amccaffrey.theskiesofpern-第2部分

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　　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　that　if　he　cocked　his　knees；　he　could　lie　flat　and　be　unseen　from　the　shore。
　　That　night；　when　he　saw　the　glowbaskets　of　a　sizeable　small　holding…not　a　large　enough　one　to　have　a　watchwher　on　guard…he　propelled　himself　to　the　bank　and　tied　up　the　boat　by　the　tether　he　had　mended　with　strips　of　his　tattered　shirt　during　his　long　day　afloat。
　　Luck　was　with　him。　First　he　found　a　basket　of　avian　eggs　left　on　a　hook　outside　a　side　door　to　the　beasthold。　He　sucked　the　contents　of　three；　and　carefully　deposited　three　more　in　his　shirt；　tucked　into　his　waistband。　Then　his　eye　caught　the　shirts　and　pants　drying　on　bushes　by　the　flat　river　stones　where　women　would　have　washed　them。　He　found　clothes　to　fit　him　well　enough　and　corrected　the　positions　of　others　to　make　it　appear　that　what　he　had　chosen　might　simply　have　fallen　into　the　river　and　drifted　away。
　　In　the　beasthold　for　a　second　look；　though　the　animals　moved　restlessly　in　the　presence　of　a　stranger；　he　found　bran　and　an　old　battered　scoop。　Tomorrow　he　would　boil　the　bran　and　add　the　eggs　for　a　good　hot　meal。　Suddenly　he　heard　voices　and　immediately　returned　to　his　boat；　pushing　it　carefully　out　into　the　current　and　lying　down；　lest　he　be　seen。
　　The　night　swallowed　the　voices　and　all　he　heard　was　the　gurgle　of　the　river　in　which　the　boat　moved　so　silently。　Above　him　were　the　stars。　The　old　harper　who　had　taught　all　the　youngsters　at　the　Glasscrafthall　had　told　him　the　names　of　some　of　them。　Indeed；　the　old　man　had　mentioned　meteorites　and　the　Ghosts　that　appeared　in　bright　arcs　in　Turnover　skies。　Shankolin　had　never　believed　that　those　bright　sparks　were　the　ghosts　of　dead　dragons；　but　some　of　the　younger　children　had。
　　The　brightest　stars　never　changed。　He　recognized　the　sparkle　of　Vega…or　was　it　Canopus？　He　couldn't　remember　the　names　of　the　other　stars　in　the　spring　sky。　In　trying　to　recall　those　names　and　when　he　had　learned　them；　his　mind　inexorably　returned　to　Aivas　and　all　that。。。　that　thing。。。　had　done　to　him。　He'd　only　recently　heard；　in　a　repetition　of　very　old　news；　that　his　father　had　been　exiled　to　an　island　in　the　Eastern　Sea　with　the　Lord　Holders　and　other　craftsmen　who　had　tried　to　stop　the　Abomination。
　　Now　that　the　source　was　silenced；　they'd　be　able　to　talk　men　and　women　into　returning　to　their　senses。　The　Red　Star　brought　Thread。　The　Dragonriders　fought　Thread　in　the　skies；　and　people　lived　fortably　enough　between　Passes。　That　had　been　the　order　of　life　for　centuries…an　order　that　should　be　preserved。　When　he　had　heard　that　the　Masterharper　of　Pern；　a　personage　Shankolin　had　admired；　had　been　abducted；　he　had　been　deeply　disturbed。　But　his　ears　had　been　blocked　for　Turns　before　he　gradually　recovered　some　hearing　and　learned　about　that　part　of　the　incident。　He　had　never　clearly　heard　why　the　Masterharper　had　been　found　dead　in　the　Abomination's　chamber。　But　it；　too；　had　been　dead…〃terminated；〃　one　of　the　miners　said。　Had　Master　Robinton　e　to　his　senses　and　turned　off　the　Abomination？　Or　had　the　Abomination　killed　Master　Robinton？　He　felt　eager　to　discover　the　truth。
　　Once　he　got　down　Crom's　river…perhaps　Keogh　Hold　would　be　far　enough…he　could　make　plans　and　see　just　how　badly　the　Abomination　had　interfered　with　Pern's　traditions　and　way　of　life。
　　Gathers　began　in　springtime；　when　the　roads　dried　of　winter　snow　and　mud；　and　he　could　simply　blend　into　the　crowds；　and　perhaps　find　more　answers。　He　was　hearing　more　and　more　these　days；　even　the　shrill　song　of　avians。　Once　he　caught　up　on　current　news；　he　would　be　able　to　plan　his　next　moves。
　　Surely　not　everyone　on　Pern　would　want　tradition　degraded　or　would　believe　the　lies　that　the　Abomination　had　spouted。　He　called　to　mind　those　whom　he　knew　had　been　seriously　disturbed　by　the　so…called　improvements　promulgated　by　Aivas。　By　now；　eleven　Turns　since　the　Abomination　had　terminated；　some　right…minded；　thinking　folk　would　realize　that　the　Red　Star　had　not　changed　course　simply　because　three　old　engines　had　blown　up　in　a