“But — but —” I said, “Purple would have a fit —”
“Exactly,” said Lesta. The cloth must be woven in a simple over and under, over and under, a steady alternation — we want it as tight as possible — no twill weaves, no satin weaves, no fancy patterns of thread — just a simple aircloth weave! But no — you see those men over there? They are packing to return to their village — they won’t weave anything but satins. They are afraid to offend Furman the God of Fasf — whatever that is — every day we lose at least five more weavers.”
He turned on us, “You know what it is? They are stealing the secret of aircloth — they come, they weave for a week, then they find some excuse to run back to their own villages. I cannot keep any workers here.” He groaned and sank down onto a log. “Aaghh, I wish I’d never heard of aircloth.”
“But why?” I asked. “Surely, you have taken precautions —”
“Of course, of course,” nodded Lesta. “No weaver is al-lowed near the looms without surrendering at least two syllables of his secret name as security — but it doesn’t work. They claim that an oath to a god is stronger and more important than an oath to a man — and they are right.”
“H’m,” said Shoogar. “I might be able to do something about that.” .
Lesta looked up.
“It is simple,” he said, “We will just consecrate all the aircloth to Musk-Watz. Anyone else who weaves it without my blessing, or who weaves it in another pattern, will be risking his wrath.”
“But what about the men who keep leaving?” asked Lesta.
Shoogar shook his head, “They are not important. We can swear them to more binding oaths —”
“Oaths more binding than those to a god?”
“Certainly — how about the oath of hairlessness?”
“Huh?”
“It is simple — if they defy you, their hair falls out.”
“Oh,” said Lesta. He thought about it and brightened. “Yes,” he said, “let’s try it. Surely, it couldn’t hurt.”
When I left them, they were happily arguing over Shoogar’s fee for deconsecrating all the other Gods out of the cloth.
I went to see Purple at his nest. He was well pleased with the way the work was going. A satisfied grin showed through the black bush that surrounded his chin, and he patted his huge stomach in a jovial manner. For some reason, he reminded me of a huge black tusker.
I told him of the problem with the weavers leaving, and he nodded thoughtfully when I told him of Shoogar’s solution. “Yes,” he said, “that was very clever. And I would not worry about the ones who have left, Lant. Most of them will be back.”
“Huh? Why?”
Purple said innocently, “Because we have almost every spinning wheel on the island — where will they get enough thread for their looms?” And he laughed at his own mighty joke. “They will be lucky if they can make even one piece of aircloth.”
“Why, you are right — I never realized that.”
“And another thing — we have the only bone teeth on the island. They would not be able to weave cloth as fine as ours anyway; they will be back.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Come, I must go up to the Crag and check on the progress of the spinning.”
I will walk with you part way,” I said. “There are several other problems we must discuss.” I told him of the noise and the dirt created by having so many looms so close together. “It is not good,” I said, “not for the cloth and not for the men.”
“You are right, Lant — we will have to separate them, perhaps move some of the looms to other pastures. At all costs, we must protect the cloth. I will arrange it myself.”
“I have already told Lesta,” I said. “He does not object — at least no more than usual.”
“Good.”
We puffed up the slope toward the Upper Village. I said, “There is another thing. Certain of the men are beginning to wonder about payment for their skills. They fear that you will be unable to cast enough spells to pay them for their labor — they wonder how you will even keep track of them all. I confess, Purple, even I am mystified as to how you will keep your promises.”
“Um,” said Purple. “I will have to give them some tokens or something.”
“Spell tokens?”
He nodded slowly, “Yes, I guess we could call them that.”
“But what would they do?”
“Well, each one would be a promise, Lant — a promise of a future spell. The person could keep it or trade it as he sees fit, or he can redeem it later when I have the time for it.”
I considered it. “You will need a great many, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will, won’t I? I wonder if Bellis the Potter could —”
“No wait — I have a better idea!” My mind was working furiously. My apprentices were way ahead in their bone , carving. They had more than enough loomteeth carved to “ satisfy the needs of all the present looms, and even the ones still to be built for at least another hand of days. I did not like to see them sitting around idle — and I still had those one hundred and twenty-eight runforit ribs. I said, “Why don’t you let me carve them? Bone has a soul — clay doesn’t. My apprentices have nothing better to do now.”
He nodded slowly, “Yes, yes, a good idea, Lant. We can give one spell token for each day’s labor.”
“Oh, no,” I said. ‘One for each five days of labor. That is the way Shoogar works — it makes his spells worth more. ‘Work for a hand of days, earn a spell.’ ”
He shrugged. “All right, Lant. Go carve.”
I was delighted. I left him to go on up to the Crag, and I hurried off to the Upper Village to set my idle apprentices to work. We would cut each runforit rib into a thousand narrow slices — maybe more — and stain the resultant chips with the pressed juices of darkberries.
I found, after a little experimentation, that we could use the same cutting threads that we used for loomteeth. The cutting threads were held in a stiff frame. If we opened up one side of the frame and spread the threads out more, we could use it to cut several slices at a time off the end of each rib. Later on we figured that a larger frame holding more threads could cut more slices at a time.
