Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  The shaman was peering at me suspiciously, flicking back his hair with his hands, shifting restlessly. I hoped he had not mutilated himself too badly.

  He leaned down to listen to his acolyte’s whispered message and then grunted a few words back. The girl addressed me once more. ‘Q’orveh says you may walk with us,’ she said, and then turned away, skipping back to her position in the troupe.

  With a resigned shrug, I shifted my carryback into a more comfortable position and joined a group of women, who all looked at me with great suspicion. Rattles hailed into life, feet stamped, voices found their pitch, and the tribe moved off again, towards the west, me in their midst, barely tolerated.

  All day they walked, eating and drinking on the march, never pausing, except to relieve themselves and, even then, the men barely bothered to slow their pace, pissing confidently into the grass beside the road. The nomads are bizarre people. Had I not known better, I would have thought they’d somehow crossed from the soulscape into reality; they were so faery-like, so unpredictable and swift. There are folk tales to be found among most cultures of the known world, about people who, while travelling on the plains of Khalt, have been tempted away from the road by nomad lovers - quick, lovely beings who tantalise and lure, who offer unimaginable pleasures and strange elixirs. These stories always end with the seduced individual, by this time a lovelorn wretch, being left alone in an unknown wilderness, generally with a destroyed mind, and with no way of finding their path home. I had always regarded these tales as being the result of severe culture clash, but marching along with these ragged, black-eyed tatter-sprites, I wondered, with a smile, if there was not more truth in them than I had credited. The nomads wore clothes the colour of Earth itself, but far from dull; leaf green, rich dark red-browns, sandy yellows and duns. They were festooned with protective talismans, some of which gave off strong and disagreeable odours. Their goats, sheep and mules roamed uncontrolled among them, as if they were human themselves. The whole tribe just poured forward, a randomly moving mass, somehow managing to find order in its chaos and progress further up the road.

  Most of the men walked behind the holy people and their dancers, clad in trousers of deer-hide pelts that were roughly sewn together, their long, tangled hair hanging over bare bronzed backs to show off their tribal marks; tattoos from rites of passage, or even metal rings that pierced the skin in the most unlikely places. None of the men, not even the older ones, wore beards. Perhaps it was in their bodyscape, bequeathed through the generations, for them to be clean-skinned. The children were often naked.

  By late afternoon, I had fallen into the rhythm of the chanting up ahead, and was walking in a dream, happily investigating old memories and thinking up new ones. The sun sank into the hissing grasses around us, and we came to a place where a finger of forest reached out from some distant higher ground, invisible from the road. Here, the tribe turned off the track and snouted around for somewhere to make camp. It was clearly a site used regularly by nomads, because the grass had all been nibbled short, and the trees bore signs of having been cut for their wood. No one had paused here for a while, however, because the black ashes of cooking fires were obviously months old.

  I was just wondering where I should erect my bivouac, which, I must confess, I did not intend to sleep in, if at all possible, when one of the nomad women finally deigned to speak with me. She was young and imp-faced, with tangled red hair, dressed in a motley of russet rags - layers of skirts, leggings and shirts - and had marched by my side all day; in nomad terms, our proximity on the march probably meant she could now consider herself an old friend of mine, although her first words, in Middle Khalt, did little to inspire closeness.

  ‘I’m Sah’ray. Soulscaper killed a kidling of ours once.’

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know quite how to respond. Her tone was not accusatory. ‘I’m Rayojini. Where are your people travelling to?’

  She accepted this change of subject smoothly. ‘Bochanegra garter lands, the Strangeling. Have business there, does Q’orveh. Has a price to pay, they say.’ She fixed me with a steely eye. ‘So do you, I’m thinking. Told it to him loud on the road, you did.’

  I was again unsure how to react, rather flustered that my carnal interest in the shaman had been so obvious.

  Then, Sah’ray grinned and pawed my arm. ‘You can share my space, if you like. Help me make it stand?’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you.’ I considered it would be useful to become closer to this woman, although I did have plans of my own about where I would be spending the night.

