People of the Sea(58)
“Bring your son… What are you talking about?” A fist seemed to reach inside Tannin’s chest to squeeze his heart.
“Far to the north …” Lambkill said, and as he turned, the smoky shadows highlighted the purple smudges beneath his wary eyes. His lips parted as if about to reveal some sacred knowledge whose Power could strike dead the man who dared to speak of it. In a hushed, voice, he continued, “The People of the Masks, who live with the Ice Ghosts, believe that the souls of dead children stay in the bodies for a long time. And if you’re fast and perform the proper rituals, you can tie their souls there.”
Tannin watched in horror as Lambkill spread the boy’s little ribs back. The stench of decomposition clotted in the overhang. He gagged and turned his head away, struggling to control the nausea at the back of his throat. If he vomited, what would Lambkill say?
Lambkill looked up. “We must prop his body open to smoke for seven nights, until it dries completely.” An emotionless smile curled his lips. “The People of the Masks’ believe that dead babies can learn to speak. Oh, it takes
time. Maybe years … just like with a living child. But once they learn, they can tell you many strange and wonderful things. The Mask People carry dead babies before them into battle… and they say that no dart has ever struck the man with the child.”
Tannin couldn’t speak. He could only gape as a sense of uncleanliness and corruption leached into his soul. The night air seemed heavy with spiritual pollution. I’ll never be clean again! He watched in horrified silence as Lambkill lifted the grouse, slid it off its stick and propped it on one of the hearthstones to cool. Then Lambkill scrutinized the stick and stabbed it through the middle of the dead baby. Blood dripped down onto the dirt.
“See,” Lambkill said. “Every night I’ll prop my son up, away from the flames of the fire, where he can dry out slowly. Then, in seven days, I’ll sew him up and dress him.”
“Why?” Tannin asked in a choked whisper.
Lambkill tilted his head, and his eyes glowed eerily in the reflected flames. “So my son can be with me always.”
“Oh… Man… it’s happening. Look. Look and see for yourself! I’ll never be able to be born again. I’ll never be a Dreamer! Or have my chance to save the world! Not as long as Lambkill tries to tie half of my soul to that putrid body. I hate that old fool!”
The Man said, “Boy, do you know why the body exists?”
“No, of course not. You’ve never let me live long enough to find out anything about the world of men!”
The Man sighed. “If you truly desire to be horn again, then wish both of your souls into that putrid body.”
Boy gasped, “Why? What for?”
“Because living in that body will teach you everything there is to know about anger. Every day, all day long, you
will be sniffed by dogs that want to eat you, swarmed over by insects that think your leathery body would make a fine home. Flies will crawl all over you, searching for places to lay their eggs.”
The Boy blinked. “I can see why such things would make me angry. But… why is that good? Is anger good?”
A magnificent blue-violet fire glowed to life around at! of the Star People who lived within Boy’s sight. The fire encircled each one like a protective vessel of Light. It flickered and blazed. Only Boy didn’t have such a beautiful vessel. He frowned.
The Man gently pointed out, “No, Boy. But-the worthiness of a Dreamer is revealed by enduring unbearable irritations.”
Thirteen
Tall reeds shielded Kestrel as she waded through the cool marsh shallows. The sucking black mud ate at her strength and made her legs cramp, but travel here would leave no trail for Lambkill to follow. Sunset had blushed color into the rocky lowlands rising to the north, and the rounded shapes of boulders glowed with a topaz fire. Southward, two enormous lakes gleamed an unearthly blue, like eyes in a face formed from the rich green marshes.
The air had turned cold with the waning light.
Spotted sandpipers scurried through the water in front of her, hunting insects. When she got too close, they trilled nervously and she slowed her pace to keep them calm. From last year’s tawny cattail stems, yellow-headed blackbirds watched with cocked heads. Water snakes slipped between
the stems, rustling the newly greening grass. Minnows darted away from her muddy, waterlogged moccasins.
The puffs of clouds on the horizon had begun to blaze orange in the fires of sunset. Soon darkness would cover her movements but until then, she had to be careful not to attract attention to herself. She had been walking from dawn’s first light to well past dusk, walking as fast as she could, feeding Cloud Girl on the move by swiveling the hide thong of the rabbit-fur sack around to her chest. The baby seemed to take the traveling well, but exhaustion weighted Kestrel’s body like a granite cape. The knife wounds on her forehead and shoulder had become infected. While the Evil Spirits fed, the constant pain sapped her strength even further.