Passages

by Olan Thorensen

  Ulwyn grunted. “No offense to the men because most of them are hardworking, but I’ve been around enough of Haral’s workers to imagine what they say to one another. To answer your question, though, it’s assumed no one implies improper sexual activity by a married woman. You understand the word sexual?” The trader made hand gestures Mark had seen before.

  “Hmmm. Yes, I think I know what it means.”

  “Good. As I said, you must not make any comments about a married woman that are considered disrespectful. It also can cause a husband to act strongly if he hears you or someone tells him what you said. It’s similar with an unmarried woman of an appropriate age if she has yet to marry.”

  “What’s the appropriate age?”

  “Usually, the age when she could marry, around seventeen years old.”

  Mark did the conversion from Anyar to Earth years. Christ! Just over fifteen. Jailbait in the U.S. They’re more like children, though I suppose life is so different and harder here that they mature faster in attitude. Still . . .

  “Of course, things are different with widows or women over a certain age who have never married,” said Ulwyn. “They’re considered old enough and free enough of obligations to do whatever they want. If such a woman is involved with too many men, she is looked on with disfavor, but that’s her decision about how she wants to live.”

  Another thought occurred to Mark. “Are there women who are paid to be ‘sexual’ with men?”

  Ulwyn frowned. “Not in Tregallon. The priests won’t allow it. Of course, things are different in the largest cities, especially ports such as Kaledon and Brawsea. There, the priests have less influence, and many of the people come from other parts of Anyar and are involved in trading and shipping. There you have such women, sometimes gathered in . . . ”

  He’d used a new word for Mark.

  “Here in Tregallon, and I expect in most of Frangel, the fact that there are more women than men means that almost any man who wants to be married can find a willing woman. I’m surprised you haven’t already been approached by more than one woman because you’re a prime specimen of a man and unmarried. I can see how fathers and other male relatives may still be cautious about you since you’re a stranger, but there must especially be widows who’d be interested in you as a husband or sexual partner.”

  “Sexual—” Mark stopped to consider the implications. “So . . . if I was interested in sexual activity with widows, people would approve?”

  “Approve. Well, maybe, depending on who the man and the woman were and their reputations, but there’s nothing to stop it. Even the priests would be silent, as long as any children that resulted were taken care of.”

  Ah, yes. Children, thought Mark. Something not to forget and let glands make decisions.

  After the talk with Ulwyn, Mark gave friendly smiles and interested looks at Ronalyn every time he frequented the Crazy Squirrel. A month later he spoke with her for the first time. Eight Earth months had passed since his arrival on Anyar.

  As she approached his table to check whether he wanted a beer, he said, “Hello, Ronalyn, you’re looking cheerful today.” In fact, she looked like she always did—friendly and busy, sweating slightly, with stains under her armpits.

  She hesitated, surprised. “Just a normal day. You’re looking pretty good yourself.” Her last words accompanied a roving eye over his head and torso above the tabletop.

  “I’ll have beer, but it occurred to me we’ve hardly ever talked. Do you ever sit and have a beer with a customer?”

  A smile lit her face. “It’s been known to happen, but only when business is slow. The best time is late, before we close.”

  “In that case, I’ll have one beer now and come back later. Maybe we can talk and get to know each other better.”

  It was the lamest line Mark thought he’d ever used, but given his minimal understanding of what might pass for flirting in this society, it was the best he could come up with.

  Five nights later and five near-closing sessions with Ronalyn at the pub, Mark lay listening to her breathing next to him. She had saved him the uncertainty of how such things advanced in Frangel when, after one beer the fifth night, she said, “Let’s go to my place. It’s only a short walk from here.

  She lived on the second story of a stone residential building in one of the more prosperous-appearing sections of Tregallon. This surprised Mark because it didn’t fit his expectation of where a barmaid lived.

  “I don’t just work at the pub. I’m a quarter owner. One day I will either finish buying the business or start my own pub. I’ve been working toward that goal for several years and hope to be ready in another two or three years.”

  He followed her up the exterior stairs. She used a large metal key to unlock the door, and they entered neat, well-furnished quarters, confirming his re-estimation of her financial status.

  Nine minutes later, her bed creaked, and she moaned as his rhythmic thrusts pushed the bed toward the wall, then back, as he withdrew to repeat. There had been no foreplay. As soon as she’d closed the door to her two-room abode, she’d begun shedding clothes. Mark had been only seconds behind her, more than willing to forgo preliminaries.

  He hadn’t noticed much in those moments, as hormones and many months of abstinence ruled. Now, urges slacked, he rose on an elbow to reach the candle burning next to the bed. Holding it high, he illuminated his sleeping companion. She was different from his usual tastes, but he wasn’t there for a long-term relationship. He upped his estimate of her age to mid- to late-thirties. He thought he could make out a few gray hairs amid the brown ones on her head and a single such hair coming from a breast’s aureole.

  Stretch marks evidenced her having given birth, and the odors he drew in were associated with working bodies and the muskiness of sex. In an earlier life, the odors and Ronalyn’s physique would have been off-turning, but not now. Had the months on Anyar already changed him that much? He didn’t know.

