The Crafters Book One

by Christopher Stasheff

  Miracle, and the work of Ahijah Crafter. Philip blotted away the last of his sweat and patted the sturdy, square crates which had been Master Crafter’s unexpected contribution to the expedition. True, some might question the dedication of a scholar whose spare time was turned to carpentry when it might better be reserved for the further study of Holy Writ. Still, there was no denying that Master Crafter’s boxes were a godsend. Not only did they protect the books, their unique design allowed the two undamaged ox-carts to efficiently carry the full contents of the Yale library out of Saybrook.

  Now, if only Crafter himself were here to cobble together a bridge of boxes!

  “I haven’t mistaken the ford, Mansfield,” Philip replied.

  “Come nearer the bank and you’ll see the wreckage of the bridge itself. They’re confirmed in their enmity to us, these Saybrook folk.”

  Cautiously Philip’s companion picked a way down to the waterside and peered at the ruin. “What are we to do now? Turn back and seek another road?”

  Lawes sighed. “That, or wait for the other cart to join us here and see what they advise.” A second sigh turned into a yawn. “If wouldn’t be amiss to seize some sleep while we wait. I’ll spread a blanket for us over the crates.”

  “I’m not weary.” The response came rather hastily. “Perhaps I should keep watch while you rest.”

  “Have it your way.” Lawes shrugged and made his hard pallet atop the perfectly level platform the boxes made inside the ox-cart. Soon his snores rumbled through the night.

  Effectively alone, “Thomas Mansfield” gathered the collar of her dead husband’s coat more closely around her neck and peered into the darkness. Where was the other cart? Where, above all, was Ahijah?

  “Better if he’d gone a different way,” she murmured, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “If he should see me dressed like this—!” In the beginning, when she had joined the Saybrook venture, there had been carts and men enough for her to be lost in the crowd. Since the bad doings at Saybrook, there were considerably fewer carts, and as for the men, those who hadn’t turned white-livered and run at sight of the axes had been dismissed as superfluous after the two remaining carts were loaded. When she tried to slip away with the scholars who would return to New Haven afoot, that strange Master Sylvan had blocked her path and told her that “Thomas Mansfield” was wanted to help Lawes with his cart.

  Dorcas still trembled when she recalled Master Sylvan’s mocking eyes. He had looked right at her, yet gave no sign that he recognized her. Was Master Sylvan so shortsighted, or was her disguise that good? Would Ahijah too be unable to penetrate it? She had her doubts.

  She wondered whether he would be horrified, or merely scandalized if she were discovered before him. A little smile touched her lips. On the other hand, it might be good for you, Master Crafter, to see me as more than a source of hot meals and clean linens. Learn, Ahijah, that you are not the only one with a love of learning.

  Her smile vanished. The angry faces of the Saybrook folk rose up in memory, making her shiver with more than cold. No love of learning had made them fight to keep the library, but a tradesman’s keen eye for what future profit the Collegiate School might bring their town. She could still hear the hungry sound of axes biting the ox-carts to flinders, the terrified bellowing of the beasts, the shouts as the men of law were summoned to drive back the crowd and let the students depart in peace.

  Here in the wilderness between Saybrook and New Haven there were no men of law. In the three-days’ journey, much could happen. Dorcas Mansfield pulled her Thomas’ hat more snugly down to shade her face and tried not to see enemies in every shadow.

  That was a mistake.

  * * *

  Just one more round of the game? Please, Little Brother? The satyr drummed his hooves against the side of the lumbering cart and juggled a set of wooden dice from hand to hand. You’re so good at it, he wheedled.

  Ahijah trudged on beside the oxen. How you ever convinced me to play this “game” of yours . . . There’s something wicked about it, I’m bound.

  Juvenal affected an offended look. Wicked? Ego? It’s only an innocent way to pass a tedious journey, and to sharpen your Talent in the bargain. Look, this time I’ll make it easy for you. Try to reach out and tell me what the tavern-owner’s thinking right now, back in Saybrook.

  I will not. It’s a violation of privacy.

  You violated merrily away, since we left Saybrook, so long as you were winning. Be a good sport, now.

