by Martin Davey
“Busy indeed, Ysora. All we Guardians of the Keepers are busy people. I’m sure you wouldn’t be surprised how many need the wisdom of the Keepers in their lives.” A long silence as Cioran looked at her, “Such as a mother who has had a terrible argument with her daughter and then sat up the full night awaiting her return.”
“How is it you know these things?”
“Is it so hard to believe that your mother found love, Ysora? A drink?” He moved to the cabinet, dark wood with brass handles, five glass bottles on top of it of varying shapes and sizes. He poured two glasses of a brownish liquid without waiting for an answer. “Tears of Myr,” he said as he held one out to her. Ysora couldn’t help noticing she had the more generous measure in her glass. Cioran took a sip of his own as he looked down at her. “I would have thought it would be a comfort to you knowing that she found happiness in her final years.”
Ysora swirled her glass, not drinking yet though she craved the burning in her throat. Rhodry had liked the tears of Myr, she could smell the drink now as she had smelled it on his breath as he forced himself on her, his belt wrapped around his knuckles. Would her mother have suffered the beast for so long? Now the tears did threaten to well; she coughed and cleared her throat. “A comfort? Is anything a comfort when a parent dies? But then I feel like I can’t grieve as it was so long ago. To you it must seem a lifetime ago and now to have her daughter turning up on your doorstep...”
“Whether it was eleven years or eleven days is no matter, Ysora. Time is of no consequence when it comes to grief. Have you not read the words of Keeper Liotuk after the battle of the Weeping Walls? His tribute to the fallen? Not to mention the words etched on the Listening Tower in the City of the Gods to celebrate the Fallen Five.” Seeing Ysora’s face, the Guardian didn’t wait for an answer. “Perhaps you should visit the temple sometime to hear his words on grief and loss. Those not so familiar with his teachings think of him as the most warlike of the gods, the hero who slew the Prince of the Marches under the Weeping Walls. People remember the battles and the killing and the heroic deeds, fewer remember the sorrow and the laments on the cliffs of Gerothan after the battles were won.”
“And you say this is how you met my mother, she sought you out because she thought I was dead and she needed the gods’ guidance in how to grieve?”
Cioran took another drink, the flames of the fire glinting on his glass like the morning sun on the waves. “Not dead, no.” A pause as the Guardian sought the words. “When she came to me, she said she felt as though she needed guidance, help in remembering how to love her child.”
“I find that hard to believe. My mother never asked for anything in her life. She could have been starving in the street and left a loaf of bread there untouched to avoid asking if it belonged to anybody.”
“And were you ever left starving on the street, Ysora?”
“Well, no.” Now that she thought of it, she had always been fed two, sometimes three meals a day, though the food had been as dry and efficient as her mother; hard and raw. “No, my mother always made sure I was fed.” Now she was older, Ysora realized that was no small feat for a single woman.
“No, my child. Some shower their children in kisses and cuddles and then leave them unattended and unfed in soiled clothes, your mother always made sure you were fed and clothed, but she came to me saying she had lost the ability to show love for reasons I know she never wanted you to hear.”
“So she sought out the teachings of Keeper Liotuk?” Ysora had always thought of Keeper Liotuk as the most terrifying of the gods, flying across a sky of black with his blade of justice in his hand, a curved blade that glinted cold and blue in the night as he laid waste to the armies of the Prince of the Marches under walls that wept at the slaughter beneath them.
Cioran smiled. “You think it such an unlikely choice? You think any of the gods lacking in the ability to love? Any tale of the Keepers is little more than a lesson in how to love.”
The Woman! The Clerk wants the woman! The dreams of faraway places with temples to unknown, unknowable gods. Ysora tried to keep the shame, the guilt from her face. “And so you taught my mother how to love? If I had come home days later she would have been a different woman with a smile on her face and laughter in her eyes?” Despite herself, Ysora couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice. She adjusted her blouse, pulled at her skirt, but still she felt awkward and gangly. All this talk of her mother made her even more aware how much she must look like her.
If Cioran noticed the similarities, he made no comment on it. “Not a different woman, no, but a woman with gladness in her heart that you had returned and hopefully a woman with the wherewithal to show you her love.”
“And the teachings of Keeper Liotuk taught her how to relax and show her emotions?”
“You sound doubtful, Ysora. Is there any reason to doubt the love of Keeper Liotuk, the love of any of the Keepers?”
Had she sounded doubtful? If there was any doubt, it was for her mother, not the Keepers. “It’s not that...”
“Imagine, Ysora.” Cioran spoke as though she hadn’t uttered a word, his eyes bright with fervour. Not difficult to see why he had been Chosen to be a Guardian of the Keepers. “Imagine, the Keepers came to our world three thousand years ago. And still they are here to watch over us, to guide us in our path to enlightenment, our path to everlasting peace. Three thousand years and still they tend this garden they have made for us. How long can we expect to live? Fifty, sixty years? We are roaches to the gods. Imagine, have you ever owned a pet? A mouse perhaps?”
