by Tanith Lee
They are red, with roots of saffron and fierce blue. No smoke rises – a giveaway.
‘Dad’ had said it was a ‘chemical reaction’ and wouldn’t hurt. Not fire at all, said Dad, proud of his superior knowledge, and living in such a pride-worthy, eccentric area.
I wondered if the graffapin would take fright, throw me and bundle off. It just ambled up on to the road and trotted along, its fur-drippery shining as if it had on an expensive fringed table-cloth.
I stared.
Finally we made camp on the road, which is broad. I didn’t light a fire, as the chemical fire gives off some warmth and is very bright.
As I was eating my supper, Graff managed to get out of his/her tether – he/she is very good at that, something to do with the long, twisting neck – and wandered off among the fires, puffing and admiring them, like a lady in a flower-garden.
Despite appearances, Graff did not catch alight. Nor I, when I went after and hauled he/she/it back out.
But there is no sign of Argul.
Six days and nights now, since I left PH.
I said to Dad and son, what lay over the Fire Hills? And they pulled a face – they both pulled the same face at the same time. Anything beyond the Halt doesn’t matter and/or is bad?
‘But where is Argul going?’
‘North.’
‘What is in the north?’
After some thought, Dad said, ‘It’s bloody cold.’
Startling wildness of fire today, flaring up and up.
No animals or birds, except once, large black birds went over – ravens?
Still no Argul.
Am I on the wrong road? Are there two – three others – or has he just gone elsewhere – even asked or paid Dad and son to lie to me?
Please don’t let that be so.
This morning, eighth day, I was high up. I saw Argul ahead.
My wonder and relief were slightly spoiled by also seeing another rider behind me. From the unbelievable look of him, it is Jelly.
That night I found a cave, and went and sat in it, with Graff tied up very securely to a rock inside. If I went to sleep, I didn’t want Jelly happening along and surprising me again. He had seemed quite a way behind me – but with Jelly, who could be sure?
He didn’t come by. Or if he did, nothing woke me. (I had tied some of Graff’s spare tether across the cave-entrance, so anyone trying to get in would get tangled up with Graff and cause some noise.)
Graff though is such a peaceful beast. He – maybe he is a he – was just quietly singing to himself when I got up. I put on his nose-bag for him, and he sang his uncomplaining way through breakfast.
‘Yof-yof!’
Off we briskly went.
I felt I must try to reach Argul now. Catch him up. Yesterday, up ahead on the next piece of the hills, he had seemed to be travelling steadily but not fast.
One thing about a graffapin, or this one, it can really run, and keep running. Finally I had to say Frum-froff – the command to slow him down, because I’d realized he’d been haring along for about fifty minutes at around eighty miles an hour.
He didn’t seem out of breath. Just started to gubble and snuffle to himself again, which, when going flat out, he hadn’t.
No sign of Jelly today, but the lie of the land has no doubt just hidden him. He could be anywhere. Even riding beside me over there, somewhere, concealed by the high hill-shoulder and the fires.
And I haven’t caught up to Argul. Or seen him again.
The road is worse. Whole bits missing.
Passed a fire-fountain, a cascade splashing over from some tall rocks, green-shot red.
‘Are you still singing, Graff? You’re a good boy.’
Of course, I’ve begun to ask myself, did she (Ustareth) breed these animals, these graffapins, one more experiment, some unthinkable cross between – what? A horse, just maybe, and a sheep …?(!)
And yes, I have thought about the panther I met in the forest, the talking one. I recall the people around the Rise, girls with flowers growing alive in their hair, and the woman who had two voices, one human, and the other all different birds’ songs going at once.
A talking beast. Ustareth (Zeera): could she have managed that?
Sunset, and there’s no handy hiding place tonight, no caves. The fires light everything up, including me.
I had a rest and a walk up and down, and some of the boring journey food. Now I’m going to mount Graff and go on, sleep in the saddle if necessary, use the night to travel. Perhaps I can catch Argul up that way.
