The wind's twelve quarters - vol 2 Read Free Page A

trowel in his belt and put on a warm cloak that had
been her husband's, they left the little house, going out into the cold wan
light in the deserted streets.
    They
went downhill, he leading, she following with the sleepy child in a fold of her
cloak. He turned neither to the road that led north up the coast nor to the
southern road, but went on past the market place and out on the cliff and down
the rocky path to the beach. All the way she followed and neither of them
spoke. At the edge of the sea he turned.
    I'll
keep you up in the water as long as we can manage, he said.
    She
nodded, and said softly, We'll use the road you built, as far as it goes.
    He
took her free hand and led her into the water. It was cold. It was bitter cold,
and the cold light from the east behind them shone on the foam-lines hissing on
the sand. When they stepped on the beginning of the causeway the bricks were
firm under their feet, and the child had gone back to sleep on her shoulder in
a fold of her cloak.
    As
they went on the buffeting of the waves got stronger. The tide was coming in.
The outer breakers wet their clothes, chilled their flesh, drenched their hair
and faces. They reached the end of his long work. There lay the beach a little
way behind them, the sand dark under the cliff over which stood the silent,
paling sky. Around them was wild water and foam. Ahead of them was the
unresting water, the great abyss, the gap.
    A
breaker hit them on its way in to shore and they staggered; the baby, waked by
the sea's hard slap, cried, a little wail in the long, cold, hissing mutter of
the sea always saying the same thing.
    Oh,
I can't! cried the mother, but she gripped the man's hand more firmly and came
on at his side.
    Lifting
his head to take the last step from what he had done towards no shore, he saw
the shape riding the western water, the leaping light, the white flicker like a
swallow's breast catching the break of day. It seemed as if voices rang over
the sea's voice. What is it? he said, but her head was bowed to her baby,
trying to soothe the little wail that challenged the vast babbling of the sea.
He stood still and saw the whiteness of the sail, the dancing light above the waves,
dancing on towards them and towards the greater light that grew behind them.
    Wait,
the call came from the form that rode the grey waves and danced on the foam,
Wait! The voices rang very sweet, and as the sail leaned white above him he saw
the faces and the reaching arms, and heard them say to him, Come, come on the
ship, come with us to the Islands.
    Hold
on, he said softly to the woman, and they took the last step.
     
    A
TRIP TO THE HEAD
    Most
people 'lead lives of quiet desperation', and some stories start there, too. We
were in England and it was November and dark at two in the afternoon and
raining and the suitcase containing all my manuscripts had been stolen at the
dock in Southampton and I hadn't written anything for months and I couldn't
understand the greengrocer and he couldn't understand me and it was desperation
— but quiet — stiff upper lip, don't you know. So I sat down and started
scribbling words, perfectly hopelessly. Words, words, words. They went on about
as far as ' "Try being Amanda", the other said sourly,' and stopped.
A year or so later {British Rail, all honor to them, had found my stolen
suitcase, we were back home in Oregon, it was raining) I found the scribble,
and went on scribbling, and came to the end. I never did find out what the
title ought to be - my agent, Virginia Kidd, did that, to my delight.
    There
is a kind of story which I would describe as a Bung Puller. The writer for one
reason or another has been stuck, can't work; and gets started again suddenly,
with a pop, and a lot of beer comes leaping out of the keg and foaming all over
the floor. This story was definitely a Bung Puller.
    'Is
this Earth?' he cried, for things had changed abruptly.
    'Yes,
this is Earth,' said the one beside him, 'nor are you out of