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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781939056108 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Pink Narcissus Press |
| Publication date: | 01/15/2016 |
| Pages: | 346 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.72(d) |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Frog's mother-in-law had divvied out no rice in her bowl, for the second morning in a row. It couldn't mean anything good. Frog straightened her aching back and snuck a look at where her husband was working. The young men were plaiting finger-thick withies into the tall horned ribs that would support the new woven longhouse. She and the other women wove the walls in between the spaced beams; this would be a twelve-horn longhouse, the biggest she'd ever seen. Two whole sections more than the eight-horn house floating on its own little island over there.
As far as she could see, the village didn't need the space. After all, not many babies had been born the last few years; however, the village elders had become convinced that it was the Ancestors punishing them for not giving the Ancestors a new meetinghouse.
The old reed mat she sat on was soaked and pricked her feet. Frog slid her hair back over her face and continued twining supple reeds into an airy wickerwork wall, which would provide both privacy and fresh air.
Her hand jerked when a razor-sharp reed cut her finger, straight through the thick layer of callus on her hands. It wasn't fair. She was one of the best weavers of the village in spite of not having been born to the craft. She should be working on the front with the women of proven fertility, creating the elaborate spirals and intricate waves of the village's signature knots. Because she didn't have a living baby, or a belly filled with one, she got the scut work, the walls between two already finished side beams. Mostly plain weaving, with only a simplified version of the village's crest in the middle.
Her empty rice bowl crowned a series of slights that had been accumulating for weeks. Mallard hadn't called her to the married couples' huts even once; he didn't speak to her anymore, and now his mother had skipped Frog's bowl. How would she live if nobody gave her food? If they let her, she could live off the land, but with all eyes on her, that was not an option. And going into the swamp, where the Ghast lived, was too dangerous.
In her life before Mallard had bedded her and taken her to his rice-farmers' village, she had served as the lowly slave of a trader, slogging up and down the roads between the marsh villages and Black Shores on the other end of the Rim. The trader had preferred to beat her instead of feeding her from his meager proceeds. Frog had learned to find edible roots and frogs in the marsh, crickets and mice and guinea pigs in the Rim mountains. She knew how to steal plantains from jungle fields and could skinny up a palm tree on the coast.
But here in New Rice Fields, the people thought wild food was haram, evil poisonous food for Ghast and Wan, and prided themselves on eating only what they grew on their own fields. Foolishness, but she'd gladly accustomed herself to it for Mallard's sake. If not for him, she'd still be traveling with the merchant, waiting for her daily beating while he got drunk.
Footsteps slapped up and she plaited harder, licking her cut finger all the time to keep the blood from staining the fresh green weave. The men were trooping off to take the afternoon siesta. Most of them greeted their wives or complimented them on their handiwork. Frog kept her eyes cast down, but she couldn't help recognizing Mallard's step. A pang of love and lust shot through her at the sight of his strong brown calves. He said nothing. He didn't even pause.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out and blinked hard to get rid of her unwelcome tears. The other women working by her side would be laughing and watching, waiting for an opening to taunt her. She would have taken care of the babies while the women worked in the fields, but the stranger in their midst caused only fear and resentment. Maybe they'd wished to have Mallard for themselves, with his shiny copper skin and heavy swinging ponytail.
Her belly cramped. If nobody fed her, she would starve. Or she could leave. She could forage enough to live on in the marsh, but for what purpose, all alone and unwanted? She'd rather die than find the merchant again, and be rented out and worked like a dog for never a kind word. She had no choice — she never had. Once again, she had to stay and bear anything Mallard and his mother dished out.
* * *
Ing licked the sheen of moisture seeping down the cave wall. It tasted of obsidian with a coating of chalk and brine. The exact place she marked yesterday.
Her companions shuffled their feet and whispered to each other, apparently unaware of the importance of the occasion — and not doing what she'd told them to a dozen times before. She wanted to ream out their sorry asses, but she knew that would only make things worse. How did it go again? Praise first, then reinforce the commands.
"Good work so far, guys. They saw you, they sent out a hunting party. You remember what to do next?" she asked.
Harpa nodded, but she didn't quite believe him. A man of many promises and few results. Tembo shrugged. In spite of the highly reflective whiteness of his face, she couldn't see his expression well enough in the cave's semi-darkness. With a sigh, she broke off two ring fingers — again — and fed them one each. Their stances righted as the knowledge sped through their bodies.
"I lead him off," Harpa said.
"I lure the others away from the leader when he follows Harpa."
Finally. "Now off you go. I can smell the humans coming."
They loped off, two dancing white outlines in the gloom.
She groped along the rough stone of the cave wall until she found a natural path between the stony stalagmite teeth on the cave floor. The perfect spot for an ambush.
