Burying the Shadow

by Storm Constantine

  ‘Has nobody visited them at all before now?’ I asked.

  ‘They are left in peace,’ Metatron said.

  ‘They are abandoned!’ I corrected.

  Metatron raised an eyebrow at the tone of my voice. ‘I have told you all I know,’ he said. ‘Now, I think that it is time, beloved daughter, for you to do a little explaining of your own, don’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you can begin with what Beth has been getting up to with Avirzah’e Tartaruchi,’ he said.

  Canto Four

  Section One

  Gimel

  ‘…what can be worse than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned in this abhorred deep to utter woe…’

  Paradise Lost, Book II

  Passage can be taken on the Saranan Canal, northeast out of Sacramante. Long before the boundary with the Strangeling is reached, the waterway slopes towards the west. It is used mainly by traders, transporting heavy goods from southern Bochanegran ports. For travellers like ourselves, it provided a means of travelling eastwards swiftly; the passenger wheel-boats were renowned for their speed as much as their eccentric design.

  I questioned the wisdom of Sammael travelling abroad so soon after his emergence from the tower. He trembled in the open air, something he sought to conceal. Metatron, at Sammael’s suggestion, had reawoken the Harkasite, Pahadron. I think my father was less than happy to be travelling with one of these creatures again so soon; both Metatron and I envisaged Pahadron’s dour, silent presence would make the journey oppressive. As for myself, I had no desire whatsoever to visit the ruin in the Strangeling, but as I was so inextricably entwined in this convoluted web of dilemmas, I could only abandon any resistance; struggling would merely bind me more tightly within the sticky threads.

  Metatron had commissioned a wheel-boat for us, which would leave at dawn the next day. Metatron claimed he did not want to squander time, but I wondered whether he trusted his own ability (never mind Sammael’s or my own) to face up to what we might discover in the Strangeling.

  The previous day, Sammael and I had remained in Metatron’s company until a late hour, although I had been little more than a weary listener to the others’ conversation. I was preoccupied by the terrible images my mind was continually conjuring up, concerning the ancient eloim and my own, distant fate. I tried to imagine my father as withered and demented, unable to stem the obscene idea. Surely, death would be preferable. If I saw Metatron like that, or Beth, or any of my dear friends, I would want to end their misery and kill them. Certainly, I would prefer someone to perform that duty for me. Did the madness creep up on you insidiously, so you did not notice, or were there periods of lunacy interspersed with saner moments, when the mind lamented its slow destruction? As an ancient, would I still possess the wit to destroy myself before it was too late?

  Noticing my preoccupation, and perhaps guessing its cause, Metatron sometimes made a point of asking for my opinion, to which I responded as best I could, but all I could think about at the time was the wretched future awaiting me, the death that is not death. When I was not tormenting myself with thoughts about senility, grotesque fantasies of dissolution and decay clung to my inner eye; I could not banish them. This is retribution, I thought, we have deserved this. We are falling...

  I wanted to contact Beth, I needed him, but Metatron, without actually saying anything, made it abundantly clear I was not to leave his company that evening. Perhaps he had intuited my intentions. I had told him the simple truth about Avirzah’e and Beth; his reaction, as had come to be a common feature with my father, was tinged with unsuspected nuances. I detected jealousy, I was sure of it, as well as outrage and concern.

  ‘My lovely Beth,’ he said. ‘Weak as a motherless cub, so easily tamed.’

  He held me responsible for Beth’s defection, I’m sure, although the rebuke never spread further than the cold heart of his gaze.

  Eventually, while Sammael and my father examined some old maps of the Strangeling, I managed to scribble a note for Beth, which I requested one of the Metatronim servitors to deliver to the Tartaruchi court. I supposed that Beth would still be there. Wary of who might intercept the missive, and read it, I kept my sentiments brief and vague, trusting Beth might be able to read the message between the lines.

  I let the past out of the Tower, I wrote, and it is taking me to the Strangeling. Did I betray you, Beth? I should be with you, but I was afraid. I understand your actions, now; I have been in your place. Await my return from the east; if you are still with Tartaruchi, I will call on you. Extend your will for me. I love you, Gimel.

