The Wraiths of Will and Pleasure (19 page)

‘It opens doors,’ Itzama said. ‘It allows us to step from our limitations for a while.’

‘It was amazing. It told me so much. But is there really a goddess who spoke to me, or did it come from myself?’

‘Both,’ Itzama said. ‘You must learn to walk the fine line between belief and scepticism.’

‘She told me I could create gods for Wraeththu,’ Flick said. He laughed. ‘I already have! I can’t even call the Wife ‘she’ because he wasn’t.’

‘Language is a great barrier,’ Itzama said. ‘The beauty of walking the spirit path is that you converse free of its restrictions and boundaries.’

Flick frowned. ‘Hara like Orien must know this. There are great adepts among Wraeththu. Why should special revelations come to me, who does nothing to look inside what we are?’

‘You did look inside. It’s irrelevant whether others have trodden the same path, at least for now. This is your time.’

Flick exhaled through his nose. ‘I feel it’s so important, but already it’s fading away, like a dream. I’ve imagined a term for old Wraeththu. It’s ‘harun’. What will we be like when we’re old?’

Itzama shrugged. ‘Do you have a word for mother?

Flick glanced at him. ‘Hypothetically. We hear rumours that some hara have had children, but I’ve never seen it myself. The children are called pearls and the har who carries them is a hostling. As far as I’m concerned, it could all be made up, or wishful thinking.’

‘Then, if you will forgive the suggestion, you could see tonight’s events as the first meeting, for your entire race, with the Hostling of Bones, wishful thinking aside.’

‘Has a good ring to it,’ Flick said.

‘Hermaphrodite gods will be an interesting idea to work with.’ Itzama grinned. ‘For me as much as for you. I’m grateful to you for giving me this opportunity.’

‘You can be so formal,’ Flick said. ‘We’ve done something incredible tonight.’

‘Have we?’

Flick noticed at once a certain edge to Itzama’s tone. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

Itzama shook his head. ‘Nothing. Dreams, that’s all.’ He took one of Flick’s hands in his own. ‘One thing you should know, Flick. You look upon me and you see a man. But consider I might be as different from humanity as you are. My people have always known that one day your kind would come. It is our belief that you have returned rather than come anew.’

‘Who are your people?’

‘They have long gone,’ Itzama said. ‘I cannot speak to you about it, because I don’t really know why I’m here. I was called, and perhaps it was you, or the spirit of your kind, that called to me.’

‘I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.’

‘I was waiting,’ he said, ‘and you came. You are the Star Maiden, beautiful and beyond my reach. You are remote and cold and brilliant.’

‘I’m not cold,’ Flick said. ‘Neither am I far away. I am not a maiden and that is perhaps the worst thing. Stop looking at me as if I’m female, Itzama. I’m not. Don’t kid yourself for a dream. Look into my face, really look, and you’ll see the truth of it. Nothing you say is right. Nothing.’

He held Itzama’s steady gaze, not sure himself what he was doing or why. ‘Do you see?’ he murmured.

Itzama closed his eyes for a moment, turned his head away, making a small sound of distress, then lunged at Flick, took him in his arms and kissed him with an ardour that could only stem from long abstinence. A rational detached part of Flick’s mind, which always had something to say in moments such as these, told him this was selfish and cruel. This wasn’t sharing breath, where the minds and souls of hara mingled like smoke. This was purely physical, the demands of human sexuality with its need for instant gratification. But Flick could not even offer Itzama that. He pulled away, stared into a face that appeared both terrified and inflamed. ‘We cannot do this,’ he said, raising his palms as if to fend Itzama off. ‘You must understand that we can’t.’

‘I accept what and who you are,’ Itzama said in a surprisingly even tone.

‘It’s not that. It could hurt you, perhaps kill you. It is said our secretions are like acid to humans. Can you imagine a worse death?’

‘Frankly, no. But is it true? Have you see it with your own eyes? All I know is that when I look at you I want you. I want to revere you in the act of love.’

Flick had to try hard not to smile at that last remark. It was made with such earnest conviction, but at the heart of it, surely, lurked only the male desire for conquest. ‘There are some things we can do,’ he said. ‘You are not poison to me: at least, I don’t think so.’

