Secret Sacrament (2 page)

T
REMBLING
,
THE BOY
crouched in the shadow of the bridge. He pressed his hot, wet face against the ancient stones and fought to stop the waves of nausea that swept through him. Behind him towered the vast outer wall of the city, crimson-drenched in the sunset. From cobbled roads far beyond the wall came the rumble of chariot and wagon wheels, and the neighing of horses. The whole city of Navora seemed to vibrate and boom within its walls, like a mighty heart preparing for the night. There was something ominous in that quiet thundering, and the boy shrank from it, pressing himself harder against the bridge. He discovered a deep crevice in the stones and squeezed himself into it. Hidden, safe for the moment, he wiped his grubby hands across his eyes and enjoyed a momentary respite from his troubles.

Glancing behind him, he saw the darker stones of the ancient northeast corner of the city, marking
the outer confines of the prison. The stones in these mighty prison ramparts had only slits for windows. On the wide crests of the walls guards walked, crossbows gleaming as the sunset struck them. The boy shivered, thinking of the stories he had heard about the inside of that place. People never came out, it was said, except to be buried or beheaded.

Turning from the prison, he scanned the evening skies and the deserted banks of the River Cravan. The setting sun struck his eyes, changing their vivid, translucent blue to violet. His fair hair shone with red-gold lights, and clung about his wary face in long, damp curls. Satisfied that he was alone, he settled more comfortably into his hiding place and listened to the river gurgling over the rocks as it tumbled, close to the shadowed east wall, on its way to the sea. He could smell the sea, if he sniffed hard; could smell the rank odor of the oyster shells piled two hundred years deep along the beach, and the salty air blowing in from the ocean. He loved the sea and loved the times his father took him out on the oyster boats. It was wonderful to watch the young men and women dive deep, deep into the murky waters, and come up again with string baskets full of rough oyster shells. Some of the oysters would be sold for food in the marketplace,
but many would be left in piles on the beach to putrefy. Much later Gabriel would sit on the beach with his father and watch the people remove the precious pearls from the soft rotting flesh.

“These little stones,” his father had once said, holding one up into the sun, “these are what began this great city of ours. One day, over two hundred years ago, a great navigator came to this land, and he found barbarian fisherfolk dwelling in caves under the cliffs, living off whatever the sea could provide. The fisherfolk traded with the navigator. For knives and bows and arrows, they gave him some of the strange, pale pearls they fished from the sea. The navigator took the pearls back to his own country and told of the distant land they came from, with its beautiful harbor and clean blue waters. Then other people sailed here, built a village on the harbor edge, and fished for the pearls themselves, trading them with passing ships. They became very wealthy, for the pearls were much prized. More people came, and more, and took over the harbor and the coast. The tiny village became a town. But the barbarians didn't want to share their fishing waters, and there was war between them and the newcomers. The barbarians lost and were driven away from the coast. The new town flourished. And now look at
Navora: the largest port in the world. Center of all trade, all knowledge, all wealth. Center of the Empire. And at the heart of it, a little pearl. Never forget that, Gabriel. It's what's at the heart of things that matters.”

Gabriel did not forget. But lately he had heard his father say that the oyster beds were becoming depleted, and the oyster business would not last much longer. Gabriel's mother wanted to go inland to farm or grow an orchard, but his father was determined to put his wealth into trading ships, and to sail to alien lands. There was seldom harmony between his parents now, and Gabriel and his three younger brothers were in trouble more times than they were out of it. They had learned to creep about unseen and unheard, but this evening they had landed in trouble with a crash that had shaken the whole house and brought the slaves running.

