The Prophet of the Termite God

by Clark Thomas Carlton

  The three of them smiled, the tension released, as Polexima’s acolyte unboxed, then handed her, a pair of her old antennae. It was a pair she had worn at her first assembly in Cajoria as the arriving princess from Palzhad. They were large and opulent and encrusted with a spectrum of glittering minerals. “Speaking of showy, I suppose this tells them I am still their queen,” she said as she clipped them to her head. Anand could see it was a struggle to keep her neck erect from the weight of the headpiece, which was in jarring contrast to the severity of her priestess robes. Her acolytes brought her a two-sided ladder and helped her climb to the saddle on a royal carrier ant. The ant had been painted with a light coating of sap, then dusted with patterns in powdered gold and silver pyrite. The thorax was draped with a tasseled red cloth banner instead of the old royal yellow, and the ant’s legs were clasped with brown, red, and yellow bangles. Once Polexima was atop the ant, she raised her chin, and looked modestly royal as she waited to enter the arena.

  Anand had wanted to fly in on a blue locust before giving his speech, but the attempt to ride one was still painful for his scabbed-over legs. With his guards’ help, he was pulled onto the saddle of a large soldier-ant that had been roused from dormancy, dusted with red powder, and outfitted with the saddle and solemn decorations of the old military. He was practicing riding the ant in a circle by using the Slopeites’ traditional lure as Dolgeeno and his priests arrived in their new black frocks and simple boots with thin soles. Without their stilts or elevating shoes, they looked all the shorter, plumper and . . . more human. They lined up behind Terraclon for their part in the procession, and looked more dutiful than inspired.

  “Is everyone in their seats?” Anand asked as Terraclon peeked out of the tent at the stands.

  “Everyone but the war widows,” said Terraclon.

  “They will be here soon enough,” Dolgeeno said in what sounded like a moan. “But not because they want to be.”

  In the distance, Anand heard what he thought might be the sound of flying locusts. He stepped out of the tent and looked up to the sky and saw the squadron he had ordered into Hulkren to rescue the Dneepers was returning—one less worry, perhaps, or one more new one.

  A moment later, the war widows entered the stadium as if they were prisoners being herded by the Bee-Jorite People’s Guard. Not one of them was dressed in widow’s whites, but all had dressed in their gold-colored finery and they flaunted their best jewelry, as if attending a victory ball in the old nation. Their voluminous gowns swayed from side to side, making gentle collisions as they daintily rocked on platform shoes with their chins held high in defiance.

  “They’re wearing yellow,” said Terraclon. “Royal yellow. It’s a slap to your mud-brown face, Commander.”

  “This is a free nation where anyone can wear any color they want,” said Anand. He watched as the war widows were pressed into what had been the right half of their comfortable boxes, which had once held chairs and servants to fan them on hot days. Now they were forced to share this space with prominent widows of the Laborers’ Army, who had gathered in the left of the boxes with only a rope barrier between them. The Laborers’ widows looked as if they had dressed to compete with the war widows, and wore many-layered gowns that were a coarse approximation of upper-caste dress. Instead of gold, they had used berry and hymen-fruit dyes for different shades of pink but few had achieved a true red. The widows in yellow pretended not to see these other women, and looked away from them while sometimes holding their noses against an imaginary stink.

  Inside the tent, Anand raised a red flag, and the Fallogeths concluded their music, then picked up thorn horns and commenced the ceremony. An expanded guard on ants and on foot surrounded Anand and his mount as he entered. As the roach people played something danceable that vaguely resembled Slopeish sacred music, Anand guided his ant to the structure. He dismounted, and muttered, “Shit,” under his breath when he landed hard and felt the scabs of his legs break open. He set his face in a look of indifference as he climbed the flight of stairs built into the side of his mysterious structure. Each step was more painful than the last, and he felt the wetness of his own blood.

