Pillar of the Sky

by Cecelia Holland

  When Bahedyr brought the trader and his band to the village the sun was still high, and therefore Moloquin was at the Pillar of the Sky. Bahedyr led Buras Ram there.

  He had grown used to the place, after so many years around it; he led the foreigner up the little slope and through the gap in the embankment, and when he heard the trader gasp, he thought it was from the sight of Moloquin who sat on a covered litter at the center of the place, supervising the work. But when he turned, he saw that Buras Ram was gazing up at the Pillar of the Sky itself, his mouth open.

  “What work of the gods is this?”

  Bahedyr smiled; his chest expanded, he felt himself growing larger, large as the stones. Buras Ram looked around them with eyes wide and awed as a little child’s. He peered up at the tremendous gateways, and walked away a little to see how the men were raising up a lintel to the outer circle—the wooden frame was already halfway high enough, the stone resting on top in its cradle of logs; as Bahedyr and the trader stood there, the workmen bent to the levers, a hoarse voice called, “Heave!” and with a slow desperate gathering of their strength the lever-men pried the stone up a finger’s breadth, and the others rushed to fit more logs under it. Buras Ram sighed.

  The face he turned toward Bahedyr was still marked with his astonishment. He said, “To what god do you raise this monument?”

  Bahedyr had no answer for that. Buras Ram spoke his language badly, and used many of his own words in it, and Bahedyr had no understanding of what he had said. He took the trader by the arm and led him to Moloquin.

  The chieftain sat in his litter, under a broad roof of cloth that shaded him from the sun. Wahela had decorated the litter with braids and streamers and piled it up with furs and blankets, so that it seemed snug as a cave. Moloquin sat leaning forward, drawing circles with his finger on a piece of hide; the youth Barakal squatted before him; they were talking together about whatever it was they drew on the hide, but since they used their fingers, no one else could see what it was.

  As Buras Ram approached, the youth drew back, turning, and Moloquin straightened. He nodded to Barakal to go.

  “Buras Ram,” he said. From his tongue the alien language came easily, and Bahedyr backed off a little.

  The trader bowed down before Moloquin. “Great is the chieftain of the People of the Stones!”

  Bahedyr stood watching as the two men exchanged greetings. He saw how Buras Ram bowed and lowered himself; Bahedyr turned and looked around him again at the Pillar of the Sky, and tried to see it as this stranger had. It was so familiar to him that it seemed almost ordinary now. Yet this stranger, with his mysterious powers and wide knowledge, had stood in awe before it—even now, he debased himself to Moloquin because of it.

  He thought, Perhaps it is such a thing as Moloquin says. Perhaps it is worth the stealing of stones from Turnings-of-the-Year.

  But when he thought of that, and thought of his people and how they would hear such words, and thought also of the spirits that clustered thick around the Turnings-of-the-Year, investing the stones, the earth itself, with their resounding presence, he knew that to take any of those stones would be to shake the whole world. Again the dread swept over him. His choice was impossible: he could refuse Moloquin, or he could betray the Turnings-of-the-Year. He went away, full of trouble.

  Buras Ram said, “This is magnificent.”

  He sat in the shade of the litter, facing Moloquin; on the black bearskin between them lay several bits of work from Hems’ forge in the Forest Village. “Did you make these?”

  Moloquin shook his head. The trader was inspecting a small bowl, smooth and shining, the edge worked in a zigzag design. “The man you taught came back and built a forge, and he has taught others.”

  “The work is excellent.” Buras Ram tapped the edge of the bowl with his finger. “Nothing we do in our own forges is superior to this.”

  Moloquin said nothing. Part of him wanted to believe this praise, but the ruling part of his mind knew that Buras Ram was here to get something from him, and so everything he said was suspect.

  “I have brought gifts for you,” Buras Ram said, “although I fear they shall not find favor with one surrounded by such wonderful things as you are.”

  Now Moloquin was sure he was being flattered, and he leaned back, his eyes narrow. He looked out from the litter, out to the Pillar of the Sky; as he lifted his head, the men raising the next lintel cried out, “Ho, ho, ho!” and heaved up the stone another fraction of the way. Beyond, outside the circle, other men were smoothing and shaping a stone, and the continual thud of their mauls sounded like a drumbeat behind all the other noise.

  He said, “You admire the Pillar of the Sky.”

  “Is that what it is called?”

  “Among other things.”

  “It will be a splendid temple, fit for the most mighty of the gods. What god do you worship here?”

  Moloquin blinked at him. He had thought he knew this language but now Buras Ram was using words that meant nothing to him; he had to struggle to keep his lofty look. Needing some answer, he turned to point behind him, out between the two lower gateways, out toward the entry stones and the gap in the bank, and said, “There the sun rises, on the day she is greatest.”

  Buras Ram nodded, his face smooth with understanding, although what it was he understood Moloquin did not know. Watching the foreigner, he had the sudden sense of being the whole world away from him, as if Buras Ram sat on the horizon, and Moloquin on the far horizon.

