Burying the Shadow (51 page)

Metatron’s
carriage arrived in the grey hour before dawn, to take Sammael and
I to the Sacramantan marina. Tamaris and Ramiz bundled us into our
travelling coats, and dragged our luggage out of the house.
Metatron’s white face peered at me round the carriage window
drapes. Beyond him, I could see a bulky shadow. A quick glance at
Sammael confirmed my thoughts.

‘I see
Metatron has our friend, Pahadron, with him,’ he said cheerily.

I could see
nothing to be cheerful about. To make matters worse, I had to sit
opposite the creature. He was exceptionally tall, the crown of his
wide-brimmed hat brushing the carriage roof, and beneath his long,
dark coat, he was dressed in leather. He sat with bowed head, for
which I was grateful. I did not want to risk catching his eye.

A vague mist
was about, hugging the green water of the canal and curling
delicately like seeking fingers around the hulls of the boats
rubbing together in the shadow of the builder’s yard. The air was
full of the resin they used to coat the wood, and the tang of
freshly cut timber. Already, the yard glowed with light; the
boat-builders began work early. We must have looked a suspicious
covey, nervously hovering in the yard. Pahadron stood behind
Metatron like an animated statue; I had not yet heard him speak a
word. Like the Harkasite, Metatron was also wearing a lemniscate
hat, which hid his face, and Sammael and I wore hooded winter
coats. The heavy garments were more for protection against the
weather than disguise, but I still felt it looked as if we were
embarking on illicit business, hooded against prying eyes.

The yardmaster
squinted narrowly at us as Metatron explained why we were there.
‘The Cazales aren’t here yet,’ the yardmaster told us, frostily.
‘They own the boat you’ve hired. You’ll have to wait.’ His
unwelcoming manner suggested that the Mervantes crisis, and its
consequences, were still unresolved among non-patrons.

‘May we wait
on the bank?’ Metatron asked.

‘No reason why
not.’ The yardmaster’s tone implied there must be a host of reasons
to the contrary, but he still opened up the yard gates so we could
gain access to the towpath. The canal looked thick and sluggish in
the eerie light. ‘Perhaps we should have used the underground way
from Sammael’s tower,’ I said.

‘Too slow,’
Metatron responded. ‘This is the swiftest method of travel. We
shall hire horses when the canal turns west.’

Soon
afterwards, three youths came noisily along the road to the marina,
and announced themselves as the Cazales brothers. Metatron
conducted a few minutes haggling about the price of passage, and
appeared to come to an arrangement satisfactory to all parties. The
Cazales took Metatron’s money and helped us board their craft. Our
small amount of luggage caused comment, which we studiously
ignored. Canal boats are bizarre and ungainly in appearance, being
driven by huge water wheels. The wheels are man-powered; a strong
crew can pedal at astonishing speeds. In the summer months, there
are often races up and down the city stretch of the canal, and the
teams can show off their prowess. Our little boat, named
Serenita
, had several victors’ wreaths painted onto her
hull. Metatron had obviously researched which was the fastest team
for hire.

There was a
small, but comfortable cabin, in which Sammael sought the darkest
corner and sat hunched up like a constrained long-limbed animal,
looking out of the port. Metatron, perhaps to make sure the best
speed was maintained, stationed himself out on the cramped deck,
where he could keep an eye on the pedal-house. Pahadron remained
silently at Metatron’s side. I had no wish to shiver in the damp
air, nor experience more of the Harkasite’s wordless, sinister
presence than necessary, and followed Sammael into the cabin,
closing the door tight behind me. I had brought a book with me to
pass the time and sat on a couch to read. I heard one of the
Cazales boys begin to chant out a rhythm, and soon the
Serenita
began cutting her way through the water,
northeast.