  Polexima followed after him on her ant, her acolytes aiding her in her dismount and then in her long climb to the top of the structure. She stood atop it, her antennae glittering prettily in the sunlight as she took in the crowd from left to right while smiling in approval. They stood and cheered her, and she looked warmed by their adoration. An acolyte handed her a cricket harp with a wing stretched inside its frame. She stroked the teeth-like tabs at the wing’s bottom with a plectrum to make chirps as she shouted her prayer. “Mother Cricket, bless this assembly at Cajoria,” she shouted, “and all who reside in Bee-Jor.”

  Terraclon and Dolgeeno were last to ascend, with the thin young man helping the weighty old one until they stood atop the structure’s platform and faced the crowd. Eleven other priests positioned themselves at the base of the structure, spaced at intervals. Anand signaled to the thorn blowers for a final blast for silence, which left only the sound of the wind rippling through his loose garments. He slowly opened his cape to reveal its sparkling insides, as a host of trucking ants hauled out a cage on a sand-sled covered in a rough yellow canvas.

  Everyone knew the cage housed the war widows who had boasted of killing dark-skinned babies before the queen and her commander—and everyone knew these widows would be punished today. I had to do this, Anand thought, but I take no pleasure in what I am about to reveal. An amplifying-cone on a pole was set before him, its smaller end framing his face in a circle. He shouted his words in Common Slopeish, which he tinged with a Dranverish accent.

  “Bee-Jorites, we stand before you today, Your Commander Quegdoth, Your Queen Polexima, and Their Piouses Terraclon and Dolgeeno, to dedicate this First Monument to Law and Order in Bee-Jor.”

  Anand nodded to the priests below, who grabbed the quilted cover by its hem and pulled it away to reveal the structure, a pyramid-shaped monument with a flattened top. A murmur spread through the crowd as they took in its alien decorations. Anand looked at his own Britasytes, who ignored the jumble of wriggling shapes, like jumping worms at the top of the structure, and the crude drawings etched into its middle band. They were taken with the skillfully etched pictures at the bottom third, which started with an index finger tilted up to signify “No” or “Forbidden.”

  “These are the eight essential laws of Bee-Jor from which all other laws will descend,” shouted Anand. “All citizens and other inhabitants of our nation must obey them, no matter what position they hold. What you see on this monument is something called writing, a way in which words are drawn. To look at written words and understand them is called reading.”

  The crowd murmured.

  “At the top of the pyramid is the Dranverish way of writing,” Anand continued. “In the middle band is the Slopeish way of your priests. And underneath that are pictures that show the eight laws. Monuments to Law and Order will be built everywhere in Bee-Jor, and each morning our priests will stand atop them and recite the eight laws.”

  Anand stepped away from the cone, allowing Dolgeeno to take his place. Terraclon pulled out a scroll on two rollers from underneath his cassock and unfurled it. Below, the priests prepared to point with their staffs to the illustrations of the new laws as each one was announced.

  “Law One,” Dolgeeno shouted in his melodic cant, stretching the vowels within each syllable. “No human being shall ever kill another human being unless in self-defense. No human may ever sacrifice the life of another human, including those of alien nations, to a god or gods.”

  Dolgeeno stepped aside and Terraclon took the cone. “Law Two. No human being will ever harm another’s body,” he shouted, using his natural laborer’s accent. “This includes any physical attack on another such as punching or kicking, as well as stabbing, whipping, or using any other object to hurt another. This includes the use of any creature-derived poisons such as alien kin-scent, spid
er, scorpion or insect venoms, or toxins derived from plants such as poison oak or from mushrooms such as the death cap.”

  Terraclon yielded to Polexima. Though her gait was unsteady, her expression was resolute. “Law Three,” she shouted in her surest voice. “No human being may rape another human being. Rape is defined as a sexual act forced on to an unwilling victim. All women and all girls will have the right to refuse sexual acts from any man including her husband and including men of royal ancestry.”

  A murmur went up in the crowd as husbands and wives looked at each other in discomfort. Anand knew that with this law he had offended men who believed in their gods-given right to engage in intercourse with their wives at any time. Polexima shouted over the murmuring. “And all men and all boys will have the same right to refuse sexual acts from any man, regardless of his position as a holy person.”

  The crowd went silent, embarrassed to confront in public the ugliest rumor about its priesthood. “And anyone who forces him or herself sexually on a child,” shouted Polexima, the words catching in her throat, “will be considered among the worst of criminals and will be punished most severely.”

