The Starthorn Tree

by Kate Forsyth

  With the sour bile of hatred in his stomach and throat every minute of every day, Pedrin found it hard to chew and swallow even when food was offered to him, and he lay awake at night planning petty acts of revenge and great acts of rebellion. To his distress, he saw the same forces acting on Durrik, leaching all the wit and merriment out of him and turning him into a dazed and feeble puppet, moving jerkily at the will of the overseer.

  Their misery had sharpened to a point of true acuteness the day before, when an exhausted Durrik had stumbled to his knees while carrying a heavy bucket of coal up to the furnace. Two men carrying a wide sheet of glass had not seen him in the gloom, and tripped. The glass had slipped from their hands and smashed into smithereens on the metal grating. One of the men had blundered backwards to avoid the flying shards of glass. He had slammed into the railing and overbalanced, falling down with a wailing scream and landing with a sinister crack on the floor far below. He had not moved again. Durrik had stood mesmerised at the railing, watching as the overseer knelt over the body, examining him with a grim and angry face before calling for a stretcher to carry the dead man home to his family.

  Durrik had been whipped harder and longer than ever before. Pedrin had been unable to watch, hiding his face in his hands as he listened to the crack, crack, crack of the whip and Durrik’s little involuntary whimpers. Pedrin thought the overseer might have beaten Durrik to death if the master glass-blower had not stopped him, saying with weary disgust, ‘No need t’kill him, man, we’re going to need all the hands we can get to replace that glass.’

  That night Pedrin had gingerly tended Durrik’s back with water and vinegar, the crippled boy unable to control the sobs shuddering through his thin body. ‘It warn’t your fault,’ Pedrin whispered, his tongue thick and unwieldy with the inadequacy of his reassurance.

  ‘Whose . . . then?’ Durrik had muttered in return, his head buried in his arm.

  ‘Those blasted starkin!’ Pedrin said with passion. ‘’Tis their fault, to work us till we drop. ’Tis that Lord Regent’s fault. He probably set it up on purpose, wanting a blood sacrifice for the gods.’

  Durrik shook his head, his breath catching. ‘Nah, that . . . can’t be it. The starkin don’t believe in the gods.’

  ‘Not believe in the gods!’ Pedrin had scoffed.

  ‘Well, they don’t. The starkin believe the gods are naught but superstitious rubbish.’

  Pedrin had hastily struck his right index finger along his left in an instinctive call for Liah’s protection. ‘Not believe in the gods? What do you mean?’

  ‘The starkin have the world all measured up and weighed and accounted for. They think everything can be understood with science and controlled by technology.’ Durrik’s voice was weary.

  ‘Then why don’t they use their technology to go home?’ Pedrin said acerbically.

  Durrik had shrugged, wincing at the pain the movement caused him. ‘Only Liah herself could know that. I think they’ve forgotten the way. Or mebbe their technology doesn’t work here. I don’t know.’

  It made Pedrin profoundly uneasy. If the starkin did not believe in the gods, let alone revere them, how could the gods allow them to live? Not only did the starkin survive the disdain of the gods, they ruled with such utter and luxurious certainty. It made Pedrin wonder, for the very first time, if the gods still watched. That dissonance was enough to make him say, with true sincerity, ‘I wish they’d never come.’

  The tales of the starkin’s coming were often told around the hearth and the feast-fire, along with the stories of Tessula, the god of breath; Imala the Shape-Giver, the goddess of the earth; their daughters Lullalita, Liah and Taramis, the goddesses of water, fire and the rainbow, the bridge between the worlds; and their sons Chtatchka the Earth-Shaker, Tallis of the Cold Embrace, Marithos the Counter, and Jerimy Two-Face, the trickster god, called Jimjinny because he liked to disguise himself as a goose-girl nearly as often as he posed as a goatherd. The stories of the nine great gods and ninety-nine lesser ones provided enough material to keep the tale-tellers talking all winter but, because the young hearthkin children saw the proof of the starkin about them every day, they clamoured often for the tales of their coming.

