Part Three
Chapter 22
LEAVINGS
Burfohn sat, idly rolling a bea around the bottom of his heavy zhat. The whir it made filled his ears, and seemed to fill the whole hut; a constant, mindless, harsh little buzz. As much time as he had spent playing that game, he had never before really listened to the sound of the bea as it ran. A truly odd noise, he now thought, expertly wiggling the zhat again to keep the bea rolling.
He had waited at his brother's side so long now, night and day for nearly four days, that he was giddy with exhaustion. He watched Zholybet care for his brother in a dreamy trance, not realizing that she had begun to administer to him as well; feeding him, bringing him water, forcing him to stand and walk about the hut with her from time to time. He hadn't slept for two days. It wasn't that he didn't want to sleep anymore. On the contrary, he was stupifyingly weary; he just found it impossible to do.
At first, he had expected Opumohn to awaken at every breath - the next one would be the one! no, the next - and he hung by the side of the cot eagerly. But slowly and strangely, as time wore on beyond the point when he could any longer be fully aware of its passing, he entered into a kind of middle-state between waking and dreaming. The cadence of Opumohn's breathing became so much a part of him that he paid no more attention to it than he paid to the sound of his own breath. And he fell, or had somehow gradually fallen, into a condition in which he could neither wake nor sleep, and under which his hope for Opumohn's recovery had transmogrified into a kind of forced death-watch, without his being aware of the change.
Zholybet had put the beazhat in his hands (when? it seemed such a long time ago) to force him to just move a little, to do something. He stared down at it dumbly.
He didn't even realize that he couldn't actually see it anymore. The hut was very dark. The sharbohn lamps had burned down, and the fire was out. It was mid-night. Zholybet was asleep on her mat in the corner, and the room was very quiet.
Very quiet.
Zholybet was suddenly awakened by the shattering crash of Burfohn's game on the floor where it had fallen from his trembling hands. "The poor um finally fell asleep," was her first thought, but then she heard a heartbreaking sound, and she arose and made her way through the darkness to him.
"What is it, Burfohn?''
He was crying, slightly sobbing now and again, still sitting in the same slumped position on the bench. After a long pause, he managed to whisper one word.
"Listen."
Zholybet listened. The hut was utterly silent.
Opumohn was dead.
"Why did it have to be so far from Todymody?" Burfohn commented sadly, to no one in particular. He felt the already warming mid-morning breeze on his face and watched as they arranged Opumohn's body in Moerv's batohvahn. He was lucky, in a way; Moerv seemed to be in a particular rush to leave the Ealdlazay Fair, for some mysterious reason he would not divulge but Nuzhunpa seemed to know and think humorous, and his batohvahn would carry Opumohn home to Todymody as quickly as could be hoped for. Once there, he would be prepared for formal rites they could not properly perform at the camp, and on the return of the trade party the traditional ceremony would be held.
That was some consolation to him, at least. He had feared, at first, that they would have to perform some makeshift rites on the spot, depriving his poor prahnumpa not only of attending her son at his death but also of honoring him at the ceremony. But Nuzhunpa happened to know that Moerv was leaving early, and that his batohvahn would have enough room for Opumohn and Burfohn, and he made the arrangements. Moerv seemed to be sick, or something, and at first he had sniffed, "The perfect end of a perfect trip: ferry-um to the dead." But he really didn't mean it, and he sincerely commiserated with Burfohn on his loss.
Nuzhunpa and Zholybet finished with Opumohn's body. They had wrapped him tightly from head to foot with several layers of the Laizuvrians' fine cloth, and finished by covering him with the Zhonoy skin offered by Moerv. Moerv had already stowed his precious fo and his other marshmancay booty, and Zholybet handed to Burfohn a bundle of his belongings hastily gathered up by others of the advance party.
"Don't worry if anything is missing," she said quietly. "We'll bring everything to you when we get back to Todymody."
Burfohn nodded. He wanted to thank the homely numpa for all the care she had given his brother. She really had been most attentive and helpful. But his gratitude was poisoned by the nagging recollection that she had provided equally conscientious care to that slow of a Zhonoy, and he felt that his brother's dignity had been soiled by having to share the same hut with it in his illness. His spite was not leavened by the thought that the Zhonoy was still alive, either, while his poor brother lay bound up and cold in the bottom of Moerv's batohvahn. It wasn't fair.
