The Shaman Read online

  Ohaern just stared into his friend’s eyes for a minute, then nodded slowly. “You are right, Lucoyo—it would be wrong indeed. Nay, if a goddess does bring balm for my heart, I will not turn away.”

  Lucoyo smiled with relief, then clapped his friend on the shoulder with a grin. “Come, we grow too serious! We must rejoice!” He turned to catch up a wine cup and push it into Ohaern’s hand. “Drink! Let us rejoice, for we are alive!”

  Ohaern unbent enough to celebrate with him, and with them all—to drink, though not too deeply, just enough to feel the slightest bit giddy; to eat a little of each luscious dish; to marvel at the whirling, sinuous dances of the young men and women, and not to throttle the desire they raised. But when the meal was done and half a dozen young women sought to guide him back to their temple, he politely refused them and went instead to the small hut kept ready for visitors. He would not refuse joy, he would not refuse life—but he was not yet ready to embrace it completely, either.

  So, all in all, the goddess still took him by surprise when she appeared to him in his dream.

  Chapter 22

  Ohaern dreamed—and, strangely, knew that he dreamed— and his dream was a sunburst, a silent explosion of light. Against it there appeared a form, a feminine form, but so completely, ultimately feminine that any mortal woman who had dared come near would have been unnoticed. Wisps of clothing drifted about her, but nothing that could hide the luxurious curve of hip and breast, or the profile of elegance and rapture. She was at once alluring and remote, elegant and voluptuous, compelling and seductive. She was the ultimate, the ideal, of feminine sexuality—and that, even though all Ohaern could see of her was her silhouette. But the long-pent desire broke loose and raged through him, hammering in his veins, shaking him with its intensity.

  “Ohaern!”

  Her voice was within him as much as all about, emanating from everywhere at once, but with no doubt that she was its source—and he knew, with wonder and awe, that he was in the presence of a goddess.

  “Ohaern!” she commanded. “Come to me!”

  The remembrance of Ryl passed through Ohaern’s mind, and he might have hesitated had he not remembered the promise he had given Lucoyo—not to balk if the goddess came to heal him. “I come, lady!” he cried in his dream-voice, and he strove to run toward her—but his limbs seemed sluggish, as if he strove to wade neck-deep through a mire, so that no matter how he strained, he could make little progress. He would have looked down to see what held him, but he could not take his gaze from the goddess. It was almost as if he had no body, or that it mattered nothing whether he did or not—almost as if the desire raged through his soul alone. “I come, lady!” he panted. “I come!”

  “Too slowly,” she answered, and waved a hand, a gesture of dispelling that ended in beckoning. Suddenly, Ohaern was freed, and he shot toward her like a bird in flight—no, not “like”; he did fly, somehow he knew it!

  But fast as he came, she receded faster. “Why so slow, O Hunter?” she teased. “You shall never catch me that way!”

  “Tell me how I shall, then,” he panted.

  “By laboring long in my service,” she answered. “By chasing me through hazard and woe, through hardship and chaos— but if you persevere, you shall come to me when you have finished the fight.”

  “Must I battle my way to you, then?”

  “Do you fear to?” she taunted. “Or is the effort too great?”

  “I fear neither danger nor labor!” he cried in his dream. “Whom must I fight?”

  “Ulahane, for he is my enemy. Best him, and you shall find me waiting.”

  “I shall, though I die in the attempt!”

  “Even then, you shall find me—but only if your death comes in trying.” She moved, and her slightest shift of posture inflamed him even more. “But before you attack Ulahane, you must fight the two-faced goddess.”

  “What—the goddess of the villagers?” Ohaern cried in surprise. “Are you not she?”

  Thunder crashed, and lightning split the sky behind her. “I am not, and the question rasps upon me as harshly as it would wound you if I were to ask if you were a Klaja!”

  Ohaern shrank in alarm—and in fear of losing this ultimate object of desire. “Forgive, O Lady! I did not know!”

  “Then learn, and never forget. Here is your riddle—why is the goddess of the villagers only wanton, then mother, but never more?”

  “Why—because the villagers have no need of that aspect?”

