Something was wrong, missing, as though she had forgotten to put on her skirt or her tunic. She looked down at herself, puzzled. She was damp but fully dressed.
Why, then, this feeling of nakedness?
Trale led them across the hall, through an arch beneath the balcony and into a wide, low room that curved away just inside the outer wall. A refectory. Pamra shivered. It was not unlike the refectory at the Tower of Baris. The smells were not unlike those smells. Cereals and soap, steam and grease, cleanliness at war with succulence. Trale beckoned to them from an angled corner, a smaller room opening off the large one, where a fire blazed brightly upon the hearth.
"I'll return in a moment," he murmured, leaving them there.
Those who had drawn the cart stood back, waiting for Pamra to approach the fire.
She gestured them forward. The room was warm enough without baking herself.
She took off her outer clothing and spread it on a table. Her knee-length undertunic was only damp, clinging to her body like a second skin. The men turned their eyes away under Peasimy's peremptory gaze, one of them flushing.
Trale was back in a moment with towels and a pile of loosely woven robes over one arm. He did not seem to notice Pamra's body under the clinging fabric but merely handed her one of the robes, as impersonally as a servant. Behind him came a man and a woman, one bearing a tea service, the other a covered platter at which Peasimy looked with suspicion.
"Jarb," said Trale. "It is our custom."
"We won't-" Pamra began.
"No. It is our custom. With any visitor. Call it - oh, a method of diagnosis."
"We are not ill."
"The diagnosis is not always of illness. Do take tea. This is a very comforting brew. It has no medicinal qualities aside from that."
They sat steaming before the fire, moisture rising from them and from their discarded clothing in clouds. Rain fell down the chimney, making small spitting noises in the fire. The wall at their side reverberated to the thunder outside, hummed to the bow-stroke of the wind. In the great hall the voice murmur went on and on. Beside the fire Trale knelt to scrape coals into a tiny brazier. Beside the brazier lay three oval roots, warty and blue, each the size of a fist. Jarb roots, Pamra thought. Trale peeled the roots carefully, dropping the peels into a shallow pan. When all three were peeled, he laid the roots into the ashes and began to dry the peels over the brazier, stirring them with a slender metal spoon. The woman who had brought in the tea buried the peeled roots in the ashes and turned to smile at Pamra.
"It is only the peel which has the power of visions. Jarb root itself is delicious. The Noor eat it all the time. Have you ever tasted it?"
Pamra shook her head, oppressed once more by the sense of something missing.
"No." She ate less and less as the crusade wore on. Hunger seemed scarcely to touch her. Now, for some reason, however, she felt ravenous. Perhaps it was the smoke. Perhaps the smell of food. "I am hungry, though."
"They only take a few moments to steam. Some scrape the ashes off, but I like the taste." She drew a pipe from her pocket and handed it to Trale, who filled it with the powdery scraps from the pan. All three had pipes, and in a moment all three were alight, seated before the fire, the smoke from the pipes floating out into the room, into the refectory, away into the chimney of the great hall. The fragrance was the same one that already permeated everything. Sweet, spicy. Pamra folded her arms on the table and laid her head upon them, suddenly both hungry and tired. She had not felt this hungry, this tired, in months. Why was she here? She thought briefly of the Gift of Potipur, wishing she were aboard, translating the murmur of Tower talk into the murmur of tidal current, the thunder outside into the creak of boat timbers. She could be there. With Thrasne. Instead of here.
Beside her Lila chortled and said, clearly, "Over the River. Thrasne went over the River."
Peasimy turned, his little ruby mouth open, cheeks fiery red with the drying he had given them. "She talked!"
Pamra nodded sleepily. "She does, sometimes."
"I hadn't heard her before."
"She talks about the River a lot. Mostly that." She rubbed her forehead fretfully.
The sweet smell of the Jarb had soaked into the top of her nose and was filling it, like syrup. She turned to find the three smokers knocking the dottle from their pipes onto the hearth. The immediacy of the smell was dissipating.