The boys had been playing with a ball inside, and Gabriel had got excited and thrown it so hard it bounced off a wall and toppled a marble statue from its pedestal. The statue had broken into pieces on the polished wooden floor. It was only a small image of the Empress Petra, but Gabriel's father treasured it. He had always said that if a slave ever broke the statue, the culprit would pay for it with his life. He had not said
what would happen if one of his own sons broke it, and Gabriel did not stay to find out. He had fled to this forbidden place outside the city walls, where even his father would never dream of looking for him. In this dangerous, desolate place, the river stank from the city's sewage, diseased beggars came to die, and women abandoned their unwanted newly-borns. Here the city's trash found its final home or was washed in the river's flow out to the beaches beyond, where it rotted in the sun, was picked clean by gulls, or was sucked out to sea by the tide. For one wild moment the boy thought of throwing himself into the river, risking drowning in the ocean rather than discipline from his father. He struggled to stand, but his quivering limbs shook so much, he sank back into the shadows, defeated. He began to sob again, very quietly. Then he heard a sound and held his breath.

Someone was moving down by the river. Small stones, dislodged, were tumbling down the steep bank. Someone was moving slowly, furtively. He crouched deeper into his nook, his heart pounding so loudly he thought the newcomer must surely hear it. But after a while the stealthy sounds stopped, and he heard only the swift flowing of the waters. Slowly, in total silence, he peered out around the old stones of the bridge.

A woman was down by the river, washing her hands and wrists in the water. She crouched in shade, for the sun had almost set behind the city. The river and opposite rocky shore were indistinct in the dusk. Past the shore the land rose steeply to the hills, purple as the night deepened, their upper slopes brushed with gold from the sun's last rays. On the highest hill, surrounded by the green of gardens and vineyards, shone the Citadel, institute of the most advanced knowledge in the world. Above it a full moon ascended, the color of apricot. A few stars were out.

The woman still crouched by the water, washing. In the waning light Gabriel could see that a chain or rope dangled from her wrists. She wore a single long brown garment, dull and roughly woven, unlike the shining silk and bright linen the city women wore; and her black hair fell unbound to her waist. For a few minutes she crouched there washing her hands and trying to remove whatever it was that had tied them.

From high on the rocky path leading from the city came the sound of men's voices and boisterous laughter. The woman leaped to her feet, and Gabriel cringed into his nook. He heard the men drawing nearer, talking and chuckling. Their voices were slurred, and they stumbled often on the uneven ground. There was a sound of someone
falling, and glass breaking on rock. A man swore, and others laughed. Then one of them mentioned the woman, and there was laughter again, as well as a few lewd comments. The men came nearer, and Gabriel could hear their boots slipping on the stones, and their heavy breathing as they struggled down the rocks to the river shore. As they passed his hiding place, he closed his eyes and held his breath. The odor of wine and stale sweat came to him on the still air. He heard them go on down to the water's edge. He heard the woman cry out, and stones scattering as people raced over them. The men were laughing and swearing. The woman yelled at them in an unknown language, her voice strong and defiant. There were sounds of running again, and stones being thrown. Then the woman screamed, and the men cheered. There was the sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard.

From the summit of the prison wall a guard shouted. The men by the river were silent. The woman called out once. The boy gathered up his courage. He looked upward, ready to call for help. But at that moment the guard was joined by another, and the two walked away to a different part of the prison roof. After a while the noises by the river continued. The male voices became low and brutal.

Gabriel covered his head with his arms. He could hardly breathe for terror. The sound of his own heart thundered in his ears, and he was certain the men would drag him out, too, and murder him. After a time he uncovered his ears and listened again. But they had not murdered her; the woman was still alive, for he could hear her groans and sobs. She was saying the same thing over and over again, her voice high and anguished:
“Kaath sharleema . . . Kaath sharleema . . .”
The men were mainly silent, but every now and again there was rough laughter, and the men applauded one another and used words Gabriel had never heard before. And all the time the woman moaned and begged, and said her strange words.

As the boy listened, sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes and trickled down his body until his woollen tunic was wet. He was trembling again and wanted to vomit. He wished he could not hear, and he was afraid not to. The sounds went on and on, until the night was black except for the cold silver splendor of the moon. Still the boy hid, not moving a muscle lest the men find him. He remained motionless in his hollow, even long after the men staggered back up the rocks and vanished through the narrow door at the base of the city wall.