  “A good answer,” the goddess purred, “for this village goddess is only a mind’s toy, a thing of story, invented by the villagers themselves at Ulahane’s inspiration. But if you press them, they shall admit Alique is a grandmother, too. Ask why they do not worship her grandchildren, and see.”

  “I shall! But will that bring me closer to you?”

  “No, but the battle that follows shall.”

  Ohaern frowned, puzzled. “Why should a battle follow so harmless a question?”

  “Because the two-faced goddess has a third face. But there will be time enough for her later, O Smith! For now, come to me again, come!”

  And Ohaern strove—with every overdriven fiber of his being, he strove to overcome the unseen viscous medium that held him back—but for every inch he advanced, she receded two, laughing gaily. Anger churned within him, swelled into rage, and the goddess finally relented. “Poor man, poor limited mortal man! No, I shall not tease you further, though you have not yet won through to me. But I shall give you this, as a promise.” She extended a hand; a beam of green light shot from her finger to bathe him in its aura, and the desire flared in him hotter and hotter as her form turned luminous, then seemed to explode and surround him with nothing but light, pure light without form, as if he were wrapped inside her very being, and ecstasy took him, poured through him, blended with him, became him, and did not end, but only slackened and dwindled and faded, leaving him adrift in a sea of ruby light, light such as one sees when brightness strikes closed lids, and he opened his eyes to see the morning sun spreading glory into the sky beyond the sea, and a vagrant voice seemed to whisper on the breeze, That is only a taste of me. Remember.

  Remember! How could Ohaern ever forget? He lay looking out the door of the hut into the rosy disk of the newly risen sun as the melted, spread-out substance of his being seemed to gather itself back together, and he lay realizing that Ryl would only be a beautiful and fragrant memory now, for he had a living woman to strive for—or if not a woman, at least a living female.

  A female Ulin.

  Ohaern lay watching the sunrise, dazed and appalled by his own temerity—but there it was, and if he was to be honest with himself, there was no denying it. He had a new reason for living now—not hatred or revenge, but the need to earn another audience with that living, more-than-human presence. He faced it squarely and admitted to himself that he desired an Ulin woman.

  * * *

  A flirtatious girl brought him a bowl of porridge and a mug of beer, but Ohaern scarcely noticed her beauty, only thanked her absentmindedly, nor noticed the indignation with which she stalked off; his mind was still filled with the glory and the dazzle of the half-seen goddess of his dream.

  But as the sun rose higher he noticed that the farmers had not gone out to the fields. Instead they gathered in the central circle, laughing and joking and building a pile of straw. Curious, Ohaern finished his bowl of porridge and strolled into the plaza to see if he could discover the cause of the festival atmosphere. “What occurs today?” he asked one young man.

  “Why, it is the feast day of the goddess Alique!” the young man answered. “There will be feasting and dancing and drinking, and then—” His smile became knowing, confiding. “—then worship of the goddess!”

  “Indeed!” Ohaern exclaimed. “How fortunate we are to have arrived in time for it!”

  “No, no!” The young man shook his head. “It is because you have arrived that we celebrate her feast!”

  Bemused,
Ohaern wandered away to look at the other preparations. The roof over a long dais, on the east side of the circle, was being rethatched, and fires were being lighted in the two huge roasting pits. The men were just finishing the butchering of one huge boar as the women prepared an enormous sow for roasting. Other men were rolling out great ceramic jars, which Ohaern assumed held beer. It was indeed going to be a lavish festival! Ohaern went to find Lucoyo, but found a dozen women about him, anointing him with oils and decking him with flowers. Ohaern found it odd that the sight did not spur desire in him again—but after that vision of the goddess, how could anything merely mortal arouse him?

  The festival began as the sun rose to its highest, with nibbling at barley cakes, drinking of beer, and vigorous dancing. It seemed to be a sort of contest, for the dancers came only two at a time, a man and a woman, with interlocking gyrations, whirling and leaping, never touching, and the villagers shouted their approval. The drums beat, the double-reeds droned, and bangles chimed. Looking about him, Ohaern could see the glazed eyes and fixed smiles that meant the villagers were working themselves into a sort of mass semitrance. He had seen the same effect when the shaman of his own village had led the people in the hunt dance, but there had never been so many people, so very many, and there was some quality of anticipation, of hunger, even craving, in them, that made Ohaern turn cold inside. He resolved to drink much less than he seemed to, and to keep his head clear and his knife loose in its sheath.

