by Lavie Tidhar
“They did more than wish. They wrought tirelessly to make it come true,” whispers Arivén and his embrace tightens, “as you did, my soul…”
I pick up the command crystal, feeling the mild sting of its protective field. My two bright stars close their hands over mine, homage and blessing.
“The gift of Semíra, of Rodhánis, of the mershadows that gave us back the Reckless and all its glories,” I say. “The records, the logs, the activation command sequences… Had I wished upon the Sea Rose, I could not have asked for more. ”
And now… what is your wish now… heavenly fire…? My breath catches in my throat as they nestle closer, start to caress me like warm breezes with lips and fingertips.
Beloved…
They flow over me as gently and irresistibly as the rising tide. I float into their minds, into their hearts, the yearning, dazzling men of Captain Semira’s line with their scarred breasts, their roughened hands. Changelings, shapeshifters — falling stars, ships with fragments of sky as their sails, that have come home from long journeys to rest in me at last.
Jungle Fever
Ika Koeck
Ika is a young Malaysian writer, with stories published in the anthology Ages of Wonder and elsewhere. She lives in Kuala Lumpur, where she is working on new fantasy novels.
I can’t remember when I came by the scratch on my left arm. But I remember how more than I remember anything in my short, young life. It was a prize given to me during one of my weekly trips to the jungle to collect herbs for my uncle’s apothecary. In my eagerness to dance and twirl with an imaginary warrior of the Sultan’s court, I had tripped on an upturned root and scraped my arm against the massive, red, rotting plant that had been lying in wait on the jungle floor. At least, I think it was a plant.
It had been a ghastly… thing, a large, flower–shaped mass of red and black pocked with thousands of ugly white warts. Its delicate, five round petals would have lent it a friendlier look, but the foul, horrid stench it released had driven me away before I could even think to investigate it.
Still, it is a tiny scratch, not worth worrying over. And while it hasn’t bothered me much beyond sending a ripple of unbearable itching through my flesh every now and then, it has begun to release an unpleasant smell. One very much like the plant’s. I stare at the scratch in growing exasperation whilst I wait for the next boat to arrive. The humidity at the pier tears at my patience, and I tap the wound as rapidly as I can with my fingers, resisting the urge to dig my fingernails into the purpled flesh and bulging veins surrounding it. Am I imagining things, or has the wound somehow grown larger since I last looked at it?
The man waiting next to me leans closer, to my discomfort. I recognise him as one of our neighbours from across the paddy fields that separate my uncle’s house from the others, but I cannot remember his name. I don’t intend to. Commingling with the neighbours will invite my uncle’s displeasure, something all of his eleven children, five nieces and two nephews have quickly learnt to avoid. Besides, I have an errand to run, and reminding a poor family upriver that they haven’t yet paid for taking one of my uncle’s remedial unguents could take all day.
“Nasty scratch, that,” my neighbour points out the obvious, oblivious of my discomfort. His breath stinks of coffee and pickled boar, but it is no match for what is now wafting out of my arm. “You should show it to your Uncle Suntong. He’ll have a salve to fix it right up.” His nose wrinkles in obvious disdain, but he tries to maintain a semblance of honest concern.
“I will,” I lie with a sigh, dismayed by his pretence at ignorance. My uncle isn’t exactly a paragon of compassion. He tolerates his four wives and the younger children as long as they stay out of his way, but the rest of us who are close to marrying age are subject to his tyrannical rule and foul temper. One would have to be the village idiot not to know that.
“You’re the smart one aren’t you? His dead brother’s daughter?” My neighbour presses. Perhaps he is the village idiot after all. We do not speak of our dead. “I hear tell that your parents worked as translators and scribes for the desert tradesmen and the governor. That must’ve been some life, huh?”
A distant, different life — filled with the wonders of books, explorations, modernity, love and laughter. The memory of my parents’ fatal accident only a year ago is still raw. Images of a raging storm, an upturned boat, and my parents’ hands flailing above the water makes my stomach lurch. Or perhaps it is the foul smell from the scratch again. I tuck my arm behind me and nod sullenly, hoping the gesture will relieve some of my discomfort. But the smell couldn’t be masked. My neighbour steps back from the stench to offer a kindly, if patronising smile.
“You know, you could also try the physician upriver.” He pinches his nose. “I hear he’s got better medicine than your uncle does. Suntong doesn’t know everything, after all.”
I offer the man an equally unpleasant grin, the best I can muster despite my embarrassment, hoping the gesture will somehow soften the displeasure and send him away. Yet he pales, as though the gesture frightens him. His eyes widen into massive saucers, and he averts his gaze, stumbling away from the pier like a man who has just seen a ghost. It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected.
It is only when I catch a reflection of myself in the crystal–clear water below that I realise my teeth are covered in blood. A loose tooth slips out of my gum and plunges into the water even as I yelp in surprise. I stare at a macabre version of myself in the water without comprehension, my eyes as wide as my neighbour’s had been.
The terror that sweeps through me throws me back several steps. Horrified, I turn and run down the pier, run past the line of waiting villagers, ignoring their alarmed calls, forgetting my errand, and run even further until the black, wet earth of the riverside turns into the verdant green of the jungle floor.
