the-song-books.yossr

“Hello,” he said. If he had shown anyy hesitation or surprise, I would have
left, gone back and slept on the bare reeds rather than stayy here. But he did
not. There was onlyy his easyy tone and a sharp attention in his eyyes.
“Hello,” I answered, and went to take myy place on the cot across the
room.
SLOWLY, I GREW USED TO IT; I no longer startled when he spoke, no longer
waited for rebuke. I stopped expecting to be sent awayy. After dinner, myy
feet took me to his room out of habit, and I thought of the pallet where I layy
as mine.
At night I still dreamed of the dead boyy. But when I woke, sweatyy and
terror-stricken, the moon would be bright on the water outside and I could
hear the lick of the waves against the shore. In the dim light I saw his easyy
breathing, the drowsyy tangle of his limbs. In spite of myyself, myy pulse
slowed. There was a vividness to him, even at rest, that made death and
spirits seem foolish. After a time, I found I could sleep again. Time after
that, the dreams lessened and dropped awayy.
I learned that he was not so dignified as he looked. Beneath his poise and
stillness was another face, full of mischief and faceted like a gem, catching
the light. He liked to playy games against his own skill, catching things with
his eyyes closed, setting himself impossible leaps over beds and chairs.
When he smiled, the skin at the corners of his eyyes crinkled like a leaf held
to flame.
He was like a flame himself. He glittered, drew eyyes. There was a
glamour to him, even on waking, with his hair tousled and his face still
muddled with sleep. Up close, his feet looked almost unearthlyy: the
perfectlyy formed pads of the toes, the tendons that flickered like lyyre
strings. The heels were callused white over pink from going everyywhere
barefoot. His father made him rub them with oils that smelled of
sandalwood and pomegranate.
He began to tell me the stories of his dayy before we drifted off to sleep.
At first I onlyy listened, but after time myy tongue loosened. I began to tell
myy own stories, first of the palace, and later small bits from before: the
skipping stones, the wooden horse I had playyed with, the lyyre from myy
mother’s dowryy.
“I am glad yyour father sent it with yyou,” he said.
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