The Chronicles of Mavin Manyshaped

  Proom started to leap away, but she held him, placing him on her shoulder as she stood and moved in the direction he indicated. “I’ll help you,” she said, forgetting everything for the moment except the longing and despair in the little one’s voice. “This way?” And she strode into the darkness. Torches were fewer along this way, but she compensated for the lack of light by making her eyes larger, her ears wider, not noticing Proom’s astonishment at this, nor his obvious interest as she brought her reaching arms back to a more normal length. ”Andibar, bar, bar,” he murmured.

  She paid no attention. She was busy listening. They came to a fork in the way and she paused, looking to Proom for guidance. He warbled again, and again she heard a ghostly reply, thin, almost directionless, but Proom seemed to have no trouble knowing where it had come from, for he pointed down one of the branching ways without hesitation. They went on in this way, turn after turn, branch after branch, until Mavin had lost all sense of direction or place. Still, the answering voice grew more distinct each time they turned, and Proom’s excitement was manifest as they went into the almost total dark. So it was Mavin almost impaled herself upon the spiked gate before she saw it. It was another of the ubiquitous grilled gates, this one with a mesh so small even a creature the size of Proom could not get through. He had pressed himself against it with a piteous cry, fingers thrust through the mesh as though he would pull himself through by an act of will. She knew he had been this far before. His despair could mean nothing else.

  “Shh, shh,” she said, tugging him away. Pressing herself against the mesh, making her eyes wide to gain all the available light, she could see the latch, high inside the gate. “Nothing to it,” she murmured to the little one. “Nothing at all.” A finger extended into a tentacle which wove its boneless way through the mesh, pushed upward and outward until the latch opened with a satisfying tlock. At first the gate would not move, but then as she threw her full weight against it, it screamed at her and sagged open on rusty hinges. Mavin stopped pushing to listen. Proom pushed past her and ran on down the corridor, the quick birdsong running before him in greeting. This time she heard the answer clearly, no mistake about it and no confusing echoes. Whoever sang in reply sang close before them.

  She followed the sound, the two sounds, call and reply, as they grew louder, rounding a dim corner to find herself in a room hung with cages like that one which had held the unfortunate thrilpat, cages hung high on slender chains. They were out of reach of little Proom, no matter how he jumped and warbled to reach his imprisoned kin, and all the cavernous room thrilled with their birdsong twittering until Mavin was dizzy with it.

  The song was interrupted by a monstrous clanging, as though from a gong unimaginably huge. All the little people writhed in pain on the bottom of their cages, tiny hands clamped across their ears. The clanging stopped, but the little creatures still cowered, sobbing, Proom also from his place on the stones. From some distance came a burst of evil laughter and the word “Silence ...” shouted in a great voice. Then there was quiet, broken only by despairing whimpers from dozens of throats.

  Mavin, at first confused by the noise, was now angry. Without stopping to think about it she began to stork upward, taller and thinner, so that she teetered to the height of the cages, then above them where they were fastened to rings in the high ceiling. She began to lower them, one, two, a dozen, twenty. Some of the cages held only one of Proom’s people while others held two or three. She let them all down into the troubled quiet, and Proom gathered himself up to move among the cages, whispering, gesturing. He tugged at her ankle, pointing high where the ring of keys hung, and she passed them down to him, almost falling, for she had forgotten what a stiltwalker she had become. She folded into herself, suddenly weak and wan, aware that she had used up her strength and power again, depleted as it was in this chill place. She fished a piece of fruit from her pocket, bit into it, then saw some dozens pairs of eyes focused hungrily upon her. She gave them the other food she carried, watched with amazement as each creature took a single bite before passing it on. The food circled quickly, came back to her to be urged upon her again. She took her single bite and gave it back once more. Proom climbed into her lap and patted her on the head. “Mavin,” he said. “Mavin, vin, vin.”

