The Lord Steward and the Servant King E-Book

Gordon Saunders

• Herausgeber: mediaropa
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Verduran Pentology
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 301

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Kentucky. Now it’s 1838. Steven and Amanda have not been able to get back into Verdura for two years, no matter what they’ve done. They don’t know if promises made there have come true or if something terrible has happened.

But things have changed in Kentucky. Amanda’s grown older and her father wants her to marry a young man who’s a cruel bully. Daddy thinks she’ll change him. Huh! She wants nothing to do with him. But her father’s insistent. Plus, Amanda has no idea what’s happened to Joshua and Marie. Letters from them stopped coming some time ago.

And then there’s that peculiar ‘amusement’ someone is putting on in downtown Glasgow, Kentucky, a weird phenomenon hyped by a creepy mustachioed tinker who doesn’t have any pots or pans to sell.

Join Joshua, Marie, Amanda and Steven in their second Verduran adventure. Yeah. This one could also be fatal. Or worse.

Leseprobe

The Lord Steward and the Servant King

REVISED EDITION

Gordon Saunders

Published by mediaropa press

The Lord Steward and the Servant King

Revised Edition

Copyright © 2021 by Gordon Saunders

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-7338727-5-1

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7338727-6-8

Hardback ISBN: 978-1-7338727-7-5

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic or mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in information storage and retrieval systems, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, mediaropa press. Reach us at: [email protected].

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Anna Coleman

Cover design by Gordon Saunders

gordon-saunders-writer.com

Dedication

Dedicated to my great friend and mentor, Dr. Harvey Bostrom, who embodied the qualities of a servant.

1

THE CHANGELING

Steven brought the gig to a sudden halt at the hitching post by the corner of Main and Race Streets on the public square. The old mare breathed heavily. Because it was mid-morning on court day, the muddy streets were lined with Dearborns, carry-alls, wagons, and other gigs like theirs, and it had been necessary to climb the hill up Race Street from Washington. Steven looked at Amanda with something between a glare and a plea, then jumped over the wheel, still fingering the reins, and led the mare to a water trough beside the post.

“Well,” said Amanda, who perceived the meaning of his look, “if you’d hurried faster on the way, we’d bin here sooner and not had to race up the hill.” Steven turned his head toward her slightly but said nothing. He had waited for nearly an hour for her to come out of the house after the time he had been told to pick her up.

After a moment, Amanda grinned. “Oh, I know,” she said. “It was me, not you, was slow. But I couldn’ help it. You know that old calico dress I have is warm... but it’s a year old! An’ this new one–it ain’ warm, but... well, Mother says it really brings me out with the white and cambric an’ all.”

Steven had turned back to the mare.

“Well, it is the first court day after the winter, an’ a body wants to look nice.”

It was still winter, officially, but the air had warmed today, and the sun played against puddles and the last remnants of melting snow.

Amanda continued in a soft voice. “Steven, will you look at me?”

“I ain’ s’pose to be here, Missy,” he said.

“No, I s’pose not,” she said, her voice taking on a new tone as she looked down the hill.

“You all right, Missy?” he asked.

Amanda sighed. “I had wanted to talk to you,” she said, “but...” Just then a young man of their acquaintance approached, doffed his hat, and offered to help Amanda from the gig. She accepted with a smile and alighted. The two chatted briefly.

When the young man had left, Amanda surveyed the houses and shops on Main Street, then turned to Steven and said, “What’s that up on Depp’s door?”

“Don’ know, Missy,” replied Steven. “Look like a poster, maybe.”

“Well, go find out while I go down to Mrs. Jordan’s to see if my hat’s ready,” she said, strolling off.

Steven shook his head as he watched her go. She had been like this often, lately; one moment friendly and pleasant - the way she had become after their adventure together two years ago - the next moment, distant and curt, almost rude. But whether friendly or rude, she was beautiful. She had, indeed, blossomed in the years since they had been to Verdura.

During those years, Steven had made something of a reputation for himself. Since becoming a guide at Mammoth Cave, he had made more exciting discoveries there than all who had preceded him put together.

But slaves are subject to their masters’ whims, and today he had been taken from the cave to bring Amanda into town. He had known she wanted to talk with him, for several times she had started to, but then broken off. And then she had done things deliberately to upset him, like making him force the old mare to gallop up Race Street. Something, clearly, was troubling her. Steven had his suspicions.

