by Pati Nagle
Torril pushed himself to his feet. No rest, not until she was avenged. His kin had spent a year in hell. He would waste no more darkness.
Street emptied into silent street. The gardens left behind, there was no more life around him, only the dark, dead eyes of the mortals’ dwellings. Shade followed in silent resignation.
Ahead at a crossing, a single tree, gnarled and scant of leaves. A bird sat upon a twisted branch, and Torril dared a query.
More trees?
His answer was a raw squawk as the bird took wing. It cried again, circling, then dropped toward him. Shade’s hiss came as one with his realization—too late, both—she transformed as she fell toward him, naked and horrible.
Eyes! Torril rolled aside, scraping a knee against the hard street, flinging up his bow arm to ward her off.
He heard the wood splinter as his arm was struck painfully to the ground, the nightwalker’s weight atop it. Free hand to his waist for the knife; a slash, a hiss, and the weight was gone.
He staggered up, keeping his gaze away from her face, and wound up staring at pale breasts instead. Ice-tipped, yet they stirred something in him.
Her body was firm, her waist slender, hips a welcoming bowl. She raised a bleeding hand to lick the cut he’d given her, and his eyes flicked to her face before he could check them, glimpsing a smile. He tore his attention away and looked at the knife in his hand; cold silver, harsh under the dim chemical lights of the mortals’ city.
She’s not attacking.
The thought didn’t comfort him. The blade in his hand began trembling. She smelled good.
The broken bow dropped to the ground. She stepped over it, bare white feet on rough pavement. He could hear her breath, she was that near.
You’re a pretty one.
Her thoughts were too strong to be blocked. Torril aimed a blow with the knife and watched in horror as his hand gently yielded up the blade to his enemy instead. She turned it this way and that in the light, sending glints off the blade, then dropped it on the ground.
Look at me.
With all his being, Torril resisted. He kept his eyes on the ground, saw her place a dainty foot between his boots.
Lustful imaginings flowed through his unwilling mind and aroused an urgent response from his body. He strove to move his feet, her soft hissing laughter mocking him, her hunger washing through his thoughts, tainting them.
How wonderful it would feel to take her, here, now, under the black night while the stupid mortals slept in their dead houses. How delightful to become hers, to hunt no more and care no more, to live only for their mutual pleasure, days, weeks, years of it. She was beautiful, she was strong, she would bear strong children.
Not by me!
In desperation he wrenched a foot away from the pavement. He stumbled backward, nearly falling, a hand thumping into his quiver and his back coming up against something hard.
The tree. With a wordless cry he sucked its strength—all of it, years of growth, season on season of strength—and in one vicious thrust repulsed the nightwalker’s mind.
His hand drew an arrow and he flung himself forward, stabbing up beneath her ribs with the slender oak shaft, feeling it crack as her shriek filled his senses, wild elation sweeping through him. Deeper, deeper he pushed the broken arrow through the blood that slickened his hand. She clung to him, howling, weakening, falling.
He let go the arrow. No more than two handspans protruded from her body, heaving as she gasped her last breaths.
He looked in her eyes then. Beautiful, dark eyes; they had no more power to control him. They accused him instead, and he knew he would remember them always. That was the price of his oath.
The life faded from her face. She no longer saw him, no longer was something to fear. Death drew a dull film over her eyes.
Torril’s senses returned all at once; he felt the coldness of the predawn air in his lungs as he breathed sharp and fast, heard the dry rustle of dead leaves overhead, smelled blood. He picked up the knife, reached down and gathered the nightwalker’s ginger hair in one hand, and severed it from her head with one stroke.
He faced the hoary tree whose life had saved him—the tree the nightwalker had perched in to hunt him—and saw its leaves had turned paper-white. He draped the tresses over its branches; at dawn they would crumble into ash and blow away along with the nightwalker’s body, leaving no trace of her existence.