He managed a weak smile, and stepped falteringly into the boat. Nuzhunpa caught Moerv by the arm as he was about to do the same.
"Moerv, I know your head is hurting you right now, but I'm going to ask one more favor of you in Burfohn's behalf," Nuzhunpa whispered. "Look at him."
Burfohn was lurching unsteadily through the rocking craft, holding on to the fargs with both hands in an effort to stay on his feet until he made his way to his place.
"He looks like I feel," Moerv commented drily.
"Exactly," said Nuzhunpa. "He hasn't slept for three days, and he's about to cave in, I think. So this is the favor I'm asking: don't expect Burfohn to help much in handling your batohvahn. He's in no condition for it, and you don't need help anyway, I imagine. And, if he should finally fall asleep on the way home, by all means let him sleep! He needs it badly."
Moerv sniffed resignedly. "Not one, but two bodies on board," he thought to himself, but he sympathized with the compassion in Nuzhunpa's request, and he assured him he would do his best to make Burfohn comfortable in every way he could.
Moerv pushed off into the current of the Luhvluhv and hoisted the vahnsack, and soon the batohvahn was far down the river and out of sight.
The sun was shining pleasantly. It was Zholybet's favorite time of the day: mid-morning, before the truly hot rays of mid-day, and after the cool mists of dawn had been melted away. The children of the camp had long been noisily chasing each other, oblivious to Opumohn's and every other tragedy, cognizant only that they were free and unsupervised (which was not exactly true) and determined to take advantage of it. She smiled at their exuberant, almost forced, riot, and recalled how she had loved to come to the Ealdlazay Fair as a youngster.
Her contentment gave her the confidence to bring up a subject, as she walked back through camp with her prahnum, which had been on her mind a lot lately.
"What are we going to do with the Zhonoy?" she asked Nuzhunpa bluntly, not knowing how to approach it otherwise.
He let out a huge sigh, as if he had been holding his breath in wait for this very question. "Krot!" he blurted, "sorry - I don't know. I fo not know. I can't for the life of me believe the story of that malwozzoh Smerian, but - you heard it; it didn't sound like he was making it up, did it?"
"Fo," she agreed, "but I couldn't understand the words, of course. But he certainly did not pretend to faint; that was real, I'm sure of that."
"Dacoar, there's that, and the way he broke out in a sweat, and the pale look on his face - but it's impossible, of course!"
"I've been thinking about it, too," Zholybet said. "I think we should take him back to Todymody."
"I know, you've said that before."
"I thought that even before we heard Smerian's story," she went on. "I think Paisohnprahn would like to talk to it."
"If it recovers," Nuzhunpa reminded her, "and if it does know anything. But what if it is just another slow Zhonoy; what then? Do we have to feed it for a whole season and bring it to the next Ealdlazay Fair, hoping the Zhonoys will want it then and take it back? And what if it never wakes up - do you want to spend all your time caring for it like you have here? And for how long?"
Zholybet was thoughtful.
Nuzhunpa sighed again. "I wish the Zhonoys would take it."
"It didn't look as though they were interested."
"Oh, that's just Smerian. He's not a leader or anything as far as I can tell - just a troublemaker and a liar."
"I see now why you brought him."
Nuzhunpa scowled at her sarcasm, but soon smiled in spite of himself. It did sound rather ridiculous.
"Why don't you ask their leaders about it at the trockzelay this afternoon?" she suggested. "Perhaps they are more reliable than this Smerian."
Nuzhunpa shuddered. "You don't know what you're saying," he scolded her. "Don't you remember Bicce, their blatyay?"
A rabazhwah of recollection smothered her. Bicce. Who could forget Bicce? She thought of last season's trockzelay with horror, at the spectacle of her prahnum being browbeaten into submission by that relentless slow, and she frowned.
But suddenly, as their minds followed the same line of thought, they both laughed out loud together. "It's a good thing Bicce doesn't know that we know!" she cried gaily.
"Sssh!" her prahnum put a warning finger to his smiling lips. "She must never find out, either!" They laughed again.
