The Goddess Denied

by Deborah Davitt

  Before the conversation could get completely out of hand, Fritti and Rig, often guests now, came in and took their usual spots right by the far-viewer. Fritti put her back to a wall, and let Rig sit between her legs and lean back against her. Ben Maor and Sigrun finally entered the room, Sigrun carrying a tray with a coffee pot and tea pot and various cups. And, as usual, on walking in when the children were all present and accounted for, ben Maor looked over at Sigrun and said, “We really need more furniture.”

  “The children may all sit on each other.”

  “They’re already stacked three high.”

  “So long as they do not teeter and fall over, I do not see a problem.” Sigrun set the tray down on a low table, and started pouring out cups, as the coverage of the riots began at last.

  “Today, just outside of Alexandria’s internment camp facilities for Goth, Cimbric, Jute, and Fenn refugees, a minor altercation turned into a full-scale riot. Witnesses have reported that Atenist missionaries have entered the camp every day for the past three months. The Atenists professed to be there as part of the charitable work required by their faith, and assisted in distributing food and medical supplies throughout the camp. However, they allegedly also began proselytizing to the refugees, suggesting that their gods had abandoned them.”

  Sigrun and Fritti’s heads both came up, and Sigrun actually hissed at the words. “Steady,” ben Maor said, putting a hand on Sigrun’s arm.

  “Witnesses also allege that the Atenist missionaries put forth the proposition that the entire catastrophe in the north was entirely the result of their gods’ negligence, and the malice of Loki himself, who is widely suspected to be missing or dead. Most priests of the northern barbarian gods have suggested that Loki sacrificed himself for the good of his people, and averted a worse catastrophe. An entire cult dedicated to the Sacrificed God has sprung up in the various refugee camps, to include a belief that Loki will, one day, return. That he left behind a beloved woman and a child, who might hold some of his power.” The news reporter shuffled his papers on his desk, and looked deliberate and intent. Kanmi thought that reporters were the worst actors on the far-viewer, really. “At this point, an altercation broke out, and the refugees began to assault the Atenist relief workers, some of whom, purportedly, made accepting a pamphlet entitled Aten’s Message for You to be a prerequisite for refugees to receive their meal rations.” The reporter looked down at his notes again. “Legionnaires were called to the camp as the brawl turned into a full-scale riot. One hundred and seventeen people were admitted to Alexandria’s Isis Mercy Hospital with a variety of injuries, from skull fractures and broken bones to internal bleeding. There are reports of up to fifteen deaths, all, apparently, Atenist missionaries. Charges of manslaughter may be pending, although local prosecutors may not pursue those charges, if the reports of proselytizing are substantiated. Proselytizing remains a criminal offense under Roman law, and is tantamount, most jurists find, to shouting ‘Fire’ in a crowded theater. If the surviving relief workers did, indeed, tie their pamphlets to food rations donated by the rest of the Empire, they could face up to four years in jail, once they are released from the hospital and have undergone trial.”

  Ben Maor gently tugged Sigrun down to sit in his lap, which she did, perching on his knees, back straight, and expression still rigid. “You wouldn’t be allowed to hit them.” he told her, lightly.

  “Don’t tempt me. “

  “I think the people in the camps did a good enough job on their own.”

  Fritti shook her head. “Just wait till they get to what happened yesterday here at the Jerusalem camp. I was there for it.”

  Heads turned. “I thought we were trying to get that camp taken apart, and the people there . . . more or less assimilated,” ben Maor said.

  “It’s taking time. There’s just not enough housing for everyone. And, well . . . you’ll see.” Fritti sounded dispirited.

  Sure enough, after the next commercial break, the far-viewer showed various Judeans picketing the internment camp’s gates. “In Jerusalem, late yesterday evening, a group of radical Judean fundamentalists, who have been in a state of resistance to the Roman regime for the past two thousand years, surrounded the camp’s main entrance. Many of them held signs that suggested that the events in the north are a harbinger of the ‘end of the world’ and recommended that their fellow Judeans ‘repent, for the end is nigh.’ A second, unrelated group of protestors demanded an end to what they are calling an ‘unlawful colonization’ of their sovereign lands by Rome.”

