Authors: Jay Lake
Mainspring (26 page)
Later, there was a moment of concern from a hairy face, brilliant yellow eyes so close to his their lashes might have touched, a furtive hand upon his forehead. He
smelled flowers then, and heard more of the whistling click-speech. Beneath that speech and woven through it there was the clattering of gears and spheres that had dogged his hearing ever since it had first begun to return to him in the jungle.
smelled flowers then, and heard more of the whistling click-speech. Beneath that speech and woven through it there was the clattering of gears and spheres that had dogged his hearing ever since it had first begun to return to him in the jungle.
He awoke one morning in a terrible thirst. His head was clear, but he felt very weak. Hethor was barely able to move his arms. The leeches were gone, but his hands were bound in large leaves, greasy and stretched beneath their coverings. He was inside a simple hut, barely more than a lean-to, walled by vines and fronds woven together in a semblance of privacy. Or perhaps just for shade. It was daytime outside, but the light in his shelter was a uniform aquarian green.
“Water.” Hethor rejoiced to hear his own voice, though it was cracked and dry as an old cobblestone. “Please, someone. Water.”
One of the little hairy men stepped inside.
No
, thought Hethor, a hairy woman. He wasn't sure how he could tell, for she was thin as any stripling lad, with no bosom to speak of, only a cloth waistband to hide her sex.
No
, thought Hethor, a hairy woman. He wasn't sure how he could tell, for she was thin as any stripling lad, with no bosom to speak of, only a cloth waistband to hide her sex.
Not that he would have looked.
She had those brilliant yellow eyes, like liquid shards of sunlight, set in a small face almost indistinguishable from that of a monkey. She carried with her an enormous gourd. Its skin had been carved in complex geometries that could have been animals, or a junglescape, or just an abstraction of the mysteries of life. The smell of flowers followed her into Hethor's little hut. A familiar scent, one from his fevered dreams.
The hairy woman sat on the edge of the cot where Hethor lay. He tried to prop himself up to greet her, but the effort racked him with coughing, creating lingering pain in his ribs and the muscles of his stomach.
She touched his forehead, patting him with her fingers in such a long and rhythmic way that he wondered if this were speech among her race. She dipped her hand in the gourd to wipe water over his forehead and cheeks before
lifting the gourd to his lips and steadying it at the exactly correct angle to avoid pouring water onto his face.
lifting the gourd to his lips and steadying it at the exactly correct angle to avoid pouring water onto his face.
Hethor drank deeply. This water was warm and sweet, almost nectar, though his thirst was so great he would have prized damp mud. The hairy woman watched him carefully, keeping the gourd tilted sufficiently to allow him to drink his fill.
“Thank you,” Hethor finally said, pulling his face away from the gourd. He tried to wipe his lips but encountered the waxy slickness of the leaves wrapping his hands.
She smiled, a flash of sharp teeth around long, biting canines, then wiped his mouth for him with the back of her free hand. Small as she was, Hethor realized the hairy woman was strong. She must be, in order to manage the gourd one-handed.
“Thank you,” he said again.
She clicked-whistled at him, the sound still underlain by that faint clattering of gears. Was she an automaton? Was he hallucinating? Or was his hearing so damaged that every sound carried that undertone?
“Right.” Clumsy, he took her free wrist between his leaf-wrapped hands. “I am Hethor.
Heth-or.”
Heth-or.”
She chattered, something very much like laughter, then rose from his side and set the gourd on the floor. With a last flashing glance of those sun-yellow eyes, the hairy woman left his hut.
Exhausted, Hethor let sleep reclaim him.
THE NEXT
time he awoke, it was to the smell of a stew or soup not unlike what William of Ghent had served him. Had that really been the last time he had eaten? No wonder he was so weak. His face itched, too. Hethor crossed his eyes, trying to see if he'd grown a real beard.
time he awoke, it was to the smell of a stew or soup not unlike what William of Ghent had served him. Had that really been the last time he had eaten? No wonder he was so weak. His face itched, too. Hethor crossed his eyes, trying to see if he'd grown a real beard.
“Hello,” he tried to call, though his voice again betrayed him. Daylight still reigned, flooding his hut with that lambent green.
