by Jack Vance
“Good morning, gentlemen!” said Zamp. “Our last meeting, so I recall, was under less happy circumstances.”
“Do you refer to the Lanteen sand-bar or to the Green Star Inn?” asked Wilver. “I seem to recall some good-natured banter on both occasions, which helped mitigate the tragedy at Port Whant.”
“Possibly true. It is indeed pleasant to see you, and I wish you well in your new careers with Garth Ashgale.”
Gandolf spat over the gangplank into the river. “Ashgale lacks real competence. His productions never approach the quality we took for granted on the old Miraldra’s Enchantment.”
Wilver the Water-walker remarked, “Ah, the old troupe! Those were halcyon days!”
Thymas said: “Ashgale supplied us transportation back to Coble, true enough, but now I too am considering a change.”
Wilver the Water-walker said thoughtfully: “I would resign my important position in an instant to rejoin the old troupe! What do you say, Master Zamp? Why should we not revive the glorious old times?”
“Never be guided by sentimentality!” advised Zamp. “I advise you all to remain with Garth Ashgale, whose terms of employment are stable; as I recall he discharges only the notoriously incompetent.”
“He can also be a difficult taskmaster,” grumbled Wilver. “He wants me to perform my act without glass stilts, which is difficult.”
“We all have similar problems with Ashgale,” said Thymas. “For instance, in his production The Extraordinary Dream of Countess Ursula Gandolf and I must simulate strange animals in questionable poses.”
“I believe, all taken with all, that I will accept Master Zamp’s offer,” said Gandolf.
“I likewise.”
“And I.”
Zamp shrugged. “As you wish. I have no present need for a water-walker; Wilver must serve as an apprentice grotesque. You must all supplement your duties as grooms to the bullocks. Your stipends will not be large, since Master Gassoon is a practical man. You may bring your effects aboard at once.”
Wilver, Gandolf and Thymas slowly descended the gangplank, muttering to each other.
To the annual fair came folk from along the shores of Surmise Bay, from everywhere about the Delta, from as far up-river as Badburg, from places even more remote: Iona on the Suanol, Byssus on the Wergence, Funk’s Grove on the Lant, the travelers arriving by way of Nestor on the Murne. The inns of Coble were suddenly crowded with a diversity of people, and Waterfront Avenue seethed and pulsed with their costumes. Along the docks temporary booths displayed artifacts, oils, essences and balsams; also, sausages from Verlory on the Murne, potted reed-bird from Port Optimo, candied ginger and pickled mace from Callou across Surmise Bay. The glassblowers of Lanteen offered utensils, carboys, flasks, cups and dishes, as well as toys and little glass animals. The Ratwick tanneries displayed hides along a row of redolent racks; agents of the Wigtown looms draped their cloth over lines strung between lime trees; the Coble factors sold shoes, sandals, boots, hats, cloaks, breeches, jackets and shirts to the outlanders.
During the morning Garth Ashgale advertised his performance with pyrotechnics, balloons, and a parade up and down the waterfront, and his afternoon performance was played to an overflow audience. Throdorus Gassoon scorned what he called ‘flummox and puffery’. “We are not interested in sensation-seekers,” he told Zamp. “Let them waste their iron!” Nonetheless, a large number of folk, turned away from Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit, paid their way aboard Miraldra’s Enchantment, and Gassoon was pleased to hear the clink of iron.
Zamp thought that the performance went off tolerably well, although Damsel Blanche-Aster still brought to the part of Lady Macbeth a debonair facility which distressed Gassoon. The audience seemed not to heed this particular shortcoming, if such it were. They sat entranced, or perhaps bemused, apparently convinced that a production so obscure must necessarily be significant, and at the finale applauded politely, though without hysterical enthusiasm. Gassoon, on the whole, felt encouraged by the day’s work, although the incidental business and specialties which Zamp had introduced received what he considered unwarranted approval.
On the morning after the close of the fair Miraldra’s Enchantment sailed north from Coble. At the last minute Gassoon became nervous and declared the vessel not yet ready for so far a journey. Zamp, choking on his impatience, insisted that the boat would never be more ready. “The monsoon blows up-river; time presses hard on us! Let us be off!”
