by Mark Hodder
The Amu’utu’s colour darkened to a sickly green and its whistle changed into a weird clanging. It dropped the shattered remains of the Yatsill and slumped closer to the ground. One of its three legs lost its grip on the cavern roof and folded as it descended. Then the whole thing suddenly fell and hit the floor with a squishy impact. Yazziz Yozkulu led the Wise Ones as they charged at the stricken monster and plunged their weapons deep into its body.
“An animal attacked us,” I whispered. “A demonic thing. The Yatsill are killing it but they’ve lost one of their number.”
A final chime escaped the Amu’utu. It gave a twitch and died.
Lifting dripping spears above their heads, the Yatsill chorused: “Tokula Pathamay! Tokula Pathamay! Killed unseen but untaken! Untaken! Untaken! Tokula Pathamay shall be given unto Phenadoor!”
I turned to Kata. “What do they mean?”
“The Saviour did not witness Tokula Pathamay perish,” she answered. “Even so, it is better for a Wise One to die thus than the other way. The remains will be carried with us to Yatsillat and there deposited in Phenadoor. It is a rare honour for a Wise One.”
“Other way?” Clarissa asked.
“Yes. Tokula Pathamay will never be other than Tokula Pathamay.”
With that incomprehensible reply, Kata turned away, and she and her people repositioned themselves around the children.
The Wise Ones spread out, and after retrieving the rope from their fallen comrade, left the corpse behind and led us farther into the cave.
For what felt like hours, we descended along the path, our party illuminated from all directions by the millions upon millions of tiny beetles, so bright now that the mist itself glowed blue as it thickened around us. The sound of bubbling water increased, echoing from the walls and ceiling.
“I can’t keep this up for much longer,” my companion said quietly.
“Are your legs paining you, Clarissa?”
“Dreadfully.”
Kata, overhearing this, pointed ahead. “The place of Immersion.”
I guided Clarissa to a rock, and as she sat on it, told her, “The path has ended at the edge of a pool. Steam is rising from it and I cannot see the far bank.”
Tsillanda Ma’ara approached, the ends of its four legs click-clacking over the rock. “You are strange,” it said, “and this is a sensitive time, therefore I shall assign to you no duty other than to keep watch and alert us should another Amu’utu draw near.”
I nodded.
The Yatsill reached over its shoulder and pulled a spear from its harness. “Take this.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have no experience with weapons.”
The creature’s black, expressionless eyes glittered. It pointed a finger. “This is the sharp end. Stick it into any Amu’utu that comes close enough.” And with that, Tsillanda Ma’ara pushed the spear into my hands, snapped its fingers together in what I took to be a sign of dismissal, turned its back, and stalked away.
“Was that humour?” Clarissa asked.
“I haven’t the foggiest notion.”
I watched and kept up a running commentary as Kata and the other islanders shepherded the children to the edge of the pool. Yazziz Yozkulu stepped forward with the long rope in its hand, tied the end around one of the juveniles, and said, “It is your time of Immersion. You will emerge from the waters Wise or Shunned.”
The child turned its head and looked at the Yazziz, and though in size and form they were a match, with nothing but minor details to distinguish them from one another, there was something in the youngster’s countenance that I was surprised to find myself interpreting as a sort of bemused innocence.
Could it be that I was starting to recognise expression in the ghastly features of the Yatsill? It seemed impossible, for they were entirely inhuman, yet, indisputably, something about the child struck me as immature and ingenuous.
Yazziz Yozkulu pushed it into the steaming water and it sank like a stone.
Perhaps two minutes passed, then the Yatsill hauled on the rope and pulled the youngster out of the pool. It stood meekly while he announced, “You are Shunned. Do not feel sad. You are favoured with a place in Phenadoor.”
The process was repeated with a second child, then a third. They both joined the Shunned, though why Yazziz Yozkulu made this decision eluded me, for they both left the water exactly as they’d been upon entering it.
However, when the fourth child was dragged from the pool, it emerged limp and unconscious.
“Tsillanda Ma’ara, this one has been made Wise.”
