The Ghost Eater
If I still lived, the ghost eater thought wryly, they would turn my name into a chant. Though for misery or courage, I can’t guess.
Half-frozen rain slashed down from the darkening sky, forming icy puddles in the dirt and stinging exposed flesh. The ghost eater hunched his shoulders beneath his stolen coat, skin shrinking at the alien touch of the fabric. The cold was bone deep, and he guessed that the rain would change to snow once it reached the far-off mountains of his home.
Mud, greasy with horse manure and trash, squelched under his bare feet. He winced at the sound and glanced about uneasily, wondering if anyone would come to investigate. The foul weather had emptied the streets, and clouds hid the last rays of the sun. A passerby might only notice the charcoal coat and ragged black trousers, might miss the brown cast of his skin and the waist-length fall of his crow-dark hair. But here in the heart of this alien Enemy town, discovery seemed all too likely.
“Scared, ghost eater?” Rabbit asked. “Better hope your ancestors are too busy dancing in the Darkening Land to see you now. All dressed up like an Enemy yourself, skulking through the streets like a thief.”
The ghost eater bit back an angry word. Rabbit deserved respect like any elder, even when he wore the face of mockery. “I am the ghost eater. I have no ancestors.”
“The old one trained you well. You sound like a parrot.”
The ghost eater had never heard of a parrot and suspected Rabbit was trying to pull some trick. You couldn’t believe what Rabbit said, not all the way at least. He was always looking to get something for himself, even when it hurt other people. The ghost eater glanced at Rabbit out of the corner of his eye, wondering. Rain beaded on Rabbit’s sleek pelt and splashed out of puddles as he hopped along. A handsome mica gorget swung from a leather cord around his neck. His animal face revealed nothing of his intentions.
The ghost eater sighed and turned his attention back to his surroundings. The buildings were odd, reinforcing the sense of alienation he felt. Every one of the structures was square, as if they were all summer houses. They were made from stout wooden planks, and their walls were regularly pierced with windows, most of which were covered against the cold. Some of them were tall, like two or three houses piled one on the other. And they smell, he thought with a fastidious sniff.
The town itself was strangely laid out, with the buildings butted up right against each other. The paths in between were bare mud in most places, though one or two were lined with stones. Several wagons lay to one side of the street, most of them empty.
“Is she truly here?” he asked wearily, not expecting a clear answer. Please, let her be here. I want to go home. I want to see Siska-init—
But what would be the point of that? Siska-init had married his body’s brother and borne a child. He was the ghost eater and had no love.
A door swung open down the street, distracting him from his gloomy thoughts. A plump woman, her skin the ugly corpse-white of the Enemies, peered out into the rain as if looking for something. Panicked, the ghost eater glanced at Rabbit, only to find that he had transformed himself into an elderly Enemy man. Rain dripped off his wide-brimmed hat, and a heavy stick swung from one hand. He abandoned the shape once they passed beyond the woman’s line-of-sight. “How uncomfortable,” Rabbit remarked mildly, shaking himself and flinging rain off his fur.
The ghost eater peered around at the too-tall buildings. They all looked the same to his eyes. “How can I find her if you don’t help me?”
“Why should I help you? This is all Little Deer’s fault. He’s always held it against me that I tried to, ah, ease my way when we were racing for the antlers. He’s too serious. Besides, he won the Kani-cursed things in the end.”
“Because the other animals thought it was cheating to gnaw down all the trees and underbrush in your way and make him run through a thicket.”
“It was,” Rabbit admitted cheerfully. “But still, you wouldn’t think he’d hold such a grudge. Certainly not enough to make me come here, when someone else could have watched you just as well.”
Then he must have quite a grudge against me as well, the ghost eater thought. He didn’t say the words aloud—to antagonize Rabbit would be stupid, not to mention disrespectful. Even so, Rabbit hadn’t been much help, leaving him to flounder through Enemy territory alone, trying to survive in a land where he knew neither the language nor the customs. Where he had seen not a single other person with normal skin tones and proper black hair.
Rabbit hopped ahead, long bounds that splashed mud onto the ghost eater’s frayed trousers. The ghost eater followed, hoping Rabbit had some purpose behind the direction he was going. They moved down the street, drawing closer to the enormous wooden structure that dominated the town.
“What’s that?”
Rabbit didn’t look at the building. “It’s called a fort. Don’t go near it. That’s where the Enemy warriors are, mostly.” He stopped and raised up on his haunches, his nose twitching. “Here we are.”
They stood near one of the smaller buildings. A tin-roofed shed leaned up against it, and the stink of metal and heat filled the air. The ghost eater’s stomach quailed a little, remembering his one painful encounter with Enemy metal. It had taken the bullet half a day to work its way out of his brain.
Uncertain, the ghost eater crept closer to the structure. The wall had a window in it, and he cautiously stopped and listened for any sound from within. The scrape of metal on wood drifted to him, accompanied by a soft intake of breath. Moving silently, he eased closer to the window and chanced a peek inside.
It was her.
