Prophets of the Ghost Ants

by Clark Thomas Carlton

  A murmur of disgust ran through the crowd, even among many with faces that could be described as brown. Anand raised his voice.

  “Cajoria and every mound of the Slope are invited to join the Dranverite Nations. In order to qualify, all of you, your nobles, priests, and soldiers included, must prove you are dedicated to a just and sustainable way of life for all. You must stop hating the castes you believe to be beneath you.”

  At that, many walked off in anger. Some threw the presents back at Anand, some spat at the gottallamos, and cries of “polluted!” went up. A few stared in disbelief, while others ran away with their prizes, having no interest in speeches of any kind.

  Receptions grew warmer in the circles farther outside the mound where skin and hair was darker, but as Anand reached the lowest castes, the people were too hungry and obsessed with the gifts to hear his words. Some would not get off their knees before the Grasshopper idol. Most did not understand when Anand talked about “destiny” or concepts like ‘“just” and “sustainable.”

  Anand began questioning his own interpretation. His voice was growing hoarse, and he bolstered his energy with drinks of kwondle-bark infusion. He was renewed when he recognized Elora, the girl he had rescued from the lair spider. She was with her mother at the ring of the scrapers’ caste, but neither looked well. As he spoke, Elora stared then approached. Her growth was stunted and her cheeks were hollow.

  “Don’t I know you?” she asked, searching his face and his eyes.

  Anand smiled broadly, betraying himself. He loaded her arms with gifts. “Yes, you do,” he whispered. “I am glad to see you and your mother.”

  “Where do I know you from?”

  “From a spider’s lair,” he whispered and she began weeping. “Just as I freed you from the spider, I have come to free you from misery.”

  “You betrayed us, Anand,” she said, dropping the presents and running off.

  His heart fell and splattered into bleeding pieces. His teachers had warned him that friends and family would reject his message, that most people preferred suffering over the uncertainty of change. Still, his heart rose again as he neared the midden.

  The middenites were slower to reach the wagon, always so weary and wary. He looked at those who approached and could not contain his joy when he saw Terraclon. He was still thin but much taller. Terraclon’s sadness vanished at the sight of the glittering wagon and Anand’s clothing. He looked at Anand’s face briefly and failed to recognize him through his beard and skin paint. He resumed the usual cringe of a middenite, always in fear of a fist or a whip from his superiors.

  One of the last of the middenites to arrive was a broken man whose head was bowed to the dirt. His black hair was streaked with gray, his cheeks were sunken, and his face was covered with grime. He lifted his head briefly to look at the young stranger on his wagon that sparkled too brightly in the noonday sun.

  Anand realized he was looking at his father. Unable to make his speech, Anand fought every urge to wilt. Sadness rolled through him in waves, like a sudden illness. He gathered his breath and bolstered his determination.

  “I offer you these presents of food and cloth,” he said, “from the people of Dranveria.”

  Anand knew the middenites might not take anything. They would assume his offers were a humiliating trick. He pointed to Terraclon.

  “You, tall and thin boy, come here.”

  Terraclon placed a hand over his heart in his fey manner. He was astonished to be addressed by someone of such regal bearing.

  “Yes, you. I want you to be the first to take these presents. Something tells me you might like this cloth.”

  Anand picked up a bolt of the shiniest material on the cart, cloth that resembled the mottled-blue locust, and held it out. The gottallamos parted to let Terraclon approach but he was too frightened to move.

  “And take some jars of honey,” Anand continued. “You!” Anand said, pointing to his father. “Take this food and eat, for you are far too thin. Bring it to your family so that they might feast tonight.”

  Yormu stood in silence with his head so far down it looked like his neck was broken. The gottallamos were bringing Yormu the items when Keel elbowed his way through the crowd and took what had been proffered. After examining the jars, Keel bade his wife and children to take their share.

  “It’s all right,” Keel shouted to the crowd. “The priests have passed on a message about this outlander. We are allowed to take his presents, but should reject his words. He has come to stir up trouble, to rob us of our peace.”

