The Luck of Brin's Five

by Wilder, Cherry;

  I was determined to stay awake for a full thirty hours or more until the lists closed at the next rising of Esto. At about the third hour past midday the marshals came and told Diver to get ready for his first exercises. He had inspected the launching catapults carefully, with Ablo, and decided to use one, rather than the tower. The weather was perfect, with a great head of white cloud coming in from the east to provide a wild current besides the ones that lived over the field. There were only two machines exercising at the time: Tomarvan and Utofarl, or Double Hope, the splendid Wentroy flap-wing. The Wentroy pilot and a numerous escort took the field proudly. Too proudly, I thought, knees knocking as I shaped up with Brin and Diver for the formal salute. I had the luck skein in my hand, ready to exchange, but we stood there, emptily waiting, and the Wentroy contingent went straight to their catapult without a glance in our direction. I heard Ablo, the mechanic, muttering angrily behind me and turned to Brin, questioning.

  “We’ve been insulted?” whispered Diver.

  “The Wentroy insults itself!” she replied. “Dorn? You know the next part?”

  My knees knocked so that I could hardly run, but I did it; and the piece of ritual was unexpected: Bird Clan formality had fallen away of late. I ran out into the field and threw the luck skein, which the Wentroy had ignored, high into the air. I expected it to come back down again and lie discarded in the field, but there was a gasp from those watching: Wentroy’s rudeness had already swelled the crowd. The long silken skein was caught in a current and whirled upwards in a broad spiral. The winds had accepted my offering, and the Wentroy’s luck was tossing round and round above the ground like a seed. The Wentroy escort, young and old, could hardly restrain themselves; they must catch the skein, the most foolhardy pilot could not allow it to be carried off or dashed to the ground once the wind had taken it. I saw the old Wentroy scribe speak to the pilot, and at last the word was given. The escort swarmed over the field, jostling, eyes on the sky, hands uplifted. Brin nodded, and we three walked off to the Tomarvan. The crowd laughed and cheered and clapped palms against their buttocks; I realized they were applauding us.

  Now we thought our first trial was really at hand; Diver was in the pilot’s chair, the catapult was attached, Brin and I stood to one wing, Ablo to the other. Diver had already given a few runs to his spin-toys, which made the vassals duck their heads. But suddenly the clappers sounded; there was a confusion of marshals and a loud chopping buzz in the air above our heads. A large winged shadow dipped and zoomed across the field, and its buzzing was echoed by the crowd. The Launcher on his platform was speaking to a large escort of more than twenty persons in black and white quartering. Now he spoke on the hailing gourd.

  “Diver!” Brin reached up, trying to pat his arm in the chair, “he is addressing you directly . . .”

  “Tomarvan pilot . . . how say you? Will you give leave for a new entrant to make a display?”

  A marshal had come up with another hailing gourd; he gave it to Diver, who looked down at Brin with raised eyebrows.

  “It is a shame!” cried Ablo. “You need not give leave, Garl Brinroyan; you need not! He asks because you are in the blocks.”

  Brin said: “See who it is. Say, ‘Noble Launcher, who asks this leave?’”

  So Diver spoke into the gourd, and his voice echoed sharply across the field. “Noble Launcher, who asks this leave?”

  “Truly it is Murno Peran Pentroy up there, who asks leave.”

  Diver hesitated, the crowd was still; he looked at me and saw how I gaped with excitement. “I give my leave. I give my leave freely to this noble contestant!” said Diver.

  There was another spatter of applause as the Launcher boomed his thanks. Diver climbed down, and we went back behind the barrier.

  A hand plucked at Brin’s sleeve, and there was Jebbal Luntroy’s officer, a tall ancient, who bade us follow around the enclosure to Jebbal’s viewing stand, a little row of raised seats outside her tent. There was Jebbal, lounging and smiling, in her red gear.

  “Take a seat, gentle friends,” she said. “Let’s see what flaming marvel Blacklock has to offer!”

  So I sat down at Brin’s feet on the grass and watched the black and white escort march onto the field. My friends Valdin and Thanar came and sat beside me, chattering excitedly, but I could hardly speak. I was in a dream state, about to see Blacklock for the first time, and my excitement was tempered with a strange dreaming sadness. I ranged in a moment from the here and now at the Bird Clan in Otolor far, far back to our tent on Hingstull. The warmth of the spring sun on my arms became the scratching cold of winter, and I saw Odd-Eye’s face. “I have dreams for you, as fine as Blacklock’s mantle.”

