Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  I had been travelling without having seen another human creature for three days now. Naturally, the rain kept people inside, but I had expected to see some form of life. A ghostly herd of deer had crossed my path the previous evening - heads down, pelts matted and furrowed - but other than that, I hadn’t even glimpsed a bird. My bivouac was still wearing well, thank spirit and will, and I was tempted to turn my back on the uncomfortable outside world, and bed down under canvas until the weather cleared. Only the promise of greater comforts kept me travelling. How I would welcome a roof over my head, a hot potage, and someone to rub my feet. I struggled on, resting as little as possible.

  I knew it had been more than a little unwise to venture into this territory, because it had a reputation for foul weather at this time of year. I was bitterly regretting my decision now, but summer’s end had promised balmy, fruity days, and the scent of the ripening plains had led me out of Truskania by the nose. I had veered away from the well-trodden track, inspired by a sense of adventure, and had intrepidly decided to explore lands unknown to me. I had a map, because no soulscaper worth their life travels without one, and if it was correct, I should come across a settlement any time now. I was worried, though, that the scale of the map was deceptive.

  In spite of the discomfort, I was still glad to be away from familiar ground. I felt as if I’d accomplished some kind of escape, as indeed I had. I had not felt haunted since my feet had left the western road. For a while, at least, I was free of my inner demons. Demons? a foreigner might ask. A soulscaper haunted? Yes; it shouldn’t be mocked. We are all haunted, every one of us, marked from the day of our ascension into the craft. Hag-ridden, in fact. I am talking of guardian-pursuers, those ever-active voices from our inner selves who, once invoked, never shut up. During my childhood, they had been a source of comfort and reassurance, but once I reached puberty, they turned into an invasion from which I could never escape. Even in my most secluded moments, I was never truly alone. In my youth, as a self-righteous teenager, I had privately accused the scryers of handicapping every soulscaper that left the mountain. After all, it was they who invoked the demons that snagged at our ankles, in the form of our guardian-pursuers. I could not understand why the ceremony was perpetuated; in my early twenties, dreams of these legendary overseers had often left me exhausted. As I matured, a weary philosophy had planed the edges of my anger, leading me to think that soulscapers, because of the potential strength of their skills, had to be curbed in some way, and the threat of a judgemental spectre hanging over your head was as good a way to curb a person as any other. A long time ago, I had come to the conclusion that something very unfortunate must have occurred in the past, which had inspired the Scaping Guild to invent this particular torment. And it is a very private torment, too. We soulscapers do not speak of it even to each other. When we meet, we celebrate and joke, make love and talk together. Sometimes, we might discuss scaping cases of mutual interest and compare notes, but our haunt is never alluded to. As a child, I had thought the guardian-pursuers to be very real, but as I grew older, I concluded they were simply products of our own imaginations, shaped into being by the trauma of the scrying rite we all undergo at eight years of age. It’s not impossible that the scryers conjure them forth from the murk of the soulscape itself, anchoring the vigilant images to our conscious minds by an insidiously instilled sense of guilt. This theory seemed to be reinforced by the fact that, since the age of sixteen, I had given my guardian-pursuers faces that belonged to people who were very much alive, or at least had been at one time. No matter how often I had tried to change the image in my head, whenever I thought of my guardian- pursuers, I masked them with the faces of the Metatronims I had seen in Sacramante.

  It had begun as soon as Ushas and I had returned home from the city. Even as I plodded down the road of life towards the end of my thirty-fifth year, I could still remember vividly, as if it had occurred only weeks before, how deeply I’d been affected by the Metatronim artisans; the experience had left claw marks on my soul. As I grew older, I recognised that the erotic dream I’d had in the Carmen Tricante, which at the time I had invested with all kinds of significance, must have been nothing more but the flexing of a developing sexuality. On my return to Taparak, I’d found myself a lover quickly, to exorcise any residual anxiety my fantasies of Beth Metatronim had caused. I had felt that I needed an emotional protector. In my heart, I’d worried that the presence of the Metatronim would follow me back to Taparak and haunt my dreams forever. It did not happen that way, exactly.

