Ozark Trilogy 2: The Grand Jubilee (27 page)

“So it is,” said Granny Hazelbide, “so it is. But it leads to a pure
mess
now. Take Brightwater, seeing it’s so handy-is there any Family we don’t have among the folks living here, Responsible?”

“No Travellers,” she said. “Nary a one.”

“Well, they don’t count anyway. If they lived here they’d have to worry all the time about their precious souls, what with our wicked electric lights and our evil lizzies and far on into the night. You can’t count them.”

“Everybody else, though,” Responsible agreed, “we have passels of. I know what you mean, and I don’t know precisely how they’ll do. Say you’re a family with Smiths in all directions, living here in Brightwater, then what? That make Delldon Mallard your King, or not?”

“It has always been true,” said Patience of Clark gravely, “that a woman gone to live in the house of a man considered herself a part of
his
family, from that time on, or went back to her own place. And the same for a man.”

“True,” said Thorn of Guthrie. “But that was when it didn’t matter, if you follow me. That was when we were all one Confederation. There might be squabbles among us, and some Families more annoying than others, the way one of the tadlings in a house’ll be more bothersome than all the rest put together. But in the ways that mattered, we were all
one.”

“Bless my stars,” muttered Granny Hazelbide, “if Thorn’s not begun to learn politics in her old age! Never thought I’d see the day.”

Thorn of Guthrie curled her perfect lips and looked scornful, and allowed as how a question that related to the real world was worth noticing and she wasn’t such a poor stick she
couldn’t
notice it, thank you very much.

“It’s a skein that’ll be a long time unwinding,” observed Patience of Clark. “I’m not all that comfortable about it.”

“Nor
me, child,” said Granny Gableframe. “I’ve got a feeling in my bones.”

“People will have to make up their minds, I suppose,” said Jubal Brooks. “Do they go by lines drawn on a map, when it comes to their loyalties, or do they go by blood? And say you’re a Farson man married to a McDaniels, and the both of you living in Kingdom Motley-if you
did
want to go back to your own kind, which one’d take precedence? Farson or McDaniels? And the children, would they want to go or would they consider theirselves Motleys by having been born there?”

“It’s Old Earth all over again,” said Granny Hazelbide grimly. “Next thing you know we’ll have people starving one side of a line that doesn’t exist, and people fat and sleek on the other, burning their garbage. I can just see it coming. Just see and
hear
it coming!”

“This world once more,” Granny Gableframe declaimed, “and then there’ll be fireworks.” Whatever that might mean.

It had put something of a pall on breakfast.

And thinking now, musing over the Families, scrambled or not, Responsible felt a good deal less than comfortable herself. She was
worried
about the Gentles.

Nothing she knew of the Guthries, for all that they were her close kin, led her to be optimistic about their behavior; they were sharp of wit, but they were by and large outrageous. The Farsons had a kind of elegant devious charm that was more dangerous than any of the right out front stupidities the Smiths had carried through. And the Purdys! Prejudice or not, you could
not
trust the Purdys. They didn’t even trust one another. And there sat the Gentles, relying on the sworn word of Responsible of Brightwater, completely surrounded on all sides by the three of them. And not knowing, might could be, that anything had changed.

Her mind was made up. Anything that might come up here at Brightwater for sure didn’t require
her
attention; there was a Magician of Rank and two Grannys under this roof. Already, she was pleased to remember, the Grannys had settled the Bridgewraith, and with the two of them working together it had taken hardly any time at all. She would go this very night, no more excuses, soon as it was dark enough to travel easily, and she’d see to the warding of the Gentles. The supplies she’d gathered that night Lewis Motley Wommack had made such a sorry showing trying to follow her were adequate for the task, if she was. It was near on nine o’clock this minute; if she planned to see to the matter tonight, and for sure she did, it would take her all the rest of the day and a hard push to get ready in time. Starting with locking her door and sending down word that she was to be left alone and not bothered even for meals. That would give the Family something else to talk about at the table, at least.

Two hours later, purged of her breakfast-and thank the Twelve Corners the conversation that morning hadn’t been the kind that made for a good appetite-and as clean as the three ritual baths could make her, her skin sore from the crushed herbs, she sat in
her blue rocker and considered the problem. It was a nice one, and the more she thought about it the more complicated it became.

