House of Reeds

Near Rural Highway Two-Fifteen> The Town of Chumene, Southeast of Takshila

A high-pitched wailing sound pierced the air, setting the hairs on the back of Gretchen's neck erect. The clatter of leathery hands on stiff-surfaced drums followed and then the tramping beat of hundreds of feet stamping on dusty ground. Malakar and Anderssen stepped out of the darkness at the edge of the village, faces lit by the hot glow of hundreds of torches and two enormous bonfires. The deep basso groan of bladder-horns joined the riot of sound. The gardener lifted her long snout, searching the furtive, twisting light for the proper street.

Gretchen watched the natives dancing with growing interest. A ring of elderly Jehanan – fairly dripping with flower petals, paper streamers and jangling charms – moved back, clearing the center of the street. Now they crouched at the edge of the light, long feet rising and falling in a steady, marching beat. A round dozen musicians were ensconced under a cloth awning festooned with statuettes and figurines and mandalas of flowers. One of the brittle-scales held a long, metal instrument in withered hands. The firelight gleamed on silver strings and an ivory-yellow claw began to pluck, sending a plaintive, echoing sound winging up into the dark sky above.

All else fell silent, leaving the trembling notes alone on the dusty stage.

Then, at the edge of the light, the villagers parted silently, bowing and snuffling in the dirt, and the slim figure of an adolescent Jehanan female appeared, wreathed in veils of pale gold and green. She darted out, fine-boned feet quick on the ground, the clink and clash of precious copper bangles marking counterpoint to the humming drone of the stringed instrument. The girl danced sideways, bending and stretching, miming – Anderssen realized, watching the movements – someone plucking flower buds.

"This is Avaya, twilight's maidenhead," Malakar whispered, "and she is dancing in the fields of the coming sun, collecting the opened buds of the sacred Nem as they lie cool, still unturned by the touch of the Lord of Light."

Avaya spun past, wholly concentrated upon the unseen, and Gretchen caught a rustle of feet in grass and the smell of a dewy hillside, pregnant with pollen and perfume. The girl danced on, the single instrument slowly, subtly, joined by the hissing wail of the bladder-horns and hooting flutes. So too brightened the illumination in the dusty circle and Anderssen blinked, startled and delighted to see the waiting crowd, still hidden by the gossamer barrier between shadow and light, raising many paper lamps on long poles to hang over the street.

A horn rang out, a cold, clear note. The girl stumbled, spilled her invisible basket of petals and raised her head in alarm, long back curving gracefully to the east. A deep-voiced drum began to beat, the tripping sound of a hasty heart, of blood quickened by danger. Avaya dashed here and there, snatching up petals from the ground.

So perfect were the girl's movements that Gretchen clutched Malakar's bony, scaled shoulder for support. In the flickering, dim light, surrounded by such rich noise, by so many swaying Jehanan, she began to see – darting, indistinct, gleam-ingly real – the petals on the ground, the rustling stands of green plants, golden leaves, waxy flowers half-open to the sky. Such an overpowering aroma washed over her she felt faint. Rich, dark earth; the dew on a thousand flowers; a cool, cold sky shining deep blue-black overhead. A steady emerald brightness rising on the horizon.

"See, now the king is coming. Her time grows short…"

Malakar's voice broke Anderssen from the waking dream. Another corridor opened in the crowd and a forest of torches clustered there, held aloft in scaled hands. Even now, with so many lights, she could not see the faces of the celebrants. They were dim and indistinct, bound by shadow, but the lamps and sputtering, resin-drenched brands burned very bright.

A tall, powerfully built Jehanan male glided out of the darkness. His scales were golden, shimmering, flashing like mirrors. Well-muscled arms wielded a burning stave, a length of wood wrapped with pitch and resin. He sprang into the circle, whirling flame over his head. So swift was the movement the blurring stroke became a single burning disc, shining in the east.

Avaya fled, leaping and bounding – and Gretchen knew she fled down the hillside, springing rushing streams, weather-worn boulders, seeking always the safety of night behind beckoning hills – and the Sun-King gave chase. The crowd of faces, the soft outlines of the rooftops, the dusty street of a market town, all fled from Anderssen's perception and for a timeless moment, all she beheld was the long chase of the Lord of Light to reclaim the precious Nem from the hands of iridescent Avaya and his endless quest to bring her forth from bondage in the underworld.

A chorus of voices joined the winging sound of the instruments, calling back and forth in counterpoint to relate the pleading cries of the King, and the demure, evasive answers of the maid.

Malakar shook her shoulder gently, drawing the human back into the shelter of the crowd.

"We must go," the gardener whispered. "The tikikit do not tarry on their rounds."

Gretchen blinked, rubbed her face and followed – unseeing, half-blinded by clinging smoke – as they passed down a narrow lane and a set of broad steps. The old Jehanan stopped, dipping her claws into a stone trough.

