Walking Gods
Leah R Cutter
Copyright 2011 by Leah R Cutter
This version published by Knotted Road Press
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Table of Contents
Prologue
I am a seamstress, I am. I spin and weave as well. Been down here in the heart of the cold-water maze since before you were born. Your mama too, I reckon.
Don't worry about my chains, dear. They're ice-wrought and fire-blessed. No one could break through them, though really, they're just for show. I wouldn't leave my workroom, even if I could. I made my choice long, long ago.
Oh, I know all the tricks, my lady. How to sew coins in the hems of curtains to make them hang true and to hold all the good fortune in. I know the patterns a young couple needs before the priests tie the red ribbons around their wrists to bind them — how to make those knots so strong they'll never break, long after the ribbon is gone. I'm the one who makes the bonnets and blankets for their progeny, and skirts their deathbeds with cobwebs and lace.
Yes, I can make your golden shirt from mere flax, with nary a seam or a hem. Fine, more than fine enough for a prince who is soon to be king.
But there's a price.
Heavens no, I don't want your first born, or even the prince. I'll take the runt of your litter, the odd one. The one you won't really like anyway.
The prince will bless you, my lady, often. And the births shall be easy, I promise you.
How badly do you want your prince? To be queen, yourself, as well? Now, don't blush, I see it. You'll make a fine leader someday.
There's always a price, my lady. Nothing is free. Think of the prince you'll be getting.
You accept? And you'll pay? Then come closer, please. I need just a drop of your blood, to bind the prince to you, so he will see only you with that shirt. No other will turn his head, as long as it's with you.
Very good. See? My golden needle is very sharp. That didn't really hurt at all. Now, come back before the crows awaken, and your shirt will be waiting for you.
* * *
Ah, back I see. Yes, the shirt pleased the prince, did it not? Lady, how did you expect me to make it if not with magic? Without magic it wouldn't have been possible.
No, I don't want the babe you're carrying now. His heart's too pure--he'd try to save me, unshackle me from my workbench. Maybe he'd try to feed me more than three grains of rice at a time, bring me something other than cold water to drink. No, I don't want him. I want the runt. You'll know her when you meet her.
No, no, no charge for fixing the sleeve. No charge for any repairs, ever. You just bring the shirt back to me.
Why would you think that I'd deliberately make the seams weak? Do you doubt my craft? That's not it at all. It's the magic that tears the cloth, seeking a way out. Magic's never very good contained. Takes more than you know to set it along a strict path.
Yes, you'll have to come back to me often. Maybe once a year. But that isn't really that much of a price, now, is it? The prince will never give up the shirt, or you. And isn't that what you want?
* * *
You again. Has it really been a year? No, three? My darling girl. And you're pregnant again. This one will be fair enough to turn all the heads in the kingdom. As sweet as dew on the petal of a rose.
No, I don't think it's getting colder down here. Or warmer. Or lighter or darker. This workroom is eternal, it never changes. Just the seamstress who pass through.
I'm old, dear, not eternal. There was a seamstress who taught me, just as I'll teach your little one.
There, all fixed. The prince's love reaffirmed. You alone are the heart of his life, as long as the shirt remains in his possession.
You're welcome.
* * *
Interesting rip this time. You weren't trying to destroy the shirt, were you? You'll kill your prince if you do. His blood, yours and mind are all woven together.
You call me a monster? Me? I'm not deceiving the man I love. I never tricked anyone into thinking I was more than I was. I don't boast of my skills. I can sew. I can spin and weave.
Why would I want this baby, who will be the child of your heart? I am not a monster. Truly. There will be more brats, and one you will despise.
Curse? You call it a curse to live above the ground in a palace, waiting on hand and foot by dozens of my kind. A curse to be held in adoration by the new king? A curse to be blessed more than once with children of your heart?
Who can you bring besides your own flesh and blood? I need an apprentice, my dear. Someone to keep the lands stitched together. There must always be a court seamstress, and I am old.
