Tanith Lee - Claidi Journals 01

by Law of the Wolf Tower

  “Claidi, you’ve adjusted, and so have I, here. I’m also good at that. Its the way to get by, to survive.

  Don’t judge me, Claidi. When we get to the next city, we must talk. I need to tell you things.”

  “Fine.”

  Ahead, someone called out. We were coming to the vegetation. The shadow.

  “Claidi,” said Herman, low and strong, his voice magically throbbing, “I need you. Please, remember that.”

  He was gone.

  And we’d reached the—

  The—?

  Thinking later, I wondered if it’s called Rain Gardens for this part. It is a kind of… garden. A wood, an orchard, of a sort.

  Meadows of a sort came first. They had dark moss and clumps of things that were “flowering”—whippy dark leaves, pods like grey-pinkish bells. And mushrooms, striped black and yellow—they looked as poisonous as wasps.

  In the “meadows” there were “trees.” The “trees” became thicker and drew together, and we rode into the garden-orchard-wood.

  Well, the trees had trunks, veined and gnarled, and roped over with ivies and creeper. But you could see through these trunks—they were semitransparent, like enormous stems. And in the branches, where the creepers and ivies weren’t, were bladelike leaves, a pale luminous green. And fruits.

  Actually, the fruits were the oddest of all. The House Garden grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables in special plots and glass-houses. I’d never seen anything like this.

  They were most like carrots, but carrots that had gone mad, twisting and turning, some of them curled up almost in a circle.

  In those stories I’d now and then read in the library at the House (hiding behind book-stacks, generally found and beaten), any travelers who find unusually strange fruit always eat it and get ill. None of the bandits touched the fruit. Even the children didn’t.

  They must have known not to.

  So neither did I. Nor can I offer an educational insight into what the fruits tasted like, or their effect.

  The other bad side to all this is, of course, that this is exactly the kind of bad place the Waste is supposed to be filled with, according to the House. They’d been right.

  And the trees dripped. Another sort of rain—some sticky juice or resin. It didn’t seem dangerous, didn’t burn or sting, but it was soon all over everything, including clothes and hair. I felt as if I’d fallen into jam.

  The tree-things rose up and up. Some were as tall as towers, tall as the trees in the Garden. It was dark, the overcast smoky sky mostly shut out.

  The Hulta wagons seemed to move more quietly. The vegetation muffled sound, but also very little noise was being made. No calls or swearing. No kids running about. When the horses shook their bridles, which have bells and coins on them, the tinkling sounded flat, but also I saw riders putting out their hands to stop the bells jingling.

  I said, Nemian had ridden off. I clucked to Sirree, and we went up the line of wagons, and Ro and Mehmed were there, riding along.

  “It goes on for miles,” said Ro.

  I hadn’t asked. Everyone was probably asking everyone: How long does this bit last?

  “Like it?” Mehmed asked me.

  “Not a lot.”

  “Gives me the creeps,” said Ro. “Like that forest over north, remember, Mehm?”

  “The one with panthers?” inquired Mehmed.

  “Yeah, and those trees that lean over and grab you and wind you up in stuff so you can’t move, and then slowly digest you over months.”

  “Oh,” said Mehmed.

  They looked greenish. But we all probably did from the green-black shadows.

  A carrot fruit fell off a tree and landed on the ground, where it burst in a repulsive way.

  We were looking at this, when another shower of carrots came down, all bursting. And then the vegetable wood was shaking.

  Long dull thuds seemed to come up from the ground, out of the air.

  “An earthquake,” Ro decided.

  The branches overhead also shook furiously. Creepers snapped and uncoiled, falling like ropes. The air was full of wiry stems and leaves and horrible bursting fruit.

  There was already shouting, but now there were yells, shrieks.

  Through the depths of the wood came a terrifying crackling rusk It was like a wind blowing, but a wind that was solid.

  “Something’s coming!” yelled Mehmed.

