Watson, Ian - Black Current 03

by The Book Of Being (v1. 1)

  After this I put on a spurt in my writing, other duties notwithstanding.

  Time flowed.

  I made one trip out of town, suitably escorted and on a day set by Chanoose, to point out to Tam and herself exactly where his clays were supposed to lie bedded underwater.

  Naturally, the night before setting out, I had reminded the Worm of its promise to shut its man-trap down. Even so, my heart was in my throat when Tam waded out into the water, wearing anti-stinger gear, carrying a scoop-trowel and with a safety line around his waist. Breathing deep and ducking under, he brought up samples from the bottom, carried them ashore, dissected them with his gloves off, kneaded them, sniffed them, and even tasted them with the tip of his tongue before pronouncing them pukka. Probably; he wouldn't be absolutely sure till he had ground and fired the clay.

  That evening Chanoose sent the signal for the 'jack army to set sail from Verrino; and for the prisoners to be freighted north, in the opposite direction. The 'jacks’ voyage would span twice as many leagues as the captives covered, so the captives would be carried more slowly. Nobody wanted to erect temporary prison pens in the pastures by Aladalia.

  Work commenced on the two dikes, and proceeded at a leisurely pace as ordained by Chanoose. Tam wasn't idle meanwhile; nor had he been so before that day when we sought out the clay. Already, with Peli's assistance, he had rigged up a grinding wheel and a potter's kick-wheel and had built a kiln to his own design.

  The kiln was housed in a hut in a small yard abutting the north end of the temple, the only access to which was through the temple itself. A high claybrick wall tipped with jagged glass surrounded the yard, so I wouldn't be able to smuggle anything out by that route. Since the said area wasn't enormous, Tam stored finished wares in his own room, and a good number of items spilled into my own quarters. He wasn't producing porcelain (yet), but I liked his handiwork to be around.

  To fuel the kiln he relied on quite costly nuts of coal imported by the sack from Guineamoy. Not for him the oil of Gangee which most people in Pecawar used for cooking and lighting and occasionally to take the chill off midwinter days. Occasionally; by no means everyone went in for such luxury. A Pecawar winter was never especially bitter. We preferred to shiver a bit (as I had shivered during the first week or so in the temple) and don a few more clothes. Wood, of course, was scanty in the region; imported timber was reserved for building and furnishing, not for fires.

  So while I was turning out pages to lock in my trusty scritoire, Tam was creating nicely glazed brickware—painted with fleur- adieus, to keep his hand in, he said. Soon he was selling his wares through one of the stalls along the arcade. And Peli, sweating at the kiln, seemed happy as a flutterbye which has found a saucer of syrup.

  Obviously I couldn't ask Tam to take time off to copy my pages. He wrote a neat hand, but that wasn't what his hands were for. I certainly wouldn't impose on him for something slavishly routine.

  The problem of how to get a copy made resolved itself in an unexpected way with the arrival of the savant from Ajelobo. Aye, resolved itself, and led to an awful outcome. . . .

  But I anticipate.

  Already a fleet had conveyed our victorious army homeward, southward, through Pecawar. During the few days of the stop-over the scene was quite like the promised regatta, what with all those boats tied up at quays or anchored offshore, and the streets thronged with 'jacks in much gayer mood than when I'd spent time with them in Verrino.

  My temple was also thronged; and many were the slugs of black current dispensed to ex-soldiers.

  True, a certain stink of crowded travel hung about the 'jacks. (The guild was economizing on boats as much as possible, to meet all its commitments.) At least they weren't footsore, with holes in their boots and blisters and bunions. Their gait was sprightly. You'll recall my nagging sense of guilt in the matter. At least now I'd put things right—albeit I'd principally been thinking of how to supply Tam with petuntse and kaolin.

  Thou shalt not congratulate thyself. Reality reared its head when I discovered that the hale and hearty 'jacks who strode jauntily along Pemba Avenue and crowded into my throne room were not the whole complement. A number of disabled 'jacks hadn't disembarked. Those sad fellows were lying in bunks on various vessels, tucked away out of sight. Still, this way they would get home alive, even though they might never shin up a jungle-giant again.

