Part One
Chapter 5
COUNTERPOINT
"Where Goffe?"
The two Maegenyldras were growing impatient. They hated these meetings; they all hated each other; but the organization of the upcoming great events took precedence over personal antipathies. They could not avoid meeting at least a few times to trade progress reports and coordinate the various shared responsibilities.
The two Traeppedelferes sat in a large den, sumptuously appointed relative to the generally spartan standards of the culture. There was a cleverly crafted fireplace in the wall, for example, burning with white and blue flames the fyrstan mined far below; and a window (actually a very long open shaft). There were also moveable chairs, rather heavily wrought of hammered metal, but a great luxury nonetheless. But perhaps the decadence of the room was epitomized by the thick rug which covered the floor. To a race accustomed to the unshod treading of hard stone halls, the feel of a carpet under their feet was a sensual, almost licentious treat. This rug had been procurred at great expense from the Mocwalwians, craftily woven of the same unknown fiber that that strange folk used in their manufacture of the hunters' ropes.
The Maegenyldras, though, were not impressed by their surroundings, and the rug only reminded them of the coming bazaar, the planning of which was one of the reasons for this meeting, which reminded them that Goffe was late, which irritated them mightily.
"Flotasaec!" humphed Cwidu, comparing Goffe to a particularly repulsive creature.
"Um," agreed Bicce, "Goffe, Cwidu also!" They exchanged arid stares.
The three Maegenyldras represented the general divisions of labor in the race, in a strictly informal arrangement followed through custom more than for expediency. Goffe spoke for the hunters and oversaw the feeding of the tribe; thus it was he who was responsible for the stocking of the warehouses and tallying the results of trade at the Bazaar. Cwidu, a wizened twatunge, reported on the maciantols, widucippians, and craftsfolk; a narrow interest ordinarily, but of greater importance at bazaar-time, as the demand for tools and metal-work was always keen among the Mocwalwians. The last was Bicce, an aged antunge with an unremittingly cynical and bitter personality. Bicce lorded over the stancippians, the miners, to their continual chagrin; offering relentless criticism and unfailingly inane advice. To her credit, though, she was a shrewd bargainer, and the traded value of the wains of fyrstan and the bundles of ingots had steadily increased under her negotiations at the Bazaars. She also claimed to have been one of the discoverers of strangdeaw in her youth: a claim widely discredited, though no one dared to challenge her authority to her face.
The waiting leaders sat in a nervous silence, except for an occasional ascerbic remark directed at each other or at Goffe. Their mutual distrust was palpable; the only mechanism that allowed this council to function at all was the circumstance of having three members, so that each attack might at least have a non-participating witness. So, until the third Maegenyldra arrived, no discussion could begin. Cwidu uncomfortably fixed his gaze on the fire. Bicce would have done the same, except Cwidu faced that way, so she inspected the rug instead. The heartbeats stretched to days, and two of the three most powerful figures in the race scowled irritably.
At last Goffe made his entrance, hurriedly. Like the others, he was ancient, bent and wheezing. They waited while he struggled to lift the heavy door into place (without volunteering any help, of course) before verbally assaulting him, pulling no punches.
"Flotasaec!"
"Mocetan!"
"Gyttja!"
"Gemaed!"
"Bunge-bunge!"
"Saelig!"
"Cnawannawiht!" (this last from Bicce).
Goffe sat down heavily, eyes lowered, making no retort. Cwidu and Bicce exchanged surprised looks. They had expected more of a rise out of him. Reticence was not one of Goffe's faults.
Goffe was deeply occupied with his own troubled thoughts. The Great Banquet was nearly upon them, and there had been no word of any of the three hunters he had sent out after oxagretes. If they had all been killed on the hunt, which loomed ever larger as a distinct possibility, he was in deep trouble. True, there were no witnesses, and no one else knew of the oxagrete hunt... but questions were bound to be raised if three of the most experienced and productive hunters in the tribe disappear at the same time. The temporary shortage of kernals was an endurable hardship for the race, however embarassing it might prove to be for him personally, but the sudden loss of three such hunters would be a sore blow indeed, and felt in the stomachs of everyone for a long time. Goffe was now wondering how to, at any cost, keep the fates of those three hunters from surfacing if indeed they did not return. But there was still time, still a little time...
