The spirit raised its head and opened its mouth, the interior of which was black. No sound came out.
‘Oh, you are parched, of course,’ Xanthe said. ‘Do you choose death or life, dark lady? You see, I am merciful. I give you that choice.’She squatted down before the spirit. ‘As I know your kind, Ophidia, you must know mine. We have a long history between us. I walk the land, but you cannot. You are the cauldron of venom, and I am its channel. Together we become greater than our separate parts. You have killed my love, and made me all that I sought to forget. So, we must revive the ancient contract. Refuse me, and you die.’
The Damozel’s eyes were black holes in her pale countenance, without expression. Then, with painful slowness, she attempted to crawl to Xanthe across the crumbling soil.
Xanthe smiled to herself and stood up, retreating a few steps. She gestured with both arms. ‘Come, come to me, serpent flower. Get to your feet.’
Stumbling, the Damozel lifted her body erect. It seemed she was unused to it, for her limbs moved awkwardly. There was a hunger in her posture, in the curve of her spine.
Xanthe put her hands upon the mushroomy flesh of the Damozel’s arms and lifted her as if she were a child. Xanthe opened her mouth wide and lifted her tongue. In the moonlight, two dark glands that leaked an inky liquid extended over her lower teeth. Even before the Damozel’s lips met her own, a spray of venom jetted out of her mouth, smelling of burned feathers. ‘I know you,’ Xanthe hissed. ‘Take my bane.’
The house was cool now, a shadowy sanctuary from the sun. The gardens below simmered and seethed in the last of summer’s heat; the grass now parched and crisp, the flowers brown and withered. Xanthe looked out upon the garden from her bedroom window as Hesta busied herself stripping the sheets from the bed. Summer was breaking now. It would not be long before the cold came creeping across the land, bringing with it the desire for sleep.
‘My lady,’ Hesta said.
Xanthe turned and found the woman holding out the folds of white bed-sheet to her. They were filled with a fibrous dust. ‘Yes, it is time.’ She stroked her swollen belly, where the heart of a daughter beat and grew. Xanthe’s kind rarely had sons. She took some of the dust in her fingers, then let it trickle away. Her skin itched, and now her face looked grey and tired.
‘It has been a long summer,’ Xanthe said. ‘I will be glad to cast it away.’
She removed her dress and went naked through the house, down long stairs, through the drawing-room and out into the sunlight, moving stiffly. The desiccated lawn crunched beneath her feet. In the herb-garden, the soles of her feet burned against the flagstones, yet her face registered no pain. Deeper now, into the court of the queen. The bower thrived in a tropical lushness, and a single flower remained in the midst of the Damozel’s leaves. Here, Xanthe lay down upon the soil. She closed her eyes and arched her back, her brow wrinkled in a frown. She touched her throat, and then pressed one finger-nail, the colour of dried blood, against her flesh. The skin parted with a soft popping sound. Slowly, she drew the nail down her body, opening herself up like a flower. Pollen drifted down from the Damozel; the last of it. No blood beaded along the deep scratch in Xanthe’s flesh. The skin simply lifted away, like old paper, crumbling with age. Beneath it lay clean, virgin skin already coloured a deep honey gold, glistening as if kneaded with rich oils. Softly, the last petals of the Damozel fell down upon Xanthe’s body and veiled her eyes.
The Face of Sekt
This story first appeared in ‘Grotesques: a Bestiary’, 2002, edited by Thomas Roche and Nancy Kilpatrick (Berkeley).
As ‘My Lady of the Hearth’ involved a reinterpretation of the Egyptian goddess, Bast, so this story introduces Sekt, the Mewtish version of the lioness-headed Sekhmet. I set the story in the land of Jessapur, which is mentioned only briefly in the Magravandias Chronicles. It was inspired by the mystery-steeped land of India, which is such a wonderful and colourful place – even in this reality – it could have been invented by a writer of fantasy. The Hindu religion is as old as that of the Pharaohs in Egypt, the main difference being that the Hindu rituals and ceremonies have survived and still thrive to this day, while those of the Egyptians are mostly forgotten, or are recorded only in fragments. India has inspired a great many writers, and I was eager to explore Jessapur. In this story, Sekt is a foreign goddess, imported by conquering invaders, but shaped by the land to which she has become native.
