Marianne, the Madame, and the Momentary Gods

  ‘I see half a dozen largish houses on the surrounding hills. I think that one must be it.’ He pointed to the left, where a fully walled villa crowned a forested hill. ‘It makes some pretense at looking civilized.’

  ‘And what do we do?’

  ‘We look around. We start by driving the sheep down that road past the place, into the woods, looking around in the woods, seeing what we see, and then pitching a tent.’

  ‘Do we have a tent?’

  Aghrehond burbled, ‘Oh, indeed, lovely lady, we have a tent. Would we come into this despicable wilderness without some amenities for so admirable a person? What of your privacy? Your dignity? Would we come without a tent?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Marianne. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘On the packhorse,’ said Makr Avehl.

  ‘I hope there’s something for supper there as well.’

  That was the idea, yes.’

  They passed under the walls of the chateau, studiously ignoring the impersonal insults shouted down at them by lounging guards, and went toward the forest on a narrow track.

  ‘Smoke coming from up ahead,’ said Makr Avehl softly. ’Could be anything, including what we’re looking for.’ They went on, Wolf Dog and Dingo trotting behind, an ill-assorted pair of shepherds. ‘The shamans have a style about them. They go in for feathers and hair quite a bit. Beads, too. Also they try not to bathe very often. Not more than once every two or three years, I’d say. We may smell the camp before we see it. Or we may hear it. Shamans go in for drums, too…’

  Under the eaves of the forest, monstrous firs shut out the light to leave a gray-green gloom beneath their branches. From beyond a brush-covered rise, they could hear the sounds of people moving about, a muffled shout, the crack of an axe – and a drum. Makr Avehl disappeared into the brush, returning after a time brushing twigs and leaves from his jacket.

  ‘Here, I should think,’ he said, nodding significantly toward the noise. While Marianne sat on a fallen log, watching them, the two men set up a camp, two small tents, a cookfire with a kettle suspended above it, and a line of ropes strung around several trees to make a pen for the sheep. When all was settled, Aghrehond and Makr Avehl began a loud and, so far as Marianne could see, pointless argument, with much shouting.

  The drum which had been tum-te-tumming away behind the brush fell silent. So did the voices.

  ‘You’ve forgotten it, dunderhead,’ growled Makr Avehl in an old man’s voice. ‘Forgotten it completely. How can I fry sausages without my pan?’

  ‘It was there,’ grumbled Aghrehond loudly and angrily. ’I put it there myself.’

  ‘Greetings,’ said a strange voice from under the trees. ‘Is something wrong?’

  He was tall and very dark, with feathers and beads woven into his hair. In his hand he held a staff decorated with more feathers and bones and long hanks of hair attached to chunks of skin which looked suspiciously scalplike. His mouth was bent into an obviously unaccustomed smile that displayed a few discolored teeth and did not succeed in making him look less threatening.

  It was almost as though he had been expecting them, thought Marianne.

  This dunderhead lost my frying pan,’ snarled Makr Avehl.

  ‘It’s right here,’ said Aghrehond, triumphantly, waving it. ’I told you I put it in.’

  ‘My name is Chevooskak,’ the dark man said with a toothy grin. The remaining teeth, though yellow, were very sharp. ’Who are you?’

  ‘Shepherds,’ mumbled Makr Avehl. ‘Trying to get these fool sheep home. Name’s Dommle. He’s my son. Hondi Dommle. She’s his wife, Dummy Dommle. She’s mute. Can’t talk, thanks be. There’s too much talk, anyway, in my opinion.’

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Chevooskak, showing his teeth once more. ’Would you be interested in selling a sheep? Our camp needs meat. You could join us, if you liked. Just through the brush there. It’s closer to the water than you are here.’

  Makr Avehl and Aghrehond discussed this while Marianne attempted to look bored and slightly half-witted. At length, Makr Avehl agreed both to sell one sheep and to move nearer to the larger camp where, on arrival, they found a dozen hide yurts arranged around a sizeable clearing with a sturdy pole coral at one side.

  ‘You can put the sheep in there,’ Chevooskak said. ‘We won’t be using it for a day or two. The horses are all out on pasture.’

  The language was almost the same as that spoken in Alphenlicht, though the accent was harsher. Marianne understood much of what he said, and every word made her cringe, though she could not say why.