  Despite the intensity of our brief friendship in Sacramante, Liviana Tricante never came to visit me. Not long after I’d left the city, we did exchange one letter each, six months apart, but neither of us pursued the relationship beyond that point. I think I realised that, despite Livvy’s enthusiasm to visit my home, Taparak would bore her. Sometimes, I wondered what had happened to her, and whether her brother, Salyon, had recovered fully from his mindsickness. Occasionally, out on the road, I’d think about heading towards Sacramante and finding out for myself but, for some reason, I kept away from Bochanegra. Inside, I harboured a deep aversion to returning there. It was strange, because, as a girl, I’d enjoyed myself there so much, but perhaps memories of poor Salyon’s hideous illness, and my bizarre reaction to meeting the Metatronims, put me off.

  Even now, the Metatronims haunted my soul, in the form of my guardian-pursuers. It is difficult to articulate what function these images actually have. I suppose that, in its simplest terms, they are a symbol of the striving for excellence in our work, and a reminder that, because of the delicate nature of soulscaping, we should never become complacent or careless. If we foul a job, the guardian-pursuers will notice and fill our souls with dark despair. If we succeed, they nurture us with feelings of love and protection. I still believed it all to be a self-inflicted judgement. As for my personal guardian-pursuers, they never manifested more tangibly than as a pressure in my head, a constriction around my heart; it felt as if they watched me from afar. They were invisible beings, but I still found their scrutiny oppressive. Occasionally, I’d become especially impatient with this sense of close attention, whether it was the product of my own imagination or not, and needed respite from it. I had discovered that the concentration required for crossing new territory seemed to quell the phantoms, dim their shapes, and silence their whispers, which was probably the real reason why I had not headed back to Taparak when the weather turned. With relief, I’d waved goodbye to my guardian-pursuers on the coast of Lansaal and headed north, visualising them as diminishing specks on the shore, impotently ranting at my defection. See, it is a joke. I am not afraid of them.

  I had come onto the mainland in southern Atruriey, the beginning of a long meandering, which I envisaged would take me up through the mountain state of Truskania and from there into what is known as the unmapped lands - although they have been thoroughly mapped now for over sixty years. I had become restless at home in Taparak, even though I had only recently returned from a long ranging in Lansaal. Without analysing my feelings or arguing with myself, I had packed my bivouac, crossed the sea to Cozca, hurried down to Toinis, and taken a ship north.

  The Atruscans are an astonishingly healthy race, devoid of most ailments - soulscape ones included - so it was more like a holiday for me to travel that way, rather than business. I was hired to tell stories of my experiences more often than for my soulscaping skills, because Atruscans love stories of any kind, and pester all travellers to tell a few. The Atruscans are as hospitable as they are hale; it is a shame we soulscapers so rarely have an excuse to tread their lands.

  After shambling slowly north through Truskania, I led the autumn up into the death of Khaltish summer. The Khaltic lands are peopled mostly by nomads, although there are also a number of settlements, ranging in size from small hamlets to walled towns. The nomad tribes are notoriously superstitious people, prey to fears, haunts and other mindsicknesses, and therefore rich pickings for the enterprising sou
lscaper. It is not a circumstance without dangers, however, as very often nomad superstition extends to a general mistrust and fear of soulscapers themselves - lynchings are not unrecorded - but if a person has taken the trouble to learn the three most common tongues of the north, they can generally get by without causing gross offence. Another problem is that nomad shamans tend to regard soulscapers as professional rivals; so careful treading is required when meeting new groups. I always prostrate myself to the shaman’s goat, or whatever form of humility is asked for, before attempting to offer my services around. If the ground seems too hot, I just make it a social visit, wave farewell and move on. It is best to be prudent in these matters.

