The Great Fetish

9

Marko said: “Damn it, Boert, can’t you learned men do something about the speed of the wind? Last time, it got us in trouble by blowing twice as fast as expected. This time it bids fair to do the same by blowing only half as fast.”

Muphrid lay low on the western horizon. Ahead, already in shadow, lay the island of Mnaenn.

Halran sighed and shrugged. “At this rate, the convention will be half over before we can get there. We have a choice of either descending on Mnaenn, or continuing on northwestward and alighting in the sea when our fuel and ballast give out, some time tonight. Would you prefer the latter?”

Marko sighed in his turn. “I suppose not. The witches will probably want to kill us, too, as the Afkans did. They may have something more refined and lingering than a quick chop.”

“We talked our way out of the last one,” said Halran. “It is not inconceivable that we can do the same with this.”

“Yes? You know the old saw about taking a jug to the fountain one time too many. I don’t get inspirations like that often.”

“We do what we can, not what we would.” Halran busied himself with the valve cord. Marko heard the hiss of escaping air. The balloon sank.

The last rays of Muphrid turned scarlet, then purple, as the island waxed before them. The horizon rose to occlude the disk of the luminary.

Towards the center of the island, a group of structures came into view in the twilight. Dominating the group was a domed building of sacerdotal monumentality. Around the houses stretched the plateau, an irregular surface broken by a few dwarf stupas, mostly growing between patches of cultivation.

Marko said: “Doctor, I’m not sure the wind will take us over the top of that table land. It may take us to the left of the island.”

“I am not positive, either,” replied the philosopher. “If I knew definitely that we should miss the cliffs, I should set us down in the water and try to swim to the landing place.”

He pointed to a tiny stretch of beach, whence a path cut in the cliffside led about halfway up the cliffs. There it ended on a ledge. Directly above the ledge, on the edge of the cliff, Marko saw what looked like a rope ladder rolled up on a reel. -He stared down at the water, where choppy waves smashed against the base of the cliff, and said:

“I was the best swimmer in Skudra, but I don’t think I could live through that. That water’s rougher than it looks from up here.”

“We don’t realize the force of the wind, because we move with it. If we can alight on the top, fine. If I see we cannot, I will set us down in the water. Perhaps we can work our way around over the talus when the surf subsides.”

Marko still looked doubtfully at the surf, since little talus showed above the waves. He said:

“I hope the balloon decides to do one thing or the other. I should hate to pull the rip cord and then miss the edge by a foot.”

“Prepare to pull,” said Halran, valving air.

Marko grasped the cord. He stared fascinated as the cliff rose towards them and the land opened out. The course of the balloon was tangent to the curve of this edge. A yard to the right, and they would be safe on the mesa; a yard to the left, and they would tumble off into the smother a hundred yards below.

“Pull!” screamed Halran, throwing a leg over the side of the basket.

Marko pulled, then gathered up the slack and pulled again. He heard the ripping sound of the slide of the zip fastener, and the basket dropped suddenly. It struck the ground with a mighty jar. Marko staggered, recovered, and started to climb over the side after Halran, who had leaped to the ground at the instant of alighting.

Before Marko could do so, the underside of the stove smote him on the head as the collapsing bag lowered it on the basket. Then the basket overturned as the wind dragged the bag. Marko had an instantaneous picture of the bag (now limp and flapping), the stove, the ropes, and the basket all bumping along the ground in a tangle of which he was the center. He rolled free into the wet phosphor grass.

“Help me!” shrieked Halran, who had seized a fold of the fabric and was trying to drag it back from the edge of the cliff. So close to the edge had they come down that part of the bag hung over the cliff. A good gust might send the whole apparatus off into the sea.

Marko helped Halran to haul the heavy fabric back, fold by fold, until it was all safely away from the edge. He was assisting the philosopher to drive the anchor and a couple of stakes into the ground when voices made him turn.

He faced a group ‘of women wearing knee-length skirts or kilts. Although he could not be sure in the fading light, most of them looked young. Marko strode towards the group, saying:

“I beg your pardon, ladies, but is this—”

The girls turned and ran shrieking; all but one, who stood her ground. She looked youngest of all, a smallish girl, who said:

“Who are you?” She spoke Anglonian, but in a dialect that MarJco found hard to follow.

