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I was willing to leave Epiny’s letters with him, but he insisted I take them back. Privately, I resolved to rebuke her for making her father suffer so; what had he done to deserve such treatment? He’d given her far more freedom than most girls of her age enjoyed, and she’d used it to arrange a marriage to her own liking. Even after she had publicly disgraced herself by fleeing his house and going to Spink’s sickbed, my uncle had not disowned her, but had given her a modest wedding and a nice send-off. What more did she expect of the man?
As I bade my uncle farewell, he gave me a letter to my father and some small gifts to send to my mother and sisters and I managed to find room for them in my panniers. I made a brief stop at my father’s banker in Old Thares to change my cheque into banknotes, and then went immediately down to the docks. My ship was already loading, and I was glad I had arrived with some time to spare, for Sirlofty received the last decent box stall on board the vessel. My own cabin, though very small, was comfortable and I was glad to settle into it.
My upriver passage on the jankship was not nearly as exciting as our flight downriver had been the previous fall. The current was against us, and though it was not yet in full spring flood, it was still formidable. The vessel used not only oarsmen, but also a method of propulsion called cordelling, in which a small boat rowed upstream with a line threaded through a bridle and made fast to the mast. Once the small boat had tied the free end of the line to a fixed object such as a large tree, the line was reeled in on a capstan on the jankship. While we were reeling in the first line, a second towline was already being set in place, and in this way, we moved upriver between six and fifteen miles a day. An upstream journey on one of the big passenger janks was more stately than swift, and more like spending time at an elegant resort than simple travel.
Perhaps my father had intended that part of the journey to be a treat for me, and an opportunity to mingle socially. Instead, I chafed and wondered if I would not have made better time on Sirlofty’s back. Although the jankship offered all sorts of amusements and edification, from games of chance to poetry readings, I did not enjoy it as I had the first time I’d taken ship with my father. The people on board the vessel seemed less congenial than the passengers my father and I had met on our previous journey. The young ladies were especially haughty, their superciliousness bordering on plain rudeness. Once, thinking only to be a gentleman, I bent down to retrieve a pen that had fallen from one young lady’s table by her deck chair. As I did so, one of my ill-sewn buttons popped from my jacket and went rolling off across the deck. She and her friend burst out laughing at me, the one pointing rudely at my rolling button while the other all but stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth to try to conceal her merriment. She did not even thank me for the pen that I handed back to her, but continued to giggle and indeed to snort as I left her side and went in pursuit of my wayward button. Once I had reclaimed it, I turned back to them, thinking that they might wish to be more social, but as I approached them they hastily rose, gathered all their items and swept away in a flurry of skirts and fans.
Later that day, I heard giggling behind me. A female voice said, ‘Never have I seen so rotund a cadet!’ and a male voice replied, ‘Hush! Can’t you tell he’s with child! Don’t mock a future mother!’ I turned and looked up to find the two ladies and a couple of young men standing on an upper deck and looking down at me. They immediately looked away, but one fellow was unable to control the great ‘haw’ of laughter that burst from him. I felt the blood rush to my face, for I was both infuriated and embarrassed that my weight was a cause of so much amusement.
I went immediately back to my stateroom, and attempted to survey myself in the tiny mirror there. It was inadequate to the task, as I could only see about one eighth of myself at a time. I decided that they had been amused by how tight my uniform jacket had become on me. Truly, it had grown snug, and every time I donned it after that, I feared that I cut a comical figure in it. It quite spoiled the rest of the voyage for me, for whenever I attended one of the musical events or cultural lectures, I felt sure that the ladies were somewhere in the audience, staring at me. I did catch glimpses of them, from time to time, often with the same young gentlemen. They all seemed comfortable staring at me while avoiding my company. My annoyance with them grew daily, as did my self-consciousness.
Matters came to a head one evening when I was descending the stairs from one deck to the next. The stairs were spiralled to save space, and quite tightly engineered. My height as well as my new weight made them a bit tricky for me. I had discovered that as long as I kept my elbows in and trusted my feet to find their footing without attempting to look down, I could navigate them smoothly. Even for a slender passenger, the stairs did not allow users to pass one another. Thus as I descended, a small group of my fellows were waiting at the bottom of the steps for me to clear the way for them.
They did not trouble to lower their voices. ‘Beware below!’ one fellow declared loudly as I trod the risers. I recognized his voice as the same one that had declared me pregnant. My blood began to boil.
I heard a woman’s shrill and nervous giggle, followed by another male voice adding, ‘Ye gads, what is it? It’s blocking the sun! Does it wedge? No sir, it does not! Stand clear, stand clear.’ I recognized that he was imitating the stentorian tones of the sailor who took the depth readings with a lead line and shouted them back to the captain.