  So, there I was, trudging miserably through the mud of Khalt, hoping the land had not mysteriously become deserted around me, hoping desperately that the first people I came across - should there be any - would be friendly to soulscapers and anxious to make me feel at home. I was making for a settlement called Yf, where stonecutters harvested the earth, sending their produce east, west and south, to build the palaces of shahs, kaliphs and lesser nobles. Khaltish stone was also widely used in the construction of temples, as it was generally believed to be of the very best quality. There are so many temples throughout the civilised lands; I sometimes wondered where all the deities came from. Gods were instrumental in my work, so I always paid close attention to their temples, and felt confident I was familiar with most religions. All deities are present in the soulscape; they are as mutable as ocean, flowing and ebbing, coming into prominence, declining into obscurity, but always present. From careful observation as I travelled, I had noticed that new gods tended to arrive in the community in waves, almost like some bizarre soulscape emigration; they always came from the west. New cults sprang up like spring growth, claiming followers in droves. At first, a fresh religion would be passed by word of mouth; new names would be used in oaths, new prayers would appear on the tongues of the afflicted. Later, shrines would sprout up along the road, and later still, temples that clung to the hills from Sacramante to Atruriey, and beyond. I had sometimes wondered if there was a common fount to all this spirituality, whether some priestly wit, perhaps closeted in a high room in Bochanegra, spent their time inventing new gods and dispersing the invention through a team of professional travellers. The eastern races who, having a fondness for antiquity, never throw anything away, whether it be an idea or an object, tend to tack new god-forms onto their existing pantheons, so that most religious cults in the east boast a bristling forest of idols in their temples, each more specialised than the last. There are scryers in Taparak who have no occupation other than to catalogue this rich, ever-expanding divine population.

  Sundown was barely recognisable as such, although the rain had thinned to an all-pervading mist, drenching my clothes to the skin. I had vowed to keep walking until Yf came into view and my persistence was rewarded. Through the grey, murky twilight, lights appeared beside the road up ahead, and I could smell wood-smoke and cooking food.

  The town was flanked on either side by dark stone cliffs, most of which had been burrowed into and excavated. Yf patronised the mason god Mofi, and I passed a roadside shrine where a statue sat with chisel upraised, humourless face staring out into the rain. Mofi was a stocky god, renowned for his skill rather than his beauty, which was unusual. It is fair to say he was rather oafish in appearance.

  The buildings of Yf are sturdy, blocky constructions, all of stone, with slate roofs. I could see none more than single-storied. Too exhausted to be circumspect, I waded up to the nearest door and knocked loudly. After a few moments, a fair-skinned woman answered, carrying a heavy kitchen utensil, which I guessed would double as a weapon should this unexpected visitor prove hostile in some way.

  ‘Glad eve to you, madam,’ I said in Middle Khalt, which most people could at least speak a few words of. ‘I am a traveller from Atruriey. Do you know of anywhere I could lodge for the night?’ I thought the Yflings would be familiar with travellers, given their wide-spreading trade.

  The woman put her hands on her hips, which were generously- proportioned to say the least, and cocked her head on one side. She wore a thick woollen shawl with dangling fringes, which I would have given anything to wrap myself up in at that moment. ‘Buying, are you?’ she asked. It was neither welcoming nor antagonistic, just a question. I wondered whether it would be easier to lie. Sometimes, stating my profession meant a few long minutes of explanation would be required.

  ‘In a way. I took a detour in my travels to purchase a gift for my mother here in Yf.’

  The woman laughed, tucking a few straggly fronds of pale hair back into the untidy knot behind her head. ‘You purchasing a house for her, then?’

  ‘No, a sepulchral plaque. Alas, she is recently dead. The work of Yf is renowned. I want nothing less than the best for her.’

  The woman had assumed a pitying expression. ‘Sympathies, madam. Excuse me. Well, there’ll be no obsequy-smiths trading at this hour. You’ll have to wait until morning.’

  What an astute conclusion! I nodded. ‘As I mentioned, I seek accommodation for the night.’

  ‘You can pay, of course.’

  ‘Truscan zehs. Will that pass for currency here?’

  She nodded. ‘We take all here, long as it’s money somewhere. I have a couch you can use, if you like.’ She stood aside. ‘Come inside, out of that rain.’

  The cottage was spacious; long and low, with a large central room that doubled as kitchen and daily living space. My hostess had an extensive family of brats, sticky-mouthed and staring, who were huddled around a delightfully huge fire. ‘Such a sudden end to the sun,’ my hostess observed as she bent to stir her cooking-pot over the fire.

  I agreed, unstrapping my carryback with chilled fingers and gratefully relieving myself of its weight.

