“She is of the early folk,” Kip said. “That's why she's so spooky.”
“That must be it,” Huu agreed. “The spirits must have safeguarded her, by summoning me there before she died. We buried her mother where she was, and we did not settle there, but every month we take Min there so that her mother's spirit can see that the child is well. And nothing truly bad has happened to us since Min joined us, though there have been some threats.”
“Yes, we almost got banished when King Hotu Matua died.”
“We almost did,” Huu agreed. “But we had no hand in that, and that became clear in due course. In any event, he was very old. He was king for fifty years, ever since our people arrived here. Now we will erect a great statue in his memory, which is why you and I are making this trip.”
“Yes, because we have the instructions written in the script,” Kip said. “That's why we have to read. So we can remember how to make and move the statue.” He had complained about having to read throughout, but now he was proud of his ability.
“And why the short ears don't read,” Huu said. “That knowledge gives us power.”
“Do the spirits protect me too?”
Huu backtracked a bit to catch the reference: the spirits protected Min. “Of that we can't be sure. But we hope so.”
“She has always been there when the spirits helped.”
“We don't really know that the spirits help or hinder us,” Huu reminded him. “They may not care about ordinary people.”
“No, Min can see the spirits,” Kip said.
Huu didn't argue. He had never seen a spirit himself, but there was indeed something about Min. Even the bugs didn't seem to bite her as they did others.
The sun was high when they reached the quarry, and they stopped to eat their lunch of hardened sweet potato mash before climbing the slope to the quarry. Then they made their way up to the top of the mountain, where it opened out into a bowl-shaped depression. This was the quarry, where they were chipping out yellow stone. The real statue was being carved from the outside edge of the mountain, but the practice block was inside, where there happened to be unneeded stone. A number of short-ear children were crowding close, fascinated by the proceedings. One crew of their elders used hand axes to chip away at the rock beneath the statue. It was evidently tedious, wearing work, but there were many slaves, and when one man had to quit and leave the pit for fresh air, another immediately took his place. The long-ear supervisor kept the work constantly going.
The short ears were already hauling the practice block over the rim, so as to start it sliding down the slope toward the level ground. The long-ear foreman and his assistant were yelling constant orders. It wasn't going well, because the stone was extremely heavy and rough, and kept snagging, so that men with long poles had to pry it up. At the moment it was balking right at the rim.
“This is why they need us,” Huu said. He brought out his flute and approached the foreman. “Music will give them strength,” he said.
The foreman looked doubtful, but made the best of it. “Anything will be better than this.”
Huu addressed the workers. “When you hear the music, pull. When it stops, you stop.”
They smiled. They liked music.
They took hold of the ropes and got the slack out. The men with the poles got set. Then Huu played his music, and the men heaved on both ropes and poles.
The huge stone quivered, then moved. It tilted over the rim and came down outside, sliding so readily that the foreman's jaw dropped. Huu had to stop playing almost as soon as he started, because the sudden shift had changed the angle.
The foreman looked at Huu with new appreciation. In a moment the barrier that had balked them had been surmounted. All because of the strength lent by the music.
“They pull harder, and together,” Huu explained. “Music coordinates them.”
“Well, let's get this on down the hill so we can stand it up,” the foreman said gruffly.
The next stage promised to be much easier, because the motion would be all downhill. At some places it looked almost steep enough for the block to slide on its own.
The slaves lined up along their ropes. The children collected, eager to watch the huge stone move. “Get clear!” the foreman yelled at them irritably, and most stepped back, but sneaked forward again the moment his eyes were off them.
“Help warn them back,” Huu told Kip. “They could get in the way.” His son, glad to get involved, went to enforce the clearance. He was young, but he was older than the slave children, and he was a long ear, so they paid attention.
Huu lifted his flute, watching the foreman. When the foreman nodded, he began to play. The slaves hauled vigorously on the ropes, and the polemen heaved behind.
The block nudged forward—then abruptly slid faster. The men had put forth the same effort as they had at the brink, but this was downslope, and the effect was much greater. The ropes went slack as the block moved on its own, its momentum increasing.
“Get clear!” the foreman shouted, and the men dropped the ropes and scrambled away to the sides as the block ground down upon them.
The children screamed, similarly scrambling. But one little girl stumbled, fell, and rolled back into the path of the surging block. Huu watched in horror, seeing her doomed. Then Kip launched himself at her, running in front of the hurtling block, hauled her bodily up, and hurled her ahead of him, out of the way.
And the block slid down on his trailing leg.
Kip didn't scream. He just sank down as the block crunched to a halt, looming over his body.
For a moment Huu thought his son hadn't been hurt. Then he realized that Kip's training had told: he would not admit pain before slaves. It was part of the protocol that kept the slaves in awe.
Huu and the foreman and several children arrived at the block together. A woman appeared to pick up the crying child.
