It made no difference in the judging though. Mama's recipe always won.
Weyna is sitting at the kitchen table. She has poured herself a glass of Mama's homemade wine that she has retrieved from the cellar. It occurs to her that Mama never taught her the recipe. She meant to, but there was always another pig to be butchered, more laundry to wash, or a piece of furniture needing reupholstering. Soon they would promise each other. We'll do it soon.
Soon has become never. More bottles rest in the cellar, but the recipe is as dead as her family. Weyna sniffs her drink. The sweet fumes rush through her nostrils, and she almost tastes the wine on the back of her tongue. Quickly she takes a gulp, hoping to fool her taste buds. Warmth slides down her throat, into her stomach, and she remembers Mama's wine, oh she remembers it clearly. But it is not the same and never will be.
Tarrik has been gone less than an hour. She has already gathered what she means to keep, and it sits in a backpack beside her chair. Once she leaves she will never come back to this house. She is uncertain where she will go or what she will do. Tarrik is not an option. She sees that now. They share a common goal but nothing more. Whatever strides he makes, he will always be ruled by the shadows of his past. While Weyna grieves for her family, and will continue to for a long time, she is stronger than this. She needs someone strong like her. They will still look for this voice, because the man needs their help, but afterwards she and Tarrik will part. She must carve herself a life.
But for now she waits. She lifts one of her knives from the table and runs her thumb along its edge, testing its sharpness. A web of blood opens along the skin. The pain seems small compared to what she has suffered. She is so restless and would much prefer action to the countless thoughts parading through her mind.
Life as a Deficient will be difficult. Perhaps she can make use of her enhanced sense of smell, become a poison-smeller for some lord. But many will treat her like a lower class—Intacts often receive more respect because of their wholeness.
Some lands consider it a crime, but perhaps she could keep her lack of taste a secret. Blindness cannot be hidden. Deafs are usually revealed over time. Lack of feeling can be concealed, though this can be difficult, especially with matters of love. But taste and smell can be hidden easily. The key will be her reactions. When she eats and drinks, once in a while she must remember to convey enjoyment or disgust.
And she must never overreact to the smells. This will be difficult early on. She wonders how animals handle the different scents if their noses are so sensitive. Perhaps it becomes easier with time. But today, now, it seems as if each smell is being experienced for the first time. And she has never before noticed how much home smells like home. The sweat of Papa and Adrew, heavy with the stink of pigs, the wine fumes drifting up from the cellar, the carrot stew Mama often prepared, which hangs so heavy in the air...
She reaches a trembling hand towards her wineglass. Finds it empty. She picks up the bottle, pours, and keeps pouring.
Weyna.
Bottle and wineglass slip from her hands. Glass shatters. Jagged pieces slide over the floor. A red puddle spreads more slowly.
Weyna. I know you hear me.
She has scuttled into a corner, and she holds her knives ready to stab. “What do you want?” she says aloud.
Come to me ... before it's too late.
The voice sounds weak. Pain-riddled. “Where are you?"
The mountains.
"Mountains are big.” What a foolish thing to say. But true.
The mountain near your home. I'll lead you. Please, come.
If she leaves, Tarrik will have no idea. “I don't know you."
But you trust me. You sense this in your heart.
"I don't trust my senses anymore."
The voice laughs before falling into fits of coughing. Very good, it says. Or thinks. But we share a common enemy in Olethia. Come to me.
Weyna grows aware of throbbing in her fingers. Looking at her knuckles, she finds them white from gripping the hilts so hard. She forces herself to relax. She must make a decision.
I'm dying. You must hurry.
Tarrik has stated his willingness to seek the voice. And the voice helped save her once already. She owes it the same.
Quickly she sheathes her knives. She strides to the nearest door, grabbing her backpack along the way. She opens the door and the smells of wine hit her like a blast of wind. Wooden steps creak as she descends into the cellar. The scents of these wines—reds, whites, pinks and gold—blend together, a perfume summoning memories of Mama's grape-stained fingers.
