The Sheri S. Tepper eBook Collection

  “You’re … strange,” Beedie commented. “If you hadn’t pulled me off that root and got me out of the smoke, I’d be dead by now, though, so I guess strange doesn’t matter.”

  “A remarkable conclusion for one so young. So, sausage girl, tell me about this place. I am a stranger. I know nothing. You must tell me everything, even the things you know so well you never think of them.”

  It was an odd session, one Beedie was always to remember. Later in her life, the memory was evoked by smoke smell, always, or by sudden jolts of pain. Even after, she was to recall this time whenever she was ill or injured. Now she lay as quietly as she could on a furry root, soft as her own bed, cushioned somehow in the arms or person of whoever it was called herself Mavin, and talked through her pain about the chasm, sometimes as though she were present, sometimes as though she were dreaming, in both cases as she had never talked or heard anyone talk before.

  “Our people came here generations ago,” she said. “Down from the plain above. I didn’t know about the trees and the roots up there, because all the records of that time were lost when Firstbridge was destroyed. All we know is that the people were getting eaten up by the beasts, so the Firstbridgers came down into the chasm and built a bridge. Firstbridge. It wasn’t far enough down, and the beasts got at it, so the survivors came down further to Nextdown while they built Topbridge. You can see Firstbridge if you look, way up against the light. We call it Brokenbridge sometimes. There isn’t much left of it but the mainroots and a few dangling verticals. When my cousin Highclimb went to the rim, she saw it. She says the mainroots are still alive.”

  “Ah. Humm. Are there any – ah – Gamesmen, among you?”

  “Gamesmen? You mean people who play games? Children do, of course. There are gambling games, too. Is that what you mean?”

  “Are there any among you who can change shape? Who can fly? Who can lift things without using their hands?”

  “Demons, you mean. No. There’s a story that before we came down into the chasm, there were Demons or something like that over the sea. We used to trade with them in the story, but it’s only a story. According to the story, we came to this world before they did. When we came, the animals weren’t so bad, so we lived on top. Then, later, the animals got bad. That’s when we moved down.”

  “All of you? All the persons this side of the sea?”

  Beedie shook her head and winced. “I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows. We keep hearing stories about lost bridges or lost castes. People who survived some other way. Aunt Six says it’s all myths, but I don’t really know. Do you still want to hear more about the chasm?”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It was just a thought. Yes, go on.”

  “Well, let’s see. After Topbridge was built, they finished Nextdown. Then the Potters built their bridge down-chasm, because there were clay deposits in the wall along there, and coal. They use that for the firing. Then came Miner’s bridge, further down-chasm, because that’s where the mines were. Metal, you know. And gems for the saws, though they don’t seem to find many of those…

  “Then Midwall, up-chasm, the other side of Nextdown, then Harvester’s bridge, away down-chasm where it bends, and last of all came Bottommost. Aunt Six says Bottommost is rebels and anarchists, but then she talks like that about a lot of things. I think it’s Fishers, mostly, and Hunters, and some Crafters, and Banders and casteless types.” She stopped to take a deep breath before continuing, gasping. Her ribs cut into her like knives. The arms around her tightened, then pillowed her more deeply.

  “Tell me about castes. What are they?”

  “Top caste is Bridgers. They’re the ones who build the bridgetowns and maintain them and build the stairs and locate the water-bellies and all that. Then there are Crafters, who make things out of wood, mostly, though they use some metal, too. And Potters, and Porters, and Miners, and Teachers. And Harvesters. They train the slow-girules to harvest the nodules from the roots, and they harvest the wall moss, and fruits from the vines and all like that. And the Messengers. They have two jobs to do. We don’t talk about one of them. The other – well, they fly. Not how you meant it when you asked. They put on wings, and then they jump out into the air when it rises, and they fly between the bridgetowns with messages or little things they can carry. Medicine, maybe. Or plans, to show the Bridger in the other city what’s going on. Maintainers. They’re the ones who take care of the Bridgers, feed them, clean their houses and all. Birders I already told you about. Then there are the Fishers, two kinds of those, one that fishes for floppers from the Fishers’ roosts and those who drop their lines from Bottommost into the river down there, so far they can’t even see it, and bring up fishes. And the Hunters who track game through the root mat…” She stopped, exhausted.

