Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

  “Who is coming? Let me take you—”

  Come to me. You’re in danger.

  “No.” Jessica pushed Iztho’s hands aside. She was not going to any doctor to be prodded at. If there was anything wrong with her, there was only one person who could fix it.

  She ran from the table across the courtyard, although she barely saw where she was going for the image of Daya’s face in her mind. He’s coming, he’s coming.

  Iztho called after her, “Come back! Who is coming?”

  Jessica ran out, into the foyer, past a line of guards into the street. She turned left, at random, had no idea where she was going or why. A group of Pengali stopped and watched. Jessica ran. She didn’t want to become entangled with them again, she didn’t want to . . .

  She didn’t know.

  She ran, without aim, without taking notice of where she was going. She ran, and ran and ran. No one stopped her until the visions faded and she found herself soaked with rain and exhausted, in an alley.

  Empty, dulled, staring at the rain-soaked pavement. The surface of puddles stirred with raindrops. Sometimes, larger drops falling from the trees made bigger rings. She clamped her hands around herself; her tunic was soaking wet. The memory of Daya’s voice repeated in her mind. Come to me. You’re in danger.

  He didn’t just speak in her mind, she could hear him, feel him, smell him. His voice left her no option, no energy to question, no opinion of her own. He called, she obeyed. He was her, and she was him, except right now, she was alone, rain pelted down on her, and she had no idea where she was.

  Daya, what now?

  Wait. I’m coming.

  Well, that wasn’t much help right now. Her hair dripped into her eyes; she shivered and she was hungry.

  She pushed open a small door to what looked to be a shed.

  The scent of rot wafted out of the dark space beyond. Great. A rubbish tip. But it was the only dry place and she simply had to get out of the rain. She sucked in a deep breath, ducked and crawled into the darkness, then pulled the door as tightly shut as it would go. A thin sliver of light lit mounds of rotting vegetables. Bloody hell, what a stink.

  Her eyes closed, she sought the energy within her. Cold had released much of her reserve, but she found enough to make a light. The cramped shed had two doors, one leading to the alley, the other presumably to the house on the other side of the wall. She might find a cleaner shelter there, or better, some Pengali servants. Where there were Pengali, there was food. She pushed the second door, but it didn’t move. Locked.

  So much for that idea.

  Heavy boots marched past, splashing in puddles. A voice shouted orders in Mirani.

  Jessica held her breath and pressed herself against the damp wall, ignoring its putrid stench.

  If you want to talk to me, please let me know where you are.

  Daya shivered, righting himself against the hard wall of the house. In the stuffy warmth of the room, he had dozed off. His backside hurt from sitting on the floor. He longingly thought of the bottle of zixas in his bag, saw himself pulling out the stopper and taking a big swig, but no. He wanted to have a clear mind when he met her.

  On the other side of the room, the Pengali fell quiet and turned to him. “What did you say?”

  Daya shook his head, banishing sleep and weariness. “I didn’t say anything.” Or did he? A voice asking a question lingered in his mind.

  The Pengali male held up an unidentified piece of lizard. Thin bones protruded from half-eaten flesh. “You want some?”

  “No.” Daya shuddered. As Coldi, his family only ate worms and other creatures that lived in soil or compost. Even though he had discovered that his body was quite different, he still found it hard to accept meat of larger animals.

  He went back to staring out the window, wishing the voice would come back. She was here somewhere.

  The smell of cooking lingered in Jessica’s nose, although around her was only damp and rubbish.

  Another group of soldiers marched through the alley, or were they the same ones coming back for a second look? Where were the Pengali?

  Where are you?

  Damn!

  Daya jumped up.

  On the other side of the room, the Pengali stopped talking. Large eyes observed him.

  “Be patient,” said the male.

  Daya spoke through gritted teeth. “I can’t be patient. She needs me now.” And there is a whole army after me.

  Outside the rain came down incessantly and water clattered from overflowing gutters.