Tsillanda Ma’ara answered, “Denied a place in Phenadoor. Now a vehicle for the Saviour. Responsible for the protection of all. It is a sacrifice. It is an honour.” The Yatsill signalled to Kata. The Koluwaian and three of her fellows stepped over to the stricken child, gently lifted it, and carried it away.
The ritual continued until every child had been in the water. Of the nine, six were declared Shunned. Three were pulled out unconscious and Wise.
“As ever, fewer and fewer each cycle,” Yazziz Yozkulu muttered. “I pray those who travelled ahead of us have met with greater success.”
“I feel it is unlikely,” Tsillanda Ma’ara responded. “However, we cannot know what the Saviour intends, and can but trust that there is purpose behind our dwindling numbers.”
A stone rattled behind me. I turned. The fat body of an Amu’utu descended out of the mist, its intricate jaws flexing and quivering. I gave a shout of fright, stepped backwards, tripped over the end of my spear, and went sprawling onto my back.
Before I even realised what was happening, my right ankle was clamped tightly in a coiled tongue and I was being dragged yelling and screaming across the ground.
The Yatsill came racing over and Tsillanda Ma’ara shouted, “Declare yourself! Do not die with your name unspoken!”
“I don’t want to die at all!” I screeched. “Help me! Help me!”
The Amu’utu emitted a high-pitched whistle as thrown spears pierced its flesh. I felt stones grinding against my back, spines digging into my ankle, a wooden shaft in my hand. The spear! I was still holding it!
With sheer terror powering my inadequate muscles, I forced myself into a sitting position and jabbed the spear into the horrible appendage that gripped my leg. The cavern suddenly whirled around me as I was flung into the air. My back impacted against something soft, my head against something hard, and I blacked out.
I think I was oblivious for mere moments. When my senses came fluttering back, I sat up and saw the Amu’utu on the ground with the Yatsill gathered around it, stabbing it over and over.
The islanders were guarding the children, with the exception of Kata, who was standing at the edge of the pool, gazing into it.
I looked around.
“Kata! Kata! Where is Clarissa?”
The Koluwaian pointed down.
“You knocked her in.”
I leaped to my feet. “What? She’s in the water? Get her out!”
“It is forbidden to all but Yatsill.”
Without thinking, I took three steps and dove into the pool. In the split second before I hit the water, it occurred to me that I would boil to death, for it was bubbling and producing thick clouds of steam. However, it was not heat that assaulted me but freezing cold, though in the first instant it was impossible to distinguish between either extreme.
I didn’t stop to wonder why hot clouds were billowing up from icy water, but, fighting to overcome the shock to my system, I rose to the surface, sucked in a deep breath, then forced myself under, kicked hard, and peered around through slitted eyes. Blue light glimmered faintly in the upper reaches of the pool but it quickly became dark as I pushed downward. Tiny creatures wriggled against my skin. I groped around until my lungs were close to bursting, then propelled myself up, took another breath, and dived again.
Three times I went down and failed to locate my friend. On the fourth, I was so filled with despair, so afraid of being l
eft alone in this world of grotesqueries and primitives, that I half-decided to stay under and let myself drown.
The fingers of my right hand encountered flesh, slid across an elbow, and closed tightly over a forearm. Mentally, I praised the God I no longer believed in and dragged Clarissa Stark to the surface, hauled her out of the pool, and collapsed beside her.
Kata leaned over me. As if from a great distance, she said, “She is alive, but you have committed a sacrilegious act. Perhaps the Yatsill will banish you to the Shelf Lands.”
I didn’t respond, but lay gasping, clinging on to consciousness. I’d passed out too many times since my arrival on Ptallaya. It had been a welcome release, but not one I’d allow myself while my friend was in danger.
I got to my knees and bent over her prone form. I called her name and shook her gently but she didn’t stir. Closer examination revealed a long swelling above her eyebrows. Perhaps she’d knocked her head while falling. She was breathing steadily, though, so the injury probably wasn’t serious.