He tied up the mare when she had finished drinking and crossed Main Street to Depp’s house. James Depp occasionally let entertainers use his house to give minor performances for the people of Glasgow, and he would advertise with a poster on his door. Steven could read very little, but he hoped to meet someone coming out who would tell him what was going on inside. He ambled up to the door and studied the poster.

Besides the letters, which were in a variety of typefaces and sizes, there were three pictures printed in separate frames. The first frame showed a cage or enclosure about three times as tall as it was wide and deep, though Steven couldn’t tell how tall it was. In the enclosure, which seemed to be made of glass, was what looked like a stalagmite. Not knowing the size of the enclosure, Steven could not estimate the size of the stalagmite. But the enclosure seemed a bit too large for it.

The second frame showed the same object and enclosure. But this frame also showed a mustachioed man lifting the top of the enclosure and pouring something into it from a pitcher. By comparison with the man, the stalagmite was maybe one and a half to two feet tall, and the enclosure perhaps three feet tall.

The third frame presented the enclosure once more, but the stalagmite had undergone a remarkable change. Cone-like protuberances piled atop one another had pushed out of its top until they almost filled the enclosure. There was a V-shaped gash down the side of the object through which rectangles and prisms stuck out. Black veins covered parts of the object on either side of the gash.

Steven gasped and covered his mouth. He turned and ran across the street, over the courthouse lawn, around the courthouse, and down the hill to the corner of Washington and Green Streets, where Mrs. Jordan’s Millinery was located. He threw the door open with a bang and a jingle of little bells.

Every head jolted in his direction. He looked around wildly. “Where Missy Amanda?” he asked breathlessly.

One of the women in the store glared at him but answered in even tones, “She went to her grandfather’s house.”

Steven rushed out the door and ran back up the hill to Main Street where John Gorin, Amanda’s grandfather, lived. As he stepped on the stair to knock at the door, Amanda appeared around the corner of the house leading her father’s prize bay mare, Jackson’s Victory. A saddle had been thrown carelessly over it and not secured, and the reins dragged on the ground.

She beckoned to him urgently, and he sprinted to her.

“No time to talk, Steven,” said Amanda, breathlessly. “Jes’ git the gig an’ take it back of Depp’s.” She glanced around quickly and said, speaking rapidly, “At Depp’s they got an act they call ‘The Changelin’.’ Mrs. Jordan described it to me. I don’ know how they got it, but I think it’s a Mwlahnni! We got to git it out of there. Now, git!”

She met Steven’s eyes and somehow recognized that he had the same intent. In a fraction of a second her eyes softened and her face took on a gentler quality. “Please,” she added, softly. Then she ran back behind the house, leading the bay.

Steven ran across the street again, loosed the reins from the post, jumped into the gig, and backed the old mare into the street. They trotted up Race Street, across Main, past Depp’s on the corner, and into the alleyway behind Depp’s house. Amanda emerged from some trees with Jackson’s Victory.

“Unhitch Orleans and put the gig on Jackson’s Victory,” she said, looking around once more.

“You gonna catch it if yo’ Pa fin’s you hitch the bay to the gig,” said Steven.

“An’ worse,” said Amanda, “whin he fin’s I put his best saddle on Orleans. But we’ve got to get the Mwlahnni out, an’ you’d never git away with ol’ Orleans on the gig.”

Amanda clasped her hands close to her body and grimaced. “I figure,” she said, “if they want to chase you, I’ll tell ‘em I’ll do it, an’ I’ll come after you on ol’ Orleans. ‘Course, I won’ catch you, but if anyone else comes after you, I’ll tell ‘em you went off toward Burkesville. That way, you oughta git to the cave okay.”

She paused, looking at him and wrinkling her brow. “That’s where we should be goin’, ain’ it?” she asked. “Our special way in?”

Steven nodded. “I giss,” he said.

Amanda noticed the edge of her dress had become muddy.

“Kinda like the other time,” she said, grinning shyly.

“I hopes you don’ git in no trouble, Missy,” said Steven, shaking his head.

“I hope not, too, Steven, but you’re more’n likely to no matter what.”

“Yeah, Missy,” said Steven, “but we got to do it.”

