Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (40 page)

They found a sound room
downstairs and a wood-burning stove with a hot plate. They settled
Pale Fawn into a battered easy chair and wrapped her up in rugs.
Raven scouted around for firewood and got a fire going. Fen went
through their rations.

“I reckon we can do better than
dried fruit and fish,” he said and disappeared outside.

He returned a short while
later. “Abandoned restaurant,” he said holding up a cooking pot
full of tinned vegetables and bottled water. “Chairs and tables
strewn everywhere and covered with blown sand but a very well
stocked larder.” He’d even found tea and most importantly a tin
opener.

“He’s a hunter, this new lover
of yours,” said Pale Fawn. Raven gave her a look. “It’s alright,”
she said with a slight smile, “I know.” Raven left it at that.

First they made tea and then a
thick soup from the vegetables. They had to rouse Pale Fawn to get
her to eat and then left her to sleep again, stoking up the fire to
make it burn all night and made themselves as comfortable as
possible, wrapped up in rugs on the wooden floor.

At dawn Fen made another raid
on the restaurant and brought back breakfast. Then they set out
again, this time on foot, towards the other side of the island. A
sandy track led them away from the settlement and eastwards once
more.

Oleander fringed the edge of
the dense woodland; in spring there would be a profusion of pink
and white blossoms. In the forest itself, vast stands of evergreen
pines stabilised the shifting sand and interspersed between the
dark pines, leafless oaks were draped thick with Spanish moss, the
bearded lichen hanging from the high tree branches and reaching to
the forest floor.

It seemed to Raven as if the
island were shrouding a secret, keeping it safe from prying
eyes.

An hour’s walk brought them to
the western shore and a tall, auburn-haired woman standing on the
beach. Behind her was a small harbour and moored there, a sailing
ship.

“You are welcome,” she said.
“We’ve been waiting.”

“You’re the voice that’s been
calling me?” asked Pale Fawn.

“I am,” affirmed the woman. “We
sensed you on the ethers, you and the child you carry. The child is
special, and she and you need protection. Now is not the time for
such singular individuals to be abroad. It is not safe. The world
of Wraeththu is young and far from stable. You must be hidden for
now. That is what we offer you.”

The woman turned to Raven, “You
are the child’s father?” he nodded. “And you are now Sulh? You
chose wisely; they are one of the more enlightened tribes. I am
sorry you will be unable to join Pale Fawn at this time. It is
imperative that who we are and our homelands remain a secret.”

“Don’t worry,” she said as
Raven began to protest, “Pale Fawn will be well cared for. And the
fears you have, about the future of women in this brave new world
of ours? Women shall have a place, but this young culture is not
ready to face that yet.”

“I trust her,” Pale Fawn said,
turning to Raven, “and I want to go with her. Will you trust
me?”

Raven put an arm around her and
kissed her forehead. He did not trust himself to speak.

Throughout this interchange Fen
had been silent but he had been watching the woman intently.

“Have you ever travelled to
Alba Sulh?” he asked, “And are we to know your name?”

The woman gave a wry smile. “In
my work I have travelled widely and for now you may call me
‘Morgana,’ although in time you will come to know me by a different
name.”

Fen snorted slightly. The woman
ignored him.

“We must embark,” she said.
“The seas are treacherous at this time of year, so we only have a
short window of opportunity to sail., That’s is why we had to get
you here quickly.” They walked with her to the small harbour and
paused by the gangplank.

The woman turned to Raven.
“Worry not. One day you will see Pale Fawn again and visit our
homeland, but for now your path lies with the Sulh.”

Raven took Pale Fawn in his
arms and held her tight.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Come
and visit. One day. And you,” she said turning to kiss Fen on the
cheek, “take care of my Raven for me.”

Fen kissed her back. “Of
course.”

She went on board with the
woman and stood at the bow as the ship slipped away. For a while
she stood there watching them and Raven stood, Fen’s hand on his
shoulder, watching his past and future sail away. Then Pale Fawn
moved from the stern to the bows, setting her face towards her
future.

Fen turned Raven around and
walked him back to the forest path.

“Come on, Mountain Boy, time to
go home.”

