Alan Dean Foster - For Love Of Mother-Not

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Author: Alan Dean Foster
Title: For Love Of Mother-Not
Original copyright year: 1983
Genre: Science Fiction
Version: 1.0
Date of e-text: 11/28/00
Source:
Prepared by:
Comments: Please correct the errors you find in this e-text,
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Chapter One
“Now there’s a scrawny, worthless-looking little runt.” Mother Mastiff
thought. She cuddled the bag of woodcarvings a little closer to her waist,
mating certain it was protected from the rain by a flap of her slickertic. The
steady drizzle that characterized Drallar’s autumn weather fled from the
water-resistant material.
Offworlders were hard pressed to distinguish any difference in the city’s
seasons. In the summer, the rain was warm; in autumn and winter, it was
cooler. Springtime saw it give way to a steady, cloying fog. So rare was the
appearance of the sun through the near-perpetual cloud cover that when it did
peep through, the authorities were wont to call a public holiday.
It was not really a slave market Mother Mastiff was trudging past. That was an
archaic term, employed only by cynics. It was merely the place where
labor-income adjustments were formalized.
Drallar was the largest city on the world of Moth, its only true metropolis,
and it was not a particularly wealthy one. By keeping taxes low, it had
attracted a good number of offworld businesses and trading concerns to a
well-situated b at mostly inhospitable planet. It compensated by largely doing
away with such annoying commercial agravations as tarifis and regulations.
While this resulted in considerable prosperity for some, it left the city
government at a loss for general revenue.
Among the numerous areas that were rarely self~apportIng was that involving
care of the impoverished. In cases In which indigence was total and an
individual was isolated by circumstance, it was deemed reasonable to allow a
wealthier citizen to take over responsibility from the government. This
thinned the welfare rolls and kept the bureaucracy content, while providing
better care for the individual involved-or so the officials insisted-than he
or she could receive from under funded and impersonal government agencies.
The United Church, spiritual arm of the Common-wealfh frowned on such
one-sided economic policies. But The Commonwealth did not like to interfere
with domestic policies, and Drallarian officials hastened to assure the
occasional visiting padre or counselor that legal safeguards prevented abuse,
of “adopted” individuals. So it was that Mother Mastiff found herself leaning
on tier cane, clutching the bag of artwork, and staring at the covered
dispersement platform while she tried to catch her breath. One curious
attendee moved too close, crowding her. He glowered when she jabbed him in the
toot with her cane but moved aside, not daring to confront her.
Standing motionless on the platform within the Circle of Compensation was a
thin, solemn boy of eight or nine years. His red hair was kicked down from the
rain and contrasted sharply with his dark skin. Wide, innocent eyes, so big
they seemed to wrap around the sides of his face, stared out across the
rain-dampened assembly. He kept his hands clasped behind his back. Only those
eyes moved, their gaze flicking like an insect over the upturned faces of the
crowd. The majority of the milling, would-be purchasers were indifferent to
his presence.
To the boy’s right stood a tall, slim representative of the government who ran
the official sale-an assignment of responsibility, they called it-for the
welfare bureau. Across from her a large readout listed the boy’s vital
statistics, which Mother Mastiff eyed casually.
Height and weight matched what she could see. Color of hair, eyes, and skin
she had already noted. Living relative, assigned or otherwise-a blank there.
Personal history-another blank. A child of accident and calamity, she thought,
thrown like so many others on the untender mercies of government care. Yes, he
certainly would be better off under the wing of a private individual, by the
looks of him. He might at least receive some decent food.
And yet there was something more to him, something that set him apart from the
listless precision of orphans who paraded across that rain-swept platform,
season after season. Mother Mastiff sensed something lurking behind those
wide, mournful eyes-a maturity well beyond his years, a greater intensity to
his stare than was to be expected from a child in his position. That stare
continued to rove over the crowd, probing, searching. There was more of the
hunter about the boy than the bunted.
The rain continued to fall. What activity there was among the watchers was
concentrated on the back right comer of the platform, where a modestly
attractive girl of about sixteen was next in line for consignment. Mother
Mastiff let out a derisive snort. Government assurances or not, yea couldn’t
tell her that those pushing, shoving snots in the front row didn’t have
something on their minds be-yond an innocently altruistic concern for the
girl’s future. 0h,no!
