Fighting, indeed. The lady seems to have some Talent of her own, Little Brother, if only for stating the obvious before it becomes so.
Ahijah’s pale face lost several more layers of healthy tint as the gibing words knifed directly into his mind. His goggling eyes shot from Dorcas to Napthali, yet their expressions had not changed. He never had been able to get over the mistaken feeling that everyone near him could hear that silent speaker’s words as clearly as he did.
“Ahi—Master Crafter? Are you well?”
A sudden warm pressure on his clammy hand broke him free of the webwork of intrusive words and snide laughter in his brain. Ahijah saw the Widow Mansfield gazing up at him with genuine concern.
“I—A touch of the heat, Mistress Mansfield. You will excuse me.”
As he staggered from the lady’s chamber, his ordinary ear heard Napthali resume his diatribe against the milk-blooded tribe of scholars. At the same time he heard, with that inner ear he wished he’d never discovered, a too-familiar voice crowing: ‘A touch of the heat, Mistress Mansfield?’ An, yes. Now tell her whence that heat rises, lad, and I’ll be pleased to call you a man.
“A curse on you, Juvenal. Be still!” Ahijah snarled under his breath.
More laughter echoed through his brain. Speak to me so, do you, Little Brother? Aren’t you afraid that someone will overhear, and think you mad? Madmen speak to themselves all the time. So do poets. Not exactly the reputation to do a future minister good, being named poet to his face.
Ahijah made the shelter of his chamber and threw himself full-length across the bed. “I said be quiet!”
Quiet? So I am. I promise you, by the blood binding us, no one here suspects I am carrying on a conversation with you. It’s bad manners to talk while drinking. Foam comes out your nose.
Instantly alert, Ahijah demanded of the wall, “What? Drinking? Where are you?”
A mental chuckle answered him. Ah, Socrates! Here’s a pretty paradox. He bids me be quiet, then orders me to give him information. How like our initial meeting, this is. The first thing you did was scream .for me to begone, the next moment you were pleading with me to aid you with your Greek. The chuckle became a cackle, and a pinpoint of light twinkled inside Ahijah’s skull. It irised out to let him see a common taproom, a comely wench simpering at the sender of the vision, and a familiar pair of boots propped up on a table. Now you see where I am as well as I do. Care to join us?
The peace-starved part of Ahijah’s soul which had driven him to seek an education so far from his Harvard-bred siblings had had enough. Rolling from the bed, the young man strode across the room to an old square-built wooden case of his own design. He had always been fascinated with problems of space and shape. As a boy, he had taken the measure of every ox-cart he could find, and concluded that the wise merchant could carry more freight if the average cart was loaded with goods packed in uniform cases of these specific dimensions. He had given teeth to his theory by building one such case with his own hands.
His father, Amer, had been kind if not lavish in his praise.
His mother, Samona, had said that it was all very nice, and the case would be just the thing to pack his linens in when he went off to school.
The case did not now hold linens. It was lined with several layers of straw, out of whose fragrant depths Ahijah now drew a book, a bowl, and a little clay figurine. He opened the book casually and propped it up behind the bowl, into which he placed the figurine. It was not a very good representation of a man, having as it did rather bandy, overly hairy legs that ended not in five-toed feet but neatly split hooves. The pert tail did not help the resemblance either. The horns, however, were a masterstroke, precise miniatures of a young goat’s curving buds, painstakingly carved from wood by a hand that understood carpentry much better than clay.
“Now,” said Ahijah to the little statue, “if you are not back here by the time I count three, I am going to fetch a cupful of whatever I can find and dump it over your head.”
Whatever you can find? Dear Little Brother, if you but try the rear of the topmost shelf in our delicious landlady’s pantry, you’ll encounter a bottle of geneva spirits Master Weaver’s been hiding for ‘medicinal use only,’ and much obliged I’ll be to you.
“I doubt that.”
Hmm?
“I’m not looking for my cupful up in Mistress Mansfield’s pantry, but under Master Weaver’s bed. Though what I turn up may have been geneva spirits, once upon a time. Care to find out? One . . . two . . .”
