Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Stench of effluent,’ he said, which made Jevanael laugh.

  ‘Be prepared for interrogation,’ he said.

  Beth pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t have thought Tartaruchi had much interest in this dilemma. They are undoubtedly immune to the sickness.’

  Jevanael shook his head. ‘You are wrong. A Tartaruch infant burned itself to death three months back. Taken so young; a terror.’

  ‘Or an accident,’ I added. I did not believe a child could yearn for extinction, let alone grasp the concept of it, but I could understand the scare it had caused. Because of eloim longevity, and the scant need to reproduce ourselves, children are rare creatures among the throngs, and therefore to be cherished.

  As I had expected, and dreaded, our great father, the Metatron, was waiting for us in the foyer of the Castile. I’m sure my heart actually stopped beating for a second or two when I first saw him, even though I had prepared myself for this meeting. Beth reached for my arm again, as we made a sedate approach. Metatron stood, like a statue clothed in deep green velvet, among the polished red-marble columns of the entrance hall, other families giving him a wide berth. That alone signified he was not in the best of humours. His glamour never fails to surprise me; it is always as if we are meeting for the first time. Our human allies claim that eloim grow only more lovely as they age; Metatron is a testament to that supposition. An incredibly ancient creature, albeit not so much as to qualify for a position in the Parzupheim, (although it was no secret he did much of their work for them), he looked as beautiful as raw light, that night. His dark hair was confined in a fillet of titanium; his fingers heavy with old silver rings. At his side, drooped the languid, sleepy-eyed Tatriel, a consort of his, but not our parent. Our mother had been travelling away for many years; we expected not to see her for centuries. As usual when he encountered us - which was generally by chance - Metatron clawed us with a penetrating glance and inclined his head. We bowed in respect. Beth and I had left the family courts many years before; we’d had no yen for family life, although it had been me who’d instigated the move to private court. The reason for this was because Metatron had made it known he wanted another child, and had taken me to his bed several times. I had no doubt, although it was never mentioned, that he had chosen me to carry his spawn. Among our family, there is a facetious legend that Metatron’s children eat their way out of the womb from within. Having no desire to spawn at that stage of my life, and even less to be gnawed at in such a grotesque way, I removed myself discretely from his attention, taking Beth with me. Sometimes, though, I still regretted my decision. The Parzupheim decreed who might be allowed to have children, and eloim of high stature, such as my father, were generally the ones granted the privilege. Sometimes - and especially so since becoming involved with Rayojini - I fancied the idea of having a daughter myself. Also, whatever ambivalent feelings I might have about Metatron, I respected and admired him greatly, for his beauty and his intelligence.

  ‘Are you prepared, children, to give account?’ he asked us formally. There was no greeting to be had from him, no sign of warmth, neither was any mention made of the lack of contact since our return. I had always suspected he still harboured a fury concerning our departure from the family stronghold, although he would never admit to it.

  ‘In all manner,’ Beth replied.

  ‘Good. You may both kiss me,’ Metatron ordered. Tatriel stepped back, with a serpent gaze. She had always seemed sly to me. Metatron took Beth first. He would nip the inside of the lower lip, and take a tiny licking of ichor. Such was his due; we could do nothing but submit. The nipping kiss was a pantomime of an ancient, forbidden custom, a custom that was never discussed in polite company. I waited patiently, dreading the promise of my father’s taste. ‘You have matured,’ he said to Beth, pinching my brother’s throat. ‘Present yourself at the Metatronim courts tomorrow eve. And you...’ He released my brother and turned to me. He smiled. It was terrifying. I delivered myself into his arms, awash with desire, sick with helplessness; I felt his power over me. ‘Gimel, you are such a fighter,’ he said gently, and touched my brow with his lips. I had closed my eyes. Only a sudden coldness alerted me he had let me go.