  He might not understand the message.

  That night, even though I was physically and emotionally exhausted, I spent a short time trying to contact Rayojini. If I could not be with Beth, perhaps I could find some comfort in being close to her, however subjectively. She had already reached the Strangeling; I found her wandering about at night in an empty street, in a ruined city. Perhaps the intensity of the feelings I had withstood that day had honed my perceptions, but never had I experienced such intimacy with my soulscaper. It really felt as if I was with her, in the flesh, walking along an empty street, conversing. And the conversation came so easily. It felt like when you desire another person, and are unsure whether they return your feelings and then, finally, confessions are made, the secrets are aired, and communication takes place. You feel light-headed because your trembling hopes have been realised. Still, I was perplexed to discover she believed I’d physically attacked her in Khalt. Why would she think that? At that point, the link seemed to weaken and eventually, I lost her completely, but not before I was able to reassure her I would never harm her. I hope she believed me.

  Metatron’s carriage arrived in the grey hour before dawn, to take Sammael and I to the Sacramantan marina. Tamaris and Ramiz bundled us into our travelling coats, and dragged our luggage out of the house. Metatron’s white face peered at me round the carriage window drapes. Beyond him, I could see a bulky shadow. A quick glance at Sammael confirmed my thoughts.

  ‘I see Metatron has our friend, Pahadron, with him,’ he said cheerily.

  I could see nothing to be cheerful about. To make matters worse, I had to sit opposite the creature. He was exceptionally tall, the crown of his wide-brimmed hat brushing the carriage roof, and beneath his long, dark coat, he was dressed in leather. He sat with bowed head, for which I was grateful. I did not want to risk catching his eye.

  A vague mist was about, hugging the green water of the canal and curling delicately like seeking fingers around the hulls of the boats rubbing together in the shadow of the builder’s yard. The air was full of the resin they used to coat the wood, and the tang of freshly cut timber. Already, the yard glowed with light; the boat-builders began work early. We must have looked a suspicious covey, nervously hovering in the yard. Pahadron stood behind Metatron like an animated statue; I had not yet heard him speak a word. Like the Harkasite, Metatron was also wearing a lemniscate hat, which hid his face, and Sammael and I wore hooded winter coats. The heavy garments were more for protection against the weather than disguise, but I still felt it looked as if we were embarking on illicit business, hooded against prying eyes.

  The yardmaster squinted narrowly at us as Metatron explained why we were there. ‘The Cazales aren’t here yet,’ the yardmaster told us, frostily. ‘They own the boat you’ve hired. You’ll have to wait.’ His unwelcoming manner suggested that the Mervantes crisis, and its consequences, were still unresolved among non-patrons.

  ‘May we wait on the bank?’ Metatron asked.

  ‘No reason why not.’ The yardmaster’s tone implied there must be a host of reasons to the contrary, but he still opened up the yard gates so we could gain access to the towpath. The canal looked thick and sluggish in the eerie light. ‘Perhaps we should have used the underground way from Sammael’s tower,’ I said.

  ‘Too slow,’ Metatron responded. ‘This is the swiftest method of travel. We
shall hire horses when the canal turns west.’

  Soon afterwards, three youths came noisily along the road to the marina, and announced themselves as the Cazales brothers. Metatron conducted a few minutes haggling about the price of passage, and appeared to come to an arrangement satisfactory to all parties. The Cazales took Metatron’s money and helped us board their craft. Our small amount of luggage caused comment, which we studiously ignored. Canal boats are bizarre and ungainly in appearance, being driven by huge water wheels. The wheels are man-powered; a strong crew can pedal at astonishing speeds. In the summer months, there are often races up and down the city stretch of the canal, and the teams can show off their prowess. Our little boat, named Serenita, had several victors’ wreaths painted onto her hull. Metatron had obviously researched which was the fastest team for hire.

