Beyond the Wall of Time

by Russell Kirkpatrick

  I thought worship was the reverent paying of respect, she said.

  So did I. But the children of the earth have always seen worship as the exchanging of a feather-weight of devotion for a ton-weight of assistance. I gave them mouths, it is true, so they could know desire and satisfaction. But I gave them arms and legs so they could be instrumental in satisfying their desires. What they call worship is the voluntary amputation of their limbs, the substitution of my limbs for theirs. Some of them even wanted their mouths removed so they no longer had either wants or satisfaction.

  So I hid from them. Not out of fear or timidity, but because I could not grant them their desire without destroying the essence of what they were. However, the knowledge that I existed in the world, and was approachable, led many of them to cast away their independence, to abandon their responsibilities in endless acts of so-called worship, all designed to draw me out. The children of the earth put themselves in situations where, in my name, they would die without my intervention. They planted no seed, they harvested no crops, relying on me to provide.

  They began to die.

  I was enraged by the first doubters. “See,” they cried, “the Giant of the Desert”—for so they called me—“does not exist, for he does not rescue those who love him the most. Those who trust only themselves live happy, fulfilled lives, while those who trust him die of starvation and disease.”

  So, against my own wishes, I intervened, weakening the Wall of Time. I sent wind to spread the wild seed and rain to help it grow. I let it be known that this was miraculous, a sign that the giant still cared for them. Many of my worshippers left their temples and harvested the grain, but others remained as professional clergy and stole much of the food under the guise of a tithe.

  Should I have intervened, Stella? I could have. But then the Wall of Time would have been breached, and I would have swallowed them all.

  Then came the Time of Quarrels. Those who had worked hard all their lives, planting and harvesting in season, were jealous of those who had been miraculously provided for. The temple-dwellers tried to extend their demands for a tithe to all who harvested grain, irrespective of who had planted it. The earth became a battlefield, a place of pain and suffering, as each faction fought the other. Even the temple-dwellers rediscovered how effective their own limbs could be. Having neglected them in my service, they used them to deal death to their enemies.

  Should I have made them stop, Stella? I could have. But then the Wall of Time would have been breached, and I would have swallowed them all.

  I did what I could. I called a meeting of the three factions in the House of the Gods. The temple-dwellers, of course, would not come. They were too busy worshipping me—begging me to do them favours, trying to compel me with magic spells recited from their holy book—to attend. Both of the other two factions sent a representative. A man and a woman. I fashioned three seats and we sat together, man, woman and giant, considering the world and debating what might be done.

  Should I have told them what to do, Stella? I could have. But then the Wall of Time would have been breached, and I would have swallowed them all.

  After years of debate, the man and the woman agreed to a truce. They left my house and returned to their own people. However, they discovered that their time in the House of the Gods had changed them. Having spent such a long time outside the Wall of Time, they were no longer mortal children. They dwelled on both sides of the wall. Their factions sent them back to the House, one fearful of what Keppia had become, the other hopeful that Umu could use her power to demand concessions.

  Should I have stripped them of their power without their assent, Stella? I could have. But then the Wall of Time would have been breached, and I would have swallowed them all.

  How I loved them! But when I asked them to surrender their powers, they refused. “It is one or the other,” I told them. “You would be best to return to your people. You will not enjoy life beyond the wall.” “Nevertheless, we will not relinquish being gods,” they replied.

  So they chose to live in the House of the Gods as my Son and my Daughter, yet soon they began to miss the freedom they once enjoyed. Beyond the wall, Stella, life is different. You do not face uncertain choices. I knew they were discontented, yet I was bound not to interfere, save offering advice.

  What was I to do with Keppia and Umu? They were not content to pass their time in the House of the Gods. So I sent them to whisper to their people, to offer them guidance, to assist the weak and the downtrodden. Of course I knew they would likely interfere, but I had no choice. To prevent them interfering was to interfere myself.

