Read Online A Stranger in Olondria: A Novel by Sofia Samatar - Free Book Online
Authors: Sofia Samatar
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air, and for rest, and this talking taxes her so—”
“Stop,” the young girl whispered. She looked at me with a trembling smile. “You will forgive us. We are not accustomed to much company.”
“It is I who should ask forgiveness,” I said. “I am intruding on you—on your rest.”
“Not at all,” said the girl, in a manner peculiarly grave and formal. “Not at all. You are a very rare thing: a wise man from the islands. Tell me—have you been to this northern ghost-country before?”
I shook my head. “This is my first visit. But I do speak the language.”
“You speak their language? Olondrian?”
“I had an Olondrian tutor.”
I was gratified by the older woman’s look of awe; the girl regarded me silently with an expression I could not read.
“We have heard that one can hire interpreters,” her mother said.
“I am sure one can,” I answered, though I was not sure of it at all. The woman looked relieved and smoothed her dark dress over her knees, moving her hand down to scratch discreetly at her ankle. Poor creatures, I thought, wondering how they would fare in the northern capital. The woman, I noticed, was missing the two smallest fingers of her right hand.
The girl spoke up abruptly. “As for us,” she said in a strange, harsh tone, “we are traveling to a place of healing, as you might have guessed. It is called A-lei-lin, and lies in the mountains. But really . . . She paused, twisting the cloth of her pallet. “Really . . . It’s foolish of us. . . .”
“No, not foolish,” her mother interrupted. “We believe that we will find healing there. It is a holy place. The temple of a foreign goddess. And perhaps the gods of the north—in the north there are many wonders, son, many miracles. You will have heard of them yourself. . . .”
“It is certainly said to be, and I believe it is, a place of magic, full of great wizards,” I said. “These wizards, for example, have devised a map of the stars, cast in brass, with which they can measure the distance of stars from the earth. They write not only in numbers, but words, so that they may converse across time and space, and one of their devices can make innumerable replicas of books—such as this one.”
I held out the slim Olondrian Lyrics bound in dark green leather. The women looked at it but seemed loath to touch it.
“Is that—a vallon ?” the girl asked, stumbling slightly over the word.
“It is. In it there are written many poems in the northern tongue.”
The girl’s mother gazed at me, and I guessed that the worn look in her face came not from hard labor but from an unrelenting sorrow. “Are you a wizard, my son?”
I laughed. “No, no! I am only a student of northern letters. There’s no wizardry in reading.”
“Of course not!” snapped the girl, startling me with her vehemence. Her small face blazed, a lamp newly opened. “Why must you?” she hissed at her mother. “Why? Why? Could you not be silent? Can you never be silent even for the space of an hour?”
The woman blinked rapidly and looked away.
“Perhaps—” I said, half rising from my chair.
“Oh, no. Don’t you go,” said the girl, a wild note in her voice. “I’ve offended you. Forgive me! My mother and I—we are too much alone. Tell me,” she went on without a pause, “how do you find the open sea? Does it not feel like freedom?”
“Yes, I suppose—”
“Beautiful and fearsome at the same time. My father, before he stopped talking, said that the open sea was like fever. He called it ‘the fever of health’—does that not seem to you very apt? The fever of health. He said that he always felt twice as alive at sea.”
“Was your father a merchant?”
“Why do you say that—was? He isn’t dead.”
“I am sorry,” I said.
“He is not dead. He is only very quiet.”
I glanced at her mother, who kept her head lowered.
“Why are you smiling?” asked the girl.
My conciliatory half-smile evaporated. “I’m
“Stop,” the young girl whispered. She looked at me with a trembling smile. “You will forgive us. We are not accustomed to much company.”
“It is I who should ask forgiveness,” I said. “I am intruding on you—on your rest.”
“Not at all,” said the girl, in a manner peculiarly grave and formal. “Not at all. You are a very rare thing: a wise man from the islands. Tell me—have you been to this northern ghost-country before?”
I shook my head. “This is my first visit. But I do speak the language.”
“You speak their language? Olondrian?”
“I had an Olondrian tutor.”
I was gratified by the older woman’s look of awe; the girl regarded me silently with an expression I could not read.
“We have heard that one can hire interpreters,” her mother said.
“I am sure one can,” I answered, though I was not sure of it at all. The woman looked relieved and smoothed her dark dress over her knees, moving her hand down to scratch discreetly at her ankle. Poor creatures, I thought, wondering how they would fare in the northern capital. The woman, I noticed, was missing the two smallest fingers of her right hand.
The girl spoke up abruptly. “As for us,” she said in a strange, harsh tone, “we are traveling to a place of healing, as you might have guessed. It is called A-lei-lin, and lies in the mountains. But really . . . She paused, twisting the cloth of her pallet. “Really . . . It’s foolish of us. . . .”
“No, not foolish,” her mother interrupted. “We believe that we will find healing there. It is a holy place. The temple of a foreign goddess. And perhaps the gods of the north—in the north there are many wonders, son, many miracles. You will have heard of them yourself. . . .”
“It is certainly said to be, and I believe it is, a place of magic, full of great wizards,” I said. “These wizards, for example, have devised a map of the stars, cast in brass, with which they can measure the distance of stars from the earth. They write not only in numbers, but words, so that they may converse across time and space, and one of their devices can make innumerable replicas of books—such as this one.”
I held out the slim Olondrian Lyrics bound in dark green leather. The women looked at it but seemed loath to touch it.
“Is that—a vallon ?” the girl asked, stumbling slightly over the word.
“It is. In it there are written many poems in the northern tongue.”
The girl’s mother gazed at me, and I guessed that the worn look in her face came not from hard labor but from an unrelenting sorrow. “Are you a wizard, my son?”
I laughed. “No, no! I am only a student of northern letters. There’s no wizardry in reading.”
“Of course not!” snapped the girl, startling me with her vehemence. Her small face blazed, a lamp newly opened. “Why must you?” she hissed at her mother. “Why? Why? Could you not be silent? Can you never be silent even for the space of an hour?”
The woman blinked rapidly and looked away.
“Perhaps—” I said, half rising from my chair.
“Oh, no. Don’t you go,” said the girl, a wild note in her voice. “I’ve offended you. Forgive me! My mother and I—we are too much alone. Tell me,” she went on without a pause, “how do you find the open sea? Does it not feel like freedom?”
“Yes, I suppose—”
“Beautiful and fearsome at the same time. My father, before he stopped talking, said that the open sea was like fever. He called it ‘the fever of health’—does that not seem to you very apt? The fever of health. He said that he always felt twice as alive at sea.”
“Was your father a merchant?”
“Why do you say that—was? He isn’t dead.”
“I am sorry,” I said.
“He is not dead. He is only very quiet.”
I glanced at her mother, who kept her head lowered.
“Why are you smiling?” asked the girl.
My conciliatory half-smile evaporated. “I’m
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