“Where is your proof? What proof do you have, child? A cough heard on the stair from Potter’s bridge? A sneering look? Suspicious absences? A bit of harassment by officious Banders? Well, here is a judge. Tell me, Mercald, would you convict the Banders on this evidence?”
Mercald flushed, then turned pale. “I could not,” he whispered. “As you know, Bridger.”
“You see,” said Rootweaver. “If we have no proof, we cannot take action against the Banders. We cannot even be sure to prevent what evil they may attempt in the future. Because we have not proof, we Beeds and Chafers must protect ourselves. We cannot openly ally ourselves with Birders who may fall into disrepute. We cannot have ourselves accused of blasphemy because we offer protection to a person alleged to be a false messenger, perhaps a servant of Demons…”
“I have said Handbright means much to me. I cannot take her away with me until she is delivered of the child she carries. If she remains here, it is at peril to her life. And you say you will not help me?” Mavin spoke in that flat, incurious voice Beedie had heard before, an ominous voice in that it gave nothing away.
“I didn’t say that,” replied Rootweaver, pouring Mavin more tea. “I merely said that you asked a great deal and offered nothing much in return except information we were already aware of. Now – if you were willing to take on a job of work for us…”
“Ah,” said Mavin. “So now we come to it.”
“We come to it indeed, if you wish. I have something in mind.” Rootweaver leaned forward to speak softly, intently, making closed, imperative gestures with her fingers, hidden from others in the room by their huddled bodies. Mercald and Beedie listened with their mouths open.
Mavin feigned uninterest. When Rootweaver had done, however, she leaned back, stared at the ceiling for a time, then dried her hands on her trousers and held them out. “Done,” she said. “Agreed. If you will keep Handbright safe.”
“We can only try,” the Bridger replied. “We may not succeed once it is known she lodges with us.”
Mavin gave her one, brilliant smile. “I think we can improve her chances in that regard. It may not be necessary for anyone to know that the birdwoman is with you at all. And while we are at it, may we test to see if proof of our belief may be found?”
“You may test. You may not foment insurrection merely to see who falls into your mouth.” Mercald said this firmly, without doubt, and Beedie gave him a surprised look. For all his milky youth, still he had some iron in him.
“Very well then,” agreed Mavin. “Here is what we will do…”
The following day, an hour or so before noonglow, a procession of Bridgers and Birders was seen to enter the marketplace, dressed in the full regalia of office, obviously on some portentous mission. The assembly of so many top caste persons was enough in itself to attract attention, and by the time the call for prayer cried silence upon Topbridge, there were people in every alley and every market stall, on every roof and balcony, waiting to see what would happen.
It was Rootweaver who mounted to the announcement block on the market floor at the very center of the commons, she who cried into the attentive quiet of the place. “People of Topbridge, I speak for the eldest Bridger, Quickaxe, head of chasm council, who is too feeble with age to attend upon you. I am next eldest, next in line to be head of chasm council. I am here to speak about disorder, for disorder has come to the chasm. There has been talk and dissension. A Birder has been assaulted – no, do not draw horrified breath. There is not one of you who did not know of it.
“As you all know, Mercald the Birder received a visitation from a messenger of the Boundless. This is a mystery. We do not understand why the messenger has come. Some, in their foolishness, have accused the Birders of ill doing. Others have gone so far as to question the validity of Birders’ judgments, their place to judge at all.
“I come to you all with a message. Tomorrow, during noonglow, the messenger will depart Topbridge. It has come to lead a small group on a quest, toward a greater mystery than any we have spoken of. Mercald, the Birder, will attend upon that quest. Beed’s daughter, the Bridger, will attend upon it. The Maintainer Roges will attend upon the quest. They go to find the lost bridge. I invite you to witness the going forth.
