Excerpt: Old Man's Temple

This is an excerpt from the novel I started in NaNoWriMo and finished just before Christmas. The novel's working title is Drumheart.

The sun's rays were nearly level, splashing the Blackwall with orange light. My house was silent and already dusty. I walked quickly through familiar rooms, averting my eyes from objects I had once treasured. I was under no illusions; even if I could clear my father and myself and Paltabas of involvement in Skadhrim's death and the Mother cult, even if I could find Nitsur and learn something important enough to impress Dithaktas, we would never own this house again.

Weapons. Armor. Clothes. Paltabas' riding gear, and some dresses in case she chose not to leave the city. It felt wrong to be in my sister's upstairs rooms alone, handling her clothes. I hadn't the heart to go into either of my parents' rooms. Sunset was fading from the walls as I left the house.

As I shut the door behind me, the giant gong rang out from the temple of the Boy.

I stood frozen for just a moment. Disaster. War. The Locust People!

I ran. All around me, shutters were swinging, doors banging open and shut. Men poured out into the street, some trying to struggle into armor while carrying weapons. I was surrounded by faces I knew, but stopped for none of them.

At Kaspell's house, Talikent and Paltabas were clinging together in the porch. Brentanas stood beside them, axe in hand. I dumped my packs on the floor and gasped, "Where's Kaspell?"

"At the temple," said Brentanas.

I dragged my riding armor out of the pack. "I have to go there too." Leather jacket sown with iron disks, short iron-studded chaps around the outsides of my thighs. Bow. Arrows. I was wearing my sword; I left the lances. Paltabas came and helped me. Her hands trembled, but her mouth was set firm. I snatched a kiss from her cheek and ran for the temple.

The plaza was full of groups of Boy soldiers standing about, talking loudly-- arguing loudly. No-one was moving. What was wrong here? "What are you doing?" I shouted. "Why aren't you on the walls? Where are the Old Men?"

Faces turned toward me, sheened with fear. "It's too late," someone said. "They're inside the gates. They were let in."

Over my heavy breathing, I could hear noise from the lower city. Screams. The pounding of hooves. I turned around; in the gathering darkness, flames were springing up near the west wall.

My head filled with light. "Kaspell!"

He came pushing through the crowd, sweat running down his face. "Akshedhen. I'm here."

"I'm going to get my parents," I told him.

Kaspell nodded and followed me up the steps of the Old Man's temple. The guard at the door was the same who had let me speak to my father earlier-- was it only earlier today? He looked at me and stepped back without a word, pushing the door open.

The entrance hall was dark. I drew my sword and walked forward. Kaspell moved out to my left, arrow on string. Beyond the hall, I could see wavering torchlight from the courtyard. There was some confused noise from out there: I thought I heard sobbing, some indistinct words... then the thunk of an axe biting into flesh and bone.

I broke into a run.

There was a crowd of Old Men in the courtyard. In the middle of it knelt a huddle of women, their hands bound behind their backs. Dithaktas was standing over a great block of wood, with an axe. The axe was dripping blood. His hands were dripping blood. Blood spattered his clothes. Thick streams of blood crawled this way and that over the stones of the courtyard. At Dithaktas' feet, women's faces stared sightlessly from a huge mound of black hair all sopping with blood. The stench of it choked me.

"Akshedhen Half-Old-Man! Is it your mother you've come to find?" Dithaktas laughed, a high keening sound, and kicked at the pile of heads, sending them tumbling. "Come and get her, boy. Come and get her!"

"Where is my father?" I shouted.

Dithaktas hissed and started toward me, axe raised. I went to meet him, but my feet dragged through the horrible mess on the pavement. It was like wading in mud. I was heavy. Dithaktas' will pressed down, slowing me to a crawl.

I heard the twang of a bowstring and Dithaktas stopped in his tracks, staring down at the fletching that had suddenly grown from his chest.

"Who wants to die next?" snarled Kaspell, nocking another arrow.

Dithaktas crumpled soundlessly. "Where is my father?" I shouted.

The crowd of Old Men shifted and I saw my father seated in a chair. No, tied to it. No-- His head rolled towards me, eyeless sockets above red-streaked cheekbones. "Akshedhen? Akshedhen?"

A knife flashed in the torchlight. Kaspell loosed again, just an instant too late; blood spurted from my father's throat even as the Old Man who killed him staggered, clutching at the arrow in his heart. I howled and ran forward. The Old Men bolted in all directions, but I was among them, laying about furiously. One went down under my sword, another, another. I heard shouting, the twang of Kaspell's bowstring, the clash of other swords against axes.

