The Runes of Norien
Page 8
That night Gallan and Raddia saw their first suicide.
A cold wind had been blowing since redfall, and the two Mates sat on their porch, huddled in their sheepskins and sipping warm turnip beer from a flask they passed between them – a practice frowned upon, though not forbidden; after all, their Substances were meant to merge at some point. And since open-mouth talk might be carried off by the gusts that swept the porch, biting at their exposed legs like invisible teeth, they conversed in quiet mind-speech.
What do you think Lorn meant when he said ‘another’ mystery?
Raddia took a swig of beer and shivered. Judging from Navva’s reaction, maybe he was talking about all the fruitless Surfacing rites we’ve been hearing about.
Do you think there have been Mates who failed twice?
I should hope not; it doesn’t bear thinking.
Can you imagine, though? What happens to them? I mean, we all know what happens to them, but how can they go on living, knowing the fate that awaits them?
Well, not all of them go on; and could we please talk of something else?
I’m sorry; it’s just that being with them brings back all these memories; like the muzzle. Do you remember the muzzle? Though Gallan knew the question didn’t require an answer; no Lurienite could ever forget the taste of raw hide and the humiliation of being treated as a mad dog just because you hurt yourself and cried out, or merely gave a shout while playing with other children. It’s for your own good, your Makers would say. So you don’t go around wasting your precious Substance like a leaking bucket.
Navva’s eyes must be filling up with colour, Raddia said. The veil she wore today was even thicker than the last one; it’s a wonder how she manages to get anything done – she’s virtually blind.
Gallan snickered audibly. I imagine she just bullies poor Lorn around, like she always did.
Speaking of which, I stole a look at his eyes while he was mopping up his bowl with bread; they’ve grown so grey in the middle, you can almost discern the end spots. I guess it won’t be long before their Submergence.
I thought you didn’t want to discuss disagreeable things; although, truth be told, holding Lorn’s head down – or, even better, Navva’s – well... it does have a certain, shall I say, charm?
Gallan! You’re awful! Wait till our Bitter Day comes – let’s see you jesting then!
Ah, that won’t be for many red skies... and then we can always lie, and say everything tastes sweet as honey.
Not if our Makers are gone; and anyhow, aren’t you curious about what the little ones will look like, be like?
To be shatteringly honest, not a bit; all children are the same – pests that intrude into your life and offer nothing besides bringing your submergence closer.
Raddia laughed with relief. I’m so glad to hear you say this! Because, frankly, I could care less about mating. Especially –
And then she fell suddenly silent, her voice gone from Gallan’s head as if whisked away by the wind, leaving him to wonder what she intended to say. Especially if it fails? That would be understandable; few things were more feared than unsuccessful mating. But what if she meant, Especially with you? Gallan didn’t dare think of the latter, because it was a secret he’d been harbouring too, and for so long, he had learnt to bury it in the deepest fathoms of his mind: being a Denier, a creature so loathed that even the traditional cautionary poems denouncing them were considered poisonous, and were recited rarely and secretly, lest they infect young minds.
It was in that guilty, ponderous silence, that they heard the suicide’s cries.
The sound, although extremely unusual, was unmistakable: a wail of despair, such as very young Mates emitted in moments of childish anger, anguish or physical distress, before their acquaintance with a willow switch that scarred the skin of their backs for life and taught them to rein their feelings no matter how overwhelming.
And then they saw her too, a blur of reversed colours: waist-long white hair and face tinted a luminous red by the sky, billowing milcolth robes turned searing white. She was running and sobbing, and then suddenly she tripped, flailed and collapsed on the glistening grass, just a few steps away from the Sacred River’s bank.
For a moment, Gallan and Raddia forced themselves to think nothing and do nothing, except hope that this disturbing mess of beastly loudness and disgrace would pick her sorry self up and be gone from their sight. But it seemed that the dread or the sorrow – whatever had sent her into such a pitiful state – had exhausted the woman’s powers, for she merely lay where she’d fallen, heaving and producing muffled sobs.
