Nightpeople
Book One of the Darklands Trilogy
and
“Young Adult Friction: The Blurring of Adolescence and Adulthood as
Reflected in Australian Young Adult Literature,
1982 – 2006”
Anthony Eaton
Student Number 19018381
Thesis submitted in fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
English and Cultural Studies
School of Social and Cultural Studies
The University of Western Australia
March 2007
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Declaration
(this page is an inserted document)
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Abstract
Novel: Nightpeople
Nightpeople is a speculative fiction novel, the first of a trilogy that
attempts to pull together a number of distinct threads and goals into one
overarching narrative.
A major objective of this project was to produce a work of speculative
fiction that has a specifically Australian flavour to it. It can be argued that
much writing in the speculative fiction genres utilises worlds that are either
completely ‗other‘, or are based to varying degrees upon northern
hemisphere cultures. Nightpeople is intended to evoke a specifically
Antipodean feel and it achieves this through both the selection of
atmospherics and language – the extrapolation of Australian idiom out to a
foreseeable future form, for example, and through selection of its driving
themes and ideas. Issues of race, land, belonging, identity, and paternalism
in government are all touched upon in the apocalyptic desert landscape of
this novel.
Another key objective was to produce a work of fiction with equal
appeal to both teenage and adult readers. Stylistically, this is achieved
through the use of the speculative fiction style of narrative, which is widely
read by a broad demographic.
Thesis: ―Young Adult Friction: The Blurring of Adolescence and
Adulthood as Reflected in Australian Young Adult Literature 1982 – 2006‖
This is a broad study of current directions in the publishing and
awarding of ‗Young Adult‘ fiction within the Australian marketplace. The
dissertation suggests that this particular area of writing is currently
undergoing a fundamental shift in the way it is perceived by both those
practicing within it, and also by the wider community, making it
increasingly acceptable for writers in this area to write to an older, more
sophisticated readership than previously.
The dissertation draws upon a broad statistical analysis of this field
over the course of the last twenty years to determine the current trends in
style and content being published, and upon a critical/analytical component,
which examines several key contemporary writers and texts in more detail.
-6–
Acknowledgements
This thesis could not have been completed without the assistance and
support of a huge number of people.
I would particularly like to acknowledge the invaluable support of:

My supervisor at the University of Western Australia, Associate
Professor Van Ikin, for his time, expertise, and assistance right from
the earliest conception of this project.

My editor at the University of Queensland Press, Ms. Leonie Tyle,
who put her faith in my writing ability, and has stood firmly behind
my every project, no matter how ambitious or outlandish.

My parents for their unflagging support and assistance.

The numerous people who have proof-read various drafts of this
thesis, and offered valuable insights and suggestions throughout the
writing and re-writing process, particularly Ms Rayma Turton, and
Mr Rowan Parker.

And finally my wife, Imogen, for all this and much more.
-7–
Table of Contents
Creative Component:
Nightpeople, Book One of the Darklands Trilogy ……………………….... 9
Dissertation Component:
―Young Adult Friction – The Blurring of Adolescence and
Adulthood as Reflected in Australian Young Adult Literature,
1982 – 2006‖ …………………………………………….……….……. 304
One: The ‗Young Adult‘ Problem ……………..…….……….. 305
Two: Broad Trends …………………………………………… 323
Three: Markus Zusak ……………………………………….… 331
Four: David Metzenthen …………………………..………….. 363
Five: Sonya Hartnett ……………………………....………..… 372
Six: Conclusions and Reflections ………………....………….. 388
Appendix One:
Short-listed, Commended and Winning Titles in the
Children‘s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year:
Older Readers Category, 1982 – 2006 ………………..…..…………..... 392
Appendix Two: Statistical Significance and Impact of
Authors in the CBCA Book of the Year: Older Readers
Category, 1982 – 2006 ………………………………………………… 398
Table 2.1 - Raw Data: Short-Listings, Honour Books,
and Wins sorted by Year of first Short Listing ………….…… 398
Table 2.2 - Overall Success (unweighted):
Data sorted by ‗Success Rating‘ ……………………………… 402
Table 2.3 – Recent Impact: Data weighted towards
recent listings, commendations and wins, sorted by
‗Recent Impact‘ ………………………………………………. 406
Bibliography …………………………………………………………... 410
-8–
-5–
Abstract
Novel: Nightpeople
Nightpeople is a speculative fiction novel, the first of a trilogy that
attempts to pull together a number of distinct threads and goals into one
overarching narrative.
A major objective of this project was to produce a work of speculative
fiction that has a specifically Australian flavour to it. It can be argued that
much writing in the speculative fiction genres utilises worlds that are either
completely ‗other‘, or are based to varying degrees upon northern
hemisphere cultures. Nightpeople is intended to evoke a specifically
Antipodean feel and it achieves this through both the selection of
atmospherics and language – the extrapolation of Australian idiom out to a
foreseeable future form, for example, and through selection of its driving
themes and ideas. Issues of race, land, belonging, identity, and paternalism
in government are all touched upon in the apocalyptic desert landscape of
this novel.
Another key objective was to produce a work of fiction with equal
appeal to both teenage and adult readers. Stylistically, this is achieved
through the use of the speculative fiction style of narrative, which is widely
read by a broad demographic.
Thesis: ―Young Adult Friction: The Blurring of Adolescence and
Adulthood as Reflected in Australian Young Adult Literature 1982 – 2006‖
This is a broad study of current directions in the publishing and
awarding of ‗Young Adult‘ fiction within the Australian marketplace. The
dissertation suggests that this particular area of writing is currently
undergoing a fundamental shift in the way it is perceived by both those
practicing within it, and also by the wider community, making it
increasingly acceptable for writers in this area to write to an older, more
sophisticated readership than previously.
The dissertation draws upon a broad statistical analysis of this field
over the course of the last twenty years to determine the current trends in
style and content being published, and upon a critical/analytical component,
which examines several key contemporary writers and texts in more detail.
-6–
Acknowledgements
This thesis could not have been completed without the assistance and
support of a huge number of people.
I would particularly like to acknowledge the invaluable support of:

My supervisor at the University of Western Australia, Associate
Professor Van Ikin, for his time, expertise, and assistance right from
the earliest conception of this project.

My editor at the University of Queensland Press, Ms. Leonie Tyle,
who put her faith in my writing ability, and has stood firmly behind
my every project, no matter how ambitious or outlandish.

My parents for their unflagging support and assistance.

The numerous people who have proof-read various drafts of this
thesis, and offered valuable insights and suggestions throughout the
writing and re-writing process, particularly Ms Rayma Turton, and
Mr Rowan Parker.

And finally my wife, Imogen, for all this and much more.
-7–
Table of Contents
Creative Component:
Nightpeople, Book One of the Darklands Trilogy ……………………….... 9
Dissertation Component:
―Young Adult Friction – The Blurring of Adolescence and
Adulthood as Reflected in Australian Young Adult Literature,
1982 – 2006‖ …………………………………………….……….……. 304
One: The ‗Young Adult‘ Problem ……………..…….……….. 305
Two: Broad Trends …………………………………………… 323
Three: Markus Zusak ……………………………………….… 331
Four: David Metzenthen …………………………..………….. 363
Five: Sonya Hartnett ……………………………....………..… 372
Six: Conclusions and Reflections ………………....………….. 388
Appendix One:
Short-listed, Commended and Winning Titles in the
Children‘s Book Council of Australia Book of the Year:
Older Readers Category, 1982 – 2006 ………………..…..…………..... 392
Appendix Two: Statistical Significance and Impact of
Authors in the CBCA Book of the Year: Older Readers
Category, 1982 – 2006 ………………………………………………… 398
Table 2.1 - Raw Data: Short-Listings, Honour Books,
and Wins sorted by Year of first Short Listing ………….…… 398
Table 2.2 - Overall Success (unweighted):
Data sorted by ‗Success Rating‘ ……………………………… 402
Table 2.3 – Recent Impact: Data weighted towards
recent listings, commendations and wins, sorted by
‗Recent Impact‘ ………………………………………………. 406
Bibliography …………………………………………………………... 410
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Nightpeople.
Book One of the Darklands Trilogy
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A Birth.
The mother was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and the
birth difficult. As the sun slunk into the horizon and desert night fell across
the dusty shacks of Woormra, her cries echoed through the tin-lined streets.
It had been so many years since the last birthing that there were few who
could remember the rituals: the boiling of water, the tearing of rags.
Dreamer Wanji, summoned by the poor girl‘s screams, hurried towards the
hut.
The hut was like all the others, iron and tin scrounged from times
before, propped and held together with whatever was available. Ducking his
head through the low mantle of the empty doorway, he paused. In the centre
of the room a fire flickered in a stone ring, throwing ghostly spirit-shadows
on iron walls. The girl huddled, distended and sweaty, on an old blanket
spread on the dirt floor, two women attending her in her agony.
‗How is she?‘
One woman shrugged. ‗We don‘t know. We‘ve never had to do this.‘
‗Will she survive?‘
‗Perhaps.‘
‗And the baby?‘
The woman‘s expression told him all he needed to know. Dreamer
Wanji left the smoky confines and stepped again into the twilight. Beyond
the town the sands of the desert glowed primal red, as they did every night,
lit from afar by the reflected light of sunset.
‗Dariand!‘
A young man, not much older than the girl, stepped from between two
huts across the way.
‗Yes, Dreamer?‘
‗Build the fire.‘
Without another word, Dariand disappeared back into the shadows.
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The girl‘s screams were coming closer together now and her breathing
grew fast and shallow. Dreamer Wanji re-entered the hut and crouched
beside her, even that simple movement difficult with his stiffening limbs.
‗Jani.‘
Through tear-stained eyes, the girl turned her gaze to him.
‗Be strong now. You know what this means.‘
‗Yes, Dreamer.‘
Another contraction wracked her body and she grabbed his hand. The
strength of her grip shocked the old man, but he said nothing until the spasm
eased.
‗Dreamer?‘
‗Yes, Jani?‘
‗Will they come?‘
‗They always do.‘
‗Will there be a fire?‘
‗Yes.‘
The girl flopped back onto the filthy blanket and turned her head
away.
‗Go now, Dreamer.‘ One of the women took his shoulder and eased
the old man gently to his feet. ‗This is no place for men. Go and summon
the council.‘
‗You must call me when it is done. We will not have time to waste.‘
‗I will come immediately.‘
Satisfied, Dreamer Wanji nodded and left. Already Dariand had built a
large pile of precious wood, twigs and logs in the dirt clearing.
‗It seems such a waste.‘
‗It is necessary.‘
‗But wood?‘
‗It is the only thing that will burn with enough heat. Dung burns too
cold.‘
‗I know, Dreamer.‘
The two men stood, silent and watchful, as the countless lights of the
vault started to appear in the skies. There was the Gatherer, the Listener, the
Watercourse.
‗Is this a good night, Dreamer?‘
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The old man didn‘t answer immediately, but pointed to a cluster on
the daywards horizon.
‗Do you see that group?‘
‗Where?‘
‗Above and nightwards of the treeline, below and daywards of the
Traveller.‘
Dariand followed the old man‘s directions, squinting to distinguish the
clusters from one another. Finally he saw them: three bright vaultlights
arranged in a long triangle.
‗What are they, Dreamer?‘
‗They are new.‘
‗New?‘
‗Or perhaps old. Very old. Though I have never noticed them before.
So for us, and for tonight, they are new.‘
The two stood studying the three gleaming pinpricks of light. In the
hut behind them the girl moaned through another set of contractions.
‗They will be called ―The Child‖.‘
Dariand nodded his agreement.
‗Let us hope they will be good lights for this one.‘ The girl‘s cries
climbed a slow crescendo to a new level. ‗You should go and get the
stones.‘
‗I have them already.‘ The younger man produced two flat grey rocks
from within the folds of his top.
‗And the bundle?‘
‗Already in the hut.‘
‗Then light the fire. I do not think we will have long to wait.‘
Sparks flew when Dariand hit the stones against one another. These he
directed into a small clump of dried desert weed. As the tiny flickers took
hold and the larger twigs began to burn, he crouched low and blew, fanning
the growing flames with gentle breaths.
‗There.‘
The fire grew with alarming rapidity. From the surrounding huts, the
other inhabitants of Woormra emerged into the night, drawn by the warmth
and power of the pyre. None spoke, but all stood in a silent ring and listened
as the hiss and crackle of the flames blended with the birth agonies of the
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girl.
Suddenly, one of the sounds ceased abruptly and Dreamer Wanji
nodded to Dariand, who threw more logs into the inferno, driving the flames
higher until they cast spitting, sparking tongues of light into the air, the red
flickers scorching the night vault.
One of the women emerged from the hut and angled across the dirt
street towards Dreamer Wanji and Dariand.
‗Yes,‘ was all she said.
Without another word, the two men followed her back into the hut. A
new sound had started to emanate from the dark doorway: not the agonised
throes of a birthing but the high-pitched wail of a newborn. At the sound,
several of those standing by the fire dropped their gazes to the sandy
ground. Someone began to weep quietly. No one smiled.
The air inside was heavy with the smell of sweat, smoke and blood.
On the blanket lay an exhausted Jani, a ragged bundle clutched to her breast.
The dancing light from the small fire lent a warm glow to the scene. Gently
the old Dreamer knelt beside the new mother.
‗What is it?‘
Jani smiled. ‗A girl.‘
‗Is she …‘ There was no need for the old man to complete the
question.
‗Yes. Perfect.‘
And for the first time that night, Dreamer Wanji allowed the faintest
hint of a smile to creep to the corners of his eyes.
‗I am proud of you, Jani.‘
‗Thank you, Dreamer.‘
‗You know what has to happen now?‘
The girl nodded. The old man placed a tired hand on her shoulder.
‗Then look your last, because we do not have much time.‘
The girl looked deep into the eyes of the baby in her arms, then lifted
her gaze briefly to stare out through the door to where the flames of the
bonfire could be seen roaring in the street outside, and then dropped her
gaze again to the child. One finger traced gently around the small, blotchy
face, brushing over tiny features half her own, then she bent and whispered
the baby‘s name into its ear before surrendering it to the waiting arms of
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Dreamer Wanji.
Outside, the night was torn apart by the leaping pyre. When the old
man emerged with a tiny bundle clutched to his chest, all eyes turned to
him. He shook his head sadly.
‗A girl, stillborn.‘
A wail started and was quickly taken up until the keening of the
townspeople blended with the hollow snarl of the fire to form a new sound
which echoed around the tin shacks until it seemed to shake the very
foundations of the earth. The old man stepped forward, moving as near as he
dared to the flames, and when the searing barrier of heat prevented him
coming any closer, he raised the bundle high above his head, paused, then
hurled it into the inferno.
Slowly, the keening died, Dreamer Wanji stepped back, and the
people of Woormra stood and kept vigil over the slow death of the fire. It
was not halfway to extinction when the entire clearing was bathed in harsh
white light, accompanied by a pervasive high-pitched hum. Suddenly the air
was filled with movement, gleaming shadows darting behind dazzling
nightsuns.
The townspeople, afraid, backed away from the embers and huddled
as if the shared mass of their bodies would shield them from the shapes that
slid slowly to the ground. Dreamer Wanji stepped alone to the front of the
group and stood beside the doorway of the birthhouse.
In the light from the nightsuns the glow of the flames was washed into
pale nothingness, and as the last of the hummers settled onto the dirt their
noise dropped until it was little more than a background murmur, deep and
soft, which the people felt through the soles of their bare feet rather than
heard.
From out of the glare, a figure stepped forward and only Dreamer
Wanji did not cower away from it.
‗Where is it?‘
The voice was tinny, the language stilted. Nightpeople always
sounded like that.
‗There.‘ Dreamer Wanji pointed to the embers.
‗It was dead?‘
As the figure moved, the light reflected shimmering colours off its
- 15 –
silver skin.
‗Stillborn.‘
‗And you burnt it?‘
The Nightperson stepped closer to Dreamer Wanji, so close that the
dark, opalescent smoothness of its face reflected clearly the fear written in
the old man‘s expression.
‗It was … impure.‘
It was hard to be certain, but the creature seemed to sigh.
‗And so it was destroyed?‘
Fear coursed through the old man‘s limbs, running like water into his
bowels and bladder, but he forced himself to stand as straight as he could
and return the stare.
‗It is our way.‘
‗We know.‘ The Nightperson shook its head slowly. ‗We know.
Where is the mother?‘
‗In there.‘
Dreamer Wanji nodded at the hut and the figure waved a gloved hand.
Two more Nightpeople slid from behind the glare of the nightsuns and
entered the hut, emerging a minute or two later with the prone figure of Jani
suspended between them, her feet dragging lifelessly and leaving two
shallow ruts in the red dirt.
‗Dreamer Wanji?‘
It might have been his imagination, but Dreamer Wanji thought he
heard something odd, vaguely feminine, in the tinny voice.
‗Yeah?‘
‗We will be watching.‘
The Nightperson slid back into its corona of light and the hummers
lifted into the air. They hung suspended above Woormra, illuminating the
squalid township in cold, unforgiving luminosity, and then as one they slid
away nightwards.
‗Dreamer?‘ someone asked hesitantly.
The old man turned to face his neighbours.
‗It is done.‘
Some way outside the town, crouched low beneath a large clump of
desert weed, Dariand watched the nightsuns fade into the horizon. He
- 16 –
waited for several minutes before standing and lifting the tiny baby, swathed
now in warm skins, gently from the ground beside him. The child gurgled as
if to cry, but she was tired from the ordeal of her birth and quickly fell back
into newborn sleep. Around him, Dariand was aware of the familiar sounds
of the night desert, the click of insects.
He settled the baby girl into a soft sling made from roo-hide, slung it
around his neck, and, humming to himself, he set off daywards, using the
new vault cluster of the Child as his guide and leaving the dull glow of
Woormra directly behind.
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ONE.
The shadows of late afternoon stretched long across the rocky
outcrops of the valley. Already the far rim, the nightside, was in near
darkness, while the dayside ridge, catching the evening rays, glowed
brightly. Down by the creek, crouched between two eucalypts, Saria found
the lizard.
It lay still in the lee of a cooling boulder, almost invisible in the
deepening gloom. At this time of day, caught in the shadows, it was indolent
and lazy, preparing to curl up in a rock hollow for the night. Saria sighed.
She had been hoping to find a snake, or, even better, a warmblood, a roo or
a rock-hopper. They were always more interesting, more active, but now
even they were becoming rare, so the lizard would have to do.
Gently she eased to the ground, stretching to lie full length, her eyes
locked always on those of the tiny reptile. The warmth of the earth, baked
all day in the glare of the sun, flowed up through her thin tunic and into the
bare skin of her legs and arms. The lizard stayed still and unworried and she
wriggled forward slowly until she was poised just a few inches from its
blunt snout.
This close she could see clearly the patterns in its scaled face, the
dark, limpid pools of its eyes, the black bush ticks clinging to its neck. Saria
let herself fill with earthwarmth, feeling it start to flow through her body,
making her fingertips tingle and her breathing slow and deepen.
And when the energy was flowing fast and strong, Saria closed her
eyes and ‗reached‘.
It was hard to find. Coldbloods always were. Gently, not wanting to
risk alarming the animal‘s primal instincts, Saria pushed her mind slowly
out, probing into the consciousness of the lethargic reptile, searching out
that vague, life spark deep inside. It took some time before she realised it
was right there in front of her. Lizards could be like that. Once she found it,
though, it was a simple matter to stretch her mind just a little further and
meld it with that tiny glowing consciousness. As she did so, Saria felt her
own mind slip away and the warm energy flowing through her body become
strangely remote.
Total stillness, reptilian patience. Now she was one with the lizard, its
- 18 –
senses her senses, and finally Saria could feel the world properly, the earth
around them. Riding on the lizard‘s consciousness like this, she could ‗see‘
herself lying there, motionless, but her touch against the reptile‘s mind was
so natural, so driven by earthwarmth, that her own body through the lizard‘s
senses seemed as normal as the rocks and trees.
The creek was so close that its gentle gurgle filled her thoughts, a
constant tremor through the living dust. The lizard‘s more sensitive nerves
felt the growing shadows of twilight as physical fingers of cold creeping
across the blood-warming land. Saria sighed and dropped in deeper.
Saria!
The call came through the earth, from somewhere far outside the
valley. A tingling warmth shivered though her in a single instant,
beckoning, summoning, pleading with her, so strong that her first impulse
was to jump up immediately and follow it out of the valley, out into the
unknown.
The shock made her gasp and the lizard, sensing the momentary
relaxation of her grip on its mind, tried to drive her out. The tingling warmth
of the call faded and Saria tried desperately to reach deeper again.
But the lizard was aware of her now, the peaceful hypnotism of the
connection broken and replaced with something different, something more
painful, as Saria pushed her mind down harder into the lizard‘s simple
consciousness.
Where was it? She had to find it again!
But the call was gone. Instead something else leapt across the link
between them. Somewhere far off, detected only in the deepest, most private
parts of the lizard‘s mind, a slow, malevolent burning echoed from deep
within the ground; a fear that sent waves of black energy out through the
earth.
The lizard was so cold now, so tired, that she caught only the briefest
tickle of the burning before she had to rise again, into the higher levels, the
more local ones. As she ceased probing, the animal relaxed again and Saria
allowed herself to briefly enjoy the slow lethargy of the cooling animal,
feeling the gentle, peaceful creep of darkness across from the nightwards
horizon, enjoying the security of knowing that tomorrow would be another
day just like today, with the same dangers, the same needs, and the same
- 19 –
pleasures.
When it came, the jolt that screamed through the lizard‘s senses hit
with shocking force. There was something close by.
Then the startled creature whirled and was gone, slipping into the
bushes that lined the creek, expending its last energy for the day in startled
flight. Saria let it go.
She stood up, puzzled and slightly nauseated from contact so violently
severed, brushing dust from the front of her tattered robe and looking
carefully around. Only something big, powerful and dangerous could have
intruded so clearly and rapidly into the lizard‘s awareness.
Saria knew everything there was to know about the valley, knew every
boulder, every precious tree, every hidden hunting path and hollow. She
knew the place like no one else, not even Ma Lee. She knew it as it was
known to the animals, the rock-hoppers and lizards, the snakes and birds.
Once she‘d even managed to reach into one of the wild dogs that lived on
the nightside ridge, but its mind was too frightening, too primal, vicious and
intelligent. The dog had fought her, knowing what she was doing and
resisting all the way. All she‘d felt from the dog was that distant, malevolent
burning. She‘d never tried that again.
But the lizard today had been different. That bolt of clarity, that
sickening awareness just before it ran, suggested something either very
close indeed or further off and very large. Even bigger than the dogs, and
very dangerous. And that call – that first, initial tremulous summoning …
It was almost dark now. She‘d sunk into the lizard‘s mind for much
longer than she‘d intended and Ma Lee would be furious, but she stood
quietly, listening, straining for the slightest hint of something out of place.
Everything seemed normal though. The creek trickled, a couple of insects
ticked across its surface, and somewhere upstream a frog murped gently in
the gloom; other than that not even a breath of wind stirred the trees.
Whatever had startled the lizard, Saria couldn‘t locate it with only her own
senses.
Thinking how useless it was to be a human, Saria finally gave up and
bolted for the hut.
She knew she was in trouble. It was so late that Ma would have lit the
fire herself, and that would mean a whack and possibly no food. It all
- 20 –
depended on just how grumpy the old woman was feeling. There was no
point in worrying about it now.
The hut squatted in a clearing a little way from the creek, and she fled
through the growing darkness, sure-footed across the rough and uneven
ground, stopping in the deep shadows where she could see the hut and the
small garden behind it. The flickering glow inside told her that the fire was
well and truly lit. It was too quiet, though. Ma wasn‘t hollering for her or
cursing as she would normally be by now.
Saria‘s nose crinkled as a smell floated through the still air. A spicy,
dark, foreign smell. Meat. Roasting meat. What was Ma doing over there?
Cautious, Saria slipped back behind the tree line and skirted the
clearing in shadows until she could see the front of the hut. Nothing seemed
out of place; the gardening tools were propped by the door where they
belonged; the dung pile crouched a little way off, its festering, sweet pong
attracting insects away from the hut. All seemed normal.
Except the smell. The roasting. It drifted though the night air with a
richness and promise that Saria instinctively distrusted. She closed her eyes
for a moment.
There were voices; not one, but two. Not the usual mutterings of Ma
Lee as she bumbled about talking to herself, but the low murmer of voices
in conversation. It wasn‘t right. Old Dreamer Gaardi, who lived alone far up
on the daywards ridge, would never come down into the valley in darkness.
Saria slid onto her belly and crept across the furrows of dirt towards the hut.
The unaccustomed smell of meat toyed with her nose. The thickness
of it almost made her gag, bile rising in the back of her throat, nausea
sliding into her in long, heavy waves. Still, she pushed herself carefully over
the warm ground, knowing that the old woman inside would be listening for
the slightest sound, the merest snap of a twig to tell her that Saria was
nearby.
Halfway between the tree line and the open door her foot gently
scraped two red stones against each other and in seconds the flickering glow
of the doorway was filled with Ma‘s skinny presence.
‗Saria! Where you at, girl?‘
Saria froze, sinking into the dark with the stillness of a rock. She knew
that the old woman hadn‘t spotted her, otherwise she‘d have been on her
- 21 –
immediately, dragging her into the hut. She was probably night-blind from
sitting by the fire.
‗Did you hear her?‘
The speaker was a man, but his voice was strong, deep, laden with the
same dark heaviness as the smell of roasting meat. The timbre of it seemed
to slither into the ground and Saria made herself even more still, like the
lizard, in case this man was as aware of her vibrations as she was of his. Ma
Lee ignored his question.
‗GIRL! Get in here.‘
The old woman‘s shout echoed off the trees, but no sound answered
her other than the stutter of the creek, until the man spoke again.
‗No matter. Come back and sit. She‘ll turn up soon.‘
Casting a final glare into the darkness, Ma Lee retreated.
Saria breathed a quiet sigh. Whatever happened she was in trouble
now. She crept forward again until she was crouching below one of the
hut‘s narrow windows. Ma had not yet put up the shutters, so a little light
escaped, throwing a long, dancing red shadow onto the ground. It cast
trembling undulations of darkness off tiny ridges in the dirt. The meat smell
was distracting and Saria worked to shut out the pressing queasiness it
brought with it. The conversation inside carried clearly.
‗It‘s bad, Ma. The council is still Dreamer Wanji‘s but only just.
There are movements afoot.‘
‗But the girl isn‘t …‘
‗Shhh. We won‘t speak of her yet.‘
‗Have there been any more?‘
‗None. Not in thirteen seasons.‘
‗She is the only one, then?‘
‗So it would appear.‘
‗And Dreamer Wanji?‘
The man sighed. ‗He grows old.‘
Ma snorted. ‗He was old long ago.‘
‗True, Ma. But lately there is a weariness about him I haven‘t seen
before.‘
‗I know. Dreamer Gaardi says the same thing.‘
For a while neither spoke and Saria wondered if perhaps they‘d fallen
- 22 –
asleep, until the man‘s voice broke the silence.
‗It seems strange to be back here. After so long, nothing has changed.‘
‗Things have changed, Dariand. They always do.‘
‗You haven‘t, Ma.‘
The old woman laughed a guttural chuckle that Saria rarely heard.
‗You‘d be surprised. Motherhood is all about change.‘
‗You will miss it?‘
‗Perhaps. But I‘m an old woman now.‘
‗What will you do?‘
‗Stay here. Wait to die. Like all of us.‘
‗We‘re not going to die, Ma.‘
‗So you tell me.‘
‗The girl is proof.‘
‗Dariand …‘ There was unusual gentleness in Ma‘s tone. Saria had
never heard her talk this way before. ‗Don‘t talk to me of hope. The
Darkedge is still there, it will always be there. The Nightpeople still fly and
our Dreamers get older and older.‘
‗But Saria …‘
‗The girl is an aberration. You know that as well as I do.‘
‗Dreamer Wanji says …‘
‗Dreamer Wanji is an old man who was lying to himself and council
when he sent her to me. He has as little hope as the rest of us.‘
Again there was silence. Now when the man spoke it was more
hesitant, more thoughtful.
‗There are those who believe now is the time to bargain.‘
‗With the Nightpeople?‘
‗Yes.‘
‗It‘ll do no good. She‘s not enough.‘
‗We will see.‘
‗Dariand?‘
‗Ma?‘
‗Don‘t do it to her. She can live here in safety and peace. Tell them
she‘d gone, or you couldn‘t find us, or tell them—I don‘t know, anything.‘
‗I can‘t, Ma. You know that. Dreamer Wanji needs her.‘
‗She‘s still a child.‘
- 23 –
‗She‘s …‘
Saria sneezed. The noise exploded from her, violent, unexpected,
uncontrolled. The smell of the meat had worked its way deep into her nose
and head and, engrossed as she was in the conversation, the buzzing tingle
had gone too long unnoticed.
In seconds Ma Lee was outside, dragging Saria to her feet.
‗Listening from the dark, were you, girl? Like a night spirit? I‘ll teach
you to pry into business that‘s not your own.‘
Inside, the foggy smell of the cooking was so close that Saria retched
onto the dirt floor. This earned her a stinging slap.
‗Now look! You couldn‘t do that outside? How long have you been
listening out there?‘
Saria stared sullenly into Ma‘s blotchy, skinny face. The old woman‘s
slitted eyes seemed more wrinkled with anger than usual. Even though she
appeared thin and weak, she could still pack a wallop, as Saria knew from
experience. Ma‘s fingers gripped deep into the soft flesh at the top of Saria‘s
arms.
‗Tell me, girl! How long?‘
Saria shrugged. Ma Lee shook her roughly.
‗Tell me, or you‘ll get a worse thrashing than you‘re already in for.‘
‗Not long.‘
‗What did you hear?‘
‗Nothing.‘
The old woman delivered another whack.
‗That‘ll do, Ma.‘
For the first time Saria looked at the man, who had risen from his
place by the fire. She gasped. He was the largest creature, human or animal,
that she had ever seen. He had to duck so as not to hit his head on the roof.
‗Let her go.‘
‗Stay out of this, Dariand. She needs to learn respect.‘
‗Ma.‘ The man‘s stare hardened. ‗Let her go.‘
The man held the old woman‘s gaze until, grudgingly, she released
Saria. The girl resisted the urge to rub her arm, on which Ma Lee‘s finger
marks showed clearly in the firelight. Instead, taking a small step away from
the old woman, Saria took a proper look at the man.
- 24 –
The strangest thing was his clothing. He wore a long, loose robe,
grubby and stained, stitched together from heavy cloth unlike any Saria had
ever seen. From a belt hung a water-skin and several other objects Saria
didn‘t recognise. Around his feet were small bags of thick animal hide,
lashed tightly at his ankles.
‗What are those?‘
The man smiled and the look reminded Saria of the glittering
expression of the wild dogs. She stepped back.
‗Shoes. They protect my feet.‘
‗What are they made of?‘
‗Animal skins.‘
She edged slowly towards the door while he spoke, but Ma Lee,
knowing full well what would happen if Saria got within bolting distance,
manoeuvred herself between the girl and her only escape, delivering a nottoo-gentle shove in the middle of her back.
‗Would you like something to eat?‘
The man gestured at a pile of burnt meat on a bark plate by the fire. At
the thought, her stomach heaved.
‗She won‘t eat meat. Don‘t waste your time.‘
‗Saria, come and sit. I won‘t hurt you.‘
The girl shook her head, but was shoved forward again.
‗Do as you‘re told, girl.‘
Coming only as close as she had to, Saria sank to the ground.
‗My name is Dariand.‘ The man also sat, arranging his robe around
him. ‗I don‘t imagine you remember me.‘
Saria was puzzled. She‘d never met anyone other than Ma and
Dreamer Gaardi. She‘d heard Ma speak of other people, of course, but they
lived outside the sheltering walls of the valley, in a world which for Saria
was as remote as the vaultlights.
‗No.‘ She tried to make her voice strong, but it came out tentative.
‗I didn‘t think you would.‘ His smile was disturbingly confident. ‗I
knew you when you were very little, but only for a few days.‘
Saria studied him, not answering. She didn‘t trust the way he smiled,
the way he spoke; his accent was strange and his black hair long and lank
and greasy. As she watched, he picked up a shank of meat, tearing at the
- 25 –
greasy flesh with his teeth. A dribble of juice ran across his lips and down
his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a slick,
shiny smear across his cheek.
‗It was long ago. When I was much younger.‘
Saria thought the man looked young now, certainly compared with Ma
Lee and Dreamer Gaardi. She said nothing, though, simply watched as he
continued to eat. Finally he put the bone aside and took a long swig from his
water-skin before sitting back and studying her again.
‗I never thought I‘d see anything like her, Ma.‘
A grumbled ‗hmph‘ was all the reply he drew from the old woman,
who had now also settled herself by the fire, being careful to stay between
Saria and the doorway. For a long time no one spoke, while the man
appraised Saria.
‗She looks well.‘
‗She should. She gets the best of the garden and spends all her time
running around doing nothing.‘
Saria would have protested that she did as much as the old woman, but
having decided that silence was safest she was determined to maintain it.
‗You‘ve done a good job, Ma.‘
‗But not a finished one.‘
‗It‘s as completed as it‘s going to get.‘
Ma didn‘t respond, and when Saria sneaked a glance she was
surprised to see the old woman sitting with eyes downcast. It was such an
unusually defeated stance for the fierce old woman that she almost stared
openly, and the curiosity that had carried her so far gave way to the first
flutterings of fear. She leapt back to her feet, wary of this man who could
make even old Ma Lee seem so … broken.
‗Sit down, girl.‘ The smile didn‘t leave his eyes, not even for a
moment.
‗What‘s going on? Who are you?‘
‗I told you. I‘m Dariand.‘
‗Why have you come here?‘
‗For you.‘
‗Me?‘
‗Of course. I‘ve come a long way to get you.‘
- 26 –
‗Why?‘
‗Because, Saria, you‘re special.‘ Now Dariand stood, too, unstretching
his long frame until it seemed to fill the entire room, his robes rustling
around him. ‗More than you realise. A lot of people have been suffering for
a long time so you might have a chance to live. Some have even died for it.‘
‗For me?‘
Dariand nodded.
‗There‘s nothing special about me.‘
‗You‘re more important than you can know. And time is running out
for us now. That‘s why I‘ve been sent.‘
Saria turned to Ma Lee. ‗Ma, what‘s happening? What‘s going on?‘
‗Shush, girl. Just sit and listen, eh?‘ All the fight and life seemed to
have drained out of the old woman.
‗But …‘
‗There‘s things I shoulda told you, girl. Things about the past and the
future. Things about you. But I‘m just an old woman, eh? Not a Dreamer
like Gaardi or a nightwalker like Dariand here. It wasn‘t my place to teach.
Not my business. I was just lucky to get to play mother, so that‘s what I did.
And I did a good job, too.‘ Ma lifted her head slightly, just a hint of her old
defiance returning in the tilt of her chin.
‗You did a fine job, Ma,‘ Dariand interjected. ‗But now we‘re out of
time and Dreamer Wanji needs her at council. We‘ve got to make decisions
about her. About a lot of things.‘
‗What things?‘
‗Too many to explain now, girl. But you‘ll get your answers.‘
‗When?‘
‗When we get to Woormra. Perhaps even on the way there.‘
‗Woormra?‘
‗It‘s where you were born. The place I carried you from a long time
ago. Now it‘s time for me to take you back.‘
‗I don‘t want to go.‘
‗You don‘t have any choice.‘
‗No.‘ Saria refused again. ‗I‘m not leaving the valley. You can‘t make
me.‘
‗I can if I have to.‘
- 27 –
‗He‘s a nightwalker, girl.‘ Ma said. ‗That won‘t mean anything to you,
but trust me, if he wants to get you there, he can. Even if he has to carry you
all the way.‘
‗But I want to stay here.‘
‗What you want doesn‘t matter any more.‘
‗Ma …‘ Saria turned to the old woman in appeal, but Ma Lee shook
her head.
‗Nah, girl. He‘s right. This is stuff going back a long time into the
past. You and me are at the end of a long, long journey, and now you gotta
step out off the path on your own.‘
‗Listen, girl.‘ Dariand took a tiny step towards her. ‗I know this is
difficult, but there‘s no other way. We‘ll leave early tomorrow. Dreamer
Gaardi will meet us down in the Shades.‘
‗Dreamer Gaardi‘s coming?‘
‗Yes. He‘ll keep us company.‘
‗Doesn‘t matter. I‘m still not going.‘
‗I know you don‘t want to, but there‘s a lot more people in these lands
than just you.‘ Dariand slowly eased himself back to the ground. ‗And now,
if you don‘t mind, I might sleep. I‘ve had a long journey and it will be a big
day tomorrow. Saria, you should sleep too.‘
‗I‘m not tired.‘
‗Do as he says, girl,‘ Ma interrupted. ‗He knows best.‘
Ma busied herself attaching the tin shutters to the windows to keep the
early morning light out. Dariand settled in the shadows beside the door,
lying fully clothed on the hard, packed dirt. When Ma went to place the
shutter over the door, he stopped her.
‗Leave it, Ma. I like fresh air.‘
‗Creatures could come in …‘
‗Leave it.‘
Ma leaned the shutter back against the wall with no further argument
and raked the coals down, plunging the room deeper into shadow.
Crossing to her sleeping mat, Saria was aware of the man‘s eyes
watching, studying her as she prepared for sleep. His stare made her back
and neck prickle, and as she went to shrug her robe off over her head a
curious self-consciousness swept through her. She climbed under her
- 28 –
blanket as quickly as possible and lay facing the wall. Even so, that
measuring gaze still itched at her back.
The light died to a dull glow. Ma‘s shadow still bustled around, as she
got into her own tattered night robe and rolled her sleeping mat out in its
usual place near the food store. Then she did a strange thing, something
she‘d never done before; she crossed the room and perched on the edge of
Saria‘s mat.
Under her worn blanket, Saria tensed. She hadn‘t forgotten that earlier
Ma had promised her a thrashing. But to her surprise, nothing happened. For
a long time the old woman sat there while Saria feigned sleep. Then she
reached out and lightly stroked her bony fingers against the girl‘s matted
hair. The sensation made Saria‘s scalp tingle.
‗You‘ve been a good girl. But this land‘s got bigger plans for you than
just stayin‘ here in this valley.‘ Ma‘s voice was a whisper.
Saria opened her eyes and looked up at the woman. ‗Will I come
back?‘
‗Don‘t know. Wouldn‘t think so, but you can‘t tell these things. You
just be careful, alright? And listen to him over there.‘ She nodded at
Dariand‘s sleeping form. ‗He‘s rough, but he‘ll do the best he can for you.
He‘s got a good heart.‘
She stopped her stroking and slowly stood up. The sensation of her
fingers in Saria‘s hair seemed to last long after Ma finally lay down in her
corner of the room.
Saria lay still in the darkness, wide-awake, listening to the sounds of
night from the bush outside. Rolling over, she was surprised at the amount
of moonlight coming through the open doorway; the long rectangle of silver
cast everything in monochrome hues that seemed to belong to a world
different from the one she was so used to. On the other side of the room
Dariand was only vaguely discernible as a dark lump beside the door. She
knew he was there, though. She could hear his soft breathing and feel his
presence, alien and yet strangely at home in this silvery, unfamiliar
darkness.
A wheezy rumbling snore slipped through the silence from Ma‘s
corner, and Saria closed her eyes, enjoying the sound for the first time ever.
It had a gentle familiarity, and softened the strangeness of having the man in
- 29 –
the hut. The first waves of sleep began to creep over her. Just as she was
slipping completely into its grip, she stiffened.
Saria!
The call. The one she had felt earlier through the lizard. Fierce and yet
gentle, the summons came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
Distant and pleading, it echoed through the earth and straight into her.
She‘d never felt anything like it. Even when she went riding out into
the world on the senses of some willing creature, there‘d never been
anything this strong, this ... personal.
It lasted just a second, shivering up from the ground and sending a
tremor through Saria‘s thin body.
Saria!
The voice was disembodied. A night spirit, there for the briefest of
moments and then gone, leaving Saria alone and trembling.
- 30 –
TWO.
It was impossible to say what woke her. Some strange rustle or
unexpected movement of air, perhaps. Whatever it was, she came awake
instantly some time in the small hours of the morning.
Saria sat, peering around the shadowy interior of the hut. Ma Lee still
snored gently in her corner, and everything seemed normal.
Then she noticed: the man — Dariand — was gone. There was no sign
of his sleeping form by the door. No sound of his breathing in the darkness.
Perhaps he‘d changed his mind and gone without her.
Even as she dimissed the thought, Saria was startled to realise that a
tiny part of her was disappointed at the possibility.
Beyond the open door the dim light of the nightvault beckoned.
Usually there was no silent way to creep outside after Ma had put the
shutters in place, but not tonight. Saria rose and shrugged on her robe over
her skinny shoulders. Then, careful not to disturb Ma, she slipped across the
dirt floor through the darkness and stepped into the night.
After the close atmosphere inside, the air tasted crisp and fresh. Saria
stood in the shadows, savouring the feel of it, the slightly damp coolness
against her bare arms. The vaultlights were dull, masked by intense
moonlight, and not a breath of air moved. Shivering slightly, Saria looked
around as her eyes adapted to the light. There was no sign of the man; no
footprints in the dirt, no movement in the bushes, nothing.
Somewhere high up on the nightwards rim a dog howled, its cry
reverberating around the ancient stone walls of the valley, and Saria took an
involuntary step back. But the sound quickly echoed off into silence again,
leaving Saria alone with the regular noises of the night.
Outside, the noises all seemed somehow more intense. She was used
to hearing them from inside the hut, muted by the mud walls and tin
shutters. Out here, though, standing in the coolness, her breath fogging
slightly, each nocturnal rustle and chirp floated through the still air clearly
and insistently. Down by the creek she could hear frogs croaking gently and
in the scrub on the far side of the clearing something — a couple of rockhoppers, perhaps — sent silvery shivers through the bushes as they grazed,
hidden in a tangle of shadows.
- 31 –
Casting a last quick glance back into the dark interior of the hut, Saria
picked her way slowly over to where the creek path disappeared between a
couple of scrubby bushes. In the dappled moonlight, the path, which was so
familiar that during daylight she could follow it with her eyes shut, appeared
suddenly foreboding, a trail into the unknown.
Drawing a shallow breath, Saria stepped into the shadows and scurried
towards the creek as quickly as she dared.
By the water, near where she‘d found the lizard, Saria sat and waited,
listening for something, anything, that she could reach into and whose
senses she could use to find the man and discover where he‘d gone. A frog
would do the trick, or a rock-hopper, if one came by to drink, though they
tended to be more skittery after dark, and much harder to settle into.
Nothing came, and Saria sat for some time with just the gurgle of the
creek for company. Otherwise, everything was silent.
Too silent, she realised with a jolt.
There should at least be some noise, some movement. A cicada
clicking, or a night bird calling from the trees that lined the creek bed. But
there wasn‘t even that.
Standing slowly, Saria carefully examined the small spaces between
the bushes, peering as hard as she could into the deep pools of shadow
between the trees and the rocks.
‗Looking for me?‘
Dariand appeared out of nowhere, materialising from the darkness to
be suddenly standing at the edge of the creek, only a few steps from where
Saria had been sitting. Startled, she yelped.
‗You scared me!‘
‗Sorry.‘ Even in the moonlight she could read his face clearly, the
amused twisting at the corners of his mouth suggesting he wasn‘t sorry at
all. ‗What are you doing out here?‘
‗Nothing.‘
‗Trying to follow me, I‘ll bet.‘
‗No! I was just … looking.‘
‗Whatever you say, girl.‘ The tone of his voice made it clear that he
didn‘t believe her. ‗You‘re your mother‘s daughter, alright. I‘m glad I found
you, though. Saves me going back to the hut.‘
- 32 –
‗What do you mean?‘
‗It‘s time to go.‘ Dariand nodded to where the path behind vanished
into the night. ‗At least now we won‘t have to disturb Ma from her sleep.‘
‗But …‘
‗There‘s nothing to say, girl. It‘s time. Come over here.‘
Without waiting to see if she was going to obey, Dariand crouched
and unslung a long, narrow cloth sack that hung across his back, then started
rummaging in it.
‗What are you doing?‘
‗You can‘t travel wearing that robe.‘ From the sack he pulled a longer
garment, similar to his own, and threw it at her. ‗Put this on. It‘ll keep the
sun off you during the day, and keep you warmer at night, as well.‘
The robe was too big but Dariand rolled the sleeves and tucked the
hem up, pinning it into place with sharpened slithers of bone. Against her
bare arms and legs the long robe felt strange, smooth but kind of
smothering.
‗That‘ll do. Now these.‘ He pulled from the sack a pair of objects that
Saria immediately recognised.
‗I don‘t want to wear them.‘
‗You have to. Without them, your feet will suffer. And that‘ll slow us
down.‘
‗Doesn‘t matter. I‘m not going.‘
‗We‘ve been through this already, girl.‘ Without giving her a chance
to object again, Dariand lifted one of Saria‘s feet and slipped the hide bag
over it. ‗This isn‘t about you, or me. It‘s about the whole Darklands.‘
‗Darklands?‘ Saria looked at him, puzzled. ‗What‘s that?‘
Dariand was now lacing up the leather thong that held the shoes in
place. He didn‘t even look up as he answered.
‗Everything‘s Darklands. As far as you and I are concerned, the whole
world is Darklands. You‘ll see.‘ It took only a couple of minutes until the
other shoe was tied securely and he stood again, reslinging the bag across
his shoulder.
‗Ready?‘
‗I …‘ Saria looked back at the path to the hut, and for a moment
considered running towards it, fleeing back into the darkness.
- 33 –
Then the memory of the call, so distant, so commanding, which had
flooded her as she was falling asleep, came back.
‗This way.‘ Dariand turned, hopped across the creek and without
waiting vanished into the scrub. Saria had to scurry to follow him.
He was following an old path up the side of the valley towards the
daywards ridge, which for Saria was forbidden territory. Near the water the
trees and scrub were so thick that on several occasions the only way Saria
managed to follow was by listening for the crunch of the man‘s footsteps.
As they moved upwards, the scrub and trees became increasingly sparse and
Saria soon found herself trotting across open ground in the broad moonlight,
following Dariand up the trail.
Soon they were almost to the rim of the valley and much higher than
Saria had ever explored. Some of Ma Lee‘s rules she had been happy to
break, but the one about never leaving the valley had been drilled into her
from a young age, and the thought of venturing beyond those protective
ramparts of red stone, especially in the dark, sent shivers through her.
They climbed steadily until the trees and shrubs ended, leaving only
the bare, rocky landscape that formed the upper slopes. Ahead, the rim of
the valley hunched low against the sky, dark and menacing. For as long as
Saria could remember it had been the edge of her entire world, and the
thought of suddenly walking over that barrier filled her with a sudden
mixture of dread and anticipation. She stopped, glancing behind to where
the valley still slept. Somewhere down there Ma was snoring through the
last couple of hours of the night. The lizard she‘d reached yesterday was
still lying in torpor, waiting for the life-warming sun to stir its blood back
into activity, and the creek still burbled over the rocks.
‗It‘s not your home any more.‘ Dariand had stopped just ahead and
was watching her. ‗I know what it feels like, trust me, but there‘s a lot more
out there than this valley.‘
Something in the man‘s voice seemed different: a sort of wistfulness
that she wouldn‘t have expected him to feel.
‗It‘s been here a long time, though,‘ he continued, ‗and it‘ll keep
going on that way. Even after you and me and Ma are all gone. Come on,
now. We‘ve gotta keep moving, before we run out of darkness.‘
Saria!
- 34 –
The call slid silently through her, as if echoing Dariand‘s words.
Saria took one last, lingering gaze at the valley that had been her
home, and then, turning her back on it, followed Dariand up the path.
At the top of the ridge she gasped as the horizons of her world
expanded. Land and sky seemed to stretch away forever. The nightvault was
peppered with more vaultlights than Saria could have dreamed possible.
They shimmered and sparkled, so thick in some places as to lend the
nightvault a pale, liquid appearance. Ahead of them, far off, the daywards
horizon glowed deep pink.
‗We need to move fast. We won‘t get far today.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗Once the heat gets too great we rest, and travel again in the evening.‘
‗Where are we going?‘
To Saria‘s surprise, Dariand pointed behind them, away from the
sunrise, back across the valley.
‗That way. Nightwards.‘
‗Then why come up out of the valley this way?‘
‗This is the only path. Now, stop asking questions. We need to meet
Dreamer Gaardi.‘
‗Why is he coming?‘
‗It‘s always good to have a Dreamer with you when you travel in the
Darklands, girl. They understand this place better than anyone.‘
‗Saria.‘
‗What?‘
‗My name is Saria. Not ―girl‖.‘
Dariand smiled a strange half-smile.
‗My apologies, Saria.‘
The trail down was narrow and treacherous. It wound slowly around
the outer wall, descending into the shadow of the ridge in a long spiral,
everything below hidden in darkness.
‗What‘s down there?‘
‗You‘ll see.‘
The land out here was different, even in darkness. It was much drier,
less alive than in the valley; there was less scrub and undergrowth and only
a few tiny trees. Other hills and crests ranged high around them and Saria
- 35 –
could make out hollows and paths between them. Jagged, bald crags, some
of which were starting to glow red with the first rays of sunlight, cut into the
night. They were more distant than those she had always known.
‗Mornin‘.‘
Dreamer Gaardi got up from where he‘d been perching on a rock by
the path. As always Saria was amazed at how old the man looked. His skin
was creased and wrinkled and hung from him. His dark eyes, deep-set
below a shock of fuzzy white hair, twinkled slightly, even in the dull light.
‗Dreamer.‘ Dariand nodded at the old man.
‗Don‘t think we‘re gonna get far today, eh?‘
‗Nah. We‘ll go for a couple of hours more, though. Stop somewhere
further down in the Shades.‘
‗Sounds about right to me.‘
The two men followed the trail downwards between sparse patches of
scrub.
The path eventually levelled out deep in the belly of a valley that had
been carved into the rock aeons earlier by a creek long since run dry. The
ground was still moist, though, and gnarled trees grew along what had once
been the creek bed. As the sky grew lighter, the nightvault faded into reds
and then blues, Dariand led the way, followed by Dreamer Gaardi, with
Saria trailing. The two men walked without talking, the only sound the
gentle crunch of their footsteps and the occasional hoot of a nightbird.
Dariand led them further and further into the shadows of the valley,
until he slipped down a small embankment and into the creek bed itself.
Dreamer Gaardi leapt down behind him and then turned and caught Saria as
she followed.
‗Reckon we can go a bit further?‘ Dariand didn‘t seem to be asking so
much as speaking to himself, but Saria noticed he didn‘t start walking again
until Dreamer Gaardi nodded his consent.
They wound along the creek, which curved and twisted, constantly
doubling back on itself. Underfoot, the ground was different from the rough
scree of the mountain. Here they walked on stones, some as big as Saria‘s
fist, but most no larger than her little finger. All were rounded and worn
smooth from the passage of ancient water. Eventually the sun managed to
climb above the peaks of the surrounding hills and the morning grew
- 36 –
warmer. Dariand stopped.
‗We‘ll rest there.‘
They followed him to the shade of a small clump of gums which clung
to the red stone a metre or so higher than the creek bed. There he drew a
long draught from a water-skin and threw it to Saria.
‗Drink.‘
Removing the stopper, Saria copied Dariand, squirting a blast of water
into her mouth. It was slightly warm and tasted vaguely dirty, but she felt
her thirst subside.
‗Good girl.‘ He lay down on a patch of sand, tucked his robes around
him, and looked up at the sky. ‗We‘ve got a long, long journey ahead of us,
Saria.‘
‗You mean to Woormra?‘
‗No, but that too.‘ She thought he was about to say something more,
but he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately. Saria
watched him for a few minutes, then looked across to where Dreamer
Gaardi had similarly settled. The old man was still awake and when he
noticed her staring his weathered face crinkled into a smile.
‗You all set to go home then, girl?‘
‗Home?‘
‗Back to Woormra. Where you come from.‘
‗I don‘t want to.‘
‗Yeah, I can understand that, but you gotta, you know? A lot of people
have had their hopes pinned on you for a long time now, so you come to
Woormra and that‘ll be the start of it.‘
Saria tried to recall if she‘d ever heard Dreamer Gaardi speak this
much before.
‗The start of what?‘
‗A lot of things. It might even be the end of the Darklands, eh? All
‘cause of you.‘
‗What do you mean? I don‘t understand.‘
‗I know, girl. But you will, don‘t worry. You‘re gonna do and see
things that the rest of us poor bastards never dreamed about. You‘re going
to know big secrets.‘
‗I don‘t want to.‘
- 37 –
‗You got no choice. It‘s in you, eh? Happening already, I imagine.
You got a good landsense. I can feel it and there‘s not many people got that
nowdays. He does, though.‘ The old man nodded at the sleeping Dariand.
‗I don‘t trust him.‘
The old man‘s smile crinkled even wider.
‗You don‘t have to trust him, girl. But don‘t you underestimate him,
either. He‘s tied to you by powers older and stronger than either of us. He‘ll
always find you — can‘t help himself. Wherever you go, wherever you
hide, whatever you do, that bloke there is the only one in all the Darklands
who‘ll always be able to track you down.‘
She settled herself on a sandy patch of ground, trying to make sense of
the old man‘s words, but all they did was send a cold shiver down her back.
- 38 –
THREE.
Under the moonlight the landscape changed, flattening and
broadening. The clumps of bush became more sporadic until, sometime in
the early hours, the three of them paused at the edge of a great, flat, treeless
expanse which shimmered in the vaultlights.
‗Can we stop for a bit?‘
Since waking, Dariand had marched them steadily nightwards, never
breaking stride, and Saria‘s feet and legs ached.
‗No. We need to be across Silver Lake before dawn.‘
‗Just for a while? Please?‘
A quick glance passed between Dariand and Dreamer Gaardi.
‗For a moment, that‘s all.‘
On the hard, red ground Saria tugged ineffectually at the thongs that
bound the shoes to her feet.
‗There‘s no point pulling at them, girl, they won‘t come off.‘
‗I just want to loosen them.‘
‗Sorry.‘ Dariand shook his head. ‗They have to be tight.‘
‗But my legs …‘
‗They‘ll get used to it.‘ Dariand turned and stared in the direction they
had come from, where the ranges crouched dark in the distance. ‗You can
take them off when we stop for the day.‘
‗Dreamer Gaardi doesn‘t need them.‘
It was true. The old man‘s bare feet seemed impervious to pain.
‗He‘s different. His ground doesn‘t follow the same rules as ours.‘
‗It‘s the same ground.‘
‗You‘ve got a lot to learn.‘
Giving up arguing, Saria gazed back at the now distant mountains.
The vaultlight cast them into long shadows, but the tops of the ridges were
outlined in pale silver. Her valley was somewhere up there, she thought, and
for a moment she considered trying to slip away from the men, to creep off
in the darkness and pick her way back up the creek bed until she found the
path to her home.
‗You‘d never manage it, girl. Not on your own.‘
- 39 –
‗What?‘ Saria threw a startled glance at Dariand.
‗Find your way back to the valley.‘
‗How‘d you know I was …‘
‗The look in your eyes. I know that expression.‘ Dariand stared back
up the path. ‗And you‘d be wasting your time. It‘s impossible to find your
way through the Shades unless you know how. You‘ll have to trust me.‘
‗Why should I?‘ Saria snapped, infuriated at the ease with which he
had read her thoughts. She half expected him to get mad at her for
challenging him, but instead Dariand just laughed softly.
‗Because I tried it myself when I was only a little older than you.‘
‗You?‘
‗You didn‘t think you were the only child ever to grow up in the
valley, did you?‘
‗I thought …‘
‗You thought wrong. Dreamer Wanji found that valley a long time
ago, and I know of at least five children he sent there.‘
‗Why?‘
‗To give them a chance. Protect them.‘
‗From what?‘
Dariand hesitated.
‗There‘s all sorts of things you need protection from in these lands,
girl.‘
‗So where are these children now?‘
‗Grown up like me. Or dead.‘
‗Why weren‘t any more children sent up there with me and Ma, then?‘
The final traces of Dariand‘s smile faded.
‗There weren‘t any more to send. Now come on, let‘s go.‘
He stood and offered her a hand up.
‗Just a little longer?‘
‗No. We have to get across the lake before sunrise, otherwise we‘ll
cook.‘
‗How far is it?‘
Dariand shrugged. ‗Far enough.‘
Saria climbed back to her feet, pointedly ignoring the proffered
assistance, and followed the two men out into the flat expanse.
- 40 –
The ground gave a little and crunched slightly underfoot. Occasionally
one of the men would step into a softer patch and break through the crustlike surface, releasing a stench of long-trapped gas. In the vaultlights, the
whole landscape seemed alive, twinkling and shimmering.
‗What is this place?‘
‗Silver Lake.‘
‗What‘s a lake?‘
‗It …‘ Dariand paused for a moment, thinking. ‗It‘s an old word, from
times before. It means that all this was once covered by water.‘
Saria stared. ‗Water?‘
‗Yes. Everything you see here was left behind when the water
vanished.‘
‗Water.‘ Saria looked about. They had walked far enough that the
shimmering surface extended in every direction. Only behind was the
horizon broken by the hills.
‗You‘re not lying?‘ She thought about the creek. Even during the
wettest parts of the year it was little more than a narrow trickle between the
rocks. She couldn‘t imagine enough water to cover an area like this.
‗No.‘
‗What happened to it?‘
‗Don‘t know. This was long ago. Before the Shifting.‘
‗What‘s that?‘
‗It was …‘ Before he could speak further Dreamer Gaardi made a soft,
almost silent, guttural noise in the back of his thoat and Dariand hesitated.
‗It happened a long time ago. The Shifting changed everything about
this land, and the people who live on it. Before it there were no Darklands.
But it‘s not something for me to explain.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗Not my business. These aren‘t my stories to tell.‘
‗But …‘
‗Enough.‘ Dariand lengthened his stride.
Saria soon grew bored with the monotony of the landscape and the
continuous crunch of their footsteps. At one point she stopped and knelt to
touch the ground. It was surprisingly rough and when she licked her
fingertip she was surprised by the tang of salt.
- 41 –
‗Don‘t do that!‘ Dariand snapped. ‗That‘s a sure way to dry yourself
out.‘
And they kept plodding across the lake.
The only distraction was the vaultlights. Without any trees to obscure
the skies, they stretched from the nightwards to the daywards horizons,
gleaming against the blackness. She was surprised to notice that they were
all slightly different. Some were large, some were small. Some appeared to
twinkle while others were still. Some were coloured — reds and yellows —
but most were pure white.
‗They move. Have you noticed?‘ Dariand slowed his pace to walk
beside her again, his footsteps almost exactly matching hers.
‗What?‘
‗The vaultlights. They move.‘
‗Move where? They all look still.‘
‗That‘s because your eye isn‘t used to following them, but trust me,
they shift across the sky. They tell us where we are and where we are
going.‘
‗What do you mean?‘
‗I‘ll show you. See that cluster over there?‘ He pointed daywards,
towards the horizon behind them.
‗Where?‘
‗Right above the hills: three of them.‘
Saria squinted her eyes in the direction he indicated, but found it
impossible to separate three of the vaultlights from the thousands of others.
‗They all look the same.‘
‗Here.‘ Dariand leant down, putting his head next to hers and pointing
so she could peer along the length of his arm. ‗That one there, and that, and
the brightest of the three, right above our path. Can you see them now?‘
‗I think so.‘
‗They appeared the night of your birth.‘
‗Really?‘
‗I was there. It was Dreamer Wanji who first spotted them and named
them the Child. He named them for you. They‘re a powerful cluster. I use
them often.‘
‗Use them?‘
- 42 –
‗To guide me. They showed me the way to Ma Lee‘s valley when you
were a baby, and tonight they show us the correct way back across Silver
Lake.‘
‗How?‘
Dariand smiled.
‗I‘ll have to explain that when we have a little more time.‘
The man cast a last glance at the distant cluster, then turned his back
on them again. Far from satisfied, Saria followed.
Light was staining the daywards horizon crimson when Saria made
out the shapes of low bushes and undulating sand that marked the edge of
the lake ahead of them.
‗Will we rest now?‘
‗Soon. Once we‘re on the other side we can find some shelter.‘
Suddenly, Dreamer Gaardi stopped.
‗You hear that?‘ They were the first words the old man had spoken
since leaving their campsite the previous evening, and he spoke them
urgently.
‗What?‘
Wordlessly, the old man nodded behind, into the dawn. Dariand stood
still, staring. Saria peered too. A moment later her ears picked up a tiny,
high-pitched noise that floated through the still morning air from the far
shore of the lake. She stared even harder and thought she saw a shape, made
of darkness and light, whipping through the sky in the distance, but in the
strange pre-dawn light it was hard to be certain.
‗You hear ‘im?‘ Dreamer Gaardi asked.
‗Yeah.‘ Dariand replied. ‗We‘d better move.‘
Before she even had time to react, Dariand swept Saria off her feet
and slung her over his shoulder. She started to struggle, but he delivered a
sharp slap to her bare calves.
‗Stop it! We need to move fast, so you get carried.‘
And he set off again towards the edge of the lake, Dreamer Gaardi
scurrying beside them on his skinny legs.
‗What is it?‘
Dariand didn‘t answer. Jolting up and down on his shoulder, Saria
tried to catch another glimpse of the tiny shape in the sky, but all she could
- 43 –
make out was their three sets of shallow foot prints stretching back across
the lake towards the hills, marking their route through the night.
By the time they reached the far bank, Dariand was sweating heavily
and was short of breath. Saria thought they would stop immediately but
instead they plunged up and over the first of the sandy dunes which marked
the edge of Silver Lake. There Dariand slowed and eased the girl to the
ground. Even through the animal hides wrapped around her feet, the sand
was cold as her feet sank into it.
‗What do you think, Dreamer Gaardi?‘
The old man stood still, head tilted, listening.
‗Dunno. Can‘t hear ‘em now.‘
‗They shouldn‘t be out at this time.‘
‗Can‘t say what those nightfellas should or shouldn‘t be doin‘. They
got no rules as far as I know.‘
‗Don‘t usually see them out this close to daylight.‘
‗True.‘ The old man turned his head slowly. ‗Gone now. I reckon they
must have been hurrying home.‘
‗Wherever that is,‘ Dariand agreed.
Both men were still tense.
‗What‘s happening?‘ Saria tugged at the sleeve of Dariand‘s robe, but
he pushed her gently away.
‗Should we bunk down?‘
Dreamer Gaardi thought for a second.
‗Go a bit on first, I reckon, and walk real soft. This land‘ll hide our
path.‘
‗Right.‘
Dariand grabbed Saria‘s hand and started along the base of the dune,
pulling her with him.
‗Aren‘t we going nightwards?‘
‗Too dangerous climbing over the dunes. We might get seen going
over the crests.‘ Much safer down here, out of sight.‘
‗Seen by who?‘
‗All sorts of characters. We‘re in the Darklands and I‘d rather not let
anybody else know you‘re here. Not yet, anyway. Once we get to Woormra,
then things‘ll be different.‘
- 44 –
‗How come?‘
But Dariand didn‘t answer and they slid around the base of one sand
dune after another, while the vault above grew steadily brighter. Eventually,
when they came across a clump of desert bush, Dariand stopped.
‗This‘ll do.‘
Thankfully, Saria collapsed on the ground.
‗Here.‘ Dariand threw her a water-skin and she drank deeply.
‗You did well tonight.‘ He reached out as though to touch her hair, but
then thought better of it and dropped his hand. ‗Let me get those things off
your feet.‘
Saria had forgotten all about the tightly bound shoes. Dariand fiddled
with the leather lacing for a couple of moments then slid them off. The early
morning air was cold on her toes.
‗You‘ll need to rub them for a bit, then you should get to sleep. Here.‘
He passed her some dried meat.
‗Eat and drink.‘
‗I don‘t eat meat.‘ Saria pushed the hard stuff away.
‗It‘s all there is. Now eat it.‘
His tone made it clear there‘d be no arguing, and she was hungry, so,
finally Saria slipped a piece into her mouth and chewed wearily.
Dariand watched her while Dreamer Gaardi stood a little way off, not
moving, his eyes closed.
‗Crawl right in under those bushes and get to sleep now. I‘ll wake you
when it‘s time to move again.‘
‗What was that thing?‘ she asked.
‗What thing?‘
‗You know. In the sky.‘
‗Nightpeople.‘
‗Nightpeople? Who are they?‘
Dariand sighed.
‗They‘re the reason both you and I had to grow up hiding in that
valley.‘
Saria opened her mouth, but before she could speak Dariand held up a
hand to stop her.
‗You keep asking me big questions, girl, and right now I don‘t have
- 45 –
the time or the energy to answer them. For now, just believe me when I tell
you that if the Nightpeople find you, then it‘s the end of all of us. I‘ll try and
explain more tonight, eh? But for now I want you to climb in under here and
go to sleep.‘
Saria noticed for the first time how tired he appeared. His eyes were
drawn and he rubbed stiffly at the back of his neck.
‗That run across the lake with you on my back wore me out a bit,‘ he
told her. ‗So let‘s try and get some rest.‘
Realising that she was exhausted herself, Saria lay down. The sand
was cold and slightly damp.
‗Further. We‘ll need to get under too.‘
Saria scraped a hollow depression deep in the shade and allowed
herself to sink into it. Despite all the questions running around in her mind,
tiredness rushed over her and she was only vaguely aware of Dariand and
Dreamer Gaardi clambering quickly under the bush beside her. And when
the distant, high-pitched humming echoed between the dunes a few minutes
later, she was completely asleep.
- 46 –
FOUR.
Saria woke in the middle of the afternoon, the sun still high overhead.
The two men slumbered beside her and the shade where they lay was
dappled with brightness. She sat up cautiously, not wanting to disturb
Dariand, and crawled carefully out.
The glare of the sun on red sand painted the afternoon in a harsh,
bloody light, which burnt at the back of her eyes. She took a couple of
hesitant steps towards a curve in the dune, but leapt back into the shade with
a yelp as the sand seared the soles of her feet.
Above, the dayvault shimmered, a little like the surface of Silver Lake
had gleamed in the vaultlights. The rest of the landscape was hidden behind
the huge dunes, red sand rippling steeply up to peaks on either side of their
bush.
A clicking broke the silence. Instinctively, Saria closed in on it. It took
a couple of minutes to find — a tiny chirping insect, nestled in a fork in the
branches. Saria sighed in disappointment. She‘d tried reaching insects
before, larger ones than this, but only ever with limited success. Their minds
were too small, too dependent on instinct to reach into.
Still, there was nothing else to do. Settling cross-legged on the sand,
the tiny creature perched just in front of her face, she examined the feelers
and spiderwork-patterned wings folded along its length, then let the
earthwarmth flow up from the ground into her body. Finally, her toes and
fingertips tingling, Saria closed her eyes, relaxed and reached out.
It was there immediately: a twittering, skittering little mind, alien and
cold, right in front of her, a flickering spark against the afternoon. Sighing
with contentment, Saria let herself sink into the insect‘s consciousness.
It was unlike any reaching she had ever done. Even the wild dog, for
all its aggression, had not been as overwhelming. With other creatures there
was always some sense of being slightly detached from the land, of living in
it but with a barrier of intelligence keeping distance between the mind and
the core of the land. With this tiny creature, though, there was no protective
thought process to hold her separate, only cold, mute instinct. She was
sinking into the fabric of the earth itself, drowning in sudden, allencompassing awareness.
- 47 –
She could feel every tremble and vibration in the shrub, the coldness
of the damp, deep below where the root system twined through living rock.
She could feel the warm restless air drifting between the leaves and across
the membranous wings of her host. The two sleeping men, a few metres
away, pulsed
— their size and power almost overpowering the little
creature‘s sense of its world.
For a long while Saria stayed hovering at the outermost levels of the
insect‘s consciousness, barely even brushing it with her own senses and
calming herself against the barrage of sensation. Then she slipped deeper,
probing out into the surrounding landscape, searching for other life.
The emptiness of the land almost swamped her and for a moment she
came close to losing contact. There was nothing in every direction.
Somewhere a long way distant, a few tiny flickers might have been
creatures, but they were gone before the insect was even properly aware of
them.
After years in the valley, reaching into creatures surrounded by
familiar life, the sudden isolation shook Saria to her core. Desperately
needing to find some other indication of life nearby, she dived deeper in.
When it struck, the pain was blinding; flashes of burning colour leapt
across her vision and into her mind and Saria yelped, reflex tearing away
her connection with the insect. She fell back, clutching her hands to her
temples, and lay curled on the warm sand, sobbing as waves of bright pain
washed over her.
A soft hand touched her lightly on the forearm. Through eyes still
blurred, Dreamer Gaardi swam into view, kneeling over her.
‗You gotta sit up. Here.‘
His touch was gentle as he eased her back into a sitting position and
held a water-skin to her lips. Saria drank long, the water tepid against the
back of her throat. When she finished, she wiped a sleeve across her mouth
and the old man sat back on his haunches and surveyed her closely.
‗You‘ve gotta be careful with them little ‘uns.‘
His voice was hardly more than a whisper. He was being careful not to
wake Dariand.
‗What?‘
He opened his left hand. There, sitting quietly on his palm, was the
- 48 –
insect.
‗These fellas. You gotta watch yourself. These blokes are much closer
to the land than us bigfellas. You go in too deep and you‘ll feel the Shifting,
and that‘s real bad pain.‘
‗The Shifting?‘
Dreamer Gaardi nodded. ‗How long have you been reaching, girl?‘
‗Reaching?‘
‗Touchin‘ land spirits. Just like you were doing then.‘
‗I … don‘t know … As long as I can remember.‘
‗Yeah?‘ The old man raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‗What else have
you reached into?‘
‗Lizards, mainly.‘
‗Warmbloods?‘
‗When I can find them. I tried to reach a dog once.‘
‗Phah!‘ Dreamer Gaardi spat. ‗Those bastards‘ll bite you any way
they can.‘
‗I know.‘
‗Listen ...‘ He leaned closer. ‗Don‘t go telling anyone that you can do
this, eh? Especially not him.‘ Dreamer Gaardi nodded towards Dariand.
‗Why not?‘
‗Young ‘uns like you shouldn‘t be able to feel the land. You don‘t
know it well enough to read it properly. And girls aren‘t supposed to be able
to reach at all. It‘s not your business. Being able to do this means that you‘re
different from most people. It gives you power, eh? There are people around
who aren‘t gonna be too happy to discover that a little tacker like yourself
has it.‘
‗You mean Dariand?‘
‗Nah. He‘s got a better landsense than most, but even he can‘t reach
and touch the land spirits like you just did. You don‘t want to tell him
because you shouldn‘t be letting anyone at all know you can do it.‘
Saria‘s eyes narrowed.
‗Are you saying I shouldn‘t do it any more?‘
‗You gotta listen more carefully, girl.‘ Dreamer Gaardi took her chin
gently between the fingers of his free hand. ‗There‘s people in these
Darklands who have a lot of hope ridin‘ on you. You‘re special, and this just
- 49 –
makes you even more so. There‘s never been a girl before who could feel
the land. Ever. Especially not with these little fellas.‘ He held up the insect.
‗That‘s gotta mean somethin‘, right? But it‘s a serious business. There are
things you need to learn to do it right, and people who‘ll want to use you for
their own bad business when you do.‘
‗Will you teach me? How to do it right?‘
The old man‘s face crinkled into a broad smile.
‗Nah, girl. From the way you woke me up then, it feels like you
already got more power in you than there ever was in this old bloke.
Dreamer Wanji‘ll help you with it when we get back to Woormra. ‗Til then
you just be careful, alright?‘
‗I‘ll try.‘
‗Good girl. Now get back to sleep and don‘t tell anyone about this.‘
Saria crawled back to her sleeping place, her head still pounding. The
last thing she noticed before she fell asleep was Dreamer Gaardi still sitting
on the other side of the bush holding the insect close to his face.
***
‗Wake up, girl!‘
Dariand was shaking her, and groggily Saria crawled out from under
the bush. It was twilight, the vault above already deep purple on its way to
black and the first vaultlights shining brightly above.
‗Here.‘ The usual mouthful of warm water and tough dried meat.
‗While you‘re chewing that, I‘ll get your shoes on.‘
She let Dariand lace the animal skins around her ankles and legs, not
even complaining when he tied the thongs tight.
‗You alright?‘
‗Fine. Sleepy.‘
‗Well, you‘d better wake up. We‘ve a long way to go tonight. I want
to be halfway through the dunes by morning.‘
A little way off, Dreamer Gaardi was watching the vaultlights.
‗Eh. Look!‘
Saria and Dariand followed the direction of his finger, straight up to
where a tiny vaultlight, much smaller than the others, was slipping rapidly
across the sky.
- 50 –
‗What is it?‘ Saria asked.
‗Don‘t know. But you see them sometimes at this time of night.‘
Saria followed its progress across the vault. Its movement was fast but
unhurried, steady and dead straight. It gave the impression of never once
having deviated from its course, never having sped up, never having slowed,
even a tiny amount.
‗How come it moves so fast? The other vaultlights don‘t move at all.‘
‗They do. I told you last night.‘
‗Not like that. Why?‘
‗Nobody knows.‘ Dariand lost interest and Saria continued to follow
the strange vaultlight until it vanished over the crest of a dune to the
nightwards of them.
‗Let‘s go.‘
That night‘s walk was harder. The red sand was soft and sucked at
their feet, making every step an effort, and their course seemed to be taking
them nowhere. Instead of angling nightwards across the dunes, they wound
forwards and backwards around the bases, twisting through valleys. On
occasion, Dariand would stop and clamber to the top of one and look around
for a few seconds, but he always refused to let Saria climb up with him.
‗You need to save your energy.‘
Morning found them still winding between dunes. That day they slept
again under another clump of brush, and it was well towards the end of the
second night when Dariand called them to a halt.
‗Saria. Come on.‘
Without waiting, he began to scramble up the soft, steep slope of the
nearest dune.
The climb was harder than it looked. The sand was even softer than in
the valleys and she understood now why they‘d taken such a circuitous
route. Her feet and legs sank up to her ankles, and she had to claw with her
hands just to keep moving. Dariand seemed to spring up the slope without
sinking in. When he reached the top, he turned to watch her.
‗Try not to fight against it. Move with the flow of the sand. Don‘t try
to dig into it with your toes; flatten your tread as much as possible.‘
She did as he told her and found herself climbing faster, though
without his graceful ease.
- 51 –
At the top she fell to the ground beside him, panting heavily.
‗Look up.‘
The landscape on the other side of the dune was dramatically
different. It stretched away in the dim vaultlight, flat in every direction.
Here and there shimmers of silver indicated the dried-out remnants of small
lakes and between them the land was empty, undulating gently and pitted
with rocks and craters and the occasional scraggly tree. Far off in the
distance to their right a couple of dull lights shimmered.
‗What is it?‘
‗The Darklands plains. You were born out there.‘
‗Where?‘
‗You can‘t see it from here. You came from Woormra – still a long
way over the nightwards horizon.‘
‗What are those‘ She pointed at the lights.
‗That‘s Olympic.‘
‗What is it?‘
‗A town. Like Woormra.‘
‗Town?‘
‗A group of people living in the same place. Those lights‘ll be their
nightwatch men. We‘d best get moving. Olympic‘s not close, and I want to
be in and out of there before dawn.‘
‗We‘re not staying there?‘ Saria didn‘t try to hide the disappointment
in her voice. After growing up in the valley, the idea of lots of people in the
one place was something she‘d like to see.
‗No. We‘ll be there just long enough for me to sneak into the town
and fill our water-skins.‘
‗Will I get to see it?‘
‗Not close up.‘ Dariand noticed the expression on her face. ‗Don‘t
worry, you‘ll get plenty of time to explore a town when we get to
Woormra.‘
‗How many towns are there?‘
‗Not many now. There used to be a lot of them dotted around the
plains. Most started getting smaller and died off and the few people left in
them moved somewhere else, like Woormra or Olympic.‘
Saria studied the tiny, flickering cluster of lights down on the plain.
- 52 –
‗How long will it take to get there?‘
‗A while. Then we‘ll find somewhere for you and Gaardi to lay up,
while I go in and get water. I can be in and out without anyone from
Olympic even knowing about it.‘
‗What if somebody sees you?‘
‗I‘m a nightwalker.‘ Dariand threw her an amused grin. ‗They won‘t.‘
‗We gonna fill up the water-skins at Olympic?‘ As if out of the
darkness itself, Dreamer Gaardi materialised on the top of the dune beside
them.
‗Yeah. Just me going in, though.‘
‗I reckon that‘s a good plan.‘ Gaardi nodded.
‗Best get on with it then.‘
Without further discussion the three of them slid down the side of the
dune, waded through the last of the soft sand, and set their path. As she
walked towards the guardlights of Olympic, something about them threw a
fluttering of apprehension through Saria.
- 53 –
FIVE.
‗Why don‘t you want them to know about us?‘
‗Not us, you.‘
The first glimmerings of dawn were lighting the vault as they
crouched in a low hollow, peering at Olympic just a little distance away.
There wasn‘t much to see. Most of the town was hidden from view by a
barrier of thorny branches, twisted and knotted to form a crude fence
running all the way around the perimeter of the town. Beyond it, Saria could
make out the dark, squat shapes of huts clustered close together.
‗What are all those branches for?‘ She pointed at the barrier, and
Dariand snorted.
‗That‘s the Olympic mob for you. One Darkedge isn‘t enough for
them. They gotta have their own.‘
‗Well, they gotta keep out bad spirits like you, eh?‘ There was a
mischievious undertone to Dreamer Gaardi‘s words and the two men shared
a grin before Dariand returned to the task of slinging water-skins around his
neck.
‗I should be back before sun-up, but if I‘m not then take the girl and
settle somewhere out of sight, eh? If I have to, I‘ll hole up in town for the
day and meet you here tonight. I‘ll leave a water-skin with you, just in case.‘
‗Okay.‘
While the men were talking, Saria continued to study the town. It
looked silent and empty and vaguely cold, but intriguing all the same. She
wished there was some creature nearby she could reach into, so she might
study the place more closely.
