Magic Casement (29 page)

He
was worried that this refusal might be interpreted as an insult, but no-for the
first time High Raven’s burning resentment seemed to cool a fraction. He
bared yellow teeth in a predatory and approving smile. Darad had explained, of
course, that the purpose of this murderous ceremony was to leave fewer men to
share the women.

“I
will take her for you?”

Rap
thought that Clover Scent might prefer one of Little Chicken’s brothers,
but he was not going to argue the matter. He nodded, and that was enough. In no
time High Raven, as chief, performed the ceremony, marrying Clover Scent to
himself, as bridegroom. The bride’s expression did not change by a
flicker, so either she did not care or she was being very tactful. High Raven
had lost a son and gained a wife. He seemed to be pleased by the exchange.

Rap
had not eaten all day. A quick steak would be a very nice thought.

But
now came the moment he had been unconsciously dreading. Clover Scent had been
removed. He was left standing in his place of honor with High Raven-and Little
Chicken was still sitting in the middle of that arena. He knew the agenda. He
rose and came forward, head held high in spite of his nudity, the center of
attention. He dropped to his knees in front of Rap.

“My
life is worthless,” he proclaimed, in what was obviously a ritual speech,
“and must be short. Let my death be long. “ Then he stared up at
Rap unwinkingly.

Rap
studied him with astonishment. In Little Chicken’s place he would be a
quivering, gibbering, ashen-faced jelly. Did he really not care? Then he saw
the tiny flags of fear: the tightness in the strong neck muscles, the tenseness
around the eyes, a fine dew of sweat sparkling on the greased forehead. Only
the brave truly know fear, Sergeant Thosolin liked to say, for only they have
mastered it. Rap felt admiration then. Little Chicken was afraid, but he had
mastered his fear.

“You
know our customs?” High Raven inquired.

Even
leaving aside warnings from delusive old women, Rap had no intention of
damaging any part of the young goblin-but he could not resist taking a little
revenge for the days of taunting.

“Little
Chicken has told me many good ideas. “

High
Raven seemed pleased. He nodded. “How do you work?”

Seeing
Rap hesitate, the chief explained-some performers liked to hang the victims by
the hands, which made the show easier for the audience to see. Others preferred
to stake him out on the floor, where he was more accessible, or over trestles.
The choice was Rap’s, for this was to be his show.

Rap
pursed his lips, as if considering the matter. Then he appealed to the victim. “Which
do you think best?”

The
irony did not escape Little Chicken; his eyes narrowed briefly. “On
floor!” he said emphatically. “Last longer.”

Now
Rap’s conscience rebelled. This teasing was a torture in itself. “I
do not wish to do this thing. “

Father
and son reacted with shock.

“It
is duty!” Little Chicken shouted, looking quite horrified.

“I
will tell you things to do! Many things, much pain!”

“Silence,
trash!” High Raven turned to Rap. “Who will you have do this, then?”
Perhaps he was hoping to be appointed substitute torturer as well as substitute
bridegroom, to be avenged on this son who had so shamed him and his house.

Rap
was sweating now, and not only from the heat of the roaring furnace behind him.
He suspected that if he said the wrong thing he might yet find himself staked
out and providing the entertainment. Much worse was the realization that Little
Chicken’s fate might be unavoidable, in which case the kindest course
would be for Rap to undertake the job and give him a quick death in a clumsy
amateur’s mistake. Could he bring himself to do that?

“What
happens,” he asked, “if I do not say another to do this?”

Little
Chicken howled and hurled himself forward to embrace Rap’s feet. “No!”
he shouted. “I will make good show! I will die very slow! Long pain! Much
agony!”

Unbelievable!
Rap stared down at him, speechless. What alternative could possibly be worse
than what he was asking for? High Raven had colored in fury and he glared up at
Rap. “You bring shame upon the clan! You disappoint our guests!”

“It
is not the way of my people!” Rap protested, glaring back. He had long
ago discovered that sometimes the only way to handle old Honinin was to use
that glare-stubborn. It did not work on High Raven, though.

“We
are your people! The Raven Clan!”

