by Fuad Baloch
Ruma gritted her teeth. Gender inequality might have been another masterful attention to detail but one she had little patience for. She opened her mouth just as shouts sprang up behind her.
“Out of the way!”
“Make way!”
Ruma whipped her head around. A dozen or so riders dressed in iron mail, quivers and bows hanging on their backs, scabbards dangling at their sides, rode in single file. A crier, decked in a bright orange tunic, raised a horn to his mouth, the resulting note higher in pitch than she’d expected.
“Make way on order of the governor!”
As the merchants and traders and other bystanders reluctantly squeezed to their sides, Ruma caught sight of their leader. A heavily bearded man with a bulbous nose hanging over a bushy moustache. A man behind him carried a flag barely fluttering in the stale air.
Ruma looked up at the flag, felt blood drain from her face. “The Scythe?”
Yes, it was the Scythe, but somehow it was different. More… organic, lacking the perfect geometry of the symbols carved on the temples in Doonya. The cloth it was painted on looked roughly spun, too. The man carrying it didn’t seem fazed by the humbleness of the cloth, waving the brown Scythe with a great display of fervour.
Ruma tried and failed to tear her eyes away from the flag.
No ordinary symbol, that.
Gulatu’s emblem.
She pinched her sides, then glared at the vendor who watched the riders with a resigned expression on his face. “What is this place?”
“What?” The vendor shook his head, drawing his eyes away from the riders. His lips peeled back as he leaned in, his eyes surveying her from head to toe, lingering at the neckline. “What strange clothing you wear. I must—”
“Enough with the charades,” said Ruma, annoyed and frustrated in equal measures now. “Alf’s breath, just bloody answer me!”
The old man raised a hand to his face as if affronted by the sacrilege. His eyes remained at her neckline, though. “You’re quite pretty,” he drawled, the words hard to understand but the meaning clear. “Can’t remember when I last saw a red-haired one around here.” His hand reached forwards, clawing towards her hair.
Ruma shifted to the side. She bumped into someone behind her. A half-second later, she felt a hand settle on her bottom, squeeze a cheek. Enraged, Ruma wheeled around.
A sea of faces and heads. A formless mass of humanity. Her eyes fell on two sets of priests standing at opposite corners to her left. Though they both wore the Scythes on their chests, the colours were different. Ruma shook her head, fingers clenched into fists for the man who had dared grab her.
She felt the vendor’s fingers graze her hair.
Snarling, she turned around, then slapped the vendor full on in the face. “Watch your hand!”
Despite the general din, her act caught the attention of some bystanders. Someone whooped. Another muttered, the words lost in the noise.
“I am getting cranky, and you don’t want that!” she warned, raising her hand again. “What is this place?”
“Salodia…” replied the vendor, holding up a hand to ward her off. “Where in Alf’s name would you expect to be otherwise?”
Ruma blinked, her raised fist swaying now. “Salodia?” She turned around, watched the grimy faces of the merchants, the crying children clutching the hands of their mothers. The city had been destroyed along with Irtiza. Tasina had made sure of that.
“You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?” she demanded.
The vendor guffawed.
“Did they reconstruct the whole city from scratch?”
Now she heard the vendor wheeze. “You’re… You’re crazy! Get off! Get off now before I call for the governor’s men!”
Exhaling, Ruma stepped forwards without looking, bumped into someone. Not caring for the complaints, she continued marching ahead, letting her feet take her through a most realistic depiction of the ancient city.
Could it really by Salodia, Gulatu’s city of birth? Why would anyone go through the effort to not only rebuild the city—with war raging in multiple sectors and systems, for frack’s sake—but also put all this effort in making sure the world felt so authentic?
Ruma glanced up. The merciless sun seemed to be smirking at her, its rays just as ruthless as they had been outside the walled city, the skies just as barren of flying craft.
She inhaled another lungful of the air, coughed at the stink, a part of her squirming at what she was seeing. She needed to ask more questions, observe more before jumping to conclusions, but already, fantastical thoughts were plaguing her mind.
“—prophecy say?” someone was saying to her right. A clipped voice in the accent she’d only ever heard priests put on to impress the laymen.
“—the fighting would not cease—”
“—when we know the prophecy, all will be clear!”
Dread settled in her gut. The pain that had abated in her mind reasserted itself, an ocean of hurt thrashing within her skull, clamouring for a way to get out.
“Oh, Lady!” she muttered, then pinched her side. The pain was real. So it wasn’t a dream then.
Think!
Licking her parched lips, she gathered her thoughts. Judging by the pull of gravity, the lack of the telltale biostink of a different planet, she was on… Doonya. It had to be!
But then why were the skies so clear of the ships that should have been dotting it? She glanced around her once more. No matter how pure a re-enactment, the place should have had enough curious Zrivisi tourists keen to experience the past of the human race as well.
None.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
“You know where you are!” whispered the voice in her mind.
She froze, eliciting another complaint. She waited but the voice didn’t speak again. Spying a crumbling wall, she trotted over to it.
“Who… What are you?” she demanded.
“You know who I am!”
