Ursula K. Le Guin - Earthsea 5 - The Other Wind

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Le Guin, Ursula - [Earthsea 05] The Other Wind
THE OTHER WIND
Ursula K. LeGuin
front cover
The Earthsea 05
EBook Design Group digital back-up edition v1 HTML
December 13, 2002
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
CHAPTER ONE
^ »
MENDING THE GREEN PITCHER
Sails long and white as swan's wings carried the ship Farflyer through summer air
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down the bay from the Armed Cliffs toward Gont Port. She glided into the still water
landward of the jetty, so sure and graceful a creature of the wind that a couple of
townsmen fishing off the old quay cheered her in, waving to the crewmen and the one
passenger standing in the prow.
He was a thin man with a thin pack and an old black cloak, probably a sorcerer or
small tradesman, nobody important. The two fishermen watched the bustle on the dock
and the ship's deck as she made ready to unload her cargo, and only glanced at the
passenger with a bit of curiosity when as he left the ship one of the sailors made a
gesture behind his back, thumb and first and last finger of the left hand all pointed at
him: May you never come back!
He hesitated on the pier, shouldered his pack, and set off into the streets of Gont Port.
They were busy streets, and he got at once into the Fish Market, abrawl with hawkers
and hagglers, paving stones glittering with fish scales and brine. If he had a way, he
soon lost it among the carts and stalls and crowds and the cold stares of dead fish.
A tall old woman turned from the stall where she had been insulting the freshness of
the herring and the veracity of the fishwife. Seeing her glaring at him, the stranger said
unwisely, "Would you have the kindness to tell me the way I should go for Re Albi?"
"Why, go drown yourself in pig slop for a start," said the tall woman and strode off,
leaving the stranger wilted and dismayed. But the fishwife, seeing a chance to seize the
high moral ground, blared out, "Re Albi is it? Re Albi you want, man? Speak up then!
The Old Mage's house, that would be what you'd want at Re Albi. Yes it would. So
you go out by the corner there, and up Elvers Lane there, see, till you reach the
tower…"
Once he was out of the market, broad streets led him uphill and past the massive
watchtower to a town gate. Two stone dragons large as life guarded it, teeth the length
of his forearm, stone eyes glaring blindly out over the town and the bay. A lounging
guard told him just turn left at the top of the road and he'd be in Re Albi. "And keep on
through the village for the Old Mage's house," the guard said.
So he went trudging up the road, which was pretty steep, looking up as he went to the
steeper slopes and far peak of Gont Mountain that overhung its island like a cloud.
It was a long road and a hot day. He soon had his black cloak off and went on
bareheaded in his shirtsleeves, but he had not thought to find water or buy food in the
town, or had been too shy to, maybe, for he was not a man familiar with cities or at
ease with strangers.
After several long miles he caught up to a cart which he had seen far up the dusty way
for a long time as a dark blot in a white blot of dust. It creaked and streaked along at
the pace of a pair of small oxen that looked as old, wrinkled, and unhopeful as
tortoises. He greeted the carter, who resembled the oxen. The carter said nothing, but
blinked.
"Might there be a spring of water up the road?" the stranger asked.
The carter slowly shook his head. After a long time he said, "No." A while later he
said, "There ain't."
They all plodded along. Discouraged, the stranger found it hard to go any faster than
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the oxen, about a mile an hour, maybe.
He became aware that the carter was wordlessly reaching something out to him: a big
clay jug wrapped round with wicker. He took it, and finding it very heavy, drank his
fill of the water, leaving it scarcely lighter when he passed it back with his thanks.
"Climb on," said the carter after a while.
"Thanks. I'll walk. How far might it be to Re Albi?"
The wheels creaked. The oxen heaved deep sighs, first one, then the other. Their dusty
hides smelled sweet in the hot sunlight.
"Ten mile," the carter said. He thought, and said, "Or twelve." After a while he said,
"No less."
"I'd better walk on, then," said the stranger.
Refreshed by the water, he was able to get ahead of the oxen, and they and the cart and
the carter were a good way behind him when he heard the carter speak again. "Going
to the Old Mages house," he said. If it was a question, it seemed to need no answer.
