The Wraiths Of Will And Pleasure Part 18

'Where I came from,' Itzama replied. 'The place I have forgotten.'

'There is no future for you if you remain human,' Flick said. 'Perhaps you should consider inception. It seems such a waste if you just grow old and die. You are too beautiful for that.'

Itzama only smiled and Flick sensed the man did not believe he would grow old and die. He was never around during the day, and it did cross Flick's mind that Itzama might be a ghost after all, but how could a ghost have a living body? Whatever the truth of the matter was, Flick and Itzama had an understanding, and eventually Flick did not even ask questions. They were living outside the real world, where the strange and perplexing were the natural order.

When nearly a year had pa.s.sed, Itzama reminded Flick of what he had learned in his visionquest. 'You must speak with the dead,' he said. 'Remember what you were told.'

Flick didn't want to be reminded of this, because it meant he would have to make decisions about the future. Also, he had no desire to talk to someone dead. It would all be in his head, or a product of one of Itzama's hallucinogenic concoctions, and Flick was hardly eager to find out what his mind would conjure up. At the very least, it would be Pellaz, uttering further impenetrable riddles. 'This is my life now,' Flick said. 'Here with you. Learning. Magic. It's all I want. I'm not yet ready for changes.'

'It cannot be,' Itzama said. 'You cannot receive all this knowledge and then keep it yourself. It belongs to your people. The shaman goes into the otherworld to help his tribe. This is your duty. You have your G.o.ds, now you must communicate with them.'

'No one can call up the dead,' Flick said. 'I don't believe in it.'

Itzama smiled his slow lazy smile. 'The shaman can do anything if he has a suitable source of power. You have one, so use it.'

On the appointed night, to keep Itzama quiet rather than to please himself, Flick killed a large rabbit. He carried it to a small ritual site he used among the stones and tumbling waters of the stream near the cave. There was an area where the water flattened out and ran more smoothly in a wide shallow pool beneath an overhang. Here, Flick drained the body of the rabbit of blood and collected it in a bowl. The moon burned fat above him and the North Star was a G.o.d's jewel in the sky. Shadows were like velvet, and the undergrowth rattled as if shaken by spirit hands. There was a presence to the air, but perhaps this was because of what he was doing. It felt primitive and powerful, a primal rite from the dawn of time.

Flick lit a fire and stood before it. He wore only, wrapped around his loins, the skin of a coyote, which had been given to him by Itzama. He loosed his hair and held his arms to the sky. Now, he must do it. Now, he must believe. He would call upon one of the deities he had named. In his mind, he saw Aruhani, his braided hair like snakes. This was not a comfortable image, for Aruhani was capricious and sometimes sly. But he was the G.o.d of life, s.e.x and death, so the most appropriate in this instance. Flick concentrated on the image in his head. He tried to feel the deity as well as see him. He took a deep breath and called, 'Aruhani, I call you! Come to me now, in the name of the Aghama, the principle of creation! I command you! I bring blood as an offering. Hear me and approach!'

Flick's heart was beating fast. When he opened his eyes, the whole night seemed tinged a reddish-purple and a high-pitched hum vibrated on the edge of his perception. He poured a little of the blood into the folding ripples of the stream and in the bright moonlight saw its black streak spread out and slip away. Flick dropped to his knees beside the water, his hair hanging forward to wave upon the current, black as blood. He gazed at the glittering depths and then was compelled to jump to his feet. He ran out into the stream, beneath the dark shadows of the overhanging rocks and he danced in the water. He chanted the name of Aruhani, spinning round faster and faster, sending up a spray of sparkling motes. Itzama had told him that magic without a source of power was not magic at all, but simply a game, a play, a deceit. He had to feel the power, really feel it, before continuing, because otherwise it would be pointless, an empty rite. He spun round until he felt he was about to collapse into the water, then flung himself onto the bank of the stream.

Lying on his stomach, he said, 'Aruhani, open my eyes that I might see. Open my ears that I might hear. Open my heart that I may sense the dead approach, open my mouth that my voice will be heard beyond the realm of this earth.'

The night had become still, listening to him. Even the splash of the water was quieter. Flick hauled himself to his feet and went to sit beside his fire. He threw some sage wood into it. Sparks sizzled up towards the moon and the astringent smell of the herb filled the air. Flick held out his hands to the flames. He should feel cold, but he didn't. When he spoke again, his voice sounded lower in tone; it vibrated in his chest. 'Aruhani, come forth to me. Give strength to my hands that I shall be strong, that I may keep the dead within my power.'

