Читать книгу The Raven's Warrior - Vincent Pratchett - Страница 27

Balance

The beggar walked steadily bowl in hand for most of the day. The tattered black rags that he wore dangled precariously from his skinny shoulders. What remained of its hood covered most of his gaunt face, protecting him from burning sun or biting cold, depending on season and circumstance. In cities he sat cross-legged for brief periods of time at the center of life’s busy world. Skinny fingers held the bowl in his lap, and his head nodded grateful acknowledgement for each small contribution it received.

His life was defined by the concept of enough. Enough to eat, enough to carry, enough to rest, and enough to move on; he was a migratory bird.

He heard the distant marching of soldiers in formation growing louder and getting closer. He watched the passing ranks of the infantry and smelled the sweat and dust of their rhythmic cadence. He pressed closer to the walls that lined the street, his delicate frame hugged a bricked-up archway so that the cavalry could now pass without trampling him. The common people looked down and away from the sound of the passing military procession to minimize the risk of confrontation.

This beggar, however, was far from common, and so looked up and directly into the spiritless dark eyes of its mounted commander.

The powerful steed whinnied and rose in fear, while its rider tugged the reins and fought to bring it under his control. The commander struggled to regain his balance and once again in charge, reached down to the blade at his waist. The steady coal eyes of the beggar did not shift or loosen their grip and seemed to look past the wrecked visage of face and eyes and into the depths of a soul in torment.

Rethinking the actions of reflex, the leader justified his inability to act decisively with the logic that the black-garbed vermin before him was indeed valueless and not worth the time or trouble of killing. He pulled the reins tightly and with a kick of the triangular stirrups, horse and rider moved quickly on.

The times were indeed strange, pockets of sanity in a world gone largely mad. Power was now stolen by sword edge, and human worth measured by the accumulation of material wealth. Both the world and the universe, however, exist in a constant state of shifting balance. The dry dust settled, and the sounds of daily life returned quickly and filled the silent hollow left by the military passage. Hawkers again cried out to pitch their wares, and the sounds of animals mixed once more with human speech. The timeless noise of children playing and laughing soon echoed freely along the city streets. Life moved all around him. The coins in the brass bowl drank up the sunlight and were enough. It was his time to move on.