All the other details of the planning had gone smoothly. He had arranged these things for more seasons than he could remember, and indeed (except for the lack of coecil) this coming Great Banquet promised a bacchanalian bounty of viands and wine. It was an indication of how niggardly the Maegenyldras husbanded their positions to note how paranoid Goffe had become over the shortfall of kernals.
Goffe finally looked up at the others, as though he became aware of their presence for the first time, and he smiled a patently affected, sarcastic smile.
"Mocetans," he derided, "great minds! I, Goffe, must prepare Great Banquet! Must do much, see much, say much! You, Cwidu; you, Bicce," he spat out the names distastefully, "you press hinds here, do nothing, make names for Goffe." He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Mocetans!"
"Um," assented Cwidu drily. "Um, mocetans, Cwidu, Bicce. That make all mocetans here, um? Not news to Cwidu, no. Goffe late: say sorry, and shut up! and we start council."
"Sorry you mocetans," sneered Goffe. "Sorry late, but I miss nothing, um? Ha!" He leered at Cwidu, then at Bicce.
Bicce leaned forward, glaring intently at Goffe. "I think Goffe great!" she said unexpectedly. "Great bealcian!" With that she suddenly and violently broke wind, to keen effect, laughing brazenly in Goffe's face. Cwidu rose in haste and hobbled away from the table, nauseated.
Goffe would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how utterly repulsive she was to him. Still leering his contemptuous grin through the yellow haze, he said, "Stancippians must be proud to let Bicce speak for them so!"
"Stop!" shouted Cwidu, swallowing hard. "No more dryge talk! Start council now, or I go. I also, Goffe, must do much, see much, though I do not say it as you do, and I not late for Maegenyldra council!"
With that they grudgingly gave up their acrimonious (and malodorous) banter, and settled down to the tedious business of reporting on the many facets of their close-knit society. The overviews of all three were positive: all seemed to be as prepared as could be expected at that time, although there were, as always, minor problems to be worked out. Goffe told them that preparations were in place for the Great Banquet; the foodstuffs (and he was intentionally vague here) were gathered and were already being butchered, cured, peeled, pressed, and so on. But he needed Cwidu to have a maciantol repair a blowanslaep cider press, and to have the widucippians fashion more casks, as the harvest of fruit had been most abundant that season. Cwidu nodded at the mention of the press repair, but shook his head at the request for more casks, saying, "there is no time! You think widucippian wave arm, Cha! there is cask? It is days to make cask, and we are preparing for bazaar! No casks."
"So," sighed Goffe, "Traeppedelferes must drain many casks at Great Banquet, to use for Bazaar."
Bicce's eyes lit. "Trust stancippians to that!" she promised. "I will order miners to drink much wine!"
"They may follow your order, for once," Cwidu commented. Bicce's eyes narrowed again.
Cwidu related the labors of his workers in preparation for the bazaar. Many odd tools, the uses of which were unknown to the maciantols, had been fashioned for trade with the Mocwalwians. He told of one in particular, ordered at the previous bazaar by a Mocwalwian barterer who described it in impassioned speech, which would command a high value in trade if it indeed suited their needs; but not understanding its use, the maciantols had no way of testing it beforehand. Nevertheless, Cwidu had authorized the production of many of them in the hope that the lowlanders would pay much. Goffe envisioned replenishing the kernal bins with this potential windfall; Bicce rubbed her feet against the soft rug. Cwidu went on to enumerate the wains and carts that had been refurbished, the annual inventory of metal plows, chains, nails, and parts of all description that the maciantols had already packed for transporting. In fact, his workers had been so productive (he boasted) that they were nearly out of stock metal. If Bicce would be so kind as to refill their warehouse with material, they could continue working right up to the bazaar.
Bicce exploded. "Twatunge!" she screamed accusingly at Cwidu. "Can not be! Stancippian keep warehouse full, always! Smelters always hot, great carts of ore made to metal staves, metal bars, metal plates!" She pointed a finger at Cwidu. "Great waste from maciantols every day, must be melted and made back to staves and bars and plates, also. Stancippians curse, say push heavy cart with new metal to maciantols, then must push heavy cart with maciantol waste metal back to smelter! I see, I say nothing. Now, you must say to your maciantols: no more! Use what we bring, not make more work for stancippians!"
