began slashing the blades through wild grass to clean them. While the children were thus employed, their parents approached the line of ominous contraptions standing sentinel not far from me. Churners, Savga had called them.
The things were upright wooden devices, my height, looking for all the world like double-armed pumps situ ated on top of boxy wooden platforms, which in turn were stationed above stout casters. As the old men wheeled the things forward, the axle of one broke with a loud crack of wood and clank of metal. There was much swearing as the churner was moved out of the way and tipped onto its side. Metal blades shone beneath the exposed underbelly of the boxy platform.
In pairs, the rest of the adults stood upon the churn ers, on the platform stationed above the blades of each. They began pumping the handles up and down, up and down, which propelled the churners forward. Like fran tic oversize bugs they bumped and rolled over the mess of slashed involucres, churning them into a gray lake the consistency of gruel.
The children returned from outside, scythes polished clean by twists of wild grass. They hung the blades on the wall nearest me—Savga grinned and waved—and took up massive wooden shovels: two children per shovel, or, in the case of the smallest children, three or four to each. The wooden scoop of each shovel was over four feet long, knee high, and slightly concave. Into the mess of churned cocoons the children waded, and they began pushing the paste created by the churners straight up the ramps they’d earlier hitched to the back of the carts.
At some point I went outside to lie down, my body a blinding ache. Savga found and woke me.
“Your skin is the color of a roasted kidney,” she said so berly. “You’re going to suffer evil sun-sickness tomorrow. That was witless, falling asleep without shade. You’re not crackbrained, are you?”
“Water,” was all I could croak for a reply, whereupon I fainted.
I woke to cool, wet sensations tickling my forehead. I opened bleary eyes. Fwipi was bent over me, dribbling wa ter from a rag onto my forehead and lips, upon my wrists, over my groin.
“How’ll you get better if you do this to yourself, hey-o?” she muttered.
She pressed a gourd of water to my lips and cooed en couragement while I drank. She helped me stand, her body all sinew and bone, as tough as bark. Holding me about the hips, she led me back to the women’s barracks.
She didn’t come into the barracks but stood instead at the foot of its rickety stairs, gray paste hardening upon her calves.
“We’ll deliver the fodder now,” she said. “We’ll be back sometime after dusk, then clean the carts and clothes be fore eating. You know how to weave mats and baskets? You do that until we return. Make plenty baskets, plenty mats.”
“Deliver fodder?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes, yes. Brooder feed.”
She was talking about the pulped involucres. The mess was destined for brooder consumption. Dragon would eat dragon.
Bile rose into my throat.
“Make plenty mats,” Fwipi ordered, pointing to a pile of jute strips stacked to one side of the barracks stairs.
Mercifully, I was then left alone.
Yamdalar cinaigours. Dragon cocoons.
Permit me to explain them.
As they near the end of their lives, all female dragons
begin secreting death-wax, whereupon they are marched to a cocoon warehouse. Upon reaching the warehouse, each dragon curls up and enters a comatose state, and death-wax production increases tenfold. Within a clawful of days, the cinaigour is completely enclosed in a yamdalar, or kera tinous involucre. Temple teaches that in this manner, the imperfect female dragon—imperfect by dint of her gender— prepares to enter the Celestial Realm.
Although the encased dragons appear dead, they are alive for some days; limbs and mouth parts occasionally move within the involucre, and sometimes a mournful, liquid braying is emitted. A dragon must never be killed, regardless of age or
The things were upright wooden devices, my height, looking for all the world like double-armed pumps situ ated on top of boxy wooden platforms, which in turn were stationed above stout casters. As the old men wheeled the things forward, the axle of one broke with a loud crack of wood and clank of metal. There was much swearing as the churner was moved out of the way and tipped onto its side. Metal blades shone beneath the exposed underbelly of the boxy platform.
In pairs, the rest of the adults stood upon the churn ers, on the platform stationed above the blades of each. They began pumping the handles up and down, up and down, which propelled the churners forward. Like fran tic oversize bugs they bumped and rolled over the mess of slashed involucres, churning them into a gray lake the consistency of gruel.
The children returned from outside, scythes polished clean by twists of wild grass. They hung the blades on the wall nearest me—Savga grinned and waved—and took up massive wooden shovels: two children per shovel, or, in the case of the smallest children, three or four to each. The wooden scoop of each shovel was over four feet long, knee high, and slightly concave. Into the mess of churned cocoons the children waded, and they began pushing the paste created by the churners straight up the ramps they’d earlier hitched to the back of the carts.
At some point I went outside to lie down, my body a blinding ache. Savga found and woke me.
“Your skin is the color of a roasted kidney,” she said so berly. “You’re going to suffer evil sun-sickness tomorrow. That was witless, falling asleep without shade. You’re not crackbrained, are you?”
“Water,” was all I could croak for a reply, whereupon I fainted.
I woke to cool, wet sensations tickling my forehead. I opened bleary eyes. Fwipi was bent over me, dribbling wa ter from a rag onto my forehead and lips, upon my wrists, over my groin.
“How’ll you get better if you do this to yourself, hey-o?” she muttered.
She pressed a gourd of water to my lips and cooed en couragement while I drank. She helped me stand, her body all sinew and bone, as tough as bark. Holding me about the hips, she led me back to the women’s barracks.
She didn’t come into the barracks but stood instead at the foot of its rickety stairs, gray paste hardening upon her calves.
“We’ll deliver the fodder now,” she said. “We’ll be back sometime after dusk, then clean the carts and clothes be fore eating. You know how to weave mats and baskets? You do that until we return. Make plenty baskets, plenty mats.”
“Deliver fodder?” I asked stupidly.
“Yes, yes. Brooder feed.”
She was talking about the pulped involucres. The mess was destined for brooder consumption. Dragon would eat dragon.
Bile rose into my throat.
“Make plenty mats,” Fwipi ordered, pointing to a pile of jute strips stacked to one side of the barracks stairs.
Mercifully, I was then left alone.
Yamdalar cinaigours. Dragon cocoons.
Permit me to explain them.
As they near the end of their lives, all female dragons
begin secreting death-wax, whereupon they are marched to a cocoon warehouse. Upon reaching the warehouse, each dragon curls up and enters a comatose state, and death-wax production increases tenfold. Within a clawful of days, the cinaigour is completely enclosed in a yamdalar, or kera tinous involucre. Temple teaches that in this manner, the imperfect female dragon—imperfect by dint of her gender— prepares to enter the Celestial Realm.
Although the encased dragons appear dead, they are alive for some days; limbs and mouth parts occasionally move within the involucre, and sometimes a mournful, liquid braying is emitted. A dragon must never be killed, regardless of age or
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