Itzama looked uncertain.

‘How can I ignore that heartfelt cry you uttered?’ Flick said. ‘Don’t think of revering me. Let me do the revering. Come here.’

Chapter Ten

All houses have personalities, and the older they are, so the character becomes more entrenched. A house soaks up all that happens within it, and stores events as memories, saying nothing, like a silent paralysed observer, doomed to be buffeted by the emotions of quicker, more ephemeral beings. The spirit of the white house was ponderous, gloomy and given to sighs. To Ulaume, it was like an old despairing man, a spirit that moved slowly from room to room, carrying with it a black cloud of regret that affected the surroundings and turned the wallpaper dank. Patches of mould on the walls looked like sorrowful faces and every floorboard creaked in a complaining voice. A long time ago, Ulaume had lived in a house himself, when he’d been human, right back at the beginning when Wraeththu was hardly more than a germ of an idea in the consciousness of the world. But he didn’t remember much about it. The Colurastes, those who had taken him in, were nomadic, as the Kakkahaar were. Unlike the Kakkahaar, who lived solely under canvas, the Colurastes sought out caves as temporary homes, for they liked dark places from where they could emerge at night. They called themselves the serpent tribe, but really the Kakkahaar were far more serpentine, for they lived in the sun and were burned by it, and their blood ran cold inside.

Like houses, caves had personalities, but tents and canopies did not. They were raised and lowered too many times to find any kind of permanence in the world and their flapping, flimsy fabric was not so disposed to recording events as stone was. So for Ulaume, his new home was unfamiliar in many different ways. He could not say he liked the feelings that crawled just beneath his skin, but they fascinated him. It was as if an unseen story went on all around him, continually. If he remained in one spot for long enough, he would become part of it. There was never a moment he did not feel he was being watched and whenever he entered a room, it felt as if someone had just left it. He sometimes wondered if it was Pellaz he sensed around him, for he was in no doubt that this place was somehow connected with him, and yet Ulaume’s instincts also told him that Pellaz had never lived in the house. The visions and dreams he’d had implied that Pellaz’ family had occupied one of the smaller houses beyond the hill. For some weeks, Ulaume did not venture there, savouring the moment when he would. He knew he had a lot of time, as much of it as he wanted and for this reason he decided to expand outwards into his environment slowly, to soak up as much as he could in minute detail.

Lileem liked the white house a lot, and wherever Ulaume was, he could always hear the thunder of Lileem’s feet as he charged about the rooms, slamming doors in his wake. At least, Ulaume presumed it was always Lileem. The sounds were too alive and energetic to belong to the resident ghosts, who were more the dragging, groaning kind.

For the first few weeks, Ulaume concentrated on claiming a portion of the house for himself and Lileem. He allowed the harling to run wild, do whatever he pleased, and did not expect him to become involved in the homebuilding project. To Ulaume himself it was absurd, an aberration. All his life he had expected his environment to mould itself around him and had never considered putting his own mark upon it. He had enjoyed pinching and hissing at the young Aralid hara who were Lianvis’ staff, employed to create a homely ambience around the tribe leader. Ulaume had never had the slightest interest in what was perceived as comfortable and what was not. But now, in some small way, he did care. He realised he was not so much concerned with making a home, but with trying to reconstruct a picture that might tell him something. He wanted to bring the house back to life, so that its energies would flow down the hill like a breath of spring perfume and resuscitate what lay below. This was the heart of the place.

