Moongather

by Clayton, Jo;

  “What a chinj she is.” Tuli mimed the popping of a small-life bloodsucker as she ran past him laughing. She swung up the poles of the corral, rested her stomach on the top pole, balancing herself there, her hands tight about it as she watched the macain heave onto their feet and amble lazily toward her.

  Teras climbed the fence and sat on the top pole, knees bent, bare heels propped on a lower one. “Remember the time when ol’ spottyface was courting Nilis and we made the mudhole in the lane and covered it with sticks and grass?”

  Tuli grinned. “Da whaled us good for that one. It was worth it. She was so mad she near baked that mud solid.” Teetering precariously, she reached out and stroked the warty nose of the nearest macai. “I wonder what she could find to confess, she’s so perfect, according to her.” The macai moaned with pleasure and lifted his head so she could dig her fingers into the loose folds under his chin. “Which one’s this?”

  “Labby.” Teras stood up, wobbling a little, arms outstretched; when he had his balance, he jumped lightly to the macai’s back, startling a grunt from the beast. “There’s a halter over there by the barn, get it, will you?”

  Cymbank was dark except for Jango’s tavern and even there the shutters were closed; only the burning torch caged above the door showed the place was still open. The streets and the square were deserted, no players or peddlers, no one camped out on the green or restless in the spotty moonlight to catch the twins in their prowl, not even stray guards from the double decset quartered in the Center for the last tenday.

  Tuli rested her cheek against her brother’s back, wondering mildly what she was going to see. The Followers of Soäreh the Flame had been around the mijloc awhile, a ragtag sect no one paid much attention to, though there were rumors enough about the tiluns, whispers of orgies and black magic, other whispers about their priests who called themselves Aglim though everyone knew they were only stupid little norids who couldn’t light a match without sweating. Still, there did seem to be a lot more Followers and an Agli here in Cymbank and she’d heard of others in other villages along RiverCym. Not long after the Great Gather when the Domnor vanished somehow and Floarin took over as regent for her unborn child, not very long after that, orders came down from Oras and the Doamna-regent for the Taromates of the South to provide land and roof for the Followers and their Aglim, orders backed by a Decsel and his ten guards. The Taromate of RiverCym had grumbled and done the least they could, giving the Agli a long abandoned granary that was, by mischance, directly across from the Maiden Shrine. The location made the people of Cymbank very unhappy and the taroms weren’t too pleased with it but no one had anything better to offer and the thing was done. That was near a year ago now and folks were used to it, ignored it mostly.

  The walls of the granary, though crumbling a little on the outside, were solid enough and the roof reasonably intact. The Agli had looked it over and accepted it, though Tesc told Annic in the hearing of the twins that he didn’t like the look in that viper’s eyes and he prayed that he never got his teeth in any of them.

  Teras turned Labby toward the back of the Maiden Shrine. “Almost there,” he whispered. She could feel the muscles tighten in his back, hear the tension in his voice. He pulled the macai to a stop, tapped his sister’s hands, and when she loosed her grip on him, swung down. As she slid after him, he knotted the halter rope to one of the rings on the hitching post then waited for Tuli to take the lead.

  His night sight was only adequate; he didn’t stumble around, but saw few things sharply once the sun went down. His realm was daylight while the night belonged to Tuli. Everything about her expanded when the moons rose; she ran faster, heard, smelled, tasted far more intensely, read the shifts of the air like print—and most of all, saw with dreamlike clarity everything about her, saw night scenes as if they were fine black-and-white etchings, detailed to the smallest leaf. No night hunter (no hovering kanka passar or prowling fayar) could track its prey more surely. She loved her night rambles nearly as much as she loved her twin, loved both with a jealous passion and refused to acknowledge that she’d be wed in a few years and shut away from both these loves, from her brother and the night. “Through the shrine?” she whispered.

  “For a look first,” Teras murmured. His hand brushed across his eyes, a betrayal of his anxiety, then he grinned at her, gave her a little push. “Get on with it or we’ll miss everything.”

