Under Earth

by Ellen Renner

  “It is plain, yes,” said Mer, “but nonetheless beautiful for that. Keep it, if you wish. The woman gave it to you.”

  “Because I am a Weather-witch?” Storm frowned. “I don’t understand.” But her mind-voice remembered: Not “a” Weather-witch. She said “the” Weather-witch.

  Storm excused herself from yet another formal dinner as soon as she could, pleading tiredness. Days spent doing nothing but eating and shopping were surprisingly exhausting! There had been no sign of an elderly man with a pet monkey in the crowds. But then, neither had she spotted a Fire-witch among the dozens of witches she had seen entertaining shoppers and seamen for a handful of silver. She had not been given any more mysterious messages, but the sense of being watched – and not just by Talon’s guards – increased day by day.

  Storm slipped away from the crowded gathering room, murmuring apologies to Talon and his daughter, nodding farewell to the dozen guests whose names she couldn’t remember.

  She escaped into the rear courtyard and out through the ancient wooden gate that led on to an expanse of communal garden. Like the formal garden in the central square, the rear garden served all the houses of the Pact, wrapping round them. Betaan had boasted that it was nearly as large as the town itself, extending to the sea cliff that fell away into the distant harbour.

  She wandered neatly tended paths for a long time, planning how she would escape to the tavern long enough to speak to Uncle. Tomorrow it would be a five-day since she had come to live with the Pact. Storm glanced towards Talon’s house and spotted a guard standing at the gate, watching her. Storm sighed, turned her back and strode deeper into the mock wilderness.

  She soon forgot the watcher. The sound of water was everywhere, trickling from pond to pond, running in shallow rivulets between flower beds. Songbirds trilled, singing all the more frantically as the sun sank towards the sea. Butterflies flirted in fading pools of sunshine.

  Storm paused in the middle of a wooden bridge leading from one flower-strewn mini-island to another. How Ma would have loved this place! For the first time since Dain’s death, Storm felt a strange comfort at the memory of her mother. She wandered towards the cliff edge, found a bench perfectly placed and sat down to watch the sun sink into the sea.

  Why have so many witches travelled to Bellum Island? But she thought she knew: the Dolphin, Tortoise and Albatross had sent them because the Salamander’s most powerful witch was here to kill her. The very fact that she hadn’t yet seen one Fire-witch in the town was worrying.

  She pulled the tiny gold monkey from her waist pouch and examined it. “Seek out the old man with the monkey,” the goldsmith had said. If she found the old man, would he know the answers to these riddles?

  “I’m not afraid,” Storm told the setting sun. It was a lie. Why had the Elementals singled her out to wield power over both Water and Air? Why did the Salamander want her dead? “I’m only me!” she whispered to the dusk, feeling very young, very alone and not particularly brave. “Tortoise? Are you there?”

  The Elemental was silent, but a ke-ke bird flew to perch on a stem of fragrant wisteria above her bench and began to sing. It sang the sun down. Her heart slightly eased, Storm returned to her too-large room and too-soft bed. The moon rose and set again before she slept.

  “How nice you look!” Betaan stood back, examining her handiwork. “Don’t you agree, Mer?” The morning sun slanted through the glass of the window and showed Storm an image of herself in the brass mirror that both confused and pleased her.

  “Absolutely.” Mer smiled at Storm. “You might start a fashion for short hair. And Beta has done a good job with the cosmetic. Your eyes look huge now.”

  “I still want to pluck your eyebrows,” Betaan said. “They make you look fierce.”

  “I like my brows. Perhaps I am fierce.” Storm stared into the mirror, and her heart beat faster at the sight that met her eyes. The translucent layer of paint made her eyes, mouth and hair look dramatically dark. Can that be me? I look … exotic. Exciting even. When Betaan had insisted on painting Storm’s face, she had decided it would be quicker to give in. Storm needed to go to town early this morning in order to escape her custodians in time, or Uncle Lake would wait at the inn in vain.

  “Almond will certainly want to dance with you next time!” Betaan gazed at Storm through half-lowered eyelids, and Storm felt her face grow warm.

  “I am too young to dance with a grown man.”