  We walked slowly to the inner hall, joined by two other Metatronim, far cousins, whom our father had brought with him as entourage. Our stewards remained in the foyer, where the Castile chatelaine would feed them. I noticed that, on a cloth-covered table, a small, votive lamp had been kindled near the back of the entrance hall. Beyond its light, a tall, dark statue brooded in a web of shadows. Warmed oil was provided in a dish by the lamp. Beth and I anointed ourselves and bowed into the darkness. I shuddered and moved away quickly; the statue discomforted me, even though I could hardly see it. It was an image of one of the original eloim, who had not come to this Earth. His name was Mikha’il, and he was brother to Sammael, who had once been the eloim lord. Mikha’il was regarded as a traitor, although eloim repugnance was obviously tempered by grudging respect, otherwise there would have been no statue. Discussion of our history was not encouraged among younger eloim. Our elders wanted to forget the past, and relatively youthful people, like myself, complied with their wishes; we had been trained to fear our own history.

  At the portico to the hall, the Sangariah himself was seated to record the proceedings, his staff present only to supply his utensils. The Sangariah was effectively the governor of the Castile, and handled day-to-day administration for the Parzupheim. Normally, one of his lesser scribes would take notes during meetings; his presence symbolised the importance of the gathering.

  The current Kaliph of Bochanegra, Izobella, must have been informed there was to be a gathering of throngs, because she had courteously sent gifts to us. Just outside the hall, a bevy of youths and maidens sat waiting demurely for the serious business of the gathering to be concluded. They were garlanded in rose-vines, the thorns of which had provocatively pricked their faultless skins, conjuring aromatic gems that beaded redly upon the surface. As we passed them, Beth and I made a sacred genuflection, because we knew the significance of their presence. The crowning with thorns and roses, the piercing of flesh by thorns, was a traditional message to signify that Izobella did not expect to have these morsels returned to her. They were sacrifices. Because of this, the supping, the draining of their flesh, would be of holy intention. But, refreshment would not come until later. First, we must attend to business.

  The hall was oblong in shape, with tiered seating around the edges. Most of these seats were already occupied. I supposed that every eloim throng in Sacramante was represented there that night. The Parzupheim had taken their places upon the platform at one end of the chamber and, as we entered, their amanuensis signalled that Beth and I should place ourselves nearby. The Parzupheim are antique beings of an almost ethereal appearance and, to those of us in our first cycle, seem distinctly alien. History lives in their eyes; it is said they can remember the birth of the world, when they came through from the other place. Looking into their translucent faces, I could believe that easily.

  The Partsuf Oriukh Kadishah, a Metatronim like ourselves, raised his hands for silence, although there was very little noise within the hall. Everyone sat down. There was a moment’s silence as the Oriukh composed himself for speech.

  ‘I am gratified to behold so many of our brethren beneath this roof,’ he began, ‘and wish only that our gathering could be to discuss a happier subject. However, I will address the business succinctly. As you are all no doubt aware, we have lost thirteen souls to self-extinction. It is unprecedented in our history. Death is a trickster whose sleeves we thought we had shaken free of fatal cards, and yet now he comes to trespass in our courts. Our immortality has become a curse. Curiosity has become ennui; anticipation - despair. Our kin throw themselves into the face of Lilit’s cup-bearers, spurning life, desecrating our existence. We were born immortal; to extinguish that light voluntarily is an abomination, and one that affects us all. So, the madness takes us; so, we die. The qu
estion is: why? As you know, humanity, who are close friends of the Dark Brother, are plagued by a condition they refer to as the Fear. Eloim have never been prey to such sickness, but strong voices within our community have suggested that the tragedies we have endured recently may be caused by this unseen thing. This was a controversial suggestion, I know, and even I am unconvinced of its veracity, but certain individuals took it upon themselves to investigate the possibility, and concluded that we should find for ourselves a person who could treat the sickness and expunge it from our midst.’ He leaned forward, resting his chin on a clenched fist, his sleeve falling back to reveal a sinuous, tawny arm embraced by golden serpents.

  ‘There are, among humanity, special people. They are known as soulscapers. Doubtless all of you have heard this term before. Humanity, being a younger race, compelled by hotter and more dangerous fires than we, is often prey to madness, in all its forms. Soulscapers not only know how to eradicate the condition known as the Fear, but can hunt down all manner of defects in the mind and drive them out.’ Here, he paused again and directed a glance at Beth and myself. I lowered my eyes, although I could feel the attention of everyone present riveted on our heads.

