Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  It was a relief to be away from Sacramante. Metatron had left the city before me, leading the stuff of legends out into the world. I recognised the spoor of their passing. Now, for a time, my father had become Harkasite himself; I might not even know him if I saw him. The Harkasites had slept for centuries, perhaps dreaming of the time when Lord Sammael had led them against Mikha’il’s legions, and the humans who had sought to oppress our race. Sammael himself slept on. As I rode in the sunlight, my hair warm around my shoulders, I thought of him, our estranged Lord. Was he aware of what was happening to us? Did he care? Was it heresy to wonder if someone should have tried to attract his attention, wake him up, make him help us? I could not believe he was dead, but if he still lived wouldn’t the Parzupheim have approached him in his sanctuary? Perhaps they had, and had found him to be unwakeable, or perhaps he had refused to get involved. Now, his warriors, the Harkasites, followed a new general, whom I hoped was capable of controlling them. Metatron wanted them to gather information and, if necessary, deal with any situations they came across in the most expedient manner. It didn’t sound beyond his powers - he was the strongest person I knew - and yet I still felt uneasy about it. The Harkasites were not like us; they were driven by a fanatical urge to protect eloimkind, but they lacked compassion, and respect for all human life. Their eyes missed nothing; they could not be lied to.

  I released the horse to freedom and walked on, without food or belongings, until my path crossed that of a roaming tribe. The spoor was recent. I followed it.

  For a day or two, I merely observed their routines, a shadow in the grass and, as luck would have it, a night came when the men and women separated to conduct their personal mysteries. I observed the women at their rites.

  It must be true that they are half-breeds, these people, because I recognised many corrupted eloim gestures in their ceremony. They were groping towards a light they would never uncover, but the passage of it was pretty. The women swayed and moaned, graceful as deer. I watched entranced for a while, although it was not with them that my objective lay.

  The men had taken over a shallow cave for their rituals. At its threshold, a still pool, which was swarming with frogs and cuffed with scum, reflected the impassive countenance of the lady moon. When I came upon them, they were stamping in a circle outside the cave, a fire having been built in their midst. Their shaman was sitting on a rock beyond the circle, painted in ritual finery and naked, but for a skirt of crow feathers. His face was fearsome, black and white, a skull. The outline of female breasts had been drawn upon his chest, to signify he was a receptacle for the spirit of Helat, their androgynous deity. To me, he looked like a sacrifice. The men would hurt him, I could tell. He was expecting that and was drugged with torpine essence to still the pain. Presently, certain of the stamping men assumed the personae of warrior knights, Harkasites, and picked up beautiful long knives, whose hilts were inscribed with symbols that were simple approximations of more powerful glyphs used among the eloim. One by one, they danced by the shaman and lightly cut his flesh. The wounds were minor, but enough to make the blood flow. He began to chant, his voice shaking to the rhythm of the flashing knives. After a few minutes, he raised his hands. The men placed their knives on the ground and, between them, carried their shaman into the cave. I followed, unseen among them. I watched them cover him with a diaphanous shroud; they bowed and moaned before his body. Then, they left him alone to commune with the host of Helat. They hoped to invoke these immortal beings with the gift of blood; so wet and fresh upon the skin of their holy man. What could I do but approach him? Had I not been invoked?

  For a while, I sat upon the rock by his side, listening to the concluding calls of the rite outside. Soon, there was silence, for the men had melted out of the glade, and gone to hunt among the grasses, sure in their hearts they were the supernatural scions of a god.

  A single candle shivered in the cave, illuminating the still contours of the holy man lying on the rock. Blood had soaked into the shroud like water into a sponge. The stains looked like a map of the world - not this world, but some other, unknown place. As I watched, the countries grew, rising up from an ocean of dark warmth.

  I lifted the shroud away from his face. He did not feel it. He was deep inside what the Tappish call the soulscape. I had him to myself. I could do whatever I liked with this man. Sweet pleasures. The body I inhabited quivered with interest. I, as a black silhouette against the feeble light, leaned over the shaman. I could see myself from all angles at once; attenuated, sleek, powerful. I kissed his lips, just once, and he exhaled abruptly through his nose, like someone coming awake from a deep sleep. Then I cast back the shroud from his chest and began to lick the skin.

