Daemons of Garaaga (Children of Garaaga)

by Paul E. Cooley

  Ama wiped mud from her cheeks and trudged across the wet ground. The place between her legs still burned. Grimacing with pain, she managed to follow her mother back to their home.

  When they reached the door, Hela and Ama each undressed. Hela wrung out her shawl and skirt while Ama scrubbed mud from her body in the cold rain. They left their clothes hanging on a pole outside the door and headed inside.

  Hela wiped her daughter down, removing the remaining mud from her naked body. Ama shivered in the cool air. Hela fell to her knees while she ministered to her daughter's legs. She stopped and smiled as her eyes lifted to Ama's breasts.

  "You are changing," she had said. "Do you know what means?"

  Ama shook her head.

  "Garaaga will visit with you soon. Perhaps tonight. Perhaps tomorrow."

  "Visit?"

  Her mother returned to removing the mud from her legs. "It will come to you in dreams. In the night. Don't be afraid, little one."

  Hela had spoken of Garaaga before, always with reverence, and in hushed tones.

  "Is Garaaga my father?"

  "Yes," Hela said. "As much as anyone."

  Once Ama was clean, Hela put her to bed. The pain in Ama's womb had subsided, leaving her aching. With a blanket pulled over her naked body, she had slept.

  ***

  Ama swam upstream against the current. The sun had risen higher, its heat baking her bare back. During her swims before the drought, she often had to be wary of boats coming down the river. Since the drought, however, fewer and fewer merchants had made their way from Babylon to Ur. With the poor harvest throughout the land, there was little to sell.

  With her muscles stretched and warm, she swam in earnest, legs kicking up a wake behind her. When she felt she was far enough upstream, she turned on her back and floated. The current took her.

  I could simply float out to sea, she thought with a smile.

  The jugglers from the night before entered her mind. She didn't remember them from last year, at least not in those guises. There had been others, of course, ones who used long knives for props, or torches. But the performance the night before was something she'd never witnessed.

  The man painted like a snake was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. Scales had covered his entire body, including his manhood. Ama wondered how many hours of preparation that had taken.

  She looked toward the bank. The great ziggurat rose high above the city walls, its surface gleaming in the sunlight. Even from this distance, she could see the tiny figures of men and women standing at its apex.

  A thin wisp of smoke rose in the air.

  Even after Sin has set, they sacrifice.

  The king might have insisted the priest and priestess continue their endless supplications. If he was to have a successful Name Day and placate the populace, they must have rain. Without it, he might be deposed, decried, and perhaps sacrificed himself.

  Ama flipped in the water and frowned as her leg kicked something. She scissored her feet together and locked it between her ankles. Moving her hands, she managed to bring her feet to the surface. She let out a hiss of disgust. Between her feet was a child's severed arm.

  7

  She sat cross-legged against the trunk of a withered olive tree. Its mostly barren limbs provided little shade but still made her feel sheltered from prying eyes.

  The river gurgled within its banks, fish occasionally turned and splashed against its green water, and the distant sounds of the city lay as a quiet murmur beneath it all. She had yet to see another city dweller so close to the river. None seemed to have ventured beyond the tent camp. For that, she was thankful.

  Before her sat the remains of the boy Drimesh. The severed arm she'd brought up from the silty river was only the first piece. Subsequent dives had produced part of a leg and then the head.

  The boy's broken face was puffy and bruised. He'd suffered a beating before being brutally decapitated. From the fringes of skin surrounding where the neck had been, it was clear the head had been torn from the torso.

  A single, milky eye remained staring from the face. The other had been ripped out. What remained of the nose had teeth marks. The left cheek had been bitten out.

  The arm and leg were in much the same shape. The boy had been ripped to pieces and then chewed on before being tossed in the river.

  Drimesh, the small boy who'd smiled at her the day before, would smile no more. Instead, his face was wrenched into an inhuman scream. Had the child seen the attackers, watched them as they bit and ripped him apart?

  Ama shivered in the heat.

