decline into the west. As the shadows lengthened, Paul kept looking at the old man, hoping that he was about to call it quits. The cabbage planting business had seemed easy enough at first, but it soon became tiring, and his back was stiff from being bent over all day.
Failing the signal to stop work, Paul would have welcomed some conversation, or at least some questions regarding why he was there. But the old man was silent as he planted the cabbages with a monotonous regularity; left fist in to make the hole, right hand to pick up the cabbage and place it carefully, left hand to smooth the dirt around it. Over and over again.
Eventually, the sun sank low enough to send the distant clouds red, and Paul had had enough. Hestuffed his current cabbage in a hole, smoothed it over, and stood up, his back creaking.
“I’ve had enough,” he said, a trace of self-righteousness creeping into his voice. “I’ve been planting cabbages nearly all day—a lot more than eighty cabbages!”
“One hundred and thirty-two, by my count,” said the old man cheerfully. “I was wondering when you’d realize.” He got up, straightening his back with the help of both hands thrust against his backbone. “Well, I suppose for that number of cabbages, I can give you supper as well.”
The old man bent down again, and pulled a thick, oil-cloth covering over the box with the remaining cabbages.
“What do I call you then?” he asked Paul. “Boy? Cabbage-Planter?”
“My name is Paul,” said Paul. “What shall I call you?”
“Old Man?” suggested the sage, rolling it off his tongue as if to see how it sounded. “Cabbage-Planter? Tanboule? Tanboule is the name of my house—so you may call me that. Tanboule the house and Tanboule the old man. And one shall go to the other for a supper of cabbage and bacon, bread and tea. Eh, Paul?”
“Err…that sounds very nice,” said Paul, who was thinking Tanboule didn’t seem so much wise as mad. Still, he did seem to be on Rhysamarn mountain…
Obviously encouraged by the mention of supper,Tanboule took off up the slope at once, easily outpacing Paul with his long strides. Unlike Aleyne, he didn’t stop for Paul to catch up with him, and was soon a dark speck against the grey shale. Paul struggled on angrily, slipping on the wet slabs of stone and wishing he’d never even seen the stupid old man and his cabbages.
Then he looked up, and even the dark speck had gone. Tanboule was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign of a house up on the rocky peak, or even a cave mouth. Paul hesitated and looked back down the mountain, but the mist was as thick as ever. And he could clearly see the cabbage-field—a little square of dirt on which he’d spent considerable labor.
“At least I deserve to eat some cabbage,” muttered Paul. “And I’m going to get some, like it or not!” And with that promise, he started back up the shale, using his hands when the rockface became too steep or broken.
Twenty minutes later, he reached the approximate spot where Tanboule had vanished—and the mystery of his sudden disappearance was explained. Paul had been climbing a peak that he thought was the very pinnacle of Rhysamarn, but it was only a lesser projection from the high mountain that lay before him. Down below Paul, there lay a saddle between the two peaks: a tiny valley of yellow heather, nestled between the greater and lesser peaks of grey shale.
In the center of this valley, halfway between each peak, there was a house. Or at least, Paul thought it was a house. It was obviously wooden, but each end was curved up, to touch the red-tiled roof and its iron chimneys (of which there were three). Even stranger, it didn’t appear to have a door, and the only windows were high up on the sides, and round like portholes. In fact, it looked like a particularly fat houseboat, stranded in the heather at least six hundred meters above sea-level, and over two hundred kilometers from the nearest coast. A
Failing the signal to stop work, Paul would have welcomed some conversation, or at least some questions regarding why he was there. But the old man was silent as he planted the cabbages with a monotonous regularity; left fist in to make the hole, right hand to pick up the cabbage and place it carefully, left hand to smooth the dirt around it. Over and over again.
Eventually, the sun sank low enough to send the distant clouds red, and Paul had had enough. Hestuffed his current cabbage in a hole, smoothed it over, and stood up, his back creaking.
“I’ve had enough,” he said, a trace of self-righteousness creeping into his voice. “I’ve been planting cabbages nearly all day—a lot more than eighty cabbages!”
“One hundred and thirty-two, by my count,” said the old man cheerfully. “I was wondering when you’d realize.” He got up, straightening his back with the help of both hands thrust against his backbone. “Well, I suppose for that number of cabbages, I can give you supper as well.”
The old man bent down again, and pulled a thick, oil-cloth covering over the box with the remaining cabbages.
“What do I call you then?” he asked Paul. “Boy? Cabbage-Planter?”
“My name is Paul,” said Paul. “What shall I call you?”
“Old Man?” suggested the sage, rolling it off his tongue as if to see how it sounded. “Cabbage-Planter? Tanboule? Tanboule is the name of my house—so you may call me that. Tanboule the house and Tanboule the old man. And one shall go to the other for a supper of cabbage and bacon, bread and tea. Eh, Paul?”
“Err…that sounds very nice,” said Paul, who was thinking Tanboule didn’t seem so much wise as mad. Still, he did seem to be on Rhysamarn mountain…
Obviously encouraged by the mention of supper,Tanboule took off up the slope at once, easily outpacing Paul with his long strides. Unlike Aleyne, he didn’t stop for Paul to catch up with him, and was soon a dark speck against the grey shale. Paul struggled on angrily, slipping on the wet slabs of stone and wishing he’d never even seen the stupid old man and his cabbages.
Then he looked up, and even the dark speck had gone. Tanboule was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign of a house up on the rocky peak, or even a cave mouth. Paul hesitated and looked back down the mountain, but the mist was as thick as ever. And he could clearly see the cabbage-field—a little square of dirt on which he’d spent considerable labor.
“At least I deserve to eat some cabbage,” muttered Paul. “And I’m going to get some, like it or not!” And with that promise, he started back up the shale, using his hands when the rockface became too steep or broken.
Twenty minutes later, he reached the approximate spot where Tanboule had vanished—and the mystery of his sudden disappearance was explained. Paul had been climbing a peak that he thought was the very pinnacle of Rhysamarn, but it was only a lesser projection from the high mountain that lay before him. Down below Paul, there lay a saddle between the two peaks: a tiny valley of yellow heather, nestled between the greater and lesser peaks of grey shale.
In the center of this valley, halfway between each peak, there was a house. Or at least, Paul thought it was a house. It was obviously wooden, but each end was curved up, to touch the red-tiled roof and its iron chimneys (of which there were three). Even stranger, it didn’t appear to have a door, and the only windows were high up on the sides, and round like portholes. In fact, it looked like a particularly fat houseboat, stranded in the heather at least six hundred meters above sea-level, and over two hundred kilometers from the nearest coast. A
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