Tanith Lee - Claidi Journals 01 (10 page)

“My mother?”

“Because,” he said, “of her name. Twilight.”

I stood there. “I didn’t… know.”

He said, “But… didn’t you? I understand you lost her when you were young, but even so…” I must pretend something. I was a princess of the House. Of course I knew my mothers name. Or, why pretend?

I said, “No one told me. Who
told you
?”

“The Princess Jizania told me.”

And not me? Had she forgotten to?

I said humbly, feeling numb with
feeling
, “Its a good name.” (Nemian was frowning, about to ask something. I braced myself.) At that moment the Featherers began to erupt out of the caves. The torches jounced and splashed the dark with light.

Peculiar contraptions were being trundled along. I saw wheels and… wings. As the crowd swarmed around us, Nemian said, “Claidi, I really need to ask you about—” But then we were being swarmed on along the flat table of stone.

“Ask away,” I shouted.

“Its all right,” he shouted back. “It’ll have to wait. There’s this thing they do here. The chief told me. They fly.”

“Oh, I see.”

Of course I didn’t. And besides, all this seemed irrelevant after the sky and my mother’s dusk-sky name.

When everyone bundled to a sort of halt, I idly watched about six of the Featherers being strapped into the wheeled and winged structures.

There was a kind of seat, and pedals to move the wheels. Their arms were fitted into the wings, which were made of wood, I thought, and covered with feathers, like my gown. It all looked absurd.

The crowd was calling out a single phrase over and over again, everyone dead drunk and grinning from ear to ear, and the men on the winged things raised and lowered the wings with a dry, creaking sound.

“What are they calling?” I said to Nemian, not really caring.

“Well, Claidi, you see, they pedal over the cliff here, and then they flap their wings.”

“Oh. Sounds daft to me.”

“In a way. It’s a festival to honor their
god
.”

“You mean God?”

“Not quite.”

“If they go… over the cliff?… then isn’t that dangerous?”

“Exceedingly. The flying action somewhat lessens the fall. But they usually break an arm or a leg. That’s what they’re shouting:
Break a leg
It means ‘Good luck.’ ” My mouth, trained to it by now, fell open on a reflex.p>

The pedalers were off anyway, thundering forward along the flat, arms and wings already vigorously waving.

And each one came to the edge, the edge of white cliff and diamond-dazzled night—space—and
rolled
off
.

Everyone else, also Nemian and I, ran to the edge and peered after them.

There they went, down and down. In the air, they flailed, flapping and spinning, grotesque and funny, and frightful.

And one by one, they hit the ground far below, each with a crash and a scream. Clouds of what looked like steam came foaming up.

The Featherers were cheering. I was so frightened to see, I couldn’t look away.

But one by one all the men crawled from the shambles of their flying machines, which were all in bits now.

“Only two broken arms, apparently,” said Nemian, turning from the GFO, who was burping and guffawing next to us. “They take all year to build their craft and one minute to smash them. You can see, though, Claidi, its a dust-pit down there. Like the wings, that helps cushion the fall.” I was going to reply with something witty, or just pathetic, when I found all the villagers were touching me again. Some had hold of my arms. They were tugging and hoisting, lifting me off my feet.

At last I lashed out. It wasn’t any good.

“Nemian, make them
stop
!”

Nemian looked startled. He said something in their awful language and then turned and said it to the GFO.

But the GFO just gobbled and slapped Nemian on the back, and offered him the jar of drink again.

From Nemian’s face I finally realized what was meant to happen now.

Whether they thought it wouldn’t hurt, that I’d only
break a leg
, I didn’t know. Or whether I was the best sacrifice at hand, a strayed traveler there exactly on the right night of the festival, I didn’t know either.

Whatever it was, wingless in my feather dress, I was about to be slung over the cliff.

I screamed and kicked. I think I managed to ram my feet into someone’s stomach. But it wasn’t much of an achievement really. It wouldn’t help.

And Nemian had been grabbed now and was on the ground. I couldn’t see him through their great stomping unbroken-unfortunately legs.

My bag—with this book—dropped back on the ground. I lost sight of it.

I was screeching and wailing. (You’ll understand.)