"Here," the gardener said, raising cupped hands. "Clear your eyes."

Anderssen splashed shockingly cold water on her face, shivered and wiped her nose. The glorious visions of the sun racing across the hills of a dry, green world faded. Everything was dark and close again, pregnant with the smell of cinnamon.

"Thank you. I was…overcome."

The Jehanan's eyes gleamed in the darkness, reflecting the lighted windows of the nearest house. "You impress me, asuchau. You were singing, as the eldest do, remembering fragments of the lost… Most of those around us did not understand the words, but some did. They were becoming alarmed, once they realized who you were and had no business knowing such things."

"Singing?" Gretchen shook her head vehemently. "I can't sing."

"Certainly," Malakar said, amused. "Your throat and pitiful snout are not suited for our songs, of course. I see why you are shy – but still, a worthy effort."

"I was not singing," Anderssen said sharply, feeling intense irritation. "You must have been imagining things."

"Hoooo…" The gardener tilted her head to one side. "Perhaps."

"Where is this tikikit?" Gretchen said, relieved the creature did not pursue the matter. Her throat felt a little raw. She cupped her hands and drank from the trough, which flowed silently with cold spring water. The damp, fecund odor of moss filled her nostrils.

"It will come soon." Malakar continued on down the steps, which led into a grove of ancient trees. Forgetting to turn on her flashlight, Gretchen hurried after, not wishing to be left alone in the humid darkness. With the sun passed away behind the seventeen hills to the west, the night air was turning cold.

The path narrowed, winding among close-set trees, and then ended in a rutted track. A lamp-post stood beside the road, holding a paper lantern. Malakar stood in a circle of light cast by the dim yellow flame. In the wan radiance, the old Jehanan looked particularly tired, her scales glowing the color of brass. Gretchen slowed, boots sinking into soft, springy ground, and her eyes were drawn to the trees, to the moss covering their roots and the half-seen shape of a tiny stone house set between two enormous, gnarled trunks.

Dim outlines of seated figures were visible inside the open door. Anderssen felt a prickling chill; haphazard thoughts tickling the back of her mind. Spirits of forest and glade, watchers over traveling folk. Guardians to keep the foul denizens of the night at bay…the hatchet-handed corpse, the weeping woman, swarms of ciuateteo seeking warm blood…

"Do we have to wait here?" Anderssen pulled her jacket tight, shuffling forward. "This is an uneasy place… Don't your people know crossroads areunlucky, particularly at night?"

Malakar lifted her snout and blew disdainfully through her nostrils. "Where are your quick, knife-sharp thoughts now, asuchau? You're pale as new-laid shell. Did your grandmother feed you tales of ghosts and spirits with your growing milk?"

"I'm not comfortable here," Gretchen admitted, squatting down next to the old Jehanan. In the colorless lamplight, the muddy pools of water in the rutted road shimmered. Short-bladed grass growing at the verge cast long, sharp shadows. Gretchen shivered a little, feeling the eyes of the statue in the little house boring into the back of her neck. "Not comfortable at all."

The gardener made a low, hooting sound, little more than a rumble in the back of her throat. "Fear not – this is only a waiting place. Many have waited here before, many will wait here again. The tikikit will come soon and bear us south. Just sit a little, rest your weary feet. Feel the quiet under the trees, in the long branches…"

Anderssen tried, but squatting beside Malakar made her feel hot and uncomfortable, so she moved to the side, searching for someplace dry to sit. After a few moments of crawling in the low grass, she came upon a flattish rock and sighed with relief. Now she could sit properly. The gardener had been right about the silence – the only sounds were dew slowly dripping from overhanging boughs and the distant, faint murmur of the festival.

Gretchen realized she was tired and sore. Her legs hurt from running and walking and climbing stairs for days on end. Despite the complaints of her body, she didn't feel hungry, so she laid her head on her forearms and closed her eyes.

Anderssen woke abruptly, roused by the sound of someone singing in a queer, warbling voice, sending hooting, trilling calls wandering among the trees. She blinked, eyes adjusting to the light and found Malakar staring at her with a rapt expression, long head tilted to one side.

"Do not stop," the Jehanan begged. "The wholeness of H'єnd and the Diamond-Eye has been lost to all memory!"

"What are you talking about?" Nervous, Gretchen unfolded herself from the ground, legs numb and stared around at the dark trees and the road and the lamp-post with wide eyes. "Where are we? Where are the fire-tower and the plain of salt? The city of glass?"

"You were singing of them, but who knows where they lie?" Malakar bent her long snout to the ground. "Your voice is strange – hollow and low and soft – yet still I could make out the words…"

Anderssen pressed her palms against her eyes, feeling the edges of a dream fade away into darkness. Her throat hurt. She sipped some water from a flask, and then forced her numb, clumsy fingers to dig out a threesquare. Gagging, she managed half of the cold goo in the tube.

