Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (37 page)

Pale Fawn nodded. She did not
speak. She was a warrior’s daughter and would not weep.

Two Comet stood up, placing his
hands on Raven’s shoulders.

“Go well, my son. You have much
to teach these Wraeththu and much to be proud of. But remember,
they also have much to teach you – so take to them an open mind and
the ways of an apprentice.”

The embrace was long. Raven
finally pulled away, smiled his farewell to them both and walked
away without looking back. He was the son of a warrior; he wasn’t
going to weep either.

A thousand thoughts raced
through Raven's mind as he left his home. How should he address
these people? What form of greeting should he use? He strode
purposefully through the forest trying not to think about what he'd
left behind. He passed the tree in which he's spent so many hours
watching them, closer now than he'd ever been to these Wraeththu –
this tribe he had, until a few hours before hated with a passion.
Now that he had resolved to join them, he walked swiftly in case
his courage failed him.

Raven reached the edge of the
clearing and marched directly into the camp. He stopped by the
central fireplace and cast down his bag by way of a challenge. All
around him Wraeththu looked up from their work. Each tribesmember
engaged in various crafts, some weaving with tiny beads, brightly
coloured wool and feathers, some fashioning leather goods, others
butchering, others preserving meat in the smoke from the fire.

Raven stood in the clearing,
momentarily at a loss for words as the Wraeththu continued to gaze
at him. Their gazes held nothing but a gentle amusement; Raven
could detect no flicker of hostility. Still struggling for words,
he felt his resolve slither away.

The drapery at the mouth of a
nearby tent was drawn back. A gentle-eyed har with waist-long dark
blond hair emerged.

“We wondered when you would
come to talk with us,” he began, his voice low and melodic. “We
sensed you the first time you climbed that tree –and we sensed the
hostility you felt towards us. But now I sense that feeling has
left you. Will you take tea with me?”

Around him the gentle amusement
had given way to smiles of welcome. Raven felt somewhat overwhelmed
by the strength of this welcome, particularly given his recent
animosity, and was glad to escape to the privacy of the tent. He
sat down upon a richly decorated rug opposite the blond har.

“Firstly, introductions,” said
the blond har, handing him a steaming bowl of tea. “I am Curlew,
the leader of this tribe. Our tribe are the Sulh, and this,” he
indicated, “is Mist, our Shaman.”

To his left sat another har,
like Curlew dressed in natural shades of brown, green and orange,
his hair a cloud of shimmering grey-blue, his eyes fathomless pools
of inky black.

Mists graciously bowed his
greeting and asked, “And are we to know your name and tribe?”

Raven felt on safer ground
here. Story telling was an important skill among his people and his
heritage a matter of pride.

“My name is Raven,” he began,
“I am a tribesman of the Mountain People who have lived in the
Place of the Blue Smoke for over a thousand years. I would like to
tell you the story of my people.”

Curlew and Mist listened
intently and did not interrupt his flow, recognising the time for
questions was later.

As Raven's tale drew to an end,
Curlew and Mist thanked him.

Mist replenished his tea, “You
and your people have much to be proud of, Raven. Yours is a great
culture. I am curious, though. What has brought you to us now?”

The killer question.

Raven steeled himself. “My
people are dying, our numbers dwindle, and as my people die our
culture dies with them. The only chance is to join a tribe who will
accept our culture into theirs. The only chance....” he faltered.
“So far the only Wraeththu tribes I've seen are Uigenna and Kheops
– and from what I've seen they have no concept of culture –
none!”

“I understand you reservation
regarding the Uigenna and Kheops,” said Curlew, nodding. “We too
have had dealing with them – and difficulties. You chose wisely in
coming to us for we are scholars and greatly prize the ancient
knowledge. Am I to understand then that you wish to join us? To
become Wraeththu?”

Raven nodded. Mist and Curlew
exchanged a glance.

“The thing is, Raven,” Mist
began. “Before you become Wraeththu, there is much you need to
understand about us. Why don’t you start by telling us what you
already know, or think you know, and we'll fill you in on the
rest?”

