Read Online The Beginning Place by Ursula K. Le Guin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ursula K. Le Guin
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the man again he was standing up there across the river, staring—staring at the sign, of course, her sign, KEEP OUT! Her heart leapt again and her mouth opened in a soundless, gasping laugh.
Standing up he was big, heavy-bodied, as he had looked in the sleeping bag. When he moved at last he was heavy-footed, turning to plod back up the bank. He stopped to stare at the places where his hearth, his pack, his bedroll had been. He moved, stopped, stared. Finally he turned slowly, turned his back and headed for the gateway between the laurels and the pine. Irene clenched her hands in triumph. He stopped again. He turned, and came back, straight down and across the water in a heavy, stumbling charge that brought him up the bank in a rush. He pulled up the sign, broke the
board off the post, broke the board across his thigh, the charcoal smearing off on his wet hands, threw down the pieces, and looked around. “You bastards!” he said in a thick voice. “You sneaking bastards!”
“Same to you,” Irene’s voice said, and her legs stood up under her.
At once he turned and was coming at her. She stood her ground because her legs refused to go anywhere. “Get out,” she said. “Clear out. This is private property.”
The staring eyes steadied and fixed on her. He stopped. He was massive. The staring face was white and blank, mindless. The mouth said words she did not understand.
He came towards her again. She heard her own voice but had no idea what it said. She was still holding the rock she had picked up. She would try to kill him if he touched her.
“You don’t have to,” he said in a strained, husky voice, a boy’s voice. He had stopped. He turned away from her now and went back, clumsily crossing the water, up the bank, across the clearing, to the threshold.
She stood without moving and watched him.
He passed between the pine and laurels and went on. It was strange; had she never looked through the gateway from this side? The path that went up so steep and dark into the daylight looked level and open, from here across the water; it looked no different from the paths of the twilight land. She could see along it for a long way in the dusk under the trees, and could see the man walking down it, still walking away under the trees in the grey unchanging light.
3
H e broke the signboard, stamped the pieces into the mud, and stood there in his shirt and jeans soaked from his stumble in the creek, his shoes full of water. “You bastards,” he said, the first words he had ever spoken aloud in the twilight place. “You sneaking bastards!”
The high bushes crashed and writhed. Somebody came out of hiding there, a boy, black-haired, staring. “Get out,” the boy said. “Clear out. This is private property.”
“All right. Where’s my stuff?” Hugh took a step forward. “It cost a week’s pay. What did you do with it?”
“It’s up there in the woods. Don’t bring it back. Don’t come back. Just get out!”
The boy stepped forward, self-righteous, jeering, hateful. Hugh could not keep himself from shaking. “All right,” he said, “you didn’t have to—” It was no use. He turned, plunged back down the bank and across the stream, slipping
and catching himself on boulders as he crossed. He made for the gateway. He had to get out. He would get out and go, never come back, it was ruined. His stuff was up in the woods, he would go through the gate and get his stuff and never come back.
But he had already gone through the gate.
When he looked back he saw the twilight behind him and the rush of the water and the rocks breaking it, and ahead of him he saw the twilight and the path going on among the trees.
He had lost his way. There was no way.
He went on a few steps, then stopped; he stood there; then came back, passing between the high bushes and the red-barked pine, to the beginning place.
The other, the stranger, was still standing on the far bank. Not a boy but a woman, jeans and white
Standing up he was big, heavy-bodied, as he had looked in the sleeping bag. When he moved at last he was heavy-footed, turning to plod back up the bank. He stopped to stare at the places where his hearth, his pack, his bedroll had been. He moved, stopped, stared. Finally he turned slowly, turned his back and headed for the gateway between the laurels and the pine. Irene clenched her hands in triumph. He stopped again. He turned, and came back, straight down and across the water in a heavy, stumbling charge that brought him up the bank in a rush. He pulled up the sign, broke the
board off the post, broke the board across his thigh, the charcoal smearing off on his wet hands, threw down the pieces, and looked around. “You bastards!” he said in a thick voice. “You sneaking bastards!”
“Same to you,” Irene’s voice said, and her legs stood up under her.
At once he turned and was coming at her. She stood her ground because her legs refused to go anywhere. “Get out,” she said. “Clear out. This is private property.”
The staring eyes steadied and fixed on her. He stopped. He was massive. The staring face was white and blank, mindless. The mouth said words she did not understand.
He came towards her again. She heard her own voice but had no idea what it said. She was still holding the rock she had picked up. She would try to kill him if he touched her.
“You don’t have to,” he said in a strained, husky voice, a boy’s voice. He had stopped. He turned away from her now and went back, clumsily crossing the water, up the bank, across the clearing, to the threshold.
She stood without moving and watched him.
He passed between the pine and laurels and went on. It was strange; had she never looked through the gateway from this side? The path that went up so steep and dark into the daylight looked level and open, from here across the water; it looked no different from the paths of the twilight land. She could see along it for a long way in the dusk under the trees, and could see the man walking down it, still walking away under the trees in the grey unchanging light.
3
H e broke the signboard, stamped the pieces into the mud, and stood there in his shirt and jeans soaked from his stumble in the creek, his shoes full of water. “You bastards,” he said, the first words he had ever spoken aloud in the twilight place. “You sneaking bastards!”
The high bushes crashed and writhed. Somebody came out of hiding there, a boy, black-haired, staring. “Get out,” the boy said. “Clear out. This is private property.”
“All right. Where’s my stuff?” Hugh took a step forward. “It cost a week’s pay. What did you do with it?”
“It’s up there in the woods. Don’t bring it back. Don’t come back. Just get out!”
The boy stepped forward, self-righteous, jeering, hateful. Hugh could not keep himself from shaking. “All right,” he said, “you didn’t have to—” It was no use. He turned, plunged back down the bank and across the stream, slipping
and catching himself on boulders as he crossed. He made for the gateway. He had to get out. He would get out and go, never come back, it was ruined. His stuff was up in the woods, he would go through the gate and get his stuff and never come back.
But he had already gone through the gate.
When he looked back he saw the twilight behind him and the rush of the water and the rocks breaking it, and ahead of him he saw the twilight and the path going on among the trees.
He had lost his way. There was no way.
He went on a few steps, then stopped; he stood there; then came back, passing between the high bushes and the red-barked pine, to the beginning place.
The other, the stranger, was still standing on the far bank. Not a boy but a woman, jeans and white
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