Jo Clayton - Drinker of Souls

She looked at the bed, but she wasn’t sleepy. Tired, yes. Exhausted, uncertain, weepy, yes; but the bed meant nightmares when her mind was so roiled up. She walked to the window. It was still not raining and very dark, the Wounded Moon not up yet and anyway it was shrunk to a broken crescent. She leaned on the broad sill, gazing to the west where the mountains were; wondering, what her folk were doing now, how they were faring, if they’d gone back and collected the loot yet. She continued to gaze into the cloudy darkness, willing herself to see her mountain, her Tincreal.

And-for a moment-believed it was her will that touched the peaks with light. Then the sill rocked under her elbows, the floor rocked under her feet and the faint red glow illuminating the peaks rose to a reddish boil bursting into the sky. Some minutes later a blast came like a blow against her ears; it settled into a low grinding grumble that finally died into a tension-filled silence. The red glare subsided to a low-lying seethe sandwiched between clouds and earth. Standing with her face pressed against the iron lace, her mouth gaping open in a scream that wouldn’t come, she was a hollovircast figurine, empty, no anger, not even any surprise. As if she’d expected it. And of course she had, they all had, the signs had been amply there, the children had warned the blow was coming soon. “No,” she said, saying no to the sudden thought that the Mountain had destroyed the little the Temuengs had left of Arth Slya. Guilt seized her. If she’d left the soldiers alone, alive, if she’d let them take her folk away, her mother’d be alive now, they all would.

A tugging at her arm. She looked down. Jaril. “They could be safe, Bramble. If the Mountain blew away from the Valley. And it isn’t your fault. Like you told me once, your folk know the moods of the Mountain. I could fly there and see, be back by morning. If you want. Do you?”

Brann barely whispered, “Yes. Please.” She turned back to the window, her eyes fixed on the soft red glow, a bit of hope mixing with her despair. Behind her she heard the door open, click shut. Then small hands caught hold of her arm. Yaril led her to the bed, tucked her in. Lying on her stomach, her face to the wall, she let herself relax as Yaril murmured soft cooing sounds at her and smoothed those small strong hands across her shoulders, down along her arms, over and over. Her shaking stopped. All at once she was desperately tired. She slept.

A WEIGHT WAS on her, she couldn’t breathe, a hand was clamped over her mouth, a knee butting between her legs. Fear and horror and revulsion welled up in her; she began to struggle, not knowing what was happening, trying to free her mouth, trying to buck the weight off her, but he was strong and heavy and he’d got himself set before she was awake enough to fight him. He was hard and thick, pushing into her, he was grunting like an animal, hurting her, it was a dry burning as if he invaded her with a reamer, rasping at her, all she could think of was getting it out.

Seconds passed, a few heartbeats, and she came out of her panic, lay still for one breath, another, then she moved her head so suddenly and so strongly he wasn’t ready for it. She didn’t quite free her mouth but she got flesh between her teeth and bit hard. He cursed and slapped her, then fumbled for her mouth again. She wriggled desperately under him, got her hands free, slapped them against the sides of his head, shoved it up off her, started the draw. He had a moment before the paralysis took hold but he couldn’t dislodge her.

When he was drained, she rolled him off her and got shakily to her feet, lit the lamp from the dying fire, threw on a few more sticks of wood. Toe in his ribs, she nudged him over. The Censor. She’d humiliated him; this was how he got even. Got dead. She looked away. No anger or fear left, all she felt was dirtied. Filthy. She looked down at herself and was startled by a drop of blood falling by her foot. Her thighs were smeared with blood. Another drop fell. Hastily she stepped into the tub, scooped up a dollop of fresh soap and began washing herself, gently at first then scrubbing the washcloth harder and harder over her whole bod yas if she could scrub the memory of the dead man off her skin.

By the time she finished, the bleeding had stopped. She padded to the bed, wrapped herself in a blanket and sat crosslegged in the middle of the stained sheets, staring at the door.