And there I hide, sobbing, crying. Afraid for my life.
§
I am late.
The gravedigger birds have begun their loud, sinister thumping calls, marking the arrival of dusk. My uncle will not be pleased, but I didn’t want to return to the longhouse until I had washed all the blood away. At least three more of my teeth have fallen out since the incident at the pier. I hide in the space between the ground and the house’s raised floor, desperate not to make a sound. If he doesn’t see me, he won’t suspect that anything is wrong, but it is a foolish, childish thought. He will be looking for me.
For all the blood that had stained my teeth at the pier, it is strange that I can taste nothing. A feeling of numbness has begun to spread through my body, strongest where the scratch is. I am convinced now that whatever is wrong with me is associated with my encounter with the plant in the jungle. What else could have caused it?
A man’s deep–throated bellow startles me. The sounds of flesh striking flesh, and the shrill cry of a young girl pierces through the quiet evening, silencing even the gravediggers.
I can see my cousin, Visak, from where I stand. My uncle has her by the arm, dwarfing her with his immensity. He is like a wild boar when he is infuriated, a cowardly one, for striking those who cannot fight back.
I can only imagine the pain my cousin feels, as she squirms underneath his vice–like grip. Her face is a contortion of agony, whilst his is a mask of pure hatred and fury.
“I told you not to speak with any of the village’s young huntsmen!” My uncle yells at her. “You belong to me! You have no right to choose! I will choose a husband for you when I find a man who will offer me something lucrative in return, do you understand?”
My heart aches to hear her sob, but there is nothing I can do. She tries to beg for forgiveness but he strikes her again, and her head snaps back. When blood begins to drip down her mouth and her nose, something inside me stirs. My sense of taste, numbed for hours, returns with an intensity that startles me.
My body instantly stiffens. My mouth fills with saliva and an unexpected rumble passes through my stomach. I am shocked by the change, and even mor
e troubled to realise that the notion of her blood is somewhat… appealing.
“Sailin!”
The man’s shout rattles the floorboards above my head. A multitude of voices in the house whisper silence and obedience, mothers to their children, no doubt. I flinch, pressing my back against one of the many wooden stilts that hold the house up above the ground. Here it comes. My reckoning.
“I see you hiding under there. Come out here!” He snarls. I can see the ant–eater scales of his skull–cap flashing under the torch lights as he paces next to my cousin. All I can see of her is a glimpse of the patterns on her beautifully woven skirt, now torn and ragged.
“Sailin!” He screams again.
“Yes, uncle?” My fear is evident in my voice. I despise my terror of my uncle, almost as much as I despise the man himself.
“Where the hell were you?” He demands, advancing. His tattooed arm is already swinging when I emerge from under the house. I am on the ground before I realise he had struck me but it is strange. I… feel no pain this time.
“You’re late. You’re supposed to be back here hours ago!” he says, spittle flying through his beard. I roll to my knees and stand quickly, knowing that if I stay curled–up any longer he will not hesitate to kick me.
“Where were you? You look like shit!”
No thanks in part to his generosity, of course. I turn my head to spit more teeth to the ground, not certain whether they have fallen out because of his blow or because of my condition.
“I got lost,” I mumble. I learnt when I was first brought here not to look him in the eye. I can feel his rancid, rice–wine scented breath on my forehead as he looks down on me, instantly reminded of the tale in the books my parents left behind. The one with the giant and the boy who defies it with a sling. Glad as I am to feel no pain, I wish I had the boy’s courage to face my uncle.
“Lost? Again?” My uncle reaches for my arm and yanks me closer. I shut my eyes, not because I fear looking into his, but because I worry that if he sees my wound he will cast me out of the house. I am certain that none of the villagers will take me in with this malady, and to live off the jungle requires health and wisdom — neither of which, I have.
“Where’s the money I told you to fetch?” He shakes me and strikes his hand across my face. “Did you ask them for my money?”
Again, I feel no pain, but it will do no good to show him that. I twist my expression into shock and despair and stutter, “N… no… I g… got lost! I couldn’t find their house!”
“Devil’s slut, you smell like shit, too.” He shoves me away, repulsed. “I’ll get the money myself. Make sure you get all your weaving done by noon tomorrow or I’ll give you a reckoning that’ll send you straight to hell!”
I can only nod. My uncle stalks back to the house, but not without a final glare of warning to my cousin, who lies curled on the ground, sobbing. I hesitate to approach her, for a part of me is still drawn to her blood.
The door slams shut — my uncle’s way of telling us that we are to sleep outside tonight. The silence Suntong leaves in his wake is deafening, to say the very least. There is neither hair nor shadow of the other children or their mothers, but I do not blame their refusal to interfere. Suntong keeps only the most meek and obedient in his lot. The ones the coward finds difficult are quickly sent away, or have the defiance beaten out of them. In the end, I kneel next to my cousin.
My body twitches, eager as I reach forwards to pick her up.
“Sailin, you smell bad,” my cousin says, her voice a mere whimper. It is good that she buries her bruised face in my shoulder when I lift her to her knees. Otherwise she would have seen the hunger in my eyes and resisted when I clutch her head with my hands and twist as hard as I can, until I hear her neck snap.
