The Crippled God

once
But now we are ghosts in the dreams
Of the living.
Rutt holds a baby in a bag
And Held remembers everything
But will not speak, not to us.
Held dreams of twigs and stones
And knows what they are .
     
    She thought to give Saddic these words, knowing he would hide them in the story he was telling behind his eyes, and then it occurred to her that he didn’t need to hear to know, and the story he was telling was beyond the reach of anyone. I am trapped in his story. I have flown in the sky, but the sky is the dome of Saddic’s skull, and there is no way out. Look at him studying his things, see the confusion on his face. A thin face. Hollowed face. Face waiting to be filled, but it will never be filled . ‘Icarias fills our bellies,’ she said, ‘and starves everything else.’
    Saddic looked up, met her eyes, and then looked away. Sounds from the window, voices in the square below. Families were taking root, sliding into the crystal walls and ceilings, the floors and chambers. Older boys became pretend-fathers, older girls became pretend-mothers, the young ones scampered but never for long – they’d run, as if struck with excitement, only to falter after a few steps, faces darkening with confusion and fear as they ran back to find shelter in their parents’ arms.
    This is the evil of remembering .
    ‘We can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘Someone is seeking us. We need to go and find them. Rutt knows. That’s why he walks to the end of the city and stares into the west. He knows.’
    Saddic began collecting his things. Into his little bag. Like a boy who’d caught something out of the corner of his eye, only to find nothing when he turned.
    If you can’t remember it’s because you never had what it is you’re trying to remember. Saddic, we’ve run out of gifts. Don’t lie to fill up your past . ‘I don’t like your things, Saddic.’
    He seemed to shrink inside himself and would not meet her eyes as he tied up the bag and tucked it inside his tattered shirt.
    I don’t like them. They hurt .
    ‘I’m going to find Rutt. We need to get ready. Icarias is killing us.’
    ‘I knew a woman once, in my village. Married. Her husband was a man you wanted, like a hot stone in your gut. She’d walk with him, a stepbehind, down the main track between the huts. She’d walk and she’d stare right at me all the way. You know why? She was staring at me to keep me from staring at him. We are really nothing but apes, hairless apes. When she’s not looking, I’ll piss in her grass nest – that’s what I decided. And I’d do more than that. I’d seduce her man. I’d break him. His honour, his integrity, his honesty. I’d break him between my legs. So when she walked with him through the village, she’d do anything but meet my eyes. Anything.’
    With that, Kisswhere reached for the jug.
    The Gilk Warchief, Spax, studied her from beneath a lowered brow. And then he belched. ‘How dangerous is love, hey?’
    ‘Who said anything about love?’ she retorted with a loose gesture from the hand holding the jug. ‘It’s all about possession. And stealing. That’s what makes a woman wet, what makes her eyes shine. ’Ware the dark streak in a woman’s soul.’
    ‘Men have their own,’ he muttered.
    She drank, and then swung the jug back to his waiting hand. ‘Different.’
    ‘Mostly, aye. But then, maybe not.’ He swallowed down a mouthful, wiped his beard. ‘Possession only counts for too much in a man afraid of losing whatever he has. If he’s settled he doesn’t need to own, but then how many of us are settled? Few, I’d wager. We’re restless enough, and the older we get, the more restless we are. The misery is, the one thing an old man wants to possess the most is the one thing he can’t have.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘Add a couple of decades to that man in the village and his wife won’t have to stare into any rival’s eyes.’
    She grunted, collected up her stick and pushed it beneath the splints binding her leg. Scratched vigorously. ‘Whatever happened to decent healing?’
    ‘They’re saying magic’s damn near dead in these lands. How nimble are you?’
    ‘Nimble enough.’
    ‘How drunk are you?’
    ‘Drunk enough.’
    ‘Just what a man twice her age wants to hear from a woman.’
    A figure stepped into the firelight. ‘Warchief, the queen summons you.’
    Sighing, Spax rose. To Kisswhere he said, ‘Hold that thought.’
    ‘Doesn’t work that way,’ she replied.