CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN (50 page)

“Yes, I am,” she answered dreamily. “I like the smell of this air and the feel of the breeze. It’s clean and fresh, don’t you think?” She looked over to him and realized she felt safer now that he was beside her again.

He was looking back at shore as the day’s events passed through his mind. He had killed a man, seen another man who’d been murdered, and had lied to save someone he really knew nothing about. “I suppose it is refreshing at that, Aavi.
 
Nothing like a journey to a new place to clear out old experiences and get new ones,” he said, without looking at her.

“I’m learning now that there are things that are best forgotten. I mean, besides my entire past.
 
Some things have happened since I got here that are hard to forget, but I’m trying to do what all the rest of you do. It’s not an easy thing.”
 
Her voice trailed off and she looked down at the wooden planks of the ship just below her feet.

He looked over to her. “Some things are harder to forget then others, Aavi. I only hope that you learn how to forget what you want to forget and remember what you need to.”

She leaned up against him tenderly. “I know you want what’s best for me. Maybe that’s why I feel so safe when you’re near me, even when memories haunt me.”

They said very little after that.
 
The two of them just stood there together, watching the distant shore, as the late afternoon sun moved lower and the sky grew deep orange.

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The dominant harpy crouched upon a peaked roof amid her sisters and daughters, camouflaged by the tall tangle of wild trees and vines that had overtaken the abandoned temple. Visually, there was nothing special about her to indicate she held top status in the flock. Among harpies, looks meant nothing, which was fortunate, as even the most attractive harpy was hideously ugly. All of them were covered with blotchy leathery skin the color of rotting apples. Short black hair sprouted in random tufts from their heads, and it showed no sign of ever having been combed by the sharp, brown claws that tipped the strong fingers of their large hands. As they waited on the roof, their wings were furled. When extended, they stretched a bit longer than each harpy’s height, which matched that of an average human man. Their leader had gained her status by her fighting skills, which were fueled by an insatiable hunger.

Harpies had no names, but each made a unique screech. Other beings that knew and could imitate a harpy’s unique sound could call and command it, but this skill was rare and confined almost entirely to gods. Among themselves, harpies conversed with body language. Bites, punches, and kicks formed the bulk of their social interaction. The winged women who bore any shred of affection toward one another opted for the more gentle gestures of hair-pulling and scratching. From time to time several of the flock would tumble from their perches as they squabbled.

The leader squawked a warning to some nearby youngsters whose slap fight was becoming too boisterous. She was watching the sun, and wanted no distractions. A few days before, her flock had been visited by a god who knew her sound, and she was now bound to lead her people to do as he bid. The task was a better one than they were sometimes forced to perform, for the god had promised her a taste of the booty. Her tongue fluttered between her crusty lips as she considered it.

The hours passed one after another until at last she cocked her half-bald head and launched off the old temple roof with a commanding screech. The others flew after her, soaring over the local waters. They had ignored the god who had come to command them. Only the leader had the right to talk to outsiders. The fact that they knew nothing of the mission did not concern the flock. They would simply do as their leader did, in enthusiastic imitation.

As they spread across the sky there was no mistaking them for a group of birds. They flew far apart to avoid the temptation of fighting each other in midair. It was only when prey was sighted that the flying women came together as a force. The leader’s nostrils widened as she caught the scent of what they were after. She veered onto a course which tracked a shipping lane, and ahead, she saw something else following the same route. Baring her fangs, she decided that the interloper had to go.

The small dragon tracking the Hektor for Quetzalcoatl was not a beast built for war. Its skin was thin compared to other animals, its hide a balloon-like tube. Its insides were a structure of ice around which cold water-of-life circulated, and for protection it had only lightning that could electrocute a few enemies before needing to recharge. It was a simple creature, created only to watch and not to fight. When the harpies fell upon it, it was almost too confused to defend itself.

The lead harpy had never fought a dragon, so she let several of her flock attack it first, watching as the flying snake instinctively shocked them and they fell from the sky. The others drew back and circled, watching their flock leader to see what they should do. Looking down toward the water, she spotted a small shipyard and dove toward the workmen who were laboring there. They fled screaming as the harpies approached, but they were not what the leader had come for so she let them escape. Instead, she grabbed a small timber to use as a club, screeching at her flock mates to do the same. Now armed, the harpies flew back to the flying serpent and began to club it. The first strikes still shocked the flying women, creating a force which bounced them away. But after multiple hits the serpent weakened. When it could no longer defend itself with lightning, the harpies beat it mercilessly until its outer skin broke and it dissolved into a gentle rain that fell upon the sea. The clubs the harpies abandoned after it did not fall tenderly. Sailors spoke for weeks afterward about the strange rain of wood that crippled several boats. Back on course, the harpies turned again toward their assigned task of following the Hektor to Dioscrias.

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The usual sounds of flute and drum at the Celestial Observatory had been replaced by the hammering and sawing of the raft makers. Hundreds of them were at work assembling the giant platforms that would carry Quetzalcoatl’s warriors to battle against those who had captured the beast. The leaders of the work gangs, denoted by bright green feathers in their headbands, shouted at their crews. Quetzalcoatl expected the rafts to be ready by the hour he had decreed. There was no flexibility in a deadline given by their god.

