by P. C. Cast
When all had been made ready Dead Eye waited patiently, only moving forward to place the still unconscious Other on the scaffold when Dove finally appeared. She stood beneath the Reaper’s balcony, looking serene and godlike, surrounded by a perfect dozen young women. They were all bare breasted, dressed only in long skirts decorated with the human hair of Others who had been sacrificed to the People throughout the ages. Dead Eye appreciated the picture they made, especially as a girl with no eyes had created it.
“Shackle him and then lift the scaffold!” Dead Eye ordered. As the People scrambled to do his bidding, Dead Eye went to Dove. Unlike within the Chamber she had not left for the sixteen winters of her life, Dove did not move with the independent confidence here that she did above. But when he offered her his arm, saying, “Oracle, may I lead you to the sacrifice?” she did not hesitate. She placed her soft, white hand on his thickly muscled forearm, allowing him to guide her forward to the steps of the scaffold. Together they climbed the four steps, stopping before the man who now hung, spread-eagle, from the T-shaped structure.
“Who has his canine?” Dead Eye asked the People.
“Here! He is here!” The People parted, allowing Iron Fist to make his way to the platform. He was holding the little black Terrier, who was bound and muzzled.
Dead Eye noted the intelligence in the animal’s eyes, and that he did not struggle or whine. He simply stared at the unconscious man bound to the platform.
“Wake him!” Dead Eye commanded.
Two of the Harvesters came forward carrying rusted buckets filled with water, which they dumped on the man. Instantly, he sputtered and began to struggle, trying to break free of the iron circles that held his wrists and ankles.
“You will only damage yourself if you continue to struggle,” Dead Eye told him.
The man stopped moving. He blinked hard several times, obviously clearing his vision. He glanced at Dead Eye, but his gaze didn’t remain on him. It rested on Iron Fist and the canine in his arms.
“Do anything you want with me, but let Odysseus go.” He growled the words from between clenched teeth.
“You are in no position to bargain,” Dead Eye said.
“Of course I am, you mutant bastard. I know that you think living flesh has some kind of magickal property that will save you from your disgusting life, so you want me to stay alive as long as possible. I give you my oath that I will fight death, even as you flay the flesh from my body, but only after you let my Terrier go.”
“If not you will what?” Dead Eye asked, honestly curious about what the angry man would say.
“Simple. I give up. I focus on the pain and the blood, and I will myself to die so that I can join Odysseus in the next world. Sooner rather than later.” He finished, then he spat a glob of phlegm at Dead Eye’s feet.
“Is this canine so important to you?” Dead Eye said.
The man’s eyes flashed with barely controlled rage. “You seem to be leader of these mutants, so I’m going to assume you have more brains than they do and you know the importance of a bonded canine-Companion pair. So, yes, Odysseus is so important to me that I would make many sacrifices to save him.”
“Interesting…” Dead Eye mused. Then he lowered his voice and whispered to Dove. “You were right, my precious one. We needed to capture the canine with the man. This will be perfect.”
She smiled serenely and stroked his arm. “Continue with our plan, Champion. I will make sure the God is with you. The People will follow your lead—now and always.” She turned to face the crowd that waited with almost palpable excitement. “This will not be the type of sacrifice you are used to, but the God has shown me what must be done to please Her, and your Champion will make it so.”
There was a stirring among the People, and then the Harvesters dropped to their knees, followed by the Hunters, and finally the older men and women who had begun to emerge from the shadows surrounding the Temple.
“They show reverence,” Dead Eye whispered to her.
She nodded almost imperceptibly, and then she lifted the ritual trident from its sheath at her slender waist and shouted, “Let the sacrifice begin!”
“Let the sacrifice begin!” the People echoed.
Dead Eye took the trident from her, bowing reverently to Dove. Then he motioned for Iron Fist to join him on the platform. Flanked by the Harvester who held the canine on one side, and the eyeless Oracle on the other, Dead Eye approached the bound man.
“I would have your name before I begin,” Dead Eye said.
