Part Three
Chapter 21
BAZAAR DAY
Smerian was thoroughly enjoying himself. He had struck a comfortable pace the moment the train had struck Ceapig and he had never looked back. His technique was perhaps the closest approximation to art ever achieved by a Traeppedelfere, and his vanquished challengers lay scattered in the dust of his wake knowing no mercy. No doubt about it.
That twatunge could drink.
Stanstrang, a veteran of many of these hopeless competitions, wisely chose to ignore the taunts and gibes of the younger fools and forego the devastation this season. Not that he didn't hold with the popular theory that maintained Smerian was overdue for a fall; it was just that, in his experience, Smerian was susceptible only to the more pleasant effects of the blowanslaep, and immune to the unpleasant ones. He decided to imbibe according to his own thirst, and not try to outrun the wind.
"Stanstrang, you oxagrete! Hist, hist - I like you, mocbraegen - come, I tell you!" Smerian's eyes darted back and forth, squinting, scanning for eavesdroppers, as he put his arm on Stanstrang's shoulder. Stanstrang, all patience, played along for what seemed like the two-hands-and-feet time: Smerian's Secret. "Hist! To be great cider drinker," - he looked again - "must practice, practice, practice!"
Stanstrang repeated the rest with him in unison, "drink, drink, drink!"
Smerian gaped at him in bleary surprise, then waved his eyebrows merrily. "Good idea!" he chortled, and directed a squirt of his cider-bladder mouthward.
It was the first day of the Bazaar, and the widucippians and the maciantols were busy, milling around the haphazard layout of the Traeppedelferean camp, wading the ford back across to Ceapig, and gathering up their crafts and products. The fyrstan wains and the heavier carts had been left on the island when they finally recrossed the ford to set up camp after the storm was over. They had no fear of the cowardly and puny Mocwalwians daring to steal anything from them. Only the camp supplies had been removed from the island, but they were substantial, particularly the wains loaded with casks of cider.
There were no real rules to follow at the Bazaar. Barter until a deal was struck, make the exchange, stow the purchase away, and go back at it again. Traeppedelferes were already returning to camp with all sorts of curious items. They had reed baskets, and small crockery pieces of unknown utility, and other strange things which had caught their fancies. Smerian and Stanstrang, and all the stancippians and tongue-walkers, were free to do as they pleased. To Stanstrang, that meant relaxation. To Smerian, it meant mischief.
It was getting on toward mid-day, and he had just refilled his cider-skin again (was it the fourth, or fifth time?). "Come, mocbraegen," he good-naturedly coaxed Stanstrang. "Let's see Bazaar."
Stanstrang looked uncertain. The sun was hot and bright, and he had just fashioned an awning on the side of a wain. The thought of being Smerian's accomplice in whatever riot he was undoubtedly planning to incite was enticing to him in a way, but also seemed potentially troublesome. He had no interest whatsoever in the Mocwalwians; to him, they were a contemptible accident of life better avoided than encountered. But then, Smerian on a saelig sojourn amongst the unsuspecting Mocwalwians conjured up promising images. His methodical, if plodding, reasoning process thus weighed the pros and cons of Smerian's offer, while his face betrayed an absolutely delectible blank expression.
Smerian made the decision for him. "Faugh!" he finally spluttered in disgust, after waiting for an answer. "You stay, think about it. I ask you next day." And he turned and wove away, looking for a different companion. Stanstrang, relieved of his burden and properly chastised, displayed his contrition by leaning back and promptly dozing off.
Snecchen sat leaning against a small cart near the ford. She unceremoniously spat out the unchewable end of the dried thriddahype strip she had just eaten, rinsed her mouth with a little cider, and began to indulge herself in a vigorous scratching. It felt wonderful, and the longer she tore at herself the better it felt, and the more she itched elsewhere; until her entire body was a battlefield contested between irritation and ecstasy.
She had worked herself down to her knees from her scalp when that pinprick tickle below the nape of her neck suddenly exploded into uncountable tiny poisoned claws of fire across her back and scurried like so many saelig grunddwellans into the unreachable sanctums of the very marrow of her bones, festering. It was as if her entire hide had been removed and replaced with tiny things, dancing on needle-like feet. It was rapturous torture. She rose to the challenge with a zeal approaching frenzy.
