Lazariel had awoken with a start. He could still smell the dream in the room with him. He had lain there paralysed with fear, attempting to orientate himself to this reality, to his name, his place of birth. Anything to avoid thinking about the sight of those people being fed upon by the Ushblaz. From the darkness of his room, he heard a faint, knowing, childish chuckle.
*
They were all at Leura for the regular Saturday markets. After days of acting in a highly strange manner, they had now inexplicably returned to normal. For some reason, this terrified Lazariel even more. Because they were all together, they attracted more than their fair share of attention. Alan and Daniel were wearing bandannas and colourful shirts of yellow and blue. The girls dressed alike in cotton summer dresses and sunhats. There was a nervy erratic energy about them. Theresa, of course, had to be different. She was clothed in a bright orange halter top and a faded denim skirt. Her hair was in tiny plaits. Lazariel couldn’t stop himself from thinking how attractive she looked. He noticed she was getting a lot of stares from the men at the market, which was surprising. Normally Sophie was regarded as the sex kitten of their group. He studied the gathering with anxious eyes, looking for any sign that things were not normal among them. They had all lost so much weight, but they looked healthy enough. Just for a second, when he saw their eyes shining, he was reminded of the glinting eyes of the Ushblaz before they had descended from the skies, and he shivered.
They were buying fruit and vegetables to take back to Light Vision. Lazariel was grateful for the fat local who busied herself with finding some choice avocados for them. Her sheer weight helped to ground him, and he found himself wondering if his dark imaginings were just some type of breakdown he was having, perhaps a result of all the intensive spiritual work that he had been putting himself through.
‘They still haven’t found her then?’ Voices broke into his reverie. Voices of the wind, voices of hot air around him. Two elderly women, their faces masks of heavy lines, were selecting lettuces nearby.
‘No, it’s shocking, isn’t it? Leslie and Gina must be out of their minds with worry. Mind you, she was a bit of a terror, wasn’t she? She might have run off to Sydney with some boy.’ She made a tssking sound. ‘Do you remember when Peter Johnson’s eldest girl did that about oh . . . fourteen years ago? She ended up working in some brothel in Kings Cross.’
The other woman shook her head and repeated the tssk sound, presumably to indicate some degree of disgust or pity. He was fascinated by the conversation, edging closer to them to hear more.
‘Here you are!’ Sophie grabbed him. The hand, although tiny, felt like steel when it dropped onto his arm. ‘We’ve been looking for you. Come and look at these paintings some guy’s exhibiting. There’s some really good old photos of the country around here, too. Expensive, but. I wish we had some more money.’
Prattling on, she pushed him towards a corner of the market where the others waited. He was tense and irritable, and a desire for his own space washed over him. Originally he had relished the feeling of being part of a group that shared a common goal and interest, but now he found it stifling. The paranoid thought came to him that they were watching him constantly, that he would never be allowed to make a movement without them. They needed him with them at all times. He longed to flee. But Sophie’s hand on his arm restrained him. Then he saw her.
She was among the crowd of people looking at the secondhand book stall. Kath. There was a child standing with her. He tried to stop, to turn back towards her. She looked at him, recognition passed between them. Kath.
‘What are you doing?’ Sophie was yelling at him, dragging on his arm. He tried to break free from her hold, but she held him with a vice-like grip. This can’t be happening to me.
‘There’s someone I know over there,’ he blurted out, feeling ridiculous at having to explain himself.
‘Where?’ She turned, the black ribbon on her hat fluttering as she surveyed the crowd.
‘My ex-wife, over there,’ he said. He could no longer see her, she had vanished into the crowd. The grip on his arm didn’t lessen.
‘We need you, Lazariel,’ she said. ‘Don’t complicate things with ex-wives.’
Lazariel’s back felt as if it were about to explode. Spider legs of fire were uncurling over his shoulderblades and down his spine. He imagined his head was aflame, that the market shoppers were pointing at him, screaming as his head exploded in a mass of orange light. Sophie smiled. Her fingers had become like tentacles of ice, slowly freezing his arm. He looked down at the bruises spreading across his arms. Like dark roses.
