Burying the Shadow (9 page)

Avirzah’e,
perhaps realising he had been a little too liberal in voicing his
thoughts, added, ‘Once we were supreme as a race. Now, we huddle
among the gutters like rats avoiding the poisoner’s rag; hiding
among the simpering
beau monde
, making our pretty pictures,
pretty speeches, pretty music. No wonder we are sickening! Our
spirits are repressed! I feel we should face ourselves squarely.
Once, we were warrior princes, puissant and vital. Now, we
languish, and our essence is impoverished. We should harvest our
sustenance, not beg for it!’

Amid a
thunderous grumbling, Sandalphon, the prince of Sarim, and a close
colleague of our father, rose to his feet. ‘Your ingratitude makes
me feel ashamed!’ he said. ‘Our patrons excel themselves in
generosity. How can you talk of subjugation and conquest? Are we
not a civilised race, above such primitive carnage? I am outraged!
It is fortunate the lady Kaliph is not present to witness your
odious sentiments!’

‘Be at rest,
Sandalphon, we have our privacy here!’ Avirzah’e said. ‘The only
human lips within earshot are soon to be sealed for eternity.’ He
glanced at the door at the back of the hall, outside which the
Kaliph’s offerings were trembling in divine anticipation. ‘I
understand your squeamishness, however, and beg your indulgence for
my plain speech, but I still feel my suggestions are more suitable
than that of trusting a human soulscaper to solve our
problems.’

‘Your
unconventional opinions are indeed interesting,’ the Oriukh said,
‘but impractical. You are young, Tartaruchi, and full of zeal. I
appreciate your intentions are voiced in the interests of eloim, as
do all of us here, I’m sure, but I cannot empathise with your
suggestions. Please, take your seat. Thank you for your
contribution.’

Thus, the
Tartaruchi prince was silenced.

Because of
historical events, when the majority of humanity turned on
eloimkind, we need the patronage of sympathetic humans in order to
exist; we depend upon their cooperation. However, these same
historical events necessitate that only a very few, trusted humans,
who have pledged to support us, can be aware of our true nature.
Creatures that feed upon blood are abhorred and feared by the
majority of humans. There are many myths concerning our previous,
more visible existence in the world, but these are now only stories
with which to frighten children. But for the most ignorant and
superstitious of individuals - who will believe all manner of
improbable nonsense - humanity no longer believes that
blood-stealers really exist. We do not have the power of
soulscapers, but through persistent and concerted effort, we have
managed to affect human consciousness to the degree where
non-patrons do not question our sequestered lifestyle and our
feeding requirements are concealed. However, without the protection
of the patrons, and their willingness to provide our nourishment,
we would undoubtedly have been discovered by the populace, driven
out and killed. Apart from the patrons, we have to maintain a
strict distance between ourselves and humanity. Obviously,
isolation alone is not sufficient precaution and, over the
centuries, we have developed further camouflaging techniques, but
there can be no doubt of the debt we owe to the patrons. To express
ingratitude was to risk taunting fate; we were all afraid of that,
aware of the delicacy of our disguise.

Avirzah’e
Tartaruchi very much wished to leave the hall after the Oriukh
silenced him; I could feel it strongly. Used as he was to
commanding attention, it did not rest well with him to be
contradicted. No doubt, he’d been sure the throngs would have
greeted his ideas warmly. It was unfortunate for him that he had
not prepared his speech more carefully, to avoid emotive terms. I
even felt a moment of pity for him, dashed prince. Still, he was
foolish to have dragged the reeking past into our midst in that
way; it was something all had expelled from their minds. There was
so much unsaid about our history; so much pain contained there.
Even as I smugly enjoyed the Oriukh’s putdown of Avirzah’e, I did
find myself wondering whether there was not more than a grain of
good sense in his words. His solutions were outlandish, of course,
but perhaps the secret to the root of the sickness did lie in the
time he spoke of. I saw his sister offer him a comforting hand,
which he shrugged off like a petulant man-child. Beth caught my eye
and smiled; he had seen it too.

The Oriukh had
dismissed Avirzah’e entirely from his attention. ‘How long till
your flower blooms?’ he asked us.

‘Impossible to
specify,’ Beth replied, ‘but we shall be vigilant.’

Then, a new
voice interrupted. Finally, Metatron had risen from his seat. ‘I
find myself praying, my son, that you will not be among the
casualties that will doubtlessly occur before this soulscaper is
ready for whatever you have in mind.’ His words were almost like a
threat. I felt Beth flinch against me, and longed to reach for his
hand, but I wanted to betray no sign of weakness. ‘I would like a
question answered,’ Metatron continued, facing the Oriukh. ‘If we
concede to my children’s plan, how do we cope with the sickness in
the meantime?’