  He clenched his fists in his pockets.

  The footsteps came back again, much slower this time. Men spoke in Mirani, but their speech was uneducated, too unlike that of Iztho for Jessica to understand.

  She crouched behind the door. Soon they would discover that it was open and look inside, and she would have to run.

  Daya opened the door into the courtyard, letting in a cloud of droplets. Water dripped from the leaves of the tree into deep puddles between its roots. No one, not even a creature, stirred in the yard or the alley on the other side of the gate.

  He balled and unballed his hands, kicked at the rotten planks at his feet.

  A Pengali behind him said, “Leave the door closed; someone will see us.”

  Leave the door closed—with him on the inside or the outside? In one jump, Daya grabbed one of the broad-rimmed rain hats that lay in the corner. Too small to fit him, he sat it atop his hair, its oiled cloth curtain dangling over his back. Another jump and he was in the courtyard. He slammed the door behind him.

  Closer the footsteps came, and closer. Jessica crouched, preparing to spring. She shut her eyes, gathering strands of energy in her mind. When that door opened, she would have to do something, dazzle them with light or burn them with sparks, but making a light was not that simple. It required time and concentration. Not something you could do while running.

  Whoever’s out there, please help me.

  The door into the house opened again. A Pengali looked into the courtyard, squinting against the grey light. “Wait until dark.”

  Daya was opening the gate into the alley. “I can’t wait any more. If you’re going to sit here and do nothing, that’s your problem, but I won’t.”

  “Anmi is in guesthouse. We go there after dark.”

  “It is almost dark. And she’s not in the guesthouse.”

  Daya pulled the veil down from the hat and launched himself into the alley. True, he had no idea where to go, but when he closed his eyes, a picture formed in his mind.

  It was dark and smelly and soldiers walked outside a door. Somewhere, not far away, she waited for his help.

  Jessica drew deep breaths, feeling warmth flow into her. Warmth that came from somewhere else, outside her body.

  The soldiers had come closer still. Branches rustled, footsteps splashed in water. “No, not here.”

  The door rattled.

  It opened. A rectangle of grey light fell over rubbish-strewn ground.

  A cherubic face peeked in.

  At the moment the soldier shouted, “Ya, found her!” Jessica jumped and pushed his chest. The soldier toppled, crashing bottom-first in the mud. He swore. Three others shouted.

  Jessica shoved them aside and bolted for the end of the alley, gambling they wouldn’t shoot because she’d be no use to them when dead.

  Daya clutched his head, pressing the wet cloth from the hat’s veil into his face. The mental scream of panic pounded inside his skull like the beat of many hammers.

  Running footsteps sounded in the alley to his right. He rounded the corner.

  Three soldiers ran away from him; one scrambled to his feet, the back of his uniform stained with mud. The girl ran to the other end of the alley.

  Another patrol stepped out from around the corner.

  His mind screamed, Anmi! Threads of energy escaped . . . formed a strand of lightning . . . arcing, sizzling and crackling, through the air . . . over the soldiers’ heads.

>   Jessica stopped and turned around. Stared at the tall figure at the other end of the alley. His call pierced through her mind. She held up her hands and caught the arcing light.

  For a moment, it seemed like the world stood still.

  Then the air exploded around her. A flash bleached her vision brilliant white. A gust of wind tore through the alley, carrying leaves and sand.

  The soldiers shouted. Fell against the walls. Sagged onto the ground.

  Silence.

  Nothing but the soft hiss of rain.

  The girl stood there, dazed and shocked, staring at the soldiers who lay in the mud. Her tunic clung to her, wet and streaked with dirt. Her hair fell in wet strings over her shoulders, but her eyes burned. A rush of heat rose to Daya’s cheeks. Her scent drifted on the breeze, the scent of an Aghyrian woman. No longer a girl, a woman. The scent of laughter, of eyes looking only at him, of picking her up and—no, he couldn’t do that. He had to protect her.