Weyna needs no light as she walks across the floor—she and Adrew used to play hide-and-find down here in the darkness. The other hatch rests at the far end of the cellar. When Papa built this place he thought it a good escape route in case of fire. Or Aberrates. It represents her best means to exit unnoticed.
She ascends these other stairs. Papa always took good care of the wine cellar, because it made Mama happy. Weyna pushes at the trap door. It opens with ease and in silence. A layer of dirt and grass rolls off the wood as starlight and cold wind wash over her.
Weyna climbs out, closes the door, and kicks the dirt and grass back over the hatch. She stands between a pair of brooding boulders, and the mountain waits less than ten yards away. She starts towards it.
"Lead on,” she whispers.
* * * *
After waiting and making certain that Olethia did not descend on the farmhouse with his departure, Tarrik returned to the cave, because Olethia had been listening when he said he would do this. A bit of searching soon uncovered fresh tracks, leading in a new direction, away from the farmhouse.
For a while he had humored Olethia and followed her trail. Leaving tracks following hers was a nice touch. But now Tarrik was heading back towards the farm, taking care to cover his return tracks—such a complicated game—so he could ready his ambush for Olethia.
Tarrik yawned as he walked. Exhaustion clawed at him with cement fingers, seeking to seal his eyelids together like bricks. When battle came, his blood would rise to the occasion. But now the mad giggles of the breeze were like sweet lullabies. A few more hours at most, then he could rest.
Begin his new life.
Weyna was right that there must be more to life than the hunt. But knowing this and remembering it were two different matters. At seven years old, he had hidden in the bushes while a pair of Sighters had blinded and afterwards butchered his parents. That same day he made a decision to dedicate his life to bounty hunting. While other children wielded their sticks for fun, for Tarrik it marked the beginning of his training.
Zaleen had later shown him there was more to life ... and her death had left him wanting nothing to do with such things ever again. Or so he thought. How did one change after so long, especially when past efforts only rewarded him with further pain?
One day at a time. He must believe this, follow this method, or the monsters in his heart would claim him.
He took another step and stopped in surprise. He was here. Below him the farmhouse waited, golden candlelight leaking through the creases of the back door. Tarrik settled into a nook he had chosen during his earlier ascent. It afforded a view of the valley while providing cover—the perfect spot from which to spring his ambush.
Dropping into a crouch, he leaned against the mountain wall. Rest would do him well, even if he could not sleep. He shifted to a more comfortable position and fought down a tremendous yawn. Perhaps he would close his eyes, just for a moment...
* * * *
The mountain is the outcast of its family. Smaller than its neighbors, it stands at the edge of the mountain range, encroaching upon the valley of Weyna's home by its lonesome self. Only a single ridge connects it to the greater chain, and Aberrates avoid this mountain because it fails to provide enough protection from hunting parties.
"The enemy never expects you to live in its shadow,” Papa used to say. “We're safe here."
He had been right
for a long time. As Weyna traverses these rocky slopes again, with stars and moon lighting the path, she prays some of the old luck holds up. Shortly after leaving her home the voice had faded to a presence in her mind, as when she'd first experienced it. It has become her guide, directing her like a compass, that weird device a merchant once showed her at the harvest festival.
Her knowledge of the healing arts is small. Hopefully she can ease the man's pain before he dies. But before this she must learn what he knows. She must unravel this puzzle—how he contacts her, the meaning of her dream, how it connects to Olethia and how to defeat her.
Such answers are upon her. The presence hums like a bee in her mind, and when silver moonlight reveals the cave there is no doubting she has arrived. The grips on her knives tighten as she approaches. Winds laugh with the madness of jesters. From out of the cave death drifts to her, its stench so thick she could almost cut it. Her enhancing sense of smell makes this worse, of course, but there is no denying the truth. She hopes that she has enough time.