"Use what you bring, you say," retorted Cwidu, "and I say: bring what we can use! We say to stancippians every day: staves too long, or plates too thick; maciantols work long and hard to cut and hammer to make right, when smelters can make right easier than make wrong! And still, they make wrong! Say not to me what you must do. Cwidu see, also. Stancippians slow to gather fyrstan for bazaar; Traeppedelferes from smelters work now in mines, to gather fyrstan to fill wains. So now, smelters slow with new metal! Cwidu see, um, I see much!"
Cwidu and Bicce glared at each other across the table. Bicce was livid, shaking with rage at these accusations. She hardly knew where to begin in refuting them, they were, to her, so heinous and utterly unfounded. The fact was, though, that they were absolutely true, and Bicce was ignorant of these goings-on in her own trades; which was as insightful an indictment of her managerial shortcomings as it was a tribute to Cwidu's attentive stewardship. But Bicce was the more powerful leader, if only through the blunt force of her personality, and her wrath seemed now about to break on Cwidu like an avalanche. She stood, leaning on the table with both hands, glaring at the old maciantol, and looked about to erupt - when Goffe laughed out loud, and said to Cwidu, "Back off! Another bealcian blows!"
The tension was released. Even Bicce had to smile a little, and Cwidu laughed out loud, almost merrily. Laughter was a rare and uncomfortable guest at councils of the Maegenyldras, though, and the three of them enjoyed it only momentarily, and then fell silent as if embarassed by the passing frivolity, so ill-becoming to their exalted station.
Bicce, ignoring Cwidu's complaints, took her turn in reporting. The stancippians had cut deep in search of ore and fyrstan, and had been forced to open new and, so far, less productive veins. Nevertheless, the wains were being loaded on schedule, and the fyrstan as well as the ores were of an exceptionally high quality, and she confidently predicted a rate of exchange at least equal to that of the previous season's bazaar - which was the highest in memory, she reminded them. At the same time, a new water-shaft was being made with strangdeaw which, when completed, would divert water from a newly discovered underground spring not only to the new mining areas, but would also add to the water supply of the dwelling-caves. Cwidu nodded perfunctorily, Goffe shrugged - this had nothing to do with the agenda of the meeting: he felt that Bicce was padding her report.
When she went on to describe the re-carving of the abandoned mines, rendering them inhabitable, Goffe knew she had left the course of the council, and had become enamored of her own voice. Without preface or explanation, he rose and turned to leave. Cwidu smiled, though he quickly blanched when he saw the antunge grow red in the face and rise also. "You thriddahype!" she screamed full voice at Goffe (referring to that animal's ability to jump in any direction). "You dare come late to council, make Bicce wait. Now you dare leave while I say report! Mocetan!"
"You say nothing!" Goffe rejoined, without turning back to face her (further insult!). "Council on Great Banquet, council on Bazaar; Bicce say water-shaft, Bicce say new dens! Bah! Council dryge! I go." He pulled on the door, and it fell to with a loud thud.
Bicce followed him into the hall, carping, "Goffe, no more! Look well, Goffe. Bicce will see you, and your great works! They must be right, or Bicce will see, and you will come to me, Goffe; you will come to me!"
The great hall was much different now than when Smaelaer and Snecchen had whispered in the dark there: it was now a brightly lit, noisy, bustling arena; fairly bursting with the din of busy workers. Hunters, returned with their kills, helped prepare the victuals or aided in raising the huge dais, upon which all the Yldras and Maegenyldras, the Giestranweard, and the Wrencanmodor, would preside over the festivities. The morwetraeppes scrubbed, cleaned and polished; wellemodors and morwemodors assisted the overwhelmed antunges and twatunges whose everyday duty it was to prepare food for the stancippians, widucippians, and maciantols (the rest had to fend for themselves). The cooks worked feverishly, night and day, knowing that they would be able to rest after the Great Banquet when the large trading party departed for the Bazaar, and when appetites in general would be significantly smaller after the engorging excesses of the feast.
