Of Machines & Magics (7 page)

Calistrope remembered the remark he had made to Formicca: “our goals are yours.” The high caste ant had agreed. The air was not cold but Calistrope shivered and drew his cloak protectively about himself. There really was no comprehension between the two species. Even so, he felt depressed that the two ants were not the brave comrades he had briefly supposed them to be.

He trudged after his companions.

A well-defined game trail ran along the riverside, meandering around bushes and copses or outcrops and rejoining further on. Often, there were signs of past flooding and the trail branched from lower to higher levels.

They moved at a good pace on the downhill grade until the river—now a sizeable watercourse—crowded them closer and closer to the southern side of the valley. There were still trails to follow but they became narrower, worn into the mosses and clay by more sure-footed creatures than humans. While the far side of the river was flat and home to small swarms of grazing insects, the paths to which they were confined were often narrow ledges or passages between fallen boulders.

They came to the end of one such trail which had taken them fifty or sixty ells above the water’s edge, the trail turned a corner and opened out onto a series of wide terraces. “There’s a light ahead,” Ponderos observed as he rounded the corner. “A glow.”

The gorge opened out before them into a wide valley with a sedimentary flood plain on either side of the river which curled through the valley in a succession of curves and discarded ox-bow lakes. To one side was a small settlement—a dozen or so houses and other buildings clustered around an open space with a larger meeting hall on one side. A few outlying structures bordered a rude track way running the length of the open part of the valley. A faint suggestion of smoke came to them on the air. They could discern no activity however, no people, no animals.

After some discussion, they decide to skirt the village by remaining close to the steeper slopes until they were well beyond the farthest house. The companions crossed the end of a small gorge where a busy stream tumbled down to join the river below them. Beyond, they continued again and a league onward, perhaps a little more, came to a point where the valley once more closed up and the river funneled between almost vertical cliffs. They found a way well above water level which, from its well-trodden appearance they judged would take them all the way though the narrows.

They marched single file along a ledge little wider than a pair of feet, their new familiarity with such walkways lending them some skill. Calistrope, leading the group, stopped abruptly after stepping around a cracked column of rock; he move forward a pace or two to give the others space to stand on and pointed.

All three of them could hear a constant hum, just audible above the sound of the rushing waters below them.

“What is it?” Roli asked.

“A nest?” Suggested Ponderos.

“A wasp nest,” Calistrope shook his head. “I don’t care to get any closer than this. If only Valdemar had been a little more circumspect with his improvements.”

“Valdemar?” asked Roli.

“Valdemar?” Repeated Ponderos in the same tone.

“Valdemar the Entomophile.”

“Entomo… Insect lover? The improver? Ah! I thought that was Nimilick?”

“Nimilick favored crustaceans.”

“I never heard of intelligent lobsters.”

“Just so.”

They stood and gazed at the gigantic pear shaped nest which hung over the water and at its largest girth almost filled the gap between the cliffs. It was suspended from the trunk of a tree which had fallen—or had been felled—and lodged between the two cliff faces. There was an entrance near the bottom where great black and yellow furred insects came and went. Guards were posted at strategic positions around the nest, on ledges, on tenaciously clinging shrubs, in cracks in the rock walls, wherever possible.

“It’s bigger than the Inn,” Roli ventured.

“The Raftsman’s Ease? By the Lake?” Ponderos rubbed his chin. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Bigger. Much bigger.” Calistrope was firm. ‘There is room for several man-sized stories in there. Nine perhaps, or ten. There will be thousands and thousands of insects inside.”

“So what shall we do?”

“That settlement. Surely people need to leave the valley now and again. Perhaps they know of another way out.”

“It may not be all that old an obstruction,” Ponderos observed. “It does not take long to build something like that. A swarm could construct it in, what, forty, fifty hours? Perhaps they aren’t aware of it yet.”

Calistrope shook his head. “It is quite mature, I’m certain. Look at the stains on the rocks to either side, observe the rubbish which has accumulated on the banks underneath.”

“I’ll wager there will be someone who would take us down river in a boat,” said Roli, his eyes shining with excitement. “I’d wager someone will shoot these rapids just for the fun of it.”

