First Family

by Patrick Tilley

  It was a novel experience. In the thousand years since their traumatised ancestors had clawed their way out of the rubble, Mutes had never gotten around to wasting hot water on their bodies; the only time water ever got heated was inside a cooking pot full of soup or stew. But there was another surprise in store. The dead-face in the tub held a block of hard yellow fat that produced a white foam like soap-leaves but in much greater abundance. And she had a soft rock full of holes that could be squeezed in the hand and was used to rub the skin. Mr Snow mastered his initial misgivings and submitted meekly to her attentions. It was not as unpleasant as he expected and, when she reached the parts that had not felt the touch of a woman’s hand for several decades, Mr Snow had to admit there was something to be said for the Iron Masters’ brand of civilisation.

  Once in the tub, the samurai removed his mask but kept his face averted. Before emerging, one of his reds brought him a fresh mask. When they had been thoroughly washed, the three Mutes were drenched with cold water then rubbed dry by the two attendants who had remained outside the tubs. They were then offered a cotton loincloth and loose undervest, a pair of black baggy trousers and a black and brown patterned wide-sleeve jacket fastened by a sash. Sitting on low stools, they had their hair dried and combed then expertly plaited and gathered onto the crown of their heads where it was secured with thin slivers of wood. One of the dead-faces then carefully dried the soles of their feet while a second guided their toes into short white cotton socks then fitted a pair of wooden sandals.

  While this was going on, the samurai was receiving similar attention. The only difference was in his clothing which was patterned with threads of shimmering silver and bore the symbol of his house on the back. His face was once again concealed, a white head-scarf with a solid red circle centred over the forehead covered his hairless skull. Inserting his curving swords into the wide sash around his body, the samurai invited the three Mutes to follow him. Leaving the bathhouse, they came out onto the main deck then mounted two flights of open stairs which brought them onto the second of the upper side galleries.

  The boat’s overall structure was made of horizontal and vertical beams but its severe lines were softened by sculptured beam supports and cornices, richly decorated panels and pierced screens set between the massive uprights. Their guide turned right and passed between two masked reds guarding a passage running across the ship from port to starboard. A platform, some four feet wide, ran along the left hand side of the passage at calf height. Two more reds sat on the platform amidships, on either side of a door. Like the walls on either side, the door was made up of two panels of translucent white cloth stretched over wooden frames.

  At their approach, the reds hastily uncrossed their legs and knelt facing each other. They slid open the door and bowed low as the samurai stepped through. Mr Snow followed, passing between two more red guards stationed immediately inside. He found himself in an even larger rectangular space whose walls were made of identical framed panels of white cloth. The floor was covered with straw matting with not a speck of dirt or a leaf to be seen anywhere. On the matting were several small dark brown mats, three of them arranged in a triangle which pointed towards a square dais at the far end of the room. Four Iron Masters, dressed even more richly than their guide sat on the dais to the right and left of an ornate folding stool.

  Following the samurai’s lead, Mr Snow and his companions dropped to their knees and bowed from the waist. The samurai then took his place on the left-hand side of the room. Mr Snow knelt on the first mat; Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck occupied the mats behind him. A panel at the rear of the room slid aside to reveal Yama-Shita, instantly recognisable by his black mask with the bridge of the nose and eyebrows picked out with three broad strokes of gold. Everyone went forward on their hands and put their noses to the floor then, when Yama-Shita had seated himself, the Iron Masters on the platform straightened their backs and adopted a cross-legged position. The junior samurai and the Mutes sat back on their heels and awaited his first pronouncement. The chief Iron Master addressed their guide with an unintelligible burst of sound then leant forward with his right elbow on his knee and focused his attention on Mr Snow.

  The samurai translated: ‘Lord Yama-Shita says your presence here is proof of the high regard he has for the Plainfolk. Unlike those who inhabit the deserts of the south, our two peoples, in their different ways, share the same sense of honour and respect for valour. It pleases him to know that the long sharp iron he has furnished will be carried into battle by the most valiant of warriors.’

