Clifford D. Simak - Enchanted Pilgrimage

VIP免费

2024-12-23 0 0 294.93KB 109 页 5.9玖币

侵权投诉

Enchanted Pilgrimage

Clifford D. Simak

form without permission.

Published simultaneously in Canada by Longman Canada Limited, Toronto.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Enchanted Pilgrimage

Scanned 1/24/2004 by DimJim

Ver 1.0

The rafter goblin spied on the hiding monk, who was spying on the scholar.

The goblin hated the monk and had reason for the hate. The monk hated no one

and loved no one; he was bigoted and ambitious. The scholar was stealing what

appeared to be a manuscript he had found hidden behind the binding of a book.

The hour was late and the library hushed. Somewhere a mouse scrabbled

furtively. The candle standing on the desk over which the scholar crouched

guttered, burning low.

The scholar lifted the manuscript and tucked it inside his shirt. He closed

the book and put it back on the shelf. He snuffed out the candle with a finger

and a thumb. Pale moonlight, shining through tall windows that reached almost

to the rafters, lit the interior of the library with a ghastly radiance.

The scholar turned from the desk and made his way among the tables of the

study room, heading for the foyer. The monk shrank further back into the

shadows and let him go. He made no move to stop him. The goblin watched, full

of hate for the monk, and scratched his head in perplexity.

Mark Cornwall was eating cheese and bread when the knock came at the door.

The room was small and cold; a tiny blaze of twigs burning in the small

fireplace did little to warm it.

He rose and brushed crumbs of cheese off his coat before he went to the

door. When he opened it a small, wizened creature stood before it—scarcely

three feet tall, he was dressed in tattered leathern breeches. His feet were

bare and hairy and his shirt was a worn crimson velvet. He wore a peaked cap.

"I am the goblin of the rafters," he said. "Please, may I come in?"

"Certainly," said Cornwall. "I have heard of you. I thought you were a

myth."

The goblin came in and scurried to the fire. He squatted in front of it,

thrusting his hands out toward the blaze.

"Why did you think of me as a myth?" he asked petulantly. "You know that

there are goblins and elves and others of the Brotherhood. Why should you

doubt me?"

"I don't know," said Cornwall. "Because I have never seen you, perhaps.

Because I have never known anyone who has. I thought it was a student story."

"I keep well hidden," said the goblin. "I stay up in the rafters. There are

hiding places there and it is hard to reach me. Some of those monkish

characters in the library are unreasonable. They have no sense of humor."

"Would you have some cheese?" asked Cornwall.

"Of course I'd have some cheese. What a foolish question."

He left the fire and hoisted himself onto the rough bench that stood before

the table. He looked around the room. "I take it," he said, "that you have no

easy life. There is no softness here. It is all hard and sparse."

"I get along," said Cornwall. He took the dagger from the scabbard at his

belt and cut a slice of cheese, then sawed a slice off the loaf of bread and

handed it to his visitor.

"Rough fare," said the goblin.

"It is all I have. But you didn't come for cheese and bread."

"No," the goblin said. "I saw you tonight. I saw you steal the manuscript."

"Okay," said Cornwall. "What is it that you want?"

"Not a thing," the goblin said. He took a bite of cheese. "I came to tell

you that the monk, Oswald, also was watching you."

"If he had been watching, he would have stopped me. He would have turned me

in."

"It seems to me," the goblin said, "that there is a peculiar lack of

remorse on your part. You do not even make an effort to deny it."

"You saw me," Cornwall said, "and yet you did not turn me in. This business

must go deeper than it seems."

"Perhaps," the goblin said. "You have been a student here how long?"

"Almost six years."

"You are no longer a student, then. A scholar."

"There is no great distinction between the two."

"I suppose not," the goblin agreed, "but it means you are no shiny-faced

schoolboy. You are beyond simple student pranks."

"I think I am," said Cornwall, "but I don't quite see your point. . . ."

"The point is that Oswald saw you steal it and yet he let you go. Could he

have known what you stole?"

"I would rather doubt it. I didn't know what it was myself until I saw it.