‗Are you sure I can‘t come with you?‘
‗Positive.‘ Dariand responded without hesitation. ‗If there‘s one bunch
we don‘t want finding out about you, it‘s the mob sleeping on the other side
of that fence. If there was anywhere else we could get water in this part of
the plains, we wouldn‘t be here at all. Now you stay with Gaardi and keep
out of the way.‘
‗But …‘
‗No! You don‘t know the first thing about this place and you‘d mess
- 54 –
things up for everyone. Trust me.‘
Trust me. Saria was getting sick of hearing those words.
‗Back soon.‘
Dreamer Gaardi nodded and Dariand melted away into the gloom.
Saria followed the old man back to the bottom of the hollow, out of
sight of the town and they settled onto the cold sand to wait for Dariand‘s
return. Lying on her back, she watched the vaultlights slowly fading and
thought about the last few days. Her life in the valley seemed so far away,
like something she‘d lived seasons ago instead of just days. Despite what
Dariand had said, it seemed impossible that she‘d never return there. With a
sudden jolt, she missed it terribly. She missed the security of understanding
everything going on around her. She missed knowing what she could and
couldn‘t get away with. Surprisingly, she even found herself missing
grumpy old Ma Lee.
‗Dreamer Gaardi?‘
‗Yeah?‘
‗Why is it so important that I go to Woormra?‘
She thought Dreamer Gaardi wasn‘t going to answer, but then the old
man started talking;
‗It‘s been a lotta years now since we had a birth in the Darklands.
Thirteen seasons, by my memory. Even before that, it was always a long
time between proper, clean babies. And since that night you were born,
nothing.‘
Saria‘s brow wrinkled in confusion. The old man‘s words meant
nothing to her.
‗What‘s a birth?‘
‗The beginning of a life, girl. When you come outa your mother and
into the world. It‘s the start of you bein‘ a person of the land. And here in
the Darklands, that means a lot. ‘Specially since the Nightpeople started
takin‘ any clean babies away. You‘re the last one in a long time, and after
you there ain‘t gonna be any more.‘
‗Why not?‘
Dreamer Gaardi laughed. ‗All us old-timers are past it now. There‘s
not enough of us left who are young enough to be parents.‘
‗Parents?‘
- 55 –
The old man frowned.
‗Sorry, girl. I forget you don‘t know ‘bout this stuff. Ma Lee was
never big on teaching, was she?‘ He thought for a moment. ‗All of us, you,
me, Dariand, we all got a father and we all got a mother, and they‘re the
ones that give us life. We come from them, and we are of them. When two
people get so close that they know one another‘s spirit and can mix their
spirits together, then they can make a new life, one that‘s the best and worst
of both of them. That‘s parents.‘
‗How can somebody give life?‘
‗A long time ago, before the Shifting, before the Darklands, there was
the land, we call her the Earthmother, and there was the sky — the
Vaultfather, and where these two met, right out there‘, he pointed to the
horizon — ‗came all the life; coldbloods and warmbloods and all us people.
Right?‘
‗I think so.‘
‗So this land below us and the vaults up there above are like
everyone‘s parents. All of us come from them, outa them, we‘re made up of
their life put together, and finally in the end we all go back to them. And
just like everything living is out of the Earthmother and Vaultfather, each
one of us is out of a mother and father. They make our flesh with theirs and
our blood with their bleeding. We‘re a part of them, just as much as they are
of us.‘
The old man smiled, as though he‘d made everything clear. Saria
looked thoughtful.
‗Where are your mother and father?‘
‗Ah, they‘re a long time gone back to the Earthmother. A long, long
time. My mother was a singing woman and my father came from the high
valley lands, like Ma Lee. He was a strong Dreamer. Used to reckon he
could feel the land right out to the Darkedge.‘
‗The Darkedge?‘
‗Yeah. These Darklands are a pretty big place. You can travel a lot of
days and not find the Darkedge, but it‘s out there. A long way off to the
nightwards, days past Woormra, and a long way daywards, on the other side
of the hills. As far as you and me are concerned, the Darkedge is the end of
the world. Stoppin‘ the outside comin‘ into the Darklands, and stoppin‘ the
- 56 –
Darklands goin‘ to the outside. Only thing that comes over the Darkedge are
Nightpeople.‘
Saria remembered that strange, distant humming which had raised
such a reaction in Dariand.
‗So everything is Darklands.‘
‗Yeah. All this.‘ He gestured around him once again. ‗Burning land.
Once it used to be home to a lotta different folk — Dreamers like us, and
also Skypeople. But in the Shifting this place all got burned up. And when
you get into one of them little fella crawlies, like the other day, that‘s what
you‘re feeling. The burning just like they do.‘
There were more questions she wanted to ask, but it was hard to know
where to start.
Dreamer Gaardi stared up at the sky. ‗It‘s getting too light. Folk in
town‘ll be getting up real soon and I don‘t reckon we‘re gonna see Dariand
again until tonight.‘
‗What‘ll he do?‘
‗Him? Don‘t worry about him, girl. That bloke can vanish like a night
spirit. He‘ll tuck himself away in town somewhere and none of that mob‘ll
be any the wiser. You and I better move, though. Don‘t want to be caught
out here in the sun all day, eh?‘
He climbed to his feet and picked up their remaining water-skin. As
she followed him away from Olympic, Saria glanced back over her
shoulder. In the growing light, the town seemed harmless; just a shambling
collection of old tin and wood sheds crouching on the sand behind its
protective barrier of thorns.
They walked only a short while before the old man stopped beside
some small clumps of scrub.
‗These‘ll do for the day. Under you go.‘
Saria crawled under the nearest bush. There was only enough room for
her, and Dreamer Gaardi walked a little further away, finding another wellshaded hollow for himself.
‗Sleep now and I‘ll wake you later, eh?‘
The old man fell asleep in an instant, but Saria, despite her fatigue,
found sleep elusive. She lay on her back, staring up through the tangle of
branches into the lightening dayvault and turning over in her mind all that
- 57 –
Dreamer Gaardi had told her. The old man‘s words seemed to spin around
and around in her head, leaving her with nothing but unanswered,
unanswerable questions.
Her confusion turned to anger. She hadn‘t asked for any of this. She
hadn‘t wanted to leave the valley, to be dumped here in the sand with no
idea where she was going. She hadn‘t been asked whether she wanted to go
to Woormra. She didn‘t know who Dariand really was, or why she should
trust him. All she had were aching legs and an endless list of questions. She
sat up.
Who was she? she wondered Why had she been born when nobody
else was? What was so special at Woormra that Dariand had to travel all
that way back to the valley to get her?
The sun finally broke the horizon, and daylight flooded across the land
like a wave. Immediately, the tingle of earthwarmth shivered through her.
Saria!
The call surged out of the sand and the vault at the same time. Both
distant and immediate. And full of promise. The promise of answers, the
promise of somewhere she was supposed to be. Of somewhere she
belonged. The urgency of it was stunning.
And then it was gone, leaving only a kind of faded afterglow that
prickled her skin into goosebumps.
Silently, Saria crawled from under the bush, surprised to find the sun
high in the dayvault. Time seemed to have slipped past in a rush.
A gentle snore from Dreamer Gaardi reassured her that the old man
was still asleep and hadn‘t noticed her moving. Above, the sun glared down,
but she shivered again, despite the heat.
She needed answers — something to at least help her get her bearings,
so that she had some idea where she was, if not who she was or where she
was going.
The town was only a little way away and where there were people, she
figured, there‘d be food and water, and therefore animals. She‘d be careful
and nobody would catch her, but she‘d find a creature of some sort and
borrow it for a while. Just long enough to reach into it and use its senses to
‗explore‘ the town a little. Perhaps even to find Dariand‘s hiding place.
That, at least, would be knowledge, some sort of power. And knowing
- 58 –
that there was no way Dariand would ever let her do what she was about to
only added to the appeal of the idea.
Smiling to herself, Saria crept towards Olympic.
- 59 –
SIX.
The midden was outside the fenceline of the town. Its festering
sweetness drifted to Saria as she skirted around the barrier of thorny
branches.
At first she‘d thought to simply find a gap in the fence and wriggle
through, but when she came close she found the fence to be a solid tangle of
hard, dry branches, spiked with thorns the size of a man‘s finger and
completely impenetrable.
Instead, she‘d started a circumnavigation of the town, keeping the
fence on her left and moving slowly lest she be noticed.
There seemed little danger of that, though. It appeared that the people
of Olympic didn‘t venture beyond the perimeter of the town unless they had
to. And the fence also served to effectively hide her from the view of those
inside. Fleetingly, she wondered how Dariand had been able to get into the
town unnoticed — she couldn‘t imagine anybody being able to push through
that fence — but she quickly relegated thoughts of him to the back of her
mind.
From time to time voices drifted out from the other side of the barrier,
and each time she froze, listening. Nobody said anything of consequence,
but it was interesting all the same, listening to other voices — new voices —
each with a different timbre and tone, and trying to imagine the faces that
might go with them.
She didn‘t come across anything that she might be able to reach into,
and was getting close to giving up when she smelled the midden. It was the
smell of the dung heap outside Ma Lee‘s hut back in the valley, only more
concentrated. She followed her nose away from the fenceline, and as she
crested a small rise a little way from the town, she found it.
The small hollow was half filled with waste, a stinking stew of
everything the townspeople needed to dispose of: food scraps, old bones and
the remains of butchered carcases. The smell burned at the back of her nose
and throat, making her stomach cramp with nausea, and Saria turned away,
intending to head back towards the bushes.
As she started away from the waste pit, a small movement caught her
- 60 –
eye.
A little distance off, crouched beside a pile of rubbish at the very edge
of the midden, a dog regarded her balefully, its dark eyes glittering with
distrust. Its yellow coat was patchy and dust-stained, and Saria could see
clearly the bones of its rib cage beneath its skin. In its jaws it clutched an
old, sun-bleached bone from some long-dead creature, and at the sight of
Saria it had frozen, ears flattened across the back of its head, tail held low
between its haunches.
Involuntarily, Saria took a half-step backwards, remembering too well
the angry burning that had seared across her mind when she had tried to
reach into the wild dogs in the valley. But then she stopped. There was
something different about this animal. Something set it apart from the fierce
creatures which roamed the nightwards ridge of the valley, or even from the
lizards and rock-hoppers that she‘d always reached into. This dog had
already been beaten, she realised. Everything about it spoke of a creature
defeated. The timid, crouching stance and the darting wariness behind its
eyes suggested that, unlike the wild animals of the valley, this dog had no
guards, no wall of independence about it.
Hesitantly, Saria crouched low to the sand and let the earthwarmth
flow up into her before apprehensively reaching out.
She hadn‘t really expected to find it. Not from this distance, and
certainly not so easily. But there it was. As her mind touched the dog‘s, she
felt the animal cringe away from her. It was frightened but at the same time
unable to turn and flee as it so strongly wanted to, held in place by
something she couldn‘t identify.
Slowly, still expecting it to resist, Saria let herself drop deeper into the
dog‘s mind, seeking out its senses, trying to explore the land around them as
the dog knew it.
But the dog was starving and its hunger dominated everything. To the
dog, the midden was not waste but food. Dried-out scraps like this bone
were food to fill the belly and take away the aching gnaw of hunger for a
while. The midden filled the dog‘s awareness, a mass of heat and colour.
Compared with it, the town itself was little more than a pale echo in the
back of its mind.
Softly, ghosting her mind against that of the starving animal, Saria
- 61 –
tried to turn its attention away from the midden, to concentrate it on
Olympic itself. But it was no use; the hunger was too powerful to overcome.
Even Saria herself, crouching on the sand, was nothing more in the dog‘s
perception than a vague shadow, noticed only because she might try and
take away its food.
Saria was now deep in the dog‘s mind, immersed so completely in the
misery of the animal‘s hunger that she found her own awareness slipping
away. The hunger was all-encompassing. With an effort of will, Saria slid
upwards again, backing off and slowly returning to her own senses.
Gradually, she became aware of things through her own mind once more —
the smell of the midden, the glare of sunlight off the sand — until finally
she was hovering again, feeling the gentle tingle of earthwarmth through her
body. She was about to withdraw completely, when something new rushed
through the dog‘s mind.
Terror.
From the direction of the town, a sharp, shrill whistle rent the morning
air, and every fibre of the dog‘s body, every muscle and nerve, tensed and
trembled. The animal whirled round, ears cocked, finding the direction of
the sound. The midden and the promise of food were instantly forgotten as it
turned its focus to the source of the whistle: a figure, male, bright and
aggressive, standing by the gate to the town, out of sight and just around the
fenceline from Saria.
Even with only gentle mind contact, Saria could feel every tremor in
the dog‘s body as, summoned beyond its power to resist, it slunk towards
the town, belly flat to the sand.
Then it was gone. Her link vanished as quickly as it had come, and
Saria found herself alone beside the rubbish pile, slightly dizzy with the
recollection of the dog‘s fear. Quickly she let herself sink down further onto
the sand, breathing deeply to recover her balance.
She needed to get back to the bushes. Suddenly the only thing she
wanted was to lie down in the shade and sleep. As soon as she felt able, she
started back around the fenceline, retracing her steps until she reached the
point where she had originally joined the thorn fence, then, with only a
quick glance around to make certain that nobody was nearby, she darted
away from Olympic and over the crest of the rise. A sense of relief flooded
- 62 –
through her when she spotted the faint outline of her tracks in the sand, and
as fast as she could she followed them back until she arrived at the sleeping
place.
Dreamer Gaardi was still snoring as Saria crawled thankfully under
her own shrub. As she settled in the shade, the lingering memory of the
dog‘s abject terror sent a tremor through her. The sensation was quickly
replaced with exhaustion, and slowly she relaxed until finally she allowed
herself a brief smile.
She hadn‘t found Dariand and she hadn‘t discovered anything about
Olympic, but she‘d managed to get away on her own, to reach into another
creature, and Dariand didn‘t know she‘d done it, and could do it again if she
needed to. It was a minor victory but a victory nevertheless.
And as she slipped into sleep, the knowledge that she wasn‘t
completely hopeless or helpless made her smile even more.
At least now she had some power.
- 63 –
SEVEN.
That night, as they walked, there was little conversation.
‗What‘s wrong with you?‘ Dariand snapped, as Saria stumbled yet
again.
‗Nothing. I‘m just tired.‘
‗I don‘t see why. You slept all day.‘
Even through her fatigue it took some effort to stop herself smiling. If
Dariand only knew.
Of course now, as they marched nightwards away from Olympic, she
was paying the price of her daylight independence. The full water-skin
which Dariand had slung across her back was heavy, chaffing at her neck
and shoulder, and her legs and feet had swelled so the leather thonging of
her shoes bit into her calves. The exhaustion that usually set in late in their
evening‘s walking had come much earlier tonight, sped up by lack of sleep.
And the little rest she‘d had during the day had been strange, too,
disturbed and interrupted by dreams—the memory of the dog‘s terror
triggered vivid nightmares which left her sweating. When Dreamer Gaardi
had shaken her awake in the early evening, Saria felt as though she‘d barely
been to sleep. Her eyes were filled with grit and her back and neck ached
from the hard ground.
Dariand wasn‘t much better, either. He‘d spent the day hidden in a
narrow gap underneath an abandoned hut and by the time he managed to
extricate himself and the water-skins from Olympic it was already late into
the evening. The waste of time had put him in a bad mood.
‗Sorry,‘ she retorted. ‗I‘ll try not to slow you down any more. Go on
without me if you‘d like.‘
Dariand increased their pace.
After an endless night of slogging across the plains, daylight found
them picking across a raised causeway between two dry lake beds.
Something was strange about the narrow path. On either side, the saltpans
glittered into the distance, but the causeway ran dead straight, directly
nightwards without veering. The flat surface on which they walked was high
above the old lake, and to their left and right rocky walls of scree fell away
- 64 –
down to the dry surface.
The ground was different too: tiny bluish stones, all angles and
corners which poked sharp edges into Saria‘s feet, even through her shoes.
Odd black rocks, broad and flat, suggested that this broken, crazed and
fragmented path had once been smooth. Saria picked one up and was
surprised to find it slightly soft, with a strange odour.
‗What is this?‘
She held out the rock to show Dariand, who barely glanced down.
‗Just a stone.‘
‗It‘s different.‘
‗Not here it isn‘t. Look around; there‘re thousands of them.‘
‗But this whole place is strange. Why is it so straight?‘
Dariand snatched the rock from her. ‗It‘s already daylight, and unless
we get across this landbridge we‘ll be trapped in the sun, so start putting
your energy into walking, alright?‘ He hurled the flat stone off the
causeway. It arced briefly, a blur against the growing blue vault, then
bounced several times before sliding to a halt, a dark blemish on the pale
surface.
Saria followed sullenly as the pace increased yet again, and was soon
too breathless to talk.
The sun was high by the time they reached the end of the causeway
and Dariand angled towards an outcrop a little way off, leaving the pathway
of flat black rocks to curve in the other direction, slipping across the
landscape as far as Saria could see.
At the outcrop, Dariand led them into a narrow opening between two
massive red boulders. The rocks overhung, forming a natural cave and
providing deep shade.
‗Wait here.‘
He slipped back into the daylight and Saria, exhausted, slid to the
sand. Dreamer Gaardi crouched at her feet and began to unlace her shoes.
‗Dreamer, what was that place? With the flat rocks?‘
‗The landbridge? Funny place, that. Very old. It was old even before
the Shifting. Those rocks are strange, but there are a lot of strange things on
these plains.‘
Saria stared up at the narrow thread of blue vault visible between the
- 65 –
rocks above. A slight breeze whispered through the rift. Otherwise there was
stillness. Saria was just beginning to fall asleep when Dariand returned.
‗Don‘t sleep yet. We need to eat.‘
He threw a small pile of twigs onto the sandy floor.
‗I‘m not eating sticks.‘
‗Don‘t worry, you don‘t have to.‘
From inside his robes, he withdrew two small stones, dark in colour
but different from the ones on the causeway.
‗What are they?‘
‗Firestones. Come and watch.‘
Crouching over the pile of twigs, he banged the rocks together and, to
Saria‘s astonishment, sparks flew into the few dry leaves that clung to the
twigs. As they landed, Dariand blew gently over them and a tiny flame
kindled itself.
‗There.‘
‗How does that work?‘ Saria was amazed. Back in the valley they had
dung-fire, of course, and one of Saria‘s tasks had been to keep it
smouldering through the day, checking regularly so it could be used to
kindle their night fire. Once she had allowed it to go out and had earned
herself a thrashing from Ma Lee every day until a scrub fire on the
nightwards ridge meant they‘d been able to re-start their own again.
‗These are very old.‘
‗But how do they work?‘
‗You don‘t need to know.‘ His dismissive tone infuriated her.
‗Why not? Why do you get to decide what I need to know?‘
‗Because even if I told you, you‘ll never have to use them.‘
‗You don‘t know that. What if I leave you?‘
Dariand looked amused.
‗Then you‘d die.‘
‗I could look after myself.‘
‗Really? I‘d like to see how. Perhaps you should make your way to
Woormra alone then.‘
‗You don‘t mean that.‘
‗You‘re right, I don‘t.‘ His face grew serious. ‗But I do mean this:
there is no place you can go out there where I can‘t find you. And if you‘re
- 66 –
stupid enough to try it, then you have my word you won‘t last more than
half a day. If you‘re lucky, you‘ll collapse from thirst or get bitten by a
snake. If you‘re unlucky, someone else will find you before I do.‘
‗That would be better than you ordering me around.‘
‗Saria. I know this is difficult but you need to trust me.‘
That line again, Saria thought to herself.
‗The Darklands are old and dangerous. There are … forces here,
dangerous forces that go back to when this land was young and filled with
people who could walk in the sky and burn rocks and stones. There‘s things
I don‘t understand about these lands, and I‘ve spent my life walking them.
Without me, you have no hope out there and you‘re too important to let
anything happen to you. We must get you to Dreamer Wanji in Woormra.‘
‗Why?‘
‗Of all the Dreamers he‘s the one who knows all of the old stories.
He‘s the one who hears the Earthmother the most clearly.‘ He reached
across and touched her lightly on the top of her arm.
Saria shook his hand away and marched to the cave opening. The
plains stretched into the distance and a movement in the vault caught her
attention. She stared as a large bird wheeled slowly in the air.
‗I wish that was me,‘ she muttered, and for a moment contemplated
making good her threat to run. She could get back to Olympic, or possibly
even home to the valley. She‘d find creatures and use their senses to find her
way, a bit at a time. And if Dariand could sneak into the town and get water,
then so could she.
The thought of being back in the valley, basking like a lizard by the
creek or tracking rock-hoppers through the scrub, brought tears to her eyes.
She wondered how Ma would react if she showed up there again.
‗Don‘t do it, girl.‘
Dreamer Gaardi was standing behind her. She hadn‘t even heard him
approach.
‗Do what?‘
‗Head off out there on your own.‘
She regarded the old man with surprise. ‗How do you know what I‘m
thinking?‘
‗You reckon I only reach into animals, eh?‘
- 67 –
‗You were reaching me?‘ Saria‘s eyes widened. She‘d never even
considered that it might be possible to reach into another person. There
didn‘t seem to be any point.
‗Nah.‘ Dreamer Gaardi laughed. ‗At least not this time. You gotta
have a bit more connection to a person to get into their head.‘
‗How did you know I was thinking of running, then?‘
‗I‘m not stupid, am I?‘ The old man‘s eyes crinkled with good
humour. ‗All that talking back there, I‘ve got a good pair of ears too, you
know!‘ His chuckle was deep and throaty.
‗Do you reckon I could get away from him?‘
Dreamer Gaardi‘s face grew serious as he considered her question.
‗You might. For a while, at least. But I wouldn‘t.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗What he says is true, girl. You‘ve got a lot more to learn. And when
you do, you might not want to run so much.‘
‗He never explains anything. I just want to know what‘s going on.‘
‗That‘s his way. And anyway, I reckon you‘re learning a lot more
about this place than you even realise.‘
‗Like what?‘
‗Come on, now, both of you. Saria needs to rest.‘
Dariand had come up behind unnoticed. Saria wondered how long
he‘d been listening.
‗But …‘
‗No. Dreamer Gaardi‘s talked enough.‘ It was hard to be certain, but
Saria thought she caught a flash of anger across the nightwalker‘s features.
‗I‘ve got meat on the fire. Come and eat, and then we sleep.‘
He‘d roasted some kind of lizard over the coals and Saria forced
herself to swallow a few mouthfuls. Both men ate their fill then all three
settled to sleep.
When they woke, Dariand was in much better spirits. The day‘s sleep
seemed to have driven away the previous night‘s grumpiness. As they
gathered their travelling gear, he even reached out and ruffled his fingers
through Saria‘s dark, tangled hair. The sensation reminded Saria of Ma Lee
stroking her head that last night in the valley, but coming from Dariand the
gesture seemed forced and awkward. He was aware of it too, and quickly
- 68 –
pulled his hand back and turned away.
‗All set for a walk?‘ His tone was lighthearted, but there was a
vaguely embarrassed undercurrent to the way he spoke.
‗I guess so.‘
‗Good. You ready, Dreamer Gaardi?‘
The old man nodded.
‗Let‘s get moving.‘
The sun had only recently dropped below the nightwards horizon, and
all around them the plains were cooling. Even through her shoes the
afterglow of earthwarmth from dirt baked all day in the sun tingled faintly
through the soles of Saria‘s feet.
Saria!
As always, the call was unexpected and powerful. This time, though,
it had something new – direction.
SARIA!
From somewhere over the nightwards horizon ahead, the summons
echoed through the earth and, gasping, unable to stop herself, Saria half
stumbled a couple of running steps towards it. The strength of it flowing
into her drawing her towards it.
‗Are you alright?‘
Dariand and Dreamer Gaardi were both regarding her with mildly
concerned expressions.
‗I‘m … fine. Did you hear something?‘
‗No.‘ The two men exchanged a quick glance. ‗What?‘ asked Dreamer
Gaardi.
‗Nothing.‘ Saria shook her head, dispelling the lingering vestiges of
the call. ‗Nothing. I just thought I heard something. Don‘t worry, I‘m fine ...
Really.‘
Neither man said anything more, but she noted that as they continued
on into the evening the two men were careful to always keep her between
them, one of them never more than a couple of steps away.
As they walked, Dreamer Gaardi began to sing. Occasionally, back in
the valley, Ma used to sing as she worked in the garden, but nothing like
this. Ma‘s voice was cracked and thin, as though she was singing through
her nose, whereas Dreamer Gaardi‘s was low. He sang softly but the sound
- 69 –
filled the night and on the really low notes his voice resonated through the
still air so much that Saria could almost feel the words through her skin. The
song was slow and simple, just one verse and a few notes, repeated over and
over:
Gonna walk my way to the fire in the stones
Gonna tread my steps through the valley full of bones
Gonna listen when the Earthmother whispers in my head
Gonna cry the land a creek
Gonna walk until I’m dead.
There was a strange hypnotic quality to the music, and when the old
man stopped Saria noticed that all three of them had allowed their footsteps
to fall into the rhythm of it.
‗What was that song?‘
‗Just an old tune we used to sing when we were kids. A long time ago
now. I reckon my mother must have taught it to me.‘ Dreamer Gaardi
paused, thinking. ‗I haven‘t thought about it for years. Wonder why it comes
back now, eh?‘
‗What does it mean?‘
‗Mean?‘ He looked puzzled. ‗Nothin‘, as far as I know. It‘s just an old
children‘s song.‘
‗Older than me, that‘s for sure,‘ Dariand interjected. ‗I‘ve never heard
it before.‘
‗It must mean something,‘ Saria insisted. ‗Where‘s the valley full of
bones?‘
‗If there is one, it isn‘t in the Darklands,‘ Dariand answered.
‗How do you know?‘
‗I‘m a nightwalker. If there was something like that anywhere around,
I‘d know about it.‘
‗Really?‘ Saria looked at him skeptically. ‗You‘ve been everywhere in
the Darklands?‘
‗Pretty much. At least, everywhere people know about, and quite a
few places they don‘t.‘
‗What sort of places?‘
‗Ma‘s valley for one. The soak for another.‘
‗The soak?‘
- 70 –
‗You‘ll see tomorrow.‘
They lapsed into silence again while Dariand glanced up at the
vaultlights, which he used to correct their course slightly.
‗We should come across the road again soon.‘
‗What‘s a road?‘
‗Remember those flat black rocks we followed across the landbridge?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗That.‘
Sure enough, only a little while later they intersected another of the
black stone strips. Dariand turned them onto it, and they followed it
nightwards.
‗Will this take us to Woormra?‘ Saria asked.
‗Eventually. There are shorter ways, though. We‘ll only follow it for a
while tonight.‘
‗What made it?‘
‗Old people.‘
‗Like Dreamer Gaardi?‘
Both men laughed.
‗Nah, girl. Even older than me. These roads come from before the
Shifting. Made by the people who lived here before us.‘
‗Other people lived here?‘
‗A long time ago.‘
‗What happened to them?‘
Saria caught the uneasy glance that Dariand threw at Dreamer Gaardi.
‗Nobody knows. There‘s a lotta old stories, but it‘s impossible to
know what‘s true and what‘s made up. Dreamer Wanji can probably tell you
some more when we get to Woormra, but until …‘ Dariand broke off in
mid-sentence, then suddenly grabbed Saria‘s arm and dashed away from the
road, running fast.
‗What …‘
‗Quiet! Run!‘ he hissed.
Saria half-ran, half-stumbed behind him, aware of Dreamer Gaardi
following them closely. Then, over the thud of their footsteps, she caught a
slight, low-pitched humming which trembled through the night.
They came to a small, rocky hollow in the ground and Dariand
- 71 –
unceremoniously flung her into it.
‗Get in and keep your head down!‘
She didn‘t argue. The humming was rising in pitch and becoming
louder. Dreamer Gaardi flung himself beside her and immediately began
scraping sand over himself, signalling to her to do the same.
Dariand had vanished into the night, but suddenly he returned
dragging an uprooted clump of spiny desert grass behind him, covering their
tracks.
‗Get under this!‘
He heaved the clump into the hollow and Dreamer Gaardi
immediately arranged it above, hiding them from view.
Sand slithered like cold fingers into her robe and shoes, making her
shiver.
‗Gotta be still, girl. Real still, okay?‘ Dreamer Gaardi‘s voice was a
whisper. His free arm snaked around her shoulders, drawing her as close as
he could without disturbing her sandy covering.
‗What‘s happening?‘
‗Nightpeople. Quiet, now.‘
The humming was loud enough to hurt her ears; high-pitched, it
vibrated into the earth and Saria could feel it through the sand.
Between the wiry leaves of the desert grass she could see only
darkness and the occasional glimmer of a vaultlight.
‗Where‘s Dariand?‘
‗Shh, girl, he‘ll be fine. He‘s like a rock, that one.‘
A bright flash flickered across the landscape, momentarily blinding
her.
‗Nightsun. Stay still, now.‘ The old man‘s thin arm tightened around
her and Saria held her breath, waiting …
Abruptly, the intensity of the noise dropped and the high-pitched
screaming faded from it. She felt Dreamer Gaardi relax.
‗Don‘t move yet, girl. Wait.‘
Gradually the noise grew faint, but they lay in the hollow until the
grass clump was jerked from over them.
‗Right.‘ Dariand towered above. ‗All clear.‘
‗What was it?‘
- 72 –
‗Nightpeople. Just a patrol along the road. Nothing to worry about.‘
‗Why‘d we have to hide from them, then?‘ Saria asked. ‗Who are
they?‘
Another uncomfortable look passed between the two men. After what
had just happened both knew they owed her an answer. Eventually, Dreamer
Gaardi spoke.
‗Ever since there‘s been the Darklands, there‘s been Nightpeople.
There are old stories saying they‘re descendants of the Skypeople, who
came to this land before the Shifting, but nobody really knows who they are
or what they want.‘
‗What‘s that noise they make?‘
‗That‘s not them. That‘s their hummers. They use them to fly through
the nightvault like birds.‘
Saria digested this information for a couple of moments. People who
could fly!
‗What do they look like?‘
‗Never seen one myself. Dariand has, though.‘
Saria looked at Dariand expectantly but was met with only a long
silence. His eyes narrowed.
‗We shouldn‘t be tellin‘ her this stuff.‘
‗Nah, it‘s alright,‘ Dreamer Gaardi replied. ‗She‘s better off knowing
a bit about them. Especially if we‘re gonna keep hiding from them between
here and Woormra. Dreamer Wanji won‘t mind if we explain.‘
‗When did you see them?‘ Saria demanded.
‗They used to come down all the time. Whenever there was a birth, or
to take water, or even sometimes just to take dirt. Mainly for births, though.‘
‗Births?‘
‗Whenever a child came along, it was a fair bet the Nightpeople would
be there soon after. If the child was clean, they‘d take it away. Its mother,
too. It‘s one of the reasons that there aren‘t any kids like you left.‘
‗Clean?‘
‗Like you. Complete. All your arms and legs, a normal face. It used to
be that even if a Darkland woman could get with a baby, chances were when
it came out there‘d be something wrong — missing an arm, or an eye or
something. And when they came out perfect, the Nightpeople‘d take them
- 73 –
quick smart.‘
‗Why? And why didn‘t they take me?‘
‗We don‘t know why they take them. And they didn‘t get you because
I sneaked you out of Woormra after you were born. Took you to the valley
so Ma Lee could keep you outa the way.‘
‗They didn‘t chase you?‘
‗They didn‘t know you were alive. Dreamer Wanji fooled them. Made
them think you‘d been born dead and‘ — he hesitated — ‗impure. Like all
the others.‘
‗That was the night you saw one?‘
‗No, not that night. That was later. Mostly they stopped coming after
you were born. Stopped bringing their hummers down onto the land, and
apart from patrols like that one along the road, they‘ve kept to themselves
ever since. Except for one. There was one who used to come down all the
time, asking about you.‘
‗Me?‘
‗I think it suspected you were still alive. Used to stop in the towns,
asking questions. Stopped me once while I was on my way back to
Woormra from a hunting trip.‘ Dariand gave a low chuckle. ‗It never did
find out anything, though.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗Because as far as most Darklanders know, you were born dead. So
that‘s what they told it.‘
‗Why would they think that?‘
Dariand made a noncommittal gesture.
‗Dreamer Wanji didn‘t want you being common knowledge, so he let
everyone think the same thing. What folk didn‘t know, they couldn‘t tell, he
figured.‘
‗So if I got killed now, nobody would care?‘
‗Nobody would know. That doesn‘t mean they wouldn‘t care. If
people knew about you, they‘d care a lot, you‘ll find. Probably too much.‘
Suddenly, Saria felt small, insignificant. She should have been told
this before Dariand had dragged her away from the Valley. Before she could
object, though, Dreamer Gaardi interjected.
‗Listen, girl,‘ he said, ‗Dreamer Wanji and Dariand did the right thing
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when they took you off. Whatever happens to you will touch everyone in
the Darklands, right? Every man, every woman. That‘s why they did what
they did. To give you a chance.‘
‗Then why didn‘t anyone ever tell me about it? Ma could‘ve …‘
‗It wasn‘t Ma‘s place,‘ Dariand snapped. ‗Just like it‘s not your place
to ask questions. When we get to Woormra, Dreamer Wanji will tell you
everything he thinks you need to know. For the moment, though, you just
have to keep walking, and trust Dreamer Gaardi and me.‘
‗Why? So you can tell me about my life only when it suits you? Why
should I trust you again ever?‘ Saria spat the words.
‗You don‘t have much choice,‘ he replied coldly. ‗Now let‘s get
moving.‘
He picked up his water-skins and led them back to and straight over
the crumbling road.
‗It‘s probably safer to stay away from this now, if there are patrols
about,‘ he said to Dreamer Gaardi.
Halfway across the road, Saria stopped and picked up a small rock.
Like the one from the causeway, it was completely flat on one side and
slightly soft to the touch. Holding it to her nose, she breathed its faint bitter
odour.
No further patrols crossed their path and in the early dawn Dariand
studied the remaining few vaultlights, then altered their course slightly.
‗Where are we going?‘
‗Not far now. There‘s water and a place to rest.‘ They were the first
words he‘d spoken since their argument, and he was still clearly annoyed.
Soon after, he led them down a rocky slope into a hollow depression. The
sandy bottom was shaded by small trees and shrubs.
‗What is this place?‘
‗It‘s called the soak. It means we‘re about halfway to Woormra. We‘ll
rest here today.‘
Dariand threw his water-skins and the small pouch he kept slung
around his waist down in the shade.
‗Go and find some dry twigs and we‘ll make a fire,‘ he ordered Saria.
‗What about you?‘
‗Dreamer Gaardi and I are going to get water and catch something to
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eat.‘
‗Can I come?‘
‗No. Get the twigs, bring them back, then wait right here for us. Don‘t
go anywhere else. You‘ll find enough wood for the fire in that clump of
scrub there.‘
His tone made it clear that this was a command, not advice, and Saria
bristled. She considered arguing but she was too tired; instead she whirled
and stalked over to the brush. She knew his real reason for not letting her go
with him: he didn‘t want her to be able to find food and drink for herself. As
long as he kept her dependent on him, he could be reasonably sure that she
wouldn‘t run.
But he doesn’t know I can reach animals, she reminded herself. And
animals can always find food and water. So I’m not as powerless as he
thinks. Or as useless. I don’t have to follow him, not if I don’t want to.
She clung to that thought. It fuelled her anger and also gave her a tiny
bit of hope.
As Dariand had said, there were plenty of dry leaves and sticks
beneath the bushes and she gathered them angrily, dropping them in a pile
near their gear.
The two men would be gone for some time, and Saria slumped onto
the sand to wait. She lay back and listened to the clicks and buzzes of
insects. She was tired and wanted to sleep, but even the soporific effect of
the morning sun couldn‘t wash away the nagging feeling of powerlessness
that kept returning to niggle at her, expecially when she thought of Dariand.
Saria!
The call was just as strong, just as intense as ever, but this time it
didn‘t catch her by surprise; it was almost as though she‘d been expecting it.
It swept through her with all its usual summoning power, but now she
noticed it had a soothing quality as well. It helped her to push her annoyance
with Dariand to the back of her mind, and to give in to the wash of
earthwarmth flowing through her.
Then it faded, draining her anger with it, leaving her with only
tiredness and aching muscles. She was asleep in seconds.
- 76 –
EIGHT.
The afternoon sun reached between the branches and shone directly
into Saria‘s face waking her. She sat up slowly. Dariand and Dreamer
Gaardi were both still asleep nearby, and she rubbed at her eyes, trying to
dislodge some of the grittiness.
A couple of water-skins lay among their provisions. The sun had
warmed it to the temperature of blood, and the water had a strange woody
taste, but it wet her lips and tongue and relieved a little of the dryness. A
few scraps of meat had been set aside on a piece of bark, clearly for her to
have when she woke. She picked one up and chewed at it absently, looking
around at the same time.
In the early afternoon the soak was silent; any living creatures there
were clearly sleeping, just like the two men.
Saria rose and climbed the slope up to the plains. It took only a few
moments to pick her way to the top. From there, the Darklands stretched
away, seemingly endless and largely featureless. Under the shimmering
dayvault, the whole landscape quivered and blured. It was dizzying, the size
of the land. After a childhood spent confined within the protective walls of
the valley, being alone on the edge of such an expanse of nothingness left
her unsettled and vertiginous.
After a short while she had to turn away and was about to clamber
back down into the soak when something caught her eye.
Smoke.
Just over the daywards horizon, a thin column of smoke smudged the
air, barely more than a grey thread against the enormous blue. Shielding her
eyes, Saria tried to make it out more clearly, but in the haze along the
horizon it remained vague.
Saria hesitated, remembering the fire that Dariand had produced from
stones the previous day. If he could do that, surely other people could too
and apart from Olympic this smoke was the first sign she‘d seen of other
people in the Darklands. Her immediate impulse was to rush back down out
of sight, into the relative safety of the soak, and to wake Dariand. But she
- 77 –
didn‘t. Instead, she studied the column.
It didn‘t look all that far away. It was hard to be certain, but the
horizon seemed close and the smoke only just the other side of it. If there
were people there, it would be good to show Dariand that she wasn‘t as
helpless as he might like. Saria imagined his expression if she woke him,
not simply with a tale of smoke over the daywards horizon but with
knowledge of who was making it and how many people.
All she‘d have to do would be to get a little closer, find a lizard or
something, and reach. Most wild creatures‘ senses extended far beyond that
of humans. The people at the fire would never even know she was there.
Just like at Olympic.
She studied the smoke again, more thoughtfully now. It was probably
no more than a quick walk away. If she went to investigate it alone, Dariand
would be angry, that was certain. But it would also show him that she
wasn‘t just some girl to be bossed around. It would prove to him that she
had skills and powers of her own. It might even persuade him to trust her
for a while—to tell her something of what was in store for her when they
reached Woormra. In that moment, she made her decision.
Slipping back down into the soak, she looked again at the two
sleeping men. The sun was still high — they‘d sleep for hours yet.
Taking a water-skin, she started back towards the scree, then,
remembering, returned to slip her shoes on. The laces gave her some
difficulty. Every time she tried to knot the leather thonging it either came
undone right away or fell loose around her ankles the moment she stood up.
Eventually she managed a couple of awkward knots that held the leather
pouches in place.
At the edge of the grove of trees she hesitated, but only for a moment.
On the daywards horizon, clearly visible now she was aware of it, the smoke
column rose into the air like a beacon or a solid rock pinnacle, and
unhesitatingly Saria started towards it.
Walking in daylight was different from walking at night. Within
moments, heat was radiating up from the red dirt, even through her shoes,
making her feet uncomfortably hot and sweaty. Added to that, the shoes
were loose, allowing sand to trickle inside, scraping and rubbing skin from
her toes and soles.
- 78 –
The sun was more fierce than she‘d imagined. It scorched
unwaveringly, her skin tingled at its touch.
All of this was nothing, though, compared with the space. After some
time walking Saria stopped to take a drink, and looked around.
During her walking with Dariand and Dreamer Gaardi, night had
brought the edges of the world closer, cloaking the distance in darkness, so
she hadn‘t really been aware of the sheer size of the world. Now, alone in
the middle of the plains, the daylight stripped away the landscape, making
everything huge and distant: the dayvault, the earth. Revolving slowly on
the spot, dizziness overwhelmed her and she had to sit quickly and heavily
to avoid falling.
Panic threatened to overcome her and she closed her eyes, squeezing
them tight against the enormity of the land and breathing deeply until she
felt calm enough to open them again. It took all her strength of will to lock
her gaze on the smoke column. It didn‘t seem to have come any closer, but
that wasn‘t surprising as she‘d only been walking for a little while. Fighting
the impulse to curl up under that enormous dayvault and hide in the
darkness of her mind, she walked on. The vastness of the plains continued to
threaten, pressing in, trying to draw her eyes outward, to divert her from her
task.
She kept on walking, never wavering, never stopping for water or rest,
afraid to drop her eyes. The smoke seemed to get further away, though, and
as the day began to cool, Saria stopped again. She‘d been gone now for
much longer than she‘d intended. Her lips were cracked and dry, and when
she took a sip from the water-skin, the water burned when it touched them.
I have to go back, she finally decided. Dariand would be furious, but
she‘d just have to face that.
When she turned fear settled in an icy knot in her belly.
There were no tracks to follow. The hard-packed dirt had barely
scuffed below her feet and a slight breeze had shifted the thin layer of
surface dust; all that remained of her path was a series of shallow scuffs
going back fifteen or so steps before vanishing into the desert wastes.
Desperately, Saria searched the nightwards horizon for some feature,
some indication of where the soak hid, tucked below the level of the
surrounding desert. There was nothing, and, even if there had been, the sun
- 79 –
was dropping rapidly to the horizon and hiding much of the plains
nightwards of her in its glare.
Breathing deeply, Saria looked around for some rocks or boulders,
anything that might hide a lizard or even a tiny skink. All she found was
dead, empty dirt. The only sign of life anywhere was the rapidly fading
smoke column, and so Saria began walking on towards it as fast as she
could manage, afraid that when night fell it too would be lost to her sight.
The horizon continued to darken, turning from white to blue to purple
to grey, until Saria had to strain just to make out the smear of darkness
against the deepening vault. Vaultlights began to come out overhead, until
she dropped her eyes to her feet, just for a moment, and when she looked up
the smoke had vanished.
Flopping to the ground, Saria fought back tears, and for the first time
became aware of how hot she was; her arms, her legs, even her scalp were
burning. It took only a moment to tug her shoes off. Sand had rubbed the
skin raw between her toes and blood smeared the heel of her left foot.
Wincing, she squirted a small amount of water over her feet, then lay on her
back and looked up into the night, hoping to spot one of the strange, fastmoving vaultlights as it soared across the sky.
There were none, and as night settled Saria allowed herself to slip into
its comforting grasp.
Dreams came to her. Strange, hot dreams of smoke and burning and
fire. She dreamed of the Silver Lake, of a woman with dark skin and soft
hair. She dreamed she was being carried to a place of smooth, shining
curves in the vault. Voices whispered, but she couldn‘t understand them.
She dreamed that a cool wind was blowing her across the land, and she
dreamed about the insect in the dune bush. Through all her dreams, she was
aware of that deep burning, somewhere a long way off, reaching right into
her and eating her thoughts.
Lost in these fevered visions, Saria wasn‘t even aware of being found.
She didn‘t feel herself being lifted and carried daywards across the plains, in
the same direction she‘d been travelling. She wasn‘t aware of the poking
and prodding of curious fingers. The first she knew of any of this was when
she woke to find herself tied up.
- 80 –
NINE.
The face that swam into view was old, light-skinned and scarred. Saria
found herself staring up into eyes almost completely empty of colour.
Around the dark pinprick pupils were pale circles which lent the man‘s stare
a disconcerting, almost hungry, look.
Frightened, she struggled to her feet and tried to back away, but was
drawn up sharply by the bite of a leather thong which had been knotted
tightly around her wrists, holding them together in front of her. The thong
was attached to a leash held by the scarred man.
‗Pssht!‘ He gave the leash a sharp pull, jerking Saria a half-step
towards him, and grinned. All of his teeth had been filed down to points. He
was completely hairless, his bald pate as pale as the rest of him, and the
overall effect was disconcertingly animal-like.
‗You take it easy, girl.‘ The man‘s voice was soft and surprisingly
high. Despite his warning, Saria continued to struggle, until he lost patience
and tugged the leash so hard she was pulled completely off her feet and fell
forwards onto the dirt.
She rolled and tried to rise, but the man crouched and pinned her to
the ground by planting one boney knee in the middle of her chest.
‗You gotta name?‘
When she didn‘t answer, his eyes narrowed.
‗You answer when I ask you a question, girl. What‘s your name, eh?‘
The knee dug more sharply into her, driving air from her lungs.
‗Saria.‘
She tried to say it defiantly, but even to her own ears she sounded
scared.
The man nodded. His sharpened smile returned.
‗Saria. So that‘s what they called you. I always thought Dreamer
Wanji had you stashed out there somewhere.‘
Abruptly he stood, releasing his weight.
‗Get up!‘
He tugged the thong viciously, pulling her back to her feet.
‗You don‘t make trouble and we‘ll have no problems, eh?‘ The old
man grinned again. The skin across his face was stretched and Saria could
- 81 –
make out the bones of his cheeks and jaws. His eyes were sunk in hollows
so deep they were thrown into pools of shadow, adding to the skeletal effect.
Back on her feet, Saria was able to look around. They stood in the
shade of a couple of ragged shrubs. The remains of a fire smouldered in a
stone circle nearby, and various bundles were strewn on the dirt around it.
Off to one side the bodies of six or seven creatures which looked like large
rock-hoppers lay in a bloody pile.
All of this she took in in a second, but what grabbed her attention
most were the others. Standing in a rough circle around them was a group of
perhaps ten people, men and women. All appeared old, like Dreamer Gaardi
or perhaps older, and all watched her silently with expressions that betrayed
nothing.
‗What‘re you doin‘ out here, eh? All on your own in the middle of the
Darklands?‘
‗I was going to Woormra.‘ Distracted by the implacable stares of the
group, she answered without thinking.
‗Woormra?‘ The pale man nodded. ‗Figures. And I don‘t imagine
you‘d be walkin‘ on your own, so who‘s takin‘ you there?‘
Saria hesitated a moment too long before replying. ‗Nobody.‘
The old man‘s hand flew like a snake striking, delivering a stinging
blow across her face before she had time to dodge.
‗Don‘t try me, girl. I can do a lot worse things to you than that. Now,
who?‘
Saria tried to glare at her attacker, but before the pale stare of the old
man her eyes fell to her feet.
‗Dariand.‘
‗The nightwalker. Of course Dreamer Wanji‘d send him. Where is
he?‘
Saria thought furiously, recalling Dariand‘s comment from a couple of
nights earlier: If you’re lucky, you’ll collapse from hunger or thirst, or
you’ll get bitten by a snake. If you’re unlucky, someone else will find you
before I do.
‗I don‘t know. I got separated from him in the dark, and was
wandering for a couple of days.‘
The man grabbed her by the chin, his bony fingers digging into the
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soft skin of her cheeks.
‗Don‘t lie, girl.‘ The eyes were mesmerising; they seemed to grow and
glow and Saria felt herself sinking into them. ‗You ent been out here more
than a day, or you‘d be nothing more than a burnt-up stick. So where‘d you
run off from that nightwalker?‘
It took everything Saria had in her not to drop her eyes, and every last
scrap of control she could muster to think of an answer. She wouldn‘t tell
them the truth — that much she knew. She wouldn‘t tell them about the
soak. Instinctively she knew that her only hope now was for Dariand to
rescue her, and the further away these people thought he was, the greater his
chances of catching up with them.
‗I don‘t know. We came across this black strip, sort of a path, and
were camping in a cave in some rocks.‘
Behind her, one of the women said something Saria didn‘t understand
and the pale man nodded.
‗That‘ll be it. It‘s a bit further off than I‘d have thought, but still, we‘d
better get movin‘, eh? Dariand‘s got good landsense and he‘s probably close
already.‘
He held her face a moment longer then dropped his hand. Around
them, Saria was only vaguely aware of the group dispersing and starting to
gather their bundles together. The old man raised a threatening finger,
pointing it right in her face.
‗Don‘t give me any trouble and we‘ll have no problems, right?‘
Reaching up, it took him only a moment to tie his end of the leash
onto the tree beside them, high above Saria‘s reach.
‗You stay here while I get this bunch movin‘.‘
Saria glanced at where he‘d knotted it.
‗That won‘t come undone in a hurry, an‘ if you pull at it you‘ll only
make it tighter, but we‘d better make sure you don‘t try, eh?‘
He put two fingers to his lips and whistled, and Saria gasped. The
sound was instantly familiar and ran through her like cold water. A clench
of remembered terror gripped her as a dirty, skinny, sand-coloured dog
came skulking towards them from somewhere beyond the campsite. It
approached cautiously, slinking low, ears down, teeth bared, and a soft
growl rumbling in the back of its throat. Saria knew it immediately. It was
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the same beast she‘d reached into outside Olympic.
The old man muttered at the animal, which flattened itself to the
ground in front of Saria.
‗You don‘t move now, you hear me?‘ he said to her. ‗He‘ll have your
throat out if you do. Stay real still.‘
He grinned his pointed smile again and strode away.
As soon as he was gone, Saria concentrated on letting as much
earthwarmth as possible flow up into her, but she was too distracted and
nervous to manage it immediately. All the same, after a few moments she
sensed the beginnings of the familiar tingle and, closing her eyes, she tried
to surrender herself into it until she felt confident enough to probe out
towards the dog.
Just like last time, the animal‘s mind proved surprisingly simple to
find, and she was able to reach into it easily. Despite its aggressive stance
and rumbling growl, the dog‘s mind was passive, resisting her not at all as
she gently touched its senses with her own.
Around them the group was all activity and bustle. In the dog‘s
perceptions, people moved as bright shadows. The brightest of them all
stood still in the middle of the movement, and Saria guessed it was the paleeyed man. The people gathering up the slaughtered rock-hoppers also
featured brightly; the possibility of food offered by them dominating the
dog‘s thoughts.
Slowly, Saria probed outward, using the dog‘s senses of smell and
hearing to search further away, out into the sand, hoping to find Dariand and
Dreamer Gaardi waiting there somewhere, following to rescue her.
A little way away, over a small ridge on the other side of the fire, a
series of large, dull shadows moved restlessly. Saria had no idea what they
were, but as far as the dog was concerned the creatures were little threat,
despite their obvious size, so it paid them no real attention.
Apart from that, there was nothing. Only vast, dead, empty plains.
Slowly, gently, Saria withdrew her mind from the dog‘s, dissolving
the link between them gradually until she was once more completely within
her own senses. Then it was everything she could do not to sink
immediately into despair. What had she done? All Dariand‘s cautions and
warnings from the last few days came flooding back, and tears started to
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well at the corners of her eyes.
She choked them down.
I can’t let them see me crying, she told herself, though she wasn‘t sure
why not.
The dog still crouched on the sand at her feet, but as her tears cleared
she had the sudden notion that something was different about it. The
creature remained as still as before, teeth bared and ears back, but
something had changed, something almost imperceptible in the way it
regarded her.
Then she realised.
The creature‘s tail was wagging. Not much, just the slightest hint of
movement, right at the black tip of its long, scrawny tail. Not constantly,
either, but a faint twitch of movement every few seconds. Something about
that twitch worked against the aggression the dog was displaying in every
other part of its body.
Saria watched the tiny wagging tip for a couple of moments and
thought about reaching again for the creature‘s mind, but before she had a
chance, her captor came scurrying back and without a word unknotted her
from the tree.
‗Come on.‘
Behind him, one of the old women disappeared over a small
undulation on the other side of the camp. She returned a few moments later
leading five of the strangest creatures Saria had ever seen.
These must have been the pale shadows the dog had been so
unconcerned about. From the way they followed the woman placidly into
the centre of the camp, it was clear that what they lacked in aggression, they
made up for in size.
The animals were enormous, bigger even than Dariand. They loped
lazily across the sand in a kind of steady rolling movement, each roped to
the one in front. All were covered in dirty reddish-yellow fur. At the end of
their long necks were angular, boney heads, all teeth and nose, and a large,
misshapen hump rose in the middle of each beast‘s back.
The old woman stopped them by tugging on the halter-rope and
immediately the lead animal knelt in the dirt, all four legs folding under it so
that it collapsed onto the ground. Straightaway, all the other old people
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began loading the beast, taking up the various bundles piled around the fire
and slinging them on either side of the hump. The rock-hopper carcases
were wrapped in some kind of cloth and lashed across the creature‘s rump.
When the first animal was loaded, the second was moved forward and
so on, until all that remained of the camp site was a dead fire-pit and a few
areas of scraped ground. Only one beast was left kneeling and wordlessly
the pale-eyed man pulled her towards it.
The group watched silently, parting to let them through. As they
approached the beast, Saria slowed. Even though the dog had shown her
clearly that the large creature was nothing to be concerned about, the sheer
size of it as it loomed above her was daunting.
Immediately, the old man gave her leash a savage tug, almost pulling
her off her feet.
‗Hurry up, girl. We ent gonna hang around all day.‘
‗Eh, Dreamer, I reckon she‘s scared of the camel.‘
Saria didn‘t see the speaker — it was just a voice from the crowd —
but his words raised a shallow chuckle among those gathered. Even the old
man allowed a quick smile to crack his face, briefly revealing his sharpened
teeth.
‗I reckon you‘re right. Don‘t matter to me, though. Hurry up.‘ Another
jerk on the leash.
‗Dreamer?‘ Saria couldn‘t stop herself asking. ‗Like Dreamer
Gaardi?‘
Around her, there was a sudden intake of breath as the assembled
group froze. Her captor whipped around.
‗What was that, girl?‘ There was menace behind his question. The
pale eyes narrowed to slits. ‗What‘d you just say?‘
Immediately, Saria realised she‘d made a mistake. Another one. She
knew she had to be more careful what she revealed to these people, so now
she bit her tongue and didn‘t reply. The old man stepped closer, holding her
leash short so she couldn‘t back away.
‗Dreamer Gaardi. That‘s a name I ent heard in a long time. How‘d you
know it, I wonder? Could be there was more than just Dariand taking you
over to Woormra, eh?‘
He waited, expecting an answer. Saria stayed quiet, grimly determined
- 86 –
not to say anything further about herself, or Dariand and Dreamer Gaardi,
for that matter. After a second or two, Pale-Eye‘s expression hardened still
more.
‗Not gonna talk?‘
When this didn‘t draw a response, he nodded at somebody behind her
and before she had a chance to turn she was grabbed firmly. Once she was
secure, the old man dropped the other end of the leash and reached towards
her. Saria thought he was about to grab her throat and choke her, but instead
the old man‘s fingers pressed lightly against the sides of her neck.
‗We‘ll see about that.‘ For a moment nothing happened except for an
odd sensation of something hovering around the two of them, then Saria
gasped as earthwarmth suddenly poured out of his fingertips. At the same
time, his mind, cold and probing, pushed into her, riding the earthwarmth
and forcing its way into her mind like a hard, sharpened wedge. The pain
was excruciating; bright intense flashes leapt across the back of her eyes.
Her head felt as though it was swelling and at the same time being crushed,
slowly and inexorably, as unbearable pressure built and built inside her.
Somewhere, someone screamed, and through the pain Saria was
vaguely surprised to realise it was her own voice.
And then it stopped as abruptly as it had started. Pale-Eyes stepped
back and Saria felt her legs collapse from under her. If not for the person
still gripping her from behind, she would have fallen onto the dirt.
Her vision blurred and danced, but the old man leaned right down into
her face.
‗That‘s just a taste of what I can do if you don‘t behave. You
understand?‘ His voice was strained and a single bead of sweat trickled
across the dome of his skull, but otherwise he gave no outward signs of
discomfort. When Saria didn‘t answer, he reached again for her throat.
‗I understand,‘ she managed to gasp and the old man smiled, a snakelike expression of victory.
‗You need to learn some respect for your elders, girl. From now on,
you call me by my proper name. From now on, you call me Dreamer Baanti,
okay?‘
Saria nodded.
‗Say it.‘
- 87 –
‗Yes.‘
Dreamer Baanti reached towards her again, warningly.
‗Yes, Dreamer Baanti.‘
‗Good girl. And you remember that I can do worse things inside your
head than I can do outside of it.‘
Then he straightened and spoke to the rest of the group. ‗Right, you
lot. Let‘s get a move on. Wasted too much bloody time already.‘
The same old woman who‘d led the beasts out and supervised their
loading stepped forward and said something to Dreamer Baanti. They both
glanced in Saria‘s direction and the old man gave a nod. The woman
stepped forward and took the end of Saria‘s leash.
‗Come on.‘ Saria was pulled towards the waiting animals. The woman
tugged the thong firmly, but at least she didn‘t jerk it like Dreamer Baanti
had.
Saria half-walked, half-staggered, still reeling from the pain of having
her mind so unexpectedly violated. Only one beast was still kneeling, and as
they approached it the old woman unslung a water-skin from across her
back.
‗Here, drink.‘ She held the nozzle to Saria‘s mouth and directed a long
spurt of warm liquid down the girl‘s throat. ‗Drink as much as you need,
girl. We‘ll be in Olympic by tomorrow, so there‘s no need to save it.‘
Saria did as she suggested, gulping down the smoky-tasting liquid
until it settled like a solid lump in her stomach. Despite the taste and the
temperature, the water had a slightly reviving effect. When she‘d swallowed
her final mouthful, the old woman stoppered the skin, then gestured at the
crouching animal.
‗Get on.‘
‗On?‘
‗Its back. You‘re lucky today. Dreamer Baanti‘s in a hurry, so you get
to ride.‘
Saria considered the beast again, still apprehensive at being so close to
something so large.
‗What is it?‘
‗You never seen one?‘
‗No.‘
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‗Camels.‘ The old woman paused. ‗Big buggers, but stupid. Useful,
though.‘
She thumped her palm hard on the camel‘s flank and a cloud of dust
rose from it. The creature let out a long moan.
‗Don‘t worry about that. They do it all the time.‘
In one quick movement the woman picked Saria up and slung her on
top of the bundles lashed to the camel‘s back. Despite her age and apparent
fragility, she did this with surprising ease. Then she tied the leash to the
harness that linked this beast to the others, well forward of Saria‘s reach.
‗You should be right up there. Now, hold on, eh? HUP!‘
Abruptly the camel jerked upwards, tilting forward so steeply that
Saria had to grab a handful of the creature‘s fur to steady herself. Then the
woman turned and walked forward along the line until she reached the lead
beast. She gave it a slap on its rump and it jerked forwards, followed by the
others.
Morning dragged into afternoon as the procession made its way across
a hard-baked landscape. The old woman led the camels and the rest of the
group walked on one side or the other. One man walked behind carrying a
large bag and whenever one of the camels dumped a load of manure he
would stop and scrape it into the bag before hurrying to catch up again.
A number of dogs trotted around too, occasionally darting between the
camels or snapping at their legs, but drawing no response at all from the
large beasts. The sandy-coloured one that she had reached into was among
them, recognisable because it seemed scrawnier than the others. It trotted
with no less stamina, though. Perhaps because she recognised it, Saria
seemed to spot it more often than any of the others.
During the early evening they rested for a few minutes and Saria was
untied from the camel and allowed to stretch her legs and buttocks. Then
she was remounted and retied, and the procession of people, dogs and
camels swayed away into the desert night.
- 89 –
TEN.
For the second time in only a few days, Saria found herself staring at
the town of Olympic in the pale pre-dawn light. It was still early when the
procession crested a rise in the sand and came in sight of the ramshackle
collection of huts sprawled behind the thorny barrier.
Unlike the other morning, this time there was no need to creep up. The
old woman led the camels openly towards the town.
Saria craned her neck to try and see more of Olympic than on her last
visit, but they were still some way off when Dreamer Baanti called the
procession to a halt. Immediately, the old woman walked back down the
line and pulled Saria‘s camel to the ground, helping Saria to dismount.
Her legs were stiff and numb and fell out from under her, and the
woman had to catch her weight, giving a grunt as she did so.
‗You should wriggle your toes around a bit when you‘re riding,‘ she
muttered.
She eased Saria gently to the ground and set about rubbing her feet
and calves vigorously. After a couple of seconds the prickle of returning
sensation sent a shiver up Saria‘s back.
Dreamer Baanti had gathered the rest of the group together. Most had
collapsed gratefully onto the dirt, their exhaustion obvious in the droop of
their shoulders and the way they rubbed at their lower backs and thighs.
‗Right, listen up,‘ Dreamer Baanti snapped. ‗When we get back into
town, I don‘t want any of you mouthing off about her.‘ He jerked a thumb at
Saria. ‗Alright?‘
There were a few mutters and grumbles.
‗I‘m not kidding. This is important. Look at the size of her, eh?
Dreamer Wanji‘s had her hidden away somewhere out there for a bloody
long time. Think about it. All that time we coulda talked with the
Nightpeople. All that time we coulda made a deal with them for water, or
metal, or anythin‘ else we wanted. All that time we been livin‘ like wild
dogs because Dreamer Wanji‘s got some bloody imaginary dream, and he
reckons he‘s got the right to chase it for all of us. Every day that‘s gone by
with her tucked away is a day you and me mighta had without searching for
food. Without drinking that rubbish that comes out of the well. Without
- 90 –
having to eat bloody rock-hoppers.‘
‗If she‘s the last child, then she‘s gonna get all that for us anyway,‘
somebody objected.
‗Too right she is,‘ Dreamer Baanti replied. ‗But why‘ve we had to
wait all this time for it, eh? You all know how much the Nightpeople
wanted this one. They been lookin‘ for her almost as long as she‘s been
missing. They even offered rewards, were willing to deal, an‘ they never
done that with any other kid.‘
A couple of people sitting in the circle nodded.
‗So why didn‘t Dreamer Wanji make that deal? How come he waited,
eh? Why‘d he let everyone think she was born dead? A bunch of lies. And
even when people wondered, he just lied some more. You heard the
rumours. We all did. Hell, the council even asked him directly about it in the
chamber. Was she really born dead? We asked him that to his face. And
you know what he did? Right there on the council stones, in the belly of the
Earthmother, Dreamer Wanji sat and lied his head off. Told the council she
was stillborn. Told us she was missing her arms. And even though people —
honest people, like old Dreamer Karri from Mooka — even though they‘d
heard otherwise, Wanji still lied about it.‘
Now there was no nodding, only mute acceptance of Baanti‘s words.
‗So why‘d he do it? That‘s what I want to know. That old bastard‘s
been lying to the whole Darklands, ever since the night she came along, and
I wanna know why. He calls himself the leader of the council, but he‘s been
takin‘ us in for as long as I can remember. What sort of leader is that, eh?
What does he know about her that‘s so important he can‘t even trust the
council with it?‘
He paused for a moment and a babble of conversation broke out
among the group. Before it could gather too much momentum, Dreamer
Baanti held up a hand for silence.
‗That‘s why I don‘t want anyone else in Olympic knowing about her
until I‘ve had a chance to do a bit more digging. I don‘t want you lot rushin‘
in there and shooting your mouths off, because there‘s gotta be more to this
than meets the eye. If there‘s one thing I do know about Dreamer Wanji, it‘s
that he might be a devious bastard but he‘s a clever one, too. He woudn‘t
risk annoying the entire Darklands unless there was something in it for him.
- 91 –
That girl over there might be worth a whole lot more than just some water
and tin, but unless we find out exactly what and why, she‘s less than useless
to us. She‘s a danger. And if that mob in town find out about all of this, we
know what‘ll happen next: they‘ll be stormin‘ over to Woormra, spoiling for
a fight, and we‘ll spend the rest of our lives kicking the hell out of one
another for no good reason.‘
He‘d convinced them now, and he knew it. It was clear in the way that
most of the group had started sitting up, and in the little murmurs of
agreement that occasionally floated through the still morning air.
‗So what I want you all to do is this. Get back into town. Unpack the
supplies and put the hoppers in the meat store. Then go home and sleep.
Don‘t mention her to anyone. Talk about the hunting if you want, but don‘t
mention the girl. I‘ll put her somewhere safe, and then see what I can find
out, but quietly, alright? It‘s about time we had a few secrets of our own.‘
‗For how long?‘ a man‘s voice interjected. ‗Seems to me that Dreamer
Wanji and his bunch over at Woormra musta known about this, an‘ if
they‘ve been planning to cut us out of whatever she‘s worth, I reckon we
gotta act sooner rather than later.‘
‗And that‘s exactly why I don‘t want you spreadin‘ all kinds of
rumours through the town,‘ Dreamer Baanti cut in. ‗If everyone starts
thinkin‘ that way, we‘ll end up doin‘ something stupid. We play this right,
and we could end up getting a whole lot more for ourselves than if we go
rushing across there half-cocked.‘
‗Like what?‘
Dreamer Baanti smiled. His pointed teeth gleamed in the sunlight.
‗Like Woormra.‘
That answer provoked another excited buzz of conversation. This time
he let it go a couple of minutes, until it subsided of its own accord.
‗You all understand, then? Good. Now go, and don‘t forget what I‘ve
told you.‘
Dismissed, the group rose and wearily dispersed, wandering towards
the town in twos and threes. A couple of men lingered behind to talk to
Baanti, and while they did so the old woman returned to massaging Saria‘s
legs. She‘d paused while the meeting had been going on, but now she fell to
it again with an angry vigour that had been lacking earlier.
- 92 –
She went at it in silence for a couple of moments, then surprisingly
she whispered, ‗Listen, girl. Whatever happens in there, you hold onto
yourself, okay? Don‘t tell Dreamer Baanti anything at all. You did good
makin‘ him think Dariand was a long way off, so just keep bein‘ like that,
right?‘
‗You know Dariand?‘ Saria‘s heart leaped.
‗Shh!‘ the woman hissed. ‗Keep your bloody voice down.‘
The last of the men left and Dreamer Baanti strolled over to them.
‗You hear all that?‘ he asked the old woman.
‗Yeah.‘
‗You agree?‘
‗You won‘t get any argument from me. Or any conversation, either. I
don‘t talk to people unless I have to.‘
Dreamer Baanti grinned. ‗That‘s right, you don‘t. I forget that a
secret‘s safer with you than in my own head.‘
‗Whatever. You want me to get the camels into town?‘
‗Yeah. Go and get them unloaded while there are still a few blokes
around to help. Catch ‘em before the slack bastards all take off to sleep.‘
‗What about her?‘ She nodded at Saria.
‗Don‘t worry about her. I got somewhere she‘ll be safe.‘
For a second Saria thought the woman was going speak again. But
then she simply shrugged her scrawny shoulders and handed the leash over
before turning back to the lead camel. It rose from the sand at a click of her
tongue, and within moments all five animals were rolling steadily away
towards the town.
‗Now.‘ Dreamer Baanti waited until the woman was well out of
earshot. ‗You follow me, right? You don‘t speak, you don‘t make a single
sound. You just do what I say, and come nice and quiet.‘
He pursed his lips and gave a quick whistle. Immediately, the dog
materialised beside him, as if from nowhere.
‗Watch her,‘ Dreamer Baanti growled, and the dog hunched itself to
the ground in front of her while the old man dug around in a hide bag under
his arm. From it, he pulled a grubby sack made of rough woven material.
Without speaking, he reached to place the sack over her head, and
when she tried to twist away she was rewarded with a savage slap across her
- 93 –
face.
‗Next time it‘ll be more than a slap, understand?‘ he growled.
Numbly, Saria nodded and let him slip the filthy bag over her. The
inside smelled of something she couldn‘t identify; a pungent, stinging odour
which made her eyes water. Only a little light was able to penetrate the
coarse weave of the material, and it was impossible to see through it.
Dreamer Baanti used another length of leather thonging to tie the bag
securely around her neck and then allowed the rest of it to fall down her
body so the opening dangled around her knees and her arms were
constricted against her sides.
‗Right, come on. And remember, don‘t make a sound.‘
Her wrists were still tied, the leash running down and out of the sack,
and he jerked it hard, pulling her forwards. She stumbled blindly after him
as he led her towards the town.
It was slow going. Unable to see where she was stepping, Saria
regularly tripped, and each time she did Dreamer Baanti would curse and
tug the leash savagely so the knots around her wrists bit deeper. Finally,
after what seemed like forever, he stopped.
‗Dreamer.‘ A new voice greeted them. One of the watchmen, Saria
guessed.
‗Morning, fellas.‘
‗Good hunting?‘
‗Not bad.‘
‗Looks like you got more than just hoppers.‘ Even inside the bag,
Saria could hear the curiosity in the watchman‘s voice.
‗Yeah. Silly bastard tried to nick a couple of hoppers from the camp
last night.‘
‗Where‘s he from?‘
‗Mooka, I think. Won‘t say anything, so I can‘t be certain. Not yet,
anyway.‘
For some reason the men seemed to find this comment funny. Both
chuckled.
‗Scrawny looking bugger,‘ one offered. ‗Even the dungbag looks too
big for him.‘
‗Yeah. No wonder he was hungry. Anyway,‘ Dreamer Baanti
- 94 –
continued, ‗I‘d best be getting him to Slander, eh?‘
‗Yeah. Have fun.‘
‗Will do. Oh, and fellas?‘
‗Yeah?‘
‗I‘d appreciate it if you didn‘t mention this bloke to anyone. I wanna
find out how things are over at Mooka lately, and it‘ll be a lot easier if I
don‘t have any curious pricks pokin‘ around wanting to have a go at him
themselves, eh?‘
‗No worries.‘
‗Good.‘
Her leash went taut again, and Saria was pulled forwards into
Olympic.
For a couple of minutes they bumbled straight along, but then she felt
herself pulled sideways, then turned again and again, and within moments
she was completely disoriented. On and on they went, one corner after
another until finally she sensed some change in the atmosphere around her.
The tiny amount of light that managed to penetrate the sack was more
gloomy and the air against her bare legs slightly cooler. They‘d entered a
hut, she guessed. Then Dreamer Baanti stopped her with a hard shove.
‗Stand there. And stay still,‘ he growled, his voice low.
‗This better be important, Baanti.‘ Another man‘s disembodied voice
floated out of the darkness. ‗It‘s bloody early.‘
‗It‘s important, Slander,‘ the Dreamer replied. ‗Close the shutters.‘
‗Is that necessary?‘
‗Yeah.‘
Neither man spoke for a minute, and the only sounds were gentle
thuds as shutters were fixed over the doors and windows. The sound brought
back memories of Ma‘s hut, and of the old woman cursing as she caught a
finger or dropped the door shutter on her foot. Saria‘s throat tightened at the
memory, and she choked it back down, breathing as deeply as she dared
inside the foetid sack.
The light dimmed still further.
‗Done. Now, what‘s this?‘
‗Brought you a present.‘ Dreamer Baanti‘s soft, high voice contained
more than a hint of amusement. ‗You wanna open it?‘
- 95 –
‗This better not be just some idiot who tried to rob you.‘
‗Take the bag off.‘
Fingers fumbled at the cord around her throat, and the bag was pulled
off her.
‗Night Spirits!‘ the man exclaimed.
The atmosphere inside the hut was smoky and close, and the dull firepit in the middle which was the only source of light gave off a stink that
made the eyes water. After the confines of the dungbag, Saria‘s first instinct
was to breathe in as deeply as she could. Dreamer Baanti still grasped the
leash and beside him stood the man called Slander. Like everyone else she‘d
met, the first thing that struck Saria about him was his age, old, but younger
than most of the others in Dreamer Baanti‘s group. He was probably
somewhere between Dariand and Dreamer Gaardi. His hair was dark and
wavy, with smudges of grey at each temple.
‗Is that …‘
‗Yeah.‘ Dreamer Baanti didn‘t even try to hide the smugness in his
voice. ‗It‘s her.‘
‗Bloody hell! I thought she was stillborn.‘
‗So did a lot of people.‘
‗That mad old bastard Karri was right, then?‘
‗Looks like it.‘
‗Where‘d you find her?‘
‗Near dead out in the middle of the plains. She‘d wandered off from
her camp.‘
‗Alone?‘
‗So far as I can tell. Reckons she was on her way to Woormra.‘
The other man directed a sharp glance in Dreamer Baanti‘s direction.
‗With Wanji?‘
‗Nah. Dariand.‘
‗Makes sense. He come after you?‘
‗Not yet. We didn‘t hang around.‘
‗Good thinking. What are we gonna do with her?‘
‗Got a few ideas.‘
‗The rest of the town‘ll be happy to meet her, I bet. Nice to get some
good luck in Olympic for a change.‘
- 96 –
‗If we tell ‘em.‘
‗Course we‘re gonna tell ‘em.‘
‗I don‘t reckon it‘s a good idea. Not straightaway, in any case.‘
The two men squared up to one another.
‗Listen Baanti,‘ the dark-haired man said, his voice even and
reasonable. ‗You might be a Dreamer, but Olympic is my town, and this is
my mob, and if I say we‘ll tell them, then we will.‘
‗That‘s fair enough,‘ Dreamer Baanti agreed easily. ‗But if you ask
me, there‘s more to gain by keeping her to ourselves for a bit longer.‘
‗What?‘ Slander‘s brows creased with distrust.
The conversation quickly shifted into a repeat of Dreamer Baanti‘s
lecture from that morning, and by the time he‘d finished the result was the
same. Slander, a thoughtful expression on his face, nodded in agreement.
‗I‘ll say this for you, Baanti, you might be crap as a Dreamer but you
think things through.‘
Dreamer Baanti‘s fists clenched slightly. It was only a momentary
movement before he got himself back under control. It happened so quickly
Saria wasn‘t even certain the other man noticed it.
‗Where‘ll we put her in the mean time, then? Even if he doesn‘t know
we‘ve got her, Dariand‘s bound to come sniffing around here soon.‘
Dreamer Baanti shrugged. ‗I know one place in Olympic even
Dariand won‘t find. Not in a hurry, anyway.‘
‗The bolt hut?‘
‗Might as well. It‘s not like anyone uses it for anythin‘ else.‘
‗Fair enough. We‘ll move her after dark, eh?‘
‗Sesta time‘ll do just as well. The sooner we get her tucked away, the
better.‘
‗Fine by me. I‘ll come back then.‘
Slander started to turn towards the door, but stopped and walked back
over to Saria. She dropped her eyes, refusing to meet his stare, but the man
grabbed her chin and lifted her eyes to his.
This close, the firelight flickering across his features revealed a face
deeply creased, not with wrinkes of age, as Saria had assumed, but with
scars, perhaps ten or fifteen of them, criss-crossing his cheeks and brow. His
nose was bent and flattened, too, spreading much wider across his face than
- 97 –
most people‘s. His eyes were dark and cold. After a couple of seconds
staring, he dropped her face again and crossed to the door.
‗Pity,‘ he said to Dreamer Baanti as he left. ‗All these years waiting
and she‘s as ugly as her mother. Still, she‘s better than nothing, eh?‘
Dreamer Baanti didn‘t reply and Slander pulled the shutter aside just
enough to slip out into the bright daylight, sliding it back into place behind
him.
From a box on the floor, Dreamer Baanti retrieved a water-skin and
some dried meat.
‗Here. Eat and drink. Then get some sleep.‘ He threw them on the dirt
at her feet.
The leather binding was so tight there was little feeling left in her
fingers. When she bent and tried to pick up the water-skin, she fumbled and
dropped it.
‗Can you untie me?‘
‗Not yet.‘ Dreamer Baanti shook his head. ‗Don‘t trust you. As long
as you‘re in this hut, you stay tied.‘
‗But I can‘t eat.‘
‗Tough.‘ He picked a piece of meat out of the box for himself and
settled on the floor across the doorway to chew it.
Sighing, Saria struggled again with the water-skin, until she
eventually managed to grasp it long enough to unstopper it with her teeth.
With her hands bound, she ended up squirting as much water onto herself as
she actually drank, but she‘d managed at least a couple of mouthfuls.
By the door, Dreamer Baanti watched her dispassionately.
‗Now sleep.‘
‗What are you going to do with me?‘
‗You‘ll find out.‘ Finishing his food, Dreamer Baanti reached across
and slid the door shutter open, then whistled. As always, the sound brought
back memories of the dog‘s terror and Saria suppressed a shudder.
‗Bloody animal.‘ Dreamer Baanti cursed when the dog didn‘t
immediately appear. He didn‘t say anything more, just sat and stared at
Saria with the door open beside him. Looking at the bright rectangle of
sunlight that slanted into the room, Saria thought about making a run for it,
or even just shouting for help. Surely if somebody outside heard her …
- 98 –
‗Don‘t even think about it, girl,‘ Dreamer Baanti warned. You
wouldn‘t get halfway to the town fence, an‘ even if you did, that‘d stop you
quick smart. And don‘t think you‘d find any friends out there, either.
Dreamer Wanji and old religion aren‘t too popular here in Olympic.‘
‗What‘s ―religion‖?‘
She was hoping to draw him into talking further, and perhaps
revealing something that might help her, but Dreamer Baanti simply shook
his head.
‗Nothin‘ you need to concern yourself with. Trust me.‘
Trust me. Dariand‘s favourite expression, but when the words came
from Dreamer Baanti something about the way he said them and the quick
snake-like grin which accompanied them made it sound completely
different. Foreboding.
At last the dog slinked in through the narrow slit of the doorway with
its belly almost dragging through the dirt. Dreamer Baanti slid the shutter
back into place, then, to Saria‘s shock, he directed a savage kick at the
animal. The dog, hunkered on the dirt at the old man‘s feet, saw the blow
coming but didn‘t try to avoid it. It took the kick squarely on its skinny
ribcage, a hollow ‗thud‘ echoing off the tin walls.
‗Useless bastard.‘ Dreamer Baanti squared up for another kick and
Saria was horrified to see the animal roll submissively onto its back, its tail
curled tightly between its hindlegs. Instinctively she pulled earthwarmth up
into herself and reached for the animal, and as she touched its mind she was
surprised to find no fear there, only a sort of resigned weariness.
