Ken laughed, a little harshly. "Yup. And that's a bit of a joke, when you think about it. Pre-Change America was rich enough that people could practice black-smithing or weaving or whatnot as hobbies, or make a living turning out high-priced handmade goods for collectors with a lot of disposable income. Handicrafts are rarer in backward areas, apart from a few of the most backward. You don't go on making hand-thrown pots when you can buy cheap plastic and aluminum, not when you're living on the edge. You can't spare time or effort for aesthetics. So in the long run we may be better off that way than, say, Columbia or Kenya. In the short run, mass die-off, of course."
"Irony still functions post-Change," Mike said with a chuckle. There were times when gallows humor was the only type available. The problem was that those were the times you most needed a laugh.
Ken nodded, getting a faraway look. Havel recognized it; the older Larsson looked that way when he was doing the big-picture thing.
Which is useful, within limits, Havel thought. Gotta make strategy drive tactics, not the other way 'round, as Captain Stoddard used to say.
Ken went on: "When we get settled, we should look into how to make rag paper. The acid-based pulp in most modern books doesn't last more than a generation even with careful storage; anything that isn't recopied will be lost by the time your kids are my age. Books will get almighty expensive in the places that hang on to the notion at all. When you're talking a small-scale society that doesn't really need literacy to function, it just won't pay to put in the effort, not when there's cloth to weave and turnips to hoe."
"Hard to keep the history straight, then," Havel said. "That's a pity. I… the things we're all doing, what's going on… that should be preserved."
"Oh, it will be, but not as history. We've fallen out of history, history with a capital H."
Havel raised a brow. "How can you be outside history? Sure, maybe nobody will record it, but it'll still be there."
"Ever read the Iliad or the Odyssey!"
"Yeah, bits here and there. I always preferred Ulysses;. Achilles was an undisciplined glory hound, the sort who's a nightmare to his squad leader. A good soldier needs to be ready to die, but a suicidal one just leaves you with another damned empty slot in the TOE you have to train a replacement for." He paused, then added judiciously: "Unless you need someone to play Polish Mine Detector real bad. Then a glory hound can come in very useful."
"Right," Ken chuckled. "But the point is that nobody wrote those poems. They were composed to be recited aloud and memorized, and they're full of bits from a lot earlier-half a millennium earlier, from the fall of Troy, with some chunks that may have been a thousand years old or more when Homer was singing for his supper. That's how people in that type of culture remember things-just like the sagas, only those got written down sooner. It's not history. It's folk-memory, the time of legends and heroes and myths, and anything that happens gets crammed into that framework. A sense of historical time needs a high civilization, and a particular type of one at that. Barbarians and tribes live in mythic time, legend time, not an ordered progression of centuries going from somewhere to somewhere. It might be better to say they're timeless."
"Like the Kalevala?"
"Yup. Or the Nibelungenleid, where you get Siegfried and the dragon and the cursed Rhinegold all mixed up with real figures centuries apart like Attila the Hun and Theodoric the Ostrogoth."
"And then some looney squarehead makes a real boring experience out of 'em," Havel said. He'd suffered through a video of the complete Ring cycle once, with a girl who was crazy for the stuff.
Christ, the things I did to get laid.
Ken went on: "Most of the Old Testament is the same sort of thing, filtered through literate scribes much later."
"So someone may make a saga out of our friend Howie someday? Or a chapter of Genesis?"
"More like Exodus. Out of a distorted what-Grandpa-told-me memory of him, yeah." Ken got up, pushing off his knees. "Or maybe a memory of you, Mike. You're the one who killed the bear and led his people to the promised land… if we make it. See you tomorrow."
Hmmm, Havel mused. Ken is an interesting guy to have around.
He poked a stick into the fire, watching the sparks fly up towards the bright frosting of stars; it was a little chilly now, with the sun well down.
I should start thinking about the longer term, a little. Once things hit bottom, they'll have to start up again-but in a new way, or a very old way. A strong man is what's needed, leadership, and something to believe in. Someone has to build on the ruins. Ken was right; we're back in the age of legends and heroes. A dirty job, but someone's got to do it.
Orange flames crawled over the low coals of the fire; in them he seemed to see vague pictures, visions of glory amid the fire-
"Surprise!"
He rose, pivoting smoothly and very fast, the sword coming free of the scabbard with a rasping hiss of steel on greased leather and wood. At the same time he stepped sideways so he wasn't silhouetted against the fire and cursed how it had killed his night sight for crucial seconds. He hadn't been expecting anything-
And come to think of it, someone trying to kill me wouldn't shout "Surprise!" now, would they?
He straightened up, blinking. People stood before him, a crowd of most of the adults in the outfit-with Signe, Lu-anne, Astrid, and Angelica Hutton in the forefront. Signe and Luanne had his new and all-of-a-sudden-finished hauberk slung between them on a pole run through one sleeve and out the other. Angelica had the gambeson bundled up in her arms. And Astrid…
Astrid was holding out a helmet.
The actual metal was the standard model they'd settled on, a round steel bowl with a leather-and-foam liner, a flat bar riveted on the front to protect the nose, and a leather skirt at the rear-the aventail-covered in chain mail to guard the neck.
This one had some additions. The tanned head of a bear was mounted on it, the top half at least, with the snarling muzzle at brow-level and enough of the fur left attached behind it to hide the helmet's neck flap. Glass eyes stared at him, and the teeth were bared in an artistic, and quite realistic, snarl. He remembered the expression vividly, from the time the beast had been about to eat him.
"Well… " he said, feeling suddenly inadequate. "Well, I guess that's where the bearskin went."
"Angelica and Will showed us how to do the tanning," Astrid said proudly. "Actually it was sort of gross, you use brains. But it looks great now. We wanted to be sure we'd got it right, so we waited and it didn't smell at all. Put it on, put it on!"
Her face was shining.
I can't say no. It would be like… well, like taking candy from a kid. Hell, she is a kid, or was until the Change.
He did spare a glower for the adults, who should have known better than to let her gussy up fighting gear with nonessentials.
The padded coat was easy, closing up the front with an overlapping flap and laces. Luanne and Signe held the mail coat over his head as he ducked, then helped him wiggle into it with a clash and clinking rustle; you could put it on yourself, but it was a pain.
The shifting weight dragged at his shoulders, and he quickly cinched his broadsword belt tight around his waist to stabilize it and transfer some of the burden to his hips. Will had made forearm protectors-vambraces-out of sheet steel, hammered to fit around wooden forms; he slipped on his, then buckled on shin guards, leather covered in thin steel splints, and pulled on leather gauntlets whose backs were covered in more chain mail.