CHAPTER 12

Rory macShiel was down on the shore, sitting on an upturned hull, caulking it with wool waste. Solomon watched the man drive in the knotted lines of twisted fibre with a bronze-edged tool, packing the joints between the planks to make them watertight. He used the caulker in hard, fast stabs, working off pent-up aggression. He didn’t look like a man who should be disturbed.

‘Sir?’ said Solomon.

macShiel carried on working the length of caulk until the last of it disappeared into the hull. Then he looked up. ‘What is it?’ he said sharply. He reached into a bag and twisted up more wool.

‘I have a gift for you,’ said Solomon, and held up his creation for macShiel to see.

‘I’ve no time for toys, stranger. I appreciate your peacemaking, but there’s no strife between us. Just between me and my wife’s mother, the witch.’ He drummed his heels on the wooden boards for a moment, listening to the hollow sound it made, then went on with his work.

‘I’ll leave it here,’ said Solomon. macShiel waved without looking, and Solomon carefully planted the main shaft into the sand. He made certain he got it as vertical as he could manage, then gave the wheel a little turn to start it moving.

It squeaked into life, and Solomon walked slowly away, back up the beach. He’d got as far as the first line of tussocky grass when a voice called him back.

‘Solomon Akisi. Wait.’ macShiel was on his hands and knees, examining the rapidly turning wheel. He put out a hand to stop it, then let go again, watching how the wind caught in the four little triangular sails mounted on short masts, and especially how the sails turned by themselves as they spun round.

Solomon walked back. macShiel stopped the wheel again and examined the rigging on each sail, pushing it this way and that.

‘What do you call this?’ he asked. ‘This here–the wood that holds the sail taut.’

‘That is a jib. The line that holds it to the left or the right is simply a jib line. You can let it in or out, depending on the wind. This is only a model.’

‘I know that, man. But look.’ macShiel turned the wheel so that one sail pointed into the wind, hanging uselessly. ‘The sail is crabbing. I turn it, and suddenly the wind catches it and there’s force there. It’s as if…’ He looked up, open-mouthed. ‘I’d heard rumours that this could be done, but I could never work out how.’

‘My own people, the mighty people of the Kenyan empire, use this for their own ships. You are using square sails, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘You cannot turn into the wind with them?’

‘No.’

‘You can with this.’ Solomon bent down and began to draw in the wet sand. ‘The wind comes from the north, say. But you want to sail north, to your fishing grounds. Currently you would have to stay at home and mend your nets, or be forced to row all the way. With a jib, and some changes to your hull, you can go north, fish and come back with a boatload. You cannot sail directly into the wind, but by going close to it, you can tack this way and that, always close but never broaching.’ macShiel sat on his haunches, looking from the spinning wheel to the diagram on the beach and back again. He stroked his beard. ‘What changes to the hull?’

‘A deeper keel. There is a device called a freeboard which is suitable for small boats like yours.’

‘Show me.’

Solomon drew on the sand again.

‘I see,’ said macShiel, and lapsed into deep thought.

Solomon was prepared to wait: he knew that with each turn of the wheel powered by its four swinging sails, what he desired moved inexorably closer.

Finally macShiel stood up and dusted the back of his kilt free of sand. ‘What do you want in return?’

Solomon smiled broadly. ‘Ah, we understand each other. Neither of us are of this land. You came from over the water, just like I did, though not so far. But we will not fit in, no matter how long the dirt stays under our fingernails or the salt sits in our hair.’

‘That might be true, but it doesn’t tell me what you want.’

‘I want those.’ He pointed to his crude model. ‘I am not a craftsman. I want, say, four of them. Twice the size and solid, with good bearings. Each one will need a shield to cover the leeside of the machine, so that the wind will not slow the wheel down, only speed it up.’

‘Four, you say? I don’t know about that. The first one will be the most difficult. After that, maybe, maybe not. I’ll build you one. There’s a lot of wood, and maybe some iron that’ll be needed. Not an easy task at all.’

