"You are useful! Have you ever done any acting?
One schoolboy production? “A little."
Heads turned.
"Would you care to say a few words?” asked Piol Poet. The little man was genuinely interested, his eyes bright. He wrote the plays; he was the scholar, a likable old gentleman.
"You would not understand them, sir."
"But we may see if you have talent!"
Only if they had very sharp eyes, Edward thought. But a good laugh would help cheer them up and could not hurt him. He finished chewing a mouthful of the carroty root with the ginger flavor. “All right.” He rose to his feet. If he were being honest with himself, he would admit that what he really had in mind was a test of some of his wild-eyed theories.
Other quiet conversations ceased. More heads turned to watch him. Reviewing his very limited repertoire, he chose the Agincourt speech.
"I'll give you a speech by a warrior named ... “Henry would sound female to them. “Kingharry. His men must fight many more men.” He struggled to put his thoughts into words. “He begins with scorn for those who want to leave. He says that they can go if they want to. He has too many ... no ... he has enough men that their deaths will hurt their land if they lose, understand? And then he tells of the glory that will be theirs if they win against such great odds."
"Sounds like Kaputeez Battlemaster's speech in the Hiloma,” Trong pontificated.
Edward left the shade, out into the scorching sunlight. He detoured by a stack of properties to arm himself with a wooden sword, then took up his stance before a group of shrubs, his knees starting to quiver with stage fright. He must just hope that Shakespeare would sound as impressive to them as Piol's poetry did to him. He was going to perform in a foreign language before an audience of professionals? He was crazy! He reviewed the opening lines, wiped sweat from his forehead. Idiot show-off! Then he turned to face the watchers under the trees, the eyes, the expectant silence. He noticed the secret smiles. He took a deep breath. Mr. Butterfield, the English master, had always told him to speak to a deaf old lady in the back row. He spoke to Piol Poet, who was slightly deaf and well to the rear.
"What's he that wishes so?” he said sharply. “My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin: If we are marked to die, we are enow to do our country loss."
He saw the frowns, the shock as they realized that this was a language like none they had ever heard before.
"I am not covetous for gold..."
He began to raise his voice. He had caught the poet's interest already—Piol's eyes were wide.
"We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us! This day is called the feast of Crispin..."
Dolm was smiling. Eleal was agog. Trong, old ham, was frowning. But he had them! It was working! Creighton had known.
"Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot..."
The excitement was rising. He could feel their empathy, their professional response. Not his minuscule talent, not the roll of the bard's poetry, not challenge and bluster—no, there was other magic at work here. Fallow would have laughed him to shreds had he blustered like this, but ham was what the troupe enjoyed, so he gave them ham. He postured and flailed and roared the deathless words.
The troupe was totally caught up in the bravado, and so was he. He stalked the field of Agincourt before them, a juvenile warlord reviling the potent French multitude, defying death in the name of fame. He was one with his audience. The troupe's joy flowed out to him, he ate it up and sent it back to them in glory.
He waited, puzzled that no one had picked up the cue. The greatest inspirational English ever penned faded away into the alien trees. Suddenly he was back in the dusty orchard before the ramshackle hut, and the troupe was on its feet, cheering and applauding and screaming for more.
Laughing with relief, he bowed in acknowledgment.
His gut had stopped hurting and so had his tooth. He felt tremendous.
Creighton had called it charisma.
Generals, politicians, prophets, and sometimes actors.
55
ELEAL HAD KNOWN ALL ALONG THAT D'WARD WOULD BE a wonderful actor, and she was delighted by the family's reaction to his performance. As soon as she saw Trong going off by himself, she ran over to him and said, “Grandfather?"
The big man jumped and looked at her as if he had never seen her before. Then he went down on one knee and—much to her astonishment—hugged her tightly. His beard tickled. She noticed how rough and coarse his face was, scarred by years of makeup.
"Darling Granddaughter! I missed you! It is wonderful to have you safely restored to us."
Well! He might have said so two days ago!
"I missed you, too. And one day you must tell me all about my mother."
He turned his face away, registering extreme pain. “It is a tragic tale, child."
"I expect it is, but we don't have time for it now. I have a suggestion."
"Indeed?” His astonishment seemed somewhat excessive.
"Indeed!” Eleal said. “I think D'ward would be much better as Tion in the Trastos than Golfren Piper is."
She had feared he would dismiss the idea out of hand, but the old man considered it seriously. “He has a very strange accent, Eleal."
"But Tion has very few lines to say, and I know D'ward could learn to say those clearly. Besides, would it even matter? Do you think the audience would notice? He would be so convincing!"
Trong smiled, which he rarely did. In fact she could not recall him ever actually smiling at her before. “Perhaps he would! But it would hardly be fair to Golfren."
"If he didn't mind, would you?"
"Well, I don't know. Tion is usually shown with fair hair, and D'ward is dark. And the Youth never wears more than a loincloth. D'ward may have a very hairy chest, and that would not look right."
"He can use a wig and he doesn't have any hairs on his chest.” He did have marvelous eyelashes, though.
Trong flinched. “Oh. Well, I will think about it."
"Thank you, Grandfather!” Eleal said, and kissed him. He was still kneeling, staring after her, as she skipped away.
She had thought that the priests of Ois had stolen her pack, but apparently Ambria had saved it. So she had its familiar weight on her shoulders as the troupe set out for the amphitheater. She had a proper built-up boot again, too, which made walking much easier. She sidled next to Golfren, and waited until she had him to herself.
"Golfren?"
"Eleal? Up to your tricks again?"
"Certainly not. I mean, what tricks? I just wanted to ask your opinion of something."
He smiled down at her, eyes twinkling. Golfren had nice eyes, but they were not nearly as bright a blue as D'ward's. D'ward was altogether more handsome.