The Luck of Brin's Five (10 page)

The Great Elder sat in his chair, still and brooding, with his hands lightly clenched upon the wings. I was convinced that I saw him now, once for all,
as he was
. He was fixed in my mind forever as cold, watchful, cruel, immensely powerful . . . silent among the jangling throng of courtiers, who went in continual fear of his presence. Then we were past the black barge, churning our way into darkness, with Mamor and Diver heaving up the sail.

Brin stood on deck, and I clung to her. “Yadorn,” I whispered. “Did you see him?”

“I saw.”

A soft wind thrust at the sail. My eyes were accustomed to the night again, and the great barge at Wellin wharf was, by now, a glow of light astern. I saw that all of us were on deck, even Old Gwin, muttering a continuous chant and Narneen with her teeth chattering. We had all come out and were standing close together, under the stars, in some sort of defiance.

Mamor said: “Far enough?”

“Fine,” said Diver. He was working with a lightstick on the deck of the barge. “What do you think, Brin?” he asked.

“Worth the risk!” growled Mamor. “That three-eyed devil!”

“Do it!” said Brin. “Dorn? Where is the death-pact skein?”

“Diver has it.” I was still mystified.

Harper Roy, at the tiller, sent a breathy whisper. “Where's your star-gun, Diver?”

Diver drew out the skein, and I saw him wind it round a pointed tube, fitted to the firing end of his weapon . . . he called it a stun-gun. Then he went aft and balanced on the rail, aiming high into the air. There was a light thump, a pulse beat or so, and suddenly the air far behind us was filled with green fire. A green star, brighter than any light I had ever seen, brighter than Esto, the Great Sun itself, blossomed in the dark air above, directly over the black barge. We heard the shrieks and cries of the Elder's people. We saw, or hoped we saw, the death pact skein falling down like smoke, carrying the ancients' curse to the very lap of Tiath Gargan.

We sailed on into the reach and saw that this part of the river was dotted with fishing boats. Diver kept a close watch astern, but there was no pursuit. How could there be? No one on the river besides ourselves had the least idea of how this green star came about. Even Old Gwin, who saw Diver fire the flare, but was ignorant of our plan, had difficulty in grasping the notion. The Great Elder and his armed vassals knew about missiles—arrows, spears and catapults that hurled stones. They knew more than the old threads allowed about fire—flaming arrows and the terrible firestone clingers that assassins hurl from a metal cup. But Diver's stun-gun and the flare rocket were far beyond their knowledge.

They saw what we all saw and what was seen and wondered at by all the people of the river: a green star fell from heaven over the Great Elder's barge. We heard it from the fishing boats, minutes after the flare, and we heard it again, exaggerated, at Whiterock and all the way to Otolor. Tiath Pentroy had drawn down the wrath of Eenath, his immortal ancestor, for killing her spirit-warriors.

So we sailed on unharmed and came in at dawn to tie up at Whiterock Fold. An ancient shepherd came down to greet the blue barge, expecting Beeth Ulgan or her factors. We were escorted to her fixed house near the landing; our time on the river was over.

V

There are plenty of jokes about rough bush weavers moving into a fixed house, and I dare say we could have been the models for them all, at Whiterock. If it wasn't the cold, the cooking hearth, the earth closet or the cupboard locks, then we were complaining about the stuffiness and the way the walls did not give. We adapted pretty quickly, and the Ulgan's small white house became dear and familiar to us. But there were nights, as spring approached, when we couldn't stand it another moment and slept in our bags on the lawn or on the flat roof, under the stars.

Whiterock Fold, never more than a stopping place, was almost deserted. There were seven shepherds—one family, with two grown children as outclips—tending the fold itself, a mile away behind the outcrop of rock that gave the place its name. Half the hundred wool-deer belonged to Beeth Ulgan, the rest were divided among the shepherds and a town grandee from Wellin. Come spring they would be shorn and turned into the wider pastures round the rock, where they already grazed on fine days. The wool would be shipped up and down the river, some back to Cullin, some down to Otolor Spring Fair. Beeth had promised us a first-class bale in payment for our new work left at Stone Brook.

