The Long List Anthology Volume 5

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The Long List Anthology Volume 5 Page 32

by David Steffen


  When Lisoryo returns, you have a letter for him. Dear Night Sky, dear Veil, hear me. A lullaby aches in my rib cage. Today, I am a dovecote, and there are songbirds cooing inside, twittering, goldened, precious. How they all at once alight as I open my body to your waning autumn moon. I am waiting for you to fill me.

  You watched Anyag write it out, grinning at her own audacity. “You think he’ll believe it?” she asked.

  “Powerful men never doubt themselves,” you answered. “Take care not to let the ink bleed through.”

  He receives the letter with a knowing smile, but does not open it in front of you. He thanks you, then asks if you might sing for him.

  You have no idea what to do with his request, except comply. “Will a verse from The Twenty-two Laments of Matang-ayon suffice, sir?”

  “More than.”

  Feeling caught and foolish, you sing verse eight, about Matang-ayon’s sojourn to the Eastern Valley of the Sky, to seek the hand of the bride of darkness. His ankle is caught between two grinding bits of cloud, and his flesh tears, but he does not cry, for he is a hero.

  As you sing you feel Lisoryo’s magic reach for yours, sly and searching; you divert it gently, as if you do not know what you are doing. Anyag always wanted to meet other sorcerers to exchange stories with. He is dangerous, not only because of his face and his wealth. You finish the song, and he breathes in, satisfied.

  “You could come with us,” he says evenly. “There’s always a need for more beauty in my garden. You could make yourself useful with the palace’s defense—and you would have all the training you desire, for your sword arm and your magic, both.” He licks his lips. “Besides, I’m sure the jewel would love to have the one who first polished her quite near.”

  You don’t bare your teeth, but you can’t return his smile, not even as a lie. “Thank you, sir. But I know where my place is.”

  “The offer stands.” He clasps your shoulder, briefly. The tips of his nails dig lightly into your skin; you fail not to shudder.

  The rest of the afternoon, while he is eclipsing the other suitors who are making their case for Anyag’s hand, you play the part of a good steward, standing silent in the corner. While he is waxing poetic about his domain by the sea and the vast riches of his people, you imagine how just days from now, you will make a break for freedom. You will leave in the dark, with no witness but the moon—customary for you two, but next time, it will be different. The day after, when the sun rises, Anyag will not have to hide, and you can watch together, hand in hand.

  • • • •

  After practice that evening, out of breath from dancing and sparring, Anyag asks, “For how long?”

  You wipe your sweat, not really attending. “Hmm?”

  She’s not looking at you, so you don’t see her expression. “For how long have you loved me?”

  Your face, already warm, turns hot. There’s no simple answer. You’ve spent half your life looking after her, memorizing every note in her laugh, the way her eyes grow glassy when she’s ill, how she has grown more distant from her parents with the passing years (“They don’t see me, Amira, not the way you do”). You’ve adjusted the cant of her hips in the middle of a song, the way she holds a knife, the words she breezily recites: Abya Malana, Matang-ayon’s temporary lover, cannot look him in the eye, for she is afraid the looking will render her speechless. And without her words he will see her truly, and find her incomplete…

  That first year together, when you were weary and grieving, you once awoke from a nightmare to find your face against her chest. She was stroking your hair, as your mother had done before she fell ill. “It’s all right,” she said, the once momentous gap of your stations rendered to nothing. “You can cry. It doesn’t matter here.” You couldn’t even apologize, broken as you were, and you sobbed instead, on this girl who was much smaller than you, saving embarrassment for the morning after. She only laughed and said it was nothing.

  You loved her then, but as your only friend, your reason to keep going. It’s different than now. You don’t know how it turned into this. One day you looked at her and she was brighter and more beautiful than anyone had a right to be, and something in you begged to keep her just a while longer. That was when you knew to be afraid.

  This girl knows too well how to play with your feelings, but you’ve known her for just as long. You want to make her heart beat faster too—it’s not lost on you, that she didn’t kiss you back, that she doesn’t trust your loyalty—to her? Or to her parents, your masters?