‘It’s so hot today, isn’t it?’ she said slowly. The members of Light Vision waited for him, with sullen looks on their faces. There had been no Kath, he knew. Just another symptom of a mind that was cracking. He caught his breath as the pain in his back began to escalate, and a pair of small budding wings began to push through his flesh.
Theresa watched the group for a second. She saw Lazariel staggering, Alan and Daniel supporting him. A mixture of curious and disapproving stares from nearby shoppers betrayed a general consensus that he was stoned or drunk. But Theresa saw other things that the shoppers couldn’t see. Kundalini energy raced up his spine, causing his mind to distort reality around him. Protectors, holding amulets, attempted to defend the group against sombre shadows that were trying to reach them. She saw the dark muddied colours of her friends’ auras, and the large rips in their fields.
She smiled, reaching for her sunglasses in her bag, and putting them on. There was much preparation required before Ishran’s return. An old newspaper blew across the ground in front of her, its front page containing a photograph of the missing schoolgirl. Sniffer dogs had been called in. On page three of the paper, Theresa knew there would be an article on a series of vicious sheep killings in the area. She smiled again, reaching for a cigarette and lighting up from the packet of cigarettes in her bag. Things were definitely starting to hot up in the Blue Mountains.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
We are strong united, we are weak apart;
We will overcome the Priestess, dine on her black heart.
We will suck out her eyeballs, her intestines we will share,
And we will make our winter coats from her lovely auburn hair.
Let us hug and make up now, we are friends, we are Faery!
We will sing forever after of how we killed slut Mary!
— Imomm and Wezom Faery Song
Through the black frost the men of stone will ride;
On holy Salhmain Morpheus will speak in a tongue of fire;
A black sow will eat the stone man’s heart;
Warrior friend will turn on warrior friend;
And the circle will fall.
— Condensed from the Tremite Book of Life, Column XXIX CV
Diomonna stood at the side of the running brook of water, surrounded by a small entourage of Faeries, Bogies and Winskis. On the other side of the brook, with arrows drawn, stood the guards of the Wezom tribe. They were short and stocky, with their hair coloured vivid shades of purple and red. Around their waists, they wore dyed loincloths, and they were adorned with necklaces made from bird beaks and feathers.
‘Halt in the name of King Quimonmen!’ they cried, drawing their bows. The Winskis blew raspberries at them, but Diomonna stopped them angrily. The Wezom might be more peaceful than the Imomm, but she knew their arrow tips were probably poisoned with yew-berry, hellebone and devils’ bit. If one of their guards panicked, and released the arrow . . . the weapons were pointed directly at Diomonna’s chest.
‘Tell your king with speed that Queen Diomonna of the Imomm tribe needs to speak fast words with him. Hiss, claw,’ she called. The guards spoke together for a few seconds, and then one of them slipped away through the fernery, vanishing from view in seconds. Diomonna waited impatiently, tapping her foot and rustling her wings.
Presently he returned. ‘King Quimonmen sends his respects and says that he is busy,’
he said.
The Winskis jeered, throwing punches in the air, and Diomonna sighed. Quimonmen always made it as difficult for her as he could. He had never quite forgiven Diomonna for rejecting his advances one freezing winter, when supplies for the Wezom had run dangerously low, and he had attempted to sweeten Diomonna up through courting her.
Now she sat on the grass, arranging her wings carefully, and fixed the guards with her jade-green eyes.
‘Return to your king,’ she ordered. ‘Tell him the Queen of the Imomm has stone words to tell him that will help to make the Wezom strong, that will bring more food to his people and will help to vanquish the demon sow Bluite who reigns in Faia.’
This time, the guard was gone for longer, and when he returned, he nodded to the other guards. ‘You can all cross the brook!’ the cry came.
