by John Crowley
“Why were the Long League and the speakers enemies?” I asked Seven Hands. “What secrets did they keep from us?”
He was at work making glass—the glass of Little Belaire is famous, traders still come to deal for it—and all morning had been mixing beech-wood ash and fine sand with bits of angel-made glass from all over; now he threw in a broken bottle green as summer and said, “I don’t know about secrets. And the speakers were never the League’s enemies, though the League thought it to be so. It goes back to the last days of the angels, when the Storm came. That Storm was like any storm, on a day when the air is still and hot and yellowish, and big clouds are high and far away in the west; and as the storm comes closer it comes faster, or seems to, and suddenly there is rain in the mountains, and a cold wind, and it is on top of you. The Storm that ended the angels was like that: even when they were strongest the Storm was coming on, perhaps it had always been coming on, from the beginning. But few seemed to see it, except the League of women, who prepared themselves.
“And so when the Storm at last came in a thousand ways, multiplying, it seemed very sudden. But the League wasn’t surprised.”He trod on the bellows that made his fire roar. “The Storm took years to pass; and when everything was going off and the millions were left alone without help, and great death and vast suffering, multiplying as the Storm multiplied, were visited on every part of the land, it was to the Long League fell the task of helping, and saving what and who could be saved, and cutting away the rest; repairing the angel’s collapse where it could be repaired, and burying it forever where it could not. And for this huge task the League broke its old silence, and all the women acknowledged one another, because you see it had always been secret before. And for years the Long League of women saved and buried, till the world was different. Till it was like it is now.”
His molten glass was ready, and he took up his long pipe and fixed a ball of it, turning and turning it with great care.
“Did everyone do what the League told them? Why?”
“I don’t know. Because they were the only ones who were prepared. Because they had a new way to live, to replace the angel’s way. Because people had to listen to somebody.” He began to blow, his face red and his cheeks impossibly round. The green ball grew into a balloon. When it was the right size, working quickly he snipped off the end of it, and began to spin the pipe in his hands. What had been a balloon widened, flattened into a dish, seeming at every moment about to fall from the pipe.
“But the speakers didn’t listen.”
“No. During those years, we were wandering, and building Belaire. The women of Belaire had never been of the League, had never acknowledged that the League included them, though the League was said to be a league of all women everywhere. But our women were indifferent to almost everything but their speech and their histories and their saints. That angered and frustrated the women of the League, I guess, angered them because they needed all the help they could get and frustrated them because they were sure that the League knew what was best for the world.”
“Did they?” Seven Hands’s dish had become a plate, faintly green and striated with its cooling.
“Maybe they did. I guess our women thought it was only none of our business.
“What’s odd though,” he said, as he took the plate of glass from the pipe, “is that in hiding the terrible learning of the angels from everyone, so that the world had to become different, the League was left alone with it. They, who hated the angels most, were in the end the only ones who knew what the angels knew.”
“Like what?”
He held his circle of glass, flecked with bubbles and green, like the stirred surface of a tiny pond, up before his face. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “Ask women.”
Mbaba asked me: “Is it your Whisper cord girl who makes you ask all this?” I didn’t answer. Of all the cords, Whisper is the one that stays most to itself. Knots happen with others.
“Well,” Mbaba said. “I don’t know any secrets Little St. Roy knew. I think he told all he knew. Little St. Roy wanted to be a gossip, you know, but in the end he said he wasn’t smart enough. All his life he spent with them, though, serving them and carrying for them, and running Path with their messages. And listening to them talk. Little St. Roy said he was like an idea in the gossips’ minds, and ran through Belaire with pails full of water and a head full of notions.
“Later when he lived with Olive he told hard stories. But he always had, though maybe he didn’t think so, nobody knows.
“In those days the Filing System was just being learned, and Olive came to learn it as well as any; Little St. Roy said, ‘Remember, Olive, it’s time to stop when hunting for your identity turns into hunting it down.’
“He said, about Olive, that when she was dark she was very, very dark, and when she was light, she was lighter than air. I don’t know what that meant. Maybe Whisper cord does.”
When I asked Painted Red, she said: “I don’t know what angel’s secrets Olive might have brought. They aren’t in the story I know. There is a cat in it, and a Light. That’s all.
“It was a night in the middle of October,” she went on, “when Little St. Roy was sitting near the outside to watch the full moon. The big many-paned skylight that these days is deep in was in those days nearer to the outside, and was the best place to sit and see the moon. He was busy watching for the full moon when, just as Little Moon came over, tiny and white, presaging Big Moon, a noise startled him, and he looked up to see before him a huge yellow cat. Little St. Roy said he felt the hair on his nape rise as he watched the cat regarding him frankly. And as the cat regarded him there came floating through the door from the outside a ball of light.
“A round ball of white light, as big as a head, floating at about a man’s height, gently as a milkweed seed. It floated to a stop above the cat’s head, and then there was a gust of wind and the Light drifted till it hung over Little St. Roy’s head. Now, like all his cord, Little St. Roy could see things that no one else saw, and he looked at these signs and waited for what was to happen, which he guessed: and as he sat unmoving, a person followed the globe of light: a tall, lean woman, beak-nosed, her gray hair cut off short.
