Burying the Shadow (20 page)

Metatron’s
dark suppositions, which he did not broach with me again for many
years, seemed to have been correct. Over the years, my differences
with my father had seemed to fade, and although we had never
resumed any intimate physical relationship, we now spent more time
in each other’s company. I was aware that, as well as enjoying my
conversation, Metatron was subtly grooming me for a role he
expected me to undertake later in life. It was never actually said,
but I sensed he had chosen me to be his successor in the family
stronghold. The day when he would step down as leader of our throng
seemed so distant to me, I did not worry about it particularly, but
occasionally, in private moments, the spectre of what I’d done in
Lansaal would insist on coming to haunt me and I wondered whether
Metatron would still view me as his direct heir, should he ever
find out about it. Sometimes, though rarely, I’d dream of being the
beast again, and those dreams were erotic and pleasurable, a feast
of blood and sex. Perhaps Beth suffered the same dreams, although
we never discussed it. I could only hope that time would eventually
dull the sting of those memories.

One evening,
Metatron came to call on me. From the moment he stepped into my
salon, I sensed an agitation in his manner. My mood changed
immediately from lively anticipation of an agreeable evening’s
discussion to joyless apprehension.

‘I regret we
must discuss subjects of a serious nature tonight,’ Metatron said.
He held out his coat to Tamaris, who was waiting to see whether I
would order light refreshment. I waved her away quickly.

Metatron sat
down opposite my couch, resplendent, as usual, in tight yet
flexible garments of black crushed velvet, his jewellery exquisite
but understated; a single ring, simple hoops of thick gold in his
ears, shining through his dark hair.

‘Not bad
news...’ I said, hopeless of reassurance.

My father
frowned. ‘Gimel, I spoke to you some time ago concerning potential
illicit eloim activity in Khalt. Well, patron agents have reported
further phenomena.’

‘More deaths?’
To dispel my unease, I stood up and went to my liquor cabinet to
pour us both a measure of brandy.

‘The deaths
appear to have continued,’ he said, ‘but it is more than that.’

I handed him a
glass. ‘I cannot imagine anything more serious.’ I sat down, sipped
some brandy, grateful for its warming piquancy.

‘There are
reports of...
unusual
events in Khalt,’ he said. ’Events
that, to ignorant minds, might appear – well -
supernatural
in origin.’

‘Such as?’

‘Would you
believe corpses that walk, monstrous ghosts, quantities of blood
appearing spontaneously on ground where there are no victims, human
or beast, of assault?’

‘I would find
it hard to believe such things,’ I said carefully.

‘Much of it
might be exaggeration, of course,’ Metatron added hastily, ‘but
these are the reports we are receiving from patron agents.’

‘Surely all
cultures have such legends,’ I said. ‘The agents are obviously
looking for evidence and are perhaps taking more notice of folklore
that the Khalts have believed in for centuries.’

‘There is
merit in that assumption,’ Metatron said grudgingly. ‘But the
agents claim to have seen certain things themselves - the blood,
for example, and peculiar figures in the night. These people are
highly trained; it is doubtful they would be prey to idle fancies
like uneducated peasants! I’m afraid I am inclined to pay attention
to their reports.’

‘And do I take
it you also believe the Tartaruchis are responsible?’

Metatron
glanced at me sharply, clearly aware I still doubted that
possibility. ‘I cannot help but believe that, but if they are, I
admit they cover their tracks well. With the sanction of the
Parzupheim, I have been discreetly monitoring their behaviour, but
so far have been unable to produce proof that any members of the
Tartaruchi throng have even left Sacramante over the past few
years.’

‘From which
you might draw the conclusion none of them actually have,’ I
suggested.

Metatron
sighed. ‘I am disturbed about your tendency to defend Avirzah’e’s
throng,’ he said.

‘I am not
defending them,’ I replied, ‘but merely voicing the remarks
Tarturus himself would no doubt present should this investigation
become public. I am only trying to help you formulate a suitable
reply to any objection he might raise.’

