Hunters and Trophies

In Hunter of Secrets, Jude muses with regret that he can’t take part of one of his Hunts home, but he can’t recall why. Hunters are vehemently discouraged from collecting bits of their prey as trophies, aside from the blood (and even that depends on what was being Hunted. Some things are too dangerous to take blood from.)

There are two reasons, one of which has to do with the nature of their prey, and one of which relates to human nature. Some time in the long distant past, the ancestors of the people who would become the Hunter clans did what normal people did. They collected what might be useful, or was attractive, or just cool to show off, and took it home. They learned most quickly indeed that some of the things they killed were not edible. Extremely not edible, as it turned out, to the point that they made poison mushrooms look nutritious and good for you. A few very public horrible warnings as people died writhing in pain, or driven mad by something in the flesh, taught everyone else that it was never, ever safe to eat any animal or creature that wasn’t obviously non-magical. So the first prohibition came down from the elders: don’t eat the flesh of what we Hunt. But hides, claws, feathers, and other things might be OK to keep around.

In some cases it was true. Skip forward several thousand years, and you have Jude Tainuit wondering if the soft, plush pelt of the herbivore that he had to put out of its misery would make a good blanket. It would, and the hide could be tanned. But the hide of a hellhound, or some of the other things? Absolutely not, even if they survived tanning, or the person doing the work survived prolonged contact with the skin. Claws too sometimes had a nasty surprise waiting if the venom sacks or other things had not been removed and the claws purged of the chemicals. Trophy heads or jaws? Same problem. Enough people had bad experiences that an unspoken rule developed – if it didn’t look and act like a normal beast, leave it alone. Once cleansing magic was discovered (or granted to the clans. Versions differ), that took care of a lot of temptation because if the creature vanished, no one could take a bit home.

Human nature was the second part. Think again about Jude and the pelt. What if he had collected it, and tanned it, and turned it into a wonderful bed cover? And his children loved it, and talked about it, and perhaps showed it to friends? Who might tell other people, including someone with a grudge who could find a way to turn the hide into evidence of something illegal or otherwise evil? The Hunter clans lived in a world of shifting alliances and nosy nobles and tax collectors. Looking too prosperous brought unwanted attention, and it would only take one glance of someone seeing a Hunter lady’s jacket showing a bit of fur. Why was she wearing something reserved for nobles? What if it wasn’t a fur on the official legal lists, but something “exotic,” as the modern Hunters and mages say? Nothing but trouble lay that direction. Better to destroy everything, teach the youngsters not to take trophies save for the blood, and hide in plain sight.

Yes, times have changed. But as Jude and others of his generation well recall, it wasn’t too long ago that someone tried to eat a bit of meat from a Hunted creature. He died a horrible, agonizing death. So obviously there is a very good reason not to take trophies, and no one questions the ban, even if they might regret lost opportunities.

Sunday Snippet: Good Counsel

So, I was looking at some older bits-n-pieces, and found this. It never worked into a story, but it reflects a slightly take on Rada Ni Drako (the Cat Among Dragons series). I might have posted it before, but I don’t recall.

He couldn’t sleep. The new matting on his sleeping platform felt hard, the bolster did not fit his flanks and the still air stifled him. Shii-lak put on a light robe and slipped out of his quarters. The young male should not have known the back way and he gloated a little as he stole silently through the old, forgotten passage. His passing stirred dust at first before he entered a slightly more trafficked section. He recalled his dam explaining that this would be where the servants came on their errands. The reptile paused at a turning, considered his options and took the weak-side corridor.

His dam had taught him the back ways. “This is female knowledge,” she’d warned him over and over. “Only in dire need should you tell what you learn of the back ways. The main ways are for males and nobles, the hidden for females, servants, and such.” Common born and chosen for the Imperial quarters because of her lithe form and soft hide, his dam had kept no secrets from her son. “You will inherit nothing. Therefore you must learn everything and hide it all. On that your survival may depend, blade in my forefoot.” She’d hoped that he might become a senior servant, either in the Palace or more likely in the retinue of a noble. And it was to one noble in particular that her long-ago words sent him this night, through the back ways.

“He is not a Great Lord. But he is the greatest of the court lords, the one who can be trusted. If you ever have need, go to him and tell him that I sent you in the name of Lady Zabet. If there is any way he can, he will help you, and if not then he will be honest with you.” Only one individual in all of the thousands living and working in the Court carried the name “The Trusted One.” Not that any of those who used it called him that in his hearing. No, it was a heart name, used by those who knew but never where other ears might overhear. Even the noble in question remained in ignorance of his own heart name. Instead he used a battle name, one that made his enemies tremble and his allies rejoice and those under his protection walk without fear. Or so the servants whispered among themselves.