  “I have come to stir up trouble,” said Anand. “For I have come to tell you that all of you are as worthy as the royals. And you must live without a cruel foreman who lashes you with his whip.”

  Keel dropped his jars. For the first time, Anand pulled back the draping sleeves of his right arm to reveal a blowgun.

  “Were you fond of your time in the Dranverites’ wagons, Keel, when you suffered the Living Death?” Anand asked.

  Keel was stunned. How did this stranger know his name?

  “I can arrange to come back and paralyze you,” said Anand. “And I will if I hear you’re abusing these poor people.”

  Keel’s lower lip trembled.

  “Give me your whip now,” said Anand. Keel looked around. Though all watched him, none stared directly.

  “I said give me your whip,” shouted Anand, and ever so slightly, he raised his blowgun.

  Keel took the whip, which was clipped to his side. While he stared at the blowgun, the gottallamos parted so he could approach Anand who snatched the whip and cracked it high in the air. In the distance, the Cajorite sentries had gathered now by the dozens. They were still watching, still keeping a distance.

  “Remove your garment,” Anand said to Keel.

  Keel trembled as he pulled his tunic over his head. His body was thick and fat with a belly as big as any royal.

  “Why should you be so fat when the rest of your caste is starving?” Anand asked. “Bring him up here.”

  Anand cracked the whip again.

  The crowd was drooling for Keel’s public whipping and they snickered as he was pulled up and onto the cart’s platform. Midden children who hated Tal and his brothers were snarling at them now as they sweated with shame. Keel braced himself against the coming lashing.

  “Turn your back to these people,” Anand commanded, and Keel complied. Across his back were the old scars of whippings he had received from the previous foreman.

  “Look at your foreman’s back . . . it’s covered in scars! He knows the agony of a good whipping. But does this make him sympathetic? No! When he became foreman, he was all too happy to inflict the same. In the Dranverites’ country, we have no whips! Get off this wagon, Keel, and never use a whip again.”

  Anand wanted to keep the whip but remembered the tenets of The Loose Code—no stealing ever. He threw the whip into the crowd as Keel scrambled through it. Most of the middenites were disappointed, but some looked to be warming to the message of the young foreigner. “This is the first of happier days,” said Anand, “though I promise you, your struggles against your oppressors will be a great trial.”

  Terraclon froze as Anand stepped down from the cart and walked toward him through the faceless guards, pressing the blue cloth into his arms. “I chose this for you, Ter. I am sure you will make costumes to imitate the royals,” Anand whispered. “That remains our secret for now and so does this: Anand, son of Yormu and Corra the Britasyte, visits this mound. Tell them their son wishes to see his parents at the camp of the Dranverish visitors. You will accompany them, Ter. My guards will retrieve you.”

  Anand was pulled back onto the wagon as Terraclon dropped the cloth and shook. As the wagon rolled away, Anand turned to wave with a smile that revealed his molars. A moment later, he was sick with worry. What had happened to his father? Was his mother away on a visit?

  Inside his dwelling after sunset, Anand laid out food and drink for his parents and Terracl
on. When he heard the soft crunch of the gottallamos’ boots, he ran outside.

  Anand panicked to see Terraclon and Yormu walking towards him with the gravest expressions. Where was his mother? Walking into Yormu’s embrace, Anand felt his father’s trembling, his boniness. It seemed Yormu might snap in two if Anand hugged too hard.

  Terraclon stood by, his face a mix of envy and dread as he took in the beauties and comforts of the caravan’s wagons. He was watching Anand hug his father and startled when Anand pulled away to reach for him.

  “Anand! You can’t hug me! It’s forbidden!” said Terraclon, pulling away.

  “This is the custom of my new country. We embrace all who wish to embrace.”

  Terraclon let himself be hugged. When it lingered too long, it was Anand who broke away. “Where is my mother?” he asked. Yormu burst into crying he could not muffle. Terraclon looked to the ground as Anand’s heart pummeled his rib cage.