Kata touched my shoulder. “We must leave the cavern now. I will help you with her.”
I nodded miserably. We lifted Clarissa between us and bore her rather awkwardly along the path. The Yatsill trekked ahead, with the Koluwaians following behind, bearing the three senseless youngsters.
The party retraced its steps without incident, stopping only to pick up the body of Tokula Pathamay. The return journey felt interminable, and I could have wept with relief when I finally saw the Ptall’kor and, moments later, we climbed aboard it.
Yazziz Yozkulu approached and said, “Lay your friend beside the newly Wise. We will look after her. Do not be concerned. They will all recover.”
“I’ll stay with her.”
“It is not necessary.”
“I insist.”
“As you wish.”
The Ptall’kor moved out of the mouth of the cavern and back along the Valley of Reflections. This time there were no hallucinations during our passage through it, and the only vision of the future I saw was the dreadful possibility that I might find myself on this strange world without Clarissa.
I placed a hand on her arm, gazed down at her blindfold, and whispered, “Please, wake up. Please! I cannot stand to be alone.”
° °
We were crossing a landscape of flowery hills and fat, sparsely distributed trees. The suns were behind us, still low. Overhead, long ribbony things were corkscrewing through the air, flying northward.
I didn’t know how much time had passed. I’d been in a virtual stupor since Clarissa’s accident—overcome by exhaustion but too concerned to sleep.
She was still unconscious.
The Wise Ones—Yazziz Yozkulu, Tsillanda Ma’ara, and the others—had been oddly quiet since we’d emerged from the valley. They appeared to be in some sort of deep contemplation—or, like me, in a trance—and were squatting motionlessly with their heads cocked at a curious angle, as if listening to something.
Fatigue finally won out. I flopped down, closed my eyes, and dropped into a dreamless void.
When I awoke, it was to find Yazziz Yozkulu squatting over me.
“How are you feeling, old thing? Sound as a bell, I hope! I say! What is a bell, anyway?”
He asked the question in clear, well-enunciated English.
“Par—pardon?”
“Ah! Somewhat befuddled, hey? Not surprising! You’ve been snoring away for an eternity. An eternity, I say! What! What!”
“I—how—um—you’re speaking English!”
“Quite so! Quite so! And what a versatile lingo it is, too! Bally marvellous! Harrumph!”
I sat up, gaping at him.
The Yatsill waggled its long fingers. “Humph! Humph! Having adopted it, I feel it only right and proper that I should also assume a suitable moniker. Yazziz somewhat equates to chief, though I think I prefer colonel, but Yozkulu has no equivalent. Humph! What’s your opinion of Momentous Spearjab?”
“Mom—Mom—what?”
“As a name, old boy. As a name.”
“It’s—it’s—unusual.”
“Ah! Splendid! Ha ha! Then it’s settled! How do you jolly well do? I’m Colonel Momentous Spearjab.”
The creature extended its hand. Hesitatingly, I took it and shook it, conscious of the sharp-edged digits pressing against my palm.
“I’m—I’m Aiden Fleischer.” I looked down at Clarissa. “She hasn’t awoken?”
“Ah, the redoubtable Miss Stark! Let us summon Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash. She’s rather a medical expert, don’t you know!”
The colonel waved at the Yatsill I’d known as Tsillanda Ma’ara, who was standing at the stern of the vessel. “Yoo-hoo! Mademoiselle! Would you join us, please?”
Colonel, mademoiselle—the titles suggested genders, though I had made the assumption, perhaps unduly, that the Yatsill were hermaphroditic.
Tsillanda Ma’ara—now Crockery Clattersmash—scuttled over and greeted me in English. “Hello, Mr. Fleischer. Your friend is comatose but no need to fret—it’s a normal reaction. She’ll awaken before we reach Yatsillat.”
“A normal reaction to what?”
“Why, to being made an Aristocrat—what we used to call a Wise One. You’re very lucky she was or we’d have to banish you for your transgression. As it is, we suspect you were following the will of the Saviour when you entered the pool.”