‘Barry! Stop it!’ a girl hissed at him, but the suppressed merriment in her voice was encouragement, not condemnation.
‘Oh, the suspense! Will he make it or will he run aground?’ the young man queried enthusiastically.
I emerged at that point from the stairwell. My cheeks were red but not with exertion. There I encountered the familiar foursome, in evening dress. One girl, still giggling, rushed past me and up the steps, her little slippers tapping hastily up the stairs and the skirts of her yellow gown brushing the sides of the stair as she went. Her tall male companion moved to follow her. I stepped in front of him. ‘Were you mocking me?’ I asked him in a level, amiable voice. I cannot say where my control came from, for inside, I was seething. Anger bubbled through my blood.
‘Let me past!’ he said angrily, with no effort at replying.
When I did not answer him or move, he attempted to push by me. I stood firm, and for once my extra weight was on my side.
‘It was just a bit of a joke, man. Don’t be so serious. Allow us passage, please.’ This came from the other fellow, a slight young man with foppishly curled hair. The girl with him had retreated behind him, one little gloved arm set on his shoulder, as if I were some sort of unpredictable animal that might attack them.
‘Get out of my way,’ the first one said again. He spoke the words through gritted teeth, furious now.
I kept my voice level with an effort. ‘Sir, I do not enjoy your mockery of me. The next time I receive an ill glance from you or hear you ridicule me, I shall demand satisfaction of you.’
He snorted disparagingly. ‘A threat! From you!’ He ran his eyes over me insultingly. His sneering smile dismissed me.
The blood was pounding in my ears. Yet strangely, I suddenly felt that I was in full control of this encounter. I cannot explain how pleasing that sensation was; it was rather like holding an excellent hand of cards when everyone else at the table assumes you are bluffing. I smiled at him. ‘You’d be wise to be thankful for this warning from me. The opportunity will not come again.’ I’d never felt so dangerous in my life.
He seemed to sense how I dismissed his bluster. His face flushed an ugly scarlet. ‘Make way!’ he demanded through gritted teeth.
‘Of course,’ I acceded. I not only stepped back, but also offered him my hand as if to assist him. ‘Be careful!’ I warned him. ‘The stairs are steeper than they appear. Watch your footing. It would be a shame if you stumbled.’
‘Do not speak to me!’ he all but shouted. He tried to cuff my hand out of the way. Instead, I caught his elbow, gripped it firmly and assisted him up the first step. I felt the iron of my strength as I did so; I think he did, too. ‘Let go!’ he snarled at me.
‘So glad to help you,’ I replied sweetly as I released him. I stepped back two steps, and then gestured to his companions that they should follow him. The girl rushed past me and up the steps, with her companion a stride behind her. He shot me a look of alarm as he passed, as if he thought I might suddenly attack him.
I was walking away when I heard a shout above me, and then a man’s roar of pain. One of them must have slipped in his panic. The woman mewed sympathetically at whichever man had fallen. I could not make out his words, for they were choked with pain. I chuckled as I walked away. I was to dine at the captain’s table that evening, and I suddenly found that I anticipated the meal with a heartier than usual appetite.
The next morning, as I enjoyed a good breakfast, I overheard gossip at our table that a young man had slipped and fallen on the stairs. ‘A very bad break,’ an old woman with a flowered fan exclaimed to the lady beside her. ‘The bone poked right out of his flesh! Can you imagine! Just from a missed step on the stair!’
I felt unreasonably guilty when I heard the extent of the young man’s injuries, but decided that he had brought them on himself. Doubtless he’d missed a riser; if he hadn’t mocked me, he would not have felt obliged to use such haste in fleeing from me.
When next I caught sight of their small party in the late afternoon, the young man I had ‘assisted’ on the stairs was absent. When one of the women caught sight of me, I saw her give a gasp of dismay and immediately turn and walk off in the other direction. Her friend and their remaining male companion followed her just as hastily. For the rest of the voyage they assiduously avoided me, and I overheard no more remarks or giggling. Yet it was not the relief that I had hoped it would be. Instead, a tiny niggle of guilt remained with me, as if my bad wishes for the fellow had caused his fall. I did not enjoy the women being fearful of me any more than I had enjoyed their derision. Both things seemed to make me someone other than who I truly was.
I was almost relieved when our jank reached the docks at Sorton and I disembarked. Sirlofty was restive after his days below decks, and displeased at once more having to wear his panniers. As I led him down the ramp to the street, I was glad to be on solid land again and dependent on no one but myself. I wended my way deeper into the crowded streets and out of sight of the jankship.
