“There is one here for you, if you would like it. And a bit of dinner if you’ve a mind to share. No one should walk all day and night besides.” A handsome, bearded man stepped from the concealment of the tall grey stones. He took the old man’s elbow and led him toward the fire, calling ahead, “We have a guest tonight!”
There was a small stir of motion ahead of them, but the night was moonless and their fire was deep in a concealing pit, so the beggar couldn’t see much of what was being done. Curious, he asked, “Why do you hide your fire?”
His host sighed. “Not all folk are filled with love for us. We’re safest by being out of harm’s way. Besides, our fire is small tonight.”
“Why is that?” the beggar asked. “With so many trees, wood should be easy to come by.”
“We went gathering earlier,” the bearded man explained. “But folk called us thieves and shot arrows at us.” He shrugged. “So we make do, and tomorrow will take care of itself.” He shook his head. “But I am talking too much. May I offer you a drink, father?”
“A bit of water, if you can spare it.”
“Nonsense, you will have wine.”
It had been a long time since the beggar had tasted wine, and the thought of it was enough to set his mouth all a-watering. But he knew wine was not the best thing for an empty stomach that had walked all day, so he said, “You are kind, bless you. But water is good enough for me.”
The man at his elbow smiled. “Then have water and wine, each to your desire.” And saying so he brought the beggar to their water barrel.
The old beggar bent and drew up a ladle of water. When it touched his lips it was cool and sweet, but as he drew up the ladle, he couldn’t help but notice the barrel was very nearly empty.
In spite of this, his host urged him, “Take another and wash the dust from your hands and face. I can tell you’ve been on the road for a long and weary while.” So the old beggar took a second dipper of water, and once his hands and face were clean, he felt much refreshed.
Then his host took his elbow again and led him to the fire. “What is your name, father?”
Again the beggar was surprised. It had been years since anyone had cared enough to ask his name. It had been so long he had to stop and think about it for a moment. “Sceop,” he said at last. “I am called Sceop, and you?”
“My name is Terris,” his host said as he made the old man comfortable close to the fire. “This is Silla, my wife, and Wint, our son. This is Shari and Benthum and Lil and Peter and Fent.”
Then Terris brought Sceop wine. Silla gave him a heavy ladle of potato soup, a slice of warm bread, and half a golden summer squash with sweet butter in the bowl of it. It was plain, and there was not a lot, but to Sceop it seemed a feast. And as he ate, Wint kept his cup full of wine, and smiled at him, and sat by his knee and called him grandfather.
The last was too much for the old beggar, and he began to cry softly. Perhaps it was that he was old, and his day had been a long one. Perhaps it was that he was not used to kindness. Perhaps it was the wine. Whatever the reason, tears began to trickle down his face and lose themselves in his deep white beard.
Terris saw this and was quick to ask, “Father, whatever is the matter?”
“I am a silly old man,” Sceop said, more to himself than to the rest of them. “You have been kinder to me than anyone in years, and I am sorry I cannot repay you.”
Terris smiled and laid a hand on the old man’s back. “Would you really like to pay?”
“I cannot. I have nothing to give you.”
Terris’s smile widened. “Sceop. We are the Edema Ruh. The thing we value most is something everyone possesses.” One by one, Sceop saw the faces around the fire look up at him expectantly. Terris said, “You could tell us your story.”
Not knowing what else to do, Sceop began to speak. He told how he had come to Faeriniel. How he had walked from one fire to the next, hoping for charity. At first his voice faltered and his story stumbled, for he had been alone a long time and was not used to talking. But soon his voice became stronger, his words bolder, and as the fire flickered and reflected in his bright blue eyes, his hands danced along with his old dried voice. Even the Edema Ruh, who know all the stories in the world, could do nothing but listen in wonder.
When his story came to an end the troupers stirred as if waking from a deep sleep. For a moment they did nothing but look at each other, then they looked at Sceop.
Terris knew what they were thinking. “Sceop,” he asked gently. “Where were you headed, when I stopped you tonight?”
“I was going to Tinuë,” said Sceop, who was a little embarrassed at how caught up in the story he had become. His face was hot and red, and he felt foolish.
“We are bound for Belenay ourselves,” Terris said. “Would you consider coming with us instead?”
For a moment Sceop’s face lit with hope, but then it fell. “I would be nothing but a burden. Even a beggar has his pride.”
Terris laughed. “You would tell the Edema about pride? We do not ask you out of pity. We ask because you belong in our family, and we would have you tell us a dozen dozen stories in the years to come.”
The beggar shook his head. “My blood is not yours. I am not a part of your family.”
“What does that have to do with the price of butter?” Terris asked. “We Ruh decide who is a part of our family and who is not. You belong with us. Look around and see if I am lying.”
Sceop looked up at the circle of faces and saw what Terris said was true.
And so the old man stayed, and lived with them for many years before they parted ways. Many things he saw, and many stories he told, and everyone was wiser in the end because of it.
This thing happened, though it was years and miles away. I have heard it from the mouths of the Edema Ruh, and thus I know it to be true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kernels of Truth
“Is that the end?” Simmon asked after a polite pause. He was on his back, looking up at the stars.
“Yes.”
“It didn’t end the way I thought it would,” he said.
“What did you expect?”
“I was waiting to find out who the beggar really was. I thought as soon as someone was nice to him, he would turn out to be Taborlin the Great. Then he would give them his walking stick and a sack of money and . . . I don’t know. Make something magical happen.”
Wilem spoke up. “He’d say, ‘Whenever you are in danger knock this stick on the ground and say “stick be quick,” ’ and then the stick would whirl around and defend them from whoever was attacking them.” Wilem was lying on his back in the tall grass, too. “I didn’t think he was really an old beggar.”
“Old beggars in stories are never really old beggars,” Simmon said with hint of accusation in his voice. “They’re always a witch or a prince or an angel or something.”
“In real life old beggars are almost always old beggars,” I pointed out. “But I know what kind of story you two are thinking about. Those are stories we tell other people to entertain them. This story is different. It’s one we tell each other.”
“Why tell a story if it’s not entertaining?”
“To help us remember. To teach us—” I made a vague gesture. “Things.”
“Like exaggerated stereotypes?” Simmon asked.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, nettled.
“ ‘Tie him to the wagon and make him pull’?” Simmon made a disgusted noise. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know you.”
“If I didn’t know you,” I said hotly, “I’d be offended. Do you know Aturans used to kill people if they found them living on the road? One of your emperors declared them to be detrimental to the empire. Most were little more than beggars who had lost their homes because of the wars and taxes. Most were simply press-ganged into military service.”
I tugged at the front of my shirt. “But the Edema were especially prized. They hunted us like foxes. For a hundred years Ruh-hunt was a favorite pastime among the Aturan upper crust.”