  The incoming machine swooped and circled; Diver stood up, flinging back his helmed head to observe it. It was sleek but short-winged with a large whirling vane, a giant spin-toy, mounted centrally; we could see wing-flaps and a dirigible tail. It caught the currents and used them, but it had a curious thrusting motion as well, and suddenly it hovered, like a water-fly. The escort had formed a circle in the middle of the field; now they ran in together like dancers and quickly drew back again. I heard myself squeak with excitement. They had unfurled a huge net. The machine hovered, increased height, and at last I thought I could see movement by the pilot’s chair. Then separating, falling, a bundle of cloth, but moving, surely . . . a body, struggling, flapping arms in the air. I stood up with all the others and screamed like them, and a great bubble of silken cloth stretched and blossomed over the falling body. A tall Moruian in a shiny green flying suit floated down calmly under the green canopy, bounced deliberately in the net two or three times, then skillfully stood still and drew the folds of the silk together. Blacklock had come to the Bird Clan.

  Everyone laughed and cheered; I had never heard such a slapping of buttocks. Even in this very first exploit that I had witnessed, there was some of that special magic that made Blacklock’s audience laugh, even in sheer relief. Diver was laughing too; Brin leaned down and touched my shoulder. I saw that the flying machine was moving away to land at the end of the field, with a second pilot, of course, whom no one remarked greatly. The crowd was streaming onto the field to cheer Blacklock, so I took the clan children by the hand and ran with them. We managed to wriggle in fairly close, followed by Jebbal’s officer. Between the shoulders of two vassals holding the net we saw him: tall as a tree, broad as an omor, his helm was off now, and he seemed to be beaming straight at us. Blacklock is the handsomest Moruian anyone can imagine; he has a rather broad, jolly face and his skin is tanned, like a bush weavers’, with no trace of grandee pallor. His eyes are wide as a baby’s and set well into his temples; they are a clear yellow brown. He has an enormous shock of light brown, almost blonde hair, and from his brow there flows back a broad black streak of dye . . . his black lock.

  As we all gaped and cheered, the circle of the escort parted at the very place we were standing, and a little creature, a female in the black and white uniform of the escort, cleared a space and reached up to the net. Blacklock gave a final flourishing bow, shrugged out of the thongs that held on his green canopy, then took her hand and stepped out of the net. He allowed himself to be brushed down, then the little escort was making way for him through the crowd. She had a brisk, cheerful voice, and her face, as she led the hero, was creased with worry, like a mother fussing over a toddling baby, ten days shown. Yet it was a pretty face, young and pointed, rather like Thanar.

  Blacklock was saying as he passed, “. . . didn’t even split a seam. . . .” I felt a stab of envy for the little escort, Blacklock’s familiar.

  “That is Spinner,” whispered Valdin Galtroy, reading my thoughts, “Blacklock’s first officer . . . or maybe his mothering nurse.”

  Now Spinner was whispering urgently to Blacklock, who was still bowing to right and left.

  “What?” boomed the hero, “hmm, yes, well . . . flaming courteous of the flier in the blocks . . .”

  He waved his hand in a w
ide circle or two and shouted a command; the escort packed up and made tracks with admirable precision. I realized that it was Diver’s turn to fly his exercises; I left the clan children and ran back through the crowd to do my escort duty. The clappers were sounding, and the Launcher repeated his orders to clear the field; I found Brin and clung to her arm. Diver was beside us, showing his teeth in a grin. His nerve was much better than mine; he was keen and eager to be in the Tomarvan. It came to me that Diver loved to fly; the time he spent above the ground was actually less nerve-wracking for him than the time he spent hobnobbing with Bird Clan pilots and officials.

  So it was all done over again. The excitement had died down, and the fickle audience of the Bird Clan had drifted away, so that Diver and the Wentroy began their rounds almost unnoticed. Ablo was still fuming and fretting by the Tomarvan, and Diver leaped into the pilot’s chair. The catapult was attached; Brin and I stood to one wing, Ablo to the other.

