Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [57]
He blinked, and coughed, but not loudly or harshly. He was back in the main room of the cottage. A few flames still leaped hesitantly from the pile of glowing clinkers that was all that remained of the once blazing fire. In his chair, Simna ibn Sind slept the sleep of spirituous stupefaction. But the litah no longer stretched across the floor from wall to wall. He had curled himself into a tight ball of black fur and was twitching and moaning in his sleep.
“It will pass.”
Looking down, Ehomba saw that the sheepdog was watching the larger animal. Turning her head, her warm brown eyes met his. “The big cat was in your dream. Sometimes that will happen. Dreams are like smoke. If there happens to be more than one in the same sleep space, sometimes they will merge and flow together. I don’t think that was the kind of dream the cat is used to, but when he wakes he may well not remember any of it.” The witch eyes stared. “You remember, though.”
“Yes, I remember,” the herdsman admitted. “But I do not know what it means.”
“You asked me if I could help you see what lies ahead of you. I did as you asked. I was with you and you with me, watching, perceiving, trying to understand.” Rising and walking forward, she lifted a paw and placed it on his bare thigh.
“You are doomed to unremitting misery, your quest to failure, the rest of your life to cold emptiness. Unless you end this now. Go home, back to your village and back to your family. Before it is too late. Before you die.” Her paw slipped off his leg.
Ehomba looked away, feeling the warmth of the fire against his back, and considered the dog’s words. They were words he had heard before, in a town far, far to the south, from someone else. Another female, but not a dog. Another seeress, but one who walked on two legs instead of four. They were very different, Roileé and Rael, and yet they had spoken to him the same words. It was not encouraging.
“I cannot go back. Not until I have fulfilled a dying man’s promise. I took that upon myself willingly, and no matter how many prophets and diviners repeat to me the same death mantra, I will follow this through to its end.”
“From what I just saw and felt, its end will be your end.” This pronouncement she delivered in a matter-of-fact manner and without emotion.
“That remains to be seen. It is your interpretation, and that of one other. Events will convince me, not divinations.”
“I can only do what you asked me to do.”
He smiled gently. “I know, and I thank you for that.” Automatically, he reached out and patted her on the head. If he had thought about it he might not have done so, but he need not have worried. Instead of upbraiding him for his temerity, she moved nearer and pressed her muzzle and head against his comforting palm.
“There are some things,” she explained, “for which even witchcraft cannot substitute. A kind and comforting hand is one.”
“I understand.” Sitting there on the hearth, he continued to pet her. “There are many times since I left the village that I could have used such a touch myself.”
“You are a good man, Etjole Ehomba.” Her head pushed insistently against his soothing palm and she panted easily in the reflected heat of the fire. “The world is a poorer place whenever a good man dies.”
“Or a good dog,” he added graciously.
“Or a good dog.”
“Do not worry. I have no intention of dying.”
“Then do not disregard what I have just told you. Try to overcome it. Make me out to be a liar.”
He grinned. “I will do my best. Now, tell me something I can use. What lies to the north of here, below