The third god that came to Flick was Lunil, a creature of the moon, whose skin was blue and whose hair was a smoke of stars. These were the dehara, harish gods.
Sometimes, Flick dreamed of returning to the world of Wraeththu, coming like a prophet with a sacred text to inspire and enlighten. Then he asked himself: why should anyone listen to what he had to say? It was his own imaginings, and his pantheon was personal. If he went to Seel with his creations, Seel would only scoff, and the imagined humiliation of this made Flick’s face burn. But mythologies continued to pour from his mind and occasionally he would catch brief glimpses of spirit faces among the trees, or hiding amid the rocks. He heard their voices in the rill of the stream, in the cry of birds and in the wind in the mesquites. There were no more dreams of Pellaz, but perhaps he too had become a god. Pellaz, god of martyrs.
There was no need to write any of this down, because once Flick had a thought, it stayed with him. It was as if he’d known these imagined entities all his life and had always respected and honoured them. Itzama told him that certain god forms recurred throughout every human culture, therefore it was no surprise that Wraeththu should have their own. ‘They are not Wraeththu’s, they are mine,’ Flick said, and realised he was uncertain he wanted anyhar else to believe in them.
Sometimes, Flick remembered that the Hostling of Bones had told him he would train for a year and a day, and when this recollection came to him, he always pushed it away. He did not want his life to change again – not yet. He did not love Itzama, even though the man was handsome, kind and devoted. It was pointless to fall in love, because Flick knew that they would not be together for long. With experimentation, they had devised ways to enjoy physical intimacy, but it was not aruna. Itzama derived more pleasure from it than Flick did. Despite this, they had a companionable relationship and there was an easiness between them that Flick had not experienced before.
Itzama never revealed his background, and Flick often wondered whether he was an outcast and had committed a crime. He could not imagine why else such a sociable creature would choose to live alone. On the night of visions, he’d spoken briefly and vaguely about having been called to this place, but he would not expand upon it. He’d implied he wasn’t quite human, but Flick saw no evidence to the contrary. There was definitely a secret, but on the few occasions Flick tried to press the matter – the best time, he discovered, was after sex – Itzama was not merely vague. It seemed as if he himself didn’t know the answers. Maybe, he’d suffered an injury in the past that had affected his memory. One time he said, ‘When you leave, then I will go too,’ and Flick thought, not without discomfort, that Itzama meant to accompany him. He knew that one day he would have to return to the world of Wraeththu in one way or another and he couldn’t take Itzama there, not as a human.
‘You would have to be incepted,’ he said, rather abruptly, and Itzama stared at him with a confused expression on his face.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t mean that. When you leave this place, I will leave it too, because I think you are the only thing that anchors me here.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Where I came from,’ Itzama replied. ‘The place I have forgotten.’
‘There is no future for you if you remain human,’ Flick said. ‘Perhaps you should consider inception. It seems such a waste if you just grow old and die. You are too beautiful for that.’
Itzama only smiled and Flick sensed the man did not believe he would grow old and die. He was never around during the day, and it did cross Flick’s mind that Itzama might be a ghost after all, but how could a ghost have a living body? Whatever the truth of the matter was, Flick and Itzama had an understanding, and eventually Flick did not even ask questions. They were living outside the real world, where the strange and perplexing were the natural order.
When nearly a year had passed, Itzama reminded Flick of what he had learned in his visionquest. ‘You must speak with the dead,’ he said. ‘Remember what you were told.’
Flick didn’t want to be reminded of this, because it meant he would have to make decisions about the future. Also, he had no desire to talk to someone dead. It would all be in his head, or a product of one of Itzama’s hallucinogenic concoctions, and Flick was hardly eager to find out what his mind would conjure up. At the very least, it would be Pellaz, uttering further impenetrable riddles. ‘This is my life now,’ Flick said. ‘Here with you. Learning. Magic. It’s all I want. I’m not yet ready for changes.’