"Itch?" Smerian wobbled up, wearing a splitting and wholly unsympathetic grin.
"Oh, Smerian," Snecchen brokenly blurted between lunges of exertion, "Smerian, help scratch, scratch!"
"Not like itch, um?"
"Smerian!"
To her dismay, he turned his back and walked to the water's edge. But, scooping up as much wet sand as he could carry, he returned and, dumping it on top of the astonished antunge, began rubbing it in with great, forceful, sweeping shoves of his huge palms. Before she could cry out in protest, the sweet relief of this sudden grinding flooded over her, and when he was done, she turned to him with an unmistakeable look in her eyes of more than mere gratitude.
Smerian stood up (on the second attempt), and dusted the sand off his hands. "Come, go with me to Bazaar."
Snecchen inwardly sighed as she rose to her feet, shaking sand to the ground. "Wish Wrencanmodor at Bazaar!" she muttered to herself.
Smerian heard her, and shrugged his shoulders. "She not," he observed with a complacency that she found every bit as irritating as the itching she had just endured. "But blowanslaep at Bazaar!" He raised his cider-bladder to his lips.
Snecchen frowned. "Small consolation," she thought.
Moerv smiled. His diligence and sacrifice had paid dividends already, he thought with satisfaction. Here it was, only mid-day of the first day of the marshmancay, and he had traded away fully half of his stock of zhats, plates, jugs, and sundry crockery. If this kept up, he could soon trade his spot to some latecomer, and retire from the marshmancay for the rest of this season.
He mentally toted up his take: several very nice knives, one with a carved handle; a rather clumsily shaped, but after all utilitarian hand furrower; a large, soft, and neatly stitched skin (for which he had not thought of a use, yet); a heavy hammer he could swing only with both hands, and a pile of small assorted metal plates and castings of passing interest for which he had traded trifles. But his biggest treasure, so far, was a marvelously balanced and finely honed fo. He had gladly traded away his best pieces for it, and any Laizuvrian would have done the same. It was not a large one, but the flat arc of its blade and the comfortable heft of its haft, bent and with handles in just the right places, told Moerv immediately that it would be an efficient and highly admired tool. It amazed him that the dull Zhonoys could have produced such a thing, but now he had got it, and he was happy. The miserable night on the Ealdlazay Fair had been worth it, after all.
As soon as Snecchen and Smerian had shaken the river from their feet upon passing the ford, Smerian went off in search of a twatunge who could interpret for him.
One of the problems with the Bazaar was the language barrier between the two races, but Smerian knew from experience that it could be depended upon to generate some quite interesting exchanges, especially the way he set about it. There were very few Traeppedelferes who bothered to learn the Mocwalwian's idiotic gibberish, though, so most of the twatunges were necessarily Mocwalwian. This inevitably resulted in accusations of biased bartering being brought by the Traeppedelferes against the twatunges, which in some instances was certainly the case, but not all. Smerian never failed to find delight in these confrontations as a spectator, and if he could do something to instigate them himself, well, that was even better.
Having found a twatunge, he returned with her to Snecchen, and the three of them proceeded to the Bazaar. Smerian stopped in front of the very first Mocwalwian display they came to, and smiled broadly to the vender seated there.
"What trade?" he inquired of the twatunge, pointing to Moerv.
Snecchen looked bored.
"There nothing here," she complained to Smerian, glancing over Moerv's remaining wares. She looked up and scanned the shallow bowl of the center of Ceapig.
It was sphex-nest of activity. Many hands-and-feet of Mocwalwians and Traeppedelferes were talking, shouting, waving their hands in the air, making fists, and otherwise employing all the methods and gesticulations of negotiation. Ceapig (which was actually quite large, she was surprised to note) was overwhelmed with carts, smoke, tramping feet, and noise, noise, noise. Scents familiar, exotic, enticing, and nauseating paraded past her on the light breeze. What variety was known to either race was to be found right there before her wandering eyes.
She looked down again at the meager offerings at hand, however, and pulled on Smerian's arm. He turned to her, winking mysteriously and waving his eyebrows. His eyes had shed that saelig torpor and were keen with some kind of plot, she could see that. She decided to humor him, and wait.
