amccaffrey.theskiesofpern-第2部分

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rleaders　of　Pern　believed　that　this　disembodied　voice　could　actually　instruct　them　on　how　to　turn　the　Red　Star　from　its　orbit　and　prevent　it　from　ever　swinging　close　enough　to　Pern　to　drop　the　avaricious　and　hungry　Thread。　Thread　could　eat　anything；　herdbeasts；　humans；　vegetation…it　could　even　consume　huge　trees　in　the　time　it　took　a　man　to　blink。　He　knew。　He'd　seen　it　happen　once　when　he'd　been　part　of　the　ground　crews　assembled　by　the　Glasscrafthall。　Thread　truly　was　a　menace　to　bodies　and　growing　things；　but　the　Aivas　Abomination　had　been　a　more　insidious　menace　to　the　very　minds　and　hearts　of　men　and　women；　and　from　its　disembodied　words　a　perfidious　treachery　had　been　spread。　His　father　had　been　amazed　and　disheartened　by　all　the　impossible　things　the　Abomination　had　told　the　Lord　Holders　and　Craftmasters：　of　the　machines　and　methods　that　their　ancestors　had　used；　equipment　and　processes…even　ways　to　improve　glass…all　of　which　would　make　living　on　Pern　much　easier。
　　At　that　time；　when　everyone　was　extolling　the　miracle　of　this　Aivas　thing；　his　father　and　a　few　other　men　of　importance　had　seen　the　dangers　inherent　in　many　of　these　smooth　and　tempting　promises。　As　if　a　mere　voice　could　alter　the　way　a　Star　moved。　Shankolin　was　firmly　of　his　father's　mind。　Stars　did　not　change　their　courses。　He　agreed　that　the　Weyrleaders　were　fools；　inexplicably　eager　to　destroy　the　very　reason　why　the　great　dragons　were　basic　to　the　preservation　of　the　planet！　He　agreed　because　he　was　so　close　to　the　end　of　his　journeyman's　time。　He　was　eager　to　prove　himself　acceptable　to　his　father；　to　be　the　one　of　his　sons　to　receive　the　secret　skills　of　coloring　glass　in　the　glorious　shades　that　only　a　Master　of　the　Craft　could　produce：　which　sand　would　make　molten　glass　blue；　which　powder　caused　the　brilliant　deep　crimson。
　　So　he　had　volunteered　to　be　one　of　those　to　attack　the　Aivas　Abomination　and　end　its　domination　over　the　minds　of　otherwise　intelligent　men　and　women。
　　He　was　into　the　stream　before　he　realized　it。　His　right　boot　hit　a　slippery　stone　and　he　fell；　striking　his　face　on　another　rock。　Dazed　by　the　blow；　he　was　slow　to　push　to　his　hands　and　knees。　The　chill　of　the　water　on　his　wrists　and　legs　helped　to　revive　him。　Then　he　saw　the　drops　of　blood　landing　on　the　stream　and　floating　pinkly　away。　He　explored　the　cut　on　his　face；　wincing　as　he　realized　the　slash　started　at　his　forehead　and　continued　down　one　side　of　his　nose　to　a　gouge　in　his　cheek…as　jagged　a　cut　as　the　rock　that　had　made　it。　Blood　dripped　off　his　chin。　Holding　his　breath；　he　buried　his　face　in　the　cold　water。　He　repeated　the　process　until　the　cold　water　had　somewhat　stemmed　the　flow　of　blood。　Even　so；　he　had　to　tear　off　the　tail　end　of　his　shirt　to　tie　a　rude　bandage　to　stop　the　blood　running　from　his　forehead。　Once　he　cocked　his　head；　listening　for　any　sounds　of　pursuit。　He　couldn't　even　hear　avians　or　the　slithering　of　snakes。　His　running　might　have　startled　them　away。　With　water　still　dripping　from　his　soaked　clothes；　he　got　to　his　feet　and　sniffed　at　the　slight　breeze。
