Whiterock Fold, never more than a stopping place, was almost deserted. There were seven shepherds—one family, with two grown children as outclips—tending the fold itself, a mile away behind the outcrop of rock that gave the place its name. Half the hundred wool-deer belonged to Beeth Ulgan, the rest were divided among the shepherds and a town grandee from Wellin. Come spring they would be shorn and turned into the wider pastures round the rock, where they already grazed on fine days. The wool would be shipped up and down the river, some back to Cullin, some down to Otolor Spring Fair. Beeth had promised us a first-class bale in payment for our new work left at Stone Brook.
When our work was done, or when the weather was so bright we could persuade the grown-ups to set us free, Narneen and I explored the glebe of the Ulgan’s house. Eventually we grew bolder and crossed the grazing lawns to scramble on the tall rock and look down on the shepherd’s fold. There was no need for Diver to hide . . . although he could have: the fixed house was full of deep cupboards in the curtain walls, as well as a cellar underground. He walked free and went on fishing trips with Mamor in a wicker crossing-boat from the landing. On one of these journeys they learned from a shepherd that the barge bearing the air ship had passed Whiterock a full five days ahead of us. It met with the Great Elder’s barge, coming down from Otolor, and Tiath Gargan had gone aboard in midstream to examine the cargo. There was no shortage of gossip up and down the river. The shepherd even volunteered her own idea of what might be on the barge under the covers: a great hoard of silver treasure, fallen from heaven.
Diver was restless, but he was in a land that was all new, and every day he found new things to interest him. He made a folder of dried leaves and plant drawings; he collected rocks. Ten days, fifteen passed, and the suns moved ever closer, to mark the year’s end. The weather was so fine that it brought the sunners out onto the rocks; the early-eyes and red-bells were opening. In the air and on the river, the bright two-sun days brought out the “deedeenar” or “flitterlings.” One or two small pleasure boats with painted sails flittered past on the Troon; and one day, as Diver sat with us on the rock he gave a cry. The first balloon of springtime went past overhead, and not far behind it was a glider.
It was a fine sight: Narneen and I loved flying machines and looked for these flitterlings or spring visitors every year.
“Grandees?” asked Diver. He had moved into the shadow of a boulder and drawn out his spyglass.
“That’s right,” I said. “No one else has the time or the credits. Well, maybe one or two rich townees.” I tried to explain about the air currents and the air races, the landing platforms and the catapults in Rintoul, Otolor and the Fire-Town. And the greatest race of all, the Bird Clan at Otolor.
Narneen broke in, “We see them better here. At Cullin they land on the fairground, and on Hingstull they fall, poor dears, if the wind is wrong!”
It was true. On the mountain we got too many unskillful flitterlings who dashed their expensive craft, and sometimes themselves, all to pieces. Diver handed me the glass, and as I trained it on the flame and silver balloon, he laughed to himself and hummed one of his tunes.
There was something brave and comical about the party of grandees in the basket. They wore furs, because it was chilly, and seemed to be eating and drinking enormously. And one—I gave a yelp of laughter—a personage in a green cloak was looking back at us on the rock with another spyglass. Diver looked again, and Narneen took a peep. We could not stop laughing; we rolled about on the rock while Diver took back his glass and examined the glider, bearing away to the other side of the river. Then he sang us his song of the flying machines, and I gave him the first words, “Ototo Deedeenar . . . Great, great flitterlings . . .”
We lay on the rock hoping for more machines, but none came and we went back to the house, laughing and adding pieces to our song.
Diver could not hide his excitement.
“We told you,” said Brin, after supper. “Did you think those were hill yarns?”
Diver shook his head and laughed; he was rather shame-faced. “The flying is more advanced than I expected.” We sat in comfort in the midst of Beeth Ulgan’s house, on cushions and our own mats laid down. When I saw our hangings on the white walls and looked round at the familiar faces, I could hardly believe that we had become so grand . . . like city-dwellers.
Diver asked about the use of gliders and balloons. Mamor chimed in; he had flown in a glider. Some distant sib of his Five had been a glider pilot, who carried messages and passengers about in the Fire-Town.