After three more turnings and changes, Shii-lak thought he had found his target. He’d never come to this part of the Palace via the back ways before and he hesitated, forefoot raised. He heard a sound and his eyes widened: he’d reached his destination. The reptile carefully felt the old wood in the side of the passage until he found a latch. His talons closed on cool metal and he breathed a prayer to his sire’s Ancestors that it would work. He squeezed and the latch moved, releasing the pin and allowing him to ease the door open. It swung silently and the reptile eased down around the back of a sleeping platform, into the noble’s inner chamber.

He looked around, curious. Nothing seemed unusual, aside from a small table draped in white fabric with metal and wood artwork on it. He assumed it was artwork. It could not be a weapon and certainly bore no resemblance to the usual images and items on an altar. However, something much more interesting captured his attention and Shii-lak slipped forward until he could see into the noble’s public room. The reptile stole a cushion from the small pile by the open doorway and settled onto it, pillowing his head and upper chest off of the cold tile and wood floor.

#

Commander Rada Lord Ni Drako, called Lord Reh-dakh, wondered why a teen-aged male had snuck into her private quarters and now lay just out of sight (he thought) in the doorway. She glanced down and made certain that her hold-out weapons were within quick reach, then turned her attention back to the piece of music she was working on. It was very difficult and she repeated the pattern of notes again to make absolutely certain that she had it in her muscle memory and ear. Something still did not quite match her memory and the mammal frowned, trying a different combination of notes. Ah! There it was: a flat on the run back up the scale, modulating the theme into a minor that set the pattern for the second half of the lament. Now she had it and she played the entire song through, vocalizing along with it this time. The song was not exactly pretty but it certainly caught the ear and heart, which was why she’d decided to learn it.

When that was done, Rada stopped and stretched her hands and wrists, shaking them a little. She was in a slightly melancholy mood and decided to try that old Earth song “the Coventry Carol.” The odd major-minor piece, a lament for murdered juniors, came easily. For some reason the humans she worked with from time to time always wanted to hear it at Christmas and she obliged them so it stayed fresh in her memories. She noticed that the male in her doorway flinched at the song and she wondered why.

On a hunch, she followed it with “O’Carolan’s Farewell to Music.” If Zabet had been there Rada would not have played it, but her “concubine” was out that night and so Rada indulged. The male stared at her, his expression mirroring the sorrow and uncertainty in the old Terran song. With that, Rada knew why he’d come in the night to her quarters, although she had no idea who he was. Probably a servant, one of the young ones who’d been sold into service; a practice she utterly abhorred. The ‘boy’ uttered a fluty, hollow mourning wail of the sort she’d heard far, far too many times in her over seven centuries of life.

“Come in. I won’t bite you or report you,” she offered, putting some of her Gift behind the half-sung words. Azdhagi minds did not respond to her talents as did draconic or mammalian but he was young enough not to have developed the innate mental wall of an adult. He crept forward and she blinked at his size—not a servant-born then, not with that amount of mass on his frame. He wasn’t one of her cadets, either, or he’d never have dared to intrude. Neither would he have known how to enter her quarters by the back way. “What do you need?”

#

Shii-lak hesitated as worry warred with pride. Damn it, he was his sire’s son and should never have let his feelings show so plainly. But Reh-dakh had helped his dam, or rather Reh-dakh’s concubine had, and now he needed someone to ask advice of. Someone he could trust who would not try to use him. That he’d learned even before his second growth time: beware of adults who petted with their tail while hiding their forefoot. “What am I supposed to be?” he blurted.

The mammal set aside the musical instrument he had been playing and stood on his hind legs, then sat on a cushion on the floor. “What do you want to be?” He asked in reply.

“I,” and Shii-lak stopped, neck spines twitching in confusion. He’d never thought about it. No one had ever asked him. He stared towards the large window in the stone wall, noting that Shibo had dropped below the top of the palace’s roofs. “I don’t know.”

Reh-dakh studied her visitor carefully. His robe, though plain, seemed finer than it should be. It fit too well to be a noble’s cast off given to a servant. Well, it did not matter to her, really. “What are you meant to be?” she inquired.

“A servant,” he replied instantly. Then he caught himself again. “No. I’m supposed to be a warrior and a scholar.” The young male paced back and forth across the tiled floor before turning back to the patiently waiting mammal. “My dam said, that is, she said that if I needed help or advice to come to you, in Lady Zabet’s name, and that you would help me if you could.” The words rushed out of him like the Zhangki in spring flood and were almost as muddled to Reh-dakh’s ear.

“It is a high calling to be a warrior and a scholar. Almost as high as being a true servant,” the mammal said in a thoughtful tone.

Shii-lak flopped onto a cushion and stared at the noble. “Warriors outrank servants. How can it be a higher calling to serve than to fight? That makes no sense.”

The mammal waved one of his stubby talon-tipped forefoot appendages at the Azdhag. “I am a servant. The King-Emperor, if he is truly worthy of his titles, is a servant just as much as the unseen ones here in the palace or out in the fields. The Minister of War serves as well. Think of your learning,” and the mammal leaned forward, catching Shii-lak’s eyes with his single silvery one. “What are the vows of the Lord Defender?”

