The creature produced its noise again, and this time Terzian was convinced it had nothing in common with laughter.
“Quite right. I want your soul, Terzian.”
“Fine, take it.”
The look of perplexity on the creature’s face gave Terzian a moment’s gratification.
“You’re not supposed to give in so easily, Terzian. You’re supposed to argue, and convince me of how much you value your soul.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, I can see that. Well it’s no use to me then.”
“In that case, I don’t have anything else to offer.”
The creature studied him carefully, pursing its pseudo-lips, and running its hand along its erect phallus. Terzian recalled Ponclast in his tent, three nights ago, in a similar pose.
“I see it.” The creature said.
“See what?”
“The thing you value. The thing you must give to me.”
“Which is?”
“Your love.”
“My what?”
“Your love. Your softness, your compassion, your tenderness, your surrender. You want to give it to someone, Terzian, but there is no one worthy, and perhaps there never will be. Give it to me. You’re not using it, after all.”
Terzian decided that this conversation had taken a very surreal turn. He had no idea what this creature wanted from him, or how he was supposed to give it. Give me your love. What did it mean by that?
He had no experience of love, either of giving it or receiving it. He thought about Lirren and Moth; the soft, secret looks he had seen them exchange; the brief contact that excluded everyone else in the world. He thought about how Lirren had struggled in his grasp, like an animal caught in a trap, and run back into the fire and the bullets, into his own certain death, because he could not bear to live in a world that did not have Moth in it. Was that love? If it was, it was a weakness, a sickness and something that Terzian had no use for.
Perhaps in another time and another place, there would be a space for such things, but not here and now, at the edge of existence and the edge of extinction. Only strength could help them survive; all else would merely drag them down. He would give up his weakness gladly; cut it away from himself like a gangrenous limb, leaving only the stronger part of him. And in return he would gain power and control. It was a good bargain.
“Take it,” he said, “I have no use for it.”
“Are you sure?” The creature looked at him slyly.
“Quite sure.”
“You promise that you will give it to me, and to me only?”
“I do.”
“Then know this, Terzian. This promise is a vow. It may not be broken without consequences. What is given can be taken away again, what is gained may be lost. You must be faithful to this vow, Terzian. You must be faithful to me and only me. No other may have your love once you have surrendered it to me. Are you sure that you can keep this promise?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
The creature reached out one long arm and touched Terzian gently on the cheek. Its fingers felt cool and soft.
“My beautiful Terzian,” it sighed. “So strong, so confident, so sure of your own heart. One day it may betray you.”
“I’ll deal with that when it happens.”
“Of course you will. I offer you one last chance, Terzian. You may withdraw from this agreement now if you so wish, and all will remain as before.”
“I do not wish. What I wish is for you to give me victory over the humans. Give me the town. Give me a life.”
The creature nodded gravely. “Very well. We have an agreement then. I will take your offering. Give me your knife.”
Terzian hesitated for a second, then withdrew his knife from its sheath and handed it to the creature, who took it, smiled politely and sidled around the back of him. Terzian felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“Don’t look round.” The creature warned, and it was all Terzian could do to comply with its instructions.
He felt a tug on his hair, which was bound with a leather cord behind his head in a long tail reaching to his waist. Then another tug, sharper and more painful, and another, and then the tugging ceased and his head felt strangely lighter.
The creature reappeared in front of him holding something rope-like in its hands, corn-coloured and gleaming. Terzian recognized it. It was his own hair.
“This represents your sacrifice,” the creature told him. It took the length of hair and dropped it into a flat silver dish in the centre of the circle. It lay there like a dead thing. Lifeless. It seemed impossible to Terzian that it had ever been a part of him.
The creature cast a handful of powder into the dish. There was a sudden bright flash of vermilion flame and the hair burned fiercely for a few seconds. When the flames died, there was no trace of it remaining, no sign that it had ever existed.
“Is that it?” asked Terzian cautiously.
“No, of course not. Lie down now.”
Unaccountably, Terzian found that he was naked and soume. He could not remember removing his clothing, and he could not remember experiencing any feelings of desire for this creature, but now he felt the unmistakeable butterfly flexions between his legs, and the beginnings of wetness, an ocean tide, a river awaiting release.
He stared in fascination at the creature’s phallus. It was several times the size of an ordinary har’s ouana-lim, both in length and girth, and it pulsed and throbbed as if imbued with a separate life of its own. Petals furled and unfurled at its tip, as if in anticipation, and enclosed within the blossoming velvet, one long tendril could be seen flicking outwards, like the tongue of a snake.
Terzian remembered a dream he had once had, of a nameless, faceless har, hot between his legs, sliding endlessly into him, again and again, reaching into somewhere so deep inside him he could not put a name to it. He lay down on his back and drew his legs up, grasping his own ankles, resisting the urge to slip his own fingers into himself and feel the wetness there, to touch the hardened and prominent swellings inside him, within easy reach of his searching fingertips. He wanted more than that. Much more.