  ‘It’s obvious why,’ said Marianne, silently. ‘Because he’s lying to you. He intends to kill at least two of you and take the sheep.’

  ‘Which two?’ she asked, then flushed. It was obvious which two. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I just know. Ask Makr Avehl if I’m not right.’

  When she whispered her suspicions to Makr Avehl, he merely nodded. ‘We figured on it, Marianne. Just go on as you are. Remember, you can’t talk.’

  She was not tempted to talk aloud. Even one or two words in her unmistakably American accent would have given them away. ‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

  ‘Wait until dark. Then do a little worm turning if the momegs will help.’

  ‘I can’t see that we have any choice,’ said the Wolf Dog, leering at a recalcitrant sheep. ‘Not ethically.’

  Dingo merely whined and thrust her head into Marianne’s lap, tongue licking delicately between Marianne’s fingers.

  ‘Why don’t you ever talk?’ Marianne murmured. ‘So silent, Dingo Dog.’

  ‘She’s telepathic,’ said the Wolf Dog, returning the recalcitrant sheep to the corral, from which she promptly tried to escape once more. ‘These sheep have no brains.’

  ‘Shh,’ muttered Makr Avehl to the momegs. ‘You’re going to make them suspicious with all this chatter.’

  Chevooskak stood at the side of the pole corral, commenting upon the edibility of various of the animals. Aghrehond argued with him vehemently. Sheep after sheep was proposed, argued over, and discarded in favor of another. When the entire flock had been considered, agreement was reached, and the stubborn wool-head who had evaded Wolf Dog was led away to the slaughter.

  ‘Serves her right,’ muttered the dog.

  ‘Quiet,’ urged Makr Avehl. ‘Sheep-dogs do not discuss their charges with the shepherd.’

  Fires were built. Within the hour, roasting meat smells began to drift across the clearing. Marianne found herself salivating profusely, and the dried sheet of bread which Aghrehond offered her did little to alleviate her hunger. She raised her head, sniffing, as Chevooskak brought them a fat, dripping leg, redolent of garlic and herbs.

  ‘Welcome,’ he breathed at them with his toothy smile. ’Welcome to our home. Eat. Enjoy.’

  Makr Avehl bowed, Aghrehond bowed, both cut bite-sized chunks from the meat and pretended to eat while surreptitiously tossing the chunks into the fire. Aghrehond offered a dripping slice to Marianne, gesturing pointedly at the burning fat. She took it hungrily, but managed to follow their example. Between pretend mouthfuls of the savory smelling meat, she took real bites of the dry bread along with sips of sour yoghurt.

  ‘I think we’re due to get very sleepy along about now,’ muttered Makr Avehl. ‘Tent time.’ He yawned ostentatiously and crept into one tent. After a moment, Aghrehond followed his example by crawling into the other one. ‘Get in here, wife,’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t sit there dreaming by the fire.’

  Marianne, who had forgotten her role as Hondi Dommle’s wife, started in surprise, then recovered herself and crawled into the tent where Aghrehond promptly thrust her into a corner and sat down beside the entrance, a wicked-looking knife in his hand.

  ‘Can you call them?’ he asked. ‘All five of them.’

  ‘That would be unnecessary,’ Black Dog mumbled from the pile of blankets. ‘We are here.’

  ‘You understand what to do?’

  ‘A little men
acing. Perhaps a bit of human chewing and tearing. A touch of mild laceration. We’ve done it before.’

  They had no opportunity to do it again for a long time. It was almost midnight before Chevooskak lurked across the clearing, a shadow among darker shadows. He paused for endless moments outside the tent, listening. Aghrehond breathed slowly, rhythmically, loudly. At last the shaman went down on all fours and crept within.

  Marianne restrained herself with difficulty. The man’s eyes glowed, like a cat’s eyes, reflecting light.

  They glowed only for a moment. Then there was a rush of bodies, a thrashing, then silence.

  ‘Light the lantern,’ said Makr Avehl.

  Marianne complied, feeling for the matches in the darkness. In the dim light she saw Chevooskak lying prone, one of the momegs grasping each extremity, the wolf at his throat. Aghrehond sat on the shaman’s back, testing with his thumb the knife the shaman had carried.