If you don't want to bring one of your brood, you could always come yourself.
If no one comes, the entire kingdom unravels.
Shhh, it's not so bad down here. There's the sweet sting of the needle, the soothing coolness of the silk. The beautiful things you'll create. There's no view of the mountains, no sun or moon, true. Not even a priest to bring the blessings the Ice or Fire. Just the cold stone of the workbench, the heavy treadle of the spinning wheel, the constant clanking of my chains. But I wouldn't leave, even if I was freed. I never would have.
I know my duty. As do you.
* * *
Ah, there she is, the one clutching your skirt. See? She isn't even your youngest, but a middle child, awkward and out of place. She never minds you, does she. She laughs when she shouldn't, pinches her brothers — even when you're looking — and pricks her own fingers to see herself bleed.
No, no, I don't want her now. She's too young. She needs to know a bit more of the world before she gets locked down here with me.
Don't give me those onion-wrought tears. You may love her, yes, she's your own flesh and blood. But there's relief as well, isn't there, at the thought of just having her gone.
I have no idea what you'll say to the king. Tell him she ran away — she's always been such a difficult girl, right? Besides, it will be at least half true.
Come here, girl. I won't hurt you. Not yet. This needle will guide you when it's your time. Here, give me a pinch. See? Just an old woman, not made of stone.
Yes, she must come. Her, you, or another from your brood. You could even trick the king into coming. It doesn't matter to me. But someone must keep the kingdom together, the lands stitched into one piece, and tend the seams forever more.
* * *
It's you. Yes, it's cold down here, but you'll grown used to it. As well as the sound of the water trickling through the maze, turning the channels with the tide, changing the way.
The needle is yours now. See how it glows in your hand? I will teach you how to sheath it in your skin, so it is always a part of you. Yes, it will hurt. But there are things more important than pain.
My, you're a quiet one. Your mother would never stop talking, asking questions. But not you.
I have a question for you. Did you ever explain yourself to the queen? That you pinched your brothers to watch the sparks fly, or to see the swirl of dreams in each drop of your blood? No?
It's all right. My daughter didn't tell me either.
She went onto become queen when I disappeared. You see, I was faced with the same choice as your mother. But though the daughter the seamstress wanted was the most awkward girl, how could I condemn her to this?
No, not just the chains. I've only needed their strength once — you'll see yourself — when you first lay the seams between the lands and stitch the kingdom together. The urge to follow every path with your feet is quite overwhelming. Only the chains kept me sane.
You'll see.
It really is quite a privilege to be the seamstress for the kingdom. You'll learn about all the people living here. That's how I found out about my own daughter.
Tonight you must rest, dream your final dreams about your family. You love them as much as you can, I know.
Not your mother? Really? Why is that?
I'm sorry, my girl. Truly, I am. She should have treated you better than that. Yes, she could have come herself. But not all women are strong enough bear this burden. You are. I will teach you. I will show you how to weave all the people together, so they become greater than they are. How to create clever darts to hide the secret places, or to let out bands so the people can grow.
Let me be clear — I will teach you how to sew, but the stitches you use will be up to you. Will you sew each seam with love? With forgiveness? Or with vengeance in mind?
Ah. Excellent choice. I will guide you along your path as long as we are both here, teach you all the steps, but you will make your own decisions, as I made mine long ago.
Let us begin.
Walking Gods
Daragh built her first garden when she was five. Of course, it wasn't a real garden: she barely understood what the word meant, having only heard about magical ones from the storytellers in the marketplace, and tales from Aunt Gita who had once worked in the palace and seen the formal ones kept for the king. All Daragh had was an impulse to put pretty green things in graceful rows. She liked how the leaves she'd cleaned, then stuck in the ground, looked against the dull dirt of the courtyard.
