by J F Mehentee
Golden light pulsed from the tattoos along my right forearm and seeped through my jacket. I touched the ball sitting in Biyu’s palm. The divining ball spun on its axis.
‘Show me where I can find information on the poison inside you,’ Biyu said to the ball.
The ball stopped rotating.
Half a minute passed.
‘Patience,’ Biyu said.
Silver light shone from a third of the wedge-shaped characters. The ball rotated again.
Biyu lay the back of her hand flat on the floor. The ball rolled forward and approached the books. The divining ball circled the row five times. On its sixth circuit, it stopped between two books. One was the thick tome, its leather binding peeling along the spine. One half of its rusty clasp, used to lock the book, was missing.
Don’t let it be that one. It would take hours of reading to discover the relevant pages.
The ball bumped against the tome.
Thanks for nothing, I thought.
Biyu clapped her hands, her mouth open. The light from the ball glinted off the tips of her teeth. She scooped up the ball, thanked it and told it to sleep. The silvery light shining from the symbols faded and went out. She set the ball on the bench gently and then hefted the tome so that it sat next to it.
‘Why the sour face?’ She patted the book. Her mouth remained ajar. ‘The answer’s in here.’
I risked dampening her relicologist’s enthusiasm.
‘It’s a thick book—don’t you think?’ I said. ‘It’ll take ages to find what we’re looking for.’
Biyu grabbed my wrist and turned my palm upwards. She placed the divining ball into it.
‘You said you touched Rahmat’s qi. Hold the ball out in front of you and above the book. Tell me when you experience the same sensation.’ She told the ball to, ‘Wake up,’ and then curled my fingers around it.
Biyu opened the tome, raised a handful of pages so that their edges brushed my skin.
‘Feel anything?’
I closed my eyes for a second or two, then shook my head.
She let the pages drop, grasped another handful. Again, I shook my head.
On the fourth handful, a sharp fiery pain stabbed my palm. The ball vibrated.
‘Yes, I felt something,’ I said. ‘The ball sensed something, too.’
‘Awesome sauce,’ Biyu said.
She stood opposite me and positioned my hand—still holding the ball—to one side of the book. The burning sensation disappeared. Unable to hide my excitement, the corners of my lips rose when I saw how she would use her left thumb to control the wedge of pages falling onto her right hand.
‘Stop,’ I said when half the pages had fallen. ‘It’s burning again.’
Biyu noted the page number before letting more pages fall.
I stopped her when the burning ceased and the divining ball no longer vibrated. We repeated the process, this time with some twenty pages, and reduced their number down to seven.
I put down the ball, gave Biyu a hug and kissed her with care. I’d caught my bottom lip on a sharp tooth several times before.
‘Give me thirty minutes,’ she said, keeping me close.
My hand slipped down the length of her spine. I caught myself before it touched her tail by mistake. It confused me how Biyu’s self-consciousness concentrated on her tail and not her skin or her face. Even at night, naked and climbing into bed, she always faced me. That was when the guilt slugged me in the gut—like it had done right now.
My arms fell from her and my mental shield went up.
‘That means I have thirty minutes to make lunch,’ I said, desperate to escape the vault. Her reptilian skin prevented facial expressions, but I saw the confusion in her eyes. ‘Today I’m making an omelette and leftover cutlets for my brilliant relicologist wife,’ I said. I pecked her forehead. ‘I won’t be long.’
With leaden legs, I climbed the stairs out of the vault and then up the staircase to our home above the practice.
The living space comprised a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom. Biyu had been raised here. After her father had moved to a retirement community—a matter of months after his wife’s passing—I’d had the place remodelled and modernised.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered to the ceiling. Although we considered the place our home, I always imagined the spirit of Biyu’s mother watched me from heaven and reproached me for what I’d done.
I selected carrots and spring onions from the vegetable rack. As I began to chop them, I recalled the disastrous day in the temple district.
