by Alec Hutson
“Gardens are cultivated,” Bell says, stepping over a grasping root. “Pruned.”
The Prophet throws out his arms. “And what does this look like to you? Flowers and fruit in abundance, no thorns or weeds or underbrush. Could you imagine a more perfect place to live?”
Deliah slashes at a dangling vine, severing it. “There are dangers here,” she says caustically. “We just cannot see them.”
The Prophet snorts. “Ignorant girl,” he says, half-twisting around as he steps between two massive, gnarled banyans. “You know noth –”
And then he’s gone, tumbling out of sight. A strangled yell rises up from where he has vanished, followed by a splash.
I rush forward to find that Ezekal has in his confidence walked off a ledge camouflaged by the moss hanging over its lip. He’s thrashing about in a little pool, apparently unhurt. After a moment, his toes do manage to find the bottom, but the water reaches past his chin.
Valyra comes up beside me, then laughs when she sees the bedraggled Prophet staring up at us balefully and spitting water.
“Any snakes in there?” Deliah asks, wedging her glaive between two rocks and leaning against it, an amused smile on her indigo lips.
The Prophet takes what remains of his tattered pride and begins to swim awkwardly across the forest pool to where the roots of a cypress spider into the water. My gaze slides from Ezekal to the tree to the child standing in the shadow of its twisted bole.
“Look!” I hiss, pointing. Valyra’s laughter abruptly stops as she also sees the girl. The child is naked, perhaps seven or eight years old, with dusky skin and long black hair that reaches nearly to her waist. She’s holding a basket of woven reeds in one hand and something that looks like a silver-shelled clam in the other. Her dark eyes watch the Prophet as he drifts closer to where she waits. She doesn’t seem to be afraid in the slightest, her expression blank and untroubled.
The Prophet finally catches sight of her as he grips one of the roots trailing into the pool and pulls himself halfway out of the water. His hand slips, and he splashes into the water again, but the girl doesn’t even flinch.
A shiver of movement comes from behind the girl, and a moment later a young woman emerges from the forest. She’s also naked, breathtakingly beautiful, with unblemished skin and a river of shining black hair twisted into a pleated braid. Her mother, I would think. I’m expecting her to drag her daughter away from the water’s edge and the strange man splashing about, but though she pauses in evident surprise, her fingers fluttering to her mouth, she does not flee.
I share a glance with Bell, and then we begin searching for a way down to the pool. The going is steep, but there are plenty of trees growing out of the slope, so we use their branches to help us descend. The sound of leaves slithering beneath our feet and chunks of soil being dislodged draws the attention of the woman and the girl, but our sudden appearance seems to have little effect on them. They are apparently entirely unafraid to encounter armed strangers while foraging.
“Greetings,” I say when we reach the bottom and stand less than a dozen paces away. The Prophet is trying to pull himself out of the pool, but he keeps losing his grip on the slippery roots of the cypress tree and sliding back into the water. I can hear him grumbling curses under his breath at us for not helping him, but I don’t want to get too close and send these strangers scurrying.
Not that it looks like they’ll do that. We stare at each other for several long heartbeats. They look remarkably healthy for savages who haven’t yet discovered clothing: I can see no scars or faded lesions that might suggest disease, and neither looks to be malnourished. The woman’s gaze moves from the Prophet as he finally manages to flop onto dry land over to me. She says something that sounds almost musical in a language I don’t understand, then waits expectantly.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak your tongue,” I say, pointing at my mouth and shrugging.
She tilts her head to one side, regarding me with obvious curiosity. The small girl reaches up to grip the woman’s hand, then also says something melodious and tumbling.
“Oh,” Bell says, as if something has just occurred to her, and shoves her hand into one of her many pockets. She pulls out a small pouch, then fumbles it open and shakes a gnarled root into her palm.
“I know that,” Valyra says softly when she sees what Bell is holding. “The abbess made me eat the same when I arrived at the Umbra.”
