In his ear, a voice in his own language said, “Keep still until I bid you.”
Buras Ram shut his teeth. His heart pounded; he saw the axe blade gleaming by his throat. Slowly the arms around him slackened.
“Good,” said the man behind him. “Now, call them up, a few at a time.”
“Who are you?”
The axe poked at him. “Call your men. A few at a time.”
Still Buras Ram hesitated, unwilling to lure his own people into a trap; also, it seemed that there were fewer of the strangers than there were of him and his men, and if he could somehow get all his crew here at once—
The hand on his arm whirled him around; he faced a tall man with a curly black beard and gleaming black eyes, a man he had seen before, once, somewhere, obviously here. This man said, “You are Harus Kum’s brother?”
Buras Ram nodded his head once, struggling with his memory.
“I am Moloquin,” said the man before him.
“Ah,” said Buras Ram.
“Your brother is dead,” Moloquin said. “I came here to deal with him honestly, and he tried to kill me by stealth, and so I had to kill him.”
Buras Ram said nothing. His palms were sweating and his back itched; he wondered if he were going to live through this, and had his doubts. He made a little silent prayer to Hortha, although the goddess had never shown an inclination to help people on dry land.
“Call your men,” said Moloquin.
“I remember you,” Buras Ram said. “I warned my brother about you once, when you were younger.”
“Maybe you did,” said Moloquin, and smiled, a nasty smile, perfectly humorless. “Maybe that means you are cleverer than he was.”
“What do you intend to do with us?”
“I will make an honest agreement with you, as I meant to do with your brother, if you are just with me. If you fail me I shall kill you all and burn this place down. Now, call your men, or I shall begin with that.”
Buras Ram turned slowly to the gate. His skin crawled all over him. He faced the decision with a jittery heart and a mind that seethed with contradictions. By the blood-law he was bound to avenge his brother, and yet if Harus Kum had done evil, and his punishment was just, there was no need for vengeance. What sort of agreement did this Moloquin want with him? His crew was safer on the beach where they were all together and could escape into the sea.
Behind him, Moloquin said, “You need tin. If you want tin, you will have to deal with me. Now, do it.”
That was true. In all the whirling uncertainty of this, that at least was solid and true: the tin was here, and he needed it. If he reached his home again without it, he would be ruined. His whole family would be ruined. He went to the gate in the stockade wall and shouted to some of his men to come in.
As he spoke, Moloquin raised his arm, and from the back of the big house came several men, running, each armed with a spear and a knife, and they took up places on either side of the gate. Buras Ram waited, his stomach churning. He knew his crew would hate him for this. He regretted it now, but it was too late. The first two men came in, bearing Hortha between them, and Moloquin’s men set upon them and subdued them at once, easily, and tied their hands with rope.
Buras Ram lowered his eyes. His boatmen glared at him, but there were knives held to their throats, and they made no effort to warn the others, who came tamely as lambs up through the gate and were made prisoner. All were bound except Buras Ram, but Moloquin kept Buras Ram ever before him, and Moloquin’s hand never strayed far from the great bronze axe at his belt.
When all the boat’s crew were captive, Moloquin led them into the big house. His men obeyed him almost without words. They seemed to know his mind; they moved as if they were one creature, with Moloquin at the center, a spider in a web of being. Buras Ram sat down by the hearth, the little wooden goddess by his side, and glanced at her. She should be fed, she should be honored, she would resent this careless treatment after the long difficult journey. But he was afraid to move without Moloquin’s permission.
The tall man stalked restlessly around the room. There were many more people here than simply his men and Buras Ram’s; they had to be Harus Kum’s slaves, and Buras Ram watched them for any sign that they would help him against this stranger. The slaves paid no heed to him. They rushed to do anything Moloquin told them, they fell at Moloquin’s feet as he passed. Buras Ram turned his head away, back to the image beside him.
One of the women brought him food. Although he was ravenously hungry, especially for cooked food, he laid his portion down before the goddess. He needed her now more than ever, and he was afraid she would desert him if he ignored her honor.
When Moloquin saw this, he came up to Buras Ram and said, “Are you not hungry?”
“The goddess is hungry,” said Buras Ram.
Moloquin studied him a moment, turned his head and called to one of the slaves to bring more food for Buras Ram. The seaman took it gratefully. Moloquin stood there watching him eat.
At last, his belly full, Buras Ram set his bowl aside and looked up at the man who had killed his brother. “What do you intend to do to us?”
“Come with me,” said Moloquin.
Buras Ram got up and followed him, and Moloquin took him out of the big house. Night had fallen. A mist was rising up out of the sea, shrouding half the sky, but the other half glittered with stars. The wind was warm and moist, a promise of rain tingling in its fullness and humidity. Buras Ram followed Moloquin around the big house to the storeroom.
The tall man opened the door and stood aside, so that Buras Ram could see into the storeroom. It was dark; all Buras Ram could see was a butchered carcass hanging from the rafter and the bundled shapes of stored goods, but Moloquin stooped and picked up a leather sack from the floor and held it out to him.
It was heavy enough that Buras Ram grunted when he took it; he could tell by the feel of the pellets through the leather that it was full of tin.