  Diver looked down at us and said, “There goes the machine to beat!” We saw Blacklock’s odd craft wheeled away through the barrier to a heaving mass of black and white cloth: its hangar being erected. I had time to read the name on Blacklock’s machine, then the Launcher spoke, once, twice and the Tomarvan was sent aloft, followed by Utofarl, double hope of the Wentroy.

  We marched smartly off the field; Brin and Ablo stood, shading their eyes, and I ran, bent low inside the barrier, to the end of the field to see better. Diver had made a good launch, but not so good as the Wentroy, who caught a wild current, lucky wretch, and spiralled up as surely as the good luck skein, so rudely rejected. Then I laughed, for the Tomarvan eased into a series of perfect circular turns and a double circle, twisted, like the script letter which has the sound “ee.”

  There was a chuckle at my side, and I saw that I was standing next to a short, spare, brown person, probably from some escort, for he was middle-aged, with wrinkles netting his green eyes. No grandee, more of a townee, and I felt at ease with him. He was watching Diver’s performance as keenly as I was. The Wentroy tried to steal Diver’s wind and could not, for Diver had no need of a wind. The Tomarvan banked and turned; the Wentroy tried a few circles, with fair success, then caught the wind again . . . through skill this time . . . and flew off towards the First Mark, high and fast. Diver flew after him in the darting, buzzing Tomarvan.

  “Fine! Fine! Oh excellently done! Is that your pilot?” said my companion.

  “My pilot!” I agreed proudly. I tried not to think of Bird Bone Place, up ahead.

  I was about to reply in kind when I saw the insignia on his tunic and the white basket helm dangling from his strong, brown hands. I was speaking to Blacklock’s copilot, who had landed the machine. I was excited then and almost went off into a flurry of childish questions about Blacklock, but something held me back. Politeness, for my companion was interesting in himself; or perhaps I had a moment of divining power of my own. I asked instead, “Good sir, who designed the noble machine that you brought in to land?”

  His green eyes twinkled as he replied. “A good design is never the work of one mind. Your pilot, for instance, adapted that glider, with a device I call a wind-blade. Not new upon the land of Torin . . .”

  I felt my blood pound in my throat and answered boldly, “Nothing is new under the suns. I see your craft is called Dah’gan or Maker of Engines.”

  “It could be Maker of Looms!” He laughed. “What shall I call you, young escort?”

  “Dorn Brinroyan. And my pilot is Garl Brinroyan, our Luck. What shall I call you, sir?” I had thought for a moment that he knew something about Diver, but now I was not sure.

  “I have had several names,” he said, “just as we all have several families, from our birth family onwards, as the Great Wind blows us through the world. Now I am called Fer Utovangan.”

  It was a plain name, signifying no more than Fer, the Second Pilot, or even the Other Wing-Maker. He pointed across the field to a certain glider and commented on its design, then went on talking pleasantly and knowledgeably about flying machines and every sort of device that helped them to fly. We heard a sound and I stiffened, then I could not hold back a cheer. The Tomarvan returned, fast and sure from the First Mark; Diver swooped low over the field and boldly circled the launching tower before coming in to land. There was a landing net in position, but Diver had never used one and had determined to use only his own power. The marshals were there to hold his wings, but I could not stay . . . I slipped under the barrier and my companion did the same. We ran to the left wing of the Tomarvan, which touched, bounced, but not high, then came in for a perfect landing. The wing rode right into our hands, and the spin-toys or wind-blades were quivering but still.

  Diver climbed out as I shouted to him; he came down happily and stood beside us on the field. In his excitement he pulled off his goggles as well as his flying helmet, and I instinctively touched his arm. Hiding his eyes was a game we must always play. He turned his head aside, but Fer Utovangan said quietly, “No need to replace your visor on my account, Garl Brinroyan.”

  Diver glanced at me, questioning. “This is Blacklock’s copilot,” I said warily, “called Fer Utovangan.”

  “A good flight!” said Fer, clasping Diver’s hands between his own. He stared at Diver; blue eyes met green. Fer flinched a little but was not afraid.

  “The Maker of Engines did not expect to find the Tomarvan and its pilot at the Bird Clan!” he said.

  “Do you mean your machine or that One who gives others wings to fly with?” I asked.

