The Land You Never Leave

by Angus Watson

  “I’m Bjarni.”

  She shuffled aside to let him sit down, then back so that one knee was pressing into his thigh.

  “This evening, we’re going to celebrate your successful journey through Cuguai.”

  “My journey?”

  “Wasn’t it you?”

  “It was Keef. I’m Bjarni.”

  “You all look the same to me. No matter. Point is we’re going to celebrate Cuguai sparing someone for the first time by getting fucked up on crazy cake and snake seeds.”

  “That,” said Bjarni, “sounds like a very good idea.”

  “You can help me prepare if you like, darling.”

  “I like.”

  “Right. These little balls are crazy cake. The seeds are snake seeds. Both of them come from a desert far, far to the south where you can’t go any more. I went there when I was a good deal younger than you—by Cuguai, did I have a time—and came back with a load. I have a lot left, but we have to be sparing because they’re both seriously powerful, and when you mix them …” she whistled.

  “What to they do? Are they like mushrooms?”

  “Do you like mushrooms?”

  “Love ’em.”

  “Then you’ll adore these. These are to mushrooms what a whitecap eagle is to a swallow. Now, first thing is to grind it up in little batches, so we don’t lose any, then …”

  Bjarni asked Tuffbur about the spider boxes while they worked.

  “Do you know we hardly notice them now? We’ve had them for a couple of years.”

  “You don’t try to get them off?”

  She stopped pounding the crazy cake and snake seeds and looked at him. “Of course we did, darling. We did little else but discuss how to remove them for moons. People tried the wildest schemes. All of them died, as did plenty of the people who helped them.”

  “What sort of schemes?”

  “Neither burning them nor drowning them works, the little fuckers just bite you as soon as they realise they’re in trouble. Someone did manage to shoot a spider box off someone else’s neck, but the shooter was bitten immediately, and the Badlanders executed the man whose spiders were killed by the arrow, in the nastiest way they know.”

  “Which is?”

  “Being bitten by their nasty fucking spiders, of course.”

  The beeba spiders on Bjarni’s neck moved. He shivered. “Do they ever bite anyone by mistake?”

  “Not so far. The only people they’ve killed are people who were trying to take their boxes off or who otherwise pissed off the Badlanders. So now we just get on with life and forget about them. We still discuss how we might remove them, of course, but nobody’s come close. Actually, that’s not quite true. A girl, not much older than the young girl with you, lay out in the snow all night last winter. She took her box off in the morning and the spiders were frozen.”

  “So there is a way!”

  “She died that day herself, from having spent the night lying out in the snow.”

  “How far can you get from the kids on the goats?”

  “The Empty Children? We don’t know, strangely enough. Because finding out means dying, nobody’s given it a proper try.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We do know it’s at least a hundred paces. Beyond that it’s—”

  She was interrupted by screaming from the spider boxes.

  “They always do that at the same time!” she shouted. “Best to …”

  They waited until the flies came and satiated the spiders’ hunger, then carried on talking until the sun was low. Another woman, a close friend of Tuffbur’s by the way they mocked and sniped at each other, built a fire and boiled water for their crazy cake and snake seed mull. Tuffbur loaded the pipes. Bjarni was very keen to try the new drug.

  “No, you wait. And when it is your turn, please, Bjarni, don’t take too much. A sip or a small toke is enough, I promise you. More than that has killed people.”

  “How long must I wait?”

  “Not long. Here comes Clembur now.”

  The chief of the Cuguai gathered her tribe, as well as the Badlanders, Calnians, Wootah and Popeye, and walked up the gentle rise to where Bjarni and Tuffbur were sitting next to the vertical pole.

  Clembur gripped the pole with her arms and legs and climbed elegantly to about a quarter of the way up, so her feet were level with Chogolisa’s Earthquake’s head.

  Everyone crowded round, watching her expectantly.

  “Welcome all,” she called. “To celebrate Cuguai’s generosity in sparing Keef the Berserker, we will share with you our most important ritual.”

