“Ah, but you and I will know, Rhys. You and I will know. Now, building 1A has before it a stele depicting a merchant goddess and her pack—”
“It’s a weaver’s shop!” Yoshi broke into the narrative.
“What?” Wayne Bell glanced from the holotank showing a Burton’s-eye-to-view to a view through his own optics.
“See. That woman in the red halter went in unencumbered and came out with a little carpet or something draped over her arm. And there goes someone with a basket of yam.”
Sure enough, a female Etsatat came to the doorstep of the brightly colored building and held out the basket to someone just inside the door. She then set the basket in a sunny spot on the patio behind the stele where the colors of her wares shone like jewels. In a moment, a second woman joined her from inside the building and began to pick through the jumble of richly hued spools. In the end, she wagged her head and made a series of intricate hand gestures. Then she pulled several rings of bright metal from her necklace and handed them to the other woman who bobbed, turned, and left the yams, basket and all, in the six-fingered hands of the newcomer.
Rhys glanced at Burton. He had stopped recording and had moved his holocam to another target. Rhys glanced at the locational grid on the holotank then adjusted his optics to find the building visually. There was the wall relief Rick had found so amusing. It was part and parcel of a shoulder height stone wall that enclosed a paved piazza. Wall and building were done in succulent colors overlaid on gleaming, white granitic rock. A woven awning stretched over the patio, undulating gently in the breeze. Beneath it sat five rows of low wooden platforms, two of which were already populated by kneeling and squatting Etsatat who seemed to be engaged in lively conversation. They used their hands much as they talked, all the while dipping into bowls and baskets of food spread before them. All in all, Rhys thought, they looked very much like the quartet of brightly painted fellows in the relief on the encircling wall.
“Four guys selling pizza,” murmured Yoshi, hiding a giggle beneath her whisper. “I wish Rick were here.”
Burton moved his focus yet again.
Wayne Bell frowned at the blur on the holotank. “Do you want me to do that, Professor?”
There was no response.
“I realize we’re not supposed to be here, but I really think we should be recording this.”
“It’s only a bistro,” muttered Burton. “A stupid, mundane bistro.”
“Professor,” breathed Bell. “With all due respect—it’s a 5,000-year-old alien bistro.”
The day continued in much the same way. Wayne Bell eventually took over the recording, Rhys and Yoshi catalogued buildings and cultural features and Burton pouted, insisting that he’d never been as interested in the village as Nyami had been and grumbling about not having gone straight to the Sper-ets complex. By late afternoon, they had located two metallurgists or smiths, a spinner, a dyer, two mercantiles, an apothecary, two doctors or shamans, a wagon wright, a second bath house and two smaller eateries. There was also a building Rhys thought was an inn and a place south of the amphitheater that seemed to be a school.
There were homes as well, none over two stories tall. The only edifice taller than that sat just north of the amphitheater. It was different than the other buildings in town from the height of its facade to its shape and the character of its ornamentation. The curved face was taller than the roof behind it, giving the impression that the building wore a crown or tiara. The roofing was a tile of such deep indigo that it seemed to suck sunlight from the sky. Unlike other buildings, it had no paint upon either face and visible sides or around its many round windows. And into this building people did not go.
Until the sun began to set. But as the light mellowed and washed the white walls rose-amber, it seemed to become a magnet to the people of the little city. They came from every direction, many of the shopkeepers carrying colorful baskets, which they set, one and all, in a comer of the market plaza before crossing the street to the blue-roofed building.
Burton perked up. “What’s this? They seem to be leaving offerings.” He glanced at Rhys. “At sunset. Need I remind you what will follow the Etsat sunset by approximately fifteen minutes?”
“Moonrise,” Rhys observed.
“But you don’t suppose we’ll see a worship ceremony of some sort, do you?”
“Professor, I’ve never denied that these people may have a nature-based religion. In fact, I’d be dumbfounded if they didn’t have ritualized beliefs of some sort. What I doubted was that they consumed the entire culture, dominated every event, and produced every artifact from clothing to art.”
In the dying light of day, the crowned building filled with Etsatats; the sun set; the moon rose, huge and white in the indigo sky. When it came over the top of the mountain due east of the watcher’s tree, it struck a round patch of reflective material in the roof of the building and came face to face with its mirror image.
“It’s a window!” breathed Yoshi, and at that exact moment, there arose from the building below a great ululating song of rapture. It was tunefully alien and did not stop until the orb of the moon had moved completely from the reflective round. Then the temple erupted from within with a blaze of pale light. Almost immediately, the worshipers began to emerge. Many of them carried torches or lamps that gave off a lunar gleam.
“Bio-luminescence?” Rhys wondered aloud.
“Look, they’re filing into the amphitheater,” murmured Bell.
Indeed they were. In an atmosphere of festivity, the crowd took seats on the terraced stone benches while torchbearers formed a corridor. Down it passed a small group of their fellows dressed in vivid costume.
Burton sat forward. “These will be the priests, I imagine.”
The bright gantlet dissolved when the last “priest” had stepped to the edge of the large, flat dais. The torchbearers set their lights about the dais while the costumed ones divided into two groups. One took to the raised platform, the other formed a semi-circle to one side.
“The victims, perhaps,” Burton whispered.
Yoshi ground her teeth. “The band, perhaps,” she gritted, and before Burton could retort, lively atonal chords were indeed struck, and the “priests” began to dance and sing and chant.
Rhys found he could actually understand a few words and phrases that had been passed down to the modem Etsatat language of the region. The audience responded with hoots and chirps and pounded their oddly jointed knees in applause. Professor Burton withdrew so far against the trunk of their tree that Rhys almost forgot he was there.
Just before dawn they had packed up their blind and prepared to move out, when Burton, still on the supporting platform, uttered a startled grunt and manhandled the holocam into operating position.
Rhys, sitting at the platform’s edge, scrambled to his feet. “What is it?”
“Put your glasses on, Dr. Llewellyn. You should be interested in this.”
Rhys did as told and saw immediately what had Burton so excited. A wagon had come down the broad main avenue of the Etsatat town and pulled to a stop in the market plaza right next to the neat stack of baskets. Two men in uniforms garish even in the moonlight debarked and carefully lifted the baskets into their wagon.
“Recognize the costume?” Burton asked.
Rhys nodded. “From Sper-ets. The fellows on the gate lintel, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Having second thoughts about that tribute train theory?”
“Maybe.” Rhys watched as the wagon turned and rolled away. “Do we follow?”
Burton grinned fiercely. “What do you think?”