“There will be no disorder! I serve notice here upon you all. If there is language unfitting the occasion, if there is unruly behavior, if there is childish rebelliousness displayed, those responsible will be brought before swift judgment under chasm rule.” Then there was indrawn breath from everyone present. Mavin had been prepared for that, and she heard it with satisfaction. Chasm rule allowed immediate execution of rebels against the order of the bridgetowns by tossing them into the chasm. Privately, she thought it a bit too good for the Banders – at least, those involved in the conspiracy, as she felt most of them probably were. From the corner where she stood, she watched faces, eyes, searching for the quick sideways glance, the covert whisper, the betraying signs of those who had plans that were upset by this announcement. There were many. Too many. Most of them casteless ones, but there were Bridgers among them, and Fishers, and a knot of belligerent-looking Harvesters. She shook her head. Proof! She had all the proof she needed.
Ah, well. Much to do before the morrow. Much explanation, much preparation. Rumor must be spread in the market place concerning the treasures of the Lostbridgers. Beedie must be outfitted for travel, and Mercald, and the ’Tainer Roges. Beedie had not wanted him along, had become rather flushed about it, as a matter of fact, but Rootweaver had insisted. “Where a Bridger goes, a Maintainer goes, Beedie, and that’s the rule. In times of danger, a Maintainer is a Bridger’s spare eyes, a Bridger’s spare nose.”
“I can take care of myself,” she had replied rebelliously. “I don’t need Roges.”
“If you will not accept him as a quest mate, then we must send some other Bridger,” Rootweaver had replied. “We will not begin a holy quest by breaking the rules. You may be sure someone would notice, and it would throw doubt upon the whole endeavor.”
“Rootweaver is right,” Mavin had said. “Let be, Beedie. I’ve met Roges. He’s strong, sensible, and seemingly devoted to you, though why he should be, I cannot tell you.” At which Beedie had flushed bright red and shut up.
In the night, at the darkest time, a small group of people left Birders House unobserved, carrying something fairly heavy. They placed it in a cart with muffled wheels and took it along the main avenue. The avenue was much darker than usual, for all the lanterns had gone out simultaneously. This happened rarely, but it did happen. If anyone lay wakeful at that time to hear the muffled squeak of a wheel, no one remarked upon it at the time or later. At Bridgers House the cart was unloaded and those who had accompanied it dispersed into the dark. When morning came, there was no evidence of the trip. The cart was back behind Harvesters House from which it had been borrowed. The visiting Harvester, Mavin, who had enquired about the cart, had departed the evening before. There were those in the house sorry to see her go. She had been interested in everything, a good listener to all their tales, all their woes and dissatisfactions, and she had been remarkably good with the slow-girules, almost as though she understood their strange language. Two of the Harvesters, meeting over breakfast tea, remarked that it was sad she would miss the beginning of the quest which was to start at midday.
“Though she’s probably on the stairs to Nextdown by now, and from there she’ll probably see as much as we will. Likely more. With the crowd there’ll be, likely we’ll see nothing or less.” Mavin, preparing herself in the back room at Birders House, would have been amused.
Time moved toward noonglow. Mercald came out of the Birders House, together with Brightfeather and half a dozen others of the Birders, all in their robes and stoles, tall hats on their heads with feather plumes nodding at the tips. In their midst walked a birdwoman in her green dress, silver and blue ribbons flowing as she walked, calm and easy, humming her song in a quiet voice.
The woman who h
ad once worn that dress now sat in a high, comfortable room at Bridgers House, guarded both day and night. She wore clothes of quite a different kind. Her hair had been cut and dyed. She did not resemble the birdwoman at all.
Anyone who went to the Birders House would find it empty; anyone who looked at the birdwoman in the procession saw that she was lean as a side root. There was murmuring, consternation in some quarters. How could one accuse the Birders of having interfered with a messenger of the Boundless when the messenger did not seem to have been interfered with? Byle Bander, watching from a convenient doorway, slipped inside the house to report to his dad.
“No sign at all, Dah. None. She was swole like a water-belly three days ago. I swear. Saw it myself. Not now, though.”
“There’s some can use herbs,” said the old man in a dire voice. “We can give it out that they used herbs on her, made her lose it.”
“Ah, but Dah, those herbs come nigh to killing anyone who takes ’em. Everybody knows that. This one is healthy as anything. No sign she was ever sick, and there are those know she was swole three days ago. They’re saying it’s a miracle already on the street.”
