Watcher's Web

by Patty Jansen

  “But none of them survived, even though they could travel into space?”

  “They had only just started a large-scale space program. They had nowhere near the capacity to get everyone off-planet in time, but yes, some fled. In the old works, there is mention of three ships leaving Asto before the disaster. No one took those records seriously, because no one has ever found out where they went.”

  Jessica raised a hand to her mouth. “Barresh.”

  He nodded, his face grim. “So it seems. Or at least one of them did.”

  “And they’re no longer here.”

  While he shook his head, she wondered if this was true or how else would both Pengali and keihu share avya, a characteristic that had to have come from this old race, if she and Daya both had it, as well as some Pengali and keihu girls.

  “Maybe we should ask the Pengali about the caves.”

  “Yes.” He finally turned his gaze from the screen. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea.” He stared at her in a way that made her uncomfortable, and she realised that he hadn’t addressed her relationship with these people, nor was he surprised that she was interested in history that, for all he knew, was far removed from hers.

  And indeed, all signs said to her that he did know what she was and he chose not to address it. Why? Good question. Because he knew avya had triggered the transfer of the plane?

  “Um—lady?”

  Only then did Jessica see the dressmaker’s assistant behind her, holding the dress. Blue folds of material shimmered in her hands. The bodice fastened with bows at the back. A decorative vest, its edge scalloped, hung over the front. Elbow-length sleeves were adorned with small plaits, secured at the hem with tiny embroidered flowers. From the waist flowed several layers of material, frilled like a petticoat.

  Another Pengali servant held up a singlet and shorts made from the black silky material, tied with a ribbon.

  Iztho nodded at her. “Go with them. Put it on.”

  Jessica followed the assistants to the back of the shop, where she slipped the too-tight, and by now very smelly, dress over her head.

  Jessica put on the satin-like shorts and singlet, the material cool on her skin. One of the assistants tied up the ribbon at the back, while another lifted the dress over her head. A rustle of blue material cascaded to her feet.

  Another servant climbed on the stool. She combed back Jessica’s hair and tied it in a bun with a broad blue ribbon of the same fabric as her dress. Yet another servant approached with a wooden box, which contained all manner of small pots. Jessica protested that she could manage very well without make-up and had done so all her life, but the Pengali were not to be distracted. The servant on the stool took a thin brush from the box, dabbing it in a pot of black to outline Jessica’s eyebrows. A round brush with dark brown accentuated her lips. Then he took a larger brush and brushed powder on Jessica’s face, followed by sprinkles of glitter around her eyes.

  Finally, the servants led her into the shop and pushed her in front of the glimmering black stone wall that functioned as a mirror.

  Jessica stopped.

  And stared.

  Fought to restrain tears that threatened in the corners of her eyes, lest they run over the so carefully applied powder.

  The dressmaker walked back and forth behind her, making approving noises, but she barely heard him; she could only stare at her mirror image.

  Had that dreadful Stephen Fitzgerald, his friends, her own friends at school, even her parents ever suggested she was ugly? Had she herself ever thought she was ugly? This awkward, skinny, pale, lank-haired tomboy?

  The young woman who stared back at her, who moved her hand when she did, looked like a princess, a tall and straight figure, a proud and aristocratic face, a black piercing gaze.

  The dressmaker came to stand next to her. More than a head taller, she towered over him and compared to her, he looked like big fat toad.

  The dressmaker nudged her. “You . . . like it?”

  Like it? Her reflection blurred in a haze of tears as her gaze once more roamed the magnificent dress. It accentuated all the good parts of her, her narrow waist, her strong shoulders, but unlike dresses she had worn before, it didn’t make her look like an adolescent boy in women’s clothing. She wondered what—

  Where was Iztho?

  Just as she had noticed the screen left on the couch, still turned on, he strode in from the street, carrying a large blue flower.

  He stopped. His mouth fell open. He looked from her hair to her bare feet and back again. Jessica’s skin pricked.

  The dressmaker smiled and spoke to him in keihu. Iztho ignored him, stepped forward, took Jessica’s hand and bowed. “Lady. May I offer you a small gift to compliment your beauty?”

  Jessica wished she could laugh at his silliness—how dreadfully formal he sounded when he spoke his own language—but a deep blush had risen to her cheeks.

  She took the flower from him and noticed it was the same colour as his eyes.

  Lost for words, she tucked the flower in her bun; he still watched her in the mirror. Once again, she ran her hands over the dress, looking at her mirror image, her mind aglow with a sense of pride that was new to her. Why the hell had she spent the past seventeen years thinking that because she didn’t look like the other kids at school, she was worth nothing? Why had she thought that because specialist doctors knew no solution to her mental problem, none existed?

  No, there would be no more presumptions, no more barriers. She smiled at Iztho, who still watched her.

  “Thank you.”

  He accepted a parcel from the dressmaker that presumably contained the other items he’d ordered. Then he held out an outstretched arm, and Jessica put her hand on it like a noble girl accepting a dance. His skin felt cool under her palm.

  Like this, her back held straight, she accompanied him out of the shop to the astonished and curious gazes of others.

  From now on, things would be different.

