Pushing away the distasteful thought he busied himself; he took his chart and the map, rolled them tightly and slipped them into a hollow bamboo case. He pushed those of his tools that he thought he might need into the loose front of his robe. Then, holding the tiny wafer of candle in his hand, he looked about the room in which he had spent his life, his youth, his energy. He never expected to see it again. He was, after all, seventy-five years old and he was setting out on a journey such as few men had ever faced. Destination unknown. There would be deserts and mountains and rivers; there might be wild animals, robbers, places where war was being waged. He thought of all the hazards and did not quail. Only one thing mattered, and that was that he should get there in time and tell what he knew, what the stars had told him.
From habit he closed the door carefully behind him and then hurried down the stairs.
The room at the bottom smelt of smouldering wood, and of an old woman who had not washed or changed her clothes since last summer, and of something else which he could not identify. Senya lay asleep by a fire; in better days, with fuel more plentiful, she had often scorched her outer clothing, but there was little danger of that now. Against the wall there was something pale, something that had not been there in the morning. He raised the dying candle and peered. Ah, the pig! Killed and dressed.
Even in his haste and excitement he had time to think how strange it was that she had known! When people lived in close company, as he and Senya had for so many years, it seemed that they developed a link—Greek expressed it best, telepathy. He had sometimes thought that this was a subject worth investigating. Once, up in the tower, he had been stricken with such pain in his back that he had only just managed to crawl downstairs, and when he reached the kitchen Senya had been brewing the stinking liniment that he needed. And another time, in Pyangyong, buying paper and ink he had suddenly thought—Salt! and had bought a block and carried it home and Senya had said, “I needed salt, master.”
Now she had known, by that same peculiar means, that he was about to make a journey and would need food to take with him.
He roused her gently. Credulous people believed in dichotomy, soul and body; they believed that when a person slept the soul left the body and that if the body were too abruptly wakened the soul might not find its way back. Melchior held no beliefs of that kind, but he was not a man to scorn the beliefs of others, so he called her name, softly, then more loudly and only when she stirred and groaned did he put his hand on her shoulder and give her a little shake. She opened her eyes and said, in alarm:
“It is morning?”
“Very early morning. I see you have killed the pig.”
She gave him the lie which had come to her overnight, comforting, sleep-inducing.
“Master, the pig died. The pig died of hunger.”
“You had the good sense to dress it at once. It will be edible,” he said. And she saw that he was pleased that the pig was dead and ready to eat; she wished she had not lied about the manner of its death.
“I scalded and scraped it, master,” she said with eager servility.
“If you wish you can have liver for breakfast.”
He said, “I have no time for breakfast. I must go intoPyangyong. But I should be very glad if you could cook some of the meat, cook it well, with salt, so that it keeps. I could take some on my journey.”
“Your journey? Master, what journey? To me you said nothing of a journey.”
“I knew nothing, until a little time ago. I must go now. I must be in Pyangyong early; to sell this tower and buy a camel.”
“A camel?” She had an irritating habit of picking a word from what he had said and repeating it.
“Master, where would you be going on a camel?”
“That I do not know. To the south-west. I shall learn as I go. Senya, I shall need my hat.”
It was so long since he had been out of doors and needed his hat that for a moment she stood, perplexed, saying the word ‘hat’ over and over. Then she remembered that she had put it carefully away, and went and fetched it, and offered it, respectfully. He set it on his head and it was incongruous wear with his soiled, faded robe, for it was a hat of quality, made of good felt, black, and lacquered all over to make it rainproof. She wished she had had more warning; he could have stayed in bed one day and she could have washed his robe.
“Now,” he said.
“I don’t know how long this business will take. I shall be back as soon as possible. Meanwhile, cook some of the meat, cook it hard, with plenty of salt, so that it travels well.”
He stepped into the morning air, which though cold seemed a trifle less so than yesterday’s.
“And if you need fuel,” he said, astounding her, ‘there is a fence around the pig-pen, and as there is now no pig, it may be burned.”
She realised that she herself would have gone past the pen a hundred times and never thought of that.
Then, picking over all that he had said in so short a time, she recalled that he had said he intended to sell the tower. And what is to happen to me? I’m old and feeble, nobody would give a handful of meal for me. I’m old, I’m useless, my ears buzz and if I stoop I fall down; I am of less worth than a worn-out donkey. The tower is my home. When it is sold I shall be homeless, after all these years. The thought was all the more shocking because she had never, in all her life, given her personal future so much as a glance; well-born families such as Melchior’s never discarded their slaves, however old and tiresome they might become; broken in body and sometimes of mind the old creatures squatted about, certain of their rice bowl and a spare-rib to gnaw on.
I shall starve to death, out in the open, like a dog with no owner, she thought; and again she wept.
Weeping she tugged up the stakes of the fence and made the best fire the little kitchen had seen for years; weeping she hacked away at the pig’s carcass, choosing all the best pieces for him to take with him. The salt of her tears fell into the brine as she cooked. Yet she cooked carefully. He might be planning to abandon her, but he was her master still, and her beloved. He’d ignored what she had offered, so shyly, so passionately, all those years ago; he’d ignored her warnings; though courteous always he had ignored her warnings; and now he was about to ignore her plight; but that made no difference. ‘ It was after midday when he came back, riding on a camel. Not a good one. A single glance from her smoke-reddened, tear-blurred eyes told her that. It was an old darnel, with a hard life behind it. He would have done better to let her do the buying; but then how could she? Yesterday she had been unable to even reach the village, she could not today have walked to Pyangyong.. … He was pleased with his camel, and with all his other arrangements. And he had not forgotten her.
“I realised,” he said gravely, ‘that this Had been your home for many years, Senya; so I included you in the contract. You are to be the caretaker. Students will come and go, because this is now the chief observatory in Pyangyong, and so long as you feel able to stay here and keep the place tidy, you are the caretaker. But you are also a free woman; and when you no longer wish to work you will receive a
pension—enough to live upon. You do understand me, Senya?“She began to weep again and to thank him; but he cut her short.
“Is the meat ready?”
“It is cooked, but still hot. Master, you are not leaving now! The light is fading; soon it will be night.”
“I intend,” he said, ‘to travel much by night. And I must leave at once.”
“But why? Why is there such haste?”
“Because of what I know. I fear that only I know this thing. There is a warning to be given. And not a moment to waste.”
She packed as much of the still-warm, greasy meat as she could cram into two of the reed baskets, and then went out and helped Melchior to attach-them and the bamboo chart case to the camel. Then she stood back.