  Tuli nodded. She circled the small schoolroom where she and Teras had learned to read and figure, had memorized the Maiden chants, moved past the Sanctuary and the Shrine fountain, stepped into the columned court. As she passed the vine-wreathed posts with their maiden faces, moon-caught, smiling through the leaves, Tuli relaxed. There was a gentle goodness about the court that always reached deep in her and smoothed away the knots of anger and spite that gathered in her like burrs and pricked at her until she burst out with ugly words and hateful acts whose violence often frightened her. Sometimes after Nilis or one of the tie-girls had driven her to distraction she ran away to this court for help in subduing her fury when, staying, she might have half-killed the other. Night or day, the Maiden gave her back her calm, gave her the strength to live with herself and with others no matter how irritating. This night she felt the peace again, forgot why she was here until Teras tapped at her arm and urged her to hurry.

  She stopped in the shadow by the shrine gate; Teras pressed against her as they both examined the bulky cylinder of the old granary. He stirred after a moment, itchy with the need for action. “See anything?” There was trouble in his voice. He had a sense she lacked. It was like a silent gong, he told her, if you can imagine such a thing, like a great dinner gong vibrating madly that you couldn’t hear only feel. It didn’t sound often but when it did, it meant get the hell out, if it was really loud, or sometimes just watch where you put your feet, there’s danger about.

  “Gong?”

  “A rattle.”

  Tuli nodded. Leaning against the gatepost, she narrowed her eyes and probed the shadows across the street. At first she saw nothing more than the wide, low cylinder with its conical roof, then in the deeply recessed doorway she felt more than saw a faint movement, as if the air the watcher stirred slipped across the street and pressed against her face. The watcher moved; she saw a darkness pass across a streak of red-gold light. She scanned the building with slow care for one last time then let out the breath she was holding. “Guard in the doorway. That’s all. If we go out the back here, circle round and come down the riverbank, we can climb over the court wall and get to those windows Hars told you ’bout.” She frowned. “He must ’ve got over the wall himself without getting caught, but maybe there’s a guard there now.”

  Teras shrugged. “Won’t know till we look. Come on.”

  Tuli loped easily along behind the shops that lined the main street, Teras behind her; in a kind of litany she named them under her breath—cobbler, saddlemaker, turner, mercer, hardware seller, blacksmith, coper, candy maker—a litany of the familiar, the comfortable, the unchanging, only she would change, though she’d hold back that change if she could. They circled kitchen gardens and macai sheds, ducked past moonglow groves and swung round the empty corrals where macai dealers auctioned off their wares at the Rising Fair. She felt a bubbling in her blood; her face was hot and tight in spite of the chill in the air blowing against it; she was breathing fast, not from the running, her heart knocking in her throat with excitement. Before, when she was still a child, running wild at night was worth a licking if she was caught at it, now she’d started her menses the danger was far greater. I might be cast out of the family, utterly disowned, left to find my living however I could, poor, starved, beaten, maybe I’d even end up in the back rooms at Jango’s. She swallowed a giggle, luxuriating in imaginings, knowing all the while that Tesc, her father, loved her far too much to do any of these dire things to her.

  She led Teras back along the riverbank until she came to a clattering stand of dried-out bastocane directly behi
nd the granary. She scanned as much as she could see of the walls of the square back court, then nudged her brother. “Gong?”

  “Not a squeak.” He came around her, trotted silent as a wraith across dry grass and debris to the crumbling mud brick wall. He turned and waited for her, propping his shoulders against the wall, his eyes glistening with mischief. Tuli grinned at him, kicked at the mud, jerked her thumb up. He nodded and started climbing, feeling for cracks with feet and fingers, knocking down loose fragments that pattered softly beside her. She watched his head rise over the top, saw him swing across the drop without hesitation. Following as quickly as she could, she pulled herself over the wall and let herself down beside her twin. She heard a macai honk in a shed at the back of the court, heard the wail of a kanka passar in swoop close by, the buzz of night flying bugs, but that was all, no guard, nothing to worry about.

  Thin streaks of red-gold light outlined a series of double shutters that covered what once had been grain chutes but now were, presumably, windows set into the thick wall. The shutter nearest the courtwall had a long narrow triangle of wood broken off one edge. Light spilled copiously from the opening and gilded the ground beneath. Teras touched Tuli’s shoulder, pointed, then moved swiftly, silently, to the broken shutter.