  “Introductions are all very nice,” she said, “but I assume what you really want is to get out of here.” She staggered to her feet and went back into the corridor, turning the way they had come. At once a dozen hands patted at her, pushing her in the opposite direction. Proom chattered, sniffed at the air, then agreed, following the others in their scamper toward a break in the corridor wall, thence into root-hung tunnels, and finally between two great knobbly tree roots into a rocky cavern of a different kind. Sunlight came upon them from above, the warm amber light of a distant afternoon. Around them hung icicles of stone, bulging buttresses of rock, walls of ochre and red and a long, straight path leading upward into leafy forests. She found strength she did not know she had to follow them up and out into a clearing among great trees. On a distant hill she could see the bulk of Pfarb Durim rising beyond its walls.

  “Ahh?” called the little ones. “Ahh? Ahh?” They looked around, jigged uncertainly, called again and again, in some distress. It was obvious they did not know where they were. They had smelled their way out, but could not identify this location. Mavin hoisted Proom high on her shoulder where he could see the city through the trees. “Durim, rim, rim,” he called, leaning down to give a hand up to others of his kindred. Mavin staggered under the load as twenty of them climbed her like a tree. There was pointing, argument, finally agreement, and most of the burden dropped away and vanished in the brush. Proom waited with her, regarding her with thoughtful eyes. After a time he beckoned, vanishing like the others in the shadow of the trees. The answer came then, simply, as if she had known it for some time. “ Shadowpeople,” disbelieving, yet knowing it was so. “These are the shadowpeople, and I have already done as the Fon suggested. I have done them a service. Now, shall I follow to see if they will do one for me?”

  They traveled for a time in an arc, a long, curving line which kept Pfarb Durim always visible, high on its cliffs to their left. Once Mavin heard water, the sound of a considerable flow, making her believe that the River Haws ran no great distance from them in the forest. Others came back to them from tune to time, bringing nuts and fruit and loaves of bread. Others came with messages, after some of which they changed direction. Mavin followed, uncomplaining, telling herself that now was a time for patience, for waiting to see what might happen next of its own accord, without her intervention. This patience was about to be exhausted when they arrived. The place of assembly was a hollow in the woods with a straight, tall tree at one side. The shadowpeople were gathered near it, staring upward. Mavin could see nothing from where she stood except a lumpish blob hanging high among the branches, swaying a little in the wind.

  “Agirul,” the shadowmen sang, dancing below the tree with its pendant form, swaying their bodies in time to the swaying of whatever it was above them. “Agirul, nil, nil.”

  Slowly, so slowly that she was not sure she saw it move at all, the lump turned its head over so that it faced downward, showing a tiny, three-cornered mouth, a shiny, licked-looking nose, two dark lines behind which eyes might be hiding. The mouth opened. “Ahhh, shuuush,” it said with great finality. “Shuuuush.”

  “Ahh shuuuush,” sang the shadowmen, laughing, falling down in their laughter. Several of them ran off into the forest to return bearing slender bundles of long grass, the top of each stem tassled like a feather. They began to splice these together, making long, fragile lengths with which they tried to tickle the pendant creature, fluttering the tassled ends around its invisible ears, over its hidden eyes. One shadowman, more venturesome or inventive than the rest, concentrated his attention on the creature’s rear, evidently touching some sensitive spot for the creature opened its tiny mouth once more and roared.

  At this sound every
one of the shadowpeople, down to the smallest cub, sat down at once with expressions of severity and solemnity sitting awkwardly upon their cheerful faces. Above them the creature went on roaring as it swung to the trunk of the tree and began to descend, ponderously, long leg after long arm, like a pendulum swinging on its way downward, tic by toe, to slump at last on the ground at the roots of the tree, long legs and arms sprawled wide and helpless. It began to draw itself into some more coordinated posture, and two of the shadowpeople ran to help, murmuring, patting, easing the creature onto its haunches with its monstrously long arms folded neatly into its lap.

  “Naiii shuuush,” it complained, scratching its head with two curved nails, “Mumph, mumph, who is this person?”

  A warbled answer came from the assembly. The beast considered, then turned its head to Mavin.

  “I suppose you’ll insist that this wasn’t your idea,” it bellowed at her in a petulant voice. “The little beasts won’t let me alone.”

  “No—it was not my idea. Not letting you alone, I mean. Since I didn’t know that you exist, I could hardly ...”