She sat in the center of the room, her profile turned slightly away from him. Honey-colored hair, tangled and wild as a thicket, billowed down around her shoulders and back. She was older than he had realized, perhaps near her fortieth winter, if he could judge an Enemy face. She dressed like a man in trousers. “A Changed One?” he asked, surprised.
But rabbit shook his head. “Enemies don’t do things the way Ahkan’it do.”
The woman’s eerie green eyes stared intently at a wooden statuette before her. She reached out with a sharp tool and added another shaving to the pile collecting about her feet. All of her attention focused on the carving, tension radiating from her body to it, as though her very life depended on completing it correctly. Although it was difficult to see from a distance, the sculpture appeared to be that of a human figure. Its arms were raised above its head in either entreaty or escape, and its mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.
The sound of hard Enemy shoes came from inside, and the ghost eater quickly flattened himself against the wall, well away from the window. “Gwendith?” called a masculine voice. Her name?
He found his courage and looked inside again, albeit cautiously. Gwendith had stopped her work on the carving and sat poised like a doe startled by a cougar. For an instant, the ghost eater thought he saw real desperation in her eyes.
An enormous Enemy man with a tangle of dark brown hair and beard came into the room. He spoke, but the ghost eater didn’t understand what was said. The only Enemy words he knew were the ones Rabbit had given him, things like “trousers,” and “cart,” and “window,” none of which seemed to have any place in this conversation.
The man’s voice was gentle but with an odd undertone of pity, like a healthy person speaking to an invalid. Gwendith looked away, as if his words made her feel ashamed. The man pulled out a small pouch, reached into it, and offered her what appeared to be a fragment of dried root. She accepted it from him, put it in her mouth, and chewed. After a few minutes, all the bright vitality drained out of her eyes, and her mouth went slack. Moving gracelessly, she stood and shuffled out of the room. The man touched her shoulder briefly before she left, as if to reassure her of his presence.
When she was gone, he turned to the carving. The ghost eater ducked out of the way so that the Enemy would not see him. There came a long moment of silence—then the carving suddenly hurtled out the window, landing with a splat in the mud.
Footsteps receded. After several minutes of stillness, the ghost eater cautiously picked up the statuette. Although rough and unfinished, it was clearly meant to represent a man, his body stretched and twisted as though in agony. Across the unfinished features, she had scratched shallow lines in the shape of a skull.
He touched his face unconsciously, where the black lines of tattoos followed the curves of his skull, drawing a death’s head over flesh.
“What did he give her?” he asked quietly. “Was it a sedative of some kind?”
Rabbit stood on his hind legs to peer in through the window. His nose twitched again. “Crippleweed.”
“What?”
“Crippleweed. Can’t you smell it?”
The ghost eater frowned. “But crippleweed—it was used to suppress a captive’s Way, when we fought other peoples in the time before the Enemies came.”
“That’s true.”
“But Enemies don’t have Ways. They don’t walk in the world like we do.”
Rabbit only looked at him out of one dark, round eye and made no answer.
~*~
Several hours later, the ghost eater sat under a tree and contemplated the high palisade before him.
He had found himself with no clear purpose after locating the Enemy woman Gwendith. When he had first left Ahkan’i lands, eager to fulfill the task Little Deer and the other animals had set him, he had been filled with blind optimism. He had been so excited just to have a purpose again that he hadn’t thought much about the realities of fulfilling it. But it wasn’t easy to find one woman in a vast land. Five moons of wandering through Enemy territory had turned hope into fatigue and optimism into the desire to have it done with. He wanted only to escape this nightmarish place of razed forests, endless fields, and strange towns.
And the worst thing is…there are so many of them. As if they breed and spread like insects. As if they want to swarm over the face of the world until it is covered in a blanket of their flesh.
He shivered, from his thoughts rather than from the cold. Although he still felt the chill, it no longer troubled him as it would a living man.
So, he had found the woman. Rabbit hinted that she might have a Way. He saw that she made wooden carvings, took crippleweed, and lived with a brother or husband. And that summed up his entire knowledge of her.
Except, he thought wryly, looking down at the sculpture he had retrieved from the mud, that she seems to know a little something about me as well.
So what next?
He had to approach her somehow, that much was obvious. The vision Little Deer had shown him was clear in one respect—he had to find the woman and bring her back to the Ahkan’i homeland. To the mountains, where no Enemy had ever before set foot. But how? He couldn’t so much as speak the same language to explain himself to her. If he even got the chance to open his mouth. The few Enemies who had seen him so far had displayed one of two reactions: either scream and run, or pick up a gun and shoot.
Maybe they know I’m a ghost eater, he reasoned. The black lines on his face, which followed the curve and sweep of the skull beneath, marked him clearly enough. But some of the Enemies who had attacked him had been too far away to see the tattoos clearly.
He craned his head back, staring up at the tall palisade thoughtfully. It was made from entire trees shaped into poles, their apexes sharpened into points. Metal spikes also decorated the top of the wall, rusting in the rain. Clearly, someone either wanted to keep something out—or keep it in.
