The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories (28 page)

On Penolpan Covill’s duties were more of a technical than sociological nature, and even so, in line with the Bureau’s policy of leaving well-balanced cultures undisturbed, there was little to occupy him. He imported silica yarn to replace the root fiber from which the Mi-Tuun wove their nets; he built a small cracking plant and converted the fish oil they burned in their lamps into a lighter cleaner fluid. The varnished paper of Penolpan’s houses had a tendency to absorb moisture and split after a few months of service. Covill brought in a plastic varnish which protected them indefinitely. Aside from these minor innovations Covill did little. The Bureau’s policy was to improve the native standard of living within the framework of its own culture, introducing Earth methods, ideas, philosophy very gradually and only when the natives themselves felt the need.

Before long, however, Thomm came to feel that Covill paid only lip-service to the Bureau philosophy. Some of his actions seemed dense and arbitrary to the well-indoctrinated Thomm. He built an Earth-style office on Penolpan’s main canal, and the concrete and glass made an inexcusable jar against Penolpan’s mellow ivories and browns. He kept strict office hours and on a dozen occasions a delegation of Mi-Tuun, arriving in ceremonial regalia, had to be turned away with stammered excuses by Thomm, when in truth Covill, disliking the crispness of his linen suit, had stripped to the waist and was slumped in a wicker chair with a cigar, a quart of beer, watching girl-shows on his telescreen.

Thomm was assigned to Pest Control, a duty Covill considered beneath his dignity. On one of his rounds Thomm first heard mentioned the Potters of Firsk.

Laden with insect spray, with rat-poison cartridges dangling from his belt, he had wandered into the poorest outskirts of Penolpan, where the trees ended and the dry plain stretched out to the Kukmank Mountains. In this relatively drab location he came upon a long open shed, a pottery bazaar. Shelves and tables held ware of every description, from stoneware crocks for pickling fish to tiny vases thin as paper, lucent as milk. Here were plates large and small, bowls of every size and shape, no two alike, ewers, tureens, demijohns, tankards. One rack held earthenware knives, the clay vitrified till it rang like iron, the cutting edge chipped cleanly, sharper than any razor, from a thick dripping of glaze.

Thomm was astounded by the colors. Rare rich ruby, the green of flowing river water, turquoise ten times deeper than the sky. He saw metallic purples, browns shot with blond light, pinks, violets, grays, dappled russets, blues of copper and cobalt, the odd streaks and flows of rutilated glass. Certain glazes bloomed with crystals like snowflakes, others held floating within them tiny spangles of metal.

Thomm was delighted with his find. Here was beauty of form, of material, of craftsmanship. The sound body, sturdy with natural earthy strength given to wood and clay, the melts of colored glass, the quick restless curves of the vases, the capacity of the bowls, the expanse of the plates—they produced a tremendous enthusiasm in Thomm. And yet—there were puzzling aspects to the bazaar. First—he looked up and down the shelves—something was lacking. In the many-colored display he missed—yellow. There were no yellow glazes of any sort. A cream, a straw, an amber—but no full-bodied glowing yellow.

Perhaps the potters avoided the color through superstition, Thomm speculated, or perhaps because of identification with royalty, like the ancient Chinese of Earth, or perhaps because of association with death or disease—The train of thought led to the second puzzle: Who were the potters? There were no kilns in Penolpan to fire ware such as this.

He approached the clerk, a girl just short of maturity, who had been given an exquisite loveliness. She wore the
pareu
of the Mi-Tuun, a flowered sash about the waist, and reed sandals. Her skin glowed like one of the amber glazes at her back; she was slender, quiet, friendly.

“This is all very beautiful,” said Thomm. “For instance, what is the price of this?” He touched a tall flagon glazed a light green, streaked and shot with silver threads.

The price she mentioned, in spite of the beauty of the piece, was higher than what he had expected. Observing his surprise, the girl said, “They are our ancestors, and to sell them as cheaply as wood or glass would be irreverent.”

Thomm raised his eyebrows, and decided to ignore what he considered a ceremonial personification.

“Where’s the pottery made?” he asked. “In Penolpan?”

