Servicing light-vessels
It's all Bunn's fault, really. She posted a picture of a boat whose job is to service light-vessels, and the consequences were inevitable. Many Things I should have been doing for the last few hours, but instead I have been doing this. How could I not?
They sing no songs of us. We wear no diadems and are worshipped by none. Yet without us, there would be but darkness. Without us, the chariots of the gods would moulder on the front drives of their high dwelling places, a "police aware" notice on their windscreen and a pile of bricks where their wheels once were.
This is our story. With no-one to sing our song, I must sing it myself. But I am a simple man, not one for high-flown phrasings. I will tell it as myself, in my own words. Picture me, if you wish, but you will soon forget me. Everyone does. I am a small man, a plain man, clad in an oil-stained overall. You will not remember my name.
"Red sky in the morning," said the boy. This happened today. It could have been any day.
Shepherds' warning, say the people Down Below. "Mechanics' moaning, more like," say the lads in Gilding. We fight them for that, when we've had enough nectar, but I guess it's fair, really.
Sighing, I put down my sandwich (kraken mayo with shavings of old ambrosia; I record this here because, chances are, I'll never get to eat it) and stood up. "Not again," I said.
"Um… Does this happen often?" asked the boy.
I nodded grimly, silently committing Helios to the worst of all possible hells (and there are many - 777 last time I counted, but I expect more have appeared since then, what with the explosion of internet-based self-publishing). The thing is, these gods just never pay attention to the details. They just stand there all resplendent and refulgent and re this and re that, and expect their sun chariots to keep going on forever like the battery bunny, and the need for basic vehicle care never so much as crosses their godlike brains (and here I use "godlike" as a synonym for "puny." Other meanings include "annoying," "arrogant," and "plain stupid.")
"It's the slope, you see," I told the boy, as I picked up my tool bag. "When the sun's high in the sky, he's got a nice flat ride, and not even god can come off the road there, but when he's banking steeply up from the horizon or plunging down at the end of the day…"
The boy grimaced. He was a good lad, a fast learner. "Hill starts," he said. "Stalling."
"Indeed." We were already moving, leaping onto the back of our recovery wind and turning on our aurorae. "Especially when the moon's there, too. He stops to flirt, and can't get started again."
"But don't the Down Belowers notice?" asked the boy.
I shook my head. "That's what clouds are for. There's a vast department of nymphs busy tracking his every move, and the slightest sign of any stalling, in they rush with a blanket of clouds to hide him till we've got him started again. But that's not the worst of it. That's not what the red sky comes from."
"Fuel leaks?" said the boy. As I said, he's a bright lad.
"Yup." I nodded. "They never do their pre-flight checks, these gods, and never take the blindest bit of notice of the warning signs about steep slopes. The fuel lines are leaking, spilling solar essence right across the horizon. If it doesn't get fixed, the whole sun will leak away and that's a spilled load that you really don't want to deal with. Red sky in the evening is bad enough, but at least we can do the clean-up under the cloak of darkness. The morning's worst, 'cause we've got to keep the clean-up crew hidden from the Down Belowers. Him Upstairs has banned us from getting seen."
"And you've got to work on the leak while the sun's still moving," said the boy. "At least in the evening, you've got all night to work on it while it's parked up."
I laughed, and laughed some more. I mean, what are apprentices for if not to laugh at? Slowly the laughter faded, and I sighed ruefully. "That used to be true, lad, back when everyone thought the world was flat. But now it's round worlds all the way, except for that weird one with the elephants. There's always somebody watching. The gods don't mind. Yes, they used to get half the day off, and they don't get that now, but they do get to show off their awesomeness 24/7. Less good for us, though. Even at night, we've got to fix their chariots on the go. Very tricky work…"
But then we were there, and there was no time for talking, beyond the usual stuff: "pass the spanner," and, "the sun's leaking, boss, and I can't hold it!" and, "you'll be all right, lad - just connect the pyrosolometer to the right-hand super-defrigulator and Bob's your uncle," and, "look at me, worship me, aren't I gorgeous," but that was Helios, and you know what? I don't think he ever looked at us or ever gave us any more attention than you might pay to a speck of dust.
Anyway, we did our work, but that was just the start of it. Five more sun chariots we dealt with over the next few hours, each one drawn by some gleaming, gorgeous, pea-brained sun god, and all that before lunch, not that we had time for any. Then, it being New Moon, there were monthly services to be done on moon chariots, and certificates to issue, and emergency repairs on faults those brainless goddesses ought to have noticed months ago, but do they ever notice or care? Of course not.
