razed. Two old men with buckets were dumping dirt on some of the smoldering remains, and three or four bands of children climbed and slid in the rubble, searching for spoons and bits of colored tile and glass. One woman picked dourly through the remains of what once had surely been her hovel, clutching a wailing infant to her breast. This part of the city had never before seen the full light of day, and suddenly it was flooded with light, as healthful and clean as one of our own fields; and yet to see this misery exposed seemed untoward, as if we should avert our eyes. But we could not avert them. “Looks like something’s happened,” said Ydlbert’s brother, Yorik, who had perhaps never been the brightest star in Mandragora’s firmament. Ydlbert slapped him, but it seemed in jest.
We processed through to the center of town, and there set up shop around the kettle fires the townsmen had lit. Around us they walked with their hands shielding their eyes, both from the smoke and from the uncustomary brightness in the square. Even the space before the church was clearer now—the Archduke had, without our prompting, razed the filthiest habitations, so that we could display our produce in better view. The next week, aware of how much space had gone unused, we brought even more of our goods to sell, and the week after that, some of the local tradesmen began bringing their wares, to take advantage of the milling people and the light. A potter sold jars and crockery; the tanner draped hides over a sawhorse; the smith stood at one corner of the empty space, calling for horses to be shod. Each week the market grew bigger, and each week more debris was removed, until finally, that spring, there was a fine, clear path to the sanctuary, a processional wide and grand enough for princes and kings. The road within the city gates was surfaced with broad, flat stones, smooth underfoot and to the carts’ wheels. “It’s Paving,” Mandrik told me, the first time we drove our wary horses over them. “I have seen it in Indo-China, though there it was all of hammered brass, making the roads sparkle brighter than a courtesan’s eyes.” I had never seen a courtesan nor heard of paving—I knew only that what I saw was beautiful. But Mandrik knew that something momentous had happened, even if I did not have the knowledge to understand his explanation fully.
Each week we brought more and more of our crop to market, until it seemed our land could no longer stand the burden of such production. That spring was balmy, with soft rains and a strong sun, but we dripped our sweat into the ground every hour of the daylight, and still could not sate the townspeople or exhaust our soil. One day as I worked on my farthest strip—near my grandmother’s cairn—wishing I were my brother that I might have a song to sing, bathed in sweat, toiling in the heat of the midday sun, pulling a wooden plow so old and worn that I would soon need to replace its coulter and share, the next great thought insinuated itself into my mind like a whisper: Hammadi could pull the plow for me, and I could simply walk behind, to guide it. Hammadi could pull a much bigger plow than can I.
I gave up the rest of the day to tinkering, and by nightfall had constructed a new harness for plowing; the next day I attached handles to the plow so that I could guide it from behind. Ydlbert stopped over the next morning—from his adjacent strip he had seen me leave mine two days since, and wanted to make certain I had not taken ill. I led him to my barn, hitched up Hammadi, and set her to work. She performed the work of three farmers with only a fraction of the effort and none of the grumbling. Ydlbert shook his broad, balding head, and crouched down as if exhausted in the good dirt that marked the border between our two fields. “Yves,” he said, “think of it. Think what you’ve done. The horses will do all the work—we’ll finish at noon and lie about the rest of the day.”
I followed Hammadi to the end of the row. She wasn’t going straight, exactly, but she pulled the plow with ease; I could certainly make it larger. I then returned to my friend and sat down in the dirt beside him, and we talked of the idyllic life to come. Ydlbert was right—we would have time now to patch the holes in our roofs and our children’s shoes, to dig wells, perhaps even to help our wives tend the herb gardens and spin wool. Ydlbert wanted to go to the glassmaker to learn to blow vessels. All my life Mandrik had pestered me to write down tales, but I had never the time nor the inclination, particularly as he was no help with quotidian labors. Now, who knew what I might find time for? I did not know then that I would find myself writing this history, but I knew that my world had changed such that something might get written. Hammadi stood gently munching the grass at the end of the row, for she did not know to turn around and work the next piece of land. It hardly mattered. She could be trained.
I admit that at this moment a small stone of doubt lodged in the bottom of my stomach, for I realized that this vast plot—these twenty acres, as big as any plot of land had ever needed to be—this land to which my father and his forebears had given their lives dutifully and without complaint, these strips of land they had leveled stone by stone and tended until they were among the finest in the valley, would no longer suffice.
The harness in its various forms has changed our lives in many ways for the better. We grow more food than our families can eat, more than we can sell to the town. Our soil is rich, and our farming advanced—each generation has made some improvement in the methods of husbandry, but none so remarkable as ours. We have money as we never did before, and our city, which was a stinking gutter, now glitters like the stars in the great dome of the sky. That first paved path was only the beginning—now the city has long, wide roads stretching toward the four cardinal points of the horizon, all paved in gray stones, so that even Andras Drck, the horse dealer at the far northern edge of town, is as easy to reach as my nearest neighbors. Suddenly, where there once was squalor, there is light, air, and free passage. The Archduke soon issued an edict to name these paved passageways as one would name a child or a place—they won’t be knocked down, these paths, they won’t shift with the rain. The roads will then be like our horses—once so temporary we hardly thought about them, they will now endure.
Finding our way in the city is different with these roads. In my youth we navigated as do, my brother says, the sailors at sea—we fixed the positions of the sun, towers, and steeple, and hoped to find our destination. Later we had my south-pointer, but it told only if one was facing south. Going anywhere in town was trouble—it made the breath come short and the eyes sting. Now everything is flooded with light, and we go straight from one place to another, knowing our location at all the places in between. The city is half as large as once I thought. It only took so long to get anywhere because one had to circumvent so many buildings, gardens, and walls.
I have built already a storeroom onto my home, and rethatched the roof, and I would like to buy a second cow next spring. I bought Adelaïda eight yards of pale blue linen, like a noblewoman’s, and a vast array of spices. Because of one invention, the city, my city, is outgrowing its walls.
All of this change is wondrous, no doubt; and yet I must admit that when I invented the harness, I did not imagine that it would bring hardship along with all this bounty. I did not know that the whole world would change when I made Hammadi her first harness. I did not know that I might someday want the old world, or some of its ways, back.
If this one tiny bit of human ingenuity, the contribution of a man with no title, hardly a name—if so little can change so much, then I fear for our future. I fear the things our children will know, the things of which we can only dream. My prayer, my ardent prayer, is that we are moving forward, and toward the path of God.
1 In editing this manuscript for the general readership, I have regularized Yves Gundron’s spelling and punctuation—for example, by setting off reported speech in double quotation marks. In rare instances in which Gundron appeared to have misused a word, I have made the necessary corrections. All chapter and section divisions and footnotes are mine. (Ed.)
2 Aficionados will recognize the structural similarity between some of Adelaïda’s and Mandrik’s songs and the blues, which otherwise do not exist in Mandragora. Many of the songs Mandrik and Adelaïda compose extemporaneously are simple ballads, as one might expect in such a community; but the blues aesthetic which marks some of the songs seems to have been brought to the village by Mandrik and Yves’s grandmother (who was also Adelaïda’s grandaunt), Iulia Gansevöort Gundron, the only stranger ever recorded as having visited the village before me, and widely believed to have been a silkie,