by Gene Wolfe
that "by fire set us free" must once have belonged to Pas alone. Or
perhaps to Kypris--love was a fire, and Kypris had possessed
Chenille, whose hair was dyed flaming red. What of the fires that
dotted the skylands beneath the barren stone plain that was the
belly of the Whorl?
Maytera Marble, who should have heaped fresh cedar around the
bull's head, did not. He did it himself, using as much as they would
have used in a week before Kypris came.
The right front hoof. The left. The right rear and the left, this last
freed only after a struggle. Doubtfully, he fingered the edges of his
blade; they were still very sharp.
Not to read a victim as large as the bull would have been
unthinkable, even after a theophany; he opened the great paunch
and studied the entrails. "War, tyranny, and terrible fires." He
pitched his voice as low as he dared, hoping that the old people
would be unable to hear him. "It's possible I'm wrong I hope so.
Echidna has just spoken to us directly, and surely she would have
warned us if such calamities awaited us." In a corner of his mind,
Doctor Crane's ghost snickered. _Letters from the gods in the guts of
a dead bull, Silk? You're getting in touch with your own subconscious,
that's all_.
"More than possible that I'm wrong--that I'm reading my own
fears into this splendid victim." Silk elevated his voice. "Let me
repeat that Echidna said nothing of the sort." Rather too late he
realized that he had yet to transmit her precise words to the
congregation. He did so, interspersing every fact he could recall
about her place at Pas's side and her vital role in superintending
chastity and fertility. "So you see that Great Echidna simply urged
us to free our city. Since those who have left to fight have gone at
her behest, we may confidently expect them to triumph."
He dedicated the heart and liver to Scylla.
A young man had joined the children, the old women, and the old
men. There was something familiar about him, although Silk,
nearsightedly peering at his bowed head, was unable to place him.
A small man, his primrose silk tunic gorgeous with gold thread, his
black curls gleaming in the sunshine.
The bull's heart sizzled and hissed, then burst loudly--fulminated
was the euchologic term--projecting a shower of sparks. It was a
sign of civil unrest, but a sign that came too late; riot had become
revolution, and it seemed entirely possible that the first to fall in this
revolution had fallen already.
Indeed, laughing Doctor Crane had fallen already, and the
solemn young trooper. This morning (only this morning!) he had
presumed to tell the captain that nonviolent means could be
employed to oust the Ayuntamiento. He had envisioned refusals to
pay taxes and refusals to work, possibly the Civil Guard arresting
and detaining officials who remained obedient to the four remaining
councillors. Instead he had helped unleash a whirlwind; he
reminded himself gloomily that the whirlwind was the oldest of Pas's
symbols, and strove to forget that Echidna had spoken of "the Eight
Great Gods."
With a last skillful cut he freed the final flap of hide from the
bull's haunch; he tossed it into the center of the altar fire. "The
benevolent gods invite us to join in their feast. Freely, they return to
us the food we offer them, having made it holy. I take it that the
giver is no longer present? In that case, all those who honor the gods
may come forward."
The young man in the primrose tunic started toward the bull's
carcass; an old woman caught his sleeve, hissing, "Let the children
go first!" Silk reflected that the young man had probably not
attended sacrifice since he had been a child himself.
For each, he carved a slice of raw bull-beef, presenting it on the
point of the sacrificial knife--the only meat many of these children
would taste for some time, although all that remained would be
cooked tomorrow for the fortunate pupils at the palaestra.
If there was a tomorrow for the palaestra and its pupils.
The last child was a small girl. Suddenly bold, Silk cut her a piece
substantially thicker than the rest. If Kypris had chosen to possess
Chenille because of her fiery hair, why had she chosen Maytera
Mint as well, as she had confided to him beneath the arbor before
they went to Limna? Had Maytera Mint loved? His mind rejected
the notion, and yet... Had Chenille, who had stabbed Orpine in a
nimiety of terror, loved something beyond herself? Or did self-love
please Kypris as much as any other son? She had told Orchid flatly
that it did not.
He gave the first old woman an even larger slice. These women,
then the old men, then the lone young man, and finally, to Maytera
Marble (the only sibyl present) whatever remained for the palaestra
and the cenoby's kitchen. Where was Maytera Rose this morning?
The first old man mumbled thanks, thanking him and not the
gods; he remembered then that others had done the same thing at
Orpine's final rites, and resolved to talk to the congregation about
that next Scylsday, if he remained free to talk.
Here was the last old man already. Silk cut him a thick slice, then
glanced past him and the young man behind him to Maytera
Marble, thinking she might disapprove--and abruptly recognized
the young man.
For a moment that seemed very long, he was unable to move.
Others were moving, but their motions seemed as labored as the
struggles of so many flies in honey. Slowly, Maytera Marble inched
toward him, her face back-tilted in a delicate smile; evidently she
felt as he did: palaestra tomorrow was worse than problematical.