I wasn't looking for it. I didn't even know that it existed. I noticed when I

got the book down that there was something rather strange about the binding on

the back cover. It seemed too thick. It gave beneath one's fingers, as if

something might be hidden there, between the binding and the board."

"If it was so noticeable," asked the goblin, "how is it that no one else

had found it? How about another chunk of cheese?"

Cornwall cut another slice of cheese and gave it to him. "I think there is

an easy answer to your question. I imagine I may have been the first one in a

century or more who had taken down that book."

"An obscure tome," said the goblin. 'There are many such. Would you mind

telling me what it was?"

"An old traveler's tale," said Cornwall. "Written many years ago, several

hundred years ago. In very ancient script. Some monk of long ago made it a

thing of beauty when he copied it, with intricate and colorful initial letters

and pretty conceits in the margins. But if you ask me, it was a waste of time.

By and large, it is a pack of lies."

"Then why did you go looking for it?"

"Sometimes from many falsehoods one may garner certain truths. I was

looking for the mention of one specific thing."

"And you found it?"

"Not in the book," said Cornwall. "In the hidden manuscript. I'm inclined

to think the book is the original copy of the tale. Perhaps the only one. It

is not the sort of thing that would have been copied extensively. The old monk

in the scriptorium probably worked from the traveler's own writings, copying

it in style, making it a splendid book that one might be rightly proud of."

"The manuscript?"

"Not really a manuscript. Only a single page of parchment. A page from the

traveler's original manuscript. It had something in it that the monk left

out."

"You think his conscience bothered him and he compromised by binding the

page from which he had deleted something under the back cover of the book."

"Something like that," said Cornwall. "Now let us talk about what you came

here for."

"The monk," the goblin said. "You do not know this monk, Oswald, as I do.

Of all the scruffy crew, he is by far the worst. No man is safe from him, no

thing is sacred. Perhaps it has crossed your mind he might have had a purpose

in not apprehending you, in not raising an outcry."

"My theft does not seem to perturb you," Cornwall pointed out.

"Not at all," the goblin said. "I am rather on your side. For years this

cursed monk has tried his best to make my life a misery. He has tried to trap

me; he has tried to hunt me down. I have cracked his shins aplenty and have

managed, in one way or another, to pay him back for every shabby trick, but he

still persists. I bear him no goodwill. Perhaps you've gathered that."

"You think he intends to inform on me?"

"If I know him," the goblin said, "he intends to sell the information."

"To whom would he sell it? Who would be interested?"

"Consider," said the goblin, "that a hidden manuscript has been filched

from its hiding place in an ancient book. The fact that it seemed important

enough to be hidden—and important enough to be filched—would be intriguing,

would it not?"

"I suppose you're right."

"There are in this town and the university," said the goblin, "any number

of unprincipled adventurers who would be interested."

"You think that it will be stolen from me?"

"I think there is no question that it will. In the process your life will

not be entirely safe."

Cornwall cut another slice of cheese and handed it to him. "Thank you,"

said the goblin, "and could you spare me another slice of bread?"

Cornwall cut a slice of bread.

"You have been of service to me," he said, "and I am grateful to you. Would

you mind telling me what you expect out of this?"

"Why," the goblin said, "I thought it was apparent. I want to see that

wretched monk stub his toe and fall flat upon his face."

He laid the bread and cheese on the tabletop, reached inside his shirt and

brought out several sheets of parchment. He laid them on the table.

"I imagine, Sir Scholar, that you are handy with the quill."

"I manage," Cornwall said.

"Well, then, here are some old parchments, buffed clean of the writing once

upon them. I would suggest you copy the page that you have stolen and leave it

where it can be found."

"But I don't. . ."

"Copy it," said the goblin, "but with certain changes you'll know best to

make. Little, subtle changes that would throw them off the track."

"That's done quite easily," said Cornwall, "but the ink will be recent ink.

I cannot forge the writing. There will be differences and . . ."

"Who is there to know about the different script? No one but you has seen

the manuscript. If the style of script is not the same, no one will know or

guess. The parchment's old and as far as the erasure is concerned, if that

could be detected, it was often done in the olden days when parchment was hard

to come by."