  Instead of pestering me, Juvenal, see to it that you keep an eye open for any other travelers. I don’t want us surprised with you looking like that.

  This time there was nothing affected about the satyr’s offended look. Laying one hand to his hairy breast he demanded, What’s wrong with the way I look?

  Nothing, to my eyes. But the first unsuspecting farmer or tradesman we encounter will imagine he’s seen the Devil himself coming for him on an ox-cart.

  No one’s abroad at this hour, I’ve my cape close at hand, and I’m more comfortable travelling naked. Pettishly the satyr added, No sense being bored and itchy, both. And I am fearsomely bored.

  That isn’t my problem. Amuse yourself.

  Very well, I will. Juvenal tilted his horned head back and began to serenade the darkened treetops: “One hundred amphorae of Falernian wine on the wall, one hundred amphorae of Falernian wine . . .”

  He had only gotten the tally down to ninety-one when Ahijah pulled up short, eyes staring into the night. The oxen rumbled to an easy halt, but the satyr hadn’t been paying attention and tumbled from the cart. His furious thoughts assaulted Ahijah, demanding an explanation.

  Hush. Ahijah’s reply carried a metallic tang of urgency.

  There is trouble with the other cart up ahead.

  Trouble? Are the books—?

  More than the books are in danger. I heard a cry for help. We’re needed now, and we must move swiftly. We’ll have to leave the cart.

  We can’t! The library—

  All the vigor of Ahijah’s newly accepted Talent poured into Juvenal’s mind as the young man compelled the satyr to share his vision:

  Axe blades caught a dappled glimmer of moonlight in the forest. Five grim men moved with deliberate intent toward the riverbank, where a cart waited to cross a bridge no longer there. The student asleep atop the stacked crates in the cart awoke and shouted, only to have his objections cut off by a neatly thrown rock the size of an apple. Blood, black by night, spread across his forehead as he fell. His smaller companion knelt beside him.

  “You’ve killed him!”

  The voice was no longer disguised. Startled, the five men paused. One among them took a tentative step forward.

  “You?” His expression held mixed recognition and something colder, more unhealthy.

  Then the vision tore away as Ahijah and Juvenal raced through the forest. The satyr soon outdistanced the man. The woods were his element, his ancient home.

  Juvenal! Wait for me! Ahijah panted for breath, but words uttered in mind-speech did not depend on anything so fragile as the capacity of human lungs. The satyr could not claim he did not hear.

  I’m sorry, Little Brother, I can’t. You saw who that is they’ve brought to bay by the riverside. If I wait for you, it will be too late for her.

  They won’t harm her! How could they? If you saw her, you had to see who that man is with them. He’s not one of the Saybrook lot.

  It might be better for Mistress Mansfield if he were.

  What? But he’s her brother Napthali!

  And Atreus was Thyestes’ brother! Which didn’t stop him from chopping up Thyestes’ children and serving them to their father over some family spat. I must run on. You crash so through the brush that they’ll hear you long before you’re there, and my lord Pan works terrible tricks on men surprised by night, who fear discovery.
We don’t want them pushed into an act they’ll regret, to say nothing of Mistress Mansfield. Farewell! A flash of hooves, and Juvenal was out of sight.

  Ahijah pressed on, part of his brain cursing the satyr, the other monitoring the scene beside the river.

  Only a little watching, and Ahijah bitterly admitted that Juvenal had been right in his assessment of mortal family relations:

  “Napthali! What are you doing here?”

  Another of the men started and turned to Master Weaver.

  “The wench knows you? How is this?”

  Napthali was sweating. “Impossible, friend Seymour. I never saw her in my life.”

  Master Seymour dealt Napthali’s arm a sturdy blow.

  “Fool! We agreed to keep our names hidden. Now the slut knows who I am.”

  Strangely enough, Napthali smiled and adjusted his grip on the axe he carried. “Knowledge cuts with two edges. Who’ll take the word of some college brat’s whore? My life was snug before they brought their cursed school to New Haven. Oh, not so snug as it would be were I master of my own house, rather than dependent on my dear, dear sister’s spotty charity. Still, if you fear the slut’s testimony, I’ve a way to buy her silence.”