“Also
I have another people. “

The
chief was almost foaming with rage. “Insult! Renegade! You will leave
this house. Go! Take trash with you!”

Rap
thought of the arctic night waiting outside and the flimsy buckskins he had
been given. He wondered if he would be allowed to take even those, or would
just be driven out as he was. “I am your guest! I wore good furs. You
send a guest away, keep his furs?” He knew what had happened to those
furs.

So
did High Raven, but he did not know that Rap knew. He scowled and glanced
around. “Furs will be found. You will go tomorrow. “ He looked down
at the groveling Little Chicken, who was wailing and rubbing his face in the
dirt. “And take trash.” The audience was muttering with disapproval
and disappointment, but it sounded as if Rap would be allowed to depart safely,
and also that he had just acquired a companion-a companion who would have every
incentive to break his neck at the first opportunity.

But
Little Chicken was harder to convince than his father. He rose to his knees and
raised clasped hands in a last desperate appeal to Rap. “Flat Nose! Do
not leave me in shame! I make good show! Never cry out! Long, long pain! “

His
distress seemed so real and so intense that for a moment Rap hesitated. He had
certainly played foul in the testing, cheating Little Chicken out of what
should have been an easy victory. Was it fair now to cheat him out of the
lingering death he dearly wanted? Little Chicken, it seemed, would not be able
to live with himself... but Rap had to live with himself, also, and he had
been. the winner. He shook his head.

The
burly goblin threw back his head and wailed a long, long howl of lament. Then
he clambered to his feet and slunk away, doubled over with shame, hiding his
nakedness now with his hands.

From
the look in High Raven’s eye, Rap was no longer welcome in the place of
honor. He was about to leave when he saw his gifts still lying on the platform.
Thinking he might persuade Little Chicken to accept them, he gathered them up
quickly, then walked away. The crowd parted to let him through, glaring
contemptuously.

High
Raven raised his arms to the company. “Raven Totem does not disappoint guests!
More food! More beer! Cheep-Cheep, Fledgling Down-come forward.”

Rap’s
knees quivered in a sudden surge of horror-he had just condemned one of the
younger boys to take Little Chicken’s place on the butcher block. He
thought that Little Chicken deserved it more, but then he remembered that it
was only his arrival and betrayal by Darad that had prevented either
Cheep-Cheep or Fledgling Down being there anyway, so really nothing had
changed. Not his fault.

He
reached the back of the crowd and stopped, baffled. Some of the spectators were
still turning to send angry glares in his direction. He had no friends in that
place, but now he was probably not eligible to sleep in the boys’ house,
so he would have to stay. Then a hand fell on his shoulder like a falling tree.
He was spun around to face Little Chicken.

He
had found a loincloth, but his face was still filthy with the dirt from the
floor, streaked by tears. It also wore an expression of urgency. “You
come!” He moved toward the door.

Rap
dug in his toes and tried to resist the pull. Go out into the night with Little
Chicken? Instant suicide!

The
young goblin seemed puzzled by Rap’s reluctance, then he guessed the
reason. He smiled bitterly. “Flat Nose frightened of trash?”

Rap
squared his shoulders and went. Little Chicken did not saunter this time. He
dashed through the unbearable dark cold. Rap ran at his heels, bare feet
rapidly going numb in the snow. They arrived at the boys’ house and
plunged in.

It
was empty and dark, the fire shrunk to embers. Little Chicken scooped up an icy
rug and draped it around the quivering Rap, who dropped his bundle of gifts to
huddle the fur tight about him. His companion set to work at the hearth,
blowing and poking and stirring life into it. Soon he had flames leaping again.
Then he looked up to study Rap-who was shivering mightily inside his robe.
Little Chicken squatted in nothing but a leather apron, yet apparently at ease
in the freezing temperature.

“Not
go tomorrow. Go now!”

“Why?”
Rap’s mind screamed at the thought.

“Dark
Wing, Raven Claw. My brothers follow us.”

They
would want revenge? But a man who had so recently begged for death should not
be suddenly eager to escape it. Rap was suspicious still.

“I
need my furs,” he said.

Little
Chicken scowled. “Furs bad! Buckskins better. I show you.”