  The starkin fell out of the sky like dying stars, the taletellers said, crashing to earth with streaming tails of pure, cold radiance. At first the hearthkin and the wildkin had thought them gods come to walk upon the earth, and had been eager with gifts and homage. Soon it was clear they were not gods, though, so indifferent and greedy were these strangers from the sky. Then the hearthkin and wildkin had sought to withdraw their obeisance but the starkin had been angry. It was then that they showed the true purpose of the long silver tools they always carried upon their backs. With the power of lightning at their fingertips and the power of ruthlessness in their hearts, the starkin had soon triumphed, leaving only a scatter of ashes behind them.

  Johan had once said the hearthkin and the wildkin could, perhaps, have defeated the starkin and driven them back into the sky if they had been able to set aside their differences and join forces. The hearthkin and wildkin had never lived together comfortably, however. There was too much distrust and suspicion, too many old misunderstandings. Besides, Johan said, the wildkin had no council, no guild, no reeve nor constable. They lived like animals, going their own way, without law or principles. It was inconceivable that they would have submitted to the discipline of an armed force. The only people who could perhaps have persuaded the more intelligent and ferocious of the wildkin to join forces with the hearthkin were the Crafty, and they too were wild and unruly, their only law their own will.

  So the starkin had built their cities and their castles, driven the Old Ones and the Crafty into the wild lands, subjugated the hearthkin and made for themselves a life of ease and comfort. They never lost their longing for their homeland, however. Their minstrels sang wistfully of Zivhayr, its crystal halls and shining towers, its diamond-bright seas and perfumed breezes. It was always warm in Zivhayr, they sang. There were no storms, no sadness, in Zivhayr.

  Gradually, as the centuries passed, the hearthkin grew used to their servitude, the wildkin grew wilder and rarer, and the starkin gave up dreaming of Zivhayr. Almost.

  ‘Anyways,’ Durrik had continued, after a long silence when the two boys were preoccupied with their own thoughts, ‘I do know the lord astronomer wouldn’t have broken a pane of his beloved glass just to have a little blood spilt. If he really believed the gods wanted a sacrifice, he would’ve had a couple of goats killed. Or if it had to be hearthkin, he’d just have ordered one of his men t’cut a throat with a dagger. He wouldn’t have sacrificed the glass too!’

  Pedrin had to concede Durrik had a point. Still, he and all the other hearthkin had conceived a deep suspicion and hatred of Lord Zavion and believed him capable of just about any infamy, including murder. It was whispered the Regent had arranged for the death of the old count himself, and was somehow responsible for the cursed sleep of the young count. He would be the next to die, frizzled to a cinder on the crystal altar built in the heart of the tower. Everyone knew Lord Zavion was cousin to the king himself, as he had been to Count Zoltan. No-one doubted he would be named heir if Count Zygmunt was to die before his time. All knew the Regent was a cold, proud, ambitious man. Was it so hard to believe he was the secret hand behind this curse that kept their young count in this unnatural sleep, as still and cold as if he were already dead?

  With all these suspicions swirling around the glassworks, as thick and foul-smelling as the smoke from the furnaces, the mood among the hearthkin was ugly indeed. It was a slow, sullen anger, however. Apart from anything else, the hearthkin were weary indeed, so tired they could barely plod about their work, let alone plan an insurrection.

  The guards were harsher than ever this morning, as if punishing all the workers in the glassworks for the breaking of the window pane. Sore, miserable and aching all over, the boys stumbled to obey their orders, the back of Durrik’s shirt staine
d with ugly brown lines. He looked sick, with blue shadows under his eyes. To Pedrin’s dismay, he was muttering under his breath again. Pedrin nudged him, aware of the overseer’s eyes upon them, but Durrik paid no heed, mumbling: ‘Cursed . . . the people lost in . . . the night . . .’

  Pedrin hustled him away, whispering under his breath, ‘Durrik, are you all right?’ but his friend only looked at him with dazed eyes and, after a moment, nodded.

  By the time the birds were warbling, the final work was finished. The intricately cut and polished lenses were being loaded onto the barges, the huge sculptures of starkin lords upon their giant birds were being trundled down to the lake on a heavy wagon pulled by ten burly hearthkin, and the master glass-blower was giving one enormous convex lens a final, anxious polish with his handkerchief.

  All of the hearthkin were required to help in the final frantic work on the crystal tower, and so Pedrin and Durrik were among those harried out of the glassworks and down to the jetties by the overseer. The cool air that swept over their faces as they stepped outside almost made them swoon, the pearly dawn light stabbing their eyes so that they covered their faces with their hands. Both Pedrin and Durrik found themselves taking deep swallows of air as if it was the most delicious apple-ale. Never had air tasted so cool, so sweet, so intoxicating.

