"That is a common error," said Tom Horn, "and held to by men who have not watched, and seen, and listened. The sea slips around the world in a circle. It touches and knows all things. And inside the great circle there are many smaller ones, all moving the same way." He leaned forward in his chair so that his face was close to Christopher. "The world moves that way, too—does it not?—round and round. And so do the stars, and the moon, and the wind." There was a little pause, and then Tom Horn's hushed voice grew more whisper-like than ever. "Who ever saw a circle begin?" said he. "Did you?"
The little apothecary looked perplexed, and regarded his questioner seriously over the lenses of his spectacles.
"No one ever did," said Tom Horn, "because they begin outside the world's rim. The circle of your life, now, began ages before you were born, and in the emptiness of space. It grew narrower as it neared the earth, and the day it touched its surface you began to live. And so it went around and around, and so it continues to go around and around; it keeps growing narrower and narrower, as it has done from the first; it gets tighter and tighter about you. And one day it will close, and so disappear, upon a little spot of ground, in a quiet place. And there you will lie."
"Thankfully, I hope, and untroubled," said Christopher Dent soberly. "And with the little that's been given me to do well accomplished."
The street door opened, and Christopher went into the store.
"Good evening, Mr. Sparhawk," said he.
"Good evening," said Mr. Sparhawk in his perky little way. "I hope I find you very well, Christopher."
"Quite," said Christopher. "Never better, indeed."
"And prosperous, too, I trust."
The little apothecary moved his hand toward his store of dried plants.