  There was a small, but comfortable cabin, in which Sammael sought the darkest corner and sat hunched up like a constrained long-limbed animal, looking out of the port. Metatron, perhaps to make sure the best speed was maintained, stationed himself out on the cramped deck, where he could keep an eye on the pedal-house. Pahadron remained silently at Metatron’s side. I had no wish to shiver in the damp air, nor experience more of the Harkasite’s wordless, sinister presence than necessary, and followed Sammael into the cabin, closing the door tight behind me. I had brought a book with me to pass the time and sat on a couch to read. I heard one of the Cazales boys begin to chant out a rhythm, and soon the Serenita began cutting her way through the water, northeast.

  I tried to concentrate on the pages of my book, but it was impossible. The light was dim in the cabin, and my head was too full of hectic thoughts to concentrate. The text swam before my eyes. I kept trying to convince myself that Metatron had unravelled the puzzle of what was happening to the eloim, but I couldn’t truly believe it. It seemed that, ever since I had entered the Tower of Bale, a kind of craziness had taken over my life. I no longer felt in control. The order and rhythm of living, even my longest-held beliefs, had been totally disrupted, and the discovery that the Strangeling concealed discarded ancient relatives was not only upsetting, but also somehow irritating. I did not need this extra dilemma to worry about. It was possible the ancient eloim had come to resent their younger relatives who had bundled them off into exile so callously. If my family did that to me, I would be furious. Perhaps, in a frenzy of revenge, the ancients themselves had polluted eloim consciousness with self-destructive urges. And yet, in thinking that, I was perhaps being too severe. It was equally possible that, if the ancient eloim were responsible for the sickness, their intentions might be more honourable than revenge. They might simply be trying to spare any more of their race the torment of dissolution without the release of physical death. How would they receive us? Could they even perceive us as individuals? Were they dangerous? Could they harm us? I had asked these questions aloud the previous evening, but had extracted no satisfactory answers from either Sammael or my father. They did not seem to share my wariness.

  The Cazales brothers were tireless, and kept up their rhythmic chanting and pedalling without faltering. By mid-morning, we were in open country, where vineyards sloped away from the canal banks to either side. People carrying huge panniers walked up and down the rows of vines, plucking down the ripe grapes. They waved cheerfully to the Serenita as she passed them. Occasionally, other canal traffic appeared from the east; narrow boats carrying northern goods, other pedal-boats with passengers and small cargoes. Bells were rung in greeting as the vessels passed each other. If I had been travelling for any other reason than I was, I might have enjoyed the journey immensely. Perhaps one day....

  Sammael had closed his eyes soon after we’d left Sacramante, and had not opened them again, although I did not think he was asleep. I watched him steadily, still finding it difficult to accept who and what he was. Mikha‘il’s brother; he had been spawned in an entirely different world to the one I knew. I realised that, even despite a dim acceptance of our history, until very recently I had believed Earth to be the only reality. Sammael made me feel more human than I ever had; it made me realise just how much I had become, or had perhaps always been, a child of Earth. I was filled with a quick swell of love - for humanity, for the world, for all my people. In a moment of total, unrealistic optimism, I was convinced that everything was going to resolve itself. We would go on from this moment, stronger, renewed, and more flexible. The clouds would dissipate; confusing issues would become clear; the answer would be emblazoned in light across the sky. Sammael: I wanted to touch him. I wanted to talk about hope. I let him pretend to sleep, unmolested.

  We travelled the Saranan for two and a half days, pausing each evening at a canal-side hostelry to sleep. Metatron slept with the Harkasite in his room. It did cross my mind that this was perhaps for more than simple protection. On the second day, I met the dreaded Pahadron as I came out of my room. It was the first time I had seen him without his coat and hat. What I saw quite surprised me, but not in the way I had feared. His face had a peculiar shape, as if someone had grabbed the skin of his scalp and pulled his features upwards. This was not repellent, but strangely attractive. His long thin nose had extremely flared nostrils, and his cheekbones were high and sharp. His eyes and brows slanted up towards the temples, and the eyes themselves were long, narrow and almond-shaped, the pupils unusually wide and densely black. His hair was drawn severely back from his face, but fell down from his crown, where it was tied, in glossy black waves. He was so tall, his limbs looked unnaturally long; his hands seemed twice as long as my father’s, the fingers almost like tentacles. My mouth must have hung open - he looked so alien - because this apparition actually smiled at me. I was so surprised, I didn’t know how to react and by the time I’d recovered my wits, he’d passed me and gone downstairs. My father appeared soon afterwards.