Jelly is on a horse. I assume it’s the one he rode into PH on, as PH was ‘sold out’. I had a chance to admire Jelly’s horse, since they came galloping up to me in the black and moonless depth of the night.
‘As we’re both going the same way,’ said Jelly, friendly, ‘I thought we might as well travel together. What do you say?’
What I said was a Hulta swear-word used, even by Badger, Ro and Mehm, only now and then. A curse you really do save for best (or worst).
Then I yowled ‘Yof-yofff!!!’ and off we yoffed. Heaven bless lovely Graff, who inside two minutes had outraced the horse – already tired from racing after me – and kept on going.
‘Good Graff – wonderful handsome Graff!’
Everything whizzed by in a whirlwind of fires and stars and fluttering graff-fluff.
We were speeding uphill, up and up, and I had a vague idea this might be unwise, we might hit the sky – or just plunge over some steep place at the top – when the hill flattened out and everything went jet black.
‘Frum-froffy-frum – oh whoah!’
Graff careered to a halt and I nearly came off.
What had happened?
Something totally normal, so naturally utterly unlooked-for. We’d reached the end of the fires.
In front, the plateau ran away to the dark sky. And everywhere else the land poured over into the shadow of an ordinary night.
For a few minutes I sat there, getting my bearings, getting used to the dark. And I hoped Jelly too would come thundering up here and get thrown.
And then I saw there was one fire left, a small one, over there under that tumble of stones. Some outpost of the bigger fires? It looked like a camp-fire …
Had I – was it—
I clicked my teeth at Graff, who trotted on. Time had stopped. And in the timelessness we reached the stones and came around them.
The fire was straightforward fire-colour, and set inside a ring of smaller stones. Nothing was roasting over it, spitting and smelling appetizing. I’d have expected there would be. Like me, he must already have eaten.
The brown horse was grazing the unburning turf. Argul sat against the wall of stones.
The fire caught in his eyes. Was it only that made them so hard and brilliant, like black window-panes, closed.
I dismounted, and he sat, watching me.
No pretence now. And no greeting.
‘Argul?’
I stood in front of him, across the fire.
Soon he looked away with a terrible little smile. (Venn disturbed me so, resembling Argul so much. And now, the other way – Argul – is so like Venn.)
‘Claidi.’ Said Argul, complete with a full stop.
In the tone he used, the voice he used, my name became a smear of dirt upon a distant path, long, long ago.
‘I know what you think.’
‘I’m sure you do. Even you, Claidi, aren’t so dumb you wouldn’t know that.’
We had always been insulting each other. Part of our play. Never never meant. Love and respect. Not any more.
‘Argul,’ I took a step forward, not realizing I had, and he said, ‘Stay that side of the fire. Maybe a shock to you, I don’t want you near me.’
‘Right. Look, here I am. But will you let me tell you’ – I wavered, had thought he would interrupt – ‘what really happened? It’s not what you think.’
‘Suppose I don’t care.’
‘If you knew the
truth—’
Was this, after all, the hardest thing I’d ever faced? Dealing with enemies is bad enough, but an enemy who was a friend, someone I’d loved, still loved—
‘Argul, I have to explain.’
And then, right then, Jelly rode up. Having not been thrown at all – or made any noise I heard.
I only knew because Argul glanced up from that deep other place he was gazing down into because he didn’t want to look at me. His eyes fixed beyond me, and he got to his feet.
‘Mate of yours?’ he asked softly.
‘If he’s about eight feet tall with black stubble hair, riding a vicious-looking blackish horse – no.’
‘My lord, my lady,’ called Jelly, bowing in the saddle, ‘what a stroke of good fortune.’
Argul came past and around me. His cloak brushed over my arm. I shivered.
Jelly sat there, smiling his dry split of smile.
‘Why have you been following me?’ I demanded.
‘Because I hadn’t yet caught you up,’ outlined Jelly, with intelligent reasonableness.