‗Don‘t!‘ she shouted, withdrawing her mind from the dog‘s. ‗Leave
him alone!‘
She‘d shouted without thinking, driven by the simple knowledge that
the dog wasn‘t about to protect itself and so she had to. Dreamer Baanti‘s
pale eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to her. In the dull light his
pupils were so large that they seemed like holes in his face.
‗What?‘ His voice went soft. ‗You don‘t like that, eh?‘ He stepped
across and stood over her. The dog, forgotten for the moment, slinked
immediately into the shadows. Slowly, Dreamer Baanti crouched beside her.
‗I‘m a Dreamer, girl. What makes you think you‘ve got the right to
tell me how to deal with animals?‘
- 99 –
She didn‘t answer.
‗‘Cause you don‘t. Animals are my business, that‘s why I‘m a
Dreamer an‘ you‘re just a runt pup. I know animals. I know how to handle
‘em so they behave right. I know their secrets, and I know how to make
them mine. Even clever animals like you.‘
His hands were reaching towards her, the fingers outstretched towards
her neck. Saria tried to struggle away, but she was unable to get any
distance from the old man.
‗And if you want to teach an animal to behave, sometimes you need to
hurt it, right?‘
The old man‘s fingertips burned like coals against the soft skin of her
neck.
‗And it‘s how you hurt it that‘s important.‘ Dreamer Baanti‘s eyes
engulfed her, pulling and sucking while his voice echoed all around. ‗You
have to hurt them properly, take away their spirit. That‘s how you break an
animal.‘
His mind was pushing into hers now. That cold, hard wedge of
consciousness sloughed aside any resistance she tried to offer and forced its
way into her, bringing with it wave after wave of crushing pain.
‗And once you break them, you own them.‘ The words weren‘t
spoken but Saria heard them anyway, inside her head, in Dreamer Baanti‘s
soft voice. They mixed with the pain; they were the pain.
Finally, while her body arched and spasmed, Saria sensed the black
chasm of unconsciousness opening ahead of her.
Thankfully and unhesitatingly, she plunged into it.
- 100 –
ELEVEN.
Somewhere between awake and asleep, Saria felt the touch, stirring
her. Slowly she opened her eyes.
Her head ached, and not just her head but her whole body. The
pounding throb pulsed behind her eyes and echoed along every nerve and
fibre of every muscle of her arms and legs. Each breath she sucked in tore
its way down the soft tissues of her throat and each exhalation burned its
way out.
The hut was dim. Dreamer Baanti lay slumped across the shuttered
door, snoring. Beside her the fire pit had all but gone out, and somewhere
outside she could hear the distant bustle of people going about their
business.
At her feet crouched the dog, its yellow eyes glittering in the sparse
light. Guarding her. When it realised she was awake, its tail twitched just
once, and for a second Saria thought she felt its mind reaching to hers. Then
the sensation faded, and with it some of the aching pain, and exhaustion
overtook her.
As she drifted back into sleep, the dog‘s tail wagged again, and the
last thing Saria realised before she slipped under was that it wasn‘t really
guarding her—at least, not in the way Baanti intended.
It was watching over her.
‗Wake up, girl.‘
A sharp toe nudged her side. Not a kick, but enough to jab her out of
sleep.
‗Wh …‘ Saria rolled groggily onto her back, her mouth dry.
‗Get up! Sit!‘ Dreamer Baanti nudged her again, more insistently, and
though her body screamed at her for it, Saria forced herself upright. She was
still on the dirt where she‘d fallen. The interior of the hut was nothing but
shadows.
‗What happened?‘
‗The same thing that‘ll happen next time you talk outa turn.‘
‗Here …‘ Dreamer Baanti shoved something into her hands. ‗Eat.‘
Still dazed, thinking as though through sand, Saria took the bread and
- 101 –
chewed it absently. It was hard, stale and filled with grit that crunched
between her teeth, but it relieved some of the gnawing hunger in her belly,
and swallowing it brought her back into herself.
She was given water; not nearly enough to slake her thirst but
sufficient to take the edge off it.
‗What did you do to me?‘
Dreamer Baanti smiled grimly.
‗Gave you your first lesson in what it means to be a Dreamer. You
should be grateful, girl. Now, get up.‘
He picked up the leash, hauled her upright and moved across to the
door.
‗You follow me out here, eh? And don‘t try to run off or anythin‘,
‘cause there‘s no way you‘re gonna get out of this place, and you know
what I‘ll do when I catch you again, right?‘
Saria nodded, and the old man slid the shutter aside.
It was the middle of the day and the alleyways of Olympic were
bathed in bright light. It was quiet, with nobody to be seen.
‗Sesta. Come.‘
Saria followed him out and had her first close-up look at a town. It
wasn‘t much. Dreamer Baanti led her through a maze of narrow alleyways,
zigzagging left and right between one hut after another. The buildings were
all much the same, tin and wood and cloth cobbled together with dried mud,
everything coated in dust. At one point, through a gap, Saria glimpsed a
wide, open area with a low, round structure in the middle and more huts on
the other side. Dreamer Baanti led her away from this and into another
narrow alley. With all the twisting and turning it was hard to be certain, but
she had the impression he was skirting around the edge of the open area,
rather than leading her across it.
‗Stop,‘ he hissed, then shoved her roughly backwards into a narrow
gap between two buildings. There was barely enough space for Saria to fit.
‗Stand dead still and don‘t make a sound, or else.‘ He blocked the opening
with his own body and a second later voices approached from along the
alley. Two men, deep in conversation.
‗Dreamer.‘ One acknowledged Dreamer Baanti as they passed.
‗Fellas.‘
- 102 –
‗What you up to, out here in the middle of the day?‘
‗Got some business to attend to for Slander.‘ The old man‘s tone
didn‘t invite further questions and perhaps it was this, or the invocation of
the town leader‘s name, but the men quickly made their excuses and
continued on their way.
While Dreamer Baanti waited for them to round the next corner, Saria
stared upwards.
The narrow slit of dayvault which she could see between the roofs of
the huts was deep blue, suggesting horizons somewhere far beyond the
Olympic fenceline.
‗Right. Move.‘ Dreamer Baanti used the leash to jerk her out of the
hiding place and led her on through the maze. Meeting the men must have
unsettled him, because now he set a furious pace and Saria had to run just to
keep up. Finally he hustled her in through the doorway of a hut that looked
the same as every other they had passed, except this one was unshuttered,
light streaming through two open windows and a narrow smoke-hole in the
roof. Slander was waiting inside and as they entered he nodded at Dreamer
Baanti.
‗No problems?‘
‗Almost. Ran into Danti and Jander. Dunno what they were doin‘ out
at this time of day. Told ‘em I was on business for you.‘
‗They see her?‘
‗Nah. Got her hid real quick.‘
‗She behave?‘
‗Yeah. Pity. Woulda liked an excuse to give her a blast.‘
‗Don‘t be an idiot, Baanti. That‘s playin‘ with fire, ‘specially for a
weak bastard like you, and you know it. We can‘t afford to have our only
Dreamer burnt out like …‘
A bloom of crimson flushed across Dreamer Baanti‘s pale cheeks.
‗Psht!‘ he hissed angrily, nodding at Saria. She didn‘t know if he was
angry at Slander for what he‘d just said or for what he‘d been about to say.
But the town leader got the message.
‗Over here, then,‘ he said abruptly, as he stalked across the room to
the far corner, where an old wooden crate served as a kind of table.
‗Watch her,‘ Dreamer Baanti muttered. The dog had somehow
- 103 –
materialised by their side. It must have been following them the whole time.
At Dreamer Baanti‘s command it crouched in its usual position.
The two men pulled the crate aside and Slander bent, scraping away
dirt to expose a wooden panel set flush into the ground. With a grunt he
lifted it to reveal a dark hole, its opening a little narrower than the crate
itself.
Then they turned to her. Silently, Dreamer Baanti fished a sharpened
edge of stone from a pocket in his robe and used it to cut through her
bindings. Days of chafing had left her wrists raw, and two angry red welts
ran around them like bloody bracelets. Immediately she set to gently
rubbing them, but Dreamer Baanti, after carefully returning the stone knife
to his pocket, shoved her roughly towards the hole.
‗In.‘ He pointed at the opening in the floor.
‗No.‘ Saria backed towards the door, shaking her head, the pain in her
wrists forgotten. The hole in the floor was a square of darkness. ‗No.‘
The old man hissed and grabbed for her, but Saria pulled away and
turned to run, only to find her escape blocked by Slander.
‗Please, no.‘
But the two men closed on her and she was forced down through the
dark maw into the space below.
It was a tiny cell, roughly square. They dropped her in and her bare
feet thumped into dirt as hard as rock. She tried to jump back up, but the
hole was deep and she only managed to get one hand to the edge, which
Dreamer Baanti promptly stepped on, crushing her fingers beneath his foot
until she let go with a cry and fell back into the pit.
‗Here.‘ A water-skin landed beside her. ‗Someone‘ll bring you food
later.‘
The dog whimpered as the wooden panel scraped back into place and
the light vanished. The last thing Saria saw was Dreamer Baanti‘s pale eyes
staring down into her own.
- 104 –
TWELVE.
In the darkness, time stopped. Saria quickly lost track of how long it
had been since she‘d been thrown into the hole and had listened to the heavy
crate being pulled back into place over her.
The darkness was absolute. Not even the faintest hint of light seeped
around the edges of the hatchway, and it made no difference whether Saria
had her eyes closed or open. Trapped with nothing but the echo of her own
breathing, at first Saria had screamed, leaping again and again at the roof,
until eventually she fell, curled up and sobbing, on the tiny square of hard
floor.
A damp, pervasive cold came seeping out of the earth, chilling her
bones and blood. It was a feeling she had known from reaching into the
minds of coldbloods at day‘s end, but now it was her own body cooling and
she started to shiver.
The water-skin was near her feet and in the darkness she managed to
direct a brief squirt into her mouth. The water tasted gritty, but settled like
something solid in her belly.
She clawed at the walls, trying to scrape even the smallest lump of dirt
out from them, to loosen them, but it was futile and warm trickles of blood
oozed from her fingertips.
She drifted in and out of consciousness so often that most of the time
she was unaware which state she was in. Through it all, a black shadow of
panic followed her, trying to find a chink, a small weakness in her mind into
which it could worm itself.
Eventually she heard a scraping overhead, and the hatch was pulled
back. Fresh air and dim firelight cascaded down into the pit and Saria
allowed herself a moment of hope.
‗Here.‘ Slander dropped in a small loaf of hard, gritty bread and a
couple of strips of dried meat, then stepped back and slid the hatch into
place.
Alone in the dark, Saria slumped against a wall and chewed, too
exhausted to cry.
Saria!
- 105 –
As the call poured through her, she realised how long it had been since
she‘d felt it. Now it came with a power almost ferocious in its intensity.
Saria!
From nightwards, it shuddered through the earth. Saria could feel it
shouldering its way through living rock in its rush to reach her. To reach
into her. Abruptly her shivering stopped, the cold abolished as earthwarmth
poured from nowhere and everywhere all at once. It filled her black cell and
her with it.
SARIA!
A last, final surge filled her. Unable to resist, Saria felt herself sliding
into it and riding it, drawing power from it, greedily pulling as much of its
distant energy into herself as she could. Then the call started to fade.
‗No! Stay!
But it was gone, and Saria instantly missed it. Its absence yawned like
a hole inside her, and even as she felt the residual warmth pulsing through
her, she mourned the loss of it and yearned for more.
Slowly she sank to the floor, leaning the back of her head against one
of the earth walls. With a start, she realised that she was no longer cold and
that the confinement of the cell no longer bothered her. The darkness
seemed to have reversed itself. Instead of making the tiny cell smaller and
claustrophobic, it felt as though the walls were stretching away from her,
out beyond the edges of the Darklands, to somewhere beyond even her
dreams. Effortlessly, she let some of that energy flow back out of her, out
into the hard earth around her.
For a moment it was just like the feeling of reaching out to an animal
— that surge and flow of energy through her body. Blood pounded through
her, her own heartbeat reverberating in her ears.
She closed her eyes — or perhaps opened them. The darkness was still
and impenetrable.
Somewhere nearby, outside the hut, the dog stalked through the
shadows, listening, always listening, for the summons of its master. But
there was something new there. It had its new task, too: the one which vied
in its mind with the simple impulse to obey. Saria rode with the dog briefly
while it slipped around a corner, even ignoring the impulse to chase a
startled rat so as not to take its attention away from the hut …
- 106 –
On the other side of Olympic, Dreamer Baanti and Slander crouched
beside a fire-pit and argued. Only momentarily did Saria brush against them,
just long enough for her to feel the pale Dreamer stiffen slightly …
There was Dariand, walking steadily across the desert, Dreamer
Gaardi beside him. His eyes were set on a distant cluster of three vaultlights
which gleamed above the daywards horizon.
‗Dariand!‘ Her whisper drew no response. She turned her attention to
the old man walking with him. ‗Dreamer!‘
Dreamer Gaardi stopped for a moment, tilting his head.
‗What is it?‘ Dariand threw a quizzical glance in Dreamer Gaardi‘s
direction.
‗Dunno.‘ Dreamer Gaardi shook his head as though trying to clear his
eyesight. ‗I thought for a moment there that I felt … something.‘
‗Saria?‘
‗Yeah. Gone now, though.‘
‗NO! I‘m here …‘
But the earthwarmth was growing. It seemed to pour both out of and
into her now, and the two men faded into nothingness, while around her the
earth was burning; that same intense, almost painful burning she had often
sensed in the deepest levels of another creature‘s consciousness, the horribly
searing sensation which had almost sucked her into the mind of that tiny
insect. Now it was even closer, not distant and detached but coursing
through the ground and the earth and into her, focusing on her, pouring into
her, pulling her down in a fiery embrace and into a place unlike any she‘d
ever imagined. A place of hard, straight, cold walls. Of silence. Of strange,
unforgiving white light. Of bright, strange shapes.
There were people there. Men, like Dariand, but dressed in robes of
bright orange, seamless robes that covered their whole bodies, their hands,
their feet. Their heads were hooded, their faces masked behind transparent
plates.
All were busy doing indescribable tasks with devices that glowed and
hummed. None paid Saria any attention.
Then the earth moved.
The men stopped, froze, looked at one another in a brief moment of
panicked comprehension before the cold walls, which had seemed so hard,
- 107 –
so permanent, began to buckle and sway and a harsh wailing filled the air.
Some of the men started towards a door, but the movement below
their feet was too great; the ground rippled and swayed and they were flung
about, some into each other, some to the ground, where they clung like
insects on the surface of a creek pool.
Something fell from above: a chunk of roof, then another. One man
was pinned screaming under the rubble. Then a large piece slammed into
one of the containers, cracking it open, and a clear fluid ran into the room,
washing over the men in waves, soaking into their orange robes, which
began to peel away from their bodies, tearing large sheets of flesh with
them.
Finally, the floor opened and something dark and thick, like an early
morning mist, began to pour from the hole, and after a few seconds there
was no more screaming, no more shouting.
There was nobody left alive to shout.
And the walls were no longer cold and hard. They grew warmer, and
then hot, and then slowly began to melt like water. And the earth began to
burn, and finally, curled tightly against herself in the bottom of the pit, Saria
slept.
- 108 –
THIRTEEN.
The call didn‘t come again, and time crawled by in silent blackness.
Sometimes Slander or Dreamer Baanti would heave the hatchway aside and
throw in a little more food and water, but it was impossible to know how
long had passed between these rare feedings.
For a long time Saria tried to fight the urge to relieve herself, but
eventually the pressure on her bladder became too great, and she was forced
to squat in a corner, the darkness hiding her humiliation.
So she ate, drank and slept. If there was a pattern she couldn‘t sense it,
but something in the heat and the visions which the call had brought with it
had changed her. With only her own thoughts for company, she drifted in
and out of consciousness with little connection between her mind and her
body. When she had to, she looked after her body‘s needs. She fed its
hunger, sipped to slake its thirst, slept to recharge it and squatted to
discharge its waste, but most of the time she found herself detached, as
though only a single thread tied thoughts and body together. The ache of
muscles cramped too long in the confines of the hole stopped bothering her.
The stench from the corner was something she was aware of but it made
little impact on her. The dull burns around her wrists where the leather
bindings had bitten into flesh felt like nothing more than distant pinpricks.
On the few occasions when she did come back fully into herself, when
the pain of her body and the smell of her filth assaulted both her nostrils and
her dignity, it was a simple matter to simply relax again, breathe deeply, and
after a few moments she‘d drift out until only that slender link remained.
She was awake when the hatchway slid back for perhaps the eighth or
ninth time. It seemed like only a few moments since the last feeding, but by
now she was used to the way time stretched and contracted itself in the
complete blackness, and she looked up, expectantly, readying herself to
catch the food that Slander would throw down. Instead, she found herself
staring into an unexpected face.
‗Saria!‘ Dariand didn‘t seem at all surprised to find her there. He
frowned as the smell from the pit rose up and over him.
He lowered a hand and Saria stared at it, confused.
- 109 –
‗Come on, hurry up,‘ he whispered.
‗I saw you. You were walking …‘ Her thoughts tumbled reluctantly
back into some sort of order.
‗We don‘t have time, Saria. Grab my hand, now!‘ Dariand threw a
worried glance back over his shoulder towards the door.
‗I was burning up and I saw you. And Dreamer Gaardi.‘
‗Night spirits, girl! Grab my bloody hand!‘
The urgency in his voice managed to penetrate the fog of her
confusion, and Saria leapt. He pulled her out of the pit easily, dragging her
up and over the lip, until she sprawled across the floor of the hut.
‗Right, listen! You‘ve got to be quiet, okay? I don‘t want to hear a
sound.‘
She offered a mute nod.
He heaved the hatch closed and the crate back into place, then, taking
her hand and pulling her upright, started to lead her towards the door. After
just one step her legs, cramped from days spent constricted, collapsed under
her.
‗Damn.‘
Stretching her out on the dirt floor, he set to a furious rubbing of her
calves and ankles. Feeling returned with agonising prickling. With it, the
sensation of separation between her mind and her body also gradually
ebbed. Slowly she felt the two becoming one again, felt her mind taking
charge of her legs and feet, and was suddenly aware of the stickiness and
dirt which clung to her.
As he rubbed, Dariand took in the heavy bruising on her wrists and the
dark circles under her eyes.
‗Are you alright?‘
‗I think so.‘
He hesitated a moment, as though weighing up possibilities.
‗Okay. Come on. If you can‘t keep going then tell me and I‘ll carry
you.‘
She followed him into the alleyways of Olympic. It was night and
Saria stopped and breathed the wonderfully crisp air. Even through the
narrow gaps between the roofs the vaultlights sparkled, and the nightvault
had never seemed so immense.
- 110 –
Dariand led her through silent alleyways, sticking always to the
shadows and stopping a couple of times to listen. Saria followed, still
slightly dazed, revelling in the fresh night air.
Finally they slipped between two houses and stood facing the edge of
the township. Before them was a wide gap of empty land and then the dried,
thorny barrier.
‗Shhh.‘ Dariand held a finger to his lips, and to her surprise sat down
in the deeply shadowed overhang of the roof. Wordlessly, she lowered
herself down beside him.
A few minutes later voices floated through the night and two men
approached from the left, patrolling along the inside of the fence in
measured, easy paces, deep in conversation and paying no attention to the
still shadows of the town. They walked past Dariand and Saria without a
sidewards glance, and as soon as they had followed the curve of the fence
out of sight, Dariand was on his feet again.
‗We‘ve got a bit of time now before they get back. They‘ve had extra
blokes on patrol since you got here.‘ As he spoke, he led her across to the
fence, which was at least twice his height, then slowly along it until he
spotted a small pale thread knotted to a branch close to the ground.
‗Here,‘ he grunted, carefully taking hold of the branch. ‗Stand back.‘
Dariand hauled on the stick and to her surprise a narrow section of the
fence slid easily out, leaving a thin gap in the fence.
‗Go through and head straight out. Keep going till you meet Gan,
right?‘ There was no room for argument in his voice.
‗You‘re not coming?‘
‗No.‘ He shook his head and his face took on an expression as hard as
stone. ‗I‘ve got things to do here. Now go.‘ He shoved her into the gap.
She slipped through in a second, and when she looked back, Dariand
was pulling the section of fence back into place.
Saria fled into the desert, as fast as she could manage.
Away from the town, she stopped to catch her breath and to look into
the nightvault. The vaultlights continued their slow revolution above,
bathing the land in a dim light. Behind her, the town was silent.
Suddenly the reality of her escape started to sink in. Already the days
spent confined in darkness seemed more like a terribly vivid dream than
- 111 –
something real. Abruptly her legs started trembling and her vision blurred.
She breathed deeply to calm herself before staggering forward over a slight
rise and down into a valley on the other side. There was no sign of Gan —
whoever he was. Only empty land and vault-lit darkness.
Her vision blurred again, the ground caught at her feet and she pitched
forward.
When she came to, she was aware first of the movement then the
smell. The now-familiar roll and pitch of a camel below her, the smell of her
own filth on her clothes. Opening her eyes, Saria found herself staring
straight down at the ground passing below as the camel loped along. She
was strapped across its shoulders, dangling on either side of the beast, just in
front of its hump. She struggled against the straps.
‗So, you‘re awake.‘ The old woman‘s voice startled her, and brought
with it a wave of despair. ‗Hold on.‘
A moment later the camel stopped and lowered itself to the ground.
The woman unstrapped the ropes that had bound Saria across its back.
‗Had to make sure you stayed on. Couldn‘t have you slipping away
again, eh?‘
‗Are you taking me back to Olympic?‘
Bitterness rose in the back of Saria‘s throat. To have come so close to
escaping, only to be caught again.
‗Olympic? Don‘t be a fool, girl. Why would I take you back there
when Dariand‘s just spent ten days looking for you?‘
The words took a moment to sink in.
‗You, you‘re … Gan?‘
‗Who were you expectin‘?‘
‗I … Dariand didn‘t say.‘
‗Don‘t trust anyone, girl. That‘s a good rule to remember if you‘re
goin‘ to go wanderin‘ around the Darklands on your own. You never know
who‘s on your side and who‘s not. I been helpin‘ Dreamer Wanji out for a
long time now, but I don‘t like too many people knowin‘ about it.‘ The old
woman made a face that might have been either a glare or a smile. ‗Now,
get back up on your camel. We‘ve got a lot of ground to cover before that
mob in Olympic wake up and find you missin‘.‘
Obediently Saria clambered back onto the camel and the animal tilted
- 112 –
to its feet. Gan climbed onto another beast a few metres away.
‗Now … Hup!‘ She turned to Saria. ‗We can make better time now
you‘re awake. Hold on.‘
She flicked her own camel‘s rump with her switch, and the beast
launched into a slow, loping run, Saria‘s following. The motion was
different from walking; more jerky, less rolling and smooth. Saria grabbed
and clung to the halter to keep her balance.
The two creatures ran until the first hints of dawn coloured the horizon
behind and Saria realised they‘d been heading steadily nightwards.
‗Are we going to Woormra?‘
‗Eventually,‘ Gan replied. ‗Got a stop to make first.‘
‗Why?‘
‗‘Cause if we go straight there now, we‘ll have Slander and Dreamer
Baanti and their mob breathing down our necks in no time at all. Dreamer
Wanji and Dariand both reckon we‘d be best to hole up for a while
somewhere, and let the storm blow over.‘
‗What storm?‘
‗You, girl. Now that Slander knows the truth about you, there‘ll be no
stopping him. Word‘s out in the Darklands that you‘re alive and that means
that everyone between here an‘ the Darkedge is gonna want a piece of you.
Now keep your trap shut for a bit an‘ concentrate on your riding.‘
Nothing more was said until the sun was well up, when, with a start,
Gan reigned in her mount and climbed to the ground, untying the leader that
bound Saria‘s beast to her own and throwing it up to the girl.
‗Time you learned to do this for yourself.‘
She showed Saria how to use the halter to steer and stop the camel and
to get it moving again with a couple of sharp jabs from her heels. At least,
that was the theory. The more she tried to get it to go where she wanted, the
less inclined the enormous beast seemed to do so.
‗Don‘t try to force your will on it, girl,‘ Gan snapped, exasperated, as
the camel emitted another long groan of protest. ‗You gotta work with a
camel. You try an‘ fight him and you‘ll just make him mad, right.‘
For a second Saria tried to reach into the beast, but its restless
shuffling under her was too distracting to allow her to properly find its
consciousness.
- 113 –
‗Eh! Pay attention, girl.‘ Gan tapped Saria lightly on the leg with the
thin switch of wood that she used to drive the camels. ‗You can‘t go off
daydreaming like that.‘ The old woman shook her head. ‗Come on, let‘s get
you down and we‘ll carry on with this some other time.‘
Gan clicked her tongue, and obediently Saria‘s camel knelt on the
sand, allowing her to dismount.
‗We‘re not riding?‘
‗Not for this last bit. Now, come on.‘ They led their two animals down
a small rocky slope and into a sandy, shaded creek bed. The sand was soft
and cool under Saria‘s feet, and as the day grew brighter the trees cast pools
of shade over them. They followed the dried-out watercourse and the banks
grew steeper and higher until they found themselves in the bottom of a
gorge, winding along in the shadow of the walls.
‗Here.‘ They rounded a bend and a pool of dark water filled the
bottom of the valley, trees and bushes thick around its edges. Smelling the
water, the camels grew agitated, and Gan nodded to Saria.
‗Let ‘im go.‘
The two animals ran straight to the water‘s edge and gulped noisy
mouthfuls.
‗Now, girl, you need to get in there yourself. Stink like a bag of camel
dung, you do.‘
The stench of the pit still clung to her clothes and skin, and gratefully
Saria waded in, still clothed. Then she undressed and lay back in the
shallows, watching the two camels sucking down water.
By the time Saria had rubbed herself and her clothes down and
climbed out, Gan had unloaded the contents of a bag onto the ground below
a nearby tree. Saria hung her clothing across a low shrub to dry. Something
heavy in the pocket of her robe caught her attention. She fished out the flat
rock she‘d picked up out in the plains and was turning it over thoughtfully
in her hand when the old woman called.
‗Here, girl. Come and eat and let me take a look at you.‘
Hurriedly, she thrust the stone back into her clothing.
On a strip of bark was a pile of meat, some hard desert nuts and a
number of green bulbs, which Saria didn‘t recognise.
‗Eat.‘
- 114 –
The smell of the food reawakened her appetite and while she choked
down as much as she could get into her mouth, Gan carefully checked her
over, swearing when she noticed Saria‘s fingertips, still ripped from tearing
at the walls of her cell and now seeping blood and fluid.
‗That bloody Dreamer Baanti.‘ She dug into another bag and pulled
out a thick brown paste, wrapped tightly in large leaves. ‗This‘ll hurt, right?
But it‘ll do you good.‘ A handful of the paste was smeared onto Saria‘s
damaged fingers and a sharp stinging sensation rippled up her arms. A
moment or two later, it was replaced by a strange coolness, and the pain
vanished.
‗What is it?‘
Gan smiled, a mirthless grin.
‗Somethin‘ from Dreamer Gaardi. He thought you might need it.‘
‗Dreamer Gaardi?‘ Saria grabbed the woman‘s arm. ‗Have you seen
him?‘
‗Steady, girl. Nah, I haven‘t seen him. Got it from Dariand while he
was tryin‘ to find you back in Olympic.‘
‗Where is he now?‘
‗Who? Dariand or Dreamer Gaardi?‘
‗Both.‘
‗Not far off, I imagine. Once Dariand found you, Dreamer Gaardi
headed for Woormra to talk to Dreamer Wanji and clear the way there while
we got you out. Dariand‘ll wrap things up in Olympic and then meet us
here.‘
‗Then what?‘
‗Dunno. We‘ll see, eh? You should sleep now and we‘ll see what
Dariand wants to do when he arrives.‘
‗What if they find us, though? Won‘t they be looking?‘
‗Hah!‘ Gan spat into a clump of nearby scrub. ‗That Olympic mob
couldn‘t track an injured roo under the dayvault. All they got is Baanti, and
he‘s a poor excuse for a Dreamer.‘
She rose and tethered the camels in a shaded clump of scrub by the
water, then came back, lay down in the shade, closed her eyes, and started to
snore. Saria was only a couple of minutes behind her.
She woke in the late afternoon and there was still no sign of Dariand.
- 115 –
Gan was fast asleep and the camels were grazing where they‘d been
tethered. Down at the water, Saria splashed her face and studied her
reflection in the greenish surface. Bags hung below her eyes and her hair
was matted and tangled. The face looking back at her from the water was
that of a stranger.
A rustle in the bushes off to one side caught her attention and Saria
turned. A large red and brown snake emerged from the undergrowth to
drink. Scaled patterns shimmered the length of its body, and it flicked its
tongue, tasting the air for danger. Saria knew it was aware of her and she
slowly twisted her body towards it, carefully posing no threat. Sure enough,
the diamond head remained low, no strike tension coiled into the snake‘s
body. Instead, it continued to regard her with dark eyes.
Earthwarmth tingled into her, the old familiar feeling of power
flowing up from the ground, but this time it seemed easier to get to. Saria
probed gently outwards and, without any need to seek, slipped easily into
the senses of the snake.
The first impression was so familiar, so much like her childhood of
reaching animals in the valley, that she almost giggled with delight. The
waterhole was a deep pool of coolness, the snake‘s sensitive nerves, its belly
pressed against the ground, revealing every tiny tremble and shimmer of life
around them.
And the hidden gorge was filled with it: insects, coldbloods and rockhoppers, all at various levels of activity. Gan slumbered below her tree, a
still, warm brightness in the snake‘s mind. The camels grazed indolently on
a patch of scrub just beyond their camp. It was more life than Saria had felt
anywhere since leaving the valley, and with a sigh of contentment she let
herself slip deeper and deeper into the snake‘s consciousness, swimming in
its sensory awareness just as she‘d soaked herself in the pool earlier that
morning.
Unexpectedly, the snake‘s focus shifted abruptly. Something new was
coming up the valley towards them, creeping from bush to bush, hesitant.
To the snake, the creature reeked of danger and it immediately coiled tightly
in on itself, preparing to flee.
Gently, not wanting to alarm her host, Saria probed out towards the
approaching creature. Her first thought was that it might be Dariand
- 116 –
arriving, but somehow it seemed too small, and moved in such a strange
way that she didn‘t think it could be.
The snake was agitated now, wanting to flee but held by the force of
Saria‘s will. Finally she pulled herself back and without hesitation the snake
slid smoothly into a protective gap between two stones. As their link
dissolved completely, Saria caught one final impression of the approaching
creature — one of exhaustion and vague familiarity.
Then the snake was gone, and Saria stood, brushing sand from the
front of her robe. Whatever it was that had grabbed the snake‘s attention,
she could detect no sign of it with her own limited senses. She took a couple
of steps towards the path along which they had travelled up the gorge.
‗You up, are you?‘ Gan‘s voice from behind stopped her. Saria
wondered how long the old woman had been awake and watching. ‗How
about you get some wood together, an‘ we‘ll make up a bit of food, eh?‘
‗Is it safe to have a fire?‘
‗I reckon so. This spot‘s out of the way, unless you know where to
look. Besides, I feel like a decent feed.‘
She rummaged in one of the bags and pulled out a sharpened spike of
bone. It had a series of holes along its length and small barbs carved into the
end of it. Saria, forgetting for the moment the approaching creature,
watched the old woman.
‗What‘s that?‘
‗You‘ll see.‘
Next, the old woman plunged into the scrub, scrabbling around until
she found a long, reasonably straight stick, then used thin straps of leather
threaded through the holes in the spike to bind it to the stick, creating a
vicious-looking spear.
‗Now, this way.
Gan made her way to the edge of the pool, tucked up her long robe
and tied it around her waist, then, to Saria‘s surprise, waded in up to her
thighs.
‗Stay on the bank there. Sit real still and don‘t make a sound.‘
For the longest time the old woman stood, rock still, the spear raised
above her head and angled down. Saria watched, curious. Back in the valley
Ma had sometimes used a spear to hunt rock-hoppers and lizards, but never
- 117 –
anything in water.
Suddenly Gan whipped her arm forward, and when she snapped the
spear up something silver glinted and wriggled on the end of it.
‗What is it?‘
‗You ent ever seen a fish before?‘
‗No.‘
‗Good eatin‘. Not too many places in the Darklands you can get ‘em,
though. ‗It‘s another reason Dariand and me like to keep this spot to
ourselves.‘
She waded back to the bank and pulled the fish off the spear, carefully
easing the barbed end out so as not to damage the flesh. It was the strangest
animal Saria had ever seen. Twice the length of her hand, it flopped around
on the muddy ground, its mouth opening and closing desperately.
‗Good.‘ The woman grunted in satisfaction and handed the spear to
Saria. ‗Now, your turn.‘
‗Me?‘
‗Or you can go hungry, eh? Your choice. The secret is to be real still
and patient; let them come to you.‘
In the creek, Saria tried to copy the old woman‘s stance, raising the
spear and pointing the white bone tip towards the water.
‗Don‘t hold it so high, girl. You‘ll end up movin‘ your arm. Hold it
closer to the end, too.‘
Saria did as she was told, and concentrated on staying still. It wasn‘t
easy. Her arm began to ache and her legs itched to move, to relieve the
burning sensation building in her calves.
‗Jus‘ concentrate on breathin‘ slowly, right?‘
A shadowy movement near her ankles grabbed her attention, and Saria
plunged the spear down as hard as she could, but it twisted in her grip and
slapped harmlessly on the surface of the water. The fish whipped away into
the depths of the pond.
‗Careful. Can‘t rush it, eh?‘
Rearranging herself, Saria raised the spear again and continued to
wait. Five more times she lunged at brown shapes that flickered past her
legs, each time missing. On the fifth occasion, and much to the amusement
of the old woman, she lost her balance and toppled into the water.
- 118 –
‗That‘ll do. Come out before you scare the rest of them off.‘
‗No!‘ Standing again, Saria waded across to where the spear was
floating and retrieved it. ‗One more try.‘
This time, when the fish slid out of the darkness, Saria took a deep
breath and fought back the urge to fling the spear immediately. Instead, she
breathed slowly and evenly and waited.
With her feet buried in the muddy bottom of the lake, she probed for
earthwarmth, but before there was enough energy for her to reach out
towards the fish‘s mind, she realised that it was right there in front of her,
where the spear tip would be if she thrust it. So she did, and the movement
seemed almost gentle, slow and lazy, and then the spear was kicking in her
hands and she was pulling the shimmering creature up from the water.
‗Good. Lucky, but good.‘
‗Lucky?‘
‗Took me two whole days of trying before I managed that.‘
At the water‘s edge, Gan used a stone knife to scrape the slime and
muck from the fishes‘ sides, then to open them up, pulling their intestines
out and throwing them back into the water.
‗Alright. Let‘s eat.‘
The fish was bland, with a muddy flavour, but roasted over the fire it
was the sweetest thing Saria had ever eaten.
‗One time you could get these everywhere. Every creek, every lake
filled with them. Not now, though.‘
Saria tried to imagine the empty desert filled with water and fish, but
the idea was too strange.
‗What was it like?‘
Gan snorted.
‗Don‘t ask me, girl. I wasn‘t about. This was long before the Shiftin‘,
before the burnin‘. Before the Nightpeople, right? Back before the
Darkedge. That far back.‘
‗I don‘t know much about that stuff.‘
‗Eh? Why not?‘
Saria shrugged.
‗Didn‘t Ma Lee teach you the stories?‘ Gan glowered across the fire,
the light making her expression even more fierce.
- 119 –
‗You know Ma Lee?‘
‗Hmph.‘ Saria took the reply as a ‗yes‘.
‗She never taught me anything, just what jobs I had to do.‘
‗That‘d be right. Bloody miserable old bitch.‘
Saria smiled at hearing Ma described that way. Then she remembered
that final night in the hut and the strange, wistful delicacy of the old
woman‘s touch on her head.
‗She wasn‘t so bad.‘
Gan‘s expression softened slightly.
‗Ay. I‘m sure. But there‘s no substitute for your own mother.‘
‗I wouldn‘t know.‘
‗‘Course you wouldn‘t. Never had a chance, did you? I remember the
night you were born. Bloody Nightpeople took your mum off quick smart.‘
Saria paused mid-mouthful.
‗You were there?‘
‗Bit younger than I am now, but, yeah, I was there.‘
‗So you knew my mother?‘
Gan hesitated a moment.
‗I did. Your mother was Jani, the bravest girl I ever met. And that
night she got taken over the Darkedge. ‘Ent nobody seen or heard of her
since, but that‘s not surprisin‘, eh? Nightpeople don‘t give away their
secrets. Not for free, anyhow.‘
Jani. Saria stared into the flames of the fire and said the name again.
Jani. Just the sound of the word tasted good on her tongue.
‗What was she like?‘
‗As I remember, she was a tiny little thing. But strong, eh? Could walk
for days and hunt with the best of them. ‘Course, hunting was easier back
then, but still, your mum had a feel for it like none of us ever did. It was like
she just knew animals. She‘d find ‘em when nobody else could. Only one
near as good as her was Dariand.‘
The old woman took a mouthful of fish and chewed thoughtfully.
‗You look a bit like her, you know. Same eyes. And that tangle of hair
you got — that‘s from her, too. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I
reckon you and your mum got a lot in common. For a long time, Dreamer
Wanji thought she was gonna be the last one, too.‘
- 120 –
‗The last one?‘
‗The last baby. Hadn‘t been one for ages before Jani. Not a clean one,
anyhow.‘
‗How come the Nightpeople didn‘t take her when she was born?‘
Gan shrugged. ‗Same reason they didn‘t get you. Wanji got her hid
away quick.‘
The fish had gone cold but Saria took another mouthful and chewed it
anyway, enjoying the soft texture, so unlike the roots and nuts she‘d been
brought up on.
‗Did you have any babies?‘
Gan looked away, a slight droop in her shoulders.
‗That‘s not a question you ask a Darklands woman, girl.‘
‗Oh.‘ Saria hesitated, acutely aware of the sadness that had swept over
the old woman.
‗S‘okay. You weren‘t to know. Don‘t imagine Ma Lee taught you that,
either.‘
‗No, she didn‘t,‘ Saria admitted.
For a while the only sound was the gentle wheeze of the camels and
the crackle of the fire. Then, abruptly, Gan spoke.
‗One.‘
‗One what?‘ Saria‘s brow furrowed in confusion.
‗I had one baby,‘ Gan said. ‗A long time ago. Named him Dreni.‘
‗Did …‘ Saria began, but stopped. She was walking in territory she
didn‘t understand here, and suddenly realised that she had no idea what she
could or couldn‘t ask.
‗It‘s alright. Ask. I‘ve told you now.‘
‗Did the Nightpeople take him?‘
‗Nah. They came, but they didn‘t want him.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗Wasn‘t clean. From the moment he came out, it was obvious to
everyone that he wasn‘t gonna see the night out. He was all blue and had
only one eye. Wasn‘t breathin‘ properly, either. Poor little bugger never had
a chance. Died before seeing his first daylight.‘
‗I‘m sorry.‘ It was all she could think of to say.
‗Don‘t worry.‘ Gan shook her head, sweeping old memories back to
- 121 –
where they belonged. ‗Serves me right for dragging up the past. Some
things are better left forgotten.‘
‗I asked you.‘
‗You did. An‘ it‘s a valuable lesson for you to learn. Don‘t go asking
about things which aren‘t your concern. Especially about things that
happened a long time ago, right?‘
Saria nodded, although she wasn‘t sure she agreed. If she couldn‘t ask
about the past, how was she supposed to learn anything about herself? She
stayed quiet, though, and as if reading her mind, Gan anwered her.
‗Don‘t worry. When you get to Woormra, Dreamer Wanji‘ll tell you
all the history you need. That‘s what Dreamers are for, eh? For rememberin‘
everything the rest of us try so hard to forget.‘
Then Gan settled herself more comfortably, went back to picking the
flesh from her fish, and the only sound was the spitting crackle of the fire.
- 122 –
FOURTEEN.
Saria woke to voices. Gan and Dariand sat a little way off, talking. He
must have come into the camp sometime during the night. She hadn‘t heard
a thing.
‗At least we got her back. That‘s something.‘
‗Doesn‘t sound too good, though.‘
‗Nah,‘ Dariand replied. ‗It‘s not good at all. At best Dreamer Wanji‘ll
get half the council with him. The rest all reckon they‘ve had enough. And
now Dreamer Baanti and Slander will be putting in their bit, and you know
that Olympic mob ...‘
Yawning, Saria sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. As soon as
they noticed that she was awake, Dariand walked over and crouched in front
of her.
‗You alright?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗Good.‘ He slapped her, hard. ‗That‘s for running off.‘
Instantly awake, Saria gaped at him, too shocked to cry or even make
a sound. The impression of his fingers burned on her cheek and his eyes
blazed with anger.
‗Don‘t you ever think you can wander away like that, not out here.
You were lucky this time.‘
‗It‘s not my fault!‘
‗Yes, it is. You chose this. You chose to walk off into the desert, you
chose to get captured. You‘re just lucky that Gan moves with Baanti‘s
hunters, and Dreamer Gaardi and I can track better than most, otherwise
you‘d probably be dead now.‘
‗They weren‘t going to kill me.‘
‗No?‘
‗No.‘ Saria faced up to Dariand as best she could. ‗Some of them
wanted to give me to the Nightpeople, but Dreamer Baanti wouldn‘t let
them.‘
‗Wouldn‘t he?‘ Dariand‘s expression gave away nothing. ‗I should
- 123 –
have left you with him, then.‘
‗I would have been okay.‘
‗Right. In that case, shall I take you back to Olympic? You sure
looked okay when I pulled you out of that hole. You looked like you were
doing really well.‘
Saria stared at him. She couldn‘t believe he was angry with her. Not
after everything that had happened to her.
‗I was trying to help you,‘ she snapped. ‗I saw smoke and I thought
I‘d …‘
‗You didn‘t think at all. You wandered off into the plains in the
middle of the day, on your own, after Dreamer Gaardi and I had both
warned you how dangerous it was.‘
‗It didn‘t look far.‘
‗It never does. And did you even bother to stop and think about what
you were going to do if you actually got near their camp?‘
‗I wouldn‘t have …‘ She caught herself just in time. Dariand still
didn‘t know about her reaching.
‗You wouldn‘t have what?‘
‗Wouldn‘t have got caught,‘ she finished lamely.
‗No? Then how did you end up in that hole at Olympic?‘
Saria couldn‘t find a reply, so she stamped down to the water to sluice
her face and hands.
By the time she returned, the other two were once more in
conversation, which stopped as soon as she came near. Dariand didn‘t say
anything more, but simply threw another angry glare at her. It was Gan who
spoke.
‗Make yourself scarce for a while if you want, but then rest up today,
girl. We‘ll head for Woormra tonight and you‘ll need your strength.‘
The two of them returned to their whispers, making it clear Saria
wasn‘t invited to join them.
Sighing, she wandered along the edge of the pool, exploring the deep
hollows of shade which formed where trees grew close to the wall of the
gorge. At times, the path was only slightly wider than her footsteps. A little
away from the camp, she came across a thick-tailed lizard bathing on a rock
in the warmth of the sun; for a moment she considered reaching for it, but
- 124 –
the lizard, alarmed by her intrusion into its morning, scurried off before she
had a chance.
Around a curve, she sat on a sandy stretch of creek bank and threw
pebbles out into the water, watching the widening circles shivering across
the greenish surface. Something about the shape of them reminded her of
the call. She hadn‘t heard it since Olympic.
It wasn‘t fair for Dariand to be mad at her. If he‘d told her more about
the Darklands, or perhaps let her see Olympic when they‘d gone for water,
none of this would have happened. Or if he would just tell her about
Woormra, or Dreamer Wanji …
Something pressed into the back of her neck. Something cold and
damp. The unexpectedness of it, combined with the sensation on her skin,
brought the memory of Dreamer Baanti‘s burning touch flooding back, and
with a squeal Saria leapt to her feet.
Startled by the sudden noise and movement, the dog shrank away,
cowering back into the scrub that lined the creek bed. Saria simply stared at
it, her nerves on end from the fright. Then, as her breathing slowed, she
noticed the tiny, almost apologetic twitch at the tip of its tail.
‗What are you doing here?‘ Slowly, not wanting to startle the animal
further, she crouched and held a hand towards it. Initially the dog pulled
further away, but then crept forward until its nose quivered a tiny distance
from her fingertips.
‗I‘m sorry for frightening you.‘
Without dropping its eyes from hers the dog lowered itself to the
ground and rolled, exposing the soft skin of its belly. Saria remembered the
oddly familiar presence that she‘d sensed coming up the valley the day
before, and she gently stroked the white fur.
‗Did you follow us all this way?‘
Beneath her hand, the dog‘s ribs stood out. Its fur was so thin and
patchy that the mottled brown and pink patterns on its skin were clearly
visible.
Without even thinking, she reached and felt the animal‘s mind simply
slide aside and let her in. Immediately she was aware of something coming
up the creek bank towards them. Fast. She pulled her mind back.
‗Go!‘ she whispered urgently, and without needing further
- 125 –
encouragement the dog rolled to its feet and vanished into the bushes,
disappearing just before Dariand came charging out of the scrub, with Gan
close behind.
‗What‘s wrong? We heard you scream.‘
He cast a quick glance around the small patch of creek bed.
‗I‘m fine.‘
He looked around until he was satisfied there was no immediate
danger, then regarded her again.
‗Why‘d you scream?‘
‗I saw a snake.‘
‗Where?‘
‗Over there. On that rock.‘ She pointed at a flat stone jutting out into
the water a little further up the bank. Hopefully, Dariand wouldn‘t decide to
go hunting for it.
‗You don‘t need to be scared of snakes.‘ His exasperated expression
spoke louder than his words.
I know that, she felt like telling him, but she didn‘t. She had to stick to
her story. Something gave her the feeling that if Dariand knew Dreamer
Baanti‘s dog had followed them from Olympic, he wouldn‘t be too happy.
Instead, she mumbled an apology.
‗No harm done. Let‘s all get back to camp, eh?‘ said Gan, glancing at
Dariand.
‗Good idea.‘ He turned and followed the old woman back down the
creek. After a dozen steps he stopped and looked back at Saria.
‗Well?‘
‗I want to stay here a bit longer.‘
Dariand shook his head.
‗No. Snakes won‘t bother you, but with a squeal like that you might
bother them. Come back and get some rest with Gan and me. We‘ve got a
big night ahead of us.‘
‗I thought we were going to hide until everything‘s blown over. That‘s
what Gan said.‘
‗Things aren‘t going to blow over, Saria.‘ Saria detected something
sad in his voice. ‗So we‘re going to go and meet it face to face.
‗Meet what?‘
- 126 –
‗Destiny.‘
With a last quick glance at the bushes where the dog had vanished,
Saria reluctantly followed.
Back at the campsite, the two adults quickly settled themselves into
patches of shade. Dariand gathered his robes around him and Gan propped
her back against a tree. Saria found a patch of deep shadow cast by the wall
of the gorge and lay on the ground, staring up at the glimpses of dayvault
that shimmered between overhanging tree branches. In moments, it seemed,
both adults were fast asleep, but then Dariand opened one eye and directed a
hard stare at her.
‗If you wake up before us, you stay right here. I don‘t care if you see
Nightpeople on the other side of the creek, you don‘t go anywhere.‘
‗Don‘t worry,‘ she retorted. ‗I won‘t do that again.‘
‗Good. Because I reckon you‘ve used up all the luck due to you.‘
He rolled on his side, and moments later his breathing deepened.
The afternoon was hot, and Saria tossed and turned, finding it
impossible to get to sleep. It was fine for Dariand, he‘d been walking all
night, but she‘d only been awake for a little while and didn‘t feel even
slightly tired.
The ground was hard and uncomfortable. For a while she tried to call
up earthwarmth into herself, craving the softness that always seemed to
come with it, but without an animal nearby to reach into, she couldn‘t seem
to summon it up properly.
Half-heartedly she considered one of the camels, but they were
tethered too far away, and in a spot far more sunny than the one she‘d
found. She sat up and looked around for the dog, but it was nowhere to be
seen. She thought about whistling for it in the way that Baanti did, but the
noise would wake Dariand; besides, when she remembered the defeated way
the animal had accepted Baanti‘s kicks and abuse, she knew she‘d rather not
have it thinking about her the same way.
Her eyes fell on Dariand again, and she remembered what Dreamer
Gaardi had said to her days earlier: You gotta have a bit more connection to
a person to get into their head.
A glimmer of nervous understanding shivered through her. She‘d
asked Dreamer Gaardi if it were possible to reach into a person, and he
- 127 –
hadn‘t really answered her. He hadn‘t said it couldn’t be done.
Just that you needed more connection.
Did she dare to try and reach into Dariand? The thought sent a tingle
down her back. What would it feel like? she wondered, to touch another
person‘s mind with her own.
She‘d have to be careful though. She wouldn‘t probe out for him,
wouldn‘t let her mind sink into his, even a tiny bit. She‘d just see if she
could call up the earthwarmth and find his consciousness. That‘s all.
She crept across and lowered herself to the ground beside him. Barely
daring to breathe, she reached out and rested one of her hands lightly beside
his, then inched it forward until her middle finger brushed against bare skin
on the side of his hand. Dariand stirred slightly, but didn‘t wake.
He didn‘t move his hand away, either, and even though the actual
physical contact was so miniscule, Saria could suddenly feel a warm
pinprick between them. Without even calling it up, earthwarmth was
rushing through her and Dariand‘s mind was there in front of her. The
brightness and heat of it was startling, and, faced with such a clear, sharp
presence, she hesitated.
The man‘s mind was so different. Almost like something alien. If
anything, it reminded her of the wild dogs back in the valley, but even they
didn‘t give off the same aura as this. Dariand was … alive. There was no
other word for it. His mind pulsed with intelligence, making it unlike any
animal she‘d ever reached before. Just floating there in the earthwarmth,
without even probing, she could already sense things below the surface:
determination, anger, fear, and something she couldn‘t identify.
A sudden sense of power filled her. She could know Dariand —
possess him — if she wanted. That brightness which surged though her
fingertip could be hers, and all that came with it.
She should stop. She knew she should pull back right away, withdraw
from the sensation of heat and life hovering before her. But the urge to
probe outwards, to actually touch her mind against his, was overwhelming.
Her heart racing, Saria reached forward, slowly … and gave just the
gentlest of nudges.
The explosion of pain that shot through her head was agonising. She
screamed, twisting and tearing herself away, rolling desperately to try and
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escape. The earthwarmth wasn‘t gentle now; it was a fierce, jolting burning
that kicked her away from Dariand with almost physical force.
Dariand was awake the instant her mind touched his, and suddenly he
was on top of her, grabbing and shaking her as she lay prone and gasping.
‗Was that you? Was it?‘
His voice trembled with rage.
‗I …‘ Saria started to speak, but her mind was clouded, her thoughts
refusing to form into words. Dariand pinned her to the ground by her
shoulders, pressing all his weight on her.
‗What did you think you were doing? What in the name of the night
spirits were you thinking?‘
‗Dariand, steady on, eh?‘ Gan, wakened by the commotion, tried to
pull him off but he shrugged her away.
Saria‘s chest felt as if it was being crushed, but that was nothing
compared to the painful echo of the bright contact with Dariand‘s mind
which still lingered across the front of her skull.
‗I‘m … sorry …‘ she managed to gasp.
Dariand lifted her roughly by the front of her robe, hauling her from
the ground and dangling her in the air before him.
‗Sorry? You don‘t even know what you‘re sorry for.‘ He shook her
once, hard, before releasing her. She crumpled to the ground and Dariand
took a couple of steps back from her.
‗Don‘t you come near me again, ever. Don‘t try to speak to me, don‘t
even look at me. Understand?‘
All Saria could do was nod.
‗Good.‘ He vanished into the scrub.
‗What‘d you do, girl?‘ Gan was bending over her. ‗I ent ever seen
Dariand like that before. Usually like a stone, that one. What‘d you do?‘
‗I don‘t know. I was trying to reach him and …‘
The old woman had been about to hold the nozzle of a water-skin to
Saria‘s lips, but now she lowered it. ‗What d‘you mean?‘
‗Like with animals. I wanted to reach into his mind.‘
The old woman stood and backed away a little.
‗What animals?‘
‗All of them.‘ Saria made a tiny, confused gesture. ‗Lizards, dogs,
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insects. I reach out to them and I can see the world like they do.‘
‗Did Ma Lee teach you to do that?‘ Gan‘s voice was as hard as the
stone walls of the gorge.
‗No. She didn‘t even know I could.‘
‗So, who?‘
‗Nobody taught me. I‘ve always been able to do it. Dreamer Gaardi
told me I shouldn‘t tell anybody about it.‘
‗Did he tell you about reaching into people?‘
‗No.‘
‗Why‘d you try it, then?‘
‗I don‘t know. I just wanted to see if I could. I didn‘t know it would be
so … painful.‘
Gan said nothing for some time, clearly making up her mind about
something. Finally she crouched beside the trembling girl.
‗Listen …‘ She glanced around to make certain Dariand wasn‘t
nearby. ‗Dreamer Gaardi was right. Don‘t you tell nobody, right? When we
get to Woormra, you can tell Dreamer Wanji, but otherwise you don‘t let
anyone know you can do this.‘
‗Why not?‘
Gan sighed and plonked herself down heavily in the dirt.
‗This is real big power you got here, and also a big sign. There are
people who‘ll read it all wrong.‘
‗I don‘t understand.‘
‗Okay.‘ The old woman paused. ‗I‘m gonna tell you things that, by
rights, you shouldn‘t know, and there‘s more stuff you‘ll have to get
Dreamer Wanji to tell you, ‘cause strictly speaking this knowledge is not for
women.‘
‗Why would Dreamer Wanji tell me, then?‘
‗Cause you can do the ―reaching‖. You got the power to listen to the
land and hear it talkin‘ back to you. That‘s the only thing that‘s kept us
Darklanders going all these years – having Dreamers who could feel the
land and find the water and the food and the wood. Without them, the
Darklands would have died off a long time ago.‘
‗So why‘s it have to be such a big secret? If reaching‘s so important,
and if I can do it, then …‘
- 130 –
‗Listen, girl. In all that time, ever since the Shifting, you‘re the first
woman I ever heard of who could do the reaching. The only one. And on top
of that you‘re still only a girl, not even a woman yet. Some people ent gonna
like that.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗People don‘t much like change. Believe me, you gotta keep this to
yourself. You‘re dead lucky that old bastard Dreamer Baanti is such a crap
Dreamer he didn‘t find out about this or he‘d have killed you on the spot.
You didn‘t do any reaching over at Olympic, eh?‘
‗No.‘
She decided not to mention her visions in the pit. They‘d been
different, anyhow. They‘d come after the call. Not when she was trying to
reach an animal.
Silence fell across the clearing. The old woman kept glancing at the
girl, reassuring herself that she‘d understood it properly. Eventually she rose
to her feet.
‗Never thought I‘d even see the like of you, but I‘ll tell you somethin‘,
girl, I‘m bloody glad I did, ‘cause whatever happens, you‘re gonna stir
things up around here, and that‘ll be a story to tell. Now, you‘d better try
and get some rest. We‘ll be goin‘ fast tonight.‘
‗What about Dariand?‘
‗Don‘t worry about him. He‘ll be back when he‘s had a bit of time to
cool off.‘
‗He told me never to come near him again.‘
‗Yeah, well.‘ The old woman gave a lopsided grin. ‗Men say all sorts
of rubbish they don‘t mean. You get to sleep an‘ I‘ll go see where he‘s
gotten to.‘
Sleep still refused to come. She lay motionless in the shade, hoping
the soporific warmth of the afternoon would lull her to sleep, but she was
still awake when Dariand and Gan finally returned and stood over her. She
breathed deeply and stayed still, the way she used to when she wanted Ma to
think she was sleeping.
‗I had no idea she could do it. No idea at all. Bloody Ma didn‘t even
mention it.‘
‗Tch!‘ Gan made a clicking sound. ‗She didn‘t have a clue herself.
- 131 –
Mind you, that‘s nothin‘ new from her.‘
Dariand chuckled softly. ‗Ma‘s alright.‘
‗So you tell me. But she didn‘t even notice that the girl was reaching
every bloody thing that came along.‘
‗I‘m sure Saria kept it to herself. She‘s a devious little bugger.‘
‗You don‘t mean that.‘
‗She is.‘
‗You‘re pleased with her, though.‘
‗I meant what I said, Gan. She comes near me again …‘
‗Cut it out, Dariand. You might be able to sell that crap to the halfwits
in town, but don‘t try it on with me, eh? We both know how to read the
vaultlights.‘
The man laughed.
‗Fair enough. I never could get anything past you. Neither could
anyone else, for that matter.‘
‗Hmph.‘ Gan grunted, but there was a sort of grudging affection
behind the sound.
‗Thanks for looking after her. You don‘t know how important having
her at Woormra‘ll be.‘
‗I know, alright.‘
In the silence that followed, Saria could feel both of them looking at
her.
‗You remember the night she was born, Gan?‘
‗Difficult not to.‘
‗When Dreamer Wanji handed her to me, I couldn‘t believe it. I just
wanted to stare at her forever. But I couldn‘t, eh? As it was, we only just
made it out. The Nightpeople were there before we even had time to clear
town.‘
‗You made it, though.‘
‗We did. But do you remember what Dreamer Wanji said that
afternoon, when Jani had her first pains and we knew the child was on its
way? He called everyone together and said …‘
‗… ―tonight begins the end of the Darklands‖. Yeah, I remember.‘
There was a catch in the old woman‘s voice.
‗What happened, Gan? What happened? I believed him then, and for a
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long time after. Even when I set out to return her to Woormra I believed
him. But now …‘
‗Now?‘
‗I dunno. She doesn‘t seem right, does she? She runs off into the
plains on her own. She messes around with reaching. She could have damn
near wiped me, back then. That‘s not what the child‘s supposed to do, is it?‘
Saria risked opening her eyes a fraction. Through slitted lids, she
watched the old woman take Dariand by his shoulder.
‗You got it all the wrong way round, you know.‘
‗How?‘
‗I never really believed any of Dreamer Wanji‘s stories. Not till
recently.‘
‗How recently?‘
‗Till I actually saw her. I thought like a lot of people that she was just
the last of them, and Dreamer Wanji was throwin‘ all his dreams onto this
final kid. But now, I dunno. When Dreamer Baanti carried her into our
huntin‘ camp from the desert, it was kinda strange. I just got this sudden
feelin‘ that everything was starting to come into place, right?‘
‗Why‘d you help out Dreamer Wanji all these years, if you didn‘t
believe him?‘
Gan thought for a moment.
‗He‘s still a better bloke than Dreamer Baanti or any of his mob, eh?‘
‗True.‘
‗So perhaps I just wasn‘t supposed to believe him. Not till now.‘
‗I didn‘t think you believed in any of that sort of stuff, Gan.‘
‗I didn‘t. But then, I didn‘t believe women could be Dreamers, either.‘
‗Fair enough.‘
Neither said anything more for a long time, then Saria heard the old
woman shuffle away.
‗I‘d better go get the camels in and ready, eh?‘
‗Yeah. Hang on and I‘ll give you a hand.‘
And they were gone.
- 133 –
FIFTEEN.
Gan left them sometime during the small hours of the night. For an
age the three walked through the desert in procession, Dariand leading, then
Saria, and finally the old woman and the two camels. Nobody spoke and
Dariand set a fast pace.
Eventually, though, soon after crossing one of the broken-rock roads,
Gan whispered, ‗Here.‘
Dariand stopped. ‗You sure you won‘t come to Woormra?‘
The two looked hard at each other until Gan broke the silence.
‗That‘s not my path.‘
‗Where will you go?‘
‗Back to Olympic.‘
‗We talked about this, Gan. You won‘t be welcome there now. You
vanishing the same night as her‘ — Dariand gestured at Saria — ‗They‘ll
have worked it out for sure.‘
She shrugged. ‗Gotta find out. Even if they‘re a bit upset, they still
need the camels and someone to drive ‘em.‘
‗A bit upset doesn‘t begin to describe it. When I left there …‘
Gan held up a hand to stop him.
‗Let me deal with that, Dariand. If they aren‘t pleased to see me, who
knows, eh? P‘raps then I‘ll come over to Woormra and see how this all
plays out.‘
For a long moment Dariand held the old woman‘s gaze, then finally
relented with a tight smile.
‗Be careful.‘
‗You know me.‘ Gan turned to Saria and, much to the girl‘s surprise,
seized her in a tight embrace. ‗You be strong now, girl. Do what you need
to, eh? Dream some good dreams for me.‘
Startled, Saria searched for something to say.
‗I will.‘
‗‘Course you will.‘
Gan turned to leave, then looked back.
‗You know something else, girl? You might have your mother‘s hair,
- 134 –
but you got your father‘s attitude.‘
Then, with a tug on the halter and a soft click of her tongue, Gan
climbed onto the kneeling camel and had soon slipped into the night.
‗Come on.‘ Dariand turned and started nightwards again.
‗What did she mean by that?‘
‗By what?‘
‗I‘ve got my father‘s attitude.‘
‗Nothing,‘ Dariand snapped. ‗She‘s just a stirrer. Now let‘s get
moving.‘
They walked in silence for a long time. The daywards horizon was
beginning to lighten when Saria noticed movement in the distance.
‗Dariand?‘
‗What?‘
‗Look.‘
She pointed away to their left, to where a thin thread of brightness
whipped this way and that through the air. Dariand followed her finger and
froze.
‗Nightpeople.‘
‗Shouldn‘t we hide?‘
‗They‘re a long way off. They won‘t see us.‘
Soon after, the low-pitched hum drifted through the night, faint with
distance.
‗Let‘s go.‘
They started walking again, not changing course, but as they travelled
Saria kept an eye on the distant light. There was something insect-like in the
way it zigzagged across the sky, its movements unpredictable. From time to
time it would vanish and then moments later reappear in a different spot.
The humming was intermittent, too, reaching them only as brief, distant
bursts of sound.
Suddenly Dariand stopped. He turned around slowly, his head raised,
listening to the night and peering out into the darkness.
‗What is it?‘
‗There‘s another.‘
‗Where?‘
‗Over there somewhere.‘ He pointed to their right. ‗Close your eyes
- 135 –
and listen. You can hear two hums.‘
Saria concentrated and she heard it. Another layer of noise, slightly
higher but different again, was coming from the opposite direction to the
first. Then a third hum, coming from directly behind filled her ears.
‗Can you hear that?‘
But Dariand was already pulling her towards a small pile of stones.
Saria half ran, half stumbled behind him.
‗Down!‘
The rock pile was nothing more than a few small boulders, the largest
no higher than Saria‘s knees. There was nothing large enough to cover even
her, let alone a man Dariand‘s size.
‗What?‘
‗Get on your hands and knees! Now!‘
He shoved her roughly to the ground.
‗Bend forward, like a kneeling camel. Good. Tuck your head down.‘
Saria did as she was told, crouching on all fours beside the rock pile.
Dariand arranged the loose material of her desert robe into a rough hood that
covered her head as well as the rest of her body, then, to her shock, he tore a
skin of water from his belt and poured the whole thing over her, soaking her
robe, her arms and her head. It was icy as it trickled along the back of her
neck and through her hair.
‗Don‘t move!‘ he hissed as she involuntarily shivered.
He threw a few handfuls of sand over her, the dirt and water
combining instantly to create a cold, muddy crust.
There was another sloshing as he emptied a skin of water over
himself, and after two quick rolls in the dust he was crouching beside her,
his head only a few inches from hers.
‗They find you by heat and movement. The sand and the water should
cool us enough, but whatever you do, don‘t move, not even a tiny bit. I
don‘t care if it hurts like you‘re about to die; do not move.‘
The noise of the hummers slowly combined to form one continuous
resonating clamour. Saria tried to steady her breathing and control her
heartbeat, but it thundered in her ears. One of her arms was beginning to
cramp.
‗Steady. Breathe deeply.‘ Dariand‘s voice was little more than a
- 136 –
breath in her ear. ‗They‘ll soon pass.‘
With a scream, one of the hummers floated overhead and Saria
clenched her eyes shut against the noise, which pounded through her and
into the ground. Even the rocks were trembling.
Then there was light. A brief flash, as bright as the dayvault, and the
sound was moving away, its pitch and intensity dropping. She began to
relax.
‗Don‘t move. It‘ll be back,‘ Dariand hissed.
Sure enough, the hummer returned and this time the light seemed to
linger over them. Crouching, trapped in the brightness, Saria tried to
concentrate on being a rock, on fitting in to the pile.
The noise grew louder and the ground vibrated until it felt as though
the humming was coming from inside her skull rather than the vault above.
Then, abruptly, the hummer angled away across the desert and was
gone.
‗Stay still. I‘ll tell you when to move.‘
They crouched in the desert silence. Saria‘s arms and legs were numb,
and amazingly she might even have dozed off for a few minutes, because
the next thing she was aware of was Dariand helping her up.
‗They‘ve gone.‘
Saria looked around, surprised to realise it was almost daylight.
Dariand was brushing off the mud and sand which clung to his robes, and
she did the same. Then he stopped and looked at her.
‗You did well.‘
She didn‘t answer, not certain what to reply.
‗They don‘t usually come so low. I‘ve only had them that close to me
once or twice. You were brave not to move.‘
‗Thank you.‘
‗Turn around.‘
He used his hands to scrape as much dirt from her back as possible.
‗I‘m sorry I didn‘t have time to explain. The mud is the only way to
stop them picking up your heat. Sometimes even that‘s not enough.‘
‗What if they spot you?‘
‗It depends who you are. And what you‘re doing.‘
‗If it was us?‘
- 137 –
‗I don‘t know. I imagine they‘d leave me here.‘
‗And me?‘
He hesitated for a moment before answering.
‗We‘d never see you again.‘
‗What would they do with me?‘
The man shrugged. ‗Nobody knows. But they tried to take you once
already, when you were a baby, and they‘re bound to try again. They won‘t
get you if I can help it, though.‘
‗Thanks.‘
‗You‘re welcome.‘ He looked around. ‗We need to move. If we walk
fast, we might even make Woormra some time tonight.‘
‗We‘re going to walk through the day?‘
‗Not for long. But we need more water now, so we‘d better go.‘
‗Will they come back?‘
Dariand shook his head.
‗Not now. We call them Nightpeople for a reason.‘
He offered her his hand. It was large, brown from years spent
outdoors, with hard, knotted calluses of skin all over the palms and fingers.
When she took it, it engulfed her own.
‗Let‘s go.‘ He led her away from the sunrise.
- 138 –
SIXTEEN.
Dariand‘s prediction that they‘d manage the distance in just one night
had been wrong. They‘d made slow progress because of the number of
times they‘d had to avoid patrols.
‗I‘ve never seen this many around,‘ he‘d said after the fourth time.
‗Are they looking for us?‘
He shrugged. ‗I suppose.‘
‗Slander wanted to give me to them. Maybe he‘s told them about us.‘
‗Slander? Perhaps.‘ Dariand frowned slightly. ‗Though I wouldn‘t
have thought he‘d sell us out so cheaply. Baanti wouldn‘t allow it.‘
Even with the delays, they managed to continue slowly nightwards
until, as the third night was drawing to a close, Dariand stopped at the crest
of a small hill.
‗There.‘ He pointed.
Lying in a low valley was a collection of shacks, much the same size
as Olympic but without the surrounding fence. In the pre-dawn darkness the
town looked lifeless. A gathering of shapes and shadows huddled under the
immensity of the nightvault.
‗I‘m going to leave you here while I go and wake Wanji, alright?‘
‗Can‘t I come with you?‘
The thought that a patrol might come past while she was alone threw
shivers down Saria‘s spine.
‗No,‘ Dariand answered. ‗Just because the town was safe when I left
doesn‘t mean it still is. You wait here until I come and get you. Even if I‘m
gone for a while.‘
‗What if Nighpeople come?‘
‗Here.‘ He handed her a water-skin. ‗You know what to do. I trust
you.‘
Even through her nerves Saria flushed at the compliment.
‗Wait under those bushes.‘ Dariand pointed at a small clump of desert
scrub a little way down the slope. ‗I‘ll be back as soon as I can.‘
And then he was gone, loping towards the town. Saria watched, but he
quickly melted into the shadows of the nearest huts.
- 139 –
Sighing, she made her way down the slope and settled in the shadows
of the bushes.
Soon the light was growing and the town emerged from the gloom.
Saria studied it with a sinking feeling. She wasn‘t sure what she‘d been
expecting, but it wasn‘t this. Woormra was even more rundown and
dilapidated than Olympic. Many of the huts were clearly empty, missing
walls or roofs, and large gaps yawned where the buildings had either
collapsed or had their parts pirated. Like Olympic, the town seemed thrown
down, shacks strewn across the landscape with no sense of reason, separated
by alleyways and dirt streets of varying widths.
The morning grew brighter and people began appearing in the streets,
going about their daily routines. Saria slipped around to the back of the
bushes to avoid being noticed and wondered what was keeping Dariand.
Eventually, exhausted and bored, she scraped a small hollow in the
sandy ground and slept for a while.
Dariand woke her in the late afternoon.
‗Shh.‘ He placed a gentle hand over her mouth. ‗Stay quiet. When it
gets darker, I‘ll sneak you in to town.‘
‗Why can‘t we just go down? I thought Woormra was safe?‘
‗Baanti and Slander thought Olympic was safe, too. But I come and go
there whenever I want. You never know who‘s watching and listening. If we
have Gan keeping an eye on the Olympic mob, who‘s to say they don‘t have
someone here?‘
‗Did you see Dreamer Wanji?‘
‗Yes.‘
‗What did he say?‘
‗You‘ll meet him yourself soon.‘
The two sat until the nightvault was dark. Then Dariand rose silently,
gesturing Saria to do the same.
He led her around the edge of the town before angling into a dark
alley between two deserted huts. Like Olympic, Saria was soon disoriented
as they wove through the maze in the darkness. At one point they came to a
broad open space, just like the one she‘d glimpsed between the huts in
Olympic, with a low, round structure in the middle of it. Several people
stood around it, talking.
- 140 –
Dariand signalled her to stop, and they waited, crouched in the
shadows, until the gathering broke up. When the people had gone, they
dashed across and into another alley.
Finally, Dariand led her into a hut as rundown as all the others. Unlike
the others, though, this one was shuttered and almost as dark inside as it had
been down in the pit.
‗What are we doing?‘
‗You‘ll see.‘
Dariand pulled a tin sheet over the doorway and the darkness was
absolute. Then came a strange creaking noise and as her eyes adapted, Saria
made out a dull red circular glow in the floor.
‗Over here.‘
Silhouetted against the flickering light, Dariand was nothing more
than a large shadow looming out of the darkness. He took her hand and
gently led her towards the circle. As they came closer, Saria realised it was
another pit, another covered hole, and she tried to pull away. But Dariand
kept a firm grip.
‗It‘s not a cell. It‘s a tunnel.‘
‗A what?‘
‗Look for yourself. I‘ll stand over here.‘
He moved away and cautiously, keeping one eye on him, Saria crept
forward and peered down. The round chamber dropped to about the same
depth as the cell in Olympic, but firelight was spilling into it from a
passageway dug into one side.
‗Where does it go?‘
‗To Dreamer Wanji. Come, I‘ll go first.‘
Dariand dropped easily into the hole, then held his arms up to lift her
down behind him.
Saria hesitated, memories of the pit still fresh in her mind.
‗I don‘t think I can.‘
The hole looked so small, and the tunnel might be nothing more than a
narrow trap.
‗Saria, trust me.‘
Trust me.
She looked into Dariand‘s eyes and found nothing in them to suggest
- 141 –
he intended her any harm. Wordlessly, she sat, swung her legs into the hole,
and let him take her weight and ease her to the floor.
The tunnel disappeared into the earth, curving slightly and dropping at
a shallow angle. While she stared along it, Dariand reached up and pulled
the hatch cover back into position behind them with a thump.
‗How far does it go?‘
‗You‘ll see. Follow me.‘
Dariand had to walk almost doubled over to avoid banging his head on
the roof, but Saria could walk upright. The light grew brighter as they
curved downwards. They passed a recessed space in the wall, in which a
small dung-fire burned, the smoke vanishing up a narrow chimney cut into
the top of the alcove.
‗The smoke comes out under an abandoned shack.‘
He led her down and down, past more dung-fires. The spiralling curve
of the tunnel seemed to grow tighter as they descended, and Saria had no
idea how far they had walked when abruptly they stepped out into a far
bigger space.
At first she thought it must have been the inside of a large hut,
because the light coming from the tunnel behind seemed to dissipate into
space. She soon realised, though, that they had merely stepped into another
tunnel, one much larger than the first. It was big enough that even Dariand
could stand upright.
‗Are you alright?‘
She nodded.
‗Good. This way.‘
Another fire-hollow flickered some way off, and Saria could see more
beyond that. Large areas of darkness between each one gave the tunnel a
feeling of vastness, especially after the confining closeness of the entrance
passage.
Passing through one of the light patches, Saria looked at the walls.
They were rough and angled, as though someone had torn through the rock.
The floor was smooth and easy to walk along, though at one point she
stumbled and tripped.
‗Careful!‘ Dariand was beside her, helping her up. ‗Walk close to the
walls. It‘s safer.‘
- 142 –
Kneeling, Saria peered at the floor, trying to see what had caught her
foot. Embedded in the smooth rock was something cold and hard and pitted
and like nothing she‘d ever seen.
‗What is it?‘
‗We don‘t know.‘ Dariand shook his head. ‗It‘s from the times before.
There‘s two lines of them down the middle, so stay over to the sides.‘
‗The times before what?‘
‗The Shifting. These tunnels are old.‘
He wouldn‘t say anything more; he just kept walking.
When they‘d first stepped into the larger tunnel the air had seemed
colder. As they walked though, it grew warmer and more humid and she
was soon sweating.
Finally, an opening loomed ahead and beyond it a dark space, clearly
enormous.
‗Here we are. Journey‘s end.‘ Dariand stopped and crouched before
her, straightening her robe and using his hands to brush down her hair as
best he could. When he was finally satisfied with her appearance, he leaned
back slightly and held her shoulders.
‗You ready?‘
‗Where are we?‘
‗The Dreamers‘ Council. This is where the Dreamers meet. From
here, you go alone.‘
‗Why?‘
‗I‘m not a Dreamer. I‘m not on the council and I‘m not allowed into
their meetings.‘
‗But I‘m not …‘ She began to speak, but Dariand placed a callused
finger on her lips.
‗We both know you are. And even if you weren‘t, you‘d still be
allowed in.‘
‗Why?‘
‗Because you‘re … unique.‘ He hesitated. ‗Listen, Saria, back at the
waterhole. When you reached for me …‘
‗I‘m sorry, I really didn‘t know it would …‘ she began, but he cut her
off.
‗I know. You don‘t have to explain. Gan and I talked for a long time
- 143 –
that afternoon. I‘m the one who should be apologising. It‘s just that you
should know …‘ He paused, then grinned. ‗I‘m talking a bunch of camel
dung. You should go into the council. And whatever happens in there,
remember, you‘re not on your own, right?‘
‗But …‘
‗Go.‘
He didn‘t give her time to say anything more. With a gentle push, he
propelled her towards the council chamber.
Stepping into the underground chamber was like stepping into a night
empty of vaultlights. The walls stretched into darkness and the roof, high
above, remained hidden in shadow. The only indication Saria had that she
was deep underground was the stillness — a kind of unnatural lack of
sensation, as though even the air was long-settled.
The only source of light was a dull fire in the middle. Saria stopped.
The distance between her and the fire seemed huge, the floor dark and
indistinguishable. In her imagination, huge pits yawned, bottomless, cloaked
and waiting for her unsuspecting step.
As her eyes adapted, she noticed hunched shapes around the fire,
perhaps ten or eleven of them. None seemed aware of her presence, and as
the echo of Dariand‘s footsteps faded away up the tunnel behind her, she
became aware of the murmur of men‘s voices, low and unintelligible,
distorted by their reflection off the stone walls and roof.
‗Eh, girl.‘
The voice came out of the air right beside her, almost in her ear, and
Saria jumped, startled. There was nobody there.
‗Don‘t be worried.‘
Now the voice was behind her and she whirled, searching for the
speaker, but a strange kind of echo made it move, shifting around her. At the
same time, she recognised the voice.
‗Dreamer Gaardi?‘
‗Yeah. You come over here, now.‘
One of the figures by the fire stood and took a couple of steps towards
her, and, even though his face was hidden by the darkness, Saria recognised
the shuffling walk of the old Dreamer.
‗It‘s okay, right? There‘s nothing to trip you up.‘
- 144 –
Saria started out into the darkness and, as she moved away from the
tunnel opening, Dreamer Gaardi‘s voice faded into the detached background
mutter of the other conversations.
Halfway to the fire the old man met her. At first he didn‘t say
anything, but reached out and touched the tips of his fingers against her
neck. His touch was unnaturally warm and she instinctively pulled away.
‗Shhh, girl. I won‘t hurt you.‘
It took every bit of control she had not to turn and flee back up the
tunnel behind Dariand. She willed herself to stand still while Dreamer
Gaardi‘s warm fingertips settled against her. For the tiniest of moments she
had a sensation of warmth through her whole body. Then, with a stab of
brightness, the old man‘s mind touched hers; it was the same sensation as
when she had reached into Dariand, the same intense flash, but this time it
was controlled and gentle. With it came a flooding of strength and shared
power.
After a brief moment Dreamer Gaardi withdrew his touch and smiled.
He whispered to her, softly enough that the other men by the fire wouldn‘t
hear, even with the strange acoustics of the chamber.
‗You come now, and remember what I told you back in the desert, eh?
Don‘t tell anyone about you being able to do reaching, right?‘
They came closer to the fire and Saria counted thirteen people, all
men, seated on low boulders arranged in a ring around the fire-pit. There
were unoccupied boulders in the circle, too, perhaps twenty in all. Burning
dung scented the air and as they stepped into the firelight all conversation
stopped.
The shadowy figures studied her in solemn silence. Her heart
pounding, Saria was barely aware of Dreamer Gaardi returning to his stone
seat. Finally, one of the other men stood and stepped forward.