In fact, there was no reason at all that the threads had to be held in a rigid frame — not for this type of cutting. In the space of that afternoon I must have figured at least six new ways to carve bone slices. One of the most effective involved wrapping a single thread in a loop around the piece of bone and pulling it steadily back and forth — in this way, the rib was cut from all sides at once.
We could cut several slices at a time this way — the only limit was the number of threads that we could string around the bone and pull at any one time.
While we were discussing this, Wilville and Orbur stopped by. They were on their way up to the Crag; each was carrying a bundle of hardened bambooze shoots.
I told them of my latest project and they nodded thoughtfully, “Yes, we can build you a device for cutting many slices of bone at a time. We will use cranks and pullies, and it will be operated by two apprentices. I think we may be able to pull fifty threads at a time with it.”
“Good, good,” I said. “How soon can I have it?”
“As soon as we have a chance to build it — first we must finish the airboat frame. The spirit pine is too heavy — we are going to try again with bambooze.”
“And that means building a whole new frame,” sighed Orbur.
They shouldered their loads and trudged on up the hill.
It was well past midnight when I finally grew tired. The red sun was already nearing the west.
It had been a relaxing day. It had been too long since I had concentrated on my bonecarving only, and I had missed it.
I was tired and I ached all over — but at the same time I glowed with the satisfaction of a job well done.
As I trudged across the blackgrass-covered slope toward my home I thought of the pleasures that awaited me there: a hot meal, yes — perhaps e
ven a bit of choice meat; a massage, gentle and warm — I might even let the wives rub precious oil into my fur. It had been too long since I had allowed myself that luxury. And perhaps, if I felt in the mood, perhaps we would do the family-making thing. It would have to be the number two wife, of course — number one was growing heavier and more swollen every day.
Perhaps a hot brushing too, I dreamed — yes, definitely. I could feel the combs already. I quickened my step. My nest-tree loomed invitingly.
I found my wives in bitter argument. The first wife, the one with seniority, was in tears — the second wife, the thinner one, was red-eyed and glaring.
“Have you no sense?” I shouted at her. “You do not badger my number one wife — she has borne me two sons! You have borne me none!”
The woman only glared angrily.
“Go get the whip!” I ordered.
She said, “You may whip me, my master — but you cannot change what is. What is is!”
She would pay for such insolence. A man with a wife he cannot control has one wife too many. I stepped over to the other woman and put my arms around her swollen form, “What is the matter, my number one woman?”
She pointed and said through her tears, “That — that woman — she —”
My second wife interrupted haughtily, “I am not ‘that woman’ any more. I am Kate.”
“Kate? What is a Kate?”
“Kate is my name. I have a name. Purple has given it to me.”
“A what? You have a what? You cannot have! No woman has ever had a name!”
“I do! Purple gave it to me!”
“He has not the right!”
“He does too — he is a magician, isn’t he? He came up to the Crag today where we spin — and he talked to us, and he asked us what our names were. When we told him we had none, he proceeded to give us names — and he blessed them too! We have consecrated names!”
Why, the fool would bring ruin upon us all! There is nothing so dangerous as a haughty woman — we should never have allowed them to learn how to spin! And now he had given them names! Names, indeed!
Did he think they were equal to men in other respects as well? I would fear to ask him — he might say yes. And this from a magician?!!
Shoogar would have to be told at once. The other men must be warned. Purple must be chastised. If women could have names, then they could be cursed through the power of those names. A man is strong enough to bear such responsibility and avoid such cursing. But a woman? How could a woman even realize the danger? They would be so delighted at having names, they would run to tell everybody.
My first wife turned to me in tears. “Give me a name, my husband. I want to be somebody too.”
I stormed out.
The village was in an uproar. The sky was smoky and red, and angry men stood about in clumps, shouting foolishness. As if they would dare attack a magician!
Pilg the Crier stood on a tall housetree stump, shouting into the uproar, “Torchlight procession — burn the — blasphemed against —”
A lot of help he was. And Pilg didn’t even have a wife any more! What had he to complain about?
This had gone far enough — a voice of reason was needed here. I climbed the stump behind Pilg and pushed him hard in the small of the back. He stumbled forward and off, waving his arms.
I filled my lungs and bellowed, “Listen to me, townspeople —”
But there was too much noise — and suddenly they were all going away.
Torches appeared as if by magic, red flames bright over dark crazed heads. I was off the stump and shoving through the jostling crowd. Where was Shoogar now that we needed him?
There was only me to stop them as they streamed toward the river, toward Purple.
I pushed and fought my way to the front of the crowd so that they could see me. “Listen to me! Listen to your Speaker!”
And then the mob from the Lower Village charged into us, and there was no point. Nothing human or demon could have been heard above the roaring.
We were a raging torrent of men bent on murder. I was still trying to reach the leading edge, trying to turn it aside, somehow deflect it.