The traveler walked on.
When he started up the road it had still lain in the vast shadow of the mountain, but
when he turned left to the little village he took to be Re Albi, the sun was blazing in
the western sky and under it the sea lay white as steel.
There were scattered small houses, a small dusty square, a fountain with one thin
stream of water falling. He made for that, drank from his hands again and again, put
his head under the stream, rubbed cool water through his hair and let it run down his
arms, and sat for a while on the stone rim of the fountain, observed in attentive silence
by two dirty little boys and a dirty little girl.
"He ain't the farrier," one of the boys said.
The traveler combed his wet hair back with his ringers.
"He'll be going to the Old Mage's house," said the girl, "stupid."
"Yerraghh!" said the boy, drawing his face into a horrible lopsided grimace by pulling
at it with one hand while he clawed the air with the other.
"You watch it, Stony," said the other boy.
"Take you there," said the girl to the traveler.
"Thanks," he said, and stood up wearily.
"Got no staff, see," said one boy, and the other said, "Never said he did." Both watched
with sullen eyes as the stranger followed the girl out of the village to a path that led
north through rocky pastures that dropped down steep to the left.
The sun glared on the sea. His eyes dazzled, and the high horizon and the blowing
wind made him dizzy. The child was a little hopping shadow ahead of him. He
stopped.
"Come on," she said, but she too stopped. He came up to her on the path. "There," she
said. He saw a wooden house near the cliff's edge, still some way ahead.
"I ain't afraid," the girl said. "I fetch their eggs lots of times for Stony's dad to carry to
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market. Once she gave me peaches. The old lady. Stony says I stole 'em but I never.
Go on. She ain't there. Neither of em is."
She stood still, pointing to the house.
"Nobody's there?"
"The old man is. Old Hawk, he is."
The traveler went on. The child stood watching him till he went round the corner of the
house.
Two goats stared down at the stranger from a steep fenced field. A scatter of hens and
half-grown chicks pecked and conversed softly in long grass under peach and plum
trees. A man was standing on a short ladder against the trunk of one of the trees; his
head was in the leaves, and the traveler could see only his bare brown legs.
"Hello," the traveler said, and after a while said it again a bit louder.
The leaves shook and the man came briskly down the ladder. He carried a handful of
plums, and when he got off the ladder he batted away a couple of bees drawn by the
juice. He came forward, a short, straight-backed man, grey hair tied back from a
handsome, timeworn face. He looked to be seventy or so. Old scars, four white seams,
ran from his left cheekbone down to the jaw. His gaze was clear, direct, intense.
"They're ripe," he said, "though they'll be even better tomorrow." He held out his
handful of little yellow plums.
"Lord Sparrowhawk," the stranger said huskily. "Arch-mage."
The old man gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. "Come into the shade," he said.
The stranger followed him, and did what he was told: he sat down on a wooden bench
in the shade of the gnarled tree nearest the house; he accepted the plums, now rinsed
and served in a wicker basket; he ate one, then another, then a third. Questioned, he
admitted that he had eaten nothing that day. He sat while the master of the house went
into it, coming out presently with bread and cheese and half an onion. The guest ate the
bread and cheese and onion and drank the cup of cold water his host brought him. The
host ate plums to keep him company.
"You look tired. How far have you come?"
"From Roke."
The old man's expression was hard to read. He said only, "I wouldn't have guessed
that."
"I'm from Taon, lord. I went from Taon to Roke. And there the Lord Patterner told me
I should come here. To you."
"Why?"
It was a formidable gaze.
"Because you walked across the dark land living…" The stranger's husky voice died
away.
The old man picked up the words: "And came to the far shores of the day. Yes. But
that was spoken in prophecy of the coming of our King, Lebannen."
"You were with him, lord."
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"I was. And he gained his kingdom there. But I left mine there. So don't call me by any
title. Hawk, or Sparrowhawk, as you please. And how shall I call you?"
The man murmured his use-name: "Alder."
Food and drink and shade and sitting down had clearly eased him, but he still looked
exhausted. He had a weary sadness in him; his face was full of it.