He then took up the bowl of blood and spilled it over the earth. Black blood. Slick and s.h.i.+ning, like the blood down the stairs, as ancient as the hand print over the doorframe, as sweet as the smell in the Nayati that morning, when the sun came through the windows in precise perfect rays and a white arm dangled down. Flick swallowed thickly. He must not think this, he mustn't. The images would be too terrible. Aruhani was with him, but the dehar was not a creature of sweetness. He had fangs and claws and his shadow was long. Flick closed his eyes again. He had to speak. His hands dangled between his knees.

'I conjure you, creature of darkness. I summon you, creature of spirit. I summon and call you forth from the abode of darkness. I evoke you from your resting-place in the caves of the earth. I summon your eyes to behold the brightness of my fire, which is the fire of life. I evoke you from your resting-place. I summon your ears to hear my words. Come forth, dead spirit, who might speak with me. Come forth in the name of Aruhani, dehar of life and death, whose word binds you. I command you to come forth.'

He could hear the crackle of the fire, smell the sage, mixed with the scent of burning charcoal. He could taste blood in the back of his throat, so he must open his eyes now. He must.

Orien sat on the other side of the fire, smiling mildly. His tawny hair escaped his braid in soft tendrils, as it always had. He did not appear remotely dead. Flick was so surprised he scrabbled backwards, and yet wasn't this what he'd worked for and believed in? Did he trust himself so little?

Orien put his head to one side, but said nothing. There was a sadness in his eyes, which Flick thought might be pity.

'Speak!' Flick managed to say. From this moment, his entire life had changed. He should be driven insane by what he saw before him, but it wasn't frightening at all. That was the strangest thing. Perhaps Itzama had fed him some drug and he hadn't realised it.

'You have come a long way,' Orien said.

'Not as far as you,' Flick said. 'Can you remember, Orien? Can you remember what happened?'

'You were nearly there, but the diversion was perfect. The last of the human tribes called the shaman here, but they went away and you found him.'

'What do you mean? Itzama?'

'The people of this land were a very ancient race. When Wraeththu came, the wisest among them called upon an ancestor of strong magic to aid them. They called him forth from the past, they danced the spirit dance to call him. But they were driven away before he came, so he had no purpose, until you.'

'Itzama isn't a ghost, but he isn't exactly real real either,' Flick said, to himself rather than Orien. 'He is never around during the day. Where does he go?' either,' Flick said, to himself rather than Orien. 'He is never around during the day. Where does he go?'

'You cannot see an ancestor spirit in sunlight,' Orien said. 'There is a purpose to everything. You must go back. You carve the words from stone, but they already exist in stone. Aruhani is a stone book in the library that no one ever wrote before. You have written him and read him. He has taken your mentor, Itzama, back into himself, to release him from his bondage to this world. He has served the dehara in giving you his knowledge.'

'Has he been taken already?'

'It is time now for what will happen next.'

'Orien, do you know me?'

'You missed the message, in the air, in the clouds. You walked pa.s.sed it. But it is time now. There is something to be brought forth, but it is in need of nurturing. It is a secret, hidden. One of many, but this one is yours, even if it is not yours alone.'

He looked beautiful, serene as he'd ever been, but Flick knew that Orien could not really see him. Orien was only a perfect shadow. He could never be be again. He wasn't answering questions; he was a spirit with a message, no more than an image programmed by the energy of a G.o.d. But perhaps there were some questions he would answer, namely the ones Flick was supposed to ask. 'Should I go back to Saltrock, or to the settlement I pa.s.sed?' he asked. 'I command you to tell me.' again. He wasn't answering questions; he was a spirit with a message, no more than an image programmed by the energy of a G.o.d. But perhaps there were some questions he would answer, namely the ones Flick was supposed to ask. 'Should I go back to Saltrock, or to the settlement I pa.s.sed?' he asked. 'I command you to tell me.'

'The birthplace of Pellaz Cevarro, that is the place. It is the fountainhead.'

'Thank you,' Flick said. 'I release you. Go in peace.'

Flick didn't even blink, but in a splinter of a second, Orien was no longer there. He might never have been there, and from the moment he vanished, Flick began to doubt what he'd seen and heard. But at the same time he knew it was the most real experience he'd ever gone through. He had seen the image of his dead friend. He could have reached out and touched him, but, if he had, Orien would have broken apart like a reflection in a pool.

For some minutes, Flick surrendered himself to grief. He wept for the tragedy and the senseless waste. He wept for Cal, who was so damaged and for Seel, who had tried hard to escape his beginnings. But tears would not wash away the past. They lanced the infected wound, but could not eradicate its scar.

Flick rubbed his face and scattered damp sand over his fire until it sizzled out. He got to his feet and thanked Aruhani for his aid, bidding him to depart. It was clear, from the feeling in the air, that the dehar had already gone.

