“I am Lutha Tallstaff,” she said across the clearing. “Mother of Leely Famber, direct-lineage son of Bernesohn Famber. With me is my assistant, Trompe.”
“And your son?” asked my father, Chahdzi, who stood beneath the trees.
The upper part of his face was painted blue, the line running horizontally just below his eyes and across the bridge of his nose. Lutha tried to recall anything she might have read about that. Nothing. A local custom, she thought, which was accurate. Persons undertaking dangerous tasks paint their eyes yellow, asking others to pray for them. Persons who must deal with outsiders paint their faces half-blue, so we will watch and listen carefully, in case they show signs of deviance. And so on.
“Leely is in here, asleep,” she said.
My father stepped from the shade of the trees and came forward. “I am Chahdzi, son of the songfather of Cochim-Mahn. It is my assigned task to serve you as guide to the leasehold of Bernesohn Famber.” Without invitation, he came across the shallow porch and into the room, where he took a long look at Leely, to make sure he was a real, living person. “We have to walk and climb a long way,” he said in explanation. “The boy will be heavy to carry.”
“He can walk,” said Lutha. “He can run and climb.” Like a little goat. “Most of the way, at least.”
“Partway. But of such complexity, interesting patterns are made,” he said in the falsely cheerful tone one adopts for reassuring children.
“I suppose it does,” she said doubtfully. Certainly this whole business was complex enough. “When do we go?”
“Since you were expected today, I left Cochim-Mahn this morning. It took me all of today to get here to meet you, and now it is late. Soon Lady Day departs with all her blessings and the time of whispering comes. When the Lady comes again, we will go.”
“Shortly after dawn tomorrow then,” commented Trompe.
The man shivered, almost undetectably, and nodded. “I will sleep in here, or perhaps in your vehicle.”
“Because,” said Lutha, moved by an obscure impulse, “because it is better not to be out in the dark?”
Again that shiver, almost unnoticeable. “Because of the pattern, matron,” he said in a dignified voice. “Which alternates dark and light, activity and quiet, whisper and shout, sleep and waking … ”
“Do I offend in asking about the night?” she asked. “I am curious about … the things that go about in the dark.”
“Bernesohn Famber was also curious, or so I am told by the rememberers. Outlanders are often curious about Dinadh and the Dinadhi. Why do we paint our faces and sometimes our bodies? Why do we sing all the time? Why do we do this, or that? We tell you all the same things. All is part of the pattern; the light and the dark.” He gestured vaguely. “If one wishes to learn details, one must consult a songfather who is schooled in such things. I am a simple person, a mere yahsdi’ imicha dimicha’a.”
She translated mentally. One-who-is-assigned-to-do-what-needs-doing. A man of all work, perhaps. A handyman. She started to ask him how far they would have to go on the morrow, the words drying in her mouth as she saw his face, suddenly alert, listening.
She cocked her head. There was a sound, distant, but not faint. A song, rising from the canyon.
“Forgive me,” said Chahdzi. “I will return shortly.”
He left the room and went out into the open, where he threw his arms open to the sky and began a breathy song, evidently addressed to thin air.
“What’s he doing?” asked Trompe.
“You’re the empath,” she said.
“All I can pick up is a feeling of concern, a desire which he is repressing.”
She listened, translated, nodded. “He’s singing to Weaving Woman, begging her to keep the patterns clear and straight.”
Afar, the song faded into silence, only the echoes remaining for a moment more. Chahdzi stood with bowed head. In a few moments he turned and came back to them.
“How far do we have to go then, tomorrow?” Lutha asked.
He shook his head, as though reminding himself of where he was. “A day. A long day spent in going quickly. Which is why I look at the boy, to see how fast we can go. Climbing down the walls is not easy.”