Flick looked around, but could see no one. Was this another ghost or illusion conjured by his imagination? Ride away, he told himself, do it now. He turned the pony in a circle, reluctant to leave, yet desperate to do so. ‘Who are you?’ he cried. ‘Show yourself.’
Wind sighed soft as a purr over the rattling grasses, and in the arms of the mesquite trees, but there was nothing else.
Sighing, Flick dismounted. He led Ghost to the entrance to the cave, and the pony was not averse to going inside. This must surely be a good sign. If there were anything bad about this place, Ghost would surely balk, flare his nostrils, throw back his head and refuse to move. Instead, he went to investigate the dried grass around the edge of the cave and began to eat. Flick prowled around the edge also, running his hands over the stone. As the light became brighter, he could see that there were carvings in the stone, worn with age. He did not recognise their style as belonging to any culture that he knew, and they were clearly ancient carvings. Near the back of the cave, pleats of stone concealed an entrance leading further back. Shadows were cast in a way that made the wall appear solid, but it was not. Flick ducked down and peered into the tunnel beyond. Dim light illuminated the scene before him, revealing a sandy floor unmarked by the passage of harish or human feet. Flick did not feel as if anyone else was around. He ventured into the tunnel.
What was here for him? Would he find bones up ahead, or evidence of a vanished race? Anything seemed possible. The passage eventually opened out into another chamber, where natural holes in the stone ceiling provided illumination. Ledges had been cut into the rock and looked like seats or hard beds. The floor was strewn with dried grasses and reeds from beside the pool. Flick was sure someone had – or did – live in this place. There was a strong smell of fungus. Beneath one of the upper windows a kind of garden had been created. Plump white mushrooms grew from a bed of dark soil. It was the sight of these mushrooms more than anything else that made Flick decide that he would stay here for a while. In his mind, he saw himself going to fetch his belongings from the back of Ghost’s saddle, placing them on one of the stone ledges and unpacking them. He saw himself harvesting some of the mushrooms – their soft pale flesh like effulgence of the moon itself – and cooking them on a fire of sweet grass and sticks in the blackened rings of stones in the outer chamber. He could already smell the delicious aroma. And before too long, he was doing exactly that. Another bewitchment had taken him.
After his meal, which had felt more satisfying than it surely should have done, given the fact Flick had with him none of the condiments, herbs and accessories that had earned his cooking its reputation, he went to explore the landscape around him more closely. Near to the cave, he found a patch of earth with a few stringy root vegetables growing in it, but it was clear no one had looked after it properly for years. He was thinking in terms of how he could survive here, and how he could spend some time alone to order his thoughts and make decisions for the future. It might be, he conceded, he’d stay here till he died, but as nohar yet knew the full extent of Wraeththu lifespan, he might have a long time to go slowly mad in his isolation. Every other har he’d met had been recently incepted, during the last five years or so. Even Seel, it seemed, because Seel professed to be young. Was this the truth? Was it all an illusion?
A stultifying moment of disorientation came over him. None of it might be true. He should perhaps check his body again just to make sure all of it had really happened. How had the last few years passed so quickly? None of it felt real now. He wasn’t completely sure how long he’d spent in Saltrock. He wasn’t sure how he’d got there. He knew the story, and could tell it to others, but couldn’t remember the feelings, the experience. The world seemed suddenly too big, confusing and dangerous. Flick fought an urge to flee back to the cave and crouch in the shadows. He was alive and breathing. He must make the best of it.
For the rest of the day, he tended the patch of earth, pulling up weeds and carrying water from the pool to scatter over the wilting stems. He’d unsaddled his pony and let him wander free, sure he would not stray far. The way Ghost looked at Flick, the way they found comfort in each other’s presence, made Flick feel more horse than har. Perhaps Ghost felt the same. The pony rolled pleasurably in the dirt then shook himself. He sniffed things like an oversized dog. Ghost appeared, Flick thought, to be strangely happy to be in this new place. At home, they’d never felt so close.
