The Shaman (35 page)

The
festival began as the sun rose to its highest, with nibbling at barley cakes,
drinking of beer, and vigorous dancing. It seemed to be a sort of contest, for
the dancers came only two at a time, a man and a woman, with interlocking
gyrations, whirling and leaping, never touching, and the villagers shouted
their approval. The drums beat, the double-reeds droned, and bangles chimed.
Looking about him, Ohaern could see the glazed eyes and fixed smiles that meant
the villagers were working themselves into a sort of mass semitrance. He had
seen the same effect when the shaman of his own village had led the people in
the hunt dance, but there had never been so many people, so very many, and
there was some quality of anticipation, of hunger, even craving, in them, that
made Ohaern turn cold inside. He resolved to drink much less than he seemed to,
and to keep his head clear and his knife loose in its sheath.

The
chill of caution made him remember the words of the goddess, and he turned to
Labina and the old man, who were seated beside him. “Tell me more of Alique,”
he said. “You have told me she had many children—but has she no grandchildren?”

Labina
looked up, surprised, then frowned as if she were less than pleased. The old
man stepped into the gap. “We honor the children separately, and Alique when
she is old, past childbearing and past the need for lovers.”

Ohaern
did not like the notion of a woman having a need for lovers, other than love. “Surely
she still cares for her brood!”

“When
we worship her as the mother-goddess,” Labina said slowly, “she is bounty
itself, nursing many little children from never-dry breasts.”

“Little
children? She is never a grandmother?” Ohaern pressed.

“Several
of her children have children,” the old man reminded Labina.

“Well,
yes, she is a grandmother,” Labina admitted, “but that is a matter for her
worshipers only. You must excuse me now, for I must prepare to take my part in
the ceremony.” She stood, gave him a nod, and hobbled away, effectively ending
Ohaern’s questions—which sent a rasp of alarm along his nerves and made him all
the more determined to stay alert. Looking around him, he saw that the sun was
setting, its golden light turning to the red of blood; the afternoon had passed
quickly, and the sun itself seemed to honor the Scarlet One. Men were lighting
tall, standing torches, and several couples at a time were coming out to dance.
As darkness fell, young women began to bring platters of roasted pork about,
with tall cups of beer. Ohaern, as honored guest, was served first, and the old
man with him. The pork was good and the beer heady, so he ate lightly of the
one and drank sparingly of the other. The old man noticed and pressed him. “Come,
a great frame such as yours must need an abundance of nourishment! Do you not
feel well?”

“It
is the heat,” Ohaern said apologetically, “and the long afternoon.”

The
old man nodded, understanding from his own experience. “At least drink the beer,
then. It is nourishing in itself, and lies more easily on the stomach.”

Caught,
Ohaern lifted the tall cup and swung its bottom high—but he contrived to spill
far more down his chin than into his mouth. He set down the cup with a cry of
disgust. “How clumsy of me! You must think me rude indeed, good sir!”

“Not
at all.” The old man chuckled, reassured, and a young woman materialized to
wipe Ohaern’s chin, lingering perhaps longer than was necessary over the spill
on his chest. “We all grow clumsy,” said the old man, “as the evening
progresses.”

The
young woman gave Ohaern a languorous, inviting look as she turned away. He
smiled, then glanced about, noticing that most of the villagers had beer
dribbling down as they drank and were smearing themselves with the fat of the
pig as they ate. At first he thought it only bad manners; then began to realize
that it was, in some way, a part of the ritual.

As
the meal ended, the drams beat louder and the dancers came out into the ring of
packed earth again. Now there were a dozen couples, twenty, thirty. The
movements were slower now, and the bodies came closer, brushing one another
with thrusting hips and lingering caresses. Ohaern began to feel the effects of
the beer, little though he had drunk of it, and could only imagine the dancers’
walking stupor. But it was a trance as much as intoxication, and as the
drumbeat quickened, so did the dancing, hips gyrating against one another, then
the whole lengths of the bodies, grins growing wider and more fixed, until
Ohaern was amazed they could stand at all.

Then,
suddenly, the drums stopped and a huge gong rang. The dancers cleared away as
if by magic and crouched around the edges, chests heaving, hands caressing,
glazed eyes fixed on the center of the circle of beaten earth.