  Sah’ray chose a spot between two trees, where the branches hung low, thick with ripening berries. She told me they were not good to eat, which was slightly erroneous, as I recognised them as being an ingredient for a particularly efficacious remedy against lung-thickness. Perhaps I should impart this knowledge to one of the healers, at a later time. I helped Sah’ray erect her tepee, which seemed barely large enough for one person to occupy, never mind the pair of us. I dearly hoped I would not have to share it with her. Nearby, the cooking pit had been lit, and the resinous fragrance of burning wood filled the air. Some of the tents being pitched around us were large enough to contain several families; others were tiny, like Sah’ray’s. It seemed there were no social guidelines concerning whether people should sleep communally, or alone. I would have to question the girl about this.

  Once Sah’ray’s tepee was firm and solid among the trees, I asked her, ‘Where do I find him?’

  As I had anticipated, she needed no more detail than that to understand my question. She pointed through the smoke at a large, skin-coloured tepee of bleached hide, whose flanks were painted with the tribe’s personal glyphs and seals.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Do you think that now would be a good time for me to request an audience?’

  Sah’ray smiled at my choice of words; she was obviously not as ill informed and ignorant as she appeared. ‘Oh, he’ll speak with you. Always looking for soulscapers now.’

  ‘Really? Why is that?’

  She screwed up her nose, clearly reluctant to tell me. ‘The dead have come down from the trees,’ she said, her expression betraying she did not think I’d believe it.

  I briefly touched one of her hands. ‘Then, of course, I must speak to him.’

  Her words intrigued me. Like many nomad tribes throughout the world, the Khalts left their dead on wooden platforms high in sacred trees, so that the birds of the air could pick at the flesh, thus releasing the spirit into whatever heaven the tribe believed in. (There were many heavens available to the people at that time). Bearing in mind that the nomad shamans had never, to my knowledge, actively sought consultation with a soulscaper, I wondered whether I had already uncovered one of the clues I sought. I did not believe, for one instant, that the dead were actually climbing down from their perches, but perhaps one or two cases of the non-death had occurred, blurring the lines between what was death and what was not. It seemed the obvious explanation, and fortuitous I should come across it so soon.

  The night had moved in quickly around us. I tongued the wind and it tasted of Mouraf’s orchard, a cold vein coming down from the mountains, hiding fatal secrets.

  ‘Go now,’ Sah’ray said, pushing me away. ‘Before we eat. You may share your food with me.’

  ‘Take what you need from that pack,’ I said, gesturing at my belongings. She would investigate whatever else I was carrying, of course, but I did not think the nomads were thieves, so I was happy to let her satisfy her curiosity if she wished. Waving to her cheerfully, I moved off through the trees towards the shaman’s tent.

  A circle of men and women, whom I took to be the elders of the tribe, sat around the entrance to the tent. As I approached, they looked at me through tangled hair with fierce eyes, and stopped speaking amongst themselves, but two old women shuffled aside to allow me to squat down among them. I thanked them with a murmur and bowed my head, lacing my fingers over my knees. Conversation was not resumed, but a smoki
ng mix rolled in dry leaves was passed around, of which I inhaled too deeply. It seemed my harsh coughing awoke something within the tent. Abruptly, the flap parted and a youth came out, prompting my companions to look away. This told me quite a lot about the boy; he was not a favourite with the elders. In fact, his position within the tribe was immediately obvious to me; something associated with the arrogant stance, and the down-sweeping gaze with which he raked the gathering. If he was an acolyte, it was to sciences other than the religion of the tribe, I was sure. Although he was dressed in similar garments to those seated around me - feather and bead decorated rags and tatters - his appearance was somehow tidier, as if he usually dressed himself in a very different manner. His long dark hair was sleeker too, his skin finer than that of the nomads. He looked at me and I went cold. Never had I had to drop my eyes from someone else’s stare before. I felt absurdly young and awkward. I felt like a dog.

