On the Banks of the River of Heaven

by Richard Parks

  The father looked toward the barrier. “What if there are more of them?”

  The Soldier shook his head without any help from Ceren. “Keep watch, but I doubt there will be. It was a foraging party. There’s an army on a quick march south, and the king will have to deal with that if he can, but auxiliaries? It’s likely no one will even miss these bastards.”

  The farmers looked doubtful, but they did as the Soldier directed. Ceren watched them carry Kinan off, then quickly turned back toward her own home.

  She shed the Soldier’s skin with relief, but she was nearly stumbling with exhaustion. Even so, she managed to carry her box of medicines up the road to Kinan’s farm. It was his mother that greeted her this time.

  Ceren had never met the woman before, but she could see Kinan in the older woman’s eyes. Most of the rest of his looks he got from his father. She frowned when Ceren appeared, but she seemed to be puzzled, not disapproving.

  “Kinan said you were young. I didn’t realize how young.”

  “My Gran trained me well,” Ceren said, a little defensively. “I can help him.”

  The woman shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. You already have helped him, so I hope you can again. He hasn’t moved since they brought him in. My name is Liea, by the way. Thank you for coming,” she said, and sounded as if she meant it.

  Ceren found herself blushing a little. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said thank-you to her and seemed sincere rather than grudging. Except Kinan.

  “I’m Ceren. I don’t know if your son told you or not. . . . I trust no more raiders have been seen?”

  The woman shook her head. “Not here, though we’ve heard rumors of attacks further south. The men are out burying the carcasses in a deep hole.”

  “Then maybe we won’t see more of them again.”

  Liea shrugged. “Even if the army is beaten, likely some like them will come this way again, and likely be even more hungry and desperate in the bargain. We heard what they did to the steading west of us.”

  Ceren only hoped that they hadn’t seen it as well, as she had. Liea took her to where Kinan had been put to bed. It wasn’t a large room, and clearly he shared it with his brothers. Ceren found him lying pale and still under a quilt. His breathing was regular and strong; the head wound had stopped bleeding and she removed the bandage, noting with approval that it had been cleaned out properly, doubtless Liea’s doing. Now it was easy to see that the cut had not gone clear through to the skull, though it hadn’t missed by much. Still, Kinan’s continued unconsciousness was not a good sign, and the longer it lasted, the worse the portents.

  Liea stood nearby watching. Her eyes were moist and her lower lip trembled. Ceren believed she knew how the woman felt, at least a little. She took a needle and thread from her box and calmly proceeded to sew up the gash. She noted with approval that Liea turned away only once, on the first pass of the needle.

  “These stitches will need to come out, but probably not before a fortnight. Just cut one side under the knot and pull. It’ll sting him, but no more than that.”

  Liea looked as if she was ready to collapse where she stood. She put her hand against the lintel for support. “You . . . you think he will live?”

  “The next few minutes should tell. Would you like to help me?”

  Ceren mixed a pungent blend of herbs with a few drops of apple cider supplied by Liea. She then had the older woman hold Kinan’s head while she soaked a bit of linen in the mixture and held it under Kinan’s nose. “I’d try not to breathe for a few moments, if I were you.”

  While Ceren and Liea both held their breath, Kinan inhaled the scent at full strength. In a moment his eyelids fluttered and then his eyes opened wide and tears started to flow. He sat upright in the bed despite Liea’s best efforts. “What is that damn stench?”

  “Your salvation,” Ceren said calmly. She took the rag and stuffed it in an earthenware bottle with a tight cork to seal it. After she closed the lid of the box the scent began to fade immediately. Liea already had her arms around her son, who didn’t seem to understand what all the fuss was about.

  “I’m fine, Ma. My head hurts, but that’s all . . . Wait, what happened to—”

  “Your father and your brothers are all fine, as are you. Mostly thanks to this young woman here,” Liea said. “Ceren, I don’t know where you found that man you sent to help us, but we are in your debt for that as well. I don’t know how we can repay you.”