Huu kneeled before Kip. The boy was face down, his jaw clenched. Huu felt down along his body. One leg was clear, but the other was pinned under the block.
The foreman shouted three names. “Dig him out! Carefully!” The three workers took their stone axes and pounded at the hard ground around Kip's leg, excavating widening holes.
Huu took his son's hand. “We are getting you clear,” he said in a normal tone, as if this were routine. Kip looked at him, his face expressionless. Huu knew the boy was in terrible pain, but was locking it out.
Slowly the excavation around Kip's leg extended under the block. The pressure eased, and Huu was able to haul his son clear.
The foreman barked more orders. A pallet was brought, and the boy set on it. Four slaves carried him carefully down the slope to the temporary house there.
A woman approached Huu. “He saved my child. I know medicine. I will help him.”
Huu nodded. Slaves could not always be trusted, but this woman had reason. She hurried after the pallet party.
When Huu rejoined Kip, he saw that the woman was already applying a poultice to the leg. Kip was unconscious. But he also saw that the damage was very bad. The leg below the knee had been severely crushed, and blood was everywhere. He doubted that Kip would be able to walk again.
“I have sent a slave to notify your wife,” the foreman said. Huu nodded thanks. Like Kip, he was constrained to show no weak emotions before slaves.
When it was clear that all was being done for Kip that could be done, they returned to work moving the block. No emotion, no delay: long ears were always efficient. Only when the job was done, and the slaves were gone, would Huu be able to let his feelings out. So that afternoon he played his flute while the block moved, and they got the job done.
“But we'll need an anchor for the real statue,” the foreman said. “It's bigger than the block, and more delicate.”
“We can cut a big tree, and set the trunk in stone,” Huu said. “Then ropes can be tied to it, to hold the statue back.” They were learning as they proceeded; the practice block was turning out to be an ex
cellent device.
But behind the mask of the job, Huu's thoughts were circling like seabirds. What was to become of Kip—and how would Aan react to the awful news?
Min suddenly cried out as if in pain. “What is it?” Aan asked, alarmed. They were in their small garden by the bank of the river, picking bad bugs from their sweet potatoes. They could buy food at the town market, but preferred to grow their own when they could; it tasted better.
“Kip!” the girl cried.
Aan felt a chill. Sometimes Min imagined things, but sometimes she was right. “What about Kip?”
“I don't know. But it's bad. Very bad.” Min began to cry.
Aan did not like this at all. She simply had to hope that it was a false alarm.
She looked out to the west, seeing the sea that led to the horizon. It made her wonder, as it always did, whether her grandmother had been right to remain here, instead of going with the expedition into the sea.
“Tell me,” Min said, picking up on her mother's mood, as she always did.
Maybe the familiar story would break the deadly worry. “Fifty summers ago, my grandparents were musicians and dancers who entertained kings, in the great capital city of Chan Chan,” Aan said. “But when our clan leader fought and lost, he had to sail across the great sea, lest his supporters be destroyed. My grandfather had played music, and my grandmother had danced at his court, and he offered them the chance to come with him. They considered it carefully, and almost decided to go, but Grandmother An'a concluded that it would not be a safe journey for her children, so they stayed. But there was still a shadow on our lineage, so they traveled south along the great road that follows the sea, a long, long way. Until they came here to Omo, where there was a great need for their talents and no great concern about the reputation of their clan. Here they settled, though it was part of the culture of Tiahuanaco, not Chimú. Here they worship the sun more than the moon, but our grandparents found they could accept that.”
“It is good for me that they did,” Min said. “Otherwise you would not have been here to find me when I lost my other mother.”
Aan hugged her. “And how desolate our lives would have been, without you, for I will never have a blood daughter.” Min knew that she had been adopted as a baby, but not the full circumstance of it: her mother had conceived her adulterously, and rather than face death by being cast off a raft far out to sea, or from a high mountain cliff, had left the newborn baby in the desert to die. Huu had happened to be in the area, and had seen the baby left, and picked it up and brought it home. They had adopted Min, though not then realizing that Aan had become barren. Thus it was, in retrospect, a better decision than it had seemed at the time, and Min had turned out to be blessed of the spirits, making it better yet.
As they returned to their house, they saw a slave hurrying toward it. “He is seeking us,” Min said.
Aan's alarm returned. “What is it?” she called. The man was dusty, and must have traveled through the desert.
“Are you the Lady Aan?” he asked, and when he saw her nod, continued, “I am sent from Cerro Baul by Huu to tell you that Kip is injured.”
“Oh!” Aan cried, her daughter's premonition confirmed. “What happened?”
“They were moving a big stone block for a statue, and a slave child fell before it, and Kip saved the child but his own leg was caught.”
Aan started to ask how bad the injury was, but saw Min's face and stifled it. “We must go there immediately,” she said.
“It is too late,” the slave said. “It will be dark.”
