Brian Aldiss - Helliconia Spring

The women on the bank looked from Myk’s half-drowned body, surrounded by a growing puddle, to Shay Tal’s retreating figure.

“Now what did she want to go and do that for?” old Rol Sakil asked the company. “How come she didn’t drown the stupid thing properly while she was about it?”

The next time the council met, Laintal Ay rose and addressed them. He said that he had heard Shay Tal lecture. All knew of her miracle at Fish Lake, which had saved many lives. Nothing she did was directed to the ill of the community. He proposed that her academy should be recognised and supported.

Aoz Roon looked furious while Laintal Ay spoke. Dathka sat rigid in silence. The old men of the council peered at each other under their eyebrows and muttered uneasily. Eline Tal laughed.

“What do you wish us to do to aid this academy?” Aoz Roon asked.

“The temple is empty. Give it to Shay Tal. Let her hold meetings there every afternoon at promenade time. Use it as a forum, where anyone can speak. The cold has gone, people are freer. Open the temple as an academy for all, for men, women, and children.”

His resounding words died into silence. Then Aoz Roon spoke.

“She cannot use the temple. We don’t want a new lot of priests. We keep pigs in the temple.”

“The temple is empty.”

“From now on, pigs are kept in the temple.”

“It’s a bad day when we put pigs above the community.”

The meeting eventually broke up in some disorder, as Aoz Roon marched out. Laintal Ay turned to Dathka, his cheeks flushed.

“Why didn’t you support me?”

Dathka grinned sheepishly, tugged his narrow beard, stared down at the table. “You could not win if all Oldorando supported you. He has already banned the academy. You waste your breath, my friend.”

As Laintal Ay was leaving the building, feeling disgusted with the world, Datnil Skar, master of the tawyers and tannerscorps, called to him and grasped his sleeve.

“You spoke well, young Laintal Ay, yet Aoz Roon was right in what he said. Or, if not right, not unreasonable. If Shay Tal spoke in the temple, she would become a priestess and be worshipped. We don’t want that—our ancestors got rid of the priests some generations ago.”

Laintal Ay knew Master Datnil for a kindly and modest man. Restraining his anger, he looked down at the worn face and asked, “Why tell me this?”

Master Datnil looked about to see that no one was listening.

“Worship arises from ignorance. Believing in one fixed thing is a mark of ignorance. I respect attempts to drum facts into peoples heads. I wanted to say that I am sorry you were defeated, though I don’t agree with your proposition. I would be willing to address Shay Tal’s academy if she will have me.”

He removed his fur hat and set it on the lichenous sill. He smoothed his sparse grey hair and cleared his dry throat. He looked about him and smiled nervously. Although he had known everyone in the room since he was born, he was unaccustomed to the role of speaker. His stiff clothes creaked as he shifted from one foot to another.

“Don’t be afraid of us, Master Datnil,” Shay Tal said.

He caught the note of impatience in her voice. “It’s only of your intolerance I’m afraid, ma’am,” he replied, and some of the women squatting on the floor hid smiles behind their hands.

“You know what we do in our corps, because some of you work for me,” Datnil Skar said. “Membership in the corps is for men only, of course, for the secrets of our profession are handed down from generation to generation. In particular, a master teaches all he knows to his personal novice or chief boy. When a master dies or retires, then the chief boy becomes master in his turn, as Raynil Layan will soon take over my position…”

“A woman could do that just as well as any man,” said one of the women, Cheme Phar. “I’ve worked for you long enough, Datnil Skar. I know all the secrets of the brine pits. I could pickle myself, if need arose.”

“Ah, but we have to have order and continuity, Cheme Phar,” said the Master mildly.

“I could give the orders all right,” said Cheme Phar, and everyone laughed, then looked at Shay Tal.

“Tell us about the continuity,” the latter said. “We know, as Loilanun taught us, that some of us are descended from Yuli the Priest, who came from the north, from Pannoval and lake Dorzin. That’s one continuity. What about continuity within the corps, Master Datnil?”

“All members of our corps were born and bred in Embruddock, even before it was Oldorando. To many generations.”

“How many generations?”

“Ah, a good many …”

“Tell us how you know this.”

He wiped his hands on his trousers.

“We have a record. Each master keeps a record.”

“In writing?”

“That’s correct. Writing in a book. The art is passed on. But the records are not to be disclosed to others.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“They don’t want the women taking over their jobs and doing it better,” someone called, and again there was laughter. Datnil Skar smiled with embarrassment, and said no more.

“I believe that secrecy served a protective purpose at one time,” Shay Tal said. “Certain arts, like metal forging and tannery, had to be kept alive in bad times, despite starvation or phagor raids. Probably there were very bad times in the past, and some arts were lost. We cannot make paper any longer. Perhaps there was once a paper-makers corps. Glass. We cannot make glass. Yet there are pieces of glass about—you all know what glass is. How is it that we are more stupid than our ancestors? Are we living, working, under some disadvantage we don’t fully understand? That’s one of the big questions we must keep in mind.”

She paused. No one said anything, which always vexed her. She longed for any comment that would push the argument forward.

Datnil Skar said, “Mother Shay, you speak true, to the best of my belief. You understand that as master I am under oath to disclose secrets of my art to nobody; it’s an oath I take to Wutra and to Embruddock. But I know that there were once bad times, of which I am not supposed to speak…”

When he fell silent, she helped him with a smile. “Do you believe that Oldorando was once bigger than it is now?”

He looked at her with his head on one side. “I know you call this town a farmyard. But it survives… It’s the centre of the cosmos. Well that’s not answering your question. My friends, you found rye and oats growing north of here, so let’s speak of them. To the best of my belief, that place was once carefully tended fields, enclosed against wild beasts. The fields belonged to Embruddock. Many other cereals grew there and were cultivated. Now you cultivate them again, which is wise.

“You know we need bark for our tanning. We have a job to get hold of it. I do believe—well, I know …” He fell silent, then he said quietly, “Great forests of tall trees, which yield bark and wood, grew to the west and north. The region was called Kace. It was hot then, and there was no cold.”

Someone said, “The time of heat—that’s a legend left over from the priesthood. The sort of tale we’re supposed to get out of our minds in the academy. We do know that it was once colder than it is now. Ask my grandma.”

“What I’m saying is that, to the best of my belief, it was hot before it was cold,” Datnil Skar said, slowly scratching the back of his grey head. “You should try to understand these things. Many lives go by, many years. There’s a lot of history vanished. I know you women think that men are against you learning, and it may be so; but I speak sincerely when I say that you should support Shay Tal, despite various difficulties. As a master, I know how precious knowledge is. It seems to run out of the bottom of a community like water out of a sock.”