Helliconia Summer - Brian W. Aldiss [631]
‘Let me draw your attention to the iron band running under your feet which divides this dome in half. That band marks the line of latitude on which this edifice is built. We are here fifty-five degrees north of the equator, and standing upon that actual line. As you scarcely need reminding, fifty-five degrees north is the line of the Polar Circle.’
At this point, he gestured to a servant. The curtains concealing the windows were drawn apart.
A view over the town was revealed, looking south. The visibility was good enough for everything to be seen clearly, including the far horizon, bare except for a thin line of denniss trees.
‘We are fortunate on this occasion. The cloud has cleared. We are privileged to witness a solemn event which the rest of Sibornal will be commemorating.’
At this point, Master Asperamanka stood forward and spoke, stiffening his speech with High Dialect. ‘Let me echo my good friend and colleague’s word, “fortunate”. Fortunate we are / tend indeed. Church and State have kept / keeping / will the people of Sibornal united. The plague has been / aspirational eradicated, and we have slain most of the phagors on our continent.
‘You know that our ships have mastery of the seas. In addition, we are now / will building a Great Wall to serve as an act of faith comparable with our formidable Great Wheel.
‘This is / proclamatory a New Great Age. The Great Wall will run right across the north of Chalce. There will be watchtowers on it every two kilometres, and the walls will be seven metres high. That Wall, together with our ships, will keep / keeping out all enemies from our territory. The Day of Myrkwyr is the harbinger of Weyr-Winter ahead, but we shall live through it, our grandchildren will live through it, and their grandchildren. And we shall emerge in the spring, the next Great Spring, ready to conquer all of Helliconia.’
Cheers and handclaps had sounded throughout this speech. Now the applause was clamorous. Asperamanka stared down to hide the gleam of satisfaction on his face.
Ebstok Esikananzi raised a hand.
‘Friends, it is five to noon on this solemn day. Watch the southern horizon. Since it is small winter, Batalix is below that horizon. She will rise again with her puny light in another four tenners, but—’
His words were lost, as everyone pressed to the windows.
Down in the village below, a bonfire had just been lit. The villagers were seen as ants, running about it, arms upraised, swaddled in woollens or furs.
Fresh drink was brought to the watchers in the dome. Mostly, it was drunk as soon as received, and the empty glasses thrust out for more. An unease had settled on the privileged crowd, whose faces made a gloomy contrast to the merry gestures of the ants far below.
A bell began to sound noon. As if in response to its brazen tongue, a change took place on the southern horizon.
On that horizon, the road could be seen as it wound from the village. Elsewhere was unbroken white, trees and buildings standing in frosty outline. Wisps of snow perpetually blew from lodgements, streaming out on the wind like smoke from candles newly extinguished. The horizon itself was clear, and bright with dawn – with sunrise.
Above its crusty line rose a rim of red, a red of heaviness, of congealing blood, the upper part of Freyr’s orb.
‘Freyr!’ came the exclamation from the throats of all who watched, as if by naming the star they could have power over it.
A shaft of light spread upon the world, casting shadows, flooding a range of far hills with pink light till they gleamed against the slatey sky behind them. The faces of the privileged in the dome were made red. Only the village below, where