  ‘You,’ he said, in strangely accented Middle Khalt. ’Q’orveh commands your presence.’

  I knew, even though I was staring at the crushed grass at my feet and not at him, that he was speaking to me.

  The interior of the tepee was thick with the smoke of burning perfume oil, and some other, mind-stimulating substance. Q’orveh reclined on a mound of cushions and brightly coloured rugs, being rubbed with aromatics by a female acolyte. Treasures were heaped at random around the floor; delicate metal jugs and censers, piles of fringed silk, and many articles of carved dark wood. The youth who had summoned me sank down behind me and I could feel his attention riveted onto my back like needles; the skin between my shoulder blades prickled and crawled.

  ‘A woman of the tribe told me you might wish to speak with me,’ I said, because it did not appear Q’orveh was going to initiate verbal communication between us. I wondered whether he understood Middle Khalt, but then, if his acolytes could speak Tappish, it was unlikely any dialect of Khalt would be strange to them. I began thinking of the legendary seducers, who stole people away with desire, and wondered whether the girl who had first spoken to me on the road, in Tappish, could have been a product of such a liaison.

  I spoke again, in Tappish. ‘What tongue would you prefer me to speak in?’

  The shaman laughed. ‘Whatever you choose,’ he replied in faultless Bochanegran.

  ‘You travel widely,’ I said.

  ‘We are nomads,’ He nodded at the girl, who was kneading one of his thighs. She stood up, wiping her hands, and went outside.

  ‘So, how may I help you?’ I asked.

  ‘You can’t,’ he replied. ‘But I speak to people whenever I can; to gather news, to listen to their opinions. But I do not believe anyone can help, as such. We are living a shaping time, soulscaper. Our lives are moving, all of our lives. Gods march down the road from Bochanegra; they pour like wine down the road, and strange things happen along the way.’ He paused as his girl came back into the tepee carrying a pitcher and cups. ‘You drink?’

  I didn’t know what he was offering, and I had heard that some of the stuff they brewed could be positively evil, but nodded all the same to be polite. ‘Strange things,’ I said, as the girl poured the dark beverage into cups. ‘Such as?’

  The shaman did not look at me as he spoke. ‘The air is full of beings we cannot see. More than usual. Others think this way too. The shamans of many tribes have gathered to discuss the phenomenon. Also, we find blood upon the grass in unusual places, and mourning things trail us, lamenting, but there is never anything to see. A virgin became pregnant and she gave birth to a creature that was half deer.’

  ‘In your tribe?’ I was quite shocked. He spoke so seriously.

  ‘No, not this tribe.’ He shook his head. ‘Now, you disbelieve my words.’

  True enough, although I did not think he was deliberately trying to deceive me. However, now was not the time for debate or education. ‘Far from it,’ I said. ‘I too believe there is movement in the world, strange things are happening, and not just to your people. I am anxious to discover the cause.’

  ‘You think it is something to do with soulscape phantoms, no doubt.’

  ‘It is possible, but I am not convinced. I do think whatever is happening has been brewing for a long time, though; for years, maybe.’ I took a drink from the cup and it was not bad; sweet and fiery.

  Q’orveh drank also. ‘I have found many strange things in my path,’ he said, and he was looking beyond me at the youth sitting against the tepee flap. I shivered.

  ‘Perhaps such things should be left upon the path and not picked up,’ I replied lightly, and buried my nose in the cup. Perhaps I had been too forward. I could feel the boy’s attention quicken; the needles had become daggers. Think what you like, I thought. You cannot harm me, boy. I visualised a light of protection around my body and the effects of his personal power dwindled instantly; I no longer ached from unseen darts.

  ‘Sometimes, we have no choice in the matter,’ Q’orveh said. ‘Sometimes, it is destiny.’

  ‘I prefer to shape my own destiny,’ I said, hoping he wouldn’t be offended.

  He shrugged. ‘Each to their own beliefs. So, tell me what you have seen and heard concerning strange events.’