And then, through all the din, the blur of panic and fear, a kind of dark explosion tore. All at once I was flying, not off the cliff but through the air, until I hit the ground, which was only the flat hilltop. Then someone hauled me up, and I landed on something both harder and softer…

Inexplicable. I kicked again and the something caught my foot.

“Here, you morbof, don’t kick my okking eye out.”

Like surfacing from, a depth of water, I rose and snarled into an unknown face. And yet, not the face of a Featherer. He was black as ebony, and he laughed even as he prevented me from clawing at his left eye.

“Watch it, chura.
I’m
. here to
save you
.”

 

His hair was long, in tight braids, about ninety of them. How magnificent. But I didn’t care. I tried to rip them out. Then he got my hands. He said, and he was running now, carrying me with him somehow,

“Look, chura, you’re all right. Were going downhill, not off the cliff.” It was true.

“My name isn’t Chura.”

He looked vague but unconcerned.

“No,” he said, “the Sheepers said you were Claadibaa.”

“Claidi.”

He laughed again. “Fine. Claidi. You don’t know, do you?
Chura
only means ‘darling.’ ” We arrived where? It was a hillside.

Up there, torch flash, howls, cries, the rasp of metal clashing, and a sharp bang—the noise of shot, a gun.

“Herman!” I cried. “My
book
—”

“Books here, Claidi,” said this fantastic being whom I’d tried to disfigure. “Herman.5
That
him? He’s all right.”

He handed me this book. Not the sack—that was gone. Didn’t matter. I clasped the book and sobbed.

Sorry, but I did. Only once or twice.

My rescuer kindly patted me. “Everything’s all right.”

Apparently everything was all right.

“They were going to throw me over,” I unnecessarily reminisced.

He said, “Drink this.” I pushed it away, but it was pushed back, and it was only absolutely delicious water. As I gulped, he said, “We had to wait, you see. Be sure. Make certain we hadn’t gotten the wrong end of the stick. So we followed you up, hung around the Feather village. Argul said, let them—the Tribe, that is—get drunk, make it easier, seeing we were a bit outnumbered. He ran straight in to get you just then, only he was sort of detained—a couple of blokes with knives. So I had the lucky pleasure of getting you away. I’m Blum.”

You’ll think I’m dotty. I instantly remembered the shouts at the Sheeper guesthouse:
Kill it properly,
Blurn. Don’t eat it alive
. Somehow I kept quiet. He’d saved me. There are limits. Men were streaming down the hill. All bandits. Oh well.

==========

Argul stood by the spot where they’d planted one torch left over from the Throwing-Claidi-off-the-Cliff Festival.

He stared at me, his dark eyes much darker than night. And not so friendly. (Blurn had told me Argul’s name. I think I already knew, and that he was their leader.)

“Thanks,” I said to Argul. But that was mean. I added, “I owe you my life.” Just what I’d thought Herman ought to say.

 

But Herman was over in a wagon, lying down, rather the worse for wear.

Argul nodded coldly.

“Don’t mention it. We went out of our way. But I’m sure you two can pay us back for our efforts.” With what? I glared at him. “Do you only help people in order to get a reward?” Some of them laughed—I realized at once, only at my cheek.

Argul glanced around anyway, and they stopped.

He looked back at me.

“No, Miss Nuisance, I don’t. I wouldn’t normally bother.”

I’d been scared of him, but honestly, nearly being thrown to my death had made me a little braver. For the moment.

“I’m so glad,” I said sarcastically.

“See if it lasts,” said Argul.

He was the Grand Leader of the Mighty Bandits(!). He’d leaned on the Sheeper chariot, and gazed at that glass charm, and mocked us for not being worth robbing. And all the time waiting to see if I was, as the Sheepers must have let slip, the chosen Feather sacrifice. Making sure it was true, following, watching, seeing if he’d really have to bother to rescue me.

I felt angry and silly in that feather-itch dress. I felt alone. But one always is, I suppose.

THE BANDIT CAMP ON THE MOVE

Until morning, we waited in the hills. They’d made a camp there, the five bandits. They’d come on ahead, and all the rest had to catch up.

All night they came riding in, on horses, with wagons and dogs—these very well trained, alert and glossy and quiet.

