The Girl with the Peacock Harp

by Michael Eisele

  ‘Nay, never look so at me, for thus it is done among the gaje, and worse things still, such that it would do no good for you to hear or me to tell.

  ‘So Milosh realised that Alisoun had betrayed him, and perhaps it had all been a sort of game to her, and she had never intended to go with him to the wagons at all, and he saw a pity for him in the eyes of her father as he was taken from the house to be shut up in a little room with iron on the window, a horrible place it was with filthy straw on the floor and damp on the walls and only rats for company and a smell like things that had been too long unburied. And when it was morning men came and dragged him out, and he was taken to a kind of square where a man with a loud voice on him told of the charges against Milosh, and then there was an argument, and all Milosh could understand of it was that they were trying to decide whether he should lose both ears or perhaps his hand as well, and he was bitterly sorry that he had ever come to the town of the gaje at all, never mention that he had thought to take one of their women to wife.

  ‘In the end, however, the father of Alisoun spoke up on his behalf, saying that as the boy was so young perhaps only a lesson was needed to make him remember, and then Milosh was glad that he was not to lose a hand or his ears until they took hold of him and brought iron that had been heated to glowing in the fire, and put it to one side of his cheek ’til he was fainting from the pain of it, and the last thing he saw was the face of Alisoun who had pushed to the front of the crowd to see it done.

  ‘Then as the sun was rising Milosh found himself alone outside the gates of the Town, all in a heap where they had left him with his gamebag in the grass nearby, and his face all in a flame from the hurt they had done him. Even to sob was a great agony, so stifling his tears he got to his feet somehow and set off away down the road. All he could think of was finding some cool water with which to bathe his poor face, but it was a long walk until he got to the common and the woods behind it, and he was glad enough to be alone and out of sight, for the few people he had met on the road had taken one look and passed on hurriedly, and he realised that from now on he would be marked as a thief for all to see, and a great anger grew in him for the people who had done this thing.

  ‘He fashioned a pad of leaves that he gathered for a poultice, but it did little good for he had no idea which were the best ones to use for such a purpose, and he had no heart to trap food for himself, but gathered berries and grubs as he walked to keep the ache from his stomach, and on he went thinking only of what his sister Djali would say when she saw what had come of his play with the gaje girl.

  ‘So then he arrived at the hollow where the camp had been but found only cold ashes and wheel tracks, and it came to him then that he might have known that when he did not return from the town of the settled people, all would assume that if there was trouble with the gaje then there was danger to them all, and there would be nothing better than that the People should break camp then and there and travel the road to another stopping place.

  ‘So there was Milosh, with no more idea than a goose which way his tribe had gone, for the wheel marks were quickly lost in the stony bed of the highroad, and his face pained him so much that he was distracted in his wits what to do next. Imagine yourselves in such a fix, eh? What could you do but wander lost in the world forever, unless. . . . Oh aye, some of you know: Milosh was forgetting about the patteran! Well, small blame if he did so, from the pain of the brand on his face and the worse injury to his heart that his love had proved false. By and by though, he began to remember the tales he was told when he was no bigger than you, of the patteran, the little signs that can be left behind to guide, if you are of the People and have a good pair of eyes.

  ‘So he began to cast around the empty camp ground the way a good dog will search for a scent, and it was not long before he found a stick of ash as it might appear to be something that was dropped by accident, broken in the middle and folded into an arrow shape with the leaf of another kind of tree laid across it, and he knew then the way he must go on the road. Milosh was for leaving then, in haste to catch up with the wagons when he saw a bit of red that was not a flower or a bird, and when he looked to find it there was a cleft stick upright in the ground at the edge of the campsite, and it had another thrust into the cleft pointing in a certain direction, and caught also in the cleft was a scrap of material that was the shade of his sister Djali’s scarf, and he followed where it pointed to a hollow tree, and there in a sack was a round of bread fresh baked, and a flask of spring water and a wedge of cheese, and Milosh was near to tears again at the thought of his sister Djali who had such care for him and such fine knowing of what would be needed, and he ate his fill of the bread and cheese, and drank most of the water, and with the rest he soaked the bit of cloth from his sister’s scarf and put it over the burn on his face, and imagined that the pain was immediately less.

  ‘There is not much more to tell, for Milosh followed the little signs, always made with a twig from one tree and the leaf from another, and at every crossroad marker just at the left would be some little token to tell which road the wagons had gone. So about nightfall came Milosh with weary feet to where the wagons had pulled in for the night, and there was a fire burning where the two fine horses of his family grazed, and the wagon with the canvas top that had been put on new that year stood before the fire, and there were his mother and his sister Djali and they said nothing but made a place for him at the fire, and his mother brought a poultice for the hurt to his face, the mark of which he carries to this day, and if he does not wish to speak of it now perhaps you can see why.

  SANITY

  She came down out of the clouds in a trail of damp vapour that clung to her robes and hair like morning mist, and streamed from the wings of her mount as they beat once, then twice, the translucent membrane booming like some huge drum before settling into the wide curving glide that would end in the central square as she had commanded.