The ever-shifting cluster of potential benefactors formed an island around
which eddied the greater population of the marketplace. The marketplace itself
was concentrated into a ring of stalls and shops and restaurants and dives
that encircled the city center. The result was just modem enough to function
and sufficiently unsophisticated to at’ tract those intrigued by the
mysterious.
It held no mysteries for Mother Mastiff. The marketplace of Drallar was her
home. Ninety years she had spent battling that endless river of humanity and
aliens, some-times being sucked down, sometimes rising above the flow, but
never in danger of drowning. Now she had a shop-small, but her own. She
bargained for objects d’art, traded knicknacks, electronics, and handicrafts,
and managed to make just enough to keep herself clear of such places as the
platform on which the boy was standing. She put herself in his place and
shuddered. A ninety-year-old woman would not bring much of a price.
There was an awkwardly patched rip at the neck of her slickertic, and rain was
beginning to find its way through the widening gap. The pouch of salables she
clutched to her thin waist wasn’t growing any lighter. Mother Mastiff had
other business to transact, and she wanted to be back home before dark. As the
sun of Moth set, the murky daylight of Drallar would fade to a slimy darkness,
and things less than courteous would emerge from the slums that impinged on
the marketplace. Only the careless and the cocky wandered abroad at such
times, and Mother Mastiff was neither.
As the boy’s eyes roved over the audience, they eventually reached her own-and
stopped. Suddenly, Mother Mastiff felt queasy, unsteady. Her hand went to her
stomach. Too much grease in the morning’s breakfast, she thought. The eyes had
already moved on. Since she had turned eighty-five, she had had to watch her
diet. But, as she had told a friend, “I’d rather die of indigestion and on a
full stomach than waste away eating pills and concentrates.”
“One side there,” she abruptly found herself saying, not sure what she was
doing or why. “One side.” She broke a path through the crowd, poking one
observer in the ribs with her cane, disturbing an ornithorpe’s ornate
arrangement of tail feathers, and generating a chirp of indignation from an
overweight matron. She worked her way down to the open area directly in front
of the platform. The boy took no notice of her; his eyes continued to scan the
uncaring crowd.
“Please, ladies and gentle beings,” the official on the platform pleaded,
“won’t one of you give this healthy, honest boy a home? Your government
requests it of you; civilization demands it of you. You have a chance today to
do two good turns at once; one for your king and the other for this
unfortunate youth.”
“Id like to give the king a good turn, all right,” said a voice from the
milling crowd, “right where it would do him the most good.”
The official shot the heckler an angry glare but said nothing.
“What’s the minimum asking?” Be that my voice? Mother Mastiff thought in
wonderment.
“A mere fifty credits, madam, to satisfy department obligations and the boy is
yours. To watch over and care for.” She hesitated, then added, “If you think
you can handle as active a youngster as this one.”
“I’ve handled plenty of youngsters in my time,” Mother Mastiff returned
curtly. Knowing hoots sounded from the amused assembly. She studied the boy,
who was looking down at her again. The queasiness that had roiled in her
stomach the first time their eyes had met did not reoccur. Grease, she mused,
have to cut down on the cooking grease.
“Fifty credits, then,” she said.
“Sixty.” The deep voice that boomed from somewhere to the rear of the crowd
came as an unexpected interruption to her thoughts.
“Seventy,” Mother Mastiff automatically responded. The official on the
platform quickly gazed back into the crowd.
“Eighty,” the unseen competitor sounded. She hadn’t counted on competition. It
was one thing to do a child a good turn at reasonable cost to herself, quite
another to saddle herself with an unconscionable expense.
“Ninety-curse you,” she said. She turned and tried to locate her opponent but
could not see over the heads of the crowd. The voice bidding against her was
male, powerful, piercing. What the devil would the owner of such a voice want
with a child like this? she thought.
“Ninety-five,” it countered.
“Thank you, thank you. To you both, the government says.” The official’s tone
and expression had brightened perceptibly. The lively and utterly unexpected
bidding for the redheaded brat had alleviated her boredom as well as her
concern. She would be able to show her boss a better than usual daily account
sheet. “The bid is against you, madam.”
