Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

  She wound the sarong around her and went in search of the bed. The air in the second, windowless room smelled of must and other staleness. It was hot in the room, and breathless amongst more boxes and baskets and all kinds of merchandise stacked in piles. She stopped to admire sarong-like pieces of cloth, painted with exquisite geometric patterns in vivid colours.

  In one corner lay a mattress with some folded cloths she presumed to be bedding.

  She sat down on the mattress, legs crossed, back straight. She pressed her hands together in front of her face, closed her eyes and concentrated on her palms. Everyone else was telling her what to do. Iztho was so keen to have her in this city that frankly sounded dangerous. Ikay seemed to want her to stay at the tribe, or at least not go with Iztho. She had no idea who was right; she was going to find out herself.

  She was going to weave her web into a light—because that had to be the wormhole—and was going to try to talk to this Daya guy, and ask him what he knew, since he was clearly looking for her, and perhaps didn’t even realise that she was listening in. Whatever he wanted with her, she’d get it over with so she could decide what to do and who to trust.

  She pulled together all her strands of concentration and poured them into her hands. Drops of sweat trickled down behind her ears. The burning feeling stirred inside her. A ghost of a breeze touched her skin, making her shiver. A warm glow travelled to her hands, but stopped there. There was the usual amorphous mist, but no blue aura, no sparks, no light, nothing. The mist even refused to weave into strands.

  Well, so much for that idea.

  She really should have learned while she was at the tribe. And she shouldn’t have left, and . . .

  Shit. You really fucked up, Jess, admit it.

  She blew out a deep breath.

  Yeah, Mum, sorry about the language.

  For now, she had better catch some sleep.

  The light on the wall next to the door, was a glowing pearl sitting atop a metal coil. One of those pearls that were charged at the plant that the Pengali operated.

  The light stand had a long handle, which she presumed was for turning it on and off. It wouldn’t go further down, but when she lifted the handle up, a small spoon-like contraption flung up and lifted the pearl off the metal frame, and the room went dark. Dark as the inside of a whale in fact.

  Jessica fumbled her way back to the mattress, spots dancing before her eyes, when she became aware of a bluish glow from behind.

  Somewhere down the bottom of a stack of boxes near the door, blue light spilled through a crack, so bright that when Jessica tried to peep in, she couldn’t make out anything for the glow.

  Holy shit. Was this something she should worry about? Something she should turn off before going to sleep?

  She heaved the boxes that stood on top onto another pile, until she uncovered the source of the blue light: hundreds of transparent balls like the eyes of dead fish. She picked up one of them. It was heavy, about the size of a marble, and perfectly smooth. She clamped her hand around it. The surface remained icy cold.

  Strange.

  She opened her hand. The marble stared back at her, glowing blue light, its smooth surface revealing none of its purpose. There were no holes to thread a string, or indentations of any kind. The touch of her hand did not warm the surface. This was one heck of a weird thing. She wanted to drop it back into the box, but it clung to her palm.

  What the. . . ?

  Jessica held her hand upside down, but the bloody thing wouldn’t let go. Sparks and waves of heat whirled under her skin, and disappeared into the glass-like material, which glowed ever brighter blue with each bit of energy it absorbed from her. She tried to wipe the marble on her knee and take it off with her other hand. Sparks flew from her fingers. The glass glowed red, then white and then sang with a deafening tone until it shattered. Jessica screamed. Pieces of glass flew everywhere. Clattered on the floor, against the walls and ceiling. The light near the door had turned itself on again.

  Silence.

  Jessica gasped. The palm of her left hand was red. Blood dripped from small cuts the flying glass had made on the skin of her arms. There were also cuts in her shins and feet. Very carefully and still shaking, she sank to her knees and, using a corner of her sarong, wiped fragments from the floor. She hoped to hell these things weren’t valuable. Things that collected energy were bound to be.

  14

  JESSICA WOKE with a shock. She sat up, peeling sweaty sheets from her legs, wondering why she was awake, since it was still pitch dark. But then she heard faint shuffles from the darkness of the hall—and a giggle.

