Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [96]
“I cannot tell you not to feel bad,” he told her. “Do you understand what I mean by that?” She nodded slowly, wiping at her eyes with the back of one hand as the man looked past her. Her mother and father had always told her not to talk to strangers, but somehow she knew that this oddly dressed man represented no threat.
“My friends and I have a long ways yet to travel, so we cannot stop to help you or your family. And anyway, this is none of our business.” He had a leather bag or something on his back. Pulling it around in front of him, he fumbled around inside until he found what he was looking for. “But since they are taking everything, I want to give you something. It is a little dolly. It was given to me by a very wise old lady named Meruba. I know that she would want you to take it.”
Opening his fingers, he revealed a tiny doll lying in his palm. Small enough to fit in her hand, it was carved from a black material that she did not recognize.
“It’s very nice. Thank you, sir.”
Reaching forward, he used very long fingers to brush hair out of her eyes. “You are welcome, child.” He started to rise.
“What’s it made of? I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“It is a kind of glass, but not the glass that is made by people. This kind comes from deep within the earth. Sometimes we find it lying about on the ground where I come from. It takes a good edge and makes fine knives and spearpoints. But your dolly is all smooth and polished. It will not cut you.”
One of his companions shouted something to him. They had moved on past the house and were waiting for him to catch up. “I have to go now,” he told her. “My friends are calling me.” He paused a moment, then added, “Tell your mommy and daddy to go to whoever is in charge of bad things like this. If they will do that, I have a feeling they might be able to get some of their things back.”
“Yes sir. I will, sir.” The girl clutched the diminutive black doll to her chest. The volcanic glass was slick and cold and slightly waxy-feeling to the touch.
The tall, kindly stranger rejoined his companions and they were soon gone from sight. She concentrated on the doll, cooing and murmuring to it. So she did not see her father rise from his knees to charge Proctor Bisgrath angrily, or see the blood fly from his head as an alert soldier caught him a heavy blow from behind with the solid wooden shaft of his pike. She did not see or hear her screaming mother throw herself atop the crumpled, unconscious form, or hear the soldiers laugh as they roughly pulled her away in the direction of the rosebushes that had been her pride and joy.
Ignoring his minions’ harmless frolic, Bisgrath continued to supervise the plundering until even he was convinced there was nothing more to strip from the dwelling. Content with the day’s work and not a little tired, he ordered the wagons formed up. Obedient soldiers fell into lines on either side of the booty, flanking the two carry-alls. At the Proctor’s directive, they began to move out. The larger wagon would be escorted triumphantly back to the city hall. Its smaller sibling would find itself diverted down a little-used side street, eventually to come to rest in the impressive enclosed courtyard of the majestic mansion of Cuween Bisgrath, Proctor General of Bondressey.
Tugging on the reins, the Proctor turned to follow the procession. A shimmer of light caught his eye and made him pause. Curious, he turned back and trotted over to the source of the gleam. It lay in the open palm of a little girl.
Leaning down from the saddle, he smiled unctuously and gestured at the object. “What have you there, child?”
She replied without looking up at him. “I’m not talking to you. You hurt my mommy and daddy.”
“Tut now, child. I am only