Samiha's Song

by Mary Victoria

  Later, when Adana had climbed around to the front of the wagon to speak with her son, a gleam of triumph clearly visible in her eye, the Oracle collapsed back onto her pallet in exhaustion. But she did not sleep. She smiled weakly up at Tymon, crouching beside her.

  ‘Don’t worry about your friends in Sheb,’ she whispered. ‘There was an attack, but the villagers escaped. Oren was able to warn them in advance. Everyone’s alive.’ She dissolved into a fit of coughing.

  He took a deep breath, allowing that one, precious word to crystallise in his mind. Alive. Samiha was alive.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Ama,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t been particularly forthcoming with you, I realise,’ she wheezed. ‘But I wanted you to concentrate on your training. We have very little time left. This convoy will meet scouts from the Freehold the day after tomorrow. By then, you should have attained a certain level in your studies. Whatever happens afterwards, I want you to please promise you’ll forgive me. I want you to remember I always had your best interests at heart.’

  He frowned in puzzlement. ‘What is it, Ama? You’re talking as if you were about to expire again! I thought we just avoided that.’

  She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, regretful. ‘We avoided you expiring. This is the end of the road for Lai. She’s been ill all along, you know. The sleeping sickness. I hoped we would have more time. We don’t.’

  There was a dismal pause. He gazed at her, at the face and form of the dying child, lost for words. ‘That seems hard,’ he protested. ‘She’s so young.’

  ‘It’s always hard to lose a host,’ replied the Oracle, a fraction too evenly.

  She was having trouble accepting Lai’s death, Tymon thought. Even her. Even the Oracle, who had Seen so much. He wondered how old she was; how many times she had changed bodies, changed lives.

  ‘How long do we have left?’ he asked.

  ‘Till tomorrow afternoon. At best.’

  His spirits sank. ‘And when Lai’s gone? How do I find you again?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find you. But it’ll take a while to select a new host. Depending on how things go — maybe years. It’s said that a good candidate for the Exchange is either a madman, a saint or a fool: there’s some truth to that. Anyway, the right host doesn’t come along every day. But you don’t need me to continue your studies. I just start people off on their journey. You can finish your apprenticeship with Oren. He’s a full-fledged Grafter now.’

  Tymon remained silent, considering this. ‘Oren will be a good teacher,’ she insisted. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Not like you, Ama,’ he murmured. ‘Everyone loves you, especially the ladies. Adana and Esamelda would do anything for you. Did you once make a prophecy that saved all the women of Nur, or something?’

  She gave a grunt of laughter. ‘I’m just a friend,’ she replied. ‘I know what’s in their hearts and what they feel they have to do in order to survive, but I don’t judge. Take Esamelda, for example: a whore, most certainly, and a petty thief. But she had a baby once and loved it more than her life. I was able to save the infant from harm on one occasion.’ She shrugged. ‘What happens after that is out of my control. What Chiara chooses to do with her time — that’s up to her, and no one else. Don’t think because you help a person one time you can help them again. Sometimes you lose more by success than defeat.’

  Later on, when the wagon train had stopped for the night, Tymon was party to a curious and moving scene. After a typical Nurian dinner of beans and bread, the Oracle sat propped up against cushions on Adana’s bed. As evening wore on, shrouded figures appeared at the door of the cart, slipping wordlessly through the thick curtain shutting out the cold. One by one, members of the convoy — mostly women — came to pay their respects to the Oracle. One by one they knelt at her feet or bent down to kiss the hem of her quilt. They spoke in low voices, recounting litanies of trouble and anguish. Some asked a single question. For every one of them she had a response, a piece of consolation or advice. She placed her hand on their heads and whispered in their ears. Even Dell refrained from stomping away on this occasion. He sat in sullen silence in a corner of the cart, keeping a leery eye on the proceedings.

  Tymon too might have been suspicious of the Oracle, a few weeks ago. He might have seen her as a charismatic leader taking advantage of the devotion of simple folk. Now, he was not so sure. He was beginning to allow for the existence of ideas different from his own. He saw she fulfilled a deep need in those who came to see her. She was more than just a Grafter. She was a living representative of all that was mysterious, incomprehensible and harrowing in life. She comforted those who most needed comforting. She was there to tell them it was as it should be.

