Sorrowing Vengeance

by David C. Smith

  Mour and the elders were bewildered. They could not punish Omul, and they did not wish to. They knew stories of the traveling ikbusa’i—religious prophets—but Omul was not an ikbusa. They could only hope that this gift of their friend’s would, in time, weaken and go away.

  But it did not weaken. It grew stronger and clearer, this gift from On, and Omul felt himself gaining control of it. Three days after the death of Mour’s wife, Omul was walking with his oldest son in a forest beyond the village. Omul stopped short and pointed to a great oak tree—the oldest in the region. “The Old Man,” Omul warned his son, “will soon die.”

  The next day an early spring thunderstorm swept across the plains and flooded the village; a lightning bolt struck the Old Man and, shortly, the great oak tree and a whole section of forest caught fire. It burned all night until it was finally suffocated by the heavy rains in the early morning.

  Omul’s son told no one of his father’s prediction. But only a few days after this, Omul was walking through the village and speaking with Mour and some other men when he lifted his head and said, “Listen. Do you hear it?”

  Mour and the men were perplexed. “I cannot hear anything, my friend. What is it?”

  “It is the sound of…great breathing. As if the earth were…breathing.…”

  In just a few moments, the animals of the village began to act strangely. Dogs barked and yelped and hid themselves beneath tables, under huts. Horses nickered and whinnied in their stalls, and from far out in the fields came the lowing of disturbed cattle. Birds, just returned for the spring warmth, took to the air in swarms and raised a deafening chorus of chirps and shrills.

  But just as suddenly as the animals had begun to act absurdly, they quieted. The shivering dogs crawled out from beneath the huts, and the birds, squealing, descended again to their nests.

  Mour was very agitated. “Omul, Omul! What is this? What did you hear? What is happening? My friend, what did you hear?”

  Omul, as though entranced, was staring up at the blue sky, still apparently listening to some distant sound. “I heard…,” he whispered, “the earth…moving. The earth—it is changing.…”

  * * * *

  The month of Oloros, the River, passed into that of Grem, the Wolf, and an early spring took hold of the land. The floods during those weeks were full and sweeping, irrigating the plains for good planting, yet not inundating the village. Messengers from nearby villages rode to Mour’s to begin planning the great Spring Feast, when all of the farming people in the region gathered to celebrate the passing of winter and the rebirth of a fruitful earth. Shortly after, the many hundreds of farmers and their families joined to eat bread and drink wine and ceremoniously plant the first of the year’s new crops; but no one spoke of Omul’s strange gift.

  Omul and his oldest son were walking one warm afternoon in a portion of his fields when the farmer stopped and held up a hand. His son had come to know this gesture.

  “What is it, Father?”

  “Sem…toward the end of summer, when all of this—” he indicated the fields “—is nearly lost in the drought, you will find water here.”

  “A drought?”

  “It comes. Do not fear it, but prepare for it. On provides. But when the drought is nearly over and you fear that all will be lost, come here, to this place—remember it, now—and dig until you find water. Water enough for the entire village, and more to spare for other villages.” He squinted beneath the warm sun and watched Sem carefully. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Will you do this?”

  “Yes, Father. But—won’t you be here to lead me to this place again?”

  Omul did not answer him but walked on alone, stepping slowly, hands behind his back.

  * * * *

  A few days before the gathering of the villages in celebration, Omul was again alone in the fields when an overpowering lassitude gripped him. He sank to his knees. He had not slept the strange, short sleep in a long while, and he was surprised now to feel it possessing him. But he gave himself over to it and stretched out on the warm, damp soil.

  The Voice came to him, and as he listened to it, Omul witnessed exceptional visions.

  He saw a great blazing throne drenched in blood.

  He saw an Oracle woman, masked and dressed in white, beheaded by a decorated sword.

  He saw plagues descending upon the land—plagues of destruc­tion sweeping across rivers and over mountains, choking cities and sundering villages.

  He saw a great war. He saw men screaming and dying, he smelled their blood, he listened to their voices. Walls toppled, and rivers rose and smashed cities with fist-like flood waters, lightning danced and rippled across the skies, fires touched the stars, and still men killed one another, still swords and axes chopped and struck, and blood was everywhere, screams—everywhere.

  He saw an evil creature, contorted but burning brightly, hidden by skins of shadows, whispering and posturing upon a throne. But still this evil creature was destined by On, and Omul (in his dream) felt no fear toward this creature, only sympathy and understanding.

  And he saw a world draped in sunlight, he saw great rivers and oceans, he saw green forests and green fields, he saw men and women raising voices in praise of On, he saw them singing in choruses of beauty and solemnity.

