sound of each person’s voice, in turn, distracted him for a precious time from
his inner feeling of imminent disaster. He was accustomed to pay attention, to
compare, and decide. And, somehow, through all the numbness he managed to hold
onto that ability.
A persistent stomach ache – ‘What have you been eating?’ The flower of the agris
plant was exchanged for a silver coin.
A pain in the chest. ‘How long? Where, exactly?’ The root of the dark melles was
eaten and swallowed while he watched, in exchange for one small Rankan gold
piece.
Persistently bleeding gums. The flower and seeds of a rose, and the light brown
grindings from the husk of grain were handed over, with the instruction: ‘Take a
spoonful each morning and night.’ ,
–
There were a dozen like that. All were anxious and disturbed. And they took up
his time until the morning was almost over. Suddenly, the visitors ceased to
come. At once, there was the awful thought of Ils the Mighty, angry with him.
‘What could he want of me?’
That was the persistent question. Not, what purpose could Alten Stulwig have in
this awful predicament? But what intention did the super-being have in relation
to him? Or what did he require of him?
It was almost the noon hour before the second possibility finally penetrated the
madness of merely waiting for further signals. And the more personal thought
took form.
‘It’s up to me. I should ask certain people for advice, or even-‘ sudden hope
‘information.’
Just like that he had something he could do.
At that moment there was one more patient. And then, as the rather stocky woman