EPILOGUE
A Different-Colored Spring
A Different-Colored Spring
THE warm vapor of black woti
carried up into Perkar's nostrils, a delicious scent. The promise
of its taste tugged powerfully at him, pulling him back across the
years to his first sip of the dark, warm drink, and for an instant
he felt anew everything he had known then: pride, joy, love, and
above all, hope. The promise that his Ufe
had just begun, that the great fields of the world were stretched
out before him. Had the sunlight really ever seemed so golden, so
untarnished?
That had been only five years ago.
This was the fifth anniversary of his manhood rite, of the day when
his father had trounced him so soundly before his whole family,
when he had been given his first sword.
“Drink it, son,” his father
exhorted. “You have been home for more than a year; time enough has
passed. Put away your mourning and drink.”
Perkar hesitated, still. The smell
was so fine. What had he told Karak, a year
and some months ago? You have made me like a
ghost, able to appreciate only the smell, never the
taste…
Something like that. He smiled
thinly, raised the cup to his father. He had never thought of
Sherye as old before, but he seemed old now. In the two years
Perkar had been gone, his sire looked as if he had aged ten. His
hair was more than half gray, his eyes compassed by seams of pain
and worry.
“To your Piraku, Father,” Perkar
said. He lifted the small cup and drank. The wine seemed to rush
into his head, filling it with smoke and honey before it burned its
way, pleasantly, to his belly.
“To your
Piraku, my son,” his father answered, and drank his own. The older
man then poured them both another cup.
“Perhaps I am flesh again now,”
Perkar murmured, and this time when he smiled, it felt more
genuine.
“What do you mean?” his father
asked.
“Nothing.” Perkar shook his head.
“Something best forgotten.”
Sherye measured him with iron-gray
eyes and smiled ruefully. “My son goes away and returns with a
mouthful of cryptic remarks. But at least he returns. And today he
is a man for five years.” He raised the second cup in salute.
Together they drank.
The warmth from the first cup was
beginning to reach into Perkar's blood, and finally he felt his
shoulders begin to relax. He sagged back a bit on his pillow. They
sat alone, his father and he, in the banquet hall of the damakuta
where Perkar had been born. Only a handful of candles burnished the
walls of polished red cedar, while above, the steep pitch of the
ceiling climbed into darkness. The low table before them held only
the bowl of hot water, the pitcher of woti it warmed, and their
cups.
“I feel that I have been a man for
only a year,” Perkar admitted. “Two at best. I don't know. I only
know that I was not a man when I set out with the
Kapaka.”
Sherye barked out a short, harsh
laugh as he poured yet more woti. “We are never men when we
say we are, son—it's only later, when we
question our worth, that we stand some chance of finding it.” He
tossed down the third cup, waited for Perkar to do likewise, and
then poured a fourth.
“You intend for us to get drunk
tonight, don't you, Father?” Perkar asked, already beginning to
feel somewhat light-headed.
“Very drunk,” his father conceded.
“Very.”
Six drinks later they were well on
their way. Perkar felt his face numbing and softening, and to his
horror, tears welled behind his eyes. In his months of
self-enforced temperance, he had forgotten the power of woti to
draw out the hidden, to release things best bound—to make hardened
men bawl like mouseling infants.
His father swayed back and forth
when he next spoke, the rustling of his rust-and-black quilted robe
the only other sound.
“When will you take the land, son?
When will you build your own home? Your younger brother—Henyi—is
already gone four months.”
Perkar bit his lip. He had tried to
remain silent on this issue, keep it in. But suddenly he felt the
words bolt past his lips like a willful steed.
“When all have chosen,” he cried,
louder than he wished. “When all whom I wronged have picked the
choicest land for pasture. Then I will
go.”
His father waved his hand
impatiently. “Many whom you wronged are dead.”
“Their children,
then.”
“How many generations will you pay,
my son? You have redressed your misdeeds—stopped the war with the
Mang and haggled new land for the Cattle Folk. Truth to tell, none
of us would have known your blame, had you not returned to tell us
of what happened. Yours is not the first expedition to go into
Balat and not return.”
“Yes,” Perkar said. “I have heard
some accused the Alwat—Akera and his brothers even went to hunt
them.”
“And found none,” his father
pointed out. “No harm was done.”
It seemed to Perkar that harm
had been done, if the reputation of the
Alwat had been further blemished. And even though the truth of the
matter was now widely known, men like Akera would still count the
imaginary grudge in a tally against the Alwat. Thus truth was the
servant of desire. But the blame against the Alwat was not the
worst distortion. “The most embarrassing thing is the way people
treat me,” Perkar muttered.
