The Miracle Workers

by Jack Vance

  “Then you can hoodoo the First Folk?” asked Lord Faide.

  “I vouchsafe nothing until I try. Certain preparations must be made.”

  “Go then; make your preparations.”

  Comandore rose to his feet and with a sly side glance for Hein Huss left the room. Huss waited, pinching his chin with heavy fingers. Lord Faide looked at him coldly. “You have something to add?”

  Huss grunted, hoisted himself to his feet. “I wish that I did. But my thoughts are confused. Of the many futures, all seem troubled and angry. Perhaps our best is not good enough.”

  Lord Faide looked at Hein Huss with surprise; the massive Head Jinxman had never before spoken in terms so pessimistic and melancholy. “Speak then; I will listen.”

  Hein Huss said gruffly, “If I knew any certainties I would speak gladly. But I am merely beset by doubts. I fear that we can no longer depend on logic and careful jinxmanship. Our ancestors were miracle workers, magicians. They drove the First Folk into the forest. To put us to flight in our turn the First Folk have adopted the ancient methods: random trial and purposeless empiricism. I am dubious. Perhaps we must turn our backs on sanity and likewise return to the mysticism of our ancestors.”

  Lord Faide shrugged. “If Isak Comandore can hoodoo the First Folk, such a retreat may be unnecessary.”

  “The world changes,” said Hein Huss. “Of so much I feel sure: the old days of craft and careful knowledge are gone. The future is for men of cleverness, of imagination untroubled by discipline; the unorthodox Sam Salazar may become more effective than I. The world changes.”

  Lord Faide smiled his sour dyspeptic smile. “When that day comes I will appoint Sam Salazar Head Jinxman and also name him Lord Faide, and you and I will retire together to a hut on the downs.”

  Hein Huss made a heavy fateful gesture and departed.

  X

  Two days later Lord Faide, coming upon Isak Comandore, inquired as to his progress. Comandore took refuge in generalities. After another two days Lord Faide inquired again and this time insisted on particulars. Comandore grudgingly led the way to his workroom, where a dozen cabalmen, spellbinders, and apprentices worked around a large table, building a model of the First Folk settlement in Wildwood.

  “Along the lakeshore,” said Comandore, “I will range a great number of dolls, daubed with First Folk essences. When this is complete I will work up a hoodoo and blight the creatures.”

  “Good. Perform well.” Lord Faide departed the workroom, mounted to the topmost pinnacle of the keep, to the cupola where the ancestral weapon Hellmouth was housed. “Jambart! Where are you?”

  Weapon-tender Jambart, short, blue-jowled, red-nosed and big-bellied, appeared. “My lord?”

  “I come to inspect Hellmouth. Is it prepared for instant use?”

  “Prepared, my lord, and ready. Oiled, greased, polished, scraped, burnished, tended—every part smooth as an egg.”

  Lord Faide made a scowling examination of Hellmouth—a heavy cylinder six feet in diameter, twelve feet long, studded with half-domes interconnected with tubes of polished copper. Jambart undoubtedly had been diligent. No trace of dirt or rust or corrosion showed; all was gleaming metal. The snout was covered with a heavy plate of metal and tarred canvas; the ring upon which the weapon swiveled was well greased.

  Lord Faide surveyed the four horizons. To the south was fertile Faide Valley; to the west open downs; to north and east the menacing loom of Wildwood.

  He turned back to Hellmouth and pretended to find a smear of grease. Jambart boiled with expostulations and protestations; Lord Faide uttered a grim warning, enjoining less laxity, then descended to the workroom of Hein Huss. He found the Head Jinxman reclining on a couch, staring at the ceiling. At a bench stood Sam Salazar surrounded by bottles, flasks, and dishes.

  Lord Faide stared balefully at the confusion. “What are you doing?” he asked the apprentice.

  Sam Salazar looked up guiltily. “Nothing in particular, my lord.”

  “If you are idle, go then and assist Isak Comandore.”

  “I am not idle, Lord Faide.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  Sam Salazar gazed sulkily at the bench. “I don’t know.”

  “Then you are idle!”