‘Your wife’s mother has no right to call you an idiot, Rory macShiel. Two then. Build me one now. Then take one of your boats. Put a freeboard on it, and a mast with a jib. I can tell you if the construction is right. Then after you have sailed it to An Cobh and back in a day, you can build me another.’ macShiel flexed his great muscles, as if readying himself for the task. He spat in the palm of his hand, then offered it to Solomon. He saw him hesitate. ‘You have to shake on it. Otherwise it’s not binding.’

Solomon didn’t want to appear too eager. Just the right amount of reluctance was needed. He put on a forced smile and took macShiel’s spittle-smeared hand in his.

‘Done.’

         

Solomon called it an aeoleopile. Everyone else called it macShiel’s device, and every day the residents of An Rinn would stand for a few moments on the hillside overlooking the boatyard, just to check its progress. They acknowledged the idea as Solomon’s, but the making of it was both the wonder and the folly. It took shape slowly on the stretch of beach he used to make and repair boats. macShiel laid the pieces out, searched his seasoned wood and steamed straight lengths into curves, which he pinned together with oak nails.

Solomon fretted over the size of the thing. It was clear that macShiel had embraced the idea of the self-turning wheel, but not what it was for. Solomon wanted it to spin steadily and strongly, but macShiel built on a scale like himself, solid and unyielding. It would be a miracle if it turned at all.

It grew and grew. There was a frame, with little wooden rollers, to lift the wheel up into the wind. The axle hung down, which is just how Solomon wanted it, and he was able to pass on the measurements taken from a quern stone. The town’s boys were a specific problem. They would throw stones at the machine, and laugh as they were chased away.

‘Are we ready, Rory?’ said Solomon.

‘I think we are.’ macShiel was sitting on the wheel, rigging up the final sail. ‘I can feel it wanting to turn beneath me. There’s raw power there like a charging horse or a strong current.’

‘Like a lion,’ said Solomon.

‘A what? What are they?’

‘Like a cat, but bigger; bigger than a man. They have huge claws and great teeth, and they can bring a cow down with one bite.’ macShiel chuckled. ‘Nothing like that exists in this world, man.’

Solomon bristled. ‘I have seen them with my own eyes.’

‘Of course you have. Now then, are you sure that brake is on?’

A lever, a massive friction brake, was lashed to the side of the wheel, and Solomon shook it. ‘It is on.’

‘Good–being up here when this moves is a sure way to lose a leg.’ He finished the rigging and pulled the sail up. The wind caught it as it rose and it snapped out tight. The mechanism creaked. ‘Do you feel that? Do you feel it?’

‘I feel it.’ macShiel jumped free and brought up his knife. ‘Now we’ll see. Hold the brake.’

Solomon reached up and held the brake against the wheel. macShiel cut the rope tying it on. ‘Let her go.’

At first nothing happened–for long enough to draw jeers and hoots from the crowd on the hill. They had not been invited and the event was unannounced, but the townspeople knew that the device was nearing completion.

Then the lull in the wind was over, and a gust caught the sails. The wheel started to turn, slowly at first, and gradually picked up speed. Soon it was flying round, sweeping the air with a deep swoosh every time a sail shot by.

It silenced the people of An Rinn, but had the opposite effect on macShiel, who turned to them and whooped and called and danced and lifted his kilt at them, shouting his defiance and triumph. They came closer, grudgingly. One of them was Rose naMoira.

‘That’s all very well, Rory macShiel, but what’s it for?’

Solomon pushed the brake against the wheel, and it slowed to a stop. macShiel tied the device off and looked to the Kenyan for help.

This was Solomon’s moment. If he failed to convince them of his greatness now, he would leave them to their ignorance and find somewhere else, more worthy of his talent. He unwrapped a heavy stone from its cloth cover. ‘Do you recognize this, Rose?’

‘Is that not my quern? Solomon, have you taken my quern?’

‘Yes, Rose. This is your quern.’ He hefted it and carried it to the axle. The end of it had been shaped to fit the square hole in the top stone. He had a small pile of sea-worn boulders to raise the bottom stone into place directly under it. He let the top stone drop slightly, and it fell into place.

‘What’s he doing with my quern? How am I supposed to make flour if he’s taken my quern? And is that my barley, Solomon?’

‘It is your barley too. Free the wheel, Rory.’ macShiel slipped the knot, and the wheel started to turn again. Except this time it turned the top stone of Rose naMoira’s quern against the bottom stone with a rhythmic rasp.

