"Good night!" and said no more. Falk slept that night the first sound, long sleep he had had since his journey had begun.
He stayed two more days and nights in the riverside cabin, for his host made him very welcome and he found it hard to leave the little haven of warmth and company. The old man seldom listened and never answered questions, but in and out of his ever-running talk certain facts and hints glanced and vanished. He knew the way west from here and what lay along it—for how far, Falk could not make sure. Clear to Es Toch, it seemed; perhaps even beyond? What lay beyond Es Toch? Falk himself had no idea, except that one would come eventually to the Western Sea, and on beyond that to the Great Continent, and eventually on around again to the Eastern Sea and the Forest. That the world was round, men knew, but there were no maps left. Falk had a notion that the old man might have been able to draw one; but where he got such a notion he scarcely knew, for his host never spoke directly of anything he himself had done or seen beyond this little river-bank clearing.
"Look out for the hens, downriver," said the old man, apropos of nothing, as they breakfasted in the early morning before Falk set off again. "Some of them can talk. Others can listen. Like us, eh? I talk and you listen. Because, of course, I am the Listener and you are the Messenger. Logic be damned. Remember about the hens, and mistrust those that sing. Roosters are less to be mistrusted; they're too busy crowing. Go alone. It won't hurt you. Give my regards to any Princes or Wanderers you may meet, particularly Henstrella. By the way, it occurred to me in between your dreams and my own last night that you've walked quite enough for exercise and might like to take my slider. I'd forgotten I had it. I'm not going to use it, since I'm not going anywhere, except to die. I hope someone comes by to bury me, or at least drag me outside for the rats and ants, once I'm dead. I don't like the prospect of rotting around in here after all the years I've kept the place tidy. You can't use a slider in the forest, of course, now there are no trails left worth the name, but if you want to follow the river it'll take you along nicely. And across the Inland River too, which isn't easy to cross in the thaws, unless you're a catfish. It's in the lean-to if you want it. I don't."
The people of Kathol's House, the settlement nearest Zove's, were Thurro-dowists; Falk knew that one of their principles was to get along, as long as they could do so sanely and unf anatically, without mechanical devices and artifices. That this old man, living much more primitively than they, raising poultry and vegetables because he did not even own a gun to hunt with, should possess a bit of fancy technology like a slider, was queer enough to make Falk for the first time look up at him with a shadow of doubt.
The Listener sucked his teeth and cackled. "You never had any reason to trust me, outlandish laddie," he said. "Nor I you. After all, things can be hidden from even the greatest Listener. Things can be hidden from a man's own mind, can't they, so that he can't lay the hands of thought upon them. Take the slider. My traveling days are done. It carries only one, but you'll be going alone. And I think you've got a longer journey to make than you can ever go by foot. Or by slider, for that matter."
Falk asked no question, but the old man answered it:
"Maybe you have to go back home," he said.
Parting from him in the icy, misty dawn under the ice-furred pines, Falk in regret and gratitude offered his hand as to the Master of a House; so he had been taught to do; but as he did so he said, "Tiokioi…"
"What name do you call me, Messenger?"
"It means…it means father, I think…" The word had come on his lips unbidden, incongruous. He was not sure he knew its meaning, and had no idea what language it was in.
"Goodbye, poor trusting fool! You will speak the truth and the truth will set you
He stayed two more days and nights in the riverside cabin, for his host made him very welcome and he found it hard to leave the little haven of warmth and company. The old man seldom listened and never answered questions, but in and out of his ever-running talk certain facts and hints glanced and vanished. He knew the way west from here and what lay along it—for how far, Falk could not make sure. Clear to Es Toch, it seemed; perhaps even beyond? What lay beyond Es Toch? Falk himself had no idea, except that one would come eventually to the Western Sea, and on beyond that to the Great Continent, and eventually on around again to the Eastern Sea and the Forest. That the world was round, men knew, but there were no maps left. Falk had a notion that the old man might have been able to draw one; but where he got such a notion he scarcely knew, for his host never spoke directly of anything he himself had done or seen beyond this little river-bank clearing.
"Look out for the hens, downriver," said the old man, apropos of nothing, as they breakfasted in the early morning before Falk set off again. "Some of them can talk. Others can listen. Like us, eh? I talk and you listen. Because, of course, I am the Listener and you are the Messenger. Logic be damned. Remember about the hens, and mistrust those that sing. Roosters are less to be mistrusted; they're too busy crowing. Go alone. It won't hurt you. Give my regards to any Princes or Wanderers you may meet, particularly Henstrella. By the way, it occurred to me in between your dreams and my own last night that you've walked quite enough for exercise and might like to take my slider. I'd forgotten I had it. I'm not going to use it, since I'm not going anywhere, except to die. I hope someone comes by to bury me, or at least drag me outside for the rats and ants, once I'm dead. I don't like the prospect of rotting around in here after all the years I've kept the place tidy. You can't use a slider in the forest, of course, now there are no trails left worth the name, but if you want to follow the river it'll take you along nicely. And across the Inland River too, which isn't easy to cross in the thaws, unless you're a catfish. It's in the lean-to if you want it. I don't."
The people of Kathol's House, the settlement nearest Zove's, were Thurro-dowists; Falk knew that one of their principles was to get along, as long as they could do so sanely and unf anatically, without mechanical devices and artifices. That this old man, living much more primitively than they, raising poultry and vegetables because he did not even own a gun to hunt with, should possess a bit of fancy technology like a slider, was queer enough to make Falk for the first time look up at him with a shadow of doubt.
The Listener sucked his teeth and cackled. "You never had any reason to trust me, outlandish laddie," he said. "Nor I you. After all, things can be hidden from even the greatest Listener. Things can be hidden from a man's own mind, can't they, so that he can't lay the hands of thought upon them. Take the slider. My traveling days are done. It carries only one, but you'll be going alone. And I think you've got a longer journey to make than you can ever go by foot. Or by slider, for that matter."
Falk asked no question, but the old man answered it:
"Maybe you have to go back home," he said.
Parting from him in the icy, misty dawn under the ice-furred pines, Falk in regret and gratitude offered his hand as to the Master of a House; so he had been taught to do; but as he did so he said, "Tiokioi…"
"What name do you call me, Messenger?"
"It means…it means father, I think…" The word had come on his lips unbidden, incongruous. He was not sure he knew its meaning, and had no idea what language it was in.
"Goodbye, poor trusting fool! You will speak the truth and the truth will set you
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