  Master Weaver strode forward, full of purpose. His four comrades exchanged doubtful looks, and Master Seymour reached out to lay a staying hand on Napthali’s shoulder. “Let the wench be. It’s only the books we’re after.”

  Napthali roughly cast off Master Seymour’s hand. “If we let her go, we’ll get more than books for our trouble.”

  “Wait! I have some little coin. Give it to her—”

  “—and have her take your coin and still hale you before the justice? Women are vindictive beasts. That’s her lover as your rock’s laid low, Master Townsend! Will you trust her silence? And you, Master Hubbard, Master Skinner?”

  “You idiot!” Seymour bellowed. “Now she knows us all!”

  Napthali smiled. “For now. Brothers, your cause is mine—to get the Collegiate School out of New Haven. You just leave me to handle this my way.”

  Master Seymour tried again to hold Napthali back.

  This time a wedge of sharpened metal answered. Master Seymour’s scream rang clear in Ahijah’s ear as he lost all contact with his mental vision. He needed it no longer. He was there.

  Breathing hard, he leaned against a pine tree. The scene before him was twin to what his mind had seen, only from a different vantage. I must have been viewing it through Dorcas’ eyes. After all, it was her cry for help alerted me. He saw her, still crouched near Lawes’s body, and without really thinking about it, his mind launched a heartening sending to hers. Dorcas, dread not! Help is here! Then he did think, and looked to his weaponless hands. Help . . . he mused. But how?

  How else, Little Brother, but with what the gods have given us! There was a deliberately loud rustling from the bushes beyond where the five men stood. Even Napthali stopped short at the sound. Another strong shaking of leaf and branch, and Juvenal burst forth among them, goat-footed, horned, and fiery-eyed. He pranced forward, tail flicking madly, and cut a courtly bow before the stunned Napthali.

  “Well done, thou good and faithful servant!” he cried.

  The results were almost as might be anticipated.

  Three of the sturdy Saybrook men exclaimed as one, “The Devil!” and bolted for the woodland. Master Seymour stood amazed, holding his bleeding arm. Napthali had dealt him a shallow cut, but the shock of it combined with Juvenal’s sudden appearance was not conducive to giving a man’s feet wings. Frozen, he watched Juvenal at his fiendish leaps and capers, and began to pray.

  Unfortunately, Napthali neither ran nor froze. Juvenal skittered closer. “Kneel, man, before thy hell-spawned lord!” he commanded, striking a grand pose.

  Napthali blinked. “Hell-spawned, my arse,” he said. Doubling his free hand into a fist, he bashed Juvenal across the point of his chin. The satyr sprawled.

  Master Seymour fell to his knees. “Praise God, he has overcome Satan himself!”

  “Stuff,” said Napthali. “That’s just one of them Yale men as boards with my fool sister. I’ve seen that face across the table enough times, sopping up an honest man’s victuals, to know him when I see him.”

  “But—but his hooves! His horns!”

  Napthali spat scornfully. “You a college-bred man, Seymour? Or ever seen one naked?”

  Master Seymour allowed that he lacked either experience.

  “Well, all them trappings—horns and fur and hooves and all—they’re likely just more affectations as they pick up in school. You know, like Latin.”

  “Even so?”

  “Harvard men’s got bunny tails in their britches,” Napthali assured him. He took his axe in both hands and looked at Dorcas. “The sooner New Haven’s cleansed of them, the better.”

  “No, Napthali.” Ahijah stepped out of the woods. “I will not let you harm your own sister.”

  “Your sister, Master Weaver?” Master Seymour goggled. “Not the widow? But what is she doing here, dressed so?”

  “Shut up, you!” Napthali snarled, shaking the axe at him.

  “I say that wench is no sister of mine, and if you think of saying otherwise, this can silence more than one wagging tongue.” He gazed coldly at Ahijah. “Yours first.”

  “You may try,” Ahijah replied. “And I will try to stop you.” He thrust out his hand, though it held nothing more formidable than the little Greek text which had originally been the summoning of Juvenal. It was all he had that even vaguely resembled a weapon. If he were to deal with Napthali, he didn’t want to go about it empty-handed.