  When he awakened from this vision, Omul was trembling greatly. He sat up and looked at the sky, then looked down at the earth. Sweat dripped from his face and forehead, as though his fever had returned. He dug his fingers into the sweet wet soil, pushed his hands down into the earth and drew them up, brown-stained. He stared at his hands, watched as innocent bits of soil dropped from his dark fingers. He imagined that they were lives, struggling to hold onto him, but falling back at last to the bruised earth. He looked up at the sky. He looked south.

  It waits.

  But the time was not yet.

  On.…

  His was the Voice of On, the Voice of the one true god.

  The evil.…

  But the evil was necessary.

  Omul dropped his head upon his chest and sobbed, cried openly. Like a child. Tears fell from his face and struck the earth, struck his shirt and breeches. Tears, like living things, innocent bits of life struggling to hold onto him and remain part of him, but falling at last to the bruised earth.

  When the day began to darken late in the afternoon, Omul stood, wiped dried earth from his hands, and looked again to the south. Thunder boomed, very far away, although the sky above him was bright with sunshine, unclouded. A bird flew high beyond him, wheeled and chirruped, and disappeared into the south.

  Omul began to walk back toward the village.

  * * * *

  He had washed himself and put on a clean pair of breeches and a vest, and over these a long robe. His boots were of cowhide tied with leather thongs, crafted just this past winter. He took up in one hand his wide-brimmed hat, to protect his face from the sun. In his other hand he held a long walking staff.

  When Omul stepped out from his sleeping room, his wife and his sons and daughters were waiting for him, standing around the table. Soup was cooking in a kettle on the hearth; one of his grandchildren was whining and crying; its mother picked it up from the floor and rocked it gently, bared her left breast to nurse it. The rooms were darkening and candles had been lit against the falling night. Outside, fires had been built, and most of the village was sitting with visitors from other villages. There were sounds of laughter and happy voices.

  Omul stepped to Mira. She stared into his eyes while tears lined the lashes of her own eyes. Omul said to her, “O my wife, On provides. God will always provide enough for you and for my family. You will never want for what is needed. Always eat a little less than half of what you have. Always drink a little less than half. You will live, and you will prosper with good things. Believe that On is with you. Believe that I love you always, and that I am with you.”

  Mira sobbed and began to cry; Omul took
her in his arms and held her close to him for a long while, kissed her, and held her close again.

  “You will know when the time is proper,” he whispered to her. “When you feel that the earth can endure no more, lie down with our family and go to sleep. Rest. I will come to you then, and we will rest together before we are reborn.”

  Then he hugged his sons, each in turn, and kissed them, told them to keep their faith in On and laugh in the face of despair and to worship God when times became harsh. He kissed each of his daughters and hugged them, and hugged and kissed his sons-in-law and all of his grandchildren.

  He kissed Mira a last time, then went out the door of his simple hut and did not look back. He did not carry food with him, for he knew that On would provide. As the noises of the happy village dwindled behind him, Omul followed a path away from the people he had lived with all his years and began his long route down to the south, to larger villages, to towns, to the cities of the empire.

  When, after a few days, he came to the first of these villages, the people invited him inside their homes, prepared food for him, inquired as to what news he had learned, and asked him his name.

  He told them, “Call me Asawas—the man of vision—for I am gifted with new sight, and I have come to you to foretell great things.…”

  PART ONE

  AN ATTACK OF CONSCIENCE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I—I don’t like having to do this,” the young woman said.

  The man behind the table did not answer her, did not look up.

  “I feel strange having to—do it this way.…”

  The man at the table examined the paper before him, then scribbled some figures on a spare piece of parchment to one side. He paused once to dip his reed pen in a small ink gourd, then continued scratching.

  The young woman watched him with nervous intensity, then turned her head to glance at the lean fellow, the tavern keeper, behind the counter all the way on the other side of the tavern. He had his eyes on her. He was the only other person in the room. She shot a hasty look toward the front door of the place: barred and locked. She coughed slightly against a nervous tickle in her throat and turned again toward the man at the table.

  He was staring at her. His round face was damp with perspiration; his tousled beard was an unkempt nest. He lifted a hand, fingered one eye sleepily, and indicated the sheets before him with the end of his pen.

  “I can do it for you,” he told her, “but this is a rough one. It’ll cost you three in short gold.”

  Astonished, she told him, “I—I haven’t got—”

  He interrupted her impatiently. “To forge this, I’ve got to get hold of some important people.”

  “Can’t you just—”

  “Change the numbers?” He frowned. “They’re being more careful about these things nowadays. Everybody’s poor,” he told her. “Everybody’s out of work. Everybody needs government money. It’s tough enough when you’re trying to make a real claim; they think you’re lying, anyway. To forge something good enough so it’ll pass.…” He shrugged. “Half the things they send back to the capital, too. It may take you six months, may take a year, young lady, before you see anything.”

  “A year! I can’t wait a year! My mother can’t—” She stopped then. She knew she couldn’t expect any sympathy from this man; probably he spoke to a hundred like her every day. It was a business for him.