“There is the difference between Tsagul and the rest of the world,” said Brin. “Flying is a sport for the rich everywhere else. In the Fire-Town it is put to hard use.”
“Ah . . .” said Harper Roy, who was quiet and thoughtful this night. “Many others would fly if they could. Remember Antho the Bird Farmer.”
“Remind us,” said Mamor. “Diver has not heard the story.” So Roy took his harp and accompanied his tale, half-sung and half-told, in the manner that is called “mantothan.” I cannot set it down as he delivered it, but the story is a simple one:
“Antho the Bird Farmer was not a clansman; he lived on the outskirts of Rintoul where there are bird farms and market gardens to serve the needs of the great city. He followed the old threads, but he suffered a great loss . . . his Five and their children all were killed in an accident on the river, and Antho, who had been proud and rich, was left alone. He became mad, so it was said, with his solitude. One day he set free all his caged birds, even the scratching fowl who cannot fly, and wandered into the wilderness.
There the winds took pity on him and blessed him with the power of flight. He made a marvellous craft from bentwood and a bolt of silk he found floating down the Datse. It was launched from the roof of a ruined temple, with the aid of two hermits, male and female, who lived in the desert. Then Antho caught every current of air and flew better than the grandees. His glider took him home again and was a wonder to behold. No other craft could match it, and the design was widely copied. In the end Antho flew away on another of his journeys and did not return. It was said that the winds had taken him.”
We applauded when the tale was done, and the Harper repeated his last notes . . . Antho flying into the setting of the suns.
“Is this tale very old?” asked Diver.
“By no means,” said the Harper. “Antho has been gone no more than twenty springs.”
“He could be still alive!” I cried. “An ancient—”
The grown-ups all laughed.
“Hush child,” said Gwin, “you heard the Harper. The winds took him.”
“I wonder?” said Brin. “Who is this liege of Beeth Ulgan’s . . . the Maker of Engines.”
It was past the time for our best sleep, and we were folding our clothes into their bags, ready to crawl into our own.
The Harper sighed and hung up his beautiful harp upon the white wall. “Diver,” he said, “I have been talking with the shepherds . . . Varb’s Five.”
“What do they say?” asked Diver.
“Last spring there were grandees at Whiterock. They left behind a treasure that none could put to use.”
“A treasure?” I asked.
“Their glider came down about half a mile north east of the rock,” grinned Roy. “It lies there yet, covered with hides and branches.”
“A glider!” Diver’s eyes were shining with excitement. We knew why the Harper had been unwilling to tell about this treasure.
“We must look at it tomorrow!” said Diver.
“Will you . . . will we all go flying?” asked Narneen. Diver looked at us, sensing the tension.
“If your Luck can fly,” he said, “then so can you all.” It made me sleep easier.
When I woke up, in brightish Esder light, before the Great Sun rose, the Harper and Diver had already gone. I ran up onto the roof, struggling with my tunic, and caught sight of them, clear of the glebe, two dark figures striding across the grazing fields
. They passed into the shadow of the tall rock. I dared not go back down the ladder for fear of waking the others. They would soon be stirring anyway, it was only the darkness of the fixed house that kept them asleep. I looked over the edge of the roof and found more handholds than there were on Hingstull. Down I went, by rain pipe, window edge, and a tree branch. I ran through the glebe and across the grass in the flat light of Esder, overhead. It was a near thing, but I glimpsed Diver and Roy passing into a grove of trees off to the northeast, away from the fold. The wool-deer thumped and chirruped in their stockades; I thought I heard Varb’s Five stirring in their tent.
I could have run on and caught up; but instead, out of mischief, or shyness, or because I wanted to go back to the fixed house for breakfast, I decided just to watch. I turned back and climbed the white rock. It made a comfortable vantage point. There was soft grass growing in the hollows of the rock, young flax plants and berry vines, thick with buds and flowers, the promise of summer fruit. I settled in a warm hollow, closed on three sides with boulders, like a room in the top of a tower.