  The Cuguai cheered.

  “Tuffbur has prepared crazy snake. It’s a mix of crazy cake and seeds from the snake plant. It is a very potent drug and you must take it seriously. I cannot stress too much just how seriously you need to take this drug. It is stronger than anything you will have encountered because it it, as far as I know, the most potent drug in the world, short of those that will kill you outright. Most people love it and have a wonderful time, but there is reasonable chance, perhaps one in about sixty, that you will take it and have a simply awful time. Death is rare, if you don’t take too much, but it has happened. So don’t take more than you’re told and please, if you’re worried, do not have any. The more worried you are, the more likely it is to go wrong.”

  Clembur paused and looked around at everyone. “I mean it. No children can have it, and you must only take it if you want to. I repeat, death is possible. It is impossible to overstate how important it is not to take too much. Do you all understand?”

  There were sensible yeses and solemn nods. Bjarni was bouncing on his toes.

  “Good! Boring bit over, let’s get messed up!” She leapt nimbly down. Tuffbur handed her the smoking pipe and she took a short, sharp drag. “That is as much as you need! Form a queue on me if you’d like the pipe, over there if you want a sip of tea. Do not have both!”

  Bjarni Chickenhead joined the queue for the tea. Behind him were Wulf the Fat, Thyri Treelegs and, to his mild surprise, Gunnhild Kristlover. Finnbogi the Boggy queued for the pipe.

  He saw Bodil Gooseface talking to Sassa Lipchewer and Erik the Angry. He couldn’t hear what they were saying above the excited chatter in the queue but Erik and Sassa were looking sincere and shaking their heads. Whatever they said worked, because Bodil did not join either queue.

  Nor did Keef the Berserker. He was walking away towards the river, carrying Arse Splitter, no doubt off to practise. Given that the drugs had been mashed and mulled in Keef’s honour, Bjarni thought it was rude of him not to partake.

  He reached the front of the queue and knelt with Thyri and two others. The Cuguai woman who’d brewed the tea walked along before them, holding the bowl to their lips and whipping it away before they drank too much. Thyri took a bird-like sip and it was Bjarni’s go.

  “What’s Keef doing now, the madman?” said Bjarni just before the bowl met his lips. The Cuguai woman looked around, as did the others. Bjarni thrust his head forward and managed to suck in two good swallows before the woman realised she’d been duped.

  She looked down at him, one eyebrow raised. “You, son, are in trouble.”

  “What are you going to do?” Bjarni was suddenly nervous.

  “What am I going to do? It’s what you’re going to do that you need to worry about. If I were you I’d make myself vomit, now.”

  Bjarni smiled at her. She didn’t know about the famous Chickenhead constitution.

  Sofi Tornado watched the fools take their drugs. She was aware of her hypocrisy, since her power animals were drugs that she took every day. But her power animals improved her. She didn’t know what the crazy snake was going to do to everyone, but she doubted very much that the word “improvement” was going to be on the lips of any onlookers.

  She walked over to her women.

  Paloma Pronghorn was wearing half a smile. Sofi recognised the look from the days when Paloma had bunked training to chase boys.<
br />
  “Perhaps,” Paloma tried, “since we’re captives and so not really Owsla at the moment, we could—”

  “No.”

  “I thought not.”

  “We’re going to spar on the rock by the falls.”

  “We have all the fun,” said Paloma.

  Sofi looked at her.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. To the falls it is.”

  Sofi led the way, pleased to be able to hear Sitsi Kestrel whispering to Paloma: “What were you thinking? We’re Owsla. Not spoiled rich children. You’re lucky Sofi didn’t punish you. Watch what happens to those stupid Wootah. It won’t be good, mark my words. Drugs are—”

  Sofi zoned out, reminded that the downside of being able to hear everyone’s conversation was that you could hear everyone’s conversation.

  They arrived at the rocky riverbank to find Keef already there, slicing through the waterfall’s mist with his axe.

  “Keef the Berserker!” she said. He stopped, trying not to look surprised that she’d spoken to him.

