Burying the Shadow (2 page)

‘Listen to
what I have to say, Lady Gimel, listen. Then, you might understand
why your brother needs a brief privacy.’

Calmly, he
imparted the information that the figure we had discerned on the
campanile tower had been none other than the celebrated sculptor,
Tasha Rephaim. I was appalled; Rephaim, not yet in the full
flowering of his first cycle, had been on the cusp of enormous
popularity within the city. I could not understand why he should
seek extinction. Leone spoke crisply, sensitive to my feelings yet
eager to rid himself of the burden of information, of how Tasha had
wailed into the bell - the sound that had alerted us - and then
opened his throat to the wind. He had bled himself down over the
stone, until weakness had caused him to slip and fall, to smash
himself upon the rounded, well-trodden stones of the northern
atelier court. It was not his scream we had heard after that,
however, but that of his mistress, who had found him lying there.
She was one of us, an eloim poetess. I knew her well, and her pain
misted up my eyes over the golden brandy Leone slipped into my
hand. I could tell that the lady’s pain was condensing hard within
every eloim heart, as we smiled and nodded at our friends, talking,
in voices that barely shook, of the capricious bent of the artistic
soul.

A well-padded
patron lady, who was eavesdropping, said to Leone, ‘Perhaps this
hysterical temperament is only to be expected amongst these
creative souls.’ She smiled at me and patted my hand. ‘But then
you, my dear, are not like that.’

‘Indeed not,’
I replied, lightly.

‘Of course
not!’ Leone said. ‘Yet maybe my bright goddess of the awning is
sickened, nonetheless.’ He put a proprietorial hand beneath my
elbow. ‘See, she is white, white as milk-ice.’ He leaned close to
my ear and whispered, ‘Perhaps you would like some air, my
dear.’

‘That is most
thoughtful of you, sir. I am indeed feeling a little
distressed.’

As we left the
lady’s company, Leone added, ‘He was a friend of your brother’s, of
course, this Rephaim.’

I nodded,
speechless.

My patron took
me out onto the star terrace that poked perilously above the city,
and proceeded to woo me under the cover of concern. A light drizzle
had begun to fall; the sky’s response to Rephaim’s death, rinsing
the evidence of his atrocious act from the stonework of the
campanile. My heart was bursting with Rephaim’s spilled blood;
again and again, it tugged within my breast as I relived the
sculptor’s last flight. I could barely fend Leone off.

Beth did not
speak at all on the way home, and I laid my fingers over his in
silence. Our carriage flew like a black prayer over the cobbles;
Beth had ordered the flanking lamps to be doused, as a mark of
lament. The great walls of the atelier courts were also unlit, and
the gates opened in silence to let us pass. The narrow streets and
modest plazas were empty of life and slick with rain, while above
them the soaring ateliers brooded, their dark windows as blank as
weary eyes.

Once in the
house, Beth wept for a few minutes, and then walked like a sleeper
into the brush-court, where he painted furiously for the rest of
the night. In the morning, I found him there, slumped beside his
easel, an empty philtre of bitter-oak in his hand. Oblivion then, I
thought and looked at the canvas. Madness there, little other than
I had expected, and grief and love, but mainly madness. I made a
sound - without inflection - but a sound nonetheless.

Beth raised
his head and looked at me through red eyes. ‘It has come, then, to
the steps of our home,’ he said. ‘We are not safe.’

‘You and I are
quite safe,’ I replied, though unsure of him.

He shook his head.
‘No. The evidence can no longer be ignored; it will not simply go
away. We have contracted a sickness from the blood of our patrons.
We must have!’

I opened my
mouth to protest, but Beth would not let me speak.

‘Gimel, listen
to me.’ He looked up at me with feverish eyes, urging me to
remember a conversation we had had the last time one of our people
had died. ‘It is obvious that the eloim have contracted a soulscape
malady. There is only one cure. We both know that, no matter how
much the elders want to deny we are prone to such afflictions.
Perhaps we are not as different from humankind as we like to
think.’

Beth had been
incubating this theory for some weeks, which I had indulged to
begin with, believing he simply needed some kind of frame on which
to hang his fears. I did not want to believe he might be right in
his assumptions.

