Tanith Lee - Claidi Journals 01

by Law of the Wolf Tower

  It’s certainly what happened that morning.

  After the first bolt up the rattling hill slope, the going got very steep. We had to slow down.

  But looking back from quite a high spot, you could see some of the town and the gate, and nothing was going on there.

  Nemian and the chariot driver had baa’d a bit. Now Nemian said to me, “You realize why we left?”

  “They were dangerous, the men who arrived.”

  “According to the Sheepers, that’s putting it mildly,” said Nemian. “They’re all mad, those wandering people. Theirs is a hell of a life.” He smiled. “Tempting, really. To live by skill and courage. One long adventure. But pretty foul too. No comforts. And they can’t afford any politenesses.” Neither had he, I thought. Which summed it up: In constant danger lay constant rudeness. What an extremely petty thought.

  It’s just… Well, I’ve had enough of people treating me like rubbish. I’d innocently thought that would change. And last night…

  Last night was apparently last night.

  The sheep trotted for a while where the ground leveled, then clambered, the chariot lurching, on the steeper parts.

  I couldn’t be bothered to explain now how I’d had no chance to fill the water flask. I suppose I could have used the hair-wash-water, all soapy, with hairs in it. Hmm.

  “Don’t sulk, Claidi,” said Nemian. “Did you like it there so much: How silky your hair looks today.”

  “Where are we going to now?” I asked with thin dignity.

  “The Sheeper will see us on to a hill village up here. We’ll have to find our own way from there. There may be a cart or something we can barter for.”

  I knew about barter, the exchanging of one thing for another, although in the House it never happened.

  Buying things didn’t either, but I’d heard of that too, and Nemian had mentioned (last night) that his city on the wide river used coins, money.

  The Sheepers hadn’t seemed to want any returns. They just seemed friendly. I hoped that would keep them safe with the bandit band.

  The hills were opening out all around us now and weren’t as ugly as I’d anticipated. Very little grew on them, however—an occasional bush with whitish fluff, a type of short pale grass. In the closer distance, they looked soft, like pillows.

  We pulled up after about an hour, and the sheep chomped the grass. Nemian and the Sheeper shared some beer, but I didn’t fancy it.

  I was looking back down the hills when I heard—we all heard—a beating clocking sound, ringing from the hills’ backs.

  Suddenly, over a slope to the left, precisely where we didn’t expect them, five men appeared, less than a quarter of a mile off.

  I managed an especially unsuitable idiot question.

  “What are those!”

  “Horses,” said Nemian. “And the others, on the horses, are the mad knife-men from the town.” I noted no one was trying to start the sheep and chariot. Then I realized we’d never get away, for the bandits had seen us. I saw their white grins flash, as all the buckles and bangles and buttons and knives were doing. They smacked the horses’ sides lightly, and these new beasts came racing at us, like a wind or a fire.

  (I’d never seen a horse before that. In the House the chariots were drawn by—you guessed it—slaves.

  The horses are rather beautiful, aren’t they,? If you know horses. The long heads and the hair flowing back, just as the bandits’ long hair flowed back.)

  In about ten seconds, so it seemed, there they were on the hillside with us, all reds and tans, and metal-and-tooth flash.

  “Couldn’t let you go,” said one, “without saying hi.”

  They laughed. They had an accent—intense, guttural, and somehow extra-threatening.

  Their politeness was unsettling not because it wasn’t real, but because, as Nemian had said, they couldn’t afford politeness.

  Nemian, now, said nothing.

  The Sheeper didn’t seem talkative either.

  The horses were polished as any floor.

  One of the bandits swung off his horse. He walked over on long legs.

  “Not from these parts?”

  Nemian said, “No.”

  “South? Peshamba?”

  Nemian said, “Yes, were heading for Peshamba.”

  The bandit leaned on the side of our chariot, companionable. From inside his shirt, he drew a small glassy thing—some sort of charm.? He gazed down at it in silence, as if all alone. How odd. Another bandit, still mounted, craned over as if to see. This other one gave a sudden whoop (which made me jump). He drew out his (ghastly) knife and flipped it in the air, catching it gently in his teeth.