　　During　his　long　Turns　of　deafness；　his　other　senses　had　intensified。　His　sense　of　smell　had　once　saved　his　life；　even　if　he　had　lost　the　tip　of　one　finger。　He'd　caught　the　rank　odor　of　gas　being　released　just　before　the　mine　wall　had　collapsed。　Two　miners　had　been　buried　alive　in　that　fall。
　　Blood　continued　to　drip　from　his　cheek。　He　took　another　patch　from　his　shirttail　and　held　it　to　the　gouge。　He　looked　this　way　and　that；　wondering　how　to　proceed。
　　There　were　men　in　the　minehold　who　boasted　about　their　success　in　tracking　escaped　prisoners。　Bloodstains　would　make　their　job　easier。　He　looked　anxiously　about　him；　but　the　stream　had　swept　the　blood　away。　It　was　fortunate　that　he'd　fallen　in　the　middle　of　the　stream：　there'd　be　no　blood　to　be　found。
　　Perhaps　the　meteorite　had　delayed　pursuit。　There'd　been　more　injured　and　no　prisoner　count　had　been　made。　Maybe　that　meteorite　was　of　more　importance　to　the　miners。　He'd　heard　that　the　Smithcrafthall　paid　well　for　such　pieces　falling　from　the　sky。　Let　them　waste　time　sending　a　message　to　the　nearest　Crafthall。　Let　them　give　him　enough　time　to　reach　the　river。
　　If　he　kept　to　the　water；　he'd　leave　no　bloodstains　or　scent　to　be　tracked。　Eventually　this　stream　would　reach　the　river　and　then　the　Southern　Sea。　He'd　have　to　keep　holding　the　bandage　on　his　cheek　until　the　blood　clotted。　He　was　still　a　bit　woozy　from　his　fall。　He'd　find　a　stick　to　help　him　keep　his　balance　and　to　check　the　water's　depths。　He　spotted　one　farther　down　the　bank；　sturdy　and　long　enough　to　be　useful。　A　few　cautious　steps　forward　in　the　stream　and　he　reached　for　it。　He　gave　it　a　pound　or　two　to　be　sure　it　wasn't　rotten。　It　would　do。
　　He　walked　through　a　moonless　night；　slipping　occasionally　in　muddy　spots　or　dropping　into　unexpectedly　deep　pools；　despite　using　the　stick　to　avoid　them。　When　his　cheek　stopped　bleeding；　he　shoved　that　bandage　in　a　pocket。　The　one　on　his　forehead　was　adhered　to　the　dried　blood；　so　he　left　it　in　place。
　　By　dawn；　his　feet　were　so　cold　and　clumsy　in　the　soaked　heavy　mining　boots　that　he　stumbled　more　frequently　and　his　teeth　began　to　chatter　with　the　chill。　When　the　stream　broadened　and　he　was　more　often　up　to　his　waist　than　his　knees；　he　could　go　no　farther。　Seizing　hold　of　shrubs　that　lined　the　stream；　he　clambered　out　of　the　water　and　hid　himself　in　the　thick　vegetation；　curling　up　to　preserve　what　warmth　remained　in　his　body。
　　Nothing　disturbed　him　until　the　ache　of　an　empty　belly　finally　roused　him。　It　was　far　into　the　morning　for　the　sun　was　well　up。　He　had　e　much　farther　than　he　had　thought　possible。　His　rough　work　clothing　had　partially　dried　but　the　minehold　emblem　woven　into　shirt　and　pants　would　mark　him　as　a　fugitive。　He　needed　food　and　new　clothing　in　whichever　order　he　could　get　them。
　　Carefully　he　emerged　from　the　bushes　and；　to　his　utter　astonishment；　saw　a　small　cothold　directly　across　the　stream　that　was　now　wide　as　a　river。　He　watched　the　cothold　a　long　time　before　he　decided　that　there　was　no　one　working　inside　or　nearby。　He　waded　across　the　river；　his　bruised　feet　feeling　every　rock；　and　hid　again　in　the　bushes　until　he　was　sure　he　heard　no　human　sounds。
