Rigg fell silent and listened.
“I’m pinned under the tree,” said Father.
Rigg cried out and took a step toward the tree.
“Stop!” cried Father.
Rigg stopped.
“You see the size of the tree,” said Father. “You cannot lift it. You cannot move it.”
“With a lever, Father, I could—”
“You cannot move it because I have been pierced by two branches, completely through my belly.”
Rigg cried out, imagining the pain of it, feeling his own fear at Father’s injury. Father was never hurt. Father never even got sick.
“Any further movement of the tree will kill me, Rigg. I have used all my strength calling to you. Listen now and don’t waste what life I have left on any kind of argument.”
“I won’t argue,” Rigg said.
“First, you must make your most solemn promise that you will not come look at me, now while I’m alive or later after I’m dead. I don’t want you to have this terrible image in your memory.”
It couldn’t possibly be worse than what I’m imagining, Rigg said silently. Then he silently gave himself Father’s own answer: You can’t possibly know whether what you imagine is worse than the reality. I can see the reality, you can’t, so . . . shut up.
“I can’t believe you didn’t argue with me right then,” said Father.
“I did,” said Rigg. “You just didn’t hear me.”
“All right then,” said Father. “Your oath.”
“I promise.”
“Say it all. Say the words.”
It took all Rigg’s concentration to obey. “I promise solemnly that I will not come look at you, either now while you’re alive or later after you’re dead.”
“And you will keep this promise, even to a dead man?” asked Father.
“I recognize your purpose and I agree with it,” said Rigg. “Whatever I imagine might be awful, but I will know that I don’t know that it’s true. Whereas even if the reality is not as bad as what I imagine, I will know it is real, and therefore it will be a memory and not my imagination, and that will be far more terrible.”
“So because you agree with my purpose,” said Father, “following your own inclination will lead you to obey me and to keep your oath.”
“This subject has been adequately covered,” said Rigg, echoing Father’s own way of saying, We have achieved understanding, so let’s move on.
“Go back to where we parted,” said Father. “Wait there till morning and harvest from the traps. Do all the work that needs doing, collect all the traps so you don’t lose any of them, and then carry the pelts to our cache. Take all the pelts from there and carry them back to the village. The burden will be heavy, but you can carry it, though you don’t have your manheight yet, if you take frequent rests. There is no hurry.”
“I understand,” said Rigg.
“Did I ask you whether you understand? Of course you understand. Don’t waste my time.”
Silently Rigg said, My two words didn’t waste as much time as your three sentences.
“Take what you can get for the pelts before you tell anyone I’m dead—they’ll cheat you less if they expect me to return for an accounting.”
Rigg said nothing, but he was thinking: I know what to do, Father. You taught me how to bargain, and I’m good at it.
“Then you must go and find your sister,” said Father.