Along with my ticket and travelling money, there had been a letter from my father that precisely detailed how my journey should proceed. He had measured my journey against his cavalla maps, and had decided where I should stay every night and how much distance I must cover each day in order to arrive in time for Rosse’s wedding. His meticulous itinerary directed me to spend the night in Sorton, but I abruptly decided that I would push on and perhaps gain some time. That was a poor decision, for when night fell, I was still on the road, hours short of the small town my father had decreed was my next stop. In this settled country of farms and smallholdings, I could not simply camp beside the road as I would have in the Midlands. Instead, when the night became too dark for travelling, I begged a night’s lodging at a farmhouse. The farmer seemed a kindly man, and would not hear of me sleeping in the barn near Sirlofty, but offered me space on the kitchen floor near the fire.
I offered to pay for a meal as well, so he rousted out a kitchen girl. I expected to get the cold leavings of whatever they’d had earlier, but she chatted to me merrily as she heated up a nice slice of mutton in some broth. She warmed some tubers with it, and set it out for me with bread and butter and a large mug of buttermilk. When I thanked her, she answered ‘It’s a pleasure to cook for a man who obviously enjoys his food. It shows a man has a hearty appetite for all of life’s pleasures.’
I did not take her words as a criticism for she herself was a buxom girl with very generous hips. ‘A good meal and a pleasant companion can stir any man’s appetite,’ I told her. She dimpled a smile at me, seeming to take that as flirtation. Boldly, she sat down at the table while I ate, and told me I was very wise to have stopped there for the night, for there had been rumours of highwaymen of late. It seemed plain to me that she had gone far beyond her master’s orders, and after I watched her clear up my dishes, I offered her a small silver piece with my thanks for her kindness. She smilingly brought me two blankets and swept the area in front of the hearth before she made up my bed for me.
I was startled into full wakefulness about an hour after I had drowsed off when I felt someone lift the corner of my blanket and slide in beside me. I am shamed to say that I thought first of my purse with my travelling money in it, and I gripped it with my hand beneath my shirt. She paid no mind to that but nudged up against me, sweet as a kitten seeking warmth. I was quickly aware that she wore only a very thin nightdress.
‘What is it?’ I demanded of her, rather stupidly.
She giggled softly. ‘Why, sir, I don’t know. Let me feel it and see if I can tell you!’ And with no more than that, she slipped her hand down between us, and when she found that she had already roused me, gripped me firmly.
I was no more prudish than any young man of my years. If I had been chaste before, it had been more from lack of opportunity than any inclination to virtue. I’ll admit that I gave a passing thought to disease, for the Academy had lectured us more than once on the danger of coupling with cheap street whores. But I very swiftly and easily persuaded myself that this girl in such an outlying farmstead had probably not known many men and thus had little chance of disease.
There followed a night I have never forgotten and seldom regretted. I was fumbling at first, but then that ‘other self’ seemed to awaken inside me, and I discovered that he was not only experienced but skilful at bed games. I knew when to tease with a tickling touch, and when my mouth should be hard and demanding. She shivered under me, and the small moans that escaped her were music to me. I did experience some awkwardness, for although the rounded contours of her body seemed like familiar territory to me, I was not accustomed to dealing with the bulk of my own belly. Ruefully, I had to admit to myself that my weight gain was more than a trifling matter, but I refused to let it become an obstacle for us. Towards dawn, we parted with many kisses. I fell into the sleep of exhaustion, and morning came much too early for me.
If I had been able to think of any excuse, I would have fabricated a reason to spend another night. As it was, the same kitchen maid offered me a huge breakfast and a very fond farewell. I did not wish to embarrass her by treating her as if she were an ordinary whore, but I did slip some money under my plate where she would find it when she cleared away the dishes. I bade the farmer and his wife farewell, and thanked them earnestly for their kind hospitality. The farmer repeated the kitchen maid’s warning about highwaymen. I promised him I’d be wary and saddled up Sirlofty and went on my way with an entirely different opinion of myself than I’d had the day before. As I made the ‘hold fast’ sign over my cinch buckle, I suddenly felt myself an adventurous traveller experiencing life on my own for the first time. It was exhilarating and a welcome change from the self-consciousness I’d felt on the jankship.
The day passed quickly. I paid small attention to the road or scenery, but instead pondered every moment of the night before. I confess that I derived as much pleasure from imagining telling Rory and the fellows about my dallying with the farm maid as I did from recalling it. In early afternoon, I reached the town that my father had listed as my next stop on my itinerary. Despite the hours of daylight left, I decided I would overnight there, not only because I’d had two warnings of highwaymen but also because I’d had no sleep the night before. I found a likely inn and bought myself a meal, then retired to my small room and slept until early evening. I occupied myself for a time with updating my journal, but when that was completed, I still felt restless. I longed for an adventure such as I’d had the night before.