They had reached the last hut, and Nuzhunpa's face clouded again as Zholybet walked to the door. "Zholy," he said, "leave the door open. You will be alone in there, now, and I don't like it. I have to go see to the blaorzh vaisohs now, or I'd stay with you, but I want you to find someone to help before you go back in. I know; find Feeshare, I think she stayed in camp this morning. Do you understand?"
She stepped back to him and put her hand on his arm reassuringly. "Dacoar, dacoar, I understand. I'll be all right. I just want to check on the sharbohn lamps, and then I promise I'll go find someone. I promise."
Nuzhunpa looked her in the eye, shrugged, and smiled a tight, thin smile. "All right. We'll talk about the Zhonoy after the trockzelay." He rolled his eyes at the thought. "I'm not looking forward to that, either! Be careful."
Zholybet watched him hobble away on his stiff old legs. "He should have listened to me, and not come this season," she thought. "He has too many worries."
The sharbohn was almost entirely burned down when she went inside, just as she had suspected, and it took her a few moments to build the tiny fires up again to the point where they cast enough light to see by. She had dutifully left the door open when she entered, and the sunlight was streaming in, but that only made the darkness in the back of the long hut seem impenetrable by contrast. The sharbohn lamps relit, she mechanically went to rebuild the fire for the mid-day meal, and when finished with that, she turned to look over the Zhonoy - and froze in her tracks.
It was moving.
The Zhonoy was struggling to raise itself up on its cot, without success. It was obviously too weak to support its own weight, and Zholybet could see it cringe and wince with exertion and pain as it managed to sit up a little only to fall back in defeat. Her instinct as a nurse immediately overwhelmed any fear she may have felt initially, and she was thrilled with the recovery of her patient as she rushed up to chastise him for his vain efforts.
"Fo, fo, fo, you can't do that yet, what are you thinking?" she chattered absently, tucking him gently but firmly back into the cot, inspecting his sores for any wounds he may have opened by his exertions. "But what am I saying this to you for, anyway; you can't understand a word of it, can you? You'll just have to trust me, I guess: trust me that I know best for you right now. After all, I've looked after you for over four days now, you know. I look like a numpa who can be trusted now, don't I?" She finally looked at the Zhonoy's face, finished with her busy prattle for a moment - and suddenly she straightened up and gasped.
He was looking at her with a very peculiar expression on his face; not of fear, or loathing, or resentment, or even gratitude; any of which she told herself she could have expected under the circumstances. He had remarkably expressive eyes, she suddenly felt; and they betrayed a look, a haunting, troubled, but unmistakable look, of recognition! At the same time, his mouth was feebly uttering something which was equally amazing to her.
"Dacoar," he said faintly (in Laizuvrian!). "I trust you."
The loyal group of Laizuvrians who had gathered to lend moral support loudly hooted their disapproval. They had been there since mid-day, and it had been a very long afternoon for them and their blatyay, Nuzhunpa. Already, the light breeze across the Ealdlazay Fair was tinged with a hint of evening's chill, and the sun was getting low in the afternoon sky.
Nuzhunpa did not notice the sun, however, and he did not feel the breeze. He was livid. He whirled around, turning his back to the Zhonoy delegation to the trockzelay, and silently touched each of his fingers to get his emotions under control.
He had been this close to an agreement with Bicce. They had bantered back and forth; proposal, counter-proposal, rejection, amendment, concession, another proposal - on and on and on. She was maddening. He knew she was intentionally and deliberately trying to make him lose his temper so she could claim he was not bargaining in good faith, but he was determined that she would not get away with it. Once, seasons ago, he had exploded in frustrated wrath in the middle of the trockzelay, and Bicce had arbitrarily walked out as a result, and forced a repeat of the whole process again the next day. He was close to doing that again, but he mastered himself slowly. Just when he thought they were almost done with it, she had exhumed a preposterous demand that they had negotiated away clear back at mid-day, at the beginning of the trockzelay. Now, she capriciously brings it up again, and the Zhonoys were howling with delight, and the Laizuvrians were justifiably perturbed.
"Fo! I mean, no, Yldra Bicce," Nuzhunpa repeated with all the control he could muster. "The Laizuvry will not load Zhonoy wains. No! Zhonoys load blaorzh into wains, Laizuvry load sharbohn into vaisohs!"
"Maegenyldra Bicce," Bicce corrected him haughtily. "Nuzhunpa, you know we agree Laizuvry load all wains long ago; at start of trade! Why you change now?" The Traeppedelferes behind her tittered at her bold and straight-faced lie.