  Given all this influx of visitors, it wasn't surprising that some old acquaintances turned up at the temple. One such was Captain Martan, the officer with whom I had conducted interrogations of prisoners—in another body, during another life.

  As soon as I saw him, I wanted to grant him a private audience; but Donnah wouldn't allow it. With so many fighters infesting the place, my guards were in a high state of alert. During those days of the fleet's lay-over, a pile of weaponry often lay in the entry porch atop the purple stairway, confiscated from the 'jacks before they could enter my presence. Donnah ever kept her hand close to her pistol during audiences, while the other guards dangled best Guin- eamoy machetes behind their backs in addition to the daggers they wore in their belts. My women had little enough experience in wielding such—compared with the visiting soldiery! Maybe that was why the visitors regarded my armed guards so nonchalantly, by and large, and didn't take offence.

  I had to hold my tettytet with Martan in public.

  "You witnessed an important moment in my lives, Captain," I said to him.

  "You are She who has several lives." Martan gave a practical kind of a nod, as though by the law of averages important moments were bound to crop up more often during the course of several lives, then during one; irrespective of how short they were. He sounded as though he was bestowing a title: She Who Has Several Lives.

  "Do you recall that brute of a Son we questioned? The one who berserked?"

  "How could I forget, little lady?" Oh, wasn't he the one for fine labels of a sudden! Or was he teasing? There seemed to be a twinkle in his eye. The Martan whom I remembered had been an honest, wholesome, realistic fellow, doing a dirty job as decently as possible. He hadn't been one for airs and graces, or hypocrisy.

  So I grinned at him, and he grinned back.

  "If we'd gone ahead and tormented that Son," I said, "we would have learned about Edrick for sure. He likely wouldn't have killed me. So none of what has happened would have happened."

  "Just as well we didn't torture him, eh?" Torture: he used the true word.

  "It was you who tipped the balance, Martan."

  He looked surprised. "Oh, I don't think so."

  "You told me you wouldn't want to be tortured yourself. That was a crossroads in my life. And even though Edrick got to torture me on the planet Earth—"

  "Where? He did what?"

  I lowered my voice. "You'll have to wait for my next book, The Book of the Stars. And though he tortured me, I say, I still believe we made the right choice that day. I learnt a lesson from that. If we on this world wouldn't like our brains burnt out by the Godmind of Earth, neither would anybody else wherever they are, whether they're Sons of Adam or fishpeople of a far star. We've no right to save ourselves at their expense."

  He spoke softly too. "What's this about burning people's brains?"

  "Hush for now, Martan. Keep your ears open."

  He gazed at me a while, then nodded.

  Among soldiers who have risked their lives together I suppose there's a comradeship beyond even that of a guild. I hadn't fought alongside Martan and his 'jacks, but we'd spent several weeks together at the prison pens; and thanks to that rabid Son's assault on us, I believe I shared a bond of comradeship. When Martan was departing, Donnah buttonholed him. I heard her demand to know what I'd whispered. "Just giving me her private blessing, that's all," came Captain Martan's reply. He spoke loudly so that I would hear, and looked calmly across at me.

  Another visitor whom I received later that same day was the acerbic "Moustache", last encountered in the Jay-Jay Hall at Jangali

 
This fellow wanted neither to bless me nor to receive my blessing. (Not that I'd been especially obsessed with "blessing" people, until Martan came up with this excuse! I'd stoutly resisted having my hand slobbered on by ancient grannies, who were looking forward to reliving their gay young days in the £«-store.)

  Moustache's attitude to me hadn't changed. He sketched a parody of a bow.

  "Thanks for the ride home, Trouble. Though no thanks for the walk to the war."

  "Welcome into the /ur-store," I said. "And may you not enter it too soon by tumbling out of a hoganny."

  "Never say that to a junglejack!" he growled back. "It's ill luck."

  As with Martan, I lowered my voice. "Don't you know yet? There's no such thing as ill luck for us any longer. There's only ill luck for everyone else in the galaxy."

  "Eh?"

  "Talk to Captain Martan. Keep your ears open."

