Mythic Journeys

by Paula Guran

  The Name priests, who all wore oversize masks carved with letters from alphabets nobody remembered, feared she might produce a dead baby from inside that basket and demand they give it a name. But the new companion to Immortal Snake only dumped her relics on the rough stone floor. “My name no longer belongs to me,” she said. “I want you to take it back.”

  The priests tried to talk her out of it. To go without a name, they said, meant that no one could bless her when they cast stones into the Well of Life. Even her dreams would not be able to find her. She suspected what really troubled them—the enactment to remove a name required the priests to inscribe the offensive words on inedible cakes that they would have to eat so that the name would pass through their bodies and be expelled to oblivion. She said, “I don’t intend to go without a name. I’ve found a new one. My name now is Broken By Heaven.”

  Sitting on the Throne of Lilies, Immortal Snake, once known as Happier Than The Day Before, continued to applaud his parade of gifts. He’d begun to open some of the rarer bottles of wine, and when the minister would ask for a decision on the male companion, the Snake would hold out the bottle as if to offer it, then take a long swallow.

  At last the great show came to an end. Only one figure remained, a slave by the look of his knotted hair, his clothes that were little more than a binding cloth and a tunic tied at the waist with a red rope. But he was tall and graceful, with deep eyes and long hands, and a wide strong mouth. Immortal Snake glanced at the sheet of gifts prepared by his Office of Numbers, but all he could see at the very bottom was “slave.” He said “Where do you come from?”

  “Great Lord,” the slave said, “I come from the Emperor of Mud and Glory.” Immortal Snake smiled. The Land of Mud and Glory was a rival of Written In The Sky, but even they could not deny him his gifts.

  He said, “And your name? Does your emperor allow you a name?”

  “Great Lord, my name is Tribute of Angels.”

  “Wonderful,” the ruler said. “We’re making progress. Now. Tell me what treasures you bring me from Mud and Glory.”

  Tribute of Angels cast down his eyes. He said, “I bring no treasure, Great Lord. I myself am the gift.”

  Snake half rose from his throne. “A slave? Has he lost his imperial mud mind? Would he like his cities filled with the Army of Heaven?”

  The minister touched the ruler’s arm. “Lord,” he said, “perhaps the slave carries some treasure inside his body. The formula for gold written on his bones, or a treaty hidden in his belly.”

  But the slave shook his head. “Your forgiveness, Great Lord. My body contains nothing more precious than blood.”

  The minister, fearful his ruler might order a slave’s blood poured out onto the sacred floor, said quickly, “Then some talent? Some wondrous skill? What can you do, slave? What knowledge or power do you bring us?”

  Tribute of Angels raised his eyes. Their dark light shone into the face of the world’s most beloved and hated man. “Great Lord,” he said. “I tell stories.”

  There was a long silence and then Immortal Snake laughed loudly. “Stories!” he said. “Wonderful.” And then the Living World of Heaven inserted an idea into his head. A joke. He turned to his minister and said “You want me to choose a companion? There. Tribute of Angels will be my companion.”

  “Lord!” Breath of Judgment cried. “The creature is a slave!”

  “Ah, but he can tell stories. On those long boring nights when you and all the others are off making lists, or whatever you do, my companion can tell me a story.” He laughed again. “What better companion can a snake have than a storyteller?”

  In the Land of Written In The Sky there was no recording of time. Immortal Snake was the Living World’s extension into the world of death, a finger from the Great Above stroking the Great Below, and just as the Living World was forever and unchanging, so was Immortal Snake. He existed always, only shedding his skin when God’s writing in the stars and planets told the Readers to bring the Snake to renewal. Immortal Snake was forever, and there was no before and after.

  Still, time passed, or at least turned, and lesser creatures grew old and died, and the seasons replaced each other, and the Sun would return after a number of days to the same place in the sky. Though the years were not numbered their length was understood, 360 days, just like the 360 degrees of the circle, for wasn’t Immortal Snake, like heaven, a great circle without beginning or end? In between the years there were five extra days, placed there by the Living World to allow people a moment outside their duties. Every four years there would be another day before the Sun could return to its place, but nothing that happened that day was ever written down, and so it did not exist.