  Down below she could see the white ovals of faces turned upward, and the beginnings of a panicky scramble as the people below cleared a space for her landing. She nodded grimly. It was well they had not forgotten the shape of the great Windlord, Ixator, nor who was his Mistress and Rider. It was time to see what else they might remember without prompting.

  Precisely in the centre of the cleared space, surrounded it seemed by most of the population of the city, Ixator spread his wings to their full extent to brake his forward motion then landed on his four clawed feet as lightly as a cat. His long scaled tail lashed briefly, once, causing those nearest to shrink back against those behind, then coiled sinuously around his body, making a step for her bare foot as she swung a leg over the muscular neck and descended to the paving. Her pale robes settled into place and her staff clicked on the marble in the awed silence. She held the pose, deliberately looking over the heads of the crowd to the mountains that ringed the horizon, to the bright gleam of the Sanctuary which only a Magi born could see hidden among the inaccessible peaks.

  She did not have long to wait. The crowd parted in front of her to allow the passage of the High Priest and his retinue. She scanned the faces at the periphery of her vision, seeing none she recognised; old Timonius had been nearly ninety the last time she had visited. The present holder of the office was a tall, lean man, with an ascetic face that looked as though it would normally be aloof to the point of arrogance, but which at the moment seemed to be struggling to retain some semblance of authority. His retinue were advancing with all the enthusiasm of a condemned felon mounting a gallows.

  ‘Great Tabitha, Honoured Lady.’ The High Priest seemed to have something caught in his throat, for she saw him swallow convulsively before continuing, ‘The Royal Council awaits your presence.’ Well, to give the man credit, it was probably not something he did every day, greeting a Magi who had just alighted from a great winged beast, itself a creature out of fearsome legend.

  Tabitha lowered her gaze as if noticing him for the first time, and nodded in acknowledgment. There was an
uncomfortable pause then, at least for the High Priest, who must have suddenly realised that it would hardly be fitting for her to trail along behind him and his retinue like a penitent. She solved his dilemma for him by simply motioning with her staff, at which he paled visibly before realising that she was merely gesturing for him to stand aside so that she could pass. This he did with an ill grace, his retinue even less so, shuffling to one side like errant school children called to order. Then she proceeded at a measured pace to the council building, only stopping briefly as she passed the last of the attending priests to order a sheep to be brought to Ixator.

  ‘Actually, two sheep,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘it was a long flight, after all.’ She smiled to herself at the man’s expression of baffled fury and continued down the long corridor formed by the crowd of citizens to the double doors of the great gold and marble edifice where the Royal Council met. She paused for a measured moment, regarding the two armed guardsmen who stood like statues with crossed lances barring the high portal, doubtless waiting for someone to order them to allow her to enter. Tabitha sighed and solved their dilemma with a sharp cantrip punctuated by a focusing gesture with her Magi’s staff. At once the doors swung obediently open, unfortunately for the guardsmen who were thrust stumbling to either side.

  Bowing slightly in ironic acknowledgment, Tabitha proceeded through the echoing antechamber to the bronze doors of the meeting room, which were hastily opened by two even more resplendent guardsmen, who grounded their pikes in a gesture of ceremonial respect, showing a heightened initiative commensurate with their rank.

  Then she was there, standing in the oval space before the seats of the entire Royal Council which, tier on tier, reached nearly to the lofty ceiling. It was then that it happened.

  As if some sort of earth tremor had struck the building, the scene before her blurred, and suddenly her ears were assailed by a roar of . . . it could not be, and yet it was . . . laughter!

  She gazed in horror at her extended hand, suddenly empty of the symbol of her Magi status, the hand itself withered and knotted with the inexplicable signs of age. She shook her head in confusion and saw not the silken hood of a Magi but a curtain of tangled hair, grey and frizzed as a gorse bush . . . her robes! She looked downward in disbelief to see merely a coarse cotton shift, indecently brief, which appeared to be spotted here and there with something unmentionable. This . . . could not be! Some enchantment, a wicked spell perhaps . . . she must escape! Ixator would carry her out of this nightmare; she had underestimated the strength of the adversary, that was all.

  Forgetting dignity in her distress she whirled and ran through the two sets of doors and out of the building itself, then stopped short, unable to believe what she was seeing. Where was the marble plaza? Where were the respectful and awed citizenry? Where in the name of all the Gods was Ixator?

  She stood on a paved path surrounded by immensely tall towers of grey stone. Before her eyes passed vehicles of some sort made of brightly coloured metal which flashed by, emitting a throat burning stench. Around her a multitude of strangely apparelled people walked with similar haste, jostling her rudely without seeming to be aware that they did so. Without conscious volition she put her alien hands over her eyes and began to howl like an animal, in terror and denial.

  ‘Very well then,’ said a voice, ‘you may awake now, Magda.’

  The ghost of a thought remained in her mind for a tantalising instant before she reluctantly removed her hands and opened her eyes. Where have I heard that voice before? Then the scene before her swam into focus and it was gone. There was the furniture of the tiny consulting room, inadequately lit by the florescent tubes overhead and by the grey light seeping through the window grills. Sitting behind his cluttered desk, peering at her through the thick lenses that magnified his bulging eyes grotesquely was Doctor Milson, as shabby as his office, small and overweight, his hair reduced to a greying tonsure, his clothes wrinkled and bulging with the effort to restrain his figure into some kind of shape. He did not look, she thought, very much like the brilliant analyst everyone said he was.