‘You talk of
evidence,’ I said, carefully, ‘but there is none to support your
theory, Beth. I understand how the suicides make you feel - I too
am horrified by them - but still think you should control your
fantasies as to their cause.’

Beth ignored
the criticism. ‘The only evidence I need is what my instinct tells
me! I know I am not alone in reaching this deduction, Gimel. We
cannot wait any longer. The time for debate and discussion is past.
We must travel, sister; it is up to us.’

I turned away
from him, lacing my fingers into a constricted knot. ‘I don’t think
so, Beth. We are too insignificant, too young. Let others take the
lead.’

He scrambled
to his feet, roughly pulled my shoulder, so I had to face him
again. ‘No. I trust only myself - ourselves. We must travel and
find ourselves a soulscaper, Gimel, a soulscaper suited to our
needs. It has gone on too long, come too close. The sickness
breathes upon our necks. I, for one, can wait no longer for others
to act.’

His vehemence
shocked me. ‘Perhaps you
are
right,’ I said, ‘but do you
really think a human can help us? I am not convinced of it. Rephaim
was your lover, Beth. Naturally, you are distressed by his death,
but I still think we should wait.’ In truth, I did not cherish the
thought of travel. I prefer to laze than move.

‘Then wait
here without me,’ he said and left the court.

I sighed and
sat down among the paints and canvases, sullying my skirts with
pigment, grease and chalk. Later, I would go and pack. He knew I
could not bear my life without him near me.

Rayojini

‘…
thou from the
first was present, and with mighty wings outspread dove-like sat
brooding on the vast abyss…

Paradise Lost,
Book I

Above the continent of
Lansaal is an inland sea, which the Lannish people call the Womb of
the Land; the lands of Atruriey and Southern Khalt flank its
northern shore. A short sea journey north of the famous Lannish
port of Toinis lies an island that is a relic of some past
sub-terran flexing. It is but a vast table mountain, whose sheer
sides rise up out of the water without blemish. No person can scale
these cliffs; the only way up is through the heart of the mountain,
by way of the wide shafts and scramble routes. The mountain is
named Tapar. On its wide, flat summit lies an immense petrified
forest, and within this natural construction rears the city of
Taparak, home of the soulscapers. Taparak is a city of silicon and
stone, shaped as if by an artist’s hands. It was my home too, in
the beginning.

Listen then,
for I am a soulscaper and have the gift of the story tongue. I am
Rayojini, daughter of Ushas, daughter of a skilled line. I have the
way of it; into the mind like a bat, I go, and out again, dragging
Fear in a net, for that is my profession. I was born in Taparak
and, for a long time, could imagine nowhere different. It is a hot,
dry place, but the Taps milk the sky-cloud of moisture, channelling
it down through the mummified claws of the forest’s hands. Inside
the mountain, below the city, there are lakes of icy water, clear
and fragranced with the cloud spirits’ soul-scent, and close to the
lakes are the sponge-root farms; terraces of pale, phosphorescent
fungus.

As a child, I
ran through the bough-streets of Taparak, my imagination used only
for play. I, as had my playmates, had heard our elders speak of the
soulscape, but to us, it was a distant country. We visualised it as
a land of monsters and fabulous people - our childish ideas not too
far from the truth - and once, in our games, I was crowned queen of
this place. Pretty Heromin, son of Sarcander the Wanderer, became
my slave for a day. Our soulscape was a place that shimmered with
the inchoate buds of later carnal blossoming. As such, it was
instrumental in our development.

Sometimes,
Ushas, my mother, would call me to her side from play, and I would
go clambering like a moth-grub from branch to branch, among the
higher reaches of the city, helping her to gather the sweet-clay of
scraper bugs - insects that live within the ossified bark - which
we took home to make into bread and cakes. Then a client might come
and blow upon our door-chimes, and my mother would send me outside
again, lighting the resin-bowl before I’d even left the hollow.

