Read Online Phoenix Without Ashes by Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant - Free Book Online
Authors: Harlan Ellison, Edward Bryant
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water bucket. He watched Devon through the steam.
Devon said, “Will you at least listen—”
Garth interrupted him. He turned his eyes toward the wall and spoke. “I have been humiliated in the eyes of my fellows. My family, and especially my father, have lost stature. I have been badly used.” He reached across the bench and picked up the bow portion of a steel crossbow. Holding it against the light from the doorway, he squinted along the bow’s length, searching for imperfection. An expert marksman, he lavished no greater love on any of the other tools he had crafted.
“Garth, we’ve known each other all our lives. We’ve been friends.”
With the tongs, Garth began heating one end of the bow.
“Won’t you please try to understand?”
Garth said to the wall, “I would rather talk to my friend than to this wall.”
“I am here.”
“If someone were here to hear me now,” Garth continued inexorably, “I would say that the past is done, and what the Elders have decreed is what is now. I would say that none of this makes me happy, but I am Old Garth’s son and I will not suffer him to lose status because of me. I will do what I am told.”
Devon said, “Do you know what Elder Micah will have done to me?”
Garth looked obdurately from wall to bow.
“I am to die.”
Shocked, the smith looked directly at Devon. “No—even Elder Micah would not be so harsh.”
“‘Let no member of this congregation speak unto Devon,’” Devon quoted. “‘Let no soul touch his, let no notice be made of him.’”
“He will relent—”
“You know better, Garth. Micah would have me exiled forever to the hills. I cannot spend the rest of my life foraging for rabbits or stealing from the fields. That was a sentence of death.”
“I can’t believe—”
“Believe,” said Devon.
A hardness slipped down lover Garth’s features. He said, “I will do what I am told.”
Devon stood for a moment longer, looking at Garth; then, very sadly, he turned to go. He paused at the door. Garth hammered lightly on the crossbow. “I understand, Garth. And I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t in the middle of this.”
He exited and heard the hiss of steam as the bow was plunged into the bucket.
EIGHT
For perverse purposes he could not later fathom, Devon wandered the remainder of the afternoon through the streets of Cypress Corners. He deliberately intruded into citizens’ spheres of attention, trying to stir reactions. He was seldom rewarded.
In Old Martin’s market, he discovered elderly, widowed, near-sighted Old Esther purchasing a cut of beef. The bell jangled as Devon opened the door and walked in. Old Martin glanced up, glowered, then, stony-faced, returned his attention to his customer. Devon came up to the counter. “Hello, Granny Esther,” he said.
The old woman turned around and peered up into his face. “Oh, hello, Devon. My goodness, I—oops,” she said, suddenly remembering her duty. She was distantly related to Devon, a several-times-removed aunt.
Old Martin said irritatedly, “It’s a fine bit of steak, Granny Esther. Cut right from the rib of the animal. Look at the marbling.”
Devon reached over and started to pick up the steak; Martin snatched it back. “Better look close, Granny,” Devon said. “The marbling isn’t so visible.”
Ignoring him, Martin said, “Good red meat.”
“Old meat,” said Devon. “Old Martin’s always kept a bottle of red dye behind the counter. Everybody knows.” He started to reach over the counter, and Martin grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you remember?” Devon said to him. “Only you and Granny Esther are here.” Martin’s fingers slowly loosened.
Granny Esther held the meat a few inches from her eyes, meticulously examining it. “Hmm, you know, Martin, I don’t believe this is as fresh as it could be.”
“Of course it’s fresh,” said the shopkeeper. “Who says it isn’t?”
“Well... no one. But just the same,” said
Devon said, “Will you at least listen—”
Garth interrupted him. He turned his eyes toward the wall and spoke. “I have been humiliated in the eyes of my fellows. My family, and especially my father, have lost stature. I have been badly used.” He reached across the bench and picked up the bow portion of a steel crossbow. Holding it against the light from the doorway, he squinted along the bow’s length, searching for imperfection. An expert marksman, he lavished no greater love on any of the other tools he had crafted.
“Garth, we’ve known each other all our lives. We’ve been friends.”
With the tongs, Garth began heating one end of the bow.
“Won’t you please try to understand?”
Garth said to the wall, “I would rather talk to my friend than to this wall.”
“I am here.”
“If someone were here to hear me now,” Garth continued inexorably, “I would say that the past is done, and what the Elders have decreed is what is now. I would say that none of this makes me happy, but I am Old Garth’s son and I will not suffer him to lose status because of me. I will do what I am told.”
Devon said, “Do you know what Elder Micah will have done to me?”
Garth looked obdurately from wall to bow.
“I am to die.”
Shocked, the smith looked directly at Devon. “No—even Elder Micah would not be so harsh.”
“‘Let no member of this congregation speak unto Devon,’” Devon quoted. “‘Let no soul touch his, let no notice be made of him.’”
“He will relent—”
“You know better, Garth. Micah would have me exiled forever to the hills. I cannot spend the rest of my life foraging for rabbits or stealing from the fields. That was a sentence of death.”
“I can’t believe—”
“Believe,” said Devon.
A hardness slipped down lover Garth’s features. He said, “I will do what I am told.”
Devon stood for a moment longer, looking at Garth; then, very sadly, he turned to go. He paused at the door. Garth hammered lightly on the crossbow. “I understand, Garth. And I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t in the middle of this.”
He exited and heard the hiss of steam as the bow was plunged into the bucket.
EIGHT
For perverse purposes he could not later fathom, Devon wandered the remainder of the afternoon through the streets of Cypress Corners. He deliberately intruded into citizens’ spheres of attention, trying to stir reactions. He was seldom rewarded.
In Old Martin’s market, he discovered elderly, widowed, near-sighted Old Esther purchasing a cut of beef. The bell jangled as Devon opened the door and walked in. Old Martin glanced up, glowered, then, stony-faced, returned his attention to his customer. Devon came up to the counter. “Hello, Granny Esther,” he said.
The old woman turned around and peered up into his face. “Oh, hello, Devon. My goodness, I—oops,” she said, suddenly remembering her duty. She was distantly related to Devon, a several-times-removed aunt.
Old Martin said irritatedly, “It’s a fine bit of steak, Granny Esther. Cut right from the rib of the animal. Look at the marbling.”
Devon reached over and started to pick up the steak; Martin snatched it back. “Better look close, Granny,” Devon said. “The marbling isn’t so visible.”
Ignoring him, Martin said, “Good red meat.”
“Old meat,” said Devon. “Old Martin’s always kept a bottle of red dye behind the counter. Everybody knows.” He started to reach over the counter, and Martin grabbed his wrist. “Don’t you remember?” Devon said to him. “Only you and Granny Esther are here.” Martin’s fingers slowly loosened.
Granny Esther held the meat a few inches from her eyes, meticulously examining it. “Hmm, you know, Martin, I don’t believe this is as fresh as it could be.”
“Of course it’s fresh,” said the shopkeeper. “Who says it isn’t?”
“Well... no one. But just the same,” said
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