But that was over now. Entirely over without any remote thought of ever returning. And yet, one part of that life remained where it should not. It was Freya the whore who drank the poppy juice. She had needed to survive, to live through horrors, and to forget the misery. Yet now, bursting like sunshine into her life, was pleasure. Even happiness. And the poppy served no essential purpose except her own addiction.
“And if Pod, or marketeers, or Hawisa tells me I should stop, I am angry, because why should anyone else tell me what to do? Now I’m free of all my vile thrusting domineering pig-shit-slimes. No more Sal, nor Thribb, no Doria nor Rudd. Not even Edilla. I can do what I like. I tell myself I can. But I’m not free and someone still orders me. I cannot refuse. I’m still a slave. I’m a slave to the poppy, and I have to prove I’m strong. Very strong. Stronger.”
She decided she would tell Hawisa in the morning, no more poppy juice please, Hawisa. I have stopped and I shall never want it again.
But in the morning, when she woke to the cup in Hawisa’s hand, and the sunshine through the window, Freya had entirely forgotten everything she had decided the night before.
Leaving by train from the Eden City Station, Jak slung his own small baggage onto the small cushioned seat in the middle carriage, and nodded towards the other three empty places. This was the highest priced, and the seats were comfortable with sufficient space beneath to shove a bag or a parcel. With large sacks on shoulder-strap handles quickly pushed below, Tom and Udovox scrambled beside Jak, taking the two seats opposite, while Symon, who had no bag or baggage of any kind, apologised for taking so much space, and sat next to Jak. The train whistled and the steam press began its shuddering rhythm.
“Pom tiddely pom, pom, pom, pom, tiddely pom,” Tom chanted. “I could dance to this.”
“I dare you,” said Udovox. His short legs jiggled, his feet not reaching the floor.
Sitting with a dazed expression, Symon sat very straight as though doubting the carriage’s ability to carry him. But as the clatter of the wheels beneath discovered their own tune, very slowly Symon began to tap his feet, and his smile appeared first hesitant and then delightfully exuberant.
Jak watched him. “First time?”
“Indeed it be,” Symon said, his feet gaining speed. The horn blew and he lurched, but nodded, as though reminding himself of the noise he had heard so many times in the city. Rising and fading, the clatter sped, changed as it crossed the railway bridge, and sped again. “We’s done it,” he said then, looking out from the window where sandy hillocks were sweeping past. “We’s on our way. And it ain’t so bad as I reckoned it were gonna be.” And he grinned at Jak. “Though looks proper like tis the land wot’s moving and not us.”
“Ah,” said Jak, “the magic of the steam train.” He smiled at the others, all shuffling into place and settling to enjoy the comfort and the rhythm. “Easier than horseback, no doubt. So first the north, and the exploration for an abandoned water mill. And if we find little or nothing – we go south. I have one delirious ten day, and although I believe in none of the gods, I pray for success.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
She kissed his cheek. “From the amazing Skandarella, to the amazing Pod, genius musician,” she whispered. Freya was not sure if Pod might be a lover of men or of women. Having been a molly boy since five years old, he could find the fucking of men disgusting. Or he might now consider it the only way. Freya had no intention of asking him.
“And the amazing Skandarella has learned all her lines?”
“Me, of all people, since I wrote them? I’d be pathetic if I didn’t know every word. And I do – every little bit.”
“Some of the others don’t.”
“They’d better hurry. I’ll ask Peppa to shout. After all, we open tomorrow night. I love my costume. And I’m going to love all the music.”
“And you’ll love the cheering.”
“There are bombs, Jamakker, don’t you hear them?”
“You sit and learn those lines in your own bedroom,” Pod laughed. “And I’ll play you the finished music in the morning. Nearly finished. So off you go, or I’ll be far too distracted and won’t get a note written.”
“I’ll listen at the door.”