  She heaved herself up and groped around the crates on either side of the door. The bottom crate still glowed faint blue, allowing her to see enough to find a makeshift weapon: a metal bar of some sort. She closed sweaty hands around it, and she waited, pressed against the wall next to the door.

  Voices came closer, Pengali voices, female voices. Familiar.

  Jessica lowered her makeshift weapon. That sounded like . . . “Ikay?”

  A moment of silence, and then a couple of dark figures came in through the doorway. “Anmi, Anmi.” Ikay enclosed her in a hug, with her characteristic minty smell, and her paper-skinned arms, and the rough touch of a tail.

  Jessica dropped the metal bar.

  It had been wrong to leave the Pengali settlement.

  She stroked the old female’s hair, recognising the rounded shape of Dora over her shoulder.

  Ikay led her into the living room. More dark silhouettes stood next to the window, or sat on boxes or on the table. There were at least six of them, and others were coming in from the courtyard.

  How had they come in? What had they done with the soldiers who guarded the door? And what were they doing here?

  But there was a more important thing she wanted to ask now she had the chance. “Show me how to do this.” She pressed her hands together before her face. “I need to talk to this man.”

  Ikay spoke enthusiastic words, and pushed Jessica down on the table, settling opposite her, also on the table. Backlit by light coming in through the window, Ikay looked like a ghost.

  Jessica willed the heat into her hands. It fought her, sparks breaking out all over her skin, eerily visible in the dark. Pengali voices chatted in urgent tones. Jessica kept her hands together, clenching her jaws.

  Sparks floated from her hands in an incoherent pattern. The heat went everywhere except into her palms. She gave a frustrated cry. “Why can’t I do it? Why?”

  Ikay took Jessica’s hands in hers, speaking soothing words. A long index finger traced a path over Jessica’s inner arm, leaving a faint glow in its wake. She did the same thing with Jessica’s other arm, then put her palms together and traced paths along the outside of her arms. When she had reached Jessica’s hands, she started again at the elbows.

  Jessica closed her eyes and tried to push heat up her arms each time Ikay traced her fingers along her arms.

  There was something calming about the touch of Ikay’s fingers.

  Jessica tried to dip into that feeling of purpose, pouring all her being into just a small spot between her hands. Her nose itched. It irritated her and she broke her concentration to rub it with her arm. Ikay spoke a few admonishing words.

  Jessica steeled herself.

  Try again. This time, calm came over her as soon as she closed her eyes. The spot where the light was meant to go stood out clearly in her mind. Her skin warmed. Images swirled before her eyes. Darkness, spots of light, a sensation of movement. There was that man again. She tried to draw her consciousness to him, but a current dragged her along a different strand, as if she had fallen into a fast-flowing river. Her hands warmed, glowed and seared with pain. Damn it!

  She jumped up, flapping her hands to cool them.

  Ikay spoke a few stern words; the others just watched.

  Was this painful for Ikay, too?

  Well—painful or not, she was going to learn how to do this. She pres
sed her hands together once more, closed her eyes and again focused on a spot between them.

  The room faded.

  Cold. Snow. A howling wind.

  Jessica shivered.

  Daya pulled the hood of his fur cloak down over his forehead. His field of vision became restricted to the broad back of the woman in front of him. He stood in some sort of line. The biting wind carried shards of talk over the high scream of propulsor jets and the howl of hot air cannons. Daya stamped his feet, wishing those cannons warmed him instead of the shuttle’s engines.

  Just his luck that a passenger service had come in on his tail. By the time he had shut off and cooled the engines of his craft, packed and locked up, the line of waiting passengers stretched out of the building.

  Jessica probed into his thoughts. Who are you? Where are you?

  He drifted off into thought, and his mind was filled with sloshing water, and boats, and warm air.

  She tried, Are you looking for me? You’re in the wrong place.

  He looked at the soldier standing guard at the building, and she could sense he felt like someone had called his name.