  Mr Snow acknowledged this unexpected compliment with a gracious nod. Yama-Shita responded with another unintelligible burst for the samurai to pass on.

  ‘Lord Yama-Shita wishes to speak again of the cloud-warrior you sent us and whose return you expected, together with that of his escort.’

  Another long string of nonsense words.

  ‘He is aware of your disappointment and hopes it will not shadow the friendship between the Sons of Nissan and the Plainfolk. In order to remove any doubt about our conduct in this affair, he has summoned you here to seek the truth for yourselves.’

  Yama-Shita barked an abrupt order and looked at the wall to the right of Mr Snow. Drawn back by invisible hands, the two centre panels parted to reveal a copper-skinned, dark-haired girl kneeling on a padded cushion in the room beyond. Mr Snow was momentarily thrown by her strange appearance but the light that shone from her blue eyes was unmistakable.

  It was Clearwater.

  Dressed in the style of the Iron Masters, she wore a long multicoloured coat the dead-faces called a kimono. It was held in place by a deep sash of smooth lustrous material wrapped around her waist and fastened at the back in a huge bow. Her hair – of which there now seemed to be a great deal – was drawn up into a stiff lacquered bun secured by long black combs. But it was not just her clothing that was different. Her face, neck and the back of her hands were no longer marked with the usual pattern of browns and blacks. She had taken a supply of the special pink scrubbing leaves with her in case of some unforeseen emergency. What had caused her to remove the dye from her body – and reveal her smooth unblemished olive-brown skin? Mr Snow longed to know the answer but dared not ask for fear of how such questions might be received by his hosts – and where they might lead.

  As her eyes met his, Clearwater bowed respectfully then sat with her hands placed submissively on her knees, her face devoid of all expression.

  The two reds from the back of the room positioned themselves on either side of the parted screens. Momentarily bewildered by Clearwater’s presence on the boat and the dramatic transformation in her appearance, Mr Snow exchanged glances with his companions then turned towards the dais uncertain what to do next. Yama-Shita gestured towards Clearwater then barked briefly in his native tongue.

  ‘Lord Yama-Shita says now is the time to speak. You are both free to say whatever you wish.’

  The senior samurai on the right hand side of the platform barked an order. The nearest red padded over to a low lacquered cabinet and brought back a large hour-glass which he placed midway between Mr Snow and Clearwater, in the centre of the open doorway. Mr Snow had never seen such an object before and he did not know what it was called but, on seeing the fine trickle of sand fall from the upper vessel into the lower, he was quick to divine its purpose.

  After being told that they were free to talk, Mr Snow had expected Yama-Shita and his samurai to withdraw but nobody moved. They just sat there waiting, and with their faces hidden by the ferocious masks it was impossible to tell what they were thinking. Mr Snow exchanged a long look with Clearwater. It was apparent that she also felt constrained by the presence of the dead-faces and yet they both submitted, even though they jointly possessed the power to call up a thunderous wall of wind and water that would have hurled the huge wheelboats ashore, crushing their great timbers as if they were breadstalks. Their minds were stilled by the thought of the absent Cadillac and the knowledge that they c
ould do nothing which would imperil the vital trade links between the Plainfolk and the Iron Masters.

  Referring to Cadillac as ‘the cloud-warrior’, Clearwater began by explaining that he had asked to be allowed to prolong his stay in the east. She was at pains to stress that, while the ‘cloud-warrior’ had made this request against her wishes, he had done so of his own free will. No pressure had been put on either of them by their hosts. As his appointed guardian, Clearwater felt she had no alternative but to remain with him until he could be persuaded to return. She confirmed that the ‘cloud-warrior’ was in good health and that they were both enjoying many privileges. Her fine clothes and her presence on the boat were proof of the Iron Masters’ generous hospitality. She was, she added, eager to take this opportunity to express, in the presence of her own people, her heartfelt gratitude to her principal benefactor – the great Domain-Lord, Yama-Shita.

  At the mention of his name, she turned and bowed to the chief Iron Master. Taking his cue from her, Mr Snow did the same. Rolling-Stone and Mack-Truck exchanged nervous glances then followed suit just to be on the safe side.