The wall itself seemed to go on forever, enclosing an area larger than the Enemy town outside. And the structure Rabbit had named the fort, which housed the Enemy warriors, stood almost right against the palisade. All the other buildings hung back from it like frightened children hiding behind their uncle.
What could be inside? he wondered. Probably nothing that had anything to do with him or his quest. Then again, there’s nothing on this side of the wall that’s helped me think what to do. Maybe I’ll find something useful in there.
He wished that he could ask Rabbit. But Rabbit had disappeared shortly after showing him Gwendith, apparently considering his task done.
The ghost eater tucked the carving back into his pouch and stood up, walking along the edge of the young forest that paralleled the palisade. There was little cover—most of the true forest in this area had been cleared for Enemy houses and fields, leaving behind only pitiful, bramble-choked remnants. The scent of pine needles filled his nose, pleasant in the cold rain.
Enemies dressed in blue coats and trousers marched along the top of the wall, undoubtedly walking on a ledge set on the inside. The fact that each man’s clothing was identical to that of every other both appalled and intrigued the ghost eater. Even their hair looked the same, hacked off shoulder-length and tied back in a tail. Cowards, he thought automatically. A man’s hair showed his strength and courage, and only those who had behaved with cowardice or dishonor had theirs cut.
He was lucky that the old ghost eater hadn’t cut his, when he ran from death.
That was Tamaugua. I am the ghost eater. Any memories before the time in the cave are not my own.
Perhaps if I tell myself that often enough, I’ll come to believe it.
The further he got from the town, the fewer Enemies kept watch on the wall. Eventually, he came to a deserted-looking stretch where the brambles and half-grown pines reached almost to the palisade itself. He stood still for a long time, listening for the approach of feet, but no one appeared. The palisade was too big to be effectively watched all along its length. For the rest, the Enemies depended on the wall’s height and the sharp metal stakes to keep anyone from climbing over.
He drew close, gauging the distance from ground to wall-top. It would be a prodigious jump, even for a ghost eater. In the end, he climbed the closest tree, gathered all his strength, and leaped.
One hand came down directly on a metal spike. It tore through flesh, scraping against bone, until his palm slapped wood. For a moment, his entire weight hung on his impaled hand, and he felt the thin muscles start to tear.
Biting his lip against a scream, he wrapped his other hand around another spike and used it to drag himself up and over. The pain redoubled as he worked at freeing his impaled hand, but he did not dishonor himself by screaming. A moment later, he dropped blindly over the other side, leaving blood-smeared metal to be washed clean by the rain.
It was a long fall. One ankle caught under him, and he felt the bone snap. Stunned, he collapsed into a tangle of brambles, agony blotting out his sight. The pain eased as the bones straightened and knitted back together. It took the hand longer, flakes of rust impeding the bhargha. Hunger slithered through him like a live thing as the bhargha spent itself. The desire to feed did not center only on his belly but spread throughout his body. Even his hair felt it.
Not now. A patch of inexplicably dead briars might not be noticed, but there seemed no point in taking chances. If there was anything he had learned during his time in Enemy lands, it was caution.
When the bhargha had done its work, he stood up shakily, wiping the rust off on his trousers. Blackberry thorns caught on his too-long coat, as if seeking to drag it off his shoulders. Yanking free, he stumbled to the edge of the briars and looked out.
It was a wasteland. At some point, trees had been cleared and fields put in. But without any stream or river in sight, any crops that might have been planted there had shriveled and died years ago. Without the rain to soak the barren ground into mud, the slightest breeze would raise a whirlwind of red dust. Brambles and grasses had taken over in some areas, struggling to heal the raped ground, but in others the rain ran off in an orange stream of eroding soil.
How could this have happened? he wondered, shocked. One more horror to add to the long list of those he had seen since leaving home.
Voices floated to him above the rain. Coarse and male, they spoke the unintelligible Enemy tongue. Stiffening, the ghost eater looked around warily. There, in the distance—two men, surrounding a third who crouched on the ground, arms held over his head. They stood near a small stream bordered by healthy trees. A patch of raw earth and an abandoned spade suggested that someone had been digging there.
Two of the men had the typical light skin and hair of Enemies, and were dressed in blue clothing identical to that of those on the wall. But the man on the ground was no Enemy. Black hair shone in the rain, and the skin that showed on his hands and face was the same muted brown of the ghost eater’s own.
Someone from another people! Excitement seized the ghost eater. The Ahkan’it weren’t alone in the world—others had survived the wars with the Enemies as well.
But his eagerness turned to ash a moment later. One of the Enemies raised what looked like a long strip of braided leather. He was talking to the crouching man, laughing. The leather cut through the air with a loud crack, and the man fell forward onto his hands, his shirt rent and blood running down his back. Both Enemies laughed, and the leather rope fell again, and again, each time leaving a shallow furrow of opened flesh.
Rage went through the ghost eater like an ice storm through trees. After moons of hiding from Enemies, of watching their foreign ways, of evading their cruelty, something broke inside him. With a furious battle cry, he leapt out of the blackberries and raced towards them.
