Master of Poisons

by Andrea Hairston

  “Time favors no one,” Djola said. He must get to Azizi.

  Two young transgressors, a boy and girl, Zamanzi twins from the north, scrambled from a hovel into the courtyard. Djola recognized new detainees from their nut-brown color, thick locks, and sweet sweat scent. They leapt from altar to altar.

  “That’s the idea,” he cheered.

  As the twin acrobats jumped onto a red gelding, a skeletal figure stumbled out a hut. Pasty skin hung from wasting muscles. Blood-crusted rags reeked. Wiry hair was patchy on a burnt scalp.

  “Samina?” He reached for a ghost haunting him in bright sunlight. A man, not dead Samina, gripped Djola’s hands, muttering gratitude. Attending to his next breath, Djola gathered his wits and pulled away. “Go on, man, escape.”

  Lesser priests and acolytes bolted up and chanted curses. The skeleton hesitated. Billowing robes blocked his path to the horses. Other transgressors grumbled and stepped farther back into the hovels.

  “They’re wiser than you,” Tembe shouted. “They refuse to abandon the supreme god’s judgment and desecrate our horseflesh.”

  Djola wanted to curse them all, but refrained from wasting heart spirit. Leading the black mare, he stomped through witchdoctors and priests to the hovels. Other horses followed. “Death comes one way or another. This way is freedom too,” he shouted. A few brave souls ventured from every door. “Escape! Claim your lives!”

  “What life would that be?” A transgressor yelled from the shadows, a girl. “We saw what you did.” Unusual to hear an adolescent woman speak where grown men had lost their voices. “You might be worse than what we already suffer. Why follow your orders?” She asked a good question.

  “There are better gods than these mountain fiends,” he replied. “Somewhere there is free air to breathe. Time runs out for Holy City.”

  A horse stepped among the transgressors, unafraid. A storm of a woman, sporting a mop of golden hair and freckled skin, threw her arms around its neck and wept. The horse nuzzled her heaving sides. Priests and dancers howled outrage, but transgressors poured from the hovels. They hobbled around the sundial courtyard and gripped amiable steeds. Stumbling over priests, they pulled each other onto even frisky beasts. Bushy tails whacked bald heads; dung splattered naked feet. Horses dumped a few transgressors onto sharp crystals then nibbled shoulders, but trampled any priest who came near—like pratfalls from a carnival act. Tembe seethed at desecration as the golden-haired woman hauled herself onto her horse’s back and trotted off.

  “Wait.” A young witchdoctor tried to calm a skittish yearling and got dragged toward the trees. A handsome fellow with long black hair and almond eyes, he threw himself onto the horse and charged after the golden-haired woman. “Wait for me.”

  “Ride fast, ride far, across the river.” Djola spooked the horses into a gallop.

  Racing across the meadows, they jumped disintegrating corral walls and charged onto the Empire Road. Ragtag escapees clung to their steeds as if it were a matter of life and death. They hadn’t lost all spirit. When thundering hooves were a distant echo, the few remaining transgressors retreated into their hovels. The festival crowd hooted.

  “Did that Kyrie witch send a demon to free transgressors?” someone yelled.

  “Kyrie would never do something like this to Ice Mountain,” Tembe yelled back.

  Barbarians reached for absent weapons and clutched air. Northern chiefs made signs to ward off evil. Priests and acolytes tore at their beards and wailed. Tembe and the cooks ululated. Drummers accompanied their distress. Finally believing their eyes, the good Empire citizens stomped over each other to escape the doomed plaza.

  11

  Garden Sprite

  Djola allowed himself several belly laughs. Mirth banished ghosts and cleared his head, but the hairline crack around his heart widened. He exhaled slowly and pulled a travel cloak from Vandana’s small bag. He’d done what he could, more than he thought possible.

  “The trees weep,” the feisty young transgressor said. She held a withered arm close to her body and dragged a wounded leg. An Aido bag hung at her waist, barely visible. Crystals cut her bare feet. Wiry black hair was filled with straw and clumps of mud or worse filth. Red rivulets streaked a once-green shift. Priests had bled her recently. The black mare lifted her head and neighed. The girl staggered toward her.