And then we spilled out onto the riverbank and there was Purple.
He was kneeling beside one of Bellis’s funneled pots, hugging a kind of bag against his chest, an inflated bag as big as a small woman. As the mob rolled toward him he turned in astonishment, letting go of what he was holding.
And it fell up.
It was as if the villagers had run into a stone wall. They stopped joltingly short, and then they moaned as if in agony.
Purple’s thing tumbled slowly upward into the red-black sky. It was a flimsy-looking bag of wind, made of aircloth, shiny and bright and flickering back the glow of the torches. It danced as it rose …
“Lant!” Purple cried. “What’s — what’s happening? Why are they here?”
I tore my eyes off the bag of wind. “Purple — why did you name the women?”
“Why not?” He seemed doubly confused. “I couldn’t just keep calling every one of them ‘Hey, you,’ could I?” There was a moan from somewhere behind me. I ignored it.
Purple continued, “I had trouble remembering the order, Lant. There were too many of them. I mean, it was easy to remember to call a woman ‘Trone’s wife,’ but she got insulted if I forgot to call her ‘Trone’s second wife.’ ”
“Third,” I remembered.
“Third. You see? It was slowing things up. So I made up some names — Kate, Judy, Anne, Ursula, Karen, Andre, Marian, Leigh, Miriam, Sonya, Zenna, Joanna, Quinn — it made things so much easier.”
“Easier?” I looked about me. Perhaps a score of villagers remained. They seemed to huddle together, holding their torches high against the night. The others had not fled, but seeped away into the darkness while Purple and I were talking.
I glanced nervously at the sky — but his thing had vanished.
“Easier?” I repeated. “They’re here to burn you, Purple. Or they were.”
“Um,” he said. He looked vaguely about him. “Where’s my balloon? It was right here a minute ago — I was holding it —”
“You mean that thing — that thing that went up into the sky?”
His face lit up, “It did? You mean it worked?”
I swallowed hard and nodded.
“It actually worked!” He peered excitedly upward, squinted at the darkness. Abruptly he looked at me, “Eh, did you say burn me?”
I nodded again.
It didn’t seem to bother him much — he still kept glancing at the sky. He was preoccupied with the balloon. “For what?” he asked. “For naming women?”
“Purple, you’re a magician — you should have known better! I suppose you named them right out in public, in the hearing of others, so that every woman who spins now knows the names of every other woman! Well, did you?”
“Certainly. Why not?”
I groaned. “Because they’ll use magic on each other! And magic is too powerful to be placed in the hands of fools and women! They’ll get above themselves, Purple! First you lave given them a profession, now you give them names. They’ll think they’re as good as men!”
“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” he said perceptively. “Very well, Lant, what would you like me to do? Shall I take their lames away?”
“Could you?”
“Certainly. I’ll do it for you — I’ll memorize their numbers and their husbands’ names instead — anything to make peace.”
I couldn’t believe he would give up so easily, so casually. Is casually as he had given them … Timidly I repeated, You’ll take their names away?”
“Of course,” said Purple, “what do you think I am? Some kind of fiend?” He laughed boomingly, showing his teeth. Twenty villagers moaned softly and pushed closer together.
Purple bent back to his water pot again, began fiddling with his battery wires. I watched as he fastened a large piece of cloth to the funnel of the pot. “Anot
her airbag?”
“Huh? Oh, yes — another balloon.” He spread the cloth between his hands. “We made the first ones today.” Slowly, he bag began puffing up. He held it so it would fill evenly. Watch!” he said, “Watch — it’s filling with hydrogen!”
I took a step forward, curious in spite of myself. Behind me, the small knot of men who remained also edged forward.
The bag was puffy now, almost its full size. It grew rounder as we watched. I fancied I could hear the bubbles flowing up through the water, through the spout and into the bag. Purple watched it narrowly. At last he lifted the windbag from the pot spout and tied its neck. He let it go. It wasn’t quite as large as the other, nor was it as full — but ; lifted into the air and flew!
It floated toward the little knot of twenty.
“It works! It works!” Purple was exultant. He did a little dance of delight.
We backed away as the thing drifted nearer. Pilg held his torch before him to ward it off. The bag ignored the warning, floated closer and —
Suddenly was a ball of flame!
A bright orange flash of heat and light!
I don’t know what happened after that. Most of us reached home, one way or another; but Ford the Digger ran straight off a cliff, and nobody could find Pilg at all.
But the trouble didn’t end that easily.
When Purple told the women that they could no longer have any names, there arose such a weeping and wailing that one would have thought that all the men in the village were beating their wives in unison.
In fact many of them took to beating their wives in order to stop them from wailing — but that only increased their anguish. In a short time it became apparent that we had a spontaneous revolt in our hands.
Quite simply, the wives refused to work, to cook, and even to do the family-making thing unless we granted them the right to bear names.
“No,” I told my own wives, “the old ways are best. If I let you have names, the Gods will be angered.”
The Flying Sorcerers Page 20