I went downstairs, hoping for some company, music and lively conversation. Instead I found only a few fellows swilling cheap ale and a grumpy innkeeper who obviously wished his customers would either spend more money or take themselves elsewhere. I was half-hoping that some girl of easy virtue would be wiping the tables, as there always was in poor Caleb’s lurid papers, but there was not a female anywhere in sight. When I went out for a stroll about the little town, I found the streets deserted. I told myself it was probably just as well, and returned to my inn. After three beers, I went back to my bed, and fell asleep.
My next few days of travelling passed without incident. My father had very accurately judged the distance Sirlofty could cover in a day. One night I took lodging at a hostelry with several obvious whores ensconced in the taproom. I plucked up my courage to approach the youngest, a slight woman with a halo of yellow curls around her face. She was wearing a pink gown trimmed with plumes all around its low collar. Thinking to be clever, I opened my conversation by asking her if the feathers tickled.
She looked me up and down, and then said bluntly, ‘Two silver bits. Your room.’
I was taken aback. In all the stories I’d heard from Trist or read in Caleb’s magazines, whores were flirtatious and flattering. I had expected at least some conversation. ‘Right now?’ I asked stupidly, and she immediately stood up.
There was little I could do then but lead the way up to my room. She demanded my silver in advance, tucking it down the front of her dress. I was unbuttoning my trousers when she took me firmly by the upper arms and backed me towards the bed, pushing me onto my back. I was not averse to this, even when she said, ‘Don’t think I plan on being on the bottom side of you. A heavy bloke like you could break a girl’s ribs!’
With that, she bundled her skirts up around her hips to reveal her nakedness and straddled me as if I were a horse and very quickly finished me. Afterwards, she lifted herself from my body, and shook her skirts out as she stood by the bed. I sat up on the bed with my trousers around my ankles. She walked to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked in confusion.
She gave me a puzzled look. ‘Back to work. Unless you’ve another two silvers to spend?’
I hesitated, and she took it as a ‘no’. Sneering slightly, she said, ‘I thought not. Fat men are usually tight-fisted with their money.’ Without another word, she let herself out. I stared after her in shock, numbed and insulted by her words. As I fell back onto my bed, I suddenly realized I’d just learned the difference between a very friendly kitchen maid and a real whore. Remorse and trepidation closed in on me, and I decided I could use a good washing. Before I fell asleep that night, I resolved to stay away from common prostitutes. Sternly I reminded myself that I was as good as engaged, and had a duty to keep my body free of disease, for Carsina’s sake. Nonetheless, I was glad to have finally gained some experience in that essential area.
The farther east I travelled each day, the less settled the land became. On the last leg of my journey, I entered the true Midlands, and followed the King’s Road as it somewhat paralleled the river. The quality of the new high road varied greatly from stretch to stretch. There were supposed to be way stations at regular intervals, to offer clean water, a resting place and food for the King’s messengers. Some of these were small hamlets, but most were meagre places of doubtful shelter with little to offer an ordinary traveller. The worst was little more than a hut swayed to one side with a roof that threatened to collapse at any moment. I learned to be sure my water bags were full and that I had provisions for a noon meal before I departed from my lodging each morning.
Once, I passed a long coffle of prisoners and guards headed east. Rather than being flogged or losing a hand for their crimes, these men would become forced labour pushing the King’s Road ever closer to the Barrier Mountains. After a term of work, they’d be given land and an opportunity to begin life anew. Thus, in one stroke, the King offered the felons a second chance, advanced his road building, and peopled the new settlements of the east. Nonetheless, the shackled men I passed did not look as if they were anticipating a new life, while the wives and children riding behind the coffle in mule-drawn wagons looked even more dismal. Dust coated their faces and clothing, and several babies were wailing as Sirlofty and I cantered past them. I will never forget one small boy who sat near the tail of the wagon, his little head jogging miserably with every jolt of the wheels. I thought to myself at the sight of his dull eyes, ‘That child is near death.’ Then I shuddered, wondered how I could even imagine I knew such a thing, and rode past them.
My cavalla cadet uniform, I am sorry to say, suffered from constant wear. The buttons strained on my chest and the seams at the shoulders and thighs threatened to give way. Finally, I bundled it up as best I could and packed it away in my crowded panniers. After that, I wore my ordinary clothes, which were actually much looser and more comfortable for such a journey. I had to admit that I’d put on flesh, and more than I thought I had. I was hungry as I rode, for such exercise consumes a man, and yet I was grateful for the short rations I was on. Surely I’d be my lean and fit self again by the time I reached home.
