by Jane Kindred
“There’s a bit of snow up ahead.” Jak leaned close to him on the cycle, voice muffled through a scarf.
Geffn’s balance faltered, and he jerked to correct it. “I see it.” His face flooded with heat as thoroughly as it had during that long-ago wrestling match, though this time Jak couldn’t know where his mind had gone.
The road was difficult here, its stone, worn concave by age and time, missing in many places. This road hadn’t been made for motorized travel. Horses and chariots had been more its style in some ancient age. And in the hazy distance between that age and this, it had belonged only to animals, unburdened by men.
Ice marred it in patches, old snow holding out against the coming of spring, having escaped the thaw only by the random chance of shadow. The trees grew thicker, now and then encroaching into the road—branches and trunks fallen in some ancient storm—so that they had to dismount and push the machine around the timber carcasses.
They’d reached the top of the ridge overlooking the lower desert behind them at its scarred foot, and beyond, to the green and blue hint of the wet Delta. Before them was a gradual incline over the sparse tufts of wild grass through the arches of cedars. The sun had been more successful here, and snow was absent. Grazing qirhu, dotted about the hills, looked up at them in mild curiosity. The horizon was pale green. Winter had vacated while they were away. Only the chill that had begun to bruise their cheeks despite the wrappings gave a hint that it wasn’t fully spring here.
Before long, mounds began to rise up among the hillsides, smaller hills more symmetrically made. This wasn’t Haethfalt; not yet. Numerous clans had migrated to the moorland between the bluff over the desert valley and the imposing hood of Mount Winter. Over the last century, immigrants had come from both the eastern Delta and the lake country in the north, and mound cultivation grew. Haethfalt was at the westernmost edge of the moors, beneath the heights of the mountain.
The sky was turning to a duller steel, not long from dusk, as they left the old road for the barren slopes toward home. Their loud and unexpected presence among the nearer settlements drew curious onlookers from below the ground. A few shook their fists and shouted at them, disgusted by this intrusion from the uncouth Delta. They were beyond them in a moment, a wind on the lowland heath.
The sky had darkened by the time they rattled into high country. They would make it yet. Not too far by the dim light of the cycle’s incandescent globe.
The sound of their arrival preceded them. A cluster of clanfolk had formed in the collective’s center when the machine stopped, and the RemPetan moundhold was coming aboveground in astonishment amid the gathering crowd.
The RemPetans frowned as they recognized the passengers of the Deltan machine: Jak and Geffn had left with Ahr, but returned with Ra.
Two: Instigation
Spring was decidedly in the air. Ume had never been fond of the winters beyond the Delta, but the anticipation of the burgeoning of spring after months of chilly winds and snow almost made up for it. As did rich velvets in hues of emerald and garnet and light-absorbing onyx. She’d spent the cold northern winter making gowns for other women, though there was always enough scrap material left from a commissioned gown to use for accents on the simpler gowns Ume afforded herself.
But there was no denying the women of Stórströnd Township had been well dressed this past season, and orders were flooding in for repeat performances in the lighter fabrics and colors of vernal exuberance. Ume’s business was booming. She’d done so well that she and Cree had been able to rent out a storefront as a dressmaker’s shop, occupying the cozy apartment above it.
Stórströnd was a fishing community, for the most part, with its location on the shore of the Great Northern Lake drawing tourists from its landlocked neighbors during the warmer months. This meant its citizens had a surplus of money to spend, with little to spend it on. Ume had gone from dressmaking to giving tips on fashion and cosmetics. Her years of practice at the art of femininity in the district of Soth In’La known as the Devil’s Garden had made her an expert.
Not that these fishermen’s wives had ever heard of sacred courtesans. Or of a woman who’d spent her childhood as a boy. Almost everywhere else she and Cree had traveled, Ume’s reputation, or at least the reputation of others like her, had preceded them, but this far north, she was free of past association for a change. It was a novelty to be seen as she wished to be seen—a bit exotic, to be sure, though Ume would be that anywhere with her amber eyes and tawny-port tresses against a warm sepia complexion—but a woman, without question. They imagined she was a noblewoman from some far-off land who’d run away with the penniless but handsome man with the dark curls who’d seduced her and swept her off her feet. They were only half wrong.