  “No. No, of course not. No one has any idea, not ever. Don’t they teach languages in the benighted schools you people attend? Why shouldn’t you learn to speak shadow-talk? Why shouldn’t they speak whatever ugly tongue we are speaking now? But no. No, it’s always come to Agirul for translation, because that’s easier. Shush. Get away, you,” and it pushed ineffectually at the crowd of shadowpeople who were still busy propping it up and cushioning its back with leafy twigs. It did not look comfortable. Its arms and legs were not designed for living on the ground, sprawling uncontrolled as though the muscles would not work out of the trees. One look at its hands told Mavin that it was a tree liver which never came to the ground of its own will, for it had curved hooks of bone growing from each palm.

  “They didn’t hurt you, did they?” she asked.

  “Of course they didn’t hurt me. They woke me! They know I dislike being wakened. It has been sleeping weather recently, good sleeping weather, and I hate having it interrupted. I’m not unwilling to accede to emergency, however, and these little people always seem to have one. I suppose it’s you they want to talk with?”

  Mavin cast a wondering glance around. “I suppose so. I helped them get out of Hell’s Maw. I want to talk to them, very much. I need their help.”

  The Agirul sighed. “Hell’s Maw. Blourbast the Ghoul. I heard he had ghoul-plague. Why isn’t he dead?”

  “I don’t know. He looks half dead. His hands and face are covered with sores, but he claims he will recover. Does it always kill? The plague, I mean?”

  “Obviously not always. Ah, you brighten at that? It means something to you that some recover? Well, we will explore the notion soon. Just now it seems that Proom is ready to explain why I was awakened.”

  There was a brief colloquy, then the Agirul murmured to Mavin that it would attempt to make a simultaneous translation of the explanation which was about to follow. “Woman, it may be you will understand nothing at all, in which case I will explain when they have finished. It is the desire of Proom that you be honored by a song—and since his people are quite decent in the matter of gifts, fruits, you know, and nuts, and even a bit of roast meat from time to time—I will accommodate them. Sit comfortably now, this may take some time.”

  The hooked hand drew her gently close, and she squirmed about until her head lay near the Agirul’s mouth. For a moment, she feared she would go to sleep, thus disgracing herself, but once the singing started, she did not think of sleep again.

  “Hear the song of Proom!” It was a solo voice which sang this phrase, each syllable dropped into the clearing as a stone may be dropped into still water. The echoes of it ran in ripples across the gathered faces, gathering force, returning from the edges to the center amplified. Agirul murmured the words, but she did not hear the words, only the song. When the echoes had died, the voice sang again.

  “Summoned, Proom, by those who live forever. Summoned, Proom, on a great journey. Far to go. Many seasons spent. Doubt shall he return. Ah, Proom, Proom, keeper of Ganver’s Bone.” Now those gathered in the clearing took up the song, a full chorus. Some of these little ones had deeper voices than she had heard before, and these deeper voices set up a drone beneath the song, dragging, ominous.

  “Shall the Bone go? Far from the people? Shall the Bone travel far from its own place? Shall the Bone depart from Ganver who gave it?” Three voices sang alone, joined by flutes and bells. “Leave the Bone, Proom, before answering the summons. Leave the holy thing among its people. If Proom does not return, the Bone remains.” Now there were drums, little and big, cymbals ringing, and a solo voice, awe filled, chanting. “Now see, listen all, Proom left it in the high place. In the sacred place. Forbidden place. Guarded place. Farewell, Proom. Go with song around you.” Now a solo drum, high-pitched, frenetic, full of panic, one voice, very agitated.

  “See who comes. Blourbast the Ghoul. Riding. Riding. Blourbast does not see the things which guard. Blourbast does not feel forbidden place. Blourbast cannot tell sacred from his excrement hole.” Full chorus once again, full of wrath. “The Ghoul sees it. The Ghoul takes it. Ganver’s Bone, Bone, Bone, Gone, gone, gone, alas.” Now the voices lamented, high, keening.

  “Terror, tenor, monstrous this evil. The holy thing lost in dreadful’s hands. One must go recover what is lost.”

  Now drums, fifes, cymbals clashing, something that sounded suspiciously like a trumpet, though Mavin thought it was a voice. “Come to the place, the evil place. Call out for the return of Ganver’s Bone!”