Moloquin said, “You need tin. I want copper, bronze—whatever metal you can bring me. I want metalcraft and metal-lore. You come here and mine the tin and every year give me copper and bronze and I shall let you stay here in peace, but if you do not, I will come here and kill everybody and burn the place down.”
Buras Ram hefted the leather sack of tin in his arms. There was copper in his boat. He thought of his brother and shrugged. Harus Kum had betrayed this man’s trust and deserved to die. He would speak to the elders of his family, when he returned to his village, and have their opinions on it. They would know what offerings could be made to make up for any failure of duty to Harus Kum. In the meantime he wanted this great heavy sack of tin.
He said, “That seems good to me.”
Moloquin said, “Harus Kum is gone. You must bring someone here who knows the work. None here does.”
Buras Ram nodded, licking his lips, his mind racing ahead through the difficulties in that, another sea voyage. “We shall do that.” He himself could stay, at least until the weather improved.
“I have a friend, a man like a younger brother to me. He speaks your language, he has a wife of your people, I will leave him here with you, and you are to teach him the craft, so that he can come back to my people and do the work there.”
“Some cannot learn it.”
“If he fails I will send another.”
“You had the craft.”
“Some of it. Now my work is elsewhere.”
“I will do as you say.”
Moloquin stood watching him; in the darkness Buras Ram could distinguish nothing of his expression, and became restless under the intense look. Then Moloquin took him by the arm and led him away, into the open.
He took the knife from his belt—it was a knife of bronze, one Harus Kum had made, Buras Ram saw now—and he held it out to Buras Ram and said, “Cut me.” He offered his left forear
m to the blade.
Buras Ram held the knife between them. “What?” He looked around them, wondering if this were a trap.
“Cut me,” said Moloquin. “Your brother’s soul will seek revenge, and although he brought on himself what happened to him, yet I do not love the thought that his spirit will hunger for my blood. Therefore, you must cut me, and give of my blood to the spirit, and that perhaps will satisfy it.”
Buras Ram gripped the knife. His heart pounded. The stupid savage had given him another chance; in an instant he could drive the knife into Moloquin’s chest, and so free them all from this unlooked-for trouble, and avenge his brother at the same time.
As he thought that, he turned the knife in his hand, and he saw Moloquin’s eyes follow the little move of the blade, and all along Moloquin’s arm, the muscles tightened and swelled. Suddenly, as if some god spoke in his ear, Buras Ram saw the trap. Moloquin wished to discover if he were treacherous; if he struck at Moloquin now, the savage would deal with him as he had with Harus Kum. Buras Ram let out his breath with a sigh, like a man who has just turned aside from disaster.
He lifted the knife; he nicked his own thumb, and let the blood run. He said, “So be it,” and held out the knife to Moloquin. “Let my blood serve, not yours.”
In spite of what he said, he did not do this for Harus Kum, but to honor the god who had just saved him.
The savage chieftain broke into a wide smile. He took the knife, and taking it he clasped Buras Ram’s arm with his free hand. He said, “Let us go inside, the rain is coming,” and together the two men went back into the big house.
At midwinter, Moloquin went north to Shateel’s Village, to keep his promise to the people there, that he would sit among them and hear their complaints.
He went north from the Pillar of the Sky, and with him went the men who had raised the first Gateway, and who had also raised up the next two upright stones. They had no more stones at the Pillar of the Sky, and wanted more. The raising of the first Gateway had filled them all with a lust for the work. They no longer complained that it was impossible. Now they strove at it with a confidence and a pride that made the work much faster, and as they went north with Moloquin, they sang.
Each of them wore a strand of blue beads around his neck; Ruak himself wore several. As they entered into Shateel’s Village, they strutted and preened and threw their chests out, displaying their ornaments, and all the women came running to stare at them and whistle and gasp in awe at their beauty.
Shateel was waiting at the gate into the roundhouse yard. When her husband appeared, she stepped aside to let him into the place of honor, but he stopped before her, and did not go in. Behind him all his People gathered in a great mob, calling his name and clapping and laughing. Some of the men were already trying to dance, but the thick press of people was too close for dancing.
Moloquin stood before Shateel. “I have come,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Come into the roundhouse, we shall make you welcome as befits a chief.”
He shook his head. “I must go out to the High Hill, to choose stones. Will you come with me?”
“You should rest,” she said. “You should sit in the roundhouse and let people get used to the notion that you are here.”
“I have to find stones,” he said, and took a step away. “Come with me.”
“I will come,” she said.
She went after him, back through the village. The men were parading up and down, showing off their beauty to the women, and making the place theirs again with wild shrieks and leaps into the air. The women were gathered around the longhouses to watch, and some were preparing a great feast of welcome. The dogs barked in a steady racket, and little children ran everywhere, screaming and laughing.
Some of the men would have followed Moloquin, but he waved them off. As he and Shateel reached the brush fence around the village, a child ran up to them.
“Ana, Ana, let me go with you.”
Moloquin frowned down at the child. “Who is this?”
