uleg.thefarthestshore-第16部分

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f　it　that　was　not　built　or　walked　upon　was　given　up　to　the　low；　round…topped　hurbah　trees；　on　the　leaves　of　which　feed　the　little　worms　that　spin　the　silk　that　is　made　into　thread　and　woven　by　the　men　and　women　and　children　of　Lorbanery。　At　dusk　the　air　there　is　full　of　small　grey　bats　who　feed　on　the　little　worms。　They　eat　many；　but　are　suffered　to　do　so　and　are　not　killed　by　the　silk…weavers；　who　indeed　account　it　a　deed　of　very　evil　omen　to　kill　the　grey…winged　bats。　For　if　human　beings　live　off　the　worms；　they　say；　surely　small　bats　have　the　right　to　do　so。
　　The　houses　were　curious；　with　little　windows　set　randomly；　and　thatches　of　hurbah…twigs；　all　green　with　moss　and　lichens。　It　had　been　a　wealthy　isle；　as　isles　of　the　Reach　go；　and　this　was　still　to　be　seen　in　the　well…painted　and　well…furnished　houses；　in　the　great　spinning　wheels　and　looms　in　the　cottages　and　worksheds；　and　in　the　stone　piers　of　the　little　harbor　of　Sosara；　where　several　trading　galleys　might　have　docked。　But　there　were　no　galleys　in　the　harbor。　The　paint　on　the　houses　was　faded；　there　was　no　new　furniture；　and　most　of　the　wheels　and　looms　were　still；　with　dust　on　them；　and　spiderwebs　between　pedal　and　pedal；　between　warp　and　frame。
　　〃Sorcerers？〃　said　the　mayor　of　Sosara　village；　a　short　man　with　a　face　as　hard　and　brown　as　the　soles　of　his　bare　feet。　〃There's　no　sorcerers　in　Lorbanery。　Nor　ever　was。〃
　　〃Who'd　have　thought　it？〃　said　Sparrowhawk　admiringly。　He　was　sitting　with　eight　or　nine　of　the　villagers；　drinking　hurbah…berry　wine；　a　thin　and　bitter　vintage。　He　had　of　necessity　told　them　that　he　was　in　the　South　Reach　hunting　emmelstone；　but　he　had　in　no　way　disguised　himself　or　his　panion；　except　that　Arren　had　left　his　sword　hidden　in　the　boat；　as　usual；　and　if　Sparrowhawk　had　his　staff　about　him　it　was　not　to　be　seen。　The　villagers　had　been　sullen　and　hostile　at　first　and　were　disposed　to　turn　sullen　and　hostile　again　at　any　moment；　only　Sparrowhawk's　adroitness　and　authority　had　forced　a　grudging　acceptance　from　them。　〃Wonderful　men　with　trees　you　must　have　here；〃　he　said　now。　〃What　do　they　do　about　a　late　frost　on　the　orchards？〃
　　〃Nothing；〃　said　a　skinny　man　at　the　end　of　the　row　of　villagers。　They　all　sat　in　a　line　with　their　backs　against　the　inn　wall；　under　the　eaves　of　the　thatch。　Just　past　their　bare　feet　the　large；　soft　rain　of　April　pattered　on　the　earth。
　　〃Rain's　the　peril；　not　frost；〃　the　mayor　said。　〃Rots　the　worm　cases。　No　man's　going　to　stop　rain　falling。　Nor　ever　did。〃　He　was　belligerent　about　sorcerers　and　sorcery；　some　of　the　others　seemed　more　wistful　on　the　subject。　〃Never　did　used　to　rain　this　time　of　year；〃　one　of　them　said；　〃when　the　old　fellow　was　alive。〃
　　〃Who？　Old　Mildi？　Well；　he's　not　alive。　He's　dead；〃　said　the　mayor。
　　〃Used　to　call　him　the　Orcharder；〃　the　skinny　man　said。　〃Aye。　Called　him　the　Orcharder；〃　said　another　one。　Silence　descended；　like　the　rain。