At least the spring renaissance of her little business was helping to take her mind from her worry about Cree. Cree had chosen not to return to the Delta after learning Pearl was alive. It wasn’t for Ume to question Cree’s decision. She couldn’t begin to understand how it must be for Cree to discover after all these years that the son she’d believed stillborn had lived—and that he was the child of a Meer. But it ate at Ume, knowing Cree was punishing herself by staying away. Cree didn’t feel worthy to be Pearl’s mother, blaming herself for things beyond her control, blaming herself for what Nesre had done to both of them.
Once a priest of the temple of MeerAlya, Ume’s former patron had become ruler of Soth In’La upon Alya’s death. In his lust for power, Nesre had experimented on Cree with the Meer’s preserved seed to create a Meer of his own in secret. Pearl had been the result. The child was safe now with their old friend Azhra, if the Hidden Folk spoke the truth, and Cree insisted Ume leave it at that.
But that hadn’t stopped Ume from sewing lovely little jackets and vests for the boy. He would be twelve now, but his privation in Nesre’s cage had stunted his growth, and in her brief glimpse of him, Ume had sized him as being closer to that of a boy of eight or nine. She kept the darkest, richest velvet scraps for Pearl, imagining his long, opalescent hair cascading down the back of the sumptuous fabric. It was foolish, of course. Even if he were theirs, it wasn’t as if they could dress him like his divine forebears—like Alya, his father.
Ume shuddered and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the image of MeerAlya’s shattered skull, and of what had spattered her face on the steps of his temple on the morning of the Expurgation.
“Ume, stop it.”
She glanced up from the window seat in their rented room with chagrin. Cree watched her from the doorway with a frown, deep brown eyes heavy with recrimination.
“Sorry, love.” There was no point in pretending she hadn’t been thinking of it. The horror had faded over the last dozen years of building a life together, but being in Soth In’La once more had brought everything to the surface. “I don’t mean to dwell on it. But don’t you think Pearl could—?”
“Not another word about him, Ume, do you hear me?” Beneath the dark, tousled curls that normally gave her an air of carefree masculine charm, Cree’s face had gone hard and a little frightening. Ume had never seen her like this. “The child is safe where he is. The Caretaker told us that. Just leave it alone.” Cree would never say his name; he was always “the child”. Saying the name made him too real, made the pain and loss too real. But Ume was certain having Pearl here would be good for Cree. He should be with them. They were his family.
She couldn’t say any of this to Cree. Shouldn’t have even begun.
Ume knotted her sewing in her lap, feeling tongue-tied by Cree’s anger, her heart heavy with guilt for wanting something Cree couldn’t give. Because it wasn’t just that she’d wanted children Cree couldn’t bear, and it wasn’t just that she wanted to make Cree whole by giving her back her son. Deep down, Ume knew it was Pearl’s connection to Alya that pulled at her. And that wasn’t fair to Cree.
“The thaw is on,” said Cree in a more normal
tone, brushing her fingers through her short curls in a casual gesture. “They need some hired hands this season on the fishing boats. I thought it would be a nice change from working in taverns if I got a little outdoor work for a change. Something physical.”
With a knitted brow, Ume stopped twisting the fabric. “Won’t that mean long hours?”
“You have plenty to keep you busy. I saw your ledger on the desk, more orders for spring dresses pouring in.” Cree offered her a smile that made Ume feel as if a transparent but heavy curtain had fallen between them. “You’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
Ume’s sewing dropped from her fingers into her lap, forgotten. “I’ll notice.” She noticed already. Cree had been gone for weeks.
Peaks and valleys flowed like a wave from Pearl’s pen. He’d never drawn with ink before. It was smooth and slick, and he liked the smell. His fingers, however, felt a bit wrong at this distance from the drawing. He was used to smudging the charcoal against the parchment beneath his thumb after wearing the sticks down to nubs. But Lord Minister Merit had given him the special paper with the pen and ink, and he didn’t want to disappoint him.
