Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [127]
He spoke chantingly, as from memory.
‘Our corps has survived since the good king’s time, though in some periods it had no wherewithal to tan leather. According to the record here, its numbers once sank to a master and an apprentice, who lived below ground a distance away … Dreadful times. But we survived.’
As he was wiping his mouth, Shay Tal asked what period of time they were discussing.
Datnil Skar gazed at the darkening rectangle of window as if contemplating flight from the question.
‘I don’t understand all the notations in our book. You know our confusions with the calendar. As we can understand from our own day, new calendars represent considerable dislocations … Embruddock – forgive me, I fear telling you too much – it didn’t always belong to … our sort of people.’
He shook his head, darting his gaze nervously round the room. The women waited, motionless as phagors in the old dull room. He spoke again.
‘Many people have died. There was a great plague, the Fat Death. Invasions … the Seven Blindnesses … tales of woe. We hope our present Lord—’ again a glance round the room – ‘will prove as wise as King Denniss. The good king founded our corps in a year called 249 Before Nadir. We do not know who Nadir was. What we do know is that I – allowing for a break in the record – am the sixty-eighth master of the tanners and tawyers corps. The sixty-eighth …’ He peered shortsightedly at Shay Tal.
‘Sixty-eight …’ Trying to hide her dismayed astonishment, she gathered her furs about her with a characteristic gesture. ‘That’s many generations, stretching back to antiquity.’
‘Yes, yes, stretching right back.’ Master Datnil nodded complacently, as if personally acquainted with vast stretches of time. ‘It’s nearly seven centuries since our corps was founded. Seven centuries, and still it freezes of nights.’
*
Embruddock in its surrounding wilderness was a beached ship. It still gave the crew shelter, though it would never sail again.
So greatly had time dismantled a once proud city that its inhabitants did not realise that what they regarded as a town was nothing more than the remains of a palace, which had stood in the middle of a civilisation obliterated by climate, madness, and the ages.
As the weather improved, the hunters were forced to go in increasingly long expeditions in search of game. The slaves planted fields and dreamed of impossible liberty. The women stayed at home and grew neurotic.
While Shay Tal fasted and became more solitary, Vry became full of a repressed energy and developed her friendship with Oyre. With Oyre, she talked over all that Master Datnil had said, and found a sympathetic listener. They agreed that there were puzzling riddles in history, yet Oyre was lightly sceptical.
‘Datnil Skar is old and a bit gaga – Father always says so,’ she said, and limped found the room in parody of the Master’s gait, exclaiming in a piping voice, ‘“Our corps is so exclusive we didn’t even let King Denniss join …”’
When Vry laughed, Oyre said, more seriously, ‘Master Datnil could be executed for showing his corps Master Book about – that’s proof he’s gaga.’
‘And even then he wouldn’t let us look at it properly.’ Vry was silent, and then burst out, ‘If only we could put all the facts together. Shay Tal just collects them, writes them down. There must be a way of making a – a structure from them. So much has been lost – Master Datnil is right there. The cold was so bitter, once on a time, that almost everything inflammable was burnt – wood, paper, all records. You realise we don’t even know what year it is? – Though the stars might tell us. Loil Bry’s calendar is stupid, calendars should be based on years, not people.