The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure (12 page)

On the other side of town was a graveyard, and it was clear the ground had been recently dug. There were no headstones on the fresh graves, not even wooden markers, only the oblong patches of raw earth that spoke of endings. Someone had stayed behind to bury the dead. That suggested survivors to Ulaume rather than attackers. Perhaps the bodies he’d seen on the road earlier were the remains of this community, who had been hunted down and killed like their neighbours. But it didn’t make sense. This town had been attacked weeks, perhaps months, before, and the carnage on the road had been recent. Why would aggressive Wraeththu leave survivors to their own devices, and then slaughter them once they decided to leave the town? Ulaume wandered among the graves. Some seemed very recent indeed. Survivors who had died of their injuries? There had to be people around. There was no other explanation.

He saw a flash of light in the corner of his vision and leapt down instinctively behind an old gravestone, tense and motionless. But then he realised it had merely been the dying sun, glinting off the windows of a big house that stood on a hill outside of town. Perhaps that was where the survivors lurked, but no lights burned there. The house seemed to contemplate the end of the day, immense and inviolable. It was too late to investigate now, because it was almost dark. He must go back for Lileem. They would camp near the road tonight, and return here in the morning.

Ulaume walked back through the town, and now he kept to the centre of the dusty road. It wasn’t really a town at all, just a cluster of dwellings and workshops. Whoever had lived here hadn’t been a threat to anyone. It appeared they had been farmers, clinging to a dying way of life. Ulaume chastised himself. He mustn’t think that way. If these humans had still lived, they’d have killed him and Lileem, whether they’d been simple farmers or not. It did no good to pity the enemy. Yet still came the urge to weep, to feel compassion, to be outraged. Ulaume had been incepted at a very young age, and could remember hardly anything of being human. Tribes like the Gelaming would frown on such a practice, as they only incepted boys at puberty, but perhaps for no good reason. Ulaume had grown up Wraeththu. His inception had been different from most hara’s, because the Colurastes were different from most hara. His initiation had not been consummated with aruna: that had come much later. He had been given to a foster hostling, and had been allowed to finish his childhood. Manual procedures had been carried out upon his body to activate his Wraeththu organs, but it had been a clinical passionless operation. Aruna, when it happened, had been a time of celebration, a rite of passage. When Ulaume was old enough to appreciate this difference, he’d been grateful, although the Colurastes troupe he’d been part of had eventually come to regret taking him in. It hadn’t been his fault. He had his nature, they had theirs. He had been born wild, and reborn even wilder. Why should he think of this now?

He paused in the purple twilight, and it seemed to him as if the air smelled of rain. He shivered. He could hear a strange grating sound, like stone being drawn against metal. There was a sense of immanence around him. This place was holy.

Ulaume closed his eyes for a moment. Emotions poured through him, as if a thousand ghosts flew through his flesh. He was here for a reason.

Ulaume hardly slept that night, and Lileem shuddered against his body, whimpering softly. The coyote had returned, and stood sentinel high above them, occasionally offering her song to the gods of night.

At dawn, Ulaume roused Lileem and before they even took breakfast, led the harling by the hand into the ruined settlement. Lileem was fretful, more fractious than Ulaume had ever seen him. He tried to pull away from Ulaume’s hand. He wept.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Ulaume said. ‘There’s no one here.’

‘He’s still crying,’ Lileem murmured. ‘It’s in me.’

Ulaume swallowed the sour taste that rose in this throat. It was clear that Lileem could feel whatever had happened here. ‘We have to investigate,’ Ulaume said. ‘There’s
something
here. That’s what you feel. But it’s not alive. It can’t hurt us.’

Lileem’s expression showed he wasn’t sure about that, but he fell silent and allowed Ulaume to lead him.

By day, the settlement was less spooky but revealed as more desolate. It was full of sound now: the bang of windows and doors in the wind, the creaking of the windmill sails, the hiss of brushwood scratching along the road. Ulaume investigated some of the buildings, and was pleased to find items of clothing, cooking utensils and even some tins of dried fruit. He made caches of the things he wanted.

At one house, he opened the door and a scream flew out.

