WATCHERS
The groundmites leaped and danced around Grandmother
and her retainers, fur flying. They “sang” in grunts and yips and
waved spears around their heads. Some wore the skins of other
animals, but most wore nothing at all, teats and male parts peeping
out from beneath matted fur. Grandmother thought to cover Lala’s
eyes, but she couldn’t do so forever. It would not be long before
the girl grew curious about such things anyway. Hiding it from her
would not protect her; only delay her coming of age.
Sarat clung to
Grandmother’s arm and whimpered. “They’re going to eat
us!”
“I do not believe
so,” Grandmother replied. “They are simply welcoming
us.”
After the burning of
the gift of entrails, several male groundmites had stepped out of
the woods, thus revealing themselves as the Watchers who had
followed Grandmother’s little group for so long. They had gestured
for Grandmother and her people to follow them. Though they carried
spears and clubs, they were not used in a threatening manner. Since
they were continuing down the road in the direction Grandmother had
intended to travel, she decided to accept their
“invitation.”
After much wearisome
walking, their escorts brought them off the road to this, their
village, or habitation, or whatever groundmites considered their
collection of dens, really nothing more than mounds of dirt with
entry holes.
The creatures
carried on their dancing for quite some time. Then suddenly they
stopped and a portion of the circle opened to admit a small
groundmite with a humped back. She wore skins draped around her
waist, her teats hanging slack to her belly. Animal bones had been
knotted into her gray-striated fur. Though stooped by age, she
carried herself with dignity. She gazed up at Grandmother with one
rheumy eye. The other was missing.
It was clear by the
way the others regarded the groundmite that she was a leader among
them.
“Ugly little beast,”
Deglin muttered.
“They all are,” Cole
replied. “Smell worse than a pack of wet dogs.”
“Hush,” Min snapped.
“You aren’t smelling too good yourselves.”
The old groundmite
issued some unintelligible proclamation to Grandmother. When she
finished, all Grandmother could think to say was, “Thank
you.”
All the groundmites
stared silently as if expecting more. She licked her lips. “We are
descendents of Arcosia,” she said. “Of Mornhavon the Great’s
people.” She pulled out the pendant of the dead tree.
The old groundmite’s
one eye widened in recognition. She babbled excitedly and the rest
started carrying on again. They brought Grandmother gifts of bone
necklaces and raw meat. It was good to know the creatures still
honored the empire. Their ancestors had served Mornhavon in
battle.
How, she wondered,
might she get these groundmites to serve her?
The old groundmite
patted her chest. “Gubba,” she declared. “Gubba.”
“What’s she saying?”
Deglin asked.
“I think it’s what
she is called,” Grandmother replied. She pointed at the groundmite.
“Gubba.” Then she rested her hand on her chest.
“Grandmother.”
Gubba caught on
immediately and mimicked Grandmother and pointed at her.
“Grrrnmudda.” Then pointed to herself. “Gubba.”
Once the names were
settled, Gubba pulled on Grandmother’s sleeve, leading her toward
one of the dirt mounds.
“Grandmother!” Sarat
cried.
Grandmother glanced
back. Groundmites blocked her people from following, anxiety on
each of their faces, except Lala’s. “Be patient,” she told them. “I
will come to no harm.” She would not, she knew. This Gubba had
welcomed them, felt that Grandmother was her equal. It did not mean
Grandmother held any desire to crawl into the hole, but etiquette
seemed to require it.
Gubba dropped to all
fours, and despite her age, crawled agilely into the mound.
Grandmother had no choice but to follow. She slowly lowered herself
to her knees and crawled into the mound, dragging her yarn basket
with her.
Inside, Grandmother
was assaulted by the rank stench of piss and wet fur and damp dirt.
Plant roots dangled through the domed, earthen ceiling, which was
alive with crawlies. Gubba snatched a writhing centipede from
overhead, popped it into her mouth, and mashed it with her gums.
After swallowing, she peeled her lips back in a sort of smile. She
was missing many teeth, but yellowed canines remained.
A clay cup filled
with clotted fat made a crude lamp, the sooty smoke rancid. A woven
reed mat covered the floor and Gubba gestured for Grandmother to
sit. Not that Grandmother had much of a choice for the ceiling was
low and the insects not far from her hair.