  “And you said something about casteless ones?”

  Beedie sighed, weary beyond belief. “There are always some who don’t fit in. Weavers – did I mention Weavers before? – who can’t weave. Or Potters who can’t do a pot. Or even Bridger children who get the down-dizzies when they look down. They may get adopted into some other caste, or they may ask to become Maintainers – some say Maintainers will take anybody, though I don’t know if that’s true – or they may just stay casteless. It’s all right. No one hates them for it or anything. It’s just that they don’t have any caste house to live in or any special group to help them or take them in if they’re sick or old or have a baby.”

  “Do people marry?”

  “Oh, yes. In caste, usually, though not always. They say if you marry in caste, your kids will have the right aptitudes. That isn’t true, by the way. Aunt Six says it never was true. She says having a child is like betting on a flopper’s flight. They always go off in some direction you don’t count on.”

  “What are caste houses?”

  “Oh, like Bridgers House on Topbridge. Whenever there are enough of any one caste on one bridge, they build a caste house. Usually the Elders of the caste live there, and any other caste members there’s room for. One elder from each castehouse makes up the bridge council, though we usually just say ‘the elders,’ and they decide when to expand the bridgetown or build new stairs or pipe a new water-belly. I don’t know what else to tell you. Except I hurt. Please let me stop talking.”

  “Just a moment more, sausage girl. What about clothing? Do the castes dress differently?”

  Beedie could not understand the question. She tried to focus on the question and could not. Dress? How did they dress? “Like me,” she whispered. “More or less. Trousers. Shirt. Only Bridgers wear belts like this. Harvesters wear leather aprons. Potters have very clean hands. Miners have dirty ones… I can’t… can’t…” There was only a heavy darkness around her, a sense of vast movement, easy as flying, as though she were cushioned in some enormous, flying lap. Then there were voices.

  “Are you her Aunt Six? The root she was working on … burning … the smoke … don’t think she’s seriously hurt … from Harvester’s Bridge myself … just happened to see her as I was coming up the stairs … thank you, very kind of you. Yes, I would be glad to do that. Boneman, you say? In the yellow house next to Bridgers? Never mind, ma’am, I’ll find it…”

  Inside the darkness, Beedie felt herself amused. The bird/woman/person was leading Aunt Six about by the nose, pretending to be a Harvester from Harvester’s Bridge. Beedie was enjoying it, even through the black curtain. It was very humorous. They had sent for the Boneman, to find out if anything was broken. So, she was home, home on Topbridge, in Aunt Six’s new place. Now that she knew where she was, she could let the darkness have its own way. Though the voices went on, she stopped listening to them.

  There seemed to be no next day, though there was a day after that. She swam lazily out of quiet into the light, feeling hands holding her head and the rim of a cup at her lips once more. This made her laugh, and she choked on the broth Aunt Six was trying to feed her, then couldn’t explain what the laughter was about.

  ?
??Lucky you were, girl, that a doer-good came along just then. I was in little mood to trust any Harvester, as you can imagine, seeing what an arrogant bunch they are, as you well remember from just a few days ago. But this one, well, she told me someone had fired the root…

  “I sent the elders. They saw no sign of it, except the smell of smoke clinging. Greenwood smoke does cling, so they don’t doubt the story at all, or the word of the doer-good, Mavin, her name is. I suppose you wouldn’t remember that, being gone to all intents and meanings from that time to this.” Aunt Six used her handkerchief, blowing a resounding blast. “A bad thing to take almost a whole family that way, your daddy and mother, all the uncles, then to try it with you, girl.” The pillow was patted relentlessly into a hard, uncomfortable shape. “We can’t imagine who. Who would it be?”

  For some reason, all Beedie could think of was that phlegmy chuckle of old Slysaw Bander, the sneering eyes of Byle Bander, the two of them like as root hairs. Making mischief. But why? Why? Why would even a Bander do hurt to his own caste? What could he gain from it? How did he know I’d be going down there alone?

