The Revenants

by Tepper, Sheri S

  To which Jaer replied, ‘No, it doesn’t matter. It is only part of the pattern, the endless pattern of all these people within me. Do you know what has been done to me? Every story told to me while I slept passed into reality, became persons, became persons with stories of their own to tell which became persons, with more stories yet…. They live! They are as real as I. As I!’ She laughed until she choked, bending forward to put her head between her knees, rising up again with eyes glowing in a kind of madness. ‘What is that singing?’

  They had become so accustomed to the endless song of the Sisters that for a time they could not think what singing she meant.

  Terascouros identified it. The Sisters. Singing to keep the ghosts of Murgin at rest. The ghosts which came from…’

  ‘I know.’ She nodded her head. ‘I was there.’

  ‘You were wounded. Unconscious.’

  ‘I was there. Leona told me, Medlo told me – I saw it each way, through each one.’ She mused. ‘I remember a ring of fire. You did it to us, Terascouros. Put us in that ring of fire. We were threaded like beads on that ring, the fire bleeding from one to the other of us, staining each with the flavour and colour of each. I remember it myself.’ And within her, multiple voices cried out, ‘Myself? Which self? What self?’

  ‘I want to see.’ She stood, tugged erect by Medlo’s hands to totter a moment before moving slowly out of the cavern, turning in the direction of the distant door which gave upon the ridge over the prison valley of the ghosts, moving surely, as though she had known these passageways since childhood. From time to time she leaned weakly against the stone, only to move on again when she had rested a little. The practical Sister walked beside her, offering the cup of broth again and again, and with each sip Jaer seemed to grow stronger.

  At last she stood in the jagged arch of tunnel which looked down upon the roiling below. Medlo thrust in beside her, the jangle on his back strummed mournfully as it touched the stony wall. He flipped it over with an absent-minded slap which resonated in the tunnel. Jaer reached out to tap it again, once, twice, turned to look out over the ghosts once more, an expression of concentration wiping her face clean of all emotion, eyes cold and distant. Medlo shivered.

  ‘“A singer beats the dead-march drum,”’ she quoted softly. ‘Is that not in my quest book, Medlo? A singer beats the dead-march drum. So. You are a singer, and the jangle will do for a drum. Let us test a thing I believe I know about these ghosts.’

  She drew him out into the sunlight beside her, then slowly down the slope toward the mists, reaching out to tap upon the sound box of the jangle, turn, turn, turn, in time with their steps until Medlo took it up for her. They did not seem to notice that Jasmine came behind them, her eyes fixed upon Medlo’s shoulder where his fringed sash lay, its silver embroideries glittering in the light. After them came Leona and Thewson, Terascouros staggering after, wonderingly, half hypnotized. The steady, hollow tapping fell into the chill air; the livid fog before them boiled, heaving upward into individual monsters. From behind, Old Aunt cried a warning as Jaer came almost too near a coiling lash of mist which struck at her like a snake.

  Then, inexplicably, the fog drew back, screaming shrilly as it withdrew, more and more quickly, a wailing chaos which streamed across the valley to pile in turgid heaps against the far wall of the place.

  Jaer merely stood where she was, reaching out to take Medlo’s hand and carry it to her lips, a gesture of astonishing intimacy which left him red-faced and open-mouthed. She turned away to go slowly back up the slope to the place the unbelieving Sisters stood.

  ‘They have tired of our company, these ghosts,’ Jaer said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ stammered Terascouros.

  ‘Nor I,’ whispered Medlo.

  ‘Because you did not believe in my quest,’ said Jaer with a harsh little cough of laughter. ‘Here is Thewson, a dark warrior come from shadows with the skin of the basilisk binding his spear blade and fringing his weapon – a battle flag. Here are you, Medlo, a singer tapping out a dead-march drum. Shall we count the chained captives set free? One, Jasmine. Two, Terascouros. Three, Jaer. Leona wanders the lands between Gerenhodh and the sea, as my quest said the Queen of Beasts would do.’

  ‘But the quest book said nothing of ghosts.’

  ‘Or of Gahl, or of Murgin. Still, there is something there, is there not?’

  ‘Does she say it is true prophecy?’ asked Old Aunt.