  It was. People were calling in panic, “Where is it?” And “Over there! It’s there!” or “No, that way—” And then one voice cried out in a ragged howl, “No—up there! It’s above!” And so we all looked up, and from high up in the trees, the face of a demon looked back at us.

  My heart stopped, or it felt like it.

  That face—

  It was yellowish, a mask, with large black eyes and pointed tusks. It had a mane of darkness that somehow flashed with golden fires—

  And from the mouth there burst an impossible ear-shattering thunder that was a scream.

  The horses reared. Sirree reared. I don’t know why I didn’t fall off. Ro did. Dogs howled. Then somehow, silence.

  Dogs flattened on their bellies. Horses shivered. The rest of us turned to stone. Staring, beyond terror almost. (And a glimpse of Argul, I only recalled after, somehow up at the front, confronting the menace, between all of us and it.)

  While the thing in the trees stared d own at us.

  It was like the bear statue, only not. It had long arms, incredibly long, hanging now loosely over the limb of the tree where it squatted. Its claws were the length of my arm, or so they looked. I think it was altogether about twice the height of a man.

  It was covered in fur, black fur, streaked with what looked like rust. But also the fur was full of creepers and ivy, like the trees, and with other growths—savage flowers, funguses. And there were smaller things living in the fur and the growths— mice, maybe, snakes—all weaving in and out, so tiny eyes sparkled and were gone, and sinuous little bodies moved like fish in a pool.

  Around its head, its insane face, whirled this golden crown that spun. For the crown was several enormous flies, golden and green, constant companions to the demon bear-thing, must be, for it took no notice of them, as it took no notice of all the creatures living on it.

  It was a world.

  That awful face stared down. You know, it was a wise face, too, but not wise in any way I’d ever understand or want to.

  The jaws stretched, and again out came that appalling ear-splitting roar-scream.

  None of us now made a sound.

  The beast hung over us, still, yet also in endless total motion from the movement of its companion life.

  But then it grew bored with us. It raised one long, long arm, dripping with hair and leaves and mice; and the great gold flies, each the size, I’d say, of one of Ro’s huge feet, whirled in a joyful dance. And smoke poured from its fur— dust, I think, from the lava pits.

  The beast plucked a handful of the fruits and put them in its mouth.

  Then flinging up both arms now, in clouds of leaves and smoke, it sprang high, high across the boughs, caught some distant tree limb, and swung away into the shadow of the wood.

  No one moved or spoke for about an hour.

  “An ape,” said Ro.

  “Bear,” Mehmed.

  “Ape, stupid. Bears don’t swing through the trees.”

  I began to hear whispering and then some loud joking all around. Argul was talking to some men and women, glancing our way a lot, no doubt to see what M and R were doing.

  We were alive. Shakily I stroked Sirree.

  The House had been right again. There are monsters in the Waste. This one, luckily, was a vegetarian.

  PESHAMBA

  After all that, Peshamba was a relief.

  Also a shock.

  Peshamba is beautiful.

  In fact, getting through the rest of the monster wood, wondering off and on if there’d be any more of the bear-apes, these more hungry and less fu
ssy ones, or worse things than bear-apes (?.‘!) only took the rest of the day.

  We came out of the wood before the sun set. This in itself was a relief, and I heard some “prayers” spoken, sort of chants to do with thanks. (I’m still puzzled about this God-gods thing. I must ask somebody sensible. There were no gods, prayers, or shrines in the House. No idea like this at all. Or none I ever heard.)

  Beyond the wood there was a grassy plain. It started as dry, burnt-looking grass but then unrolled into greenness, and then rainbows.

  As the sun went down I stood up on a rise, and the distance was emerald with films of mauve and blue and rose.

  “Wildflowers,” said the seven-year-old with the knife (she’s called Dagger).

  “Oh,” I said.

  Now what should I think? The House said monsters and deserts and criminals. They were right. But the House said too that only the House and the Garden had greenness and flowers.

  Jizania hadn’t, though. But I don’t somehow trust Jizania now.

  “You’ve been here before?” I asked Dagger.

  “No. We don’t normally travel in this direction. Best trade is north and east.” She must mean the best places to rob.

