It was chilly enough to warrant wearing my long, heavy coat; I bundled my hair up into my hat, so it wouldn’t get too damp. Carryback firmly in place, I carefully picked my way through the camp, treading deliberately so I wouldn’t make a noise by accidentally thrusting a foot into a pile of pans or something similar. The Sink looked utterly enchanted, as if everyone was under the spell of a magical sleep. The air smelled of damp ashes and spilled wine, and many people were asleep where they’d fallen - drunk - the previous night. I nearly stumbled over a slumbering youth, who lay motionless on the ground outside one of the tents. Thankfully, he did not wake. All the rubbish from the previous evening’s festivities was left lying around; dead fires, tumbled pitchers, half eaten bones. Sound was deadened; not even the murmur of a child broke the stillness. I passed the tent of Q’orveh, and had to resist a powerful impulse to glance inside. The strength of this urge made me realise that, for a few days at least, I was going to miss being able to look at Q’orveh. It also made me realise that I wasn’t leaving any too soon.
The thickness of the fog meant that it took me some time to find the curving road that led up to the plains. Once I had found my bearings, and had begun the long climb, a lone black bird cawed desolately from a ragged tree sticking out of the crater wall. It seemed a bleak omen. I increased my pace, grateful to be leaving the Sink, and all its secrets, behind. It was a nuisance I hadn’t been able to speak with Keea again (perhaps he had deliberately avoided me), but at least he’d given me enough information so I knew what to look for in Sacramante. What would he think when he found out I’d slipped away? I had a feeling he’d be quite annoyed at losing the person he enjoyed tormenting.
If I thought to escape the fog on the Flats, I was mistaken, but under the circumstances, it was probably fortuitous. If Q’orveh did discover my departure shortly, at least I wouldn’t be visible on the road. My footsteps seemed to make hardly any sound; a wall of soundless whiteness surrounded me. At first, I enjoyed the sense of isolation and then, the noises crept in upon me, and I became aware of how alone I was, and also how I was armed only with a knife.
A thud of hoof beats came through the mist, sounding as if someone was riding along side of me, just out of sight. I could hear the jangle of harness, the grunts of a labouring horse. For a moment, I paused. There was only silence, and I could see nothing moving, other than the thick banks of cloud roiling across my path. I was glad I had wrapped myself up well; my coat had become soaked within an hour of leaving the camp. I shivered and held my breath, straining to hear something. No, there was definitely nothing to be heard. Obviously, I had caused the sounds myself; buckles rattling on my carryback perhaps, and the muffled thump of my own tread upon the packed dirt of the road. I started moving again, humming a simple tune under my breath to create an aura of security around myself. Then I heard it again; jangle, clop, thump.
I halted immediately, hastily flexing my senses in an effort to pick up some sign that I was not alone. But, again, all the noises had ceased when I stopped walking, leaving an eerie, waiting silence, as if reality itself was holding its breath. I was not altogether free of the fear of pursuit.
I had picked up some talk the previous evening, concerning the mysterious strangers who had been seen riding across the plains. The Toors spoke of cloaked men who rode heavy, white horses and whose behaviour was somehow threatening. One woman said that the riders wore armour that looked like skin. How I wished these people could be more objective! It was like trying to work out a puzzle, translating their superstitious prattle into hard information. If there really were sinister riders flitting about the Flats, there had to be a sensible explanation. I did wonder whether, after having played unwilling host to one or two strange events, a local landowner had sent some of his people out on horseback to scout around. It was possible. Perhaps I was being followed by one of these riders now. Hoping they weren’t as aggressive as the nomads described, I tried to peer into the long grasses beside the road, but if anyone lurked there, it was impossible to discern. I am rarely frightened when travelling. Human beings, I can usually deal with, in one way or another. I can run fast; I can fight with an unfaltering arm and without squeamishness; I can talk the spirit from the craziest of madmen, until I have them eating out of my hand. Things that I cannot see, that are not human, I deal with in the way I deal with anything in the soulscape; with my will. Thoughtforms manifesting in reality are the easiest of creatures to cope with. With these thoughts in mind, I slowed my pace, breathed deeply to regulate my heart and summoned my inner strength. It was senseless to feel afraid or threatened. And yet, a premonition of dread was creeping all over me like a swarm of insects; my skin actually crawled. All my efforts to banish it had no effect. Blood drained from my face; I found it hard to breathe. Was this how it felt when the Fear took someone? Was it? I knew that was the most dangerous thought to dwell on, because terror of the Fear builds it the widest of portals into the mind.