As her eyes adjusted
to the muted light of Gubba’s den, she espied gnawed bones strewn
about the floor, the movements of more crawlies in the dark
recesses, and a jumbled heap of . . . objects. Objects that
required a second glance. They were metal, she was sure of it. Some
looked like the rusted shards of swords, a pile of nails, pieces of
armor, but the other bits were beyond her ken. Jointed pieces that
had been made for movement, springs, and tubes—were these artifacts
from Arcosia? The chronicles of her people claimed her ancestors
had been uncommonly clever artificers.
Gubba raised her
lamp, shifting shadows and revealing one section of wall covered
with primitive paintings in soot and a red ocher substance. Dried
blood? She could not say. The images were handprints, fearsome
creatures, spirals, and abstract patterns, and in the midst of it
all, the dead tree of Second Empire.
Certain Grandmother
had taken in the tree, Gubba set the lamp down and removed a pouch
from her belt, and emptied tiny bones into her clawed hand. She
breathed on them, then tossed them onto the mat before her. She
leaned over them as though studying their pattern.
So, Grandmother thought, Gubba
fancies herself a fortuneteller. Grandmother did not hold
stock with such cheap tricks and found herself vaguely disappointed
by the display.
Gubba wiggled her
fingers. The bones vibrated, then lifted from the mat to float
between them. Grandmother reassessed her opinion. This was the art.
Gubba had some command of etherea after all.
Gubba chittered, her
gaze intently following the bones. Then with a distinct, “Oooh,”
she watched for a few more intense moments before allowing the
bones to gently settle on the mat. She turned her eye on
Grandmother, then pointed at the yarn basket.
Grandmother took it
to mean Gubba desired some similar show of power. She picked
through her yarn. She had no way to replenish her diminishing
skeins and had taken to being very careful with what she had left.
Some minor demonstration with a small knot would have to suffice.
She would create a flower from flame.
She gestured if it
was all right for her to borrow the lamp, and Gubba gave her a very
human nod. Grandmother rapidly tied a simple knot, one of the first
she had learned at her mother’s knee, and dropped it into the
flame.
A flower did not
bloom as she expected, but the trunk of a tree sprouted from the
cup and grew and grew and grew until it was immense, followed by
more and more until she and Gubba sat in the illusion of a vast
forest of ancient trees.
“The grove,”
Grandmother murmured in awe. “It must be.” With the perversity that
was Blackveil, the etherea had once again warped her intention, but
this time with a magnificent result. Gubba’s eye was wide as she
took in the trees.
Then a voice
thundered, “FIND THE GROVE.” Gubba’s den vibrated with the voice of
God. Crawlies fell out of the ceiling.
Gubba shrieked and
Grandmother bowed her head. “Yes, my lord,” she
whispered.
“FIND THE GROVE
BEFORE THE OTHERS.”
“The
others?”
“AWAKEN THE
SLEEPERS!”
The illusion faded
and all was as before. Gubba reached a shaking hand over to
Grandmother. “Gubba scurrit Grrrnmudda.
Gubba scurrit Grrrnmudda ock Sleeprrrs.” She walked her fingers on the
mat.
Grandmother emerged
from Gubba’s den elated. God had not forsaken them, and if she
interpreted Gubba’s gibberish correctly, the old groundmite was
going to lead them to the grove of the Sleepers. Absently she
plucked a twitchy insect out of her hair. Her people came to her,
touching and patting her to ensure she was all right, their anxious
expressions relaxing to relief.
“All is well,” she
told them. “Gubba is going to take us to the Sleepers, and they
shall be awakened as God wills.”
But doubt niggled at
her. Who were these “others” who also sought the Sleepers? They
must be the disturbance that she’d sensed in the forest. Then there
was that music that had become an undercurrent in the etherea, like
an itch she could not scratch. It could destroy everything she was
working for by strengthening the wall, closing off Blackveil once
again.
As if trying to
survive the forest wasn’t difficult enough, she now faced dangers
on two additional fronts.
She hugged Lala and
held her close. She would do whatever it took, sacrifice whatever
she must, to accomplish her task. Second Empire depended on
it.