  In this manner of counting, three years passed, 1080 days plus fifteen extra, plus one that no one would remember. Through all this, Immortal Snake celebrated his power. Every night he hosted elaborate parties, with teams of competing chefs from countries conquered by the Army of Heaven. Sometimes the parties featured dramas of the Snake’s glory, or paeans to his sexual potency. The guests, who often included heads of state, were given costumes to wear, or assigned various comical tasks, such as the imitation of farm animals.

  During the days Immortal Snake usually slept late, and when awake would sometimes fidget, or yell at his slaves or advisors. In the early days he liked to stare at the crowns and jeweled swords presented at his ascendancy, or play with the puppets or mechanical animals given along with the more traditional gifts. Over time, however, these things began to bore him. He even tired of the slave girls’ adoration and turned, to everyone’s surprise, to his ministers, and the dry voices he used to ridicule. He began to ask questions and every now and then make suggestions. Then, at night, satisfied with his contributions, he would give himself to parties.

  In this same period Broken By Heaven stayed almost entirely within her official rooms in the second ring of the Nine Rings of Heaven and Earth. She’d painted grey paint over the murals that once filled the walls, she’d removed the lacquered tables, the carved chairs, the gold and enamel plates, the bed that had stood high in the room under a canopy painted with clouds. Heaven had broken her and she’d ordered the bed destroyed, replaced with a simple mattress on a low wooden platform. She would eat only the plainest food, boiled vegetables and rice without sauce, served on lumpy white plates.

  Every morning the young women who attended her laid out elaborate dresses for her in hope that some heroic god might have entered her dreams to drive away the demons who had possessed her ever since her brother had become Immortal Snake. She ignored them and dressed only in white, the color of emptiness.

  And Tribute of Angels? The storyteller who was simultaneously slave and companion to the Ruler of the World spent his days alone, in a small chamber at the edge of the slave quarters. No work was assigned to him, hardly anyone spoke to him. Sometimes at evening, the slaves who collected rainwater from the cisterns on the roof would see him standing on the edge of the world, his face as empty as the sky.

  Three years passed, and then one night the Living World placed two thoughts in the head of Immortal Snake.

  The first was this: I’m going to die. The trumpets would blare in the night, the people would lock themselves in their windowless rooms, the bulls would run through the streets, and then the Readers would feed him that stew of death that no Immortal Snake had ever resisted.

  He looked around at all his splendor, the ornamental swords he had never learned to use, the jeweled mechanical lions and butterflies, the two beautiful nameless women asleep in his perfumed bed. Useless. All his ministers, useless. The terrible Army of Heaven, useless. They too would hide their faces, they would shut away their black engines of war, for when the Readers declared that God’s writing in the Sky demanded the skin of the Snake, nobody challenged them.

  That was the first thought. The second one was this: That storyteller. My companion. Maybe he can distract me.

  Though the Snake could not remember the st
oryteller’s name, he knew it would be listed as the final gift from the Emperor of Mud and Glory, and of course, as his official companion into death.

  Should he summon the slave now? He could wake up his steward, who would wake up the Chief Minister, Breath of Judgment, who would do something or other. No. He decided he wanted to enjoy the story in the proper setting. He went back to bed where he pushed aside the two women so he could stretch out, and fall asleep. When he awoke he ordered Breath of Judgment to prepare the storyteller, for that night the gift of Mud and Glory would entertain the Snake and all his court.

  It took some time to locate the gift and companion, but at last Tribute of Angels was brought to the inner rings, where the Wardrobe Minister For The Snake’s Amusement bathed, oiled, and dressed him. It was a challenge; the minister was not used to dressing men, at least for this version of Immortal Snake. At least the slave simply did whatever was asked of him, with a look on his face that was not exactly empty, yet impossible to read. He would say only “The Living World wills it.” The minister did his best, and by evening Tribute of Angels was ready to perform his task.

