Chapter 9: the belgariad pawn of prophecy 9
"His horizons are quite broad enough, thank you," she said.
Garion's heart sank.
"Still," she continued, "at least I can count on him not to forget my
spices altogether or to become so fuddled with ale that he confuses
peppercorns with cloves or cinnamon with nutmeg. Very well, take the boy
along; but mind, I don't want you taking him into any low or
disreputable places."
"Mistress Pol!" the old man said, feigning shock. "Would I frequent such places?"
"I know you too well, Old Wolf," she said dryly. "You take to vice
and corruption as naturally as a duck takes to a pond. If I hear that
you've taken the boy into any unsavory place, you and I will have
words."
"Then I'll have to make sure that you don't hear of anything like that, won't I?"
Aunt Pol gave him a hard look. "I'll see which spices I need," she said.
"And I'll borrow a horse and cart from Faldor," the old man said, stealing another cruller.
In a surprisingly short time, Garion and the old man were bouncing
along the rutted road to Upper Gralt behind a fast-trotting horse. It
was a bright summer morning, and there were a few dandelion-puff' clouds
in the sky and deep blue shadows under the hedgerows. After a few
hours, however, the sun became hot, and the jolting ride became
tiresome.
"Are we almost there?" Garion asked for the third time.
"Not for some time yet," the old man said. "Ten leagues is a goodly distance."
"I was there once before," Garion told him, trying to sound casual.
"Of course I was only a child at the time, so I don't remember too much
about it. It seemed to be quite a fine place."
The old man shrugged. "It's a village," he said, "much like any other." He seemed a bit preoccupied.
Garion, hoping to nudge the old man into a story to make the miles go faster, began asking questions.
"Why is it that you have no name - if I'm not being impolite in asking?"
"I have many names," the old man said, scratching his white beard. "Almost as many names as I have years."
"I've only got one," Garion said.
"So far."
"What?"
"You only have one name so far," the old man explained. "In time you
may get another - or even several. Some people collect names as they go
along through their lives. Sometimes names wear out just like clothes."
"Aunt Pol calls you Old Wolf," Garion said.
"I know," the old man said. "Your Aunt Pol and I have known each other for a very long time."
"Why does she call you that?"
"Who can say why a woman such as your Aunt does anything?"
"May I call you Mister Wolf?" Garion asked. Names were quite
important to Garion, and the fact that the old storyteller did not seem
to have one had always bothered him. That namelessness had made the old
man seem somehow incomplete, unfinished.
The old man looked at him soberly for a moment, and then he burst out laughing.
"Mister Wolf indeed. How very appropriate. I think I like that name better than any I've had in years."
"May I then?" Garion asked. "Call you Mister Wolf, I mean?"
"I think I'd like that, Garion. I think I'd like that very much."
"Now would you please tell me a story, Mister Wolf?" Garion asked.
The time and distance went by much faster then as Mister Wolf wove
for Garion tales of glorious adventure and dark treachery taken from
those gloomy, unending centuries of the Arendish civil wars.
"Why are the Arends like that?" Garion asked after a particularly grim tale.
"The Arends are very noble," Wolf said, lounging back in the seat of
the cart with the reins held negligently in one hand. "Nobility is a
trait that's not always trustworthy, since it sometimes causes men to do
things for obscure reasons."
"Rundorig is an Arend," Garion said. "He sometimes seems to bewell, not too quick of thought, if you know what I mean."
"It's the effect of all that nobility," Wolf said. "Arends spend so
much time concentrating on being noble that they don't have time to
think of other things."
They came over the crest of a long hill, and there in the next valley
lay the village of Upper Gralt. To Garion the tiny cluster of gray
stone houses with slate roofs seemed disappointingly small. Two roads,
white with thick dust, intersected there, and there were a few narrow,
winding streets besides. The houses were square and solid, but seemed
almost like toys set down in the valley below. The horizon beyond was
ragged with the mountains of eastern Sendaria, and, though it was
summer, the tops of most of the mountains were still wrapped in snow.
Their tired horse plodded down the hill toward the village, his
hooves stirring little clouds of dust with each step, and soon they were
clattering along the cobblestoned streets toward the center of the
village. The villagers, of course, were all too important to pay any
attention to an old man and a small boy in a farm cart. The women wore
gowns and high-pointed hats, and the men wore doublets and soft velvet
caps. Their expressions seemed haughty, and they looked with obvious
disdain at the few farmers in town who respectfully stood aside to let
them pass.
"They're very fine, aren't they?" Garion observed.
"They seem to think so," Wolf said, his expression faintly amused. "I
think it's time that we found something to eat, don't you?"
Though he had not realized it until the old man mentioned it, Garion
was suddenly ravenous. "Where will we go?" he asked. "They all seem so
splendid. Would any of them let strangers sit at their tables?"
Wolf laughed and shook a jingling purse at his waist. "We should have
no trouble making acquaintances," he said. "There are places where one
may buy food."
Buy food? Garion had never heard of such a thing before. Anyone who
appeared at Faldor's gate at mealtime was invited to the table as a
matter of course. The world of the villagers was obviously very
different from the world of Faldor's farm.
"But I don't have any money," he objected.
"I've enough for us both," Wolf assured him, stopping their horse
before a large, low building with a sign bearing a picture of a cluster
of grapes hanging just above its door. There were words on the sign, but
of course Garion could not read them.
"What do the words say, Mister Wolf?" he asked.
"They say that food and drink may be bought inside," Wolf told him, getting down from the cart.
"It must be a fine thing to be able to read," Garion said wistfully.
The old man looked at him, seemingly surprised. "You can't read, boy?"
he asked incredulously.
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