The twatunge had meanwhile entered into a conversation with Moerv. "How goes the marshmancay for you, Moerv?" she asked.
"Very well, Monsh, very well," he replied.
"Good! You've got a great spot here, though."
"I know. I had to set up last night and stay on the island for it."
"Oof! Didn't the slows keep you awake?"
Moerv made a sour face at the recollection. "You wouldn't believe some of the things I heard!"
"I don't even want to hear about them!" she replied with a shudder.
"Hey!" interjected Smerian, curious as to what was being discussed on his time. "What trade?"
"Who's this oaf?" Moerv sniffed.
"Don't know," Monsh replied, "he just came looking for a 'twatunge.'"
Moerv laughed. That was one word he understood. The Zhonoys were always running around the marshmancay, braying for a 'twatunge.' "What's he have to trade?"
"I don't know that, either," she confessed. "Show him your stuff, and I'll ask him."
Moerv began spreading his things out on his shoam mat, and Monsh turned to Smerian. "He say he happy much to show to you very work fine. He say he very hope much to trade with you so pretty Zhonoy for big things you have. He say he want to see big things you have."
Smerian smiled through gritting teeth. He blanched at being called a 'pretty Zhonoy' by that scrawny mocsaec, but he intended to get even, one way or another.
But what did he have to trade? He had to invent something quickly, and his eyes strayed to an odd thing laying on the ground behind the vendor. He had no idea what it was, but it looked hard to make, and it was as good as anything on the spur of the moment.
"Very nice," he commented to the twatunge, inspecting Moerv's crockery. "Good work," he praised, leafing through Moerv's stack of shoam mats. "Ah, you very great!" he lied through his teeth, feigning absolute enchantment with a simple bea, which took Moerv half a moment to make. Monsh relayed to Moerv the gist of Smerian's complimentary remarks, and the Laizuvrians traded knowing and conspiratorial glances.
"Mairdly!" Moerv ejaculated. "This sahnwah is ripe for gleaning, I think!"
"Dacoar," agreed Monsh, "it would appear so. Let's see what you can get.
"He say he honored and humbled, you say of him so much!" she said to Smerian. "He ask you only to show what you may trade, that he think he may worthy be of your talk."
"Say to him I must have everything here! Everything!" Smerian said to the twatunge. Snecchen looked at him like he was cnawannawiht or something. "Say to him I trade two hands-and-feet of, er, those," he pointed at Moerv's fo, "for everything here."
Monsh's eyes grew wide. She cleared her throat with an effort. "T-two hands-and-feet?" she asked tremulously, flashing that many fingers to verify his offer. Smerian nodded with an imperious look.
She turned hurriedly to Moerv. "You're not going to believe this," she said. "I don't believe it myself, but that's what he said!"
Moerv had seen Smerian point to the fo, and Monsh flash out her fingers, but he wanted to hear it with his own ears. "What's what he said? What does he have to trade?"
"Two hands-and-feet fos!" she flashed her fingers out once again, and her face darkened. "Moerv, I think you were right. I think he is sahnwah!"
"What do I care if he is?" Moerv blurted excitedly. "What does he want for the fos? Did he say?"
"He wants all your things here."
"Is that all? Is that all?" It seemed too good to be true.
"Dacoar, that's all - but Moerv, you're not really going to trade him, are you?" Monsh was getting scared. "Look at him - he'll crush us both when he finds out he's been shorted."
"What do you mean, shorted?" Moerv was getting carried away in his enthusiasm for the pending deal. "Are you saying that my things are no good? They're the best! Look at them! Look! Look!" He picked up the first piece he laid his hand on, sprang to his feet, and held it up under her nose for her to inspect.
Smerian calmly listened to the, to him, unintelligible garbling. The wretched Mocwalwian was obviously keen on the deal, which was all he wanted. He smiled warmly at them whenever they would turn and look at him for a moment, and waited patiently. Snecchen could not figure out what he was up to, and she privately began to fear that perhaps he was more saelig than he let on.
Monsh pushed the zhat back into his hands. "All right! all right," she hissed at Moerv, "let's do it and get it over with. I just hope I don't run into this ugly slow again!"