Then all the Old Men were gone, cut down or fled. A handful of Boy soldiers had joined me in the courtyard. I turned to them and said: "Ahon ken Taridh has fallen. Save your families if you can."

"Lord," pleaded a voice. "Lord, help us, please."

I'd forgotten the women. They were still bound and kneeling. Ajalē was among them; she came knee-walking across the bloody pavement towards me. "My lord, please! Please don't leave us for the Locusts!"

Kaspell had drawn his knife. I nodded. He passed among the women, cutting them free. I said to Ajalē: "Keep up if you can."

Excerpt: On the Levee

This scene is why "On the Levee" will never be published as a short story.

The sky was leaden grey, heavy and hot as a pot lid. There was no breeze. The surface of the Snake lay flat under the weight of the air. Our boats' wakes spread behind us, interlocking and tangling. Glantrim and Nitsur played a work rhythm, helping Shelani'aï's guards pace themselves; we'd agreed the added speed was worth the risk of attracting attention from the shore, as long as we kept to midstream.

We'd passed several open irrigation gates. Shelani'aï's people had done their best. Of course the water level now, at the very end of the dry season, was well below the level of the gates, so no water was escaping the Snake. We meant to change that. The plan was to breach the east bank levees in at least two places; Shelani'aï' thought that would be enough, but any damage we could do to the levees should ease the flooding in the Delta.

"Here," said Shelani'aï. She and the other guard turned their boat towards the east bank. The second boat followed. The remains of an abandoned village came into view beyond the levee. It was a good place to have chosen; the plain was level and water let out of the Snake here would spread a long, long way. There was another abandoned village in the distance. I averted my eyes from the weed-choked fields and tumbledown houses. Once, people had lived here. This might even have been the village where I was born.

There was no joking or teasing among us or the guards. We were here to do a work of destruction, and though we had all agreed it was necessary, it went against the grain for us Ta'arane. Glantrim and Nitsur sympathized, and so the mood was somber.

"Do you want to wait for morning?" Nitsur asked me. It was late in the day already.

"No. I want to be back in the boats before dark and heading downstream to our second site."

"I think that's wise," said Shelani'aï'. She was scanning the plain watchfully. From the top of the levee we could see no sign of human activity, but we knew how fast horsemen could move.

"You'll want to be careful," said Fera'animo, one of the guards. "Once the levee's breached, water will pour out through here and tear big chunks out of it. We may need to get back in the boats in a hurry."

Shelani'aï gave orders. The guards beached the boats against the levee and took their places, paddles ready. It had been a long hard day for them, but there was an island not far downstream where we planned to tie up for the night.

Che'atamaï and I were ready. I nodded to Nitsur. In the past months, other drumspeakers had learned to initiate the pattern-trance with other dancers, but they all still looked to the two of us to lead when we were trying something new.

The earth-breaking rhythm had seemed so appropriate when we cleared the marsh around the Woneiyal camp: a new beginning dedicated to the Mother in Potential. Now, we were ending something, not beginning something. Nitsur led Glantrim into the death music. I began with a wide homage gesture, stooping to press both palms to the earth. Mother, forgive us. Che'atamaï followed.

I had thought about it all afternoon, in a light trance, watching the water ripple against the sides of the levees. The Snake would be our ally here. I showed Che'atamaï how the water pressed against the walls of earth. Yes. We had only to find the weak points and weaken them further.

Water began to push through the dirt. A dark stain appeared on the face of the levee below us, spreading rapidly. Not just a stain; a bulge. Beads of water oozed out. The levee sweated like a fever patient. The packed earth shook under our feet, cracks appearing as the levee began to collapse. Enough, enough! The drummers dropped their rhythm in the middle and we all scrambled for the boats.

"Cast off!" shouted Shelani'aï, dragging Nitsur bodily over the side of the boat. The other boat was away already and fighting its way out into the middle of the water. I risked a glance over my shoulder; where we had danced was empty air, brown water pouring over a lip of earth that sank away as I watched. Then I was in the boat and we were all paddling furiously as the water sucked us backward toward the breach, toward the empty plain beyond.

It was long, tense minutes before we were out of danger. Slowly the water flowing out of the breach lost its hold, relinquishing us to the main flow of the Snake. We shipped our paddles and breathed. "Mother, that was close..."

"Next time," said Shelani'aï crossly, "try not making the breach right under where you're standing!"

"Uh, that would have been a good idea," I said feebly.

"Oh, no," said Fera'animo. He was staring toward the levee. No, beyond it; there was a figure struggling through the rising water, waving wildly. A faint cry sounded over the water noises.

