The Wraeththu Chronicles (116 page)

Panthera's face had gone a deep crimson color. He fidgetted uncomfortably. "Personally, I prefer to answer to nobody for any crimes I might commit," he said.

"And I'm naturally suspicious of mystics," I said. Kruin rolled his eyes.

"Oh, I see! Well, I enjoyed myself thoroughly!"

Panthera and I did not comment. I had no intention of revealing what was happening to me and Panthera obviously still harbored deep misgivings concerning aruna. We let Kruin ramble on, lewdly and happily. We let it wash over our heads. Panthera smiled at me.

"Let's get you home," I said.

The Message

"What we call the beginning is often the end

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

The end is where we start from"

—T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

We left Jasminia around mid-day, taking the south road into Gimrah. The sun was shining, making the snow on the ground and trees sparkle like crystal. There were

quite a few other travelers on the road; mostly Hadassah. There was a great sense of camaraderie. We joined a group of a dozen or so Hara who were traveling to a town on the border. They shared their liquor and biscuits with us. We sang songs to pass the time. I can remember clearly that I was filled with happiness. On such a beautiful afternoon, it was impossible to believe that the world was anything but the way it seemed at that moment; untainted. I felt free. Surely my fears about Pell were just the product of a paranoic mind. That still didn't explain Arahal's timely appearance of course, or Lucastril's meaning-laden words, but that day I was desperate to convince myself I was leading a simple, ordinary life; no part of anything great. Panthera was a joy to watch. I found myself thinking that over the past couple of weeks, I really hadn't noticed him properly, or maybe it was just that the air of his home country made him bloom and had blown away the cobwebs of his confinement in Fallsend. If, I thought, just if, I could act utterly independently, I could think about wooing Panthera. Then we could live together forever in a high castle in Ferike. I would write stories to pass the time; he would paint exquisite masterpieces. We would exist together sublimely, riding nervous, pale horses through the mountain forests every morning. In the evenings, if we should want company, we could invite lofty hara of neighboring castles to dine with us, drink wine from long-stemmed glasses and converse intellectually aboutthe outside world which we would never see. Ah, such would be a life! Who could yearn for more? I have traveled too long. Perhaps my ghosts have worn themselves out. Living with Panthera, perhaps my dreams could only be those of the sweetest kind.

"You look pensive, Cal," Panthera said, breaking my reverie.

"Mmm," I agreed. "I was just thinking about the sort of life I would like to have."

"Then live it!"

"Too many factors are beyond my control, I'm afraid."

"It is never impossible to take control of one's own life, I believe," he answered. "That's what my father says and he never speaks unless he's sure of the facts."

"I wish I could agree."

Panthera brought his horse more closely up against mine. I could see Kruin watching us, perhaps straining to hear what we were saying. "Is it... it is power?" Panthera asked tentatively.

I looked at him steadily. Could I? Could I? "Some hara are very powerful, yes," I replied carefully. "Some seek to control the lives of others."

"Cal, the Gelaming. . . . What is it you're mixed up in with them?"

This was the first question of the many that I'd been expecting from my companions. So far they'd had the discretion to remain silent, keeping their observations to themselves, between themselves. It must be driving Kruin mad, because he's naturally a gossip. "Don't probe too deeply," I said. "I'm not being close out of stubbornness, Panthera. It may be dangerous for you. If I tell you, I automatically involve you, and then whatever is out there may decide to organize your life for you as well. I don't want that on my conscience."

"Cal, I'm not afraid of that! If you tell us, or even just me, I can add my strength to yours. You'd have an ally. Surely that would make things easier."

"For me perhaps, but what about you? You have a life waiting for you, Thea. What about cousin Namir? I don't want you to ask me again. Is that clear?"

Panthera's eyes went cold. He does not like being spoken to sharply and is also convinced that his wishes should be granted at every turn. "I think you're being very foolish," he said stiffly. "And your excuses are pathetic. What I do with your life is my choice. I'm insulted that you won't accept my assistance! Anyway, cousin Namir has

probably taken another consort by now. Can't you see, that life you talk about, the one that was waiting for me, has gone? It went the minute I set foot in Piristil. You're not the only one with problems, Cal."

"Maybe not, but I'm the only one with my problems!"

This argument could have continued in similar vein for some time, but at that point, Kruin's curiosity overwhelmed him and he trotted over to join us, only to encounter a tight-lipped silence. I had no doubt that later Panthera would tell him everything I'd said.