Slowly, the last old man bobbed his head and turned away, gums
bared in a toothless grin. Ardently, Silk's right hand longed to enter
his trousers pocket, where the gold-plated needler Doctor Crane
had given Hyacinth awaited it; but it would have to divest itself of
the sacrificial knife first, and that would take weeks if not years.
The flash of oiled metal as Musk drew his needler blended with
the duller gleam of Maytera Marble's wrists. The report was
drowned by the screech of a wobbling needle, unbalanced by its
passage through the sleeve of Silk's robe.
Maytera Marble's arms locked around Musk. Silk slashed at the
hand that grasped the needler. The needler fell, and Musk shrieked.
The old women were hurrying away (they would call it running),
some herding children. A small boy dashed past Silk and darted
around the casket, reappearing with Musk's needler precariously
clutched in both hands and ridiculously trained upon Musk himself.
Two insights came to Silk simultaneously. The first was that Villus
might easily fire by accident, killing Musk. The second, that he,
Silk, did not care.
Musk's thumb dangled on a rag of flesh, and blood from his hand
mingled with the white bull's. Still trying to comprehend the
situation, Silk asked, "He sent you to do this, didn't he?" He
> pictured the flushed, perspiring face of Musk's employer vividly,
although at that moment he could not recall his name.
Musk spat thick, yellow phlegm that clung to Silk's robe as
Maytera Marble wrestled him toward the altar. Horribly, she bent
him over the flames. Musk spat again, this time into her face, and
struggled with such desperate strength that she was lifted off her feet.
Villus asked, "Should I shoot him, Maytera?" When she did not
answer, Silk shook his head.
"This fine and living man," she pronounced slowly, "is presented to
me, to Divine Echidna." Her hands, the bony blue-veined hands of a
elderly bio, glowed crimson in the flames. "Mother of the Gods.
Incomparable Echidna, Queen of the _Whorl_. Fair Echidna! Smile
upon us. Send us beasts for the chase. Great Echidna! Put forth thy
green grass for our kine..."
Musk moaned. His tunic was smoking; his eyes seemed ready to
start from their sockets.
An old woman tittered.
Surprised, Silk looked for her and from her death's-head grin
knew who watched through her eyes. "Go home, Mucor."
The old woman tittered again.
"Divine Echidna!" Maytera Marble concluded. "By fire set us free."
"Release him, Echidna," Silk snapped.
Musk's silk tunic was burning; so were Maytera Marble's sleeves.
"Release him!"
The perverse self-forged discipline of the Orilla broke at last;
Musk screamed and continued to scream, each pause and gasp
followed by a scream weaker and more terrible. To Silk, tugging
futilely at Maytera Marble's relentless arms, those screams seemed
the creakings of the wings of death, of the black wings of High
Hierax as he flapped down the whorl from Mainframe at the East
Pole.
Musk's needler spoke twice, so rapidly it seemed almost to
stammer. Its needles scarred Maytera Marble's cheek and chin, and
fled whimpering into the sky.
"Don't," Silk told Villus. "You might hit me. It won't do any good."
Villus started, then stared down in astonishment at the dusty
black viper that had fastened upon his ankle.
"Don't run," Silk told him, and turned to come to his aid,
thereby saving himself. A larger viper pushed its blunt head from
Maytera Marble's collar to strike at his neck, missing by two
fingers' width.
He jerked the first viper off Villus's ankle and flung it to one side,
crouching to mark the punctures made by its fangs with the sign of
addition, executed in shallow incisions with the point of the
sacrificial knife. "Lie down and stay quiet," he told Villus. When
Villus did, he applied his lips to the bleeding crosses.
Musk's screams ceased, and Maytera Marble faced them, her
blazing habit slipping from her narrow shoulders; in each hand she
brandished a viper. "I have summoned these children to me from the
alleys and gardens of this treacherous city. Do you not know who I am?"
The familiarity of her voice left Silk feeling that he had gone mad.
He spat a mouthful of blood.
"The boy is mine. I claim him. Give him to me."
Silk spat a second time and picked up Villus, cradling him in his
arms. "None but the most flawless may be offered to the gods. This
boy has been bitten by a poisonous snake and so is clearly
unsuitable."
Twice Maytera Marble waved a viper before her face as if
whisking away a fly. "Are you to judge that? Or am I?" Her burning
habit fell to her feet.
Silk held out Villus. "Tell me why Pas is angry with us, O Great Echidna."
She reached for him, saw the viper she held as if for the first time,
and raised it again. "Pas is dead and you a fool. Give me Auk."
"This boy's name is Villus," Silk told her. "Auk was a boy like this
about twenty years ago, I suppose." When she said nothing more, he
added, "I knew you gods could possess bios like us. I didn't know
you could possess chems as well."
Echidna whisked the writhing viper before her face. "They are
easier what mean these numbers? Why should we let you...? My
husband..."
"Did Pas possess someone who died?"
