Chapter 15 The Child At The Weir

On the sixth day of the fifteen a child went into the weir at the foot of the long street, and the child was not Avelin's child and the child was not Trenn's child and the child was the seventh-year-old son of the man who cut wood at the third door, and the child had been chasing a ball, and the ball had gone in the water, and the child had followed the ball, and the weir was four feet deep at the low of the month, and the fourth hour had come, and the water was the water. Avelin was in the kitchen at the fourth hour with her hand on the rail of the stair she had come down six days before. She heard it before she saw it. She heard it the way she heard everything, which was with the Read. The Read was the attribute. The attribute was the rank. The rank was the warden. The warden was the House. The House had marked her exhausted. She did not go to the weir. She stood in the kitchen with her hand on the rail and her breath in her chest and the bread on the table, and the bread was the bread, and the step was dry, and the coal was on the step, and the cloth was holding, and the child was in the water at the foot of the long street, and the long street was the long street, and the weir was four feet deep. Nyall Hallowfen came in the door at the same moment she stood at the rail, because Nyall had heard it too, and Nyall had not heard it with the Read, and Nyall had heard it with the ears of a woman who had lived next door for nineteen years and knew the voice of every child on the street and knew that the voice of the seventh-year-old had gone thin and far away. "He is in the weir," Nyall said. "I know." "Then go." "I know." "He is four feet deep in four feet of water and it is the fourth hour and the fourth hour is the hour of the cold and the cold is the thing that does not spend and does not record and does not write." "I know." Nyall looked at her. Nyall did not move. Nyall put her basket on the step and she put the bread in the basket and she went to the door and she stood in the door and she looked at Avelin Cindermill, warden of the Hourhouse at Draymoor, exhausted by the rolls on the twenty-second of the second month, marked at 1174, owed nothing, recovered nothing, standing in her own kitchen with her hand on her own rail. "You have four days left," Nyall said. "You have four days left. You have a child in the weir at the foot of your street. You have a Read that would take him out of the water in the time it takes to think of his name. The thinking would spend. The spending would be metal. The metal has stopped because the rolls marked you. The rolls are wrong. The wrong is 1174. 1174 is not zero. The four feet of water is the fourth hour. The fourth hour is the hour you wake. You wake at the fourth hour because you have decided to wake. The deciding is the spending. The spending is the thing you have stopped. The stopping is the short book. The short book is the not going." Avelin put her hand on the rail. She held the rail. She did not read the kitchen. She did not weigh the bread. She did not reach for the door. She stood there with her hand on the wood and the wood warm under her palm. The warm was the Reach. The Reach was the spending. The spending was the thing that had stopped. "Go to the stair," Avelin said. "I have come to the door." "Then you will not go to the weir." "I will not go to the weir." "Then I will go." "I said you will not go." "Nyall." "I said you will not go. I said it and I said it because I have lived next to you for nineteen years and I have asked you to hold a ladder and you have held the ladder and I am asking you to not hold this child out of the water, because the holding is the spending and the spending is the metal and the metal is stopped and the stopping is the rolls and the rolls are wrong and the wrong is yours and I will not have you spend four days to save a boy whose father will come for the ball and not for you, and I will not have you do it, and I will not have you do it, and I will go to the weir and I will stand in the water and the water is four feet and I am a woman of sixty-three and my legs will do the four feet and the boy will come up and his father will come for the ball." Nyall went. She went out the door and down the long street and to the weir, and she did not look back, and the basket was on her arm, and the basket had the bread, and the bread was the bread. Avelin stood in the kitchen with her hand on the rail. She stood there for the length of the minute, and the minute was the minute, and the water was four feet, and the boy was in the water, and the boy was seven, and seven was the seventh of the ninth month, and the ninth month was the month of the wheat, and the wheat was in the field, and the field was past the Yard, and the Yard was on the long street, and the long street was going on, and the door was closed, and the step was dry, and the coal was on the step, and the cloth was holding, and the bread was on the table, and the bread was hers, and the salt was on the bread, and the salt was hers. She ate the bread. She ate the bread with the salt. She sat down at the table. She put her hand flat on the wood. The wood was the wood of the table. The table was the table of the house. The house was on Vail Street. Vail Street was on the long street. The long street went to the Yard. The Yard had a bench in it. The bench would have her at the third hour on the nineteenth of the third month. Nine days. The nine days were the short book. The short book was the not going. The not going was the thing she had done. The doing was the spending. The spending was the metal. The metal had stopped. At the fifth hour Nyall came back. She came in the door with her basket on her arm and the boy in the other, and the boy was seven, and the boy was wet, and the boy was crying, and Nyall was wet to the knee, and her legs had done the four feet. "Your mother held the rail," the boy said, to no one in particular, because the boy was seven and the boy had been in the water and the boy did not know what holding the rail was. "Nyall held the stair," Avelin said. "Nyall held the boy," the boy said. "Nyall held the boy," Avelin said. She stood up. She went to the door. She opened the door. She took the boy from Nyall's arm with both hands and she did not lift him with her Load, and she did not read him with her Read, and she did not reach for the step with her Reach, and she held him with her hands, and the holding cost nothing, and the holding was hers, and the boy was seven, and the boy was warm. She carried him to the third door. She put him at the door of the third door. The father came. The father came for the ball and then for the boy, because the father was the father, and the father did not ask what was on the arm. "Thank you," the father said, to Nyall. "You are welcome," Nyall said. And Nyall went in her own door. She shut her own door. She did not come to Avelin's. Avelin stood on her own step with the bread in her hand and the salt on the bread. The day was going on. The day was the sixth of the fifteen. The fifteen was the short book. The short book was the not going. ---