Pearl had drawn the Minister of Security before, when he’d been only Merit, the litter bearer of the divine MeerRa—and later, when he’d become MeerRa’s chief attendant, after Ahr had come to the temple. Pearl liked to draw her—Ahr, when she’d been a girl. Though not after, not the dark time when Ahr had helped bring an end to the Meeric Age. Sometimes he had to draw it anyway. When his blood sent him pictures, it was his duty to put them on paper. He didn’t really have to anymore; the Master—Prelate Nesre—couldn’t punish him now. But he’d done it as long as he could remember, and what his body had learned, he couldn’t unlearn.
It was different now too, because the mirrors were gone. His whole life before Ra came to In’La had been spent inside the octagonal box made of dark mirrors, and it was where he’d learned to see the Meeric flow. Once he’d been outside, though, able to touch Ra and see her with his ordinary eyes, he’d understood it hadn’t been the mirrors that showed it to him at all. The mirrors had only been there to keep his power contained and to hide him from any other Meeric presence that might still exist in the world after the Expurgation. It was his blood that had been speaking to him all along.
“How’s it coming, Pearl?” Ahr peeked into the parlor where Pearl sat with his paper strewn around him. “Can I see?”
Pearl smiled. He always smiled when he saw Ahr. He liked Ahr as a man. He was happier than the girl had been. Still shy around him, though, Pearl shook his head.
“That’s all right. They’re your drawings.” Ahr gave him a genuine smile in return. “You don’t have to show them to anyone if you don’t want to.”
“I know,” said Pearl softly, bowing his head over his drawing once more and filling in the plume of steam that billowed from the back of the machine Ra was riding on. He liked one-syllable words. They didn’t hurt too much to say, and it seemed to please Ahr and Lord Minister Merit when he spoke to them.
“You don’t have to sit on the floor.” Ahr still lingered at the arch. “Merit doesn’t mind if you draw at the table.”
“I know,” Pearl repeated, this time a little annoyed. Ahr was interrupting the flow.
Ahr laughed. “All right, I’ll leave you in peace. Don’t forget to eat,” he added over his shoulder as he turned from the arch.
While he’d lived in the mirror box, Pearl had never known he had the power to create what he needed. The Master brought him food when he chose, and Pearl believed that was as it should be. When the Master was angry with him and decided not to bring him food for a long time, Pearl had simply breathed through the pangs of hunger and waited for the Master to change his mind, oblivious to the fact that he might have alleviated his own discomfort with a word.
“Plum,” he murmured and formed one in his empty hand, eating as he drew. He didn’t do it often. There was no lack of food at Ludtaht Ra, and monosyllabic words notwithstanding, it did hurt to speak. But sometimes it wasn’t worth the bother of stopping what he drew to tend to his physical needs.
Pearl stared, teeth arrested in mid-bite in the tart flesh of the plum. The dark liquid on the paper was trickling and swirling into other shapes than the ones he’d drawn. It was forming the only things he’d never affixed to paper himself: words.
Are you there? Is anyone there?
Pearl took the plum from his mouth. “I’m here,” he managed, swallowing against the lump in his throat that too many words in short succession brought on. The ink moved again and formed another sentence: I’m here.
He could speak words onto the parchment. That was interesting. But he could also write them now that he saw how written words looked. That would hurt less. Pearl swept the pen across the unmarked surface. Who are you?
The words shifted. I don’t have a name. Do you have one?
“Pearl,” he said aloud, forgetting he didn’t have to, and put his hand to his sore throat. Pearl, wrote the ink.
Pearl. That’s a fancy name.
Pearl shrugged. It was his name. Where are you?
The ink seemed uncertain, moving and shifting before settling at last into more words. Inside the mirror, it wrote, and a moment later, like an afterthought, adding an “s” to the end of “mirror”. An unpleasant sensation rippled through Pearl, like the dreams he often had of being still inside his box. Was this another Meerchild? Had someone else made one as the Master had, from stolen Meeric seed? Pearl dropped the plum, feeling ill. He couldn’t let that happen. It was wrong. He couldn’t leave someone else to be kept in a box of mirrors.
