The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  As yet I had not learned how the sorcerous draining would be measured, so I decided to take matters into my own hands. Slipping out into the lane I walked over to the house where the men were staying, to spy Mazrebiler on the doorstep, sniffing the air, a goblet of raki in his hand.

  “Ügliy,” said the big man, nodding once.

  I nodded back. “How will we determine the amount of sootstorm draining?” I asked.

  “Good question.” Mazrebiler reached into his pocket to pull out a necklace, an obsidian lump on a chain of silver. “We use this talisman. It will tell us how much sorcery we have to put back.”

  “And where will that sorcery come from?”

  “Once we’ve measured how bad the sootstorm was, we return to the Mavrosopolis and I engage a sorcerer, who’ll finish the task.”

  I nodded. “Would you mind if I did my own test with the talisman?”

  Mazrebiler considered this request, then shrugged. “Suppose so. Think you’re trying for special consideration?”

  I shook my head. “I want to know for myself, that’s all.”

  Mazrebiler muttered something then handed over the talisman. Sensitized to sorcerous nuances, I felt a tingle in my fingers that I knew Mazrebiler knew nothing of, for he was neither sorcerer nor shaman; and for a moment I felt a mixture of pity and scorn for him, before the feeling passed and in the silence of my thoughts I chided myself.

  Karanlik joined me as I wandered off into the mushroom fields. I let instinct find a route, until I stood beneath one of the giant feathers. I stroked it. The surface was rough, yet greasy, with white fragments hanging down in clumps. I took the talisman and tried to let its energy suffuse my mind. For a moment nothing happened, but then a pale curtain swept before my eyes and I saw the feathers as vessels, arranged like a great fence across the hill beneath which the cimmerian settlement lay. But I was horrified to see how empty these vessels were: quills dry and cracking, their sorcerous reservoirs like drips of ink at the bottom, where they pierced the earth. The sootstorm had drained almost everything from them.

  And I was aware of something else. Far off, like the threat of a thunderstorm, there lay a single, great serpent.

  I shook off these sorcerous hallucinations. The jagged interface of shamanic totems left me dazed. Karanlik put a flask of water to my mouth, then gave me a piece of rye bread. I ate. I felt better. Then we began to hear the sound of local cimmerians leaving their houses, voices and goblets clinking, the hooting of steel bugles, the beat of drums, songs and poems and sudden laughter.

  “The revels have begun,” Karanlik said.

  I looked at her. I realised what a boon she had been to me, and what a good companion she could be as I continued the test. I took her hand in mine and replied, “So it seems. But I am uneasy with what Zindpader said about these feathers.”

  Karanlik replied, “‘The great feathers provide us with much sorcery, that we consume to make our revels all the better.’ That’s what he said.”

  “We have to find out what he meant by that. I am afraid that any more drainage will ruin these baffles.”

  “But you don’t know that will happen...”

  I shook my head. “I do know, because I’m a shaman. Zindpader directs this cimmerian tribe through his rookishness—he won’t let Mazrebiler’s needs over-ride his own.”

  We returned to the settlement, where I handed the talisman back. “I think the feathers are very low,” I said.

  Mazrebiler nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind. But I’ll be using this later to find out exactly how bad it is.”

  Karanlik and I departed. Karanlik took me by the hand and encouraged me to follow the rest of the cimmerians into the fields and lanes surrounding the settlement, where, in a hollow, we stopped. I sat down, but Karanlik stood above me, loosening then removing her rags, so that her sweat-slicked body was naked before me. Light from our single lamp illuminated one side of her body; a soft eye, the arch of neck and shoulder, one breast, hip curved, one leg. The rest of her seemed to leach into shadow. I felt myself responding to her. She sat astride me, pulling off my clothes then kissing my lips, so that her jasmine-scented breath filled my senses. I let her do her will, heedless of the consequences, aware that all around us hundreds of other couples were doing the same thing, as the settlement followed its ancient fertility rite.

  So the night passed. As dawn arrived we fell into sleep, hours without waking, until it was dusk again.