Metatron
narrowed his eyes at me. I was unsure myself whether the
explanation of my remarks was true or not. I was intrigued by
Avirzah’e, but had had no direct contact with him for years, and
certainly harboured no especial regard for him or his people. Some
instinct within me, however, could not accept the Tartaruchis were
responsible for the events Metatron had described. The Tartaruchis
were known as a flamboyant and outspoken throng, and their
behaviour had often irritated the more sedate members of our
community, but I did not believe them to be corrupt.

‘I suppose you
are right,’ Metatron conceded reluctantly, ‘and my answer, in that
case, is this: at any one time, the majority of throng members are
concealed, in retreat slumber, within the atelier courts.
Therefore, it is not impossible that the Tartaruchis harbour
progeny of which the rest of us are unaware, and who could
therefore depart the city, and re-enter it, undetected. There might
be hidden thoroughfares beneath the Tartaruchi stronghold.’

I thought
Metatron’s theory a little outrageous and desperate, but did not
say so. ‘Well, it is
possible
, I suppose, but I am sure that
if the Tartaruchis are involved in these phenomena, it is because
certain younger, hot-blooded individuals are petulant and arrogant
and shortsighted. I am sure that, whatever they are doing, it can’t
be that effective. Do you seriously think Tartarus would condone
such behaviour? Surely, by simply confronting him with your
suppositions, his insubordinate progeny could easily be
curbed.’

‘I can’t do
that, Gimel. I have no proof.’

‘Mmm,’ I
murmured, and risked a smile.

Metatron
appeared offended by my expression. ‘Do not forget, beloved
daughter, I still have a greater verse to quote: the
Harkasites!’

I shuddered.
The mere fact that my father hadn’t yet initiated that particular
course of action encouraged me to think he was actually reluctant
to do so, despite his threats.

‘The verse is
long and complicated,’ I said, ‘its content menacing to well being,
its conclusion as yet unwritten. It might also be received
unfavourably by your audience...’

‘Unless I
recite it to myself alone,’ Metatron concluded darkly.

I shrugged. ‘I
can only caution you to delay the performance.’ My heart was filled
with foreboding.

Metatron’s
fears proved to be the least of our problems. As the sickness had
been eclipsed in my father’s mind by events beyond Bochanegra, so a
more immediate threat in Sacramante itself dispelled the spectre of
renegade eloim for a while. Only two days after Metatron’s visit to
my salon, a terrible incident occurred.

Because of our
longevity, which of all our racial characteristics is the hardest
to conceal, we cannot blend easily into human society. We are
constantly shadowed by the threat of suspicions being aroused,
which could lead to the revival of old hatreds and prejudices.
Therefore, at a crucial time in our history, we instituted our own
ethnic community within the atelier courts, the streets of which
are never frequented by humans, other than patrons or our own
trusted retainers. If we were not the creatures we are, and if we
were prepared to abandon the very point of our existence, this
seclusion might have been enough to protect us. Unfortunately, we
cannot forsake our duty; we are impelled to transmit our artistic
spirit throughout the world. This is not a selfish gesture because,
should they be deprived of our creativity, humanity would be
spiritually impoverished and, more profoundly, would find
themselves in a very vulnerable position, of which even the patrons
are unaware. Our vocation demands that we perform in public,
exhibit our art and publish our philosophies, which forces us into
closer contact with humanity than is either safe or desired. Should
we neglect to take adequate precautions, the least astute human
would soon notice that his or her favourite performer never seemed
to age. To offset this possibility, all eloim are required to take
regular retreats - normally, once every sixty or seventy years.
Retreat is essentially a sleeptime of refreshment and meditation
and, at its conclusion, reawakened eloim are reintroduced into
society as younger members of their families, newly fledged in the
arts. The eloim throngs all possess a strong family resemblance, so
there is little likelihood that non-patrons will suspect anything.
Obviously, we take extra precautions, and rely heavily upon makeup
and masks when performing in the streets, just in case some aged
member of the audience has a good memory. Also, at any one time,
only a select group of eloim practice beyond the atelier walls; the
majority of throng-members cluster like bats in the high towers,
away from public sight. No one, not even the patrons, are aware of
how many of us there are. Eloim living beyond Sacramante have
developed their own methods of concealment, but all in all, this
delicate balance has been maintained for centuries. We were aware,
however, of the vulnerability of our position.