Diver and Roy were walking through open country now; all that lay before them was a fallen tree with some kind of lean-to against it. The glider must be there. The morning was so still that I could hear the sound of their voices, as they came up to the lean-to and began stripping away hides and dead bushes. Off towards the riverbank a wind flattened a clump of tall reeds, snaked through a patch of scrub, made a clump of trees and their shadows waver. But there is no wind, a voice whispered inside my head. “Look child, there is no wind.”
What then? I whispered in thought, scanning the clump of trees. There, yes, I see now. A watcher. Only one? I cannot be sure . . . there . . . now it is clear. The Great Sun, rising to meet Esder, sent long, golden fingers of light across the land to the east. My eyes were fixed on the spy, the stranger, crouched in bushes, only fifty paces from Diver and Roy as they cheerfully uncovered the glider and walked around it.
I was afraid, uncertain of what to do. What I saw was like a dream and I was in the dream and out of it at the same time. If I shouted a warning, would the cry hang in air and never reach Diver and Roy? Would the watcher be alarmed, angry.
The voice in my head asked: “What would you do on the mountain, child?” and I answered; I spoke the answer in a low voice.
“I would high-call to Roy. . . .” And I knew the strangest thing of all: I was not alone on the rock. There was one who stood at my back, shedding a mild radiance, a feeling of warmth all round me. I was linked in thought, guided, as Beeth Ulgan had guided Mooneen, the poor twirler.
I rose to my feet and high-called with all my skill to Harper Roy. The trick is to produce a smooth flow of notes, between singing and calling; I knew it was done right when the back of my throat tickled. The high-call flew out, straight to Roy’s ears, like the call of a morning bird. I called, “Danger . . . danger . . . danger,” and then, “Tree . . . tree . . . tree.”
I saw Harper Roy spring back and lift his head, then give the returning call, “Heard . . . heard . . . heard.”
A figure leaped up from the bushes, and Diver gave a shout. He ran forward a few paces, and I was afraid he might use the stun-gun. But the watcher was very quick, racing away now, bent double among the scrub.
“Have no fear, child; the creature is not worth your Luck’s weapon.”
I sank down again and, still deep in the dream, I turned my head. The fire of Esto was in my eyes. A tall figure in black and green, not ten paces away, on the uneven summit of the rock.
“Who?” A bordered robe, long hands, but not the restless bird hands of a grandee. A glint of metal, dull gold, green gold, in one hand, and I knew. I thought the words: “Maker of Engines . . .”
A low chuckling laugh. I put up my hand to screen out Esto’s light. The words were spoken this time: “Guard your Luck, Dorn Brinroyan!”
There was a first light gust of wind, stirring the vines, and I was alone.
I climbed down from the rock and ran without looking back through the trees and across the open spaces. I was out of breath when I came up to Roy and Diver.
“Now what’s this?” said Roy sharply. “Why are you out after us, watching from the rock, high-calling?”
“The watcher . . .” I gasped, pointing towards the place.
“You did warn us, I suppose.”
“But what was it?” I begged. “What sort of a person?”
Diver shook his head. “Tall, wild. A male. I have a feeling I’ve seen that creature before.”
“Some outcast,” said the Harper, “some wretched berry-picker scavenging for a poor broken Five.”
“Well, what do you think of her?” asked Diver proudly.
He meant the glider. It sat on the grass, free of its coverings, like a fallen insect, a poor flitterling indeed. I had never examined one so closely before, although I knew they were made mostly of bentwood, covered with oiled fabric. This one was large—fifteen paces long and the wings a good twenty paces if one had not been broken. Yet it seemed a frail thing to sit in, above ground. When I looked more closely still, I saw that the bentwood was very finely worked; two lengths came from the tail in a swooping curve and arched over the pilot’s chair. The wing, scalloped along its backward edge, fitted through this arch and was ribbed with short lengths of tough silken cord, most still unbroken. The fabric was a silk-weave, fine flax of a pale, clear yellow, mottled and torn in places, or stained with berry juice and bird droppings. The whole contrivance rested lightly on bentwood runners.
