Read Online The River and the Book by Alison Croggon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alison Croggon
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beautiful voice I had ever heard from a human being. It was how I imagined the gods sang, surrounded by their avatars, on the clouds that embrace Yntara, the mountain of the gods. He sang of the lovesick minstrel, the song my mother had loved and that my sister played on the
tar
, raising her sweet, husky voice. I suddenly missed them both with a savageness that I could hardly bear. In the boy’s mouth the simple old melody was purer and more anguished than I had ever heard it: his voice throbbed with a liquid longing, and the song I knew so well seemed now iridescent with hues of feeling that shone through those words in ways I did not expect. I thought I had never properly heard it before; it seemed to enter my soul, and my bruised heart split open with exquisite pain.
Let my love embrace you
,
Your black eyes and eyebrows, Jira
.
I burn with longing for you
,
Cure me of this fever, Jira
.
Let the partridge cackle
Like old women, Jira
.
They cannot see into my heart
.
Only you can see me, Jira
.
As his voice ebbed to silence on the fresh morning air, I came out of my trance and found that my cheeks were wet with tears. All my resentment at his presence had vanished. I almost walked down the bank to thank him, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. He had believed he was alone, that he was pouring out this beauty in solitude, and I thought that I might startle and embarrass him.
He stayed for a few more minutes, then sighed heavily and stood up and wandered off. I followed him with my eyes until he disappeared through the scrub. The sun was now wholly risen, lifted from the horizon; I was sure he had been welcoming the new day. The boy’s singing seemed a sign, a gift to show me that despair was not the sum of the world’s lessons. No more panic, I told myself sternly, no more despair. I was not a child any more.
I finished my breakfast and decided that I would go into the marketplace and ask around for news of Jane Watson. If there was none, I would get back in the boat and head downstream to the next town, and I would ask there, and so on from village to village, until I heard news. There was no other way back to her country except down the River, because to the north were only the endless plains of the Tarnish empire and to the south was only desert. She would have to come back to the River; and if she did, I would hear of her.
18
“But you still haven’t met
me
,” said Mely pettishly this morning.
“Not yet,” I said. “But you know it isn’t far away.”
The truth is that the thought of writing about our meeting makes me feel nervous. If I get the smallest detail incorrect, Mely will let me know in no uncertain terms. If I offend her, she will take her revenge, perhaps by sharpening her claws on my special chair, which she has promised to leave untouched, but which, all the same, I sometimes see her eyeing speculatively as she flexes her paws.
We have a pleasant routine now. If I am at home in the evening, I write in my book; and then, after breakfast in our tiny kitchen, I read what I wrote to Mely. She curls up in her chair, nose to tail, and listens hard. She is, in fact, a very good listener. It is the most peaceful part of my day. When there isn’t anything to read, we still sit in the kitchen and talk, or play music on the old gramophone.
It is summer and the window is always open, so you can see the parrots and finches flashing in and out of the fig tree. I bought some white lilies at the market yesterday and put them in a jar on the sill, and their rich scent fills the kitchen, competing with the sweet smell of ripening figs that drifts in through the window.
I didn’t write anything last night, because I went out to the Stray Dog Café in the Magicians’ Quarter. I go there about once a week. Mely sometimes comes with me, riding on my shoulder like an emperor riding on an elephant, but she gets bored if she is not the centre of attention, and so more often I go on my own.
I am
tar
, raising her sweet, husky voice. I suddenly missed them both with a savageness that I could hardly bear. In the boy’s mouth the simple old melody was purer and more anguished than I had ever heard it: his voice throbbed with a liquid longing, and the song I knew so well seemed now iridescent with hues of feeling that shone through those words in ways I did not expect. I thought I had never properly heard it before; it seemed to enter my soul, and my bruised heart split open with exquisite pain.
Let my love embrace you
,
Your black eyes and eyebrows, Jira
.
I burn with longing for you
,
Cure me of this fever, Jira
.
Let the partridge cackle
Like old women, Jira
.
They cannot see into my heart
.
Only you can see me, Jira
.
As his voice ebbed to silence on the fresh morning air, I came out of my trance and found that my cheeks were wet with tears. All my resentment at his presence had vanished. I almost walked down the bank to thank him, but I didn’t want to embarrass him. He had believed he was alone, that he was pouring out this beauty in solitude, and I thought that I might startle and embarrass him.
He stayed for a few more minutes, then sighed heavily and stood up and wandered off. I followed him with my eyes until he disappeared through the scrub. The sun was now wholly risen, lifted from the horizon; I was sure he had been welcoming the new day. The boy’s singing seemed a sign, a gift to show me that despair was not the sum of the world’s lessons. No more panic, I told myself sternly, no more despair. I was not a child any more.
I finished my breakfast and decided that I would go into the marketplace and ask around for news of Jane Watson. If there was none, I would get back in the boat and head downstream to the next town, and I would ask there, and so on from village to village, until I heard news. There was no other way back to her country except down the River, because to the north were only the endless plains of the Tarnish empire and to the south was only desert. She would have to come back to the River; and if she did, I would hear of her.
18
“But you still haven’t met
me
,” said Mely pettishly this morning.
“Not yet,” I said. “But you know it isn’t far away.”
The truth is that the thought of writing about our meeting makes me feel nervous. If I get the smallest detail incorrect, Mely will let me know in no uncertain terms. If I offend her, she will take her revenge, perhaps by sharpening her claws on my special chair, which she has promised to leave untouched, but which, all the same, I sometimes see her eyeing speculatively as she flexes her paws.
We have a pleasant routine now. If I am at home in the evening, I write in my book; and then, after breakfast in our tiny kitchen, I read what I wrote to Mely. She curls up in her chair, nose to tail, and listens hard. She is, in fact, a very good listener. It is the most peaceful part of my day. When there isn’t anything to read, we still sit in the kitchen and talk, or play music on the old gramophone.
It is summer and the window is always open, so you can see the parrots and finches flashing in and out of the fig tree. I bought some white lilies at the market yesterday and put them in a jar on the sill, and their rich scent fills the kitchen, competing with the sweet smell of ripening figs that drifts in through the window.
I didn’t write anything last night, because I went out to the Stray Dog Café in the Magicians’ Quarter. I go there about once a week. Mely sometimes comes with me, riding on my shoulder like an emperor riding on an elephant, but she gets bored if she is not the centre of attention, and so more often I go on my own.
I am
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