  ‘Two of the Metatronim throng,’ the Oriukh continued, dryly, ‘took it upon themselves, four years back, to seek out a soulscaper of superlative prowess, a soulscaper who might be strong enough to face our sickness and purge it from the soulscape of eloim. My beloved siblings, I give you the Lady Gimel and the Lord Beth of Metatronim. I feel we should now hear them speak.’ He extended his hand to indicate the podium to the left of the platform. ‘If you would grant us your knowledge, my children.’

  It was not an easy thing to stand and make our way to the podium. We were conscious of the scepticism among the eloim concerning our actions. I dared not stare into the seated crowd, afraid I would find the eyes of Metatron looking back at me. Did he intend to humiliate us now?

  Both Beth and I genuflected towards our audience - ever the performers - and took our places, close together. We had previously decided that I would be the one to begin our report so, in my clearest voice, I spoke of the child we had found among the soulscapers and how we had been so fortunate as to be able to commune with her at such a suggestible time. I did not mention all the failures we had suffered prior to that discovery. Warming to the subject, I spoke long of our opinions of the Tappish child; her potential, her reservoir of scaping strength. In order to provide an entertaining narrative deserving of my people, I described the strange city of Taparak, among the petrified limbs of that ancient forest, the exotic insects that nudged through the hollow warrens, their nectars and juices. Then I went on to recount the ritual we had observed. The throngs were all entranced at this point; I was half-tempted to turn it into a song.

  Then someone stood up and raised a hand to speak. I stopped my delivery immediately; not out of politeness but out of apprehension, because I thought that person was Metatron. But it was not. Avirzah’e Tartaruchi had risen to his feet. He was almost directly opposite to where we stood, quite near the podium, and I could see that Metatron was only a few seats away from him. Most people had turned to look at Avirzah’e in attitudes of enquiry, but Metatron looked straight at us. I could not read his face. Beside me, Beth huffed in affront.

  ‘You have reason to interrupt this account?’ the Oriukh asked.

  The Tartaruch bowed. ‘Forgive me. I crave your permission to speak.’

  The Oriukh turned to me. ‘Well, Lady Gimel, would you object to interruption?’

  ‘If the Tartaruchi throng wish to make an observation, I have no objection,’ I replied, graciously. In truth, I was furious.

  Avirzah’e bowed in my direction, perhaps a little too extravagantly to be sincere. ‘I thank you,’ he said, touching his brow, and then straightening up. ‘The Lady Gimel speaks beautifully of life beyond Bochanegra. Perhaps we should all make this journey, for our education.’ His voice was sweet; an appeasement. It was the beginning of a tournament.

  I responded, as was expected, just as sweetly, with an inclination of the head. ‘I would not presume to direct your education.’

  The Tartaruch sucked in his cheeks and manipulated his mobile brows into a quizzical expression. ‘No? But that is not the issue, stimulating though it might be to discuss. The issue, my kin, is this: the Metatronim speak of children, pretty quick-wits, still budded on the stem. Conversely, our affliction waxes swift. Brave though their plan might be, and perhaps effective in time, I must emphasise that our problems are immediate. We do not possess the luxury of being able to wait patiently for the bud to flower.’ Here, he paused, spiked lizard that he is, and stood there showing off his physical power. His argument was indeed relevant; damn him. Such a persistent thorn is this Tartaruch princeling, I thought.

  Beth was not so philosophical. He made a response, speaking bluntly, and ignoring the protocol for formal construction. ‘Have you a better idea then, Tartaruchi?’

  The black beast enjoyed impaling my brother with his scornful gaze, almost as much, I’m sure, as he would have enjoyed a more tactile impaling. ‘There are thoughts I have in mind, as it happens,’ he said.

  ‘Such as?’ inquired the Oriukh.