"I don't know," said Cornwall.

"It would require a scholar to detect the discrepancies you are so

concerned about and the chances are not great the forgery will fall into a

scholar's hands. Anyhow, you'll be long gone. . . ."

"Long gone?"

"Certainly," said the goblin. "You can't think you can stay around after

what has happened."

"I suppose you're right. I had thought of leaving in any case."

"I hope the information in the manuscript is worth all the trouble it will

cause you. But even if it isn't. . ."

"I think perhaps it is," said Cornwall.

The goblin slid off the bench and headed for the door.

"Wait a second," said Cornwall. "You've not told me your name. Will I be

seeing you again?"

"My name is Oliver—or at least in the world of men that's what I call

myself. And it is unlikely we will ever meet again. Although, wait —how long

will it take you to make the forgery?"

"Not too long," said Cornwall.

"Then I'll wait. My powers are not extensive, but I can be of certain aid.

I have a small enchantment that can fade the ink and give the parchment, once

it is correctly folded, a deceptive look of age."

"I'll get at it right away," said Cornwall. "You have not asked me what

this is all about. I owe you that much." "You can tell me," said the goblin,

"as you work."

Lawrence Beckett and his men sat late at drink. They had eaten earlier, and

still remaining on the great scarred tavern table were a platter with a ham

bone, toward the end of which some meat remained, and half a loaf of bread.

The townspeople who had been there earlier were gone, and mine host, having

sent the servants off to bed, still kept his post behind the bar. He was

sleepy, yawning occasionally, but well content to stay, for it was not often

that the Boar's Head had guests so free with their money. The students, who

came seldom, were more troublesome than profitable, and the townspeople who

dropped in of an evening had long since become extremely expert in the

coddling of their drinks. The Boar's Head was not on the direct road into

town, but off on one of the many side streets, and it was not often that

traders the like of Lawrence Beckett found their way there.

The door opened and a monk came in. He stood for a moment, staring about in

the tavern's murky gloom. Behind the bar mine host stiffened to alertness.

Some tingling sense in his brain told him that this visit boded little good.

From one year's end to the next, men of the saintly persuasion never trod this

common room.

After a moment's hesitation the monk pulled his robes about him, in a

gesture that seemed to indicate a shrinking from contamination by the place,

and made his way down the room to the corner where Lawrence Beckett and his

men sat at their table. He stopped behind one of the chairs, facing Beckett.

Beckett looked at him with a question in his eyes. The monk did not

respond.

"Albert," said Beckett, "pour this night bird a drink of wine. It is seldom

we can join in cups with a man who wears the cloth."

Albert poured the drink, turning in his chair to hand it to the monk.

"Master Beckett," said the monk, "I heard you were in town. I would have a

word with you alone."

"Certainly," said Beckett, heartily. "A word by all means. But not with me

alone. These men are one with me. Whatever I may hear is fit for their ears as

well. Albert, get Sir Monk a chair, so he may be seated with us."

"It must be alone," said the monk.

"All right, then," said Beckett. "Why don't the rest of you move down to

another table. Take one of the candles, if you will."

"You have the air," said the monk, "of humoring me."

"I am humoring you," said Beckett. "I cannot imagine what you have to say

is of any great importance."

The monk took the chair next to Beckett, putting the mug of wine carefully

on the table in front of him, and waiting until the others left.

"Now what," asked Beckett, "is this so secret matter that you have to tell

me?"

"First of all," said the monk, "that I know who you really are. No mere

trader, as you would have us think."

Beckett said nothing, merely stared at him. But now some of the good humor

had gone out of him.

"I know," said the monk, "that you have access to the church. For the favor

that I do you, I would expect advancement. No great matter for one such as

you. Only a word or two."

Beckett rumbled, "And this favor you are about to do me?"

"It has to do with a manuscript stolen from the university library just an

hour or so ago."

"That would seem a small thing."

"Perhaps. But the manuscript was hidden in an ancient and almost unknown

book."

"You knew of this manuscript? You know what it is?"

"I did not know of it until the thief found it. I do not know what it is."