‗Welcome, Sister.‘
She wasn‘t certain what to say, so she stayed silent. Then the man
addressed the entire gathering, his words taking on a strange formality.
‗We who reach the Earthmother, we who hear her cries and who feel
her pain, we who walk her skin and drink her blood for our water, we meet
here today in the warmth of her belly. We come here to remember the old
sacred stories about when this land was clean and fresh. We come to council
- 145 –
to remember the past, and to remember the future. We are the Dreamers.
This is our task.‘
‗This is our task!‘ each man around the circle repeated, the response
echoing off the walls. But there was something resigned in the way they
spoke, as if this was a vow they‘d made so many times that it had lost its
meaning.
While the old man was speaking, Saria studied him as best she could
in the dull light. He was old, like all the Darklanders. Years of memories
were written in the thousands of creases on his face, which all seemed to
dance and shift in the firelight, in the bright flash of his eyes and in the
sparse strands of white hair that crowned his head. This, she guessed, was
Dreamer Wanji. As if reading her thoughts, the old man turned again to face
her.
‗I‘m Dreamer Wanji. We‘ve been waitin‘ a long time for you.‘
‗I‘m sorry,‘ Saria replied, misunderstanding. ‗Dariand brought me as
soon as he could …‘
‗Nah, girl. That‘s not what I mean. Much longer than that. We been
waitin‘ for you since before the night when the cluster of The Child
appeared in the nightvault. And this land‘s been waitin‘ even longer than
that.‘
As he stepped closer she realised with surprise that he was tiny, even
smaller than herself. His body was stooped and his thin legs and arms
seemed little more than twigs. For all that the old man gave off a sense of
power. Of weight behind his words.
One of the other men coughed. Dreamer Wanji smiled and abruptly
the formality fell out of his voice.
‗This here‘s the council — all that‘s left of us, anyway. You already
know Dreamer Gaardi, an‘ this here‘s Keeti, Maali, that fella‘s Srani …‘ He
continued around the circle, pointing at each man in turn. Some nodded, a
couple smiled at her, but most simply stared with expressionless faces.
‗I hear you‘ve met this bloke, too.‘
The man seated on the second last boulder looked up and met her eyes
and Saria gasped. Dreamer Baanti‘s glittering little smile didn‘t touch his
pale gaze.
‗You‘re a slippery one, eh, girl?‘
- 146 –
His words, no more than a whisper, slid around the chamber. He even
managed to sound slightly amused.
‗That‘ll do, Dreamer Baanti.‘ Dreamer Wanji‘s response was calm,
just as quiet, but there was power behind it. ‗You‘ll get your chance to say
your bit.‘
Saria could taste tension floating between the thirteen men, an
atmosphere of shifting alliances and mistrust.
‗Now, Saria‘ — the use of her name startled her — ‗how about you
take a seat, eh?‘
‗Where?‘
Dreamer Wanji gestured around. ‗Just pick a stone. Most of those who
sat on them are long gone.‘
There was an empty boulder beside Dreamer Gaardi and she started
towards it. But before she‘d had time to take more than a step, Dreamer
Baanti made a hissing noise, sucking air in through his teeth, and leapt to his
feet.
‗She got no right to be sittin‘ in the circle. No right even to be here in
council.‘
Several other men nodded. Dreamer Wanji faced Dreamer Baanti
across the fire.
‗She‘s the last child of the Darklands. I reckon that gives her the
right.‘
‗Rubbish. She‘s not part of the council and her words have no weight
down here. I say she stands.‘
The other men leaned forward and watched the two in the centre with
grave attention. Saria froze. Dreamer Baanti, old though he was, was clearly
younger than Dreamer Wanji, and this was evident in his stance, in the tilt
of his head, and, compared with Dreamer Wanji, even his skinny body
seemed muscled. When Dreamer Wanji spoke, though, his voice betrayed
nothing.
‗You wanna leave her standing, eh?‘
‗She‘s not a Dreamer. She can‘t do the reaching, so she doesn‘t sit
with us. That‘s all I‘m saying.‘
There were more mutterings of agreement. Then, to her surprise,
Dreamer Wanji stepped back.
- 147 –
‗Okay. For the moment she can sit on the floor, right?‘
‗She stands.‘
‗Then you say your piece now, so she can go and rest. But she‘s not
standin‘ here while you mob talk her in circles until she can‘t take any more.
Or would you rather throw her into a hole and leave her to wallow in her
own filth, eh?‘
Uncomfortable glances passed between the men. Clearly news of
Dreamer Baanti‘s treatment of her had reached the council before she had,
and even among Dreamer Baanti‘s supporters not everyone approved of it.
Dreamer Baanti raised his hand as if to strike Dreamer Wanji, but at
the last moment controlled himself and settled for pointing a gnarled finger
into the older man‘s face.
‗What I‘ve gotta say is council business and won‘t be said in front of
that girl.‘
‗She‘s the reason that this council‘s here. In fact, she‘s the reason the
first council was called. All our stories have been leading up to this day and
to this girl, so you‘ll say your piece in front of her, or you can take yourself
back to Olympic.‘
‗Psht!‘ Dreamer Baanti spat into the fire. ‗You‘re still talkin‘ crap.
You‘ve been talkin‘ crap for as long as any of us can remember, and now‘s
the time to face some facts, eh? Real facts. Not the lies and stories you‘ve
been feeding everyone.‘
‗I ent ever lied about the old stories.‘
‗Then how come none of us here knew she was alive, eh? How come
you left it all these years to bring her down here? How come you let the
whole of the Darklands believe she was stillborn? If those aren‘t lies, then
what are they, eh?‘
Dreamer Wanji deliberately turned his back on the other man and
spoke into the darkness.
‗You ‗ent even gonna give me a chance to sort this out according to
the old stories, are you?‘
‗We‘ve been waitin‘ all our lives for you to do that. We‘ve waited so
long that most of us are near dying. The time for waitin‘ is over.‘
‗Look at her,‘ Dreamer Wanji replied, talking to the entire council
now. ‗You look at her there and tell me she‘s not everything I promised, eh?
- 148 –
Tell me that for the last thirteen years, when each of you has been talking
with the Earthmother, you weren‘t also feelin‘ this girl‘s footsteps, even
when she was right out there in the valley. Even when you didn‘t know for a
fact that she was alive.‘
He whirled round and stepped towards one of the other old men.
‗Srani, you told us that when Dreamer Baanti had her in that pit you could
feel her burnin‘ through the earth like you never felt before, right?‘
The man on the rock dropped his gaze.
‗But now you sit there and agree with this bastard. You all do. He‘s
got less landsense than the rest of you, he can‘t reach to save himself, but
still you let him eat up your own real dreams with his imaginary ones.‘
Now Dreamer Baanti did lash out, spinning Dreamer Wanji and
striking him across the face. The slap echoed sharply and several men rose,
closing on them until Dreamer Wanji held up his hand.
‗See? There you are. Never since the first council has one Dreamer
needed to thump another. Up until now, every Dreamer‘s been able to feel
the Shifting and that‘s been enough hurt for all of us. Not him though.‘ He
pointed at Dreamer Baanti who stood, defiant and furious. ‗Not him. His
ability‘s clouded. Always has been, and you lot have always known it. Now
you can see it for yourself.‘
Wanji straightened as much as he could and spat a mouthful of blood
at the other man‘s feet.
‗Even down here, right now in the belly of the Earthmother, you got
no sense of this girl, have you?‘
All eyes swivelled to Dreamer Baanti. When he replied, his voice was
a hiss.
‗She‘s just a girl. Only thing she might be good for is makin‘ babies,
but we don‘t know if she‘s even fit for that, do we?‘
‗She‘s a lot more than that.‘
‗Ha!‘ Dreamer Baanti‘s laugh was a sharp bark. Before anyone could
react, he grabbed Saria‘s arm, pulling her to him and pressing the fingers of
his other hand to the left side of her neck. It wasn‘t Dreamer Gaardi‘s soft
touch, though. He stabbed rigid fingers hard into her soft flesh and there was
no control behind the searing, blinding light which exploded in Saria‘s head
as the Dreamer rammed his mind into hers. It was a hard, blunt, driving
- 149 –
force which thrust itself straight into her, a living wedge of pain driving
deeper and deeper though the layers of her mind. It was worse than both
times he‘d done it to her before.
She was barely aware of her own screaming and the shouts of the
other Dreamers. Her thoughts were slipping away, her mind and control
being consumed and burned up in the horrific pain of the other man‘s mind.
She knew she had to fight it before there was nothing left of herself to
hold on to.
SARIA!
The call poured into her from somewhere far beyond the cold
chamber. With it came the same distant, shifting burning, which she had so
often found in the deepest parts of animals. It filled every part of her mind,
earthwarmth streaming into her through her feet, coming up from the bare
rock floor and slamming into the relentless attacking mind of Dreamer
Baanti. The two forces met in a stunning explosion of pain. Unable to stop
herself, Saria let the earthwarmth push the Dreamer‘s mind from her own in
one savage, uncontrolled rush. All at once, Dreamer Baanti‘s mind seemed
to go cold, the sensation sending a terrible shudder through both of them.
Dreamer Baanti screamed then, an unearthly wail as he fell and curled
up, whimpering like a child, on the stone floor beside the fire.
Saria fell too, but hers was not a collapse into pain. With the sudden
release from Dreamer Baanti‘s mind-grip, her own consciousness flooded
back into her and she crumpled to the floor.
- 150 –
SEVENTEEN.
The first thing she was aware of was the coolness. It was everywhere,
under her, on top of her, pressing in through her eyes and head.
‗Saria?
A man‘s voice, distant and gentle.
‗What?‘
She was awake now, but when she tried to open her eyes there was
still only darkness and gentle pressure.
‗Hush, girl. Be still.‘
Someone lifted the damp cloth from her face and Dreamer Gaardi
swam into view.
‗Can you hear us?‘
It was quiet. So very quiet. Firelight danced across the old man‘s
features.
‗What …‘
‗Shhh. Just lie there for a bit, eh?‘
‗She back?‘ Someone else spoke. Another familiar voice, but Saria
couldn‘t remember whose.
‗Yeah.‘
Soft footsteps padded across the stone floor, and Dreamer Wanji‘s
wrinkled face was leaning over her, concerned.
‗How you feelin‘?‘
‗I …‘ She tried to sit up, but a wave of stomach-churning nausea
swept through her before she was even halfway there.
‗Careful! Just lie there. You‘ve had a big night.‘
She lay on the cold rock, feeling its coolness beneath her shoulders
and back. Sudden tiredness overcame her, and she closed her eyes again.
The room was light. Round. High. Smooth. Unnatural. Saria lay in the
middle of it, on some kind of raised platform. From somewhere high above,
up near the roof, she could hear the vague mutter of voices.
That wasn‘t the only noise, either. The room wasn‘t silent. A low
hum, deep and resonant, echoed through the floor and out of the walls and
up through her platform. The sound had an indefinable quality. Somehow,
- 151 –
Saria knew that it was not made by any single object, but was the sound of
this place. It was almost as if the room itself was alive, and the hum was its
pulse.
Saria tried to sit upright, to look around, but the muscles of her arms
and legs refused to respond. She tried to move her head, to shout out, but
nothing happened. Her body seemed to be gone, taken from her control so
that all she could do was lie and gaze at the round circle of the roof, so far
above her.
Then darkness, and the hum faded away to nothing …
When she woke again, she sat up right away. She was still in the
council chamber, but she‘d been moved to beside the fire-pit. The fire itself
was almost extinguished. The stillness and silence were absolute and at first
she thought she was alone, but as she looked about she became aware of
another‘s presence. A lone figure sat hunched in the darkness on the far side
of the fire.
‗Hello?‘
The old man jumped. ‗Girl! You back with us, eh?‘
‗What happened?‘
Dreamer Wanji‘s gait was slow as he made his way across and offered
her a skinny hand. ‗You reckon you can get to your feet?‘
‗I think so.‘ His hand was dry and thin around hers, and she was too
scared to put any real weight onto it. Standing, dizziness overcame her, and
she steadied herself against the old man.
‗Come an‘ sit.‘ Supporting her as best he could, Dreamer Wanji led
her across to the nearest stone seat and eased her onto it.
‗Here.‘ A water-skin was held to her lips and she drank gratefully.
‗What happened?‘ She looked around. ‗Where are the council?‘
‗All gone back up top. Didn‘t think we should move you for a while.‘
‗What happened?‘
‗What do you remember?‘ Dreamer Wanji lowered himself slowly
onto the stone beside her.
‗I can remember … pain … and light … and, I think, heat. Something
warm, and big.‘
‗You got the reaching alright, girl.‘ The old man was nodding. ‗You
got it somethin‘ powerful, too. Silly bloody Baanti never had a chance.‘
- 152 –
‗What do you mean?‘
The old man sighed. ‗This changes everything. It‘s my fault, too. I
shoulda seen you first, not just pulled you straight down here.‘ He stopped
and gazed at her, and the steadiness of the stare made her uncomfortable.
The old man regarded her with something akin to hunger.
‗You‘re a Dreamer.‘ He said the words as though he didn‘t really
believe them, as though he was trying to convince himself of their truth. ‗A
real bloody Dreamer.‘
‗So?‘
‗So there‘s a lotta stuff I‘m gonna have to teach you, Saria.‘ Dreamer
Wanji threw some more clumps of dried dung onto the fire, which grew
briefly dull until the fresh fuel ignited and began to smoulder. ‗You‘ll need
to know how to control it. How to use it properly, how to reach.‘
‗I can already do all that.‘
‗Nah,‘ Dreamer Wanji told her. ‗I talked to Dreamer Gaardi while you
were asleep. He told me ‘bout you and that little fella insect out in the
dunes. That‘s pretty bloody amazing, true, but there‘s a lot more to reachin‘
than just borrowing from animals. What you got is power that you ‗ent been
taught to use. But if you learn to channel it, control it, then you can talk to
the Earthmother herself. That‘s what I gotta teach you.‘
The thought of having power, real power like Dreamer Wanji was
talking about, sent a thrill through her.
‗I gotta warn you though, girl,‘ the old man continued.
‗Warn me?‘
‗This reaching, this power you got, it‘s got its costs. No such thing as
power without responsibility. You try to take one without the other, you end
up like Dreamer Baanti. An‘ for you, I reckon that responsibility‘s gonna
weigh heavier than you expect it to.‘
‗What responsibility?‘ She wondered if Dreamer Wanji ever said
anything outright, or if he always talked in riddles like this.
‗You been travellin‘ with Dariand a fair while now, eh?‘
‗I guess.‘
‗An‘ you‘ve seen a lot of the Darklands too. More than you were
meant to, anyway.‘
‗You mean Olympic?‘
- 153 –
‗Yeah.‘ He nodded. ‗You see any other children, though?‘
‗No.‘ Everyone she knew or had seen was old. Dariand was probably
the youngest person she‘d met.
‗That‘s right. Hasn‘t been another child born in the Darklands since
the night you came. Even before that, it‘d been ‘bout sixteen seasons since
your mum.‘
‗My mum?‘
‗Jani. Your mother. She was the second last girl born in all the
Darklands. You‘re the last. None since, boys or girls.‘
‗I know all this.‘
‗Yeah? How?‘
‗Gan told me.‘
‗Did she? You must be the first. These rocks we‘re sitting on talk
more than that old woman. What else did she say?‘
With a flush of embarrassment, Saria suddenly remembered she‘d
promised Gan she‘d keep their conversation to herself.
‗Not much. Just that I was the last child, and a bit about my mother.‘
‗Jani, girl. Use her name. Names are powerful things.‘
‗Jani.‘
‗Gan told you what happened to Jani?‘
‗She said the Nightpeople took her.‘
Dreamer Wanji nodded. ‗Nightpeople know a lot of what happens
here in the Darklands. Not everythin‘, though.‘ He winked.
The old man went quiet for a long time, sitting with his head bowed.
Saria thought he might even have fallen asleep.
‗Am I really the last child?‘
‗Yeah. The last one.‘ He shook his head. ‗Couple of the women did
get a bit of the way a few years back, but they were both old an‘ neither
made it all the way to birthing. Lost the children. Probably a good thing.
Chances are they wouldn‘t have been clean, so everyone‘s better off without
them.‘
Saria recalled the look on Gan‘s face when she‘d talked about her son
and the indescribable sadness that had filled her voice and body, and
wondered if the old woman would agree with Dreamer Wanji about that.
‗Dreamer?‘
- 154 –
‗Eh?‘
‗Why didn‘t you let the Nightpeople just take me? Along with my
mother?‘
‗‘Cause, girl, you‘re our hope. All that‘s left of the old times and the
old Dreamers. And judging from what happened with Baanti back there, it‘s
a good thing we didn‘t let ‘em get you.‘
‗Why?‘
The old man climbed off his stone seat and kneeled on the hard floor
at her feet. His movements were slow and awkward, the effort clearly
causing him pain, but when Saria put out a hand to stop him, he waved her
away. He reached up and took both her hands in his.
‗You‘re at the end of a real long line of Darklanders, and you might
not understand what that means, but you gotta listen to me, then work it out
for yourself. Right?‘
Saria nodded.
‗A long time in the past, before my mother‘s mother‘s mother, before
the Nightpeople, before the Darklands and before the Shifting, all this land
was rich and alive, earthwarmth flowed into everyone, and people could feel
the Earthmother, and knew her touch.
‗Back then, creeks and lakes weren‘t dry. Rains‘d come regular, when
the Skyfather would touch the land, an‘ the Earthmother would drink in his
gift, an‘ soon there‘d be new life, coldbloods and warmbloods, an‘ trees an‘
plenty for everyone.
‗Two types of people lived here, then: Dreamers like you and me, and
also Skypeople. Dreamers were the first. They came from the old ones and
they could feel the Earthmother through the soles of their feet and the palms
of their hands. They could reach into the animals and the trees and even the
ground itself. They lived on the land and listened to its memories, and the
Earthmother listened to them and told them where to find everythin‘ they
needed.
‗The Skypeople came later and they were different. We Dreamers
were the brothers an‘ sisters of the Earthmother, but the Skypeople were
children of the Skyfather. They could touch the vaults; they knew the
dayvault an‘ the nightvault; they could count the vaultlights, and they made
their homes in the skyvaults. They built their houses right up into it and
- 155 –
learned to make skyfire, which is like earthwarmth but louder, brighter an‘
more powerful.
‗In the old times, the only skyfire was wild. The Skyfather would blast
it down wherever and whenever he pleased, but the Skypeople were clever,
an‘ they learnt to make their own skyfire to feed their homes, and they made
things which ate skyfire to help them move, and to keep them cool or warm,
and to cook their food.
‗Just like Dreamers used the land to listen, Skypeople used the sky.
They‘d fly through it and talk through it. They owned the sky, and had
powerful ways with it.
‗A lot of Skypeople lived round here, near Woormra and Olympic,
and also over towards Mooka. They lived with the Dreamers and some of
them learned to feel the Earthmother a little, too, but not like those old
Dreamers could, eh? And some Dreamers learned to walk in the sky, and
talk the language of the Skypeople, and use the skyfire, and each season the
Skyfather still sent his rain on the Earthmother, and she drank it in and
returned life to the Skyfather. That was how things were, a long time ago.
‗But the Skypeople were a hungry bunch, right? More and more they
needed the skyfire, and they made it by burnin‘ the earth. The more skyfire
they needed, the more earth they burned. So the Skypeople started diggin‘.
They went down into the belly of the Earthmother and pulled living rocks
from her guts, tore them out and burned them with more heat than you or I
can imagine and made more and more skyfire.
‗Then they found new rocks, yellow hotrocks here under Woormra
and Olympic and Mooka, an‘ in places all through these Darklands. These
rocks were somethin‘ special to the Skypeople, because they had more of
the earthwarmth in ‘em, so they burned even hotter and gave more skyfire.
‗So lots more Skypeople came here. They dug deeper and deeper into
the earth. They made these tunnels and caverns. They tore the yellow
hotrocks from the Earthmother and when she screamed only the Dreamers
could hear her, but it hurt too much to listen, so a lot of them stopped all
together and lost their landsense. Some of them even came down here and
helped tear out the hotrocks.
‗The Skypeople made more and more skyfire, but burning the rocks
took all the earthwarmth out of them, and they just let it float off into the air.
- 156 –
The Skyfather got mad at this and he stopped touching the Earthmother with
his rains, and so she stopped makin‘ life. That was the start of the
Darklands.‘
The old man reached down and poked the fire a couple of times with a
stick. It flared briefly before settling back down and plunging the cavern
into shadows again.
‗When the Skypeople had burned all the earthwarmth out of them,
those hotrocks were dead, right? All that was left in them was burning, but
no life. So the Skypeople brought those dead rocks back here to the
Darklands and put them back down in the holes they‘d made. They filled the
Earthmother‘s belly up with dead stone, and sealed it all up.
‗For many seasons this went on. And with each season, more and
more Dreamers stopped listenin‘ to the Earthmother, and instead they mixed
with Skypeople and made children who couldn‘t hear the earth properly but
couldn‘t live in the vaults, either.
‗And the Skyfather didn‘t touch the Earthmother for so long that
finally she got thirsty and cried out. That was the Shifting. She moved
herself around, tried to reach up and touch the Skyfather, but he was too
high. She shifted and reached further and further, but still couldn‘t get any
rain.
‗All that movin‘ opened up new places in her belly, and those holes
the Skypeople had filled with burning stone moved too. The dead rock
flowed out right through the Earthmother and she screamed like never
before, and all the Dreamers, even the ones who weren‘t listenin‘ any more,
they screamed too.
‗After the Shifting, the Earthmother started dying, right? All that dead
rock, hot and flowing around in her belly, started killin‘ her. The Dreamers
an‘ Skypeople who walked on her started dying too. All across this country
people were dying because the Earthmother didn‘t have enough life to give
out anymore. A lot of people left, tried to get away, but the Skypeople built
the Darkedge and stopped anyone goin‘ out.
‗That was a long time ago. Since then, only Nightpeople ever come
into the Darklands. For a long time they watched as the land died, and they
watched the people dying too. Most children born in the Darklands were
wrong, some born with no arms or legs, some with no eyes. The
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Earthmother didn‘t have enough life to finish making babies properly, so
women in the Darklands stopped having children, ‘cause they were too
afraid. Then a lot of them found they couldn‘t have children even if they
wanted too.
‗And not many people could hear the Earthmother anymore, either.
Only a few still knew how to listen and could feel the earthwarmth. These
Dreamers could still find wood an‘ water an‘ stuff, but if they reached too
deep they‘d feel the burning deep in the Earthmother, and they‘d burn up
themselves, till there was nothin‘ left but an empty shell.
‗And the Skypeople who were left in the Darklands were cut off from
the skyfire and forgot their ways, too, so Dreamers and Skypeople lived
together, and Darklanders were born.
‗For a long time the Nightpeople just came and watched, never
touching the earth, only watching from their hummers. But then they started
to land whenever a woman had a child. If the child was clean, they‘d take
both woman and the child beyond the Darkedge. Sometimes, even if the
child was broken they‘d still take the mother.
‗And you, girl, are the last child of the Darklands. When you were
born, a lot of us hoped you wouldn‘t be the end but the beginning.‘
The old man‘s voice echoed around the chamber.
‗The beginning of what?‘
The story made no sense. It sounded like a whole lot of Ma Lee‘s wild
tales of night spirits, all put together. Dreamer Wanji‘s hands, still clasping
her own, were trembling.
‗The Earthmother is getting stronger, girl. Just a little. The burning
still hurts her, but she‘s stronger. I noticed it when your mother was born,
and when she had you and you were clean, it had to be a sign that the
Earthmother was healing, giving out more life. Some people thought you‘d
be the first of many more.‘
‗But I wasn‘t.‘
‗Nah.‘ The old man shook his head. ‗Nah, you weren‘t. Haven‘t been
any since, and now all the women are too old. But you‘ve got the most
powerful reaching I‘ve ever come across, and you‘re the first woman to ever
have it. I reckon that‘s an even more important sign.‘
‗Why?‘
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‗Because nothin‘ in the Darklands happens by accident.‘
Saria sat holding the old man‘s hands for a long time, until finally he
tried to rise again. She had to assist him back to his feet.
‗What was the fight with Baanti about, then?‘
‗Ah.‘ He hesitated. ‗Baanti. He was one of the last Dreamers born, a
long time before your mother and even a long time before Dariand. Still,
you‘d be the first Dreamer since him, right?‘
‗Yeah.‘ Saria nodded.
‗But his power‘s not like yours, girl. Not strong. His sense of the
Earthmother is cloudy. He doesn‘t feel her pain properly. Not like you. He
doesn‘t understand that reaching‘s more than just borrowing animals for
hunting or finding water. Baanti thinks everyone feels it the same way as
him. He thinks it‘s weak for all Dreamers, and he reckons that‘s because the
Earthmother‘s nearly dead.‘
Dreamer Wanji took a few steps closer to the fire and held his palms
out, warming himself in the sparse heat.
‗And he‘s not alone, eh? There haven‘t been any strong Dreamers for
a long time, so most folk left in the Darklands, especially those over at
Olympic, reckon he‘s right. To Baanti and those who think like him, you ent
a sign of anything, just lucky chance you got born, and nothin‘ more.‘
‗What if he‘s right?‘
Dreamer Wanji spun round and poked a bony finger into her chest,
surprisingly hard. ‗Don‘t you ever think that, girl, you understand?‘
‗But he might be.‘
‗Psht.‘ Dreamer Wanji spat. ‗It‘d be the first thing he ever got right,
then. You listen to me. Baanti‘s reaching is weak and only good for messing
with weak people. His father‘s father was Skypeople, an‘ he‘s always been
only one step away himself. Okay?‘
‗Why did he take me to Olympic and throw me into that pit? Why
didn‘t he try and use me himself.‘
‗Because the silly bastard couldn‘t feel you. Didn‘t have the landsense
to know you for who you are. He just thought that if he had you he‘d be able
to take over the council. He would‘ve too. These old buggers‘d do whatever
he told them if they thought he had the last child. He‘d get rid of me, first of
all. Then he‘d hand you right over to the Nightpeople.‘
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‗Why?‘
‗Because they want you. They‘ve been chasing you from the moment
you were born. Dariand and me, we did our best to fool them, and mostly
we succeeded, but there was one of them, a woman, I reckon, though it‘s
hard to tell with Nightpeople, who kept lookin‘. Right up until a few seasons
ago.‘
‗She didn‘t find me.‘
‗Dariand and me still know a few tricks between us. It wasn‘t difficult
to keep her lookin‘ in all the wrong places.‘
‗Do you know why she was so keen to find me?‘
‗You heard the story; you‘re the last Darklander. If they get you, it‘s
the end. They‘d get our last child, and in return they‘d make Dreamer Baanti
and Slander and that mob comfortable for the rest of their sorry days. That‘s
all you are to Dreamer Baanti, girl, alive or dead. He never gave a bugger
about anyone else, the Dreamers or the Earthmother, because he couldn‘t
feel any of it properly.‘
Dreamer Wanji fell silent and Saria walked out into the darkness until
one of the chamber walls loomed before her. Slowly she leaned her forehead
against the flat, grey surface. It felt cold, lifeless. She closed her eyes and
stood for a few moments, until she felt the old man‘s hand lightly on her
shoulder.
‗Come on, girl. Let‘s get back up top and get some food into you.‘
All the way up the tunnel the cold touch of the rock lingered on her
skin.
- 160 –
EIGHTEEN.
Night had long since passed into day, and with the return to the
surface came the return of Saria‘s appetite.
When they emerged into the hut that guarded the entrance to the
tunnel, Dreamer Wanji crossed straight to the door and heaved the shutter
aside, resting it against the wall before stepping out into bright sunlight.
‗You coming?‘
‗What if somebody sees me?‘
‗Ah.‘ He shook his head. ‗That don‘t matter.‘
‗Dariand told me there might be people from Olympic here.‘
‗Even so, don‘t make any difference. After what happened down there
last night …‘ His voice trailed off.
‗What?‘
‗Don‘t worry about it. Just trust me that nobody‘s gonna bother us.‘
Why not? Saria wondered. After all the secrecy involved in getting her
into town, what could have changed?
‗Come on.‘
She walked beside Dreamer Wanji as he guided her through the dusty
alleys.
Woormra in daylight was uninspiring. Like Olympic, everything was
coated with a layer of fine red dust, and the fierce sun baked it so the entire
place had an earthy, cooked smell.
Winding through narrow alleyways, they came to the large cleared
area in the centre of the town. A group of old women stood gossiping
around a low stone structure in the middle of it. Three men, also old, sat in
the shade of a hut on the far side and a couple of skinny, dirty dogs chased
one another in circles, snapping at each other‘s heels. Saria thought one of
them might have been Baanti‘s animal, but as the two skittered by close to
her, she realised her mistake.
‗What are those women doing?‘
The women had buckets and a strange array of pots and jugs.
‗Gettin‘ water. That‘s the well.‘
‗Well?‘
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‗A real deep hole. Right down into the Earthmother. She fills the
bottom with water, and that‘s how we live. They got one over at Olympic,
too, although theirs isn‘t as reliable as this one. Filthy water, too. This one
here‘s the best well in the Darklands.‘
‗Where does the water come from?‘
Wanji gave her a strange look.
‗I jus‘ told you. The Earthmother.‘ He led her towards a hut opposite,
on a course that would take them past the group. They‘d walked only a few
steps when one of the women nudged her neighbour and they all fell silent,
watching. Saria itched under their narrowed gazes.
‗Why are they staring?‘
‗Don‘t worry, they‘re harmless.‘
One of the women broke from the group and rushed towards them.
She was gaunt and thin, her clothes so tattered they looked as if they might
drop off her at any moment. As she approached, Saria drew closer to
Dreamer Wanji.
‗That‘s her! That‘s her!‘ The old woman pointed a gnarled finger and
shouted. ‗They told me and I said to meself, ―Psht, that girl was dead as she
came outa her mum, she was,‖ and I remember ‘cause I was there when
Dreamer Wanji burned you, and I remember all that, right? But they all
reckoned you were here, and …‘
She reached and stroked dry, grubby fingers through Saria‘s hair and
down her face, touching her eyes and lips, probing and feeling as if to make
certain that Saria was real.
‗It is you, isn‘ it? You‘re Jani‘s kid? Eh?‘
Dreamer Wanji took the old woman gently by her shoulders.
‗Darri, quiet now.‘
‗Hah!‘ The other women had walked over now and a tall one in the
back laughed. ‗After what she did to that old bastard Dreamer Baanti, she
got no call to be scared of Darri here.‘
The women chuckled, but the sound wasn‘t friendly. It was dry, the
laugh of people finding mirth in something grim.
‗Quiet now,‘ snapped Dreamer Wanji. ‗All of you shut it, right?‘ The
women fell silent immediately. ‗She had a long night and I wanna get some
food into her and get her off to sleep, so you all let her be for the moment.‘
- 162 –
‗I bet that‘s not all he wants to get into her!‘ the skinny one muttered,
and they started chuckling again.
‗Come on.‘ Dreamer Wanji took Saria‘s arm and led her forward, and
the women parted to let them through.
‗What happened to Dreamer Baanti?‘
‗Eh?‘
‗That woman said I‘d done something to Dreamer Baanti.‘
‗Just follow me now and we‘ll talk about that later.‘
‗I want to know.‘
‗You just gave him a nasty shock, eh? He wasn‘t expecting you to
fight him back. Now let‘s get you somthing to eat.‘
On the other side of the common, they entered a hut no different from
any of the others.
‗Dariand!‘ Wanji called from the door. When there was no answer, he
led her in. ‗Must be hunting.‘
The remains of a fire burned in a fire circle and beside it some bits of
freshly cooked meat rested on a flat piece of tin, a few flies buzzing at them.
‗Left us some tucker, though. Here.‘ Dreamer Wanji shooed away the
flies and offered the platter to Saria.
The meat was still warm, a small pool of thin juices around it, glazing
it with a fatty coat, and Saria bit into it. Juices ran down the back of her
throat. As she swallowed, she could feel the weight of it slide down inside
her. She took another small piece and ate that too, and then another.
Dreamer Wanji also started to eat, and soon both of them were full.
Only some bones and scraps remained on the tin platter.
‗You found the food, then.‘ Dariand was standing in the doorway. As
usual, he had approached without a sound.
‗Yeah. Good tucker. Thanks.‘ Dreamer Wanji twisted to look at him.
‗Where you been?‘
Dariand threw a quick glance at Saria.
‗Out.‘
Some wordless communication passed between the two men, and
Dreamer Wanji nodded.
‗Fair enough. You happy for the girl to bunk down with you in here?‘
A look of alarm crossed Dariand‘s face.
- 163 –
‗Shouldn‘t she stay with you or one of the women?‘
‗No. I‘m an old bloke, without the energy to look after a young pup
like her. And I‘d rather she didn‘t listen to all the rubbish and stories those
old hags by the well make up.‘
‗You told me to bring her here to Woormra,‘ Dariand interrupted.
‗You never said I‘d be keeping her.‘
‗It‘s just for a while. Until I can get her trained.‘
‗Trained?‘
‗Teach her how to use her reaching properly. Show her how to control
it.‘
‗Are you sure that‘s wise?‘ Now Dariand looked even more alarmed.
‗After …‘
‗Not just wise, necessary.‘ Dreamer Wanji didn‘t give him a chance to
finish. ‗She‘s got more power than anyone else on the council. More than
anyone I‘ve ever met. You‘ve seen what she can do already and she‘s still
young.‘
‗But she‘s got no control …‘
‗She can learn it. Would you rather I left her the way she is now?‘
Dariand didn‘t answer.
‗If anyone‘s gonna be able to find a way out of the Darklands and start
building a new people, it‘ll be her. So I‘m gonna give her every bit of
teaching I‘ve got to help her do it.‘
Saria was sick of them discussing her as though she wasn‘t there.
‗Build a new people? What do you mean by that?‘ she demanded.
Both men turned to her, clearly startled.
‗Don‘t worry about it …‘ Dariand began, but Dreamer Wanji cut him
off.
‗Time‘s up for us Darklanders, Saria. We‘ve run our race, eh? But the
only hope we‘ve always had is that one day someone will get outside and
start over. Make a new, strong bunch of Dreamers who‘d be able to help the
Earthmother heal. That‘s you. That‘s why I told you all that stuff down in
the chamber. You‘re gonna have to know everything about our history, so
that you can start puttin‘ together our future.‘
‗How do you expect her to get out? You‘ve seen the Darkedge. The
only way she‘ll ever get over that is if Slander and his bunch win out and
- 164 –
hand her over to the Nightpeople. And what good‘ll that do us, eh? Even if
by some miracle she can find a way out of the Darklands, what‘s there
gonna be on the other side for her? Nothing. Not other Dreamers, that‘s for
sure.‘
Dreamer Wanji shook his head in disagreement.
‗Dariand, mate. You‘ve always been the one with faith. Don‘t let it go
now, eh? Give us a chance. We Darklanders started when the Dreamers and
the Skypeople mixed ourselves together. Now we‘ve got a chance to do it
again.‘
No reply was forthcoming and the old man stepped outside into the
heat of the early afternoon.
‗Let her rest up today and tonight,‘ he said over his shoulder.
‗Tomorrow we‘ll start teachin‘ her some proper reaching.‘
Dreamer Wanji left and Dariand, sighing, turned back to Saria.
‗We‘d better get you somewhere to sleep.‘
Saria looked about. The inside of the hut was stark, bare, without any
of the touches that she‘d become used to living with Ma Lee. Dariand‘s own
sleeping mat lay on the ground beside the fire circle, and there were a
couple of rough tin cooking implements beside it, but otherwise, that was it.
As she made her survey, she became aware that Dariand was watching her
closely. Something in the way he regarded her sent an uncomfortable itch up
her back.
‗If you don‘t want me to stay here …‘ she began, but he didn‘t let her
finish.
‗No. If Dreamer Wanji says you stay with me, then that‘s what you
do.‘
‗Do you always do everything Dreamer Wanji tells you?‘
She hadn‘t meant the question to sound rude, but that stony expression
of anger crossed Dariand‘s face.
‗Most of the time,‘ he snapped, before stalking outside.
He was back a few moments later with an armful of bedding.
‗Here.‘ He unrolled a sleeping mat similar to his own and placed it
beside the fire, piled a couple of old blankets on it, then set about gathering
his own sleeping gear together.
‗What are you doing?‘
- 165 –
‗Moving this stuff.‘ He lugged his gear over to a spot by the far wall,
on the opposite side of the fire and as far as possible from the sleeping place
he‘d just set up for her.
‗Why?‘
‗To give you room,‘ he grunted.
‗You‘ll get cold if you sleep that far from the fire,‘ Saria protested.
‗I‘ll be fine.‘
‗But …‘
His look was enough to silence her.
‗Now,‘ he said when he‘d finished setting up his bedding, ‗I‘m going
out again. You stay here and rest, and I‘ll be in later.‘
‗Where are you going?‘
‗I have things to do.‘
Saria wondered what ‗things‘ could possibly need doing in a place as
tired as Woormra.
‗Can‘t I come?‘
‗No. You heard what Dreamer Wanji said. It‘s sesta time, anyway, so
get some sleep.‘
He didn‘t give her an opportunity to argue further, and left abruptly.
Saria sat on her mat for a while. She even went so far as to lie down
and close her eyes, but sleep resolutely refused to come. Finally she sat up
with a sigh.
Woormra was a disappointment, she had to admit. After all the
walking and wondering, she couldn‘t believe that all she‘d come to was an
empty hut in a dirty town full of old people. Dreamer Wanji talked in riddles
she couldn‘t understand, and Dariand was surly and made her feel more
useless than ever.
Start a new people. It would be nice to think that she was going to
somehow save the Darklands, but Saria knew there was no point fooling
herself. Even Dariand didn‘t believe the old man any longer, and something
had changed in his manner towards her, too, leaving Saria with the
uncomfortable impression she‘d done something to offend him. When
Dariand had delivered her to the entrance to the council chamber the night
before, he‘d been … different. The way he‘d spoken to her, and the soft
press of his finger against her lips — there was no hint of any of that in the
- 166 –
way he‘d just spoken about her with Dreamer Wanji.
Soft footsteps padded around the back of the hut and something
scraped against the tin wall. She wondered if it was Dariand returning, but a
couple of moments passed and there was no sign of him.
From the other side of the wall, a dull thud echoed softly as whoever
was out there flopped to the ground.
‗Dariand?‘ Saria called.
No answer.
Silently, Saria rose and crossed to the door, slipping out into the heat
of the afternoon. Woormra was quiet as she walked around the corner of the
hut and into one of the alleyways that opened onto the central common.
Keeping the wall of Dariand‘s hut on her left, she followed it around to
where the noise had come from.
At first she didn‘t see it. Crouched in the shadow of the hut, its
reddish-yellow coat was almost the same colour as the dirt on which it lay.
‗Dog?‘
The animal looked up at her, and gave its tail a single, exhausted
twitch.
She could tell it was in a bad way. Its eyes were shot through with red
and its tongue lolled from the side of its mouth. Even lying still, the
animal‘s breathing was fast and shallow.
Without hesitation, Saria crouched and reached for its mind.
Earthwarmth flowed into her easily and as she touched the dog she knew
right away its exhaustion and thirst. Something else she knew: it wasn‘t here
because of Dreamer Baanti. It was here because of her.
‗You poor thing.‘
Saria rushed back to the hut and seized a water-skin and the remains
of her meal. She was carrying them back to the animal before she realised
that she was still reaching into the dog‘s mind.
The animal lapped greedily at the nozzle of the water-skin as Saria
held it to his mouth. In a couple of minutes it had drained the whole bag. It
was less interested in the food, so Saria left the scraps there while she went
in search of more water. There was no more in the hut, but she spotted the
well through the open doorway.
Quickly, she made her way across to the low stone wall, aware all the
- 167 –
time of the gentle contact between the dog‘s consciousness and her own.
Around the well the ground was muddy — a thick red paste where
people had slopped their buckets while decanting water. A long, knotted
strand of rope made from various lengths of cloth and leather, lay coiled on
the ground. To one end of this was tied an old tin bucket sealed with some
sort of gum, and the other end was firmly knotted around a couple of large,
heavy stones, an anchor that would take two men to move.
The wall around the hole was the height of Saria‘s knees. The stones it
was made of had been fitted together and cemented with red mud. Leaning
over the parapet, Saria stared down into the well.
The sensation was uncomfortably like looking into Dreamer Baanti‘s
eyes. The round, dark hole seemed endless as it dropped deep into the
Earthmother.
A few small red pebbles littered the ground and Saria picked up the
biggest and dropped it in. The splash was a long time coming, but told her
all she needed to know.
The dog‘s thirst was still an insistent pressure overlaying her own
senses, and without further hesitation she picked up the tin bucket and
lowered it into the hole as fast as she dared. It bounced a couple of times
against the walls of the well shaft, and she feared that the echoing ‗clang‘
which resounded up from the hole would attract someone‘s attention.
Nobody emerged from the surrounding huts, though, so she kept
feeding the rope down and down until it abruptly went slack in her hands.
For one horrible, panicky moment she thought that the bucket had
come untied, and imagined Dariand‘s response when he found out. Then the
rope slowly went taut again, and she realised she‘d simply reached the water
and the bucket took a little time to sink.
After giving it what she thought would be enough time to fill
completely, Saria hauled back. The weight of the now laden bucket came
onto the line, and she realised her mistake.
Full, the bucket was far heavier than she could manage on her own.
After just a couple of pulls her arms were burning, and the rope started to
slip through her hands.
She gritted her teeth, set her jaw, and held on.
If there were some way to spill some water from the bucket down
- 168 –
below, she might be able to lighten it. But it was all she could do just to hold
the rope and pull it upwards, let alone jerk it around enough to splash water
from it.
Sweat poured from her forehead as she pulled again and again. When,
after what seemed like an age, she looked at the line coiled on the ground
around her feet, there was a disconcertingly small amount of it there. She
stopped pulling and, as carefully as she could, lowered her hands until the
stone lip of the well took some of the weight from her arms.
With a start she noticed that she‘d lost her reach to the dog‘s mind. It
had vanished somewhere during her struggle with the bucket. She was on
the point of letting go the rope and rushing back to check on the animal
when Dariand leaned over her and took the rope from her burning hands.
‗I thought I told you to rest.‘ There was a trace of anger in his voice,
but he controlled it as he concentrated on pulling the bucket up.
‗I ran out of water.‘
‗Really?‘ He stopped pulling long enough to raise one unbelieveing
eyebrow in her direction. ‗You must have been thirsty. I left you a skinful.‘
‗I was.‘
He pulled on the rope a little longer, and finally the bucket sloshed up
from the darkness.
‗There.‘
She picked up the empty skin and tried to fill it, but ended up slopping
more water on the ground than into the container.
‗Let me.‘ Dariand took the bucket and skin from her, and filled it
expertly, quickly pressing the swollen water-skin into her hands. ‗Now, get
back to the hut and sleep. I‘ll be in soon.‘
She watched him go. He was so confident she‘d obey him that he
didn‘t even glance back to make sure of it. Saria considered following him,
but then remembered the dog.
Back in the shadow of Dariand‘s hut, she was relieved to find that the
animal was fine. It was still collapsed in the dust where she‘d left it, but was
much less distressed. The first lot of water had clearly had a positive effect,
so much so that it was chewing vigorously on one of the bones she‘d left.
‗Here.‘ She crouched beside the animal with the new water. To her
surprise, it cringed back from her, a low rumbling growl forming at the back
- 169 –
of its throat, its forepaws closing protectively around the bone.
‗It‘s okay.‘ She reached for it again, and touching its mind was filled
with the creature‘s fear — fear that she was going to try and take its food.
She wasn‘t sure how to reassure it. She wasn‘t even certain that she
could. So slowly, gently, Saria withdrew from its mind and left it there
chewing greedily in the shadow of Dariand‘s hut.
- 170 –
NINETEEN.
It was still early, the sun barely above the horizon behind them, when
Saria met Dreamer Wanji on the nightwards edge of the township. He
greeted her as he had every morning.
‗Mornin‘, Saria. Ready to do some reaching?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗You feel the Earthmother this morning?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗Good. Let‘s go.‘
She followed him out into the desert, away from the town and
wondered what he had in store for her today. Since they‘d started the
lessons he‘d never put her through the same thing two days in a row.
Sometimes he‘d lead her out into the plains until the sun was high and then
let her lead them both back to town. At other times he‘d find a creature,
usually a skink or a dust devil, and she‘d have to reach into it; but she‘d
have to do it from a distance, or without looking at it, or any one of a
hundred other variations. On other days they‘d just walk, all day, seemingly
without direction at all, while he pointed out various features in the land and
the sky.
This morning they walked almost directly nightwards, away from the
sunrise. Dreamer Wanji led, not in his usual gentle ambling gait but with
purposeful strides. Saria was impressed that an old man could manage such
a pace. Even Dariand would have had trouble keeping up.
As usual, they walked in silence. Once she was certain Dreamer
Wanji‘s attention was elsewhere, Saria cast her mind out a little and sure
enough, as always, there was the dog, shadowing them just over a small
crest to their left. It sensed her reaching towards it and started to open its
own awareness back, so she withdrew quickly again. She didn‘t know
whether Dreamer Wanji or Dariand knew about the animal and for the
moment she wanted to keep things that way.
The sun continued rising, higher and higher, and still they walked.
Saria knew that complaining about the increasing heat would be futile, so
- 171 –
she simply pulled the hood of her robe up against the glare and kept her
footsteps even with that of the old man. Below her feet the sand grew hotter
and for a moment she wished for her shoes, but quickly pushed that thought
to the back of her mind as a waste of energy. From the first morning, when
he‘d roused her from her sleeping mat, Dreamer Wanji had insisted she
walk barefoot, just like him.
‗Can‘t expect to reach the Earthmother properly if you go putting
barriers between yourself and her.‘
The further they walked, the more sparse became the surrounding
landscape. The sofly undulating dunes that surrounded Woormra gave way
to flat, hard-packed sand. The occasional patches of scrub that dotted the
dunes became fewer until eventually there was nothing but emptiness out to
every horizon. Finally, Dreamer Wanji stopped.
‗This‘ll do.‘
Sinking to the sand, he unslung a water-skin and took a long draw
from it before passing it to Saria. As she drank, she risked reaching quickly
outwards. The dog was still there. Without the protection of the dunes, it
had fallen further away, but it still ghosted along behind, just out of sight.
‗Alright then. Somethin‘ different today.‘ Dreamer Wanji gestured to
her to sit beside him. ‗Today, we‘re gonna see how strong you really are,
eh?‘
‗How?‘
‗Today, you‘re gonna do the reaching, just like normal, but out here
there‘s nothin‘ for you to reach into. Right? That‘s why we‘ve come this far
into the plains. Nothin‘ living out here ‘cept for you and me. And I won‘t be
letting you reach me in a hurry. Close your eyes now, girl.‘
Saria did as she was told.
‗Good. Now just do like you normally do. Concentrate on findin‘ the
earthwarmth and letting it flow up into you. Then you can start to reach, but
this time you‘re not reaching out to anything specific. Just reach out. Got
it?‘
Behind, the dog‘s mind beckoned her, bright and willing. It took a
conscious effort not to simply slide into those eager, open senses.
‗You‘re holding back.‘ Dreamer Wanji broke into her concentration.
‗How come?‘
- 172 –
‗I … don‘t know.‘
‗You gotta let go. Part of reaching is using the Earthmother to give
power to your own senses. Then you don‘t need to find animals every time
you wanna touch her. Now, try again.‘
Once more, Saria let the earthwarmth flow and tried to just expand her
senses out, but again the easy lure of the dog‘s mind was too much to resist
and instinctively she started falling into it.
‗What‘s wrong?‘ Wanji‘s brow creased in consternation as she pulled
back again.
‗Nothing. It‘s just … too hard, that‘s all.‘
‗Shouldn‘t be. Most Dreamers find this one easy, especially the ones
with a lot of power like you‘ve got. Out here most Dreamers can just reach
right out through the Earthmother herself. I don‘t understand why you can‘t.
Unless …‘
Abruptly, the old man‘s eyes closed and Saria sensed as much as
watched him pulling earthwarmth into himself. It took him only a couple of
seconds before he opened his eyes again and nodded back to where the dog
lay hidden.
‗What is it?‘ he asked.
‗A dog. I didn‘t call it or anything, it just followed me.‘
‗From Woormra?‘
‗Before that. From Olympic, I think.‘
‗Olympic?‘
‗I reached into it there. The first time I was there with Dariand. And
then Dreamer Baanti used it to guard me while he had me tied up and …‘
‗Dreamer Baanti‘s dog? Skinny yellow bugger?‘ A look of concern
crept across the old man‘s features.
‗Yeah. At least, I think so.‘
‗It‘s been following you all this way?‘
Saria nodded.
‗You been feeding it?‘
‗A bit,‘ she admitted. ‗It was so hungry when it came in from the
desert.‘
‗And it‘s been following us every day?‘
‗Pretty much.‘
- 173 –
Dreamer Wanji shook his head.
‗Tell you what, girl, you got the reaching like nobody I‘ve ever met.
Never been a Dreamer who could lure another man‘s dog from him. Not
that I‘ve heard of, anyway. Bloody amazing. Call it.‘
‗He might not come.‘
‗Try anyway. Reach for him when you do it, eh?‘
Saria reached for the dog a third time, and as their minds touched she
shouted, ‗Dog! Come here!‘
The animal‘s pleasure at her summons flooded through her and she
felt it launch itself towards her and Dreamer Wanji. Pulling back into her
own mind, she opened her eyes just in time to see a shape detach itself from
the landscape and trot steadily across the hard dirt.
‗Bloody night spirits,‘ Dreamer Wanji muttered as the dog came
closer. ‗That‘s Dreamer Baanti‘s beast, alright. And you reckon he‘s been
following you since Olympic?‘
‗I think so, yeah.‘
‗Never seen anything like it.‘ Dreamer Wanji shook his head as the
dog stopped just a few steps away and regarded the old man warily. ‗Give
him some water, then. Poor thing‘s gotta be thirsty after that walk.‘
Saria squirted some water into the palm of her hand and the dog
lapped it up gratefully then retreated again.
Dreamer Wanji turned his attention back to Saria. ‗This makes your
job harder, but we didn‘t walk all the way out here for nothin‘, eh?‘
‗Okay.‘
‗Good. You‘re gonna have to just block him out, if you can. When
you let the earthwarmth flow through you, try to just let your mind out past
his. Don‘t let the edges of his world be the edges of yours. Right? You gotta
let your mind go out further, around the dog, right out through the
Earthmother, get under her skin, so to speak.‘
‗I‘ll try.‘
With the dog so much closer, she expected that reaching would be
more difficult than before, but now Dreamer Wanji knew of the dog‘s
presence she found she didn‘t have to fight so hard to avoid its mind, and, as
the old man had suggested, she just let her own consciousness slip past it.
Immediately, a warm wave rushed through her.
- 174 –
Dreamer Wanji noted immediately her sharp intake of breath. ‗There,
that‘s it!‘ He nodded encouragingly.
She barely heard the old man‘s praise. Reaching through the
Earthmother directly was something else again, something … huge. It was
finding the most enormous mind in the world right there, all around her. The
size of it almost swamped Saria.
‗Steady now.‘ Dreamer Wanji‘s hand on her arm was as insubstantial
as the fluttering of an insect‘s wings against her skin. ‗Just keep breathing
deep and get used to it. Don‘t go rushing in.‘
Slowly, Saria sank into the land. Gradually, as she let her awareness
expand, she began to sense things, further and further: tiny clicks and
pinpricks of life dotted across the plains; cold fingers of water trickling deep
through the rocks below the surface; the searing touch of the sun.
Daywards, a bright cloud shimmered — a concentration of life —
Woormra. And below it, the caverns and tunnels of the council chamber
formed a cold, empty maze snaking deep into the earth.
‗Don‘t push yourself too far.‘ Dreamer Wanji‘s voice seemed to slide
into her thoughts like a dream, distant and disembodied. ‗Just take it
slowly.‘
But she couldn‘t resist the pull of it, the immensity of power that
pulsed through the ground, and Saria let herself stretch even further out.
She had no idea how far she‘d reached when she hit it.
Nightwards, like a cold, deep, gnarled scar, a patch of the earth was
dead. Beyond it she could feel the vaguest hints of trickling earthwarmth,
but what grabbed her attention was the expanse of nothingness that
blemished the surface and reached deep into the bedrock. Just brushing her
senses against the distant coldness sent a convulsion through her, and
instinctively she pulled away, falling back into herself in a rush.
Suddenly she was back in the empty plains with Dreamer Wanji and
the dog, her world reduced in an instant to her own limited horizons.
‗What happened?‘ The old man crouched anxiously beside her. ‗You
alright, girl?‘
‗There was … something. Out that way.‘ Saria pointed nightwards.
‗Something cold.‘
‗Out there?‘ The old man followed the direction of her finger. ‗How
- 175 –
far?‘
‗Don‘t know. A long way. Much further than Woormra is behind us.‘
‗You reached Woormra?‘
She nodded.
‗And you felt something nightwards, too?‘
‗Yeah.‘
Dreamer Wanji was incredulous. ‗Only thing out that way between
here and the Darkedge is the Shifting House.‘
Saria was trying to clear the fog that had settled in her head.
‗It was so … dead.‘
‗That‘ll be it for sure. The Shifting House. Night spirits, girl! That‘s
two days walk from here. Even I can‘t reach that far.‘
‗Why couldn‘t I feel anything there? It was so empty.‘
‗It‘s an empty place. It‘s where the Skypeople used to do their
burning. There‘s nothing at all left there — no life. Just a shell of earth so
burned out it‘s like a hole in the world.‘ He passed her the water-skin. While
she drank he continued to regard her with astonishment. ‗I seen a lot of
things in my time, Saria, but I‘ve never known anyone, not a single
Dreamer, who could reach two days through the Earthmother.‘
‗What do you think it means?‘
‗Don‘t know, girl. But if there‘s gonna be a Dreamer who‘ll be able to
find a way across the Darkedge, I reckon it‘ll be you.‘ He hauled himself
slowly to his feet. ‗We‘d better be gettin‘ back to Woormra, if we don‘t
want to get caught in the dark.‘
They began retracing their steps daywards, the dog padding steadily
beside Saria. As she walked, she tried to recall the energy of touching the
Earthmother, but her thoughts kept coming back to the horrible coldness of
the Shifting House. When they were close to Woormra, and twilight was
stretching over them from daywards, she turned to her companion.
‗Dreamer Wanji?‘
‗Yeah?‘
‗Why hasn‘t that place — the Shifting House — started to heal like
the rest of the land? How come it‘s still so empty?‘
Dreamer Wanji sighed. ‗Sometimes, when you burn a place too badly,
when you pull too much earthwarmth out of it or push too much into it, you
- 176 –
kill its life. Just like with people.‘
‗People?‘
‗It‘s why you gotta be so careful reaching people. You push too hard
against them and you can just burn them right out of their own minds.
‘Specially if they‘re not strong-minded in the first place.‘
Saria stopped in her tracks.
‗What is it, girl?‘ Dreamer Wanji threw a concerned glance in her
direction. ‗You okay?‘
‗But …‘
For a brief moment Saria‘s face was a mask of horror, and then she
was gone, running as fast as she could towards the lights of Woormra, the
dog at her heels. Dreamer Wanji watched her go, puzzled, before he realised
the implications of what he‘d just told her.
‗Ah, crap,‘ he muttered, then set off behind her as fast as his old legs
could manage.
- 177 –
TWENTY.
‗What happened to Dreamer Baanti?‘ It was a demand, not a question.
Dariand regarded her coldly. ‗I‘ve already told you ten times. He went
back to Olympic.‘
‗No,‘ Saria snapped back at him. ‗You‘re lying.‘
‗Saria, listen …‘
‗No. I want to know what happened to him and I want you to tell me.
Now.‘
‗He went back …‘
She‘d had enough of this lie. ‗He didn‘t. He couldn‘t. I know it.‘
She recalled the coldness that had swept over the Dreamer‘s mind as
she let her earthwarmth pour into him, so much like the dead scar of the
Shifting House out on the plains. ‗Something happened to him. I could feel
it just before I fainted. I felt something go out of him. Out of his mind.‘
‗Then you need to ask Dreamer Wanji about it. He‘s the only one who
can explain this sort of stuff properly.‘ Dariand was trying to keep his voice
under control, but Saria detected something else about him, some slight
change in his manner.
‗No.‘ She shook her head. ‗If he was going to, he‘d have told me by
now. He‘s had plenty of time. You explain it.‘
‗I can‘t. It‘s not my business. You‘re asking about things that are
bigger than me.‘
So he did know more than he was telling her. Saria considered this.
‗You‘re always telling me to trust you, right?‘
‗What of it?‘
‗Listen, Dariand.‘ Saying his name aloud felt unnatural, as if she was
trying to invoke a power she didn‘t really have over him. ‗I know, know,
that something terrible happened to Dreamer Baanti that night. It was the
last thing I remember feeling. There was pressure and earthwarmth, it kept
building and building until I just let it all go rushing back into him, and then
there was …‘ She struggled to find words to describe it. ‗Coldness.
Nothingness. Like the deadest part of the night. Dreamer Baanti felt just like
the Shifting House. And nothing you can say will change my mind about it.
- 178 –
So if you want me to trust you, if you really mean it when you say that,
you‘ve got to prove it to me. Now.‘
An uncomfortable silence filled the hut. Dariand shuffled his feet in
the dust.
‗I can‘t tell you what you want to know, girl …‘
‗Then I‘m going.‘
‗Where?‘
‗Away. Back to the valley. I dunno. Anywhere but here.‘
‗You‘ll get killed.‘
‗Perhaps. But I‘m not so weak now as I was when you got me from
the valley. I know things about the Darklands and about myself. I reckon I‘ll
manage.‘
‗You can‘t run away from this, Saria. It‘s too important.‘
‗Then stop lying.‘
‗I don‘t want to lie to you. I just …‘
‗So, you‘re here.‘ Saria and Dariand swung round to face Dreamer
Wanji as the old man shuffled into the room. ‗Bloody hell, girl, you move
fast for somethin‘ with such skinny legs, eh?‘
When his joke didn‘t raise a response from either of them, Wanji
sighed and lowered himself heavily onto the dirt floor.
‗I‘m knackered. So, Dariand, you tell her anything interesting?‘
‗Nothing.‘ Saria answered before Dariand had a chance to say a word.
‗Not a single thing. So I‘m leaving.‘
‗Leaving, eh?‘ Dreamer Wanji pretended to think about this. ‗Nah,
girl. You‘ve got too much of your destiny tied up in this place to be runnin‘
off on your own. You aren‘t leaving.‘
‗You can‘t stop me.‘
‗True,‘ Dreamer Wanji agreed. ‗We can‘t. And we won‘t go throwing
you down a hole, either. Best we can offer is to try and explain what you
want to know. But I can‘t even make any promises about that.‘
‗What happened to Dreamer Baanti?‘
She caught the momentary glance that passed between the two men.
Dreamer Wanji‘s answer wasn‘t what she‘d been expecting.
‗What do you reckon happened?‘
‗You tell me,‘ she snapped.
- 179 –
‗No need. You‘ve already worked it out, haven‘t you?‘
The quiet in the hut lengthened. Only the snap of the fire and the
distant murmer of voices at the well outside penetrated the silence.
‗Did I kill him?‘
‗No. Not as such.‘
‗What then? He felt as dead as the Shifting House.‘
‗That‘s a good way to think of it.‘
‗But he‘s not dead?‘
Surprisingly, it was Dariand who spoke next.
‗I think we should show her.‘
Dreamer Wanji shook his head. ‗There‘s nothing there to see.‘
‗All the same, I reckon she needs to see it for herself. To understand.‘
‗There‘s no point. She already knows what happened.‘
Dariand looked as serious as Saria had ever seen him. ‗Dreamer, she
nearly burned me away out at the gorge without even knowing what she was
doing. Then she actually did it to Dreamer Baanti a couple of nights later.
She‘s scared, she‘s frightened and she doesn‘t know what she‘s capable of,
so I say we let her see it for herself, and I reckon I‘ve got a right to make
that claim.‘
The two men locked stares for a long time, until finally the old
Dreamer sighed.
‗Fair enough. But you take her, stay with her, and bring her right back
here. And don‘t let her listen to any of them out by the well, right?‘
‗Okay.‘ Dariand jerked his head at the doorway. ‗Come on.‘
They stepped into the darkening evening and crossed the common in
silence. At this time of night most of the folk of Woormra were gathered in
the common enjoying the growing coolness and exchanging tales and
gossip. Saria could feel eyes following them as Dariand led her into the
alleyways.
After a few minutes of twisting and turning, they approached a hut
that didn‘t quite fit with all the other buildings of Woormra. It was just as
dirty, and made of old sheets of tin, rusted and propped against one another,
but it had no windows and only a narrow slot of a door. She stopped.
‗You alright?‘
‗What‘s this place?‘
- 180 –
‗You‘ll see. Come on.‘
Dariand tapped lightly on the door shutter and footsteps scraped
inside, then the shutter slid back to reveal Dreamer Gaardi peering out.
‗Dariand?‘
‗I brought the girl. She needs to see him.‘
‗Does Dreamer Wanji reckon that‘s a good idea?‘
‗Doesn‘t matter. I think it is.‘
‗Fair enough.‘ The door slid open, and Saria followed Dariand inside.
Initially she was blind. The only light came from a tiny dung-fire. The
first thing to hit her was a sickly, sweet odour which made her feel ill.
‗You‘ll get used to the smell.‘
Dariand‘s hand rested on her shoulder, protectively, in an
uncharacteristic gesture.
Then she saw Dreamer Baanti.
He lay on his side in the middle of the room near the fire. Someone
had put a tattered old blanket underneath his head, but other than that he
rested on bare earth. He lay slightly curled, his robes hiked above his knees,
his bare legs and feet protruding from them. In the dull light they seemed
pale, almost transparent.
‗Is he dead?‘
‗Nah, girl. Go have a closer look.‘
She didn‘t want to go any nearer, but Dreamer Gaardi took her arm,
Dariand pushed and the two led her over to Dreamer Baanti.
Dreamer Gaardi crouched and gently tugged her down beside him.
‗Come on, he won‘t hurt you now. Couldn‘t, even if he wanted to.‘
Baanti might have been asleep. His breathing was slow and shallow
and he wheezed laboriously, as though fighting to draw the dusty air in and
out of himself. His eyes were closed and his head flopped against the
blanket, but he showed no discomfort.
‗He‘s asleep?‘
‗Not asleep, gone.‘
‗What do you mean, gone?‘
‗Feel.‘ Dreamer Gaardi placed Saria‘s hand on Dreamer Baanti‘s
forehead and she recoiled in horror. He was cold like the rock walls of the
council chamber, his skin hard. The touch chilled her. There was nothing
- 181 –
there.
‗Look.‘ With two fingers, Dreamer Gaardi gently opened the other
Dreamer‘s eyes and Saria looked into them, expecting the same dark
blackness that had watched her thrown into the pit in Olympic. Instead,
Baanti‘s eyes were nothing. A pale film covered them, and the pupils were
little more than pinpricks. She gasped and stumbled back, trying to stand,
but her legs tangled in her robe and she fell.
‗Steady, now.‘ Dariand caught her from behind and assisted her to her
feet. ‗You don‘t need to be scared.‘
‗What happened to him?‘
‗Just what Dreamer Wanji told you. He burned.‘
‗But he‘s still alive.‘
‗Only his body. Just the outside. There‘s nothing inside anymore.‘
In the centre of the room, Dreamer Gaardi closed Dreamer Baanti‘s
eyes again.
‗What happens to him?‘
‗Nothing. He‘ll lie there until his body stops living.‘
‗Isn‘t there some way to bring him back?‘
‗Saria.‘ Dariand took her chin, turned her face away from the figure
on the floor, and spoke as gently as she‘d ever heard him. ‗There‘s nothing
left to bring back. Nothing at all.‘ He let her go. ‗Come on, we should be
getting back.‘
They slipped out into the evening and Saria sucked in a few deep
lungfuls of cool night air. At the end of the alley she stopped and looked
back at the windowless hut.
‗What‘s wrong?‘
‗I did that.‘
‗I know. That‘s why I was scared when you tried to reach into me at
the pool. I didn‘t want to end up like that.‘
‗Why didn‘t you tell me?‘
Dariand‘s gaze dropped.
‗I should have. But I didn‘t think you‘d ever … I mean, I thought
Dreamer Wanji should explain it properly.‘
‗But if I‘d known, I wouldn‘t have …‘
‗Yes, you would. You didn‘t have any choice.‘
- 182 –
‗I could have fought it.‘
‗Saria.‘ He locked eyes with her. ‗Don‘t blame yourself, alright?
Dreamer Baanti made a decision and you got caught up in it, so nobody‘s
saying this is your fault. But you need to learn from it, so it won‘t happen
again. After what he did to you in Olympic …‘
‗That doesn‘t matter. This is much worse.‘
Dariand didn‘t answer.
‗I‘ve killed him.‘
‗No, you haven‘t. He‘s still breathing.‘
‗But there‘s nothing there. You said it yourself. I burned him and now
he‘s gone, and being like that …‘ She pointed back at the hut. ‗That‘s worse
than being dead.‘
‗That‘s why I had to show you. So you‘d understand.‘
‗I wouldn‘t have needed to see it if you‘d told me in the first place.‘
Dariand sighed, then turned and continued towards the common.
‗You‘re right, you wouldn‘t,‘ he whispered, too softly for her to hear.
- 183 –
TWENTY ONE.
The eyes watched her. Saria ran; fast, hard, alone. Beneath her feet
the ground was cold and hard and without a trace of earthwarmth. Around
her, the landscape was a vast plain of nothingness. Nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to shelter. Nowhere to run. All she could do was keep moving. And
always, the eyes watched her. Dark. Accusing. She could feel them, the
coldness a constant itch at the nape of her neck, one she couldn’t scratch.
However fast she ran, however far she travelled, those empty, pale-filmed
pinpricks followed her…
SARIA!!
The surge of the call into her startled her and she awoke with a soft
cry and sat upright. In the darkness on the other side of the hut, Dariand
rolled on his sleeping mat to face her.
‗You alright?‘
‗Fine.‘
The press of the call still pushed at her. Earthwarmth pulsed against
the barriers she‘d pulled up against it in her mind. Relentlessly, Saria
strengthened them further. She wouldn‘t give in to it. Never again.
‗The same dream?‘
In the gloom, Saria nodded.
Dreamer Baanti wouldn‘t leave her alone. In her sleep, whenever she
was resting, and even during the day as she went about her business, always
she could feel those eyes following her. Watching.
‗You want some water?‘ Dariand rose from his mat and retrieved a
water-skin from its peg beside the door.
‗Thanks.‘
She felt him uncork the skin and press it into her grip. The taste was
earthy, as though it had been filtered through sand. Beside her, the dog
pressed its cold nose into the side of her neck. Reach for me, the gesture
said. It whined softly as Saria pushed it roughly away.
The dreams were the worst. Awake, she could hold her barriers up
against the earthwarmth and the reaching that came with it. Asleep, it was
much harder. She hadn‘t known how much a part of her the reaching had
- 184 –
become until she‘d decided to stop doing it.
‗You know, perhaps if you‘d just listen to Dreamer Wanji and try
reaching again then the dreams wouldn‘t …‘
‗No.‘ Saria cut him off. ‗Never again.‘
‗But Dreamer Wanji says the dreams have nothing to do with
reaching.‘
‗It‘s not just the dreams. If I don‘t reach, I‘ll never burn anyone out
again.‘
He let it drop. They‘d had this discussion again and again during the
days since he‘d taken her to see Dreamer Baanti. And each time she‘d
become more determined she‘d never reach again. Even now, as she
sweated and trembled through the after-effects of the dream, and exhausted
herself with the effort of holding the earthwarmth back, there was no
mistaking the determination in her voice. Dariand sighed.
‗Will you get back to sleep tonight?‘
‗No.‘
‗Then I‘ll get the fire going again.‘
It had become their pattern. Sometimes she‘d sleep for most of the
night, at other times just for a few minutes before the dreams would wake
her, and once they did, there would be no sleep again for either of them.
He‘d stoke the fire back up and sit with her through whatever hours of
darkness remained. But tonight she stopped him.
‗No, don‘t. You should go back to sleep. It‘s not fair of me to keep
you awake every night.‘
‗It‘s no problem.‘
‗It is. You need to sleep. I‘m going out for a walk, anyway.‘
‗I don‘t think that‘s a good idea.‘
‗I‘ll have the dog with me. We won‘t go far.‘
‗What if something happens?‘
‗Nothing can happen. I just want to walk for a bit. I‘ll be back in a
while.‘
Not giving him a chance to argue, Saria rose and pulled on her shoes.
Even that thin barrier between her and the ground helped to hold back the
earthwarmth a little. Then she slid out into the sleeping town, the dog at her
heels.
- 185 –
From the door Dariand watched her go until she vanished into the
shadows of the huts on the other side of the common. Despite everything, he
felt a surge of pride at the way she moved. She was almost as swift and
silent as him now, and that was without using her reaching abilities. He
thought about following her, and even took a couple of steps out of the hut,
but then stopped. She needed this time alone. And it wasn‘t like she‘d be
able to run away, not any distance. Not without reaching.
At the lip of the shallow rise that surrounded the town, Saria stopped
and dropped to the ground. The dog immediately flopped beside her and set
its angular head into her lap. Absently, she scratched it behind its ears.
At first, Dreamer Wanji had tried to continue their lessons. The day
after her visit to Dreamer Baanti‘s shell, he woke her early, led her a little
way into the desert and found a small lizard, still dozy from the cold night,
its blood not yet daywarmed. He looked at Saria expectantly.
‗What?‘
‗You know what to do.‘ He gestured at the lizard. ‗Just a simple
lizard. Shouldn‘t be a problem — not for someone who can reach through
the Earthmother like you did yesterday.‘
‗No.‘
Saria turned and started back to town.
‗Girl?‘ He stopped her. ‗Why not?‘
‗I‘m not doing it anymore.‘
‗Not gonna reach?‘
‗No.‘
The old man had to scurry to catch up, and the pace she set was
clearly too much for him, but she didn‘t slow down.
‗Is this about what happened to Dreamer Baanti?‘
‗Yes.‘
‗Don‘t take that on yourself, girl. You can‘t afford to. Dreamer Baanti
got what was coming to him. If you‘d given him even a moment of
weakness, he‘d have turned you into exactly the same thing.‘
‗It‘s not the same. I didn‘t have to do that to him. I could have just
held him out. I‘m stronger than he was, you said it yourself.‘
‗That‘s as may be, but you didn‘t know what you were doing. And if
you don‘t let me keep on teaching you, then you never will. You can‘t just
- 186 –
shut out the Earthmother, girl. She won‘t let you. Reaching‘s not a bad thing
and you can‘t let what happened with Dreamer Baanti fool you into thinking
it is.‘
‗I don‘t care. I‘m not going to do it. Not anymore.‘
‗You‘ve got no choice. Earthmother‘ll talk to you whether you listen
or not.‘
‗I won‘t answer.‘
‗You will. You got reaching talent something powerful. It‘s not in you
to ignore it.‘
Saria stopped and faced the old man, surprised again to realise she
was taller than him. Down in the quiet, echoing darkness of the council
chamber, and even when they walked together out into the plains, something
always made him seem larger, powerful. Now all Saria could see were the
scrawny flaps of empty, old-man skin hanging from his arms and neck, the
dark liver spots dotting his bare arms, the bowed legs and curved back, the
thin grey hair and beard.
‗I won‘t. And if I don‘t reach, then nothing else, and nobody else, will
ever be burned by me again.‘
‗You ent ever burned anything before the other day.‘
‗It doesn‘t matter.‘
‗It does matter, girl. You gotta listen and talk to the Earthmother,
otherwise you‘ll end up just like all those old Skypeople who couldn‘t feel
anything anymore.‘
‗I don‘t care. Leave me alone!‘
She tried to walk away again, but Dreamer Wanji reached out and
grabbed her upper arm. His thin fingers dug into her flesh as he spun her
back to face him.
‗You gotta care. You‘re the last of the Darklanders. The last of the
Dreamers. Apart from you there‘s nobody left to care. You‘re the one‘s
gonna go past the Darkedge and …‘
Saria grabbed his wrist and broke his grip easily, flinging his hand
away.
‗Don‘t say that! Stop saying that!‘ she screamed at him. ‗I‘m nothing,
okay? I‘m just a girl who was unlucky enough to get born into this hopeless
place, and that‘s all I‘ll ever be. I didn‘t want to leave the valley, and I don‘t
- 187 –
want your stupid dreams, alright? I don‘t want to be part of your future. It‘s
all stuffed anyway! If you wanted to get out of the Darklands, you should
have bloody done it yourself, instead of waiting around to dump all your
stupid ideas on me!‘
The words came out of her in a rush. The old man recoiled as though
she‘d punched him.
‗You don‘t mean that, girl.‘
‗I do. And stop calling me ―girl‖. Call me Saria, or don‘t call me
anything. But I‘m not gonna keep on doing whatever you tell me anymore,
and I‘m not gonna reach just because you want me to.‘
Dreamer Wanji seemed to shrink inside himself; his shoulders
drooped and his head hung low, eyes downcast.
‗If you‘re serious, then that‘s it, eh? That‘s the end of the Darklands
and us Darklanders.‘
‗Good!‘ She spat the word into his face, then fled into the morning,
leaving the old Dreamer gazing mournfully after her.
She hadn‘t seen him since. And now, nights later, sitting with the dog
on the sand outside the town, she stared up at the slowly revolving
vaultlights and wondered if perhaps she‘d been too harsh. A brief pang of
remorse shivered through her.
Beside her, the dog, sensing her sudden change in mood, stirred
slightly, and instinctively she felt its mind reach towards her. The
temptation to sink into that welcoming consciousness was almost too great
to resist, but relentlessly she forced the longing back down, the effort of
suppressing it bringing with it a throbbing headache behind her temples.
‗Good boy,‘ she whispered, as the animal pulled back into its own
mind.
Below them, at the bottom of the slope, Woormra slumbered. She
knew it well now, having spent her days since that last aborted ‗lesson‘
trailing around behind Dariand, learning the alleyways and surrounding
land, following the hunting trails and listening as he explained the
movement of the sun and, at night, the vaultlights.
All the time, though, the pressure of the earthwarmth was there below
her, pushing up and trying to run through her, trying to weave itself back
into all the layers of her being. Only now, because she was refusing it entry
- 188 –
and resisting it with every part of her mind, did she realise that it had been
there her whole life, infusing her with its power. Only now was she properly
aware of its persistence.
And through all this, the dead eyes of Dreamer Baanti watched her,
woke her, followed her, accused her. Two days ago, Dariand had entered the
hut in the early afternoon while she was trying in vain to sleep, and had
stirred her with a gentle touch on her shoulder.
‗He‘s dead.‘
‗Dreamer Baanti?‘
‗Yeah. His body finally packed it in just a little while ago. We‘ll be
carrying him out to bury him later today.‘
‗Should I come?‘
‗No,‘ he replied, much to her relief. ‗I don‘t think that‘d be a good
idea.‘ Then after a couple of moments, he added, ‗Dreamer Wanji says the
dreams might stop now.‘
‗I hope so.‘
They hadn‘t, though. Even now, sitting with the dog in the fading
moonlight, the uneasy sensation that those pale pinprick eyes were
somehow watching sent prickles down her spine. She rose and slowly
skirted along the shallow ridge that surrounded the town. Reluctantly, the
dog stirred itself back to its feet and trotted beside her. She could sense its
puzzlement at her strange behaviour, but it followed all the same.
Saria!
Despite her efforts to ignore it, the call still summoned her, pounding
through her mental barriers as though they weren‘t even there. As always, it
came from nightwards, filling her with a sense that somewhere out there,
further than the Shifting House, out near the Darkedge, was a place where
she belonged, and more than that, a person she belonged to.
Steeling herself, Saria turned daywards from it, as if simply walking
away would somehow lessen its power.
The call faded again, leaving only the lingering sensation of
earthwarmth which, even through the thick leather, still tingled across the
soles of her feet. Angrily, she increased her pace daywards. Away from
Dariand and Dreamer Wanji and the call, and everything that had come into
her life and taken it from her control. She ran into the desert, barely aware
- 189 –
of the tears that stung her eyes. She ran from the earthwarmth, which
pressed after her like a following wave. She ran until her breath came in
short gasps and her heart pounded loudly enough in her ears to drown out
the call, and until the burning in her legs was painful enough to take away
that itching presence of Dreamer Baanti‘s eyes.
When she finally stopped, and the blurred landscape fell again into
detail around her, she was surprised to see a small stunted tree only a few
steps away. With the dog still beside her, Saria walked over and slumped
under it, and for the first time since seeing the burned-out shell of Dreamer
Baanti on the floor of the hut, Saria slept without dreams.
- 190 –
TWENTY TWO.
Saria woke to the warm lick of the dog‘s tongue across her cheek.
‗Get off!‘ She pushed it away, but gently.
Her back ached from sleeping so long on the hard ground, and as soon
as she sat up she felt the angry sting of sunburnt skin stretched tightly across
her arms and left leg. The shade of the tree had proven inadequate against
the power of the sun.
She stood up, muscles protesting, and stared at the dayvault, trying to
get some sense of how long she‘d slept.
It had been a while, that was for sure. The sun was high in the
dayvault, possibly already starting its descent to the nightwards horizon.
Dariand would be furious with her for being gone for so long.
Vaguely she wondered why he hadn‘t come looking. Surely a nightwalker
would have been able to find her if he‘d wanted to.
With a large yawn, Saria set off back along her tracks towards
Woormra. Her mouth and throat were parched with dust, but she had
nothing with which to quench her thirst, so she simply tried not to dwell on
it.
Beside her, the dog panted, its mouth wide and its tongue lolling as it
too tried to keep itself cool. Saria felt a pang of guilt at having dragged it all
this way without thinking about its comfort.
‗Sorry, boy,‘ she muttered. The dog gave no sign of understanding
her.