“Like a hero? You are that. The
songs are already spreading. How did you want to be treated? As an
outcast, a pariah? Would that have made you feel better?” The older
man smiled and reached to grip Perkar's shoulder. “The punishment
of a hero is that he is treated like one. You will see that soon
enough. Go take your land, son. You have waited long
enough.”
“Perhaps.”
“And think about marriage. It's
past time for that, as well. Bakume still has a finely dowered
daughter …” He stopped when he saw the expression on his son's
face. He drank another cup of woti. “Ah, well then,” he said. “A
father might as well try. A man can have two wives, you know.”
Perkar blinked at his sire. What
had the older man seen on his face?
But he thought he knew, and that
should be dealt with soon. He had put it off too long.
HEZHI woke with a start, her heart
racing. Her blood pulsed chill, like roots of ice digging through
her skin, but already the dread images were fading away, her
nightmare painted over by the rosy sunlight falling through the
higher window onto her bed. She lay there, waiting for the last of
the dream to evaporate, wondering if she would ever be entirely
free of such sleep terrors. Before last night, it had been almost
two weeks. The mare and the swan assured her that they could
protect her from her nightmares, but Hezhi felt somehow that such
aid would harm her more in the end. With each passing day the
horror lessened, just as the tightness of the knife scar in her
side lessened under the ministrations of Perkar's mother. The
latter required bathing, stretching, and massaging the white lump
with tallow; Hezhi had been assured that simply ignoring the scar
would result in a stiff, unpleasant pucker that would trouble her
for the rest of her days. She suspected that ignoring—or allowing
her familiars to suppress—her dreams would have similar results. In
the year and more since leaving Balat, the nightmares came fewer
and with diminishing intensity. One day they would be all but
gone.
Roosters were crowing, so Hezhi
rose, dabbed her face at the washbasin, and sought out her robe,
the gold-and-brown one she favored. Once dressed she trudged down
the stairs to the great hall.
Perkar and his father lay there;
Perkar was supine, mouth open, eyes closed. Sherye had nodded his
head onto the table and remained there as if bowing to whatever god
the wood had been cut from. The shadow of her nightmare was strong
enough that a wave of horror washed over her, a fear that they were
dead, but she saw the truth quickly enough in the woti bottle on
the table, and the relief was so great she laughed. Perkar had
relented at last and taken woti with his father. Perkar, too, was
healing.
A soft sound caught her attention.
Across the hall, Kila—Perkar's mother—gestured for her attention.
Hezhi crossed the hardwood floor, treading lightly even in bare
feet, wishing to make no sound to rouse the men.
Kila was a tiny woman, smaller even
than Hezhi in stature and frame, and yet she seemed larger somehow, as if time had lent her
eminence. Her face reminded Hezhi of a bird—not some large, beaky
bird, but something delicate, like a sparrow. Her hair, worn in
three long braids that nearly reached her knees, was that strange
red-brown color that Hezhi was slowly becoming accustomed
to.
“Thank you,” Kila said, whispering.
“Best we let them sleep. They would not be pleasant if we awakened
them now. Would you come with me to feed the
chickens?”
Hezhi nodded and followed the older
woman out into the yard.
“Normally Aberra and her daughter
feed them,” Kila explained as she opened the wooden bin that
contained the grain, “but they are away right now.”
“I'll help,” Hezhi said. She took a
handful of the grain and began casting it about the yard in
imitation of Kila. The red-and-gold birds appeared from every
corner of the walled-in compound, converging on the two women,
clucking about their feet like the courtiers who had once
surrounded her father. Hezhi smiled at the image, then wondered
more seriously what had become of that court, of the palace. With
the River dead, did Nhol still stand? Did her father still rule?
Despite herself, she felt again a longing for the city of her birth
and, most surprising of all, a faint worry for her father, her
mother, her sisters. Though she had barely known them, she
understood now that they did matter to her in some small but real
measure.
“What's troubling you, child?” Kila
asked.
“Thinking of home,” Hezhi
explained.
“From what Perkar says, I wonder
that you miss it.”
“As do I,” Hezhi admitted. “But I
worry about my family. Most of all, I wonder about
Qey.”
“That's the woman who raised
you?”
“Yes.”
Kila was silent for a few moments,
throwing grain out toward the weaker birds that could not bustle up
to her feet. “Will you return?”
Hezhi shrugged. “I don't know. I
don't know what I will do.”
