Mouraf and the people of Yf killed a black-bristled boar that night. They brought it home amid a blaze of torchlight and triumphant chanting.
One man voiced my thoughts: ‘How can you tell that’s a scape-beast? It looks like a simple hog to me!’
Mouraf had scowled. ‘Fool! It disappeared before our eyes a dozen times, before appearing behind us again in an instant! Simple hogs are not capable of that! See its eyes? They are red, and the tusks are crueller than the norm. You tempt the spirits by mocking. Had we not killed this beast, members of your own household might have been at risk!’
The criticised man turned to me. ‘Mouraf’s son was not gored by a hog,’ he said. ‘You saw this. Are scape-beasts so wise as to kill without their beast weapons?’
The man was canny, but then he had not lost a son. I shrugged. ‘The killing of this animal was a release,’ I answered. ‘Above all, that is most important.’
They burned the carcass of the hog as an offering for the deceased boy, the whole town filled with a sense of celebration, as well as one of loss.
Annec sought me out in the crowd. ‘Mouraf has many sons,’ she said. ‘The cut will mend soon enough.’
I smiled. The people of Yf all had massive families. It bred, perhaps, a certain fatalism concerning the loss of children.
Later, I walked out into Mouraf’s yard, gazing out across the modest paddocks and orchards behind. Mountains loomed above the town, silent and still beneath the wind, filled with their own prescience and wisdom. They, and the trees, the grass beneath my feet, the very air, had witnessed the fate of Mouraf’s son, but they could not speak to me. I was discomforted. Not only did failure oppress me, but I could no longer deny the pattern revealing itself before me. There was a message to be translated, symbolism to be aligned and understood. I could not ignore it. Information nagged in the air around me, incomprehensible for now, but existent all the same. If only I could pluck it forth, and give it form. I had a feeling, should I be in a soulscapers’ gathering this moment, everyone would have tales to tell of the increase of this soul-shredding phenomenon. A sense of urgency filled my mind. The wind blew over the mountains, whipping the tree branches around me, bringing in the clouds from above the eastern seas. It was filled with unheard voices and spiralling spirit forms. Soon, the people of Yf would forget this tragedy, and their lives would resume a contented rhythm. Mouraf’s wife would bear him more children; the memory would fade. If they were lucky, this would not happen to them again. But I, come morning, would leave the town, my mind full of this moment, repeated endlessly.
Come morning, I would follow the way of the wind.
Section Two
Gimel
‘…we are decreed, reserved and destined to eternal woe; whatever doing, what can we suffer more, what can we suffer worse?’
Paradise Lost, Book II
Everything reached crisis point far sooner than we had anticipated. Time is no enemy to the eloim; we supposed we had many years in which to investigate the phenomenon of the suicides. We felt as if we were controlling the sickness.
For several years, we had suffered no more fatalities, as all cases had been recognised in their early stages, and the throngs had sent any potential self-destructees hastily into retreat. This gave us a respite. I wanted Rayojini to be in her forties by the time I summoned her to Sacramante; then, she would be approaching the peak of her powers. The innovation and impulsiveness of youth might be dulled, but she would have accumulated vast experience; a far more potent tool. However, events began to accelerate beyond our control well before that time.
Metatron’s dark suppositions, which he did not broach with me again for many years, seemed to have been correct. Over the years, my differences with my father had seemed to fade, and although we had never resumed any intimate physical relationship, we now spent more time in each other’s company. I was aware that, as well as enjoying my conversation, Metatron was subtly grooming me for a role he expected me to undertake later in life. It was never actually said, but I sensed he had chosen me to be his successor in the family stronghold. The day when he would step down as leader of our throng seemed so distant to me, I did not worry about it particularly, but occasionally, in private moments, the spectre of what I’d done in Lansaal would insist on coming to haunt me and I wondered whether Metatron would still view me as his direct heir, should he ever find out about it. Sometimes, though rarely, I’d dream of being the beast again, and those dreams were erotic and pleasurable, a feast of blood and sex. Perhaps Beth suffered the same dreams, although we never discussed it. I could only hope that time would eventually dull the sting of those memories.