“My name is Marko, and that is Dr. Boert Halran, the philosopher. Is this Mnaenn?”

“Certainly. What are you doing here?”

“The storm blew us out of our course.”

“What do you want?”

“Want? Why, you’ll have to ask Dr. Halran, but I suppose we should like quarters for the night, or until the wind blows the right way, and then some help in blowing up our balloon again.”

“What did you call that thing?”

“A balloon. Dr. Halran has just invented it.”

“Oh. The others thought you demons. You may have trouble convincing the Stringiarch you are not.”

“Who are you?” said Marko.

“My name is Sinthi.”

“Sinthi what?”

“Just Sinthi. We do not have surnames. Where are you from?”

“We set out from Lann before dawn, a few days ago. We have been to Afka and back.”

“Great Einstein! You must have ridden the wings of the wind.”

“That,” said Halran, joining them, “is precisely what we did, young lady. Now if you could see about obtaining us a meal and a place to sleep, we will not be any more trouble than we can avoid.”

“I hope I can,” said Sinthi. “The Stringiarch will be furious with you for alighting without permission. I suppose you have been to Niok and Roum and Vien and Bahdaed and all the other great cities.”

“Yes,” said Halran.

“I wish I could go there.”

“Don’t they let you leave?” said Marko.

“No. Once a witch, always a witch.”

They walked slowly towards the settlement. Marko asked: “What sort of witchcraft do you do?”

“I am training to be a pyromancer. I wanted to compound love philters, but they said I lacked talent.”

“And what is this cult of Einstein?”

“Why, this is the center of the worship of Einstein, the god of science,” said Sinthi.

Marko said: “Our Syncretic Church of Vizantia recognizes Newton as the god of wisdom: one of the subordinate gods along with Napoleon and Columbus and Tchaikovski. But we have no Einstein in our pantheon.”

“Well, here Einstein is not only the head god; he is the only real god, the others being mere demigods or saints. We say, ‘There is no god but Einstein, and Devgran is his prophet.’ “

“Who is Devgran?”

“David Grant, I think it was originally pronounced, the Ancient One who founded Mnaenn at the time of the Descent.”

“And is that the temple?” Marko pointed to the domed structure.

“Certainly,” said Sinthi.

“What’s in it?”

“That houses the Great Fetish of Einstein.”

“I’ve heard of that,” said Marko. “Could we see it?”

“Oh, no! Outsiders aren’t allowed to see it ever. We hold a special service for it once a year, at which time it is uncovered.”

“What is this fetish?” asked Marko.

“Oh, I don’t think I should tell you.”

“A statue, is it not?” said Halran innocently. “A golden statue of Einstein holding a mountain in one hand and hurling a thunderbolt with the other—”

“No!” cried Sinthi. “Einstein, being pure spirit, is incorporeal and cannot be depicted.”

“Oh, I must have been misinformed,” said Halran. “Then the story is true that it is in the form of a geometrical figure, with gems at the angles—”

“Nothing of the sort! The fetish is a pile of boxes about so high.” She indicated the height of a yard. “Each box—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “You mainlanders are too clever for me!”

“Well, well,” said Halran in a fatherly way, “now that we know so much, you might as well tell us the rest. It is not as though we intended to harm or desecrate the sacred object.”

“Well, each box is made of a transparent substance, like glass but flexible, and Inside each box is a stack of cards about the size of your hand. These cards have a spotty look, but there is no writing on them as far as anybody can see. Still, the Prophecy of Anjla says the reign of the Witches of Mnaenn shall end when a man-child of Mnaenn shall read the wisdom of the Ancient Ones from the cards of the Fetish. But that is of course impossible.” “Why?” said Marko.

“Anjla prophesied hundreds of years ago. At once, ‘the Stringiarch adopted the policy of killing all male children at birth, instead of selling them, so that their rule could never be ended.”

“So that,” said Marko, “is why you witches get your male customers to father your children?”

“Yes. But I’ve never had one yet. The older witches get the first claim on them. By the time the clients finish with them, they are no longer interested in us younger ones.”