She adroitely transformed the worried scowl she gave Moerv into a cheerful smile as she turned to address Smerian again. "He say you good very judge of value! He say he not make this deal with every Zhonoy, but you different, he like you much very. He say you take his good very things, he this one time take your fos. Dacoar? - I mean, um?"
Smerian smiled broadly. "Um!" he said looking at Moerv. "Say to him I very happy. I think we drink together to make deal. Sun is hot, drink is good. Say to him, um?"
Monsh's artificially cheery smile faded ever so slightly, and when she faced Moerv she was troubled. "He wants to drink on it, Moerv! I don't like it! What kind of a thing is this, anyway?"
"Oh, stop worrying, Monsh!" Moerv remained enthusiastic. "For two hands-and-feet fos, I can stomach anything that he can, believe me!" He impatiently pushed Monsh aside, and stepped up to Smerian, all smiles, holding out his zhat.
Smerian, smiling in earnest now that he saw his plot working perfectly, squirted a generous stream of cider from his skin into the tall Mocwalwian's bowl, then directed a stream into his own mouth, making all sorts of approving sounds as he swallowed, and keeping one eye on the Mocwalwian.
Moerv sniffed the fluid carefully, and when it proved to be encouragingly aromatic, he boldly poured it straight down his throat, over the loud protests of Monsh.
Smerian began to laugh. "Now, watch this!" he nudged Snecchen, almost knocking her down, his face virtually glowing with glee.
Moerv smiled with relief upon swallowing the blowanslaep. "That wasn't so bad," he thought, but he soon thought otherwise, and his smile vanished like a puff of smoke. First his tongue, then his mouth seemed to burst into flames with the kind of intense heat he had only experienced at the mouth of his kilns. It soon dove down his throat, into his stomachs, and through his whole body, bit by bit. He couldn't hear himself scream, but he was the only one, and he stood there and loosed a hideous and protracted shriek which curdled the blood of every Laizuvrian and tickled the fancy of every Traeppedelfere within earshot. The high wail lasted until Moerv felt the internal inferno burn right up into his brain, and then he suddenly stiffened bolt upright and fell backwards onto his pottery with an impressive and shard-scattering crash.
Smerian was almost reduced to the same state of unconsciousness, but the agent of his infliction was laughter rather than inebriation. He rolled on the ground, clutching at his sides, utterly unable to catch his breath for a long time. When he had finally mastered himself, he staggered to his feet, remarking almost hysterically to Snecchen, "Every season! I get one of them every season! Oh, oh, oh, oh! they never learn. Mocwalwians! Oh, oh, oh! Come, let's go before he wake up."
But before they could get away Smerian's arm was pinched by a steady, if, to the maciantol, light hand. He looked up slightly into the authoritative glare of an angry Mocwalwian. "You, again! Smerian, isn't it?" He spoke to Smerian in Traeppedelferean. "Will I have to talk to your Yldra Cwidu this season again?"
Smerian shrugged to show his absolute impartiality on this question. "Meaganyldra," he corrected. "Meaganyldra Cwidu. How you, Nuzhunpa?"
Nuzhunpa was like nearly everyone else: he could not look at Smerian long and keep a straight face. He recalled the incorrigible maciantol's pranks from past seasons, of course, and had suffered his share of them himself when he had worked the Marshmancay as a 'twatunge.' He had come to the Ealdlazay Fair from the Laizuvrian camp a little while ago on another errand, but that had been all but driven from his mind upon hearing Moerv's terrible scream. He had guessed at once what had happened, and despite the seriousness of Smerian's prank, he could not draw up much sympathy for the victim.
"Stupid peh!" he muttered to himself.
"What?"
Nuzhunpa spoke so Smerian could understand. "I tell them every season, all of them, 'do not eat Zhonoy food, do not drink Zhonoy wine.' Still, each season you get one to do it! How?"
Smerian's eyes twinkled. "Not fair fight," he said, tapping his forehead.
Nuzhunpa understood, but sparred with him. "That true, but does not explain."
Smerian laughed. He could enjoy a joke even at his own expense. "Not worry," he comforted Nuzhunpa. "No more trouble, not from me."
But Nuzhunpa had not just recently been born, and he remained skeptical. "No more trouble?"