"Turn in!" shouted Shelani'aï, seizing her paddle. We were well downstream of the breach; there was no danger of our boats being sucked out of the Snake. It was only a few moments before the boats grounded against the levee. Fera'animo and Taölaheli leaped out of the boats, ran down the eastward face and plunged into the water. It was already deep enough to swim in.

"Mother keep them safe," Che'atamaï gasped.

"Now that is something I have never seen," said Nitsur in amazement.

"What, swimming? We used to do it at Alati'enoaë. When there weren't crocodiles."

The two guards had reached the struggling figure. It was a woman, I thought. They were towing her back towards the levee. We scrambled down to meet them and helped pull them out of the water. The woman was Ta'arane; she was coughing and gasping, and it wasn't until we had all climbed back up to the top of the levee and she had sunk to her knees, panting with exhaustion, that I recognized Ajalēmona.

Excerpt: Accomodation

By the time we reached the house, the sun was rising behind the Blackwall. Dawn was filling the city like clear water. Akshedhen went at once to his rooms; I felt very tired, but wakeful.

All the slaves except Minkatar were gathered in the kitchen. Old Fi’alasheï was sitting by the unlit fire, rocking and staring into the hearth. The other three women were grouped motionless around the table. Loïne sat in a corner of the room, arms folded across his chest. I hesitated at the door, but Temeraiao said: “Come in, Nitsuri, it’s all right.”

I joined the women at the table, feeling awkward. “I’m... I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Temeraiao opened her hand, palm away from me; it’s past, it’s of no consequence. “Every year they perform this... ceremony. They make us attend. After, we come home and beg the Mother’s forgiveness.”

“For what good it does,” muttered Loïne.

Temeraiao said, with uncharacteristic sharpness: “That isn’t the point. We have to witness this desecration, but we don’t have to accede to it!”

Loïne subsided into sullen silence. I offered: “The temples, they were built by your people?”

“Yes.” Temeraiao smiled with private satisfaction. “The one they use for the Boy: the dome represents an egg, the Mother in potential.. The one they’ve converted to the Old Man represents the Mother realized, her bounty—a cow’s horns. Of course the Kesse’ got it wrong.”

“And the third?”

“The spiral roof represents the Mother as mystery.”

Loïne burst out, “Why do you bother? Why do you keep hanging on to the Mother’s worship? She’s abandoned us! She left us to be enslaved by the Kesset!”

Ajalē was on her feet. “So you say. You have no faith in the Mother—typical man!”

“No, no,” whispered Ng’ara. “Hush, someone will hear us...”

Fi’alasheï said hoarsely: “We betrayed the Mother. We enslaved the Great Snake and his children. The fields turned barren, plagues came on the wind, and the Moon sent his sons to punish us.”

There was a horrified silence. After a moment, Temeraiao said quietly, “It’s morning; the vigil is over. Go get some sleep, all of you, there’ll be work to do in a few hours.”

Loïne and I left the kitchen together, heading to the men’s quarters. “Are there many Ta’arane who believe what Fi’ala said?” I whispered. Loïne shook his head; he didn’t know. “Most won’t say it. Fi’ala’s so old, she doesn’t care. It’s no concern of yours, anyway.” He went to his room without another word.

Excerpt: Drumspeaker responsibilities

This is in no way intended to be a metaphor for my role as a blogospheric poet, or a novelist, or any other aspect of my life...

