Read Online Reave the Just and Other Tales by Stephen R. Donaldson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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escaped from the sheets.
“Go!” Selmet shouted as well as he was able. “From this day forward, you will never forget that you would be happier dead.”
Bowing with sardonic grace, Fetim left the house of Selmet Abulbul. Although his sport with the woman had been interrupted, his spirits were gay. It was gratifying that others knew of his successes. And the vengeance which Selmet might take upon his youngest wife was amusing to contemplate. In such benign good humor, Fetim turned his steps toward the high mansion where he lived with his mother, who thought him flawless, his father, who doted upon him, and his brothers, who worked harder than he did.
To his vast astonishment, he saw over the intervening rooftops that the mansion was in flames.
Fetim of the al-Hetal was not a notably selfless young man. Nevertheless, he had a warm place in his heart for anyone who loved him as much as he loved himself. In a frenzy which resembled concern for his parents and family—and which did indeed include some concern among its other considerations—he tore his hair and ran to see what was happening to his home.
Turmoil gripped the neighborhood. Men, women, and children raced in all directions, wailing. For some reason, the thought of water did not enter their heads, despite the fact that a history of fire had taught the town to respond promptly and efficiently. No one fought the blaze which tore at the walls and flailed from the windows of the fine mansion.
The destruction of Fetim’s house was not a pleasant sight; but it was more pleasant than some of its details. He heard his mother scream and saw her in flames on the rooftop. Two of his nephews fell like stones to the street when one of the brothers’ wives in desperation threw them out a window. A favorite servant who had cared for Fetim and taught him a great deal of fun as a boy died trying to descend the outer wall.
“Where is the fire brigade?” roared Fetim. But no one answered him. Everyone in the street was too busy running and yelling.
Then Akbar of the al-Hetal, Fetim’s father, appeared before him. Akbar’s clothes were still afire, and his eyes were mad. Inspired by the curse, he cried, “This is your doing!”
Fetim was so surprised that he did not defend himself when his father swung a cudgel at his head.
I deflected the blow, and he was no more than stunned. He recovered his wits in time to see Akbar die in front of him.
On this signal, the neighborhood commenced shouting:
“There he is!”
“He started the fire!”
“He killed his own family!”
“Stone him!”
Stones began to fly. None of them struck him seriously—although I was confident that he would not soon forget the bruises they left on his body—but they were enough to make him flee.
Led only by a desire to get away from the stones, he left the neighborhood and soon found himself at the gates of the town with a howling mob on his heels. The gates were open, as was customary on occasions of fire, in case the flames spread. The mob needed only a moment to drive Fetim out of the town where he had lived all his life—out onto the bare road which led into the desert.
There it became clear to me that he would not be able to run much farther. His life of self-indulgence had not prepared him for these exertions. And the mob would surely tear him limb from limb when he faltered. Therefore I caused his pursuers to lose sight of him. Shortly, they retraced their steps and set to work quelling the fire.
In the aftermath of the blaze, the neighborhood discovered that the damage had been confined to the clan of the al-Hetal, its dependents and friends. But of that sizable group of people, Fetim was the only survivor.
Because he did not know what else to do, he continued trudging along the road until nightfall. Then he threw himself down in order to bemoan his lot.
“It is unjust,” he protested. “I am blameless. Any man would have accepted the invitation that woman gave me. Am I
“Go!” Selmet shouted as well as he was able. “From this day forward, you will never forget that you would be happier dead.”
Bowing with sardonic grace, Fetim left the house of Selmet Abulbul. Although his sport with the woman had been interrupted, his spirits were gay. It was gratifying that others knew of his successes. And the vengeance which Selmet might take upon his youngest wife was amusing to contemplate. In such benign good humor, Fetim turned his steps toward the high mansion where he lived with his mother, who thought him flawless, his father, who doted upon him, and his brothers, who worked harder than he did.
To his vast astonishment, he saw over the intervening rooftops that the mansion was in flames.
Fetim of the al-Hetal was not a notably selfless young man. Nevertheless, he had a warm place in his heart for anyone who loved him as much as he loved himself. In a frenzy which resembled concern for his parents and family—and which did indeed include some concern among its other considerations—he tore his hair and ran to see what was happening to his home.
Turmoil gripped the neighborhood. Men, women, and children raced in all directions, wailing. For some reason, the thought of water did not enter their heads, despite the fact that a history of fire had taught the town to respond promptly and efficiently. No one fought the blaze which tore at the walls and flailed from the windows of the fine mansion.
The destruction of Fetim’s house was not a pleasant sight; but it was more pleasant than some of its details. He heard his mother scream and saw her in flames on the rooftop. Two of his nephews fell like stones to the street when one of the brothers’ wives in desperation threw them out a window. A favorite servant who had cared for Fetim and taught him a great deal of fun as a boy died trying to descend the outer wall.
“Where is the fire brigade?” roared Fetim. But no one answered him. Everyone in the street was too busy running and yelling.
Then Akbar of the al-Hetal, Fetim’s father, appeared before him. Akbar’s clothes were still afire, and his eyes were mad. Inspired by the curse, he cried, “This is your doing!”
Fetim was so surprised that he did not defend himself when his father swung a cudgel at his head.
I deflected the blow, and he was no more than stunned. He recovered his wits in time to see Akbar die in front of him.
On this signal, the neighborhood commenced shouting:
“There he is!”
“He started the fire!”
“He killed his own family!”
“Stone him!”
Stones began to fly. None of them struck him seriously—although I was confident that he would not soon forget the bruises they left on his body—but they were enough to make him flee.
Led only by a desire to get away from the stones, he left the neighborhood and soon found himself at the gates of the town with a howling mob on his heels. The gates were open, as was customary on occasions of fire, in case the flames spread. The mob needed only a moment to drive Fetim out of the town where he had lived all his life—out onto the bare road which led into the desert.
There it became clear to me that he would not be able to run much farther. His life of self-indulgence had not prepared him for these exertions. And the mob would surely tear him limb from limb when he faltered. Therefore I caused his pursuers to lose sight of him. Shortly, they retraced their steps and set to work quelling the fire.
In the aftermath of the blaze, the neighborhood discovered that the damage had been confined to the clan of the al-Hetal, its dependents and friends. But of that sizable group of people, Fetim was the only survivor.
Because he did not know what else to do, he continued trudging along the road until nightfall. Then he threw himself down in order to bemoan his lot.
“It is unjust,” he protested. “I am blameless. Any man would have accepted the invitation that woman gave me. Am I
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