“To serve and protect the people of Drakon IV and to obey the King-Emperor only as the King-Emperor commands the armies of Drakon IV,” the youngster replied automatically.

“And what are the vows of the King-Emperor?”

His tail-tip flicking as he tried to remember, the blotchy male ventured, “To bring honor to the Ancestors, to rule and defend the people of the Azdhag Empire and DeShan’s World, and to live so as to bring honor to the Azdhagi?” Yes, that was it.

Reh-dakh let him think about the words he’d just recited. “Exactly. Which means what? How does the King-Emperor bring honor to the Azdhagi?”

“By expanding the Empire and defeating our enemies!” Except that was not the answer Reh-dakh wanted, if the mammal’s unhappy forefoot gesture meant anything. Shii-lak’s spines flattened again at the mammal’s displeasure.

“Anyone can do that. You could do that, given enough resources and time,” Reh-dakh snorted, making Shii-lak flinch. “Lan-zhe secured the border beyond DeShan’s world, or so it seemed. Would you call Lan-zhe a good emperor?”

Shii-lak’s forefoot and tail swung in a firm negation. “Not at all. He crippled Drakon IV and left ten year-turns of chaos after he abdicated.” The last word came as a sneer.

“I wouldn’t go that far, young male. The Great Lords and I kept things organized and running long enough for Lo-dan to learn and become a King-Emperor in truth as well as in title,” Reh-dakh corrected firmly, all but tapping his muzzle-tip with the mammal’s iron war fan. “You forget to whom you speak.”

Automatically, Shii-lak dropped his head in submission. “Your pardon, Lord Mammal.”

“Lan-zhe reigned. He did not rule, and that made all the difference in the world between him and his son Lo-dan.” Reh-dakh explained, grooming the tip of his thin tail with his claws, “Lo-dan served the Empire just as I do, just as Great Lord Kirlin does, just as the Vizier does, just as the peasant in the field does. Just as the Great Shi-dan did and still does.” Reh-dakh sat back, adding quietly, “Think on my words, young male, and see if they lead you out of the thicket you are in.”

Shii-lak’s training overrode his questions and he rose, bowing to the noble as he heard the dismissal. “Thank you, Lord Mammal.”

“Use the back way out,” Reh-dakh ordered, rising to his hindlegs and towering over the reptile. “And know that my prayers are with you on the loss of your dam. She brought grace to the Imperial Quarters and her beauty and wisdom are missed by many.” With that the scarred mammal turned, not allowing Shii-lak time to respond. The young male bowed again and hurried out of the noble’s chamber, the alien’s words chasing around and around in his skull.

After he left, Rada flopped out onto her sleeping platform. Eye closed, she reached for the timethreads winding through and around Drakon IV, trying to sense the pattern. Nothing had shifted, although she noted a minor thread that wandered off and faded away as she “watched” with her mind. It was an option that no longer played a role in the future of Drakon IV and she wondered briefly what it had been. Then she turned her attention to what would be, or might come to be, and withdrew into herself after finding no near-term threats or knots in the time-stream. The woman dozed off.

Back in the Imperial wing, Shii-lak composed himself on his new sleeping platform. The mammal’s words both confused and comforted him, and he decided that he needed to learn more about Shi-dan, Lo-dan and the others that the mammal had named.

Ten year-turns later, the Lord Defender knelt before a new King-Emperor and renewed her oaths to Drakon IV and to the Azdhag Empire. “You may rise, Commander Reh-dakh Lord Ni Drako,” a deep voice rumbled and the mammal did as ordered, the signet on her headpiece tapping her forehead gently. The reptile now dominating the Great Throne Room studied the commander of his throneworld’s military and was pleased with what he saw. For her part, Reh-dakh liked what she’d seen and heard of the former Prince Imperial. The blotchy reptile had grown and filled out over the past years but retained his dam’s grace and wits. His sire had chosen well in naming Shii-lak as heir, Reh-dakh thought to herself as she waited for the new King-Emperor’s command.

(C) 2015, 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Changes, Preservation, And Cultures

I was reading an academic paper about something completely unrelated to Day Job, and stumbled over an idea. The author was discussing different cultural patterns over time within a region, and said that (paraphrasing because I don’t have the book in hand) cultures desire change and seek out novelty and new ways of producing and working as a form of growth and evolution. I sat back and blinked, because at least four counter-examples sprang to mind.