  I was reluctant to tell him. It had been remiss of me not to realise he would believe himself to be the interrogator, rather than be content to answer my questions. The non-deaths were soulscaper business. I groped around for something to say. ’Well... as you have said, people talk of spirits in the air, evil spirits perhaps...’

  Q’orveh laughed. ‘I am not a fool, woman! Soulscapers don’t believe in spirits! What have you heard? Tell me!’

  ‘Strange deaths,’ I said dryly.

  ‘And what is strange about them?’

  I had been staring at the rug beneath me, now I looked up and fixed him with what was intended to be a commanding stare. He was smiling back at me. I had been stupid to underestimate him. ‘Q’orveh, there are some things I cannot speak of that are connected with my craft. Please respect this.’

  He frowned and nodded, waved a hand at me. ‘Of course. Tell me what you can.’

  ‘Deaths that are not deaths.’

  ‘The dead walk.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘But they do!’

  I closed my eyes and made an assuaging gesture. ‘As you wish. I have a feeling, Q’orveh, that there are predators about.’

  We looked at each other keenly; it was a long, long moment. He would have nodded at me, but obviously couldn’t, and merely blinked at me twice.

  ‘Soulscape predators?’ he asked lightly, as if I was the one with the ridiculously superstitious belief system.

  ‘Acting through people, maybe. I can’t explain. But something.’ Even as I talked to him, ideas were tumbling through my head; he was just a sounding board. Yes! I thought, soulscape predators, a consensual enemy, a mind sickness of vast proportions, passed from person to person like a disease. Maybe?

  ‘So, in your wisdom, soulscaper, what do you suggest we do?’

  His question took me off-guard. ‘I will have to observe,’ I said.

  ‘Mmm, we don’t know what to do either,’ he answered, with a kindly smile.

  Q’orveh was handsome. I wanted him, and even once he’d made it clear our business was over for the time being, I hung around making light conversation in the hope that he would reciprocate. My own voice sounded ludicrous in my ears as I asked him pointless questions about sheep and mules. He must have been aware of my intentions, but I could not work out what he was thinking. He took time to consider his answers, no matter how banal the enquiry. Perhaps he was mocking me. I know the limits and strengths of my own power, and how to exert it to kindle desire, but all my attempts to use it on Q’orveh just seemed to fizzle out. Maybe there was another, somewhere; someone whose claim could not be breached. I doubted strongly whether it was the female acolyte fawning over his body, or even the silent, deadly youth at my back, whom I had surmised Q’orveh feared in some way.

&n
bsp; Disappointed with him and myself I eventually abandoned my efforts and took my leave. Q’orveh said we would have to talk again at some other time. We would indeed. I had hoped that I’d be spending the night in Q’orveh’s tent, but now I’d have to take advantage of Sah’ray’s offer, after all. A pity. It left a sour taste in my mouth as I ducked out of the shaman’s tent and into the clear night. I inhaled deeply. Was I losing my touch? Two failures, in such quick succession, did not rest easy with me. Admittedly, there was nothing I could have done about Harof, but I had never been unsuccessful in a seduction attempt before.

  I paused outside the tent before making my way back to Sah’ray. I needed time to indulge in a little analysis of my conversation with Q’orveh.

  Then, a voice came up out of nowhere and hissed intimately in my ear, cruel as truth. ‘He cannot please women. You were wasting your time.’

  I jumped and looked round swiftly. The silent youth had crept out of the tent behind me. He must have stood and watched me for several moments before hissing at me. I shuddered involuntarily.

  ‘How assiduously you defend your territory,’ I said, quite sharply. A strong smell of ambergris emanated from his body; surely not a perfume the nomads could have access to. I doubted whether they had much of value to barter.

  He shrugged. ‘Not mine - just a park to wander through, that I enjoy from time to time.’

  I had no answer for that. The youth snickered in the darkness. ‘You want a man? Find one in your soulscape, sister.’ Then, he was gone.