Jo Clayton - Moongather

The harvest of coins . Serroi strolled along, smiling. For the street people these weren’t holy days. What they took in by trick of hand or mind would keep them through the lean days of the Scatter. Jugglers and acrobats crunched down the mooncakes, wiped greasy hands on trousers, began practicing their arts. The beggars settled on their corners, sores flaming fresh. They too were practicing their whines, exhibiting their infirmities to each other. Dancers were warming up, stretching, turning, working their bodies. Street musicians were setting up their stands, blowing experimental trills on flutes, tuning other instruments, the singers humming snatches of popular lays or hymns to the Maiden. Gamblers were trying the sleight of hand on each other. The few early-rising pilgrims were mostly serious; even the laughing, joking visitors kept moving toward the Temple.

Serroi passed one or two of the gamblers who had snared victims, wrinkling her nose as the rustics hunched over shells or cards or scattered tiles, intent on their own impoverishment. She strolled through the noisy, colorful life that filled the main sheet, her spirits rising until a Sleykyn stepped into the street and began walking down its center. His serpent mask glittered, his scabbard clashed softly against the skirt of metal-inlaid velater strips that protected his groin. His velater-hide whip hung coiled in a leather pouch on his left side, only the handle showing; he could draw and strike with that whip in less than a second as Serroi knew only too well. She touched the shoulder where the cut still itched. He wore heavy leather gloves with metal inlays and thigh-high boots striped with the velater hide that could rip a man’s skin off with a single glancing blow, the skin from the great dark predator of the sea depths whose scales had razor edges. He walked with a heavy arrogance that no one cared to challenge. For several minutes after he passed the street was empty, then it filled again with people talking and laughing a little too loudly.

Serroi moved unnoticed toward the Temple, a small dusty boy like countless other children-quiet and exuberant, awed and indifferent-brought to Oras to celebrate the Gather. Lost in this stream of pilgrims she rounded the curve of the Plaz-walls and saw the Temple ahead, crossing the end of the broad avenue. Around her she heard sudden intakes of breath, angry curses, the faltering of pacing feet; she faltered herself as she stared at the gathering beside the Temple gate. Black-clad Followers of the Flame swaying and chanting around a Son who stood high above them on a makeshift stage, chanting in counterpoint as he shouted a diatribe against the Maiden, naming her Hag and Whore, Demoness and Deceiver. The pilgrims muttered uncomfortably, angrily-with no one daring to confront this affront to custom and piety; under the anger there was a current of fear and uncertainty that told Serroi with a terrible eloquence how powerful the Sons of the Flame and their Followers had become.

She moved closer to a small family, mother and father and three children, trying to seem a part of it as she moved past the glaring eyes of Plaz guards wearing black armbands with the circled flame embroidered conspicuously on them, moved through the gate and down the tree-shaded walkway to the Temple itself, letting the peace inside the walls lighten her despair and soothe away the disturbance stirred up by the demonstration outside.

Old but still unfinished, the Temple was a forest of pillars, each with its unique carving of the Maiden. Every year or so a new column was added, the figure a gift of another sculptor and patron or group of patrons-wood and stone, ceramic and mosaic, every medium but cold metal. Everywhere she looked, Serroi could see images of the Maiden, stern or tender, laughing and light of limb, or formally gracious. Each artist had carved or shaped his or her own vision of the great Her. Somewhere within the forest of columns-a thousand at the last count-a pilgrim could find that image of Her that matched his or her inner vision. Serroi had come here half a hundred times during her ward; even now in her preoccupation she reacted to the beauty and mystery of the place. Since the columns were not roofed in but supported a delicate lattice of stone, the morning sun painted lacy shadows on the muted tessera of the mosaic floor. The noises of the street were closed out by the massive walls; once she moved into the columns they ceased to exist for her.

There were already many pilgrims here, telling their prayer beads or sitting in quiet contemplation of the Maiden. A few were wandering among the columns searching through the hundreds of images for the one that spoke to them. The street crowd had ignored the small boy; here, in the shadows and the silence, the pilgrims took even less notice of her. She moved quietly toward the central court, disturbed by the evil she carried with her, the jarring she felt between her inner turmoil and the holiness of this place.

She stepped out of the shadow onto the court’s mosaic floor. The fountain in the center of the court sang soft music to her. At the far end of the large open space were the Door and the Dais where the Daughter would enact the rite of the Moongather, her chant echoed by the thousands of pilgrims filling the court and all the space within the forest of columns. She hesitated a moment by the coping of the fountain; she had only to cross, turn to her right at the far side and follow the sanctuary’s wall until she came to a small plain door-until she was there, until she pulled the bell cord, she was safe in her disguise. The small lump of the tajicho was warm against her skin inside her boot, reassuring her as it warned her of hostile search. She looked up, touched the hand of one of the maiden figures in the fountain; it seemed to her that the fingers warmed to hers a moment. Then she shook her head, ruefully acknowledging her desperate need for reassurance.

She walked quickly across the court. The silence was thick and tense. She moved down the side of the simple rectangular building that housed the Daughter and her acolytes. At the small door, she raised her hand, touched the bell-pull. It was carved from a large piece of amber into the shape of a slender, graceful hand. To sound the bell she had to take the hand in hers and tug. The amber fingers felt warm and welcoming in hers. Her heart thudding, her breathing ragged, she tugged and heard the muted sound of a bell ringing inside.

The door slammed open. She shrank away as she stared up into the face of a Plaz guard, a big scarred man in carefully smoothed tabard and clean leathers. He scowled down at her. “What you want, boy?”

Serroi swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. She cleared her throat and croaked, “Message.” Her tongue flicked along dry lips. “Message for the Daughter,” she said.

“Give. I see she gets it.” He held out his left hand. Some brawl in the past had taken the little finger and the top joint off the fourth.

Fighting down a fear that was making her sick to her stomach, Serroi shook her head. “Mouth message,” she said huskily. “Say to the Daughter this: She who milks the wind and sows the dragon’s teeth has words for the Daughter.”

The guard, grunted and leaned forward to peer skeptically at her with slightly nearsighted eyes. “Stay here.” He slammed the door in her face. She sank onto the pavement and tried to stop the shaking of her knees. With a trembling hand she wiped sweat from her face.

It’s Moongather, she thought. Except for the trouble Tayyan and I brought on our order, that guard would be a meie; though with the fuss the Sons are stirring up about us, maybe not, maybe it’s not all my fault. Still, probably nothing to worry about. The Daughter has to be guarded. At least he wasn’t wearing an armband. There must be some guards who aren’t involved in this plot. She rubbed at her nose. Doesn’t matter. I’m a boy, a Mouth, not the meie they’re all looking for.