  They interfered. My beloved children raised vast armies and laid siege to the House of the Gods, demanding my surrender. Their solution to the problem of the Wall of Time was to drive me beyond it, and to take my place themselves.

  I need not have fled. I could have remained. But then there would have been slaughter, and my supporters, innocent of any crime, would have been wiped out. I had been left with an impossible choice. Remain and witness the death of those who followed me, or leave and so forsake the Amaqi, the children of the earth. So I left, and travelled north to Faltha to provide my followers with a new home.

  My leaving, however, cracked the Wall of Time. Keppia and Umu saw this weakness and, desirous of a full return to the world with their god-like powers, have been trying ever since to exploit it. I attempted to raise a champion among the First Men to oppose their interference, but I failed. Kannwar was the result of a thousand years of careful instruction and breeding, yet he exercised his freedom and opposed me. Ever have the children of the earth had such refusal in their power.

  And I cannot say he was wrong, Stella. I had such hopes, and my heart was filled with love. I thought he would embrace my plan. I allowed my love, my trust and my desperation to cloud my judgment, yet I would do it again. I must trust my children; otherwise, if I limit them—

  I know, Stella said. You will breach the Wall of Time, and creation will end.

  Kannwar turned against me. He decided to reveal my offer to his fellow First Men by partaking of the Water of Life, the water I had planned for him to take gradually over many years, just as Keppia and Umu did. But, as you know only too well, your bodies are not able to bear such a dosage of the Water of Life. Kannwar wished the First Men to become gods, but despite my warnings he partook of the Fountain.

  Then you interfered, didn’t you? Stella said. You punished him, and all the First Men.

  Yes. I had made the mistake of introducing a command into the lives of my children. Something they could disobey. When they disobeyed, I was forced to act. And in acting I further weakened the Wall of Time. I reached through to Dona Mihst and cracked the earth, causing a great earthquake and flood.

  Since that time I have been very careful, only exercising my power when invited, and then only through the will and bodies of others.

  Like Hal, said Stella. And Leith.

  And yourself, the Most High added. Among others.

  Kannwar, said Stella.

  Yes. After running from me for two thousand years, he is very unhappy about it.

  Do you think he will remain true to you?

  This was not the question she most wanted to ask. Under her superficial thought lurked the question: Will he remain true to me?

  The Most High gave her an answer. I do not know. It is his choice. He will betray us. He has a history of deception.

  Yet he surrendered himself to me, allowing me to use him to drive Keppia from the House of the Gods and the body he inhabited. He could have betrayed us then, but he did not.

  What sort of god are you? Stella asked angrily. You choose not to see the future, you refuse to interfere, you withhold miracles. Are you any use at all?

  I am a reluctant god, he said.

  Conal awoke from darkness as thick as tar. His remaining eye was stabbed by daggers of light, forcing him to blink rapidly. Dirt ground itself into his eyeball, but he could not raise his hands
to remove the irritation.

  Someone had buried him.

  But I’m not dead! Why would someone bury me alive?

  Panic rippled through his body, but still he could move nothing but his eye. The last thing he could remember was Duon’s foolish attempt to free them from Husk’s clutches. It had obviously not worked. Conal could have told the stupid southerner and the fat girl it would not work, the voice was too clever for them. He could feel the voice even now, nestled in the back of his head, ready to inflict further suffering on him and everyone else.

  Conal willed his muscles to move, but there was no response. His head was clear of rocks and dirt, but the rest of him had been covered. Why, why, why? Had he been caught in a landslide?

  A slurry of mud trickled into his good eye. He tried desperately to blink it away, but it filled the gap between his lower eyelid and his eyeball. Needles of pain burned into his eye, reducing his vision to blurred shapes.

  Something moved above him.

  “They buried you deep,” it said. “They must have wanted you to stay dead.”

  A hand scraped the mud from his face, one of the fingernails casually scoring his eyeball. He yelped, and his mouth filled with dirt.