The old man had spoken to him with a hard edge in his voice, but that was gone when
he said, "Let's put off talking for a bit. You've sailed near a thousand miles and walked
fifteen uphill. And I've got to water the beans and the lettuce id all, since my wife and
daughter left the garden in my charge. So rest a while. We can talk in the cool of the
evening. Or the cool of the morning. There's seldom as much hurry as I used to think
there was."
When he came back by half an hour later his guest was flat on his back asleep in the
cool grass under the peach trees.
The man who had been Archmage of Earthsea stopped with a bucket in one hand and a
hoe in the other and looked down at the sleeping stranger.
"Alder," he said under his breath. "What's the trouble you bring with you, Alder?"
It seemed to him that if he wanted to know the man's true name he would know it only
by thinking, by putting his mind to it, as he might have done when he was a mage.
But he did not know it, and thinking would not give it to him, and he was not a mage.
He knew nothing about this Alder and must wait to be told. "Never trouble trouble," he
told himself, and went on to water the beans.
As soon as the sun's light was cut offby a low rock wall that ran along the top of the
cliff near the house, the cool of the shadow roused the sleeper. He sat up with a shiver,
then stood up, a bit stiff and bewildered, with grass seed in his hair. Seeing his host
filling buckets at the well and lugging them to the garden, he went to help him.
"Three or four more ought to do it," said the ex-Archmage, doling out water to the
roots of a row of young cabbages. The smell of wet dirt was pleasant in the dry, warm
air. The westering light came golden and broken over the ground.
They sat on a long bench beside the house door to see the sun go down. Sparrowhawk
had brought out a bottle and two squat, thick cups of greenish glass. "My wife's son's
wine," he said. "From Oak Farm, in Middle Valley. A good year, seven years back." It
was a flinty red wine that warmed Alder right through. The sun set in calm clarity. The
wind was down. Birds in the orchard trees made a few closing remarks.
Alder had been amazed when he learned from the Master Patterner of Roke that the
Archmage Sparrowhawk, that man of legend, who had brought the king home from the
realm of death and then flown off on a dragon's back, was still alive. Alive, said the
Patterner, and living on his home island, Gont. "I tell you what not many know," the
Patterner had said, "for I think you need to know it. And I think you will keep his
secret."
"But then he is still Archmage!" Alder had said, with a kind of joy: for it had been a
puzzle and concern to all men of the art that the wise men of Roke Island, the school
and center of magery in the Archipelago, had not in all the years of King Lebannen's
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rule named an Archmage to replace Sparrowhawk.
"No," the Patterner had said. "He is not a mage at all."
The Patterner had told him a little of how Sparrowhawk had lost his power, and why;
and Alder had had time to ponder it all. But still, here, in the presence of this man who
had spoken with dragons, and brought back the Ring of Erreth-Akbe, and crossed the
kingdom of the dead, and ruled the Archipelago before the king, all those stories and
songs were in his mind. Even as he saw him old, content with his garden, with no
power in him or about him but that of a soul made by a long life of thought and action,
he still saw a great mage. And so it troubled him considerably that Sparrow-hawk had
a wife.
A wife, a daughter, a stepson… Mages had no family. A common sorcerer like Alder
might marry or might not, but the men of true power were celibate. Alder could
imagine this man riding a dragon, that was easy enough, but to think of him as a
husband and father was another matter. He couldn't manage it. He tried. He asked,
"Your—wife—She's with her son, then?"
Sparrowhawk came back from far away. His eyes had been on the western gulfs. "No,"
he said. "She's in Havnor. With the king."
After a while, coming all the way back, he added, "She went there with our daughter
just after the Long Dance. Lebannen sent for them, to take counsel. Maybe on the same
matter that brings you here to me. We'll see… But the truth is, I'm tired this evening,
and not much disposed to weighing heavy matters. And you look tired too. So a bowl
of soup, maybe, and another glass of wine, and sleep? And we'll talk in the morning."
"All with pleasure, lord," Alder said, "but for the sleep. That's what I fear."
It took the old man a while to register this, but then he said, "You fear to sleep?"
