The Shaman (34 page)

“Because
it is new to me,” Ohaern said frankly. “I have a hunger to learn all that I
can, about all that is strange to me.”

She
stepped closer. “I could teach you a great deal, about matters that seem
strange to you.”

Ohaern
stiffened; his skin seemed to vibrate over every inch that faced her. His
answering smile felt false even to him. “I thank you for your kindness, but
those matters are not so strange as you might think. My wife died only months
ago, and I still mourn within.”

“Oh!”
The woman’s allure disappeared as if a door had shut on it, and she stepped
back. “Your pardon! I did not know!”

“Nor
should you,” Ohaern returned, relieved. “I do not think my friend Lucoyo had
time to tell you of it.”

She
smiled, a little reassured. “No, surely he did not.” Then she stepped closer
again. “Still, grief must be assuaged, and what is broken within can be healed
without.” Her allure seemed to wrap about her again, like a garment of spider silk.
“If you have need of consolation, be sure that I ache to give it.”

Ohaern
managed a fond smile. “It is very good of you.”

“It
is the kind of goodness that I long for,” she breathed, “for our goddess Alique
has shown me the way. Nay, hunter, if you seek your quarry, I shall not be hard
to find.” She gave him a slumberous look, then turned and strolled away, rolling
her hips.

Ohaern
stared after her, then managed to tear his gaze away, drawing a deep and very
ragged breath as he sent a wordless prayer of thanks to the Afterworld. Even
dead, Ryl protected him.

As
they gathered for dinner in the village’s central circle, though, Ohaern was
surprised to see that the young women glanced at him almost with reverence,
though desire was still there beneath it—and some of the men even told him, “It
is wrong to refuse consolation in your grief, outlander—but I cannot fault you
for keeping faith.” Even the old priest told him, “You have the self-restraint
that fully becomes a man, O Hunter. Still, I beg you to set it aside; the time
for mourning is surely past.”

It
was a thought that gave Ohaern pause. He consulted his heart, though, and found
it was not true.

Still,
the desire the young women had raised continued to course through him and make
his skin tingle at every touch— and there were many touches of hand and soft
shoulder and firm breast, all brushing by in the throng, all quite possibly
accidental, but more than enough to set Ohaern burning. He began to long for
the meal to be over.

The
old priest led him to the seat of honor beside Labina, who was dressed now in
rich clothing that made her look much more the priestess than she had during
the afternoon.

Ohaern
had scarcely sat down when Lucoyo strolled up, with two giggling girls holding
his arms to keep him upright. He joked with them and kissed them elaborately.
He was wearing a villager’s kilt, and a wreath of flowers about his head. The
girls lowered him down to sit beside Ohaern, who wondered how deeply his friend
had drunk—but the gaze Lucoyo turned on him was clear, though abstracted, as if
he were elated and still not quite believing his good fortune. “Ah, Smith!” he
said, grinning. “I hope your evening has been as pleasant as mine!”

“In
its way,” Ohaern said carefully. “I confess that I am finding more and more
pleasure in learning of new ways and new gods and peoples, Lucoyo.”

“So
am I.” Lucoyo turned away to follow a lissome lass with his eyes. “Yes, I must
say that I have learned a great many new ways this afternoon, Ohaern, and I
have taken great delight in it.”

Oddly,
Ohaern thought Lucoyo meant that sincerely. He began to wonder if the half-elf
saw more than he did.

Then,
suddenly, Lucoyo turned to stare directly into Ohaern’s eyes. “The young men
tell me you must be mad, Ohaern.” Sudden concern shadowed his face. “What is
wrong? What pains you?”

Oddly
touched, Ohaern smiled gently and assured his friend, “They speak so only
because I refuse the women’s favors, Lucoyo.”

“They
are right—you
are
mad!” Lucoyo’s concern deepened. “Perhaps their
priestess can show us a way to cure this, before it grows worse.”

Ohaern
was tempted to laugh at his friend’s sudden seriousness, but only closed his
eyes and shook his head. “It is only grief, Lucoyo—grief for my dead wife. I
thought I had purged it by going up against Byleo, then by fighting the Klaja,
and now the Vanyar—but I find there is a great deal of it left.”