Kila looked at her frankly. “I hope
you don't,” she said. “I hope you stay right here. I've never had a
daughter—” Her face fell slightly. “—not one who lived, anyway.
Having you around has been like having a daughter.”
Hezhi smiled. Kila meant well, and
she liked the older woman, but she could remember Brother Horse,
making her a similar proposition, just after she escaped from Nhol.
“You could be Mang,” he had told her. And yet, despite the old
man's best intentions, that had turned out to be a false promise.
She had been with Perkar's people for longer—sixteen months now—but
she still had little faith that this could be her home. At least
Tsem was happier here; he was much more useful as a cowherd and at
building fences than as a Mang hunter. He even seemed to enjoy the
hard, outdoor work. Yes, Tsem could live here and be happy. But as
more and more time passed, Hezhi wondered what her place would be—if there was one for her at
all.
Kila sighed. “But even if you stay,
I suppose you will marry soon enough. Already we have had two
proposals for you.”
“What?” Hezhi's head snapped up.
“Proposals?”
Kila laughed. “You should have seen
your expression! Yes, of course proposals. Look at you! Such a
pretty young woman, and well into marrying age.”
“But who?”
“Neighbors. Sons headed off to the
new lands. Men who care less about a fine dowry and more about
having a beautiful bride—and a shamaness, no less.”
“I thought no man married an
undowered woman.”
Kila nodded around at the chickens,
satisfied that they had been provided for, and started back across
the yard. A gentle morning breeze breathed down from the mountains,
cool but invigorating, like a swim in springwater. “Not in normal
times,” Kila answered. “But these are not normal times. Dowry is
usually land and cattle, land being the most important of the two.
But right now, there is land to be had for the taking. Anyway—” She
shot Hezhi a mischievous grin. “—you have a
dowry.”
“I do?”
“Sherye has dowered you with two
bulls and thirteen cows. Did you not know?”
Hezhi was so dumbfounded she
literally could not speak for a space of ten heartbeats. “When?”
she finally sputtered out.
“Ten days ago, on your fifteenth
birthday. Two bulls and thirteen cows. Fifteen, you
see?”
“That was very nice,” Hezhi said
softly, feeling faint.
“I told you that you were like a
daughter to us,” Kila answered.
Perkar's parents very much wanted
her married! Hezhi was wondering just how
much like a daughter they considered her, and what the greater
ramifications of that were. But after more than a year in the
Cattle Lands, she thought she knew.
PERKAR gave another try at lifting
the fence post, lost his balance, and then sat down with a
bump. He hoped he wasn't going to be sick
again.
“Get up and work, Perkar,” Ngangata
chirped in a cheerful—and thus evil—voice.
“Sweat it out.”
From fifty paces away, Tsem boomed
in, “I always wondered if that sword of yours cured hangovers, too,
back when you still had it.”
“I don't know,” Perkar grumbled,
holding his head. “I never got drunk when I bore Harka. But I wish
I had him back, right now, so I could find out.”
“Try this instead.” Ngangata
smirked, walking over to join him on the crest of the hill. Below,
some fifty red cows moved lazily across the pasture. Tsem eclipsed
a few of them as he, too, ceased working and labored up the slope
to join Perkar and Ngangata.
Perkar eyed suspiciously the skin
that Ngangata offered him. “What is it?”
“Water,” the halfling replied,
inserting a broken stalk of grass between his broad, thin
lips.
Perkar drank some of it. It was
cool, clear springwater, tasting only of rain and snowmelt. Perkar
was sure it would make him vomit. He drank it anyway and discovered
that he did indeed feel somewhat better.
“Pass me that,” Tsem panted, and
Ngangata transferred the skin to the huge man's massive
paws.
“We make good time on this fence,”
Tsem said, his tongue still wrapping thickly around Perkar's
language.
“Thanks to you and Ngangata,”
Perkar muttered. “I've been useless enough today.” He glanced up
speculatively at Ngangata. “How much longer will you stay?” He
hesitated, then rushed on, “I didn't think you would come back at
all.”
Ngangata straightened his shoulders
and gazed off at the forest, as if worried that something might
lurk there. “Well, I had to make sure you hadn't already found some
new trouble to get into. In any event, I had to come see if the
songs were true.”
“Songs?”
“Yes,” Ngangata answered. “In the
songs I heard at Morawta, they speak of the hero Perkar standing as
tall as two men together. I had to see if that was
true.”
Perkar closed his eyes, but that
made his head whirl the worst, and so he cracked them open again.
“Tell me not of such songs.”