The men turned, startled. One of them yelled and swung the leather at him. The ghost eater evaded the blow and launched himself at his attacker. The hunger arose again, but this time he gave it free rein. The bhargha unfolded inside of him, like an opening flower. Hair-fine tentacles of glowing light shot out, sinking into the Enemy’s flesh. Stung, the Enemy stiffened for a moment.
Then his life flooded into the ghost eater.
Playing by the river as a child, throwing a ball to his cousin—
—Kissing a girl in the woods—
—Drinking with his companions, celebrating—
—Kicking a black-haired man, hitting him over and over with a metal bar, until his face was gone—
—Bouncing a baby on his lap, smiling lovingly at its mother—
—A brown woman under him, tears streaming down her face, his hand over her mouth to muffle her screams as he heaved himself up and down on her—
The ghost eater reeled away from the limp body. He fell to his knees, gagging, as though he could vomit the man’s memories back up. His own mind tried to flinch away: sickened, shocked, and violated.
Kani curse it, no, I don’t want to know these things!
Monsters, all of them. It’s as the old one said—they aren’t really human. Just monsters that should be destroyed.
Somehow, he got back to his feet. The Enemy lay on the ground, his dead eyes staring at the sky. The sight revolted the ghost eater beyond coherent thought, and he had to turn away.
The other Enemy stood nearby, his mouth hanging open as though the bhargha had stung him into submission as well. When the ghost eater moved towards him, he took a step back, panic spreading across his face and a wet stain across his trousers.
The man they had been beating lunged at the Enemy from behind, pinning his arms. Frightened black eyes stared at the ghost eater, demanding that he do something. Nauseated at the thought of touching another ghost so unclean, he bent down and picked up a rock.
They dropped the bodies into a pile and stared at one another over them. Like most people, the man was a good deal taller than the ghost eater. He wore an Enemy-style shirt and trousers, but no shoes. His hair, slightly longer than shoulder-length, hung loose about his face. No copper ring pierced his nose to proclaim him a man, nor did he have ear pins. He tilted his head to one side, puzzled, then drew a finger across his face, following the lines of the skull beneath. Asking about the tattoos, the ghost eater thought.
“Yes, I’m a ghost eater,” he said, as if there could have been any doubt after the Enemy he had killed. “Who are you? Who are your people? How many others have survived?”
The man made no reply, only looked anxiously at the bodies.
“You can’t understand me,” the ghost eater concluded.
The man looked back at him, nodded, and made a side-to-side gesture with his hand.
“You do understand? A little?”
A nod.
“Can you speak?”
A shake of the head. Then the man frowned slightly, as if considering. Suddenly, the ghost eater found himself convinced that the man’s name was No Tongue. The thought seemed to come from nowhere, or from somewhere outside of himself, as if someone had murmured it in his ear.
“Are you a thought-whisperer?”
No Tongue smiled slightly, confirming his Way. Then he made an impatient gesture towards the bodies. His hands moved back and forth, as if covering them over with blankets.
“Hide the bodies?” The ghost eater looked around for some means of concealment but saw none. Obviously Enemies came to this place, deserted as it seemed. “Why were they beating you?”
No Tongue shrugged, not as if he didn’t know, but either couldn’t or didn’t want to respond. He gestured first to the bodies, then to the abandoned fields, then made digging motions with his hands. Certain that he misinterpreted, the ghost eater asked, “You want to put them in the ground?”
A nod.
Horror washed over him, and he took a step back. Only bodies meant to become ghost eaters went under the ground, and even then they were put into caves. He knew that there was no coal here to make ghost eaters, but putting the bodies into the ground remained an abomination even without that danger. He had devoured the spirit of one man, but that of the other remained. If buried, it would be trapped in the corpse, unable to be freed by the carrion birds so that it could travel to the Darkening Land.
He recalled the unpleasant memories of the Enemy he had killed. Perhaps it was only what they deserved.
They buried the Enemies quickly, using No Tongue’s metal spade. The ghost eater did most of the digging, as he felt no physical fatigue.
When they had finished, No Tongue stood up and motioned for the ghost eater to follow. As they walked away, the ghost eater looked back. Already the rain had begun to wash away the signs of their digging.
~*~
The ghost eater stared at the small cluster of houses to which his silent companion had led him and knew the purpose behind the Enemy palisade. Not to protect anything inside, but to pen and contain those they had dispossessed, the same way they penned animals.
These Enemies understand nothing of freedom.
The houses were built square, Enemy-style. Gaps showed in the wooden walls, some stuffed with rags or mud. A few scrawny-looking animals wandered around the dwellings, the unfamiliar birds scratching in the dirt and the mammals cropping what little vegetation they could find. A pitifully-thin girl sat outside one of the houses, clutching a knot of cloth that might have been a toy. The sound of a hoarse cough, thick with phlegm, came through the uncovered door behind her.
The ghost eater made a reflexive move towards the child, then checked himself. He was the ghost eater and felt no compassion. Or, at least, wasn’t permitted to show it.