Pearl wrote swiftly, his hand erratic and unsteady with emotion. This isn’t, you aren’t, not Ra? Are you? It wasn’t a rational question. He’d just seen Ra in his mind’s pictures. It couldn’t be Ra. He knew where Ra was. But the Master had tried to keep Ra in his box after she’d set Pearl free.
The ink didn’t move again for a long while, and Pearl’s heart began to pound with fear and anxiety. What should he do? He had to do something.
No, not Ra, the ink wrote at last. I don’t think.
Relief washed through him, but it was short lived. He still had to do something. There was still a Meerchild somewhere being held against its will. I’ll find you, he promised. He’d spoken, so it was true.
Three: Expulsion
Words drifted past her like the vacant sound of petitioners’ vetmas, mere purling on the Anamnesis.
“She’s not well. Can’t this wait until morning?” Jak’s words, anxious whispers, bobbed along the surface.
They’d been together in Rhyman, but they weren’t in Rhyman now. What was it Ra had gone to Rhyman to do? Her mind was like mist curling, doubling back. There had been something…the temple. Yes, she had lived in a temple once, the object of adulation. She remembered flowers thrown at her feet—when had that been?—and flowers grew in spring. Spring was coming to the highlands. It would be time soon for planting, sacrifices for prosperity…or, no, they didn’t sacrifice to her any longer, did they?
“Not well?” Reluctant, uncomfortable words skipped along after Jak’s. “The Meer are always well. Apparently, they don’t even die like proper people.”
Once, the Meer had been abundant, the flowering of imagination blooming up from the reeds of the river. In those days, one made one’s petitions before the Meer—and then devoured him. Like eating a magic calf, ingesting Meerflesh would assure one’s wishes were granted. That had been before Ra’s time—had it? How old was she? A little girl had asked her that once. A little girl with eyes like ink.
“I beg to differ with you, Peta. They do die. Don’t they.”
Someone died. Ra drew a strand of hair through her fingers, watching it, watching the room through it. Ai, that was terrible. Blood and bits of something like melon burst across the steps. She pulled another black strand beside the f
irst and wondered that it wasn’t gray. She was old.
No, she was an infant. Remember the snow? How white, like the center of the sun. Her toes were cold in it, purpling at the tips, and her eyes were opened for the first time under a darkening Haethfalt sky, and there was a man, beautiful. No, a woman. Neither. The gray eyes had looked at Ra and lit up for a brief moment in surprise and delight at the appearance of the goddess. And then the look was gone and the eyes pretended to frown, pretended not to like her, not to desire her.
What if Ra had been taken there in the snow? That would have been lovely. Cold. Ra was a virgin. But, no, this was a woman, wasn’t it? No phallus to stand erect and admit desire, no phallus covered in gold paint. This was Jak. Sweet Jak. She smiled at Jak. She could smell the desire, no phallus needed, that Jak’s body had at last professed. How beautiful Jak had been, spread before Ra on the floor of liquid marble—no, that was another—taken by Ra to the ultimate expression of pleasure. Aroused, laid, climaxed before Ra had ever touched the sweet temple of her lover’s sex.
Perching her arms on Jak’s shoulder beside her, she spoke softly at Jak’s ear. “I want to fuck you.”
“What?” Jak pulled Ra’s hands down to the bench, trying to keep her still like a mischievous child. Had she said what Jak thought she said? She was laughing. Rem and Peta and the rest of the mound had been discussing her expulsion from the moundhold, were calling her despicable things: psychotic, avaricious, indulgent, daft. They were shutting her out, replacing the woman they’d known with this folkloric creation, displaying their ignorance. They didn’t harbor recreant Meer. It was simply common sense. The Meer were no concern of theirs. They suggested she might murder someone without warning, to which Geffn, symbolically positioned among the rest of the moundhold opposite Jak and Ra, had nodded dully.
And here sat Ra, smiling at Jak, whispering of sex. Inappropriately, her words had instantly drawn a bead of wetness from between Jak’s legs.