Read Online Shadow Puppets (Ender, Book 7) (Shadow Saga) by Orson Scott Card - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Orson Scott Card
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Sagas, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Science fiction - gsafd
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been older, his growth stunted by hunger, was not like the other children. He did not join them in running and shouting, shoving and chasing, and tossing back and forth whatever came to hand. Virlomi thought at first he must be crippled, but no, his staggering gait was because he was walking right among the stones of the streambed, and had to adjust his steps to keep his footing.
Every now and then he bent over and picked up something. A little later, he would set it back down.
She came closer, and saw that what he picked up was a stone, and when he set it back down it was only a stone among stones.
What was the meaning of his task, on which he worked so intently, and which had so little result?
She walked to the stream, but well behind his path, and watched his back as he receded into the gathering gloom, bending and rising, bending and rising.
He is acting out my life, she thought. He works at his task, concentrating, giving his all, missing out on the games of his playmates. And yet he makes no difference in the world at all.
Then, as she looked at the streambed where he had already walked, she saw that she could easily find his path, not because he left footprints, but because the stones he picked up were lighter than the others, and by leaving them on the top, he was marking a wavering line of light through the middle of the streambed.
It did not really change her view of his work as meaningless-if anything, it was further proof. What could such a line possibly accomplish? The fact that there was a visible result made his labor all the more pathetic, because when the rains came it would all be swept away, the stones retumbled upon each other, and what difference would it make that for a while, at least, there was a dotted line of lighter stones along the middle of the streambed?
Then, suddenly, her view of it changed. He was not marking a line. He was building a stone wall.
No, that was absurd. A wall whose stones were as much as a meter apart? A wall that was never more than one stone high?
A wall, made of the stones of India. Picked up and set down almost where they had been found. But the stream was different because the wall had been built.
Is this how the Great Wall of China had begun? A child marking off the boundaries of his world?
She walked back to the village and returned to the house where she had been fed and where she would be spending the night. She did not speak of the child and the stones to anyone; indeed, she soon thought of other things and did not think to ask anyone about the strange boy. Nor did she dream of stones that night.
But in the morning, when she awoke with the mother and took her two water pitchers to the public spigot, so she did not have to do that task today, she saw the stones that had been brushed to the sides of the road and remembered the boy.
She set down the pitchers at the side of the road, picked up a few stones, and carried them to the middle of the road. There she set them and returned for more, arranging them in broken a line right across the road.
Only a few dozen stones, when she was done. Not a barrier of any kind. And yet it was a wall. It was as obvious as a monument. She picked up her pitchers and walked on to the spigot.
As she waited her turn, she talked with the other women, and a few men, who had come for the day's water. "I added to your wall," she said after a while.
"What wall?" they asked her
"Across the road," she said.
"Who would build a wall across a road?" they asked.
"Like the ones I've seen in other towns. Not a real wall. Just a line of stones. Haven't you seen it?"
"I saw you putting stones out into the road. Do you know how hard we work to keep it clear?" said one of the men.
"Of course. If you didn't keep it clear everywhere else," said Virlomi, "no one would see where the wall was." She spoke as though what she said were obvious, as though he had surely had this explained to him before.
"Walls keep things out," said a woman. "Or
Every now and then he bent over and picked up something. A little later, he would set it back down.
She came closer, and saw that what he picked up was a stone, and when he set it back down it was only a stone among stones.
What was the meaning of his task, on which he worked so intently, and which had so little result?
She walked to the stream, but well behind his path, and watched his back as he receded into the gathering gloom, bending and rising, bending and rising.
He is acting out my life, she thought. He works at his task, concentrating, giving his all, missing out on the games of his playmates. And yet he makes no difference in the world at all.
Then, as she looked at the streambed where he had already walked, she saw that she could easily find his path, not because he left footprints, but because the stones he picked up were lighter than the others, and by leaving them on the top, he was marking a wavering line of light through the middle of the streambed.
It did not really change her view of his work as meaningless-if anything, it was further proof. What could such a line possibly accomplish? The fact that there was a visible result made his labor all the more pathetic, because when the rains came it would all be swept away, the stones retumbled upon each other, and what difference would it make that for a while, at least, there was a dotted line of lighter stones along the middle of the streambed?
Then, suddenly, her view of it changed. He was not marking a line. He was building a stone wall.
No, that was absurd. A wall whose stones were as much as a meter apart? A wall that was never more than one stone high?
A wall, made of the stones of India. Picked up and set down almost where they had been found. But the stream was different because the wall had been built.
Is this how the Great Wall of China had begun? A child marking off the boundaries of his world?
She walked back to the village and returned to the house where she had been fed and where she would be spending the night. She did not speak of the child and the stones to anyone; indeed, she soon thought of other things and did not think to ask anyone about the strange boy. Nor did she dream of stones that night.
But in the morning, when she awoke with the mother and took her two water pitchers to the public spigot, so she did not have to do that task today, she saw the stones that had been brushed to the sides of the road and remembered the boy.
She set down the pitchers at the side of the road, picked up a few stones, and carried them to the middle of the road. There she set them and returned for more, arranging them in broken a line right across the road.
Only a few dozen stones, when she was done. Not a barrier of any kind. And yet it was a wall. It was as obvious as a monument. She picked up her pitchers and walked on to the spigot.
As she waited her turn, she talked with the other women, and a few men, who had come for the day's water. "I added to your wall," she said after a while.
"What wall?" they asked her
"Across the road," she said.
"Who would build a wall across a road?" they asked.
"Like the ones I've seen in other towns. Not a real wall. Just a line of stones. Haven't you seen it?"
"I saw you putting stones out into the road. Do you know how hard we work to keep it clear?" said one of the men.
"Of course. If you didn't keep it clear everywhere else," said Virlomi, "no one would see where the wall was." She spoke as though what she said were obvious, as though he had surely had this explained to him before.
"Walls keep things out," said a woman. "Or
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