Tale of Birle by Cynthia Voigt

all living things. How can it carry fire within it, and not be burned?”
    â€œThere is much we don’t understand,” Birle pointed out to him. “I’ve seen,” she said, remembering her grandparents’ house, “a place where water just comes bubbling up out of the ground. Where does the water come from?”
    â€œUnderground,” he answered quickly.
    â€œAye, but what is this underground? If it is filled with water why is the whole world not afloat? And how comes that water also to fill the sky?”
    â€œJust because we don’t understand something doesn’t mean there is no reason for it. You can’t find the reason unless you think about it. The first step in such thinking is doubt,” he said. Then he looked at her, and smiled again. She had pleased him, Birle thought, glad of it.
    â€œYou think, then,” he said, “that I should try to find one of these dragons, before I doubt it.”
    Birle had had no such thought, but she didn’t tell him that.
    â€œEven though there is nothing living that can withstand fire. Stones can, and metal can—although even metal can be made hot enough to melt, or how would we have knives and swords, or gold and silver coins. But if this beast is made of metal or stone, how can he lift his great weight off the ground?”
    Birle didn’t know how such a thing could be. Since there were no dragons in her world, she didn’t see a need to wonder or worry about it. She had another question, and this seemed the time to ask it. “Do you go south, then, to know if there are dragons?”
    At that, he laughed. “They say dragons have great hoards—of gold and jewels—which they sleep on as nests. Maybe I’m on my way to win such a treasure. Do you think that, Innkeeper’s Daughter? I’m ill-armed to undertake a dragon’s death, but if I have courage enough I could try it. If there are dragons to be found.” That was no answer to her question. He didn’t want to answer her.
    On the third morning a little light rain fell, in among the trees. The Lord didn’t wish to go out onto the river in the rain, so they sheltered the day under the long branches of an ancient pine. Birle kept a small fire going, under the roof the branches made.
    Sitting there, on opposite sides of the crackling fire, they toasted the staleness out of thick chunks of bread. The little rains drizzled down. The Lord said, “They make songs about high and noble things—the death of dragons, the love of beautiful women. But they should make songs about bread—and cheese—the way they fill an empty stomach. I wouldn’t say no to a piece of cheese, would you?”
    Birle shook her head. No, she wouldn’t.
    â€œOr a song about rain, as it falls. Do you ever wonder why they have never made a song about rain?”
    Birle shook her head.
    â€œWhat do you wonder about, then, Innkeeper’s Daughter?” he asked her. “I know you are awake, behind your brown eyes.”
    He knew the color of her eyes. Why should he know the color of her eyes? In her confusion, she answered him, “I wonder about my mother’s father. At least, I used to wonder about that. Now, I don’t. But I used to wonder what man he was.”
    â€œWhat does that matter?” he asked. “I know my fathers, for generations past.” The bitterness in his voice silenced her. He was looking into the flames, lost in his own thoughts. The rain turned the branches behind him a dark silvery green.
    Later they sat, not side by side, leaning back against the prickly trunk of the tree. Rain pattered down onto branches and ground. The smoke from the fire rose slowly.
    â€œHow could you not know your mother’s father? You must know every man in the village, there can be few to choose among. What does it matter to the people who father and grandfather might be?”
    She was ashamed for the answer