She‘d run much further than she‘d intended. Each time they crested an
undulation in the sand, she expected to look down and see Woormra there in
front of her, but again and again they were met only with shallow, empty
depressions in the earth, their twin tracks vanishing nightwards up the far
side. Finally, they laboured up what seemed to be a particularly long,
shallow slope, and the ramshackle spread of Woormra sprawled in the dirt
ahead.
‗Home,‘ Saria told the animal. She took a couple of steps down the
slope, then stopped.
She‘d never thought of Woormra as home. Home was the valley, and
- 191 –
Ma Lee. Not this falling-down collection of broken lives that hunkered
around its narrow well in the middle of nothing.
But it was. Somehow, her fate had become tangled up with this town
and everyone in it.
‗I really need water,‘ she told the dog, and together they scurried
down the slope and into the shade of the outer huts.
On the edge of the township most of the huts were abandoned. Those
bits of wood and tin that hadn‘t yet been scavenged to repair the central huts
were slowly being scoured back into the landscape. As they moved further
in towards the well, though, they passed more and more occupied dwellings.
Most were shuttered against the heat of the day, and in more than a
couple Saria heard clearly the snores of the occupants. Sesta time, then. To
the ageing population of Woormra, sesta was almost as important a part of
the day as the evening gatherings in the common. Quietly and assuredly,
Saria and the dog slipped through the empty streets.
Dariand‘s hut was empty, his water-skins missing, so he‘d obviously
gone somewhere. To look for her, she imagined. Why he hadn‘t found her
was a mystery. She‘d left tracks clear enough that any one of the old people
could have found her if they‘d a mind to, let alone a nightwalker.
She could wonder about that later, she decided. For the moment her
thirst was her main concern. She and the dog both needed to drink, and
soon. Emerging back into the afternoon, she crossed briskly to the well.
Usually the well was surrounded by a small gaggle of women who‘d
come as much to gossip as to get water. Saria had watched them from a
distance, safely hidden in the shadows. The old women scared her. She was
always aware of their stares when she passed. She noticed the way their
conversations would stop the moment she came close, and how they would
stay silent until she was well out of earshot.
And so generally she kept as far from them as possible. At this time of
the day, just like the afternoon she‘d found the dog outside Dariand‘s hut,
the well was deserted.
She lowered the bucket into the darkness, trying not to stare down
after it. The inky depths of the hole were still uncomfortably similar to
Dreamer Baanti‘s dark stare. At least, similar to how it had been before
she‘d …
- 192 –
The sudden slackening of the knotted rope through her fingers brought
her out of her reverie. She was careful not to let the bucket become overfull
before hauling it upwards, and this time it swung up far more easily out of
the darkness.
‗There you go, then.‘
She knelt in the muddy dirt beside the dog and the two of them lapped
the cold water straight from the bucket. It seemed to disappear in moments.
‗Want more?‘
She lowered the bucket and refilled it, and they were halfway through
the second load when a bony finger tapped her on the shoulder.
‗Whacha doin‘, girl? Thirsty, eh?‘
Startled, Saria leapt to her feet, whirled around and found herself
facing Darri, who she remembered from her first afternoon in the town. A
gleeful expression filled the old woman‘s face.
‗What do you want?‘ Saria tried to back away, but the lip of the well
was behind her and Darri advanced before she had time to move around it.
‗Don‘t want nothin‘. Just wanna talk. Nothin‘ wrong with talkin‘.‘
The woman lunged forward, both hands outstretched towards Saria‘s
chest, and Saria involuntarily jerked back. As she did, the stone parapet of
the well caught the back of her knees and she toppled backwards, her arms
flailing desperately as she tried to recover her balance. Her feet slipped in
the mud, and suddenly she was tipping further and further, horribly aware of
the gaping hole in the earth behind her.
The old woman grabbed her with a strength belied by her bent frame
and skinny arms. Digging hard fingers into the soft flesh at the top of Saria‘s
arms, she pulled the girl easily back to her feet.
‗You don‘t wanna be tumbling down there, now, do yer?‘
Saria‘s balance returned but the old woman didn‘t let go. Instead she
continued to grip hard until the pain drew a gasp from Saria.
‗Look at me,‘ Darri commanded, and shook her until Saria stared into
the other woman‘s face.
The withered old woman returned the gaze with a bright and sparkling
look. Her eyes weren‘t old or dull, but alive — a little like Dreamer
Gaardi‘s.
The moment passed and Darri released her.
- 193 –
‗You the one, alright.‘
‗What one?‘
‗Psht.‘ The old woman spat. ‗You‘re me gran‘daughter.‘
‗What?‘
‗They didn‘t tell you about me, did they? Dreamer Wanji and that
Dariand?‘
Saria shook her head. ‗Tell me what?‘
‗Bastards. You‘re me gran‘daughter,‘ she repeated. Then, noticing
Saria‘s uncomprehending expression, ‗Me daughter‘s daughter, right?‘
It took a moment for the meaning to sink in.
‗You‘re my … you‘re Jani‘s … mother?‘
‗Right!‘ Darri beamed and smiled, showing crooked and missing
teeth. ‗My girl, Jani, she had you before them Nightpeople bastards came
and took her off. You got her eyes, though. Pick ‘em anywhere, I could.‘
‗But Dreamer Wanji and Dariand never said anything about …‘
‗Those blokes wouldn‘t know their arse from a hole in the ground, eh?
They‘re playin‘ their games and they didn‘t want you to know ‘bout me.
Wouldn‘t fit their plans.‘
‗Plans?‘
‗Silly bastards think they know the Earthmother. They reckon they
can make her work this world to their way of thinking, instead of them
workin‘ it to hers, which is how it should be. Hah! They don‘t know
nothin‘.‘
Saria studied the woman, taking in every crease and curve of the old
face.
‗Tell you somethin‘.‘ Darri leaned in close, lowering her voice to a
whisper. ‗My Jani, yer mum, she ent dead, either. These dumb buggers
‗round here think she is, just ‘cause Nightpeople took her, but both my girls
are still livin‘ — her and you.‘ There were tears now in the woman‘s eyes.
‗How can she be alive when …‘
‗A mother knows these things, right? I feel her. Feel her in here.‘ The
old woman patted herself low on her belly. ‗Nights, mostly. She comes
talkin‘ through the Earthmother.‘
‗How can she do that? What do you mean, she talks to you?‘
‗I got the reaching, I have. Just like you and my Jani.‘
- 194 –
Saria stared at the old woman, trying to find something in her face to
indicate that she was joking. There was nothing.
‗Dreamer Wanji said women don‘t get it. He said I was the first.‘
‗Told you, didn‘t I? Those fellas reckon they‘re doin‘ the right thing,
but truth is they don‘t know much at all. They think they know everythin‘,
but old Darri knows the truth. I got reaching, just like you. Just like your
mum had it, and a lot of other women besides, eh? And I know my Jani‘s
somewhere out there over the Darkedge. Bet you hear her too, eh? Callin‘
you?‘
The world around her seemed to freeze while Saria stared at the old
woman. It was impossible — everything she was saying. Dreamer Wanji
would have told her. Or Dariand.
But even as she tried to convince herself, Saria couldn‘t forget all the
lies. Trust me. It was Dariand‘s favourite expression. But he‘d never
explained reaching to her. Or burning. And Dreamer Wanji — he hadn‘t
told her about what she‘d done to Dreamer Baanti; he wasn‘t even planning
to. They‘d done nothing to earn her trust, either of them.
‗Darri! What you doin‘, old girl?‘
The call came from a tall woman who‘d emerged from one of the huts
on the far side of the common.
‗Ah crap!‘ Darri whispered as the other woman hurried towards them.
‗Listen …‘ Darri lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. ‗You do hear her,
right? My Jani? Don‘t you?‘
Saria nodded, mutely.
‗Thought so. You gotta find her. That‘s your mission, girl. Your task.
Forget all this camel dung of Dreamer Wanji‘s. You go find my Jani and
bring her back, eh? That‘s what the Earthmother wants. Get her back here to
her own blood land, so she can be peaceful.‘
She was going to say more, but suddenly the tall woman was beside
them, seizing Darri‘s arm and whirling her away from Saria.
‗What rubbish have you been tellin‘ this girl, eh?‘
‗Nothin‘. You bugger off.‘
‗I‘ve told you a hundred times not to wander round in the middle of
the day. Fry those brains of yours even more than they already are, you silly
old bitch.‘
- 195 –
‗I gotta right to talk to me gran‘daughter.‘
‗Hah! Granddaughter is it now? Come on, let‘s get you back home,
eh?‘
The woman started to pull Darri back towards her hut, forcefully
enough that the older woman was left with little choice but to follow. Before
they‘d gone too far, the tall woman stopped and looked back over her
shoulder.
‗Don‘t you believe a single word this one says, right? Soft in the head,
she is, an‘ talks a lot of crap.‘
‗We were only talking.‘
‗Yeah? Well, talk is fine, but don‘t you go thinking that anything
Darri here says means anythin‘. Like I say, she‘s crazy mad.‘
Before Saria could respond, Darri was marched into her hut. Beside
her, the dog had reappeared and nosed at her bare leg. It had vanished the
moment Darri arrived and Saria had barely noticed it go.
‗Where‘d you get to?‘ Saria ran her fingers along the dog‘s back,
combing them absent-mindedly through the dusty coat. In response, the
animal twitched its tail slightly and whined softly.
‗You want more water? Is that it?‘
She was halfway though pulling up another bucketload from the well,
when the dog stiffened.
‗What is it?‘
‗Saria!‘ She looked up to find Dariand jogging across the common.
Behind him, over near their hut, Dreamer Wanji stood in the shade and
watched, shaking his head. Sighing, Saria braced herself for the
nightwalker‘s anger. To her surprise, as he came closer his expression was
more a mixture of relief and concern than anything else.
‗Night spirits, girl! Where‘d you disappear to?‘
‗We walked daywards for a while. I fell asleep under a tree.‘
‗Dreamer Wanji and I have been looking all over for you.‘
‗I left clear tracks …‘
‗We didn‘t look outside town. Thought you‘d stay closer.‘
‗I told you I wouldn‘t go anywhere.‘
‗I know. We were just … worried. You alright?‘
‗Fine.‘
- 196 –
‗That arm looks burnt.‘
‗Just the sun. While I was asleep.‘
‗You should have taken your robe.‘
‗I didn‘t think I‘d be gone so long. Or so far out.‘
‗Let me fill up my skins and we‘ll go to the hut and put something on
it.‘
Dariand lowered the bucket and filled his water-skins, and then Saria
trailed him back to the hut. Inside was dark and cool and Saria fell
thankfully onto her sleeping mat.
‗Don‘t sleep yet,‘ Dariand told her. ‗I want to put something on your
burns.‘
Obediently she showed him her arms and leg.
‗They aren‘t as bad as they look,‘ he muttered, as much to himself as
to her. He shook some sort of white powder into a clay pot, mixed it with a
small squirt of water, then smeared the resulting paste onto the sunburn.
‗This will cool it off and help it heal faster.‘
While he was applying himself to the task of spreading the white
paste, Dreamer Wanji appeared in the doorway.
‗Where‘d she go?‘
‗Just a little way out into the sand.‘
‗She hurt?‘
‗Nothing major. Just a bit burnt.‘
‗I‘m right here, you know!‘ Saria didn‘t try to hide her annoyance.
‗Eh?‘ Dariand and Dreamer Wanji looked at her, genuinely puzzled.
‗You don‘t have to talk about me as though I don‘t exist. You could
try speaking to me yourself.‘
Dariand, sensing her anger, had the sense to stay quiet, but Dreamer
Wanji simply shrugged at her.
‗You chose to block yourself off from the Earthmother and to cut
yourself out of this town‘s future, girl. Not me.‘
‗Only because you don‘t trust me.‘
‗Trust you? You sayin‘ I ent taught you anything of value?‘
‗You only ever tell me what you want me to know.‘
‗I been around a lot longer than you, girl. What‘d you expect? It‘s us
old Dreamers who know which stories are for telling and which ones are for
- 197 –
keeping. Not every story should be kept alive, you know? Sometimes you
gotta let them die. Sometimes the only way to get things movin‘ forward is
to let the past get forgot.‘
‗You should‘ve told me everything.‘
‗About what?‘
‗About me.‘
‗We did. Leastways, everything you need to know to keep travelling.‘
‗You didn‘t tell me about Darri.‘
Saria was gratified by his startled surprise.
‗Darri?‘
‗Yeah. My granmother.‘ Saria let an edge of sarcasm work its way
into her voice. ‗You ―forgot‖ to tell me about her.‘
‗Who‘s been fillin‘ your head with crap about that old girl being your
grandma, eh?‘
‗She told me herself. Out by the well. We were talking.‘
‗Listen, girl, that woman‘s no more your grandmother than I am,
right?‘
‗That‘s not what she says.‘
‗She‘s as mad as a snake. If you‘ve really talked to her, then you‘ll
have worked that out for yourself. She reckons she‘s got the reaching.‘
‗What if she has?‘
‗She hasn‘t. She‘s a woman.‘
‗I‘ve got it.‘
‗That‘s different. You‘re different. An‘ don‘t go callin‘ yourself a
woman yet, girl. You got a long way to go. In any case, just ‘cause she says
she is, still doesn‘t make it true. She ent your grandmother.‘
‗Then who is? Jani must have had a mother, right?‘
‗Of course. Her name was Nourna. Lived out near Mooka with
Dreamer Karri and his lot. But she got carried off by Nightpeople just like
your mother, right? Just like every fertile woman we‘ve had for most of my
lifetime. Only difference with Nourna was that she managed to hide with
her baby for a while first, before they caught up with her. Then when she
knew they were finally gonna get her, she gave that baby to her friend Darri,
an‘ Darri took Jani off and brought her up in the valley just like Ma Lee did
with you. Now Darri‘s old and her brain is soft, and she remembers things
- 198 –
different to how they were, but that doesn‘t make Jani her daughter, or you
her granddaughter, any more than it makes old Ma Lee your mother.‘
The old Dreamer‘s eyes flashed with anger.
‗So I don‘t want you talkin‘ with her anymore, right? She‘s got no
right fillin‘ your head with stuff like this.‘
‗You can‘t tell me who I‘m allowed to talk to.‘
‗You want to learn things, then you listen to me. If you won‘t do that,
then to Dariand. But don‘t believe anythin‘ you hear from anyone else.‘
‗I‘ll believe whatever I want.‘
‗Then you‘re less smart than I thought you were. You might be able to
reach, but that doesn‘t make you clever.‘
The old man turned and stalked from the hut. Saria followed him.
‗If you and Dariand would tell me the truth about things, perhaps I‘d
believe more of what you say.‘
The old man stopped.
‗Truth! Nobody here‘s told you any lies, girl.‘
‗Nobody tells me anything. That‘s as good as lies. If Dariand had told
me about the Shifting, or about reaching and burning people, then I might
not have killed Dreamer Baanti.‘
‗You gotta learn respect, girl. For your elders, for the Earthmother,
and …‘
‗Perhaps if I thought you were being honest with me, that‘d be easier.‘
‗Night spirits, girl! What‘s gotten into you, eh? Why are you suddenly
so convinced that Dariand and I have been lying to you all this time?‘
‗Because I know you have. Something‘s been calling me, through the
Earthmother, and the only one who‘s explained it to me is Darri. So you can
talk about respect all you like, but …‘
She stopped. Dreamer Wanji‘s eyes had gone wide, his anger
forgotten.
‗What‘s been calling you, Saria?‘ His face was a mixture of fear and
triumph.
‗I … don‘t know. Darri reckon‘s it‘s my mother.‘
‗Jani?‘ To her surprise, Dreamer Wanji didn‘t just snort and dismiss
the idea. ‗I s‘pose it could be, at that. Why didn‘t you mention this to me
before?‘
- 199 –
‗You never asked.‘
‗Dariand?‘ The nightwalker had followed them outside and was
listening intently. ‗You knew about this?‘
‗Nope. First I‘ve heard of it.‘
Dreamer Wanji stepped back towards Saria and reached for her arm,
grasping it firmly as though he was afraid she‘d try to flee.
‗What sort of call? Does it have a voice?‘
‗It … No, it‘s not a voice. Not really. It just sort of fills me up straight
out of the ground.‘
‗Can you tell where it‘s comin‘ from?‘
‗Nightwards.‘
‗How far?‘
‗Don‘t know.‘
A look passed between the two men. Dreamer Wanji‘s reaction
puzzled her. For the first time since she‘d met him, he seemed to be
genuinely at a loss. As if he had no idea what it meant or what to do about
it.
‗What do you reckon?‘ asked Dariand.
‗Not sure.‘ The old man shrugged. ‗There‘s nothing about it in any of
the old stories.‘
‗Perhaps that‘s because someone decided this story wasn‘t worth
telling.‘ The words were out before Saria had time to think about them. She
quoted Dreamer Wanji back to himself: ‗Perhaps somebody decided that the
only way to keep travelling was to let go of the past.‘
She knew she was being childish, baiting him, but to her surprise he
took her comment seriously.
‗Could be. Wouldn‘t be the first time. But I dunno. This seems too …
different. Too big an‘ important for someone to let it slide like that. This call
— I never picked it up.‘
‗I don‘t think you would. It‘s too …‘ Saria struggled to find a word to
describe it, but couldn‘t. ‗It‘s directed at me. Nobody else.‘
‗How does old Darri know about it, then?‘
‗She said she gets it too. But directed at her, not me.‘
‗How often you hear it?‘
‗Whenever. I heard it when I was down that hole in Olympic, and
- 200 –
again just before I burnt Dreamer Baanti.‘
‗Was that the last time?‘
‗No. It came last night while I was sitting on the hill outside town.‘
‗Even though you reckon you ent listenin‘ to the Earthmother?‘
‗It‘s different. It‘s not like earthwarmth or anything. It comes through
the Earthmother, but that‘s not what it is. It‘s too hard to hold back.‘
For a long time nobody spoke. Around them, Woormra slumbered
through the afternoon heat. Somewhere in the shadows of the huts a couple
of insects ticked quietly, and from daywards a brief, hot breeze, little more
than a stir of air, lifted the dust and settled it again.
‗You think this changes things, Dreamer?‘ Dariand kept his voice
neutral, but Saria could sense curiosity there.
‗Dunno. Probably, but …‘ Abruptly he turned his attention back to
Saria. ‗Darri reckon‘s it‘s your mum calling the two of you, does she?‘
‗That‘s what she said. She said she felt it too, sometimes.‘
‗Hmm …‘ The old man was lost in thought for a moment. Then he
spoke to Dariand. ‗I gotta think ‘bout this. Both of you go back inside and
get some rest, and I‘ll talk to you later. In the meantime, Saria, I want you to
stay with Dariand, right? No more wandering off. Not even for a little bit.‘
‗But …‘ Saria bristled, but the old man cut her off before she had a
chance to argue.
‗No! I know you don‘t think Dariand and I have got any right to order
you about. I know you don‘t reckon you can trust either of us, and I know
you don‘t think we‘ve told you the truth. An‘ perhaps you‘re right. But for
your own good, you gotta stay with him. Please?‘
‗Why?‘ To her surprise, Dariand asked the question before she had a
chance.
‗Because if she is telling the truth;‘ the old man held up a hand to stop
Saria‘s protest before she had time to give it voice, ‗and I got no reason to
think she ‘ent, then it‘s possible I‘ve been wrong about everything else. Or
perhaps it all fits together somehow. I dunno. That‘s why I need some time
to think. And that‘s why we gotta keep her outa sight for the moment. If old
Darri starts talking and word gets about the Darklands, then …‘ He stopped
himself. ‗Just keep her out of trouble, okay?‘
The old man marched off across the common. Dariand and Saria
- 201 –
watched him go.
‗Come on,‘ Dariand said wearily. ‗Let‘s get out of this sun.‘
- 202 –
TWENTY THREE.
Almost as soon as the sun slipped below the horizon, people started to
gather on the common. From the door of their hut Saria sat hunkered on the
ground watching glumly, the dog by her side. The ever-present earthwarmth
pressed up below her and she shifted, strengthening her barriers against it.
‗It‘s not fair,‘ she said softly. Dariand, who was busy kindling the
dung-fire, heard her.
‗It‘s what Dreamer Wanji wants.‘
‗If they‘re having a town meeting about me, then I should be allowed
to go to it.‘
‗Dreamer Wanji doesn‘t think people will talk straight if they know
you‘re listening in. This is a big thing he‘s asking of them.‘
‗I still don‘t understand why he wants to tell everyone.‘
‗Whatever this call thing is, he wants you to answer it. And to do that,
it seems that you and I need to keep on travelling nightwards.‘
‗So?‘
‗So, he can‘t just let you go off without explaining to the town. You
know that.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗It‘s about hope, Saria. Everyone in Woormra has chosen to live here
for one reason — Dreamer Wanji. He‘s the one who‘s kept the Darklands
believing, who‘s kept hope alive. He‘s the only one who‘s always believed
there‘d be a last child to bring about the end of the Darklands. He‘s never
wavered. And that kind of faith rubs off on people. Not just here in
Woormra, but right though the Darklands.‘
Dariand crossed to the doorway and flopped on the dirt beside her.
‗So if he‘s gonna send you — the one thing that represents all that
hope, the child who we made ‘em believe was dead all those years ago — if
he‘s gonna send you back out into a desert full of Nightpeople and who
knows what else, then he owes them an explanation, eh? He can‘t just
resurrect their hope like that, then tear it all down again.‘
Out by the well, most of Woormra had now gathered. The massed
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murmur of their conversations drifted through the evening, a restless buzz
that reached Saria and Dariand as little more than indistinct babble.
Somebody had lit a fire and people gathered around it, some sitting on the
ground, most standing, and the growing flames cast their shadows into a
leaping dance behind them. Even from where she sat, Saria could sense a
kind of anticipation among the townsfolk.
‗If I‘m so important to them, why don‘t they like me?‘
‗They don‘t understand you, Saria. Even I don‘t understand you, and
I‘m … I know you better than most. And after what happened with Baanti
…‘ He caught himself.
‗They‘re scared of me?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗But I‘d never … I mean, I don‘t even reach anymore!‘ Saria leapt to
her feet.
‗I know that. And so does Dreamer Wanji. But people are hard to
convince, Saria. They don‘t trust that a woman — let alone a girl like you
— can reach at all, never mind doing it safely. They don‘t trust that you
won‘t do to them what you did to Dreamer Baanti, even accidentally.‘
‗I wouldn‘t!‘
‗Of course not. Do you think Dreamer Wanji and I haven‘t told them
that? But telling people something and proving it to them are two different
things. Just because they don‘t understand you, doesn‘t mean these folk
don‘t still have a lot of hope pinned on you.‘
Saria didn‘t respond. Out by the fire, Dreamer Wanji had appeared
and people were settling themselves, most sitting in a couple of rough
circles around the old man. When he began speaking, he was too far away
and spoke too softly for Saria to hear, no matter how hard she strained her
ears.
Beside her the dog stirred, sensing her frustration, and she felt the
tentative quest of his mind towards hers as he offered her his superior
senses. No doubt he could hear every word clearly.
‗No,‘ she whispered to him as she pushed his mind back.
‗What was that?‘ Dariand shot her a quizzical look.
‗Nothing. Just thinking out loud.‘
Over by the fire, things seemed to be heating up. One of the men
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standing at the perimeter interrupted Dreamer Wanji, the anger in his voice
carrying clearly to them, even though his words didn‘t. A couple of people
nodded agreement with whatever he‘d said. Somebody else shouted back
and tension bristled across the common.
‗Why are they arguing?‘
‗I imagine there are some who don‘t want you to leave. Who‘d like
you to stay here and who‘d force you to start reaching again so that you can
be Dreamer for Woormra after Dreamer Wanji. Then there‘ll be a few who
still believe in Dreamer Wanji, and reckon you should be allowed to follow
this call of yours.
‗What do you think?‘
‗Me?‘
‗Yeah.‘ Saria looked Dariand straight in the eye. ‗Do you think I
should follow it?‘
‗Whatever you do, it‘ll be me that Dreamer Wanji sends to keep an
eye on you.‘
‗You‘re not answering my question.‘
The nightwalker was silent for a long time.
‗I don‘t know,‘ he finally admitted. ‗I don‘t really understand why you
won‘t reach. I don‘t know what this ―call‖ you talk about is — even
Dreamer Wanji doesn‘t. I don‘t know if it‘s a good or a bad thing. For all I
know it could be the Nightpeople trying to trick you into giving yourself
over to them …‘
‗It isn‘t that,‘ Saria started to explain, but Dariand cut her off.
‗I‘ve only got your word for that and even you can‘t be certain.
Nobody knows. All we can do is trust you. And Dreamer Wanji.‘
‗Is that so hard?‘
He didn‘t answer. Over by the well, things had fallen into an uneasy
silence while everyone listened to Dreamer Wanji again. Saria made another
half-hearted attempt to hear what was going on, but quickly gave up. The
force of her hurt at Dariand‘s response surprised her. So he didn‘t trust her.
He didn‘t believe she was right about the call. Why did that seem so
unusual? She‘d always known it. But still, something about his lack of faith
in her stung more deeply than she‘d imagined it would.
‗I want to believe you, Saria. I really do. But nothing‘s turned out the
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way it was supposed to. Nothing. So I just don‘t know.‘
For some reason Gan‘s words came back to her: Whatever happens,
you’re gonna stir things up around here, an’ that’ll be a story to tell.
Was that all she‘d done? Stir things up. Destroy people‘s hopes and
dreams and upset their lives and all for nothing? Was that why Dariand
didn‘t believe in her either?
‗What should I do, then?‘
‗Eh?‘
‗What should I do? What if Ma Lee was right? What if I‘m nothing
more than a fluke? If me being born clean was just blind luck and
everyone‘s getting all worked up for nothing? What if this ―call‖ is just my
imagination? Where does that leave me?‘
Sudden anger swept over her.
‗You and Dreamer Wanji dragged me away from my valley and from
Ma. You told me I‘ve got this big destiny and all this hope is resting on me
and that I‘m going to be the one to start building a new world. And now you
say you‘re not sure if you believe any of it anymore? Well, what am I
supposed to do? Just go back to Ma? I can‘t even do that now, can I?
Because half the Darklands knows about me and there‘ll always be another
Dreamer Baanti, or Slander or one of that mob looking for me. But I can‘t
stay here where nobody trusts me, either. Can I? No, not even you!‘ She
didn‘t give him a chance to protest. ‗I‘ve got nothing left. I‘m not going to
reach anymore, because I‘m too scared. And I can‘t leave. I just don‘t know
...‘
Saria took a couple of half steps out into the common as if to run, but
was stopped by Dariand‘s voice behind her.
‗Saria! Wait!‘
She spun back to face him, her anger unabated.
‗What?‘
Dariand didn‘t say anything as he rose and stepped towards her. He
lifted his hands and for an instant she thought he was going to seize her and
stop her running off again, but before she could react he grabbed her in a
tight hug.
She froze, stunned.
‗It‘ll be alright.‘ His voice was low, a disembodied whisper in her ear.
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‗Whatever happens, it‘ll be alright. I give you my word. I‘ll make sure of it.‘
Suddenly she was aware of him, of the warmth of the arms around
her, of the thudding of her own heart in her chest, of the strength of his hug.
There was safety in that grasp, and in a sudden, startled moment of clarity
she realised she hadn‘t felt safe, not properly, since leaving the valley.
Something inside of her seemed to break, and she half-choked back a sob.
‗Shh,‘ Dariand whispered. ‗It‘ll be okay.‘
Then, suddenly awkward, he released her and stepped away.
Silence had fallen across the common, and as she struggled to pull her
emotions back under control, Saria noticed that the murmur of voices from
the fire had stopped completely. She looked up through tears to see every
pair of eyes in Woormra staring back at her, the faces of the townspeople a
mixture of shock, amusement and, on more than a few faces, fear.
But the one that caught her attention was Dreamer Wanji. Standing by
the fire, his eyes were slightly narrowed, but other than that his face was a
carefully constructed, blank mask.
And that, for some reason, scared her more than any of the others.
In the settling dark, the tableau seemed to hold forever. Then
gradually it broke up, not suddenly but in bits and pieces. First a couple of
people sniggered, then someone shushed them, which bought an angry
retort, and gradually everything seemed to melt away.
A couple of feet away from her, Dariand stood awkwardly, staring at
nothing and trying to ignore the questioning glances being thrown his way.
‗What is it? What‘s their problem?‘ Saria asked, but he just shook his
head.
‗Later. Now‘s not the time.‘
‗You two might as well come over and join us, as long as you‘re
going to carry on like that.‘ Dreamer Wanji strode over to them and lowered
his voice to a hard whisper, directed squarely at Dariand. ‗What was that
about?‘
‗It was nothing,‘ Dariand replied, and Saria felt colour rising in her
cheeks.
‗Didn‘t look that way to me.‘ Dreamer Wanji nodded back towards
the crowd. ‗Or to any of them, either.‘
For a moment, Dariand looked as though he was going to answer
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back, but instead he simply stamped over and took up a position on the
outskirts of the group without a glance back to see if Saria and the Dreamer
were following. Beside Saria, the old man sighed.
‗Come on then. We‘ve still got things to discuss.‘
He walked back over to the fire, but Saria didn‘t follow immediately.
Instead, she glared at Dariand, who was now pointedly ignoring her.
Nothing, he‘d said. Well, at least she knew where she stood now. She
stalked over and stood on the outskirts herself, as far from him as it was
possible to stand.
Beside the fire Dreamer Wanji had resumed his position, and
gradually the crowd fell silent again.
‗Now then, I was telling you all, as I see it there‘s no reason what
Saria‘s told us should change anything. We always knew that the final child
would be the one to end the Darklands. Who‘s to say that lettin‘ her follow
this call isn‘t the way that has to happen? We been waiting too long for
something like this and we‘re not gonna turn away from it now. As long as
the Earthmother sees fit to keep talking to her …‘
‗Not much good if she ent listening,‘ somebody shouted from the
shadows.
‗She‘s listening,‘ Dreamer Wanji shot back at the speaker. ‗Even if
she thinks she isn‘t.‘
It was just like in the hut that afternoon, with Dreamer Wanji and
Dariand discussing her as though she was invisible. Saria opened her mouth
to shout at the lot of them, to tell them that she damn well wasn‘t listening,
wasn‘t reaching, and that they could all go to the night spirits, but before she
could get a word out, a light hand rested on her arm.
‗Shh, girl,‘ Darri whispered. ‗Just let ‘em talk their talk. Nothin‘ you
say is gonna make any difference to this lot. Don‘t worry, you‘ll find our
Jani. Trust me.‘
She wasn‘t sure why, but something in the old woman‘s voice
persuaded Saria to close her mouth again.
The argument went on and on. Dariand had been right, there were
definitely two camps, those who wanted Saria to follow the call nightwards
to the Darkedge, and those who didn‘t. The one thing both had in common
was that neither seemed to care one bit about what Saria either thought or
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wanted. The longer she listened, the harder it became to stay quiet.
‗… and if she won‘t even do reaching for us, then why should we trust
her to even follow that call, eh? Who‘s to say she won‘t just run off and get
caught by that Olympic mob again? And perhaps that wouldn‘t be a bad
thing, either. At least they‘d make her …
‗Dreamer Wanji!‘
The shout came from the darkness and suddenly people were pouring
into the common from between the huts. Armed with sticks and clubs, they
came from every direction. There were yells as a couple of stones flew from
the shadows and into the crowd.
The people of Woormra turned to face the intruders, but most were
still fire-blind and their old, bare fists were little use against the weapons
their attackers carried.
All the same, scuffles broke out and in seconds the common became a
nightmare of struggling bodies, screams and blood. Saria whirled in
confusion, looking for an escape.
‗There she is! There! Get her!‘ someone shouted, and a couple of
hulking shadows detached themselves from one of the fighting groups. Saria
stumbled backwards as they rushed towards her, only to be grabbed from
behind.
‗Steady, girl,‘ a voice growled, and an old man pulled her behind him.
‗Woormra‘ll look out for you. Don‘t …‘
There was a sickening thud as a stone connected with the man‘s
temple, and he crumpled to the ground, blood welling from the wound.
Then the two attackers were almost on top of her. She dodged
sideways, managing to evade the first, but before she could run the other
one caught her, seizing her in a vice-like grip which almost crushed the air
from her. The two men started fighting their way towards the edge of the
common, one pulling her along close to his chest while the other used a
heavy club to keep at bay anyone who might try to stop them. If they got to
the edge of the fight, Saria knew she‘d be lost. They‘d drag her into the
darkness of the alleyways, where they probably had more men waiting, and
then nobody would be able to help her. She twisted and clawed, striking out
at the grinning face of the man who held her and raking her fingernails
across his cheeks. Warm trails of blood welled beneath her fingertips, the
- 209 –
sensation both sickening and strangely satisfying.
The man screamed and his grip loosened slightly, giving Saria just
enough leeway to wriggle around and stamp all her weight onto his foot.
‗Damn! How about a bloody hand here!‘ he shouted, but nobody
seemed to hear him. His escort with the club had vanished into the melee
and everyone else in the attacking party seemed occupied with their own
opponents.
The people of Woormra, with the initial shock of the attack behind
them, had now rallied. Weapons of their own were appearing, they had the
advantage of numbers, and the battle which a few moments earlier had
looked to be all but over now raged anew.
Despite his difficulty, Saria‘s captor seemed determined not to
relinquish his prize. He fought his way closer to the edge, angling for the
dark mouth of one of the wider alleyways, dragging Saria behind him with
one hand and with the other clubbing aside anyone who came between him
and his goal. Only once did he pause, and that was to hiss at her, ‗Stop
struggling or I‘ll wring yer bloody neck!‘ The threat only drove her to
greater efforts.
He didn‘t get a chance to make good the promise. He had to keep
swerving and dodging to avoid being cornered. Suddenly, though, they
found themselves in a hole in the fighting, and he stopped and swung Saria
around to face him.
‗I warned you!‘ he muttered, and, before she had time to avoid it, he
brought his free fist crashing down onto the top of her head.
Flashes of light exploded behind her eyes and the edges of her vision
greyed. She felt her knees beginning to buckle and, as they did so, the man
scooped her up and over his shoulder.
‗Saria!‘ The voice seemed to come from a long way away. ‗Saria!‘
Dariand flung himself into the back of the other man‘s knees, almost
but not quite bringing him down.
‗Bugger!‘ The big man grunted and directed a savage kick in
Dariand‘s direction, but the nightwalker was too quick for him and deftly
rolled aside.
Dariand sprang back to his feet and confronted the man.
‗Put her down, Bolt.‘ His voice was low.
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‗Make me.‘
‗I won‘t let you take her.‘
‗You can try to stop me, if you want.‘
The greyness was clearing from her vision but Saria was still having
trouble focusing her thoughts. Everything — the noise, the fighting, even
Dariand — seemed dull and distant. Something was there, though.
Something close and warm, hanging in front of her.
Bolt.
His mind.
The large man tightened his grip on Saria as she felt her mental
barriers starting to crumble and falter. She wasn‘t touching the ground,
couldn‘t draw earthwarmth up directly into herself, but he was. In a flash of
understanding, Saria knew that if she wanted to she could draw it through
him. It would be that simple.
And then she could burn him.
A familiar tingle ran through her body. A warm shudder of
anticipation. It would be so easy. Already she could feel the Earthmother
through the sweaty arm that twined around her waist.
All she had to do was sink into it.
Earthwarmth shivered up through Bolt and along her spine. She felt
the man stiffen slightly …
And then he began to scream as a growling, sandy-yellow shadow
flung itself out of the battle and into the back of his legs, teeth sinking deep
into the muscle of his left calf.
‗Argh!‘
He dropped Saria and immediately turned his attention to trying to
detach the dog from his leg. She fell hard and awkwardly, her arm
wrenching under her with a sharp twist of pain. She barely felt it, though.
Suddenly cut off from the pulsing earthwarmth that she‘d been pulling into
herself, she struggled to contain a wave of nausea.
Nearby, Bolt was lying sprawled, with the dog still worrying at his
ankle which was in a terrible state, torn and bloody. The animal‘s jaws were
stained red and a savage, trembling growl ululated from the back of its
throat.
‗You bastard!‘ the man screamed, using his good leg to throw a kick.
- 211 –
It connected against the side of the dog‘s head and the animal yelped,
relinquishing its grip for just a second before launching itself back again,
this time going for Bolt‘s throat as the man tried desperately to crawl away.
‗No!‘ Saria gasped, and even through the fog of confusion, she pulled
up enough earthwarmth to reach the command at the animal.
The dog hesitated, momentarily distracted at the touch of her mind on
his. He turned towards her slightly, automatically opening his mind and
senses to her, and that was all the time it took for Bolt to roll over, for his
grasping right hand to close around the handle of a heavy wooden club that
had been abandoned in the fighting, and for him to bring it crashing down
on the animal‘s skull with all the force he could muster.
There was a sickening crunch, and then nothing.
All Saria could hear was the distant sound of her own screaming.
- 212 –
TWENTY FOUR.
Floating. Warm currents of air carried her higher and higher as she
drifted. Below her, the hard red earth she knew so well slipped further
away. There were people down there. She could feel them, but not people
like she knew them, people … like … insects. Brief sparks of life danced
across the landscape and then were gone again. And the higher she floated,
the smaller and briefer they became.
Here were shapes. High up. Cold, smooth curves against the
nightvault. Walls that didn’t hold out the light. Walls the sun walked
through. There were people here, too, but people without the incandescent
sparks of those insect people on the ground. These people were …
nothingness … Puffs of smoke, insubstantial and formless in the immense
brightness of the dayvault. The sky was a desert too, she realised.
And power … It hummed through the skycurves, cradling and
protecting the smoke people. It was a power that had never touched the
Earth. A savage and harsh power. Born in the sky, living in the sky. Energy,
pure and untempered, which pulsed and danced through the vaults like
blood.
She lay on something pliant but cold. The light above was clean and
white and the room was round and hummed softly. When she woke, she was
frightened. Nothing was as it should be, and she tried to pull earthwarmth
up into herself but it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Only the cold pulse of
the skyfire which burned at her mind if she tried to touch it. And she tried to
reach, but there was nothing. Nobody. Only smoke and skyfire. So she drew
what little earthwarmth she could muster from the very core of her body,
and poured it out into the cold smoothness as she screamed for those closest
to her.
DARRI!
SARIA!
And as she felt her body cooling around her, all she heard in reply
was silence …
Silence.
Deep, total silence filled the underground cavern.
- 213 –
The cold heaviness of the stone below her was the first sensation to
seep into her conscious mind. A figure leaned over her.
‗Saria? You okay, girl? You waking up?‘
‗Where …?‘
‗Shh. Don‘t talk. Just take it easy. Here … drink.‘
The nozzle of a water-skin pressed against her parched lips, and Saria
felt the trickle at the back of her throat.
‗What happened?‘
‗Dariand got you away from the fighting. You‘re safe for now.‘
Dreamer Gaardi placed a gentle hand on her elbow and helped her into
a sitting position. Her head pounded and her arm throbbed where she‘d
twisted it.
‗Where is he?‘
‗Dariand?‘
She nodded.
‗Gone back up to help Dreamer Wanji try and settle things down.
Slander and his mob have backed off, at least for the moment.‘
‗Why…?‘ Saria rubbed at the sides of her temples, trying to clear the
fuzziness from her thoughts, but to no effect.
‗Quiet, girl.‘ The old man‘s voice was gentle. ‗You been through a
rough night. Not many Dreamers can take bein‘ connected to something
when it dies. I reckon that dog took a little bit of you with it when it went,
eh? So you just take it easy.‘
Slowly, bits and pieces of the nightmare came back to her.
‗The dog. Did it …‘
‗Dead.‘ Dreamer Gaardi placed a warm hand on her arm. ‗Bolt killed
it. We were all worried that you might‘ve gone with it.‘
‗What happened to me?‘
‗You screamed a lot. Then nothing.‘
‗I fainted?‘
‗No.‘ Dreamer Gaardi‘s expression was puzzled. ‗No. If you faint,
Dreamer Wanji and I, we‘d still be able to feel you. You‘d still be in that
body, somewhere. Nah, you just … left us. Dunno where you went but for a
while there we thought you‘d been burnt out. You were just like that. Like
there was nothing inside. Dreamer Wanji just about went crazy.‘
- 214 –
‗I was …‘ Saria struggled to remember, but her memories were
jumbled and chaotic and already fading like smoke into the vault.
Smoke.
‗There were people. But not us. It was …‘ The recollections were all
too blurred. ‗Help me up.‘
‗You sure?‘
She didn‘t answer, just extended a hand towards him, and with a shrug
the old man took her hand and hauled her to her feet, where she tottered so
unsteadily he had to help her stand.
‗Careful there. Come and sit down on one of the rocks.‘
They were in the council chamber. A tiny dung-fire burning in the
central pit threw a small ring of warmth out over them. Dreamer Gaardi
lowered her onto one of the stones.
‗How‘d I get down here?‘
‗Dariand brought you down after he got you away from that fight.
Seemed like the safest place. Not too many people know the right passages,
an‘ you wouldn‘t wanna risk getting lost trying to fluke it. There‘s a lotta
very deep and dark holes to fall into down here.‘
‗She‘s okay?‘ Dreamer Wanji‘s voice floated from somewhere in the
darkness, concern in his tone.
‗Seems fine to me. A little shook up, that‘s all.‘
Dreamer Wanji emerged from the shadows, Dariand beside him. Saria
briefly wondered how they managed to find their way down without any
light, but didn‘t ask. The two men stood over her with worried expressions.
‗Night spirits, girl! That was a close thing. If that dog hadn‘t …‘
Dreamer Wanji stopped when he saw the tears fill her eyes. ‗Prob‘ly saved
your life, you know.‘
‗I reached for him.‘
‗Did you?‘ The Dreamer‘s face betrayed nothing.
‗And now he‘s dead, too. Just like Baanti.‘
‗That‘s silly thinkin‘, girl. That dog‘s dead because Slander and his
mob don‘t have the brains or the patience to come and talk about things. Not
because of anything you did, okay?‘
Saria didn‘t respond.
Silence filled the vast cave, until Dreamer Gaardi turned to the two
- 215 –
men. ‗What‘s goin‘ on up top now?‘
‗The Olympic mob‘ve settled down. Pulled out to camp a bit away to
daywards. They‘re sending a delegation in later.‘
‗What for?‘
‗Council business.‘ Dreamer Wanji‘s short tone made it clear that he
didn‘t want to be discussing this in front of Saria.
‗It‘s about me,‘ she said flatly, staring right into the old man‘s eyes as
she spoke, daring him to lie to her. He dropped his gaze.
‗Yeah.‘
‗What do they want?‘
‗They‘ve heard what happened with Baanti. They reckon that gives
them a claim over you.‘
‗A claim?‘
‗Every town needs a Dreamer who can reach. It‘s always been the
way of things in the Darklands. They reckon that seeing as you burnt out
Baanti you should take his place. They reckon they gotta right to claim you
as the next Dreamer for Olympic.‘
‗Crap!‘ Dariand spat into the fire. ‗They want to hand her off to the
Nightpeople for whaever they can get, that‘s the only reason they‘re
interested. If they seriously thought they had a case for claiming her as a
Dreamer they‘d have come before the council, not tried to take her by
force.‘
‗Probably. But Slander‘s made his claim now, and the council‘s gotta
hear it.‘
‗Why?‘ Saria asked.
‗That‘s the way it‘s always been done. We haven‘t survived this long
by ignoring our laws and traditions.‘
‗We haven‘t survived this long by invading one another‘s towns with
spears and clubs, either.‘
Dariand‘s eyes narrowed. ‗I‘m not gonna let them take her, Dreamer
Wanji.‘
‗That‘s the council‘s decision, Dariand. You gotta claim, too, you
know.‘
‗Don‘t worry, I‘ll make it. But if the council don‘t back it up …‘
‗Let‘s take that as it happens, eh?‘
- 216 –
‗When are we meeting, then?‘ Dreamer Gaardi asked.
‗Soon as possible. I‘ve sent Berni over to Mooka to put the word out
there. Couple of days, probably.‘
‗What do we do in the meantime?‘
Dreamer Wanji nodded at Saria.
‗We gotta keep you safe and that means out of sight. I don‘t trust
Slander one little bit. His lot‘ve already tried to take you once, and if
they‘ve got an inkling of where you are they‘ll try it again. So I reckon you
should stay down here for the moment.‘
‗Here?‘ The thought of spending the next couple of days in the cold
darkness of the council cavern made her tremble. ‗Can‘t I just hide in a
hut?‘
‗Too dangerous.‘ Dreamer Wanji left no room for argument. ‗You can
bet that Slander‘ll have people sneaking all over Woormra lookin‘ for you.
Nah, only safe place is here in the caverns.‘
‗But …‘
Dariand interrupted her before she could argue the point.
‗He‘s right, Saria. It‘s the safest place. Not too many know their way
down here.‘
Sighing, Saria hugged her arms close to her chest.
‗It‘s cold.‘
‗Don‘t worry, you won‘t be spending your time here in the chamber.‘
‗Where then?‘
A look passed between the three men. Dreamer Wanji nodded and
Dariand knelt and rummaged in a hide bag that had been dropped beside one
of the council stones. He pulled out a torch and lit it in the fire, then slung
the bag across his back.
‗Come on.‘
She followed him, walking on unsteady legs towards the chamber‘s
main entrance. The large tunnel loomed out of the darkness ahead like an
empty maw, but to Saria‘s surprise Dariand didn‘t lead her into it. Instead,
he turned to one side and started skirting around the edge.
‗Where are we going?‘
‗There‘s a lot more to these tunnels than just the council chamber,
Saria,‘ Dariand answered.
- 217 –
As they made their way around the inside wall of the cavern, Saria
began to get some sense of how large it really was. She‘d assumed that the
council stones and fire-pit were the central point, but the further Dariand led
her, the further away they became.
‗It‘s enormous.‘
‗Yeah.‘ In the flickering torchlight, Dariand‘s features were split by
long shadows, lending him an eerie appearance. ‗Nobody knows how the
Skypeople made them, but they didn‘t use their hands, that‘s for sure. Here
we are.‘
Ahead of them, a narrow fissure opened in the wall. Dariand stepped
into it without hesitation.
‗Come on.‘
The opening was narrow, the rock torn and jagged, different from the
smooth, faceted walls of the chamber. Saria had to turn slightly to fit
through, and as she did so her bare arm brushed against the rock. She
gasped.
‗What is it?‘ Dariand stopped and looked back, concern on his face.
‗This rock in here. It‘s different from the chamber. It has
earthwarmth.‘
‗I wouldn‘t know about that. But this passage wasn‘t part of the
Skypeople‘s tunnels.‘
‗It‘s not?‘
‗No. We don‘t know what made it. Dreamer Wanji thinks it probably
opened up in the Shifting.‘
Once through the opening the tunnel widened out and angled slightly
uphill. Dariand led her along it, ducking his head occasionally to avoid
hanging outcrops which dropped from the ceiling. As they climbed further
from the council chamber, it grew steadily warmer.
‗Almost there.‘
He stopped at a point where the tunnel forked into two separate
passages, then led her into the right-hand one. Before following, Saria
stopped and peered into the inky blackness of the other. A cool breeze
washed over her as she stared into the darkness, and from somewhere above
a faint whispering echoed softly along the rough walls.
‗Where does that go?‘
- 218 –
‗The surface. It‘s a breathing tunnel.‘
‗A what?‘
‗That‘s how the air moves in and out of the main tunnel and the
chamber. There‘s hundreds of these little cracks running up to the ground.‘
‗Where does it come out?‘
‗No idea.‘
‗You‘ve never followed it?‘
‗I‘ve tried, but it gets too narrow, just a little way up. There‘s no way
through for anything except air and smoke.‘
‗Oh.‘ She stood a moment longer, enjoying the moist taste of the
moving air, then scurried to catch up with Dariand again before he carried
the light too far ahead. Finally he stopped, dropped to his hands and knees
and crawled into a tiny dark opening down at floor level, shoving the torch
ahead of him.
For a moment his body blocked the light and Saria was plunged into
darkness so complete that a surge of adrenaline tingled through her, panic
close behind it. But then dull, flickering light washed out through the
crawlspace and across the floor.
‗Come on in.‘ Dariand‘s voice was muffled by the hanging wall
between them. Kneeling, Saria peered into the gap to see Dariand crouching
beside a low stone fire circle. Ducking her head, she crawled in behind him.
‗What is this place?‘
They were in a small underground room, no bigger than the inside of a
hut but with a roof and walls of stone instead of tin or wood. The space was
roughly square, with a fire circle in the middle and narrow stone recesses
carved into two of the walls. In these were a couple of rolled-up sleeping
mats and some water-skins. The smoke from the torch and the fire curled
lazily around the roof, before vanishing into a narrow crack at the top of a
jumbled pile of rocks against the far wall.
‗Somewhere to hide and rest.‘
‗It‘s like the cavern. The rock, I mean.‘
It was true. Like the council chamber, the walls of the small room
were smooth, carved and hard and cold — dead rock.
‗I know. I think it was part of another tunnel that got closed off in the
Shifting at the same time as the one we just came through opened up.‘
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‗It‘s old.‘
‗True, but comfortable. And safe. Only me and Dreamer Wanji know
about it. Even the other members of the council can‘t find you here.‘
Saria settled by the fire.
‗What happens now?‘
‗Nothing. At least, not for a while. You try and get some sleep. Proper
sleep, this time, not half dead like you were before.‘
‗Will you stay with me?‘
‗For a while. Then I‘ll have to go. You‘ll need food and water if
you‘re to stay here for a couple of days. And I‘ve got some jobs to do for
Wanji.‘
‗Jobs?‘
Dariand offered her a tight smile.
‗Let‘s just say that Slander isn‘t the only one who‘ll be keeping an eye
on things up there.‘
He set about unrolling one of the sleeping mats in the alcove.
‗The fire should burn for a few hours and I‘ll be back with more fuel
long before it dies. In the meantime, here …‘ From the bag he produced a
water-skin and a few strips of dried meat. ‗It‘s the best I can manage at the
moment. I‘ll bring something more filling down later.‘
‗That‘s fine.‘ She was starving. It had been ages since she‘d last eaten.
As she chewed, Dariand settled in the other sleeping alcove and watched
her.
‗Once you‘ve finished, lie down. I‘ll wait with you a bit.‘
The dung-fire filled the room with a warm, pungent scent. Saria
finished her scant meal, took a quick draught from the skin, then lay back on
the thin sleeping mat. Through it, she was uncomfortably aware of the
coldness of the stone beneath. There was nothing in it. No earthwarmth.
‗Do you think they‘ll send me back to Olympic?‘
‗They can try. I won‘t let them.‘
‗Even if they do, it won‘t do them any good. I‘m not reaching again.
Ever.‘
‗You don‘t know that.‘
‗Yes, I do.‘ She rolled on her side to look at Dariand. ‗I used to like it.
Reaching. Back in the valley I used to love it. When I was reaching into a
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lizard or something it was just like … I dunno … like the only time I was
really alive. It‘s not like that any more.‘
‗Why not.‘
‗It just isn‘t. Every time I do it someone gets hurt. Dreamer Baanti, the
dog. I nearly hurt you, back at that waterhole.‘
‗You didn‘t know what you were doing.‘
‗I do now. And I know what can happen because of it.‘
Dariand didn‘t answer, and after a moment Saria changed the subject.
‗Do you think Darri‘s right? Do you think the call could be my
mother?‘
‗I think Darri talks a lot of dung.‘ There was sudden vehemence in his
voice. ‗She always has.‘
‗But what if …‘
‗No, Saria. The Nightpeople don‘t keep pets. Jani was dead when they
took her away.‘
‗If she wasn‘t …‘
‗Then there‘s nothing we can do about it anyway.‘
Saria didn‘t have an answer, so she rolled onto her back again. Silence
thickened around them and eventually Dariand stood up. When he spoke,
his voice had softened.
‗If you wake up, don‘t try to find your way back out alone. It‘s easy to
get turned around down here and if you get lost we‘ll never find you.
There‘s a pail in that corner if you need to … you know.‘
Saria nodded her understanding, and Dariand stepped around the fire
to stand over her.
‗I‘m sorry to leave you here on your own, but … I‘ll be back soon.
Don‘t worry.‘
He leant down, and to Saria‘s surprise planted a quick kiss on her
forehead. ‗Try and sleep.‘
The cool, dry touch of his lips against her skin lingered for a long time
after the flickering glow of his torch had faded down the outside
passageway.
- 221 –
TWENTY FIVE.
SARIA!
The call seemed to ring and echo off the hard walls. Saria woke up.
The fire had burnt low, only a few dull embers still alight. Beyond them,
Dariand‘s sleeping form was a black pile in the other alcove.
She‘d lost track of the time she‘d spent in the little chamber. Dariand
had brought meals and water and stayed with her when he could, but
Dreamer Wanji needed him up in Woormra to watch the Olympic mob and
keep attention away from the arriving Dreamers. So most of the time she‘d
spent on her own, sleeping and recovering. The throbbing twist in her arm
had gradually given way to a dull ache.
When the call woke her, it was different. Displaced, somehow. It
didn‘t surge into her from out of the ground, but came as a faint echo. As
though it was held apart from her by a barrier.
Rising, she turned round slowly. Dariand still slumbered, snoring
slightly, and the light from the fire was little more than a low glow across
the floor. After a moment‘s hesitation, she ducked her head and crawled out
into the passageway outside.
Until now, she‘d heeded Dariand‘s warnings about not wandering.
The thought of getting trapped or lost somewhere in the inky darkness was
enough to keep her in the little chamber, imprisoned as effectively as she
had been in the pit at Olympic. It was different, of course. This time she had
light, and food, and water. And company, too. With nothing else to do, she
and Dariand had talked, whenever he could get away to join her.
He‘d told her about his childhood growing up in the valley, about
learning to hunt and follow the vaultlights with Dreamer Wanji. He‘d told
her about the places in the Darklands he‘d visited — places like Coob, with
its underground huts and where the people had to climb down through the
earth in tunnels like these to get to their well of deep, cold springwater. Of
Mooka, which had been a Skypeople town before the Shifting, and where
old Skypeople huts and buildings were still dotted between those of the
Darklanders.
‗It‘s a bad town, Mooka,‘ he said. ‗Barely ever got a clean baby out of
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there. Just something about the place.‘
Saria thought about the old camel woman, Gan, and her lost child.
Those conversations had filled the long, dim hours. And through
them, Saria had begun to look at Dariand with different eyes. Until now,
she‘d always thought of him as nothing more than Dreamer Wanji‘s
nightwalker — he was good at reading the vaultlights and finding water and
food, but it was the old Dreamer who decided where he would travel and
why.
The more he talked, though, the more she understood that that wasn‘t
true. Dariand did what he did because he cared. He actually thought there
was a future. Even in the dry, dead wastelands of the Darklands, he could
see hope. Some of that came from Dreamer Wanji, sure, but a lot of it was
in Dariand himself.
Outside the chamber, only a dim cast of light escaped through the
narrow gap. Right away she felt the difference in the rock. The rough,
sundered stone of the narrow access passage seemed so much more alive
than the dead hardness of the Skypeople‘s tunnels. She could almost feel the
earthwarmth pulsing around her and had to consciously strengthen her
mental barriers against it.
Below her, the passageway slanted into darkness, and, slowly picking
her way as much by feel as by sight, she edged her way downwards, trailing
the fingers of her left hand along the wall. The junction of the two tunnels
was just a little way down and when she reached it she was relieved to find
she could look back up the right-hand passage and still see the dull shine of
light spilling out from the hidden chamber. It was a comforting sight.
SARIA!
Here, nestled in the living rock of the access tunnel, the call was
normal again. It almost rocked her on her feet as it filled her with
earthwarmth, even as she tried to hold it back. She almost surrendered to it.
There was nothing and nobody to reach down here. But slowly she
strengthened her resolve against it, and pushed it back down.
It did bring with it one unexpected benefit, though — direction.
Suddenly she knew which way was nightwards, and with that knowledge
everything around her seemed to fall into perspective. The tunnels, the
chamber where Dariand still slept, even her memory of the trip up from the
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enormous council cavern, all dropped into a neat orientation in her mind. In
a flash, Saria knew that if she wanted to she could probably find her own
way back down there. Perhaps even back out though the main tunnel and up
into Woormra.
The left-hand branch of the fork whistled quietly with fresh air and
Saria breathed in deeply, closing her eyes and enjoying the coolness across
her face. After days in the close confines of the tiny chamber, she‘d become
immune to its odour — the smell of burning dung and her own waste.
The air that flowed out of the rock tasted good. So clean that even the
tiny movement of it across her skin was as refreshing as a splash of water
across her face.
With her eyes closed, she took a small step into the breathing tunnel,
sensing the rock as it closed over her head. Inside the opening, the air
washed around her entire body, prickling her skin into gooseflesh.
She kept her eyes closed tight, knowing that if she opened them the
darkness would probably swamp her and she‘d panic. Instead, she just
edged forward, step by step along the narrowing tunnel, picturing her
progress in her mind.
The roof dropped lower and gradually Saria found herself becoming
more and more hunched until she had to drop onto all-fours and crawl. She
soon reached a point where further progress would involve lying flat on her
belly and wriggling like a snake. This must have been the spot where
Dariand had been stopped.
Should I? she wondered, toying with the idea of pushing even further.
It was possible that she‘d be able to make it where a man of Dariand‘s size
couldn‘t. But what if she was wrong?
Sighing, Saria backed out until she felt the roof lifting above her
again. Then she stood and walked back down to the fork before opening her
eyes.
‗Saria!‘ Dariand‘s voice rang urgently down the passageway, just as
she reached the junction.
‗I‘m down here. By the fork.‘
Light flickered brighter as Dariand kindled his torch then slid out and
hurried down to her. He didn‘t try to hide his annoyance.
‗Bloody night spirits, girl! You scared the life out of me, vanishing
- 224 –
like that!‘
‗I just wanted a breath of air. I‘m sick of being cooped up.‘
‗It‘s not for much longer. The council should be meeting today.‘
‗When will we go down there?‘
‗You won‘t. Dreamer Wanji thinks it would be best to keep you out of
sight until everything‘s been sorted out.‘
‗But …‘
‗No. On this I agree with him. Don‘t worry, I‘ll argue your case.‘
‗I should be allowed to hear what gets said about me.‘
‗No.‘
His tone made it clear that this was the end of the discussion.
‗How far up there have you been?‘ Saria indicated the darkness from
which she‘d only recently emerged.
‗Not far. It‘s only a little way before it gets too tight. You didn‘t go
up, did you?‘
‗No,‘ she lied.
‗Good. If you got stuck …‘
‗I know. You‘d never find me.‘ It had been Dariand‘s favourite
catchcry these last few days. Now, though, with her newfound sense of
direction, Saria wasn‘t certain she agreed with him.
‗Good. Don‘t forget it, then.‘ Dariand nodded back up the
passageway. ‗Can you get yourself back if I keep going from here?‘
‗Of course.‘ Her retort came out sounding more sharp than she‘d
intended.
‗No need to be like that.‘ He grinned to let her know that he wasn‘t
truly mad. ‗I‘m gonna go and check in with Wanji. If the council meeting
starts, I might not be able to get back to you until afterwards. You‘ll be
alright?‘
‗Go,‘ she told him. He turned and walked a little way down the tunnel
before stopping and calling back to her.
‗Saria?‘
‗Yeah?‘
‗Don‘t worry about the council, eh? Whatever gets said down there,
I‘ll be looking out for you. Just promise me you‘ll wait here.‘
She didn‘t answer, just nodded. Reassured, Dariand turned and
- 225 –
continued down the sloping tunnel and out of sight. Saria watched his
torchlight fade, and breathed out loudly, the sound echoing along the stone
walls.
At least she hadn‘t needed to lie to him.
Not out loud, at any rate.
- 226 –
TWENTY SIX.
Back in the small cavern, Saria waited long enough for Dariand to get
well ahead, steeling herself for the task ahead.
There was no way she was about to let a group of old men decide her
future for her. No way at all. If Dariand wanted to argue on her behalf, that
was fine, but she was determined to hear for herself what happened down
there. Even if it meant finding her own way to the council chamber. Alone.
In the dark.
She cast a quick glance around the small chamber, toying with the
idea of making a torch. There wasn‘t much material, though, and in any case
she‘d have to extinguish it well before she emerged into the main chamber.
It would be no use at all for getting back again.
No. She‘d do it on her own.
Closing her eyes, Saria took a couple of deep breaths and let her
mental picture of the tunnels fall into place. It shouldn‘t be hard. The climb
down the fork wasn‘t at all difficult, and the fissure leading from there to the
cavern had seemed fairly straight.
Kneeling, she threw several handfuls of dried dung onto the fire,
blowing on it until it flared up. Dariand wouldn‘t have been happy with the
amount of fuel she was using, but it would give her a lot more light on the
way down. And besides, she wasn‘t planning on coming back here.
At least, not if things went well.
When she was certain Dariand would be well and truly down in the
chamber, Saria crawled out into the passage, then returned and retrieved a
half-full water-skin, slinging it across her back.
As she‘d suspected, the climb down the rough fissure to the council
chamber was simple. The stoked-up fire threw out enough dull light to
illuminate the floor during the first part of the walk, until she rounded a
shallow bend and was cut off from the direct glow. As the remaining light
grew more and more diffused, Saria closed her eyes and trailed a hand along
one wall, just as she had in the breathing tunnel, guiding herself downwards.
A hanging outcrop caught her a glancing blow on the side of her head and
she cursed softly, then continued more slowly.
- 227 –
Finally her ears picked up the murmur of voices somewhere below. At
almost the same moment the warm rock under her fingers faded to cold
muteness, and, opening her eyes, Saria found herself standing just inside the
narrow opening of the fissure, the expansive darkness of the main chamber
right in front of her. Cautiously, she poked her head through the gap.
Over towards the main entrance, lit by the flickering fire-pit, the
council sat on their stones, a new gap in the circle where Baanti had held his
position. Other people stood behind the outermost stones. She immediately
recognised Dariand by his confident stance, and a little away from him the
bulky form of Slander. None of the men looked in her direction; all stared
into the centre of the circle and the fire.
Confident that both the darkness and the men‘s concentration would
conceal her, Saria flattened herself to the floor and crept slowly forward
until she could clearly hear the discussion taking place. Dreamer Wanji was
standing by the fire in the centre of the circle, and his voice trembled with
barely concealed anger.
‗The girl‘s a Dreamer so she‘ll make her own decisions. Now you shut
up, Slander. You‘ll get your chance to speak at the proper time, but any of
you open your mouths again and you won‘t be welcome in council any
longer, understand?‘
Slander, who‘d positioned himself slightly forward of the rest of his
group, now stepped back a little into the shadows. His dark eyes flashed in
the firelight.
‗Listen up!‘ Dreamer Wanji‘s face, lit from below, was old and drawn.
He turned slowly, taking in every one of the men surrounding him. ‗You lot
all know why we‘re here. Strange things‘ve been happening since Saria
came down from the valley and a lot of bad feelings have been thrown
around. It‘s all got to stop, you hear? We start fightin‘ among ourselves and
we got no chance at all. There‘s never been war in the Darklands, not ever,
even after the Shifting. The only way we‘ve all managed is ‘cause we keep
together, and that‘s not going to change. Right?‘
Murmurs of agreement echoed around the chamber.
‗Good. We all agree. Whatever the council decides to do about the
girl, then that‘s it. No more arguing an‘ no more storming into one another‘s
towns looking for a fight.‘ The old man glared at Slander, whose only
- 228 –
response was to glower back.
‗Now, it seems to me that several people reckon they got a claim over
the girl, and we‘ll hear from them first. Then you lot can bugger off and the
council will make a decision, understand?‘
Those standing outside the stone circle nodded.
‗And I wanna make it real clear here; you can argue your case alright,
but any silly business and you‘re outa the chamber. This is a Darklands
decision, and it gets made by the council, not by any of you. You agree?‘
There was more nodding, but Dreamer Wanji shook his head,
dissatisfied.
‗I wanna hear each of you say it. If you don‘t agree, you can leave
now, eh?‘
‗I agree.‘ Dariand was the first to speak. His voice echoed around the
chamber, and Dreamer Wanji nodded.
‗Good, then. How about you?‘ He looked at Slander.
The silence grew thicker, until finally the large man nodded.
‗I agree.‘
One by one, those outside the council circle gave their consent. Then
Dreamer Wanji sat.
‗Right. Slander, you first.‘
Slander walked between the stone seats and stood in the light. The
yellow flickering seemed to wash some of the colour out of his body,
lending him the look of a ghost or night spirit.
‗You all know that after what happened to Dreamer Daali, we made
laws about this, about what‘ll happen when a Dreamer burns someone out.
And that law‘s clear. When a Dreamer burns out someone, they take on that
person‘s debts. That‘s the penalty for doing what she did to Baanti, and it
doesn‘t matter if the Dreamer is a bloke or a girl, young or old. That‘s the
law as this very council made it.‘
He paused for a moment, then pointed at Dreamer Baanti‘s vacant
stone.
‗Well, that‘s all we‘re asking for now. What the law owes us. She
burnt out Baanti, and so she takes on his burdens. His obligations to
Olympic. That‘s our claim over her, and you all know it‘s strong. If she‘s
Dreamer enough to burn out Dreamer Baanti, then she‘s Dreamer enough to
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keep Olympic alive a little longer. That‘s our right.‘
This final proclamation echoed around the chamber for a long time,
then Dreamer Gaardi spoke.
‗What you gonna do with her?‘
‗That‘s not the concern of the council. You only need to worry about
keepin‘ the law.‘
‗You gonna trade her to the Nightpeople?‘
‗If we do, it‘s not your worry.‘
‗Crap! Even if she goes across to Olympic with you lot, she‘s still the
last Dreamer. She belongs to all the Darklanders.‘
‗She‘s taken on Baanti‘s place, even his bloody dog worked that out.‘
Slander caught the brief expression of surprise that flashed across Dreamer
Wanji‘s face. ‗Oh, yeah, we know all about that. You ever hear of a
Dreamer‘s dog willingly following another?‘
‗That means nothin‘,‘ Dreamer Wanji interjected. ‗The way Dreamer
Baanti used to treat that animal, it‘s a wonder it didn‘t take off a lot earlier.‘
‗That‘s not how dogs are and you know it. That girl took Baanti‘s dog,
she took his power, and in the end she took his life. She left Olympic with
no Dreamer. That gives us a claim over her, which is all the council needs to
concern itself with.‘
With that, Slander turned his back on Dreamer Wanji and the other
Dreamers and marched back into the shadows outside the circle. Saria was
alarmed to notice that a couple of the Dreamers had spent most of his
argument nodding their agreement. Dreamer Wanji kept his face
expressionless.
‗Let‘s keep this moving along. Dariand?‘
The nightwalker stepped into the middle. He didn‘t stalk around the
fire like Slander had, but stood still in the light, facing Wanji but speaking
to everyone.
‗You all know my claim over this girl, and you all know it‘s the only
one that counts, so I won‘t waste your time re-telling old stories and
spinning a lot of rubbish.‘
And with that, he stepped back out of the light, and Saria‘s heart sank.
She thought Dariand would argue for her to stay in Woormra, but instead
there‘d been nothing, no argument at all. Across the circle, Slander was
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grinning.
‗Fair enough.‘ Dreamer Wanji stood again. ‗You lot should all clear
out now, and we‘ll make our decision. It‘ll take a while, so don‘t hang
around. Go back up top and one of us‘ll come and get you when we‘re
ready.‘
‗What about the girl?‘ Slander demanded. ‗We still don‘t know where
she is. I reckon now‘s the time to hand her over. Then if the council doesn‘t
agree with our claim, we can return her.‘
‗It‘s not gonna happen that way, Slander.‘ Dariand‘s reply was quiet
but deadly serious.
Too late to stick up for me now, Saria thought.
‗Quiet, both of you,‘ Dreamer Wanji snapped. ‗Slander, you got the
council‘s word that if the decision goes your way, we‘ll hand her over to
you safe and sound. The council‘s word has always been good enough for
others, so you‘ll just have to accept it too.‘
‗You‘d better not be messing with me, Wanji, or this town of yours‘ll
be …‘
‗Enough! Out, all of you.‘
Still muttering, the delegation from Olympic slouched towards the
entrance tunnel, a couple of them holding torches to light the way. Dariand
let them get well clear before following. Around the fire, the circle of old
men sat still and silent until the last sounds from the departing men had
faded completely. Then, sighing, Dreamer Wanji sat back on his stone seat.
‗So, whadda we do about this, eh?‘
‗Law is law, Dreamer Wanji. You said it yourself.‘
‗True, but the laws are about what‘s best for the Darklands, not just
for Slander and those who live at Olympic.‘
‗No difference, as far as I‘m concerned.‘ One old man stood slowly as
he addressed the council. ‗The Darklands are all but dead now and it‘s gotta
be time that we started accepting the fact. Pretty soon we‘re gonna need all
the strong towns and people we can muster, and no matter what you think of
Slander and that Olympic mob, they know how to survive. Hell, if they‘ve
managed to get by with Baanti as their Dreamer, they‘ll do fine with the
girl.‘
A murmur of agreement ran around the circle. Only Dreamers Wanji
- 231 –
and Gaardi shook their heads. Still concealed in darkness, a shiver ran
through Saria. She had to do something. She couldn‘t just let this group of
old men send her back to Olympic. Why hadn‘t Dariand argued more? He‘d
told her he‘d look out for her interests, and she shouldn‘t worry.
But she‘d watched his attempt at ‗looking out for her‘ and now was
more worried than ever.
Dreamer Gaardi was on his feet.
‗You send that little girl over to Olympic, you might as well just
chuck her down one of the pits here. Slander‘ll trade her off to the
Nightpeople first chance he gets.‘
‗We don‘t know that. And if he does, it‘s his right.‘
‗Crap. She‘s the last of us. And look at how that mob treated her the
first time they had her in their hands.‘
‗That was different. That was before they knew she could do
reaching.‘
‗What? You think it‘ll be any better for her now? You all know she‘s
refusing to do reaching any more. How do you reckon that‘ll go down with
Slander? Think he won‘t try and force her into it? You happy to live with
that decision, Kenjii?
‗What difference is there between them handing her over to the
Nightpeople, and you letting her go haring off into the desert chasing some
imaginary ―call‖?‘ Kenjii retorted. ‗You reckon the Nightpeople aren‘t
gonna find her there? At least if we send her off to Olympic, then the
Darklands might get some benefit from it.‘
A long silence fell over the group. Saria craned her neck, trying to see
their faces, but most were hidden in shadows. The only person she could
make out with any degree of clarity was Dreamer Wanji, who kept his
expression as blank as possible.
‗There‘s no benefit in it for us if she isn‘t comfortable with what she
can do, fellas,‘ Dreamer Wanji replied. ‗We all know that. You can‘t reach
properly unless you can do it like breathing. But after everything that‘s
happened to her in the last couple of weeks, Saria reckons that every time
she touches the Earthmother, or lets the Earthmother touch her, she ends up
hurting something. So it‘s no wonder she sees things the way she does. How
many of us have ever burned someone out?‘
- 232 –
Around the circle, the other men‘s gazes met Dreamer Wanji‘s evenly.
‗You know the answer to that, Dreamer Wanji.‘ Saria couldn‘t
identify the speaker.
‗I do. And so do you. None of us. Ent any of you, or me either, for that
matter, can understand what it‘s like to burn the spirit out of someone. None
of us know how that feels, because only two Dreamers have ever done it.
The first of them was Dreamer Baanti, and we saw what effect that first
burning had on him. He ended up being a bloody useless Dreamer, more of
a danger to himself and others, and that‘s why now he‘s buried outside this
town. And we all know why he ended up that way — because we never let
him understand his power. After what he did to old Dalii, we were all too
scared to really let him get under the skin of it and touch the Earthmother
properly. So he never did. The only other one who‘s ever burned someone
out is Saria, and now she‘s headed exactly the same way as Dreamer Baanti.
Is that what we want, eh?‘
None of the council answered.
‗You listen to me. That girl‘s a Dreamer. She‘s gonna reach, and she‘s
gonna do it strong. I‘ve never seen anyone go as far out through the
Earthmother as she did. Hell, she got out past the bloody Shifting House,
and who here can ever claim to have done that, eh? She‘s gonna reach, one
way or another, and it‘s up to us to decide whether we want her to be in
control of herself when it happens, or not. That‘s what we‘re decidin‘ here.
We send her over to Olympic, and we might as well just dress her up as
Baanti, ‘cause that‘s what she‘s gonna become. You mark my words.‘
A heavy silence fell over the assembled group. The men who‘d earlier
nodded their way through Slander‘s argument now sat still. None made eye
contact with any of the others. All stared either down at the dirt floor of the
cavern or into the flickering light of the fire-pit. And Dreamer Wanji let
them sit like that for what seemed an age, considering the full implications
of his words, before finally standing and walking in a slow circle around the
fire-pit.
‗You let that girl follow this ―call‖ of hers and she‘ll reach. She‘ll
have to. But she‘ll be reaching for something she wants, so it‘ll sit good
with her. It might open her mind up to the possibility that all reaching‘s not
a bad thing. It‘ll make a Dreamer of her, and a damn powerful one. Trust me
- 233 –
on that. But if we send her over to Olympic and let Slander and that mob of
no-goods try and bend her to their will, all we‘ll end up with is another
Dreamer Baanti. Or worse.‘
Saria almost rushed over and hugged the old man. He‘d convinced
them. Most of the council now looked doubtful. Only a couple still shook
their heads. She took a couple of deep breaths and tried not to let herself get
too excited.
‗You‘re not giving us much of a choice here, Dreamer Wanji,‘
Dreamer Kenjii finally announced, his voice almost accusing.
‗That‘s ‘cause there isn‘t one. At least, not so far as I can see.‘
‗So we let her go off with Dariand, then. And that‘s it?‘
‗Not straightaway. I‘ll keep tryin‘ with her a bit longer, first.‘
‗And if she still refuses to reach for you?‘
Dreamer Wanji shrugged.
‗Then we let her go. I don‘t know what this ―call‖ is that she talks
about, but it‘s mighty powerful, that‘s for sure. I reckon it‘ll draw her into
the Earthmother better than anything I can do.‘
There was one last long pause.
‗Anyone still want to vote on this?‘
Nobody answered, and finally Dreamer Wanji allowed himself to
smile. Seeing that, Saria felt the tension that had gripped her stomach begin
to finally unclench.
‗Good. Dreamer Gaardi, you wanna go up and get Dariand and
Slander?‘
‗No need.‘ Slander‘s voice, low and malicious, floated from the
shadows on the other side of the chamber from Saria. ‗I didn‘t go all that
far.‘
The old men in the centre twisted around on their seats, trying to get a
bearing on where Slander had hidden himself, but most were fire-blind in
the darkness, and the strange acoustics of the vast underground cavern made
the Olympic headman‘s voice echo and refract off the angled walls. ‗I had a
feelin‘ that you‘d try and pull something like this, Wanji. You‘ve always
been a bit predictable that way.‘
‗You got no business being down here while the council is meeting,
Slander.‘ Wanji‘s voice was little more than a hiss.
- 234 –
Slander laughed.
‗Hah! I got as much right to be here as any of you, ‘specially now that
this council‘s taken to ignoring law and to makin‘ up its own rules.‘
‗If you‘ve been listening, then you know the reasons for our decision.‘
‗Enough talk!‘ Slander snapped. ‗Now, you lot have got one chance
here. I imagine that by now my lads up top will have dealt with Dariand and
the other troublemakers in this crappy little town, so when you get back up
top — if you get back up top — you‘re gonna find things a bit different in
the plains.‘ Saria‘s skin prickled cold at the threat in his voice. ‗I‘m givin‘
you all one chance, right now, to make a decision — the right decision this
time — on the matter of the girl. You wanna have any chance of seeing
daylight again, all you gotta do is vote as the law says you should.‘
‗You‘re a fool, Slander.‘
‗And you‘re a weak old man who‘s pissing himself in the dark!‘
Slander retorted. ‗Now, who‘s for letting the girl go wandering off into the
plains with Dariand, eh? Come on! Now‘s your chance. You wanna support
this old madman? This is it.‘
For a moment everything froze. Dreamer Wanji stayed standing and
nobody else moved. Around the council circle, old men sat, a couple
looking angry but most with their eyes downcast. Then, very slowly,
Dreamer Gaardi climbed to his feet.
‗I vote with Dreamer Wanji.‘ He spoke softly, but the words rang off
the stone walls.
‗That‘s one.‘ The malice in Slander‘s voice was giving way to a kind
of delighted amusement. ‗Any more?‘
Nobody else moved.
‗Looks like that‘s it, then.‘
‗That‘s not how this council makes decisions,‘ Dreamer Wanji
growled.
‗It is now.‘
From the darkness came a soft ‗swishing‘ noise, followed by a sharp
‗snap‘ and Dreamer Wanji‘s head whipped backwards, blood gouting from
his temple. The old man stayed upright a moment longer, swaying slightly,
and then his old body folded in on itself, as though melting into the floor of
the cavern.
- 235 –
Saria jammed a knuckle into her mouth and bit down on it hard to
keep herself from screaming. The rest of the Dreamers were on their feet in
a rush.
‗SIT DOWN!‘ roared Slander from the darkness, and the old men‘s
shouts died. Only Dreamer Gaardi knelt beside Dreamer Wanji. Saria,
who‘d half stood, intending to rush to the old man‘s side, forced herself
back to the floor, choking back tears.
Keep calm! she thought. Stay quiet! Dreamer Wanji was beyond help
and there was no sense giving herself away until she knew what she was
getting into. Slowly, agonisingly, she pushed her concern and grief for the
old man down again, making herself breathe long, silent, deep lungfuls of
the dusty cave air.
Over beside the fire, Slander had finally stepped into the light. A long
leather sling dangled nonchalantly from his hand. He walked confidently
into the middle of the circle, the flickering glow illuminating a cold, dark
smile on his face.
‗Don‘t think I‘m down here alone, either, you lot. I get trouble from
any of you, and …‘ He left the rest of the threat unvoiced and instead turned
his attention to Dreamer Gaardi, who was trying to roll Dreamer Wanji onto
his back.