You are a soulscaper, Rayojini, I told myself firmly. What you are thinking is nonsense and worthy only of nomads!
I reminded myself objectively that although there were recorded cases of soulscapers becoming victims of the condition they attempted to eradicate, the instances were few, and those who did succumb were always weak individuals, who had neglected their training. Never, in the history of soulscaping, had a seasoned professional like me been taken, or at least, if they had, no-one had ever heard about it. Then, I definitely heard an equine snort in the grass on my left, and the sound of hoof beats accelerated to overtake me.
I stopped walking and pulled out a knife from my belt for comfort. It was a useful and well-loved instrument that had spitted my food and provided me with protection for many years. Then, I straightened my spine, closed my eyes, and extended my senses out into the fog. If anything was there, soulscape effluvia or not, I willed myself to become aware of it. Nothing. I tried again, but it was like trying to see through thick cloth. Then I opened my eyes and, for a moment, believed I had manifested some thought form of my own into reality.
Just ahead of me, on the road, stood the motionless form of a gigantic white horse. It was caparisoned in a tasselled mantle of purple cloth, over which ran a complicated harness of embossed leather. On its back, sat a stooped, cloaked figure, wearing a lemniscate hat. Two hawks were tethered to the saddle in front of it. The horse’s head was turned a little to the side, as if to examine me more closely, and I could see its eyes were pink, like an albino’s, with long, white lashes. Its rider’s face was indiscernible beneath the brim of its hat; I could not tell whether it was male or female, but the ambience of authority was unmistakable. I had no doubt come across one of the mysterious riders the Toors had talked about. I exhaled gustily in relief. This I could cope with. This was not a problem. Both horse and rider were real, larger than life itself. My step buoyant with relief, I confidently walked forwards, saying, ‘A less than bright day to be abroad, my friend. Are you lost?’
I had rarely encountered a creature with less of an air of lostness about it, but I had to say something. There was no answer. I was close to the animal now and, as animals do, it swung its nose around to sniff my coat. I was thankfully reassured and cupped my palm around its muzzle, tucking my knife back into my belt. I could see the grain in the leather of the rider’s boots. I could see the stretch of the thin, black kid gloves across the knuckles where they gripped the reins. I could even see, I fancied, the glimmer of eyes beneath the brim of the hat, and the suggestion of an unsmiling line of a mouth. The rider’s demeanour was not exactly welcoming, but I detected no immediate threat. If they were looking for information themselves, perhaps we could conduct a trade. I realised how silly it had been to let myself get frightened before; that was a failing of the superstitious and ignorant. Being so intimate with the nomads must have infected me with their thought patterns.
‘There is talk of you, I think, among the nomad tribes...’ I said, as bait, using the Khaltish tongue. The figure stiffene
d a little, I was sure. ‘My name is Rayojini. I am a soulscaper of Taparak.’ Giving my identity so freely was deliberate and designed to inspire trust.
‘I know who you are,’ the rider replied. It was a young man’s voice, without particular inflection in the tone, but possessed of a silky, Bochanegran accent.
‘Really? Well, perhaps you could return the privilege?’ I did not believe his claim; it was a ploy to discomfort me, as was the fact he refused to answer my question. He was as bad as Keea! I affected a laugh. ‘Well, if you will not converse with me, that is your own choice,’ I said. ‘Ride east, and you will find a pair of nomad tribes, camping in a vast depression in the plains. Maybe you want to speak with them. There is much they can tell you, I should think.’ Then I raised my hand in a wave and began to walk past the horse.
‘Rayojini!’ The sound of my name stopped me dead. I looked around. Although I had heard no movement, the horse had turned to face me; we were in exactly the same positions as when I had first approached the animal. They must be silent and quick movers, these Bochanegran steeds, I thought, feeling slightly disorientated. Had I walked past it?
‘You did not see enough in Helat’s shrine,’ the rider said. ‘Or rather you saw, but did not understand. The nomads have more intelligence than you, Tappish clown!’