The sunlight flickered, as a dark shape passed between Ahijah and the light. “Really, Little Brother, your manner of command has become positively crude!” Swaggering on sturdy boots—incongruous footgear when worn with a student’s threadbare suit—Ahijah’s roommate had returned. The figurine, on the other hand, was gone.
“Crude? You’re one to talk, Juvenal!” Ahijah laced into the truant with enough fire to make even Master Weaver reconsider his slurs against scholars’ natural spunk. “What were you about this morning, frightening poor Mistress Mansfield senseless with your—your—?”
“Tut, Little Brother, a man who can’t call a spade a spade has never learned to delve. If you can’t say it, why not think it at me? You’ve the power.”
Ahijah’s mouth tightened. “Not that again.”
“Why not that again? By my horns, I swear you’ve more fear of honest mind-speech than of your Hell, yet it’s the strongest touch of Talent you’ll ever own.” Juvenal dropped onto the lone stool in the room and pulled off his boots. Stray sunbeams gleamed on his hooves, and he stretched and flexed his legs. Ahhhh.
Ahijah shuddered as the satyr’s pleasure raced through his mind, suffusing his flesh with alien warmth. It wasn’t the mind-speech he feared so much as the subsidiary Talent it brought of making him share sensations as well as thoughts.
“Get thee behind me . . .” he muttered.
“So I am behind you. And evermore shall be.” Juvenal winked, and his dark, human eyes were transformed into two burning yellow sparks of mischief, each bisected by a black slit that seemed to crackle with its own secret fire.
Ahijah’s fists came down hard on the tabletop. The book toppled over and sent the bowl skittering. “Do not taunt me!” His shout dislodged a sprinkling of dust from the newly whitewashed ceiling.
Rapid footsteps clattered up the stair. “Master Crafter, what is wrong? Did you call for something?” The Widow Mansfield’s voice betrayed her anxiety.
Yet another reason for you to drop your silly prejudices and attempt a skill you already possess. The satyr’s thoughts were more smug than his looks, which was saying a great deal. Then you could shout at me to your heart’s content without setting a whole innocent household on its ear.
Quiet, you!
Ahijah’s hand flew to his mouth, as if to stifle an oath. But not a word had passed his lips, to be called back again. Juvenal laughed, this time aloud.
“You’d best answer her, Little Brother,” he directed, smirking.
Ahijah scowled at the satyr, but heeded him. “It’s nothing, Mistress Mansfield,” he said in more measured tones, speaking through the crack in the door. “I—I stubbed my toe against the stool.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Well . . . I suppose I shall be back to my work, then.” He heard the patter of her light foot upon the stair, then silence.
Glowering, he rounded on the satyr. “I’ve had enough of your escapades, Juvenal. From the moment we met, you’ve been an embarrassment and an encumbrance. I gave you your freedom long since. Why linger?”
“What?” The satyr feigned a hurt look. “Depart when a year’s further study brings me my Yale degree? I had so looked forward to graduating with you, Little Brother, although I feel it fair to warn you that only one of us will be taking the highest honors in Greek.”
“Greek,” Ahijah growled. “I cur
se the tongue.”
“Why? Because you couldn’t master it without me?”
Juvenal’s slanted eyebrows rose in one of his more provoking expressions. “I bless it. If not for your backwardness with Greek, you’d never have grown desperate enough to try summoning help.” He leaned forward far enough to pluck the little book from its place behind the bowl. “Poor as you were in the language, you couldn’t know you’d opened this to a passage dealing with the ancient and noble tribe of satyrs. I am grateful. Without your ignorance, where would I be? Still kicking my heels in some Arcadian backwater.”
“Where you belong!” Ahijah snatched the volume from the satyr’s hands and tossed it onto the bed. “And where you’ll find yourself once I find the means to send you packing.”
“Of course you will,” said Juvenal, in a tone that added an unsaid when pigs fly.