“Dehra.” Shateel stooped and hugged the little girl, whose tangled hair was full of dead leaves and who scowled at Moloquin past her mother’s arm. “No, no,” Shateel told the child. “We are going to the High Hill, you must stay here. See, there will be feasting and dancing.”
She kissed Dehra, who paid no heed to her, but stared angrily at Moloquin. Moloquin started off along the worn path to the High Hill, and Shateel followed him.
They went a long way in silence, Shateel stretching her steps to keep pace with him, and after a time he reached out and took hold of her hand. They had come far from the village. He looked around them and stopped, and they embraced.
“Husband,” Shateel said. “You have been gone too long.”
“Maybe that is true,” he said. “I thought after the last time we were together that I would hear soon afterward you were with child.”
She shook her head. She turned a little away from him. “I am sorry.”
“We shall make a child this time.”
She turned back to him and he bent to kiss her; she began to shut her eyes, to surrender to his caresses, when suddenly with a yell something ran in on them.
It was Dehra. She danced and leapt around them, shouting and waving her arms, and although she laughed she looked more angry than happy. Moloquin let Shateel go and backed away from her.
“Go away, demon,” he said, and swatted at Dehra with his hand.
The child shrieked. “He hit me! He hit me!”
Shateel stooped down and caught the girl in her arms. “I told you to stay in the village, little one. Now, go do as I say.”
“No! I want to be with you!”
Moloquin stood impassively, waiting; Shateel could see that he was angry. She took hold of Dehra’s arms and shook her hard.
“Now, hear me, little one—go back, find your grandmother, and help her prepare the feast. Go!”
“I won’t,” Dehra cried, and flung another furious stare at Moloquin. “I want to stay with you.”
Moloquin said, “Good-by, Shateel.” He turned and walked away, going to the High Hill.
Shateel watched him go; her eyes filled with tears. She squatted down before her daughter and thrust her nose up close to Dehra’s.
“Do as I say! Go back to the village, or I shall strike you.”
Dehra was not watching her at all, but was staring away at Moloquin, now half-vanished into the brush. “I don’t like him,” she said. “I hate him.”
Shateel lifted her hand and slapped the child hard across the face. “Go!”
Dehra gasped; she put her hand to her flaming cheek. “Ana,” she said, whimpering, and again, “Ana,” and flung herself forward, weeping, into Shateel’s arms.
“Now, there.” Shateel held her, murmuring to her. She had never struck the child before, and now suddenly she too began to weep. She looked longingly after Moloquin, who had vanished into the brush and trees. In her arms Dehra shivered and cried, a warm, wet, imponderable bundle. Shateel stood up and lifted her, and she carried the child back to the village.
Ruak and his novices, festooned with strings of blue beads, danced all night long, showing the People how they had shaped the stones and raised them. All the People saw now that those who had worked at the Pillar of the Sky had attained some special virtue. They spoke familiarly to the chief, who was not a man anyone could approach easily, and they wore the special signs of his friendship, and they had a new power, a new sense of their own power, that shone forth from them.
Thereafter all the People went to Moloquin and asked to help work at the Pillar of the Sky.
He lived in the roundhouse all that winter. He sat every day in the roundhouse yard, with Shateel at his side, and listened to the complaints and problems of the People. He danced none of the dances, and he had no mask.
The ol
d women, who also had no masks, said that he derived his power not from his ancestors, whose spirits would have been let into the world through the mask, but from the bronze axe he always carried. It was the axe that was his emblem. Before he got the axe, they told one another, he had had no power at all; the People had even thought him half-witted enough to stay with his mother, Karelia, long after most women would have driven him away. Then he received the axe, somehow, and now he stood before them, and there was nothing he could not do.
Except, said the malicious, get Shateel with child.
Everyone marked how much they were together. They knew Shateel now, well enough that every gesture she made, every lowered eyelid, every half-smile betrayed her deepest thoughts and feelings to them, and they knew she was open to him. Yet there was no child between them.
There was Dehra.
Joba especially marked it, that Dehra followed her mother everywhere and did all she could to keep her and Moloquin apart. Dehra had poisoned this marriage, or so Joba thought.
She kept her suspicions to herself for a long while, nearly the whole winter, but on the day when all the People went forth to the High Hill, to help drag the stone away, Joba opened her mouth at last to her daughter.
She said, first, “You have been much with your husband lately.”
Shateel stood beside her, near the flank of the High Hill. There before them, the flat ground swarmed with people. Ruak and his novices and several other men had built a sledge to carry the stone; another of the societies, the Ox-Horn, had spent the winter finding and cutting logs for rollers and bringing them here, and still another society, the Blade of Grass, had made rope, and all these groups were ready now to put their preparations to use. The Blade of Grass waited to one side with their rope; the Ox-Horn stood to the other side, proudly, beside their great heap of logs.
The stone they wanted lay tipped up against the flank of the High Hill. Ruak and his men had laid the sledge up against it, and now at a gesture from Moloquin the Blade of Grass hurried forward to lash the stone fast to the wooden frame. Drums beat and many people clapped in time, so that the whole area resounded with that rhythm. Moloquin hurried all around the place, making sure that everything was exactly as he wanted it.
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