  “Well, fool girl,” a voice inside her head said, “He knew no such thing. He thought there’d be six or seven Bridgers, including a few elders.” Then her head swam and accusations fled through it like birds through air. He must have thought he’d take six away with the root … the way he did before … the way he did before … the way he did before.

  Gradually her mind slowed and quieted. Well, if it hadn’t been for the doer-good, one Bridger would have fallen to the Bottom, but there could be no proof it had been planned or who by. Byle had probably been accompanied by five or six Bridgers all day, including at least one or two Chafers or Beeds. No proof. No proof, and all a waste, for the trap hadn’t killed six, hadn’t even killed one. Was that why Byle was so eager to get away from Bridgers House last night? To get someone else to set the fire he had planned to set himself?

  Could she accuse him? Them? Byle hadn’t had a chance to set that fire, so someone else had. Who? Slicksaw and her friends, while they were down there checking her measure? No. Too early to set it then, though they may well have made ready for it. And if so, was it a general thing, then? A conspiracy among all the Banders? To accomplish what? To kill Bridgers, evidently, but why?

  Dizzy from the unanswerable questions in her mind, Beedie drifted off into gray nothing again, unable even to be curious about Mavin, the person/bird/woman who might be doing anything at all while Beedie slept.

  She awoke to find a leather-aproned Harvester sitting in the window, the Harvester sipping at a cup while reading one of Aunt Six’s books about religion; the steam from the tea curled over the lamp beside the bed. At first Beedie did not recognize the woman, but then something in the tilt of head said bird/person/creature, and Beedie smiled. “Good morning.”

  Mavin put down the tea cup and turned to pour another, offering it to the swaddled figure on the bed. “Say ‘good evening,’ sausage girl. You’ve spent a good time muffled up there, recovering from your wounds, I thought, but then, hearing your Aunty Six talk for a time, I figured it was only to escape the constant conversation.”

  Beedie tried to laugh, turning it into a gasp as her ribs creaked and knifed at her. “I don’t think I’m better.”

  “Oh, yes. You’ve got a few cracked ribs where you hit the mainroot with the side of your own self. The Boneman strapped them. He says they’ll heal. You’ve got a nasty blue spot on your forehead spoiling your maidenly beauty. The Skin-woman put a foul-smelling poultice on that. Aside from that, there’s not much wrong with you a few days lying about won’t cure. Meantime, I’ve met the people at your Bridgers House and been thanked by them for saving you. There’s been a good deal of climbing up and down as well, trying to figure out what set the root afire – or maybe who set it afire. Far as I can learn, no one knows for sure, though there seem to be whispered suspicions floating here and there. Your Bridger elder, Rootweaver, says I have a strange accent and must come from the farthest end of Harvesters where no one talks in a civilised manner, but she was kind enough for all that.”

  “Rootweaver is a good person.”

  “True. She is such a good person I told her some of the things I had seen ‘on my way up from Harvesters’ To which she replied by trading confidences, telling me that something seems to be eating the verticals of the bridgetowns. Killing them dead, so she says. Giving me a keen look while she told me, too, as though she thought I might have been eating them myself. Had you heard about that?”

  “Something of the kind,” murmured Beedie. “The Bridgers are very upset about it.”

  “Indeed? Well, I heard her out. Since then, I have waited for you to recover so that you can take me to see the greatest wonder of Topbridge.”

  “And what’s that, Mavin doer-good?”

  “Doer-good, am I? Well, perhaps I am. The wonder I speak of is the birdwoman, sausage girl. I’d rather visit her with someone discreet by my side. Someone who knows more than she says. That is, unless your praiseworthy silence results from inability to talk rather than discretion.”

  “Oh, I can talk,” Beedie said, proving it. “But when there are strangenesses all about, better maybe to keep shut and wait until talk is needed. My father used to say that.”

  “Pity he didn’t tell your Aunt Six. Why was she named Six, anyhow?”

