careful to take most of them back from me so other kids
could play with them in other towns, but he always left
some toys behind. I think now that he did it on purpose, but
I used to think he was just forgetful.
“Obviously a newly generated social outcast,” he was
saying to me as I sat under the oak tree. “Sociological
tragedy of the first magnitude. Disgraceful phenomenon.”
I just looked at him, then looked at the dirt at my feet as
I had been doing for however long I’d been there. I thought
for a moment that I should ask him the question you wanted
Ark to ask, but I didn’t want to ask anyone that question
ever again. I knew if I asked him, he would hate me like
everyone else hated me, and I just couldn’t stand that.
Cotterpin went back to his cart and heaved something out
of the back, then began to set up something beside my rock
that looked like a box with a metal plate on it and a switch
on one end, with red gnomish lettering all over it that I
couldn’t read. He fiddled with the box for a bit, then went
back to the cart and got a clay mug from it and filled it with
liquid from a tap on the side of his cart, then set it on the
box and flipped the switch. I knew I should run or hide or
shield my face when he did that, as everyone knows that
gnome-built things can make craters as big as the one Istar
now rests in, but I didn’t feel like running, and I thought
maybe it would be best if I blew up with the box.
But the box didn’t blow up; it just got warm after a
while and the tea in the mug got warm, too. I was trying to
figure that one out while Cotterpin went back to the cart and
brought back a steam-powered folding chair that also failed
to blow up and which he set up next to me under the tree so
he could relax in it and enjoy the same warm setting sun
that I was not enjoying.
“A pleasant respite it is to renew our long acquaintance,
Walnut Arskin,” he said in his same old deep but nasal
voice, “though I suffer some concern about the
circumstances. Perhaps you would care to elaborate on your
condition.”
I thought about it and finally said, “No.”
“Mmm.” Cotterpin took a sip of his tea, then held the
mug in his short, thick fingers and swirled the contents. “I
am not unaccustomed to seeing wayfarers as youthful as
yourself fall victim to any number of unfortunate mishaps in
the undisciplined confines of the wilderness. Being
moderately fond of our visits together in the recent past, I
was hoping to hear some motive or rationale for your
presence here before you, too, encounter any of the
aforementioned mishaps. Are you perhaps running away
from home?”
“No,” I said, and then I said, “Yes,” and then I said,
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Mmm.” Cotterpin took another sip of his tea and
looked off at the sun, which was just above the hill that
hides New-shore from view. He didn’t say anything more
for a long time, and before I knew it I had told him
everything, even the part about the question that you wanted
Ark to answer (but I didn’t tell him about the facts
machine).
“Mmm,” he said when I was done. “I see.” Cotterpin
was quiet for a while, and we looked at the open fields
around us and watched deer graze and a hawk hunt for
rabbits. The wind was getting a little cooler, but it was still
okay to be out.
“It seems like an eon ago that I dwelled in Istar,” said
Cotterpin at last, watching the hawk with a peaceful face.
“Yet even now I remember it far better than I would like. In
the twilight years of that sea-buried land, I labored as a
menial slave, the chattel of a priest. I had arrived there but
scant decades before as a fully accredited diplomat from my