Echoes of the Goddess: Tales of Terror and Wonder from the End of Time

by Darrell Schweitzer

  Hadday put the crystal sphere away. He sat rigid, clasping the edge of the table with both hands.

  “I don’t understand any of this. What are you talking about? What is going on?”

  “We can explain by telling you a story,” the woman said. Again she smiled, and there was something in her smile which calmed the young thief.

  “I will begin,” said the man.

  * * * *

  “In a certain city there dwelt a certain man.”

  “His name was Manri,” the woman interrupted. “He lived in the time of the death of the Goddess, as we do, but long ago, here, in Ai Hanlo. He made bells.”

  “Yes,” the man continued. “He was the master bell-maker of all the city. It was an ancient art, even then. Its secrets had been passed from his father’s father’s father to him, and no one questioned this, or asked him what it was, nor did they pester his apprentices. Not even the Guardian of the Bones of the Goddess sought out the secret, for all that the fame of the bell-maker spread far. He sold his bells to the Guardian and his court, to all the great families of the city, and to kings and lords and priests in every part of the world.

  “What is so special about a bell? Nothing, if it’s the kind you hang around a cow’s neck. But these bells were perfect. They were almost holy things. It was within this bell-maker’s power to put a little piece of his soul into each bell. And he was not diminished by this. His soul spread throughout the world. He put a drop of his blood in the metal, too. Then, because his soul and the blood were shared, he was readily able to give each some strange and rare and wonderful shape, and to sculpt the very sounds that would issue from each bell, and give each an inscription which rang in the mind of the beholder even as the bell itself rang with the motion of its tongue.

  “I cannot tell how it was done. That was the secret. But the thoughts of the maker of bells were as calm and still as a frigid pool in an underground grotto. By the secrets of his art, by years of discipline and magic, he strove to make himself as perfect as his bells.

  “Otherwise none of his bells would have been good enough for the most solemn occasions, for ringing in commemoration of the death of the Goddess, and for summoning her successor to rise, in time, out of the Earth. When the Guardian performs certain rituals, as secret as those of the bell-maker but wholly sacred, he is accompanied by acolytes ringing delicate, perfectly formed bells. Nothing less will do. To ring in holiness, a bell must be perfect. To ring perfectly in joy and sorrow, so too it must be perfect.

  “Thus the bell-maker had to achieve perfection, in a sense.”

  * * * *

  The teller paused, and Hadday stared around the room, at the many bells, wondering if this were just something the old man had made up to glorify his profession, Still, he listened politely. The couple had treated him with kindness. And the Brotherhood of Yellow Sashes was waiting outside.

  “Manri was married,” the woman said.

  “Yes,” the man said. “A year after he inherited the position of master bell-maker, he took to wife Tirham, a magician’s daughter from Zabortash. She was as exquisite as any of his bells. Her eyes, they say, shone like diamonds, and she was dark and slender, and her hair flowed to her waist, black as night, and gleaming, as if filled with stars. She was gentle, and wise too, and sometimes when she spoke it was as if the hearer had been led into the world for the first time, and his life had truly begun.

  “No one ever felt such love as Manri for his bride. You should have heard the bells ringing on their wedding day! All over the city, all over the world, bells broke out in spontaneous peals of joy, often to the astonishment of their owners.

  “Tirham’s father came to the wedding, a full Zabortashi magus, clad in black with a tall hat. He folded the air around himself in his home in the far south, and when he unfolded it, he was in Ai Hanlo, without having crossed the distance in between. But he was not a grim and forbidding figure, as many magi are. He was merry. He performed feats of magic for the bride and bridegroom and their guests. He folded the air about himself again at the end, and was gone.”

  “Seven years passed,” said the woman.

  “They lived together in happiness, in perfection for seven years. They had seven children, three sons and four daughters. The city was at peace. Even the Guardian felt a calm settle over the city. The bones of the Goddess never stirred. There was peace everywhere one of Manri’s bells could be heard. At that time, it was impossible to get a mournful sound out of any of them.

