Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (35 page)

He stared in fascination at the
creature’s phallus. It was several times the size of an ordinary
har’s ouana-lim, both in length and girth, and it pulsed and
throbbed as if imbued with a separate life of its own. Petals
furled and unfurled at its tip, as if in anticipation, and enclosed
within the blossoming velvet, one long tendril could be seen
flicking outwards, like the tongue of a snake.

Terzian remembered a dream he
had once had, of a nameless, faceless har, hot between his legs,
sliding endlessly into him, again and again, reaching into
somewhere so deep inside him he could not put a name to it. He lay
down on his back and drew his legs up, grasping his own ankles,
resisting the urge to slip his own fingers into himself and feel
the wetness there, to touch the hardened and prominent swellings
inside him, within easy reach of his searching fingertips. He
wanted more than that. Much more.

The creature – Demon or God, or
whatever it was – knelt down between his opened legs and guided its
massive ouana-lim to the entrance to his body. It teased him with a
few gentle strokes, causing his soume-lam to grasp and claw
futilely at empty air, before bearing down mercilessly into him

Terzian gasped aloud. A searing
pain seemed to run the full length of his body, from his crotch to
his breastbone. He experienced a moment of fear, wondering if the
creature’s size would damage him and tear his flesh, but the pain
was followed almost instantly by an ecstasy so intense he found
that he could not breath. Motes of light danced in front of his
eyes, tiny explosions of colour and movement.

After a while, he found he
could no longer tell if what he was experiencing was pain or
pleasure; it was merely a sensation so overwhelming that he could
do nothing but ride it to its inevitable conclusion. Every time the
creature moved inside him, he could feel it pulling and stretching
him, tugging at his flesh, and at something else, deep within him,
something vital and living. It felt as if his entire viscera were
being slowly pulled from him, one agonizing piece at a time.

Something warm and wet ran down
his face, and he managed to raise one hand to wipe it away. He
thought it must be blood. That, and the hot liquid escaping between
his legs. It must be his lifeblood, leaking from him, slowly and
inexorably, leaving him empty and dying. More liquid spilled down
his face, from his eyes, clear liquid, and he realised it was not
blood, but he could not remember what it was, could not remember
ever experiencing this before.

He could no longer hold on to
himself. His body split itself asunder, erupting with liquid fire.
Deep within, he felt the tongue lash out and strike him in his
rawest nerve, and hold and grasp that nerve, and then he felt the
GodDemonCreature begin its long, agonizing withdrawal, and with it
went something of himself, something soft, something vulnerable,
pulled and pulled from him, until he thought it would never cease,
stretching to the breaking point, tearing free. Leaving. Leaving
him. Leaving him empty.

Leaving him with nothing but
the wet liquid on his face which he found to his surprise, as he
raised his trembling hands to his face, was only tears.

Extract from Terzian’s diary,
found amount his private papers after his death.

The next morning, when we
returned to the town, we found it deserted. All the humans had
fled, and we made our way past the burnt-out barricades and broken
glass of the previous evening and into the narrow streets in an
eerie silence, cautious and expecting a trap or an ambush at any
moment. It never came.

Eventually we found one
inhabitant, cowering in a cellar and raving to himself. He spoke of
demons and fire and death, and the look in his eyes was of such
terror that I cannot even begin to describe, however there is no
sign of any damage to the houses, either by fire or other means. I
think it is all in his mind, or what there is left of it. Ponclast
thinks he is of an age to be incepted, but I do no not want the
taint of madness among our tribe. I will decide his fate within the
next few days.

We gathered up the bodies of
our fallen comrades and burned them. Among the dead I recognized
Lirren and his companion, Moth. As their bodies were found some
distance from each other, I consider it unlikely that they died
together.

We have named the town Galhea.
There is food in abundance here and fuel for the winter. The houses
are simply furnished, but in good repair. Already our hara have
started making them their own. It is good to see the improvement in
morale that has resulted from this turn of events.

Defence must now be our first
priority – we have a substantial prize in our grasp and it is not
beyond the bounds of possibility that others may attempt to take it
from us.

We need to become more
organized, less self-indulgent. I am instigating a number of
measures which will improve our efficiency by allocating jobs on
the basis of ability; those who are strongest and best able to
fight will be our front line. Those who cannot will be given other
more domestic tasks. It is only logical, given our current
precarious circumstances.

In a somewhat surprising twist,
many of the fighting hara have cut their hair short, after my own
recent fashion. They think that our victory was in some way due to
this. Or perhaps they are trying to gain my favour through
flattery. Either way, I think this is a welcome development. It
provides them with a badge of solidarity and comradeship, and is
quite practical for those engaged in active lifestyles, although it
does not matter so much for the domestic hara.

Yesterday morning, I inspected
the troops. They are a rough bunch, still, but I can see an
improvement already in their discipline and team spirit. As they
stood there, lined up in their ranks, standing to attention, I felt
a surge of pride in them, and as I gazed along those newly formed
regiments, I felt what I can only describe as an intense connection
to ages passed. Perhaps this is a strange thing to say, given that
we have turned our backs so firmly on the past, locking and bolting
and barricading that door with the cut of the inception knife, but
in those proud soldiers-in-the-making I could see the ghost of
every army that had ever trodden the earth. The empires of old,
forged with the blood and sinew of their fighting troops.

We will be the new empire; our
feet will shake the world as loudly as any that came before us, and
more. This is our beginning. We are the Varrs – that is the name we
have taken for ourselves. We are the future; it is ours for the
taking.

