The Flying Sorcerers

By now Shoogar had completed the cultivation and consecration of every housetree in the region except for three wild ones he had left for Purple to use for his aircloth.

For a day and a half, then, Shoogar wandered around the village looking for things to do, amusing himself with minor spells here and there to patch up minor problems.

Finally he complained to me. “Everyone has something to do with the flying machine, but me! There are no spells that I have to cast to make it work properly — all of them are Purple’s spells.”

“Nonsense, Shoogar. There are many spells you can cast.”

“Name six!”

“Well, ah — surely you can use your skill on the preparations for the flying machine. The aircloth for instance.”

“What is there to do with the aircloth? They weave it, they dip it — it holds air.”

“But surely, there should be a blessing over it, Shoogar, shouldn’t there? I mean it is like trapping Musk-Watz the Wind God. There should be some kind of amelioration spell.”

Shoogar thought about it, “I believe you are right, Lant. I will have to investigate this — certainly the Gods should be involved m this flying machine.”

I followed him down to the weavers’ work area, a great pasture just under the crag. There were more than forty of the giant looms thrusting back and forth now. The noise was tremendous — each loom creaked and shuddered protested mightily. The raucous cries of the team leaders tumbled one upon the other until I wondered how the various weavers could tell who was commanding what.

We held our hands over our ears as we strode through the row upon row of machines — each with a tiny patch of air-cloth growing in its heavy frame.

I noticed with some dismay that the field here had been ruined by so much traffic — the blackgrass had given way to dirt, and dust hung heavy in the air. That was not good for the cloth. Even though each piece was carefully washed before it was dipped, it still was not a good idea for it to be exposed to so much dirt.

Doubtless we would have to move the looms farther apart.

We found old Lesta down near the end, supervizing the construction of three additional looms. Shoogar pulled him away from the work, and away from the noise. “I must talk to you,” he said.

“What about? As you can see, I’m very busy!” Even as he spoke, he fidgeted with his robe and growled at the scurrying apprentices.

Well,” said Shoogar. *I have been doing some calculations —”

“Oh, no — not more calculations!”

“It is about the aircloth — we cannot weave it without offending Musk-Watz — that is, we can weave it, but we must offer a spell of appeasement for every piece and over every loom —”

“I cannot afford it,” groaned Lesta. “I have enough magic already to make my hair fall out —”

“You would risk being hit with a tornado —”

“It would be a blessing,” snapped the weaver. “I would at least have a bit of peace.” He waved his arm, “Look, you see all these looms? Each one is commanded by a different weaver — and each weaver pays homage to a different God. There is Tukker the god of names, Caff the god of dragons, Yake the god of what-if — more Gods than I have ever heard of! And each of those weavers is demanding that his cloth be woven in a pattern sacred to his God!”

“But — but —” I said, “Purple would have a fit —”

“Exactly,” said Lesta. The cloth must be woven in a simple over and under, over and under, a steady alternation — we want it as tight as possible — no twill weaves, no satin weaves, no fancy patterns of thread — just a simple aircloth weave! But no — you see those men over there? They are packing to return to their village — they won’t weave anything but satins. They are afraid to offend Furman the God of Fasf — whatever that is — every day we lose at least five more weavers.”

He turned on us, “You know what it is? They are stealing the secret of aircloth — they come, they weave for a week, then they find some excuse to run back to their own villages. I cannot keep any workers here.” He groaned and sank down onto a log. “Aaghh, I wish I’d never heard of aircloth.”

“But why?” I asked. “Surely, you have taken precautions —”

“Of course, of course,” nodded Lesta. “No weaver is al-lowed near the looms without surrendering at least two syllables of his secret name as security — but it doesn’t work. They claim that an oath to a god is stronger and more important than an oath to a man — and they are right.”

“H’m,” said Shoogar. “I might be able to do something about that.” .

Lesta looked up.

“It is simple,” he said, “We will just consecrate all the aircloth to Musk-Watz. Anyone else who weaves it without my blessing, or who weaves it in another pattern, will be risking his wrath.”

“But what about the men who keep leaving?” asked Lesta.

Shoogar shook his head, “They are not important. We can swear them to more binding oaths —”

“Oaths more binding than those to a god?”

“Certainly — how about the oath of hairlessness?”

“Huh?”

“It is simple — if they defy you, their hair falls out.”

“Oh,” said Lesta. He thought about it and brightened. “Yes,” he said, “let’s try it. Surely, it couldn’t hurt.”

When I left them, they were happily arguing over Shoogar’s fee for deconsecrating all the other Gods out of the cloth.