The girl hesitated and Thomm felt a sudden shade of restraint. She turned her head, looked out toward the Kukmank Range. “Back in the hills are the kilns; out there our ancestors go, and the pots are brought back. Aside from this I know nothing.”

Thomm said carefully, “Do you prefer not to talk of it?”

She shrugged. “Indeed, there’s no reason why I should. Except that we Mi-Tuun fear the Potters, and the thought of them oppresses us.”

“But why is that?”

She grimaced. “No one knows what lies beyond the first hill. Sometimes we see the glow of furnaces, and then sometimes when there are no dead for the Potters they take the living.”

Thomm thought that if so, here was a case for the interference of the Bureau, even to the extent of armed force.

“Who are these Potters?”

“There,” she said, and pointed. “There is a Potter.”

Following her finger, he saw a man riding out along the plain. He was taller, heavier than the Mi-Tuun. Thomm could not see him distinctly, wrapped as he was in a long gray burnoose, but he appeared to have a pale skin and reddish-brown hair. He noted the bulging panniers on the pack-beast. “What’s he taking with him now?”

“Fish, paper, cloth, oil—goods he traded his pottery for.”

Thomm picked up his pest-killing equipment. “I think I’ll visit the Potters one of these days.”

“No—” said the girl.

“Why not?”

“It’s very dangerous. They’re fierce, secretive—”

Thomm smiled. “I’ll be careful.”

Back at the Bureau he found Covill stretched out on a wicker chaise lounge, half-asleep. At the sight of Thomm he roused himself, sat up.

“Where the devil have you been? I told you to get the estimates on that power plant ready today.”

“I put them on your desk,” replied Thomm politely. “If you’ve been out front at all, you couldn’t have missed them.”

Covill eyed him belligerently, but for once found himself at a loss for words. He subsided in his chair with a grunt. As a general rule Thomm paid little heed to Covill’s sharpness, recognizing it as resentment against the main office. Covill felt his abilities deserved greater scope, a more important post.

Thomm sat down, helped himself to a glass of Covill’s beer. “Do you know anything about the potteries back in the mountains?”

Covill grunted: “A tribe of bandits, something of the sort.” He hunched forward, reached for the beer.

“I looked into the pottery bazaar today,” said Thomm. “A clerk called the pots ‘ancestors’. Seemed rather strange.”

“The longer you knock around the planets,” Covill stated, “the stranger things you see. Nothing could surprise me any more—except maybe a transfer to the Main Office.” He snorted bitterly, gulped at his beer. Refreshed, he went on in a less truculent voice, “I’ve heard odds and ends about these Potters, nothing definite, and I’ve never had time to look into ’em. I suppose it’s religious ceremonial, rites of death. They take away the dead bodies, bury ’em for a fee or trade goods.”

“The clerk said that when they don’t get the dead, sometimes they take the living.”

“Eh? What’s that?” Covill’s hard blue eyes stared bright from his red face. Thomm repeated his statement.

Covill scratched his chin, presently hoisted himself to his feet. “Let’s fly out, just for the devilment of it, and see what these Potters are up to. Been wanting to go out a long time.”

Thomm brought the copter out of the hangar, set down in front of the office, and Covill gingerly climbed in. Covill’s sudden energy mystified Thomm, especially since it included a ride in the copter. Covill had an intense dislike of flying, and usually refused to set foot in an aircraft.

The blades sang, grabbed the air, the copter wafted high. Penolpan became a checkerboard of brown roofs and foliage. Thirty miles distant, across a dry sandy plain, rose the Kukmank Range—barren shoulders and thrusts of gray rock. At first sight locating a settlement among the tumble appeared a task of futility.

Covill peering down into the wastes grumbled something to this effect; Thomm, however, pointed toward a column of smoke. “Potters need kilns. Kilns need heat—”

As they approached the smoke, they saw that it issued not from brick stacks but from a fissure at the peak of a conical dome.

“Volcano,” said Covill, with an air of vindication. “Let’s try out there along that ridge—then if there’s nothing we’ll go back.”

