Ursula K. LeGuin - Bones of the Earth.pdf - Ursula K. LeGuin - widez2

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It was raining again, and the wizard of Re Albi was sorely tempted to make a weather spell, just a little,

small spell, to send the rain on round the mountain. His bones ached. They ached for the sun to come out

and shine through his flesh and dry them out. Of course he could say a pain spell, but all that would do

was hide the ache for a while. There was no cure for what ailed him. Old bones need the sun. The wizard

stood still in the doorway of his house, between the dark room and the rainstreaked open air, preventing

himself from making a spell, and angry at himself for preventing himself and for having to be prevented.

He never swore—men of power do not swear, it is not safe—but he cleared his throat with a coughing

growl, like a bear. A moment later a thunderclap rolled off the hidden upper slopes of Gont Mountain,

echoing round from north to south, dying away in the cloud-filled forests.

A good sign, thunder, Dulse thought. It would stop raining soon. He pulled up his hood and went out

into the rain to feed the chickens.

He checked the henhouse, finding three eggs. Red Bucca was setting. Her eggs were about due to

hatch. The mites were bothering her, and she looked scruffy and jaded. He said a few words against

mites, told himself to remember to clean out the nest box as soon as the chicks hatched, and went on to

the poultry yard, where Brown Bucca and Grey and Leggings and Candor and the King huddled under

the eaves making soft, shrewish remarks about rain.

“It'll stop by midday,” the wizard told the chickens. He fed them and squelched back to the house with

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three warm eggs. When he was a child he had liked to walk in mud. He remembered enjoying the cool of

it rising between his toes. He still like to go barefoot, but no longer enjoyed mud; it was sticky stuff, and

he disliked stooping to clean his feet before going into the house. When he'd had a dirt floor it hadn't

mattered, but now he had a wooden floor, like a lord or a merchant or an archmage. To keep the cold

and damp out of his bones. Not his own notion. Silence had come up from Gont Port, last spring, to lay a

floor in the old house. They had had one of their arguments about it. He should have known better, after

all this time, than to argue with Silence.

“I've walked on dirt for seventy-five years,” Dulse had said. “A few more won't kill me!"

To which Silence of course had said nothing, letting him hear what he had said and feel its foolishness

thoroughly.

“Dirt's easier to keep clean,” he said, knowing the struggle already lost. It was true that all you had to do

with a good hard-packed clay floor was sweep it and now and then sprinkle it to keep the dust down.

But it sounded silly all the same.

“Who's to lay this floor?” he said, now merely querulous.

Silence nodded, meaning himself.

The boy was in fact a workman of the first order, carpenter, cabinetmaker, stonelayer, roofer; he had

proved that when he lived up here as Dulse's student, and his life with the rich folk of Gont Port had not

softened his hands. He brought the boards from Sixth's mill in Re Albi, driving Gammer's ox-team; he laid

the floor and polished it the next day, while the old wizard was up at Bog Lake gathering simples. When

Dulse came home there it was, shining like a dark lake itself. “Have to wash my feet every time I come

in,” he grumbled. He walked in gingerly. The wood was so smooth it seemed soft to the bare sole.

“Satin,” he said. “You didn't do all that in one day without a spell or two. A village hut with a palace

floor. Well, it'll be a sight, come winter, to see the fire shine in that! Or do I have to get me a carpet now?

A fleecefell, on a golden warp?"

Silence smiled. He was pleased with himself.

He had turned up on Dulse's doorstep a few years ago. Well, no, twenty years ago it must be, or

twenty-five. A while ago now. He had been truly a boy then, long-legged, rough-haired, soft-faced, with

a set mouth and clear eyes. “What do you want?” the wizard had asked, knowing what he wanted, what

they all wanted, and keeping his eyes from those clear eyes. He was a good teacher, the best on Gont,

he knew that. But he was tired of teaching, and didn't want another prentice underfoot, and sensed

danger.

“To learn,” the boy whispered.

“Go to Roke,” the wizard said. The boy wore shoes and a good leather vest. He could afford or earn

ship's passage to the School.

“I've been there."

At that Dulse looked him over again. No cloak, no staff.

“Failed? Sent away? Ran away?"

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The boy shook his head at each question. He shut his eyes; his mouth was already shut. He stood there,

intensely gathered, suffering: drew breath: looked straight into the wizard's eyes.