  Kanmi heard ben Maor groan as the reporter’s face gave way to a series of interviews with protestors, one of whom was Mikayel ben Maor. Latin translations dubbed over the Hebrew, since this was an INN report, let Kanmi understand, clearly, “Historically, Rome sent the Gauls and Goths to the new world in order to remove a dangerous, largely migratory population from north of the Alps. As there’s no place left to send them with open land besides Antarctica and Australia, which would be expensive in terms of shipping, the Empire is clearly looking to colonize us from within. They come here, with their foreign ways and their heathen gods, and they won’t assimilate. Their presence and their magic are subversions, temptations to our young people. We don’t want them here, and our government should send them away, now.”

  A flicker, and on to the next interview, this with a woman with her hair covered, neatly, with a scarf. “Half of these people are grossly deformed. It’s a sign of god’s judgment on them. We wouldn’t let lepers live among us. Why should we allow them? What if this spreads?”

  “It’s not a disease, you idiot,” Fritti muttered. “It’s not a judgment, either. Gods, these people make me angry.”

  “Next,” Trennus said, letting his head fall back against the couch, “will come the suggestion that they’re here to take all the jobs that no one else actually wants.”

  Ben Maor was giving the far-viewer a long, steady look that suggested that he rather wished his brother closer by, for the more rapid introduction of knuckles to teeth. “You know,” Kanmi said, idly, “my brothers are asses, but at least they’re only asses in the privacy of their own homes.”

  “I know,” ben Maor said, grimly.

  “You should invite him over,” Minori suggested, gently. “Try to get him to see that other cultures aren’t hostile.”

  A headshake and a scowl. “If he walked in, right this minute? He’d see two spirits, six spirit-born children, one spirit-touched summoner, two sorcerers, their child, a god-born, and me. How does that qualify as not being a threatening environment, from his point of view?”

  Have Stormborn call Niðhoggr, and underline the point, Lassair suggested, her ruby eyes gleaming. I could walk around the house unclad, as well.

  “That’s not going to get him to see things my way.” Ben Maor frowned. “You can’t bully someone into changing their mind. You can rationalize with someone until you’re blue in the face. You can make emotional appeals until your voice gives out. The only thing that really changes someone’s mind is when someone that they respect thinks differently than they do, and they choose to conform to that new ideal. And, in the end, my brother doesn’t respect me.” A shrug. “I’ll ensure that my life shows that I hold none of his opinions, and there’s an end to it.”

  “I’ll admit, I’d love to see the look on his face,” Kanmi said, “if you had him in this room, and that dragon happened to look through the window. Sigrun, how much do I have to pay you to arrange this, with photographs for posterity?”

  Sigrun squirmed, uncomfortably. She’d been more or less commuting back and forth on Nith, something she clearly considered a privilege that could be rescinded at a moment’s notice. As far as Kanmi knew, she’d never deliberately called for the beast. It just seemed to know when she was ready to leave, and appeared, and she always left and returned to Judea under cover of darkness. “I would not ask Nith to do that,” she said, her shoulders shifting. “He is his own person, not a . . . club . . . for the
head of the ignorant.”

  “Oh, come now, we all know that beast has a sense of humor, by this point.” Kanmi pointed overhead. Outside, the eaves of Adam and Sigrun’s house bore claw-marks, mute testimony to the dragon’s periodic presence.

  “Can I meet him someday?” Rig piped up.

  Fritti looked down at her son. “When you’re older, maybe.”

  He sighed, and looked disappointed.

