Drinker of Souls dost-1

by Jo Clayton

  She opened her hand, looked at the sharp-smelling sticky resin smeared across her palm and fingers, grimaced, ran across the grass to the creekbank and her sunning rock, a flat boulder jutting into the water. She stood in the middle of it watching the otters peel out of their shaking pile and begin grooming their ruffled fur, watching the birds settle back into the treetops leaving the sky empty except for a few fleecy clouds about the broad snow-covered peak of Tincreal. This was the first time she’d been alone on the mountain during one of the quakes that were coming with increasing frequency these warm spring days. A warning of bother to come, the Yongala said, pack what you’ll need if we have to run from her wrath; and Eldest Uncle Eornis told stories of his great-grandfather’s time when Slya woke before. With an uneasy giggle, she clapped her hands, began the Yongala’s dance on the rock, singing the sleep song to the mountain and the mountain’s heart, Arth Slya, Slya’s Ground, to Slya who protected, who warmed the springs and kept the Valley comfortable in winter, to Slya who made fire for her father’s kilns, to Slya the Sleeping Lady, powerful protector and dangerous companion. “Slya wakes,” she sang…

  Slya wakes

  Mountain quakes

  Air thickens

  Stone quickens

  Ash breath

  Bringing death

  Slya, sleep sleep, Slya

  Yongala dances dreams for you Slya turns

  Stone burns

  Red rivers riot around us

  Day drops dark around us Beasts fly

  Men fear

  Forests fry

  Sleep, Slya Slya, sleep

  Yongala dances dreams for you

  At once exhilarated and afraid, singing to celebrate and to propitiate, Brann danced her own fears away, then went hunting soapweed to wash the blackened cedar resin off her hands.

  * * *

  Go back, start again at the day’s beginning, the last morning Arth Slya was whole.

  On that last morning that seemed much like any other morning, Brann came into the kitchen after brealcfast and her morning chores were done. Gingy-next-to-baby stood on a stool by the washtub, soapweed lather bubbling up around his arms, scrubbing at pots and plates. He looked round, snapped a glob of lather at her. “You,” he said. “Hunk”

  “It’s your turn, mouse, I did ‘em yestereve.” She wiped the lather off her arm, went over to ruffle his short brown curls, giggled as he shuddered all over and whinnyed like a little pony, then went to the food locker. “Shara.”

  “Mmm?” Her younger sister sat at the breakfast table tending a smallish plant, nipping off bits of it, stirring the dirt about its roots. She was only nine but her Choice was clear to her and everyone else; she was already, though unofficially, apprenticed to Uncle Sabah the fanner and spent most of her days with him now, working in the fields, silent, sunburned and utterly content. She set the pot down, looked around, her green eyes half hidden by heavy lids that made her look sleepy when she was most alert. “What?”

  “Did Mama order more, bread from Uncle Djimis? No?” She held up the hard end of an old loaf “Well, this is all we got left. And I’m taking it.” She put the bread in her satchel; it was stale but Uncle Djimis’s bread had a goodness that stayed with it to the last crumb. She added a chunk of cheese and two apples, slipped the satchel’s straps over her shoulder and danced out, her long braids bouncing on her shoulders. “Be good, younguns,” she warbled and kicked the door shut on their indignant replies, went running through the quiet house to the back porch where her mother sat in her webbing hammock swinging gently back and forth as she nursed baby Ruan, humming a tuneless, wordless song.

  “I’m off,” Brann told her mother. “Anything special you want?”

  Accyra reached out and closed a hand about Brann’s fingers, squeezed them gently. “Take care, Bramble-allthorns, the Mountain’s uncertain these days.” She closed her eyes, keeping hold of Brann’s hand, hummed some more, smiled and looked up. “Coynos, as many different views as you have time for, some of your other four-foots, I’m thinking of a tapestry celebrating the Mountain.” She lifted a brow. “And be back to help with supper.”

  Brann nodded, then clicked her tongue. “I forgot. I was going to tell Shara to order some more bread, I’ve got the last in here.” She patted the satchel. “Shall I stop in at Uncle Djimis’s on my way out?”

