Wave Without A Shore

XXV

Herrin buried the remains, such as his crippled hands could not handle, and the skin and bones. He had a small store of meat, which he had stripped with his teeth—his fingers could not do it—and which he dried over the coals and hoped to keep. He felt sick in one sense, but better with something in his belly. The tremors had stopped. He dug with his booted heel and dumped the pitiful scraps into the pit, then smoothed the earth with the edge of his hand, soiling the bandage, which already was soiled, with grease. "Sbi," he called, and after a time, "Sbi!"

Sbi returned, pausing before the statue in an attitude of—offering, Herrin thought, watching the gesture. Tribute, perhaps, to a forgotten artist; or to a god who believed ahnit into reality.

Eventually Sbi came to him and sank down again.

"I'm all right," Herrin said. "Maybe I can walk now."

Sbi moved close to him and put a rangy arm about him. "No. Rest."

"For what, Sbi? Where do we go? To your own kind? Or is this where we stay?"

Sbi said nothing for a moment. "No. You tell me where you want to go."

"Sbi, why are you doing this?"

"Tell me where you want to go."

"Back to the city? Is that what you want me to say?"

"Tell me where you want to go."

He rested against Sbi and thought a while. "The river, higher up the river. There's a town called Camus. There's a valley up in the hills; a farm. I'd like to go there, Sbi."

"I know Camus," Sbi said.

"There," said Herrin.

"You came from this place."

"You know a great deal about me."

"Remember how long I've observed."

"I came from that valley. Yes. I want to go back there."

"All right," Sbi said.

No argument, no discussion. "You want something," Herrin surmised. "Is this it?"

"Go where you wish. I'll help you."

"Why?"

Sbi said nothing. But he had not expected answers from Sbi.