Gassoon made a flapping desperate gesture, which the dock-hands interpreted as a signal to cast off lines. Bullocks heaved at the capstans; the stern-paddle groaned and creaked; the great boat eased away from Bynum’s Dock and out into the stream. The sails billowed, rippled loosely and were sheeted home; Miraldra’s Enchantment moved north.
Chapter XI
For three days Miraldra’s Enchantment enjoyed a wind so fair that even Gassoon showed no inclination to halt; the towns Spanglemar, Wigtown and Port Moses were passed and left astern.
Garth Ashgale, bound for the settlements of the High Suanol under the Lornamay Hills, had departed Coble a day previously to Miraldra’s Enchantment. At Ratwick Fironzelle’s Golden Conceit was discovered moored to the single dock. Zamp and Gassoon agreed that no good purpose could be served by anchoring in the stream to await Ashgale’s departure, and Miraldra’s Enchantment continued up-river.
Late in the afternoon, with the wind faltering, Gassoon decided to sail behind that tract of land known as Harbinger Island, in order to play a program at Chist, a village usually avoided by reason of its poverty and somewhat inconvenient location. The River Index described Chist as
… a generally placid village of five hundred population, originally settled by a band of Fundamental Vitalists fleeing the persecutions of the Grand Doctrinate at Chiasm, Lune XXIII Central. The Chists are ruled by a matriarchy and observe a number of peculiar taboos, none of which need overly concern the cautious ship-master. So long as he makes no reference to local conditions, he will find the folk of Chist a disciplined and attentive audience. No great profit can be expected, as payments are ordinarily made in barter.
Gassoon ignored Zamp’s unenthusiastic report, and took the showboat up to the rickety pier. As soon as the gang-plank was extended, a pair of song-girls carried placards down to the dock. One depicted a mailed warrior hacking apart his adversary, and bore the legend:
MACBETH
AN EPIC OF ANCIENT EARTH
On the other a woman with flying yellow hair held aloft a bloody dagger. The inscription read:
MACBETH
THE MURDEROUS RITES OF ANCIENT EARTH
Gassoon stepped out upon the gang-way stage to address the crowd of villagers. For the occasion he had donned a black cape and a tall-crowned narrow-brimmed black hat, under which tufts of white hair thrust forth to right and left. He held up his arms in a commanding gesture. “Dignitaries and gentlefolk of Chist! I am Throdorus Gassoon and I am privileged to come before you with my wonderful vessel and my band of artists and musicians. Prepare yourself for an emotional experience the like of which you have never known! We are prepared to present before you an authentic drama of ancient Earth!”
An old woman called up: “Does that mean real killing?”
“My dear lady, of course not!”
The old woman spat toward the posters. “So much for your advertising.”
Gassoon in some perplexity came down off the gangplank and examined the placards which he had not before seen. Zamp was forced to concede that Gassoon encompassed the situation with aplomb. “These placards,” stated Gassoon, “represent the theme of Macbeth in bold symbols; like all symbols they must not be mistaken for the products they advertise.”
Another old woman said briskly: “Well then, to negotiate for the entire village — what will be your fee, symbols and all?”
“Our prices are very fair,” said Gassoon. “For the entire village I must reckon on a crowd of total capacity.”
Eventually Gassoon ag
reed to accept, in lieu of iron, a ton of cattle fodder, six measures of bog syrup and a quantity of smoked eel.
At dusk the lamps were lit and immediately the population of the village began to board the vessel: men, women and children; and in short order the benches were crowded, although the stipulated commodities had not yet been delivered. Gassoon protested to the chief matriarch who threw back her head in annoyance. “We never pay until we test the goods. If your performance is largely symbolic, as I understood you to say, then our fee will also be symbolic.”
“This is unacceptable,” stormed Gassoon. “Deliver the fodder, the syrup and the eel, or we will perform no masterpiece whatever!”
