Robert Silverberg - At Winter's End

To the one that had opened the doorway for him Hresh said, “Tell me the functions of these devices.”

By way of reply it opened a niche in the wall and drew out a golden-bronze globe small enough for Hresh to hold in his hand. Its metal skin was translucent, and he could see a smaller globe of shining imperishable quicksilver rolling about within it. There was no control stud on it, or any other visible means of operating it. But when he touched it with his mind, amplified as it was by the Barak Dayir, the soul of the little globe opened to him as though swinging back on hinges, and he plunged forward into dizzying realms of knowledge.

“Hresh?” Taniane asked. “Hresh, are you all right?”

He nodded. He felt dazed, awed, astounded. In a swift, intoxicating rush of data the globe told him what uses the things he saw before him had. This device here: it was a wall-builder. This one: it paved streets. This one measured the depth and stability of foundations. This one erected columns. This one cut through rock. This one transported debris. This one — this one — this one—

He had seen devices something like these long before, during his first explorations of the ruins. He remembered how they had run amok when he tried to operate them, wildly building walls and erecting bridges and digging pits and demolishing buildings as if operating by their own whim and fancy alone. He had had to hide those machines away, for they were worse than useless: they were dangerous, they were destructive, they were uncontrollable.

But this little golden globe of quicksilver in his hand — it must be the master control device, Hresh realized, the one that all the others obeyed. With its aid, he could build an entire Vengiboneeza with these machines! A purposeful mind, focused through the globe, could direct this host of city-building machines in anything that needed to be done. No more bridges from nowhere to nowhere, no more walls running in lunatic profusion up the middle of boulevards — but only orderly construction, in accordance with whatever plan he chose. He would be the master, and this globe the foreman, and these other machines the builders.

“What do you have, Hresh? What is all this?”

“Miracles and wonders,” he said in a hushed voice. “Miracles and wonders!”

He gestured to the two Bengs, who were looking on from outside the doorway as though stupefied. Though they still strained against his control, they could not break it.

“You!” he called. “In here! Start carrying this stuff out and loading it on your vermilion!”

It took a dozen trips back and forth before everything that seemed to Hresh to be important had been transported to the settlement of the People. Just before dawn Hresh sent the two Helmet Men on their way, with his warmest thanks, and their minds wiped clean of all that they had done that night.

Within the temple Torlyri worked with frantic zeal by fluttering candle-light, packing all the holy things for the journey they would be making. Now and then she paused and stood leaning against the cool stone wall, breathing deeply. Sometimes she began to tremble uncontrollably. Only a few days remained before the departure from Vengiboneeza.

Hresh would take care of the chronicles and everything that was associated with them. The rest, all that the tribe had accumulated in its thousands of years of secluded existence, fell to her responsibility. Little carved amulets, and bowls and statuettes sacred to this god or that, and wands used in the healing of disease, and bright polished pebbles whose origin and purpose had been forgotten but which had been handed down from offering-woman to offering-woman as cherished talismans.

Boldirinthe had helped her with the task the past two nights. But yesterday, while they were working, she had turned to her suddenly and said, “Are you weeping, Torlyri?”

“Am I?”

“I see the tears on your cheeks.”

“From weariness, Boldirinthe. Only weariness.”

“It makes you sad to think of leaving here, eh, Torlyri? We were happy in Vengiboneeza, weren’t we?”

“The gods decree. The gods provide.”

“If I could be of any comfort to you—”

“To comfort the comforter? No, Boldirinthe. Please.” Torlyri laughed. “You misunderstand what you see. There’s no sadness in me. I’m very tired, that’s all.”

Tonight Torlyri worked by herself. She felt the tears pressing close behind her eyes and knew that they would flow freely at the slightest spur; and she could not bear to be the recipient of Boldirinthe’s compassion, or anyone’s. If she broke down, she must do it alone.

With trembling fingers she wrapped the sacred things in bits of fur or woven containers and laid them away in the baskets that would be carried with the tribe on the trek. Sometimes she kissed one before she put it away. These were the things that had been the tools of her trade throughout her life, by which Torlyri had ensured the continued kindness of the gods. They were only little objects of stone or bone or wood or metal, but they had godliness in them, and power. And more than that: she had lavished her love upon them. They were as familiar to her as her own hands. Now, one by one, they disappeared into their baskets.

As the shelves emptied she could feel her fate rushing headlong toward her. Time was growing very short.

She heard footsteps outside the sanctuary. She looked up, frowning.

“Torlyri?”

Boldirinthe’s voice. She has come anyway, Torlyri thought in irritation. Going to the door, she thrust her head out and said, “I told you, I had to work alone tonight. Some of these talismans only I may behold, Boldirinthe.”

“I know,” said Boldirinthe gently. “It’s not my wish to trouble you at your work, Torlyri. But I bring a message for you, and I thought you would want to have it.”

“From whom?”

“Your Helmet Man. He is here and wishes to see you.”

“Here?”

“Just outside the temple. In the shadows.”

“No Beng may enter this building,” said Torlyri, growing flustered. “Tell him to wait. I’ll come out to him. No, no, I don’t want anyone to see us together tonight.” She knotted her hands tensely and moistened her lips. “You know where the storehouse is, on the other side of the building, where Hresh keeps the things he’s dug up in the city? See if there’s anyone in there now, and if it’s free, take him there. Then come back and let me know.”

Boldirinthe nodded and disappeared.

Torlyri attempted to return to her work, but it was hopeless; she fumbled things, she nearly dropped them, she could not remember the blessings she was supposed to utter as she lifted them from their places. After a few minutes she gave up entirely and knelt at her little altar, elbows forward on its edge, head downward, praying for calmness.

“He’s waiting for you,” Boldirinthe said softly behind her.

Torlyri closed the cabinet of holies and snuffed the candle. In the darkness she paused to give Boldirinthe a tender embrace and a light kiss, and to whisper her thanks. Then she stepped through the passageway that led to the plaza, and went around the side of the many-angled building to Hresh’s storeroom.

It was a warm mild night, with no breeze stirring, and bands of bright-edged clouds lying across the moon. Yet Torlyri shivered. She felt a tightness in her belly.

Trei Husathirn, a single glowberry cluster in his hand to light his way, was pacing like a caged creature in the storeroom when Torlyri entered. He was wearing his helmet, and he seemed bigger than Torlyri remembered. She had not seen him for some days now; there was simply too much work to do at the settlement. He prowled about, poking here and there at the collection of devices that Hresh and his Seekers had assembled. Hearing Torlyri, he whirled and threw up his arms as if to defend himself.