  You are trying not to hope that freedom necessarily means together, but how will you know for sure? You reach out and grasp her arm.

  “Will you believe me if I said always?”

  She shakes her head, grinning. “You once threatened to spank me if I made a joke instead of concentrating! Abya Malana, Matang-ayon’s temporary lover,” she repeats, sing-song, even as you pull her towards you and hold her. “Cannot look him in the eye, for she is afraid the looking will render her speechless…”

  “Is that what you’re doing right now?” Her head is against your shoulder; you smooth her hair, as you’ve done countless times before (but not like this. Not like this). “Not looking at me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve loved you for a long time, my salt and stone, my ivory bone. And I will keep on doing so, and hurting for it, won’t I?”

  She kisses your shoulder, a drawn-out motion that makes everything in you tingle. She kisses your neck, your cheek. Your nerves are strung so tight, you are certain one inhalation will break you apart. She touches her lips to your ear. “Maybe,” she murmurs, and you are too breathless to reply, too ablaze with want to be angry.

  • • • •

  The presentation is a story. Like a story, it has a beginning and an end.

  The drums start when the sun goes down, the kulintang blending in after a few beats. Anyag’s parents have spared no expense, and the entire village comes to witness the spectacle. In the first few years after Hugan-an’s sacrifice, the village feared for their binukot, for the coming of the bakunawa. But that was countless seasons ago, and the moon remains, and the monster has become one terror your people do not fear. The young maiden’s death, still recent enough to be in the memory of some, has become the stuff of legends. With it has come the elevation of every other binukot: their purity, talent, and beauty are such that even celestial beings—monsters, no one says—are content with them forever. If you take a binukot as a bride, then surely you are blessed by the gods.

  There are seven suitors in total, arrayed in a half-circle, waiting for Anyag to make her entrance—but everyone’s gaze is on Lisoryo, who has come wearing a silver band that sits like a crown upon his brow, black paint lined sharply around his eyes. His robes graze the sand even when he stands. The lord and lady sit on rattan chairs with golden embellishments, decked in their best finery, faces impassive as they survey the gathered crowd. The sun melts into the sea, and the sky turns from red gold to pink, to blue.

  The other servants light lamps. The drums slow, and soften.

  Now the cast is in place, save the main character. At the door to Anyag’s tower, you hold a lit torch. With your other hand you touch Mother’s amulet, begging her spirit to be with you, even if what you are doing may be wrong.

  Behind you, Anyag breathes out to steady herself.

  “Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready,” she says. Quiet and firm. “Stay with me, no matter what happens, Amira.”

  You reach back and twine your fingers together. You listen to the drums. For a minute you are afraid, then you remember to trust her, your worry dissipating.

  “Yes, my jewel.”

  You rehearsed this moment so many times in moonlight, walking in a secluded area of the beach. You practiced the movements in her room, with all the furniture pushed to the sides. Watch your feet, you’d tell her, and she’d laugh and shove at you and do it worse, just to hear you mutter in frustration. She does non
e of that now, regal and delicate as she emerges from behind you and stands, blinking, in the light of your torch. Theatrically, she removes her veil. The crowd murmurs, gasps running from mouth to mouth so that it sounds like the wind whistling.

  Anyag descends the steps of her tower while you keep pace behind her, so that your firelight barely brushes her skin. She carries the tapestry she completed last season—one with a great eagle soaring over the sea, the moon hanging above everything. As she walks to the half-circle where she will perform you step away, standing just beyond the ring of lanterns; despite everything, your heart is bursting for her to do this well, this moment you’ve spent years over, the moment to take their breath away. It is the one gift you can give this village, before you betray it. The crowd hushes. The only sound besides the steady thump of the drums is her anklets, stacked so that they ring like bells with every step. She spreads her tapestry on the sand, so that all can see it and marvel: the delicate weave of color, the intricate story that her hands have brought to life. She straightens, and stares every suitor in the eye, briefly. She takes her longest with Lisoryo, their respective gazes magnetic, and the moment stretches tight: a breath held long enough to suffocate.

