Pekari -The Azure Fish

by Guenevere Lee

  “Fruit?” she called up as she passed each ship, using the Mahat word. The first captain shook his head and waved her on, the second answered that they carried animal pelts, but the third threw down a small, brightly-coloured fruit covered in bumps.

  “Many fruit!” the man said. He was tall and rather lean, though Tersh could still see the defined muscles on his arm.

  “Good,” Tersh smiled at him, taking her black fire knife from her belt and cutting the fruit open to reveal the sweet juicy insides. She sucked at the fruit, and then looked up at the captain. “I need many fruit!”

  By the time she returned to her hut the sun had nearly set. She had bought several small ceramic jars, a skin filled with fruit as well as another jar of vinegar to pickle them with, and finally a skin filled with salted goat and fish. She would need to get wax to seal the jars tomorrow. Once she asked around and found out exactly how to reach the city of Nesate, where the queens lived, she would be able to leave.

  She checked the medicines she had been brewing and fermenting in the corner. One was nearly done—the one she had promised Piya. She would take it to the man tomorrow and, hopefully, also find a person who could give her directions through the pass.

  Tersh knew little of how to reach Nesate beyond the basics. She knew in the mountains there were a dozen or so valleys, and only one safe road existed between them all, connecting Matawe like a snake twisting its way around jagged rocks. However, there were many roads that simply led nowhere or straight off cliffs, and she had no idea how to tell which ones were which.

  Could she trust the Goddess of Death to lead her there safely?

  The next day began the same as the one before. The only difference was Tersh traded the medicine for bread and received an extra loaf for her trouble. She would need the extra food for the journey ahead. Piya also mentioned he had been asking around if anyone knew the way to Nesate, but so far had only met a man who knew the way to the first valley, Kuwana Tak. It was a good start.

  “I meet him?” Tersh asked Piya.

  Piya scratched his wrinkly face. “Told him I give him free loaf if he draw map, but never come back.”

  Tersh was debating hanging around for the man to return when she saw the cloak through a part in the crowd. It was just the briefest of moments, but Tersh was positive a man wearing a cloak covered in bones was walking on the other side of the market. Tersh felt like she had just jumped into a cold river. A cloak covered in bones? It could only be…

  She took off running into the crowd, not hearing what Piya said as he called after her. It was an Ancestral Cloak; it had to be. Only the Whisperers wore the bones of their ancestors lashed to their backs. She caught another glimpse of the cloak. Yes, there was no doubt. Those were bones— and several layers deep! She wondered if it was Kareth, if he had succeeded in convincing the Paref to follow the old ways and had come to help her, but unless Kareth had grown a full head since she’d left him, that was impossible.

  A crowd had gathered around the man wearing the cloak, a very animated crowd. The closer Tersh got the more she could make out the laughter and what the Matawega considered good-natured insults.

  “Do you gnaw on those bones when you get hungry?” a young voice cackled.

  “His bone is going to freeze off!” came another failed attempt to be clever.

  Tersh pushed through and finally made it into the clearing where the man stood in the centre. Tersh stared, confused by what she was seeing, and suddenly feeling like a sail with no wind. The man wearing the cloak danced in the centre, waving his penis around, his eyes wild and clearly deranged. The bones, crudely tied to his wool cloak, clattered and rattled. They were small and yellowed, not the strong bones of humans but those of some poor animal. Tersh fought the terrible urge that came upon her to jump onto the man and rip the cloak from his shoulders.

  “Tell us the future!” someone called to the false Whisperer.

  “He’s not—” Tersh tried to yell, but her voice was barely audible.

  Someone threw a live chicken at the imposter. It had dark feathers and flapped its wings once in distress before the man snatched the bird, bringing the head quickly to his mouth. He ripped the head off with his teeth, spitting it out. It flew up and then fell in an arc, a stream of blood following it. A few people screamed, but most laughed as the man then held the bird over his head, continuing his dance as blood rained down on him.

