Sheri Tepper - Singer From The Sea

by Singer From The Sea(Lit)

  Joncaster frowned. "And your father has never been to Mahahm before... ?"

  His sister interrupted. "It makes no never mind, Joncee. Many of the Prince's allies have never come to Mahahm, which doesn't prevent their receiving Mahahm's gift back on Haven. Her father could be one of them without ever having seen Mahahm!"

  "Hush," said Melanie from behind them. "Whatever he is, Genevieve can't presume to speak for him. She can only speak for herself, and today we will give her a reason for doing so. For now, let her eat."

  Irritated past endurance, Genevieve cried, "Do you know where my husband is? Does anyone know?"

  A silence fell, almost as though those in the room had drawn breath together, and Melanie turned into that silence, saying, "Her husband is Aufors Leys. A Colonel in the Lord Paramount's armies, but a commoner."

  "A commoner?" said her companions, both together.

  Joncaster turned back to Genevieve with an almost friendly expression, "How did you manage that?"

  "More important, why did you manage that?" demanded Enid, retaining her skeptical air.

  Talking about Aufors was easier than answering their questions, so she talked... no, she spouted about Aufors, between sips of tea and bites of bread and cheese: how they met, why she ran away, why she returned, why she finally consented to marry him. She edited all of it, telling about her oath to her mother, but leaving out any reference to talking fish with or without human-seeming spokesmen, telling about Stephanie's book, but leaving out the exercises her mother had taught her. When she had finished, Joncaster seemed satisfied, and even Enid's expression had softened.

  Enid said, "The airship was seen crossing the channel to the next island north. Whether the ship returned to Haven or stopped among the islands, we don't yet know, though it won't take long for our friends to find out."

  Melanie had been talking with others in the room, but now she returned, asking them to hurry. "Will you go with us?" she asked Enid, who turned away from her with an expression of revulsion.

  "I've seen enough of it," said Enid angrily. "She seems all right! Why don't you just tell her about it? Why put her through..."

  "She has to see it," said Melanie firmly. "If she is to understand, she must see. I'll take her, and Joncaster can drive."

  "Oh, yes, I'll drive," said Joncaster. "But Enid has the right of it."

  Enid shrugged, took Genevieve's hand and squeezed it almost hurtfully, then abruptly left the table.

  Melanie waited while Genevieve finished the last of the food before her. "Joncaster and Enid are intellectual heirs of the environmental engineers on the ark ship, those responsible for maintenance of the machines that kept our cargo alive." This had a rehearsed sound to it, as though she had offered the explanation more than once.

  "Oh, I like that," said Joncaster, with a wry twist of his lips. "Intellectual heirs. She says that just to cheer us. We're more like persistent fumblers. Trial-and-error tinkerers. Luckily, the machines we have today are practically foolproof, or we'd never make them work."

  "Where do you get them?" asked Genevieve.

  "Well, though we continually expect to be caught at it, we usually steal them from Haven. That's where we get sand-sleds, one of which we'll be using today. Come along. Melanie's right. We should leave before the wind rises. The sleds weren't designed to work in places as dusty as this, and they need constant fiddling with to keep them running."

  Genevieve put on the hooded robe that Melanie handed her, the one with Aufors's smell to it, the one she had worn when she arrived, though the malghaste rags had been removed. They went out through the atrium to the rooms on the far side, a dormitory, a library, and down the hall between them into another wide, low room, this one reeking of oil and chemicals. The sleds rested before an overhead door, their tops only inches off the floor, and Joncaster showed Genevieve how to arrange herself by lying prone on the padded deck that slanted slightly upward to a pillowed chin rest. Her arms went on either side of the rest. Melanie lay on her right and Joncaster on her left, his hands on the controls, which were in a shallow well before him. He moved a lever and the overhead door rose slowly until it was just above their heads.

  Genevieve wriggled uncomfortably, and he waited while she pulled her robe flat beneath her, saying, "For spying purposes, we've modified the sled to have a low profile. We removed the superstructure, took off the railings, turned the foot-operated controls into hand controls, padded the floor..."

  His words were lost in a rush of air as they left the shed, skimming out beneath the door and darting away around a dune, immediately losing any sight of the refuge behind them.

  "I hope you know where you're going," muttered Melanie.

  "I have the desert well in mind, madam. I will not lose you in it."

  Melanie continued unrepentently. "I trust someone found the flags?"

  "Yes, Melanie. Of course, Melanie. I did. Early this morning. We'll pick them up at the farthest point south from Mahahm-qum. The procession won't reach it until afternoon."

  "I walked for days," cried Genevieve. "And we can cover the distance in a morning?"

  "You didn't really walk," soothed Melanie. "You stumbled, mostly, up and down dunes, through heavy sand. As the bird flies, we are not actually very far from Mahahm-qum."

  Though Genevieve had a dozen questions she wanted to ask, the air was so full of grit that talking was impossible. Instead, she followed Melanie's example by lowering her hood over her eyes and turning her head to one side, resting it on the chin rest as on a pillow. Joncaster was the only one of them who had goggles, and even he soon wound a strip of fabric over his nose and mouth.

