The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure

by Storm Constantine

  Herien did not know much about Persiki, but he did not believe he’d have an ally in him. As Persiki cast grains onto a burning charcoal, and breathed in its fumes in order to enter trance, Herien was planning his escape. He feared Lianvis enough to know that trying to make a run for it would be fruitless. Because Herien was only Aralid, the lowest of Wraeththu castes, he was not yet capable of communication by mind touch to formulate a strategy with Rarn.. But there would have to be an opportunity when he could run. Not here, not now, but soon. The harling breathed against him, as still and silent as a small animal who sensed it was in danger. Remaining motionless, and perhaps invisible, was its only defence.

  Persiki had begun to rock upon his heels, his hands braced against his knees. He inhaled deeply and exhaled in a gasp. Then he opened his eyes and stared directly at Herien. ‘You will be blessed, doubly blessed,’ he said.

  Herien could not take comfort in those words; he heard a threat behind them. ‘How?’

  ‘Two harlings, the seeds of a great dynasty among the Kakkahaar. Their names will be commemorated in stone. Their monuments will touch the sky.’

  ‘Is this one of these legendary harlings?’ Lianvis enquired delicately, indicating the child in Herien’s arms.

  Persiki flicked a glance at his leader, like the cold kiss of a serpent’s tongue. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This creature will be exposed in the desert.’

  ‘Death, then,’ Lianvis said.

  Herien could not speak. There were dancing spots of light before his vision. For the first time in years, he felt utterly powerless, more so than when he’d writhed in althaia, the changing, more so than when he’d striven on a bed of birthing.

  ‘It will be exposed in the desert,’ Persiki said. ‘That’s all I can say.’

  ‘And will you kill me to achieve this?’ Herien asked.

  ‘No,’ Persiki said in a flat tone. ‘You will do as you know is right. Give this poor creature to the moon and then go to your pavilion. Hubisag will place a balm over your wound. There will be another harling – two. This is the measure of how important it is to renounce this ill birth. The gods will reward you with two harlings should you have the strength to do what is most unspeakable to you. I swear this in the name of all I stand for and believe in. I would stake my very soul upon it. The creature that sprang from your flesh is not yours to raise.’

  Perhaps it was Persiki’s strange choice of words that swayed Herien’s heart, or perhaps it was because Herien knew that whatever he thought, said or did, the harling would be taken from him, in any case. Herien could not tell. But for a moment, a strange feeling, as of being plunged into a cold spring, flooded his body. For a moment, he was bigger than himself and filled with hope and clarity. He had a secret, it had come to him as a divine gift, but he could not voice it. Silently, he handed the harling to Persiki, who held his gaze with steady, knowing eyes. Herien could sense that the breath was stilled in every breast around him. Rarn made a move to retrieve the child, uttering a cry, but Herien stayed his hand.

  ‘Do what you must,’ he said.

  Lianvis exhaled loudly, his hands braced against his knees. ‘You have my respect,’ he said, ‘and will be rewarded.’

  ‘That is not necessary,’ Herien said, still gazing into Persiki’s shrouded eyes.

  ‘No!’ Rarn cried, a ragged, heart-breaking sound.

  Herien felt calm, and not at all surprised that Rarn could not share what he felt. Rarn wept openly now, caught in the same caul of powerlessness that Herien had felt only moments before. It was possible Herien would never be able to share what he knew with his chesnari, but that did not matter. There were other ways to bind an injury. All that Herien knew was that the only chance his child had was if he surrendered it. If the moon had a destiny for it, it was not death. The child was placid again now, as if it too sensed a crucial decision had been reached.

  Go with my blessings, Herien thought, and was sure, for the first time, his unspoken words were heard by another mind. Be strong. Be curious. Live.