  “True. But in two years you will be a woman, and if you stay with us, you will be able to be a woman, not a non-sex. You would be able to marry, to have children. Don’t you want a family some day? Why should you sacrifice yourself for your island?”

  Not answering would be rude. Storm spoke reluctantly: “Weather-witches have always been men. Some of the Elders worried about the Balance.” The hardest thing about being Chosen by the Elementals had been becoming a non-sex. But she had made the choice, done what her Elders demanded. “Everyone makes sacrifices for their people.”

  “I don’t.” Talon’s daughter stared at her. “Why should I? This is my only life on this earth, and I intend to enjoy it. Besides, your Elders’ demand was unreasonable. Oh well, your island is small and isolated. I suppose your people cannot avoid being superstitious and uneducated. The Elementals gave you your powers, so how can it be wrong?”

  “Our people are no less educated than yours!” Betaan shouldn’t call Yanlin small and isolated – even if it was. “Our chanters know all the old tales. And we do not have as many thieves as you suffer. And—”

  “Of course your chanters are excellent,” Mer soothed. “Betaan often speaks before she thinks. But she is proud of Bellum, as we all are. And you, of course, are proud of Yanlin. But you cannot live as a woman if you return to your island.”

  Storm inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of Mer’s words. “I must give my life to my people,” she said. “I am a Weather-witch. I have no choice.”

  “You do!” Betaan grabbed Storm’s hands, eyes large and pleading. “Stay here with us. Live as we do. Be whomever you like. Enjoy your life. You did not ask to be a Weather-witch, so why should you suffer for the actions of the Elemental spirits?”

  “I don’t know.” Betaan’s pleading expression was so un-Betaan-like that Storm wanted to laugh. She heard once again the words of the Albatross, spoken on the day of her Choosing: Storm-bringer. Storm-rider. Storm-queller. Much is needed from you. Learn what it is. “We cannot always choose our life’s path.”

  The other two girls exchanged a glance. Betaan shrugged. “Here,” she said. “Put on these earrings I bought for you yesterday. And then we will go into town to visit my favourite tea shop. I shall treat you to the best plum cakes in the Inner Sea!”

  The sun was already three hands above the horizon when they set out, the usual guards in attendance. Storm’s stomach knotted with nerves. The morning would soon pass and much depended on luck … and these guards. They were the same three men and a woman as on previous days.

  “What are their names?” Storm asked her companions, whispering to avoid giving offence to the guards.

  “Names?” Betaan looked blank. “You!” She pointed at the nearest guard, the woman. “The Honourable Storm wishes to know your name.”

  “Tolbar, Mistress.” A frown flitted across the woman’s usually impassive face.

  “Shall I ask the others?” Betaan turned to Storm with a patient expression.

  “No.” Storm watched the guard. The woman’s face remained wooden. She looked clever – possibly too clever – but time was running out. Storm had promised to meet Uncle Lake. Ancestors help me! Suddenly, her plan seemed anything but foolproof.

  They sat at a table in the tea house’s small garden, tucked away in one of the many squares somewhere in the south of the city, far from the harbour. Palm trees dangled leaves overhead, splashing welcome shade across the terrace. Bird cages hung from every tree, painted bright pink, blue and yellow. Imprisoned ke-ke birds sang franti
cally, until Storm’s head began to ache.

  Her mind-voice muttered irritably: The song of the ke-ke should be a rare gift from the Tortoise, chanced upon in a forest glade. She longed to open the cages and let the birds fly free, but she did not dare. Instead, Storm stared at the half-eaten pastry in front of her and felt slightly sick. It was time.

  “Have more tea!” Betaan poured perfumed liquid into their cups. It was delicious, but Storm had drunk four cups, eaten three and a half pastries.

  “You must excuse me.” She rose to her feet. “Please, don’t get up. I will return shortly, but I am feeling slightly unwell. The latrine…”

  “Ah, poor you,” cried Betaan. “Not used to rich food, I suppose. Landlady!” At once, the old woman who ran the tea shop appeared, hands clasped tightly.