Our most potent tool
of security operates on the soulscape level of humanity, because
humans tend to believe everything they are told by spiritual or
political leaders. The patrons of Bochanegra, a powerful country,
have effective influence on world politics. But we control the
spiritual life of humanity ourselves. There are a select group of
eloim whose sole creative function is simply to invent gods. These
religious ideas are disseminated throughout the world via the
patrons’ agents, and it is therefore relatively easy for us to sow
particular seeds into human culture, which have effectively
preserved our secret. Since the phenomenon of the Holy Death had
been brought to Metatron’s attention, he had seen to it that this
religious creativity had increased. Without explaining why exactly,
he had encouraged the artisans concerned to throw out all manner of
exotic ideas, in the hope that it would cause a smokescreen around
incidents which might, or might not, have been instigated by rebel
eloim.

However,
despite our considerable influence, our careful disguises and
precautions, both the patrons and ourselves were perpetually
vigilant for individuals who might have seen through our defences,
whose curiosity and suspicions had been aroused. It was as if we
knew, in our hearts, that one day the difficulty we all dreaded
most would arise, that it was inevitable.

One afternoon,
Hadith Sarim came to my salon. She was a regular visitor, and I was
very pleased to see her, but that day, she was restless and remote.
I questioned her, naturally, and found her strangely reluctant to
speak. Eventually, she confessed that she feared she had
transgressed eloim code in some way. The remark shocked me
bringing, once again, uncomfortable memories to mind, but I took
her hands in my own, assuring her I could not believe such a thing,
and urged her to confide in me. At first, she was practically
unable to articulate her anxieties.

‘Gimel, you
are wise. I cannot speak easily of my feelings to anyone - not even
members of my own throng, but I must confess I would value your
counsel.’

‘Speak
freely,’ I soothed. ‘Rest assured that what you tell me will be
kept in confidence.’

Slowly, after
further gentle nudging, I extracted the information that she had
noticed a human male paying particular attention to her at a recent
set of concerts. On a couple of occasions, he had even followed her
home to the gates of the atelier courts.

I laughed at
her disquiet, patted her hand, and told her that her duty was
simply to satisfy his curiosity! If he was the son of a family with
whom she did not enjoy formal patronage, then of course, the
liaison must be discreet, but it was a problem quickly
vanquished.

Hadith only
frowned. ‘You don’t understand, Gimel,’ she said. ‘He is not a
patron at all!’

Not a patron?
I was astounded. Non-patron society in Sacramante had been
thoroughly permeated with a subtle antipathy towards eloimkind in a
carnal sense, so that we did not appear that attractive to them.
There would be an even greater risk of discovery if non-patrons
started desiring us as lovers, because we knew that love inspired
far greater curiosity than any other human condition. The flimsy
boundary between admiration for our work and physical desire was
delicately balanced. I was horrified by what Hadith had
confessed.

‘You must tell
your patrons at once!’ I said. ‘At once!’

She shrank
from doing so, knowing the consequences would unavoidably involve
extinction for the besotted non-patron.

‘Hadith, our
need for security transcends the welfare of the individual,’ I said
firmly. ‘You must not even think about the man concerned, never
mind feel sympathy for him.’

‘He presented
me with a poem at the final concert,’ Hadith said, glumly.

‘You have it
with you?’

She nodded and
took it from her purse. I silently scanned the maudlin lines. He
more than desired her, poor fool; he loved her. However, the work
did not contain enough literary potential to consider elevating its
creator to the ranks of the patrons. ’You must go home and summon
the Tricante elders immediately!’ I said, handing her back the
scrap of paper.

Hadith
swallowed painfully. ‘Gimel, he is... he is most beautiful .’