  ‘I have something for you,’ his teacher remarked the following day, as he leaned against the half-open side of the cart and watched the twig-thickets slip by.

  The Oracle had not been able to move that morning from Adana’s bed. Her little face was ghastly white on the pillows, marked by purple shadows around the eyes. Adana herself sat on a stool in an opposite corner of the room, a pile of darning in her lap. She looked up sharply as the sick girl spoke but did not interrupt. The Oracle beckoned Tymon to her. She reached into an inner pocket of her shift, drawing out the original pendant Samiha had given him. He had assumed it was taken by Gowron at the time of the Oracle’s false murder; he was glad to see it intact.

  ‘Is it cured, then?’ he asked, taking the pendant from her outstretched hand and placing it about his neck.

  ‘It’s cured because you are,’ she answered. ‘I didn’t have to do a thing. Come, sit with me.’

  He kicked off the felt boots Adana had given him to replace his shoes, worn to shreds by his trek across the canopy, and settled himself cross-legged on the bed as she continued.

  ‘In the coming days you’ll travel north.’ She slumped back on her pillows, exhausted by even the slightest effort. ‘Oren has formed a new Focal group. You can continue your studies with them. The next phase of your training will be to learn to work with other Grafters.’

  ‘In Marak?’ he blurted, a little worriedly. He had no wish to encounter Verlain.

  ‘No. Oren and his sister have sought asylum in another Freehold. Most of the refugees from Sheb will be there by now, too. One of their scouts has been out looking for anyone left behind on the branch-roads. I believe you know him: his name is Pallas. He has been told to keep an eye open for you.’

  Tymon guessed who had given Pallas his instructions. He could not help feeling a twinge of jealousy at Oren’s swift progression. The young Grafter had obviously attained the level of independence and mastery he so wished for himself. He had become the leader of a new Focal group, the person Samiha would turn to for help and advice. Once again, someone else had taken on the role he had hoped would be his. He did not care at the present moment to consider the next phase of his studies; the only reason he wanted to travel north was in order to rejoin his love, imagining Samiha would be with the other refugees from Sheb.

  ‘Students come to me to have their potential unlocked,’ observed the Oracle quietly. ‘But it’s the group work that develops their Sight.’

  Her expression was patient as she watched him, her tiny form almost lost among the pillows. He was certain that she knew about his petty resentments, his jealousy. Did she even need the Grafter’s trance in order to See his growth? he wondered. It seemed to him she could Read him quite thoroughly here and now.

  ‘You’ve come far, Tymon,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll go farther. We have one more task to accomplish, you and I, before we part ways for a while. I think this will please you. You wanted to do a Reading. Now’s your chance.’

  ‘You mean,’ he said, his heart racing, ‘I can launch the trance by myself? When?’

  ‘Right now if you like,’ she replied.

  ‘What about the Veil? Won’t I open another passage?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Normally I would have waited a bit lo
nger.’ He noticed that her irises had dimmed, the once vivid blue obscured by a film of illness. She gave a tired smile. ‘But we’re running out of time, it seems. I would like to help you take your first steps in the world of Grafting. I always do, with a student.’

  She laid her small hands over his own: they were cold to the touch. Despite her physical weakness, he did not fear failure with her by his side. He knew she was strong in other ways. He tried to relax and focus his thoughts on the trance, using the techniques she had taught him. He imagined himself as hollow as a reed, as light and airy as a grass-stem. He was determined to begin the Reading properly this time. Slowly his body and mind grew calm. The sound of the grinding wagon wheels faded into the background and his eyelids drifted shut.

  ‘You may enter the Reading with a question, or allow the Sap to take you where it wills,’ murmured the Oracle. ‘I recommend the second option. But it’s your choice.’

  Tymon’s eyes blinked open. He had not expected a choice. The question dearest to his heart was already on his lips.

