They traveled for a time in an arc, a long, curving line which kept Pfarb Durim always visible, high on its cliffs to their left. Once Mavin heard water, the sound of a considerable flow, making her believe that the River Haws ran no great distance from them in the forest. Others came back to them from time to time, bringing nuts and fruit and loaves of bread. Others came with messages, after some of which they changed direction. Mavin followed, uncomplaining, telling herself that now was a time for patience, for waiting to see what might happen next of its own accord, without her intervention. This patience was about to be exhausted when they arrived. The place of assembly was a hollow in the woods with a straight, tall tree at one side. The shadow-people were gathered near it, staring upward. Mavin could see nothing from where she stood except a lumpish blob hanging high among the branches, swaying a little in the wind.
"Agirul," the shadowmen sang, dancing below the tree with its pendant form, swaying their bodies in time to the swaying of whatever it was above them. "Agirul, nil, nil."
Slowly, so slowly that she was not sure she saw it move at all, the lump turned its head over so that it faced downward, showing a tiny, three-cornered mouth, a shiny, licked-looking nose, two dark lines behind which eyes might be hiding. The mouth opened. "Ahhh, shuuush," it said with great finality. "Shuuuush."
"Ahh shuuuush," sang the shadowmen, laughing, falling down in their laughter. Several of them ran off into the forest to return bearing slender bundles of long grass, the top of each stem tassled like a feather. They began to splice these together, making long, fragile lengths with which they tried to tickle the pendant creature, fluttering the tassled ends around its invisible ears, over its hidden eyes. One shadowman, more venturesome or inventive than the rest, concentrated his attention on the creature's rear, evidently touching some sensitive spot for the creature opened its tiny mouth once more and roared.
At this sound every one of the shadowpeople, down to the smallest cub, sat down at once with expressions of severity and solemnity sitting awkwardly upon their cheerful faces. Above them the creature went on roaring as it swung to the trunk of the tree and began to descend, ponderously, long leg after long arm, like a pendulum swinging on its way downward, tic by toe, to slump at last on the ground at the roots of the tree, long legs and arms sprawled wide and helpless. It began to draw itself into some more coordinated posture, and two of the shadowpeople ran to help, murmuring, patting, easing the creature onto its haunches with its monstrously long arms folded neatly into its lap.
"Naiii shuuush," it complained, scratching its head with two curved nails, "Mumph, mumph, who is this person?"
A warbled answer came from the assembly. The beast considered, then turned its head to Mavin.
"I suppose you'll insist that this wasn't your idea," it bellowed at her in a petulant voice. "The little beasts won't let me alone."
"No—it was not my idea. Not letting you alone, I mean. Since I didn't know that you exist, I could hardly … "
"No. No, of course not. No one has any idea, not ever. Don't they teach languages in the benighted schools you people attend? Why shouldn't you learn to speak shadow-talk? Why shouldn't they speak whatever ugly tongue we are speaking now? But no. No, it's always come to Agirul for translation, because that's easier. Shush. Get away, you," and it pushed ineffectually at the crowd of shadowpeople who were still busy propping it up and cushioning its back with leafy twigs. It did not look comfortable. Its arms and legs were not designed for living on the ground, sprawling uncontrolled as though the muscles would not work out of the trees. One look at its hands told Mavin that it was a tree liver which never came to the ground of its own will, for it had curved hooks of bone growing from each palm.
"They didn't hurt you, did they?" she asked.
"Of course they didn't hurt me. They woke me! They know I dislike being wakened. It has been sleeping weather recently, good sleeping weather, and I hate having it interrupted. I'm not unwilling to acceed to emergency, however, and these little people always seem to have one. I suppose it's you they want to talk with?"
Mavin cast a wondering glance around. "I suppose so. I helped them get out of Hell's Maw. I want to talk to them, very much. I need their help."
The Agirul sighed. "Hell's Maw. Blourbast the Ghoul. I heard he had ghoul-plague. Why isn't he dead?"
"I don't know. He looks half dead. His hands and face are covered with sores, but he claims he will recover. Does it always kill? The plague, I mean?"
