Sheri S. Tepper - Awakeners 2 - Southshore

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SOUTHSHORE-Awakeners 2
SOUTHSHORE-Awakeners 2
Sheri S Tepper
[23 feb 2002—scanned for #bookz]
[29 mar 2002—proofed by cress]
1
When Pamra left Thou-ne, moving westward along the River road, some
thousand of the residents of Thou-ne went after her. Most of them were
provisioned to some extent, though there were some who went with no thought
for food or blankets, trusting in a providence that Pamra had not promised and
had evidently not even considered, Peasimy Plot, for all his seeming inanity, was
well provided for. He had a little cart with things in it, things he had been putting
by for some time. The widow Plot would have been surprised to find in it items
that had disappeared from her home over the last fifteen years or so. There were
others in Thou-ne who would have been equally surprised to find their long-lost
belongings assisting Peasimy in his journey.
The procession came to Atter, and though some of the Thou-neites dropped out of
the procession, many of Atter joined it. Pamra preached in the Temple there, to
general acclaim. Then came Bylme and Twarn-the-little, then Twarn-the-
big—where the townspeople made Pamra a gift of a light wagon in which she
might ride, pulled by her followers—then a dozen more towns, and in each of
them the following grew more numerous, the welcome more tumultuous. Peasimy
himself began to appoint "messengers" to send ahead with word of their coming.
It was something that came to him, all at once. "Light comes," he told them. "That
is what you must say." As time went on, the messages grew more detailed and
ramified, but it was always Peasimy who sent them.
It was on a morning of threatening cloud that they left Byce-barrens for the town
of Chirubel.
The storm did not precisely take them by surprise; the day had brought increasing
wind and spatters of rain from very near dawn until midafternoon. Still, when in
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late afternoon the full fury of the wind broke over them and the skies opened, the
multitude were in nowise prepared for it. Some stopped where they were,
crawling under their carts or pitching their tents as best they might, to cower
under them out of the worst of the downpour. Others fled into the woods, where
they sought large trees or overhanging ridges. Pamra, high on her wagon, simply
pointed ahead with one imperious ringer, and the men who dragged the wagon,
half-drowned by the water flowing over their faces, staggered on into the deluge.
It was not until they stumbled into the outer wall of the Jarb House that they
realized she had pointed toward it all along. Pamra came down from the wagon,
and the dozen or so of them, including Peasimy Plot, struggled around the
perimeter of the place looking for a door.
It opened when they pounded, warmth drifting out into the chill together with a
puff of warm, dry air laden with strange smells and a haze of smoke. Peasimy
coughed. Pamra pressed forward against the warding arm of the doorkeeper, the
others following, gasping, wetter than fish.
They passed down a lengthy corridor into the main hall to stand there stunned at
the scale of the place. It was like standing in a chimney. At one side stairs curved
up to a balcony that spiraled around the open area, twisted up, and up, kept on
going around and around, smaller and smaller, to the seeming limit of their eyes,
where it ended in a dark glassy blot, a tented skylight black with rain. It was,
Pamra thought, like being inside the trunk of a hollow tree with an opening at the
top and all the tree's denizens peering down at you. Heads lined the balconies,
went away to be replaced by others, and throughout the whole great stack of
living creatures came a constant rustle and mumble of talk, a bubbling pulse of
communication that seemed to be one seamless fabric of uninterrupted sound.
From some of the balconies nets hung, littered with a flotsam of clothing and
blankets. From other balconies long, polished poles plunged to lower levels. A
brazier was alight at the center of the floor, its wraiths rising in dim veils in this
towering, smokestack space.
"Come in," said the Mendicant ironically. "So nice to have you."
"It is raining out there," announced Pamra evenly, no whit aware of the sarcasm.
She drew back the cloak that had covered Lila to disclose the child, not at all
discomfited by the soaking she had received.
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"Wet," affirmed Peasimy. "Dreadful wet. A great flood out of the skies. Mustn't
let her drown. Too important."
"Ah," assented the Mendicant. "And you are?"
"The crusade," said Peasimy. "We are the crusade. Light comes! She is the Bearer
of Truth, the very Mother of Truth."
"Ah," said the Mendicant again, frowning slightly. He had heard of this. All this
segment of Northshore had heard of this, one way or the other. As one of the
Order's more trusted messengers, he had more interest in it than most. A message
had come through Chiles Medman, Governor General of the Order, from Tharius
Don asking the Order to assist in procuring information.
"Trale," he introduced himself. "Mendicant brother of the Jarb. What can I offer
you by way of assistance?"
"Towels," said Pamra simply. "And a fire to dry ourselves. Something hot to
drink if you have it conveniently by." She stared around her, up at the endless
balconies where people came and went, staring down at her, leaving the railings
to others who stared in their turn. Pale blots. Mouths open. Hands moving in
beckoning gestures. Something distressed her, but she could not identify it.
Something was wrong, missing, as though she had forgotten to put on her skirt or
