Black Stone City was greeting Morning with a new burden. Ethan James was aware of it when he first opened his eyes, a kind of pressure in the air that did not have anything to do with the weather or suffering. His physical pains were still there, still giving him the awareness of every tender joint and every sore muscle, but just under that old pain there was an uneasy consciousness the feeling that there was something outside his own little routine making a movement. He lay still a few minutes, hearing the city rise to waking with indistinct patches, voices carried away and the clatter of carts and the hollow ring of metal on stone.
He got up gradually with caution not to dissipate his strength on useless motion, and waited until his breath calmed before he got on his feet. The vertigo which had seemed threatening to draw the ground out under his feet was nearly gone now and the sway, which had been checked in its course, was easily managed and soon controlled. That was sufficient evidence all by itself that the days of quiet weary toil were adding up to a point. Progress, he had studied, was not often dramatic, but rather expressed itself in moderation and repression instead of in success.
The air outside was sharp and the future heat was suggested. It is the habit that did not make Ethan hesitate, and he was in the shack in a flash, and going through his exercises, his body performing the movements with a kind of obedience which was now habitual. Both expansions and reversals of equilibrium were calculated, every suspension was imposed, by which means sensation gradually rose and fell without thrusting it away. He no longer scurried up to find the warmness of his inner being which he had found, but allowed it to appear of its own accord, and he was certain that patience would draw it nearer to him than demand would ever have done.
Training him he got to know that he could feel something moving outside the habitual solitude. Just distant footsteps, at a slower rate than that of busy people, were accompanied by low voices, which stopped too often to be accidental. Ethan did not raise his eyes right away, and he did not want to be distracted, but he registered the presence nevertheless. Black Stone City had neglected him several days, and scarred him off as a broken man trying to hold his own so he could be pushed into the fringes. He had guessed that indifference was starting to wear.
As he at last straightened himself up and wiped his brow, he glanced instinctively toward the cause of whatever was going on. There were two men standing there by the broken fence, who were doing a bad job of examining loose boards, and whose eyes were following his movements with an open mouth. They were neither cultivators, nor in any real sense, but the confidence of their stance was that of those who are used to usurped power. Ethan knew the type at once, the kind which lived on being close to more influential persons, on feeding information downwards, in return of defence.
He did not confront them. He failed to recognise them in any way. Rather, he packed his belongings with leisurely composure and went back into the shack leaving them with only the memory of the calmness that they had hoped strength would bring. He sat on the edge of the bed within, and gave himself a silent sigh, knowing that this was a necessary process. Increase courted growth and growth risked our attention. The movement was starting to be felt in the city where no one thought it should move.
Later in the day Lily came back earlier than usual with the same troubled look she could not quite conceal. Instead of walking off, she laid the food down with caution, and lingered, trying to think of the words with her hands crossed. Ethan was silent observers of her, giving her the room to determine the amount of information she wanted to impart. Once she had spoken it was in a low voice, full of questioning instead of fear.
Frazer, people are talking, said she without looking up. Not loudly, but enough. They tell you you have been galloping around, that you are not so warped as you used to be. It seems to some of them to be strange.
Ethan shook his head, and was not surprised. Quaint was another term most frequently used to describe the change that was not expected. He said thank you and told her and assured her with a calm which he sincerely felt, though he underestimated the consequences. There was little to keep rumors small in Black Stone City, and they rose to the surface, pulled in inexorably their direction by power and display.
When she had gone, Ethan passed the rest of the afternoon in thoughtful contemplation, reconsidering his habits and modifying them with fresh caution. He also restricted himself to the most restrained kinds of movements, instead of straining himself to external activity. The weak warmth reacted with submission, in short, secure throbs that left him exhausted and unharmed. Now he realized that endurance alone worked no good as strength, but that he must know when to hide his progress as much as he was taking care of it.
As the night fell upon the outlying areas, Ethan came out once more, but this time he stayed in the shadows that were projected by irregular walls and shattered buildings. He stepped with a delicacy that would otherwise have been unwarranted days before, and now seemed to have prudence. He watched the movement of the people along the principal approaches, at a distance, and observed theiffs and stops which were indicating, instead of ordinary traffic, informal patrols. The presence of Marcus Reed was something that was left behind like a stain, which one could not see, but felt via the way people deferred, adapted, and observed.