"Dreams."
"Ah." A keen glance from the dark eyes under eyebrows grown tangled and half grey.
"You had a good nap there in the grass, I think."
"The sweetest sleep I've had since I left Roke Island. I'm grateful to you for that boon,
lord. Maybe it will return tonight. But if not, I struggle with my dream, and cry out,
and wake, and am a burden to anyone near me. I'll sleep outside, if you permit."
Sparrowhawk nodded. "It'll be a pleasant night," he said.
It was a pleasant night, cool, the sea wind mild from the south, the stars of summer
whitening all the sky except where the broad, dark summit of the mountain loomed.
Alder put down the pallet and sheepskin his host gave him, in the grass where he had
slept before.
Sparrowhawk lay in the little western alcove of the house. He had slept there as a boy,
when it was Ogion's house and he was Ogion's prentice in wizardry. Tehanu had slept
there these last fifteen years, since she had been his daughter. With her and Tenar
gone, when he lay in his and Tenar's bed in the dark back corner of the single room he
felt his solitude, so he had taken to sleeping in the alcove. He liked the narrow cot built
out from the thick house wall of timbers, right under the window. He slept well there.
But this night he did not.
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Before midnight, wakened by a cry, voices outside, he leapt up and went to the door. It
was only Alder struggling with nightmare, amid sleepy protests from the henhouse.
Alder shouted in the thick voice of dream and then woke, starting up in panic and
distress. He begged his host's pardon and said he would sit up a while under the stars.
Sparrowhawk went back to bed. He was not wakened again by Alder, but he had a bad
dream of his own.
He was standing by a wall of stone near the top of a long hillside of dry grey grass that
ran down from dimness into the dark. He knew he had been there before, had stood
there before, but he did not know when, or what place it was. Someone was standing
on the other side of the wall, the downhill side, not far away. He could not see the face,
only that it was a tall man, cloaked. He knew that he knew him. The man spoke to him,
using his true name. He said, "You will soon be here, Ged."
Cold to the bone, he sat up, staring to see the space of the house about him, to draw its
reality around him like a blanket. He looked out the window at the stars. The cold
came into his heart then. They were not the stars of summer, beloved, familiar, the
Cart, the Falcon, the Dancers, the Heart of the Swan. They were other stars, the small,
still stars of the dry land, that never rise or set. He had known their names, once, when
he knew the names of things.
"Avert!" he said aloud and made the gesture to turn away misfortune that he had
learned when he was ten years old. His gaze went to the open doorway of the house,
the corner behind the door, where he thought to see darkness taking shape, clotting
together and rising up.
But his gesture, though it had no power, woke him. The shadows behind the door were
only shadows. The stars out the window were the stars of Earthsea, paling in the first
reflection of the dawn.
He sat holding his sheepskin up round his shoulders, watching those stars fade as they
dropped west, watching the growing brightness, the colors of light, the play and
change of coming day. There was a grief in him, he did not know why, a pain and
yearning as for something dear and lost, forever lost. He was used to that; he had held
much dear, and lost much; but this sadness was so great it did not seem to be his own.
He felt a sadness at the very heart of things, a grief even in the coming of the light. It
clung to him from his dream, and stayed with him when he got up.
He lit a little fire in the big hearth and went to the peach trees and the henhouse to
gather breakfast. Alder came in from the path that ran north along the cliff top; he had
gone for a walk at first light, he said. He looked jaded, and Sparrowhawk was struck
again by the sadness in his face, which echoed the deep aftermood of his own dream.
They had a cup of the warmed barley gruel the country people of Gont drink, a boiled
egg, a peach; they ate by the hearth, for the morning air in the shadow of the mountain
was too cold for sitting outdoors. Sparrowhawk looked after his livestock: fed the
chickens, scattered grain for doves, let the goats into the pasture. When he came back
they sat again on the bench in the dooryard. The sun was not over the mountain yet,
but the air had grown dry and warm.
"Now tell me what brings you here, Alder. But since you came by Roke, tell me first if
things are well in the Great House."
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"I did not enter it, my lord."
"Ah." A neutral tone but a sharp glance.
