“What, you getting tired of your precious mountains, Mountain Boy?”
Raven punched his arm.
High on a cliff edge Mist smiled at the scene below. The two of them stripped to the waist, red gold skin and a skin so pale as to be almost blue, the bluish tinge heightened by the coiling tattoo. Mist was amused; clearly a competition was underway; Mountain people methods verses the Waterlander’s way. Raven lay on the stony bank of the gushing river, arm plunged deep in the water, Fen a little way off, perfectly still, spear poised in hand, a growing pile of fish between the two of them. Whatever the outcome Mist recognised a chesna bond in the making and acknowledged that the tribe would eat well that night.
Raven lay on a mossy rock with his hands behind his head, Fen by his side, both watching as Batalha trudged along the ridge line above them. Batalha had appeared pale and insubstantial when Raven first came to the Sulh, and as the weeks passed he seemed to become increasingly transparent, ghostlike even.
“Is Batalha ill?”
“Not exactly,” Fen sighed, chewing on a stalk of grass.
“It’s what Sulh scribes do.”
“I don’t understand,” said Raven.
Fen sighed again. “They’re a strange lot. They seem to flit between this reality and others. I’m not sure if they truly exist here. They gather and absorb information, storing it, making songs and stories of it. Ask him anything and you’ll get the most complete answer you could wish for. But holding it all takes its toll. He’s near to bursting. He needs to take aruna with another scribe so that they can send all they’ve discovered back to Kyme.”
“Kyme? Oh, yes – the Library. So why don’t we have a second scribe? So that they can, I don’t know, ship home, more often?”
“Smart boy! We did have. He was killed in a raid by the Uigenna.”
“When?”
“Several months ago, before we came here.” Fen stretched. “Batalha needs contact with another scribe and soon. Otherwise he’ll die.”
“So we’ve got to find him another scribe.”
“Yeah.”
It came as no surprise to Raven when a day or two later Curlew announced that the tribe would be moving on. Mist had been meditating for days and had picked up another roving band of Sulh further north up the coast.
“Looks like you’ll get to travel after all, Mountain Boy,” Fen teased.
Efficient in everything they did, the tribe was ready to travel in a matter of hours. The caravan, an assortment of hara on foot, pack horses and carts stood ready to leave. Fen headed a group of warrior phyle at the front, while a similar group brought up the rear. Batalha, now too weak to walk any great distance, was carried on a litter. Mist walked alongside Raven.
“We have plenty of food prepared.” he said, “and many items to trade. That should buy us safe passage through Colurastes territory.”
“Colurastes?”
“Another Wraeththu tribe. Relax!” said Mist, catching Raven’s expression. “They’re far more peaceable that the Uigenna.”
Day in, day out the routine was the same. Travel by day, rest by night. They kept to the woodlands fringing the coast, occasionally travelling inland to avoid the rotting remains of a human settlement. For food, they ate dried fish and meat supplemented by what they could forage along the path and what could be caught fresh.
Raven began to miss the warmth and resinous scents of his erstwhile home but was fascinated by the altering landscape. The leaves took on hues of burnished copper and gold before falling as the long summer gave way to autumn. As they travelled north, the winds became increasingly bitter. They wrapped Batalha in animal skins and fed him dried fruit.
“What will happen if we don’t find another scribe in time?” Raven asked Fen one night as they shared a cigarette.
“Not sure. He’ll die is all I know. Personally if I was carrying all that knowledge around I think my head would explode.”
Mist’s predictions proved correct; they had little contact with the Colurastes, the so-called “Snake People.” Curlew parleyed with tribal leaders, offering goods for safe passage and seeking information. Raven found the Colurastes odd, vain creatures; their snake-like moving hair disturbed him.
“Freaks,” said Fen, but quietly.
“Yes,” said a Colurastes leader one day. “We have seen a group similar to yours, camped inland on the banks of a river, about two days away.” Curlew paid him with the sinuous beaded snake charm he’d taken a fancy to and, in appreciation, the Colurastes chief made them a gift of persimmons and dried peaches.