"Obviously not always. Ah, you brighten at that? It means something to you that some recover? Well, we will explore the notion soon. Just now it seems that Proom is ready to explain why I was awakened."
There was a brief colloquy, then the Agirul murmured to Mavin that it would attempt to make a simultaneous translation of the explanation which was about to follow. "Woman, it may be you will understand nothing at all, in which case I will explain when they have finished. It is the desire of Proom that you be honored by a song—and since his people are quite decent in the matter of gifts, fruits, you know, and nuts, and even a bit of roast meat from time to time—I will accommodate them. Sit comfortably now, this may take sometime."
The hooked hand drew her gently close, and she squirmed about until her head lay near the Agirul's mouth. For a moment, she feared she would go to sleep, thus disgracing herself, but once the singing started, she did not think of sleep again.
"Hear the song of Proom!" It was a solo voice which sang this phrase, each syllable dropped into the clearing as a stone may be dropped into still water. The echoes of it ran in ripples across the gathered faces, gathering force, returning from the edges to the center amplified. Agirul murmured the words, but she did not hear the words, only the song. When the echoes had died, the voice sang again.
"Summoned, Proom, by those who live forever. Summoned, Proom, on a great journey. Far to go. Many seasons spent. Doubt shall he return. Ah, Proom, Proom, keeper of Ganver's Bone."
Now those gathered in the clearing took up the song, a full chorus. Some of these little ones had deeper voices than she had heard before, and these deeper voices set up a drone beneath the song, dragging, ominous.
"Shall the Bone go? Far from the people? Shall the Bone travel far from its own place? Shall the Bone depart from Ganver who gave it?" Three voices sang alone, joined by flutes and bells. "Leave the Bone, Proom, before answering the summons. Leave the holy thing among its people. If Proom does not return, the Bone remains."
Now there were drums, little and big, cymbals ringing, and a solo voice, awe filled, chanting. "Now see, listen all, Proom left it in the high place. In the sacred place. Forbidden place. Guarded place. Farewell, Proom. Go with song around you. " Now a solo drum, high-pitched, frenetic, full of panic, one voice, very agitated. "See who comes. Blourbast the Ghoul. Riding. Riding.
Blourbast does not see the things which guard. Blourbast does not feel forbidden place. Blourbast cannot tell sacred from his excrement hole." Full chorus once again, full of wrath. "The Ghoul sees it. The Ghoul takes it. Ganver's Bone, Bone, Bone, Gone, gone, gone, alas." Now the voices lamented, high, keening.
"Terror, terror, monstrous this evil. The holy thing lost in dreadful's hands. One must go recover what is lost." Now drums, fifes, cymbals clashing, something that sounded suspiciously like a trumpet, though Mavin thought it was a voice.
"Come to the place, the evil place. Call out for the return of Ganver's Bone!" Now an old, old female rose, her voice a whispery chant in the clearing, barely heard over the humming of the multitude.
"Comes one from Hell's Maw, An old, gray man, Servant of Blourbast. Lo, he sings the words of Blourbast. Lo, he sings them in the people's song. 'Let twelve of the people come or Ganver's Bone will be destroyed!' " Now a quartet of strong voices, in harmony. "Ah, ah, Proom, thou art faraway. Ah. Ah. Aloom is old, is sick, A loom sings. "I will go, I will go, that Ganver's Bone shall never be destroyed."
"Aloom goes, and behind her others go. Twelve gone. Old o
nes, sick ones, twelve gone. This is one time. Time passes."
There was a moment's silence, then the voices went on. "The old, gray man sang once more, 'Let twelve come. Ah, ah, Proom, thou art faraway. Ah. Ah. Duvoon is quiet, is loving, Duvoon sings. I will go, I will go, that Ganver's Bone shall never be destroyed.' Duvoon goes, and behind him others go. Twelve gone. Male ones, female ones, twelve gone.. This is two times. Time passes."
Again silence, again the voices.
"The old, gray man sang once more, 'Let twelve come.' Ah, ah, Proom, thou art far away. Ah. Ah. Shoomdu is Proom's child. Shoomdu sings. "I will go, I will go, that Ganver's Bone shall never be destroyed."