  “Law Four,” said Dolgeeno, resuming the cone in the chilly quiet. “No human being shall ever steal from another human being. This includes sacrifices of food and other items brought to idols keepers who must distribute these items to those in need and not consume for themselves.”

  “Law Five,” said Queen Polexima, anger rising in her voice as she returned to the cone again. Anand could see her struggling with her personal memories before she spoke. “No human being may ever own another human, or force another human to work for him or her without that person’s consent, or without the offer of a fair compensation. No human may ever sell another human to another, including his or her own children or other relatives. Those who engage in these crimes will be known as enslavers and their victims known as slaves.”

  A murmur went up again. Anand knew the masses still considered themselves to be the property of their superiors.

  “Law Six,” said Terraclon. “No human being will ever lie about another human being in such a way as to harm another by damaging his or her reputation or endangering that person’s life or body.”

  “Law Seven,” said Anand. “All members of the nation of Bee-Jor are entitled to an education,” he said, using a Dranverish word, “or the right to acquire the same knowledge as any other human, including priests and royalty. All citizens are encouraged to learn to read and write and their children will be instructed from the age of four in general knowledge in places called schools.”

  “Law Eight,” said Terraclon, returning to the cone with a broad smile. “Beginning today, every eighth day will be a time of rest, of release from work, in which citizens choose how to spend their time. Those who choose to work may do so.”

  The scroll was rerolled and Anand resumed the cone. “These are the beginnings of our laws,” he said. “And from these eight, other laws with their particulars will unfold. Laws are to benefit all citizens of Bee-Jor and make justice and fairness available to all.”

  Anand moved aside so that Polexima could return to speak through the cone. “We ask that all of you, all citizens of Cajoria and Bee-Jor,” she shouted, “treat others as you would have them treat you. As you would not want your food stolen from you, do not steal food from others. As you would not want your children to be killed . . .” Polexima paused and fixed her gaze on the war widows “. . . do not kill the children of others!”

  A murmur went up from the widows that turned to jeers. They stood on their side of the boxes, shaking their fists. “Heresy! Heresy!” they shouted.

  “Sit down! Shut your yapping head slits!” shouted the women in pink over the rope barriers. When the widows in yellow refused to seat themselves, the crowd pelted them with food. Some threw their opened bladders of drinking water, dousing the widows. The widows responded by baring their daggers and threatening those around them. Confined by their gowns and wobbling on their shoes, this only brought the crowd’s laughter.

  “We will have quiet! Quiet and order!” shouted Polexima, and the crowd was silenced. “As for the killing of children,” she continued. “This crime was committed by three women who admitted to it before myself, your priests, and Commander Quegdoth.”

  Pious Frinbo ascended the steps. His black cassock made his face an unpleasant yellow. With hatred, he eyed Anand, who suspected that the priest resented him for revealing the secrets of writing. In Frinbo’s hands was the document of scratching paper with characters inscribed by Dolgeeno that recorded the grievances of the low-caste kiln workers. Frinbo held the document above his head as he shouted through the cone. “The confession of the murder of three infants and the attempted murder of their older sister by the Widow Gafrexa Chando and her sisters-in-law Entatha and Namity is recorded on this document,” said Frinbo. He yielded to Anand.

  “These criminals will not be executed by bathing and exposure to the ants for that is a cruel and unnecessary punishment,” Anand said. “Remove the cloth!” he shouted to the guards at the cage.

  The guards pulled away the cloth to reveal the three women still dressed in their widows’ whites, their heads slumping forward. They had been raised up, then tied to the bars of the cage’s back panel in a display. Their arms and legs were stiff, and indicated they had been dead for days. The crowd murmured in disappointment; gone were their hopes for some exciting torture followed by a bloody and protracted execution.

  “These women have been executed by poison, which they drank of their own free will,” said Anand. “They showed no respect for the lives of other humans—for helpless babies at the beginning of their lives. They showed no remorse for their crimes and boasted that they would kill again. We regret that they could not live as lawful citizens of Bee-Jor. Let their deaths be a lesson to all.”

