by David Bell
The keel was turned on its side, and watched carefully by Naudok, the master carpenter and his mate held an oak straight edge, one hand and two fingers wide, level with the bottom. Naudok nodded and a third carpenter drew his chisel along the top of the straight edge leaving a fine cut behind. When they had marked out the whole length of the keel in this way Naudok produced another straight edge three fingers wide, and the carpenters used it to score a line above, and level with, the first. They then did the same to the other side of the keel. As soon as the task was finished and the men were straightening their aching backs, Naudock picked up his straight edges and disappeared into the workshop, not to be seen again that day. The master carpenter wiped the sweat of his face and called for a drink.
“Beer this time,” he said to Namun. “We don’t need such a steady hand for the next job, only plenty of muscle. What do you mean, that glue smells of bad fish? That’s because it’s made from bad fish, and other stuff you don’t need to know about. Keep stirring it and don’t let it go cold. We’re going to need plenty of that.”
When the beer mugs had been emptied the men set to and dragged heavy wooden blocks into a line along the launch way. It took every man present, including the watchmen, to lift the keel and the master carpenter himself hammered the tapered wooden chocks into their holes to hold it steady on the supporting blocks. When he had satisfied himself that it would not move, he spat on his hands, picked up his maul and broad-bladed chisel and began the long and delicate task of filleting the deep groove between the scored marks into which the edge of first hull strake would be mortised and driven. He used a short plank of the right thickness to check the fit, but he knew that no matter how carefully he cut, Naudok would be out there in the evening, checking the angles by touch and working out where the mortice and tenon joints should be sited.
Once when Naudok was examining the day’s work, Namun sat watching him until darkness fell and the stars began to come out. Neither had said a word and Namun began to think Naudok was unaware of him. Then, without stopping what he was doing or looking round, Naudok spoke.
“Can you count?”
“I can count the number of people working here, then I run out of fingers and toes.”
“I know how many stars are up there.”
“Have you counted them?”
“I don’t have to count them. I know. I could count them but it would take too long.”
“There’s a chariot up there among the stars, somebody told me.”
“Sailors have a star to steer by but no ship in the sky.”
“Ships belong on the sea.”
“I don’t like the sea. It makes me sick.”
When the grooves in the keel were finished and clean and sharp-edged enough for Naudok to accept them, Sharesh thought the shipwrights would start fitting the first strakes but he was mistaken. They began working on the ends of the keel instead. They brought a long post, as wide as the keel and with a slight curve to it, and sawed it across its base at the same angle they sawed the upper surface of the keel end. The master shipwright then spent one whole hot day cutting a mortice in the keel top and a tenon in the post. The following day some of Namun’s stinking glue was ladled into the mortice and the two timbers were joined. The fit was so snug that the post had to be hammered in with a betel, bit by bit with sloping surfaces, until the join was as fine as a hair. Everyone stood back and looked at what was going to be the stem of the ship.
“Look at the rake on it,” said Typhis.
If they get as good a stern post on her, with that curved rake to the bow she’ll have the best lines of any ship I’ve seen, thought Potyr. What he said was, “Should help keep her dry.”
“We’re leaving that stud on the keel end and smoothing it round,” said the master shipwright. “Naudok says it cuts through the water better like that, like a dolphin’s nose, he says. Then all we have to do is wait and see what he thinks. He’s bound to go on about getting the dowels true into those joints. That reminds me, lad, you can lick that dribble of glue off the join if you like. It’ll do for your supper.”
The sternpost was fitted next, using a similar joint, but to Potyr’s surprise although it curved at first from the keel it then rose upright. Leilia looked out of the window one night when the moon was bright and thought for a moment that a giant carving of the sacred horns had been placed on the launching pathway.
***
Summer had come early that year and there were days when hot winds blew onshore. A rumour went round that the Lady Mother was displeased because a Taphian had become Victor of the Games. Sharesh was puzzled by this and asked Leilia what she thought.
She answered, “Is she not also Lady Mother to the Taphians, even if they know her by another name?”
Kanesh said, “From what I saw it was a contest between the bull and the leaper. I saw no other take part in it.”
The pale yellow flowers of the olive trees had bloomed too briefly in the premature heat and the bees had had too short a time to collect what little honey there had been. Grass had a russet tinge matching the dry soil. Scrub-covered hillsides that should have been green were turning ember red, the colour of autumn. The heady scents of wild thyme and sage filled the heavy air. The sea was a deep blue sash wrapped around a shore where the leaves of the tamarisk rustled drily as the wild goats reached up, searching for food because the blue vetch they liked had wilted and died. Work at the shipyard slowed in the heat of the day. Left out in the sun, bronze tools became too hot to touch and had to be kept in a tub of water. Naudok rejected one entire batch of cedar and half of another bought for decking, saying it had been cut at the wrong time of the year and was too sappy. Work could continue in fitting the strakes, but unless better timber could be brought in quickly, the launch would be delayed, perhaps even into the next year. As if that were not enough, word began to spread that if rain did not come soon, the harvest would be meagre and the Palace granaries and magazines would have to start releasing grain and oil, and everyone knew what the cost of that would be. Leilia said to Kanesh that at such a time the High Priestess might offer special prayers and sacrifice to the Lady Mother for rain. Not wishing to offend her, Kanesh kept his thoughts to himself, but for him the logic was clear: poor harvest meant more profit for the Palace from its sale of foodstuffs from the magazines. On the other hand, a good harvest meant a contented people and full magazines. How should the High Priestess pray?