  The chill of caution made him remember the words of the goddess, and he turned to Labina and the old man, who were seated beside him. “Tell me more of Alique,” he said. “You have told me she had many children—but has she no grandchildren?”

  Labina looked up, surprised, then frowned as if she were less than pleased. The old man stepped into the gap. “We honor the children separately, and Alique when she is old, past childbearing and past the need for lovers.”

  Ohaern did not like the notion of a woman having a need for lovers, other than love. “Surely she still cares for her brood!”

  “When we worship her as the mother-goddess,” Labina said slowly, “she is bounty itself, nursing many little children from never-dry breasts.”

  “Little children? She is never a grandmother?” Ohaern pressed.

  “Several of her children have children,” the old man reminded Labina.

  “Well, yes, she is a grandmother,” Labina admitted, “but that is a matter for her worshipers only. You must excuse me now, for I must prepare to take my part in the ceremony.” She stood, gave him a nod, and hobbled away, effectively ending Ohaern’s questions—which sent a rasp of alarm along his nerves and made him all the more determined to stay alert. Looking around him, he saw that the sun was setting, its golden light turning to the red of blood; the afternoon had passed quickly, and the sun itself seemed to honor the Scarlet One. Men were lighting tall, standing torches, and several couples at a time were coming out to dance. As darkness fell, young women began to bring platters of roasted pork about, with tall cups of beer. Ohaern, as honored guest, was served first, and the old man with him. The pork was good and the beer heady, so he ate lightly of the one and drank sparingly of the other. The old man noticed and pressed him. “Come, a great frame such as yours must need an abundance of nourishment! Do you not feel well?”

  “It is the heat,” Ohaern said apologetically, “and the long afternoon.”

  The old man nodded, understanding from his own experience. “At least drink the beer, then. It is nourishing in itself, and lies more easily on the stomach.”

  Caught, Ohaern lifted the tall cup and swung its bottom high—but he contrived to spill far more down his chin than into his mouth. He set down the cup with a cry of disgust. “How clumsy of me! You must think me rude indeed, good sir!”

  “Not at all.” The old man chuckled, reassured, and a young woman materialized to wipe Ohaern’s chin, lingering perhaps longer than was necessary over the spill on his chest. “We all grow clumsy,” said the old man, “as the evening progresses.”

  The young woman gave Ohaern a languorous, inviting look as she turned away. He smiled, then glanced about, noticing that most of the villagers had beer dribbling down as they drank and were smearing themselves with the fat of the pig as they ate. At first he thought it only bad manners; then began to realize that it was, in some way, a part of the ritual.

  As the meal ended, the drams beat louder and the dancers came out into the ring of packed earth again. Now there were a dozen couples, twenty, thirty. The movements were slower now, and the bodies came closer, brushing one another with thrusting hips and lingering caresses. Ohaern began to feel the effects of the beer, little though he had drunk of it, and could only imagine the dancers’ walking stupor. But it was a trance as much as intoxication, and as the drumbeat quickened, so did the dancing, hips gyrating against one another, then the whole lengths of the bodies, grins growing wider and more fixed, until Ohaern was amazed they could stand at all.

  Then, suddenly, the drums stopped and a huge gong rang. The dancers cleared away as if by magic and crouched around the edges, chests heaving, hands caressing, glazed eyes fixed on the center of the circle of beaten earth.

  Out came two maidens clothed all in blossoms, with Lucoyo’s arms about them. The half-elf still wore a kilt wrapped about his loins, but otherwise wore only flowers—a flower wreath about his head, flower rings about his neck hanging down to cover his chest, ropes of flowers twined about his arms and legs. One look and Ohaern could see that Lucoyo had eaten and drank as well as any of the villagers, and from the dazed look in his eyes, he had been dancing as they had, too, though more privately.