  “No, I am occupied. I pour various liquids on this foam. It is First Folk foam. I wonder what will happen. Water does not dissolve it, nor spirits. Heat chars and slowly burns it, emitting a foul smoke.”

  Lord Faide turned away with a sneer. “You amuse yourself as a child might. Go to Isak Comandore; he can find use for you. How do you expect to become a jinxman, dabbling and prattling like a baby among pretty rocks?”

  Hein Huss gave a deep sound: a mingling of sigh, snort, grunt, and clearing of the throat. “He does no harm, and Isak Comandore has hands enough. Salazar will never become a jinxman; that has been clear a long time.”

  Lord Faide shrugged. “He is your apprentice, and your responsibility. Well, then. What news from the keeps?”

  Hein Huss, groaning and wheezing, swung his legs over the edge of the couch. “The lords share your concern, to greater or less extent. Your close allies will readily place troops at your disposal; the others likewise if pressure is brought to bear.”

  Lord Faide nodded in dour satisfaction. “For the moment there is no urgency. The First Folk hold to their forests. Faide Keep of course is impregnable, although they might ravage the valley… .” he paused thoughtfully. “Let Isak Comandore cast his hoodoo. Then we will see.”

  From the direction of the bench came a hiss, a small explosion, a whiff of acrid gas. Sam Salazar turned guiltily to look at them, his eyebrows singed. Lord Faide gave a snort of disgust and strode from the room.

  “What did you do?” Hein Huss inquired in a colorless voice.

  “I don’t know.”

  Now Hein Huss likewise snorted in disgust. “Ridiculous. If you wish to work miracles, you must remember your procedures. Miracle working is not jinxmanship, with established rules and guides. In matters so complex it is well that you take notes, so that the miracles may be repeated.”

  Sam Salazar nodded in agreement and turned back to the bench.

  XI

  Late during the day, news of new First Folk truculence reached Faide Keep. On Honeymoss Hill, not far west of Forest Market, a camp of shepherds had been visited by a wandering group of First Folk, who began to kill the sheep with thorn-swords. When the shepherds protested they, too, were attacked, and many were killed. The remainder of the sheep were massacred.

  The following day came other news: four children swimming in Brastock River at Gilbert Ferry had been seized by enormous water-beetles and cut into pieces. On the other side of Wildwood, in the foothills immediately below Castle Cloud, peasants had cleared several hillsides and planted them to vines. Early in the morning they had discovered a horde of black disklike flukes devouring the vines— leaves, branches, trunks, and roots. They set about killing the flukes with spades and at once were stung to death by wasps.

  Adam McAdam reported the incidents to Lord Faide, who went to Isak Comandore in a fury. “How soon before you are prepared?”

  “I am prepared now. But I must rest and fortify myself. Tomorrow morning I work the hoodoo.”

  “The sooner the better! The creatures have left their forest; they are out killing men!”

  Isak Comandore pulled his long chin. “That was to be expected; they told us as much.”

  Lord Faide ignored the remark. “Show me your tableau.”

  Isak Comandore took him into his workroom. The model was now complete, with the masses of simulated First Folk properly daubed and sensitized, each tied with a small wad of foam. Isak Comandore pointed to a pot of dark liquid. “I will explain the basis of the hoodoo. When I visited the camp I watched everywhere for powerful symbols. Undoubtedly there were many at hand, but I could not discern them. However, I remembered a circumstance from the battle at the planting: when the creatures were attacked, threatened w
ith fire and about to die, they spewed foam of dull purple color. Evidently this purple foam is associated with death. My hoodoo will be based upon this symbol.”

  “Rest well, then, so that you may hoodoo to your best capacity.”

  The following morning Isak Comandore dressed in long robes of black, and set a mask of the demon Nard on his head to fortify himself. He entered his workroom, closed the door.

  An hour passed, two hours. Lord Faide sat at breakfast with his kin, stubbornly maintaining a pose of cynical unconcern. At last he could contain himself no longer and went out into the courtyard where Comandore’s underlings stood fidgeting and uneasy. “Where is Hein Huss?” demanded Lord Faide. “Summon him here.”