Shoomdu goes, and behind her others go. Twelve gone. Children ones, little ones. This is three times. Time passes."
Now the chorus again, ugly in wrath, full of fury, quickly, almost shouting.
"Oh, behold, plague comes on Blourbast. Oh, behold, Ghoul has eaten our flesh. Oh, behold, he is maddened, he kills the old gray man. Oh, behold, Proom, Proom, Proom returns." Hearing his name sung, Proom stood up and began to chant, waving his arms high, leading the chorus and the drums.
"Hear the song of Proom, Voice of the Songmakers. 'No more shall go to Hell's Maw. All who went shall come again to us if yet they live. Holy Ganver will forgive us this.' Hear the song of Proom, If you go in.' "
"Daroo, roo, roo," sang the multitude. "Daroo, roo, roo, pandillio lallo lie, daroo."
"So he went, wandered, wandered, wandered, in the dark, the smell, the pain, Lost, he wandered into the very hands of her Mavin who takes many forms. Now of her we sing. Now we sing the song of Mavin. "
"I suggest you make yourself comfortable," said the Agirul. "They are about to begin singing."
"Gamelords," whispered Mavin. "What do you call what they have been doing?"
"Oh, that was just getting warmed up," it replied. "They have sung their song. Now they will sing the song of Mavin who … "
"Mavin Manyshaped," she said to the beast. "Mavin Manyshaped." He did not hear her. The chorus was already in full cry.
Afterwards, Mavin supposed it had been a kind of enchantment. Certainly while it was going on there was nothing she could do about it or herself. She was the center of a whirlpool of song, drawn down into it, drowned in it, surfacing at last with a feeling that some heavy, nonessential part of her had been washed away leaving her as light and agile as the shadowpeople themselves. When they had finished their song, they went away into the forest, leaving only a few behind.
"I could translate for you the words of the song they have just sung, Mavin Manyshaped, but the words do not matter." The Agirul nodded to itself. "They have made a song of you, and that is what matters, for they do not make songs of every little happening or every chance encounter. Quite frankly, I do not know why they have honored you in this way. You were at little risk of your life in that place, so far as I can tell. Whatever their reason, you are now brought into their history, and your song will be sung at the great convocations on the high places until you are known to all the tribes wherever they may be. You may call upon the people for help, and they will be with you in your times of need.
"I trust that now I may be allowed to go back to sleep." And with that, the Agirul turned to begin climbing back up the tree.
Mavin cried out, "No. Don't go. I came for a reason, Agirul. I have need now. I must talk to them."
Proom had heard the tone of her voice, and he came to her with brow furrowed. Mavin reached out to him even as she began speaking, hastily, words tumbling over one another. "Mertyn," she said. "Brother … sick … woman said shadowpeople … cure … gray woman … Pantiquod … "
"Hush," said Agirul. "Start again. Slowly. What is the trouble?"
So she began again, telling it more slowly, giving Agirul time between thoughts to translate her meaning. Proem's face changed, gave way to horror, then despair. When Mavin said that Mertyn lay ill with ghoul-plague, he cried out, tearing at his fur with both hands. Others ran toward him, questions trilling on their tongues, only to begin keening when he explained.
"What is it?" cried Mavin. "What's the matter?"
Agirul shook its narrow head. "Mavin Manyshaped, you have come on a fruitless quest. The disease you speak of is one which long ago took great toll of their lives. Then came Ganver, Ganver the Great, Ganver of the Eesties, to tell the people he would give them a gift in return for a song. So they made a song for Ganver, and he gave them his Bone. It is only by using the Bone they may cure the illness, and the Bone is gone—gone down there, in Blourbast's hands, where you may have seen it yourself."
"Is that the thing Blourbast took? The thing he wears around his neck? The thing he was holding for ransom?"
"It is. And Proom believes that when Blourbast found the shadowpeople had escaped, he probably destroyed the Bone as he threatened to do. Proom says he could not leave his people, his own child, to be eaten, not even for Ganver's Bone, but now he is unable to repay his debt to Mavin Manyshaped. He says he will kill himself at once."