  ‘I understand what you’re driving at,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘It’s important to listen to the Sap. But there’s one thing I really need to know, Ama.’

  ‘Well, go on, then,’ she sighed. ‘Ask away.’

  ‘It’s about Samiha. I’d like to convince her she has a future. She won’t listen to me. She believes in the prophecy of the Chained One, which says she’ll die and bring about the End Times. Even if the tradition is disputed.’

  The Oracle tilted her head to one side, a slight movement that might either have been a nod or an equivocation. He took it for a sign that he should proceed, and screwed his eyelids shut once more. He tried to conjure up Samiha’s image in his mind. But her form was elusive, impossible to pin down, as if it were made of water. To his distress he could not remember her exact features.

  ‘You may find the Kion difficult to See,’ noted the Oracle. ‘Difficult, because there are things about her you don’t want to See — things you deny.’

  All attempts at concentration were shattered. His eyes snapped open again. ‘You mean it’s true?’ he cried. ‘She’s going to die?’

  ‘I didn’t say so, precisely. Though we all die.’

  She regarded him a moment as if deciding whether he was up to a difficult task.

  ‘There’s something you should know before we begin this Reading,’ she said. ‘Samiha was not on the Freehold when it was attacked by pirates.’

  ‘What?’ he gasped. ‘Where was she?’

  ‘She had already left for Marak. I must tell you that she was arrested there, two weeks ago, and delivered into the hands of the Argosian priests.’

  ‘You knew this? When were you going to tell me?’ His tone hardened; he made an effort to remain calm. ‘Would you have told me at all if I hadn’t asked to See her?’

  ‘I appreciate how difficult this is for you. One of the reasons I did not tell you was that I knew you would react badly to events largely out of your control.’

  ‘Why?’ he groaned. ‘I mean, why did she go to Marak? Why did the judges let her go? What possible reason could there be for her to do that?’

  ‘Even I don’t know the mind of the Kion. To understand these things you’ll have to do the Reading. You’ll have to follow events through to their conclusion.’

  ‘Fine,’ he muttered. ‘But even so I’d rather have known about it at the time, Ama. I’m not such a baby.’

  ‘How would you have felt, wandering through the canopy with a high fever, if I’d told you your love was in a prison in Marak?’ the Oracle retorted. ‘The stress would have killed you: you wouldn’t have made it to the main road, or met the convoy. Now, I suggest we let go of the past and make a start on the future. Are you with me?’

  He nodded, silent. Whatever he thought of her caginess toward him, he really had no choice — only the Reading could answer the host of fretful questions that built up inside him, threatening to make him burst.

  ‘This won’t be easy,’ pursued the Oracle. ‘You must be prepared to live with the consequences of your knowledge. The Kion’s fate is one of the supporting branches of the world, bound up with all our futures. That’s why there are so many prophecies about her and why they occasionally appear to contradict one another. There are some aspects of Samiha’s destiny you may alter, and some you may not.’

  ‘I’m ready,’ he declared. ‘I don’t care if it’s hard, Ama. I want to know everything. Why she went, what’s happening to her now, and what’s going to happen.’

  ‘So be it,’ she whispered. ‘Haya, Kudarat: In emptiness, power. That is all. The Reading is yours, Tymon.’

  There was no need for further chants or exercises. It was as if he had been standing, impatient, in a doorway. At the sound of her words the pendant about his neck gave a single warm pulse. In another instant he was engulfed in the shimmering branches of the Tree of Being.

  There was no question this time that the Reading had worked. In his eagerness to launch the trance Tymon had forgotten how painful the experience could be. He gasped as the white-hot branches of the Tree erupted from his body in sudden profusion. Adana, the house-cart, all his surroundings were overwhelmed by budding tendrils. The branches twined on through a shining void without end. Although the Oracle too seemed to have vanished, he felt she was near, hidden somewhere in the rustling vegetation. He sensed her familiar presence like a smell.

  ‘What now?’ he wondered aloud, grimacing as tiny tendrils searched their way out of the corners of his mouth and poked into his nostrils. Would the Reading always be this uncomfortable?