The phyle found the other Sulh exactly where the Colurastes had directed them, in a clearing by a great river: a collection of painted tents and covered wagons. Wrapped in animal skins the tribe came to meet them.
Raven saw the two scribes immediately. Like Batalha they dressed in simple white robes, kept out the cooling air with woven jackets and had an otherworldliness about them. One obvious difference: they appeared infinitely more substantial. The pair hurried over to the litter and made arrangements for Batalha to be carried into their tent to rest.
“He needs building up a little after your journey before we can begin The Singing,” said one, but did not explain further.
The resident Sulh leader spoke, “I am Kaldar, and we welcome you. We sensed your coming and have prepared a meal. Please, join us in the pavilion; we can sort out sleeping arrangements later.”
A larger tent stood apart from the others, circular with a high arching roof, intricate animal designs decorated the canvas in shades of black and ochre. Inside a woven wooden lattice supported the walls and the ceiling poles that reached high towards an opening in the roof. The floor, spread with animal skins, was liberally scattered with woven cushions. On one side of the tent stood a low bench covered with platters and trays piled high with freshly steamed fish, vegetable stews, corn bread, fragrant meat dishes and pots of strong coffee.
Curlew thanked Kaldar and his phyle, and then Mist offered up a blessing. It had been a long time since the group had feasted so well and it was a long time before anyone spoke again.
The last dregs of coffee had been squeezed from the pot and the final scraps of cornbread had been used to mop up gravy. Curlew and Kaldar were now deep in conversation.
“Kaldar recommends we make our camp in the lee of the woods behind the pavilion,” Curlew announced. “He also invites us to a celebration tonight, which I’ve accepted. It’s too long since the Sulh came together and shared stories of their homeland.”
“The legend of the red haired king and his sister could stand another telling,” laughed Kaldar.
In the shelter of an oak tree Raven and Fen erected their tent and made it as homely as they could. Then, finding themselves with time on their hands, they went to inquire after Batalha.
“He’s just awoken,” said Ranian, one of the other scribes. “You can see him, but keep it brief.”
They found him lying on a low bed in the corner of one of the tents. The walls had sheep’s wool woven into the supporting lattice, and with a small wood-burning stove glowing by the far wall, it was surprisingly snug.
“Trust you to bag the best quarters,” said Fen, as he plonked himself inelegantly on the end of the bed. Showing more consideration Raven sat down cross-legged on the rug.
Batalha grinned, “Trust you to complain about it!”
“So what happens now?” asked Raven.
“I need a little time to gather my strength and then Ranian, Ashnan and I will peform The Singing.”
Raven looked confused.
“We take aruna to heighten the senses, to enhance the power of mind touch,” continued Batalha, “and at the moment of connection the knowledge we have gathered will stream back to Alba Sulh, to Kyme, as a series of musical tones. The library has adepts ready and waiting around the clock to receive the knowledge sent to them from all over the globe. After The Singing I will be purged and can begin to learn again.”
“When will this
happen?”
“A day or two – when the other scribes think I’m ready.”
It was closer to two weeks. Autumn plunged quickly into winter in these parts and a dusting of snow already covered the ground. All over the camp braziers burned, the air scented with sage to heighten awareness and dissipate negative energy.
When the day arrived, the pavilion had been draped inside with cloths of purple and blue, the scribes were ensconced within. Outside the rest of the tribe gathered to chant incantations to speed the success of The Singing.
At Mist’s signal, the tribe began, first whispering words of power, a low, sibilant hiss darting to and fro around the circle. Then coloured mists seeped from the entrance of the pavilion, through the seams and the opening at the apex; magenta, gold, cyan. A note, pure, high, clear split the air. It was joined by another, and another, the harmony ricocheting off branches and tents. The chanting of the tribe grew as the notes intensified, and then, moved to add rhythm, they stamped their feet and beat together sticks.