“Damn the bid,” Mother Mastiff muttered. She started to turn away, but
something held her back. She was as good a judge of people as she was of the
stock she sold to them, and there was something particular about this
boy-though she couldn’t say precisely what, which struck her as unusual. There
was always profit in the unusual. Besides, that mournful stare was preying
unashamedly on a part of her she usually kept buried.
“Oh, hell, one hundred, then, and be damned with it!” She barely managed to
squeeze the figure out. Her mind was in a whirl. What was she doing there,
neglecting her regular business, getting thoroughly soaked and bidding for an
orphaned child? Surely at ninety her maternal instinct wasn’t being aroused.
She had never felt the least maternal instinct in her life, thank goodness.
She waited for the expected nimble of “one hundred and five,” but instead
heard a commotion toward the back of the crowd. She craned her neck, trying to
see, cursing the genes that had left her so short. There were shouts, then
yells of outrage and loud cursing from a dozen different throats. To the left,
past the shielding bulk of the ornithorpe behind her, she could just make out
the bright purple flash of uniformed gendarmes, their slickertics glaring in
the dim light. This group seemed to be moving with more than usual energy.
She turned and fought her way forward and to the right, where a series of
steps led to the platform. Halfway up the stairs, she squinted back into the
crowd. The purple ‘tics were just merging into the first wall of office and
shop complexes. Ahead of them a massive human shape bobbed and dipped as it
retreated from the pursuing police.
Mother Mastiff permitted herself a knowing nod. There were those who might
want a young boy for other than humanitarian purposes. Some of them had
criminal dossiers on file that stretched as far back as her lifeline.
Obviously someone in the crowd, a salaried informer, perhaps, had recognized
the individual bidding against her and had notified the authorities, who had
responded with commendable speed.
“One hundred credits, then,” the disappointed official announced from the
platform. “Do I hear any more?” Naturally, she would not, but she played out
the game for appearance’s sake. A moment passed in silence. She shrugged,
glanced over to where Mother Mastiff still stood on the stairway. “He’s yours,
old woman.” Not “madam” any longer, Mother Mastiff thought sardonically. “Pay
up, and mind the regulations, now.”
“I’ve been dealing with the regulations of this government since long before
ye were born, woman.” She mounted the last few steps and, ignoring the
official and the boy, strode back toward the Processing Office. Inside, a
bored clerk glanced up at her, noted the transaction-complete record as it was
passed to his desktop computer terminal, and asked matter-of-factly, “Name?”
“Mastiff,” the visitor replied, leaning on her cane.
“That the last name?”
“First and last.”
“Mastiff Mastiff?” The clerk gave her a sour look.
“Just Mastiff,” the old woman said.
“The government prefers multiple names.”
“Ye know what the government can do with its preferences.”
The clerk sighed. He tapped the terminal’s keys. “Age?”
“None of your business.” She gave it a moment’s thought and added, “Put down
old.”
The clerk did so, shaking his head dolefully. “Income?”
“Sufficient.”
“Now look here, you,” the clerk began exasperated, “in such matters as the
acquisition of responsibility for welfared individuals, the city government
requires certain specifics.”
“The city government can shove its specifics in after its preferences.” Mother
Mastiff gestured toward the platform with her cane, a wide, sweeping gesture
that the clerk had the presence of mind to duck. “The bidding is over. The
other bidder has taken his leave. Hastily. Now I can take my money and go
home, or I can contribute to the government’s balance of payments and to your
salary. Which is it to be?”
“Oh, all right,” the clerk agreed petulantly. He completed his entries and
punched a key. A seemingly endless form spat from the printout slot. Folded,
it was about half a centimeter thick. “Read these.”
Mother Mastiff hefted the sheaf of forms. “What are they?”
“Regulations regarding your new charge. The boy is yours to raise, not to
mistreat. Should you ever be detected in violation of the instructions and
laws therein stated”-he gestured at the wad-“he can be recovered from you with
forfeiture of the acquisition fee. In addition, you must familiarize yourself
with-“ He broke off the lecture as the boy in question was escorted into the
room by another official.
