As an echo of my tranquil, contented mood, the skies had cleared somewhat outside. There was no sunlight, but neither was there any rain. I hoped these were conditions that would keep up after I left the town.
Annec stuffed me with breakfast, which I consumed amid a babble of fractious child-noise. Later, accompanied by two of her younger children, muffled up in thick winter coats, she escorted me to the residence of Mouraf. The mud-streets of Yf were full of people hauling stone up and down in carts. I imagined the air must be very dusty in summer; even the fruit on the shop-stalls we passed was spattered with thick droplets of mud. The Yflings were an affable community, perhaps because so many foreigners passed through, and were totally devoid of the usual suspicious wariness found in Khalt. Recognising me for a stranger, even the cart-boys would pause from their hauling and paw my sleeve, so they could show me what they were transporting to the workshops. All the blocks were carefully wrapped in waterproof cloth, and would be reverently unveiled for my appraisal, as if they were the most precious of jewels. I was so charmed by this behaviour that I nearly bought a cut of rose marble, thinking how much a Lannish friend of mine would have liked its colour. She was the wife of a fairly successful merchant, and liked to commission sculptures. Her sitting room had rose-quartz walls, and I knew she would love to have an ornament cut from this exquisite stone to match them. Luckily, common sense interrupted my benevolent thoughts, and reminded me it would be rather a problem lugging a block of marble around with me until the next time I was in Lansaal.
Mouraf’s abode had the distinction of being called a hall, although its size was modest in comparison to what was generally considered hall-like. Mouraf himself was a dwarf, uncannily similar in appearance to the local god-form, but with a handsome face framed in thick black beard and well-groomed hair. After Annec had pulled a bell-rope and announced herself to a servant of some kind, Mouraf had come to the door to meet us. He stood pugnaciously on the threshold, thumbs in belt, while Annec explained who and what I was. Then, he cocked back his head and treated me to a blistering inspection, from brow to toe.
‘Perhaps you could tell me how I may help you,’ I said, inclining my head.
Mouraf did not smile. He glanced sternly at Annec, before turning and marching smartly back into his hall, calling over his shoulder, ‘Well, follow then.’
We did so, brats trailing, one beginning to grizzle.
Mouraf had a winsome wife named Tarelyn. She was only a young girl, of comely and homely appearance; clearly a second marriage. Mouraf’s son, Harof, (who was of what I hesitate to describe as normal proportions, but will do, for the sake of illustration), was very sick. I guessed there was not that much of an age difference between the wife and son. Annec, her brood, and I were taken to a bedchamber where the wife sat feeding the ailing son. I immediately warmed to the tableau, sensing the strong family bonding, the loyalty and affection, which were soaked into the walls themselves. Mouraf was tetchy because he was worried. It was also obvious that his son would not have lasted until help could come from Taparak. What lay on the bed was a person very near the end of existence in this lifescape. I walked to the bed, smiled warmly at the girl, and bent to inspect the boy’s eyes. He gazed back unblinking; a handsome youth, despite his damp pallidness, who had inherited his father’s features, if not his small stature. I could see the Fear very strong inside him, looking out through his eyes like a sly beast. But it was more than that, I felt.
‘Tell me the history of this illness,’ I said.
‘He cannot speak,’ Tarelyn said quickly. ‘He cannot walk, and sometimes he is sick after food. You see, he is wasting.’ She indicated the bed earnestly.
I turned to Mouraf. ‘Fever? Or injuries?’
The steward shook his head. ‘Strangely - neither. Not that we know of. He simply came in from the yard one eve, after littering the chickens, wandered in here and lay down. He has not risen since.’
‘I see. And your healer - what is their opinion?’ I took it for granted they would have had a healer to the house.
Mouraf shrugged helplessly. ‘Foxed, she is. Herbs aplenty, needles to the pulse-points, assuaging fumes; all are useless. Which led me to believe it was a soulscape malady.’
