Burying the Shadow (69 page)

My feet are on
the lowest step. I sway as if on the lip of a great abyss.

‘Come,
Rayojini, follow me.’

And then, I
can see, as if a veil has been torn in two before my eyes, that it
is Keea standing there, Keea wrapped in a long, dark cloak, his
hair across his face. I say his name and he retreats up the steps,
drawing me behind as if on an invisible tether. He leads me into
the shadows of this great edifice.

Inside, the
air is smoky with offertory fumes, some of them those of the
exorcism, recognisable for they are bitter upon the tongue. Others
are sweet: the smoke of visions and dreams. We are in a vast hall,
thickly bordered by spinneys and copses of columns, some white and
straight, others curling and garlanded with carvings of leaves and
flowers. Some are stained ochre, red sienna, and the royal, mystic
turquoise. They are crowned by the lotus of duality, whose petals
are edged with gold, attracting the low, yellow light, making it
shine more brightly. The boy is sublimely beautiful. He wears a
crown of flowers and thorns; there is blood upon his soft
cheek.

‘Keea, I do
not believe this is you,’ I say. ‘Everything here is just a part of
my mind. Perhaps finding you here means you are dead.’

He smiles and
shakes his head. ‘Dead, am I? Come touch my skin, Rayojini.’

‘All feels
real in the soulscape. Even shadows.’ But I reach out to touch him
anyway, and his flesh is warm at the throat, trembling with life.
Such is the intensity of our illusions.

‘Look,’ he
says and lets the cloak fall away from him.

Beneath it,
his body is naked. The skin is tawny gold, fitting like a tight
sheath over his muscles and bones.

‘Yes, you are
lovely,’ I say, and it is nothing more than a sigh. ‘A lovely
illusion.’

‘I am no
illusion, Rayo. Believe it. You think you are in your soulscape,
but you are not. I have led you to the brink of the eloim soulscape
and together we shall swim its depths and crests.’

He has such
power. Is this the person who has been at my side since Khalt? Was
it he who caused the birds and bats of Helat’s shrine to whirl
around my head? If so, who is he? Keea? A mere boy? Somehow, I
think not. I have felt his difference continually, but have ignored
the frantic signals my intuition screamed into my head, although,
to my credit, I have never trusted him completely. ‘What are you?’
I ask him. ‘Show me now. The time that you promised has come, when
you said you would tell me everything.’

‘Look deep,’
he says, and his flesh becomes smoky. It is as if a hundred soul
envelopes of the boy are separating away, peeling off like
discarded skin. I wonder what he will show me: will I be able to
stand the sight of it? The image of Keea vibrates so fast, he has
become a blur, shaking his essential components apart. The sight is
making me dizzy. I press my hands against my eyes, and through
them, I can see the vibration abating, slowing down, revealing that
my Keea has become something else. He has shaken himself into an
expression of his spiritual polarity; female. For a second, maybe
less time than that, I assimilate this, before realising that, with
a thrill of anticipation and horror, I am looking at Gimel
Metatronim. In this place, the truth of myself is revealed to me.
Perhaps I should bow before her. ‘You are her,’ I say. ‘You have
always been her.’

She nods. ‘On the road
in Khalt, I breathed upon you. In Sacramante, I led you through the
autumn festivals, and left you my coin of the dead. Always me,
Rayojini, always. The Metatronim lady you believed me to be is but
a simple child in comparison. She could not have drawn you to this
place as I have done.’

‘But, if you
are not Keea, and not Gimel, then who are you?’

She smiles.
‘Look deeper still,’ she replies and begins to vibrate again. Rays
of light spin out, hurled like spears. The image of Gimel cracks
like glass and splinters away. Something extraordinary rises up
through the light. Now, I realise, I am truly mad. What I see
before is a man, but more than a man. It can only be an eloim, but
not an artisan of Sacramante, oh no. I am reminded of the wall
paintings in Helat’s temple, the account that Keea read out to me
in the eloim library. What I see can only be a creature from the
dawn of creation, the spawn of Eloat.

If I thought I
had visualised gods before I was wrong.

He spreads his
wings and they fill my sight. He is immense. He is silver light,
clad in silver scales, which are torn in one place: above the
heart. His face is one of infinite kindness, yet terrible. He is
too beautiful to behold, too strange, too big. In his hands, I
would be nothing more than a kitten, a single bud, a mote of
dust.