  Jaer smiled at her, sleepily, as though the answer did not matter. ‘Would you expect less from Ahl di lasurra sai? Did Terascouros not name me? What was the last thing you said to me, Teras, in that far forest of Ban Morrish? Just before the Gahlians came?’

  ‘I don’t remember. It was dark, terrible….’

  ‘I remember,’ Thewson said. ‘Deep in the night, when I heard the evil ones call far off in the dark –’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Leona. ‘Jaer said she could do nothing about the evil that overruns the world. Nothing at all. And you, Terascouros, said “Someone must.”’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Jaer. ‘Someone must.’ She turned to walk back into the tunnel, leaving them quiet behind her.

  Medlo cleared his throat. ‘The verse in the quest book went on, “wounded nor whole shall they prevail, these seven shall the girdle bind.” There are only six of us. Six.’

  Terascouros patted him on the shoulder. ‘Hhhssss. Let it alone. It will come clear or it won’t. It is her book, after all.’

  They turned to follow Jaer, but as each one entered the tunnel, he turned to look over his shoulder at the ghosts piled high against the stones. None of them knew – or could guess – what had happened there.

  THE SONG OF THE SEVEN NAMES

  The first name is that of a fountain in the forest of Aildery, which at one time lay east of Palonhodh between the forks of the Gomilbata:

  Luiissadureme ah

  The second name is the name of the numen of that place:

  Thiellurissalantora dasimlanluroluro

  The third name is a brief catalogue of the creatures of that place, taken as a whole:

  Danlas, Kelner, Romol, Mores, Varis, Sindos, Durina

  (Note: It is customary in writing a seven-name, to include in the third list only seven names, though the list might properly have been endless.)

  The fourth name is that of the nymph of the fountain:

  Luissa-shanas t’vai, luissa-da

  The fifth name is that of the Magister who walked there:

  Magister Omburan (Mai Omburan)

  The sixth name is always one of the Powers, in this case, Our Lady of the Waters:

  Duresme thiene, Vai dama, Adumon

  A seven-name always ends with the phrase:

  Tynduras vaidom Amai, elur t’wyra

  (All of the Kingdom of the Most High, whose name is silence.)

  These are the names inherent, immanent, transient, ambient, surveillant, triumphant, and transcendent, which were sung by the Sisters of Gerenhodh. Of these, only the first four had passed away with the destruction of the numen, or Dweller, and it is the name of the Dweller which defines the rest. All other names in the group could remain the same while speaking of another place or time. Only the Dweller is unique, of the timebound names. The names surveillant, triumphant, and transcendent are, of course, immortal.

  When Kelner, the raven, messenger of Magister Pen, is spoken of as ‘Kelner of the third name,’ it is because one of his line or kind was named as a ‘thyn’ or ‘necessary part’ of Thiellurissalantora dasimlanluroluro.

  The language in which a seven-name was sung was the language of Taniel, not spoken as a living language for about five thousand years, though some vestiges of it were preserved in the courts of the Drossynian Kings.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  KELNER

  Year 1169 – Early Spring

  The next morning Terascouros found Jaer squatting on the cot where she had slept for months, surrounded by the contents of her pack, sifting through the
m with an intent ferocity as though to discover some secret hidden from her in the artifacts of her childhood. They lay around her: the quest book; a strange flute made of dark polished wood, or – it may be – stone; three green feathers; a pile of olden coins; odds and ends which she turned over in her ands with deep concentration, almost as though she had not seen them before. ‘See me here,’ she murmured to Terascouros, ‘searching for Jaer. I am looking for answers, being tired of riddles.’

  ‘Riddles? Such as?’ urged Terascouros.

  ‘Such as why I carry this rubbish about with me. See? This is a doll which Nathan made for me when I was a girl child once. I loved it, became a boy child, loved it still, which upset Nathan. Silly, isn’t it? Ephraim laughed at him for that. One born to Orena, he said, would not have had such a silly reaction, but Nathan came late to Orena.

  ‘Of everything that is here, only the book and the gold seem to have any relevance. The book to guide me, and the gold to buy my way. I took oath upon this book. In a world of uncertainty, I follow my oath, having nothing better to follow.’

  Terascouros took up the green feathers, spread them before her face in a bright fan. ‘These mean much to me, Jaer. They mean “Mawen.” They are her sign. If these came to you, they came to you through Mawen.’