  Stay out of the affairs of humans, her mother's voice whispered. It can be dangerous to meddle.

  Did a human do this? If Nergur were here, he could tell me, she thought.

  "And then he'd tell me to stay out of it," she whispered aloud.

  Fadil's boy was dead. The man was probably still wandering the city, asking any he met if they had seen his child. Come nightfall, she'd no doubt he'd still be asking.

  Ama blew a sigh through her teeth and rose to her haunches. She stared back toward the city to make sure no one was out and about. She was still alone.

  She willed the beast into her hands. They elongated as they turned to stone. Talons slid from her fingers. An inhuman whispering started in her skull. Bending down and ignoring the shadow's words, she began to dig in the hard-packed sand.

  The earth turned over easily beneath her rigid fingers. As she dug, she heard Hela's voice.

  When you try and help mortals, you'll only end up getting hurt or making things worse. Or both.

  Dirt flew backwards toward the bank. She continued until the brown hard-pack turned into a rich black. The hole was three feet deep. She widened it and then stood upright. It was deep enough.

  She placed the remains in the hole. The boy's single eye stared up at her, pleading. She wiped away a tear.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  Ama filled up the hole, making sure to use the black dirt first. If someone found the site, they'd hopefully think it was from a fox or another desert animal.

  She stared at her hands as the talons slid back into her fingers and her stoney-skin turned back into flesh. The beast was gone, but its echo remained in her head. Whenever she brought forth Garaaga's shadow, it threatened to take her and turn her into the animal.

  There are times, Hela had said, when you'll need its aspects. But you have to be careful, daughter. Until you learn to control it, and yourself, you must practice in private and always have a sacrifice with you.

  More advice from memory. Hela had called them "sacrifices" but Ama had known better. Sacrifices meant men or women. Mortal ones.

  Hela had a knack for turning feeding into a need and violence into normalcy. Ama stared down at the now covered grave and fought the urge to spit. Her mother would have laughed about the child's death, or even given the attackers compliments for such a painful, twisted end.

  Ama walked down the river bank and washed her dirty hands. The slimy feel of the boy's cold, ruined flesh remained in her memory. She scrubbed her hands together until her skin turned a bright red. When she lifted them from the water, she stared at her sharp fingernails. Dark spots of dirt remained beneath the ends. When she returned to the city, she would have to clean them.

  She shimmied into her skirt and wrapped her bare breasts in her shawl--she hadn't bothered to dress after pulling the remains from the river. With deft hands, she braided her long black hair and tied the end with a strip of cloth. That done, she donned her sandals.

  Waves of heat rolled off the desert before her. She walked toward the city and the great ziggurat that rose high into the sky.

  "Drimesh," she whispered. The boy. "Fadil." The father. She would have to find the merchant and tell him his child had died.

  The memory of Yusef's broken body struck like a lightning bolt. Ama shook away the image of his drained and aged face.

  She wiped away an errant tear as her feet trod the sandy gr
ound. There was something in Ur that didn't belong, something more violent than even Hela had ever been. The idea sent another shiver down her spine.

  8

  The room was hot and dark. She lay on her side, sweating in the afternoon heat. The sounds of people milling through the streets was a soft murmur.

  By the time she returned from the river, the sun was at its peak and baking the city. She had walked through the tent camp of merchants, entertainers, and foreign visitors. The camp was busy with people cooking, eating, and playing games to stave off boredom until nightfall.

  She didn't find Fadil outside the city. She stopped at many of the merchant tents and asked, but no one knew who he was nor had seen his likeness.

  As she made her way through the throngs of people, she stopped and stared. A tent of bright purple striped with red and blue stood apart from the others. No one stood outside it and there was no cooking fire. The structure might as well have been abandoned.

  The sounds of whispers seemed to rise above the din of people talking, laughing, and shouting to one another. Ama frowned and crept toward the tent. The hushed voices seemed to grow louder, more distinct.

  Ama closed her eyes and focused on the sound. The voices spoke in a language she didn't recognize, their whispers filled with guttural syllables and harsh sibilants. Three voices, three different timbres. Three.