Ngangata sat beside him, touching
his shoulder lightly. “I shouldn't taunt you,” he admitted. “But
you still owe me. Anyway, there is one
thing I thought you would like to know about the new
songs.”
“That being?”
“The Changeling. The river who was
once the Changeling has a new name.”
“A new name for a new river,”
Perkar said, and despite himself he felt a little thrill. Five
years ago he had promised a goddess revenge, and despite
everything, he had given her that—and more. “What do they call
her?”
Ngangata's smile broadened.
“Ah-hah. I knew you would want to know
that.” He rubbed his hands together and
cracked his knuckles, then lay back to gaze up at the lazy clouds
overhead, his alien, dark eyes filmed with blue. “Well, the Mang
call her Tu'da'an, the 'River of Springtime,' because she brought
new life. Many of your own folk call her simply Itani, 'Rowing
Goddess.' But there is another name for her.”
The half man lapsed into silence
for a moment, as if suddenly listening to the sky.
“Yes?” Perkar grunted
testily.
“Ah. Many call her
Animiramu.”
Perkar had no answer for that, no
retort. He only turned to look at the farthest tree line, toward
the distant north where she flowed.
“I'm sorry,” Tsem interposed after
a moment or two, “but what does that mean?”
“It means 'The goddess he loved,' ”
Ngangata answered softly.
Perkar did not want the subject
pursued.
“You didn't answer my question,” he
rasped, more harshly than he meant to. “How long will you stay this
time?”
Ngangata considered for a moment.
“I don't know. A few days.”
Perkar massaged his head, wondering
if he should try to discuss what he wanted when he felt so bad. But
Tsem and Ngangata were both here, and no one else
around.
“Listen, Ngangata. You, too, Tsem.
I think I'm going out to claim some land in the new valleys. I
think it's time I did that.”
“Good,” Ngangata said. “You waited
more than long enough.”
Perkar considered Ngangata as
frankly as he could with his bloodshot eyes. “This is my idea,” he
began.
“Uh-oh,” Ngangata
interjected.
Perkar greeted that with a
self-deprecating grimace. “Hear me out. I want you two to come with
me.”
“To do all of the work, I assume,”
Tsem rumbled.
“To share the land,” Perkar
countered. “To each take a third of my granting.”
Ngangata stared at him silently,
weighing those words. He understood what
Perkar was offering, whether Tsem did or not.
“How could that be?” the halfling
softly inquired. “Grantings can be made only to clan members. Tsem
and I have no clan.”
“I asked a lawkeeper about this,”
Perkar explained carefully. “My father and I can adopt you. You can
share the land with me as if we were siblings. And your land would pass on to your sons.”
“I could own land? Like this?” Tsem
asked. From his tone it was clear that he thought he misunderstood.
Perkar repeated his statement in Nholish, to make certain the half
Giant comprehended.
“I can have no sons,” Tsem said,
his voice thick with emotion. “My sort can father no offspring.
But…”
“That matters not,” Perkar said.
“Pass it on to whomever you want—it would be yours.”
“After much hard work,” Ngangata
added. “This is not cleared pasture we speak of. Perkar, I am a
hunter, a guide, not a cattleman.”
“For many years, the most of our
sustenance will come from hunting, until our herds have strength
and many trees have been felled. If you never choose to do aught
but hunt it, it would still be your land.”
“Yes, but I would be your brother, according to those terms,” Ngangata said,
his voice thick with disgust. Perkar looked down in shocked
astonishment, certain that after all of this time he and Ngangata
were better friends than that…
But then he saw the halfling was
biting back his laughter, and when Ngangata did release his mirth,
Perkar understood that it was all right. His offer had been
accepted.
“ISN'T it beautiful?“ Perkar asked,
sweeping his arm to encompass the valley. Hezhi thought at first
that the question was purely rhetorical, but then he turned his
shining gray eyes on her, demanding a response.
“It is,” she agreed. And it
was. The expanse of the valley was
breathtaking—not awesome, like some of the
landscapes she had seen in Balat—but nevertheless lovely, a
panorama of rocky meadows and spruce swaying in a breeze easing
down a saddle in the surrounding mountains. But it was more
wonderful still in Perkar's eyes, that was clear. Like so many
things, she could never appreciate it as he did.
“I shall build my damakuta
there” he stated, indicating a gentle rise
in the valley floor, “and there shall be my
first pasture.” He indicated a flatter area nearby, where a stream
snaked through a meadow.
“That seems reasonable,” Hezhi
replied, “though I know little enough about pasture.”
He glanced at her again, and she
wondered exactly what his gaze held. It looked a bit like
fear.