‘You know what I mean. You’re from the Tower, aren’t you? Who sent you? How did you trace me? There’s no Tag on me now, none in my book – was it Ironel Novendot?’
Jelly was busy looking at Argul. Jelly’s narrow eyes were knife-edged slits. He was concentrating.
Argul said, ‘I don’t think she wants your company.’
‘I don’t,’ I agreed.
Jelly widened his pouchy eyes to glinting slots.
Just then, I noticed he had a rifle slung over his shoulder. And Argul – didn’t have.
‘This is the famous Argul, is it,’ said Jelly. ‘Leader of the Bandit Hulta Horse-People. Most pleased to meet you, my lord.’
Argul said nothing.
Jelly, to my added horror, swung crankily off his horse.
‘I have,’ said Jelly, looking now over at me, ‘something for you.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve been looking for the right moment, to give it you.’
‘What?’
‘This does not seem, much, the right moment.’
Argul said, ‘Get back on your horse and go.’
(Jelly at eight feet, was taller than Argul.)
‘That would be easier, wouldn’t it,’ nodded Jelly. ‘But then. Know why they call me Jelly?’ he asked me casually, looking at me past Argul now. (No one eagerly asked Why? Why?) Jelly said, ‘You were correct. Wolf Tower. The Wolf Tower moulded me like a jelly, into the form and type I now am. I am a jelly of the Wolf Tower, and I am all set.’
Was this amusing, absurd, or ultra ghastly? Before I could decide, Argul took two strides. It happened so fast. Argul’s fist crashed up into Jelly’s middle, and Jelly made a noise and tilted. Then Argul’s second fist hit Jelly square on the jaw, just like in a book.
Jelly spun, turned round as if about to march away, and fell splat, flat on his face. Didn’t stir.
‘Oh,’ I said, with my usual display of flawless wit. Felt slightly sick, actually.
‘Get on that thing you’re riding,’ said Argul. He was already in the saddle.
I ran to Graff, scrambled aboard.
As we tore off along the plateau, over its crest and down the other side in darkness, I cried out inside myself – We’re together now—
But some minutes further on, when the pace slowed, Argul, riding at my side, said this:
‘You can talk to me later, if you must. I don’t want to hear it, it won’t change anything. For now, shut up and listen. I’m going into the north. I’ll take you to the town there. Then you are on your own. That’s it. And Claidi.’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘If you start yattering, or if you put one finger on me, you’re on your own here and now. Keep your distance. And keep quiet until I tell you.’
He is no longer like himself, at least with me. He sounds now like Venn at his worst, or like – Nemian. He sounds like the others, the Wolf Tower. (He has their blood. I never remember – he too – he – is Ironel’s grandson.) Have I done this to him – made him into a monster, at least in my company? Yes, it’s me. My fault.
WINTER
Once there used to be seasons. They were called, I think, spring, summer, fall-of-leaf, and winter. As the desert areas grew and the weather altered and became erratic, seasons more or less ended, as such. Sunny days can be followed by gales, and frosts by months of scorchers. Leaves are always falling off and at the same time new ones growing, fruits and blossoms can appear together, or else trees may stay bare for years. (Or else do things like sprouting froth.)
In the north, however, winter is. As you get near, they call it that. They even say, ‘Are you going on right to Winter, then? Then you’ll need to buy this fur-lined jacket,’ etc.
After we came down that night from the hills, we kept on riding. The sun was already paler, and it was as cold by day as the nights had been, beyond the hill fires.
Bumpy ground, boulders and ragged pines. Ravens flew over. I didn’t pay much attention. Being so careful, as I was, to keep my distance and not speak.
Argul rode always a little ahead of me.
We came to a village inside an untidy wood fence. I thought, He’s going to leave me here.
He didn’t. When I said, ‘Is this where – ?’ he said, ‘I’m taking you on to the town.’
‘Thank you. Can we talk then?’
‘I’ve said yes.’