  ‘A simple thing,’ Makr Avehl said conversationally, entering the tent through a slit in the back and crouching next to Marianne. ‘A simple thing, Chevooskak. A request for information. These are momentary gods at your throat, at your limbs. They will not hesitate to tear you apart. You cannot control them by guile or lore, for they were not summoned by you. You see, I know some few things about this matter.’

  ‘What do you want?’ the shaman gargled, staring sideways into the red glare of the Foo Dog’s eyes. Marianne did not think he was as frightened as he pretended to be.

  ‘How does Madame control the momentary gods? What device does she use? What words or incantation? How does she do it? Tell me.’

  The shaman shook his head. ‘She would kill me.’

  ‘Come now. It was you who taught her in the first place.’

  ‘Not me. No. My father taught her.’

  ‘Well, are you not privy to your father’s secrets?’

  ‘He did not tell me everything.’

  ‘He told you of this, though, didn’t he?’

  The man started to shake his head, but the dog at his throat growled softly, so he changed his mind and whispered instead. ’He said – he said he gave her the time bender.’

  ‘What is it, this time bender?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never saw it. She has it.’

  ‘How big a thing, then? Small, or large?’

  ‘I don’t know. Truly. I don’t know!’

  ‘Come, come.’ The momegs growled, closing their teeth upon the shaman’s arms and legs. The Wolf leaned forward to get a better grip on the man’s throat.

  ‘Where did your father get it?’ whispered Marianne. ‘Did he tell you that?’ Something was not right about this, but she couldn’t tell what it was. The man’s reluctance seemed real, and yet it did not. He was too easily persuaded.

  ‘It fell. Out of the sky.’

  ‘Let him up,’ said Marianne. ‘I believe he will talk with us.’ And that fact disturbed her. He would talk with them. He would tell them the truth. She knew it. Why did it upset her?

  Makr Avehl tied the man’s hands behind him, and Aghrehond saw that two of the momegs were at either side of him before he was allowed to sit up against the canvas, glaring at them in the light of the lantern. ‘Who are you?’ he hissed. ’Who?’ This at least seemed an honest question. He really didn’t know.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Marianne. ‘You don’t really want to know. Now, tell us what your father told you.’

  The man’s eyes glazed. He mumbled a moment, ‘Fell from the sky, he said. Dreaming, all night, under the stars… stars like a great river, running away across the sky, and near morning a red star, burning, like a forge, hot over his head, east to west, falling. He went where it fell… all the trees bent down around it. A great hole, hot. And when it cooled, this thing was in it. So he picked it up and put it in his ghost bag and went away from there.’

  ‘So, then, we know how large it is,’ Marianne murmured. ’Small enough to be carried away in his ghost bag. How big was his bag, Chevooskak? You saw it many times, how big was it?’

  ‘So,’ he motioned with his hands, a small square, perhaps a foot on a side.

  ‘With many things in it, no? Bones, perhaps?’

  He nodded, unwillingly. ‘Many things.’

  ‘What did your father do with this time bender?’

  ‘He could make time stop. He could make people stop moving. He could make animals stop moving. He was very powerful. Very great. Until she came.’

  ‘She,’ crooned Marianne. ‘Did he love her, Chevooskak?’ Perhaps this was what bothered her.

  The man glared, spat, honestly angry. ‘Like a dog after a bitch. Everything he knew, he told her. Everything he had, he gave her.’

  ‘Instead of to you, his son?’

  The shaman growled, deep in his throat. ‘When she had it all, she killed him.’

  Marianne looked at Makr Avehl and shrugged. This last was real, very real. Chevooskak felt that. The other? She was not comfortable with what little they had learned, but she knew of no way to get at the source of her discomfort. Makr Avehl leaned forward to press his hands on the shaman’s neck. The shaman fell forward, unconscious, and the momegs stepped fastidiously away from him.

  ‘He smells terrible,’ said the Blue Dragon Dog. ‘I don’t think he ever bathes.’