When our work was done, or when the weather was so bright we could persuade the grown-ups to set us free, Narneen and I explored the glebe of the Ulgan's house. Eventually we grew bolder and crossed the grazing lawns to scramble on the tall rock and look down on the shepherd's fold. There was no need for Diver to hide . . . although he could have: the fixed house was full of deep cupboards in the curtain walls, as well as a cellar underground. He walked free and went on fishing trips with Mamor in a wicker crossing-boat from the landing. On one of these journeys they learned from a shepherd that the barge bearing the air ship had passed Whiterock a full five days ahead of us. It met with the Great Elder's barge, coming down from Otolor, and Tiath Gargan had gone aboard in midstream to examine the cargo. There was no shortage of gossip up and down the river. The shepherd even volunteered her own idea of what might be on the barge under the covers: a great hoard of silver treasure, fallen from heaven.

Diver was restless, but he was in a land that was all new, and every day he found new things to interest him. He made a folder of dried leaves and plant drawings; he collected rocks. Ten days, fifteen passed, and the suns moved ever closer, to mark the year's end. The weather was so fine that it brought the sunners out onto the rocks; the early-eyes and red-bells were opening. In the air and on the river, the bright two-sun days brought out the “deedeenar” or “flitterlings.” One or two small pleasure boats with painted sails flittered past on the Troon; and one day, as Diver sat with us on the rock he gave a cry. The first balloon of springtime went past overhead, and not far behind it was a glider.

It was a fine sight: Narneen and I loved flying machines and looked for these flitterlings or spring visitors every year.

“Grandees?” asked Diver. He had moved into the shadow of a boulder and drawn out his spyglass.

“That's right,” I said. “No one else has the time or the credits. Well, maybe one or two rich townees.” I tried to explain about the air currents and the air races, the landing platforms and the catapults in Rintoul, Otolor and the Fire-Town. And the greatest race of all, the Bird Clan at Otolor.

Narneen broke in, “We see them better here. At Cullin they land on the fairground, and on Hingstull they fall, poor dears, if the wind is wrong!”

It was true. On the mountain we got too many unskillful flitterlings who dashed their expensive craft, and sometimes themselves, all to pieces. Diver handed me the glass, and as I trained it on the flame and silver balloon, he laughed to himself and hummed one of his tunes.

There was something brave and comical about the party of grandees in the basket. They wore furs, because it was chilly, and seemed to be eating and drinking enormously. And one—I gave a yelp of laughter—a personage in a green cloak was looking back at us on the rock with another spyglass. Diver looked again, and Narneen took a peep. We could not stop laughing; we rolled about on the rock while Diver took back his glass and examined the glider, bearing away to the other side of the river. Then he sang us his song of the flying machines, and I gave him the first words, “Ototo Deedeenar . . . Great, great flitterlings . . .”

We lay on the rock hoping for more machines, but none came and we went back to the house, laughing and adding pieces to our song.

Diver could not hide his excitement.

“We told you,” said Brin, after supper. “Did you think those were hill yarns?”

Diver shook his head and laughed; he was rather shame-faced. “The flying is more advanced than I expected.” We sat in comfort in the midst of Beeth Ulgan's house, on cushions and our own mats laid down. When I saw our hangings on the white walls and looked round at the familiar faces, I could hardly believe that we had become so grand . . . like city-dwellers.

Diver asked about the use of gliders and balloons. Mamor chimed in; he had flown in a glider. Some distant sib of his Five had been a glider pilot, who carried messages and passengers about in the Fire-Town.

“There is the difference between Tsagul and the rest of the world,” said Brin. “Flying is a sport for the rich everywhere else. In the Fire-Town it is put to hard use.”

“Ah . . .” said Harper Roy, who was quiet and thoughtful this night. “Many others would fly if they could. Remember Antho the Bird Farmer.”

“Remind us,” said Mamor. “Diver has not heard the story.” So Roy took his harp and accompanied his tale, half-sung and half-told, in the manner that is called “mantothan.” I cannot set it down as he delivered it, but the story is a simple one:

“Antho the Bird Farmer was not a clansman; he lived on the outskirts of Rintoul where there are bird farms and market gardens to serve the needs of the great city. He followed the old threads, but he suffered a great loss . . . his Five and their children all were killed in an accident on the river, and Antho, who had been proud and rich, was left alone. He became mad, so it was said, with his solitude. One day he set free all his caged birds, even the scratching fowl who cannot fly, and wandered into the wilderness.