I’d had enough. Biyu had received an invitation to speak at yet another off-island conference, the fifth in eight weeks. The night before, I’d found a photograph, its corner poking from between the pages of an academic paper she’s brought home. Taken during the last conference, it featured Biyu sitting a dinner table, a wine glass raised and a broad smile on her face as she leaned in for a picture with Supervisor Yeong-Tae Pak.
I finished chopping the vegetables and cracked open the first of three eggs into a bowl. At the memory of that photograph, Pak’s sharp handsome features, I smashed the second egg against the bowl’s lip. I glanced at the ceiling.
‘Sorry.’
I removed the pieces of eggshell from the bowl and replayed the prayer I’d sent out that awful day.
Please stop these endless field trips and conferences, I’d prayed to no particular god. Biyu’s work is driving a wedge between us. Please save my marriage.
I heated the pan, wiping a teaspoon of oil across its surface with a napkin. I waited for the pan to warm.
That night, after returning from the temple district, I’d waited for Biyu. As usual, she was working late.
I poured two-thirds of the beaten egg into the pan.
She was at the University, on her own and translating part of a scroll that contained a spell.
I scattered the chopped vegetables onto the sticky surface of the omelette.
Biyu should have translated the scroll in out-of-sequence sections, but she was in a hurry and needed to have the entire scroll translated and ready for review by Pak the next morning.
Before the omelette’s base could brown, I folded over one edge of the omelette by an inch and a half, and then folded again. I dragged the omelette across the pan and poured the rest of the egg into the space I’d made.
The spell was potent. Each section she translated became a recitation. The power she’d summoned must have hung above her desk, waiting.
I took the pan off the heat and continued to fold the omelette until I had a two-inch thick roll.
The translation of the final section set off an explosion that reduced the desk, the scroll and Biyu’s translation to ash.
None of the academics, Supervisor Pak included, could tell if the spell involved summoning a dragon or filling the reciter with a dragon’s essence. The accident was an embarrassment to the department, the University and Pak. All three turned their backs on Biyu.
Someone had answered my prayer.
‘Sorry,’ I said, slicing the roll of cooling omelette into one-inch pieces. I regarded heaven beyond the ceiling. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes,’ I promised Biyu’s mother. ‘Even if it means scouring every one of the seventy thousand islands on this archipelago for the counter spell, I’ll do it.’
I screwed my eyes shut. I wanted to believe that what had happened was an accident, but—along with every Zadrinesian—I knew gods exist. The archipelago was once their earthly playground, before humans overran the islands. Translated, our island, Bagh-e-Khuda, means Garden of God. Without doubt, one of the gods had heard my prayer.
I carried the plates and the cutlery to the table and called out to Biyu.
‘Lunch is ready.’
3
Biyu arrived upstairs carrying her map of the archipelago. Her open mouth and her bright eyes told me she’d discovered the poison and, perhaps, more.
Desperate to hide my guilt, I smiled. Finding Rahmat a cure was a serious
matter. That didn’t stop Biyu enjoying herself.
These moments made me pause and wrestle with the idea that, maybe, all those days and nights away were because she enjoyed her work and not her supervisor’s company.
Biyu didn’t sit at the table but stood over it. She unrolled the map and used her lunch plate to stop one end from curling on itself. She nodded at me to do the same with my plate.
With a cold pork cutlet—a leftover from last night’s dinner—held between chopsticks, she said, ‘The poison used on Rahmat is the poison of choice for regicide, specifically demon kings.’ Biyu tore off a chunk of cutlet.
Pleased and impressed, I popped some omelette into my mouth. Biyu itched to make another announcement. I nodded for her to continue.
‘And I also found a cure.’
I waved my chopsticks at her to go on.
‘The book not only described Rahmat’s symptoms, it listed the ingredients we’d need for a cure.’ Her tongue swiped the rest of the cutlet from between her chopsticks and she swallowed the piece whole. Biyu’s teeth cut and tore. She no longer chewed her food. For a second, the unfurled map held Biyu’s attention. ‘But there’s a problem.’
