Evil for Evil (69 page)

(Framain was silent for a long time, as though he’d forgotten Miel was there. He was frowning, like someone trying to remember
something that’s on the tip of his tongue; a name or a date or exactly the right word. Miel cleared his throat a couple of
times, but Framain didn’t seem to have noticed. Then he looked up sharply … )

All through the early stages (Framain continued), Daurenja had led the way. The truth is, I’m not much good at alchemy, or
whatever the word is. I haven’t got the mind for it. I can follow instructions, verbal or in a book; I can do as I’m told,
better than most. But — well, it’s like music. Some people can compose tunes, others can’t. I’m a musician who can play someone
else’s tune on a flute or a harp, but I can’t make them up for myself. Daurenja’s the creative one. He looks at a problem
an ordinary man can’t begin to understand, and it’s as though he can see things that the rest of us can’t. When we were trying
to get the consistency of the clay, for example; I was all for working away at it gradually, trial and error. He thought about
it for a while, and suddenly came up with the answer. It made sense to him, he’d figured out how it worked. He tried to explain
it to me, but I couldn’t follow it at all. Not that I minded in the least. On the contrary, I was delighted.

But when we came to the colors, I started to get the feeling that his mind wasn’t on it in quite the same way. It started,
I think, after an accident. He’d been mixing some things over a fire and there was a bang like thunder and a great spurt of
flame —nobody was hurt, luckily, no real harm done, though obviously we were all shaken. At first I thought it was preying
on his mind, which was why he seemed so preoccupied all the time. But it wasn’t that. If he was worrying about the same thing
happening again, afraid he’d get hurt, you’d have expected him to have lost his enthusiasm. But it was the other way about.
If anything, he was keener — dedicated, single-minded, almost obsessive — but not in the same way. He went quiet. There were
days he’d hardly speak to us, which was pretty unusual. He’d be all day mixing things and boiling things up in big iron kettles,
but nothing ever seemed to come of it, and when I asked him how he was getting on, he’d be evasive, guilty almost, like he
was doing something wrong. All I could think of was that he’d figured out how to do the colors but didn’t want to share with
us — which didn’t make sense, because even if he’d got the colors, they were no good to him without the clay, and I owned
that, it was my name in the lease, so he couldn’t go behind my back or anything like that. Even so, it made me suspicious
and edgy. My son picked up on the changed atmosphere, and the fact that we weren’t making any progress. Pretty soon we were
all snapping at each other, quarreling over stupid little things, taking offense and getting on each other’s nerves. It was
pretty miserable for a week or so; and it didn’t help that we were all living on top of each other. It was winter, desperately
cold outside. We always get snow earlier than most places, and that year it was particularly bad. You didn’t go outside unless
you had to, and you tried to stay close to the fire. But Daurenja always had something heating or simmering; he yelled at
us if we got close to his stuff, we’d yell back that we were cold, he’d fly into a temper — I suppose I should’ve been trying
to keep the peace, but I was cold and fed up too, so I didn’t make the effort. What made it so bad was the feeling that we
were so close to finishing. I kept telling myself it wouldn’t be for very long, and then somehow we’d be rid of him. We’d
start production, there’d be money rolling in, and either he’d move on or we would. I made myself put up with the anger and
bad feeling, because I was sure it was only for a little while longer. Also, by then I was sure Daurenja had given up working
on the colors, and I knew that without him I wouldn’t be able to solve the problem on my own. I needed him but he wasn’t trying.
That just made me angry. But I didn’t say anything or ask him straight out. I went on my own slow, painstaking, futile way
— following the book, trial and error, getting nowhere at all. My son and daughter had precious little to do except sit around
shivering in the cold, because Daurenja wouldn’t let them get near the fire. I don’t suppose that helped, exactly.

It was the end of one of those days. Because it was so cold, we’d taken to sleeping in the workshop, so we wouldn’t have to
cross the yard to the house. I had my pillow and blankets at the far end, next to a little charcoal stove that Daurenja used
for his work. He slept the other end, by the fire. My son and daughter usually went up into the old hayloft, but it was getting
colder, so they’d come down to be closer to the fire. Anyway, that night I was worn out, I’d been splitting and stacking logs
for most of the afternoon; I lay down and went straight to sleep.