  “What, waving a sermon volume at me, Master Crafter?

  For what good it’ll do you.” Napthali laughed hoarsely. “I thought you’d be along. Travel in gaggles, you bookmen do, like geese. Well, I know how to handle geese.” He raised his axe and came for Ahijah.

  Ahijah watched him come, heard Dorcas’ prayers, heard her sobbing and calling out his name. His mind raced as outer time slowed. Juvenal said we can only use what the gods—I mean, God has given us, he thought. But what have I got? Mind-speech? That’s no weapon, and all I recall of Father’s teachings is the Law of Similarity. Like calls to like, but how can that save us from a greedy madman with an axe? Ah Lord, I wish I’d paid heed to more of Father’s lessons! Like calls . . . like calls . . .

  His fingers clutched the little Greek text so tightly that the thin leather binding slipped from his hand. He fumbled to catch it before it fell, and found himself staring at a moonlit page. The letters danced, his eye followed. Like calls to like. He recalled his scholastic desperation that had driven him to that first, tentative summoning. But then I had the herbs, the bowl Father gave me ... How can I accomplish anything without them? These are only words.

  Only words. Just as the books now helpless in their boxes were only words. Yet how many souls stood ready to die defending them! Juvenal, who for all his cynicism had insisted on coming to the library’s rescue. Dorcas, who might have stayed safe at home, yet who had come into the wilderness ·to protect the future of the College. And what did a college produce? Only words.

  All the power of his mind drained down into the open page. The words called to him. Their magic drew him deeper in until he was there, mind-led, dashing across an ivory plain, sounding the alarm. To arms, to arms! Your brethren are in danger! To each letter he passed, he sent an ice-clear vision of the college books sliding from their ravaged crates into a watery grave.

  Behind him, he heard a chittering, as if a cavern full of monstrous bats had been roused from sleep. He turned, and saw the letters swelling, bristling, the black of ink deepening to the fiercer black of rage. He gasped in wonder as the word harpyiai—harpies—sprouted wings and talons, soared into the sky. Kentauros—centaur—grew sleek and swift, took spear in hand and galloped after. At this s
ummons, the Cretan minotaur and the Nemean lion broke roaring from the page’s

  prison. Like called to like, letters called forth the dreadful, marvelous beings they symbolized, and all answered to the will of one brave human mind.

  This time Napthali did not stop to ask whether this new crop of monsters held Harvard or Yale degrees. Giving the squawk of a hawk-snared chicken, he flung down his axe and ran for his life. Master Seymour clutched his bleeding arm and sprinted away in his own direction. In his wild scramble, he tripped over the just-rousing Juvenal.

  The satyr saw what was happening and shook cobwebs of disbelief from his head. This won’t do. Ahijah. Ahijah!

  Hmmm? The response came from very far away. Juvenal clicked his tongue and trotted over to where the young man still stood entranced, gazing into his book. Briskly the satyr took it from him and slammed the cover shut. From the forest the sounds of many monsters roaring, shrieking, bawling, and generally mucking about, ceased abruptly.

  * * *

  Discreetly veiled in a greatcoat borrowed from Mistress Mansfield, Juvenal came around the corner of the cart to announce, “Lawes will be fine. I’ve bound his wound and he’s sleeping naturally. We can recover the other cart and drive on to New Haven as soon as it gets li—”

  They did not hear him. Miffed, the satyr leaned against the near ox’s flank and eavesdropped openly.

  “I thought my heart would burst when I heard your cry for help,” Ahijah was saying. He gently touched her face.

  Dorcas did not object, although she did say, “I didn’t. I was too frightened to call aloud, for fear of what they’d do.”

  “You didn’t? I swear I heard—”

  “—but it was kind of you to risk discovery by shouting for me not to fear. ‘Dorcas, dread not! Help is here,’ you shouted to me. With one so brave to save me, I knew all would be well.” She snuggled deeper into his arms.

  Ahijah’s embrace tightened, his eyes were fixed on her, but his startled thoughts flew to Juvenal. Did you hear?