Wild Magic wm-1

  Wild Magic

  ( Wild Magic - 1 )

  Jo Clayton

  Jo Clayton

  Wild Magic

  Goddance. The Opening Steps

  The islands of the Tukery glitter with dew; the sky is dark blue burning at the edges, clear of clouds; a wandering breeze twitches at green leaves still on the trees, whirls up and drops again khaki and mustard leaves drying on the ground. The selats-the narrow winding stretches of sea between the islands-are filled with chop and shadow and drifting veils of mist.

  A small boat slides gracefully along the selat that goes past Jal Virri. The hull is amber and mother-of-pearl, the single mast is yellow sandalwood, the lateen sail silk the color of beeswax; the bow curls up and over like the scroll on a violin; the stern rises in a duck-tail; delicate feathering is carved into the sides. A woman clad in veils of honey-colored mist stands in the stern, honey arms folded across her breasts, gossamer bee wings shimmering from her shoulders, antennas like curved black threads rising above huge black bee eyes.

  The boat stops improbably in midstream when it reaches the part of the island where a house is visible among the trees and a broad lawn slopes to white sand and the sea water. The Bee-eyed Woman begins to hum.

  › › ‹ ‹

  Inside the house, in a small nursery, the newly risen sun is shining through the window, turning the leaves of the vines that grow across the glass into slices of jade; leaf shadows dance on the white wall across from the crib and the child in it; the leaves scrape across the glass in soft arrhythmic sshp-sshps.

  Faan rolls onto her back, kicks off the sheet, and sits up. She pulls herself onto her feet and pushes at the latch holding the side of the crib in place. She unbalances as it goes crashing down, gurgles with pleasure as the crib mattress gives under her and bounces her a few times.

  She flips over, wriggles backward till her legs are hanging over the edge, lands on her feet, wobbles in a crouch till she gets her balance, then trots into her mother’s bedroom.

  Her mother is deep asleep, lying on her stomach with her light brown hair in a tangle over her face and shoulders. Faan holds her breath and scurries across the room. She raises on her toes, stretches up, gets her fingers on the latch handle, pulls it down, and leans into the door. It opens and she slides through the gap after a quick guilty look at her mother.

  She manages to get all the way outside before the guardian sprites of Jal Virri catch her, strip off her nightgown and her damp diaper, and dress her in a dainty; lacy shift. They play with her a moment, then go back to the never-ending work of keeping the house and garden in order.

  › › ‹ ‹

  She is watching a frog hop beside a pond when she hears the humming. For several minutes she sits on her grubby heels and listens, then she shakes her head impatiently, gets clumsily to her feet. Wiping her muddy hands on the shift she starts toward the sound. ‘‘Maksi,” she says. As she trots around the house, she makes a song of the name. “Maksi, Maksi, Mak la la si la la Mak la la si la la Mak la la seeee…”

  When she sees the boat and the Bee-eyed Woman standing in it, she stops and stares. “Not Maksi.”

  The humming grows louder and more compelling. Faan slows. She doesn’t like that woman’s eyes. They frighten her.

  Step by step the Bee-eyed Woman hums her closer. Closer.

  She is walking on sand now. She doesn’t like walking on sand. It gets between her toes and makes them sore. Closer.

  Mamay said never go in the water.

  The sprites said never go in the water.

  They aren’t here now.

  She whimpers, but the sprites don’t come.

  The water is cold. It pushes at her. She stumbles and goes floundering under the surface.

  The Bee-eyed Woman reaches out, her arm stretching and stretching, plucks her from the selat.

  Faan wails as she swoops across the water.

  “Be quiet.” The Bee-eyed Woman sits her on the deck. “You aren’t hurt.”

  Faan ignores her and wails some more. “My Liki. I want you-ooo. Leee leeee… Leee keee…”

  The mahsar pops out of the air beside her, hisses at the Bee-eyed Woman.

  “Good,” she says. “I was waiting for you.”

  She hums and the mahsar curls up with her back against Faan, deep asleep.

  Faan yawns; her eyes droop shut and she sleeps. The Bee-eyed Woman hums another note.

