Thorn Boy and Other Dreams of Dark Desire (36 page)

Sometimes, as
I am lazing in my garden, I wonder whether that first
goddess-made-flesh put up a fight. To the noble families of
Madramarta, the abduction of their daughters must have seemed a
terrible thing. Women of their caste would never have been expected
to serve others, and what is the avatar of Sekt but a servant of
both the people and the goddess? Sekt was a deity of war and
retribution, far different from the gentle divine mothers and
concubines my people knew and loved. Sekt would have none of them.
The native deities were weak, servile, and yet the paradox was that
to be worthy of the goddess, our women had to become all that she
was alleged to despise. We had to serve her without question.

This does not
mean I resent my calling. As a representation of Sekt on earth, I
am above such petty feeling. I am privileged above all other women.
I have no secret yearning to escape the temple, or even this mask.
I can bask in the sun all day if I want to. I don’t have to think.
So, why bother? Long ago, my people embraced Sekt as a national
goddess. At first, this may have been through fear, but later
because they saw her power to work for them. Once they were herded
into Sekt’s temples and shrines, newly built and gleaming among our
ancient hills, she turned her face towards them. She listened to
their prayers, and very soon afterwards Harakhte was killed in
battle by the king of Cos, and the Mewtish empire fell. Jessapur
regained her independence. She has never lost it since. I like this
irony. I believe Sekt loves us.

Every day,
priests and priestesses in fire red robes walk the temple from end
to end, renewing the magical seals over every entrance, however
small. This is to keep the ancient spirits at bay, the djinn of the
arid wilderness beyond the city and its fertile girdle of land. The
djinn are born of fire and are therefore attracted to a goddess of
that element. They desire also to wear flesh, and who better to
steal a body from than a priest or priestess of fire? Sometimes, I
think the djinn are long dead, and the precautions are only tired
old ritual, but at other times, when the wind blows hot through the
long reaches of the night, I hear a voice from the wilderness, in
my heart rather than my ears, and it unnerves me.

Meni, my high
priest, came to me this morning, in my solarium, which is actually
a shady, green place. He glided between the lush trees and plants,
dappled by the sunlight that found its way through the waving
fronds of the vines. I was reclining upon some cushions, surrounded
by lionesses, who lay licking their paws at my feet. We were being
serenaded by the water garden. The rivulets conjured different
notes as they ran through the various mechanisms hidden among the
ferns. I was not in the best of moods as, during the night, the
wind had blown with exceptional passion from the wilderness,
carrying with it a scent of burning meat. I had turned restlessly,
woken up from a dream of smoke. The darkness in my chamber had
seemed watchful, almost sly. A flavour of the haunted night
remained with me. I wondered whether it was a portent, and perhaps
it was, for the high priest clearly hid a certain agitation beneath
his serene and flawless countenance.

Meni stood
before me and bowed. ‘Your reverence, there is a matter for your
attention.’

I have nothing
to do most of the time, so it really perplexes me why every
possibility of action seems only an irritant. ‘Oh, what, Meni?
Can’t you see to it?’

He bowed
again. ‘Your reverence, it is a matter of importance. King Jaiver
himself has requested that you turn your divine face towards
it.’

‘
What
matter is it?’

‘
It
concerns the Prince Reevan. He has a malady.’

One of Sekt’s
aspects is a goddess of plagues, but she is equally adept at
averting human illness. ‘I shall burn a pouch of incense for the
boy and direct Sekt’s healing force in the direction of the
palace.’

Meni paused.
‘It is rather more than that,’ he said. ‘The king has requested
your presence.’

That made me
sit up. ‘Indeed?’ I did not have to go. I was a goddess, who obeyed
no one, yet I was intrigued as to why the king desired my physical
presence. Was the prince so desperately ill? But that did not make
sense. The most ailing of royals were generally carried to the
temple, where they could be nursed by the priestesses, close to the
presence of Sekt. ‘What is the nature of this malady, Meni?’

He shrugged.
‘I have not been told, your reverence. All I know is that Jaiver
humbly requests your presence and has already made an sizeable
donation to the temple treasury.’