The creature – Demon or God, or whatever it was – knelt down between his opened legs and guided its massive ouana-lim to the entrance to his body. It teased him with a few gentle strokes, causing his soume-lam to grasp and claw futilely at empty air, before bearing down mercilessly into him
Terzian gasped aloud. A searing pain seemed to run the full length of his body, from his crotch to his breastbone. He experienced a moment of fear, wondering if the creature’s size would damage him and tear his flesh, but the pain was followed almost instantly by an ecstasy so intense he found that he could not breath. Motes of light danced in front of his eyes, tiny explosions of colour and movement.
After a while, he found he could no longer tell if what he was experiencing was pain or pleasure; it was merely a sensation so overwhelming that he could do nothing but ride it to its inevitable conclusion. Every time the creature moved inside him, he could feel it pulling and stretching him, tugging at his flesh, and at something else, deep within him, something vital and living. It felt as if his entire viscera were being slowly pulled from him, one agonizing piece at a time.
Something warm and wet ran down his face, and he managed to raise one hand to wipe it away. He thought it must be blood. That, and the hot liquid escaping between his legs. It must be his lifeblood, leaking from him, slowly and inexorably, leaving him empty and dying. More liquid spilled down his face, from his eyes, clear liquid, and he realised it was not blood, but he could not remember what it was, could not remember ever experiencing this before.
He could no longer hold on to himself. His body split itself asunder, erupting with liquid fire. Deep within, he felt the tongue lash out and strike him in his rawest nerve, and hold and grasp that nerve, and then he felt the GodDemonCreature begin its long, agonizing withdrawal, and with it went something of himself, something soft, something vulner
able, pulled and pulled from him, until he thought it would never cease, stretching to the breaking point, tearing free. Leaving. Leaving him. Leaving him empty.
Leaving him with nothing but the wet liquid on his face which he found to his surprise, as he raised his trembling hands to his face, was only tears.
Extract from Terzian’s diary, found amount his private papers after his death.
The next morning, when we returned to the town, we found it deserted. All the humans had fled, and we made our way past the burnt-out barricades and broken glass of the previous evening and into the narrow streets in an eerie silence, cautious and expecting a trap or an ambush at any moment. It never came.
Eventually we found one inhabitant, cowering in a cellar and raving to himself. He spoke of demons and fire and death, and the look in his eyes was of such terror that I cannot even begin to describe, however there is no sign of any damage to the houses, either by fire or other means. I think it is all in his mind, or what there is left of it. Ponclast thinks he is of an age to be incepted, but I do no not want the taint of madness among our tribe. I will decide his fate within the next few days.
We gathered up the bodies of our fallen comrades and burned them. Among the dead I recognized Lirren and his companion, Moth. As their bodies were found some distance from each other, I consider it unlikely that they died together.
We have named the town Galhea. There is food in abundance here and fuel for the winter. The houses are simply furnished, but in good repair. Already our hara have started making them their own. It is good to see the improvement in morale that has resulted from this turn of events.
Defence must now be our first priority – we have a substantial prize in our grasp and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that others may attempt to take it from us.
We need to become more organized, less self-indulgent. I am instigating a number of measures which will improve our efficiency by allocating jobs on the basis of ability; those who are strongest and best able to fight will be our front line. Those who cannot will be given other more domestic tasks. It is only logical, given our current precarious circumstances.
In a somewhat surprising twist, many of the fighting hara have cut their hair short, after my own recent fashion. They think that our victory was in some way due to this. Or perhaps they are trying to gain my favour through flattery. Either way, I think this is a welcome development. It provides them with a badge of solidarity and comradeship, and is quite practical for those engaged in active lifestyles, although it does not matter so much for the domestic hara.
Yesterday morning, I inspected the troops. They are a rough bunch, still, but I can see an improvement already in their discipline and team spirit. As they stood there, lined up in their ranks, standing to attention, I felt a surge of pride in them, and as I gazed along those newly formed regiments, I felt what I can only describe as an intense connection to ages passed. Perhaps this is a strange thing to say, given that we have turned our backs so firmly on the past, locking and bolting and barricading that door with the cut of the inception knife, but in those proud soldiers-in-the-making I could see the ghost of every army that had ever trodden the earth. The empires of old, forged with the blood and sinew of their fighting troops.
We will be the new empire; our feet will shake the world as loudly as any that came before us, and more. This is our beginning. We are the Varrs – that is the name we have taken for ourselves. We are the future; it is ours for the taking.
As for myself, I have taken possession of a large house at the far end of the town. It has some history to it, that much is obvious. The furnishings are elegant – it promises a lifestyle of some luxury, and while I do most certainly appreciate that after the way I have lived these past few years, I must be careful not to allow myself to be seduced by the easy comforts it offers. It will require staff to run the place efficiently – there is a har called Ithiel whom I think would make a good steward; I shall inform him of his new position later today.