His companion tugged at the sleeve of his coat and gestured towards one of the houses. The bleakness of the place extended inside. No painted skins hung on the wooden walls, nor was there a cheerful clay hearth. A few pieces of furniture similar to those he had seen in Gwendith’s house filled the space, but they looked battered and shabby. There weren’t even any beds built against the walls. Instead, two piles of folded blankets lay on the floor to either side of the single room.
Voices passed close by outside, speaking in the Enemy language. No Tongue seemed to listen to them for a moment, then turned and looked thoughtfully at his guest. He moved closer, then slowly, carefully put his hands to either side of the ghost eater’s head.
The ghost eater started and almost drew back, but the steady look in his wordless companion’s eyes stopped him. No Tongue smiled a moment, then leaned over, pressing his forehead to the ghost eater’s.
And then he knew the words.
They flooded into his mind, more intense than the memories he saw while eating the ghosts of those he killed. He gasped and jerked back automatically. No Tongue let his hands fall to his sides and made no move to renew the contact.
There was no need for him to do so. Amazed, the ghost eater looked around the little house, Enemy words for the objects he saw coming easily to his lips and thoughts. “You—you have a very strong Way,” he stammered in the harsh, alien tongue.
No Tongue nodded and grinned.
Feeling as though his head had been stuffed with goose down, the ghost eater sank to the floor and stared at the compacted dirt. No Tongue went to one of the piles of blankets and pulled the top layer back to reveal a bottle. Smiling hopefully, he held it out to the ghost eater.
The ghost eater sighed. “I don’t drink,” he explained, still testing the new-learned Enemy language. “No more than I eat, as you understand it. The Enemy’s ghost fed me well enough for now.” It was a slight lie—the truth was that he was almost always conscious of hunger gnawing at his limbs. He controlled it strictly. The very first lesson the old one had taught him had been how to hold the bhargha inside, to keep it from devouring whatever it came across. Had he not learned that lesson well, there would have been no more, for defective ghost eaters were destroyed without qualm or mercy.
After all, it wasn’t as if they were alive to begin with.
No Tongue mimicked drinking and held the bottle out again. The ghost eater hesitated. The old one wasn’t here and would never know if he committed this small crime in the name of courtesy. Surely taking one sip of a drink didn’t qualify as partaking of life…did it?
He tried to smile politely as he took the bottle. The substance it was made from—glass, another Enemy word like bottle—felt oddly cool and smooth against his palm. He lifted it to his lips and took a tiny sip of the liquid inside.
It burned his tongue, like drinking hot ashes. Startled, he coughed, spitting the foul-tasting stuff onto the floor. Then, horrified at what might well seem an inexcusable act of rudeness, he looked quickly up at his host. “Forgive me, I—”
But No Tongue only laughed. He took the bottle back and drank what seemed like a generous amount from it. When he lowered the bottle again, his breath smelled unpleasantly of the noxious drink.
The loose curtain that served as a door was violently shoved aside. Startled, the ghost eater pivoted about on his heel. A young woman stood in the doorway, her face set in a scowl. Black hair shorter than No Tongue’s swirled around features that might have been pretty had anger not left its permanent mark on them. Her clothes were like those of the Enemy women he had seen but of far poorer quality—a patchwork skirt and shirt, obviously sewn together from the remnants of even older clothes. Her hands were heavily callused, as if from the farming that was a woman’s task, but her arms were thin from privation.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darker interior, but even before they did she must have spotted the gleam of light off glass. “Drinking again?” she demanded, controlled anger coiled in her voice. She snatched the bottle out of No Tongue’s hand. “You know that whiskey is only Outlander poison! And who is this—some dog who licks Outlander boots and brings alcohol into the—”
She fell silent. For a moment, her eyes took in the tattoos on his face, the fall of his long hair.
“Hello,” he said carefully, testing the new greeting.
“What kind of an idiot are you?”
He gaped at her blankly.
She strode over to him and glared down, using the fact that she was standing to intimidate. “I asked what kind of idiot you are, wearing your hair like this!” She made a dismissive motion at his long locks. “You aren’t from this Sanctuary—I don’t recognize you, and no one here would be so stupid. There’s a rumor the Outlanders are looking for an escapee—if you thought you’d hide here, forget it. I’ll turn you in to them myself before I let anyone here die for you.”
He stared at her, trying to sort his thoughts in the face of her tirade. “I’m very sorry,” he managed at last, remembering to show respect for the owner of the roof above his head. “I don’t mean any harm. Only let me explain. I’m a ghost eater from—”
“Yes, I see those silly tattoos.” She flung up her hands in exasperation. “How old are you, eighteen? Old enough to know better than to brand yourself permanently with something that will be a death sentence when the Outlanders finally catch up with you.”
The ghost eater didn’t think she could be much older than he was, but held his tongue. “I saw Enemies—I suppose you call them ‘Outlanders’—beating your husband and tried to help him.”
She turned to No Tongue, stifling a sympathetic gasp when she saw the wounds on his back. She ripped a square of cloth from her skirt, poured whiskey over it, and told him to take off his shirt. When he did, she pressed the cloth to his back. No Tongue hissed in pain and bowed his head.