The matriarch declared that she would not be so hoodwinked, but a man who had gone aboard the Two Varminies at Badburg assured her that Gassoon’s conditions were not unusual, and finally the produce was delivered to the ship. Gassoon gave a signal; the tympanist sounded gongs and the orchestra played that rousing tune which Zamp had contrived as an overture.
The curtain drew back to display a dismal wasteland. Rocks jutted into a black sky; the set was illuminated by a pair of flaming torches. Three witches crouched about a fire where a cauldron seethed. Rather than immediately entering the dialogue, which Zamp considered abrupt, the witches cavorted in an odd triangular dance, toward and away from the fire, employing gestures at once wild yet controlled, to suggest a weight of purposeful evil. Finally, drained of their frenzy, the witches lurched to the fire, to sag into misshapen wads of black and brown rags.
The music halted: dead silence smothered the stage. In a sour-sweet voice the first witch spoke:
When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning or in rain?
Zamp, at the drawing of the curtain, had noticed a stir of tension in the audience. The witches danced to furtive snickers from the men and hisses of indrawn breath from the women.
Fair is foul and foul is fair;
Hover through the fog —
One of the matriarchs stepped forward, and spreading wide her arms stopped the performance. “We did not pay produce to suffer your mockeries!”
Gassoon ran forth in a fury. “What is this? Please seat yourself, madame; you are disturbing our performance!”
“This is our performance! We paid for it!”
“Well, yes, this is true enough —”
“So then, we want it altered. These caricatures offend us all!”
“Impossible!” cried Gassoon in a brassy voice. “We follow the authentic text. Be so good as to resume your seat. The drama will proceed.”
The matriarch sullenly returned to her seat; the scene changed and Gassoon came onto the stage as Duncan:
What bloody man is that? He can report
As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt
The newest state.
Watching from the wings Zamp noticed that the audience seemed uncommonly attentive. Their eyes glinted with torch-light reflections and they sat stiffly erect.
Scene 3: the witches once more occupied the stage. Certain young men in the audience could not suppress their amusement. The matriarch rose to her feet and pounded with her staff. “I have seen enough. Remove our goods; it is precisely as I had feared.”
Gassoon sprang forward. “Be calm, all! Resume your seats! We will play the drama without the witches!”
Zamp, with somewhat more experience, gave other orders: “Slip the hawsers! Pressure on the pumps! Tilt the deck!”
The ship floated away from the dock: the enraged folk of Chist were washed down the decks into the water. The stern-wheel churned and the vessel swept off up-stream, around Harbinger Island and back to the main channel of the Vissel River. The evening was dead calm; the vessel anchored in midstream, and the remainder of the night passed placidly.
On the next afternoon Gassoon guided Miraldra’s Enchantment to Port Optimo, and ordained another performance of Macbeth. Zamp consulted the River Index and once again approached Gassoon with his findings. “The situation is less clear here than at Chist, but I find compelling reasons for a change or two. For instance: the folk here abominate the use of alcohol. Hence, Macbeth poisons Duncan by serving him a goblet of brandy. Additionally, rather than witches, we had best use water-wefkins.”
Gassoon could hardly find words. “The integrity of our work will be compromised!”
“The River Index points out that Port Optimo maintains three long-boats equipped with fire-harpoons. It will not be feasible to wash tonight’s audience off the deck.”
Gassoon threw his long arms into the air, as if gripping an imaginary overhead bar. “Make only those changes which are absolutely necessary.”
Either because of, or in spite of, Zamp’s improvisations, the evening’s performance was received with approbation. Gassoon still was not pleased. He took exception to the Act Three banquet, during which Macbeth, as king, commanded jugglers, dancers and acrobats to provide entertainment for the court, which entertainment continued for the better part of an hour. Gassoon also criticized the episodes of marital tenderness which Zamp had seen fit to insert into the drama.
On the following day, with sails taut before a fair wind, Miraldra’s Enchantment drove north past Badburg and on to Fwyl, where the Pamellissa and the Melodious Hour were already moored; and Gassoon refused to present a program under the circumstances.
After Fwyl the winds became capricious; during the afternoon of the third day Miraldra’s Enchantment swept grandly around Glassblower’s Point, across the swirl of the Lant current and up to the Lanteen dock, where Zamp and Gassoon had agreed on a two or three day layover.