I am hopeful that some of the human women may still be found and given positions of domestic service. Also, if there are any young males of sound mind and body, we should have them incepted. There are too few of us. We number barely a thousand, and this town once had a population of several times that. We need to increase our numbers.
Ponclast claims to have another solution to this problem, and as is often the case with Ponclast, this is of the more esoteric variety. He is of the opinion that we should breed.
I must confess that this is not something I had given much thought to. It seems obvious that this is possible – we are true hermaphrodites, dissection of cadavers has proven the existence of internal reproductive organs – but we are sorely lacking in any knowledge of how this might be brought about. It is abundantly clear that merely taking aruna does not cause conception, or our population problem would be solved instantly.
Ponclast insists we must experiment. Having had experience of Ponclast’s “experiments,” I am in little hurry to discover what he has in mind this time.
I have spoken to no one of the events of three nights ago, nor shall I ever. I am still not sure I understand exactly what occurred within that circle. Ponclast saw everything that happened, but he is the only one who knows, and I intend for it stay that way. He will not be living at the house with me – he intends to move further afield so that he might continue his experiments in private. I think this is probably for the best. We are bound to each other now, in some strange way. We know each other’s most intimate secrets. We have seen each other’s demons.
I do not think this is necessarily a good thing, but it is a fact, and we must live with it as best we may.
Whether what I have done is for good for ill, there is no point in worrying over it. It is done, and cannot be undone. It is over. And yet – it still haunts my thoughts if I allow it the space to do so, and a sense of dread comes over me, although of what, I cannot say.
Last night I was standing in the hallway of the Great House, with its dark, polished wood, and long staircase leading to the upper rooms. There was little in the way of lighting – we are conserving oil and candles as much as possible until we can begin producing our own – and the shadows seemed oppressive.
Just for a moment, at the top of the stairs, I thought I saw a har. He should not have been there, for I am the house’s only occupant at the moment, so I called out to him, but he did not reply. I looked again, peering into the darkness, and he was gone.
In the light of morning, I could laugh at myself for being so fanciful were it not for the memory of the har’s face. The vision is fading, but in my mind I can see him still, faintly, through the gloom, a strange, ethereal figure at the top of the stairs, familiar with the place, as if this was his home. He had yellow-gold hair and violet eyes. When I think of him, a sense of foreboding comes over me that I cannot explain and cannot run from. The darkness approaches.
May the Aghama have mercy upon my soul.
Song of the Sulh
Maria J. Leel
Raven sat in a tree high on a wooded hillside. A young Mountain People tribesman just shy of his twentieth birthday, gawky adolescence had long given way to lean, powerful assurance. The Place of Blue Smoke was the ancient name his people had given these rugged, convoluted mountains. Water vapour and oily residues from the forests combined, draping the peaks and valleys with smoky tendrils of hazy-blue fog.
What light filtered down through the forest reflected from Raven’s burnished, red-gold skin only to be swallowed whole by the skein of long, dark hair that hung like a cloak about his shoulders. No glimmer or reflection betrayed him as he sat still and silent watching those below him. There had been no flicker of movement from him in over two hours. Nothing to suggest he was there. Inside he seethed and thrummed with barely contained hatred.
Wraeththu.
The Incomers.
The Interlopers.
Raven’s tribe, the Mountain People, had lived with the impact of su
ch interlopers for generations. For years his people had lived peaceably within the natural laws of their homeland. They followed the rhythm of the seasons and lived as subjects – not conquerors – of the land that supported them.
Then the first interlopers had come. Humans like themselves. They brought with them new technologies, new attitudes and above all the desire for mastery – not of themselves, as was the Mountain People’s way, but of the land and her people.
Raven’s people had been driven off their lands, their beliefs and way of life pushed to the rawest edges of bare survival.
Then the world began to change. Society began to break down. Wars erupted all over the globe and, sensing her chance, the land began to fight back too; hurricanes, volcanoes, floods, fires and pestilence. The Interlopers and their ways looked doomed to ancient memory. The Mountain People rejoiced. Hope flared in their hearts. It would be their time again, time for them to reclaim their gentle relationship with the land.
But it was not to be. The hope was short lived. The creeping madness affecting the Interlopers did not discriminate. It took Mountain People along with their oppressors. Raven’s own father succumbed, as did many of the older male tribesmen. Only the women and the young men appeared to escape it. But then the women stopped being able to have babies and the number of tribe’s children dwindled.
Then along came the new Interlopers.
Wraeththu.
For years there had been rumours of gangs in the cities. Whispers on the breeze of wild boys involved in crazy cults; stealing boys away from their families, changing them somehow, making them inhuman, making them hate humans.
That they had sex among themselves was neither shocking nor unnatural to the Mountain People. They had long understood the androgynous nature of the soul and regarded homosexuals as “two-spirited” individuals to be revered. Raven himself had experienced sexual encounters with both males and females.
Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu Page 26