Near sundown, realising he was hungry, Flick went hunting and caught a rabbit. It would not offer much meat, but its strong taste would go well with the mushrooms and the fat from its flesh would serve as cooking oil. It was dark when he sat down to eat in front of his fire and the moon had already begun her stately journey across the sky. Ghost shared his accommodation, and Flick was just mulling over the fact that pony dung would be useful as both fertiliser for his small garden and fuel for his fires, when he realised that he was not alone. He was alerted to a presence by a shrinking sensation in his flesh. At once, he turned and found himself looking up into a stern countenance.
The tall figure Flick had glimpsed the night before had emerged from the inner chamber and had crept up beside him. Flick saw at once that this was a man, human not har. He had dark skin and a hawklike countenance. Flick did not say anything, but immediately offered up his tin plate of food, in what he instinctively hoped was a friendly gesture.
‘I told you to leave,’ the man said. ‘I told you clearly. Did you not hear me?’
‘I thought you were a ghost,’ Flick said. ‘I didn’t think you were real.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you live here?’
The man took the plate and sniffed the contents. Then he handed it back to Flick. ‘This is my space,’ he said. ‘It is where I am.’
‘I needed shelter,’ Flick said. ‘I don’t mean to intrude. I have nowhere to go.’
The man nodded his head once. ‘That is sufficient,’ he said, and sat down on the opposite side of the fire, staring at Flick intently.
Flick found it impossible to eat under such close scrutiny. The day before, this elusive being had thought him a human female. He might not be so accommodating once he realised the truth. And where had he been hiding all day? ‘Will you share my meal?’ Flick said.
A smile flickered briefly across the man’s face. ‘Share my produce,’ he said.
‘I took only a few.’ Flick only had one plate, but he scooped another portion from the skillet onto it, and offered it across the fire.
The man took it and began to eat. ‘You are far from home, you are lost,’ he said between mouthfuls.
‘Mostly,’ Flick agreed. ‘Someone died. I had to leave home.’ He realised this sounded somewhat sinister. ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he added hastily.
‘I can see that,’ said the man, ‘but you cannot wash the blood away.’
‘No,’ Flick said. He looked at his hands, remembered the knife, the floor, the mop, the useless task of cleaning up the blood. ‘I made a promise to someone. I had to come here, but it was too late. It has all gone.’
‘Not all,’ the man said. ‘You should look with clear eyes.’
‘A settlement near here,’ Flick said. ‘That has gone. It’s abandoned. I was looking for people there.’
‘I did not think your kind could go back,’ said the man.
Flick’s flesh tensed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The past is cut away from you, so much that it feels like a dream. You should not attempt to go back. It serves no purpose. In that, your people are right.’
Flick waited a moment, then blurted, ‘You know what I am?’
‘Yes.’ The man put down the plate, licked his fingers.
‘You said I was a girl, you called me that.’
‘And you’re not?’
‘Not in the way I thought you meant.’
‘You are lost,’ said the man, ‘but it is no doubt meant to be. I have been alone a long time and this is pleasant, talking across a fire.’
Flick was silent. All hu
mans should hate him. He was a symbol of their decline. Was it possible a sinister motive hid behind the apparently congenial words? Perhaps this man still didn’t know what Flick was. He might have lived here alone for so long he didn’t know about Wraeththu, but that seemed unlikely. This place wasn’t that far from habitation. Also, he did not look that old. He could almost be har.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ the man said. ‘You do not intend me harm, nor I you. You were brought to me, and perhaps that is my purpose.’
‘Your purpose?’
‘To help you walk your dreams.’
‘I would like to stay here for a while,’ Flick said. ‘If that’s OK. My name is Flick.’
‘Thank you,’ said the man, inclining his head. ‘You may call me Itzama.’