I have reinstated some paragraphs that were cut from the ‘Grotesques’ version.
I am the lioness. I speak with her voice. I look out through her eyes. I am she. I doze in the hot bars of sunlight that come down through the temple roof. I breathe in the scent of flowers. Priests come to me and ask questions so I will talk. It doesn’t matter what I say, because all the words of the goddess have meaning. They sing to me to improve my humour. ‘Oh mighty one, sheathe your claws of gold. Let your eyes shine with the summer light. Blaze not our hearts from us with your gaze. Let your voice be soft, oh snarling one. Be kind to us.’
‘Know me,’ I answer in a purr and stretch out my body on the tiles.
They prostrate themselves and then, Meni, the high priest will raise himself before the others. ‘Oh mighty Sekt, beloved of Aan, queen of fire, lady of the red flower, hear our petitions.’
Aan, I might mention, is my husband, whom I have never met. He lives in another temple somewhere. They say his face is beautiful, but the chances are I will never find this out for myself.
‘Speak,’ I say, yawning.
And they do. The questions are too tedious to relate. I have to let my mind go blank so the answers will come. Say this prayer, do that ritual task, cast scent, rake the sand, spill blood. It’s all they want from me.
The crown of the goddess covers my head, my face and rests upon my shoulders. It is fashioned from beaten leaves of gold, shaped and painted. Wearing it, I resemble the black basalt statues of the goddess that line the courtyards and populate the darkest niches of the temple: lioness-headed women. The mask was put upon me in my fifteenth year and comes off rarely. No one may see the true face of the goddess. My hand-maidens withdraw from my chamber before I remove it to sleep.
There are no mirrors in my chamber, none of Mewtish gold nor Cossic glass. If I looked upon myself I might die, for once I was human and the body that carries this goddess is still that of a woman. It is frail. I dare not even touch my face for fear of what my fingers might explore. When the mask was put upon me, Sekt entered my flesh. I was changed somehow. I wash myself in a sacred fountain, so that only the water may touch my face and hair.
I have lived this divine life for nearly ten years. The time before that is hazy in my memory now. I remember being a child and the smell of dust in the heat. I remember looking down at my bare dusty toes, and somewhere a voice is scolding me for being wayward. But the name they called, I can’t remember that at all. She doesn’t exist any more. I am Sekt. I am she.
At one time, our land was a province of the sacred kingdom of Mewt and although those empire days are but distant memories, our culture is still saturated, if subtly, with Mewtish things. Our major religion is one of them. Taskish monks might still swing their bells in their high, lonely eyries of peaks and draughts, but down here where the sun beats relentlessly, we are devoted to the goddess, Sekt, the Mewtish lioness deity. Originally, she was a goddess of war, whose fierce countenance gazed down from the banners of Harakhte the conqueror. One of the first things he did here in Madramarta, capital of Jessapur, was build a temple in Sekt’s honour. That temple still stands and has been added to over the years, to create a great sprawling complex near the edge of the city. It is a labyrinth of immense chambers, full of shadows, and tiny shrines where a priestess might mutter in the dark. It is called the Sektaeon. Back in the days when Harakhte sought to rule the world, the daughters of native high caste families were first taken into service here. The most beautiful and noble women became her new priestesshood in this country. One the eve of the grea
t festival of Sekt, a woman came from Akahana, the Mewtish capital. Her name was Senu, and she was the High Priestess of Sekt. Senu selected the girl who would become the goddess’ avatar in Jessapur. A mask was fashioned in the semblance of Sekt and, with great ceremony, it was placed over the head of the girl, rarely to be removed, and never in public. From that day onwards, the girl was called Sekt also. She wore the golden face of a lioness, always proud, always snarling.
Sometimes, as I am lazing in my garden, I wonder whether that first goddess-made-flesh put up a fight. To the noble families of Madramarta, the abduction of their daughters must have seemed a terrible thing. Women of their caste would never have been expected to serve others, and what is the avatar of Sekt but a servant of both the people and the goddess? Sekt was a deity of war and retribution, far different from the gentle divine mothers and concubines my people knew and loved. Sekt would have none of them. The native deities were weak, servile, and yet the paradox was that to be worthy of the goddess, our women had to become all that she was alleged to despise. We had to serve her without question.