‘Come with me,
Rayojini,’ he says, and enfolds me with his light. He puts me
inside one of the feathers in the joint of his left wing. I can
hear the tumult of his heart there. ‘Come with me.’

The
temple-palace has become dark around us, but for a tube of painful
effulgence radiating from above. We are bleached to invisibility in
this light; it is full of spinning motes, like dust in sunlight on
a quiet summer afternoon. The enormous wings beat slowly and we
ascend the tube of light. Is this really
their
soulscape?

My thoughts are his
thoughts, because I am a single feather in the joint of his wing.
He can taste my feelings. ‘It is just another world,’ he says, ‘but
the soulscape too. I will take you to a place where you can work
for as long as you like. It will please you.’

Where?’

‘An
other
place.’

‘What shall I
do there?’

‘Gather up the
veils that you will find; all of them. Destroy them!’

It seems so
simple. I know I can do what he tells me.

Lying back in
the summery softness of his warmth, I can smell mimosa, jasmine,
sacred rose. We rise up, up, through clouds of different hues until
we come to a green and blue place where a gate hangs in the sky.
Here, he pauses.

‘Through the
gate; you must pass through,’ he says.

‘Alone?’

‘Yes. I cannot
pass.’

Suddenly, I am
standing before him on a grassy road. In one direction, there are
fields. It is the direction we have come from. In the other, is a
dark forest. He has condensed into the form of a tall winged man,
sheathed in silver scales. Long, dark hair falls over his
shoulders. A scabbard hangs from his hip, but there is no sword. I
know he is smiling, even though I cannot truly perceive his
features.

‘Go now,’ he
says. ‘Into the forest.’

‘To look for
veils?’

‘Yes. Veils.
They are stretched across the trees. Tear them up. Only you can do
this Rayojini.’

As we talk,
facing each other, I begin to understand the concept of reality
again. I can feel the air against my skin. What am I doing here?
Who is this creature?

‘Why do you
want me to do this?’ I ask him.

‘It will
release your world from a curse.’

The eloim? Imaginary
beings? It’s madness to believe this creature is really from
Eleneon. It’s more likely I’m using imagery that my mind has
accumulated in Sacramante. The realistic hallucinations have
stimulated
all
my senses, but I must not forget my training.
In succumbing to the visions - believing them - I am no longer
worthy of the title soulscaper. This creature before me is a
visualisation of my higher spiritual self. Therefore, I should
listen to him.

My explanation
sounds so plausible: why do I feel uneasy about it?

‘But what will
actually
happen
if I tear down these veils?’ I ask. ‘I can’t
undertake a task without knowing the consequences.’

He flickers,
and the light within him momentarily dims. ‘You must do it,’ he
says. ‘Neither you nor I have a choice in the matter.’

‘That’s no
answer!’ I tell him. ‘There is always a choice.’

‘Remember the
passage I read to you from the book in Sacramante, Rayojini. Now,
it’s your task to rid the Earth of the parasites who feed upon
humanity. It is the ultimate testing of your prowess.’

Am I being
deceived again?

I hear him
laughing. ‘You still do not believe, do you, soulscaper,’ he says.
‘You are an eternal sceptic.’

‘Maybe, but
scepticism has kept me sane,’ I reply.

‘Sanity is no
help to you here.’

If I have
created this radiant spirit, then why have I wounded him? Blood is
trickling between the scales of his armour. I have not noticed it
before. ‘You are bleeding,’ I say.

‘I have bled
forever,’ he says, as if he was speaking about the colour of his
skin or hair. It is simply a part of him.

‘Above the
heart?’ I say. I know it is symbolic. Then, I remember the story of
Mikha’il and his brother. Sammael was wounded above the heart. Can
this be Sammael? No. The legendary Lord of Light and his followers
are supposed to be the ones who are
preventing
me from
entering the eloim soulscape.

He nods
slowly. ‘Yes, I am wounded, as I have inflicted wounds. Mine will
never heal.’

At these
words, a fresh rill of blood spills over the silver scales. ‘The
bleeding is getting worse!’ I say. ‘Look, the blood is running down
onto the grass.’

He puts his
fingers against the wound, and then his head jerks back, as if he
has heard a faint, far cry.

