Echoes of the Goddess: Tales of Terror and Wonder from the End of Time (2 page)

There was a tiny portion of his mind which was not involved in the song, which could analyze the wonder which had settled upon him; and this portion looked out through his eyes and beheld the landscape.

A light, which was not a reflection of a star, appeared in the middle of the river, and began to drift to the nearer bank, a point of faint blue, with a hint of rosy pink, the color of the twilight that precedes the sunrise. Then it moved onto the shore, a little larger, yet no more distinct; definitely approaching him. As it climbed the hillside it brightened. All this while he sang, his fingers dancing over the strings. That detached, calculating part of his mind remarked,
As if a fisherman had caught the sun on his hook and were reeling it in.

More intense grew the light, and still Ain sang, unafraid. The moment of transition was imperceptible, but there was a distinct moment in which only a growing bubble of light drifted up the slope and another in which a procession of figures moved slowly and gracefully within an illuminated sphere.

Still he sang.

He had never seen such people before. There were knights in plumed helmets and golden armor, bearing lances with flowers on their tips instead of blades. An old man, robed in white, led the group, bearing in one hand an ivory staff from which auroras flickered. There were tall musicians too, not all of them human, some with lacy wings that they could beat in time, or with four arms, enabling them to play upon the tambang and the zootibar and other unearthly instruments. One had a face like an elephant, with lips extended a full arm’s length in front of the face, forming a trumpet. At last came she for whom all this was an entourage, beside whom all paled into drabness, a lady clad in a gown of woven light, the burning white of noontide, the pale blue of a summer sky, the crisp oranges, reds, and yellows of autumn, the glittering silver of winter ice. She rode a shapeless beast which rippled over the ground like a wave and flashed the brilliant, harsh blue of electric fire. When she came to a stop and dismounted, the creature vanished, and all the company fell silent, and knelt before her.

They waited just beyond the mouth of the cave, silent as mist, armor and jewelry and brilliant gowns gleaming with light.

Still Ain Harad played and sang. He should have been speechless with awe, terrified, but the music burst forth like the ocean out of the earth when the spear of the Goddess struck it, on the first day of her reign and her epoch. He had passed a threshold. There was no turning back. He drifted, like a leaf in a torrent, unable to understand what was happening to him or why, unable to care.

Then the Queen—for obviously she was—bade her followers rise, and the musicians joined in the boy’s song, and she danced in the middle of the circle of her knights, who banged their lances on the ground in time to her steps.

Now he had before him, concretely, the source of his inspiration, and in her honor, to praise her, he sang with greater voice, struggling to describe her in a song when mere words were not enough, and she leapt and whirled, and she rose to fill the sky, touching the ends of the world, clad in the auroras.

Somehow, Ai gradually recovered some sense of himself. He became fully aware of what he was doing, and he truly saw what his singing had conjured up. And as he watched the lady in amazement and wonder, his concentration broke, and he missed a note.

The dancer paused in midstep. The ghostly musicians were again silent. Still filled more with pride and awe that he had summoned such a one than with any fear, he asked, “Is the great lady pleased with my song?”

At this the whole company turned toward him, as if noticing him for the first time. The Lady looked down on him. Their eyes met. He was sure that her expression was that of an adult reproving a child who has begun well, but gone on to make an utter fool of himself.

She might have smiled. He could not tell. The movement was so slight that before the image could register in his brain, all of that company vanished into the night like sparks cast off from a burning log.

* * * *

In those days the Earth was disordered, and the Goddess newly dead, and things were changing, but this didn’t stop Ain’s father from screaming furiously at him when he arrived home in the middle of the afternoon, dazed, dreamy, stumbling, and missing at least half of the goats. Zadain, the boy’s elder brother and the very image of the soldier Thain in his youth, was equally wroth. The two of them seized switches and chased Ain around the yard in front of their farmhouse.

“Fool!” cried Thain, striking.

