Mythic Journeys

by Paula Guran

  Tribute of Angels sat with his hands in his lap, his eyes cast down. The Snake whispered “Come again tonight.”

  “As you wish, Great Lord.”

  “No. Not my wish. My life. Your voice is my breath. Your stories are my blood. I was dead and you have brought me alive.”

  Tribute of Angels raised his head now, and for the first time his eyes met the eyes of the Snake. “Yes,” he said. “I will come again this evening.”

  “Thank you,” said the ruler.

  That afternoon, four women dressed as deputy ministers came to the slave room of Tribute of Angels. Their disguises were not very good, really, despite their false beards and mustaches, and hair pinned up under a minister’s three-cornered hat. They giggled when Tribute of Angels inclined his head and said “My lords. How may I serve you?”

  In a deep breathy voice the one who wore the highest rank announced “We have come to take you to your new quarters.”

  Tribute of Angels stood up. “As you wish.”

  They marched from the outer to the inner rings of the Nine Rings of Heaven and Earth until they came to a wide set of rooms with high ceilings. There were subtle tapestries on the walls, and carpets that mimicked a summer lawn. Lacquered chairs and tables were draped with clothes, from shimmery robes with striped collars to shoes with long toes that turned up in spirals. In the inner chamber a large bed was piled high with pillows and blankets of every color.

  The minister smirked as she waved a long graceful hand whose fingers were each painted a different color. “Do you like it?” she said.

  The storyteller said “It is all very beautiful.”

  “Our lord Immortal Snake ordered that we prepare these rooms for you.”

  “My gratitude is beyond words.”

  They giggled again, nearly overcome at the idea of anything beyond the words of this blessed being. The minister said “I chose the clothing myself.” She inclined her head sweetly toward the inner chamber. “For you and for the place of rest. And pleasure.”

  Tribute of Angels bowed his head. “Your taste is exquisite. I hope you will not consider me ungrateful if I ask for a small change.”

  “Of course. Our lord said to give you whatever you desire.” She smiled, and the others stared at the floor.

  “I have only one need. A smaller bed.” As the women stared he said “I am a slave. My only joy is the service of my lord. I will live here, and wear the clothes Immortal Snake wishes for me, but I would sleep in a slave’s bed, narrow and hard.”

  She tried another smile. “Ah, but what if you desire company?”

  “In that case, my lord, I am sure the proper setting will reveal itself.”

  The imitation ministers left without further comment. In a short time workers came to remove the bed that would have housed the storyteller and all four of the women. Tribute of Angels was not there, and gone were the bed linens and most of the clothing. He had taken them to the outer rings, to distribute among the slaves and the poor.

  That night his story was a sad one, about a woman who gives birth to a phantom. Those who heard it found themselves under a gray sky, with only streaks of rose and violet colored lightning to guide them. Though the listeners blinked open their eyes at dawn with the belief that they had wept for a hundred years they still sent rings and paintings and marvelous toys to the storyteller’s bare and lavish rooms. He gave away everything but one painting, a miniature of a black and yellow bird perched at the top of a golden tree.

  During all this time, the three years that were officially the same moment in the never ending life of Immortal Snake, his sister and companion, Broken By Heaven, remained in the small empty room she had chosen for herself. Her servants lived more lavishly than she, for they were ladies of the court, and she had given them her gray-washed rooms and moved into the servant’s room. Despite the pleas of her young ladies, who longed for romance and intrigue, she refused to go anywhere or see anyone. There was no point, for at any moment the trumpets might sound and the white bulls trample the stone streets. And then the Holy Readers would cut her throat, and cook her into their poisonous stew.

  So she sat quietly, often just staring at the wall, or occasionally writing poetry, in complicated forms, in a large leather book that had once belonged to her grandmother, using very black ink to write over the supposedly wise and sacred teachings that covered the pages. Should she kill herself? It would end the terrible waiting, and if nothing else it might disrupt the calculations of the Readers. Just for that reason, she knew they would never allow it. Along with the chattering ladies two men stood guard at her doorway. They told her that the Snake had sent them to protect her, but she knew why they were there, and whose orders they followed.

  Sometimes the young ladies teased the guards and pretended to seduce them. Oddly, Broken By Heaven never seemed to mind their silliness. In the days when she was More Clever Than Her Father she detested such women, whose heads contained nothing but powder and kohl. Now, however, she enjoyed their laughter and their whispers, their heartbreaks that never seemed to last more than a few days, even their occasional pouting. They were alive, and eager, and no one was waiting for the right moment to murder them. They were all she had, and she loved them.

  So it was that one day, after noticing them even more breathless and twittery than usual, she asked what had so excited their interest. One of them, a bright young lady named Flower Of Her Brothers, clapped her hands and said “Oh mistress, last night we went to hear Tribute of Angels. It was so marvelous. You must go.” The others joined in, “Yes, please please go.”

  Broken By Heaven smiled at her. “And what exactly does this Tribute of Angels do? Is he a singer? A love poet?”

  “Oh no,” Flower said, and all the ladies laughed at the thought that there was anyone, anywhere, who did not know of this wonderful man who was a very gift of God. She said, with a certain pride, “Tribute of Angels is a storyteller.”

