His hands separated from the pitcher, opening out from it like the sheath of a flower opening. It stood on the oak table, whole.
He looked at it with quiet pleasure.
When Ged thanked him, he said, “It was no trouble at all. The breaks were very clean. It’s a well-made piece, and good clay. It’s the shoddy work that costs to mend.”
“I had a thought how you might find sleep,” Ged said.
Alder had waked at first light and had got up, so that his host could go to his bed and sleep sound till broad day; but clearly the arrangement would not do for long.
“Come along with me,” the old man said, and they set off inland on a path that skirted the goats’ pasture and wound between knolls, little, half-tended fields, and inlets of the forest. Gont was a wild-looking place to Alder, ragged and random, the shaggy mountain always frowning and looming above.
“It seemed to me,” Sparrowhawk said as they walked, “if I could do as well as the Master Herbal did, keeping you from the hill of the wall only by putting my hand on you, that there might be others who could help you. If you have no objection to animals.”
“Animals?”
“You see,” Sparrowhawk began, but got no further, interrupted by a strange creature bounding down the path towards them. It was bundled in skirts and shawls, feathers stuck out in all directions from its head, and it wore high leather boots. “O Mastawk, O Mastawk!” it shouted.
“Hello, then, Heather. Gently now,” said Sparrowhawk. The woman stopped, rocking her body, her head-feathers waving, a large grin on her face. “She knowed you was a-coming!” she bawled. “She made that hawk’s beak with her fingers like this, see, she did, and she told me go, go, with her hand! She knowed you was a-coming!”
“And so I am.”
“To see us?”
“To see you. Heather, this is Master Alder.”
“Mastalder,” she whispered, quieting suddenly as she included Alder in her consciousness. She shrank, drew into herself, looked down at her feet.
She had no leather boots on. Her bare legs were coated from the knee down with smooth, brown, drying mud. Her skirts were bunched, caught up into the waistband.
“You’ve been frogging, have you, Heather?”
She nodded vacantly.
“I’ll go tell Aunty,” she said, beginning in a whisper and ending with a bellow, and bolted back the way she had come.
“She’s a good soul,” Sparrowhawk said. “She used to help my wife. She lives with our witch now and helps her. I don’t think you’ll object to entering a witch’s house?”
“Never in the world, my lord.”
“Many do. Nobles and common folk, wizards and sorcerers.”
“Lily my wife was a witch.”
Sparrowhawk bowed his head and walked in silence for a while. “How did she learn of her gift, Alder?”
“It was born in her. As a child she’d make a torn branch grow on the tree again, and other children brought her their broken toys to mend. But when her father saw her do that he would strike her hands. Her family were considerable persons in their town. Respectable persons,” Alder said in his even, gentle voice. “They didn’t want her consorting with witches. Since it would keep her from marriage with a respectable man. So she kept all her study to herself. And the witches of her town would have nothing to do with her, even when she sought to learn from them, for they were afraid of her father, you see. Then a rich man came to court her, for she was beautiful, as I told you, my lord. More beautiful than I could say. And her father told her she was to be married. She ran away that night. She lived by herself, wandering, for some years. A witch here and there took her in, but she kept herself by her skill.”
“It’s not a big island, Taon.”
“Her father wouldn’t seek her. He said no tinker witch was his daughter.”
Again Sparrowhawk bowed his head. “So she heard of you, and came to you.”
“But she taught me more than I could teach her,” Alder said earnestly. “It was a great gift she had.”
“I believe it.”
They had come to a little house or big hut, set down in a dell, with witch hazel and broom in tangles about it, and a goat on the roof, and a flock of white-speckled black hens squawking away, and a lazy little sheepdog bitch standing up and thinking about barking and thinking better of it and waving her tail.
Sparrowhawk went to the low doorway, stooping to look in. “There you are, Aunty!” he said. “I’ve brought you a visitor. Alder, a man of sorcery from the Isle of Taon. His craft is mending, and he’s a master, I can tell you, for I just watched him put back together Tenar’s green pitcher, you know the one, that I like a clumsy old fool dropped and broke to pieces the other day.”
He entered the hut, and Alder followed him. An old woman sat in a cushioned chair near the doorway where she could look out into the sunlight. Feathers stuck out of her wispy white hair. A speckled hen was settled in her lap. She smiled at Sparrowhawk with enchanting sweetness and nodded politely to the visitor. The hen woke, cackled, and departed.
