their leg-tether may be of rope.’
‘Do peeple leg-tether
each other
?’ I asked astounded
‘What else would keep him from us? Listen to him, poor nubbet—if he could be with us, he would.’ And indeed, I was fighting to listen to Hloorobn and not let my heart be stretched to breaking by the sound of Pippit’s weeping.
We murmured to him, and he called to us, until we were all nearly mad with not seeing him, with not taking him up and placing him as a crown on our heads, with not feeling the pat of his little paws on our faces, or the trill of his song, almost too high for us to hear, as he plied the soapy hardbroom on all our backs in turn. What joy we had had, commanded by a Pippit, who knew no fear of us but only love, who cared for us so closely and so well—it was hard to remember that he was not a Large like one of us, and could not hear our loving head-talk.
‘We must go,’ wept Booroondoon at last. ‘Dawn rushes towards us. We cannot reach him, and it will do him no good to hear us being speared out here.’
‘They would never,’ said Gooroloom. ‘They only spear mad ones, like Gorrl—’
‘We must go. Somewhere we can think, where we are not flayed by our beloved’s sadness. If we stay here, we will fall to mindlessness with our pain, and do him no good.’
And so, suffering and weeping, we drew away.
‘Will he know we intend to come back?’ worried Hloorobn.
‘The child is so close to death, we are no more than a dream to him,’ soothed Gooroloom.
‘And perhaps we can be no more than that comforting dream,’ said Booroondoon. ‘Perhaps we must be content with that.’
By some route I did not see, through a daze of mourning, Booroondoon led us to a cleared part of town. The smell of dead ashes lingered in the place, so a fire must have brought the structures down, but now all the rubble was gone, and the soil beneath was combed flat.
We tried to gather ourselves, but could do little more than sweep our woe back and forth. Was our only choice to turn and follow our own tracks home, and live out our long lives under fearful spike-men, stung by their beatings, nagged by their needling voices?
‘I would rather seek the Forest Hills,’ said Gooroloom. ‘What is a life without Pippit?’ And we mourned and sighed around her.
‘Come, we must put our minds to this,’ said Booroondoon. ‘We must stand in a line as if we were peeple-bid, and let schemes brew in our heads.’
But no sooner had we arranged ourselves than the town began to stir around us.
‘What is this?’ said Hloorobn. ‘Peeple never rise so early.’ ‘Not in such numbers,’ said Gooroloom. ‘Only marketers and street-sweepers come out before dawn.’
‘I do not like the feeling of it,’ said Booroondoon.
As soon as she said it, my bones felt a deep unease, as if they could slip unset somehow, as if we might fall to pieces inside our skins. ‘Nor I,’ I whispered.
Even before the first few muffled peeple passed us, all walking the same way, we could feel that the town’s quiet activity was bent like spring grass under a steady wind, an eagerness like river-water pulling. But instead of the sweetness of water, instead of the scents of bud and pollen and new leaf, this pulling breeze carried a low stink, a tang of chain-metal, a sour-sweet dreadfulness.
We stood close together as dawn came on, trying to find some other scent on the air to disperse the stink. ‘I wish we were home again,’ whispered Hloorobn. ‘Around this time, he would be stirring awake in the straw, our little man … Do you remember when he first saw us, how the child ran to Booroondoon and flung his tiny arms about her leg?’
‘We must go,’ said Booroondoon, ‘for he sleeps not on straw but on stone, and someone is kicking him awake even as we try for courage among our memories.’ And she took a step after the passing peeple.
We joined on behind her, some silent, some wittering (‘To that death-place?’ ‘Oh please, my
‘Do peeple leg-tether
each other
?’ I asked astounded
‘What else would keep him from us? Listen to him, poor nubbet—if he could be with us, he would.’ And indeed, I was fighting to listen to Hloorobn and not let my heart be stretched to breaking by the sound of Pippit’s weeping.
We murmured to him, and he called to us, until we were all nearly mad with not seeing him, with not taking him up and placing him as a crown on our heads, with not feeling the pat of his little paws on our faces, or the trill of his song, almost too high for us to hear, as he plied the soapy hardbroom on all our backs in turn. What joy we had had, commanded by a Pippit, who knew no fear of us but only love, who cared for us so closely and so well—it was hard to remember that he was not a Large like one of us, and could not hear our loving head-talk.
‘We must go,’ wept Booroondoon at last. ‘Dawn rushes towards us. We cannot reach him, and it will do him no good to hear us being speared out here.’
‘They would never,’ said Gooroloom. ‘They only spear mad ones, like Gorrl—’
‘We must go. Somewhere we can think, where we are not flayed by our beloved’s sadness. If we stay here, we will fall to mindlessness with our pain, and do him no good.’
And so, suffering and weeping, we drew away.
‘Will he know we intend to come back?’ worried Hloorobn.
‘The child is so close to death, we are no more than a dream to him,’ soothed Gooroloom.
‘And perhaps we can be no more than that comforting dream,’ said Booroondoon. ‘Perhaps we must be content with that.’
By some route I did not see, through a daze of mourning, Booroondoon led us to a cleared part of town. The smell of dead ashes lingered in the place, so a fire must have brought the structures down, but now all the rubble was gone, and the soil beneath was combed flat.
We tried to gather ourselves, but could do little more than sweep our woe back and forth. Was our only choice to turn and follow our own tracks home, and live out our long lives under fearful spike-men, stung by their beatings, nagged by their needling voices?
‘I would rather seek the Forest Hills,’ said Gooroloom. ‘What is a life without Pippit?’ And we mourned and sighed around her.
‘Come, we must put our minds to this,’ said Booroondoon. ‘We must stand in a line as if we were peeple-bid, and let schemes brew in our heads.’
But no sooner had we arranged ourselves than the town began to stir around us.
‘What is this?’ said Hloorobn. ‘Peeple never rise so early.’ ‘Not in such numbers,’ said Gooroloom. ‘Only marketers and street-sweepers come out before dawn.’
‘I do not like the feeling of it,’ said Booroondoon.
As soon as she said it, my bones felt a deep unease, as if they could slip unset somehow, as if we might fall to pieces inside our skins. ‘Nor I,’ I whispered.
Even before the first few muffled peeple passed us, all walking the same way, we could feel that the town’s quiet activity was bent like spring grass under a steady wind, an eagerness like river-water pulling. But instead of the sweetness of water, instead of the scents of bud and pollen and new leaf, this pulling breeze carried a low stink, a tang of chain-metal, a sour-sweet dreadfulness.
We stood close together as dawn came on, trying to find some other scent on the air to disperse the stink. ‘I wish we were home again,’ whispered Hloorobn. ‘Around this time, he would be stirring awake in the straw, our little man … Do you remember when he first saw us, how the child ran to Booroondoon and flung his tiny arms about her leg?’
‘We must go,’ said Booroondoon, ‘for he sleeps not on straw but on stone, and someone is kicking him awake even as we try for courage among our memories.’ And she took a step after the passing peeple.
We joined on behind her, some silent, some wittering (‘To that death-place?’ ‘Oh please, my
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