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. Outside. Someplace safe. Go, child." He
cleared her way to the door, pulling her with one hand.
As she stepped into the night, she said in a hurt voice,
"But why?"
Otik stopped dead. "Well, we'll talk about that later. Go,
child. I'm sorry."
He tried to kiss her good night. Tika, angry, ducked and
ran. "I want a place of my own!" she cried. Otik stared after
her, then closed the door and tried to get back to the fire.
The best he could do was edge to the bar. The dancers and
fighters had split into smaller but more boisterous groups, shouting
and singing to each other. Otik, unable even to feed the fire,
watched helplessly as the bodies became struggling silhouettes, the
silhouettes coupled shadows, the shadows a noisy dark. That night
the inn was full of joyous and angry voices, but all he could see,
by a single candle held near the mirror, was his own face, alone.
The next morning Otik stepped dazedly over broken mugs and
intertwined bodies. Most of the benches lay on their sides, one
completely turned over. It was like a battlefield, he thought, but for
the life of him he couldn't tell who won. There were bodies on
bodies, and clothing hung like banners over chairs, and out-flung
arms and wayward legs sticking from under the few pieces of
upright furniture. Tankards lay on their sides everywhere, and
everywhere pieces of pottery rocked on the floor as people snored
or groaned
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