Thomm had been peering intently below. “I think we’ve found them right here. Look close, you can see buildings.”

He dropped the copter, and the rows of stone houses became plain.

“Should we land?” Thomm asked dubiously. “They’re supposed to be fairly rough.”

“Certainly, set down,” snapped Covill. “We’re official representatives of the System.”

The fact might mean little to a tribe of mountaineers, reflected Thomm; nevertheless he let the copter drop onto a stony flat place in the center of the village.

The copter, if it had not alarmed the Potters, at least had made them cautious. For several minutes there was no sign of life. The stone cabins stood bleak and vacant as cairns.

Covill alighted, and Thomm, assuring himself that his gamma-gun was in easy reach, followed. Covill stood by the copter, looking up and down the line of houses. “Cagey set of beggars,” he growled. “Well…we better stay here till someone makes a move.”

To this plan Thomm agreed heartily, so they waited in the shadow of the copter. It was clearly the village of the Potters. Shards lay everywhere—brilliant bits of glazed ware glinting like lost jewels. Down the slope rose a heap of broken bisque, evidently meant for later use, and beyond was a long tile-roofed shed. Thomm sought in vain for a kiln. A fissure into the side of the mountain caught his eye, a fissure with a well-worn path leading into it. An intriguing hypothesis formed in his mind—but now three men had appeared, tall and erect in gray burnooses. The hoods were flung back, and they looked like monks of medieval Earth, except that instead of monkish tonsure, fuzzy red hair rose in a peaked mound above their heads.

The leader approached with a determined step, and Thomm stiffened, prepared for anything. Not so Covill; he appeared contemptuously at ease, a lord among serfs.

Ten feet away the leader halted—a man taller than Thomm with a hook nose, hard intelligent eyes like gray pebbles. He waited an instant but Covill only watched him. At last the Potter spoke in a courteous tone.

“What brings strangers to the village of the Potters?”

“I’m Covill, of the Planetary Affairs Bureau in Penolpan, official representative of the System. This is merely a routine visit, to see how things are going with you.”

“We make no complaints,” replied the chief.

“I’ve heard reports of you Potters kidnaping Mi-Tuun,” said Covill. “Is there any truth in that?”

“Kidnaping?” mused the chief. “What is that?”

Covill explained. The chief rubbed his chin, staring at Covill with eyes black as water.

“There is an ancient agreement,” said the chief at last. “The Potters are granted the bodies of the dead; and occasionally when the need is great, we do anticipate nature by a year or two. But what matter? The soul lives forever in the pot it beautifies.”

Covill brought out his pipe, and Thomm held his breath. Loading the pipe was sometimes a preliminary to the cold sidelong stares which occasionally ended in an explosion of wrath. For the moment however Covill held himself in check.

“Just what do you do with the corpses?”

The leader raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Is it not obvious? No? But then you are no potter—Our glazes require lead, sand, clay, alkali, spar and lime. All but the lime is at our hand, and this we extract from the bones of the dead.”

Covill lit his pipe, puffed. Thomm relaxed. For the moment the danger was past.

“I see,” said Covill. “Well, we don’t want to interfere in any native customs, rites or practices, so long as the peace isn’t disturbed. You’ll have to understand there can’t be any more kidnaping. The corpses—that’s between you and whoever’s responsible for the body, but lives are more important than pots. If you need lime, I can get you tons of it. There must be limestone beds somewhere on the planet. One of these days I’ll send Thomm out prospecting and you’ll have more lime than you’ll know what to do with.”

The chief shook his head, half amused. “Natural lime is a poor substitute for the fresh live lime of bones. There are certain other salts which act as fluxes, and then, of course, the spirit of the person is in the bones and this passes into the glaze and gives it an inner fire otherwise unobtainable.”

Covill puffed, puffed, puffed, watching the chief with his hard blue eyes. “I don’t care what you use,” he said, “as long as there’s no kidnaping, no murder. If you need lime, I’ll help you find it; that’s what I’m here for, to help you, and raise your standard of living; but I’m also here to protect the Mi-Tuun from raiding. I can do both—one about as good as the other.”