But she did not listen, nor hover in the corridor. She lay on her own bed and began to recite her lines. Yet the words faded in her mind, and she found she was reciting the words she remembered Jak saying long, long ago. She remembered reaching for his hand just to feel the warm strength in his fingers and the pressure of his affection. It had seemed like magic, unique and unutterably special. And yet now she had felt and loathed the more intimate pressure of perhaps a hundred men and nothing had been special and certainly no longer unique.
A faintly wistful wind blew in through the half open door. It felt like a promise of something different – one day available – if she could rediscover pride in herself.
The theatre sat snug, every door closed, although over the stage there had never been a roof, and the day appeared to wander, almost unknowingly, into nighttime. With a sky still blue and no moon yet risen, the stars began to peer from between the tops of the buildings and the few stubby trees. Then night became thick and the stars leapt in their thousands. Dagger sparkle dashed across the darkening horizon. And every seat within the theatre began to fill. People pushed, with anticipation, with sounds like the intake of breath, with a haze of unspoken excitement and the dawn, not the night, of a whole new experience.
No seat remained empty. Some seats were filled by two as a parent held the child on her lap. In the small space directly before the stage, the younger audience stood, crammed together. No seats meant many more people.
At the back of the stage, bemused by so many folk gathered together, a long-necked blue vulture sat on the high stone wall, wings folded, watching, and waiting for the first death to bring meat half-baked in the heat.
The audience was alive with hustle, bustle, settling into a half-broken chair, whispering to each other, shushing the children, and slipped finally into the eagerly waiting silence.
And the performance started. The audience held their breath. Someone coughed and every head turned to glare. Six men in fake grey armour fought four others in blazoned red coats, their wooden swords clashing. “Don’t break the bloody thing,” one actor muttered, wiping his sweaty hand on the grey flax looking nothing like armour. But the audience did not hear, their eyes were bright and unblinking, and when the fight came to an end, they cheered. The six grey men lay dead on the stage, the red shirted men raised their arms with a cry of success, and as the dead crawled off, heads down, the king marched on, his crown a little crooked, but his purple cape floating royally behind him.
The music spun, sometimes vivid and fast, at other moments haunting and mysterious. Death became quite common, but since all corpses managed to rise and hurry away behind the curtains, the rushing blood they appeared to spout did not stain the boards.
The audience gasped in delight, then in horror, then in shock.
“There are bombs, Jamakker, don’t you hear them?”
“There’s fire, flame and furnace. How do we save the people from explosions like this?”
“You must travel to Shamm yourself. Speak with Pessussio, make peace. But while you are there, discover the secret of the bombs.”
“Skandarella, this is the idea of genius I needed. I shall do as you suggest. But don’t tell the king where I’ve gone.”
“I never tell the king anything. If he saw me, Dain would try to drag me into his bed once again.”
There had been over two long hours of uninterrupted delight.
The final scene played to a hush so profound it seemed the audience had forgotten to breathe at all. Into the silence King Dain, crown now on straight, loomed over his small pretty wife, lifted the shining knife high into the air, and stabbed it down into her chest. With a mournful shriek, she tumbled to the ground as the king stood over her, smiling in glee and rubbing his ha
nds together. For a moment, the dead woman stayed flat, but then she too rose to accept the cheers.
Thrilled feelings mounted, amidst the spangle of fake jewels, the clapping and calling, the actors parading, with Pod standing mid-stage and bowing, guitar in his hand, and then came demands that the performance start all over again.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” shouted Pod but no one heard him over the roar of joyful exuberance.
“Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow. Tell your friends. Invite another township further up,” yelled Varinker. No one listened to him either. Some folk stood on their seats, waving their arms and their hats.
“Shit,” muttered Peppa, “they’ll break the chairs. One of those benches is going to crack.”
“Listen,” said Pod. “That’s a different sound altogether.”
“How can I hear something else over this din?” Peppa demanded. “But we’ve made so much money tonight, I reckon we can buy new chairs.”