  Tersh didn’t even realize she was taking a step forward until she felt the strong hand on her shoulder pull her back. Tersh tried to twist away, feeling an overwhelming urge to confront the dancing fool. She turned around to see who was holding her back, and was surprised to see a familiar face. The only time Tersh had seen him before, the man had been shadowed in darkness, but she recognized him instantly.

  It was Tuthalya, the man who had saved her life that first night here. He had faught off her attackers. He had dark, sandy hair and a beard speckled with grey. His pale eyes looked slightly concerned. “Don’t,” he shook his head, speaking the tongue of Mahat with little accent.

  Tersh managed to pull away but stayed there staring at the man in surprise. She hadn’t expected to see him again, though she’d hoped to, and wished Tuthalya had picked a better time to make his reappearance. She turned back to the man who was now sitting on the ground, pulling feathers out of the bloody, dead bird and throwing them over his head.

  “Leave me,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Why? What is he to you? He is nothing,” Tuthalya spoke with the authority of a commander. Tersh remembered Tuthalya telling her he’d been a soldier once, and Tersh had assumed he’d been drafted in some war, but now she wondered if Tuthalya had perhaps been higher up. He certainly had the physique of someone who had dedicated his life to fighting.

  “Because of people like him, my people are mocked! Because of people like him, the kings of this cursed city threw me to the streets and damned their people!” A few people were starting to take notice of Tersh, perhaps some of them even recognized her as the Whisperer who lived among the bronze statues. Tuthalya looked around uneasily.

  “Come,” Tuthalya nodded his head away from the crowd.

  Tersh was going to ignore him, but she saw all the eyes turned towards her as well and suddenly worried this might get out of hand. The anger she felt a moment before quickly faded, only to be replaced by anxiety. She followed Tuthalya, and they left the growing crowd behind, leaving the market square and going down a narrow street.

  “You say the kings have damned us?” Tuthalya asked inquisitively. Tuthalya was an imposing figure—lean but very tall, with a bronze sword hanging on his belt.

  Tersh could still feel the heat of rejection and shame she had felt over being thrown from the palace carved into the mountain, called the Hall of a Thousands Gods, of being dismissed as though she were a crazed woman wearing a cloak of animal bones, bathing herself in dirty blood. “I was sent to your people to warn you. I was meant to speak with your leaders, but they thought I was a fool. As long as you treat my people as a joke, nothing can save you.”

  “Save us from what?” Tuthalya looked almost bored, as though he didn’t care what the answer was, or perhaps he already had some knowledge of it. Surely people had told stories of her meeting with the kings, and since Tuthalya had been a soldier, it’s possible he knew someone who had met her while still living in the cavernous rooms that wound their way through the mountain palace.

  “The gods mean to destroy us, to punish us for turning from the old ways. I am forced to go to Nesate now and speak with your queens.”

  Tuthalya scratched his beard, mulling something over in his head. “That man is insane. You’d gain nothing by attacking him.” Tuthalya stopped walking and looked back at the Whisperer.

  “I wasn’t going to attack him.” But Tersh wasn’t certain if that was true. She’d wanted to attack him, wanted to hurt him, and if Tuthalya hadn’t been there she may have done so.

  “Well, you certain
ly won’t now.” Tuthalya paused a moment, looking at the two loaves of bread Tersh clutched under her arm. “Are you making ready to leave?”

  “To Nesate, you mean?” Tersh remembered how Tuthalya had mentioned he planned to return to his home in the mountains. She’d since learned there was only one safe pass into the mountains. Theirs paths would run parallel for some time, and she needed a guide. “Do you leave soon?”

  Tuthalya nodded. “In a few days’ time. The pass will be open to Kuwana Tak.”

  “Let me travel with you.” Tersh hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but the words tumbled from her throat like someone who was sick.

  “Why?”

  The question took her aback. “Because I don’t know the way,” Tersh admitted.

