Watching her, Repana wanted to cry, remembering the times she had sat before a fire, cradling her own stomach, murmuring to the infant Vesi within. She had wanted so much for her only daughter, had promised her so much. Now those dreams and promises would come to naught because of another child … the demon’s child.
At night she lay on the bed of boughs and held her daughter in her arms. “There are ways,” she whispered, “of getting rid of the child if you want to. Herbal preparations I can concoct for you or a diffusion of hazel bark with …”
Vesi stiffened. “No. It is my child.”
“But …”
“No!”
“It might be a monster. You know that.”
“If I had been deformed in your womb—and you knew it—would you have gotten rid of me?”
By way of answer Repana simply clutched Vesi harder, unwilling to answer. The Rasne worshipped beauty. No mother ever wanted to be forced to use her sacrificial knife.
Traveling, Pepan discovered, was not the same in the Otherworld. Time and distance were measured differently. But that did not mean his hia enjoyed unhampered freedom of movement. As he tried to reach his ancestors, a peculiar viscosity wrapped itself around him, forming a barrier that he thrust against until it gave like a weakened membrane. He slipped through to find himself in what appeared to be a long tunnel. Translucent walls surrounded him, yet when he reached out to try to touch one he felt nothing.
Just ahead he could see the cloud that contained his kinsmen, but reaching them required a complex set of trial-and-error maneuvers. It was like learning to walk all over again, and he was elated at each small success.
Nearing the cloud, he tried to get some idea of its size. But its opaque mass constantly expanded and contracted. At the end of one of these contractions a form emerged.
My son, said a voice without words.
The form flickered and … Pepan found himself gazing upon the face of his father, Zivas, former Lord of the Silver People. A gifted linguist, Zivas had studied and mastered the languages of a dozen other tribes, even those in Latium, for no reason other than the joy of learning. He displayed the characteristic long-lidded eyes and aquiline nose that marked their family, but his visage was slightly faded, like mosaic tiles that had been too long in the sun.
Is it really you? Pepan wanted to know, reaching out. Then he peered eagerly over his father’s shoulder. Is Mother with you?
Zivas gestured toward the cloud behind him. Only one from each generation of the bloodline responds to a Dying. Your mother is safe with Veno in the Kingdom of the Dead. Come now; she is eager to welcome you.
Pepan strove to understand the details of this new existence. If one from each generation is with you, does that mean your sire, and your grandsire, and …
By way of answer his father moved backward and the cloud swallowed him, expanded, contracted, and a new figure emerged. These features also bore the familial stamp, only more faded still.
I am your grandfather’s grandfather. Within our bloodlines is carried the history of the Rasne. My immortal spirit is that of the warrior I once was when under my command Etrurians stood shoulder to shoulder with allies from the Attic nations and beat the Carthaginians to their knees. I returned home in triumph only to discover an invasion force from Latium had attacked our city in my absence. After I had driven them away, we held a festival of celebration and sacrificed to the Ais. Then we rebuilt our spura on undefiled ground according to the plans long ago set forth by my revered ancestor … .
The cloud convulsed, another figure replaced his and went on, the words blending into a lyrical paean.
I am the Planner. From the talents the gods gave me sprang the great cities of Etruria, during the glory days when we spread out across this land. Whenever our warriors claimed new territory, I oversaw preparation of the most auspicious site the priests could identify, then laid out streets and drainage systems, designed buildings, and selected construction materials. In the blink of an eye I could envision an elaborate plan and know just how to bring it to fruition. So it was that the mark of the Silver People was carved into the very stones of this country, as long ago foreseen by …
Almost instantly he was replaced by yet another form, one so faint Pepan could scarcely see it at all. In the tones of a woman this new image told him, I am the Prophet. In my day the Ais spoke directly to us. We were not so proud then as we later became, the voice added regretfully. We were willing to listen.
In the reign of Atys, Son of Ghosts, the place in which we lived suffered a great famine. But by following the direction of the gods we were led out of starvation to this much more fertile region, where we grew and prospered. Life became more pleasant; we no longer had to struggle just to survive.
Then the Ais encouraged us to develop a sense of beauty so we could appreciate them more fully. Under their tutelage we developed our arts until eventually we became known as the Silver People.
Another voice interjected, Generations of craftsmen such as myself have captured stunning images of the Ais in sculpture—some no larger than a thumb. We have designed jewelry beyond compare for our beautiful women; we have decorated our tombs with images of the dear dead so lifelike they almost breathe. Far beyond our borders the Rasne are famed for luxury and elegance. But all that we achieve is simply a gift from the gods, who love us.
The gods who love us, echoed the Prophet.
Marveling, Pepan realized he was in the presence of the most able of his race. Just when he needed them.
Using his new-found ability to speak without words, he struggled to communicate his problem. There are two exiled women, Repana and her daughter, Vesi, who are very dear to me and are in great trouble. I want to help them, but I am new to this state of being, I do not know what abilities I may possess here. I ask you, my ancestors, to teach me. Help me to help my friends.