Her aunts had directed Daragh to a corner, where she happily played away from the large boiling pots of laundry that her aunts took in from Ma'am Hirgan up the street. Daragh cleaned away the broken glass and pottery shards, then used them as decorations along the edges, careful not to cut her fingers and make anyone scold her.
Daragh knew better than to show Mama her neat rows. However, she didn't try to hide them, or lie, when Mama came out one late afternoon.
"Did you make that?" Mama asked, untying the turban wound around her long, dark dreadlocks, using the end to wipe the grime from her face, curling and flexing her fingers. Mama worked in a fabric mill, another thing Daragh didn't know about but feared she would soon.
"Yes ma'am." Though Aunt Rashmi had told Daragh her garden was pretty, Daragh still wished it held more than just leaves—maybe rows of colorful flowers, like what Aunt Gita had told her about.
"Useless," Mama muttered, turning on her heel and walking back inside.
"Yeah, useless," Daragh's brother Sanjaya sneered. However, he didn't turn away and follow Mama. He stomped all over Daragh's pretty green leaves, grinding them into the dirt. Her aunts didn't stop him, of course.
Daragh didn't cry, though it was a close thing. She knew that what she'd done hadn't been useless, no matter what Mama said.
A tiny voice deep inside Daragh, one she couldn't admit to at the time, declared, "I'll show you."
* * *
Daragh understood why Mama's stomach swelled—someone had planted a seed in her and it was growing. Just like the tiny plants Daragh grew in the niche of the courtyard wall that she never showed anyone. Only Mama's secret didn't stay secret for long. Aunt Gita stopped talking with Mama once she saw, and Aunt Rashmi frowned, all the time. But Mama was stubborn and wouldn't let anyone take away her growing flower. Daragh tried hard to be a good girl, a big girl, and help all she could. Mama even told her she was useful. Sanjaya was already gone, working with the tanners, coming home only every fortnight, smelling like blood and leather.
Baby Pavia started coming early one morning, while Daragh scrubbed the big breakfast pots and her aunts began the daily washing. Daragh stayed in the corner of Mama's room through the birth, scared by Mama's cries, trembling as much as the candlelight. She wouldn't cry herself, though.
"It's a girl!" Aunt Gita declared happily. Daragh beamed. A sister to play with, and maybe share her green growing things.
"She's blue."
Daragh didn't understand what that meant. Why the happiness fled out of the room. She'd never seen a blue person, only blue flowers. Maybe people weren't supposed to be blue. She crept from her corner and peaked. Aunt Rashmi tore at the skin covering Baby Pavia's face.
Long moments passed before Baby Pavia gave a hoarse cry.
Mama fed Pavia while Daragh watched next to the bed, amazed at how tiny and wrinkled her sister was. Both Mama and the baby fell asleep afterwards. Aunt Gita pulled Daragh to the corner and told her seriously, "Watch your sister closely. You must tell us if she has problems breathing."
"What's wrong?" Daragh asked, fearfully looking back at the bed.
"Her lungs aren't right."
"Gita!" Aunt Ramshi whispered harshly.
"She has to know," Aunt Gita said, not looking away from Daragh. "She may not live."
"She will," Daragh said fiercely. She would tend to her sister better than any of her plants. A person to grow was more important.
Aunt Gita shook her head. "She's bad luck," she insisted. Then both aunts left—their clients wouldn't understand if their clothes weren't clean. Daragh knew that, had been told many times. She crept back to the bedside and stood vigilance over her tiny sister.
When the baby stirred Daragh slipped her finger inside the tiny flailing fist, smiling as Pavia grabbed tightly. "Stay strong," Daragh whispered, kissing her sister's warm head. She'd seen plants cling tenaciously to rocks, send out leaves from cracks of brick. If a plants could hold on and grow, so could her sister, no matter what her aunts said.
* * *
Daragh woke early one dark morning, listening to the stillness in the compound. Spring was coming, she knew that from the tender shoots forcing their way through the hard dirt. As she listened, she realized the wind had finally shifted as well. Instead of cold rain from the north, now it carried the wetness of the west.
