The Knight

Gylf had left before I finished. I cussed a little, calling him a stiff-necked fool dog and so on; and when I finally shut up, somebody who sounded scared sort of whined, “It was I.”

I grabbed for Sword Breaker, but there was nobody around.

“You have wonderful muscles,” the new voice said. “Do you stretch a lot?”

I nodded, still looking around and not seeing anybody.

“So do I. I can show you a kind of tree that will burn when it’s wet. Would you like to see it?”

I had been trying to decide whether it was a woman or a man; but the voice could have been either one, and there were tones in it that did not sound like a real person at all. I said, “Yes, we could really use wood like that. Please show me where it is.”

“It’s not much farther than you could roll a ball.” The soft voice had gotten fretful, like a tired little kid. “Do you think we could dry ourselves in front of the fire?”

I said, “Sure. I’m going to put my boots on, but I’ll leave my armor and clothes here. Is that okay?”

He did not say anything, so I said, “Listen, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, but could you maybe let me in on what you and Gylf were talking about back there?”

“He doesn’t like me.”

I was pulling on my boots. That is never much fun, but now my feet were wet and so were they, and it was flat mean. When I got the left one on, I said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“How do you feel? About me, I mean.” It was a purling, puling, mewling sort of a voice, and sometimes it reminded me of seagulls.

I did not like it much, but I had the feeling I would get used to it pretty soon. Besides, it was going to show me that wood, so I said, “Really friendly. If you’re right and this kind of tree you’re talking about will burn for us, hey, I’ll be your friend for as long as you want me.”

“Do you mean it?” It was a little closer now.

“Absolutely.” I was getting my other boot on.

“You were kind to the witch, but I’m not dead.”

“I didn’t know she was dead ’til afterward,” I said. “I didn’t know she was a witch, either. Gylf and I thought she was still alive, because of the path.”

“Oh, she got up and went out sometimes.”

That shook me, and he saw it. He laughed. It was not a nice laugh, and was not like any other laugh I ever heard in my life.

When I stood up, he said, “It’s called pitch pine. Did you mean that? About being friends? You’ll have to whittle some shavings first. I never promised you wouldn’t have to do that, you know.”

“No problem.”

“About being friends,” he asked, “was that serious?”

“You bet,” I said. “You and me are pals for life.”

“Well, I need a new owner, and a knight might be nice, but you’ve got that big bow. Did the string get wet?”

“The string’s in my pouch here.” I picked it up and showed him. “It’s probably still pretty dry, but I’m not about to take it out to see.”

“You wouldn’t like me.”

I said, “I do like you. Honest.”

“To eat. Possibly you hate us. Many men do, and your dog does.”

I tried then to think of something I really hated. When I had been where they kept the ropes on the ship I had hated the rats, but after a while it came to me that it was crazy. They were just animals. I tried to kill them, sure, because once or twice they bit me when I was asleep. But there was no point in hating them, and I quit. Finally I said, “I try not to hate anything, even rats.”

“I am not a rat.”

“I never said you were.”

The limbs of a bush over to my right trembled a little, spilling a few drops of water. When I saw that, I figured he was pretty small. In a way, that was right. But it was wrong too.

I said, “Are you invisible?”

“Only at night. Follow me.”

“I can’t see you.”

“Follow my voice.”

I did the best I could, leaving the glade where I hoped to build a fire and tramping though the wet forest. I felt like I was going to freeze solid. “Over here.”

That was the first time I saw him (except it was really the second). There had been something black on a fallen log, but it was gone before I got a good look.

“Right here. See the little tree?”

I said, “I think so.”

“Break a twig and smell it. Remember the smell. The sap will get on your hands and make them sticky.”

The little knife I had carved my bow with was in the pouch with my bowstring. After I had broken a twig like he said, I got it out and cut off eight or nine branches.

“See how the sap runs wherever the tree is hurt?”

“Sure,” I said. “Will it burn?”

“Yes, it will. So will the needles.”

I carried everything back to where I had left my sword belt and so on, and whittled away at the branches until I had a big pile of shaving and pine needles, with everything soggy with sap. By the time I finished, my knife was black. So were my hands.

“I don’t like it either,” his soft voice told me, “but it’s a nice color.”

“The sap color you mean. It only looks black because dirt sticks to it.” I was rubbing my hands with wet leaves, which hardly helped at all.

“Black is the boldest color and the best. The most dramatic.”