“He has got a good memory?”
“Good is the wrong word. It's superb. He's word-perfect on the entire Sept-”
“Hmm?” said Vorbis.
Nhumrod caught the deacon's eye.
“As perfect, that is, as anything may be in this most imperfect world,” he muttered.
“A devoutly read young man,” said Vorbis.
“Er,” said Nhumrod, “no. He can't read. Or write.”
“Ah. A lazy boy.”
The deacon was not a man who dwelt in grey areas. Nhumrod's mouth opened and shut silently as he sought for the proper words.
“No,” he said. “He tries. We're sure he tries. He just does not seem to be able to make the . . . he cannot fathom the link between the sounds and the letters.”
“You have beaten him for that, at least?”
“It seems to have little effect, deacon.”
“How, then, has he become such a capable pupil?”
“He listens,” said Nhumrod.
No one listened quite like Brutha, he reflected. It made it very hard to teach him. It was like-it was like being in a great big cave. All your words just vanished into the unfillable depths of Brutha's head. The sheer concentrated absorption could reduce unwary tutors to stuttering silence, as every word they uttered whirled away into Brutha's ears.
“He listens to everything,” said Nhumrod. “And he watches everything. He takes it all in.”
Vorbis stared down at Brutha.
“And I've never heard him say an unkind word,” said Nhumrod. “The other novices make fun of him, sometimes. Call him The Big Dumb Ox. You know the sort of thing?”
Vorbis's gaze took in Brutha's ham-sized hands and tree-trunk legs.
He appeared to be thinking deeply.
“Cannot read and write,” said Vorbis. “But ex?tremely loyal, you say?”
“Loyal and devout,” said Nhumrod.
“And a good memory,” Vorbis murmured.
“It's more than that,” said Nhumrod. “It's not like memory at all.”
Vorbis appeared to reach a decision.
“Send him to see me when he is recovered,” he said.
Nhumrod looked panicky.
“I merely wish to talk to him,” said Vorbis. “I may have a use for him.”
“Yes, lord?”
“For, I suspect, the Great God Om moves in myste?rious ways.”