“Do you like her?” Sphinx asks Blind, a shadow from where I’m sitting.
I cut the song short, afraid of missing the answer.
“No,” Blind says after a pause. “Not really. She had this disgusting habit when she was little. She’d knock me over and run away laughing. It really ticked me off. Elk told me never to hit girls, or I’d have given her a thrashing.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Sphinx says thoughtfully. “She always tried to shove you. I couldn’t really understand it. She wasn’t usually that way.”
I position myself by the entrance to the freshly constructed burrow, hugging Sphinx’s pillow.
“Yep,” I say. “In civilized societies little boys pull the hair of the little girls they like. And put dead mice in their pockets. To say nothing about tripping them. Which is how they express their love. We borrowed this kind of behavior from our prehistoric ancestors. Those were simpler times. You see a girl, you ogle at her, you whack her on the head with a woolly-mammoth bone—and that’s your wedding, right there. Later generations were more interested in peeking under the long skirts of their girl companions, where they, being smart to those ways, wore lacy underpants. Besides, the sight of a crying girl all spattered with mud is so touching. They unleash a maelstrom of feelings in the heart of the suitor, those pretty tears.”
“I doubt Blind looked particularly pretty when tripped up,” Sphinx mutters. “To say nothing about tears and lacy underpants. You’re over-philosophizing it, Jackal.”
“I thought I specifically mentioned the civilized societies? Of course, here it’s the other way around.”
“Let’s get some sleep,” Blind says. “Or next thing we know, Black was crazy about me and that’s why he was pummeling me all day long. To marvel at how beautiful I was when in tears.”
“Why not?” Sphinx sneers. “A fascinating concept. Except it would mean that with me it was simply love at first sight. Black clearly liked my tears much more than yours. And I had such a lot of them to share with him.”
“Guys, will you stop with the gossiping?” Humpback’s voice drones from the upper bunk. “He’s sleeping right here, you know, and you’re babbling this god-awful nonsense about him.”
“Play us something soft, Shaggy,” Sphinx asks, looking up. “A nighttime serenade. Jackal chased away our dreams, and all that’s left is gossip. Distract us.”
“Yeah, go on. That way no one sleeps,” Blind says.
Humpback stirs, then swings his legs down and begins playing. I jump into the burrow, intending to fall asleep to his flute, so I need to hurry before he stops. But I don’t pull my head in yet because Sphinx and Blind are still up, which means they might still discuss something interesting. Except they don’t. So there we are. They’re silent, I’m silent. Humpback plays, warding off the gossip.
THE HOUSE
INTERLUDE
Grasshopper felt something as soon as he stepped inside the Tenth. A change not apparent to the eye. Ancient was hunched over the chess board cogitating, chin on knuckles.
Grasshopper crouched down on the floor.
Ancient never greeted him. He behaved as if Grasshopper didn’t leave and come back, as if their meetings were not separated by hours and days. Grasshopper had gotten used to that and had even come to like it.
He looked at the amulet box. Empty. Ajar, it lay on the mattress next to the board.
Ancient traced Grasshopper’s gaze and let the long fingers rummage inside the box. Then brought them closer to his eyes and shook off the dust.
“No more left. I’ve given it all away.”
Grasshopper craned his neck and peeked in.
“Really, all of it?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yes.”
Ancient clicked the top shut and put the empty box away.
“So there will be no more amulets?”
Dejectedly, Grasshopper waited for an explanation. A lock of hair fell over his eyes, but he was afraid to move to push it away.
“I’m leaving. Going home.”
Here, in Ancient’s room, these words sounded strange. Like he wasn’t the one who actually said them. How could he have a home? Ancient was where he was. He had been born here, he grew up here, and he became ancient here. That was obvious to anyone looking at him and talking to him.
Grasshopper shuffled his shoe over the dark wine-stain spots.
“Why?”
Ancient moved one of the pieces and flicked another off with the fingernail.
“I am nineteen,” he said. “It’s well past time.”
These words also shifted something. Just like his mention of a home. He couldn’t be any age. He was outside of age, outside of time itself—until he broke the spell by saying the number. And it still didn’t explain anything.
“Everyone else is staying until summer. Why aren’t you?”