Lileem spent a lot of time outside, racing around the tattered gardens, where canes rattled in the wind and tall yellow grasses looked like the nesting ground of bitter female spirits, who might sit in the puddles of their long black dresses, watching the empty windows. Black hens roamed the gardens, and Lileem would bring in their warm brown eggs for Ulaume to put in a bowl in the larder. Ulaume had found clothes for the harling to wear, which had been a little too big, but had clearly once belonged to a human child. While Ulaume adjusted the garments with scissors and teeth, Lileem fidgeted and stamped. He was as eager as a young hound to be out in the air or pioneering through the attics. Ulaume found other clothes packed in trunks, which he appropriated for himself. These were from an area where he believed the servants of the house had lived. On some days, he’d dress in shirt and trousers, on others in long peasant skirts. He liked the feeling of fabric sweeping around his calves as he walked. He felt the woman they had once belonged to had walked with purpose and determination, and part of her personality clung to the cloth. Ulaume swept floors and clawed cobwebs from the corners. He chose one of the kitchens to be his own, even though his knowledge of preparing food was no greater than that needed for survival. Among the Kakkahaar, when Lianvis had called for food, Ulaume had generally slapped the nearest servant and demanded them to fetch it. Fortunately, the cellars of the house were well stocked with vegetables, cured meat and even dusty bottles of wine. This house had not been abandoned long. There was a walled kitchen garden near the stables where vegetables were slowly breaking ranks, but still growing. In the larder, there were barrels of flour that didn’t look mildewy or infested, so Ulaume attempted to make bread. His first efforts were surprisingly edible, if somewhat misshapen. On a shelf above the flour, Ulaume found a listing row of old books on cookery, gardening and the husbandry of bees and chickens. He congratulated himself, and thanked the spirit of the house for his fortunate discoveries. They would contribute greatly to his and Lileem’s survival.

Every evening, by candle-light (and there was stock in the cupboards to illuminate the longest apocalyptic dark), Ulaume read, and learned the skills that once he would have scorned. He would light a fire in the kitchen and try to exorcise the damp. How could a house be clammy in such a dry climate? Damp with tears perhaps. He had yet to learn Wraeththu created its own ghosts, in unimaginable ways.

Ulaume experienced very vivid dreams in the house, and he took the vision he’d had on the first night there to be one of them. He thought he’d seen Pellaz, a younger version of him, and it did occur to him that maybe, years ago, Pell had once happened upon a stranger asleep in the attic. Ulaume knew that sometimes the paths of time could cross, and the vision had seemed very real. But the one thing wrong with this idea was that he was still sure Pell had not lived here, nor could he imagine him creeping into the house surreptitiously. Rich humans had once lived here, and Ulaume knew Pell had not come from affluent stock. The vision had belonged very much to the here and now, so there was a mystery. Soon, he must walk down to the cluster of farm dwellings and confront what might lie waiting for him on the porch of the largest one, but not yet. He must put the pieces of the puzzle together in the right order. The house had called him. It had something to say.

The ghosts were watching them, night and day. Everything in the landscape quivered with a nervous sentience. Ulaume felt that Lileem’s and his living energy was affecting the environment, waking it up. He realised this was not a pleasant feeling, but Lileem seemed oblivious. He grew swiftly, like a quick-growing vine snaking up a wall in the sunlight. At times, snuggled up to the harling beneath their shared blanket at night, Ulaume felt very close to him. At other times, watching him absorbed in his own inner life, playing alone with no need for company, Ulaume thought they were creatures of two entirely different species. Wraeththu’s young were perhaps as different from their parents as the incepted were from humans. He felt fierce love for Lileem, but occasionally a kind of frightened disgust. All around, creatures of male and female perpetuated their species, be they insects, birds or mammals. The world was a dualistic place and Wraeththu was apart from it. Thinking of this made Ulaume feel disorientated. It made him wonder whether he was, in fact, an abomination and not at all part of something that was destined to save the world from human predation.

This is why we live in tribes
, he thought.
In isolation, we think and then we go mad. Together, we intoxicate ourselves with each other, with aruna, and in that ecstasy, we have no need to reflect or consider. We can simply ‘be’, in the moment, with no future and no past.

He had been taught that aruna was the lifeblood of Wraeththu, essential to well-being, and thought perhaps he understood now the true meaning behind those words. Aruna was a euphoric drug, and without it, the world revealed itself as it truly was. Alone, a har began to drift free of the common will, that which kept him sane and accepting of the unbelievable thing that had happened to him. Ulaume thought that if he could survive estrangement from his tribe, then he might become truly har. He would understand what he was and why he existed. He would be purged and strengthened by the fire of solitude, his body aching for the touch of another, and in that pain learn something marvellous. Lileem’s mere existence proved something, but Ulaume wasn’t sure yet what it was. One thing he felt completely sure about was that there were Wraeththu somewhere who did know, shadowy hara who had created the tribes and the customs they followed. Ulaume was convinced, in his heart, that not everyhar slept in ignorance.

