Chosen of the Changeling

by Greg Keyes

  After a few more stabs at conversation with the sullen pair, Perkar spurred Mang up ahead to where Atti rode.

  “How is that today?” he asked the older man, gesturing at his bandaged torso.

  “Very stiff, very painful. But there is no fever in it, I think.”

  “Good. If you feel any, let us know. We can prepare a decoction of some sort.”

  Atti nodded. “The Alwal gave me something last night. It helped me sleep, anyway.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?” Perkar asked. “No doubt their intentions are good. But medicine intended for a dog does not work as well on a cow. Why should the potions of the Alwat not poison us?”

  Atti shook his head dismissively. “That isn’t the way of it, Perkar. Look; a cow and a dog cannot mate, cannot get offspring from one another. Human and Alwat can; Ngangata proves that. They are much like us, Perkar, much indeed. And I’ve had their medicines before.”

  “They seem very different to me,” Perkar admitted. Atti shrugged. The two of them rode along in silence for a while. The wind picked up a bit, and the sky began to hint at darkening as a carpet of gray cloud slid in from the south. Atti shook his head at that.

  Ngangata had ridden ahead, apparently to converse with the Alwal. Now he rode back. He said a few words to the Kapaka—ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts—and then continued on to join Atti and Perkar.

  “The Alwal say there is shelter up this way, not too far. One of the stream gods told them it would be best to seek it.”

  Atti agreed. “Feels odd, doesn’t it?”

  Ngangata nodded.

  “What feels odd?” Perkar asked, and then wished he hadn’t for they both looked at him blankly.

  But after a moment Ngangata told him, “The wind. The wind feels odd. The gods are up to something strange, I think.”

  “Oh.”

  Above, a pair of squirrels chased one another, shaking leaves down upon the travelers. The branches crowded lower once more, forcing them to dismount yet again. Perkar considered waiting for Eruka and Apad, rejoining them despite their ill humor. He had thought to strike up some friendship with Atti, perhaps get some advice on hunting—but Ngangata made him very uncomfortable, though he grudgingly admitted that the little man was winning a sort of admiration from him. It was the admiration one had for a fine, sharp sword or a well-made fence. He glanced over at the half man, coughed to clear his throat

  “Without your bow, I think, the Wild God would have killed us,” he said.

  Ngangata frowned a bit. “I have had a lot of time to get used to my bow,” he said. “It provides well for me. I thank the god from which it was made daily.”

  Perkar had seen that, the little man crouched over his stave, croaking the words of a song. Never loud enough for him to hear. He felt a twinge of guilt. How often did he offer to Ko, who had made his sword—or even to Ani Perkar, the oak spirit for whom he was named?

  The wind gusted, and now Perkar thought that he, too, sensed something strange in it. A smell perhaps. A smell like flowers, or … something like that.

  “Have you met these Alwal before?” Perkar asked. It seemed an inane question even as he said it; but he somehow wanted to talk to this Ngangata, this not-quite-man, wanted to understand his own fear and dislike of him.

  “No,” Ngangata replied.

  “Do they all speak one language? It seems a strange tongue.”

  “All languages seem strange to me,” Ngangata answered, and Perkar thought he saw the merest hint of a smile lift those wide lips. “Theirs no more than any other. It is a language more … fit for speaking to the forest gods than yours.”

  “But the forest gods speak my language,” Perkar said. “Even the Wild God spoke it.”

  “He spoke what you speak because it is what you speak. He used your own voices, even,” Ngangata reminded him. “But Human speech is ill-suited for speaking to the gods, in many ways. The Alwat have lived with the gods for much longer than your kind, have refined their communication with them.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Perkar said, remembering the “Ekar Irusungan,” the song telling of the world’s beginning. When Human Beings came into the world, they found the forests and Alwat already there. “They are friendly with the gods, then?”

  “As friendly as you are with those in your father’s lands, I suppose. But the Alwat have reached a different accommodation. Their understanding of gods is different, I think.”

