by Pearl North
Haly realized that the bundle on the woman’s back was a child—a child with a face as wizened as Nod’s. A child that looked old. Haly had no idea what was wrong with her.
Swiftly yet gently, the soldiers gathered mother and child up and swept them back into the crowd that was straining the barricades. Haly lost sight of her as Siblea helped her up the ladder and into the palanquin, but the image of her desperate, hopeful face burned in her mind’s eye. Far more than the roaring crowd here or at the confirmation, that woman and her strangely old child made Haly wish that the Redemption was as Gyneth believed it to be, and not just the grab for power that it was.
The palanquin was roughly six feet on a side and lavishly furnished with cushions and rugs. Draperies hung from the canopied roof, nearly disguising the narrow-spaced iron bars.
Siblea climbed in behind her and settled himself on a cushion across from her. He turned and waved a hand through the bars at the front of the palanquin, signaling the elephant’s rider to depart.
The beast took its first step and the entire conveyance lurched forward and to one side, taking Haly’s stomach with it. She thought of the seasickness that plagued so many of the characters in the seafaring novels she’d heard and wondered if she would be similarly cursed. Well, it would be no pleasure cruise for Siblea, either, if such were the case. The spaces between the bars of the palanquin were too narrow for her to stick her head through them. She’d have no choice but to throw up in here. She decided to aim for Siblea if it came to that.
But after the first few strides her body became accustomed to the rolling gait, and she gazed out at the city streets, thronged with jubilant members of the Righteous Chorus. It seemed that the entire city planned to accompany them on their pilgrimage to the Libyrinth, and indeed, when they passed through the gates they were accompanied by a mighty procession that dwarfed the contingent of black-garbed priests surrounding the elephant and its holy cargo.
Haly lifted the curtain behind her and peered out at the crowds behind them. At the back of the procession loomed the Horn of Yammon, lurching along on its trolley. It was so large that she had a moment’s hope it would be too tall to pass through the gates. But the engineers had measured everything carefully, and there was just enough room beneath the archway for the great steel trumpet. She looked at its implacable curves a moment longer, sighed, and dropped the curtain.
As the domes and spires of the Corvariate Citadel sank beneath the horizon and the roar of the crowd died down to a constant, sibilant murmur, Siblea clasped his hands together and looked at her eagerly. “So,” he said, “how shall we amuse ourselves?”
Haly was suddenly reminded of the knife and jar on the table in Siblea’s office, and of Gyneth’s words: People don’t lie to Censor Siblea. She tried not to shrink from him, but her shoulders pressed into the fabric-draped bars of the enclosure just the same. She didn’t speak. The gleam in his eye choked off her words.
“I know,” he said. “I’ll sing you a song. You’ll like this one. It’s about Yammon and Iscarion when they were young, before Iscarion’s betrayal.” Siblea hummed softly in preparation, and then lifted his clear, tenor voice, and sang: “Like the flower and the seed, like the water and the shore, Yammon and Iscarion were brothers, friends, before. Yammon strong and brave, Iscarion sharp and quick, the one did not have a thought but that the other followed it.”
The song told of how Yammon’s bold ways made him a target of Hiop, their overseer, who whipped him on any pretext. Hiop would have killed Yammon if Iscarion had not taken the blame for dropping a bale of wood, and after Hiop punished Iscarion, Yammon nursed him back to health. It was Iscarion who first suggested the rebellion, and it was he who devised the songs by which slaves could pass information to one another without being detected.
“Two once one forever parted, Yammon in grief, Iscarion in folly. The Song and the Word shall not meet, ’til Redemption makes the past complete,” he finished.
Haly found herself leaning forward. It was a very interesting song. “If Yammon and Iscarion were so close, why did Iscarion refuse to teach Yammon to read?” she asked.
Siblea leaned back, poured a cup of water from a flask, and drank it up. “There is more than one chorus of thought on that matter. Some believe he was seduced by power. Others think that literacy itself poisoned him.”
