“But you wouldn‘t do anything to hurt us,” she said. “We—we‘re related . ”
“How the hell do you know why I‘m here or what I‘m thinking?” I said. “You might have just stuck both your necks in nooses!”
“You are joking, aren‘t you?” she said, slowly raising her left hand between us.
“I don‘t know,” I said. “I need not be—and I wouldn‘t be talking about it if I did have something rotten in mind, would I?”
“No. . . I guess not,” she said.
“I am going to tell you something Benedict should have told you long ago,” I said. “Never trust a relative. It is far worse than trusting strangers. With a stranger there is a possibility that you might be safe.”
“You really mean that, don‘t you?”
“Yes.”
“Yourself included?” I smiled.
“Of course it does not apply to me. I am the soul of honor, kindness, mercy, and goodness. Trust me in all things.”
“I will,” she said, and I laughed.
“I will,” she insisted. “You would not hurt us. I know that.”
“Tell me about Gerard and Julian,” I said, feeling uncomfortable, as always, in the presence of unsolicited trust. “What was the reason for their visit?”
She was silent for a moment, still studying me, then, “I have been telling you quite a few things,” she said, “haven‘t I? You are right. One can never be too careful. I believe that it is your turn to talk again.”
“Good. You are learning how to deal with us. What do you want to know?”
“Where is the village, really? And Amber? They are somehow alike, aren‘t they? What did you mean when you said that Amber lies in all directions, or any? What are shadows?”
I got to my feet and looked down at her. I held out my hand. She looked very young and more than a little frightened then, but she took it. “Where . . . ?” she asked, rising.
“This way,” I said, and I took her to stand at the place where I had slept and regarded the falls and the water wheel.
She began to say something, but I stopped her. “Look. Just look,” I said.
So we stood there looking at the rushing, the splashing, the turning while I ordered my mind.
Then, “Come,” I said, turning her by the elbow and walking her toward the wood.
As we moved among the trees, a cloud obscured the sun and the shadows deepened. The voices of the birds grew more shrill and a dampness came up out of the ground. As we passed from tree to tree, their leaves became longer and broader. When the sun appeared again, its light came more yellow, and beyond a turning of the way we encountered hanging vines. The bird cries grew hoarser, more numerous. Our trail took an upward turn, and I led her past an outcropping of flint and onto higher ground. A distant, barely perceptible rumble seemed to come from behind us. The sky was a different blue as we moved through an open place, and we frightened a large, brown lizard that had been sunning itself on a rock. As we took a turn about another mass of stone, she said, “I did not know this was here. I have never been this way before.” But I did not answer her, for I was busy shifting the stuff of Shadow.
Then we faced the wood once more, but now the way led uphill through it. Now the trees were tropical giants, interspersed with ferns, and new noises—barks, hisses, and buzzes—were to be heard. Moving up this trail, the rumble grew louder about us, the very ground beginning to vibrate with it. Dara held tightly to my arm, saying nothing now, but searching everything with her eyes. There were big, flat, pale flowers and puddles where the moisture dripped from overhead. The temperature had risen considerably and we were perspiring quite a bit. Now the rumble grew to a mighty roar, and when at length we emerged from the wood again, it was a sound like steady thunder that fell against us. I guided her to the edge of the precipice and gestured outward and down.