  “Do they ever …” Perkar felt himself flush hotly. “Do the Alwat and the gods ever have … ah, union …?”

  Ngangata was looking at him very strangely. “You mean sex?”

  “I mean anything like that, touching, talking face-to-face, and sex, yes …”

  “They live with them. They do not shut themselves up in dead walls …”

  “My father’s damakuta is not dead wood,” Perkar said, a bit annoyed. “Father pleaded with the trees from which it was built; their spirits inhabit it still. As does the hearth god, and a little sprite or two—my house is not dead.”

  “No, no. But compare that to living in the wildwoods. There are two kinds of gods …”

  “Every child knows that,” Perkar said.

  “Yes, but which is more common?”

  “The Aniru, I suppose, the gods of places.”

  “And the Anishu, the gods who live in things—they are fewer?”

  Perkar thought about that. In his father’s lands, there was one pasture god, who had been the old forest god—he was Aniru because his life was not tied to a single tree, but to an area of land. The Anishu lived in things, were things—like Ani Perkar, who lived in the oak, like … she, for she was the Stream.

  “Yes, I think so. In the whole of the pasture there is really only the one god, the old forest god.”

  “And the gods of the trees that once lived there, before your ancestor made his bargain with the old god of that land?”

  “Gone, I suppose, or living as houses and fence rails.”

  “But here, look around you. A god in each tree, not just in a few. And rather than one huge place with one god—like your pasture—there are many little ones; the god of that hollow, of this ridge, of that rock outcropping. There are the gods of territory here, too—we fought one—but they are outnumbered. Some of these Aniru resent all of the smaller gods within their territory, I think. I think that is why some bargain with your kind, because you simplify things. Kill all the lesser gods and the gods in things.

  Then the Aniru, those who live on territories, large spaces of the earth—then they are alone, unchallenged.”

  “I never really thought about that,” Perkar muttered. “I never really thought about the gods plotting against one another.”

  “Of course you have. Every child learns ‘The Song of the Hawk God and the Raven.’”

  “Yes, but that song is about war. There are many like that. What you speak of is much more subtle, much more devious.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the Alwat do not ‘simplify’ things for the Aniru?”

  “The Alwat prefer the gods in things,” Ngangata replied. “The trees, the little places. And yes, they are intimate with them. They consider themselves kin.”

  “As do we. I am kin to the pasture god.”

  “Yes. But did you ever stop to wonder how the kinship custom came about? When Human Beings began moving into the forest, seeking pasture, whence came the idea of becoming kin?”

  Perkar stared at the little man. “The Alwat …”

  “The Alwat did not give this idea to Human Beings. But the gods knew how to create bonds with the Alwat, and they did the same with your kind when you came along.” Ngangata’s wide lips were certainly curved up at the corners now.

  “How do you know this, Ngangata? Where does this knowledge of yours come from?”

  “The Alwat sing songs about it.”

  “The Alwat could lie.”

  “The Alwat know about deception, and practice it often en
ough. But lying in speech is an idea foreign to them. If they do not want something known, they do not speak of it. Speech is only for truth, to them. I don’t think they can conceive of anything different.”

  Perkar laughed. “That is very odd.” He looked speculatively at the half Alwa. “And what of you, Ngangata? Do you share this inability to lie?”

  Atti—possibly bored by their philosophical discussion—had been silent. Now he chuckled. “He lies half of the time, of course.”

  “Just so,” Ngangata agreed.

  “You, Atti, do you know much of the gods?”

  “More than I want to, I suppose,” the red-haired man drawled in his peculiar mountain accent.

  “Has either of you ever been to the ‘Great River’? The one the Mang call Toh?”

  The mountain man and the half Alwa exchanged a peculiar glance.

  “His headwaters are very near where we go,” Atti told him at last.

  “What do the Alwat know of him?”

  “They know him,” Ngangata said. “They know better than to approach him. They name him Klanahawakadn: ‘The Swallower.’ Also, they call him Ov’fanakaklahuzn: ‘He Who Changed.’”