Calistrope looked at the white foam swirling between jagged limestone teeth and the great standing waves of water leaping high into the air. “Perhaps a boat is not the best way out of here. Perhaps we could climb the cliffs, walk past that way.”

Ponderos looked up at the edges of the high cliff tops against the dark sky, as sharp as newly broken glass. “I fancy that we would find it difficult to breathe up there, my friend and it is a very long way to climb. Under or around, that is the only way.”

“Let’s consult with the villagers first.”

Chapter 6

They turned back and retraced their steps, leaving behind the humming nest and its dangerous occupants. They approached the village once more and began to descend the terraces. As they came nearer, a pall of smoke became visible—first as a thin layer, then as an overhead stain in the air which shrouded them and the village in an artificial twilight. A few minutes later, Ponderos threw out his arms to stop them.

“A strange thing,” he said. “Strange,” Ponderos frowned for a moment. “Go back a few paces then watch the village as you come back.”

Calistrope and Roli backed up as Ponderos had suggested. From a few hundred paces away, the village was a ramshackle collection of structures built from logs and unpainted planks with often unglazed windows gaping at them. As they walked forward, between one step and the next, the dilapidated houses were metamorphosed.

The buildings stretched and twisted, changed color; overhead, the stars became softer, the sun brighter but smaller—now just peering over the south western end of the valley. Dressed stone replaced rough-hewn logs, colored glass and delicately carved mullions shone with the quivering light of candles.

They walked on, into the village. Most of the changed buildings were low: one and two stories with high pitched roofs of red terra-cotta tiles. There were several taller structures though, tall and narrow, towers with many stories and tiny windows, masts rose from the tops with long gauzy pennons flapping and wriggling in a make-believe breeze.

At the center was a small plaza bordered with low box hedges. The open area was paved with smooth mosaics depicting knights mounted on unlikely looking animals and engaged in some sort of dual with long curved swords. Coy maidens looked on from the side lines.

“I am tempted,” Calistrope said, “to believe I have reached some kind of latter day heaven, that I have left Old Earth entirely.”

Ponderos was already touching finger tips to the stonework around them, rubbing them and feeling the dust between his fingers, tasting it. “This is all marble,” he said.

“That’s what it looks like,” Calistrope agreed.

“But it’s real,” he said. “Real. Not an illusion, glamour.”

Calistrope looked about him at the many different colors of marble: red and green, pink and blue and white with here and there black or silver tracery weaving its way like lace through the mottled colors of the stone. Windows and doors were tall and narrow with high-arched lintels, they were lined with glazed tiles showing leaves and flowers and abstract designs. Roof lines were bordered with tessellated patterns garnished with colored stones and glasses.

A scene from a story book, a fantasy.

“Magic?” asked Calistrope.

“Magic?” Ponderos wrinkled his brow. “We have detected no magic since departing the Raftman’s Ease,” he drew a long breath through his nose, repeated the exercise and raised his eyebrows. “A trace maybe. Just a trace.”

Calistrope followed suit and nodded. “A trace.”

Roli, ignoring the interchange, put his own point. “I want to know where everybody is. No sounds, no cooking smells, no people. Where are they?”

Calistrope shrugged. “It looks well kept, someone must sweep the paths and clear away weeds.” Three pathways converged upon the square, the one which they had followed back from the wasps’ nest, one on the northern side and a third on the western side. Calistrope nodded to the north side where the alley led between a saddlery and a baker’s shop—the latter with still-warm ovens and fresh bread on the shelves. Both contributed a redolence to the air, one pungent, the other piquant. “The village is empty. Shall we try down there? It must lead down to the river.”

The lane took them to the rear of the shops which fronted the square. Behind these were high blank walls enclosing silent courtyards where fruit trees lifted boughs over the walls, boughs laden with apricots and apples and dark rich plums.

“It seems darker,” said Roli, turning a full circle as he walked. “Look at the sun, it’s almost gone and the stars are brighter.”

“That’s remarkable,” Calistrope stopped and looked at the last fragment of the yellow sun shining between jagged escarpments. “Does the world turn again?”

“Has the world returned to its old orbit?” Ponderos added. “If so, it saves us going any farther on our journey,” he sighed. “However, I suspect after all, that magic is responsible.”