“This is Moss,” said Sparrowhawk, “a witch of many skills, the greatest of which is kindness.”
So, Alder imagined, might the Archmage of Roke have introduced a great wizard to a great lady. He bowed. The old woman ducked her head and laughed a little.
She made a circling motion with her left hand, looking a query at Sparrowhawk.
“Tenar? Tehanu?” he said. “Still in Havnor with the king, so far as I know. They’ll be having a fine time there, seeing all the sights of the great city and the palaces.”
“I made us crowns,” Heather shouted, bouncing out of the odorous, dark jumble farther inside the house. “Like kings and queens. See?” She preened the chicken feathers that stuck out of her thick hair at all angles. Aunty Moss, becoming aware of her own peculiar headdress, batted in-effectively at the feathers with her left hand and grimaced.
“Crowns are heavy,” Sparrowhawk said. He gently plucked the feathers from the thin hair.
“Who’s the queen, Mastawk?” Heather cried. “Who’s the queen? Bannen’s the king, who’s the queen?”
“King Lebannen has no queen, Heather.”
“Why not? He ought to. Why not?”
“Maybe he’s looking for her.”
“He’ll marry Tehanu!” the woman shrieked, joyful. “He will!”
Alder saw Sparrowhawk’s face change, close, become rock.
He said only, “I doubt it.” He held the feathers he had taken from Moss’s hair and stroked them softly. “I’ve come to you for a favor, as always, Aunty Moss,” he said.
She reached her good hand out and took his hand with such tenderness that Alder was moved to the heart.
“I want to borrow one of your puppies.”
Moss began to look sad. Heather, gawking beside her, puzzled it over for a minute and then shouted, “The puppies! Aunty Moss, the puppies! But they’re all gone!”
The old woman nodded, looking forlorn, caressing Sparrowhawk’s brown hand.
“Somebody wanted them?”
“The biggest one got out and maybe it ran up in the forest and some creature killed it for it never came back and then old Ramballs, he came and said he needs sheepdogs and he’d take both and train them and Aunty gave them to him because they chased the new chicks Snowflakes hatched and ate out house and home, they did, besides.”
“Well, Rambles may have a bit of a job training them,” Sparrowhawk said with a half smile. “I’m glad he’s got them but sorry they’re gone, since I wanted to borrow one for a night or two. They slept on your bed, didn’t they, Moss?”
She nodded, still sad. Then, brightening a little, she looked up with her head to one side and mewed.
Sparrowhawk blinked, but Heather understood. “Oh! The kittens!” she shouted. “Little Grey had four, and Old Black he killed one before we could stop him, but there’s still two or three somewhere round here, they sleep with Aunty and Biddy most every night now the little dogs are gone. Kitty! kitty! kitty! where are you, kitty, kitty?” And after a good deal of commotion and scrambling and piercing mews in the dark interior, she reappeared with a grey kitten clutched squirming and squealing in her hand. “Here’s one!” she shouted, and threw it at Sparrowhawk. He caught it awkwardly. It instantly bit him.
“There, there now,” he told it. “Calm down.” A tiny, rumbling growl emerged from it, and it tried to bite him again. Moss gestured, and he set the little creature down in her lap. She stroked it with her slow heavy hand. It flattened out at once, stretched, looked up at her, and purred.
“May I borrow it for a while?”
The old witch raised her hand from the kitten in a royal gesture that said clearly: It is yours and welcome.
“Master Alder here is having troublesome dreams, you see, and I thought maybe having an animal with him nights might help to ease the trouble.”
Moss nodded gravely and, looking up at Alder, slipped her hand under the kitten and lifted it towards him. Alder took it rather gingerly into his hands. It did not growl or bite. It scrambled up his arm and clung to his neck under his hair, which he wore loosely gathered at the nape.
As they walked back to the Old Mage’s house, the kitten tucked inside Alder’s shirt, Sparrowhawk explained. “Once, when I was new to the art, I was asked to heal a child with the redfever. I knew the boy was dying, but I couldn’t bring myself to let him go. I tried to follow him. To bring him back. Across the wall of stones . . . And so, here in the body, I fell down by the bedside and lay like the dead myself. There was a witch there who guessed what the matter was, and she had me taken to my house and laid abed there. And in my house was an animal that had befriended me when I was a boy on Roke, a wild creature that came to me of its own will and stayed with me. An otak. Do you know them? I think there are none in the North.”