I wonder sometimes if they think what we do is magic: that they just put forth their godly will, and wheels get oiled and axles tightened and tax discs replaced and scorched number plates made legible again. It wouldn't surprise me, really.
Even twilight brought no rest. The phone call came, as predictable as ever. I abandoned all thoughts of my sandwich and a nice cup of tea, perhaps a pint of nectar, if any leftovers had been scrounged from the recycling bins of Olympus. "Let me guess," I said, holding up my hand to stop the boy from giving me the news. "Hesperus again?"
"No," said the boy. "Eärendil this time."
"Unusual," I said, and it was, because unlike the gods, who refused to delegate to mere minions andwere all about me me me, Eärendil at least had a crew. Not that you'd ever know, if you go by the tales. You'd think it was a solo effort throughout, but can you really sail a ship - a ship, mark you, not a boat, not a canoe, not a pedalo - through the heavens all by yourself, when all you're doing is standing there in the prow with a star on your brow and your hair blowing all nobly in the wind? They were good lads, that crew, and they kept old Vingalot up and running for the most part. Centuries, we went, with barely a call-out, and according to the licensing department, they were always early with their renewals, too, and filled the forms out in beautiful calligraphy.
Anyway, we took our tools, and off we whizzed to Arda. Some of the lads used to moan about Arda, saying there wasn't enough sex and booze in it, unlike the good old mythologies of their youth, but the boss told them that if they kept on moaning, he'd put them on the Lovecraft circuit for a few hundred years. That shut 'em up quick. But I've never minded it. No worse than anywhere else, anyway.
"What seems to be the problem?" I asked as we arrived - not to Eärendil, oh no, of course not to him. He was shining away in the prow, oblivious to all things. (Reluctant as I am to see any good in the shiny fools who don't maintain their celestial vessels, I must in all fairness consider the possibility that he's just permanently dazzled, perhaps even blind. It can't be good for your eyes to wear a star on your brow. But that's not really the point. He's still got ears, after all.)
"Rudder's broken," said the crew member who'd greeted us.
"And you can't fix it yourself?" I was surprised. Like I said, they're a good bunch of lads, Eärendil's crew.
"Not without resupplying," he said, "and we never stop in port. They are no ports up here. No shops. It really strains our ingenuity." He nodded towards the elf in a white apron, clearly the cook, who was scratching his head over an empty cauldron. "But we keep her running."
"You do well," I said, as I opened my bag and set to work on the rudder. At least when you're dealing with stars, you can take your time, hidden from those below by darkness. We were above the southern hemisphere now, but everyone knew that the stars were strange down there, so we could have looped the loop and set off fireworks on the deck, and nobody would have cared. In fact, this is precisely what happened to a former colleague of mine, way back when. That's what started the whole "stars are strange" thing in the first place, actually.
"Don't you mind?" The boy spoke up suddenly, breaking the silence. I thought he was addressing me, then saw that he was looking at the crew member. "I've heard songs about Eärendil, lots of songs, and they never mention you. They make out he does it all by himself."
"Of course they do." The crew member looked surprised. "I mean, who'd want to hear a song about us? 'Thavron was a carpenter, a fairly decent timbersmith, he tried to keep the rudder whole, but had no wood to carpen with.' Or what about Gaerdir over there? 'Gaerdir was a cabin boy who swabbed the decks unceasingly and with his mops and soapy rags annoyed us all increasingly.'"
"I would," said the boy quietly. "I would," he said again, louder this time, and Thavron's smile faded. He looked thoughtful for a while, and then he smiled again, a very different smile.
"You would?" he said. "You really would?"
"And paint you, too, if I can the skill to do so," said the boy.
We left them then, but as we left them, we heard them start to sing - falteringly at first, just single, half-made lines, but as we crossed over from Arda, their voices were all raised in song: a whole forgotten crew finding their voices for the first time, and singing their names.
"I would," the boy said again, as we arrived back at the workshop at the end of the day. And that is why I am telling this tale. This is why I am stepping out from the shadows. We wear no diadems and are worshipped by none, but why should we be? They sing no songs of us, and perhaps they never will, but our song is still there, and we will sing it.
Perhaps, having heard it, you will sing it, too. Perhaps you will spare a thought not just for the shining ones who stand in their chariots, but for those who mend their axles and polish their hub caps or sort out that irritating squeak that goes just like this and happens on every bend. Perhaps you will--
But here comes the boy again. Apparently the space catapults are jammed again, and if they aren't fixed within the hour, the meteor shower will have to be called off. A mechanic's work is never done.