  Hein Huss came stumping out of his quarters. Lord Faide motioned to Comandore’s workshop. “What is happening? Is he succeeding?”

  Hein Huss looked toward the workshop. “He is casting a powerful hoodoo. I feel confusion, anger—”

  “In Comandore, or in the First Folk?”

  “I am not in rapport. I think he has conveyed a message to their minds. A very difficult task, as I explained to you. In this preliminary aspect he has succeeded.”

  ” ‘Preliminary’? What else remains?”

  “The two most important elements of the hoodoo: the susceptibility of the victim and the appropriateness of the symbol.”

  Lord Faide frowned. “You do not seem optimistic.”

  “I am uncertain. Isak Comandore may be right in his assumption. If so, and if the First Folk are highly susceptible, today marks a great victory, and Comandore will achieve tremendous mana!”

  Lord Faide stared at the door to the workshop. “What now?”

  Hein Huss’s eyes went blank with concentration. “Isak Comandore is near death. He can hoodoo no more today.”

  Lord Faide turned, waved his arm to the cabalmen. “Enter the workroom! Assist your master!”

  The cabalmen raced to the door, flung it open. Presently they emerged supporting the limp form of Isak Comandore, his black robe spattered with purple foam. Lord Faide pressed close. “What did you achieve? Speak!”

  Isak Comandore’s eyes were half closed, his mouth hung loose and wet. “I spoke to the First Folk, to the whole race. I sent the symbol into their minds—” His head fell limply sidewise.

  Lord Faide moved back. “Take him to his quarters. Put him on his couch.” He turned away, stood indecisively, chewing at his drooping lower lip. “Still we do not know the measure of his success.”

  “Ah,” said Hein Huss, “but we do!”

  Lord Faide jerked around. “What is this? What do you say?”

  “I saw into Comandore’s mind. He used the symbol of purple foam; with tremendous effort he drove it into their minds. Then he learned that purple foam means not death— purple foam means fear for the safety of the community, purple foam means desperate rage.”

  “In any event,” said Lord Faide after a moment, “there is no harm done. The First Folk can hardly become more hostile.”

  Three hours later a scout rode furiously into the courtyard, threw himself off his horse, ran to Lord Faide. “The First Folk have left the forest! A tremendous number! Thousands! They are advancing on Faide Keep!”

  “Let them advance!” said Lord Faide. “The more the better! Jambart, where are you?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “Prepare Hellmouth! Hold all in readiness!”

  “Hellmouth is always ready, sir!”

  Lord Faide struck him across the shoulders. “Off with you! Bernard!”

  The sergeant of the Faide troops came forward. “Ready, Lord Faide.”

  “The First Folk attack. Armor your men against wasps, feed them well. We will need all our strength.”

  Lord Faide turned to Hein Huss. “Send to the keeps, to the manor houses, order our kinsmen to join us, with all their troops and all their armor. Send to Bellgard Hall, to Boghoten, Camber, and Candelwade. Haste, haste, it is only hours from Wildwood.”

  Huss held up his hand. “I have already done so. The keeps are warned. They know your need.”

  “And the First Folk—can you feel their minds?”

  “No.”

  Lord Faide walked away. Hein Huss lumbered out the main gate, walked around the keep, casting appraising glances up the black walls of the squat towers, windowless and proof even against the ancient miracle-weapons. High on top the great parasol roof Jambart the weapon-tender worked in the cupola, polishing that which already glistened, greasing surfaces already heavy with grease.

  Hein Huss returned within. Lord Faide approached him, mouth hard, eyes bright. “What have you seen?”

  “Only the keep, the walls, the towers, the roof, and Hellmouth.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think many things.”

  “You are noncommittal; you know more than you say. It is best that you speak, because if Faide Keep falls to the savages you die with the rest of us.”

  Hein Huss’s water-clear eyes met the brilliant black gaze of Lord Faide. “I know only what you know. The First Folk attack. They have proved they are not stupid. They intend to kill us. They are not jinxmen; they cannot afflict us or force us out. They cannot break in the walls. To burrow under, they must dig through solid rock. What are their plans? I do not know. Will they succeed? Again, I do not know. But the day of the jinxman and his orderly array of knowledge is past. I think that we must grope for miracles, blindly and foolishly, like Salazar pouring liquids on foam.”