  The sweet ichor tasted of paint - an earthy, chalky tang. Gently, once the skin was clean, I sucked each wound the knives had made and the pure essence filled my mouth. My body awoke with a concentrated, keening tingle, while he, unable to resist the delicious thrill of my touch, filled up with desire. My head was aching, but in that moment, I was as fully alive as a person can be, bursting with energy and sheer joy. I let him wake as our bodies joined, knowing all he could see was a dark shape above him, thinking me some avatar of the night, some incubus bringing him the forbidden thrill of unholy union. I told him, so quietly, that our communion was holier than all others, and he believed me utterly. Who would not? The evidence of sensation proved my words.

  I rode him into the vales of ecstasy, urging him onwards with my thighs as if he was a horse between my legs. Stretch for the fastest gallop. Stretch. Gallop faster than time, my beloved victim. He ran till his heart would burst with the effort, and then I jumped him through the flame, releasing the reins of constraint.

  His cry of repletion was a woman’s scream, a woman in childbirth, a woman dying.

  He asked me: ‘Who are you?’ and I bent once more to lick the drying wounds.

  ‘A traveller,’ I said, ‘who begs forgiveness for intruding upon your rite.’

  ‘Why ask forgiveness when you were such an essential part of it?’ he said.

  I saw he was an intelligent man, and pious. I did not answer, but smiled in the dying candlelight. He began to speak, as I had anticipated, of the bizarre things he had seen the past few days, and how my appearance seemed just another inexplicable strangeness. Would I vanish away with morning? I shook my head. No, I would not.

  ‘And yet, I feel you are some part of the strangeness in the world,’ he said, wondering.

  I would not commit myself entirely. ‘Maybe, I have seen things too,’ I said, ‘and maybe I can interpret some of them.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, but I kept quiet on that subject.

  ‘The tribes look towards the Taps now for help,’ I said.

  ‘Some do, but not I,’ he replied sternly. ‘It might be that the activities of the soulscapers are the cause of the disruptions.’

  I shook my head. ‘Oh no, they are not.’

  ‘Are you a soulscaper?’ he asked, suspicious.

  ‘Not at all. Would that I were, for you need one.’

  ‘Do I? By what authority do you say these words?’

  ‘My own, but it is true.’

  ‘Well, there are dozens of them roaming about. Shall I kidnap the next one I see?’

  I laughed. ‘Not the next one, sweet shaman. I will tell you which one.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Easy. You see, in essence, there is only one and already her feet are leading her towards you.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Yes, though she doesn’t know me. I will tell you about her.’

  In fact, I told him very little, but it was enough for my purposes, nevertheless.

  Section Four

  Rayojini

  ‘With even step and musing gait, and looks commercing with the skies, thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes…’

  From ‘Il Penseroso, Milton

  Once I left the town of Yf, the Khaltish plains were warmed by a ghost of sum
mer; magically, the clouds moved southwards, leaving the sky as blue and scintillant as polished sapphire. It was as if, once Harof’s soul had been freed, a foul and predatory breath that had been souring the air passed on.

  Mouraf had insisted on loading me up with goods; food, items for barter and, suggested by Annec, a stone plaque, which had been elaborately etched with my mother’s name the night before. Heavily laden, I bid farewell to the Yflings, and to silence their entreaties, I agreed to return in the spring, and join in with the celebrations of their vernal religious festival. It was a lie, for, in my heart, I knew I would not return, no matter how much I would have liked to. Since I had stood in Mouraf’s yard and faced the wind, since I had acknowledged that something, something, was stirring in the world, if not in the soulscape as well, I knew I had taken hold of the tail of a dark and slippery serpent, one which may well turn and bite me, fatally, before I could analyse its venom.