I could have ended my tale with high-flown phrases, but this is how I end it, with life carrying on.
And my song does, too.
They sing no songs of us. We wear no diadems and are worshipped by none. Yet without us, there would be but darkness. Without us, the chariots of the gods would moulder on the front drives of their high dwelling places, a "police aware" notice on their windscreen and a pile of bricks where their wheels once were.
This is our story. With no-one to sing our song, I must sing it myself. But I am a simple man, not one for high-flown phrasings. I will tell it as myself, in my own words. Picture me, if you wish, but you will soon forget me. Everyone does. I am a small man, a plain man, clad in an oil-stained overall. You will not remember my name.
"Red sky in the morning," said the boy. This happened today. It could have been any day.
Shepherds' warning, say the people Down Below. "Mechanics' moaning, more like," say the lads in Gilding. We fight them for that, when we've had enough nectar, but I guess it's fair, really.
Sighing, I put down my sandwich (kraken mayo with shavings of old ambrosia; I record this here because, chances are, I'll never get to eat it) and stood up. "Not again," I said.
"Um… Does this happen often?" asked the boy.
I nodded grimly, silently committing Helios to the worst of all possible hells (and there are many - 777 last time I counted, but I expect more have appeared since then, what with the explosion of internet-based self-publishing). The thing is, these gods just never pay attention to the details. They just stand there all resplendent and refulgent and re this and re that, and expect their sun chariots to keep going on forever like the battery bunny, and the need for basic vehicle care never so much as crosses their godlike brains (and here I use "godlike" as a synonym for "puny." Other meanings include "annoying," "arrogant," and "plain stupid.")
"It's the slope, you see," I told the boy, as I picked up my tool bag. "When the sun's high in the sky, he's got a nice flat ride, and not even god can come off the road there, but when he's banking steeply up from the horizon or plunging down at the end of the day…"
The boy grimaced. He was a good lad, a fast learner. "Hill starts," he said. "Stalling."
"Indeed." We were already moving, leaping onto the back of our recovery wind and turning on our aurorae. "Especially when the moon's there, too. He stops to flirt, and can't get started again."
"But don't the Down Belowers notice?" asked the boy.
I shook my head. "That's what clouds are for. There's a vast department of nymphs busy tracking his every move, and the slightest sign of any stalling, in they rush with a blanket of clouds to hide him till we've got him started again. But that's not the worst of it. That's not what the red sky comes from."
"Fuel leaks?" said the boy. As I said, he's a bright lad.
"Yup." I nodded. "They never do their pre-flight checks, these gods, and never take the blindest bit of notice of the warning signs about steep slopes. The fuel lines are leaking, spilling solar essence right across the horizon. If it doesn't get fixed, the whole sun will leak away and that's a spilled load that you really don't want to deal with. Red sky in the evening is bad enough, but at least we can do the clean-up under the cloak of darkness. The morning's worst, 'cause we've got to keep the clean-up crew hidden from the Down Belowers. Him Upstairs has banned us from getting seen."
"And you've got to work on the leak while the sun's still moving," said the boy. "At least in the evening, you've got all night to work on it while it's parked up."
I laughed, and laughed some more. I mean, what are apprentices for if not to laugh at? Slowly the laughter faded, and I sighed ruefully. "That used to be true, lad, back when everyone thought the world was flat. But now it's round worlds all the way, except for that weird one with the elephants. There's always somebody watching. The gods don't mind. Yes, they used to get half the day off, and they don't get that now, but they do get to show off their awesomeness 24/7. Less good for us, though. Even at night, we've got to fix their chariots on the go. Very tricky work…"
But then we were there, and there was no time for talking, beyond the usual stuff: "pass the spanner," and, "the sun's leaking, boss, and I can't hold it!" and, "you'll be all right, lad - just connect the pyrosolometer to the right-hand super-defrigulator and Bob's your uncle," and, "look at me, worship me, aren't I gorgeous," but that was Helios, and you know what? I don't think he ever looked at us or ever gave us any more attention than you might pay to a speck of dust.
Anyway, we did our work, but that was just the start of it. Five more sun chariots we dealt with over the next few hours, each one drawn by some gleaming, gorgeous, pea-brained sun god, and all that before lunch, not that we had time for any. Then, it being New Moon, there were monthly services to be done on moon chariots, and certificates to issue, and emergency repairs on faults those brainless goddesses ought to have noticed months ago, but do they ever notice or care? Of course not.
I wonder sometimes if they think what we do is magic: that they just put forth their godly will, and wheels get oiled and axles tightened and tax discs replaced and scorched number plates made legible again. It wouldn't surprise me, really.