There was a racket just outside, followed by more
chattering laughter. The hairy woman returned bearing a shallow wooden bowl of the stew and a rough-carved spoon. She squatted beside his cot, back on her haunches, and slowly fed him, one little spoonful at a time. Though he could smell meat in the stock, and it made his mouth water, the hairy woman gave Hethor only vegetables and broth. She kept smiling. Her eyes were bright.
chattering laughter. The hairy woman returned bearing a shallow wooden bowl of the stew and a rough-carved spoon. She squatted beside his cot, back on her haunches, and slowly fed him, one little spoonful at a time. Though he could smell meat in the stock, and it made his mouth water, the hairy woman gave Hethor only vegetables and broth. She kept smiling. Her eyes were bright.
He could not recall ever having such attention paid to him. Sick in Master Bodean's shop, Hethor had simply been packed off to his attic room with bread and water to sweat it out, the better not to pass his illnesses to Bodean and his sons. He did not remember much of life with his mother. Hethor presumed she must have fed him as an infant.
Now there was a hand casually laid upon his arm, or tilting his chin, eyes close to his, a ready smile. Somehow it didn't matter to Hethor that she was small and hairy as any jungle ape, another race of man entireâno woman had ever focused her full attention on him, except Librarian Childress for a few brief hours.
This woman, he
thought,
is someone of whom the librarian would approve.
thought,
is someone of whom the librarian would approve.
Hethor realized he must still be feverish, to react so to the presence and touch of someone who was little more than an ape. His logical mind, back at New Haven Latin, warred with his emotional mind for a while, as stew kept spooning into his mouth, until his body, warmed and comforted, forced him to stop eating through sheer satiety.
After the meal, as she was wiping his mouth, Hethor asked a question that had been lurking at the edges of his thoughts for a while.
“Where is my golden tablet?” he croaked.
She whistled and stared intently at him.
Hethor mimed a rectangle with his leaf-wrapped hands. “My
tablet,”
he said, as though reinforcing the words would somehow help her understand.
tablet,”
he said, as though reinforcing the words would somehow help her understand.
The hairy woman chirped. She then reached beneath
him, hands burrowing in the rustling bedding of the cot, before producing the tablet. She stared at it for a moment, turning it in her hands, with an expression somewhere between lust and awe inasmuch as Hethor could read her nonhuman features, then handed it to him.
him, hands burrowing in the rustling bedding of the cot, before producing the tablet. She stared at it for a moment, turning it in her hands, with an expression somewhere between lust and awe inasmuch as Hethor could read her nonhuman features, then handed it to him.
“Thank you,” he said. Then: “I can't call you âhairy woman.' I am Hethor.” Tablet clutched in his elbow, he tapped his chest.
“Heth-or.
”
“Heth-or.
”
She chittered her laugh again, then said in a passable imitation of his voice, “Heh-for.”
“And you?” he asked, pointing toward her.
She clicked and whistled, then again in more or less his voice, said, “Arellya.”
Hethor felt a smile stretch his cheeks. “Arellya. A beautiful name.”
Taking the bowl, she left.
He studied the golden tablet for a while. It seemed to be more sensible, somehow. Somewhere in the depths of his deafness perhaps he had overheard the language of God, and now the words of the tablet echoed just outside his hearing.
Which, Hethor realized, given the way everything around him now clicked and whirred, might even have a grain of truth to it.
He tried to form his mouth around the strange words, the clusters of letters that might or might not be the Tetragrammaton. What did it mean? Why did God, or Gabriel, or some agent of Heaven, keep sending him this message, over and over? The tablet had been a lifesaver for him. But its purpose had to be more than that. It had to hold a greater meaning.
Though no answers came to him, Hethor felt at peace with the mystery of the words for the first time since they had come to him. He let the tablet rest on his chest, staring out at the leaves and vines surrounding him, wondering where he was, where he should go, what would be next in his quest.
“I must take control,” Hethor said aloud, “not be subject
to the whims of the viceroy or Malgus or William of Ghent.” Gabriel had charged
him
with finding the Key Perilous, not one of his enemies. Nor even his allies.
to the whims of the viceroy or Malgus or William of Ghent.” Gabriel had charged
him
with finding the Key Perilous, not one of his enemies. Nor even his allies.
Hethor flexed the palm of his hand, thinking of the key-shaped scar the silver feather had left behind, but the leafy wrappings hid any view he might have. He suspected all the abuse he had recently taken had obviated the scar with new damage.
Arellya looked through the curtain, smiled at him, and pulled down the line of leaves and vines.
He sat a bit above a clearing in the jungle. The mighty river muttered nearby but out of sight. His bed, his little hut, were surrounded by the diminutive hairy men. They stood in circling ranks, male and female, young and old, parent and child, each with a little bundle of goods and weapons at their feet.