The Oriukh
nodded. ‘A good point, Metatron. All I can suggest is this: we must
stretch our time to accommodate the period of waiting. We must
observe each other closely, give succour if we can, and trust the
sickness cannot accelerate. If anyone manifests the urge to
self-destruction, perhaps they should be persuaded to take
retreat-slumber until a cure is found. I also recommend that all
those of your families currently in retreat-slumber should remain
so; again, until the problem is resolved. I feel we should use this
time to investigate the condition further; perhaps other solutions
will be revealed. When Beth and Gimel’s soulscaper is ready to be
brought to Sacramante, we will discuss their plan again. Is
everyone in accord?’

As the Oriukh
was psychically in tune with all eloim, the question was merely a
courtesy. The lords of each family rose and gave assent. We
descended from the podium; Avirzah’e was the only black maggot amid
the nectar of empathy. He had done more to sway eloim opinion in
our favour than we could ever have hoped possible.

The throngs
had begun to move out of the hall to take refreshment. The Kaliph’s
offerings would be conducted to the ceremony rooms nearby. Beth and
I linked arms and walked towards the door. ‘Should we attempt
reparation with the Tartaruchis?’ I asked Beth. It would be
humiliating, but perhaps necessary for eloim well being.

My brother
shook his head. ‘Never. Let him steam to a husk.’ He put his arm
around my waist. ‘Lilit’s Lip, am I glad that’s over! I need
refreshment now, most urgently. May we pair for the sup?’

I inclined my
head. ‘My pleasure.’

The Kaliph’s
offerings had been escorted to a large function room, where they
milled nervously in its centre, their faces coloured along the
bones, illustrating their contained frenzy. In deference, we would
make their sacrifice an ecstasy. Many eloim had elected to depart
at this point, perhaps having recently nourished themselves, or
else hastening to sweeter suppings elsewhere, in more secluded
surroundings. Beth and I considered it would be impolite not to
partake of the feast. We were honoured guests, after all.

Beth asked me
to choose a soul to sup, and I picked a radiant bloom, one whose
eyes had followed us across the room, one who wanted us to have
him. He was a lovely boy, his flesh petals yellow-brown as lion
fur, with pony eyes and the hair of a precious mare. He was
exquisite; almost too good to husk, and yet, someone, somewhere,
had surrendered him, this lovely son, for our refreshment. I could
have wept at the gesture.

He seemed
dazed, unaware of his surroundings, and I had to take hold of his
arm to lead him into one of the many curtained alcoves that lined
the room. Within it, a bed of cushions and recently cut petals were
provided for comfort. Beth drew the night-dark curtain around us,
and we were alone with our willing sacrifice, bright stars in an
infinity of blackness. We stripped the flower of its foliage and
purred and rubbed our faces across its flesh. The excitement of
knowing we would utterly drain this boy kindled frantic desire. He
too was aroused by the prospect of his sacrifice; the intimacy of
this knowledge we shared was more holy than any physical sensations
we might soon enjoy. I could not even wait to disrobe myself, but
hitched up my skirts and settled on his body, gripping him within,
giving myself up to the tide of sensations that began to roll and
crest and crash inside me. He bucked me like the precious mare; he
bit his lips and made the blood flow. Beth kissed it all away,
sucking the juice from the torn flesh, and proffering me a heady
mouthful of it in a kiss. The taste made me explode within. I
swallowed greedily and bent to take more from the wound itself. My
physical desires utterly sated, I rolled to the side, intent on
refreshing myself more thoroughly. Beth took my place in one fluid
motion. I nipped the boy’s throat-flesh, my stomach contracting in
need. Such sweet sacrifice. I told him I loved him, covered him
with kisses, from brow to breast. I felt his hand in my hair. The
fingers convulsed. He reached the moment of release, and in that
moment, spoke.

He pulled up
my head by the hair, brought my face close to his own. His voice
was pained, husky. ‘Do not kill me,’ he said. His breath smelled of
blood.

‘It speaks! An
omen!’ Beth cried.

Normally, they
make no sound at all, having been trained that way, or drugged.

‘What did you
say?’ I asked. We had all become still, the only motion that of
trickling sweat and blood. The boy’s fingers were still entangled
in my hair, quite painfully, in fact. I tried to pull away.

‘Don’t kill
me,’ he said again.