How, precisely, did you accomplish a task that could only be done by magic, on behalf of a large population that considered magic to be not only barbarous and primitive but unspeakably evil? How did you go about keeping a promise that had been a lie to begin with, on behalf of a race that so far as anyone had been able to determine was not capable of lying? For she had sworn she’d use no magic, when the complaint was made to her. And no way did she dare call in anyone for advice; as Granny Hazelbide would have said, she had a funny feeling.

She went over and pushed the computer access numbers for POPULATIONS, INDIGENOUS, which produced three entries: SKERRYS, GENTLES, MULES. That always made her nervous, finding the MULES on the list, but the computers were very firm about it. From among the set she chose GENTLES, and requested a full data display. The comset made none of its usual crotchety noises; the reduction of the broadcast area to one small Kingdom had improved its performance enormously. It hummed softly, and gave her what she asked for:

GENTLES, INDIGENOUS POPULATION OF PLANET OZARK-HUMANOID

ESTIMATED NUMBER OF YEARS ON PLANET, FIFTY THOUSAND

ESTIMATED NUMBER OF INDIVIDUALS, ELEVEN THOUSAND (CAUTION, THIS FIGURE BASED ON INADEQUATE DATA) LOCATION: CAVES UNDER WILDERNESS LANDS OF CONTINENT ARKANSAW, BOUNDED ON NORTH BY KINGDOM PURDY, ON EAST BY KINGDOM GUTHRIE, ON WEST BY KINGDOM FARSON, ON SOUTH BY OCEAN OF STORMS (NOTE NO EVIDENCE AREA INHABITED BY GENTLES EXTENDS TO OCEAN, DATA INSUFFICIENT)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: MALES AND FEMALES, APPROX THREE FEET TALL, WHITE FUR ON ALL BODY SURFACES, EYES DARK PURPLE ON YELLOW, FELINE PUPILS PRESUMABLY FOR SEEING IN DARKNESS OF CAVES

PHYSICAL STRENGTH ONE FOURTH HUMAN APPROX (CAUTION, DATA INADEQUATE)

INTELLIGENCE PRESUMED EQUAL TO HUMAN (CAUTION, DATA INADEQUATE)

PSIBILITIE5 UNKNOWN

GOVERNMENT: OLIGARCHY OF THREE ANCIENT FAMILIES

RELIGION UNKNOWN

CUSTOMS UNKNOWN

HISTORY: CEDED ARKANSAW SURFACE TO HUMANS BY TREATY ON SETTLEMENT (CAUTION, REPEAT CAUTION-GENTLES CONSIDER ALL MAGIC SINFUL, HAVE BEEN KNOWN TO SUICIDE FOR “DISHONOR OF MAGIC”-APPROACH WITH CARE)

DATES OF CONTACT: NOVEMBER 112129; APRIL 4 ...

The list went on, showing some sixty-odd contacts in one thousand years-those would be the reported ones, and there’d be twice as many unreported, she didn’t doubt-and then there were a few names with a handful of data attached to each, and the display winked out.

It was a pitiful fragment of knowledge to have about a race you shared a planet with. On the other hand, it was a tribute, after a fashion, to the Ozarkers. They’d made no attempt to investigate the Gentles, as they’d made none to seek out the Skerrys, about whom far less was known. If there was one thing an Ozarker did understand, it was a request for privacy.

Responsible prayed rarely. She had an idea that she ought to pray more often, but she kept forgetting. This, however, was a situation where prayer was indicated forcibly enough to override even her desire not to be beholden. She found herself faced with the fact that if she did not use magic to protect the Gentles they might well be destroyed by the misbehavior of the Families of Arkansaw-not that they’d harm them on purpose, she wasn’t ready to consider any such thing as that, but that in the course of tearing around the continent disputing with one
another
they were almost guaranteed to grow careless of what they tore up and who got discommoded in the process. And if she did use magic, and the Gentles should discover that she had, the whole population might well feel obligated to ritual suicide. Talk of being between a rock and a hard place! She prayed, and she prayed from the heart, and she prayed at length, though she didn’t kneel; the idea that the Holy One had any special admiration for one posture over another, so firmly held to by the Reverends, struck her as ridiculous. The point was the praying, not how your legs were bent, nor how uncomfortable you could manage to get.