This does not mean I resent my calling. As a representation of Sekt on earth, I am above such petty feeling. I am privileged above all other women. I have no secret yearning to escape the temple, or even this mask. I can bask in the sun all day if I want to. I don’t have to think. So, why bother? Long ago, my people embraced Sekt as a national goddess. At first, this may have been through fear, but later because they saw her power to work for them. Once they were herded into Sekt’s temples and shrines, newly built and gleaming among our ancient hills, she turned her face towards them. She listened to their prayers, and very soon afterwards Harakhte was killed in battle by the king of Cos, and the Mewtish empire fell. Jessapur regained her independence. She has never lost it since. I like this irony. I believe Sekt loves us.
Every day, priests and priestesses in fire red robes walk the temple from end to end, renewing the magical seals over every entrance, however small. This is to keep the ancient spirits at bay, the djinn of the arid wilderness beyond the city and its fertile girdle of land. The djinn are born of fire and are therefore attracted to a goddess of that element. They desire also to wear flesh, and who better to steal a body from than a priest or priestess of fire? Sometimes, I think the djinn are long dead, and the precautions are only tired old ritual, but at other times, when the wind blows hot through the long reaches of the night, I hear a voice from the wilderness, in my heart rather than my ears, and it unnerves me.
Meni, my high priest, came to me this morning, in my solarium, which is actually a shady, green place. He glided between the lush trees and plants, dappled by the sunlight that found its way through the waving fronds of the vines. I was reclining upon some cushions, surrounded by lionesses, who lay licking their paws at my feet. We were being serenaded by the water garden. The rivulets conjured different notes as they ran through the various mechanisms hidden among the ferns. I was not in the best of moods as, during the night, the wind had blown with exceptional passion from the wilderness, carrying with it a scent of burning meat. I had turned restlessly, woken up from a dream of smoke. The darkness in my chamber had seemed watchful, almost sly. A flavour of the haunted night remained with me. I wondered whether it was a portent, and perhaps it was, for the high priest clearly hid a certain agitation beneath his serene and flawless countenance.
Meni stood before me and bowed. ‘Your reverence, there is a matter for your attention.’
I have nothing to do most of the time, so it really perplexes me why every possibility of action seems only an irritant. ‘Oh, what, Meni? Can’t you see to it?’
He bowed again. ‘Your reverence, it is a matter of importance. King Jaiver himself has requested that you turn your divine face towards it.’
‘What matter is it?’
‘It concerns the Prince Reevan. He has a malady.’
One of Sekt’s aspects is a goddess of plagues, but she is equally adept at averting human illness. ‘I shall burn a pouch of incense for the boy and direct Sekt’s healing force in the direction of the palace.’
Meni paused. ‘It is rather more than that,’ he said. ‘The king has requested your presence.’
That made me sit up. ‘Indeed?’ I did not have to go. I was a goddess, who obeyed no one, yet I was intrigued as to why the king desired my physical presence. Was the prince so desperately ill? But that did not make sense. The most ailing of royals were generally carried to the temple, where they could be nursed by the priestesses, close to the presence of Sekt. ‘What is the nature of this malady, Meni?’
He shrugged. ‘I have not been told, your reverence. All I know is that Jaiver humbly requests your presence and has already made an sizeable donation to the temple treasury.’
‘Then prepare my litter.’
Meni bowed and departed, and presently a retinue of servants came padding to my garden, where they attended to my needs. They washed my hands and feet, and rubbed the palms and soles with red ochre. They applied cinnamon perfume to my wrists and throat, and veiled me in scarlet voile from head to foot. Beyond the temple, I would be concealed behind the curtains of my litter, but sometimes in the labyrinth of the city, strange winds can arise, which might blow the curtains apart. We have to take precautions so that common people never behold the face of the goddess.
The tasselled litter was carried by four eunuch priests. Before it, marched a dozen priestesses in the red and gold robes of Sekt. They scattered petals of scarlet poppies before my path. At the head of the procession, Meni rode upon a beautiful nut-coloured horse. Behind my litter strode three priests who also acted as my bodyguards. And behind them was a company of neophyte priests and priestesses, on hand to collect any spontaneous donations onlookers might wish to make.