  ‘They were my mother’s things.’

  ‘Then your mother knew mine.’

  ‘Both gone,’ she said, sadly.

  ‘Gone, yes,’ Terascouros said firmly. ‘Your mother is indeed dead, or so the old men said. Mawen is presumed so, though we do not know when nor where. Still, that does not matter at the moment. Another thing does. Will you come to meet the Messenger which was promised us?’

  ‘Someone has arrived?’

  Terascouros nodded, amused. ‘Well, see for yourself.’

  On the same ledge to which the Magister had come only the day before – to several of them the memory was of a hazy past – they found the Messenger awaiting them, hopping up and down in impatience and intermittently voicing displeasure. Terascouros knelt, holding out her arm for the Messenger to hop upon it. He turned his head to one side, peering at them all out of shiny yellow eyes.

  ‘A bird?’ Medlo queried.

  ‘Why not a bird?’ the Raven said. ‘Magister would be interested to know, I’m sure, why not a bird.’

  Terascouros introduced him. ‘This is Kelner of the Third Name of Thiel-lurissa-lantorra-dasim-lanluro. You may recognize his name as one sung yesterday.’

  ‘An ancestor,’ the bird elucidated, pointing with one claw. ‘Some centuries ago. Thiel-lurissa-and-all-that was made barren in the days when Tchent still stood whole. I am a descendant of the Third Name of Thiel-lurissa. Magister thought that a good joke. Let them have one of the names they sing. That’s what Magister thought. I ask again. Why not a bird?’

  ‘No reason why not,’ said Medlo. ‘As a messenger, we suppose you have a message for us.’

  ‘A message of great complexity.’ Kelner said with satisfaction, ‘which can be given at once or in bits and pieces.’

  Jaer had been motionless and silent. Now she stepped forward and offered the bird her arm. Kelner cocked his head to get a better look at her, stepped to her arm and then to her shoulder. ‘So you’re the one the fuss is all about.’

  ‘Seemingly so,’ Jaer said warily.

  ‘Well, no accounting for the vagaries of history, as my uncle once said. He was messenger for the Magisters, too. Mostly for Magister Pen, though Magister Omburan walked in Aildery in his days, too. That has little to do with things now, eh? Or does it?’

  ‘Does it?’ she asked him softly.

  ‘Perhaps you will tell us what does have to do with things now,’ said Terascouros.

  ‘Given time. Given breakfast. Given opportunity. As I said, all at once, or in bits and pieces.’ He went from Jaer’s shoulder to Thewson’s in one downsweep of wings. ‘Now, this is a perch. Lofty, aren’t you? What’s that you have, old woman?’ And he was off again, to Terascouros’s side, pecking at the green feathers she still held. ‘Is Mawen here?’

  ‘No, Kelner. My mother went into the world long since. We think her rejoined to Earthsoul. These were brought by Jaer, whose own mother had them from Mawen long ago.’

  ‘Pretty things. She got them from that bird she had, Singer. Remember that one? From the south somewhere, with its green and yellow coat. Talked, it did. Made no sense at all.’

  ‘And was not the only one,’ muttered Medlo.

  ‘Ah. Aha,’ cawed Kelner. ‘Touchy, is it? Impatient, too? Well then, invite me to warmer places where there is a bit of seedcake. Perhaps a bit of corn? I’ll tell you what the Magister says to tell, and likely more, too.’

  Old Aunt waited for them in a warm inner room with a bowl of seedcake and parched corn. Kelner took a sample in one claw, balancing on the other leg as he ate, settling to groom the crumbs from his feathery vest with clacking beak. When he talked, it was in a voice so studied that they forgot he was a bird.

  ‘Hear the words of the Magister:

  ‘ “There is now not one caravan, not one train of wagons, not one trader moving at liberty from the coast of Wasnost to the edge of the Concealment, from the Fales to Xulanuzh. Since the fall of Murgin, all ways have been closed. All villages are closed. All enclaves closed. The beating heart of Earthsoul is within a fist; that fist closes. Gahl holds the earth to crush all life from it.