  I roused myself. Zindpader would be at work, preparing for the final part of the rite. Karanlik was at my side when we departed the hollow.

  We discovered Zindpader dancing from feather baffle to feather baffle, a hop, a skip and a twirl, leaving a row of feathers in his wake that rotated in mid-air and linked a dozen or more of the baffles together. I looked on in horror, recognising the signs of shamanic bonding, realising that Zindpader knew exactly how low each feather baffle was, and that the shaman cared nothing about the damage his actions would cause to the Mavrosopolis. Yet already I was part of the problem, for Karanlik and I had taken part in the earlier rite. I watched as Zindpader danced away.

  “I’ve got to see Mazrebiler,” I said.

  Karanlik grabbed my arm. “There’s not enough time,” she said. “It’s too late.” Her voice was like a siren, her breath impossibly sweet, her eyes sultry and welcoming. I realised that I was drowning in a primeval power, channeled by Zindpader into the final, orgiastic part of the rite. I found myself writhing on top of Karanlik, sucking her nipples, our clothes thrown aside; entering her, and making her squeal.

  Part of me knew this was right and part of me knew it was wrong. But Karanlik was a cimmerian, careless of the Mavrosopolis and all its weight of history; what she wanted was her man. The lure she symbolised came from somewhere deep and natural. I could not counter it. With ecstatic face and arms flung out she represented a force unavoidable.

  I tried to stand on my feet. The moon was rising, visible through distant rents in the soot clouds, and for a moment it brought me back to reality. I staggered away from Karanlik and reached into my own mind, transforming my senses into those of the rat, pushing the human world aside, demanding an effort from my body almost impossible after two nights of lust. But I was desperate. The Mavrosopolis needed me—and I was on my test.

  The superior vision of my shamanic totem provided me with a glimpse of the sorcery remaining in the feather baffles. I saw drops leaking out from those enormous quills, saw the web woven by Zindpader as he danced around the settlement. I acted. Using my whiskers to sense the position of the rotating feathers and my strong front teeth to bite, I began cutting the sorcerous links, one by one, isolating the great feather baffles so that their last reserves of sorcery would not drain away. I knew that a year would pass before this could happen again. If I succeeded now, I would save the Mavrosopolis from erosion.

  But although I was small and vibrant I was acting in a sorcerous landscape. I had only bitten through five links when I realised that I had been noticed. High in the sky I saw a wheeling shape, an aerial ripple, and then the silhouette of a huge beast that I realised was a serpent. There was a clap of thunder as the transfer of sorcery into the lascivious bodies of the local cimmerians was halted, and they returned to mere human sensations. I continued scurrying and biting. The feather baffles were in turmoil, those still linked swaying as if under a new storm, those isolated standing like dark cypress trees under nocturnal skies.

  Then the serpent dropped, and I knew I was in danger. I bit through a link then ran to hide beside a quill, as the great beast dived then swept past, emitting a fierce roar. I had a momentary impression of a pale eye before the serpent was gone and a gust of wind took me, bowling me over and sending me battered and rolling across the ground. I sunk my claws into the earth and twitched my whiskers. Above me the serpent was wheeling again, turning, then dropping, ready to attack. I ran. There was a roar as one of the beast’s wings passed inches above me, and then I was rolling again as the dra
ught of its flight knocked me away.

  I lay silent. Time for another bite. I would not be beaten. I jumped up, severed the sorcerous connection, then ran to hide by a quill as the serpent made its third dive. Then there came a sound as of a hundred bells striking a pavement, and every sorcerous link disintegrated as Zindpader’s woven sorcery fell apart. I stood up, shedding my totemic form to find myself shivering and drooling upon sooty earth, Karanlik at my side, hugging me, weeping, begging me to return to consciousness.

  “I’m all right,” I muttered.

  “What have you done?” she asked.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “it wasn’t against you, it was to stop the baffles being drained.” I felt for her hand, then grasped it. “I don’t want to lose you,” I added. “You’re the best helper I could have had.”