Beth and I
looked at each other. My brother’s face was a mask of blood, his
naked chest striped with red. In that moment, reality came crashing
in, and the holiness fled. It seemed obscene, what we were doing.
Where was the propriety of the sup in this?

‘Don’t; don’t
kill him,’ said Beth.

Later, we
crept out beneath the curtains. We wrapped the boy in Beth’s cloak,
having licked his wounds clean, and took him home. The way he had
reached out to us, denied his holy fate, was a significant part of
all that happened later. The name his people had given him was
forgotten. We called him Amelakiveh, and he was useful to us,
sometimes.

Rayojini

‘…
if there be cure
or charm to respite or deceive, or slack the pain of this ill
mansion…’

Paradise Lost,
Book II

When I was sixteen,
Ushas was summoned to the city of Sacramante. Lansaal had little
truck with the Bochanegran Empire. The boundary was a shivery place
where realities crossed, and strained to overtake each other.
Taparak, situated so close to Lansaal, was more or less considered
a state of that realm. Once a year, the Shah of Lansaal and his
family visited our city, to take a holiday among the high dreys,
and spend time with the most celebrated members of our community.
Popular legend suggested the royal family would sometimes don
common clothing, and walk in disguise among the people. This was
undoubtedly untrue; I am sure the Shah never ventured from his
holiday palace near the sky when he was in Taparak. However, other
than this royal favour, Taparak itself had very little to do with
the government of Lansaal; the Taps were independent creatures,
roaming far. Racially, the Taps and the Lans were far apart. Tapar
Mountain had been colonised, centuries ago, by the black-skinned
people of the Delta Lands, who were our ancestors. The Lans were
tawny- skinned, and not as tall as us. We considered their culture
to be rather primitive in comparison to our own, and discouraged
its eccentric religious influences invading the mountain. Our city,
however, was a favourite resort with foreign travellers and there
was a thriving tourist trade. As many travellers had to cross
Lansaal to reach us, pausing at Lannish coastal towns along the
way, and using Lannish transport to traverse the water, the Taps
enjoyed an easy relationship with the Lans. We brought them
revenue; they brought us clients in their slim, turquoise-prowed
boats.

It was in one
of these boats that my mother and I crossed the sea to Lansaal.

I had only
been down through the mountain twice before in my life - does this
sound strange? Well, there was no reason for me to do so. I had
scampered through the phosphorous-lit terraces of the fungus farms
and dipped my toes in the icy underground lakes, which shivered
with the memory of starlight, but I had never ventured further down
the mountain than the third tier, where I would sometimes wave my
mother off on her travels. Now, the thought of travelling made me
feel uneasy; I was afraid of the world outside. Still, there was no
use getting flustered about it; my future lay upon the open road. I
was to be a soulscaper and soulscapers were away from home for most
of the time.

There was one
part of the descent which I particularly hated; when, at the third
level platform, we had to enter the air-raft on its creaking,
swaying ropes and be lowered down the wide shaft, known as the
Throat, to the ninth level. There were many smaller shafts leading
downwards, twisting this way and that, but the Throat was the
largest and straightest, being, as its name implies, a yawning maw
right down the centre of the mountain, passing through half a dozen
levels. I was already twitchy by the time Ushas had bundled me into
the basket of the raft, while it was still tethered to the
passenger platform. It was like stepping out into infinite space,
supported only by a dust-mote, and I was horribly conscious of the
enormous gulf beneath us. Ushas mocked my nervousness, bantered
lightly with the raft conductor, and settled herself for the ride.
Then, the anchors were hauled in, and the raft swung out, with
sickening swiftness, into the centre of the shaft. I huddled by my
mother’s feet and clamped my hands over my mouth, in order to
prevent cries of terror coming out and embarrassing us. It was
pitch-dark in the shaft, but for the dim orange glow of the
conductor’s lamp. The conductor was, in fact, the only pleasurable
aspect of the journey; a handsome man. Negligent of any danger, he
leaned over the safety rail - too flimsy by far - and stared up at
the diminishing light above or else down into the threatening dark.
Eerie calls floated by us from the pulley-men at top and bottom.
‘Ai-yeee-aaah! Ai-yeee-aah!’ and the chittering reply like the call
of a desert jackal, ‘Yip, yip-yip, yiii-ip!’ Once, after a visit to
the passenger platform to see my mother off on a journey, I had
imagined these adepts of the shafts might be weighing the souls of
their passengers; if found wanting, the pulley ropes would snap -
clack! - and the unworthy would zoom into the darkness below, their
requiem the jackal-calls of the pulley-men. By the age of sixteen,
I was proud enough to deny such fantasies, and merely flared my
nostrils at the conductor.