‗You feel like changing your vote now, Dreamer Gaardi? You got this
one opportunity. Or would you rather end up like your mate here?‘ He
nudged Dreamer Wanji‘s prone form with his toe.
For a long time Dreamer Gaardi stared up into Slander‘s eyes, meeting
the larger man‘s stare evenly. Slander let the leather slingshot swing gently
from his fingers. Then finally Dreamer Gaardi climbed back to his feet.
‗You do what you want, Slander.‘ He spat the words as he turned and
took a couple of steps back towards his stone. ‗You‘ll get no argument from
me.‘
‗Didn‘t think I would.‘ Slander‘s grin increased and he half-turned
away from the old Dreamer, but Dreamer Gaardi hadn‘t finished speaking.
‗You‘ve made a big mistake, though.‘
‗Have I?‘
Now the beginnings of a smile crept to the corners of Dreamer
Gaardi‘s mouth.
- 236 –
‗You just killed the only man in this room who knows where that girl
is. So you better hope your boys up there haven‘t been too rough on
Dariand, ‘cause otherwise you just landed yourself in a whole pile of
problems.‘
Even though her anger, Saria was pleased to see how quickly the
smile faded from Slander‘s face.
‗Crap! Arnu, get back up top and find out what‘s goin‘ on with
Dariand. No, get him brought down here. Now!‘
From the main entry came the clicking tap of firestones, then a torch
flickered into life.
‗Hurry up!‘ Slander yelled at the man.
Arnu vanished up the entrance passageway, his torch throwing a
curved beam of light ahead of him.
Saria!
Even through the cold dead floor of the cave, the call reached into her.
Nightwards. That was where she had to go.
Now that Dreamer Wanji was dead, and probably Dariand too, it was
all she had left.
Follow it.
SARIA!
The surge left an echo in her mind, an imprint which lingered long
after the initial pulse of it had died away.
Nightwards.
Slowly, silently, barely breathing and never taking her eyes off
Slander, Saria crept backwards through the dark towards the fissure.
- 237 –
TWENTY SEVEN.
The whispering of the breathing tunnel washed over her. Saria stared
up into it, fighting her fear back down to the same place as her despair.
There was no other way.
Ahead of her, the narrow confines of the tunnel yawned off into inky
nothing. If she turned her head just slightly, she could still look up the other
passage to where the last dull light from the fire in the sleeping chamber still
spilled out, trickling down the stone floor towards her like a cascade of
water. There was nothing like that up the breathing tunnel.
She had no other option, though. There‘d be no way of getting past
Slander in the main cavern, and who knew how many men he still had
hidden in the darkness there.
And even if she did, she‘d still have to find her way back up to the
entrance tunnel, alone and in the dark, then somehow get out of Woormra.
No. The breathing tunnel was her only chance. At least the moving air
meant that somewhere up there it reached the surface. All she had to do was
follow it to that place and then she‘d be safe.
Or at least, free.
Taking a final glimpse at the reassuring warmth of the firelight up the
passage, Saria took a deep breath and stepped forward into the tight
darkness of the left-hand passage.
As before, she trailed her hand along the rough wall as she moved
forwards and upwards, drawing what little comfort she could from the
trembling pulse of earthwarmth there. Before long, she reached the point
where the roof angled sharply downwards and she had to duck her head, fall
to her knees, and crawl forward. In just moments she‘d reached the place
where she‘d stopped on her previous expedition, the point where Dariand
had been blocked.
Like last time, she couldn‘t shake the feeling that there was something
more just ahead, that she could fit through if she wanted too. Closing her
eyes, she stretched her arms out and explored the passageway as best she
could, then, scrabbling her legs behind her to find a couple of toeholds, she
gently eased herself forward below the hanging roof. The stone above
- 238 –
pressed tighly into the small of her back, pushing her down against the floor,
but then abruptly the passage widened out again.
Blindly, Saria reached around, groping through the darkness. She was
in a chamber about half the size of the one she‘d slept in. The roof hung
low, and when she tried to stand she was rewarded with a sharp blow which
made bright flashes burst behind her eyes.
On hands and knees, she explored the small space, eyes straining.
There were two openings. The first, larger one opened up at floor level,
disappearing behind a boulder. She was about to crawl into it when she
discovered the second.
It led upwards from her left, even narrower than the one through
which she had just come. The faint whistle of air through it made her
decision for her, and after a moment‘s hesitation she unslung her water-skin,
which had almost snagged on the way through that first tight opening,
shoved it ahead of her, then wriggled behind it.
She had to lie flat with her chin tucked into her chest. If the tunnel
became any narrower she‘d be stuck. Still, she pushed the water-skin
carefully, not wanting to risk catching and tearing it on a sharp rock, and
followed it up.
The tunnel went on and on, always upwards, and several times Saria
paused for a rest, her breathing heavy. During her third break she realised
something was different: the feeling of the rock itself. The further she
climbed away from the cold walls of the council chamber and its Skypeople
tunnels, the more easily the earthwarmth pulsed through the ground. Any
contact with the stone, even as it scraped and gouged at her, brought with it
a tiny thrill of contact, a sense of energy coursing around her body.
Working in pitch blackness, she wriggled up the tiny fissure by touch
alone. The only sensation that held off panic was the constant, cool flow of
air onto her face. Other than that, she felt like some kind of snake or lizard,
sliding blind through the belly of the Earthmother.
Without warning the stone pressed in again, wedging her in place. She
tried to slide backwards but it was futile. Angled ridges dug hard into her
flesh and held her secure, the same way that the barbed ends of Gan‘s spear
had stopped fish from wriggling off and escaping.
Saria let her body go limp. Her cheek fell against the hard floor and a
- 239 –
warm trickle of blood worked down the side of her leg. She instinctively
tried to reach back and brush at the source of the blood, but couldn‘t twist
far enough
The darkness was suffocating. Choking, gasping, with the sound of
her own tight breathing bouncing back to her from every surface, Saria
forced herself back towards calmness, until eventually her breathing settled
into a regular rhythm.
She might even have slept for a while, but then she was awake and the
rock wasn‘t hard any more, but soft and warm. Suddenly the ground wasn‘t
pinning her but was cradling, holding her. Earthwarmth surged through her
and the stone was pliable. She reached forward and pulled and the ground
seemed to slip aside and let her through, to close behind her and push, and
she slid forwards easily out of the grip of the tunnel, into the free coolness
of another chamber. A large one.
‗Hello?‘ Her voice trembled. Something about this chamber gave it a
different quality. It was strangely reassuring.
‗Hey!‘ It didn‘t sound like the council chamber, where the hard,
faceted walls would refract and echo. Here, her voice was absorbed by the
size of the space. And the air was still. For the first time since slipping into
the breathing tunnel, Saria couldn‘t feel air moving against her cheeks. She
was in a cavern large enough to take away the breeze.
After a couple of hesitant steps out into the space she stopped. From
the darkness came another sound, a new one, almost a whisper and a long
way ahead: the faint clamour of trickling water.
It was easier to crawl, she quickly discovered. On hands and knees the
sensation that she might suddenly lose her balance and topple into the dark
abated, and slowly she inched across the stone floor, her eyes shut tight,
concentrating on that distant splash, her fingers tracing tiny hollows in the
stone.
She thought about all the people she had been with these last few
weeks. Faces and voices swam into her vision: Ma Lee stroking her hair,
Dariand hauling her onto his shoulder for that dash across Silver Lake, Gan
and her camels and her dead child, the hollow eyes of Dreamer Baanti and
the living ones of Darri.
The sound of the bubbling trickle grew louder until the noise began to
- 240 –
chime softly off the walls and roof, and her probing fingers began to detect
tiny pools of moisture on the floor.
She rolled onto her back, staring up. The darkness didn‘t seem quite as
thick, not as complete. With a start, she sat upright.
There was light. Just the faintest glimmer across the high stone roof,
but enough to throw a dull silver sheen, which after so long in complete
darkness almost burned her eyes. It took a few moments to focus, but it
quickly became clear that the light was coming from somewhere ahead,
from the same direction as the trickling water. Spurred on, Saria stood and
began walking carefully.
She found her way blocked by an enormous pile of rocks and rubble
which towered over her. She traced back and forth along the length of the
blockage, and established that it extended for the entire width of the cavern.
A huge section of the roof must have fallen, effectively transforming what
had once been a single huge cavern into two smaller ones, in the process
shutting out most of the light. At the moment, she was on the wrong side of
that rock wall.
Seeing no alternative, Saria found a handhold and began to climb.
The barrier was steep and little more than loose scree which crumbled
beneath her grasp and slipped from under her feet. If she fell, not only
would she hurt herself but there was a good chance sections of the wall
would come down on top of her. Climbing slowly, testing each handhold
and foothold, Saria picked her way towards the distant, shimmering ceiling.
At the top of the rock-fall there was only a narrow gap between it and
the roof of the cavern. Light seeped through like a silver thread against the
darkness. The sound of the water was much louder, and cool, moist air blew
through the slit. Saria began to carefully pull some smaller rocks out of the
opening, widening it so she‘d be able to slip through into the light and,
hopefully, to the surface.
It took a long time. The blockage proved wide, and at the top of the
pile, without the constant press of tonnes of rocks, the scree was so loosely
packed that often as she removed one rock four or five others would tumble
into its place. She persisted, and as the light was beginning to fade she
pushed the last small boulder out of the way. It tumbled into the illuminated
cavern and landed with a splash.
- 241 –
At last the space was big enough for Saria to crawl through. She
wriggled forward and looked down into a cavern smaller than the previous
one. The vaulted roof was festooned with long fingers of white stone which
hung towards the floor far below. The space was almost completely round,
and the rock-fall she had tunnelled through fell away into a lake of dark
water which filled almost the entire bottom of the chamber. Only a narrow
shelf of rock ran around the edge, hugging the walls in a full circle.
The light lanced down in a tight beam from a hole in the roof on the
far side of the lake. It looked almost solid, a dazzling, bright spike casting a
small, shimmering circle on the water and throwing dancing reflections high
onto the stone walls. Saria almost cried with frustration. The hole in the roof
was too far up. There‘d be no way she could reach it, no escape there.
Climbing down in the light was much easier than going up in the dark.
Saria knelt by the lake and sluiced handfuls of water over her face and
through her hair. The water was icy, but it was good to wash the sweat and
dust from her skin. Then slowly she made her way around the dry shelf of
rock towards the beam of light.
The lake was fed by a small stream that ran down the same wall she
had tunnelled through. When the roof had fallen, it must have brought an
underground stream with it, which over the years had been slowly filling the
cavern. It was impossible to tell how deep the water in the lake might be;
the light bounced off the surface like a mirror, and the water could have
been a shallow puddle no deeper than her ankles, or a bottomless pit.
She wanted to stand in the light, to look up and see the dayvault, even
distantly. To do that, though, she would have to wade into that black,
fathomless water. Making her way slowly around the perimeter, she stopped
where the light beam was closest.
The water was so still it appeared solid. Saria removed her shoes and
hesitantly lowered one foot into the dark surface.
The cold wrapped itself around her ankle, gripping it with icy fingers,
and she had to stop herself from snatching it out again. But there was
slippery rock beneath her toes and gingerly she lowered her other foot.
For a long time she stood, watching the circular ripples she‘d created
slide across the surface until they bounced off the far side. Then she slid one
foot forwards, using her toes to explore the floor of the lake. She had visions
- 242 –
of stepping off a concealed cliff, of the bottom dropping away and her
plunging deep into that icy darkness. She focused on the light and inched
her way towards it, going deeper and deeper.
By the time she had covered only half the distance, the water was well
over her thighs, thoroughly soaking her robe.
The lake seemed to level out at waist-deep. She waded out until she
stood at the edge of the circle of light and, shivering, reached out a hand,
allowing the light to play over it. Her skin seemed to glow in the beam and
she flexed her fingers, bathing them in the slightly warm luminosity.
Looking up, she could see the hole in the ceiling. Far above was a
narrow, circular tunnel, which started at the roof of the cavern and ran
straight up towards the surface. Beyond it, the dayvault was a tiny circle of
deepening blue. So close, but at the same time so distant. It might have been
another world for all the chance she had of getting to it.
Her robe billowed around her, floating. Tears filled her eyes and she
lifted her hand to wipe them away … then suddenly froze.
Voices. Saria thought at first that she must be dreaming again, but
men‘s voices floated into the cavern, disembodied. It took a moment for her
to realise they weren‘t in her imagination.
She peered up again. The brightness of the tiny hole hurt her eyes and
she had to squint against it, holding up one hand to shield some of the glare.
There were shapes up there, people leaning over the edge.
Then something came swinging into the shaft towards her. A tin
bucket, tied securely to a long, knotted rope, and her heart leapt in sudden
understanding.
Her first instinct was to shout out, to yell for help.
But where would that get me? she thought. Back to the surface, but
into the waiting hands of Slander’s men. Back to Olympic.
So she didn‘t yell. The bucket swung down and plonked into the lake
beside her, sinking into the surface and beginning to fill. Saria watched,
remembering the heavy boulders that anchored the rope at the top, boulders
that would easily support her weight, if only there was some way to keep the
rope down here. She toyed with the idea of grabbing the rope and holding
on, but even if she managed to anchor it for a while, she knew they‘d simply
put more people onto it until she was either hoisted up or lost her grip.
- 243 –
Filled now, the bucket jerked slowly upwards. Droplets of water
splashed as it swung, catching the light like falling vaultlights. Saria
watched it go. Then she became aware that she was shivering and she
waded carefully from the lake.
Three more times she watched the bucket drop down and fill, and each
time she had to resist the urge to shout. Eventually, the distant echo of
voices faded, and she was alone again.
Slowly she eased around the rock shelf until it vanished where the
stream ran down the rockfall. Here, one of the large stone fingers from the
roof had fallen and lay on its side. Saria ran her hand over it. The stone had
a smooth, slippery feel. The piece was longer than her arm, thick at one end,
but tapering down to a rounded point no wider than her finger. The thick
end, where it had broken off from the roof, was rough and uneven. It was
also surprisingly heavy. Saria tried to pick it up, but was unable. When she
pushed it, however, it rolled just a little and soon Saria was manoeuvring the
long finger of stone along the rock shelf. When she reached the point at
which she had entered the water earlier, she set about rolling the stone into
the lake, out to the light.
She had been so focused on moving the stone that she hadn‘t noticed
how dark it was becoming. The dayvault was fading and soon it would be as
dark by the lake as it had been in the cavern on the other side of the rockfall. She wondered what was happening up in Woormra, now that Slander
was in charge. If he was letting people go about their usual routines, then a
few would come to the well at the end of the day to get a last load of water
for the evening. Assuming they did, it would be her last chance to get hold
of the rope. Otherwise she‘d have to wait until the following night.
In the water the stone was difficult to move. At first she was able to
push it using her feet, but it soon became too deep to get sufficient purchase.
Finally, she waded back to the edge and pulled off her dress.
Back in the darkening lake, she ignored the cold and the sensation of
fear as the water closed around her. Soon she tripped on the submerged
stone, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and plunged down.
The coldness made her gasp and the air burst from her, silvery bubbles
sliding to the surface, but she was able to reach down, work her fingers
under the heavy stone and roll it a decent distance across the bottom of the
- 244 –
lake.
By the time she was standing almost directly beneath the well, the
pointed stone column under her feet, the dayvault had faded to a deep purple
and a couple of vaultlights were visible through the opening. Saria kept her
gaze locked on them. The icy water chilled her to her core, the sensation
bringing back to her the memory of a coldblood cooling in the twilight. The
longer she stood waiting, the colder she became. Shivers shuddered through
her body as it tried in vain to warm itself.
She wondered how much longer she‘d be able to stand there before
she‘d need to get out of the water and warm up. Above her the well tunnel
had almost vanished now, the ceiling of the cave blending with the black of
the nightvault. Only the two tiny vaultlights directly above her gave any
indication of where the hole opened up.
Slander and his men must be keeping everyone away from the well.
Nobody was coming.
‗Well, lower it down there, idiot!‘
The voice floated down from above and rang around the chamber.
Startled, Saria strained her eyes upwards into the gloom, and detected the
vaguest hint of movement somewhere near the roof of the cave. Her toes
curled reassuringly against the sunken rock.
When the bucket arrived at the pool, Saria grabbed the rope, pulling
gently to give the impression that the weight of the bucket was still on the
line. Whoever was lowering the rope continued to pay out slack into the
darkness, until finally, once a large loop was floating on the surface around
her, she let go.
‗It‘s bloody deep!‘ A different voice rang around the chamber. The
men must have been looking directly down the well for their voices to carry
so clearly.
‗Good water, though.‘
‗Yeah. No wonder Slander‘d rather have this place for us.‘
‗Chuck a couple of rocks down and see how deep it goes, eh?‘
Saria‘s eyes widened in horror as from above came the clatter of a
stone against the walls of the well tunnel. She stared up, trying to see the
falling rock before it landed on her. Seconds later a boulder about the size of
her fist plonked into the water right beside her. Breathing a quick sigh of
- 245 –
relief, she ducked under the water. She had to work quickly now, before the
men tried retracting the bucket.
Extending the loop ahead of her, she probed with her free hand to find
the narrow, pointed end of the rock, then worked the rope underneath,
sliding it towards the thick end and wedging it tightly between the rock and
the floor of the lake.
Two more times she ducked under, each time working the rope further
and further back until, as she was about to dive for the fourth time, the slack
went out of it.
‗You want a hand?‘
‗Yeah,‘ the other man grunted. ‗It‘s bloody heavy!‘
Saria held on to the knotted leather, adding her weight to that of the
stone. The rope jerked and flicked in her hands as the two men yanked
furiously, throwing their combined weight onto it. A curse floated down.
‗Does it do this all the time?‘
‗Buggered if I know.‘
‗Hang on. I‘ll go get Arri.‘
A couple of moments later the tugging restarted, even stronger now.
Saria clung on as the rock below her shifted. She held her breath. If the rope
came out, she was lost; she‘d never be able to hold it against the combined
strength of three men. Eventually, though, the bizarre tug-of-war ended and
the rope went slack.
‗What d‘ya reckon?‘
‗Dunno. Pretty bloody snagged, I‘d say.‘
‗Probably that boulder you threw down there, you idiot.‘
‗You told me to do it.‘
‗So whadda we do, eh? Slander‘s gonna kill us.‘
‗If he finds out.‘
‗Eh?‘
‗Let‘s just take off and leave it. He‘ll think some of the Woormra mob
got out and did it. Let him take it out on them. That‘s what I reckon.‘
‗Good thinkin‘.‘
‗You two got enough water for the night?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗Let‘s make ourselves scarce, then.‘
- 246 –
The voices faded.
It took all of Saria‘s self-control not to go clambering straight up the
rope. But she knew it was still far too early. She‘d wait until the middle of
the night before making her ascent. She stood shivering in the water for
quite a while longer, just in case someone else came along and tried the
rope. Eventually, the numbing coldness of the water was too much, and she
left the rope snagged securely beneath the stone and waded back to the
edge.
Standing in the water for so long had left her skin wrinkled and
creased, and the moment she was out of it she sank onto the stone shelf and
set about rubbing some feeling back into her toes and feet. The throb of
blood returning sent shudders of pain the length of her legs. Once she was
satisfied that sensation had completely returned, she pulled her still-damp
clothes back over her head and sat and waited.
The faint illumination cast by the vaultlights down the narrow neck of
the well was enough to throw a dull shimmer off the surface of the
underground pool. As the last tremors of her efforts with the rope slowly
undulated forward and backwards across the gleaming water, it again took
on a solid appearance, looking smooth and hard and unlike anything else in
the Darklands.
The darkness played with her, turning her thoughts again and again to
things she was trying to push to the back of her mind. No matter how hard
she tried, the soft ‗thunk‘ of the stone as it connected with Dreamer Wanji‘s
temple still rang clearly in her memory, as did the sight of the old man
folding as though his bones had suddenly become as insubstantial as the
water in the lake.
Perhaps he was okay. Perhaps he’d only been knocked out.
The thought brought little comfort. Dreamer Gaardi had pronounced
him dead, after all.
And Dariand. She hardly dared think about what might have happened
to him. Could he have managed to escape Slander‘s men and be waiting for
her up there, waiting to take her away?
What if he wasn‘t? Saria was suddenly aware that she had no idea
what she was going to do if she managed to get up the rope. If everyone was
gone, or dead, or captured, what choices would she have? Where would she
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go?
SARIA!
She must have fallen asleep, because when the call woke her the
chamber was lit by a pale silver beam of moonlight, angling down the well.
SARIA!
It came again, and the rock around her sang in her mind.
Nightwards.
She‘d go nightwards, of course. Hoping it was late enough, Saria
knotted the laces of her shoes around her neck and slung the water-skin over
her shoulder, then waded into the lake for what she hoped would be the last
time.
Taking a moment to refill her water-skin, Saria first unsnagged the
rope and bucket from the stone, then began to pull herself upwards.
Desperation and adrenaline made the climb surprisingly easy. The full
bucket on the bottom stopped the rope from swinging around too much and
the knots and loops provided effective hand and footholds. She shimmied
upwards, her eyes on the pale silver circle of the nightvault, which grew
steadily closer. After only a couple of minutes she reached the roof of the
cavern, where it entered the bottom of the well.
The well was only slightly wider than her shoulders, and the walls
slimy with damp and moss. The taste of the air became drier and more dusty
as she approached the top. Muscles burning, she reached one hand out over
the low stone lip of the well, then the other and pulled herself clear, out into
the open air.
She dropped onto the muddy dirt of the common, lying on her back
and gasping. Through the pain in her arms and the relief in her mind, she
felt as if she had come out of the belly of the Earthmother a different person
from the one who had crouched hidden in the council chamber the day
before.
As though hearing her thoughts, earthwarmth surged through her.
Above her, millions of vaultlights were alive and swimming through
the night. After lying and gazing into the inky depths of the nightvault for a
few minutes longer, she forced herself to her feet again. The longer she
lingered in Woormra, the more chance she had of being caught.
Dariand‘s hut was deserted, which wasn‘t surprising. She allowed
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herself a moment‘s concern for him. Perhaps she should try and find him
before she left — at least try to find out what they‘d done with him.
She pushed the thought back. Dariand would be the first to tell her to
leave as fast as possible.
All the same, the thought of what Slander might have done — or be
doing — to Dariand made her chest tighten. As hard as she tried not to, she
remembered the touch of his lips when he‘d kissed her forehead, and the
feeling of his arms around her when he‘d hugged her. Something about him
made her feel secure, and now the knowledge that he might be dead, like
Dreamer Wanji, like the dog …
Saria held back the tears. She would be strong.
SARIA!
The call was different now, too. Her journey through the caves had
done something to her, attuned her to it. It flowed into her more sharply, and
in turn she found herself making less effort to resist it.
But the memory of Dreamer Baanti, and the dog, and what her
reaching had done to both of them, was still clear in her mind. And the call
was a part of it. No matter how tempting it was to simply fall into that flow
of energy and let it fill her, she was determined to hold herself against it.
Resolutely, Saria reset her mental barriers and pushed the call away.
She raided what was left of Dariand‘s food supply, gorging herself
and taking all the dried meat she could carry.
Then, water-skin slung behind, shoes re-laced, she slid back out
around the side of the hut and wound through the alleyways, working
towards the edge of the town. Around her there was an almost deathly
silence hanging. Even the huts which should have been inhabited with old
people snoring their way through the night were dead and empty. It was
almost a relief to pass into the ring of unused huts — at least she was used
to them being empty. She let herself relax slightly and move more
confidently, and was lucky that she heard the men before they detected her.
‗Hey!‘
‗What?‘
‗You hear something?‘
Saria barely had time to melt into the shadows and freeze before two
shapes emerged into the alleyway ahead of her.
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‗Nah. What‘d it sound like?‘
She knew the voices. It was the two men who‘d lowered the bucket
earlier that night.
‗Someone running. But real quiet, like.‘
Saria held her breath and willed herself not to twitch. Around her the
night seemed to stand still also.
‗You‘re imaginin‘ things. There ent nobody here, and we ent gonna
find anyone either, eh?‘
The second man didn‘t try to hide the disgruntled tone in his voice.
‗Still, Slander said we gotta look …‘
‗Slander‘s gone crazy. He shouldn‘t have killed that Dreamer, if you
ask me. That‘s never a good idea. And now he‘s lost the girl, too.‘
‗Lost her?‘
‗Yeah. Why‘d you reckon we‘re searchin‘ all these bloody huts in the
dark, eh? Only ones that knew where she was were Dreamer Wanji and
Dariand. An‘ then Slander goes and kills the old man.‘
‗Yeah, but Dariand will tell …‘
‗Ah, rubbish, Arri. That nightwalker won‘t give Slander a thing.‘
‗He might.‘
‗Even Slander won‘t get the truth outa Dariand. Not where that girl‘s
concerned, anyway.‘
Saria‘s heart thumped in her chest. Dariand was alive. That was
something. The two men were moving away from her now, towards the next
hut. Their voices faded as their last words floated through the still night.
‗How come?‘
‗He‘s got an ―interest‖ in her, let‘s just say.‘
‗Ah …‘
There was something odd in the way the first man spoke, but she
didn‘t have time to worry about it. Once they‘d disappeared, Saria gave
them a good amount of time before moving again herself, this time keeping
her steps silent and light, as Dariand had taught her.
He was alive! The knowledge sent a tingle of joy through her. And if
she knew Dariand, he‘d keep Slander and his lot occupied long enough for
her to get away. Then he‘d do the same himself.
The final huts loomed in front of her, and Saria stopped in their
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shadows, waiting to be certain she was alone. Ahead, the desert stretched,
rising in a gentle slope to where the moon was hanging low above the
nightwards horizon.
For a moment she toyed with the idea of ignoring the call. She thought
about turning her steps dayward, back across the plains towards the valley,
and home. But what would be the point? It wasn‘t home any more. Ma Lee
had sent her away once. And Dreamer Wanji had died so she‘d have a
chance to follow the call. A chance to continue nightwards.
Saria!
The call came with a surge of heat through her shoes, echoing her
thoughts. It came like another mind pressing gently into her own.
Surrendering, Saria lowered herself to the ground, pressing her cheek into
the hard dirt. Energy pulsed through her and it was difficult to tear herself
away and set off again, to feel the warmth fade to a distant glow through her
soles.
At the top of the slope, she stopped and looked back. Woormra
crouched, still and lifeless, in its shallow depression, slumbering uneasily
through the night. She remembered imagining it on the journey here with
Dariand. Then it had seemed exciting, a place of answers. Now, though, she
was glad to be leaving.
Out beyond the daywards horizon she caught a flicker of light as a
Nightpeople patrol swung through the vault, but it was too distant for even
the faintest hum to reach her, so she didn‘t allow it to concern her. Then she
turned her back on Woormra for the final time.
She knew where she was going. The Darkedge. Once there, she‘d find
a way across. She‘d find Jani, her mother. She‘d answer the call.
She fell into the steady gait that Dariand had taught her and the desert
slipped quietly past.
- 251 –
TWENTY EIGHT.
Something was different. Saria stopped and turned, taking in the
landscape.
Under the moonlight, the desert was still and silent. The land, which
would glow red during the harsh light of day, slept in muted tones of silver
and black. Not a breath of air moved, not a sound disturbed the quiet.
And yet something was different.
Behind her, Saria‘s tracks were little more than faint scuffles of dust.
When she‘d started walking at dusk, the ground had been relatively easy
underfoot, the sand soft. As she‘d walked, though, it had grown steadily
harder until she was walking on solid stone with just the faintest dusting of
dirt covering it.
Again she turned, scanning the land. Nothing. There was no indication
of anything or anybody nearby, but still she found it impossible to shake the
sense that there had been some shift, some fundamental change. As though
she was somehow even more alone than before.
She caught herself wishing that there was a creature nearby,
something into which she could sink, something whose landsense she could
borrow to scan the landscape much further out than she herself could
manage. She wished the dog was still with her, trotting beside her, its mind
open and willing, its senses hers if she wanted to borrow them. Then the
memory of how she‘d touched its mind at that last moment sent a prickle of
coldness through her, and the empty eyes of Dreamer Baanti flashed into her
thoughts.
With a conscious effort, Saria stopped herself thinking about reaching.
She would never reach into anything again. Animal or human.
Saria!
Even the call, which grew stronger the further nightwards she walked,
and the press of earthwarmth it brought with it, even that was a compromise
she wasn‘t entirely comfortable with. And yet she couldn‘t fight it. She
couldn‘t shut it out like she could the urge to reach, so she knew she‘d have
to learn to accept it. Perhaps in time she‘d even be able to draw strength
from it again.
- 252 –
She took a small drink from her water-skin, which was still half full,
thanks to careful rationing. She‘d have to find water soon, sometime in the
next couple of days, or she‘d be in trouble. She couldn‘t go back. Not to
Woormra, or anywhere behind her. Even without the call drawing her
nightwards, it would be impossible to return. The further she travelled, the
more convinced she became of that.
She was the last child of the Darklands, the last Dreamer, and when
she‘d walked away from Woormra she knew she‘d taken hope with her. Her
only option now was to follow the path she‘d chosen to its end, wherever
that might be.
Somewhere behind her, the thrumming pulse of a hummer throbbed
out of the nightvault, and Saria turned slowly, scanning the daywards
horizon for any sign of it. There was nothing, only the slowly rising whine
which floated across the sand and vibrated lightly through her clothes.
Wherever the patrol was, it wasn‘t advertising itself.
This was new.
Since leaving Woormra, there‘d been plenty of patrols — so many
she‘d almost become inured to them. The first time a hummer had filled the
night with its sound, not long after she‘d walked into the desert, Saria had
stayed frozen for ages, crouched below a clump of spiny desert grass.
Now, she didn‘t even bother to stop walking unless she could actually
see the Nightpeople coming her way, which hadn‘t happened very often.
The patrols‘ paths seemed to take them across her own, a long way either
ahead or behind. None had run along her nightwards track, and so none had
given her much cause for concern.
Until now.
This hummer was closer than any since that first night, and
approaching too, by the sound of it. But unlike the others, there was no
telltale thread of a nightsun probing ahead, no light at all. Just that eerie,
unearthly hum, growing rapidly louder.
Saria strained her eyes against the nightvault. The moon had not yet
risen and the night was lit only by the distant glimmer of vaultlights. Back
on the daywards horizon, the three vaultlights of the Child hung low in the
sky, almost ready to set. As she looked at them, one seemed to wink at her,
a fast blink that came and went almost before she‘d noticed it.
- 253 –
The blink of something passing in front of the vaultlight.
Something like a hummer.
There was nowhere to hide, and instead of wasting time and energy
Saria simply flung herself to the ground. She knew she should douse herself
with water as Dariand had taught her, but her supplies were becoming so
meagre now that she dared not. Instead, she just lay prone, scooping as
much cool desert sand over herself as she could in the little time she had.
It wasn‘t much. It didn‘t seem like nearly enough, but only seconds
later the hummer rushed out of the dark sky and roared over her almost
directly above, sending a concussive wave of energy pulsing downwards
and almost crushing the breath out of her. Looking up, she got a quick
impression of something large and dark, of curves and odd angles hurling
itself against the night.
And then it was gone. It gave no sign it was interested in her, or had
even noticed she was there. Instead it held its course and melted back into
the night, the noise of its passage fleeing with it.
Saria stood and stared after it, puzzled, but the darkness had
swallowed it whole. She wished Dariand had been there to see it. He
might‘ve been able to explain it to her. She wondered if he‘d ever seen
Nightpeople behaving in that way. It had flown so intently, as though
chasing something, not just randomly searching.
The thought of what might have happened to Dariand wasn‘t
something she wanted to consider right now, and so as she started walking
again she tried to focus on the call.
It was changing and had been ever since she‘d left Woormra. No
longer was it just an occasional surge of earthwarmth; now it was a more
constant presence. It also brought an unrelenting sense of belonging
somewhere else. Somewhere nightwards. It still came in bursts, waking her
from her sleep during the day, or grabbing her from her marching stupor,
but these episodes were less intense, and the periods between were filled
with the reassurance of that distant summoning. It was enough to keep her
putting one leg in front of the other and, until tonight, she hadn‘t thought too
much about her new sensitivity to it.
The first traces of dawn were smearing the daywards horizon, and she
began to look for a place to stop. Since leaving Woormra, she‘d made sure
- 254 –
to be well concealed by the time full daylight spilled across the land. Once
he was certain that she wasn‘t in Woormra, Saria was convinced Slander
would come after her.
To her left an angular outcrop rising from the flatness of the desert
caught her eye. It was little more than a smudge against the horizon, and
although it was still too dark to judge the distance, in this arid part of the
desert it might well provide the only cover around. She turned her path
towards it, but as the morning grew lighter she realised it was further away
than she‘d thought. It was too late to search for something closer, though, so
she kept her course.
Ahead, the dark smear of a crumbling road stretched itself across the
landscape at right angles to her course, and as she crossed it a strange
sensation of dread filled her.
The call faded. As she stepped off the other side of the road it was
gone, the ground below her feet cold and dead like the walls of the council
chamber and tunnels back in Woormra.
At that moment, the sun peeped over the daywards horizon, flooding
the land with light and revealing the outcrop ahead clearly for the first time.
It wasn‘t a natural uprising of jagged desert stone; it was smooth. It was
smoother even than the cut walls of the tunnels, and rose from the desert in
an enormous, solid block, the sharp angles and corners in stark contrast to
the world of her experience.
The Shifting House.
Unbidden, Dreamer Wanji‘s words leapt to her memory: ‘It’s an
empty place. It’s where the Skypeople used to do their burning. There’s
nothing at all left there—no life. Just a shell of earth so burned out it’s like
a hole in the world.’
‗A hole in the world,‘ Saria muttered out loud as she studied the
building.
Here and there, dark openings resembled windows, the holes
uncomfortably like the black pinprick pupils of Dreamer Baanti‘s burnt-out
eyes. The building was higher than any of the huts of either Woormra or
Olympic, towering into the morning air like some kind of mountain made by
humans. In the brightening dawn it didn‘t glow red, as most desert rock
would, but stayed a dull, menacing grey. If anything, it seemed to suck up
- 255 –
the daylight rather than reflect it, making it seem darker in the increasing
light.
The sensation of coldness through her feet was distracting. It poured
into her legs, making them heavy, but she kept walking and before long
came across the remains of another road. The cracked black strip extended
straight towards the towering hulk of the building.
She walked along it as through a dream. Even the crunch of her
footsteps on the broken surface seemed distant. Soon she was close enough
to see other openings in the building, long jagged cracks and gashes running
the length and height of the walls, huge fractures where the earth below had
shifted and the grey walls opened.
Saria approached slowly. Out in the desert, following the call steadily
nightwards, she had felt sharp and alive. Now the coldness was an invisible
fog, dulling her senses and cutting her off from the Earthmother.
A line of strange poles circled the building. Something about them
reminded her vaguely of the thorn fence surrounding Olympic, but this
barrier was different. The poles were cold, round and hard, each identical to
all the others. Probably three times Saria‘s height, they were sunk at even
intervals, rising straight from the sand, but with the top part of every pole
angled outwards, towards the surrounding desert. Saria took a deep breath
and stepped between them.
The ancient structure towered above, blocking a good proportion of
the brightening dayvault. The sun behind her was rising fast, but despite it
the touch of air on her skin was cold. Instead of approaching any closer, she
began to walk in a huge circle, just inside the poles, studying the building
from every angle.
The scale of it was breathtaking. She had to crane her neck back to see
the top, so high up that even from this distance it appeared to tilt out over
her, giving her a sense of vertigo if she stared too long upwards.
The ground around it was hard and grey. Not like the packed dirt of
the desert, or the cracked and crazed evenness of the roads, but the same
cold, even hardness from which the walls of the building seemed to be
created. It was much harder than even the most solid-packed earth could
hope to be.
And yet, despite this, the ground was a confusion of faults and
- 256 –
fissures, just like the walls of the building. Uneven slabs rose and fell to trip
her as she made her slow way around the perimeter.
On the nightwards side the building blocked the sun completely,
throwing a long shadow far out into the desert. Passing through it,
something at the base of the building caught her eye.
An angular black shape squatted there, deep in the gloom, completely
still and silent.
Saria had never seen anything like it before, but she instantly knew
what it was.
She froze. From the hummer there was no sign of life, no response to
her presence. Her first instinct was to back away, around the Shifting House,
retreating out of sight of the strange mechanism.
But where would she go? Away from the building was nothing but
emptiness — certainly nowhere to run to, or conceal herself. And on the
dead land surrounding the Shifting House she couldn‘t reach out through the
Earthmother and find a hiding place, even if she‘d wanted to.
And she was also curious.
She‘d never seen a hummer in daylight, or up close. In fact, she
doubted that anyone in the Darklands had, even Dariand. He would have
told her about it. But here was one, right in front of her, still and silent and
grounded, and posing no threat to her as far as she could tell. It didn‘t take
more than a couple of moments for Saria to give in to the impulse to take a
closer look.
It was hard to tell what part of the hummer was the front and what was
the back. At one end, a dark, rounded dome gleamed, reflecting light back at
her. It gave the impression of being not quite fully opaque, somehow
transparent. In colour, though, it matched every other part of the hummer —
black. Blackness like nothing Saria had ever seen. Darker than even the
most lightless part of night, every polished surface of the hummer seemed to
glow with lack of light and colour. The effect reminded her vaguely of the
surface of the underground pool which fed the well at Woormra.
The sides of the machine slanted in long lines back from the dome,
narrowing to where they met at a tapered angle. On top, a collection of
oddly shaped protrusions clustered in the centre, a couple of tubes also
running back from these towards the tapered end.
- 257 –
Below the hummer, two barrel-shaped devices formed the only
contrast to the blackness of the rest of the machine. Mounted underneath
and on either side of the dome, both had one surface facing down and
forwards which, rather than seeming to absorb light like the rest of the
hummer, reflected it back in two pale, shimmering circles.
Saria approached the machine cautiously, alert for the slightest
movement or sound from within, ready to flee back out to the sand at the
first indication she was walking into a trap.
Nothing happened, though. Even as she came close enough to reach
out and run a finger across its cold, smooth flank, the hummer stayed silent.
To her surprise, the surfaces weren‘t solid and hard as she‘d been expecting,
but slightly pliant, even under her soft touch.
The hummer squatted on three stubby legs which extended out of the
belly, the only break in the smooth lines. Standing on the tips of her toes
beside it, Saria could just reach up high enough to cup her eyes and try to
peer through the semi-opaque dome. All she could make out inside was the
blurred outline of a couple of shapes, also completely still.
Nightpeople? she wondered.
If they were, then either they were dead or they couldn‘t see her any
better than she could them. In any case, she ducked her head away again and
squatted in the shadow of the hummer, thinking.
There had to be some way for the Nightpeople to get in and out of the
machine, but Saria couldn‘t see anything that might be an entrance. On the
belly of the hummer, right above her head, several strange symbols were
etched into its skin, but they meant nothing to her.
‗What are you doing here?‘ she whispered to the hummer, once again
wishing she had Dariand here with her. He‘d know what to do, or what not
to do.
If there were Nightpeople inside, she was certain they‘d have noticed
her by now, and she doubted they‘d have simply decided to leave her out
here.
So they had to be somewhere else, and there was only one place they
could possibly be.
Reluctantly, Saria turned her head to stare at the Shifting House.
She could almost feel the walls radiating cold out towards where she
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crouched. If the Nightpeople weren‘t in their hummer, they were inside the
ancient building.
They were inside the only place in which she could shelter for the day.
She contemplated her chances of making it back into the desert — of
getting right out past the dead land and back into the living desert again,
where she might be able to use the call and to reach through the
Earthmother to find water and shelter. But she knew she‘d never make it.
Not with only a half skin of water and the day getting hotter.
Her only choice was the Shifting House. And the Nightpeople. She
could try to shelter under the hummer all day, but she had no idea when its
occupants might return to it or emerge from it, and in either case she didn‘t
want to be there. And the simple presence of the smooth, black device was
unsettling.
Reluctantly, she crept from under the hummer and approached the
nearest wall. Still deep in the nightside shadow, the grey expanse rose from
the ground and into the dayvault. When she touched it, a hard cold shiver
trembled through her, and she withdrew her hand as though she‘d been
bitten.
Off to one side, the remains of a door caught her attention — a dark
rectangle giving entry into the interior. If the Nightpeople were indeed
inside, this was where they‘d entered and Saria didn‘t like the idea of
walking straight in behind them, so she turned away and proceeded in the
other direction.
A little along, a crack wide enough for her to climb through ran from
somewhere under the ground, right up the side of the building, ending well
above her head. Unlike the door, this fracture was jagged and irregular.
Somewhere in the past, some mighty force had torn the two parts of the wall
apart. Cautiously, Saria peered through into a tangle of darkness. Stray
beams of light pierced the inside of the building, picking out crumbling
walls and unfamiliar shapes in the gloom.
There was no sign of Nightpeople, though, or any other living thing,
for that matter, and drawing a deep breath Saria stepped through the crack,
careful to keep any part of herself from coming into contact with the dead
stone of the walls.
The room in which she found herself was surprisingly small, given the
- 259 –
size of the building. She‘d half expected to step into a giant indoor cave,
into an above-ground version of the caverns under Woormra, but this
chamber was not much bigger than Dariand‘s hut. The roof was low, despite
the height of the building, and divided into regular squares, many of which
hung at crazy angles. A doorway ahead led deeper inside and, alert to even
the slightest sound, Saria stepped towards it.
There was no noise, not even a whisper of breeze or the click of an
insect. The building was the most empty place Saria had ever experienced.
In the second doorway, she paused.
This inside room probably took up most of the interior of the
structure. The vaulted roof, high above and only dimly visible, was a tangle
of broken angles, and the wide floor was crazed with wide faults and
fissures. Looking around, Saria froze, her skin prickling in recognition.
She‘d been here before. Immediately she walked though the door, Saria
knew that room. She had seen it, but not like this. It had been different.
Puzzled, she took a few steps towards the centre, carefully avoiding a
dark opening that leered from the floor. Picking up a chunk of rubble, she
hesitated, then dropped it into the nearest of the gaps in the floor, waiting
expectantly for the clatter of it hitting the bottom.
No sound came back, however. The rock fell into silence.
Unnerved, Saria stepped away from the edge of the chasm and slowly
turned again. The room was so familiar; all the angles, all the corners spoke
from somewhere in her memory. Closing her eyes, she breathed in deeply a
couple of times, air that tasted old and lifeless.
Slowly, avoiding the larger chasms in the floor and trying hard not to
allow her gaze to drop into them, Saria made her way across the vast room,
angling towards a large door on the far side. Even the doorways in this place
were on a scale she could never have imagined. This one was easily five or
six times her height, large enough to bring a camel through and still have
room to spare. At some point in the past, two enormous metal shutters had
barred the rectangular opening, but now neither was in place; one had fallen
to the floor where it still lay, pitted with age and decay, and the other half
hung in the doorway, skewed and twisted.
Halfway across, when she was almost in the middle of the room, Saria
heard a noise.
- 260 –
It was faint, just a click followed by a gentle humming. It wasn‘t
natural, though. Not like the click of an insect, or like Dreamer Gaardi‘s
humming as he walked though the Darklands. This sound was alien,
artificial, the click far too distinct and the humming too even in pitch. She
stopped and twisted her head slowly, trying to locate the source of the noise.
‗You okay?‘
The voice floated out of the air, flat and hollow, as artificial as the
clicking and humming.
‗Fine. But my comline‘s down.‘
‗Probably dust. It‘s not a problem. We can use externals. How‘s your
exposure?‘
‗Marginal. You think it‘ll rise?‘
‗Shouldn‘t.‘
The voices were coming from somewhere beyond the main chamber.
As best as Saria could make out, they were coming through a small crack in
the wall closest to her. Her first instinct was to run, back out the way she
had entered, back out into the desert.
But there were Nightpeople in the next room speaking to one another.
And they had no idea she was listening.
Holding her breath, Saria crept towards the opening in the wall. The
voices were definitely coming from on the other side. The closer she
approached, the more clearly the conversation floated to her.
‗Can‘t believe we‘re stuck here, of all places.‘
‗We‘ll be fine. We had no other choice.‘
‗I know, but still.‘ The speaker paused. ‗This place gives me the
creeps.‘
‗Just relax. There‘s barely even trace levels of radiation left here now.
Keep an eye on your radmon and we‘ll be fine.‘
The voices were almost identical to each other, both strangely distant
and muted, echoing off the hard walls of the small chamber. Crouching
beside the narrow crack, Saria slowly raised her head to peer through.
The room on the other side was much the same as the first one she had
entered — a low ceiling and a tangled mess of strange devices everywhere.
On the far side an open doorway led outside. The desert beyond shimmered
brightly, the sand almost glowing when compared with the gloomy interior
- 261 –
of the Shifting House.
In the middle of the room, huddled below an odd silvery canopy,
crouched two Nightpeople.
Saria stared. They were unlike anything she‘d ever seen. Their silver
skins covered and enclosed them completely. Whenever either of them
moved, light danced across the fabric in patterns of blue and white. Their
heads were encased in similar material and their faces were hidden behind
hard plates of something that reflected a distorted image of the room around
them.
The smaller one stretched its arms behind its head and lay back on the
ground. The other one continued to stare fixedly at a small box strapped to
its wrist.
‗If it climbs any higher …‘
‗I‘m telling you, it won‘t. It‘s peak time right now. Just relax and try
to get some sleep.‘
It was hard to tell which was speaking. Their voices came not from
their heads but from small boxes attached to their chests.
‗Sleep? Hah.‘
For a while neither said anything and Saria wondered if the one lying
down had nodded off, but then it spoke again.
‗It could have been a lot worse, you know. Imagine if we‘d had to put
down somewhere further back towards the centre.‘
‗It could be a lot better, too. It‘s not like we‘re achieving anything,
chasing a fairytale.‘
‗Doctor Mann thinks …‘
‗Doctor Mann‘s spent too long chasing his wife‘s ghost to know
what‘s real and what‘s fantasy.‘
‗Careful, Jana.‘ The figure lying down sat up sharply. ‗It‘s not a good
idea to criticise the head of the project.‘
‗Why not? It‘s not like he can hear me when I‘m stuck out here and
he‘s safely back in DGAP.‘
‗It‘s not a good habit to get into, all the same.‘
The tall figure looked at the wrist box and the smaller one relaxed
again.
‗Couldn‘t we have stayed in the flyer?‘
- 262 –
‗No. We‘ve been through this. It‘s not shielded heavily enough. We‘d
max out in no time. This is the only place.‘
‗Grania?‘
‗What?‘
‗Do you really think there‘s a child?‘
‗No. We‘d know about it if there was. I think the subjects are getting
desperate, that‘s all.‘
‗So why are we out here, then?‘
The short one propped itself back up on its elbows and shrugged.
‗It‘s our job.‘
‗But still, if the subjects have reached their infertility horizon …‘
‗Jana, as long as they keep sending us out here, we keep coming,
understand? It‘s better than being shifties.‘
‗Until you end up maxing your exposure. Then there‘s not much
difference.‘
‗Your problem is that you‘re a pessimist, Jana. As soon as the
radlevels outside are back in the safe range, we‘ll get out of here, okay? Port
knows where we are, and nobody‘s going to leave a flyer grounded in the
Darklands, are they?‘
‗It‘s not the flyer I‘m worried about.‘
‗Well what, then?‘
‗Us. You know as well as I do that, as far as Mann and that bunch of
whitecoats are concerned, you and I are expendable. That‘s the only reason
anyone gets sent out on fieldwork.‘
‗Don‘t be a scuzz. Janil Mann is out here at least as often as you and
I.‘
‗That‘s different. He‘s got his father‘s problem.‘
‗What‘s that?‘
‗I told you, chasing ghosts.‘
‗You‘re an idiot, Jana.‘
‗Am I? According to the webs, DGAP is almost as dead as these
Darklands.‘
‗I wouldn‘t believe everything the webs tell you.‘
‗It‘s not just the webs, Grania. It‘s what a lot of people are starting to
believe. It‘s what Ratz says. He reckons there‘s no future in the past and that
- 263 –
…‘
Grania moved surprisingly fast, in a moment rolling upright and
poking a silver finger hard into the other one‘s chest. Even from where she
crouched, Saria could tell that the one called Jana could feel the pain, even
through its suit.
‗That‘s enough, Jana. I don‘t want to hear any more of that kind of
talk. You mention that name again, and you can find your own way back to
Port. Understand?‘
Jana grunted and moved as far from Grania as it could without coming
out from under the silver canopy. Grania watched, then lay down again.
‗I‘m going to sleep now. You can wake me if the levels climb any
higher, otherwise I don‘t want to hear another word from you.‘
The speaking box on Grania‘s chest gave a soft click, and the
Nightperson rolled over.
Saria ducked slowly out of sight. The two Nightpeople had no idea
she was there, and it looked like they were stuck under their canopy for
some reason, at least for the moment. She thought about staying where she
was, just in case they spoke some more, but then decided that even if they
did, most of what they said made no sense and the longer she lingered the
more likely it was that she‘d be caught.
She skirted around the edge of the large room and made her way back
over to the large, empty doorway she‘d originally been headed for.
On the other side was yet another low-ceilinged room, strewn with the
remains of strange equipment and machines. Unlike the other outer rooms,
this one had no windows or holes in the walls to admit light, and it was dark
and gloomy. Saria shivered with cold and decided to look elsewhere. If she
had to shelter in the Shifting House with two Nightpeople, she at least
wanted a room with the possibility of escape.
As she turned back into the main chamber, Saria stopped in shock, her
memories of the room suddenly falling into focus.
She‘d dreamed of this place while she was in the pit at Olympic.
She‘d seen men in yellow suits with hidden faces, not unlike the
Nightpeople in the next room. They‘d been right here, in this place,
working, moving things, studying various objects. Then she‘d seen the
movement in the Earth, the men freezing in horror, and the slow, almost
- 264 –
lazy splitting open of the floor below them …
As fast as she dared, Saria hurried back to the room through which
she‘d entered the Shifting House, picking a route which would take her as
far as possible from the Nightpeople‘s chamber. Daylight or not, she knew
she didn‘t want to spend the rest of the day trapped in this empty shell of a
building, haunted by ghosts of both the past and the present. She‘d rather
risk the desert.
She stepped out through the crack in the wall, and the rising heat of
the day reflected up from the ground and washed over her, bringing relief
from the chilling deadness that permeated the inside of the Shifting House.
The ground around and below her was still cold and dead, but even that was
preferable to being inside that ancient tomb.
A few steps away the hummer still crouched, no longer hidden in the
shadow of the building but exposed to the full glare of the sun. The bright
light gleamed off it, reminding Saria of the reflections off the shells of water
beetles back in the valley. Avoiding it, Saria set her steps nightwards, but
before she was halfway to the line of barrier poles the glare of the sun was
already making her uncomfortable. Even with the hood of her robe pulled
up, the heat prickled her scalp and itched at the skin of her arms and legs.
Through her shoes, the hard dead ground was uncomfortably hot, not with
the gentle glow of earthwarmth but heated like a cooking stone in a fire, a
raw, savage burning.
She hesitated. As unsettling as it was, at least the interior of the
ancient building was dim and cool, and she knew that it was foolishness to
venture from the shade until the sun was below the horizon, especially with
her limited water supplies.
She let her attention flow outwards, seeking even the faintest trace of
the Earthmother that she might reach through and find alternative shelter,
but this close to the Shifting House there was nothing.
What would Dariand do?
Even as she asked the question of herself, she knew the answer, and
reluctantly she turned back towards the crumbling edifice that had seen the
end of the Skypeople.
- 265 –
TWENTY NINE.
The noise of the departing hummer woke her, and she leapt to her feet
just in time to see it rise into the air and streak away, shrinking into the
dying sunset. She stretched and yawned. Every muscle of her body ached
from an afternoon spent lying on the hard, unyielding floor of the Shifting
House.
The room in which she‘d spent the afternoon was almost pitch black
now, and once she was convinced that the Nightpeople were far enough
away that they‘d not be able to detect her, Saria slung her waterskin across
her back and slipped into the twilight. The evening was cooling, and the
vault fading to night, but this close to the ancient structure even the sky
seemed detached. She watched one of those strange, fast-moving vaultlights
trace its irresistible course across the sky.
She set her course nightwards, in the same direction as the departing
hummer, and almost as soon as she stepped through the line of metal guard
poles, some of the tension eased from her shoulders and neck. The further
she walked, the more calm she became, until finally, after a long time, the
first distant tingles of earthwarmth shivered into her. After so long in the
deadness of the Shifting House, the sensation was as reassuring as Dariand‘s
arms around her.
SARIA!
There it was. Strong and reassuring.
She stopped, fumbling at the leather laces of her shoes until she was
able to pull them off, curling her toes into the sparse dust as deep as
possible, greedily sucking up the distant energy, all thoughts of not reaching
again forgotten for the moment.
For a while she walked barefoot, surprised to discover that the ground
seemed softer beneath her feet without shoes than it did with them.
Only once did she turn and look behind her. The monolithic building
stood in the distance, catching the final rays of sunlight and glowing a cold,
iridescent grey against the darkening sky.
She was tired and still sore and her legs began to throb and ache much
earlier than normal. She stopped to take a sip of water, then sat for a few
- 266 –
minutes massaging her legs and ankles and chewing on a small piece of
dried meat. The earth was soft and warm and the call pulsed gently through
her. She gazed straight up into the gathering nightvault until weariness
overcame her and, unable to fight it, she closed her eyes.
Falling …
Dropping through the sky, towards the Earth. Towards the
Earthmother. The room was cold and the light hard, but somewhere below
her the earthwarmth beckoned, calling her like a distant pulse of blood
through her veins.
The man looks down at her, anxious.
‘Not long now. Just hold on …’
Falling …
He is wearing his suit. Harsh skyfire light slithers across it like water
over the rocks in the creek. His head is uncovered, though. The shimmering
disc that should cover his face is lying on the floor beside her.
‘Can you hear me? Hold on.’ His expression is kindly. Like Dreamer
Wanji’s. His eyes are crinkled at the edges with worry. ‘It’s going to be
alright. Trust me …’
His voice is Dariand’s. ‘Trust me.’
Falling …
Slowing …
So cold …
‘Port North Central. Ground Level.’ Another voice. Disembodied.
Cold. Unhuman.
‘Here. Come.’ The man reaches down and picks up his face covering.
It snaps into place and the crinkled eyes are hidden behind its curved
smoothness. As he leans down to help her, she can see herself reflected
there, in his face, her features a distorted parody where his should be.
His silver hand is cold on her arm.
Doors slide open. Ouside is gloom and dull skyfire, not hot. Not like in
the skycurves.
‘Here, this way …’
She steps from the room and there is earthwarmth. Hidden, muted,
held distant by the layers of deadness that have been smeared on top of it,
but after so long trapped amid the skyfire it almost screams to her, aching
- 267 –
through the bare soles of her feet and making her legs buckle under her.
‘Come on. This way …’
The earthwarmth is singing to her now. Through her. And the man is
half dragging, half carrying her towards something she recognises.
‘No …’
‘It’s okay. Come, please. We don’t have much time.’
The gleaming blackness of the hummer seems to exude cold towards
her.
‘Not that …’
‘Please …’ Now there is desperation in the man’s voice as somewhere
in the gloom behind them doors whisper aside.
‘You there! Stop right where you are!’
He’s not supporting her any longer, just tugging on her arm.
‘You won’t get another chance!’
Something roars, heat whistles around her and the man beside her
falls. For a moment she totters, and as silver figures rush towards them, she
reaches the last of herself down, pouring into that distant earthwarmth …
SARIA!
As soon as she woke, she knew she wasn‘t alone. Something, some
waking sense told her that another person was nearby.
‗Sleep well?‘
Dariand was sprawled in the dirt a little way off, his robes spread
about him as he observed both her and the slow rotation of the nightvault.
For several disoriented seconds, Saria stared in disbelief.
‗Dariand!‘
She started to fling herself towards him, but he held up a hand to stop
her.
‗Careful.‘
As the nightwalker stood up, he did so gingerly, without his usual
fluid grace. His movements were more reminiscent of an old man like
Dreamer Wanji.
‗What‘s wrong?‘
‗Slander and his lot …‘ He didn‘t need to explain further. ‗Nothing
that won‘t heal, though. Given time.‘
‗How did you find me?‘
- 268 –
He grinned. ‗Didn‘t I tell you you wouldn‘t be able to hide from me?‘
‗You knew I‘d escaped?‘
He shrugged. ‗I hoped. When I finally got away from Slander and you
weren‘t in the sleeping chamber, I guessed you were either lost in the
tunnels or found your way out. Did you get up though the breathing tunnel?‘
She nodded.
‗I thought so. Where‘d it come out?‘
‗The well.‘
His grin widened. ‗So it was you who snagged the bucket.‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗That was good thinking.‘
‗Thanks.‘
There was an awkward silence between them. Then Dariand‘s grin
faded.
‗Wanji‘s dead.‘
‗I know.‘
‗How?‘
‗I was there. In the chamber. Hiding. I saw it happen.‘
‗You were in the council meeting?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗And you heard …‘
‗Everything.‘ Saria recalled the events in the dim cavern, and
Dariand‘s useless attempt to argue for her, and her joy at seeing him again
faded. ‗I heard you.‘
Dariand didn‘t reply.
‗Why didn‘t you put up more of an argument for me?‘
‗What do you mean?‘
‗When you had your chance to speak for me. You told me I could trust
you to look out for me.‘
‗I did.‘ Dariand‘s expression was one of genuine surprise.
‗No, you didn‘t! I heard you. You barely said anything.‘
‗I reminded the council that my claim over you was stronger than
Slander‘s, and that there were better reasons to let you stay with me than to
send you off to Olympic. That‘s all I needed to do.‘
‗That‘s not how it sounded to me. It sounded like you didn‘t care.‘
- 269 –
‗Listen, Saria.‘ Dariand reached out and placed a hand on her arm
‗There‘s no way for you to understand everything that went on in that
meeting. That‘s why we decided you shouldn‘t be there in the first place.
Things were said there which went back to events long before you were
even born. This fight has been a long time coming.‘
His fingers were warm through her robe, their grip gentle.
‗Trust me, alright?‘
A vaultlight fell from the sky, trailing a long streak across the
darkness, and Saria decided to let the matter drop.
‗What happens now?‘
He turned slowly, taking in the distant horizons.
‗Where were you going?‘
‗Nightwards.‘
‗Following the call?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗Do you know what‘s out there?‘
She shook her head.
‗Well, I can tell you. It‘s pretty much the same as this. Nothing. Just
empty desert all the way to the Darkedge.‘
‗How far is that?‘
‗Not close. A few days walk.‘
‗Will you take me?‘
Dariand looked thoughtful as he stared towards the nightwards
horizon.
‗To the Darkedge?‘
‗Yes.‘
‗There‘s no point. Once you get there there‘s nothing left to do but
turn around and come back again.‘ He thought for a moment. ‗We could
head to the valley instead and live there with Ma. Or go across to Mooka
and hope we arrive before Slander‘s mob. Either way, we‘d be safe for a
while, and we‘d find plenty of food and water.‘
‗We can‘t go back to Woormra?‘
‗No. That‘s Slander‘s town now, as much as Olympic ever was.
They‘re already building a fence around it. If we go back there you‘d end up
either dead or handed to the Nightpeople. Probably both.‘
- 270 –
‗It doesn‘t matter, anyway. I want to go nightwards.‘
For a long time, the two stood, looking at one another, until Dariand
asked, ‗What are you going to do when you get to the Darkedge?‘
‗Find a way across.‘
‗You won‘t be able to.‘
‗I can try.‘
‗No.‘ His voice was emphatic. ‗You‘ve never seen it. I have. You
won‘t find a way out of the Darklands, Saria.‘
‗So you won‘t take me?‘
‗I didn‘t say that.‘
‗What, then?‘
‗I‘ll take you to the Darkedge, all the way, but once we get there and
you see that we‘re wasting our time, then you come with me, alright?
Wherever I decide is best for us to go, you‘ll come without argument, and
without running off.‘
‗Where‘ll that be?‘
‗The valley, most likely. Slander doesn‘t know how to find it, so we‘ll
be safe there.‘
‗And what‘ll we do then?‘
‗Live out our lives. Die, eventually.‘
Saria thought about his offer.
‗I‘m going to get out, you know.‘
‗You‘ll be the first.‘
‗Let‘s go, then.‘
This time, it was Saria who took the lead, Dariand following.
- 271 –
THIRTY.
‗Look.‘ Dariand pointed daywards, into the gathering night, where a
narrow thread of smoke climbed into the sky. It reminded Saria of the
distant smoke she‘d walked towards when she‘d set out from the soak. That
seemed like a lifetime ago.
‗What is it?‘
‗Slander and his lot, I imagine. They‘re the only ones who‘d be stupid
enough to light a fire while they‘re tracking someone.‘
‗How far away do you think they are?‘
‗Hard to say.‘ Dariand squinted his eyes. ‗They‘ve already come past
the Shifting House, that‘s for sure. And they‘ll have given that place a wide
berth.‘
‗Why?‘
‗Superstition. Come on.‘
He grabbed their gear and started walking in a direction completely
opposite to their nightwards course.
‗That‘s the wrong way.‘
‗No.‘ He nodded at the smoke. ‗Think about it. How could they have
caught us up so quickly?‘
It took Saria only a couple of seconds to work it out.
‗Camels.‘
‗Yeah.‘ Dariand nodded. ‗If we keep going nightwards, they‘ll be on
us before the night is out. We‘ve gotta double back.‘
‗But …‘
‗Listen. Trust me. Now, no talking, just move.‘
And he set a pace so fast that Saria was almost running to keep up.
For hours they walked, and as they did, Dariand wound their course in
an enormous arc which would eventually bring them back across their
original path. The further daywards they travelled, the harder it became for
Saria to ignore the urgency in the call. Rather than fading as they walked
away from it, it seemed to grow more insistent, until it was taking all of
Saria‘s mental and physical strength just to keep her feet moving. Finally,
just before sunrise, Dariand called a halt.
- 272 –
‗Look there, we were right.‘
Ahead of them, making a beeline nightwards, the ground was scuffed
and marked with long shambling tracks.
‗Camels. That means Slander‘s gotten Gan on board, one way or
another.‘
‗So what do we do now?‘
Dariand looked around, staring into the sunrise and clearly making up
his mind about something.
‗I‘d like to head straight back towards the valley…‘
Saria shook her head.
‗No.‘
‗Why not.‘
‗I can‘t keep walking daywards. The call, it …‘ She tried to find
words to explain. ‗It gets harder to walk away from it the further we go. I
have to go nightwards.‘
‗Have to?‘
‗There‘s no other way for me.‘
Dariand seemed to consider what she‘d said, then finally he pointed at
the camel tracks.
‗Okay. I don‘t understand it, but I‘ll trust you. For now we follow
these.‘
‗Follow them?‘
‗They won‘t be looking for us behind them, and this way we can keep
a close eye on Slander. We might even get an opportunity to …‘
‗To what?‘ Saria prompted, but Dariand shook his head.
‗Don‘t worry. Let‘s just follow while it‘s still cool.‘
They trudged along in the wake of Slander‘s group. As the morning
grew brighter around them, Saria asked, ‗Where will we shelter when it gets
too hot?‘
‗I‘ve got two sand shelters in my bag.‘ Dariand patted the long sack he
wore across his back. ‗We‘ll use them if we have to.‘
‗Sand shelters?‘
‗You‘ll see. I‘d like to get close to Slander first, though. See what he‘s
up to.‘
‗How far ahead are they?‘
- 273 –
‗Don‘t know. It‘s hard to tell how long ago they passed through here.
And with the camels they‘ll be moving a lot faster than we can.‘
They marched in silence. The call shivered through Saria‘s bare feet,
and almost without thinking she found herself reaching. There was a
moment when she felt her mind slipping out into that enormous awareness,
and Dreamer Baanti‘s pinprick pupils flashed across her thoughts, but the
pull of the Earthmother was so much stronger, and she felt her body relax as
she let her mind go.
It was like falling into a cool creek pool. The earthwarmth surged
through and around her, and the world fell into place. The cold land of the
Shifting House was well behind them, and ahead was the emptiness of warm
earth and cool sky.
And Slander‘s group, stopped in a small hollow of sand and rock, not
far ahead.
SARIA!
‗Saria?‘
Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled herself back.
‗What happened? Are you okay?‘
‗I‘m fine.‘ She pushed aside Dariand‘s hand as he tried to take her
arm. ‗Just wait a second.‘
A few deep breaths and slowly the earthwarmth faded back to its usual
constant throb.
‗What was that?‘
‗I was reaching.‘
‗Reaching? Into what?‘
‗The Earthmother.‘
Dariand threw her a sharp look.
‗I didn‘t know you could do that.‘
‗Dreamer Wanji taught me. I‘m stronger than most Dreamers at it.‘
‗And you don‘t need another creature.‘
‗No.‘
She could tell Dariand was itching to ask more questions, so she
pointed ahead.
‗They‘re not far. Just a little way on, there‘re a couple of low ridges
and they‘re camped between two of them.‘
- 274 –
‗You could see them?‘
‗I could feel them.‘
‗How many?‘
She tried to recall. She‘d been so lost in the power of what she was
doing that she hadn‘t really noticed.
‗I‘m not certain, perhaps five or six.‘
A cold smile crept to the corners of Dariand‘s mouth.
‗And one of them‘ll be Gan. Another‘s probably Dreamer Gaardi.
That leaves four at most.‘
‗Dreamer Gaardi‘s helping Slander track us?‘
‗He‘s probably not helping, but someone like Slander would need a
Dreamer to track easily, and he‘d be a fool to leave Dreamer Gaardi back in
Woormra on his own. He was Dreamer Wanji‘s closest mate. No, he‘ll have
Dreamer Gaardi with him, you can count on it.‘
Without another word he set off nightwards, and Saria followed.
Reaching, it had seemed to her that Slander and his group were only a
few minutes ahead. As they walked, though, the morning stretched on
around them, the rising heat adding further discomfort.
‗You certain you felt them?‘ Dariand asked for the umpteenth time.
‗They‘re ahead,‘ Saria snapped back. ‗Just further than I thought.‘
After a much longer walk than she‘d anticipated, the first of the low
ridges shimmered out of the horizon and, as they crept slowly up the gentle
slope, a familiar groan echoed across the sand from somewhere off to their
right.
‗The camels,‘ whispered Dariand. ‗Tethered. They won‘t be far
away.‘
At the top of the ridge he gestured her to keep her head down, but
Saria ignored him and poked her head up alongside his, peering into
Slander‘s campsite.
At the bottom of the slope, six figures slumped asleep beneath small,
collapsible sun-shelters. All lay with their heads swathed by their robes, in
deep shade, so it was impossible to discern one person from another.
One of the camels groaned again, and Dariand smiled as he rolled to
face her.
‗Do you reckon you can unhobble the camels?‘
- 275 –
‗How?‘
‗It‘s not hard. Find them and get their fetters off. Try and do them all,
but even if you can only do one or two, it‘ll give us a start.‘
‗What about you?‘
‗I‘m going to check that everything‘s clear around here, and then I‘m
going down to have a quiet word to a couple of people.‘
Saria nodded and Dariand quickly vanished along the ridge in the
other direction. He was still slow and tentative, favouring the right side of
his body, but now she detected some traces of his old self in his movements.
She found the animals hobbled in a small, sandy hollow. There were
eight of them, downwind from the camp so their smell wouldn‘t disturb the
sleeping party. They stood here and there, a couple chewing absently, their
faces implacable. As she approached, one swung its long neck in her
direction and regarded her balefully with dark eyes. She thought it might
have been one of the ones she‘d ridden from Olympic with Gan, but it was
impossible to tell.
Skirting around the edge of the group, she manoeuvred herself until
she was close to the smallest one. Then she walked towards the beast,
holding one hand out to take the halter that hung over the creature‘s neck
and back.
The animals were hobbled by rope and leather bindings, which lashed
their front and back legs together and allowed only a little give, certainly not
enough for the camel to take a complete step. Nervously, aware of the
enormous bulk of the animal towering over her, Saria knelt by its right
foreleg, and reached for the hobble with hesitant fingers.
The camel gave a sharp grumble and Saria jumped back, startled,
sprawling in the dirt while it cast an unpleasant glare at her before resuming
its chewing. She stood again, took a deep breath, and tried once more.
The knot was small and tight, and Saria fiddled for some minutes
before the binding came free and dropped into the dust. Immediately, the
camel snorted and stamped its foot, a shuddering blow crashing into the dirt
and causing Saria to jump away again.
Next she turned her attention to one of the rear hobbles, careful to stay
well out to the side. This knot fell away more easily and Saria slipped
around to the other side.
- 276 –
The third knot was locked firm and the more she struggled with it, the
more agitated the camel became. With two legs already freed, it lurched
forward, trying to escape. The remaining hobbles brought it up short,
however, and it made its unhappiness clear, keeping up a constant low
groaning.
She took a deep breath, and started to draw the earthwarmth into
herself. She decided to reach into the camel‘s mind, to try and calm it with
her own awareness.
Then someone grabbed her.
A thick hand pressed over her mouth, muffling her scream. The grip
was firm and her captor began to squeeze, forcing air from her lungs until
spots danced across her vision. Desperately, she raised her foot and brought
it down as hard as she could and the man swore but didn‘t release her, just
squeezed even harder.
A grey mist crept across her mind, and her arms and legs started to
become heavy, making it harder and harder to kick and strike. When the
black fog had almost completely engulfed her she went totally limp and he
finally let her go.
Her legs buckled as she sucked in an enormous lungful. Before she
could fall to the ground, the man grabbed her and spun her about to face
him. Before she had time to recover her breath, Slander swung a fist back
and buried it in her stomach.
What little air she‘d managed to suck in left her again in a rush, and
this time she doubled up on the ground.
‗Good of you to save us having to spend another day lookin‘ for you.‘
A leather hobble like the ones used on the camels was slipped first
around one of her ankles then the other. Still gasping, Saria was unable even
to struggle while Slander used more straps to bind her wrists tightly.
‗We‘ve been killin‘ ourselves trying to catch you. That bloody Gaardi
led us all over the country.‘ The man stopped tying the hobble long enough
to throw a sly grin at her. ‗Still, he won‘t be doin‘ that again. Get up.‘
He hoisted her to her feet.
‗Don‘t think of tryin‘ anything between here and the camp, eh?‘ He
gave her a shove towards the ridge. The hobbles caught her legs, and instead
of making her walk his shove sent her tripping back to the ground.
- 277 –
‗Bugger.‘ Slander reached down again, but to Saria‘s surprise he
didn‘t pull her back to her feet. Instead, he slipped his arms under her and
lifted her easily, gathering her to his chest.
‗If I make you walk with those things on it‘ll take all bloody day, eh?‘
The man‘s smell washed over her. He stunk of sweat and camels. His
breathing grew heavier as he laboured up the dune, and Saria could smell
the rankness of it. She twisted her head, looking for Dariand. She had to try
and warn him.
‗Stop wrigglin‘ or I‘ll drop you and leave you tied out in the sun all
day, right?‘
Obediently, she went limp in his arms and closed her eyes, trying to
form some kind of a plan. Immediately, despite herself, she was aware of
him, of his mind. Right there in front of her. She couldn‘t fail to feel it, but
there was no control; she couldn‘t stop herself. Slander‘s consciousness
glowed like a beacon, pulsing with earthwarmth and energy. Without
thinking, without even trying to find the will to resist, Saria pressed into the
outer levels of Slander‘s mind, pulling earthwarmth through him and into
herself as she did so.
SARIA! The call surged through the man, radiating power.
Stop! You have to stop, some little part of her brain screamed, but it
was swamped in the savage wave of energy that connected her mind to
Slander‘s. There was so much there, so much anger, pain, fear, strength.
Saria drove herself deeper, down through the layers of Slander‘s mind,
seeking out that burning, that distant, buried spark that she‘d felt in every
creature she‘d ever reached. She sought it out so she could suck it away,
destroy it with her own burning, so she could unleash the growing pressure
of earthwarmth inside her.
Slander stopped, paralysed, blinded and gasping at the sudden force of
Saria‘s mind jamming itself through his own. She was dimly aware of him
trying to fight it, trying to start his own futile struggle against her, but his
mind was weak, not even aware of his own connections to the Earthmother,
let alone able to control them.
Control.
The thought rocked through her, causing her to shudder in Slander‘s
arms.
- 278 –
She had control. She could stop.
If she wanted to.
But now, it was there, the flickering, burning spark, right at the centre
of Slander‘s being. It glimmered, tantalisingly close, vulnerable. And the
walls of earthwarmth in her own mind pressed towards it, hungrily, ready to
swamp and devour this untrained, arrogant flame.
But Saria had control. She had to.
Slander had fallen to his knees, but his arms stayed locked around
Saria‘s skinny body, a deathly embrace. His mind, focused entirely on
trying to drive out Saria‘s probing consciousness, wasn‘t sending signals to
muscles or nerves and so he slumped on the sand still clinging to the very
force that was killing him.
Seconds grew to minutes; each seemed eternal.
The spark that was Slander‘s mind flickered once, twice, growing
weaker, and in her mind Saria saw Dreamer Baanti standing over them,
smiling his cold, pale smile.
With a scream, Saria drew back, pushing the earthwarmth down and
down, sliding out through the layers of Slander‘s mind, opening her eyes.
Above her, the dayvault was pale, a distant blue. Spots and sparks
danced across her vision as, freed, Slander‘s arms went loose and she
slipped to the ground, lying prone and gasping, while he fell away, his body
twisting into a foetal curl against the hot sand.
Saria lay staring into the immensity of the dayvault, calming the
surging, unsated hunger that had almost taken her. She pushed it back until
eventually all she was aware of once again was the call. The distant,
reassuring pulse of it was sliding through the earth to her from somewhere
nightwards.
Dariand loomed over her, blocking the light.
‗You burn him out?‘
He crouched and she felt a water-skin pressed to her lips. She sucked
greedily before answering, savouring the coolness snaking across her tongue
and down her throat.
‗No. Came close, though.‘
‗You should have. Nobody would have cared.‘
‗I don‘t kill people.‘
- 279 –
Beside them, Slander moaned, a long, thin sound.
‗Is he gonna be alright?‘
‗Don‘t know.‘
Dariand‘s fingers fumbled at her ankles and the hobbles fell away.
Slander uncurled slightly and tried to lift himself off the ground, but
Dariand struck with snake-like speed and shoved him back down roughly.
‗Slander, if you know what‘s good for you, you won‘t move a muscle,
right?‘
His question drew no response from the prone figure, and Dariand
returned his attention to Saria, cutting loose the rest of the bindings and
offering her a hand. ‗Here.‘
‗Thanks.‘
He pulled her to her feet, then knelt and dusted the sand and dirt off
her. His hands were gentle and he worked with careful thoroughness.
‗Hold still. There, that‘s better. You up to walking?‘
‗I think so. What about him?‘ Saria nodded at Slander, still lying
motionless.
‗We‘ll deal with him.‘
Now it was Slander‘s turn to be hobbled. Dariand fastened the
bindings around his wrists and legs in just a couple of minutes. Next he tore
a long strip of dirty fabric from the hem of Slander‘s robe and used it to gag
the man, tying it so that Slander could manage little more than a faint grunt.
Finally, he slung the man over his shoulder and set off towards the
encampment.
‗Are we taking him back?‘
‗Yeah.‘
‗Why? He‘ll just keep chasing us.‘
Dariand stopped and faced her.
‗We can‘t take him with us.‘
‗We could just leave him.‘
‗Saria.‘ Dariand‘s gaze was unblinking. ‗I don‘t kill people, either.‘
They continued into the encampment, where Dariand dropped Slander
unceremoniously right in the middle of the sleeping group. Nobody stirred
as Dariand knelt and whispered in Slander‘s ear.
‗You make a sound and you‘ll regret it, okay?‘
- 280 –
Slander nodded, and Dariand set about arranging the man‘s sand
shelter so Slander was lying in shade. Then he checked the bindings once
more, until, satisfied, he whispered again into the bound man‘s ear.
‗I reckon it‘s time you gave up this chase, eh? If I see you lot behind
us again, believe me, I won‘t be so nice.‘
‗Dariand‘ One of the sleepers sat upright, pushing his sun-shelter
aside. ‗That you, mate?‘
Dariand and Saria whirled at the sound, and Slander twisted onto his
side. Dreamer Gaardi was sitting perfectly still, not looking at them but with
his head tilted as though listening intently.
‗Dreamer Gaardi? What‘s …‘ Dariand began, but at the sound of his
whisper the old man turned to face them, and Saria gasped in shock.
Dreamer Gaardi‘s face was gaunt. For a brief moment it reminded
Saria of Dreamer Baanti — the almost skeletal effect of skin stretched tight
across the ridges of his skull. Worse, it was stained with crusted streaks of
dried blood, running down his cheeks from empty eye-sockets.
‗Dreamer Gaardi!‘ Dariand was beside the other man in an instant.
Saria just stared.
‗Dariand.‘ The Dreamer‘s voice was incredibly calm. ‗You found her,
then?‘
‗Yeah.‘ Dariand knelt beside the blind man and brushed a fingertip
lightly across the bloodied cheeks. ‗What happened?‘
‗Slander. When he finally spotted that I‘d been leadin‘ him all wrong.‘
‗He did this?‘
‗Him and a couple of his mates here. They jumped me in the middle
of the night.‘
‗He took your eyes?‘ Dariand was struggling to keep the disbelief out
of his voice. ‗What about Gan?‘
‗Ent she here?‘
The men were speaking in whispers. Saria took a couple of steps
towards them, and Dreamer Gaardi turned his sightless eyes to face her.
‗Come ‘ere an‘ let me take a closer look at you, girl.‘ He offered a
grim smile.
Slowly, Saria walked over and knelt before him. He stretched his hand
towards her, and when his fingertips made contact with her neck, a shiver of
- 281 –
earthwarmth connected them immediately and she felt the gentle press of his
mind into her own.
‗You‘re reaching again, girl. That‘s good.‘ Even though he was
obviously in pain, there was still approval in Dreamer Gaardi‘s voice.