　　The　cothold　was　empty　but　someone　lived　here。　A　herder；　perhaps；　for　there　were　hides　pushed　back　on　the　rough　sleeping　platform　made　supple　by　long　usage。　Food　first！　He　didn't　even　wash　the　tubers　he　found　in　a　basket　by　the　hearth。　Then　he　saw　cold　gray　grease　in　the　iron　skillet；　set　a…tilt　on　the　hearth。　He　dipped　the　raw　vegetables　into　it；　relishing　the　salt　in　the　grease　as　flavoring。　The　worst　of　his　hunger　momentarily　assuaged；　he　searched　for　more　to　eat　and　a　change　of　clothing。　As　a　younger　man　he　would　never　have　filched　so　much　as　a　berry　or　an　apple　from　a　neighbor's　yard。　His　circumstances　were　as　much　altered　now　as　the　tenets　of　conduct　his　father　had　beaten　into　him。　He　had　a　duty　to　perform；　a　wrong　to　right；　and　a　theory　he　must　confirm　or　forget。
　　His　stomach　churned　with　the　raw；　greasy　food　he　had　eaten。　He　had　to　eat　more　slowly　or　lose　everything。　Vomit　was　a　hard　smell　to　hide。　In　a　tightly　covered　container　that　would　protect　its　contents　from　vermin；　he　found　three　quarters　of　a　wheel　of　cheese。　He　thought　how　long　such　food　would　sustain　him　in　his　escape…but　the　fewer　traces　of　his　passing　were　noticeable；　the　better。　While　the　cotholder　might　not　notice　the　loss　of　a　few　tubers　and　grease　in　a　pan；　the　disappearance　of　too　much　cheese　would　be　a　different　matter。　So　he　found　a　thin　old　knife　blade　in　the　back　of　a　drawer　and　sliced　off　a　section　of　cheese；　enough　to　provide　him　a　small　meal　but；　he　hoped；　not　enough　to　be　instantly　noticed。　Almost　as　if　his　restraint　were　being　rewarded；　he　found　a　dozen　rolls　of　travel　rations　in　another　tin　box　and　took　two。　He　would　surely　find　more　food　if　he　was　not　greedy　now。　He　believed　in　that　sort　of　justice。
　　He　removed　the　bandage　on　his　forehead；　a　painful　task　even　when　he　had　soaked　his　face　in　the　cold　stream　water。　One　or　two　spots　bled　a　little；　but　as　no　blood　trailed　down　his　face；　he　left　the　wound　open　to　the　clean　mountain　air。
　　He　went　back　to　the　cothold　to　look　for　clothing　but　found　none。　He　did　take　one　of　the　older　hides。　He　could　not　count　on　finding　shelter；　and　though　this　was　the　fifth　month；　the　nights　could　still　be　chilly。
　　Leaving　the　cothold；　he　investigated　the　tracks　that　led　off　in　several　directions。　A　flash　of　sunlight　on　something　metallic　caught　his　eyes　and　he　whirled　toward　the　river；　afraid　that　he　had　been　discovered。　It　took　him　much　longer　to　locate　the　source　of　the　reflection：　the　oarlocks　of　a　small　boat。　Under　the　thick　shrubbery　along　the　bank；　the　boat　was　almost　invisible；　tethered　to　a　branch　with　a　rope　so　worn　by　constant　rubbing　against　a　half…submerged　stone　that　the　slightest　pull　would　part　the　last　strands。
　　He　provided　the　pull　and；　stepping　carefully　into　the　boat；　used　his　stick　to　push　out　into　the　current　of　the　river。　Perhaps　he　should　have　tried　to　find　the　oars；　but　he　felt　an　urgency　to　be　away　from　this　cothold　and　as　far　down　the　river　as　possible。　The　little　craft　was　just　long　enough　so　th