Flick went back into the cave, hoping to discuss with Itzama what had happened, but not sure what he would find. From the moment he set foot inside, Flick could tell that Itzama had indeed gone. Their home was no longer a living s.p.a.ce, but an empty cavern of stone. It was hard to believe he had ever lived there. Itzama and Flick had been almost like lovers, but now Flick could not mourn Itzama's disappearance. He had been called to this world and abandoned. It was only right he should be released.

The fabric of the otherworld, in which this site had been caught for over year, was breaking apart like rotten silk, and Flick knew he should, at the very least, be disturbed, but he felt strangely calm and centered. Outside, the night bristled with sentience and power, and a road led to the north west. At the end of it, ancient mills creaked in the breeze and secrets slithered through the shadows. The past came back in a surge like a tidal wave. A year ago was only yesterday, the rest a dream. He had missed something. He must return.

Chapter Fourteen.

The settlement had changed within a year. The burned fields were a riot of new growth and in the late autumn were full of unharvested crops. Weeds had spread throughout the little streets and grew upon the roofs of the houses. The landscape looked softer, greened over as it was, as if it was melting back into the earth. There was a sense of wistful melancholy, for all that had gone before and vanished, and as Flick rode Ghost among the buildings, a fine misty rain began to fill the air. On a day like this, Cal had come here. Flick knew the story by heart because Cal had told it to him countless times. If Pellaz had not responded to Cal, or had been somewhere else at the crucial moment, none of what followed would have happened.

Ghost's hoof beats echoed between the walls of empty dwellings, which seemed to have moved closer together since the last time Flick had seen them. His spine crawled as he pa.s.sed into the shadows.

The last thing Flick expected was for someone to jump down onto him from an overhanging eave. He didn't expect to be pushed from his horse, nor to land heavily on his back in the damp dirt with strong thin hands already around his neck and bony knees forced into his chest. All he could see was misty air and the writhing vines of thras.h.i.+ng black hair, hair that was so heavy it could only move in slow motion. It was at this moment that he realised a ghost had come to kill him. His head banged painfully against the ground and when he grabbed hold of the skinny wrists above him, he felt the bones grind beneath the brown skin. 'Pell, stop!' he managed to croak. 'Didn't I do what you asked? Didn't I?'

The apparition on top of him let go of his neck and straightened up, tucked its hair behind its ears. 'Who the f.u.c.k are you?' it snapped, and it wasn't Pellaz at all, but could only be of of Pellaz, so therefore a surviving relative. Pellaz, so therefore a surviving relative.

'Get off me and I'll tell you,' Flick said.

Reluctantly, his a.s.sailant got up and stood with folded arms before him or rather over him, because at first Flick was too winded and dizzy to move. 'Well?'

'My name is Flick,' he said. 'Pell asked me to come here, to find you, to tell you.'

'Tell me what? My brother is dead. He became one of you and he died. What else is there to say?'

Flick got to his feet. Ghost had run off and now stood staring fearfully some yards away. 'Pell wanted me to come. He told me he had brothers. I never hoped to find one of you alive.'

'You didn't. I'm his sister. Or I was...'

'You still are,' Flick said, privately wondering how a female could possibly be as androgynous as her phenomenal brother had been, without the benefit of the changes Pellaz had undergone. 'He never forgot you. You are Mima, yes?'

'Yes.' She sighed heavily, sc.r.a.ped her hands through her hair. 'You're too late. I'm the only one left, and not much use to you. You might as well leave.'

'Can't we talk? Don't you want to know what I have to say?'

She was silent for a moment. 'His friends are always turning up here. Wonder who will be next? I hope it's Cal, I really do. I hope he finds his way.'

Flick could tell she wanted to settle the score with Cal, but there were few people who didn't. 'Who else? How many?'

'Just one, actually. He's a Kakkahaar.'

'A friend of Pell's.' Flick wracked his brains for the memory. 'Lianvis?'

'No, Ulaume.'

'Really!' Flick exclaimed. 'From what I heard he was hardly a friend.'

'I know the story,' Mima said. 'Ulaume is obsessed with Pell.' She shrugged. 'Maybe there will be others like him. This place has become a shrine. Ulaume doesn't think Pell's really dead. What do you think?'

Flick answered carefully. 'He was important. There is more to the story than we know. Our story. I'm from Saltrock, where Pell was incepted.'

'Ulaume's told me about that place.'

'Cal returned to Saltrock,' Flick said. 'He killed one of my dearest friends, because he blamed him for Pell's death. The story isn't over. Everything is still rippling or vibrating or something. I had to come here.'

'Ulaume is up at the white house,' Mima said. 'Perhaps you two should talk.'