“‘Oh,’ she said when she saw Little St. Roy. ‘I’m here.’
” “Yes,’ said Roy, for he knew now who she was: that she was she whom he had waited for. ‘At last.’
“Her huge cat had sunk slowly to the floor and placed his head on his paws, and she went and sat with him, gathering her cloak around her. “Well,’ she said, ‘now you must take me within, and call together everyone who should hear what I’ve come to tell.’
“‘Please,’ Roy said. ‘In a minute I could take you deep within, and I know everyone who should hear your message, who first, who last; but …’ Well, the woman waited. The great moon now lit the room and eclipsed her light. St. Roy spoke at last: ‘It’s been a long time since the League’s meeting, since we learned that someone, or some news would come. It was I who learned that, and told Little Belaire about it, and waited for this day. And what I ask now is just for all that. I would like to know first what the news is. Now, before the others.’
“The woman looked at him a long time, and then laughed gently. ‘It was always the story,’ she said, ’that the Long League was much feared here, and its news ignored. Has it changed?’
“St. Roy smiled too. “There are old things,’ he said, ‘and there are new things. I think the Long League must be changed now too.’
“‘No,’ she said. ‘No. There is no new thing with the League any longer. That’s what I’ve come to tell you, as others have gone to tell all the old enemies of the League—everywhere we made enemies in the old, old days—to all of them women had gone to tell them: the League is done. It’s all done now. For a long time our strength has withered, as any great strength must and should; and nothing has come up to challenge its strength and make it grow again. The world is different now. What it matters that we all came toge
ther to say this I don’t know; but perhaps that last acknowledgment is the greatest success. Anyway. That’s what I’ve come for. Just to tell you. The Long League of great memory is dead. My name is Olive, and I’ve come with this news, and if you’ll have me, to stay and help.’
“Then the only noise in the room was the cat’s and the moon’s.”
Painted Red took the claws of her spectacles from behind her ears and wiped them carefully. “What secrets she brought to Roy that Whisper cord inherits, I can’t say,” she said. “I know this though about Whisper cord: that for them a secret isn’t something they won’t tell. For them, a secret is something that can’t be told.”
SEVENTH FACET
There’s a time in some years, after the first frosts, when the sun gets hot again, and summer returns for a time. Winter is coming; you know that from the way the mornings smell, the way the leaves, half-turned to color, are dry and poised to drop. But summer goes on, a small false summer, all the more precious for being small and false. In Little Belaire, we called this time—for some reason nobody now knows—engine summer.
Maybe because summer seemed endless; but in that season of that year it seemed Once a Day and I could never be parted either, any more than Buckle cord could untangle sun from a crystal, no matter what unhappiness we might cause each other, no matter even if we wanted to be parted. When we weren’t together we were looking for each other. It isn’t strange that you think love, which is so much like a season, will never end; because sometimes you dunk a season will never end—no matter that you tell yourself you know it will.
In engine summer we went with an old breadman of Bones cord named In a Corner to gather in St. Bea’s-bread. He allowed us to come as a favor to Once a Day’s Mbaba, whom he had known long; a favor, because we were too young to be much help. We slept with him in his room near the outside, waking when dawn light came through his translucent walls of yellow. A misty engine summer morning, which would turn dry and hot and fine. Once a Day, shivering and yawning at once, stood pressed to me for warmth as we waited in the white dawn for everyone to gather, many carrying long poles with big hooks at their tips. After some head-counting and consultation, we moved away into the woods, following the stream up into the misty, sun-shot forest.
We would reach the stand of bread-trees at sundown, In a Corner thought, at the time when they were largest. “At night when it’s cool, they grow smaller,” he said. “Like morning glories; except that instead of closing up, they shrink. That’s only one of the funny things about them.”
“What are the other funny things?” Once a Day asked.
“You’ll see,” said In a Corner. “This afternoon, tonight. Tomorrow. You’ll see all the funny things.”
There was no path to follow to the stand; the other breadmen had spread out so that only occasionally did we see one or two moving beside us through the woods. Many besides the speakers smoke St. Bea’s-bread, but it remains our secret where it lives, and we were careful not to stamp a path to that place. When we had harvested it and prepared it, then others would come to Belaire to trade for it; which was fun and I guess to everyone’s advantage.
We came out of the forest late in the afternoon, came out from under big sighing pines into a wide field of silvery grass stirred by wind. The other breadmen were stretched out in a long line to our right and left, sometimes hidden up to their shoulders, making dark furrows in the grass. There was a high wave in the ground, and on top of it some of the breadmen already stood, waving and shouting to us. “From the top you can see them,” In a Corner said; “you hurry on.” And we did, racing to the top of the ridge where tall concrete posts stood at intervals like guardians.
“Look,” Once a Day said, standing by a concrete post, “oh, look.”
Down in a little river valley, sun struck the water, bright as silver. And struck, too, the stand of St. Bea’s-bread, which lived there and (I think) nowhere else in this world.
