And then, while Silkhands dozed, I told Jinian all that I knew or guessed about this book and about the Gamesmen of Barish while she asked sensible, penetrating questions in a manner which reminded me much of Himaggery on his better days. In the dusk her face had a pale, translucent quality, a kind of romantic haziness, and I remembered I had thought her plain before. Though what was it Chance always said? Any hull looks sound in the dark? Well, her hull was sound enough, dark or light.
“Windlow said something about words changing their meaning over time,” I told her. “He said that if we knew the words, then we would know what things once meant¾or words to that effect. He mentioned, for example, that in this book the word `Festival’ meant `opportunity for reproduction,’ and he said that was important. I don’t know why.”
She was a sober little person, very serious and intent. When she considered things, two narrow lines appeared between her eyes and her mouth turned down as though she chewed on the idea. It made me want to laugh to see her so earnest with the dirt on her face and her teeth blacked out. It was as though she had forgotten how she looked. Silkhands had not. Every time she wakened, she made some petulant remark about it.
“It is true that powerful Gamesmen are careless of the lives of others,” Jinian offered. “We all know that, of course. It’s part of the Game. So if we did not have School Houses, then young people without Talent yet, or those who don’t know how to use their Talents, would be eaten in the Game in great numbers. And if they were shut up always in School Houses, then they would not have babies. We were taught at Vorbold’s House that it is easiest for women to bear children when they are young¾the women, I mean, not the babies. So, when women are young, they are in School Houses, and if they must have babies then, we must have Festivals. Otherwise there would be few babies and everything would stop.” She sighed. “If Barish wrote this, he is saying that School Houses and Festivals are necessary, and further he is saying that he, personally, has invented both. But¾that was so long ago. It is a very old book.”
“Very,” I murmured. “Very old. What was that bit about the native inhabitants?”
She did not answer for some time. I thought she had gone to sleep. I thought of going to sleep myself. The water oxen were now plodding along in starlight, and we had to give serious consideration to stopping for the night so they could browse and we could eat and sleep, preparatory to our mad gallop into tomorrow behind the faithful team. When Jinian spoke at last it was conversation extended into dream.
“Did you ever hear the story of faithful-dog?” she asked. I nodded that I had. It was a nursery tale. “Did you ever see a dog?”
“It’s just another word for fustigar,” I said sleepily.
“No it isn’t,” she said. “In the story of faithful-dog, the dog wags his tail, his tail, you know? Remember? Fustigars can’t wag their tails. They don’t have tails.”
“Well, maybe at one time they did,” I objected. I had never thought of that, though indeed the old story did have a wagging tail in it. That was the point of the story for children, for it was the wag of our bottoms as we acted it out which made it fun.
“Pombis don’t have tails,” she continued. “Cats do. Mice do. Owls and hawks do, but flitchhawks don’t. Horses do. But zellers don’t.”
“We don’t,” I said.
“I know. That’s what’s confusing, because I think we belong with cats and horses and faithful-dog. But we don’t have tails and they all do. Anyhow, it’s as though there are two kinds of animals and birds and creatures, one kind from here and one kind from somewhere else. Only I don’t know if we’re the kind from here or the kind from somewhere else. Do you?”
In the place of the magicians, I had learned an answer to this. “We’re from somewhere else.” She accepted this, as she did almost everything I said, very soberly. “The shadowpeople are from here, however. And they have no tails.”