Flick looked up at him, nodded. ‘Whatever it takes. I’m not a great visionary, whatever you might think.’
Itzama handed him the cup. ‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘We will enter the otherworld, and there seek guidance.’
Flick sniffed the contents of the cup, smelled fungus, earth and a bittersweet perfume. ‘What is this?’
‘The key,’ Itzama said. ‘Drink half of it.’
Flick held his gaze and half drained the cup. He felt at once as if he wanted to vomit, but swallowed it back. Wiping his mouth, he held out the cup to Itzama.
Itzama took it and sat down beside him. He finished the drink and carefully placed the cup by the fire.
‘How long?’ Flick asked, still swallowing hard. He suddenly felt very cold.
‘Some minutes,’ Itzama said. ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He took one of Flick’s hands in his own and a sense of warmth crept up Flick’s arm. ‘You are not alone,’ Itzama said.
The physical contact kindled a small flame in Flick’s belly. He thought of aruna, of the last time he had been with Cal. Wraeththu needed aruna: what would he do when the desire for comfort and closeness became a sizzling need? If Itzama had been har, they could be together and Flick could experience healing on other levels too. But Nature, or whatever had created Wraeththu, had created safeguards to prevent humans and hara coming together in that way. Thinking aloud, Flick murmured, ‘You know what I am? I am poison to you. Do you know that?’ He was sure Itzama wouldn’t know what he meant, but he had to say it.
Itzama smiled and squeezed his fingers. ‘You are the princess in the tower, above an ocean of thorns. I know that. Relax.’ He pulled Flick against his body, and Flick rested his head on Itzama’s chest. He could hear the man’s heart beating steadily, like a ritual drum.
Flick had almost drifted off to sleep when Itzama shifted and said softly, ‘Open your eyes. It is time for us to leave.’
‘What?’ Flick raised his head drowsily. The flames of the fire had taken on a bluish hue and cast stark shadows upon the uneven walls of the cave.
Itzama’s flesh was shining a little in the weird light. He got to his feet and held out a hand. ‘Come.’ He led the way outside and once beneath the eye of the moon, Flick uttered a cry. The landscape had transformed into a strange world of nebulous lights and patterns. He could still see the yucca trees, the ancient mountains and the pool, but they had changed. All the plants were surrounded by glowing haloes, the water sparkling in the stream sang with the voices of a thousand spirits and sparks of light flew off it. The pool looked like a cauldron of rainbow mist. Overhead, the stars fizzed through the sky, as if a thousand daily revolutions took place within a single minute. Yet strangely, the full moon hung motionless overhead, bigger than Flick had ever seen it. He was sure that if he looked hard enough, he would see the moon spirits dancing upon its radiant surface. And there was one star standing still also, a bright point of light to the north.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ Flick murmured.
‘This is the realm of dreams, of the moon,’ Itzama said. ‘One of many other worlds.’
‘It is healing just to look upon,’ Flick said. ‘I feel better already.’
Itzama smiled. ‘Already? We must walk the north star road. Come.’
Flick could see it now: a shining ribbon stretching before them. It disappeared into a sparkling mist but overhead the North Star shone fiercely. As they trod upon the road, so the stones and earth seemed to give slightly beneath Flick’s feet. It was as if he walked upon a living creature.
They came at length to a great tree, whose trunk reared towards the sky. Flick could not even see its canopy of foliage, although he knew instinctively it was somewhere high above. At the base of the tree sat a veiled figure, dressed in silvery grey. The figure was dwarfed by the size of the tree and was perched upon a seat fashioned from the enormous gnarled roots that grew out of the earth. The roots appeared polished, as if innumerable creatures had sat there and worn them to a sheen. At the feet of the veiled figure, were two round holes in the ground, surrounded by patterned mosaic.
‘They are the wells of Forgetfulness and Memory,’ Itzama said. ‘The Wife of Bones will draw water for you, if you ask her.’
The Wife of Bones unnerved Flick. She was so still; she might have been a statue. He was sure something hideous lurked beneath the veil and a sense of unbelievable antiquity poured out of her in waves.
‘Do not be afraid,’ Itzama murmured, close to Flick’s ear. He pushed him forward a little. ‘Approach. It is why you are here.’