In the dark, Daragh felt herself smile. There were so many hidden things she could show Pavia now, treasures of vines and roots that maybe Pavia would have sense to just look at and not grab with her fat baby fingers.
Excited, Daragh turned to pull Pavia closer to her, intending to scold her sister for scooting so far away and growing cold. It wasn't summer yet, and they both needed the warmth.
"So cold," Daragh muttered, pulling Pavia closer.
Pavia didn't wake, though. She didn't turn as she normally did, snuggling into her sister's warmth.
Now Daragh smelled the soiled bedclothes, the acrid vomit.
"Pavia?" Daragh called, shaking her strangely limp sister. "Pavia!"
Mama suddenly appeared next to Daragh's bed, carrying a lit oil lamp. She brought it close to Pavia's face.
The flickering light revealed Pavia's blue-tinted skin.
Mama gently unclenched Daragh's hands from around Pavia, then wrapped the soiled sheet around her baby, across her body, then over her face.
"No, Mama," Daragh denied, though her heart knew. It was like a great root had been ripped out of the center of her body, leaving her empty and sterile.
Mama started the mourning cry, harsh and echoing in the tiny alcove that held Daragh's bed. Daragh tried to join in, to pitch her voice just so, but her tears closed her throat and threw her out of tune. Her aunts picked up the balance, and they all mourned together.
At first light, Aunt Gita took ashes from the cold cooking fires and lined the arch to the courtyard, warning others of the grief inside. Daragh sat, listing in a corner, the warm spring breeze unable to touch her through her grief.
Mama took the day off from the mill, and the aunts refused all work. They gently cleaned and dressed Pavia, then wrapped her again in a long sheet, marked with blood and ash. Aunt Ramshi and Mama each carried an end between them, swinging it gently as they walked. Pavia would have loved the ride, Daragh knew.
Of course, they couldn't afford an individual fire. They were lucky, though—they arrived at the temple on the day of a mass burning, so they wouldn't have to wait.
Daragh kissed Pavia's forehead through the sheet, her tears choking any goodbyes she might have said.
Temple guards made all the petitioners walk around the side of the temple to the back, forcing them into a small fenced-off enclosure. On the far side lay a mound of bodies, built up over a pyre. Daragh stood on her toes and tried to see where Baby Pavia lay, wondering if the white sheet on the side was hers, or if she lay closer to the top.
An older priest with white hair shining against his red robes slowly walked out. He didn't even look at the people crushed together. He cast precious water onto the bodies, swinging his arm high, blessing them, even if Daragh couldn't hear the words over the crying and groaning surrounding her. Then he tottered off the way he'd come.
Two fire carriers stepped forward. They gestured at the bodies—a vague blessing—then each went to his end of the pyre. They nodded, knelt, and lit the compressed wood.
A howled cry of mourning filled the air. Daragh answered with her tears. Baby Pavia would never see this spring, or any other.
Strong temple guards stood at the gate of the enclosure, bulging arms crossed over their chests, prepared to stop any who tried to join the bodies already burning. But none did—grief held them in place.
Daragh could never tell if the fire burned the bodies quickly or slowly. The heat from it baked away her tears, leaving her even more empty than before.
As the fire died, Daragh felt people around start to shift, pressing forward. She pressed back, unwilling for the ceremony to be at an end. But no one could leave yet. The fire carriers stepped forward and doused the hot ash with cold ash, a grim cloud rising between them. They stirred the ashes carefully, respectfully, the most care anyone had taken that day.
When the ashes had finally cooled enough, the guards opened the gates. Partitioners tumbled through, scrambling to fill their urns.
Horrified, Daragh turned to Mama. "Do we—" She sagged with relief when Mama held up an empty, ornate cup. It had held Mama's silver rings, above the kitchen table. Daragh had shown it to Pavia once, and they'd both delighted in clear tones the metal had sung when they'd stroked the rim.