She nodded, adding, almost as an afterthought, “I used to think I could handle Daddy, but now I ain’ so sure.” Looking back at Steven, she said, “Hope it won’ be too bad.” She glanced away morosely.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Hesitantly, Steven said, “Your Pa, he want you to marry that dandified Jimmy Bell, don’ he.”

Amanda nodded slowly, then turned back to him. “An’ he wants to sell the cave, an’... an’ you with it,” she said. There was the burden she had wanted to talk with him about. He knew it.

“I heared,” said Steven, eyes to the ground.

Amanda continued, “I s’pose Jimmy ain’ so bad; leastwise, he might could be made better. But...well, I want to decide for myself.” She looked up. “An’ I’d miss you, an’... an’.” She sighed. “Well, I jes’ couldn’ bear never to git to...to him agin.”

Steven nodded. They had both hoped to get into Verdura again. But after a while, they had concluded that it would probably not be possible. The cave was their only connection to Verdura, and in two years it had not led them back.

“Well, c’mon,” said Amanda, brightening. “Maybe this is what we bin hopin’ for. Anyway, we have to see what this is an’ git it back if it’s what we think, even if we cain’ go ourselves.”

Nodding again, Steven began to unhitch the gig. Amanda walked down the alleyway, looked cautiously into Race Street, looked back once, and was gone.

A few minutes later, Steven had hitched the gig to Jackson’s Victory and secured the saddle on Orleans. Amanda came to him from the street.

“They’re goin’ to have a show at eleven o’clock an’ Mrs. Depp says Negroes cin come if they’s paid up an’ stays at the back. But she won’ let me see ahead o’time.”

“You think it’s...”

“Well,” interrupted Amanda, “Mrs. Depp says it’s a rock some tinker found near one o’the saltpeter mines hereabouts. He’s bin takin’ it ‘round to show folks; make a little money. I jes’ don’ know.”

“What you want me to do with the gig an’ Orleans, now?” Steven asked.

“Jes’ leave ‘em tied here, I s’pose.” She frowned. “I di’n’ have time to plan real good, but here’s what I think we’ll do. We’ll be the last ones in there after the show. If it’s what we think, I’ll try an’ distract the tinker while you carry it out the back to the gig. Take Main to Liberty an’ then cross over to Washin’ton, so you won’ have to go by the courthouse an’ have ever’body see you. Then take the road to Bell’s. Whin you git there, change horses, an’ go on to the cave. If anybody’s fixin’ to go after you, I’ll try an’ send ‘em off wrong, like I said.”

Steven grimaced, thinking how little white men liked to be outfoxed by Negroes. “Don’ worry,” said Amanda, reading his face. “I hope Daddy won’ do much to you, if he fin’s out. I’ll remin’ him how much you’re worth.”

“What if somebody see me with the bay on the gig an’ try to stop me?” asked Steven.

“We’ll jes’ have to hope that don’ happen, an’ you do the bes’ you cin if it does. If you go how I tol’ you, shouldn’ nobody see you ‘cause they’ll all be by the courthouse.”

Steven grimaced again, and shook his head slightly.

“Now I’ll be goin’,” said Amanda. “The show will be startin’ soon. I’ll pay for you an’ you come in an’ sit quiet at the back.”

She went around the corner and Steven made a few adjustments so they could untie the horse and gig quickly if they needed to.

“Oh, Ispri,” he whispered, and followed Amanda to Depp’s.

2

RESCUE

The show was in an upstairs bedroom where a quilt had been placed across the northeast corner of the room as a kind of curtain. Mrs. Depp introduced the tinker, one Cambar Bartoni, who turned out to look much like the mustachioed man in the picture. The picture had not shown how dark his skin was, however. He was clearly not a Negro, and he didn’t look much like an Indian, either. Maybe he was one of those foreigners who were always coming over to the land of freedom and opportunity.

He introduced his “remarkable wonder of nature” which he liked to call “The Changeling”. He had a deep and somehow dangerous voice, with a thick foreign accent. When he talked, his mustachios worked up and down and his teeth seemed to click. He removed the quilt and invited everyone to examine it for themselves (“Negroes excluded, of course”).

The half-dozen or so people walked around the wood-framed glass enclosure. The “Changeling” was an unremarkable, pinkish gray stalagmite with a relatively smooth surface, widening from the narrow top toward its base. Here and there was an ochre-colored splotch or a little wave of maroon. Amanda couldn’t make a public sign to Steven, but she glanced at him. Yes, it did look like a Mwlahnni, but it wasn’t certain, yet.