  I rested for half an hour before I felt strong enough to stand. Shuffling myself onto my crutch, I walked with Karanlik at my side down the gentle slope that led into the settlement. Mazrebiler, hair unkempt and armour askew, emerged from behind a house. “Where is everybody?” he called out when he saw me.

  I gestured at the land behind me. “Still recovering.”

  Mazrebiler said nothing, but he fingered the talisman, as if trying to stroke it into power.

  “I’ve saved the baffles,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Zindpader linked them together into one great reservoir of sorcery so his cimmerian kin could enjoy their orgy all the more. I stopped them. The baffles are low, but safe. We’d better run back to the Mavrosopolis so a sorcerer can be found.”

  Mazrebiler stared at me. “You?”

  I nodded.

  Mazrebiler laughed. “Never. I don’t believe you, trouble-maker.”

  I pointed to the talisman. “Run that over me and you’ll find a sheen of sorcery. I’m not lying, Mazrebiler—and I did it for the Mavrosopolis.”

  Mazrebiler became angry. “Your test was only to recognise the state of the baffles,” he shouted, “not to do my task for me.”

  I jerked upright. “My test?”

  Mazrebiler realised that he had said too much. He cursed, then said, “Yes, your test. You remember?”

  I could only repeat, “My test?”

  “Gagh!” Mazrebiler cried. “Why is this happening to me?”

  Karanlik intervened, saying, “What do you mean about the test?”

  “The first part is to recognise the threat of erasure in a mode not familiar to the pre-citidenizen,” Mazrebiler explained. “Ügliy here was allocated to the bafflers. All he had to do was recognise the state of the feather baffles, grasp what it might lead to, then report back to me. But no. He had to save the night as well.”

  “That makes him a better man,” Karanlik decided.

  But Mazrebiler was too bitter to agree. Looking at Karanlik he said, “So now I have to tell Ügliy that he’s passed the first quarter of the test. Very nice for me, that is.” Mazrebiler stood wrapped in his thoughts for a while, digesting all he had heard, before he turned to me and said, “You get a token of success. I didn’t think a cripple like you would succeed. Unfortunately you have.”

  “A token?”

  “One quarter of a silver ring.” He pointed to the goat yard owned by Zindpader. “I threw it away. I expect it’s still there.”

  I hobbled towards the yard, Karanlik skipping at my side. We slipped through the gate, closed it, then surveyed the animals and the filth before us. I pointed to various places. “He would have stood by the fence to throw it in,” I said. “We’d better begin at the edges and work our way in. Pity we’ve only got one lamp.”

  We dropped to our hands and knees, barged aside the pigs and began searching the piles of earth, soot and dung for the ring fragment. I knew what I was waiting for: a gleam of silver amidst the filth. I felt excited. An object would make more real my achievement, would encourage me to pass the remaining three quarters of the test. As we searched, the other bafflers and some of the local cimmerians began to arrive at the yard, leaning over the fence to watch, some chuckling, others observing in silence. There was no sign of Zindpader.

  The night was drawing to a close when we reached the gate where we began our search. No sign of any silver. Unsteadily, I stood up, leaning exhausted against my crutch. Mazrebiler stared at me.

  “I can’t find it,” I sighed.

  Mazrebiler frowned, then thrust his hand into his breeches, to pull out a small trinket. “Here it is,” he said. “Had it in my pocket all the time.”

  Though there was a ripple of laughter, I heard little other than my own heart beating. I saw only the silver arc in Mazrebiler’s hand. I took it and held it up to the lamp, to see engraved metal with two clasps on each end that would attach to other quarters, forming a ring. I grinned.

  Mazrebiler smirked in reply. “So you’ve passed the first part of the test,” he said. “Only two more parts to go.”

  “Three,” I corrected.

  “Two,” Mazrebiler replied, before he turned to stride away.

  11.5.583

  Five days have passed since I described the delight I felt upon completing my apprenticeship. Today I feel no delight. Today I realise the difficulty of what lies before me, and I wonder if I have set myself an impossible task.

