Burying the Shadow (19 page)

It seemed
clear to me that Harof should be dead and yet, even in this
wilderness, I could discern a pathetic shred of being rattling
around, lamenting and confused. This spiritual essence, though
small and insubstantial, was not degrading as one would expect, but
neither was it redeveloping. Unless extinguished and released, thus
permitting it to rejoin the rest of its substance (an irresistible
attraction wherever it roamed), the soul-shred would eventually
inhabit a void, and be powerless to escape it. The body would live
on, if fed and cared for, but the vestigial soul essence would be
trapped in the flesh, waiting only for the release of death. An
unspeakably horrible situation. Mulling all this over, I had
already decided upon what course of action to take, and had
prepared myself to retreat from the soulscape, when a tremendous
roaring started up around me.

It was like
being pelted by flying boulders. Powerful sensations gripped my
consciousness, preventing any action, and I was momentarily
paralysed. To a soulscaper, helplessness of this kind is the most
terrifying thing; it is imperative, for the well being of both
scaper and client that the scaper remains constantly in control.
Now, something huge, formless and extremely forceful had invaded my
being, preventing my departure from Harof’s soulscape. I did not
recognise this presence at all; it fitted no known manifestation.
My first instinct was to wriggle and struggle desperately, break
free; the sense of repulsion and fear was so strong. What was it?
There was an overwhelming desire to give in to panic, and it was
only my training that pulled me through.
Be calm
, spoke my
inner resolution.
Relax into this.

Finding an
inner rhythm, I let go, ceased struggling, and managed to extrude
myself by slipping under the power of the aggressive form. I could
tell then that the thing, whatever it was, wasn’t really that
powerful; it was all bluster, but formidable, nonetheless. It did
not belong in the soulscape of this boy, for it was not part of
him. Just exactly what it was doing there, I could not guess, but
the reason would not be pleasant, I was sure.

My flesh
shuddering with cold, I opened my eyes in the smoke-filled chamber,
gasping for breath. I was freezing, yet I knew the room was warm.
Or had been.

I stood up,
steadied myself against the bed, and went to open the window. I
breathed deeply of the clean air outside, listening to the
comforting everyday bustle of Yf: the clang of hammers, the trundle
of carts, people calling out to each other. Then, I turned and
gazed for several long minutes at the boy on the bed. His eyes were
still open in a rictus of uncomprehending confusion. I cursed
aloud, and thumped my fist against the windowsill, because I knew
what I had to do. There was no alternative, no matter how much I
detested the procedure. It made no difference how many times it
needed to be done - and I’d had to do it three times before - it
never got any easier.

I took a jar
of paste from my bag. It was wrapped in several layers of cloth and
etched with warnings. I loosed the cap, took a small spatula from
the bag and scraped off a tiny amount of the paste inside. Then I
poked the spatula into Harof’s mouth, and left it there for a few
moments. During this time, I sat and held his hand, even though he
did not know I was there. Still, some rituals have to be observed.
I felt the shreds of his soul tug free of the flesh and fly out of
the window, pulled inexorably to wherever, in the universe, the
rest of his essence lingered. I removed the spatula from his mouth,
closed his eyes, and tidied away my things. For a few hours, the
empty body would continue to exhibit minor signs of life, until the
motor mechanisms in the mindscape wound down. It was important this
effect was maintained, otherwise it would be too obvious what I had
done, and no soulscaper wants to be branded a murderer.

I didn’t wait
for the family to re-enter the room, but opened the door and went
out to find them. Mouraf was comforting his weeping girl-wife in
the main hall. From that, I understood her instincts had already
informed her that the boy was dead, although she was probably not
yet aware of it on a conscious level. Other women of the household
hovered nearby, ready to swoop in with accommodating bosoms, should
they be needed. Annec, apparently, had left.

I put my bag
on the long centre table and said, ‘Do you trust me, Master
Steward?’

Mouraf stood
up. No matter what his size, he was tall in that moment. He came
towards me, touched my arm, and led me some distance away from the
crying woman. He searched my eyes intently. This was not a man to
be fooled.

‘It was too
late,’ I said plainly. ‘I suspect it was always too late. I’m
sorry.’