The youngster glanced at the clerk, then up at Mother Mastiff. Then, as if
he’d performed similar rituals on previous occasions, he walked quietly up to
her, took her left hand, and put his right hand in it. The wide, seemingly
guileless eyes of a child gazed up at her face. They were bright green, she
noted absently.
“The clerk was about to continue, then found something unexpected lodged in
his throat and turned his attention instead back to his desk top. “That’s all.
The two of you can go.”
Mother Mastiff harrumphed as if she had won a victory and led the boy out onto
the streets of Drallar. They had supplied him with that one vital piece of
clothing, a small blue slickertic of his own. He pulled the cheap plastic
tighter over his head as they reached the first intersection.
“Well, boy, ‘tis done. Devil come take me and tell me if I know why I did it,
but I expect that I’m stuck with ye now. And ye, with me, of course. Do you
have anything at the dorm we should go to recover?”
He shook his head slowly. Quiet sort, she thought. That was all to the good.
Maybe he wouldn’t be a quick squaller. She still wondered what had prompted
her sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of generosity. The boy’s hand was
warm in her gnarled old palm. That palm usually enfolded a credcard for
processing other people’s money or artwork to be studied with an eye toward
purchase and even, on occasion, a knife employed for something more radical
than the preparation of food, but never before the hand of a small child. It
was a peculiar sensation.
They worked their way through crowds hurrying to beat the onset of night,
avoiding the drainage channels that ran down the center of each street. Thick
aromas drifted from the dozens of food stalls and restaurants that fringed the
avenue they were walking. Still the boy said not a word. Finally, tired of the
way his face would turn toward any place from which steam and smells rose,
Mother Mastiff halted before one establishment with which she was familiar.
They were nearly home, anyway.
“You hungry, boy?”
He nodded slowly, just once.
“Stupid of me. I can go all day without food and not give it a second thought.
I forget sometimes that others have not that tolerance in their bellies.” She
nodded toward the doorway. “Well, what are ye waiting for?”
She followed him into the restaurant, then led the way to a quiet booth set
against the wall. A circular console rose from the center of the table. She
studied the menu imprinted on its flank, compared it with the stature of the
child seated expectantly next to her, then punched several buttons set
alongside the menu.
Before too long, the console sank into the table, then reappeared a moment
later stacked with food; a thick, pungent stew dimpled with vegetables, long
stalks of some beige tuber, and a mass of multistriped bread.
“Go ahead,” she said when the boy hesitated, admiring his reserve and table
manners. “I’m not too hungry, and I never eat very much.”
She watched him while he devoured the food, sometimes picking at the colorful
bread to assuage what little hunger she felt herself, barely acknowledging the
occasional greeting from a passing acquaintance or friend. When the bottom of
the stew bowl had been licked to a fine polish and the last scrap of bread had
vanished, she asked, “Still hungry?”
He hesitated, measuring her, then gave her a half nod. “I’m not surprised,”
she replied, “but I don’t want ye to have any more tonight. You’ve just downed
enough to fill a grown man. Any more on top of what you’ve already had and
you’d end up wasting it all. Tomorrow morning, okay?” He nodded slowly,
understanding.
“And one more thing, boy. Can ye talk?”
“Yes.” His voice was lower than anticipated, unafraid and, she thought, tinged
with thankfulness.
“I can talk pretty good,” he added without further prompting, surprising her.
“I’ve been told that for my age I’m a very good talker.”
“That’s nice. I was starting to worry.” She slid from her seat, using her
cane to help her stand, and took his hand once again. “It’s not too far now.”
“Not too far to where?”
“To where I live. To where ye will live from now on.” They exited the
restaurant and were enveloped by the wet night.
“What’s your name?” He spoke without looking up at her, preferring instead to
study the dim storefronts and isolated, illuminated shops. The intensity of
his inspection seemed unnatural.
“Mastiff,” she told him, then grinned. “ Tis not my real name, boy, but one
that someone laid upon me many years ago. For better or worse, it’s stuck
longer with me than any man. ‘Tis the name of a dog of exceptional ferocity
and ugliness.”
“I don’t think you’re ugly,” the boy replied. “I think you’re beautiful.”
She studied his open, little-boy expression. Dim-witted, dim-sighted, or maybe
just very smart, she thought.
