Every night as he lay there, every day as he made his uneven and awkward forays to the river, Bransen thought of that wonderful book and pictured its many pages. In his mind, he saw again the flowing script so meticulously copied by his father. In his mind, he recited the text, beginning to end, over and over again. He feared that he didn't have it perfect, but in the end, this was all he had.
As the days became weeks and the recital more rote, Bransen began to do something that had never before occurred to him. He began to roll the words in his thoughts and apply them to himself. He considered the source of Jhesta Tu power in the context of his own broken body, and searched for his chi. And he thought that he found that line of power, or what was supposed to be a line of power, for in him there were just inner flashes of energy, dispersing to his sides and his limbs, and no discernable and focusing line at all.
He thought that he must be doing something wrong in his inner search. Perhaps he was recalling the words of the book incorrectly. If only he could see it again, to compare his memory to its pages.
Several times, Bransen considered walking, along the river-bank to the little bridge that would lead him east to Garibond's house.
But suppose he angered the monks and they refused to help Garibond? Did he dare do such a thing?
If only they would listen to him long enough so that he could explain! From a narrow window along the back wall of Chapel Pryd, Brother Reandu watched the boy stumble out through the mud, a pot sloshing and splashing at the end of each skinny arm. Strangely, those balancing chamber pots seemed to steady the Stork somewhat, though there remained nothing smooth about his movements and more than a bit of the contents of the pots wound up on his bare legs and woolen knee-length tunic.
Reandu sighed and wished that it could be different for this poor creature. He wished that he could gather up a soul stone and give the boy a more normal existence. That task was far beyond him, he knew. Far beyond any of them.
"But I will see to it that you are cleaned at least," the monk whispered, his words lost in the groan of the wind rushing through the narrow rectangular opening in the stone. He made a silent vow that he would begin assigning various brothers to take the last trip of the day to the river with Bransen, that they could scrub him clean before putting him back in his miserable little room.
He would have to get permission from Brother Bathelais, of course.
Brother Reandu gave a helpless laugh at that thought. Bathelais wasn't open to much of anything concerning the Stork. Keep him as far from the others as possible, give him enough to eat and drink, and make sure he doesn't freeze in his stone room at night. That was enough, by Brother Bathelais's interpretation, despite the fact that he, at the behest of Father Jerak, was preparing a grand celebration during which he would present the magnificent sword to Laird Prydae. Bathelais expected a large return for that gift-the brothers at Chapel Pryd who were knowledgeable about metals and weapons had told him that the sword was everything Garibond had claimed it to be and more.
But that optimistic outlook had done little to take the edge off Brother Bathelais concerning this poor, tortured creature.
With that in mind, and determined to at least help the boy wash the excrement from his legs, Brother Reandu went out from the chapel and quickly caught up with Bransen. The boy turned bright eyes upon him-and stumbled and nearly fell. In steadying him, Reandu got splashed by one of the chamber pots. He forced himself to hold back his automatic, angry response, reminding himself that it wasn't the poor boy's fault.
"Is this your last journey to the river this day?" he asked.
Bransen looked at him, as if in surprise. Of course he was surprised, Reandu realized. Had anyone asked him a question in all the days he had been at the chapel? Had anyone even spoken to him?
"Nnnnn-nyeah…nyeah, n…yes," the boy stammered.
Reandu had to take a deep breath to compose himself, the aggravating speech only reminding him all too clearly of why others like Bathelais simply could not tolerate being anywhere around this smelly one.
"Yes?"
The boy started to stammer.
"Just nod," Reandu prompted, and the boy did, and he managed a crooked smile.
Brother Reandu smiled as well.
"Uh…uh…I w-w-wa…" the boy stuttered.
Reandu shook his head and patted the air to try to calm the blabbering creature. Bransen responded and seemed to be trying to compose himself.
"B-book," he blurted suddenly.
"Book? What book?"
"Re-re-read b-b-boo-k."
"Read a book? You?"
The boy managed another smile and nod-or at least, something that approximated both.
"You want me to give you a book to read?"
Still the smile.
Then Reandu understood, as he remembered what Garibond had demanded of him as part of the deal. "You want me to teach you to read?"
"I r-r-re…re…read."
Reandu grinned and nodded and glanced back at the chapel. "Well, that was part of the bargain, I suppose. I should speak with Brother…" He turned back on the boy and winked. "I will see what I can do."
Bransen actually laughed at that, and the sudden jerk of his mirth overbalanced him and he fell to the mud. Reandu rushed over and picked him up.
"I cannot," Reandu started. "Do not expect…I must speak with Brother Bathelais. It is not my decision and I do not want to cause your hopes to soar."
Bransen was giggling with glee.
"You understand that?" Reandu asked, holding him steady and looking him right in the eye. "It is not my decision to make."
The boy stared at him-so stupidly, it seemed-and Brother Reandu thought himself a fool for even beginning to entertain such a thought as trying to teach this poor creature to read!
"Come along," he said. "The hour grows late and the river is still some distance." He hoisted one of the pots and helped Bransen gather up the other one, then took the boy under his arm and helped him to the river to complete his chores and so that both of them could get a much-needed washing. Bransen was surprised, even frightened, when his overhead door opened unexpectedly late that night. A smile widened on the startled boy's face when he saw the face of Brother Reandu behind the glare of the candle.
"B-b-boo-" he started to say.
"No books, Bransen," Reandu replied.
The tone in the man's voice spoke volumes beyond the actual words to Bransen, a boy not unused to disappointment.
"Brother Bathelais will not be persuaded on this," Reandu admitted, and as Bransen's expression became crestfallen, he added, "You must understand, my boy, that our books are our greatest treasures. If you were to drool on them or dirty them-"
"No!" Bransen blurted.
"Even handling them causes damage," Reandu went on. "Please understand that it is not possible. Perhaps I can find some parchments on which a brother has spilled ink or otherwise damaged them. They might have words upon them. But you cannot read, of course."
Bransen started to stutter and pointed at the monk.
"Yes, Garibond wanted me to teach you to read," Reandu admitted. "But it would not be possible. I am sorry, boy. I wish that things could be different for you."
Bransen saw the true regret in Reandu's eyes, but that did little to fill the empty hole that had been dug in his heart. No books? Nothing at all but the dozens of walks to the river each day?