Beside him, Lileem squeaked and ducked down, as if to avoid heavy wings.

But there was nothing beyond. ‘Trapped ghost, that’s all,’ Ulaume said. ‘We set it free.’

Always, Ulaume was edging towards the hill on the outskirts of town. He watched it though the corner of his eye, drawn, yet also repelled. Something may be waiting there. Hope or revelation. Sometimes, Ulaume forgot he was on a quest or pilgrimage associated with the impressions he’d picked up of Pellaz’s death. Lileem had consumed his attention for the quick months that had passed since he’d left the Kakkahaar. But, in the back of his mind, deep in his heart, it was always there: an insistent murmur, a sense of anticipation and excitement. He was perplexed as to why this dismal, violated settlement should seem part of that.

Ulaume saw the graveyard just up ahead, and tightened his hold on Lileem’s hand, in case the harling was upset by whatever emanations might seep from the recently opened ground. Lileem, however, broke free of Ulaume’s hold. He seemed delighted by the place and scampered among the humps of earth, bending down to place a small starfish hand on each one. Ulaume decided he would never fathom the minds of harlings. This, surely, should be the creepiest place, but now Lileem seemed far more relaxed. Perhaps it was because the town was behind them. The graveyard, in its own way, was clean. Everyone who had come here had already been dead.

Ulaume allowed the harling to play and shaded his eyes to gaze up at the house on the hill. It was made of pale stone, and didn’t seem to fit comfortably into its landscape. ‘Leelee,’ Ulaume called. ‘Come here.’

The harling came to him directly.

‘Look,’ Ulaume said, pointing. ‘Look at that big house. What do you think about it?’

Lileem took hold of one of Ulaume’s knees. ‘It’s sad,’ he said. ‘Not bad.’

‘Do you learn all your words from me?’ Ulaume asked.

Lileem grimaced. ‘Shapes that say things,’ he said.

‘You’re a freak, you know,’ Ulaume said. ‘You’re too old in the head.’

Lileem grinned widely, apparently pleased with this pronouncement.

Ulaume was unsettled to think the harling had understood exactly what he’d meant. ‘Is anything in there?’ he asked.

Lileem studied the house for a moment. ‘It isn’t dead,’ he said. ‘We can go there.’

‘What else?’ Ulaume said, wondering how quickly a Wraeththu child could learn to be economical with information.

Lileem shrugged. ‘Won’t hurt us.’

Ulaume was convinced Lileem sensed something about the true nature of this place. As to why the harling wouldn’t or couldn’t voice his thoughts was intriguing.

A narrow road wound around the hill that led to the house. Although at first it had appeared to be standing in splendid isolation, as they grew nearer, Ulaume could see that behind the house were stables, outhouses and a barn. Ulaume said, ‘I’ve never seen such a big house.’

‘What’s it for?’ Lileem asked.

‘Living in,’ Ulaume replied. ‘You live there all the time, if you have a house like that.’

‘Have you ever had one?’

Ulaume laughed. ‘No. Where we come from, hara don’t have houses.’

The big front door was stuck, as if rain or tears had warped the wood. But it was partly ajar, and Ulaume could peer into the dim hallway beyond. He saw a chequered marble floor and drifts of crinkly leaves. The windows were all locked, none broken. Ulaume could hear something creaking in the wind, and thought of gibbets, but when he and Lileem rounded the corner of the house into a yard full of stables and outhouses, it was only a stable door harried by the breeze. Strands of yellow straw were caught between the cobbles, and Ulaume could imagine the clop of shod hooves against the stone. He felt strongly that he must go into the house and leaned against the back door. This was unlocked and unwarped. It swung open onto a corridor lined by kitchens and pantries. But try as he might, Ulaume could not conjure up the ghosts of quick steps, of industry and the smell of domesticity. This house had been forlorn long before what had happened recently. No screams would fly out of doorways here, because the ghosts who had always been present were silent and glum.