Thus, we processed through the faded grandeur of old Madramarta. I love my city, although I rarely get to see it. It is a like a ghost of what it used to be, yet still beautiful. The ancient palaces are now tenement buildings full of low caste workers, or else they have been turned into bazaars. The temples of forgotten gods stand rotting amid jungled gardens. In the dusty streets, forlorn peacocks trail their tails in the dirt, crying plaintively for the ordered landscapes of their ancestors. Everywhere there is evidence of a past opulence, now lost. As a province of Mewt, we prospered, for the Mewts loved the idea of sacred blood - such as the ichor that runs in the veins of our aristocratic families - and honoured our country. They were not harsh governors and shared with us their knowledge of arts both occult and scientific. Now, in a time of independence, internal politics ravage the heart of Jessapur. The lowborn have turned our palaces into warrens. They spit on the idea of divine providence and seek power for themselves. The king still reigns, but just. His palace is a citadel.
We passed through the first series of gates and towers, into open park land, where pale deer run. In the distance, we could see the ghost of the white palace shimmering in the heat. It is called Jurada, which means home of the high god. Only as you draw close to it can you tell it is not a mirage. Trefoil lakes surround it, and mock temples, and ornate gardens. Even though so many of the ancient houses have fallen into disrepair, Jurada still gleams as if new. It is said the entire remaining wealth of the country is divided between the upkeep of the temple of Sekt and that of the royal palace.
My party had to walk for nearly an hour along a shady avenue to reach Jurada. We came to a halt by a pool full of exotic fish in front of the main entrance. A scrum of servants ran out from the cool depths of the hall and laid down a carpet of ferns for me to step upon. I was offered saffron water and a piece of sugared coconut, which I accepted with grace. Meni went ahead of me into the palace and the rest of my retinue surrounded me protectively. The priestesses sang in rapturous high voices while the priests hummed an accompanying undertone. I put my sacred feet upon the ferns and walked the short distance to the hall. I left scarlet footprints.
The king was waiting for us in his throne room, which seemed a l
ittle inappropriate to me. I felt we should have conducted directly to the royal family’s private apartments, where the prince must lie in his sick bed. Was this a subtle affront? I was alert for strangenesses. A memory of my dream of smoke came back to me. Queen Satifa was present, magnificent in cloth of gold with a diadem of emeralds upon her regal brow. She sat on a golden throne beside the king, who was surrounded by courtiers in dark robes, the magi who counselled him. The chamberlain, chief conjuror over this clutch of demons, stood imperiously to the left of the king’s throne. There was no sign of the crown prince, nor indeed of any of the other royal children or wives. The king’s expression was grave.
He inclined his head to me, as I did to him, my hands raised, palms together, before my breast. ‘Oh mightiness, you have called for me. How may I aid you?’
The king made a nervous, abrupt gesture with one hand. ‘I am grateful for your presence, revered lady. My concern is Prince Reevan. He is sorely afflicted.’
‘Take me to him. I will assuage his hurts.’
‘It is not that simple.’
I narrowed my eyes slightly, although no one would be able to tell because of the mask. All they’d see was the snarling face of the goddess, dimly through my veil. ‘Please explain the difficulty, your mightiness.’ I glanced at the queen. Her head was lowered. She would not look at me.
‘A demon has possessed him,’ said the king.
I paused. ‘A demon, mightiness?’ This would explain, then, the reluctance to bring the prince to the temple.
He looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Yes. That is the diagnosis.’
‘By whom, may I ask?’ I turned my head towards the vizier so he’d be sure I was looking at him.
‘A wise man has come to us,’ said the king.
‘A wise man?’ I said haughtily. Who was it making diagnoses of royal ailments – indeed possessions – before I? ‘Are you sure his appraisal of the situation is sound? There are old legends concerning possession by demons, but now our more enlightened understanding is that, in most cases, when people were said to be hag-ridden, they were in fact afflicted by a malady of the mind. You must tell me, your mightiness, of your son’s symptoms.’
The Thorn Boy Page 26