  The storyteller arrived in the great Hall of Precious Happiness at the beginning of the feast, when the slaves were about to bring the first dishes and pour the first glasses of wine. Music announced him, reeds and drums and flutes. According to tradition, God gave these to the first musicians when Immortal Snake descended from the Great Above to the Sad Below. Since then, countless musicians had lived and died, servants of the eternal song, for a musician is nothing more than a body in this world of suffering and death, while music itself, like Immortal Snake, is unending, the voice of the Living World. There were no trumpets, however. These belonged to the Readers.

  The Snake looked at his Companion and was startled to see how beautiful he was as he stood among the torches. Tribute of Angels was taller than the Snake remembered. His hands were long, with tapered fingers. His hair had been tied in a slave knot the only other time the ruler had seen him; now it was brushed back and decorated with tiny purple stones. Its color was a coppery gold, but there were black strands as well, dark streams in a river of light. His face was both strong and delicate, as if angels flowed into his body. He wore a tunic of yellow and blue silk, perfectly fitted yet not too ostentatious for a slave.

  For a long time the Snake just stared at that graceful body, that serene face. But then the smell of lamb cooked in figs returned him to his feast, and he laughed happily. “Come,” he said, and patted a cushion near his feet. “Come tell us your story.”

  “Great Lord,” his slave and Companion said, “your command is my blessing.” He sat down, his back straight, his hands in his lap. Immortal Snake raised his wine glass, painted with peacocks and lions. All the guests raised their glasses at the same time, for it was impolite to drink before Immortal Snake, who waited for the opening words of the story before that first cup of wine would delight his mouth.

  Tribute of Angels began to speak, his voice soft yet somehow touching every ear, like perfumed smoke. They listened and closed their eyes, and slowly they put down their glasses and leaned back in their chairs. The slaves stopped serving and sat down on the floor; there was no harm, for no one was eating. The musicians set down their instruments, and everyone closed their eyes and smiled. Tribute of Angels’ voice wound through them like the river that once flowed from Paradise until it became lost in the dark woods of human suffering.

  It was a tale of a boy and girl who swear their love for each other, only to be separated just as they are about to kiss; separated first by the boy’s uncle, for there was no dowry, and then by demons jealous of their beauty. At last, after decades of trials, they find each other in old age and discover that their long-delayed first kiss restores them to the perfect moment of their youth.

  Immortal Snake, and all his guests, and his slaves and his musicians and his dancers and his cooks all closed their eyes, and smiled, and floated away. When they opened their eyes again, thinking that a few moments had passed, they discovered it was morning. All the food was cold, and all the wine was dull. It didn’t matter. Each one got up and silently left the room, leaving Tribute of Angels on his cushion at the feet of the Snake, his legs underneath him, his back straight, his head slightly bowed, his face serene. For a long time Immortal Snake looked at him, then the Snake too got up and walked alone to his bed.

  The next evening the ruler once more summoned his companion to the Hall of Precious Happiness. “Ah, but tonight,” he said, and waved a finger, “you will tell us your tale after we have eaten. Otherwise, all our food will rot and we will all become as skinny as slave children taken into the Army of Heaven.” He laughed at his own joke and waved his companion to a red cushion at his feet.

  “As you wish, Great Lord.”

  They ate, but quickly, and sipped their wine without the proper intervals to allow the alcohol to flow lazily through their blood. It made no difference. If they were drunk, or dyspeptic, or agitated, or sleepy, that all changed the moment Tribute of Angels began to speak.

  He told of Lover Of Wheat, an ancient Goddess who ruled over all the plants and animals that feed the world. The Goddess had a daughter who every morning played among the flowers that sprang up at her approach. One morning the girl saw a shadow on a rock wall, and she found that she could not help but stare at it, until a breeze stirred the flowers, and the movement of color distracted her. The next morning there was the shadow again, and this time it took the form of a man, handsome and tall. Lover of Wheat’s daughter stared at him a long time, her face dry and hot, her fingers trembling.

