The Hammer

by K. J. Parker

  “When I was very young,” the old man said, “I was abducted.”

  He said it as though it was nothing at all. A young woman poured tea into three pale, thin white cups. They were extraordinarily delicate, like cups made of rose petals.

  “I can’t have been more than seven years old at the time,” the old man went on, picking up his cup and nibbling the surface of his tea. “It was just after the first ship arrived. I was down on the beach gathering seaweed—we pickle it, you know, it’s very good for you and quite delicious if it’s done the right way. Five men suddenly appeared from behind a rock and grabbed me. I’d never seen so much as a rowing boat before, of course.”

  There were dried yellow flowers floating in the tea. Furio didn’t know if he was supposed to fish them out or eat them.

  “They took me back to the ship and put me in the hold, along with the barrels and the sides of bacon. It was quite dark and I was terribly frightened, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I suppose I was down there for five or six days. Once a day a man came and gave me a piece of bread—I’d never had bread before—and some water in a bowl. It was too big for me to lift, so I had to lap it up like a dog. But anyway,” he added, with a sweet smile, “they set sail, heading for Home, and once they were out of sight of the shore they let me come up on deck. I suppose they were worried I might jump overboard and try and get back to my people. I couldn’t swim a stroke, of course, but they weren’t to know.

  “Anyway,” the old man went on, “that’s how I came to live in your extraordinary city for ten years. I think the idea was that I would learn your language and then teach you mine, as well as telling you everything about the country. I managed the languages well enough, but needless to say I couldn’t tell them very much about anything they wanted to know. After all, I was only a little child. How on earth could I be expected to know how many men of military age there were in the caravan, or what sort of weapons they had? Besides, my people don’t fight.”

  “Excuse me,” Gignomai interrupted, “but what does that mean? You don’t have a standing army?”

  The old man chuckled—a warm, dry sound. “My dear fellow, we don’t even have a word for war. We use the same word to mean fight, shout and sulk. We have a long and well-preserved tradition of oral history, and I think there’s been something like six murders in the last three hundred years—something like that, anyway. Not very many. It’s quite simply something we don’t do.

  “Now, then.” The old man sat up a little straighter on his stool. Furio and Gignomai were sitting on a carpet on the ground. “Once I’d helped them with their language studies and they’d finally got the message that I couldn’t give them any military secrets, I was handed over to the met’Alp family, as a gift.” The old man paused, but his face didn’t change. “Quite the novelty I was, as you can imagine, the little savage boy. Of course, the met’Alp were the most delightful people and they treated me extremely well. I was sent to school with their own children, and nobody was ever cruel or unkind to me. A matter of honour, you see: I was a guest, and a stranger, and to all intents and purposes an orphan. So I learned to read, and studied the approved curriculum for the sons of gentlemen, and I found it all most congenial and pleasant. In fact, I was heartbroken when on my seventeenth birthday Machomai met’Alp told me I was to be sent home to my people, as a sort of ambassador. And of course,” the old man added with a slight smile, “I was entrusted with a private message for your grandfather.”

  It took Gignomai a moment to realise who the old man meant. “My…?”

  “Oh yes.” The old man nodded vigorously, so that his earlobes shook. “I’m right, aren’t I? You’re the youngest met’Oc. Let me see—Gignomai. I’ve seen you before, you know,” he added, with a distinct note of affection in his voice, “though of course you wouldn’t have seen me. You were herding pigs in the woods, up there on your mountain top.” Gignomai opened his mouth, then closed it again. The old man laughed. “You don’t notice us coming and going,” he said. “Even your brother, the mighty huntsman. One thing my people do know about is how to keep quiet. It’s considered a great skill.”

  “What was the message?” Furio demanded. Gignomai scowled at him, but he didn’t seem to notice. The old man looked straight at Gignomai when he answered.