There the winds took pity on him and blessed him with the power of flight. He made a marvellous craft from bentwood and a bolt of silk he found floating down the Datse. It was launched from the roof of a ruined temple, with the aid of two hermits, male and female, who lived in the desert. Then Antho caught every current of air and flew better than the grandees. His glider took him home again and was a wonder to behold. No other craft could match it, and the design was widely copied. In the end Antho flew away on another of his journeys and did not return. It was said that the winds had taken him.”

We applauded when the tale was done, and the Harper repeated his last notes . . . Antho flying into the setting of the suns.

“Is this tale very old?” asked Diver.

“By no means,” said the Harper. “Antho has been gone no more than twenty springs.”

“He could be still alive!” I cried. “An ancient—”

The grown-ups all laughed.

“Hush child,” said Gwin, “you heard the Harper. The winds took him.”

“I wonder?” said Brin. “Who is this liege of Beeth Ulgan's . . . the Maker of Engines.”

It was past the time for our best sleep, and we were folding our clothes into their bags, ready to crawl into our own.

The Harper sighed and hung up his beautiful harp upon the white wall. “Diver,” he said, “I have been talking with the shepherds . . . Varb's Five.”

“What do they say?” asked Diver.

“Last spring there were grandees at Whiterock. They left behind a treasure that none could put to use.”

“A treasure?” I asked.

“Their glider came down about half a mile north east of the rock,” grinned Roy. “It lies there yet, covered with hides and branches.”

“A glider!” Diver's eyes were shining with excitement. We knew why the Harper had been unwilling to tell about this treasure.

“We must look at it tomorrow!” said Diver.

“Will you . . . will we all go flying?” asked Narneen. Diver looked at us, sensing the tension.

“If your Luck can fly,” he said, “then so can you all.” It made me sleep easier.

When I woke up, in brightish Esder light, before the Great Sun rose, the Harper and Diver had already gone. I ran up onto the roof, struggling with my tunic, and caught sight of them, clear of the glebe, two dark figures striding across the grazing fields. They passed into the shadow of the tall rock. I dared not go back down the ladder for fear of waking the others. They would soon be stirring anyway, it was only the darkness of the fixed house that kept them asleep. I looked over the edge of the roof and found more handholds than there were on Hingstull. Down I went, by rain pipe, window edge, and a tree branch. I ran through the glebe and across the grass in the flat light of Esder, overhead. It was a near thing, but I glimpsed Diver and Roy passing into a grove of trees off to the northeast, away from the fold. The wool-deer thumped and chirruped in their stockades; I thought I heard Varb's Five stirring in their tent.

I could have run on and caught up; but instead, out of mischief, or shyness, or because I wanted to go back to the fixed house for breakfast, I decided just to watch. I turned back and climbed the white rock. It made a comfortable vantage point. There was soft grass growing in the hollows of the rock, young flax plants and berry vines, thick with buds and flowers, the promise of summer fruit. I settled in a warm hollow, closed on three sides with boulders, like a room in the top of a tower.

Diver and Roy were walking through open country now; all that lay before them was a fallen tree with some kind of lean-to against it. The glider must be there. The morning was so still that I could hear the sound of their voices, as they came up to the lean-to and began stripping away hides and dead bushes. Off towards the riverbank a wind flattened a clump of tall reeds, snaked through a patch of scrub, made a clump of trees and their shadows waver. But there is no wind, a voice whispered inside my head. “Look child, there is no wind.”

What then? I whispered in thought, scanning the clump of trees. There, yes, I see now. A watcher. Only one? I cannot be sure . . . there . . . now it is clear. The Great Sun, rising to meet Esder, sent long, golden fingers of light across the land to the east. My eyes were fixed on the spy, the stranger, crouched in bushes, only fifty paces from Diver and Roy as they cheerfully uncovered the glider and walked around it.