  She heard a noise at the back of the tavern, and she became even more apprehensive. She had never done anything illegal before, and she didn’t want to do this now. She looked down a narrow hallway directly behind the fat man and saw two figures entering.

  The fat man bent around, recognized them, and returned to the matter at hand.

  They were young men. As they came into the tavern proper, the young woman realized that she had seen the tall one several times along the docks. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, but he had the bearing and attitude of an aristocrat. He was handsome, light-haired and dressed in worn clothes that nevertheless had been cared for. His companion was perhaps the same age, a head shorter and of slimmer build.

  They stepped up to the counter and stood alongside the tavern keeper, and the one with aristocratic bearing spoke in a very low voice. “Did our merchandise arrive?”

  A nod.

  “How many crates?”

  The lean man held up five fingers.

  “All right. We’ll need them immediately. I want them carted over to the warehouse today. And—listen to me. I don’t want Hamus taking them over there. I don’t trust him. He’s opening them up to ‘inspect’ them so he can sell a little on the side. If you use him one more time, I’ll go elsewhere. You understand?” He spoke firmly, resolutely; although young, he appeared used to having authority.

  “I understand,” the lean man said. “I think Hamus has sailed out, anyway.”

  “Whether he has or hasn’t— Use that older fellow; he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Then I will.”

  Now the aristocrat flipped back his cloak and from his belt undid a heavy purse; alongside it hung a long knife, sheathed in leather. He opened the purse, counted out sixteen in long gold and twenty in silver. The tavern keeper watched him carefully. When the purse was closed and returned to the belt, he reached a bony hand across the counter and covered the coins, then pulled his hand back to drop the money into a leather sack.

  The aristocrat turned and lent an eye to the young woman.

  She had watched it all. He knew it, and yet it didn’t seem to bother him. She stared at him for a long moment, until the fat man at the table coughed loudly enough to draw her attention. Nervous, she scrutinized him, saw that nothing had changed in those few moments, and reached out for her paper.

  “Three in short gold,” he reminded her.

  “I—I can’t possibly—”

  “Pay me a little at a time.”

  “No.” Her lips hovered between a frown and a sneer. “No, thank you.” She looked up again.

  The aristocrat met her eyes. He crossed the floor and joined her at the table. Looking down at the fat man, he asked him, “Why don’t you try being a pleasant human being for a change?”

  “Leave me alone.” The fat man looked up at him. “I’m a busi­nessman.”

  “Businessmen got us into this.” The aristocrat picked up the paper the young woman had brought; he scanned it quickly. “What is this? Her father’s work record? Name of the Prophet! Just have him start in his office two years earlier!” He looked at the woman. “You’ve got to present this to get your government claim, don’t you?”

  She nodded quickly. “It’s— I’m not sure what to do. A girl I know, she told me I could come here and talk to this man.” She nodded. “My father died a week before the offices would grant his claim. He worked forty years! They won’t pay my mother anything at all unless we can prove that he died—”

  “That he died in time,” the aristocrat finished, shaking his head in disgust. “They’re doing it to everyone; it’s just an excuse for the government to hold onto as much money as it can.” To the fat man, he growled: “Three mises for a simple claims form! What’re you charging now for land leases?”

  “I told you, I’m a businessman!”

  “Oh, yes. A businessman.” The contempt in the young man’s voice was formidable.

  The young woman saw that the fat man was extremely uncomfortable in the presence of the young aristocrat. It was incredible. This coarse, middle-aged bully, no more than a dockhand who was profiteering because he knew certain people in the bureaucracy—capitalizing on the misfortunes of others—upset in the presence of a boy half his age!

  The aristocrat returned the woman’s paper to the fat man, undid his purse, pulled out three in long gold, and dropped the coins on the table. “That’s more than three times what you’re asking. Are you listening? One lousy mis is too much for something like this. If ten people come to you today wanting work records corrected and sealed, you do it. And you’re
still doing well. Ten simple forgeries for a month’s wage!”

  The fat man, who had been watching everything except the young man’s face, now confronted him. “I don’t care what you think of me,” he grunted. “You seem to have enough money, but I have to make a living! You think I like being a criminal?”

  “You’re no criminal. We’re not criminals—none of us is. You just make sure that when she comes back tomorrow morning, her business is taken care of. I know you’ll do that.”

  The fat man moved his head, acknowledging him.

  The aristocrat turned to the young woman. “You’ll have more trouble with the government offices than you will with him. I’m afraid they’d prefer that you starve to death before issuing you any assistance.”

  She swallowed heavily and raised a trembling hand. “Thank you.…”

  “Not at all.”

  “I—don’t know what to say.”

  “If this one—” a nudge “—doesn’t have your paper for you tomorrow, you talk to me about it. Ask for me on the docks. People know who I am.”