“But surely, there should be a blessing over it, Shoogar, shouldn’t there? I mean it is like trapping Musk-Watz the Wind God. There should be some kind of amelioration spell.”
Shoogar thought about it, “I believe you are right, Lant. I will have to investigate this — certainly the Gods should be involved m this flying machine.”
I followed him down to the weavers’ work area, a great pasture just under the crag. There were more than forty of the giant looms thrusting back and forth now. The noise was tremendous — each loom creaked and shuddered protested mightily. The raucous cries of the team leaders tumbled one upon the other until I wondered how the various weavers could tell who was commanding what.
We held our hands over our ears as we strode through the row upon row of machines — each with a tiny patch of air-cloth growing in its heavy frame.
I noticed with some dismay that the field here had been ruined by so much traffic — the blackgrass had given way to dirt, and dust hung heavy in the air. That was not good for the cloth. Even though each piece was carefully washed before it was dipped, it still was not a good idea for it to be exposed to so much dirt.
Doubtless we would have to move the looms farther apart.
We found old Lesta down near the end, supervizing the construction of three additional looms. Shoogar pulled him away from the work, and away from the noise. “I must talk to you,” he said.
“What about? As you can see, I’m very busy!” Even as he spoke, he fidgeted with his robe and growled at the scurrying apprentices.
Well,” said Shoogar. *I have been doing some calculations —”
“Oh, no — not more calculations!”
“It is about the aircloth — we cannot weave it without offending Musk-Watz — that is, we can weave it, but we must offer a spell of appeasement for every piece and over every loom —”
“I cannot afford it,” groaned Lesta. “I have enough magic already to make my hair fall out —”
“You would risk being hit with a tornado —”
“It would be a blessing,” snapped the weaver. “I would at least have a bit of peace.” He waved his arm, “Look, you see all these looms? Each one is commanded by a different weaver — and each weaver pays homage to a different God. There is Tukker the god of names, Caff the god of dragons, Yake the god of what-if — more Gods than I have ever heard of! And each of those weavers is demanding that his cloth
“But — but —” I said, “Purple would have a fit —”
“Exactly,” said Lesta. The cloth must be woven in a simple over and under, over and under, a steady alternation — we want it as tight as possible — no twill weaves, no satin weaves, no fancy patterns of thread — just a simple aircloth weave! But no — you see those men over there? They are packing to return to their village — they won’t weave anything but satins. They are afraid to offend Furman the God of Fasf — whatever that is — every day we lose at least five more weavers.”
He turned on us, “You know what it is? They are stealing the secret of aircloth — they come, they weave for a week, then they find some excuse to run back to their own villages. I cannot keep any workers here.” He groaned and sank down onto a log. “Aaghh, I wish I’d never heard of aircloth.”
“But why?” I asked. “Surely, you have taken precautions —”
“Of course, of course,” nodded Lesta. “No weaver is al-lowed near the looms without surrendering at least two syllables of his secret name as security — but it doesn’t work. They claim that an oath to a god is stronger and more important than an oath to a man — and they are right.”
“H’m,” said Shoogar. “I might be able to do something about that.” .
Lesta looked up.
“It is simple,” he said, “We will just consecrate all the aircloth to Musk-Watz. Anyone else who weaves it without my blessing, or who weaves it in another pattern, will be risking his wrath.”
“But what about the men who keep leaving?” asked Lesta.
Shoogar shook his head, “They are not important. We can swear them to more binding oaths —”
“Oaths more binding than those to a god?”
“Certainly — how about the oath of hairlessness?”
“Huh?”
“It is simple — if they defy you, their hair falls out.”
“Oh,” said Lesta. He thought about it and brightened. “Yes,” he said, “let’s try it. Surely, it couldn’t hurt.”
When I left them, they were happily arguing over Shoogar’s fee for deconsecrating all the other Gods out of the cloth.
I went to see Purple at his nest. He was well pleased with the way the work was going. A satisfied grin showed through the black bush that surrounded his chin, and he patted his huge stomach in a jovial manner. For some reason, he reminded me of a huge black tusker.
I told him of the problem with the weavers leaving, and he nodded thoughtfully when I told him of Shoogar’s solution. “Yes,” he said, “that was very clever. And I would not worry about the ones who have left, Lant. Most of them will be back.”
“Huh? Why?”
Purple said innocently, “Because we have almost every spinning wheel on the island — where will they get enough thread for their looms?” And he laughed at his own mighty joke. “They will be lucky if they can make even one piece of aircloth.”
“Why, you are right — I never realized that.”
“And another thing — we have the only bone teeth on the island. They would not be able to weave cloth as fine as ours anyway; they will be back.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Come, I must go up to the Crag and check on the progress of the spinning.”
I will walk with you part way,” I said. “There are several other problems we must discuss.” I told him of the noise and the dirt created by having so many looms so close together. “It is not good,” I said, “not for the cloth and not for the men.”
“You are right, Lant — we will have to separate them, perhaps move some of the looms to other pastures. At all costs, we must protect the cloth. I will arrange it myself.”
“I have already told Lesta,” I said. “He does not object — at least no more than usual.”
“Good.”
We puffed up the slope toward the Upper Village. I said, “There is another thing. Certain of the men are beginning to wonder about payment for their skills. They fear that you will be unable to cast enough spells to pay them for their labor — they wonder how you will even keep track of them all. I confess, Purple, even I am mystified as to how you will keep your promises.”
“Um,” said Purple. “I will have to give them some tokens or something.”
“Spell tokens?”
He nodded slowly, “Yes, I guess we could call them that.”
“But what would they do?”
“Well, each one would be a promise, Lant — a promise of a future spell. The person could keep it or trade it as he sees fit, or he can redeem it later when I have the time for it.”
I considered it. “You will need a great many, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will, won’t I? I wonder if Bellis the Potter could —”
“No wait — I have a better idea!” My mind was working furiously. My apprentices were way ahead in their bone , carving. They had more than enough loomteeth carved to “ satisfy the needs of all the present looms, and even the ones still to be built for at least another hand of days. I did not like to see them sitting around idle — and I still had those one hundred and twenty-eight runforit ribs. I said, “Why don’t you let me carve them? Bone has a soul — clay doesn’t. My apprentices have nothing better to do now.”
He nodded slowly, “Yes, yes, a good idea, Lant. We can give one spell token for each day’s labor.”
“Oh, no,” I said. ‘One for each five days of labor. That is the way Shoogar works — it makes his spells worth more. ‘Work for a hand of days, earn a spell.’ ”