Sucking down a final breath of air, she enters the cave. First thing she notices the light. Weak and flickering, the lantern beckons from the far end of the cave, casting butterflies across the walls.
"Hello?” she calls. “It's—it's Weyna. I'm here.” Water drips from stalactites, strikes the floor with silver-wet kisses. “Hello?"
In the corner with the light a mound stirs. Weyna starts towards it. She realizes this is the place from her dream. He must have been communicating from here all along. She sees blankets now—one piled over the next—and wild brown hair, with the face turned away. Death-stench fills her twitching nostrils and tickles her gagging throat, but the blankets rise and fall with shuddering life.
Weyna kneels and gently shakes the man's shoulder. “Please. I need to know—"
The man rolls towards her. Weyna chokes down a scream. If she had hackles they would rise into spikes. White film covers his eyes. His emaciated features are the hue of the albino. Redness enflames the rims of his nostrils and ears, and when he opens his mouth light dances over a ruby-red tongue.
"Graaghhhhh,” he says.
Weyna scrambles back from his outstretched hand, fighting the urge to stab it.
This is not a man anymore but a thing, a creature ravaged into a nightmare. How can this be the one from her thoughts? How can he help her?
"His name is Blem."
Weyna whirls towards the mouth of the cave. This time the scream wins free of her throat, and it bounces off the walls. Framed in the moonlight stands the Sighter. He has narrow hips and a barrel chest, long hair stirring in the breeze. His eyes are massive, moon-sized, blue centers burning like sapphires.
At Weyna's scream somehow these wide, wide eyes widen further, veins wriggling in his whites like worms. “Silence!” he hisses, and runs towards her.
"No! Stay back!"
Weyna stabs at his eyes but he catches her wrist. The knife clatters against the floor. She tries again with her other hand and the result proves the same.
"Silence,” he says again. He spins her around. One arm wraps around her waist and he clamps a hand over her mouth. “You must be quiet."
Weyna struggles harder, bucking as she kicks at his shins. Suddenly the creature wrenches her head to the side. Another few inches will kill her. Weyna tenses as the Sighter whispers in her ear.
"Weyna, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to steal your sight. Despite what I am, I am your friend. Are you listening to me?” Weyna nods. “Good. I'm removing my hands now. Don't scream. You'll attract Aberrates. Ones less friendly."
The Sighter removes its hand and withdraws its arm from around her waist. Weyna backs off a few steps, staring.
"Don't meet my gaze,” it says. “It's dangerous to your optic nerves."
Weyna doesn't understand all his words, but she averts her gaze. She doubts she could outrun this creature. Looking at the floor, she surreptitiously searches for her knives. Just in case. “How do you know my name?"
"Blem told me."
"He told you? I didn't think he could speak."
"He can't. He told me with his thoughts. He can read other people's minds. That's how he learned your name, and how he's been communicating with you.” He pauses. “My name is Tolethion."
There. She has spotted one of her knives near the wall, half-sheathed in the darkness. She can probably reach it before the Sighter. She inches towards it. “Why are you holding him prisoner?"
"I'm taking care of him.” Tolethion sounds offended.
Weyna pauses. “So he's your ... friend?"
Blem moans and Weyna turns her attention back to him. Sweat dampens his features and twitches run across his face like spiders. “What's wrong with him?"
"He's a Deficient,” says Tolethion.
The Sighter is making sport of her. Losing a single sense would not affect a person as it has...
The thought trails off as the truth hits home. “All?” she says, speaking to Tolethion's shadow on the wall. “He's had all his senses stolen?"
"All five. It takes a powerful toll on the body, which is why he looks like this."
She cannot fathom it, spending every second locked in darkness—no, more than darkness—cursed to unknowingness. A shudder passes through her as that hackle feeling again stirs the core of her being. “How?” she asks.
"Olethia."
Weyna forgets herself. She turns to the Sighter and sees his eyes. The blueness runs so deep and pure, swishes like water. So inviting...
Tolethion closes his eyes. “Look away."