I also remember this root – the name escapes me, but Poz had once told me that it was grown out of a skull, and that consuming it transferred the language ability of the deceased. It was how I came to know their tongue.
Bell steps forward cautiously, as if expecting the woman and the child to dash into the forest, and breaks off a chunk of the root. Slowly she reaches out, and after a moment of consideration the woman plucks the sliver from her hand, her brow creasing in puzzlement. Bell makes a motion like she should eat it, and the woman’s eyes widen.
Surely no one would be as foolish as me and put roots from strangers into their mouths . . . and then that’s exactly what she does.
“Is that babbleroot?” the Prophet asks. He has come to stand beside us, still dripping.
“Yes,” Bell says, looking at the woman expectantly as she slowly chews and swallows.
Ezekal snorts. “We can’t even be sure if these savages –”
“What is this?” the woman murmurs.
“Ennocosia,” says Bell with satisfaction, slipping the remaining root into her pocket. “It helps us understand each other.”
The woman’s gaze snaps to Bell, her surprise evident. “You know our tongue,” she says in wonderment.
“Actually, you now know ours,” Bell says.
The child tugs on the woman’s hands and says something, her face filled with confusion. The woman glances down and responds quickly in her own language, then turns back to Bell.
“Who are you?” she asks.
Bell looks uncertain how she should respond – we haven’t discussed how a situation like this should be handled, mostly because none of us thought we’d encounter other people in the Shriven’s world. “We are . . . travelers in these lands,” she says slowly. “Tired and hungry.”
The woman purses her lips, looking us up and down again. She seems remarkably unfazed by Deliah’s red skin, or that several of us are clearly armed. Finally she nods, as if she’s just arrived at some decision.
“You will come with me,” she says. “Back to the village. We have fish and fruit and soft grass to lie upon. The Keeper will want to speak with you.” Then without waiting for us to agree she tugs on the child’s arm and turns back to the trees.
Deliah and I share a long glance, and then the lamias shrugs and moves to follow the pair into the forest.
The woman and the girl slip between the ancient, vine-wrapped trunks, their bare feet silent upon the thick moss. Insects and motes of pollen drift lazily within the shafts of honey-colored light piercing the distant canopy. I remember what Deliah said about how if we couldn’t see signs of predators in these woods it just meant that they were excellent at hiding, but these two seem completely unworried that anything dangerous could be lurking deeper in the shadowed gloom.
“Did you know there were people here?” I ask Ezekal as we blunder along behind the woman and the girl.
The Prophet looks miserable, his soaked robes still clinging to his paunch, and I can hear his boots squelching with every step he takes. He scowls at their naked backs, as if it was their fault he had tumbled into the forest pool.
“I did . . . though they are not what I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
He is silent for a moment, and when he finally speaks his words are slow and measured. “These people have fallen from somewhere high. But perhaps . . . perhaps regression is the only path to contentment, in the end.”
I’m about to ask him what in the hells that means when suddenly I glimpse movement through the lattice of branches ahe
ad. The woman and girl slip confidently through the tangle, and a moment later a chorus of voices are raised in greeting.
We push through with far less grace and find ourselves on the edge of a village hacked out of the forest. Dozens of reed-woven huts are scattered about, most clustered along the edge of a gently-trickling stream which cleaves through the middle of the clearing. Men and women and children mill about, all naked, all with a slight variation of the same dusky skin and glistening black hair. A trio of women are crouched next to the small stream, their eyes intent on the water as they search for something. Elsewhere, a tawny youth plays a game with a gaggle of shrieking children. The men are lounging in the shade of their huts, hands folded across their stomachs, though a few sit up in surprise as we emerge from the forest. They point and gabble excitedly, and this draws the attention of the fishing women and playing children. Soon they all are staring at us, though I see no movement towards weapons. Like the woman and the girl, they seem entirely unafraid.
