Part 16 (1/2)

He drew rein and sprang off. Two males waited outside a house. They expected this visit since Mishka had sent word in advance. So they wore their best robes, faded, darned, freshly washed. One was powerful, middle-aged, his features scored and darkened and his crest bleached by a lifetime of weathers. The other was big too, but full of years, bald, toothless, and blind. Besides the usual knife he bore a sword.

Mishka took his hands first, and bowed deeply ”Foremost among my honored,” the guardsman said, ”your grandson asks for your blessing.”

Gnarled fingers felt across his arms, shoulders, face, and came to rest cradling his cheeks. ”This is indeed you,” the old male whispered. ”And whole and hale; I feel strength s.h.i.+ne from you. Whatever G.o.d has been your friend, be he thanked. As for my blessing, that have you always borne.”

He released Mishka, who turned to the other, likewise clasped hands and bowed, and said, ”Father, your son has come home and asks for your blessing.”

Wordless, but his lips not altogether steady, his parent touched him on breast, mouth, and brow. Then they hugged each other.

Charlie had dismounted and thrown back his cowl. His red hair blazed in the sun. Mishka bowed next to him. ”Prince,” said the Talyinan, ”behold my grandfather, Vorka, and my father, Ruzan.” To them: ”Sires, behold the Prince of the Prophecy and my dear comrade, Charles Edward Stuart.”

Ruzan went on his knees, palms together, but Vorka drew his sword hissing from the sheath and brought its deadly brightness aloft in a soldier's salute.

”I-I'm glad to meet you,” Charlie fumbled. Mishka had told him to expect ceremoniousness but to be at ease because no one awaited similar actions from a foreign guest. Nonetheless, this dignity made the Earthling feel dwindled and awkward.

Ruzan rose. ”We thank you for the honor you bring us,” he said.

”And for our freedom!” Vorka's tone rang. Sightless, he scabbarded his blade in a single snap.

Mishka went inside. Charlie started to follow. ”I pray you, Prince,” Ruzan said, ”We give him a short while to greet his mother. It is the custom.”

”Oh . . . yes.” The human s.h.i.+fted from foot to foot. ”Uh, he's told me a lot about you, sir. You're a fisherman, you and your younger sons?”

”No more them,” Ruzan said quietly. ”Kyraz drowned last year when a storm capsized our boat.” Now Charlie recalled Mishka's stoical mention of that and flushed. ”Arko has gone to Glats to enlist under your banner, Prince. I would too, but someone must troll our living from the sea.”

Charlie tried to express sympathy. Vorka gripped Ruzan's shoulder and said, ”A proud blood flows in my son, Prince. He has not chosen the easiest way.”

”Your blood,” Ruzan said low. To Charlie he explained: ”My father was the guardian of our village aforetime. That was when the succession to the barony of Lyovka fell into dispute, and for years fighting went up and down this island. There were no patrols, and folk grown desperate after their steadings had been looted would often join the bandits that began to swarm. The village then chose Vorka, who had served in the troops and knew swordplay, to guard it. No more than a single such man could the village support. But throughout the evil years he watched, and fought, and slew, himself more than once wounded, seldom given a full night's rest, and the village lived, unplundered, unburned, its sons safe from death and its daughters from shame, until peace came back upon the land.”

Charlie had heard the tale before. He would sooner have cut his tongue out than interrupt Ruzan's recital of it.

Presently Mishka emerged, to bid them enter. His mother, his married sister, and the children of the latter knelt on the reed mats in homage to their Prince. His brother-in-law had joined the fighting force.

Seated on low stools, Charlie and the family partook of tea. Mishka told the boy it was customary to refrain from eating at the reunion of kinfolk until ancestral rites had been performed at the temple.

Villagers hailed the party in soft voices as it proceeded to the halidom. This was little more than a roof over a shrine, inside a wooden fence where many-colored flowery vines climbed. The shrine held an altar, a granite block. On top of this was a blackened bowl-shaped hole. Its sides were chiseled with symbols of sun, moon, stars, sea, land, wind, and life. Otherwise the area was raked white gravel, carefully s.p.a.ced and tended shrubs, and knee-high stone slabs which stood well apart, a different sign carved into every one.

The priest waited in sky-blue robes. He was also the community's master carpenter. His workscarred right hand held a blossom with great, flaring petals, his left a smoldering stick whose smoke perfumed the salty air. The visitors bowed to him, and he to them.

Mishka whispered in Charlie's ear, ”A family keeps its own stone-” Then they were at his.