  “She . . . she did not return from a trip with your father to Palzhad. The priests have not disclosed all the details, but some say invaders from the south captured or killed the Palzhanites. Others say phantoms on ghost ants spilled up from the Netherworld.”

  “She’s dead?” Anand asked Yormu. “Did you see her die?”

  Yormu nodded his head. Anand fell and writhed, then ran into the weeds, tore at them with his hands. His bawling reached the moon and reverberated back.

  Sometime later, Anand returned to the wagon. Yormu and Terraclon had waited patiently, savoring the feel of cushioned chairs. “Eat as fully as you like,” said Anand.

  Terraclon was fascinated by the glowing biscuits. “I can’t eat something so pretty,” he said. Yormu ate what was familiar, then tried the other delicacies when Anand pressed him to try. Anand felt he might never eat again.

  “Ter, have any Britasytes passed recently?”

  “Yes, but they were not your mother’s clan. Their sand-sleds were poppy-colored.”

  “The Fallogeths. How long ago?”

  “Only a few days. We had other visitors, too. Men from the Dustlands.”

  “The Dustlands? Who?”

  “Some believe they are the riders of the ghost ants. They knew Pleckoo, who lives among them now. They were from Slopeish working castes and like you, came bearing gifts and a message of another way of life. They promise riches, a full stomach and the glories of fighting for their god, Hulkro.”

  “They worship the Termite?” asked Anand with a scoff.

  “Yes. They say he is the only god, and all others are demons. Unlike you, they did not boldly enter the city, but made a secret summons of all those that work or forage in the weeds. One was caught and killed before he could return to the Dustlands.”

  “Weren’t they attacked by the leaf-cutters?”

  “No. They killed idols keepers on the borders and stole the colony odor.”

  “Did they convince many to follow?”

  “More than a few. One gave me food and money and told me that if I wanted more, I should wander south to Palzhad, then through the Petiole and past the borders of the Slope. When I reached the Great Brackish Lake to the south, I should wait on its shores to be brought to Jatal-dozh, a Hulkrish mound. When the Hulkrites found me, I should then say, ‘I surrender my life to Hulkro.’”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. You said you’d return and I believed you.”

  Anand’s tears welled again. He sent Yormu and Terraclon back to the midden tugging a sled of provisions that could last them the year. That night, Anand tossed violently in his bed. While he was on the Slope, he determined to find Daveena and take her and all of the Roach Clans into the safety of Dranveria where they could forever roam in peace.

  Before sunrise, Anand wrote two letters which he left inside the wagon. The first was to the gottallamos, telling them their mission was complete and they were to return without him. The second letter was addressed to the People’s Agent.

  Your Eminence,

  My mission at Cajoria is completed for now. As expected, most of the Cajorites are too fearful to consider our message. Though they hate their oppressors, they are loath to unite with those they consider beneath them. Regardless, our invitation has been extended and the seeds of the Slopeites’ liberation have been planted. We shall see if they grow at all.

  I regret to mention that my mother met her death at the hands of new invaders to these lands, apparently from Hulkren, the wasteland long abandoned by the Slopeites and their leaf-cutter ants. My discourse to the Cajorites was somewhat diluted by a similar message from warriors proselytizing for the worship of Hulkro, the termite god, who has fallen from the Slopeites’ pantheon. I am afraid that our own nation and its principles may become confused with those of these new invaders.

  I fear too, that one clan of my Britasyte tribe is in danger. I will not be accompanying the gottallamos on their return to Dranveria in order that I may search for the Pleps and the woman who is my betrothed. It is my duty to my nation of Dranveria and to my original people to find out who these Hulkrites are and what threat they pose. Some believe they are not humans at all, but are ghosts from the Netherworld who ride upon ghostly insects. Perhaps our two nations share the same ideals or perhaps the Hulkrites are bloodthirsty opportunists. When I have formulated my own opinion, I will return to Dranveria and add my account to our store of precious knowledge.