The tinker had everyone sit down again, and rigged the quilt so the Changeling and enclosure were covered, but he could be seen above them. Mrs. Depp brought him a large, clear pitcher of water. He took it from her and set it down nearby.

He then produced a screwdriver and took four screws from the top of the enclosure, holding them up to the audience one at a time.

“Now,” he said, “you shall be privileged not only to see a marvel, but to hear a marvel, as well.” He paused to clear his throat for dramatic effect. “When the cover is removed, many people have told me that they have heard music. Some have felt happy, others sad. But none have been unaffected.” He looked slowly from face to face.

“That ain’ no tinker,” muttered Steven. Tinkers didn’t talk that fancy.

“Now,” continued the tinker, “when I pour the water in,” he glanced over the audience, mustachios twitching, “you folks may want to cover your ears, ‘cause it makes a powerful noise.”

Amanda shifted uneasily in her seat. Steven looked around the room for something with which to break the enclosure, should that be necessary. By the fireplace on the north wall of the bedroom he spied a small shovel for removing ashes.

“And when I raise the curtain again, prepare for the surprise of your life!” With a flourish, the tinker lifted the top of the enclosure.

Instantly, a penetrating intelligence filled the room. It’s alive! was the only idea that could describe the sensation. It gave a soundless cry for help; a bitter, lonely lament. Steven’s heart came to his throat.

“Who be you?” thought Steven to the Mwlahnni.

Lomel? he felt the thought back. Can it be you?

Yes! thought Steven. We gonna git you out!

With another flourish, the tinker poured a small amount of water on the rock. Then he covered it. The sensation of life stopped. Communication stopped. There was a resounding crack, even through the glass. The tinker beamed gleefully and replaced the screws. After a few moments, he deftly removed the quilt.

Rhodoc! thought Steven. It took all his strength to restrain himself. He eyed the shovel.

A gasp went up from the group. They stood and approached once more. Amanda took the opportunity to glance back at Steven. He could see that she, too, was highly agitated.

It seemed to take the few people forever to walk around the enclosure. They talked excitedly in low tones, pointing and gesticulating, while the tinker looked on, twitching.

The rock now looked as it had in the third frame of the poster. But the poster had not been able to show the brilliant rose color of the material within what looked like a gash on the poster, but which here looked more like a flower petal. The rest of the rock was in blues and browns, with the vein-like decorations all in black. The prisms and rectangles that protruded from the body were of deep blue-green and maroon to brown. The cones on cones were like a white crown through which light could shine.

Before long, the tinker replaced the quilt and began to hasten the group’s departure. As they left, Amanda tried to engage him in conversation to distract him. But it became quickly obvious that he wanted neither to leave the room nor to talk. Steven meandered over to the shovel, standing with his back to the fireplace. He picked it up behind his back. When the tinker was not looking toward him, he slipped behind the quilt.

While Amanda kept the tinker’s attention, Steven found the screwdriver and attempted to remove the screws. It was slow work. He began to sense that Amanda’s conversational powers were being stretched to their limit. “Well,” he mumbled. “Here goes.” He smashed the enclosure in a great crash with one giant swing of the shovel.

“Hey!” yelled the tinker. “What’re you doing?” He pushed the quilt aside and saw Steven trying to remove his rock.

“Why you...” he shouted, running at Steven. Steven let go of the rock, grabbed the quilt off the line, and threw it over the tinker’s head. Then he picked up the heavy rock, ran through the bedroom door, down the back stairway, and out to the gig.

As Steven loosed the reins from a tree, the tinker tumbled out the door, roaring. “Renegade slave!” he shouted. “Renegade slave!”

Steven leaped into the gig beside the rock, lashed at the bay with the reins, hollered, and was off.

The tinker jumped on Orleans, jerked the reins, which were tied loosely to a tree, and took off after him. All the while he screamed, “Thief! Renegade slave! Thief! Stop him!”

As Steven got to the corner of Race and Main, the morning stage crossed by in front of him, lumbering slowly down Main Street in the direction in which he had intended to go. He feared that if he attempted to swing around it at this speed, he might roll Rhodoc out or even overturn the gig, bay, and all. So he made a quick decision to go down the hill on Race Street.