“Perhaps but it is a spell that I have never come across before.”

The lane wound between two of the secretive dwellings and out on to the level ground beside the river and here was a vast tent pitched upon the grassy expanse. Scores of animal pelts had been stitched together to make the canopy which was supported on a multitude of poles and drawn taught with hundreds of guy ropes pegged into the ground.

The side nearest to them was raised so they could see inside where people—the villagers, they assumed—were reclining on silk cushions and thick carpets. Tall golden jugs stood everywhere and from these the villagers poured clear liquid into enameled goblets. They drank from their cups and ate fruits and sweetmeats from beaten gold plates. Men gazed at dark-eyed women and smiled, the dark eyed women smiled back and licked their red lips in anticipation.

So engrossed in each other were they, that no one seemed to notice the travelers until they stood between the sun and the nearer of the village folk.

“A good day to you all,” Calistrope greeted them. Some nodded, a few replied with murmured words, most turned their gaze in other directions and ignored the newcomers. The sun vanished but even so, darkness did not come at once as was the case with eclipses or storm clouds.

“Perhaps I should bid you a good evening, for that is what it seems to be.” And even less interest was shown.

Roli asked, “Why don’t we just join them? There seems to be plenty of food and drink here. Enough and to spare.”

“There is the philosophy of a street thief,” Calistrope said to Ponderos. “Taking without asking.”

“In this case, I think Roli has the right of it. No one here seems capable of caring one way or the other.”

Roli had found a tray of cups and passed three of them to his comrades. He took up a jug and filled them with an effervescing liquor which smelled of apricots and lemons.

They drank. It was the most refreshing draught any of them had ever tasted. As they drank, a moon rose in the darkened sky—a silver boat against a velvet sea sparkling with individual snow crystals. They became drowsy. They sat, overcome by a delicious languor which could only be dispelled by more of the delicious liquid.

Those who reclined closest to them began to notice them and to complement them on their choice of garments. Calistrope was dressed in a blue silk gown belted at the waist with a jeweled tie which supported a curled sheath holding a dagger. Ponderos was similarly clothed though the color was peach and a vast round turban covered his bald head with a chrome yellow feather raised to one side. Calistrope touched his own head to find that he was also wearing a turban. He took it off to look at it—blue to match his coat though smaller and less enthusiastic than Ponderos’. A tuft of crimson bristles sprang from a diamond clasp which held the folds together. Calistrope replaced it and looked to see how Roli was accoutered but Roli was nowhere to be seen.

Calistrope shrugged. What did it matter? He poured another cup of sherbet and investigated a plate heaped with sweet pastries.

“They are good? You like them?” asked someone, a female someone whose lips were so close to his ear that her breath stirred his hair.

He leaned back a little and turned. “Oh yes. Yes thank you,” he said. The woman was beautiful, her pale features set off by a cap of hair as black as the night above. Her skin was as white as alabaster almost everywhere, he noted, for she wore a few wisps of gauze and save for a cluster of gold rings on either hand, little else.

His pastry broke in half and crumbs fell all over his new companion’s knees. Calistrope brushed rather ineffectually at the debris. “I’m terribly sorry.”

She looked steadily into his eyes and took his hand. “That’s quite all right. Please, do it again.” And she brushed his fingertips across her knees again. She asked temptingly, “Should we find somewhere alone?”

Calistrope considered her suggestion carefully, for several moments—long enough to swallow nervously, just a little nervously; well—hardly nervous at all, really; he decided. “An excellent suggestion.”

He got to his feet and helped the woman up. Calistrope would have told Ponderos he intended to be back soon but like Roli, Ponderos was no longer there either.

The hours of the sorcerous evening passed in delights that Calistrope had thought himself too old to enjoy. But the woman was unbearably enchanting and when they finally fell asleep, they were entwined together, his nose filled with the soft fragrance she wore. The counterfeit moon spanned the heavens, dew-drops formed on grass blades and spider webs, the warming rays of an imitation yellow sun shone from the replica of a long-ago sky. High clouds were turned to golden wisps, morning mists to saffron.

Calistrope awoke, astonished to have slept and still more astonished to find the beguiling woman still breathing slowly at his side, a secret smile curving her red lips.

