Bob Shaw - The Wooden Spaceships

“Well now, Drumme—what fanciful tale have you for us this time?” demanded Jop Trinchil, arms folded across the pudgy billows of his chest. He was grey-haired and plump, but he carried his excess weight with ease and had hands which looked like natural farming implements. In a straight fight it was likely that he would be able to dispose of Bartan without even getting out of breath.

“Tale? Tale?” Bartan, playing for time, chose to sound indignant. “I don’t trade in tales.”

“No? What was it when you told me you were familiar with this territory?”

“I told you I had flown over the region several times with my father, but that was a long time ago—and there is a limit to what one can see and remember.” The final word of the sentence was out before Bartan could check it, and he cursed himself for having given the older man another opportunity to use his favourite so-called witticism.

“I’m surprised you even remember,” Trinchil said heavily, glancing about him to solicit laughs, “to point your spout away from yourself when you piss.”

And I’m surprised you even remember where your spout is, Bartan thought, keeping the riposte to himself with difficulty as those around him, especially the children, burst into immoderate laughter. Jop Trinchil was Sondeweere’s legal guardian, with the power to forbid her to marry, and reacted so badly each time he was bested in a verbal duel that she had made Bartan vow never to score over him again.

“I see no profit in going any farther west,” a blond young farmer called Raderan put in. “I vote we turn north.”

Another said, “I agree—if the bluehorns last long enough we’re going to end up arriving back where we started, but from the other direction.”

Bartan shook his head. “If we go north we’ll only drive into New Kail, which is already well settled, and you will be obliged to split up and take inferior plots. I thought the whole purpose of the expedition was to claim prime land for yourselves and your families, and to live as a community.”

“That was the purpose, but we made the mistake of not hiring a professional guide,” Trinchil said. “We made the mistake of hiring you.”

The truth contained in the accusation had a greater effect on Bartan than the vehement manner in which it was delivered. Having met and fallen in love with Sondeweere he had been devastated to learn that she was leaving the Ro-Amass vicinity with the expedition, and in his determination to be accepted by Trinchil and the others he had exaggerated his knowledge of this part of the continent. In his ardour he had half-convinced himself that he could recall the broad geographical features of a vast area, but as the wagons had groped their way west the inadequacies of his memory and handful of sketch maps had become more and more apparent.

Now he was reaping the reward for his manipulation of himself and others, and something in Trinchil’s manner was making him fear that the reward might contain an element of physical pain. Alarmed, Bartan shaded his eyes from the sun and studied the shimmering marshland again, hoping to pick out some feature which would have a stimulative effect on his memory. Almost at once he noticed a kink in the horizontal line which was the area’s far boundary, a kink which might indicate a narrow extension of the marsh in a river-bed. How would that look from the air? A thin white finger pointing west? Was he deceiving himself again or was there just such an image buried in some recess of his mind? And was it linked to an even fainter vision of lush, rolling grasslands traversed by clear streams?

Deciding to take the final gamble, Bartan produced a loud peal of laughter, using all his vocal skills to make it sound totally natural and unforced. Trinchil’s silver-stubbled jaw sagged in surprise and the discontented babble from the rest of the group abruptly ceased.

“I see nothing amusing in our situation,” Trinchil said. “And even less in yours,” he added ominously.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Bartan giggled and knuckled his eyes, the picture of a man fighting to control genuine merriment. “It was cruel of me, but you know I can’t resist my little jokes—and I just had to see your face when you thought the whole venture had come to naught. I do apologise, most sincerely.”

“Have you lost your reason?” Trinchil said, hands clenching into huge leathery clubs. “Explain yourself at once.”

“Gladly.” Bartan made a theatrical gesture which took in the whole of the marshy basin. “You will all be delighted to hear that yonder dish of mildewed porridge is the very landmark for which I have been aiming since the outset. At the other side of it, just beyond those hills, you will find an abundance of the finest agricultural land you have ever seen, stretching for league upon league in every direction, as far as the eye can see. My friends, we are almost at journey’s end. Soon our days of toil and tribulation will be over, and we will be able to lay claim to the…”

“That’s enough of your wind,” Trinchil shouted, raising his hands to damp the rising note of excitement among some of the onlookers. “We have suffered this kind of rhetoric from you too many times in the past—why should we believe you this time?”

“I still say we should turn north,” Raderan said, stepping forward. “And if we’re going to do that it would be best to do it from here rather than waste time circling that swamp on the say-so of a fool.”

“Fool is too kindly a word for him,” said Raderan’s hulking gradewife, Firenda. After a moment’s thought she suggested what she considered a more appropriate description, bringing a gasp from several of the other women, and an even more ecstatic howl of laughter from the children.

“It is well that you are protected by your skirts, madam,” Bartan protested, privately doubting his ability to stand up to the giantess for more than a few seconds, and to his dismay she immediately began to fumble with the knot of her waistcord.

“If it is only my shift that deters you,” she grated, “we can soon…”

“Leave this to me, woman!” Trinchil had drawn himself up to his full height and was conspicuously asserting his authority. “We are all reasonable people here, and it behoves us to settle our disputes through the exercise of reason. You would agree with that, wouldn’t you, Mister Drumme?”

“Wholeheartedly,” Bartan said, his relief tempered by a suspicion that Trinchil’s intentions towards him had not suddenly become charitable. Beyond the circle of people he saw the yellow-haired figure of Sondeweere part the canopy of a wagon and begin to descend to the ground. He guessed she had hung back, knowing he was in fresh trouble and not wishing to increase his discomfiture with her presence. She was wearing a sleeveless green blouse and close-fitting trews of a darker shade. The garments were quite standard for young women in farming communities, but it was evident to Bartan that she wore them with a special flair which distinguished her from all the others, and which signified equally rare qualities of mind. Even with his present difficult situation to occupy his thoughts, he was able to take a keen pleasure in the graceful, languorous movement of her hips as she climbed down the side of the wagon.

“That being the case, Mister Drumme,” Trinchil said, moving towards Bartan’s wagon, “I think the time has come to rouse your sleeping passenger and make her start paying her way.”

This was the moment Bartan had been hoping to avert since the beginning of the expedition. “Ah… It would occasion a lot of hard work.”

“Not as much hard work as crossing those hills and perhaps finding a swamp or desert on the other side.”