Diomonna stood up, throwing a look of triumph at her attendants. One by one, the small party crossed the stream and entered the world of the Wezom through a tiny portal. They were now in a different pocket of reality from where they had stood in Eronth. They were standing in an immense underground cavern, totally different in design to the Imomm cavern in the Hills. Some things were still the same; there were Crossas tethered to poles in the corner of the room, Maja spiders and piles of stolen treasure. But the Wezom were also strong hunters, and on the walls hung hundreds of trophy heads: ilkamas, small dragons, even some Faiaites and Bluites. Diomonnna’s nose wrinkled with distaste as she glanced at the wall, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. If she saw an Imomm head on their trophy wall, it would mean all-out war between the two Faery tribes. She suspected that various members of the Wezom would love nothing more than to secure her head for their macabre ornamentation. She struggled to control the Winskis, who were straining to fly over and torment the bedraggled Bluites in the corner. Then she spotted the Wezom Winskis, thousands of them, sitting sullenly around a huge throne made of dragon bone. Her wings rustled, and her entourage moved protectively in front of her as she approached the throne.
‘Greetings, big King Quimonmen. Give me your ear quickly! For the news I have to tell you is like hot nuts in my mouth.’
Quimonmen smiled. Like all his people, he was short in stature and stocky. His bright orange hair was carefully arranged around the rib cage of a vulture. His pudgy hands sparkled with stolen jewellery, precious diamonds and sapphires. There was a finger bone through his nose, and every available part of his body was tattooed.
‘Give me your nuts, Fair Shining One,’ he leered. Diomonna preened herself. As much as the King of the Wezom repelled her, she was not above a bit of flattery. Quickly, before he grew bored of the discussion, knowing that his attention span was brief, she outlined Sati’s plan. Her court supported her, cheering at appropriate intervals, or gasping to add dramatic effect. When she had finished, Quimonmen considered, his hands stroking the heads of his Faery attendants, who sat before him.
‘How far can you trust the Azephim bitch?’ he said finally.
Diomonna thought fast. ‘Her belly is cold, and she cannot conceive,’ she said. ‘She is ruined by grief and despair and she is hungry. In this hunger, she has wisely turned to the great Diomonna who can help her. But I, Diomonna of the Imomm, do not forget my Faery friends, the Wezom. If Wezom and Imomm join together, we can recapture Maya and overthrow the Bluite Priestess!’
The entire Faery assembly cheered as one, Imomm and Wezom clapping together. Diomonna neglected to mention that the bargain she had struck with Sati only included power for the Imomm in Faia. Quimonmen stared into space, a vacant look on his face, and Diomonna hoped his blank expression meant that he was thinking.
‘Why not join forces on another level?’ he said lewdly, looking at Diomonna’s crutch, if the Shining One handfasts with Quimonmen, then we truly will be united.’
Now there were loud cheers from the Wezom side, while the Imomm remained silent, looking at Diomonna to see how she would react.
‘Let us watch clouds pass, and see how things work out first. Hiss, claw,’ Diomonna said. Frantically, she applied more Glamour to herself, and dipped her wings slightly so he would get her sexual message. He began to breathe harder, and his Faery attendants scowled furiously at Diomonna.
Unable to restrain himself, an Imomm Bogie leapt up and yelled, ‘Know that this is a red sun day! Know the Tremite Scribes are recording the historical union of Imomm and Wezom for the commonwealth of Faeryland in Eronth!’
Diomonna frowned, but her moment of glory was lost. His timing was perfect. All the Faeries in the court were clapping and cheering. The Winskis from rival tribes were even flying together and somersaulting, holding hands and singing.
All was madness for a moment. Faery embraced Faery, Bogies jiggled together, holding hands and whirling around. The Maja were tapping the ground with their long hairy legs. Even Diomonna got caught up in the emotion, and began swaying her hips and tapping her foot.
‘Silence in the court!’ Quimonmen screamed. ‘Yea, the Imomm have their answer. The Wezom will see them as friends, and we will hatch webs in our minds that will capture our enemies. Then, at the next full moon, the Wezom will travel to the Hollow Hills, where we will discuss how to enslave the unwinged one known as Maya. Perhaps by then the fair Diomonna will want to share her pot of honey with Quimonmen.’ He leered at Diomonna, and she struggled to look sensual and inviting, rather than laugh in his face. He nodded, and leant back in his chair as if exhausted.
‘Go back across the brook now,’ he said. ‘Quimonmen needs his nap.’
The Imomm left to a chorus of cheers and waves and hugs.