  “Why? What does that mean? I understand the swallowing part—any big river would do that.” He eats me up, she had told him. That meant more than he thought, he now realized.

  “That River was once Anishu, like most rivers. He has become Aniru, the god of a place. A very, very long and large place. And he is very … simple.”

  “Simple.” Perkar frowned. Simple. He eats me up.

  Perkar rode along for a while in silence.

  “I wonder how a god like that could be killed?” he whispered, just loud enough for Ngangata and Atti to hear.

  Atti laughed, a loud, raucous belly laugh that must have hurt him, given his injuries. Indeed, he held his chest, tried to throttle his chortling. Ngangata reacted very differently; he scowled and shook his head. Perkar suspected the difference was that Ngangata realized he was serious, while Atti was picturing a flea arming itself to kill a horse.

  Perkar was still pondering gods a while later, when the rains came. He was imagining a god who killed or caused to be killed every other god—the spirit of every tree, stone, little place in the world. It seemed to him—if there were only one huge god, like the pasture god but unimaginably bigger—it would be as if there were no gods at all.

  The first few drops Perkar paid no mind, though behind him Apad and Eruka sent up a chorus of complaints and curses to the cloud gods, to the waters who fed them. But then the forest ceiling bent with the force of the rain, and sheets of water soaked them, as if the Stream Gods themselves had taken to the sky. Perkar was doubly glad now that he was not wearing armor, which would chafe painfully once the quilted clothing beneath it became wet. Apad and Eruka would soon have even more to complain about.

  The rain carried that scent with it, that scent like flowers, and Perkar was suddenly, vividly reminded of her, of his sacrifice of roses. Of pale skin, so warm and Human, of the dark, musky smell of her as they lay together, her breasts pressed against him, her legs wrapped around him. The feelings were so bright-edged that he seemed to feel her fingers stroking his manhood, drawing the warmth in his belly into his groin and knotting it there. He groaned, listed in his saddle. The rain pounded on mercilessly, a shout from each raindrop coalescing into the roar of legions.

  They caught up with the Alwal. The pale creatures stood waist-deep in a swollen stream, splashing one another. All but one, that is; the female that Perkar had begun to call “Digger” in his mind. She stood in the water, as well, but did not play. When they came close she gestured. Ngangata dismounted, bent close to her mouth as she spoke.

  He turned after a moment and shouted back at them, “They say the cave is just up here. We can dry off.”

  That drew, if not elation, at least approval from the party.

  Ngangata then sloshed over to Mang’s flank, spoke to Perkar and only Perkar.

  “This stream has a message for you,” he said. “Sent by the rain from a goddess far away.”

  Perkar’s heart filled his chest like an anvil and a blacksmith’s hammer. He moved his lips, but no words emerged.

  “She says you shouldn’t have sent him your blood. She says he has a taste for you now. She says to stay away from him.”

  Ngangata’s dark gaze held him for a moment, watched Perkar blink raindrops from his eyes. Then the halfblood waded out into the stream, tugging his horse behind him.

  The rain still smelled of roses, but the scent was fading.

  “What a stench,” Apad complained, wrinkling his nose in disgust. At first, Perkar thought Apad meant the soaked gambeson he had just shucked off—which did stink, noticeably, of sweat. But when Eruka added, “Worse than animals,” he realized that they meant the Alwal.

  Perkar wrinkled his own nose, but all that he could smell (save for Apad and Eruka) was the welcome scent of burning juniper and pine.

  “At least they found us this cave,” he noted.

  “Oh, and a fine cave it is, too,” Apad remarked. “Tight, narrow, smoky—and now it smells like animals, too.”

  “Better than being wet, I would say,” Perkar said.

  “He has you there,” Eruka observed, gingerly touching the angry red skin where his armor had chafed through his quilted undergarment.

  “Well, Perkar seems to be getting quite friendly with these Alwal,” Apad noted, his eyes narrowed. “What did you find to talk about so long with our friend Ngangata, Perkar?”