She could snatch the knife now, plunge it into his breast. She should. This is a Sighter. An Aberrate. He is a plague and his death will cleanse the land that much more. Weyna turns back to his shadow. “Explain,” she says.
"Blem was Olethia's experiment,” he tells her. “She wanted to see what happened if a human was stripped of all his senses. So she recruited four others for her project: a Listener, a Taster, a Smeller, and a Sighter.” Tolethion looses a breath. “I was the Sighter."
"You?” Weyna turns towards the Sighter but checks herself in time. She clenches her fists. Of course this creature would have stolen the sight of others. But it is different when his victim lies moaning several feet over. By sheer force of will she checks the fear and hatred that over the centuries has become inbred towards these creatures. “Go on,” she says in clipped tones.
"We chose a healthy male,” says Tolethion, “one in his prime years. We took him to a secluded forest and in under an hour we had stripped his senses bare. For several hours afterwards nothing happened."
Blem cries out and a fresh wave of corruption assails Weyna's nostrils. “Excuse me,” says Tolethion, and kneels beside his friend. Weyna stands behind him, amazed as Aberrate tends human, washcloth dabbing the sweat off Blem's forehead.
"Weyna,” says Tolethion. How strange that this creature addresses her by name. How strange that he has a name. Or that Olethia does. Weyna has never associated these beings with something so precious as identities.
"Yes?” she says.
"Tell me what happens when a human becomes a Deficient."
His tone suggests that she should know the answer. “Another sense will sharpen, to make up for the loss.” The answer hits before she even thinks of the question. “So losing all his senses created another sense? This thought-sense?"
"Indeed,” says Tolethion. “It brought about a sixth sense to compensate for the losses of the other five ... telepathy."
"What?"
"Telepathy. The ability to both read thoughts and project your own, so others will hear them. It's an ancient term, from the times before my ... people. I read about it in a book."
"You read?” No one has ever told her that Aberrates can read. “I don't read!"
"I can teach you.” Impatience tinges his voice. “Later. Blem is nearly dead"—his voice catches—"and we still have much to discuss."
Weyna nods dumbly and kneels beside Tolethio
n while he tends Blem.
"Several hours after we stole his senses,” he continues, “we discovered his telepathic nature. Olethia believed we could use this to our advantage, and the rest of us agreed."
"So what happened? Why are you here?"
"He touched my thoughts,” says Tolethion, “made me understand the suffering I was causing him and others, all to satisfy my cravings. So we escaped."
"You what?"
"We escaped. And just in time. Olethia killed the others while I was spiriting Blem away. Apparently she had decided to keep him all for herself."
Blem moans again and reaches towards Weyna. “Give him your hand,” says Tolethion.
Weyna's heart knocks against her ribs. “Why?"
"He's been monitoring our conversation telepathically. He wishes to convey the rest of the story to you directly. He believes it's the only way to make you a believer in our cause."
Weyna reaches for his thin hand. Stops. “What will it be like?"
"There is no describing it ... not with our mere five senses."
Once more she reaches for Blem's skeletal fingers. Stops again. “What is your cause?"
"Graaghhh.” Blem beckons with his hand like a bird flapping its broken wing.
Weyna takes a breath, bracing herself as she would before entering the cold water of a cow pond. Then she takes her plunge, clasping finger bones wrapped in flesh as thin as falling leaves. Blem tightens his grasp. So does she...
And through the true unknown she travels through the Forest of Sighs. It is wintertime, the taste of snow carrying on the blowing winds. She knows these things because Tolethion has opened his mind to her, letting her explore. She is still new to True Thought—which is how she labels this sense of hers—and so it is easiest to link with others when they submit to her probing.
It is also through True Thought that she knows Tolethion carries her in his powerful arms. It still frightens her, putting her life in the hands of a Sighter. He has already maimed a fifth of her. What's to stop him from killing her? No. She and Tolethion must trust each other or their mission will end in failure.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #212 Page 5