The woman raked the baked Jarb root from the fire, brushing it off and placing it upon a little plate. This she placed before Pamra with a spoon. "Try a little."
Pamra spooned off a bite, blowing on it to cool it. The root was sweet, too, but delicious. The slightly ashy taste only complemented it. She took another spoonful, then hesitated.
"Go ahead, eat it all," the woman said. "There are people bringing plenty of food for you and for the others."
By the fire, Trale sat, rocking back and forth.
"Did you have a vision?" asked Peasimy curiously, studying the man's face.
"Oh, yes."
"What was it of?"
"Of you, Peasimy Plot. And of Pamra Don. And of what is to come."
"Oh!" Peasimy clapped his hands, delighted. "Tell us!"
Trale shook his head. "I'm afraid it can't be told. There are only colors and patterns."
"Red and orange and yellow of flame," said the woman. "Black of smoke."
"Red and orange and yellow of flowers," said the man. "Black of stony mountains."
"Red and orange and yellow of metal," said Trale. "Black of deep mines."
"That doesn't sound like much of a vision," pouted Peasimy.
"Or too much of one," said Pamra, one side of her mouth lifted in a half smile.
The Jarb root had settled into her, making some of the same kind of happiness Glizzee spice often made. Not rapture. More a contentment. Warmth. It had been a sizable root, and her sudden hunger was appeased. She smiled again, head nodding with weariness. "I'm so sleepy."
"Come with me," the woman said. "We'll find a place for you to rest."
They went out into the great hall again and up the spiraling balcony. A twist and a half up the huge trunk, the woman pointed into a room where a wide bed was spread with gaily worked quilts. The door was fastened back with a strap, and the woman loosened it now, letting the door sag toward its latch.
"Sleep. When you've slept enough, come back down to the place we were. I'll be there, or Trale. Will the baby be all right, here with you?"
Pamra nodded, so weary she could hardly hold her head up. She heard the latch click as she crawled into the bed, felt Lila curl beside her with a satisfied murmur, then was gone into darkness.
Outside the room people moved to and fro, some of them pausing to stare curiously at the door before moving away to be replaced by someone else. Inside the room, Lila squirmed out of Pamra's grasp, turned to let her feet drop off the edge of the bed, then stagger-crawled to the door to sit there with her own hands pressed to its surface, smiling, nodding, sometimes saying something to herself in a chuckling baby voice, as though she watched with her fingers what transpired outside the wooden barrier.
Below in the firelit room, the three Mendicants crouched before the fire, staring into the flames. Peasimy had fallen asleep where he sat, as had the men with him.
"Mad," said Trale at last. "There's no doubt."
"None," agreed the woman. "She hasn't eaten for weeks or months. She's all skin and eyes. She's an ecstatic. A visionary. The fasting only makes it worse. The minute the smoke hit her, she felt hungry. She's half starved herself."
"How long do you think we can get her to stay?" the man asked.
"No time at all. Tomorrow morning, perhaps. If the storm goes on, perhaps until the rain stops."
"Not long enough to do any good."
"No."
"It's too bad, isn't it?"
Trale nodded, poking at the fire. "Well, a time of changes is often unpleasant. I don't see the Jarb Houses seriously threatened. Or the Mendica
nts."
"There will be a need for more houses." The woman made a spiraling gesture that conveyed the wholeness of the edifice with all its murmurous inhabitants.
"Perhaps some of the people in residence will be able to leave," the man said. He sounded doubtful of this.
"Some are ready to leave as Mendicants." Trale sighed. "Taking their pipes with them, as we do. The others - if they go, they go into madness once more. More houses will be needed, but it's unlikely we'll be able to build them."
"We could keep her here."
"By force?" It was a question only, without emotion. But the woman flushed deep crimson. "I thought, persuade her, perhaps."
"Try," Trale urged her. "By all means, Elina, try. It has not a hope of success, but you will not be content unless you try."