  “Naturally I never had an opportunity to read the letter itself,” he said. “However, from what I’d gathered during my time in the met’Alp house, I would assume that Machomai met’Alp was planning on raising a rebellion in the eastern armies, with a view to marching on the capital and staging a coup d’état, and he wanted to enlist your grandfather’s support. Your great-grandfather, you will recall, won his most glorious victories on the eastern frontier, and at the time we’re talking about, a substantial number of men who’d served under him would still have been in the ranks. In any case, I delivered the letter. Your grandfather was most affable to me. We sat and talked for quite some time about city news and the latest plays and books. I have no way of knowing what his reply was. I would assume that nothing ever came of it.”

  “And then you went home,” Gignomai said.

  “Ah yes.” The old man smiled. “I was, of course, utterly desolate. I felt as though I had been stranded among barbarians, with whom I had nothing whatsoever in common. The discomfort, the squalor—” He laughed. “But the young are nothing if not adaptable. I went before the elders of our people and delivered the message the government and the trade guilds had composed.”

  “And?” Furio demanded.

  “Ah.” The old man nodded slowly. “Perhaps I should tell you a little about the way my people view the world. It differs in many respects from your own. When I came home, I found it ridiculous and despicable. Now, I must confess, I have changed my opinion. In fact, were it not for the fact that I know it to be based on at least one false premise, I would accept it wholeheartedly and be a true believer, because, quite honestly, it makes so much more sense than the version I know to be true. You can have no idea how frustrating it’s been.”

  The old man drank a little tea, then went on, “My people, to put it bluntly, don’t believe that your people exist. As we see the world, there are other—realities, I suppose we could call them. Unfortunately, your otherwise excellent language simply doesn’t have the words, and even if it did, it lacks the subtle refinements of syntax and grammar that ours has. I fear I would be unable to give a satisfactory account of what we believe, simply because in order to do so I would need to employ tenses and moods of the verb which your language lacks, and use the neutral definite article followed by the active future participle to convey an abstract which is also a substantive, and in your language that simply can’t be done. To oversimplify dreadfully, however, we believe that your people are merely echoes in time and space of people who are dead, or possibly people who have yet to be born. Not ghosts. Though there are heretics among us who maintain that you are lives who have been dislocated from the cycle of reincarnation. We acknowledge that you are solid, flesh and blood, capable of both active and passive interaction with our reality, but you are not of our time, quite possibly not of our world in any meaningful sense. To this we attribute the fact that when we speak to each other, neither side can understand what the other says—the concept of other languages, you see, isn’t one that my people recognise, since they have been isolated here for so very long.”

  The old man sat perfectly still and quiet for a while, staring into his empty teacup, looking so sad and solemn that Gignomai didn’t quite dare to disturb him. Then he sighed. “To put it bluntly, they didn’t believe me. Their explanation was that I had suffered some kind of spell or enchantment as a consequence of trying to make contact with the—well, with your people—and I had slept for ten years in a cave somewhere. There are precedents in our folklore. I imagine it seemed far more likely than that I had actually spoken with your people and lived among them, been taken away by them on one of their extraordinary ships and visited the place they come
from. I should mention that in the past, known lunatics, mystics and visionaries have made similar claims, though of course that was long before your people arrived here. In any case, they weren’t the slightest bit interested in the message I had been sent to deliver—offers to establish diplomatic relations with a view to establishing trade, furs and pelts for manufactured goods. They were extremely kind to me and sympathetic, but they wouldn’t listen. They tried all manner of remedies to cure me, but whenever I tried to explain, or to engage their interest with fascinating tales of the wonders of the distant land, they seemed so uncomfortable and embarrassed that I quickly gave up. Accordingly, for the last fifty-three years I have pretended that I was indeed mad for a while, but have since made a full recovery. But it’s been hard,” he added, closing his eyes briefly. “I was so terribly afraid I’d forget, you see. And I wouldn’t have been able to bear it; like a particularly beautiful dream, that fades away as you wake up and leaves you in tears. So, when nobody’s near, I talk to myself in your language, just to keep it fresh in my mind. And I have this.”

