storm (21 page)

            The power of coincidence is very powerful indeed.  It slips like oil through the dense, multi-layered fabric of reality and wherever it finds a chink, it slithers through.  The slithering, in this instance, belonged to Diablo of Gebaddon, who flopped out of the otherlanes, covered in a dark viscous fluid and barely in possession of his sanity, into the tall grasses at the edge of a spinney in a field near Imbrilim.  The higher powers of the universe, which are perhaps often bored or have a dark sense of humour, make it happen that Abrimel was walking in the fields, lost in gloomy thoughts, at the very moment this event occurred.  `He felt a shiver in his flesh that jolted him out of his reverie and glanced up from his study of the ground, expecting to see an otherlanes portal closing above him.  There was an eerie shimmer to the reddening evening sky, but nothing more.  It faded so quickly, Abrimel wondered whether he'd imagined it.  For some moments, he continued his walk, tearing dead seed heads from the grass around him, wondering what he should do with his life and whether he had the motivation or stamina to change things.  The darkness of the trees ahead appeared inviting and he had a desire to walk into it.  Peace could be found in the landscape.  It was so empty, yet even as he thought this, he knew that behind him Imbrilim was expanding outward like a disease, as human conurbations had done in earlier times, and would no doubt eventually smother all that was beautiful and free in nature.  Abrimel's momentary disgust with his own kind was pure and fierce.  He saw all hara as posturing effete fools, animated dolls that acted out lives in the manner that humankind had once lived.  But they were not real.  They were an aberration.  This kind of thinking was common in the most damaged of first generation hara, but less so in pure born Wraeththu.  Perhaps it was these pessimistic thoughts that drew Diablo, beaten and robbed of his spoils, to be expelled from the otherlanes in that spot, at that time.

            Entering among the trees, Abrimel heard rustling, which at first he took to be the early scurryings of a nocturnal creature, but this was followed by a pitiful sound that did not sound animal at all.  The light amid the tall sombre trunks was dim: beyond them the sky was a deep red.  It was moments before the sun sank beneath the horizon.  Abrimel picked up a stout fallen branch and began to poke around among the yellow grasses and bare brambles that leaned this way and that in a tangle about him.  Eventually, he came upon Diablo, who was lying in a shuddering heap beneath a tree, where he'd managed to crawl before collapsing.

            Abrimel observed this quivering mass for some moments, unsure whether it was an animal or a human refugee.  It didn't appear harish to him, because he'd never beheld a har in such a state.  He poked it with the branch and it jerked and moaned.  He saw limbs moving feebly, a flash of pale face through a cage of protective fingers.

            Abrimel pulled aside the grasses and brambles, scratching his hands quite badly in the process.  Acting on instinct rather than through compassion, he dragged the body out into the field by its feet and then stood over it to examine what he'd unearthed.  He saw an emaciated creature, clad in dark clothes that appeared to be rags tied around its body in complicated knots.  He could tell at once it wasn't human, but neither did it appear completely har.  It was a goblin of a creature, one moment moaning in apparent pain, the next hissing in a clearly defensive manner.  It was pathetic, utterly repellent, but also intriguing, simply because Abrimel was perplexed as to what it was.  It was his job, after all, to catalogue Wraeththu tribes in Megalithica, where some extremely interesting permutations had already been discovered.  Abrimel had never seen a har like this, if indeed it was a har, and not some elemental creature that had somehow been trapped in a corporeal form.  Whatever miserable thoughts had previously occupied his mind, he was in truth fanatical about his work; the sight of this strange being shouldered aside his gloom and kindled his professional curiosity.  It looked as if it might die soon, so Abrimel was eager to transport it back to Imbrilim in order to study it properly.  It weighed very little, so he was able to hoist it over his shoulder quite easily.  It smelled bad, like old musty hay.

Most inhabitants of Imbrilim were in their dwellings, eating their evening meals, as Abrimel crept along a newly paved street to his house.  He passed one or two hara, who paid him little attention, as they were absorbed in their own conversations.  He looked as if he was carrying a sack over his shoulder, so it was hardly a sight worth investigating.  He entered his home through the rear entrance and went directly to his study, where he dropped his burden onto a couch.  The creature opened its eyes, which were unnervingly large and dark, indeed quite beautiful.  It growled at Abrimel.  Abrimel was not afraid.  He was strong and had interviewed some particularly intransigent Uigenna during his work.  He had learned long ago how to defend himself.  “What are you?” he asked.  He did not expect a response and went to pour a measure of fiery sheh into a glass, which he then offered to the creature on the couch.  It snatched the glass from Abrimel's hands, drank the contents noisily, then crushed the glass in its long twiggy fingers, discarding the bits onto the carpet with an oddly flamboyant gesture.  Abrimel wondered whether it was, in fact, dying after all.

            “Are you har?” Abrimel asked.  “Can you speak?”

            The creature maintained a low throaty growl, much as a frightened feral cat might utter.

            “I will not harm you,” Abrimel said.  “You are safe here.”

            The creature appeared mindless.  Abrimel thought he might have to have it locked up, because there was no way he'd allow it to remain unsupervised in his house throughout the night.