“You
stand the cold better than I do.” That remark was not enormously tactful,
and the goblin heaved a sigh of regret.

“Yes.
But I look after you now. “

“Why
should I trust you?”

Little
Chicken jumped up and stamped his bare foot furiously.

“I
look after you!” he shouted. Apparently Rap had discovered yet another
way to humiliate him. He was dark-faced and breathing hard, and his big fists
had clenched until the bones showed white. Rap kept a puzzled silence.

Little
Chicken grunted. “I am your trash-slave. My duty to look after you. Where
we go?”

“South.
Across the mountains.”

Little
Chicken nodded as if that were two doors down the street and not weeks away. “I
take you. We go now.”

The
fire was starting to flame up noisily and brightly, but Rap was still
shivering. Then his fur robe was snatched away and Little Chicken began
slapping big handfuls of grease on him, spreading it in a disgustingly thick
layer.

“Here,
I can do that, “ Rap protested, trying to take the bucket.

Little
Chicken knocked his hand away and kept on working. In a few moments Rap
discovered that the grease did seem to keep the cold out, when it was thick
enough. Then he was being helped into the new buckskins, his protests
completely ignored. They fitted surprisingly well, yet Little Chicken fussed
and adjusted ties and straps on waist and ankles and wrists, taking a long time
to dress his new master to his satisfaction. Then he said, “Sit!”
and began greasing himself. Rap tried to help and got shouted at, but was
grudgingly allowed to coat his slave’s back for him. For trash, Little
Chicken was remarkably lacking in respect. He donned his old buckskins, which
had been lying in lonely neglect by the door. Then he said, “Stay! Back
soon,” and vanished out into the moonlight.

Rap’s
farsight traced him automatically, discovering then that the whole horde of
goblins was pouring out from the big house. The boys were ready, and a bonfire
had been lighted to brighten their coming contest. Little Chicken dodged around
the far side of the stable, made a quick dash to the women’s house, and
headed for the food store.

Cheep-Cheep
and Fledgling Down were led out in fur robes. Now Rap tried desperately not to
watch, but apparently farsight could not be turned off at will-not, at least,
when there was something of interest happening. He tried to distract himself by
inspecting the horses in the stable, for the visitors had brought twenty or
more of the scrawny ponies with them and he must be sure to select the best for
his escape... but in spite of himself, he was a spectator. He knew how the
youths staggered as they took the strain of the load, how they began to tremble
when the cold ate into their exposed flesh. They did not push and pull as
Little Chicken had done; they just stood and stared doggedly at each other and
tried to endure. They lasted much longer than Rap had, but then Cheep-Cheep
buckled without warning. Fledgling Down was wrapped up and rushed off into the
lodge again. The spectators followed, two of them dragging the unconscious
Cheep-Cheep. Then Little Chicken returned. He carried a very small backpack,
most of which seemed to be occupied by a wallet of bear grease. It also
contained fire-making equipment, a couple of knives, a little food, and much
cord, which might be for trapping or fishing. From somewhere he had obtained
two short bows and two quivers of arrows. Rap was a sorry archer, but he
decided he could carry his set as a spare for Little Chicken to use.

“Eat!
“ The goblin thrust a wad of hard wafers into Rap’s hand. They
tasted like hay mixed with honey, but he was starved and chewed them greedily,
crouching by the hearth.

Little
Chicken had not eaten that day, either; he sat by the door and munched loudly,
apparently finding the vicinity of the fireplace too warm for comfort. He also
talked continuously with his mouth full, in his usual laconic phrases. “Moon
up. Go to Porcupine Totem. No rush now. Cheep-Cheep make good show. If
Fledgling Down, not last so long.”

“How
can you know that?” Rap asked, squirming. His farsight told him that
Fledgling Down was already sitting on the platform, being hailed by whatever
his new name was. He had recovered much faster than Rap had done.

“Good
blood!” Little Chicken explained: Cheep-Cheep’s brother Sweet
Nestling had lost to Raven Claw two winters before and had done very well, the
best show in many years. “First dug out toenails,” he said. “No
scream. Said `Thank you.’ Then hammer toes flat, one by one, with rocks.
Said `Thank you.’ Much applause. Then-”