Except… When I started really thinking about it, those examples were all groups under stress, and the changes were being offered from outside the group. Three of the groups were either Islamist or other religious groups, and the fourth was Russian peasants between 1650-end of serfdom. In the case of Russia, the reluctance of subsistence farmers to rush toward new crops and/or new technologies was based on two elements, very broadly speaking. One was pure survival. As close to the bone as farming had always been in Russia, going back into prehistory as best we can tell, there was very little room for error. Trying something new that might bring greater yields or better returns didn’t balance out the risk. It was safer to stick with what had always worked, even if it wasn’t ideal, because people knew it. The second element was that the novelties came from outside and above, from the boyars and other nobles, or worse, from neuveau riche landowners. These were people who had a track record of trouble, at least in the collective mind of a lot of peasants. If the noble liked it, it probably meant trouble, or at least made more work for the farmers without bringing much if any reward. And again, if the new thing required land that could be used for familiar crops that went to feed the family and pay taxes, well… No wonder change came slowly and with reluctance. The survival instinct was conservative in the literal sense. The group succeeded or the group starved, and novelties brought greater risk than reward.

Several writers have pointed out that pushing cultural groups into close proximity does not always bring friendship, to put it mildly, especially when one group dominates over the others in some way. Moorish Spain was NOT a tranquil haven of happy coexistence. Over time, cultural lines hardened and in-group laws were passed to ensure that “we” stayed “us” and didn’t mix with “them.” Fast forward a few hundred years, and you have groups like the Wahabists and other Salafists vehemently rejecting certain cultural and technological (and moral) innovations. “This isn’t the way it was done by the Prophet.” “This isn’t in the holy book and approved commentaries.” Note that this can apply to non-Islamic groups as well, but the Islamists are the best-articulated example. The more certain thinkers and writers were exposed to the West, the firmer their stance of opposition to ideas like legal equality of the sexes became. Certain technologies and other things are rejected as too corrupting and too tainted by their association with the Other.

To return to the archaeological paper I referred to at the start of this post, both my observation and the author’s are true. Many cultures, on the macro scale, do accept and perhaps seek out novelties and new ideas and things, turning them into status symbols or adapting them to local needs and conditions. Tools, materials like metals, concepts like religion and systems of governance, all those change over time even within cultures. Especially, I would argue, if there is not pressure from outside to change, but the idea and drive comes from inside the group and is allowed to be gradual. When stresses are applied from outside (Russian collectivization and enserfment of peasants, cultural collisions, rapid population movements that coincide with weather pattern changes), then groups balk and reject innovations and novelties. The risk is too great and threatens group survival.

That rejection can backfire. If the old ways of survival can’t be maintained, and the population won’t or can’t leave, the group might die out, like the Viking settlers of Greenland, or perhaps the Late Stone Age populations of Finland and Lapland. One is well attested to, the second has to be inferred as signs of population in Finland and Lapland declined, settlements shrank, and people seem to have become more mobile as a result of weather shifts. Pottery disappears for a while, which fits a less sedentary culture. Did people relocate away from the area, leaving the “Remainers” to find ways to adapt to the new situation? Did some groups just die out in place*? Or did harder conditions mean higher mortality rates and thus the smaller apparent population?

It’s an interesting question, cultural change, and one with a lot of twists, turns, and “insufficient data at this time.”

*Thus far, no archaeological evidence from the Baltic suggests this, but it is also a time period that has only recently really gained much archaeological attention.

Furor Gallico – Celtic Folk Metal

I apologize for the short post. Day Job got a little busy as we are starting the race to the end of the semester.

So, as so often happens, I was looking at one band’s music video and stumbled onto a different one. The first band … a leeeeetle too much teen-angst-goth* for me at the moment, although the sound’s not bad (Blackbriar). The second band is the Italian Celtic metal group Furor Gallico. The short version is that if you like Eluvite or Leaves Eyes, you’ll like this group.

They sing in several languages: English, Lombard (an Italian dialect), and a Germanic-sounding language that might be a different Italian dialect. Their first album was pretty heavy, with a lot of growls and heavy guitar with folk instruments. Their more recent albums seem to have mellowed, with more emphasis on the flute, Celtic harp, and a softer sound. There’s still a lot of metal growls and darker metal songs on the later albums, but all melodic. It’s “beauty and the beast” metal, with male growls and female vocals, although the men do straight vocals as well on many songs.

Yes, they are considered a pagan group. I skipped over one of their more obviously pagan albums for that reason. I don’t get the unpleasant vibe from Furor Gallico that I’ve picked up from a few other groups, and what I’ve heard thus far is not actively antiChristian. In this they are like Eluvite.

I’ve noticed that I’ve become a bit more selective in the past few years as far as metal goes. I’m leaning more and more toward the melodic end of the spectrum. I’m not sure if this is me and age, or if there’s a larger trend toward darker, heavier sounds in the broad spectrum of “metal.” Reading things like Metal Hammer magazine and similar blogs and web sites, I’m seeing more reviews for dark, thrash, and very rough metal, with increasingly dark themes and subject matter. It’s not my cup of tea.

*It’s the end of the school year, and I need a lower drama level in my fun music for now. I’ll probably come back to them later and see what I think.