Surely her mother hadn’t told Cioran about her pet mouse? She took a sip of her drink to take away the cold shame that soared through her body at the memory of Kitten, the mouse she had found under the floorboards in that very house so long ago. “I’ve had pets before, yes.” Until she had grown bored of it and left it unattended, her eyes sliding over the silent cage, trying to pretend it wasn’t there. She took another drink, feeling cold despite the heat of the alcohol, the warmth of the crackling fire.
“And to think the lowliest mouse, the lowliest insect is what we are to the gods. And yet still they came from Insitur to save us from ourselves. They sacrificed four of their own number, four gods gave their lives so we can have a safe world to live in, free of wars and the loathsome lusts of the Kings. Four gods died that we may leave in peace and safety. They even had to make war with the Nameless One and his followers to give us this peace.” Cioran looked at her a long moment, the crest of Keeper Liotuk on his breast bright in the flames. “All because of love, Ysora. The love of the gods for our kind. That’s why we lesser beings need the teachings of the gods in how to love. We look at the insects, the animals and see them as less than ourselves, less deserving of life. We look at ways for them to be of some use to us and if they aren’t then they, their lives are expendable.”
Ysora could hear Cioran’s servant hustling about in the kitchen, pans and pots clattering together. Somewhere outside a dog barked. Godie. She had to fight the urge to run out to him; Cioran’s words were like a pointed stick probing an open wound to her. She knew he spoke the truth and yet the Clerk hunting her, the dreams of gods other than the blessed Five gnawed at her being like a parasite: was she betraying her gods somehow? She wanted to fall to her knees and beg the forgiveness of the Guardian, beg the forgiveness of the gods. Instead she took another sip of her drink, the hot liquid going someway to quelling the cold shame in her stomach.
“Remember the mouse you found and put in a cage, my child?”
Ysora did, but it made her flush in anger that her mother had bothered to tell this young Guardian about it. “My mother telling you about that came under the lessons in how to love, did it?” She tried her best not to put a hand on her hip; remembering her mother towering over her in anger, always with her hands on her bony hips.
Cioran shrugged, a curiously attractive gesture. What a strange pair he and her mother must have made—he with his careless hair and attract
ive eyes and warm face, and her mother with her bitter black hair scraped into a bun, her long bony legs and sharp shoulders, eyes that hated the world over a hooked nose. “I am not here to judge, Ysora,” he said. “Just as the gods do not judge us. Thousands took to the field in battle against the gods and still they did not judge mankind.”
Ysora sighed. “What about the mouse?” She remembered finding Kitten cold and curled in his bed when she finally plucked the courage to check on him. She’d poked him with a finger to see if he was dead.
“Can you imagine fighting a war so that Kitten could live a happy life? Could you imagine watching four of your friends dying, slaughtered with unimaginable cruelty and brutality by Kitten’s own kind and then still carrying on the fight so that those same mice could live in peace?”
The sun was high in the sky now, afternoon already approaching, the fire becoming uncomfortably warm. Ysora shifted on her feet, rushes whispering beneath her. Despite the hour, she felt tired from her long journey and the warmth of the little house. “What does this have to do with my mother?”
“Everything, Ysora. The sacrifices the gods made, the love they have for every one of us, even those who would betray them. Everything the gods have done for our kind is a part of everything we do, everything we are.”
That one word hung in the air, thick and bitter as the smell of orris root. Betray. By having these dreams was she betraying her gods? All she wanted was to be good in the eyes of the Five, to obey those that had saved her world. There was no doubting the words of the Guardian, everything was as he said. Men were savage and cruel and selfish and cold. She thought of Rhodry and Gerard pawing at her and squirming on top of her, she thought of her mother, cold and distant with her careless insults.
The gods were beyond such things as hate and selfishness and lust. They were what gave life meaning, all she wanted to do was please them. Had she ever met anybody who loved her for who she was? Somebody who had loved her selflessly? Had she ever loved anybody in such a way? She had thought she had loved Rhodry, but when she thought back to the time when they had first met, all she remembered was marvelling at his broad back, admiring the way the sweat shone on his brown arms.
“Can you teach me?” she said. “Teach me how to be good in the eyes of the Five? Teach me what you taught my mother?”
Cioran smiled as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m no teacher, Ysora. Rather a guide, everything is already there for us to see. I can only point you to the wonder of the Keepers, to the words they have left for us to read, to the world they have shaped for us. Keeper Liotuk, all the Keepers, love you for who you are, for your faithfulness to them, all you need do is open your heart to their love.”
Did the Keepers love her? The Clerk wants the woman! Was she faithful? But surely faithfulness was a choice? She had lost sight of what was important in her life, in the world around her. Surely she could choose to love the Keepers and be worthy of their love in return?
Her mother had found happiness, Cioran said. Found love, would have loved Ysora if she had returned home. If her mother could find such a life, could live such a life, then surely Ysora could herself?
She had said nothing, but something in her face must have told Cioran all he needed to know. He clapped his hands together. “Voroh! Could you find a room for Miss Siran at the inn, please? It seems she’s going to be staying a while longer.” He put his arm around her; he smelled of vanilla and jasmine with the faintest hint of orris root. “It’s good to have you home again, Ysora.”
