The woman the junior Grandmothers were helping along was far older than threescore and ten; older than God, from her looks. Thin white hair bound by a headband carrying a silver moon; sunken cheeks, lips fallen in over a mouth where most teeth were gone; back bent forever. The attendants fussed around her as she sank painfully onto cushions and a wicker backrest, tucking her star-embroidered blue cloak around her and putting a closed clay dish full of embers beneath her feet for warmth. She shooed them aside impatiently and leaned forward a little, long gnarled spotted hands leaning on a stick whose end was carved into a bird's head-an owl, here as in later ages the symbol of the moon.
Her pouched and faded eyes traveled across the assembly. Ian Arnstein felt a distinct slight chill as they met his. The mind that rested behind them was not in the least enfeebled. This was the one who'd received the reports of the Grandmothers who interviewed the Americans, day after day.
"Swin… dapa," the old woman said, her voice hoarse but feather-soft. It carried clearly; there were no other sounds in the greathouse, save for the crackling of fires and a quickly hushed baby, and the breathing of sixscore.
The young Fiernan came forward and crouched at the ancient woman's feet. Great-grandmother? Ian wondered. Great-great?
The knotted fingers raised Swindapa's face, and the ancient leaned forward to kiss her on the brow. They exchanged murmurs, too quiet to carry, and Swindapa turned and sat cross-legged at her feet.
"I will give you the Grandmother's words," she said.
The old woman paused for a long moment, lips moving slightly, hands gripped on the owl-headed staff.
"Uhot'na," she said at last. "InHOja, inyete, abal'na."
Her hand shaped the air as she spoke; after a moment her age-cracked voice merged with Swindapa's clear soprano, and Ian forgot he was listening to a translation.
"A good star shine on this meeting. Moon Woman gather it to her breast. Long ago-" Swindapa hesitated, translating from her people's lunar calendar. "Thousands of years ago, the Grandmothers of the Grandmothers came here to the White Isle. They came bearing gifts; the gift of planting and sowing, of weaving and the making of pots, the herding of cattle and sheep, many good things. The Old Ones, the hunters, came and learned these things, and their lives became better, and they became us, and we became them."
The old woman's hand rose skyward. "awHUMna inye-tewan dama'uhot'nawakwa-"
"Best of all, they brought knowledge of Moon Woman and Her children the stars, Her sisters of the woods and earth-knowledge of foretelling and understanding. In those days Her messengers traveled from the Hot Lands to the Ice-and-Fog Place, and everywhere they brought Her wisdom, and the knowledge of the building of the Wisdoms and the studying of the stars."
Another long pause; her eyelids drifted downward, covering the faded brilliance for a while. Is she asleep? Ian wondered. Then they flickered open:
"atTOwak em'dayaus'arsi immlHEyet-"
"Then the Sun People came from the eastlands where the morning is born, fierce and greedy like little boys grown tall without learning a man's manners, and the great-" Swindapa paused, obviously hunting for a word. "-great harmony-in-changing-time-again-and-again was… made to not turn as it should, and as we had thought it would through all the changings of the world."
A pause, and the old woman spoke very softly. "soSHo't'euho'nis kwas dazya'll-"
"And since then, the Grandmothers have looked into the future and seen only a darkness without stars before the feet of the Earth Folk."
A slight shocked murmur went through the crowd. The old woman sighed, and went on. Swindapa's voice translated:
"Every turning, the Moon Woman grows old and comes again. So too for all things. Our moon is past full, we wane, perhaps these strangers bring a new one."
Swindapa's face lit as she spoke, a grin breaking through her solemnity. "These Eagle People also study the stars, although not in our way. Already they have shown us things of great worth-the three rules that govern the movement of the planets, and the law of squares of distances that explains them."
Ian squeezed Doreen's hand. She'd thrown the cat among the pigeons well and truly, with that dose of Keppler, seasoned with a smidgin of Newton and soupcon of Laplace. For a while they'd been afraid the Grandmothers would start tearing out clumps of each other's hair over the implications.
"ShahShar'it yewehkey'a-"
"They are the only strangers who tread that path, and they have dealt well with us. The Grandmothers will tell the Council of the Sacred Truce to listen to their words, and follow them if they find them good."
Captain Alston bowed where she sat. Ian felt Doreen jab an elbow in his ribs. They looked at each other in the nickering firelight; she was grinning like a cat. Solemnly, they shook hands.
Commander Sandy Rapczewicz smiled as she slipped down the night-sight goggles. Wouldn't the skipper be livid that she wasn't here, although she'd anticipated this might happen. It was the logical move, after all, and Walker had a high opinion of logic. I hope you're out there tonight, you son of a bitch, she thought vindictively. Break my jaw, will you? It still ached in cold wet weather. Hell of a thing for a sailor.
"Ready," she said aloud, and into the microphone.
"Ready," the earphones answered back.
The goggles turned everything greenish and flat. She could see an occasional whitecap out on the water, and the giant rowboats heading for the Nantucket flotilla, with the canoes following. More than enough to shatter the hulls and swarm over the Nantucketers left behind when the main expeditionary force moved inland, as the enemy's scouts had surely reported to Walker.
"Only we weren't idle over the winter either, Will-me-lad," she muttered. Louder: "Fire!"
The fruits of the ROATS program stood along the rail. Crews made their final adjustments, turning aiming screws. Then the master gunner stepped back from each and jerked the lanyard.
TUNNNGG. They were compact little engines, the throwing arms powered by a mass of coil springs from heavy trucks caught on the island by the Event. They were also more accurate than any counterweight system like a trebuchet, or catapults powered by twisted sinew. Four balls of fire soared out through the night from the Eagle , two from each of the schooners. Where they struck they splashed on the water, burning with a hot red ferocity. Searchlights stabbed out, actinic blue-white through the cloud-dark night.
"Fire at will!" Rapczewicz shouted.
"Reach Out and Touch Someone-fire!" a crew chief shouted.
Hands pumped at levers. Back on shore, within the earth walls of the Nantucketer fort, came a heavy chuff… chuff… sound. It built to a faster chufchufchufchuf and then into a racketing snarl.
"Demons!" Miskelefol screamed.
"Shut up!" Isketerol shouted, clouting him savagely across the side of his helmeted head.
More of the fireballs arched across the night. The whale oil burning on the surface of the water gave a ghastly semblance of daylight. One of them splashed onto the galley next to his. It was close enough to hear the glass shatter and the men scream as oil splashed them. Seconds later it caught with a whump, a sound somehow soft and large at the same time, like a giant catching his breath. Or a dragon. Men screamed again, louder, as flame ran down the length of the boat. They cast themselves overboard, diving if they could. Others thrashed in mindless agony, and the oars drooped limp into the water. After an instant, the Tartessian realized what was going to happen when the flames reached the barrel at the prow of the little galley.