I sprawled on the floor of the hut, my head ringing. Hingol was standing over me, hand raised. "Nitsur! Nitsur, answer me!"
The side of my face stung. I touched it gingerly. "What... happened?"
He let out a gusty sigh of relief and sat down heavily. "You were sunk in the drumtrance and wouldn't come out. I had to hit you, Nitsur; I'm terribly sorry." I'd heard of other apprentices being beaten, but Hingol had never struck me before.
I picked myself up off the floor. "Didn't you go to Flambol's house?"
"I did. I've been there for hours. I came back. Do you have any idea what time it its?"
I looked at the door of the hut. The slant of the shadows said the sun was very low. "I was practicing."
"I know. You trance easily. Maybe too easily; you need to remember where you are, also." He studied me for a moment. "How do you feel?"
"Uh..." Suddenly I was weak and shaky. Ravenous. Cramped and stiff. My hands ached. "Oh." I fell over. Hingol picked me up and sat me on a stool. "Sit right there for a minute."
I put my head in my hands. Hingol made me drink some water, and then pushed a chicken leg into my hands, while he boiled water. When we each had a steaming cup of tea, he said: "This is your problem, Nitsur: you're not connected enough to your body."
"It's because I'm a visitor spirit."
"Maybe. As I said, that's shaman business. Drumtalkers need to be anchored. I don't mean you have to think about your body all the time; you already know you can't drum if you're thinking about what your hands are doing. But the body has to be there with you, understand?"
"I think so."
"You need an anchor," he repeated. "You weren't close to anyone in your family or your village, that's part of the problem. Woneiyal aren't meant to live alone, even inside our own heads. That's one of the reasons for drumspeech, you know; it keeps us all together. Any won, even one who isn't a drumtalker, listens to the drumstream and just takes it in, and so they know everything that's going on and no other won is ever a stranger to them."
"I hate it when people talk about me," I muttered.
Hingol frowned. "You're a drumtalker. You can't take from the stream and put nothing back. I don't just mean, by drumming; you have to let other people drum about you, give yourself to it, you see? That's how it stays alive.
"It's different for most people; they just listen. But we are the heart of the drumstream. We're the heart of the Woneiyal! That's the responsibility you take on when you become a drumspeaker. Listen, you know Banka?"
"She's a gossip."
"She's a very good drumtalker. Oh, there are plenty who can play better, but Banka understands the importance of news, of knowing. She shares it all. No-one within hearing range of Banka can claim they don't know if someone in Pamond is hungry, or lost a relative, or if someone's hurt someone else. Sometimes she goes too far, it's true: then someone in her village complains to the headman, and they have to sit down and talk about it. But the reverse is worse."
"What do you mean?"
"When people don't hear themselves in the drumstream they think they're not part of it, not part of Woneiyal. They begin to think they aren't won. They forget that what they do matters to the rest of us. They can cause all kinds of harm without thinking about it, like taking food that other people need. And if they have troubles, no-one hears about it and no-one will go help them. That's why it's terrible for a village to be without a drumspeaker.
"You have the talent to be a very good drumspeaker, Nitsur. Technically, you're way ahead of apprentices who've been in training longer: you have more vocabulary than some active drumtalkers, and you can hear nuances even I can't. But you have to learn to use your talent for the Woneiyal, for all Woneiyal. Otherwise it's no use. Understand?"
I stared at the floor. "Will I ever be a good drumspeaker?"
"Oh, of course you will! Nitsur--" Hingol pulled me to my feet and surprised me with a hug. "Listen, son-- " (He'd never called me "son.") "This is partly my fault. I forget that you're just a boy; I've pushed you too fast, and not given you time to do boy-things. But you learn so well, it's a pleasure to watch you-- and I'm proud of you. You'll never be just good. You're going to be a great drumspeaker."
I was too stunned to say anything but: "I am?"
"Yes!" Hingol sobered. "But it's going to mean spending time away from the drums. Just keep in mind that it's part of your training."

Excerpt: Riding lesson

Written recently. Akshedhen teaches Nitsur to ride horseback.

“First lesson,” he said that first day, in a field near the east gate. The ground had been plowed, and was bare and soft. “A rider uses his legs more than his arms, but his body more than his legs. That’s why it won’t matter that your legs are damaged. Some great warriors of our people have been lame.”

I was perched uneasily on the back of a grey mare named Vikti, whom Akshedhen had assured me was very gentle. Akshedhen had unsaddled her. “You’ll learn to feel your horse better this way,” he’d said. “Afterwards, you’ll find riding with a saddle is just like sitting in a chair. Besides, the time might come when you have to ride bareback. I was on patrol on the steppes once, this was a couple of years ago... you know Libandh, we were at his father’s house last week? Well, we were on the watch for Locust People, but it was early in the dry and the wild cattle were mating.” He sighed reminiscently. “Good hunting, but vicious! Anyway, Libandh was with us, he’d unsaddled his horse, he was fixing one of the straps, I forget now which. This bull comes up out of a wash with no warning, horns on it as long your arm, and charges us!” Akshedhen waved his arms. “Of course we scattered. Poor Libandh dropped his saddle and got up on his horse somehow, and got away safely—but the bull trampled his saddle and destroyed it, completely ruined it. You see?”

“Yes, lord,” I said. “Are there dangerous animals like that hereabouts?”

“Eh! Not near the city. We keep them away from the herds. Don’t worry, we won’t go far until you can ride better. Now, relax.” He clucked softly, and Vikti started to move. “No, relax! Rock with her. That’s better.”

I let my eyes half-close, feeling for the rhythm. I could hear the mare’s hooves in the soft earth: plop plop plop plop. That’s easy, I thought.

Akshedhen clucked again, and Vikti’s motion changed. Tlunk. Tlunk. But now there was a jarring, up-and-down feel to it, an off-beat: I rephrased. Tlunk a-ha tlunk a-ha tlunk—I lost my balance and tumbled off Vikti’s grey back.

