“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 b e glad to do that. Boneraan, 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 c huckle of old Slysaw Bander, the sneering eyes of Byle Bander, t he 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 h e 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 t hing. He thought there’d be six or seven Bridgers, including a few e lders.” Then her head swam and accusations fled through it like b irds 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 companied 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 a ll 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 ownself. 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 f oul-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 roof 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 s aid you could. Get up, I mean. Just take it easy, d
on’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 staffs 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 out 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 g o along? But first, you’ll sleep some more and recover entirely. I hear y our 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 t he 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 a nd 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 rebandaged 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 greatload 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.”
“Why, how could anyone know? Would the Boundless give someone else my message to tell me? Silly. Of course not. If the Boundless had a message for me—which I am too unimportant to expect, mind you—it would give it directly to me, no fiddling about through other people.”
Mavin laughed. “There are things about your society here that I like, girl. Your good sense about your religion is one of them.”
Beedie shook her head in confusion. “If a religion doesn’t make s ense, what good is it? It has to make sense out of things to be helpful, and if it isn’t helpful, who’d have it?”
“You’d be surprised, sausage girl. Very surprised. But here we are. Isn’t this Birders?” They had stopped outside a tall, narrow house which reached up along the Wall, its corners and roof erupting in bird houses and cotes, its stairs littered with feathers and droppings, and with an open, latticed window just before them behind which a pale figure sat, smiling heedlessly and combing its long dark hair. “Aree, aree,” it sang. “The boundless sea, the white wave, the light wave, the soundless sea.”
“Can we get closer?” asked Mavin in a strange, tense tone. “Where she can see us?”
“We can go in,” Beedie answered. “We’ll have to make an offering, but it won’t be much. I’ll tell them you have confusions and need to be blessed by the messenger.”
“You do that, sausage girl. For it’s true enough, come to think of it.”
They went up the shallow stairs to the stoop and struck the bell with their hands, making it throb into the quiet of the street. A Birder came to the door, his blue gown and green stole making tall stripes of color against the dark interior. When Beedie explained, he beckoned them in.
“I’m Birder Brightfeather,” he said, nodding to Beedie. “I know you, Bridger, and your parents before you. Though that was on Nextdown, and I am only recently come to Topbridge to help in the House here, for young Mercald was no longer able to handle the press of visitors. Will you offer to the Boundless before seeing the messenger?”
“If we may,” answered Mavin easily, moving her hand from pocket to Birder’s hand in one practiced gesture. The Birder seemed pleased at whatever it was he had been given.
“Of course. Go in. Stay behind the railing, please. She becomes frightened if people come too close. If you have a question, ask in a clear voice, and don’t go on and on about it. The Boundless knows. We don’t have to explain things to It. Then if there’s an answer, the birdgirl will sing it. Or perhaps not. The Boundless does not always choose to answer, but then you know that.” The Birder waved them into the room, through heavy drapes that shut away the rest of the House. They found themselves behind a waist-high barrier, the birdgirl seated before them, half turned away as s he peered out through the lattice at the street, still singing as she combed her hair.
“No sorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow go free, to high flight, to sky flight, the boundless sea.”
“Handbright,” said Mavin, in a husky whisper. “Handbright. It’s Mavin.”
“Aree, aree,” sang the birdgirl, slowly turning her head so that she could see them where they stood. She was dressed in a soft green robe, the color of the noonglow, with ribbons of blue and silver in her hair. Her face was bony, narrow, like the face of a bird. She looked like something out of the old tales, thought Beedie, something remote and marvelously beautiful, too wonderful to be human. And yet, this Mavin spoke to her ...
“Handbright. Sister. See, it’s Mavin. Come all the way from the lands of the True Game, all the great way from Danderbat Keep, from Schlaizy Noithn, from cliffbound Landizot and the marshy meadows of Mip, over the boundless sea to find you. It’s been more than fifteen years, Handbright, and I was only fifteen when you saw me last.”
“No sorrow, no sorrow, the soundless sea,” sang the birdgirl, her eyes passing across them as though they did not exist. “Aree,
aree.” She stood up and moved about the room behind the railing, around her chair, half dancing, her feet making little patterns on the floor. Then she sat back down, but not before Mavin had seen the way the soft gown fell around her figure, no longer as painfully thin as it had been when Mavin had seen her last, no longer slender at all. Her belly bulged hugely above the thin legs.
“Ah,” said Mavin, in a hurt tone. “So that’s the way of it. Too late for you, Handbright. So late.” She stood in a reverie, seeing in her head the great white bird, plumes floating from its wings and tail, as it dived from the tower of Danderbat Keep, as its wings caught the wind and it beat itself upward into the blue, the high blue; a colour which these people of the chasm never saw, preserved only in these ribbons, in the ritual garments of their Birders. She saw herself, pursuing, asking here, there, high on the bounding cuffs of Schlaizy Noithn; among the seashore cities of fishermen who wore fishskin trousers and oiled ringlets; in Landizot, the childless town; high in the marshy mountain lands near Breem; among the boats of the hunter fleet which never came to land but plied from Summer Sea t o Winter Sea, its children born to the creak of wood and the rattle of sheets; along the desert shore of this other land beyond the western Sea, where there were no Games nor Gamesmen, coming at last to this people living pale and deep, beyond the light of the fructifying sun; fifteen years spent in searching, asking, following. “Well, I have found you at last, sister,” she said to herself. “And your face is as peaceful as a candle flame in still air, burning with its own heat, consuming itself quietly, caring not. You sing and your voice is happy. You dance, and your feet are shod in silk. Oh, Handbright, why do I need to weep for you?”
She turned to take Beedie by the arm, her strong hands making pits in the girl’s flesh so that she gasped. “Sorry, sausage girl. It is a sad thing to come too late. Ah well, let’s go back to your place, my dear, and drink something warming. I feel all cold, like all the chasm night winds were blowing through me.”