Ruma narrowed her eyes, tried her best to ignore her heart thudding against her ribs. It wouldn’t do to start speaking with ghosts. Though she was sure she hadn’t heard the voice before, somehow she knew that to be wrong. But how could that be?
“Who are you?” she whispered, feeling foolish for letting her mind wander so.
“The First.”
The simple words sent a chill down her spine. Ruma dabbed at her brow, refusing to be cowed by the machinations of an overexerted and tired mind.
“You know where you are!” reasserted the voice.
She did? Ruma turned her chin up. The soldiers had marched out the city gates, their silhouettes dimly visible over the colourful hats of the men, the veils worn by the women covering their heads.
“You’re my damned subconscious come to life,” she declared, injecting a conviction that rang out hollow to her own ears. “Now just shut up and let me think it through!”
Without pausing to see if she received a response, Ruma leapt into the currents of humanity once more, letting them swallow her. More conversations in Anduras she couldn’t follow rose around her. More inquisitive eyes at her uncovered head and the dirty mechanic’s uniform.
She didn’t care for any of that, her mind marking out things she should have seen but hadn’t. Aliens. Arkos marines. Plasma rifles held discreetly by the governor’s guards. Dogs in the streets and not just cats and animals of burden.
Like a coherent nightmare, everyone around her did a fracking convincing job of acting like they really were in Salodia. Almost as if—she realised with mounting terror and a flash of intuition—they were in the Salodia.
Not a replica. The city itself.
Ruma stopped in front of another street vendor, this one selling bottles of perfume. “Hey, what is the date?”
The vendor raised his rheumy eyes at her. “Eighth day of the Basalt, twenty-fifth year post the Great Migration.”
“The Great Migration?” she muttered, not aware of the unit of time. Stu
ff she’d learned as a kid floated up. “Is that when Gulatu fled Salodia for Irtiza?”
The older man scratched at his bearded face, his eyes taking in her red hair, the uniform. “Aye… Do they not teach you history over in… the Vanico Empire, if that’s where you’re from?”
The world swayed under her feet and she leaned forwards to right her balance.
“Do you want some water, Mzi?”
She nodded, then gratefully accepted a crude mud-baked tumbler. The water was cool against her lips. She gulped greedily, accepted another refill.
“Hungry?” The old vendor pushed a tray of large dates towards her. Nodding, Ruma grabbed a fistful, shoved them into her mouth.
Her stomach growled after she’d chewed down half a dozen. She coughed, wiped the juice from her lips. Her thoughts were just as clouded as before but at least the world had stopped swaying.
“Thank you,” she said. Looking over her shoulder to ensure no one was in earshot, she leaned in. “Can you tell me… what’s going on right now… right here?”
The vendor chuckled. “For all that the young stand to inherit, you lot sure pay no mind to the goings-on around you.” He grew quiet. “Watch out for the fanatics on both sides. You might be a guest on the Andussian peninsula, but with the civil war is in full swing between the Blessed Mother and Bubraza. You won’t want to get swept up in it. And if your people are indeed arming the Vanico infidels with fire catapults, keep far away!”
Ruma stared. The names were familiar, known even to her both from pages of history and from the mouth of the man she had fled. “The Blessed Mother… Would that be the… prophet’s wife?”
It was the vendor’s turn to arch an eyebrow.
Ruma turned away, not trusting her senses or the world around her. What in Alf’s name was happening?
Yasmeen, Gulatu’s wife, was dead more than eight hundred years. So would be Bubraza—a name Ruma could barely recall from her history books. Yet they were here, very much alive, if the man behind her hadn’t lied.
You know where you are! She shivered, recalling the voice that had been speaking in her mind. Merely recalling the words gave her pause, and she waited for the voice to leap at her once more. It remained quiet. The dread didn’t lessen, though. Who was the voice?
Take a breath, girl!
Once more, she took stock of the facts that had been bombarding her. The skies were clear. The planet looked like Doonya. The people around her all seemed to act in a consistent manner. Her ship was gone. She’d seen no technology more advanced than a broken-down catapult.
If she took out her own objections and qualms, the facts pointed at a hypothesis she didn’t have to like, but one she couldn’t turn away from.
She was in Salodia. A city that had not been destroyed.
And if that was right, and she was the odd one out here, that really left two alternatives.
Either the whole bloody world was conspiring to put on a grand show for her, setting up a living, breathing replica of a city with a most believable humming life of its own.
Or she was in Salodia as it existed in the past.
One thing was wrong. This wasn’t meant to be her present.
Three
Time
Ruma wanted to scream, shatter the hold of whatever trance she was in. The realization she was somehow in the past was terrifying, shocking. But then, she knew panicking would achieve nothing. She needed to take stock, find a way out of this mess.
Forcing a spring in her feet, she rushed back to the vendor.
“Can I ask a favour?” she asked without preamble. When the vendor nodded, she motioned at one of the dark shawls sprawled on his table. “I do not have the… coins, but could I borrow one?”
The vendor eyed her for a long minute. Ruma’s heart beat loudly. Now that she looked around, it was odd for a woman to be moving around without a male companion. Is that what the man was thinking, surprised by the idea of a woman in a foreign land without suitable provisions?