Heads turned. From the courthouse steps where old men sat reminiscing, on the left, to the sidewalks where women were wandering from shop to shop, on the right, to the street itself where men were loading wagons and lawyers were getting out of their Dearborn carriages, to the courthouse lawn where slaves were being led to the auction block and small children were having a lark in town on court day, every head turned to watch.

The tinker jabbed and whipped old Orleans as much as he might, and considering her age she made remarkable speed. But she was no match for the young bay, even with the gig. Steven was gaining ground quickly.

Fortunately, no one seemed interested enough to mount and give chase, so Steven was able to clear the square and turn on Washington Street to the Bell’s Tavern Road without interference. But he had been seen by practically everyone in town. His stomach sank as he thought of the phrase “renegade slave” which the certainly-not-a-tinker continued to yell at the top of his lungs behind him.

Amanda, meanwhile, had run back to her grandfather’s stable, gotten a saddle and one of his horses from the slaves there, and taken off after Steven and the tinker. The saddle was old and decrepit, as was the bit and bridle, and she was certainly not dressed for riding. But she cared nothing for that. She galloped down the path Steven and the tinker had taken on a dappled gray gelding which had seen better days. Heads turned again as Amanda’s new bonnet and her combs flew off and fluttered to the muddy street, and her plaited hair billowed out over her demure crepe and cambric dress.

Steven made better time out of town, since the road was not quite so rutted. He had in town and left the “tinker” on Orleans farther and farther behind. Steven hoped the “tinker” would tire of the chase before long, because the ford at Skeggs Creek was coming up and he knew he would have to slow down for that.

By the time he got there, in about ten minutes, he could hear nothing behind him. He coaxed the panting and sweating animal into the stream, which came only to a little above its fetlocks. They tip-toed across and started to canter on the other side. Steven rolled up a short rise and thought he heard the “tinker” not too far behind, still pursuing.

He had yet to cross Beaver Creek, which was considerably deeper. Reluctantly, he urged Jackson’s Victory to a slow gallop. In another five minutes he reached Beaver Creek. Here the water nearly reached the horse’s belly. She wouldn’t go in on her own, so Steven was forced to jump out and lead her across, getting soaked himself in the process.

Shivering, on the other side of Beaver Creek, Steven looked back, but did not see or hear his pursuer. He decided to turn off at the fork which went to Bowling Green, hide, and make certain that he wasn’t being followed. About ten minutes later he reached that fork and spent a chilly fifteen minutes more watching the road. Content that the “tinker” had given up, he headed for Bell’s Tavern.

The dappled gelding could not have been referred to as quick, even in its youth. Amanda was sick with frustration and anxiety, but could get little speed out of him. Besides that, he nearly threw her when they got to Skeggs Creek. It did not improve her disposition nor relieve her worries some time later, when she came across Orleans, riderless and saddleless, wandering slowly toward Bell’s Tavern.

From her mount she examined the woods on both sides of the road, but saw nothing. Had the tinker caught Steven and overpowered him? Had he just gone off with the saddle and bridle to recompense himself for the loss of the Mwlahnni? She dismounted, holding her reins. She approached Orleans, who gave her a suspicious little whinny. When both horses were calm, Amanda hefted herself on to Orleans, riding bareback without reins, and led the gelding behind her toward Bell’s.

Before long the stage overtook her. The rough men and three Negroes atop the stage looked at her curiously. But the driver, who had seen her many times at the tavern, asked her if everything was all right. She told him she could manage. As the stage pulled away, she saw the tinker looking smugly out the window, twitching his mustachios, making not the slightest sign that they had met before. On the back of the stage, tied to the luggage, was Daddy’s best saddle.

Amanda moaned. She assumed, then, that Steven was safely on his way and that she would meet him at the cave later. Now, she had the unpleasant task of trying to sort out and make the best of this day’s events, and to figure out what she would say to Daddy.

When she arrived at Bell’s Tavern, the little serving girl, Shad, was waiting for her. She signaled for her to go around to the back. In the stable, Jackson’s Victory was being rubbed down. The mare’s shivering was obvious. Amanda went into the dining room and tried to find a quiet corner where she could escape Jimmy Bell’s notice until the horses were ready to be returned to Glasgow. If she thought Daddy had ever been angry before, she told herself, she had seen nothing to what he would be like this time.