Late one sultry afternoon three mounted archers rode into the shipyard, one of them leading a riderless horse by a cord fixed to its bridle. The Captain of Archers jumped down from his horse and began slapping clouds of red dust from his tunic as he walked towards the workshop. Kanesh called to Sharesh to bring water for the men and the horses.
“Lord Sekara presents his compliments and requests your presence in his quarters.”
“At what time?”
“Soon as you can, sir. We have a mount for you.”
“Am I to be given the reason for this request?”
“I don’t have that information, sir, but Lord Sekara advises you to bring attire suitable for the Presence. My men can strap a saddlebag on your mount. And your sword, sir, don’t forget that.”
“Thank you, Captain. War bows and full quivers and swords, too, I see.”
“Can’t be too careful sometimes, sir.”
Sekara’s orderly, Ektan, had brushed and straightened the red tunic and was polishing the boots, when Kanesh came in from the bath.
“Saw you at the leaping, sir, but you didn’t see me.”
“I am sorry for that, master Ektan.”
“You were a bit, well, busy, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir.”
“Not too busy, I hope?”
“No, sir; you did right. You paid honour where it was due, and you took a big risk and saved a man’s life. Somebody once did that for me: took a big risk, and saved my life. That was at Gaiduros. I haven’t forgotten that.”
“Gaiduros was a long time
ago, master Ektan.”
“You may be right, sir, but from what I hear, and I haven’t been listening in on Lord Sekara’s meetings, there’s signs that they’re at it again. Two ships lost this year, I hear.”
“Well, if we, if it has to be done again, I hope you will be ready?”
“I’d be there, never fear. If they’d have me, sir.”
“Let me ask you this: the new Victor of the Games; what do you think of him?”
“Best leaper won, sir. Nothing else matters.”
“Not even if he was a Taphian?”
“We had Taphians with us at Gaiduros, sir. Mustn’t forget that. Right, that’s finished. There you are, sir, see your face in that boot now.”
On his way out Ektan paused in the doorway. “There is one thing, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, but what with the Taphian winning and you, well, being busy at the Games, there’s a feeling in some quarters, if you take my meaning. Pays to be careful, sir.”
“Wise words, master Ektan. I was given an armed escort tonight.”
There was no cloaked figure to receive or guide him through the painted halls. Perhaps it was the well-remembered perfume that led him to the door at the top of the staircase. It was open. Tonight her flounced silk gown was blue and edged with gold. The silver crescent gleamed at her throat. She regarded him for a long time, exploring his face, then she gestured to a gilded chair set close to the brazier. She came forward with a goblet in her hand. He took it and drank. It was the same sweet, spiced philtre. A second goblet stood untouched on the table next to his chair. He watched her walk slowly to the window and look out. She moved with all the swaying grace of a dancer. He waited for her to speak.
“Discontent, Lord Kanesh; how does it begin and where does it end? The seasons are awry. The summer comes too early and too fiercely. The clouds shun us and pour down their rain elsewhere. The grasses and the crops begin to wilt; pools and streams dry to mud and rocks and the people fear for the harvest. They feel discontent and look for a cause: it must be that the Lady Mother of the Clouds and Waters is discontented, perhaps with the people, perhaps some other. Whoever it may be, the people think their suffering comes from her discontent. They feel slighted by events: an unexpected outcome to the Games; an intervention honouring bravery which they deem a threat; a mysterious weapon brandished to save is seen by some as arrogance. From discontent grows disorder and that should concern us all, and all our endeavours, do you not think so, Lord Kanesh?”
Kanesh was silent.
“The Lady Mother’s discontent must be appeased.”
“There was no sign of divine discontent at the Games, no shaking of the Palace walls when the bull was led to sacrifice this time.”
“Her discontent manifests itself in different ways. You are mistaken: there were signs at the Games.”
“You have counsellors. What do these readers of signs advise?”
“Prayers and sacrifices. There are words and offerings prescribed for this. But they were blind to the signs. I read them differently. I saw that the Lady Mother favoured you. The shaft of sunlight cast on your upraised sword was her sign of that. You have Her favour and it is you who now must advise.”
She turned and looked towards him. A faint movement of the air fanned the glowing coals in the brazier and set small flames dancing. The blue and gold of her gown glowed in their light but her face remained in shadow. Kanesh rose from his chair with the goblet in his hand.
“Madam, will you drink, too?”
They stood close, looking deep into each other’s eyes. Her face was inscrutable but her eyes, were they challenging, calculating, pleading? And his, were they sceptical, amused, shrewd? She was thinking he does not believe; no matter, he sees the issue for what it is. Kanesh was thinking she has belief – and an admirable way of applying it. Her eyes now held enquiry.
