by JA Hutson
“I know that,” Valyra says softly when she sees what Bell is holding. “The abbess made me eat the same when I arrived at the Umbra.”
I also remember this root – the name escapes me, but Poz had once told me that it was grown out of a skull, and that consuming it transferred the language ability of the deceased. It was how I came to know their tongue.
Bell steps forward cautiously, as if expecting the woman and the child to dash into the forest, and breaks off a chunk of the root. Slowly she reaches out, and after a moment of consideration the woman plucks the sliver from her hand, her brow creasing in puzzlement. Bell makes a motion like she should eat it, and the woman’s eyes widen.
Surely no one would be as foolish as me and put roots from strangers into their mouths . . . and then that’s exactly what she does.
“Is that babbleroot?” the Prophet asks. He has come to stand beside us, still dripping.
“Yes,” Bell says, looking at the woman expectantly as she slowly chews and swallows.
Ezekal snorts. “We can’t even be sure if these savages –”
“What is this?” the woman murmurs.
“Ennocosia,” says Bell with satisfaction, slipping the remaining root into her pocket. “It helps us understand each other.”
The woman’s gaze snaps to Bell, her surprise evident. “You know our tongue,” she says in wonderment.
“Actually, you now know ours,” Bell says.
The child tugs on the woman’s hands and says something, her face filled with confusion. The woman glances down and responds quickly in her own language, then turns back to Bell.
“Who are you?” she asks.
Bell looks uncertain how she should respond – we haven’t discussed how a situation like this should be handled, mostly because none of us thought we’d encounter other people in the Shriven’s world. “We are . . . travelers in these lands,” she says slowly. “Tired and hungry.”
The woman purses her lips, looking us up and down again. She seems remarkably unfazed by Deliah’s red skin, or that several of us are clearly armed. Finally she nods, as if she’s just arrived at some decision.
“You will come with me,” she says. “Back to the village. We have fish and fruit and soft grass to lie upon. The Keeper will want to speak with you.” Then without waiting for us to agree she tugs on the child’s arm and turns back to the trees.
Deliah and I share a long glance, and then the lamias shrugs and moves to follow the pair into the forest.
The woman and the girl slip between the ancient, vine-wrapped trunks, their bare feet silent upon the thick moss. Insects and motes of pollen drift lazily within the shafts of honey-colored light piercing the distant canopy. I remember what Deliah said about how if we couldn’t see signs of predators in these woods it just meant that they were excellent at hiding, but these two seem completely unworried that anything dangerous could be lurking deeper in the shadowed gloom.
“Did you know there were people here?” I ask Ezekal as we blunder along behind the woman and the girl.
The Prophet looks miserable, his soaked robes still clinging to his paunch, and I can hear his boots squelching with every step he takes. He scowls at their naked backs, as if it was their fault he had tumbled into the forest pool.
“I did . . . though they are not what I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
He is silent for a moment, and when he finally speaks his words are slow and measured. “These people have fallen from somewhere high. But perhaps . . . perhaps regression is the only path to contentment, in the end.”
I’m about to ask him what in the hells that means when suddenly I glimpse movement through the lattice of branches ahead. The woman and girl slip confidently through the tangle, and a moment later a chorus of voices are raised in greeting.
We push through with far less grace and find ourselves on the edge of a village hacked out of the forest. Dozens of reed-woven huts are scattered about, most clustered along the edge of a gently-trickling stream which cleaves through the middle of the clearing. Men and women and children mill about, all naked, all with a slight variation of the same dusky skin and glistening black hair. A trio of women are crouched next to the small stream, their eyes intent on the water as they search for something. Elsewhere, a tawny youth plays a game with a gaggle of shrieking children. The men are lounging in the shade of their huts, hands folded across their stomachs, though a few sit up in surprise as we emerge from the forest. They point and gabble excitedly, and this draws the attention of the fishing women and playing children. Soon they all are staring at us, though I see no movement towards weapons. Like the woman and the girl, they seem entirely unafraid.
The adults rise and converge on the woman who led us here. The children likewise swarm the little girl, their excited faces peering past her at us. I hold up my hand to stop Deliah from striding forward – I think it’s best if we appear as unthreatening as possible, despite the tribe’s apparent lack of concern.
After what appears to be a quick explanation by the woman, complete with hand gestures, a group of the adult villagers join her in approaching where we wait. As they come closer, I realize something I’d missed up to this point – I doubt any of them have seen more than twenty-five summers. They are all young and in apparent good health. There are no scars or missing teeth or pockmarked skin.
One of the men steps forward and addresses us in their language, and the woman quickly translates.
“Welcome to our haven, strangers. We give you the blessings of the Mother and her Guardians, and open our homes to you.”
I glance quickly at Bell to see if she wants to be our voice here, but she inclines her head in my direction.
“Ah,” I say after clearing my throat. “Well, thank you. We appreciate your kindness.”
The woman listens and relays what I’ve said, then the man smiles and responds.
“You are welcome to our bounty, strangers, and to share our beds.”
I hear a low chuckle from Deliah at this and I shoot her a warning glance. I at least will assume that was a translation error for now. The man does seem to be staring at the lamias with a certain intensity, though.