He looked down at her again; a pale, broken girl, slim like an elf-maid, reminding him uncannily of Tana in her funeral-boat. He’d stood in the rain and watched the river take his sister and her child—the child Tana had killed with her own hand—the infant got on her by her nightwalker captor. Slaying it had been her last act before death claimed her, that stormy dawn.
No hint of rain now. He kicked gently at the nightwalker’s body with a booted toe. He had not wanted to hunt—and had dreaded killing—one of his own kind, however distantly related. They were more alike than he’d realized, perhaps. In the end, he had enjoyed it.
Shade came out of the shadows, padded silently to within an arm’s length of the nightwalker’s body and sniffed the air, then hissed softly.
Bad thing. Go home now?
Torril pulled the white band from his brow and dropped it beside the pale body.
Yes.
Emancipation
The Custodian of Oporto’s Island stood in the darkness of his house, listening to the growing murmur of voices in the Grove of Malamalama outside. It was not a feast day, when a large attendance might be expected at Nightfall, but the woods were full of people.
He knew they had not come just to watch him perform the evening ritual. How he wished his father still lived; his father had loved the ceremonial aspect of the office of Custodian, while he himself dreaded it.
He donned his green robe and the tall feathered headdress that weighed on him so. A tight knot of fear was growing in his stomach, for he alone was ultimately responsible for the sacred rite of Maintenance, and that responsibility was about to be challenged. He went to the door of his house, and as he stepped through the curtain that covered it, the drumming began.
Malamalama, the island’s axis, glowed bright with captured sunlight, its near end terminating in a shielded pole in the center of the ceremonial clearing outside the Custodian’s home. Dancers—men and women in the traditional garb of the hula kahiko, their hair and arms decked in the leaves and flowers of the island—waited around the pole, ready for Nightfall to begin.
Among the ti trees at the Grove’s edge and back into the woods beyond were the island’s people, dozens upon dozens of them, more than he had seen at any ritual in months. The Custodian glimpsed his counterpart, the Governor, among the growing throng, and his belly tightened at the sight of her.
How often had he silently wished for her presence at Nightfall—his favorite hour—the beginning of the time when lovers could tryst in shadowed groves and not be observed by curious eyes from across the island’s sphere. How often had he dreamed of dancing for her alone, then taking her hand and leading her among the waterbelt’s gardens with the gentle night to cloak them.
It was not to be. She did not come as Hoku, the sweet, laughing playmate of his childhood, but as Governor of the island, in the people’s name, to put an end to Night.
The Custodian took his place at the foot of the dais that held the Focus, and the rolling drums burst into rhythm. He chanted an ancient prayer to Pele, his hands echoing the words while the dancers swayed in the clearing surrounded by tall palms and bushes heavy with fragrant blossoms.
When Pele had been duly honored, the ipu players began a faster rhythm and the Nightfall dance began. It was centuries old, one of many dances that kept alive the sacred heritage of Maintenance on Oporto’s Island, or Moku Wina as the island was called in the chants.
Through graceful gestures the dancers told the story of Moku Wina’s creation, how Oporto enticed Pele to come away from Earth and hollow out an asteroid, filling it with
all the best things from Earth for the pleasure of his Guests. Dancing hands told how the great mirrors outside caught light from the distant sun and fed it into the island through Malamalama, source of all blessings, and how Oporto had decreed the order of days and nights. As his hands led the story, the Custodian’s eyes watched the Governor standing at the clearing’s edge, waiting.
The chant ended and a hiss of gourd rattles began; the dancers knelt while the Custodian came forward to perform the ritual of Calibration. He kept his eyes on Hoku as he danced up to the pole and turned the key that sent beams of light shimmering toward the four sacred shrines around the clearing.
His green robe flowing around him in graceful folds, he danced to each one in turn—Hi’iaka, Poliahu, Laka—passing his hands through the light and verifying its centering in the target on each shrine. As he came to Pele’s shrine he looked up, thinking a silent, hopeless prayer to the goddess whose rituals he had faithfully performed, and in whom he had never believed.