  ‘ “Those of Gahl are oathbound away from Earthsoul, oathbound to something else. That part which has foresworn Earthsoul may not rejoin Earthsoul. It remains, Separated, ghosts like gloves of flesh to be filled by the hands of that”‘

  Old Aunt drew in a breath as though in great pain.

  Kelner held up one pontifical claw. ‘Hear the words of Magister. “A traitor singer has gone to Zales and treats there with red-robed Gahlians.”’

  ‘Sybil,’ breathed Terascouros. ‘Oh, if I had killed her when I could have….’

  ‘Magister says, “the Gahlians will come to the Hill of the Choir of Gerenhodh, will try to root you out like grubs from under bark, will make Gahlians of you all.”’

  ‘We could sing them gone,’ growled Terascouros. ‘We could summon those same ones which came to Murgin.’ She fell silent under the cold, golden eyes of the raven.

  ‘Magister says no. Magister says that for a time Gahlians alive are better than Gahlians dead. Gather to me, now, you people, and listen to what the Magister says!’

  The raven flew to Thewson’s shoulder from which he stared down at them all, gathering their, eyes with little gestures of his beak, silent until he was sure he had all their attention focused upon himself.

  ‘The Magister says this: “Remember the people of Widon the Golden and those of D’Zunalor!” The Magister says, “Remember Orena.” The Magister says, “Remember the quest book of Ephraim the Archivist.” So says Magister Omburan. So I, Kelner, his messenger, have spoken.’ He flew down from Thewson’s shoulder, blinked two or three times rapidly as though to shed the mantle of authority, tossed himself a grain of corn, and began to ignore them ostentatiously as he hummed and cast covert glances at them from under one wing or the other.

  After a silence, Medlo spoke. ‘Who could protect us from those coming from Zales? Zales is not far away. Three or four days’ ride. Eight days’ walk perhaps. What will the Gahlians find here? Many children. Many young women. Singers. Many of them old, certainly not warriors.’

  Thewson agreed. There are few warriors here, Grandmother. Not enough, I think.’

  ‘No,’ Old Aunt mused, biting her lips. ‘Not enough. We have never relied upon force, but upon being hidden and quiet. We have defences which are not generally known. The Hill can be sealed, parts of it hidden, to make it virtually impregnable. And there is reason for some of us to stay here.’ She peered at Terascouros who nodded, shrugging. ‘But the children, the young women, the scouts, the younger men – it would be a prison for them, and they could not really help us.’

  ‘Are we
sure that Sybil does not know of our secret strongholds?’ queried Terascouros in anger. ‘If she has sold us to the Gahlians, she will bring them to every door, no matter how well hidden. And why did Magister remind us of Widon the Golden? Why remind us of the D’Zunalor? They, too, went to the north. Why remind us of that now?’

  ‘Because,’ rumbled Thewson, ‘those people were warrior people. Yes? If the god sends the message that help against these Gahlians will come, then help must come from warriors. Many men. Men with swords and spears and axes. Wa’osu, those were axe people, those D’Zunalor. Besides, they have the Crown of Wisdom, and I wish to find it.’

  ‘Oh, Thewson, why do you dare? The Lion Courts are gone. What difference does it make?’ Jasmine clung to him, full of sudden tears at the thought of the children of the Hill, at the thought of Hu’ao out there somewhere with all the world ‘closed.’ ‘We are driven away yet again. I want to find Hu’ao.’

  He cradled her in his arms.

  Old Aunt pressed her head between her hands. ‘Shhh. I can’t think. It seems … it seems that the Magister directs someone to go north. Though to think the people of Widon still might be there seems monstrous folly. Still, they were sworn to Taniel once, to the Thiene. Would they come for that? To a summons from us?’

  ‘Don’t forget the children,’ cried Jasmine. They must be sent to safety. They must not fall into the hands of those … who did what they did to Jaer.’

  Jaer, remembering precisely that, lost herself among the multitudes in her head, stood sweating and cold, astray in tumult.

  ‘The Magister reminds us of Orena,’ said Old Aunt. ‘A place unconquered since it was established, a place to which the children could be sent for safety. It would be a perilous journey.’

  ‘All journeys are perilous,’ said Leona. ‘I will go with them, to guide them and guard them. We must go soon, to cross the Del while the weather holds cold. Early spring will bring it to flood and will trap us on this side.’