Hunkering down, she ran the rope over the shallow footpath, ready to pull it taut and snare her prey. Her elbow banged against a stalactite — invisible in the darkness. She winced, shoulders stiffening against the pain she expected to shoot up through her funny bone. There was no pain. No more pain, no more cramps or shivers or fevers. Except those that the human mind generated. Even a couple of centuries of being a Wan didn't stop the mind from trying out million-years old reptile reflexes.
This was her last chance. Every time in the past century when Ing thought she found the right person, they had always disappointed her after the transformation to Wan was complete. She'd tried for intelligence, for creativity, for craftsmanship, for endurance or aggressiveness. They'd all listened, nodded their heads in agreement, and then wandered off in pursuit of their own happiness.
What did that say about humanity? Were they all shortsighted fools? Maybe. What did it tell her about her own ability to choose the right person? Probably that it sucked. So this time, she'd picked someone chosen not by herself, but by the population of White City. The Stadholder, the ruler. She'd seen him from afar many times. A tall, husky fellow with mahogany skin under iridescent silk scarves, a great prow of a nose, and a deep, happy voice. She bit her lip. He might not be so happy after she'd turned and captured him. What if happiness was the vital ingredient that made people trust him? Only one way to find out.
Ing's sigh echoed around the cave wall. Sadness and a sense of futility gathered in her from time to time, when the enormity of her dreams overwhelmed her. Ing knew the bad thoughts intimately because they occurred at great frequency. She forced these thoughts into a pinky finger. She snapped it off and tossed it away. There. No more grief and despair.
She straightened her spine and flexed her shoulders. She shouldn't have been sitting hunched up like that. She'd need her limberness and speed when her helpers led the prey past. They were idiots and fools, and she had no guarantee that they would carry out her wishes even after she fed them the instructions three times over. She gripped the rope in her remaining fingers. The stumps itched, already growing back.
Faint shouts and the slapping of feet echoed through the passage. She sniffed the air. The salty wind brought the sweat of excited men, with the strongest male scent in front. That would be Firdaus, the Stadholder. He led, others followed.
"Firdaus! You got it, I saw it hit!" an overexcited young human voice screeched, closer than she'd expected.
"I'll take the first one, you go after the other!" Firdaus' baritone answered, panting.
He was the one.
She inched closer, ready to tauten the rope after her hare passed.
* * *
Firdaus pounded after the Wan warrior along the steep cave floor, deeper into the tunnels. His breath sawed in his lungs. After a dry season of cold and inactivity, he wasn't in the best shape to hunt, but that was the heart of the matter. He had to lead the hunting party. He had to prove his power and virility, demonstrate his fitness to be the Stadholder of White City for another year.
In spite of the stitch in his left side, he increased his speed. The sticky salt in the air made him suspect that the desperate beast was leading him back to the sea.
Bamboo tapped on rock. He'd landed an obsidian-bladed spear in his prey's left eye and one in its ear socket. The more the cave ceiling jogged those spears, the more they would work themselves into the monster's brain. The glowapple around Firdaus' neck created a circle of dusk around him. Further ahead was only darkness. The creature's wheezes rasped against the tunnel walls, signaling that it was tiring.
Firdaus transferred his last spear to his throwing hand and hefted it over his shoulder.
"Heya!" he shouted.
His shins cannoned into an invisible rope. His legs went out from under him, shooting him headlong onto the sharp rocky floor covered with warm slime, blood, fish guts, and other offal. His shins smarted and stung.
Light flared up, a dozen times brighter than his fading glowapple.
A white apparition towered above him. A Wan.
Firdaus' breath hissed out of him. The flame in the creature's hand underlit a visage of black shadows and gray flesh, long teeth and dead-fish eyes. Winged arms beat up and down while it uttered a curse he couldn't hear through the blood roaring in his ears. A real Wan, risen from the black swamp to drag him down into its watery lair and devour him.
"Firdaus Eyvindurson!" a voice thundered, echoing off the walls, slamming into his ears with hammers of sound.
Every child learned of the Wan at their nurses' knees. Of their beauty, great in spite of their unnatural white skin. They'd tempt you with their singing and their promises of wealth and immortality. They'd lure you into their underground halls in the marshes, and no one had ever returned alive. And if somebody did, everyone he knew would be dead and gone. Plenty of reason to kill the Wan on sight when they ventured out of the Maze.
This one wasn't beautiful or alluring. He wouldn't be snared as easily as the foolish young men in the nursery tales. Firdaus had people to take care of. Hilm, Boon, his younger children, the soft arms of his lovers waiting for him, ten thousand hungry citizens watching the sky for omens about his fate.
He scrambled to get his feet back under him on the slippery, uneven cave floor, the Wan's white hairless shins right in front of his face. They reeked of mold and dank cellars. He lifted his head, but no matter how hard he blinked, he couldn't see past the bright light the figure carried. A cold paw gripped his elbow and hoisted his arm up. Firdaus lunged for the shadowed neck; a hard pale limb cuffed him in the face. He fell back, stunned.