“Where’s home?” The first words
Raven had been able to utter for a while and he nearly choked on
them.

“Home’s where your people are,”
Fen replied, giving him a squeeze, “and right now my home’s with
you.”

Raven turned back to watch the
ship slipping over the horizon. “We still have a long way to go,”
he said.

Fen tugged on his hand,
“Yeah... ‘the woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but we have
promises to keep, and miles to go before we sleep’
¹
–
Come on Raven,” he smiled, “this is just the beginning.”

And Raven smiled and allowed
himself to be led away.

¹
Quote from
‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost

The
Rune-Throwing

Kristi Lee

Hroth focused on his breathing:
deep inhalations through the nose and exhalations through barely
parted lips. The frigid air burned as it drew up his nostrils.
Steam from his breath blended into the fog that rolled and shifted.
The beach was eerily quiet, muffled, except for the soft lapping of
the water on the rocks of the nearby shore. The fog was so dense
and soupy, Hroth couldn’t even see the bay, though he was only
sitting a stone’s throw from the water. While he didn’t expect to
hear anything else aside from the occasional cry of a seagull, his
ears were beginning to play tricks on him. Had he just heard
something? Was someone there? It was his third day of fasting in
solitude as part of a communal meditation, and the line between
reality and imagination had become as insubstantial as the folding
mist around him.

The rasping croak of a raven,
unmistakably real, made Hroth look up reflexively, but he couldn’t
see anything through the blanketed white that surrounded him.
Seconds later the distinctive black bird swooped in, landed off to
his right and immediately began preening its wing. Hroth watched it
impassively, knowing it to be his familiar. Roc was a friend who
had been with him since his earliest days as a har. He gazed at the
bird steadily, acknowledging their shared past, before he closed
his eyes, waiting to hear what Roc had to say.

“The wise ones are pleased with
your journey,” Roc croaked. “You shall tell your story to one you
have not yet met.”

Hroth’s eyes flew open.
“Soon?”

“It is not for me to say when.
But when you do, you should take him under your wing, as I have
you.”

“Under my
wing
, indeed,”
Hroth said ruefully.

Hroth himself was no seer,
though his friend Hansggedir fancied he read his scrying cards with
accuracy. Only when the raven spoke to him about the spirits and
their will did he believe he was given a true glimpse into the
future. Roc made the raven version of a clucking sound, hopped over
to Hroth’s closed bag and began pecking at it.

“I’ve been fasting, so I don’t
have any treats for you,” Hroth apologized. “If I’d known you would
visit during my meditation, I’d have brought you something.”

“No matter,” Roc rasped in his
gravelly avian voice. “The time for the new ones is come. Go and
prepare yourself as you always do.”

Hroth nodded toward the raven,
which cawed and flew off. He closed his eyes and counted down,
thirty-two precisely deep inhalations and exhalations, before he
again opened his eyes and yawned. With as fluid a movement as he
could muster, he stood and stretched, then bowed at the waist
toward the sea. He murmured his thanks to the Aghama for the time
of quiet and peace, and cast a few thoughts toward the sea spirits,
as though skipping rocks across a lake. After gathering his few
belongings from his vigil, he slowly walked up the rocky beach to
the path that would take him to Freygard and his kinshar.

He realized he was gritting his
teeth and forced himself to relax. It wasn’t so bad to feel like a
freakish pariah, or so he tried to convince himself. Hansggedir,
faithful, loyal friend that he was, ensured that he became neither
a dry leaf due to lack of aruna nor fell into despair.
Rune-throwings were hard on Hroth. Already he was leery of being
with the other Freyhellans even in their modest number, of hearing
whispers and looks of fearful respect. For once he wanted to blend
in, to be chosen. Just once he wanted his rune stone to be
selected, to complete the rite of inception with a new har. Damn
Roc for getting his hopes up. The last thing he wanted to do was
revisit that nightmarish day, much less have to share it with a
jelly-legged har barely recovered from his althaia, all senses
screaming for aruna. He sighed.