“Again, we thank you,” I say, trying to force his attention back to me. “We have traveled far and need food and water and rest.”
The man nods. “All this you will have. But first you must meet the Keeper. She will want to hear what tales you bring to us, strangers.”
“Keeper?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth to Ezekal, who appears fascinated by the villagers. My words seem to wake him from his reverie, and he shrugs.
“I know nothing about a Keeper, or these people, to be honest. My advice to you would be to remember where we are and make sure your sword is always within reach.”
“The traitor speaks true,” Deliah murmurs. “Something strange is going on here.”
The spokesperson for the villagers motions for us to follow him, then turns away.
“Come,” the woman who led us here tells me, stepping closer and reaching out to take my hand. “The Keeper is waiting,” she says, tugging on me lightly. Her fingers are smooth and without callouses, which surprises me more than anything else – how could such a primitive people stay so perfect and unblemished?
I allow her to lead me through the village, until she stops outside the hide-flap doorway of a hut that looks the same as all the rest we’ve passed, except that smoke is trickling from within. The crowd of villagers array themselves on either side of this entrance, staring at us expectantly.
It’s clear what they want, and I oblige them by drawing back the flap and slipping into the hut’s smoky interior. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust; light is leaking in through the walls of lashed reeds, but it’s having trouble penetrating the haze rising up from the smoldering wood heaped in the center of the space. A woman is seated cross-legged on the other side of the dying fire, so old and gnarled that she seems to be collapsing in upon herself.
Her long white hair has a ghostly shimmer, and her skin is etched with uncountable wrinkles and lines. Unlike the rest of the village, she’s wrapped in a threadbare robe of faded yellow that looks as ancient as she is.
The Prophet and my companions file in behind me, nearly filling the small room. The old woman watches us with glittering black eyes, saying nothing. I swallow, unsure what we should do. Wait for her to speak, or at least gesture for us to sit? I glance at the hide flap, wishing the woman who brought us here had stepped inside with us to make introductions.
“Any ideas what we should do?” I ask my companions, breaking the awkward silence.
Bell, as usual, decides on the most reasonable course of action and pulls the remaining hunk of ennocosia from her pocket. The old woman regards the gnarled bit of root skeptically, and Bell draws it back and pretends to take a small bite. Then she rubs her stomach and smacks her lips.
The skepticism in the old woman’s face shifts to disdain.
“Surely you must be jesting,” she says, her words flavored with a thick accent. Bell nearly drops the root in surprise.
“You speak our tongue,” I say, and she looks at me like I’m stupid.
“No, the dreamwood I’m burning is causing a very vivid hallucination.” She sighs deeply as I stare at the blackened logs in surprise. “Oh, by the sacred waters – yes, I speak your language.” She waves an ancient, claw-like hand at the ground. “Now, sit.”
My mind is whirling as I sink to the dirt floor, though I’m unsure if that’s because of the old woman’s words or the smoke filling the hut.
“You are the Keeper?” Bell asks, and the woman shifts her attention to her.
“So the strapping fellow is not the only perceptive one among you,” she says sarcastically, and then sniffs loudly. “Yes, child, I am the one they call the Keeper. Once it was the Keeper of the Paths, but since we no longer walk the Paths, I suppose I am the Keeper of my people. Someone has to be, the foolish little birds.”
“The Paths . . .” the Prophet says slowly. “You walked between the worlds.”
The woman inclines her head. “One of you has something between his ears, at least. Yes, I was a priestess of the Myriad, the opener of doors, the delver for secrets.”
Suddenly something occurs to me. “Are you the Mother?” I blurt, and the old woman snorts a laugh.
“Such a silly question. Best you stick with swinging that sword at your side and leave the thinking to your stout friend.”
I subside, chagrined, and she clucks her tongue. “Ah, forgive me, child. It’s been too long since I spoke with anyone other than the endearingly simple folk hovering outside.” She picks up a stick and prods at the smoldering wood, raising a scattering of sparks. “Hm. No, I am not the Mother. Just a simple adept entrusted with a great duty. During my training I walked under many different suns, and for a time I dwelled in your world. Several years, in fact. I studied in the Collegium of Varakesh” —Bell gives a little gasp at this— “and learned much of your strange ways. When I finally returned to my home, I found it under siege.”
“By the Shriven,” Bell guesses, and the crone nodded.
“Yes.”
“Yet here you are in the demons’ realm,” Deliah says, and there’s no missing her accusing tone. “Living free with all your needs met.”
The old woman’s lip curls at the lamias’s words. She jabs the fire again and it flares higher. “Choices were made, daughter of Vel. Hard choices. When my people first came here we all agreed that we – the ones who remembered – would reject the Mother’s greatest gift. Our children, though, would be different, and when they reached adulthood the gift would be given to them. They would be pure, unsullied, unknowing of what had happened before. And they would be this way forever.”
“They drank the blood,” the Prophet says softly.
The old woman closes her eyes and leans back. “Aye.”
“How long have you all been here?” he continues, leaning forward.