It was nearly dark and supper time when Amanda got back to Glasgow. Usually her father had left town by this time on court day, off for a big meal and an evening of men’s talk with Billy Bell at his tavern. She knew he would still be here tonight, though, because she had his horse. This could only increase his anger. Riding her own bay, she led Grandpa’s dappled gray and a somewhat uneasy Jackson’s Victory with Daddy’s second best saddle on her. She hoped they would ride back in the dark so he wouldn’t notice until later that his best saddle was gone.

When she neared Grandpa’s house, she found it all astir with voices. Slaves lounged about in front, waiting for their masters. She decided to go to the stable the back way, and led the horses up Race Street to the alley way behind Depp’s, with a sinking feeling.

One of Grandpa’s serving girls, who had taken a liking to her, motioned to her as she approached the stable. A boy came out and got the horses as Amanda dismounted. The woman beckoned for her to come to one of the slave shacks with her to talk.

“I don’ know what you done, Missy,” she said, “but yo’ daddy be pow’ful mad. Him an’ Massuh Depp bin goin’ at it fo’ a spell now. If I’se you, I wouldn’ show my face ‘roun’ dere.” Then she laughed softly. “But we knows what yo’ daddy like fo’ his suppah, an’ we gonna make sartin he git it. Then give him a ceegar, some wine, an’ he be a mite bettah.”

Amanda hugged the woman and thanked her.

“Now you jes’ wait here, Missy, an’ I be tellin’ you whin it be okay fo’ you ta come in.”

Amanda sat on a cot in one corner of the shack, shuddered involuntarily, and then lay back. She wondered if Steven had gotten to the cave with Rhodoc yet, and wished she were with him. She closed her eyes, intending just to fortify herself for the coming talk. But in a moment, she was asleep.

3

LOMEL’S CAVERN

Meanwhile, earlier that day, Steven had worried most about what might happen when he got to Bell’s Tavern. It was crucial that he get to the stables and on his way again with another horse before Jimmy Bell discovered him. For no reason Steven knew, Jimmy hated him and made life difficult for him whenever possible. Steven could do nothing to stop him. He felt that he could have whipped Jimmy in a fair fight, even though he was smaller than Jimmy, but the price would have been too high. Negroes had been beaten to death for less.

In any case, Jimmy was nowhere in sight when Steven arrived. Fortunately, the stable keeper wasn’t there either, or there would have been some difficult questions about why the bay mare was hitched to the gig. Bell’s slaves eyed Steven quizzically, but unhitched the horse without comment. Then they hitched the horse Gorin kept there to the gig. A stable hand ran and got Steven some dry clothes, and Steven was ready to go.

As he jumped into the gig to leave, a slave about his age entered the barn moaning and cursing under his breath. The others looked up silently. He had welts on his face and arms.

“Jimmy, agin,” muttered the one nearest Steven.

At least Jimmy left them alone for a while after a bout of bullying, so Steven asked if the boy could go with him to drop him off and return the gig. Shortly, they were off.

It usually took about forty minutes to get to the cave from Bell’s, now that the stage road had been built. The boy looked at the rock from time to time as they bounced along. Steven, who had become a kind of celebrity among the slaves, saw Harry looking at him, though he was more concerned with driving the gig than seeing what Harry would do.

Finally, the boy blurted out, “What this all about?” Steven gazed steadily at him for a moment and decided he could trust him.

“‘Bout two year ago, Missy Amanda an’ me be in the cave. See, we foun’ this way in no one know ‘bout, an’ we gits into this other place an’ lots o’things happen there.”

The boy’s eyes grew large.

“What your name, anyhow?” asked Steven.

“Harry,” the boy replied.

“You won’ tell no one?”

“No suh, Mistuh Steven,” said Harry.

“Steven,” said Steven. He looked at the boy and then at the rock. “This be Rhodoc. He alive.”

The boy looked at the rock in alarm and moved as far away from it as he could on the narrow seat.

“Won’ hurt you none,” said Steven.

“H-how do it talk?” asked Harry.

“You jes’ tells it it cin talk to ya, an’ it do, kinda inside your head like. You want it should talk to ya?”

“Well,” said Harry, eyeing it suspiciously.

“You jes’ tells it inside your head.”

A moment later, Harry clapped his hands over his ears and shouted, “Make it stop! Make it stop!” There was terror in his voice.