The sound wave grew ever stronger, undulating around the camp, making the air shake, the ground judder; on and on until Raven was forced to cover his ears. Then, a wave of pure energy, tinged with white and gold, exploded from the pavilion, out across the land, high into the sky, scattering all in its path, each member of the tribe knocked clean off their feet.
And then, a shattering silence.
“Let’s see what the little buggers at Kyme make of that lot,” said Fen, flat on his back.
For several days after The Singing, at Mist’s insistence, the entire tribe rested. Batalha, confined to his bed once more, fretted, wanting to be out in the world again discovering more. To Raven’s eyes he appeared far more solid and substantial than he’d ever seen him, but the pale hair and skin and the almost transparent blue of his eyes still gave him an ethereal quality.
Raven sat stitching animal hide together to form a winter jacket whilst Fen sat in the corner attempting to pick out a tune on Batalha’s harp.
“For God’s sake put the damned thing down” snapped Batalha. “Either that or let me teach you how to do it properly”.
Fen grinned his widest grin. “Sure, teach me. It’ll give me something to do during the long winter months. Don’t be surprised, boys, but I reckon Curlew and Kaldar are planning to combine resources and over-winter right here.”
“What for? It’d be much warmer back down south.”
“They reckon they’ve got a reason to stay. I think we won’t be going back down south again until spring. So, that gives you plenty of time to teach me to play this thing.”
“Wonderful,” said Batalha.
Fen was right. Both groups would be overwintering by the river. Days passed and new routines formed; parties went out foraging for food and firewood, hunting for meat and, whilst the river remained unfrozen, replenishing dwindling fish stocks. Batalha and the other scribes had meetings with members of the Colurastes tribe, cultural exchanges, always accompanied by Fen and other members of the warrior phyle. Raven declined to attend these meetings; the Colurastes gave him the creeps. Mist shook his head but let it go.
Mid winter’s eve arrived and Raven was glad to see it; the days would now begin to lengthen. The pavilion was garlanded with greenery and a mighty feast was prepared. The entire tribe would attend, as would representatives of the local Colurastes.
“Behave,” Mist warned Raven.
“Of course,” answered Raven and he did, but he wasn’t fooling Fen.
“Don’t worry,” Fen said, cornering Raven by the drinks table. “It won’t be long now. You’ll see your mountains again.” As it turned out it was sooner than either of them had anticipated.
Raven sat up with a start. It was pitch black, the middle of the night, and a cry had awoken him. The camp was silent and Raven knew the cry had not come to him from without but from within.
He’d also recognised the voice. It was Pale Fawn.
By his side Fen sat up and lit an oil lamp.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Someone I care about is in trouble, they need me.”
Fen leaned back on an elbow. “Tell me.”
Raven sighed. “You’re probably not going to like this but here goes. I have a friend, a close friend, almost a sister, who’s still alive. She’s carrying my child.”
Fen glanced away, a faraway look in his eyes. “I had a sister. I lost her. You remember the story of Avalona falling, fully formed, through the rift?”
Raven nodded.
“Well, I don’t know how true that is but rifts do form all over Alba Sulh, particularly in The Waterlands. Dykes were blown, sluices flooded, the land practically turned itself inside out to return to its natural state. Serena fell through one of the rifts – snatched away in front of me. As Wraeththu we’re supposed to sever all family ties, but I think that’s bullshit. If you have family, you should hang on to them.”
“So you think I should go to her?”
“Yeah, I do. We’ll talk to Curlew and Mist in the morning... but I’m making one condition.”
“Being?”
“I’m coming with you, Mountain Boy.”
Curlew and Mist were supportive. Kaldar initially was more hesitant.
“An advance party would be useful,” Mist persuaded him, “to ready our old camp and prepare for our return in the spring.”
Kaldar, seeing the sense in Mist’s argument, agreed and supplied two horses to speed their journey, plus enough dried food to see them through. Batalha came to see them off. By mid-morning they were on their way.