When that was done, she sighed, wishing she felt more confident and all charged with divine fire or some such, and not feeling that way at all, and she began taking things from her magic-chest. She drew out the gown of fine lawn and pulled it through the golden ring that fit her little finger; it went through without hindrance or snag, and she slipped it over her head. Her hair went into a single long braid down her back, bound by a clasp handed down from one Responsible to another since First Landing; she was always terrified she’d lose the fool thing and bring on some unspecified catastrophe, but so far she’d hung on to it. Next there were the shammybags that held the holy sands, to be hung from the narrow white belt that went round her waist, and the flagons of sacred springwater, bound together on a cord braided of her own hair and fastened to that same belt. A pouch of gailherb hung round her neck and slipped between her breasts to be warmed. On her bare feet went low boots of Muleskin made soft as velvet; over all, a hooded cloak of the same supple stuff. And she was ready.

She went lightly equipped, by Granny standards. They’d of thrown in two saddlebags of herbs, and put amulets and talismans all over her, and hung strings of garlic and preserved lilac from one end of Sterling to the other; there’d of been feathers and asafetida and probably conjure poppets . . .

Responsible grinned. By Granny standards she was off to a war naked and barefoot and blindfolded. She’d make very sure neither one of them caught sight of her, prowling the Castle in the night as was their habit. The thing was, the less of that truck she had on her person, the less likely she was to be spotted and seen to be engaged in magic if she had the awful fortune to be seen by one of the Gentles. And she’d not have used it anyway; this was a task requiring Formalisms & Transformations, not dolls and herbs and doodads.

As the sun started going down she began to get hungry, but that was to be expected. She ignored her stomach, and watched the line of Troublesome’s mountain out through her window. When the sun was tucked exactly in the notch that marked the highest ridge, it would be time for her to go.

And what, she wondered idly, would Lewis Motley Wommack the 33rd have had to say if he’d seen her SNAP from her own windowsill without benefit of a Mule?

Law, there she
was,
thinking of him again! She clicked her tongue like a Granny, disgusted with herself. Sure enough, it had been a kind of peace, a kind of wondrous
rest,
being with someone whose mind she could share as easily as she shared ordinary speech with everybody else. Like moving around in a place of columns and soft wind and- She brought herself up short. If there’d been words for what it was like, it wouldn’t have been what it was; she was just translating perceptions that had no counterpart into perceptions there were names for, and a mighty poor job she was doing of it. Nothing in the dictionary, so far as she knew, would cover an endless space confined in a finite one, nor label for her tongue a corner that you could not go round because it came back upon itself . . . She rubbed absently at the aching place just above her right eyebrow, that spot back of which the Immensity began, a golden Immensity swept by

“Responsible of Brightwater,
stop it! Now!”
she said aloud, sharp as she knew how. A fine shape she’d be in for what lay ahead of her if she went on like this! Think of Una of Clark, rotten to the soul with the sickness of Romantic Love, and how she’d despised her, taunted her, for that! Then think of
her,
Responsible of Brightwater, mooning here at her window over this man she’d lain with twice, and neither time blessed by either Reverend or custom . . . Was she any better than poor Una?

It was just that until he came she had thought there was nobody else like her in all the world. It was a kind of loneliness that was not eased by sharing mindspeech with a Mule, nor what the Magicians of Rank thought passed for mindspeech. And he had eased it, unbraided her mind for her where the knots were tightest and most tangled . . .

Nevertheless, Responsible, there was such a thing as seemliness. She stepped to her window, set one foot on the sill, made certain the picture she held firmly in her mind’s eye was the proper one, so she wouldn’t end up in some Arkansaw goatbarn by mistake-and SNAPPED.

On Kintucky, where it was daytime, the Guardian of Castle Wommack sat at
his
desk, going over again the specifications for his Teaching Order. He was pleased with the habit the Grannys and Gilead had designed; a long gown, high-necked and full of sleeve, hem right to the ground, with no sewn waist. It was caught round by a cord, from which could hang a useful pouch or two with the things a Teacher might need to carry. The cut would be useful; when a Teacher raised her arm to point to a map or a drawing, or just to get the attention of her pupils, the sleeve, narrow at the top and tapering out the rest of its length, would be dramatic. It would form a triangle, with its point below the Teacher’s knees.