  I have borrowed something from the supplies of our military. On my return I will compensate our treasury for its replacement.

  Please relate my concern for the well-being of Dwan, Belja, Hopkut, and Pizhyot.

  —Citizen Anand

  Anand came to his father’s tent to say good-bye and to borrow the rags of a Slopeish laborer. In his backsack was a wealth of rare goods to trade as he made his way south. Yormu tried and failed to form words, but it was obvious from his every action that he was begging his son to stay.

  “Father, not only will I return, but when I do, I will take you with me to a beautiful land. You will grow fat as a bumblebee and never work again.”

  Yormu sobbed and wrung his hands.

  “I promise I will return,” said Anand. “But you must promise me something. You must eat every day and stay strong.”

  Anand presented his father with some Dranverish remedies he should drink for various illnesses. Before leaving, he rocked in his father’s arms. Under the shack, Terraclon sat and waited for Anand.

  “Thanks for looking after my dad. I’m indebted . . . forever,” said Anand, pressing a bag of pyrite flecks into his friend’s hand. “I want to see both of you thick and strong on my return.”

  “I’m going with you, Anand.”

  “Not this journey. But you will join me and my father when we leave for Dranveria.”

  Terraclon rose, looked both ways, and then clasped Anand to his meager frame.

  “I will follow you anywhere,” he said.

  Anand knew that the Fallogeth clan of Britasytes were likely to be east at Mound Bavi. There, they would be allowed to set up stalls on the outskirts of the largest market on the Slope. Anand marched east with a haste fueled by rage. He was heartened to find fresh roach droppings and knew he would soon see the gold-colored sleds of the Fallogeths.

  Anand found the clan’s spanner, Mereeno, presiding over stalls typical of the Britasytes. The shelves were full of bangles and necklaces that were considered both polluted and showy for anyone above military status. Mereeno looked barely interested in the raggedy Slopeite approaching him.

  “What may I interest you in, noble sir?” said Mereeno, thinking his sarcasm would be lost on the man.

  “Anand of the Entreveans,” he said in Britasyte. “Good travels, sir.”

  “The Entreveans? Yes, I remember you. The son of Corra, and like me a spanner to the Slopeites. Good travels.”

  Anand nodded. Mereeno’s brow filled with ridges. “What can you tell us of the Pleps, Anand? You were betrothed to one of their daughters, right
?”

  “I am betrothed to one of their daughters.”

  Mereeno was silent, then gave a great sigh.

  “The Pleps failed to show up for the summer solstice. When we arrived at Palzhad, the sedites told us the Plep women had danced there one night. The following day, the roaches, the clan, and the sand-sleds were gone . . . disappeared with the morning mists.”

  Anand dizzied and his knees went wobbly. Mereeno grabbed Anand and righted him.

  “But what . . . who . . .”

  “The Slopeites saw what they said was a ghost army who walked out of the night. Apparently it was the same army that raided Palzhad and abducted Queen Polexima on the backs of their ghost ants.”

  “Ghost ants,” Anand muttered.

  He had no choice now, no indecision. He knew where he must go.

  PART 3

  A WARRIOR FOR THE TERMITE GOD

  CHAPTER 34

  THE DUSTLANDS

  The Fallogeths feasted Anand, but in recognition of the Pleps’ disappearance, there was no music or celebration. Comely young women joined Anand at his platter, offered their best dishes, and openly flirted. Afterwards several women slipped samples of their embroidery and pickles into his tent. If he wished to bed one, all he would need to do was bite into her bachelor pickle, wrap the rest in her embroidery, and leave it outside the tent. He would not do so. A nighttime encounter with a Britasyte girl meant an unbreakable engagement.

  Before parting the following day, Anand was assured by Mereeno that he was welcome to any of their young eligibles. “I am honored,” said Anand, “but I must find Daveena. I have seen my vision. She is my destiny.”

  “Yes, of course, Anand,” said Mereeno. But the look on his face betrayed his assumption that Daveena and her clan were dead.