  Her mother lifted heavy eyelids and sighed. “Ill never remember it without Cairn here to remind me. What do we need?”

  “Well, a couple loaves of regular bread. And some honey-nut rolls for breakfast tomorrow? Hmmmm? Please?”

  Her mother chuckled. “All right, a dozen honey-nut rolls; tell Shara to fetch them before you leave.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” She started toward the door.

  “Be just a little careful, whirlwind, don’t let the Mountain fall on you.”

  “Won’t.” She dashed back through the house, stuck her head into the kitchen, “Shara, Mama says you should fetch the bread and stuff,” went charging on through the house singing, “Won’t, won’t, won’t let the Mountain fall on me, won’t won’t won’t,” but went more sedately down the white sand road, waving to uncles and aunts and cousins by courtesy and blood who passed her walking along to the workshops that lined the river.

  Uncle Migel was at his forge, a pile of work already finished; it was his day to turn out all the finicky little bits the Valley needed: nails and rivets, arrow points, fishhooks, scissor blades, screws and bolts and suchlike. His apprentices were scurrying about like ants out of a spilled nest, the two elder journeymen wreathed in clouds of steam. “Eh-Bramble,” he boomed, “bring your old uncle a drink.”

  She tossed her braids impatiently at the delay, but Valley rules definitely dictated courtesy to adults. She lifted the lid off the coolcrock her father’s apprentice Immer had made and brought Migel a dripping dipperful.

  He gulped down most of it and emptied the rest over his thinning black hair. “Made your Choice, yet, Bram? Time’s getting short”

  She nodded.

  He pulled a braid, grinned at her. “Not talking, eh?” He laughed when she looked stubborn, his breathy allover laughter, then sobered. “On the mountain, are you? Good. Venstrey there-” he jerked his head at one of the journeymen-The wants a sleeping otter for the hilt of a knife he’s working on, stretched out straight, mind you, one curled up nose to tail would make an odd sort of hilt.”

  She nodded, hung the dipper he gave her by the thong in its tail and went on down the road.

  AS SHE CAME ka-lumping down uncle Djimis’s steps, her mother’s apprentice Marran rounded a corner of the house with a pair of hot sweet rolls. “Eh-Bram, catch.” He looped one of them at her.

  She stretched up to catch the roll-and nearly fell off the bottom step, keeping her face out of the dust with a flurry of arms and legs, a clownjig that didn’t improve her temper. “Marran, you idiot, you make me break my neck and I’ll haunt you the rest of your days.”

  He gave her his slow, sweet smile, but said nothing. He seldom had much to say, but few Valley folk, male or female, young or old, could resist that smile. This was his third year in Arth Slya and he was settling in nicely; her mother said he was going to be the best weaver and tapestry maker Arth Slya had seen in an age of ages. If her mother did decide to make a Mountain tapestry using

  Brann’s sketches, it’d be Marran who drew the cartoon and did much of the work. He’d turned fifteen only a month ago and was young for it, but her mother was planning to make him journeyman on the Centenary Celebration for Eldest Uncle Eornis. Brann’s Choice Day. Her eleventh birthday. Going to be a busy day.

  She kicked some sand, sneaked a glance at Marran, who grinned when he caught her at it, then went stalking away down the road, stuffing the roll into her satchel, hmphing and grumping, half-annoyed and half-delighted at the attentions he kept pushing on her. Her mother and some of the aunts were beginning to plan things, she caught them time after time looking at her and Marran with heavy significan
ce that made her want to bite.

  She climbed to her father’s workshop and looked inside. Cousin Immer was in one of the rooms fussing over designs for a set of plates one of the uncles wanted for his daughter’s marriage chest. Problem was the uncle and the daughter had very different notions of what each wanted and Immer, who was inherently kind, was struggling to design something both would agree on. He was a fusser and sometimes snappish but Brann was very fond of him; even when he was impossibly busy he always found time and patience for a pesty little girl. She went to stand at his elbow, watching him patiently flowing color into outlines. He was putting the same design through various color combinations to show the embattled pair. She patted his arm. “Slya bless, maybe this will work.”

  He sighed. “If it doesn’t, I surrender, Bramble. The Yongala can arbitrate for I don’t think either will settle for less.”