  The night before, I had lain awake into the chill hours before dawn, thinking, yes, yes, it will become clear to me, it is getting clearer now. Secure in my soulscaping philosophies, I was convinced that simply by deciding to look for an answer to the soul-shreddings, the non-deaths, I was sure to find it. The hunt itself was an irresistible compulsion because, as someone who stripped bare the most secret imaginings of the human mind, I disliked mysteries. However, the very nature of the predatory force I had encountered in Harof’s withered soulscape meant there had to be dangers - the biggest danger being my lack of information about it. I could only hope there was a simple explanation, but I was not without unease as I made my goodbyes in Yf.

  Very soon, however, the bright warmth of the day banished my nocturnal misgivings, and once out on the road, striding west into the narrow mountain range that girdled the lower plains, my spirits were soaring along with the wide-winged birds that rode the thermal breezes, high above. Maybe there were new gods up there, too, winging their way east on the wind.

  By noon the following day, I was already leaving the mountains behind. There had been little climbing, as the trails were well defined and often trod. An old woman lived in a cabin on a shelf of rock, where I paused for the night, but she had few tales to tell, other than the usual gossips of weddings and funerals, none of which were remotely interesting. She did have a little icon, however, which she claimed had been left as payment by a traveller, some days before, for a night’s lodging.

  ‘And who is this?’ I asked her, picking up the crude carving.

  She made a sacred sign - a new one - and said, ‘One of the lost children, madam, one of the lost.’

  I replaced the carving in its niche. ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘She has no name. Not yet.’

  It was not really an uncommon thing to find.

  I resumed my journey and made quick progress to the other side of the mountains. Nothing untoward occurred, and neither did I uncover any mysteries. In fact, I was beginning to wonder whether my dire premonitions in Yf had been nothing more than an emotional reaction to the unpleasant procedure I’d had to initiate with Harof.

  Before me, the seemingly interminable plains of western Khalt, known as the Kahra Flats, rolled out to the horizon; the place where nomads roamed, and soulscapers trod carefully. Vast herds of beasts sailed the sea of waving grasses, which was hissing in the balmy breeze and shaking its feathery autumn tassels; the air was full of downy seeds. As I descended the foothills, I could see the plain was laced with the darker ribbons of flattened roads, where the great caravans from the Delta Lands carried their exotic produce to Bochanegra and the northwest. It was the first time I had travelled this way, having confined my activities to Lansaal and Atruriey for most of my career. This was a wild and beautiful place, which although flat was blanketed in places by thick forest. Occasionally, there would be areas where eastern Khalts had come to farm the land, defending their territory from any nomads who objected to the Flats being enclosed. Settlers tended to be wary of travellers, because it was not unknown for nomad scouts to disguise themselves as southerners in order to penetrate the farmsteads and sow poison in the grain or water. Having been alerted of this by other soulscapers, I kept to the roads, ignoring any narrower tracks that would lead to settlements. Nomads, on the other hand, were gregarious, and generally welcoming to strangers, as long as their rather unpredictable and superstitious instincts weren’t aroused, and they didn’t feel threatened. I was amply stocked with currency and victuals, so had no immediate necessity to ply my trade. Therefore, I intended to mingle with the nomads as much as possible, posing as a simple tinker with goods to barter in the west. This was not because I yearned for company but because I sought clues to the non-deaths. If anything of that nature had occurred among the nomads, they were bound to have exaggerated it and invested it with all kinds of ominous significance.

  Chewing on a sweet plucked stem of honey-grass, I was sauntering dreamily along one of the wide roadways, when I came across my first group of nomads. It was a glorious morning, the sun beating down from a cloudless sky onto the drying grasses that were shoulder-high beyond the road. Lizards and small rodents skittered across the path in front of me, diving from one stand of grasses to the next. I felt full of optimism; the world was a beautiful place and I, that morning, was its centre. I had been happily visualising myself returning to Taparak with the reason for the non-death, and its solution, written concisely in my notebook. It would presage a new age for soulscaping; all scapers would be summoned, from around the world, to discuss my findings, and new techniques would have to be developed and implemented. The daughter of Ushas would leave her mark upon history; she would change the course of soulscaping itself. I was quite content to be alone with these cosy thoughts; so much so, that the noise of approaching people was a source of indignant irritation, at first. The chaotic sounds of the nomad troupe, moving down a sidetrack to join the main path, assaulted my peace long before I could actually see them.