THREE (#ulink_71e74f0b-b08d-515f-8eb9-4ac03f074495)
Spindle Dance (#ucbf7ae41-09c8-5bb0-8929-df683e6731e6)
The deeper I went into the Midlands, the more familiar the land became to me. I knew the prairies and plateaus, the green smell of the river in the morning, and the cry of the sage hens. I knew the name of every plant and bird. Even the dust tasted familiar in my mouth. Sirlofty seemed to sense that we were nearing home, for he went more eagerly.
One mid-morning, I reined in Sirlofty and considered an unexpected choice. A crudely lettered sign on a raw plank leaned against a pile of stacked stone by the side of the road. ‘SPINDLE DANCE’ was spelled out on the coarse slab. The roughly drawn characters were the work of a hand that copied shapes rather than wrote letters. A rough cart track led away from the well-travelled river road. It crested a slight rise; its hidden destination was beyond that horizon.
I debated with myself. It was a diversion from my father’s carefully planned itinerary, and I did not know how long a detour it might prove. Yet I recalled a promise from my father to show me some day the monuments of the plains-people. The Dancing Spindle was one of them. I suddenly felt it was owed to me. I set the rein against Sirlofty’s neck and we turned aside from the road.
The trail was not badly rutted, but enough traffic had passed this way that it was easy to follow. When I reached the top of the ridge, I found myself looking down into a pleasant little vale. Trees at the bottom indicated a watercourse. The cart track sidled down to the trees and then vanished into them.
Smelling water, Sirlofty quickened his pace and I allowed him his head. When we reached the brook, I allowed him to water freely, and knelt to quench my own thirst. Refreshed, I re-mounted and rode on. The cart track followed the brook for a short way and then crossed it. I resolutely pushed aside worry over how much time I was wasting. An inexplicable excitement was building in me; I felt compelled to follow the trail.
We followed the track as it climbed up out of the valley, over a rocky ridge and onto a rather barren plateau. A short distance away, the plateau gave way abruptly to a substantial canyon, as if some angry god had riven the earth here with an immense axe. The trail plunged down sharply to the distant floor. I reined in Sirlofty and sat looking down at a strange and marvellous sight.
The cracked earth of the canyon walls displayed seams of coloured stone, sparkling white and deep orange and red, and even a dusky blue. A roofless city, the walls worn to knee-high ridges and tumbled rubble, floored the canyon. I wondered what war or long-ago disaster had brought the city down. Dominating the canyon and dwarfing the city at its base was the Dancing Spindle of the plainsmen. No tale could have prepared me for the sight. The immense pillar leaned at a sharp, impossible angle. I shivered at the sight.
The Spindle was named for the woman’s spinning tool, and in truth it resembled a rounded rod with tapered ends, but of such a size that it beggared comparison. It had been chiselled out of red stone striated with bands of white. One end towered high above the canyon floor while the other was set in a deep depression in the earth, as if it drilled a bed for itself in the stony ground. The spiralling white stripes on the pillar and a heat shimmer rising between me and it created a convincing illusion that the Spindle was truly spinning.
The monument cast a long, black shadow over the ground at its base. The lone building that had survived whatever had slain the rest of the city was a tower edged with winding steps that spiralled up to almost reach the lower side of the tilted Spindle’s topmost tip. For the life of me, I could not see why the Spindle had not toppled ages ago. I sat on my horse grinning and enjoying the deception of my eyes. At any moment I expected the spinning Spindle to waver in its gyration and fall to the earth, spent.
But it did not. As I started down the steep wagon track that led to the canyon floor, I was surprised at how well the illusion held. I was so intent on staring at it that I almost didn’t notice the ramshackle hut built in the Spindle’s shadow. It hunched on the edge of the depression that cradled the tip of the Spindle. The surrounding ruins were of stone and clay, but the dilapidated cottage was more recently built of slabs of rough wood, gone silver with weathering. It looked abandoned. I was startled when a man emerged from the open door, wiping his mouth on a napkin as if my arrival had interrupted his meal.
As I rode closer, he turned and tossed the cloth to a plainswoman who had followed him out to stare at me. She caught it deftly, and at a sign from her master, the servant returned to the hut’s dubious shelter. But the man came towards me, waving a large hand in an overly friendly way. When I was still a good way off, he bellowed at me, ‘So you’ve come to see the Spindle?’
It seemed a ridiculous question. Why else would anyone have followed the track here? I didn’t respond, for I did not feel like shouting a reply to him. Instead, I rode steadily forward. He was not deterred.
‘It’s a wonder of primitive design. For only one hector, sir, I will show it to you and tell you its amazing history! From far and wide, from near and far, hundreds have come to behold its wonder. And today you shall join the ranks of those who can say, “I myself have seen the Dancing Spindle and climbed the steps of the Spindle’s Tower.”’