  The morning after that she ran outside without eating. Frightened, Lover of Wheat followed her, but the daughter was swift, and by the time the mother reached the field the daughter had taken the hand of Shadow and walked into a darkness in the rocks.

  The girl found herself on a stone stairway that went deep into the earth. When they reached the bottom, Shadow put his arm around her, and stroked her face with long fingers, and touched her shoulders, and her back, and finally her lips. She trembled, and closed her eyes, and let him hold her, and kiss her, and when he whispered “Be my bride,” she whispered back, “Yes. I am your bride.”

  While she stood there, and gave herself, soft voices gathered all around them. When she opened her eyes she discovered she was in the Land of the Dead. Great crowds of shadow-people surrounded her. “Shining In Darkness!” they shouted, and when she looked at her arms she discovered it was true, light pulsed from her with every breath. She turned to Death, her dark husband, and turned back to look at the hungry faces who already longed for the joy only she could bring them. That was when she knew, she would love her husband deeply, but she would love the dead as well.

  In the world above Shining In Darkness, her mother, Lover of Wheat, wailed and waved her hands. At first the Gods tried to soothe her, but then they grew angry. “Why should you complain?” they told her. What better husband could there be than Death, for he was always constant, and his subjects endless?”

  Lover of Wheat would not be consoled, only cried louder until the King of the Gods, whose name was Voice In The Sky, ordered her to stop that terrible noise. She fell silent then, but only for awhile. She found the empty shell of a dead turtle and attached to it the neck of a swan who, like the turtle, had gone down to dwell with her daughter’s husband. Next she attached long sinews of the muscles of dead cats. Now she strummed her lyre, an instrument born out of death, and she began to sing.

  Down below, Shining In Darkness lay next to her great and terrible lord, when suddenly she felt a shock in her heart. A song was riding over her, verse after verse, a song of her return and the world’s joy at greeting her. “All the lions will stand roaring . . . all the owls will fly in moonlight . . . all the trees will wave their branches . . . six black horses will come running . . . all the dead will rise up singing. . .”

  “No!” she cried, and Death woke up to stare at his beloved. “Help me,” she begged
, for the song was pulling her. Already she could feel herself fading from darkness. Her husband tried to hold her, all the dead crowded round to protect her. They shouted to drown out the song but it was no use, the melody filled her and lifted her, she pulsed between shadow and light. “Six white horses . . .”

  At the last moment, Death reached into his own body and took out his heart. The dead rushed up to it and it opened like a pomegranate of darkness, with a thousand seeds. Just before she vanished, while her fingertips still touched her husband and their endless tribe, Shining took three seeds and swallowed them.

  An instant later she stood again in the breezes and smells of life, in a field of flowers, so bright with such an excess of color, she could not bear to look at them. Her mother stood there, tall and strong. Lover Of Wheat dropped the lyre and held out her arms, but when she saw her daughter’s face filled with grief she whispered “What have I done?”

  Shining In Darkness said to her mother, “As you are to the Living, so I was to the dead.”

  “Oh my blessed child,” Lover of Wheat cried. “I have done a terrible thing.” They wept together, and at last the Daughter embraced the Mother, for sorrow had overcome her anger. When they stepped back Lover Of Wheat said “Now tell me. Did you eat anything in the Deep Below?”

  Shining nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I ate three seeds of my husband’s heart.”

  Her mother smiled, with love and sadness. “Then you are free to return to him for one third of every year. In the season of the lion and the season of the swan you will remain with me, but in the season of the serpent you may join your husband and all your children.”

  This was the story told by Tribute of Angels on the second night of his service to his master, Immortal Snake. All those who heard it never knew exactly when the story ended, for they floated down strange and glowing rivers until finally the dawn came and they discovered themselves back in the Hall of Precious Happiness. Silently they left the room, careful not to look at each other until only the Snake and his companion remained.