The following morning Gassoon opened his museum to the Lanteen public, and Zamp took advantage of his preoccupation to suggest an outing to Damsel Blanche-Aster. She at first gave a curt refusal, then, faced with the prospect of a day of boredom, she asked what he had in mind.
Zamp had not yet formed definite plans; on the spur of the moment he proposed a visit to the glass-works. “The artisans are most clever and skillful; to watch them at work is said to be fascinating.”
“Very well then. Is it far?”
“Just around the hill. Let’s leave at once before Gassoon thinks of something for us to do.”
Damsel Blanche-Aster laughed with such freedom and gayety that Zamp wondered how he could have ever thought her constrained. She seemed to fall in with Zamp’s mood; like truant children they slipped from the boat and walked up the esplanade.
Damsel Blanche-Aster now decided that rather than a visit to the glass-works, she preferred to climb to the top of the hill. Zamp readily agreed, and they turned into a lane which angled up Glassblower’s Bluff, back and forth between hedges and low stone walls.
Today, through quirk, or caprice, or mood of optimism, Damsel Blanche-Aster put no constraints on her conduct. Zamp had never seen her so animated. Her pale hair blew in the wind; her eyes shone the clear gray-blue of a mountain lake; in her white frock she might have been a simple girl of the countryside, and Zamp thought her completely charming. Pausing to admire a quaint little cottage built of bulbous green glass flasks, she remarked at the flowers and even chirruped at the child playing with toy glass animals on the stoop.
They proceeded up the lane, which became a track winding up the slope past pens and pastures, then steeply up the final crag toward the sky, where puffs of clouds drifted north. Abandoning all dignity, Damsel Blanche-Aster ran up the trail, pausing to pick wildflowers or toss pebbles down-slope, while Zamp marched behind, longing to participate in the frolic, yet hardly daring to intrude without an invitation. They gained the summit and stood in sun and wind, with cloud-shadows racing across the landscape far below. Lanteen straggled along the Lant from River House on the east jetty to the Green Star Inn on its crooked stilts to the west.
Damsel Blanche-Aster climbed upon a rock and scanned the circle of the horizon, dwelling longest on the way to the north, along the mighty Vissel. She bent to descend from the rock. Zamp was on hand, and
nothing could be easier as she jumped down than to catch her in his arms. For an instant it seemed that she became supple; then immediately she stiffened and slid away. Zamp was not pleased; it was almost as if absent-mindedly she had thought herself on the hill with some dream-person, only to discover, almost instantly, that the person was Apollon Zamp.
Damsel Blanche-Aster sat down in the shelter of the rock, away from the wind. Zamp joined her, and intoxicated with her proximity, slid his arm around her waist.
Damsel Blanche-Aster turned him a glance of frosty inquiry and rose to her feet; Zamp clasped her legs and looked up imploringly. “Why are you so cruelly cold? Do you love someone else?”
“I love no one.”
“Do you swear it? Tell me the truth!”
“Master Zamp, please control yourself; you are becoming emotional.”
“Emotional? I am in a frenzy! My brain feels like the Hall of Mirrors aboard the Fireglass Prism; from every direction your face looks at me. I ache, I suffer, I am sick with longing! I think only of your wonderful beauty!”
Damsel Blanche-Aster laughed. “Master Zamp, you really become absurd.”
“You are the absurd one! How can you be so cold? Compared to you, a statue of Saint Imola carved from ice is a madcap.”
Damsel Blanche-Aster detached herself from Zamp’s embrace. “Your doctrines are remarkable! As if I existed only to fulfill your cravings! Then, since I do not care to do so, the cosmos must be considered insane.”
“It is more than craving,” cried Zamp. “It is enchantment and wonder and dread —”
In spite of her professed indifference, Damsel Blanche-Aster was surprised. “‘Dread’?”
“Dread for that time, which must arrive, if a hundred years from now, when I shall see you for the last time. I am content only in your presence; I adore you! In fact, yes! I will espouse you formally.”