About an hour later Yaril came back with a bundle of clothing. Brann blinked at them, understanding then where Yaril had gone. The changechild had seen the way she looked at the stinking shirt and trousers. Once she was safely asleep, Yaril went out and stole clean things for her.

“You didn’t lock the door,” Brann said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Yaril looked at the dead man, shook her head, held up the clumsy key. “I did.”

Brann opened her mouth to say something, forgot it, began to cry, the gasping body-shaking sobs of a hurt child.

Yaril dropped the clothing and ran to her, sat on the bed beside her, murmured soft cooing words to her, patted her, soothed her, comforting her as a mother would a frightened child, gentling her into a deep healing sleep with the song of her voice, spinning sleep with that soft compelling voice.

WHEN SHE WOKE, the sound of rain filled the room.

While she slept, her body had healed itself; the bruises and strains were gone and the burning hurt between her thighs. She sat up. The body was gone. She got quickly out of bed and started pulling on the clean clothes Yaril had brought her.

A knock on the door as she was tucking in her shirt tail. “Come.”

Jaril came in looking a little wan. “I was right,” he said, not waiting for her questions. “Mountain blew east not north. The river has changed course some, got more cataracts, the track out is chewed up so badly that if you didn’t know where Arth Slya was already you’d never find it. Dance floor is cracked, part of it tilted. Some of the workshops slid into the river. Your folk are out clearing up, a few bumps and bruises but I didn’t see anyone seriously hurt. Your mother’s fine. Her looms didn’t get burnt, the fire in your house went out, the quake didn’t mess them up either, so she’s been busy. She thinks you’re dead, killed by Temuengs. Folk don’t know what to do about your father and the others. If they haven’t returned before shelters are cobbled together, some of your cousins are going to slip down and see what happened to them.”

“Sheee, they shouldn’t…”

“Be all right if they keep their heads down; they’ve been warned.”

Brann brushed her hand back over her hair, rubbed at her eyes. “Thanks, Fri. That helps a lot. You look worn down.” Her mouth curled into a wry smile. “I picked up a life last night. Come and take.”

Jaril hesitated. “You all right?”

“Not so upset as I was. A little wiser about the way things are.” She held out her hands. As he took them, she said, “By the way, what did you and Yaril do with the body? And where is she?

“Watching the enforcers, they’re asleep and she wants them to stay that way until after we’re gone. We dumped it in the river. With a little luck it’ll be out to sea before it’s spotted.” He took his hands away, giggled. “He’ll get to Tavisteen before us. I better see how they’re treating Coier, get him saddled. You feel like eating?”

“What’s one more dead man?”

After he left she wandered about the room, picking up her scattered possessions, folding everything neatly, packing with the careful finickiness of the most precise of her aunts. When she was finished, she sat on the bed, gathering courage to leave the room. After a few ragged breaths, she bounced to her feet, draped the saddlebags over her arm, sucked in a deep breath. Go slow, she thought, act like you don’t give spit what anyone thinks. She touched the door’s latch and went weak in the knees. Not ready to go out. Not yet. She passed her hand over her hair, realized she’d forgotten to wind the scarf about her head, saw the creased length of material hanging over the back of the chair. She crossed to the wavery mirror. A curling mass of soft white hair all over her head, long enough now that its weight made the curls larger, looser. Strange but rather nice, suiting the shape of her. face. She thought about not wearing the scarf, it’d feel good to let the wind blow through her hair, but short as it was, the color it wasn’t, it’d cause too much comment when she was riding the highroad. She wound the strip of cloth about her head, tied it so the ends fell behind one ear. Odd, that paring down of her head to its basic contours made her eyes look huge and gemlike, her mouth softer. She looked at herself another heartbeat or two, then strode to the door, jerked it open and stepped into the empty corridor. The other travelers staying the night had already departed or were still sleeping. It was early.