"I was only in the Immanent Grove."
"Ah." A neutral tone, a neutral glance. "Is the Patterner well?"
"He told me, 'Carry my love and honor to my lord and say to him: I wish we walked in
the Grove together as we used to do.'"
Sparrowhawk smiled a little sadly. After a while he said, "So. But he sent you to me
with more to say than that, I think."
"I will try to be brief."
"Man, we have all day before us. And I like a story told from the beginning."
So Alder told him his story from the beginning.
He was a witch's son, born in the town of Elini on Taon, the Isle of the Harpers.
Taon is at the southern end of the Sea of Ea, not far from where Solea lay before the
sea whelmed it. That was the ancient heart of Earthsea. All those islands had states and
cities, kings and wizards, when Havnor was a land of feuding tribesmen and Gont a
wilderness ruled by bears. People born on Ea or Ebea, Enlad or Taon, though they may
be a ditchdigger's daughter or a witch's son, consider themselves to be descendants of
the Elder Mages, sharing the lineage of the warriors who died in the dark years for
Queen Elfarran. Therefore they often have a fine courtesy of manner, though
sometimes an undue haughtiness, and a generous, uncalculating turn of mind and
speech, a way of soaring above mere fact and prose, which those whose minds stay
close to merchandise distrust. "Kites without strings," say the rich men of Havnor of
such people. But they do not say it in the hearing of the king, Lebannen of the House
of Enlad.
The best harps in Earthsea are made on Taon, and there are schools of music there, and
many famous singers of the Lays and Deeds were born or learned their art there. Elini,
however, is just a market town in the hills, with no music about it, Alder said; and his
mother was a poor woman, though not, as he put it, hungry poor. She had a birthmark,
a red stain from the right eyebrow and ear clear down over her shoulder. Many women
and men with such a blemish or difference about them become witches or sorcerers
perforce, "marked for it," people say. Blackberry learned spells and could do the most
ordinary kind of witchery; she had no real gift for it, but she had a way about her that
was almost as good as the gift itself. She made a living, and trained her son as well as
she could, and saved enough to prentice him to the sorcerer who gave him his true
name.
Of his father Alder said nothing. He knew nothing. Blackberry had never spoken of
him. Though seldom celibate, witches seldom kept company more than a night or two
with any man, and it was a rare thing for a witch to marry a man. Far more often two
of them lived their lives together, and that was called witch marriage or she-troth. A
witch's child, then, had a mother or two mothers, but no father. That went without
saying, and Sparrowhawk asked nothing on that score; but he asked about Alder's
training.
The sorcerer Gannet had taught Alder the few words he knew of the True Speech, and
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some spells of finding and illusion, at which Alder had shown, he said, no talent at all.
But Gannet took enough interest in the boy to discover his true gift. Alder was a
mender. He could rejoin. He could make whole. A broken tool, a knife blade or an axle
snapped, a pottery bowl shattered: he could bring the fragments back together without
joint or seam or weakness. So his master sent him about seeking various spells of
mending, which he found mostly among witches of the island, and he worked with
them and by himself to learn to mend.
"That is a kind of healing," Sparrowhawk said. "No small gift, nor easy craft."
"It was a joy to me," Alder said, with a shadow of a smile in his face. "Working out the
spells, and finding sometimes how to use one of the True Words in the work… To put
back together a barrel that's dried, the staves all fallen in from the hoops—that's a real
pleasure, seeing it build up again, and swell out in the right curve, and stand there on
its bottom ready for the wine…There was a harper from Meoni, a great harper, oh, he
played like a storm on the high hills, like a tempest on the sea. He was hard on the harp
strings, twanging and pulling them in the passion of his art, so they'd break at the very
height and flight of the music. And so he hired me to be there near him when he
played, and when he broke a string I'd mend it quick as the note itself, and he'd play
on."
Sparrowhawk nodded with the warmth of a fellow professional talking shop. "Have
you mended glass?" he asked.
"I have, but it's a long, nasty job," Alder said, "with all the tiny little bits and speckles
glass goes to."