  Daya reached out a trembling hand. “Come.”

  Jessica ran.

  Jumped over the bodies. Splashed through puddles. Threw herself at him. Buried her face in his sodden chest. Cried out in deep gasps, “Are they dead? Are they dead?”

  He flinched and pushed her off him. “Whoa, not so fast. You’re all wet. Calm down. I’ll get you somewhere dry.”

  Jessica asked again, “Are they dead?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His voice was as warm as she remembered. Yes, it was him. Eyes as dark as hers, his face equally high-cheekboned and pale-skinned. He was even taller than her.

  “Here, take this.” He draped his hat over her head, arranging the rain shield that hung off the rim over her shoulders. His touch burned through her tunic. Then something registered in her foggy mind. “You . . . you speak English.”

  A melancholy smile crossed his lips, full and dark like hers. Her heart jumped. “Come. Let’s get out before the entire Mirani army turns up.”

  “Where to?”

  “I know a safe place where we can hide until dark.”

  For a while, they walked with large strides. The rain hissed, water clattered from gutters, whirlpools rushed down street drains. Many times, Jessica glanced up at him. There seemed no need for words. In her mind, images whirled of a riverbank, trees with drooping branches which trailed in the water, the sound of children’s laughter and her own face, bright with a smile.

  There was a boy with black curly hair in a circle of other kids. He was taller than the others, but thin and gaunt in a way the others weren’t. The skin on the back of his hands shone and stretched from sunburn, and on his nose and cheeks blisters wept yellow ooze.

  The same boy sat at a table and a man shouted at him. A woman wept.

  The boy ran through dusty streets.

  Whoa not so fast. What is all this?

  Questions made up of common words lagged eons behind what she saw. They were memories, of his life, and hers.

  Through the haze in her brain, a fundamental question came to her. “Who are you, precisely?” How young, innocent and childish her voice sounded; how strange the sound of English in her ears. How utterly absurd the words.

  She recognised his scent; she had known him all her life.

  “That is a question not easily answered.” Just the faintest trace of an accent marked his upper-class British speech.

  She smiled at him, meeting those dark eyes. “Your full name would help a great deal.”

  “What is a name but a place marker in society? Does your name reflect who you are?”

  She opened her mouth to say that was a silly question but then realised how his remark had hit at the core of her problem. Out of all the personalities in the universe, she couldn’t possibly be Jessica Moore.

  She laughed and hated how she sounded like a giggly girl. Blood rose to her face; her cheeks must be glowing. “You’re weird.”

  Another one of those mischievous smiles that made her heart jump. “You’re not the first one to say that. Anyway my name, as such things are considered important, is Daya Ezmi.”

  How much he was like her: his broad shoulders, his pale skin, high cheekbones, long arms and long-fingered hands. Loose curls framed his face and tickled the collar of his tunic. His hair looked softer than hers. She wanted to bury her fingers in it, smell it. Images flooded her mind. Herself as a little girl learning to ride a bike, herself on horseback galloping through the sandy river bed. She whispered, “You were there?”

  His eyes grew sad. “All the time and not often enough.”

  “But . . . but why?” She didn’t know what to feel about that. He’d stalked her, or kept her safe?

  “I was going to tell you, and I was waiting to meet you.”

  She stared at him, as her mind went through events of the past. Leaving the showground to go back to school. Climbing into the plane. Her phone beeped with a message. “You mean that message was you?”

  “Exactly. It was time that you were told the truth.”

  She gasped. “Are you my family?”

  “I told your carers that I’m an uncle of yours—”

  “But you’re not.”

  “No.”

  “But we’re both survivors from an ancient race which once lived on Asto.”

  If possible, his eyes widened even further.

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, it is true. We are Aghyrians, more human than anyone in the universe. We are the root of all humans and human intelligence.”

  Jessica trembled on her legs. “Is it true that I was found in some sort of chamber where I survived for . . . for almost fifty thousand years and . . .” Her voice grew more unsteady.