Again they bowed. Charlie found himself doing it. Vorka spoke: ”Ancestors and beloved, you who are departed, rejoice with us this day, that a son of the house has come home. And beside him goes the Prince of the Prophecy, who shall deliver us from wrong and harm. Oh, but he builds on the work of your lives, which you left for us when you went down in darkness. Return now! May the Flower Flame call you back; may your spirits share our gladness.”

Mishka went to the priest and received the bloom. He laid it in the altar bowl. With the incense stick he set it alight. A clear brilliance consumed it, and meanwhile the family knelt and said their prayers. Charlie knelt, too.

Afterward, shyly, the priest said, ”Prince, my abode is but a few steps hence. If you could spare some pulsebeats, you may be interested-”

What he showed Charlie was a collection of books, preserved in fragrant wooden boxes. Their bindings were ivory, intricately carved. Parchment sheets bore illuminated texts. To create such a thing must have taken man-years, somehow stolen from toil for survival in the course of generations.

”There is much wisdom stored here,” said the priest. ”Very much wisdom for a small village like ours. Counsels from the G.o.ds; deeds of our forebears; poetry; music; and, yes, the workaday truths by which men endure, seasons, tides, the ways of water and of soil, what simples may help in what sicknesses- Well, my Prince knows. Now I will begin a new page for the latest of our chronicles, to tell how you came and knelt before Mishka's ancestors and how you guested at this house and held these books.”

”Yes. . . .” Charlie felt utterly inadequate. An idea occurred to him. Though he wore plain Talyinan traveling clothes, he had at his belt a purse of money. From this he drew a fistful of gold and silver, a fortune by commoner standards. ”Will you, uh, will you accept a donation?”

”I thank you, Lord, no.” Gently, the priest closed Charlie's fingers back over the precious metal. ”It is for our honor that we give what little we may, to the Prince who gives us our freedom.”

”True,” rumbled Ruzan. ”Come, we must go make ready.” To the priest, ”We begin when the sun stands at noon.”

”I wait in happiness,” replied he.

The way back from here led within sight of the beach. There lay an overturned hull on which several males used tools. Seeing Mishka, whose bulk hid Charlie from them, they waved and shouted.

”Why, yonder's Dolgo,” the warrior said. ”And Avan and-” He moved to go join his former s.h.i.+pmates.

His father stopped him. ”No, son. You'll meet them at the feast. Disturb them not before then.”

”Right, sire.” Mishka rejoined his relatives.

”Why shouldn't he?” Charlie asked.

”It would delay them in their work,” Ruzan answered. ”You see what a big boat that is. We can ill do without it, for though every crew markets its own catch, it gives a t.i.the of what it gets to our treasury, for the care of the poor and to keep us all alive in years of bad weather. So we offered thanks when this boat drifted ash.o.r.e after a hurricane not long ago, however much we mourned the ten men who did not return with it. Most of our fishers are out to sea. These must go back too, as soon as they can.” He sighed. ”I feel almost guilty myself that I stayed behind today.”

Mishka squeezed his hand.

The revel was a communal affair. Every villager brought food or drink to a tree-shaded green. Lanterns, wind bells, and flags had been strung around to make the place festive.

For no matter how important the occasion, it was not solemn. In fact, Charlie had never been at a jollier party. The table was loaded, the shmiriz flowed unstinted, drums and wooden flutes rollicked to set feet a-bouncing, jokes crackled, and n.o.body talked politics. Charlie wasn't put on a pedestal; he was invited to join the songs and dances. Young and in top condition, he soon found the females could whirl him breathless.

And there Mishka capered with a New Lemurian girl who Charlie suddenly saw was quite pretty; and there the priest and his wife leaped by; and old blind Vorka joined the chanters as they roared forth the measure: Swing your lady swiftly.

Sweep her in your arms, lad.

Do a dosey-do now, Then double back and circle. . . .

Somewhere amid the noise and laughter, a part of Charlie wondered how many folk on Earth knew how to have this good a time.

When the foe might appear at any moment, unbeknownst before an aircraft or picket boat saw his masts on the horizon and beat home to report it, no leave could be for more than a day. Late in the afternoon, the celebration ended. Charlie stayed outside, making what conversation he was able, while Mishka bade his family a private farewell.

Thereafter the two of them saddled their yachis and headed back to town.

Mishka was about one and a half sheets in the wind. Jaws bandaged to save his teeth and tongue while he rode, he couldn't bawl out songs, but he hummed them as loudly as possible. No fears touched him. Maybe he would never see his kin again. But maybe he would. The coming of the Prince made that the more likely, in his eyes. And regardless of what some hostile G.o.d might do, he had seen them. He savored the memory.

Charlie, who had stuck to plain fruit juice, felt otherwise. He'd enjoyed his excursion, mostly, but that same fact got him brooding.

At a rest stop, he said, ”They're so . . . so real, your people.”