The adults rise and converge on the woman who led us here. The children likewise swarm the little girl, their excited faces peering past her at us. I hold up my hand to stop Deliah from striding forward – I think it’s best if we appear as unthreatening as possible, despite the tribe’s apparent lack of concern.
After what appears to be a quick explanation by the woman, complete with hand gestures, a group of the adult villagers join her in approaching where we wait. As they come closer, I realize something I’d missed up to this point – I doubt any of them have seen more than twenty-five summers. They are all young and in apparent good health. There are no scars or missing teeth or pockmarked skin.
One of the men steps forward and addresses us in their language, and the woman quickly translates.
“Welcome to our haven, strangers. We give you the blessings of the Mother and her Guardians, and open our homes to you.”
I glance quickly at Bell to see if she wants to be our voice here, but she inclines her head in my direction.
“Ah,” I say after clearing my throat. “Well, thank you. We appreciate your kindness.”
The woman listens and relays what I’ve said, then the man smiles and responds.
“You are welcome to our bounty, strangers, and to share our beds.”
I hear a low chuckle from Deliah at this and I shoot her a warning glance. I at least will assume that was a translation error for now. The man does seem to be staring at the lamias with a certain intensity, though.
“Again, we thank you,” I say, trying to force his attention back to me. “We have traveled far and need food and water and rest.”
The man nods. “All this you will have. But first you must meet the Keeper. She will want to hear what tales you bring to us, strangers.”
“Keeper?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth to Ezekal, who appears fascinated by the villagers. My words seem to wake him from his reverie, and he shrugs.
“I know nothing about a Keeper, or these people, to be honest. My advice to you would be to remember where we are and make sure your sword is always within reach.”
“The traitor speaks true,” Deliah murmurs. “Something strange is going on here.”
The spokesperson for the villagers motions for us to follow him, then turns away.
“Come,” the woman who led us here tells me, stepping closer and reaching out to take my hand. “The Keeper is waiting,” she says, tugging on me lightly. Her fingers are smooth and without callouses, which surprises me more than anything else – how could such a primitive people stay so perfect and unblemished?
I allow her to lead me through the village, until she stops outside the hide-flap doorway of a hut that looks the same as all the rest we’ve passed, except that smoke is trickling from within. The crowd of villagers array themselves on either side of this entrance, staring at us expectantly.
It’s clear what they want, and I oblige them by drawing back the flap and slipping into the hut’s smoky interior. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust; light is leaking in through the walls of lashed reeds, but it’s having trouble penetrating the haze rising up from the smoldering wood heaped in the center of the space. A woman is seated cross-legged on the other side of the dying fire, so old and gnarled that she seems to be collapsing in upon herself. Her long white hair has a ghostly shimmer, and her skin is etched with uncountable wrinkles and lines. Unlike the rest of the village, she’s wrapped in a threadbare robe of faded yellow that looks as ancient as she is.
The Prophet and my companions file in behind me, nearly filling the small room. The old woman watches us with glittering black eyes, saying nothing. I swallow, unsure what we should do. Wait for her to speak, or at least gesture for us to sit? I glance at the hide flap, wishing the woman who brought us here had stepped inside with us to make introductions.
“Any ideas what we should do?” I ask my companions, breaking the awkward silence.
Bell, as usual, decides on the most reasonable course of action and pulls the remaining hunk of ennocosia from her pocket. The old woman regards the gnarled bit of root skeptically, and Bell draws it back and pretends to take a small bite. Then she rubs her stomach and smacks her lips.
The skepticism in the old woman’s face shifts to disdain.
“Surely you must be jesting,” she says, her words flavored with a thick accent. Bell nearly drops the root in surprise.
“You speak our tongue,” I say, and she looks at me like I’m stupid.
“No, the dreamwood I’m burning is causing a very vivid hallucination.” She sighs deeply as I stare at the blackened logs in surprise. “Oh, by the sacred waters – yes, I speak your language.” She waves an ancient, claw-like hand at the ground. “Now, sit.”