2
Late in the day a bell rang and people began filing down from the chimney top toward the refectory. Children leapt from the railings into nets and from these into other nets below. Some whirled down tall poles. A train of whooping boys came spinning down the spiraling banister, loud with laughter. The tables filled, and there was a clatter of bowls and spoons. Out in the chimney hall, Elina pared Jarb-root peels onto the brazier, renewing the pale wraiths of smoke which filled all the space to its high, blind skylight. Pamra opened the door of her room and came out onto the balcony to look down, Lila held high against her shoulder. Elina beckoned to them, and Lila squirmed out of Pamra's arms, over the railing, plunging downward, arms spread as though to fly. Elina caught her, without thinking, only then turning pale with shock while the child chortled in her arms and Pamra, above, put hands to her throat as though to choke off a scream.
"All right," said Lila. "You caught me."
"Did you know I would?" the woman asked in an astonished whisper.
"Oh, yes," said Lila. "The smoke is nice."
Pamra was coming slowly down the twisting ramp, her eyes never leaving the child below. Lila squirmed to be put down and staggered toward the foot of the ramp, face contorted in the enormous concentration necessary to walking. She did not fall until the ramp was reached, and Pamra scooped her up.
"Lila, don't ever do that again." In her voice was all the anguish of every mother, every elder sister, all imperiousness gone. She smiled at Elina, shaking her head, and they shared the moment. Children! The things they did! It lasted only a moment.
"I should be getting back to my people," Pamra said. "They will be wondering what has happened to me."
"They know you are here," the woman responded. "It is still raining. They will be more comfortable if they believe you are comfortable. Do not add your discomfort to their own by going back into the wet."
"You're right, of course. And it will not hurt to have a warm meal." Pamra was amazed at herself, but she was hungry again. She looked around her curiously. "I got only the general impression before. Are all Jarb Houses built this way?"
"Yes. So the smoke can permeate the whole structure."
"The smoke? I see it does. But why?"
Elina took her by the arm, drawing her close, as though they had been sisters, used to sharing confidences. "The Jarb smoke is said to give visions, you know? But in reality, Jarb smoke erases visions and restores reality. For those disturbed by visions of madness, the Jarb smoke brings actuality. You see that woman going into the refectory? The tall one with the wild red hair? On the outside, she is a beast who roams the forests, killing all who pursue her, sure of their ill will and obsessed by the terrors of the world. Here she is kindness itself, a loving friend to half the house."
Pamra peered at the woman, not seeming to understand what was being said.
"Outside, she has visions of herself as a beast, of herself hunted. In the house, the smoke wipes those visions away. In here, she is only herself."
Pamra stared at her, awareness coming to her suddenly, her face paling. "Neff," she cried. "Neff!"
"Shhh," said Elina. "Shhh. There is no need to cry out."
"Neff! Where is he?"
Trale came from the refectory, joining them, taking Pamra's other arm. Wearily, pointedly, with a resigned look at Elina, he said, "Your visions wait for you outside. They cannot come into a Jarb House."
Pamra drew herself up, regally tall, becoming someone else. "Truth cannot exist in this place, can it, Mendicant? Light cannot come here? Only darkness and smoke?''
He shook his head. "All your - all your friends are waiting for you. Come now. There is food waiting, also."
She shook her head at them, pityingly, but allowed them to take her to the place where Peasimy stood impatiently with the others, all standing beside their chairs, waiting for her to be seated; then all waiting until she began eating. She nodded at the others, saying, "Eat quickly, my friends. We must leave this place."
"Dark comes?" asked Peasimy, glaring at the Mendicants. "Pamra?"
She shook her head. "They are not evil, Peasimy. They are only misled." She had been hungry, but now she began to toy with the food before her, obviously impatient to be gone. Elina laid a hand upon her shoulder, tears in the comers of her eyes. "Pamra! Courtesy! 'Neff is not impatient."
Pamra took a bite, chewed it slowly, watching them with that same pitying gaze. Now she knew what had been missing since she had entered the house. Neff, and Delia, and her mother. Them and their voices. Gone. As though they had never been except in her memory. Did these poor smoke-blinded fools think she would let them go? Though she could not see them in this smoky haze, the center of her being clung to what she knew to be true. They... they were true. Neff was true. She took another bite, smiled at Peasimy and encouraged him to eat.