Haly considered that, and another question occurred to her. “You said once that I was a . . . child of Iscarion. Why?”
Siblea gave her a puzzled smile. “Your home was Iscarion’s refuge after he fled the citadel. He is the founder of your people. You do not know this?”
“Theselaides discovered the Libyrinth and founded the community of Libyrarians,” she countered.
Siblea’s pale eyebrows nearly disappeared beyond the crest of his forehead. “Theselaides? No. I’ve never heard of Theselaides. I assure you, it was Iscarion.”
His arrogance made her angry. “How do you know?” she challenged. A part of her couldn’t quite believe she was speaking so to Censor Siblea, but the dungeon was far, far away, and he needed her now. “Who among the Singers accompanied Iscarion in order to know where he went?”
Siblea put his hands out to his sides. “It is obvious. Where would he go but to a place filled with his beloved books? What else would he do but found an order dedicated to their preservation?”
“You don’t know,” she said.
Siblea shrugged. “No one can know for certain, it is true,” he admitted. “But sometimes things really are as they appear.”
As the sun brushed the horizon, the procession came to a halt. Haly and Siblea watched priests, subalterns, and common folk alike scramble to make their camps. As the sun set, the Plain of Ayor became a sea of firelight.
Siblea preceded her down the ladder that two of Michander’s men held steady against the side of the elephant. Once on the ground, Gyneth’s chorus was there to greet them, their faces flickering in the light of the campfire. In the manner that was becoming familiar to her, Siblea stood at her side and Michander came to her other side. Subaltern Chorus Five sang a song about welcoming the Holy One to blessed rest beneath the canopy of Song. Haly watched over her shoulder as the elephant knelt and men of Michander’s chorus lowered the palanquin to the ground and positioned it in a place of prominence among the tents that circled the campfire.
If she could get away from the campfire she might be able to lose herself in the darkness. This was her best chance to escape, and they knew it. Even as she spotted the quickest path to the alley of darkness between their camp and the next, the chorus finished its song and Siblea took her elbow. He and Michander steered her toward the palanquin and bundled her through the door. Gyneth appeared with her trunk of clothing and followed her inside.
“Did you like our song, Holy One?” Gyneth murmured, placing the trunk in one corner. Without waiting for her to answer, he went on, “I see you Nod.” He looked at her and quite deliberately placed his hand upon the trunk, and patted it once. “Your servant is most gratified that you were pleased with his paltry effort on your behalf.”
She had the unmistakable impression that he was trying to tell her something—something that he couldn’t just come out and say directly. Gyneth left and returned immediately with a basin of water and a covered necessary pot. He didn’t speak again but simply locked the door behind him when he left and lowered the curtains on the palanquin to give her some privacy. Haly crept to the chest and opened it, peeking inside. It was dark in there, but she could just make out the gleam of a tiny pair of eyes, looking up at her from the folds of clothing.
“Story?” asked Nod in a soft voice.
So that’s where Nod had gotten to. And Gyneth, who had packed her trunk, knew about it. “Stay quiet, Nod,” she said. “Maybe I can tell you a story later, when the others have gone to sleep.”
She left the lid of the chest open a crack, though she was not at all certain Nod needed to breathe. She had time to use the necessary pot and splash
water on her face and arms before she heard Gyneth at the door of the palanquin. “Holy One? I must lift the curtains again. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
As he lifted the heavy fabric, a rich smell of lamb stew wafted in and she realized how hungry she was. She hadn’t eaten since morning.
In addition to Haly’s palanquin, four tents sat spaced around the campfire. Censor Siblea’s tent was on her left, Orrin and Michander’s tents were on her right, and the subaltern’s tent sat almost directly opposite hers on the other side of the fire. Each of the censors sat on a stool in front of his tent as the subalterns served bowls of fragrant stew.
Gyneth brought Haly a bowl, handing it to her through the bars of her palanquin. She brushed her hands over his as she took the bowl from him. “Thank you,” she said, hoping he would know that she meant it for more than just the food. Gyneth ducked his head and she saw him swallow as he returned to his fellow chorus members, who were gathered in a group near their tent.