“Why,
that is a madness of its own sort,” Lucoyo said, low, “but one that is enough
akin to my own hatred so that I can understand it. But the women tell me their
goddess is one who cures, Ohaern—cures the heart as well as the body. In truth,
I could believe her devotees may cure even
my
bitterness!”

Ohaern
stared in surprise. “Why, I pray that is so!”

“Do,
and I will thank you,” Lucoyo said gravely. “So if a goddess offers you
healing, Ohaern, I pray you—do not refuse it. That would be wrong, that would
be very wrong!”

Ohaern
just stared into his friend’s eyes for a minute, then nodded slowly. “You are
right, Lucoyo—it would be wrong indeed. Nay, if a goddess does bring balm for
my heart, I will not turn away.”

Lucoyo
smiled with relief, then clapped his friend on the shoulder with a grin. “Come,
we grow too serious! We must rejoice!” He turned to catch up a wine cup and
push it into Ohaern’s hand. “Drink! Let us rejoice, for we are alive!”

Ohaern
unbent enough to celebrate with him, and with them all—to drink, though not too
deeply, just enough to feel the slightest bit giddy; to eat a little of each
luscious dish; to marvel at the whirling, sinuous dances of the young men and
women, and not to throttle the desire they raised. But when the meal was done
and half a dozen young women sought to guide him back to their temple, he
politely refused them and went instead to the small hut kept ready for
visitors. He would not refuse joy, he would not refuse life—but he was not yet
ready to embrace it completely, either.

So,
all in all, the goddess still took him by surprise when she appeared to him in
his dream.

Ohaern
dreamed—and, strangely, knew that he dreamed— and his dream was a sunburst, a
silent explosion of light. Against it there appeared a form, a feminine form,
but so completely, ultimately feminine that any mortal woman who had dared come
near would have been unnoticed. Wisps of clothing drifted about her, but
nothing that could hide the luxurious curve of hip and breast, or the profile
of elegance and rapture. She was at once alluring and remote, elegant and
voluptuous, compelling and seductive. She was the ultimate, the ideal, of
feminine sexuality—and that, even though all Ohaern could see of her was her
silhouette. But the long-pent desire broke loose and raged through him,
hammering in his veins, shaking him with its intensity.

“Ohaern!”

Her
voice was within him as much as all about, emanating from everywhere at once,
but with no doubt that she was its source—and he knew, with wonder and awe,
that he was in the presence of a goddess.

“Ohaern!”
she commanded. “Come to me!”

The
remembrance of Ryl passed through Ohaern’s mind, and he might have hesitated
had he not remembered the promise he had given Lucoyo—not to balk if the
goddess came to heal him. “I come, lady!” he cried in his dream-voice, and he
strove to run toward her—but his limbs seemed sluggish, as if he strove to wade
neck-deep through a mire, so that no matter how he strained, he could make
little progress. He would have looked down to see what held him, but he could
not take his gaze from the goddess. It was almost as if he had no body, or that
it mattered nothing whether he did or not—almost as if the desire raged through
his soul alone. “I come, lady!” he panted. “I come!”

“Too
slowly,” she answered, and waved a hand, a gesture of dispelling that ended in
beckoning. Suddenly, Ohaern was freed, and he shot toward her like a bird in
flight—no, not “like”; he
did
fly, somehow he knew it!

But
fast as he came, she receded faster. “Why so slow, O Hunter?” she teased. “You
shall never catch me that way!”

“Tell
me how I shall, then,” he panted.

“By
laboring long in my service,” she answered. “By chasing me through hazard and
woe, through hardship and chaos— but if you persevere, you shall come to me
when you have finished the fight.”

“Must
I battle my way to you, then?”

“Do
you fear to?” she taunted. “Or is the effort too great?”

“I
fear neither danger nor labor!” he cried in his dream. “Whom must I fight?”

“Ulahane,
for he is my enemy. Best him, and you shall find me waiting.”

“I
shall, though I die in the attempt!”

“Even
then, you shall find me—but only if your death comes in trying.” She moved, and
her slightest shift of posture inflamed him even more. “But before you attack
Ulahane, you must fight the two-faced goddess.”

“What—the
goddess of the villagers?” Ohaern cried in surprise. “Are you not she?”