Out
came two maidens clothed all in blossoms, with Lucoyo’s arms about them. The
half-elf still wore a kilt wrapped about his loins, but otherwise wore only
flowers—a flower wreath about his head, flower rings about his neck hanging
down to cover his chest, ropes of flowers twined about his arms and legs. One
look and Ohaern could see that Lucoyo had eaten and drank as well as any of the
villagers, and from the dazed look in his eyes, he had been dancing as they
had, too, though more privately.

Now,
though, the drums began to beat again with a slow, throbbing rhythm, and the
two young women stepped back, leaving him swaying alone—but not for long. A
girl stepped out from the ring of watchers, dressed also in flowers, dancing,
feet stamping, hips swiveling, hands clapping above her head, lips parted and
breathless, eyes wide in wonder and anticipation.

A
murmur went about the ring, half whisper: “The virgin! The goddess’s virgin!
Alique is within her!”

Ohaern
thought it more likely that a good deal of beer was in her, but not enough to
muddy her movements. She stamped and gyrated closer and closer to Lucoyo, who
grinned slowly and began to match her movements, hands clapping with hers,
knees bending with hers, hips churning with hers. Closer they came to one another
and closer, while the villagers hung on their every movement, eyes wide and
rapt, breath rasping, bodies jerking in time to the dance—and Ohaern suddenly
realized toward what event this dance was building.

The
girl began to turn about and about, moving closer and farther from Lucoyo as
she did. The flowers began to fall off her, one by one, two by two, then in
fives and tens as she spun faster and faster, revealing a beautifully curved
and unblemished body. Lucoyo matched her turn for turn, and his flowers began
to fall off, too. When only a few rings remained about the girl’s hips and
breasts, she stepped closer to Lucoyo, plucking the remaining blossoms from his
chest, his arms, and he, gallantly returning the favor, plucked away those
remaining to her, but letting his fingers linger and glide as he did, so that
the girl began to gasp and shiver with desire, her movements becoming uneven,
even clumsy.

All
sat with their eyes glued to the spectacle—all but Ohaern, insulated from the
fascination by his sense of alarm and by the lingering dazzle of his goddess’
beauty. He watched not just his friend and his friend’s intended temporary
mate, but the whole of the torchlit circle, and even the shadows beyond—so he
caught the movement in those shadows, and instantly focused his attention on
it. He saw silhouettes moving there, coming closer, until the fringes of the
torchlight revealed four men carrying a palanquin high on their shoulders, with
a figure crouching atop it. As the dancing couple pressed closer, the bearers
bore the palanquin closer, too, until the figure was revealed in the torchlight
...

It
was a statue, an idol—but it was a figure out of a nightmare, too, a wiry
bloodied form seated cross-legged amidst the bones of pigs, a parody of the
female form, with sunken breasts and bony arms and a stark white skull for a
face, from which snaky ropelets of hair straggled. Ohaern sat frozen with
horror, for he felt the presence of Ulahane in that statue, felt it so strongly
that for a moment he thought he must be staring at the Scarlet One himself!

Then
he remembered that Ulahane was male, so this caricature of the Scarlet One
could not be his image, but must be that of one of his servants. But it was an
image that moved! The horror returned, for he saw the death-hag lift a huge
curved sword as Lucoyo snatched away the girl’s last blossom and she plucked at
his kilt. It fell away, and the crowd shouted with delight, then began to chant
as the girl pressed herself against Lucoyo, pressed her mouth to his as his
arms came up about her and they sank to their knees, intertwined, and the sword
rose higher above them as the bearers, too, sank to their knees ...

Then
Ohaern realized that the figure was no statue, but a living being, masked and
painted—and saw what the only full ending to this ceremony could be. With a
shout of warning, he leaped out into the ring, drawing his sword. The girl
pulled Lucoyo down, but he looked up in surprise at Ohaern’s shout, looked up
and spat a curse—then saw the huge sword falling upon him, the skull face
screaming curses that overshadowed his by far. Lucoyo rolled aside and leaped
to his feet, bleating protest, but Ohaern leaped past him to parry the next
stroke, shouting, “As you burst into ecstasy, she would have cut your head from
your neck!”