  Ulaume had been roaming around the cold desert nearly all night, and now the light had become grey with the promise of dawn. He felt driven, or hag-ridden, his entire body filled with a compulsion he could not identify. He wanted to scratch himself raw, tear out his hair, scream. The stones beneath his bare feet were sharp and he craved the pain they inflicted. He wanted to leave bloody foot-prints. A coyote was trailing him curiously, as if it thought he might show it something. Twice, he had paused to throw a rock at it, and the animal had loped away for a distance, only to stand and stare after him, before resuming its pursuit. It looked sick, its belly a little distended. Ulaume was not afraid of the animal. He wanted only to say, ‘Go away. I cannot give you anything’, but a coyote could not understand words.

  He could not live like this. It had to be resolved. Was the only answer to confide in Lianvis, and perform some ritual to get information? Ulaume balked from doing that. He hugged his torment to himself jealously. He did not want to tell Lianvis about Pellaz, because the thought of Lianvis’ inevitable extreme interest was repugnant. Lianvis would suggest something grotesque, like trying to capture Pell’s spirit, which was so far from the point, it was embarrassing. Ulaume was sure Lianvis was incapable of feeling the true meaning of what had happened, even though he was an experienced magician, perhaps the best. He would make something gross and common out of a rare, unique event. Ulaume could not bear it.

  I must leave, he thought. That’s it. Leave my tribe. If I live in the desert for a hundred years, alone, perhaps the answers will come to me. If I scour my skin with ashes and eat bitter grasses, if I hardly drink, go mad, howl at the moon, I may be given the truth.

  It was then he realised that the coyote behind him was an aspect of himself.

  He could not return to the camp for any of his possessions or supplies. Now the decision was made, he must run with it, into the wilderness. If he could not survive, then it was what was meant to be. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d die. Without looking behind, he stopped walking and presently heard the faint sounds that indicated the coyote had almost caught up with him.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Ulaume said aloud. ‘Find the way.’ Still, he did not move.

  After some minutes, he noticed the coyote about thirty feet to his left, but trotting ahead of him. He could see now that it was a female and had clearly recently had cubs, as its teats were engorged. Where were those cubs now?

  But that creature is me, Ulaume thought, and I am bursting with something, I am hot and sore. This is just a symbol.

  He followed it.

  Dawn comes like a song to the desert, shedding scarlet notes of light over the distant hills. Shadows are stark and alive with creatures once hidden by the dark. Birds wheel high on wide wings in the purple sky. Like a compass they can guide the traveller, not in a particular direction, but to where there is water or food.

  Ulaume saw three carrion birds, known to the Kakkahaar as crag rocs, circling quite low some distance ahead of him. The coyote had increased her pace, perhaps making for a water-hole. The birds flew lower, landing in a showy flap of wings, ungainly on the ground, uttering squawks. When the coyote ran among them, they protested and lumbered around, raising their wings, but they did not take to the air.

  Ulaume approached. The crag rocs had found carrion then, and perhaps he could salvage some of it to cook, share it with his shadow-beast. He picked up a couple of rocks. It was possible he could take out one of the birds themselves. But what made Ulaume throw the stones wasn’t the thought of cooked crag roc. It was the fact he heard a soft mewling cry coming from the ground among them. His heart went cold and he ran forward screeching, letting the stones fly from his hands. The coyote, spooked, ran around too, snapping at the air, and the birds rose up in a complaining, clattering flutter.

  Ulaume stopped running and looked down. Into a smile. He saw small hands reaching up for him, heard laughter. There wasn’t a mark on the child. Not one. Ulaume hunkered down. Who co
uld have left a child out here? Humans? Surely not. And no Wraeththu would do such a thing. Children were too precious to both species; rare and new in Wraeththu, just rare in humans. Perhaps its parents had been killed, but there was no sign of bodies around, no blood or bones. The child was wrapped in a thin cloth, a piece of white linen that looked as if it had been torn from a sheet. ‘Am I to eat you?’ Ulaume asked it. There was something odd about the child. It wasn’t a baby, yet it was so small. Was it a midget or a dwarf?