‗How can you tell?‘
‗I can feel it. I can feel the Earthmother through you …‘ He hesitated.
‗And something else there now, too. There‘s something … nightwards.
That‘ll be this call you‘ve been talkin‘ about, eh?‘
She didn‘t reply, and as he pulled his mind back, she stared again at
the old man‘s ruined face. His wounds were horrible. Where his eyes had
been were only bloodied, empty hollows.
‗How could he do this?‘
‗He reckoned I don‘t need them to do reaching and tracking, and
thought it might keep me a little more under control. Gotta admit, he was
right ‘bout that.‘
‗Bastard.‘ Dariand drew Saria aside, whispering quickly. ‗This
changes things. Find out which one of this mob is Gan, wake her up quietly,
then both of you get to the camels and meet us there, okay?‘
Saria nodded.
The first of the sleepers was a man, heavily asleep and snoring gently.
Saria crept around him as quickly as she could and across to the next shelter,
where she was relieved to find Gan, eyes intact.
‗Gan …‘
The old woman woke immediately, her bony hand seizing Saria‘s
wrist in a tight grip.
‗Night spirits, girl! What‘re you doin‘ here?‘
‗Shh.‘ Saria nodded in the direction of the camels. ‗Dariand‘s got
Dreamer Gaardi. We‘ve got to go.‘
Gan slid from under her awning, folded it, and they started up the
dune. Halfway up, the old woman stopped.
‗We leavin‘, then?‘
‗I think so. Dariand didn‘t say.‘
‗What about Slander?‘
‗He‘s tied up and gagged.‘
‗Good then. Hang on here …‘
- 282 –
The old woman retraced their steps back to the campsite, where she
crept from sleeper to sleeper, taking all but two of their water-skins. They
sloshed quietly as she hurried back to Saria.
‗Take a couple of these.‘
Saria obligingly slung two of the bulging skins across her back.
‗Won‘t they die without water?‘
‗Not if they‘re careful. I left ‘em a bit, but they‘ll have to head to
Woormra now. Won‘t find any more out here.‘
Dariand carried the blinded Dreamer out to the camels and sat him on
the sand while he untethered the creatures. As Saria and Gan approached,
Dariand stopped what he was doing. If he and Gan were glad to see one
another, neither gave any indication.
‗We takin‘ all the animals?‘ Gan asked.
‗We should, but this mob‘ll be properly stuffed if we do that, and
there‘s no sense in killin‘ them. I reckon we take five, leave three.‘
‗Three camels for four people.‘
‗We‘ll be taking Slander with us.‘ Dariand‘s eyes were hard.
‗Right, then.‘ Gan didn‘t question further, but simply gestured at the
water-skins dangling around her neck. ‗I left ‘em two skins.‘
‗You‘re more generous than I would‘ve been.‘
Dariand and Gan exchanged a grim smile, then Dariand turned back
towards the encampment.
‗You do the hobbles, eh? I‘ll be back soon.‘
Gan turned to her camels, while Dariand trotted back over the sand
ridge.
- 283 –
THIRTY ONE.
‗We should get there by morning.‘
Dariand slowed his camel until it fell into step alongside Saria‘s, the
beast grumbling against the harness.
‗Then what?‘
‗Then you‘ll see what a waste of time this is.‘
Above them, the nightvault was as alive as Saria had ever seen it. All
night, while the five made their way across the empty landscape, hundreds
of tiny vaultlights had been rushing across the sky, showers of them, each
leaving a bright trail. Three of them had watched, entranced. Dreamer
Gaardi could only listen as Gan and Saria described the sight, and Slander
was slung face down across the back of the fifth camel, still bound and
gagged. All he could see was the monotony of passing sand.
There had been no pursuit. Since leaving the encampment they had
made their way steadily nightwards into the empty expanse, a vacant
horizon in all directions. Dariand led, followed by Saria, then Slander‘s
beast, tethered to Dreamer Gaardi‘s, and finally Gan. They travelled in
silence, speaking only when necessary.
And now they were almost there.
Up high on the camel, without the constant contact between her feet
and the ground, the call had faded. But every time they stopped and climbed
down to rest the animals it was there, stronger each time, always
nightwards.
‗When will we see it?‘
‗Around sunrise.‘
‗What does it look like?‘
‗You‘ll see.‘
‗And it‘s really impossible to cross.‘
‗If it wasn‘t, do you think we‘d all still be here?‘
His question hung between them for a long time.
‗Why are we still here?‘ Saria finally asked him.
‗We‘re here because you think you need to follow this call all the way
to the Darkedge.‘
- 284 –
‗That‘s not what I mean. I mean all of us. The Darklanders. Why do
you think the Nightpeople have let us go on this long?‘
‗Not because they wanted to, that‘s for sure. Why‘d they take all our
women and good children except to kill us off?‘
‗But they‘re powerful. I saw their hummer, and listened to them. They
can fly and make skyfire. If they wanted to kill us, they could do it easily,
any time they wanted to. They haven‘t, though. Why not?‘
Dariand looked at her for a long time.
‗I can‘t answer that, Saria. Nobody can. Not even Dreamer Wanji
could‘ve explained that. No one knows what the Nightpeople want, or why
they do the things they do. Hell, after your experience in the Shifting House,
you probably know more about them than anyone else in the history of the
Darklands.‘
Saria thought about this. ‗You know what I think?‘
‗What?‘
‗I think they‘re scared of us. I think they need something from us, and
they‘re scared we won‘t give it to them.‘
‗Need something from us?‘ Dariand laughed. ‗What? Sand?
Coldbloods? We‘ve got nothing they want, Saria.‘
‗They want me.‘
‗They want you because that‘ll mean the end of all of us.‘
‗How do we know that?‘
‗Dreamer Wanji told you, you‘re the last child. And the last Dreamer.
It‘s about taking away our hope.‘
‗But how do we know? How did Dreamer Wanji know? It doesn‘t add
up. That afternoon in the Shifting House, one of those Nightpeople was
scared, and not just a little bit. It was really terrified about something.‘
‗So?‘
‗So why would they be out here if it wasn‘t for something important?
One of them was convinced that it was risking its life for nothing, but the
other one — the leader — wasn‘t. Why would they risk their lives trying to
catch me when they could easily kill us all off, if that‘s what they really
wanted.‘
Dariand was about to reply, but a low whistle floated through the air,
and both twisted to watch Gan urging her own animal towards theirs.
- 285 –
‗What?‘
‗Look.‘ She pointed behind, daywards, where their tracks extended
through the sand leaving a trail as clear and straight as one of the ancient
Skypeople‘s roads.
‗Ah, bugger!‘
The horizon behind them was lit from one end to the other by a wall
of crisscrossing nightsuns. From this distance the tiny beams looked small,
but they were coming closer.
‗That‘s not a patrol,‘ Dariand muttered.
‗You reckon they‘re after us?‘
‗I‘d say.‘
They watched the approaching wall of light.
‗Any ideas?‘ Gan looked at Dariand.
‗Dunno.‘ He scratched his chin as he turned, scanning the surrounding
landscape. ‗No shelter out here, that‘s for sure.‘
‗Too right.‘
‗What‘s happenin‘?‘ Dreamer Gaardi and Slander had caught up to
them, and Gan reached across, halting the two animals.
‗Nightpeople.‘
‗Patrol?‘
‗Nah. Hundreds of them.‘
‗They‘ll be followin‘ the tracks, I reckon.‘ Gan looked thoughtful.
‗Yeah.‘
‗Only one thing for it, then.‘
‗What‘s that?‘
‗We‘ll split up. Me and Dreamer Gaardi will take Slander and head
that way.‘ Gan pointed at right angles to their course. ‗And you two go the
other way. With a bit of luck they‘ll keep after us and not you.‘
Dariand thought for a moment or two. The desert seemed to be
holding its breath.
‗Time to go different ways, eh?‘ Dreamer Gaardi spoke into the
silence.
A distant, low hum echoed through the night. The sound helped
Dariand make up his mind.
‗Alright. We‘ll meet at the valley.‘
- 286 –
He clicked his tongue and his camel dropped to the ground, and Saria
did the same. Then he tethered the two animals together and handed the lead
to Gan.
‗What‘ll we do with him?‘ She nodded back at Slander.
‗Dunno. I was gonna take him back to Woormra and use him to sort
out the problems there, but it‘s a bit late for that, I reckon.‘
‗Why don‘t we just leave him here?‘
‗No. Don‘t take him to the valley, either. Just dump him somewhere
on the way. Somewhere with a bit of water and food, but not too much.
Make him work to stay alive.‘
Slander, who‘d been listening closely, began making frantic groaning
noises through his gag, and after a moment‘s thought Dariand stepped
across and untied it.
‗Don‘t be bastards.‘ Slander choked out the words. ‗You can‘t just
dump me.‘
‗You killed Dreamer Wanji, and you blinded Dreamer Gaardi.‘
Dariand‘s voice was level. ‗You don‘t deserve anything from us, Slander.
You‘re lucky we‘ve kept you this long.‘
‗You‘re a fool, Dariand. You know that?‘
‗Am I?‘
‗A bloody idiot. You think you can escape? Don‘t be stupid. Why
don‘t you just hand her over to them right now and be done with it.‘ He spat
into the sand.
‗Give ‘em what they want? That‘s your advice is it, Slander?‘
‗You might as well. They know about her anyway, and they‘ll never
stop looking. They want her just as much as you do. Even more.‘
A look passed between Dariand and Gan.
‗And how do you know that, eh?‘
Even slung across the back of the camel, Slander managed to look
defiant.
‗So I had dealings with them. I had to keep my town going. It‘s fine
for you lot with your clean water and decent Dreamer. I did what I had to.‘
‗Rubbish, Slander. All you want is power. That‘s all it‘s ever been
with you. You thought the Nightpeople‘d give it to you, so you were
prepared to sell her off. You couldn‘t give a damn about the future of the
- 287 –
Darklands.‘
‗The Darklands has no future, you idiot,‘ Slander hissed. ‗The only
ones stupid enough to believe that it has are you and a handful of old men
like him.‘ He gestured at Dreamer Gaardi. ‗The only future this forsaken
land has is what the Nightpeople will let us have, and if that young girl‘s the
cost of it, then fair enough, I say.‘
‗That‘s all this is about to you, isn‘t it. Power. You think they‘ll give
you more power than you can get in your own right. So you‘re prepared to
sell out to the Nightpeople. At any cost.‘
‗Either way, it doesn‘t matter.‘ Slander nodded daywards at the
approaching hummers. ‗You‘re all stuffed now. The best you can hope is
that they take her and leave the rest of you enough water to get back to
Woormra.‘
A long pause followed his words. Then Dariand caught Gan‘s eye
again.
‗What do you reckon, Gan? Is he right?‘
The old woman shrugged. ‗Could be.‘
‗We should give ‘em what they want, then.‘
‗Seems a waste of a good camel, though.‘
‗Don‘t worry about that. I‘ll find him again later.‘
‗Right, then.‘
Saria watched, puzzled, as Dariand untethered Slander‘s animal from
Dreamer Gaardi‘s and turned it back to face the approaching hummers.
‗What are you doing?‘ Slander demanded.
‗Sending a message to the Nightpeople. You. Tell them Saria‘s gone.‘
‗You can‘t do this. Don‘t be a bastard.‘
‗You‘re the one that‘s had dealings with them, Slander. Now you can
be the one to tell them the deal is off. You said it yourself; if we want a
future, we have to buy it from them, whatever the price. And right now, that
price is you. With any luck, catching you will distract them long enough for
the rest of us to get away.‘
‗They‘ll find you. They know about the girl, and they know she‘s
clean. They want her more than anything else. They won‘t give a damn
about me.‘
‗You‘d better hope you‘re wrong about that, Slander.‘ Dariand took a
- 288 –
handful of the man‘s hair and glared into his face. ‗Because if they don‘t
deal with you, then later on I will. You‘ve got my word on that.‘
Without giving Slander an opportunity to reply, Dariand delivered the
camel a slap on its rump with the palm of his hand and immediately it
started trotting straight towards the Nightpeople. Against the approaching
glare, it stayed silhouetted for a long time before vanishing over a rise.
‗We have to move. Now,‘ Dariand said.
Gan agreed. ‗Grabbing him might slow them down a little bit, but
they‘ll still be coming. And he‘ll tell ‘em we‘re splitting up. They‘ll just
come straight after you.‘
‗No, they won‘t.‘ Dariand untethered his and Saria‘s camels, then
slapped their rumps and shouted, spooking them until they were also
galloping away, parallel to the nightwards horizon, leaving a clear trail in
the direction Dariand and Saria were to have taken. ‗We‘ll continue
nightwards by foot. They‘ll chase our camels first, and when they find them
abandoned, they‘ll most likely come after you two. Don‘t go back to the
valley, either.‘
‗Where, then?‘
Dariand thought for a moment.
‗Head for the soak. We can camp there as long as we need to. Now
go.‘
‗Dariand?‘ Dreamer Gaardi reached one hand down towards
Dariand‘s voice.
‗Yeah?‘
‗You take care.‘
‗You too.‘
‗And Saria?‘ The old man turned his empty eye-sockets to stare
unnervingly at her.
‗Yes, Dreamer.‘
‗You chase that call, eh? As far as you have to. And you dream good
dreams when you get there, for all of us.‘
‗I will.‘
Gan‘s voice was soft. ‗Come here, girl.‘
Saria stepped over to stand beside Gan‘s animal. The old woman
stared at her.
- 289 –
‗Good luck, eh?‘
‗Thanks.‘
Then she and Dreamer Gaardi urged their camels into a long gallop,
leaving Dariand and Saria alone in the desert.
‗Come on!‘ Dariand took her hand and pulled it. ‗We‘ll still be lucky
if we get away.‘
They plunged nightwards, almost at a run. The noise of the hummers
was a constant drone which shivered through the night.
‗Walk softly, keep your feet light,‘ Dariand whispered.
SARIA!
Below her feet the call was stronger than ever, earthwarmth flowing
into her from the ground, and back from her to the Earthmother. Saria
sneaked a quick glance behind to where the sky was alive with dancing
light. The harsh, focused beams lanced though the desert sky, drowning the
sparse glow of the vaultlights in a frenzy of bright movement. The hummers
were close enough now for Saria to make out the occasional flash reflecting
off iridescent blackness as one swung through another‘s beams.
‗We need to hide.‘
‗Where?‘ Dariand didn‘t break stride. ‗There‘s nowhere. Just keep
running!‘
‗They‘re going to catch us.‘
The humming rose to a scream and a nightsun beam flashed across the
sand a little ahead, leaving a glowing red blur across Saria‘s vision.
Then she felt something shift in the Earthmother. Some tiny change in
the flow of warmth through the earth.
‗What is it! Come on!‘ Dariand tugged at her arm, but Saria was
frozen to the spot.
She could see everything. It was reaching like she‘d never done
before. The earthwarmth was calming and powerful, and when she closed
her eyes the whole landscape was there before her, falling away, outwards,
beyond anything she‘d imagined possible.
Gan and Dreamer Gaardi were still galloping steadily away, but
compared with the scale of her reaching, they might as well have been right
beside her. A tiny bit further off, three hummers had settled on the ground
around Slander and his camel. She could even see the Nightpeople, but in an
- 290 –
odd way. They were cold, like holes in the world, moving in detachment
from everything else. Several were approaching Slander.
‗Saria!‘ Dariand was shaking her now. ‗Come on! Move!‘
And still the horizons stretched away from her. Past the dead scar of
the Shifting House, past Woormra, across the plains. She could feel it all.
Olympic, Silver Lake, even the valley, so many days away now. Below her
the Earthmother was a living thing, alive like nothing she‘d ever reached:
veins of coolness where water flowed, empty caverns and fissures, the hard
bones of rock and granite and the soft earth between them.
And through it all came a sense of constant movement and incredible,
crushing pressure. And she could feel the surface, where the ground
wrapped the Earthmother like skin, open and exposed to the skyvault. And
there was something new there too, some strange joining of Earthmother
and Skyfather.
‗Dig!‘
‗What?‘ Dariand looked at her as though she‘d gone mad.
‗Dig! Here! Cover yourself with sand.‘
Saria dropped and began scraping a shallow depression in the earth.
‗It won‘t work.‘
She stopped for only a moment to look up at him. ‗Trust me.‘
A second later, Dariand was clawing at the ground beside her.
She sank her hands into the sand, scraping the dirt aside and feeling
earthwarmth tingle through her fingers. When the hollow was deep enough,
she and Dariand lay in it and pulled sand back over themselves, covering
their bodies and their necks and around their heads, leaving only their faces
open to the air and the sky. Lying there, cradled in the earth, an eerie calm
came over her.
‗They‘ll see us,‘ whispered Dariand. ‗They‘ll see where we‘ve been
digging.‘
‗No, they won‘t.‘
He said nothing more, because the first hummer passed directly
overhead, its unearthly sound shuddering through the ground like a physical
blow.
Saria could feel the embrace of the Earthmother, energy flowing
through her, into her, making her a part of it. She could feel vastness. She
- 291 –
could feel the cold, distant hole where the crumbling remains of the Shifting
House sat, reaching high into the sky and barely clinging to the surface of
the Earth. She could feel the call as it came across unperceivable distance.
Sighing, she let herself go completely and melted into it, became a part of it,
and as the Nightpeople tore the sky apart above, their lights searching and
probing, they didn‘t notice anything different about the slightly ruffled patch
of sand in the midst of the great plain.
And then the sound of the hummers grew distant, echoing out to the
nightwards horizon until it vanished. The glow from the nightsuns faded, to
be replaced by the first blush of dawn. Away towards the daylight, Saria
could feel the Nightpeople take Slander with them into one of the hummers,
and as soon as it lifted from the ground his energy faded and vanished,
leaving his camel to wander alone.
‗Have they gone?‘ Dariand‘s voice was a whisper.
‗Not quite. Soon, though.‘
‗Are any more hummers coming back?‘
‗I don‘t know.‘
‗Why not? I thought you could feel them.‘
‗Only on the ground. In the air they‘re … gone.‘
They lay in silence for a long time, until finally Saria said, ‗Okay,‘
and they sat up, brushing away red sand which ran from them like water.
The morning was advancing, the sky taking on the first hints of blue.
‗Why didn‘t they see us?‘ The look in Dariand‘s eyes told her he
expected an answer.
‗The Earthmother,‘ she answered simply. ‗She protected us.‘
Dariand considered pressing the issue, but he let it go.
‗Look.‘
Saria followed his finger. Along the horizon, extending from one side
to the other, hunched a long, low line of darkness. Even the growing dawn
failed to illuminate it. As the rest of the world began to shimmer in the
earthy reds and browns of the desert, that long barrier sucked up the light,
absorbing it in much the same way that the walls of the Shifting House had.
It looked cold.
‗Is that the Darkedge?‘
‗Yeah.‘
- 292 –
‗It‘s not that big.‘
‗You wait. It‘s still a long way off.‘
They walked a little longer. The rising sun pushed away the cold of
the night and Saria basked in its warmth. The call ebbed and flowed through
her, and the ground felt soft beneath her bare feet. Silently, walking side by
side, they continued towards the horizon, and by mid-morning, after hours
of walking, the barrier seemed only a little closer. Saria studied it when they
stopped for a drink. Even from this distance it filled the sky, cutting up
abruptly from the desert. At regular intervals along the top strange arrays
stretched even higher, topped with tiny glowing red lights.
‗What are those?‘ She pointed.
‗No idea.‘
‗It‘s strange.‘
‗What is?‘
‗This is the edge of the world. It‘s weird to think that this is where
everything just stops.‘
‗It doesn‘t.‘ He shook his head in disagreement. ‗This isn‘t the edge of
the world, Saria. Just the edge of our world. There could be anything on the
other side of that wall. We don‘t know. Could be there‘s two people just like
us standing over there, staring daywards and wondering how they might be
able to get over the Darkedge and into here.‘
‗Nightpeople?‘
‗Or someone else.‘ Dariand hesitated. ‗I‘ve been thinking about what
you said last night. About the Nightpeople and why they‘ve kept us in here.‘
‗And?‘
‗You might be right, perhaps we‘re more important to them than we
think. But it still seems odd that they‘d let us just get old and live like this
for no reason.‘
‗Unless their reasons are the same as ours.‘
‗Eh?‘
‗The first time I met Dreamer Wanji, he told me that everything in the
Darkland‘s past has been waiting for me. Waiting for the last child.‘
‗So?‘
‗What if the Nightpeople have been waiting for the same thing? Why
couldn‘t they be waiting for me too?‘
- 293 –
‗Why?‘
‗I have no idea. But why would they put in all this effort unless they
had a reason?‘
Dariand didn‘t answer. They walked on, lost in their own thoughts.
‗If you do get over, then what?‘ Dariand asked suddenly.
‗What do you mean?‘
‗What if there‘s nothing at all over there. What if you can‘t come back
again? What if you can‘t find food or water? Have you thought about that?‘
‗The Nightpeople live over there somewhere. If they can survive, I
can too. I‘ll reach through the Earthmother and find what I need.‘
SARIA!
As if to reassure her, the call gave a brief surge.
‗I hope so.‘
She cast a quick glance at him. As usual, Dariand was working to
keep his face implacable, but there was something in the tilt of his chin and
the creases at the corners of his eyes that gave him away. ‗You don‘t want
me to go, do you?‘
‗I don‘t think it‘ll matter. Nobody can get over that.‘ He pointed ahead
at the Darkedge.
‗But all the same, you think I might be able to, don‘t you?‘
The question drew no answer.
‗Why don‘t you want me to go? Dreamer Wanji thought I should
follow this call. He thought it was important. I thought you believed the
same as he did.‘
‗I did. I mean, I do. But … I‘ve got other reasons.‘
‗What?‘
‗You don‘t need to worry about them.‘
‗Dariand.‘ Saria reached out and touched his forearm, allowing a little
earthwarmth and a tiny bit of the call to flow between them. ‗Why won‘t
you tell me?‘
But the nightwalker hadn‘t heard her question. At the first contact of
her skin against his, he‘d stopped walking and stood stock-still, a shocked
expression on his face. A whispered word escaped his lips, so soft that Saria
barely heard it.
‗Jani!‘
- 294 –
‗What?‘ She went to pull her hand back, but Dariand caught her wrist
and held it. He looked as though he‘d just walked through a night spirit.
‗How did you do that?‘ he demanded.
‗What?‘
‗Jani! Where is she?‘ He was gripping her wrist so hard that his
fingers dug into her skin. ‗Where did that come from?‘
‗Dariand! You‘re hurting!‘
He eased his grip, but wouldn‘t let go.
‗Where‘s Jani? You know.‘
‗What are you talking about?‘
‗I heard … no, I felt her. Just then, when you touched me. I felt Jani.
Where is she?‘
‗That was earthwarmth. You just felt the Earthmother.‘
‗No.‘ He was adamant. ‗It was Jani. I know what she felt like, and she
was here. She was in you. How did you do that? You have to tell me.‘
‗I can‘t. I don‘t know what it is. It‘s the call, that‘s all.‘
‗The call.‘ He let out a long sighing breath. ‗I understand now.‘
‗I don‘t. What is it?‘
‗Darri was right. About the call. It‘s Jani.‘
‗How do you know?‘
‗Because I knew her.‘
‗You?‘
‗We grew up together.‘
Saria remembered what Dreamer Wanji had told her about her mother,
how Jani had been brought up in the valley by Darri. Dariand had told her
that he‘d also grown up there. Saria gently removed her wrist from
Dariand‘s grip and walked a few steps away, studying the distant Darkedge.
The call seemed to fade for a moment, but then returned, as strong as before.
‗What was she like?‘
‗Jani?‘
He studied her for a long time before answering.
‗When they took her, she was only a little older than you are now.‘
‗And?‘
Dariand smiled. ‗She was just like you.‘
‗How?‘
- 295 –
‗Brave. Strong. Bloody annoying when she wanted to be …‘ He
hesitated. ‗And one of the strongest Dreamers I ever knew, until I met you.‘
‗She could reach?‘
‗Like you wouldn‘t believe. Not like you did last night, but she could
touch the Earthmother well enough to outreach any of the other Dreamers.‘
‗Why wasn‘t she a Dreamer herself, then?‘
‗She didn‘t tell anybody. She didn‘t want them to know.‘
‗Not even Dreamer Wanji?‘
‗No.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗She was afraid. Of what people would say. Of what they might do to
her if they found out.‘
‗Afraid?‘
‗Look at what happened when people found out about you. And look
at the way they treat old Darri when she talks about being able to reach. Jani
didn‘t want to bring all that down on herself, and you can‘t blame her.‘
‗But she told you.‘
‗No, she didn‘t. I guessed.‘
‗How?‘
‗It wasn‘t hard. When you‘re that close to somebody, you see them as
they are. All of them. With Jani it was all over her. Full of earthwarmth that
girl was. It just seemed to pour through her.‘
When you’re that close to somebody.
Dariand‘s words reminded her of what Dreamer Gaardi had told her
while they crouched outside Olympic: When two people get so close that
they know one another’s spirit and can mix their spirits together, then they
can make a new life, one that’s the best and worst of both of them. That’s
parents.
‗Are you …‘ Saria stopped, uncertain.
‗What?‘
‗Why didn‘t you tell me?‘
‗That your mother could do reaching?‘ Dariand held her stare evenly.
‗I didn‘t think you should know. I didn‘t want …‘
‗No. Not about that.‘ Saria cut him off. ‗Why didn‘t you tell me about
you and Jani.‘
- 296 –
‗That I knew her?‘
‗That you‘re my father.‘
Dariand froze. The look in his eyes was something between horror and
relief. Finally he broke from her stare to look nightwards, towards the
distant Darkedge.
‗I … didn‘t know how.‘
‗All you had to do was say.‘
‗It‘s not that simple.‘
‗Why not?‘
‗Because … I didn‘t know you. I never got to know you. I don‘t know
anything about being a father.‘
‗You could have come and seen me while I was in the valley. Ma
could have told me.‘
‗No, I couldn‘t. We decided, all three of us: me, Jani and Dreamer
Wanji. Before you were born we decided that keeping you hidden was the
most important thing, the only thing that mattered, and it wasn‘t like I could
go vanishing off to the valley all the time. People would have noticed. That
was why we left you with Ma. She was already there, and she‘d be your
mother.‘
‗But didn‘t you care? Didn‘t you ever wonder about me?‘
‗Of course I bloody did. But this is bigger than just you and me.
Sometimes you have to give up part of yourself for the good of everyone
else, even if it tears you apart to do it. Jani understood that.‘
He turned his gaze back, meeting her stare with his own.
‗It doesn‘t mean I never cared, Saria.‘
The two of them stood there, eyes locked. Then Saria turned
nightwards.
‗Come on.‘
She didn‘t look back to see if he was following, and Dariand let her
get a long way ahead before setting out after her.
- 297 –
THIRTY TWO.
As the afternoon wore on, the Darkedge loomed closer and closer,
filling the sky and blocking the horizon. It was easily four or five times the
height of the Shifting House, but unlike that ancient structure this wall
looked as though it might have been put into place just that morning. No
cracks or fissures broke its smooth surface, not even the stains of age and
weathering. The grey expanse drove into the sky as though it had always
been there and always would. As though nothing, no force of the
Earthmother or the people who lived on her, could even chip the surface of
it, let alone scale it.
It was just as Dariand had described it: a solid, final end to Saria‘s
world.
‗How far does it go?‘
‗I told you — all the way around the Darklands. If you turn and start
following it in either direction, you‘ll end up back here. It‘s an enormous
circle, closing everything in.‘
‗Have you followed it?‘
‗Not all the way. Nobody has.‘
They passed into the shadow of the massive wall, and even though the
call was still pulsing beneath her, Saria shivered. Below her feet, the ground
felt suddenly colder.
The size of the barrier was frightening. Even in the mid-afternoon,
with the sun still relatively high in the dayvault, the shadow it cast out into
the Darklands was deep enough to plunge the desert into a twilight gloom,
washing the colour out of the stones and sand. Saria needed to crane her
neck sharply backwards just to see the top. Dariand said very little, simply
following her towards it.
Finally, as the daylight was starting to fade, they arrived at the base of
the barrier. When she looked up it filled more of her vision than the vault.
To her surprise, the wall didn‘t rise straight up from the sand but climbed at
a sharp angle, growing steeper until it reached vertical somewhere well
above their heads.
Dariand stood back while she walked the last little way on her own.
- 298 –
She reached out and rested one hand on the surface.
It was made of the same cold, lifeless material as the Shifting House
and the tunnels under Woormra. No earthwarmth flowed through it. The
Darkedge was a dead grey mass which blocked and surrounded the world.
Even when she reached into the Earthmother and tried to sense its
boundaries, there was nothing. Just absolute, solid coldness, cutting deep
into the living earth below, and slicing high above into the sky.
Standing there, a horrible sense of futility washed over Saria. All this
way, all those deaths — Wanji, the dog, even Baanti — for nothing. Dariand
was right. She‘d never be able to find a way over it. This close to the barrier,
even the call was strangely muted and listless. Choking back a sob, Saria let
her forehead fall against the cold hardness.
‗Come on.‘ Dariand was behind her, pulling her away, but she
resisted.
‗There must be some way.‘
‗There isn‘t. Come.‘
‗But it can‘t all be for nothing, can it?‘
‗I don‘t know.‘ He let his hand fall from hers and looked upwards.
‗Perhaps it hasn‘t been, but we don‘t know it yet. Perhaps this is how things
are supposed to happen.‘
‗But Dreamer Wanji …‘
‗I know. Come.‘
Now she allowed him to lead her gently back a little way from the
wall, though still well inside its shadow. There they sat on the sand and
shared some food and water.
‗We should get away from here before dark,‘ Dariand was saying.
‗They‘ll send a patrol along it sometime during the night. And after last
night …‘
After last night …
A sudden clarity washed over Saria. She turned to face her father.
‗No. We‘ll stay here.‘
‗Why? You‘ve seen it now. You know there‘s no way over. We‘ll be
wasting another night if we stay.‘
Saria studied him — his features, the angle of his nose, the sandcoloured hair and sun-darkened skin. He is half of me, she thought. But the
- 299 –
call was strong again now, even through the barrier of the Darkedge. It was
the only sign there might be anything beyond it.
‗You‘re wrong. There‘s one way out. Other people have used it.‘
‗What are you talking about, Saria?‘ His words were gentle, but his
tone was alarmed.
‗I can go out the same way my mother did.‘
Dariand knew immediately what she was suggesting.
‗No!‘
‗Why not?‘
‗Because …‘ His voice caught. ‗It won‘t solve anything.‘
‗It might solve everything. It might be the answer.‘
‗You‘ll be throwing yourself away.‘
‗No. We know they need us — they need me. We know that or they‘d
have gotten rid of all of us long ago. Perhaps that‘s what I need to do?
That‘s why I‘m being called over there. Because they need me.‘
Dariand didn‘t answer.
‗What did you think of Jani?‘
‗You know what I feel about her.‘
‗Well, she‘s over there. You felt the call last night. You know I have
to go to her.‘
‗Not like that.‘
‗Can you think of another way?‘
Dariand stood and walked a little away, turning his back on the
massive wall and staring into the Darklands.
‗You could come.‘ Saria moved to stand beside him. ‗I could make
them take you, too. Or refuse to go.‘
‗That wouldn‘t work.‘
‗We could try.‘
‗No.‘ He didn‘t look at her. ‗This is my home, this is my land. I‘m
needed in here. Especially now, with Dreamer Wanji gone and Dreamer
Gaardi … No, there‘s no way I could leave the Darklands.‘
‗But you know I have to.‘
Dariand didn‘t answer her with words. The sag of his shoulders and
the droop of his head spoke for him.
Towards Woormra, the vault cluster of the Child shimmered low on
- 300 –
the horizon. They watched it as the evening grew darker.
‗We could follow it all the way to the valley, you know.‘
‗I know.‘
‗But you won‘t.‘
‗No. I can‘t. Part of me would like to, you have to believe that. But I
can‘t. My call is over there.‘ She pointed to the wall.
Dariand nodded. ‗I didn‘t think so.‘
They watched the vaultlights for a few moments longer, and then he
walked back to their small pile of provisions and picked up his water-skin
and food pouch.
‗Should I leave you anything?‘
‗No. Take it all. You‘ll need it more than me.‘
‗What if they don‘t come?‘
‗They will.‘ Saria didn‘t know why she felt so certain, but in a rush
she knew she was right.
Dariand loaded himself up with the extra water, then turned to face
her.
‗Be careful.‘
‗I will.‘
They stared at one another for a few seconds, and then Dariand
grabbed her. With the food and water slung around his shoulders, the
embrace was awkward, but Saria felt herself relax into him, swimming in
the security, the warmth and the protection of his encircling arms. Then,
after one last tight squeeze, he released her and looked into her eyes.
‗If you do find her, tell her about me.‘
‗I will. Tell Gan and Dreamer Gaardi I said goodbye.‘
‗Okay.‘
And Dariand turned and walked daywards, back into the Darklands,
fading quickly into the night.
Alone in the shadow of the Darkedge, Saria slept a dreamless sleep
and woke in the darkness of the small hours. The cluster of the Child was
high in the nightvault now and she was thirsty. She wished briefly that she
had kept a little of the water for herself, but dismissed the thought. Instead
she let the call rush up and into her, abandoning herself to it and letting it
flow completely through her in long, warm pulses.
- 301 –
SARIA!
Time seemed to stretch out and slip by as she sat, warm against the
cold of the night, the looming wall above a blank expanse of emptiness.
Finally, the faintest hum echoed from somewhere in the dark off to her left,
and she stood and faced that direction. It was moments later she saw it, a
dark shadow against the silvery vaultlights, sliding though the air.
She pushed the call and the earthwarmth away, building her mental
barriers one last time, and letting her body stand alone against the
landscape, unhidden and unprotected.
The Nightpeople detected her when they were still some way off. She
saw the hummer give a sudden lurch and change course. A nightsun
exploded into life, catching her in its harsh whiteness.
For a moment she had to fight back the urge to run, to flee after
Dariand, or to reach her senses down again into the Earthmother, seeking
protection. But even with her barriers in place, the call still glowed through
her, and she stood, blinded and still, while the hummer slunk to the sand and
its noise dropped away.
The nightsun held her in its unwavering glare, until she made out
movement, two figures coming towards her. Both wore the silver skins that
the Nightpeople in the Shifting House had worn, and the nightsun cast a
corona of darkness around them. A little way from her they stopped. Saria
knew they were discussing her, but couldn‘t hear any words.
When one did speak, its voice was the same as the others; distant,
inhuman, an alien buzz from the speaking box on its chest.
‗What‘s your name?‘
‗Saria.‘
There was another pause while the Nightpeople talked silently to each
other.
They came towards her and Saria took a couple of involuntary steps
backwards. As they emerged from the blinding halo, she gasped to see her
own reflection mirrored in the smooth hardness of their faceplates. She
looked tussled, dirty and tired. Sand clung to her skin and dust coated the
tight black curls of her hair. But what grabbed her attention the most were
her eyes. They were Dariand‘s eyes.
One of the Nightpeople reached for the side of her neck.
- 302 –
‗Don‘t worry. This won‘t hurt,‘ it said.
She felt a slight tingle of cold against her skin, and then nothing more.
SARIA!
The call thrummed through her, body and mind, and in an instant the
entire Darklands were there before her — every last bright spark of life and
energy, of warmth and belonging, all encircled by the cold finality of the
Darkedge.
‗It‘s beautiful!‘ Saria exclaimed, and the two Nightpeople glanced at
one another in consternation, but now the world was fading around her, and
the last thing Saria was aware of was the vaultlights spinning crazily as she
folded to the sand.
- 303 –
A Beginning.
The hummer rose into the air with its usual scream and kept going up,
higher and higher, and from his position on top of the dune Dariand watched
it turn and vanish over the Darkedge.
She was gone.
Dariand swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and tried to
ignore the sudden emptiness that yawned inside him.
‗It makes no difference,‘ he told himself, even as he admitted in the
privacy of his thoughts that it made all the difference in the world.
He studied the Darkedge. The sound of the hummer had faded
completely now, leaving him alone with just the whisper of a slight desert
breeze and the sound of shifting sand.
Alone.
For the briefest of moments Dariand wished that Dreamer Wanji could
have been there too, to see it happen for himself. But he shook the feeling
off and, as he had done once before, a long time ago, Dariand turned his
back on the disappearing Nightpeople, gathered up his bundles and, smiling,
set his course daywards, following the cluster of the Child towards a distant,
glowing horizon.
-9–
Young Adult Friction:
The Blurring of Adolescence and Adulthood as Reflected in Australian
Young Adult Literature, 1982 - 2006
- 10 –
One: The „Young Adult‟ Problem
In January 2006, Nightpeople (2005), the creative component of this
thesis, was short-listed in the Aurealis Awards for Australian Speculative
Fiction. The novel was short-listed in two separate divisions of the prizes;
both the „Best Adult Fantasy‟ and the „Best Young Adult Fantasy‟
categories. In the same year Markus Zusak‟s novel, The Book Thief (2005),
which had been released by Picador in Australia in late 2005 as an adult
literary title, was published in the United States as Young Adult Fiction.1
The novel entered the New York Times bestseller lists in the number three
position for „Childrens‟ and Teenage Fiction‟.2 In May 2006, Associate
Professor Terri-ann White, speaking at the Launch of Perth author Julia
Lawrinson‟s novel Bye, Beautiful (2006), commented that her only
reservation about the book was its description on the back cover as a work
of Young Adult Fiction, because she felt it to be an important work of
fiction suitable for readers of all ages.3
These three examples highlight what might be seen to be an increasing
awareness and debate in publishing and academic circles of the changing
nature of „Young Adult Fiction‟ as a publishing and writing phenomenon. It
is not a new, nor uniquely Australian phenomenon: in Britain during 2003,
Mark Haddon‟s novel The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
(2003) was published simultaneously by two separate publishing
companies; as a Young Adult title by David Fickling Books, and as an
Adult Literary title by Jonathon Cape Books.4 Interestingly, the only
difference between the young adult and adult publications of this work was
the cover design – the internal wording of the story remained unchanged,
1
There are various styles used to denote the term „Young Adult Fiction‟, depending on
context and the personal preference of the writer. For the purposes of this dissertation,
when describing the concept in terms of a publisher-driven construction, or an award
category or sub category, this dissertation will use capitals and when using it to describe a
readership demographic – as distinct from a constructed idea of that readership - it will use
uncapitalised letters. Likewise, the terms „Young Adult Fiction‟ and „Young Adult
Literature‟ are widely seen as interchangeable, and both are used at various times here.
2
Moran, R. (2006) p.10.
3
Author‟s recollection of speech delivered on 18th May, 2006.
4
From http://www.markhaddon.com/editions.htm, accessed 10/07/06
- 11 –
including the inclusion of the word „cunt‟ in the young adult version.5 The
Curious Incident… went on in 2003 to become the first novel ever to win
both the Booktrust Teenage Fiction Award and at the same time, the „Best
Novel‟ category of the Whitbread Book of the Year Award.6 It is currently
on the reading lists of a number of high school literacy courses and
certificates, including in Australia the Victorian Certificate of Education
(VCE)
The topic of this dissertation, a broad investigation of the blurring of
what is perceived as Young Adult and Adult fiction, arose as a result of
discussions with my editor, Ms. Leonie Tyle, the children‟s and young adult
publisher at the University of Queensland Press, during the early part of
2006.
In discussing the changing nature and role of Young Adult literature
within the Australian context, I suggested that in contemporary Australian
literary discourse, the term „Young Adult‟ is itself currently in a state of
flux. Over the course of the last twenty or so years, since the introduction of
the „concept‟ of Young Adult Fiction to Australia, there have been a
number of paradigms which have governed our understanding of what
classifies a work of fiction as being for young adults; themes and content,
ages of protagonists, linguistic style and idiom being just several such
examples. These are not hard-and-fast „rules‟ but might be seen as basic,
underlying assumptions made by publishers, teachers, writers and parents
when critically considering which works will hold appeal for teenage
readers.
There have also been novels which have transcended some or all of
these paradigms and I contended to Leonie Tyle that, over the last six years
particularly, more and more of these novels – which adopt a „nontraditional‟ approach to writing for the young adult market – have achieved
success and recognition within the Australian marketplace, thus altering and
widening general perceptions of what are acceptable and desirable as works
of Young Adult Fiction.
It should be made clear from the outset that this dissertation is not
attempting to suggest that the publication of Young Adult novels to dual
5
6
Haddon, M. (2003) p.206.
Now the Costa Book Awards.
- 12 –
target markets is an entirely new phenomenon; indeed, examples of this
occurring can be found going back many years – Gary Crew‟s Strange
Objects was re-jacketed to appeal to a more „adult‟ readership in 1994, three
years after winning the Children‟s Book Council of Australia Book of the
Year: Older Readers award in 1991. The point that this dissertation is
making, rather, is that recent years have seen an increase in the number of
these types of works – those which blur the line between adolescence and
adulthood - receiving acknowledgement and critical praise both within and
outside „Children‟s Literature‟ circles and that this is, in turn, contributing
to an ongoing reassessment of how Young Adult Fiction is perceived in
both publishing circles and the wider community.
The question of what exactly is Young Adult Fiction is a vexed one,
which has long been the subject of debate. Heather Scutter raises the point
in the introduction to her Displaced Fictions:
Barbara
Wall
has
argued
convincingly…that
the
definitive factor of children‟s literature is that it is
addressed to a child narratee…Can we then extend this to
define teenage and young adult books as those which are
addressed to a teenage or young adult narratee? This is a
useful distinguishing feature or characteristic, but can‟t be
a be-all-and-end-all because, as we know only too well,
children, teenagers and young adults often appropriate
fictions which aren‟t specifically addressed to parallel
narratees, but which appeal strongly in some other way.7
Indeed, this definition of Young Adult Fiction – that it can be used to
classify those novels which centre around the life and life experiences of a
teenage protagonist – is a commonly held one among those involved in the
publishing of fiction for teenage readers. However, while this approach to
classification of Young Adult Fiction is useful up to a point, it is not, as
Scutter points out, sufficiently narrow enough to encompass those novels
which, while not drawing upon teenage characters, are identified with and
appropriated by teenage readers. The action writing of an author such as
Matthew Reilly, for example, has great appeal to the male teenage
readership and yet would not fit at all into a definition where readership is
7
Scutter, H. (1999) p.3.
- 13 –
determined strictly by the age of the reader being parallel to the age of the
characters within the text.
Likewise, such a definition fails to take into consideration those texts
which, while drawing on the worldview of teenagers or even children as
their protagonists, require in their interpretation a degree of life experience
on the part of the reader far in excess of that of a teenager or child. The
tradition of contrasting the innocence of the childlike narrator or narrative
character against the experience of the adult reader is a long-established
one; Charles Dickens, L.P. Hartley, Harper Lee, and Yan Martel are just
four examples of authors who have used the naivety of a childish narrator or
protagonist to evince adult concepts and themes in their works and yet
under a strictly age/character-based definition of this genre, Martel‟s Life of
Pi (2002) or Hartley‟s The Go Between (1953) – both works of literary
fiction clearly targeted to an adult readership - might be classified as
examples of Young Adult Literature.
This dissertation contends that recent years have led to a shift in the
way that readers, marketers and publishers of Young Adult fiction regard
the genre and its role in cultural discourse. Novels which would have once
been published as adult literature and then appropriated by a teenage
readership (in much the same way that novels such as The Catcher in the
Rye (1951) were in the days before Young Adult Fiction) are now being
directly published as and marketed to young adult readers.
Likewise, novels written directly to adult readerships but using
teenage or child-aged protagonists are often being marketed (and lauded) as
Young Adult Fiction purely on the basis of the age of their characters or the
background of their authors.
Scutter also makes this point in her introduction, when she mentions
that, “Novels about adolescence are not the same things as novels for
adolescents…”8 This is an important observation in the context of this
dissertation as it is a concise summary of the „line‟ which is, I believe,
being blurred. I would argue that there has been a continuing shift in
Australian publishing and reading culture over the last six years towards the
publication of works as Young Adult which ten or fifteen years earlier
would have been regarded as Adult Literature. Furthermore, many of these
8
Scutter, H. (1999) p.3.
- 14 –
works are being lauded by the key organizations which drive and promote
the Young Adult genre, and as such our conception of what constitutes a
work of Young Adult Fiction is shifting to encompass works of far greater
sophistication than would previously have been regarded as belonging to
the genre.9
In any discussion of this topic two key issues need to be addressed
from the outset:
1.The origins and changeable nature of the term „Young Adult‟.
2.The changing roles of publishers, authors, critics and organisations
such as the Children‟s Book Council of Australia in defining and redefining the construction of Young Adult Literature.
The origins and changeable nature of the term „Young Adult‟
In its most contemporary parlance, and taking into account the
numerous and conflicting definitions forwarded by various interested
parties, the term „Young Adult Fiction‟ has become a sort of catch-all term
used by publishers to describe writing aimed at readers between roughly
thirteen and twenty-three years of age. It has been used to describe books of
multiple sub-genres, styles, and with varying literary goals. Light hearted
humor for early to mid-teenage readers, along the lines of Jonsberg‟s The
Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull (2004) or Moloney‟s Black Taxi
(2003), are classified as Young Adult alongside more overtly literary, or
postmodern works such as Zusak‟s The Messenger (2001), Hartnett‟s
Thursday‟s Child (2000) and historical dramas such as Metzenthen‟s Boys
of Blood and Bone (2003). All these texts vary immensely in terms of style,
subject and readership and yet all fall under the blanket of Young Adult
Fiction. This can be demonstrated by the fact that each of the titles listed
above has featured on the shortlists for the Children‟s Book Council of
Australia Book of the Year Award in the Older Reader‟s category. This
9
The use of the term „genre‟ to describe Young Adult writing is in and of itself the subject
of much debate; arguments have been made (for example by Nieuwenhiuzen in her
interview with Mark Mordue (Australian Author, 2003) that as the term „Young Adult‟
describes a readership, rather than a specific style, to describe it as a „genre‟ is
inappropriate and inaccurate. Others argue that it is an all-encompassing description for a
specific type of writing and thus suitable. In the context of this dissertation it is used in the
latter sense and in the broadest possible terms.
- 15 –
particular award, and the reasons why it can be used as a „benchmark‟ to
define what is and is not seen as young adult literature in Australia, will be
examined in the second chapter of this dissertation.
Maurice Saxby identifies the term „Young Adult‟ as having its origins
in the USA and Great Britain during the mid 20th century:
The young adult label was developed in America and
Britain in the 1950‟s, given impetus by the publication in
1951 of J.D. Salinger‟s The Catcher in the Rye. Holden
Caulfield, with his obsession about his body, his ego, his
hypercritical observations of adults and the way society
functions, became the archetypal teenager or emerging
adult.10
This is not an uncommon argument and indeed there is merit to it, as Scutter
points out when she addresses the issue of the origins of young adult
writing:
It‟s often said that J.D. Salinger‟s The Catcher in the Rye
began the genre of the novel for teenagers. There are
good cultural and historic reasons for this: In a nation just
back from a world war in which many humanist values
had been disrupted, and in which gender roles had been
displaced, there was of course a wholesale questioning of
where humanity, as represented by the chosen nation of
America, was heading. But The Catcher in the Rye, while
read and adopted as their own by many adolescents, is
patently a novel about adolescence addressed to an adult
audience, and spoken in an adult voice, highly ironised.11
Indeed, it should be acknowledged that The Catcher in the Rye was
published under a general fiction imprint and not specifically targeted at an
adolescent readership; its status as an iconic Young Adult novel is, as
Scutter points out, a result of its appropriation by a teenage readership
willing to embrace a novel written in an identifiably (if ironic) „teenage‟
voice. Nevertheless, many commentators agree that this novel heralded at
least the beginnings of a move towards specifically adolescent literature.
10
11
Saxby, M. (1993) p.647.
Scutter, H. (1999) p.2.
- 16 –
The origins and use of the term „Young Adult‟ and its publishing
derivative „Young Adult Fiction‟ are also extensively dealt with in a 1994
essay by Australian writer and academic Nadia Wheatley entitled “The
Terms they are a‟ Changing” and published in The Written Word: Youth
and Literature. In it she assesses the origins of the concept of young adults
as distinct from teenagers or adolescents and argues that, in 1994, the
increasingly common usage of the term „Young Adult‟ signified a changing
perception of the way in which the gap between childhood and adulthood
was being regarded by wider society:
The increased usage of the term young adult – and its
development from the capitalized library and publishing
category to something written in lower case – would seem
to be a reflection of this enormous change that is
happening to the role of adolescents in our society. The
use of the term seems to acknowledge that we think of
these people not just as teenagers – as limbo dwellers
stuck in between the two „real‟ ages of childhood and
adulthood – but as a variety of adult, as people whom we
respect, and people whom we regard as being responsible
enough to run their own lives. At the same time, their
dependent status is revealed in the prefix young.12
Like Saxby, she identifies the origins of the modern popular usage of the
term young adult in the American library system in the mid to late 1950s,
and traces the gradual migration of the term into Australian libraries over
the course of the next two decades, largely through the importation of
American library journals and via visiting American library specialists:13
Even in Australia quite a number of librarians long found
the expression a bit of an embarrassment. However, no
one came up with a better term and, like other new usages
such as gay and chairperson, the more it was used, the
more easily it rolled off the tongue. By the early 1980‟s at
12
13
Nieuwenhiuzen, A. [ed.], (1994) p.10.
Nieuwenhiuzen, A. [ed.], (1994) p.6.
- 17 –
least, the term was also part of the spoken language in
publishing circles in this country.14
In 1986 the University of Queensland Press became the first publishing
house in Australia to commission and publish a list of titles officially under
the banner of Young Adult Fiction. Other publishers followed suit across
the course of the next seven to ten years.
Wheatley also traces the movement of the term into other fields of
study such as sociology15 and suggests that:
Until a society has words for age groups, it cannot have
clearly defined concepts of those age groups. Conversely,
until a society starts to develop or change its concepts
about particular age groups in response to changing
economic and historical circumstances, it does not bother
to invent words for them. To put this simply, the term
young adult has developed because society is in the
process of developing a new way of thinking about these
people. And, of course, this new way of thinking is
happening because these people themselves – these
adolescents or teenagers or young adults – are in a
process and time of transition and development.16
In terms of the context of this dissertation, Wheatley‟s observation is a
useful one; to what extent have the changes she identified as occurring in
1994 continued and in what direction have they moved? This dissertation
suggests that there may be evidence of an ongoing shift in the way society
perceives the role and place of Young Adult literature in the recent
proliferation of novels either published as „crossover‟ novels – written,
marketed and read by both young adult and adult readers, or published
separately under both banners, as was the case with The Curious Incident of
the Dog in the Night Time.17 This novel is only one among a growing
number of works which appear to be comfortably straddling the two worlds
of adult and young adult literature, and effectively blurring the line between
the two.
14
Nieuwenhiuzen, A. [ed.], (1994) p.7.
Nieuwenhiuzen, A. [ed.], (1994) p.8.
16
Nieuwenhiuzen, A. [ed.], (1994) p.8.
17
Haddon, M. (2002).
15
- 18 –
In 1994, Wheatley summed up her overall argument thus:
An extraordinary shift in both the biology and the
sociology of adolescence is currently happening; we are
still too close to measure this, let alone fully understand
it. It is out of this social and economic change that the YA
novel is developing – just as the novel itself developed
out of the social and economic changes of the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries.18
With the benefit of an additional 12 years, this dissertation will assess
several significant recent Australian Young Adult texts which have been
critically lauded and actively marketed as both adult and young adult
novels, as possible evidence of a continuation of this shift which Wheatley
identified.
Any discussion of writing for young adults or children will
immediately face one major conundrum: is young adult writing even
possible in any sense of the word?
It might be argued that to set out to be a children‟s writer is, in fact, to
set oneself an impossible task. Any study of those texts that have become
children‟s „classics‟ will soon reveal a number of common threads between
even the most diverse of narratives. Clare Bradford points out in her
introduction to Writing the Australian Child; Texts and Contexts in Fiction
for Children (1996): “Hovering around the edges of any discussion of
children‟s literature is a sense of the real or imagined children for and about
whom such literature is written.”19
Indeed, this notion of children‟s literature as a type of „false
construction‟ is one of the pivotal questions that continue to influence the
study of this type of literature. Who exactly are children‟s authors writing
for? And for that matter, who are they writing about? It is an inescapable
fact that the majority of contemporary children‟s authors (and illustrators,
for that matter) are well into adulthood. Among the younger contemporary
Australian children‟s and young adult authors at the moment you would
find Markus Zusak, James Roy, Julia Lawrinson, and Sonia Hartnett – all in
their early to mid thirties. The most acclaimed and best selling writers of
18
19
Nieuwenhiuzen, A. [ed.], (1994) p.13.
Bradford, C. (1996) p.viii.
- 19 –
children‟s and Young Adult literature in Australia over the last fifteen years
would include Paul Jennings, John Marsden, Gary Crew, Gillian Rubinstein
and Morris Gleitzman – all well into middle age. And yet one thing that
these and many other writers have in common is that their books are
published to an audience of children or teenagers and often utilise a child‟s
voice as a key narrative device – thus creating an idea of childhood viewed
largely from an adult perspective and coloured by adult perceptions of
society.
The question that this raises is well summarised by Bradford in her
essay Centre and Edges; Postcolonial literary theory and Australian picture
books when she makes the observation that “Children‟s books are written
by adults for children, so children‟s fiction can itself be viewed as a
colonising agent.”20
Heather Scutter makes a similar observation in her essay
“Representing the Child; Postmodern versions of Peter Pan”:
Adults mediate between children and their literature,
adults write children‟s books, and adults control the
notional divisions of realms. Moving of the boundaries is
done by adults on behalf of children, but it must, and
does, satisfy adult desires. As can be expected, such
disruption is only carried out to the extent to which ruling
adult ideologies tolerate it, and thus the apparent
subversion is in effect complicitous.21
Writing for children, then, is an undertaking which is, by its very nature,
fraught with this ambiguity – how is it possible for an adult to write for an
audience of children without first constructing that readership in his or her
own mind and secondly, without consciously projecting their own adult
views of society onto that readership?
Looking at the works of Lewis Carroll, J.M. Barrie, and A.A. Milne
clarifies this problem – in the cases of Carroll and Barrie, the lives of the
authors were so disparate from the experiences of their characters that their
books might be read as an attempt to reclaim a lost (or missed) childhood,
20
21
In Bradford, C. [ed.], (1996) p.107.
In Bradford, C. [ed.], (1996) p.13.
- 20 –
or to justify a dominant social ideology by using the narrative to „colonise‟
childhood, cementing that ideology as a social norm.
Consider as an additional example, R.M. Ballantyne‟s novel The
Coral Island (1858). An example of the „boy‟s own adventure‟ style of
literature prevalent in the mid to late 1800‟s (other examples might include
works by Stevenson and Verne), it holds true to both the Victorian image of
the child and the Victorian ideal of manhood. Richard Phillips, in Mapping
Men and Empire (1997), argues that:
Adventure stories constructed a concrete (rather than
purely abstract) cultural space that…mapped a social
totality in a manner that was imaginatively accessible and
appealing to the people... adventure was generally - but
not universally – motivated by a clear political agenda;
broadly
speaking,
imperialism.
Adventure
stories
constructed cultural space in which imperial geographies
and imperial masculinities were conceived.22
The Coral Island is interesting for a number of reasons; firstly, it was
one of the first books to be published under the banner of Juvenile
Literature and featuring predominantly juvenile protagonists,23 secondly, it
provided the basis for The Lord of the Flies – William Golding‟s post
WWII response to Ballantyne‟s book and a criticism of both colonial
ideology and the Victorian notion of the innocent child.
When Ballantyne‟s young protagonists find themselves marooned
they regard their situation as nothing more than an adventure and in the
traditions of British manhood they go on to conquer the island; nonchalantly
fighting off a shark, converting the cannibal natives to Christianity and thus
promoting the values of the empire. They are very much exemplifying the
assertion that Scutter applies to the protagonists of some contemporary
Australian juvenile literature, that they
Again and again prove to be a superior repository of those
values the adult world subscribes to but falls short of. The
child makes the better adult…in most cases the child so
22
23
Phillips, R. (1997) p.12.
Phillips, R. (1997) p.36.
- 21 –
valorised is but a re-run of adult values, an adult in
juvenile drag.24
This indeed, would appear to be the standpoint from which Golding
later approached his own version of the Robinson Crusoe story. The
protagonists in The Lord of the Flies share their names with those from The
Coral Island, but in many ways, that is all they share. Despite attempts by
Ralph and Piggy to uphold the virtues of „civilised‟ society, the slide into
anarchy and depravation is, Golding would have us believe, intrinsic to the
nature of childhood (and indeed, to the human condition generally), and
thus inevitable. Lord of the Flies then, might be seen as a clear postcolonial
response to the problem of defining children‟s writing.
This then, as I see it, is a key question which faces writers and
scholars of Young Adult and children‟s literature; to what extent is this
colonising aspect of children‟s writing still in force – are writers simply reenforcing existing social and political paradigms, projecting the results of
their own childhoods onto a new generation, or is it possible for
contemporary children‟s writing to be in any way post modern? Can an
adult write for children and still manage to step outside the boundaries of
what he or she understands as „normal‟ and „acceptable‟?
On the other side of the equation, to what extent do the social
structures which define and direct Young Adult fiction - the publishers,
children‟s book councils, schools, parents and libraries, also allow their
influence to be shaped by their own (adult) experience of life, rather than by
those of their intended readership? It could be argued that, at least in part,
one of the causes of the „blurring‟ of adulthood and adolescence being
proposed and examined by this dissertation is this central „problem‟ –
highlighted by Scutter when she observed;
…this confusion in the use of the buzz term „young adult‟
– sometimes a synonym for teenage, sometimes implying
a subset somewhere between the senior teenage and the
junior adult, and sometimes referring to a new kind of
financially dependent adult infantilized by economic
rationalism – leads to much critical confusion.25
24
25
In Bradford, C. [ed.] (1996) p.12.
Scutter, H. (1999) p.280.
- 22 –
Since the 1999 publication of Scutter‟s work, I would argue that the
movement towards more „adult‟ texts has clarified itself somewhat in the
Australian marketplace with the result that many of the novels we are now
seeing published under the banner of Young Adult literature and held up as
laudable examples of such, would comfortably fill the latter two of her
definitions outlined above and suggest, as Wheatley did in 1994, a
continuingly shifting perception of what we regard as writing suitable for
our youth.
Through sustained critical analysis of some texts and writers recently
cannonised through the awards process for Young Adult fiction - and which
have also had a marked impact upon my own approach to the writing and
publishing of Young Adult Fiction - examining them in terms of this
perceived shift, this dissertation will demonstrate the blurring of
adolescence and adulthood evident within the narratives and broadly assess
the „impact‟ that these novels and others like them novels might be having
on Australian Young Adult writing culture.
The role of publishers, authors, critics and organizations such as the
Children‟s Book Council of Australia in defining and re-defining the
construction of Young Adult Literature.
For the purposes of this dissertation, the key mode by which we will
assess current directions in Australian Young Adult literature will be
through a brief examination of the annual Children‟s Book Council of
Australia (CBCA) Book of the Year awards. While there are a number of
forces and institutions that drive and shape the direction of writing for
children and young adults in this country, it can be argued on a number of
grounds that the CBCA is the most influential.
Firstly, the CBCA is the largest national body which comments on and
actively promotes writing for children and young people. There are a
number of state-based institutions, such as the Centre for Youth Literature
(CYL) in the state library of Victoria, and the Fremantle Children‟s
Literature Centre (FCLC) in Western Australia, which perform similar
functions, but the CBCA is the only completely national body of this type.
It has branches in each state and territory and an overall national executive.
- 23 –
The annual awards are administered by this national body and are judged by
a panel consisting of representatives from each state and territory.
Additionally, the CBCA‟s membership is comprised of key
professionals and interested parties from across the whole field of
Australian children‟s and young adult writing. This lends additional weight
to its impact on the direction of young adult writing in Australia, a point
made clearly by Maureen Nimon, writing in Orana in 1997:
The Children‟s Book Council of Australia…is the body
which has been pre-eminent in sponsoring the publication
of good children‟s books by Australian authors through
its system of annual awards. It is an organization which
includes in its membership not only teachers, librarians,
publishers and authors, but also parents who do not fit
into any of these professional categories. It can therefore
be argued to be the organization which exercises the most
direct influence on trends in Australian children‟s
literature.26
Indeed, the influence of the CBCA awards and the role that they play in
shaping the direction of children‟s and young adult writing has been
acknowledged by a number of commentators, both as a positive and
negative force:
At present a very powerful awards system, with extensive
ramifications
in
the
publishing
and
pedagogical
industries, is judged by people with populist, general
reader skills…there is no evidence of sustained critical
thinking about the multifarious issues involved. I have the
utmost concern that such a powerful awards institution –
which is undoubtedly on the side of the angels – should
not take its power much more seriously, and theorise its
understandings of literacy, cultural literacy, reader
response and the constructedness of texts.27
While the thesis of Scutter‟s book - that there is a lack of critical
awareness and assessment of contemporary Young Adult fiction - falls
26
27
Nimon, M. (1997) p.20.
Scutter, H. (1999) p.303.
- 24 –
outside the scope of this dissertation, her assertion that one of the main
forces driving the development of this field of literature is „a powerful
awards system‟ adds further credibility to the notion that analysis of the
books lauded within this system can be used as a kind of barometer by
which to consider the degree to which Australian perceptions of the
concepts of youth and adolescence are reflected in the writings for this
demographic.
It is also worth noting that, while a number of different awards and
organizations assess and acknowledge the achievements of Young Adult
writing and writers, the CBCA Book of the Year awards have the longest
continual records (in the Australian context) and are thus best suited for use
in a study of this nature, which is attempting to assess changes in this
writing genre over an extended period of time.
For the purpose of this dissertation, I will confine myself to
assessment of those novels selected as short-listed titles in the „older
readers‟ category of the prizes, as this is the category which best reflects
current directions in Young Adult writing as opposed to writing for
children.
The history of this category in itself is worthy of some consideration.
Prior to 1982, there was no category in the awards specifically for older
readers – books for readers of all ages were judged together. In 1982,
though, the „Book of the Year‟ award was divided into two categories –
Junior Book of the Year and Book of the Year. Nimon suggests that this
decision was made in order to reflect the fact that: “…the judges at the time
believed that across the years there was an increase in the average age of the
targeted audiences of books being submitted for judging.”28
The award category Book of the Year: Older Readers was first
introduced in 1987 and is still in place today. The introduction and
continued use of this terminology – „older readers‟ suggests that the CBCA
accepts implicitly that in judging the Book of the Year it is necessary to
acknowledge that there are clear distinctions between the type of books
acceptable, and desirable, for readers of different age groups. The
introduction of a specific category into the award to cater for older readers
is an acceptance of the different reading requirements and abilities of
28
Nimon, M. (1997) p.22.
- 25 –
teenagers. The Children‟s Book Council of Australia Awards Handbook
states:
The Children‟s Book Council of Australia Awards are for
books with an implied readership under the age of
eighteen.
The judges assess entries for the Awards primarily
for literary merit, including cohesiveness in significant
literary elements; language chosen carefully for its
appropriateness to the theme and style of the work with
proper regard to the aesthetic qualities of language; and
originality in the treatment of literary elements as they
apply to the form of the work. Appeal to the child reader
is also taken into account…29
Additionally, under the definitions and scope for the „Older Readers‟
category, the handbook states that the award will be given to those works
which
require of the reader a degree of maturity to appreciate the
topics, themes and scope of emotional involvement.
Generally, books in this category will be appropriate in
style and content for readers in their secondary years of
schooling.30
In terms of those novels which „blur‟ or seem to sit astride both
worlds of adolescence and adulthood, these definitions are interesting; the
question of exactly who gets to be the determinant of exactly what „topics,
themes and scope of emotional involvement‟ raises again the issues of
writing as a colonizing agent addressed by Bradford and touched upon
earlier in this chapter. The inclusion of the word „generally‟ in the above
quotation implies that there can be exceptions to this rule, but doesn‟t
specify in which direction, or exactly how a book is determined to fall
within (or, for that matter, outside) the scope of the „Older Readers‟
category. Likewise, the statement at the beginning of the previous quotation
- that the awards are for novels “with an implied readership under the age of
eighteen” is not specific in terms of who implies this readership – the
29
30
Children‟s Book Council of Australia [pub], (2004) pp.6-7.
Children‟s Book Council of Australia [pub], (2004), pp.6-7.
- 26 –
writer? The publishers? The judges? It can be argued that it is in these tiny
areas of ambiguity that the “extraordinary changes” in the young adult
novel suggested by Wheatley are continuing to be felt.
There is also the question of whether or not the understanding of what
constitutes Young Adult literature as seen by publishers, falls into line with
the definition as outlined above. “Suitable for readers in their secondary
years of schooling” would imply that the concept of a „young adult‟
readership should extend from readers around the age of 12/13 years, up to
those around 17/18. Indeed, for much of the last nineteen years, since the
inception of the „Older Readers‟ category, the novels highlighted by shortlistings in this category have sat clearly and comfortably within this
demographic.
Since roughly 2000 though, more and more books have been
appearing on the shortlist which, it can be argued, include and engage
significantly older implied readerships.
Mordue, in his 2003 article, interviewed the children‟s publishers of
several major publishing houses as to their understandings of where exactly
Young Adult fiction sits in terms of implied readership. Erica Wagner (now
Erica Irving), then the children‟s publisher at Allen & Unwin, suggested:
“YA is really for people in their late teens and early 20‟s.”31 Anna
McFarlane, at that time the children‟s publisher at Pan MacMillan books,
suggested that as a broad guideline,
one very easy way [to define young adult fiction] …is to
look at the age of the protagonist in the novel. Generally,
they‟re two years older than the reading audience of the
book.32
Interestingly, the year immediately after this interview was published,
Markus Zusak‟s novel The Messenger, published by Pan MacMillan and
edited by Anna McFarlane, was named as the 2003 Book of the Year –
Older Readers. The protagonist of Zusak‟s novel, Ed Kennedy, is
introduced to the readers thus:
(My full name‟s Ed Kennedy, I‟m nineteen. I‟m an underage cab driver. I‟m typical of many of the young men you
31
32
Mordue, M. (2003) p.10.
Mordue, M. (2003) p.9.
- 27 –
see in this suburban outpost of the city – not a whole lot
of prospects or possibility. That aside, I read more books
than I should, and I‟m decidedly crap at sex and doing my
taxes. Nice to meet you.)33
If we consider this against McFarlane‟s definition of what constitutes
a young adult readership, the intended audience for this novel can be placed
at around seventeen years of age – in their final years of high school and
clearly close to the very upper limit of the intended readerships as set out by
the CBCA guidelines, above. In addition, it might well be argued that a
suitable readership for The Messenger will extend to readers well into their
twenties and thirties – the life experiences touched on even in the short
excerpt above; being „decidedly crap at sex and doing my taxes‟ would
seem to imply a higher degree of life experience on the part of the reader
than might be suggested by the guidelines from the CBCA handbook. They
certainly put the book well above the 12-13 year-olds at the lower end of
the „Older Readers‟ category as it is defined in the CBCA handbook.
This is not to say that novels for the lower end of the readership are
being neglected in the CBCA awards; in the same year that The Messenger
won the award, another short-listed title was Meme McDonald and Boori
Pryor‟s Njunjul the Sun (2002) – a novel clearly intended targeted at a
middle school readership. It does, however, point towards an increasing
level of sophistication being acceptable and indeed, encouraged, in novels
at the upper end of the spectrum.
In chapter three, this dissertation will consider The Messenger more
closely. Suffice to say for the moment, though, that its selection as Book of
the Year in 2003, as well as a number of other winning and short-listed titles
in the previous and intervening years, might well be seen as broadly
supportive of the idea suggested by this dissertation that our concept of
what constitutes a young adult readership is currently shifting to encompass
works of greater sophistication than previously and in which the notions of
adulthood and adolescence are being consciously blurred by the authors.
33
Zusak, M. (2002) p.6.
- 28 –
Two: Broad Trends
Appendix A to this dissertation lists the winners and short-listed titles
in the Book of the Year prizes since the inception in 1982 of a separate
award category delineating books for older readers from those for
children.34
For the most part, when looking back across the twenty-four years
since the idea of an „Older Readers‟ category was first introduced to the
awards, the clear majority of the works selected sit comfortably within the
scope of Young Adult fiction, however you define it. It can be argued,
though, that the increasing degree of sophistication suggested at the end of
chapter one of this dissertation is well in evidence. The 1990 Book of the
Year for older readers, for example, was Robin Klein‟s Came Back to Show
You I Could Fly (1989). With an eleven-year-old protagonist and touching
on themes of family, belonging, drug use and addiction, this novel is still in
use at middle school (year 8 – 9) level in many schools today.
Contrastingly, a decade later, the 2000 prize for the „Older Readers‟
category went to Queensland writer Nick Earls for his novel 48 Shades of
Brown (1999). Earls is a writer best known for his adult novels, usually
realist dramas with a comic bent. 48 Shades of Brown fits comfortably into
this mould, with the major difference between this and the majority of
Earl‟s other works being the age of his protagonist, who in this novel is
entering his final year of high school, rather than being in his 20 – 30‟s. In
48 Shades of Brown Earls places his protagonist, Dan, in a share house with
his 20-something, alternative, lesbian aunt, Jaq who is completing her PhD,
plays bass in a rock band and lives a suitably exotic lifestyle and her
second-year-uni flatmate, Naomi; only two years older than Dan, caught up
in an unsatisfactory relationship and with whom both he and his aunt
become infatuated.
The contrast between the two books, a decade apart, is marked and
would be easily demonstrable through a sustained analysis of both texts.
Klein‟s relies upon a high degree of reader naivety in establishing its
characters and themes; the narrative of Came Back… is largely driven by
34
Available at http://www.cbc.org.au.
- 29 –
the central question of what is the cause of Angie‟s erratic behaviour (this
turns out to be drug addiction), and its themes are evinced through exposing
the impact of her addiction on those around her. The degree of
sophistication of language used in the telling makes the novel easily
accessible to readers of early high school age.
Earls, on the other hand, relies on his readers having, in addition to a
clear understanding of the teenage desire for independence, an acceptance
of the social normality and acceptability of so-called „adult‟ concepts such
as alcohol, gender roles and choices and sex, more likely to be found in a
more mature readership. He places his (only just) school-aged protagonist
into a situation more likely to be identified with by readers in their early to
late 20s; his parents have moved to Europe and he in turn has moved into a
share house with a number of older housemates.
The use of this plot device in terms of the book‟s classification as a
work of Young Adult Fiction is an interesting one. On one hand, it is this
construct of the plot that allows the protagonist‟s age (assuming we accept
this as a measure of classification) to fall within the upper limit of those
acceptable as Young Adult Fiction. Having the protagonist in his final year
of high school lends the book relevance to readers undergoing the same
experience and thus 48 Shades of Brown can clearly be argued to fit
comfortably within the overall category of „older readers‟
On the other hand, it might also be argued that the artifice which Earls
has constructed to enable his plot; that of share house living and moving out
from under the parental wing, is one more likely to be identified with by
readers in their twenties than by the demographic covered by the „older
readers‟ category of the Book of the Year awards. Like The Messenger it
could well be argued that 48 Shades of Brown requires of its readers a far
more sophisticated set of life experiences than many of the books selected
as laudable titles over the course of the previous nineteen years.
Interestingly, and also possibly indicative of a shift in the target
audience for books in this category, where Came Back to Show You I Could
Fly is still, as mentioned earlier, a mainstay text on many middle-school
reading lists, a full length feature film version 48 Shades of Brown, re-titled
simply 48 Shades and targeted at the upper teenage to mid 20‟s age
demographic, was released in the Australian marketplace in late 2006. In
- 30 –
association with the film‟s release, Penguin re-issued the novel, but not as a
Young Adult title; instead it was reprinted under a general fiction imprint
and re-jacketed with stills of the three main characters from the film. The
blurb on the 2006 edition also hints at the book appealing to both teenage
and adult readerships:
When Dan‟s parents move to Geneva, they leave him in
Australia to finish his final year of high school. Dan
chooses to move in with his 22-year-old bass-playing
aunt, Jacq, and her housemate, Naomi.
Thrown into the cool world of university students,
Dan is caught between teenage and adult life. Then he
falls for Naomi…35
While the subjective nature of any awards process will make it
impossible to quantifiably demonstrate any „hard and fast‟ trends as to the
type of books being selected as examples of quality writing for young
adults, there are a number of broad trends and interesting considerations
that might be suggested by limited statistical analysis of the awards.
Appendix two to this dissertation assesses each writer mentioned on the
shortlists in appendix one. It summarises their performance in the „Older
Readers‟ category (or its 1982-1987 equivalent) of the Book of the Year
awards and applies a number of forces to the figures to assess them in terms
of both overall and recent impact.
It should be made very clear that there can be no hard and fast
statistical formula for success in the awards and these figures are not
pretending to be such. The tables in appendix two are useful, however, in
terms of general trends; they give an indication of which writers and novels
have made, and are continuing to make, an impact upon the awards process
and by extension to influence the shape and direction of Young Adult
writing in contemporary Australian culture. Examination of these writers
and their works is one possible way to consider the shifting perception of
young adulthood suggested by Wheatley in 1994.
By their nature a number of factors will impact on the results of any
given method of sorting and ranking the results.
35
Earls, N. (1999), back cover, 2006 Penguin Books edition.
- 31 –
Table 2.1 shows the raw data, directly transcribed from appendix one.
It lists each author in terms of their first year listed, number of years passed
since that listing, their most recent listing, their total number of shortlistings, total number and years of wins, total number and years of Honour
Book or commendation selections36 and total combined number of wins and
Honour Books.
Table 2.2 sorts this same data to assess what might be termed
„significant overall impact‟. This table works on the assumption that the
selection of a novel for the shortlist is a tacit indication on the part of the
CBCA that that particular work is to be held as a worthy example of what
constitutes „acceptable‟ or „desirable‟ Young Adult literature in the
Australian context. The conferral of further status onto that novel through
the awarding of an Honour Book or winner‟s prize can then be weighted
accordingly.
Thus, this table uses the number of times a given author has been
short-listed and the amount of additional status conferred upon that book as
a gauge of that writer‟s „impact‟ in terms of Australian young adult writing.
This is achieved by applying a simple points-based formula to give weight
to the wins over commendations, and to commendations over short-listings;
each short listing is allocated 1 point, thus every author short-listed receives
a „base‟ figure of at least one point. Additional status is then added to this
base figure according to the degree of recognition that book received in the
year of its short-listing.37
On this basis, the writer most significant in terms of overall impact
across the twenty-four years considered here is Gillian Rubinstein, with two
wins (12 points), three Honour Books (9 points) and one additional shortlisting (1 point). Following on from Rubinstein, James Moloney, Victor
36
The structure of the award changed in 1982 with the introduction of „Book of the Year:
Younger Readers” and again in 1987 with the introduction of the „Older Reader‟s”
category. Between 1982 and 1987, a shortlist of eight books was selected, and from this
was chosen one winner, one „Highly Commended‟ work, two „Commended‟ works and
four finalists. From 1987, the shortlist was reduced to six books, from which was selected
one winner, two „Honour Books‟ and three „short-listed‟ titles. For the purposes of this
analysis, those books selected between 1982-1987 as either „Highly Commended‟ or
„Commended‟ have been given the same status as those selected after 1987 as „Honour
Books‟.
37
These points have been derived on the basis that, for the majority of the years covered by
these figures, shortlists have consisted of six titles, with two Honour Books. Thus a
winning novel has been chosen as the first of six (and receives an additional 6 points) and
an Honour Book in the top three of those six (an additional 3 points).
- 32 –
Kelleher, and Robin Klein also register as having had significant overall
impact across the course of the survey period.
The emergence of Rubinstein as the writer who has had the greatest
overall impact on the field of young adult writing in Australia during the
last 24 years is interesting for a number of reasons; Rubinstein first
appeared in the awards in 1987, the same year that the „Older Readers‟
category was introduced in its present form. That year, her novel Space
Demons (1986), a psychological narrative in which her protagonist and his
friends are drawn into a powerful computer game which forces them to
confront the darker aspects of their own personalities, was awarded one of
the first two Honour Book prizes.38 Space Demons also won the 1987
Children‟s Literature Peace Prize, awarded by the Australian Psychological
Society.
In 1989, Rubinstein won the Book of the Year award for older readers
for her second novel Beyond the Labyrinth (1988). This choice garnered a
degree of controversy at the time as it was the first novel containing the
word „fuck‟ ever to win a Book of the Year award. Indeed Saxby describes
the 1989 selection thus:
Rubinstein used the word „fuck‟, though not without
howls of protest to the Children‟s Book Council when the
book was awarded Book of the Year, Older Readers.39
Indeed, later in his book Saxby introduces Rubinstein‟s body of work by
immediately hinting that her readers will require a more sophisticated
approach to their reading than those of some other writers: “Much more is
demanded and given back to the reader by Gillian Rubinstein…”40
It could be argued that in terms of broad trends, Rubinstein‟s entry
into the Book of the Year awards in 1987 and her emergence at the top of
table 2.2 are – while certainly not proof conclusive – indicative of her
influence in terms of increasing the level of sophistication demanded of
writers who hope to appeal to a young adult readership.
It is also interesting to note that in the final paragraph of his book,
(which was written in 1994, before the full emergence to prominence of
38
The other Honour Book that year was awarded to Victor Kelleher – another statistically
significant author under this table – for his novel Taronga.
39
Saxby, M. (1993) p.28.
40
Saxby, M. (1993) p.307.
- 33 –
writers such as Moloney and Jinks) and after 700 pages of exploring and
analyzing all the major writers and works across two decades of Australian
Children‟s and Young Adult writing, Saxby identifies Rubinstein alongside
Gary Crew, Victor Kelleher and Nadia Wheatley as significant and
important writers in this particular field:
From so much that is trivial, trite and ephemeral in young
adult fiction, Gary Crew, with Gillian Rubinstein, Victor
Kelleher, Nadia Wheatley and their kind demonstrate the
enduring nature of and value of literature written from the
heart.41
In terms of this dissertation though, the statistical identification of
Rubinstein as having had the greatest overall impact on the field of Young
Adult writing is important mainly as an indicator of the shifting perception
of what constitutes Young Adult writing and the increasingly blurred line
between adolescence and adulthood.