One evening, Metatron came to call on me. From the moment he stepped into my salon, I sensed an agitation in his manner. My mood changed immediately from lively anticipation of an agreeable evening’s discussion to joyless apprehension.
‘I regret we must discuss subjects of a serious nature tonight,’ Metatron said. He held out his coat to Tamaris, who was waiting to see whether I would order light refreshment. I waved her away quickly.
Metatron sat down opposite my couch, resplendent, as usual, in tight yet flexible garments of black crushed velvet, his jewellery exquisite but understated; a single ring, simple hoops of thick gold in his ears, shining through his dark hair.
‘Not bad news...’ I said, hopeless of reassurance.
My father frowned. ‘Gimel, I spoke to you some time ago concerning potential illicit eloim activity in Khalt. Well, patron agents have reported further phenomena.’
‘More deaths?’ To dispel my unease, I stood up and went to my liquor cabinet to pour us both a measure of brandy.
‘The deaths appear to have continued,’ he said, ‘but it is more than that.’
I handed him a glass. ‘I cannot imagine anything more serious.’ I sat down, sipped some brandy, grateful for its warming piquancy.
‘There are reports of... unusual events in Khalt,’ he said. ’Events that, to ignorant minds, might appear – well - supernatural in origin.’
‘Such as?’
‘Would you believe corpses that walk, monstrous ghosts, quantities of blood appearing spontaneously on ground where there are no victims, human or beast, of assault?’
‘I would find it hard to believe such things,’ I said carefully.
‘Much of it might be exaggeration, of course,’ Metatron added hastily, ‘but these are the reports we are receiving from patron agents.’
‘Surely all cultures have such legends,’ I said. ‘The agents are obviously looking for evidence and are perhaps taking more notice of folklore that the Khalts have believed in for centuries.’
‘There is merit in that assumption,’ Metatron said grudgingly. ‘But the agents claim to have seen certain things themselves - the blood, for example, and peculiar figures in the night. These people are highly trained; it is doubtful they would be prey to idle fancies like uneducated peasants! I’m afraid I am inclined to pay attention to their reports.’
‘And do I take it you also believe the Tartaruchis are responsible?’
Metatron glanced at me sharply, clearly aware I still doubted that possibility. ‘I cannot help but believe that, but if they are, I admit they cover their tracks well. With the sanction of the Parzupheim, I have been discreetly monitoring their behaviour, but so far have been unable to produce proof that any members of the Tartaruchi throng have even left Sacramante over the past few years.’
‘From which you might draw the conclusion none of them actually have,’ I suggested.
Metatron sighed. ‘I am disturbed about your tendency to defend Avirzah’e’s throng,’ he said.
‘I am not defending them,’ I replied, ‘but merely voicing the remarks Tarturus himself would no doubt present should this investigation become public. I am only trying to help you formulate a suitable reply to any objection he might raise.’
Metatron narrowed his eyes at me. I was unsure myself whether the explanation of my remarks
was true or not. I was intrigued by Avirzah’e, but had had no direct contact with him for years, and certainly harboured no especial regard for him or his people. Some instinct within me, however, could not accept the Tartaruchis were responsible for the events Metatron had described. The Tartaruchis were known as a flamboyant and outspoken throng, and their behaviour had often irritated the more sedate members of our community, but I did not believe them to be corrupt.
‘I suppose you are right,’ Metatron conceded reluctantly, ‘and my answer, in that case, is this: at any one time, the majority of throng members are concealed, in retreat slumber, within the atelier courts. Therefore, it is not impossible that the Tartaruchis harbour progeny of which the rest of us are unaware, and who could therefore depart the city, and re-enter it, undetected. There might be hidden thoroughfares beneath the Tartaruchi stronghold.’
I thought Metatron’s theory a little outrageous and desperate, but did not say so. ‘Well, it is possible, I suppose, but I am sure that if the Tartaruchis are involved in these phenomena, it is because certain younger, hot-blooded individuals are petulant and arrogant and shortsighted. I am sure that, whatever they are doing, it can’t be that effective. Do you seriously think Tartarus would condone such behaviour? Surely, by simply confronting him with your suppositions, his insubordinate progeny could easily be curbed.’