Clarissa muttered something unintelligible, shifted slightly, and groaned. I clearly heard the bones of her legs creak.
“I don’t understand. Made an Aristocrat?”
Colonel Spearjab gave my back a rather too hearty slap. “Ha ha!” he exclaimed. “My good man, you’ll be waiting on her hand and foot from now on! Hand and bally foot, I say!”
“But what has happened to her? For that matter, what’s happened to you? You sound like an entirely different—er—person.”
“Growth! Betterment! It comes to those the Saviour looks kindly upon! Indeed it does!” He threw his head back and took a deep breath. “Smell that fresh air! Sublime! Simply sublime! Harrumph! What!”
Mademoiselle Clattersmash wriggled her fingers. “Miss Stark will recover in due course. Don’t worry yourself. Look.” She reached down and pulled at the top of Clarissa’s blindfold, gently yanking it until the eyebrows were exposed. The wide bump that had marked my friend’s forehead before was gone, replaced by two small lumps, one above each brow, exactly like the nascent horns displayed by the Wise Ones, or “Aristocrats” as they now called themselves. I glanced at the three inert children and saw that they, too, had somehow acquired the protrusions.
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I’m still at a complete loss.”
“Of course you are,” Mademoiselle Clattersmash responded. “How could you not be? You haven’t the wherewithal, I’m afraid. But there’s no shame in being a Servant, Mr. Fleischer.”
“A servant? What makes you think I’m a servant? I’m a priest! My title is Reverend, not Mr.!”
The Yatsill made a rapid clacking noise that sounded like a close approximation of laughter.
“Really! My dear sir! I’m the priest! Now don’t you go getting ideas above your station! It’s unseemly! Very bad form! Oh, dear me, yes!”
“If you would simply explain—”
Colonel Spearjab interrupted. “Humph! Mademoiselle, you were obviously quite right in your assertion that these two are a dissonance. Perhaps, then, we should postpone any conversation about the roles they will play in our society until we have arrived at Yatsillat. What! What! I’m certain the Circle of Elders—”
“The House of Lords,” Mademoiselle Clattersmash corrected.
“Ah, yes. I do beg your pardon, the House of Lords—”
“And the Council of Magicians.”
“Absolutely! Indubitably! Most certainly! Ha ha! I am certain that both august bodies will be eager to interview our new friends, so let us leave the questions and decisions until then, hey, what? Our responsibility,
for now, should be nothing more than to get back home as rapidly as possible.”
Mademoiselle Clattersmash nodded. “Very well. I acquiesce.” She turned to me. “You’ll not object to nursing Miss Stark, Mr. Fleischer?”
“Of course not!”
“Marvellous!” Colonel Spearjab enthused. He clapped his hands together. “Let us enjoy the journey, then! Smell that air! As fresh as a daisy! As a daisy, I say!” He looked down at me. “Incidentally, what in blue blazes is a daisy?”
° °
I was confused. The Yatsill were speaking English and I had no idea how or why.
The Aristocrats had taken on outlandish names: Colonel Momentous Spearjab; Mademoiselle Crockery Clattersmash; Sir Gracious Whipstripes; The Right Honourable Stirpot Quickly; and Lady Falldown Bruisebad. The Shunned—who were now, extraordinarily, referred to as “the Working Class”—went by the less extravagant appellations of Timothy Almost, Nicely Lookout, Sally Furniture, Dentworth Frosty, Jane Cough-Cough, and Harry Flopsoon.
It was madness. Total madness.
And the journey went on and on. The Ptall’kor clutched at grass and pulled itself over savannah, clutched at reeds and pulled itself along river courses, clutched at rocks and pulled itself across hillsides, clutched at trees and pulled itself over forests.
Mile after mile.
The three unconscious children regained their senses and I immediately realised they’d been transformed. Now, rather than sitting quietly like their “Working Class” fellows, they conversed in English with the other Aristocrats.
The Koluwaians retained the names they’d had before and still spoke their own language, to which the Yatsill switched when addressing them. The islanders were repeatedly referred to as “Servants,” and I was counted among their number.
