Daygo's Fury (30 page)

Everything was as normal, as a thousand, ten thousand days before, except a member of their order lay dead, murdered by his own hand on the grass between them. What power might Niisa hold over these primitives in a future day? Could he make them dance? Could he inhabit them totally?

“What happened?” Obasi asked the air in front of him. The question fell and died to the quiet between them.

Yejide looked above the trees to her left, as though pondering the strange occurrence. Only her mind did Niisa wonder towards. Only in she did he see potential. Bosede and Onyeka had clasped hands, Onyeka looking from face to face, her features drawn, Bosede stared at the body on the ground.

Namuso was pale and white, his thumb rubbing over dried blood on his forefinger, always one to fidget, always lacking in concentration. Obasi finally looked away from the scene, his gaze turning upwards to the blue of the sky. Niisa could see tears wetting his eyes.

Raba slowly turned his head. His eyes landed on Niisa’s. His eyebrows were turned up in shock and sadness, his face was white like the others, yet there seemed something in the eyes and the mouth. Eventually he looked away.

They buried the body where they buried all their dead, atop the hill of the cave. They were two days digging the grave, taking turns between them, cutting through roots and pulling large stones clear. When finally it was deep enough to stop scavenging animals from digging it up, they dropped the body into it and filled it back with the rock and root and soil that was there before. Back to the earth, as much a part of the Daygo Stream as he ever was. No loss to the world. No change to the world.

The days continued as before, returning to their normal rhythm. The sun spun around the Earth, and the moons, each following their own trajectories and timelines. The stars rose each night. The forest vibrantly continued to live.

******

“Months ago,” Raba said softly, looking into the fire pit as the eight priests sat around it, “you came to me, Niisa, asking about manipulation. You asked, in the study of auras, had the seven practitioners of the third stage ever discussed manipulation. I wondered where this consideration might have come from. Afterwards, I wondered why, in the consideration of manipulation, why auras were a part of the conversation? Would it not be, that if it were possible, one might manipulate the air before one might manipulate an aura? Surely this, being the second stage, would be a more accessible point. But it was a fantastical conversation. And as such, I guessed, any manipulation would count as a fourth stage of the commune, and logic would dictate that this followed a third stage.” He looked up at Niisa, meeting his eyes. Niisa sat comfortably, and looked back at him calmly. “Have you reached the third stage?”

Seven faces turned to his, questions and confusion written across them. For a moment, he said nothing. “No.”

Raba stared. “Did you manipulate Uksit’s aura?” he asked, his voice sharp and raw.

“No.”

“Are you responsible for his death?”

“No.”

“What happened to your sister?”

“What happened to my sister?” Niisa inflected a question back into his words. Raba stared at him. He would never have thought to see anything approaching hatred in Raba, but he thought he might see some as he watched him, a touch of hatred and a touch of fear. “You look like you hate me now, Raba,” he said. “I am of Daygo, as are you. What have you learned in your sixty years here, if you have not learned love for Daygo? You hate me for a conversation?”

Raba looked pained, and he looked away, perhaps shamed. There was quiet over the pit. Niisa sat within it. Soon members of the circle began to leave, finding seclusion from the strange tension they felt in the air. Only Yejide stayed sitting with Niisa and the silent Raba. Niisa looked at her. She looked back at him, her face saying nothing, her seated posture calm and at ease, comfortably sitting, as she could for hours, her hands stacked between her legs, palms facing the sky. Always a witness. They continued to watch each other in silence.

As he looked into her eyes, an image of a black panther walking across his path came into mind. The panther turned her gaze onto the boy Niisa, her eyes alight in the darkness, as the great fire of the gathering started to take light behind the foliage.

He had surpassed everything that they could teach him, he had reached a level none of them had. He had nothing to learn from them anymore. They were only of use as experiments. The following day, he would focus them on Raba. He would learn and he would wait for Daygo to show him the way.

Liam strolled behind the merchant, his stride leisurely and relaxed, as though he had all day to simply follow him, watch him, and wait. He was Haryani, wearing the long green and gold linen robes favoured in his country. His bodyguard was two steps behind him, as was customary. He was a huge man, dark of skin and wide of shoulder. His leather armour showed the beginnings of a belly of leisure protruding from his abdomen when he turned. Strapped to his waist was a hand-axe with a vicious-looking killing blade at its head and a large two-handed sword at the opposite side, not quite a longsword. He walked comfortably with them, as though well used to their presence. Liam smiled grimly; he wondered if this was a result of a long time wearing them or of being familiar with their use.

He had been trailing them for half a winter hour. The days had grown considerably shorter and, with them, the twelve hours of daylight. The twelve hours of night spread out ever larger, ever darker. Twice the bodyguard had turned to chase him away, shouting curses to clear off as he did so. Liam had stood still, staring back at him before jogging backwards a few steps until he gave up the chase. Liam then returned his relentless pursuit, the bodyguard glancing back angrily and cursing. The third time his Haryani master raised his hand and muttered angrily for him to stop. It was only a slum rat, only a boy of thirteen, fourteen years. What threat was he? They walked under the seal of approval of the gang, doing business openly, they had nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

They continued towards their destination, turning from street to street. It was late in the evening, the streets were becoming gloomy and were starting to empty out. A street ahead, around the next corner, was quiet. Liam knew there was no business performed there, no pubs or shops; just houses, with closed wooden shutters for windows, keeping out the winter chill. Liam lifted up the hood of his cloak, tying the strings underneath his chin. The cape was tied tightly to his waist and extended just behind and past his knees. It offered no restriction to his movements.