Together, Mama and Daragh went forward, flanked by the aunts, to claim their share of the cremation ash to bring home.
A flash of red brought them to a halt. A different priest stood there: though he also had white hair, he wasn't old and tottering. His dark eyes blazed and his skin looked parched from too much sun and fire. He was taller than Mama, who was taller than most men. "Go," he said, blocking their way.
Mama stubbornly stood her ground, holding up her cup in silent supplication.
The priest shook his head. "I shouldn't have let your dropping sully the others who took place in this sacred ceremony."
"She was my daughter," Mama said.
For the first time that day, Daragh heard tears choking her mother's throat.
The priest stood firm.
"She was my sister," Daragh said finally, taking the cup from Mama's now-drooping hand and stepping forward. She just wanted a pinch of ash, to hide with her tiny growing things. She couldn't show Pavia the spring, but it could still be all around her.
"This is the closest you'll ever get to a ceremonial fire, I promise you," the priest told Daragh directly.
Mama started the undulating mourning call, loud and clear, ringing through the air like the bells that warned of a dangerous storm approaching. Daragh joined her.
The aunts stayed silent, and remained so as they all made their way home, empty handed.
* * *
On Haram Tajbanu's feast day, Mama woke Daragh before dawn. The weather had stayed cold, and Daragh slipped on a heavy woven poncho over her tunic, and two pairs of pants under her skirt. She wound her hair up in a standard turban, a habit she'd started when they'd come back from Baby Pavia's cremation, just the previous week.
The world still seemed gray to Daragh, everything filtered through funeral ash. She walked silently next to Mama, only realizing where they were going when she saw the bright orange portico.
A line formed behind them quickly. Daragh shifted from one foot to the other, unsure that they should be at the Fire temple at all. But Mama stood still and proud, as if she didn't hear anyone whispering behind her.
Finally the morning bells sounded, sweet and clear in the cool air, and the temple guards opened the gate. Mama stepped forward with her two baskets held high, ready to receive the blessings of the priests who waited behind tables full of soft bread, the first ripe greens and rounds of cheese.
They couldn't deny Mama, not here on a feast day. No one was ever to be turned away.
Daragh alternated between feeling proud and being ashamed as Mama insisted on twice as much food as they would give anyone else.
On the way back to the compound, Mama told Daragh, "I'll never tell them your father's name. Or you."
"Why?"
"They'll just use it against you," Mama said. "It wouldn't be useful."
Daragh tried to think of how to explain that knowing who her father was might be useful to her. She was also curious—were her aunts right? Had he been a prince? But before she could think of anything, Mama added, "It's time for you go to work."
That didn't help clear the gray away at all.
* * *
Daragh stared. And stared and stared and stared. She watched the thread unwind from the bobbins for her loom then raced to replace each before they ran out. The whirring made her want to close her eyes. Her legs ached from standing still, never sitting. She held vigil over the loom. She didn't have a knack for telling when a thread might break, so she had to be extra cautious. She focused on the beautiful running colors, shutting out the still, dusty air of the factory, the constant clanking of the machinery, the stifling heat. She could do this, better than Mama or anyone else expected. She could be useful.
By the end of the first week Daragh had been graduated from a single loom to an entire row. For the first time she saw the other watchers, girls her age, who she might be able to talk with, now and again.
At the end of the day, Daragh stood in the dusty courtyard of the mill. The late afternoon sun beat down on her turbaned head. Two girls about her age stood a short way in front of her. They glanced behind them now and again, and Daragh had decided that the next time they looked back she'd wave.
The line inched forward. Sweat tricked down Daragh's back, gathering along the waistband of her skirt. She glanced surreptitiously at the courtyard wall. There was no place to keep a plant in the factory, no niche where she could hide one. But maybe here, in the courtyard, she could sneak in something green, greener than the silk she'd been watching grow.