I was woken up by a scream. I was on my feet before I was awake, if you see what I mean; I think I’d assumed the roof had
caught fire, or something like that. It was dark, of course, apart from the glow from the fire. I couldn’t see anything unusual;
I think I called out, asked what the matter was, but nobody answered me. I started forward, walked into the corner of the
bench; and then someone charged into me and knocked me off my feet. I went down, got my hand trodden on; I yelled, and then
I heard the door-latch clatter.

I couldn’t make out what was happening. I started calling out names, but nobody replied; so I fumbled around till I found
the lamp and the tinderbox. Obviously, lighting a lamp by feel in the dark takes a fair bit of time, and while I was doing
it I was calling out, wondering why the hell nobody was answering. The stupid tinder wouldn’t catch, damp or something. In
the end I gave up and followed the edge of the bench up toward the fire, where there was light to see by. About halfway —
I put my hand on the bench vise, which told me where I was — I tripped on something that shouldn’t have been there and went
sprawling again. It felt like something in a sack. I got up and carried on to the fire, where I saw Mahaud.

She was lying by the hearth; on her back, but wide awake, both eyes open, with her dress up around her waist. I shouted to
her but she didn’t move at all. I thought she was dead for a moment, but then she blinked. I yelled for Framea, but I guess
I’d already figured out what had happened; without putting it into words or anything, just the shape of an idea in my mind.

I got a taper lit and then a couple of lamps. I knew as I was doing it that I was taking my time, as though I was putting
off the moment when I’d be able to see and my guess would be proved right. Framea, my son, was lying face down. When I turned
him over, I found the little hook-bladed knife. I think it was Daurenja’s originally, but we all used it for all kinds of
things. He’d been slashed from the collarbone diagonally up to his right ear. Everything was sodden with blood; he’d been
lying in a black sticky pool of it, and his shirt and hair were soaked. There was blood on the surface of his eyes, would
you believe; actually on the whites of them. I suppose that meant he died immediately, without even a chance to close his
eyes instinctively. That sort of thing’s supposed to be a comfort — it was so quick he can’t have felt anything. I can’t say
it’s ever made me feel better.

I’m ashamed to say I dropped him; he flumped down like a sack, I heard the thump as his head hit the floorboards. The feel
of his blood all over my hands was disgusting; I stood there with my hands in the air so I wouldn’t touch anything, get blood
everywhere. I couldn’t think at all. It was as though what I was seeing was too big to fit inside my head. I’d clean forgotten
about Mahaud, Daurenja, anything that might have happened. I wasn’t even looking at Framea; all I could see was death, in
all its revolting enormity. I wasn’t angry or afraid or horrified or grief-stricken — I’d not really grasped the fact that
the dead thing on the ground there was my son. Could’ve been a stranger, and I think I’d have reacted the same way. It was
as though death was some kind of religious faith that I’d always been skeptical about, and suddenly I believed in it, for
the first time. Death existed, it was real, and that realization was so big it forced everything else out of me.

I can’t remember snapping out of it, but obviously I must’ve done. I can remember standing there, trying to decide what to
do next: go to my daughter, or run outside and try and catch Daurenja before he got away. I simply couldn’t make up my mind.
I stood there like an idiot, jammed like a bit of seized machinery. In the end, I made my decision. It was like I heard a
little voice in my head, infuriatingly calm, telling me it was dark and freezing cold outside, so it’d be more sensible to
do the indoor job.Ridiculous reason for making a choice like that, but there had to be something to break the jam, start my
mechanism going again.

I tried to wake her up, but of course she wasn’t asleep. I shouted, I tried shaking her, but it didn’t make any difference.
Her body moved when I shook her, but her eyes stayed wide open and fixed. Even when I stared directly into them, I knew she
wasn’t looking at me. It was as though I was invisible, like a ghost. But I kept trying to make her hear me or see me, over
and over again. I was still trying when the dawn came. I only noticed because the fire had burned out and it was starting
to get cold; that made me realize there was daylight coming in through the open door, because I could see even though the
fire and the lamps had gone out.