  Clearwater then asked after her clan-sisters and Black-Wing, her blood-mother.

  ‘Your name is on their lips and in their hearts but they do not weep.’ Mr Snow paused then added, ‘Others wait and watch for word of your return in the stone.’

  He saw Clearwater’s eyes react to the trigger word. ‘And what does the stone say, Wise One?’

  Mr Snow chose his words carefully, using a slight pause or a subtle emphasis to convey the real meaning of what he was saying. ‘The stone speaks of life and death, of going and returning, of hope and despair, of love and hate. What it has seen, has come to pass, what it foretold, is at hand. Visions shall take shape, dreams shall become reality.’

  Clearwater signalled with her eyes that she was beginning to get the message. She asked how the clan had passed the winter and for news of the spring planting.

  ‘The seed which we thought was carried away on the wind has sprung again from the earth,’ replied Mr Snow.

  ‘And what of the scattered fruit?’

  ‘Nothing is lost. With the help of strong sharp iron, all will be gathered before the Yellowing.’

  Very little sand was now left in the top half of the strange vessel. Clearwater turned to the right and used both hands to pick up a small black and gold lacquer box that lay close to the cushion on which she knelt. Measuring about nine inches by six by six deep, it had cut-off corners and chamfered edges and was fitted with four little feet. Light reflected from the golden images that covered its various surfaces.

  ‘Wise One, Lord Yama-Shita has permitted me to offer you, my teacher, this gift as a token of my respect and devotion. Only the Sons of Nissan could have fashioned an object of such beauty. Knowing your love of such things I used their unrivalled skills to create a design that would please your eye. It expresses better than any words of mine, the wonders and infinite riches to be found in the Land of the Rising Sun.’ So saying, Clearwater reached forward as far as she could without moving from the padded cushion and placed the box on the floor. She then bowed again to Yama-Shita.

  The Iron Master responded with a peremptory flick of the wrist. One of the kneeling reds picked up the box and set it down in front of Mr Snow who, in his turn, bowed deeply to the chief Iron Master then said: ‘Though our daughter’s hand is on this gift we know it reaches us by virtue of your inexhaustible munificence. We are deeply honoured to be the recipients of your bountiful goodness and shall forever seeks ways to be worthy of the respect and friendship you have expressed for our people.’

  The junior samurai translated this for Yama-Shita’s benefit. Mr Snow was sure that the chief Iron Master could speak the Mute language and understood it perfectly well but for some reason – perhaps to enhance his already exalted position – he chose to have everything relayed by a mouthpiece.

  Yama-Shita grunted his assent and stood up with an imperious wave. Everybody below the dais put their nose on the floor and stayed there till he had left the room, followed by his entourage.

  When Mr Snow sat back on his heels Clearwater was no longer visible. The invisible hands that had opened the wall screens had now closed them cutting off his view of the adjoining room. He felt a sudden pang of anxiety at what would now happen to her but as he picked up the box, he felt reassured. It contained a message; what she would have said had she been free to do so. He had understood that much from what she had said and the subtle inflections she had used in her replies. He ran his fingers over the painted surface of the wood and felt her presence within it. It was fortunate that the Iron Masters were either ignorant of, or did not give any credence to, the stories of Mute magic.

  Returning to the main deck, their guide ushered them into an annexe of the bath-house where the female attendants who had washed them now stood waiting, fully dressed, to help them back into their own clothes. Mr Snow found it strange that they had been allowed to look on the faces of the female Iron Masters but not those of the males. He reflected on the phrase ‘Sons of Nissan’. Tonight was the first time he had heard it used. Did it imply that, in Iron Master society, all women were considered to be inferior beings? Or was it merely that these particular women were considered to be of lower standing than the samurai and his red-striped minions?

  The two clan-elders said nothing until they were safely ashore then both threw themselves to the ground, hugging and kissing it, their fingers clawing deep into the fine round pebbles covering the beach.

  Rolling-Stone was the first to rise to his knees. ‘What a night!’ He gazed towards the departing samurai. ‘I still can’t believe the size of that boat. Just think of the trees they must have killed to build it! And the whole time we were on board it never stopped moving. Didn’t you feel it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Snow. ‘But it didn’t affect me all that much.’