  She took another step forward and then ceased moving. The whispers had stopped in mid-conversation. Ama's heart beat faster. Had they heard her? How could they have?

  Ama continued staring at the tent. Its cloth side subtly rippled as though someone had grazed it with a finger. The three inside were waiting.

  She swallowed hard and took two noisy steps forward. "Hello?" she asked in Akkadian.

  The tent rippled again and a woman's face appeared from an open flap. Her skin was nearly black. Bright green eyes stared at Ama. She opened her mouth and revealed ivory teeth.

  "Hello?" the woman answered.

  Ama nodded to her. "Sorry to disturb you. I'm looking for someone."

  The woman's eyes blinked. "Perhaps you're looking for me?" the woman laughed. She stepped out of the tent and Ama took a deep breath.

  She was a full head taller than Ama. Her small breasts were perfectly round, ruby aureoles coloring their tips. Her body was completely hairless and coal-black.

  The woman noticed Ama's expression. "Something wrong?"

  "I'm sorry," Ama giggled. "You are very beautiful."

  The dark skinned woman bowed. "Thank you." The two stared at one another. "Did you want something?"

  "Yes," Ama blushed. "I am looking for a merchant named Fadil. He might have come here asking about his boy."

  The woman blinked again. "Fadil," she said.

  "Yes. He was wearing Akkadian clothes."

  The woman's nose wrinkled. "Red. Yellow. Orange. Robes that smell of goat-piss?"

  Ama laughed. "Yes."

  "He came here this morning. I'm afraid we haven't seen his boy."

  "Okay. Sorry to bother you." Ama bowed and turned to walk away.

  "Miss?"

  Ama turned. "Yes?"

  "Will you be at the celebration tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "Perhaps you'll see us. And perhaps you'd be good enough to share a beer with me afterwards?"

  Ama smiled. "You are the jugglers?"

  The woman nodded.

  "My name is Ama."

  The woman placed a hand on her breast. "Tahira."

  "Very beautiful."

  Tahira's smile grew. "As are you, Ama. Will you seek me tonight?"

  "Yes," Ama said. "I shall."

  The woman nodded and disappeared into the tent.

  Ama had turned and walked slowly toward the city gates. Tahira she had said to herself. She had never seen a person so...naked. Without hair and clothes, the woman might as well have been carved from coal and ash.

  As she lay on her pallet, she wondered what the other two jugglers looked like without their make-up. Perhaps tonight she would find out for herself.

  She had spent hours combing the streets for Fadil. From one end of Ur to the other, she'd searched for the man, but found no trace. With the exception of Tahira, none seemed to remember the Akkadian.

  Weary and disheartened, Ama had returned to her home and climbed into bed. Drimesh's broken face had haunted her walk through Ur, as had Fadil's unhappy visage. She still wasn't certain what she would tell the man--she only knew she had to find him.

  Desire is the only emotion you need have, Hela had said. Any other is dangerous.

  Ama rolled over on her back and stared at the mottled ceiling. Some steps away from the pallet, a beaded curtain used to hang. It had hung there until Ama had taken sole residence of the house.

  On the other side of the curtain had been Ama's pallet. She had slept there until well after "the change." During her childhood, Hela had used it to separate her nighttime relations from her daughter's eyes. The curtain wasn't much good at protecting her from the noise, but Ama nearly always slept through the panting and moaning.

  She had never succumbed to the urge to look through the curtains and watch-- it seemed impolite.

  The night Garaaga had spoken to her in the rain, Hela had dressed in a clean skirt and wrapped a shawl around her chest.

  "I am going hunting," she said. The smile on her face was both malevolent and expectant. "When I return, I want you to remain quiet. I'll be bringing a man home. Make sure the curtains are drawn. And when I feed, you must watch."

  Ama had tried to ask questions, but Hela had told her to be quiet, remember her instructions, and then she had left. The girl had done as she was told, making sure the beads were tightly drawn. She waited.