"No!" she shrieked. "Tell him no. Mavin forbids it. Ganver forbids it. Tell him whoever forbids it so that he won't do it. That's terrible. Oh, Gamelords, what a mess."
She set herself to think. It did not come easily. There was too much in her head, too many squirming thoughts, Blourbast and Pantiquod, the caverns below, the flickering lights and horrible smells, Pfarb Durim high on the cliff surrounded by the host, the song of the little people, the face of Agirul. Too much. "I want the Fon," she said, not even knowing she had said it.
"The Fon?" asked Agirul.
"A Wizard. But he's shut up in Pfarb Durim, so even if I sent the message we agreed upon, it would do no good."
"A Wizard? I would not be too sure about that. If I were you, I would send the message and leave it to the Wizard to decide whether it will do any good or not. Is there not a saying among your people? 'Strange are the Talents of Wizards?' What was the message?"
"The letter M, in any form, set so he could see it."
"Well then. Dark comes soon. We will send him a message he cannot fail to see."
Though she fumed at the delay, she could think of nothing else to do. She had not slept since leaving Pfarb Durim, and when the Agirul suggested she do so, and when Proem's people made her a leafy nest cradled in the roots of a great tree, she told herself that she would need to sleep sooner or later, so it might as well be done now. Though she was sure worry would keep her awake, the shadowpeople were singing a slow, calm song which reminded her of wind, or water running over stones, and she sank into sleep to the sound of it as though she had been drugged. She went down and down into dreamless black, and did not come up until the stars shone on her through windwoven trees.
"Be still," said the Agirul from a branch above her. "Look through the trees to your right."
She sat up, stretching, seeing through the branches a long slope of meadow on which dozens of tiny fires burned in long lines.
"You cannot see it from where you are," the lazy voice from above her mused, "but the fires make your name letter on a slope which faces the city. They have been burning since dusk, half a night's length. The shadowpeople have been bustling about dragging branches out of the forest for hours. They wiH keep the fires alight until dawn."
"No need," said a firm voice from the trees. "They may let the fires die."
"Twizzledale!" cried Mavin. "How did you get out? How did you find me? How … "
"Ah," as he came silently across the grass, a moving blackness across the burning stars, "it took much longer than it should have done. However, when I went to one of the watchtowers, I found that the watchmen had gone—for tea, perhaps, or to quell some disturbance in the city. They had left a rope ladder there, useful for climbing down walls."
"But the armies? The besiegers?"
"Evidently there had been some attempt to leave the city by some half-score merchants, and a group of the besiegers had gone to drive them back, leaving the road unguarded. Qu
ite coincidental, of course, but fortuitous … "
"Fortuitous," murmured the Agirul. "Coincidental."
"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" asked the Fon in measured tones, as though he were a Herald preparing to announce Game.
"The Agirul hangs in the trees above you," said Mavin. "It is a translator of languages. The shadow-people wakened it so that they might talk with me."
"And kept me awake," said Agirul in an aggrieved tone. "I will not catch up on my sleep for a season or more."
"I have great honor in speaking with you," said the Fon, "though I would not have wished your discomfort for any purpose of my own convenience … "
The Agirul tittered. "Wizards. They all talk like that. Unless they are involved in some Game or other." The titter turned into a gurgle, then into a half snore.
"Well, Mavin," said the Fon, seating himself close beside her in the nest. "What have you been up to?"
As she spoke, the fires died. Proom returned to sit beside them, ashy and disconsolate. The Agirul was roused from time to time to ask a question or translate a response. Night wore on and the stars wheeled above them, in and out of the leaves like lantern bugs. At last the Fon had asked every question which could be asked and had set to brewing tea over a handful of coals, humming to himself as he did so. Proom crouched by the fire, humming a descant, and soon a full dozen of the shadowpeople were gathered at the fire in full contrapuntal hum, which seemed to disturb the Fon not at all. When he had the tea brewed to his satisfaction, he shared a cup round with them then brought a full one to share with Mavin.
"Blourbast has not destroyed the Bone," he said.
Tepper,Sheri - The Song of Mavin Manyshaped Page 12