  “Yes, Mistress?” The old woman bowed deeply, then, as if fearing she had not been obsequious enough, bowed even lower.

  “Show my friend to the necessary! Guard, go with her.” Betaan motioned to the woman guard, and Storm kept her face frozen in an apologetic smile to hide her disappointment. Well, she had not expected it to be easy.

  “Left down the street and along to the city wall, Honoured Mistress,” the shop owner said, pointing out of the doorway of her tea shop with a long, tea-stained fingernail.

  “If you will lead, Mistress.” The guard motioned to Storm.

  “Oh,” Storm said, with a helpless smile. “The city is so big and scary. I would prefer to follow you, Tolbar, if you don’t mind.”

  The guard stared at her, obviously disconcerted that Storm had called her by her name. “Um, if you want.” For a moment, she looked like a person instead of a function. Then the mask dropped: “Just keep close!”

  “I will.” Storm felt guilty already. Would the woman be punished? But she had to meet Lake, and this was the only way…

  The street was long, twisting, and crowded. At first, Tolbar kept turning around to make sure that Storm was at her heels, but soon the checks became less frequent. As they neared a crossroads where two alleys led in opposite directions, Storm dropped further back. The ever-present crowd thickened around them helpfully. Tolbar continued past the crossroads, but Storm darted into the left-hand passage and ran for her life. She prayed to the Ancestors that the guard would not look back for a few breaths yet, and that when she did, the crowd would delay her search. Please! Storm prayed. Let her choose the right-hand alley! And then she was too busy dodging past strangers and trying to remember the way to the main square to think of anything else.

  The Merry Whale was an old twisted timber building on a narrow street a few hundred paces from the main square. Storm had had to ask three people for directions before she found it.

  Uncle and Foam were seated in a corner of the dark, low-ceilinged main room. Lake glanced at her as she entered but looked away. Was Uncle being cautious? Or was there danger? Storm studied the room, but there was no sign of Talon’s people. So she bowed politely to the proprietress and made her way to their corner. Storm eased herself on to the mat beside her uncle and he glanced up, surprise on his face.

  “Greetings, Uncle. And to you, Foam.” She bowed politely to both men and tried to quell her nerves. Her back was to the door, which made her shoulder blades twitch. If Tolbar had managed to follow her trail she might burst in at any moment!

  Uncle Lake was still staring at her in amazement. “Is that you, Niece?”

  Storm had forgotten; now she felt herself blush. “It’s the face paint. Talon’s daughter wanted me to wear it this morning and it seemed rude to refuse.”

  “You grow used to the ways of the Pact then?” Lake’s voice was quiet, and that was strange. Her uncle was loud and definite. “You like fancy clothes and painted faces?”

  Storm blinked. What was wrong?

  “That wrist cuff and those earrings. Solid gold from the looks of them. Who paid for those, Storm?”

  “They were gifts.” Why was Uncle trying to make her feel bad? It wasn’t her fault Betaan insisted on giving her presents.

  “You wear girl’s clothes again.” Foam joined in, his voice also accusing. “Your hair is loose. Have you forgotten your pledge to the Elders? To Yanlin?”

  “I forget nothing! When am I allowed to? I’m not here to talk about what I’m wearing or whether there is paint on my face. I am here to hear your news and tell you mine, unless you wish me to return to the Pact now?”

  She was a Weather-witch now, not a child to be rebuked. Lake and Foam were being unfair. Or were they? I have nothing to feel guilty about! she raged at her mind-voice, which wisely kept silent.

  Anxiety flickered to life in her uncle’s eyes. “No, Niece. I do not wish you to return to the Pact. I am sorry if I misspoke. It is because I am afraid that we will lose you. You must realise that.”

  “Do you question my loyalty?” Her anger would not be quelled so easily.

  “Do we have reason to?” Foam was not frightened. He looked at her and it was as though her former mistress, Elder Teanu, was rebuking her.

  Storm’s anger stuttered. “Of course not!”

  “You are not a fool,” said Foam. “You must recognise the enticements they throw at you. Not just fine clothes and jewels, rich food and luxurious houses. But power of a sort we do not use on Yanlin. Have you not noticed, Storm, how poor the ordinary people are? That here there are masters and those mastered?”