Book Review: Facing the Sea of Sand

Cunliffe, Barry. Facing the Sea of Sand. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2023)

Short Version: This well-written overview history of the regions around the Sahara fills in a missing piece of regional and international history. It has a few flaws, but is well-worth reading.

Long version: Anthropologist and archaeologist Barry Cunliffe wrote an excellent survey of the prehistory and history of the region around the Sahara Desert. He begins at the beginning, with the early Holocene, tracking the changes in climate and weather that so influenced life in and around the region. As he points out, the desert, even at its worst, is not uniform, and people and animals have always crossed it, using the mountains and other microclimates as “islands” as they traverse the sea of sand.

One of the things the book emphasizes is the importance of trade and the exchange of ideas, even before Pharonic Egypt and other major centers of culture developed. The book tends to bounce north to south and west to east, considering places and peoples in a chronological fashion. This can be a weak point, because it can be hard to keep track of a lot of mostly unfamiliar names and places. The author does the best he can, I suspect, because it’s unfamiliar ground with sometimes indirect connections. The reader (this reader) had to do a lot of studying the maps (which are numerous and excellent) and diagrams to keep track of who was what was where, once the story passed beyond familiar ground. The book was a little slower going for me than was his previous summary, because it was such new-to-reader terrain, with new characters.

The Egyptians, Romans, and others make passing appearances in northern Africa. This will probably be familiar. The southern information might be new, and the connections between the two never severed, although they grew strained. The Niger River formed the center of a lot of activity, and Cunliffe devotes a goodly amount of time to the cultures that developed, flourished, fought, and faded in that area. North Africa, especially eastern North Africa, draws his attention after the end of the western Roman Empire. The links between Islamic revivals and the invasions of Iberia were new, and add depth to the more familiar story of the wars for Spain and Portugal.

That is also the period where I had to step back briefly and take a deep breath. Cunliffe follows the traditional view of Islam, and tends to give the Muslim conquerors and rulers the benefit of the doubt compared to Christian monarchs. He repeats the ideas about Islam being more advanced and civilized than Europe during the Middle Ages, and has a rather negative view of the Crusaders’ attempts to recapture formerly Christian lands. This is very traditional, and in the author’s defense, he is an archaeologist. As much work as he put into researching and writing the story of northern Africa, it is a very minor quirk and one most readers wouldn’t notice or be bothered by. He also lives in England, and the book is published by an English press, which might have played a role in his taking the traditional view.

The book covers the period from the late Ice Ages to the 1600s, more or less. The bibliography is extensive and detailed. I’d recommend the book for people interested in filling a gap in their knowledge of regional history, people interested in trade between regions, and those curious about the connections between Asia, Africa, and the Atlantic.

Walpurgistag/May Day

Ah, the feast (old version) of St. Walburga, and the start of summer in the Saxon calendar, and a few other things besides. We are halfway between the equinox and the summer solstice.

Of all the trees that grow so fair,
   Old England to adorn,
Greater are none beneath the Sun,
   Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
   (All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing no little thing,
   In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
   Or ever AEneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,
   When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
   (From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
    Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,
   He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
   And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
   And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
   To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
   Till every gust be laid,
To drop a limb on the head of him
   That anyway trusts her shade:
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
   Or mellow with ale from the horn,
He will take no wrong when he lieth along
   'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
   Or he would call it a sin;
But - we have been out in the woods all night,
   A-conjuring Summer in!
And we bring you news by word of mouth-
   Good news for cattle and corn-
Now is the Sun come up from the South,
   With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs
   (All of a Midsummer morn):
England shall bide till Judgment Tide,
   By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Granted “A Tree Song” is about midsummer, but …

Or an older version …

I prefer Steeleye Span or Golden Bough’s version, but to each their own.

Spring’s leanness had slid into summer’s bounty, the dairy cows gave milk, the first fruits of the forest were available, and life had improved with the warming of the year.

In the Saxon lands, the forces of mischief and evil had rallied on the Brocken on Walpurgisnacht, but with sunrise the light scattered them. The Wild Hunt rode farther west and north, woe betide anyone out when the hounds sounded their cry from the skies overhead! But that too had passed until after summer…perhaps.

Perhaps.

Tuesday Tidbit: Arrival of the Stones

And now the real work begins …

Two days later, all work stopped at midmorning as a pair of bright-colored wagons, each with a seven-bird hitch, rolled up to the mill site. “Marsdaam my witness, a man’d think we was carryin’ lead, not stone,” the teamster declared. Pale mud stained his boots to the ankle. “S’ wet down south, rains to th’ east,” he informed Harald. “But we’re here.”