“My mastery is here, on Gont,” he said, still speaking hardly above a whisper. “My master is Enhemon."

At that the wizard whose true name was Enhemon stood as still as he did, looking back at him, till the

boy's gaze dropped.

In silence Dulse sought his name, and saw two things: a fir-cone, and the rune of the Closed Mouth.

Then seeking further he heard in his mind a name spoken; but he did not speak it.

“I'm tired of teaching and talking,” he said. “I need silence. Is that enough for you?"

The boy nodded once.

“Then to me you are Silence,” the wizard said. “You can sleep in the nook under the west window.

There's an old pallet in the woodhouse. Air it. Don't bring mice in with it.” And he stalked off towards the

Overfell, angry with the boy for coming and with himself for giving in; but it was not anger that made his

heart pound. Striding along—he could stride, then—with the seawind pushing at him always from the left

and the early sunlight on the sea out past the vast shadow of the mountain, he thought of the Mages of

Roke, the masters of the art magic, the professors of mystery and power. “He was too much for ‘em,

was he? And he'll be too much for me,” he thought, and smiled. He was a peaceful man, but he did not

mind a bit of danger.

He stopped and felt the dirt under his feet. He was barefoot, as usual. When he was a student on Roke,

he had worn shoes. But he had come back home to Gont, to Re Albi, with his wizard's staff, and kicked

his shoes off. He stood still and felt the dust and rock of the cliff-top path under his feet, and the cliffs

under that, and the roots of the island in the dark under that. In the dark under the waters all islands

touched and were one. So his teacher Ard had said, and so his teachers on Roke had said. But this was

his island, his rock, dust, dirt. His wizardry grew out of it. “My mastery is here,” the boy had said, but it

went deeper than mastery. That, perhaps, was something Dulse could teach him: what went deeper than

mastery. What he had learned here, on Gont, before he ever went to Roke.

And the boy must have a staff. Why had Nemmerle let him leave Roke without one, empty-handed as a

prentice or a witch? Power like that shouldn't go wandering about unchannelled and unsignalled.

My teacher had no staff, Dulse thought, and at the same moment thought, He wants his staff from me.

Gontish oak, from the hands of a Gontish wizard. Well, if he earns it I'll make him one. If he can keep his

mouth closed. And I'll leave him my lore-books. If he can clean out a henhouse, and understand the

Glosses of Danemer, and keep his mouth closed.

The new student cleaned out the henhouse and hoed the bean-patch, learned the meaning of the Glosses

of Danemer and the Arcana of the Enlades, and kept his mouth closed. He listened. He heard what Dulse

said; sometimes he heard what Dulse thought. He did what Dulse wanted and what Dulse did not know

he wanted. His gift was far beyond Dulse's guidance, yet he had been right to come to Re Albi, and they

both knew it.

Dulse thought sometimes in those years about sons and fathers. He had quarreled with his own father, a

sorcerer-prospector, over his choice of a teacher; his father had shouted that a student of Ard's was no

son of his, had nursed his rage and died unforgiving. Dulse had seen young men weep for joy at the birth

of a first son. He had seen poor men pay witches a year's earnings for the promise of a healthy boy, and

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a rich man touch his gold-bedizened baby's face and whisper, adoring, “My immortality!” He had seen

men beat their sons, bully and humiliate them, spite and thwart them, hating the death they saw in them.

He had seen the answering hatred in the son's eyes, the threat, the pitiless contempt. And seeing it, Dulse

knew why he had never sought reconciliation with his father. He had seen a father and son work together

from daybreak to sundown, the old man guiding a blind ox, the middle-aged man driving the iron-bladed

plough, never a word spoken; as they started home the old man laid his hand a moment on the son's

shoulder. In that touch, Dulse had seen what was lacking in his life. He remembered it when he looked

across the hearth, winter evenings, at the dark face bent above a lorebook or a shirt that needed

mending. The eyes cast down, the mouth closed, the spirit listening.

“Once in his lifetime, if he's lucky, a wizard finds somebody he can talk to.” Nemmerle had said that to

Dulse a night or two before he left Roke, a year or two before Nemmerle was chosen Archmage. He

had been the Master Patterner and the kindest of all Dulse's teachers at the School. “I think, if you

stayed, Enhemon, we could talk."