  The old clan-elder got up and massaged his chest and stomach. ‘You’re lucky. I feel as sick as a yellow dog.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Mack-Truck. He stood up and spat the bile from his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you ask Clearwater why she was unskinned?’

  Mr Snow threw up his hands. ‘I didn’t know how to. Since Yama-Shita didn’t raise the subject I thought it better, in the end, to say nothing. If he gets it into his head that we tried to trick him we could find ourselves in all kinds of trouble.’

  Rolling-Stone gave vent to a grumbling sigh as they headed towards the lines. ‘I really don’t understand why we have to keep grovelling to these dinks.’

  ‘Especially when they’re robbing us blind…’

  ‘Look, Mack, before you start complaining just remember that, if it wasn’t for them, most of us would still be throwing rocks at one another and opening buffalo with our bare teeth. Is that what you want to go back to?’

  Rolling-Stone answered for him. ‘Life must have been a lot simpler.’

  ‘What makes you think it was meant to be simple?’ grumped Mr Snow. ‘You must try to live simply but to do so requires a mental effort that is beyond most people. Life itself is the most complex mystery there is. A tree starts out as a tiny seed that can be carried in a bird’s beak. But if it doesn’t get eaten does it stay that way? Of course not. If it takes root and is favoured by the sun and the rain it gathers strength and grows until it is twenty warriors tall! And when it reaches its prime that one seed can produce a whole sackful. In the days when Oakland-Raider led this clan, the M’Calls numbered no more than eighteen hands. Look at us now! Just as the tree stretches its limbs upwards, seeking to touch the sun, so the Plainfolk are destined to grow tall and strong in the light that is Talisman.’

  Momentarily silenced by his eloquence, his companions trudged alongside him through the darkness, their faces bathed in the warm glow from the hundreds of camp-fires.

  ‘I still think you overdid it,’ mused Mack-Truck. ‘“Inexhaustible munificence”, “bountiful goodness”… I don’t know exactly what it means but
do you really think they swallow that jive?’

  Mr Snow gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. ‘Mack, you’re here to do the deals. Just leave the word-games to me. Come sun-up tomorrow the dead-faces will be on their way and we’ll be able to hold our heads high for another year. Okay, so maybe we have to bow and scrape a little but so do they. That’s the way they operate. I don’t mind playing the grateful underdog for a week if it means the clan gets what it needs to survive. Yes, sure, they twist our arms a little but so what? It’s better than having them blown off by the sand-burrowers.’

  There was another lengthy silence. The noise of the last night’s festivities began to assault their ears. They picked their way through the celebrations to the four turf marker poles which indicated the area alloted to the clan elders. Mr Snow threw off his ceremonial finery and sat down on his sleeping furs.

  ‘What’s in the box?’ asked Mack-Truck as they sat down facing him.

  ‘Nothing.’ He opened the lid to show them the bare, black-painted interior.

  Rolling-Stone looked puzzled. ‘I don’t get it. Why come all this way to give you an empty box?’

  Mr Snow let out a long-suffering sigh. ‘Don’t you understand anything about magic? Haven’t I explained to you, over and over again, what summoners can and cannot do?’

  Rolling-Stone shrugged his thin, bony shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you did. I forgot. It happens.’

  Placing the box in his lap, Mr Snow closed his eyes and slowly rubbed his palms over the intricate gold images that adorned the top and sides. When he spoke, his voice had a distant, echoing quality. ‘It’s not what is in the box that is important but what is on the box.’ He opened his eyes and raised the box, turning it around so they could see the pictures for themselves. ‘Without understanding what he was doing, the craftmaster who fashioned these images has told us many things. When you examine them in the light of day you will see they are pictures of the Iron Masters’ world. They show the land that lies beyond the Fire-Pits of Beth-Lem, between the Buffalo Hills and the Great Sea, the paths that lead to where Cadillac is to be found – and this one shows the great hut by the falling water where Clearwater is held against her will.’