  The news report picked up again, this time with their promised retrospective on Tawantinsuyu. “The Land of the Four Quarters is, today, in far better shape than it was ten years ago, but signs of the massive earthquakes that marked the death of the sun-god, Inti, still remain.” The camera panned to show cracks still present in the façade of a building, partially patched with plaster. “Thirty thousand people died in the wake of those earthquakes, and millions were left without homes, lights, and power. Their plight pales in comparison to the disaster in northern Europa and Raccia today, but the social disruption in this country in Caesaria Australis continues to this day. Where once a thousand gods, more or less, were worshipped, seemingly one for every mountain’s peak, there are now only three. Mamaquilla and her two attendant gods. The mother goddess of moon and sea subsequently appointed herself the temporal head of government on a temporary basis ten years ago. Since then, she has dismantled centuries of social institutions, including the caste system. While she has appointed a new Sapa Inca, the first ruling queen in the country’s history, the goddess has also instituted a two-level governmental system. One level is comprised of educated nobles and god-born, and the other is comprised of middle and lower-class workers. The system is in its infancy, but appears to be modeled, in some respects, on the tribune of the plebes and the Roman senatorial system. Sociologists from as far away as India have been studying this shift in the social dynamic. Most political commentators are interested to see what will become of this radical departure from the centuries-old, caste-like system, which has not been imposed from without, but from within.

  “Mamaquilla has pledged to remove herself from temporal power within the next five years, once the new leadership structure has been cemented. She has also placed a great deal of emphasis on continuing the worship of Inti as the ‘Sacrificed God,’ a fascinating tactic seemingly echoed today by adherents of the Valhallan god, Loki. However, while Loki may be simply missing, it seems clear that Inti, himself, actually died. Mamaquilla herself has made no pretense otherwise. And yet, the goddess has instructed her followers to pray for the return of the sun. All state religious iconography has shifted to showing the Sun-in-Eclipse, demonstrating that her power is conflated with, and associated with, that of her lost husband and lord . . . .”

  “Life goes on,” Minori said, quietly, looking at the image of Coropuna, where new trees were growing in the slide areas, where the glaciers had melted and slid down the sides of the mountain as lahar, propelled by pyroclastic flows.

  “What do you say,” the reporter asked a Tawantinsuyan man, “when people say that your earthquakes and the catastrophe in the northlands presage the end of the world?”

  “Well, first, I tell them that the Quecha tell us that’s not supposed to come until 2043,” the man said, smiling. “And second, even the Quecha will tell you, that when their Great Cycle on the calendar ends? It’s just the beginning of a new cycle. The world will never truly end. An ending just clears the way for change. For something new to begin.”

  “Finally,” Trennus said, putting his hands behind his head. “Someone with sense.”

  Not long after that, the children were packed off to bed, and Fritti and Rig went back across the street, to where they rented rooms in ben Maor’s parents’ house. The conversation shifted. Trennus asked Kanmi about teaching at the university, and Kanmi grimaced. Most of his students were a waste of his time, but there were a few with sparks of real talent, who’d amount to more than marginal conjurors. He made sure to ram into all their heads the concept of ethical use of power—something Minori found highly amusing, for some reason—but he spent the most time with the ones who had the real potential to be something. Either something dangerous, or something wonderful. In a sense, Kanmi was still doing his original job. Threat-assessment. When he found a student with sufficient power but fewer ethical constraints than he liked, Kanmi immediately worked to denature that potential threat, either by instilling better principles, or diverting that student into a much less dangerous field of magic. As the conversations progressed, Kanmi watched as Lassair’s fingers darted out, and pulled the pin holding Minori’s bun in place, allowing his wife’s hair to tumble down. Minori turned towards Lassair on the couch, wide-eyed, but smiling a little. You’re not at work, the spirit chided her, and rubbed her fingers against Minori’s cheek. Given that Minori was up against Kanmi’s side, he could feel every muscle in her body tense, and then relax. He leaned down to murmur in her ear, “You do realize, Min, that I have no objections to you fantasizing later, so long as you don’t object to me fantasizing about the exact same thing.”

