The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil

by Heidi Cullinan

  A lone man staring at the womb of Life, a pulsing heart in the darkness.

  As he hovered there, staring at it, the pulse began to take physical shape, almost as if to please him. And it did please him—it was the most achingly beautiful thing he had ever seen. The pulse of Life was all rolling clouds and softness, curling into itself like a womb. It was dark blue and pink, but sometimes it glittered gold too. As it rolled toward him, the edges closest to the man illuminated slightly, then faded again as they rolled away. The man smiled. He didn’t know who he was or why he had come here, but he no longer cared. He could stay forever, looking at this. He loved the pulsing clouds on sight, loved them with a depth and calmness he didn’t know he possessed.

  He smiled at the pulse of Life, and he reached for it.

  The darkness swelled around him, and there was a loud, angry crack. Now there was sound. It crashed around him, pushing against his ears, reverberating inside his body. He could hear the heartbeat now, the heartbeat of the universe: thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump, on and on and on in perfect, measured Time. But he heard something more as well: a whisper curling beneath the edges, sliding out with the undulations of the great womb. It was a voice, soft and sweet, and it was speaking to him.

  “What do you want?”

  The man hovered there, suspended in the darkness, buffeted by the sound of the pulse, shivering in the delicious cacophony of that voice. “What do you want?” The question rolled over him, wrapped around him, and dug inside of him, stirring the sludge inside his mind. What did he want? He’d been asked this before. He’d been asked this many times, in fact, and each memory of the question rolled back at him now.

  He saw a thin-faced woman with pinched lips, leaning over a rail as he lay, tiny and helpless and full of uncomfortable wet and stink and hunger, with no voice at all save a scream. “What do you want?”

  He saw a groom in a stable, lean and handsome, eyeing him with an intriguing mixture of hatred and hunger, hiding his fear behind a glare as he pushed himself off the tack wall and said, “What do you want?”

  He saw a shopkeeper, bored, bald, and indifferent to everything but the sight of the money bag hanging from his belt. “What do you want?” The memories came in a cascade, pounding him from all sides, from one thousand different people, all demanding: “What do you want? What do you want?”

  “What do you want?”

  The last stood out, and the man floating in the Void knew sharp, sudden fear as he felt the new memory unfolding in his mind. At first he tried to stop it, but it would not go, and soon he was standing in the darkened alchemist’s den again, sweating, uncertain, and shivering, as the cold-eyed man behind the desk asked him, “What is it that you want?”

  The man vanished, and no more memories came, but now the man floating in the darkness felt uneasy and strangely heavy as he stared at the womb. He remembered now. Not everything, and still not his name, but he remembered enough. He remembered being weary. He remembered being full of sorrow. He remembered being lost. Empty. He remembered feeling constantly, endlessly empty, and not anything in the world could fill the void inside him.

  “What is it that you want?”

  This time the sound was even louder, a thunderclap that rocked the man’s teeth and made them clatter in his mouth, that made his toes curl and his bones ache. The womb was very large now, glowing so brightly that it was soft, cottony-pink at the edges. The pulse of Time was so loud that it threatened to break his ears, but once again, beneath it came the whisper.

  “What is it that you want?”

  More memories cascaded over him: he saw men, he saw women, and he saw them all tangled together in various naked frenzies. Sex, he thought with dark pleasure. That is sex. He shut his eyes and watched the memories play across his mind: women, men, one at a time, two at once, a whole room full of bodies, all of them reaching for one another, all of them arced in ecstasy, all of them chasing this pulse, this moment, this perfect heartbeat of life. Oh yes, he remembered sex. He remembered how good it felt, even when it was awful, and how even the very best was never, ever enough.

  And then, riding on the crest of the memories of sex, he remembered the other man.

  This man did not have cold eyes; his eyes were dark and full of mystery and passion. They were, at times, full of mistrust and anger. But mostly they were full of love, and they were full of encouragement. Fire: they were always, always full of fire and of faith. These eyes had believed in him. These eyes had been his mirror, the first in which he had seen himself and had seen something other than emptiness. It was into these eyes he had looked while he had not just had sex but made love. It had been with the man who belonged to these eyes that he had felt true peace and true ease, and with whom he had wanted to be forever, however long that might last.