Alder hesitated. He said, “I know of them only from the Deed that tells of how . . . how the mage came to the Court of the Terrenon in Osskil. And the otak tried to warn him of a gebbeth that walked with him. And he won free of the gebbeth, but the little animal was caught and slain.”
Sparrowhawk walked on without speaking for twenty paces or so. “Yes,” he said. “So. Well, my otak also saved my life when I was caught by my own folly on the wrong side of the wall, my body lying here and my soul astray there. The otak came to me and washed me, the way they wash themselves and their young, the way cats do, with a dry tongue, patiently, touching me and bringing me back with its touch, bringing me back into my body. And the gift the animal gave me was not only life but a knowledge as great as I ever learned on Roke . . . But you see, I forget all my learning.
“A knowledge, I say, but it’s rather a mystery. What’s the difference between us and the animals? Speech? All the animals have some way of speaking, saying
come
and
beware
and much else; but they can’t tell stories, and they can’t tell lies. While we can . . .
“But the dragons speak: they speak the True Speech, the language of the Making, in which there are no lies, in which to tell the story is to make it be! Yet we call the dragons animals . . .
“So maybe the difference isn’t language. Maybe it’s this: animals do neither good nor evil. They do as they must do. We may call what they do harmful or useful, but good and evil belong to us, who chose to choose what we do. The dragons are dangerous, yes. They can do harm, yes. But they’re not evil. They’re beneath our morality, if you will, like any animal. Or beyond it. They have nothing to do with it.
“We must choose and choose again. The animals need only be and do. We’re yoked, and they’re free. So to be with an animal is to know a little freedom . . .
“Last night, I was thinking of how witches often have a companion, a familiar. My aunt had an old dog that never barked. She called him Gobefore. And the Archmage Nemmerle, when I first came to Roke Island, had a raven that went with him everywhere. And I thought of a young woman I knew once who wore a little dragon-lizard, a harekki, for her bracelet. And so at last I thought of my otak. Then I thought, if what Alder needs to keep him on this side of the wall is the warmth of a touch, why not an animal? Since they see life, not death. Maybe a dog or cat is as good as a Master of Roke . . .”
So it proved. The kitten, evidently happy to be away from the household of dogs and tomcats and roosters and the unpredictable Heather, tried hard to show that it was a reliable and diligent cat, patrolling the house for mice, riding on Alder’s shoulder under his hair when permitted, and settling right down to sleep purring under his chin as soon as he lay down. Alder slept all night without any dream he remembered, and woke to find the kitten sitting on his chest, washing its ears with an air of quiet virtue.
When Sparrowhawk tried to determine its sex, however, it growled and struggled. “All right,” he said, getting his hand out of danger quickly. “Have it your way. It’s either a male or a female, Alder, I’m certain of that.”
“I won’t name it, in any case,” Alder said. “They go out like candle flames, little cats. If you’ve named one you grieve more for it.”
That day at Alder’s suggestion they went fence mending, walking the goat-pasture fence, Sparrowhawk on the inside and Alder on the outside. Whenever one of them found a place where the palings showed the beginning of rot or the tie laths had been weakened, Alder would run his hands along the wood, thumbing and tugging and smoothing and strengthening, a half-articulate chant almost inaudible in his throat and chest, his face relaxed and intent.
Once Sparrowhawk, watching him, murmured, “And I used to take it all for granted!”
Alder, lost in his work, did not ask him what he meant.
“There,” he said, “that’ll hold.” And they moved on, followed closely by the two inquisitive goats, who butted and pushed at the repaired sections of fence as if to test them.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sparrowhawk said, “that you might do well to go to Havnor.”
Alder looked at him in alarm. “Ah,” he said. “I thought maybe, if I have a way now to keep away from . . . that place . . . I could go home to Taon.” He was losing faith in what he said as he said it.
“You might, but I don’t think it would be wise.”
Alder said reluctantly, “It is a great deal to ask of a kitten, to defend a man against the armies of the dead.”