She did not answer him. Shadows flickered over her image as his hands danced through the light, then he turned away, returning to the pole and shutting off the Calibration light before approaching the Focus.
The music intensified as he climbed the steps. Before him was the Focus that brought light into the island and sent it glowing along Malamalama; a large, ornate lever, completely unnecessary in a mechanical sense, but vital as a symbol of Maintenance. As the Custodian stepped toward it the drums suddenly stopped, and he heard what he had been fearing since the ritual began.
“Wait, Manuel.”
He turned to face Hoku, the Governor, his life-long friend, who had come up behind him. She did not smile, but stepped between him and the Focus, her red robe brushing the grass-covered dais.
“The Council has made a decision,” she said, turning to face the people crowding the Grove. Her formal tones carried easily through the clearing and beyond. “Oporto’s Island has been dominated for centuries by the rituals of Nightfall and Dayrise. We treasure our heritage, but we are not savages, or children. We do not need lies to control us, or darkness to inspire us with fear. We are an enlightened people.
“Nightfall is a wasteful practice. Every time the Focus is shifted away from Malamalama, precious light is spilled into empty space. We can use that light to better our lives.”
The Governor turned to the Custodian, and he saw that her eyes were hard. “The Council has voted to eliminate the process of Nightfall, effective immediately.”
The crowd roared approval, and the Custodian felt a sinking in his chest. “That would violate Maintenance procedures,” he said over the din. “The Manuals clearly state—”
“The Council consider the Manuals open to interpretation,” said the Governor. “We have the right to reevaluate procedures when the good of the people is in question.”
“The Manuals were given to us by Oporto,” said the Custodian. “To deviate from their instructions will place the island and its people in peril!”
“The Council has debated this,” said Hoku, her face a careful mask. “We have concluded that to take the Manuals literally can place us in danger of misunderstanding their metaphorical intent.”
“Maintenance must be performed,” said Manuel, hoping he sounded firm despite his growing desperation.
“Manny,” said Hoku, her voice dropping to a whisper, “don’t make it hard on yourself. You haven’t got a choice.” For a moment her eyes poured warm sympathy into his, then she raised her arms, the folds of her crimson caftan sliding down to her golden shoulders as she turned to the people now crowding into the clearing and called out, “Henceforth, we live in light, not in darkness!”
A cheer went up among the people, and the Custodian’s courage crumbled. He gazed out over the crowd in worry. Here and there a mournful face stared back at him, mostly dancers or his acolytes, the Maintenance technicians. He was their spiritual leader, and they looked to him for guidance in this crisis, but his heart was empty. He had said all he could think to say.
The Council ruled the island, and he must bow to their authority. He turned his eyes away from his followers and watched in numb despair as Hoku placed a hand on the great lever of the Focus. She borrowed two gestures from the dance; “light” and “forever.” The cheers grew louder.
Hoku beckoned to a Watcher—one of the guards serving the Council—and posted her on the dais to prevent any attempt to shift the focus. Then the Governor stepped down from the dais and passed into the crowd, touching the hands they reached out to her, moving away under the continuing daylight.
The people followed, all but a few faithful who watched the Custodian expectantly as he slowly descended the steps. He stopped in the middle of the clearing and gazed at them, sensing and sharing their fear.
“What will happen, Manuel?” a young dancer asked him, her worried face framed in the leaves and fresh flowers of her headdress. “Will Pele punish us?” Her eyes pleaded for reassurance.
Others gathered around with soft and frightened voices. The Custodian raised his hands to ward off their questions.
“I will appeal to the Council,” he said.
It was inadequate, he knew, but it was all he could offer. His followers exchanged doubting glances. He spread his arms in the wavelike gesture of blessing, which seemed to comfort them a little.
“Go home,” he told them. “Close the curtains on your windows and doors. Bring night into your homes, and Pele will know you are faithful.”