I gulped some water to wash down my food. Whatever it was it hadn’t diminished her excitement. It couldn’t be so bad.
I took my cue and said, ‘How big a problem?’
Biyu put down her chopsticks.
‘We have almost everything we need in the pharmacy—I looked.’ Again, she studied the map. ‘Except for one thing.’
I drank some more water before my throat dried. Was she suggesting a trip to the market or one of the many medicinal herb importers on the island?
‘What’s missing?’
Biyu’s third eyelids swept over her eyes.
‘An anzu’s egg. We’re to clean the shell and add the water we washed it with to the other ingredients.’
I’d never heard of an anzu before. Why did I get the impression this creature’s egg was the source of Biyu’s excitement?
‘What’s an anzu?’
Biyu shoved a hand into her jacket pocket.
‘All I found was a picture. The creature has a lion’s head and forelegs. It also has an eagle’s wings and feet. From the neck down, it’s covered in feathers.’
Biyu fished the divining ball from her pocket.
I pictured the square of urine-soaked cloth inside it.
As if I’d shared the thought, Biyu said, ‘It’s filled with the antidote’s ingredients.’ She placed the ball on the map. ‘It also contains the antidote’s formula on warded paper.’ She flicked the divining bowl into motion. ‘Go find the missing ingredient,’ she told it.
As with the books, the ball circled the edges of the archipelago. Its circling took on the shape of a shrinking oval, the ball restricting its search to the westernmost islands. It completed several circuits that included our island, Bagh-e-Khuda. I wished we could find an anzu’s egg somewhere here. The elliptical orbits shrank until the ball wobbled to a stop on top of an isle east of us.
‘That’s the third time it’s done that.’ She retrieved her chopsticks and selected a piece of omelette. ‘Mmm,’ she said, then swallowed. ‘Just the right amount of salt.’
I bent forward to push the divining ball out of the way and read the island’s name. The ball butted against my finger, eager to return to its former position.
‘Kazera,’ I read. ‘I don’t think we’ve been there before.’ I checked the map’s scale. ‘It’s about three hundred miles from here.’ I wandered over to the bookshelf next to our bedroom door, selected an atlas and then the Air Zadrinesia timetable. I returned to our lunch, handed the atlas to Biyu and then flipped my way through the timetable.
‘Hmmm,’ Biyu said.
‘What?’
She tapped a page of the open atlas.
‘The population’s less than five hundred. It’s mostly plains and mountains covered by forest. I couldn’t find anything in the vault about Kazera. If anzus still exist’—she tapped the page—‘then Kazera’s the perfect place.’
Outside, the sky thundered. The afternoon rains were about to kick-off.
If lion-eagle hybrids still lived on any of the archipelago’s islands, they’d be common knowledge. The tome containing the antidote looked ancient. More likely, the divining ball was pointing us at fossilised anzu eggs. I kept that to myself; we had a bigger problem.
‘According to these timetables,’ I said, ‘there are no direct airships to Kazera. We’re looking at eight hours of indirect flights and stopovers. And then we’d have to charter a boat or hovercraft to take us across to the island.’
Biyu put down her chopsticks again and folded her arms.
‘So?’
I shook my head. I wasn’t giving Kazera the brush-off.
‘The whole trip, there and back, takes sixteen hours, and I haven’t included time to find an egg. Rahmat’s returning tomorrow at noon. The qi tablets I gave him won’t last any longer than that.’
Rain pattered against the window. Biyu shrugged.
‘I’ll fly us there. It’s only three hundred miles. Five hours there and five hours back.’
Hadn’t she just heard what I’d said?
‘Biyu, I gave Rahmat four of your qi tablets. You’ve only one left. You’ll use up all your energy flying to Kazera. By then it’ll be dark. You won’t be able to walk without taking a tablet.’
Biyu emitted a throaty growl that resembled the thunder.
‘It’s one o’clock. You’ve plenty of time to roll me another tablet.’