Solomon poured a handful of grain into the hole at the centre of the top stone. The stone turned, and fine dust started to cloud out of the rim before blowing away in the wind.

There was a collective inrushing of breath, even from macShiel, who should have guessed long ago the purpose of the wheel. Solomon realized he had many more surprises in store for him.

Rose went to look at her quern stone, which up to that point had only ever been turned by hand. She took the pouch of grain from Solomon and copied what he’d done. More flour dribbled out.

‘It could do this all day, couldn’t it?’ she said.

‘All night too, if you needed it.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘If this was a spindle, I could spin thread on it.’

‘If it was an auger, I could drill holes with it,’ said macShiel.

‘And a hundred other uses,’ said Solomon, addressing them all. ‘This is my gift to you all. Use it as you can. Rory macShiel knows how to make more if you need more–he has promised me his next one–but I have other dreams for you to make and use.’

‘Next time,’ said Rose, ‘you should make it up in the town. There’s not much point to it being down here.’

‘Of course, dear lady. We must dismantle the device and carry it back with us.’ Solomon leaned on the brake, and he could hear the collective sigh as the wheel hissed to a halt.

He had them in the palm of his hand, and it was all he could do to stop himself laughing.

         

He led the procession up the beach and down the main street. There would have to be a new building to house the device, but for the moment they could erect it at the far end of the street. It would be there when they stepped out in the morning, and again as they closed their doors for the night.

‘Why you, Rose?’ some woman was asking. ‘My barley needs grinding too.’

‘Because no one else would take him in except me. It’s only proper that I have first rights. Besides, Rory macShiel’s family.’

‘You have nothing good to say about him, Rose naMoira macArthur.’

‘Perhaps I’ve changed my mind, Shelagh.’ macShiel was fastening the oak nails on top of the frame again, and it was clear that he was listening to the exchange. He looked at Solomon, who nodded silently back.

‘It’s a good work, Solomon Akisi, a good work all round.’

‘It is that. But this is only the beginning for you, my friend. You will soon be working on your boat, and then another aeoleopile. While you are doing that, you must think about what you want next. Is it true that your wife walks to the spring every morning and every evening for water? In my country, only the poor do that.’

‘But we are poor, and blessed for it. There’s fish in the sea, and we have meat and bread. We have clothes on our backs and faith in God above that tomorrow will bring no evil things.’ macShiel hammered in the last nail and waited. So did everyone else.

‘God said, “Be fruitful and multiply. Fill the Earth and subdue it.” It is our duty to Him not to lose a child to sickness, to make our toil less burdensome, to break the spirit of this world into service for the next.’ Solomon didn’t need a platform to stand on. They all had to look up at him, except macShiel, and even he hung on the Kenyan’s every word. ‘When I came here, across the land and the sea, what was my impression? Of a land that was empty, untamed, unloved. Seas of rubble, not one stone on another. We should not go back to the ways of the proud and wicked Users, who brought destruction on their own heads, but neither should we grub around in the mud like base creatures. Are we not loved by God? Does He not send us good things, like wind and rain and sun in its season? Does He not provide meat and milk? Who are we then, to despise what we are given? Are we that ungrateful that we squander what is freely provided? Are we such sinners that we show disrespect to God’s magnificent creation?’

‘No, Solomon, we’re not. But these new things you promise us: we’ve never needed them before. Why should we suddenly need them now?’

‘Are you children, or are you men? Will you not take responsibility for providing for your families? Who here will still have their wife grind their grain by hand? Will you, Rory macShiel, make the daughter of Rose naMoira turn the quern when there is an alternative? Will you force her to fill her jars at the spring when there is a cistern in the centre of town? Will you have a happy wife, or one who narrows her eyes at you and is too tired for contentment?’ macShiel was beaten, and he knew it. It had been a day unlike any other. ‘I just don’t know what Father Padroig’s going to say when he sees this from the top of the hill.’

‘He will thank God for sending me to you. But what is it that you want? Do you want me to leave you?’

‘No, no. Of course not, man. We want you to stay. Don’t we?’

Solomon watched as their faces told the truth of it. They loved him and feared him.

‘Very well. I will stay.’