“You’re here, Yoorst and Marsdaam be praised.” They’d gotten resting wood prepared, so the stones would not sit on the bare ground as they waited for final trimming and cutting prior to being installed. The new imperial gear had fit almost too well, leading to mutters about the floor crashing down on their heads, or mice moving in before the miller did. Harald had made a trip into town and left a donation at Radmar’s chapel, as well as paying the bill at The Empty Barrel. He’d also bought new grain of both kinds for Wulfgar to use. The stone cutter had probably tested a little at Gember’s temple already, but it helped to have some on-site as well.

“Where to?” the scrawny teamster asked, looking around as his associate backed the birds toward the wood on the ground.

“Where he’s going,” Harald said. Wulfgar had appeared from inside the mill. With deft, practiced gestures, the bigger teamster secured the birds and the wagon, then folded back the canvas over the stones. He carried two, the thinner ones. They’d move those first, or at least they usually did. “Are the weight spells still in place?”

“Aye.”

Scavenger be praised, they could move the stones with fewer men. Mak trotted up, slowing as he caught sight of the great haulers. “Go get six men, strong ones. Do not run,” Harald ordered.

Mak touched his forelock and spun around, walking very quickly away from the wagons. One of the near-side birds saw him and hissed anyway. The teamster tugged her rope. “Southern blood,” he grumbled. “Deep-winded but hot-natured.”

Twrrhsss. She snapped at something in the air.

“Told ye.” The man sounded patient and resigned.

Wulfgar and the bigger teamster had folded the bed cover well clear of the stones, and untied the web of ropes holding them steady. Spells on the ropes had helped keep them from fraying, or so Harald had been told once. Harald left the first wagon and went over to help. “I’ll hold the birds,” the teamster said.

“Thank ye.” By the time Harald and Wulfgar had removed the ropes and coiled them as the teamster asked, Mak and the others arrived.

“Three on a side, two in pushin’,” Wulfgar commanded. Two of the apprentices scrambled carefully into the wagon and braced where they could push with their legs against the cradle. “Not too hard or fast. I say when.” The men got ready. Harald and Ceol had told them what to expect. “Now.”

Scrrrape. The stone closest to the end shifted, and two of the men reached in and gripped the wooden cradle around the dark grey stone wheel.

“Now.”

Scraaeeeeeep, and it moved farther. Enough of the cradle extended from the end of the wagon to let the men start taking some of the weight. Harald stayed well clear, up by the head of the lead bird on the hitch, in case he needed to help grab her.

“Keep it moving if you can. End of the restin’ wood.” Wulfgar gave the men a breath to get ready. “Now, now, now.”

Scraaape, grunts and hisses, and the six men carried the stone and cradle to the end of the wood. “Down, down, down, good.” Wulfgar shifted one bit of wood so the man’s fingers would be clear.

The second small stone moved almost as smoothly. Everyone stopped and rested as the teamster moved the wagon and his birds out of the way. The wagon with the thicker stone moved ahead, then backed into place. Two of the birds fussed. “Yoorst my witness, you’ll be sausage before the day’s out,” their owner grumbled.

A third bird hissed, dark blue crest feathers going almost flat. The grey and brown gelding fluttered one wing. The workmen kept well clear as the teamster locked the wagon’s wheels, then checked his birds. One buffeted his head with her wing, or tried to. He gave her a clout to the neck.

“Right. I’m blindfoldin’ all of ’em. You and you, hold ’em as I work.”

Once each bird wore a tan leather mask over his eyes, he settled and stood quietly. The lead bird sat, followed by one of the wheel birds. The others followed, and the wagon tipped forward a little. Harald looked to Wulfgar. He shrugged, and moved to where he could see the teamster’s face.

“Got water?” the teamster asked as he untied the ropes on the stone and began to fold back the canvas over it.

“Aye.”

The man nodded. “Once this is done, wet th’ bed and we’ll push that way. Preservation spell on th’ wood’ll help.”

Harald looked to Wulfgar. The stone cutter shrugged again. He hadn’t heard of it either. Mak got the water bucket out of the mill and handed it to one of the junior apprentices. The teamster pointed. “Up in there, pour the water easy, just enough to wet and to run under the stone.” The boy did as ordered, then handed down the bucket. “This weighs a third again more?” The teamster looked to Wulfgar.

“Aye. Same’s before, be ready for the weight.” The others braced and moved into position. “Now.”

Scrrraaape. The stone and cradle moved farther than before despite the weight.

“Now.”

Scrrrape. Almost a third of the stone cleared the end of the wagon bed, and men took good holds on the wood.

Wulfgar mouthed something, eyes closed, then called, “Now, now, now.”

The stone glided out of the wagon. The men staggered, then steadied and carried it to the resting wood. “Easy, easy, eeeeasy, good.” It touched down. The men moved their hands, and the bottom stone—the bed stone—settled with a little creak.

“Radmar and m’lord Scavenger be praised,” Wulfgar declared.

“Radmar be praised,” the men replied, and Harald made the Wheel.