"And this ancient book?"

"One written long ago by an adventurer named Taylor, who traveled in the

Wastelands."

Beckett frowned. "I know of Taylor. Rumors of what he found. I did not know

he had written a book."

"Almost no one knew of it. It was copied only once. The copy that we have."

"Have you read it, Sir Monk?"

The monk shrugged. "Until now it had no interest for me. There are many

books to read. And traveler's tales are not to be taken entirely at face

value." "You think the manuscript might be?"

"To have been hidden so cleverly as it was, within the binding of the book,

it would have to have some value. Why else bother to hide it?"

"Interesting," said Beckett softly. "Very interesting. But no value

proved."

"If it has no value, then you owe me nothing. I am wagering that it does

have."

"A gentleman's agreement, then?"

"Yes," said the monk, "a gentleman's agreement. The manuscript was found by

a scholar, Mark Cornwall. He lodges in the topmost garret of the boardinghouse

at the northwest corner of King and Broad."

Beckett frowned. "This Cornwall?"

"An obnoxious man who comes from somewhere in the West. A good student, but

a sullen one. He has no friends. He lives from hand to mouth. He stayed on

after all his old classmates had left, satisfied with the education they had

gotten. Principally he stays on, I think, because he is interested in the Old

Ones."

"How interested in the Old Ones?"

"He thinks they still exist. He has studied their language or what purports

to be their language. There are some books on it. He has studied them."

"Why has he an interest in the Old Ones?"

The monk shook his head. "I do not know. I do not know the man. I've talked

to him only once or twice. Intellectual curiosity, perhaps. Perhaps something

else."

"Perhaps he thought Taylor might have written of the Old Ones."

"He could have. Taylor could have. I have not read the book."

"Cornwall has the manuscript. By now he would have hidden it."

"I doubt it has been hidden. Not too securely, anyhow. He has no reason to

believe that his theft of it is known. Watching him, I saw him do it. I let

him leave. I did not try to stop him. He could not have known I was there."

"Would it seem to you, Sir Monk, that this studious, light-fingered friend

of ours may have placed himself in peril of heresy?"

"That, Master Beckett, is for you to judge. All about us are signs of

heresy, but it takes a clever man to tread the intricacies of definition."

"You are not saying, are you, that heresy is political?"

"It never crossed my mind."

"That is good," said Beckett, "for under certain, well-defined conditions,

the university itself, or more particularly the library, might fall under

suspicion because of the material that can be found on its shelves."

"The books, I can assure you, are used with no evil intent. Only for

instruction against the perils of heresy."

"With your assurance," said Beckett, "we can let it rest at that. As for

this other matter, I would assume that you are not prepared to regain the

manuscript and deliver it to us."

The monk shuddered. "I have no stomach," he said, "for such an operation. I

have informed you; that should be enough."

"You think that I am better equipped and would have a better stomach."

"That had been my thought. That's why I came to you."

"How come you knew us to be in town?"

"This town has ears. There is little happening that goes unknown."

"And I take it you listen very carefully."

Said the monk, "I've made it a habit."

"Very well," said Beckett. "So it is agreed. If the missing item can be

found and proves to have some value, I'll speak a word for you. That was your

proposal?"

The monk nodded, saying nothing.

"To speak for you, I must know your name."

"I am Brother Oswald," said the monk.

"I shall mark it well," said Beckett. "Finish off your wine and we shall

get to work. King and Broad, you said?"

The monk nodded and reached for the wine. Beckett rose and walked forward

to his men, then came back again.

"You will not regret," he said, "that you came to me."

"I had that hope," said Brother Oswald.

He finished off the wine and set the cup back on the table. "Shall I see

you again?" he asked.

"Not unless you seek me out."

The monk wrapped his habit close about himself and went out the door.

Outside the moon had sunk beneath the rooftrees of the buildings that hemmed

in the narrow alley, and the place was dark. He went carefully, feeling his

way along the rough, slick cobblestones.

A shadow stepped out of a doorway as he passed. A knife gleamed briefly in

the dark. The monk dropped, gurgling, hands clawing at the stones, a sudden

rush of blood bubbling in his throat. Then he grew quiet. His body was not

found until morning light.