I nodded. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps.’ I sat down upon the bed and lifted the boy’s hand. It was heavy and lifeless; damp and cold to the touch. I shuddered, my flesh acrawl with memory. If anything, the appearance of poor Harof reminded me strongly of Salyon Tricante, when my mother had healed him all those years ago. As she had predicted, I had come across the odd similar case during my travels, and I had also picked up whispers from my colleagues about cases of their own that shared the same symptoms. It was more than the Fear, it was a condition I had coined the non-death. However, I knew appearances could be deceptive; I would not know for sure what ailed the boy until I had inspected his soulscape.
Requesting a lighted coal, I unpacked some fume-grains from my bag. ‘I need to work alone,’ I said. ‘Would you mind leaving the room?’
Tarelyn began to protest, but the steward waved her objection aside. ‘Whatever you wish. How long will this take?’
I noticed a sand-timer beside the bed, turned it over to begin the flow and handed it to Mouraf. ‘Precisely this measure,’ I replied.
They left me.
For a few moments, I paused to collect myself, sprinkling a pinch of the grains on the lighted coal, and inhaling deeply of the smoke. The boy was still staring at me, but I knew he could not see me; I was not looking forward to discovering what it was he could see.
The reddish-grey smoke of the fume grains began to fill the room. I removed the pillow from beneath the boy’s head and arranged his limbs straight in the bed. As a matter of routine, I quickly checked the body for signs of injury. There was no sign of great trauma, only the usual array of scratches and minor knocks a boy of that age would collect from day to day. I smiled when I discovered the bruise of a love-flower on his neck - quite a large one, in fact. It was one of those poignantly sad moments; whoever had given him that vigorous caress would never do so again. The inspection completed, I composed myself on the floor, legs crossed, palms upward, and breathed deeply of the scaping-fume.
I heard a small moan escape the lips of the boy on the bed; it suggested the fume was beginning to take effect and that, in his dazed state, he was encountering the boundaries of my own mindscape. His own appeared to me as a murk of poisonous smoke; a barrier. I could feel his consciousness trying, so desperately hard, to break through into my mindscape. He was in a state of flight. Quite harshly, I pushed him back and followed his wailing essence into the murk. It was terrible. All that was left of him was a thread, a dim spark. Usually, the scape of an individual is a panorama of colour; thoughts blooming like flowers into what are seen as concrete forms; great spreading vistas, bizarre constructions like cities, which when approached might only be a honeycomb or a cloud. All of a person’s thoughts, memories of the past, ideas for the future, emotions and intuitions exist in the soulscape. It is also the home of those symbols and ideas generated by the racial soulscape; the home of gods and demons. As a contrast, the shallower mindscape is conscious thought; a geometric territory, functioning like a machine. Sometimes I have to work in that territory but, with Harof, it was only the soulscape I sought. I found it to be a depressingly barren place. There was little light, although there was manifestation of a rudimentary landscape. The horizon was an image of crumpled stone while, above it, luminous-edged clouds fled in streaks across a sky of dark grey. Even as I watched, the panorama was dimming and decomposing. There was no life in that place; if anything, it resembled the soulscape of someone recently deceased - a place that may be entered, though I would not recommend it. As bodily functions wind down, it is possible to glimpse how the inner landscapes decompose - a necessary part of departing the flesh - for they are only of use to the incarnate being. As to what comes after incarnation, no soulscaper had been able to report back to the living about it.
We did not believe in ghosts, but for those that could be explained away as projected thought forms from living minds.
It seemed clear to me that Harof should be dead and yet, even in this wilderness, I could discern a pathetic shred of being rattling around, lamenting and confused. This spiritual essence, though small and insubstantial, was not degrading as one would expect, but neither was it redeveloping. Unless extinguished and released, thus permitting it to rejoin the rest of its substance (an irresistible attraction wherever it roamed), the soul-shred would eventually inhabit a void, and be powerless to escape it. The body would live on, if fed and cared for, but the vestigial soul essence would be trapped in the flesh, waiting only for the release of death. An unspeakably horrible situation. Mulling all this over, I had already decided upon what course of action to take, and had prepared myself to retreat from the soulscape, when a tremendous roaring started up around me.