Ahijah started to reply, but either thought better of it or found he lacked sufficient verbal ammunition to put the uppity creature in its proper place. After four false starts and a sputter, he ended by exclaiming, “Oh, pox take you and your Greek honors! Stay, then. And when all’s done, what will you do with a Yale degree?”
Juvenal chuckled. “Plague Harvard men. Just as you intend to do with regard to your Boston-taught brethren. You care nothing for the ministry. You’d rather be up to your elbows in cedar shavings. If you have to prove yourself to your family, there are cheaper I-told-you-so’s to be had than a college diploma.”
“How do you know—?”
The satyr shrugged. “Your mind’s an open book to me. As is the mind of any mortal to one with the Talent to read.” He gave Ahijah his most vexing grin. “I can teach you more valuable lessons than mastering Greek verb forms. What coin would you pay to learn whether a certain lady—I mention no names, mind!—holds you as dear as you do her?”
The blood drained from Ahijah’s cheeks, only to rush back into them on a tide of outrage. “You pry so into my mind, uninvited. Into hers? You are the Devil!”
“A satyr, a satyr, please. And a Yale man. You can call me no worse than that.”
“Well, soon enough I’ll only be able to call you a satyr, plain,” Ahijah spat.
“What? How’s that?” Juvenal was genuinely taken aback.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” It was Ahijah’s turn to taunt.
Yes, I would. And I will.
The satyr was in earnest, all humor gone. His words lanced into Ahijah’s mind. Wince and draw away as the young man would, the satyr was still an inescapable mental presence. In a moment, the room where they sat vanished and Ahijah walked in a gray place where pure thoughts shimmered and sparkled like fiery gems. Here a musing less brilliant than the rest lay dull and lightless at his feet, and there the ember of an inspiration glowed with fire not yet blown to full flame. He looked around, ravished by the riches of his own mind surrounding him.
Bah! This is nothing. You ought to see what my mind looks like since I commenced my education.
The satyr’s face loomed high above the mountains of jeweled thought and gilded memory. Long, spectral fingers appeared to probe the piles of thought, freely rifting them for the information Juvenal desired.
NO!
Ahijah reacted automatically to the threat of invasion. The one word of denial was more than a thought; it was a battle-call. The heat of it caused the nearest heap of glittering thought to run into a molten stream. A wisp of suggestion from Ahijah, and the liquid gold rose up in a wave that dashed itself against his body, leaving him armored head to foot in the bravely gleaming metal.
How did I—? He turned his mailed fist slowly before his eyes, rapt by the newly tapped power of his Talent. Wonder swiftly gave way to joy. It does not matter how I did this. I did it, and that is all that counts!
A new unvoiced command, and a sword sprang white-hot from his hand. The satyr’s ghostly face lost all its casual confidence as Ahijah’s sword gestured and the thick, unyielding walls of a fortress rose up to enclose the trove of his thoughts. Clear as glass the walls were, but both attacker and defender knew them to be impregnable. Shielded, armed, and ringed by a mental stronghold of his own making, Ahijah watched the satyr batter uselessly against the walls.
Through his own peals of laughter carne the single, exultant thought: Victory! He brandished his sword high.
A pounding on a more earthly door broke through his celebration, shaking down the walls, shattering the armor, making the golden sword melt away like an August icicle.
“Master Crafter! Master Crafter! Please, I must talk to you!”
Ahijah gasped and staggered, overwhelmed by the battle he had just fought and won. The satyr sprawled on the stool, a hand to his chest, new respect dawning in his yellow eyes as he stared at the young man. “You are . . . a quick study, Little Brother,” he rasped.
Again the pounding, and the Widow Mansfield’s voice shook them both to the bone. “Master Crafter, pray open!”
Juvenal blinked his eyes human again and struggled into his boots while Ahijab warded the door. When all was safe, he opened it. “Yes, Mistress Mansfield?”
She burst into the room and grasped his hands, unaware at first that anyone was there to witness the gesture. “Oh, Master Crafter, such news I have just heard! Mistress Miller was passing by and told me, but you know what an unreliable gossip she is. I said to myself that you would be the one to tell me whether what she said is true—Pray God it is not! I heard—”
“That the books are lost.”