Slowly, Flick did so. It took all the strength he possessed to take each step. He felt as if he were walking upon knives. He paused a few feet away from the tree and bowed his head.
‘Child,’ said the Wife of Bones. ‘Come to me.’
Flick looked up and as he watched, the Wife threw back her veil. At first, he thought he was looking at Thiede, because the face beneath the veil was not female and the hair was the dark red of fresh blood. The skin was whiter than the moon and the eyes were reflective pools of silver. But Flick quickly realised this was not Thiede. As he gazed upon her, so the Wife seemed one moment female, the next moment har.
‘You will see me as a reflection,’ said the Wife. ‘I am the Lord of the Underworld and yet the Queen of Faery. I am the Mistress of Bones and King of the Wild Hunt. I am the one who stands at the threshold of being, who welcomes in the souls of the dead and who guides them to rebirth.’
‘Are you our god or goddess?’ Flick asked. ‘Is this what I’m being shown?’
‘You do not yet have the terms to describe me,’ said the Wife, ‘nor any of my aspects. This is because you do not yet have the terms to describe yourselves. But I am here, as I have always been here, the triple form of harling, har and harun.’
‘What is harun?’ Flick asked. ‘Is it when a har’s aspect is more female than male?’
The Wife slowly shook her head. ‘No, it is the aspect of old age, and none of you yet have reached it or reaped its benefits. You must discover for yourself the godforms of Wraeththu, of hardom. There are many and this will be your gift to your people. The gods are but magnified mirror images of those who inhabit the earth. When you look into the mirror and see divinity looking back at you, you will know. The gods are not to be found outside yourself.’
‘We have a god. He is the Aghama,’ Flick said. ‘Is this one of the aspects?’
‘Aghama is the Child of the Cosmos,’ answered the Wife. ‘He is one aspect, that of learning. The mistake you have made is to believe you are not human. Once you can accept this, then you may move on to fulfil your potential. As long as you resist all that you fear, you exist within it, you are it. A man and a maid war within you, child. It is a war that shakes the world. Now, will you drink?’
Flick did not hesitate. ‘I must drink from the Well of Memory, mustn’t I? I need to remember, not to forget.’
‘It is the more difficult path,’ said the Wife, ‘but not necessarily the better. In forgetting, you start with a blank page, whereas the page of remembrance is covered in marks, which are difficult to decipher. Many hara have written there and some of them are mad. Think carefully before you choose.’
‘I don’t want to forget,’ Flick said. ‘I am sure of it.’
The Wife leaned forward and lifted a metal cup on a thin silver chain from the well to her left. ‘Then drink.’
Flick took the cup, and as he did so, his fingers touched the Wife’s hands. Her flesh was cold and hard like bones without flesh, yet there was comfort in their strength and durability. These bones would never fade to dust. Flick drank, drained the cup, and the metal was icy against his lips. He had to tear it away and felt this skin rip. The water was the clearest and purest he had ever drunk. Utterly without taste, it burned his throat as it slid into his stomach. Before his eyes, a thousand images flickered and danced. He saw many different trees, in different parts of the world. All had water at their roots, wells, cauldrons or poo
ls. Some were situated at crossroads, others in barren landscapes of twisted trees. All had figures beside them: crones, veiled women, men whose faces were shadowed by wide-brimmed hats or cowls, frightening trinities of hags or vicious maidens, three headed animals, or humanoid figures with the heads of three animals. These were things that Itzama had told him about in stories, over the long nights they had sat together. He knew then that this was the gateway, the crossroads between the worlds. Every culture held within its memory an image of this place. He was creating the tree and its guardian in the image of his kind, visualising the latter as a veiled hermaphrodite. Perhaps he was the first har to do it. If he climbed the tree he would pass to the Land of Youth where the blessed spirits dwelled. If he went through the roots and tunnelled down their labyrinth, he would come to the underworld, where a dark river roiled and lost souls mourned their plight in the lightless reaches of the Asphodel Fields.
‘Where do I find my friend?’ Flick asked aloud. ‘He is named Pellaz, and his death caused terrible things.’