The moment they exited the portal, Quimonmen sat bolt upright in his chair. The mood had dramatically altered; the cheering Wezom were now giggling behind their hands. Several of the pleading Bluites who had been tethered to the pole stood up. Their Glamour shifted, and they were revealed for the Sea Hags that they were. Quimonmen looked at them in awe.
‘I misjudged you, old Sea Ones,’ he said. ‘Your magic is indeed potent, for I was convinced she would smell you. Her nose is so powerful.’
The Hags laughed, tossing back their hair of seaweed, their stomach mouths opening and closing grotesquely.
‘The night you spent rubbing the hall down with the blood of the dead animals was not in vain,’ they said.
Quimonmen nodded, but his eyes were sly when he looked at them. ‘I will do all that I can for you,’ he said. ‘But our sisters from the sea have to fulfil their part of the bargain when they reclaim power in Faia. The Wezom have to regain their rightful place as the leaders of Faery in Eronth.’
‘You have our promise, King,’ one of the hideous Sea Hags said. ‘We have rubbed the juices of our body with yours, Sea Hag with Land Faery, in honour of our contract. Your will shall be done when we accomplish our purpose.’
Quimonmen sat back on his throne, momentarily satisfied, although he couldn’t help thinking with regret of how pleasant it would have been to roll Diomonna over. The Sea Hags read his mind and smiled.
‘Patience, patience!’ they chided. ‘Soon you will have that winged whore in your power and you can mount her as many times as you wish. You will be second only to the Sea Hags in power. Shortly we will hear from Bambi and Kryssti what fate awaits them in Faia, now Mary’s tongue has been retrieved. Then you shall have the Eom, you shall have the Imomm, and you shall have Mary’s head on your wall!’
The entire court cheered wildly, and the Wezom fiddlers and harpists began to play their strange and haunting tunes. The genuine Crossas covered their heads and screamed with pain and fear, their ears beginning to bleed. The Sea Hags jigged with the court, but they smiled secret smiles to each other. The land dwellers would not survive. Not one of them.
*
After Ishran had left, Sati stood for a long time, looking out at the night sky. Inside her chest was a hard stone. Her tears were shed with as much secrecy as she could muster; now she had no more for him. But it did not stop her yearning for him. Hands cl
enched on the balcony, she watched him flying into the sky, melting into the night, back to that hostile, primitive world he seemed to prefer. She should fly, she thought. Transform herself into beauty, into claw and feather, merge into the velvet sky. There she might find some small peace, some broken healing.
Tonight they had argued, as usual. She could not stand to witness the transformation in him: the longer he stayed in the world of the Bluite, the more he appeared to be dissolving his power into them. They were unworthy, yet they were growing stronger — or else insane — while Ishran became more disgustingly Bluite. She could just make out his beloved rose garden from where she stood behind the velvet drapes, and she smiled sadly to herself, remembering how much he used to love to lie among his roses. There he would endlessly fantasise about recharging the Eom, and by doing so, prove to Seleza and the other Azephim that he was indeed worthy of the title of Ghormho. In the darkness, she could see the half-formed marble statue of the angoli Charmonzhla he had been sculpting, before this madness had overtaken him. It seemed to pulsate with an unhealthy glow. A heavy fog lay around the rose garden. The bushes were now bare of the flowers Ishran had loved so much.
Sati closed the drapes, willing herself not to think about Ishran. Her phantom leg ached tonight, and she had that disturbing feeling in her bones when half of her longed to break form into feather and claw, and the other half wished to remain as Sati.
In the heavy silence of her bedroom, she lay back, studying the ornate four-poster tapestries hanging overhead. How many times had she looked at that same view when Ishran had been on top of her? It was hard to believe that her mate, with whom she had hunted and shared so much of herself, was now not only rejecting her, but abandoning his role as Ghormho. All he now seemed to care about was a pack of Bluite half-wits.
A few times, she had crossed to spy on him, watching from the cover of trees, and praying to Alecom that he would not see her. Ishran had fucked a few of them by now, she saw, as she sat perched on a branch shaking with rage. When would he ever learn the futility of unfurling his kylon among the weaker races? It always ended in an agonising death for them.
Bride of the Stone: Circle of Nine Trilogy 2 Page 40
