Isle of Woman (Geodyssey)

by Piers Anthony

  The time is about 650 B.C., in central Italy.

  EMBER looked out and saw the storm rising from the south. It was singularly dark and turbulent. “Flower!” she said. “Where is Flower?”

  Crystal looked up from her design. “She went to the vineyard to practice her music. Probably she dawdled there; she likes the blossoms nearby.”

  “I had better go fetch her. I don’t like the look of that storm.” Indeed, she felt the tic starting in her cheek. That was one of the few things she had never been able to control.

  “We can send a slave,” Crystal said. “Kettle likes her; he’d be glad to go.” That wasn’t his real name, of course; it was a fond nickname used only within the household. It had come about because Kettle’s father was their longtime kitchen slave, forever scrubbing pots, so he had been nicknamed Pot. When they had adopted Pot’s somewhat slow-witted little boy, he had had to work closely with his father, lest he blunder. Thus he had become Kettle. Now the lad had grown into a great strapping young man, still somewhat simple but an excellent worker when closely directed. He was devoted to Flower, with whom he identified because she too had come on the scene as a child, and though normally amicable, he could become dangerous when she was threatened. But he had to be watched, when with her, because he would do absolutely anything she fancied, and her childish fancies were not entirely to be trusted.

  “No, they’re busy, and I’m free at the moment.” Ember smiled. “Besides, I like the blossoms too.”

  Crystal laughed. “Mother, you’re fifty-two years old; how can you be childlike?” Etruscan women were many things, being the social, political, and spiritual equals of men; it behooved them to maintain appropriate decorum in public. But notions of decorum differed. Ember remembered when they had had a Greek visitor, a client for fine bronzework. When told he would have to consult with the scribe, Crystal, he had inquired where to find her. “Oh, she is having sex with Carver,” Kettle had said blithely. “They should be finished shortly. I’ll go see.” He had then done so. Ember had happened on the scene at that moment, and seen the look on the Greek’s face. She had had to admire such a rare combination of horror, embarrassment, outrage, disgust, and shock. It had been good for the best laugh of the nine-day week, when she later told the others; Flower had literally rolled on the floor. Yet it had been true, and another Etruscan would merely have smiled tolerantly at the slave’s slight betrayal of his master’s business. Kettle’s mistake had been in failing to treat the Greek like the rigidly conventional uptight foreigner he was. Nevertheless, there were limits, even within the family: it bothered Crystal when her aged mother failed to act her age.

  “It comes with age,” Ember called over her shoulder as she hurried out, teasing Crystal about it.

  Even in her urgency, she admired the niceness of the villa she was passing through. Carver’s excellent talent at fine metalworking, Crystal’s finesse with the accounts, and Ember’s own acumen in arranging new contracts had integrated to make theirs a remarkably successful business. From the depths of despair when her husband had died, they had made a new family life, better materially than before. So the villa was well constructed, aesthetically laid out, and comfortable. They no longer had to bother with the complications of city life; their slaves went to Veia daily for the family supplies. She broke into a run as she left the garden by the house. The storm was looming rapidly, doing its best to reach the vineyard before she did.

  She was glad that she had maintained her health despite her age, so she could still run without being instantly winded. She was not yet ready to wait on the gods in the afterlife.

  The vineyard was on a slope beyond a slight green valley. The path curved gracefully around the rocky outcroppings and avoided the forest, never losing the way. But already the cold gusts were reaching out from the storm, catching at her braid and tunic. It reminded her of the wind on the sea, though it had been long since she had been aboard a boat, and she was not at all eager to repeat the experience. The first fat drops of rain spattered the ground around her. She wasn’t going to get her granddaughter back to the house in time. They would have to seek shelter in the pavilion at the top of the hill just beyond the vineyard.

  She reached the vineyard, breathing hard. There was the girl, standing among the grapevines, facing into the wind, her hair billowing behind her. Eight years old, not yet showing the aspects of a woman, pretty as only a child could be. In that instant she reminded Ember of Crystal, as she had been at that age, eagerly exploring everything, even deep caves, returning breathlessly to tell of her adventures. And of Ember herself, forty-four years ago, or was it that many thousands of years ago, meeting a boy—

  “Grandmother!” Flower called, spying her. “Isn’t it wonderful? I think I summoned the storm with my playing!” She held up her flute, which was actually a double instrument, with merged mouthpieces, one played by each hand. Thus it was possible for one person to play a harmony. Flower was getting good at it, having the sharp hearing of her age. But there was no time for that at the moment.

  “It’s dangerous, child,” Ember said severely. “We must get under cover immediately.”

  “Awww—let’s just take off our clothes and get wet.”

  “I don’t think we had better.”

  “Kettle would,” the child said brightly. “Why didn’t you send him?” But Flower’s mischievous look showed that she knew why not: Etruscan women were not supposed to disport openly with slaves. Had it been Kettle, they would have run naked through the rain, but not told anyone else, and any other family members who noticed would have pretended not to see. Ember had anticipated something like that, which was another reason she had come herself.