Smerian hedged. "Not this season, then."
"Um?"
"Not today?"
Nuzhunpa laughed. "I'll take that as promise. Not today. Say to me," he added as an afterthought, "you can do something to help for once."
"Um?"
"I look for Traeppedelfere Yldra. Cwidu say 'find Giestranweard.' You know where I find?"
Smerian was about to ask, "Why you look?" but Snecchen had already spoken up.
"I am not Yldra," she snorted in indignation, to Smerian's amusement and Nuzhunpa's confusion. "My name Snecchen. I am Giestranweard. What you want?"
Nuzhunpa sized her up in an instant and, apparently satisfied, said simply, "Come with me."
Snecchen thought to herself that she had nothing better to do. Humoring this Mocwalwian may prove to be as entertaining as humoring Smerian had turned out to be, so she followed him. Smerian came along behind, uninvited, but inevitable. Nuzhunpa marched them straight through the bustling Bazaar to the far side of the Ealdlazay Fair, stopping on the river bank beside a small batohram.
"Smerian," he said, "you must wait here. The batohram will not take three. I will take, er - "
"Snecchen."
"I will take Snecchen across, come back for you."
Snecchen eyed the river with dread. "We cross water?" she gulped. "Traeppedelferes not cross water!"
"I talk to Cwidu, he say cross," said Nuzhunpa. "And I know one Zhonoy who cross water!"
The Traeppedelferes could not swim, of course. There was no waterway more than ankle-deep in the whole of their territory, and the current and the swells of the Great River filled them with fear. They dared not use the Laizuvrian ferry or boats, as much as they would have loved to raid their camp as a lark. Snecchen's mouth went suddenly dry.
Smerian was delighted. "Um, go!" he encouraged her. "I wait here, come later!" He had no intention of doing any such thing, of course, but he wasn't going to let her know that just then.
She tentatively put one foot in the small boat, still drawn half out of the water. It rocked. She took her foot out and stepped back away from the boat. "I not go!" she informed them firmly, and refused to budge, defiantly crossing her arms.
But, after much cajoling and coaxing, she sat warily in the bottom of the batohram, and Nuzhunpa prepared to push off from shore. He got it afloat and stepped nimbly aboard, and Snecchen promptly panicked. Luckily, they were only in about two hands of water when she leapt, alternately screaming hysterically and retching violently, toward the shore, and Nuzhunpa, old and frail as he appeared to be, nevertheless could just manage with a great struggle to drag her spluttering and kicking out of the water.
Snecchen's stomachs had launched themselves in all directions at once the moment the tiny boat lost contact with the island. There was not anything or anyone who could induce her even to consider crossing the river now, and her irritation with Smerian's howls of laughter soon grew to scorn, and then to scarlet hatred, as he was overcome by convulsions and lay writhing on the riverbank, choking with glee.
"Come, Smerian, you will have to do," said the disgusted Nuzhunpa, himself all wet, watching his little boat drift away downriver, having been unable to push it ashore in his haste to help Snecchen.
"But how?" Smerian laughed, pointing. "Your boat!"
"Not worry," said Nuzhunpa, "we find batohram downriver later. We take ferry now. Come."
Smerian's face nearly dropped off his head. Now it was Snecchen's turn to goad Smerian, and she made the most of her opportunity. It was not far down the bank to the ferry from where they now stood, but Snecchen made sure she had filled Smerian with her advice and her taunts by the time they got there. Smerian was not at all pleased by this turn of events, but he was determined to show her that he could succeed where she had failed. And besides, he could not bring himself to believe that he couldn't do something that the Mocwalwians did easily and often; so he screwed up his courage, and put on his best face.
His best face did not last long.
When Nuzhunpa began pulling the ferry-raft across, and the craft began bobbing and swaying on the surface of the river, Smerian immediately became ill. Very ill. Immediately.
Nuzhunpa, exacting sweet vengeance for all the unsuspecting victims of Smerian's practical jokes, and Snecchen, savoring her own revenge, drank in with sadistic eyes the spectacle of Smerian prostrating himself and gagging on the floor of the gently rocking raft. It seemed to Smerian that Nuzhunpa intentionally held the raft in the center of the river, rocking it more than necessary all the while, but of course that was not the case. At any rate, they finally reached the other side, and Smerian crawled weakly onto the shore. Snecchen, almost out of earshot across the river, could still be heard hooting mercilessly.
