Atlantis and Other Places (38 page)

As I drew closer, the wind grew colder. Birds flew up from the circle, surprised and frightened that anyone should dare approach. “Chaka-chaka-chak!” they called, and by their cries I knew them for jackdaws.

I do not believe I have ever seen stonework so fresh before. The uprights and the stones that topped them might have been carved only moments before. No lichen clung to them, and I had seen it mottling boulders in the plain. Hylaeus noted the same thing at almost the same time. Pointing ahead as Oreus had done before, he said, “Those stones could have gone up yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” I agreed, “or surely within the past few years.” And all at once, a chill colder even than the breeze pierced me to the root. That was the time in which the tin failed.

Again, Hylaeus was not far behind me. “This is a new thing,” he said slowly. “The passing of the folk of the Tin Isle is a new thing, too.”

“Chaka-chaka-chak!” the jackdaws screeched. Suddenly, they might have been to my mind carrion crows, of which I had also seen more than a few. And on what carrion had those crows, and the jackdaws, and the bare-faced rooks, and the ravens, on what carrion had they feasted? The wind seemed colder yet, wailing out of the north as if the ice our bones remember lay just over the horizon. But the ice I felt came as much from within me as from without.

Oreus said, “Who made this circle, then, and why? Is it a place of magic?”

Nessus laughed at that, even if the wind blew his mirth away. “Could it be anything but a place of magic? Would any folk labor so long and so hard if they expected nothing in return?”

Not even quarrelsome Oreus could contend against such reasoning. I shivered yet again. Magic is a curious business. Some folk choose to believe they can compel their gods to do their bidding by one means or another, rather than petitioning them in humble piety. What is stranger still is that some gods choose to believe they can be so compelled—at least for a while. Sometimes, later, they remember they are gods, and then no magic in the world can check them. Sometimes . . . but perhaps not always.

I looked at the stone circle again, this time through new eyes. Centaurs have little to do with magic, nor have we ever; it appears to be a thing contrary to our nature. But I believed Nessus had the right of it. Endless labor had gone into this thing. No one would be so daft as to expend such labor without the hope of some reward springing from it.

What sort of reward? Slowly, I said, “If the other folk of the Tin Isle fail, who will take the land? Who will take the mines?”

Once more, I eyed the stone circle, the uprights capped with a continuous ring of lintel stones, the five bigger trilithons set in the hoof-shaped pattern within. Of itself, my hand tightened on the copper-headed spear I bore. I thought I could see an answer to that. Had much power sprung from all this labor?

Chip, chip, chip
. I turned at the sound of stone striking stone. Oreus had found a hard shard and was smacking away at one of the uprights. Before I could ask him what he was about, Nessus beat me to it.

“What am I doing? Showing we were here,” Oreus answered, and went on chipping.

After watching him for a while, I saw the shape he was making, and I could not help but smile. He was pounding into that great standing stone the image of one of our daggers, broad at the base of the blade and with hardly any quillons at all. When he had finished that, he began another bit of carving beside it: an ax head.

“Not only have you shown we were here, but also for what reason we came to the Tin Isle,” I said. Oreus nodded and continued with his work.

He had just finished when one of our hes let out a wordless cry of warning. The centaur pointed north, straight into the teeth of that wind. As I had with Oreus’ before, I followed that out-flung, pointing arm. There coming towards us were the ones who, surely, had shaped the circle of standing stones.

 

 

If dogs had gods, those they worshiped would wag their tails and bark. If sheep had gods, they would follow woolly deities who grazed. As the world is, almost all folk have many things in common, as if the gods who shaped them were using certain parts of a pattern over and over again.

Think on it. You will find it holds much truth. Centaurs and sirens and sphinxes and fauns and satyrs all have faces of an essential similarity. Nor were our features so much different from those of Bucca the nuggy on this distant shore. The differences, such as they are, are those of degree, not of kind.

Again, hands are much alike from one folk to another. How could it be otherwise, when we all must grasp tools and manipulate them? Arms are also broadly similar, one to another, save when a folk needs must use them for flying. Even torsos have broad likenesses amongst us, satyrs and fauns, nuggies, and, to a lesser extent, sirens as well.