“Idiot!” added Zadain, striking.

“Good for nothing!” (Thwack!)

“Brainless cretin! The goats should be taking care of
you
!”

All the boy could try to do was shield himself and evade the blows, not very successfully. When Patek, his mother, wife of Thain, came out from behind the barn where she had been feeding the chickens, the boy looked to her for sympathy but got none. “To think I wasted myself nursing such a dolt! Quick! Give me another switch!”

It was a very bruised and miserable Ain Harad who spent long hours climbing through briars, limping across stony plateaus, scaling hillsides in search of the missing goats. He found them, one by one, but was sure the imps of evil had spent all that morning placing the creatures in the most inaccessible places. There was a pillar of stone in the middle of a plain. It was said to be part of a palace from some ancient time, before the age of the Goddess. It was smooth on all sides. Sure enough, there was a goat on top, gnawing on a weed that grew there.

He was not allowed to sleep in the house that night. When he got home, his family wouldn’t feed him. They had barred the door. So he sat out under the stars, and tried to play a song. It was a simple one, something he had known for years. But for the first time he could remember, he could not play. It was terrifying. All the music was wrung out of him.

Only after many hours of sleepless sorrow did anything come. It was as if breath had returned. He thought of the lady, of the song he had played for her. He could not remember it wholly, but he recalled brief parts of it, and the memory of the dancer was his inspiration.

* * * *

On the day before he was to leave for the wars, Zadain came upon his younger brother as he sat in the middle of a pasture with his face held between his fists. The boy was so caught up in his brooding that he did not notice the goats scattering at his brother’s approach. Nor did he mark Zadain’s dress: tall, leather boots, a blue tunic, a kilt set with metal strips, and a round helmet.

Said the elder to the younger, “Brother, you’ve always been a bit distracted, and I’ve always said that maybe your head isn’t right. But I know that something special troubles you. I’m not sure I’ll be back, where I’m going, so I’d like to set everything right between us before I leave. So tell me what your trouble is.”

When Ain saw that his brother was sincere, he unburdened himself of the whole story, but his trust was shattered when Zadain burst into laughter.

“
You’re haunted by some dancing hussy you met in the hills?
Do you mean that, after all the years in the world, after the Goddess has lived and died, you’ve
finally discovered sex
?”

“No! No! It isn’t like that at all!” The goats scattered as Ain shouted.

“Oh, I see. You mean to say that some lofty, ethereal creature appeared out of heaven, which can never be seen by any of us insensitive, vulgar mortals. Except you, of course—”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—not exactly—”

“
Goat crap!
Now look here, idiot little brother—” Zadain grabbed Ain by the front of his shirt and shook him. “I’ll show you what sort of girl she is. I’ll go up in those hills this very night, and if she’s still there I’ll bring her back over my shoulder, like any other piece of loot—”

“No! You can’t!”

“I think I can.” Zadain shoved him to the ground. The lyre fell out of Ain’s bag and rattled over some stones. “Listen, little boy, when and if you ever grow up, you’ll find out what that thing between your legs is good for. You don’t play music on it!”

Helplessly, Ain watched his brother stalk off in the direction of the hills. And he watched the sun set behind those hills. The stars came out. He stayed in the field, allowing the goats to wander where they would. When he was sure that the new glow in the hills was not moonlight, he ran in that direction, stumbling over the rough terrain and falling painfully, but always pressing on. His father’s anger didn’t frighten him now. Nothing else mattered.

At last he reached a spot where, through a trick of echoes, he heard a dim strain of music. He was certain. And there was another sound. It was the lady. He was certain of that too. Was she angry, frightened, startled? No, she was laughing.

The light went out.

* * * *

Ain returned to the farm, again without most of the goats, just as the sun rose, but before his parents could reach for the switches, Zadain arrived. The elder brother was not visibly harmed, but he seemed diminished,
emptied
of all but a rudimentary awareness. He walked like a corpse rooted out of its grave. His face was blank. He only spoke when spoken to, and then without any feeling.