‘
Then
prepare my litter.’

Meni bowed and
departed, and presently a retinue of servants came padding to my
garden, where they attended to my needs. They washed my hands and
feet, and rubbed the palms and soles with red ochre. They applied
cinnamon perfume to my wrists and throat, and veiled me in scarlet
voile from head to foot. Beyond the temple, I would be concealed
behind the curtains of my litter, but sometimes in the labyrinth of
the city, strange winds can arise, which might blow the curtains
apart. We have to take precautions so that common people never
behold the face of the goddess.

The tasselled
litter was carried by four eunuch priests. Before it, marched a
dozen priestesses in the red and gold robes of Sekt. They scattered
petals of scarlet poppies before my path. At the head of the
procession, Meni rode upon a beautiful nut-coloured horse. Behind
my litter strode three priests who also acted as my bodyguards. And
behind them was a company of neophyte priests and priestesses, on
hand to collect any spontaneous donations onlookers might wish to
make.

Thus, we
processed through the faded grandeur of old Madramarta. I love my
city, although I rarely get to see it. It is a like a ghost of what
it used to be, yet still beautiful. The ancient palaces are now
tenement buildings full of low caste workers, or else they have
been turned into bazaars. The temples of forgotten gods stand
rotting amid jungled gardens. In the dusty streets, forlorn
peacocks trail their tails in the dirt, crying plaintively for the
ordered landscapes of their ancestors. Everywhere there is evidence
of a past opulence, now lost. As a province of Mewt, we prospered,
for the Mewts loved the idea of sacred blood - such as the ichor
that runs in the veins of our aristocratic families - and honoured
our country. They were not harsh governors and shared with us their
knowledge of arts both occult and scientific. Now, in a time of
independence, internal politics ravage the heart of Jessapur. The
lowborn have turned our palaces into warrens. They spit on the idea
of divine providence and seek power for themselves. The king still
reigns, but just. His palace is a citadel.

We passed
through the first series of gates and towers, into open park land,
where pale deer run. In the distance, we could see the ghost of the
white palace shimmering in the heat. It is called Jurada, which
means home of the high god. Only as you draw close to it can you
tell it is not a mirage. Trefoil lakes surround it, and mock
temples, and ornate gardens. Even though so many of the ancient
houses have fallen into disrepair, Jurada still gleams as if new.
It is said the entire remaining wealth of the country is divided
between the upkeep of the temple of Sekt and that of the royal
palace.

My party had
to walk for nearly an hour along a shady avenue to reach Jurada. We
came to a halt by a pool full of exotic fish in front of the main
entrance. A scrum of servants ran out from the cool depths of the
hall and laid down a carpet of ferns for me to step upon. I was
offered saffron water and a piece of sugared coconut, which I
accepted with grace. Meni went ahead of me into the palace and the
rest of my retinue surrounded me protectively. The priestesses sang
in rapturous high voices while the priests hummed an accompanying
undertone. I put my sacred feet upon the ferns and walked the short
distance to the hall. I left scarlet footprints.

The king was
waiting for us in his throne room, which seemed a little
inappropriate to me. I felt we should have conducted directly to
the royal family’s private apartments, where the prince must lie in
his sick bed. Was this a subtle affront? I was alert for
strangenesses. A memory of my dream of smoke came back to me. Queen
Satifa was present, magnificent in cloth of gold with a diadem of
emeralds upon her regal brow. She sat on a golden throne beside the
king, who was surrounded by courtiers in dark robes, the magi who
counselled him. The chamberlain, chief conjuror over this clutch of
demons, stood imperiously to the left of the king’s throne. There
was no sign of the crown prince, nor indeed of any of the other
royal children or wives. The king’s expression was grave.

He inclined
his head to me, as I did to him, my hands raised, palms together,
before my breast. ‘Oh mightiness, you have called for me. How may I
aid you?’

The king made
a nervous, abrupt gesture with one hand. ‘I am grateful for your
presence, revered lady. My concern is Prince Reevan. He is sorely
afflicted.’

‘
Take me
to him. I will assuage his hurts.’

‘
It is
not that simple.’