  The odd thing was that she was tempted. Had there been a time when she had gone bare? It almost seemed that there had, a very long time ago, in the childhood of the species. Then the storm rumbled and brought back her senses. What could she have been dreaming of? “No, child; it’s dangerous. Come to the pavilion. Hurry!”

  Flower did not protest further. The strength of the storm was pushing them, its wind whipping by their faces, making it hard to talk. Thunder was crackling in the distance, coming closer. The grape leaves were tugging at their vines, barely holding on. This was no passing shower.

  They dived into the pavilion just as the rain turned heavy. The water tried to catch them by slanting in, and when they stood at the far side, the wind curled around and carried the wetness in from behind. “Oh!” Flower exclaimed, laughing.

  The sky became dark. The fury of the storm seemed to orient on the pavilion, trying to blow or wash it away. The branches of nearby trees waved back and forth as if demented. The rain came down in sheets, pounding on the tiles of the roof. Vapor seeped up from the ground. It was as if they were in a tiny world surrounded by chaos. “Isn’t this fun!” Flower exclaimed.

  Thunder boomed almost overhead, deafeningly. Flower screamed and leaped into Ember’s embrace, no longer enjoying the experience of the storm.

  There was a sharp crack by the vineyard, followed immediately by another horrific thunderboom. Flower buried her head in Ember’s bosom, trying to hide from the awful sound. Indeed, Ember was frightened herself. She had always liked fire, and been drawn to it, and had worked with it, helping her husband and then her son-in-law. But lightning was uncontrolled fire, and dangerous. She wished they had been able to get back to the house instead of being trapped out here. Suppose it struck the pavilion?

  A bolt struck a tree to the side. The trunk burst open as the sound smote them. Ember hugged Flower close, terrified herself. Were the gods out to destroy them?

  The gods! What had she been thinking of? She should have prayed to the local god the moment she realized that the storm would catch them. “O god of this mountain,” she cried into the wind. “I beseech you, I beg you, I plead with you, spare us! If we have offended you, tell us how, and we shall make our best amends.”

  Flower heard her, and joined her muffled prayer. And after a ti
me the wind abated and the rain slowed. But they could still hear the thunder in the distance, and knew that the storm had neither passed their region nor spent its fury. It had eased off here, for the moment. Their god had interceded.

  Then something strange happened. A light approached, not following the path as might be the case if Carver had come with a lantern, but bobbing between the trees. It drifted toward the pavilion. It was a glowing ball, floating over the land at about the height of the head of a man, but there was nothing supporting it. It was just there, like a ball of windblown seeds.

  Ember and Flower stared at it speechlessly. The thing came close to the pavilion, and for a moment Ember was afraid it would come in and touch them, but then it moved to the side. It circled the pavilion and wafted on beyond. It hovered for a moment by the edge of the vineyard, then veered into the forest and disappeared.

  The rain intensified again, but without the strong wind. The thunder did not come close again, and no lightning was visible. The two of them remained without moving, afraid to do anything that might attract the attention of the storm to them.

  Finally it eased to the point where it seemed safe to return to the house. They went quietly along the path, looking nervously to the sides, but there was no trouble.

  They reached the house and told their story. Crystal and the slaves were amazed. If Flower had returned with such news, she would not have been believed, but Ember had never been one to imagine things. She had of course never told others of her dream fancies of other realms.

  “We must consult with a diviner,” Crystal said. “This must be a message from the gods.”

  “From the god of this mountain,” Ember said. “It was he to whom we prayed.”

  Carver agreed. It was known throughout Etruria that all things in the world occurred by the express design of the gods. It was man’s place to fathom that design and act accordingly. The gods did not deign to speak plainly to lesser beings, any more than an adult explained everything to a baby, an animal, or a slave. But the gods did on occasion give signals, and those who were most attentive and apt at understanding those signals were bound to prosper. This was why some were successful in love, business, and reputation, while others failed. He who could not or would not heed the gods deserved his fate. Ember’s family had always been careful to seek information on the will of the gods, and retained an especially close rapport with the god of the mountain on which they lived.

  They sent a slave to bring a lightning diviner, a fulgurator, from the city, for the art was highly specialized and an entrails reader would not do in this case. Soon the man arrived, knowing that there would be good payment for a true interpretation. He was old and bearded, unlike the majority of Etruscans. He listened carefully to Ember’s narration, showing no emotion, but she could tell that he was surprised and impressed by the bright ball.

  Then he questioned Flower. “Now, do you understand, child, that you must tell the exact truth?” he asked her.

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed brightly. “A person must never lie to or about any god.”

  He nodded. “We can never deceive the gods, but we annoy them when we try to hide anything from them. Did you see anything your grandmother did not?”

  “No, sir. She saw more than I did, because she was less afraid to look.”