Any male temple worker who could lift, carry, or construct had been conscripted to labor. Even when the rafts were finished, their work was not done. The men would be riding the very transports they built into battle. Quetzalcoatl was wise to set his men to double usage, for he knew this would insure that no shoddy work would be done. The great rafts had to hold together as his flying serpents lifted and hauled them west to the Olympian Realm.

As for his best fighting men, the pyramid guards and warrior priests were quick to drop their usual duties and prepare for war. They honed their blades, gathered darts for their spear throwers, and renewed their bows with the most durable strings. Boys too small to fight alongside their fathers were given brooms to sweep out the cells that would hold the captives who would be taken. Little girls checked the oil level of the torch lamps that dotted every level of the pyramid so that Quetzalcoatl’s platform would burn like a hundred stars while his realm was at war.

Women sat hip to hip over hollow stone mortars, grinding plants and berries for fresh dye to add fearsome markings to the warriors’ bodies. They sang a song about past conquests as their hands worked the grinding stones. When the fighting men had finished gathering and preparing their weapons, they walked in a line past the women to take advantage of the blessing of their song.

At the end of the long row of women was one of the head priests. He looked each warrior over and decided which secret marking would aid him in battle. Then, one of the assistant priests standing by with shells filled with the war paint decorated the men according to the priest’s judgment. Hour by hour, all the tasks progressed.

When Quetzalcoatl saw that the rafts were nearly finished and the warriors were assembling, ready to board, he moved to a special point at the top of the observatory. It was a raised circle of stone, inside which only he was allowed to stand. The circle was not far from the benches where he had shared the bitter waters of xocoatl with Mazu. Thinking of how he had expended a flying serpent to abduct her to Chaac, and another to chase the ship on which the special girl sailed, he knew he must create more dragon servants to ensure there were enough to carry the battle rafts. He stepped inside the circle, lifting his feet over the low wall. The shells and bells on the bracelets around his ankles jostled against each other in soft rattles and rings.

The priests who had been attending Quetzalcoatl while he had waited for the work to be completed now moved to kneel in a semicircle around their god. It was rare for them to witness the god himself perform a ritual. Quetzalcoatl was a master of delegation, preferring to sit to the side and watch work unfold, drinking his chocolate while deciphering the messages the priests brought him from the heavens. None of the current humans who served the Feathered Serpent had lived in a time of war. In their training, they had studied the ceremonies restricted to their god, but to read about them was hardly the same as seeing one happen. The priests had a hard time keeping excitement from showing on their faces as Quetzalcoatl raised his arms to begin.

As they watched, the youngest priest could not help but remark upon what he saw. “He throws feathers and sticks in the air, and they turn into to small winged snakes!” the youthful servant whispered in awe over the strange song that Quetzalcoatl was singing as he worked. Soon dozens of small flying serpents were circling over the god’s head. Then he began to dance as the images of musicians painted on the colorful wall behind him came to life to accompany Quetzalcoatl with magical music.

“The snakes are enlarging! And growing clawed feet!”

The young priest was allowed to babble on. His fellow devotees had no attention to waste chastising him lest they miss the miracles their god was performing. After Quetzalcoatl had danced the circuit of the chamber three times, a hundred dragons were circling high above the observatory. It would take one dragon to carry each raft, which in turn could hold fifty men. Knowing he would suffer casualties, Quetzalcoatl reasoned that those who fell in battle would make room on the return trip for prisoners, so he conservatively created no more serpents than were necessary.

With a final magic word, the painted musicians stopped their music and stood frozen again on the decorated wall. Quetzalcoatl removed himself from the ceremonial circle and stood before his dumbstruck priests.

“Walk to the rafts. The serpents will follow you. Tell the warriors to board. Load the casks of conquering elixir!”

The priests scrambled up and hurried down the steps of the pyramid to where the builders were frantically assembling the last parts of the sky rafts, the railings that would keep the men from falling out. Only the youngest dared to look back over his shoulder to see if the dragons were really following them. They were, like a dark cloud.

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The Hektor sailed on through the night. The captain had gone below deck and was nowhere to be seen, but every so often Meikos would call out a course correction and the men would adjust the sails. Aavi and D’Molay, huddled together and trying to sleep in a corner among the cargo on the starboard side of the ship, were often awakened by some noise or movement. Aavi had curled herself around D’Molay as he lay on his side. She had not consciously made that decision, but it seemed the natural thing to do. She was glad he was there. His close proximity had not only kept her warm, but had comforted her in ways she didn’t really comprehend. She only knew that she felt much safer being this close to him.

D’Molay had been a little surprised by Aavi’s move, but he soon realized she had only been seeking warmth and he was more than happy to let her stay. Fully dressed and under the wool blanket, he was not cold, but the hard, wooden deck wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his own bed back in the City, or even the ground when he traveled overland.
At least the ground gives a little
, he thought as he rubbed the painful spot where his hip pressed against the deck. He felt the chill air as he sat up and leaned back against the wooden crate.
 
Aavi stirred as he moved, her hand unconsciously reaching for him, but she remained asleep. A few hours later at daybreak, Aavi came fully awake and D’Molay decided it was as good a time as any to fill her in on the things he had done since they had first parted at Mazu’s dock.