I began to dream of floating hair and beckoning eyes again. When I had those dreams I would always wake up craving aruna with a bitter taste in my mouth.
Cal and Leef did not pamper me. I learned how to survive and my conscious self forgot the Swift that had lived within the nurturing womb of Forever. I could feel myself maturing. I felt stronger and crueller. Traveling became my life until it seemed I had known no other. At first I had felt hungry all the time, but I became accustomed to that and started to smoke Cal's thin, acrid cigarettes. It helped me get over the hunger.
We stole, we fought off hostile strangers and we rode. Aruna was our only luxury. Through that we became close. Through that we became one unit, anticipating each other's thoughts, moving forward like a well-tended machine; it seemed nothing could touch us. We occasionally gleaned snip pets of news about the Varrs, but never anything much. People had seen them pass. They had seen no-one return.
One day, Leef s horse broke its leg and we had to kill it. Impassively, we cut some of it up for meat and left the rest for the scavengers. Leef had to ride Tulga with me until we came across a small Wraeththu settlement where we could buy another horse. We had to pay much more for it than it was worth, for it was not nearly so fast or so fit as our Varrish mounts and it slowed us down. As we traveled, tension and strangeness reached out to us from the south. I could feel it most at night and we took more care with our rituals than before. Once, when we took aruna together, a spirit manifested itself in the air above us. Cal told us not to be alarmed even though it trailed us for about two days. Above the trees, the air seemed to shiver with electric currents; hair-raising noises, just audible, fingered the darkest corners of our souls. We could sense it. Unearthly power grew in strength around us, reached out tentatively to touch us. Plants along the way sprouted in giant abundance, dappled animals that we had never seen the like of before scuttled half seen through the foliage. If you gazed at the air in front of you for too long, faces would appear with gaping mouths and empty eyes. It was as if the land were cursed. Settlements of hara became less and less. What towns or villages we came across looked abandoned.
One night, as we made camp skittishly at the edge of a drooping forest, Leef said, "Tomorrow we reach the marshes."
"If they are still there," Cal added drily. He drank deeply from a water bottle, grimacing at the staleness. His horse kicked gnats from its belly in the dusk.
As we approached the Gelaming, I could feel Cal's apprehension building up. He had once said that the Gelaming might have a price on his head, supposing there was some connection between Thiede, Seel and Saltrock. The land was in turmoil, nobody really knew what was going on, everyone was concerned only with their own survival, which generally meant leaving the area altogether. Only misfits, loners and rogues appeared to remain. If any hara ever came to share our fire, we were always on edge, for we had seen too many crazy eyes, too many death carriers. As far as Cal's fears of meeting the Gelaming were concerned, after all I had seen, I felt that his murder of Orien was just one more forgettable atrocity in a wilderness of atrocities. I knew how afraid he was, yet he had still agreed to ride with me, without reservation or question. I knew my mission, or part of it. Cal also followed a quest, but he had no idea what it was.
That night, I hugged him to me, his head on my chest, and he spoke of Pell once more. After some time, he also began to speak of Seel, somewhat disjointedly and nervously, but I learned how deep their relationship had once been.
"Seel was a dear friend whom I once tried to love," he said with a sigh. "But Seel's ideals are beyond that. I watched him change until the child I had once known died forever. That spirit in the air we saw, floating above us, tasting aruna with us, that is like Seel. Available, physical, but just when you think your arms are full of him for good, there is only mist. He is a true adept and I fear him. I fear we will meet again."
In the morning, we woke up beneath a blanket of fog. The horses were jumpy and Leef spoke of heavy movement in the undergrowth around us, although we could see nothing. Since we had left Galhea, the three of us had got along together very well, but that day saw us arguing and snapping at each other; me bemoaning my discomfort, Leef getting annoyed at my moaning and Cal becoming fed up with the pair of us. "Let's get moving!" he said. "This place is dank; we should not have stayed here."