  19

  JESSICA STOPPED in the shadows and peered through the bars of a gate. The broad, furry silhouette of Iztho came to a halt behind her. His voice rumbled somewhere near her shoulder. “In here.”

  An abandoned garden. Reddish moonlight gilded creepers trailing the rim of a dry fountain, a statue at its centre. Not a single pinprick of light lit the dark form of the house. Exposed roof beams clawed at the night sky like the ribs of some dead creature.

  Iztho pushed her gently aside, sliding his hand under his cloak. “Let me go first. I don’t like the look of this.”

  They had gone back to speaking English; for this night only, he said.

  Jessica pushed him back, a bit rougher. “No. She said no weapons.”

  His eyes met hers in a stern look, the glacial blue irises faded to lifeless grey. “This situation could be dangerous. You don’t know what they want. It could be a trap.”

  A shiver crept over Jessica’s arms, but she refused to be put aside by him. When he opened the gate—it creaked—she was the first to enter the garden. Long shadows slid over the pavement as they walked up the path and the steps, Iztho behind her, his hand again under his cloak.

  Jessica glared.

  He said, “I swear I have never met a woman as stubborn as you.”

  “Then what are the women like where you come from?”

  He muttered a curse and pushed himself in front again.

  She followed him, up the path, between broken statues, up the steps to the porch, into the darkness of the shadows. His fur-clad back moved in front of her. Really—now whose idea was it to come here? Who was trusted by the Pengali?

  Something shuffled in the dark.

  “Watch out!” Jessica sensed the presence of others, their warmth radiating amongst the stone pillars of the porch. “Is this the Pengali hide-out?”

  Shit—Iztho’s charge gun glinted in the shadow under his cloak. Jessica made frantic gestures for him to put it away. If she could see the gun, the Pengali with their much better
night vision would see it too.

  “I am Trader Iztho Andrahar of the Miran. I have come in peace. However, if you will not show yourself and talk to me in an honest way, I’ll have to assume you’re hostile.”

  Oh, the pompous arse.

  A small figure emerged from between two pillars, the head ringed in white hair like a ghost. She wore a too-wide gown of uneven length that looked like a worn nightgown. A familiar voice whispered, “Anmi.”

  In two steps, Jessica had crossed the distance between them. She threw herself into Ikay’s arms, and would have lifted the old female off the ground had she not been wearing that silly too-wide gown, which slipped off her shoulders in Jessica’s hug.

  When Iztho took a step towards the house, two Pengali jumped out from behind the pillars, one cried, “Only Anmi.” Knives glittered.

  In a flash of metal, Iztho raised his gun in a two-handed grip.

  Jessica jumped between them, facing the Pengali. “Oh, stop this nonsense. He’s helping me. He can come.”

  Pengali eyes glinted in Ikay’s direction. She made a hand signal; knives lowered.

  Iztho glanced at her.

  Jessica mumbled, “Put that bloody thing away, or they’re not even going to talk to us.”

  “You really do want to be difficult, do you?”

  Jessica stepped past him.

  Ikay preceded them into the house. Two once-great doors, the wood now rotten, sagged on elaborate hinges. A short hallway led to a carved arch, and opened into a hall. Silent figures crowded on haphazardly-placed couches and mattresses.

  Pengali shuffled aside. Hands or tails reached up to touch Jessica’s legs as she walked past. Occasional whispers drifted on the air, “Anmi.”

  In the middle of the hall, red moonlight fell through a broken ceiling window on a couple of cushions. Ikay gestured for Jessica to sit down. She was glad that she had changed out of the dress in the room of the guesthouse Iztho had rented for her earlier that afternoon.

  Iztho remained standing while his gaze roamed the crowd, like a vigilant body guard. He still held the bloody gun.

  Jessica raised her voice so everyone could hear, and said in rehearsed Mirani, “We have come because I want to hear the story of the people who made the chamber.”

  Iztho translated into keihu.

  Ikay spoke to him; he replied.

  A younger Pengali female joined Ikay, with Ikay having to translate what she said for Iztho, him asking questions and Ikay translating it back again. After a few such exchanges, the young female went to stand amongst the seated crowd. Jessica noticed that all of the Pengali wore old and ill-fitting clothing, and she remembered Iztho’s comments about the importance of the state of one’s clothing.

  Iztho faced Jessica, moonlight falling on his silken hair. “She’s going to tell the histories. It’s a formal sort of thing; they don’t write. The elder will translate into keihu for me, and then I’ll translate for you.”

  The young female began her story, speaking in rehearsed tones and hand signals; Iztho translated in his deep rumble that tickled the hair against Jessica’s ear. “The Akkar who fell from the sky told this story to repeat to our children so no one will forget what happened to them.

  “One day when the Akkar people still lived in their beautiful home, a star came too close. Their elders said it would fall and their whole world would burn. There was much panic amongst the people. Many took their lives. Many took all their possessions and buried themselves under the ground. Many of them fought. But the wise elders who ruled the world appointed two groups to look after the survival of the Akkar people. They told the first group to leave. Three silver ships left the ancient city that was the hub of their people, each for a different destination. Then they told all people who had newly born children to bring them to chambers under the city. Here they set up a pool that halted their growth to sustain life—”

  “Wait.” Iztho held up a hand.