I tried to concentrate
on the pages of my book, but it was impossible. The light was dim
in the cabin, and my head was too full of hectic thoughts to
concentrate. The text swam before my eyes. I kept trying to
convince myself that Metatron had unravelled the puzzle of what was
happening to the eloim, but I couldn’t truly believe it. It seemed
that, ever since I had entered the Tower of Bale, a kind of
craziness had taken over my life. I no longer felt in control. The
order and rhythm of living, even my longest-held beliefs, had been
totally disrupted, and the discovery that the Strangeling concealed
discarded ancient relatives was not only upsetting, but also
somehow
irritating
. I did not need this extra dilemma to
worry about. It was possible the ancient eloim had come to resent
their younger relatives who had bundled them off into exile so
callously. If my family did that to me, I would be furious.
Perhaps, in a frenzy of revenge, the ancients themselves had
polluted eloim consciousness with self-destructive urges. And yet,
in thinking that, I was perhaps being too severe. It was equally
possible that, if the ancient eloim were responsible for the
sickness, their intentions might be more honourable than revenge.
They might simply be trying to spare any more of their race the
torment of dissolution without the release of physical death. How
would they receive us? Could they even perceive us as individuals?
Were they dangerous? Could they harm us? I had asked these
questions aloud the previous evening, but had extracted no
satisfactory answers from either Sammael or my father. They did not
seem to share my wariness.

The Cazales
brothers were tireless, and kept up their rhythmic chanting and
pedalling without faltering. By mid-morning, we were in open
country, where vineyards sloped away from the canal banks to either
side. People carrying huge panniers walked up and down the rows of
vines, plucking down the ripe grapes. They waved cheerfully to the
Serenita as she passed them. Occasionally, other canal traffic
appeared from the east; narrow boats carrying northern goods, other
pedal-boats with passengers and small cargoes. Bells were rung in
greeting as the vessels passed each other. If I had been travelling
for any other reason than I was, I might have enjoyed the journey
immensely. Perhaps one day....

Sammael had
closed his eyes soon after we’d left Sacramante, and had not opened
them again, although I did not think he was asleep. I watched him
steadily, still finding it difficult to accept who and what he was.
Mikha‘il’s brother; he had been spawned in an entirely different
world to the one I knew. I realised that, even despite a dim
acceptance of our history, until very recently I had believed Earth
to be the only reality. Sammael made me feel more human than I ever
had; it made me realise just how much I had become, or had perhaps
always been, a child of Earth. I was filled with a quick swell of
love - for humanity, for the world, for all my people. In a moment
of total, unrealistic optimism, I was convinced that everything was
going to resolve itself. We would go on from this moment, stronger,
renewed, and more flexible. The clouds would dissipate; confusing
issues would become clear; the answer would be emblazoned in light
across the sky. Sammael: I wanted to touch him. I wanted to talk
about hope. I let him pretend to sleep, unmolested.

We travelled
the Saranan for two and a half days, pausing each evening at a
canal-side hostelry to sleep. Metatron slept with the Harkasite in
his room. It did cross my mind that this was perhaps for more than
simple protection. On the second day, I met the dreaded Pahadron as
I came out of my room. It was the first time I had seen him without
his coat and hat. What I saw quite surprised me, but not in the way
I had feared. His face had a peculiar shape, as if someone had
grabbed the skin of his scalp and pulled his features upwards. This
was not repellent, but strangely attractive. His long thin nose had
extremely flared nostrils, and his cheekbones were high and sharp.
His eyes and brows slanted up towards the temples, and the eyes
themselves were long, narrow and almond-shaped, the pupils
unusually wide and densely black. His hair was drawn severely back
from his face, but fell down from his crown, where it was tied, in
glossy black waves. He was so tall, his limbs looked unnaturally
long; his hands seemed twice as long as my father’s, the fingers
almost like tentacles. My mouth must have hung open - he looked so
alien - because this apparition actually smiled at me. I was so
surprised, I didn’t know how to react and by the time I’d recovered
my wits, he’d passed me and gone downstairs. My father appeared
soon afterwards.

‘Why, Gimel my
dear, what is the matter? You are staring at me like a
sleepwalker!’ he said.

‘The
Harkasite,’ I said.

Metatron
grinned, and reached to touch my face. ‘Breakfast?’ he said. He put
a hand beneath my elbow and guided me towards the stairs of the
inn.

‘You were
afraid of him,’ I said. ‘When Sammael suggested Pahadron, you were
afraid.’

‘I still am,’
Metatron replied. ‘As any sensible person should.’

‘You don’t
look
afraid.’ I gave him a meaningful glance.

‘Sometimes
fear has its pleasures,’ he said.