He’d planned for this, and a keg of ale waited back at the carpenters’ work area by the time the teamsters got their birds seen to. Wulfgar inspected the stones as the others broached the keg. “Yoorst be praised, Gember be thanked,” Ceol declared, raising his tankard.

“Gember be thanked, Yoorst be praised,” came the reply. The others raised their mugs as well, then drank.

The lean teamster nodded and got a second tankard. “Marsdaam was kind, we only got into real mud once, and that only for two hands of sun. Road’s not so bad’s last time I was up this way.”

The other man made the Horns toward the road. “Oh aye! Never want to see a wagon in an axle deep hole again, Marsdaam my witness. Almost lost his load, the shift was more than the preservation spells could stand.”

Toglos blinked several times. “Preservation spells, sir?” he asked.

The man grinned, revealing a handful of missing teeth. “Aye! Once it’s loaded, the spells on the ropes and on the load help preserve the balance and weight from shiftin’. Won’t stop things from movin’ in a big tip like that un’, but keeps it from slowly creepin’ one way or ‘tother.”

Harald blinked in turn. “Never heard of usin’ a spell that way. Huh.”

“Don’ know if other preservation mages do it, but ourn will. That, plus water resistin’ spells on th’ bed and cover, an we’re good for loads.”

The leaner teamster nodded. “Aye. He’ll only do two per wagon, so we got those. Made more sense than spells for keepin’ mice out, or stoppin’ rot in th’ load.”

Harald blinked. He’d heard of spells cancelling themselves out, like a charm for keeping water off firewood breaking on an anti-fire spell. Maybe that was what the mage meant? “Huh. Interestin’.” He drank more ale. Wulfgar thumped in and helped himself before the apprentice at the tap could do it. “Problem?”

“None.”

(C) 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved

Weights and Measures: Prehistoric Edition

The Poles call them “little stone cheeses.” The Germans prefer one long word that translates “small stone balls with a groove carved in them.” The come in many sizes, although most are smaller than large, and can be made from any of a list of kinds of stone. Archaeologists have found them from northern Italy to the Baltic, from Gaul to the western steppes in what is now Beylarus and Ukraine. They are all Late Bronze Age, thus far, and no one knew quite what they were for.

Then someone said, “What if they were weights fo some kind. Not loom weights, but measuring weights?” And someone else, four someones else actually, did a lot of careful tedious work weighing, measuring, and recording the little stone cheeses and running the data through computers. Lo and behold, they probably were weights. Prehistoric metrology for the win!

Doing business without standardized weights and measures is…a challenge. Ask any medieval or early modern merchant. A London pound and a Paris pound and a Florentine pound might be very different weights. Each town with an official market had its measures, some of which were metal bars posted on the wall of the customs/toll/market master’s building. Everyone had to measure his cloth or other goods against the town foot or ell, since it was different from the last place’s official measure.

The same was true in prehistory, once trade became common enough. Metal in particular, but other goods as well, had to be semi standardized in some way that was acceptable. It’s one of those things that we take for granted today, and I mentally slapped my forehead (not physically, since I had students doing work and didn’t want them to think I was criticizing a project or discussion) when I read the paper. Of course there were weights and measures. That a standard had developed, and become accepted, and spread so widely opened up all sorts of interesting possibilities. Why had developed it, and when? How had it spread, and how quickly? How long had the trade network lasted and the weight unit been accepted as the standard? Who made sure that everything was legal and enforced the rules and prices?

Barry Cunliffe pointed out in his book about trade and civilization in the steppes of Eurasia that once trade begins, it is remembered even after it is interrupted. Trade and exchange were more common than we used to think, and far more extensive. Finding places that didn’t trade is unusual, or means that what went back and forth was something not easily seen in archaeology – furs, bone, wood, textiles, dye-stuffs, hides, slaves, ivory. The absence of the usual bronze and other status goods in parts of the southeastern Baltic raises all sorts of questions about trade, social organization, and so on.

So the little stone cheeses are a symbol of a far more complicated world in northern Europe than most of us realize existed in 1500 BC/BCE or so.

Wasn’t It Humid Three Minutes Ago?

Yup. And then the wind shifted from south to southwest, and all the water fled east. Desert air from New and Old Mexico came racing in, chasing clouds and the chance of rain well into Oklahoma and the Low Rolling Plains.

The sky to the west went clear, and the last low clouds burned off as the temperature shot up. Everyone sighed in unison. We’d been dry-lined. Wave any chance of rain good-by.

Behold, the Dry Line. Image Source: https://www.slideserve.com/ehren/weather-instruments

The difference was actually tighter. One side had dew points in the 60s. Fifteen miles to the west the dew point was 18F. No, that is not a typo. The air was that dry. No rain was going to happen in that air mass.

Three hours later, the wind whapped against RedQuarters, and my hands suddenly hurt. How odd. I called up the most recent data from the National Weather Service, and discovered that the dew point had surged back up to the 60s. Oh goody. A sloshing dry line. If we broke the lid (not likely, since the sun had almost set), it would be very exciting and loud out.