“Come walk with me a bit,” Perkar
urged, dismounting.
Hezhi watched as he tied his horse
to a nearby tree, then reluctantly swung her leg over Dark's mane
and head, sliding earthward. “Where have Tsem and Ngangata gotten
off to?” she asked. “They were behind us a few moments
ago.”
“They've—all—gone off to look at
their own allotments, down the ridge,” he stammered—and blushed.
“Oh.” She felt an odd sensation in
her stomach, for no reason she could clearly explain. “Where are we
walking to?”
“Just walking,” Perkar replied. “We
have something to discuss.”
Something serious, by his tone, and
her belly tightened further. What was it he had to drag her four
days' travel from his father's damakuta to discuss? It irritated
her that Perkar was keeping secrets again. He had kept his offer of
land to Tsem from her, for instance. She had been forced to
drag that out of her old servant. During
the journey to this place, he had barely spoken to her, as if his
concealments were muzzling him. It was a side of Perkar she knew
well and intensely disliked—and yet it was familiar, almost
comfortable. Now, as he was about to reveal something to her at
last, she was suddenly afraid to know. Could it be that she was
more frightened of Perkar's candor than of his
evasions?
“You've made Tsem very happy,”
Hezhi said, to have something to say, to
delay Perkar's admission or whatever it was.
“Good,” Perkar answered. “He
deserves happiness.”
“Indeed.” So why did she feel that
Perkar was a thief, stealing her lifelong friend?
“You've made yourself happy, too,”
she went on. “I've never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Happy, I
said. Excited. All you can talk about is your land and your
damakuta. I'm glad you finally decided to come here. Your family is
delighted. Why—“ She stopped, wondering suddenly what she meant to
say.
“Go on,” he prompted. They had
taken a few steps into the forest, but now he turned to confront
her, his eyes frank but nervous.
“Why so far out? Ngangata says this
is as far as we could go and still be in the new lands. The closest
holding is more than a day away from here.”
Perkar shrugged. “Not for long.
These lands will fill up soon enough.”
“That doesn't answer my
question.”
He sighed. “The truth is, I'm not
at home back there, with my people. Not really, not anymore. And
Tsem and Ngangata …” He trailed off.
“Will never be at home there? Is
that what you mean to say?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But out here
we can be. All of us.”
“You and Tsem and Ngangata, you
mean,” she replied, carefully. Just to let him know what he was
leaving out.
Perkar's shoulders visibly slumped,
and though his mouth worked to say something, no sound emerged.
Clearly frustrated, he leaned close, as if he must whisper what he had to say …
And kissed
her. It was not what she expected, not then. A year ago, perhaps,
but not now. Couldn't Perkar get anything right?
But the kiss seemed right, after an instant, after she
fought back the first swell of panic when he leaned in. It seemed
careful, and sweet, and when he drew away she was surprised to feel
a bit disappointed.
“I—uh—I've wanted to do that for
some time,” he admitted.
“Then why did you wait until now?”
she asked, unable to keep a little of the bitterness out of her
voice.
Perkar's eyes lit with surprised
chagrin. “I didn't think…”
“Oh, no, of course not. Of course
you didn't think.” She felt some heat rising in her voice. “You
didn't think that while your mother was planning my wedding to some
cowherd I never met and everyone was busily
discussing your marriage to some cattle
princess and Tsem—“ She choked off, bit her
lip, and went on. ”You didn't think to give me any sign of what you were thinking or felt—for more
than a year.” She snapped her mouth closed,
feeling she had said too much.
Perkar looked down at his feet.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I thought it was clear.”
“The only clear thing to me is that
no one cares to see you and me together.”
“I just kissed you.”
“That could mean a lot of things,” Hezhi snapped.
“And you kissed me.”
“That could mean a lot of things,
too,” she responded, but her voice wavered, because he was moving
closer again.
“What it means to me,” he said, his
voice barely a breath, “is that I love you.”
Hezhi wanted to retort
sarcastically to that, too, to tell him it was too late, to
hurt him just a little.
But what she said was “Oh.”
He shrugged. “Another reason for
being this far out. I love my family, but I want none of their
matchmaking. If there is anything that I've realized in all of
this, it is that the most precious Piraku is that which you find.
And despite everything, I was lucky to find you. It is the only
thing I have to thank the Changeling for.”
Hezhi clenched her eyelids, but the
tears squirted out anyway. “This is a fine time to start this,” she
murmured, “just when I had resigned myself to
leaving.”
“Leaving?” He gaped, as if the
thought had never occurred to him. “To go where?”