Until the age of eight
years, I was a simple girl, with no more thought in my head than
the sun-gilded notions of a child at play. I was not insular,
having many friends, imaginative (though not excessively so) - as
was required of a budding soulscaper - and certainly not prey to
any sons of the Fear. All this changed on my eighth birthday. I
remember it clearly even now. Ushas and I had home-hollows
root-vicinity at that time; it was long before my mother gained
ascension within her guild. We often talked of the day when her
soulscaping accomplishments would secure us a more prestigious high
drey among the clouds, although our discussions were a game of
wishes rather than a real desire to move home. The hollow was more
than enough for our needs and, though a long way from the sky,
convenient for ground level amenities and dew-gathering. We lived
alone because my mother had never wanted to marry particularly - I
did not know who my father was - and for her, one child was
enough.

Ushas roused
me early and I stretched into the morning knowing that today was
the day I would at last learn something of my mother’s professional
secrets. Today, I would step off the narrow, twisty path of
childhood, with all its secret haunts, and put one foot upon the
wide road of womanhood. It would be a long time, I knew, before I
advanced more than a few paces up this exciting, new road, but at
least it was a beginning. All potential soulscapers underwent a
ceremony when they reached a certain age. It was a confirmation of
our parents’ desires for us to follow in their footsteps, although
it was not irrevocable. However, because of the nature of the rite,
changes of heart in later life were rare.

I was to be
chanted into the future, by none less than my mother’s
guild-scryer, Vasni. Vasni was an extremely powerful individual
and, even while he still lived among us, a legend among the Taps.
At fourteen, he had castrated himself and had consequently
experienced extraordinary visions; most of which had prophesied
specific events, all of which had come to pass. He was not only a
scryer but also a superlative soulscaper in his own right. Now, he
was getting old, so his travelling days were over. In Taparak, work
is slim for a soulscaper - there being so many of us - which is why
we travel so widely. Since his retirement from active range-guild
service, Vasni had to content himself with scrying, but he still
held a high position within the guild as a mark of respect for his
talents.

Ushas dressed
me in new trousers and shirt for the occasion, neatly embroidered
with the symbols of our family and of the family profession. I was
allowed to rinse out my mouth with bitters-root solution - a
terrible taste - but it dyed my teeth and tongue a beautiful
cyclamen pink colour with indigo shadows. This was the ceremonial
mouth decoration of the soulscapers in our trunk-community and,
when I smiled, everyone was sure to know that I too shared this
honoured occupation. I had known for some time that my life would
begin to change after this event, and had begun to prepare myself
for it. The days of play would be past, and I must discipline
myself to a deep, and often incomprehensible, education. Naturally,
even though I was aware of the hard work required of me, I looked
forward with pleasure to the new status I could enjoy. Even
trainees in the craft were accorded respect in Taparak - from those
outside the soulscape, as well as from those within. Because most
of the city’s population had some connection with soulscaping,
(even if they were not fully fledged scapers) I did not expect
instant elevation to a higher position within the community, but I
would no longer be treated as a simple child. Also, I would have
access once more to companions who had already undergone this rite
of passage. The lovely Heromin, for example, had recently knelt to
the scry, and I missed his company.

Ushas marched me out
into the main root thoroughfare, striding along in her brightly
dyed, layered skirts, telling anyone who paused to greet our day
that she was taking her daughter, Rayojini, to Vasni the scryer.
‘Her distance is to be endowed this morning,’ she said, a ritual
phrase. As a response, people pinned shards of polished bark into
my hair.

Our beliefs
might seem strange to those who hale from other lands, where it is
understood that no person has one future alone. It might seem
primitive or wayward that, in our society, a person’s life is
chosen for them at the age of eight, when so many (an infinity in
fact) of possible futures await them. Much later in life, one man
was to say to me (a lover, so he was frank) that it is as if the
Taps cut away all but a sliver of their children’s lives, and that
to condemn them to one future alone was a torment worse than slow
murder. He was a foreigner, of course, and what he said might have
been true in the mindscapes of foreign folk, but to us, it is the
way, and no scryer ever blew out a future that caused a parent to
break down in despair. Vasni and his kind are compassionate as well
as wise. My mother and I were happy enough, swinging along through
the morning; me with my bright, beautiful smile, and Ushas with her
news for everyone.