  ‘I would have hated to bite him,’ admitted Wolf Dog, ’though honor would have constrained me to do so.’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary,’ commented Makr Avehl. ‘Marianne seems to have found out what we needed to know. Let’s dose him with that potion Ellat gave me, Hondi, then haul him back to his yurt. The potion should guarantee he remembers none of this.’ He turned to Marianne with a puzzled look, a look he retained when he returned to the tent. ‘Don’t you think that was too easy?’ he murmured.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Aghrehond argued, without real conviction. ’He is not the man his father was. That is clear. Perhaps the power which would have passed from father to son passed instead to her – Madame?’

  ‘Possible,’ Makr Avehl acknowledged, ‘but I still think it was much too easy.’ The expression of concern stayed on his face and was still there early in the morning, before most of the camp was astir, when they left with their flock. Chevooskak came out of his yurt to stare bleary-eyed after them, a look of confusion on his face.

  ‘Too easy,’ said Makr Avehl again.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that,’ said Marianne. ‘It doesn’t seem easy to me. You may know more or less what you’re looking for, but you still have no idea where she keeps it or what it really looks like.’

  ‘We know a few things about it,’ said Makr Avehl. ‘She uses it to move people into her false worlds. She used it on Marianne – my Marianne – at the top of a flight of stairs in Marianne’s own house. She had it with her. Was she carrying anything at that time?’

  Marianne answered. ‘Nothing but a clipboard with a piece of paper on it. Nothing in her hands.’

  ‘And what was she wearing?’

  ‘A cap, like a uniform cap, and dark shirt and trousers, I think. Yes, I’m sure. I thought she was a delivery person until she raised her head.’

  ‘Shirt and trousers. Nothing voluminous. Something, then, that would fit in a pocket or, more likely, on a chain around the neck.’

  ‘She never wears low-cut clothes,’ Marianne said. ‘I have been trying to remember every time I’ve seen her. She always wore a high-necked dress or shirt.’

  ‘So, we assume when she leaves her home, she wears the thing around her neck. When she’s at home, however, she could put it almost anywhere.’

  ‘So,’ Aghrehond continued, ‘we have a better chance if we get her to come out than if we go in after her.’

  Marianne snorted. ‘How do you expect to do that?’

  ‘Very simple,’ said Makr Avehl. ‘We invite her to the wedding.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Marianne was furious. ‘I know why he’s doing it. I know it’s a good plan. I know Madame will probabl
y come like a shot, if just to have a chance at me! But this kind of haste – well, it’s unseemly, that’s what it is. People will think I’m pregnant.’

  Ellat said reasonably, ‘Well, what’s that matter in this day and age? What’s that matter in any day and age, come to that? Even here in Alphenlicht, it’s not that unusual.’

  ‘Papa will split a gusset,’ Marianne snarled, quoting Cloud-haired mama, who always asserted that Papa would split a gusset. Marianne herself had no very clear idea of what a gusset might be. ‘He’ll name a new executor. He’ll… Besides, I don’t want to get married.’

  ‘My brother won’t be marrying you, dear.’

  ‘You tell me how he’s going to marry her without marrying me. We just happen to be sharing a body. There are certain—intimacies that go with marriage you know.’ She stopped, flushing. When it came right down to it, she could not be repelled by the idea of those intimacies, though she tried. ‘It’s like rape,’ she told herself vehemently, not believing a word of it. Her body – their body – refused to consider it rape.

  ‘My dear, be calm. Please. Be calm. Makr Avehl will do nothing to offend your sensibilities, you have my word. Take a nap. You look tired.’

  ‘I do nothing these days but take naps. I slept half of yesterday. Don’t try to put me off, Ellat. It’s international news. Papa will hear of it.’

  ‘Leave that to the Prime Minister, my dear. He will handle everything.’

  Marianne subsided, wondering as she did so where the other Marianne had taken herself. Though her presence could still be felt, she had not recently interrupted or taken over. She yawned. It was true that she seemed to do nothing but sleep, lately. And she was becoming forgetful. This morning when she woke from a quick nap, she was not wearing the same blouse she remembered having on when she lay down. This morning, she remembered putting her slippers on one side of the bed and woke to find them on the other. Why did Marianne have this feeling that something was going on, that Marianne and Makr Avehl were plotting something, when they could not possibly plot anything without her knowing. Was there some way that Marianne could remain active while Marianne was asleep? ‘Lying low, are you?’ she snarled at the mirror. ‘If I could get my hands on you.’