Her body is still twitching as I drag her behind the chicken coop. And there, under the watchful eyes of three dozen silent birds, I sink my teeth into her neck, savouring the taste of her flesh. My eyes roll back of their own accord as I am rewarded with the savoury feel of her meat sliding down my throat. In that haze of hunger and violence, I am absolutely horrified by my actions, absolutely terrified of the consequences. Yet above all else, I am absolutely satisfied.
§
My uncle and his entourage of wives and older children have gone for the day, searching for my cousin, but it will be a futile effort. They are convinced that she has run off with her secret lover, and it will take them half the day to make a trip downriver, to where the suspected young huntsman is staying. Another half a day to get back, which leaves me plenty of time to weave.
I have weighted Visak’s remains down with a stone and rolled her into the river before washing myself clean of her blood. My soiled clothes, I buried behind the chicken coop. It should trouble me as to how mechanical my actions have become, and how detached I have been about disposing her body. But it doesn’t.
I moved on with today’s chores without a second thought for the brutality of her murder, as though her life meant nothing to me.
As the hours pass, I watch in a mixture of horror and morbid fascination whilst the strange malady brings more changes to my body. The purple scratch, so minor just yesterday, has turned into a ghastly, oozing wound. Warmed by the afternoon sun, I shut my eyes against the throb within my skull and try to concentrate on weaving. My fingers are numb, where they should have been deft — my woven mats bulky, when they should have been a feat of artistry. Suntong will not be pleased, but that part of me that is so fearful of him is fast becoming distant.
“Sailin,” a young voice calls.
I try to concentrate. My fingers make clumsy work of the strips of bark my young cousin, Kamit, cut for me earlier. He sits next to me now, the concern stamped on his face making me feel more agitated than loved.
“Sailin!”
“What?” I snap at him and pause to scratch for the hundredth time that hour. Kamit is merely concerned for me; I know that for a fact, but I cannot help myself.
“That looks bad,” he points at the scratch, handing me the next strip with unmasked trepidation. “And you’re looking awfully pale. Are you sick?”
No, but I am hungry, my thoughts echo an answer. I can’t help noticing how soft his young skin is. How succulent he looks. The smell of his body — a combination of sweat, smoke and youthful innocence, wafts through my nostrils at the next passing breeze. I find myself wondering how he would taste and lick my lips at the notion of sinking my teeth into his flesh.
Then I catch myself. No, not again! I shake my head, trying desperately to banish the thoughts from my mind of his head on a platter. No, no, one murder is enough! I have already sated my hunger on Visak. That should be enough!
“Father won’t fix you, but we can go see the shaman,” my young cousin offers. “He’ll know what’s wrong. Fix you right up—”
His mention of the shaman sparks a wave of contempt within me. The shamans here are no different from my uncle — superstitious old men who prey on the ignorance of a people who live by the primitive rules and laws of the jungle. “The Shaman can do nothing. I’m fine!” As I say these words, I lace my fingers through my hair and irritably brush the dark locks away from my eyes.
The sound of something tearing, and the look on my cousin’s face stops me. It takes a second of contemplation before I muster enough courage to bring my hand forwards. Laced within my fingers are clumps of my hair, and worse… patches of skin. Rivulets of blood ooze down my head and my cousin’s mouth drops open as he draws a breath to scream. He could barely manage a squeak before I reach forwards and clutch my fingers around his throat. I see a reflection of myself in his terrified pupils and hesitate, just for a moment.
Then, the desire to feed overwhelms me.
§
My head hurts.
It’s hard to think. I see faces in my head, faces I should know but don’t. A young woman’s twitchy body; a young boy, small and soft. She sobbed, he screamed. They both tasted glorious and sweet in my mouth.
I cannot remember why I am walking out here by the riverbank, but I keep hearing the words physician and fix in my head. It is very dark, but I can’t go back to that house with the large, angry man, whoever he is. I’ve already come so far.
“Stop right where you are!”
The voice halts me. I look around; see nothing but the rushing river to my right, and the dense leaves of the jungle to my left. I am afraid, of what, I am not so sure.
“Who… you?” I’ve arranged so many other words in my mind, but my tongue feels thick. I shake my head to try and ease the confusion, but it does nothing. Why am I here again?
“I’m who you’re looking for, I hope. No–one comes all the way up here to see the tigers. I am the physician,” the voice answers. He speaks in the same tongue as I do, but it sounds strange coming from his lips. He is not from around here. But it doesn’t matter. Physician means fix.
The leaves rustle. I turn round to see shadows and the darkness. Where is the man hiding?
“Physician!” I call out. “Fix me!”
“You’ve already fed yourself,” the man speaks again. “I can see that from the roundness of your stomach. Which organs did you take? The heart? The lungs?”
His words trigger another wave of images. I see the boy within my head again. He is on the ground this time, and I see my hands, my fingers, tearing at his body. The satisfaction of burying my face into his open chest to feast on the organs inside make me giddy with pleasure. I catch myself, knowing that I should feel guilty. I should. But I don’t.
