by Greg Keyes
She lay back, her breathing growing calmer, but sleep did not return to her that night.
Hezhi drew her knees up beneath her chin as she watched the colorful riders enter the village, listened to their raucous shouts. The half Giant sitting next to her stirred restlessly, shifting a frame easily twice as massive as that of any Human as he braided and unbraided fingers like fat sausages into a double fist resting against his thick-featured face. The knotted hand hid a scowl, and she could imagine she heard his teeth grinding.
“Princess…” the Giant began, but Hezhi shook her head.
“Hush, Tsem,” she said. “Watch the riders. I want to write Ghan about this.”
“I’ve seen plenty of these barbarians enter the camp in the past few days,” Tsem grumbled. “I’ve had little else to do.”
“That isn’t what Tiin tells me,” Hezhi answered, glancing sidewise at the half Giant.
Tsem blushed almost purple. “One has to do something to pass the time,” he mumbled. “I can’t hunt, horses groan beneath my weight—”
“But at least you can entertain the unmarried women,” Hezhi finished. “Just as in Nhol.” She sharpened her glance. “Unmarried, Tsem. These people are not as forgiving in their policies toward adultery as those you are accustomed to.”
Tsem scrunched his face in mock concern, bushy eyebrows steepling like mountain ridges. “What might the penalty be?” he asked.
“You know Barks-Like-a-Dog?”
“The old man with no nose?”
“Exactly.”
“Oh. Oh!” Tsem’s face fell into lines of real dismay.
“So take care,” she cautioned.
“I can do that,” Tsem replied. “I’m glad you told me.”
“This isn’t Nhol, Tsem, Don’t ever think it is. Nothing we know will serve us out here.”
Tsem snorted. “People are people, Princess. Much of what I know serves me wherever I go.”
Hezhi started at the bitterness in that. It was rare for Tsem to display such acrimony.
“What is troubling you, Tsem?”
As they spoke, thirty warriors thundered around the village, shrieking like demons. Each bore a long, colorful streamer knotted to a lance, and the result was breathtaking, barbaric, a cyclone of color. Unmarried girls dodged in and out among the surging mounts, snatching at the streamers, while younger children jostled alongside, jangling strings of bells and clapping wooden noisemakers together. The din was impressive.
Tsem was silent, pretending to watch the spectacle; Hezhi prodded him with her toe, then kicked him when he did not respond. He turned on her, flashing knuckle-size teeth in a dangerous-looking scowl, and she was again taken aback by the anger in his reply.
“You cannot ask me that,” he snapped. “If you cannot tell me what troubles you, then I…” He trailed off into a growl and a glare.
“Tsem,” Hezhi began, laying her small hand on the corded bulk of his arm. The muscles in his neck worked silently for a moment as he ground his teeth. Then he sighed and turned a milder gaze on her.
“What good am I out here, Princess?” he asked after a moment. “What good have I been to anyone since leaving Nhol? Since before that, even?”
“Tsem, you were injured.”
“Yes, and stupidly so. And you have had to pay for my healing, pay by working like a common maid.”
“That has nothing to do with you, Tsem. These people expect everyone to work. There are no princesses among the Mang.”
“And what sort of work am I suited to? Now that I have healed, what will I do to show my worth?”
“Tiin said—”
Tsem dismissed that with a roll of his eyes. “Curiosity, Princess. Woman are always curious about me. Once. Novelty is a fleeting thing. The truth is, these people think I am worthless, and they are not far from the truth. I was raised to be the servant of a princess, and, as you say, there are no nobles here.”
“No slaves, either,” Hezhi reminded him. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There are things you can learn to do.”
Tsem began to reply, but then his eyes bulged.
“You did it,” he swore.
“What?”
“Made me tell you. Made me complain. The only thing I know how to do is serve you, and you won’t even talk to me.”
“We are talking,” Hezhi noticed.
