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plaza, where several women were drawing water from a raised pool. He mounted
the several steps and addressed his happenstance audience in a rich, mellow
voice that no longer hinted at impending failure.
Pierrette was more than a little annoyed. He had spoken of the Black Time. Was
that only a chance expression? She was not going to find out now. Should she
wait around until he ran down, or the women threw water on him, or departed
hooting and catcalling? She looked again. They stared raptly up at him, and
several others had now joined them. Were they just curious, or had the prophet
now found not only his voice and his message, but the beginnings of a
following? It was impossible to tell. She would have to wait and see. Perhaps
she could return here one more time before her seventeen days were up, and
find out.
She made her way along the streets, somewhat remembering the way she had come,
but to a certain extent merely keeping the westering sun at her back or over
her right shoulder. She should emerge not far from where her boat was moored,
in a reasonable time.
Chapter 29  The Attraction of Opposites
Not twenty-four hours had elapsed since Pierrette had begun her tour of
Minho's kingdom, but already she suspected she knew what she needed to know.
Still, she had seventeen days before Minho would receive her again. What now?
A delicious aroma swirled past her nostrils. Somewhere nearby, someone was
baking bread. She turned first one way, and the scent lessened, then another
and it became stronger. She began walking, tracking it toward its source.
There: a small shop stood open to the street, and in front of it was a huge
basket heaped with brown loaves. A slender woman clad only in a short wrap was
removing steaming ovoids from a brick oven with a thin wooden paddle. She
placed the hot bread on woven willow shelves to cool.
As Pierrette entered the shop, she saw that the loaves in the basket by the
entry were all broken. She tapped one with her fingertip. It was hard and
stale. "Your bread smells wonderful," she said.
"Doesn't it, though?" replied to the baker, smiling. "Here take this and break
it." She handed Pierrette a hefty loaf, still quite warm.
Pierrette tore a chunk loose, and chewed it appreciatively. "Delicious," she
said, not at all clearly, because her mouth was full. Actually, the
rich-smelling bread had no flavor at all, but she couldn't say
that, could she?
The woman was eying her strangely. "What are you doing?"
"Why . . . I am eating your bread, and . . ." What did the baker mean?
Pierrette was standing, she was breathing, and she was definitely wondering
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what she had done wrong.
"I see. But why are you doing it? I've never seen anyone do that before. What
will become of the bread that is inside you?"
"I don't understand," Pierrette said, confused. "What should I do with it, if
not eat it?" If all the woman's bread smelled so good, and tasted like dusting
rags, perhaps it was solely intended to be enjoyed with the nose. She did not,
however, express that ridiculous thought.
"You must be from some far island," the baker said, "where customs are
different. I can't imagine why you put my bread in your mouth. How will you
return it to the basket, now?"
"Return it to . . . to that basket?" Pierrette indicated the container full of
stale loaves.
At that moment, a new arrival interrupted them, a man wearing a leather apron
with wood chisel handles projecting from a dozen small pockets. "That was fine
bread, Aphrosta," he said, tossing two broken loaves atop the others in the
basket. "We enjoyed both of them."
"Then here, have two more," the baker said.
"Thank you. My wife will warm them, and we'll break them at dusk, and cut ripe
apples to go with them.
There's nothing better than the aroma of fresh-cut apples and a newly broken
loaf."
"It's one of life's genuine pleasures," the baker agreed. The woodworker
departed with his fresh bread.
"Ah . . . what should I do with this?" Pierrette asked, holding the remains of
her loaf.
"Just put it in the basket, of course. Can you also return the morsel you put
in your mouth?"
"I've . . . no. I'm sorry. I ate it. But here . . ." She felt in her pouch for
a coin. "Take this instead."
"But it is metal. What can I do with that? I would prefer to have my bread
back. I can't crush metal with the stale crusts and bake fresh loaves from
it."
Pierrette backed away. This was all too strange. It defied reason. Did she
understand what she had heard, or had the dialect of Minho's folk diverged
from the classical Minoan she had learned from
Anselm, so that she had misunderstood everything? "I must go," she said.
"Well, if my morsel falls out of you, put it in the basket. Still, I suppose
no one will miss such a little bit, when it will be divided among all of the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]