  This, he thought. I want this.

  But when he opened his mouth to say so, he also opened his eyes, and when he saw the womb again, he stopped. He watched it roll and pitch, swirling endlessly in the darkness, its edges now so bright they were white, the curls turning into golden dust before trailing away again. There was a memory here too. There was more than just the man. No. No, that is not what I want; that man is not the only thing I want. There is more.

  He reached again, but this time he reached with his heart as well as his hand.

  See. I want to see.

  The darkness cracked and pounded, crashing down around him, but it did not break the man who waited calmly before the mouth of the womb, the mouth that was opening easily, gladly, showing him what it held inside. The pulse was grinding now, so hard it would have shattered the man’s bones, but he held them fast, pushing them back together with an instinct he did not stop to question as he leaned in close, into the womb of Time, and let himself See.

  And he saw it all, everything, everything that had ever been, that ever would be, and everything that might have been. He saw all the worlds and all the creatures of all of time, all of creation. He saw it all, and he saw the hand by which it had all been made.

  His own.

  The Lord of Life, the God, the Father of all Creation stood at the mouth of the womb of Life, and he saw himself and all that he had done. All of Life fanned out like a tapestry before him. He was, had been, and would be everything. He was the darkness. He was this womb. But not here, not now. For he was not in the womb and not of it any longer. He was himself. And when he touched the womb, when he reached inside of it, he would have Time again, and he would know his name and that of the one who waited for him.

  This had been his plan. This had always been his plan—or rather, this had always been what he wanted: the only thing he had ever wanted. And he was content to keep seeking and to wait. For him, for her, for whatever she wished to be. He would wait. He would seek. And he would find.

  And one day they would be together for more than a single fleeting moment of union.

  The darkness swelled and pushed and raged, but the Lord did not mind it. He bent forward once more, pushing against the constraints of the darkness, using all his power to push it back, to move through it, to bridge the distance between himself and that womb, the distance which, while it grew shorter and shorter and shorter, became tighter and thicker and more impossible to penetrate. The womb swelled, and the man shed his skin, growing larger and larger and larger, until even the largest planet would have been but a speck of dust against his skin; even then he had to fight with every ounce of strength against the darkness as he reached for the womb that was rolling rapidly, eagerly now, its edges a sheen of brilliant, sparkling white.

  He saw sun and trees and diamond sky. He saw white-gold skirts disappearing through the trees. He saw hair black as night cascading over creamy shoulders, dark eyes dancing at him through a thickness of seven veils. He saw the great mother, the Lady, the Goddess.

  He saw a slight, brown-skinned man smiling gently at him and leaned forward to take his mouth in a kiss.

  “Quiera. Timothy. Raturjula. My beloved.”
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  “You,” the Lord said, his words a roar over the top of the wind, the crash, the pulse. “You. Timothy, my Lady, I want you.”

  His hand reached out and into the cloud; in his mind, in the garden, he saw the woman turn, surprised, delighted, and afraid as one of her veils came away in his hand.

  “Charles!” the Lord heard someone cry. “Charles! Quiera! Donna a’mina, shimashi—quiera, quiera, quiera!”

  The Lord looked deep into the womb, saw the one who was calling, and smiled.

  “I am coming,” he shouted and dove straight into the center of the clouds.

  The darkness crackled and spit, and then for one moment there was no darkness at all, only a bright, beautiful, blinding light; for one moment, the heartbeat stopped. For one moment, everything was different.

  Then the light faded, the darkness settled in, and the rosy pink and blue and purple clouds of the womb began to fade away. The pulse of Life resumed once more, silent, soundless, swallowed by the darkness, endlessly, perfectly marking out the beat of Time.

  * * *

  There was light: bright, blinding, beautiful light, and when it faded, Charles held Timothy in his arms.

  They were in the Void, in the magical place where Madeline had trained him, but this was a part of that place where, Charles knew, none but he and Timothy had ever been. It was dark and quiet and full of the pastel softness of the womb of Life, but it was also full of Timothy.

