The Flying Sorcerers

slipping away again. They would continue to slip for months, but the process had begun.

The sea below churned over razor-sharp reefs that were becoming mountain peaks. There was a period when we saw nothing but fog: blue fog, white fog, red fog, black fog, blue fog, and so on, endlessly repeated with the cycle of the suns.

We had lost three of our aircloth windbags by now. Their seams had given way abruptly, one right after the other, smacking the boat solidly into the water. We made up the difference by inflating Purple’s weather windbag even more. It was only half full, but more than offset the loss of the others.

We lost two more bags in as many days. Apparently there was something seriously wrong with the glue Grimm had used to seal the seams — and perhaps his stitching wasn’t as strong as it should have been. The bags that we still had held their air for little more than a day. Shoogar and I were constantly recharging them. The aircloth had been tight when we had woven it, but it was certainly no longer so. Something tended to weaken it with continual use.

We still trailed our fishing lines below us, they hung like slender threads of shimmering gossamer. I wondered how they were made, and if we could duplicate them.

We sailed into another wall of fog. Blue fog, white fog, red fog.

In black fog we hooked something big, too big to draw in.

We dared not cut the line. It was too precious to lose. The wind whistled past us — how fast were we moving?

And then the fog cleared as the blue sun burnt it off, and we saw that we had hooked land.

The desert we had crossed so many months ago — which had been sea bottom for the last few seasons — was a swamp now; a marsh of riotous colors, blooming briefly and frenetically during the few short hands of days it would take it to dry. There were roots to chew down there — and possibly meat.

We reeled in the line and pulled ourselves down.

We were within walking distance of home.

We returned to the peaceful life of the twin villages.

Indeed, life turned out to be even more peaceful than we remembered it. And Shoogar and I were responsible. On the — Cathawk’s departure we had dropped the dust of yearning across the cheering crowd. The resultant orgy lasted for three weeks.

Most improper, of course, but it left a feeling of fellowship between the Upper and Lower Village.

Another bond between us is Shoogar himself. He is now resident magician of both tribes.

Before Gortik would let him assume that post though, he secured from Shoogar an oath to redeem and honor all spell chips in the village at their full value. Shoogar had needed some persuading before he would redeem Purple’s chips, but Purple’s parting words left him in what could only be called a good humor. Once, he was even seen smiling.

There were one or two who were upset about the arrangement, of course. Hinc, who had invested heavily in Purple chips, felt that they should be redeemed at their old value of ten for one. Hinc has been scratching for the past three hands of days.

But life is peaceful here. In the evenings I sit and listen to the wives quarrelling and the children crying and think how good it is to be home. Life has returned to its gentle pace. I carve the bone into chips, and regulate the flow of commerce as I have always done. Others work out the new processes and make the goods and I distribute the chips, blue ones only since Purple has gone.

Weaving is still our major industry here. Traders come not only from the other villages on the island, but from the mainland as well — even from as far south as the Land of Frozen Water. Every five days a new party arrives, always from further and further away. We are a powerful trading village now, gaining power as the fame of our cloth is spreading.

Wilville and Orbur are at work on a new Cathawk. The old one sits in a place of honor in a special clearing owned by the son of Trone the Smith. It is Smith’s Son’s Clearing, and no trader ever comes without stopping to peer curiously at the boat out of water.

The new Cathawk will be huge — nearly fifteen manlengths — it will require over one hundred windbags and ten men on bicycles to propel it; but the next wading season will not interrupt our trade with the mainland. The boatmaking and weaving apprentices have never worked so hard in their lives.

At first, when Wilville and Orbur announced their plans, there was some dissent — “What do we need another flying machine for? We’ve already built one. We’ve proved we can do it, why do we have to do it again? What a waste of effort and aircloth! Better to use the aircloth for trading!”

“But how will you get it there to trade?” was the answer. “And if we do not build another Cathawk, there will be no need for the generators, or for the generator teams — or for the betmongers. You will have nothing on which to spend the chips you earn from your weaving, and no place to trade your cloth.”

Those who could not see the value of it were soon shouted down. Gortik and I gave my sons the go-ahead, and up on the crag the new cradle rises impressively.

It seems likely that the women will have names forever. Shoogar had thought that after the airboat was finished we could deconsecrate even the Missa names — but as long as we need them for spinning, we dare not do that.

And the plague spreads. The new wife, whom I bought on the mainland, had not been in my home but two days before she too asked for a name. My other wives support her. Somehow they have gotten the idea that all women must have names — even if they are only Missas.

The only exception is my hairless daughter. Shoogar is planning to consecrate her soon. She will have a secret name of her own.

Shoogar is frantically busy these days. He can deconsecrate, bleed and reconsecrate a housetree in almost no time at all. And it costs the nest owner only a spell token. It was lucky that Shoogar discovered that housetree bleeding is a good way to ward off the demons. He resells the housetree blood to the clothmakers for less than one chip per tree load — which is eminently fair of him.

Because of Shoogar’s increased status I have had to take on extra apprentices. I have more than ten now, and they carve more chips in a day than can possibly be redeemed by any one magician. Many of the villagers no longer seem to regard the redemption of the spells as necessary. They trade the chips like lightweight, valuable, indestructible goods.

But others still value the chips well enough to keep Shoogar constantly busy. There is cloth to be blessed, looms to be consecrated, housetrees to be unblessed, bled and blessed again, fertility spells and name givings — and always he must watch out for his apprentices who are getting better and better in their attempts to kill him.

“Run and chant, run and chant,” he complains. “Never a time to rest! And do you know, Lant, they are still trading Purple’s chips at four for one! Why? Purple is gone!”

“But his magic lingers on. It clings to the chips and makes them lucky.”

Shoogar snorted angrily.

“Besides you do a better, more impressive job for a Purple chip. Or so I have been told,” I added.

“It’s true. It’s because I want Purple’s chips. When I have destroyed the last of them, there will be no sign of him anywhere! And all will be as it was before the mad magician came to us. I will expunge his memory, Lant!”

“I think it is hopeless, Shoogar. The purple-stained chips have spread as far as our new cloth. You will never be able to redeem them all.”

“I can try, Lant. I can try. I drove him out — you saw it yourself — I can drive out his chips.” And he bustled off to his next appointment.

I returned to my carving and staining. It is a lost cause, of course, for Shoogar. Every time he destroys a purple chip, the rest just go up in value because he has made them that much rarer. The people become less willing to part with them every day. But I will have to see what I can do for him.

THE END