  Debt. Well, yes. That was how it worked. Gran had always said as much. You use your skills and make other people pay for them. It was no different from being a cobbler and a blacksmith. Except that it was different. A cobbler could make a gift of shoes or a blacksmith an ironwork, to a friend. What witch—yes, that was the word; Gran spoke it if no one else would—gave her skills away? Who would trust such a gift? Ceren’s weariness caught up with her all at once. She rose with difficulty.

  “Can we discuss that later? I think I need to go home. . . . ”

  Liea looked her up and down. “I think we both need to sit for a moment and have a taste of that hard cider first—without the herbs. Then I’ll have Kyne or Beras make sure you get home safe.”

  “She was worried about me. She was nice to me.”

  As Ceren lay in her Gran’s bed trying to sleep, she examined the thought and wondered if what she thought was concern in Liea’s eyes was something else.

  Child, everyone acts nice and respectful when they want something or when they owe you, Gran said. You think we wear a false skin? Feh. Everyone drops the mask as soon as they get what they want. You don’t owe them courtesy or aught else. Ceren remembered. She was still remembering when she finally fell asleep, and heard the voice again.

  “Your Gran knew better.”

  “Go away,” Ceren said.

  “I can’t. Neither can you. We’re stuck here, each in our own way. Or do you still think Kinan or his family will welcome you with open arms? Fool, if you want Kinan, you’ll have to take him. Your Gran knew. Your Gran always got what she wanted. Or who she wanted.”

  That was a subject Ceren definitely did not want to hear about, but the message had already come through. “I collect what I need, but I take what I want, and that’s what makes me a true witch. Is that it?”

  “It’s what your Gran taught you, and she taught you well. Don’t deny what you are.”

  “What if I don’t want to be like that?” Ceren heard faint laughter. “Then you ‘be’ alone and you ‘be’ nothing. Stop talking rubbish and use the right tool for the purpose. It’ll get easier as time passes. You’ll see. Your Gran did. Use me, as she did.”

  “If I’m a witch, then don’t tell me what I must do!”

  More laughter. Ceren remembered the sound of it in her head when she finally awoke, even more so than the sound arrows made when they struck human flesh and the image of what a man looked like split from crown to chin by a broadsword. The sun was streaming in from a dusty window. Ceren blinked. How long had she slept? The sun was already high and the morning half gone, at least, and she was famished. Ceren didn’t bother to dress properly. First she visited the privy, then washed her face and hands in cold water from the stream. After that she stumbled to the larder and found some hard bread and cheese.

  “What do you plan, then? A courtesy call on the boy’s family?”

  Ceren pinched herself just the once to verify that she wasn’t dreaming, but she hadn’t really thought so in the first place. Ceren addressed the person who was not there. “Haunting my dreams was bad enough. Are you going to talk to me while I’m awake too?”

  “Someone needs to, but no. Your Gran said you would know when the time came, and this is how you know. It is time, Ceren. Put me on.”

  “Why?”

  “So that you may achieve your heart’s desire, of course.”

  Ceren closed her eyes briefly and then spoke to nothing again. “Very well.”

  The shelf was high. She needed a stool to
stand on when she pulled down the long wrapped bundle that rested there. She barely glanced at it, but what she did see confirmed what she had long believed. In a moment the new skin was settling around her. She felt her legs lengthen, her small breasts swell and reshape as she surged up to meet fit the appearance she now wore.

  As always, there was more to it than appearance. As with the Oaf, and the Soldier, and the Tinker, now she wore another person’s memories. Only this time Ceren did not keep her own thoughts and memories tight and protected. She did not fight the new memories, as she tried to do with the Soldier. She took them as far as they would go, all the while she looked in the mirror.

  She wasn’t merely pretty. She had a face and form that would stop any man dead in his tracks. Ceren was now the reflection of the girl in the pond.

  Didn’t I tell you? The Girl sounded a bit smug. You know what life was like for me. What it can be for you. All you need do is take what you want.

  Ceren nodded. “You’re beyond beautiful. Was that why that man drowned you in the pond?”

  She felt the laughter. She wondered if she was the one laughing, but the reflection looking back at her was sad and solemn. Her own reflection, somewhere hidden beneath a borrowed skin. So you’ve seen that as well. Some men will destroy what they cannot possess, and I chose poorly. What of it? Neither Kinan nor his brothers are like that.