“Will you free Odysseus?”
“I will. You have my word that your canine will be allowed to leave the City alive.”
The man seemed to deflate with relief. “My name is Thaddeus.”
“Thaddeus, I am the Champion, and I honor you for what you will bring to my People.” Then Dead Eye reached out, grasped the front of Thaddeus’s soaked tunic, and ripped it from his body.
Dead Eye stared at the man’s naked torso, hardly believing what he was seeing, and then he threw back his head and began to laugh. Behind him the People stirred restlessly, questioning murmurs spreading throughout the crowd. Dead Eye stepped aside, so that the People could get a clear view of Thaddeus. There were gasps of shock and cries of amazement as the People saw the cracked, shedding skin that decorated his arms and torso.
“He is one of us!” Dead Eye shouted, then he turned back to Thaddeus, who was watching him with hard, cold eyes. “So, you ate the meat of the stag.” He hadn’t framed the sentence as a question, but the Other answered anyway.
“I didn’t eat it. Its blood got in my eyes and my mouth.”
“Then your skin began to crack and shed,” Dead Eye said, unable to stop smiling.
“Yes. Look, enough of this useless chitchat. Let Odysseus go and get on with it. I’m actually looking forward to getting this fucking disgusting skin off my body and being rid of this pain-in-the-ass world.”
Dead Eye laughed again. “Oh, no! No! You misunderstand. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to save you.” He gestured at Iron Fist. “Bring the canine to me.”
Iron Fist came to him, holding out the little Terrier. Dead Eye took the canine, flipped him over, so that his side and belly were exposed. With a motion so smooth and practiced that Odysseus did not begin to scream or struggle until the first strip of bloody flesh had been sliced cleanly from his body, Dead Eye made the first cut.
“No! Fucking stop hurting him, you bastard! You swore to let him go!” Thaddeus shrieked and struggled against his shackles.
“And I will keep my oath, but only after I complete the sacrifice.” With the same dexterity, Dead Eye cut two more slender, bloody strips from the struggling canine, handing each to Dove, who held them reverently in her soft, white hands. Finally, he told Iron Fist, “Bind the canine’s wounds.”
Then he turned to Thaddeus, who was sobbing and shrieking with the same hysteria the canine had been showing.
“Ssssh,” Dead Eye soothed. “Your Odysseus will recover. He has served my purpose. And you will recover, too.” Then he took the ribbons of scarlet flesh from Dove, one at a time, carefully shaping them into smaller pieces before he began packing them into the angry cracks in Thaddeus’s skin.
“What are you doing?” Thaddeus said between teeth gritted against anger and pain.
“Saving you,” Dead Eye said.
Meticulously, Dead Eye packed each of the cracks in Thaddeus’s skin with the Terrier’s still warm flesh. When he was finished, Dove called her Attendants to wrap strips of cloth over the wounds, and then, once more, Dead Eye turned to face the People.
“Now you see what the God has shown Dove. Bring Thaddeus water and his canine. They are free to return to their city in the trees!” Dead Eye unshackled Thaddeus, so that the man slumped to the floor of the bloody platform. Iron Fist returned then with the bandaged Odysseus, whom Dead Eye took from the Harvester and gave to Thaddeus. The man clutched the little canine to his bloody chest, rocking back
and forth and staring through pain-slitted, wary eyes at him.
There was a restless silence, and then one of the senior Hunters, a man known as Serpent, spoke. “Champion, we hear and will obey the will of the God, but we do not understand.”
Dead Eye smiled, pleased that the People did not falter in their support for him, even though they did not share his vision.
“Because you are faithful, I will explain,” Dead Eye said. He turned to Thaddeus. “Tell me, Thaddeus, what would the Others do if they knew about your cracked, shedding skin?”
Thaddeus’s neck moved convulsively as he gulped the last of the water Dove’s Attendants had brought him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his shaking hand and met Dead Eye’s gaze over his Terrier’s head.
“I don’t know what the Tribe would do.”
“Oh, come now. You can do better than that,” Dead Eye said.