"But a big hole in the heel of a stocking can be worse," Sparrowhawk said, and they
discussed mending for a while longer, before Alder returned to his story.
He had become a mender, then, a sorcerer with a modest practice and a local reputation
for his gift. When he was about thirty, he went to the principal city of the island,
Meoni, with the harper, who was playing for a wedding there. A woman sought him
out in their lodging, a young woman, not trained as a witch; but she had a gift, she
said, the same as his, and wanted him to teach her. And indeed she had a greater gift
than his. Though she knew not a word of the Old Speech, she could put a smashed jug
back together or mend a frayed-out rope just with the movements of her hands and a
wordless song she sang under her breath, and she had healed broken limbs of animals
and people, which Alder had never dared try to do.
So rather than his teaching her, they put their skills together and taught each other
more than either had ever known. She came back to Elini and lived with Alder's
mother Blackberry, who taught her various useful appearances and effects and ways of
impressing customers, if not much actual witch knowledge. Lily was her name; and
Lily and Alder worked together there and in all the hill towns nearby, as their
reputation grew.
"And I came to love her," Alder said. His voice had changed when he began to speak
of her, losing its hesitancy, growing urgent and musical.
"Her hair was dark, but with a shining of red gold in it," he said.
There was no way he could hide his love from her, and she knew it and returned it.
Whether she was a witch now or not, she said she did not care; she said the two of
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them were born to be together, in their work and in their life; she loved him and would
be married to him.
So they were married, and lived in very great happiness for a year, and half a second
year.
"Nothing was wrong at all until the time came for the child to be born," Alder said.
"But it was late, and then very late. The midwives tried to bring on the birth with herbs
and spells, but it was as if the child would not let her bear it. It would not be separated
from her. It would not be born. And it was not born. It took her with it."
After a while he said, "We had great joy."
"I see that."
"And my sorrow was in that degree."
The old man nodded.
"I could bear it," Alder said. "You know how it is. There was not much reason to be
living that I could see, but I could bear it."
"Yes."
"But in the winter. Two months after her death. There was a dream came to me. She
was in the dream."
‘Tell it.
"I stood on a hillside. Along the top of the hill and running down the slope was a wall,
low, like a boundary wall between sheep pastures. She was standing across the wall
from me, below it. It was darker there."
Sparrowhawk nodded once. His face had gone rock hard.
"She was calling to me. I heard her voice saying my name, and I went to her. I knew
she was dead, I knew it in the dream, but I was glad to go. I couldn't see her clear, and
I went to her to see her, to be with her. And she reached out across the wall. It was no
higher than my heart. I had thought she might have the child with her, but she did not.
She was reaching her hands out to me, and so I reached out to her, and we took each
others hands."
"You touched?"
"I wanted to go to her, but I could not cross the wall. My legs would not move. I tried
to draw her to me, and she wanted to come, it seemed as if she could, but the wall was
there between us. We couldn't get over it. So she leaned across to me and kissed my
mouth and said my name. And she said, 'Set me free!'
"I thought if I called her by her true name maybe I could free her, bring her across that
wall, and I said, 'Come with me, Mevre!' But she said, 'That's not my name, Hara,
that's not my name any more.' And she let go my hands, though I tried to hold her. She
cried, 'Set me free, Hara!' But she was going down into the dark. It was all dark down
that hillside below the wall. I called her name and her use-name and all the dear names
I had had for her, but she went on away. So then I woke."
Sparrowhawk gazed long and keenly at his visitor. "You gave me your name, Hara,"
he said.
file:///F|/rah/Ursula%20LeGuin/LeGuin,%20Urs...ea%2005%20-%20The%20Other%20Wind%20[v1].html (10 of 126) [7/17/03 11:34:22 PM]
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LeGuin,Ursula-[Earthsea05]TheOtherWindTHEOTHERWINDUrsulaK.LeGuinfrontcoverTheEarthsea05EBookDesignGroupdigitalback-upeditionv1HTMLDecember13,2002ContentsChapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5CHAPTERONE^»MENDINGTHEGREENPITCHERSailslongandwhiteasswan'swingscarriedtheshipFarflyerthroughsu\mmerairfile...

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