Hegira Read Free Page B

Barthel was thankful. He didn't think he could stand the propaganda other servants told him they were regaled with. Bar-Woten was a good master.
    But if it ever came to light who had killed his father and mother and two sisters . . . Barthel's swagger stiffened. He didn't know what he would do. He was young and no fighter. At times he wished he could be a fighter and kill Sulay, cold fishy Sulay, who cared only for kilometers crossed and confirmations of the greatness of Sulay.
    But food was the order of the moment. He found a clean-looking stall that purveyed crullers, tins of coffee, and fresh vegetables. He didn't bother with the meat. Ibisians, like Momadans on Hegira, were not meat-eaters for the most part. They preferred vegetables, fruits, and fish or fowl.
    He bargained rapidly and without mercy. The stall's owner, a man four times Barthel's age, smiled and gave in a little. Eventually a price was reached and they hooked thumbs, Mediwevan style.
    The parcels were heavy. Barthel decided to rent a cart. He hailed a bicycle-drawn taxi when he saw no carts were available. The hack was little older than himself and regarded him with sharp dark eyes and taut lips. The fare hardly seemed worth pulling. But the hack mounted his wooden bike and pedaled without strain up and down the fiat-cobbled dips and gutters. Barthel relaxed his guard to look at the surroundings more leisurely. It didn't seem a bad city. Busy people were everywhere, and few were lame or crippled or ill-looking.
    The Bey was still talking with the penitent when Barthel returned. The young man was sweating and looked upset. His hand motions were jagged, and he stammered. The Bey was as firm and persistent as ever. Barthel dropped the packages in a corner and sat down to listen.
    “I can't tell you how I saw the wisdom of the Lord Heisos. It's a private matter.”
    “Can there be private matters between two souls striving for salvation?”
    “For this soul there is. You may confess what you wish.”
    “Fra Jacome, I have learned much from you. Would you care to raise your health for God's work by joining us in breaking fast?”
    "You sound pious, Fra Bar-Woten. I know you're not. You're ridiculing me.'
    “I am sincere. I wish you to join us in our meal.”
    “You know I can't eat until the Fast of Francis is over.”
    Barthel disapproved of what the Bey was doing. He was baiting the penitent, drawing him onto limbs and cutting them out from under. The Bey had a deadly way of finding out how other people thought, like dissection. Barthel allowed himself a moment of judgment on his master.
    “Your health will break and you'll die.”
    “Why are you interested in my health? Your people would sooner destroy us than spit on us!”
    Bar-Woten shrugged and lifted his eyebrow. “I can't speak for other Ibisians. Perhaps they do. Me, I wish to know what makes a man whip himself in the name of a God Who is kind.”
    “My God is not kind!” Jacome bellowed. “He takes away cruelly and has no mercy for those who do not know and perform His wishes!”
    Barthel cringed in surprise. The Bey had found the weak point he wanted.
    “Then how did you come to love Him? Out of fear?”
    The penitent tried to speak, but stammered into silence. His eyes were bright with tears and anger. “You p-p-pry,” he managed to stutter. “You t-twist my tongue like a serpent.”
    “I am curious,” Bar-Woten said. “And concerned.”
    "I saw the light of God in the middle of an agony so great
    I couldn't stand it. I grieved so deeply I died. And when I was reborn, I was the child you see now, still not mature in God's eyes. I was a scrittori. I recorded the writings on the Obelisk. I was going to marry a woman of my own age in a village near Obelisk Tara. We were nine months betrothed." He paused and caught his breath, his wild look abating.
    “She had been born the same day as a boy in Castoreto. They came from different families, but they looked alike. Some said they were