‘Now, wait a minute!’ I marched towards him, frowning as grimly as possible. How dare this dandy insult me! Who was he, and how had he known about my visit to the temple? Could it be that he was one of Keea’s mysterious employers? I reached out to grab the horse’s reins by the bit-ring but, at that moment, its rider squeezed the animal sharply with his legs and uttered a sibilant command. Obediently, the horse rose into a splendid kicking rear, plunged forward into a canter - virtually from a standstill - and thundered straight towards me. It all happened so quickly. My first instinct was to throw myself aside, which I did, landing in the tall grass beside the road. I had a glimpse of dangling hooves. The guttural sound of a low and terrible neigh was in my ears. Summoning every shred of strength, and despite the heavy carryback on my shoulders, I rolled madly further into the grass, waiting for the sickening and agonising assault of iron-shod hooves on my body. I was convinced I was going to be trampled, no matter how quickly I moved, and curled tight into a ball, my arms over my head, awaiting the impact...
...which never came.
After a few moments, I relaxed enough to uncurl my arms, and looked up. The horse had vanished. All was silent in the fog, but for the hiss of the grass rubbing against itself, high above my head. I wriggled out of my carryback harness and stood up, shakily, brushing myself down. I peered towards the road, or where I thought the road should be. Through the mist, I could see nothing; no rider, no horse, and - most importantly of all - no road. Well, that was easily remedied. I unbuckled one of the flaps of my carryback and searched the pocket where I kept my compass and maps. Empty! ‘By all the gods!’ I sat down again, heavily, pulling a shroud of grass about my body. Had Sah’ray stolen some of my possessions? Surely not. It was more likely that I hadn’t packed up properly and had left some of my things behind, in Sah’ray’s tent. Still, whatever the reason, in losing my compass, I had effectively lost the road. What should I do now; blindly look for it, or stay put until the fog lifted? Surely it would lift by mid-day? Hadn’t the weather been warm recently? It certainly wasn’t warm now. I hadn’t really been aware of how cold the air had become until my journey had been interrupted; now, despite my heavy coat, I felt chilled to the core. I wondered whether the mysterious rider’s intention had been to harm me or merely frighten me. Was he still stalking me now, silent in the mist, perhaps only a few feet away? Surely the road was near; the mist was warping my perception. If I walked a few feet to the left, I was bound to find it again. I had only rolled a short way into the grass, after all. My back was in agony where the carryback had dug into me as I rolled, and I noticed that one of the straps, which connected the carryback to its frame, had torn loose. It would be twice as difficult to shoulder now. Sighing at this unexpected attack of misfortune, I stood up, strapped myself in my harness as best I could, and began to push my way through the tall grass, trusting that my sense of direction would lead me back to the road. I was also alert for signs that might indicate that the white horse and its rider were still in the vicinity.
Minutes passed, and I was no closer to finding the road. Angrily, I began to slash out at the grass around me. ‘Helat’s tits and cock!’ I cursed, an evocative little phrase I’d picked up from Sah’ray. I was lost, and to go blundering about like this only increased my chances of not being able to find my way once the fog lifted. I was beginning to curse my decision to leave the Halmanes. I knew, deep inside, that the reasons for my flight were more abstruse than a simple desire to travel alone. In truth, I was running from an aspect of myself. Now, I was lost. Trying to control a rising sense of panic, I made a quick, impassioned plea to Helat. If I were allowed to find my way back to the road, I would return instantly to the Sink. Once there, I would stay by Q’orveh’s side, whatever the consequences for my equilibrium, and do all that I could to comfort his people, until we reached the Strangeling. Someone must have heard me, but I don’t believe it was Helat.
I was standing there, helpless, wondering quite what to do, when I thought I saw a movement ahead of me. It was just a dark blotch, but in no way suggested a horse and rider. My attacker could have dismounted, of course, yet I did not feel that it was him I’d seen. I began to push through the grass, hoping I wasn’t just following some animal that would lead me further into obscurity. Then - oh bliss, thank Helat - I stumbled out onto a hard, flat surface; the road! Before I finished congratulating myself, I realised I was not alone. Someone else stood upon the packed dirt, but this time, it was not a horse and rider.