  A honey shimmer trembles about the child.

  “Be loved,” the Bee-eyed Woman croons over her. “Let he who finds you cherish you to death and beyond. Let them who dwell with you cherish you. Be loved, Honeychild, by everyone you need.”

  The Bee-eyed Woman hums.

  A block of crystal hardens around Faan and Ailiki the mahsar.

  The Bee-eyed Woman hums a double note, spreads her arms. A dome of crystal forms about the island, stopping everything inside.

  Kori Piyolss, mother and apprentice sorceror, sleeps.

  Settsimaksimin, Sorceror Prime, and his lover Simms the Witch sleep side by side.

  The sprites melt into the soil and sleep.

  The trees and everything on the island freeze in place and wait.

  The Bee-eyed Woman turns her head.

  The honey-amber boat glides off the way it had come.

  Sibyl

  A mist flows from the stone, eddies and blows about in the strong wind coming up the cave from the lava lake at the heart of the mountain, a hot wind like the breath of the sun.

  Near the mouth of the cave, on the dark side of the line where sunlight meets shadow, there is a chair carved from stone, broad and worn, old as the mountain.

  The mist blows toward the sunlight, coalesces into a big woman with an ancient wrinkled face, iron black and collapsed on the bone; the smell of age hangs about her, musty and intimidating.

  She settles in the big chair, sits there wrapped in layers of wool and silk, leaning back, relaxed, amused, her face obscured, her once-beautiful hands curled over the worn finials, a jewel on her thumb shimmering blue and green and crimson, a black opal that echoes the bright lights in her black eyes.

  She opens her mouth and declaims:

  The wheel is turning, the change is near

  One by one the signs come clear:

  Salagaum flower

  Through the nights and the days

  High Kasso seeks power

  In odd little ways

  In the Beehouse’s Bower

  The Honeychild plays.

  › › ‹ ‹

  She laughs, a soft growly sound like the earth shifting.

  To be a sibyl, she says, it is necessary to cultivate a talent for bad verse. The seekers demand it. They will not believe you if you speak them plain.

  If you want me, she says, come. I am waiting for you.

  You will find this cave on the slopes of Mount Fogomalin not far below the high terrace where the Temple is, the Camuctarr of Bairroa Pili. To reach it, climb the steps and steeps of the Jiko Sagrado until you reach an ancient olive tree. It is no bigger than a bent old woman, but it has been making olives since the world began. The path begins there. Go along it, holding your clothes tight against you so the firethorn won’t catch you and the boutra birds won’t eat your livers. If it’s Spring when you’re coming, bring silk to breathe through when you pass the grove of Enyamata trees lest the pollen beguile you and keep you till you starve. Follow the cairns of black lava around the bulge of the mountain until you reach a cave mouth. Enter and I will be there.

  Come with your puzzlements, come with your needs, come in the daylight or hidden by night.

  You summon me into being.

  Come.

  › › ‹ ‹

  I am Sibyl

  I am born of earth and dream

  I alone in this land exist outside the Wheel The Wheel turns and all things change I do not change

  The Wheel turns and what was

  Is now forgotten

  I do not forget.

  › › ‹ ‹

  These are things you might like to know, she says. Names, geography and rule. If such things-bore you, ignore them.

  This is the LAND, this is Zam Fadogurtun. The titular ruler, the Amrapake, is Famtoche

  Banddah, the real power mostly lies in the hands of the Maulapam-this never changes. The First City, the Seat of Rule, is Gom Cor-

  asso; little that is important happens there. The city below us, Bairroa Pili, is called the second city though the part that is occupied is twice the size of Corasso; it is the Mill of

  Plenty, grinding out the wealth of the Land. Kasso is priest.

  Kassian is priestess.

  The Temples are called Camuctarrs.

  › › ‹ ‹

  She sighs and changes the position of her hands. I remember everything.

  I remember Chumavayal dancing down Abeyhamal. I remember language changing, law and custom, myth and history, all changing.

  I remember Bairroa Pili moving from the Low City to the High, the Low City sealed and sleeping.

