festival…”
“I’m just waiting to cross the harbour,” said Fever.
“Then wait with us!” said Thirza, and she took Fever’s arm and guided her to a clear place at the front of the crowd where Fat Jago was waiting with a servant holding up a parasol to shade him and two more carrying trays of iced drinks. Thirza passed a glass to Fever, and Fat Jago said, “A pleasure to see you, Miss Crumb! I thought your barge had pulled out this morning. Nothing amiss, I hope?”
“The Lyceum has gone,” said Fever, “but I decided to stay.”
Fat Jago nodded understandingly. “I hear there is another member of your Guild in Mayda. No doubt you will be working with him?”
“Not exactly…” Condensation from the outside of the glass trickled coolly between Fever’s fingers. The drink was fruit juice, iced and spiced, and as she sipped it she felt a thrill of pleasure that these rich and kindly people should want her company.
“You must think us very primitive, to have turned out to watch such a silly display,” Fat Jago said, nodding towards the priests, who had stopped to pray again.
“It is the Blessing of the Summer Tides,” said his wife.
“Of course, we don’t believe it,” Fat Jago went on. “We know the tides would still rise and fall and the fish would still swim into Maydan nets without all this pretty flummery. But it is a ritual; a ceremony; a tradition that links us with our ancestors and our city’s past. I do hope you understand.”
“I have come to watch the procession every year since I was a little girl,” said Thirza, who looked as excited as a little girl still, her eyes shining and a laugh bubbling behind every word. “Do you see the statue on the litter there? That is the holy likeness of the Mãe, which is taken out of its tank at the Temple of the Sea for just this one day out of all the year. It was discovered in the long, long ago, washed up on the shore after a storm.”
“There are educated men who claim it’s not the Mãe Abaixo at all but a likeness of some other goddess who used to be worshipped in these parts,” said Fat Jago.
“Well, educated men do not know everything,” retorted Thirza, who seemed to take the old religion more seriously than her husband did. She shaded her eyes against the sunlight to watch as the procession reached the end of the lock-gates and stepped down on to the harbourside. Pretty young acolytes came hurrying through the crowd with fishing nets, into which people dropped fish-shaped Maydan coins. A dropped orange rolled in the dust underfoot until a small, tow-haired boy ran out of the crowd and picked it up.
“There was a time,” said Thirza Belkin, “when the Mãe Abaixo used to appear to people. She would rise up out of the depths to speak with shipwrecked sailors and drowning fishermen. She would save them and carry them to the shore, and She gave them revelations; messages that let us know how we could best please Her. I used to love those stories when I was little… I used to hope that I might see Her for myself one day. But it doesn’t happen nowadays. I wonder why?”
“Because people are less gullible than they used to be,” said Fat Jago. “I bet Orca Mo would love a good revelation. Look at her; she knows she’s turning into a mere party decoration! She’d love to announce some new appearance by the Mãe Abaixo to strengthen people’s faith and restore her own power. But she knows that hardly anybody would believe it.”
The priestess passed them, with all the tentacles of her squid hat trailing in the wind. She did look a little self-conscious, thought Fever. Perhaps Fat Jago was right. Perhaps even Orca Mo knew that her religion was losing its meaning.
“So what has kept you in Mayda?” Fat Jago asked, raising his voice above the jingle of tambourines as the statue on its litter passed them. “Would it be young Thursday, by any chance?”
Fever looked at him in surprise. How did he know that she had been
“I’m just waiting to cross the harbour,” said Fever.
“Then wait with us!” said Thirza, and she took Fever’s arm and guided her to a clear place at the front of the crowd where Fat Jago was waiting with a servant holding up a parasol to shade him and two more carrying trays of iced drinks. Thirza passed a glass to Fever, and Fat Jago said, “A pleasure to see you, Miss Crumb! I thought your barge had pulled out this morning. Nothing amiss, I hope?”
“The Lyceum has gone,” said Fever, “but I decided to stay.”
Fat Jago nodded understandingly. “I hear there is another member of your Guild in Mayda. No doubt you will be working with him?”
“Not exactly…” Condensation from the outside of the glass trickled coolly between Fever’s fingers. The drink was fruit juice, iced and spiced, and as she sipped it she felt a thrill of pleasure that these rich and kindly people should want her company.
“You must think us very primitive, to have turned out to watch such a silly display,” Fat Jago said, nodding towards the priests, who had stopped to pray again.
“It is the Blessing of the Summer Tides,” said his wife.
“Of course, we don’t believe it,” Fat Jago went on. “We know the tides would still rise and fall and the fish would still swim into Maydan nets without all this pretty flummery. But it is a ritual; a ceremony; a tradition that links us with our ancestors and our city’s past. I do hope you understand.”
“I have come to watch the procession every year since I was a little girl,” said Thirza, who looked as excited as a little girl still, her eyes shining and a laugh bubbling behind every word. “Do you see the statue on the litter there? That is the holy likeness of the Mãe, which is taken out of its tank at the Temple of the Sea for just this one day out of all the year. It was discovered in the long, long ago, washed up on the shore after a storm.”
“There are educated men who claim it’s not the Mãe Abaixo at all but a likeness of some other goddess who used to be worshipped in these parts,” said Fat Jago.
“Well, educated men do not know everything,” retorted Thirza, who seemed to take the old religion more seriously than her husband did. She shaded her eyes against the sunlight to watch as the procession reached the end of the lock-gates and stepped down on to the harbourside. Pretty young acolytes came hurrying through the crowd with fishing nets, into which people dropped fish-shaped Maydan coins. A dropped orange rolled in the dust underfoot until a small, tow-haired boy ran out of the crowd and picked it up.
“There was a time,” said Thirza Belkin, “when the Mãe Abaixo used to appear to people. She would rise up out of the depths to speak with shipwrecked sailors and drowning fishermen. She would save them and carry them to the shore, and She gave them revelations; messages that let us know how we could best please Her. I used to love those stories when I was little… I used to hope that I might see Her for myself one day. But it doesn’t happen nowadays. I wonder why?”
“Because people are less gullible than they used to be,” said Fat Jago. “I bet Orca Mo would love a good revelation. Look at her; she knows she’s turning into a mere party decoration! She’d love to announce some new appearance by the Mãe Abaixo to strengthen people’s faith and restore her own power. But she knows that hardly anybody would believe it.”
The priestess passed them, with all the tentacles of her squid hat trailing in the wind. She did look a little self-conscious, thought Fever. Perhaps Fat Jago was right. Perhaps even Orca Mo knew that her religion was losing its meaning.
“So what has kept you in Mayda?” Fat Jago asked, raising his voice above the jingle of tambourines as the statue on its litter passed them. “Would it be young Thursday, by any chance?”
Fever looked at him in surprise. How did he know that she had been
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