"Spare one spruce," the wizard called, "for I would not have the dark beauty of that tree lost, forever and irrevocably, to the clan of Mannin."
Demouach bobbed his head, then turned to soar away in swirling song. He sped out over the village, over the fields, to the forest.
There he tilted the pouch, spilling out the seeds, spiraling in to the center of the forest till the pouch was empty.
When the sun rose again, the pines had fallen. In their place, but half their height, stood oak and ash, full-grown.
The clan of Mannin stood and stared and marveled, and their corn was green by sunset.
"The wizard has saved us," they murmured, and blessed the name of Manninglore.
But deep in the forest stood one sapling spruce.
Manninglore in his granite hall carved a deep bowl in a cube of day. He widened the lip, flaring, and carved the name of his clan and its totem, "Mannin—Wind," into the side. Then he made a mold of it in ways that only wizards know, a mold that could hold the heat that would char an enchanter in an instant. At last he kindled coke in his forge and fanned it hot; filled a crucible with copper and tin and swung it over the flames; he donned enchanted garb and helm to protect him from the heat and, when the metal flowed, with gauntlets took up tongs and chains to tilt the crucible and pour the fiery sludge into the mold, then left the chamber.
For days he let it stand until he was sure it held a killing heat no longer, then broke away the inner bowl, flinched from the heat it still gave off—no longer enough to slay, but enough to make a wizard gasp. At last, he filled its form with frozen air and crystallized water, and looking in, saw the stars roll past in majesty.
"Now the Wind will speak to me in words," said Manninglore. He broke away the outer clay, chilled and cleaned the metal there, then satisfied that it was no warmer than was he himself, he set it on a tripod, wet his finger on his tongue, and stroked its lip in circles.
A deep tone rose from the bell, then formed itself into words: "What would you know?"
"Wind!" cried Manninglore. "Only spirit that I venerate!"
He turned, arms swinging in a circle. "I have hollowed out a mountain for a home. I have filled one wall with books of lore. Tell me, spirit, for I must know—are these things worthy?"
"No," the spirit answered.
Manninglore turned in a temper and took up his pick. Children in the valley grew old and died while Manninglore tore into the bowels of the mountain. Then Manninglore called again to the spirit of the Wind and cried, "A mountain of gold have I amassed! Wealth beyond a world of kings! Tell me, spirit—is it worthy?"
"No," the spirit answered.
Manninglore swore and stamped away. Folk howled in birth, shouted loud in the joy of youth, groaned in the labor of maturity, then coughed in death while the wizard labored and his messenger passed in weary flight again and again about the world. Then, high in his hall, Manninglore called upon his totem: "Ten thousand books have flowed from my quill! There is no secret of wood or stone or metal that I do not know! Tell me, spirit—is this worthy?"
And, "No," the spirit answered.
"Then is nothing worthy!" cried Manninglore. "Mountains, houses, wealth, and tomes—are none of these things worthy?"
"None," the spirit answered.
"Why?" the wizard stormed.
"Wizard," intoned the spirit, "look to the valley."
Slowly, Manninglore turned to the window. He saw the fields barren, his clan staggering, emaciated.
"They die," said Manninglore. "What is that to me?" "Sage," droned the spirit, "who will read your books?" Manninglore stood frozen.
"Miser," mourned the spirit, "whom shall you pay?" Manninglore's eyes showed white around the rim. "Builder," the spirit tolled, "who shall dwell in your halls?"
In the hour before dawn, when all the world was still, the clan of Mannin shot trembling from their beds as the earth beneath them shook with thunder. Rushing from their doors, they saw a great notch torn between the mountains.
"The ridge is gone," they whispered; and, "The wizard of Mannin is no more! Who shall aid us now?"
Then Manninglore stepped into the village, a pack of magics on his back, a bronze beaker in the crook of his elbow, Demouach upon his twisted shoulder.
He paced through the village that day, gaze probing the folk of the clan, tagging each person and allotting each category, for Manninglore had studied Humanity once, long before, had wrought through the gear-meshing strivings, the escapements of mores, to the tightly-coiled spring of the cravings. Then, when he knew why Man and Woman did what they did and when they would do it, he had given over the study as ephemeral, and therefore unworthy.
Now, though, as he measured the paths with his stride, his eyes sought through flesh and marrow to the souls within, and round them all shrunken, dwindled to gibbering, skeletal monkeys, atrophied. And Manninglore marveled that this dwindling had come to pass within his gaze, but without his notice.
They were dying, all about him, the folk of his clan, those in their prime. The elders still mumbled and moved with some sign of life, with jerkings and tics, and youths still walked, limbs responding slowly, as though they forced their way through some dark and viscous fluid. But the men and women in the fullness of their days sprawled in the doorways, muscles sodden, bones sagging. Here an old one gave his woman-grown daughter water to drink; there a girl nearly grown crooned her parents to their final slumber. Of babes and little children there were none.
Yet kindness was here, and love, in the pitiful efforts of the old and young to ease the slow, sinking deaths of maturity.
Manninglore saw, and shame grew within him.
"O Spirit!" he cried to the Wind, "totem of Mannin! Hear the tale of a life come to naught. My cry has been only, 'For me!' for I labored only to say, 'I have built, I have crafted, I shall always endure in my works!' while here in the valley they have cried only, "For thee! All for thee!"
"It is true," chimed the spirit, "yet but half the truth. They have cried, 'All for thee, my child, that you may someday be like Manninglore!' Wizard, you have served them in your selfishness; you have given them a mark for their striving, and thus have brought them out of greed to giving."
"Yet how little to give!" cried the sage; but Demouach crooned upon his shoulder.
So they came to the fields, the beaker, the hermit, and the bat-wing. There they looked upon the maize standing tall, in buff ser-ried ranks, tasseled heads nodding to make the wind whisper.
Manninglore scowled; words growled low in his throat. "There is corn in the field, there is grain in the bin, there is gruel in the pot. Yet the strength has gone from their bodies. How is this?"
"Go among the people," answered the spirit, "and ask."
There in the village, a man lay flaccid by the door of a cottage. A palsied hand, blue-veined and wrinkled, lifted his head; its mate | held a cup to his lips. The man gulped at the porridge, then lolled his head back. The old hand lowered him gently to the earth. "I fed him once from my breast," its owner said, vein pulsing slowly in the stalk of her throat. "He throve, then . . . but my breasts are long dry now, and fallen."
And she turned away to her mortar.
"You have fed him," said Manninglore. "Why then does he fail?"
"Watch," she said then; and "See," and touched the kernels of maize with the pestle. They fell apart into powder.
"Dust," she said, lifting her hand. Flour strewed on the wind and was gone. "There is no substance to it. The kernels have form, but no weight. They are empty."