WHAT?
The satyr’s mental roar was red pain in Ahijah’s skull, an agony so unexpected that he was unaware of the moment when the Widow Mansfield dropped his hands and gasped, “Oh! Master Sylvan. I had no idea you were—that is, I didn’t see you return.”
“I have often been told that I am remarkably light on my feet,” Juvenal said. For all his bitter wit, he looked grim. “What rumor is this of lost books, Mistress?”
“Let her be, Juvenal.” Ahijah closed his eyes wearily. “I was about to tell you myself. Some of our more mystically inclined classmates would say that this is but the latest sign of Divine disapproval for the Collegiate School.”
“Stuff!” The satyr snorted in a peculiarly equine way that made Dorcas regard him askance. “There once were troubles for us, to be sure. Little money, and few books, and no true fixed abode for school or scholars, but that’s past. Haven’t we that fine new lodging near the green? Did not Elihu Yale himself, over in London town, make us a grand bequest fat enough to earn him the memorializing of his name in our own beloved school?”
“What school, if there be no books to learn from? And the books of Yale College are still in Saybrook.”
“And then? I think our masters have at least the brains to order the library sent here, to its permanent abode.”
“It is not that simple, Master Sylvan.” Sorrow only made Dorcas Mansfield’s face all the more adorable, to Ahijah’s eyes. ‘‘The Saybrook folk resent the loss of the school to New Haven. They have sent word, I hear, that they refuse to surrender the library.”
“A finer library than even Harvard boasts,” Ahijah supplied glumly. “Solicited book by book in England and shipped here by good Master Dummer. Boyle’s work! Newton’s! More than these, many contributed by the very hands which wrote them, and all in the grasp of Saybrook town.” His shoulders slumped. “They might as well be on the moon.”
“Is that all?” Juvenal pounded Ahijah on the back. “Well, what won’t be sent must needs be brought!”
“I know. Such a plan is already underway. This very night, in fact, we leave for Saybrook to fetch back the books. But it will be a perilous journey. We have our enemies. There are more than the Saybrook folk who’d like to see the Collegiate School rooted out of New Haven, building or no building.”
“We leave?” The words were uttered simultaneously by Juvenal and Dorcas,
but the satyr’s lively interest in the plan alarmed Ahijah so much that he missed the equally avid look on the young widow’s face.
“We, meaning myself and a few others. Only enough to manage the loading of the books and the driving of the ox-carts and no more,” he said firmly. “Too many hands to this rudder will alarm the Saybrook folk, or push them into taking some rash action against the books themselves.”
“Ahijah, no.” Dorcas was honestly affrighted. “They would not—they could not harm the books!”
Of course not. Ahijah felt Juvenal’s smirk in his mind. Like those fine champions of education back home in Massachusetts. Why would anyone imagine that people capable of hanging the innocent for witchcraft would ever do something as naughty as burning a book?
* * *
“Pox take it, the bridge is gone!” Philip Lawes leaned against the off-ox’s yoke and rubbed sweat from his forehead.
A clean kerchief, sweetly scented with lavender, was at his elbow and a treble voice piped in his ear, “Are you certain, Lawes? Mightn’t we have missed the proper ford in the dark?”
Philip frowned and used the kerchief as gingerly as though it were made of living snakeskin. What was it about this fellow—traveler of his—what was his name? Thomas Mansfield? So small, so slight, and with a voice to mark him as a more proper inmate of the nursery than the Collegiate School. All Philip knew was that Thomas made him nervous.
His nerves were frayed enough without having had the ill luck to draw this odd bird as his helper in the great enterprise. Although each turn of the ox-cart’s wheels brought them closer to New Haven, he was growing steadily more tense. It had been a bad time in Saybrook, with the townsfolk not even bothering to conceal their hostility to the removal of the books. Several of the ox-carts had been attacked and broken. Only through a miracle had the books themselves been preserved.
The Crafters Book One Page 16