  Politely I didn’t say this.

  “You’ve seen lots of wildflowers?” I asked.

  “Seen about everything,” boasted Dagger.

  Could be true for all I know.

  That night, grasshoppers sang on the plain.

  In the morning the Hulta rambled on. We rode across the green grass with the flowers. They were something, all right. Wild hyacinths, wild roses, drifts of convolvulus and lilies. Wonderful scent. Looking back, the shadow wood just slid away.

  Then the city started to be visible ahead.

  I didn’t believe my eyes. It was like jewelry.

  But as it got nearer and nearer, it got better and better.

  The pale walls cascading up were topped with gold. (It isn’t quite. Its thin gold leaf, but even so.) Windows glittered like sweets because they had colors in them. And there were domes: white and lucent as lamps with a faint candle inside. And ruby, and turquoise blue, with gold patterns all over.

  The bandits were also impressed, but they had heard of Peshamba.

  I wondered what Nemian thought. According to the little he’d said, his own city was tremendous, better than anywhere. Could it be better than here?

  When you come close, the walls appear higher than five houses, piled one on another, and inside, other, higher walls go up.

  At the front, like a blue shining apron, is a lake. Peshamba seems to be standing in it, and partly is. The reflection of the city floats in the water, and Peshamba floats above, between water and sky.

  “Is the water drinkable?” I asked Dagger. She shrugged. She does this when she doesn’t know something, as if to say, “If I don’t, it can’t be important.” Anyway, when we reached the water, half the bandit men flung off their shirts, cloaks, jackets, and decorations, and plunged in to swim. The women found a quieter part among some willows.

  Was anyone watching from the walls? Did they think an invasion had arrived?

  But later, when we went over the stone bridge that I forgot to mention stretched across the lake, a gate in the wall stood wide open.

  Beyond was a narrow way paved with marble. And on it stood a giant, half the height of a man again.

  He was encased in a uniform made of metal, and in his hand there was a huge axe. His helmet was gold with a white plume. His face was entirely masked in gold.

  I’d moved up near the front of the Hulta horde, and I could see Argul sitting on his horse, gravely looking in at the giant.

  Thinking of books again, I said to Mehmed, “Does someone have to fight the giant?”

  “Wouldn’t fancy it much. He’s one big tronker.”

  Just then, the giant spoke.

  “Name yourselves.”

  The strangest voice. Perhaps the mask made it sound so peculiar.

  Argul called out, “The Hulta.”

  “Your business.”

  “Travelers,” said Argul. And lightly, “Sightseers.”

  The giant lowered his axe.

  “Do no harm in Peshamba, and Peshamba does no harm to you.” The Hulta consists of a mass of people. We squashed through, wagons and animals, the lot, and the giant stood aside in a kind of alcove in the marble wall.

  Ro was there. “Wouldn’t fancy taking him on.”

  Teil pushed up, carrying one of the little girls astride her horse. (The Hulta children can ride at four or five. Hence Arguls comment on my great age.)

  “I’ve heard of this,” said Teil, waving at the giant. “Its clockwork.” Ro snorted. He went up to the giant. “Here, mate. You a doll?” The gold mask creaked down to Ro. It wasn’t a mask. It was a gold-painted face made of metal, which gave no answer.

  Ro backed off.

  We went on and, where the narrow way ended, passed through another, wider gate.

  Here were two long lines of guards, standing bolt upright. They had axes over their shoulders, wore scarlet, and were covered in braid, epaulets, spurs, spikes, metal plates. They weren’t giants, however.

  Really not much taller than I am.

  As we went by, they presented arms, bringing their axe-hafts down on the ground with a bang.

  “Are they crazy here?” I said.

  Teil said, “No. If someone attacks, these things go wild. And they can’t be hurt, either, or stopped.” I asked how she knew. “Oh,” said Teil, “word gets around.” There were several more passages and gates, all with the clockwork doll-guards. Some even had rifles with silver set in the stocks. They certainly were better looking than the House Guards.

