repairs that the dawn gale made necessary on the outside, patching the dawn-door and so on. It seemed clear enough, but left to himself Tighe found it hard to get right. He couldn’t seem to concentrate. His pahe was gone and in the main space his pashe was lying on the floor and sobbing noisily, intrusively. It was hard to concentrate. Normally Tighe would have gone out and roamed the ledges and the crags; but his pahe had left him in charge of the house and another layer of mud needed to be applied to the outside of the dawn-door – it needed to be done in the morning so it could dry in the midday sunshine. So Tighe bit his teeth together and smeared the mud over the front of the dawn-door, making quite a mess of it. But always there was the
ah-ah-ah
of his pashe crying in the main space.
He sat back on his haunches and listened to the noise. Difficult to know what to do. Then the sobbing changed to a single rising wail,
ullahhh
, and the noise slid like a needle into his head. He made a few more swipes with the spatula, but the noise was too much. Tentatively he made his way back to the main space, putting his head round the door. ‘Pashe?’
Only her huddled shape on the floor, bulging and shaking with the effort of crying. She was sobbing again now.
He stood in the door, scratching his head. Then he tiptoed overtowards her, and crouched down beside her. ‘Pashe, what is it? What is the matter?’
The sobbing stopped and Tighe’s heart jumped, not knowing whether violence was about to spring up from the floor. Pashe lurched and sat up and Tighe couldn’t prevent the reflex that jerked him backwards. But his pashe’s face was so blurred with crying, her eyes so red and desolate-looking, that he paused. ‘Oh my boy-boy,’ she moaned and grabbed his neck in an awkward embrace. ‘You’re the only man in my life. You are my life! You are why we do all this, all this struggle, when it would be so easy to give up, to give over, to fall away.’
And she sobbed and cried on to his shoulder and Tighe did not know what to do, so he just held her and tried to make a comforting hum with his mouth. And, as the moment stretched out, there was an almost warm feeling in his belly. That he and his pashe could enjoy this intimacy; that she could depend upon him. Or maybe it was only that the terror of his pashe was reduced to this bundle, this series of hot desperate breaths against his neck. It was a sort of power; but at the same time he felt awkward because of its incongruity. The moment swelled and then passed, faded. Pashe gently pulled herself back, away from him, wiping her face on the sleeve of her shirt. Tighe sat looking at the floor. The intimacy had evaporated and now there was only the awkwardness.
He went back to the dawn-door and made some desultory passes over the front of it with the spatula. Then he threw the equipment down and lurched outside and along the ledge. The sky was brass coloured, scratched like old plastic with some streaky clouds running vertically. A fresh breeze, the last remnants of the dawn gale, was pushing up and rustling Tighe’s hair. He made his way along the ledges and down the public ladder to the main-street shelf. There were a few loiterers hanging about the shelf, hoping for work; thin men and women in raggedy clothes. That was a sign that things were changing; even Tighe knew as much. There would usually be three or four people squatting with their backs to the wall hoping for any sort of chore or job that would earn them their food. But here were more than a dozen people, some faces that Tighe recognised, some completely new to him.
He went up to Akathe’s booth to talk to him about it. ‘All the traders are talking about it,’ the clockmaker told him, with an eyepiece clenched between eyebrow and bulging cheek. ‘Bad times coming. If you know how to sense it you can feel it, like the stirring of the air before the dawn gale.’
‘I saw more than a
dozen
people waiting
ah-ah-ah
of his pashe crying in the main space.
He sat back on his haunches and listened to the noise. Difficult to know what to do. Then the sobbing changed to a single rising wail,
ullahhh
, and the noise slid like a needle into his head. He made a few more swipes with the spatula, but the noise was too much. Tentatively he made his way back to the main space, putting his head round the door. ‘Pashe?’
Only her huddled shape on the floor, bulging and shaking with the effort of crying. She was sobbing again now.
He stood in the door, scratching his head. Then he tiptoed overtowards her, and crouched down beside her. ‘Pashe, what is it? What is the matter?’
The sobbing stopped and Tighe’s heart jumped, not knowing whether violence was about to spring up from the floor. Pashe lurched and sat up and Tighe couldn’t prevent the reflex that jerked him backwards. But his pashe’s face was so blurred with crying, her eyes so red and desolate-looking, that he paused. ‘Oh my boy-boy,’ she moaned and grabbed his neck in an awkward embrace. ‘You’re the only man in my life. You are my life! You are why we do all this, all this struggle, when it would be so easy to give up, to give over, to fall away.’
And she sobbed and cried on to his shoulder and Tighe did not know what to do, so he just held her and tried to make a comforting hum with his mouth. And, as the moment stretched out, there was an almost warm feeling in his belly. That he and his pashe could enjoy this intimacy; that she could depend upon him. Or maybe it was only that the terror of his pashe was reduced to this bundle, this series of hot desperate breaths against his neck. It was a sort of power; but at the same time he felt awkward because of its incongruity. The moment swelled and then passed, faded. Pashe gently pulled herself back, away from him, wiping her face on the sleeve of her shirt. Tighe sat looking at the floor. The intimacy had evaporated and now there was only the awkwardness.
He went back to the dawn-door and made some desultory passes over the front of it with the spatula. Then he threw the equipment down and lurched outside and along the ledge. The sky was brass coloured, scratched like old plastic with some streaky clouds running vertically. A fresh breeze, the last remnants of the dawn gale, was pushing up and rustling Tighe’s hair. He made his way along the ledges and down the public ladder to the main-street shelf. There were a few loiterers hanging about the shelf, hoping for work; thin men and women in raggedy clothes. That was a sign that things were changing; even Tighe knew as much. There would usually be three or four people squatting with their backs to the wall hoping for any sort of chore or job that would earn them their food. But here were more than a dozen people, some faces that Tighe recognised, some completely new to him.
He went up to Akathe’s booth to talk to him about it. ‘All the traders are talking about it,’ the clockmaker told him, with an eyepiece clenched between eyebrow and bulging cheek. ‘Bad times coming. If you know how to sense it you can feel it, like the stirring of the air before the dawn gale.’
‘I saw more than a
dozen
people waiting
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