  Belly cold with a vague foreboding far less definite than her brother’s gong and somehow more disturbing, Tuli hesitated. Teras swung away from the crack and beckoned impatiently. She shook off her anxiety and crossed to him to kneel by the bottom of the crack while Teras leaned over her, his eye to the opening. Sighing, Tuli looked inside.

  The room was round with one flat side, taking up most of the ground-level space within the granary. Tuli was surprised how much she could see from her vantage place, the curve of the wall giving her an unexpectedly wide angle of view. Half the room was filled with silent seated figures uncertainly visible in the murky light from oil-wood torches stuck up on the walls. On a low dais a four-foot cylinder supported a broad shallow basin filled with flames that had a misty aura about them like a river fog about a late strayer’s lanthorn. She sniffed cautiously, picked up a faint oily sweetness that tickled her nose until she feared she’d have to sneeze. Eyes watering, she pinched her nostrils together until the need faded, then began to examine the faces more closely, recognizing some, too many for her comfort. Some were neighbors, some their own people, members of families that had lived on Gradin lands and worked for Gradin Heirs for as long as the Taromate had existed. She must have made a slight sound. Her brother’s hand came down on her shoulder, squeezed it lightly, both warning and comfort.

  Nilis sat among the foremost, an exalted look on her pinched face, a passion in her staring eyes that startled Tuli; she’d seen Nilis fussing and angry but never like this. We’ve missed some, she thought, seeing weariness as well as exaltation in her sister’s face. Wonder what’s going to happen now? She looked up, met her brother’s eyes. His lips formed the word chinj. She tried to answer his smile, swallowed and once again set her eyes to the crack.

  The Followers were sitting very erect, as if they had rods rammed down their spines. Two dark figures, heads hidden in black hoods, stood before the fire-filled basin. Long narrow robes covered their bodies chin to toe, long narrow sleeves covered their arms, even their hands, and fell half an arm’s length beyond their fingertips. Muffled hands moved, swaying slowly back and forth, the dangling sleeves passing through clouds of droplets spraying out from the flames. A moan blew through the seated figures, grew in volume. The Followers shook as if a strong wind stirred them.

  “Light.” One of the dark figures intoned the word, his voice a clear sweet tenor.

  “Light.” The response was a beast moan, a deep groan.

  “Father of light.” The tenor rang with tender power. It was not possible to tell which of the dark ones spoke.

  “Father of Light,” the beast groaned. The smell of the incense grew stronger as it pressed out past Tuli’s face, turning her light-headed though she got not one-tenth the dose the Followers inhaled.

  “Bright one, pure one.”

  “Bright one, PURE one.” A moan of ecstasy.

  “Burn us clean.”

  Outside in the darkness Tuli felt the pull of the chant, felt the heated intensity of the many-throated beast, her disgust weakened by drifts of drugged incense. Over and over the phrases were intoned and responded until they wore a groove in her mind, until she found herself breathing with the beast, mouthing the words with it, until her heart was beating with it. Alarmed when she realized what was happening, she wrenched her face away from the crack and laid her cheek against the splintery wood, breathing deeply the chill night air. It smelled of manure and musty grain, of damp earth and stagnant water, of unwashed macain and rotting fish—and she savored all these smells; they were real and sane and redolent of life itself, a powerful barrier against the insanity happening inside the granary. She became aware that the chanting had stopped, replaced by the rattle of small drums. Unable to resist the pricking of curiosity, she set her eye once more to the crack.

  A third dark figure (she wrinkled her nose as she recognized him) stood before the basin; his wrists were crossed over his heart, fingers splayed out like white wings. The acolytes knelt, one to the right the other to the left, like black bookends (she swallowed a giggle at the thought) tapping at small drums, their fingers hidden in the too-long sleeves.

  “Agli. Agli. Agli,” the Followers chanted as the acolytes beat the rhythm faster and faster, pushing at them, forcing them harder and faster until the massive old granary seemed to rock about the serene magnetic figure of the Agli.