The
girl cowered away, huddling in on herself, crying.

The
bearers set down their burden and rose up against Ohaern with a shout, but he
kicked them aside as they rose, then yanked the mask loose, to reveal Labina’s
face, contorted with rage and screaming, “Curse you, outlander! You have ruined
our sacrifice, and the goddess, angered, will yield us no harvest!”

The
villagers, horrified, rose up with a shout of anger, but Ohaern held his blade
to Labina’s throat and shouted, “Back, or your priestess dies!” The villagers
froze, and Ohaern pricked the hag’s neck, demanding, “When strangers came, you
had someone to sacrifice! At the climax, you would have struck off Lucoyo’s
head, but not hers, because she is one of your own! Is it not true?”

“True,”
the hag spat, “and she would forever after have been sacred to Alique. Now,
thanks to your meddling, she shall be forever cursed, and no man shall touch
her!”

The
girl wailed.

“A
great many strangers must have died,” Ohaern said, “for so many young women to
be eager to worship your promiscuous goddess! Or do you force a boy of your
own, if no stranger comes in the spring?”

“There
are always men who think it worth their lives to bed Alique’s virgin,” Labina
spat, “but there are always springtime strangers, too, who are eager to bed any
woman who is willing!”

Ohaern
stood frozen a moment, then snapped, “And if I had accepted their favors? Would
I, too, have been marked for sacrifice?”

“Aye,
but now you will go in place of your friend, for you have desecrated the
ritual, and only by slaying you can we avert Alique’s anger! Nay, slay me if
you wish, for there is a matron ready to assume my office!” Then Labina
screeched to her people, “Slay him!”

The
villagers charged Ohaern with a roar.

He
threw the priestess from him, but Lucoyo was already beside her, twisting the
sword from her hand and turning to slash at his attackers with a shout. He
pressed his back against Ohaern’s, and they cut and wounded man after man—but
when five lay moaning, the others pulled back, and men at the edges turned to
run for weapons.

“You
cannot pass us,” one big man growled, “and when we have our blades, we shall
slay you!”

“You
shall not!” cried a voice like the grating of a cell door, and men howled in
fright as they suddenly shot up off the ground in a wave that moved closer and
closer to Ohaern. The dwerg pressed inward, hurling men out of his way with his
huge, long arms—and behind him, guarding his back, came a human form with a
jackal’s fur and a jackal’s head!

Ohaern
stared, amazed at the sight of a Klaja coming to his aid. Then he shook himself
into motion, taking advantage of the villagers’ fright, and leaped toward
Grakhinox, bellowing his war cry, sword flashing. Villagers howled and leaped
aside until there were none left between Ohaern and his rescuers.

“Do
not let them escape!” Labina shrieked. “Stop them, or Alique’s wrath shall fall
upon you!”

The
villagers rallied, especially as voices at their outer edges cried, “Blades!
Blades!” and the rattle of copper and flint told of weapons arriving. One man
spun to face Ohaern’s sword with a copper sickle. Ohaern laughed and knocked it
spinning from his hand—but suddenly there were twenty copper sickles, with
flint-toothed scythes beside them, and whirling flails all descending on the
hapless four together. The Klaja howled and struck about him with his pike, but
for each man he transfixed, two leaped at him before he could wrench his blade
clear. The dwerg caught those two and hurled them aside while Lucoyo and Ohaern
fought madly, beating back blade after blade, but their breath came ragged
already, and they knew that within a few minutes the villagers must drag them
down by sheer weight.

“HOOOOOLD!”
a voice cried out all about them, a single voice, but it seemed to come from
all sides with the sound of a gong. Everyone froze, wide-eyed, but kept their
weapons high and their gazes fixed on their opponents. Ohaern risked a quick
glance back, and saw ...

A
tall figure holding Labina up by the throat, her face turning purple, obscene
red-dyed body thrashing—and the tall figure behind her seemed to burn with
green fire, to be surrounded with it, and the villagers cowered away, moaning
with superstitious fear.

But
Ohaern stared with wider eyes than any, for he recognized the figure. It was
Manalo!