We stayed in the village overnight. There was a kind of big room, divided by a leather curtain. I slept on the ‘Women’s Side’ and thought he would be on the ‘Men’s Side’ – but he wouldn’t even do that, he went off to sleep in some other house. (The houses had pointed roofs, and the people had pointed, fed-up faces. Cold. Oh yes, cold in every way, weather and heart.)
No sign of Jelly. That was good. (I have to confess I’ve felt anxious about him – was he all right? I am nuts.)
Wrote up some of diary. Such a habit, now. Do it even when I don’t want to, like now.
Would it be any use asking him to read this diary – as opposed to the fake one they gave him. Venn did that and proved to himself I was all right. But Argul – this new Argul … I can’t really ask him anything, suggest anything. If he even lets me speak when we reach this town, then he won’t hear what I say.
I could be making it all up. That’s what he still thinks.
How can he think this of me?
Was I really always so terminally silly and underhandedly filthy? If so, why did he ever like me?
I go over and over what I will say to him when I am permitted to speak.
Then I get so nervous.
Then I want to slap him.
I want to bite him, I’m so furious about this INJUSTICE.
And then – despair.
Why should he believe me? Would I, if I were him? If he had just left me, and I was told he’d gone to be with the one he really loved, and I read that too in his own handwriting. And then he swanned back months after, chirpy, and said, ‘All a mistake. Heigh-ho, I was kidnapped. But here I am now. Of course you want me back.’
Yes. I’d have believed him.
Even if I hadn’t – could I have let him go if there was a chance he might want me still? I’d have given it one more try.
Maybe I’d have been a fool, but there. He and I were meant to be together. He knew that before I did. The glasslike science-charm he were round his neck, that Ustareth-Zeera left him, showed him that – I was the one.
And now I can’t even say to him, Pass the salt.
I can’t even touch his hand by accident – which nearly happened the other morning when we were picking through some fur jackets and mantles, in some other run-down village. Our hands almost brushed each other and he shot his hand away, as if I would burn.
He bought me the jacket, though. And this mantle, lined with thick white fur, and the long leather gloves. (Nothing for him. His warmer stuff must still be packed.)
‘Thank
you for the winter clothes, Argul.’
‘All right.’
‘… I haven’t any money – you do know?’
‘I know you are useless, Claidi.’
‘But—’
‘Leave it.’
He won’t take any responsibility for me. Won’t even let me freeze. I have to be safe and sound so he can desert me in this town we’re approaching.
Isn’t he cold yet?
He’s still just in everyday wear, and I’m already well into the jacket.
This last place we’ve stopped, where we arrived today (always spending most of the time apart – weirdly like when I was with Nemian on our journey to the Tower) is built up through rocks and caves, like a honey-comb. Not a sweet one though. It’s the most depressing dump. Dark and cold, lit by very smelly fat-candles. Everyone sneezing and moaning, arguing, miserable, nasty.
This hostel-house is for ‘Unwed Maidens’. Argul must have been pleased.
I’ve been more or less alone all day. I’ve sat writing by the guttering light, and outside, through a crack in the stone, which has no glass, not even a shutter, the drizzly lemon sun crawls from right to left over the smoky sky.
The girl with the slop-pail – yes, no bathrooms, either – just came coughing by, wiping her nose on her long hair. (Unfortunately, they all speak my language.)
‘Off up north? Off to winter, are you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Be cold up there.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘This is boiling hot, here, to Winter. Going to Ice-Fair?’
Am I?
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mind ice don’t give way and drop you in the river. Be a deada in seven seconds from the cold of the water.’ And at last, I heard someone happy here, for off she went in merry peals of laughter at this enchanting thought.
‘Wouldn’t catch me there,’ boasted she.
After she went, I mooched through the caves to the stables where the graffapin is being not-very-well looked after. Gave him some food and groomed him. Cried on his neck. Mopped him up and re-groomed that bit. He put up with all this, singing to himself. No glimpse of Argul’s horse.