  Ulaume unwrapped the sheet and found the child wore a talisman on a leather thong around its neck. The leather was wet as if it had been chewed. The talisman, however, was Kakkahaar, a symbol of protection, stiff herbs bound with horse-hair, wrapped in a leather scrap. Ulaume stared at this talisman in disbelief. He knew there was only one Wraeththu child this could possibly be and yet it made no sense. Had he intruded upon some kind of ritual and soon shamans would emerge from the desert to chase him off? He looked around himself, saw only empty desert. The camp was some miles away. That left only one conclusion. The harling had been abandoned here deliberately. So what was wrong with it that the tribe would expose it like this? Everyhar had been so excited about the hatching – too excited, in Ulaume’s opinion. Tentatively, he picked the harling up, holding it beneath its arms. It squirmed in his hold, uttering a series of trilling calls, like those of the desert birds, the little hoppers that pecked insects from the scrub. Its legs dangled and kicked. It expressed a robust cry, like a command.

  ‘Shall I eat you?’ Ulaume said again and snapped his teeth at the harling.

  In response, it laughed, or perhaps it was just another animal sound. Ulaume knew he could not kill and eat the child, but what else could he do with it? Just walk away? He put down the child and stood up. It would be difficult enough to feed himself, never mind a helpless harling and yet it was impossible to ignore the instinct inside him that clamoured to protect the infant. It was a gut deep, ferocious feeling, all teeth and snarls. Must be a female thing, Ulaume thought, but it didn’t help the situation. The coyote was circling the pair of them, her head low, her tongue lolling.

  ‘No meat for you either,’ Ulaume said, and considered picking up another stone.

  The harling, who’d been lying on its back, scrambled onto its belly as Ulaume spoke and before he could blink was crawling at preternatural speed towards the loping coyote. Small stones were thrown up in its wake.

  ‘No,’ Ulaume said, reaching down to grab the harling. He couldn’t believe the child could crawl this fast if it had only hatched hours ago. What are we? he thought. Animals? He thought of calves and foals, which could walk virtually as soon as they fell from the womb.

  The harling adeptly avoided Ulaume’s hands and he stopped trying to catch it. It seemed to know what it was doing. The coyote was standing absolutely still, her ears pricked. The harling halted a couple of feet away from her and Ulaume could hear it sniffing the air. Then it advanced once more and, reaching the animal’s side, groped upwards with tiny hands. It pulled itself to its feet, gripping the coyote’s fur.

  Ulaume shook his head in delight and surprise. ‘So, the next best thing to being brought up by wolves,’ he said. In that moment, he thought he had found a kindred soul.

  The harling had nuzzled into the coyote’s belly and had begun to suck milk from her noisily, while the animal stood passively, allowing it. If Ulaume had instincts, so did the child, an instinct to survive so strong, it coloured the air around it pure gold. So strong, it knew about mother’s milk, even though, in the normal scheme of things, it would never have tasted it.

  Chapter Four

  On the day that Cal returned to Saltrock, the air, the very earth, writhed with omens. Pink-edged grey clouds clustered in the sky at mid-day, lightning stitched through them that never hit the ground. The sun was a gloating eye, peering blindly through the boiling heavens. A group of crows attacked a calf and pecked out one of its eyes. Dogs howled as if a full moon soaked them in lunatic radiance and had to be tied up, while cats fled to the rafters in the attics of every completed house and crouched in the spidery shadows, hissing, their fur erect along their spines. Ghosts walked the rough main street of the town, although only a few hara could see them.

  Seel put all this down to the strange weather, although Flick knew better and believed that Seel did too. He wanted to say, ‘It’s coming, whatever it is,’ but Seel wouldn’t hear it. He was clinging with all his strength to a mundane life, as if Wraeththu life could ever be that. Flick pitied him. Hara wanted to go to the Nayati and pray. They wanted ritual, to appease the gods, but Seel wouldn’t hear of that either. He marched around the small town, growling orders, inspecting work, his hair livid in the peculiar light. Orien did not emerge from his dwelling at all.