“Perhaps back to Nhol, perhaps to
somewhere I've never been. I don't know; just away.”
“Back to Nhol?”
“Yes, of course. What is there for
me here?”
“I've just told you.”
“Yes, I guess you have. But I don't
know that I'm ready to become a wife. I know I'm fifteen, but for
me there was never a childhood, Perkar. How can I become a woman
when I was never a child?”
Perkar reached and took her hand.
“I haven't asked you to marry me,” he replied. “I only told you I
love you, something I thought you already knew. You did know, didn't you?”
“Yes,” she admitted, wiping her
tears. “Yes, but you never said
it.”
“Well, we are two of a kind then,” Perkar rejoined
mildly.
“Oh,” she snapped, “of course I
love you, you idiot.”
“Then stay here, with Tsem and
Ngangata and me. With your family.”
Hezhi drew in a long breath and
looked at him, this man she had first seen in dreams, and as she
did so, she realized that her tears had stopped. “Well,” she said
at last. “I do want to stay here, with you.
I do. But I am not ready for marriage. I'm
just not, despite my age. I want …” She drew her brows together and
gazed defiantly up at him. ”I want to be courted for a time. I want
more stories about two-headed cows. I want to separate what we feel
from what we went through together—just a little.”
“I remind you that I didn't ask for
your hand—” Perkar started, but she shushed him with her
finger.
“But you will, Perkar Kar Barku. You will. And when you do, I want to give the right
answer.”
Perkar smiled then and took her
hand. “Good enough, then. How do I go about this courting
business?”
Hezhi wiped what remained of her
tears and felt an almost impish grin touch her lips. “Well,” she
said. “I suppose you can kiss me once more, and then we should
really find my chaperone.”
Wind rustled the trees and dapples
of sunlight streamed through the leaves above. It was a long
kiss.
Now available in trade paperback
from Del Rey Books—the bold new adventure from the mind of J.
Gregory Keyes!
NEWTON'S CANNON
by J. Gregory
Keyes
Please read on for a sneak preview
of this thrilling novel…
1716 A
Miracle
Benjamin Franklin was ten years old
when he saw his first miracle. Cold fingers of wind had been
groping up the narrow streets of Boston all day, and as night fell
they tightened their grip. The equinox had come and gone, and
winter had an early hold on the Massachusetts colony.
Ben stood on the Long Wharf,
watching the tall, sleek lines of a sloop as she sailed into port.
He was worried less about the cold than about how to explain to his
father where he had been and why it had taken him so long to get a
loaf of bread. He should not lie to his father—that would be a
terrible sin, he knew. But with his brother Josiah so recently run
off to sea, his father would not want to hear that Ben had been
watching ships again. Ben wondered if there were some way to frame
the truth so that it was not incriminating. He could argue that his
love of ships was just a love of well-crafted things. But he
did long to follow his brother to
adventure—whales and pirates and unknown realms. The truth was, he
could not stand the thought of remaining for his entire life in
Boston, not with the promise of grammar school and college snatched
away from him.
His mood bleak, Ben turned down
Crooked Lane, hoping to shave a few moments from his journey back
home. The narrow alley was almost entirely dark; here and there the
halfhearted flame of a candle gave life to a window. The candles
brought Ben no comfort, reminding him instead of what he would be
doing tomorrow: boiling tallow to make the wretched
things.
Halfway up the lane he saw a light
that did not flicker. At first he thought it a lantern, but even
the illumination of a lantern wavered. This shone as steadily as
the sun. Ben felt a little chill that had nothing to do with the
marrow-freezing air. The light was peeping through the half-closed
shutters of a boardinghouse.
His decision took only an instant.
He was already late. This light seemed so unnatural, he knew that
it must be some trick. Perhaps the flame was encased in a paper
lantern. He moved through the yard as quietly as he could. Now he
could see the light itself: a pale, bluish, egg-sized sphere. He
immediately understood that this light was not a flame. But if not
flame, what?
A spark from flint and steel had
something of the quality of this sphere's light, yet sparks lived
only briefly. He knew in his bones that this was alchemy,
magic—science, the king of magics.
If there was magic, there must be a
magician. He crept closer to the house until his eye was almost
pressed against the thick pane of glass.
The sphere was the only source of
light in the room. There was no fire in the hearth, but the window
was warm to the touch. Ben wondered if the magic light gave off
heat as well. If so, it could not be very much heat, since less
than a foot away from the glowing sphere a man sat, reading a book.