  I remember Chumavayal as a screaming babe, a raging youth, a splendid man. As the years turned on the spindle of time, his beauty grew stolid, his alertness faded, until he became what he is today, iron grown brittle with time, jealous of the youth he once had, hoarding his strength like a miser hoards gold.

  I remember Abeyhamal as a screaming babe, an impatient child, a sullen girl; she is a woman now, arro-

  gant in her young splendor, beating her wings against the power that imprisons her. br />
  › › ‹ ‹

  On the Instant that Chumavayal is danced down, he that was ancient will be newborn, knowing nothing.

  On that Instant the Years of Iron will be forgotten, as if the five hundred years just completed did not exist at all, as if those five hundred years were simply erased from time.

  Abeyhamal and Chumavayal forget them.

  The Fadogurs of Zam Fadogurum forget them. Forget the Amrapake.

  Forget the Language.

  Forget the caste names and make them newMaulapam the landlords and rulers, Cheoshim the warriors, Biasharim the merchants, Fundarim the artisans, Naostam the laborers, and Wascram the children born to slaves.

  Forget the protocols and prohibitions of Chumavayal.

  Forget the orders of priesthood-the Kassoate of Chumavayal:

  ABOSOA who do the Family Rites of Life-birth, confirmation and marriage.

  ADJOA who tend the public worship-nam-

  ings and festal and openings of every kind. ANACHOA who keep the Cult of the Dead ANAXOA who perform all sacrifices and tend the Forge Fires.

  MANASSOA who administer the Temples, Schools and, most of all, the Funds of the Orders.

  QUIAMBOA who teach and study.

  Forget the tables of Descent and Privilege. Forget marriage laws and marriage customs. The Fadogurs of Zam Fadogurum churn a while in the Turn’s End Chaos then settle into a new Pattern, a new peace.

  › › ‹ ‹

  I watch.

  It is my amusement to watch the permutations and combinations of the Change, the infinitely varied kaleidoscopic corruscations of the Dance.

  The end is always the same

  The details never.

  › › ‹ ‹

  She leans forward, bringing her aged face into the light; the ghost of beauty clings to her bones.

  I am Sibyl that reads the soul and answers as she chooses-most of the time-whenever I’m not sealed by those interfering ignorant gods.

  Ah well, silence is also an answer.

  Chapter 1. The Coming Of The Honeychild

  Reyna Hayaka leaned against a Sequba tree at the edge of the Abey-zaza Grove, dug out his strikebox and his ti-pipe. He packed a pinch of bhaggan into the smoke-hole, fired it up, and sucked in a mouthful of the smoke. He was pleased with himself. He’d found all the herbs and roots Tai needed and got them in first light with the dew still on them. The best time.

  The smoke trickled from his nose and faded into the warm green shadow.

  A breeze whispered through the leaves of the canopy and in that gentle rustle he started hearing murmurs from the Sequba moththeries, translucent elusive creatures that even the Kassian ‘Tai saw only from the corner of her eye.

  Tai. Corner of her eye. Corner of her eye. Tai. Wild-magic. Never-never fly-you-by.

  He smiled dreamily as a wispy something soared past on gossamer wings and swooped in and out of the feathery smoke.

  In a burrow beneath the knotted roots of a nearby Sequba, a famma bird sang and his mate answered with a demure twitter. Deeper in the Grove a pan-tya chittered, broke off abruptly. All around, there were furtive rustles, small squeaks and chirrups, the thousand sounds of life beneath the trees.

  Sing a song of slippery slides, atip atoop atwitter, hot hot hotter, damned dirt gets dirtier. Tike tiki tirriah.

  And a twee twi twee-ee.

  A bee hummed past, then another. Reyna tapped the pipe against a root, ground his heel over the ash. He stretched and yawned, settled the basket handle more comfortably over his arm and started for the River.