  Now he sighed and picked up a folder from the litter before him, using it first to gesture at her until she straightened in her chair, then opened it and began to read.

  ‘You were found two years ago,’ he said, and his voice was like the rest of him, an irritating nasal sound like the buzzing of some persistent insect. ‘Wandering in the street, no identification, half naked, gabbling in a language no one could understand. They brought you here where you were put on a program of drug therapy to counteract your tendency to violence.’

  Not strictly true, she thought to herself, when I realised that none of the spells were going to work, I asked politely to be released. Instead they put me in a room by myself and gave me pills that turned my brain into cabbage. Later when I refused to take them they put them in the food. When I realised what was happening I refused to eat. Then they . . . it was easier to take the pills. Two years, you say? It could have been an eternity. And then—you came.

  ‘Then I came along,’ Doctor Milson continued in unconscious mimicry, ‘and I saw a chance to validate a procedure I had developed. You, Magda, are my first subject!’ His magnified eyes shone with an almost child-like enthusiasm. ‘Together, my dear, we are going to make history in the treatment of Paranoid Schizophrenia!’ He closed the file and laid it back on the desk with a decisive slap, then rubbed his hands together with a dry rasping sound that she found as repulsive as everything else about him.

  ‘Today was just the beginning,’ he went on, his voice now low and confiding. ‘Using a new kind of hypnosis, we are going to analyse each separate facet of your delusional fantasy and expose it for the fallacy that it is. At the end you will be able to enjoy a normal and drug free life! You may even,’ he said, raising a pudgy and declamatory forefinger, ‘become famous!’

  ‘And suppose I don’t co-operate?’ The wrench of that fragmenting of her memory still had her trembling with reaction. It didn’t happen like that! I know it didn’t! How did he put that into my mind? Hypnosis? What sorcery is that?

  Doctor Milson pursed his lips and opened the file again. ‘Hmmm,’ he said after a moment. ‘It appears there is a recommendation here for a course of electroshock therapy, from one of my colleagues.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘That’s Harrison, from over at Bellevue, he always did have a thing about Old Sparky, as we called it in med school.’ the chuckle that followed was as false as his smile, ‘I’ve seen patients undergoing the procedure convulse so powerfully they break bones; and of course the effect on the mind. . . .’ he shook his head sadly.

  ‘They can’t do that to me!’ she looked at him in horror.

  ‘You are quite right, my dear,’ he said, his voice dropping the pose of unctuous sympathy, ‘that in the case of patients with relatives and friends there are forms to be signed, and permission to be sought, but you unfortunately seem to have neither, and since no one has come forward in the two years you have been with us,’ (he smiled beatifically,) ‘we can pretty much do anything we like with you, do you see?’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and immediately one of the orderlies entered as if he had been standing just the other side of the panel. It was Simpson, a hulking brute of a man most of the patients were terrified of, though she had never seen him actually do anything. ‘George, take Miss Magda back to her room, would you?’

  She knew it would only make trouble if she resisted, so she stood up as soon as the huge hand closed on her upper arm, which didn’t prevent him from nearly dragging her to the door.

  ‘You’ve made a good start today, Magda,’ she heard Dr Milson call out cheerfully from behind her, ‘tomorrow’s session should be even more fruitful! See you then!’

  Seated on her rumpled bed where Simpson had wordlessly deposited her before closing and re-locking the steel door, she slumped over hopelessly, her head against her knees, her anger and outrage finally weakened enough to allow despair to enter. How
was she supposed to fight this kind of battle? Without her powers, without any hint that she’d ever had any kind of life other than this living death. That scene in the council chamber, that nightmare, had seemed so real, finding herself dressed in the same hospital gown she was wearing right now. She looked down in distaste at the food stains disfiguring the front of the garment. She’d asked over and over during her brief lucid periods for a clean one, but no one listened or responded, except for one of the ward sisters who had remarked acidly that it would teach her not to spit out her food. At least while she was being treated by Dr Milson she could count on being free of the medication; but at what cost? If the man could tamper with her memories as it seemed he could, what would she become? The image of herself as some sort of pet being exhibited in support of his theories was like a whip lash and for a moment she clenched her fists on the stale bedding to prevent herself from hammering on the walls or the door in a frenzy of denial. She’d already seen what happened to patients who lost control like that.

  Desperately she tried to reconstruct the events of that day when she had strode confidently into the Royal Council chamber to take them to task for paying tribute to . . . she knotted her forehead until the ache became acute. Every attempt to remember brought her back to finding herself standing there dressed as she was now while the entire Council roared with contemptuous laughter.

  Worse still, what felt like a worm of doubt began to uncoil in her mind. What if the horrible little man was right? What if what she thought of as her memories, the only refuge she’d had to cling to this whole miserable time, were in fact delusions? How did she know for a certainty that she’d ever been anything else but this frail old creature living in her own rank body odour?