  “I hesitate to present my poor tokens of our love and friendship to one whose wealth is so enormous.” Buras Ram turned to take his pack, which lay behind him, and pulled it around in front. Untying the strings, he folded back the flap and removed, first, two bars of copper.

  Moloquin said nothing. After they had tried to buy him off with the chest full of trash, he had told them he wanted five bars of copper. He wondered if the trader’s fawning was the start of trying to deny him his due.

  “And we have this,” said Buras Ram, and took another bar of metal from his sack.

  At first Moloquin thought this too was copper, but he saw how it caught the sunlight, and he bent forward and took the bar, which was only half as large as the copper bars, and turned to let the sunlight fall on it. At once his heart lusted for it. Smooth and glowing, this metal was the very color of the sun. He pressed his fingernail against the surface and it dented. Soft and fine, it would take the most sinuous shape, the most delicate form.

  He said, “What is this?”

  Buras Ram was smiling at him. “It comes from a mine on another island, west of here. It is the royal metal, fit for one who commands Heaven and earth.”

  More flattery. Yet he could not bring himself to give up the shining bar. He turned again to place it in the sun.

  “Have you more?”

  “No more. This is hard to find, hard to mine. Only a little of it exists.”

  Moloquin’s gaze remained on the glowing metal. He knew that Buras Ram would want something in return, but he knew already that whatever it was the trader wanted, Moloquin would give it to him, for the sake of this shining stuff. Buras Ram was talking again.

  He said, “This gold does not darken with age. Nothing destroys it. It is perfect as the body of a god. From the east come many traders seeking it, all men want it, it is the emblem of the greatest men everywhere.”

  “Ah.”

  “It is yours. You alone are worthy of it.”

  “Ah.”

  “In return, we ask only that you help us. We need your gracious help, to keep our mines working, to support our colony.”

  “Ah?”

  “We need food. We cannot raise enough food to feed all our workers.”

  Moloquin lifted his gaze from the gold and fastened his attention on Buras Ram. In his guts, a knot formed, twisting tighter and tighter, and an old voice wo
ke in his brain and began to feed words into his ears. He said, “You have your cattle.”

  “We want to bring more people here. To open up more mines. The land there will not support too many, there is no place for adequate gardens and grazing land for the cattle.”

  “You can hunt.”

  “Not for the numbers we mean to bring here. In my brother’s time, another chief of your people supplied him with grain and beans.”

  Ladon’s voice said, You are my son.

  “My people work hard to grow enough to feed us,” Moloquin said.

  “Your people are rich.”

  “We are rich sometimes, but sometimes, when the harvest is bad—”

  Take the gold, give up the grain. You are my son. The harvest will be great again this year. You can take the risk. You are my son.

  Buras Ram said, “The more people we bring to the mines, the more tribute we can give to you, our overlord.”

  Moloquin gathered in his breath; he raised his eyes, struggling with himself, but the gold lay close to his hand, warm in the sun, glowing with the sun’s own power, and the word that Buras Ram had used—the admission he had made—that Moloquin was their overlord—

  He said, “I shall think on it, Buras Ram.”

  “The king of the People of the Stones is most great.”

  From outside the litter came another shout: “Ho, ho, ho!” Both men turned and stooped to see the lintel pried up another tiny bit. Buras Ram swung back to Moloquin.

  “Let me walk through your temple. I must see for myself what a wonder you are making here, with the help and mercy of the gods.”

  “As you wish,” said Moloquin.

  The trader backed away on hands and knees, bowing and murmuring compliments, and went away. Moloquin sat in the litter, slumped down, his eyes on empty space.

  He did not struggle with himself. His struggle was over. He would give Buras Ram whatever he wanted. Like Ladon, he would give away the safeguards of his people for the symbols of power. He despised himself for it, yet he could not do otherwise. All the rest of the day he sat slumped in the litter, and not once did he lift his gaze to see the Pillar of the Sky.

  As soon as Moloquin came back, Wahela saw that he was in a black mood.

  She sent their children away to another part of the roundhouse; she called to the women who served her to bring beer and meat for him, and she herself arranged his backrest and his bearskins and blankets so that he could sit down comfortably. Still his temper did not lighten. He prowled around the roundhouse, moving from the light at the center, where the lamp burned, out to the darkness, and back again, and he would not meet her eyes.

  He had brought a heavy sack with him, which he had left beside his place at the center of the roundhouse. While he was off somewhere else, she knelt down quickly beside it and slid her hand in, and she felt the bars of metal inside.

  The trader had brought him the copper then. She wondered why he was so angry.

  He came back; she served him herself, sending away all the others. He ate only a little. He drank more beer than he did usually, and a raw flush came into his cheeks; his eyes glittered.

  Abruptly, with no warning, he turned to her and said, “What did you say to Bahedyr this morning?”

  “To Bahedyr!” she had to struggle to remember. “Nothing. He was only being friendly to me.”

  Moloquin leaned toward her. “Don’t lie to me, Wahela!”

  “I am not lying. I—”

  He struck her in the face. She fell; her face hurt, and a hot rush of terror began in her guts and spread up through her body. She cried, “Moloquin, Moloquin, I did nothing wrong!”