Her head swiveled toward the Sacred Window. "The prime
calcula... His citadel."
"Get away from that fire," Silk told her, but it was too late. Her
knees would no longer support her; she crumpled onto her burning
habit, seeming to shrink as she fell.
He laid Villus down and drew Hyacinth's needler. His first shot
took a viper behind the head, and he congratulated himself; but the
other escaped, lost in the scorching yellow dust of Sun Street.
"You're to forget everything you just overheard," he told Villus as
he dropped Hyacinth's needler back into his pocket.
"I didn't understand anyway, Patera." Villus was sitting up, hands
tight around his bitten leg.
"That's well." Silk pulled her burning habit from under Maytera
Marble.
The old woman tittered. "I could kill you, Silk." She was holding
the needler that had been Musk's much as Villus had, and aiming it
at Silk's chest. "There's councillors at our house now. They'd like that."
The toothless old man slapped the needler from her hand with his
dripping slab of raw beef, saying sharply, "Don't, Mucor!" He put his
foot on the needler.
As Silk stared, he fished a gammadion blazing with gems from
beneath his threadbare brown tunic. "I ought to have made my
presence known earlier, Patera, but I'd hoped to do it in private.
I'm an augur too, as you see. I'm Patera Quetzal."
Auk stopped and looked back at the last of the bleared green lights.
It was like leaving the city, he thought. You hated it--hated its nasty
ugly ways, its noise and smoke and most of all its shaggy shitty itch
for gelt, gelt for this and gelt for that until a man couldn't fart
without paying. But when you rode away from it with the dark
closing in on you and skylands you never noticed much in the city
sort of floating around up there, you missed it right away and pulled
up to look back at it from just about any place you could. All those
tiny lights so far away, looking just like the lowest skylands after the
market closed, over where it was night already.
From the black darkness ahead, Dace called, "You comin'?"
"Yeah. Don't get the wind up, old man."
He still held the arrow someone had shot at Chenille; its shaft was
bone, not wood. A couple long strips of bone, Auk decided,
running his fingers along it for the tenth or twelfth time, scarfed and
glued together, most likely strips from the shin bone of a big animal
or maybe even a big man. The nock end was fletched with feathers
of bone, but the wicked barbed point was hammered metal.
Country people hunted with arrows and bows, he had heard, and
you saw arrows in the market. But not arrows like this.
He snapped it between his hands and let the pieces fall, then
hurried down the tunnel after Dace. "Where's Jugs?"
"Up front ag'in with the sojer." Dace sounded as though he was
still some distance ahead.
"Well, by Hie
rax! They almost got her the first time."
"They very nearly killed _me_." Incus's voice floated back through
the darkness. "Have you forgotten _that?_"
"No," Auk told him, "only it don't bother me as much."
"No care," Oreb confirmed from Auk's shoulder.
Incus giggled. "Nor do _you_ bother _me_, Auk. When I sent Corporal
Hammerstone ahead of us, my _first_ thought was that you would
have to accompany him. Then I realized that there was no harm in
_your_ lagging behind. Hammerstone's task is not to _nurse you_, but to
protect _me_ from your _brutal_ treatment."
"And thresh me out whenever you decide I need it."
"Indeed. Oh, _indeed_. But _mercy_ and _forbearance_ are much dearer
to the _immortal gods_ than sacrifice, Auk. If you wish to stay where
you are, _I_ will not seek to prevent you. Neither will my tall friend,
who is, as we have seen, so much stronger than _yourself_."
"Chenille ain't stronger than me, not even now. I doubt she's
much stronger than you."
"But she possesses the best _weapon_. She insisted for _that_ reason.
For my own part, _I_ was glad to have her _and_ her weapon near the
_redoubtable_ corporal, and remote from _yourself_."
Auk kicked himself mentally for having failed to realize that the
launcher Chenille carried would flatten Hammerstone as effectively
as any slug gun. Bitterly he mumbled, "Always thinking, ain't you."
"You refuse to call me _Patera_, Auk? Even _now_, you refuse me my
title of respect?"
Auk felt weak and dizzy, afraid for Chenille and even for himself;
but he managed to say, "It's supposed to mean you're my father, like
Maytera meant this teacher I used to have was my mother. Anytime
you start acting like a father, I'll call you that."
Incus giggled again. "We _fathers_ are expected to curb the violent
behavior of our offspring, and to teach them--I _do_ hope you'll
excuse a trifling bit of vulgarity--to teach them to wipe their _dirty,
snotty little noses_."
Auk drew his hanger; it felt unaccustomedly heavy in his hand,
but the weight and the cold, hard metal of the hilt were reassuring.
Hoarsely, Oreb advised, "No, no!"
Incus, having heard the hiss of the blade as it cleared the
scabbard, called, "_Corporal!_"
Hammerstone's voice came from a distance, echoing through the
tunnel. "Right here, Patera. I started dropping back as soon as I