  “But you heard the thunder, as the clouds collided to release the lightning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many close thunders did you hear?”

  “Three, sir. Then the lightning ball came.”

  “The lightning ball,” he agreed, smiling at her quaint childish term. “How much thunder did it make?”

  “Oh, none, sir. It was quiet.”

  “Yet we know that thunder is always associated with lightning. Why then do you call it a lightning ball?”

  Flower’s hand went to her mouth in chagrin. “Oh, that’s right! I just thought—it was so bright—I don’t know what it was.”

  He smiled. “It was ball lightning. This is a very rare, an extremely rare phenomenon. I have never seen it myself, though I have watched thousands of lightning strikes. I have heard of it only twice before, and both times it was significant.” He turned to the others. “I believe I understand the meaning of what you saw. Here is my augury: this was no local god, but Aplu himself, god of the sun—and of music, and of prophecy. He came not to hurt or threaten you, but to advise you. He came to the one playing music, in kindness, for her tribute to him. The three close lightning strikes were a warning to you—a warning of danger. Had I been there, I could have analyzed the particular types of strikes and spoken far more specifically. But Aplu perhaps knew you were not diviners, so gave you a clue that could not be mistaken. He sent you a messenger to show you the way.”

  Suddenly it made sense. Of course the god knew their limitations. So he had used the lightning mainly to get their attention and impress on them the importance of the warning. But what could the soundless ball of lightning mean?

  “There is great danger for you here,” the diviner continued. “You must depart, and quickly, if you are to save yourselves. Within three days, by the number of the strikes.”

  “But where can we go?” Ember asked, dismayed. “Everything we have is here: our villa, our business, our friends.”

  “The ball lightning showed the way. You must go in the direction it showed. That was down the river.”

  “But there’s nothing downriver!” Crystal protested. “Just a few peasant villages, and mostly foreign at that, and finally the great bleak sea. Everyone knows that civilization stops at the river.”

  “I realize that. But Aplu knows. He has shown you. Whether you heed his message is up to you.” The diviner got up to depart, pausing artfully to allow Ember to fetch his payment.

  After he left, they discussed it. They all agreed that this was disaster, but that the message of the god could not be ignored. Obviously Aplu could have destroyed them with one lightning strike; he had carefully avoided doing so, then sent a harmless but obvious signal. They had to believe him. So they would pack up and go down the river. Within three days they would be gone. It would be a horribly busy time, but it was necessary.

  On the third day they were worn, short of sleep, but ready. Their slaves had brought their belongings to the pier and stood by, ready to load them on the boat. The family members were in the city, bidding parting to their many friends and visiting the temples of Tinia, Uni, and Menrva, the major gods. Ember tried to keep the tears from her face; she had never wanted to leave this great and wealthy city. But the omen of the lightning could not be denied. They had to go.

  The boat came down the Tiber River and docked. They heard its bell. It would be on its way again as soon as its cargo had been exchanged, and if they were not there, their belongings would go without them. They hurried down the main street toward the river.

  They were in good time. The slaves had explained the situation, and their things were aboard. Now Ember had just two things to do: settle with the captain, and settle with the slaves.

  The captain was easy enough. “For passage to the next significant city, for four of us: this mirror.” She held up one of the finely wrought bronze mirrors Carver had made. The captain, a veteran trader, simply took the mirror, knowing that it was an excellent bargain. He well might sell it before getting under way, for the Etruscan women loved to admire themselves. Their admiration was of course justified, for they were as a rule beautiful, in part because they paid attention to their appearance. They were always well dressed, with fine jewelry and stylishly draped mantles.

  The four slaves were more difficult. The routine was simple: Ember had simply to state before suitable witnesses that each was free, and give to each his or her slave token, signifying self-ownership. But neither the family nor the slaves wished to part company. They had discussed it, and agreed that it was not feasible to take slaves to another city, where rules might differ and it might be hard to support them. So they were to be freed and allowed
to make their own ways in Veia. Despite the pain of the separation.

  Ember went through the ritual of freeing for each in turn, and hugged each. Then Carver, Crystal and Flower hugged them also. Flower was openly crying, and so were the slaves. The slaves had been with them for a long time, and were much like family members. Ember knew that no food would taste as good, when not prepared by the women, and no house would seem as clean. But the four should be able to make their way in the city, being free; they did have useful skills.

  Ember had one pleasant surprise at the end. “We have made an arrangement for you to remain at the villa until the new owner takes possession. You may use its facilities, in exchange for taking care of it. When the owner comes, in a month, you may then undertake service with him, or depart, as you wish. By then you may have found better situations elsewhere.”

  “Oh, thank you, mistress!” the elder woman cried. “That will be so much better than the common barracks.”

  Then they boarded the ship, taking seats in the passenger section. The journey would not be difficult; it was the new city that concerned Ember. All the rules would be different, and perhaps the language too. Worse, it was likely to be uncivilized. They had wealth, but what would it avail, if brigands ran free?