The lid? Huh?

That’s the term when there is a temperature inversion aloft. Most of the time, air cools at a set rate as it rises, until you reach the point where clouds form (100% humidity). Then it cools a little more until you reach the stratosphere and meteorology gets different again. However, when there is a warm layer aloft, it is an inversion, aka “the lid.” This brings freezing rain in winter (ick) or stops storms from forming (summer). Any thermal that is strong enough to force through the lid reaches cold air. It’s Katy-bar-the-door time, and massive supercell thunderstorms can result. That wasn’t this particular evening. There wasn’t enough energy in the air for that, so it just got humid.

Sloshing dry lines make forecasting interesting. It also leads to trouble when people relax and start ignoring the sky. The border between wet and dry air rolls back to the west, and storms can form right on top of events, towns, and other things. Big hail, high winds, and other things might drop from the sky, causing big trouble. Or just making a mild mess of evening plans and grumbles about “not fair, sneaking back in like that.”

I generally live west of the Dry Line. So I sit out on the front stoop and watch huge cloud towers and storms form to the east. They go clobber the rest of the state and I sigh and mutter about watering the lawn and quit stealing my rain, darn it.

Not everywhere has such a sharp distinction between moist and dry air.

Saturday Snippet: Sea Hunter

I was attacked by this idea when I really should have been paying attention to something else. Blame the rather unusual memorial service music (“Southern Cross” By Crosby, Stills, and Nash).

“Hey! Don’t I know you from somewhere?” The heavyset man’s chin jutted forward, belligerent and challenging.

Danil shook his head. “Don’t think so. Never worked for this company before.” All true—it had sported a different name and ownership twenty years before.

The dockyard security supervisor frowned, unbelieving. “Huh. You look like a guy I knew, back in Philly.”

Danil shook his head again, free hand well clear of his jacket pockets and belt. “Nope, sorry. Dad said one of his cousins moved to Pennsylvania, also took after the dark side of the family. Maybe that’s it?”

Eyes narrowed, then “Could be.” Suspicious eyes followed him onto the ship even so. It wasn’t the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

Once aboard, he turned toward the stern, away from his goal, and gave the port side anchor capstan’s drum a careful once-over. He set down his burden and frowned. How did that kind of trash manage to get in the chain and stay there? He removed the junk and stowed it in the bin for harbor trash. Then he picked up the big bag once more and stomped back to the door to the crew berthing spaces. The guard now had his back to the ship, looking for someone else to bother. Good.

Sven, his shift mate, growled at something as Danil stepped into their bunk space. “Stupid dock rat.” The fair-haired man looked up. “You have any trouble with your gear?”

“Just the usual. No one bothered to check the bag.” He set the sack on the deck.

A weary grunt greeted his words.

“And the security boss thought he knew me from Pennsylvania.”

The taller man straightened up a little, mindful of the overhead. “Damnatio,” he hissed.

“Anno.”

It happened. Danil winked. “At least it wasn’t the madame in Macau, or that one official in Singapore or Dubai.”

Sven hissed something vulgar in the Cape Coloured dialect. Danil tsked, then took the fancy sausages and other gourmet snacks to the galley. Once back at his cabin, he checked his gear once more before stowing everything. Why some guards took offense at antique navigation instruments he never had sorted out. OK—Russia he knew why, but they’d raised paranoia to an art. He snorted a laugh.

“Quaesi?” What’s up?

“Russians being worried about the wrong thing.”

“Like paperwork instead of fuel stocks? Or like outside booze instead of a swarm of wharf rat constructs?” Sven’s smile turned hard, predatory.

“Yes to both.” It had been far too interesting of a Hunt, dealing with the constructs while avoiding the dock patrol and not flashing magic where the Church Police might catch a whiff. “Did the parts arrive?”

“Anno. And the last of the cargo. Mr. Petri almost smiled. Almost.”

[snip. The ship gets underway and clears the coastal waters headed south and east.]

Stars surrounded the ship. Danil took a long pull on his pipe. He savored the flavor, then exhaled, a small smoke mirroring the starry smoke that arced up from the edge of the sea and plunged deep once more. A week, weather and traffic permitting, and they’d have a glowing wake, too, perhaps. The southern cross hid below the waters, but the northernmost stars had already vanished.

How long had he circled the world? How many times had the southern cross, the Magellanic Clouds, risen out of the deeps? Since before the Darkness War—the year before had been his last visit home. He inhaled once more, cherry and richness rolling over his tongue with the smoke. He exhaled, an offering of incense to Our Lady Star of the Sea. The ocean swept around the ship, ever changing and ever constant, the stars and sea, his true home. His kin didn’t understand, but his ship brothers did.

(C) 2024 Alma T. C. Boykin All Rights Reserved.