping carefully into each puddle of light to splash it onto the path. Slap, slap, slap with the soft soles of his boots, slap, slap. Light has to be distributed. Nobody sees to it but Peasimy. What good are these puddles with all the dark in between? Have to splash the light around. He does not look behind him to see the pools of light still separate and rimmed with black. He has splashed them; now the walk is lighted. Never mind what the eyes see. Never mind. It is what the soul sees that’s important.
‘Uhhhs aaaahs,’ the crier calls. ‘Aiiit uhmmms.’
Night is already here. Potipur glares in the eastern sky,full and ominous, his face half-veiled in River mist. Viranel is half herself at the zenith, skittish behind clouds, as she becomes at these slender times; Abricor has whetted his scythe on the western horizon and goes now to harvest the crops of night. Peasimy stops in midsplash to contemplate the scythe-moon. ‘Harvest,’ he calls in a whispery fishvoice, full of bubbles and liquid gurgling. ‘Cut down the lies, Moon of Abricor. Foul weeds of untruth. Cut them down, down, down.’ Then back to the splashing once more. Pitty-pat, pitty-pat, slap slap slap.
Twelve years old, Peasimy is a neat one in his high-collared coat with the shiny buttons, his tight dark trousers fitting down into the soft boots, his perky little hat perched high on his tight, shiny hair. Daytimes he sleeps, like a strangey, lost in the depths of his sleep as in a cavern. Nighttimes he comes up for air and to look at the moon and splash lantern light. Peasimy knows Thou-ne would wither away if he didn’t splash the light around. It doesn’t matter no one else knows it. All night long he will
A burst of laughter as some Riverfront tavern opened a door and spat revelers into the street. Blint would be bringing the crew back shortly. If Blint saw her, he would sell her to the family, or to the Awakeners, though what good she would be to either, Thrasne could not imagine. No. He wouldn’t do that. She had fled from them, family and Awakeners both. The woman who had fled was gone. This was his own Suspirra now. He plotted furiously, discarding one notion after another.
Then he thought of the ventilation shaft beneath his own watching post. Up went the net once more as he guided it from the owner-house roof, down into the shaft, suspended there in its netting bag from the pole grating upon which he so often sat, where none could see it, wonder at it, touch it – save Thrasne himself.
When Blint and crew returned, he was crouched beneath the owner-house window, finishing the carving of Delia and the child. That night, for the first time since he had made her, he did not even look at the small carving of Suspirra.
2
Night on the River in the township of Thou-ne. Lanterns gleaming along the River walk, on the quays and jetties, where the oily water throws back slippery reflections, fish-belly lights, momentary glimmers. Rain misting the cobbles into fishscale paths, River sucking at the piers with fish-mouth kisses, all watery and dim, silver and gray, evasive as dark bodies turning beneath dark water. Lantern man strolling along beside his wagon, wagon boy tugging, head down, sliding a little on the slick stones. Fish-oil cans in the wagon; fill the lanterns; trim the wicks; light the lanterns; then move on. Behind these two the lantern light lies in liquid puddles on the stones, pools of light, wetter than water as the crier follows after, ‘Dusk falls, night comes, let all abroad take themselves to home and hearth.’ The call so well known over lifetimes it comes out in drawn vowels, ‘Uhhhs aaaahs, aiiit uhmmms, aaaad ohhhhm arrrrh.’
Peasimy Flot trots along the River path, behind the crier, stepping carefully into each puddle of light to splash it onto the path. Slap, slap, slap with the soft soles of his boots, slap, slap. Light has to be distributed. Nobody sees to it but Peasimy. What good are these puddles with all the dark in between? Have to splash the light around. He does not look behind him to see the pools of light still separate and rimmed with black. He has splashed them; now the walk is lighted. Never mind what the eyes see. Never mind. It is what the soul sees that’s important.
‘Uhhhs aaaahs,’ the crier calls. ‘Aiiit uhmmms.’
Night is already here. Potipur glares in the eastern sky,full and ominous, his face half-veiled in River mist. Viranel is half herself at the zenith, skittish behind clouds, as she becomes at these slender times; Abricor has whetted his scythe on the western horizon and goes now to harvest the crops of night. Peasimy stops in midsplash to contemplate the scythe-moon. ‘Harvest,’ he calls in a whispery fishvoice, full of bubbles and liquid gurgling. ‘Cut down the lies, Moon of Abricor. Foul weeds of untruth. Cut them down, down, down.’ Then back to the splashing once more. Pitty-pat, pitty-pat, slap slap slap.
Twelve years old, Peasimy is a neat one in his high-collared coat with the shiny buttons, his tight dark trousers fitting down into the soft boots, his perky little hat perched high on his tight, shiny hair. Daytimes he sleeps, like a strangey, lost in the depths of his sleep as in a cavern. Nighttimes he comes up for air and to look at the moon and splash lantern light. Peasimy knows Thou-ne would wither away if he didn’t splash the light around. It doesn’t matter no one else knows it. All night long he will
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