  The storyteller shot him an annoyed glance.

  “I want to make notes of this.” He finally sat down, clicked the gun in the bracket on his arm, took his reader from under his cloak and turned it on.

  Jessica leaned forward to see the screen. “Is this what you thought?”

  He typed while he spoke. “I’ve heard the story of the buried children and the three ships before. That’s almost standard knowledge on the history of Asto, as far as oral history is accurate. The children were mostly discovered when the Coldi civilisation grew and they started building. Most of them died as soon as they were taken out of the chambers. The last one was found about three hundred years ago. But I’ve never heard there was any kind of planning involved. The known history says that all of Aghyr was in such panic that government—they didn’t have elders of course—disintegrated and within days an entire society was reduced to the level of beasts: everyone for themselves, and that the rich people with connections to research appropriated the chambers which had been used to store artificial humans they had created. The Aghyrians might have been smart, but they were damn selfish.” He turned to the storyteller again, speaking Mirani for Jessica’s benefit. “How have these stories been passed on? Are they told at gatherings and then repeated by others?”

  Ikay replied, while the storyteller folded her arms over her chest.

  He said, “If that’s the case, how do you know this is the truth?” Then he translated his own question.

  Ikay gave a sharp response. Iztho frowned at her. “You mean—all of it is written down in rock? And you can read it?”

  The storyteller jumped forward and argued with Ikay. Her tail had escaped her clothing and waved at waist level, brushing the hair of several of her kinsmen. Large eyes shot vicious glances at Iztho.

  Ikay soothed her and spoke with Iztho. He translated for Jessica. “They are upset because they do not like our questions. This is how it was, they say, so one cannot argue with it.”

  “But we’re not arguing. We just want to know what they mean.”

  “I know, Lady, I know. You and I view history as something that has to be rediscovered, over and over, reinterpreted by generations to come. They think there is only one version of history, which is how they tell it. We’d best keep quiet if we want to hear the rest of the story.” He sat back and nodded to Ikay.

  The storyteller continued. “The ship that carried Anara and her followers came here when the elder of our tribe was the great Orrid. All the tribe watched when the silver machine flew over a few times and landed on the water. The creatures emerging from it—for strange they were, no tails, so pale, so tall—had drifted the skies for days. They had found no landing places and had run out of food. Their silver machine was damaged when it slid through the marshes. Orrid offered them their first meal in days from our plentiful supplies. They were grateful and said their people would always respect the Pengali. In turn for our food they taught us to read their signs. The Akkar settled on the island and a time of great prosperity followed.”

  After waiting for Ikay’s signal that she could speak, Jessica whispered, “How come none of those people are left here?”

  “There are. Akkar live in us through avya.”

  Iztho asked, “Why do you think this young woman is one of them?”

  From somewhere in the dark room a fierce voice in heavily accented Mirani said, “We do not think so. She is one of them.”

  “Can you prove this?”

  Ikay whistled. A small boy ran forward to drop a glowing pearl in her hand, which she rubbed over the skin of Jessica’s upper arm. Warmth spread out from it, and tendrils of energy. When Ikay took the pearl away, the characters glowed pink once more.

  Elegant loops, the distinctive character like the inverted number three. His mouth open, Iztho reached out and traced the characters in the air without touching her skin. “What . . . what does it say?”

  “Anmi.” The fierce voice belonged to a servant female, a young woman perhaps Jessica’s age.

  “And that means?”
<
br />   “Anmi. Her name. Like the Akkar who fell from the sky. They all had their names written on their skin.”

  Anmi, my name.

  Jessica closed her eyes and let the threads flow through her arms. She reached out for the web, for Daya.

  Did you know that, about my name?

  There was no reply, no images, no one on the other side. Last time she’d seen Daya, he’d been captured. Where was he, and what did these people want from him?

  Iztho had taken his reader on his lap. A deep frown on his face, he flicked through images and turned the screen towards the onlookers. Jessica recognised one of the pictures from the cave he had shown her that afternoon. “Read for me what this says.”

  The young female didn’t hesitate. “May life guide you in the future, Cara Ivedra Arellan.”

  “Ivedra!” Iztho’s voice boomed through the hall.

  At the sound of the name, a wave of goosebumps went over Jessica’s back. “What is it? Is anything wrong?”

  Iztho’s eyes met hers in an intense gaze. “No, she’s right, that’s the problem.” He gestured to the screen, displaying the picture of the circular chamber. “This was the chamber in which three hundred years ago on Asto one of the last surviving buried children was found: a baby girl, Cara Ivedra Arellan. The Coldi woke her up and raised her on Asto until she died at nineteen when the heat became too much for her. For most of that time, she was locked up because of her strange mental abilities. It was said she could kill a person just by looking at them.”

  Jessica pulled up her knees against her chest and rocked to and fro. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear the rest, but everything he said made too much sense.

  “I am a survivor from those chambers, aren’t I?”

  Daya, did you know that?

  Iztho closed his eyes and gave a single nod. “The characters on your arm are clear enough.”

  “And the images I see.”