Garon had vanished. Even if he was still alive, he would have grown old and weak, but Gene stood before the general now. Gene possessed the worth, the strength, and the youth that were slowly slipping away from the general. He felt as though Garon had taken them from him and handed them to Gene. Who could understand that a general with power, fame, and wealth should envy a mere back-alley patrol captain?
At last a hand appeared from behind the turned chair and waved her away. It meant she should leave. Antonia pressed her lips together, then let out a quiet breath. No one knew better than she that further words would be useless. She had watched the general since she was about twelve, when her father had been a retainer serving the young commander. The most faithful counsel was useless if its intended listener would not open his ears.
By the time the door had closed and Antonia’s footsteps faded, the general picked up the object he had been staring at on the low table before his chair. He held it against one arm, as though it were a prosthetic limb that could replace his own. It was exactly the length of his forearm. After running his fingers over it, he laid it back on the table, leaned deep into his chair, and closed his eyes. A low murmur escaped him.
“If only one could remain young and whole forever…”
The bare branch lying on the table trembled faintly, then grew still.
Half a day’s ride east of Delphinad lay the Kamaha fields. Sorghum and autumn wheat grew thick across the wide-open plains of the southeastern region. Two men on horseback followed a path between the sorghum, where white grains had ripened.
“It wasn’t easy. At first, she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. On the first day she opened the door by mistake, but after that she’d slam the bolt across even if I so much as knocked. I went back for the fifth time and stood outside her door, and all of a sudden a storm blew in. You know the wind that comes down from the Neda Mountains at this time of year? Well, it was a proper one. The horses and goats in the pen shook and bleated and made a terrible commotion. Even the fellow I was riding got frightened and started jumping about. Then the old woman opened the door, ran outside, snatched the reins from me, and shoved him into the pen. She shouted that if I didn’t want to die, I’d better get into the house at once.”
Clouds heavy with another storm crouched on the horizon today. The sorghum leaves rustled. Glancing at the clouds, Gene said, “The Old Man with the Sack unbolted the door.”
“The Old Man with the Sack” was a nickname for a god said to wander the nearby fields carrying a sack with a hole in it. He was known by different names from region to region, but everyone understood that one. Tall and thin as a fir tree, he went about gathering fallen grains. When he bent over to pick them up, a storm poured from the hole in his sack and swept across the fields. That was why people said every last grain should be gathered at harvest.
“She didn’t just open the bolt for me. The weather turned bad, and that vicious old woman changed completely. She even gave me a bowl of oat porridge. I was hungry, so I ate every bit. Then she stared at me and said, ‘Do you know what you’ve just eaten?’”
“You said it was oat porridge.”
Jamalik gave a small laugh.
“I asked her the very same thing, Adjutant. Then she cackled and said, ‘I can’t tell you. You southerners would faint if you heard.’”
“What was it? Did she put insects in it?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Jamalik caught a plump flea beneath his horse’s mane, flicked it away with his fingertip, and continued.
“Perhaps it was something like that.”
Gene glanced toward where the flea had flown.
“Why a flea, of all things?”
“I chewed on something like a shell.”
“That would be edible enough.”
Jamalik looked at Gene mischievously.
“Exactly. It had a nice chewy texture. But what horrible things have you eaten to make you say that, Adjutant?”
“Many things. Olive birds, for example.”
“Aren’t olive birds a famous delicacy?”
Gene shook his head and frowned. The olive bird was a small wild bird. People said its true flavor could be appreciated only by putting the entire thing into one’s mouth and chewing, head, bones, innards, and all. It took a long time to chew through one that way, and watching each other’s faces as they chewed made them feel thoroughly ridiculous.
Dismissing the thought of an olive-bird feast brought something quite the opposite to mind. Gene gave an involuntary little laugh.
“Or horse dung.”
“Horse dung? How on earth did you come to eat that?”
“In a waterskin. During the first campaign, when I met you.”
Jamalik’s eyes widened, and he burst out laughing.
“Horse dung in a waterskin? Whatever did you do that for?”
There had been many reasons, but instead of explaining, Gene answered simply, “No particular reason.”
Jamalik had watched Gene closely at his side then and remembered his condition well. Instead of pressing him, he smiled wryly and muttered, “Those really were hard times for you, Adjutant.”
“I was young then.”
“It was only three years ago. Though you’ve changed a great deal since.”
“Changed for the better, or for the worse?”
Gene had asked without much thought, but Jamalik glanced at his face as though seeing it afresh. Then he said, “For the better, of course. But to tell the truth, there’s a very little part of me that regrets it.”
Gene was about to ask what he regretted when a roof appeared beyond the sorghum. The two urged their horses on and emerged from the field. It was a low house with a well-thatched roof, the sort of tenant farmer’s dwelling common in this area.
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