‘What do you
mean? Is he...’ He balked from saying the words.

I shook my
head. ‘Not yet, but it will be soon.’

His face had
hardened, but he betrayed no emotion. He would only give in to that
later, alone with the woman. ‘Can you tell me what caused this?’ he
asked gruffly. ‘Is it a sickness, or was he attacked?’

I hesitated.
‘I do not think it was a sickness exactly. A precaution Master
Steward: sometimes, there are things in the air that none of us can
understand. Have your people take care at sunfall for a while.’

‘Take care? In
what way?’

I sighed. ‘I
wish I knew. It is difficult to give advice in this area, but there
have been other cases like this. Widespread. Victims have always
seemed to be alone when the ‘sickness’ attacks them. Always at
day’s end. It is a strange time, when the domain of the moon and
sun cross paths. Sometimes, I feel, soulscape denizens can break
through into our world at this time. It is just a hunch. Rarely is
there more than one casualty in each community, but I advise
caution at least.’

Mouraf was all
for more than caution. ‘Tonight, we will search the area. If there
is a scape-beast around here, we will find and burn it!’

I nodded. ‘As
you feel best.’

I did not want
to say that there are no such things as scape-beasts, not in a way
that he might understand. There are no fearsome creatures of flesh
and blood that can be fought and vanquished, but I knew the hunt
would provide release for his grief, so did not argue with his
decision. Perhaps he and his hunters would come across some stray
wild dog and kill it, believing themselves avenged. I hoped so.

‘Thank you for
your time,’ Mouraf said to me. ‘I would like you to stay until...
this is over. Stay for the hunt. I will reward you.’

I appreciated
this gesture. Quite often, in these situations, relatives of the
afflicted, driven furious by grief, tend to shun or blame the
soulscaper concerned, and can’t get rid of them quick enough.
‘Please,’ I said gently, ‘no payment is required.’ I shook my head
firmly as Mouraf opened his mouth to protest. ‘I mean it. I do not
feel comfortable being paid for failed healings. But I will gladly
stay beneath your roof until morning, if you wish.’

He nodded. ‘I
do. Now, I will muster a search group for later. If I may entreat
your services again, have you anything for Linni, my wife? A potion
of some sorts...’ He waved a hand. ‘Something to let her rest.’

‘Of
course.’

Mouraf voiced
a difficult question. ‘How much life has Harof got left to him? I
want us to be there at the end, if that’s possible.’

‘A few hours.
Enough time for Tarelyn to rest and for you to accomplish your
business. I will sit with him, and call you when I feel it’s
time.’

He gripped my
arm. ‘Thank you, Mistress Rayojini.’

The house of
Mouraf fell to stillness. I went to sit in the sickroom, sipped at
the hot drink one of the house women brought me and nibbled on a
delicious filled-bread snack, while writing up a page of notes on
the case. Afterwards, I leafed through my leather note-binder,
reading over the notes of previous cases of this kind. If I had
hoped to find succour in my faded words, the hope was short-lived;
they brought me only uncomfortable reminders.

The last time
it had happened, which had been over three years ago, in Atruriey,
I had been prey to a disturbing idea, concerning the origin of the
sickness. It was an idea that I had banished once easier, more
straightforward assignments had blurred the memory. I had written
feverish notes back then, garbled thoughts tumbling out upon the
page, of how I feared there were other people travelling the land,
adept as soulscapers in the sifting of souls, but perhaps not as
benevolent. Sometimes, I had suffered the sensation that another
had passed before me, and that I merely patched together the
remnants of this other’s deeds. The thought had been so strong, I’d
almost been able to visualise this unseen predator; it was a
creature wrapped in shadows. Others had developed their own
theories concerning the non-deaths.

A friend of
mine, Sard, a man with whom I had been infatuated as a girl, had
once voiced a highly controversial opinion. He suggested that
victims of the soul-shredding were actually people who should have
died the Holy Death but, for whatever reason,
hadn’t
.

‘Think on it’,
he’d said. ‘All Holy Deaths take place at sunfall - as do the
soul-shreddings. Like them, there is no evidence of sickness or
injury. I believe the shreddings are the same thing, but somehow
failed.’