  “What are you?” Djola squinted at dangling seed earrings and an anklet fashioned from catalpa pods, beetle carapaces, and dead bees. “A Garden Sprite?”

  “They don’t see”—the girl’s wide nostrils flared—“but I know what you did.”

  The last of Djola’s audience grumbled useless death threats at her for desecrating the sundial courtyard. Hezram hushed them with a sweep of his arms. An acolyte stuck out a foot to trip her. She stomped him and, from the crunch and yelp, broke bones in his leg. Djola grinned at this emaciated young survivor. She hobbled to the mare’s nose, getting a tongue across her cheek and a nip on her ear.

  “Everyone should run.” The girl’s voice cracked. “The mountain falls to its knees and poisons the Amethyst River. The air turns bitter.” She clung to the mare’s luxurious red mane, wheezing. Her body was weaker than her spirit. “You make a wasteland. Across the meadow, trees moan. The dirt dies and honeybees are wailing.”

  High priest Hezram took a sharp breath, and Djola nodded. This was proof Council could not deny. This Sprite saw what others could not. “Was your transgression flying with bees?” Or smoke-walking like Samina? No. The girl would be dead or somebody’s spirit slave. Maybe her crime was withered limbs and a sharp tongue.

  Hezram lurched into the green-land meadow. He hugged muddy blue robes to heaving ribs and spoke priestly nonsense. His prayer couldn’t stop disaster that he and good citizens had begun years before this festival of reckoning. Hezram scurried from encroaching sand onto still green grass. His ankles were red and blistered. “What have you done?” Fruit trees crumbled.

  “Don’t blame me,” Djola replied. “Not a curse or weapon-conjure, but what you’ve been doing for years, what everybody does across the Empire and beyond, only faster.”

  Hezram gazed down at dying grass. “What do we do like this?”

  “You know better than I do.”

  “Escape!” Tembe led drummers along the edge of the stone altar square and through Green Gate rubble. Barbarians, priests, and cook women stumbled behind her toward the Empire Road. “Our world comes to an end.”

  “The wise woman speaks truth,” Djola said. “The end of days. Change or die.”

  Djola tucked two yards of blind man staff into Vandana’s bag and leapt onto the black mare. He gently pressed his legs into her sides. The horse took a reluctant step then rested her head on the young transgressor’s shoulder. Djola pressed the mare again. She didn’t budge. The girl clutched the thick red mane. They were old friends.

  “I guess you’re meant to come with us. I ride to Arkhys City to the emperor.” Djola extended his right hand. The girl glared at silver-mesh and stepped back. “The glove is protection. Besides, my left hand calls reckoning fire.”

  “And your right eye sees it.” She grimaced. “I watched you.”

  “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  “I would ride with death.”

  “Would you rather stand with death?”

  The courtyard quaked. Cliffs collapsed into the Amethyst River’s underground channels. Green leaves turned to golden ash in a whirlwind. The girl changed her mind and gripped Djola’s wrist. He hauled her up behind him and sang a Green Elder melody. The mare gnashed her teeth and rose up on powerful hind legs, a warhorse ready to chase death. They rammed past Hezram who fell on his face as the mare charged down the Empire Road.

  The girl never understood why the Master of Poisons decided to take on a transgressor at the start of his triumphal return to Arkhys City and the emperor’s court of power. All he would tell her was:

  “I’m the end of a story. You are a prelude to change.”
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  12

  Escape

  The outskirts of Holy City rushed by in a blur. Awa was sick with dread. She couldn’t see, couldn’t think. She wanted to leap off Fannie and run. A sliced-up leg wouldn’t carry her far, and the warhorse scrambled through rocky terrain too fast. A fall would break Awa’s neck. And could she abandon Fannie? Trapped behind a monster, Awa balled her strong fist and moaned. That was better than silence. She and Meera had dreamed a different escape. They’d stashed coin, clothes, and food in the meadows and planned to steal Fannie and Bibi.

  Meera had people to run to across the Amethyst River, far away north near Arkhys City. Rokiat was one ceremony from Master of Horses and witchdoctor of the Green Gates. He could have unlocked another future for them tomorrow. Awa understood Rokiat abandoning her, but Meera rode Bibi down the Empire Road without a glance in Awa’s direction. They’d shared food, dreams, and secrets, even despair. In fact, Awa was more a hero than Rokiat. She’d risked herself several times to save Meera’s life. Awa swallowed a scream.