  Reyna Hayaka was Salagaum, tall and limber with long, narrow hands and feet and the breasts of a woman. His blue-black hair was plaited in hundreds of thin braids that swung in a limber lion’s mane down past his shoulders. He had honey colored eyes and his skin was burnt caramel, smooth as silk with amber lights where it was pulled tight across the bone. He wore a white cotton-and-silk underrobe, cinched tight about his waist with a wide black leather belt, a heavier overrobe with broad stripes of crimson and amber which fell in straight lines from his shoulders, blowing back as he moved to show the lining of amber silk.

  Slow-dancing along in a happy languor, humming a bee-hymn, amber bangles clanking about his wrists, amber and gold hoops swinging from his earlobes, he rounded a tall broom bush-and stopped, startled, as he saw a very young child sitting on the landing, watching a strange little beast that looked like a cross between a cat and a monkey; it was jumping at famma birds hunting snails in the gravel at the waterline.

  “Ulloa, honey,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

  She stared at him through a webbing of silky black hair, startled and afraid; she had big eyes, odd eyes, gem-colored, the right was blue, the left green.

  “It’s all right,” Reyna, said, his voice soft, soothing, making a song of the words. “It’s all right, my honey. I won’t hurt you.’

  ‘ He took a step toward her.

  The child whimpered, rolled onto her hands and knees and scooted away from him, heading for the end of the landing and the wide brown River beyond.

  As Reyna swore under his breath, dropped the basket and ran desperately down the bank, a gray streak whipped past him, circled the child, and chittered in her face. As she slowed, startled, he dived and caught the hem of her lacy shift.

  Shaken, but keeping a firm hold on the cloth in spite of the baby’s howls and struggles, he sat up. “Hush, little honey,” he murmured, “Hush, sweeting. No no, Reyna won’t hurt you Look here, your little friend isn’t afraid of me.” He held out his free hand and let the beast sniff at it.

  The cat-monkey wriggled with pleasure, pushed its head against Reyna’s palm and produced a loud soothing hum, then it sat on its haunches and stared at him with round intelligent eyes; it was a strange creature with its flattened little face like a miniature baby and small black hands folded over a silky white ruff.

  The child stopped her struggles, her screaming diminished to a series of sniffles.

  Reyna laughed comfortably, took the lower corner of his overrobe and used the lining to wipe her eyes, then her nose. “There. Isn’t that better?”

  “‘spa, ‘nas,” she said. “Poess’m? Oidat’s tor? Tis su?”

  “I don’t understand a word of that, beb6.” He smoothed the hair out of her mismated eyes; it was a waterfall of black silk and softer than anything he could remember touching. His heart turned over. “You are a mystery, oh diyo. Well, let us see, let us see…”

  He tapped his forefinger between his brows. “Reyna Hayaka. That’s my name. Do you understand, bebe?” He tapped again. “Me. Reyna.” Moving slowly so he wouldn’t startle her, he touched her forehead, his finger trembling, then spread both hands in what he hoped was a universal, query sign. “You. Name?”

  She gurgled, a happy sound that tickled his insides, curled one small grubby hand into a fist, then used her other hand to straighten out her forefinger. She poked herself in the chest. “Faan Korispais Piyolss,” she chanted, a lesson she’d learned so completely she didn’t have to think.

  Reyna nodded, his many black plaits swinging and slipping with the movements of his head. “And does your friend have a name?” He pointed to the cat-monkey. “Name?”

  “Nainai,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Ailiki. Eym mahsar.” She shook her hair over her face again, looked slyly through the strands, her body shouting mischief. “Reyna,” she said, then giggled.

  “Diyo, you are quick, little honeychild.” He chuckled. “You know you aren’t supposed to go round calling adults by their use names. Someone taught you manners and did a good job of it.” He gazed, over her head at the River, so wide here near the estuary that the far bank was a faint fuzzy blue line. Wide and empty. “Speaking of which, my honey, how did you come here and where’s your mother, hmm?” He tucked his hand under her chin and lifted her head so he could look into those bi-colored eyes. “Mama?”

  She blinked at him; for a moment he thought she was going to cry. “Mamay?” Her eyes dulled as if a film had slid across them; she shivered and gulped, then she flung herself at him, hands clutching his robe, head, butting into his breasts. “Mamay, Mamay,” she wailed.