‘It cannot be,’ Itzama said. ‘You cannot receive all this knowledge and then keep it yourself. It belongs to your people. The shaman goes into the otherworld to help his tribe. This is your duty. You have your gods, now you must communicate with them.’
‘No one can call up the dead,’ Flick said. ‘I don’t believe in it.’
Itzama smiled his slow lazy smile. ‘The shaman can do anything if he has a suitable source of power. You have one, so use it.’
On the appointed night, to keep Itzama quiet rather than to please himself, Flick killed a large rabbit. He carried it to a small ritual site he used among the stones and tumbling waters of the stream near the cave. There was an area where the water flattened out and ran more smoothly in a wide shallow pool beneath an overhang. Here, Flick drained the body of the rabbit of blood and collected it in a bowl. The moon burned fat above him and the North Star was a god’s jewel in the sky. Shadows were like velvet, and the undergrowth rattled as if shaken by spirit hands. There was a presence to the air, but perhaps this was because of what he was doing. It felt primitive and powerful, a primal rite from the dawn of time.
Flick lit a fire and stood before it. He wore only, wrapped around his loins, the skin of a coyote, which had been given to him by Itzama. He loosed his hair and held his arms to the sky. Now, he must do it. Now, he must believe. He would call upon one of the deities he had named. In his mind, he saw Aruhani, his braided hair like snakes. This was not a comfortable image, for Aruhani was capricious and sometimes sly. But he was the god of life, sex and death, so the most appropriate in this instance. Flick concentrated on the image in his head. He tried to feel the deity as well as see him. He took a deep breath and called, ‘Aruhani, I call you! Come to me now, in the name of the Aghama, the principle of creation! I command you! I bring blood as an offering. Hear me and approach!’
Flick’s heart was beating fast. When he opened his eyes, the whole night seemed tinged a reddish-purple and a high-pitched hum vibrated on the edge of his perception. He poured a little of the blood into the folding ripples of the stream and in the bright moonlight saw its black streak spread out and slip away. Flick dropped to his knees beside the water, his hair hanging forward to wave upon the current, black as blood. He gazed at the glittering depths and then was compelled to jump to his feet. He ran out into the stream, beneath the dark shadows of the overhanging rocks and he danced in the water. He chanted the name of Aruhani, spinning round faster and faster, sending up a spray of sparkling motes. Itzama had told him that magic without a source of power was not magic at all, but simply a game, a play, a deceit. He had to feel the power, really feel it, before continuing, because otherwise it would be pointless, an empty rite. He spun round until he felt he was about to collapse into the water, then flung himself onto the bank of the stream.
Lying on his stomach, he said, ‘Aruhani, open my eyes that I might see. Open my ears that I might hear. Open my heart that I may sense the dead approach, open my mouth that my voice will be heard beyond the realm of this earth.’
The night had become still, listening to him. Even the splash of the water was quieter. Flick hauled himself to his feet and went to sit beside his fire. He threw some sage wood into it. Sparks sizzled up towards the moon and the astringent smell of the herb filled the air. Flick held out his hands to the flames. He should feel cold, but he didn’t. When he spoke again, his voice sounded lower in tone; it vibrated in his chest. ‘Aruhani, come forth to me. Give strength to my hands that I s
hall be strong, that I may keep the dead within my power.’
He then took up the bowl of blood and spilled it over the earth. Black blood. Slick and shining, like the blood down the stairs, as ancient as the hand print over the doorframe, as sweet as the smell in the Nayati that morning, when the sun came through the windows in precise perfect rays and a white arm dangled down. Flick swallowed thickly. He must not think this, he mustn’t. The images would be too terrible. Aruhani was with him, but the dehar was not a creature of sweetness. He had fangs and claws and his shadow was long. Flick closed his eyes again. He had to speak. His hands dangled between his knees.
‘I conjure you, creature of darkness. I summon you, creature of spirit. I summon and call you forth from the abode of darkness. I evoke you from your resting-place in the caves of the earth. I summon your eyes to behold the brightness of my fire, which is the fire of life. I evoke you from your resting-place. I summon your ears to hear my words. Come forth, dead spirit, who might speak with me. Come forth in the name of Aruhani, dehar of life and death, whose word binds you. I command you to come forth.’