The old woman shrugs her knobby shoulders. “Centuries. All the others who came with me are dead. I am hardier than the rest, it seems, but my time is coming, and when it does the story of our people will be forgotten. For the ones outside, there will only ever be this forest, and this moment. Without end.”
The old woman’s words haunt me later that night as I lie upon a mat of woven grass in one of the huts, Deliah curled beside me. I should have fallen asleep immediately – for the first time in weeks I’ve gone to bed with a full stomach, as the villagers threw a feast in our honor, roasting a seemingly endless supply of white flaky fish over a roaring fire. But instead I’m awake, staring at the interwoven reeds above me, turning over and over what the once-priestess had said.
It is obvious that she had made the same bargain with the Shriven as the Prophet, though unlike him – and me – she has never partaken of the demon’s blood and gained immortality herself. She and her fellows decided that all memory of their crimes should be forgotten, so that their children could exist in blissful ignorance. It was a great sacrifice, and for the first time I start to think that the Prophet’s choices might not be so monstrous as I always thought. But was she happy with what she had done? She voiced no regrets, but I can’t shake the feeling that there was a sadness about her. Is it better to live as contented children forever, or to face the harsh truths?
This makes me think of my own past, and the crimes I may have committed in the service to the Prophet. Would I want confirmation of what I had done? The burden of that guilt? I gnaw on this for what seems like half the night, and then I roll from the mat and stand quietly. Deliah shifts and grumbles but does not wake. In the faint moonlight trickling down through the slats I study her face, so perfect in sleep. Would she stay at my side if the truth of my past was known?
Perhaps if I walk around a bit my mind will stop its churning. I slip from the hut, lifting my sheathed sword from where it lies across the scattered bits of Deliah’s armor. Outside, a solitary moon hangs low and swollen, much larger than either of the moons that grace Bell and Deliah’s world. Its radiance limns everything around me, the stream wending through the sleeping village transformed into a silver serpent. Swelling over the treetops and shining almost as brightly as the moon is the curving dome of the great skull, vast beyond comprehension. It almost looks like a second, much larger moon is rising up from the land to meet its cousin in the sky. Not for the first time I wonder what creature could possibly be so large.
The night thrums with the throaty buzz of insects, but there’s something else as well, drifting from where the stream vanishes among the trees. Someone is singing softly in a voice as clear and crystalline as the stars glittering in the cloudless sky. I wander in that direction, the thought that there might be threats lurking in the dark forest far from my mind. This place – or maybe it’s the carefree behavior of the villagers – has given me the sense that it’s a sanctuary. Protected.
I don’t want to startle whoever is singing, so I slide my feet carefully over the mossy ground as I push through the trees. Small animals – frogs, perhaps? – leap from my path to plop into the stream beside me. It’s darker in here, beneath the canopy, but still I’m not afraid. It’s like I’m drifting through a dream.
I slip between grasping branches and emerge into a small glade. The stream here empties into a pond speckled with many-petaled flowers that glow a pale white in the moonlight. A woman is up to her waist in the water, scrubbing her long limbs as she sings. I’d thought that the melodious language of these people would lend itself well to song, and I was right. Her voice is ethereal, plucking at cords deep within my soul.
I feel guilty, spying on her like this as she bathes, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I needed a moment like this, after the horrors of the wastes, to be reminded of what beauty can still exist.
A shiver of movement catches my eye. It came from only a dozen paces away, recessed within a spray of tall reeds. There’s a shadow hunched there, but I can�
��t make it out until it shifts again and moonlight gleams upon a curving length of bone.
Coldness washes through me. A Scythe is also watching this woman.
My heart beating wildly, I slide my hand over to grip the hilt of my sword. The demon seems intent on the villager.
I have to act now. Surging forward, I burst from where I’ve been hidden among the trees and lunge at the Scythe, my sword ringing as it rips from its sheath. The demon whirls, but far too late, and I bury the green-glass blade halfway to its hilt in the monster’s chest, cleaving through the chitinous plates as if they were made of brittle wood. The Shriven looses a death scream, spraying my face with bitter drops of warm ichor. I tear my sword free and smash the hilt into the demon’s distended jaw, sending it toppling into the pond.
The woman shrieks, her hands pressed to her mouth.
“It can’t hurt you,” I tell her, knowing she won’t understand, but still trying to sound comforting. I’m searching the shadows for any more of these monsters, but it looks to have been alone.
My jaw drops, as rather than fleeing from the pool the woman wades towards where the demon floats. With wrenching sobs, she gathers the monstrous head of the Scythe into her arms and cradles it against her bare breasts. A rattle escapes the beast as it gives a final spasm and goes still. The woman is saying something over and over again as she tenderly strokes its cheek, her voice loud and ragged.
What in the name of the dead gods?
A cry comes from behind me, and I turn as villagers pour into the glade, some carrying burning torches. They gasp when they see the woman in the water with the dead Shriven, but I have the sinking sensation that their reaction is not for the reason I would expect. A few of the men splash into the water, and when they get to the woman’s side they carefully remove her arms from around the dead demon and start to pull her from the pool as she gabbles at them. Faces are being turned to where I stand, and I see anger and disbelief. Hands close on my arms, and for a brief moment I consider fighting back.