  Broken By Heaven closed her eyes. She remembered now. She had heard how after she’d walked out on her wretched brother he had taunted his ministers by choosing a storytelling slave to be his male companion. Soon—at any moment—she and this slave would bubble and cook together in a bowl of death. She said “I would like to hear this man. Do you think he will perform again tonight?”

  The girls jumped up and down with excitement. “Yes, yes,” they proclaimed, “he tells his marvels every night. There’s a feast beforehand. We can dress you and—”

  Broken held up a hand. “I think the storyteller will be enough for me. What time does he begin?”

  She entered the Hall of Precious Happiness just as the guests finished the final glass of wine, the last dates coated in exotic jellies. She wore a white dress, cut too large and made of thick cloth so that it appeared she had no body, only a head riding on clouds. She might as well have worn burlap from head to toe with only a single webbed eyehole for all the difference it made. Or, for that matter, a dress of light spun from the mouths of stars. Tribute of Angels’ head rose up as if pulled by wires the moment she entered the room. She saw him and staggered backwards. After that neither moved, but only stared with frozen faces, as if they would hold that moment forever.

  Immortal Snake took no notice, only said “Well? We’re done eating. We’re ready. Blessed God, you haven’t run out of stories, have you?”

  Tribute of Angels lowered his eyes. “No, Great Lord. The well of stories is inexhaustible, for every moment more stories are born than anyone can tell.”

  “Well, then you better begin.”

  “The fulfillment comes before the wish.”

  That night Tribute of Angels told of a king, an alchemist, who had discovered that he could live forever by drinking the blood of young women. He had no shortage of sacrifices; he was rich, and powerful, and the poor offered their daughters to him. But he was also alone, and he longed for a queen who could rule alongside him. One day he heard of a woman more beautiful than the birds, more perfect than the morning
star. He sent his nephew to bring her back for him. “Tell her,” he said, “that she will never die, for I will not take her, but instead we will share our blood, and together we will drink the milk of paradise.”

  The king lived on an island, and so the nephew sailed away in a marvelous round boat guided by songs; he would sing to the sea, and the currents would carry him. When the woman heard the king’s message she agreed to go with the nephew, for all her life she had never allowed herself any pleasure or desire, fearful that a fever or a random arrow or a hungry beast would take her away from whatever happiness she might possibly find. She traveled with him, and they were in sight of land, when a whale breached against the side of the boat, pitching them against each other. The nephew had his mouth open and it happened that his teeth fell against her neck, so that he, and not his uncle, was the first to taste her blood.

  Nothing sweeter had ever flowed down the throat of any creature, human, or angel. And for her, the puncture of his teeth was like the burst of a bubble that had hid from her all the glory and wonder of the world. He told her that if she joined with him she would give up immortality, for only his uncle knew the secret of turning blood into life. It made no difference, she said. Quickly he bared his neck, and she bit him, and they were bound together.

  The tale went on to tell of the king’s rage, the lover’s flight, how they found themselves, after years of hiding in caves, in a lost sanctuary known as the Garden of the Two Trees. Once, in the early days of the world, this garden had been a sheltered place, but now the roots of the Trees had withered, and all the leaves had turned to stone. Here they would die, they said, for above them they could see the king’s ravens and knew he would be upon them in days. They had reached the end, and no longer wanted to run.

  Long ago, the Living World had sent an angel with a flaming sword to guard the entrance to the Garden. As the Trees withered, however, the angel had fallen asleep, and now when the king arrived, he found the sword lying on the ground. He picked it up and raised it over his head, eager to destroy his traitorous nephew and the woman who had turned down immortality for the life of a fugitive. The two made no attempt to hide, but only sat in peace, ready for the blow.

  As the king lifted the sword, however, it struck a stone wall, and sparks of fire scattered on the ground. The sparks burned a hole into the earth and out of it came the ghosts of all the women whom the king had killed. In moments the ghosts surrounded him and pulled him down into the Land of the Dead, where he still remains, the only living being among the shadows of Death.

  The nephew and the lover were free. When he kissed her, then bit her neck, two drops of blood fell onto the roots of the great Trees. They heard a sigh, and then, slowly, the roots filled out, fresh leaves grew on the branches, and light and fragrance filled the air.

  When the story ended everyone had fallen asleep but the Snake’s two companions. Broken by Heaven walked through the scattered bodies, never looking down, never missing a step, drawn to Tribute of Angels like a shooting star pulled down to Earth. The storyteller stood with his body tilted towards her then stepped towards her so that they were both moving at the moment they met, like butterflies mating in the air.

  They kissed until the end of the world, until the Readers all died out and their observatory crumbled, until her brother and all the Immortal Snakes had wandered off into caves to meditate and dream, until the Moon and Sun merged together. So it seemed, but when she finally let go and opened her eyes she saw it was still night, and her brother and all his guests and servants and slaves still sat in their chairs, or lay on the carpets, or stood propped against pillars of marble and onyx—and every one of them asleep.

  Tribute of Angels said “I have no place.”