Itzama said that the cave was a place of initiation that had been used by his people for countless generations. Who were his people? On this, the man was vague. He had the look of someone native to the land, and yet Flick was also aware he could equally be of Latino stock and had elected to become someone else. Itzama also evaded giving details of why he was living there, alone and so young. He seemed to have no history, but then Flick could empathise with that. He felt the same way. They could conspire their fictions together, if that was what the man wanted, because Flick had no intention of revealing anything about himself that was remotely true. Itzama claimed he was a shaman and had clearly decided it was his task to teach Flick the shamanic way. Flick vacillated between thinking this might give him some answers, or at least some questions that made sense, and that it was a complete waste of time. He had no faith, that was the trouble. When he saw a brilliant star in the clear night sky, where the potential of the universe seemed written in light, he thought of gases and not of gods or angels. His goddess of the moon had been an ephemeral creature. He was har. He couldn’t have goddesses. They had died out with the human women, pulling their hair and lamenting. Har itself meant nothing. Wraeththu had come to replace humans, but nothing had been learned and nothing gained. Hara killed each other as humans had killed each other. There were more differences between individuals than similarities, and everyhar was selfish. Pellaz might come to Flick in a visionary dream, uttering words that dripped with meaning, but in the cold clear light of day, it was just a dream and Pellaz was dead. Flick no longer wanted to go back. He wanted to find pleasure in the veins of a leaf or in the rill of water over stones, but it was empirical pleasure.
Itzama, though still implying he was the guardian of great knowledge, appeared to respect this. He disappeared throughout the day, clearly a device designed to make him seem more mysterious, and would reappear at sundown, when he and Flick would eat together. Then he would talk. Flick realised the man had been silent for too long, and now could not stop himself speaking at every opportunity. He spoke of the legends of his people, whoever they were, stories of magical creatures that had come out of the heavens to create the world: spiders, pumas, mythical birds and the trickster coyote. ‘I have prowled with the puma in the night air of the mountains,’ said Itzama. ‘I have trailed Coyote through the poison plains. He gave to me a talisman, which he spat onto the path. These spirits you too will know.’
Flick liked the stories. Listening to them made him feel relaxed and sleepy. Itzama would talk throughout the night, and Flick fell asleep to the soft deep tones of his voice. When he awoke, he was always alone, and there was no trace of Itzama’s presence within the cave chambers. One day, I will stay awake, Flick thought. I will watch you through half closed eyes, and I will follow you. But he never did.
During the daylight hours, he roamed his surroundings, climbing the rocks, following the trail of the stream. He gave names to trees, plants and animals that were his alone. He redefined his landscape. Yet somewhere, always, in the back of his mind, Saltrock went on, and Cal went on, and the ruined settlement to the north went on. An empty promise hung on a spiky mesquite tree, flapping in the wind like an old torn scarf, and though it might become more ragged every day, it still clung to the twigs and wound itself around the trunk. It was bloodstained and burned, and it belonged to a dream, and Flick could see it sometimes, on the edge of his vision.
One evening, after the meal had been cleared away, Itzama did not settle himself for more stories, but beckoned for Flick to follow him. ‘You want to see something?’
They went into the inner cave and here crawled on hands and knees through a cramped tunnel. Flick had looked down it before, but hadn’t believed it led anywhere. The weight of the rock pressed down upon him and it was not a comfortable feeling. It would be easy to give into panic and try to back out, only to become wedged between the stones and never move again.
When Flick eventually emerged into lightless open space, he felt disorientated and dizzy. He flailed his arms in the air, feeling as if he was falling, even though he knelt on solid rock. For some moments, he thought Itzama had abandoned him, and that he’d never be able to find his way back to the tunnel in the stone. He called Itzama’s name and heard a scraping sound, but the man said nothing. Then a flare of light blinded him for a moment. When his vision cleared, he saw Itzama standing some distance away, a lit torch of pitch in one hand.
‘Where are we?’ Flick asked. He had to lean against the rock wall for support to stand up.
‘Look,’ Itzama said and swept the torch around in a semi-circle. In the darkness, it left a nebulous trail of light.