The man heaved himself up, face dark with fury.
“What are they up to, those Beeds, those Chafers? I ask you. What do they know?”
“Nothing, Dah. How could they?”
“Well it’s strange, I tell you. All suddenly now, after doing nothing for days and days, the whole Bridger bunch is talking quest. Talking miracle. Talking to the Birders as though they was cousins. And you noticed how they go around? There’s never a time they don’t have a Maintainer within reach, knife in his belt, looking, looking. What are they suspecting?”
“Well … a lot of ’em have died, Dah. You can’t expect they shouldn’t notice.”
“Accidents,” said the old man, sneering. “All accidents. It’s that Beed’s daughter girl. She’s come up from rootburn all full of fury, spreading stories.”
“I haven’t heard any, Dah. Swear I haven’t.”
“Well, hear it or not, it’s her, I’ll tell you. Come up on the roof, boy. We’ll see what they’re about.”
Outside, the procession moved into the commons. The birdwoman moved toward the railing to stand framed by two verticals, posed, all soft as feathers in dress and demeanor, gazing around her with mild eyes. Some of those who had been busy assaulting the Birder only days before had the sense to look ashamed of themselves, and more than one wife whispered angry words to her husband. “You see! You can tell she’s holy. You men, putting your filthy mouths on everything wonderful…” “Pregnant, is she? Well, she’s about as pregnant as my broom handle, husband. If you’d spend more time making nets and less time in chatter, we’d be better off and the Boundless would be gratified, I’m sure.” Mavin, looking at them out of Handbright’s face, read their lips, their expressions, and smiled inwardly.
The Birders moved toward her, setting up poles, banners, making a screen around her on all sides except outward toward the chasm. They roofed it with scarves, and Mavin was hidden from their view. The call for prayer sounded, a narrow cry, a climbing sound which rose, rose, upward into the green sky. Floppers honked in the root wall. Birds sang. High above them a breeze shook the leaves of the flattrees and the sweet dew fell. Noonglow came. The Birders drew the screen away.
All the assembled people gasped at the white bird which perched at the edge of the chasm, unbelievably huge and pure, more a symbol than a living thing, hierarchic and marvelous.
Mercald moved forward, a traveler’s pack on his back, Beedie coming to stand beside him, then Roges.
“Show us the way,” Mercald called to the bird in his high, priest’s voice. “Show us the way, messenger.”
Mavin spread her wings, dived from the edge of the bridge, caught the air beneath her and whirled out into the hot, uprising draft. She circled upward, twice, three times, gaining height with which to circle above the bridge, crying in a trumpet voice as she did so, then outward once more and down, down into the depths and out of sight. Mercald struck the bridge floor with his staff, cried, “We follow, messenger. We follow.” The three of them moved resolutely toward the stair to Nextdown as the crowds pushed back in religious awe. A group of Messengers assembled at the chasm side, strapping on their flopperskin wings, leaping one by one out into the same warm updraft to circle away up-chasm and down-chasm, carrying word of what had happened.
Behind the questers on the roof of his house, Slysaw Bander pounded the parapet with his fists. “They know something, Byle, I tell you they know something. They’ve got something in their teeth. Something big. Something wonderful. The lost bridge went down in the long ago, so they say, with treasure on it. Treasure we can’t even think of, boy, because we’ve lost the secrets of it. Can you imagine? Well, I’ve need of treasure right now. I need to put it in many pockets, boy, and the Banders are running shy of enough of it. So I’m not going to let them get it all by themselves. Pack us some gear, boy, and go tell your cousins. There’ll be two expeditions going down, one to lead and one to follow – one to find, and one to take it away from them.”
“But, Dah! It makes me fearful to hear you talk so. Fearful to think what they may be up to. There’s only a few of the old Beeds and Chafers to have done with and you’ll be eldest. Why go away now? We’re close, Dah. Real close.”
“Because they’re onto something, boy. And whatever it is, we’ve got to know. The other’ll wait. None of ’em’ll get younger while we’re away. Come on now, hop.” And Byle Bander hopped, unaware that when the group left the house and headed for the stairs down which Mercald had gone, they were observed with considerable satisfaction by Rootweaver herself.