“Madam, our beliefs may differ but we have a common interest in addressing this difficulty. Here is what I suggest. Let it be known to the people that in every sacred place, be it palace, cave or hilltop, prayers and offerings will be made in a plea for rain and that the people must add their own devotions in their household shrines. Let them see you standing in your sanctuary in your richest robes with your arms outstretched in reverent supplication towards the mountain Jaduktas. When the moon is high would be the most suitable time. Offer a solemn sacrifice which all may attend in the Great Courtyard, and be sure to choose a pure white bull. Let the people dip their rags in its blood. Spread a feeling of guilt acknowledged and atonement promised. Do not stint on solemnity. And, most important of all, ensure that the people understand that the Palace is pleading for them, and not itself, in these rites of propitiation.”
“Is there more?”
“Practical matters, madam. The cisterns at Setujia are full and the springs will run freely for long enough because of the great snows in the past winter that now feed them. The Palace must increase the flow of water into its own tanks and allow the people to fill their jars and buckets. Widen the channel and build new tanks if necessary. The Palace has workmen skilled enough for that. Send out the gifted men with their wands to search for places to dig and release new springs. Sound horns at dawn and sunset. Set the girls in their skirts of greenery dancing through the streets while the pipes and drums play and the people sprinkle water on them. Let everyone see and hear that something is being done. And have me taken to the houses of the oldest men and women, especially the women because their memories last the longest. I need to know when such a drought has happened in the past, what led up to it and how long it lasted.”
“There now, Lord Kanesh, we are not so different, you and I. All that you have said should be done shall be done.”
“Even so, madam, there will be worse to come before we can hope for relief.”
The horns sounded every dawn and sunset and the girls danced in the dusty streets. Lines of people carried their buckets and jars up to the Palace tanks. Kanesh listened patiently to stories of hard times long ago.
“What was that she said?” he asked the blind old woman’s granddaughter.
“Something about the time my father was born. It was so hot she thought she would die and there was nothing to drink. She had no milk for him and there was no honey to give him because the flowers had died, even the olive flowers.”
“Evidently she did not die, nor did your father. What kept them alive? Ask her.”
“I think she says there was a black cloud and a big wind came over the mountain blowing birds with it and the men caught some, so they could eat them and drink the blood.”
“Blood does not slake thirst. Something else happened. Ask her again, before she falls asleep.”
“She says the stars fell and it rained, on the fields, on her head, everywhere. Look, she’s smiling.”
“Can she remember how long after the baby was born did the rain fall?”
“She’s tired. She mixes things up. The cord? That’s it: the baby’s birth cord. It rained the day the last bit came off.”
“Thank you. A flask of sweet wine cooled in snow from the mountains will be brought to your grandmother from the Palace.”
“Usually about a moon,” said Leilia in answer to Kanesh’s question. “But not all babies are the same.”
“At least we have some idea. Keep watch on the mountain.”
Word began to spread in the streets and taverns and fields that the Lady Mother had heard the prayers of the Palace and that she would send a black wind carrying rain over the mountain and the earth would grow green again. And to anyone who asked the question when, the answer was given. Soon, keep faith.
It was too hot to sit by the fire. They stood up to their necks in the dark water of the bay. “Why don’t they ask Naudok? If he knows how many stars there are in the sky he might know how long it will be before it rains again. After all, rain comes out of the sky, maybe from the stars.”
“You ask him, then, or get Leilia to do it.”
Namun wad
ed ashore and found Naudok making his usual examination of the work done that day on the ship. Two complete strakes had now been fitted on each side. They were three fingers thick, fourteen wide at the broadest part of the ship, and tapering towards stem and stern. Each was made from planks of different lengths, up to three paces long near the beam, scarfed together. The bottom edge of the upper strake was tapered to fit tightly into a corresponding groove in the top edge of the strake below. Naudok was feeling the joints for smoothness and marking where locking tenons would be set. Namun asked him simply when it would rain.
“When the wood tells me,” was all the reply he got.
Sharesk woke to the sound of someone sneezing on the deck above. Something felt different, and smelled different: hot and dusty but somehow dank as well. It made his head throb. He stumbled out of the hold and found himself in a yellow mist. He could just make out the figure of Namun standing on the deck, still sneezing. Remembering what Kakelus had told him about the poisonous air of the furnace, he picked up some rags, wrapped one over his nose and mouth and climbed up on deck. Namun turned to him with a mystified look on his face as if he half remembered something yet could not quite believe it.
“Here, wrap this round your face,” mumbled Sharesh through his own mask. “What is it, what’s happening?”
“Deshret,” whispered Namun. “Sutekh has sent the dust of the Deshret to choke us.”
“The workshop; the water jars: we have to get inside and soak these rags and then we can breathe.”
They jumped off the ship and ran along the jetty leaving a trail of footprints in the layer of yellow powder that covered every surface. Other dim shapes were heading in the same direction and soon almost everyone, Dolphin’s crew, carpenters, shipwrights and watchmen, were crowded in the workshop where windows closed by Leilia had kept the air a little clearer and it was easier to breathe. No one had seen such a thing before. The men talked in hushed, anxious voices, some calling it devils’ dust, others that it was further punishment from the Lady Mother.