She was real and not a dream. He touched her face and kissed her lips, he kissed the rosy nipples, touched the warm smoothness of her breasts, ran fingers over her belly, unable to take his eyes away from the loveliness.

Minutes passed slowly and slowly, she came awake, smiling up at him from the pillows.

The mouth opened, rouged lips grinned lasciviously to reveal broken yellowed teeth. Hard fingers with dirty nails reached up to draw him down against the fat belly and flaccid breasts of the old crone who lay on the grimy rags and sacking. A louse ran out of her lank hair and sought refuge among the broken pillows of what had seemed a sumptuous bed.

With a cry of horror, Calistrope drew back. Pulling his travel worn cloak in front of himself protectively.

She looked up and laughed, cackled. “Never mind lover, you’re not the pretty boy you seemed to be either. Wait until the glamour is come again. Soon…”

Calistrope pressed his lips together and looked down at the bundle of clothes he was clutching and at his own body. There were rents in his coat and breeches, his knees were skinned, his fingernails were cracked and broken, wounds had left scars…

“Sadly Madam, you are in the right. Neither the boy I once was nor the man, yet my standards are fixed and will not be changed. I prefer to see things as they are and not as the make-believe world of these past hours would make me.

Calistrope pulled on his clothes haphazardly, he saluted the less-than-perfect maiden. “Goodbye, enjoy your dreams.” His erstwhile lover pouted her lips at him, Calistrope left her and went outside the hovel they had found for their trysting. Almost at once Ponderos met him and minutes after came Roli, hopping on one foot as he tried to fit the other into his breeches.

Each of them opened his mouth to say something but all remained silent. What they had taken part in was best not talked about, was best put behind and forgotten—if that were possible.

Calistrope took out Issla’s purse of silver powder and tossed a pinch into the air. Ponderos and Calistrope felt a weird tug inside them as the dust tried to pull at their own magical qualities then like smoke, the insubstantial stuff puffed indecisively hither and yon before divining a direction and snaking off towards the center of the village—now a huddle of log buildings again with gaps stuffed with moss and windows covered with sacking.

The companions followed it to the square where the streamer darted down and into a dark workshop, less broken down than some with smoke rising from its chimney.

A distant chuckle sounded. Words: “You enjoyed your night of abandon then, I’d dare to wager on that.”

The door was ajar and they pushed their way inside. A wizened old man sat by the hearth with a pipe in his mouth, a tray of rusted tools on the table beside him.

“Enjoyed yourselves, did you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” answered Calistrope. “Are you responsible for this wizardry?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The old man managed a fair imitation of Calistrope’s tart words. “A little conjuration and this,” he patted a machine built from brass and leather and glass. It was perhaps, the only dust-free thing in the place, at one end was a cluster of lenses like the compound eye of an insect; at the other, an oil lamp with a polished reflector to channel the light into the box like body. “My magic lantern.” And he patted it again.

“And you live your lives under the spell of this—this contraption.”

“As much as possible. It’s a poor enough existence here since the wasps came, there’s been no trading down the river since I was a youth.”

“As long as that?” asked Ponderos.

“Aye, indeed. We grow parbalows in the fields and trap shulies in the river, neither are very tasty until we transmogrify them with the aid of this,” he patted his shining machine.

“What a way to live.”

“And what’s wrong with that. Hmm? Soon the river will dry up and the very air will freeze solid. Why should we not enjoy what is left of existence before our time comes? Eh?”

Calistrope was silent. Neither of his companions had anything to add. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I can offer no argument against it. All I will say is that I’d not choose such a life for myself.”

The other nodded. “That is all that matters then. Choose this or choose some other way. Choose what we know or what is unfamiliar.”

“We will leave now. Goodbye.”

Again the other nodded and as Roli—last in line—was about to leave, he asked: “Is there no other way past the wasps’ nest?”

“The wasps’ nest? Hmm.” The magic lantern operator thought for a while as he scanned through a portfolio of pictures—a valley on the far-off world of Caldeburn, a city of immense towers from ancient Earth, a hillside of rich vineyards and golden cornfields. He selected this last and took an image of a primitive Moorish town from his projector. “Farming, you see? This will get them harvesting for a season then we’ll have a bit more merriment.