"Maegenyldra Bicce," said an exasperated Nuzhunpa, "all here know that not true. Listen to your own folk laugh your back behind."
Bicce affected an astonished expression. "You say I triewthnawiht? You say I twatunge? How dare you hope to bargain with me?"
"Bicce," he launched the word like a thrown pebble, "Laizuvry not load wains for Zhonoys. We agreed to that. What is it you now want? Let's finish, um?"
She cast an appraising eye over him. She knew he was not giving in to her any more this season, he had had enough, so she made her final offer. "Nuzhunpa, you know we need kernals. Without kernals, we starve. You have no feelings to try to starve poor Traeppedelferes by faithless bargaining. But we must do what we can. So, we will accept your small offering," she waved her hand toward the neat piles of blaorzh in front of them, "and offer you all this fyrstan,'' she pointed in turn to the jumbled mass of dumped rock behind her, "minus, oh, four - no, minus five wainloads, which we will take back to mines, and will save us much work."
Nuzhunpa was incensed. After all the talk, after all his efforts to save their 'kernals' from rain and fire, after the death of one of his folk (which he made sure Bicce knew about), she had the nerve to suggest that he accept being shorted five loads of sharbohn! He turned his back to her again, spluttering with indignation, recounting his fingers, eyes closed.
"Prahnum!"
Bicce's cheek never failed to amaze him, but this season she seemed intent on plumbing new depths of criminality. The whole afternoon had been wasted! he said to himself - they would have to start the trockzelay over again from scratch. The amounts of materials traded was essentially cut in stone from season to season; how dare she suggest such a radical re-evaluation at the last moment like that?
"Prahnum!" Zholybet called to him again, and this time he recognized her voice.
"Just a moment," he said between clenched teeth to Bicce, who smiled with acid sweetness, ignorantly misunderstanding Zholybet's interruption. "Of course, go to your wencel," she said bitingly, to the renewed howls of the Traeppedelfere delegation.
Nuzhunpa limped tiredly over to the Laizuvrys, and drew Zholybet aside. "When did you come over?" he asked.
"Just now," she answered, still out of breath. "I have to talk to you." She was obviously excited about something.
"It will have to wait!" Nuzhunpa declared peevishly. "I've got enough on my hands trying to deal with this slow!"
She grabbed his arm desperately. "Have you mentioned the Zhonoy yet?"
"Actually, I'd forgotten all about it," he said. "I'm glad you reminded me."
She seemed relieved at once. "Don't say anything about him to the Zhonoys!" she demanded, "not a word! All right? Do you understand? I'll explain later, when the trockzelay is over."
Nuzhunpa didn't understand, and his uncertain face betrayed this to his daughter.
"Please? For me?" she begged. "Don't mention him to the Zhonoys!"
Nuzhunpa softened, as he would only for her. "All right. But there had better be a good reason for it!" He set his jaw and turned to face Bicce again.
"Remember what we talked about this morning!" Zholybet called out to him as she turned to go back to camp. He stood in his tracks for a moment, then chuckled to himself.
"Bicce!" he called out, "you win. Our blaorzh, er, kernals, for your shar- I mean, fyrstan, minus five loads." The Traeppedelferes cheered, and the Laizuvrians groaned: why, they wouldn't have enough to make it to the next Ealdlazay Fair! How could Nuzhunpa, usually so sensible and shrewd, let them down like that? They wondered what it was that Zholybet had told him.
Nuzhunpa looked over the members of his group. "Rokay," he said, "stay and see that the Zhonoys remove no more than five loads of sharbohn. I'll send someone over to help you when I get back to camp."
"Have them bring something to eat," Rokay muttered. Nuzhunpa looked up at the sun. It was getting late.
"What were you talking about?" Nuzhunpa demanded as soon as he had shut the door of the hut behind him. But he quieted as soon as he looked up and saw the Zhonoy sitting up and talking with his daughter. She ran up to him breathlessly.
"Prahnum, his name isn't Smaelaer, it's Monwyrt, and he hasn't been dead for two hands-and-feet seasons, and he doesn't know what beckyrev is, but we think it helped him, because he was attacked by malwozzohs like we thought, only we didn't know how many, and he's a twatunge, but he's never been to Ealdlazay Fair, and prahnum," she whispered in an embarassed but excited voice that absolutely mystified him, "he thinks I'm pretty!"
