Jo Clayton: Wild Magic

I am born of earth and dream

I alone in this land exist outside the Wheel The Wheel turns and all things change I do not change

The Wheel turns and what was

Is now forgotten

I do not forget.

These are things you might like to know, she says. Names, geography and rule. If such things -bore you, ignore them.

This is the LAND, this is Zam Fadogurtun. The titular ruler, the Amrapake, is Famtoche

Banddah, the real power mostly lies in the hands of the Maulapam-this never changes. The First City, the Seat of Rule, is Gom Cor-

asso; little that is important happens there. The city below us, Bairroa Pili, is called the second city though the part that is occupied is twice the size of Corasso; it is the Mill of

Plenty, grinding out the wealth of the Land. Kasso is priest.

Kassian is priestess.

The Temples are called Camuctarrs.

She sighs and changes the position of her hands. I remember everything.

I remember Chumavayal dancing down Abeyhamal. I remember language changing, law and custom, myth and history, all changing.

I remember Bairroa Pili moving from the Low City to the High, the Low City sealed and sleeping.

I remember Chumavayal as a screaming babe, a raging youth, a splendid man. As the years turned on the spindle of time, his beauty grew stolid, his alertness faded, until he became what he is today, iron grown brittle with time, jealous of the youth he once had, hoarding his strength like a miser hoards gold.

I remember Abeyhamal as a screaming babe, an impatient child, a sullen girl; she is a woman now, arro-

gant in her young splendor, beating her wings against the power that imprisons her.

On the Instant that Chumavayal is danced down, he that was ancient will be newborn, knowing nothing.

On that Instant the Years of Iron will be forgotten, as if the five hundred years just completed did not exist at all, as if those five hundred years were simply erased from time.

Abeyhamal and Chumavayal forget them.

The Fadogurs of Zam Fadogurum forget them. Forget the Amrapake.

Forget the Language.

Forget the caste names and make them newMaulapam the landlords and rulers, Cheoshim the warriors, Biasharim the merchants, Fundarim the artisans, Naostam the laborers, and Wascram the children born to slaves.

Forget the protocols and prohibitions of Chumavayal.

Forget the orders of priesthood-the Kassoate of Chumavayal:

ABOSOA who do the Family Rites of Life-birth, confirmation and marriage.

ADJOA who tend the public worship-nam-

ings and festal and openings of every kind. ANACHOA who keep the Cult of the Dead ANAXOA who perform all sacrifices and tend the Forge Fires.

MANASSOA who administer the Temples, Schools and, most of all, the Funds of the Orders.

QUIAMBOA who teach and study.

Forget the tables of Descent and Privilege. Forget marriage laws and marriage customs. The Fadogurs of Zam Fadogurum churn a while in the Turn’s End Chaos then settle into a new Pattern, a new peace.

I watch.

It is my amusement to watch the permutations and combinations of the Change, the infinitely varied kaleidoscopic corruscations of the Dance.

The end is always the same

The details never.

She leans forward, bringing her aged face into the light; the ghost of beauty clings to her bones.

I am Sibyl that reads the soul and answers as she chooses-most of the time-whenever I’m not sealed by those interfering ignorant gods.

Ah well, silence is also an answer.

Chapter 1. The Coming Of The Honeychild

Reyna Hayaka leaned against a Sequba tree at the edge of the Abey-zaza Grove, dug out his strikebox and his ti-pipe. He packed a pinch of bhaggan into the smoke-hole, fired it up, and sucked in a mouthful of the smoke. He was pleased with himself. He’d found all the herbs and roots Tai needed and got them in first light with the dew still on them. The best time.

The smoke trickled from his nose and faded into the warm green shadow.

A breeze whispered through the leaves of the canopy and in that gentle rustle he started hearing murmurs from the Sequba moththeries, translucent elusive creatures that even the Kassian ‘Tai saw only from the corner of her eye.

Tai. Corner of her eye. Corner of her eye. Tai. Wild-magic. Never-never fly-you-by.

He smiled dreamily as a wispy something soared past on gossamer wings and swooped in and out of the feathery smoke.

In a burrow beneath the knotted roots of a nearby Sequba, a famma bird sang and his mate answered with a demure twitter. Deeper in the Grove a pan-tya chittered, broke off abruptly. All around, there were furtive rustles, small squeaks and chirrups, the thousand sounds of life beneath the trees.

Sing a song of slippery slides, atip atoop atwitter, hot hot hotter, damned dirt gets dirtier. Tike tiki tirriah.

And a twee twi twee-ee.

A bee hummed past, then another. Reyna tapped the pipe against a root, ground his heel over the ash. He stretched and yawned, settled the basket handle more comfortably over his arm and started for the River.

Reyna Hayaka was Salagaum, tall and limber with long, narrow hands and feet and the breasts of a woman. His blue-black hair was plaited in hundreds of thin braids that swung in a limber lion’s mane down past his shoulders. He had honey colored eyes and his skin was burnt caramel, smooth as silk with amber lights where it was pulled tight across the bone. He wore a white cotton-and-silk underrobe, cinched tight about his waist with a wide black leather belt, a heavier overrobe with broad stripes of crimson and amber which fell in straight lines from his shoulders, blowing back as he moved to show the lining of amber silk.

Slow-dancing along in a happy languor, humming a bee-hymn, amber bangles clanking about his wrists, amber and gold hoops swinging from his earlobes, he rounded a tall broom bush-and stopped, startled, as he saw a very young child sitting on the landing, watching a strange little beast that looked like a cross between a cat and a monkey; it was jumping at famma birds hunting snails in the gravel at the waterline.

“Ulloa, honey,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

She stared at him through a webbing of silky black hair, startled and afraid; she had big eyes, odd eyes, gem-colored, the right was blue, the left green.

“It’s all right,” Reyna, said, his voice soft, soothing, making a song of the words. “It’s all right, my honey. I won’t hurt you.’

‘ He took a step toward her.

The child whimpered, rolled onto her hands and knees and scooted away from him, heading for the end of the landing and the wide brown River beyond.

As Reyna swore under his breath, dropped the basket and ran desperately down the bank, a gray streak whipped past him, circled the child, and chittered in her face. As she slowed, startled, he dived and caught the hem of her lacy shift.

Shaken, but keeping a firm hold on the cloth in spite of the baby’s howls and struggles, he sat up. “Hush, little honey,” he murmured, “Hush, sweeting. No no, Reyna won’t hurt you Look here, your little friend isn’t afraid of me.” He held out his free hand and let the beast sniff at it.

The cat-monkey wriggled with pleasure, pushed its head against Reyna’s palm and produced a loud soothing hum, then it sat on its haunches and stared at him with round intelligent eyes; it was a strange creature with its flattened little face like a miniature baby and small black hands folded over a silky white ruff.