He could hear the crackle of the fire, smell the sage, mixed with the scent of burning charcoal. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, so he must open his eyes now. He must.
Orien sat on the other side of the fire, smiling mildly. His tawny hair escaped his braid in soft tendrils, as it always had. He did not appear remotely dead. Flick was so surprised he scrabbled backwards, and yet wasn’t this what he’d worked for and believed in? Did he trust himself so little?
Orien put his head to one side, but said nothing. There was a sadness in his eyes, which Flick thought might be pity.
‘Speak!’ Flick managed to say. From this moment, his entire life had changed. He should be driven insane by what he saw before him, but it wasn’t frightening at all. That was the strangest thing. Perhaps Itzama had fed him some drug and he hadn’t realised it.
‘You have come a long way,’ Orien said.
‘Not as far as you,’ Flick said. ‘Can you remember, Orien? Can you remember what happened?’
‘You were nearly there, but the diversion was perfect. The last of the human tribes called the shaman here, but they went away and you found him.’
‘What do you mean? Itzama?’
‘The people of this land were a very ancient race. When Wraeththu came, the wisest among them called upon an ancestor of strong magic to aid them. They called him forth from the past, they danced the spirit dance to call him. But they were driven away before he came, so he had no purpose, until you.’
‘Itzama isn’t a ghost, but he isn’t exactly real either,’ Flick said, to himself rather than Orien. ‘He is never around during the day. Where does he go?’
‘You cannot see an ancestor spirit in sunlight,’ Orien said. ‘There is a purpose to everything. You must go back. You carve the words from stone, but they already exist in stone. Aruhani is a stone book in the library that no one ever wrote before. You have written him and read him. He has taken your mentor, Itzama, back into himself, to release him from his bondage to this world. He has served the dehara in giving you his knowledge.’
‘Has he been taken already?’
‘It is time now for what will happen next.’
‘Orien, do you know me?’
‘You missed the message, in the air, in the clouds. You walked passed it. But it is time now. There is something to be brought forth, but it is in need of nurturing. It is a secret, hidden. One of many, but this one is yours, even if it is not yours alone.’
He looked beautiful, serene as he’d ever been, but Flick knew that Orien could not really see him. Orien was only a perfect shadow. He could never be again. He wasn’t answering questions; he was a spirit with a message, no more than an image programmed by the energy of a god. But perhaps there were some questions he would answer, namely the ones Flick was supposed to ask. ‘Should I go back to Saltrock, or to the settlement I passed?’ he asked. ‘I command you to tell me.’
‘The birthplace of Pellaz Cevarro, that is the place. It is the fountainhead.’
‘Thank you,’ Flick said. ‘I release you. Go in peace.’
Flick didn’t even blink, but in a splinter of a second, Orien was no longer there. He might never have been there, and from the moment he vanished, Flick began to doubt what he’d seen and heard. But at the same time he knew it was the most real experience he’d ever gone through. He had seen the image of his dead friend. He could have reached out and touched him, but, if he had, Orien would have broken apart like a reflection in a pool.
For some minutes, Flick surrendered himself to grief. He wept for the tragedy and the senseless waste. He wept for Cal, who was so damaged and for Seel, who had tried hard to escape his beginnings. But tears would not wash away the past. They lanced the infected wound, but could not eradicate its scar.
Flick rubbed his face and scattered damp sand over his fire until it sizzled out. He got to his feet and thanked Aruhani for his aid, bidding him to depart. It was clear, from the feeling in the air, that the dehar had already gone.
Flick went back into the cave, hoping to discuss with Itzama what had happened, but not sure what he would find. From the moment he set foot inside, Flick could tell that Itzama had indeed gone. Their home was no longer a living space, but an empty cavern of stone. It was hard to believe he had ever lived there. Itzama and Flick had been almost like lovers, but now Flick could not mourn Itzama’s disappearance. He had been called to this world and abandoned. It was only right he should be released.