“It isn’t too bad—he’ll be fine, so long as the wounds don’t become infected,” she said once she had finished. “No Tongue is my cousin, not my husband. My name is…the Outlanders christened me Saire in their Church of the Wizards, as if my mother didn’t have the wit to give me a name herself. But my real name is Stands-in-Smoke. Thank you for helping No Tongue. Now, get out.”
“I’ll leave if you wish it. But I’m a stranger here. Little Deer sent me—”
Stands-in-Smoke let out a harsh bark of laughter. “No one believes in animal spirits anymore, little boy. Just as no one will believe your ghost eater nonsense. Go talk to children—they’re the only ones who’ll listen to such fairy-stories.”
Her words made no sense. No one believed in animal spirits? As if beings like Rabbit and Little Deer required human belief to exist. As if a person could simply ignore their presence, pretend that they weren’t there, and expect to survive and prosper.
“How—how do you grow corn? How do you hunt? Don’t you sing the proper chants to the deer and the turkeys, that you may eat their flesh and use their skins and bones? Don’t you sing to Little Deer to ward off rheumatism?”
She looked at him with irritation. “You’re either insane or naïve. I’ll give you some advice, foolish boy. If you want to go about pretending to be a ghost eater, it would be a good idea to take yourself somewhere other than the Proud Ones Sanctuary.”
“Proud Ones?”
Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything? The Outlanders call us Hut Sitters, because that was the name the Skull People used for us. The Skull People and their ghost eaters hated us for settling down in towns like civilized people, and we hated them for destroying our towns and carrying off our children. You’ll find no sympathy by pretending to be our greatest enemy from the time before the Outlanders came.”
“You’re Hut Sitters? It’s said that you were of one fire with the Ahkan’it, when we lived beyond the mountains.”
“So?”
He chose his words carefully, sensing a way to gain her help through her overly-blatant display of disbelief. “So what if I am truly a ghost eater? What then?”
“I’m not stupid. The survival of the Skull People is just a myth that the grandmothers tell on winter nights.” She settled back, folded her hands around her knees, and gave him a challenging look. “If you were a ghost eater, you would have had to survive for two-hundred years, hiding from the Outlanders all that time.”
His mouth flexed wryly. “This body only saw eighteen winters before it died and became mine, and I have seen only one.”
“Then if you were truly a ghost eater, I would say that this is the greatest news my people have heard in two-hundred years.”
“Despite the fact that we were your enemies?”
“It doesn’t matter. If even one people managed to defeat the Outlanders, no matter who they were, I would rejoice. Because it would mean that the Outlanders aren’t invincible. Because it would mean that there’s hope even for us.”
Although she spoke steadily, with that same edge of challenge and mockery, he sensed something behind her words. She truly did want that hope. She wanted to defeat the Enemies and get out from behind this imprisoning palisade they called a Sanctuary.
“Do you have a knife? Or a gun? Anything like that?”
Stands-in-Smoke looked annoyed again. “No natives can have firearms, you know that. I have a knife I use for chopping vegetables, but I don’t see—”
“Stab me with it.”
“What?” She stared at him as if he had lost his wits.
He swallowed, trying to be courageous. “It’s the quickest way to show you that I am what I claim to be.”
“No! I’m not going to have a dead young idiot on my floor.”
The ghost eater glanced at No Tongue. No Tongue nodded, perhaps seeing what was in the ghost eater’s thoughts, and drew a knife sheathed at his own belt.
Stands-in-Smoke’s eyes went wide, and she grabbed for No Tongue. “Stop it! That’s sharp! No Tongue, don’t!”
He evaded her grasp and lunged knife-first at the ghost eater.
Kani, this is going to hurt, he thought in sudden fear.
The knife slammed into his torso just under the rib cage, angling up so that it caught the edge of his beatless heart. He fell back onto the floor from the impact, agony washing over him as he felt the cold, cold metal lodge in his chest. Something was wrong, he realized dimly—although he should have been able to sit up and laugh at Stands-in-Smoke’s surprise, he found himself unable to move. The metal bit into his heart like a snake’s fang, its icy venom paralyzing his body.
“What have you done!” cried Stands-in-Smoke, shoving No Tongue to one side. She reached for the knife, then jerked her hand back fearfully. “You killed him! I know what I said about turning him over to the Outlanders, but I didn’t mean it!”
No Tongue bent down by the ghost eater’s prone body. Grasping the knife firmly, he yanked it free.
It hurt. The ghost eater bit back a cry as he found himself free to move again. Jerking up, he skittered back, putting as much distance between himself and the knife as possible. Even as he moved, the bhargha surged through him once again, tugging the wound closed and binding the muscles, ligaments, and veins back together.
Stands-in-Smoke stared at him, all the color draining out of her face. Her look of surprise probably would have been more satisfying if not for the nasty shock he had just had himself.
“Well?” he managed to say, hoping that his voice remained steady. “Is there any other proof you need?”
She sat down slowly, one hand pressed to the side of her head, as if to hold in her jumbled thoughts. “I…no. No.”