Marko clucked disapprovingly. It would be a mighty man indeed who could work his way down through the whole hierarchy.

A trumpet blew in the twilight, and figures appeared running. A lantern” with a reflector cast its spotlight on Marko and Halran.

“Surrender!” cried a high female voice in the accents of Mnaenn. “Drop that ax, foreigner, or we’ll fill you with bolts!”

Marko saw that, of those who approached, several carried cocked crossbows. At that range they could hardly miss, even in the near-dark. Neither man wore any armor. Even if they successfully bolted now, they could not escape from the island without help in reinflating their balloon.

“They have us,” said Halran. “Oh, why did I ever set out on this rash venture… .”

Marko drew his ax from its sheath and tossed it on the ground.

“March-!” cried the same high voice. “Madam,” said Marko, “we’re only harmless travelers who—”

“Silence!”

In the town of Mnaenn, the houses were small but solidly built of the island’s black basaltic rock. They were broad and squat in outline, as if the builders feared that hurricanes would blow them away.

More witches appeared in the doorways, looking with frank curiosity at the captives. Marko caught comments on his appearance and suppositious attributes that made him blush.

The houses became larger as they approached the temple in the center. The temple was a big structure, with three stories towering over the rest of the town. From the great central dome, wings rambled off in eight different directions.

The escort herded Marko and Halran into the door at the end of one of these wings and down a long corridor.

By the lamplight of the interior, Marko had a better chance to see his captors. They were all armed women, wearing polished brass cuirasses molded to accommodate the female form, crested brass burgonets on their heads, and kilts. Some carried crossbows and some light pikes. All had blades—one could call them large daggers or small swords—hung from their belts. They did not look very formidable; but Marko reminded himself that, even if he were twice as burly, a jab from a sharp spearhead would let out his life no matter who did it.

The women did not wear the cosmetics affected by those of the Anglonian cities, but they were neater and more attractive than the slatternly hill women of Vizantia. The frequency of light hair and blue eyes bespoke Anglonian or Eropian ancestry. Sinthi had come in with the rest. Marko saw that she had greenish eyes and brown hair with a strong reddish cast.

She was a well-rounded, buxom girl, not exactly beautiful, but good-looking in a wind-blown, healthy way.

Marko was escorted into a room where sat an elderly woman, lean and hard-looking. The female soldiers clanked to attention. The oldest, who had screeched at the travelers, laid Marko’s ax on the desk and told her story. Marko could not get all of it because she spoke fast in her strong dialect, but he gathered that he and Halran were suspected of designs on the Great Fetish.

The lean old woman glared at the two men and spoke to Halran: “I am the Stringiarch Katlin. Tell your tale, foreigner.”

Halran began: “It is this way, my lady. I am Dr. Boert Halran, philosopher, on leave from the faculty of the University of Lann. I have been engaged in some experiments of unparalleled significance …”

Halran wandered off into the technicalities of aerostatics, getting more and more abstruse until Katlin Interrupted him: “I suppose you are speaking Anglonian, though it makes no sense to me whatever. I shall merely comment that you philosophers can look for little mercy from us, if by your inventions you learn to duplicate all the thaumaturgies we effect by magic and thus deprive us of our livelihood. All right, Fats, tell your story, and try to keep to the point more closely than this old rattlepate.”

Marko said: “My lady, I’m Marko Prokopiu, Dr. Halran’s assistant. He invented this balloon, as he tried to tell you. We set out in it to fly to Vien, but the storm blew us out of our course so that we had to light on Afka. When we persuaded the Afkans to let us depart, a calm delayed our return to the mainland, so that we had to put down here. We sincerely apologize for trespassing and will leave as soon as we can reinflate our balloon, assuming the present wind holds.”

“A likely story,” snapped the Stringiarch. “I shall soon learn if it be true and what to do with you. Put them in a cell and summon the head sibyl.”

The female soldiers led Marko and his companion away, down more halls, turning this way and that until Marko was completely confused. They went down a flight of stairs, through a door of bronzen bars, which clanged behind them and into a cell with a similar door. The guards locked this door, too, and marched away. The captives were left in semidarkness, relieved only by the faint glow of a lantern in a wall bracket down the corridor.