It would take us at least two days to reach Gimrah, and then a further couple of weeks to get to Ferike. Now that we had money, we would be able to stay in inns rather than camp out in the open, which was a definite improvement! Whenever he had the opportunity, Kruin kept on praising our good fortune over the incident with Arahal, in the hope that I'd say something enlightening about it, which I wouldn't.

"Gelaming have lots of money," I said. "This is nothing to them. Now, if they'd really wanted to be generous, they'd have given us three of their horses. We'd have reached Ferike in a matter of hours then."

"Is that Arahal a friend of yours?" Kruin asked bravely.

"No."

"Is . . ." Kruin began again, but Panthera interrupted him.

"Don't bother, Kruin. He won't tell you." They exchanged a meaningful glance, which meant they thought I was enjoying needling their curiosity.

That evening, we decided to spend the night in a roadside inn; all that was left of an old human town. We were all in dire need of a good night's sleep. Our Hadassah traveling companions were all set for a serious evening's drinking first and Kruin elected to join them. Panthera and I went up to separate rooms. I locked my door and went to bed with a bottle of betica, which was locally brewed and a much finer concoction than that experienced in Fallsend. I lay staring into the darkness of the room, trying to get so drunk my sleep would be free of dreams. I must have drifted off, for suddenly I was wide awake as if I'd been shaken. I was bitterly cold, lying face down, and my bed was unbelievably uncomfortable, as if strewn with broken glass. I opened my eyes and for a second thought, "Oh, I am dreaming," yet the sensations were incredibly real. I was lying face-down on the road outside the inn, half-clothed; an icy wind ripping at my exposed flesh with serrated fingers. I pulled myself up on my knees, looked around. To my right the inn was in darkness, the only light coming from the sky, where a round moon bobbed on breakers of cloud. To my left, a pine forest steadfastly worked its way across a landscape of concrete and fallen buildings. The waving shadows might conceal anything. Through the wind, I could hear an insistent sound; rhythmic, pounding, getting closer. "Why, it is horses' hooves," I thought sagely. "I'd better move off the road."

Whoever was traveling at that late hour, was traveling very fast indeed. Sluggishly, numbed by cold, slow as the urgency of nightmare, I tried to stagger toward the inn, but my limbs refused to cooperate. Sleep-walking was not a thing I could remember having done before. I fell to my knees again with the image of the inn receding as if being drawn away. Perspective became acute. The moon cast stark shadows; everything looked two dimensional. I was aware of time passing and it was a speed I was unfamiliar with. Squinting, I tried to peer down the road, toward the south, where the sound of hooves seemed to be coming from. A vague blackness was moving there, rolling like a ball of smoke, but approaching at speed. I told myself, "This is not real... surely," and out of the distance, between a tall,shadowy avenue of snow-stippled pines and humped rubble, a pair of horses pounded along the road, their powerful limbs surging with unnatural slowness, the ripple of muscle, the swing of silken hair, all slowed down, shards of ice flying with the grace of birds off the hard surface of the road. I did not move. I did not try to. Mesmerized, I could only watch. The riders of those

horses were swathed in black, their faces covered. They sat straight, not bending with the animals' pace at all. From their shoulders black spikes rose up behind their heads. I could see shining black gems upon their gauntletted hands. Riding close together as they were, I did not notice their burden until they were really close. Whatever they carried was slung into a white sheet, lolling with horrible suggestiveness, between them. I knew they carried a harish body. It was as if I could see it. They came to a halt some feet away from me. I could still see nothing of their faces. The horses blew plumes of steam into the cold air, tossing their heads. Their bridles jangled, their feet stamped. I looked up and the riders hurled their burden down before me. It landed on the road with a dull thump and rolled slightly before lying still. The sheet had fallen partly away. I could see the face of what it had concealed; eyes staring wide, the flesh white as bone and bleached even further by the light of the moon. I realized with an odd, analytical calm, I was afraid, no, more than afraid—stricken with terror. The body lying at my feet, the face so familiar, of course I knew it. It was mine! Me lying there as dead and cold as the landscape. I looked up helplessly at the riders. They must be Gelaming; they could be no other. Covering their faces could not deceive me; no. Then, a movement from the road attracted my attention. I didn't want to look, but a sick fascination swiveled my eyes downwards. Even as I looked, the dead lips cracked and worked. (Oh God, it's trying to speak!) I must have made a noise of horror, must have. The eyes rolled. The thing that looked like me wriggled foully from its confinement of cloth. I could see the body was not marked by injury at all. It rolled onto its stomach and lifted the upper half of its body like a rearing snake, not using its arms for support. The face was inches from my own. I could smell nothing. It spoke; a ghastly, rasping sound. It said, "Beneath . . . beneath the mountains of Jaddayoth," followed by a gulping sigh. That was when I screamed. I can remember that sound shattering the stillness of the night air. The wind had dropped, completely. There was no answering movement from the inn, no lights switched on, no windows thrown wide. The thing that was myself lurched forward as if to touch me. I covered my face with my hands, powerless to move and fell ...