For a long time, she stared at nothing. Then, slowly, she looked back at him. She held up both hands, and flames appeared, clinging to her wrists and fingers like droplets of water.
He held himself still, refusing to let fear show on his face. As she had said, Ahkan’i and Hut Sitter had once battled each other as deadly enemies. And the only defense against Ahkan’i ghost eaters were the fire-callers. Only flame could destroy a body so thoroughly that the bhargha could no longer inhabit it.
Just my luck—I travel for two seasons across Enemy lands, I finally find the Enemy woman I’m searching for, and I end up sitting at the hearth of one of the only people in the world who can kill me with nothing more than her hands.
He wondered if Rabbit was laughing at him somewhere.
“I could kill you,” Stands-in-Smoke murmured, staring now at her fingers. “The grandmothers say that was the duty of fire-callers—to fight the ghost eaters, when they came with the raiding parties. They say each band of the Skull People had only one ghost eater, so to kill one meant a terrible blow against our enemy.”
There seemed no sense lying to her. “Not really. The Ahkan’it are great warriors. Although the only purpose of the ghost eaters is to fight, it is the spirit and ability of the living warriors which counts.”
“Perhaps. But, as you said, the ghost eaters exist only to kill. So what are you doing here, if not to destroy as many of us as you can? Shouldn’t I slay you now, before you have the chance?”
He had to tread carefully, he could see that in her face. “You could try. But only if you’re faster than the bhargha. If you haven’t reduced me to ash within a few seconds, your ghost will go to feed my healing. And you’ve never fought anyone before, let alone something like me.” Neither had he, unless one counted the Enemy he had taken by surprise earlier, but she couldn’t know that. “But I’m not here to kill you or anyone else. Little Deer sent me to find a woman.”
The flames disappeared from Stands-in-Smoke’s hands. A calculating look appeared in her angry eyes. “You came to find me, then. You came to help us.” Her hands clenched into fists, and she stared at the ceiling, as if seeing some beautiful vision. “All my life, I’ve dreamed of destroying the Outlanders, of throwing down their fort and burning their town. With you, we have a chance.”
Her eyes gleamed with hate and rage. From what she had said earlier, he doubted that she believed that Little Deer had sent him. But she was willing to go along with anything he said, so long as it helped her fulfill her dreams of vengeance.
“No. I’m sorry, but Little Deer didn’t mention your people at all.”
She looked down at him, startled. “He didn’t? But then what—”
“The animals sent me to find an Enemy woman. I finally managed to locate her here, in the town outside the Sanctuary. I think her name is Gwendith.”
“What! Why would a ghost eater care about some stupid Outlander?”
The ghost eater shrugged. “I don’t know why Little Deer sent me to her, exactly. I was shown a vision—I’m supposed to find her and bring her back to the mountains with me, back to where the Ahkan’it live. If I don’t, something terrible will happen.”
“What?”
“I’m not certain,” he admitted. “All I saw was death—the death of the Ahkan’it, of the animals, of the forests. Even of the Enemy-held lands. I didn’t see what caused the destruction. But if I don’t find this woman, not only will the Ahkan’it suffer, but your own people as well. So, in a way, I am here to help you.”
The last sounded weak even to him. Anger glinted in Stands-in-Smoke’s eyes. “You are the most powerful weapon we could ask for,” she said hoarsely. “And you refuse to help us?” She stopped, making an obvious effort at getting her fury under control. “Perhaps you don’t understand what things are like for us here. Did you see the fields outside?”
He nodded, remembering the wastelands of red mud. “Yes. They looked over-planted.”
“Of course they did—the Outlanders won’t allow us to plant crops anywhere else, though there are far better places even in the Sanctuary. So the soil went bad years ago, before I was even born, and we can hardly grow anything. We have to depend on the Outlanders to give us enough food to live, when we could easily have a surplus. But anyone caught trying to farm in any ‘unauthorized’ place is imprisoned.” Her mouth twisted. “Or rather, the person they come across first is put in prison—the Outlanders don’t much care whether they’ve found the guilty party or not.
“But it’s worse than that. The soldiers from the fort do whatever they want to us. When they get off duty, some of them come down here looking for women. There are some women who choose that way to feed their children, but no soldier is going to face trial for rape if he fancies someone less-than-willing. We aren’t allowed to speak our own language, we have to wear Outlander clothes, and we’re forced to go every week to worship in their accursed Church of the Wizards.”
The ghost eater winced. The Enemies were as evil as all the stories claimed. The very idea of dealing with one of them, even a woman, was beginning to sound repulsive. Was it really wise to bring such poison among the Ahkan’it? The animals seemed to think it necessary—but were they concerned with the price the Ahkan’it might have to pay?
Probably not.
“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “I would like to help you. But what could I do? I’m only one ghost eater.”
“You could show my people that there’s hope!” She smiled suddenly. “The Skull People were always great warriors—you could bring them to us, and together we could drive the Outlanders into Sanctuaries of their own!”