Dulse had been unable to answer at all for a while. Then, stammering, guilty at his ingratitude and

incredulous at his obstinacy—"Master, I would stay, but my work is on Gont—I wish it was here, with

you—"

“It's a rare gift, to know where you need to be, before you've been to all the places you don't need to

be. Well, send me a student now and then. Roke needs Gontish wizardry. I think we're leaving things out,

here, things worth knowing...."

Dulse had sent students on to the School, three or four of them, nice lads with a gift for this or that; but

the one Nemmerle waited for had come and gone of his own will, and what they had thought of him on

Roke Dulse did not know. Silence did not say. He had learned there in two or three years what some

boys learned in six or seven and many never learned at all, but to him it had been mere groundwork.

“Why didn't you come to me first?” Dulse had demanded. “And then Roke, to put a polish on it?"

“I didn't want to waste your time."

“Did Nemmerle know you were coming to work with me?"

Silence shook his head.

“If you'd deigned to tell him your intentions, he might have sent a message to me."

Silence looked stricken. “Was he your friend?"

Dulse paused. “He was my master. Would have been my friend, perhaps, if I'd stayed on Roke. Have

wizards friends? No more than they have wives, or sons, some would say.... Once he said to me that in

our trade it's a lucky man who finds someone to talk to. Keep that in mind. If you're lucky, one day you'll

have to open your mouth."

Silence bowed his rough, thoughtful head.

“If it hasn't rusted shut,” Dulse added.

“If you ask me to, I'll talk,” the young man said, so earnest, so willing to deny his whole nature at Dulse's

request that the wizard had to laugh.

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“I asked you not to,” he said, “and it's not my need I spoke of. I talk enough for two. Never mind.

You'll know what to say when the time comes. That's the art, eh? What to say, and when to say it. And

the rest is silence."

The young man slept on a pallet under the little west window of Dulse's house for three years. He

learned wizardry, fed the chickens, milked the cow. He suggested, once, that Dulse keep goats. He had

not said anything for a week or so, a cold, wet week of autumn. He said, “You might keep some goats."

Dulse had the big lorebook open on the table. He had been trying to reweave one of the Acastan Spells,

much broken and made powerless by the Emanations of Fundaur centuries ago. He had just begun to get

a sense of the missing word that might fill one of the gaps, he almost had it, and—"You might keep some

goats,” Silence said.

Dulse considered himself a wordy, impatient man with a short temper. The necessity of not swearing had

been a burden to him in his youth, and for thirty years the imbecility of apprentices, clients, cows, and

chickens had tried him sorely. Apprentices and clients were afraid of his tongue, though cows and

chickens paid no attention to his outbursts. He had never been angry at Silence before. There was a very

long pause.

“What for?"

Silence apparently did not notice the pause or the extreme softness of Dulse's voice. “Milk, cheese,

roast kid, company,” he said.

“Have you ever kept goats?” Dulse asked, in the same soft, polite voice.

Silence shook his head.

He was in fact a town boy, born in Gont Port. He had said nothing about himself, but Dulse had asked

around a bit. The father, a longshoreman, had died in the big earthquake, when Silence would have been

seven or eight; the mother was a cook at a waterfront inn. At twelve the boy had got into some kind of

trouble, probably messing about with magic, and his mother had managed to prentice him to Elassen, a

respectable sorcerer in Valmouth. There the boy had picked up his true name, and some skill in

carpentry and farmwork, if not much else; and Elassen had had the generosity, after three years, to pay

his passage to Roke. That was all Dulse knew about him.

“I dislike goat cheese,” Dulse said.

Silence nodded, acceptant as always.

From time to time in the years since then, Dulse remembered how he hadn't lost his temper when Silence

asked about keeping goats; and each time the memory gave him a quiet satisfaction, like that of finishing

the last bite of a perfectly ripe pear.

After spending the next several days trying to recapture the missing word, he had set Silence to studying

the Acastan Spells. Together they had finally worked it out, a long toil. “Like ploughing with a blind ox,”

Dulse said. Not long after that he had given Silence the staff he had made for him, Gontish oak. And the

Lord of Gont Port had tried once again to get Dulse to come down to do what needed doing in Gont

Port, and Dulse had sent Silence down instead, and there he had stayed.

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