From the side of the room, Trale watched, eyes narrowed in concentration. Elina came toward him. "She did not make the connection with her own condition at all."
"Oh, yes. She knows what we tried to do. But she has rejected it."
"Why, Trale?"
"Because her madness is all she has. Whatever else there might have been once has been taken away. Whatever else there might be in the future seems shoddy in comparison. Who would wed a man when one might wed an angel? Who would live as a woman when one might rule as a goddess?"
"We could keep her here by force."
"Setting aside that we would break all our vows, yes. We could."
"In time, she would forget."
"Ah."
"She would grow accustomed."
"Elina."
"Yes, Trale."
"Clip the flame-bird's wings if you must, Elina. Set it among your barnyard fowl. Tell yourself you do it to save the flame-bird's life. But do not expect it to nest, or to sing."
She bowed her head, very pale. At the table behind her, Pamra rose, her hand shaking as she wiped her mouth with the napkin. "Where are my clothes?" she asked.
Peasimy found them for her, beside the fire, and she put them on. They were warm and dry.
"Won't you stay until it stops raining?" Elina asked her. "Only until morning."
"No," Pamra said, her eyes darting from place to place in the high dwelling, marking it in her memory. Another time, there might be converts to be had in places like this. "No. Neff is waiting. Mother and Delia. They're waiting. We have set our feet upon the road and must not leave it. This is a bad place, Elina. You should come with us. You can't see the road from in here, Elina. Come with us...."
Her face lit from within, glowed, only for a moment, but for that moment Elina felt herself torn, wrenched, dragged to the gate of herself. Fear struck at her and she drew back.
"No, Pamra. It is safe here. The people here find much joy and comfort."
"Joy," said Pamra. "Comfort!" The scorn in her voice was palpable, an acid dripping upon those words. "Safety. Yes. That is what you have here."
Peasimy was suddenly beside her, swallowing the last bite of his supper. Then they were moving toward the entrance, out across the open chimney, through the hallway, pulling at the great doors. They went into the night, a night miraculously cleared of storm, wi
th the moons lighting the sky. Potipur, half-swollen and sullen above them to the west; Vkanel a mere sickle dipping beyond the western horizon; Abricor a round melon, high in the east.
"You see," said Pamra. "Neff has arranged it. Here he comes now." And she turned her radiant face to the woods, from which some invisible presence moved to join her. Elina, in the doorway, gasped, for she saw it, for that moment saw it, a towering figure of white light, golden wings outstretched, its breast stained with red.
Trale was behind her. "Come in, Elina."
"Trale, I saw..."
"Saw what she sees. As do all those who follow her. Come in to the fire, Elina."
Behind Pamra and the others, the doors of the Jarb House shut with a solemn clang. From the forests came the multitude, and Pamra's heart sang. "Crusade," she called. "Let us go on."
3
Thrasne thought of what he was about to do somewhat as he might have regarded taking the axe to himself if he had been touched by blight. He would have rejected the intention to lop off his own leg with horror, yet he would have done it because the alternative was more terrible still.
So, he fell in with the plan to go with a group of Medoor Babji's Melancholies on a voyage of exploration to find Southshore without enthusiasm, with a kind of deadly reluctance. He resolved upon it because staying anywhere near Pamra was more horrifying than leaving the world in which she moved. If he stayed, he would have to follow her. And it would be terrible to watch Pamra, to hear of her, to be told of the crusade. Any of these were more repugnant to him than risking his own life. He told himself he would welcome death if it meant he need not realize the danger Pamra ran and go in apprehension of that terror.
"I love her," he said to Medoor Babji. "Whether she is mad or not. I love her."
And he did. His loins quivered at the thought of her. He knew every curve of her body, and he dreamed of that body, waking in a shaking sweat from agonies of unfulfilled passion.
The Awakeners - Northshore & Southshore Page 25