As Hethor watched in growing horror, with a chorus of clicks and whistles, they all bowed to him. Every last one, even Arellya.
“No,” he said. “Not this. Get up, by God. You will not bow to me!”
“Heth-or,” they all intoned, like monks chanting. “Heth-or.”
He struggled to his feet, swaying. He threw his hands out in an unsteady attempt at balance. “Get up! This is wrong. I'm not here to be your leader. I'm not ⦠I'm ⦔
Words failed him. The hairy men continued to chant his name, their heads pressed to the leaf-strewn floor of the clearing, as the brilliant tropical sun blazed down upon them all.
HETHOR TRIED
for the rest of that day to get the hairy men to stop bowing and treating him like a god-king. He yelled until they chanted his name in time to his rants. He grabbed one or another by the shoulders and pulled them to their feet, where they would gaze in ecstasy upon his face, boneless as eels, until he dropped them again.
for the rest of that day to get the hairy men to stop bowing and treating him like a god-king. He yelled until they chanted his name in time to his rants. He grabbed one or another by the shoulders and pulled them to their feet, where they would gaze in ecstasy upon his face, boneless as eels, until he dropped them again.
That night, even with the leaf-and-vine curtains of his hut pulled to, Hethor was forced to listen to his name being chanted like a prayer.
The next day, more of the same frustrations.
“Hey,” Hethor shouted, “I'm just a man.”
“Heth-or, Heth-or.”
With “ma-an, ma-an” as counterpoint.
He ran around the clearing, or at least hobbled at a brisk pace. They followed him. That was when Hethor realized his hairy man contingent was growing. More of the tiny folk continued emerging from the jungle.
He tried to pick a fight, shoving and shouting.
They just grinned, chanting his name.
Hethor finally threw a tantrum. He yelled and screamed and leapt about on his still-sore feet until his ankles felt
ready to snap. He fetched the golden tablet from his cot and hurled it to the ground.
ready to snap. He fetched the golden tablet from his cot and hurled it to the ground.
“Stop!” Hethor shouted. “Someone please just please talk to me!”
He sat at the foot of his cot, back to the crowded clearing, and stifled the hot, tired tears that threatened to burst forth. Somehow this was even worse than the fighting, the cold, the fear. Being bowed to made him feel dirty. He was no slaveholder or raider or workhouse tyrant.
Arellya came and squatted next to him. Her fine-boned hand rested gently on his shoulder. “Hethor,” she said, in a quiet, normal voice.
His breath shuddered. “What?”
She clicked and whistled, then tugged at him, trying to make him turn around.
Hethor grudgingly looked.
The clearing was still full of Arellya's folk. Many watched him, but they were no longer in their worshipful array. Some built fires, while others wove shelters of jungle leaves. A group of young males, spears at the ready, stood guard over the golden tablet where Hethor had thrown it in his temper.
He looked at Arellya again. “Thank you.”
She smiled her too-toothy smile, took Hethor by the hand, and led him out of the hut to a fire circle. There he ate a pale yellow stew of grubs and fruit. Sitting shoulder to shoulder with Arellya and her folk, Hethor's sense of disgust at being worshipped transmuted to a sort of golden-hearted kinship.
“We are all men, in God's image, are we not?” he asked the circle.
Clicks and whistles all around answered him, so Hethor had some more of the pale stew.
WALKING BACK
to his hut in the miserable, stinking heat of the late afternoon, Hethor stopped before the young men
guarding the tablet. They immediately opened their circle of spears to let him step forward. When Hethor bent to pick up the tablet, he heard his name whispered. When he stood again and looked around, a number of the hairy men were forming their worshipful ranks again.
to his hut in the miserable, stinking heat of the late afternoon, Hethor stopped before the young men
guarding the tablet. They immediately opened their circle of spears to let him step forward. When Hethor bent to pick up the tablet, he heard his name whispered. When he stood again and looked around, a number of the hairy men were forming their worshipful ranks again.
Ah
, thought Hethor.
The tablet. It is not me they worship; it is God's word.
, thought Hethor.
The tablet. It is not me they worship; it is God's word.
He marveled that even jungle savages of such primitive ancestry could recognize the hand of God in their lives, when a sophisticated divinity student like Pryce Bodean had denied the same.