He sounded like a barker outside a carnival tent. Sirlofty regarded him with suspicion. When I pulled in my horse, the man stood grinning up at me. His clothes, though clean, were shabby. His loose trousers were patched at the knees and scuffed sandals were on his large dusty feet. He wore his shirt outside his trousers, belted with a brightly woven sash. His features and language were Gernian, but his garments, stance and jewellery were those of a plainsman. A half-breed, then. I felt both pity and disgust for him, but by far the largest measure of what I felt was annoyance. The sheer size and unlikeliness of the Spindle moved me to awe. It was majestic and unique, and I could not deny the soaring of spirit that it woke in me. I wanted to contemplate it in peace without his jabbering to distract me.
I thought the man a fool when he reached for Sirlofty’s headstall to hold my horse while I dismounted. Didn’t he recognize a cavalla steed when he saw one? Sirlofty, long schooled against such a tactic, reared and wheeled in one smooth motion. As he came down, he plunged half a dozen steps forward to be clear of the ‘enemy’. I pulled him in quickly before he could launch a savage kick at the man. Dismounting, I dropped his reins and he stood in obedient stillness. I looked back at the half-breed, expecting him to be shaken by the experience.
Instead, he was grinning obsequiously. He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his hands in an exaggerated gesture of astonishment. ‘Ah, such a mount, such a proud creature! I am full of envy at your fortune in possessing him.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied stiffly. The man made me uneasy and I wished to be away from him. His Gernian features contrasted with his plainsman mannerisms. His choice of words and vocabulary were those of an educated man, the guttural notes of a plains accent almost completely suppressed, and yet he stood before me in his worn sandals, his clothes little better than rags while his plains wife peered out at both of us from the shadowed doorway of their hovel. The contrast made me uncomfortable. He drew closer to me, and launched into a rehearsed monologue.
‘No doubt you have heard of the fabled Dancing Spindle, the most enigmatic of the five great monuments of the Midlands! And at last you have come to behold for yourself this marvel of ancient stonework. How, you must wonder, did the forerunners of the plainspeople, with their simple tools, create such a wonder? How does it balance and never fall? How does it create an illusion of motion when seen from a distance? And what, I am sure you ask yourself, did such an amazing creation signify to those who wrought it?
‘Well, you are not alone in asking these questions, sir! Learned scholars and philosophers and engineers have all, in their turns, ruminated upon these mysteries. From as far as Skay and Burry, they have come, and I who share the heritage of both the Plains and Gernia, have been pleased to assist them, just as I will gladly enlighten you, for the modest sum of one hector!’
His glib pitch reminded of the singsong cant of the freak show barkers on Dark Evening in Old Thares. The memory of that evening and all that followed flooded through me. I pushed aside his pleading palm with the back of my hand and stepped away from him. He flinched at my touch, although I was not rough.
‘I’ve come to see a rock formation that was doubtless mostly carved by the forces of nature, and only embellished by your people. I do not need to pay you to see what is right before my eyes! Please stay out of my way.’
For an instant, his eyes narrowed and I thought he would snarl at me. Then, his eyes widened, and to my surprise, he mimed another of his elaborate shrugs. He gestured towards the towering stone, making a small bow as he did so. ‘Do as you will, sir,’ he said. Then he bowed again and backed away from me. I stared after him, puzzled, for I had detected no sarcasm or rudeness in his words.
But as he turned away from me, I lifted my eyes and perceived the real reason for his sudden loss of interest. Creaking down the steep trail was a team and wagon. The open wagon had been decked as if for a holiday outing. A sunshade of bright yellow was suspended over its passengers. A banner painted on the side of the wagon proclaimed, ‘See the Wondrous Spindle!’. Within, a dozen passengers of all ages sat on cushioned benches, the ladies holding parasols against the spring sunshine. As my erstwhile guide hastened towards them, I saw my error. I had stumbled into his commercial endeavour unawares. Now that his true prey had arrived, he was forsaking me for a richer prize. That was as well with me. I turned my back on the tourists’ arrival and set my attention on the Spindle.
It was taller than the tallest building I’d ever seen, and far more massive. My eyes travelled to the towering tip, and then down the rod. It appeared to dwindle to a single sharp point touching the ground. I walked to the edge of the depression that cupped it and looked down. The sides of the bowl sloped steeply down, and the narrow point of the Spindle was lost in deep shadow, like a giant pen plunged into an inkwell. The whole structure leaned at a sharp angle, not touching the sides of the well, apparently supported by a small joining hidden within the well. That ran counter to my engineer’s instincts. How could such a small anchorage of rock support that weight? Even at this closer perspective, it still maintained its illusion of motion.