  A long, low rumble spread over the stands and yielded to the piercing keening of the widows in yellow. “Infidel!” shouted some of them, “Alien!” shouted others. “Traitor queen!” shouted another widow near the rope barrier as an accusation against Polexima.

  “Shut your ugly yellow hole,” shouted a widow in pink next to the rope. “If you want to keep your teeth!”

  “I’ll cut your tongue out!” was the response she got from the widow who brandished her knife. Her kinswomen in yellow followed her lead and threatened with their own blades. They were unprepared when the widows in pink reached for their long-daggers and made the hissing sounds of bark beetles. A shrieking brawl erupted as the widows in yellow and pink slashed at each other, their dresses spotting with bloodstains. Surrounding war veterans raised their blowguns and targeted the widows in yellow. The darts sent them into spastic fits, and they foamed at the mouth as they fell on each other and out of the box. Their bodies, like worms writhing in lace, were picked up and passed through the stands. The harsh laughter of the crowd rolled through the stadium as, at last, they got their spectacle.

  “Guards, soldiers!” Anand shouted. “Arrest every one of those women in yellow and cage them, in the weeds near the midden. For their own protection!”

  Anand’s own guard as well as the veterans in the stands gathered up the war widows and dragged them out of the stadium as they twitched. Some of them lost control of their bladders. The laughter continued until they were pulled to safety inside the tent.

  “This assembly is dismissed!” shouted Anand. He stood with Polexima and the high priests atop the monument, monitoring the dispersal. The crowd began the usual and orderly exit from their rows.

  “And I thought it would be boring,” said Terraclon.

  “The war widows will never make good citizens,” said Polexima. “This will be a problem.”

  Anand was about to agree with her when he noticed a messenger boy panting at the base of the monument.

  “Commander,” the boy shouted as he regained his breath. “The Dneepers have returned. King Medinwoe requests an audience at the palace. He wan
ts you to know that tens of thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of dangerous refugees have gathered on the edge of the Dustlands and are filling the Petiole.”

  Anand was worried by the news, and then alarmed. From tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands? Shit! And the Entreveans are about to return through the Petiole!

  “Daveena!” he said aloud to himself, and knew what he must do. “Tell the Dneepers they must wait!” He ran for the nearest speed ant, ignoring the agony of his wounds bleeding anew.

  Chapter 14

  Hunger

  Daveena sat by the young Seed-Eater-turned-Hulkrish-recruit as he lay on the silk cocoon mattress that had been a wedding present to her and Anand. She was sure that under its sheet of roach egg-cloth that the cushion was soaked, stained, sticky, and stinking, and would likely need to be abandoned after its occupant was removed. Days after he had been stabbed with bee stingers, Odwaznee was still rasping as he breathed. Remnants of bee venom in the Bulkokans’ daggers had sent him into shock, followed by a day of spasms and a bloating so extreme he had become a captive of his own stiff skin; all his limbs could do was jerk. When his fingers could move it had been in a futile attempt to scratch himself. Daveena did this for him with an itch-comb made from the valve of a cricket spiracle. The boy’s tongue was still so thick in his mouth that it almost plugged it, and made speech impossible. The punctures where he had been stabbed had whitened around the hardening scabs, and gave her hope that he might survive.

  She lifted him to squeeze watered honey, then lymph, down his throat from bladder-bags. The lymph was from a slaughtered bee, one of the many that hovered noisily above them in a constant swarm as a second aerial caravan. The bees could not help but accompany their queen and mother once she had been extracted from her nest, then caged by her human parasites for a new destiny. The bee cage was at the end of the caravan, just behind Daveena’s sled, which was slowing again for the third time that day. She went to the back of the cabin and opened its back hatch to see that the draw-roaches had once again broken their front legs. The bees above were always alighting on the cage, attempting a union with their queen, which made the sled heavy to haul and strained the roaches. The Bulkokans riding atop the cage waved the bees away with fans of dried mint leaves with their weak repellant, but it was just a short time before the daughters were lured back to their mother and her irresistible queen-scent.