  “I know.”

  All you need do is show yourself to him as you are now, and he is yours.

  Ceren shook her head. “No. I show your face to him and he is yours.”

  A frown now showing in the mirror that was none of Ceren. It is the same thing, and he is your heart’s desire!

  “No. I merely want him. I even think I like him. If there’s more to the matter, then time alone will tell. You never understood my heart’s desire. Maybe because it took me so long to understand it myself.” She tapped the back of her neck three times. “Off with ye, done with ye!”

  The skin split as it must, but it did not release her quickly or easily. The Girl was fighting her. Ceren thought she understood why. She pulled off one arm like a too-tight glove and then another, but the torso refused to budge.

  “Does the servant question the mistress? Let me go.”

  You can’t do it without me, without us! You’re ugly, you’re worthless. . . .

  “Let me go,” Ceren said calmly. “Or I’ll cut you off.” And just to show that she was serious, Ceren went to her herb box and took out the bronze razor. She had already started a new cut down the side when the skin finally relented. In a thrice Ceren had the Girl wrapped carefully back on her shelf.

  The voice was still there, taunting her. You’ll be back. You need me to gain your heart’s desire. If it’s not Kinan, then another! You’re plain at best, hideous at worst. You’ll never achieve it on your own.

  Ceren almost giggled. “I didn’t understand. All this time I thought the skins were tools and we the purpose. Now I know it’s the other way around. I am the instrument, just as Gran was before me. You, the Oaf, the Tinker, the Soldier. . . . You who died ages ago, and yet still live through us. You are the purpose. We serve you.”

  You still do. And will.

  “Why?”

  Because only we can give you what you want.

  Ceren shook hear head. “You still don’t understand. You already have, at least in part.”

  What are you talking about?

  “I’ve always felt like one living in a borrowed house, with borrowed strengths, borrowed skills, but I thought it was because of Gran. It wasn’t. It was because of you.”

  Fool! The raiders will return or bandits or village boys too drunk to know who they’re forcing! You will fall in love. A heavy tree will fall. You can’t do this on your own. You need us.

  “No,” Ceren said. “I need to find out what belongs to me and what does not. You gave me that last part, but now I have to find the rest. That is my true heart’s desire.”

  Ceren left the storeroom and latched it behind her. Then, upon consideration, she slowly and painfully pushed her Gran’s heavy worktable to block the door.

  Setting fire to her Gran’s cottage was the easy part. Watching it burn was harder. Listening to the four voices screaming in her head was hardest of all, but she bore it. She heard the pounding from inside as the flames rose, tried not to think of what supposedly had no volition, no independent action, and yet still pounded against a blocked door. Ceren led her sheep and her goat to a grassy spot a safe distance away, where they grazed in apparent indifference as the cottage and pen alike burned.

  Her Gran had never taught Ceren any prayers. She tried to imagine what a prayer must be like, and she said that one as the voices in her head rose into a combined scream of anguish that she could not shut out.

  “Go to your rest, and take your memories with you.”

  She didn’t think the prayer would work. Some of the memories were hers now, and she knew that was never going to change. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to.

  The roof finally collapsed, and just for a moment Ceren thought she saw four columns of ash and smoke rise separately from the fire to spiral away into the sky before all blended in flame and smoke as the embers rained down.

  Kinan found her sitting there, on the stump, as the cottage smoldered. He looked a little pale, but he came down the path at a trot and was only a little out breath when he reached her. “We saw the smoke. Ceren, are you all right?”

  She wondered if he really wanted to know. She wondered if now was the time to find out. “I should ask you the same. You shouldn’t be out of bed,” Ceren said, not looking at him. “My home burned down,” she said, finally stating the obvious. “Such things happen.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kinan said. “But I’m glad you’re all right. Have you lost everything?”

  She considered the question for a moment. “Once I would have thought so. Now I think I have lost very little.” She looked at him. “I’m going to need a place to stay, but where can I go? I have a goat and a sheep and my medicines . . . I have skills. I’m not ugly, and I’m not useless!” That last part came out in a bit of a rush, and Ceren blinked to keep tears at bay. She only partly succeeded.