  From inside his thick felt coat he produced a book. Its cover glistened with grease from the felted wool, and it was tied shut with plaited rawhide. “I must confess,” the old man said, with a wicked grin, “I stole this, from your grandfather’s library, when I went to deliver Machomai’s secret message.” He hesitated, then held it out to Gignomai, who took it and glanced at the spine. The gold leaf had worn away but the impressions of the letters were still just about legible: The Angler’s Oracle Vol XIV. Gignomai laughed.

  “So that’s where it got to,” he said. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wondered about that. We’ve got all the other volumes, but there’s a space on the shelf. Not that anybody’s ever read it, as far as I know.”

  The old man looked at him gravely. “I have read a page of that book every day for fifty-three years,” he said, “just to remind myself what words look like. I won’t pretend,” he went on, “that its content has been much use to me. It consists of a detailed analysis and comparison of the various types of fly-fishing rod offered for sale by the seven principal makers in the capital a hundred years ago. I can recite most of it by heart. Indeed, I have in fact done so, at times of great trial and stress. My children believe I become delirious and gabble nonsense. They make me drink herb tea and inhale the steam of special infusions to clear my head. But I carry on reciting quietly under the blanket.”

  Gignomai gave him back the book. He tucked it away in his coat with the dexterity of long practice.

  “You mustn’t feel sorry for me,” the old man said. “I have eight sons and fifteen grandsons, and our flock is as good as any in the Commonwealth. I am a very old man by our standards; they attribute my great age and ridiculously good health to my having been touched by the supernatural, for which reason they treat me with great respect. And I have made all of them promise that on the day when representatives of your people approach us, appearing to seek to make contact, they would bring such representatives straight to me—as they have done, I’m delighted to say. And that,” he added, sitting up straight and clapping his soft hands together, “is all I have to say about myself, and thank you for listening so patiently. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Furio looked at Gignomai, whose eyes were fixed on the old man. Gignomai said, “How much do you know about me?”

  The old man smiled. “Very little,” he said. “I know that your eldest brother runs the estate, and your brother Lusomai has responsibility for its defence; your father pursues his scholarly interests. You are, if I may be frank, at something of a loose end. I gather that you have left home, and I imagine you have some project in mind for providing yourself with a suitable occupation. That is what I’d expect from a son of the met’Oc.”

  Gignomai laughed. “You’re not far wrong,” he said. “I want to ask permission to build a factory, here on your people’s land.”

  The old man looked at him in silence for what seemed like a very long time. Then he said, “Permission. Yes, I suppose that’s the way you would go about it. It would be in accordance with the proper construction of the duties and privileges of a guest. I apologise for being surprised. I should have had faith in the sensibilities of a true gentleman.”

  Gignomai waited for a moment, then asked, “Does that mean yes?”

  The old man smiled. “If it were up to me to decide, then of course it would. But you see, I have no—authority.” He’d had to search his mind for the word. “I’m not in charge here. Nobody is. I’m afraid we have no chieftains or leaders, or laws for that matter. We’ve never seemed to feel the need, which I guess goes to show how primitive we are.”

  Furio said, “You mentioned a council of elders.”

  The old man shook his head. He was still looking at Gignomai, as though Furio wasn’t there, or was too insignificant to matter. “When we have a problem we can’t immediately deal with, the old men come together to discuss it and offer their advice. Nobody’s obliged to take it if they don’t want to. But they generally do, because it’s usually good advice. What I mean is, you can’t ask permission because none of us can give it. And besides, they wouldn’t understand you, and if I offered to translate they’d make me a strong pot of herb tea and suggest I lie down for a while. No, I am greatly impressed by your courtesy and honoured that you chose me to ask, but what you suggest simply can’t be done.”

  Gignomai’s eyes widened. “I can’t build a factory.”