The wife held his gaze with silver eyes. ‘The one you seek has passed beyond these realms. You are not here to climb the tree, nor to burrow its roots. You came here merely to drink of the waters. Return now to your world. You will undertake a period of learning, which shall last exactly a year and one day. On the eve of the last day, slaughter a creature of the wilderness, and prepare it as for a feast. Pour out its blood upon the earth. This act will raise a spirit of the dead to speak with you. You may give to the dead the animal you prepared, as the dead are very hungry in your world. Ask of the dead the questions you wish.’
Flick bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Wife of Bones.’
The Wife of Bones smiled, and suddenly she became nothing more frightening than a beautiful young har sitting among the roots of an ancient tree. The har held a finger to his lips for a moment, then beckoned Flick to lean forward and whispered, ‘Remember the North Star Road, and the destination you will find at its end. You will walk this path many times, as you seek the bed of history. Dream new dreams, love new loves. Know that my blessings go with you.’
Flick was impelled kiss the Wife’s cheek, but found his lips pressed instead against the smooth bark of the tree. The Wife had vanished.
‘Come,’ said Itzama, ‘now we return.’
The next thing Flick knew he was opening his eyes in the cave, gazing upon the last smouldering embers of the fire. It was not yet dawn. He raised his head from Itzama’s chest and realised he had drooled over the man’s shirt. His mouth was filled with a rancid taste and he craved water. Itzama was still unconscious, so Flick eased away from him slowly and crept out of the cave. Never, in his life, had he experienced anything so magical as a vivid visionary journey. It was the result of drinking Itzama’s narcotic brew, of course, but even so, it had felt so real. Other hara did things like that all the time.
Flick looked towards the North Star, hanging brilliantly in the sky. He could hear small creatures scuttling through the bushes around him. He could hear the creak of trees and soft shushing of the night wind. The pool was a dark mirror and Flick lay down beside it. He plunged his head beneath its icy surface and sucked water into his mouth. He exhaled bubbles and thought he could remain there for hours, without needing to take a breath, but then there was a soft touch upon his shoulder and he raised his head, gasping.
Itzama stood over him, his hair hanging down over his chest. ‘You all right?’ he asked.
Flick sat up, scraped back his sodden hair. ‘Yeah. Needed a drink. That was wild tonight. Thanks. You must have given me some pretty strong stuff.’
Itzama made a noise in his chest that was part laughter, part disgruntlement.
Flick realised he had said the wrong thing and probably should have prolonged the moments of otherworldliness by saying something profound, deep or mystical. ‘Where did all that come from?’ he said.
‘All what?’ Itzama hunkered down beside him. ‘I did not share your visions.’
‘I saw a goddess sitting at the base of a big tree. Then she was har, and she said things. I drank from the Waters of Memory. Those things I saw, they’re the same for everyone though, aren’t they? The symbols. I got a strong sense of that, even though no one’s ever told me about it. Is it the drink you gave me that makes it happen?’
‘It opens doors,’ Itzama said. ‘It allows us to step from our limitations for a while.’
‘It was amazing. It told me so much. But is there really a goddess who spoke to me, or did it come from myself?’
‘Both,’ Itzama said. ‘You must learn to walk the fine line between belief and scepticism.’
‘She told me I could create gods for Wraeththu,’ Flick said. He laughed. ‘I already have! I can’t even call the Wife ‘she’ because he wasn’t.’
‘Language is a great barrier,’ Itzama said. ‘The beauty of walking the spirit path is that you converse free of its restrictions and boundaries.’
Flick frowned. ‘Hara like Orien must know this. There are great adepts among Wraeththu. Why should special revelations come to me, who does nothing to look inside what we are?’
‘You did look inside. It’s irrelevant whether others have trodden the same path, at least for now. This is your time.’
Flick exhaled through his nose. ‘I feel it’s so important, but already it’s fading away, like a dream. I’ve imagined a term for old Wraeththu. It’s ‘harun’. What will we be like when we’re old?’
Itzama shrugged. ‘Do you have a word for mother?
Flick glanced at him. ‘Hypothetically. We hear rumours that some hara have had children, but I’ve never seen it myself. The children are called pearls and the har who carries them is a hostling. As far as I’m concerned, it could all be made up, or wishful thinking.’
