Needle Rain (15 page)

Amora
– the goddess of hate and love.

The sighting of gods and goddesses by humans is rare but not inconceivable.

*****

The child, Mara, became Thom’s carer as much as he became hers. Simple things like gathering firewood or packing clothes at the start of a day would often puzzle him or send him into a mind fugue of near-total blankness. Neither body nor thoughts would move until Mara took his hand and whispered to him. After the near-drowning, a deep rattling cough bothered her for a few days. By the time they reached the orphanage it had completely gone but the idea of using a needle to help her lungs to heal had already occurred to Thom. He’d recoiled from that thought as if it were poison. To touch a needle again...no.

“You like it?” Omi pointed up the slope their path followed.

Thom let the pack he carried sag to the ground with a thump. Nestled on the crest of the hill before them sat the orphanage. Two higher buildings and several smaller ones surrounded by a white wall. The buildings themselves were blue-gray stone, and the stone locally quarried from the looks of the boulders baring themselves here and there on either side of the road.

In the town they’d passed through, there’d been many Bloodmen and Thom guessed they were close to the Forests of the Clandom. Even this close to autumn, the air was thick with moisture, the sky clogged with heavy storm clouds, and if you stepped out into the surrounding scrub for a toilet break and chose the wrong spot, hundreds of mosquitoes would rise as one whining mass and engulf you.

He smacked one such attacker that had settled on his arm.

“You’re tasty, Mr. Noname,” said Omi. “Don’t worry, the sea winds keep them away. Come! We’ll be in time for dinner.”

Mara ran ahead, the small pack on her back bouncing against her with each step.

Grunting with effort, Thom shouldered his own pack that Omi had loaded with just about everything that weighed more than a thimble. After the river incident, he’d spoken with Mara but not Omi. The little man had tried many times to draw Thom into a conversation about what had happened in Carstelan.

Omi had no right to know what went on in his thoughts. Damned if he was going to tell Omi a single thing. It was his own burden, and he would bear it or sink under it by himself. Maybe, out here, he could somehow find a sort of peace. Yes, he owed the priest, and he’d pay him in full, with labor, but not with his thoughts.

Briefly, as they trudged up the hill path, a head-throbbing nausea clutched at him. He stopped, panting, with his head held as low as was possible. It passed quickly and he continued on. Somm, he supposed. Would it ever leave him?

The wooden gate to the orphanage was painted white to match the little wall and a crudely carved wreath of flowers at its middle made clear its dedication to Amora. Ten or more children of ages ranging from the late teens to those Mara’s age, surged forward.

“Omi! Omi! I’ve got another tooth through!”

“The she-devil goat’s eaten part of the lectern, Omi!”

“What did you bring us?”

Joyful cries mixed equally with sobs.

Thom stood well back with Mara clutching his leg, his hand on her head in reassurance. They watched in silence.

“I’ve brought you Mara.” Omi beckoned her over and took her hand. “Our new family member. And I’ve brought these!” He jiggled a sack then untied the neck. “Line up, please! Youngest to oldest!”

When the line was formed he let them one-by-one reach in and pull out a sugary lolly.

Thom looked about. No adults had arrived. Five buildings formed a long U-shape along a quadrangle: a well to the right in front of a hall with a roofed-over assembly area then three smaller houses and, lastly, at the left post of the ‘U’, was a larger two-story house with a gable roof. All were of basic construction, in a mixture of crudely dressed blue stone with red-painted timber for the frames of doors and windows and roof beams. Long garden beds overflowed with vivid pink carminiums. Off to the sides were dirt mounds with trellises of tomatoes and other vegetables.

“Thom! Wilyam will show you where to put everything,” yelled Omi.

Startled, Thom looked over. A gangly, pimple-spotted youth sauntered over, grinning, the lollipop in his mouth making his cheek stick out as if afflicted by some awesome deformity.

“Give him other clothes, Wilyam, and bring me the robe. He’s not a priest. He’ll be sleeping in my house.”

“Come on. F-follow me,” the boy said wetly, sucking on the sweet as he spoke.

“Tell me, Wilyam. What keeps you safe? There’s nothing here but that low wall.”

Wilyam paused to shift the lollipop across his mouth. “Omi does. He’s got f-friends.”

“What?” For the first time in what seemed forever Thom felt a growing perplexed anger. How could the priest leave them unprotected while he danced off to Carstelan? These were children and the border across into the Bloodmen’s territory was only a few miles north.

In the front lobby of one of the three dormitories he changed out of the red robe, pulling on a pair of brown drawstring trousers and a black shirt. He emerged onto the little veranda that ran the length of the dormitory. Already Wilyam was back among the throng of children.

Where do I fit in here?
He wasn’t a priest. He wasn’t a child. The red priest robe hung from his hand. If they needed anything here it was a man skilled in weapon handling and combat. He certainly wasn’t that.

He sighed. He’d find his place here. The air was clean. No one to judge him for his past. Find peace, maybe.

Days slid past, punctuated only by back-breaking work and nightmares. Three, four, five times, every night, he woke with thumping heart, clothes soaked with sweat and a fading memory of panic and something monstrous pursuing him, one step behind. His bed was set up in Omi’s library at the front of the house. On one such night, he sat up in bed and saw a dark figure gliding past the doorway that let onto the entrance hallway. Breath stopped in his throat, he strained to see. It was no monster. It was Omi. Returning to his own bed.

He slumped. The nightmares were tainting his life. He had so little sleep each night. When would this end?