  “Won’t be long and we’ll have you free,” said the voice. “Then we’ll see what shape you’re in. Not good, I expect.”

  While Conal attempted to spit out the dirt, the figure busied itself clearing mud and rocks from the priest’s torso and limbs, humming all the while. It seemed to take forever.

  “Who are you?” Conal forced the words out.

  The figure bent over him and the face drew close. Conal screamed.

  The storm had blown itself out. All that remained was a thin, cold rain spattering from low, formless cloud. Lenares insisted the hole in the world had gone and that Umu was nowhere near, so Kannwar had let the barrier above them dissolve.

  Strength had been slow to return to Robal’s limbs. Even now, hours later, he leaned against the cracked base of the former column at the edge of Corata Pit, his shaky legs barely able to bear his weight. The Destroyer apologised to him for such an abrupt and deep drain of his energy, but stopped short of acknowledging it as theft. Instead, it seemed he wished for praise, repeatedly emphasising how Stella had survived and the barrier had held.

  “Had you not been willing to give of yourself, many more people would have died,” the man said in an oily voice. Robal seethed at the patronising words. “Though the depth of your strength was a surprise. You kept pouring yourself at me long after I’d taken what I thought you could bear.”

  What on earth was the loathsome man talking about?

  His wittering continued. “Have you ever been tested for magical potentia1?”

  “We don’t do that in Faltha,” Robal responded. He didn’t care how rude he sounded; this man could not be borne.

  “I have returned the favour,” said the Destroyer. “You should be feeling better. I infused you with some of my own strength.” When Robal didn’t respond, the man frowned and said: “You should be honoured. In Andratan my servants compete to be the ones I drain to perform my magic.”

  “This isn’t Andratan. I gave nothing to you willingly, thief. You took it. You ripped it out of us.”

  “Your queen lay dying on the ground, man! What did you want me to do? Hold a meeting perhaps? The Daughter could have struck at any time. Lenares’ brave actions gave me the time to repair the canopy, and then everyone’s strength kept Stella alive. How can you find fault with that?”

  “There is no fault,” Stella said.

  Her voice had an odd timbre, as it had since she had awoken; something damaged in her throat perhaps. Whatever the cause, it made Robal’s flesh creep.

  “No fault,” she repeated. “Everyone did what they could. Now we need to move on.”

  Robal flushed at the rebuke. How could the woman be so ignorant of the Destroyer’s manipulation? Or was the priest right after all? Was she in his thrall? He settled for casting a single glare at the Destroyer.

  “Move on from blame, or move on from this pit?” said Anomer.

  “Both,” she replied, “but particularly the former.” Absently she scratched at her face and a piece of skin flaked off.

  Something is wrong. Stella is conscious of her appearance. She ought to have noted that. A dark suspicion entered his mind, but he dismissed it. Surely not.

  “I’m more concerned with the latter,” Anomer said. “The locals have gone to search for their loved ones, and I intend to follow them. My father and sister are out there somewhere, alive but exhausted, easy prey should the gods return. Does anyone object to my plan?”

  “Do you want company?” Mustar asked.

  “Of course,” replied Anomer. “As many as wish to come.”

  But the words sounded less than sincere to Robal. He is wary of the boy around his sister, he thought. Jealousy is such a petty thing when displayed in such an obvious fashion.

  “People are weary,” Moralye said. “Should we not wait for the others to rejoin us?”

  Anomer shook his head. “I’m no longer in communication with them. In Raceme mind-contact led the gods to us. I don’t want Umu or Keppia to sense them out there on their own.”

  “We do have to work out what to do next,” Robal said, trying to impose himself. “We need to capture or destroy the gods, but every time they come close we can do nothing but flee or take shelter. Shouldn’t we think of a way to trap them?”

  Every head turned to the cosmographer.

  Her tongue flicked over her lips and she fiddled with her hair. Everyone knew the story of how she’d captured Umu. Robal could see just how much of their hope was fixed on her.