Goffe stepped in to survey the scene. On his arrival in the hall the din instantly diminished; insecure glances were flashed, finished and forgotten tasks were remembered and inspected for incriminating defects, however miniscule. Of course Goffe noticed the suddenly increased tension and industry (in fact his vanity magnified this effect in his own mind past all actual occurence): it pleased him immensely, it was his due. After all, with a wave of his hand any of them could be swept away like so much dust; it behooved them to please him, and he meant to enjoy every groveling gesture. He approached an aging hunter, occupied with the arrangement of skins and pelts in bundles here and there about the hall. "You, there," Goffe addressed her, "Pipasefte! come here." The antunge hastily went to him. He asked, "What hunters come back to mines? What news of hunt?"
She inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when she realized that Goffe was not inquiring about her personally, and answered, "Hunt goes well; great stores of thriddahypes to singe for feast, and more to dry and smoke for next season. Great stores of blowanslaep, also; so great no casks to put in. Weodthuf boil, berries wait in piles." She looked around the hall at the faces of the workers. "Better to ask what hunters not come back to mines! Almost all here now."
Goffe became slightly irritated. "That no answer! Hefighon, is Hefighon here now?"
"Not think. Not hear of him," she said.
"Penigsaec?"
"Um!" she brightened. "Penigsaec return late in night, with many, many thriddahypes! Large cart, piled high. I help bring in."
"Thriddahypes?!" Goffe shrieked. Pipasefte was startled and puzzled by his reaction. Of course thriddahypes! "Where Penigsaec now?" Goffe demanded angrily.
"Not know," Pipasefte said, thoughtfully. "Sleep, rest, I think."
Goffe glowered. He had sent Hefighon and Penigsaec out to hunt oxagretes. Goffe had hoped that each of the hunters he sent would bring in a kill for the feast, ensuring plenty (and to spare). He would have to deal with Penigsaec's insolence in ignoring his orders. He dismissed Pipasefte with a condescending wave of his hand, and turned to leave the hall to look for Penigsaec, when he suddenly thought to ask Pipasefte about the third hunter he had sent. But, as it turned out, he didn't need to.
A morwetraeppe, obviously just now in from the forest, had run in to the hall through the far entrance as Goffe spoke with Pipasefte. Soon a commotion was brewing amongst the Traeppedelferes in the hall as some rumor was spread from mouth to ear throughout. Goffe haughtily stepped to the dais and motioned for the offending morwetraeppe to come to him, and the young twatunge, swallowing hard, made his way through the litter of the preparations. Calm made an effort to descend, but could not smother curiosity as the muffled report was carried to those who had not yet heard. In this way the morwetraeppe's news was broadcast through the banquet hall, and Goffe became perhaps the last of those present to hear it, an affront to his position which did not go over well with him. "What," demanded Goffe, his voice cracking, "is this outrage?"
The twatunge trembled. "Maegenyldra," he began, "I not know you in hall, or I come to you. I bring word of brave Hefighon, and other news."
Goffe forgot his anger immediately upon hearing Hefighon's name. "What of Hefighon?" he asked impatiently. "How his hunt?"
The morwetraeppe's face fell. "Bad. Very bad!" The twatunge swallowed hard again. "Hefighon snare oxagrete! I see it! It was terrible! terrible!" His voice quavered as he tried to master the memory of the fear. "Only one great hoof was caught. Hefighon - oh, I know not how he could do it! Hefighon try to stab oxagrete with knife on long staff, before oxagrete pull loose. But oxagrete break rope before Hefighon kill, and, and..." his voice trailed off, and he shook convulsively. "So strong, horns so sharp, so fast, teeth... Hefighon no more; not a bone, not a toe! Oxagrete not see me; oxagrete gemaed, gemaed! Blood, oh! I run, run, run, not look back!" He sobbed into his hands, in front of the Maegenyldra, in front of the entire assemblage of workers in the hall, now silent, listening. None, not even cold Goffe, were unmoved by this young twatunge's tale; though Goffe was moved more by the thought of his own complicity than by the morwetraeppe's eyewitness account. Soon the twatunge overcame his woe, and began to speak again. "That not the strangest thing I see," he said. "I travel fast, I come back to mines to tell of Hefighon, to work at feast. But I had far to run. Five days I pace, when I taste oxagrete again! I not forget taste, never. I hide, I scout; I see not oxagrete, but three oxagretes, eating weodasur. I fear for myself, I think of Hefighon..." He broke off, suddenly eyeing Goffe with suspicion. Then he blurted out, "I not cnawannawiht! No! No! You will see!" He cried to the others in the hall, "You will all see! I not cnawannawiht!"