Lileem came into the house also and looked into the rooms. ‘It’s dark,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Ulaume agreed. And it was not because this side of the house faced away from the sun. It felt strange to be standing in a house that humans had lived in. It was like going back into ancient history or uncovering a forgotten tomb. If he blinked, none of his Wraeththu life might ever have happened. He could have been born in a place like this. Not like Lileem, with no history and no memory of all that had once been. He stared at the harling as he scampered in and out of the rooms and thought to himself,
‘It is real.’

Lileem appeared to sense something was troubling Ulaume. He ran to Ulaume’s side and gripped his legs fiercely.

‘I’ve just woken up,’ Ulaume said.

They investigated the house from top to bottom. Lileem was clearly fascinated by the moth-eaten furniture that smelled of old cologne and dust. These were arcane and puzzling objects to him, but somehow attractive.

Ulaume did not want to sleep in rooms where old beds soaked in memories mouldered in the shadows. He found a room with bare floorboards right at the top of the house, where a skylight opened to the stars. Here, he made a nest of blankets he had found folded up in a chest, scented with springs of withered sage.

Lileem watched the proceedings with a dubious expression on his face. ‘Stay here?’ he said.

‘Just for a short while,’ Ulaume answered. ‘I need to make plans. We are without a tribe and I am without all that I seek. I want to stay here.’

Lileem pursed his lips and glanced around the room. Already he had opinions, and had learned enough to keep some of them to himself.

‘We are not in danger here,’ Ulaume said.

Lileem had never slept beneath a roof before, and it had been a long time since Ulaume had been enclosed by solid walls. Neither of them felt particularly comfortable as they prepared to sleep that night, and Ulaume wondered whether they’d be better off finding a secluded corner of the garden to sleep in. The coyote would not come into the house but padded round the yard, making odd yelping sounds. A wind had started up, blowing in off the burned fields, carrying with it a faint acrid smell.

Ulaume lay awake, yet he knew he was dreaming. It was the kind of dream you can’t wake from, because you can’t convince yourself it isn’t real. A face hung before him in the dark. Despite the lack of light, he could see its eyes, and they were the eyes of an animal, empty of all but a mindless cunning. Then he was outside, walking down the road towards the settlement. Rain fell softly, barely more than a mist and every building was robed in steam. He heard the sound of grating metal again. Figures moved around him as blurred shadows. The buildings seemed more real than life. He came to a house with a wide wooden veranda, where a human boy sat sheltering from the rain. He ran the blade of a knife down a stone. The boy was Pellaz. Ulaume ran forward. He meant to seize this dream by its shoulders, shake it, make it speak. Pellaz looked up. He appeared so young, his features less set than when Ulaume had met him. ‘Hello Ulaume,’ he said. ‘You must go away. I don’t know you yet.’

‘Pell,’ Ulaume said, but he could no longer move. An invisible wall had sprung up before him, and what lay beyond it was now dimming out of existence. ‘What do you want of me?’ Ulaume yelled. ‘I am here. Tell me.’

There was no reply, yet he could hear the sound of hooves upon the road behind him. Was an older version of Pell approaching, one who would speak to him? Ulaume turned. He caught a brief glimpse of a horse, a rider, a feral grin, and then the apparition passed right through him. A black wave of terrifying emotion pulled at his flesh, his mind. He was in hell.

Then he was awake and panting in the dark attic room of the big house, his breath steaming on the air. Lileem slept soundly, curled against his side.

And there was a face above him: its long black hair hung down right onto Ulaume’s chest. Eyes wide, whites showing all around. Mad and vacant. Ulaume held his breath, afraid that the slightest movement would dispel the dream image. ‘Hubisag,’ he whispered beneath this breath, ‘let the ghost speak that is the essence of knowledge, knowledge brings wisdom, wisdom brings courage. Hubisag, let all be known that I should know.’

The face above him turned to the side quizzically. He saw a flash of white teeth and then it was gone. There was a sound like a rat scampering down the stairs, swift and light. Ulaume leapt from the nest of blankets, casting aside Lileem, who whimpered and rubbed at his face. Ulaume made a quick signal for silence and sped towards the door. Someone had been here. A real person of flesh and blood. His flesh tingled as he ran down the stairs, his feet barely touching the steps. It was as if he followed a column of smoke. There was only a faint sense of presence left behind.