world.
Then the dog lifted its head and looked one way, and he realized that he was not alone any longer. There was something else here. He looked round him wearily, almost too tired to defend himself. The white flowers gave a dim reflected light, but even so, it was some time before he saw the thing that had blundered out of the fog. Clutching a rock, gazing at him hopelessly yet fiercely, was an angry, bedraggled young hawk, in trouble, since it had fallen too soon from its nest, but utterly beyond help. Young though it was, it could not help being savage in miniature, for since some creatures are born withoutgratitude, nothing can be done for them even when they need assistance, for they are born too bitter to be mollified.
He was comforted. If even savagery was defenceless here, then maybe that was some protection. He knew the dog was too tired to go on. So was he. He lay down, drew it to him, and got some reassurance from its warmth. Its heart was pounding, but pounded less as he held it, and at last, despite itself, it relaxed, with a lazy salt lick at his hand, and fell to snoring. Unexpectedly happy, Muchaku shrugged and did the same. Somehow they had come to terms.
He had been angry. He awoke subdued, and even though his thoughts were whirling faster than ever, he thought that with the dog to guide him he could keep a steady course along the narrow path again. It was necessary only not to look to either side. These were the instructions his night thoughts handed him, at the threshold of consciousness. But when he stepped over that lowered sill, he blinked, for the fog was now irradiated , so that he felt blinded in the middle of a snowbank. The mist had conquered the clearing and the dog was gone. He sat up, alarmed, and then heard a curious lapping below him, in that density somewhere. It was the dog taking up water at the stream.
He called it, but having no name for it, merely called. He could hear only the anxiety in his voice, but the dog must have heard something better, for it came bounding towards him, its head and shoulders emerging quivering and eager just below his hand. He got up. The fog was up to his nipples, but he was aware of the warmth of the dog, which seemed to know its duty was to make smallnoises, so that he could follow. He did not doubt for an instant that the animal knew the way.
The fog had the variable density of semen or smoke caught in a bottle, clotted in its own vehicle like the former, but shifting like the latter, so that from time to time he caught little reassuring glimpses of reality, if that was reality, a series of sumi sketches by a master hand, here one or two rocks, there a study of the boles of trees. In childhood his brother had been his security, and these stray leaves from a natural sketchbook reminded him of the object of his errand. They made it possible to go on.
The trees, too, seemed to be thinning. And then the fog, as though thoroughly bored with what it was doing, lifted with an audible effort, a foot or two above the ground, in order, he supposed, to go faster somewhere else.
It was then he heard the pattering, and caught a glimpse to the left of the trail, some five feet away, of a pair of burly legs. Both he and the dog froze.
The silence shimmered, and then split in all directions, in a long horizontal wail, and sometimes broke and flapped around some more disturbing sound, that came he could not tell from where. It seemed now far off, now close, dangerously patient, and then brutal, as though each several severed head of the enemy creaked open its twisted mouth, and uttered one oracle to join the general chorus of derision. And more than anything else the sound was dustily choked and ancient, like the creaking of a dead pine, twisted and abandoned, but longing to fall, if only someone would step into the path of its falling.
He could have laughed with relief. He was sophisticated again. His head whirled a little less. This was only battle music. There
Then the dog lifted its head and looked one way, and he realized that he was not alone any longer. There was something else here. He looked round him wearily, almost too tired to defend himself. The white flowers gave a dim reflected light, but even so, it was some time before he saw the thing that had blundered out of the fog. Clutching a rock, gazing at him hopelessly yet fiercely, was an angry, bedraggled young hawk, in trouble, since it had fallen too soon from its nest, but utterly beyond help. Young though it was, it could not help being savage in miniature, for since some creatures are born withoutgratitude, nothing can be done for them even when they need assistance, for they are born too bitter to be mollified.
He was comforted. If even savagery was defenceless here, then maybe that was some protection. He knew the dog was too tired to go on. So was he. He lay down, drew it to him, and got some reassurance from its warmth. Its heart was pounding, but pounded less as he held it, and at last, despite itself, it relaxed, with a lazy salt lick at his hand, and fell to snoring. Unexpectedly happy, Muchaku shrugged and did the same. Somehow they had come to terms.
He had been angry. He awoke subdued, and even though his thoughts were whirling faster than ever, he thought that with the dog to guide him he could keep a steady course along the narrow path again. It was necessary only not to look to either side. These were the instructions his night thoughts handed him, at the threshold of consciousness. But when he stepped over that lowered sill, he blinked, for the fog was now irradiated , so that he felt blinded in the middle of a snowbank. The mist had conquered the clearing and the dog was gone. He sat up, alarmed, and then heard a curious lapping below him, in that density somewhere. It was the dog taking up water at the stream.
He called it, but having no name for it, merely called. He could hear only the anxiety in his voice, but the dog must have heard something better, for it came bounding towards him, its head and shoulders emerging quivering and eager just below his hand. He got up. The fog was up to his nipples, but he was aware of the warmth of the dog, which seemed to know its duty was to make smallnoises, so that he could follow. He did not doubt for an instant that the animal knew the way.
The fog had the variable density of semen or smoke caught in a bottle, clotted in its own vehicle like the former, but shifting like the latter, so that from time to time he caught little reassuring glimpses of reality, if that was reality, a series of sumi sketches by a master hand, here one or two rocks, there a study of the boles of trees. In childhood his brother had been his security, and these stray leaves from a natural sketchbook reminded him of the object of his errand. They made it possible to go on.
The trees, too, seemed to be thinning. And then the fog, as though thoroughly bored with what it was doing, lifted with an audible effort, a foot or two above the ground, in order, he supposed, to go faster somewhere else.
It was then he heard the pattering, and caught a glimpse to the left of the trail, some five feet away, of a pair of burly legs. Both he and the dog froze.
The silence shimmered, and then split in all directions, in a long horizontal wail, and sometimes broke and flapped around some more disturbing sound, that came he could not tell from where. It seemed now far off, now close, dangerously patient, and then brutal, as though each several severed head of the enemy creaked open its twisted mouth, and uttered one oracle to join the general chorus of derision. And more than anything else the sound was dustily choked and ancient, like the creaking of a dead pine, twisted and abandoned, but longing to fall, if only someone would step into the path of its falling.
He could have laughed with relief. He was sophisticated again. His head whirled a little less. This was only battle music. There
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