  ‘That depends on you,’ replied the Oracle, a disembodied breath in his ear. He did not know whether she had answered his spoken question or his unspoken one.

  ‘Where are the Letters?’ he asked her. ‘How do I get to Samiha, Ama?’

  He was caught, transpersed. There was no way he could loosen himself from the branches meshed together with his flesh, let alone Read them all.

  ‘The Letters are everywhere, at your fingertips. But you’ll need to use different senses to find them, and different means of getting about than the ones you’re used to. Forget your body. It’s only a memory. Instead of using what you think of as your arms and legs, listen to the Sap. Move with it. It connects you to Samiha. Find her. Reach out to her through the Tree.’

  He tried to do as she said, and listened to the pulse throbbing through the branches. It twisted through his sinews like liquid fire, its voice a faraway roar. He focused on the thought of Samiha. Slowly, excruciatingly, the flesh of his dream-body grew bright as it had during the first Reading. He gritted his teeth in agony.

  ‘Why does it have to be so painful?’ he exclaimed at last.

  ‘I’m as surprised as you are,’ mused the voice of the Oracle. ‘I’ve known students who find this process as natural as breathing. Or who take pleasure in it like the act of love. You’re the first one who’s ever wept through it.’

  It was true. His cheeks were daubed with tears that evaporated immediately from his burning skin. ‘Just my luck,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t scorn the pain. You may find it gives you strength.’

  He did not care much about strength. All he knew was that his false limbs were not disappearing, not disintegrating as they should.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ he ground out after what seemed like an interminable interval. ‘I can’t break myself down, Ama.’

  ‘There’s no need to break anything. You’re adding, actually. Think: the Tree is you. You are the Tree. Use the watchword for Union if you like.’

  ‘Kams,’ he began. ‘Kams, kamal—’

  As he spoke a spray of burning tendrils sprouted from his mouth, almost causing him to choke. ‘Kamal,’ he tried again, then burst into a fit of coughing as curling stems shot out of his mouth and nostrils.

  ‘This is making things worse,’ he cried to the invisible Oracle.

  ‘You mean better.’ Her disembodied whisper was all around
him. ‘Stop holding on to your old self. Be transformed.’

  He wanted to bellow out in pain and annoyance but he knew that she was right. He summoned up the courage to use the watchword for a third time.

  ‘Kams, kamal, kamsala,’ he mumbled, through a mouthful of leaves.

  All at once the Tree seemed to explode, sending out white-hot shoots in every direction. The flaming tendrils ripped through him, slicing through his soft, remembered flesh, reducing him to ribbons. The process was mercifully quick. Even as he began to scream he was already melting, dissolving, drawn into a light-filled vortex.

  ‘Good!’ the Oracle shouted over the roar of the Sap. ‘Good, Tymon!’

  He was free, shooting through the branches in a torrent of light. Unlike his first experience of the Reading, he did not lose consciousness in the Sap. His sense of self remained but became as fluid and changeable as the medium he travelled. Sometimes he flowed along three or four different limbs at once, separating and recombining parts of himself without difficulty. A sharp thrill of joy passed through him, for he knew the Tree grew as it should. He felt it even as he moved through them: each branch, each curling twig was right. The hollow corridors of the Tree were filled with clinging filaments that brushed against his face; their touch was accompanied by a burr of sensation, a brief flicker of light. He did not linger to investigate them, however, for he sensed Samiha ahead of him, in the midmost heart of the Tree. The impression was so strong that he almost fancied he caught the spicy fragrance of her hair. He longed to find her.

  He threw himself toward her so swiftly through the Tree now that the limbs of the Tree seemed to flow through him, rather than the other way around. The branches succeeded each other, alternating stripes of light and dark that blurred together until, in a sudden burst of brilliant colour, they ceased. He stumbled clear of the Tree of Being as he might have stumbled from the confines of an ordinary twig-thicket. To his confusion he found himself standing on a grassy slope, in the full light of day. Behind him rose the towering tangle of the Tree. He had expected to reach its centre, not the periphery.