  She patted his arm again and went to putter about the workshop, cleaning tools, straightening the storage niches, sweeping up the small accumulation of dust and the large accumulation of cobwebs, enjoying herself, no one to fuss at her for getting in the way, no impatient older brother chasing her out. As she maneuvered the pile of debris toward the door, the floor trembled and sent dust jigging-only a tiny twitch of the mountain, soon over. “Sleep, Slya, Slya sleep,” she sang as she pushed the pile of dust and scraps together again, swept it out the door.

  Enjoying the bright crisp morning she stood in the doorway, looking up through the green lace of birch leaves to a sky clear as the water in the creek singing past the workshop. She breathed the cool air, shook the broom and leaned it against the wall, fetched her satchel and went climbing up the creek, hopping from rock to rock, heading for her favorite sunning place where the boulder pushed the creek aside. She could lie there, her head hanging over the edge, and watch the bright fish dart about. Or sit watching her four-foots coming down to drink. When she was sitting still as the stone beneath her even the fawns came down with their mothers and played on the grassy banks.

  On the morning of Arth Slya’s destruction, she sat on the stone and watched bright blue moonfishers darting about in a screaming fight, two after the flapping fish in the talons of a third. It seemed to Brann they always found more delight in stealing from each other than in catching fish for themselves, though to have those thieving fights, some moonfisher had to abandon principle and snag his own fish.

  When the fight was over and the triumphant moonfisher flew off with his prize, she dipped up water and splashed it over her face; the sun was starting to get a bit too hot. She moved into the glade where the shadows were cool and the air tangy with cedar, took out her sketch book and waited for the family of coynos that usually showed up about this time.

  ON ARTH SLYA’S last day, the mountain twitched and growled and sent rocks sliding and Brann grew afraid, calming her fear with the ritual dance, the sleep song, then went to wash the blackened cedar resin off her hands.

  Once her hands were clean, she wandered about the slopes of Tincreal, too restless to sketch. She missed her father. She loved her mother and knew she was loved in return, but her mother wasn’t company in the same way, she was mostly absorbed by her work and the new baby, Ruan firehair who slept in a basket beside the loom, listening to the hiss and thump as Brann had listened when she was a baskling, breathing in time to the sounds of the weaving, lulled to sleep by this constant comforting song. Brann was jealous of Ruan and hated the feeling, knew fairly well what the rest of her life was going to be and rebelled against accepting that, needed time for herself, knew the folk were letting her have it and was furious at their complacent understanding. In the Valley everyone knew everyone else’s business, knew what each would do in just about every circumstance before even he or she knew. Her eleventh birthday was a month and a half away, the Time of Choosing. It fell on the same day as Eldest. Uncle’s, his hundredth, and there was going to be a grand celebration and she would share it and at the end of it she would announce her choice for her lifework. And just about nobody would be surprised.

  Life in Arai Slya was pleasant, even joyful when you felt like fitting in, but when you didn’t, it was like a pair of new boots, blistering you as it forced you into shape. Her father and her two older brothers had left with the packtrain going to Grannsha for the tri-year Fair. She’d wanted to go with them, but her mother was stuck here with a baby too young to travel and Brann couldn’t go if her mother didn’t. She thought it was stupid that she couldn’t go, but no one else saw things her way. Not that she made a great fuss about it, for this was the last summer she could spend free, the last summer before she was officially apprenticed with all the work that meant, the last summer she could ramble about the Mountain, watching animals and all the other life there, sketching in the book Uncle Gemar the papermaker had sewn together for her, with the ink and the brush Aunt Seansi, Arth Slya’s poet and journal keeper, had taught her how to use and make.

  From her sketches her mother had woven for her a knee-length tunic with frogs and dragonflies in a lively frieze about the hem, dark greens, browns and reds on a pale gray-green ground. As time passed others found worth in her drawings. Sjiall the painter and screenmaker saw her plant and insect studies and went into the mountains himself searching for more such. Her father and Immer let her design some of their embellished ware. Uncle Migel seized on several drawings of otters and wolves and graved them into his swords and knives and sent her back to the slopes with specific commissions. Uncle Inar the glassmaker and Idadro the etcher and inlayer added her notes to their traditional forms. She could choose for any of them; they told her so. Thinking about their praise made her flutter with pleasure.