“Can I call you Mother?” he asked hopefully, further confusing her. “You are
my mother now, aren’t you?”
“Sort of, I expect. Don’t ask me why.”
“I won’t cause you any trouble.” His voice was suddenly concerned, almost
frightened. “I’ve never caused anyone any trouble, honest. I just want to be
left alone.”
Now what would prompt a desperate confession like that? she wondered. She
decided not to pursue the matter. “I’ve no demands to make on ye,” she assured
him. “I’m a simple old woman, and I live a simple life. It pleases me. It had
best please ye as well.”
“It sounds nice,” he admitted agreeably. “I’ll do my best to help you any way
I can.”
“Devil knows there’s plenty to do in the shop. I’m not quite as flexible as I
used to be.” She chuckled aloud. “Get tired before midnight now. You know, I
actually need a full four hours’ sleep? Yes, I think ye can be of service.
You’d best be. Ye cost enough.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly downcast.
“Stop that. I’ll have none of that in my home.”
“I mean, I’m sorry that I upset you.”
She let out a wheeze of frustration, knelt and supported herself with both
hands locked to the shaft of the cane. It brought her down to his eye level.
He stood there and gazed solemnly back at her.
“Now ye listen to me, boy. I’m no government agent. I don’t have the vaguest
notion what possessed me to take charge of ye, but ‘tis done. I will not beat
you unless you deserve it. I’ll see to it that you’re well fed and reasonably
warm. In return, I demand that ye don’t go about braying stupid things like
I’m sorry.’ Be that a deal?”
He didn’t have to think it over very long. “It’s a deal-Mother.”
“That’s settled, then.” She shook his hand. The gesture brought forth a new
phenomenon: his first smile. It made his tiny, lightly freckled face seem to
glow, and suddenly the night seemed less chilly.
“Let’s hurry,” she said, struggling erect again. “I don’t like being out this
late, and you’re not much the body-guard. Never will be, by the looks of ye,
though that’s no fault of yours.”
“Why is it so important to be home when it’s dark?” he asked, and then added
uncertainly, “Is that a stupid question?”
“No, boy.” She smiled down at him as she hobbled up the street. “That’s a
smart question. It’s important to be safe at home after dark because the dead
tend to multiply in direct ratio to the absence of light. Though if you’re
cautious and never grow overconfident and learn the ways of it, you’ll find
that the darkness can be your friend as well as your enemy.”
“I thought so,” he said firmly. “I’ve thought so for”-his face screwed up as
he concentrated hard on something-“for as long as I can remember.”
“Oh?” She was still smiling at him. “And what makes you think that it’s so
besides the fact I just told it to ye?”
“Because,” he replied, “most of the times I can ever remember being happy were
in the dark.”
She pondered that as they turned the comer. The rain had lessened
considerably, giving way to the mist that passed for normal air in the city.
It didn’t trouble her lungs, but she worried about the boy. The one thing she
didn’t need was a sick child. He had cost her enough already.
Her stall-home was one of many scattered through the seemingly endless
marketplace. Stout shutters protected the nondescript facade, which occupied
ten meters at the far end of a side street. She pressed her palm to the door
lock. The sensitized plastic glowed brightly for an instant, beeped twice, and
then the door opened for them.
Once inside, she shoved the door shut behind them, then automatically turned
to inspect her stock to make certain nothing had disappeared in her absence.
“There were racks of copper and silver wares, rare carved hardwoods for which
Moth was justly renowned, well-crafted eating and drinking utensils, including
many clearly designed for non-humans, cheap models of Moth itself with
interrupted rings of flashy floatglitter, and various items of uncertain
purpose.
Through this farrago of color and shape, the boy wandered. His eyes drank in
everything, but he asked no questions, which she thought unusual.
It was in the nature of children to inquire about everything. But then, this
was no ordinary child.
Toward the rear of the shop front a silver box stood on a dais. Its
touch-sensitive controls connected the shop directly to the central bank of
Drallar and enabled Mother Mastiff to process financial transactions for all
customers, whether they came from up the street or halfway across the
Commonwealth. A universal credcard allowed access to its owner’s total wealth.
Banks stored information; all hard currency was in general circulation.