They turned left into the next street. Liam picked up his pace, turning after them. His head turned behind him, taking in a last look of what followed. There were two men a hundred yards behind, following in their direction at a leisurely stroll. The other side of the street offered no threat, merchants standing in a circle, chatting. He looked ahead once more as he passed into the new street. It was mostly empty as he expected, a couple of kids playing at the end of the road, slum kids that knew not to hear or see anything. A homeless man lay sprawled across the side path. He looked unconscious.

Liam’s bare feet tread lightly over the dirt ground, making no discernible sound as he broke into a run. The bodyguard looked back and gave a yell of shock and surprise as Liam leaped towards him. He raised his arms in defence as Liam’s blade cut through his throat, his arm a blur, making the slice with surgical precision, just deep enough to kill and no deeper; safer not to test the strength of the blade, it had more work to do. He landed on lithe feet, arm straightened behind him. A burst of blood marked his trail as he danced forward and around the Haryani diplomat as he turned. A half-formed word of questioning escaped his lips, quickly descending into a cry of shock and pain as his left kidney was pierced through. Liam sidestepped back in front of the diplomat as he turned yet again. This time his knife shot upwards and forward, like the strike of a coiled and deadly snake; it bore its fangs, then returned to its ready coil. Liam’s feet never stopped. He danced around and through the men, keeping away from their flailing, shocked arms and took two steps backwards away from the scene.

He waited a moment for their pumping hearts to do the rest of the work, filling their air pipes with their own blood, turning what had given them life into their tool of death. Hands to their throats, their blood was an uncaring mess; undisturbed by the restraints it flooded every crevice and through every gap, dropping to the floor, watering the earth.

What started as gurgles, ended in coughs. Red bubbles burst from their lips and their hands lost strength and fell with their bodies to the floor. The red stains spread at Liam’s feet as he bent down to do his work. He knew where the items of value were kept and he acted quickly, extracting everything of worth from the two men. He searched the bodyguard for a knife but was disappointed to find none. He shook his head at the logic of the man.

He stood up and turned without hesitation from the scene, strolling quickly for the end of the street. He unhitched his cloak and wrapped it around himself tightly. His eyes turned slowly to the three boys who had earlier been at play. They stepped back fearfully from his gaze, their eyes wide in awe and fear. Liam’s face remained flat, expressionless. He looked to each one. Each glance long enough to make it understood. He would remember their faces. He would be back if they told anyone about him. It was an empty threat, mostly, but would be enough for them to keep their silence. He didn’t want the matis finding out who he was. They twitched away from him as he passed.

He turned around the corner and crossed the road to the nearest alleyway. It turned out that it was easy to make money in the slums, when you truly lived with no restrictions.

******

Racquel stood with her hands lightly clasped around the isolated piece of wooden railing at the waterfront, the fresh oaken feel prickly on her fingertips. She looked out across the glistening waters with the small rowboats tied to their moorings. The festival lights danced across the surface in a thousand wavy flickers, framed in slimy black. The city walls could be seen at the end of the river to her left, a darker shadow upon the horizon of the night, locking its citizens out from the wealth and prosperity within.

Up and down the boardwalk, celebrants danced drunkenly. Street performers glided gracefully across the boarded timber, tumbling, dancing, singing, playing various and random instruments. Some watchers tried and failed to mimic them, stumbling drunkenly and sometimes falling into the shallow waters of the riverbank with a splash and a peal of laughter from onlookers.

A cacophony of sound assaulted her ears, drunken laughter and shouting, singing and playing instruments, cries of pleasure and alarm, all lost within a plethora of noise.

People were dressed in a motley collection of colours and clothes, randomly and extravagantly put together. Neckbands and bracelets were worn in abundance along with skirts and scandalously bare tops. Strange hats lay atop heads with cloth tied and dangling from their hair. Faces and arms were painted and eyes darkened, making people look fiendish in the dim light. Copulating couples stood or lay, randomly dispersed amongst the debauchery.

Racquel watched as a scantily-clad woman walked by, her large breasts threatening to bounce out of the loose multi-coloured cloth that was tied from around her neck to the back of her waist, with a string holding it together at its centre. Will she happily ride any man that gropes at her tonight? she wondered. Surely, if not, she would not flaunt herself in such a way.

Glowing red and orange beacons lit up the night sky in various directions. Bonfires were set afire at street corners and squares, and no doubt buildings would burn to the ground tonight as they did every year, but precautions had been put in place to stop unnecessary spread. It was the one planning feature that had been enacted in the slums, the Great Roads and intermediary roads off them acting as fire breaks.

