The Waters Rising Read Free Page B

someone her size. Or she herself was far too small, perhaps, for someone sounding as mature as she did. “How old are you?”
    “I think seven or eight maybe. I’m not sure.”
    “And what kind of help did you pray for?”
    She sighed deeply, the words coming slowly, hesitantly: “The Woman Upstairs is very sick and she hasn’t really talked to anyone for a long time, in words, out loud. But she talks to me—kind of in my head. Do you understand?”
    Abasio nodded. Oh, yes. He understood very well. He, too, often carried on lengthy conversations with someone very dear to him, someone who spoke to him in his head.
    The child picked uneasily at the hem of her shirt, this small movement obviously substituting for some other, much more expressive gesture she could not allow herself to make. “She wants me to do something for her. And I’ve tried, I really have. But I got so scared. I couldn’t get there, I couldn’t do it. So . . . I prayed for Ushiloma to send somebody to go with me.”
    He stared at his boots, finding himself faced with a not unusual problem: deciding what was appropriate. Was this request for assistance something that was “meant,” that is, a fate-laden task put in his way by someone or something other than this surprising female because it or they intended for him to do something about it or her ? Did he, in fact, believe in such things? Did he believe in it or them ? Or was this merely an accidental meeting that provided an opportunity to do something helpful or, conversely, totally unhelpful because of this . . . person’s bad judgment, or his own? Or was it one of those dreadful nodules in space-time in which interference of any kind would do more harm than good? Or vice versa?
    “Tidewise . . . ,” neighed Blue, sotto voce.
    Abasio avoided the questions. “What does she want you to do?”
    “Go into the woods after dark and fetch something, and it’s not long until dark . . .”
    He thought about this for some time. “How many times has the Woman Upstairs asked you to do this?”
    “Twice,” Xulai confessed, staring at her boots. “Yesterday and the day before, but the shadows stopped me. They’re full of writhey things that curl like snakes. And last night there was something huge that crunched as it came at me! I got partway, I really tried, but I was so scared I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t move!”
    “Has she ever suggested you take someone with you?”
    There was a lengthy silence. “She never really said not to . . .”
    “She probably never said to tie bells to your feet and beat a drum on the way there, either, did she?”
    Xulai felt her eyes filling. “No.”
    “Have you done other things for her?”
    “Oh, yes, many things.”
    “Did she ever ask you to do anything that hurt you?”
    She shook her head, seeming reluctant to do so.
    Abasio took a deep breath. “Then, scared or not, if she’s your friend you have to trust her. She needs you to do this thing and she needs you to do it by yourself.”
    Her eyes filled with tears, and she started to climb back into the tree.
    “Bastard,” said the horse, quite audibly.
    “What I will do,” said Abasio to the girl’s back, “is provide some help . . .”
    She stopped moving.
    “I’ll give you two things. I’ll give you some good advice and some assistance. Now listen to me. No, come back down here on the wall and really listen, don’t just pretend you’re listening while you’re planning to fall apart! There. Now breathe. Again. No, not hu-uh-hu-uh-hu-uh, like a panting puppy dog! Breathe, deeply, and listen! When you set out to do this thing tonight, you will have to think . Haven’t people talked to you about thinking, using your head?”
    She shivered, her face suddenly fierce with anger. “No! They tell me not to! I am not supposed to think! I am supposed to do what they tell me to do and not worry about it. Worrying about things might . . . it might get me into