　　Inside　the　window　of　the　one…roomed　inn　Arren　sat。　He　had　found　an　old　lute　hung　on　the　wall；　a　long…necked；　three…stringed　lute　such　as　they　play　in　the　Isle　of　Silk；　and　he　was　playing　with　it　now；　learning　to　draw　its　music　from　it；　not　much　louder　than　the　patter　of　the　rain　on　the　thatch。
　　〃In　the　markets　in　Hort　Town；〃　said　Sparrowhawk　〃I　saw　stuff　sold　as　silk　of　Lorbanery。　Some　of　it　was　silk。　But　none　of　it　was　silk　of　Lorbanery。〃
　　〃The　seasons　have　been　poor；〃　said　the　skinny　man。　〃Four　years；　five　years　now。〃
　　〃Five　years　it　is　since　Fallows　Eve；〃　said　an　old　man　in　a　munching；　self…satisfied　voice；　〃since　old　Mildi　died；　aye；　die　he　did；　and　not　near　the　age　I　am。　Died　on　Fallows　Eve　he　did。〃
　　〃Scarcity　puts　up　the　prices；〃　said　the　mayor。　〃For　one　bolt　of　semi…fine　blue…dyed　we　get　now　what　we　used　to　get　for　three　bolts。〃
　　〃If　we　get　it。　Where's　the　ships？　And　the　blue's　false；〃　said　the　skinny　man；　thus　bringing　on　a　half…hour　argument　concerning　the　quality　of　the　dyes　they　used　in　the　great　worksheds。
　　〃Who　makes　the　dyes？〃　Sparrowhawk　asked；　and　a　new　hassle　broke　out。　The　upshot　of　it　was　that　the　whole　process　of　dyeing　had　been　overseen　by　a　family　who；　in　fact；　called　themselves　wizards；　but　if　they　ever　had　been　wizards　they　had　lost　their　art；　and　nobody　else　had　found　it；　as　the　skinny　man　remarked　sourly。　For　they　all　agreed；　except　the　mayor；　that　the　famous　blue　dyes　of　Lorbanery　and　the　unmatchable　crimson；　the　〃dragon's　fire〃　worn　by　queens　in　Havnor　long　ago；　were　not　what　they　had　been。　Something　had　gone　out　of　them。　The　unseasonable　rains　were　at　fault；　or　the　dye…earths；　or　the　refiners。　〃Or　the　eyes；〃　said　the　skinny　man；　〃of　men　who　couldn't　tell　the　true　azure　from　blue　mud；〃　and　he　glared　at　the　mayor。　The　mayor　did　not　take　up　the　challenge；　they　fell　silent　again。
　　The　thin　wine　seemed　only　to　acidify　their　tempers；　and　their　faces　looked　glum。　There　was　no　sound　now　but　the　rustle　of　rain　on　the　uncountable　leaves　of　the　orchards　of　the　valley；　and　the　whisper　of　the　sea　down　at　the　end　of　the　street；　and　the　murmur　of　the　lute　in　the　darkness　within　doors。
　　〃Can　he　sing；　that　girlish　lad　of　yours？〃　asked　the　mayor。
　　〃Aye；　he　can　sing。　Arren！　Sing　a　measure　for　us；　lad。〃
　　〃I　cannot　get　this　lute　to　play　out　of　the　minor；〃　said　Arren　at　the　window；　smiling。　〃It　wants　to　weep。　What　would　you　hear；　my　hosts？〃
　　〃Something　new；〃　growled　the　mayor。
　　The　lute　thrilled　a　little；　he　had　the　touch　of　it　already。　〃This　might　be　new　here；〃　he　said。　Then　he　sang。
　
　　By　the　white　straits　of　Solea
　　and　the　bowed　red　branches
　　that　bent　their　blossoms　over
　　her　bowed　head；　heavy
　　with　sorrow　for　the　lost　lover；
　　by　the　red　branch　and　the　white　branch
　　and　the　sorrow　unceasing
　　do　I　swear；　Serriadh；
　　son　of　my　mother　and　of　Morred；
　　to　remember　the　wrong　done　
　　　　forever；forever。
　
　　They　were　still：　the　bitter　faces　and　the　shrewd；　the　hardworked　hands　and　bodies。　They　sat　still　in　the　warm　rainy　Southern　dusk；　and　heard　that　song　like　the　cry　of　the　grey　swan　of　the　cold　seas　of　Ea；　yearning；　bereft。　For　a　while　after　the　song　was　over　they　kept　still。
　　〃That's　a　queer　music；〃　said　one；　uncertainly。