  Actually, she was mad at Meera for not being Bal. “Zst!”

  “Do you curse a hero?” the poison master shouted into the wind.

  He was a tall man, muscular, fierce, confident in his power and used to respect. Blue and green tattoos on his smooth bald head shimmered with silver. He had made his mind a fortress. Silver tattoos must cover his heart. Awa shuddered. She rode with a handsome fiend who felt nobody else’s pain or joy.

  “Too often, the heroes or gods we bow down to become the monsters that stomp our bones and drink our blood.” He translated a line from The Green Elder Songs for Living and Dying into Empire vernacular. Awa was unimpressed. Everyone made fun of Green Elder wisdom. She had done so herself as a young Sprite. But The Songs were no longer blather she mouthed to satisfy Yari, Isra, and other Elders. Too much had come clear to her for easy laughter.

  “Our hearts betray us,” the poison master said. “Do you understand?”

  Awa shook her head. Her heart ached from Meera abandoning her and even more from older wounds. She couldn’t blame Father, Mother, or her brothers for all her misery. Awa was the fool who had abandoned Bal and Yari.

  “You spoke freely before, child. Why be silent now?” the poison master said. “Fatazz! I bet you’re older than you look with a good story to tell.”

  “I’m soon twenty.” Awa clutched Bal’s Aido bag. “Life in a Green Elder enclave was a good story, but that time is gone, a griot tale for children.”

  The poison master startled Awa with Green Elder song-conjure:

  Gray is the day—bleak is the way—cracked is my heart, yet—

  Every breath a wonder, every moment thunder

  Miracles crashing the night

  Offering a blaze of light

  He did harmonies, polyrhythms, and overtones.

  Where do we start—lost is my art—cracked is my heart, yet—

  Every beat a wonder, before we’re torn asunder

  Miracles crashing the night

  Offering a blaze of light

  Dance and sing while the wind blows

  Where our ashes land, who knows?

  Leap and soar while the rain falls

  We must be ready when the spirit calls

  Winded, Fannie slowed down, despite conjure music. Even a warhorse couldn’t run forever. They trotted along the tree-lined banks of the Amethyst River. The surrounding green lands were not as lush as Hezram’s preserve, yet the smell of goat manure, mangoes, and corn soothed Awa.

  Farm laborers, who had no time for festivals, dotted the fields, threshing a second harvest. They halted as talking drums warned outlying villages and farms of disaster charging their way. Awa looked back at Holy City. Dream Gate towers and blue treasury cupolas were still in sight. Fear and death rode the wind and stung her eyes. As she blinked, blue cupolas blurred into red-tinged sand.

  “Good citizens guzzled transgressor blood; it explodes through their skin,” the poison master said without looking.

  Awa marveled. “The gates hold fast.”

  “Of course. Silver lacework is cold conjure and impervious to fire and dust storms.”

  “And when no acolytes feed spirit slaves blood and oil?” Awa bit her lip.

  “They become void-smoke. I could teach this spell to one such as you in an hour.”

  “Why teach me?” Awa asked.

  “You see what hides in plain sight.”

  Awa squinted back at the city. “Why teach anybody a nightmare spell?”

  The poison master bristled. “Ignorance won’t save us.”

  “Neither will arrogance.” Fannie flicked her tail, as if she agreed.

  Cottages and bridges collapsed on dancers, priests, apprentices, and laborers. White flames scorched the sky, claiming crows, hawks, and rare songbirds who’d come for the festival. Sand fell instead of afternoon rain, searing the dead and dying. Trees couldn’t get up and run in the everyday. Seeds flung into the wind burned. Few people or animals would escape. The devastation was too quick-moving. Awa’s brothers might be poison dust if they hadn’t already moved on to Arkhys City, Meera and Rokiat too, if their horses weren’t fast and sure. The trees wailed mourning. Awa croaked a harmony to the burning branches and crackling leaves.

  “Do you curse a hero?” The poison master asked again, low in his chest. A threat?