Gib of the Marshes was up before the sun. He was always up before the sun,

but on this day there was much to do. This was the day the gnomes had named

when the new ax would be ready. He needed the new ax, for the blade of the old

one, worn down and blunted, would no longer take a proper edge, no matter how

much whetstone might be used.

Ordinarily at this season of the year the marsh would have been wrapped in

low-hanging fog early of a morning, but this morning it was clear. A few wisps

of layered fog hung above the island where the wood was gotten, but otherwise

there was no sign of it. To the east and south, the marsh lay flat and far,

brown and silver, with its reeds and grasses. Ducks gabbled in nearby ponds

and a muskrat swam through a channel, creating a neat V of an aftermath as he

moved along. Somewhere far off a heron croaked. West and north, the forested

hills rose against the sky—oaks, maples, hickories, some of them already

touched with the first colors of the autumn.

Gib stood and looked toward the hills. Up there, somewhere in that tangled

woodland, was the home of his good friend, Hal of the Hollow Tree. Almost

every morning, when there was no fog and the hills stood in view, he stood and

tried to pick out the home tree, but he never had been able to, for from this

distance no one tree could be told from any of the others. He would not, he

knew, have time to visit Hal today, for once he had picked up the ax, he must

pay his respects to the lonely old hermit who lived in the cave of the

limestone capping of one of the distant hills. It had been a month or more

since he'd gone calling on the hermit.

He rolled up the goose-down pad and the woolen blanket he had used for

sleeping and stored them away in the hut in the center of the raft. Except

when the weather was cold or it happened to be raining, he always slept

outdoors. On the iron plate on the forward part of the raft he kindled a fire,

using dry grass and punk from a rotting log, which he kept in one corner of

the woodbox, as kindling, and flint and steel to produce the spark.

When the fire was going, he reached a hand into the live-box sunk beside

the raft and brought out a flapping fish. He killed it with a blow of his belt

knife and quickly cleaned it, putting the fillets into a pan, which he set on

the grill above the fire, squatting to superintend the cooking.

Except for the soft talking of the ducks and the occasional plop of a

jumping fish, the marsh was quiet. But, then, he thought, at this time of day

it was always quiet. Later in the day there would be blackbirds quarreling in

the reeds, the whistling wings of water fowl passing overhead, the harsh cries

of shore birds and of gulls.

The east brightened and the marsh, earlier an indistinctness of brown and

silver, began to take on new definition. Far off stood the line of willows

that edged the narrow height of ground that stood between the distant river

and the marsh. The patch of cattails closer to the wooded hill shore could now

be seen, waving their full brown clubs in the vagrant wind.

The craft bobbed gently as he ate from the pan, not bothering with a plate.

He wondered what life might be like on solid ground, without the bobbing of

the raft. He had lived all his years on a bobbing raft, which was only stilled

when cold weather froze it in.

Thinking of cold weather, he ran through his mind all that remained to do

to get ready for the winter. He would need to smoke more fish, must gather

roots and seeds, try to pick up a few muskrats for a winter robe. And get in

wood. But the wood gathering would go faster once he had the new ax from the

gnomes.

He washed out the pan in which he'd fried the fish, then put into the boat,

tied alongside the raft, the bundles that he had gotten together before he

went to sleep. In them were dried fish and packets of wild rice, gifts for the

gnomes and the hermit. At the last moment he put his old ax in the craft; the

gnomes could make use of the metal to fashion something else.

He paddled quietly down the channel, unwilling to break the morning hush.

The sun came up into the east and on the opposite hills, the first autumn

colors flamed with brilliance.

He was nearing the shore when he rounded a bend and saw the raft, the

forepart of it thrust into the grass, the rest of it projecting out into the

channel. An old marshman was sitting at the stern of the raft, mending a net.

As soon as Gib came into view, the old man looked up and raised a solemn hand

in greeting. It was Old Drood and Gib wondered what he was doing here. The

last time he had heard of Drood, he had his raft over near the willow bank

close to the river.