"If you promise no tricks next season," Nuzhunpa said, "I promise you ride back across river not so bad. You promise?"
"Um, um!" gasped a penitent Smerian. "I promise! No tricks! How you make ride back better?"
"Will be better," Nuzhunpa grinned. "Nothing in your stomachs, now!"
Smerian groaned.
He looked around with curiosity, but not with more than the inhabitants of the Laizuvrian camp regarded him. A great crowd of children, free to play while their prahnums and prahnumpas were at the marshmancay, had watched Smerian's river-crossing with much interest and amusement. They were strictly forbidden, of course, to have any contact with the horrible Zhonoys, and were naturally surprised and curious to find one walking through the camp, and they followed him (at a safe distance) murmuring amongst themselves. Smerian saw skins stretched over poles and tied down with thongs, and that impressed him as a good idea; but the scent of something (he had a vague uneasy idea that it was food) utterly repulsed him. The rounded huts, with their peaked, thatched roofs, intrigued him, and he realised as they walked that they were approaching one of these directly.
"Why you want Giestranweard?" he asked Nuzhunpa curiously.
"I wanted Zhonoy who knows all other Zhonoys," he replied. "I ask Cwidu, he say only one who knows all Zhonoys not at Ealdlazay - er, at, uh, Bazaar."
"Um," Smerian nodded. "Haegtesse."
"Cwidu say find Giestranweard; but she not cross Luhvluhv, not cross river. I hope you can help."
"Help what?"
But they were by then in front of the last hut, and Nuzhunpa hushed him (mysteriously, Smerian thought). Standing before the door, he whispered, "We hope you know sick Zhonoy inside. That all. If he is Zhonoy, that is."
Smerian watched as Nuzhunpa silently swung the door open. "What goety is this?!" he silently remarked to himself, suspiciously expecting the door to fall on him as he passed.
Burfohn looked morosely up to see who came in, and when he saw Smerian he jumped to his feet and pounced on Nuzhunpa.
"What is that Zhonoy doing here?" he hissed vehemently. This is no place for it! Take it back out of here, and let Opumohn rest! It's bad enough that he has to share the hut with that other slow, why bring in a second? Get it out!"
"Not now, Burfohn, we've been all over this," Nuzhunpa soothed him. "We'll only be a moment, then he'll be gone, I promise you." Quieted, but unhappy, Burfohn returned grumbling to his bench beside Opumohn's cot.
Smerian blinked. It was quite dim inside the hut, and he opened his inner lids for the first time during the day since they had left the mines. He almost felt at home, after such a long time outside, with the rounded corners, the cool hard floor, and the fyrstan light. He could make out the other cot in the back, and the Mocwalwian antunge attendant. She was quite attractive, he was surprised to think, considering that she was, of course, a repulsive Mocwalwian. He made his way toward her while Nuzhunpa gibbered with the other one by the door.
Zholybet looked up nervously when he came near. "Salu," she said, noting with relief that her prahnum was coming.
"Zholybet, this is Smerian. I don't know whether he can help us or not, so let's show him our Zhonoy and hear what he has to say." To Smerian, he said, "This my daughter, Zholybet. She cares for sick ones. This one may be Zhonoy. Look at him for me, say."
Zholybet brought up a dim lamp, and Smerian approached the cot. Nuzhunpa turned down the blanket, as if to expose his arms and shoulders might help Smerian identify him.
Smerian waited for the light to fall over the face and then looked intently, hardly knowing what to expect, but not really anticipating anything other than some wayward Mocwalwian or other. But he was wrong in this, and his reaction was sudden and amazing to the Laizuvrians.
"Smaelaer!" he managed to squeak in shock, before his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor in a heap. He had fainted dead away.
"I thought you said his name was Smerian," Nuzhunpa commented cooly to her prahnum, as if such bizarre behavior was no more than what should be expected from a Zhonoy.
Nuzhunpa was fruitlessly racking his mind for a translation of the word 'smaelaer.' "Give him some doab," he told Zholybet, pointing to Smerian. "He has nothing in his stomachs. Maybe he's just light-headed."