The Holy
Deaths are, as can be deduced from their name, sacred. To suggest
that the process might sometimes fail, leaving an individual
mindless, and virtually soulless, on earth, was a heresy. People
believed the gods chose the honoured victims of the Holy Deaths
themselves. It was said that divine messengers plucked the most
god-favoured individuals from earthly life, in order to transport
them to everlasting bliss in the shining realms beyond all
knowledge. And gods, to humankind, are infallible. The majority of
people were possessive of their theologies, and strongly resented
disbelief, or criticism, from others. Personally, I was convinced
that deities were nothing more than inventions of the human
soulscape, which meant that if people died Holy Deaths, they had
unconsciously chosen to do so themselves. However, I scolded Sard
for his outlandish ideas, and advised him to take more care where
he repeated them. The idea had been related to me across a pillow.
I hoped Sard was not so open with all his lovers.

Mouraf and the
people of Yf killed a black-bristled boar that night. They brought
it home amid a blaze of torchlight and triumphant chanting.

One man voiced
my thoughts: ‘How can you tell that’s a scape-beast? It looks like
a simple hog to me!’

Mouraf had
scowled. ‘Fool! It disappeared before our eyes a dozen times,
before appearing behind us again in an instant! Simple hogs are not
capable of that! See its eyes? They are red, and the tusks are
crueller than the norm. You tempt the spirits by mocking. Had we
not killed this beast, members of your own household might have
been at risk!’

The criticised
man turned to me. ‘Mouraf’s son was not gored by a hog,’ he said.
‘You saw this. Are scape-beasts so wise as to kill without their
beast weapons?’

The man was
canny, but then he had not lost a son. I shrugged. ‘The killing of
this animal was a release,’ I answered. ‘Above all, that is most
important.’

They burned
the carcass of the hog as an offering for the deceased boy, the
whole town filled with a sense of celebration, as well as one of
loss.

Annec sought
me out in the crowd. ‘Mouraf has many sons,’ she said. ‘The cut
will mend soon enough.’

I smiled. The
people of Yf all had massive families. It bred, perhaps, a certain
fatalism concerning the loss of children.

Later, I
walked out into Mouraf’s yard, gazing out across the modest
paddocks and orchards behind. Mountains loomed above the town,
silent and still beneath the wind, filled with their own prescience
and wisdom. They, and the trees, the grass beneath my feet, the
very air, had witnessed the fate of Mouraf’s son, but they could
not speak to me. I was discomforted. Not only did failure oppress
me, but I could no longer deny the pattern revealing itself before
me. There was a message to be translated, symbolism to be aligned
and understood. I could not ignore it. Information nagged in the
air around me, incomprehensible for now, but existent all the same.
If only I could pluck it forth, and give it form. I had a feeling,
should I be in a soulscapers’ gathering this moment, everyone would
have tales to tell of the increase of this soul-shredding
phenomenon. A sense of urgency filled my mind. The wind blew over
the mountains, whipping the tree branches around me, bringing in
the clouds from above the eastern seas. It was filled with unheard
voices and spiralling spirit forms. Soon, the people of Yf would
forget this tragedy, and their lives would resume a contented
rhythm. Mouraf’s wife would bear him more children; the memory
would fade. If they were lucky, this would not happen to them
again. But I, come morning, would leave the town, my mind full of
this moment, repeated endlessly.

Come morning,
I would follow the way of the wind.

Gimel

‘…
we are decreed,
reserved and destined to eternal woe; whatever doing, what can we
suffer more, what can we suffer worse?’

Paradise Lost,
Book II

Everything reached
crisis point far sooner than we had anticipated. Time is no enemy
to the eloim; we supposed we had many years in which to investigate
the phenomenon of the suicides. We felt as if we were controlling
the sickness.

For several
years, we had suffered no more fatalities, as all cases had been
recognised in their early stages, and the throngs had sent any
potential self-destructees hastily into retreat. This gave us a
respite. I wanted Rayojini to be in her forties by the time I
summoned her to Sacramante; then, she would be approaching the peak
of her powers. The innovation and impulsiveness of youth might be
dulled, but she would have accumulated vast experience; a far more
potent tool. However, events began to accelerate beyond our control
well before that time.