Burying the Shadow Read Free Page B

was
flattered but didn’t, for a minute, believe either of them would
remember the message for that long.
    Ushas was
always very lovely - right until the day she died, which was from a
poisoning she picked up somewhere off continent, long after I’d
climbed my own bough. That day, she was radiant; her long black
hair twisted into ropes and greased in place, with sparkling metal
pins threaded through the lobes of her ears. She leaned back over
the side of the pulley-cart, her hair-ropes swinging free, hanging
onto the cables. She had strong, bony features, perfectly sculpted,
and wiry muscled limbs. Her skin had the matt, silky sheen of black
plums. How she loved life in that body. In later years, I was glad
she had died before she lost her beauty; it would have distressed
her so.
    We jumped out
onto Vasni’s platform and Ushas blew heartily onto his wind chimes
to tell him we were there. A boy, wearing a ceremonial robe of
russet cloth, came out from the hollow to answer us, and took us
into the smoky chamber where Vasni worked. All the light-boles were
curtained with yellow sacking, round which the most vigorous beams
of sunlight streamed in penetrating spears. What with the smoke and
the sharp rays, and the row of elderly scry-women mumbling in the
corner, it was a strange place for a child to find herself. Only
two of my relatives, apart from my mother, had been able to attend
the ceremony. Brothers of my mother, older men of (what seemed to
me) vast experience and therefore intimidating, they squatted
silently near the scry-women at the back of the chamber, still
dressed in travelling coats as if they’d had to hurry to arrive on
time. They were strangers to me; I hardly knew them.
    Vasni rocked
in front of his smoky embers, legs crossed, palms on each knee.
Even as an old man he was handsome, run to forest thinness rather
than the matronly fat carried by many of the castrati scryers. He
wore a loose robe of stained orange; the symbols of his family and
guild burned into the cloth. His arms were covered in fading
tattoos, his brown-skinned skull shaved but for the liana-braids
hanging from the back of his head. It was said that, as a youth, he
had been stunning in appearance. One of my friends, a girl named
Aishar, had once told me Vasni kept his genitalia, mummified, in a
wrap of bark and silk, just to remind himself how much he had given
up, back then. I had also heard that he was scorned for ending his
line in that way; beauty is appreciated among our people, and the
most favoured are expected to breed and thus continue their
bloodline. I had seen Vasni before on ceremonial occasions, and he
had once blessed me by touching my face, but he seemed a strange
and awesome figure to me this day, and I shrank back behind my
mother. She gently put her hand on my shoulder, and murmured a few
words of encouragement.
    Vasni leaned
over the embers of his fire and inhaled the smoke deeply, before
raising his head and saying, ‘Ushas, my child, let me greet
you.’
    My mother
gently pushed me from her skirts and went to lean over the fire.
She inhaled the smoke and then put out her tongue, onto which Vasni
smeared a fingerprint of ash, or what looked like ash. Then he
pressed his thumb onto her forehead and chanted a line or two. My
mother responded with a soft murmur of notes, and then sank down
into a cross-legged sitting position opposite him.
    Vasni nodded
in satisfaction and slowly raised his head again, fixing me with
his steady stare. He beckoned. ‘You, child of the child,
approach!’
    Cautiously, I
went towards the embers. Behind Vasni, the row of scryers started
to chant, swaying from side to side. Vasni’s boy began to beat out
a simple rhythm on a carapace drum. My uncles began to hum softly;
a low, deep, masculine sound. Slowly, the sense of ritual stole
around the smoky chamber and entered my mind and body. The outside
world was eclipsed from my mindscape; rarely have I experienced
such moments of total reality.