As for myself, I have taken
possession of a large house at the far end of the town. It has some
history to it, that much is obvious. The furnishings are elegant –
it promises a lifestyle of some luxury, and while I do most
certainly appreciate that after the way I have lived these past few
years, I must be careful not to allow myself to be seduced by the
easy comforts it offers. It will require staff to run the place
efficiently – there is a har called Ithiel whom I think would make
a good steward; I shall inform him of his new position later
today.

I am hopeful that some of the
human women may still be found and given positions of domestic
service. Also, if there are any young males of sound mind and body,
we should have them incepted. There are too few of us. We number
barely a thousand, and this town once had a population of several
times that. We need to increase our numbers.

Ponclast claims to have another
solution to this problem, and as is often the case with Ponclast,
this is of the more esoteric variety. He is of the opinion that we
should breed.

I must confess that this is not
something I had given much thought to. It seems obvious that this
is possible – we are true hermaphrodites, dissection of cadavers
has proven the existence of internal reproductive organs – but we
are sorely lacking in any knowledge of how this might be brought
about. It is abundantly clear that merely taking aruna does not
cause conception, or our population problem would be solved
instantly.

Ponclast insists we must
experiment. Having had experience of Ponclast’s “experiments,” I am
in little hurry to discover what he has in mind this time.

I have spoken to no one of the
events of three nights ago, nor shall I ever. I am still not sure I
understand exactly what occurred within that circle. Ponclast saw
everything that happened, but he is the only one who knows, and I
intend for it stay that way. He will not be living at the house
with me – he intends to move further afield so that he might
continue his experiments in private. I think this is probably for
the best. We are bound to each other now, in some strange way. We
know each other’s most intimate secrets. We have seen each other’s
demons.

I do not think this is
necessarily a good thing, but it is a fact, and we must live with
it as best we may.

Whether what I have done is for
good for ill, there is no point in worrying over it. It is done,
and cannot be undone. It is over. And yet – it still haunts my
thoughts if I allow it the space to do so, and a sense of dread
comes over me, although of what, I cannot say.

Last night I was standing in
the hallway of the Great House, with its dark, polished wood, and
long staircase leading to the upper rooms. There was little in the
way of lighting – we are conserving oil and candles as much as
possible until we can begin producing our own – and the shadows
seemed oppressive.

Just for a moment, at the top
of the stairs, I thought I saw a har. He should not have been
there, for I am the house’s only occupant at the moment, so I
called out to him, but he did not reply. I looked again, peering
into the darkness, and he was gone.

In the light of morning, I
could laugh at myself for being so fanciful were it not for the
memory of the har’s face. The vision is fading, but in my mind I
can see him still, faintly, through the gloom, a strange, ethereal
figure at the top of the stairs, familiar with the place, as if
this was his home. He had yellow-gold hair and violet eyes. When I
think of him, a sense of foreboding comes over me that I cannot
explain and cannot run from. The darkness approaches.

May the Aghama have mercy upon
my soul.

Song of the
Sulh

Maria J. Leel

Raven sat in a tree high on a
wooded hillside. A young Mountain People tribesman just shy of his
twentieth birthday, gawky adolescence had long given way to lean,
powerful assurance. The Place of Blue Smoke was the ancient name
his people had given these rugged, convoluted mountains. Water
vapour and oily residues from the forests combined, draping the
peaks and valleys with smoky tendrils of hazy-blue fog.

What light filtered down
through the forest reflected from Raven’s burnished, red-gold skin
only to be swallowed whole by the skein of long, dark hair that
hung like a cloak about his shoulders. No glimmer or reflection
betrayed him as he sat still and silent watching those below him.
There had been no flicker of movement from him in over two hours.
Nothing to suggest he was there. Inside he seethed and thrummed
with barely contained hatred.

Wraeththu.

The Incomers.

The Interlopers.

Raven’s tribe, the Mountain
People, had lived with the impact of such interlopers for
generations. For years his people had lived peaceably within the
natural laws of their homeland. They followed the rhythm of the
seasons and lived as subjects – not conquerors – of the land that
supported them.

Then the first interlopers had
come. Humans like themselves. They brought with them new
technologies, new attitudes and above all the desire for mastery –
not of themselves, as was the Mountain People’s way, but of the
land and her people.

Raven’s people had been driven
off their lands, their beliefs and way of life pushed to the rawest
edges of bare survival.

Then the world began to change.
Society began to break down. Wars erupted all over the globe and,
sensing her chance, the land began to fight back too; hurricanes,
volcanoes, floods, fires and pestilence. The Interlopers and their
ways looked doomed to ancient memory. The Mountain People rejoiced.
Hope flared in their hearts. It would be their time again, time for
them to reclaim their gentle relationship with the land.

But it was not to be. The hope
was short lived. The creeping madness affecting the Interlopers did
not discriminate. It took Mountain People along with their
oppressors. Raven’s own father succumbed, as did many of the older
male tribesmen. Only the women and the young men appeared to escape
it. But then the women stopped being able to have babies and the
number of tribe’s children dwindled.

Then along came the new
Interlopers.

Wraeththu.

For years there had been
rumours of gangs in the cities. Whispers on the breeze of wild boys
involved in crazy cults; stealing boys away from their families,
changing them somehow, making them inhuman, making them hate
humans.

That they had sex among
themselves was neither shocking nor unnatural to the Mountain
People. They had long understood the androgynous nature of the soul
and regarded homosexuals as “two-spirited” individuals to be
revered. Raven himself had experienced sexual encounters with both
males and females.

What did seem unnatural and
shocking to Raven’s people was that there appeared no place for
women as this brave new world was forged. To them men and women
were part of the circle of life, no one part more important than
the other and no one part able to exist without the other. As
Wraeththu increased in number, the tribe mourned the loss of women
as much as they mourned the loss of the Mountain People and their
ways.