“Who's the ape now?” Hethor whispered with a chuckle. Then he set the tablet back down and motioned for the larger group of hairy men to rise and disperse. He left the spearmen to their guard.
Loath as he was to leave the tablet behind again, it was easier than withstanding the awed regard of the massed hairy men. Besides, they clearly intended to guard it from all comers. They would protect the precious artifact for his future use. Probably better than he could himself.
Inside his hut, Hethor was at least shaded. Otherwise he was more uncomfortable than he had been at any time since being brought to the village. If insects, heat, and smells were what bothered him most now, that probably indicated that he was recovered for the most part from his fatigue and injuries.
Arellya approached, whistling for him from just outside. Behind her, life in the camp went on as usual. She had an old male with her, doddering and pale-furred, with a loose mouth that suggested a complete lack of teeth.
“Hello, Arellya.” Hethor was glad to see her.
Arellya flashed her toothy grin. “Hethor.” She took the old hairy man by the hand, held their joined fingers up toward Hethor in greeting, and inclined her head. “Kalker.”
“Hello, Kalker.”
Kalker said something so unlike the usual whistles and clicks of hairy man speech that Hethor didn't catch it all.
“Excuse me?” Hethor said, cupping his ear to mime.
Kalker repeated himself. “Salve.”
Salve?
That's Latin,
Hethor thought, though the hairy man's terrible accent would earn him a caning under Headmaster Brownlee. “Ah ⦠,” Hethor said. “Quod velles?”
What do you want?
That's Latin,
Hethor thought, though the hairy man's terrible accent would earn him a caning under Headmaster Brownlee. “Ah ⦠,” Hethor said. “Quod velles?”
What do you want?
It was rude, abrupt, and in the infinitive besides, but Hethor was too surprised to work out conversational sentences in a language he had only been taught to read.
Kalker grinned, his lack of teeth becoming painfully obvious. “Loquamur,” the old hairy man said.
Let us talk.
Let us talk.
They continued in broken Latin, missing one another's intentions almost as often as they understood. But at least it was common ground, rather than the frustrating impenetrability of trying to speak with Arellya.
“You are Hethor,”
Kalker said.
Kalker said.
“Yes. Me Hethor.”
“You are angel?”
“No! Man! Me man.”
“God's messenger.”
“Not an angel.”
“Messenger. One who talks. Bring divine word.”
Hethor had to admit this old hairy man living deep in the jungle on the far side of the Equatorial Wall from Rome or New Haven Latin spoke the language better than he did.
“No,
” Hethor said.
“No divine word.”
” Hethor said.
“No divine word.”
Kalker said something he didn't understand.
“What?”
The old hairy man tried again.
“ ⦠gold ⦔
“ ⦠gold ⦔
“The table,
” Hethor said, incorrectly. What was the world for âtablet'?
” Hethor said, incorrectly. What was the world for âtablet'?
Kalker nodded.
“God's word on gold; you bring gold here. You bring God's word!”
“God's word on gold; you bring gold here. You bring God's word!”
And how did they know it was God's word?
“Are you a Christian?”
asked Hethor.
“Are you a Christian?”
asked Hethor.
Kalker let out a long, chittering laugh, then turned to explain something, at length, to Arellya. Eventually she
laughed, too. They both stared at Hethor, bright yellow eyes gleaming like a brace of twinned suns.
laughed, too. They both stared at Hethor, bright yellow eyes gleaming like a brace of twinned suns.
“Christ not for us,” Kalker
finally said.
“Christ for ⦠men. Only for ⦠men.”
finally said.
“Christ for ⦠men. Only for ⦠men.”
“Christ died for all men,”
Hethor insisted.
Hethor insisted.
“We are not men,”
said Kalker.
“We are ⦔
said Kalker.
“We are ⦔
“What?”
Kalker chattered to himself for a moment. Then:
“We are the correct people, not men.”
“We are the correct people, not men.”
“I am a man,” Hethor said. “Tell them to stop bowing down before me.”
“They do not bow before a man,”
Kalker answered.
“They bow before the messenger of the words of God.”
Kalker answered.
“They bow before the messenger of the words of God.”
