Cley watched the proceedings in a numb haze of confusion. His mother, sitting next to him, was silent and tense. They had spent the day under guard, with no official word as to what they were accused of, or what might happen to them. Cochta had a sense for the dramatic. Her moment had come, and Cley suspected this night would not be a good one for him or Sopharndi.
He was still fighting an extreme sense of disorientation. It was as if he had mislaid the most important thing in his life, but, not only could he not remember where he had left it, he couldn’t even remember what it was. He had sat in contemplation for hours, listening but, for the first time since his Journey, hearing nothing. His practice, normally a return to reality, the ground of all experience, today had seemed more like an escape, an attempt to avoid the facts about his life. His failure.
I have failed.
This was the feeling that underpinned all other thoughts flickering through his disturbed mind.
I have failed.
Cley put a hand up to the side of his head. Still tender.
When Cochta addressed the People for the first time as Leader, she began by reinforcing the need for strong leadership at such a dangerous time. She played on the fears of the tribe, emphasizing the differences between the People and other tribes. The People were superior in every way, and such superiority had led others to covet what they had. Weaker voices had sometimes suggested sharing their good fortune, allowing other tribes to settle nearby, in this verdant area that they, the People, had discovered. But last night had proved that they were right never to trust the other tribes. They were savages, murderers, heretics. They must never prevail. The People would build up their defenses, increase the patrols around the outer limits of their borders, add to the number of fighters.
It was an effective speech, rousing passions, playing on fears. Cley acknowledged Cochta’s skill at manipulating mass emotions. Around him, the majority of the tribe were drumming the backs of their hands on the hard earth in support of Cochta’s impassioned references to the greatness of the People, their favored status with the Singer, the relative savagery and ignorance of other tribes. The threat they posed. The way she, Cochta, promised to protect them to her last breath.
She could work a crowd.
Then her voice changed, becoming quieter. There was a regretful tone now, a sadness. Great Leaders had to make hard decisions. Threats to the People did not always come from outside the tribe. The greatest threats of all sometimes came from within. And if these threats were allowed to grow, to flourish unchecked, the rot would spread like a terrible disease, eventually infecting everyone and heralding the end of the People.
Cley’s mind cleared a little. He thought he knew where this was heading.
Cochta had the crowd in the palm of her hand now.
“When Cley returned from his Journey transformed, I wept for joy.”
Sopharndi’s snort of derision was ignored.
“Who else but the Singer could perform such a miracle? Who else could take a Blank, a mistake, an aberration, and give it a voice, intelligence, even the ability to mend broken bones, to work magic and produce water from nowhere? Who but the Singer could do this?”
She paced around the fire, every eye on her. She allowed enough of a pause for those present to find their own answer to her rhetorical question. A few heads turned toward Davvi, sitting with the Elders. He was struggling to look dignified, rather than smug. Cochta pointed at him.
“Our bard warned us. The bards have acted as messengers from the Singer since Aleiteh, the first bard. When Cley returned, many of us strayed from the path, many of us forgot whom the Singer chose to give her a voice among her people. She chose the bards.”
She knelt at the edge of the circled crowd, in front of Davvi.
“As Leader, I take this crime against the Singer upon myself, and I swear that it will never happen again. On behalf of the People, I swear our renewed allegiance to the Singer. We will not stray again.”
Davvi nodded gravely. He had obviously been told his to play his role, and it had been made very clear to him that his was not a speaking part. Cochta rose from her knees and walked as she addressed the People.
“It was Davvi who first saw through the facade. When he recognized Cley for what he was, we did not want to hear it. But now misfortune has fallen on our tribe, we can doubt it any longer. Our Leader is dead. We turned our back on the Singer, choosing instead to listen to a Blank. And we suffered the consequences.”
She turned to Cley, pointing him out.
“Laak was alive when this great healer came to her. This prophet who claims the Singer can be heard directly by everyone, who tells us we don’t need the bards to know her. She was alive. Alive!”
Cochta let her words echo around the gathered crowd. She let her voice gradually build in volume.
“He placed a hand on her and watched her die. He did nothing. He could have saved my mother. He could have saved our Leader. He chose not to. Either that, or his power has left him. Either way, it leaves me with no doubt about who he really is. Cley is no prophet. Cley is a demon.”
The drumming on the ground was louder and accompanied by grunts of agreement. Sopharndi’s howl of “No!” was the only clear sign of dissent.
Cochta was nearly spitting in passion now, bringing the crowd with her in a crescendo of indignation.
“Cley brought this upon us, but he was not alone. Sopharndi supported him. Sopharndi bore this child who tried to destroy us. Without my intervention, the settlement would have fallen. She failed us.”
Cley glanced around him. Katela, about fifteen feet to his right, looked uncomfortable and afraid. The rest of the fighters were immobile, their features betraying no emotions. They were trained to follow their First, but only because she relayed the orders of the Leader. The Leader was their first in command, and they would obey her without question.
Cochta gestured toward Cley and Sopharndi.
“Sopharndi is relieved of her duties. She is no longer First, she is no longer a fighter. Rettyu is First, Johaddo Second.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Cley saw Katela flinch as she was demoted.