  The rather dazed, if slightly guilty smile Minori sent him was acknowledgement—and reward—enough.

  Saraid padded over to sit down on a loveseat, and beckoned Sigrun over. Sigrun gave the spirit a quizzical glance, wondering why, and then realized that with the children packed off to bed, the living room was much less crowded.

  Come here, sister, Saraid told her now. We have worked together much in the north this past year, but you are there, and then gone again. Never in the same place long. We never have a chance to relax and listen to the leaves.

  Sigrun perched on the edge of the loveseat. Saraid’s shift into a more wolfish persona over the past year had been a smooth transition, probably occasioned by the amount of raw belief that the fenris and the hveðungr directed at her, as their voice and their transformative, transfigurative embodiment of grace. That being said, Saraid was much more assertive as a female alpha wolf than as a graceful, skittish deer. “Ah . . . I can’t remember the last time I listened to the leaves.”

  You did. In my forest. When Trennus brought you there. Sigrun raised her eyebrows at Saraid. She’d long since noticed that Saraid rarely, if ever, called him Flamesower. And everything Saraid said was subtle, and usually important. Worth listening to, certainly. Saraid smiled now, showing just the tips of her canines. Listen to them now, with me. The forest-spirit smiled, and convinced Sigrun to lean back against the cushions. That, Sigrun allowed. Saraid was peaceful. Undemanding. She could relax with Saraid. With a start, she realized that she trusted Saraid, in ways she would never trust Lassair.

  Oh, she liked Lassair well enough. Over the years, she’d more or less gotten accustomed to her effusively affectionate nature, expressed in gestures like passionate kisses on the lips, which still made Sigrun uncomfortable. Not that the spirit meant anything by these ebullient gestures. She simply loved whom she loved, and expressed that love freely. It wasn’t even a measure of physical attractiveness. If Lassair could have gotten them all into the Veil, Sigrun suspected that the spirit would have joined her essence with each of theirs. Pure unity, and nothing physical about it. But when translated into physical terms . . . it wasn’t that Lassair was aggressive. She was simply demonstrative, and even after twenty years living in a mortal world, saw no reason why should shouldn’t be.

  In a way, Lassair was like Sophia. Both were beautiful. Charismatic. And a little oblivious. But where Sophia was broken inside, Lassair was whole now, in a way she had not been, years ago. Still, Sigrun was faintly grateful for decades of practice in telling Sophia no. Knowing how to tell Sophia no made dealing with Lassair that much easier.

  Conversation resumed all around them, Adam griping about a case involving potential smuggling of Chaldean summoning jars over the border, Trennus muttering about the stupidity of people trafficking in artifacts they couldn’t possibly understand. Kanmi offering to get in touch with Erida on the subject—“She’s technically still in mourning for her husband, though f
rom her letters, I don’t think she’s mourning much. And I think she might be in a little over her head. She’s mentioned she’s back in contact with that efreet . . . the one from the convention center. Not sure what’s going on there.”

  Sigrun felt a light tug on her braid, which wasn’t, for once, pinned up at the back of her neck. She turned her head, sharply, and found that Saraid had pulled the leather twist at the end free, and was unraveling the strands. “What are you doing?” Sigrun said, more sharply than she’d intended.

  We are pack-mates, you and I, are we not? Saraid’s little smile suggested that she didn’t mean that in a literal sense. She was still a spirit, as well as wolf. Pack-sisters do these little tasks for each other.

  Sigrun frowned and moved away. Saraid looked hurt, and that was what stopped Sigrun in mid-motion. I am sorry, Sigrun told her, silently. I . . . don’t. I just . . . don’t.

  Pack-mates groom one another. Even among humans. Has no one ever done so, for you?

  My mother must have, when I was young. I don’t remember it, though. Medea taught me to brush and braid it myself. The women who have cut it, from time to time. Other than that, no one but Adam has touched my hair since. It is a . . . personal thing. An intimacy. And it makes me uneasy, to be touched.