  A troop of armored horsemen rode in through the gates: warriors from nearby Bellgard Hall. And as the hours passed contingents from other keeps came to Faide Keep, until the courtyard was dense with troops and horses.

  Two hours before sunset the First Folk were sighted across the downs. They seemed a very large company, moving in an undisciplined clot with a number of stragglers, forerunners and wanderers out on the flanks.

  The hotbloods from outside keeps came clamoring to Lord Faide, urging a charge to cut down the First Folk; they found no seconding voices among the veterans of the battle at the planting. Lord Faide, however, was pleased to see the dense mass of First Folk. “Let them approach only a mile more—and Hellmouth will take them! Jambart!”

  “At your call, Lord Faide.”

  “Come, Hellmouth speaks!” He strode away with Jambart after. Up to the cupola they climbed.

  “Roll forth Hellmouth, direct it against the savages!”

  Jambart leaped to the glistening array of wheels and levers. He hesitated in perplexity, then tentatively twisted a wheel. Hellmouth responded by twisting slowly around on its radial track, to the groan and chatter of long-frozen bearings. Lord Faide’s brows lowered into a menacing line. “I hear evidence of neglect.”

  “Neglect, my lord, never! Find one spot of rust, a shadow of grime, you may have me whipped!”

  “What of the sound?”

  “That is internal and invisible—none of my responsibility.”

  Lord Faide said nothing. Hellmouth now pointed toward the great pale tide from Wildwood. Jambart twisted a second wheel and Hellmouth thrust forth its heavy snout. Lord Faide, in a voice harsh with anger, cried, “The cover, fool!”

  “An oversight, my lord, easily repaired.” Jambart crawled out along the top of Hellmouth, clinging to the protuberances for dear life, with below only the long smooth sweep of roof. With considerable difficulty he tore the covering loose, then grunting and cursing, inched himself back, jerking with his knees, rearing his buttocks.

  The First Folk had slowed their pace a trifle, the main body only a half-mile distant.

  “Now,” said Lord Faide in high excitement, “before they disperse, we exterminate them!” He sighted through a telescopic tube, squinting through the dimness of internal films and incrustations, signaled to Jambart for the final adjustments. “Now! Fire!”

  Jambart pulled the firing lever. Within the great metal barrel came a sputter of clicking sounds. Hellmouth whined, roared. Its snout
glowed red, orange, white, and out poured a sudden gout of blazing purple radiation—which almost instantly died. Hellmouth’s barrel quivered with heat, fumed, seethed, hissed. From within came a faint pop. Then there was silence.

  A hundred yards in front of the First Folk a patch of moss burnt black where the bolt had struck. The aiming device was inaccurate. Hellmouth’s bolt had killed perhaps twenty of the First Folk vanguard.

  Lord Faide made feverish signals. “Quick! Raise the barrel. Now! Fire again!”

  Jambart pulled the firing arm, to no avail. He tried again, with the same lack of success. “Hellmouth evidently is tired.”

  “Hellmouth is dead,” cried Lord Faide. “You have failed me. Hellmouth is extinct.”

  “No, no,” protested Jambart. “Hellmouth rests! I nurse it as my own child! It is polished like glass! Whenever a section wears off or breaks loose, I neatly remove the fracture, and every trace of cracked glass.”

  Lord Faide threw up his arms, shouted in vast, inarticulate grief, ran below. “Huss! Hein Huss!”

  Hein Huss presented himself. “What is your will?”

  “Hellmouth has given up its fire. Conjure me more fire for Hellmouth, and quickly!”

  “Impossible.”

  “Impossible!” cried Lord Faide. “That is all I hear from you! Impossible, useless, impractical! You have lost your ability. I will consult Isak Comandore.”

  “Isak Comandore can put no more fire into Hellmouth than can I.”

  “What sophistry is this? He puts demons into men, surely he can put fire into Hellmouth!”