  He lay back, pulled a blanket over them both, and blew out the candle. Before drifting off, he wondered whether they might go another round in the morning.

  When he woke again, morning light shone through the two bedroom windows. Ronalyn still slept.

  No repeat, I guess, he thought, disappointed. I need to get to work, but her work hours are later in the day, so maybe she’s a late riser.

  He left the bed, dressed, and headed toward the entrance. Near the door was a small bowl on a table set against a wall. Ronalyn had pointedly indicated it when they first arrived. He hadn’t paid attention at the time, more focused on shedding his clothing. Now he saw that the bowl held two small silver coins. He stopped and stared. She had obviously made the bowl known to him. Was she a prostitute? The thought disturbed him, but he remembered her part ownership in the pub and the living quarters that were better than those of most Tregallonese.

  There had been no question about her enthusiasm the previous night. Maybe they were using each other? Maybe this was the Frangelese version of a tip? He left without adding coins to the bowl that morning and the next two times he spent the night. Ronalyn didn’t seem bothered, so he decided he’d consider it a donation to her pub fund and put two small silvers in the bowl from then on.

  His relationship with Ronalyn continued as an unspoken arrangement. Once or twice a week he patronized the Crazy Squirrel. If she was in the mood, she would tweak him on an ear as she delivered a beer. He would then return when the pub closed, and they went to her place. It was a treaty of parties filling a common need. They didn’t kiss during their trysts, there being no need to pretend it was anything other than rutting. Still, Mark was chagrined when one evening he saw her tweak the ear of a man she’d exchanged laughs with. Despite himself, he returned at closing, stood in a shadow, and watched her and the man go to her rooms.

  The next day at work he tried to appear casual before querying whether there were sexually transmitted diseases on Anyar—he’d already noticed only a few cases of what appeared to be u
pper-respiratory illnesses. When he asked, he was told plagues were known that to him sounded like versions of influenza but nothing like bubonic plague, Ebola, or STDs.

  He didn’t return to the pub for two sixdays and only when he’d accepted that he had no claim on her or she on him. By the light of this culture, they were both adults who could do whatever they wanted within the mores of the society. So, why not take the opportunity she willingly provided and avoid a relationship that might have complications? The alien AI had said he would never get a disease, so the fact that Ronalyn had multiple partners wouldn’t expose him to an STD if they existed on Anyar. It was one aspect of the planet that made Mark wonder whether it held a clue about when people, animals, and plants had been transported from Earth. If there were no STDs, did that mean humans were transplanted before populations were large enough to develop and spread diseases? As with other questions, he didn’t think he’d ever have answers.

  He resumed evenings with Ronalyn—usually, once a sixday—and hoped he gracefully deflected overtures when he perceived she would be receptive to a more permanent relationship.

  At work, the routine and exertion were calming. His coworkers accepted him, and his socializing increased to include more frequent visits to other pubs besides the Crazy Squirrel with coworkers, Ulwyn, or alone. He came to enjoy the Godsday Sholster services as relaxing and a reminder of Earth and accompanying his family to church.

  His spoken Frangelese improved to the point he seldom stumbled or needed help. In addition, he began learning to write—first with lessons from Gwanel, then from eight-year-old Tilman Kwyinin whenever the boy was unoccupied and willing to drill his imposing student. When Mark had learned enough, Prelate Belenus arranged to loan him elementary grammar and language books that Mark dove into.

  The day came when he decided it was time for a change. He’d been in Tregallon for almost exactly one Anyar year. His labor-oriented work for Haral had served its purpose: it helped keep his mind off being banished from his earlier life, got him moving, acclimated his body to the new gravity, allowed him to learn enough Frangelese to communicate, and gave him time to think. He decided he’d reached a juncture. It was time to begin introducing technology and knowledge from Earth.

  CHAPTER 5

  NEXT STAGE

  Having a goal and knowing how to achieve it were two different animals. Mark’s aim to introduce novel technology to Anyar needed specific action to start the ball rolling. A problem was how to come up with the resources for major projects. He couldn’t just approach a government or wealthy individuals and ask for enough coin to build a steam engine. Any chance of success would depend on starting small, building a reputation as an innovator, and working up to more complex expensive projects, either supported by his own resources or by finding backers once his reputation was sufficient. Yet he still knew so little about his new world that he couldn’t be sure which introductions were feasible and would be accepted. In the meantime, there was the temptation to start with Haral’s projects.

  Mark wasn’t a civil engineer, but the styles of construction were straightforward. When he learned enough Frangelese, he made several suggestions on changes to Haral. The first few times, Haral had patiently explained why Mark’s idea wouldn’t work, sometimes because of sound engineering reasons, but other times because it “just isn’t done that way.” Finally, Mark gave up when he perceived Haral becoming impatient with being told about better ways to work at his profession.

  Undaunted, Mark was convinced there were places where his knowledge and experience as a mechanical engineer could be applied to a technology foundation of Earth circa 1700—the approximate equivalent level of Anyar technology, as estimated by Hal.