Even twilight brought no rest. The phone call came, as predictable as ever. I abandoned all thoughts of my sandwich and a nice cup of tea, perhaps a pint of nectar, if any leftovers had been scrounged from the recycling bins of Olympus. "Let me guess," I said, holding up my hand to stop the boy from giving me the news. "Hesperus again?"
"No," said the boy. "Eärendil this time."
"Unusual," I said, and it was, because unlike the gods, who refused to delegate to mere minions andwere all about me me me, Eärendil at least had a crew. Not that you'd ever know, if you go by the tales. You'd think it was a solo effort throughout, but can you really sail a ship - a ship, mark you, not a boat, not a canoe, not a pedalo - through the heavens all by yourself, when all you're doing is standing there in the prow with a star on your brow and your hair blowing all nobly in the wind? They were good lads, that crew, and they kept old Vingalot up and running for the most part. Centuries, we went, with barely a call-out, and according to the licensing department, they were always early with their renewals, too, and filled the forms out in beautiful calligraphy.
Anyway, we took our tools, and off we whizzed to Arda. Some of the lads used to moan about Arda, saying there wasn't enough sex and booze in it, unlike the good old mythologies of their youth, but the boss told them that if they kept on moaning, he'd put them on the Lovecraft circuit for a few hundred years. That shut 'em up quick. But I've never minded it. No worse than anywhere else, anyway.
"What seems to be the problem?" I asked as we arrived - not to Eärendil, oh no, of course not to him. He was shining away in the prow, oblivious to all things. (Reluctant as I am to see any good in the shiny fools who don't maintain their celestial vessels, I must in all fairness consider the possibility that he's just permanently dazzled, perhaps even blind. It can't be good for your eyes to wear a star on your brow. But that's not really the point. He's still got ears, after all.)
"Rudder's broken," said the crew member who'd greeted us.
"And you can't fix it yourself?" I was surprised. Like I said, they're a good bunch of lads, Eärendil's crew.
"Not without resupplying," he said, "and we never stop in port. They are no ports up here. No shops. It really strains our ingenuity." He nodded towards the elf in a white apron, clearly the cook, who was scratching his head over an empty cauldron. "But we keep her running."
"You do well," I said, as I opened my bag and set to work on the rudder. At least when you're dealing with stars, you can take your time, hidden from those below by darkness. We were above the southern hemisphere now, but everyone knew that the stars were strange down there, so we could have looped the loop and set off fireworks on the deck, and nobody would have cared. In fact, this is precisely what happened to a former colleague of mine, way back when. That's what started the whole "stars are strange" thing in the first place, actually.
"Don't you mind?" The boy spoke up suddenly, breaking the silence. I thought he was addressing me, then saw that he was looking at the crew member. "I've heard songs about Eärendil, lots of songs, and they never mention you. They make out he does it all by himself."
"Of course they do." The crew member looked surprised. "I mean, who'd want to hear a song about us? 'Thavron was a carpenter, a fairly decent timbersmith, he tried to keep the rudder whole, but had no wood to carpen with.' Or what about Gaerdir over there? 'Gaerdir was a cabin boy who swabbed the decks unceasingly and with his mops and soapy rags annoyed us all increasingly.'"
"I would," said the boy quietly. "I would," he said again, louder this time, and Thavron's smile faded. He looked thoughtful for a while, and then he smiled again, a very different smile.
"You would?" he said. "You really would?"
"And paint you, too, if I can the skill to do so," said the boy.
We left them then, but as we left them, we heard them start to sing - falteringly at first, just single, half-made lines, but as we crossed over from Arda, their voices were all raised in song: a whole forgotten crew finding their voices for the first time, and singing their names.
"I would," the boy said again, as we arrived back at the workshop at the end of the day. And that is why I am telling this tale. This is why I am stepping out from the shadows. We wear no diadems and are worshipped by none, but why should we be? They sing no songs of us, and perhaps they never will, but our song is still there, and we will sing it.
Perhaps, having heard it, you will sing it, too. Perhaps you will spare a thought not just for the shining ones who stand in their chariots, but for those who mend their axles and polish their hub caps or sort out that irritating squeak that goes just like this and happens on every bend. Perhaps you will--
But here comes the boy again. Apparently the space catapults are jammed again, and if they aren't fixed within the hour, the meteor shower will have to be called off. A mechanic's work is never done.
I could have ended my tale with high-flown phrases, but this is how I end it, with life carrying on.
And my song does, too.