‘I can’t do that, Gimel. I have no proof.’
‘Mmm,’ I murmured, and risked a smile.
Metatron appeared offended by my expression. ‘Do not forget, beloved daughter, I still have a greater verse to quote: the Harkasites!’
I shuddered. The mere fact that my father hadn’t yet initiated that particular course of action encouraged me to think he was actually reluctant to do so, despite his threats.
‘The verse is long and complicated,’ I said, ‘its content menacing to well being, its conclusion as yet unwritten. It might also be received unfavourably by your audience...’
‘Unless I recite it to myself alone,’ Metatron concluded darkly.
I shrugged. ‘I can only caution you to delay the performance.’ My heart was filled with foreboding.
Metatron’s fears proved to be the least of our problems. As the sickness had been eclipsed in my father’s mind by events beyond Bochanegra, so a more immediate threat in Sacramante itself dispelled the spectre of renegade eloim for a while. Only two days after Metatron’s visit to my salon, a terrible incident occurred.
Because of our longevity, which of all our racial characteristics is the hardest to conceal, we cannot blend easily into human society. We are constantly shadowed by the threat of suspicions being aroused, which could lead to the revival of old hatreds and prejudices. Therefore, at a crucial time in our history, we instituted our own ethnic community within the atelier courts, the streets of which are never frequented by humans, other than patrons or our own trusted retainers. If we were not the creatures we are, and if we were prepared to abandon the very point of our existence, this seclusion might have been enough to protect us. Unfortunately, we cannot forsake our duty; we are impelled to transmit our artistic spirit throughout the world. This is not a selfish gesture because, should they be deprived of our creativity, humanity would be spiritually impoverished and, more profoundly, would find themselves in a very vulnerable position, of which even the patrons are unaware. Our vocation demands that we perform in public, exhibit our art and publish our philosophies, which forces us into closer contact with humanity than is either safe or desired. Should we neglect to take adequate precautions, the least astute human would soon notice that his or her favourite performer never seemed to age. To offset this possibility, all eloim are required to take regular retreats - normally, once every sixty or seventy years. Retreat is essentially a sleeptime of refreshment and meditation and, at its conclusion, reawakened eloim are reintroduced into society as younger members of their families, newly fledged in the arts. The eloim throngs all possess a strong family resemblance, so there is little likelihood that non-patrons will suspect anything. Obviously, we take extra precautions, and rely heavily upon makeup and masks when performing in the streets, just in case some aged member of the audience has a good memory. Also, at any one time, only a select group of eloim practice beyond the atelier walls; the majority of throng-members cluster like bats in the high towers, away from public sight. No one, not even the patrons, are aware of how many of us there are. Eloim living beyond Sacramante have developed their own methods of concealment, but all in all, this delicate balance has been maintained for centuries. We were aware, however, of the vulnerability of our position.
Our most potent tool of security operates on the soulscape level of humanity, because humans tend to believe everything they are told by spiritual or political leaders. The patrons of Bochanegra, a powerful country, have effective influence on world politics. But we control the spiritual life of humanity ourselves. There are a select group of eloim whose sole creative function is simply to invent gods. These religious ideas are disseminated throughout the world via the patrons’ agents, and it is therefore relatively easy for us to sow particular seeds into human culture, which have effectively preserved our secret. Since the phenomenon of the Holy Death had been brought to Metatron’s attention, he had seen to it that this religious creativity had increased. Without explaining why exactly, he had encouraged the artisans concerned to throw out all manner of exotic ideas, in the hope that it would cause a smokescreen around incidents which might, or might not, have been instigated by rebel eloim.
However, despite our considerable influence, our careful disguises and precautions, both the patrons and ourselves were perpetually vigilant for individuals who might have seen through our defences, whose curiosity and suspicions had been aroused. It was as if we knew, in our hearts, that one day the difficulty we all dreaded most would arise, that it was inevitable.