This figure was alone, and I knew instinctively that it was female. She was standing quite some distance away from me; a slim body clad in a dark, hooded cloak. A nomad woman? I began to run towards her, my broken carryback banging painfully against my body. Then, I heard a voice.
‘Don’t be too hasty, Rayo!’ It was my mother’s voice.
I stumbled, and glanced quickly over my shoulder. The voice had sounded so close, but behind me I could see nothing except closing fog. It wasn’t easy to run with the damaged carryback but, at that moment, I needed human company more than anything. Such was the state of my panic, I did not, for one moment, consider that what stood upon the road was anything but human. As I drew close, I could see that the woman was quite tall; one white hand was holding her cloak together at the neck. I must have called out, some nonsense or another, but she made no sign of having heard me. She, like the rider had been when I’d first seen him, was neither welcoming nor threatening; she simply was. Then, I realised that, in a strange way that did not relate directly to physical appearance, I recognised her. At the precise moment of my recognition, she opened her arms wide. Her great cloak became feathers, became wings. They flapped slowly, arching with living muscle, framing a naked body as white as death. I fell to my knees on the road; my silently gaping mouth open so wide it hurt. I filled it with my fingers and bit down; to conjure pain, to conjure feeling.
Slowly, like a flickering picture cast by the shadow of flames, the monstrous shape of the bird-woman came to hover over me. I could see her face, her slitted yellow eyes. She opened her mouth to reveal pointed, dog-like teeth, and out came a raw croak.
‘Don’t you know me, sweet Rayo?’ she asked, and laughed. It was the sound a dozen ravens screaming.
And then I knew her, oh yes. Led me from the grass she had; guardian. Now hanging over me like a nightmare; pursuer. As real to me as my own pain. ‘Help me!’ I said.
‘How can I? Am I real to you, real enough to count?’ She laughed again, and then, bunching her wings up behind her, she swooped down towards me, her pale face the colour of bleached decay, her red mouth wide like a cavern of the fire pit. She knocked me backwards, and her claws grazed my face. I smell
ed her hot breath that stank of old meat; a sweet and infinitely corrupt perfume. My head hit the road, my back arched painfully over the carryback, so that my heels dangled in mid-air. Wet, stinking, black feathers flapped in my face and I was surrounded by laughter, an evil stench and the feeling of imminent destruction. Helplessly, I held up my arms, calling out for my mother; my only true goddess. Hard claws dug into my flesh, dragging my hands away from my face. I struck out, again and again, one hand groping for my knife, which I could not find. I screamed, eyes screwed up tight, and flailed my arms. I hit something soft and there was a sound of surprise. Yet above this sound was the cacophony of scraping feathers, and distant shrieking. Behind my closed eyelids, the world was red and black, shot with flames and blood. Then something sinuous curled around my wrists, and I could not move. I flexed my fingers helplessly, sobbing like a child. I kept my eyes closed tight; for all my bravado in the soulscape I dared not look upon what held me.
‘Rayojini!’
The voice seemed to come from very far away, and then swooped up close as it spoke my name again.
‘Rayojini!’
I was being shaken. Gulping, I opened my eyes.
Keea’s face was hanging over me, his hair touching my face. He was smiling, but the smile was not convincing. I saw fear there, too. ‘Had a fright, soulscaper?’ he asked shakily. ‘What is this scrabbling with the fingernails like a girl?’ His hands were firmly holding onto my wrists, as if he was afraid I might attack him. ‘You have scratched yourself,’ he said. ‘What is the matter with you?’
And I am ashamed to admit that, despite my pride, my principles and any resolution of spirit I had made, I threw myself against him and wept like a frightened kidling.
Q’orveh had sent him after me of course, although he denied this vigorously. I had resigned myself to returning to the Halmanes, yet, once I had recovered my wits enough to regain composure, Keea made no suggestion we should do so. He sat me down in a nest of grass, next to a neatly furled pile of luggage, bound about the dismantled twig-plait frame of a tepee. Keea, it seemed, was travelling too. Had he anticipated a long journey before he caught up with me? He gave me water to drink - warm, but minted - and the herb brought a little coolness to my brain. I was in a state of shock, and answered Keea’s questions honestly as to what I thought I’d seen. ‘The rider knew about our visit to the temple,’ I said. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’