“Cley.”
He looked up. Cochta was standing just a few feet away.
“You should have died on your Journey. Instead, you brought back a demon who inhabits your body. We will settle this in the traditional way of our tribe. If the Singer is truly with you, all will see it now. I challenge you. Stand up.”
Sopharndi got to her feet first, shaking with rage and panic.
“You cannot challenge him. A female cannot challenge a male.”
There were a few murmurs at this. Females were so much stronger than males that challenges between genders were not permitted.
Cochta spat into the dirt. “I am not challenging a male. Only a coward would do such a thing. I am challenging a demon. Sit down.”
With a howl of rage, Sopharndi threw herself at Cochta. The younger female was taken by surprise by the speed and ferocity of the attack. Before she had the chance to take evasive action, Sopharndi’s thumb claw had opened up a long gash in her leg. She stumbled, hissing in shock and pain, and a backhander caught her in the face, opening up a cut on her cheek.
The whole attack only lasted a few seconds, before the nearest fighters jumped on Sopharndi and pinned her to the ground.
Cochta breathed heavily for a few moments, looking at her enemy, now prone and unmoving.
“We all know the penalty for attacking the Leader. I should kill you right now.”
Sopharndi said nothing but managed to twist her head round so she could fix a look of pure hatred on Cochta.
The new Leader took a knife from one of the fighters and limped over to the fire. She placed the blade into the flames, watching the blade change color as she spoke.
“A strong Leader can also be merciful. You have brought a demon into our tribe. The attack you failed to prevent led to the death of Laak. But I will not kill you, because y
ou have served the people well for most of your life, and this will not be forgotten.”
The blade was white-hot now.
“Hold her head.”
She walked back and squatted next to Sopharndi. She whispered the next words.
“No mother should have to see her son die.”
With that, she carefully, deliberately pierced Sopharndi’s left eyeball with the blade, twisting as she did so, before doing the same to the right.
No one there would ever forget the sound of her screams.
Strong arms held Cley down as he tried to reach his stricken mother, howling his grief and fury.
When the fighters had dragged Sopharndi back to her place in the crowd, Cochta beckoned to Cley.
“Now we will see whom the Singer favors. It’s time for you to die, demon.”
Cley was pulled to his feet and pushed out to meet Cochta.
Chapter 34
Cley felt the numb cold of shock spread through his body as he looked out across the sea of faces waiting to watch him die. Among those faces he picked out many of the younger members of the tribe who had followed him since the beginning, coming up to live among the trees. Some of them stared at the floor, some looked away. A few had the shiny-eyed glazed expression of true believers, waiting for the next miracle to save their prophet and prove, beyond doubt, in front of the entire tribe, that what he taught was the true path. This last group distressed him most of all. When they had pinned all their hopes to one individual, how would they cope if he was taken away, exposed as mortal just like them?
He must not fail them. Not now.
He turned his back on Cochta and spoke to the People.
“I am neither a demon or a god,” he said. “The only demons you’ll ever meet, the only gods you will ever know, are inside you. And they are imposters.”
He spoke the words, but to Cley, they felt like ashes in his mouth. They were the echo of what he had once believed when he was whole. Now he felt broken. He looked at Sopharndi, her face hideously scarred, the red and black weals where her eyes had been still smoking, the stench of her burned flesh drifting across the clearing. She had lost consciousness. For that, he was glad.
“No more words, demon. No more blasphemy. Now you die.”
He turned to face Cochta. Her face was bleeding, and she was favoring her left leg. It would make no difference to the inevitable outcome. She could kill him with both legs broken and one arm tied behind her back. Females were taller, bigger, stronger, more heavily muscled and naturally far more aggressive than males. In a knife fight, rare males who displayed an aptitude for fighting had been known to best females, using speed and lack of bulk to their advantage, often favoring a longer blade to compensate for their lack of reach.
There would be no knives in this fight, not that Cley knew how to use one anyway. This was a Challenge, to be fought with claws alone. Cochta wasted no time, unsheathing her claws and rushing him. Cley ducked to one side and rolled, but she slashed across his right shoulder, and he cried out in pain. Coming out of his roll, he immediately got up and backed away.
Cochta advanced more slowly this time. He tried to keep just out of range, but with a sudden burst of speed, she leaned in and slashed again, opening up a long cut across his ribs.
Cochta, her back to the crowd, smiled at Cley and he knew, with a kind of tired, sick feeling of resignation, that she meant to make his death long and painful.
She advanced on him again.
As the fight continued, and she opened up more wounds, Cochta sheathed her claws and began sadistically punching him directly on the gaping bloody injuries she had already inflicted. Cley found his mind retreating, his world shrinking, returning to that time before the Journey, when there was no knowledge, no understanding, no god, and no pain. He thought maybe he had heard the song back then. He had tried to sing along with it all his life, hadn’t he?
A heavy blow to the side of his face sent Cley reeling, twisting as he lost his footing, coming down heavily on his right side, the already tender flesh on his head hitting the ground hard.