Nuzhunpa's eyes flew wide open at this last confession, but they soon narrowed again as he turned to the Zhonoy. "You speak our tongue?" he asked him.
"Dacoar."
"But you have never been here before?"
"That's right," Monwyrt admitted. "I don't know where I am at all."
"Where did you learn our language?"
Monwyrt was silent. How could he explain? Fortunately, the Mocwalwian antunge seemed to be on his side.
"Prahnum, you'll just wear him out with your questions! Look at him; he can hardly sit up, and you're battering him."
"I'm not battering him. You seem to have forgotten that we know almost nothing at all about him! What was he doing out on the plain? What was that story of Smerian's all about? How did he survive the fire, and the malwozzohs, and the beckyrev?"
"I'm sure he will explain all those things to us if we only let him regain his strength," Zholybet defended him.
"And something else worries me," Nuzhunpa went on, "what were you doing at the trockzelay, and what's it to you if he thinks you're pretty?"
Zholybet pouted. "Oh, nothing. It's just that, you know, prahnum, nobody thinks I'm pretty. It was nice to hear it, even from a Zhonoy." Nuzhunpa felt as though he had been skewered. "And as for the trockzelay, I wanted to talk to you again about taking him to Todymody. I was afraid you'd give him away."
"Give him away!" Nuzhunpa thundered. "'He' belongs to them, not to us! They could very well accuse us of stealing him, although I fail to imagine why we would want to do such a thing, and -"
"Snecchen wants me back, I am sure," Monwyrt interrupted.
"Eh, what? who's Snecchen?" Nuzhunpa asked. The name sounded familiar to him, for some reason.
"She is Giestranweard. I am a morwegiestranweard."
"Morwe- whew! Well, she almost came over here to identify you - I suppose I had better go and try again to get her across the Luhvluhv." Nuzhunpa seemed relieved to know that someone would take this burden off his hands.
Monwyrt turned as pale as water. "Fo, please don't!"
"Fo, prahnum," Zholybet jumped in front of him. "That's why I went to the trockzelay! He doesn't want to go back."
Nuzhunpa turned to Monwyrt. "I don't want to go back," he said, "not yet, anyway."
"Not yet, eh," said Nuzhunpa, "then when?"
Monwyrt sat without answering.
"You're making him tired, prahnum," Zholybet scolded him, gently forcing Monwyrt to lay down on the cot.
"Fo, I'm not!" declared Nuzhunpa, looking to Monwyrt for verification.
"Fo, you're not," Monwyrt smiled in answer to his look, and sat up again.
"Why, if your Giestranweard wants you back again, don't you go back?"
"She only wants me for what I have learned, so that she can increase her own power over the tribe, which is already great," Monwyrt admitted. "And then she would probably have me named cnawannawiht."
Nuzhunpa sat down on the bench. Zholybet sat down beside him. They both looked at Monwyrt. This was beginning to sound eerily familiar. "And what is it that you have learned that would make her so powerful?" asked Nuzhunpa.
Monwyrt grew quiet again. He had already confided a great deal to these Mocwalwians. Could he trust them? He would have to rely on them for some days yet, at least, before he could get on his feet, he knew that much. He felt very weak, and he had noticed with alarm that he could feel his own bones through his skin in places he had never felt them before. He had no idea of what the Mocwalwians' lore might consist: what did they believe in? Finally, he simply said, "I don't think you would understand."
Nuzhunpa gazed at the thoughtful Zhonoy. Clearly, there was more to him than met the eye. He thought a long time, and finally cleared his throat. "Zholybet," he said, as though Monwyrt was not present, "I think you are right. I think Paisohnprahn would indeed be very interested in our friend here. Monwyrt," he turned to him, "consider this. We will help you to regain your strength, which, despite your condition now, I think was once considerable. But in return, you must work as a Laizuvrian for one season, until the next Ealdlazay Fair, and you must speak to our leader Paisohnprahn, and do whatever he may require of you."
Zholybet began hugging her prahnum as soon as she understood the gist of his offer, and she clung tightly to him after he finished. Monwyrt was still thoughtful.
"And if I don't accept?" he asked.