Steven stopped the gig and took Harry’s hands. Harry stared at him, wild-eyed.

“It okay,” said Steven. “Nothin’ to be scairt of.”

The boy calmed down and they continued. In a few minutes, Steven began to peer carefully into the trees to their left. They went along at a crawl until he reined up.

“Whoa! Here we is. Now, Harry,” said Steven, “I want you to he’p me carry Rhodoc into the woods a short piece, an’ then take the gig back home. I be okay. Make sure Missy Amanda fin’ out where I be, but don’ tell no one else ‘bout where you let me off or ‘bout what I tell you.”

Harry nodded. They both got down and Steven tied the reins to a low branch. Then he hefted Rhodoc off the gig.

“You take the top, I take the bottom.”

With apparent reluctance, Harry lifted his side of the burden. They walked off sideways into the woods and up the slope. When they got to the top, Steven told Harry he could go; which he seemed only too glad to do. Steven set Rhodoc on the ground while Harry ran back. When he heard the horse trot off, Steven stood and lifted Rhodoc. With difficulty, he moved down the far side of the slope toward the entrance to Mammoth Cave which had, two years ago, been the way into Verdura.

Steven reached the bottom of that slope, went up and over another, and sat down to rest. “Rhodoc,” he said aloud, “How you git here, anyway?” He shook his head. “An’ how you git in that glass case?”

The awareness one feels of the presence and attentiveness of a Mwlahnni, a sense that someone is with you—just as real as if it were a man or woman you could touch—a sense that the person waits politely and with interest before speaking, gave way to the strange sensation of a voice speaking within his mind; a voice that was not his own.

That is a long story, Lomel, servant-leader, and not a happy one. There is need for haste. I will tell you what I can while we make our way.

Steven got up and managed to lift Rhodoc once more. “Yo’ sho’ is heavy,” he said, “an’ you ain’ gittin’ no lighter as we go.”

Would that I could help, Lomel, said Rhodoc, but, alas...

The voice Steven heard in his mind when a Mwlahnni spoke was a human-sounding voice. In fact, Steven thought it sounded like the memory of his own voice. But he knew it could not simply be himself, both because the words spoken did not present ideas or information that were his, and because of the strong sense of life and otherness he felt along with the words. But most of the time he was with the Mwlahnni, he sensed them and communicated with them in much the same way one communicates with a good friend or familiar workmate–without the necessity for much talking, from an inner awareness of the nature of the other person.

Lomel, Steven thought. He began to walk. Lomel was the name Cerus had given him in Verdura. It was the name of the first Mwlahnni that had ever died, and it had died saving the lives of Emlind, the Steward of Byota, and of Steven himself. Memories of that short time in Verdura washed over Steven and were shared with Rhodoc.

Lomel, he thought again. On earth, only he and Amanda and two others about their age, who he would probably never see again, knew of that name. He thought of Joshua and Marie. Would they ever make the months-long journey from New Orleans to the cave to see him and Amanda again? He knew he would never be able to make such a journey himself. Well, he might see them in Verdura; if he got there, and if they got there, and if they got to the same time and place.... He decided that he was not likely to see them again.

Other images passed through his mind. The dais at Byota, in the Hall of Truth, with its three thrones, its five pedestals for Mwlahnni and the sixth, Trona, on the steps before it...Emlind’s tall form...Ispri from the window far above gliding down to Emlind’s arm...Emlind’s two boys, Meroj and Merin...Emlind again, walking the dusty trail from Kentucky Cavern back to Byota with Lominda and the men. Suddenly, Steven realized that Rhodoc was directing his thinking, now showing him things that had happened since he left.

Since he had been guiding tour groups in Mammoth Cave, Steven had been learning to speak more clearly, but he still loved these conversations with the Mwlahnni in which the two of them simply thought together about the things on their minds with no barriers of language whatever. Now, however, he had to break off his thoughts because the terrain began to go downward more quickly than it had been.

In a quarter of a mile, the level dropped at least a hundred feet. Steven looked into the area he was entering. It was a V- shaped ravine ending in a sinkhole. Above that, facing southeast, was a cliff of sandstone and limestone layers punctuated here and there by a tree that had managed to find a toe-hold. Below the cliff, toward the bottom of the ravine, trees grew in profusion and rocks were strewn helter-skelter. It was to these rocks that Steven was headed.