  “Yup?”

  “Would you like to spar with us?”

  “If you think you’ll be able to keep up.”

  “We’ll do our best,” said Sofi. “Why don’t you try me first?”

  Sassa Lipchewer sat with Erik the Angry and watched Wulf, Bjarni, Bodil, Finnbogi, Thyri and Gunnhild dance with the other tribes. The drumbeat was rapid, a large stringed instrument ground out a mournful base and a couple of prancing flute players piped out a jaunty tune over the top of it all.

  It was without a moment’s doubt the best music Sassa had ever heard—melancholy yet exciting and passionate—but it seemed somewhat wasted on the dancers. Other than Bodil, who’d taken no crazy snake, none of them had much of a grip on the beat and nor did they seem aware of their fellow dancers. It didn’t seem to hamper their enjoyment much, though.

  Finnbogi was twirling his hands in front of his face and staring at them as if they were the most captivating jewels.

  Gunnhild had her eyes closed and was spinning in circles, arms outstretched. Erik had already leapt up twice to steer her away from the large fires that lit up the dance area from each corner.

  Wulf was jumping on the spot with a group of Cuguai and Badlanders, drenched in sweat.

  Bjarni and Thyri were dancing with Chief Clembur in front of one of the corner fires—if you could call it dancing. Arms bent, fists clenched, all three were jumping stiffly from one foot to another. They’d been going for an age and showed no sign of slowing.

  Wulf spotted Sassa and Erik watching him. He ran over, leapt, and landed in a sitting position.

  “Are you having a nice time?” Sassa asked.

  “Amazing.” His pupils were so large that his blue eyes were almost black. “I can feel my blood moving around my hands. I can see new colours. I’ve found a new way of moving. And jumping? Don’t get me talking about jumping. It’s the best. Why have I never spent this long jumping before? You have to have some crazy snake.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I suppose you don’t. It just seems a shame. It is really good.” He was staring slightly above her head, looking confused.

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Can I cut your hair?”

  “Don’t you want to dance?”

  “I like the crest, but it would be better if it was the length of my little finger.” He held up his little finger.

  Sassa actually agreed with him. Not from a vanity point of view, it was just a pain using animal fat to stiffen her hair into its current high fin. And if he was here cutting her hair he wouldn’t be getting into trouble elsewhere.

  “All right,” she said, “go for it. But be careful.”

  “Here, use this,” said Erik, handing Wulf his double-bladed obsidian knife.

  Now the fire was treating Bjarni to the most incredible display. Why had he never noticed that fire was full of animals and flowers all growing and shrinking and jumping somersaults and dancing and shagging each other? A red vine spread up from the base of the blaze, penetrating lions and dagger-tooth cats, then becoming a great, yellow, diamond-sided sturgeon which flipped over and sank slowly, licking the other animals with its great tongue.

  He knew that Thyri on one side and Clembur on the other were seeing the same as him. He could smell them, he could feel their smells, Thyri’s maple syrup and girl sweat mingled with Clembur’s grassy and urine-y but in a good way odour. Warmth flowed from his stomach to his head. For a moment he thought he might vomit again, a spume of pure colour into the flames, but the feeling passed and he danced on.

  Finnbogi’s hands were growing and shrinking, his fingers thickening then elongating, leaving pink trails as he swung them side to side, up and down and round and round. The stars were following his fingers now. He could stir patterns in them as if he was stirring specks of light in an inverted but full bowl of water. The stars changed colour as he stirred, from red to green to blue, to better colours like smokey pink and bright black. The specks of light became lines of light,which formed cubes and triangles and rectangles which throbbed and morphed into shapes more complicated than anything in this world but which Finnbogi could see and understand perfectly. He reached his hands deeper into the star pool and the globules of light flowed over his arms and face and into his mouth and he and the stars were one, joined in the sway and the dance and the thrum thrum thrum.

  He was aware of someone dancing near him. It was a woman. It was the woman he’d knocked out when they’d been captured by the Badlanders. She smiled at him and copied his hands-in-the-air dance.