The sphere was floating above the man's head so that his wig and
brows cast shadows over his face. He was leaning over the table,
tracing the characters in his book. So clear was the light, so
legible the characters, that Ben could make them out and determine
that the book was written neither in English nor in Latin. The
characters were all swooping curls and curves, as beautiful as they
were enigmatic.
The man was not having an easy time
reading the script, Ben thought. He was puzzling at it, Ben could
see, because the magician traced his finger over the same line
several times before moving on.
How long he stood there, Ben did
not know—nor was he certain why. But what Ben thought was, That
could be me. That could be me reading that book, commanding that
light.
There were no whales or pirates in
Boston, but there were books. The three years of school his father
had been able to afford had provided Ben with the skills he needed
to read and understand what he read, and he had long ago devoured
most of the books his father and uncle owned. None of them were on
magic, but there must be books on it. And now his future suddenly
seemed brighter. He would become more than a tallow
chandler.
Indeed, when he tore his gaze from
the window, he realized that if one flameless lantern could be
made, then so could another. And if enough were made, neither he
nor his father would be in the candlemaking trade for
long.
Tiptoeing away he
spared one look back, and in that instant the magician looked up
from the book and rubbed his eyes. It was an unremarkable face.
Then, it suddenly seemed to Ben that the man saw him from the
corner of his eye, as if he had known Ben was there from the very
beginning. Then the magician's face was in shadow again, but his
eyes seemed to catch the light, reflecting red like those of a
hound. Ben abandoned all efforts at silence and flew home with what
speed his legs could command.
“I told you,
Josiah, the world is changing faster than we want,” Uncle Benjamin
maintained, propping his elbows on the table. “I'd heard tell of
these flameless lamps in England two years ago. And now one has
come to Boston.” He shook his head wonderingly.
Ben's father
frowned at his brother. “I'm not so concerned with these new
devices as I am with my son's moral well-being. I wish you would at
least remonstrate your nephew for spying.”
Ben felt his face
burn. He looked about him to see if anyone else had heard, but the
hubbub of conversation produced by Ben's siblings—eight of them
were at home tonight—was enough to drown out the three of them.
Ben, his father, and Uncle Benjamin often fell into conversation
after dinner, especially now that Ben's older brothers James and
Josiah were away. The remaining Franklins rarely cared to join them
in their usually bookish discussions.
Uncle Benjamin
took his brother's comment to heart. He turned to his nephew and
namesake. “Young Ben,” he said, “what betook you to spy on this
man? Is spying a habit you nurture?”
“What?” Ben asked,
astonished. “Oh, no, sir. Twere not an act of peeping but of
investigation. As when Galileo trained his telescope on the
heavens.”
“Oh, indeed?”
Ben's father asked mildly. “Your observations were purely
scientific, then? You felt no impropriety at peeking into someone's
window.”
“It was an
uncovered window,” Ben explained.
“Ben,” his father
said, frowning, “you argue well, but if you do not take care, you
will logic yourself straight into hell.”
“Come, Josiah,”
Uncle Benjamin said. “If you had seen such a strange and unnatural
light—”
“I would have
passed it by or knocked to inquire, preferably at a reasonable
hour,” Ben's father finished. “I would not have sneaked across the
yard and peeked into his window.”
“Only this one
time, eh, Ben?”
“Yes, Uncle,” Ben
affirmed.
Ben's father sighed. “I should
never have named the boy after you, Benjamin. For now you rise to
defend his every misdeed.”
“I'm not defending him, Josiah, I'm
merely making it clear that the boy knows he did transgress.” He
did not wink at Ben.
“I do understand,” Ben assured them
both.
His father's face softened. “I know
that you are perfectly adept at learning your lessons, Son,” he
said. “Did I ever tell you about that time he came home tootling on
a pennywhistle?”
“I have no recollection,” Uncle
Benjamin admitted. Ben felt another blush coming on. Would his
father ever cease to tell this story? At least James—who never
failed to taunt him about his mistakes—was not here. Though he
would never say it aloud, Ben could scarcely be sorry James was
'prenticed in England.
“I'd given the boy a few pennies,”
Ben's father explained, “and he came home with a whistle, well
pleased. Such a din he made! And I asked him what it cost and he
told me. Then what did I say, Son?”
“You said, 'Oh, so you've given ten
pennies for a whistle worth but two.'”
“And he learned,” his father went
on. “Since then I've approved of all his purchases—not that he
makes many.”
“I know what he saves his money
for,” Uncle Benjamin said, patting Ben's shoulder affectionately.
“Books. What are you reading now, Nephew?”
“I'm reading Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, by Mr.
Bunyan,” Ben answered.