He was right. “Go to the slave house,” Aan said. “Return here at dawn. You will guide us there.”
The slave nodded and departed. The slave house wasn't much, but there was shelter and food there. Aan and Min entered their house. When they were alone, they both wept.
Then they made preparations for their journey. Huu and Kip had gone to Cerro Baul, which was an ancient city, now deserted, with many marvels of stone, for work on a large stone statue that was being prepared as a monument. Slaves would be doing most of the work, but qualified citizens of the culture had to supervise, and Huu knew the ritual music. He was acclaimed as the best musician in the region, so the honor had been his, and Kip was getting good experience.
For they were members of the elite class, and leadership was their role, whether in the arts or otherwise. They enjoyed the social privilege of wearing ear tubes, and of marrying among the lesser nobility, which was rare for artisans. Kip and Min were schooled in the manners of their class, so that they would uphold its standards without error.
There was time left before full night. Aan and Min composed themselves like the ladies they were, and went out to shop for supplies for the journey. Their stucco apartment was part of a larger complex within the elite quarter, separately walled; they had to go to the market section to requisition what they needed.
They got good cotton traveling cloaks, and heavy sandals for the rough trail. They got bags of dried beans and maize, for these were lighter to carry. And of course some coca leaves for chewing, to extend their endurance.
They returned to their sector, which was now lighted at intervals by torches so that they could see their way. The guard at the gate let them through without challenge, recognizing them. “You are traveling?” he asked, noting their supplies.
“My son has been injured in Cerro Baul,” Aan explained.
“That is an ill-favored ruin. I will pray to the goddess of the moon that he recovers,” the man said courteously. The moon goddess was Si, much more powerful than the sun god, because the moon could be seen by both night and day. Sometimes the two gods fought each other, and the sun would succeed in darkening the moon for a time. That was a terrible omen. But sometimes the moon darkened the sun, and that was cause for great celebration.
“Thank you,” Aan said. The more appeals to Si, the better. She and Min would make their own before they slept this night.
Next day they set out, following the trail along the mountain slopes. The region was paved with some good roads, but not where they needed to go. The slave carried most of the supplies, except for the coca; while Aan knew that Huu would not have sent an untrustworthy man, caution was best, and they would need to ration the precious leaves sensibly. They both carried hidden knives, as a further precaution, for they were a woman and a girl, going into the desert, and male slaves had been known to get notions. But the knives would be shown only as a last resort; as dancers they were tougher than they looked, and could probably avoid trouble without bloodshed.
The day soon became hot, and they paused frequently to dip water from the small streams they passed. The slave simply threw himself down and put his mouth to the water, but this was not appropriate for either elites or women; they used their own cups. In addition they drank singly, the other always alert. The same was true when they needed to perform other natural functions: one always guarded the other. Only at night did they both relax, sharing a blanket in the way station house, while the slave slept outside the door. Should the man choose to enter, they would hear and awaken immediately, grasping their knives.
“This is fun!” Min confided just before she slept.
Aan didn't comment.
In the morning they resumed walking, and made good progress; Aan could see that the slave was surprised. “We are dancers,” she explained. “We are used to using our legs.” That was true, but it was also true that this constant travel through the heat was wearing.
It was uphill, and the slope increased. That was inevitable, because Cerro Baul had been a mountaintop fortress-city, back in the years of empire. It had been established beyond the accepted limit of the Huari Empire, so had to be well fortified. But that had not done it much good, because it had been deserted for as long as anyone remembered.
At last they approached the empty city. It was a sharp contrast to Omo, which was really just a village, readily accessible, and not intended to be defended. Cerro Baul was solidly wa
lled atop a mountain so steep that in some places the sides were vertical. Yet there were terraced fields around it, irrigated by a long contour canal from the neighboring mountain, where there was a spring. From the narrow connection between mountains a narrow trail led on up toward the city. They paused to dip drinks from it before moving on.
The final approach was guarded by walled terraces with parapets, with soldiers watching; it was unimaginable that such a city could be taken by storm. Min was openly staring, amazed by the ramparts. “How could this city ever be conquered?” she asked. For according to legend it had indeed changed hands on occasion.
“A long siege during a drought would deny water and food to it,” Aan explained. “After a time, the spring would dry up, and the defenders could no longer fight; they would be dying.”
“Oh. Ugh.” Perhaps the girl had learned a significant lesson. No one strategy could prevail against every threat.
The path switched back and forth, limited to single-file traffic, leading up the face of the cliff. Aan affected nonchalance, but this seemed precarious to her, and she was quite relieved to reach the comfort of the main walls.
At last they were in the city proper. Nestled within its stout walls, it seemed ordinary, apart from its eerie silence, because they could not see out over the ragged landscape. But both Aan and Min were breathing faster, because the air seemed thin here, though perhaps it was just from their exertion. The slave guided them through the narrow avenues between stone buildings to the building where Huu and Kip were.