It was the Day of Remembrance festival, a celebration of cultures long gone, nationalities and races now extinct, that existed before the terrible slaughter of the beasts. Dress, dance and music were to match that of these past cultures, though Racquel found it hard to believe that anyone once dressed as people did in the festivities.

There was something mystique about it, something hidden. Everyone paraded around the streets, majestic in their debauchery, in their celebration of life. There were no living remnants left of the war of the beasts, no old grey beards to tell the tale, no one within a hundred years of it, no one even that had been told an eyewitness account. It was a dead thing, part of a past that was mysterious and unlikely. Many didn’t believe the tales. They thought them something that parents used to frighten their children at night-time. There were conspiracy theories behind them: that it was an invention of the Church of Levitas to manifest power, using it as a fear of real punishment within the world unless people lived as they told them; or that it was a tool used by the kings and monarchies, giving them a rightful claim to power and legitimizing their rule. Racquel had even heard it whispered that in Darwin the truth was known, that it was all an extravagant lie. But the slums were full of such rumours and suspicion, where many of the tellers of the tales secretly didn’t believe what they told but enjoyed the rapt attention of their audience.

But on this day, regardless of people’s thoughts, the heroes of the past, true or false, were honoured and toasted. There was a celebration, city wide. The streets of the slums were without rules. Madness took hold. A place that was dangerous by nature became unpredictable and utterly deadly. Liam seemed to revel in it, feeling at home in the madness. He had told her that Calum and he used to love festival days and that the takings were so high they would last them for weeks afterwards. But today he wasn’t on the take. He was out to celebrate with everyone else, with her.

She shivered as bad memories assaulted her mind, the days spent praying and hoping, drip feeding his unconscious form water, waiting but seeing no sign of change, panicky, expecting Deaglan or Ultan or anyone to come around the corner of the alleyway and finish him off and take her … to do as they desired. She had wept with relief when he first opened his eyes. His mouth had twitched in an attempted smile and her heart had lurched with guilt and depth and gratitude. She desperately did all that she could for him; running to the market and the well for food and water, spending all his coin, telling him that she had already eaten while her skin stretched across bone. She had tried to steal from vendors but didn’t have the knack for avoiding their wary eyes. After she was caught a second time and punched across the face so that bright lights spun through her vision, she gave up.

He was slow, so slow in recovering. They ran out of coin by the end of the week, and he insisted that they move. It had taken all day but they crossed the Great Road and made it across to the riverfront, Racquel under his arm, lending all the strength she could muster to him. Even so, they had to stop often, Liam too weak to continue, Racquel pretending that she was fine. It had been a hellish journey added to by the gnawing in her stomach. By the time they found a place to shelter, they both collapsed with fatigue and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next day, strangely, Liam seemed improved. Racquel had expected the journey to hinder his recovery but it seemed to do the opposite. He seemed revived and upbeat to have left their old district behind. He was able to travel with her as she hunted for food. He taught her and instructed her as to what to do and how to avoid notice, and she had moderate success while he sat at the side of the road begging, too weak to contribute anything but his knowledge.

They survived that first month, barely. But in their survival was growth and improvement. Racquel learned from Liam’s vast knowledge of slum survival, and Liam gained in strength, every day getting a little closer to his old self, until he was able to partner with Racquel. Together they re-enacted old plays perfected by Liam and Calum. One day he brought her a knife and taught her how to use it, where to aim for, and more than anything else, never to hesitate. He said that the only advantage they had was the hesitation of their opponent. They were caught off guard by their size and age, or made complacent by it. That is what they had to pounce on. He told her that she had to be more ruthless than them but then seemed to hesitate and trailed off. Racquel let the conversation die. She was uncomfortable with it, though she sensed that what he said was only true. She doubted herself. How could she not hesitate? How could she cut a man or a boy? How could she hope to win?

A while later, Liam started leaving on his own during the main trading hours of the day. He told her he wanted to investigate something with the gang and that it would be better for him to be on his own. Soon after, he began returning with coin, and the stakes grew larger and larger. Finally it seemed that they might do more than barely survive, the terrible gloom and fear started to lift from them. Perhaps they would be okay, perhaps they would survive. Before it almost felt as though they were doing it for show, as though both of them knew that really it was all for nothing, that they were done, that it was only a matter of time. They were attempting survival only because they didn’t know what else to do, or how else to behave.

Liam was vague about his trips away. Eventually, Racquel stopped asking, happy that whatever he was doing was saving them, happy that he could fill his stomach again and recover some of the life that she had stolen from him.

One day she realised, like a cool breeze had suddenly swept the mist from her mind, that he had had a plan for survival all along. A hundred looks over that first month, sometimes with a faraway glaze, sometimes inwards, as though scouring his soul, sometimes frowning after the merchants walking the streets, took on a whole new meaning to her. She had taken them for melancholic, hopeless looks, doomed and lost, frowning after the merchants’ wealth and their ease of life, at everything they had that he never would. And she had made herself all the more desperately determined at what she thought was his despair. She promised again and again, frowning and inwardly shouting herself to sleep every night with it, refusing and battling against her own despair, that she would not let him down, that she would keep trying, that she would help him recover and give him back the life that she had taken from him, that he had given up for her. She needed to be doubly determined for both of them.