In the increasingly enormous camp, there was one big central fire. They sat around it. Unlike the dogs, they made a lot of noise, just as I remembered.

The Featherers had fled. Probably not all of them, judging from the sounds of knives and rifles I’d heard.

Blurn had told me, matter-of-factly, that the Sheepers had sold us—me—to the Featherers. I was
barter

. Worse, the Sheepers had actually been out raiding to catch a girl sacrifice for the Featherers. No wonder they didn’t mind taking Nemian and me to their town. (I recall the welcome, the drums, whistles, and poppies.)

I feel awful about this. I’d rather liked the Sheepers. They seemed innocent… and kind.

The bandits, of course, seemed horrifying, and they were the ones who rescued me.

Obviously they too have a (probably sinister) reason for this. I must be on my guard. I’ve learned the hard way not to trust anyone out here. One always learns the hard way. Is there any other?

 

During the night I went to see Nemian. There are bandit women, too, and one had given me bandit girl’s clothes— trousers, tunic, even some bracelets with
gold coins
hanging from them, and coin earrings/ I was touched, but I think all the women look like that here, and it was as automatic on her part to give me ornaments to provide me with covering.

Nemian was sitting on some rugs in one of the bandit wagons. He didn’t recognize me, just glanced up and said, “I’d appreciate some more beer, if you can spare it.”

“Mor
e
beer? You’ll burst,” I said, annoyed.

He flicked me his
look
then. Smiled.

“Claidi. I always know it’s you by your gentle manner.”

Someone had apparently kicked him in the ribs though. And there was a purple bruise on his cheek. (Is he accident prone? No, that’s unfair. He’d been trying to stop them from throwing me off the cliff. He hadn’t been able to, but that wasn’t his fault.)

A girl came in with the beer anyway, without being asked. He was so lovely to her, I was jealous and left the wagon. (He seemed to have forgotten he’d wanted to question me about not knowing the name of my mother.)

Apparently I’m bad-tempered and jealous. A pretty awful person. I never knew this before. But then, I was never in love before. Am I? In love? I don’t know what I am. Or who.

Argul, the leader, had gone into a tent and was soon joined by his second-in-command, who is Blurn.

I saw the bandit who’d whooped and caught the knife in his teeth. He’s called Mehmed. Every time he sees
me
, he
laughs
.

I’m not sure I’m so pleased to be here, really.

Finally I went to the wagon that another woman said I could sleep in, and when I woke up, we were traveling. The wagon was still empty apart from me. I’d thought I’d have to share it.

I put my head out, and we were coming down from the hills into yet another dusty desert. It looked so dreary. I tried to write a bit of this but gave up because of the bumpy ride.

After that, I admired the paintings on the high leather roof and thought how Blurn had told me the wagons are old but in good repair since they’re always cared for. He said each family had one and passed it on.

The horses and dogs are mostly the same, these descendants of others from centuries ago. Blurn said that the word
Hulta
, which is
a camp
, also means
Family
to the bandits. To be part of the bandit camp is to be part of the bandit family. But its a family always on the move.

==========

I feel insulted, as if I’ve been made a fool of, but I’m not sure why. I found out, you see, the wagon I’ve been traveling in is Argul’s own.

There were, of course, chests in it and pieces of wagon furniture, rugs and stools and jars. There were even some books I found—
yes
, I was nosing about, but not much. I recognized the language in only two of them. I’d also noticed knives and scabbards and shirts and boots and things lying around in corners.

This morning, so as to make conversation with the bandit woman who came by with some food, I asked,

“Where are the others who live in this wagon?” And she said, “It’s Argul’s wagon.” She did add that he rides a horse by day and prefers the tent at night, and only uses the wagon now and then, but I felt immensely uncomfortable, as if he’d played a joke on me. Also in some way labeled me as a possession. I can’t think why he would want me. Does he imagine I’m valuable? That must be it.

Nemian has said something.
I’m
. a princess from a House. So its threatening as well.

Naturally I got out instantly.

Nemian was elegantly riding a horse by now, talking to the bandits as if they’re old friends. He does seem to love being with new people. Is this a nice quality or rather shallow of him? And does it mean he has totally lost interest in me because I’m not
new
anymore? Doubtless.