#
The streets are packed with life, wide white avenues full of men women and children in clothes of every colour, bright and shimmering like the wings of a dragonfly. Everybody is talking and smiling, excitement shining in their blue eyes.
A band plays at every corner, drums with paper streamers trailing from their rims, strange six-stringed instruments shaped like shallow spoons with patterns in reds and yellows and whites on their shining wood, wind instruments which only seem capable of playing one note blow merrily with triangular flags hanging from their barrels.
She dances past them all, laughing and dancing and twirling as men, women and children run alongside her troupe, clapping and laughing, eyes wide and teeth white, yellow hair shining in the sun like buttercups in a sun-kissed meadow. She feels her heart swell at the smiles, at the cheers of encouragement, and spins and dances all the more until all she sees are swirls of colour, red and white and green and orange, until all she hears is the noise of all the bands mingled together, all playing the same song, but not all at the same point of the song, not all playing with the same instruments and the same skill., The city is a riot of noise and colour.
She has never felt so alive, so graceful, so wanted. She spins and steps and swirls, her arms and legs lithe and graceful as they make patterns in the air. The girls in front have hoops of every colour to dance with, the girls behind have ribbons to wave in the air, but the girls alongside her have only their bodies to dance with, and that is just the way she wants it.
She smiles at the people hanging from painted windows to watch the procession, flags and streamers and ribbons hanging from every sill. Even the children leaning out of windows have drums and pipes and bells to join in the Waking Song as their parents cheer and wave.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
The more she dances, the more she rejoices, her heart a thing of air in her chest. Surely they would waken the god today? At the last Ferenstan, she had struggled and sweated and ached under the blazing sun. Not this time.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
More bands, their instruments beating in their hands, more streamers, more flags. Nearing the heart of the plaza now, the buildings taller and thinner, pressed together like soldiers in a battle line. Flowers strung together from window to window draped over their heads. The beating of the music thrums through her being like her life’s blood.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
The sleeping god will be woken today.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
When they had started the procession, the creaking of the cart that carried the god’s likeness had been loud in her ears, now she hears nothing but the cries and exultations of the crowd and the beating of the music. She fights the urge to look back to see if the god still follows.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
Now the procession turns to the centre of the plaza, the crowds thicker here, jostling shoulder to shoulder. The scent of berryblossom and merrybloom thick in the air, shoulders bare and glowing bronze in the sun. Usually with the sun glaring, the heaving crowds and the bare skin would lead to fights, bloodshed and more than a few bodies littering the plaza. Not so on this day.
Not on Ferentan with the sleeping god surely about to be woken.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
This was surely the year, surely the day when the god would awake.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
Finally the tower hoves into view, red as the teeth of the god and twisted as a crippled arm, it looks like a bloodied stain on the conscience of the white city.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
The music is louder, more and more musicians joining them as they near the tower of the sleeping god. All around them, the crowds part to let them through, their pace slowed by the crush. A young girl breaks through the mass to sling a red stream of paper in her hair. She doesn’t miss a step. She won’t be the one to break the magic of the dance.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
The tallest building in the city, the summit of the tower looks as though it pierces the very sky itself, and beneath the spire is an archway carved into a stone block twice as tall as she is. The bowl is already there, no sign of the Awakener yet. Her breath feels short in her throat. The music is now little more than a blare, so many people playing, the roar of the crowd joining with the cacophony. There pace little more than a crawl now as the c
rowd before them tries to move out of the way only to find that there is nowhere for them to go. Still she dances for the sleeping god.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
Spiralling about the twisted red tower are a hundred stone steps all leading to the arch beneath the spire, and on each step kneels a stone supplicant holding a bowl before it. Men, women and children, all painted red and all wearing the traditional kirota. Nobody can see it from the plaza, but all those bowls have funnels running one to the other, through the arms and bodies and legs of the supplicants all the way around the great tower.
Soon those bowls will be full. Her heart soars.
Leap step spin stoop swirl bend.
And now the procession slowly shudders to a halt before the tower. The music blares for moments longer as the musicians are slow to realize that the god’s cart has stopped in the crush. Only now does she turn to see her god standing tall before his Waking Tower. The image of the god sways worryingly in the cart, rocked on all sides by his worshippers, but he stands tall, his red eyes and red teeth bright in the blazing sun. His hair of black paper hangs down his back like a shroud of vines, his glorious teeth protruding from a mighty jaw and ending just below those red eyes. His chest has been fashioned to look as though it ripples with muscles and has been painted the deep blue of a summer’s night. His thick arms, with fists clenched, are bright and yellow as the sun.
Even made of card and paper and plaster and wood, he is glorious. He is the one who will lead her people back to their homes, away from the blazing sun and the dry fields and the crusty riverbeds. Her heart aches with love for the god and she wants to leap and step and spin and stoop and swirl and bend.
Instead she turns back to the tower, standing on tiptoes to try and see the archway over the sea of heads. Already the sun warms her hair and sweat trickles down her neck.