  My beloved. My beloved has come to me.

  Charles fumbled against him, seeking his mouth, his shoulders, his hips, his waist, making the most joyful, desperate love he had ever made. The strange memories from the womb, the hugeness that he had been was falling away from him, and he was just Charles again, a man holding the man that he loved, and so he loved him. He had found him, found him again! But even as the embrace began, it ended, because Timothy was pulling away.

  “Donna, quiera—a moment, Charles, a moment.” He brushed one more kiss across his forehead. “We have but a little time, and I must prepare you for your return.”

  We have all the time in the world, in the whole universe, Charles thought, but when he looked at Timothy again, he realized something was wrong. I have seen this, he thought, his vision at the womb echoing against him again. He frowned. “You are too thin.” He looked at his beloved, and he realized he was looking through him as well as at him, and he was alarmed. “You aren’t all here. Timothy!”

  “Hush,” Timothy said gently.

  But Charles could not hush. More memories now, all his own, his memories of Charles cascaded on top of him. “The demon—oh, Goddess, Timothy, the demon ate me! And Madeline—”

  Timothy pressed a finger to his lips. “I bested the demon. I bested all the demons and turned them once more into daemons, and then, quiera, I restored them to where they belonged: into you. I set you free, all of you, back into the womb.” He stroked the side of Charles’s face tenderly. “And you came back to me.”

  From the look on Timothy’s face, Charles could see his lover had been afraid that he wouldn’t. “Of course I came back to you. I love you.”

  “Of course, quiera. But you came back as yourself. That…pleases me. And moves me.” He let out a small sigh that was almost a shudder. “And relieves me.” He took Charles’s hands in his and held them tightly. “Charles, you must go back. You are not dead. You are, in fact, more full of life than you ever were. And the others need you: Jonathan, Madeline, Emily, Stephen, and others you do not yet know. They all need you.”

  “I don’t care about them just now. What has happened to you?” Charles reached out with his heart and felt his lover. “You are not dead, but neither are you alive. You are”—he frowned, trying to give name to what he felt—“scattered.”

  “Yes,” Timothy said ruefully. He sighed. “Sit, beloved, and I will tell you a story. We have time enough, I think, for this.”

  He waved his hand, and a bench appeared, low, padded, and opulent, and Charles knew it at once from a drawing he had seen of the pleasure gardens in Catal. Timothy sat them both upon it, and as he spoke, he drew Charles into his embrace.

  “Your memory of our time as the Lord and the Lady is jumbled,” he began, “which is to be expected. My memory is only slightly clearer, but what I see is the garden, walking endlessly in the garden, searching, yearning, and waiting. You came but seldom—the push you felt upon entering the womb, Charles, was the same as it was every time we have met, and every encounter was as cataclysmic as the one which has brought us together now. Every time we have touched, Charles, we have created worlds. Over and over again we have come together and then fallen apart, pushed aside by our own creations. Your memories are scattered and strange, full of constant motion, but mine are of nothing but waiting. Great, endless seas of waiting and aching, with occasional flashes of ecstasy and love.”

  “That sounds awful,” Charles said.

  Timothy nodded. “I believe you have said that before, and on our last meeting, I think it colored the result. It was then we made the androghenie. And it was the androghenie that captured and separated you, and who tried to do the same to me. And it was this that made me full of anger and despair and hate, and it was this which made me so determined. I would not wait for you to re-form. I would find you myself. I would bring you back to me.

  “I intended at first to send only shards. I cast out pieces of myself like stones across the earth, letting them take root where they would, trusting them to find you and make you whole, trusting that our love would lead the two of us together. But as soon as I did this, I became subject to the very beat of Time that I have been forever keeping, and the ache became too much. I could not wait for the shards, and I could not trust them. I had to come myself. And so I cast out all of myself—all—leaving only the barest sliver behind as an anchor to bring us both home. I made myself a man, because I knew how this world treated women, and because I wanted to be as mobile as I could, so I could travel the world if need be to find you. I made myself subjugate to the anchor: it would be able to manipulate my life and guide me to where I needed to be, uncaring of all my complaints, deaf to what I might decide would be my earthly desires. And for a time, this worked.” Timothy made a small sound that might have been a laugh, but it was bitter and chagrined. “For a time.”