Something pierced the fleshy part of his thumb. His mouth opened in shock. A white hand jammed a slimy fish-shaped thing into his mouth. He spat it out, gagging from the taste. Whitefish. What the prophet?
"What do you want?" he asked when his mouth was clear.
He swiped at a white leg, but it danced out of reach on dainty, human-looking feet. Firdaus overreached and smacked his nose on the rocky ground. When he scrabbled onto painful knees, inky darkness stared back, his night-sight lost because of the brief flash of light.
The creature was gone, as if it had never been there.
The Wan had known his name. What did that mean? He rubbed his thumb where the creature had stung it. Had it tasted him and found him not to its liking? Rumours abounded about the Wan feasting on newborn flesh. Its odour still hung in the air. A reminder to get away before it returned for another bite.
He groped around in the dark until he found the spear. His hands shoved a pebble that clanked instead of scraping. His fingers felt straight lines, the smooth coolness of metal. An ancestral object, a six-sided star with a grooved hole in the middle. An omen. A good one, he hoped. He shoved it onto his thumb and stumbled forward, hand and spear held out while his eyes adjusted back to the dim dapple of light.
After the murky tunnels, the cloudlight seemed as bright and evil as the Wan's torch. The other hunters waited for him, their hands as empty of Wan ears as his. He clambered up the steep cliff to his father's old villa in silence.
The second hunting party lounged around small fires in one of the seaside rooms, the orange flames almost invisible in the daylight. A precious substance called "glarse" filled the windows, shielding the fires from the sea wind. Glarse was full of shining lights and reflections at night, but in daylight, you could see through it as if it wasn't there. Nobody knew how to make it anymore.
"Heya, huntfellows," he called out. "I winged it, but it got away."
They crowded around him, asking excited questions. His milkbrother, Ali, led the raggle-taggle of hunters and fishermen in a rousing cheer. People struggled up, stiff from waiting, eager to take their turn. Firdaus let it wash over him, wondering why he hadn't told the rest of the tale. They deserved to know everything, didn't they? Yet he couldn't bring himself to mention the creature speaking his name in a human voice, the sting that throbbed in the fleshy base of his thumb. He'd tell Ali, later, when they were alone.
The relief party trotted off with their axes, knives, and bows, fresh glowapples ready. Their spines were straight and their steps light. Not telling them about the Wan who'd trapped and bitten him was the right decision. He'd think on what it meant, sleep on it, but first he wanted a cup of something hot and a moment of rest.
A chilly draft from the open door tautened his sweaty skin and stung his scrapes. His knees were ripped and bloody from the fall, his palms and arms up to the elbows in grazes, red against the deep brown. He couldn't find the whitefish sting amidst the cuts, although the pain lanced deep with every movement of his thumb.
His son Awayo came tottering up to him as fast as his little legs allowed. He stretched out his fat little arms to be picked up.
"Abba owie?"
Firdaus hunkered down and let the little boy kiss away the pain on his scraped palms.
He squatted by the fire, Awayo's little body cuddled up against him. Thank the prophet for Awayo's health; his skin shone a rich blue-black like his mother's, and the boy was fat and lively, without coughing blood and wasting away like Firdaus' eldest son Boon. No amount of stroking holy ancestral syringes along Boon's arm had helped.
Firdaus accepted a cup of coffee that had boiled too long. Hanako, Awayo's mother, bit her lip when he grimaced at the taste. The little groove of worry between her elegant black eyebrows deepened. Osma, the one-year old, sucked on his thumb, half asleep on his mother's lap, while baby Zuzana suckled half-heartedly on an empty breast. It was good of her to come down here and help out with the camp, with three children to look after. It was her way of making up to him for the rift that had grown between them since he'd taken up with Kem. Thank the Ancestors Hanako wasn't making him choose anymore; he didn't want to lose either of the women.
He downed the coffee in one gulp since it had cooled quickly in the leather cup, and stood up to stretch his stiffening muscles. He reckoned he was close on thirty years now. His bones hadn't felt right since that cold winter two years ago.
"Let me clean those cuts up for you," Hanako said, but she made no movement towards her pack.
"Just scrapes."
He sighed. The first mutters about his failings as a Stadholder had started after the not-rainy-enough season last year. Crops were meager, rice paddies abandoned because they had dried out. The ruler of the city embodied the fertility of the land, and if the land failed, it must be due to him, in spite of his twelve children and the care with which he ruled his city. The people would sacrifice the life of a failing leader to appease the Ancestors.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Wan"
by .
Copyright © 2016 Bo Balder.
Excerpted by permission of Pink Narcissus Press.
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