  “She was named Six because when she was a girl, she always insisted on carrying six spare straps for her spurs. Not four, nor five, but six. And if my father had tried to tell her anything, she wouldn’t have listened. She would have been too busy talking. And” – she shifted uncomfortably – “I have to go.”

  “If you mean you have to go, the Boneman who looked at you said you could. Get up, I mean. Just take it easy, don’t lift anything, don’t bump yourself. Is there a privy in here?”

  “Of course. Do you think we live like floppers?” Beedie struggled out of the bed and across the room, feeling the cold boards on her feet with a sense of relief. Until that moment she had not been sure she could stand up. She left the privy door ajar, letting the heat from the bedroom warm all of her but her bottom, poised bare over the privy hole, nothing but air all the way to the Bottom and all the night winds of the chasm blowing on her. “All the houses on all the bridges have privies. That’s why we don’t build bridges one under the other, and that’s why we put roofs on the stairs.”

  When she returned to the bed, Mavin handed her a piece of paper and a pen. “Draw me a plan, girl. Looking end on, how are these bridges of yours arranged? How do we get from one to another supposing – as it would be wise for us to suppose – neither of us can fly?”

  Beedie sipped at her tea, propped the paper against her knees and thought. Finally, she drew a little plan on the paper and handed it to Mavin. “There. These are the ends of the bridges. There’s a stair from Topbridge to Nextdown. There are two stairs from Nextdown; one on down to Midwall, another winding one across under Topbridge to Potter’s. From Potter’s there’s a stair down to Miner’s; and from Miner’s there’s a stair up to Harvester’s. Then, from Midwall, there’s a stair down under Nextdown to Bottommost. There are rest places on that stair, and from Bottommost there’s a long stair which leads along the Wall to mine entrances way below Miner’s and then goes on and meets the Harvester’s trail way below Harvester’s. Some of these stairs are at the morning-light end, and some at the evening-light end of the bridgetowns, so it can be a long walk between Potter’s and Topbridge. That’s why we have Messengers, if word needs to be carried quickly on wings. There’s one hot spot right below us, off the edge of Topbridge.”

  “Hot spot?”

  “Where the air rises, where the Messengers fly. Remember, I told you. There are other hot spots here and there, every bridge has at least one close by. There’s a big one near Harvester’s, around the corner of the chasm. No one knows what causes hot spots, though some of the old books say it’s probably hot springs, water that comes ou
t of the ground hot.”

  “And you’ve never been to any of these places?”

  “I was born on Nextdown. And I came here. And that’s all.”

  “Ah. Well, if I go journeying while I’m here, perhaps you’d like to go along? But first, you’ll sleep some more and recover entirely. I hear your aunt coming. Time for me to get along to Harvesters House…”

  “They took you in then, at Harvesters House?” Beedie whispered.

  “Why shouldn’t they? I’m a Harvester, aren’t I? I work well with the slow-girules, don’t I? Besides, you can tell by my apron.” And Mavin winked at her, making a droll face, strolling out of the room and away.

  “A very pleasant doer-good,” said Aunt Six. “Well spoken and kindly. You’re a lucky girl, Beedie, to have had such a one climbing the stairs from Nextdown just at the time you needed help. And one not afraid of root climbing, either. What if it had been a Potter? Or a Miner? Not able to climb at all for the down-dizziness in their heads?”

  “I’m very lucky,” Beedie agreed, saying nothing at all more than that.

  By afternoon of the third day from then, her ribs re-bandaged by the Boneman, she was able to visit the Skin-woman who lived just off center lane, midchasm, by the market, in order to have another poultice put on her forehead. A train of Porters had brought in a great load of pots from Potter’s bridge, and the Topbridgers were out in numbers, bargaining in a great gabble for cook pots and storage pots and soup bowls. Mavin and Beedie walked among the stalls, half hearing it all, while they spoke of the birdwoman at Birders House.

  “Of course they’ll let you see her!” said Beedie. “As a messenger of the Boundless, she can be seen by anyone, for any person might be sent a message from the Boundless, and the Birders wouldn’t know who.”

  “I’ve been in places they would tell you they did know,” said Mavin in a dry voice. “And tell you what the message was, as extra.”