Rocannon's World by Ursula Le Guin

Author:Ursula Le Guin [Guin, Ursula Le]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sci-Fi., Science Fiction
ISBN: 9780441732944
Amazon: 1441717390
Publisher: Ace Books
Published: 1980-08-14T23:00:00+00:00

V

FENI AND FELI, the two largest moons, danced in white reflections on the water as Yahan held a second bowlful for him to drink. The hearthfire glimmered only in a few coals. The hall was dark picked out with flecks and shafts of moonlight, silent except for the breathing and shifting of many sleepers.

As Yahan cautiously loosed the chains Rocannon leaned his full weight back against the post, for his legs were numb and he could not stand unsupported.

“They guard the outer gate all night,” Yahan was whispering in his ear, “and those guards keep awake. Tomorrow when they take the flocks out—”

“Tomorrow night. I can’t run. I’ll have to bluff out. Hook the chain so I can lean my weight on it, Yahan. Get the hook here, by my hand.” A sleeper nearby sat up pawning, and with a grin that flashed a moment in the moonlight Yahan sank down and seemed to melt in shadows.

Rocannon saw him at dawn going out with the other men to take the herilor to pasture, wearing a muddy pelt like the others, his black hair sticking out like a broom. Once again Zgama came up and scowled at his captive. Rocannon knew the man would have given half his flocks and wives to be rid of his unearthly guest, but was trapped in his own cruelty: the jailer is the prisoner’s prisoner. Zgama had slept in the warm ashes and his hair was smeared with ash, so that he looked more the burned man than Rocannon, whose naked skin shone white. He stamped off, and again the hall was empty most of the day, though guards stayed at the door. Rocannon improved his time with surreptitious isometric exercises. When a pass-big woman caught him stretching, he stretched on, swaying and emitting a low, weird croon. She dropped to all fours and scuttled out, whimpering.

Twilit fog blew in the windows, sullen womenfolk boiled a stew of meat and seaweed, returning flocks cooed in hundreds outside, and Zgama and his men came in, fog-droplets glittering in their beards and furs. They sat on the floor to eat. The place rang and reeked and steamed. The strain of returning each night to the uncanny was showing; faces were grim, voices quarrelsome. “Build up the fire—he’ll roast yet!” shouted Zgama, jumping up to push a burning log over onto the pyre. None of his men moved.

“I’ll eat your heart, Olhor, when it fries out between your ribs! I’ll wear that blue stone for a nosering!” Zgama was shaking with rage, frenzied by the silent steady gaze he had endured for two nights. “I’ll make you shut your eyes!” he screamed, and snatching up a heavy stick from the floor he brought it down with a whistling crack on Rocannon’s head, jumping back at the same moment as if afraid of what he handled. The stick fell among the burning logs and stuck up at an angle.

Slowly, Rocannon reached out his right hand, closed his fist about the stick and drew it out of the fire.

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