For a time I stood there, my neck craned, staring down at the Spindle’s tip in the deeply shadowed bowl. What had seemed when viewed from a distance a fine point in proportion to the gargantuan Spindle was in fact a substantial girth of stone. Where it disappeared from sight in the depths of the hole it had seemingly drilled in the earth, the cylinder’s girth was still as wide as a watchtower’s base. It must have been still. If it hadn’t been still, the grinding of the stone tip against the depths would have been deafening, as if a giant mortar and pestle were at work. But my gullible eyes still insisted that the Spindle spun. I shook my head to clear it of the optical illusion and tried to focus my mind on the real puzzle: What kept it in place? Given its mass and how it leaned, why hadn’t it fallen ages ago?
I had been certain that a closer view would reveal the trick of it. But now, standing as close to the base as I could get without tumbling into its well, I was as puzzled as ever. A lone tower edged with winding steps spiralled up to almost reach the lower side of the tilted Spindle’s topmost tip. I resolved that I would hike to the standing tower and climb the stairs. It looked as if the tower came so close to the Spindle’s tip that I could actually put my hands on it, to prove to myself that it could not be rotating. All thoughts of keeping this side trip to a brief detour had vanished from my mind. I would satisfy my curiosity at all costs. I lifted my eyes to pick out the best route over the broken land and immediately saw a faint footpath across the stony earth. Obviously, I was not the first gawker to have such an ambition. Confident that Sirlofty could mind himself, I left him standing and followed the track.
When my path led me directly beneath the Spindle and through its shadow, I went with trepidation. At the heart of the shadow, the day seemed to dim. I could swear I felt a distant chill wind, manufactured of the Spindle’s turning, brush my cheek. I felt in my chest rather than heard the deep rumbling of the Spindle’s eternal motion. The ghost wind seemed to slide a hand across the top of my head, stirring an uncomfortable memory of how the Tree Woman had caressed me. I was glad to step out of that shadow and away from those strange fancies, even though the day now seemed brighter and the sun too hot on my skull.
My path was not straight, but wandered through the broken walls and sunken roads of the fallen city that intersected my route. The stubs of the walls gave witness to the half-breed guide’s claim that the Spindle was a man-made wonder, for some were built of the same reddish stone as the Spindle and still bore odd patterns, an alternation of checkering and spirals, at once foreign and familiar. I walked more slowly, and began to see the suggestions of sly faces eroding from leaning slabs of wall. Hollow mouths fanged with now dulled teeth, carved hands reduced by time to blunt paws, and voluptuous women whittled by the wind to become sexless boys teased my eyes.
I climbed up on one corner of wall and looked around me. From that vantage point I could almost make sense of the tumbled walls and collapsed roofs. I jumped down and once more began to thread my way through … what? A temple town? A village? A graveyard of ancient tombs? Whatever it was, it had fallen, leaving the Spindle and its tower to lord it over the time-gnawed remains. How could a folk with tools of stone, bone and bronze have shaped such a vast creation? I even considered giving the guide a hector on my return, to see if he had a believable answer to the question.
When I reached the base of the tower, I discovered two things. The first was that it was in much poorer condition than it had seemed from a distance. The second was that it was not a proper building at all. It consisted only of a spiralling stair that wound up and around a solid inner core. You could not enter the tower at all; you could only ascend to its peak by the outer stair. A crude barrier of ropes and poles had been thrown up in front of the tower’s first step, as if to warn people off. I paid no heed to it. The lips of the stairs were rounded. The centre of each step dipped, tribute to the passage of both feet and years. The walls of the stair’s core had once been tiled with mosaics. Glimpses of them remained: an eye and a pair of leering lips, a paw with claws outstretched, the fat-cheeked face of a little child with eyes closed in bliss. Round and round I climbed, ever ascending. I felt a giddy familiarity yet could recall no similar experience in my life. Here, in the mosaic, the head of a red and black croaker bird gaped its beak open wide. Then, a tree, arms reaching up to the sun with its face turned to its rays. I had passed it by a dozen steps before it came to me that a tree should have neither arms nor a face. There was graffiti, too, the ever-present proclamation that someone had been here, or that someone loved someone forever. Some of it was old but most of it was fresh.
I expected to grow weary with the climb. The day was warm, the sun determined, and I was carrying more flesh than I’d ever had in my life. Yet there was something exhilarating about being up so high with nothing between me and a sheer drop to the rocky ground below the spire. With every step I took, the music of the spinning Spindle grew louder; I could feel the vibration in my bones. I felt the wind of its passage on my face. There was even a peculiar scent that I knew was generated by the stone’s movement, a warm smell, delicious: like singed spices. I stopped watching the stairs and looked up to the Spindle. I could see the striated stone core. It, perhaps, was still. But there was a hazy layer of air or mist that surrounded the Spindle, and it spun. I cannot explain the fascination and delight that this woke in me.