Orrin’s attendant, Thale, began to beat on a drum, softly at first and then harder. Another boy joined in with a flute, and a third strummed a stringed instrument that Haly could not identify. The others sang and danced. Their arms linked together, they kicked and jumped and spun, their firelit faces full of delight. This was an entirely different form of music than the choruses, and though it was intended as entertainment for Haly and the censors, it was clear that the boys were enjoying themselves immensely.
She realized she recognized the words. “Six-pack, Cadillac, give that god a phone, this cold hand is growing chrome.”
It was an Ayorite nonsense rhyme; she didn’t know why she was surprised, really. Most of these people were of Ayorite stock. In fact, everyone except the Ilysians and the Thesians were Ayorites, if you went back far enough. But what was really meant, when people said “Ayorite,” was “peasant,” and Haly simply had not made the connection between these Singer priests and the common folk from which they’d sprung.
They had been slaves. But many Ayorites and Thesians had been slaves of the Ancients, so much the same could be said of the Libyrarians. Haly thought of the song Siblea had sung her today about Iscarion. But if Iscarion had founded the community at the Libyrinth, that meant that Theselaides was a fraud.
On the other side of the fire, Gyneth linked arms with Thale and they spun in an ever-quickening circle. “My tin can, it has holes, it can tear your fancy clothes . . .” His brown hair fell across his face and the firelight gleamed in the sweat running down his neck. His eyes were bright; his smile, for once, unselfconscious. Haly smiled herself, in spite of everything.
It grew late. Haly and the censors finished their meal. The subalterns stopped dancing and fell upon the remains of the stew, eating hastily. Michander, Orrin, and Siblea retired to their tents, and Haly’s guards lowered the curtains of her palanquin. She lay down on the soft rugs and tucked a pillow beneath her head. She only meant to lie still and wait until the others fell asleep, but she found herself awakened some indeterminate time later by tiny hands tugging at her hair. “What does she say? What does she say?”
Haly groaned. Who would think sitting in a moving box all day would be so exhausting? She opened her eyes. Nod had shoved the metal case containing Anne Frank’s diary to the side of her makeshift bed and now perched upon it. “I’m tired,” she complained, but the truth was, she loved listening to Anne go on about life in the Secret Annexe. She closed her eyes again and began to recite somewhere in the middle of the book—the lovely romantic part where Anne keeps meeting Peter in the attic. At some point Haly fell asleep and the words worked their way into her dream, only it was she and Gyneth in the attic, and outside the window was the Horn of Yammon. She felt tiny ants crawling all over her and then she and Gyneth and the house all dissolved into dust and blew away across the Plain of Ayor, whispering as they went.
The Plain of Ayor had become one great city on the move. While Haly slept, people came from every village of the southern plain to join the pilgrimage of the Redeemer. Now it was midmorning, and they were on the march, and Haly was once again ensconced with Siblea atop the elephant.
Now the time foretold has come, when Song and Word will be as one. Righteous chorus lift each voice, the Redemption is at hand, rejoice.
As the people walked, they sang, and the cadence of their song rolled in time with their strides and with the slow steady gait of the elephant. It was a bright day, the vast blue sky as yet only faintly smudged by the dust of their passage. Haly stared at the thousands of faces—smiling, toiling, singing—and she felt ill. They were depending on her for a miracle. Tales save her.
She shut the curtain and turned to face Siblea. “What they expect of me . . . I can’t do it.”
Siblea smiled at her. “And yet it will be done.”
“I can’t perform a miracle. The Redemption—what does it even mean? They’re expecting some kind of transcendent, blissful union with the Song. I can’t do that.”
Siblea kept smiling at her.
“It’s impossible,” she said.
“That’s why it is a miracle. And the wonderful thing about miracles, my dear, is that they are open to interpretation. Who is to say that an Egg in every village on the Plain of Ayor is not a miracle? And when their homes are warm this winter, who will lament that they are not one with the Song? The miracle of the Redemption is a beautiful story, of course, but beautiful stories do not keep one from freezing to death.”