IN THE
evening, Hethor's sense that he heard clattering gears inside even the smallest things was stronger than ever. Tiny and hairy, resembling children costumed as so many apes, the correct people danced before a great fire. They threw fruits and meat and even their spears and breechclouts into it. Some fell to the ground, coupling, so that he was forced to avert his eyes. Drums pounded a wandering rhythm that filled the night like a heartbeat. The stars above seemed to waver with the tempo. Even the bright thread of the moon's track swayed, the sky itself seeming to quake. Clicking and whistling they sang, the music counterpoint to the rhythms of the dance.
evening, Hethor's sense that he heard clattering gears inside even the smallest things was stronger than ever. Tiny and hairy, resembling children costumed as so many apes, the correct people danced before a great fire. They threw fruits and meat and even their spears and breechclouts into it. Some fell to the ground, coupling, so that he was forced to avert his eyes. Drums pounded a wandering rhythm that filled the night like a heartbeat. The stars above seemed to waver with the tempo. Even the bright thread of the moon's track swayed, the sky itself seeming to quake. Clicking and whistling they sang, the music counterpoint to the rhythms of the dance.
The food on the fire crackled and hissed and raised a smell not unlike a feast fit for angels. The correct people raised a sweat of their own, the scent almost sweet and more than a little challenging to Hethor's nose. Beetles the size of Hethor's hand and larger flew out of the jungle into the flames, exploding like little fireworks as they burned, while enormous moths with crying faces upon their wings circled above. Ghost-pale birds rustled and croaked in the surrounding trees.
He sat in front of his hut where Arellya had so often lately squatted to watch him. There he listened to the
clattering. Even the wind seemed a thing of metal artifice, the crackling flames mechanical in their hunger for the fuel on the fire. Every one of the correct people moved with the clicking of an automaton, yet another counterpoint to their click-whistle language and their shuffling steps. Hethor felt as though he was witness to a great conference of metal men, a sort of coven of fleshly machines met to worship in a jungle lair.
clattering. Even the wind seemed a thing of metal artifice, the crackling flames mechanical in their hunger for the fuel on the fire. Every one of the correct people moved with the clicking of an automaton, yet another counterpoint to their click-whistle language and their shuffling steps. Hethor felt as though he was witness to a great conference of metal men, a sort of coven of fleshly machines met to worship in a jungle lair.
Just as he had lain in his narrow bed in Master Bodean's attic to listen to the clattering turn of the world, so Hethor now turned his ears to the sounds that tugged at them. He was close enough still to his recent deafness to feel a warm and profound gratitude for the return of his hearing, even if it was strained through this metal sieve.
All Creation was artifice, was it not? Anyone with eyes could see that, bearing witness to Earth's orbital track, the gears atop the Equatorial Wall, the mechanical motions of the moon and the stars, even the lamp of the sun. Why wouldn't men, and correct people, as well as animals, beetles, trees, fire, and wind be artifice?
Hethor could not decide if this was heady philosophy or maudlin foolery. Instead he closed his eyes and listened,
really listened,
to the underlying music of the world. The pounding beat of the correct people's festival-rite only served to make that underlying music clearer. It seemed as though it provided a texture richer and thicker than any silence against which the world could make itself heard to him.
really listened,
to the underlying music of the world. The pounding beat of the correct people's festival-rite only served to make that underlying music clearer. It seemed as though it provided a texture richer and thicker than any silence against which the world could make itself heard to him.
The beetles buzzed like tiny spring-wound toys. The fire's crackle was the disjointed fall of a box of small brass parts, tinkling forever. The correct people moved and spoke and sang with a precision fit for any ship's clock or astronomer's timepiece. Even the smells seemed composed of smaller and smaller mechanisms, each one's parts themselves assembled from tinier parts, as if all of Creation held a myriad more Creations nestled inside itself.
As each man was a Creation of his own, a mind unique in God's world.
The words began to come to him.
“No ⦔
“ ⦠yes ⦔
“ ⦠three orange and ⦔
“ â¦feet ⦔
“ ⦠he loved her once ⦔
“ â¦I am whole! ⦔
“ â¦have a care ⦔
“ â¦joy ⦔
“ ⦠we walked for seven days before we found water ⦔
“ ⦠he is one of the grub-men, but God has still seen ⦔
“ ⦠golden plate, words upon it ⦔
They were talking about him. Hethor was hearing the correct people speak, building their words back up from the clicks and whirrs of God's tiny gears within them.
“ ⦠Arellya says ⦔
Arellya says what?
The memory of her touch, her eyes locked with his, was a sudden surge in Hethor's gut.
The memory of her touch, her eyes locked with his, was a sudden surge in Hethor's gut.
“Kalker knows better. But he won't tell.”
“Look at that one! Green as any crocodile, and I'll wager it's ⦔
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