For a moment, he saw nothing at all. Then he saw the orange-red dance of the flames. He couldn’t bring the fire into focus. He blinked a few times. There was blood in his eyes. He closed them again. Maybe she would just come and slash his throat, end it now.
“Get up,” howled Cochta, the bloodlust thickening her voice. “Get up!”
She saw him, and she loved him.
He heard Cochta as if she spoke from miles away, but he was ready to obey her. Ready for it all to be over. Ready to die.
She wanted to get to him, but she couldn’t. She was calling him but he didn’t understand the words.
Cley opened his eyes slowly. He looked at the fire. But he didn’t see it. He saw her.
My name is Seb. Seb Varden. I was born in New York City. Now, I live on a tiny island off the northeast coast of Britain. With Meera. Mee.
He saw a shock of wild black hair and deep eyes that saw all of him. Gray eyes. His own eyes, but not his own.
Next a wave of love hit him like nothing he had ever even dreamed was possible. Not romantic love, not compassionate empathy with your fellow beings love. It was raw, visceral, messy, unstoppable, full/empty/full, eternally temporary love. It was like nothing—
—and he knew—
—nothing he had ever known, he had no name for it, it was just—
—he knew—
—just as if he had been living in two dimensions his whole life and someone had pushed him through a door into a three-dimensional world, he couldn’t—
—a child—
—couldn’t comprehend what was happening, but neither—
—a child that, somehow, knew him, saw him, across the impossible gulf—
—neither could he deny the reality of it; time, space, distance, they all just dissolved like a drop of rain in an ocean and—
—who was it? who was he looking at?—
—he knew, he knew, he knew.
Who had called him, come to him, brought him back to who he was? He smiled at the apparition in stunned disbelief and love as she vanished and the flames once again rose from the fire pit.
He stood up. Cochta was facing the crowd. She had subdued the demon and was preparing herself to deliver the killing blow. When the crowd suddenly hushed, she turned to face Cley.
And saw Seb.
Only Cochta knew the difference. Every other member of the tribe watched in awe as Sopharndi’s son got to his feet, his wounds healing as he rose. He faced the Leader, and the cuts on his body closed, the swollen and bruised flesh smoothing over. Within seconds, he was whole again.
With a scream of rage, Cochta sprang at him. Seb moved to one side and her claws closed on air. She reacted quickly and swung her legs under his, to sweep him off his feet. He stepped over them with ease and backed up. She got up again.
“The demon has emerged,” she shouted to the crowd. There were shouts of encouragements and cries of fear, but not every voice was raised in her support.
She rushed him again, throwing every last technique into the attack, feinting, parrying, slashing and stabbing, punching and kicking.
The flurry of blows lasted only a few seconds, Cochta’s limbs a blur of highly-trained and deadly movements. Not a single blow landed. Her eyes widened as, for the first time, the possibility of defeat entered her mind.
As if he could see her thoughts, Seb raised a hand.
“No more,” he said.
Cochta shook her head at his words, hardly believing he would dare to address her this way. She tensed her muscles, preparing to launch another attack, when she found she could not move at all. Her limbs refused to obey her commands. Her legs were locked in place. She tried to speak, but could not even do that.
Seb looked at her, and she felt a tightening on her leg and her face. The pain from her injuries disappeared, and she knew he had healed her. She felt herself fill with impotent rage.
Seb
turned to the crowd for the last time. He repeated the words Cley had found, adding some of his own.
“I am neither a demon or a god,” he said. “The only demons you’ll ever meet, the only gods you will ever know, are inside you. And they are imposters. Treat them as such. Learn to listen.”
He took one last look at Sopharndi. She was still unconscious, but she would live. And, whatever happened next, she would not have to endure the rest of her life with the whole tribe believing she had brought a demon among them.
Seb turned to face the fire. He reached out with his mind and felt the subtle, lingering traces of the love that had found him over unimaginable distances in time and space.
He didn’t want to know the whys and hows of it all.
He just wanted to go home. He was needed. Seb had never known a mother or father, but the connection he had felt with the presence in the flames had been close to that he’d used to imagine as a child, in the orphanage, dreaming of parents he’d never met.
He walked forward and, as the crowd behind him rose to their feet, shouting, he walked into the flames.
He remembered those gray eyes. He remembered Mee Patel and a million tiny shared moments.
The flames rose up around him but he felt no heat, although he was aware of his body burning up.
He felt the pull of everything he had left behind.
He reached the center of the fire pit.
And was gone.
Unchapter 36
Innisfarne
Joni cried for ten minutes solid after learning that she was the cause of her father’s return to Earth. She hugged her dad first, then her mum, as they all struggled to comprehend the enormity of what had happened that day when she’d fallen from the oak. The first time she had reset the multiverse.
After her sobs subsided, Seb listened to the story of what had happened on her ninth birthday; the vision she had seen when she had lost her grip on a high branch, plunged to the forest floor and broken her neck. Moments from death, she had reset and the day had continued as if nothing untoward had happened. She had never really considered it out of the ordinary. She’d just assumed it was something everyone could do. Then, over time, it had been smudged into other childhood memories, dreams and stories.
The Unnamed Way (The World Walker Series Book 4) Page 20