  Ever since the episode of Orien’s trance, Flick had felt as if life was on hold. He could barely breathe sometimes. After their argument, Seel had made a great and obvious effort to be less grouchy, but the strain of it was clearly wearing him out. Everyhar was terrified and didn’t know why. Hara approached Flick, because he was the most approachable and close to Seel, but he couldn’t tell them anything. They thought he lied to them, and perhaps he did, but there were no words to express what he felt. It was as if the whole of Wraeththu history, such as it was, had only been a preamble to what was going to happen next. How could he tell hara that, when the obvious question to follow it would be ‘And what is going to happen?’ Flick didn’t know the answer. Orien might, but he had become reclusive. Many times, Flick had knocked upon his door and been ignored. He had shouted, pleaded, but had received no response. Time and again, the thought ‘He’s preparing to die’ flashed through Flick’s mind, but he pushed it away. Thinking those words made them real; it was the worst magic. Flick realised how special Orien was to him. This was the har, after all, who had led him from the ruins of his human life to a new existence in Saltrock. This was the har who had incepted him, and had always been there for him. Flick wished he could help now, but it was clear that Orien had decided to shut the world out.

  So on this day of doom, Flick rode his grey pony, Ghost, out alone beside the soda lake. Leaving the creature to nibble furtively at dry scrub, Flick clambered up one of the spiky crags to gaze out at the eastern horizon, which was invisible in a milky haze. He had come to this place many times with Pell, when Pell had been silent and tense, staring without blinking into the future, which of course had lain to the east.

  Flick said aloud, ‘Is this to do with you, Pell? Are you trying to tell us something?’

  And a ghost Pell beside him, who existed only in his mind, said, ‘You know that I am.’

  ‘Then speak plainly.’

  ‘You have to imagine it, invent it. You know that.’

  Flick sighed and rubbed at his eyes, feeling the weight of the eerie sky pressing down upon him. The back of his neck felt hot, as if somehar breathed upon it. He could imagine hands hovering above his shoulders and almost reached up to find them, pull whoever they belonged to through into this reality, but then he thought he heard a gasp behind him and opened his eyes quickly. The sensation of presence vanished and the world seemed stark and raw and without spirit.

  A horse was stumbling towards Saltrock along the dusty eastern road. Its head hung low in exhaustion and a shapeless figure was slumped upon its back. The clop of the horse’s hooves echoed in the wide cup of the mountains. Birds rose from the caustic bath of the lake in a shimmering throng. Flick got to his feet and put his hands around his eyes to focus on whoever, or whatever, approached. He heard Ghost whinny softly below – a sound of alarm – and jumped down from the rock. He was aware of a sense of relief. This was it. At last.

  He mounted the pony and urged it towards the approaching horse, which lifted its head and found the energy to prick up its ears. Its rider seemed asleep in the saddle.

  ‘Hoi!’ Flick called.

  At the sound of his voice, the horse came to a halt. Flick could see the rider wore a wide-b
rimmed hat. His body was wrapped in a dusty, colourless cloak. Flick jumped down from his pony. The rider was motionless; there were flies around him. Could he be dead? Flick remembered instances of disease being brought unwittingly into Saltrock. Perhaps he should be cautious. Scanning the ground, he found a thin black stick and used this to poke the rider in the leg from a short distance. The body twitched and slowly the rider raised his head. Flick saw smouldering violet eyes gazing down at him from a filthy face. He felt paralysed, even though at first he did not recognise who he was looking at.

  ‘Flick.’ The voice itself was dusty, like that of a revenant, full of earth. It was dead, without inflection.

  Flick didn’t say anything. He was thinking of hauntings and curses, and wondered whether he should just leap back onto his pony and gallop hell for leather back to town.

  The rider took off his hat, revealing flattened white-gold hair that the dust had not touched. ‘It’s me,’ he said.

  ‘Great gods!’ Flick cried. ‘Cal.’ He couldn’t think of anything else to say. This was too unbelievable, and surely no coincidence given what had happened a few weeks before.

  ‘I had to come back,’ Cal said.

  ‘Well… well it’s good to see you,’ Flick said insincerely. He frowned. ‘Where’s Pell?’ He looked around, which was ridiculous, because the landscape was so empty. ‘I was just thinking of him.’

  Cal smiled sweetly and said in a matter of fact tone, ‘Oh. Dead.’