Ethan went back to the shack before the sky was quite dark enough to claim him, and he did not want to ask to be challenged. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes inwardly without resisting the exhaustion of the day. The hurt did not go away, but it was constant and accustomed, but it no longer characterised him. What was important was the pressure that was mounting up under the surface the realization that his isolation was coming to a close regardless of whether he liked it or not.
That evening slumber was broken, and half-formed dreams and flash courses of wakefulness punctuated it. In one he was the same in a thick throng of a courtyard, but not the butt of the joke, but the focus of the attention, with an expectant atmosphere, not an expressive one. He rose early in the morning with a steady heart, a clear mind and took the message without holding on to it.
This extra attention did not dissipate with the morning but it just got sharper. Now, as the sun rose, Ethan made a note of the way there was a break in conversation when he passed in hearing distance, how the glance lingered a fraction longer before glancing away. It was not hostile yet not, but rather interested inquiry with doubt upon its edge, the type of inquiry that went before judgment. Black Stone City was built upon labels, and when you had a name bestowed upon you, it stuck like dust in the lungs. Ethan knew that much too well to realize that he was too far to go to be noticed any longer.
He changed his grove still more and moved away out of the shack and towards the part of the city that was abandoned that the stones and rusting tools had been thrown away. The floor there was rougher, and odd enough to reward thoughtless footing, but it had something that was good, and that was space. He had practiced balance in all his movements thus making his weak body adjust to instability instead of opposing it. Every wrong step sent a jabbing reminder down his bones and he welcomed it, taking the pain as a guide instead of a hindrance.
Hours went by in this tedious, interminable concentration till his breathing deepened and a little inner warmth answered with more regularity. It was no longer wavering and wobbling, but throbbing in short, controlled impulses which caused his members to tremble, but to be responsive. He halted ere fatigue should nullify the acquisitions and sat down on a smooth boulder and left the feeling to rest. It was a restraint, which, by frequent failure, he had acquired, and it was a change not only in his body, but of his thoughts. Power made out of lawlessness was just noise.
When he lay asleep, some one came to him--light-footed and hesitating--some one accustomed to him. Lily came out between two leaning constructions looking a thoroughly relieved and troubled person when she saw him sitting and not huddled. She gave him a packet of food that was wrapped and sat next to him with no invitation, but with a grave concern in her heart. Then, after a moment, she talked, and her voice was scarcely audible over the wind in broken walls.
The name of Marcus Reed came up to-day, she thought to herself. People were speculating not directly but people were speculating. They believe that he may go and visit you in person in case the rumors continue to spread.
Ethan took in the information without any apparent response, but a coldness in his chest. He had expected this to happen, but to hear it said aloud was to put it into weight. Marcus Reed did not interfere out of intrigue; he did it to show his dominance, to remind others who they were by entertaining them. Ethan mumbled thanks to Lily and promised her that she was doing enough, and stood on as she went away with hesitating steps.
As soon as he was alone again, Ethan stood, and moved again, not this time training, but walking. He followed the edge of the space gradually, catalogueing views and routes, observing where the shadows were and where the noises were. The training was not confined to the body, the mind had to be mapped as well. Any path was an escape or a trap, any way a choice that needed to be thrust.
When at last the dusk came round his muscles were aching deeply and satisfactorily, which meant that his recovery was assured, not his downfall. He went back to the shack and took care of his wounds with a professional hand, washing and wrapping without any hurry. The ritual helped to bring him back to his senses, reminding him of the reality of his state as well as the fact that the act of care was in itself a resistance. He was not just making his days, he was making them.
And on the night, when the darkness was coming and the tense restlessness of the city had settled into the apprehensive silence, Ethan sat up and thought of the road growing narrower ahead of him. The attention had detected him and with it came danger, but opportunity also. It was true that when pressed, weakness was shown, but determination, too. He once knew not when Marcus Reed should do what, but just that waiting itself was a trial.
Ethan shut his eyes, and took deep breaths, and made himself to be exhausted at last. He would take whatever might follow him like a man, or one who was walking, however shaky, with the weight of all he had gone through.