No one knew how to react to this outburst, with the Maegenyldra present, though they all hoped he would continue with his tale. But it could be thought incriminating merely to mention such a possibility before an Yldra, and especially face to face with a Maegenyldra. Everyone in the huge hall, and they numbered quite a few, stood motionless, waiting for Goffe to indicate what should be done; even the morwetraeppe, who said nothing more. Goffe was aware of their attention, but he was keenly interested in hearing about the oxagretes, and in finding out why the twatunge thought that continuing his tale might result in his being named cnawannawiht. Finally, Goffe said, "Of course you not! We all know this, um?" He turned to the others, who immediately nodded their agreement. The morwetraeppe looked up at the Maegenyldra; Goffe nodded encouragement.
Taking a deep breath, he continued. "I see three oxagretes, huge, all three, bigger than Hefighon's! But I see more. I see a Traeppedelfere, walking with oxagretes, touching them! Touching them! He put hand right on one, so!" He demonstrated by laying his palm gently on the side of Goffe's shoulder. Goffe was too amazed at this display of audacity to remember to be offended. The youth continued, "I made small sound of surprise, hunter find me right away, begin talking strange words to me, I not understand, and become frightened. Then he look at me strange for moment; but after that he say words I understand. He call to me, tell me bring news to Goffe, to cooks. Make ready, he say, to prepare three large oxagretes for Great Banquet! Two days, he say, he will bring beasts, and butcher them before the mines! That one day ago; they come in one more day! I just come, tell tale, I not understand. Please, great Goffe! I not cnawannawiht!"
To any of them who had any knowledge of oxagretes, or had heard any stories of the beasts (and most of those present had, being hunters, former hunters, or future hunters), the tale was absolutely incredible. That the morwetraeppe would be summarily named cnawannawiht and not seen from again was a foregone conclusion among those witnessing the scene.
Pipasefte, however, was rolling around in her mind Goffe's questions, and his reactions to her answers. Why, she wondered, was Hefighon, who was an experienced and wily hunter, trying to kill the oxagrete, rather than merely letting it escape and saving himself, as was the established practice when accidentally snaring the dangerous animals? And why was Goffe so upset when he heard of Penigsaec's outstanding hunt? And how, how could a hunter lead three oxagretes back to the mines to be slaughtered like so many grunddwellan?
This last question burned in every mind in the hall, and not least of all in Goffe's. But he exulted that his desperate plan had after all been carried out, whatever the mysterious circumstances. The loss of Hefighon was unfortunate; he decided then and there on the dais that he could claim no credit for the idea of the oxagrete hunt, lest he be blamed for Hefighon's tragic death. He also decided to move things forward, and addressed the morwetraeppe, "Go, young one, sleep. If all as you say, have no fear. Go now." To the workers, he said, "Did you hear? Make ready for three oxagretes! Great Banquet will be one to remember this season! Smaelaer brings three oxagretes!"
At the mention of the hunter's name, the group became animated, as if aroused out of a dream. Here was a hero! One of them, who had done the impossible, the unthinkable! As Goffe left the dais, left the hall to ponder the turn of events, he could hear the workers buzz and rumble with excitement.
Far down the corridors, just before he got out of earshot of the great hall, he heard a rumor which troubled him deeply, an ominous chant, growing louder, echoing through the corridors from the banquet hall: "Smaelaer! Smaelaer! Smaelaer! Smaelaer!"
Pipasefte stood quietly amidst the chorus, thinking. How did Goffe know the oxagrete hunter was Smaelaer?
Goffe paused in the hallway, listening, then plodded on. One problem solved, another created.
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