Thaddeus stared down at his canine. He drew a deep breath and when he looked up, his expression had completely changed—hardened—turned flat and angry. “They would isolate me. If they couldn’t cure me they would put me and Odysseus to death.”
Dead Eye nodded, satisfied. “Yes, because killing you would be what is best for the Others.”
“That’s how they would see it,” Thaddeus said.
“But that is not how I see it,” Dead Eye continued. “I do not believe you are sick. I believe you are changed, made better, and that once you understand exactly what you are becoming, you will shun any so-called cure. But that will be your decision and yours alone. Now you are free to go—to keep your secret.”
“Why?” Thaddeus asked.
“Because the Reaper God commands it, and we do not question Her.” Dead Eye tossed his tunic to the bloody man, saying, “Return Thaddeus and his Odysseus to the river and their boat. Set them free.”
The People responded, surging onto the platform and helping Thaddeus to stand, then supporting him as they led him from the courtyard to begin the trek through the ruined heart of the City. He looked back only once, and that was to stare at the huge statue of the God as She loomed above them.
Dead Eye stroked a finger down Dove’s smooth cheek. “That was even simpler than I expected. What a fortuitous surprise to see that he was already infected. And now it has truly been set to motion.”
“It will be just as you said.” Dove took his hand, guiding it to her waist and stepping eagerly within his arms.
“Yes, he is already filled with anger just as surely as he has been filled with the infection of this tainted City. Thaddeus will sow dissension and destruction throughout the Others, and when his poisonous fruit finally ripens we will Harvest a new City, a new life, a new world!” Dead Eye bent and captured her lips with his, and then, in perfect accord, the two of them went into their Temple where, surrounded by Dove’s Assistants, they feasted and made merry.
31
Mari made her decision just after she woke. She was yawning and stretching and enjoying the warmth Rigel generated as he lay beside her on what used to be Leda’s pallet. She was thinking about the fact that she really, really needed to do laundry, which wasn’t something she’d ever looked forward to, and thinking of washing her dirty clothes led to thinking about washing in general. As Mari stretched again and began to climb over Rigel her hair flopped into her face—her dirty, stinking, disgusting hair.
Mari lifted the matted hunk and tried to comb through it with her fingers. Then she noticed the dirt under her fingernails—and on her hands—and her arms. Of their own accord her grim-colored hands lifted to touch her face. It was dirty. She knew that. Much of the makeup had worn off, but out of habit Mari stood, ready to head to the pot of clay and reapply it to conceal her features. While she was at it she thought she’d better boil up some more dye for her hair. She didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that its true color was bleeding through the dirt and dye. Just the thought of spreading the vile mixture on her already stinking hair had Mari’s shoulders slumping. It made her want to crawl back into bed and sleep forever.
It would be so wonderful if I didn’t have to cover myself in clay and filth and dye.
Then Mari froze.
Why not quit all of the camouflaging? Why not just be herself?
Feeling the change within her, Rigel woke fully. He jumped off the pallet, stretched, and then padded to her, looking up with a funny, quizzical expression.
She grinned down at her Companion. “I covered how I look before because it was best for Mama and me. But Mom is gone. Sora’s going to be Moon Woman. That means I’ll never have to be accepted by the Clan—ever!” Rigel wagged his tail and barked in agreement. Mari poked her head out of the little room that had been her mother’s and peeked at Sora, who seemed to be sound asleep. She turned back to Rigel. “Okay, then that’s it. I’ve decided. No more dirt. No more dye. No more clay. I’m done pretending to be someone I’m not.”
Humming to herself Mari searched for clean clothes. Then she went to the pantry and pulled out an entire bulb of soaproot. While she was there she fingered the knives resting on their pantry shelf and chose the sharpest of them all. Then she set about feeding herself and Rigel while she daydreamed about what it would be like to have her own skin and her own hair showing, with nothing covered or hidden or dyed.
It would be glorious!