  That’s right—can you hear me?

  “Hey, friend.” The man behind him tapped Daya’s shoulder.

  A large gap had opened in the queue in front of him. The broad-backed woman and her companion were at the door to the hall. Daya covered the distance in a few strides, meeting a stiff-faced soldier. “Identity, please.”

  Daya produced his Union citizenship card from his pocket. The man raised his eyebrows, took it, and went inside the building.

  Another soldier, a group commander judging by the dots on his tunic, waited at the door, and now spoke to the couple. “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Not freakin’ long at all,” the woman said, while her companion muttered, in a heavy accent, “We stay two days . . . sister-daughter’s wedding.”

  A junior soldier sat at a table copying the man’s reply onto a card by hand. By hand. No wonder this took so long. At the entrance to the Hedron settlement, a simple show of Daya’s amber-stone earrings would let him through the first line of controls, a communicator strip on the back of his citizenship pass automatically registered his presence. No need to show anybody anything.

  The soldier who had taken Daya’s pass came back. He nudged the senior soldier at the door, whose blue eyes glanced at Daya, and moved the couple on with an impatient wave, then pressed Daya’s citizenship card in his hands. He extended both hands palm up in a formal greeting. “We are highly honoured that a businessman such as yourself graces us with a visit. Would you like to accompany my men to your accommodation?”

  Daya returned his official greeting but wondered what had earned him this attention. He had not come on an official mission and had not let anyone know he was coming; his uncle didn’t know he was here, he had not even applied for a permit before he left.

  Jessica tried again. Were you looking for me? You’re in the wrong place.

  Daya’s thoughts didn’t waver. Official accommodation was a lot better than spending the night in a crowded guesthouse and eating bean soup and mass-baked fish bread. Sticky, doughy, pale rolls, heavy with the rancid tang of fish meal.

  The two soldiers led the way into the hall, parting crowds of waiting people, luggage hastily dragged aside. Three more guards idled at the building’s exit into the city streets, metal crossbows slung across their backs.

  The thick-walled buildings of the old city lined the street beyond, whitewashed walls with slits for windows. Grey clouds scudded low over the roofs.

  By the time they had come to the city’s central square, flakes of snow bit into Daya’s face. The dark shapes of the council buildings and library rose on the other side of the Foundation monument, a pentagonal platform with pillars on the corners. Merchants and buyers shuffled in and out of the market hall.

  The soldiers led Daya up the steps to the council buildings under an archway. Glad to be out of the wind, Daya lowered his hood. In the courtyard, fire light flickered behind the upper floor windows of a turret; all the other windows were dark. One of the soldiers bowed and gestured at the door to the turret, beyond which a spiral staircase led up out of sight.

  Daya climbed, his footsteps echoing off the portrait-studded, and tapestry-hung walls. The special guest quarters.

  At the top of the stairs, he came out into a large high-ceilinged room. Directly opposite the landing, a roaring fire burned in the fireplace, its orange glow gilding the dark slate, fur rugs and soft couches arranged around it. A low table was laden with books and a bowl of fruit. The smells mingled with the scent of smoke. Juni, hanga, feruzan, pricey foreign goods which, like the heavy wooden table, would have been imported by Miran’s formidable Traders.

  On another table stood a covered tray and a basket of fish bread. The scent of well-made bean soup mingled with that of burning straw bricks.

  One of the soldiers had followed him up. He bowed. Snowflakes in his hair had melted into diamond-drops of water. “I hope these quarters are to your satisfaction. You will find the private rooms off the hall.”

  Daya forced a smile. Why had they decided that he was an official visitor? “Thank you. I’m actually here to visit someone who has recently relocated to Miran—”

  Not relocated. I’m not where you’re looking for me.

  “You will have to speak to my superior about that.”

  “That’s very kind, but not necessary. I know my way around.”

