Free Marianne, the Matchbox, and the Malachite Mouse by Sheri S. Tepper Page A

pleasant-looking young person, interesting in that he seemed unconscious of her as a Grisl. He quietly accepted her as a thinking being, or so it seemed, without any of that coy shyness which so many males used on all occasions of converse with Grisls of any age or condition. He was relaxing, somewhat as she had often found Sneeth to be.
    They returned along the path, stopping in bewilderment at a fork in the way. Buttercup had not noticed it on the way, and she had no idea which of the two paths before them had been her original one. They chose the left-hand path, which seemed a bit less overgrown, only to confront still another fork before they had wound their way another five hundred paces. Again choosing the left-hand way – for Buttercup seemed to remember that the forest had been on her left as she came up the river and therefore the road should lie to the left if she was faced in the opposite direction – they went on until darkness made it impossible to go farther. It was obvious to both of them that they would have to wait until morning when the sun would give them direction.
    Honsl settled himself against a tree with his animal and spoke in a desultory way about the weather, happenings at the Palace, the funeral observances conducted in the village for the Old Queen, and other such trivial conversation. He spoke of the state of agriculture in the province (it had been a wet spring) and of how he had acquired the dog. It had been part of the stock in trade of an importer who had gone bankrupt, owing Honsl a large printing bill. Honsl had taken the dog, so he said, ‘for company,’ in settlement of the debt. He had no knowledge of where the creature originated or what system it may have been native to, and Buttercup told him what she had read of dogs, also mentioning that she found the example before her in every way inferior to the native fauna. It had no grace. It made no attractive noises. It smelled.
    Honsl admitted that it did smell but said that one grew attached to the noises the thing made and to its affectionate nature. Buttercup reflected that males were notoriously whimsical in their desires; that many of them made collections of useless and trivial things – witness Mr Thrumm! – and that it was no part of her duty to educate this village printer in matters esthetic. She congratulated him on his acquisition and settled herself to rest.
    It was at this moment that the dog, who had been quiet for some time, hruffed. He was standing, muzzle pointed at a spark of light which flickered among the windblown branches. Honsl saw it as well, and Buttercup suggested that they walk toward it, slowly, in order not to fall into any holes or ditches. As they grew closer, the light was seen to come from a cottage window. The dog went ahead, uttering a brusque ‘harf, harf, harf sound. Considering the unpleasantness of the sound, Buttercup was not surprised when the occupant of the cottage, an aged and unattractive Grisl of forbidding aspect, came out to see who was approaching, light streaming from the doorway behind her to fill the dooryard with shadows.
    The dwelling was small, done up in a style popular during the reign of Hermione, called variously ‘Marple Cookie’ or ‘Marple Bread,’ after the spicy and highly ornamented cakes which it much resembled. Buttercup was hungry enough that the idea made her mouth water. The Grisl beckoned them forward, identifying herself as Mother Marple, at which Buttercup could not suppress a giggle. It was exactly like something out of a children’s story. What followed was precisely as might have been foretold. Mother Marple offered them marple bread. At that, Buttercup did laugh, though the old Grisl patted her head very kindly, searching her face, or that of it which could be seen, with serious concentration. Buttercup chose not to take offense. There would be time for that in daylight.
    The old Grisl pointed the direction and told them they could find the road easily