  He leaned his chin on Charles’s head and sighed. “The thread broke, officially, in the tower when I argued with the ghost—a shard of myself—and your sister, but in truth, I don’t believe I was ever truly as chained as I had intended myself to be. Having never lived, I did not understand just how much power there is in simply being alive. I was the Lady, but I was not, just as you are the Lord and you are not. I was Timothy. I wanted what Timothy wanted. When you came back through the womb this time, you created nothing but yourself, so narrow was your focus and desire. The same was true for me: I stepped out of myself, and in the heat of that battle to save Jonathan’s life, I generated so much power that I severed the connection completely. I was born. I, the gutter slave who did not believe in magic, cast off the very Goddess who had created me. I was alive. I was life. And this, quiera, is now the problem.”

  Charles lifted his head and looked at Timothy. “I don’t understand. You’re here. I’m here. We know who we are. I have all my power.” He felt inside himself, understanding the truth of Timothy’s words, and he smiled. “I’m free, Timothy—we are free. Alive. I don’t have to wander any longer. You don’t have to wait. We are both alive: we can live, now, together. Let’s find these shards, put them back inside you, and go find a nice island somewhere to retire.”

  Timothy looked sadly at his lap. “Oh, Charles. If only it were that simple.”

  He stood, letting go of Charles’s hand. He held his arms out to his sides. He was wearing the golden sarong that he had worn in the tower on the night they had made love, but when he shifted, even slightly, Charles could see the Lady too, her long hair and shimmering golden dress glinting in the light of her own glow. They were
the two as one, man and woman at once. They were beautiful. But they were transparent. Charles reached out to touch Timothy, and though he met skin, he realized he felt something else too, something he had felt before. Something so thin it was gossamer, lighter than air, thinner than any earthly razor could slice, but more impenetrable than any other force, known or unknown. He felt it slide between his fingers as he reached for her, and he saw her running from him in the garden once again.

  The veil. Timothy was wearing the veil.

  “If I had not sent the shards,” he said, his voice a quiet, almost broken whisper, “if I had not tried to anchor, it would be gone.” Timothy lifted his hands, and Charles could see it, a glistening membrane that surrounded him. Confined him. “But I did not trust myself—did not trust you—and so it stayed. I did not live, quiera, not truly. Not completely. I had the yearning, but I hedged too many bets, and now I am more shattered and more broken than you have ever been. I have restored you, my beloved, and given you Life. No more will you wander the universe, littering worlds at your feet. No more must you penetrate the darkness to ease the ache in your soul.” He lowered his hands, and his eyes filled with tears. “But I am afraid you must do so without me.”

  “No!” The word erupted from Charles, from the bottom of his gut, and it echoed angrily across the Void. “No,” he cried again, “I won’t leave you! I won’t have life without you! There is no life for me without you!” He clenched his fists at his sides. “I will find you—all of you! Every piece, every shard! I will cover the whole earth until I have them all, and then I will bring them back to you, and—”

  “It is not just the pieces!” Timothy wrapped his arms around himself and looked away, a picture of perfect misery. “If it were, I would find them myself. But I have changed, quiera. They have changed. I do not understand them anymore. They are me, but they are not. They are as wild as the androghenie and ten times as dangerous. And the man I have become cannot understand them and cannot take them back. But without them I am not whole, and without them I cannot live.” He looked at Charles again, his eyes full of tears. “I am lost, quiera. I am trapped behind my own veils. I am Timothy Fielding, Raturjula D’lor, and the Lady, and ten thousand million shards, but they cannot be reconciled, not any longer.” The tears ran down his cheeks. “Once again, I am nothing but a womb, except this time, I know what Life tastes like, and Time, and my waiting is now eternity.” He shuddered, then added in a broken voice, “Without you.”