  While her mother was gone, the deep, echoing voice had returned in her mind.

  Do you hear me, little one?

  Ama had shivered and held her hands against her ears. It did nothing to blot out the multi-layered sounds. Garaaga's voice was like a chorus of off-key singers. The discordant harmony hurt her mind.

  "Stop, stop," she whispered. A roar of pain welled from between her legs and left her shuddering.

  Listen... Listen... the voices sang.

  Behind her closed eyes, she watched in fascination as a crimson glow flooded the darkness. An amorphous shadow emerged. Something with burning embers for eyes stared at her. It outstretched its arms, a talon beckoning to her.

  Ama opened her eyes. Another wave of pain rose from her netters and she moaned.

  Listen...

  She stayed frozen, afraid to close her eyes.

  After a time, she heard the door open. Ama turned over and rested on her elbows. She watched through the curtain as her mother led a man to the pallet. His eyes glittered with desire as Hela pulled his tunic over his head.

  The man's loincloth bulged, a single wet spot in its center. Her mother reached down and stroked him through the cloth. The man shuddered and moaned, but his eyes remained open. Hela cast a glance at the curtain. Her eyes glowed a dull red. She smiled.

  She pulled off her shawl and cupped her bare breasts. "Is this what you want?" she whispered.

  "Yes," the man groaned. His frantic hands scrabbled at his undergarments, shredding the cloth with his unkempt nails.

  Hela interlocked her hands with his and lay him upon the pallet. She shimmied upward, placing a breast near his mouth. The man's mouth opened with greed, lips locking on her ruby areola. He sucked. Hela arched her back and moaned.

  She reached down and grasped his penis. The man shivered with pleasure. She maneuvered herself and then slowly guided it insider her. The man bucked upwards, his free hand clutching her other breast as his muffled cries broke against her naked brown skin.

  Ama felt wetness between her legs. The pain in her womb had departed. Instead, a warm sensation filled her body.

  Touch, her mother's voice whispered in her mind. Touch. Feel. Enjoy.

  She slipped a hand between her legs. A brilliant casc
ade of pleasure wracked her body. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her finger gently probed, rubbing against her nether lips before sliding inside. Ama's body convulsed as she came, fluid dripping onto the pallet. She moaned, but the sound was lost as the man yelled out in pleasure.

  Hela rode him, her body glowing a dull red in the dim light. Her prey glowed too, but his skin was blanched white. The man was whispering something. It might have been "stop," but Ama was unable to focus. She felt her mother's pleasure as she felt her own.

  A tendril of white fog flowed from the man and through the curtains. It touched Ama's face. Her body convulsed again. Something awoke inside her, something that needed to feel everything, consume everything. Deep pangs of alien hunger rose, only to be satiated as the fog surrounded her.

  As she watched through slitted eyes, the man's skin wrinkled and aged. Hela continued riding him, her moans drowning out the man's whispers. He was saying "stop" over and over again. Tears welled from his eyes and his face turned into a grimace of pain and fear.

  This is how you feed, Hela's voice whispered in Ama's mind.

  Hela's body transformed. Her head and hands elongated and the pallet creaked beneath her weight. Talons extended from her fingers. The man tried to scream. Hela clamped a hand over his open mouth.

  She leaned her open maw to the man's face and growled. The sound was multi-layered, just like Garaaga's whisper. He shrieked into Hela's hand. The man's face hollowed, the skin turning the color of clean teeth. The sound of his screams was fading. His rapid chest rises slowed and then ceased.

  Hela arched her back and loosed another growl. The beast turned toward the curtain. "That is how you feed," it said in that strange voice.

  Ama no longer felt pleasure. She felt terror.

  "And this is who you are," the thing hissed.

  Hela's face slowly melted back into flesh. Her body followed suit. She rose from the corpse on the pallet. "Come here, daughter," she said with a smile.

  "I don't--"

  "Come here," Hela's smile evaporated.

  Shivering, Ama walked through the beaded curtains and stood next to her mother. Hela put an arm around her and stared down at the dead man.