  Perkar shrugged, but he could also feel himself blush. “Things. This forest and its gods. We were nearly killed by one of them, so I thought I would learn what Atti and Ngangata could tell me.”

  “I don’t trust those two,” Eruka said, glancing sidewise at Apad—as if for approval.

  Apad nodded. “Listen, Perkar. If they know so god-cursed much about this forest, why didn’t they know about the Wild God?”

  “It’s a big forest,” Perkar said, frowning. “Bigger than all of the Cattle-Lands put together. Who could know every inch of it?”

  Apad smirked. “They don’t have to know every inch of it. They have the Alwal to tell them what they need to know. Do you think these are the first Alwat our friends have spoken to since we entered the forest? Don’t you ever hear Ngangata out in the woods, jabbering?”

  He was offering to his bow, Perkar nearly protested—but he only had Ngangata’s word on that. True, he had seen the halfling with the stave, but that could have been a ruse. Still, Apad’s proclamation rankled Perkar enough to pursue the conversation for another step. “You aren’t suggesting that Ngangata and Atti knew about the Wild God, led us there on purpose? Look at Atti; he’s the only one who got injured.”

  “It went straight for the Kapaka,” Eruka said. “Did you notice that? It went right over Atti. If Apad hadn’t been between it and the king …”

  Perkar remembered Apad shrieking and jabbing at the monster. It had not seemed to Perkar that Apad actually interposed himself between the king and the god, only that it had been his poor fortune to be there.

  “True enough,” Perkar said anyway. He did like Eruka and Apad; they were understandably upset. And he couldn’t totally dismiss the possibility that they were right. After all, they knew Ngangata and Atti better than he. Ngangata had never entered the fray at all, had never really been in danger from the Wild God. Appearances could be deceiving, and Perkar thought it best to keep his mind open to possibilities. “True enough,” he repeated. “They will bear watching.”

  Apad nodded. “I trust you told them nothing of our plans?”

  “Shh,” Eruka hissed. “Sound carries strangely in caves. Let us not speak of it here.”

  “I said nothing, of course,” Perkar said, a bit annoyed.

  “I knew you would not,” Apad said. “You are a good fellow, Perkar. Like the oak they named you after.”

  Perkar nodded his thanks. “That reminds me,” he said. �
�I think I’ll make an offering to Ko, who made my sword.” He clapped Apad on the shoulder as he stood, careful to avoid the tender strips of skin where the weight of the chain mail had pulled heaviest. He wondered if his friends would wear armor again the next day.

  His offering to Ko was usually one of woti, but as far as Perkar knew, none was available. The king had a single flask left, but he had made clear to all of them that it was a gift for the Forest Lord. Still, Perkar had a bit of incense remaining. He would get a coal from the fire, then go a bit farther back in the cave.

  The Kapaka, Atti, Ngangata, and the seven Alwal were huddled around the fire. Perkar did smell the Alwal now, but it was not a particularly unpleasant smell.

  “Make room for some men,” Eruka said from behind him, and Perkar realized that the two had followed him over to the fire. Perkar caught Ngangata’s scowl.

  “Ngangata,” Apad asked softly. “Could you ask your kin to move and let us next to the fire?”

  The Alwal were all watching Apad. It was impossible to tell what they were thinking.

  “There is room around the fire,” Ngangata observed.

  “Sit down, join us,” the Kapaka said.

  “They smell,” Apad said.

  “Wait,” Perkar said quickly. “Couldn’t we build another fire, for the Alwal?”

  Ngangata leveled his opaque gaze at Perkar and all but hissed, “Perhaps you should build a fire for you and your kin.” He waved the back of his hand at the three of them.

  Eruka gave a low whistle, and Apad made a little clicking noise. “Well, Perkar,” he said. “Seems like you and the halfblood aren’t such good friends after all.”

  Perkar was aware of the hot blood rushing into his face, and at first he wasn’t even sure whom he was mad at. Then he was. He had tried to befriend the half man, hadn’t he? Talked to him when the others would not. And this was how the little man repaid him, by insulting him when he was only trying to make things better.