I shook my
head in exasperation. ‘And I wonder what our kind hosts, in this
establishment, make of gentle Pahadron!’

‘I have
already explained his unfortunate condition to the inn-keeper’s
wife,’ Metatron said airily. ‘She was most sympathetic. I told her
it was the result of a birth defect, which caused gigantism and
distortion of features.’

‘You are
ingenious! Won’t the inn people be suspicious if we don’t eat a
full breakfast though?’ I asked. ‘What shall we do about that?’

‘I have
ordered bowls of boiled, honeyed milk,’ Metatron said. ‘And have
implied we are of a religious persuasion which adopts an eccentric
diet.’

He seemed to
have thought of everything.

The
countryside was changing; mountains could be seen in the distance,
and the air smelled of ripening fruits and mown hay. We eventually
said farewell to the Cazales in the small town of Madyana, where
the canal widened into a vast, artificial lake. Here, Metatron
inspected the town’s two livery stables and hired us the fittest
horses he could find. This was not a part of the journey I was
looking forward to. Although Beth and I had often gone riding in
the atelier parks, I had never sat on a horse for longer than a
couple of hours, and knew how cruel this form of transport could be
to the thighs and buttocks of the unseasoned rider. Sammael too
confessed he felt dubious about his equestrian prowess. Metatron,
who sometimes looks more at home astride a horse than seated in his
own court, had little patience with our complaints. The horses
themselves looked us up and down with alarmingly intelligent eyes,
and seemed to assess Sammael and myself as easily controlled from
the first moment. They were sleek animals, corned up and eager to
run.

Metatron
insisted that we keep to a steady, moderately fast gait; the horses
responded best to an even rhythm and more ground would be covered
that way than by sporadic fast galloping, followed by long periods
of walking. We took the old road east out of the town, Pahadron
riding in the rear. Little time, little time, little time, sang the
rhythm of the pounding hooves. The land smelled of autumn smoke,
mingled with the perfume of the grape, heavy on the vines and the
aroma of honeyed apples, weighing down the boughs of the orchards.
Clouds of fragrant smoke poured across the road from the fires of
stubble in the fields, and the pyres of superfluous or damaged
crops. We rode like ghosts through the curling grey plumes. Figures
stood still and silent beside the fires, mere silhouettes, watching
our swift passage. Nobody waved.

After the
first afternoon’s ride, my thighs, as I had dreaded, were almost
raw and Sammael too complained of discomfort. We stopped for the
night at a small hostelry where we were able to obtain liniment for
our bruises. I applied the ointment in the privacy of my room and
lay on my stomach to sleep. Everything seemed to have become
unreal. I was conscious of the space between the Strangeling and
myself, and how it was diminishing so quickly - too quickly. I
still did not feel ready to confront whatever we might find
there.

We passed over
the invisible boundary quite early in the morning. I had never
visited the Strangeling before and, in the normal course of events,
would never have expected to. Once we had crossed the line that
separated this unpredictable land from the normal world, I began to
understand its symbolic nature. There was a weird beauty in the
tumbled shapes beside the old road, and a kind of dignity. We kept
on the eastern road, and occasionally human inhabitants of the
place would jump out of concealment to run alongside us, leaping
and catcalling. These were not wholly innocent creatures.

When we
stopped for the night among some ruins beside the road and Pahadron
was erecting our sleeping canopies, a fox-like boy with long ragged
hair came stealing out of the darkness to watch. Pahadron stood
upright and stared at the intruder.

‘Will you
drink?’ said the boy. He was skinny, dressed in tattered clothes,
with the nervous gait of a nocturnal animal.

‘Yes,’
Pahadron said. It was the first time I had heard him speak at all
and the sound of that single word was surprisingly light and
musical. He squatted down beside the boy, who put his arms around
Pahadron’s neck. For a few moments, it seemed they were kissing,
then Pahadron’s mouth slipped down to the boy’s throat. The boy
whimpered in pleasure as Pahadron’s teeth sliced into his flesh. A
single jet of sweet ichor spurted from the side of the Harkasite’s
moving mouth. I could not believe what I was seeing. Supping humans
so blatantly beyond Sacramante? The boy was not a patron: what was
going on?