Mima kept guard over the settlement because, despite Ulaume's a.s.surances to the contrary, she feared that one day the Wraeththu who had devastated her home and family would return to finish her off. She wasn't concerned for herself so much as for Lileem, who she loved pa.s.sionately. She could tell when someone was Wraeththu or human immediately now. She had perceived a spectral light around Flick and knew it for what it was. She had also realised he'd posed no threat but had attacked him regardless, because even though she'd known they'd end up talking, it helped scratch the nerve of pain inside her to beat him up a little before this happened. She had new strengths and most of them she enjoyed having. She took Ulaume and Lileem for granted because they had become like family, but this new har intrigued her. He looked like a boy, pale-skinned and elfin, with his long hair in braids. Perhaps Ulaume would take aruna with him, because it seemed so important, and the thought of this intrigued Mima even more. Despite her rages and resentments, she had become a precarious part of Wraeththu, forever excluded from its mysteries in some ways, but nevertheless attached and curious. She found she did not want Flick to think of her as a human female, but also felt shy of telling him anything to the contrary. It would sound embarra.s.sing and coa.r.s.e. Ulaume would have to tell him.

Flick had calmed his pony and now walked with Mima up the hill to the house.

'This was where the owner of the farm lived,' she said. 'Sefton Richards. He's dead now, but who isn't?'

'Did Ulaume save you from the raiders?' Flick asked.

'No, I saved myself. Ulaume came later, but not much later. Just as well. They would have done something awful to him, and the harling.'

'Harling? Ulaume has a child?'

'Not his own. Lileem is... well, different. You'll see.'

'I've never seen one, hardly believed it was possible.'

'Perhaps it isn't. Maybe you're not meant to breed.'

'What do you mean? Is something wrong with the harling?'

'No, she's perfect.'

'Ah...' Flick smiled to himself. 'I see see.'

The harling in question came bounding out of the house as Mima and Flick were putting the pony into one of the empty stables. 'Mima, Mima, who's this who's this?' it demanded. To Flick, the child looked very much like he'd imagined a Wraeththu harling would look: neither male nor female, but something of both. As it should be. It appeared to be around four or five years old, with the somewhat exotic look of the Kakkahaar in the catlike eyes and golden skin. it demanded. To Flick, the child looked very much like he'd imagined a Wraeththu harling would look: neither male nor female, but something of both. As it should be. It appeared to be around four or five years old, with the somewhat exotic look of the Kakkahaar in the catlike eyes and golden skin.

'Leelee, this is Flick,' Mima said, 'a friend of my brother's.' She pulled the harling back against her, who leaned against her legs, staring up at Flick in unconcealed curiosity.

Ulaume had come out of the house and his expression was hostile. 'A visitor,' he said, 'how nice.'

'Behave,' Mima said, 'be friendly. Flick is from Saltrock.'

'The home of fine upstanding hara,' Ulaume said. 'The ones who transformed your brother into a little pillar of piety.'

'Flick wants to talk to you,' Mima said, wondering how long it would take for Ulaume's fur to stop standing on end. He was so much like a cat sometimes. How much ritual spitting and hissing, and occasional swipes would there be, before he settled down to purring and curling up to exchange licks, or whatever it was they did?

'We don't get many visitors,' Mima said to Flick, 'and look what that has done for some of our manners.'

'It's OK,' Flick said. 'I don't care about manners. Could use a drink though.'

'Come in,' Ulaume said spitefully and marched back into the house, slamming the door behind him.

'Lormy is so rude!' said the harling.

'It's territory, kitten,' Mima said, 'that's all it is.'

Destiny had brought Flick to Casa Ricardo and there had been a dysfunctional family waiting there for him. From the minute he stepped into the house, Flick knew there was work to be done and that his fingers were itching to do it. This was not a home. It was makes.h.i.+ft, unkempt and unloved, although it was clear that cursory attempts at comforts had been made. But it was a far cry from the amenities of Saltrock. He had come here to give Mima the information about Pellaz, and this he did at once, but there was more than that. Mima told him about Lileem, while Ulaume remained stubbornly silent on the matter. There were questions that needed answers. Orien had directed Flick to come here. Was it simply to help these people? Flick did not tell any of them about his visions, not at first. He must wait and see. Lileem was perhaps part of the future he had been brought here to witness.

That first night, after dinner, which Flick had cooked for them, Mima said, 'What are you going to do now, Flick? Where will you go?'

'I don't know,' Flick replied. 'I need to think about it. I wonder if I might stay here with you for a time.'

Ulaume made a noise of annoyance and left the table. He slammed the kitchen door as he left the house.

'Don't mind him,' Mima said. 'He'll come around.'

'Perhaps I shouldn't stay,' Flick said.

'No, do do stay!' Lileem cried. 'Please, please, please!' stay!' Lileem cried. 'Please, please, please!'

Mima wiped bread around the gravy on her plate, then consumed it with relish. 'I, for one, look forward to more of this! How about a deal? You cook for us, we let you stay.'

'Yes!' Lileem yelled.