Put, the little man, rolled around in the gravel until he bled.
Because I did not have a place where I could hide with my horror, I went to the carpentry workshop. I had to go past the fire below the trusses. I had the feeling that it was about to leave its pit and come at me, leaping from one tinder-dry little patch of grass to another, to pour its heat all over me. The donkey, which I was leading by its halter, felt it too. It shied at every crackle in the wood. My stoical character, my willingness to take things as they come, had always reconciled me to my mother’s ailment and the restrictions it imposed. I did not feel condemned to live with her, rather the opposite: I was sorry for her because she had to put up with my crude help, with my lack of reliability and skill, and my inability to protect her from the sores that develop from having to lie down. But now everything became less self-evident. With her endless, nerve-racking blinking, she had taken us awayfrom our home, our boats, our waterways. It had cost Alem his life. We were stuck in a place where soon people were to be punished, and the only one of them I knew was a young man with a skin so fair it made me lose the feeling in my fingertips.
Ham saw me from his workbench. He hurried across. Because he looked at me without speaking, my grief burst forth. I had felt it growing in me, but when it reached my head it still took me by surprise, like a belch: It rose up in me and I overflowed. Water streamed from my eyes, my nose, my mouth, thick tears that fell from my cheeks onto my breasts.
“Does the Unnameable look like a great cat with stripes?” I stammered. “Is he a murderous, slavering monster?” I kept seeing Alem before me, his body, with its unusual scent, and which I had rubbed with oil, his cautious way of walking, intent on clues in the landscape. He taught me the gentlest possible hand contact, the touch that leaves no trace on the skin or in the sand. He taught me to move like a fish in a shoal, swerving fast without touching any other. He trained my skin, my fingertips, and the tip of my tongue.
“A man I loved has perished.”
“Your father?” he asked quickly.
“Not my father. Another man I loved.”
“Is your father back? Is he unharmed?”
“He has a wound in his heart, like me.” I could not stop sobbing. Was this the stone coming loose, the beginning of a landslide that would overwhelm us? “Help us get away from here,” I said. “See that we can leave this place safely, we have nothing to do with the punishment that will be imposed on you and your people.”
He raised his hand, his sleeve fell back onto his elbow, making his white forearm visible. He wheezed as he said, “Don’t be afraid. I will take care of you. But bring that donkey back. I can do nothing, absolutely nothing for you if you touch the animals.”
The timber around us creaked. I wanted to grab the hand he held out, if only for balance, but he withdrew it. He looked around quickly at the workmen who came and went, their eyes downcast. Because he did not offer me the hem of his cloak, I wiped my face dry with my hand.
“What can you do?” I asked with a sob. “You do not even control your own fate! There is a dwarf who makes the decisions for you.”
He hunched his back and put his hand over his mouth. The dust he worked in made him cough. Wood shavings from his hair fluttered down onto my arm. He stood away from me; his lack of breath made his face bulge and his eyes go red. He had barely any voice when he said, “The dwarf is an idiot, he’s scum. He is a seer who does not know what to do with his gift. Leave him be. Leave him be with what he imagines to be his knowledge. Go away now. But come back to me tonight. You will belong to me like my shadow. If our god does not choose you, I will.”
11
Washergirl Becomes a Boy
I waited till it was completely dark. Finally, after much tossing and turning, Put had fallen asleep, and I walked to the
Because I did not have a place where I could hide with my horror, I went to the carpentry workshop. I had to go past the fire below the trusses. I had the feeling that it was about to leave its pit and come at me, leaping from one tinder-dry little patch of grass to another, to pour its heat all over me. The donkey, which I was leading by its halter, felt it too. It shied at every crackle in the wood. My stoical character, my willingness to take things as they come, had always reconciled me to my mother’s ailment and the restrictions it imposed. I did not feel condemned to live with her, rather the opposite: I was sorry for her because she had to put up with my crude help, with my lack of reliability and skill, and my inability to protect her from the sores that develop from having to lie down. But now everything became less self-evident. With her endless, nerve-racking blinking, she had taken us awayfrom our home, our boats, our waterways. It had cost Alem his life. We were stuck in a place where soon people were to be punished, and the only one of them I knew was a young man with a skin so fair it made me lose the feeling in my fingertips.
Ham saw me from his workbench. He hurried across. Because he looked at me without speaking, my grief burst forth. I had felt it growing in me, but when it reached my head it still took me by surprise, like a belch: It rose up in me and I overflowed. Water streamed from my eyes, my nose, my mouth, thick tears that fell from my cheeks onto my breasts.
“Does the Unnameable look like a great cat with stripes?” I stammered. “Is he a murderous, slavering monster?” I kept seeing Alem before me, his body, with its unusual scent, and which I had rubbed with oil, his cautious way of walking, intent on clues in the landscape. He taught me the gentlest possible hand contact, the touch that leaves no trace on the skin or in the sand. He taught me to move like a fish in a shoal, swerving fast without touching any other. He trained my skin, my fingertips, and the tip of my tongue.
“A man I loved has perished.”
“Your father?” he asked quickly.
“Not my father. Another man I loved.”
“Is your father back? Is he unharmed?”
“He has a wound in his heart, like me.” I could not stop sobbing. Was this the stone coming loose, the beginning of a landslide that would overwhelm us? “Help us get away from here,” I said. “See that we can leave this place safely, we have nothing to do with the punishment that will be imposed on you and your people.”
He raised his hand, his sleeve fell back onto his elbow, making his white forearm visible. He wheezed as he said, “Don’t be afraid. I will take care of you. But bring that donkey back. I can do nothing, absolutely nothing for you if you touch the animals.”
The timber around us creaked. I wanted to grab the hand he held out, if only for balance, but he withdrew it. He looked around quickly at the workmen who came and went, their eyes downcast. Because he did not offer me the hem of his cloak, I wiped my face dry with my hand.
“What can you do?” I asked with a sob. “You do not even control your own fate! There is a dwarf who makes the decisions for you.”
He hunched his back and put his hand over his mouth. The dust he worked in made him cough. Wood shavings from his hair fluttered down onto my arm. He stood away from me; his lack of breath made his face bulge and his eyes go red. He had barely any voice when he said, “The dwarf is an idiot, he’s scum. He is a seer who does not know what to do with his gift. Leave him be. Leave him be with what he imagines to be his knowledge. Go away now. But come back to me tonight. You will belong to me like my shadow. If our god does not choose you, I will.”
11
Washergirl Becomes a Boy
I waited till it was completely dark. Finally, after much tossing and turning, Put had fallen asleep, and I walked to the
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