  Moustache had argued strenuously in council that the 'jacks should let Verrino go to rack and ruin just so long as Jangali, cordoned by jungles, was okay. "What's Guineamoy to us?" he had said. He had been proved wrong.

  "What's Earth to us, when we have our fortress of a /Ta-store? What does Marl's world matter?" The same principle applied.

  When my news of the stars broke, I hoped Moustache would make the connexion and be conscious of why I'd spoken. He was influential. He was my enemy (though maybe that's too strong a term). And I was apparently impregnable. So why had I chosen to confide in him? This should make him wonder if all was quite as it seemed.

  But I was about to relate the unexpected solution to my problem. . . .

  The 'jacks had already departed Pecawar a while since when the promised (or threatened) savant sailed in ex Ajelobo. Chanoose took time out to present him formally in my throne room.

  Would he turn out to be a grim pedant? A smart pretentious spark, or what? I had no inkling—and didn't much care, either way. All I foresaw from him was nuisance; and who wants to brood on varieties of nuisance? (Well, some people do. ... I once knew one such aboard the Speedy Snail Nuisance possessed that particular lady to the virtual exclusion of all else. Everything was a source of nuisance to her; including most of her riversisters, turn by turn. She squandered half of her life by inflaming herself at this nuisance, and railing at that nuisance. She provided an object lesson; and I hadn't allowed the prospect of our savant's arrival to sour one moment of my writing.)

  His name was Stamno. He was of medium height and build, with receding fawn hair which was wispy and greasy (when I first met him). An unfortunate centre parting made it look as though someone had tried to saw his skull open. The surviving thatch, he wore longer than suited him; fraying oily curls lapped the nape of his neck. He must have been in his forties, yet his face was a very young one—so long as you ignored some deep criss-cross creases around his eyes. His manner was extremely courteous and attentive; unctuously so.

  To anticipate somewhat: by that same evening he had washed his hair, which had been soiled by travel, and during the course of his stay in the temple he must have repeated the treatment at least once every two days. He was a sort of sensual prude, if I can put it that way. He was the kind of person who would flirt but never actually fondle, as if he was holding himself in reserve . . . but for what? Perhaps in pursuit of some ideal. One day he would wake up and his life would have passed him by; meanwhile he wore a velvety maroon doublet and green hose, washed his locks obsessively, and spoke in consciously well-turned phrases.

  "I'm delighted to acquaint myself with you, priestess!"

  "And hullo to you."

  "Of any service I can be to you, only let me know." Sometimes he tried to speak too cleverly. His phrases were so well turned that they turned head over heels. They tripped themselves up, instead of tripping off his tongue.

  "HI be sure to, Stamno."

  "Certain problems present themselves to me, which I hope you may be able to clarify. For instance. . . ."

  I listened to a string of for instances with mounting exasperation, though I didn't let this show.

  "An exegesis is called for," he concluded.

  "A what?"

  "An interpretation of your book; a commentary. Exposition. Or should we say—" and he smirked ingratiatingly—"of your books in the plural, since I understand that most happily you are busy upon—"

  "Who's calling for a commentary?" I interrupted.

  "Why, The Book of the River itself calls out; surely."

  Feel free! Comment away till you're blue in the face. And meantime, the Godmind gets ready to bum brains.

  "Oh, piss off," I muttered under my breath.

  I think Stamno heard me; and this was the strangest thing, for his eyes seemed to light up gleefully. Pleased at being able to interfere with me? I thought not. Pleased, for some other reason. . . .

  "We do hope you'll co-operate with Savant Stamno," said Chanoose.

  "Who could resist it?" I said. "But I'm sure Stamno wants to settle in right now."

  And Stamno smoothed his wayward, failing hair.

  In the event Stamno didn't make himself too much of a nuisance, though he did keep on dropping convoluted hints about my work in progress. I tossed him a few sprats of information to chew on. He couldn't tell the guild anything they didn't already know.