“Ah, so the Pilgrim's Progress pleased you, then?”
“Very much, Uncle Benjamin.” Ben
pursed his lips. “And speaking of such matters …”
“Yes?” his father asked
mildly.
“Since I won't be going to school
anymore, I'm hoping to pursue my education here at
home.”
“And I encourage you
to.”
“Yes, Father, and now I want to
educate myself in science.”
His father settled back in his
chair, face thoughtful. “Ben, these new philosophical machines seem
womsomely close to witchcraft to me. You know that or you wouldn't
have asked me whether you could learn of them.”
“They don't say so in London,”
Uncle Benjamin interposed.
“Or in France,” his father shot
back, “but you know what deviltry they've put this 'science' toward
there.”
“Bah. The same could be said of
such an honest invention as a musket. It only profits us to know
the mind of God.”
“Indeed. But is it the mind of God
that makes stones glow and float in the air?” Ben's father lifted
his hands. “I don't know, and neither do you. Neither does Ben, and
it's his immortal soul I worry about. Not to mention his pockets,
for books are not cheaply had.”
“Father,” Ben said carefully,
ordering his words in his mind, “you ask how it will profit me. I
ask you, When every man in Boston has a flameless lantern, who will
buy candles?”
The two older men turned to stare
at him, and he was secretly pleased at their dumfounded
expressions.
“Say that again,” Uncle Benjamin
whispered.
“Well, suppose these lights are
easy to make—”
“Suppose they are expensive,” his
father interrupted.
“Yes,” Ben persisted, “suppose they
cost ten times the price of a candle. But suppose also that they
never burn down—need never be replaced? Would not the wise man then
invest in the more expensive item so that he could save in the long
term?”
His father was silent for a moment.
His uncle sat equally quiet, observing the exchange between father
and son.
“We don't know that they last
forever,” Josiah finally said. “We don't know that they are not
even more dear than thirty times the cost of a
candle.”
“No, Father, we don't,” Ben said.
“But if you give me your leave, I can find out.”
“Do what you think best, Ben,” his
father at last acquiesced. “And when you are not certain what is
best, then you speak to me. One leak will sink a boat: one sin will
destroy a sinner.' You see, I, too, have read your Mr.
Bunyan.”
“Agreed, Father.”
“Now then, here is another thing
that touches on your bookish-ness. Where were you before you spied
on this magician? You took a very long time after a single loaf of
bread, even with some espionage thrown in.”
“Oh. I…” He had forgotten about
that. He picked at the grain of the table wood with his thumbnail.
“I went down to the Long Wharf. A New York sloop was coming
in.”
Ben's father sighed. “Why do boys
so pine for the sea?”
“I don't pine, sir—” Ben
began.
“I wasn't asking you, lad. It was a
question for the Almighty. Ben, I know that if I try to keep you in
the chandler's trade, you will treat it badly or run off like your
brother Josiah. So here is my thought. I will try to find you a
trade more suited to your talents, and in turn you will remain here
in Boston, at least until you've reached a proper
age.”
Ben hesitated. “What trade did you
have in mind, Father?”
“Well, I must apprentice you, so
here is my thought.” He leaned forward. “Your brother James is due
home soon from England; he is going to set up a printing shop right
here in Boston.”
Ben felt a sudden, almost giddy
hope. Was his father going to send him to England, too, to serve an
apprenticeship in the printer's trade? That was more than he had
dared hope.
“Yes, I thought you would like this
idea,” his father exclaimed. “Brother, what did I tell
you?”
“It will please him well,” he
replied, but his eyes were watching his nephew
carefully.
“It's settled then, if James
agrees,” his father said, eyes shining. “When your brother returns,
you shall be 'prenticed to him. That should bring you in touch with
those books you seek, give you a trade that will bring you
pleasure, and keep you here in Massachusetts.”
Ben felt his happy expression
freeze. The thought of becoming a printer was interesting, but
years of servitude to a brother worried him.
Ben reached his bed that night with
a feeling of both wonder and resignation. Though he could hardly
dispute that things had taken a turn for the better, something was
slipping away from him. And at the very edge of sleep, he realized
it was the floating light and that strange, curling text. The
shadow of apprenticeship dimmed hope of that alchemical
light.
That can be
me, he thought again insistently. I will find every book in Boston
that tells of science and magic, and I shall make my own devices. I
shall profit from inventing them, too, and Father will be
proud.
But something about that rang
false, so that when sleep at last found him, it found a fitful and
unhappy boy.
NEWTON'S CANNON by J. Gregory
Keyes
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Books.
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