  Then she smiles, the proud smile of an enchantress who knows the power she commands, and she raises one arm to cover her face. She stretches out one leg. The gong sounds, and she begins to dance.

  She’s not perfect—no one is, or can be.

  But she’s breathtaking. Close enough to a diwata that no spell, no song, would get her closer. There’s a moment when the lady, her mother, looks at you and nods. Pride swells through you. Anyag lifts her arms, and your heart is dragged with them; she rolls her shoulders, and you are out to sea; she smiles, and you are not here.

  With a start you remember that it’s not her you should be watching. You glance at Lisoryo. He is resting his chin on one hand, long fingers obscuring his mouth, but his eyes never leave her. In the glare from the lanterns they are no longer fathomless black pits; instead they reflect the gold at her wrists and ankles, the haze of gentle fire. You recognize desire, kindling. It’s the suggestiveness of the song, calling a warrior to sweet rest: Buyi-Lahin closed his eyes, leaning on the fair maiden Ka Bigtuang’s lap, and slept for a thousand days…

  The music stops. The crowd cries, expressing their admiration, their awe. Anyag stands before her parents and kneels, her forehead nearly touching the sand, until her mother says: “Rise, my jewel.” She goes to them and kisses their brows. The firelight illuminates the sweat on her skin. The suitors, shaken from their stupor, stand and wait for her approach. Over her father’s shoulder, she catches your eye—and winks. She’s excited and fearless, exhilarated from her victorious performance, and you can almost hear her think: we’ve got them. With this, it begins.

  • • • •

  They give her away that same evening. There is no argument —there never is—but her choice freely coincides with theirs, which is all anyone can hope for. The other suitors understand how this goes; they are gracious in their defeat, and will travel to other islands to find their wives. As they are leaving, Lisoryo and Anyag exchange their first pleasantries, where the lord can see them. You are summoned by the lady and instructed to pack up her meager belongings, for the newlyweds will sail tomorrow, just after noon.

  “Tomorrow?” You had expected the festivities to continue for a day or two longer, for the wedding feast to come in the traditional three days, after which you would immediately depart, leaving her husband behind.

  “Master Lisoryo has been away from his domain for more than a week now; we agreed it best to have them sail immediately, given the potential for storms, and so that Anyag will start her new life—with joy and excitement.” The lady falters. You consider possible liabilities: she has no love for this village, and though she cares for her family, the only thing Anyag can truly be concerned for is—you. You swallow and nod, hoping your lady thinks it only extends to this—the tearful goodbye between sisters, dear friends.

  “Then the wedding ceremony will be…”

  “In the morning. At first light.”

  “Understood, my lady.” If the wedding ceremony is tomorrow, then she will sleep at the foot of her parents’ bed tonight, as is custom. So you will have to approach in darkness, and hope that Anyag has realized as much as you. Hope that she hasn’t forgotten your plans in the glare of admiration and longing that Lisoryo casts her way—for when you look at them again she is staring at him with an expression close to heartbreak.

  • • • •

  You’ve packed everything you need. Both her dagger and yours are in your belt. It is past midnight, and there is no time left to second-guess things. You leave the servant’s quarters for the main house, and creep to the room of your lady and master, praying to find her outside the door. She isn’t. You wait; perhaps she has simply gone to sleep—or maybe she has decided, at the last, not to run away. After the seconds become unbearable you push the door open, gently. On the bed lie your lady and master. There is no sign of Anyag on the cot next to theirs.

  You will yourself not to panic, but know immediately where you must go. You race for the shore, running faster when you see Lisoryo, and Anyag beside him, walking with her head bent. They are almost at his boat.

  “Stop!”

  Lisoryo’s expression is somewhere between disgust and gloating. Anyag’s eyes grow wide, then harden. “Stay away!” she yells, but you don’t listen, you run right up to them even as you wonder what you will do—separate the couple? Threaten his life? Then the village would have you beaten with bamboo rods, and branded for your insolence. But you are fueled by instinct now, and your hand flies to the knife at your side.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving with my husband. It is no concern of yours.”

