“Artifacts?” asked Father James.
“Baskets. Plates. Bowls. We do not think they wore fabric, but there are belts, or more properly, sashes. Woven strips of grass fiber about six inches wide and a couple of yards long. Nicely colored, beautifully patterned. The result is much like linen, the experts tell me. The Arbai have few artifacts. It is as though they chose very carefully each thing they used. Chose each one for line or color, what we would call beauty, though many of them—the pots, particularly—do not seem beautiful to us. Perhaps I should say, ‘to me.’ You may find them lovely. Each thing is handmade, but without inscriptions, nothing we might translate as ‘Made by John Brown.’ We will see the artifacts later, Lady Westriding. We have found nothing made by machines and nothing we are sure is a machine. There are the things called the crematoria and the thing in the center of the town. Perhaps they are machines. Perhaps not. And yet, the Arbai traveled. They must have had machines. They must have had ships, and yet we have never found any.”
“Are the towns everywhere like this?” Tony ran his hands along the carving, cupping the time-worn line of an alien face.
“Where there is earth, they built of earth, polymerizing the walls, making vaults or thatching the roofs. Where there are forests, they built of wood. Where there is sufficient stone, they built of stone. Here on Grass the stone comes from a quarry not far distant. The grasses have covered it, but the signs of Arbai work are there, nonetheless. Each city is different, depending upon the materials. On one planet they built high among the trees.”
“Where is that?”
He looked at her as though he had forgotten who she was, trying to remember something, his face intent upon some interior search. “I … I can’t remember. But I know they did….”
“How many of their cities have you seen?” Marjorie asked.
Brother Mainoa chuckled, himself once more. “This one, lady. Only this one. But I have seen pictures of them all. Copies of reports are shared among those of us sentenced to this duty. In case something found in one place casts light on something found elsewhere. Vain hope. And yet we go on hoping.”
“All like this. And all the inhabitants died,” Tony said.
“Perhaps. Or went elsewhere.”
They walked through what might have been a marketplace, or a meeting ground, or even a playground. At the center was the dais Brother Mainoa had described. Upon it an enigmatic strip of material curled and returned upon itself, making a twisted loop through which a tall man might walk. Tony struck it with a knuckle, hearing it ring in response. Metal. And yet it didn’t look like metal. Along the edges were scalloped and indented designs, as though the molten stuff had been imprinted by mysterious fingers. The same designs decorated the edges of the dais. In the open space small flags marked the places bodies had been found, slaughtered in the open, bodies now moved under cover for later study. One flag lay within the looped structure, several others lay beside the dais, as though a gathering had been interrupted there.
“What killed these people?” Tony asked.
“Foxen, some say. I think not.”
“Why do you think not?” Father James was curious, brought out of his usual reticence by the strangeness of this place.
Brother Mainoa looked around him, ignoring the presence of Brother Lourai, but looking for anyone else who might be within earshot. There were no diggers on duty today, but Brothers did drop in from time to time on one errand or another, to make a delivery of foodstuff, to pick up the most recent copies of Arbai books. Some of them were undoubtedly spies for Doctrine.
When he had satisfied himself that no one was listening, Mainoa said, “We Green Brothers have been here for many years, young sir. Many years. Many Grass years. Wintered here, packed up in winter quarters like so many pickles in a jar. We’ve spent every spring and summer and fall among the grasses. In all that time, not one of us has ever been attacked by the foxen.” His tone carried more than conviction. It carried certainty.