Past the dais and the door it fronted were four rooms: a small storage
chamber, a bathroom, a kitchen-dining area, and a bedroom. Mother Mastiff
studied the arrangement for several minutes, then set about clearing the
storage room. Ancient and long-unsold items were shoveled out onto the floor,
together with cleaning equipment, clothing, canned goods, and other items.
Somehow she would find room for them elsewhere.
Propped up against the far wall was a sturdy old cot. She touched a button on
its side, and the device sprang to life, skittering about as it arranged
itself on springy legs. Further excavation revealed a bag of support oil,
which she plugged into the mattress. It was full and warm in minutes. Finally,
she covered the cot with a thin thermosensitive blanket.
“This’ll be your room,” she told him. “ Tis no palace, but ‘tis yours. I know
the importance of having something ye can call your own. Ye can fix up this
bower however ye like.”
The boy eyed her as if she had just bestowed all the treasures of Terra on
him. “Thank you. Mother,” he said softly. “It’s wonderful.”
“I sell things,” she said, turning away from that radiant face. She gestured
toward the storeroom out front. “The things ye saw on our way in.”
“I guessed that. Do you make much money?”
“Now ye sound like the government agent back there at the platform.” She
smiled to show him she was teasing. “I get by. I’d much like to have a larger
place than this, but at this point in my life”-she leaned her cane up against
her bed as she strolled into the larger room-“it seems not likely I ever will.
It does not bother me. I’ve had a good, full life and am content. You’ll soon
discover that my growls and barks are mostly show. Though not always.” She
patted him on the head and pointed toward the com-pact kitchen.
“Would ye like something hot to drink before we re-tire?”
“Yes, very much.” Carefully, he took off his slickertic, which was dry by
then. He hung it on a wall hook in his bedroom.
“We’ll have to get ye some new clothes,” she comment-ed, watching him from the
kitchen.
“These are okay.”
“Maybe they are for ye, hut they’re not for me.” She pinched her nose by way
of explanation.
“Oh. I understand.”
“Now what would ye like to drink?”
His face brightened once again. “Tea. What kinds of tea do you have?”
“What kinds of tea do ye like?”
“All kinds.”
“Then I’ll choose ye one.” She found the cylinder and depressed the main
switch ‘on its side as she filled it with water from the tap. Then she
searched her store of food-stuffs.
“This is Anar Black,” she told him, “all the way from Rhyinpine. Quite a
journey for dead leaves to make. I think ‘tis milder than Anar White, which
comes from the same world but grows further down the mountain sides. I have
some local honey if ye like your drink sweet. Expensive, it is. Moth’s flowers
are scarce save where they’re grown in hothouses. This world belongs to the
fungi and the trees; the bees, poor things, have a hard time of it, even those
who’ve grown woolly coats thick enough to keep the damp and cold out. If
honey’s too thick for ye, I’ve other sweeteners.”
Hearing no reply, she turned to find him lying still on the floor, a tawny,
curled-up smudge of red hair and dirty old clothes. His hands were bunched
beneath his cheek, cushioning his head.
She shook her head and pushed the cylinder’s off but-ton. The pot sighed and
ceased boiling. Bending, she got her wiry ‘arms beneath him and lifted.
Somehow she wrestled him onto the cot without waking him. Her hands pulled the
thermal blanket up to his chin. It was programmed and would warm him quickly.
She stood there awhile, amazed at how much pleasure could be gained from so
simple an activity as watching a child sleep. Then, still wondering what had
come over her, she left him and made her way across to her own room, slowly
removing her clothes as she walked. Before long, the last light in the rear of
the little shop winked out, joining its neighbors in nightfall. Then there was
only the light wind and the hiss of moisture evaporating from warm walls to
break the silence of the mist-shrouded dark.
Chapter Two
The boy ate as if the previous night’s dinner had been no more substantial
than a distant dream. She cooked him two full breakfasts and watched as he
finished every bite. When the last pachnack was gone, and the final piece of
bread wolfed down, she took him into the shop.