  The bandit leaning on the chariot took no notice. He closed the charm in his fist and put it away. Then he looked straight into my eyes.

  His were dark, like his long hair, which hung to his waist. He was the color of strong tea with a dash of milk. A color that matched the horse he’d ridden. I’d thought he would be older. I never saw anyone so—I don’t know what to say— terrible.

  I shrank.

  To my surprise, he at once looked away and right at Nemian

  “Any money on you?”

  “Money,” said Nemian.

  “They use it in Peshamba, or whatever big place you’re headed for,” helpfully explained the bandit.

  “You want some money,” guessed Nemian. From one of his host of pockets he took a flat leather case and offered it to the bandit.

  The bandit accepted it, opened it.

  The bandit and I both stared with curiosity at the weird turquoise-green leaves of paper that were revealed.

  Then the dark eyes glanced at me sidelong. I felt sick and sidled back.

  “Right,” said the bandit. “Well, I can’t use this.” (He sounded as if he was saying it wasn’t good enough!)

  “Any coins?”

  “Sorry,” said Nemian. He didn’t seem worried. Just well-mannered and willing to talk, as though the mad bandit killers were perfectly normal people met in a garden.

  One of the other bandits (not the one with the knife) called, “Tell the tronker to shake out his coat. And what’s that bird got hidden?”

  Tronker? Bird?

  The chariot-leaning bandit gave him a casual look.

  “I don’t think they’re good for much,” he said pityingly. Oh, we’d let him down properly.

  “Come off it, Argul,” said the other bandit. “She’s all right, that bird, eh?” (Ah. The “bird” was me.) All the old tales of the Waste raced through my bubbling mind—horrible stories, with death at the end of them.

  But I glared up at the talking bandit on the horse. I felt so terrified I thought I was going to be sick or cry, but instead I screamed at him, “You touch me and I’ll bite your nose off!” There was a shocked silence.

  Then all at once they all burst out laughing.

  This included the chariot-leaning bandit, the other four bandits, and Nemian. Nemian!

  Even the Sheeper was smiling—perhaps thinking we’d all now be best friends.

  And I was appalled. What had I said… done?

  Nevertheless my fingers had curled. My nails felt strong and sharp. How revolting it would be to bite that bandit—but my teeth were snapping.

  I’d slapped Jade Leaf; I’d escaped the House. I wouldn’t be stopped, not anymore.

  The bandit called Argul shifted away from the chariot.

  “Better watch out,” he told the other bandits, “she means what she says.” He handed the leather container with money back to Nemian. “I can see,” said Argul to Nemian, “you’ve got enough on your hands with that bird you’ve got there. She scares me all right.”

  “Yes, yes,” warbled the other bandits, “he’s got real problems there.” Then the bandit leader spun around, ran at his horse so I thought he meant to knock it right over, and leaped— leaped— up the side of it, as if it were only a little still rock.

  Next second he was astride the horse. And unruffled, the
horse looked down at me from a dark smooth eye.

  “So long. Have a lovely day!” the bandits cheerfully called as they galloped away back down the hill.

  ==========

  We didn’t get to the hill village until late in the afternoon. Nemian said nothing about the bandits. He had said all he wanted, earlier, when he told me they were mad.

  Somehow I kept thinking they’d appear again, mad minds changed, to rob, terrify, shame, and slaughter us. They didn’t.

  We had some sheep cheese and lettuce and some beer. I got hiccups.

  I was fed up—in a mood, as Daisy used to say.

  The sky turned deep gold, and we rumbled over yet one more hilltop, and there was the village. It wasn’t a thrilling sight. Huddles of lopsided huts all over the place, a huge rambling rubbish heap you could smell from far off. Dogs wandered, snarling. A few sullen human faces were raised to glare at us.

  It was as unlike the friendly Sheepers’ town as seemed possible, as if specially formed to be off-putting.