  “Can you fight?”

  “As well as you saw the night we fought together.”

  Tuthalya smiled. “Not very well then.”

  “I was raised to hunt, not kill men.” Tersh narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

  “Good. Hunting is more important. The mountain lion lives up there, and she is hungry in the spring, desperate to feed her young,” Tuthalya pointed to the mountains, and although he sounded grave, there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

  Is he playing with me? Tersh wondered.

  “I don’t fear the mountain lion; I could kill it easily enough with my spear.”

  “We’re different, you and I,” Tuthalya looked down, perhaps considering her. “You were raised to hunt, not kill men. But for me…it was the opposite. Still, I can kill an animal well enough. Bringing you would slow me down. What makes you worth the trouble?”

  “I—” What did make her worth the trouble? Yes, she spoke for the Goddess of Death, carried her message to heed the old ways, but that was of no use to a man like Tuthalya, a former soldier just making his way through the mountains to reach home. Tuthalya didn’t need her spear, but maybe…“Come, I will show you what makes me worth it.”

  Tersh turned and made her way through the crowd. She turned back just before leaving the market, to be sure Tuthalya had followed her. He did, an amused look on his face as he went after the Whisperer. Once out of the crowded market, there were few people and Tersh moved faster, practically running, a sense of urgency pushing her through the familiar twists and turns, to the wide boulevard leading to the smelted Whisperers.

  “You’re taking me to that accursed place?” Tuthalya called out, falling a little behind.

  “They’re no more cursed than I!” Tersh called back.

  They went through the gate. Tuthalya hesitated a moment before entering, and it was hard for Tersh to keep the smug grin from her face. He’s afraid of the dead. Well, I wear the dead on my back. I speak for the Goddess of Death. Death and I go hand-in-hand.

  “Come,” Tersh waved him towardss her shamble of a hovel. Under the gaze of another it didn’t look as impressive as it had that morning, but still, she knew it was a good enough home, one that had served her well. She pulled back the thick skin hanging over the entrance and nodded towardss the sealed jars of herbs and mixtures of medicines she’d been making over the winter. “This is what makes me special.”

  Tuthalya furrowed his brow. “You collect jars?”

  “I can make medicine.” Tersh lifted her chin slightly. “Maybe you can kill a mountain lion as well as I can, but if one bites your hand off, you’ll have a hard time getting back to your family without me and my collection of jars.”

  NEPATA

  PUSH

  Kareth stood in the desert once more. Before him stood the Kerlra Hal’gepe, the massive mountain range that separated Mahat from the jungle. At the foot of the mountains was the temple from where he had set out—the temple where he had been chosen to speak for the Goddess of Life. The memory pained him.

  “I failed,” his voice cracked. His throat and lips were completely dry, his skin was blistered and peeling, and he had no Ancestral Cloak to cover and protect himself with. He let himself sink to his knees, the hot sand burning his already raw flesh.

  The temple was different from what he remembered. The temple he saw before him was massive, three intersecting towers that merged into a single spire twisting higher than the mountains, nearly puncturing the dark clouds that rolled above. When he’d left here the walls had barely been rubble, piled to the height of a man’s waist. Yes, they must have rebuilt the tower. It made his failure all the worse to know that while he had faltered, his people had built a temple even the Paref of Mahat would have quailed before.

  He wanted to cry. He felt the sob in his throat, but there was nothing left in him for tears, He was as dry as the sand that burned him, and before long, he would crumble into dust to join it. He wailed at the tower, he clawed at his bald scalp, shaved to fit in better in Mahat, and came away with dry flecks of blood and skin.

  He wished his mother were here. In his youth, she’d always had words of encouragement for him, but he knew if she saw him now there would only be disappointment. He could hear her words as clearly as though she stood behind him.

  “You were conceived during the calendar ceremony. You were to be chief, just as your father had been. You were chosen to speak for the Goddess of Life. You were to save us all,” her voice was spiteful, accusatory. “You failed.”