  “My supervisor insists you shouldn’t go out by yourself. We’ve had some problems here concerning . . . foreigners. Only a few days ago, a visiting merchant was killed just outside the markets. Please wait until we can provide an escort.” He gestured at the table. “Your meal is ready. It’s warm in here.”

  Daya glanced at the window, where the glow of the fire in the hearth reflected against the backdrop of the leaden sky outside. He nodded. “All right.”

  The soldier bowed again. “Then have a good night.”

  Daya sat down on the floor by the hearth. Held out his hands to soak up the warmth, held his hands closer, and closer, until the flames licked his skin. Heat flowed through him, through her.

  Jessica whispered, “What—” The Pengali in the room stared at her. Her cheeks throbbed with heat. She brought a hand to her ears; they felt hot, too.

  Once more, she pressed her hands together in front of her face. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the spot between them. Her skin grew warm. She braced herself for pain but if there was any, she didn’t feel it.

  A steady stream of energy flowed into his hands. His skin glowed soft green. The light peeped through the cracks between his fingers. When he moved his hands apart, it flooded the room with brightness.

  And flooded the dank apartment’s living room. Jessica took in its eerie beauty. She cupped the light in both hands, her lips moving in a whisper, “Yes. Yes, yes, yes.”

  All the strands of energy curled into one. They no longer flailed where she couldn’t control them.

  Soft spots of glow lit up here and there amongst the Pengali in the room, weak like candles in the floodlight hovering above her outstretched hands. “I did it. Ikay, I contacted him.” No matter that she hadn’t yet managed to get a reply. That would come with practice. She rose, holding the light aloft. “I did it, I did it.”

  The Pengali spoke in excited voices. A young female kneeled on the floor, her head bowed. Another Pengali, a male, unwrapped a parcel, spreading a hearty scent of soup. He came to stand next to the female who still crouched on the floor, and held a bowl out to Jessica.

  Her legs trembling, Jessica clambered off the table, holding the light aloft. The other Pengali had lined up on either side of the male, who still held out the bowl. She recognised the scene from the frieze. Goodness knew how many years ago, her ancestors had fled and when they arrived in this area, hungry and dishevelled, the Pengali had offered them hospitality.

  She had seen a memory of Ikay on t
he beach, offering the bowl to an imaginary person. The Pengali might repeat that ceremony every year, until someone from those people came back.

  I am here now.

  Jessica took the bowl from the male’s hands. The soup tasted salty, with the tang of fish. While she drank, no one spoke, but more and more Pengali slipped into the room from the courtyard and even through the window, some adding their lights to the increasing glow floating near the ceiling. They stood, silent, watching her sip the steaming soup. History replayed. Her name was Anmi and she represented her ancestors. After so many years, Jessica had never expected to find anything about where she came from. Tears pricked in her eyes.

  A man’s voice disturbed the silence. Footsteps. A slamming door. Someone shouted in the courtyard.

  Lights flickered and went out, returning the room to darkness. A tall figure entered the room, a mere silhouette. Someone clanged down the lever on the light, bathing the room in a harsh glow.

  The figure was a soldier, his crossbow raised.

  Pengali scrambled to their feet, and tripped over boxes in their efforts to get out of the way. A male flung himself under the table, a female ducked behind boxes, a few made for the door. One jumped onto the windowsill, and then up onto the roof, until his tail disappeared from sight. The soldier shouted. A male voice in the courtyard replied.

  Jessica thunked down the bowl and jumped forward, pushing the Pengali back from the door, her arms spread wide. “No, no, stay here. There’re more soldiers out there. Someone will get hurt.”

  A young boy ducked under her arms. He reached the door only to crash into a second soldier, who clamped a muscled arm around his neck until the boy made choking sounds. Then an older Pengali female burst in, shouting a war cry. She grabbed a stool from next to the door and hit the soldier over the back. He released the boy, swung around and backhanded her across the face. She shrieked. With a great cry, another female jumped out from behind the boxes: Alla. There was a glitter of a knife, and the guard fell back against the wall, clutching his shoulder. Blood spread over his tunic.