They could always pretend the whole thing never happened, go to bed and sleep; sympathy was not a common sentiment in Lurien. Yet something, some fear of their own (their Makers’ ageing? the prospect of their Surfacing rite?) responded to the sound of the woman’s agony. So, warily, looking around to make sure no one else was up and about, they crossed the expanse of moist, fragrant redness and stood before the woman. Her sobs had subsided, and now she merely lay there, face buried in the grass, shaking from the cold. Fleetingly, Gallan considered placing his sheepskin across the woman’s shoulders, but Raddia dissuaded him by taking hold of his hand and squeezing it – a thing she almost never did. And after a moment or two, sensing their presence, the woman climbed to her feet and stood there, crouching with shame.
Raddia recognized her from her unusually large feet, which she’d seen many times while fruit-picking in the orchards; Gallan knew her too, though from her very big and very sagging breasts, that hung as low as her waist. Her name was Tulanda, and a few days ago – according to the half-uttered gossip Gallan had overheard at the pasture, for rites were private – she and her Mate Gorfen had had their first, botched Surfacing, which meant that their next and last attempt was imminent.
At first they tried to mind-speak with Tulanda, but her agitation was so great it was impossible to make sense of her jumbled thoughts, so ultimately Gallan asked her to whisper, since the Sacred River’s babble would surely drown the sound before it could be picked up by the wind.
“Gorfen!” was the first thing she said, many times, as if he might hear his name and save her from this misery. “Gorfen! He – he left me!”
“Left you?” Raddia said, sensing the woman’s greater affinity and trust towards her. “Why?” Though of course she couldn’t hide from Tulanda the fact that she already knew why. “You still have another chance.”
“That’s what I told him, begging him to reconsider; but he said he couldn’t risk another failure – he was too young to, you know... our Makers had their Submergence a while ago, and he said he’d be damned if he let the same thing happen to him.”
“But where did he go? Surely he knows what will happen to both of you if he’s found and branded a Denier!”
“He said he would rather take his chances in the Mists! I didn’t believe him, didn’t want to believe him; that he’d leave me all alone...” And once more Tulanda’s body shook with sobs she stifled by biting on her fist.
“Don’t tell me you mean to go after him!” Gallan said. “It’s madness!”
Because, even if you survived the vicious things that lived in the Mists, there was Mirror Mountain – the threshold between Lurien and the hell-worlds of touch – whose every surface reflected your face and stole most of your Substance, leaving you a mindless husk that crawled on all fours before being devoured by the monsters living in the Mountain’s caves. To be driven there by force was the greatest possible punishment inflicted on a Lurienite, reserved for the most heinous malefactors of myths and lore; no one would choose such a fate instead of peacefully becoming one with the Sacred River.
Yet Tulanda, beside herself with terror and despair, seemed willing to follow her foolish Mate. “Perhaps I can convince him to come back, and try again, before the Circle learns of his desertion and sentences me to a dishonourable dissolving!”
And turning on her heels she set off again, walkin
g with the blind determination of budding insanity, forcing Gallan and Raddia to follow her and try to talk her out of it – for what if the stupid woman somehow survived and implicated them into her and her Mate’s flight, claiming that they did nothing to stop her?
But as they hurried after her, mind-calling her to stop and reconsider, and beg the Circle for mercy (knowing of course that nothing could save her if bloody Gorfen never returned, as was most likely to happen), suddenly there appeared in the dark red distance a wisp of shimmering stuff that whirled and thickened, sinuously slithering towards Tulanda’s white form, as if conscious of her presence – and then, fast as a beast of prey, the Mist leapt high and pounced upon her, swallowing her up along with the sound of her final scream.
Horrified, Gallan and Raddia stood and looked at the Mist that seemed to wait for them, pacing left and right and thrusting tongues of grey towards them.
Never had they felt so cold.