“Thank you, Manuel,” they answered, the words rippling in a whispering wave through the small group as they drifted out of the clearing toward their homes.
He watched them go, their hands flashing in the spaces between leaves, speaking in silent, worried gestures. When they had passed out of sight Manuel went into his house and changed his ceremonial garb for light cotton, then went out—barefoot so he could feel the island with each step—through the Grove and down the path that led to the waterbelt.
It was his custom to walk along the belt every evening after Nightfall, enjoying shadows and the soft sounds of water as it travelled endlessly around the island’s center; here a trickling stream, there a clever waterfall, lakes like jewels, some with stars flashing underfoot through viewbays lapped by their blue-black depths. The stars were barely visible now, obscured by the continuing daylight.
Manuel stopped and glanced up at a viewbay overhead just as the sharp glint of a mirror’s edge passed it. Malamalama glowed steadily bright with the light which should have been diverted for night, some to replenish the great storage cells, the rest to pour off into space.
Music began somewhere nearby, and wild shouting; the people celebrating their freedom from darkness. Suddenly Manuel needed to sit down.
He went to the nearest bench and lowered himself onto it with the weariness of a man many times his twenty-four years. A jasmine bush caressed him with its heavy scent.
How had it come to this? He was Manuel, descended from a long line of Manuels, the Custodians of the island since the time of the Separation, when Pele had returned her attention to Earth where Hi’iaka was making war on her.
It was then that Oporto’s children had lost contact with the children of Earth. It was then that Oporto had created the Council, and set into law the Days and Nights of Moku Wina. It was then that the first Manuel had accepted the lifetime post of Custodian, and pledged to train his successor so that the island would always be cared for. And so it had been, until now.
Manuel searched his heart for the source of his failure. He had studied and preserved the Manuals in whose honor he was named, faithfully performed all of the Maintenance rituals—of which Nightfall and Dayrise were the most important—listened to his people and striven to answer their needs. He had tried to hide his own doubts, yet despite his best efforts, the people had begun to question the old ways.
Some said the gods were not real, that Pele would never return to the island to reclaim her lost children. A growing number said the
only true power was the people’s own, and that no ancient system should dictate to them. Such ideas weren’t new—Oporto himself had faced opposition, as had Custodians through the centuries—but never before had a Custodian failed to perform Nightfall. Manuel knew the vital importance of the ritual, of Maintenance, for the island’s continued well-being, but he did not know how to impress it on those who saw Maintenance merely as superstition.
“Manny?” came a soft voice behind him, and his muscles tensed.
He didn’t answer, but listened to the sound of sandals on the path, the swish of crimson cloth. A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched, then looked up at Hoku, unable to keep a stab of resentment from his eyes.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. “May I join you?”
“Shouldn’t you be at the celebration?” he said bitterly, hating himself as the words left him, for of all the people on the island, Hoku was the one he least wished to hurt.
She gave him the fleeting smile that always made his pulse a little faster; Hoku, heart’s friend and gentle leader, daughter of Governors, descendent of Guests as shown by the reddish sheen of her hair. Though most everyone on the island was of mixed blood, the Governor’s line still bore the distinctive features of Oporto’s heritage.
The Council were children of Guests also, while Manuel’s night-black hair proclaimed his descent from Staff. The two groups—Guests and Staff—had shared the governance of the island since the time of Separation; their children ruled after them and kept their names alive, each following his or her parent’s path. Dancers and technicians fulfilled their birthrights, Hoku performed her function, and Manuel, until today, had performed his.
Hoku sat beside him on the bench, her hand still touching him, gently making circles on his shoulder. A tiny shudder went through him, despair mingled with release of the tension knotting his back.
“It isn’t you, Manny,” she said, bringing both hands to bear on his shoulders. “I swear it isn’t. You’ve done everything you should. We have simply outgrown the need for night. Like you always said, these rituals are just symbolic—”