Why should we involve ourselves? The women you name are not your wife and daughter, his warrior ancestor pointed out. They are not our bloodline. They have their own ancestors.
But they are Rasne, Pepan argued, so we must share common ancestors.
A multitude of voices debated among themselves. Then, sounding faintly amused, the female voice of the Prophet spoke from within the cloud. Some of us had many children. All rivers are born from the same rain.
Pepan said eagerly, You will do as I ask then?
Because you ask it, his father’s voice replied, and I could never refuse my sons anything.
The voice of the Planner countered, If we do this, will you come with us afterward?
Instinct told him he could not lie to the dead. I cannot say. I only know I cannot go to the Netherworld leaving things as they are.
The Prophet intoned, You would not be the first who remained behind to conclude unfinished business.
But will he come afterwards? someone demanded to know.
Possibly. He is guided by love. The ability to love even after death is common to all hia and is the one emotion no siu can feel. Pepan invokes the love we bear him and asks us to extend it to those he loves. I say we shall.
The cloud roiled and from its depths came the sounds of not three or four but hundreds of voices, some little more than animalistic grunts. Pepan could tell some mighty argument was taking place. He waited, unable to measure the passage of time in a world where time was not, until at last the Prophet spoke to him again. All things happen as they should, she said. Lead us.
It was easier to move now that he had had some practice. He still had no sense of direction however, and when the Prophet bade him to lead them he was momentarily uncertain. Then he heard once more that lovely, distant music and followed it eagerly.
As he approached the glade, he discovered that the circle of stones continually emitted a humming sound. At close range the hum distorted the music that guided him and set up a disturbing vibration in the Otherworld. That vibration could repel many entities. Pepan forced himself to go on.
At his back pulsed th
e opaque cloud.
Wulv lay on the ground just outside the shelter he had built for the women. Clothed in leather and bearskin, he looked like a wild animal himself. Pepan hovered over him long enough to ascertain that he was sleeping peacefully, then entered the hut.
Walls were no longer a barrier. The hia of the dead Rasne passed effortlessly through interlaced branches and chinked mud. Inside he found Repana and Vesi lying in each other’s arms. Each was contributing a note to the Otherworld music that had guided him this far. Repana’s identifying sound was rich and melodious; Vesi had a higher, clearer note, achingly pure in spite of all that had happened to her.
But it was their physical voices that caught Pepan’s attention. He arrived just in time to overhear the conversation between mother and daughter about the possibility of aborting the infant. To his surprise, he felt their pain as sharply as if it were his own. Since he had no flesh to serve as a buffer, their emotion came into him naked and raw.
Vesi obviously cherished the unborn infant, but Repana secretly regarded it with resentment amounting to loathing. The child would begin life with every possible disadvantage. Like its mother it would be an exile with no property, no status—and the added curse of a demon father. Only the Ais knew what face it would wear in the world or what deformities of body or spirit it might carry. Pepan could understand Repana’s reservations, but life was sacred, even this life. He must do what he could to ease the way.
Silently he called out to the unseen cloud that had taken up a position in the center of the circle of stones. This is the woman I should have wed. This girl should have become my daughter. I did not give them enough of myself in life, but I would rectify that now. Help me. Help us.
It has never been done …
Never been done …
Never … .
When the argument raged into silence, the Prophet said simply, Put your hand on her belly.
Pepan protested, I have no hands now.
His grandfather replied, The memory of your earthly body is still strong and we will add all our force to yours. It will be enough.
Pepan did as he was instructed and approached Vesi. His fingers were as transparent as glass when he held them up to his face; through them he could dimly see Vesi’s body, as if she were made of slightly thicker mist. When he laid his palm—delicately, tentatively—on her mounded flesh he had no sensation of solidity. There seemed nothing to keep him from reaching farther, from reaching inside her and actually putting his hand on the womb. As he stared at her belly, its flesh became translucent and he could see the shape of the baby within.
Yes, said the voice of the Prophet, that is what you must do. Reach inside, feel the child.
Pepan obeyed. Neither of the two women on the bed seemed aware of the invasion, but the infant floating in its small, warm universe responded to his touch by opening its eyes.
Beyond the shelter, the stone circle began to hum.
The unborn child heard. Its eyes opened wider, looking upon scarlet and crimson tides as its tiny hands clutched at the mist of Pepan’s fingers.
Do not move now, Pepan, commanded the Prophet.
The cloud within the circle began to glow with a lambent green flame, while sparkling white fire shivered across the stones.
In his dreams, Wulv stirred and mumbled but did not awake.
The cloud contracted violently then expanded to cover the hut. Tiny emerald fires flickered over the carefully arranged branches. The air smelled of storm. A rushing wind howled through the primeval forest, whipping the trees until they groaned in protest, sending the forest creatures scurrying for shelter.
Pepan felt a great weight descend upon him, as if he had been floating in the river for a long time and just come out on land again. The weight pressed down unbearably, threatening to crush him though he had no body. Desperately he fought to remain upright and stay still—until the weight flowed through him and his hia caught fire.
