Sylvia stared at her in astonishment, then laughed and caught her hands. “Don’t feel badly—it’s not you we’re waiting for.”
“Who, then?” Alea asked in surprise.
“The priestess! She’s coming to bless the fields this morning! That’s why the plowers had to finish yesterday even though they were dying to stay and coax you into telling another story!”
Gar looked up with interest, then came tottering over. “Surely this will be a festive event, Daughter. Let us stay to honor the goddess.”
“Of course, Father.” Alea wondered if the goddess would really feel honored by Gar’s curiosity.
The priestess arrived in midmorning, accompanied by two junior priestesses and two priests who led a cart pulled by a donkey and filled with bulging sacks tied at the mouth.. She smiled at the greetings of the young folk and accepted their plaudits. When she and her entourage had rested and taken some wine, she rose, assuming dignity like a garment, and intoned, “Are all the fields plowed?”
Honoria stepped forth, a clean white robe belted over her everyday homespun. “Indeed, Reverend Lady, they are.”
“Let us go to them, then.” The priestess spoke with the cadence of ritual, then turned to glide toward the fields. Her acolytes followed, a man and a woman to each side and a little behind in an inverted V. The people trooped along, singing a tune that managed to be both solemn and joyful. With a shock, Gar recognized the ode from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
When they came to the plowed land, the acolytes fanned out to the sides and brought shoulder bags out from under their cloaks. Slipping the straps over their heads, they marched down the furrows, sprinkling powder with circular sweeps of their hands.
Don’t you dare! Alea thought at Gar.
But it’s so hard to resist, Gar thought back.
Alea turned to glare daggers at him and saw that he had somehow managed to hobble to the fore, swinging his hands in time to the music—and could he help it if the swing of his hand crossed the spray of powder?
Yes, of course he could help it and had. Alea saw the hand go into his pocket even as he slowed, as a tired old man would, and let younger people pass him, dropping back toward the rear of the crowd.
Is nothing sacred? she thought angrily.
Of course, Gar replied, and I can tell you exactly what’s in my people’s sacred oils and powder and incense. Surely there’s no sacrilege in my finding out what’s in theirs.
True enough on the face of it, but somehow Alea felt that the spirit was lacking.
The procession paced off every furrow of each of the four fields, then came back to the common between the longhouses.
“You have plowed well,” the priestess intoned. “How shall you plant?”
“Soybean in the northern field,” Sylvia replied, with the same ceremonial cadence, “maize in the southern, tomatoes in the eastern, and potatoes in the western.”
What are you smiling about now? Alea demanded. Only because none of those crops was known in medieval Europe, Gar thought in answer.
Alea felt angry without knowing why. Who says these people had to be modeled after Europeans?
No one, Gar admitted. In fact, a lot of their styles are a very nice blend of every early culture I’ve heard about. Alea felt the glow of a minor triumph.
“What will you plant next year?” the priestess intoned, and with a start of surprise, Alea realized one of the junior priestesses was writing down the answers.
“Maize in the northern field,” Sylvia replied, with the same ceremonial cadence, “tomatoes in the southern, potatoes in the eastern, and soybeans in the western.”
“What shall you offer the goddess to ward against weeds?”
Alea saw Gar tense up. What worries you?
Human sacrifice, Gar thought back, especially since they have a couple of handy strangers to offer.
“We shall plant pumpkins and squash amid the corn,” Sylvia answered, “whose broad leaves shall stifle weed-shoots—and of course we shall hoe.”
Alea saw Gar relax and thought a gibe: Don’t you feel silly now?
No, I feel alive, Gar thought back, and very nice it is, too. You should feel ashamed of yourself, Alea rebuked him. Why would you suspect something so gruesome of such nice people?
They are Neolithic, after all.
Alea’s lips tightened. Don’t you think you should apologize?
How, without letting them know what I was thinking? “How shall you ward your crops from ravening insects?” the priestess demanded.
“We shall plant blooming asterones and blossoming meromies,” Sylvia answered.
Alea frowned. What are asterones and meromies? Flowers that the original colonists brought, Gar replied. I have heard of them—they were first bred on Terra when her people began to colonize other planets, and a great boon they’ve been to farmers all over the Terran Sphere.
“Well done, daughter of the goddess,” the priestess said. “Do thus every year.”
Crop rotation and central coordination of production, Gar thought, but it’s not a government.
Well, of course not! Alea thought indignantly. They’re choosing to do it.
Choosing to do as they’ve been taught, Gar qualified. There’s no crime in that!
None at all, Gar agreed.
Why did Alea feel she had lost another round? Gar was insufferable! Perhaps she shouldn’t suffer him after all. These people seemed nice enough; perhaps she should stay with them, and let Gar go on without her.
For some reason, the mere thought raised panic in her.
The priestess raised her arms and turned slowly so that she swept all the villagers with her gaze as she intoned, “Well have you begun, well may you continue! The blessing of the goddess be upon you, and upon all that your earth and you yourselves shall bear!” She lowered her arms and in a more normal voice cried out, “Celebrate, children! Celebrate life and the gifts of the goddess!”
The villagers shouted with joy, and the music and dancing began.
The priestess and her entourage left in midafternoon with a cartful of empty sacks. As dusk gathered, Alea came back from the dancing to her “aged parent,” sat down by him, and asked, “Did Herkimer analyze the powder yet?” She knew he carried a dagger whose sheath transmitted and identified the molecules of any substance by sonic reflection and beamed that identification up to the spaceship.
“He did,” Gar told her. “It was mostly nitrates of organic origin—nothing that a real Neolithic society couldn’t have manufactured, but something that none of them would ever have thought of.”
“It was fertilizer, then?”
Gar nodded. “Nice way to get them off to a good start. After all, they don’t have enough cows or horses to do it the more primitive way. I have a notion it’s a good supplement even when they do have a full complement of livestock.”
“You’re trying to tell me the priestess isn’t working any real magic,” Alea accused.
Gar stared at her in surprise. “I certainly am not! I didn’t even think of it as magic—just a ritual to focus and direct people, make them feel the rightness and purpose in their work, and give them confidence in the outcome.”
“Only what any religious ritual gives?” Alea said slowly.