  Now an old, old female rose, her voice a whispery chant in the clearing, barely heard over the humming of the multitude. “Comes one from Hell’s Maw, An old, gray man, Servant of Blourbast, Lo, he sings the words of Blourbast. Lo, he sings them in the people’s song. ‘Let twelve of the people come or Ganver’s Bone will be destroyed!’ “ Now a quartet of strong voices, in harmony.

  “Ah, ah, Proom, thou art far away. Ah. Ah. Aloom is old, is sick, Aloom sings. “I will go, I will go, that Ganver’s Bone shall never b e destroyed.”

  Aloom goes, and behind her others go. Twelve gone. Old ones, sick ones, twelve gone. This is one time. Time passes.”

  There was a moment’s silence, then the voices went on. “The old, gray man sang once more, ‘Let twelve come. Ah, ah, Proom, thou art far away. Ah. Ah. Duvoon is quiet, is loving, Duvoon sings. 7 will go, I will go, that Ganver’s Bone shall never be destroyed.’

  Duvoon goes, and behind him others go. Twelve gone. Male ones, female ones, twelve gone. This is two times. Time passes.” Again silence, again the voices.

  “The old, gray man sang once more, ‘Let twelve come.’ Ah, ah, Proom, thou art far away. Ah. Ah. Shoomdu is Proom’s child. Shoomdu sings. “I will go, I will go, that Ganver’s Bone shall never be destroyed.” Shoomdu goes, and behind her others go. Twelve gone. Children ones, little ones. This is three times. Time passes.”

  Now the chorus again, ugly in wrath, full of fury, quickly, almost shouting.

  “Oft, behold, plague conies on Blourbast. Oh, behold, Ghoul has eaten our flesh. Oh, behold, he is maddened, he kills the old gray man. Oh, behold, Proom, Proom, Proom returns.” Hearing his name sung, Proom stood up and began to chant, waving his arms high, leading the chorus and the drums.

  “Hear the song of Proom, Voice of the Songmakers. ‘No more shall go to Hell’s Maw. All who went shall come again to us if yet they live. Holy Ganver will forgive us this.’ Hear the song of Proom, ‘I will go in.’ “

  “Daroo, roo, roo,” sang the multitude. “Daroo, roo, roo, pandillio lallo lie, daroo.”

  “So he went, wandered, wandered, wandered, i n the dark, the smell, the pain, Lost, he wandered into the very hands of her Mavin who takes many forms. Now of her we sing. Now we sing the song of Mavin.”

  “I suggest you make yourself comfortable,” said the Agirul. “They are about to begin singing.”

  ??
?Gamelords,” whispered Mavin. “What do you call what they have been doing?”

  “Oh, that was just getting warmed up,” it replied. “They have sung their song. Now they will sing the song of Mavin who ...”

  “Mavin Manyshaped,” she said to the beast. “Mavin Manyshaped.” He did not hear her. The chorus was already in full cry. Afterwards, Mavin supposed it had been a kind of enchantment. Certainly while it was going on there was nothing she could do about it or herself. She was the center of a whirlpool of song, drawn down into it, drowned in it, surfacing at last with a feeling that some heavy, nonessential part of her had been washed away leaving her as light and agile as the shadowpeople themselves. When they had finished their song, they went away into the forest, leaving only a few behind.

  “I could translate for you the words of the song they have just sung, Mavin Manyshaped, but the words do not matter.” The Agirul nodded to itself. “They have, made a song of you, and that is what matters, for they do not make songs of every little happening or every chance encounter. Quite frankly, I do not know why they have honored you in this way. You were at little risk of your life in that place, so far as I can tell. Whatever their reason, you are now brought into their history, and your song will be sung at the great convocations on the high places until you are known to all the tribes wherever they may be. You may call upon the people for help, and they will be with you in your times of need.

  “I trust that now I may be allowed to go back to sleep.” And with that, the Agirul turned to begin climbing back up the tree.

  Mavin cried out, “No. Don’t go. I came for a reason, Agirul. I have need now. I must talk to them.”

  Proom had heard the tone of her voice, and he came to her with brow furrowed. Mavin reached out to him even as she began speaking, hastily, words tumbling over one another. “Mertyn,” she said. “Brother ... sick ... woman said shadowpeople ... cure ... graywoman ... Pantiquod ...”