Tsem turned his eyes back to the riders. Some of the girls had managed to snatch pennants, and now the original bearers of those streamers were chasing them, trying to grab them up onto their horses.
“Something happened to you,” he said. “Something bad. Are you going to tell me?” The bitterness had left his voice, but there was challenge there, as if she were withholding something she owed him.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I don’t know what happened. Brother Horse tried to explain.”
“But it has to do with your… nature.”
She shrugged. “Brother Horse said that I saw a god. He saw it, too; just a little god, he said, the child of some spider goddess.”
“Did you?”
“I saw something. No, it was more than seeing…”
She felt suddenly very close to tears. Her voice trembled as she said, “I thought I had escaped it, Tsem, but my blood is doing something. I thought I was safe.”
Tsem gently drew her to him, and she relaxed, rested against his mammoth frame and took comfort in the familiar smell of him. She closed her eyes and imagined that they were in her mother’s rooftop garden, hot sun bleaching the city white around them—before everything, before the whole nightmare began, when she was still just a little girl.
“I don’t know about these things,” Tsem soothed, “but Brother Horse says you will not change, will not become one of the Blessed. We are far and far from the River, Princess.”
“Yes, so Brother Horse said. But Tsem—in Nhol there was only the River, the River and ghosts. Nothing else. Out here, there are gods everywhere. Every other rock, every creek. Everywhere. And if I am going to start seeing them, the way Brother Horse does, the way I did yesterday… if that happens, I will lose my mind.”
Tsem patted her shoulder thoughtfully. “Does Brother Horse believe that this will happen, that you will keep seeing these gods?”
“Yes,” Hezhi confirmed. “Yes, he thinks that I will.”
“Oh,” Tsem said. He turned his gaze thoughtfully back to the village perimeter, where the great chase was winding down; horsemen were beginning to dismount and clasp their relatives to them. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat; soon the feasting would begin.
“While odd,” Tsem began again, in an optimistic tone, “Brother Horse has not lost his mind, and you say he sees these gods. Perkar speaks of seeing gods, as well. It cannot be so terrible as you fear.”
Hezhi nodded into the crook of his arm. “Brother Horse and Perkar are different. Perkar has seen gods, it is true, but they were clothed in flesh—they were manifest. I am told that anyone can see a god thus, and while their form might be disturbing, it is not the same as what Brother Horse and I see. We see the essence of the god, the unmanifested form. That is altogether different.”
“How so?”
“They get in here,” Hezhi said, tapping her head. “They worm through our eyes into our minds, the way the River did, when I almost lost myself.” She paused. “I never told you, Tsem. It was after you fell down, when Perkar was fighting the Riverghost. I… I was filled up. The River filled me up, and I could have done almost anything: torn Nhol apart, killed Perkar, killed you. I wanted to do all of those things, because I was not me. That’s what it will be like, every time I see. Thoughts and feelings and desires that have no place in me—yet they feel right, too, as if they have always been there.” Her voice felt dull in her throat.
“Brother Horse must know how to live with it. He must,” Tsem insisted. “I don’t understand these things, but he must. He can help you.”
“Yes,” Hezhi murmured as, across the plaza, an oaken keg of
beer was tapped to a general chorus of approving howls. “Yes, that is what he says. But…” She gazed up into Tsem’s sympathetic eyes, at his thick harsh face and the kindness it yet contained. “I thought I had escaped,” she whispered. “Won’t I ever be free?”
“Hard to be free of what you are,” Tsem said, and Hezhi knew that, at least to that extent, he understood.