  The old man looked deeply distressed. “I do apologise, I’ve expressed myself badly. Of course you can build your factory—later you must explain to me why you want to, I’m sure it’ll be fascinating—simply because none of us will make any attempt to stop you. I imagine we’ll ignore you completely and give you and all your works as wide a berth as possible. What you can’t do is ask our permission. Nor can your courtesy in asking be properly acknowledged, for which I am truly sorry, since it represents a grave discourtesy on our part. I hope you will bear in mind what I have told you, and forgive us.”

  Gignomai leaned forward. “You’re sure about that,” he said. “They won’t mind. I mean, they won’t try and stop us.”

  “I can guarantee it,” the old man said. “It wouldn’t ever occur to them to try.”

  Furio said, “But we’d be stealing your land.”

  The old man frowned slightly, as though Furio’s voice was an unworthy thought inside his own head which he regretted. “I don’t think my people would understand the concept of stealing land,” he said. “It’d be as fanciful to them as stealing the sky. We hold that you can’t own anything that four strong men can’t lift. That’s our tradition, at any rate, it’s not a law. Besides, what use would anything that heavy be to anybody?”

  “He’s a snob,” Furio said.

  They hadn’t spoken much on the walk back. Gignomai had been lost in thought, and Furio had been seriously annoyed about something, though he hadn’t been sure what. The answer only came to him as they climbed over the post and rail fence that marked the boundary of the Palo farm, second in from the edge.

  “Yes, he is,” Gignomai said, with a mild grin.

  “You think it’s funny.”

  “Well, yes.” Gignomai stopped to get a stone of out his boot. “I guess the incongruity—”

  “He hardly said a word to me. He acted as though I wasn’t there. Just because you’re a bloody aristocrat—”

  “Be fair,” Gignomai said mildly. “The poor man’s been away from his own kind for fifty years.”

  “They weren’t his own kind,” Furio replied angrily. “His own kind were all around him, milking goats.”

  “As far as he’s concerned, I’m his kind,” Gignomai said. “In his mind, he’s some sort of poor relation of the met’Alp who got shipwrecked on a lonely island populated by savages.”

  “He’s a savage.”

  Gignomai shrugged. “I don’t think so. In fact, none of them are. It’s just a word we use so we don’t have to bot
her trying to understand strangers.”

  Furio didn’t answer. When Furio let an argument go by default, it was usually a sign that he’d taken offence. Really, Gignomai told himself, I ought to deal with that before it turns into a problem. But he couldn’t summon up the necessary energy.

  “Short cut,” Furio said (they were the first words he’d spoken for some time). “If we follow this track down into the combe, we can cross the Blackwater and save having to cross the moor to the ford.”

  Furio’s short cuts were legendary in his family, but Gignomai decided to agree on diplomatic grounds. “Good idea,” he said, and followed. It was a steep, awkward descent, and he didn’t complain.

  “Looks like you can build your factory, at any rate,” Furio said, when they finally made it to the bottom. “That’s if you believe all that stuff he told us.”

  “It sounded plausible enough,” Gignomai said. “He had no reason to lie to us.”

  Furio went quiet again after that, and then his short cut went bad, and they were too preoccupied with finding out where they were to do any more politics. It was only when they were finally back on the road they’d left earlier that Gignomai said, “You don’t think it could be true, do you?”

  “Think what’s true?”

  “What the old man said,” Gignomai replied, wondering why on earth he’d asked the question, but he hadn’t been able to help it. “About—well, about his lot living in a different world, our past or their future or whatever it was.”

  Furio was in front of him, so he couldn’t see his face. “Load of rubbish,” Furio said. “Well, obviously.”

  “I guess so,” Gignomai replied. “The way he meant it, at least.”

  “Look, can we please stop talking about that crazy old man?” Furio protested loudly. “He’s clearly as mad as a calf in springtime, and obnoxious, bigoted and rude into the bargain. If I’d wanted to be patronised and put in my place, I could’ve stayed home with Teucer and saved myself a walk. Also,” he added, before Gignomai could say anything, “I think I’ve just spotted a serious flaw in your grand plan.”