Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (39 page)

Raven saw the two scribes
immediately. Like Batalha they dressed in simple white robes, kept
out the cooling air with woven jackets and had an otherworldliness
about them. One obvious difference: they appeared infinitely more
substantial. The pair hurried over to the litter and made
arrangements for Batalha to be carried into their tent to rest.

“He needs building up a little
after your journey before we can begin The Singing,” said one, but
did not explain further.

The resident Sulh leader spoke,
“I am Kaldar, and we welcome you. We sensed your coming and have
prepared a meal. Please, join us in the pavilion; we can sort out
sleeping arrangements later.”

A larger tent stood apart from
the others, circular with a high arching roof, intricate animal
designs decorated the canvas in shades of black and ochre. Inside a
woven wooden lattice supported the walls and the ceiling poles that
reached high towards an opening in the roof. The floor, spread with
animal skins, was liberally scattered with woven cushions. On one
side of the tent stood a low bench covered with platters and trays
piled high with freshly steamed fish, vegetable stews, corn bread,
fragrant meat dishes and pots of strong coffee.

Curlew thanked Kaldar and his
phyle, and then Mist offered up a blessing. It had been a long time
since the group had feasted so well and it was a long time before
anyone spoke again.

The last dregs of coffee had
been squeezed from the pot and the final scraps of cornbread had
been used to mop up gravy. Curlew and Kaldar were now deep in
conversation.

“Kaldar recommends we make our
camp in the lee of the woods behind the pavilion,” Curlew
announced. “He also invites us to a celebration tonight, which I’ve
accepted. It’s too long since the Sulh came together and shared
stories of their homeland.”

“The legend of the red haired
king and his sister could stand another telling,” laughed
Kaldar.

In the shelter of an oak tree
Raven and Fen erected their tent and made it as homely as they
could. Then, finding themselves with time on their hands, they went
to inquire after Batalha.

“He’s just awoken,” said
Ranian, one of the other scribes. “You can see him, but keep it
brief.”

They found him lying on a low
bed in the corner of one of the tents. The walls had sheep’s wool
woven into the supporting lattice, and with a small wood-burning
stove glowing by the far wall, it was surprisingly snug.

“Trust you to bag the best
quarters,” said Fen, as he plonked himself inelegantly on the end
of the bed. Showing more consideration Raven sat down cross-legged
on the rug.

Batalha grinned, “Trust you to
complain about it!”

“So what happens now?” asked
Raven.

“I need a little time to gather
my strength and then Ranian, Ashnan and I will peform The
Singing.”

Raven looked confused.

“We take aruna to heighten the
senses, to enhance the power of mind touch,” continued Batalha,
“and at the moment of connection the knowledge we have gathered
will stream back to Alba Sulh, to Kyme, as a series of musical
tones. The library has adepts ready and waiting around the clock to
receive the knowledge sent to them from all over the globe. After
The Singing I will be purged and can begin to learn again.”

“When will this happen?”

“A day or two – when the other
scribes think I’m ready.”

It was closer to two weeks.
Autumn plunged quickly into winter in these parts and a dusting of
snow already covered the ground. All over the camp braziers burned,
the air scented with sage to heighten awareness and dissipate
negative energy.

When the day arrived, the
pavilion had been draped inside with cloths of purple and blue, the
scribes were ensconced within. Outside the rest of the tribe
gathered to chant incantations to speed the success of The
Singing.

At Mist’s signal, the tribe
began, first whispering words of power, a low, sibilant hiss
darting to and fro around the circle. Then coloured mists seeped
from the entrance of the pavilion, through the seams and the
opening at the apex; magenta, gold, cyan. A note, pure, high, clear
split the air. It was joined by another, and another, the harmony
ricocheting off branches and tents. The chanting of the tribe grew
as the notes intensified, and then, moved to add rhythm, they
stamped their feet and beat together sticks.

The sound wave grew ever
stronger, undulating around the camp, making the air shake, the
ground judder; on and on until Raven was forced to cover his ears.
Then, a wave of pure energy, tinged with white and gold, exploded
from the pavilion, out across the land, high into the sky,
scattering all in its path, each member of the tribe knocked clean
off their feet.