Hezhi wrote later:
This is what they call the Ben’cheen. It is a winter gathering, in which many of the Mang tribes come together. They feast, play games, and make sacrifices to the gods. I expect it to be very interesting. So far it is noisy, this festival, barbaric. The newcomers look very strangely at Tsem and me but are generally not unfriendly. However, Brother Horse had to dissuade some of the young warriors from challenging Tsem to fight—they have legends of the Giants, who live to the northeast, and in their legends they are great fighters. A warrior who proves himself against them is considered very brave. Brother Horse tells them that Tsem is still recovering from injuries—which, of course, he is—and that it would thus be inhospitable to challenge him openly. Fighting is something Mang men love, on horseback or off. One of their sports is called bech’iinesh, which I think just means “Slapping.” What they slap each other with, however, are long-handled wooden paddles with just enough padding to keep them from always being lethal. They charge at each other on horseback and try to knock each other from the saddle. On foot, they like to wrestle and box. I believe that they would be sorry if they wrestled Tsem. He doesn’t know the use of weapons, but I have seen him fight with bare hands, and it is difficult for me to believe that even one of these wild warriors would have a chance against him.
In a few days they will hold their main festival, as I understand it. It is named the “Horse God Homesending,” but other than that, I know nothing of it. I will write more afterward, when I do.
It seems my studies did not leave off when I left you. Brother Horse believes that I must learn something of being a gaan, if I am to live with my godsight. These gaan are something like priests, using drums and singing to talk to their gods. Brother Horse became one, long ago, though now he rarely “sings.” It sounds barbaric, superstitious, worse than the silly witchery of fishwives. It is difficult to adjust to how different the world is, away from the River, how different the truth of things is. That the world can be as full of gods as it is of rocks and trees seems ludicrous. Yet I know that what Brother Horse says is true—he knows these places, where the River does not hold sway, where he has not devoured all of the little gods these people know. I wish these Mang had books; I would rather go somewhere alone and read about these gods, about the ways of the gaan. Instead I must learn by listening to Brother Horse talk. Hearing people talk all of the time is tiring. I am not used to listening so much, as you may remember.
One observation which may interest you: This word gaan—it reminds me of what I call you; Ghan, “teacher,” and also of Ghun, “priest.” Many of their words bear this sort of similarity to Nholish. I suspect that they learned to speak from our ancestors, but that being barbarians they learned everything wrong, pronounced the words incorrectly. For instance, when we say nuwege, they say nubege—and both mean “eye.” I hope you will find this peculiar and interesting, for I intend to make a list of their words to send you. Perhaps you can find some evidence in the library that the Mang learned to speak in Nhol—perhaps they were slaves who escaped, long ago. Their legends say nothing of this, but they have no books and so their histories cannot be very accurate.
Hezhi looked thoughtfully at the paper, considered beginning the list right away. There were other things she should be doing, however, and she didn’t want people to think she was shirking. She blew on the ink. When it was dry, she would go find Duk and help with the afternoon meal. She wondered, idly and with some annoyance, where Perkar was. According to Yuu’han, he and Ngangata should have returned by now. There had been no more snow—in fact, the snow on the ground was melting—so bad weather had not slowed them. Still, she was determined not to worry. Perkar would return soon enough, and she could ask him what he knew of this witchery she was supposed to learn about. He would know something, after all his dealings with gods and demons.
“There you are.” Brother Horse’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She looked up, a bit startled to see the old man, who had been busy constantly since their return to the village—greeting strangers, settling minor disputes, arranging marriages. He smiled down at her, gaudy in a long vermilion coat nearly covered with copper coins, gold-embroidered felt breeks, and a tiger-pelt underjacket. In one hand he held an otterskin bag that bulged around something round and flat. Behind him lolled Heen, dustier than usual, ears twitching as if offended by the raucousness around him. Hezhi tentatively returned the smile.
“I think you may have questions for me,” he said. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been around to talk to you.” “I needed to think anyway,” Hezhi replied. “You think a lot. That is good, considering. And what have you decided?”
“That I don’t know enough to decide anything.”
“Wise,” he said, shaking his head. “I never waited until I knew enough. Which makes it a miracle that I am an old man and not a young ghost.” He extended his hand. “Walk with me a bit, child.”
Hezhi hesitated. “Now?”
Brother Horse nodded. “It’s important.”