The folk striding towards us through the green, green grass might have been the pattern itself, the pattern from whose rearranged pieces the rest of us had been clumsily reassembled. As bronze, which had brought us here, is an alloy of copper and tin, so I saw that sirens were an alloy of these folk and birds, sphinxes of them and birds and lions, satyrs of them and goats, fauns of them and horses. And I saw that we centaurs blended these folk and horses as well, though in different proportions, as one bronze will differ from another depending on how much is copper and how much tin.

Is it any wonder, then, that, on seeing this folk, I at once began to wonder if I had any true right to exist?

And I began to understand what Bucca meant. As a nuggy, he was no doubt perfectly respectable. Next to these new ones, he was a small, wrinkled, ugly
thing
. Any of us, comparing ourselves to them, would have felt the same. How could we help it? We were a mixture. They were the essence with which our other parts were mixed. They might have been so many gods approaching us.

Nessus shivered. It might have been that cutting wind. It might have been, but it was not. “When I look at them, I see my own end,” he murmured.

Because I felt the same way, I also felt an obligation to deny it. “They are bound to be as surprised by us as we are by them,” I said. “If we have never seen their kind, likewise they have never seen ours. So long as we keep up a bold front, they will know nothing of . . . whatever else we may feel.”

“Well said, Cheiron,” Hylaeus told me. Whether it would likewise be well done remained to be seen.

“I will go forward with two others, so they may see we come in peace,” I said. “Who will come with me?” Hylaeus and Oreus both strode forward, and I was glad to have them (gladder, perhaps, of the one than the other). The reason I offered was plausible, but it was not the only one I had. If I went forward with only two bold companions, the new folk would have more trouble noticing how so many of my hes wavered at the mere sight of them.

We three slowly went out ahead of the rest of the band. When we did, the strangers stopped for a moment. Then they also sent three of their number forward. They walked so straight, so free, so erect. Their gait was so
natural
. It made that of fauns or satyrs seem but a clumsy makeshift.

Two of them carried spears, one a fine leaf-shaped sword of bronze. The one with the sword, the tallest of them, sheathed his weapon. The other two trailed their spears on the ground. They did not want a fight, not then. We also showed we were not there to offer battle.

“Can you understand me?” I called.

Their leader frowned. “Can you understand
me
?” he called back in a tongue not far removed from the one Bucca used. I could, though it was not easy. I gather my language was as strange in his ears.

“Who are you? What is your folk?” I asked him, and, pointing back toward the stone circle, “What is this place?”

“I am Geraint,” he answered. “I am a man”—a word I had not heard before. He looked at my companions and me. “I will ask you the same questions, and where you are from, and why you have come here.”

I told him who I was, and named my kind as well. He listened attentively, his eyes—eyes gray as the seas thereabouts—alert. And I told him of our desire for tin, and of how we had come from the lands around the Inner Sea to seek it.

He heard me out. He had a cold courtesy much in keeping with that windswept plain. When I had finished, he threw back his head and laughed.

If I needed it, I could have brought up my ax very quickly. “Do you think I jest?” I asked. “Or do you aim to insult me? If you want a quarrel, I am sure we can oblige you.”

Geraint shook his head. “Neither, although we will give you all the fight you care for if that is what you want. No, I am laughing because it turns out those funny little digging things were right after all.”

“You mean the nuggies?” I asked.

Now he nodded. “Yes, them,” he said indifferently. “I thought they dug because they were things that had to dig. But there really is a market for tin in this far corner of the world that has none of its own?”

“There is,” I said. “We have trade goods back at the
Horse of Bronze
, our ship. We will pay well.”

“Will you?” He eyed me in a way I had never seen before: as if I had no right to exist, as if my standing there on four hooves speaking of trade were an affront of the deadliest sort. Worse was that, when I looked into those oceanic eyes, I more than half believed it myself.

Oreus, always quick to catch a slight, saw this perhaps even before I did. “I wonder if this man-thing has any blood inside it, or only juice like a gourd,” he said.