“But that is next winter, Censor. What about six days from now when I translate that cursed Book of the Night for you, and nothing happens? What will you do then, surrounded by your multitudes of faithful?”
Siblea gave her a smile. “Who is to say that a miracle will not occur? After all, you hear the voices of the murdered words. How is such a thing possible? It isn’t. It is a miracle. Many things happen for which there is no explanation.”
“But—”
“And as far as satisfying the multitudes, if they cannot have a miracle, then the utter destruction of the symbol of all that is evil will more than suffice.”
Haly swallowed. “The Libyrinth.”
Siblea nodded. “I believe you have seen the Horn of Yammon in operation. Don’t worry. We will give your people a chance to leave before we use it.”
“And what if I refuse to translate the book for you?”
Siblea sighed. “Then we will make you do it. You know that we can.”
Dread filled her. She knew what he said was true. She swallowed and tried to calm herself. Pain, she told herself. It was only pain. Surely, she could endure it again?
A thought occurred to her. There was one way to render the Redemption impossible by anyone’s definition. She ran her tongue around the insides of her teeth. A Redeemer without a tongue could not translate anything.
Siblea nodded to the metal box at Haly’s side. “Perhaps the Holy One would indulge me with a recitation,” he said.
Haly stared at him. “You want to hear more about Anne?”
“I am . . . curious,” he admitted.
And if she could bring herself to do the thing she contemplated, this would be her last chance to read to anyone.
Like Gyneth, Siblea had many questions for her concerning Anne’s world. She answered them as best she could, and as she made her way through the diary, she saw Siblea’s sympathies change. At first he’d been suspicious of Anne because she read and wrote, despite Haly’s assertion that such was true of nearly everyone in Anne’s time. But by the time her voice gave out that afternoon, Siblea was equating the persecution of the Jews with the enslavement of the Singers, and eagerly suggesting strategies for the survival of Anne and her family. “They have electricity,” he observed at one point. “They should electrify the doors so if the Germans come, they will be killed the moment they try to enter. Or perhaps Miep or Mr. Kugler could obtain rifles for them, and Peter and Pim and Mr. van Daan could watch from the attic, and pick off anyone who approaches.”
&nbs
p; That night when everyone had gone to sleep and her guards had lowered the curtains of her palanquin, Haly stuck her tongue out and clamped her teeth around it, as far back as she could get. She bit down.
Twenty minutes later all she’d accomplished was a sore tongue and the full knowledge of her own cowardice. She simply couldn’t do it. She couldn’t even break the skin. It was the pain that stopped her. She couldn’t both feel the pain and cause the pain.
“Nod,” she whispered, creeping to the chest that she left propped open just as she had the day before. “Nod. Are you there?”
“What does she say?” said Nod, crawling out of the chest and into her lap. He poked her knee impatiently. “What does she say?”
“Nod, I need you to do something for me.”
Nod folded his arms across his little chest. “Story.”
Her voice was hoarse from reciting to Siblea. Haly said, “I’ll tell you a story about Mary Morey and now my story’s begun. I’ll tell another about her brother, and now my story is done.”
Nod frowned. “She cheats,” he grumbled. “But Nod heard all about the girl in the secret house today. Nod lies in the soft cloths and listens through the keyhole. So what does she want?”
“I need you to help me cut out my tongue, Nod.”
The imp recoiled in horror. “Cut out her tongue!” he shrieked and she grabbed him and firmly closed her hand over his face.
“Be quiet,” she whispered. “They’ll hear you. Do you know what they’ll do to you if they find you?”
Nod nodded and Haly released him. “But she must not do this thing,” he said, his voice an urgent whisper. “She tells the stories. No tongue, no stories. No, no, no, no . . .”
Haly sighed and tried not to notice how relieved she was by Nod’s refusal. If Nod would not help her, who could, or would? Gyneth? Even if she could convince him it needed to be done, when would they have the opportunity to do it?