  ‘Why, Gimel my dear, what is the matter? You are staring at me like a sleepwalker!’ he said.

  ‘The Harkasite,’ I said.

  Metatron grinned, and reached to touch my face. ‘Breakfast?’ he said. He put a hand beneath my elbow and guided me towards the stairs of the inn.

  ‘You were afraid of him,’ I said. ‘When Sammael suggested Pahadron, you were afraid.’

  ‘I still am,’ Metatron replied. ‘As any sensible person should.’

  ‘You don’t look afraid.’ I gave him a meaningful glance.

  ‘Sometimes fear has its pleasures,’ he said.

  I shook my head in exasperation. ‘And I wonder what our kind hosts, in this establishment, make of gentle Pahadron!’

  ‘I have already explained his unfortunate condition to the inn-keeper’s wife,’ Metatron said airily. ‘She was most sympathetic. I told her it was the result of a birth defect, which caused gigantism and distortion of features.’

  ‘You are ingenious! Won’t the inn people be suspicious if we don’t eat a full breakfast though?’ I asked. ‘What shall we do about that?’

  ‘I have ordered bowls of boiled, honeyed milk,’ Metatron said. ‘And have implied we are of a religious persuasion which adopts an eccentric diet.’

  He seemed to have thought of everything.

  The countryside was changing; mountains could be seen in the distance, and the air smelled of ripening fruits and mown hay. We eventually said farewell to the Cazales in the small town of Madyana, where the canal widened into a vast, artificial lake. Here, Metatron inspected the town’s two livery stables and hired us the fittest horses he could find. This was not a part of the journey I was looking forward to. Although Beth and I had often gone riding in the atelier parks, I had never sat on a horse for longer than a couple of hours, and knew how cruel this form of transport could be to the thighs and buttocks of the unseasoned rider. Sammael too confessed he felt dubious about his equestrian prowess. Metatron, who sometimes looks more at home astride a horse than seated in his own court, had little patience with our complaints. The horses themselves looked us up and down with alarmingly intelligent eyes, and seemed to
assess Sammael and myself as easily controlled from the first moment. They were sleek animals, corned up and eager to run.

  Metatron insisted that we keep to a steady, moderately fast gait; the horses responded best to an even rhythm and more ground would be covered that way than by sporadic fast galloping, followed by long periods of walking. We took the old road east out of the town, Pahadron riding in the rear. Little time, little time, little time, sang the rhythm of the pounding hooves. The land smelled of autumn smoke, mingled with the perfume of the grape, heavy on the vines and the aroma of honeyed apples, weighing down the boughs of the orchards. Clouds of fragrant smoke poured across the road from the fires of stubble in the fields, and the pyres of superfluous or damaged crops. We rode like ghosts through the curling grey plumes. Figures stood still and silent beside the fires, mere silhouettes, watching our swift passage. Nobody waved.

  After the first afternoon’s ride, my thighs, as I had dreaded, were almost raw and Sammael too complained of discomfort. We stopped for the night at a small hostelry where we were able to obtain liniment for our bruises. I applied the ointment in the privacy of my room and lay on my stomach to sleep. Everything seemed to have become unreal. I was conscious of the space between the Strangeling and myself, and how it was diminishing so quickly - too quickly. I still did not feel ready to confront whatever we might find there.

  We passed over the invisible boundary quite early in the morning. I had never visited the Strangeling before and, in the normal course of events, would never have expected to. Once we had crossed the line that separated this unpredictable land from the normal world, I began to understand its symbolic nature. There was a weird beauty in the tumbled shapes beside the old road, and a kind of dignity. We kept on the eastern road, and occasionally human inhabitants of the place would jump out of concealment to run alongside us, leaping and catcalling. These were not wholly innocent creatures.