We hate it here, he said.
Dar Oakley becked; the Small One understood little or nothing of the Crow’s speech, and supplied Dar Oakley’s replies himself.
We’re sorry we came here, he went on. Three things we lack: Barley, to make beer. Bees, who make honey. And gold in the earth and the streams.
Dar Oakley becked again. He now remembered or believed that the Small One had said this many times in his hearing. If he said it when other Small People were near, they shook their heads sadly, or wept a little. It had taken a great work of memory for Dar Oakley to be sure that yes, nowhere he had traveled this side of the sea, in any of its reaches, was there the grass they called Barley, which People he’d once known had grown and tended. Nowhere were there Bees: never in this country had he seen a hive in a hollow tree full of wax and grubs. And since everywhere he’d been the People loved gold, Dar Oakley could be sure there was none here, or People would wear it and display it. He’d known that but hadn’t known he knew it.
Bring us those things, the bearded being said, and we will give you what you want. Barley. Bees. Gold.
I will, Dar Oakley said, not knowing what else he could say.
Also, the being said, we will give you what you want even if you fail to bring us those things.
Oh, Dar Oakley said. Well. All right.
That thing you want will take one year to grow. When that year is gone, bring us the three things we lack. The Barley for beer. The honey of Bees. The gold. If you do, we’ll rejoice. And you will have the thing.
Dar Oakley becked with all the certainty he could, lifted his wings, and called a call of fierce resolve. The Small One slid beneath the waters of the brook like an Otter and was gone.
Oh stories! Oh People! In all his centuries, how many stories had People told Dar Oakley, and how many about a poor fool charged with getting some ungettable thing—no, three ungettable things—who does get them, or seems to, or doesn’t? Very welclass="underline" he’d think. He told himself to think, think, for stories always contain the answers to the puzzles they set. Barley for beer. Honey. Gold. How could he get them, or seem to get them, or get them by not getting them? For a year he studied the Small People as they came and went, though it was clear they didn’t want him looking at them, and now and then one would shake a fist at him, or—he guessed—at Kits. He thought and thought, tried to think even when high winter made his brain so cold no thought would come except about hunger. And when summer came again he had no more idea of how to get the Barley, the honey, the gold than he had before.
He came upon the white-bearded one sitting on the same rock by the brook and paddling his feet in the water, and told him this. The old one fetched a sigh, though he seemed neither surprised nor very saddened. Never mind, he said. In a month, when the moon is again full and sets at dawn, come to the mountain cave and the thing will be yours.
He came. In the dim light between night and dawn he couldn’t see well, but it seemed that the Small People were bringing out from the fissure in the rock one of their number who was hurt, or ill, and in great pain. He was supported by a male and a female on either side, who helped him stand, which he seemed hardly able to do. As the mist lifted Dar Oakley could see his gritted teeth. Water trickled, nearly squirted, from his tight-shut eyes. The People saw Dar Oakley there, but none of them paid him more than a glance. They brought the suffering one to a stone seat and let him down—sitting caused him to fling up his head in agony. Then one brought a pot that she placed between his big feet and spread knees, while others pulled away the trousers he wore.
The day brightened. Dar Oakley saw the old one who had made the bargain with him come forward and squat before the sufferer. Dar Oakley could see the slug-like organ that depended from his cleft, through which male People passed water; it was what everyone was looking at. For a long time—till the sun was high—they watched and waited, the one on the stone seat also looking down anxiously at his own part as though it might rise up or turn on him. Finally a small amount of dark water came out of it; the old one made a groan Dar Oakley couldn’t interpret; more water, mixed with blood, as the seated one’s thighs shook and he gripped his friends’ hands and cried aloud in pain.
Then—Dar Oakley could hear it—something solid came from him, and struck the pot with a tiny clink.
That was the stone.
The old one picked up the pot, swirled the contents, and reached in to pull out the stone; shook the blood and fluid from it, and brought it to hold up to Dar Oakley on his branch. All those not attending to the sufferer watched.
No, Dar Oakley said. I won’t touch it.
No, said the old one. He put a hand in his clothes and brought out a little sac, a skin thing that looked like a scrotum, empty and limp. He put the stone (plain and yellowish) in it, and drew the strings tight. Then he held it up again.
Go, he said. Take it. Have it. Never come back.
So it was that Dar Oakley went and returned, though not by the same way, and bearing the thing in its pouch, to the Beech now in blue-green leaf by the darkwise shore of the blue Beautiful Lake. It was good to see Crows again. The Servitors seemed to know he’d been successful and escorted him in, calling out announcements of his coming.
On a depression in a broad limb of the Beech he placed what he had brought before her, Kits. She sidled along the limb, eye cocked at the little skin bag, silent: as though (only later did he think it) wondering if she was glad, after all, to have it. Dar Oakley told his tale: the Barley for beer, the golden honey, the gold.
“They always stole the Barley for their beer from People,” Kits said, her eye not leaving the bag. “Not the gold. The People stole that from them.”
“The honey?”
“Yes, I’ve missed that, too,” she said. “I’ll miss that.” She nudged the bag with her bill and then gestured toward Dar Oakley to say You open it, and after a moment’s hesitation he did, holding down the bag with a foot and tugging at the string till it fell open and disclosed the thing inside: not aglow, not fearsome, as close to nothing at all as anything at all could be.
“This,” she said. Her head bent to it, close and closer. Her bill opened, her cheeks drew back: the face of any Crow, any Raven, approaching a cadaver in caution and desire. Dar Oakley’s head was near hers, looking in too.
Don’t, said a voice. A tiny, an infinitesimal voice.
They knew that voice, both of them, and backed away.
You’re making a big mistake, said the Stone.
“Oh, no mistake,” said Kits. “Not this time.”
I’m not what you think I am, the Stone said. Tell her, you!
“You are just what I think you are,” Kits said, bending nearer.
Don’t let her! the Stone said. She’ll be sorry. You’ll be sorry.
The Stone had begun to roll side to side within the bag, as though to get away or hide. There’s a rule, it said. Trust me on this. The rule applies.
“What rule?” Dar Oakley said. “What is the rule?”
Oh, she knows! said the Stone in a little whine of despair. She knows. Touch me once, live forever . . .
“Touch me twice, die forever,” Kits said. With a Crow’s quick stab she had the thing, and with a little lift of her head she’d shaken it into her throat. A tiny screech as it went down.
“Kits,” Dar Oakley said.
For a time nothing happened. The two Crows regarded one another.