  ‘Well, I, and others too, believe it is an emanation from the distant past of our race that is responsible for our current afflictions,’ Avirzah’e replied, frowning earnestly. ‘I feel there has been a weakness incubating in our consensual soul, which has grown over the centuries and is now manifesting as a form of psychic malady. I know there are certain taboos within our society that forbids examination of the past, but I really feel I have to be quite explicit in this instance and put to you my suggestion that, via past events, the affliction we are suffering derives from humanity itself.’ As he had no doubt anticipated, this caused a stir.

  The Oriukh raised his hand for quiet. ‘A radical suggestion, Tartaruchi. But your terms are vague. Please be more lucid. I am unclear as to whether you are implying that the sickness derives from us, or from humanity. Feel free to expand upon your theory. At such a time as this, there are no taboos concerning discussion.’

  Avirzah’e bowed again. ‘Thank you. Consider this, my revered brethren. Humanity, without our presence in their midst, would be like the world without sun or moon. We are their light; we bring them gifts immeasurable. However, should we peruse the reverse condition, it is another matter entirely. What light do we gain from them?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool!’ Beth interrupted loudly, perhaps more to stem the heresy of Avirzah’e’s words than to make so obvious a point. ‘Humanity is our sustenance! Without them, we have no immortality. Without them, we all die. Humanity and eloim need each other. You know this. We know this. Only humans are unaware of the precise nature of relationship, which makes us the wiser!’

  There was a moment’s silence, which the Oriukh broke, in a gentle voice. ‘Perhaps you should tell us exactly what you are suggesting, Tartaruchi.’

  Avirzah’e was glacially cool in the face of my darling brother’s fiery upset. ‘You are a passionate individual, Metatronim, so I shall forgive the insult,’ he said, piously. ‘What I suggest is this: we take back the balance of power. In plain terms, I believe we should subjugate humanity and reclaim what is ours by right of superiority. Then, when we are once again all-powerful and not subjugating any natural urges, I truly believe all manifestations of the sickness will disappear.’

  There was a shocked murmur, which threaded through the hall from end to end. How could the Tartaruch suggest such a thing? A sour taste came into my mouth, the taste of soulscaper blood. Did Avirzah’e really think we could comfortably become cold-blooded killers? If he did, he was a fool - and had obviously never killed anyone himself. To unleash the beast in every eloim would turn our people into monsters. Our invisibility would disappear. We would be hunted down and destroyed. In the past, some eloim had transgressed the code of honour that forbad us taking unwilling victims for the sup. Because of that, our race had ne
arly been exterminated by angry humans. We could not chance such a thing happening again. Beth and I were aware how serious a risk we had taken in Lansaal. I did not believe the Tartaruch - pampered creature that he was - could even begin to understand the implications of what he was suggesting. It was fortunate Avirzah’e’s father was absent from the meeting, for I was convinced Tartarus himself would have chastened his son most severely for such heresy, had he heard it.

  Avirzah’e, perhaps realising he had been a little too liberal in voicing his thoughts, added, ‘Once we were supreme as a race. Now, we huddle among the gutters like rats avoiding the poisoner’s rag; hiding among the simpering beau monde, making our pretty pictures, pretty speeches, pretty music. No wonder we are sickening! Our spirits are repressed! I feel we should face ourselves squarely. Once, we were warrior princes, puissant and vital. Now, we languish, and our essence is impoverished. We should harvest our sustenance, not beg for it!’

  Amid a thunderous grumbling, Sandalphon, the prince of Sarim, and a close colleague of our father, rose to his feet. ‘Your ingratitude makes me feel ashamed!’ he said. ‘Our patrons excel themselves in generosity. How can you talk of subjugation and conquest? Are we not a civilised race, above such primitive carnage? I am outraged! It is fortunate the lady Kaliph is not present to witness your odious sentiments!’

  ‘Be at rest, Sandalphon, we have our privacy here!’ Avirzah’e said. ‘The only human lips within earshot are soon to be sealed for eternity.’ He glanced at the door at the back of the hall, outside which the Kaliph’s offerings were trembling in divine anticipation. ‘I understand your squeamishness, however, and beg your indulgence for my plain speech, but I still feel my suggestions are more suitable than that of trusting a human soulscaper to solve our problems.’