I narrowed my
eyes slightly, although no one would be able to tell because of the
mask. All they’d see was the snarling face of the goddess, dimly
through my veil. ‘Please explain the difficulty, your mightiness.’
I glanced at the queen. Her head was lowered. She would not look at
me.

‘
A demon
has possessed him,’ said the king.

I paused. ‘A
demon, mightiness?’ This would explain, then, the reluctance to
bring the prince to the temple.

He looked
slightly uncomfortable. ‘Yes. That is the diagnosis.’

‘
By
whom, may I ask?’ I turned my head towards the vizier so he’d be
sure I was looking at him.

‘
A wise
man has come to us,’ said the king.

‘
A wise
man?’ I said haughtily. Who was it making diagnoses of royal
ailments – indeed possessions – before I? ‘Are you sure his
appraisal of the situation is sound? There are old legends
concerning possession by demons, but now our more enlightened
understanding is that, in most cases, when people were said to be
hag-ridden, they were in fact afflicted by a malady of the mind.
You must tell me, your mightiness, of your son’s
symptoms.’

‘
This I
will do,’ said the king. ‘Then you may see him and reach your own
conclusion. But first, I must inform you of the events that led to
it.’

Eight days
before, I was told, news had come to the court of a master magician
who was creating something of a stir in the tea rooms of the more
affluent corners of the city. His illusions, it seemed, were so
convincing they could inspire terror, obsessional devotion and dark
hatred. He claimed he could drive people mad with his magic, mad
for love or envy, mad for despair. The illusions themselves were so
astounding, so beautiful, that many were moved to tears. One man
said he was transported back into the most golden day of his
childhood, when he had become aware in his heart of the spirit of
the sky – a moment he had never recaptured. Another man spoke of
how his long-broken heart was healed of hurt as the woman who’d
sundered it came to him and asked for his forgiveness. There were
many stories such as these. It was all illusion, of course, but it
touched people, and word of it came to the king. ‘Send for this
man,’ he’d said. ‘Let him show the court his expert trickery.’ And
so the magician was sent for.

As I was told
this story, I could picture the man’s charlatan’s garb, all
flouncing colourful robes and extreme hand gestures. I listened
patiently while the king described the wonders this paragon of
tricksters performed for the court. ‘It was all the usual fare and
more,’ he said. ‘Not only could he make serpents dance to the music
of a flute, but they would come out of their baskets and choose
dancing partners from among the ladies. Then they would turn
somersaults, before tying themselves into a complicated knot and
flinging themselves back in their baskets.’

I nodded.
‘Mmm.’

‘
Then,
he filled the air with flowers that turned to bubbles when you
touched them. He made a servant boy climb up a rope he flung into
the air, and which stayed there taut. The boy came down again and
told us all of a magical land he’d found at the top, where the sky
was red and the trees were bright yellow. The magician then took
the hand of my old mother and turned her back into the girl she’d
once been. The effect lasted for over an hour, and my mother has
not stopped weeping since.’ The king raised his arms. ‘I have never
beheld such wondrous magic. He is a powerful man
indeed.’

‘
Indeed.
Does he have a name, this man?’

‘
He
calls himself Arcaran.’

‘
I see.
How is his arrival connected with your son’s illness?’

The king
tapped his lips with restless fingers. ‘Ah well, the two events go
together but not in any way you’d imagine. On the morning I sent
for the magician, Reevan seemed out of sorts on awaking. He felt
tired, listless. He could barely move. When my physician examined
him, Reevan spoke of bad dreams, a night during which he had been
hunted by demons through a strange and terrifying landscape. The
experience had exhausted him. The physician proclaimed Reevan had a
slight fever, which had caused hallucinations in the night. The
prince was given a posset to soothe him.

‘
But the
illness only became worse. It was as if his life was draining away,
and it happened so quickly. In the space of a day. I decided Reevan
must be sent to the temple, but Arcaran intervened at this point.
He came into the sick-room, unbidden, and there made a terrible
hissing noise, all the while drawing symbols in the air around him.
I was naturally aghast and affronted and about to order him out,
but he said to me, “Great king, you are familiar with the stinging
salamander?”