By midday, a pale sun was trying to burn through the mist. Ahead of us, huge, straggling tufts of waving reeds signaled the edge of the marsh.
"This is it," Leef told us, "Astigi, home of the Froia." The Froia were a tribe that Cal knew very little about, although Leef was vaguely familiar with them.
"Here be magic, Swift," he said, light-heartedly. "I hope they'll be friendly. Most tribes are edgy nowadays and fear to welcome strangers."
It was clear that we could no longer travel on horseback; most of the land was flooded and the roads were now dark waterways between banks of lofty reeds. Leef said that we would need a raft and that if we waited in the right place for long enough, hara of the Froia would come along. They habitually acted as guides through the marsh and accepted payment for providing transport. Leef only hoped they still provided the service.
The marsh was motionless and silent, but for the soft song of the frogs, unseen among the reed roots and the occasional rattle of a startled bird. We walked the horses for some miles along the edge of the waters, until we came to a rough jetty, poking precariously into the marsh. Here we would have to wait.
Cal was impatient; he could not keep still, insisting it was dangerous for us to sit out in the open. Leef calmly pointed out that we had no other choice. When he had last traveled south with my father, the Froia had still been hiring out their rafts. He did not think the situation would have changed, but. . . Cal snorted and threw stones into the water. Our horses jostled and groaned behind us. I sat with my chin on my knees and tried to think of home, but it was like a dream. I didn't think we knew where we were going, perhaps Tel-an-Kaa's message had been false; we could die here waiting for the Froia.
Leef came to sit beside me. "They will come, Swift, I can feel it. You will go into the marsh and out the other side. That Pythoness woman knew your destiny and I reluctantly agree with her."
I smiled weakly at him, thinking, Oh, we are vagabonds, we are filthy. No-one can mistake us for Varrs, at least! We had not taken aruna together for over two weeks. Our bodies were wretched, our spirits low.
Leef laughed, guessing my thoughts. "Yes, we are a sorry sight," he said. "I have only dragon's breath, but it's yours if you want it."
"My dragon is lonesome," I said and we embraced, clinging mouth tomouth, in an attempt to shut out reality. After some minutes, Cal kicked me on the leg.
"Break it up, we have company," he said.
Sliding over the misty water like a wraith, a large raft sliced through the reeds. Two tall figures, swathed in concealing robes, poled it toward us. Leef jumped up and signaled them. One of them raised a hand in response. Our supplies were low, we were exhausted and needed rest; Leef asked for us to be taken to the Froia settlement of Orense in the heart of the marsh. We goaded, shoved and shouted our reluctant horses on to the raft. Tulga seemed obsessed with throwing herself over the edge into the weed-choked depths; I was hard pressed to calm her.
We traveled for about an hour, through narrow waterways and avenues of tasselled reeds, through whirring, hanging balls of mosquitoes, into unexpected lagoons thronged with white birds. It was a place of pervading stenches, hidden dangers and eerie beauty. Eventually, we could see humped dwellings rising up above the reeds; the floating town of Orense. At the prospect of comfort, food and drink, our good humor was restored almost immediately. We had reached a new level of existence, where pleasures were simpler and easily gratified. Barrel-vaulted buildings constructed entirely of reeds glowed pale beneath the watery sun. Only the electric shiver on the horizon reminded us of absurdity. Orense was placid, a pocket of tranquility within the boiling magic that existed beyond the
marsh. As was customary for visitors, we were conducted to the Braga, leader of the Froia. It was more than politeness or respect; they were naturally wary of strangers. His palace of reeds was roofed with mats of muted gold and pink, and carefully woven stalks formed a palisade at the front. All the time I was conscious of slight movement beneath my feet as the great platforms shifted upon the water below. We could smell pungent coffee. Voices called softly in the distance. Tulga stamped the ground behind me, nervous because she could not feel the earth. I was smiling with relief and Leef put his hand on my shoulder.