Gib pulled his boat against the raft, thrust out a paddle, and held it

there.

"Long time since I saw you," he said. "When did you move over here?"

"A few days ago," said Drood. He left his net mending and came over to

squat close beside the boat. He was getting old, Gib saw. As long as he could

remember, he had been called Old Drood, even when he'd not been old, but now

the years were catching up with the name. He was getting gray.

"Figured I'd try for some wood over on the shore," he said. "Not much but

willow left over there against the river and willow makes poor burning."

Mrs. Drood came waddling around the hut. She spoke in a high-pitched,

squeaky voice. "I thought I heard someone. It's young Gib, isn't it?" She

squinted at him with weak eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Drood," said Gib. "I'm glad you are my neighbors."

"We may not stop here for long," said Drood. "Only long enough to get a

load of wood."

"You got any so far?"

"Some," said Drood. "It goes slow. No one to help. The children all are

gone. Struck off on their own. I can't work as hard as I once could."

"I don't like it," said Mrs. Drood. "There are all them wolves."

"I got my ax," said Drood. "There ain't no wolf going to bother me long as

I have the ax."

"All the children gone," said Gib. "Last time I saw you, there still was

Dave and Alice."

"Alice got married three, four months ago," said Drood. "Young fellow down

at the south end of the marsh. Dave built himself a raft. Good job he did with

it. Wouldn't let me help him much. Said he had to build his own. He built

himself a nice raft. Moved over to the east. We see him and Alice every now

and then."

"We got some ale," said Mrs. Drood. "Would you like a mug of ale? And I

forgot to ask you, have you had your breakfast? It would only take a minute."

"I've had breakfast, Mrs. Drood, and thank you. But I'd like a mug of ale."

"Bring me one, too," said Drood. "Can't let Gib here drink alone."

Mrs. Drood waddled back to the hut.

"Yes, sir," said Drood, "it ain't easy getting in the wood. But if I take

my time, I can manage it. Good wood, too. Oak and maple, mostly. All dried out

and ready for the fire. Lots of down stuff. No one has touched it for years.

Once in a while a pack train camps near here, if they're caught at night, and

have to rustle up some camp wood. But they don't make a dent in it. Up the

hill a ways there's a down shagbark hickory and it's the best wood that there

is. You don't find one of them down too often. It's a far ways to go to reach

it, though. . . ."

"I'm busy today," said Gib, "but tomorrow and the next day I can help you

with the wood."

"There ain't no need to, Gib. I can manage it."

"I'd like some of that hickory myself."

"Well, now, if that's the way of it, I'd go partners with you. And thanks

an awful lot."

"Glad to."

Mrs. Drood came back with three mugs of ale. "I brought one for myself,"

she said. "Land sakes, it ain't often we get visitors. I'll just sit down

while we drink the ale."

"Gib is going to help me with the wood tomorrow," said Drood. "We'll go

after that big hickory."

"Hickory is good wood," said Mrs. Drood.

"I am getting me a new ax," said Gib. "The old one is almost worn out. It

was one my father gave me."

"Your folks are up near Coon Hollow, so I hear," said Mrs. Drood.

Gib nodded. "Been there for quite a while. Good place to be. Good wood,

good fishing, plenty of muskrat, one little slough with a lot of wild rice in

it. I think they will stay on."

"You're getting your new ax from the gnomes?" asked Drood.

"That's right," said Gib. "Had to wait awhile. Spoke to them about it way

last summer."

"Fine workmen, them gnomes," said Drood judiciously. "Good iron, too. That

vein they're working is high-grade ore. Pack trains stop every now and then

and take everything they have. Good reputation, no trouble selling it. I

sometimes wonder. You hear terrible things of gnomes, and maybe they are sort

of scaly things. But these gnomes of ours are all right. I don't know how we'd

get along without them. They been here for years, as long as anyone can

remember."

"Things can get along together," said Mrs. Drood, "if they have good

hearts."

"The gnomes ain't people, Mother," Drood reminded her.

"Well, I don't care," said Mrs. Drood. "They're creatures, and they ain't

so much different from us. In a lot of ways they are less different from us

than we are from humans. The Hill People are a lot like us."