“It is beautiful,” I said at last. “But can you make it fly again?”
Diver laughed. “Better than before!”
Then he and Roy began to examine the craft again, walking around it, flexing the broken wing, getting down on their haunches to peer between the curves of bentwood. I was impatient with them and still afraid. There were times when grown-ups had no sense and not enough fear. I sat on the fallen tree, staring through the bushes to the river reeds, the path where the watcher had come and gone. Had he used a boat? I carried the memory of that other watcher, the presence on the rock; the certainty of the experience was not fading but sinking deeper into my mind. If I did not speak soon, I knew I would never tell them, I might never tell anyone.
I had never in my life kept an important thing from my Family. I had scarcely covered up the least mischief, had not bothered to lie about trifles: snatched graynuts, dropped stitches, time spent tree climbing instead of gathering food or dye-herbs. Should I turn away from them now and not try to explain that the Maker of Engines was protecting our Luck?
Diver and the Harper had hitched ropes to the head of the glider; we cleared the runners and swung it round. Roy called me, and I ran to lift the broken wing off the grass; the glider swung easily in a half-circle.
“Back to the fixed house glebe?” asked Diver.
“We could work on it here more secretly,” suggested Roy.
“No!” I cried. “No, by the fire that burned the world! There is danger . . . the watcher . . . the outcast!”
They smiled but not scornfully. Suddenly Harper Roy gave a click with his tongue and strode towards the watcher’s low tree. I stiffened, wondering if the creature had returned.
“Easy now. I had a flash that we do know that watcher,” he said, tugging his chin-lock.
“Yes . . . but from where?” asked Diver.
The Harper made the sign that means “Discovery!” “The twirler! The Leader . . . what was his name?”
“Yes!” said Diver. “The twirler . . . I never got his name!”
“Petsalee, Host of Spirits!” I cried. I thought again of Mooneen, the poor crazed wretch that Beeth Ulgan had enchanted.
“Poor devil. At least he escaped Tiath Gargan,” said Diver. But now the Harper was thoroughly alarmed, and I understood why. We tried to make Diver understand.
“He was a spirit-warrior, an outcast, that’s true . . .” said the Harper, “but he was also the Leader. Maybe he h
ad a little substance, a bag of offerings, or a gift of fortune telling. And we know he fell into the hands of the Pentroy!”
“You mean he was hanged? That was his spirit?” teased Diver.
“No! But did he buy a life?” said Harper Roy.
It was an alternative to death, shameful, so it was said, but possible. A condemned person was sometimes permitted to buy into vassalage . . . become a lesser servant, like the clan slaves in ancient times. Diver understood.
“So Petsalee might be Tiath Pentroy’s vassal?”
“His spy! His telling-bird!” I whispered.
Diver took it more seriously. He and Roy picked up the ropes, and we went back through the morning fields. We took a wide detour around the fold and the rock, then pushed and dragged and slithered the glider right under the spreading trees of the house glebe. We went straight indoors and told of our adventures.
Brin and Mamor joined with Roy to convince Diver of the risk. Petsalee was deeply suspect and a real threat to our security. He was one of the few who could weave the threads between Beeth Ulgan and our Luck. Mamor was all for scouring the riverbank and capturing the wretched “spirit-warrior,” but we restrained him. Old Gwin still held firmly to the old threads; she could not believe that such a holy person could “buy a life” or turn traitor.
We settled down late in the day to our ordinary routine, if life in a fixed house could ever be ordinary, of weaving, cooking, playing, sleeping. Diver began searching up and down for wood and fabric to mend the glider. I was so quiet and worked so well at the mat-loom that Gwin felt my chest to see if I had a fever. I was still clacking away in midafternoon while Gwin dozed and Roy turned aside into another room to change a harp string. Narneen had run off to watch Diver and Mamor working on the glider. I saw Brin leave off her beautiful hanging on the great loom and climb the stairs to the room of evening. I went after her, and we knelt together by the bundles of new work and bedding.
The Luck of Brin's Five Page 8