  ==========

  Well, I think it was. I’m writing this last section at night, in a sort of barn place, which stinks and is full of enormous rats. Actually the rats are rather handsome, better than the hill-villagers. Quite easy, that. They behaved foully as soon as we got there. Some stared at us in the sheep-chariot, and some just went in. They’d have banged their doors if they could, but such doors as they have would have fallen off.

  Presently a fat gobbling sort of man arrived and baa’d at the Sheeper. Nemian said to me he baa’d so badly the Sheeper obviously could hardly understand, and Nemian not at all. p>

  Even so, the Sheeper told Nemian, baaing properly, that we’d “be all right here.” And yes, they’d let us have a cart with a mule—what is that?—either tomorrow or the day after.

  They are called Feather Tribe. They like birds?

  Naturally they wanted paying? No, said the Sheeper, apparently. I saw he looked embarrassed. He had to leave us here (to go back to his own so-much-pleasanter place). Nemian didn’t comment. I couldn’t.

  We got out, and the Sheeper went into a hut with the awful fat gobbly person. (Later the Sheeper reappeared loaded with sacks of something, got in his chariot, and went off, not even waving good-bye.) Nemian and I were sort of shoveled, by a couple of revolting women, into one of the barns. This one.

  I thought Nemian would throw up at once. His face went white and his eyes went white and his nostrils curled.

  “Oh, Claidi. What can I say? What will you think?”

  “Its not your fault,” I said. Grudgingly, I have to admit. I didn’t think it was his fault. But in a way it was. I mean, he’d gone “traveling” and then involved us both in all this. I really mean I was angry with him. Love is like this, so the songs of the House used to say. You adore them one minute, then want to throttle them.

  Anyway, he didn’t hang about. He left me sitting on the smelly straw and went to find someone to do something. He didn’t come back.

  At first I wasn’t worried. Then I was worried. Going to the barn door, I saw Nemian in conversation with the Gobbly Fat One. (Nemian must speak this language too.) They were both drinking something and yowling away with amusement. Typical.

  I sat on the stony ground outside the barn.

  Soon a dog wandered up and bared yellow fangs at me for no reason. Stupidly, I snapped, “Oh stop it, you fool.” Then I thought it’d leap for my throat. But it whined and ran off with its tail on the ground.

  Nemian and the GFO—their leader?—went striding off on what looked like a tour of the village. (This dung-heap goes back to my grandmother’s day. This hole in the roof was made by my great grandfather’s pet pigeon, which ate too much and so fell through.) A woman came up near evening and plunked a bowl down beside me.

  “Er, excuse me. What is it?” I asked fearfully.

  “Germonder pop,” said she. Or so it seemed.

  I tried the germonder pop. And it was OBSCENE. So no dinner for Claidi.

  There are no lamps in the barn, though the huts lit up later. The moon is very bright, and I’ve written this by the light of it.

  The village Feather Tribe are making dreadful sounds. Are they eating, or talking, or what? It’s sickening.

  (I saw Nemian again, about an hour ago. He wandered by with the GFO and saluted me. He seemed happy, enchanted by these Featherers, some of whom were now trailing him in a merry group. Was he drunk, or just being tactful? Or is he… is he useless? When the bandits were there, I never felt for one moment Nemian could save me, as in the old stories the hero always does the heroine, but am I even a heroine? Some, chance.)

  ==========

  Retreated back into the barn. I might as well go to sleep. Deadly day. Yes, of course I should be glad and pleased I’m on this big adventure. But I have to assure you, the smell in here is enough to make the boldest flinch. Outside, it seems to be getting brighter and noisier. The moon? Is the moon noisy? Who knows?

  I keep thinking of that glass charm the bandit had, the one who leaned on the chariot.

  I think they were the end, being so insulting about me (bird! problems!) when I was only desperate to defend myself, which nobody else would.

  FLIGHT

  The roof goes up so high, it’s hard to believe it’s a wagon. The bumping helps, though, to remind me.