  Work on the dikes proceeded. I carried on writing, at speed, and was nearly at the end of the book. Tam continued crafting pots and bowls to be sold outside. Pilgrims persisted in calling; and preparations for the Grand Regatta came to a head. Once the regatta had seemed weeks away; all of a sudden the quays were crowded with vessels once more, and men from Verrino, Gangee and even Gate of the South were wandering around town. Not too many from Verrino. In the wake of looting and other ravages of war, maybe they couldn't scrape up the fare. The weather was hotting up.

  Oh what a fine regatta it was, to be sure! Masts high, scraping the sky—flags and bright rags of bunting—a small orchestra on one deck, a flute and drum band on another! More fish-masks than I'd ever seen being sported by riversisters; it seemed as though the contents of the deep had hopped ashore. A conga-dance wormed along Pemba Avenue then all around town. Races were run up rigging to release bladders painted silver and red, inflated with watergas. And there was the marvel, as promised by Chanoose, of an enormous passenger balloon.

  This balloon was a sphere, open at the bottom, buoyed up by hot air rising from a gas flame in the basket beneath. The basket was big enough to hold half a dozen people including the operator, with a fair-sized telescope for them to peer through. The flame was turned low every ten minutes and the balloon guided back down by its tether rope to allow as many brave spirits as possible to ascend. I need hardly add that the tether was essential, else the balloon would have departed on the breezes; which made me puzzle about the reliability of honeymoon flights. Apparently means of steering were under investigation.

  And there was a parade—and a multitude of tasty snacks—and tipple a-plenty, not forgetting slugs of the black current which I doled out for hours from a tented pavilion erected on the waterfront. This was a bit of a bore. On the other hand I couldn't manage much real tippling on my own account. Spirit willing; body too young.

  Nor could I participate in the other amusements except as spectator, for reasons of dignity, safety, short legs and such. I did at one stage beg childishly to be allowed to go up in the observation balloon; not, I hasten to add, out of any sudden urge to heed the Worm's suggestion and leap to my death. Donnah, ever nearby, put her foot down.

  "If a lunatic slashed the rope, you'd drift away. We could lose you."

  Dad, who was sitting at a portable table noting names and addresses and keeping a tally of newly-enrolled devotees, nodded his entire agreement.

  Round about the middle of the afternoon, Tam sidled up to me.

  "Popped back to the temple," he murmured. "Found Stamno rifling your scritoire, reading what you've written. He'd picked Peli's lock." In his hand he disclosed a strong wire with a little hook o
n the end.

  "Chanoose put him up to it! While we're busy here! I bet she did."

  "No, no. That's where you're wrong. Guards didn't even try to delay me on the way in. Just nods and smiles from them. They didn 7 know. Stamno seemed scared I'd kick up an almighty barney, and they'd find out. Practically begged me to shut up."

  "That's odd. Are my papers safe?"

  "Made him lock them up again."

  "Tonight, Tam, you and I will have a few words with Master Savant Stamno!"

  We did indeed. And be damned how tired I was feeling after my day's activities. (Or inactivities.)

  Peli was also present when Tam hustled Stamno into my chambers late that night. A single oil lamp burned. We seated Stamno near this so that his face was brightly lit, while ours were in the shadow. I noticed how Stamno had taken time out to wash his hair yet again.

  "Well?" I said. "Explain yourself, snooper."

  Stamno worried at a fingernail; though more as if he was manicuring it.

  "With pleasure," he said. "I'm delighted to tell you. For you are not quite as you seem, any more than I am."

  "Aren't I, indeed?"

  "You wish to save other worlds from the Godmind, not just ourselves. How this could be accomplished, you don't know. Nor do I. But you wish it."

  I nodded. "Carry on."

  "Whereas the river guild want to sew this one world of ours up tight—irrespective of the Sons, irrespective of any other humans in the galaxy. Even irrespective of whether the Godmind might attain reality and truth, though the price be high."

  "You aren't rooting for the Godmind, surely!"

  "No; I belong to the Guild of the Seekers of Truth."

  "Never heard of it."

  Stamno shrugged. "If truth be hidden, let its seekers also be concealed."

  "Cutely put," said Peli. "Doesn't that boil down to your belonging to some nutty little cult consisting of about three members?"

  Our savant pursed his lips. "We have connexions with wise women in the Port Barbra hinterland."