The top of the tower culminated in a platform the size of a small room. A low stone wall edged it, but on one side a crack had corrupted it and the stone had eroded away to an uneven mound only about the height of my knee. I walked to the centre of the platform, and then stood, looking straight up at the tip of the Spindle above me. I am a tall man, but its stony heart was still out of my reach. It puzzled me. Why had they built this spire, to bring someone so close to the wondrous monument and still have it be out of reach? It made no sense. The wind of the spinning stuff’s passage was warm on my face and redolent with spice.
I took a moment and stared out at the view. The ruined city was cupped in the canyon. The sightseers had disembarked from the wagon and stood in a respectful mob around the half-breed. I knew he was speaking to them, but not a sound reached my ears save the soft hum of the turning Spindle. I gazed up at it. I suddenly knew I had come here for a reason. I reached a slow hand up over my head.
Suddenly, a voice spoke near by.
‘Don’t touch it.’
I jumped and looked to see who had spoken. It was the plainswoman from the guide’s hut, or someone very like her. She must have followed me up the steps. I scowled. I wanted no company. My hand still wavered above my head.
‘Why not?’ I asked her.
She came a step closer to me, cocked her head slightly and looked at me as if she had thought I was someone she knew. She smiled as she said jestingly, ‘The old people say it’s dangerous to touch the Spindle. You’ll be caught in the twine and carried—’
My fingers brushed the spinning stuff. It was mist, said my fingers; but then the gritty stone surface swept against my hand. I was snatched out of my skin and borne aloft.
I have watched women spinning. I had seen the hanks of wool caught and drawn out into a fine thread on a spinning wheel. That was what happened to me. I did not keep my man’s shape. Instead, something was pulled out of me, some spirit or essence, and was drawn as fine as yarn and wrapped around the immense Spindle. It twisted me as it pulled me into a taut line. Thin as string I was and I spiralled around it like thread. My awareness was immersed in the magic of the Spindle. And in that immersion, I awoke to my other self.
He knew the purpose of the Spindle. It pulled the widely scattered threads of magic out of the world and gathered them into yarn. The Spindle concentrated the magic. And he knew the spire’s purpose. It gave access to the gathered magic. From here, a plainsman of power, a stone mage, would work wonders. This spinning spindle was the heart of plains magic. I’d found it. This was the well that not only the Kidona but all the plainspeople drew from. The suppressed other self inside me suddenly surged to the fore. I felt him seize the magic and glory in the richness of it. Some, he took into himself, but there was only so much this body could hold. As for the rest, well, now that he knew the source, no plainsman would ever unleash this magic against the Specks of the mountains again. I’d see to that. All their harvested magic was at the tips of my fingers. I laughed aloud, triumphant. I would destroy—
I strained, striving to grip what I could not see. It was too strong. I was abruptly flung back into my body with a jolt as shocking as if I’d been flung to my back on paving stones.
‘… to the edges of complete power. It is not a journey for the unprepared.’ The plainswoman finished her sentence. She was smiling, sharing a silly old superstition with me.
I swayed and then folded onto my knees. I saved some of my dignity by collapsing back onto my heels rather than falling on my face. My hands, I saw, rested on faded patterns carved into the stone. She frowned at me and then asked, more in alarm than concern, ‘Are you ill?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I replied. I took a deep steadying breath and became aware of a voice lecturing. It was coming closer. I was dizzy and I did not want to turn my head, but I did. The guide advanced slowly up the steps. He had donned a straw hat that gave him a comical dignity. Behind him came a gaggle of sightseers, the hardy ones who had made the climb. One woman held her parasol overhead. Two others fanned themselves against the day’s warmth. There were only two men in the party, and they seemed to be escorting the young ladies rather than here by their own inclination. A dozen boys and girls traipsed along behind the adults. The girls were trying to imitate the ladies but the lads were exhibiting the universal signs of bored boys, nudging one another, scuffling to be first onto the platform, and parodying the guide’s posture and remarks behind his back.
‘I beg of you all to be most careful and to stay well away from the edge. The wall is not sound. And, to answer your question, miss, the spire has four hundred and thirty-two steps. Now, please lift your eyes to the Spindle itself. Here you will experience the clearest view of it. You can now see that the illusion of motion is created by the use of the striated rock. At this distance, of course, the illusion ceases and one can see that the Spindle is fixed in place.’
Without standing up, I turned my eyes to the Spindle again. ‘It spins,’ I said quietly, and heard, aghast, the distance in my own voice. ‘For me, it spins.’ Despite my effort to clear my voice, I sounded like Epiny, when she spoke through her medium’s trance. That other self inside me struggled for ascendance. I suppressed him with difficulty.
‘You are not well, sir.’ The plainswoman stated this with emphasis. I sensed that she spoke to inform the others of my situation. ‘You should leave here.’