Back in his modest home, Hroth
built a fire, tending it until it crackled merrily in the hearth.
After heating water for a hot bath, he thoroughly washed his hair.
His thick tresses were his one vanity, though the golden colour was
the same as nearly every other har in Freyhella. One of the humans
he’d seen whose althaia must be complete had dark russet hair, the
sides shorn, as was their custom before inception. Hroth had gone
on his vigil to be with them in spirit, and he was anxious to see
them in their transformed state, especially given his familiar’s
instructions.

Once clothed in a woollen
dressing gown, he sent a message via mind touch to Hansggedir.
Are you up?

Yes! Hansggedir replied at
once. I’m not a slug. You obviously have me confused with Sveinn.
Hroth could hear the laughter in his friend’s mind voice. I’m glad
you’re back. The rune-throwing will be at dusk.

So I assumed. Will you come
braid my hair for the occasion?

Of course. I’ll be there
shortly.

Smiling at the thought of
seeing him, Hroth padded around his small house, hanging a kettle
above the flames to make a pot of tea. To salve his pride, he wore
a ceremonial cape made of silver fox to each ritual at the Hall of
Voices. While it was on his mind, he retrieved it, draping it over
a chair in his bedroom. He’d just finished some smoked fish and
tea-soaked bread when Hansggedir knocked on the door.

“It’s open!” Hroth called out.
A wave of cold air rushed in, ebbing once the door closed again.
Hansggedir’s tall form appeared in the kitchen, his eyes
sparkling.

“You can call on me for more
than my plaiting skills, you know,” he said by way of greeting.

“I know, and I do, so don’t
pretend otherwise.” Hroth smiled and lifted his face to receive his
friend’s kisses on each cheek. “Not today. There’s always a chance
that I’ll be chosen for one of the newest hara.”

“The odds are stacked against
you,” Hansggedir observed, plucking a piece of sweetbread off of
Hroth’s plate.

“It’s not odds, it’s the choice
of the spirits. But thanks for reminding me that I’ve never been
deemed worthy.”

Hansggedir looked abashed.
“That’s not what I meant!” he insisted. “It’s that there aren’t
many inceptees. I know you and your self-abasements only too well.
I’d never insinuate that it’s anything about you as a har that’s
kept you from being selected. Honestly,” he grumbled, hitting Hroth
a bit roughly on the back of the head before leaning over to kiss
the same spot. “Quit taking yourself so damn seriously, no matter
what that raven tells you. Where’s your brush?”

Hroth pointed at the other end
of the table. After popping the bread in his mouth, Hansggedir
picked up the brush and came to stand behind him, brushing through
the waist-length hair.

“And your ties?”

“Oh. My bedroom.”

As Hansggedir loped off, Hroth
called after him, “There are a few raven feathers. Bring those,
too.”

Nearly half an hour passed as
they chatted. Hansggedir created several circlets of braids,
intertwining leather strips and at the end, placing the raven
feathers over Hroth’s left ear.

“Exquisite,” Hansggedir sighed
appreciatively at his work.

Hroth let out a low laugh.
“Thank you. I’m almost glad I can’t do it myself.” He stood up.
“Let’s go to the rune-throwing, even though it makes me
uncomfortable being around so many hara.”

Hansggedir made a noise of
discontent.

“Aghama help any of them if you
get chosen. Where’s your cape?”

“On the chair in my room.”

Hroth went into his bathroom to
evaluate Hansggedir’s work in his modest looking-glass. It was
indeed intricate and to be admired, though hara always did so from
a distance.

“You look stunning, as always.
Come away from that mirror!” Hansggedir joked, and Hroth found it
in himself to smile as he left the room.

“I’m afraid my vanity didn’t go
away when I became har,” he admitted, allowing Hansggedir to help
him put on the fox cape. “Though I don’t see myself as the catch I
once was. Nohar else does, either.”

“We all have our flaws. Yours
is just more difficult to hide.”

“Try impossible.”

“Oh, Hroth.” Hansggedir shook
his head. “Of all days, today the focus won’t be on you. You’re
revered and beautiful. What you’re missing cannot possibly detract
from that. Come on, don’t brood over it.”

“Oh! The fire.” Hroth gestured
at his fireplace.

“I’ll get it.”