It was like being pelted by flying boulders. Powerful sensations gripped my consciousness, preventing any action, and I was momentarily paralysed. To a soulscaper, helplessness of this kind is the most terrifying thing; it is imperative, for the well being of both scaper and client that the scaper remains constantly in control. Now, something huge, formless and extremely forceful had invaded my being, preventing my departure from Harof’s soulscape. I did not recognise this presence at all; it fitted no known manifestation. My first instinct was to wriggle and struggle desperately, break free; the sense of repulsion and fear was so strong. What was it? There was an overwhelming desire to give in to panic, and it was only my training that pulled me through. Be calm, spoke my inner resolution. Relax into this.
Finding an inner rhythm, I let go, ceased struggling, and managed to extrude myself by slipping under the power of the aggressive form. I could tell then that the thing, whatever it was, wasn’t really that powerful; it was all bluster, but formidable, nonetheless. It did not belong in the soulscape of this boy, for it was not part of him. Just exactly what it was doing there, I could not guess, but the reason would not be pleasant, I was sure.
My flesh shuddering with cold, I opened my eyes in the smoke-filled chamber, gasping for breath. I was freezing, yet I knew the room was warm. Or had been.
I stood up, steadied myself against the bed, and went to open the window. I breathed deeply of the clean air outside, listening to the comforting everyday bustle of Yf: the clang of hammers, the trundle of carts, people calling out to each other. Then, I turned and gazed for several long minutes at the boy on the bed. His eyes were still open in a rictus of uncomprehending confusion. I cursed aloud, and thumped my fist against the windowsill, because I knew what I had to do. There was no alternative, no matter how much I detested the procedure. It made no difference how many times it needed to be done - and I’d had to do it three times before - it never got any easier.
I took a jar of paste from my bag. It was wrapped in several layers of cloth and etched with warnings. I loosed the cap, took a small spatula from the bag and scraped off a tiny amount of the paste inside. Then I poked the spatula into Harof’s mouth, and left it there for a few moments. During this time, I sat and held his hand, even though he did not know I was there. Still, some rituals have to be observed. I felt the shreds of his soul tug free of the flesh and fly out of the window, pulled inexorably to wherever, in the universe, the rest of his essence lingered. I removed the spatula from his mouth, closed his eyes, and tidied away my things. For a few hours, the empty body would continue to exhibit minor signs of life, until the motor mechanisms in the mindscape wound down. It was important this effect was maintained, otherwise it would be too obvious what I had done, and no soulscaper wants to be branded a murderer.
I didn’t wait for the family to re-enter the room, but opened the door and went out to find them. Mouraf was comforting his weeping girl-wife in the main hall. From that, I understood her instincts had already informed her that the boy was dead, although she was probably not yet aware of it on a conscious level. Other women of the household hovered nearby, ready to swoop in with accommodating bosoms, should they be needed. Annec, apparently, had left.
I put my bag on the long centre table and said, ‘Do you trust me, Master Steward?’
Mouraf stood up. No matter what his size, he was tall in that moment. He came towards me, touched my arm, and led me some distance away from the crying woman. He searched my eyes intently. This was not a man to be fooled.
‘It was too late,’ I said plainly. ‘I suspect it was always too late. I’m sorry.’
‘What do you mean? Is he...’ He balked from saying the words.
I shook my head. ‘Not yet, but it will be soon.’
His face had hardened, but he betrayed no emotion. He would only give in to that later, alone with the woman. ‘Can you tell me what caused this?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Is it a sickness, or was he attacked?’
I hesitated. ‘I do not think it was a sickness exactly. A precaution Master Steward: sometimes, there are things in the air that none of us can understand. Have your people take care at sunfall for a while.’
‘Take care? In what way?’
I sighed. ‘I wish I knew. It is difficult to give advice in this area, but there have been other cases like this. Widespread. Victims have always seemed to be alone when the ‘sickness’ attacks them. Always at day’s end. It is a strange time, when the domain of the moon and sun cross paths. Sometimes, I feel, soulscape denizens can break through into our world at this time. It is just a hunch. Rarely is there more than one casualty in each community, but I advise caution at least.’