Hezhi sighed. “I don’t think I’m ready.” She rubbed absently at the dully tingling scale on her arm, the one physical sign of her magic.
The old man grimaced. “I would give you more time if you had it. But soon—tomorrow—we will slay the Horse God and send him home. Without some preparation, if you see him—”
“I will go mad,” Hezhi finished.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“I see,” she muttered. She checked to see that her ink was dry, and, assured that it was, carefully rolled up the paper and replaced it in its bone case.
They walked out from the village, pausing as riders thundered by on the racetrack that encircled the houses. Felt and horsehide tents crowded the landscape; the village scarcely resembled the one she had come to know—though it was nothing like a city, of course. The air was thick with smoke from burning wood and dung, half-charred meat, other scents she could not place. A pack of children—screaming and batting a ball along the ground with bent sticks—nearly ran over them, but when they saw Brother Horse, they parted and streamed around, like a school of fish effortlessly negotiating a snag in the River. Heen paused at the village edge—apparently disapproving of their direction of travel—but after it became apparent that they were ignoring his tacit advice, he followed regardless.
It seemed a long time before they were in the open desert, with the cries, laughter, and music of the Swollen Tents behind them. Patches of rusty sand glared through thawing white drifts. Here and there, muddy trails marked the paths in from elsewhere, from wherever the Mang tribes came.
“I’m sorry for your sake that I have to help you with this,” Brother Horse stated. “It has been a long time since I was a singer. Years. I wish there was a younger one around who could help you, but Cedar went off into the mountains a month ago, and I trust none of the others with you.” He paused for a few heartbeats and went on. “When it happened to me—the sight—I was a bit older than you. A warrior. It nearly ruined me; I was sick for days after my first sight of a god.”
“I was sick.”
“For a short time. You are very strong, Hezhi.”
“Tell me more about yours,” she appealed, “your first sight.”
He seemed to consider that, and for a few tens of steps the only sound was that of their boots crunching through the melted and refrozen surface of the snow.
“I first saw Ch’egl, the god of a small spring. A very minor god indeed, much less imposing than he whom you saw.”
“And?”
“It was after a raid. My companions and I scattered to divide the pursuit. We were to
all meet at the water hole. I reached the place first, and I saw Ch’egl. They found me wandering in the desert, nearly dead of thirst, as mad as a shedding snake.”
“But you recovered.”
“Only after my friends took me to a gaan. He sang a curing song for me. But then he told me that if I wanted to live, I would have to apprentice to him.”
“And so you did.”
“No! I wanted to be a warrior. I felt certain I would never have such a vision again. But I did, of course. Fortunately, that time I had companions with me.”
Hezhi glanced up at him. “What? What happened that time?”
“That time I saw Tu Chunuleen. The great god you call ‘the River.’ Perkar calls him the ‘Changeling.’ Your ancestor, Hezhi.”
“Oh.”
“He was asleep. He is almost always asleep. But he dreams, always. When I saw him—” He stopped, fumbled with the ties of his shirt. At first, Hezhi thought he was stopping his story to relieve himself—the Mang showed no hesitation or shame in doing such things. But he did not. Instead, he raised the shirt up so that she could see an ugly, jagged scar.
“I did that myself,” he explained. “With my skinning knife. I nearly spilled my guts all over the ground, before my friends stopped me. I have never come closer to death. I did not want to live, not after seeing him. A gaan had to follow my soul halfway to the Ghost Mountain before he could save me.”
As he spoke they reached a low line of red rock, a shelf where the land dropped down the height of a tall man. Part of the upper level hung over like a roof, and Hezhi could see a little hearth of stones on the floor of the natural shelter. Cold prickles ran up her back, and she had a sudden, vivid memory of the priests, back in Nhol, waiting for her that day. Though many months in the past, the pain and humiliation of that experience stained her like red wine.
“What are we doing?” she demanded. “What is this?”
Brother Horse laid a hand on her shoulder. “We are only talking, as of now. Only talking, little one, away from the madness of the town.”