The two of them, travelling light, made swift progress, unencumbered as they were by the rest of the tribe, the wagons, tents, food stores that accompany a tribe on the move. Raven tried to reach Pale Fawn by mind touch to let her know they were on their way, but heard and felt nothing in return. He hoped she knew.
They followed the same coastal paths they had travelled the previous autumn but now the trees, devoid of their leaves stood stark, black skeletons against a translucently pale sky. The paths took them south into warmer weather. It felt to Raven as if they were chasing the spring. Each day the light lasted a little longer, the wind bit a little less cruelly and buds and green shoots shook the land from its winter dormancy.
The journey that had taken them weeks in the autumn took a few short days on their return.
It was early morning when they reached the reservation; they had been riding since dawn. Shafts of light played between bands of mist as they travelled through the achingly familiar terrain of Raven’s childhood.
They found Pale Fawn sitting on the steps of Two Comet’s cabin, waiting for them.
“I knew you’d come,” she smiled. “I heard you calling me.”
Raven kissed her head and introduced Fen. She stood, a little unsteadily, to shake his hand, her swollen abdomen making her a little ungainly.
“Where is everyone?” Raven asked her.
“Gone,” she replied. “All gone. Dead or flown, but all gone.”
Raven was almost too scared to ask. “Two Comet?”
She shook her head, indicating a cairn of stones that stood on the far side of the clearing.
“He died on mid-winters eve. Raven, I have to leave, too. There’s nothing left for me here.”
“Come back with us,” offered Fen. “We can make a place for you with the Sulh.”
Pale Fawn shook her head again. “No,” she said, “my place is not with you.”
Raven made to protest, but she held up her hand and looked him square in the eye.
“You found your new tribe and your place in it. Now I have to find mine.” She gestured east. “There’s a voice calling me. I have to follow it, find them, but I need your help to do it.”
Raven looked uncertain.
“This lady knows her mind,” said Fen, “You want to pick your battles, Raven, and this isn’t one of them.”
Pale Fawn smiled at him.
Pale Fawn had little to ta
ke with her, just one bag, as they left the camp, Fen riding one horse and Raven, with Pale Fawn before him, riding the other.
They left their forests and mountains behind, again travelling towards the coast – this time, not north but east, away from the familiar trees, and the place that for so long had been their home. Their journey took them across grassy planes where the wind created waves and ripples among the new growth towards the shore and a sandy beach.
Pale Fawn pointed east again. “I have to go further,” she said “It’s not far, but hidden. They have to stay safe and I’ll be safe with them. Please,” she beseeched, “I have to go”.
“Suppose it’s just ocean,” said Fen.
Raven shook his head. “No, there are islands,” he said. “I saw them in a breath vision with Mist.”
They found a small boat, sound and sea worthy but with its sail missing. Fen and Raven dragged it to the water’s edge and helped Pale Fawn on board. Once afloat Fen stood on the gunwale and balanced himself against the mast.
“This worked on the meres back in the Waterlands,” he said. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t work here.”
He closed his eyes, connecting his thoughts with the timbers of the boat and the water beneath, willing one to slide over the other. Slowly the boat began to move, gliding out to sea.
“It’s the same process,” said Fen with a grin, “just bouncier water.”
It was late afternoon when they made landfall on a sandy shore with a backdrop of thick trees close to an abandoned settlement. The sun was setting behind them and Pale Fawn began to shiver. Raven held her close to warm her as Fen beached the boat.
“They’re on the other side of the island,” she said. “They’re calling me, telling me to hurry.”
“Tell them to wait,” said Fen. “You’re exhausted and have travelled enough for today. You need food and shelter. Tell them we’ll set out again in the morning.”
Pale Fawn screwed up her face and concentrated hard. “Yes,” she said. “It’s alright, they’ll wait.”
“Let’s get you indoors,” said Raven and half carried her to the nearest house.
These were the crazy houses of his aruna vision; wooden, unstable-looking, top-heavy with arms and platforms that reached to the heavens.
Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu Page 29
