briefly, he handed Toma the beer and ignored her appeal. He returned to his forge, dissipated his energies pumping the bellows and hammering cherry iron. He didn't dare insinuate himself into their argument. It had to remain theirs alone.
Yet he couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop feeling. He hammered harder, driven by a taint of anger.
His very presence had altered Toma. Rula had said as much. The man wouldn't have considered supporting this Kosku otherwise. Simply by having entered the man's life he was forcing Toma to prove something. To himself? Or to Rula?
Tain hammered till the hills rang. Neutral as he had tried to remain, he had become heir to a responsibility. Toma had to be shielded from the consequences of artificial bravado.
"Tain?"
The hammer's thunder stammered. "Steban? Home so early?"
"It's almost dark."
"Oh. I lost track of time." He glanced at his handiwork. He had come near finishing while roaming his own mind. "What is it?"
"Will you teach me to be a soldier?"
Tain drove the tongs into the coals as if their mound contained the heart of an enemy. "I don't think so. Your mother . . . ."
"She won't care. She's always telling me to learn something."
"Soldiering isn't what she has in mind. She means your father's lessons."
"Tain, writing and ciphers are boring. And what good did they do my dad? Anyway, he's only teaching me because Mother makes him."
What kind of world did Rula live in, there behind the mask of her face? Tain wondered.
It couldn't be a happy world. It had suffered the deaths of too many hopes. Time had beaten her down. She had become an automaton getting through each day with the least fuss possible.
"Boring, but important. What good is a soldier who can't read or write? All he can do is carry a spear."
"Can you read?"
"Six languages. Every soldier in my army learns at least two. To become a soldier in my country is like becoming a priest in yours, Steban."
Rula, he thought. Why do I find you unique when you're just one of a million identical sisters scattered throughout the feudal west? The entire subcontinent lay prostrate beneath the heel of a grinding despair, a ponderous changelessness. It was a tinder-dry philosophical forest. The weakest spark flung off by a hope-bearing messiah would send it up.
"A soldier's training isn't just learning to use a sword, Steban. It's learning a way of life. I could teach you to fence, but you'd never become a master. Not till you learned the discipline, the way of thinking and living you need to . . . ."
"Boy, you going to jabber all night? Get those sheep in the pens."
Toma leaned against the doorframe of the house. A jar of beer hung from his hand. Tain sensed the random anger rushing around inside him. It would be as unpredictable as summer lightning.
"Take care of the sheep, Steban. I'll help water them later."
He cleaned up his forge, then himself, then carried water till Rula called them to supper.
Anger hung over the meal like a cloying fog rolling in off a noisome marsh. Tain was its focus. Rula wanted him to control Toma. Toma wanted his support. And Steban wanted a magical access to the heroic world his uncle had created from the bloodiest, most ineptly fought, and most pointless war of recent memory. Tain ate in silence.
Afterward, he said, "I've nearly finished the bushing and shaft bearings. We can start the tower tomorrow."
Toma grunted.
Tain shrugged. The man's mood would have to take care of itself.
He glanced at Rula. The appeal remained in her eyes. He rose, obtained a jar of beer, broke the seal, sipped. "A toast to the windmill." He passed it to Toma.
"Steban, let's get the rest of that water."
A breeze had come up during supper. Good and moist, it promised rain. Swift clouds were racing toward the mountains, obscuring the stars. Maybe, Tain thought, the weather would give Rula what he could not.
"Mom and Dad are mad at each other, aren't they?"
"I think so."
"Because of the Koskus?"
"Yes."
Yet he couldn't stop thinking, couldn't stop feeling. He hammered harder, driven by a taint of anger.
His very presence had altered Toma. Rula had said as much. The man wouldn't have considered supporting this Kosku otherwise. Simply by having entered the man's life he was forcing Toma to prove something. To himself? Or to Rula?
Tain hammered till the hills rang. Neutral as he had tried to remain, he had become heir to a responsibility. Toma had to be shielded from the consequences of artificial bravado.
"Tain?"
The hammer's thunder stammered. "Steban? Home so early?"
"It's almost dark."
"Oh. I lost track of time." He glanced at his handiwork. He had come near finishing while roaming his own mind. "What is it?"
"Will you teach me to be a soldier?"
Tain drove the tongs into the coals as if their mound contained the heart of an enemy. "I don't think so. Your mother . . . ."
"She won't care. She's always telling me to learn something."
"Soldiering isn't what she has in mind. She means your father's lessons."
"Tain, writing and ciphers are boring. And what good did they do my dad? Anyway, he's only teaching me because Mother makes him."
What kind of world did Rula live in, there behind the mask of her face? Tain wondered.
It couldn't be a happy world. It had suffered the deaths of too many hopes. Time had beaten her down. She had become an automaton getting through each day with the least fuss possible.
"Boring, but important. What good is a soldier who can't read or write? All he can do is carry a spear."
"Can you read?"
"Six languages. Every soldier in my army learns at least two. To become a soldier in my country is like becoming a priest in yours, Steban."
Rula, he thought. Why do I find you unique when you're just one of a million identical sisters scattered throughout the feudal west? The entire subcontinent lay prostrate beneath the heel of a grinding despair, a ponderous changelessness. It was a tinder-dry philosophical forest. The weakest spark flung off by a hope-bearing messiah would send it up.
"A soldier's training isn't just learning to use a sword, Steban. It's learning a way of life. I could teach you to fence, but you'd never become a master. Not till you learned the discipline, the way of thinking and living you need to . . . ."
"Boy, you going to jabber all night? Get those sheep in the pens."
Toma leaned against the doorframe of the house. A jar of beer hung from his hand. Tain sensed the random anger rushing around inside him. It would be as unpredictable as summer lightning.
"Take care of the sheep, Steban. I'll help water them later."
He cleaned up his forge, then himself, then carried water till Rula called them to supper.
Anger hung over the meal like a cloying fog rolling in off a noisome marsh. Tain was its focus. Rula wanted him to control Toma. Toma wanted his support. And Steban wanted a magical access to the heroic world his uncle had created from the bloodiest, most ineptly fought, and most pointless war of recent memory. Tain ate in silence.
Afterward, he said, "I've nearly finished the bushing and shaft bearings. We can start the tower tomorrow."
Toma grunted.
Tain shrugged. The man's mood would have to take care of itself.
He glanced at Rula. The appeal remained in her eyes. He rose, obtained a jar of beer, broke the seal, sipped. "A toast to the windmill." He passed it to Toma.
"Steban, let's get the rest of that water."
A breeze had come up during supper. Good and moist, it promised rain. Swift clouds were racing toward the mountains, obscuring the stars. Maybe, Tain thought, the weather would give Rula what he could not.
"Mom and Dad are mad at each other, aren't they?"
"I think so."
"Because of the Koskus?"
"Yes."
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