This he could feel. He writhed like the storm-tossed trees in an agony beyond description. His spirit was burning hotter than the forge, hotter than the sun, consuming him.
The essence of a people was raging through him.
And from him, into the woman and her unborn child.
Chieftain and warrior, craftsman and Planner and Prophet and all the generations before them poured along the conduit Pepan provided, emptying their knowledge into Vesi’s womb.
The baby convulsed. Vesi sprang up with a shriek, clutching at her belly. “It’s being born!” she cried. “It’s being born now!”
FOURTEEN
As with a Dying, there were certain rituals that must attend a Birthing. The newborn hia required protection as it entered the Earthworld from a very different plane. It would take awhile before he or she learned the rules governing this new type of existence. But the more immediate problem was the danger imposed by malign inhabitants of the Otherworld.
Siu, as well as corrupted hia who had never made their way safely to the Netherworld, were very aware of a newborn’s vulnerability. While a mother was still in labor they crowded close, hoping to subsume the baby’s spirit and thus acquire a being of flesh and blood who would obey their dictates.
If Vesi had given birth at home, midwives and purtani would have been with her constantly, caring for flesh and spirit. Protective symbols would be painted on her belly and on the special birthing stool handed down from mother to daughter. Priests would chant and burn incense whose sweet smoke dulled the pain. Silver bells would ring to ward off evil spirits, while elsewhere in the spura young goats were sacrificed to lure them to other prey.
Instead she was alone in a crude hut in the forest with only her mother and a primitive Teumetian—and the combined wisdom of a hundred generations of Rasne.
As Pepan watched, Repana worked over her daughter. Wulv had been awakened by the girl’s shrieks but was forbidden to enter the hut. “You would just get in my way!” Repana shouted at him.
Hurt, the woodsman sat on the ground outside and sulked. From time to time he flexed his callused hands with their dirt-rimmed fingernails and stared at them, unable to comprehend their uselessness in the current situation.
Pepan understood the impotence Wulv felt. All he could do now was defend the little family against the Otherworld predators already swarming toward the site.
The atmosphere had grown thick with demonic shapes. Siu hissed and growled, writhing obscenely as they advanced. Instead of bodies, in the Otherworld they displayed grotesque manifestations of their favorite vices. Some appeared as gaping mouths with slimy tongues and endlessly working jaws. Others were little more than oversized genital organs, throbbing with lusts that could never be eased.
Hia were different. Many had never been embodied but existed as pure, crackling energy. Hia who had been corrupted by siu gave off a distinct smell of decay. They tended to stay close to their corrupters, basking in the sulfurous glow of concentrated evil.
As this hideous assemblage gathered, Pepan braced himself. He still did not know enough about the Otherworld to know how to fight them but was trusting to instinct. And the ancestors. But they seemed to be drawing back, pulling away.
From within the hovering cloud came the voice of the Prophet. The child is not without resources of its own, she said. Watch … and learn.
When labor began, the infant had ceased to emit its characteristic tonal signal. For a time it was silent, all its energies focused on the convulsive struggle to escape the womb. The birthing was swift, but no sooner had the child emerged from Vesi’s body than it sent out a new signal, a layered, complex chord of ineffable sweetness that rose and fell with its lusty cries.
The sound rang like a chime through the Otherworld.
The rapacious horde halted abruptly. A few—the older, more experienced—even turned back. The others milled around in confusion, snarling and snapping at one another but advancing no farther.
Pepan asked, What happened? I do not understand.
A sma
ll part of each of us is now in that child, replied the voice of the Prophet, making him more powerful than any single member of our race has ever been. Demons and those they influence are destructive rather than creative. A lack of creativity means a lack of imagination. Without imagination they cannot encompass a new idea—and this child represents a new idea. He frightens them.
Abruptly, the sound the child was making changed, becoming a deep growl that provided a startling counterpoint to the original sweetness of tone. The effect was disturbing; one by one the gathered hia and siu turned and melted back into the Otherworld.
What’s wrong? Pepan asked the ancestors.
Demon-song, his father replied. You did not tell us the infant was siu-spawn. Although there was no inflection in his voice, Pepan could sense his anger. We have gifted the offspring of a demon. My son, do you know what you have done?
Will you take back your gifts because of it? Pepan countered.
The cloud roiled again. At last the Prophet spoke. All things happen as they should. What we have given, we do not reclaim. But although we return to the Netherworld, you are commanded to stay close to this child The gifts that burn within him must have every possible good influence to counterbalance the evil. He will have further need of you … and so will our people.
Pepan turned away to hide his delight. If it is my destiny … then so be it.
The voice of the Prophet darkened. The threads of destiny grow very knotted, Pepan.
Beware.
FIFTEEN
As soon as she was able, Vesi reached for her baby. Wordlessly Repana put the infant into her arms. The two women stared down at the head nuzzling Vesi’s breast. Aside from a downy cap of lustrous dark hair, the infant looked like any other newborn, red faced and wrinkled. Vesi gave a great sigh of relief. “I was afraid …”
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