  ‘No weather for travelling on foot,’ the woman added, looking me up and down. Perhaps she was wondering how I could afford to pay for a plaque if I had no animal transport.

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said, pulling off my hat and scratching my damp head, ‘but I always travel this way. Keeps me fit.’

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ she replied vaguely and barked a few shrill orders at her brood, who moved aside to let me sit down on a stool and steam among them.

  After asking my name, she told me her own was Annec and that her husband was a master cutter, presently working away from home at a quarry, north of Yf. ‘He supervises,’ she said importantly. ‘No cutting now for him! He marks the stone, of course, and tells the youngsters where to ply. If you knock in the right place, a block comes out of the mother cliff the size of this room!’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Oh yes. Princes of the Delta Lands come here to buy their stone, you know.’ She peered at me. ‘Forgive my importunity, but I was wondering, from your skin, do you claim Deltan blood?’

  I smiled. ‘I have more than a few drops of it, as it happens.’

  She nodded. ‘Thought so. The mountains are very fertile hereabouts, you know. We can supply any need, no matter how great or how particular. We have a temple made all of quartz.’

  ‘Indeed? I must visit it while I’m here.’ Thinking me Deltan, poor Annec thought she smelled money, and was attempting to ply the local trade with me.

  ‘Yes, you must take a look at it,’ she said. ‘Now, take yourself a seat at the table, Mistress Rayojini, and I’ll dollop you a potful of these boilings.’

  I had stripped, or rather peeled, off my soaking topcoat and, as I sat, Annec draped a welcome shawl around my body. She pinched the bones of my shoulders and made a fussing comment about how I could use more than just one of her meals. Eyeing the trough she had set down before me, I doubted whether my naturally spare frame could bear that.

  Annec set about mixing us both a hot rye drink, and then sat down beside me to gossip. ‘I’m expecting again. It’ll be my seventh. Father says, when they’re grown, we’ll have our own cutting team! Won’t that be grand!’

 
‘Mmm.’ I smiled round my food. ‘You don’t know how grateful I am for this.’

  She beamed back at me, pleased, in a motherly fashion. I thanked all the spirits that such creatures as Annec existed, whose apparent sole function was the nurturing of others, and that it gave them such pleasure. All you had to do was be weakly grateful for their ministrations, and they puffed up with maternal urges like a sail full of wind. I anticipated a comfortable stopover in Yf.

  ‘So Rayojini, where do you hark from? Living in Atruriey, are you?’ She must have been trying to translate my clothes, which I kept eclectic to confuse such analyses. I saw no reason to hedge now.

  ‘I was born on Taparak,’ I said, watching her carefully. Her face lit up.

  ‘You are a soulscaper! Of course!’ She slapped her thighs in self-congratulation. ‘I should have realised from the first! Walking in all weathers, and such a long way! A soulscaper! Do you plan to work here?’

  ‘I am here to purchase a plaque, remember?’ I smiled, feeling my face fold into a now perfect copy of my late mother’s wry expression.

  Annec made a gesture to indicate her stupidity. ‘Of course! Still...’ She paused. ‘There might be work if you’re willing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. Our town steward, Mouraf, has sent to Taparak for help, as it happens. And now you turn up! If it wasn’t too soon to be a response to his petition, I’d say you were fooling me now, and had come to see Mouraf after all.’

  ‘I’m not here to see Mouraf but, naturally, if I can be of help, I shall assist in any way...’

  ‘Tomorrow, I will introduce you,’ she said. ‘Mouraf will be pleased!’

  By that, I deduced he would be pleased with her; I could see Annec enjoyed people being pleased with her. Still, for all her simplicity, she was a well-meaning soul. She exclaimed over my feet when I eased them out of the remains of my boots and not only treated me to an aromatic-salve rub but, after we’d ascertained that, happily, our feet were of a similar size, gave me a pair of her own boots, telling me her husband had recently equipped her with two new pairs. I was not sure whether to believe that but, despite my protestations, she would accept no payment for her gift. I slept like a babe, as I’m sure she desired, upon her plump, enveloping couch, smothered in thick blankets, with a cat stretched over my toes for extra warmth, and woke feeling much refreshed.