The younger brother looked on with knowing dread, but at the same time he was sure this was Zadain’s punishment for his blasphemy.
He
would not end up like this.…

Then Thain exchanged glances with Patek his wife, and they grabbed Ain by either arm, dragged him out of Zadain’s hearing, and demanded of him what he knew. The tale was recounted, and afterward the father spoke in a low, grim voice.

“And what do you think your lady will make of you
now
? After this?” He pointed to his elder son.

“Father, I don’t imagine. I can’t imagine. But I’ve heard old stories, about people who loved ladies like that, and I am sure that if she is pleased with my music, she’ll come to me again.”

Thain struck him in the face.

“You blind
fool
! Can’t you see that your brother is bewitched? I think you are too. I think your brain has melted away. Know this: I’ve heard of creatures like this lady before, and I haven’t been listening to idle stories or poetry. I
know
what she, or
it
, really is. She is one of the Bright Powers. The Bright Powers move about with the changing of the seasons, like clouds, like wind or the sun. They have no minds. Their outward forms are illusions. They are fragments of the Goddess, shards, splinters, motes of glittering dust. When a great image falls, it breaks into a million tiny pieces. These are the Bright Powers. They are remnants of the fair aspect of the Goddess. She had a dark side too, from which come the Dark Powers. People say that the Dark ones are more dangerous, but as you can see, this Bright one didn’t do your brother any good.”

“Father, I am sure you’re wrong. She is a lovely lady.”

Thain struck him again.

“Listen! I am not wrong! Foolish boy, know this from more years of experience than you’re ever likely to see! This is my judgment: I forbid you to make music, or to sing when you are in the fields, or otherwise to summon this Bright Power. If you do—” he looked back to where Zadain stood, still as a statue, then into his wife’s face, then back to Ain. His voice broke. He seemed about to weep. “If you do…If you do, then I have no more sons. You shall be turned out from this house, driven from all Randelcainé, as is the law. Understand?”

“Yes, Father. I do.”

Then Thain took the lyre and hung it on a peg inside the house. “There it stays,” he said, “until you’re over this madness.”

A little while later the thing that had been Zadain rose, took up shield and spear, and departed for the wars.

* * * *

The boy tended the flock for another two days, and he remained silent all the while, in obedience to his father. But then he knew that the time had come for him to go to the Bright Lady. This could not be blasphemy, he told himself. It could be no violation of the law. He would not summon her, as any village conjurer summons a spirit out of a tainted well. No, he would go where he had seen her last, and wait. Perhaps he would perish in the waiting, but he would wait all the same, so strong was the compulsion within him.

So he drove the goats home on the evening of the second day, and sat with his parents on the doorstep after supper, in the cool breeze. At first the talk was slow and faltering, as all were reluctant to mention Zadain, but then words came quickly and easily. Ain and his parents spoke of everyday things. Thain and Patek were pleased to see their son behaving sensibly once more. Ain was tense, but he dared not reveal it. He was about to go away, as Zadain had gone, but much farther, and perhaps he too would never return. He wished his brother could be with him.

It was nearly midnight when they retired. He lay above his parents in a loft which seemed vast and empty, now that Zadain was gone. But for all the unhappiness it might bring, he knew what he had to do. He put his ear to the boards beneath him and listened to his mother’s gentle breathing and his father’s snoring for a long time. Then he sat up, tied on his shoes, wrapped a cloak around himself, and climbed carefully down out of the loft. He paused in the darkness over his sleeping parents. He wanted to lean over and kiss his mother goodbye, but dared not, so he merely slipped away, into the kitchen, where he gathered some bread and cheese and dried meat into a bag, and slung a water skin over his shoulder. With tense, breathless stealth, he lifted his lyre down from the peg. Then he was gone. The night received him.