　　Another；　reassured　as　to　the　absolute　centrality　of　the　isle　of　Lorbanery　in　all　time　and　space；　said；　〃Foreign　music's　always　queer　and　gloomy。〃
　　〃Give　us　some　of　yours；〃　said　Sparrowhawk。　〃I'd　like　to　hear　a　cheery　stave　myself。　The　lad　will　always　sing　of　old　dead　heroes。〃
　　〃I'll　do　that；〃　said　the　last　speaker；　and　hemmed　a　bit；　and　started　out　to　sing　about　a　lusty；　trusty　barrel　of　wine；　and　a　hey；　ho；　and　about　we　go！　But　nobody　joined　him　in　the　chorus；　and　he　went　flat　on　the　hey；　ho。
　　〃There's　no　more　proper　singing；〃　he　said　angrily。　〃It's　the　young　people's　fault；　always　chopping　and　changing　the　way　things　are　done；　and　not　learning　the　old　songs。〃
　　〃It's　not　that；〃　said　the　skinny　man；　〃there's　no　more　proper　anything。　Nothing　goes　right　anymore。〃
　　〃Aye；　aye；　aye；〃　wheezed　the　oldest　one；　〃the　luck's　run　out。　That's　what。　The　luck's　run　out。〃
　　After　that　there　was　not　much　to　say。　The　villagers　departed　by　twos　and　threes；　until　Sparrowhawk　was　left　alone　outside　the　window　and　Arren　inside　it。　And　then　Sparrowhawk　laughed；　at　last。　But　it　was　not　a　merry　laugh。
　　The　innkeeper's　shy　wife　came　and　spread　out　beds　for　them　on　the　floor　and　went　away；　and　they　lay　down　to　sleep。　But　the　high　rafters　of　the　room　were　an　abode　of　bats。　In　and　out　the　unglazed　window　the　bats　flew　all　night　long；　chittering　very　high。　Only　at　dawn　did　they　all　return　and　settle；　each　posing　itself　in　a　little；　neat；　grey　package　hanging　from　a　rafter　upside　down。
　　Perhaps　it　was　the　restlessness　of　the　bats　that　made　Arren's　sleep　uneasy。　It　was　many　nights　now　since　he　had　slept　ashore；　his　body　was　not　used　to　the　immobility　of　earth　and　insisted　to　him　as　he　fell　asleep　that　he　was　rocking；　rocking。。。　and　then　the　world　would　fall　out　from　underneath　him　and　he　would　wake　with　a　great　start。　When　at　last　he　got　to　sleep；　he　dreamt　he　was　chained　in　the　hold　of　the　slaver's　ship；　there　were　others　chained　with　him；　but　they　were　all　dead。　He　woke　from　this　dream　more　than　once；　struggling　to　get　free　of　it；　but　falling　to　sleep　at　once　reentered　it。　At　last　it　seemed　to　him　that　he　was　all　alone　on　the　ship；　but　still　chained　so　that　he　could　not　move。　Then　a　curious；　slow　voice　spoke　in　his　ear。　〃Loose　your　bonds；〃　it　said。　〃Loose　your　bonds。〃　He　tried　to　move　then；　and　moved：　he　stood　up。　He　was　on　some　vast；　dim　moor；　under　a　heavy　sky。　There　was　horror　in　the　earth　and　in　the　thick　air；　an　enormity　of　horror。　This　place　was　fear；　was　fear　itself；　and　he　was　in　it；　and　there　were　no　paths。　He　must　find　the　way；　but　there　were　no　paths；　and　he　was　tiny；　like　a　child；　like　an　ant；　and　the　place　was　huge；　endless。　He　tried　to　walk；　stumbled；　woke。
　　The　fear　was　inside　him；　now　that　he　was　awake；　and　he　was　not　inside　it：　yet　it　was　no　less　huge　and　endless。　He　felt　choked　by　the　black　darkness　of　the　room；　and　looked　for　stars　in　the　dim　square　that　was　the　window；　but　though　the　rain　had　ceased　there　were　no　stars。　He　lay　awake　and　was　afraid；　and　the　bats　flew　in　and　out　on　noiseless　leather　wings。　Sometimes　he　heard　their　thin　voi