Dave Duncan - West of January

I had no inkling of any of that. When I was sold, I was asleep, dreaming of my love. I awoke to find the cab full of stocky, dark brown men armed with spears.

THE NEWCOMERS WERE NOT AS DARK AS THE ANGEL HAD BEEN, and their black hair was straight, not woolly. They wore only brief pagnes of spotted fur, but bright green and yellow bands of tattoos writhed all over their faces and chests and around their limbs. They were thick and broad, and their rain-wet skins shone like polished walnut. The blades of their spears were even shinier.

They stripped me, for my clothes had not been included in the purchase. They clucked approvingly at my paleness and disapprovingly at my wasted legs. They made me stand to show I could. They enveloped me in a burnoose of heavy brown stuff that seemed absurdly big, hem trailing on the floor, sleeves covering my hands. The hood pulled right over my head to fasten in front, with only a tiny gap for me to see through. I was too bewildered to believe all this was happening.

Then they lifted me down to the ground. Misi was standing nearby, towering over a group of the male traders and more of the short brown men, like a duck training ducklings to swim. They were all examining a pile of dark-colored bales in much the same way the newcomers had examined me.

“Misi!” I shouted and started waddling toward her in the absurd straight-legged gait that later led the cherubim to call me “Roo.” The traders glanced at me and then turned away. Except for one. Little Mot Han was staring fixedly, his face strained and pallid, as if he were about to throw up.

I reached Misi and fell against her, my knees screaming pains of protest at my haste. I clutched her, but she did not return my embrace. “Misi, what’s happening?” I knew what was happening.

“Dear Knobil!” Misi said. “I want you to go with these men.” She bent her head a little, to plant a kiss on my wet forehead.

“Why? Misi, I can’t bear to be parted—”

“To please me, Knobil? To make me happy?”

And to make her rich. I glanced bitterly at the heap of wealth. Misi was a trader, and wealth her dream of heaven. I must not judge her by others’ standards.

“You go now, Knobil. I want you to go now. Please. You were a great lover, Knobil.” She went back to counting.

One of the men gripped my arm to urge me away, then two of them scooped me up to carry me. My feet dropped and I howled in agony. All I could think of then was to scream that my legs must be kept straight. When I managed to make that clear, four of them hoisted me shoulder-high and bore me off like a corpse. So I did not get another glimpse of Misi.

She had sold me. Yet I cannot hate her for it. Even now I love her and cannot think badly of her. We must all follow our own paths in this world, and Misi was a trader. I’m sure she really was sorry, for I saw a tear in her eye.

I don’t think it was rain.

My pallbearers did not carry me far. Beyond a stand of great trees lay a wide river, and there we came to three canoes drawn up on the bank in the steamy jungle gloom. I was dropped into one, not gently, and before I could even free my hands from my sleeves to make an attempt at scrambling out again, the craft had been launched and was underway, surging over the dark oily waters. A line of six kneeling men labored before me. Six rain-slicked backs rippled; six paddles flashed.

I unfastened my hood, and a spear shaft thwacked my ribs so hard they rang like a drum. I yelped and looked around.

A seventh man sat at my back. “Stay covered!” He was bigger than the others, with a broad, strong face. Without all the green and yellow tattoos he might have been quite handsome, but his expression was unfriendly. He looked young enough that he might not have realized how hard he had hit me. He also looked capable of hitting much harder.

I fumbled to close my hood, even as I was asking, “Why?”

He bared big white teeth in what he probably thought was an approving smile. “Wetlanders must stay out of the sun.”

Even if the sun had been shining through the drizzle, most of the river would have been shaded by the great timber that walled its banks. “Why?” I demanded again. “Who says so?”

“Ayasseshas.”

“Who is Ayasseshas?”

A curious dreaminess danced in the darkness of his eyes. “She is our queen. Our goddess. She is Ayasseshas.”

“A spinster?”

“Of course.” He produced a rope and leaned forward to tie one end around my waist. “Ayasseshas expects us to deliver you, wetlander. Every one of us would die for her. You will not escape.”

I did not know what might live in those gloomy waters, and we were a long way from the banks. I could swim, of course, but not as fast as a canoe traveled and probably not while wearing a tent. The sort of escape he was talking about was suicide.

And suddenly suicide seemed like a very good idea. The thought of losing Misi was unbearable, and the notion that she had betrayed me unthinkable. Had my guard not tied that noose on me and fastened the other end to a thwart behind him where I could not reach, then likely I would have tried to kill myself. Hrarrh had warned me once that a trader would sell his grandsons, but I still would not believe that Misi had sold me. Despite the evidence, my mind rejected the possibility. There had been some horrible misunderstanding. Or it was a trick? Was she planning to rescue me…? I slumped over in a heap of misery and stayed like that for a long time.

The three canoes headed upstream, eastward. The current was sluggish, the still waters moving without a ripple, dark with the reflections of the undersides of branches arching overhead. Paddles flashed in a murderously swift rhythm, but the canoes were large and we made slow progress along that serpentine tree canyon. Later the sun came out, with patches of blue showing high above us. Then came thick clouds of insects to torture the paddlers. I alone was well protected in my voluminous burnoose, although I soon began to feel like a steamed fish.

Eventually I recovered enough from my shock to twist around and talk to my guard. He was quite willing to be friendly, as long as I behaved myself. His name, he told me, was Shisisannis, and he was of the snakefolk. When the other canoes happened to be close, I noticed that two or three of the men were obviously of another race, more like the lanky black angel I had met earlier. Those, Shisisannis said in a contemptuous tone, were swampmen. Swampers were cowardly types who fought with bows, he explained, while real men used spears.

How did snakefolk gain their name? I asked. He grinned and reached behind him for a bulging sack, weighty enough to test even his brawny shoulders. Already I had begun to regret the question, but he untied the neck and peered inside. Then he shot a powerful walnut-colored hand in and pulled out the head of a snake, a snake so large that his hand could not close around its neck. I bleated in fear, seeing yellow crystal eyes staring at me and a forked tongue flicker.

“This is Silent Lover,” Shisisannis said fondly. “Do not be alarmed. As long as I keep my thumb hard just here, she cannot move.”

I believed him, but I was very glad when he closed the bag again. He explained, at length and eagerly, how he hunted with his scaly friend, hanging her on a branch above a game trail. Then he would circle around through the jungle, seeking to drive some unsuspecting victim underneath. His snake would fall onto the victim and crush it. The trick was to get to her before she began to swallow and then to use that secret grip again to immobilize her. He bragged a lot about the things she had caught for him, most of them creatures I had never heard of.