He watched intently as she entered the combination to the metal shutters. As
they rose, they admitted a world entirely different from the empty night. One
moment he was staring at the dully reflective line of metal strips. “The next
brought home to him all the noise, the confusion, and bustle and sights and
smells of the great Drallarian marketplace; they flooded the stall,
overwhelming him with their diversity and brilliance. Mother Mastiff was not a
late sleeper-which was good, for the crowd would rise in tandem with the
hidden sun. Not that the marketplace was ever completely deserted. There were
always a few merchants whose wares benefited from the mask of night.
The boy could tell it was daytime because it had grown less dark. But the sun
did not shine; it illuminated the raindrops. The morning had dawned warm, a
good sign, and the moisture was still more mist than rain. A good day for
business.
Mother Mastiff showed the boy around the shop, describing various items and
reciting their prices and the reasons behind such pricing. She hoped to
someday entrust the operation of the business to him. That would be better
than having to close up every time she needed to rest or travel elsewhere. The
sooner he learned, the better, especially considering the way he ate.
“I’ll do everything I can, Mother,” he assured her when she had concluded the
brief tour.
“I know ye will, boy.” She plopped down into her favorite chair, an over
upholstered monstrosity covered with gemmae fur. The skins were worn down next
to nothing, and the chair retained little value, but it was too comfort-able
for her to part with. She watched as the boy turned to stare at the passing
crowd. How quiet he is, she thought. Quiet and intense. She let him study the
passers-by for a while before beckoning him closer.
“We’ve overlooked several things in the rush of the night, boy. One in
particular.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I can’t keep calling ye ‘boy’. Have ye a name?”
“They call me Flinx.”
“Be that your last name or your first?”
He shook his head slowly, his expression unhappy. “Mother, I don’t know. It’s
what they called me.”
“What ‘they’ called ye. Who be ‘they’? Your”-she hesitated-“mother? Your
father?’”
Again, the slow sad shake of the head, red curls dancing. “I don’t have a
mother or a father. It’s what the people called me.”
“What people?”
“The people who watched over me and the other children.”
Now that was strange. She frowned. “Other children? Ye have brothers and
sisters, then?”
“I don’t”-he strained to remember-“I don’t think so. Maybe they were. I don’t
know. They were just the other children. I remember them from the early time.
It was a strange time.”
“What was so strange about it?”
“I was happy.”
She nodded once, as though she understood. “So. Ye remember an early time when
you were happy and there were lots of other children living with you.”
He nodded vigorously. “Boys and girls both. And we had everything we could
want, everything we asked for. All kinds of good food and toys to play with
and . . .”
A wealthy family brought to ruin, perhaps. She let him ramble on about the
early time, the happy time, a while longer. What catastrophe had overtaken the
boy in infancy?
“How big was this family?” she asked. “We’ll call it your family for now. How
many other boys and girls were there?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Lots.”
“Can you count?”
“Oh, sure,” he said proudly. “Two, three, four, five, and lots more than
that.”
Sounded like more than just a family, though an extend-ed family could not be
ruled out, she knew. “Do ye remember what happened to them, and to you? Ye
were all happy, and ye had lots of friends, and then something happened.”
“The bad people came,” he whispered, his expression turning down. “Very bad
people. They broke into where we lived. The people who watched us and fed us
and gave us toys fought the bad people. There was lots of noise and guns going
off and-and people fell down all around me. Good people and bad people both.
I stood and cried until somebody picked me up and carried me away. They
carried me down lots of halls and dark places, and I remember getting into
some kind of a-car?”
She nodded approvingly. “Probably. Go on, boy.”
“I was moved around a lot. That was the end of the happy time.”
“What happened after that?” she prompted him.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “It’s so hard to remember.”
“I know ‘tis painful for ye, Flinx. I need to know all about ye that I can, so
I can help ye as best as I’m able.”
“If I tell you,” he asked uncertainly, “you won’t let the bad people come and
take me away?”
“No,” she said, her voice suddenly soft. “No, I won’t let them come and take
ye away, Flinx. I won’t let anyone come and take ye away. Ever. I promise ye
that.”
He moved a little nearer and sat down on the extended leg support of the big
chair. He had his eyes closed as he concentrated.
“I remember never staying in one place for very long at a time. The people,
the good people who took care of me and fed me, they kept the bad people away.
They were al-ways upset about something, and they yelled at me a lot more than
before.”