  It was customary for the head shaman to lead a tribe line, chanting rhythmically to dispel any demons blocking the road ahead. I identified the tall and feral-looking creature who first appeared before me as being of this category. He stepped out from the minor track, stooping in a hunter’s crouch and warily scanning the road. Although I had stopped walking, and was standing only feet away from where he had emerged, with an expression on my face that must have registered displeasure, the shaman made no sign that he had seen me. He warily stamped his left foot, which summoned the rest of his troupe. His immediate acolytes - trainees, wise women and smoke-readers - filed out behind him, shaking rattles and ringing handbells. Next, came the ritual dancers, swaying slowly to the rhythm of the chant, stamping and turning, with expressions of intense concentration on their faces. They milled in an unorganised crowd, absorbing me into their midst, yet there was still no recognisable communication between us. Finally, the remainder of the tribe appeared through the tassels of grass, children racing up and down beside the more intent adults. Goats, mules and long-eared sheep wandered haphazardly among the group, bleating and chewing, and there were skinny, furtive hounds with cautiously wagging tails. Only the dogs took any notice of me, warily sniffing my clothes before backing away. I began to smile; never had I encountered such a chaotic social entity as this.

  Then, the shaman raised a pointing finger in my direction, and for a moment or two, the performance of his followers intensified, with much shrieking and shaking of rattles; women lamented at the sky, lifting their hair with clawed fingers.

  I folded my arms and watched, tempted to applaud, but wise enough not to risk offending them.

  Eventually, the shaman must have realised enough was enough, and raised his hand above his head. Everyone stopped leaping, groaning and wriggling, in order to stare at me. To a person more nervous than me, it would have been a terrifying sight. I stepped forward and touched my brow and my lips with steepled fingers, addressing them in the ubiquitous Middle Khalt. ‘Glad day, sir, to you and your people.’

&nbs
p; He replied in a brutish tongue, pig-Khalt or somesuch, which I could barely understand. Gestures accompanied the speech, which sounded low and angry, much like the language used by the Abomina Priests of Lansaal, a minority cult, among whom the acts of self-denial and self-mutilation were much loved. The shaman was an impressive sight. Like all Khaltish seers, he wore the tangled garb of a priestess, and might even have been a eunuch. The Khalts, like the Taps, often feel moved to emasculate themselves when ascending to a higher plane of communication with the soulscape. His skinny, well-muscled body showed through rents in his robes. Grasses and flower stems had been woven through other threadbare areas, along with shells of many sizes (from the shores of the Bitter Lakes, no doubt), long shiny feathers from the tails of birds, and hanks of hair, whose origin I preferred not to think too deeply about. After waving his arms and grumbling incomprehensibly for a few moments, he made a dismissive gesture with his hands and then spoke a few gruff words to one of his acolytes, a young girl carrying a tabor thick with rattle plates. She nodded and then addressed me directly in halting, yet perfectly enunciated Tappish.

  ‘You are a soulscaper,’ she said.

  I wriggled my shoulders, non-commitally, but a gesture that perhaps would be taken as an answer. So much for being a tinker!

  ‘Q’orveh speaks of the stealing of souls, not just the scaping,’ the girl continued, oblivious.

  Q’orveh, presumably, was the shaman. I was watching him covertly as the girl spoke. Having direct access to my feelings and yearnings, I realised this man, whether through his scent or soulscape emanations, had already kindled a spark of interest within me. It is always this way with soulscapers; we know immediately when we have met someone with whom we can resonate on a physical level. I had an itch in me to touch him; it had been a long time since I had given in love, and the shaman was a beautiful creature, all hair and quivering mania. I inclined my head in the noblest manner I could muster. ‘Please relate to your master, he has no reason to fear or doubt my presence. I am not seeking work, but merely travelling across the plains of Khalt to the western lands. I would linger with your people, true, but only to share a bone or two.’ I smiled.