Discussions lasted all through
the morning. Curlew and Mist quizzed Raven on his perceptions of
Wraeththu, his attachment to his humanity, his fears of pain and
change. They had a lengthy conversation regarding his sexual
orientation and experience. Raven noticed that both Mist and Curlew
became alert, fascinated when he openly admitted that he'd found
his sexual encounters unsatisfying, incomplete somehow, as if there
was more to be attained but he'd no idea how to reach it. For what
reason Raven would never be able to say, he held back information
about the child he believed he had so recently conceived with Pale
Fawn.

Discussions were disturbed
briefly by a har bringing lunch, a thick, spiced soup with hunks of
corn bread. Pragmatically Curlew stated that conversation never
went well on an empty stomach.

After lunch they were joined by
Batalha. Unlike the rest of the Sulh, he was dressed in a simple
white robe. Everything about Batalha was pale and insubstantial –
his hair, his eyes, his skin – as if he were a wraith that could
vanish in a heartbeat. Curlew introduced him as scribe and history
keeper.

“That’s a bit of a fancy name
for it,” Batalha quipped. “Really I’m just a field researcher.”

Through poetry and song Batalha
held Raven fascinated telling the creation myths of Wraeththu and
the Sulh tribe. As he sang he played complex rhythms on his small,
many stringed harp. By early evening Raven's head was reeling.

Finally they joined the rest of
the tribe for supper around the fire. The blissful evening air
soothed his pounding head as he ate the simple meal.

Abruptly his attention was
caught by a har on the far side of the fireplace. Not overly tall
but built solidly, the har was dark haired but pale skinned, his
hair shaved completely on one side of his skull and tumbling down
in thick curls on the other. A complex blue woad tattoo curled and
coiled over the shaven skull, intricately defining the eye socket
and the climactic point of the cheekbone. The tattoo wound down
around his throat and appeared to continue down the left hand side
of his body.

Raven, surprised by the
strength of his interest, had to ask Mist who the har was.

“Fen,” came the reply. “From
the waterlands of Alba Sulh. One of our warrior phyle, fearsome and
loyal.” Looking around the camp Raven could see a few hara that
were clearly also of warrior phyle – although none of them as
physically arresting as Fen.

After supper Raven wandered a
little way away from the camp. He sat down on a fallen branch with
his head in his hands. There was so much to take in, so much that
was new. Curlew had deeply shocked him when he'd told him that on
inception changes would take place within his body that would
render him both male and female. Batalha had shocked him further
when he'd stated that although there was no record of it happening
as yet, he believed that Wraeththu would one day go on to
procreate. However, Raven's reservations about the lack of place
for women in this new world of Wraeththu were somewhat appeased.
Batalha told him, sincerely, that he felt women too had a new path
to walk – their time was not yet done. Raven found he believed
him.

These thoughts chased each
other around his head as he sat on the fallen branch. Familiar
forest sounds echoed around him, soothing scents floated by on a
cooling breeze – and then something else.

Raven sat bolt upright. “I know
when I'm being watched,” he told the night.

A patch of darkness detached
itself from the shadows and moved into view. Fen.

“Scared I'd run off?” asked
Raven, hiding his surprise that it was the har he’d been staring at
earlier.

Fen nodded. “You know too
much.”

“And you'd what? Kill me?”

Fen nodded again, slipping a
narrow-bladed knife from his boot. “I'd have slid this gently down
the side of your neck into your shoulder, severing the subclavian
vein. You'd have died in seconds – silently.”

For a moment Raven glared at
him. “Then it's as well I've decided to stay,” he hissed, pushing
past Fen as he returned to camp.

The following morning Raven
informed Mist and Curlew of his decision to stay. They greeted this
news with evident relief and pleasure. He did not mention his
encounter with Fen the night before.

Whilst the tribe tucked into
their breakfast eggs, Raven drank only an herbal tea prepared for
him by Mist. His pre-inception purification had begun.

Raven withdrew from the rest of
the tribe spending long hours in meditation with Mist, who
described every detail of the inception process: the fasting, the
ceremony, the althaia and the aruna to follow. Raven suggested a
few native herbs that might assist each process.

Late that afternoon Raven, Mist
and Batalha went foraging in the forest. They collected humming
bird blossoms to stimulate kidney function and detoxification and
dug up the small roots of greenbriar to purify the blood. Mist
pressed Raven for every detail of the plants, their habitats, their
range, and their properties. Batalha listened intently, all the
while humming to himself.