  Though she was irritated and sometimes unhappy about the life laid out for her in the Valley, she found the outside world frightening. What little she knew about it, from candidates who made their way to the Valley, repelled her. Very few girls came, and those that did had stories to put a shudder in back and belly. She watched the boys shivering at a scold, or turning sullen with shaking but suppressed violence, watched the way they guarded their possessions and thoughts, their despair if they weren’t taken as apprentices. Even those candidates accepted took several years to open out and be more or less like everyone else. Another thing-since the last Fair the trickle of younglings into the mountains had dried up entirely. The Valley folk came back from that Fair with rumors of trouble and reports of a general uneasiness on the Plains. Legates from the mainland were in Grannsha making demands the Kumaliyn could not possibly satisfy, so the stories went. Still, no one expected trouble to come to Arth Slya, they were too isolated and hard to get to; there was no road most of the way, only a rugged winding track that no one in his right mind would try to march an army along.

  She wandered back to her boulder, sat eating one of her apples and watching the antics of otters who’d made a mudslide for themselves and were racing about, sliding, splashing, uttering the stuttering barks of their secret laughter. Her hand dropped in her lap as the otters abruptly broke of their play and darted into the trees.

  Two shines like smears of gold painted on the air flickered about the treetops, then came jagging down the stream, switching places over and over, dropping close to the water, darting up again. She stared at them, fascinated by their flitter and their glitter and their eerie song, a high swooping sound alternately fast and slow, sometimes unbearably sweet. She sat on her heels, smiling at them, bits of sun come to earth.

  They jerked to a halt as if they’d somehow seen her, swooped at her, swinging closer and closer in tightening circles, then darted at her, plunged through her again and again. She gave a tiny startled cry, collapsed on the warm stone.

  She woke as suddenly as she went down, a few heartbeats later.

  Two children sat on the creekbank watching her from shimmering crystal eyes, pale little creatures with ash-blond hair, bowl-bobbed, silky, very straight, one head a shade darker than the other. They were so alike she didn’t know how she knew the darker
one was a boy and the other a girl. They wore shirts and pants like hers and apart from those eerie inhuman eyes were much like any of the children running about the Valley below. The girl smiled gravely at her. “I’m Yaril. That’s Jaril. You’re Brann.”

  Brann pushed up until she was sitting on her heels again. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

  Yaril nodded, but didn’t answer the implied question. Jaril wasn’t listening. He was looking at everything with an intensity that made Brann think he’d never seen anything like blue sky and wind blowing cedars about and butterflies flitting over the stream and dragonflies zipping back and forth, otters crouching across the creek, black eyes bright and curious, fish coming up to feed, breaking the water in small plopping circles.

  “Where’d you come from? Who’re your folks?”

  Yaril glanced at Jaril, rubbed at her small straight nose. “We are the Mountain’s children.”

  “Huh?”

  “Born of fire and stone.” Yaril said, sounding awed, portentous.

  Brann eyed her skeptically. “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s true. Sort of.” Yaril stared intently at Brann.

  Little fingers began tickling the inside of Brann’s head; she scowled, brushed at her face. “Don’t DO that.” She pushed onto her feet, jumped onto the grass and began circling around them.

  “Don’t be afraid, Brann.” Yaril got hastily to her feet, held out her small hands. “Please don’t be afiaid. We won’t hurt you. Jaril, tell her.”

  Brann kept backing away until she reached the trees, then she wheeled and fled into shadow. Behind her she heard the high sweet singing of the sunglows, a moment later bits of yellow light were dancing through the trees ahead of her The patches of light touched down to the red soil, changed,-and Yaril stood with Jaril waiting for her. She turned aside and ran on, blind with terror. The shivering song came after her, the shimmers swept through her, caressing her, stroking her inside and out, gentling her, trying to drive the fright from her. She collapsed in the dirt, dirt in her mouth and nose and eyes, the last thing she remembered, the taste of the mountain in her mouth.