“You see, cousin,” she said to the eldest, who sat well wrapped in an invalid chair at the teashop table. “While it won’t do as proof, still it goes far to establish that Mavin was right.”
“But who is she?” the old man said wonderingly. “What is she?”
“A wonder, a Demon, a messenger of the Boundless,” replied Rootweaver. “Mavin Manyshaped. One who can see farther than we have had to learn to do, cousin.”
“Well then,” he said, “what is to happen now?”
“According to Mavin, the announcement of a quest, particularly one rumored to have treasure as a part of it, will draw the villains out where they may be seen and proof assembled against them. Mercald goes with the questers to witness such proof and to remove him as a subject of rumor. Beedie goes because Mavin asked for her, and because the girl has an adventurous spirit. Roges goes where Beedie goes.” Rootweaver refilled their cups, meditatively, gazing at the stair head, now almost vacant. She remembered her own youth, her own adventurous spirit. For her, too, there had been a certain Maintainer…
“Actually, Eldest, they go to find out what is killing the roots of the bridges. We do not say that, for to say it would mean panic, but that is why they go – that is the bargain we have made with Mavin. ‘Find out’, we said, ‘and put a stop to it.’
“Privately, I believe Mavin would have gone into the chasm to explore it whether we asked her to do so or not,” she said. “She is an adventurer first, and whatever else she may be second. This is in her eyes, in the very smell of her skin. Well, as for us, we will wait and see. Guard the pregnant birdgirl, guard ourselves against assassination, warn our fellows on the other bridges, and wait and see.”
The old man shook his head. Despite his fragility, his concern for the people he had so long cared for, he found himself in a curious mood. After thinking about it for a very long time, he decided the feeling was one of envy. Wait and see was not what he really wanted to do, and he thought of Beedie and Roges as he had seen them marching off to the stairs with a longing so sharp that he gasped, and Rootweaver had to put his head between his knees until he recovered.
CHAPTER FIVE
There was no one else on the stairs when the small group began the descent. They looked back to see the whole rim of the bridge edged with w
hite disks of faces, mouths open in the middle so that it looked like hundreds of small, pale O’s along the railing and at every window. “We are already a legend,” said Beedie, not without some satisfaction.
“I pray there will be more to the legend than a last sight of us disappearing into the depths,” commented Roges. He was staying politely behind her, and Beedie was surprised to find that the thought of him so close rather pleased her. Well, it was a new thing she was doing, unused to travel as she was. It was always good to have familiar things about, rugs, bits of furniture, one’s own ’Tainer. With uncustomary tact, she did not mention this to him, knowing that he would not like being compared to cooking pots and sleeping mats. Then, too, perhaps the comparison was not quite fair. Roges was a good deal more useful than a sleeping mat. She flushed, and began to think of something else.
“Do I understand that the white bird was not actually the … the messenger which we had received before?” Roges asked. “Actually, Bridger, Rootweaver told me very little.”
“Maintainer, the white bird we are following into the depths is named Mavin. She, whatever she is, is sister to that white bird Mercald had in Birders House – the one all the fuss was about. However, everyone thinks it is the same white bird, so if they are intent on doing it harm, they’ll have to follow us into the depths to do it.”
“And we are not actually upon a quest to find the lost bridge? I gathered that much.”
“Roges,” Beedie sighed, calling him by name for the first time in her life without noticing she was doing it, “We’re going to find what’s eating the roots. Because Rootweaver and all the elders are frightened half out of their wits. And they’re afraid to talk about it or go down into the depths themselves for fear it will cause an uproar. So they’ve maneuvered Mavin into doing it for them. Now that’s the whole truth of it.”
“Ah,” said Roges, turning pale, though Beedie did not see it, for which he was grateful. “There’s been talk about something eating the roots. Whispers, mostly. No one seems to know anything about it, except that some of them are dying. Well. How … interesting to be going on such a mission.”
The Sheri S. Tepper eBook Collection Page 80