It was taking nearly as long as the play for the audience to give up and leave, but then the other sound became more noticeable. A deep whine turned to a squall, a sudden small gust of stinging sand flew across, and within two moments it was pandemonium.
“Sandstorm,” several shouted.
Someone grabbed one of the chairs, then crawled beneath. “Find shelter,” he yelled. “This is a bad one.”
“Sandstorms are common.” A family was leaving in a hurry. “But I’m getting home quick.
“Don’t you hear the squall? This is a bloody hurricane.”
There was screaming, both by the wind and the people, and the dunes burst open and the sand rushed in. Circling and scattering, filling open mouths and open eyes, slashing like sword blades into faces, twisting and shrieking, the storm pounded every person, every wall and every clanking roof. Flying debris smashed into running people; children were swept from their small feet and flung high, hurtling past their terrified parents.
The sand cut and stripped flesh, the grit caught in the ferocity of the wind became a golden horror. Broken splinters chased fleeing men like a war of invisible magicians. Women were thrust sobbing into flying fences; there were bursting doorways, the doors disappearing upwards, their hinges snapped.
“Down.” The command came from behind and a hand forced her to the ground, flat on her face. “Stay down,” Pod shouted directly into Freya’s ear. He was lying on top of her, both his hands to her shoulders. “The storm’ll pass over. Less than an hour, it’ll be gone. Just stay down, flat on the ground, and it can’t hurt except for a few scratches.” He paused. “But the theatre will be wrecked. This is a bad storm like the one forty years back. A hurricane or tornado, it’ll flatten houses and rip off roofs.”
Not understanding, she spoke in a muffled rigmarole, her mouth full of sand. “Why? Where?”
“Destroyed,” said Pod. “Now, try to stay still. But do breathe. That’ll help.” Tall and skinny, he weighed more than she would have expected, yet his weight kept her flat, almost unconscious, and brought a strange sensation of complete safety. Freya sighed, shut her mouth, shut her eyes, breathed deeply through her nostrils, and allowed the shrieking of the wind to block all thoughts.
Now spinning in all directions, the sandstorm caught up stool alongside escaping people especially women and children, cups, casks, and every piece of every broken building. Now it was not a storm of flying sand, but a storm of death. Rooves hurtled past, beds spun upwards, and the people were as ruined as everything else.
It was not the hour or less that Pod had promised, it was more than two hours of nightmare as the wind whistled, scouring anything it could not smash and carry upwards into the strange staring gleam of a hundred thousand stars. And the sky had swallowed everything it could grasp before spitting out parts of home, parts of the theatre, and parts of people back onto the sands, as the storm moved on and dissipated, having exhausted its hunger.
“Now up,” said the same voice which had commanded her down, and Freya, too stiff to move quickly, tried to sit up. Pod held her arm, helping, but with little strength himself. The back of his head was bleeding, and so were the backs of both his hands. Yet he did not seem badly hurt, and except for the grinding stiffness of every bone and the failure of every joint, Freya was not injured at all.
But stretched around them was the true end of their play.
The theatre was wrecked, and a sheet of plaster had fallen over them, helping to protect them. A white hand, its fingers reaching out for something no longer there, lay beside Freya. She was crying. From crumpled piles of ripped material, legs, arms, and heads emerged, but all slashed by wind and stung by sand. One woman, struggling and sobbing, was alive and climbed to her knees. Then she flung herself down again across the body of her child lying broken beside her. The vulture, its blue wings mangled, its long neck twisted and grotesque, hung over a pile of stones.
Crawling, which was all most could manage, like large weeping beetles slowly trying to find their way home, the survivors gradually escaped the sickening graveyard.
Her thoughts whirled as the winds and sand had whirled, and Freya stared across at the crazed misery stretched before her, while stabs of memory, of cheering and clapping, of dancing across the stage to bow as the audience begged for more, swam into her head. Instead now there was the silence of utter misery and the absolute end of everything that had seemed like a glorious beginning. Pod put his arm around her, leading her away. “We have to see if our rooms are still standing. If we still have possessions.”