  “What did he tell you?” She wouldn’t do this, not for no reason, your Anyag wouldn’t—

  “I owe you no answers. Don’t talk as if you own me,” she says, coldly. “Leave us.” A slap to your face would have been kinder. You look at her eyes, searching for any enchantment, and find none—only steely determination. Your heart crumbles like soil squished in a fist.

  “I’m tired of waiting, my bride,” Lisoryo drawls. He inspects his long fingernails.

  “We’re going,” she says shortly, and turns away.

  “Anyag—” You grab her arm. Lisoryo sighs, steps forward, and backhands you so that you sprawl on the sand. You are surprised by his strength. When you blink up at him, head starry with pain, you are further surprised by his narrow eyes and the way his teeth are sharp within his smile—sharp as his fingernails; sharp as a dragon’s fangs. The amulet at your throat begins to burn with a memory, of standing on the shore to see one moon gulped down, then another…

  “You’re…

  “Oh, have I been found out? There are too many clever girls in this village.”

  In a flash you are on your feet. You will die for striking a man unarmed, but you are certain that he is no man. You try to slash him across the side, but he merely sidesteps and kicks you hard in the stomach. You drop to your knees.

  “Master Lisoryo.” Anyag’s voice wavers. “Come now, you said you would harm no one.”

  You cough out spit and blood. “Anyag! He’s not human!”

  He laughs. “Human? No, but after taking the sacrifice of a human maiden I learned the shape and sounds of one, the simple artifice, the cues I need to make you believe. How I loved Hugan-an—her skin, her hair, the exquisite sweetness of her marrow… but the last of her radiance is gone, and I hunger once again.” He seizes your face. “Your precious jewel knows, slave. The only thing that has given me patience is how delicious I know she will be. You’ve heard the story. You know her song.” His fingers dig into your cheek and you are unable to move, your breath coming short. You do know this song; you know how it must end.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Anyag says.

  “Oh, don’t barter, beloved. Y
ou have nothing to threaten me with.”

  Your blade is tight in your fist and you lunge up to take another swipe, at his neck this time—he jerks his head away, but you get him across the cheek, a fine tear that drips a single trickle of black blood. He sighs.

  “I pity you, how you forget to be afraid. But I suppose hope is one of the best seasonings, for humans.”

  You don’t see him move, but suddenly there’s a searing pain in your stomach—you cry out, your nerves buzzing as he kicks the side of your head and stomps on your knee. You touch your stomach, and your hand comes away wet with blood; you cough out spit that tastes of copper. He didn’t strike anything vital, though there are sparks in the corners of your vision that you try to blink away, as you scramble to your knees—but Anyag is standing before you, face tilted up to the man who is also a moon-eater.

  “Enough,” Anyag says. “It’s me you want, isn’t it? If you’re starving so badly, why don’t you take me now?”

  “Well, if you were in a hurry, dearest, you should have said so! There is no need of this filthy skin, then.” The glamour begins to slip from him, his skin turning to scales, melting into the midnight blue of his robe, as he grows and grows—

  “Anyag!”

  “Don’t.” She looks back at you, her eyes hot with tears. “You shouldn’t have followed, so you wouldn’t have to know. I must do this, Amira. See to your wound. Do not die.”

  “No!” You watch in horror as he bends into a monster behind her, lashing out his enormous tail, eclipsing the moon. She turns to face him and mouths the song that will be her requiem: “Leave the moon be, leave my people be—”

  She does not even finish before he snaps his jaws around her. You scream and scream as he takes to the sky.

  • • • •

  There’s a moment, watching him spiral upwards, through the haze of your disbelief, that you realize what a story this will make: how Anyag saved your village, how like Hugan-an she made the most perfect sacrifice so that you all may have light, so that you may keep your moon. And there would be no pain this time, for no one but you would know. Everyone else would think that they had simply stolen away in the night: newlyweds so in love, unable to wait. If he spoke true words, his next visit would not be in your lifetime.

 

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