            “I will give you one last chance,” he said, in a clear slow voice.  “If you can communicate, then do so now, otherwise I shall have you taken away by the town guards.  Do you understand?  If you co-operate I will feed you and give you a place to stay for the night.  You have nothing to gain by being difficult.”  It was a wild hope.  He didn't really think he'd get a positive response, and was therefore surprised when the impish har on the couch stopped growling and nodded its head once.

            “More,” it said, holding out its hands, which were not at all cut from breaking the glass.

            At this point, the creature became 'he' rather than 'it' in Abrimel's view.  He saw in those huge eyes a terrible suffering and empathised with it.  “I am Abrimel,” he said.  “Tell me your name and I'll give you another drink.”

            “Diablo.”  The har said it in a sibilant, earthy way, drawing out the word, so it sounded like an invocation rather than a name.

            “Interesting,” said Abrimel.  “Don't break the next glass I give you.”

For over an hour, Abrimel watched Diablo devour vast amounts of food.  He ate with surprising neatness, his movements economical yet constant, like a machine.  He also appeared to have a limitless appetite and Abrimel guessed Diablo had not eaten much for a long time.  Abrimel allowed his strange guest to attend to his body's needs in silence and busied himself with writing some preliminary notes on his find.  He only raised his head when he became aware of being scrutinised and he physically jumped when his gaze collided with the wide-eyed stare of Diablo.  Perhaps, if he was cleaned up, he wouldn't look so unnerving.  His body was trembling so that the snakes of lank hair hanging over his face vibrated like wires.  He might be suffering from shock.

            Abrimel laid down his pen and forced himself to return the stare in silence.  It was a mistake to let anyhar know you might be afraid of them.

            “Is this Galhea?” Diablo asked, his voice strangely accented.

            “No,” said Abrimel.  “This is Imbrilim.  Galhea is some distance north.”

            Diablo stared at his hands, flexing his long fingers in a disturbingly determined manner.  Abrimel could not help but be relieved this was not Galhea.  “Do you have a tribe?” he asked.

            Diablo nodded, then got up from the couch, from where he hadn't moved since he'd arrived and began to prowl around the room, examining everything he came across.

            “Where are they?” Abrimel persisted.

            “Not here,” Diablo answered.

            “Were you abandoned?  What happened to you?”

            “I fell from the spirit path,” Diablo said, “but I had to.  I was lost.  I had to fall where I could.”

            Abrimel remembered the feelings he'd had before he'd found Diablo.  He stood up.  “You mean the otherlanes?”

            Diablo glanced at him blankly then removed a book from a shelf.  He opened the book, sniffed it, and then returned it carefully to its place. He did this with several volumes.

            “Who are your tribe, Diablo?  Where do they live?  How do you travel the otherlanes, the spirit path?”  Abrimel knew these were too many questions at once, but couldn't help himself.  If Diablo had really fallen from the otherlanes it was astounding, because he'd clearly been travelling without a
sedu
to guide.  As far as Abrimel knew, no har could open an otherlanes portal without such help.

            “Why?” Diablo asked.  “Why do you want to know?”  He appeared to be genuinely perplexed by the questions.

            “To understand you,” Abrimel said.  “It's my job.  I study all the different Wraeththu tribes, but I've never met anyhar like you before.”

            Diablo merely shrugged.  “You can't meet us.  We are in Gebaddon.”

            Abrimel had to sit down again.  “Gebaddon?  Are you sure?”

            Diablo grinned again.  “Yes.”

            “Your tribe can travel outside the forest?”

            “I do,” Diablo said.  “Soon, I will go back.”

            It occurred to Abrimel then that his peculiar guest might very well disappear without a moment's warning.  “Don't leave yet,” he said.  “Talk to me first.  I want to know about you.”

            “I cannot talk to you,” Diablo said.  “We are enemies, whoever you are.”

            He was unafraid because now he was fed and had recovered from whatever had happened to him.  He had the means to escape whenever he wanted to: that much was obvious.  “Why am I an enemy?” Abrimel asked carefully.

            “All hara outside Gebaddon are enemies.”

            “Do you understand what your being here means to those outside the forest?”

            “Yes.  It means I must kill you before I leave.”

            “Why?  Haven't I helped you?”

            “My hostling would kill me if I didn't.  I would be punished.  Nohar must know of us yet.”

            It was extremely discomforting to realise that Diablo meant every word he said.  He had no doubt he could kill Abrimel whenever he wanted to, and that certainty lent credibility to his threat.  Abrimel swallowed with difficulty, because his mouth had gone dry.  The urge to fight or flee strained nervously at the threshold of his being.  He must not betray fear.  “I am not your enemy, Diablo.  I am a scholar.  Your tribe was imprisoned in Gebaddon.  Perhaps that was not a good thing.  Perhaps the world should know the truth.  You can tell it to me.”

            Diablo laughed.  “What do you mean?”

            Abrimel didn't really know.  He'd said it as an act of self-preservation, but then he realised that maybe it wasn't a lie.  “I am an outcast too,” he said.  “I am the son of Pellaz-har-Aralis, Tigron of Immanion, whose tribe condemned you to exile.  I am cast out, as you are; forgotten, as you are.  No har shall hear from me that the Varrs have found a tunnel from their prison.”