My mind is whirling as I sink to the dirt floor, though I’m unsure if that’s because of the old woman’s words or the smoke filling the hut.
“You are the Keeper?” Bell asks, and the woman shifts her attention to her.
“So the strapping fellow is not the only perceptive one among you,” she says sarcastically, and then sniffs loudly. “Yes, child, I am the one they call the Keeper. Once it was the Keeper of the Paths, but since we no longer walk the Paths, I suppose I am the Keeper of my people. Someone has to be, the foolish little birds.”
“The Paths . . .” the Prophet says slowly. “You walked between the worlds.”
The woman inclines her head. “One of you has something between his ears, at least. Yes, I was a priestess of the Myriad, the opener of doors, the delver for secrets.”
Suddenly something occurs to me. “Are you the Mother?” I blurt, and the old woman snorts a laugh.
“Such a silly question. Best you stick with swinging that sword at your side and leave the thinking to your stout friend.”
I subside, chagrined, and she clucks her tongue. “Ah, forgive me, child. It’s been too long since I spoke with anyone other than the endearingly simple folk hovering outside.” She picks up a stick and prods at the smoldering wood, raising a scattering of sparks. “Hm. No, I am not the Mother. Just a simple adept entrusted with a great duty. During my training I walked under many different suns, and for a time I dwelled in your world. Several years, in fact. I studied in the Collegium of Varakesh” —Bell gives a little gasp at this— “and learned much of your strange ways. When I finally returned to my home, I found it under siege.”
“By the Shriven,” Bell guesses, and the crone nodded.
“Yes.”
“Yet here you are in the demons’ realm,” Deliah says, and there’s no missing her accusing tone. “Living free with all your needs met.”
The old woman’s lip curls at the lamias’s words. She jabs the fire again and it flares higher. “Choices were made, daughter of Vel. Hard choices. When my people first came here we all agreed that we – the ones who remembered – would reject the Mother’s greatest gift. Our children, though, would be different, and when they reached adulthood the gift would be given to them. They would be pure, unsullied, unk
nowing of what had happened before. And they would be this way forever.”
“They drank the blood,” the Prophet says softly.
The old woman closes her eyes and leans back. “Aye.”
“How long have you all been here?” he continues, leaning forward.
The old woman shrugs her knobby shoulders. “Centuries. All the others who came with me are dead. I am hardier than the rest, it seems, but my time is coming, and when it does the story of our people will be forgotten. For the ones outside, there will only ever be this forest, and this moment. Without end.”
The old woman’s words haunt me later that night as I lie upon a mat of woven grass in one of the huts, Deliah curled beside me. I should have fallen asleep immediately – for the first time in weeks I’ve gone to bed with a full stomach, as the villagers threw a feast in our honor, roasting a seemingly endless supply of white flaky fish over a roaring fire. But instead I’m awake, staring at the interwoven reeds above me, turning over and over what the once-priestess had said.
It is obvious that she had made the same bargain with the Shriven as the Prophet, though unlike him – and me – she has never partaken of the demon’s blood and gained immortality herself. She and her fellows decided that all memory of their crimes should be forgotten, so that their children could exist in blissful ignorance. It was a great sacrifice, and for the first time I start to think that the Prophet’s choices might not be so monstrous as I always thought. But was she happy with what she had done? She voiced no regrets, but I can’t shake the feeling that there was a sadness about her. Is it better to live as contented children forever, or to face the harsh truths?
This makes me think of my own past, and the crimes I may have committed in the service to the Prophet. Would I want confirmation of what I had done? The burden of that guilt? I gnaw on this for what seems like half the night, and then I roll from the mat and stand quietly. Deliah shifts and grumbles but does not wake. In the faint moonlight trickling down through the slats I study her face, so perfect in sleep. Would she stay at my side if the truth of my past was known?