The dawn sky was orange above the hills when
the boy slid out of his hiding place and began to creep across the stones toward the city wall. Then he stopped. The woman was still down by the river. She was moaning softly, sobbing and saying things in an alien tongue. He crept down to her. Then he stopped a short distance away, horrified.

In the glimmering dawn he saw that she was lying on her side, curled into herself. She was naked. They had cut off her long hair, and what was left stood up like dark spikes. She was quivering all over. Her back was bruised from the rocks, and her legs were smeared with blood. The boy moved around to stand in front of her. She heard him and cried out. Then she saw that it was a child, and she reached out a hand toward him. Her hands, too, had blood on them, and one of her arms was bent crookedly against her body. Bone protruded through the skin.

“Sharleema,”
she whispered.

Her hand was still outstretched, pleading. Her skin was deep olive, and she wore armbands of bone. Knotted tight about her wrists were the frayed remains of a rope. Her arms were stained with blood. Glancing at her face, the boy saw that her eyes were black and beautiful. Her features were unlike those of the women of the city. There was a wild, dark beauty about her, and the boy realized, with a shock, that she was of the
Shinali people, the barbarians who lived beyond the hills. He saw that her throat had been scratched with a knife, and blood trickled into the hollows of her shoulders and neck. Above her left breast was a strange spiraling mark, colored deep blue, and the stylized image of a bird.

“Tortan qui, sharleema,”
she entreated him, her voice breaking.

He backed away, stumbling. His feet were in the water, sinking into soft mud. He looked down and noticed, under the murky flow, the gleam of something white. He stooped and picked it up. It was a carving of some sort. Bone, threaded on a piece of severed leather thong. When the woman saw what he had found, she gave a frenzied cry and lunged toward him, gripping his ankle. She wept, saying things in her strange language. Terrified and bewildered, he pulled free and raced up the rocks to the city wall. Her agonized calls followed him. He did not stop. Sprinting along the narrow path at the top of the rocks, he fled through the same doorway the men had used earlier.

Along the dim streets he raced, sobbing and panting as if demons were after him. There were few people about. He sped between the deserted stalls of the fish and vegetable markets, past the narrow alleys where the poor lived, and along the
wider streets to the wealthier sector of the city. Here high walls guarded the courtyards of the rich, where fountains played and small trees in urns cast shadows over cobblestones. There were no gardens in Navora; the city was built of stone, on stone.

He came to his own wrought-iron gate and hammered on it. An elderly slave came out, his face creased with anxiety. Seeing who it was, the slave almost laughed in his relief. “Thank God you're alive, master!” he cried, drawing the bolts and swinging the gate open. “Your mother's beside herself with worry. Your father's been out all night looking for you, with sentries.”

Panting, Gabriel ran across the courtyard and sat on the seat between the pillars of the grand front porch, to remove his muddy sandals. Then he pushed open the front door and crept in. Shadows enveloped him, cooling his feverish skin. He stole between the great pillars of the foyer, past the grim marble bust of his grandfather, and the terrifying stuffed owl on the wall with its outstretched wings and menacing claws. He crept on, past the huge murals depicting Navoran ships being unloaded at the wharves. For a moment he stopped to look up at the pictures, glimmering and ghostly in the dawn. The ships towered over him, their misty sails furled, their dark hulls seeming to
heave on the shadowed tide. On the wharves their cargoes gleamed: precious silks, golden urns, statues, cages of exotic animals and birds, and heavily shackled slaves. Looking at the manacles on the slaves, Gabriel thought of the woman's hand reaching out to him, and the rope on her bleeding wrist. The painted slaves, too, were dark-skinned, their eyes large and beautiful and afraid. In the semidarkness the images on the wall blurred and changed, looming and vanishing like people in a dark mist. The eyes of the slaves were fixed on him, moving when he moved, pleading with him. It seemed that even their voices called to him. Suddenly he cried out and ran.