  Now, though, the drums began to beat again with a slow, throbbing rhythm, and the two young women stepped back, leaving him swaying alone—but not for long. A girl stepped out from the ring of watchers, dressed also in flowers, dancing, feet stamping, hips swiveling, hands clapping above her head, lips parted and breathless, eyes wide in wonder and anticipation.

  A murmur went about the ring, half whisper: “The virgin! The goddess’s virgin! Alique is within her!”

  Ohaern thought it more likely that a good deal of beer was in her, but not enough to muddy her movements. She stamped and gyrated closer and closer to Lucoyo, who grinned slowly and began to match her movements, hands clapping with hers, knees bending with hers, hips churning with hers. Closer they came to one another and closer, while the villagers hung on their every movement, eyes wide and rapt, breath rasping, bodies jerking in time to the dance—and Ohaern suddenly realized toward what event this dance was building.

  The girl began to turn about and about, moving closer and farther from Lucoyo as she did. The flowers began to fall off her, one by one, two by two, then in fives and tens as she spun faster and faster, revealing a beautifully curved and unblemished body. Lucoyo matched her turn for turn, and his flowers began to fall off, too. When only a few rings remained about the girl’s hips and breasts, she stepped closer to Lucoyo, plucking the remaining blossoms from his chest, his arms, and he, gallantly returning the favor, plucked away those remaining to her, but letting his fingers linger and glide as he did, so that the girl began to gasp and shiver with desire, her movements becoming uneven, even clumsy.

  All sat with their eyes glued to the spectacle—all but Ohaern, insulated from the fascination by his sense of alarm and by the lingering dazzle of his goddess’ beauty. He watched not just his friend and his friend’s intended temporary mate, but the whole of the torchlit circle, and even the shadows beyond—so he caught the movement in those shadows, and instantly focused his attention on it. He saw silhouettes moving there, coming closer, until the fringes of the torchlight revealed four men carrying a palanquin high on their shoulders, with a figure crouching atop it. As the dancing couple pressed closer, the bearers bore the palanquin closer, too, until the figure was revealed in the torchlight ...

  It was a statue, an idol—but it was a figure out of a nightmare, too, a wiry bloodie
d form seated cross-legged amidst the bones of pigs, a parody of the female form, with sunken breasts and bony arms and a stark white skull for a face, from which snaky ropelets of hair straggled. Ohaern sat frozen with horror, for he felt the presence of Ulahane in that statue, felt it so strongly that for a moment he thought he must be staring at the Scarlet One himself!

  Then he remembered that Ulahane was male, so this caricature of the Scarlet One could not be his image, but must be that of one of his servants. But it was an image that moved! The horror returned, for he saw the death-hag lift a huge curved sword as Lucoyo snatched away the girl’s last blossom and she plucked at his kilt. It fell away, and the crowd shouted with delight, then began to chant as the girl pressed herself against Lucoyo, pressed her mouth to his as his arms came up about her and they sank to their knees, intertwined, and the sword rose higher above them as the bearers, too, sank to their knees ...

  Then Ohaern realized that the figure was no statue, but a living being, masked and painted—and saw what the only full ending to this ceremony could be. With a shout of warning, he leaped out into the ring, drawing his sword. The girl pulled Lucoyo down, but he looked up in surprise at Ohaern’s shout, looked up and spat a curse—then saw the huge sword falling upon him, the skull face screaming curses that overshadowed his by far. Lucoyo rolled aside and leaped to his feet, bleating protest, but Ohaern leaped past him to parry the next stroke, shouting, “As you burst into ecstasy, she would have cut your head from your neck!”

  The girl cowered away, huddling in on herself, crying.

  The bearers set down their burden and rose up against Ohaern with a shout, but he kicked them aside as they rose, then yanked the mask loose, to reveal Labina’s face, contorted with rage and screaming, “Curse you, outlander! You have ruined our sacrifice, and the goddess, angered, will yield us no harvest!”

  The villagers, horrified, rose up with a shout of anger, but Ohaern held his blade to Labina’s throat and shouted, “Back, or your priestess dies!” The villagers froze, and Ohaern pricked the hag’s neck, demanding, “When strangers came, you had someone to sacrifice! At the climax, you would have struck off Lucoyo’s head, but not hers, because she is one of your own! Is it not true?”