  “I’m Tansy Burna,” she said, adding a sinuous hip wiggle to the dance.

  “I’m Finnbogi.” He tried the hip thing. That wouldn’t work so he refocused on his hands.

  “You beat me in a fight,” she said, then turned round and pressed her bottom into his groin and doubled her wiggle speed. This was unexpected. He stepped away. She swung round to face him and danced in close.

  “That means you can have me,” she said, trailing her fingers up his thigh.

  “Oh! I … There’s somebody else,” he managed.

  “Is there?” She licked her lips. “Maybe they’d like me, too? Two’s company, three’s a party.”

  “It’s kind of you, but … I’m in love with her and …”

  “How very boring of you. Do let me know if you change your mind.” Tansy clasped his groin with one hand, stood on tiptoes and licked his open mouth. Then she danced away.

  Finnbogi stared after her for a moment, then returned to the important business of dancing.

  Sitsi Kestrel walked back from the calmer river below the falls and heard someone vomiting quietly at the base of a gentle declivity. She waited and listened, in case whoever it was needed help, but there were a couple of hawking spits, a cough or two, some more spitting and Thyri Treelegs came walking up the slope. She was crying, more than just the tears of someone fresh from vomiting.

  Sitsi was tempted to nip off before Thyri spotted her. She’d never consoled anyone who was as high as the moon before, but didn’t think it would be any fun. However, the poor girl was clearly upset. Sitsi coughed.

  “Who’s that?” asked Thyri, sniffing back her tears.

  “Sitsi Kestrel. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. I feel awful. But better now I’ve been sick. The ground’s stopped moving and the giant rabbits made of light have hopped back to wherever the Hel they came from.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have …” Sitsi was about to lecture her about recreational stimulants and the stupidity thereof but changed her mind. “Don’t worry, you’ll feel better soon. Come with me, we’ll find you some water and food. That’ll help.”

  “Not that bear from before.”

  “No, that was horrible, wasn’t it? The dog was okay, though.”

  “I miss maple sugar.”

  “Oh, so do I!” Sitsi took her arm. “And maple syrup. My mum use
d to make a maple syrup and wild rice pudding …”

  They found some inoffensive food and water next to the tall pole. Cuguai people and Wulf the Fat climbed the pole while Sassa Lipchewer watched nervously. Nearby, others were pushing stripped white twigs through their arms. Sitsi hurried Thyri away before she saw that. By Innowak, she hated the stupid things people did when they took drugs.

  They sat on the rocks overlooking the falls while Thyri ate.

  “I’m in love with a dead man,” said the Wootah woman.

  “How did he die?” asked Sitsi, hoping that the Owsla hadn’t killed him.

  Thyri told her how she’d fallen for rugged Garth Anvilchin, and how he’d been killed by the Water Divided Tribe, after saving the rest of them.

  “And we’re not meant to mourn.” Thyri shook her head. “You die when you die and all that, and I don’t mourn my father and my brother. But I was looking forward to a future with Garth. Some people didn’t like him because he was tough, but that’s exactly why I did like him. The rest of our men … well, they’re not really men, not like the men in the sagas. Even the good warriors—Wulf and Keef—don’t take anything seriously. They’re children.”

  “What about Finnbogi?”

  Thyri turned to Sitsi, her eyes shining. “Do you know, there was a moment when I thought I might like Finnbogi. But he was right there when Garth was killed and he didn’t help. He couldn’t help because he’s so weak and wet. I’m training him to fight so he might do better next time, but I don’t think I could ever look at him as a potential lover again. No, I thought Garth and I would find sanctuary at The Meadows, live near the others but not with them, and raise our own children to be like our ancestors, not like the infant-men that the Wootah have become.”

  “You’re not …”

  “Pregnant? No. We never … I only kissed him for the first time a few days before he was killed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  “It happened because the Calnians ordered it, and I’m a Calnian. Also, I was chasing you at the time, and we were planning to kill you.”