“Batalha takes in everything,”
Mist told Raven, “He has a phenomenal memory and ‘records’
everything – as a song.”

The group wandered further into
the forest gathering leaves, roots and bark. All the while Raven
was aware of a dark shadow – Fen? – behind them; clearly he was
still not entirely trusted.

At last they returned to camp.
Raven drank more of the herbal tea, which appeased his growling
stomach not at all. Then followed more chanting and meditation and
finally sleep.

The next day followed a similar
pattern, although a further cleansing ritual was required. At
Mist's request a small hut had been constructed from scented boughs
and leaves. Raven joined Mist, Curlew and Batalha inside as heated
stones were brought in. Cedar, sage and sweet grass were cast upon
the stones as the heat and humidity soared. The sweat lodge had
been an important part of Mountain People lifestyle and Raven felt
quite at home there. Batalha’s serious songs of cleansing and
reverence soon gave way to a bawdy many-versed ballad about the
joys of aruna.

Still humming the chorus, they
emerged hot and sweaty. Raven was glad of the herbal tea, although
he was getting heartily sick of the flavour. That night following
meditation, Mist looked intently at him.

“You are ready,” he said.
“Tomorrow we will perform your inception.”

The ceremony was performed at a
simple forest alter. The entire tribe assembled. Mist performed the
rituals, while Curlew provided the blood. When it was over, Raven
was helped back to the quiet confines of Mist's tent as the
changing processes began.

Althaia.

The transformational force that
rips, sears and burns through the body, driving men to the edge of
insanity and beyond. Mist and Raven had prepared well. They had
gathered mullion. Its roots and leaves smouldered; the smoke a mild
sedative that soothed inflammation. To control his fever, Raven
sipped a tea made from the leaves and dried berries. As Raven's
skin began to blister and erupt in sores, Mist applied the salve
they'd prepared from mint and greenbriar. Raven remained lucid by
chanting the ancient healing words from the mantras of his people.
Where he felt it appropriate, Mist chanted with him.

Althaia would never be easy but
Raven's passage into Wraeththudom was far gentler than most, Mist
told him – Mist was impressed. And already, at this early stage,
the point of rebirth, their two cultures, Sulh and Mountain People,
had begun to blend.

In the late afternoon of the
third day, Raven and Mist lay sleeping. Althaia was done, the
changes made. The doorway drapes were thrown wide open so a
refreshing breeze could blow through and remove the tattered
vestiges of stale energy and discomfort. The bedding had been
changed and Raven lay upon it, gleaming and perfect.

He stirred and awoke to find
Mist gazing sleepily at him.

“You are wondrous” Mist told
him. “You made your transformation well. How do you feel?”

Raven stretched and yawned,
enjoying his new body. “The strongest and fittest I've ever felt,”
he said. “And the most alive.”

“We must seal the changes with
aruna,” Mist reminded him.

“Sure, but close the drapes
would you? I don't want the rest of the tribe in on this.”

Mist graciously nodded and
complied.

Raven sat up, pulling off his
shirt. “So where do we start?”

“Well, sharing of breath is
customary.”

“A kiss, you mean?”

“A kiss, yes, but it's more
than that, a kiss of mutual visualisation. We share our thoughts,
feelings, memories.”

“Show me.”

“What would you like to
see?”

“How did you get your
name?”

Mist smiled. “A happy memory,”
he said stroking Raven's cheek, drawing him closer. As their lips
met, Raven was hit by a blast of power that made him gasp.

Undaunted, he plunged his hands
into Mist's copious blue-grey hair and found himself soaring over a
rolling green landscape of hills, fields, hedges and woodland.

“Alba Sulh,” said Mist from
deep somewhere in Raven's own head, “our homeland, the western
borders to be precise – my home.” The time of this vision, Raven
could sense, was shortly after Mist's own inception. He had gone
out to discover his new name and, as was often the custom, he'd
decided to take inspiration from nature. When human he'd enjoyed
climbing a hill near his village, a large rocky outcrop set on a
wide plain. From the top you felt as though you could see
forever.