Ulaume dreamed often of Lianvis and the Kakkahaar. He dreamed of waking up in Lianvis’ canopy and that he had never left the tribe at all. The night of Hubisag’s festival was yet to come, and when it did, nothing would happen. In the dream, Ulaume resolved not to try and curse Pellaz, which would mean everything would turn out all right. Waking from this dream, he would find tears upon his face and desolation in his heart so intense it could only be marvelled at. It was the most pure feeling Ulaume had ever experienced. He did not mourn for Lianvis, but for his own ignorance. What bliss it had been, living out a fantasy. He had created himself in a wondrous image, a Wraeththu femme fatale of deadly strength, but there were no hara to appreciate this image now, so it had withered and died. It could not survive without an admiring audience. To Lileem, Ulaume was simply the equivalent of a mother and Ulaume realised he had become this thing. He tied back his hair in tight plaits, so it could barely move, and in truth it had nothing to move for. If it could not help to build a fire or cut logs or mop a floor, it might as well be dead hair, like anyhar else’s. More than once, Ulaume imagined cutting it all off, and he felt it would not scream as he did so. It would fall to the floor in lifeless hanks.

Never once, in Ulaume’s dreams, did Pellaz appear to him. Then, one night he did, as if he’d been waiting for the right moment. It was not comforting.

In the dream, Ulaume was tending the garden outside the white house. He was trying to plant bulbs, but the soil kept rejecting them, pushing them back out. He tried to hold them down with his hands, but they felt like fingers wriggling beneath the surface. Their sharp nails scratched his palms. Someone called his name and he looked up. There was no one there, but a gate had appeared in the garden wall. A voice called to him from beyond it.

The moment Ulaume stepped through the gate he realised he was dreaming. He fell at once into a black void and the rush of flight pushed the air from his lungs. Fortunately, he did not need to breathe. A light appeared below, a deep hellish red. Ulaume now saw he was falling through an immense abyss. On the walls around him, he saw many scenes, souls in torment, holy temples filled with adoring worshippers, demons torturing the damned. Angels flew around him, screaming and tearing at their own wings, while devils knelt in prayer upon the air. In the centre of the abyss reared an enormous wooden pillar, the trunk of a tree with branches splaying out from it the size of highways. Pale figures were climbing the tree or descending it. Ulaume flew towards it and saw Pellaz hung upon it, like a sacrificed king. As he drew nearer, Ulaume saw that the tree was drawing Pellaz into itself: he was sinking into the bark and it appeared to be growing around his body.

This is the underworld,
Ulaume thought.
The realm of the lost dead
.

‘Pell,’ he called, ‘you do not belong here. Break free! Rise up!’

Pellaz’ head lolled forward upon his breast. His hair hung in lank strands. Ulaume took hold of Pell’s face between his hands, tried to raise it.

‘My brothers,’ Pellaz murmured. ‘I cannot find them. They are not here.’

‘If they are not in this terrible place, they have moved on,’ Ulaume said, ‘as must you.’

‘I am being reborn. It takes me into itself, scours away my flesh. It is the only way.’ Even as he spoke, the ancient wood creaked around him and he began to sink further within the trunk.

‘Pellaz,’ Ulaume said, holding tight onto Pell’s face, ‘I am in your old home I think. I am there for a reason. Have you led me there? If you have a message for me, tell me now.’

‘Those who walk the path alone will make the maps of it,’ Pellaz said. ‘You are not wrong. A thousand worms gnaw at the roots of the tree, and they are the blight of the world. You are the witch of the dark, who can see where others cannot. You are the cruel one, she who gives a thousand wounds, he who spears the soul. Help those whom I love.’

With these words, the trunk shuddered and emitted a terrible groan and then snapped shut around Pell’s body. All Ulaume had left in his hands was a perfect mask of Pell’s face, made of carved bone.