‘Then, if you will forgive the suggestion, you could see tonight’s events as the first meeting, for your entire race, with the Hostling of Bones, wishful thinking aside.’
‘Has a good ring to it,’ Flick said.
‘Hermaphrodite gods will be an interesting idea to work with.’ Itzama grinned. ‘For me as much as for you. I’m grateful to you for giving me this opportunity.’
‘You can be so formal,’ Flick said. ‘We’ve done something incredible tonight.’
‘Have we?’
Flick noticed at once a certain edge to Itzama’s tone. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
Itzama shook his head. ‘Nothing. Dreams, that’s all.’ He took one of Flick’s hands in his own. ‘One thing you should know, Flick. You look upon me and you see a man. But consider I might be as different from humanity as you are. My people have always known that one day your kind would come. It is our belief that you have returned rather than come anew.’
‘Who are your people?’
‘They have long gone,’ Itzama said. ‘I cannot speak to you about it, because I don’t really know why I’m here. I was called, and perhaps it was you, or the spirit of your kind, that called to me.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’
‘I was waiting,’ he said, ‘and you came. You are the Star Maiden, beautiful and beyond my reach. You are remote and cold and brilliant.’
‘I’m not cold,’ Flick said. ‘Neither am I far away. I am not a maiden and that is perhaps the worst thing. Stop looking at me as if I’m female, Itzama. I’m not. Don’t kid yourself for a dream. Look into my face, really look, and you’ll see the truth of it. Nothing you say is right. Nothing.’
He held Itzama’s steady gaze, not sure himself what he was doing or why. ‘Do you see?’ he murmured.
Itzama closed his eyes for a moment, turned his head away, making a small sound of distress, then lunged at Flick, took him in his arms and kissed him with an ardour that could only stem from long abstinence. A rational detached part of Flick’s mind, which always had something to say in moments such as these, told him this was selfish and cruel. This wasn’t sharing breath, where the minds and souls of hara mingled
like smoke. This was purely physical, the demands of human sexuality with its need for instant gratification. But Flick could not even offer Itzama that. He pulled away, stared into a face that appeared both terrified and inflamed. ‘We cannot do this,’ he said, raising his palms as if to fend Itzama off. ‘You must understand that we can’t.’
‘I accept what and who you are,’ Itzama said in a surprisingly even tone.
‘It’s not that. It could hurt you, perhaps kill you. It is said our secretions are like acid to humans. Can you imagine a worse death?’
‘Frankly, no. But is it true? Have you see it with your own eyes? All I know is that when I look at you I want you. I want to revere you in the act of love.’
Flick had to try hard not to smile at that last remark. It was made with such earnest conviction, but at the heart of it, surely, lurked only the male desire for conquest. ‘There are some things we can do,’ he said. ‘You are not poison to me: at least, I don’t think so.’
Itzama looked uncertain.
‘How can I ignore that heartfelt cry you uttered?’ Flick said. ‘Don’t think of revering me. Let me do the revering. Come here.’
Chapter Ten
All houses have personalities, and the older they are, so the character becomes more entrenched. A house soaks up all that happens within it, and stores events as memories, saying nothing, like a silent paralysed observer, doomed to be buffeted by the emotions of quicker, more ephemeral beings. The spirit of the white house was ponderous, gloomy and given to sighs. To Ulaume, it was like an old despairing man, a spirit that moved slowly from room to room, carrying with it a black cloud of regret that affected the surroundings and turned the wallpaper dank. Patches of mould on the walls looked like sorrowful faces and every floorboard creaked in a complaining voice. A long time ago, Ulaume had lived in a house himself, when he’d been human, right back at the beginning when Wraeththu was hardly more than a germ of an idea in the consciousness of the world. But he didn’t remember much about it. The Colurastes, those who had taken him in, were nomadic, as the Kakkahaar were. Unlike the Kakkahaar, who lived solely under canvas, the Colurastes sought out caves as temporary homes, for they liked dark places from where they could emerge at night. They called themselves the serpent tribe, but really the Kakkahaar were far more serpentine, for they lived in the sun and were burned by it, and their blood ran cold inside.
The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure Page 16