  However, Mark didn’t know whether Hal’s estimate applied to only the Tregallon area, Frangel, the Drilmar continent, or the rest of the planet. Clearly, Tregallon was not the place for Mark to make a confident assessment. He needed to eventually move to a larger city that had more options, but he didn’t feel ready to make that change. Although the job with Haral had gotten him started, he needed to gather more experience in the local technology related to his knowledge of mechanical engineering and materials science.

  He had surveyed the available employment options in Tregallon and picked the one more likely to be useful later. Then he waited another month until he felt satisfied with his Frangelese.

  “Ulwyn, I’m thinking it’s time to change work. I appreciate Haral employing me when I couldn’t speak your language and when I wasn’t much of a worker at first, but I think I can find work better suited to my skills and knowledge elsewhere.”

  “I wondered about that myself. You’re obviously smarter than needed for Haral’s work, even with him giving you more responsibility. Any specific ideas?”

  “I’ve taken time to know Tregallon better and talk to craftsmen and other traders. I’m particularly interested in metalworking and cloth making. Although I have ideas about weaving, I think blacksmithing is where I’m best suited to start. I’ve looked at the three smithies in Tregallon and plan on talking with the owners to see if I can find work at one of them.”

  Ulwyn shook his head. “I doubt that will work, Mark. New workers usually begin at twelve or thirteen years of age as helpers and work their way to apprentice, then journeyman. No one’s going to pay full wages to an adult man without smithy experience.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll argue I’m strong and would work hard. If necessary, I’ll offer to work for lower wages until I’m more useful.”

  “Even so,” said Ulwyn, “I wouldn’t expect they would hire you. But what do I know? You’re different from other men in Frangel, so maybe you can convince a smithy to take you on.”

  Despite his doubts, Ulwyn gave Mark the names of the three blacksmiths and enough vocabulary from what he knew about blacksmithing so Mark could at least appear not to be totally ignorant.

  Two days later, Haral’s current construction project ended by mid-day, and he decided not to move men and equipment across town to a new project until the next day. The free afternoon gave Mark his opportunity to visit the town’s blacksmith shops. He started with the largest operation—a smithy with three hearths and ten workers from their early teens into their forties. A man in the process of shoeing a horse directed Mark to the owner, a burly, middle-aged man who looked like he still worked full days.

  “Ser Tungel, my name is Mark Kaldwel. I would like to speak with you to see if I could find work in your smithy.”

  The smith set down the hammer he was using on what to Mark looked like a sword blade. “Where have you worked before? Not here in Tregallon. I know all the blacksmith workers here.”

  “I’ve never worked as a blacksmith, but I want to learn as much as I can as fast as I can.”

  A fierce scowl morphed onto the smith’s face. “Why in damnation would I hire you, then? It takes years of experience to learn blacksmithing properly, and you have to start young. Look around at the workers here. Winklom over there has been with me five years, and he’s not ready to move on to journeyman.”

  “I realize I come with a disadvantage, but I’m strong, would work hard, and you wouldn’t have to pay me the full wages to start while I learn.”

  “Get out of here!” shouted the smith, his voice raised enough that every worker turned to look. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t have time for some idiot who thinks he can just walk in to become a blacksmith like it’s something easy to do.”

  Mark shrugged, turned, and walked out of the shop. He hadn’t expected a reaction quite so emphatic. The next shop was not as large as the first, but the result was similar, although the owner wasn’t as pithy in his rejection.

  Well, this is going well, thought Mark. I may have to reconsider my options. If he couldn’t find a local smithy willing to take him on, he’d either have to change plans or move to a larger population center sooner than anticipated.

  He had one more shop to check, the smallest of the three in Tregallon.
He walked to the opposite side of the town and a quarter mile from the last house. He almost wrote it off but decided that being rebuffed by two smithies didn’t mean the third couldn’t be successful.

  Twenty minutes later, he stood at the open wide double door of the shop. An older man he assumed was the smith used large tongs to lift a piece of metal a foot and a half across from the hearth fire. A third of the metal piece glowed not quite white hot. He hurriedly carried it to a vise and clamped the non-glowing side firmly. Then he went back to the fire, pulled out a second piece of iron, and returned to the vise to set the two hot sections together. The angle at which the smith held the second piece was awkward, and the man kept up a steady stream of cursing.

  He’s trying to weld the pieces together, thought Mark. Looks like a plow blade.

  The man held the two pieces together for no more than twenty seconds before shouting the loudest curse yet and with a twist to the tongs separated the two pieces.

  “No. This isn’t going to work,” he told the other two workers: a youth of about fourteen years old and a man in his late teens or early twenties. The older one had a forearm splinted and supported by a sling.

  “It needs two of us to take both pieces out of the fire and immediately press them together,” said the smith. “I can’t let the break surface get any hotter or the metal will be too hot and be subject to cracking along the break point, even if fused. I wish I’d known Palon was going to leave. I wouldn’t have taken the job.”

  “Sorry I can’t help, Master,” said the older worker. “It’ll be another month before I could steady something that heavy. Can the job wait until then?”

  “No, Vermun, I told the owner I’d have it done by next Godsday. That’s only two more days. I hate to lose the coin, but worse is that he’ll go to one of the other smithies, and word will spread I didn’t do the job.”