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"You're human," she said, stopping about six paces from the boulders. "Yet
they gave you wood."
He nodded, arms still unfolded to catch the warmth.
"You're an English speaker," she continued. "And you come from the Isomage's
house. That's all they say about you in Halftown."
He nodded again. Beneath all the cold and misery was a steady current of
shyness. Her voice was disarmingly beautiful. He would have to get used to
Sidhe and Breed voices.
"It will be warm soon," she said, walking toward the stream. "If you have time
today, come to the village and I'll give you a card for milk and cheese.
Everybody needs to eat. Just ask for Eleuth."
"I will," he said, his voice cracking. When she had crossed the creek, he
clambered down from the rock, walked some distance away, and knelt down to
hide himself while he urinated. He felt like some animal, barely domesticated.
A pet of the Breeds.
The door to the Crane Women's hut opened and Spart emerged carrying a roll of
cloth. She stared at him balefully, unfurled the cloth and flapped it. An
exaltation of tiny birds flew from its folds and circled the house, then
headed north. Without explanation, Spart returned to the house and closed the
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door behind.
Massaging blood back into his legs, Michael looked doubtfully at the piles of
lumber. He picked up the sheets of bark and discovered that they could be
peeled into light, strong strips with a ropy toughness. He thought about how
to put a hut together and shook his head. He'd need tools nails, certainly,
and a knife and saw.
Even as he speculated half-heartedly, he asked himself what the hell good it
was, building a house where he didn't belong.
"You have a long way to go."
Nare stood behind him. Her eyes were large, like an owl's but mobile. Her long
red-gray hair was an unbraided radiance, spreading to its widest point behind
her knees. "Now that you have the grace of wood, what are you going to do with
it?"
"I need tools."
"I don't think so. Are you aware what the grace of wood means?"
He thought for a moment. "Humans don't get much."
"Humans get scrap. Not even Breeds can get wood all the time. The finest wood
is reserved for the Sidhe.
Like as not they have ancestors in it."
"I don't understand," Michael said.
"The Sidhe are immortal, but if they die in battle or through some other
faulting, the Arborals press them into tree. They dwell there awhile, then
request oblivion. Arborals do then-work, and we have wood."
"I heard a voice last night."
Nare nodded. Bending over, she picked up a plank and held it out to Michael.
One long forefinger
file:///F|/rah/Greg%20Bear/Bear,%20Greg%20-%2...wer%2001%20-%20The%20Infinity%
20Concerto.html (33 of 198) [5/21/03 12:42:32 AM]
Bear, Greg - Songs of Earth and Power Vol. 1 - The Infinity Concerto pressed
against the edge and a notch fell out. "Feel and press. Riddle how it all goes
together. Wood was shaped into a house by the Sidhe that dwelled within. Just
puzzle it.
Maza
."
"Today?" Michael asked.
"Today is all the time you have." Nare headed for the creek and dove in like
an otter. He didn't see her come up.
For the next few hours, trying to ignore his hunger, Michael took each board
and beam and pressed, poked and rubbed the surfaces until he found the
removable pieces. At first he took the small pieces and tossed them aside, but
thought better of it and gathered them into a small pile. - It became obvious
that he could fit some of the pieces into holes in the planks, and use them to
slide into notches in the beams. It reminded him of a wooden puzzle he had at
home, only much more complex. When the sun was high, he had managed to
assemble two planks and one beam, with no idea where to go from there. He
didn't even know what shape the house would be.
Spart, the Crane Woman with tattoos all over and the melodious voice, came to
him from the hut and offered a wooden bowl. Inside was cold gruel, a piece of
fruit and a puddle of thin milk. He ate it without complaint. She watched, one
long arm twitching now and then, and removed the bowl from his hands when he
was done.
"When you have finished the house, you will go into the village and announce
yourself at the market.
They will allow for your food. Also, while you're here, you can carry messages
for us, and otherwise make yourself useful." She glanced at the pile of wood.
"If you haven't puzzled it by dawn tomorrow, it's not your wood any more."
He stared at her tattoos. She didn't seem to mind, but she bent down and
tapped the wood meaningfully.
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He set to work again and she walked back toward the house.
"Is it safe to drink the water?" he called after her.
"I wouldn't know," she said.
By evening, with all his ingenuity he had succeeded in figuring out that the
house would be square, about two yards on each side, without a roof or floor.
He would apparently have to gather grass or something for the roof, and that
discouraged him. He was ravenous, but no more food was brought out.
"Maybe they'll feed me when I'm done," he thought. "If."
He discovered the bark could be used for lashings. As the sun and sky went
through the same twilight phenomena of the day before, Michael kicked a beam
with one foot and held his hand out in front of him.
"It's impossible."
But&
He knelt and picked out a square, thick beam whose use he hadn't discovered.
He pressed along the grain and it fell apart in neat, almost paper-thin
shingles. Then the plan seemed to come together in his mind.
He assembled planks and beams, slipped tenon into mortise, lashed the wood
together, and took five long, thin curved pieces to make the framework of the
roof. When darkness was complete, he had almost finished putting on the
shingles. He had one string of bark and two pieces of pressed-out wood left,
yet the house seemed complete.
Spart stood outside when he emerged through the low door. She looked at the
string in his hand and shook her head. "
Pera antros
," she said. "If you had built it right, you wouldn't have any pieces left
over."
For a moment, he was afraid she might have him dismantle the hut and start all
over again, but she pulled a bowl from behind her back and handed it to him.
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