  Eventually we all muddled into a huge garden—they call it here a park.

  Blue cedars and olive-green palms stretched across the sky.

  Cypress trees carefully shaped to dark, waxed tassels. Fountains. A procession of snow-white ducks idled across a lawn.

  Argul was riding down the line.

  “If you don’t know, be careful here.” He saw Ro peering greedily after the ducks. “Watch it, Ro.” Argul pointed. High on a slim tower as pink as marshmallow, a glass thing was turning slowly around and around, flashing in the sun. “They keep an eye on everything. See that? Its looking at us.”

  “What, that?”

  “That.”

  The message went down the line of people and wagons.

  Across the park, we could now see wonderfully dressed figures moving about and girls in glimmering silks playing ball.

  Blurn appeared.

  “Watch it, Ro.”

  “All right, all right.”

  In the park was a large building with courtyards clustered around and inside it. It was burstingly full. Its named the Travelers’ Rest.

  I saw some new (to me) animals that someone told me are “zebras,” not horses. They have black and white stripes that make you dizzy. And there were three teams of “oxen” the color of walnuts.

  Tents had been pitched, carts and wagons stood about, courtyards streamed with drying colored washing. There were wells and pools and ornamental fountains, all crowded.

  Impossible racket. Sounded to me like a thousand different languages.

  Going up some stairs carrying bundles, I saw, over a wall, more of the city lying below. There were the jewelry domes, and there a slim green tower with a golden bell in it, and squares, and roads, and buildings as decorated as cakes, and all pale glowing colors with sun on them. And gardens—everywhere gardens. (There was another of those turning, flashing crystals I could see, as well.)

  Over the smells of Hulta and people and animals generally, scents of spice and cooking and tobacco, of vines and flowers, and the smell of brickwork in the sun that I’d half forgotten.

  ==========

  We girls and women on our own got quite a big room to ourselves. Like all the other women in the Rest, we immediately began washing clothes and under things and sheets, hanging th
em out of the windows and even from the rafters. The queue for the bathrooms was long but worth it.

  I’d forgotten too the delight of cool-skin-temperature water scented with a few stolen herbs and perfumes. Here you can buy them. Or I couldn’t, but Teil did and gave some to me. And soap and other things to keep one smelling nice.

  I washed my hair. The last time was in the red rain. (I’d gone to groom Sirree, but it had already been done. The Rest has its own grooms, and Argul had paid to have all the horses and dogs tended. Even a couple of Hulta pet monkeys were being brushed and scented with banana essence.) At first, the people of the city were hard for me to sort out from all the other people packed in here.

  They seem a mixture, like everyone. But their clothes are always the most amazing silky stuff, and fabulous colors. So that’s how I identify Peshambans now. Oh, and sometimes they wear masks—not over the whole face, just the eyes. Its a fashion—to make them more like the dolls this city’s supposed to be full of?

  ==========

  Excitement in the room we share. There’s a festival tonight. (I thought of the Featherers and felt uneasy, but its nothing like that.) Large chests from the wagons had been opened and astonishing garments taken out. Fit to rival Peshamban clothes.

  One of the girls insisted on giving me—it was a “present” —a deep blue dress sewn with embroidery and silver disks. Everyone clapped when I’d put it on. I felt shy, touched, and also rather resentful. A funny combination, but I think they feel sorry for me about Nemian. (Who, I may add, someone told me has already gone off swanning in the city.)

  I did like myself in the dress when I glanced in the mirror.

  We made each other up: black around the eyes, and powder, and scented sticks of color for the mouth.

  “Pretty Claidibaabaa!” they cried, prancing around me. I really was the center of attention.

  Someone else then gave me silver earrings with sapphires in them. Real true sapphires.

  “Hultai chura!” they squealed.

  I concluded that must mean “darling of the Hulta.” (.‘!.’) (But why?) We had lunch in the main hall, where food can be bought— pancakes and vegetables. Then later, in the room, they were teaching me steps to wild Hulta dances, gallops and stampings and tossing the head (like a horse).