Free The Piano Tuner by Daniel Mason Page A

sea south, with the prayer that I would find
the source of the
belaidour,
and with it the water that nourished
those who traded it.
    I walked for the remainder of the day, and into
the night. I still remember the arc of the moon as it passed through the sky.
It wasn’t half full, but the cloudless sky gave no shelter from the light
that cast itself over the water and sand. What I don’t remember is that
sometime during the night I lay down to rest, and I fell asleep.
    I
awoke to the gentle prodding of a goatherd’s staff and opened my eyes to
see two young boys, wearing only loincloths and necklaces. One of them crouched
in front of me, staring with a quizzical gaze. The other, who looked younger,
stood behind him, watching over his shoulder. We stayed like this for the
duration of many breaths, neither of us moving, watching only, he squatting,
holding his knees, looking curiously, defiantly into my eyes. Slowly I rose to
a sitting position, never dropping my gaze. I raised my hand and greeted him in
my own tongue.
    The boy didn’t move. Briefly his eyes left my face
and jumped to my hand, stared at it, and looked back at my face. The boy behind
him said something in a language that I didn’t understand, and the older
one nodded, still not dropping his gaze. He raised his free hand behind him,
and the younger boy unstrapped a leather canteen from his shoulders and placed
it in the raised hand. The older boy untied a thin lace from the mouth of the
bag and handed it to me. I raised the bag to my lips, closed my eyes, and began
to drink.
    I was so thirsty I could have emptied the bag ten times
over. But the heat bid temperance; I did not know where the water had come
from, nor how much remained. Finished drinking, I lowered the bag and handed it
back to the older boy, who tied it without looking, his fingers winding the
leather lace. He stood up and spoke to me in a loud voice, and although the
language was foreign, the commanding tone of a child faced with responsibility
is universal. I waited. He spoke again, louder this time. I pointed to my mouth
and shook my head, as today I point to my ears. For then I was not yet deaf.
That story is yet to come.
    Beside me, the boy spoke again, loud and
sharply, as if frustrated. He stamped his staff on the ground. I waited a
moment and then rose slowly, to show I did so out of my own will and not for
all his shouting. I would not let myself be commanded by a boy.
    Once I
had risen, I had my first chance to examine the landscape around us. I had
fallen asleep by water, and no further than thirty paces ahead I could see
where a little brook bubbled into the estuary, casting reflected currents
across the pebbles. At its mouth, a scattering of pale plants clung to the
rocks. I stopped at the brook to drink. The boys waited and said nothing, and
soon we continued, up a bluff where a pair of goats gnawed at the grasses. The
boys prodded them along, and we followed a dry streambed that must have fed the
river in the rains.
    It was morning, but already hot, and canyon walls
rose on either side of the sandy path, intensifying both the heat and the sound
of our steps. The boys’ voices echoed as they chattered to the goats,
strange sounds that I recall vividly. Now that I am old, I wonder if this was
due to any physical property of the canyon, or because in less than two days I
would no longer hear.
    We followed the canyon for several miles, until
at a bend identical to hundreds we had passed in our route the goats scampered
instinctively up a steep trail. The boys followed nimbly, their sandals finding
impossible toeholds in the sandy wall. I tried my best to keep up, but slipped,
skinning my knee before finding a solid grip and pulling myself up the trail
they had so delicately trod. At the top I remember stopping to inspect my leg.
It was a small, superficial wound and would dry immediately in the heat. And
yet I remember this action, not for itself but for what followed. For when