‘What was
that?’ I ask. He does not answer me, but his wings lift a little.
The thin stream of blood has reached my toes. I take a step
back.

‘Go into the
forest,’ he says. ‘Now!’ When he turns his head, I can see that his
eyes have become silver flame. I shrink backwards, towards the
trees. The force of his eyes pushes me back.

‘Hurry, Rayo!’
The voice is Keea’s.

‘No, you still
haven’t told me the consequences of this action. Who are you? What
are you?’ If he has been created by my imagination, then he must
speak.

He does not
answer. His movements have become graceless; he stumbles on the
road, slipping in blood. ‘Please hurry.’

‘Tell me why I
must do this!’

‘Because my
brother...’

Even as he
speaks, his voice is engulfed by a mighty, booming shout. The sound
of it fills the air, and it cries: ‘MIKHA’IL!’

The shout
splits the sky. The whole of reality becomes the name, and it is
not just a call, but also a question. Mikha’il: son of Eloat. In
my
soulscape? Is that possible? Suddenly, my mind opens out
as if someone, or something, has turned a key and flung its locked
doors wide. I accept what I perceive as reality. I am not insane,
after all. I am living a dream, but it is not fantasy. ‘I know
you,’ I say, pointing at him. ‘You are...’

‘MIKHA’IL!’

The sound of
his name has become beating wings. He seems to summon up the
threads of his strength and leaps up from the road. For a moment,
he has forgotten me, and I watch him as he grows, filling up the
sky. I am ankle-deep in his blood, and the smell of it is terrible.
It smells like grief. With a sweep of his hand, he hurls me towards
the trees. ‘Tear the veils!’ he cries. ‘Go into the forest and rip
them to shreds. Now!’

‘No!’ I say.
‘I will not do that. I
can’t
do that! My work is that of a
healer. Convince me that ripping down the veils will accomplish
some healing, and I will do it. Otherwise...’ I shake my head. I am
not afraid of him. The worst thing he can do to me is take my life,
and that is not so bad.

He doubles up
in pain and clutches himself above the heart. He cannot stem the
flow of blood. ‘Please do as I tell you, Rayo,’ he says, ‘before it
is too late.’

‘The veils
represent the souls of eloim on Earth, don’t they,’ I say. ‘If I
tear them down, I will be helping you destroy the artisans. Then,
the creature called Eloat will have authority over my world. I
remember the story you read to me - every word of it. It wasn’t a
biased account, I know it wasn’t.’

‘We cannot
prevent the inevitable!’ Mikha’il says. ‘Rayo, the time of Eloat
has come to Earth. You cannot stop it.’

‘Maybe not,
but neither will I make it easy for him! You can’t convince me that
humanity will benefit from Eloat’s influence! The artisans prey,
they drink blood, but for all their depredations, our world is far
from stagnant. I don’t like the thought of a stagnant world,
Mikha’il, and I am sure that is what we’d have under your father’s
dominion. I will not help you.’

He shrinks in
stature and becomes a man, just Keea, standing there, looking at
me, pale from blood loss, clutching an ancient wound.

‘You do not
understand, Rayo,’ he says. ‘Eloat’s will must be done. I cannot
fight it. You cannot fight it. My father is too powerful. You must
help me! Until my brother and his followers are dead, I am
condemned to suffer.’

‘Why?’

‘It is a
punishment for failing to destroy them before.’

‘Do you really
want to kill them?’ I ask him gently. ‘Destruction is not the
answer. It seems to me that Eloat is only interested in acquiring
power over humanity. The artisans stand in his way. And you,
Mikha’il, are an unwilling assassin, for all your deceptions and
trickery.’

He smiles
weakly. ‘Do not try to work your art on me, Rayo. There is no
point. I have no autonomy to heal myself.’

He is a
pathetic creature. I feel only pity for him. ‘I cannot do what you
ask,’ I tell him, ‘but I’ll willingly do anything I can to help
solve the dilemma between the artisans and humanity. If I can heal
the eloim of their mindsickness, I’ll do that too.’

He shakes his
head vehemently. ‘You should not care about the eloim. They drink
the blood of humankind.’

It all seems
so clear to me now. ‘Maybe they had to, because they were trapped
on Earth. They gave us so much in return. They gave us knowledge.
They gave us art. For all I know, they gave us soulscaping. Now,
you want me to destroy them? No. You are wrong.’