  The unease she had felt since arriving on Bellum grew stronger.

  Bellumers don’t even make any more!” added Foam. “In the old days – because they didn’t need a fleet – both the men and women of Bellum Island were makers. But they haven’t produced goods for generations. They merely consume what the rest of us make. If the other islands were to organise and refuse to trade, Bellum would starve!”

  “They don’t make?” Storm stared at her uncle and Foam. How could an island’s people not create? Making was life.

  “Oh, a few artisan-makers still work on Bellum,” replied Lake. “But most of the stalls are filled with goods from other islands.”

  “But … what do the people do?”

  “Survive as best they can,” Foam said. “The ordinary folk garden, hunt and fish to scrape a living. Those in town serve the Pact in some way, offering luxuries and distractions for the head families. They run taverns like this for the fleet men. And other things…”

  “What other things?” Storm asked, but Foam blushed and looked into his cup of rice wine.

  “Teanu gave me a message for you,” said Lake.

  “A message? Why did she not tell me it herself?”

  “It was for a time such as this. The Elder knew the Pact would try to seduce you. She knew they would offer you your gender back. She said, ‘Tell Storm to be patient and to trust me. All is possible given time and good fortune.’”

  “That is all?”

  “No. She said that you must let the Earth spirit guide you. She thinks you have a special connection to Earth because of Dain, that the Tortoise took you as its child because it foresaw your mother’s death.”

  Storm heard again the Tortoise’s words: In choosing life you will find death, but if you turn to death, you and yours will die in turn.

  Last year, in a moment of weakness, she had allowed herself to think of Nim, the Drowned One boy, as a human being instead of her mortal enemy. He had shipwrecked himself on Yanlin and been near to death when she found him. Instead of reporting him to the Elders, she had nursed the pirate boy back to health. And Nim had repaid her by helping his people attack Yanlin.

  With a rising horror, Storm understood that the Tortoise had known that if she saved the Drowned One boy, her mother would die.

  “Storm?”

  Both men were watching her.

  “I do not have a special connection to the spirit of the Earth! Enough of this! Talon has set spies to keep watch over me. I managed to escape for a time, but they will find me again soon.” Storm longed to tell her uncle about the Water-witch’s warning
. But what good would it do? Lake could not protect her from a Fire-witch. He didn’t even know that the Salamander was trying to kill her. Only Teanu, her island’s head Elder, knew about that. And she had sworn Storm to secrecy.

  “Then I must ask you what you intend, Niece,” said her uncle. “Our trading will be done here in another five-day. Will you be coming with us when we sail?” Lake’s eyes were fastened on her face; his expression that of a man expecting a blow.

  “Of course I will be sailing with you!” Storm put her hand over the cuff on her right wrist, over the scar. The idea of leaving Bellum so soon was upsetting – she realised she would miss Mer, even Betaan. Miss the excitement of Bellum Town. And … the pit of her stomach clenched as she thought about binding her hair into a topknot again and donning the ugly, sleeveless tunic of a non-sex.

  “They will try to keep me,” Storm said, knowing it to be true. “They won’t just let me leave with the fleet. We will have to trick them.”

  “Have care!” hissed Lake. “I don’t trust the woman who runs this place.”

  “Trusting anyone in Bellum Town is never wise,” agreed Foam.

  “So it would be well to speak softly.” Lake leaned closer, his voice so quiet Storm could barely make out the words. “I agree. The Pact has not had a Weather-witch in many generations, and they want both the power and prestige such magic brings. They will make you work for them by fair means or foul. I will make plans for your escape. But we must finish trading first.”

  Storm nodded. Trade was essential, or many on Yanlin would go hungry during the coming monsoon.

  “I am sorry I doubted your loyalty,” Lake said gruffly. “Teanu will see that you don’t have to sacrifice everything for Yanlin, never fear. You must come home, Niece!” Lake recovered himself enough to attempt a half-hearted laugh. “Haven’t I told you what Minnow will do to me if I return without his beloved cousin?” He gave her arm a clumsy pat. “Can you meet us here again in a five-day?”