And then came reaction and withdrawal as they realized that this youth meant more trouble in their lives, not less. He was involved with the gods in ways they did not understand and were not likely to approve if they did. He could not give a straight answer or frame a grammatical sentence. He would be one more mouth to feed and could give nothing in return.
Excitement faded into a murk of uneasiness. The group began to break up and drift away in twos and threes to whisper.
The big Ambria woman said something to her husband. At once he began shouting orders for the rehearsal to continue. Edward sank down on a tussock and put his head in his hands. He should curl up and have a sleep—perhaps they would just take the chance to creep away and leave him.
"Hungry? Thirsty?” asked a voice. A woman was kneeling at his side. She was offering a clay flask and a slab of bread and cheese.
She was the sort of girl that turned a boy's thoughts to desert islands built for two, and her smock would have barely made one good dish towel. Edward was not accustomed to seeing so much beautiful skin—he felt daring when he caught a glimpse of Alice's calves. He knew his face was turning redder than that wilted blossom in her hair. He nodded dumbly several times before he found his voice.
"Thank you. Yes. Um, query name."
She smiled in vision of pearls. “Uthiam. Thanks to you for bringing Eleal back to us."
"Er, Eleal me brought! I fear I bring trouble."
She laughed joyfully. “Eleal is always trouble!"
And he laughed also, and thought that maybe things might be going to turn out not quite so bad as he had feared.
Possibly the food revived him. He sat by himself, staying out of sight and mind, and he watched the troupe's activities with growing interest. Some of the younger folk were engaged in juggling and acrobatics, but they seemed more interested in exercise and enjoyment than in polishing their skills. The main event was a rehearsal of a drama, and everyone was intent on that.
Trong portrayed Grastag King, a tragic, aging figure facing a young challenger. The gallant hero, Darthon Warrior, was being played by Tothroom, replacement for the failed Dolm. The newcomer clutched a script, to which he had to make frequent reference. This might be his first attempt at the role. Even allowing for such handicaps, his performance was insipid. Grastag had stolen his wife, but Tothroom was playing the role as though he had lost a hairbrush.
At first the ornate, high-flown poetry was quite beyond Edward's comprehension. By the fifth or sixth repetition it began to fit together. Like Shakespeare's, the words had a music that soared beyond literary sense, so that meanings missed here and there were of no importance. At times Trong's delivery soared close to opera, where meaning did not matter at all, only emotion. Tothroom mumbled and stuttered and barely seemed to understand his lines himself. Over and over the two men performed the same scene until Trong would roar, “Cut!” and begin bawling instructions. Then he would take it all from the beginning again.
The problem was mostly Tothroom. He was a sallow, pinchfaced man, sadly lacking in stage presence. The plot required him to accost Grastag at his prayers. At first Grastag would respond with contempt and indignation, but then Darthon was supposed to take over the scene, to overwhelm the older man with vituperation and a catalogue of his crimes, to achieve dominance, to grind him into repentance and despair. It was not happening that way, because Tothroom was simply no match for Trong. He was a sheep trying to cow a lion. Trong was at fault also, for he did not seem able to bridle his own flamboyance. He would not lie down unless he was bludgeoned into submission.
And whenever the action was broken off, he would scream more insults than instructions. Instead of encouraging his new recruit, he was browbeating him and threatening. Some team captain he was!
Thinking of the Sixth Form's Henry V, Edward began to reflect that even he might have more dramatic talent than this inept Tothroom—and at least he would understand that Trong's ranting should be ignored. He glanced around the clearing. The melancholy expressions on all the other faces suggested that Tothroom was not going to survive the day as a member of the troupe. It was quite clear why Dolm Actor, in his guilt and anguish, had been unable to portray the arrogant swashbuckling Darthon Warrior. Given Hamlet to play in his present mood, he would have dampened every eye in Sussland.
"You foulness clad in kingly,” Darthon said mildly. “Raiment. Earth's bowels have never issued forth,” he remarked, “more loathsome leech to suck"—he fumbled with the script and then found the place—"to suck the merit. From the people and,” he continued apologetically, “warp their aspirations like, er, your own, too. Baseness?"
Trong bellowed, “Cut!” and loosed another torrent of abuse that Edward was glad not to understand.
Eleal bounced down to sit beside him. She was still flushed with excitement at being reunited with her family.
Trong, she said proudly, was her something.
"Query,” Edward sighed.
"Father of mother."
"Ah. I see the likeness."
She giggled with delight, then frowned severely. “Darthon Warrior is not good!"
"No."
"Sh! They're starting again!"
"Insolent spawn of lowborn vermin!” Trong declaimed, giving the cue.
"You foulness clad in kingly raiment!” roared a new voice from the trees. Tothroom jumped and dropped his script. “Earth's bowels,” Dolm bellowed, striding out, brandishing a stick with such menace that it seemed to reflect the sun, “have never issued forth more loathsome leech to suck the merit from the people and warp their aspirations, like your own, to baseness."
The troupe was on its feet. Tothroom's jaw hung slackly.
"Say you so?” Trong fell back a pace, hands raised to ward off this attack. “Easier ‘tis for whippersnapper to crack the air with words and slight his betters than man to balance judgment and uphold the laws with deeds."
"Uphold the laws?” Dolm stormed, advancing on him and leaving his unfortunate replacement completely out of the scene. A barrage of words exploded from the newcomer, an avalanche of scorn fell on Trong. Carillons of poetry soared far beyond Edward's comprehension, but the sense was obvious. Grastag King defied, argued, pleaded, and finally cringed, while Darthon Warrior thundered over him like a volcano.
The scene ended when Trong fled howling into the bushes. For a moment the grove was silent.
"Oh, that was much better!” Eleal remarked judiciously as the riot of welcome converged on Dolm. She turned to Edward with a puzzled frown. “He was never that good before. What did you do to him?"
"I just—"
No! No! No! Everything clicked into place and Edward could only stare at Eleal in horror.
54
NOW THERE WAS NO QUESTION OF THE TROUPE REJECTing Edward, for Dolm was restored to form and favor, and he was a strong Edward supporter. In fact no one gave a thought to the newcomer for the rest of the day except Eleal, who kept him advised of what was happening.
The incompetent Tothroom having been sent packing, performances could begin as soon as arrangements were made. The big amphitheater at the temple was still being used by the Golden Book Players, who had won that year's rose—a very inferior troupe, Eleal insisted—but the town had a smaller one just outside the walls. By nightfall, she was coaching Edward in the art of coloring placards, lettered in the strange Greek-style script. He shared his new friends’ meager meal; he slept in a borrowed blanket in the shed they had rented. It was normally used to store some sort of root crop and had a strong smell of ginger. As a dorm for fourteen people it was embarrassingly intimate, but he had been accepted as one of the band, at least for the time being.