  “I think the Powers envied Manri and Tirham after a while. I think that’s why what happened, happened.”

  The teller paused again, trembling, as if he had come to a part which was painful to recount. The woman prodded him.

  “Then Manri had a dream,” she said.

  The man resumed.

  * * * *

  “A thing like a huge black bird, only covered with hair, and with a human face, came for him in the night, snatching him out of his bed. He cried out for Tirham, but in an instant his soul, his awareness, was out the window, even while his body lay still beside his wife. He dangled by the hair from the thing’s claws as it soared over the city. He felt the pain in his head, the cold of the upper air.

  “He was carried to a ruined tower in one of the dead places, where once stood a city older than the Goddess. There were spirits of the waters there, waiting for him, floating like golden skeletons of fish through the walls and floors of the tower, drifting in the air. And there were things of the earth, a monster like a man from the waist up, but beneath it a riot of useless limbs; and something that walked upright, with the head of a crocodile and the wings of a raven, but the beautiful, glowing body of a man. Animate shadows flickered in the periphery of vision, always in motion.

  “Manri knew he was in the present of the Dark Powers, surviving splinters of the dark aspect of the Goddess. But he was brave. He did not cower before them.

  “The crocodile man spoke first, saying, ‘Tirham shall be ours. We shall take her slowly at first, then all of the sudden, as it pleases us.’

  “Manri’s resolve broke when he heard this. He cried out in terror and despair. He begged them to take him instead, but they would not do so. He was still sobbing when he was returned to his bed, and he awoke.

  “Tirham comforted him, saying, ‘It is only a dream you had. We are still together.’

  “But even as she touched him he could tell she was feverish. She sickened quickly in the following days. There was nothing anyone could do. Manri watched, helpless, wretched, as she declined. Then one night, very late, he was awakened by a sound, and he saw her standing in the doorway of the room in which he slept.

  “‘You should not be out of bed,’ he said. ‘You must save your strength. The night air is bad for you.’

  “Then he noticed that her face shone like a lantern, and he was filled with dread.

  “‘I have strength enough for my journey,’ she said. ‘Do not be afraid. It is neither warm nor cold for me. The Dark Powers shall not have me. Be comforted. I shall walk past them, never leaving the road.’

  “‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘What nonsense is this?’

  “He ran to the doorway, but she was gone. Even as he stood there, his eldest daughter came to him, tears streaming down her face, to tell him that Tirham had died.

  “Manri’s grief was as great as his love. Even long after Tirham was buried, the black banners hung outside the shop, and Manri wept. Bells rang day and night of their own accord, both in the shop and all over the city. If before it had been impossible to get a mournful sound out of them, now it was impossible to get anything else, even from the smallest and most delicate of them. Everyone shared Manri’s sorrow and pitied him, but in time they called on him to give up his endless weeping. Even the Guardian came to him with many priests, but he would not be comforted. The bells rang, and sorrow spread like a miasma over Ai Hanlo. Far below the ground, the Bones of the Goddess stirred.

  “This could not go on.
Manri’s sons resolved to travel to Zabortash, to find their grandfather, the magus, and seek his help. But they did not know the way, or where he dwelt, and they knew the journey could take years. Nevertheless, they set out.

  “And still Manri mourned.

  “At last the Eye of the Anvasas manifested itself, causing itself to be brought to the bell-maker. He sat one night in his shop, working on the delicate gold ornamentation around the rim of a bell, while around him bells shivered in sorrow and the air was thick with sound. But suddenly the sound changed very slightly, and Manri knew there was a stranger at the door.

  “No one ever discovered the man’s name. He passed the Eye to Manri and was gone. The bell-maker stood in the doorway, holding the crystal sphere, wondering what it was. But even as he did, his vision was altered, and he discerned the Anvasas. Golden smoke came pouring along the street like water, ankle-deep on the pavement, washing against the houses, pouring down the short flight of stairs, over Manri’s threshold, into the shop.

