The mast was heavy. After using her strength to no purpose for a time, she stopped fooling with the thing and thought it through. She took the lines loose from the canvas cover, maneuvered the butt of the mast into position against its slanting block, then attached a line halfway up the mast, running it under and over two of the lacing hooks and using a third to take up the slack. She heaved, sweated, cursed, saw the mast rise a little. She tied it off and recovered, panting, then tried again. By alternately heaving and cursing at this primitive pulley arrangement, she managed to get the mast almost upright, at which point it slid into its slot with a crash that made her fear for the bottom of the boat. She felt around it gingerly, praying to find no water. There was water. Was it left over from bailing or from a new leak? She had no idea and spent several anxious moments measuring it with eyes and hands to see whether it got any higher.
When she had convinced herself—deluded herself, her other persona kept insisting—that the hull was sound, she restored the lacing to the cover and relaced half of it, folded the now dry blankets under this shelter, remembered to drop in the wedges that held the mast erect, and set about trying to recall what Blange had said about sail.
“If you cannot remember what you are told,” Queen Fibji had told her more than once, “you must use trial and error. The thing to keep in mind about trial and error is that some errors are quite final. Therefore, it might be wise to listen carefully to the instructions of those who have experienced what they are trying to tell you about.”
“People are always telling me things,” Medoor Babji had complained. She had been about twelve at the time, coming as inevitably into rebellion as a flame-bird chick into its plumes. “They don’t even ask me what I think.”
The Queen had nodded, brow wrinkled a little at this. They were in the Queen’s own tent, and her serving women were redoing the Queen’s hair as well as Medoor Babji’s. It was a long process, though infrequent. Each strand was carefully combed out, washed and rinsed, one by one, then rewound and decorated at the bottom with a bead of bone or faience. The serving women chatted between themselves, politely, pretending that the Queen and Medoor were not present, thus allowing the mother and daughter the same freedom.
“Ah,” Queen Fibji had said. “Well, let us suppose you have broken your leg. Chamfas Muneen is sent for. Chamfas says to you, ‘Hold fast, this is going to hurt,’ and then sets your leg and binds it up. Do you want Chamfas to ask you what you think before doing it?”
“Chamfas is a bonesetter!”
“So?”
“So of course he won’t ask me what I think! I don’t know anything about bonesetting.”
“Well, let us suppose it is Aunty Borab. Suppose she tells you to eat your breakfast.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. She doesn’t ask me if I want breakfast. She just tells me.”
“And what is Aunty Borab?”
“She’s just an old woman.”
“Ah, no, Medoor Babji. There you are wrong. Aunty Borab is a life liver. She is a survivor. She is a power holder and a health giver. She is no less expert at what she does than is Chamfas Muneen. But you call her an old woman and disregard what she says.”
“She’s bossy!”
“So is Chamfas, when he knows what is best for you. So am I when I seek to save my people hurt. And so is Borab when she knows it is best for you to eat your breakfast.”
The Queen’s expression had been mild, but there had been obsidian in her eyes. Hard, black, and questioning. Is this one to be my heir, or shall I choose some other? After a pause, she continued. “Instead of thinking of older folk as bossy persons with whom you must contend for control, Medoor Babji, think first what they are trying to tell you, or save you. Indeed, they may only be attempting to assert the privilege of age, but it does no harm to listen, even to agree. They will die before you, and you will have time to do it your way.”