Thom recalled the disjointed trip to the orphanage. Omi had disappeared some of those nights too. For whatever reason, the priest had a habit of roaming at night.

The days he filled with chopping wood so they’d have wood for cooking and for heating the washing water each night. Plus he fetched water, herded the cows each morning into a yard for milking, repaired the fence around the cow and goat paddock, and so on. The children all had similar tasks but as the only other adult, Thom found himself given most of the work despite his lack of any real skill. Perhaps this was Omi’s way of punishing him for not speaking.

The axe used for the wood chopping had a loose head and needed tiny timber wedges driven between the head and the handle to tighten it. Thom stood for a moment, hand on aching back, stretching to loosen the muscles. The scent of cow dung and fresh-cut timber mingled with the sea-salt brought on the breeze. He inhaled and smiled. Strange how good that smelt. Clean dirt. The country. The dirt in Carstelan had a different scent. It was an ugly dirt made up of the worst parts of humanity.

A Bloodman, teeth and lips red from that god-awful dye they used, was sauntering through the front gate.

Was he here to attack?

Thom gripped the axe in one hand, and sprinted faster than he could ever remember doing. Mara stood, fingers jammed in her mouth, not four yards from the gate.

When he skidded to a halt before the Bloodman, axe now held upright in both hands, the man grinned at him. Thom glared back, baring his own teeth, and tried not to show he’d seen the bandolier of hatchets across the Bloodman’s naked chest or the long knife at his belt. Incongruously, he wore a wide-brimmed leather hat with many strings dangling down from the edge of the brim. At the end of each string, still buzzing indignantly and flying in tiny circles, were iridescent beetles.

Despite the breeze, beads of sweat sprang up on Thom’s forehead and trickled down his back.

“Mr. Noname! Mr. Noname!” Mara had been saying something and plucking at his arm.

“Not now! Run and find Omi! Go! And you!” He intensified his glare. “Time to leave! This is not your territory!” Would the man understand? Even more important – did he have other warriors with him?

“Mr. Noname!” Mara stomped around and stood arms akimbo before Thom. “Wilyam says this man is a friend! You should not shake that axe! It’s bad manners.

“Oh.” Uncertain, he lowered the axe.

Panting and red-faced, Wilyam ran up to them. “H-he’s okay.” He paused to catch his breath then turned to the Bloodman. “Hi, Munnweya. Sorry. This man is new.” He nodded curtly toward Thom. “Come with me. I’ll take you to Omi.”

“Thank you.” The Bloodman bowed his head politely, grinned again at Thom, and set off after Wilyam.

“See?” said Mara.

“Yes, guess I do.” Still fuming a little, he watched them trek around the side of Omi’s house, and up the grassy slope, seaward.

Later, once the woodpile had climbed to a satisfactory height, he sat on a seat under the assembly area and picked at a burst blister on his hand. “Ouch!” A callus had grown at the base of his thumb. A callus. And he’d managed to chop the wood in half the time it used to take him. There might be a place for him here. He had a headache from the lack of sleep but the nightmares seemed distant in the daylight. Bearable.

There was also a black line under the callus – a splinter. A hard brown piece driven deep into his palm. A needle of wood. A needle.

The wave pummeled him, drowned him in black memories – the sounds of flesh meeting rock, the acrid smell of the ash upon the funeral bier and the tang of blood...the girl’s blood...the unique smell when he drove in that final needle. Strange and disturbing. The ache of losing Leonie. He’d not even been there, not been there to help her. A failure in all ways...

He...remembered, all of it.

“Mr. Noname? Mr. Noname?”

It was Mara, resting her tiny hand on his shoulder. He was on his knees in the dirt, vomiting. He straightened, dirt still clinging to his hands as he propped himself onto one leg then the other, and stood. “It’s okay, Mara. Thank you.” He wiped his mouth, swallowed the vile taste. He was losing control, again. “Do you know where Omi is?”

“Yes.” She pulled on his hand.

“Wait.” He found his water bottle, took a swig and swilled it round in his mouth before spitting it out. Then he took her hand again. “Now I’m ready.”

“Are you going to talk to Omi?” She smiled up at him. “That will make him happy.”

They found Omi meditating, sitting cross-legged at the cliff’s edge on the westernmost boundary of the orphanage. Below was the roaring sea, swirling and smashing against the dark rocks. Above was the haze of salt air and seabirds crying sadly and wheeling on the wind sweeping over the cliff.

“I’ll be best seeing him alone.” Solemnly he shook her hand. “Thank you.” She ran off down the slope toward where a group of the younger children were running about screaming.

“Why have you come to me, Thom?”

Surprisingly, Omi’s eyes were still closed. The wind played with the strands of white hair on his left scalp, tossing it, flicking it across his face.

What did he mean? For days, he’d been the one who wanted to talk.

“I...I’m having visions, memories of things that I’ve done. I guess, I need to find a way to come to terms with what I’ve done. What’s happened because of my weakness. I can’t live like this.” He struggled to keep the frustration and the fear, and yes, the loneliness, from his voice.

“Sit here.”

Thom frowned. Where? Unsure, he settled onto the ground and rearranged his stubborn limbs until he was also cross-legged, though uncomfortable. The gray-green salt-tolerant grasses up here were spiky at best.

“What do you see out there, Thom?”

What had this to do with anything? Time wasting, that’s what he saw. “Uh, I see the horizon where the sky meets the sea. It’s flat looking.” Indeed, despite the strong gusts, the surface of the sea was, at worst, choppy with waves no higher than the gunwales of a dinghy.