  “Yes, that is also true.”

  “And that I was submerged in some kind of fluid in a basin and that my name was written on the wall?”

  He nodded. Red patches had risen to his cheeks. His voice sounded hoarse. “May life guide you in the future, Anmi Kirilen Dinzo.”

  Jessica froze. What?

  “Anmi Kirilen Dinzo. Your name. I promised I wouldn’t speak it until I could do so to your face.”

  Her lips moved in a soundless whisper. Anmi Kirilen Dinzo, my name. Her name: the word she always wanted, but never seriously hoped to hear. Tears pricked in her eyes.

  She saw an entryway carved in stone, the gaping hole of a dark tunnel beyond, a small light casting long shadows over carved walls. The silhouette of a skinny boy holding a bundle of cloth in his arms. She realised the truth. “You found me.”

  His grip on her shoulder tightened. A white-knuckled hand on her upper arm. He averted his gaze.

  The boy held a baby swaddled in blankets clutched against his chest. He ran down a tunnel, with the power of millennia peeling away from him. The mad dash into the burning hot desert heat. His hands on the instrument panel of a battered aircraft. The sound of a baby crying. His slender hand, the skin burnt and peeling, pulled back the blanket to reveal a line of blisters on the baby’s right shin. She bent down and ran her fingertips over the scar. Burns, the doctor had told her parents. How right he was.

  “You saved me.”

  His voice came as a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  Sorry about what? She didn’t say anything, sensing his inner turmoil.

  For a while they splashed through puddles in the tree-covered alleys. Big splats of water dripped on the rain hat. High walls towered up on both sides of the wet gloom.

  Finally, he spoke. “I’m sorry. I should have come earlier. I should have told you all this myself. I shouldn’t have left you alone for that long, but you were happy with the people who looked after you and it wasn’t until these strange things started happening.” Meaning: Stephen Fitzgerald. “But when I found you . . . I was too young to look after a baby, and I didn’t know what to do. You see—you are an original survivor, but I was born as a freak child to my parents. They never wanted me. No one ever wanted me. People were scared of me. Others like me had all been admitted to institutions. I w
as scared they were going to do the same thing to me. I didn’t want that to happen to you.”

  Jessica turned to him, held up her hand to touch his cheek, but didn’t. “Stop, stop. Slow down. You’re making no sense at all.”

  Despair and anguish radiated from his eyes. “You don’t want it to make sense. I could have prevented this whole mess.”

  He stopped in the shadow of the wall and pushed open a timber door on the side. They emerged into another, narrower alley hemmed in by high walls with more doors. Behind the walls loomed large houses, some part-shaded by trees.

  Here, the water ran ankle-deep and the ground underneath was soft and slippery. Daya stopped in front of the door at the end. He faced her, his black eyes intense. “But I did it for one thing: you would not become another Ivedra. I would not have you locked up and investigated until you died in a prison.”

  He pushed this door open. On the other side was a small courtyard dominated by an enormous tree. Gnarled roots had burst through the pavers, which lay haphazardly around its base as if they had been lifted by an explosion. Daya shut and barred the door.

  She whispered, “Ivedra was the woman who was found three hundred years ago, wasn’t she? One of our kind.”

  “She was. The Coldi at Asto locked her up when her strangeness became too obvious. You’ll have noticed that your inner energy builds up more quickly when it’s hot. Imagine what she went through, living on Asto.”

  Jessica shivered.

  “Ivedra had a daughter in prison. Stories go that she survived and that I and people like me are her descendants.”

  She stopped him under the tree and faced him. The hat hung askew on her head. She flung it off, over a low branch where it dripped water into a puddle. She reached for his hair, but he pushed back her hands. “Hey, what are you doing?”

  “I want to smell it.”

  He raised his hands like a shield before him, backing into the trunk of the tree. “I’m not sure if that is such a good idea—”