  The overseer stood at the jetty, his whip coiled in the ham-sized hand resting on his hip. Pedrin felt Durrik falter and said to him urgently, ‘Jumping Jimjinny, Durrik, now’s not the time to be a-worrying about getting on a boat. He’ll drown you himself if you make a fuss.’

  Durrik had had an intense fear of the river ever since the time their raft had capsized and he had almost drowned. If Pedrin had not been such a strong swimmer he would have drowned, for the crippled boy did not have enough strength in his legs to keep himself afloat. Ever since he had refused to try rafting again, and would not even go out on the flower-decked barges during the festival in honour of Lullalita.

  Now his footsteps dragged, and the closer they came to the boat the more he hung back, so that Pedrin had to grip his arm quite hard and practically drag him the last few steps. The overseer narrowed his eyes and uncoiled his whip, swinging it longingly, and Durrik came down the steps and into the boat in a rush. He huddled at the very bottom and would not look out at the shifting, gleaming water running so silkily under the prow, though Pedrin leant over the side and let his fingers dangle with great pleasure.

  The walk up the hill to the astronomer’s tower made Pedrin’s legs tremble and his breath grow short. Only a month ago he had leapt as nimbly and tirelessly up the tors as Thundercloud did. He wondered with a pang how his goats were, and how his mother had managed without him, and stumbled as his vision swam.

  ‘Steady there, my boy,’ came a deep, familiar voice. The bell-crier came up beside them, dropping one big hand on each boy’s shoulder. For the first time ever Pedrin saw his friend’s father looking dishevelled, his hair falling out of its black ribbon, his shirt grubby and unbuttoned at the throat, his chin unshaven. Johan examined their faces closely, frowning a little at their pallor. ‘How have you been these past few weeks? Have they treated you well?’

  ‘They whipped Durrik, whipped him bad,’ Pedrin said urgently. ‘Look at his back.’

  Johan lifted the bloodstained shirt and examined the torn and lacerated skin with his lips thinning. ‘What possible excuse did they have for such barbarity!’ he cried. ‘I shall complain to the overseer.’

  ‘He’d laugh in your face,’ Durrik said wearily.

  ‘Or spit in it,’ Pedrin said.

  Johan’s face was haggard with distress. ‘I can’t believe they’d do this to a young boy! What cruelty! Oh, Durrik, my boy, I’m so sorry, so very sorry. Just as soon as we are released from our service, I shall get you home and to bed. ’Tis a wonder you can walk.’

  ‘I can’t really,’ Durrik said with a wan attempt at a smile. ‘If it warn’t for Pedrin, I’d fall right over.’

  Johan went on exclaiming and shaking his head. Durrik was both relieved to be able to lean on his father’s strong arm and uncomfortable that he should be the cause of so much fuss. Durrik hated to be reminded of his own feebleness.

  Knowing this and wanting to distract the bell-crier’s attention, Pedrin said rather plaintively, ‘Got aught to eat? We’re starving!’

  Johan frowned and smiled, all at once. ‘You do look like you need a good feed,’ he said, slipping his hand into his pocket and drawing out a slice of cheese-and-onion pie. ‘Get this into you.’

  ‘Yippee!’ Pedrin cried, grabbing it and breaking it in half. The two heads, one curly and brown, the other with fine hair that stuck straight up like a duckling’s down, bent over his hand as the friends carefully examined the two halves and negotiated their division.

  ‘They fed you badly?’ Johan asked as the slices of pie swiftly disappeared.

  ‘Pig’s swill,’ Pedrin said succinctly through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘I’ve been dreaming of egg-and-bacon pie every night. ’Twas torture.’

  ‘I dreamt of roast pork with crackling and apple chutney,’ Durrik said dreamily. ‘And apricot turnovers.’

  ‘Blackberry tart with cream,’ Pedrin said emphatically.

  ‘Mushroom omelette,’ Durrik said longingly.

  ‘Enough, you’re making my mouth water! Never fear. If I know your ma, Pedrin, she’ll have brought all your favourite food. She knows what you’re like.’

  ‘Will she be here?’ Pedrin looked about him eagerly.