  How would I know that it is impossible? I cannot say. Somehow, I would know. There are forces and powers that people may not know of. Shamanism is one such. I have always wondered if shamanism is contact with the unknowable. Yet I am not a shaman, nor will I ever be, and there were no shamans in my immediate family, unless they disguised their ability; and I am inclined to believe that such camouflage—because of the vitality, nay the glitter of the shamanic mind—is impossible.

  But it seems to me that passing the citidenizen test is impossible. I have passed the first quarter, and it was easy, so easy, but I know now that I will fall at some subsequent hurdle. I know this because something of life in the citidenizenry has been revealed to me, something that I did not know before, and it makes me think I could not bear to live something so vile.

  Perhaps vile is too strong a word. A bureaucracy is not vile. It is too massive to be vile. Yet I feel repelled.

  The first part of the test was to recognise erasure in a discipline alien to our own. I was assigned to a dessicator group, who wander the Mavrosopolis looking for the flowing water that can cause erosion. I was fascinated to discover that the sewers of the conurbation in which we all live are blocked so that water may not flow. This is extreme! We thawers are not so eccentric, that is sure, though I suppose our arrays of heaters, hotwires, fans and elements would look absurd to a dessicator or to a baffler. I recognised that a collection of cisterns in a high region of the Mavrosopolis would burst under the influence of building work, and this fact I reported to the master of the group. He then told me that I had passed, and he proffered me a silver arc: one quarter of a ring.

  I am pleased that this shiny fragment lies in my breast pocket. I keep it above my heart in the hope that my sincerity will somehow alter the circumstances of my test. It is a forlorn hope.

  But I learned something awful today. The citidenizenry is a bureaucracy; of what type I do not know, but I sense, as if with the intimate and vibrating nerves of my body, that it is one. I am appalled. There can be no place for the artist in a bureaucracy, no place for the sculptor, for the musician, for the actor—even for the playwright!—and certainly no place for the poet. What can I do? I must ascend from the gutter, yet if I do I place myself in an unfeeling, mechanistic, hopeless, meaningless system that already, already, though I know it not, I hate.

  Such a dilemma was unexpected and it makes me wonder if I should continue. This I discussed with my mother. She said I should go on. Probably I will. But I must bury too many bright and carefree thoughts in my mind, and that is not a good thing. Life surely is not about the bleak sheet of vellum upon which is written a list, it is about spontenaity, about creation, about love.

  Nogoths say li
ttle of love since it is a luxury on the street. But I will have none of that. Love is good, it seems to me, indeed who is to say that it is not a vital part of a peaceful life? So I suspect. Yet the bureaucracy does not admit of love, just as it does not admit of poetry. Am I then to become a dried up old man, dead like a white rose that was perfumed and cool in a vase of water, only to shrivel and die for want of a little concern?

  It seems absurd to me that the Mavrosopolis does not have room for concern, and yet this heartlessness would explain the fact that nogoths lie in their thousands upon the sooty streets. The Mavrosopolis, perhaps, is a heartless thing.

  Chapter 6

  The sensation of success was strange to me, akin to the throat burn of raki or the sweet fizz of sherbet. Though I knew I deserved it—that I really had it—I felt unworthy of it, as though I had acquired success through luck, not skill. This unease was made worse when the wraith haunted me a second time.

  As before, I was passing time in Blackguards’ Passage, enjoying a few moments to wonder what I might be like when I reached the citidenizenry. Karanlik was at my side. The wraith appeared at midnight, confronting us as we sought scraps of food. Karanlik screamed and clung to me. I wobbled, then grabbed a window sill to stop myself falling over.

  “Ügliy!” came the moaning voice of the wraith.

  I said nothing, staring at the apparition, as all my work with Raknia in the unnamed street was shattered.

  “What warning did I give you?” the wraith asked me. “Did I not say, if you continue with the citidenizen test I will return to haunt you until your heart bursts. Wasn’t that what I said?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “And now you have a quarter ring to call your own. You will throw that ring away, now, before my eyes, and if you do not I will burst your heart, and that of the whore at your side.”