  He was coming at her, his face bound up with fury, and she flung up one arm to protect herself. “Moloquin, please—”

  His fist descended on her. She gulped, dazed, all the sense knocked whirling in her head. Blurry-eyed, she felt herself pulled to her feet, and she threw out her hands, trying to catch her balance, and by accident she hit him.

  He roared. His blows came hard and fast around her head. She screamed; she wept, struggling to protect herself, but he beat down her arms, he knocked her down and yanked her up again, his hands pounding on her. She screamed again. No one came. No one could help her. Another blow dashed the awareness from her. She sank down senseless to the ground.

  Even when she lay unconscious at his feet, he had to struggle to keep from hitting her.

  He went down on one knee beside her. Already there were bruises forming on the side of her face. He took her limp hand and pressed it to his mouth, to his cheek.

  It was her fault. She should never have talked to Bahedyr like that. Letting him touch her. She was Moloquin’s; she belonged to him. He could do what he wanted with her.

  Still his heart sickened to see what he had done to her.

  She breathed; her heart beat strongly. He gathered her into his arms and laid her down tenderly on the bed they shared, the pile of bearskin robes, the mats and blankets where they made one body of their two bodies, where they made other bodies with their two bodies. Holding her hand, watching her face swell and grow misshapen from his savage blows, he lifted her limp hand and struck himself across the cheek.

  That did no good.

  She stirred a little, her lips parting, and murmured. He leaned close to her; he whispered, “It was not I, it was Ladon.” Suddenly his eyes burned. He longed for tears, for the freedom of tears, but he was too old a man to cry, too old, too corrupt, and too sad.

  He lay down beside her; he gathered her into his arms. The smell of her blood reached his nostrils. When she woke, he would show her the bar of gold, he would promise her ornaments made of it. He would cover her bruised flesh with new flesh of metal. He promised her this. With his eyes closed, he promised her never to hurt her again. With his eyes closed, so that he could not see what he had done to her. What Ladon had done to her. He hated Ladon. He held Wahela tight, to keep Ladon from her.

  In the dark, Wahela awoke.

  The lamp had gone out. She could smell the stink of the oil and knew that the wick had been allowed to burn out, and the first thing she knew, as she woke, was a vague irritation that no one had snuffed the light.

  After that, she felt the pain in her face.

  That brought her memory back. She remembered him hitting her, and the pain burst through the side of her face, the bone, the teeth, her eye, her forehead.

  He lay next to her. She could feel him there, all along her side, his warmth, his body there next to her, as if he had done nothing at all. Lying there like a lover who had done nothing but love. Rigid as a piece of stone, she lay there aware of him beside her, hating him.

  But she had no one except him. All she had depended on him.

  Stiff, she lay there, thinking she might kill him, remembering where the knife was, or his axe: that would be the choicest revenge, to slaughter him with his own axe. As she lay there thinking of his death, he moved a little, there next to her, and she knew he was coming awake.

  She moved sharply away from him, putting empty space between them, and lay still.

  In the darkness, he said, “Wahela.”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, and sobbed, half in fury, half in grief.

  “Wahela.” His voice was soft with pleading, and his hand touched her arm.

  “Leave me alone!”

  They lay there a while longer, and she thought of murder, and she thought of living without Moloquin—without his power, without his prestige and wealth. Her body relaxed somewhat, and she sighed.

  At that, he touched her again, and spoke words of love to her, begging her forgiveness, promising her whatever she wanted. She listened and did not push his hand away. Her face hurt, but she would make him regret it, in small ways, over and over. She would relish that. She turned toward him, and he kissed her, his lips tender, his hands gent
le.

  She told herself there was no other who could deal with him. She let him caress her, thinking that none but she could tame him like this. If she hurt, yet she could hurt him, too. She was his, but he was hers, and even the bruises on her face proved it. He belonged to her; he was all she had. She slid her arms around him, holding him fast.

  Since the death of Fergolin, Barakal had made himself his own little hut, close by the Pillar of the Sky, on the far side of it from his father’s village. He did not live alone there. He took into his shelter the girl Dehra, who had no other home.

  She needed him; she needed his kindness. He needed her also. With Fergolin gone, he had a feeling of being loose, of drifting in the wind like the fluff of a thistle. He loved the stars, and he lived for the Pillar of the Sky, but neither could tie him fast to the earth: for that he had to have another soul, another body, another human voice, and he took Dehra into his life, grateful to have her.

  Day by day they lived together, talking long and deeply sometimes, as he explained to her how the whirling of Heaven was the fundamental order of things; that she seemed not to care about, but she loved to hear him tell her the names of the stars.

  She cooked their food, cleaned the hut, foraged for nuts and berries and fruit. The winter was coming and the last burst of the summer made the land rich for a while.

  He said, “I shall ask Moloquin where your mother is.”

  “It will be of no use,” she said.

  He looked long at her. “Why do you say that? Has he ever shown himself your enemy?”

  “He killed my mother.”

  “I do not believe that. I shall go to him and speak to him of it.”

  Therefore, although she protested and grew angry and threw things at him, he went to the roundhouse, to ask his father about Shateel.