What had been familiar, showing her the way to walk, was now gone. She had no idea where to go, but Pod led her. It had all started at ten of the clock the previous evening. As the stars spangled out from the burnished blackening sky, the audience had arrived and settled. In moments, they had started the show. Two more hours, and just a little more, the performance had finished to celebration. The cheering and happiness had been nearly one more hour. Then the first whistle of the wind. The flying bursts of sand blocked out the stars. No moon could be seen. And the killing had started. It must have been about one of the clock, Freya thought, when disaster swept every joyous thing away. She didn’t know the time now, but the sky was still black, the stars reappeared, and the smaller moon, looking almost fragile, was a crescent peeping over the bleak killing ground.
Pod and Freya plodded, avoiding the sudden sight of torn arms, complete bodies beneath pools of darkening blood, smashed heads and the squelching belly of a limbless body.
Still wearing the costume of the character she had acted – the flimsy chiffon and threaded fur – felt false, as if this whole thing was a mistake, someone else’s play–acting and no part of real life. Her purse, which Peppa had given her as soon as she climbed from the stage, was still tied to her belt, and Freya thought Pod must have the same. But she could not see his guitar and hoped that it had not been crushed. He had been the most important part of the performance, and on previous nights he had been the only performance. He was always brilliant, always rewarded. So he would have coin enough for a new guitar. Whether he would ever wish to play again, she wasn’t sure.
There was no theatre, and half the audience were dead. They had no idea how many of their actors had survived. All – half perhaps – surely some. But they would never put on that performance again. Even the paper on which it had been written, and the words copied for each member of the troop, must all have been lost. And it was more than that. For many years the performance was known as the Cursed Play, and folk spoke of it in whispers.
And then Freya stopped, stared, and began to scream. Pod hugged her, wondering what had happened. “You’re ill? You’re sick? Yes, it’s ghastly. Best not to look.”
But he had to look because she pointed, and she refused any step forwards.
There was rubble, as there was everywhere. But here the legs, solid ankles and well-worn boots emerged from the sand under the bricks and the stone. The legs were warm in knitted black stockings, in spite of the heat, and they emerged from
the barely seen hem of her gown, which was plain broadcloth in deepest pink.
There was no other part visible to recognise, but Freya knew exactly who this was. She sank to her knees and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Five
On her knees and shouting, Doria swore, remembering every word of filth, of insult, and of hatred she could spit. The woman kicked her again in the face. Doria’s nose started to bleed and the swearing faded as she screamed instead.
Kallivan’s foot stamped against the small of her back, pressing downwards, which made it difficult for her to rise. She could wriggle, but not escape.
“I said I help cleaning,” she squeaked. “But I ain’t no whore.”
“I have absolutely no need of a cleaner, since two of my dear elderly companions do all that is necessary between them, and my home is small.” Valeria turned a quick scowl to Kallivan. “Indeed, my companions are both absent this day, but will return tomorrow.” She once more kicked Dora in the face. “But I’ll have no slut living on my floor and pretending to be a cook while she gorges my money.” With a hiss of disgust Valeria again turned to Kallivan. “Why did you bring the trollop here? What did you expect me to do with her?”
“I have no idea, nor any slightest interest,” Kallivan told his mistress, releasing his foot from Doria’s back, allowing her to scramble up. “She was useful on the journey, scrubbing stains from my clothes, making the bed, and opening her legs for me. I gave her some beatings too, which helped relieve my fury at the way this entire episode has ended. Now, if you wish, simply throw her from the window.”
“I ain’t done nuffing wrong,” Doria whined. “I took wotever you wanted, m’lor. I done sucked yer prick, and I done poured yer wine. You said you was gonna help me live good in the city.”
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