This business with the anzu’s egg had piqued her interest, but had it blinded her to the challenges involved. I’m more risk adverse than Biyu—and risks were a relicologist’s occupational hazard—but this wasn’t about retrieving a relic. We needed a timely cure for the Resistance’s leader. We couldn’t afford a case of the operation being successful, but the patient died. Biyu’s eagerness for an adventure was obvious, however. And, anyway, we had no alternatives.
I glanced at the ceiling.
‘Okay,’ I said, raising my hands in surrender. ‘You’re right, I can roll you another tablet’—even if it drains me of qi and I end up being useless to you if there’s trouble—‘but remember, we know hardly anything about this anzu creature. It’s got the head of a lion, Biyu. Do we understand what we’re dealing with?’
She shook her head. Her eyes continued to sparkle.
Biyu skewered a slice of omelette on a talon. She held it up to her mouth and grabbed it with her tongue. Like a gecko, she could wipe her eyes with that tongue—something that never failed to silence a sick child while it balled in the waiting room.
‘I know frit all about anzus and what we might find on Kazera,’ she said, ‘but I know a man who does.’ I recognised hesitation and doubt when she should have sounded smug. ‘His thesis involved separating fact from the mythology of the anzu,’ Biyu continued. ‘I haven’t seen him in five years, and I’m not sure if he’ll help us.’
Above us, the sky rumbled. Or was it the gods laughing at me? My mouth turned salty. There was just one man she could be talking about: fritting Supervisor Yeong-tae Pak.
4
The grey clouds and afternoon rain matched my mood. Our taxi drove south and under the island’s main thoroughfare that divided the city into its North End and South End. We slowed to avoid the pedestrians milling round Underpass Market. The market specialised in cheap clothing, ironmongery and furniture. All the items on sale were seconds from District Eight’s factories.
Once we’d cleared the meandering shoppers, the electric taxi accelerated as we drove the last mile to District Six and its sprawling University campus.
I had shielded my thoughts from Biyu and faked my interest in returning with her to her old workplace. I was jealous. Though I needed her help with finding a cure for Rahmat, I couldn’t stop myself from thinking how her helping me to find an anzu’s egg was just an excuse to visit her former supervisor.<
br />
As an alumnus, Biyu had access to the University’s library. The building was in another part of the campus, away from where she’d worked. That didn’t prevent Biyu meeting her ex-colleagues for lunch or dinner—some even came to the practice for a cup of tea and a gossip. But Biyu never went to see or received visits from Supervisor Pak.
Her accident had embarrassed them both. The University board deemed Biyu’s transformation a result of supervisory negligence. Pak had almost lost his tenure. Once, I’d overheard an ex-colleague visiting the practice tell Biyu that, nowadays, the supervisor had trouble filling his postgraduate vacancies.
So, after five years, why was Biyu so eager to meet the man she had shamed? What made her think he’d let bygones be bygones and help us?
I examined the tablet I’d been rolling between my palms and imbuing with my qi. The tattoos beneath my raincoat shone a little too brightly. I risked turning the oat-coloured sphere of sugar and starch into black powder.
The taxi slowed, made a sharp left and then waited outside campus security. Biyu rolled down her window and presented her alumni membership card.
Ahead of us loomed the seven tall white-painted buildings with their ironwood timbers and hip-and-gable roofs, a homage to the island’s traditional millennium-old architecture. My mouth dried and my palms began to sweat.
By the time we’d reached the Faculty of Humanities, the downpour had turned to a drizzle. Compared to the buildings we’d passed, the whitewash was fresh, the surrounding lawn manicured and the bedding plants well maintained. The building’s pristine condition reflected the frequent donations from the Ministry of Holy and Demonic Magic to Biyu’s old workplace, the Department of Holy and Demonic Artefact Conservation.
‘I’m so proud of Biyu,’ her father had told me the day she had left to start her degree in this very building. ‘Neither her grandparents nor I attended university.’