One afternoon, Hadith Sarim came to my salon. She was a regular visitor, and I was very pleased to see her, but that day, she was restless and remote. I questioned her, naturally, and found her strangely reluctant to speak. Eventually, she confessed that she feared she had transgressed eloim code in some way. The remark shocked me bringing, once again, uncomfortable memories to mind, but I took her hands in my own, assuring her I could not believe such a thing, and urged her to confide in me. At first, she was practically unable to articulate her anxieties.
‘Gimel, you are wise. I cannot speak easily of my feelings to anyone - not even members of my own throng, but I must confess I would value your counsel.’
‘Speak freely,’ I soothed. ‘Rest assured that what you tell me will be kept in confidence.’
Slowly, after further gentle nudging, I extracted the information that she had noticed a human male paying particular attention to her at a recent set of concerts. On a couple of occasions, he had even followed her home to the gates of the atelier courts.
I laughed at her disquiet, patted her hand, and told her that her duty was simply to satisfy his curiosity! If he was the son of a family with whom she did not enjoy formal patronage, then of course, the liaison must be discreet, but it was a problem quickly vanquished.
Hadith only frowned. ‘You don’t understand, Gimel,’ she said. ‘He is not a patron at all!’
Not a patron? I was astounded. Non-patron society in Sacramante had been thoroughly permeated with a subtle antipathy towards eloimkind in a carnal sense, so that we did not appear that attractive to them. There would be an even greater risk of discovery if non-patrons started desiring us as lovers, because we knew that love inspired far greater curiosity than any other human condition. The flimsy boundary between admiration for our work and physical desire was delicately balanced. I was horrified by what Hadith had confessed.
‘You must tell your patrons at once!’ I said. ‘At once!’
She shrank from doing so, knowing the consequences would unavoidably involve extinction for the besotted non-patron.
‘Hadith, our need for security transcend
s the welfare of the individual,’ I said firmly. ‘You must not even think about the man concerned, never mind feel sympathy for him.’
‘He presented me with a poem at the final concert,’ Hadith said, glumly.
‘You have it with you?’
She nodded and took it from her purse. I silently scanned the maudlin lines. He more than desired her, poor fool; he loved her. However, the work did not contain enough literary potential to consider elevating its creator to the ranks of the patrons. ’You must go home and summon the Tricante elders immediately!’ I said, handing her back the scrap of paper.
Hadith swallowed painfully. ‘Gimel, he is... he is most beautiful .’
‘Hadith!’
She covered her eyes with her hands. ‘I’m sorry. I know. I know.’
By this time, I was very concerned for her. ‘You must take a measure of brandy, my dear. Compose yourself. Under the circumstances, I think it would be best if I sent Tamaris to the Carmen Tricante straight away with a message. Meanwhile, I will escort you home and speak to the Sarim on your behalf.’
‘Thank you, Gimel. I will never be able to repay this favour.’ Hadith wearily put her head in her hands and let me take control.
That should have been an end to the matter. The Tricantes should have discreetly exterminated the nuisance. Plans went horribly awry, however. Two days later, after careful investigations had been made, Hadith’s doting admirer - a man revealed to be Oro Mervantes - was annihilated by Perdina, a young woman of the Tricante family. Unfortunately, Mervantes’ mistress, a woman named Rosalia, had become aware of her lover’s interest in Hadith. She had been making jealous investigations of her own, observing her lover’s apartment from concealment, hoping to catch him in flagrante. On the night in question, while surveying Oro’s rooms from a neighbouring building, she witnessed Perdina entering Mervantes’ apartment by a rear entrance. Supposing this cloaked and furtive female to be her dreaded rival, Rosalia silently followed Perdina at a distance. Thus, the Tricante was caught red-handed; a knife in her hand; Mervantes, throat slit, at her feet. Regrettably, Rosalia had the presence of mind to crack Perdina over the head with a bed-warmer, before running out into the street, where she fell to her knees, screaming for whoever could hear her to fetch the judiciary. A semi-conscious Perdina was subsequently taken into custody, whereupon the Judificator of Sacramante discovered he had an embarrassing situation on his hands.
Burying the Shadow Page 15