her tunic. She looked down at herself, puzzled. She was damp but fully dressed.
Why, then, this feeling of nakedness?
Trale led them across the hall, through an arch beneath the balcony and into a
wide, low room that curved away just inside the outer wall. A refectory. Pamra
shivered. It was not unlike the refectory at the Tower of Baris. The smells were
not unlike those smells. Cereals and soap, steam and grease, cleanliness at war
with succulence. Trale beckoned to them from an angled corner, a smaller room
opening off the large one, where a fire blazed brightly upon the hearth.
"I'll return in a moment," he murmured, leaving them there.
Those who had drawn the cart stood back, waiting for Pamra to approach the fire.
She gestured them forward. The room was warm enough without baking herself.
She took off her outer clothing and spread it on a table. Her knee-length
undertunic was only damp, clinging to her body like a second skin. The men
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turned their eyes away under Peasimy's peremptory gaze, one of them flushing.
Trale was back in a moment with towels and a pile of loosely woven robes over
one arm. He did not seem to notice Pamra's body under the clinging fabric but
merely handed her one of the robes, as impersonally as a servant. Behind him
came a man and a woman, one bearing a tea service, the other a covered platter at
which Peasimy looked with suspicion. "Jarb," said Trale. "It is our custom."
"We won't—" Pamra began.
"No. It is our custom. With any visitor. Call it—oh, a method of diagnosis."
"We are not ill."
"The diagnosis is not always of illness. Do take tea. This is a very comforting brew. It has no
medicinal qualities aside from that."
They sat steaming before the fire, moisture rising from them and from their
discarded clothing in clouds. Rain fell down the chimney, making small spitting
noises in the fire. The wall at their side reverberated to the thunder outside,
hummed to the bow-stroke of the wind. In the great hall the voice murmur went
on and on. Beside the fire Trale knelt to scrape coals into a tiny brazier. Beside
the brazier lay three oval roots, warty and blue, each the size of a fist. Jarb roots,
Pamra thought. Trale peeled the roots carefully, dropping the peels into a shallow
pan. When all three were peeled, he laid the roots into the ashes and began to dry
the peels over the brazier, stirring them with a slender metal spoon. The woman
who had brought in the tea buried the peeled roots in the ashes and turned to smile
at Pamra.
"It is only the peel which has the power of visions. Jarb root itself is delicious.
The Noor eat it all the time. Have you ever tasted it?"
Pamra shook her head, oppressed once more by the sense of something missing.
"No." She ate less and less as the crusade wore on. Hunger seemed scarcely to
touch her. Now, for some reason, however, she felt ravenous. Perhaps it was the
smoke. Perhaps the smell of food. "I am hungry, though."
"They only take a few moments to steam. Some scrape the ashes off, but I like the
taste." She drew a pipe from her pocket and handed it to Trale, who filled it with
the powdery scraps from the pan. All three had pipes, and in a moment all three
were alight, seated before the fire, the smoke from the pipes floating out into the
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room, into the refectory, away into the chimney of the great hall. The fragrance
was the same one that already permeated everything. Sweet, spicy. Pamra folded
her arms on the table and laid her head upon them, suddenly both hungry and
tired. She had not felt this hungry, this tired, in months. Why was she here? She
thought briefly of the Gift of Potipur, wishing she were aboard, translating the
murmur of Tower talk into the murmur of tidal current, the thunder outside into
the creak of boat timbers. She could be there. With Thrasne. Instead of here.
Beside her Lila chortled and said, clearly, "Over the River. Thrasne went over the
River."
Peasimy turned, his little ruby mouth open, cheeks fiery red with the drying he
had given them. "She talked!"
Pamra nodded sleepily. "She does, sometimes."
"I hadn't heard her before."
"She talks about the River a lot. Mostly that." She rubbed her forehead fretfully.
The sweet smell of the Jarb had soaked into the top of her nose and was filling it,
like syrup. She turned to find the three smokers knocking the dottle from their
pipes onto the hearth. The immediacy of the smell was dissipating.
The woman raked the baked Jarb root from the fire, brushing it off and placing it
upon a little plate. This she placed before Pamra with a spoon. "Try a little."
Pamra spooned off a bite, blowing on it to cool it. The root was sweet, too, but
delicious. The slightly ashy taste only complemented it. She took another
spoonful, then hesitated.
"Go ahead, eat it all," the woman said. "There are people bringing plenty of food
for you and for the others."
By the fire, Trale sat, rocking back and forth.
"Did you have a vision?" asked Peasimy curiously, studying the man's face.
"Oh, yes."
"What was it of?"
"Of you, Peasimy Plot. And of Pamra Don. And of what is to come."
"Oh!" Peasimy clapped his hands, delighted. "Tell us!"
Trale shook his head. "I'm afraid it can't be told. There are only colors and
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摘要:

SOUTHSHORE-Awakeners2SOUTHSHORE-Awakeners2SheriSTepper[23feb2002—scannedfor#bookz][29mar2002—proofedbycress]1WhenPamraleftThou-ne,movingwestwardalongtheRiverroad,somethousandoftheresidentsofThou-newentafterher.Mostofthemwereprovisionedtosomeextent,thoughthereweresomewhowentwithnothoughtforfoodorbla...

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