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"And you?"
"Everybody calls me Olhado. Because of my eyes." He picked up the little girl and put her on his shoulders. "But my real name's Lauro. Lauro Suleimao Ribeira." He grinned, then turned around and strode off.
Ender followed. Ribeira. Of course.
Jane had been listening, too, and spoke from the jewel in his ear. "Lauro Suleimao Ribeira is Novinha's fourth child. He lost his eyes in a laser accident. He's twelve years old. Oh, and I found one difference between the Ribeira family and the rest of the town. The Ribeiras are willing to defy the Bishop and lead you where you want to go."
I noticed something, too, Jane, he answered silently. This boy enjoyed deceiving me, and then enjoyed even more letting me see how I'd been fooled. I just hope you don't take lessons from him.
Miro sat on the hillside. The shade of the trees made him invisible to anyone who might be watching from Milagre, but he could see much of the town from here--certainly the cathedral and the monastery on the highest hill, and then the observatory on the next hill to the north. And under the observatory, in a depression in the hillside, the house where he lived, not very far from the fence.
"Miro," whispered Leaf-eater. "Are you a tree?"
It was a
translation from the pequeninos' idiom. Sometimes they meditated, holding themselves motionless for hours. They called this "being a tree."
"More like a blade of grass," Miro answered.
Leaf-eater giggled in the high, wheezy way he had. It never sounded natural--the pequeninos had learned laughter by rote, as if it were simply another word in Stark. It didn't arise out of amusement, or at least Miro didn't think it did.
"Is it going to rain?" asked Miro. To a piggy this meant: are you interrupting me for my own sake, or for yours?
"It rained fire today," said Leaf-eater. "Out in the prairie."
"Yes. We have a visitor from another world."
"Is it the Speaker?"
Miro didn't answer.
"You must bring him to see us."
Miro didn't answer.
"I root my face in the ground for you, Miro, my limbs are lumber for your house."
Miro hated it when they begged for something. It was as if they thought of him as someone particularly wise or strong, a parent from whom favors must be wheedled. Well, if they felt that way, it was his own fault. His and Libo's. Playing God out here among the piggies.
"I promised, didn't I, Leaf-eater?"
"When when when?"
"It'll take time. I have to find out whether he can be trusted."
Leaf-eater looked baffled. Miro had tried to explain that not all humans knew each other, and some weren't nice, but they never seemed to understand.
"As soon as I can," Miro said.
Suddenly Leaf-eater began to rock back and forth on the ground, shifting his hips from side to side as if he were trying to relieve an itch in his anus. Libo had speculated once that this was what performed the same function that laughter did for humans. "Talk to me in piddle-geese!" wheezed Leaf-eater. Leaf-eater always seemed to be greatly amused that Miro and the other Zenadors spoke two languages interchangeably. This despite the fact that at least four different piggy languages had been recorded or at least hinted at over the years, all spoken by this same tribe of piggies.
But if he wanted to hear Portuguese, he'd get Portuguese. "Vai comer folhas." Go eat leaves.
Leaf-eater looked puzzled. "Why is that clever?"
"Because that's your name. Come-folhas."
Leaf-eater pulled a large insect out of his nostril and flipped it away, buzzing. "Don't be crude," he said. Then he walked away.