  “I… I do have some ideas,” she said.

  “Then share them with us all!” a voice boomed across the pit. Striding towards them, a wide grin on his face, came Conal the priest.

  Dryman—or the thing now inhabiting his body—had dug him out of his burial pit, then hauled him to his feet. Its mouth drew close to Conal’s face, the breath like the stink of a latrine. The priest tried to break the monster’s grip, but could barely move. Some sort of paralysis then, and not the weight of the soil, had prevented him moving.

  “Good to see you again, Umu,” it said.

  Conal had always considered himself smart. As a child he’d been vastly more intelligent than his peers, so obviously so that they’d reacted in the traditional manner by beating him at every opportunity. Not that this stopped him demonstrating his superiority at every opportunity. His career in the Koinobia had been characterized by rapid promotion and jealous gossip. Despite appearances he had always been a keen student of behaviour. Even so, it took him a few moments to realize what Dryman’s words meant.

  “I’m not Umu,” he meant to say, but there was no connection between his thoughts and his mouth. Instead, the presence in the back of his head leapt forward and took control of his speech.

  “You look like a mummer,” said his mouth.

  Oh, Most High, he wailed, shut up and silent in his own body. Please, not this, not again!

  “And you look a great deal plumper than I remember,” Dryman’s mouth said, breathing foetid fumes into his face.

  Conal’s mouth laughed. “The fool inside this body thinks I’ve gained temporary possession of it.”

  “As does mine, though the Emperor of Elamaq is beginning to taste the first flowering of despair.” A grin split the horrid face opposite Conal’s. “You died, priest. You are forever severed from your body. Since you were not using it, my sister has taken it for her own. You may still see, hear and feel, but you are merely a spectator. She can banish you into the void at any time.”

  I died?

  “He does not yet understand, brother.”

  “Your essenza has already gone to the void beyond the wall,” Dryman said, “as has that of the man who once occupied this body. However, memories are slow to fade. We have prevented them fading completely so we can use these bodies
with a degree of subtlety.”

  This is not a spike? You are not controlling me from somewhere else?

  A laugh echoed in his mind. I need a body, and here yours lay cooling.

  How did I die? Real fear began to grow, though it was a strange fear, not affecting his glands or his muscles.

  I do not know, and I do not care. From your injuries it appears you were beaten perhaps, or you fell. Given the cliff above us, I’d guess the latter.

  Injuries?

  Oh dear, I’ve picked a clever one. Of course injuries. Your legs are shattered, your back is broken, your skull shattered and your heart has failed.

  But I’m standing now and I don’t feel any pain.

  You’ll never feel anything again, Umu said. I’m doing the feeling for you.

  It has been many centuries since I enjoyed physical sensations, and while this is not pleasant, it is better than the void. You see, your body is not alive. I am merely animating it with magic. It will not do to allow anyone too close, but there are advantages. I can, for example, walk with fractured legs.

  He—she—took a few steps, and he could hear the crunching of bones and gristle. His fear crested—this is real, it is not a dream—and he thought he would go mad.

  Please, let me go!

  If I let you go you will find yourself in the void. Surely an unsurpassed intimate view of my triumph is better than that?

  Why did Keppia dig me out? I thought you and your brother hated each other!

  Oh, we do. Once we have killed or enslaved your friends and broken asunder the Wall of Time, we will fight again. But until then we will cooperate.

  “Does he understand yet?” Dryman’s body asked.

  “He’s beginning to,” Conal’s body replied. No, not Conal’s body. Umu’s body. “Perhaps he’ll appreciate his position a little better on the way back to Stella and her friends.”

  What are you going to do with me?

  With you? Nothing. I am going to take this body and use it to bring mayhem to those you ought to have trusted.

  She began rummaging through his memories, pushing and prodding his body from the inside, matching her movements to his gait, her expressions to his.