  Kinan smiled then, though he sounded puzzled. “Who ever said you were?”

  Ceren considered that for a moment too. “Nobody.”

  Kinan just sighed and held out his hand. “You’ll stay with us, of course. We’ll find room. Let’s go talk to Ma; we’ll come back for your animals later.”

  Ceren hesitated. “A witch in your house? What will your father say?”

  Kinan didn’t even blink. “My father is a wise man. He may grumble or he may not, but in the end he’ll say what Ma says, and that’s why we’re going to her first. We owe you . . . I owe you.”

  Ceren decided she didn’t mind hearing those words so much. Coming from Kinan, they didn’t sound like an accusation. Besides, Ceren understood debts. They could start there; Ceren didn’t mind. Just so long as they could start somewhere. She took Kinan’s offered hand and he helped her to rise.

  Kinan then carried Ceren’s medicine box as he escorted her, understanding or not, down the road in search of her heart’s desire.

  Brillig

  “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves—”

  Brillig brillig brillig!

  That’s one way to beat the poem. Start repeating words in a random selection. Breaks up the rhythm, you see. It’s the rhythm that’s dangerous. Don’t ask me why but I know I’m right. The words may seem dangerous, mysterious, eldritch, and all that, but they’re just stuff and nonsense. Learian. Charles Dodgson would know what I mean. I don’t know if he realized what he had unleashed, but he did know about Edward Lear. This isn’t Lear. It’s Charles Dodgson, Lewis Carroll, and it’s Jabberwocky. Lear is safe. At least, I’ve yet to find a demon in Lear, probably because I stopped reading him ages ago. Fear. Fear of Lear. Pity, as I do miss the Jumblies. Their heads are green, their hands are blue. They we
nt to sea in a sieve, you know. Marvelous. Still, can’t risk it. One demon is quite enough.

  Jabberwocky.

  Vorpal swords ultimately useless. The creature is always slain but it’s never killed. Gallumph all you want with whatever head you think you’ve taken, but it’s so. The Jabberwock always dies but Jabberwocky always lives, and the monster is merely part of it and not even the most important part at that.

  Jabberwocky is going to destroy me, I know. I don’t know when or even why, but I do know how. Sooner or later the arms weary, the walls are breached, the sentries sleep. The poem wants me to recite it. I won’t. It can’t make me. Not again. Third time is magic. Third time’s the charm. After the third time the drowning man is seen no more.

  “Twas brillig—”

  Hah. Thought it would catch me napping. Not that easy, you serpent of scansion, you coil of gyres and gimbles. Slithy as a tove, I elude thee once more, mimsy and outgrabed. So what if the Jabberwock haunts my dreams? It can’t hurt me any more than I can hurt it, for all that I carry its head back to my father every night. My father with the empty face. He doesn’t hug me. I’m no beamish. There is no chortling. Just the blood-painted sword and the smiling head of the monster, and my Father’s face that has neither mouth nor nose nor eyes. Father is symbolic but doesn’t have much else to do. He doesn’t need a face. The Jabberwock does, to mock me. There’s an efficiency in dreams; probably has to do with not being real.

  I keep coming back to my father’s face. It’s silly. I know who he is. I know what he looks like. I don’t remember him at all, growing up. Strange if I did, since he wasn’t there. But I’ve met him. He’s a man. Nice enough in his way. Nothing special. The Father in my dreams has no face. Tenniel never drew the father’s face. The son, yes, the Jabberwock, yes, even the borogoves, but the Father? Nothing. You think that’s a coincidence? I don’t, because there’s no such thing. Tenniel knew.

  I do remember the first time for the poem. Not for reading it; I read it for years, off and on, along with Dodgson’s silly book. No, the first time I recited it aloud. I don’t know why I did. Fresh out of college and starting my life. New job that I was just getting to know, new fiancee, ditto. Stressful, but good. Busy. Feeling fey. Loved the feel of the words off my tongue. Brillig. Slithy toves. Gyre and gimble. Frumious. Once I’d done it that first time, my only question was why I hadn’t done it before. Reading is all well and good, but those words, those weird and wonderful words, they want to be spoken. Maybe they need to be spoken, I don’t know.