  “He walked up to street level, then began to run before the smoke, half afraid, half aware he was being directed, all the while clutching the Eye. When he came to the Sunrise Gate, there were no watchmen around. He forced the gate open. Then he looked out on a golden sea. All the world had been covered over but for Ai Hanlo Mountain, which stood like an island.

  “And gliding toward him over the mist was a great galleon, the most magnificent he had ever seen, as ornate as the finest of his bells. Indeed, like a bell, it trembled with muted song as it neared him. This was the Anvasas, as it appeared to him.

  “There was someone walking toward him across the golden sea, from the ship. He stood, straining to make out some feature, but with the luminous mist rising, for a long time he could only discern a long white gown, and a staff such as travelers carry.

  “It was only when the figure was very close that he recognized the gown, the staff, and the travelling boots he had given to Tirham to aid her in her journey out of the world.

  “He let out a yell of astonishment and ran to her. The mist held him up. They met a little ways from the gate and embraced. She was no ghost.

  “‘How is it you are returned to me?’ he asked. She put her finger to his lips. ‘Do not ask. Only welcome me back.’

  “‘You are welcome, welcome!’ he said, his voice cracking. And he led her into the city, running before her in his excitement, then waiting for her to catch up. All around, his bells rang with sudden exaltation. People looked out of their windows. He did not know if they saw the mist or the ship which was the Anvasas. He did not care.

  “Slowly the mist receded. When he got to his shop, there was only a little pool of it at the bottom of the stairs.

  “He led Tirham inside, and fumbled nervously with candles, trying to get one lit, so he could see her more clearly.

  “It was when he did that he shrieked and tore his hair, yanked her staff from her, and ripped her gown away.

  “No living woman stood before him. It was not Tirham, but a stone statue, a perfect likeness, exquisitely wrought. The bells clamored. His daughters came to him, puzzled and frightened. They could not silence or comfort him. It seemed he would go mad, and the whole city would also, for the ringing of the bells.

  “The neighbors came, some with wax in their ears, saying, ‘It is a beautiful memorial. Keep it and be still.’ But he was not still. When he fell into an exhausted sleep at last, still the bells rang and jangled. Some of the huge ones split and fell into pieces, thundering.

  “The people asked, ‘How can this cruel thing be?’ The Guardian of the Bones of the Goddess came with his priests and soldiers in slow procession. For once, no bells preceded him. He knew by his holy vision that the statue was of the Anvasas. ‘You must accept it,’ he told Manri.

  ‘‘‘No, Lord,’ said the bell-maker, ‘Not even you can command such a thing,’

  “‘We shall see,’ said the Guardian, who then set a cordon of soldiers around the shop.

  “Day and night the soldiers stood there, with wax in their ears to dampen the sound. The nearby houses and shops were deserted. Manri’s children were allowed to go in and out and see to his needs, but he was not permitted to leave. Daily he sat amidst the pealing bells, blood running from his ears at the sound, staring at the statue of his wife. It came to life slowly. After a week, its limbs relaxed. After another, it began to lumber about the shop, crashing into bells, overturning tables and work-benches, stumbling against his forge where he melted metals. The stone face was expressionless. It spoke, its voice rasping, grinding, ‘Husband…do you…not know me? Where is my husband?’ It would come groping toward him. He had to scramble out of the way to avoid being trampled.

  “But slowly it became more human, its voice more like Tirham’s. One day he found it kneeling before a trunk, going through her clothing. The face turned toward him as he entered the room. There was an expression on it now: surprise turning into delighted recognition.

  “‘I am naked,’ she said. ‘I have to put something on.’

  “Manri surrendered. Weeping, he fell into her arms, and found that her flesh was soft and warm. She spoke to him in familiar, intimate whispers, as only Tirham could. They made love. The bells stopped ringing.