When I opened my eyes, I was lying face down on my bed in the inn. Wholly awake, I threw myself over the edge and hurried to the window, throwing it wide, wide. I leaned out, feeling the ice press against my naked stomach. The road beneath was empty, the new snow unmarked, gentle flakes still falling. The road toward the south stretched unblemished as virgin skin. Stunned, I sank to the floor and leaned with my back against the wall, my head resting on the wet sill. My mind seemed empty. I looked at my bed, which was rumpled, disordered. I made a sound, small, not frightened, not amused, but something of both. My blankets, my pillow, the floor around the bed, were sprinkled with snow and it was melting fast.

I slept for the rest of the night on the floor, covering myself with a blanket. Beneath the mountains of Jaddayoth. ... Had I dreamed it? Was that vision merely a sick manifestation spewed forth by my own sicker mind? But if it was true.. . . What beneath Jaddayoth? What? Was death waiting for me there, or merely submission? My room was cold. In the morning, Panthera came in and eyed my position with suspicion. Snow had blown in through the window and there was a thin covering of it on my blanket. "Drunk again were you?" Panthera inquired with derision. He snorted when I didn't answer and went downstairs. My limbs were stiff. I dressed myself slowly. Clearly Panthera considered me a drunkard. I looked at myself in the mirror. It was a far from pleasant experience, for my face still bore the yellowing marks of Outher's attentions, accompanied by bleary, bloodshot eyes. I looked, in a word, terrible. For a moment, I leaned on stiff arms, my forehead against the glass. "Pellaz," I thought, and then aloud, "Pellaz." His name is a curse, a prayer.

In Gimrah

'You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images

Of which your soul was constituted"

—T. S. Eliot, Preludes

I did not mention my nightmare (experience?) to my companions, but the feeling of it lingered like a sour taste in my mouth. I had locked my door before going to bed yet Panthera had walked right in unhindered in the morning. It didn't bear thinking about. I could deceive myself no longer; whatever I thought I'd escaped in Fallsend had found me again, but even so, nothing like last night had ever happened to me before. Goodbye castle in Ferike. Goodbye pleasant dreams. I felt I had no future; only the past, which stretched behind me raw and bleeding for examination. That day I could barely speak. Kruin and Panthera thought I'd got a hangover; I got no pity from them.The road became quieter. There were fewer travelers. Townships we passed were prevalently areas reclaimed from nature that man had abandoned to rot. As the silence of the White—as Hadassah call it—became more intense, Kruin told us we were now near the border. One gray, overcast afternoon, our horses waded thigh-deep through a drift of snow from which reared the black, horse-hair-fringed totem of the Gimrah. Two more steps and Hadassah was behind us. A valley swept down before us; a carpet of pristine white. Kruin was worried. He said that this could be treacherous. The snow had drifted; we had no idea how deep it was down there. A slight, cold wind worried the edge of our furs, our horses' manes, carrying small, dancing motes of snow. Night creeps up on you quickly in the winter glow. Slightly behind the others, I experienced a sudden, sharp, bitter-sweet pang of deja vu. If I narrowed my eyes, could it not be Saltrock down there; not snow-plains but caustic shores of soda? Just a hint of its bitter scent. Now I am back there, riding in. Drunk and wretched. I am thinking: how can I tell them? What can I tell them? My water bottles are empty. My knees and arms are scabbed, my lips cracked by desert scour. I am alone. Alone. Alone. How much it echoed then. How much it echoes now through the overgrown cavities of my heart. I can remember being in love, remember happiness, but it was short-lived. (A scream; a horse's scream.) No! Kruin urged his horse down the slope. It skidded, bunching its hindquarters, head up, ears back. He becomes a moving thought through the vacuosity of a dead mind. He turns round. "Come on!" he shouts and Panthera and myself follow him down.