The Froia are extremely reticent about revealing their skin and affect clothing of the most concealing nature. Only their hands, feet and faces are habitually visible. At the door to the Braga's house, we had jasmin water poured on our wrists and an aynah bud tucked behind our ears. This was to banish any evil we might be carrying with us. Inside, the light was golden. Tiny shafts of sunlight penetrated holes in the woven roof. Froia in hooded robes regarded us implacably from around the walls. Veils of pale muslin drooped to the floor and in the center of the room was a wooden throne containing the august presence of the Braga. I was unsure what to do. Was some kind of obeisance required? Fortunately, Leef stepped forward, bowed gracefully and requested if he might be given leave to speak with the Braga. The Braga raised his hand carelessly: Leef may speak.
I looked at Cal and he smiled and shrugged. "I hope all this ceremonial crap doesn't go on for too long," he said. "I'm starving and I itch and I can think only of cool water and hot coffee."
"You have no respect for other people's cultures," I replied lightly.
"No," he agreed. "What is culture, after all? It's like incest or inbreeding; everything gets too involved, too tight, too crazy. It bores me, actually."
After only a few minutes, the Braga's attendants conducted us to a separate building, where we were supplied with warm (not hot) water for bathing and clean clothes and food. The Froia do not eat meat, except for fish on religious occasions. The brown goo we were offered for consumption looked disgusting, but its taste was savory and pleasant enough. After we had eaten, Cal fastidiously inspected the robes we had been given. "No chance of giving offense in this, is there!" he said.
Leef explained. "The clothes we are wearing at the moment are looked upon as erotic. Among the Froia, the body is revealed only for aruna. While we are here, we shall have to abide by their customs. Imagine that you are walking naked among strangers. Now, put that robe on!"
The Braga requested the pleasure of our company for the evening. We were now clean, fed and rested, but I thought this would hardly be apparent because of the enveloping robes we were wearing. The atmosphere in his reedy house was thick with the smoke of incense, curtains of smoke almost indistinguishable from the curtains of muslin. Young
hara sat on the floor on cushions, playing music upon instruments of the strangest design. It sounded to me like the music of nature; the abrupt trill of a bird, the plash of raindrops or the echo of a storm that wakes you from sleep. Tame lizards stared out from the folds of the musicians' robes with eyes like jewels.
The Braga, seated on his cavern throne and surrounded by acolytes, beckoned us to his side with an imperious gesture. I could see that he had dark skin with very bright eyes and a mouth that was used to smiling. His forehead was tattoed with intricate black lines, thin gold chains fell from his headcloth around his face and the rings that reposed upon his outstretched hand were like a swarm of brightly colored insects. One of his teeth was gold.
"I understand that you are Varrs," he said, "and that one of you is the son of Terzian." He was waiting for me to introduce myself, not wishing to ask directly.
I stepped forward. "Terzian is my father."
"He passed this way ... a character of strength and courage."
I accepted this as a compliment and inclined my head. The Braga did not try to interrogate us about where we were going or why. He was used to strangers passing through his domain, perhaps his people's livelihood depended on it. He was wary, but he knew when to be discreet.
We were offered a drink distilled from honey, whose effects shot without hesitation straight to the brain. Gradually, it seemed that the noise around me became louder, the music more strident, the air thicker. Cal and Leef began to share breath, inexplicably, for normally they did not initiate anything between each other without including me. I turned away from them, and the Braga put his jewelled hand upon my face. "Of royal blood,"he said. I smiled uncertainly, wondering whether that was some kind of oblique proposal. "For your honor, there shall be dancing."