  ‘The whole town will be here, I daresay the whole valley. ’Tis not just the folk of Levanna-On-The-Lake who have been made to labour on this folly, but the men and boys of every town, village and hamlet in all of Estelliana. Let us pray to the nine great gods and the ninety-nine lesser ones that this experiment of the Regent revives our count!’

  SIX

  Up close the height and brilliance of the tower was even more awe-inspiring than when seen from the shore. The bright radiance of the dawn sky was reflected in the sheer glass walls, which soared twelve storeys high. The tower seemed to defy the laws of air and earth, so that the men clustered on the ground cringed down as they worked, expecting the whole fragile edifice to come smashing down.

  At the apex of the tower was a chamber open to the elements, the walls held aloft only by delicate pillars and arches of spun glass. Here a bird could fly straight through the tower and emerge on the far side, while a handspan lower they would crash into the walls and break their necks. Indeed, the ground below the tower was littered with small, limp, feathered bodies with twisted necks and opaque eyes, those birds that had mistaken an impenetrable pane of glass for guileless air.

  Above the chamber soared an immensely tall, narrow spire of cut glass, its facets flashing and sparkling like a crown of diamonds. Light could be precisely wrought conduit, through a series of concave and convex lenses, and down to the very heart of the tower. Through these lenses, Lord Zavion could see far into the heavens, watching the stately dance of stars and comets and planets amidst swirls of fiery dust and echoing funnels of emptiness. He could read the cryptic messages the stars wrote upon the night skies, he could search for Zivhayr, the lost home of the starkin, he could funnel the immense power and energy of the daystar for his own obscure uses. This slim column of shining crystal was more than just a thing of incomprehensible beauty. It was an instrument of power.

  An hour before noon the tower was at last complete and perfect. The hearthkin were allowed to hurry away from its strange lucid shadow and rest under the trees. Families were reunited, old friends greeted. Bread, cheese and cold bacon were handed round generously, and mugs full of cool, frothy apple-ale. The bearded faces split in smiles for the first time in a month. Dour jokes were tossed about. A few fell asleep, their handkerchiefs fluttering gently over their faces. Most sat and drank and chatted, the completion of the tower lifting a dark and galling load from their shoulders. For the first time they began to talk about the harvest, to worry i
f the weather might break before they got the hay in, to question their wives and daughters about the state of the fields and the vineyards.

  Pedrin had searched the crowd eagerly for any sign of his mother and little sister, though when he saw them he greeted them laconically, submitting to his mother’s embrace and rubbing his cheek where she kissed him.

  Maegeth was horrified by Durrik’s back and made him lie down on his stomach in the shade so she could rub some healing ointment on the welts. ‘I went one night to Naoma’s hideyhole and gave her some cheese and honey in return for all the good stuff she could give me,’ Maegeth told Johan rather grimly. ‘I knew I’d be a-needing it.’

  ‘You should have more of a care for yourself,’ Johan said with a troubled face. ‘’Tis only a matter of time before the starkin learn where that witch has hidden herself. You do not want to be caught visiting one of the Crafty.’

  ‘Nah,’ Maegeth said rather defensively. ‘But if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have the stuff to put on Durrik’s back and, indeed, Naoma knows her healing arts. Durrik’s back won’t hurt him now and it’ll heal quickly.’

  ‘’Tis stopped hurting, Papa,’ Durrik said, quick to defend Maegeth.

  His father patted him gently, saying, ‘That’s good, my boy. It was worth the risk, though I could be wishing it was me that had run it and not Maegeth.’

  ‘You always think the best of the starkin,’ Maegeth said, softening the rebuke with one of her flashing smiles. ‘I knew the boys would come back with cuts and bruises, at the very best. And hungry too, of course! Look what Mina and I have brought for you!’

  She drew forward a big basket covered with a damp white cloth, uncovering it with a flourish. Pedrin began to pull things out with little glad cries. ‘Blackberry pie. Ma, you’re the best! And Durrik, look. Mushroom omelette!’

  They all sat down to enjoy their picnic, the boys beginning to chatter more naturally as they told Maegeth all about the glassworks. She grew pale and fierce as they described how the overseer’s whip would lash them at the slightest word or look, but said very little about it. Instead, she entertained them with stories about what the women of the fields had been doing while their men were labouring for the starkin.