  “Both!” he said smiling. “I would give much to see what makes the Tomarvan fly.”

  “In time I don’t doubt you will see,” said Diver, “and frankly, the Dah’gan’s engine is more new and wonderful to me.”

  “A thing I call a long-spark-maker,” said Fer. “I wonder what you would call it?”

  Diver replied with a few suggestions, totally unpronounceable to me at the time but in fact they had to do with “electricity.” Fer laughed in delight.

  “I have heard all the speech on Torin and words in two ancient tongues, taken from rock writings, but now I find there is something new under the suns.”

  He bade us farewell and walked off the field; Esto hung low in the sky, he walked into sunset colors. A few notes twanged in my memory, but I could not unravel the thread. We walked back ourselves and saw Brin coming proudly to meet us. It was not until we reached the tent that I found the answer to the puzzle; it was such a rich, impossible secret that I hugged it to myself. I murmured that plain name over to myself as I watched an improved Antho wheeled out of its hangar: Fer Utovangan, Second Wing, Second Pilot . . . or Former Bird Farmer. The winds had not taken Antho the Bird Farmer very far after all.

  Now it was the eve of the New Year. Esder was already rising in those sunset clouds, no more than forty pulse beats after Esto sank below the horizon, and Esder would shine on, long after Esto rose again. It is more difficult to fly by Esder light, but some pilots make it their art; the second round went on, by lot, without a break. Flags and mirrors were set up at the Second Mark, inland to the northeast, still on the eastern bank of the Troon, at a place not far from the landing where we had seen Narneen’s questioners, the scribe from the Fire-Town and his Witness.

  We went into this round with good spirits; but Ablo, who knew more than we did about the ways of the Bird Clan, was very nervous. The second round is the most hazardous of all because it is an elimination round. We sat in our tent, ate a good meal of farm fowl with greens and washed it down with honey water. The first decision was when to sleep: wakefulness had been the downfall of many a brave pilot and escort. Ablo sat blinking in the darkness of the tent, picking his teeth and fidgeting with our lot skein, which marked the Tomarvan to fly at the second hour after midnight, paired with Hadeel, the black glider. “Seven hours!” he exclaimed. “Seven hours, Garl Brinroyan! Sleep or wake, it’s your decision . . . we have a light escort.”

  “I will sleep and so will the escor
t. Will you watch for us, good Ablo?”

  “Yes, yes . . . but can you sleep, without wine or the preparations the grandees use? I have heard that Blacklock sleeps by the laying on of hands—sleep-stroking-magic.”

  “We can sleep,” put in Brin, “have no fear. Wake us in good time.”

  So we slept before his eyes: Diver by the use of a small white piece of medicine from his pocket vest, and Brin and myself from natural weariness, plus a pinch of herbs in our honey water. I slept and dreamed a long ordinary dream that I was on a summer journey, walking, pitching the tent, weaving, with my dear family all together again. Then I woke up, lonely for a moment and displaced, but filled with the excitement of the Bird Clan, as I saw Diver fastening his buckles.

  Brin and Ablo parted the tent flap and came in, silvered by the light of Esder.

  “Six out!” cried Ablo. “Six fallen by the way . . . never seen such an elimination round. The winds are blowing for you, Garl Brinroyan.”

  “What has gone?” asked Diver.

  “Utofarl,” panted Ablo, “double hope of the Wentroy, indeed, tipped the Second Mark; the yellow Antho did the same—or was it a tree. At any rate, it nearly came down. The copper boiler that came by the river went back into the river again, but the crew were saved, thanks to our Great Mother.”

  I was suddenly afraid. “Jebbal?” I whispered, staring at Brin.

  “Safe, child.”

  “Continue with the eliminations,” said Diver coldly. Ablo saw that his enthusiasm must be tempered; he went on:

  “The Kite lost wind . . . had it stolen by Tildee, the steam engine. The winds took that pilot, first casualty this year. The improved Antho with the green tail had a wing and wind battle with Highness Jebbal and lost out. The other elimination was the gray glider that flew its first round with Tildee . . . called Morgan, the Peacemaker, flown by another unlucky sprig of Dohtroy, and named, doubtless, after her relative on the Council, Dohtroy out of the Fire-Town.”