Did you ever blow soap bubbles? When you blow softly, and the soap is sticky, you can grow a great pile of bubbles, large and small, from the cup of the pipe. Well: imagine a pile of bubbles as large as a tree, the big bubbles on the bottom as large as yourself, the small ones at the top smaller than your head, than your hand, trailing off in an undulating tip; a great irregular pile of spheres, seeming as insubstantial as bubbles, but the weight of them great enough to press down the bottom bubbles into elliptical sacks. And imagine them not clear and glassy like soap bubbles, but translucent, the upper sunside, of them a pale rose color, the undersides shading into blue-green at the bottom. And then imagine as many of these piles of bubbles as fir trees in a grove, all leaning gently, bulging and bouncing as in a solemn dance, the ground around them stained colors by the afternoon sun striking through their translucence. That’s what Little Belaire lives on.
We ran down to where they stood, across great fractured plazas of concrete, past ruined roofless buildings laid out angelwise in neat squares with the neat lines of weed-split roads between them, and into the stand itself. “They really are bubbles,” Once a Day said, laughing, amazed. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” They were membranes, dry and scored into cells like a snake’s skin, and inside, nothing but air. The odor as we stood among them was spicy and dusty and sweet.
The breadmen were all gathering in the rosy light the bubble-trees made. They smiled to each other, slapped each other’s backs, pulled and pinched at the skin of the bottom bubbles, coarse and thick, and shaded their eyes to look up at the pale, fine tops. It had been a good summer, humid and hot, and there would be no skimping next winter. The hooked sticks they carried were laid in a heap for the next day, and coils of thin rope were handed out from a big sack. Then we all dispersed—Once a Day and I following In a Corner—to circle the whole stand, and work inward till we met in the center.
In a Corner would choose a short length of rope and tie it very tightly around the feathery neck of a stem beneath the bottom bubbles. The stems were chest-high to Once a Day and me, and there were many of them supporting each tree.
“Except they’re not supporting them, not really,” said In a Comer. “That’s another funny thing about them. The stems don’t support the bubbles as much as they keep them from flying away. See, when the sun heats up the air inside, the whole tree grows huge, like now; and gets lighter. Hot air is lighter than cold air. And if they weren’t tied down by the stems?”
“They’d float away,” said Once a Day.
“Float right away,” In a Corner said. His tough old hands drew the cord tight, tying off the stem. We were deep in now, moving slowly toward the center; all around us the blue-green undersides bulged and swayed in the slightest breezes. It was exhilarating; it made you want to jump and shout. “Lighter than air,” Once a Day said laughing. “Lighter than air!”
In the center of the stand was a clearing, and in the center of the clearing were the ruins of low buildings and tall metal towers bent and rusted, some fallen to their knees; all faced a great pit in their midst, and in this pit, as though designed to fit there, there sat a squat, complex mass of black metal, high and riveted, from which struts shot out to grip the broad concrete lip of the pit—a great spider climbing from a hole. Machinery of unfathomable design protruded everywhere from its hump. The buildings and towers seemed to have fallen asleep in attendance on it.
“Is it the planter?” I asked.
“It is,” In a Corner said. He coiled the last of his rope over his shoulder and motioned us to follow; Once a Day held back till I took her hand, and she pressed close behind me as we walked up to it.
“It went to the stars,” I said.
“It did. And came back again.” It and a hundred more like it, gone to the stars; and when they returned, after how many centuries, full of knowledge of the most outlandish kind—nobody was left to receive them. Of any left on earth, they were the only ones who still knew their purposes; and without men to receive it, their knowledge was locked within them. And they sat, with endl
ess patience, but no one came, because they were all on the road or dead or gone. And at last the planters died where they sat, rusted, decayed; their memories disintegrated, their angel-made minds became dust.
“And how odd to think,” In a Corner said, “that they were called planters because they were to have been the first of a system of machines that planted men on other stars. Instead, here it sits, having become a planter in truth: it planted the little balloon-tree from elsewhere here, on this earth, and is its planter, like an old black pot an mbaba plants marigolds in.”
Up close, it was huge; it rose up, flat black, and glowered down at us. The couplings and devices that held it in place were of a strength that was hard to really believe in: metal that thick, that rustless, a hold that perfectly crafted, that tenacious. In its center what might have been a door had broken open; and from that door there foamed like a mouthful of great grapes the misshapen bubbles of the first of the trees, mother of them all. From this mother-plant, blue-green shoots had been sent out, and had found a way down through the struts and plates of the planter and then gone underground, like roots; and then had surfaced again, In a Corner said, as the other stems in the stand. “It’s all one plant,” he said, “if it is a plant at all.”
Our work for that day was finished, and while the sun set we gathered wood and built fires on the concrete plazas beyond the bread.
“I don’t know where it comes from,” In a Corner said, laying the logs Once a Day and I brought in a circle that would keep us warm all night. “But I think things, about that place. It’s a cold place, I think, and much larger than this one; these trees never grow so large there, and living things move slowly or not at all.”
We looked out over the bread, which had already diminished as the chill of evening came on. “Why do you think that?” I said.