  “I’m sorry,” he gasped.

  Above him, the clouds rumbled. The sky was marshalling before a storm. The wrath of the gods.

  “No, please,” he begged, grovelling before the temple. “Time…more time—”

  A light flashed and Kareth craned his neck to see the top of the spire get struck by lightning. Thunder clapped, and the sound was the voice of the gods. “NO.”

  The sky darkened as though it were night.

  “Please…I tried—”

  “YOU DID NOT TRY,” the lightning struck once more.

  “I did!” his voice cracked. He knew in his heart he could have tried harder. If only there was more time! “Please!”

  “YOU DID NOT TRY.”

  “I will! I will!” he sobbed.

  A movement caught his eye, coming from the triangular entrance of the temple. It was too dark to make out properly, but he was certain a person was walking towards him. He heard a high pitched scream and felt a cold spreading out from within him. The lightning struck again as the woman emerged, and Kareth saw she had white hair and the silver eyes of the Rhagepe, the same eyes as his own. From her heavy breasts and swollen stomach it was easy to tell she was pregnant. She screamed as she stumbled towards him.

  Every time the spire was struck with another bolt, the face of the woman changed, now ancient and withered, then young and flush, but always her bone white hair was frizzled and her silver eyes opened wide with pain and fear. The lightning struck so many times he began to fear the temple would topple over and crush the woman—and himself.

  She fell, clutching her stomach, her screams becoming more and more desperate. He wanted to run to her, but found he couldn’t move. He could only stare as blood began to flow between her legs. He discovered he was screaming as well. The children would die. He needed to save the children! She split open, and in the ruin of her body the screams continued. He could see two sets of eyes somewhere in the blood, staring at him in accusation.

  You failed, they seemed to say.

  The lightning struck a final time, and the temple collapsed, but as the stones crashed to the sand they were transformed into waves. Rain fell from the sky. He screamed as the woman was washed away, and then the wave had him, pulling him down and stealing his breath.

  His eyes fluttered open. He could hear screams echoing in the hall of the servants’ quarters. It took him a moment to realize the screams were real and the dream had ended. He was soaking wet, and he touched his clammy skin. It was sweat, he realized with some relief. He was tangled in the skins he had laid over the hay he called his bed. He quietly detached himself, listening to the screams grow louder, then fade, only to come back stronger.

  A woman w
as in labour, he realized. He knew the woman, a young maid named Fanten. They had been expecting her to give birth any day now. It was still late at night. It was always dark in these halls, but had it been morning there would have been a flurry of activity. He wondered if it was near dawn.

  There was something strange about the woman’s screams. He’d heard women give birth before. In the desert, the Rhagepe would build a lean-to for the woman to enter, and inside they would help the baby out. The women always screamed, but usually it sounded more like grunting; this woman sounded scared. His mother had told him sometimes the baby did not want to come out.

  He knew he would not get back to sleep, so he sat up. He was about to leave his small room, but paused. Looking into the darkness of the hall he felt…frightened. Perhaps it was the screaming or the dream, but he feared what lay in the darkness. He searched through his skins for the familiar rolled-up parcel, his Ancestral Cloak, and unrolled it, feeling the bones of his forefathers. He pulled the cloak over his shoulders, covered his shaved head with the hood, and sat. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he rolled the cloak back up and hid it once more.

  A linen tunic was folded neatly in the corner, and he quickly pulled it on, not bothering to belt it before leaving his room and going into the hall. He could hear the sounds of sleep all around him—snoring and bodies rolling over. Even if the screaming did wake the other servants up, he knew they would probably just try to cover their ears and go back to sleep. He followed the sounds of the screams. Eventually he found an oil lamp, burning in the crook of the wall. He picked it up and used the light to make his way to the woman’s quarters. One of the rooms was brightly lit, and he walked towards it.