“Were they mad at ye?”
“I don’t think so. Not really.” He licked his lips. “I think they were scared.
Mother. I know I was, but I think they were, also. And then”-a look of
confusion stole over his face-“I went to sleep. For a long time. Only, it
wasn’t really a sleep. It was like I was asleep and yet like I wasn’t.” He
opened his eyes and looked up at her. “Do you understand that. Mother? I
don’t.”
“No, I’m not sure I do, boy.” Her mind worked. Now who, she wondered, would
take the time and trouble to sedate a child for a long period of time? And why
bother?
“Then some more bad people suddenly showed up, I think,” he went on. “I didn’t
see them this time. But some of the people who watched me died or went away.
Then there was just me and one man and one lady, and then they were gone,
too.”
“Your mother and father?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he told her. “Anyway, they never called themselves
that. They were just two of the good people. Then some other people came and
found me. People I’d never seen before. They took me away with them.”
“Were they good people or bad people?”
“I don’t think they were either,” the boy replied care-fully. “I think they
were kind of in-between people. I think maybe they were sorry for me. They
tried to be nice, but”-he shrugged-“they were just in-between people. They
moved me around a lot again, and there were different places and lots of new
children I didn’t know, and then there was yesterday, and you bought me.
Right?”
She put a hand to her mouth and coughed. “I didn’t buy ye, actually. I agreed
to take responsibility for ye.”
“But you paid the government money for me, didn’t you? I was told that was
what was going to happen to me.”
“It was only to pay off the debt the government incurred for taking care of
ye,” she explained to him. “I don’t actually own ye. I would never do that.”
“Oh,” he said quietly. “That’s nice. I’m glad.” He waited a moment, watching
her, then added, “That’s everything I can remember.”
“Ye did fine.” She leaned forward and pointed to her right, up the street. The
chair groaned. “If ye walk six stalls that way, yell find a very small shop
run by a mur man. His name be Cheneth. Go up to him and tell him who ye be and
where ye came from. And ye can buy from him”-she thought a moment, not wishing
to overdo things-“a half credit’s worth of whatever ye see in his shop.”
“What kind of shop is it?” he asked excitedly.
“Candy,” she said, enjoying the light that came into his face. “Ye remember
what candy is, don’t ye? I can see by the expression on your face that ye do.”
She could also tell by the speed with which he took off up the street. He was
back before long, those deep emerald eyes shining from his dark face. “Thank
you. Mother.”
“Go on, go on, move to one side! You’re blocking my-our-view of the customers.
Wander about, learn the ins and outs of where ye live now.”
He vanished like a ray of sunshine, his red hair disappearing into the crowd.
Expensive, she thought to herself. That boy’s going to be expensive to raise.
How by the ringaps did I ever let myself fall into this? She grumbled silently
for another several minutes until a potential customer appeared.
Flinx learned rapidly. He was undemonstrative, highly adaptable, and so quiet
she hardly knew when he was around. Soon he was amazing her with his knowledge
of the layout and workings of the marketplace and even the greater city
beyond. He worked constantly on expanding his store of information, badgering
shopkeepers with persistent questions, refusing to take “I don’t know” for an
answer.
Mother Mastiff put no restrictions on him. No one had ever told her it was
improper to give an eight-year-old the run of a city as wild as Drallar. Never
having raised a child before, she could always plead ignorance, and since he
returned dutifully every night, unscathed and unharmed, she saw no reason to
alter the practice despite the clucking disapproval of some of her neighbors.
“That’s no way to handle a boy of an age that tender,” they admonished her.
“If you’re not careful, youll lose him. One night, he won’t come home from
these solo forays.”
“A boy he is, tender he’s not,” she would reply. “Sharp he be, and not just
for his age. I don’t worry about him. I haven’t the time, for one thing. No
matter what happens to him, he’s better off than he was under government
care.”
摘要：

****************************************************Author:AlanDeanFosterTitle:ForLoveOfMother-NotOriginalcopyrightyear:1983Genre:ScienceFictionVersion:1.0Dateofe-text:11/28/00Source:Preparedby:Comments:Pleasecorrecttheerrorsyoufindinthise-text,updatetheversionnumberandredistribute******************...

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