"The main thing," said Drood, "is that all of us manage to get along

together. Take us and humans. Humans are twice as big as we are and they have

smooth skins where we have fur. Humans can write and we can't. Humans have

money and we don't. We trade for what we want. Humans got lots of things we

haven't, but we don't begrudge them it and they don't look down on us. Just so

long as we get along together, everything's all right."

Gib finished his ale. "I have to go," he said, "I have a long day ahead of

me. I have to get my ax, then go calling on the hermit."

"I hear the hermit is right poorly," said Drood. "He is getting on in

years. He is half as old as them there hills."

"You're going calling on the hermit?" asked Mrs. Drood.

"That is what he said," Drood told her.

"Well, you just wait a minute. I got something I want to send him. A chunk

of that wild honey the Hill People gave me."

"He'd like that," said Gib.

She scurried off.

"I've often wondered," said Drood, "what the hermit has gotten out of life,

sitting up there on top of the hill in that cave of his, never going anywhere,

never doing nothing."

"Folks come to him," said Gib. "He's got all sorts of cures. Stomach cures,

throat cures, teeth cures. But they don't always come for cures. Some just

come to talk."

"Yes, I suppose he does see a lot of people."

Mrs. Drood came back with a package that she gave to Gib.

"You stop by for supper," she said. "No matter if you're late, I'll save

some supper for you."

"Thanks, Mrs. Drood," said Gib. He pushed away from the raft and paddled

down the winding channel. Squawling blackbirds rose in clouds before him,

wheeling in dark-winged flight above his head, lighting on distant reeds with

volleys of profanity.

He reached the shore, the ground rising abruptly from the margin of the

marsh. Giant trees close to the marsh's margin reached great limbs far above

the grass and water. A great oak grew so close to the water's edge that some

of its roots, once enclosed in earth that had washed away, stuck out like

clawing fingers from the bank.

Gib tied the boat to one of the roots, heaved his bundles and the old ax

ashore, then scrambled up the bank. He shouldered the bundles and picked his

way along a faint path that ran up a hollow between two of the towering hills.

He reached and crossed a better-defined path, a trail used by the infrequent

pack trains that were either passing through or coming to trade with the

gnomes.

The marsh had been noisy with blackbirds, but as Gib walked deeper into the

wooded hills a hushed silence closed in about him. Leaves rustled in the wind,

and occasionally he could hear the tiny thud of a falling acorn as it hit the

ground. Earlier in the morning squirrels would have done some chattering to

greet the morning sun, but now they were going quietly about their business of

foraging for food, slipping like darting shadows through the woods.

The climb was steep, and Gib stopped for a moment to lean against a

lichen-grown boulder. He didn't like the woods, he told himself. Gone from it

for only a short time, he already missed the marsh. The woods had a secretive

grimness and the marsh was open. In the marsh one knew where he was, but here

one could easily become confused and lost.

Sniveley, the gnome, said, "So you have come for your ax."

"If it is ready," Gib said.

"Oh, it is ready well enough," Sniveley grumbled. "It was ready yesterday,

but come on in and sit. It is a tiring climb up here, even for a young one."

The cave opened out from the hillside, and beyond its mouth, half filling

the deep ravine that ran below it, was a heap of earth and slag, a huge hog's

back, along which ran a wheelbarrow track to reach the dump of mine tailings

at its end. So ancient was the earth and slag heap that along its sloping

sides trees had sprung up and reached a respectable size, some of them canted

out of line so that they hung above the ravine at eccentric angles. Back from

the mouth of the cave, extending deep into the hill, forge-flames flared, and

there was the sound of heavy hammering.

Sniveley led the way into a small side cave that connected obliquely with

the main one that led into the mine. "Here," he said, "we can sit in peace and

have some surcease from noise. More than that, we'll be out of the way of the

wheelbarrows that come charging from the mine."

Gib laid one of the bundles on the counter that ran against one wall.

"Smoked fish," he said, "and some other things. The other bundle's for the

hermit."