It should be impossible to see what lay within the cave chamber, for it was vast. The sky was of rock, high above and its stars were pinpricks of light that may have been luminous cave beetles. Shattered beneath louring overhangs lay the remains of what Flick first thought to be a city. He saw domes of white stone that looked like immense eggshells, with holes punched into their sides. He saw a litter of masonry and the remains of paved roads. ‘Is this where your people lived?’ he asked.
Itzama too was surveying the surroundings. ‘Not mine,’ he said. ‘Earlier folk, from the first time, the first seed. They hid here from their enemies.’
Flick began to scramble over the rubble to reach the nearest building, or what was left of it. Inside, he found rough furniture, mostly made of stone, and an oven with blackened charcoal beneath it. ‘They left quickly,’ he said, for Itzama had followed him. ‘There is still food in the pots.’ He looked inside one of them. ‘Very old though.’
‘They left,’ Itzama said. ‘It is here you will find some of what you seek.’
Flick laughed coldly. ‘I’m not seeking anything. I’m learning to ‘be’, simply that.’
Itzama did not dispute this, but left the dwelling, taking the torch with him, in a train of lurching shadows.
Flick paused for a moment, opened himself up to the atmosphere of the place with reluctance. ‘No,’ he said aloud. ‘Nothing here for me.’
He left the building and found Itzama sitting on a fallen boulder, his hands dangling between his knees. The torch had been stuck into the dark earth nearby. ‘Sometimes, it happens against our will,’ he said.
‘What?’ Flick asked.
‘People touch us in certain ways, and we are marked.’
Flick could not suppress an instinctive shudder. ‘I’m not marked. Why have you brought me here? If you think I’m to learn something, then tell me.’
‘I am a memory, walking in shadow.’
Flick sighed in impatience. ‘You are an actor in a play,’ he said and pulled the torch from the ground. If he was here, he might as well explore.
The ruins tumbled over a wide gentle slope that led up to the rock wall. The white stone glowed in the darkness; there must be another source of light. The air was cold and strangely odourless. Pools of oily water glistened dully as he passed them. The stones of the fallen buildings were gigantic. Perhaps they had been felled by an earth tremor, for Flick could not imagine what else could have caused the devastation. People had lived here, yet little sense of them remained. It was an arid, scoured place. Flick realised that, to him at that tim
e, the whole world felt that way. He wanted to go back, so desperately. He wanted to wake in his bed at Saltrock, with Seel beside him, the Seel had had known, who had taught him and cared for him. Before Cal. Before Pellaz. When the world had been full of hope and promise.
Wearily, he squatted down amid the rubble and pressed the fingers of one hand against his eyes. His chest had turned to stone. He couldn’t weep. There must be a doorway back to the past. There had to be a way to undo all that had been done. Flick could almost feel it, a shimmering portal nearby, just beyond his perceptions. If he could only learn to see it, he could stand up and walk through it, and the past months would never have been.
Itzama had crept up behind him, for Flick could feel his presence strongly. ‘It was around here,’ Itzama said, ‘but difficult to find now. They closed it down before they left.’
‘What?’ Flick asked.
‘The gate,’ Itzama replied. ‘You would want to look through it.’
Flick shuddered because Itzama’s words so echoed what he’d just been thinking. ‘What kind of gate?’
‘The kind his horses use, or so I heard. He was not the first to discover it.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Flick stood up. ‘Don’t talk to me in riddles, it’s too tiring.’
‘I don’t mean to do that,’ Itzama said, and in the torchlight, he appeared genuinely contrite.
‘What gate?’ Flick said. ‘Whose horses?’
‘A powerful being,’ Itzama said. ‘He learned about the gates, and he found creatures of flying energy to go between them.’
‘How can you know about that?’ Flick demanded. ‘We know nothing ourselves.’
‘If you knew, you would be less easy to control,’ Itzama said. ‘Such has always been the way.’ He began to walk further up the slope.
Flick got up and hurried after him. He caught hold of Itzama’s arm. ‘If you know anything about Wraeththu, you must tell me,’ he said. ‘And you must tell me how you know.’