  Tuli watched with horror as people she knew, some she’d counted almost friends, her sister, all of them howled, beat at themselves, tore at their hair, screamed wild hoarse cries that seemed to tear from bloody throats, rocked wildly on their buttocks, even fell over and rolled about on the floor.

  The drums stopped. The moaning died away. One by one the Followers regained control of their bodies and sat again rigidly erect.

  The Agli spread his hands wide, wide sleeves falling from his arms like black wings. The acolytes set their drums aside and each brought hidden hands together, palm to palm, in the center of his chest, sitting like an ebony orant as the Agli spoke.

  “Think on your sins, o sons of evil.” He spoke softly, his rich warm voice caressing them. “Think on your sins.” This time the words came louder. “Think on your sins!” Now the sonorous tones filled the room. The Followers moaned and writhed with shame. He wheeled suddenly, turning his back to them, rejecting them, one hand stretched dramatically toward the flame, the other lifted high above his head. “Look on this light, o you with darkness in your soul.” He whipped around, his face stern, a forefinger jabbing in accusation at them. “Look on the Light and know yourselves filled with darkness. Soäreh of the Flame is light, is purity, is all that is good and true and worthy. Soäreh is your Father is the flame that cleanses. Be you clean, you who call yourselves the followers of Soäreh. Burn the filth from your sodden souls, you sons of evil. Cast that filth into the outer darkness, cast out the hag who fouls you.”

  Tuli shivered, fear so strong in her she was sick with it. He was talking about the Maiden, how could he say such things, how could they bear to listen? And how could Floarin doamna-regent sponsor such … such … she couldn’t find the words. Grimly she watched what was happening, determined to know the worst.

  The Agli was winding up to a climax, his voice hammering at the Followers. They stared at him, eyes glazed, unfocused, faces idiot-blank, surrendering will and intellect utterly to him. “Follow the hag and you will be cast into the outer darkness, foul to foul, eaten by worms.” He flung his arms out again, black wings silhouetted against the red and gold and dancing blue of the flames. “Do you renounce the sins that taint you?”

  “We do.” At first the answer was ragged, uncertain, then the Followers found their voices again. “We do renounce them.”

  “Do you
renounce the dark hag?”

  “We do.” A full-throated roar.

  “Confess your sins, oh sons of evil. Confess. Set your hands in the fire and confess.

  Nilis staggered to her feet and stumbled forward, arms outstretched.

  Tuli shuddered. Teras and she had laughed at the idea but the reality was not funny at all.

  Nilis stopped before the Agli, her face shining with an eagerness that Tuli found obscene. The Agli laid his hands on hers, then he stepped aside. Without hesitation she plunged her arms to the elbows into the flames. She stepped back a moment later, raised her arms high, small tongues of fire racing up them to curve into a crackling arc above her head. “Blessed Soäreh Father, I have sinned.” Her voice was triumphant, no hint of shame, a thin harsh whine that grated on Tuli’s ears.

  The two acolytes began tapping out a simple rhythm. “Fire cleanses,” the tenor sang. Again Tuli had no idea which of them spoke.

  “Fire cleanses,” the Followers answered him.

  “I accuse myself, I dwell with evil.”

  “The light is pure.”

  “Pure is the light.”

  “I accuse Tesc and Annic Gradin.”

  “Blessed be the light.”

  “The Light be blessed.”

  “They plot against the light. They plot against our blessed patron Doamna Floarin. They plot to withhold the grain share owed to the blessed of the Light.”

  “The Flame will purify.”

  “Be purified in the Flame.”

  “Tesc Gradin, my father, called the Taromate of River Cym together to plot treason. All of them will hide in secret cellars a portion of the harvest from the Servants of the Light when they come to take the Doamna’s tithe.”

  Tuli bit her lower lip to keep from crying out in blind fury. She pounded her fists on her thighs and couldn’t even feel them; she wept and didn’t know she wept. She heard as from a great distance her brother’s muttered curse. When her eyes cleared, the first thing she saw was Nilis looking smug and self-righteous. To control her rage she swallowed and swallowed again. How can she do this to her own? How can she?