  “Throughout the rest of his life, he lived only for each day, never questioning, just accepting each sensation, each instant as it came. Since Tirham was genuine to all his senses, there was no question in his mind that she was indeed his wife.”

  * * * *

  Again the teller of the tale paused, and looked directly at Hadday Rona, the thief.

  “Now you know the power of the thing you have stolen. You know what it can do. Can you imagine for what purpose it has come into your possession?”

  Hadday was afraid now. He rose to leave.

  “Wait,” said the woman. “There is more. Stay and listen.”

  He sat down.

  She told the rest of the story.

  * * * *

  “Manri the bell-maker grew old, but Tirham did not age. This did not make him question. Nothing did. She was as he had always remembered her, as beautiful as she had been when they were first wed, and he was content. He counted himself lucky. In time, he told people that she was his daughter, then his granddaughter. He didn’t hear very well in his old age.

  “When he died, it was she who would not be comforted. She had become so much like the original Tirham that she truly loved him with the same intensity that he had loved her. Once more the bells rang uncontrollably. They exploded into fragments. It was dangerous to be near one.

  “But this time the agony did not go on as long. This Tirham was of the Anvasas, and she could perceive it directly, without need of the Eye.

  “She sat disconsolate in her room above the shop, staring out over the Endless River and the plains beyond.

  “The wind blew a leafy vine through the window. It brushed against her face. She held it, puzzled. Then she looked out the window again and saw, not the river and the plain, but the floor of a forest, deep and boundless. The base of a tree blocked half the view.

  “She understood because she was of the Anvasas, and crawled through the window, emerging into the forest from a hole in a vine-covered mound. The forest was solid and real. She did not fall into the street, below the window.

  “She walked for a time in utter silence beneath the trees. Somewhere the sun was setting, and the green faded. Shadows lengthened, and pooled, and filled the forest.

  “Then she saw a light ahead and came to a campfire, and found her husband sitting beside it.

  “‘I was expecting you,’ she said.

  “Together they returned to the city and dwelt in the house of Manri and Tirham, making bells of consummate perfection, which never broke or rang of their own accord. The two of them aged as they chose to. They had a way of bending the light that fell on them, deceiving the beholder. They could assume any appearance they wanted. They were immortal. They watched their children grow old, and the
ir grandchildren, and they caused themselves to be forgotten and assumed new identities.”

  * * * *

  The woman fell silent, and there was only the faint sound of the bells in the darkening room as the candles burned low. In this light, Hadday realized, the two faces before him looked very much like stone.

  “I think I…” His heart was racing.

  The man and woman both nodded.

  To the man he said, “You are Manri.” To the woman, “You are Tirham.”

  “There are many like us,” the woman said, reaching over to hold her husband’s hand gently. “We discovered that soon enough. We are seedlings of the Anvasas, scattered throughout the world. No one can recognize us, except for those who have the special sight.”

  Hadday fingered the bag around his neck.

  “Another thing,” the man said. “The children of the Anvasas do not bleed as mortals do. Our blood runs clear. If you have the sight, you can see it.”

  Trembling, Hadday let go of the Eye. He took out a knife and slashed his left palm. He stared at it for a moment, then, making a fist, got up and ran from the bell-maker’s shop.

  * * * *

  The city wasn’t there when he got outside. Only the shop stood, absurdly, in the middle of an utterly barren plain. He looked back once, but did not go back inside. He was resigned to his fate. He understood that once more the Anvasas had revealed itself.

  He crossed the plain beneath a steel grey sky. Hours passed, or perhaps days. There was no change in the light. He lost all sense of time, and became delirious with thirst and hunger. The air was stifling. It was hard to breathe.

  Again he looked back, but the shop had long since disappeared in the distance.

  At last he saw a thin column of smoke above the horizon. He headed toward it. A dark speck resolved itself into a tumbledown hut. The smoke was rising through a hole in the roof. He stood for a time before the door, savoring the cool shadow of the overhanging roof, then went in.

  An old man crouched before a bubbling cauldron, his back to Hadday.