"I have not seen the hermit for years," said Sniveley. "Here, take this

chair. I just recently covered it with a new sheepskin. It is very

comfortable."

Gib sat down in the indicated chair, and the gnome took another, hitching

it around so he could face his visitor. "Actually," he said, "I only called on

the hermit once. A neighborly act, I thought. I took him, as a gift, a fine

pair of silver candlesticks. I never went again. I fear that I embarrassed

him. I felt an unease in him. He said nothing, of course. . . ."

"He wouldn't," said Gib. "He is a kindly man."

"I shouldn't have done it," said the gnome. "It came from living so long in

the land of humans and dealing so much with them that I began to lose the

distinction between myself and man. But to the hermit, and I suppose to many

other men, I am a reminder of that other world in which I properly belong,

against which men still must have a sense of loathing and disgust, and I

suppose for a reason. For ages man and the many people of my world fought very

hard and viciously against one another, with no mercy, and I suppose, at most

times, without a sense of honor. In consequence of this, the hermit, who is,

as you say, the kindliest of men, did not quite know how to handle me. He must

have known that I was harmless and carried no threat to him or any of his

race, and yet he was uneasy. If I had been a devil, say, or any sort of demon,

he would have known how to act. Out with the holy water and the sacred spells.

But I wasn't a devil, and yet in some obscure way I was somehow connected with

the idea of the devil. All these years I have regretted that I called on him."

"And yet he took the candlesticks."

"Yes, he did. Most graciously, and he thanked me kindly for them. He was

too much a gentleman to throw them back in my face. He gave me, in return, a

length of cloth of gold. Someone, I suppose, perhaps some noble visitor, had

given it to him, for the hermit would have had no money to buy so princely a

gift. I have often thought, however, that he should have kept it and given me

a much more lowly gift. I've wondered all these years what I possibly could do

with a length of cloth of gold. I keep it in a chest and I take it out now and

then and have a look at it, but that is all I ever do with it. I suppose I

could trade it off for something more utilitarian, but I hesitate to do that,

for it was the hermit's gift and for that reason seems to me to have a certain

sentimental value. One does not sell gifts, particularly a gift from so good a

man."

"I think," said Gib, "that you must imagine much of this—the hermit's

embarrassment, I mean. I, for example, have no such feeling toward you.

Although, in all fairness, I must admit that I am not a human."

"Much closer than I am," said the gnome, "and therein may lie a

difference."

He rose. "I'll get your ax," he said, "and there is something else that I

want to show you." He patted the bundle Gib had placed on the counter. "I'll

give you credit for this. Without it you have credit left, even with the ax."

"There's something I've always wanted to ask you," said Gib, "and never had

the courage until now. All the People of the Marshes, all the People of the

Hills, even many of the humans who know not how to write, bring you goods and

you give them credit. It must be, then, that you know how to write."

"No," said the gnome, "I don't. Few gnomes do. Some goblins, perhaps.

Especially those that hang out at the university. But we gnomes, being a

trader people, have worked out a system of notation by which we keep accounts.

And very honest, too."

"Yes," said Gib, "extremely honest. Most meticulous."

Sniveley went to the back of the room and rummaged around among some

shelves. He came back with the ax, mounted on a helve of hickory.

文档加载中……请稍候！
如果长时间未打开，您也可以点击刷新试试。

下载文档到电脑，查找使用更方便

5.9 玖币 0人已下载

立即下载 VIP免费下载

摘要：

EnchantedPilgrimageCliffordD.SimakCOPYRIGHT©1975BYCLIFFORDD.SIMAKAllrightsreserved.Thisbook,orpartsthereof,maynotbereproducedinanyformwithoutpermission.PublishedsimultaneouslyinCanadabyLongmanCanadaLimited,Toronto.PRINTEDINTHEUNITEDSTATESOFAMERICAEnchantedPilgrimageScanned1/24/2004byDimJimVer1.01The...

展开>> 收起<<

Clifford D. Simak - Enchanted Pilgrimage.pdf

共109页,预览22页

还剩页未读，继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

Clifford D. Simak - Enchanted Pilgrimage

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: