The Luck of Brin's Five

by Wilder, Cherry;

  I have thought of this moment and dreamed of it all my life since that time. I remember how the Dah’gan lit down beside us, how Blacklock ran to embrace Diver and call him friend and sibling. How the Tildee came in, red-hot in patches, and the pale young Mattroyan was lifted out by Diver and Blacklock to share the moment. Then the platform was wheeled up, the same one that had brought Tomarvan into the enclosure, but decorated this time with flowers of spring and blue green banners and tall silk lilies, the sign of victory. The Tomarvan was lifted aboard, and Diver, our Luck, unable to keep the smile off his face, stood beside his machine while silkbeam copies were made by the marshals. Then we climbed up beside him to share his triumph ride, and Blacklock himself stood to the flower-twined ropes with the cheering, laughing band of marshals and vassals. We were drawn towards the barrier and the cry went up, again and again, “Garl Brinroyan,” “Tomarvan,” “Brin’s Five and Cullin.” Here my dream should end; here I should remember no further. I have awakened in the darkness or in Esder light, on land and on the ocean sea, crying out for the dream to stop, stop and show me no more.

  We had reached the barrier when the cheering began to fade; I saw Blacklock check and look at the sky. The cheering dried up, ebbed away completely. Diver made an exclamation in his own tongue. Hadeel and Peer-lo-vagoba had appeared together high above the field, moving, both of them, with a strange shuddering motion. Then I saw that they were locked together. The slender wingtip of Jebbal had pierced the black glider behind the pilot’s chair and would not come free. They swung down together, caught in one current that lived over the field, then were carried up in another; at the greatest height Hadeel wrenched free and came soaring down safely, far to the east, almost on the First Mark. Peer-lo-vagoba looped over, still graceful, and began to turn, to turn faster, to spin like an autumn leaf, spinning down, down, faster and faster towards the hard ground. I screamed but no sound came; there was a heavy silence over the whole of the field. The glider was a spinning blur of blue, a twirler; I could not take my eyes from it, but at the last Brin turned my head away and buried my face in her cloak. All I felt was a jarring thump, no more than the closing of a wooden door in a fixed house.

  The silence was shattered after a few pulse beats; it was a scene of dreadful confusion. I saw Diver leap down and run, followed by Blacklock; the Launcher was roaring somewhere; the crowd broke the barrier and swarmed onto the field. Brin and Ablo had to stand to the Tomarvan on its triumphal platform to protect it. I saw a tall ancient rush past, tearing the clothes from his back and scratching his face in token of mourning: it was Jebbal’s chief officer. I had only one thought. I leaped from the platform and ran and fought and burrowed through the weeping, jostling crowd until I came to Jebbal’s fine silken tent, where the children were waiting. There was a clear space all around it; the escort were not there, except for two body servants, one an ancient sitting on the ground, tearing the flax flowers of Luntroy from its cloak, the other a young officer rifling through a kitbag. The ancient shrieked at me as I went to the tent flap that the place was accursed. Would I draw down the winds’ bane?

  “I carry the winds’ favor!” I shouted.

  I stepped into the darkness of the tent and waited, searching the darkness until my eyes became accustomed to it. They sat there on the cushions, pale as ever: Valdin and Thanar. They were richly dressed in honor of the day; the bead game lay between them. I saw myself in their silvered mirror, wild-eyed, dirty, full of the fear and excitement that made up the Bird Clan. I felt sure they had not watched the race, that no one had told them how it ended, and at the same time I was sure they understood what had happened. For four years, until this time, they had waited in the dark tent; and they knew the worst, although no one had brought them word. I stumbled forward and sat by them; Valdin moved a bead on the board, and Thanar clapped her hands silently and took four of his beads. Valdin sighed and handed me a beaker of honey water. “She is a baby,” he said, “she likes to win.” I sipped and choked.

  “Has anyone . . .?” I gasped.

  “Not yet,” whispered Thanar, “you are the first, Dorn. You are our officer.” She replaced the beads carefully, every one in its correct socket, then began to move about the tent, collecting their belongings.

  “You must make a report,” said Valdin. I stared at him, dry-mouthed.

  “Is the Bird Clan won?” he prompted.

  “Yes, by Garl Brinroyan.”

  “And Jebbal?. . .”

  “The winds have taken her.” I hated this empty formula but I was glad of it; I could not tell them any more.

  Thanar brought Valdin his cloak and he put it on, as she had done with her own; scarlet lining turned out, in token of mourning. I talked with them about sailing. We sat there for what seemed a long time, and the eddies of sound from the field became fainter, as order was restored.

  “What will you do?” I asked.

  “Go to Salthaven,” said Thanar. “Some clan folk will see to it.”

  There was a faint hail from outside the tent, and I went to the doorway. I saw that the escort had all returned, shame-faced and weeping; they sat in a circle, giving the tent a wide berth. In the midst of them stood the hawk-faced old scribe with the Wentroy pectoral, first officer for the pilot of Utofarl.

  “Who is that? Who has braved the winds’ bane in that tent?” he demanded.

  “Dorn Brinroyan!”

  He took a few steps towards the tent and said, “Aren’t you afraid, child?”

  “No, I am not,” I said truthfully, “for I carry the winds’ favor. We have a Great Luck, victor of this Bird Clan, and besides, I have a special duty to their highnesses Valdin and Thanar.”

  “Well, you have taken the edge off this accursed place.” He stepped into the tent and bowed sorrowfully to the children, who stood together, holding their velvet satchels. “Highnesses, my liege of Wentroy has your barge ready.”

  I cannot remember what we said in farewell, but the ancient took them away, quickly, by the back flap of the tent and bade me stay longer. I looked out and saw the two scarlet cloaks heading a slow and melancholy procession towards the river. Jebbal’s escort trooped silently among the tents and stalls to the Bird Clan stockade and crept out through a broken place onto the bank of the Troon, where the barge was waiting.

  I drew back into the empty tent and sat on the ground. I was alone and in an accursed place, but I did not want to be with anyone at that moment. Even the winds’ favor weighed heavily upon me; I could not think of our good fortune. I could not wish myself back on Hingstull; for the Dorn who had run about on the mountain was gone forever. I would meet that child, become that child again, only in dreams.

  “So you have seen the Bird Clan,” said a dry whisper inside my head.

  “I have seen it.”

  “Then you know that the winds can dash every hope to the ground.”

  A beam of sunlight, the rich light of the two suns, blazing outside for the New Year, struck the silver mirror left on the tent wall. My eyes were dazzled; a figure dark and bright grew in shadow at my side. I caught a movement of the green-hemmed robe.

  “Do you hate the Bird Clan then?” I asked aloud.

  “It is a testing ground, no more,” said the Maker of Engines.

  “Our Luck flew well . . .” I said defensively.

  “Too well!” the voice was harsh. “Now he is known, marked down for the strange creature that he is. He must come to me at once or my protection will have no power.”

  “Someone is coming!” I said.

  “Those I have summoned.”

  There was a muffled shout of “Winds’ Favor!” outside the tent, and Blacklock strode in followed by Diver.

  Blacklock checked in his stride at once for he saw who was there, a familiar presence to him. His handsome face wore a rueful expression. “At your call,” he said.

  “Another victory for the Bird Clan!” said the Maker of Engines sadly.

  Diver came on into the tent completely
unaware of any other presence. “Are the children taken care of?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “but Diver . . . hear me . . .”

  “Dorn, poor fellow . . . my dear sib . . . come up off the ground!”

  “Diver . . . someone else is here,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Garl Brinroyan,” said Blacklock. “Meet this other, whom I call ‘teacher,’ ‘guide,’ even ‘my liege.’”

  Diver looked carefully round the tent and said in wonder, “Some other person . . . here in this tent?”

  Blacklock waved his hands in exasperation. “There! I’ve never seen a better demonstration of thought-blindness! By the fire, I believe what Antho, our wise old bird, says of you, Garl Brinroyan. You are not of this world!”

  The Maker of Engines said in that dry inward voice, “Thought-blind indeed! Yet, I wonder. Dorn, ask your Luck to stand still and take off those flying goggles.”

  I was about to pass on this message when to my surprise Diver did as he had been asked.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Blacklock slyly.

  “No reason,” said Diver, “or perhaps . . . I felt . . .”

  The Maker of Engines uttered a sighing laugh; that radiance I had felt on the rock grew very strong. I saw the Great Diviner in and out of my head, everywhere around me, as if reflected in a hundred mirrors, so clearly that my head ached. Tall, narrow-faced, with a great fall of dark brown hair held across the high brow by a band of green brilliants. The eyes were black and piercing; I shut my own eyes and seemed to fall into a deep pool of black light where there was only this dazzling figure.

  “Enough, Nantgeeb! You will have us entranced!” cried Blacklock. I dragged my eyelids open and saw Blacklock reeling back, an arm before his face. Diver suddenly cried out in his own language.

  He took a step forward, his face very pale, his blue eyes staring, for he was very much afraid. “There is something . . .” he whispered. He mastered his fear and stepped forward again into that light, which we could scarcely bear, peering warily like a hunter entering a cave.

  “Commend me to the Maker of Engines, Dorn,” he said.

  “Commend me to your Luck, Dorn Brinroyan,” said Nantgeeb.

  The light had already faded, and the Maker of Engines was a more comfortable presence. “This Luck—what is his true name?—is certainly very brave. The report I have from the Ulgan of Cullin does justice to him.”

  “He flies as well . . . as well as I do,” murmured Blacklock. “And I smell more fire-metal-magic about the Tomarvan than any other machine in the Bird Clan.”

  “Murno, my firebrand,” said Nantgeeb bitterly, “I have given my time, my riches, even those I might call my kin to this Bird Clan, and I grow weary of its wretched excesses. Remember where you stand . . . if this place is accursed it is because I curse it. Once, long ago, I was an officer in the escort of Jebbal Faldroyan Luntroy.”

  “We are all sorrowing,” said Blacklock, “and at least our team came through without accident. Will you speak with Antho and Spinner . . . and take comfort from their safety?”

  “I will see them soon enough.”

  “What is your will then?” asked Blacklock sulkily.

  “I will have this Garl Brinroyan and his Tomarvan as quickly as the winds can carry them, for the newcomer’s safety. Dorn . . . give my words to your Luck.”

  I passed on the words as I was told, but the plans outlined were shocking to me. Blacklock and Diver must fly out together in their machines Dah’gan and Tomarvan to a place far away, east of Rintoul, where Nantgeeb would be waiting. Agents of Tiath Gargan were supposed to be in Otolor; Diver’s existence, even his identity, might become well known now that he had won the Bird Clan.

  I put this all to Diver exactly as it came to me, and he made the reply that I had already made in my mind. “Ask the Maker of Engines what is to become of Brin’s Five?”

  “They are very rich, with even a portion of the Bird Clan winnings. Let them take land or return to Hingstull; they have played their part.”

  “Not so!” exclaimed Diver. “For I am their Luck, and I will not leave them, especially in Otolor where danger threatens.”

  “My care is for your person and the knowledge you bring to Torin.”

  “You are the Maker of Engines, so I will give you mine to study. Let Fer Utovangan, or Antho, if that is his name, fly the Tomarvan and my scripts on its engines to your meeting place. I will go on with Brin’s Five to Rintoul and ask for news of my air ship.”

  “I can see why this new bird is your sib, Blacklock,” said the Maker of Engines, “for he is as tender in his feelings and as stubborn as you are.”

  So it was arranged; I gripped Diver’s hand with relief, for I had seen our Luck snatched away from us. But Nantgeeb was eager to have the Tomarvan. Blacklock promised to find us all passage to Rintoul before he flew away also.

  “Tell the Maker of Engines I look forward to a true meeting,” said Diver.

  “Tell Garl Brinroyan to take care,” said the Maker of Engines.

  I knew this was the end of our audience. A last whisper grated at my ear: “And do not ask in Rintoul for the air ship. Tiath Pentroy has lost his prize. I have it now.”

  Diver sprang up when I said this and questioned the empty air, but Nantgeeb’s presence had been withdrawn.

  Blacklock walked about flexing his shoulder muscles like a weary omor and cursing under his breath. “Garl Brinroyan, this is an old quarrel you have come upon. Nantgeeb hates the Bird Clan,” he said.

  “I like it less than I did,” said Diver, “but with your help, Murno, my good friend, we will fly by all these nets.”

  Blacklock smiled again and even laid a hand on my head to make me more cheerful. “Escort, you have served your Luck well!”

  We walked all together out of the silken tent into the sunlight of the New Year and made our way, through subdued cheers and salutations, to the green tent, garlanded now, where Brin and Ablo were waiting.

  When I saw Brin again, my eyes stung with tears, like a child who does not cry after a fall until its mother brings promise of comfort. But I did not weep. We sat in the tent, and I reported faithfully all that had passed. The task of making these reports, as a Witness must do sometimes, is not easy, and I did not envy Narneen, who was going to have a lifetime of it.

  Brin turned to Diver when all had been told. “We have a great Luck,” she said, “not because he wins the Bird Clan, but because he is faithful to his bond.”

  VII

  The closing ceremonies of the Bird Clan were shortened because of Jebbal’s death on the field. Even so they took several hours, part of them spent in sorting and counting our winnings. These were lodged in five wheeled wicker caskets, each one big enough to contain two or three Moruians, inside the Launcher’s pavilion. Ablo was given a generous share and left to head a guard chosen from Blacklock’s escort; this pleased him almost as much as the cloth and credits he had won.

  The gates had already been opened, and the members of the Bird Clan were streaming across to the fairgrounds to celebrate the New Year. A bridge of decorated barges stood at the river gate; the double bridge past the citadel was twined with flowers. Flying machines still passed overhead, taking their leave. Diver instructed Fer Utovangan in the control of the Tomarvan, and he flew a brief practice flight. It was arranged that Fer and Blacklock should fly out the next day or the day after that.

  “I will care for this bird of yours,” said Fer. “No harm will come to the Tomarvan, and I hope you will fly in it again.” For he could see that Diver loved the flying machine and did not really wish to part with it.

  At last we were ready to leave and find our family at that good pitch the Harper had told of in his skein, by the cloth market. It was customary for the winner to leave in triumph, with Bird Clan vassals playing music all the way to the Sun Carpet, the famous dancing place in the center of the fairgrounds. We did not use this escort, and it was understood that this was out of
respect for Jebbal, but we had other reasons as well.

  We set out at the third hour after midday, three nondescript Moruians, two adults and a child, muffled in plain gray silken cloaks. We joined the crowds thronging the double bridge, and I felt at last a lifting of my spirits. Home again. Home to the tent after so long, with Mamor, the Harper, Old Gwin, Narneen, and Tomar waiting for us. It was a day when nothing but friendship should prevail. The faces I saw everywhere were smiling; there was no ill-will, no ill-natured jostling. Children ran about among the crowd waving fair favors of colored wool that twirled on a stick. As we passed the citadel, Brin checked suddenly, then we walked across the second arch into Otolor.

  “Something wrong?” asked Diver.

  “I thought we had a follower . . . in twirler’s dress.”

  “Petsalee!” I squeaked. “I saw him, I saw him . . .” It seemed ages ago, before the race was won, before Jebbal died.

  We stood in the shadow of a cook-stall awning and looked back for a long time but saw nothing suspicious. Then we threaded our way down a long alley full of cook-stalls, and the scent was so delicious that Diver and Brin took pity on me and we stopped to buy roast wild fowl stuffed with berries. Then, feeling open-handed, we bought a carrying hamper of food to take to the tent and spent so much that the cook-shop owner gave us towels when we washed at the fountain. We wandered on, well fed, and then I saw two twirlers, neither of them our watcher, lounging in their blue rags under the window of a fixed house, a common sleeping house for fair travellers. They stared dully about and accepted offerings but certainly paid us no heed.

  “I will feed these birds a little grain,” said Brin. We followed her and stood to one side as she approached the pair.

  “Greetings to the spirit-warriors,” she said, dropping a credit into their gourd.

  “Eenath’s blessing!” was the soft response.

  I stared at them, feeling the same mixture of fascination and disgust that I had felt for the twirlers in Cullin. They were both still young; their brown bodies were thin and stringy, scarred from head to foot with the marks of the sharp shells. I have heard townees complain that the twirlers are dirty, but I hardly noticed. I saw their expression, gentle, sad, dazed. Could Eenath bring this fate upon her followers?