I swung at him, missed, and fell headlong. Thereafter I was still the Old Man, but I was also known as Roo.
Then there was Kettle. Right after a long first sleep and a hearty second meal, Quetti and I were taken in hand by the saints. I think Quetti was given his first reading lesson, but Gabriel was howling for information on the ants’ nest, so I was cross-examined by a team of six. They came at me in relays, hurling questions until my head spun. It seemed to take half a lifetime.
That was in the scriptorium, an unusually large and bright room, well outfitted with windows and drippy skylights, but always so crowded with chests and desks that there was barely room to move. There the saints fought an unending battle to copy out ancient records before the damp of Dusk rotted them all away. The air reeked of mold, and there were insects. Young men with good eyesight struggled alongside old men with experience, striving to decipher crumbling paper or sodden leather. The most valuable texts have been transcribed onto gold-plated shell slabs, but there is a limit to the weight the snortoises can transport.
Weight has always been Heaven’s problem, as Kettle explained to me soon after the questioning had ended.
He took me off to his own cell, a nook of highly irregular shape that was even more cluttered than the scriptorium. Bundles of old manuscript were mixed in with discarded garments, and there was barely room to stand, let alone sit. The bed itself was heaped with books and a laptop desk and brass instruments for observing the stars. I was never to see it in any other state, and I eventually concluded that Saint Kettle, if he slept at all, must sleep standing up. He cleared a place for me on the end of the bed and squeezed his portly form onto one corner of a chest. And beamed at me.
“Where do you want to start?” he asked.
“Where do I want to start what?”
He looked surprised and waved a hand at the chaos. “Learning.”
“Is a herdman capable of learning?”
“That depends on what sort of herdman!” Chuckling, he bent over to scrabble through a heap of things on the floor, rising red-faced with a relatively neat and respectable ledger. He found the page he wanted and held the book out to me. I took it, surprised at its weight, and stared in incomprehension at the thousands of tiny, close-packed squiggles and at one large and unsightly ink blot.
“What does this mean?” I asked crossly. I had only a very hazy idea of writing, even then. “What use is this? Someone has been very careless.”
“Yes, that happens,” Kettle sighed. “It’s quite impossible to read what was written underneath. That page tells on an expedition sent out a long time ago…before you were born, certainly. Four chariots went across the grasslands to Dawn, to the wetlands. Purple-white-blue, Green-red-orange, Indigo-two-black…and now the fourth name can’t be made out at all! Not that it really matters, of course.”
He was prying, wanting to see my reaction, and I in turn was studding his baggy brown face. He was still smiling, and I did not detect a threat, which have must been one possibility. “You ought to report that blot to Michael.”
Kettle shook his head, swinging jowls. “Michael needn’t worry about such details. Nobody else need, either, in my opinion.”
“So who’s the enemy?”
His eyes twinkled. “Gabriel and Raphael. They don’t like some of the innovations that Michael is trying to make.” He explained about the five archangels and their unending rivalries.
“So why antagonize Uriel?”
“Uriel is one of Michael’s—this present Michael’s—own appointees, and he’s starting to waver, so it’s said. The meetings are private, of course, but the story is that he sided with the opposition in the last vote.”
“So why antagonize him?” I asked again.
Kettle chuckled. “Michael doesn’t need to bribe. He rewards or punishes. You watch him! He’s a master.”
Yes, I thought, I might well learn a thing or two by watching Michael.
I dropped my eyes to the book, to tales of things that had happened before I was born, to the deeds of men who might be dead by now. The tiny script seemed to dance before my eyes like midges. I thought of Misi’s delicate embroidery. I had never managed to match her at it…but I had learned to sew, after a fashion. I thought of the heaped documents I had been shown, full of the voices of the long-dead, full of wonderful things. I shivered at the thought of being able to hear those voices and see those things.
But reading would be of no use to me back on the grasslands.
I closed the book. “Tell me about the Great Compact.”
Kettle looked disappointed. “The Compact? Then I must speak first of the firstfolk…and therefore of time. How much do you know of time?”
The answer, we soon discovered, was “not much,” so Kettle set to work to teach me about time, and that took much time in itself.
At rare moments, when there are large hills to the west and the sky is clear, the inhabitants of Heaven can glimpse the stars, the Other Worlds, shining in the sky. There are millions of them, and they are terrifyingly beautiful. Which one is First World and how the firstfolk drove their great chariots through all those shining worlds, even the saints do not know. But the Other Worlds turn about Vernier in a predictable path. Were a man to observe the sky when he lay with a woman and she then made a baby, he would see the same pattern repeated when she was delivered of the child. The saints call this amount of time a turn.
At our first meeting, I had heard Kettle refer to another measure of time, one that the firstfolk used, the year. The year is about one and one-third turns. Heaven keeps its records in years, but—as everyone admits—it is a very impractical unit and is preserved only because it is sanctified by age and custom.
More convenient is the month, which is almost sixteen years, or twenty-two turns. I was two and a bit months old, Kettle informed me smugly. He expected me to ask how he knew, but he’d already told me that, so I didn’t. Almost a month had passed since the seafolk’s great migration, and much of that month I had spent in the ants’ nest. One month makes a baby an adult. A man can hope to live for four months, and a very few make five…and so on. Time is handiest in months. Twelve months makes a cycle, when High Summer returns to the same place. A cycle is three old men’s lives end to end, seven or eight generations, two hundred years.
The firstfolk came to Vernier almost a hundred cycles ago.
“Copies!” Kettle would exclaim sometimes, when he became annoyed with the old texts. “Copies of copies of copies! Reports of rumors of commentaries on critiques of analyses! Bah!” Sometimes he used an even stronger word than “bah!”
Despite the efforts of generations of scribes, and of the many heavy-laden snortoises who bear Heavens library, there are lamentable gaps in the old learning: much has been lost. What, for example, were the “goods” whose loss the firstfolk lamented? Kettle thought they must have been like the sorts of things that Heaven guards so carefully—the smithy, the pottery, the toolmaker’s shop—and most likely the legend of many goods being lost means that they were swallowed up by Nightside. Other saints disagreed. Goods, they maintained, had been in some way related to gods, and their loss was somehow tied in to the way the gods had scattered all across Vernier. Every group has its own god, they pointed out, and some have several, all lost to Heaven. Kettle made very rude sounds at this idea. The various gods had come much later, he insisted.
And why, if the firstfolk could move themselves and their goods through the Other Worlds, could they not also keep these goods moving when they came to Vernier? Kettle had a theory that—but then, every saint had theories.