  Its difficult to write here. I’ll leave this, I think, until we stop.

  Have to note the colors in the roof—deepest crimson, and purple with wild greens. The pictures are of horses and dogs, mostly. And a sun done in raw gold, dull with time.

  They’ve had these wagons forever.

  Bump.

  I’ll wait.

  ==========

  When I’d been asleep in the Feather Tribe’s barn just long enough to be confused if woken, and not long enough to have had a rest, thumps and yodels started and someone was shaking me. (I believe I said before, that’s a terrible way to wake anyone.) I shot up, and there were all these Feather Tribe people, looking entirely changed. That is, they were beaming and nodding at me, and one of them was flapping a feathery thing about in front of me, like an enormous wing.

  Not amazingly, I sat staring.

  Then Nemian appeared through the crowd.

  “Its all right, Claidi. Its a gift.”

  “What? What is?”

  “That dress.”

  “Is it a dress?”

  “It’s made out of feathers sewn on wool. It’ll be rather hot. I’m sorry. But they seem to want you to have it. There’s some sort of festival tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  “They want us to go with them to some shrine in the hills.”

  “What’s a shrine?”

  “Don’t worry now. The women will dress you, and then we’ll go with them. We need their help, don’t we? So we have to join in, be gracious.”

  I was only more bewildered by this explanation.

  Anyway, he and the men had gone, and there were only these four or five large women intent on putting me into the feather-dress. I’d been clothed by force quite often in childhood. I knew it was safer not to resist.

  My God (Am I using that right? Think so—seems to be a sort of exclamation used in alarm or irritation), that dress. I think I looked like a gigantic white chicken. Also, it was hot, and it itched.

  Having clad me, the women were leading me to the door, but I snatched up my bag when I saw one of them fumbling with it.

  Supposing they could read? And read this? (Which was farfetched. They barely seemed able to talk.) Outside, the whole village had assembled with torches.

  They were clapping their hands and now started to sing. I think it was singing.

  Frankly I wasn’t sure if I preferred this jolly, festive side to them. I preferred the scowling, standoffish way they’d been earlier. Now they kept touching my arms and hair, or my back, and I hated it.

  I shouted at Nemian, but he only waved. He was with the GFO at the processions front. I say


  “procession,” since this is what it became.

  We walked quite briskly out of the village and up a stony track into the hills.

  A few dogs ran after, and the festive villagers threw stones at them until they turned back. Sweet people.

  No wonder the dogs were so dodgy and cowed.

  ==========

  These hills are strange. The whole of the Waste is strange, of course, to me. But all the parts are bizarre in different ways. They all have a different character. The hills… are like a place where something intense, perhaps heavy, had been, which now was blown away. They had a weird beauty in the moon-and-torchlight. Where the grass is thick, the hillsides seem covered with velvet, and then bare pieces strike through, harsh and hard. Also there are bits that are worn thin, translucent, and you seem to see through them, down into darkness.

  It was all uphill.

  The Gobbly Fat One, who was lord, had to keep having a breather, so then we all got one. They passed around a putrid drink. Luckily, when I shook my head, no one forced me to try it.

  Inappropriately I recalled climbing all the stairs of the high tower at the House. Perhaps when we got to wherever we were going, the view would be worth the climb.

  And it was.

  Suddenly we were up on a broad, flat table of land.

  They all gave a glad bellow and stamped and clapped and “sang” again, and more drink went around, and I thought if they kept pushing it past and breathing it over me, I’d probably puke all over them and serve them right.

  But then they drew off, and I looked up.

  A colossal sky was overhead, the biggest sky I’d ever seen. It was quite blue, with mottled wisps of cloud, but mostly encrusted with masses of diamond stars. In the midst of it, the moon was at its highest point—so white it burned—and was held in a smoky, aquamarine ring.

  Dizzy, I looked down. The hills had drawn back, and in front there was nothing but the moon-bleached flat of land, which seemed to stop in midair.