And then, a shattering
silence.

“Let’s see what the little
buggers at Kyme make of that lot,” said Fen, flat on his back.

For several days after The
Singing, at Mist’s insistence, the entire tribe rested. Batalha,
confined to his bed once more, fretted, wanting to be out in the
world again discovering more. To Raven’s eyes he appeared far more
solid and substantial than he’d ever seen him, but the pale hair
and skin and the almost transparent blue of his eyes still gave him
an ethereal quality.

Raven sat stitching animal hide
together to form a winter jacket whilst Fen sat in the corner
attempting to pick out a tune on Batalha’s harp.

“For God’s sake put the damned
thing down” snapped Batalha. “Either that or let me teach you how
to do it properly”.

Fen grinned his widest grin.
“Sure, teach me. It’ll give me something to do during the long
winter months. Don’t be surprised, boys, but I reckon Curlew and
Kaldar are planning to combine resources and over-winter right
here.”

“What for? It’d be much warmer
back down south.”

“They reckon they’ve got a
reason to stay. I think we won’t be going back down south again
until spring. So, that gives you plenty of time to teach me to play
this thing.”

“Wonderful,” said Batalha.

Fen was right. Both groups
would be overwintering by the river. Days passed and new routines
formed; parties went out foraging for food and firewood, hunting
for meat and, whilst the river remained unfrozen, replenishing
dwindling fish stocks. Batalha and the other scribes had meetings
with members of the Colurastes tribe, cultural exchanges, always
accompanied by Fen and other members of the warrior phyle. Raven
declined to attend these meetings; the Colurastes gave him the
creeps. Mist shook his head but let it go.

Mid winter’s eve arrived and
Raven was glad to see it; the days would now begin to lengthen. The
pavilion was garlanded with greenery and a mighty feast was
prepared. The entire tribe would attend, as would representatives
of the local Colurastes.

“Behave,” Mist warned
Raven.

“Of course,” answered Raven and
he did, but he wasn’t fooling Fen.

“Don’t worry,” Fen said,
cornering Raven by the drinks table. “It won’t be long now. You’ll
see your mountains again.” As it turned out it was sooner than
either of them had anticipated.

Raven sat up with a start. It
was pitch black, the middle of the night, and a cry had awoken him.
The camp was silent and Raven knew the cry had not come to him from
without but from within.

He’d also recognised the voice.
It was Pale Fawn.

By his side Fen sat up and lit
an oil lamp.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Someone I care about is in
trouble, they need me.”

Fen leaned back on an elbow.
“Tell me.”

Raven sighed. “You’re probably
not going to like this but here goes. I have a friend, a close
friend, almost a sister, who’s still alive. She’s carrying my
child.”

Fen glanced away, a faraway
look in his eyes. “I had a sister. I lost her. You remember the
story of Avalona falling, fully formed, through the rift?”

Raven nodded.

“Well, I don’t know how true
that is but rifts do form all over Alba Sulh, particularly in The
Waterlands. Dykes were blown, sluices flooded, the land practically
turned itself inside out to return to its natural state. Serena
fell through one of the rifts – snatched away in front of me. As
Wraeththu we’re supposed to sever all family ties, but I think
that’s bullshit. If you have family, you should hang on to
them.”

“So you think I should go to
her?”

“Yeah, I do. We’ll talk to
Curlew and Mist in the morning... but I’m making one
condition.”

“Being?”

“I’m coming with you, Mountain
Boy.”

Curlew and Mist were
supportive. Kaldar initially was more hesitant.

“An advance party would be
useful,” Mist persuaded him, “to ready our old camp and prepare for
our return in the spring.”

Kaldar, seeing the sense in
Mist’s argument, agreed and supplied two horses to speed their
journey, plus enough dried food to see them through. Batalha came
to see them off. By mid-morning they were on their way.

The two of them, travelling
light, made swift progress, unencumbered as they were by the rest
of the tribe, the wagons, tents, food stores that accompany a tribe
on the move. Raven tried to reach Pale Fawn by mind touch to let
her know they were on their way, but heard and felt nothing in
return. He hoped she knew.