“Not bad,” said Akshedhen approvingly.

“Lord?” I sat up, trying to brush the soft dirt off my shirt.

“You had it, for a moment. It will come and go, until you forget there was a time you didn’t know it. Now, pet Vikti and tell her you’re sorry. She’s insulted.”

He was serious. Every time I fell during my training, I had to pet my horse and apologize to it. Akshedhen said it was very bad to make a horse think it was his fault a rider had fallen off; you could ruin a good horse that way.

Captivity

In the first days of my captivity, I drummed ceaselessly, desperately, on anything that would carry sound. Help me, help me! Help Nitsur! I called out to everyone I knew, recited the names of my family and the other folk of Honatol, of my village, without knowing if they were alive or dead. I called on other drumspeakers I had spoken with, but never met. No answer came.
In the foothills northwest of the great river, I beat on charred, smoking stumps, burning my hands. Southeast of the river, in the grasslands, there were no trees living or dead. I pounded on the dry earth, raising choking clouds of dust but no sound. My captors finally tied my wrists, muffled my hands in cloth, and put a bag over them. They argued about me; I did not speak Kesseten, not then, but I remembered the sounds, and later I was able to translate the conversation. Mostly it concerned the worth of a slave who was lame-- as I was-- and who damaged his hands-- as I was threatening to. But Jantyr was determined to bring me alive to Ahon ken Tai, and Jantyr was in command.
The other captives in our train were all Ta'arane, from the southeast bank of the river and the western plains. I spoke their language, a little, but they had none of mine. They seemed resigned to their fates. "It's been this way for some generations now," an old woman told me. "Ever since the Kesset came from the east, with their horses and their cows. They didn't build the cities of the plain, you know... our foremothers did that." At the time I didn't know what she meant; I had never seen a city.
"The empire of the Kesset rests on the backs of Ta'arane slaves," muttered a young man who was with her. I think he may have been her nephew, or her foster son; I never knew for sure. It was evening, and we were all huddled in a circle, surrounded by watchfires and Kesset guards. "Every year they reach further west and south, to enslave more of our people. They've raided as far the Delta, I've heard..."
"No, no," said someone else, "that's the one place they can't touch. The Mother kills them when they set foot there..."
"There was a time we thought they'd never reach the Hundred-Thousand-Mouth," said the old woman sternly. She was speaking of the great river, now several days' march behind us. To my people, it had never had a name; it was just "the great river". "No place is safe from them any more."
Another woman murmured, "I've heard the guards speaking. They have an enemy in the eastern wastes, beyond the cities."
This was new. We all turned to her. "You speak Kesseten?" I asked.
"A little. They think guarding slave trains is boring work, not..." She groped for words. "Not honorable, not warrior's work... they were all hoping to be sent east, to fight there."
"Well," said the old woman, "perhaps these new easterners will destroy the Kesset and enslave them, just as the Kesset destroyed our temples and enslaved us. So the world continues." She made a ritual gesture, open palm pressing down and then rising, fingers trailing behind. I learned later that it signified homage to the Earth Mother. "Life and death, children."
There was a soft murmur from the other Ta'arane within earshot. The old woman turned to me. "But you're a different thing altogether, Nit-ser." The Ta'arane can't say "u"; it's a sound they don't have in Ta'arani. "I've never even seen one of your folk this side of the Hundred-Thousand-Mouth. How did the Kesset come to lay hands on you?"
I couldn't bear to speak of it. I wept. The Ta'arane patted my shoulders and murmured sympathy, but none of them understood. How could they? Captive they were, torn from their homes and on their way to lives of brutal slavery, degradation and early deaths... but they had one another. The Kesset had captured whole families and kept them together; three Ta'arane villages, more or less intact, travelled east with me. And I was alone. There was no one to speak my language, the Wonei, the Speech.
I had never, ever been alone before. In my land there was no silence; even travelling between villages, along steep river gorges where the rocks were slick with spray and the twining vines hung thick as night before your face, there was always drumspeech in the air, in the earth, in your bones. Every village of the Woneiyal had its drumspeaker, every drumspeaker had a signature. I am Truona, I speak for the village of Miloli, you might hear. Welcome, traveller. And then the news of Miloli's marriages, births, deaths; and other news, relayed from villages further away. Messages from families to their distant kin. The lives of the Woneiyal were all woven into this vast net of drumtalk, rippling back and forth across the jungled foothills that looked down on the great river and the plains beyond. Severed from it, I felt like a ghost, both deaf and mute. Neither the quiet talk of the Ta'arane nor the shouts of the Kesset guards touched my ears, my inner ears, the ears that craved the sounds of the Wonei as my throat craved water.