  Close to the ground as they were, they seemed to go very fast, though not in any straight direction. Joncaster kept them low, zipping along the bases of the dunes rather than over their tops. The heat made Genevieve drowsy, and she let her body relax against the padding, aware of passing time but paying no attention to it, coming to alertness only when Joncaster murmured, "There," as he pointed toward the top of the nearest dune where a red scrap fluttered in the ceaseless wind. "I found a cave nearby that we can watch from."

  "How far a cave?" asked Enid. "It's almost noon. We don't have much time."

  "Patience, madam. Patience."

  They veered widely around the base of the flag-topped dune, then went up another to encounter an outcropping of gray stone. Joncaster maneuvered the sled between two rough pillars and let it come to rest on an area of hard-packed sand beneath an overhang.

  They rose, stiff from the motionless hours. When they stepped away, Joncaster pulled a pack of netting from under the padding and tossed it over the sled. Between the shadow of the rock and the effect of the netting, the sled disappeared.

  "No one will see it unless they're looking for it, and so far as we know, no one's looking," said Melanie in a dispirited voice.

  Joncaster had moved away around the outcropping, and he returned, beckoning. "Keep it quiet. I hear harptas grunting, so they're not far. They've covered more distance than I thought they would. They must have had fewer candidates than usual."

  They found Joncaster's cave almost at the top of the outcropping, a shallow slit across the face of the rock, which Joncaster probed with a staff and a light, dislodging any of the desert's stingers and biters. They slithered into the crevice backward until the shadow covered their faces.

  Melanie handed Genevieve a square of the same netting they had thrown over the sled, showing her how to drape it to hide her face.

  "Now," said Joncaster, when each of them had wriggled a belly hollow in the sand carpeting the space. "You don't say a word, Genevieve. You don't cry out or scream or run out of this place in some crazy effort to stop anything that's happening, you understand? Nothing you can do will change what you see, and Madam Commander there says you have to see it, so stay quiet."

  She was immediately rebellious, and the feeling must have shown on her face, for Melanie took her hands and squeezed them, tightly.


  "What he says is true, Genevieve. Only your silence keeps us safe. If you are not concerned over your own safety, remember Dovidi, and your husband, and even Joncaster and me. You must watch quietly."

  "Hush," hissed Joncaster. "They're here!"

  Below them, within the scalloped rim of the lower dune, lay a broad blot of blood lichen, a few bristles of bonebush, a few taller sentinels of thorn. The flag marked one of the dips in the rim at the far side. Beside it rose the head of a man, then the head of a horse, then the bodies of both as the horse climbed over the rim. Once atop it, the horse was reined out of the line of march while four harpta lumbered past him, the first three accompanied by walking figures-half of them in black, half in white-and the fourth lizard burdened with basket panniers slung along its sides. From somewhere in the train, a baby cried, a single weak, querulous wail, and Genevieve's head came up, too swiftly.

  "Shh," murmured Melanie. "Don't move. Don't attract attention. Just watch. The one on the horse is the Shah. The white-robed ones are the candidates. The black-robed ones are the aspirants or their proxies. They're called 'ritual masters.'"

  The baby did not cry again. When all the persons and beasts were arrayed around the rim of the hollow, the Shah rode along their line, indicating this pair, that pair, this pair from among the black-and-white couples: six pair, all told, who knelt while the Shah raised his hands, mumbling something the observers could not hear.

  "He's giving them his blessing," whispered Melanie.

  The six black-robes moved to the pack-lizard, each taking a flat, woven basket from a pannier, each turning to guide one of the white-clad candidates down into the hollow. There each black-robe took a hooked blade from his belt and demonstrated to the candidate what was to be done: cut the lichen, so, near the ground, put the lichen, so, in the basket. The candidates knelt to the task, cutting the lichen close to the sand, placing the cut pieces into the baskets, dark scallops, winy under the sun. If they missed a single frond, the ritual masters pointed it out. The patch of lichen was a large one. The cutting took some time, and the white-clad figures slowed as they worked, until they were barely creeping by the time all was cut. The black-clad ritual masters carried the filled baskets up the slope and emptied them into the panniers, stowing the baskets there as well. The knives were sheathed at each black-belted waist, and the six black-clad ones returned to the hollow where each waited beside a candidate, head bowed, while the rest of the procession left the hollow as it had come.

  One harpta remained behind. It put back its head and bellowed to its departing kindred. An answer came from multiple throats. The interchange went on for some time, until the retreating calls faded into silent distance and the single beast was reduced to a gravelly muttering. Until that moment, not one human voice had spoken, not one word had been said.

  Melanie took hold of Genevieve's hand and held it tightly.

  One of the dark-clad figures uttered a command. The white-robed ones moved, uncertainly, and the command was repeated.

  The white outer robes were dropped to reveal the forms of women, young women, standing uncertainly on the sand.

  "Fold the robes," said the dark-clad leader. "Place them here."