Geraint should not have been able to follow that. He should not have, but he did. His eyes widened, this time in genuine surprise. “You are stronger than the nuggies,” he said. “Do any of them yet live?”

“Yes,” I said, not mentioning that we had seen only Bucca. “Will you trade tin with us? If not, we will try to mine it ourselves.” I did not look forward to that. We had not the skills, and the nuggies’ shafts would not be easy for folk with our bulk to negotiate.

But Geraint said, “We will trade. What do you offer?”

“We will trade what we have always sent north in exchange for tin,” I answered. “We will give you jewelry of gold and precious stones. We will give olive oil, which cannot be made here. We will give wheat flour, for fine white bread. Wheat gives far better bread than barley, but, like the olive, it does not thrive in this northern clime.” I was sure the olive would not grow here. I was less sure about wheat, but Geraint did not need to know that.

“Have you wine?” Geraint asked. “If you have wine, you may be sure we will make a bargain. Truly wine is the blood of the gods.” The mans with him nodded.

“We have no wine,” I said. “We did not bring any, for it is not to the nuggies’ taste.” That was true, but it was far from the only reason we had no wine. I said not a word of any other reasons. If Geraint wanted to ferret out our weaknesses, he was welcome to do so on his own. I would not hand them to him on a platter.

I wondered what weaknesses the mans had. Seeing him there, straight and erect and godlike in his all-of-one-pieceness, I wondered if mans had any weaknesses. Surely they did. What those weaknesses might be, though, I had no idea. Even now, I am less certain of them than I wish I were.

I said, “You must leave off killing the nuggies who grub the tin from the ground. They have done you no harm. That will be part of the bargain.”

One of the mans with Geraint did not understand that. He repeated it in their language, which I could follow only in part. I did not think he turned it into a joke or a bit of mockery, but the mans laughed and laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

To me, he said, “You misunderstand. We did not kill the nuggies and the other folk hereabouts. They see us, and then they commonly die.”

“Of what?” I asked.

He told me. I was not sure I followed him, and so I asked him to say it again. He did: “Of embarrassment.”

I refused to show him how much that chilled me. These mans embarrassed me, too, merely by their existence. I thought of Bucca, who was somehow tougher than his fellows. I wondered who among us might have such toughness. I was not sorry these mans dwelt so far from our homeland.

Another question occurred to me: “Did you make this great stone circle?”

“We did,” Geraint answered.

“Why?” I asked.

I thought he would speak to me of the gods these mans worshiped, and of how those gods had commanded his folk to make the circle for some purpose of their own. I would not have been surprised that he and the other mans had no idea what the purpose was. That is often the way of gods: to keep those who reverence them guessing, that they themselves might seem the stronger. And I would not have been surprised to hear him say right out that the purpose of the circle was to bring a bane down upon the other folk dwelling in those parts.

But he answered in neither of those ways. And yet his words
did
surprise me, for he said, “We raised this circle to study the motions of the sun and moon and stars.”

“To study their motions?” I frowned, wondering if I had heard rightly and if I had understood what I heard.

Geraint nodded. “That is what I said, yes.”

I scratched my head. “But . . . why?” I asked. “Can you hope to change them?”

He laughed at that. “No, of course not. Their motions are as the gods made them.”

“True,” I said, relieved he saw that much. These mans were so strange, and so full of themselves, he might easily have believed otherwise. “This being so, then, what is the point of, ah, studying these motions?”

“To know them better,” Geraint replied, as if talking to a fool or a foal.

For all his scorn, I remained bewildered. “But what good will knowing them better do you?” I asked.

“I cannot tell you. But knowledge is always worth the having.” Geraint spoke with great conviction. I wondered why. No sooner had I wondered than he tried to explain, saying, “How do you know you need tin to help harden copper into bronze? There must have been a time when folk did not know it. Someone must have learned it and taught it to others. There must have been a time when folk did not know of wonderful wine, either, or of this fine wheat flour you brag you have brought to trade. Someone must have learned of them.”