He clapped his hands once and the clamor around us ceased. Into the ensuing quiet, the Braga clicked his fingers once, and once again. Smoke rose lazily into the gently swaying gauze around us, sparkles like jewels or fireflies coruscating in the deepest shadows. One of the musicians stood up and walked to the middle of the floor. His instrument was curving, flutelike and made of wood. He raised it to his lips. Notes that rose from the dawn of the earth cut with purity through the curtains of smoke and incense. Every voice was hushed, while the young har swayed before us. His hood fell back. Beauty, I thought, and they keep this hidden! Beneath the haunting call of the flute a sibilant rattle rose and fell, rhythmic, beating, summoning. At first I did not see the figure emerging through the pall of smoke. Suddenly, it had solidified in front of me and the beating of drums vibrated the floor beneath us. Diaphanous veils concealed the body within them, but I could see a vague outline undulating and swaying below the folds. Even the face was hidden. Then two sinuous arms snaked out, glistening with heavy gold; bracelets and rings. When this happened, everyone in the room began to clap their hands softly in time with the music. The Braga leaned down and murmured in my ear. "Does this please you?" I nodded. Something was reaching out to me; unseen and insistent. It was the rhythm of the drums, the heat of the room, a swaying, inviting phantom. There was a flash and a sound like gunfire or sharp thunder and I saw the veils float up into the air as if sucked away by a powerful wind. For a moment, I looked only at that. . . spiraling, billowing, and then . . .
The Braga's hand gripped my shoulder. "For your blood, for your father, for what is to come; you shall be the first," he said and his voice was a gasp. I almost turned round to look at him, puzzled by his words, but the dancer was revealed. That describes it, but it was more than that. These people were used to concealment. To them it was something powerful and secret and forbidden to reveal themselves. There is a word for it: "veyeila," that is untranslatable to anyone who is not Froia. It means something like forbidden, taboo, desired, abandonment, frenzy; all these words and more. As I saw that har writhe barely clad upon the mats before me, I understood for just a while the eroticism they heightened within themselves by their austere code of dress. His skin was dark and oiled, his black hair curled to his shoulders, and he knew how to dance. All the invitation in the world reposed within his slender form. He danced
before me, he smiled, his body gyrating inches from my face. His smell was amber and myrrh.
I heard the Braga's voice behind me. "Swift, son of Terzian, this har is soume. His water must quench your fire. It must be now!"
I started to laugh, to protest, "But I have no fire . . ." but even as I thought it a flame was lit inside me, spontaneous as lightning, igniting desire; I had no choice. It is magic! I thought, and then the dancer was in my lap, straddling me, arranging my robes with experienced hands.
It was all so quick. One moment, I had been half-drunkenly watching a desirable har dancing in front of me, the next my back was pressed painfully into the carving on the Braga's chair and my ouana-lim was buried to the hilt within the dancer's body. My modesty was not forsaken, the robes saw to that. For several stultifying seconds he moved upon me, clenching muscles within himself, expertly bringing me to a quick and paralyzing climax. Then he was gone, jumping up, flicking back the folds of my robe, dancing once more. For a moment, I could not move, but I could sense strongly the surprise
in Cal and Leef as they stared at me. Had it really happened or had it been some bizarre hallucination, brought on by the strong liquor we had been drinking? Then I saw the dancer pick someone else from the crowd and I knew it was no dream. I felt the Braga's hand once more, squeezing my shoulder.
"He has brought you luck, son of Terzian. Good fortune will follow you out of Astigi. Speak to Nepopis later and he will tell you your destiny. You have my permission."
I suppose it was a kind of Grissecon. The dancer was blessed and to embrace him worked a charm of good fortune. I learned that strangers were not often witness to the experience, let alone participants. Nepopis the dancer was "theruna," a holy person, practiced in the art of sex magic and held in the highest esteem among his people. He lived in seclusion, on the edge of Orense, coming forth only for the dance, but if he had a whim to, he would allow visitors to enter his home and speak their destinies for them. Cal and Leef amused themselves by trying to embarrass me. I realized the futility of trying to silence their remarks and turned my back on them. It was difficult not to get annoyed. At midnight, a Froia har came to take me to Nepopis, and I got up and walked out without a backward glance.
The Wraeththu Chronicles Page 56