Thunder
crashed, and lightning split the sky behind her. “I am not, and the question
rasps upon me as harshly as it would wound you if I were to ask if you were a
Klaja!”

Ohaern
shrank in alarm—and in fear of losing this ultimate object of desire. “Forgive,
O Lady! I did not know!”

“Then
learn, and never forget. Here is your riddle—why is the goddess of the
villagers only wanton, then mother, but never more?”

“Why—because
the villagers have no need of that aspect?”

“A
good answer,” the goddess purred, “for this village goddess is only a mind’s
toy, a thing of story, invented by the villagers themselves at Ulahane’s
inspiration. But if you press them, they shall admit Alique is a grandmother,
too. Ask why they do not worship her grandchildren, and see.”

“I
shall! But will that bring me closer to you?”

“No,
but the battle that follows shall.”

Ohaern
frowned, puzzled. “Why should a battle follow so harmless a question?”

“Because
the two-faced goddess has a third face. But there will be time enough for her
later, O Smith! For now, come to me again, come!”

And
Ohaern strove—with every overdriven fiber of his being, he strove to overcome
the unseen viscous medium that held him back—but for every inch he advanced,
she receded two, laughing gaily. Anger churned within him, swelled into rage,
and the goddess finally relented. “Poor man, poor limited mortal man! No, I
shall not tease you further, though you have not yet won through to me. But I
shall give you this, as a promise.” She extended a hand; a beam of green light
shot from her finger to bathe him in its aura, and the desire flared in him
hotter and hotter as her form turned luminous, then seemed to explode and
surround him with nothing but light, pure light without form, as if he were
wrapped inside her very being, and ecstasy took him, poured through him,
blended with him, became him, and did not end, but only slackened and dwindled
and faded, leaving him adrift in a sea of ruby light, light such as one sees
when brightness strikes closed lids, and he opened his eyes to see the morning
sun spreading glory into the sky beyond the sea, and a vagrant voice seemed to
whisper on the breeze,
That is only a taste of me. Remember.

Remember!
How could Ohaern ever forget? He lay looking out the door of the hut into the
rosy disk of the newly risen sun as the melted, spread-out substance of his
being seemed to gather itself back together, and he lay realizing that Ryl
would only be a beautiful and fragrant memory now, for he had a living woman to
strive for—or if not a woman, at least a living female.

A
female Ulin.

Ohaern
lay watching the sunrise, dazed and appalled by his own temerity—but there it
was, and if he was to be honest with himself, there was no denying it. He had a
new reason for living now—not hatred or revenge, but the need to earn another
audience with that living, more-than-human presence. He faced it squarely and
admitted to himself that he desired an Ulin woman.

* * *

A
flirtatious girl brought him a bowl of porridge and a mug of beer, but Ohaern
scarcely noticed her beauty, only thanked her absentmindedly, nor noticed the
indignation with which she stalked off; his mind was still filled with the
glory and the dazzle of the half-seen goddess of his dream.

But
as the sun rose higher he noticed that the farmers had not gone out to the
fields. Instead they gathered in the central circle, laughing and joking and
building a pile of straw. Curious, Ohaern finished his bowl of porridge and
strolled into the plaza to see if he could discover the cause of the festival
atmosphere. “What occurs today?” he asked one young man.

“Why,
it is the feast day of the goddess Alique!” the young man answered. “There will
be feasting and dancing and drinking, and then—” His smile became knowing,
confiding. “—then worship of the goddess!”

“Indeed!”
Ohaern exclaimed. “How fortunate we are to have arrived in time for it!”

“No,
no!” The young man shook his head. “It is
because
you have arrived that
we celebrate her feast!”

Bemused,
Ohaern wandered away to look at the other preparations. The roof over a long
dais, on the east side of the circle, was being rethatched, and fires were
being lighted in the two huge roasting pits. The men were just finishing the
butchering of one huge boar as the women prepared an enormous sow for roasting.
Other men were rolling out great ceramic jars, which Ohaern assumed held beer.
It was indeed going to be a lavish festival! Ohaern went to find Lucoyo, but
found a dozen women about him, anointing him with oils and decking him with
flowers. Ohaern found it odd that the sight did not spur desire in him
again—but after that vision of the goddess, how could anything merely mortal
arouse him?