“The Ropemaker frowned. She remembered the way the Trickster had smelled. All at once she knew his hiding place. ‘But how will I get him out?’ she asked herself. ‘And how will I catch him and hold him, once he is out?’

“She decided to go to sleep. She lay down and closed her eyes. The old woman sat next to her, scratching. Soon the Ropemaker began to dream. Three spirits came to her. One was a woman of middle age with a big belly and noticeable breasts. She wore a long robe, covered with embroidery.

“The next spirit was a man. His fur was blue-green, and he had wings instead of arms. He wore a kilt of the same color as his fur. His belt buckle was round and made of gold. It glittered brilliantly.

“The third spirit was a young woman. She was large and muscular. She carried a hammer, and she wore a leather apron. Her eyes were orange-red.

“The Ropemaker knew them. The first was the Mother of Mothers. The second was the Spirit of the Sky. And the third was the Mistress of the Forge, who lives in Hani Akhar, the great volcano.

“ ‘O holy ones,’ the Ropemaker said. ‘Help me out! I know where the Trickster is. But I need a way to get him out of his hiding place. And once he is out, he will try to run away. I need a way to catch him.’

“The Spirit of the Sky spoke first. ‘I will keep watch. If he tries to run away, I will see where he goes. He won’t be able to find a new hiding place.’

“The Mistress of the Forge spoke next. ‘I will make a rope out of iron, forged with magic so it will never break. It will be self-fastening and able to move. The Trickster won’t escape from it.’

“The Mother of Mothers spoke last. ‘I know how to get the Trickster out of his hiding place.’ She leaned forward and whispered into the Ropemaker’s ear.

“In the morning the Ropemaker woke. There was a rope lying next to her in a coil. It was dull gray in color, and it had a peculiar texture, like the scales of a lizard. The Ropemaker took a close look at it. It was made of many tiny links of iron fastened together.

“ ‘Good morning, grandmother,’ she said to the Old Woman of the North. ‘I’ve had an idea. You said that your vagina tickled, even though it has no fur.’

“The old woman made the gesture of agreement.

“ ‘I don’t think there’s an animal in there. I think you need sex.’

“ ‘You’re crazy!’ the old woman cried. ‘It’s the wrong time of year. And anyway, I’m too old to feel lust.’

“ ‘Remember,’ the Ropemaker said. ‘A woman doesn’t grow old easily. The feeling of lust doesn’t vanish all at once. Often a woman becomes irritable and uncertain. Her behavior changes from day to day. She feels lust at the wrong time. At the right time, in the spring, she feels nothing at all. She cannot understand what is going on—any more than a young girl can when she becomes a woman. I think this is what has happened to you.’

“ ‘No!’ cried the old woman.

“ ‘In any case, try sex. I will go and find a young man for you. If I’m right, and you are feeling lust—a bit late, I will admit—then the young man will respond to you. And maybe you will feel better afterward.’

“The Ropemaker got up and left the tent. She took the iron rope with her.

“The Trickster heard all this. He became uneasy. ‘If that crazy woman can find a man willing to mate with this old biddy—well, my position will not be comfortable. I am likely to take a terrible beating. I’d better get out of here.’

“He waited till it was night, and the old woman was snoring. Then he crept out. The comb was in his hand. He stole to the door. Out he stepped. The Ropemaker was waiting there. The Great Moon was up. It lit the sky and the plain. It lit the man as he came through the doorway.

“ ‘This is it, you nasty spirit!’ the woman cried. She threw the iron rope.

“It twisted in midair. It wrapped itself around him. He stumbled and fell. The comb flew out of his hand. The Ropemaker caught it. As for the Trickster, he fell out of the sky and landed on the plain. He rolled back and forth. He yelled. He struggled. But the rope would not break. After a while he gave up. He lay still, breathing heavily.

“Three spirits appeared around him. He looked up at them. ‘I can tell that you are responsible for this.’

“ ‘Yes,’ said the Mother of Mothers. ‘This is the end of all your malevolent tricks. We are going to take you far from here and drop you in the ocean. You’ll cause no further trouble.’

“ ‘Don’t be sure,’ the Trickster said.

“They picked him up and carried him through the air. In the middle of the ocean they let go of him. He splashed into the water. Down and down he sank. At last he hit the bottom. Aiya! It was dark and cold! Deep-sea fish nibbled on his toes. He twisted and tried to yell. Instead he swallowed water. But he could not drown. His life was everlasting. He stayed there for more years than we can count. He gave his nature to the ocean. It became changeable and unreliable, impossible to trust. In the end he broke free. But that is another story.

“As for the Ropemaker, she went back into the tent. She woke the old woman and gave her the comb.

“ ‘Oh! This is wonderful!’ the old woman cried. She began to comb her fur. Animals came out, hundreds of them. They tumbled out of the sky and filled the world. All the people rejoiced.”

Inahooli stopped talking. I unfolded my legs and stood. By this time it was noon. Sunlight poured down.

The air was still and hot. I was sweating.

“Well,” said Inahooli. “Are you impressed? Do you think my ancestor is great?”

“Yes.” I turned and looked at the tower. A trickster god, like Anansi the Spider and Coyote and B’rer Rabbit. There were other odd similarities. The Old Woman in the North reminded me of a character out of Inuit mythology. Was there such a thing as a universal archetype? Would we find the same characters on planet after planet? I imagined a collective unconscious that extended across—or maybe under—the galaxy. What an idea! But I was moving too fast. I didn’t have the data. I stretched. “I have to go.”

“No! Don’t leave. I have other stories.”

I made the gesture of polite refusal, followed by the gesture of extreme regret. “Nia is waiting.”

She stood up, frowning. “There is something about that name…” Her eyes widened. “I remember! Nia the Smith. The woman who loved a man.” She used the word that meant familial affection, the love between sisters or between a mother and her daughters. “They told us about her, the Iron Folk. They said the man died. But she was still out on the plain. A big woman with the look of bad luck. They warned us about her. They said, ‘If she comes to your village, let her stay only as long as is decent. Then tell her to move on. If you let her move in, she’ll sour the milk in your pots. She’ll make your fires go out.’ ”

“Nia does no harm,” I said. I kept my voice low and even. A confident voice. The voice of sanity.

Inahooli was silent, still frowning, obviously thinking. “She hasn’t given up her old behavior. When she mentioned your friend she wasn’t using an ending from your language. You said the name differently. I heard. I didn’t understand. She gave the name an ending from her own language or from the language of gifts. In either case it is a male ending. Your friend is a man.”

I opened my mouth. What could I say? I didn’t like to lie, and I didn’t think Inahooli would believe any lie I told. “I’d better go.”

She stared at me, her eyes narrow. “What are you? Why do you travel with a woman like that? And with a man?”

“I told you, I am ordinary. Among my own people, anyway.”

She made the gesture of disagreement, moving her hand emphatically. “I have met the Iron People and the Copper People and the People of Fur and Tin. No one is really different. Not about things that are important. I think you are a demon.”

How does one reason with a religious fanatic? I thought for a moment. “Remember what you said before I came here. The tower is magical. If I am a demon, why hasn’t it harmed me?”