"Fo doubt about that," she said drily, as she attempted with a scowl to force the thin gruel between his lips. It seemed to work, and Smerian soon sat upright with a jerk, spitting.
"Moc! what that, that, that - " he was entirely at a loss to describe the putrescent taste in his mouth.
Nuzhunpa laughed. "ever mind that. You tell us, what Smaelaer? Is that name? Is this, er, twatunge Smaelaer?"
Smerian's head swirled again at the thought, but the sight of the zhat of doab still in Zholybet's hands revived him before he swooned again, and he mopped at a suddenly perspiring brow with the palm of his hand.
"Smaelaer was great hunter," he began, sitting on the floor, staring at the still figure on the cot with unbelieving eyes. "He killed oxagretes. But, Yldras say," Smerian began to feel very uneasy, "Yldras say, Smaelaer see things not there."
"Smaelaer was a hunter who hunted something called 'oxagretes,' whatever that is," Nuzhunpa translated for Zholybet.
"Yldras name him cnawannawiht," Smerian said with a pang of memory.
"The Zhonoy tribe leaders said that this Smaelaer had, er, dreams," Nuzhunpa said, slightly puzzled, "and they consequently pronounced him sahnsaervoh." The two Laizuvrians wondered at the morbid expression on Smerian's face, but they waited patiently for him to go on. After a few moments, though, it became apparent to them that he was finished.
"And because he cnawannawiht named, he not hunter any more?" Nuzhunpa queried, trying to prompt him to continue.
"No, you not understand," Smerian gulped. "To be named cnawannawiht by Yldras is death! Death!"
"The pronouncement of sahnsaervoh, in their race," Nuzhunpa translated with distaste, "apparently carries with it a sentence of death!" Zholybet looked quickly at the Zhonoy on the cot.
"That's why he ran away!" she exclaimed. "The slows were going to kill him!"
"So Smaelaer ran out to escape death!" Nuzhunpa said in turn to Smerian.
Smerian drew his hand across his glistening forehead again. "No!" he said in a dry whisper. "He not escape! I was there - he surrender. The Yldras took him to Yldramot - "
"He didn't escape, he was captured and taken before the leaders - "
"And then he die by water and fire! and Nuzhunpa," Smerian spoke to the Laizuvrian like he would to an old friend, "Smaelaer look no older now than when that happen!"
Nuzhunpa looked strangely at Smerian, then at the cot, then turned to Zholybet. " - and he was executed! And, oddly, Smerian seems surprised most of all that he doesn't look any different now!"
Smerian went on. "He same now as then; more than two hands-and-feet seasons past!"
Nuzhunpa stared at Smerian. He had never heard anything in his life as incredible as this whole story, and yet there was such a palpable feeling of sincerity coming from this inveterate liar and fool that, somehow, he couldn't doubt it for a moment. A cold chill swept through him. He swallowed and finished for Zholybet. "Zholybet, this all happened more than two hands-and-feet seasons ago!"
They sat in the gathering gloom of the hut, the unattended fires slowly dying. Opumohn's rasping breath slowly meted out the depressing moments. Burfohn, intent on his failing brother, had not listened to the story, and had not moved. Smerian, Zholybet, and Nuzhunpa sat like stones, unwilling to think and unable to move.
Smerian was the first to break the spell, and he did it in characteristic fashion: loudly.
"I know what I will do!" he declared, jumping to his feet, intentionally kicking over the bench behind him. "I am leaving. This did not happen! He," he pointed to the cot, "is not there! Come, Nuzhunpa. Take me back!"
"Dacoar, take you back," Nuzhunpa repeated numbly. He looked uncertainly at Zholybet, motioning to the quiet Zhonoy. Smerian was already striding toward the door.
"It's all right, prahnum," she reassured him. "I've watched him this long; I'll be all right."
Burfohn registered his contempt for the whole Zhonoy race to Nuzhunpa as he passed him on the way out after Smerian, but once his anger had been vented, the hut returned to relative silence again. Zholybet (quaking a little on the inside, to be sure!) tended to the lamps and the fire, and set to preparing the last meal of the day for her patients, one of them probably near death, and the other one, she realized with awe, she knew not what.
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