He didn’t like her look of glee at the thought, even though he understood it. “No. We Ahkan’it are going to have problems of our own, and soon. And besides, we barely kept the Enemies out of the mountains two hundred winters ago, when we knew how to fight them. We haven’t fought anyone since then.”
Stands-in-Smoke smiled cruelly. “Neither have the Outlanders. And their Wizards have left them. They have neither their terrible magic, nor any Ways of their own. With help from a free people, we can win.”
He stood, not wanting to argue any further. “That isn’t why I came here.”
No Tongue leaned forwards suddenly, holding out the root that he had been digging up when the Enemies attacked him. Stands-in-Smoke took it, looking surprised for a moment. “Is this why they whipped you?”
He nodded.
“My cousin reminds of one last argument, then. Did you hear the coughing when you came into the village? There is sickness in the Sanctuary. We’ve already used our allotted amount of medicine from the Outlander supply depot. No Tongue apparently thought a traditional cure might work, but using our own medicine is as illegal as speaking our own language. That was why they attacked him. At least he managed to get away with some. It will help, but there are many sick, including children. For them, I ask you to help us break the Outlander hold.”
He sighed, even though there was no need for him to draw breath when not speaking. “I want to help you, but it won’t work. I’ve traveled all over Enemy lands—there are too many of them for us to even dream of fighting directly. Please, let me do what I came here to do. I understand if you don’t want to help me, but don’t hinder me.”
She looked away, disappointment and bitterness clear in every line of her face. “I’ll help you,” she said, but there was an edge in her tone that he did not like at all.
~*~
Stands-in-Smoke stood in the doorway of her friend Rheda’s shack and looked inside. Rheda didn’t have a real name, just the one the Outlander priest had given her at birth. Her mother had been a Wizards-fearing woman and wouldn’t put up with talk of animal spirits, or with dancing to ensure the ripening of the corn, or with anything the Proud Ones still remembered from before the coming of the Outlanders. She wouldn’t even let her children use their own Ways—declared it sacrilege against the Wizards.
If only the old woman hadn’t died years ago and could see what was even now sitting on the floor of Stands-in-Smoke’s house, watching No Tongue drink more than was good for him.
Not that Stands-in-Smoke had believed in those things either, but at least she had scorned it for wishful thinking, not because it ran contrary to the teachings of the thrice-accursed Wizards.
She let her eyes rove over the desperate scene inside the shack. Rheda lay on a pallet against the far wall, her complexion disturbingly sallow. A baby curled against her breast, its breathing thick and labored. It wouldn’t be the first infant Rheda had mourned—supposing she didn’t find herself in the grave alongside it.
Others lay on the blankets, occasionally coughing or gasping weakly for water. Some of the old women who hadn’t come down with the sickness ministered them, pressing wet rags against fevered foreheads and holding water gourds to cracked lips. The rattle of labored breathing filled the shack, like a chorus of monstrous bees.
Rheda’s eyes half-opened, and she caught sight of Stands-in-Smoke. She motioned with her hand, and Stands-in-Smoke came to her side, crouching down by the sweat-soaked pallet. “Did they give you any more medicine at the depot?” Rheda gasped.
Stands-in-Smoke shook her head, rage moving through her like a beast swimming beneath still water. “No. I could see five jars sitting on the shelf behind the counter, but the sergeant wouldn’t give any to me. He said we had already used up our allotment for the month. He said we’ll get some more next month, but no sooner. He said we shouldn’t be so wasteful.”
Rheda collapsed back with a sob. Stands-in-Smoke touched her hand quickly and held up the dirty root that No Tongue had given her. “No Tongue brought this—the old women will know how to make tea out of it, to soothe the coughing.”
Rheda closed her eyes against tears. “It’s not enough.”
“I know.” Stands-in-Smoke drew a deep breath. “We’re going to lead an attack against the supply depot tonight.”
“What? Are you insane?”
The entire shack had fallen into a hush at Stands-in-Smoke’s words, all but the most ill staring incredulously. “Don’t be a fool,” one of the old women said sharply. “If you do that, you might get medicine, but the soldiers will come in here and kill more than the plague would carry off.”
“Ordinarily. But I have a new weapon. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, and I don’t have time to explain. But I will bring medicine for all of you by the next dawn. I swear it.”
She left them to wonder and speculate. As she passed outside, a young man by the name of Sleet lurched up from where he had lain in the shade by the shack. He reeked of whiskey, and his clothes were filthy, as if he no longer bothered to change them. “Did I hear you right? You’re going to attack?”
She eyed him uncertainly. Sleet was a slave to Outlander alcohol—if he wasn’t in a drunken stupor, he was trying to scrounge something to trade for more whiskey.
That was the one thing the Outlanders would give them in limitless supply.
“That’s right. Are you coming with me?”
He looked confused, suddenly, and stared at his feet. “Would you bring me back a bottle?” he asked quietly, sloshing the one clutched in his hand for emphasis.
Stands-in-Smoke sighed and brushed by him. There was no time to waste on drunkards like Sleet. Now was the time for men of action, men who chafed under Outlander rule, who would rise up if only they had a leader like her to give them impetus.
And she knew plenty of them.