Around the middle of the afternoon I couldn’t bear it anymore. I went outside — I was shaking all over from the cold, but
putting a coat on was just too much trouble. Snow was falling, so his tracks were nearly covered. All the horses were still
there. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t taken anything at all. I told myself he’d surely freeze to death, in that weather,
on foot without a coat or a blanket. I knew I was supposed to want justice or revenge or whatever you like to call it, but
the fact is, I couldn’t make myself feel even slightly interested in Daurenja, not right then.

I lit a fire that evening, mostly because I realized she’d die of cold if I didn’t. I sat up all night just looking at her.
I know I didn’t sleep at all. I wanted to look away, but I simply couldn’t take my eyes off her face. I got all the blankets
and coats and sheets and piled them up on top of her. I was so cold I couldn’t feel my hands or feet, even with the fire banked
right up, but that didn’t seem even remotely important. The next morning I carried Framea out to the woodshed. I put him over
my shoulder — the blood was drying but still tacky — and when I got him there I laid him down on the ground, like he was some
piece of cargo, and shut the door. I had no feelings about his body other than what was left of that initial disgust. When
I got back I took off the shirt I was wearing, so I wouldn’t have to feel the blood soaking through it. I sat there bare-chested
in the freezing cold, and couldn’t be bothered to put any clothes on.

The next day I realized I had to make some sort of effort to feed her. I made porridge in a big old iron pot, and stuffed
it down her throat with a wooden spoon. Several times I was sure she was going to choke rather than swallow. It was three
days before she moved, even; she was lying in her own piss and shit, dried porridge crusted all over her face, and her hair
on the left side singed from the heat of the fire. All I’d done was keep her alive, just about. I was so weak I kept falling
over, but it was a while before I realized it’d be a good idea if I ate something too. I hadn’t noticed feeling hungry. I
think I drank some water, but I don’t remember doing it.

Well, it got better eventually. One day she got up off the floor, crawled to the wall and slumped against it. A day or so
later, I came back from getting in logs to find her sweeping the floor. That’s all she did for a long time: cleaning, tidying,
housework. Ridiculous; but I just left her to it. I didn’t even try talking to her. She got down on her hands and knees and
scrubbed all the bloodstains away with a bucket of water and a bit of rag.

The food ran out. I didn’t want to leave her, but I had to go. I took the cart and went out to the nearest farm; I knew I
could get there and back in a day. It was dark when I got home, and when I came through the door she asked me where I’d been.
I told her. We didn’t talk anymore that night. She’s never said what happened; at least, not to me. But I found a piece of
paper; she wrote it all down, about four sentences. Just the facts.

I know what she wrote is true, by the way. It was the cut that proved it; the fact that it ran from right to left. Framea
and my daughter are right-handed, like me; we all are, in our family. But Daurenja’s left-handed — at least, he favors the
left hand, though he’s practically ambidextrous. They say it’s a sign of great intelligence, don’t they?

“Quite right,” a voice said behind them. “Or that’s what I’ve always told myself.”

Daurenja was awake. He’d tried to wriggle himself into a tolerable sitting position, but instead had flopped over on his side,
so that he seemed as though he was talking to the ground. The gag, which he’d somehow contrived to work loose, hung round
his neck like a stockman’s muffler, and he looked like a clown; but Miel had to grab hold of Framain’s arm to stop him charging
over and beating him unconscious.

“My father didn’t like me being left-handed,” Daurenja went on conversationally. “He thought it was some kind of defect. I
got tired of getting bashed every time I picked up a spoon, so I learned how to use my right hand too. I think he did me a
favor. Having to do everything cack-handed all those years taught me dexterity.”

Miel couldn’t look at him; he was too busy restraining Framain. “Is it true?” he asked. “What he just … ?”

“Every word.” Nothing in his tone of voice except whole-hearted corroboration. “The boy caught me raping his sister. I was
holding the knife to her throat so she’d stay quiet; it was bad luck he woke up when he did. I jumped up and swiped at him;
like a fool, I’d forgotten I still had the knife in my hand. But that’s not an excuse. If I hadn’t been holding it, I expect
I’d have killed him bare-handed.”