  “I know of one,” she told him, and took his hand. She led him through rooms and corridors until they came to a mahogany door that opened into the bed chamber of Immortal Snake. They spent the night there, deep in each other’s bodies, until just before dawn when they returned to their places in the Hall of Precious Happiness. Soon everyone awoke and left the room.

  That day, Broken By Heaven surprised her ladies by asking for color in her clothes. After several consultations and dashes to seamstresses they presented to her a violet dress shot through with swirls of yellow and green. Their suggestion of a special haircut was met with a single upraised hand, so they settled for taking turns brushing her hair, ten strokes each, with a silent prayer for their mistress’s happiness at the start of every stroke.

  The dress fit so well, and her hair shone so brightly, that Immortal Snake did not even recognize her until his eyes had followed her halfway into the Hall of Precious Happiness. When he realized this was his sister he blushed, then made a face, thinking she had come to lecture him for wasting his time with stories. He braced himself for a fight, lining up in his mind all his recent efforts to persuade his ministers to help the poor. When she said nothing, only smiled (he could hardly remember the last time that had happened), and took a seat at his right, not far from the storyteller, he was surprised to discover he was disappointed. He almost wanted her to scold him so he could show her how wrong she was.

  The tale that night was like a drug, a smoke or an oil that first delights the senses, and then carries one away down a river of color and sound, and wave after wave of pleasure. It was not really sleep it brought, and not really a dream, but in a short time they were all gone. All but the storyteller himself, and one of his listeners. Broken By Heaven stood up, and Tribute of Angels rose beside her. They kissed a long sweet time, certain that no one would disturb them. Then once again she took his hand and led him to the wide bed of the ruler of the world.

  They continued this way for a week until one night, as the dawn approached, and Tribute of Angels began to gather his clothes to return to the Hall, his love began to cry. He said nothing, only kissed the flow of tears on her face. Finally she looked at him and she said, “I don’t want to die.”

  “No,” he said.

  “They will come today, or tomorrow, or next week—do you know what they will do to us?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t want to die.” He held her now, his arms and legs around her, his head on hers, as if the force of his love could shield her from heaven and earth. Then, to his astonishment, she laughed. When he unwound from her it was like unwrapping a present. “I have an idea,” she said.

  That afternoon the female companion to Immortal Snake, dressed in the simple clothes of a minor lady of the court, made her way through the intricate streets of the Nine Rings to a hill beyond the edge of the city. There were no trees on this path, only the single fig tree at the top of the hill, that her brother had planted when he became Immortal Snake. Here and there crosses stood alongside the road, hung with tattered clothes like pieces of skin. Broken By Heaven knew what they were, of course, the symbols of the dried out skins of all the Immortal Snakes who had gone before her brother, and whose actual skins remained in the vaults underneath the observatory. Beyond the road, in large black pens, the white bulls snorted and scratched at the ground, as if they themselves were only waiting for the moment when they could tear her to pieces. She stopped a moment and stared at one of them, his shoulders like earthquakes, his eyes like tornadoes. He stamped the earth and she almost lost her balance but she held fast, and when the bull looked away, the female companion of Immortal Snake laughed and continued up the path.

  The Kingdom of God was a large square building with a glass roof. There were four doors, one for each season. At dawn on the equinoxes and solstices the Readers of God would step out the door of that time of year and sound the trumpets, as if they themselves commanded the sun to show itself. Broken By Heaven took a breath and entered the gray door of winter.

  A consultation was taking place, and Broken By Heaven stayed back while the Reader told a jewelry maker the best day to open a new shop in a colony city. When the jeweler had placed the proper fee in a toad-shaped box made of gold and jade, and then hurrie
d out (for no one stayed longer than necessary in the Kingdom of God) Broken by Heaven stepped into the light of the wide room.

  At first the Reader allowed shock to open his face, for it was no secret what the Snake’s companion thought of the Readers and their sacred duty. Quickly he recovered and crossed his arms over his chest as he inclined his head. “Mistress,” he said, “how may this servant of God help you?”

  She looked around. The ceiling was high, and painted with stars and animals running through the sky. Along the walls stood more of the tattered effigies on crosses but now the rags were made of gold leaf. Broken By Heaven said “I’ve never been here before.”

  “No, Mistress.”

  She smiled to see his nervousness. Though he wore the yellow and purple robe of his office the fabric looked a little thin, the snake amulet around his neck made of bronze instead of gold. She said “I wonder if you might ask the head of your order if he wouldn’t mind talking with me a moment. I have a question I would like to ask him.”

  “Of course,” the man said, and hurried away, eager to let someone else answer her questions. They could not deny her. The Snake’s companions into death were due every honor, every request granted but one.

  The master was a larger version of the underling, broader, thicker, with gray hair grandly swept back, a bushy beard with eyebrows to match, a thick nose and scarred hands. Broken By Heaven had heard he was once a wrestler. His robe was thick and luxurious, his talisman almost large enough to be a breastplate. Gold, it depicted a snake wound around a tree whose fruit was stars. “Great light of our heart,” he said. “You fill this hard-working temple with joy.”