Her mind made up, Mari went into the main room of the burrow and bumped Sora’s leg—once, twice. The girl muttered and curled up in a ball, pulling her legs close to her. Mari sighed, went to the door, and retrieved her walking stick. Then, smiling mischievously, she poked Sora right in the butt.
Sora flailed her hand about as if trying to knock aside an insect, muttering, “Stop it.”
“I’m going out and you should probably come with me.”
Sora rolled over, peering through narrowed, sleepy eyes at her. “No. I should probably sleep. Go away.”
Mari almost grabbed the pelt Sora had cocooned herself in and pulled her off the pallet, but thought better of it. Just like Mama used to say—I need to use my brains before engaging my brawn.
“Okay. Stay here. But later when you’re complaining about the smell you’ll be talking about yourself and not me.”
Sora’s gray eyes opened wider. “You’re going to wash?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
Sora sat up. “Of course I sound surprised. I’ve never seen you clean.”
“You’ve seen me clean plenty of times. You’ve just never seen my skin or my face or my hair free of what I’ve had to cover it with for most of my life to keep me safe. I’m not dirty, Sora. I’m different,” Mari said.
Sora sniffed in her direction and then wrinkled her nose. “You smell dirty.”
“My mother died. I’ve been in mourning.”
“People in mourning don’t bathe?” Sora tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle.
“Sora, you are not funny. Get up and come with me. I’m going to wash all this stuff off me, and I’m sorry to say it, but I need your help.”
“Really?” Sora brushed back her hair and began to plait it into a thick braid.
Mari watched her deft fingers. “Really, and I need your help with my hair.”
“Finally! I’m glad for you, Mari.”
“Well, there’s no reason for me to try to fit in with the Clan anymore, so there’s no reason for me not to be myself.” Mari wondered why speaking the words to Sora made her feel so hollow when she’d been thinking them for weeks with no remorse at all.
“You know it doesn’t have to be like this. You and I could help each other out. A lot.”
“How so?”
“Why not have two Moon Women in the Clan?” Sora said. “That means half the effort for both of us.”
“No. I just said I’m going to be myself, and who I really am and the Clan do not mix,” Mari said.
“It was just a thought.”
“Are you coming with me to the bathing pool or not?”
“I’m coming—
I’m coming.” Sora got up and as if she’d been living there forever, she went to the herb bin and began filling her mug to brew her morning tea.
Mari sighed and sat on her mother’s chair. “If you’re using chamomile, you might as well make me a mug, too.”
“Is there stew left, or did your creature devour it all?”
“Rigel prefers his rabbit uncooked so, yes, there is stew left. It’s in the cauldron.”
“Want some of it, too?” Sora asked, heaping chamomile into a second mug.
“No, we already ate. You sleep a lot,” Mari said, rubbing Rigel’s ears.
“I have a feeling I’m going to go out there and see that the sun has barely risen. That’s not sleeping a lot. You wake up at an unnaturally early hour.”
“That’s what the rest of the Clan thinks of dawn, too, which is why I get up and go out then. Unless someone is lurking about—like you—trying to find me, I’m pretty much guaranteed that I won’t see anyone from the Clan,” Mari said.
“If there’s anyone left to see,” Sora said. “The screams were terrible yesterday—like they were killing somebody. Lots of somebodies.”
“Another good reason to get up early,” Mari said.
“No, another good reason that our Clan needs two Moon Women,” Sora said.
“Leave it alone,” Mari said. “Please.”
Something in her eyes had Sora turning away and closing her mouth in a sad, thin line.
Mari sipped her tea silently while Sora finished breaking her fast, then they divided up the dirty clothes between them, grabbed their packs and their walking sticks, and began picking their way through the bramble thicket.
“Are we going the right way?” Sora asked.
“We’re going the right way to the stream. It’s in the opposite direction from the front of the burrow.” Mari used her stick to lift another thick branch of knife-tipped thorns so that Rigel and Sora could come up beside her. “We’re going to leave the brambles after this next turn, but stay right behind me. Don’t touch anything—not until I tell you it’s okay.”