  Though the language was still strange to her, Genevieve understood the command. The robes were folded and piled neatly, leaving the women still voluminously clad, but with their heads and lower arms exposed. As one of the women turned, her veil pulled aside, showing her face. Genevieve started, only to be seized at once from both sides, Joncaster's hand over her mouth, Melanie's arm over her shoulders.

  "You know her?" whispered Melanie.

  Genevieve nodded. Joncaster took his hand away, slowly, watching her. "One of the Shah's wives," she whispered. The one who had spoken to her.

  The women were led to the edges of the patch of lichen and evenly spaced about it.

  "Kneel down," said the black-robed leader. "Here, facing the lichen bed."

  "But," murmured one of the women in a drugged voice. "We are supposed to go... to go... to Galul."

  Genevieve stirred again. She knew the voice. Not the Shah's wife, but... someone she knew. Who could it be that she knew?

  "You will go," said the dark-robed one who had spoken. "This is your final task before going."

  They knelt down. Another of the dark-robed ones went to each of them in turn, offering a drink from a flask, which they gulped thirstily. Another black-robe wrapped a strip of dark cloth around each one's eyes.

  "We leave you now," cried their leader. "You must not make a sound. Those who will take you to Galul are on the way. You must wait patiently. Do you understand?"

  "My child," said the familiar voice. "Please... my child."

  "Will go with you, woman. Now silence!"

  The four nodded, barely. The men marched in place, making crunching noises with their feet. One of the women swayed and fell forward, her face in the sand. The dark-robes waited silently as the other women swayed, then fell. One of the black-robes went to the woman who had fallen first, straddled her, pulled her head back, and with one, sudden motion, cut her throat with the curved, seabone knife he had taken from his belt. He dropped her head into the sand and stood away. Blood ran in a crimson stream, down across the sand, soaking in.

  By the time Genevieve lifted her horrified eyes to the others, they, too, were bleeding their life's blood onto the sands. Somewhere among the slaughter, a baby cried.

  "Shall I kill it?" asked one of the dark-robed ones, pushing his veils aside to wipe the sweat from his face on his sleeve. In that instant, Genevieve knew where she was. She was in Mrs. Blessingham's office, seeing a vision. There was the body she had seen, the blood, the knife in the hand of a man, and that man was Willum. What was he doing here, slitting the throats of Mahahmbi women? It had had nothing to do with Carlotta and Glorieta? Why had she thought it did! She shuddered and buried her face in the sand, trying desperately not to be sick.

  "Leave it for the birds," said the leader, wiping his knife upon the woman's clothing then standing back to observe the flow of blood. "She made a good candidate for your father, Havenite."

  Joncaster put his arms across Genevieve's back and held her firmly. The men climbed from the hollow, each picking up one of the abandoned robes before taking a position beneath the fins of the harpta and moving away, out of the hollow, back along the track they had made earlier.

  Genevieve struggled against their arms, but they held her fast.

  The men and the great lizard retreated, the lizard coughing in a dull, repeated complaint.

  "Wait," whispered Joncaster. "Sound travels on the wind, and they are downwind of us."

  Solemnly, slowly, the lizard moved away, grumbling, the silent men keeping pace beneath the shade of its fins until they vanished along the line of flags around a far dune.

  "Now," said Melanie, with distaste. "Come!" She rose to her feet and started down the slope of the dune.

  "I don't want to go down there," cried Genevieve in a child's voice. "I don't..."

  "You will," said Melanie. "For your mother who could have died here, for all the women of Haven who have died here."

  "Of Haven!" she cried. "Women of Haven? These are Mahahmbi women."

  "You are of Haven," Joncaster said in an angry voice. "And you were supposed to be here, among these. You were warned, you escaped, otherwise you would have been here to drink their potion and kneel before their knives. And I am told there was to have been at least one other on your ship, one who did not come..."

  "Lyndafal." She shuddered in disbelief. "The wife of the Earl of Ruckward."

  Joncaster's iron hand pulled her erect and half carried her down the slope after him, she stumbling along in a mood of frantic denial. They went over the lip of the dune, into the cupped center, and stopped by the first body, white as a cloud, all its blood pumped away into the sand.

  "Look," said Melanie, pointing. "This is what you have to see."

  Where the blood had run, the sand had come a
live! Questing scarlet tendrils writhed into the sunlight, tiny-toothed granules along their stems opening into flat, scalloped fronds that overlaid one another like feathers on a bird, rapidly covering the ground with winy scales. A high-pitched sound came from the sand, like the avid screaming of minuscule voices. Already, the patch of blood lichen that had been cut off at the ground had erupted into frantic regrowth wherever blood had flowed.

  Joncaster knelt and turned the first body over. The face was peaceful, unafraid. "They give them a drug," he said. "At least the bastards don't terrorize them."

  "Only because fear changes the blood chemistry," said Melanie. "If adrenaline helped the process, they'd terrorize them, believe me."

  Joncaster pulled Genevieve after him as he went on to the second body, and the third, turning up their faces and feeling among the voluminous veils they wore. He came up with a bundle, which he unwrapped carefully. A baby. "Dead," he called to Melanie, "from the heat and dehydration." He rewrapped the tiny bundle and replaced it by the mother's body.