The fabric of the otherworld, in which this site had been caught for over year, was breaking apart like rotten silk, and Flick knew he should, at the very least, be disturbed, but he felt strangely calm and centered. Outside, the night bristled with sentience and power, and a road led to the north west. At the end of it, ancient mills creaked in the breeze and secrets slithered through the shadows. The past came back in a surge like a tidal wave. A year ago was only yesterday, the rest a dream. He had missed something. He must return.
Chapter Fourteen
The settlement had changed within a year. The burned fields were a riot of new growth and in the late autumn were full of unharvested crops. Weeds had spread throughout the little streets and grew upon the roofs of the houses. The landscape looked softer, greened over as it was, as if it was melting back into the earth. There was a sense of wistful melancholy, for all that had gone before and vanished, and as Flick rode Ghost among the buildings, a fine misty rain began to fill the air. On a day like this, Cal had come here. Flick knew the story by heart because Cal had told it to him countless times. If Pellaz had not responded to Cal, or had been somewhere else at the crucial moment, none of what followed would have happened.
Ghost’s hoof beats echoed between the walls of empty dwellings, which seemed to have moved closer together since the last time Flick had seen them. His spine crawled as he passed into the shadows.
The last thing Flick expected was for someone to jump down onto him from an overhanging eave. He didn’t expect to be pushed from his horse, nor to land heavily on his back in the damp dirt with strong thin hands already around his neck and bony knees forced into his chest. All he could see was misty air and the writhing vines of thrashing black hair, hair that was so heavy it could only move in slow motion. It was at this moment that he realised a ghost had come to kill him. His head banged painfully against the ground and when he grabbed hold of the skinny wrists above him, he felt the bones grind beneath the brown skin. ‘Pell, stop!’ he managed to croak. ‘Didn’t I do what you asked? Didn’t I?’
The apparition on top of him let go of his neck and straightened up, tucked its hair behind its ears. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ it snapped, and it wasn’t Pellaz at all, but could only be of Pellaz, so therefore a surviving relative.
‘Get off me and I’ll tell you,’ Flick said.
Reluctantly, his assailant got up and stood with folded arms before him or rather over h
im, because at first Flick was too winded and dizzy to move. ‘Well?’
‘My name is Flick,’ he said. ‘Pell asked me to come here, to find you, to tell you.’
‘Tell me what? My brother is dead. He became one of you and he died. What else is there to say?’
Flick got to his feet. Ghost had run off and now stood staring fearfully some yards away. ‘Pell wanted me to come. He told me he had brothers. I never hoped to find one of you alive.’
‘You didn’t. I’m his sister. Or I was…’
‘You still are,’ Flick said, privately wondering how a female could possibly be as androgynous as her phenomenal brother had been, without the benefit of the changes Pellaz had undergone. ‘He never forgot you. You are Mima, yes?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed heavily, scraped her hands through her hair. ‘You’re too late. I’m the only one left, and not much use to you. You might as well leave.’
‘Can’t we talk? Don’t you want to know what I have to say?’
She was silent for a moment. ‘His friends are always turning up here. Wonder who will be next? I hope it’s Cal, I really do. I hope he finds his way.’
Flick could tell she wanted to settle the score with Cal, but there were few people who didn’t. ‘Who else? How many?’
‘Just one, actually. He’s a Kakkahaar.’
‘A friend of Pell’s.’ Flick wracked his brains for the memory. ‘Lianvis?’
‘No, Ulaume.’
‘Really!’ Flick exclaimed. ‘From what I heard he was hardly a friend.’
‘I know the story,’ Mima said. ‘Ulaume is obsessed with Pell.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe there will be others like him. This place has become a shrine. Ulaume doesn’t think Pell’s really dead. What do you think?’
Flick answered carefully. ‘He was important. There is more to the story than we know. Our story. I’m from Saltrock, where Pell was incepted.’
The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure Page 22