Mouraf was all for more than caution. ‘Tonight, we will search the area. If there is a scape-beast around here, we will find and burn it!’
I nodded. ‘As you feel best.’
I did not want to say that there are no such things as scape-beasts, not in a way that he might understand. There are no fearsome creatures of flesh and blood that can be fought and vanquished, but I knew the hunt would provide release for his grief, so did not argue with his decision. Perhaps he and his hunters would come across some stray wild dog and kill it, believing themselves avenged. I hoped so.
‘Thank you for your time,’ Mouraf said to me. ‘I would like you to stay until... this is over. Stay for the hunt. I will reward you.’
I appreciated this gesture. Quite often, in these situations, relatives of the afflicted, driven furious by grief, tend to shun or blame the soulscaper concerned, and can’t get rid of them quick enough. ‘Please,’ I said gently, ‘no payment is required.’ I shook my head firmly as Mouraf opened his mouth to protest. ‘I mean it. I do not feel comfortable being paid for failed healings. But I will gladly stay beneath your roof until morning, if you wish.’
He nodded. ‘I do. Now, I will muster a search group for later. If I may entreat your services again, have you anything for Linni, my wife? A potion of some sorts...’ He waved a hand. ‘Something to let her rest.’
‘Of course.’
Mouraf voiced a difficult question. ‘How much life has Harof got left to him? I want us to be there at the end, if that’s possible.’
‘A few hours. Enough time for Tarelyn to rest and for you to accomplish your business. I will sit with him, and call you when I feel it’s time.’
He gripped my arm. ‘Thank you, Mistress Rayojini.’
The house of Mouraf fell to stillness. I went to sit in the sickroom, sipped at the hot drink one of the house women brought me and nibbled on a delicious filled-bread snack, while writing up a page of notes on the case. Afterwards, I leafed through my leather note-binder, reading over the notes of previous cases of this kind. If I had hoped to find succour in my faded words, the hope was short-lived; they brought me only uncomfortable reminders.
The last time it had happened, which had been over three years ago, in Atruriey, I had been prey to a disturbing idea, concerning the origin of the sickness. It was an idea that I had banished once easier, more straightforward assignments had blurred the memory. I had
written feverish notes back then, garbled thoughts tumbling out upon the page, of how I feared there were other people travelling the land, adept as soulscapers in the sifting of souls, but perhaps not as benevolent. Sometimes, I had suffered the sensation that another had passed before me, and that I merely patched together the remnants of this other’s deeds. The thought had been so strong, I’d almost been able to visualise this unseen predator; it was a creature wrapped in shadows. Others had developed their own theories concerning the non-deaths.
A friend of mine, Sard, a man with whom I had been infatuated as a girl, had once voiced a highly controversial opinion. He suggested that victims of the soul-shredding were actually people who should have died the Holy Death but, for whatever reason, hadn’t.
‘Think on it’, he’d said. ‘All Holy Deaths take place at sunfall - as do the soul-shreddings. Like them, there is no evidence of sickness or injury. I believe the shreddings are the same thing, but somehow failed.’
The Holy Deaths are, as can be deduced from their name, sacred. To suggest that the process might sometimes fail, leaving an individual mindless, and virtually soulless, on earth, was a heresy. People believed the gods chose the honoured victims of the Holy Deaths themselves. It was said that divine messengers plucked the most god-favoured individuals from earthly life, in order to transport them to everlasting bliss in the shining realms beyond all knowledge. And gods, to humankind, are infallible. The majority of people were possessive of their theologies, and strongly resented disbelief, or criticism, from others. Personally, I was convinced that deities were nothing more than inventions of the human soulscape, which meant that if people died Holy Deaths, they had unconsciously chosen to do so themselves. However, I scolded Sard for his outlandish ideas, and advised him to take more care where he repeated them. The idea had been related to me across a pillow. I hoped Sard was not so open with all his lovers.
Burying the Shadow Page 14