  “What hero?” Awa said. Was he truly deluded? “You?” She bit her tongue too late. Living in a transgressor hut, she usually sassed in her mind, keeping her spirit alive without risking her neck. Tree song made her reckless.

  “Heroes are fools,” he said. “I curse them too.”

  Farm laborers ran around Fannie, heading toward disaster, toward families trapped in a city turning to poison desert. The poison master warned them to turn back, but they continued going in the wrong direction. The poison master finished his song:

  Lost is my art—cracked is my heart, yet—

  Who knows what tree grows

  I say, who knows what tree grows

  In all our lost art

  In the crack in my heart

  The piebald crow soared and dipped in time with his melody, warning the flock. Awa wanted to urge crows to peck the poison master’s eyes or call bees to sting him.

  “Green Elders say folks who curse others waste passion,” he said. “Worse, they curse themselves. Squandering heart spirit on ill will supposedly hastens death.”

  “In Holy City, I never saw curses turn back on anybody, even inside Hezram’s Gates—except a weapon-spell.” Still, she’d refrained from cursing priests, Zamanzi, barbarians, Father, Mother, or brother Kenu. Conjure was a long game. Power for spells was borrowed from the same well that nourished heart spirit. Blessings might fill the well; curses drained the heart for sure. “Reckoning fire awaits conjurers who abuse borrowed power.”

  “Maybe,” he growled. “How did you survive the huts without curses?”

  Awa unsettled stomachs or called bees to sting bald heads, outside the Nightmare Gates. She put the vilest characters out of commission for days, provided a respite for everyone, and never killed a soul. Wielding a polyrhythm of curse and blessing, she let people poison themselves. Even stomping Jod in Rainbow Square had been self-defense, not revenge. Hopefully she hadn’t wrecked her heart spirit slaughtering so many cathedral trees.

  “I poured libation to crossroads gods.” Awa lied with truth, a Holy City habit.

  “Curses lurk inside you,” the poison master said, “for fathers and witchdoctors.”

  “I curse nobody,” Awa said. The poison master was probably beyond her modest skill, like Hezram. “A little torment. Trickster crows are happy to oblige.”

  “Good girl.” He nodded as they left grain fields behind and rode into a scrub brush wasteland. Cathedral trees hugged the riverbanks. “When I was a captive on a pirate ship, I cursed too many folks—ruined my heart.”

  Awa considered him with new interest. Such a powerful medicine man had been a cap
tive? Despite the fortress-spell, he rubbed his chest as if his heart ached for the evil he’d done. Rumbles under the roadbed interrupted her inspection. “Do you hear?” she said, a challenge as much as a question.

  The poison master tensed. “The roots warn us, warn everyone.”

  Trees swayed as if in the grip of a tempest. The Amethyst River twisted around a bend and swelled over its banks. Torrents of mud-brown water inundated its placid blue-green currents. Swarms of insects rushed ahead of feasting bats.

  “Zst!” Awa said.

  “What? Do the roots say more?”

  Awa shook her head. “My friends Meera and Rokiat raced off on warhorses. I don’t know which direction they took.” She was furious with them, yet still hoped they’d made it across the city bridge. “Meera and I would have ridden off together, tomorrow.”

  “What about the other transgressors tomorrow?” His anger was a smack.

  How was Awa responsible for them? “We planned an escape, not a rebellion.”

  “Apocalypse on our heels. We must all hurry.” Singing conjure music, he urged Fannie to a fast trot.

  “Even she won’t last at this pace,” Awa said. “Flesh and blood have limits.” Escape with one rider would be faster.

  This must have also occurred to the poison master. “I can’t abandon you, child. The mare loves you. A broken heart won’t take me far.”

  Fannie slowed to a pace she could maintain without breaking her heart.

  13

  Glory and Love

  A few hours of freedom and Awa’s head throbbed and her butt ached. The poison master reminded her of compelling fiends in the border-void who could unravel the best minds. Yet the headache was her own fault. She could never help thinking a knotted thing apart. This was her genius and also torment. Most Sprites played first thought against second and third thoughts and, no matter the clash and confusion, held the polyrhythm for truth. Awa never stopped at a clash of three or five or seven or … How else to survive Smokeland or a transgressor hut? She hadn’t forgotten herself after all.