"I will cross the river right this moment and find your Giestranweard and tell her you are here."
"Where is your Todymody?" Monwyrt asked. Zholybet smiled.
"Downriver three days by batohram, four by vaisoh," she replied.
On hearing it was downriver, Monwyrt's mind was made up. "I'll come with you to Todymody. And Prahnum," he added ("Nuzhunpa!" corrected a scarlet-faced Zholybet), "oh, sorry - Nuzhunpa, thank you."
Nuzhunpa just hoped he could explain this to his friends.
"Moc!" hissed Smerian, tossing another armload of fyrstan into the wain. "What sense is this? Dump wains here, load wains up again, just to dump again in ford? Moc, moc, moc!"
"Hsss!" Stanstrang hushed him. "No sense, but Bicce say! She get good price for fyrstan today, but that mean we just have to dump more in river. Make stancippians gemaed, but Bicce not care about that, so long as she can brag to Maegenyldras."
"Why not take back to mines?"
Stanstrang shrugged. "Need wains for kernals, I guess."
"Why dump in river? such waste!"
"Hsss!" Stanstrang hissed again. "If Mocwalwians hear, Bicce will name us cnawannawiht!"
"Faugh! Bicce! Faugh! Mocwalwians!" Smerian was irritable. They continued to load the five huge wains with fyrstan. From a short distance away (but out of earshot), Rokay and Feeshare ate the supper that she had carried over, and watched them work.
Cwidu was talking with Bicce that very moment.
"Next season need not bring so much fyrstan!" Bicce gloated. That Nuzhunpa is mocbraegen! Five wains!"
"It seems great waste for this season," Cwidu shook his head, looking at the water in the ford.
"Every season we dump a wain or two," said Bicce. "What big thing about five?"
"True," said Cwidu, "but every season ford just the same. Why that?"
"You saw water in river after rain," said Bicce. "Think of river in rainy season! Fyrstan wash away."
"Still think great waste."
The next day, both camps were in the process of tearing down, packing up, stowing away, and loading in. The Bazaar was over for another season. Once the five wainloads of fyrstan had been separated out, the Traeppedelferes and the Laizuvries had worked long into the night to load the wains and vaisohs, and by morning, the last of these were ready for their respective return voyages.
Coincidentally or otherwise, the Laizuvrian boats were lined up for their return to Todymody based on the same idea used to line up the Traeppedelfere wains and carts: lighter, faster crafts first; and slower, heavier crafts last. The sharbohn vaisohs were therefore the very last to leave the camp, and the advance party now became the rearguard as the whole group returned home. Nuzhunpa, Zholybet, and the still hidden and unknown Monwyrt, were going to occupy the very last vaisoh, but Nuzhunpa had five of the long barges wait an extra day after the rest had gone.
Pulling their vaisoh (which was almost empty) across to the island by means of the ferry-line, Nuzhunpa signaled to them to wait while he went ahead. In a moment he reappeared over the lip of the island, and he called out, "Come on up and look at this!" About two hands curious ums and numpas clambered onto the top of the island to look off into the distance at a (to them) hilarious sight.
Far off, in a straight line up the road from the ford, was the train of the Traeppedelferes, a huge cloud of dust billowing out from the wheels and feet of the procession. They had left the day before, but were still in plain sight as a whole: it was a long, laborious process rolling those huge wains up that never-ending incline.
Nuzhunpa soon instructed them to pole the vaisohs as far up the ford on the other side of the island as they could, which it turned out was right up to the newly-dumped sharbohn, thanks to the slight draughts of the crafts. They merrily laughed at Bicce's expense as they loaded up the better part of the five wains of sharbohn they had been shorted. "Every season!" Nuzhunpa exclaimed. "We do it to them every season, and they never learn!"
"This is even better than usual; five loads!" laughed Kunahr. "It's much easier loading it here than off of the island!"
"Maybe next season Nuzhunpa can have her dump it all here," said Runahr, and everybody laughed.
So, that afternoon, enjoying the late-season sun, the Laizuvrians lazed along on their drifting sharbohn vaisohs, beginning their easy journey homeward.
Monwyrt, still a little weak, and blinking in the bright sun after being indoors a hand-day, clutched panic-stricken at the fargs as his stomachs hove.
He almost wished he had gone with Snecchen.
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