Coughing, the vendor rose, cracked his knuckles in a strangely familiar way. “May Alf shield us all, as this shawl would protect you from the elements.”
Ruma nodded at the vendor, then reached for the shawl. “May the…” She floundered, the Alf salutations slipping from her grasp, but then she recalled the one figure she’d latched onto since she was a young girl. “Lady reward you well!”
“Who?” asked the vendor.
Offering another grunt, not wanting to waste time, Ruma stepped away.
Salodia—not just a replica, the city— spread all around her, its cobbled streets smooth with the passage of time and countless feet. The city where Gulatu Koza, the real prophet, was born, the city he had fled, then returned to in triumph.
Lady… Alf… anyone out there listening… what’s going on?
Thoughts swirling in her mind, Ruma followed the crowds, wrapping the shawl around her head and shoulders. The vendor might have thought it an act of modesty on her part, but so long as the fabric covered her hair, allowed her to blend in with the few females that walked in the crowd, she would take that advantage.
The stink of bodies that had so repulsed her when she’d walked into the city began to normalise as she continued without a destination in mind. She’d never really been one for history, but the minarets that seemed to appear every six hundred or so yards were well constructed—standing guard over the denizens of the holy city—managing to draw her eye every time.
Ruma sucked her teeth. How did she get here? What did she need to do to get back? These were the questions she needed to puzzle through. Another part of her cautioned against jumping to conclusions. What if this wasn’t really the holy city from the past? A reasonable argument but one something in her heart wouldn’t acknowledge. Answers. That was what she needed instead of denial. That was the only way to keep panic at bay.
She glanced up at the white tower that rose over the other buildings. She didn’t recall seeing or hearing about it, but could it be because it hadn’t stood the test of time or left a mark in history?
Think, think!
Ruma cast her mind back to what she remembered of the city. If memory served her right, Yasmeen had been a prominent part of the struggles the Church had faced in the first few decades after the prophet’s passing. Ruma did not know exactly which part of the history she’d been thrust into, but even the little knowledge she could dredge up could give her an edge.
What if this isn’t really the past?
She might have bought the hypothesis had it not been for the oppressive presence she felt watching the world beside her, from within her.
Often, she came upon trains of pilgrims, men and women of all colours and backgrounds, draped in flowing white ritual clothing and making their way towards the tower, the city’s heart and centre.
She didn’t need to ask anyone to know what lay in the centre. The city was known for one reason alone: Gulatu. If she were to follow the pilgrims, she’d arrive at the house where Gulatu Koza had first opened his eyes. The second spiritual home of the faithful after the Grand Alfi Temple in Irtiza.
A younger Gulatu had walked these very same streets she was travelling through right now. The idea was nauseating. She tried imagining the man she knew in the prime of his youth, a thirty-something man, a merchant who was to begin his ministry in a few years and then go on to change the worlds. Twice.
Would this Gulatu have been the same she’d known?
She shook her head. Not something that needed to occupy her thoughts.
Her mind drew yet another connection. The vendor had cracked his knuckles, had interlaced his fingers in the exact manner she had seen Gulatu do countless times. She shivered, pushed the thought away.
As she passed yet another temple, she spied another argument between two sets of priests. Were these different sects of the faith? Ruma forced a chuckle. Here, in the city where Alf had chosen his last prophet, it was kind of ironic to see priests disagree on some fine matter of dog
ma, over something like what attributes of Alf to emphasise over others.
Alf. She looked up. If this was a time closer to one when Alf had spoken with His messenger, would that make it easier for her to listen to Him as well?
She heard nothing. Not even the ominous voice she had heard whispering to her before—one she’d instinctively known as malevolent. Was Alf waiting for her? Was she meant to trot into a temple, pay homage to portraits of the Lady and Gulatu, seek their guidance?
Ruma exhaled, forced her attention to placing one foot after the other, moving away from the holy men, letting her body, her senses acclimate to this strange world. This was a mission—no different to the countless others she had run in her previous life. One where she had to blend in with the surroundings, reconnoitre, understand the rhythm of life before making her move. She might not have the Misguided and their network from which to draw resources here, but she would survive perfectly fine on her own.
Yes, that was the way to consider her predicament and neutralise it. Not allow the magnitude of her situation to overwhelm her from operating at peak capability. Not let the most obvious whys and hows overwhelm her.
Then again, she couldn’t shy away from cold facts. What could she do? For all she knew, she was all alone in this strange world that she didn’t belong to. And for reasons she did not know, either. Which part was most worrying?
Bells rang out at her right. Panicked, Ruma turned. Yet another temple of the Alfi church, a priest, dressed in a white tunic emblazoned with a red Scythe, standing atop a flight of chairs as the faithful crowded towards him.
“—the prophecy of the prophet Pasalman will reveal—” the priest was saying.
Ruma increased her pace.
“First… see if there is any way to communicate with the ship,” she muttered, holding out a finger. “Failing that, confirm whether there are other survivors from my ship elsewhere in the city… or on the planet.”