They followed the same coastal
paths they had travelled the previous autumn but now the trees,
devoid of their leaves stood stark, black skeletons against a
translucently pale sky. The paths took them south into warmer
weather. It felt to Raven as if they were chasing the spring. Each
day the light lasted a little longer, the wind bit a little less
cruelly and buds and green shoots shook the land from its winter
dormancy.

The journey that had taken them
weeks in the autumn took a few short days on their return.

It was early morning when they
reached the reservation; they had been riding since dawn. Shafts of
light played between bands of mist as they travelled through the
achingly familiar terrain of Raven’s childhood.

They found Pale Fawn sitting on
the steps of Two Comet’s cabin, waiting for them.

“I knew you’d come,” she
smiled. “I heard you calling me.”

Raven kissed her head and
introduced Fen. She stood, a little unsteadily, to shake his hand,
her swollen abdomen making her a little ungainly.

“Where is everyone?” Raven
asked her.

“Gone,” she replied. “All gone.
Dead or flown, but all gone.”

Raven was almost too scared to
ask. “Two Comet?”

She shook her head, indicating
a cairn of stones that stood on the far side of the clearing.

“He died on mid-winters eve.
Raven, I have to leave, too. There’s nothing left for me here.”

“Come back with us,” offered
Fen. “We can make a place for you with the Sulh.”

Pale Fawn shook her head again.
“No,” she said, “my place is not with you.”

Raven made to protest, but she
held up her hand and looked him square in the eye.

“You found your new tribe and
your place in it. Now I have to find mine.” She gestured east.
“There’s a voice calling me. I have to follow it, find them, but I
need your help to do it.”

Raven looked uncertain.

“This lady knows her mind,”
said Fen, “You want to pick your battles, Raven, and this isn’t one
of them.”

Pale Fawn smiled at him.

Pale Fawn had little to take
with her, just one bag, as they left the camp, Fen riding one horse
and Raven, with Pale Fawn before him, riding the other.

They left their forests and
mountains behind, again travelling towards the coast – this time,
not north but east, away from the familiar trees, and the place
that for so long had been their home. Their journey took them
across grassy planes where the wind created waves and ripples among
the new growth towards the shore and a sandy beach.

Pale Fawn pointed east again.
“I have to go further,” she said “It’s not far, but hidden. They
have to stay safe and I’ll be safe with them. Please,” she
beseeched, “I have to go”.

“Suppose it’s just ocean,” said
Fen.

Raven shook his head. “No,
there are islands,” he said. “I saw them in a breath vision with
Mist.”

They found a small boat, sound
and sea worthy but with its sail missing. Fen and Raven dragged it
to the water’s edge and helped Pale Fawn on board. Once afloat Fen
stood on the gunwale and balanced himself against the mast.

“This worked on the meres back
in the Waterlands,” he said. “I don’t see why it shouldn’t work
here.”

He closed his eyes, connecting
his thoughts with the timbers of the boat and the water beneath,
willing one to slide over the other. Slowly the boat began to move,
gliding out to sea.

“It’s the same process,” said
Fen with a grin, “just bouncier water.”

It was late afternoon when they
made landfall on a sandy shore with a backdrop of thick trees close
to an abandoned settlement. The sun was setting behind them and
Pale Fawn began to shiver. Raven held her close to warm her as Fen
beached the boat.

“They’re on the other side of
the island,” she said. “They’re calling me, telling me to
hurry.”

“Tell them to wait,” said Fen.
“You’re exhausted and have travelled enough for today. You need
food and shelter. Tell them we’ll set out again in the
morning.”

Pale Fawn screwed up her face
and concentrated hard. “Yes,” she said. “It’s alright, they’ll
wait.”

“Let’s get you indoors,” said
Raven and half carried her to the nearest house.

These were the crazy houses of
his aruna vision; wooden, unstable-looking, top-heavy with arms and
platforms that reached to the heavens.

“Architectural style ‘early
maniac,’” muttered Fen, “What were they? Sun worshippers?”