"Are you hungry?" Gretchen offered Malakar the rest of the threesquare. "This is human food, but you might be able to metabolize the proteins. It's spiced chicken."

The gardener sidled up, tail twitching and sniffed the tube. "Che-keen smells like sewage," Malakar declared, nostril flaps tightening. "I will wait."

Unable to finish, Anderssen nodded in commiseration and stuffed the threesquare back into her pocket. She rubbed her throat. "You heard me…singing?"

Malakar nodded solemnly, rising to her full height. "Without doubt. How can this be? Did you tarry upon Mokuil in your vision long enough to learn venerable songs, to sit at the feet of the eldest as they sang of the ancient heroes?"

"No." Gretchen closed her eyes again, feeling dizzy. "The music in the village affected me, the dancing, the light and shadow – I felt strange, uncoupled from my body. Ah, the old crow warned me this might happen!" She clenched her fists. "Damn him and his helpful powders…"

"What do you mean?" Malakar knelt, craning her head to look at Anderssen's face. She hooted, worried. "What yi bird spoke to you?"

"A…a trollkarl, they are called in my grandmother's tales. A sorcerer we would say today, if anyone believed such things existed." She spread her hands, groping for the proper words. "He gave me…drugs which opened my mind to the unseen. He hoped I could aid him, but I think – no, I know – they only made things far more dangerous. I was nearly consumed, destroyed, replaced."

Gretchen managed a grim smile. "He tried to make me forget, but I cannot. I thought these visions and phantasms would fade with time, but they have not." She turned her hand over, remembering the blaze of light which had haloed them in the vault. "When the kalpataru revealed itself to me, something changed again in my mind. I am waking up again."

"You are afraid." The old Jehanan stared at her curiously. "What will happen to you?"

"I don't know." Anderssen started to sweat and her breath hurried with incipient panic. "I don't really want to find out – he said, Green Hummingbird said, a woman isn't supposed to follow this path… He implied it was very dangerous." She laughed harshly. "I don't think he meant it was dangerous for anyone but me."

Malakar reached out a claw to grip the human's shoulder, but a wash of yellow light spilled over both of them and they heard the sound of a rumbling engine.

"The tikikit bus comes," the gardener said, helping an unsteady Gretchen to her feet. "Now we can be upon our way."

The blaze of light resolved into six headlights. The conveyance purred to a halt at the lamp-post. Malakar guided Anderssen forward and once they were out of the direct glare, she could see the smooth curve of a long, high machine with many wheels. A door opened in front of her with a hnnnnnng! sound and steps led up into a dim, quiet interior. Gretchen froze, staring at the driver of the bus, sitting in a low, round control compartment directly in front of her.

Glittering, multifaceted eyes returned her gaze. A sleek, chitinous thorax lay low over the controls, which were manipulated by too many forearms. The insectile Hikkikit shimmered and glowed in the reflected light of the lamp, gleaming with cool blues and greens.

Malakar prodded her gently and Anderssen climbed up into the bus, hands gripping smooth, slippery-feeling guide-rails. The Jehanan fluted a greeting to the driver, produced something from a pouch on her harness and then they moved down an aisle of low seats. Gretchen did not notice any other passengers. The seats were too low for a human to sit normally, so she sat cross-legged beside the bulbous window. Malakar sighed, twitching tail behind and raised her knees, arms folded across the join-scales.

The tikikit bus hummed into motion, raised up a little and then raced off down the road.

Trees blurred past, then fields opened out on either side and the bus sped south under a brilliant, clear night. The queer lights distorting the daylight sky were gone, though the northern horizon leapt with enormous aurorae, casting shimmering curtains of jewels to blind the stars. Gretchen leaned her head against the window, marveling at the smooth, effortless ride.

Unbidden, her eyes closed and she fell sound asleep, cradled in the arms of a seat curling slowly around her. Malakar watched her for a little while, concerned, then laid a bony forehead on her own arms and fell asleep as well.

The tikikit raced south, six yellow spotlights illuminating the road and washing across hedges, slumbering farm houses and the streets of little night-shrouded towns. From time to time the bus turned onto larger roads, following them for a time, slowing to pass vehicles parked beside the thoroughfare. The headlights briefly lit columns of Jehanan troops dozing beside the highway, rucksacks piled at their feet, rifles and machineguns clutched to their shoulders, glossy scales gleaming in the light of the sodium lamps.

Then the tikikit passed on into the dark, turning down forgotten byways, crossing rivers and canals on crumbling bridges, following no straight path, yet still making excellent time. Occasionally, when an isolated lamp-post appeared in the distance, the bus would slow. If someone waited in the circle of light, the driver would quiet the engine, gliding to a halt, and another jeweled insect or sleepy Jehanan would climb aboard.

As night wore on, the seats slowly filled, though none of the passengers ventured to speak to one another, and all save the insectile Hikkikit soon fell asleep. Parus grew closer, hour by hour, though there was still a considerable distance to go.