Rubinstein hasn‟t featured in the short-lists of the Book of the Year
Awards since 199542, however she has continued to write, publishing
psuedonominously, in an effort to escape the tag of being a Young Adult
writer. Of particular interest is her Tales of the Otori trilogy43, published
under the name Lian Hearn between 2002 and 2004. This fantasy trilogy,
set in a world based upon feudal Japan, is in many ways, a good example of
crossover fiction – it demonstrably straddles the worlds of both young adult
and adult fiction and has been read and lauded by critics in both fields:
Among the plaudits it received was a listing as a New York Times Notable
Book, and a short-listing for the Carnegie Medal.
The obvious problem with the data in table 2.2 is that the length of the
survey period will naturally skew the data towards those writers whose
writing careers spanned the longest periods and as a gauge of which works
and writers are having the most contemporary influence it is therefore
flawed. By further weighting the points system used in table 2.2 it is
41
Saxby, M. (1993) p.701.
Although she has since been selected on the CBCA‟s annual long list of Notable
Australian Children‟s Books in 2002.
43
Since the completion of this research, The Tales of the Otori has been expanded to a
quartet (in 2006, with The Harsh Cry of the Heron), and Hearn has also published a prequel
(Heaven‟s Net is Wide, 2007). At the time of this research though and for the purposes of
this thesis, it should be noted that the original three works were intended as, and described
as a trilogy by both the author and publisher in a 2004 compilation volume.
42
- 34 –
possible to skew the results to demonstrate more clearly which writers are
currently being foregrounded by the Book of the Year awards. By adding
more „weight‟ to the contemporary short-lists, it can be argued that a picture
of which writers are currently having impact upon this field of writing will
emerge.
Table 2.3 does this through the division of the survey period into five
groups of five years, with the points value of short-listings, commendations
and wins uniformly increasing towards the present. Thus those novels and
writers who achieved status in the period 1982-1987, for example, receive
less „weight‟ than those awarded between 2002 – 2006. The specific
breakdown of the points values is charted at the bottom of table 2.3.
Under this system, several writers emerge as having a great deal of
contemporary weight; James Moloney, a Brisbane writer who first appeared
in the awards in 1994 when his novel Dougy received an Honour Book
listing, emerges clearly as having had the most statistical impact on the
awards across the course of the last twelve years.
Interestingly though, where Moloney has achieved this with seven
shortlistings, one win and two Honour Book listings, the two writers
immediately following him, Zusak and Metzenthen, have done so with only
three and four listings respectively, and across much shorter timespans.
Despite the weighting working to the advantage of the more contemporary
writers, Rubinstein still features high on the list, and below her Sonya
Hartnett.
Of these five writers, Rubinstein has gone on to write criticallyacclaimed crossover fiction. Zusak‟s most recent novel, The Book Thief,
was, as mentioned earlier, published in Australia as adult literary fiction (it
was not entered into the 2006 Book of the Year awards) but has since
achieved considerable critical acclaim and success in the United States as
Young Adult fiction.
Metzenthen, who has achieved three Honour Books out of four
shortlistings since his first in 1997, has also built a reputation as teller of
progressively more sophisticated stories whose characters inhabit the world
between adolescence and adulthood. His 2004 Honour Book, Boys of Blood
and Bone, like Zusak‟s The Messenger, utilizes protagonists above school
age and striking out into the adult world; one as an infantryman during the
- 35 –
1914-1917 world war, the other as a contemporary young man on a post
school right-of-passage journey up the coast in his mother‟s car.
Hartnett, perhaps the most interesting example, has for many years
been acclaimed as one of Australia‟s most sophisticated writers for adults
and children alike – her novel Thursday‟s Child which was short-listed in
the 2001 awards was, in fact, published by Penguin in 2000 under their
orange-spined adult fiction label. In 2002, the same year that she won the
Book of the Year: Older Readers award for her novel Forest (2001), her
novel Of a Boy (2002) was short-listed in the Miles Franklin prize and
awarded The Age Novel of the Year prize.
Looking at these three writers as examples, it might be argued that
increasingly adult books are being acknowledged in these awards. These are
novels which, through their characters, subject matter, consciously literary
style or a combination of all three, are addressed as much to an adult
readership over the age of eighteen as to a younger one. The following
chapters of this dissertation will address each of these writers and some of
their works in more analytical detail, examining the specific „blurring‟ of
adolescence and adulthood that takes place in each.
- 36 –
Three: Markus Zusak
On the weighted listing in table 2.3 of authors who have had
significant recent impact, Sydney writer Zusak comes in equal second
alongside Metzenthen. This is made all the more impressive by the speed
with which this author has made his mark upon the Australian Young Adult
writing landscape. His first novel, The Underdog was published in 1999,
and followed in quick succession by Fighting Reuben Wolf (2000), When
Dogs Cry (2001) and The Messenger (2002). Of these latter three, the first
two were selected as Honour Books in the Book of the Year - Older Readers
category, and the latter chosen as the winner.
During his relatively short career, Zusak has quickly built a reputation
as a literary, uncompromising writer of fiction for both teenagers and adults,
and in many ways, his works encapsulate and speak to the blurring line
between adolescence and adulthood which is the main thesis of this
dissertation.
While his first three novels are more clearly targeted to a more
traditional young adult readership, his latter two – one a Book of the Year
and the other a New York Times bestseller – are more problematic in their
intended readership. Both would appear to sit comfortably within the
boundaries of crossover fiction – a point made by Zusak himself in an
interview with the Sydney Morning Herald, following the Australian release
of The Book Thief in September 2005:
After he found success with his books for younger
readers, much ado was made about The Book Thief being
his debut novel for adults. Zusak can‟t see what the fuss is
about.
„I don‟t think there is a difference. Adult, young
adult – that‟s the sort of thing I don‟t understand,‟ he
says… Zusak hopes that people of any age can enjoy it. „I
just leave those decisions to other people. I try to stay out
of it and keep writing.‟44
44
Creagh, S. (2005).
- 37 –
Likewise, in a 2006 interview on American National Public Radio‟s All
Things Considered programme, when asked by interviewer John Ydstie to
comment on whether he was writing for an adult or young-adult audience,
Zusak gave a similar reply:
YDSTIE: Now as I understand it, you‟ve written this
book for young adults. It‟s become popular among adults
as well. But what audience were you shooting for?
ZUSAK: I wasn‟t shooting exactly for an audience. I‟m
having bigger problems when I‟m writing. Do the images
work? Does the story work? Does the dialogue work? Are
these characters real to me? As far as this categorization
of books, the way I see it is there are really a hundred-odd
categories of books plus one, and on the top shelf at
home, I‟ve got the books I love, my favourite books, and
that‟s the type of book that I want to write.
And for me, I‟ve found that it‟s a great risk to
underestimate teenagers as well. There are teenagers out
there who have been given this book, and it‟s not just a
book that says here is a book about you, here is a book
about your problems. It‟s more like here is a book for
you, but you‟ve gotta step up to read this, and teenagers
will surprise us every time, I find.45
Indeed, The Book Thief is an interesting case study in terms of its
cross-marketed release. In Australia, it received immediate praise in the
mainstream media, accepted without question as an adult literary novel: “A
prize winning children‟s author, Zusak has made a daring debut as an author
of adult fiction…”46 Yet, when USA Today discussed the book‟s North
American release, it was in the following terms:
The Australian Zusak, 30, is the acclaimed author of four
young-adult books, yet The Book Thief, his fifth, was
45
National Public Radio (US), All Things Considered, April 2nd, 2006, [online] at
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5318749 (accessed January 25,
2007).
46
Pierce, P. (2005).
- 38 –
released Down Under as an adult novel in 2005,
presumably because of its dark subject matter.
Zusak‟s U.S. publisher chose to release it as a
young-adult book, believing that young readers can and
will attempt a 550-page novel that realistically portrays
the Holocaust. One only hopes adults will also discover
The Book Thief47
In terms of this dissertation, The Book Thief is of interest because of
both Zusak‟s statistical impact upon contemporary Australian Young Adult
writing as demonstrated in appendix two, and also because this crossmarketed approach puts it squarely within the boundaries of crossover
fiction. The Book Thief was not entered into the 2006 CBCA awards,
though it has been featured and reviewed in a number of Young Adult
forums, such as on the CYL‟s Inside a Dog website48, which features young
adult peer-reviewing and showcases books and authors for young adult
readers.
Before looking at The Book Thief, though, we will firstly consider in
some detail Zusak‟s The Messenger (2002) – winner of the „Older Readers‟
prize in the 2003 CBCA awards and perhaps, as mentioned earlier, equally
as problematic in terms of its classification as Young Adult Fiction.
The Messenger (2002)
In the year that Zusak‟s fourth novel, The Messenger, won the prize
for book of the year, the Melbourne Age ran an article under the banner
headline „Grown-ups Squabble Over the Best of Children‟s Books.‟
49
In it,
journalist Joel Gibson considered the reaction of librarians and readers to
the judge‟s choices; he quoted the then-CBCA president Judy Moss,
replying to criticism of the selected winners:
The awards are about quality, not popularity, said book
council president Judy Moss, and decisions were
47
Memmott, C. (2006).
http://www.insideadog.com.au
49
Gibson, J. (2003) p.10.
48
- 39 –
influenced by „The way the judges feel, but also the
trends in publishing‟.50
This is an interesting comment in the context of this dissertation; Moss‟s
acknowledgement that the current directions in publishing do have an
impact upon the texts selected by the judging panel opens the way for some
speculation about the extent to which the entry into the awards, and
eventual selection of a deliberately cross-marketed text such as The
Messenger, is sending a signal that the „traditional bounds‟ of young adult
writing, that of the 13-18 year-old-readership, is open to re-definition.
Writing in The Age about the 2003 CBCA winners and shortlist, critic
Michelle Hamer observed:
The trend for reader crossover has meant some children‟s
books transcend the genre to be read by adults –
following a trail blazed so successfully by Rowling. The
2003 older readers winner, The Messenger by Markus
Zusak, was originally published for adults…51
This observation would appear to be born out by a brief examination of the
cover and design of the 2002 Pan MacMillan edition of the novel, which
was the edition entered for consideration by the judges. Like Hartnett‟s
Thursday‟s Child, short-listed two years earlier, The Messenger was
released under a general fiction imprint – nowhere on the jacket or imprint
page do the words Young Adult appear.
The cover design likewise points more towards an adult readership;
predominantly black with only stylized graphics for illustration and with the
title and author‟s name the most prominent features. On the back cover, the
blurb, set in small type against a red background, reads:
Meet Ed Kennedy – cab driving prodigy, pathetic card
player and useless at sex. He lives in a suburban shack,
shares coffee with his dog, the Doorman, and he‟s in
nervous-love with Audrey. His life is one of peaceful
routine and incompetence – until he inadvertently stops a
bank robbery.
That‟s when the first ace turns up.
50
51
Gibson, J. (2003) p.10.
Hamer, M. (2003) p.3.
- 40 –
That‟s when Ed becomes the messenger.
Chosen to care, he makes his way through town,
helping and hurting (where necessary) until only one
question remains. Who‟s behind Ed‟s mission?
The Messenger, by the highly acclaimed author
Markus Zusak, is a cryptic journey filled with laughter,
fists and love.52
Nowhere are there any references to any of the „traditional signposts‟ of
Young Adult Fiction; no reference to the character‟s age, to growing up, to
gaining independence. Instead we have reference to sex, cards, living in
substandard accommodation, being in „nervous-love‟ and leading a life of
„peaceful routine and incompetence‟ - arguably issues designed to appeal to,
at the very least, the upper end of the Young Adult readership. The author
himself is described simply as a „highly acclaimed author‟ and not a Young
Adult author, despite the fact that his previous three books had all been
acclaimed within the auspices of the CBCA awards.
These signs all indicate a novel carefully targeted, if not directly at an
adult readership, then definitely, as Hamer suggests, to appeal to both
categories of reader. The internal structure of the novel would seem to add
further weight to this; the narrative is divided not by traditional „chapters‟,
but rather by a sophisticated system of parts and sections following the
structure of a deck of cards; the bulk of the narrative is contained within
four sections, one for each of the four suites; diamonds, clubs, spades and
hearts. As the story progresses, each suite brings with it its own peculiar
challenges for the protagonist and each set of challenges relates in some
symbolic sense back to the suite in which it is presented. Each section is
then further divided into 13 „chapters‟ marked in ascending order from aces
to kings. The final section of the book is entitled „the joker‟ – a hint at the
post-modern humor that drives the book‟s conclusion, as the author reveals
himself as the supreme manipulator of his characters and as an active player
within every event of the narrative and thus calls into question the reality of
the novel itself. It is a structure which builds to a device of authorial
intrusion into the text that is reminiscent of Gardiner‟s Sophie‟s World
(1997), or Calvino‟s If On a Winter‟s Night a Traveller (1981) and is
52
Zusak, M. (2002) back cover.
- 41 –
designed to appeal to a sophisticated reader with an understanding of and
ability to deal with questions of reality and existence.
The main vehicle for Zusak‟s ideas in The Messenger is his
protagonist, Ed Kennedy. In many ways, it is his characterization of
Kennedy that carries the book into the territory of the crossover novel and
lends the story its appeal to readers in both demographics; Kennedy is an
artful contrivance – at nineteen, he is young enough to be wrestling with the
questions of self and identity that drive many older teenage readers in their
reading choices and yet old enough to be past the traditional „teenage‟
issues of school and independence and already addressing more „adult‟
issues of his role in wider society. As a device to enhance this aspect of
Kennedy‟s characterisation, Zusak has given his character employment as
an under-aged cab driver:
My boss is the proud founder and director of the cab
company that I drive for: VACANT TAXIS. It‟s a
dubious company, to say the least. Audrey and I had no
trouble convincing them that we were old enough and
licensed enough to drive for them. Mix a few numbers up
on your birth certificate, show up with what appears to be
the appropriate license and you‟re set. We were driving
within a week because they were short-staffed. No
reference checks. No fuss. It‟s surprising what you can
achieve with trickery and deceit. As Raskolnikov once
said: „When reason fails, the devil helps!‟ If nothing else,
I can lay claim to the title of Youngest Cab Driver in
these parts – a taxi-driving prodigy. That‟s the kind of
anti-achievement that gives structure to my life.53
The cab-driving role, despite the age of the protagonist, is a clever
one; as a job it allows Zusak to open his character up to a range of
experiences and people who would normally be beyond the experience of
an average nineteen-year-old, lending Kennedy a worldliness something
akin to Holden Caulfield – indeed there are moments, like the final sentence
of the excerpt above, when Kennedy‟s frank, openly ironic, first person
53
Zusak, M. (2002), pp.17-18.
- 42 –
assessment of himself is remarkably reminiscent of the voice of Salinger‟s
eponymous teenage rebel.
At the same time, Kennedy‟s relative youth allows Zusak to keep his
character in touch with some of the issues fundamental to a teenage
readership; struggling with the expectations and failures of his parents, and
living in the shadows of his siblings, for example.
The Messenger opens with a scene in which the protagonist and his
three mates; Marv, „Ritchie‟ and Audrey, are face down on the floor of a
bank which is in the process of being robbed by an incompetent thief.
Through Zusak‟s use of first person point-of-view the reader is pulled
immediately into the world and worldview of Ed, who describes himself as
having „not a whole lot of prospects or possibilities‟54 As the opening
chapter progresses and the escape of the robber is halted by a combination
of incompetence on his part and impulsive action by Ed, this suggestion of
somebody living a life more-or-less without direction or ambition is reenforced:
The town I live in isn‟t small, and there are radio, TV and
newspaper people, all of whom will be presenting stories
and writing articles for the next day.
I imagine the headlines.
Something like „TAXI DRIVER TURNS TO
HERO‟ would be nice, but they‟ll probably print
something like „LOCAL DEADBEAT MAKES GOOD‟.
Marv will get a good laugh out of that one.55
Already, in the formative stages of the novel, it might be argued that
Zusak is building in his readers a sense of his protagonist as someone
wrestling with issues of self and identity just as, if not more likely to be
identified with by people who have lived through, or are living through, the
post-schooling, post-parental emancipation stage of their lives than by most
readers in the 13-18 year-old demographic. Unlike the majority of young
adult readers, Ed Kennedy is already out of formal education, out of the
parental home (though still, as the book later reveals, influenced by the
spectre of his dead father and the expectations of his mother) and
54
55
Zusak, M. (2002) p.6.
Zusak, M. (2002) p.14.
- 43 –
addressing himself to the wider question of his impact (or lack thereof)
upon the adult world. The second chapter in the first section; „Sex should be
like mathematics, an introduction to my life‟ re-enforces this notion:
Before I even mention me, I should tell you some other
facts:
1. At nineteen, Bob Dylan was a seasoned
performer at Greenwich Village, New York.
2. Salvador Dali had already produced several
outstanding artworks of paint and rebellion by the time he
was nineteen.
3. Joan of Arc was the most wanted woman in the
world at nineteen, having created a revolution.
Then, there‟s Ed Kennedy, also nineteen…
Just prior to the bank hold-up, I‟d been taking stock
of my life.
Cab Driver – and I‟d funked my age at that. (You
need to be twenty.)
No real career.
No respect in the community.
Nothing.
I‟d realised there were people everywhere achieving
greatness while I was taking directions from balding
businessmen called Derek and being wary of Friday-night
drunks who might throw up in my cab or do a runner on
me. It was actually Audrey‟s idea to give cab driving a
shot. It didn‟t take much to convince me, mainly because
I‟d been in love with her for years. I never left this
suburban town. I didn‟t go to university. I went to
Audrey.
Constantly, I‟m asking myself, „Well, Ed – what
have you really achieved in your nineteen years?‟ The
answer‟s simple:
Jack shit.56
56
Zusak, M. (2002) pp. 16-17.
- 44 –
Like Earls in 48 Shades of Brown, Zusak has contrived his character to sit
neatly astride the adult and teenage worlds; at the same time as he is paying
his bills and dealing with holding down a job, he is also wrestling with his
mother‟s low opinion of him, his alcoholic father‟s death six months earlier
and issues of love, sex and friendship which straddle the two.
During these opening chapters, it quickly becomes obvious to readers
that Kennedy lives in a world of damaged people; his three best friends –
Marv, Ritchie and Audrey - are all wrestling with inner demons which place
them in a similarly adult/adolescent position to Kennedy himself; Marv
with the loss of an illegitimate daughter who‟s been taken away by the
mother‟s family and whose existence he‟s not revealed to anybody, Ritchie
with long-term unemployment and depression and Audrey with an inability
to let anyone, especially Ed, get too close to her:
I think of how she lives alone, just like me, and how she
never had any real family, and how she only has sex with
people. She never lets any love get in the way. I think she
had a family once, but it was one of those beat-the-crapout-of-each-other situations. There‟s no shortage of them
around here. I think she loved them and all they ever did
was hurt her.
That‟s why she refuses to love.
Anybody.57
In addition to these three central characters there is Ed‟s mother, who
struggles with feelings of inadequacy and guilt and lashes out primarily at
Ed, who of all his siblings most resembles his father, and finally the array of
hurt and hurting people whom Ed is called upon to help as the plot of the
novel unfolds.
All these characters move against a backdrop of urban life in a low
socio-economic, depressed outer-township of Sydney. During the early
chapters this setting mirrors the despair and hopelessness felt by the
characters, including Ed:
The town we all live in is pretty run of the mill. It‟s past
the outskirts of the city and has good and bad parts. I‟m
sure it won‟t surprise you that I come from one of the bad
57
Zusak, M. (2002) pp.24-25.
- 45 –
parts. My whole family grew up at the far north of town,
which is kind of like everyone‟s dirty secret. There are
plenty of teenage pregnancies there, a plethora of shithead
fathers who are unemployed, and mothers like mine who
smoke, drink and go out in public wearing ug-boots. The
home I grew up in was an absolute dump… 58
Thus, across the course of the opening chapters, Zusak firmly establishes
his characters and his world as existing in a kind of „half-and-half zone‟
somewhere between adulthood and childhood. Everyday concerns of
employment and day-to-day survival are framed by a pervading sense of
people lacking direction and self-esteem and with no real sense of true
independence – like Kennedy, the characters at the start of The Messenger
are all independent in the technical, adult sense of the word – living their
lives separate from one another and responsible only to themselves, but are
also pawns of fate – each exudes a sense of being somehow „locked in‟ to
their lives, their decisions governed by choices long in the past and now
dependent on the vagaries of social expectation in the options open to them.
Having firmly established these characters and this world, Zusak then
proceeds to gradually invert it; Across the next three sections of the novel,
Kennedy – through whose eyes we as readers see the world and are thus
positioned in relation to it – is manipulated by an unknown hand and it is
through these manipulations that Kennedy comes to a broader
understanding not just of his own identity and a realization of some of his
potential, but to a better understanding of all those around him:
Having gained a degree of public attention after his role in foiling the
robbery, he arrives home one evening to find a playing card – the ace of
diamonds – in his letterbox. On it are scrawled three addresses and times;
indicating to Ed that he has some sort of „mission‟ to complete:
…I focus on the Ace of Diamonds. It sparkles in my
hand.
I touch it.
Hold it.
I smile.
Into it.
58
Zusak, M. (2002) p.18.
- 46 –
There‟s an aura to this card, and it‟s been given to
me. Not to Dickhead Ed. To me – the real Ed Kennedy.
The future Ed Kennedy. No longer simply a cab-driving
hopeless case.
What will I do with it?
Who will I be?59
In this passage the reader gets, for the first time in the novel, some sense of
the dissatisfaction which underlies everything about Ed Kennedy – the first
sense that Ed himself realizes that there is more to him than we‟ve so far
been presented with. We also gain a sense of the impending journey and an
immediate understanding that Ed‟s transition into a fuller understanding of
himself will not be a simple or easy one. In this sense, The Messenger slots
neatly into the genre of being a „coming of age‟ story – a common theme in
much Young Adult writing and one which can be identified in classic
Young Adult texts going back decades.
Zusak‟s positioning of his protagonist as someone who, despite his
youth, is already living in and dealing with the issues of adulthood, clearly
enables him to draw upon a broad knowledge and understanding of the
human experience in the course of his journey and in this way, Ed
Kennedy‟s coming-of-age is distinguished from many „classic‟ Young
Adult novels of this type.
This point is immediately driven home to the reader as Ed completes
the first three „missions‟ that he‟s been assigned. The suite is diamonds –
items of beauty and value and Ed‟s assigned tasks are all to do with
protection and security; he is to look into the lives of the people to whom
he‟s been sent and to work out what he can do for each to help them „shine‟.
The first of these three „missions‟ though, makes it clearly evident that the
reader, like Kennedy, will be confronted not just with simple characterdriven conundrums but with a series of moral and ethical decisions that will
require both Kennedy and the reader to judge other characters and their
situations by drawing upon their understanding of the adult world.
At 45 Edgar Street, Kennedy is shown a man who is repeatedly raping
and beating his wife while their young daughter cries on the front porch. It‟s
a brutal chapter – arguably the most violent in the book, and no accident
59
Zusak, M. (2002) p.30.
- 47 –
that from the outset Zusak is confronting both his protagonist and his
readers with a situation designed to create a sense of powerlessness and fear
and which will require both to call upon their understandings of and
feelings about a particularly adult situation:
The moon escapes from the clouds and I suddenly feel
naked. Like the world can see me. The street is numb and
silent but for the giant man who‟s stumbled home and
talks forcefully to his wife.
Light materializes now in the bedroom as well.
Through the trees I can see the shadows.
The woman is standing up in her nightie but the
hands of the man take her and pull it from her, hard.
„I thought you were waiting up,‟ he says. He has her
by the arms. Fear has me by the throat. Next he throws
her down to the bed and undoes his belt and pants.
He‟s on her.
He puts himself in.
He has sex with her and the bed cries out in pain. It
creaks and wails and only I can hear it. Christ, it‟s
deafening. Why can‟t the world hear? I ask myself.
Within a few moments I ask it many times. Because it
doesn‟t care, I finally answer, and I know I‟m right. It‟s
like I‟ve been chosen. But chosen for what? I ask.
The answer‟s quite simple:
To care.
A little girl appears on the porch.
She cries.
I watch.
There‟s only the light now. No noise.
There‟s no noise for a few minutes but it
soon starts up again – and I don‟t know how many times
this man can do it in one night, but it‟s certainly an
achievement. It goes on and on, as the girl sits there,
crying.
- 48 –
She must be about eight.
When it finally ends, the girl gets up and goes
inside. Surely this can‟t happen every night. I tell myself
it isn‟t possible, and the woman replaces the girl, on the
porch.
She also sits down, like the girl. She‟s got her
nightie on again, torn, and she has her head in her hands.
One of her breasts is prominent in the moonlight. I can
see the nipple facing down, dejected and hurt. At one
point, she holds her hands out, forming a cup. It‟s like
she‟s holding her heart there. It‟s bleeding down her
arms.
I almost walk over, but instinct stops me.
You know what to do.
A voice inside me has whispered, and I hear it. It
keeps me from going to her. This isn‟t what I have to do.
I‟m not here to comfort this woman. I can comfort her till
the cows come home. That won‟t stop it happening
tomorrow night, and the night after.
It‟s him I have to take care of.
It‟s him I have to face.
All the same, she cries on the front porch and I wish
I could go over there and hold her. I wish I could rescue
her and hold her in my arms.
How do people live like this?
How do they survive?
And maybe that‟s why I‟m here.
What if they can‟t any more?60
This scene, coming as it does early in the novel, clearly sets the book
apart from the majority of „traditional‟ Young Adult novels. Confronting his
readers this early in the narrative with questions of sexual power, violence
and assault and the morality of maintaining a passive stance in the face of
such violence and also examining its impact upon children and the fabric of
the family unit, it could well be argued that Zusak is clearly setting his story
60
Zusak, M. (2002) pp.44-46.
- 49 –
at the feet of a readership intellectually and emotionally equipped to deal
with such questions. When, later in the section, Kennedy is provided by his
mysterious manipulator with a gun and a single bullet, clearly intended to
be used on the rapist, he finds himself faced with the question of the
significance of life and this moral conundrum is further emphasized. The
last scene in the „Diamonds‟ section of the novel (represented as the King of
diamonds and suggestive of Ed having finally reached a position of power
in relation to his own life – at least as far as this aspect of his journey is
concerned) is as confronting as the one above and as the final word in this
section of the story, is pivotal in making the reader consider the extent and
obligation upon them to protect those unable to protect themselves:
I wake him up with the gun. This time he responds
immediately, and again, I stand three metres behind him.
He gets to his feet, attempts to turn around but thinks
again. I step closer and hold the gun behind his head,
saying, „Now, I got chosen to do this to you. I‟ve been
watching what you do to your family and now it‟s going
to stop. Nod if you understand.‟ He complies, slowly. „Do
you realize you‟re going to die for what you‟ve been
doing?‟ No nod this time. I hit him again. „Well?‟ This
time he nods.
The sun hits its head on the horizon and I fasten my
hand to the gun. My finger‟s on the trigger. Sweat slides
down my face.
„Please,‟ he pleads. He bends forward in halfbreakdown. He feels like he‟ll die if he falls completely.
A disturbing kind of sobbing takes hold of him. „I‟m
sorry, I‟m so – I‟ll stop, I‟ll stop.‟
„Stop what?‟
He hurries his worlds, „You know…‟
„I want to hear you say it.‟
„I‟ll stop forcing her when I get – „
„Forcing?‟
„Okay – raping.‟
„Better. Continue.‟
- 50 –
„I‟ll stop doing it, I promise.‟
„How in God‟s name can I rely on your word?‟
„You can.‟
„That isn‟t the answer I‟m looking for. You‟d get
naught for that in an essay,‟ and I dig the gun in a little
harder. „Answer the question!‟
„Because if I do, you‟ll kill me.‟
„I‟m killing you now!‟ I‟m feverish again, coated in
sweat and what I‟m doing, struggling to believe it. „Put
your hands on your head.‟ He does it. „Walk closer to the
edge.‟ He does it. „Now, how do you feel? Think before
you answer. A lot depends on whether you‟re right or
wrong.‟
„I feel like my wife does every night when I come
home.‟
„Scared out of your mind?‟
„Yes.‟
„Exactly.‟
I follow him over to the edge, aim the gun and make
sure.
The trigger sweats across my finger.
My shoulders ache.
Breathe. I remind myself. Breathe.
A moment of peace shatters me and I pull the
trigger. The noise of it burns through my ears and just like
the day of the bank robbery, the gun now feels warm and
soft in my hand.61
Although Zusak doesn‟t have his protagonist kill the rapist – it is
revealed at the start of the following section that he has fired the gun into
the sun and allowed the man to live on the condition that he leaves his wife
and daughter in peace and never returns – it has been argued by some critics
that this story, confronting in its brutality and by the fact that it would seem
to suggest that a violent response is the best solution to a violent situation,
makes it an unsuitable choice as a Children‟s Book of the Year, even within
61
Zusak, M. (2002) pp.97-98.
- 51 –
the auspices of the „Older Readers‟ category. Hamer hinted at this
dissatisfaction in her article;
The shortlist for this year‟s CBCA children‟s book of the
year awards reflects the current buoyancy and optimism
in the industry. The doom and gloom themes that
pervaded many previous years‟ shortlists have dissipated
and quirkiness and a celebration of life seem to have
taken its place.
Zusak‟s winning novel is the major exception, with
its cryptic story of 20-year-old taxi driver Ed Kennedy
who lives in a shack, is useless at sex, has a mother who
calls him a dickhead and a dead father.
In the other categories, however, hope, human
kindness and optimism prevail. There are still challenging
themes such as parental death, murder, divorce, peer
group pressure, friendship, crime and war. But hope often
runs parallel to the sadness. The protagonists are often
offered a way forward through pain and difficulty – as in
Catherine Bateson‟s older reader honour book Painted
Love Letters…62
In terms of this dissertation, it is interesting to consider the extent to
which The Messenger blurs adulthood and adolescence into one another.
Hamer‟s final sentence in the section quoted above implies that Zusak‟s
book fails to present any real hope to its reader, but this would seem to be a
comment which neglects the majority of the other subplots which make up
Ed Kennedy‟s journey; the teenage runner whom he helps to accept and
embrace her talent and the freedom that running offers her. The old woman
whom he assists in coming to peace with the wartime loss of her husband,
the inner-city priest whom he re-unites with his estranged brother, and in
the final section of the novel, appropriately and symbolically dealt with
under the „hearts‟ suite, his three damaged friends, Ritchie, Marv and
Audrey, all of whom he helps along the first steps towards healing the holes
in their lives.
62
Hamer, M. (2003) p.3.
- 52 –
It could be argued, in fact, that Zusak is presenting to his readers a
story not without hope, but in which „hope, human kindness and optimism‟
are framed in such a way as to make them clear to readers coming at the text
from a position of informed life experience and from a critical reading
standpoint more likely to be found in a demographic with, at the very least,
some understanding and conception of life as lived in the uncertainty of
adulthood.
This argument is, in my opinion, bourne out by the final section of the
novel. Having worked his way through the diamonds, clubs, spades and
hearts, the reader arrives at part five: „The Joker‟. In it, Zusak offers his
readers no easy solution to the question of why and how Ed Kennedy is
being targeted to complete his „missions‟, but rather, presents them with an
existential and philosophical riddle that is as much about the constructed
nature of narrative and meaning as it is about the morality and meaning of
the plot itself.
The title of the section, “The Joker”, sets the scene for what is to
follow; Zusak, having led the reader on this journey into the life of his
protagonist, now enters the narrative as a character himself, turning the
events of the plot into a joke which has been played as much upon the
reader as upon Ed Kennedy.
Having completed his final „mission‟ and thus finally relieved himself
of the burden of being „the messenger‟, Kennedy arrives back at his shack
for the final time. Across the course of the preceding 368 pages, the reader
has watched Kennedy be both brutal and brutalized in turn, be
compassionate, caring, desperate, angry, and now, finally having reached
some sort of peace with both himself and those around him, all that remains
is to discover how and why these events have taken place. He arrives home
to find one last card – a joker – in his letterbox. On it, one last address – his
own. For several pages, a sense of impending doom builds, while each
possibility that the author has built into the narrative as to the identity of the
mysterious manipulator is stripped away until finally, one night, Ed comes
back to where he began, his run-down house, to find a young man, a
stranger, sitting in his living room waiting for him:
When he stands up, he says, „I came to this town a year
ago, Ed.‟ He has fairly short brown hair, stands a bit
- 53 –
smaller than medium height and wears a shirt, black jeans
and blue athletics shoes. As each minute passes he looks
more like a boy than a man, although when he speaks, his
voice is not a boy‟s at all.
„Yeah, it was about a year ago, and I saw your
father buried. I saw you and your card games and your
dog and your ma. I just kept coming back, watching, the
same way you did at all those addresses…‟ He turns away
for a moment, almost ashamed. „I killed your father, Ed. I
organised the bungled bank robbery for a time when you
were there. I instructed that man to brutalise his wife. I
made Daryl and Keith do all those things to you, and your
mate who took you to the stones…‟ He looks down, then
up. „I did it all to you. I made you a less-than-competent
taxi driver and got you to do all those things you thought
you couldn‟t.‟ We stand now, staring. Waiting for more
words. „And why?‟ He pauses but he doesn‟t move back.
„I did it because you are the epitome of ordinariness, Ed.‟
He looks at me seriously. „And if a guy like you can stand
up and do what you did for all those people, well maybe
everyone can. Maybe everyone can live beyond what
they‟re capable of.‟ He becomes intense now. Emotional.
This is everything. „Maybe even I can…‟63
In this way, Zusak introduces himself as the author into the text as a
character and in doing so, deliberately pulls apart the reader‟s willing
suspension of disbelief, calling into question issues of free will and destiny,
of the degree to which we are manipulated by those with power over us, and
the degree to which we ourselves are active participants in that
manipulation. These clearly sophisticated notions, explored through a
device so tangential to the plot, could, it might be argued, add further
weight to the notion that The Messenger is a text written for a sophisticated
and mature readership; one extending well above school age and into
adulthood.
63
Zusak, M. (2002) pp.381-382.
- 54 –
Finally, Zusak blurs again the question of identity and reality one last
time in the closing lines of the novel, when he has Kennedy come to the
final realization of what it has all been leading up to:
And that‟s when I realize.
In a sweet, cruel, beautiful moment of clarity, I smile,
watch a crack in the cement and speak to Audrey and the
sleeping Doorman. I tell them what I‟m telling you:
I‟m not the messenger at all.
I‟m the message.64
With this final, existential observation, Zusak ends his novel.65 There are a
number of clear parallels that can be drawn between The Messenger and
Earl‟s 2000 winner, 48 Shades of Brown. Both have teenage protagonists
but use various devices of plot to position their protagonists within the two
worlds of adolescence and adulthood. Both use a self-conscious, first person
point-of-view to draw the reader into the worldview of the narrator. Both
observe the adult and adolescent worlds from this position (though Zusak‟s
narrator is certainly more worldly and cynical than Earl‟s more deliberately
naive Dan) and both rely, to a large degree, on their readers being able to
draw upon a sophisticated set of life experiences, many of which can be
identified in the years immediately following on from high school, in their
reading of gaps and silences in the text.
That said, it might also be argued that Zusak‟s novel is a more
sophisticated narrative than Earl‟s, certainly more confronting in its use of
violence and in its portrayal of human experience. In terms of this
dissertation though, both can be seen as narratives with appeal to readers
well into their late twenties and further.
While the choice of The Messenger as the 2003 CBCA Book of the
Year for older readers garnered a degree of controversy and fuelled the
ongoing debate as to the role and function of Young Adult literature in
Australian cultural discourse, it nevertheless established Zusak as a writer
of some note and sophistication and set into place the foundation for his
64
Zusak, M. (2002) p.386.
Although it might also be argued that the real ending to the novel comes on the page
following the final lines of text, where the „author photo‟ shows Zusak grinning at the
camera, clad in the exact outfit described in the excerpt above, and clutching a yellow
folder, also described in the final section of the novel (not quoted).
65
- 55 –
next book, The Book Thief, to be released onto the Australian marketplace
in an altogether different fashion.
The Book Thief (2005)
As discussed at the beginning of this chapter, Zusak‟s fifth novel, The
Book Thief falls under the scope of this dissertation despite not being
entered for the 2006 CBCA awards. This decision by the book‟s publishers,
Picador, when considered alongside the novel‟s 2006 success as a Young
Adult release in the United States, could indicate a deliberate move to
broaden Zusak‟s traditional Australian readership to encompass adult as
well as teenage readers.
It is a move which would appear to have worked as intended. The
Book Thief was released into the Australian marketplace to considerable
critical acclaim. Both the Melbourne Age and the Sydney Morning Herald
greeted the novel with favourable reviews, not questioning for a moment its
status as an adult novel. Indeed, Peter Pierce, writing in The Age, concluded
his review thus:
The Book Thief is a triumph of control, and for the most
part of tact, although Death is at liberty to breach any
decorum. Its oblique angle on the German homefront
never exalts the courage of the young, but quietly tells of
how days and months are managed.
Zusak has written, in his 30th year, one of the most
unusual and compelling of recent Australian novels…”66
That The Book Thief has indeed managed to penetrate the cultural
landscape as an adult novel is further suggested by its selection as the
centerpiece novel of the 2007 UWA Perth International Arts Festival‟s One
Book initiative.67 In reviewing the novel as part of the publicity for this
event, The West Australian‟s literary editor, Rod Moran, described the book
as being “Dazzling and limpidly written”68 and Zusak himself as having
„…a keen and original sense of audience when he is writing. He doesn‟t
66
Pierce, P. (2005).
Moran, R. (2006).
68
Moran, R. (2006).
67
- 56 –
think rigidly in terms of age and market categories (adult, young adult,
teenagers, children, etc.)‟69
At the same time as it is enjoying success as an adult literary novel,
and despite its non-appearance in the 2006 CBCA awards, The Book Thief
has still had a clear impact upon teenage and young adult readers across the
country. It has featured in reviews on the Centre for Youth Literature‟s
Inside a Dog website70 – a youth-orientated site with an emphasis on peerto-peer sharing and interaction. It can be found on the shelves of most
school libraries and is stocked alongside other Australian Young Adult
works by specialist children‟s and young adult booksellers including the
Fremantle Children‟s Literature Centre.
In terms of its marketing, then, this novel appears to be clearly
blurring the line between adulthood and adolescence – sitting comfortably
astride both readerships in much the same way as Haddon‟s The Curious
Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Its overtly adult approach to the
market does not appear to have damaged Zusak‟s status or reputation as a
leading Young Adult author, but has effectively exposed his writing to a
whole new audience. Indeed, reviewing the novel for The Guardian
newspaper after the book‟s publication in England, Philip Ardagh
commented that: „The Book Thief has been marketed as an older children's
book in some countries and as an adult novel in others. It could and - dare I
say? - should certainly be read by both.'71
Set in Nazi Germany during the holocaust, The Book Thief, like Lee‟s
To Kill a Mockingbird (1960), places a childlike protagonist into a world of
adult horrors and, to an extent, sets the privileged reading position of
adulthood against the naivety and innocence of the childlike perspective.
This use of the child protagonist as a foil for an adult conception of the
world is not a new one; as mentioned in chapter one of this dissertation, it is
a device which has been used by authors from Dickens to Haddon.
Zusak, however, departs somewhat from the traditional approaches to
this type of story, which tend to fall into either first person point of view
from the perspective of the child (as in To Kill a Mockingbird or Hartley‟s
The Go Between) or third person limited (such as in McEwen‟s Atonement
69
Moran, R. (2006).
http://www.insideadog.com.au
71
Ardagh, P. (2007).
70
- 57 –
(2002)). His protagonist, Liesel Meminger, is not the narrator of his tale, but
the central player in it. This frees Zusak from the limitations that a strictly
childlike narrator can impose upon a narrative. At the same time, he utilizes
a first person point-of-view in his relating of Liesel‟s story, allowing him to
establish the intimacy of engagement with the reader that first person stories
can obtain.
To allow himself a suitably broad scope in his narration, and the
opportunity to insert adult observation into Liesel‟s experiences in WorldWar-Two Germany, Zusak uses the personification of Death as his central
narrator. It is Death who introduces us to Liesel and the cast of characters
with whom she will experience the horrors of the Holocaust, it is Death who
takes us on brief side journeys into the past and future of the various players
in the story, and it is Death who paints for the reader the atmospherics and
broader context of Nazi Germany. He introduces us to his narrator thus:
I could introduce myself properly, but it‟s not really
necessary. You will know me well enough and soon
enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It
suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be
standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will
be in my arms. A colour will be perched on my shoulder.
I will carry you gently away.
At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely
find people standing up). You will be caked in your own
body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble
down the air. The only sound I‟ll hear after that will be
my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my
footsteps.72
Across the course of the next 500 pages, Death takes us through the
wartime experience of his protagonist. This happens across the course of ten
parts, framed by a prologue and epilogue, each further subdivided into unnumbered chapters. For the most part, the focus is upon Leisel, but the
narrative flow is regularly interrupted by small asides set within the body of
the text as Death offers his own perspective, thoughts, or commentary upon
the lives of the characters.
72
Zusak, M. (2005), p.4.
- 58 –
The Book Thief is a far more difficult novel to classify in terms of
readership than The Messenger. Unlike Zusak‟s previous work, the age of
the protagonist gives little indication as to the level of sophistication behind
the story; The Book Thief opens when its protagonist is nine years old, and
concludes in her thirteenth year, yet it is clearly not a novel written for
upper primary or lower secondary students. The basic questions that drive
the novel are those of humanity – the ability of the species to perform both
acts of incredible beauty and kindness and those of unspeakable horror. It
reflects upon current world events, the horror of war and the fragility of the
human
condition,
but
achieves
this
through
subtle,
subtextual
characterization rather than through the visceral horror of a book like All
Quiet on the Western Front (1929), for example.
The tone of the novel is consciously literary; sophisticated metaphor
can be found on every page and the style of the language is almost
Victorian in some places; imagery bordering on excessive, but in effect
building a stark and tense atmosphere perhaps reminiscent in some ways of
novels like Wuthering Heights (1847):
The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup,
boiling and stirring. In some places it was burnt. There
were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked amongst the
redness.
Earlier, kids had been playing hopscotch there, on
the street that looked like oil-stained pages. When I
arrived I could still hear the echoes. The feet tapping the
road. The children-voices laughing, and the smiles like
salt, but decaying fast.”73
Clearly this is a novel that will require a high degree of sophistication of its
readers, simply in terms of style, if nothing else.
Unlike his characters in The Messenger, those in The Book Thief do
not straddle the worlds of adulthood and adolescence; his two main child
protagonists are clearly many years from adulthood and the three main adult
protagonists well advanced along the road. What they do have in common
with Zusak‟s other work, however, is that all are in some way damaged;
concealing parts of themselves from the wider world and from one another.
73
Zusak, M. (2005) p.13.
- 59 –
Many of these gaps in the text are evinced through Zusak‟s use of his
protagonist‟s youth and innocence being contrasted against a presumably
older and more sophisticated reading audience. This feature of the novel is
given further emphasis by the background of war-torn Germany against
which the story takes place.
In assessing the novel, perhaps the best approach is to consider it in
sections. Zusak has divided his story into ten substantive parts, each named
for one of the ten books which influence Liesel‟s life and which, like the
suites of cards in The Messenger, reflect a degree of symbolic meaning
upon the specific content of that part of the plot. The narrative unfolds in
multiple layers, as Zusak peels back the lives of his ensemble cast, and the
world in which they move and relate. He uses the omniscient qualities of his
narrator to jump the story forward and backward – using small snippets of
the future and past to gradually reveal the larger picture of these people‟s
lives, as well as to maintain a high level of reader engagement. As such, The
Book Thief is in many ways a human drama, rather than a war story, and
relies upon a high degree of perception and life experience on the part of the
reader in its interpretation, particularly of the motivations of the characters.
Zusak hinted as much in his interview with Rod Moran:
And The Book Thief is also about making decisions. Do
you hide the Jewish man because you made a promise 20
years ago? Do you join the Nazi party to protect your
family? It‟s about all these things, taking responsibility
for your decisions. And taking the consequences for
doing both the right thing and the wrong thing.74
These questions of ethical and moral direction recur throughout the
novel and are in many ways the prime device by which Zusak drives his
plot forward. His characters are all, in some way, trapped; either by
circumstance, politics, economics, race, genetics or religion and are being
forced to confront a world that requires them to subjugate a degree of their
humanity to preserve themselves and those closest to them.
The first section, “The Gravedigger‟s Handbook”, is where the reader
is first introduced to Liesel who, at nine years of age, is standing in a
cemetery alongside a train line. She comes to the attention of Death when
74
Moran, R. (2006).
- 60 –
he comes to collect her little brother, Werner, who has died en route to
Munich, where their mother is to deliver them into the hands of authorities
for foster care – we learn that their father has been taken into custody as a
communist and that their mother is doomed to a similar fate. In the
cemetery, during the course of her brother‟s burial, Leisel finds a book
which has been dropped by the apprentice gravedigger – The Gravedigger‟s
Handbook - which she promptly appropriates for herself and in doing so
begins a fascination with words and books which is to frame the events of
the remainder of the novel.
In Munich, after the twin traumas of her brother‟s death and of being
removed from her mother, she is delivered into the care of her foster
Parents, Hans and Rosa Hubermann and their little house in Himmel Street,
in the village of Molching, just outside Munich, and on the main road to the
Dachau concentration camp.
Hans is an accordian-playing painter who has been rejected from
membership of the Nazi Party for painting over anti-Jewish graffiti on a
Jewish shopfront. Rosa does washing for other families. Their own children,
a son and daughter, are more-or-less estranged, the son a fervent party
member and the daughter living away from the family. The two take Liesel
in and she becomes their adopted daughter.
Gradually, Death leads us into Liesel‟s new life; her growing love for
the quiet and gentle Hans, who plays the accordion for her in the evenings,
sits awake with her through the night terrors which haunt her sleep and
begins to teach her to read, working with her through The Gravediggers
Handbook. Also into her less affectionate relationship with the boisterous
and domineering Rosa and, significantly, her friendship with the boy next
door, Rudy Steiner – son of the town tailor, gifted athlete and model Aryan
– at least physically.
Having established his narrator and case in Part Two, “The Shoulder
Shrug”, Zusak leads his readers further into the minutae of life in Nazi
Germany. The title of this section is a reference to the second book that
Liesel steals – this time from the ashes of a fire after a Nazi Party book
burning to celebrate Hitler‟s Birthday in 1943. The relationship between
Leisel and her adopted father, Hans, is the main focus of this section. Also
significant is the fact that she is spotted removing The Shoulder Shrug from
- 61 –
the ashes by the Nazi Mayor‟s wife – one of Rosa Hubermann‟s washing
clients.
In part three, “Mein Kampf”, and part four, “The Standover Man”,
Zusak introduces the final member of the central cast, a Jewish fist fighter
named Max, whose father fought alongside Hans Hubermann during World
War One, taught Hans to play the accordian and who saved Hans‟ life – a
debt Hans promised to repay, and which he eventually does by agreeing to
shelter Max, who creeps into Molching with a set of false papers and
clutching a copy of Mein Kampf as protection from curious eyes. Thus it is
Hitler‟s tome which brings Max safely into the basement of Leisel‟s new
home.
Max and Leisel form a friendship, and Max writes a book for her as a
birthday present – The Standover Man, written on paper made from the
pages of Mein Kampf, which he paints over and then writes on top of.
Also significant in this section of the novel is the development of the
relationship between Liesel and Ilsa Hermann, the Mayor‟s wife. After
spotting Leisel stealing from the book fire, Frau Hermann begins inviting
Liesel into her home each week when she comes to pick up or deliver the
washing, to read in her extensive library. It becomes apparent that the
Mayor‟s wife is, like many of the characters in Liesel‟s life, hiding from the
world. Indeed, she comes across as a reclusive figure; rarely seen outside
her home and almost Miss Haversham-like in her presentation:
The mayor‟s wife, who never spoke, simply stood in her
bathrobe, her soft fluffy hair tied back into a short tail.
There was the suggestion of a draught from inside.
Something like the imagined breath of a corpse. Still there
were no words, and when Liesel found the courage to
face her, the woman wore an expression not of reproach,
but utter distance…75
Just as Max is hiding physically from the Nazis and as Hans and Rosa are
hiding their dislike of the regime which has taken their son from them, Ilsa
Hermann is hiding from the death of her young son – damaged by the
world, she has retreated into herself in a way somewhat reminiscent of the
75
Zusak, M. (2005) p.143.
- 62 –
characters in The Messenger. Into this world she allows Liesel – to sit in her
library and read books.
This relationship changes abruptly in part five, “The Whistler”, when
Frau Hermann is forced by circumstance to end her business with Rosa
Hubermann; thus making life for the Hubermanns, who are already
experiencing difficulty on Han‟s and Rosa‟s meager income – far more
difficult;
At home, as luck would have it, when Liesel walked
through the door, Rosa was in the kitchen. „And?‟ she
asked. „Where‟s the washing?‟
„No washing today,‟ Liesel told her.
Rosa came and sat down at the kitchen table. She
knew. Suddenly, she appeared much older. Liesel
imagined what she‟d look like if she untied her bun, to let
it fall out onto her shoulders. A grey towel of elastic hair.
„What did you do there, you little Saumensch?‟ The
sentence was numb. She could not muster her usual
venom.
„It was my fault,‟ Liesel answered. „Completely. I
insulted the mayor‟s wife and told her to stop crying over
her dead son. I called her pathetic. That was when they
fired you. Here.‟ She walked to the wooden spoons,
grabbed a handful and placed them in front of her. „Take
your pick.‟
Rosa touched one and picked it up, but she did not
wield it.
„I don‟t believe you.‟76
Frau Hermann sends Liesel away with a gift – a book entitled The
Whistler, which Leisel refuses to accept but which she returns later and
steals, assisted by Rudy, who has also started to skip his mandatory Hitler
Youth meetings. In part six, “The Dream Carrier”, the war gathers pace,
and so do the ministrations of Death. The section begins with „Death‟s
Diary: 1942‟ and opens thus:
76
Zusak, M. (2005) pp. 285-286.
- 63 –
It was a year for the ages, like 79, like 1346, to name just
a few. Forget the scythe, God damn it, I needed a broom
or a mop. And I needed a holiday…
…There were certainly some rounds to be made that
year, from Poland to Russia to Africa and back again.
You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what
year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank
things up a little. They increase the production of bodies
and their escaping souls. A few bombs usually do the
trick. Or some gas chambers, or the chit-chat of faraway
guns…77
The substantive plot of this section deals with Max‟s declining health.
Hindered by lean rations and the cold and damp of the basement, he ends up
comatose and in Liesel‟s bed – causing further stress for the family, and
summed up by the chapter title; „What to do with a Jewish Corpse.” He
recovers, through, and returns to the basement, just in time for it to be
inspected by the Nazi Party and deemed too shallow for use as an air-raid
shelter.
This part of the novel sets up the scene for parts seven, eight and nine,
“The Complete Duden Dictionary and Thesaurus”, “The Word Shaker” and
“The Last Human Stranger”. Across the course of these three, which
comprise a substantive section of the final third of the novel, the war
continues to escalate, Rudy comes to the attention of the local Party because
of his athletic ability and his family refuse an „invitation‟ to send him off to
a special school. During a death march of Jews through Molching one falls
and is assisted back to his feet by Hans Hubermann, who earns a whipping
from the guards and is subsequently drafted into the army as a result. The
other result of Hans‟ action is that Max has to flee the basement, and he
leaves to an uncertain future.
Across these three sections Zusak builds into the narrative an
increasing sense of desperation and tension and it is in this part of the novel
that he most effectively creates an impression of the impact of industrialized
war upon the everyday. Hans is drafted into the LSE – the Airforce Special
unit responsible for staying above ground during air-raids and putting out
77
Zusak, M. (2005) pp.329-330.
- 64 –
fires or shoring up buildings. It is a punishment detail and Hans is drafted to
Essen, where he manages to survive some of the worst bombing of the war,
but is ironically injured out of the army in a truck crash. Part nine ends with
his return to Molching and to Liesel, demobilized with a broken leg.
Having drawn the readers into the lives and world of these characters
over the course of the previous 500 pages, Zusak then has his narrator take
them through the final part of the book, entitled “The Book Thief”. Zusak
continues to reveal the plot through a chronologically fractured narrative,
detailing the last months of Leisel‟s time with Hans and Rosa Hubermann –
A brief return to normality and peace with Han‟s return from the LSE, and
the increasing bombing of German cities. The climax of the book begins
with Liesel spotting Max in the middle of a group of Jews as they are
marched through Molching on the way to Dachau. She runs to him and both
are whipped by the guards.
Finally, in the last chapter of the section, Liesel is down in the
basement in the middle of the night. After having stolen and read so many
books and having had them written for her by Max, she is writing her own
in a blank exercise book, a present from Ilsa Hermann. Entitled The Book
Thief it tells her story; the same story that Zusak has painstakingly created
by layering these character‟s lives on top of one another. The night she
completes the book, finishing it with the line; „I have hated the words and I
have loved them, and I hope I have made them right‟78 is the night that the
bombs rain down on Molching – an air raid which has missed its target and
come without warning.
At this point in the novel, Zusak‟s use of Death as his narrator
achieves perhaps its most powerful effect. From page one, Zusak has been
careful not to characterize his narrator as an archetypal „grim reaper‟; not as
someone who takes even a modicum of pleasure in his task, but rather as a
compassionate and somewhat arch observer of the human condition;
understanding the theory of human emotion, but – we get the impression –
only rarely touched by it. As he walks us through the bombing of Molching,
however, through the ends of the lives of his characters, Zusak utilizes this
carefully constructed narrative voice to its fullest:
78
Zusak, M. (2005) p.562.
- 65 –
At 31 Himmel Street, Frau Holtzapfel appeared to be
waiting for me in the kitchen. A broken cup was in front
of her and in her last moment of awakeness, her face
seemed to ask just what the hell had taken me so long.
By contrast, Frau Diller was fast asleep. Her bulletproof glasses were shattered next to the bed. Her shop
was obliterated, the counter landing across the road, and
her framed photo of Hitler was taken from the wall and
thrown to the floor. The man was positively mugged and
beaten to a glass-shattering pulp. I stepped on him on my
way out.
The Fiedlers were well organized, all in bed, all
covered. Pfiffikus was hidden up to his nose.
At the Steiners, I ran my fingers through Barbra‟s
lovely combed hair, I took the serious look from Kurt‟s
serious sleeping face and, one by one, I kissed the smaller
ones goodnight.
Then Rudy.
Oh, crucified Christ, Rudy…79
As the final section of the novel draws to a close, Zusak‟s Death
observes the rescue of Leisel from the basement, her discovery of the deaths
of first Rudy, then Hans and Rosa Hubermann and her being led away by
the LSE men. As he leaves the scene, Death spots Liesel‟s exercise book,
The Book Thief, in a garbage truck. He reaches in and takes it.
The final few pages of The Book Thief are an epilogue, outlining
briefly the survival of Max, Liesel‟s adoption by Ilsa Hermann and finally,
the novel concludes with a brief chapter set in present day Sydney,
Australia, when Death arrives to finally receive the soul of Liesel
Meminger, who has died of old age, surrounded by her family. They walk a
while and he hands her soul the book he rescued from the rubble of Himmel
street so many years earlier. „Could you understand it?‟ she asks him, and
just as in The Messenger, Zusak ends his novel on a philosophical note –
demanding that the central riddle of his narrative linger:
79
Zusak, M. (2005) pp.564-565.
- 66 –
I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty
and brutality. But what could I tell her about those things
that she didn‟t already know? I wanted to explain that I
am constantly overestimating and underestimating the
human race – that rarely do I ever simply estimate it. I
wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly
and so glorious, and its words so damning and brilliant.
None of those things, however, came out of my
mouth.
All I was able to do was turn to Leisel Meminger
and tell her the only truth I truly know. I said it to the
book thief and I say it now to you.
-A Last Note from Your Narrator –
I am haunted by humans.80
The double-marketing of The Book Thief in Australia as an adult
literary title and in the United States as Young Adult fiction might be
indicative of the continuing shift in perceptions of what is and is not
suitable (or saleable) as Young Adult literature that is the topic of this
dissertation. It can be argued that The Book Thief is in many ways, a clearly
adult novel; drawing upon sophisticated characterization, emotional
response and written in a consciously literary style with clear references to
the Victorian novel in both the arch tone of its narrator and in the overall
structure of the work. It is a novel about childhood, but with more in
common with those works that reflect on childhood from an adult
perspective, than with those which simply relate from the child‟s
perspective. Unlike, for example, classic Young Adult war stories such as
Westall‟s The Machine Gunners (1977) or Margorian‟s Goodnight Mr Tom
(1981), Zusak‟s novel speaks to a readership which has already processed
the implications of war at an intellectual level and is in a position to
consider the more existential and philosophical implications that this subject
matter has for wider society.
At the same time, its success as a specifically marketed Young Adult
title in the United States and its rapid appropriation by the upper teenage
readership in Australia is also indicative of the fact that this novel does
80
Zusak, M. (2005) p.584.
- 67 –
indeed retain enormous appeal in the Young Adult market; like The
Messenger it blurs adolescence and adulthood but does so through touching
on universal themes and ideas and not speaking down to this readership,
rather it demands of them a more sophisticated level of critical reading.
- 68 –
Four: David Metzenthen
Melbourne writer Metzenthen first appeared on the Older Readers
shortlist of the Book of the Year awards in 1997, when his novel Johnny
Hart‟s Heroes (1996) was awarded an Honour Book prize. In the nine years
since, he has achieved a total of four listings, three of which have been
selected as Honour Books. The most recent of these was his 2003-released
novel Boys of Blood and Bone, arguably his most sophisticated work to
date, which received an Honour Book award in the 2004 prizes.
In terms of the weighted points system in Appendix Two, this places
him on an equivalent footing with Zusak in terms of his impact on the
contemporary writing field. Indeed, there are a number of parallels which
can be drawn between the two writers. Both display an increasing level of
sophistication across their body of work; like Zusak, Metzenthen‟s earlier
works would sit comfortably within the more „traditional‟ bounds of Young
Adult literature – their protagonists appropriately aged and the themes and
issues addressed by the books commensurate to the life experiences of that
readership. His more recent work for older readers, which includes Boys of
Blood and Bone, demonstrates, also like Zusak, an ability to sit astride the
worlds of adulthood and adolescence and to blur the distinctions between
the two. In a 2004 article in The Melbourne Age, Michelle Hamer made
note of this parallel:
Other young adult authors, such as Markus Zusak and
Colin Bowles, are producing similar stories of adventure
infused with reality, to support a trend toward a modern
action-hero story. Forget the daring and glorious exploits
of Biggles and his ilk, today‟s teenage literary heroes
suffer loss and pain; we watch them struggle, but
ultimately survive through a mixture of courage, humour
and resourcefulness. These kids are just ordinary blokes
doing their best and coming of age in the real world.81
Hamer‟s choice of language in the final sentence of the above excerpt
is interesting in terms of this dissertation; „These kids are just ordinary
81
Hamer, M. (2004).
- 69 –
blokes…‟. Her use of the terms „kids‟ (implying a degree of youthful
naivety) and „blokes‟ (with its connotation of a more adult conception of the
world) to describe the protagonists suggests an awareness of the inherent
ambiguity present in the larger scope of these books; that the characters do
indeed reflect the fact that these books are neither adolescent, nor adult
fiction, but are somewhere in the middle. Put differently, she could be
suggesting that the „notional divisions of realms‟ to which Scutter refers82
are indeed being deliberately blurred by writers such as Metzenthen and
Zusak. Metzenthen himself, in his interview with Hamer, acknowledges that
he believes he and Zusak share a common conception of the writing
process:
Metzenthen has high praise for Zusak, who he reckons
“writes for exactly the right reasons…to tell these stories.
He‟s a real writer and there‟s a few around, but not many.
There are people who are in love with the idea of being a
writer. If you think it‟s glamorous you‟d be wrong.”83
He also lists Western Australian author Tim Winton as an influence,
especially in terms of his ability to write across genres.84
Like Winton (and Zusak to a lesser extent), Metzenthen concerns
himself in his work with capturing a high degree of realism in both his
characters and their actions which in turn lends them resonance with the
„real world‟. He concerns himself with issues of identity in contemporary
Australian society and reflects them in both the characters that drive his
narratives and the landscapes within which they move. This attention to
dramatic realism is, perhaps, one of the elements of Metzenthen‟s work
which lends it a broad base of appeal to readers outside the traditional scope
of the young adult demographic. In an open letter to his readers on one of
his publisher‟s websites, Metzenthen states:
I guess I try to present stories that could happen in the
real world – so when I write I work very hard to create
„people‟ rather than „characters‟. In the process of writing
82
in Bradford, C. [ed.], (1996) p.13.
Hamer, M. (2004).
84
Hamer, M. (2004).
83
- 70 –
I have to „see‟ the book, „see‟ the story, and if I can‟t,
then I doubt any of my readers could either.85
Also like Zusak, Metzenthen has used his works to consider issues of
interest to a wider community than simply the young adult audience; his
novel Stony Heart Country looked at the issues of corporate downsizing and
streamlining and their impact on rural communities, Boys of Blood and
Bone deals with the mythology of the ANZAC legend, the search for
belonging and identity and, like The Book Thief, the impact of industrialized
warfare upon those caught up in it. Metzenthen relies upon his readers
having a degree of perception and life experience above the traditional
expectations placed upon readers of Young Adult fiction to enable them to
engage with his characters and stories. This is, perhaps, most evident in
Boys of Blood and Bone.
Boys of Blood and Bone (2003)
In the Brisbane Courier Mail‟s 2004 “Young Reviewer of the Year”
competition, one of the winners was 16-year-old Dannielle Dunlop, whose
review of Metzenthen‟s Boys of Blood and Bone ends thus:
Boys of Blood and Bone is an engrossing story that makes
the reader hold their breath as each page is turned. The
depiction of the brutality and fruitlessness of war leaves a
lasting impact on the reader. It provides insight into the
lives of two very different young men living very
different lives but joined by universal experiences of love,
mateship and death.86
Her acknowledgement that the protagonists are „young men‟ who endure
„universal experiences‟ is mirrored in the findings of the 2004 judges‟
report for the CBCA Book of the Year awards:
The parallel stories of two young men – Andy, a soldier
who died in World War One, and Henry, a contemporary
youth whose car breaks down in the soldier‟s hometown –
85
Metzenthen, D. [online] at
http://www.scolastic.com.au/common/books/contributor_profile.asp?ContributorID=55&ch
annel (accessed 02/11/06).
86
Dunlop, D. (2004).
- 71 –
are both moving and credible. The complex and vivid
narrative extends Andy‟s terse war diary, which describes
the awful slog of trench warfare, death and his part in an
unplanned pregnancy. The somber note is relieved by the
larrikin humour of Andy‟s mates. Henry, an experienced
sailboarder, has similar mates with the same sardonic
sense of humour, but he also has to cope with a modern
tragedy. A compelling and evocative novel that connects
the present to the past.87
Both reviews point to the fact that in Boys of Blood and Bone
Metzenthen is indeed, like Zusak in The Book Thief, exploring issues and
concepts that reach far beyond the experiences of the traditional Young
Adult novel. Like Zusak‟s works, Boys of Blood and Bone is confronting in
its imagery, its language and in the degree of emotional sophistication it
demands on the part of the reader. Part historical fiction, part contemporary
tragedy, Boys of Blood and Bone utilizes protagonists who, like Ed
Kennedy in The Messenger, are experiencing the „no man‟s land‟ between
adolescence and adulthood that follows the end of formal schooling.
It is also interesting to note that Metzenthen‟s publishers, Penguin,
have released Boys of Blood and Bone onto the marketplace under a general
fiction imprint – like Zusak‟s books, the words „Young Adult Fiction‟ do
not appear anywhere on the cover or imprint pages of the book, suggesting
that it is intended to appeal to a readership somewhere above the 13-17
year-old age demographic suggested by the CBCA Book of the Year
guidelines.
This notion is partly born out by the fact that Metzenthen‟s two
protagonists, Henry Lyon and Andy Lansell, are both aged 18 and are
taking on the responsibilities of adulthood; The story opens with Henry‟s
car breaking down in the country while on his way up the coast on a surfing
holiday to unwind with his mates before his first year of university. In the
opening chapters the reader is given an immediate sense that Henry is no
longer a child, but a young man – clearly becoming independent of his
parents and capable of resourcefulness and decision making; in the opening
scene of the novel these notions are carefully and subtly re-enforced:
87
Children‟s Book Council of Australia [pub], (2004) p.10.
- 72 –
There was a long straight row of trees on either side of the
road and there was Henry, padding along in suede
sneakers and long black shorts, beside paddocks full of
silence. Behind him, a fair way back, was the Volvo,
blue-black in the sunshine, the nose of Henry‟s sailboard
over-hanging the windscreen like a white spike of
carefully gelled hair. The car was Henry‟s mother‟s, but it
was Henry‟s P-plate stuck crookedly onto the glass.88
From the outset Metzenthen is establishing his contemporary
protagonist not as a teenager so much as a young man, with indications of a
growing independence from the world of formal schooling and parental
influence – the sailboard and P-plate; twin symbols of Henry‟s
emancipation, combined with his isolation, place him squarely beyond the
world of high school and in the realm of adulthood. At the same time, the
fact that „the car was Henry‟s mother‟s‟ is a tacit acknowledgement that at
this point, Henry‟s freedom is still tentative; in a similar way to Earl‟s Dan
in 48 Shades of Brown – his independence is still framed within the context
of having a degree of reliance upon parental support to maintain it.
Likewise, when we first meet his World War One protagonist, Andy
Lansell, in 1917 on the eve of his departure to Melbourne to start his
military training, a similar sense of independence is evoked through the use
of landscape:
At dusk, night gathering in the gums, Andy Lansell led
the rangy, slow-stepping horse across the dirt road and
into the home paddock. He did not let the mare go straight
away but stood stroking her neck, inhaling the broad,
powerful, smell of her, letting her nuzzle into his shirt
collar, whiskers tickling his neck. Then he slipped off the
halter, stood back to coil it, and watched the grey move
off toward her usual place in under the cypress trees.
„See ya in a while,‟ Andy murmured, „I hope.‟”89
Just as Henry‟s post high-school journey into adulthood is interrupted by
the unexpected breakdown of his car, so is Andy‟s by the war. Through the
88
89
Metzenthen, D. (2003) p.1.
Metzenthen, D. (2003) p.4.
- 73 –
course of the novel, Metzenthen parallels the experiences of his two
characters; both deal with similar issues of love – Andy, who has left a
fiancé behind in Strattford, discovers that before leaving Australia he
fathered a child onto another woman and feels honour bound to „do the right
thing‟ by her. Henry, at the start of the book, is dealing with the dying
stages of a romance with Marcelle – a similarly independent young woman
for whom he feels affection but not love, and a growing attraction towards
Janine, Andy Lansell‟s great-grandaughter and the girlfriend of Trott, an
18-year-old local from Strattford who helps him out after his breakdown.
Structurally, Metzenthen employs the simple but effective device of
splitting each chapter of his novel into two distinct sections – the first half
set in the present and outlining the development of Henry‟s story; his
growing friendship with Trott and Janine during the three days he is forced
to spend in Strattford waiting for his car to be repaired; his growing
fascination with the story of Andy Lansell, his eventual holiday up the coast
and the breakdown of his relationship with Marcelle, the death of Trott in a
car accident and the slow process of both Henry and Janine coming to terms
with this and with their unacknowledged attraction to one another.
At the same time, running parallel to this narrative and comprising
the second half of each chapter, Metzenthen takes his readers back to World
War One, following Andy from his home in Strattford, through basic
training and deployment and eventually to his death in the battle of VillersBretonneux. Along the way comes the discovery that he has fathered a child
back in Australia and the complications that this creates for him, both in
terms of his attitude towards the war and his duties in it.
Both characters reflect the other to a certain extent; both find
themselves thrust into the world of adulthood by a range of experiences that
will resonate with both older teenage readers, dealing with issues of
emancipation and self-identity for perhaps the first time and also with
„adult‟ readers, who will empathise with both characters as they struggle to
maintain a sense of purpose and identity in an increasingly chaotic world.
Metzenthen establishes the similarities and differences between his
two protagonists‟ experiences‟ early on in the novel, when he has Henry
studying an old photograph of Andy and his mates:
- 74 –
Henry studied them as they looked out, caught in time,
cigarettes in angular hands, young – not all as young as
Henry, but they were not old, and they smiled as if they
knew things that Henry could know, too – but he was
looking at them through the years, them in their lives, him
in his, and that was that. He wondered what they did after
this moment on the bridge. What happened when the
photographer said, „done,‟ and they all stood, dusted off
their pants, and moved off, flicking butts into the stream
and laughing. What lay in store for them beyond the
picture? What happened in the next hour, or week, or
month? All hell broke loose, probably.
That was the thing, Henry realised. To be on the
bridge, to be able to smile that smile and wear your hat
like that, you had to put yourself in the way of something
so huge and relentless that you might simply be
obliterated. But to be on the bridge, a grinning gambler
with those other grinning gamblers, well, it might have
been worth it.90
Metzenthen uses the grinding inevitability of the war, that sense of it as
huge and unstoppable, throughout the narrative as a reminder that Andy and
his mates have been thrust into something well beyond their experience. He
mirrors that first scene, where Andy is releasing his horse for the evening –
with its strong sense of the Australian pastoral idyll – against the muddrenched horrors of the European battlefields as an indication of the degree
to which Andy and his mates have been drawn inevitably into the violence
of adulthood, and to explore the changing sense of self that this has bought
with it:
Andy thought of Strattford, its nights hushed and
harmless, part of a childhood dream where he wished he
was, bare-headed, unarmed, just standing, breathing,
under a starred night sky that reached down to the dark
rim of the hills.
90
Metzenthen, D. (2003) pp.32-33.
- 75 –
In no-man‟s land, right now, he knew there were
men working, German and Allied, attending to their wire,
estimating enemy positions and strength, crawling close
to the others‟ positions, working around, over, and with
the rotting dead, yet like the dead they were silent. And
when he was sent out he would go, and come back if he
was lucky, like the other men, filthy, exhausted, cut by
wire, or made sick by pockets of poison gas that lingered
in holes, with nothing to say of what he had seen or done
or touched.91
It is this aspect of Andy‟s story, revealed to the reader across the
course of the whole novel and reflecting the two worlds of childhood and
adulthood as experiences almost detached from each other, which the reader
then takes into the present, as they watch Henry struggle to come to terms
with his role in the ending of his relationship with Marcelle and later his
coming to terms with the unexpected death of his mate, Trott. It is through
this process that the reader gains a sense of Henry, who at the beginning of
the novel is portrayed as a young man struggling as he begins to face the
responsibilities of freedom but who, by the end, is building a sense of his
own perspective on life and in doing so moving from the blurred world
between adolescence and adulthood and into a more full understanding of
himself. This aspect of Henry‟s characterisation is clearly reflected in the
epilogue to the novel when Henry returns, some time after the concluding
events of the story proper, to the place where his car originally broke down:
There weren‟t too many places, he thought, where you
could actually see where the past, the present, and
perhaps your future met, but this was one. There was no
explaining it really. There were just the things that
happened and how you reacted to them. That was it. That
was your life. He looked along the Avenue of Honour.
And there was what you were going to do with your life
from now on. Which was plenty, he hoped. Plenty.92
91
92
Metzenthen, D. (2003) pp.160-161.
Metzenthen, D. (2003) p.292.
- 76 –
Like Zusak, Metzenthen has his characters inhabit a world which will
be recognized and identified with by readers who have experienced the
transition from adolescence to adulthood. Through his exploration of the
relationship between war and youth, he reflects on contemporary culture
and the ways in which modern Australian society both mirrors and hinders
this transition; an idea which will hold equal appeal to young adults and
readers well past the end of adolescence.
- 77 –
Five: Sonya Hartnett
I had that same feeling I was getting more and more as I
grew older, a feeling like I was trying to see through a fog
or reach for something my fingers could touch but not
wrap around. I didn‟t know it then, but I was starting to
realise the world is not one place, but two, and that you
move from one to the other only with the years. I was
living mostly in the first world, but I had a toe dipped in
the second.93
In terms of her statistical impact on contemporary Australian Young
Adult writing as assessed in appendix two to this dissertation, Sonya
Hartnett comes in fifth, behind Moloney, Zusak, Metzenthen, and
Rubinstein. In critical terms, however, it might be argued that Hartnett has
had, perhaps more than any of the other four, the most significant impact on
the Australian Young Adult writing landscape in terms of blurring the line
between adolescent and adult writing.
As is indicated in the excerpt above from her novel Thursday‟s Child
(2000), which was short-listed in the 2001 CBCA awards and also won the
prestigious Guardian Children‟s Fiction Prize, Hartnett is a writer very
aware of the twin worlds of childhood and adulthood and the differences in
the way one world is perceived by those who dwell in the other. It is a
device that recalls somewhat the use of the childlike narrator in works such
as To Kill a Mockingbird (1960).
Unlike Zusak and Metzenthen, her classification as a Young Adult
writer is not one of her own devising but rather one of circumstance, nor is
it necessarily something that sits comfortably with her; her first novel,
Trouble all the Way (1984) was published when she was fifteen years of
age, thrusting her to the forefront of „teenage writers‟ in Australia at the
time. In a 2006 profile in The Bulletin Magazine, she commented that since
the publication of Trouble all the Way she has spent: “Vast chunks of my
life trying to write novels that would rescue my reputation from underneath
93
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.111.
- 78 –
its weight.”94 Indeed, in the same article, journalist Sally Blakeney observes
that:
Hartnett has not settled for the teen fiction category that
launched her, or grown up gracefully in shelves marked
young adult fiction. She's become a school librarian's
nightmare by writing about incest, child abuse, mental
illness and feral children. Playing truant from the safety
of tracks laid down by marketing departments, she's
hunted different genres: horror (Sleeping Dogs, 1995);
historical romance (Black Foxes, 1996); animal adventure
(Forest, 2001); and adult fiction (Of a Boy, 2000).95
A great deal has been written about Hartnett and her works and one
thing that becomes in increasingly clear when considering the vast number
of reviews, profiles, analysis and commentary which attempt to put her
work into some context is the degree to which Hartnett herself has struggled
to put aside the tag of being considered a children‟s or young adult writer;
in a 2004 interview entitled Children, Adults, Anything, she comments that:
Once I had established I could write for adults there was a
certain freedom in achieving that kind of goal. Now I
have transcended all categories I can do what I like. I've
been called every sort of writer and now I am every sort
of writer.”96
It is, perhaps, this feature of Hartnett‟s writing that has built for her a degree
of respect in the literary media not extended to most Australian Young
Adult authors; when Melbourne critic Peter Craven reviewed Hartnett‟s
pseudonymously-written adult erotic novel Landscape with Animals, he did
so in the following terms:
The fact that Hartnett has been classified as a „young
adult‟ writer for no better reason than the fact that her
work encompasses family romances replete with incest
and murder is just one of those farcical Australian horror
stories. She is at her steady best one of the more
profoundly adult writers in this country's history with a
94
Blakeney, S. (2006)
Blakeney, S. (2006)
96
Steger, J. (2004).
95
- 79 –
tragic vision that dazzles the eyes.97
And indeed, in a similar manner to Winton, Hartnett would appear to
have managed to penetrate the adult literature marketplace while at the
same time maintaining a solid following with her childrens and young adult
readership. In 2003 her novel Of A Boy was short-listed for the Miles
Franklin award and won The Age Novel of the Year award – both
prestigious adult literary prizes, neither of which accepts Young Adult or
children‟s novels for consideration. The following year, however, her novel
The Silver Donkey (2004) – published explicitly as a novel for children98
was awarded the CBCA Book of the Year prize for Younger Readers.
There can be no doubt that Hartnett has successfully managed to write
in both the adult and children‟s spheres, but her relationship with the
children‟s and Young Adult genres might be described as an uneasy one. “If
they called you a children's writer in a respectful way it wouldn't be so bad,
but in Australia we don't do that,”99 she told journalist Jason Steger.
Indeed, the marketing of several of her novels would seem to reflect
this uneasiness. Despite regularly using child or teenaged protagonists,
Hartnett‟s books adopt a sophisticated use of language and expression, and
often call into question social „norms‟ usually left well alone in „traditional‟
Young Adult fiction. In Sleeping Dogs (1995), which was controversially
selected as a 1996 Honour Book in the CBCA awards, the only small
comfort in her twenty-three year old protagonist‟s life is an incestuous
relationship with her mentally disabled brother.
Like Zusak and Metzenthen, Hartnett has overtly blurred adolescence
and adulthood through the construction of her characters and the worlds in
which they interrelate, however she has also adopted a more consciously
„literary‟ approach, placing her emphasis on style and subtext, as much as
plot and characters.
Thursday‟s Child, short-listed in the 2001 awards, is one such
example and one which, in terms of the thesis of this dissertation, bears a
more sustained critical analysis.
Thursday’s Child (2000)
97
Craven, P. (2006).
Steger, J. (2004).
99
Steger, J. (2004).
98
- 80 –
When it was short-listed in the Older Readers category of the 2001
awards, the judge‟s comments in the annual Notable Australian Children‟s
Books booklet concluded that in Thursday‟s Child:
Hartnett‟s skillful depiction of time and place, strong first
person narrative, and tremendous command of language
are evident in prose that is lyrical, evocative and written
with a sophistication that doesn‟t underestimate the
reading and reflecting skills of young adult readers.100
This final clause in the judges comments is an interesting one, suggesting
that Hartnett‟s writing blurs the line between adolescence and adulthood not
through theme and character-driven techniques, but rather through a
dedication to style and sophistication of approach to narrative that will
demand more of its readership than might be traditionally expected of a
Young Adult novel, even within the Older Readers category of the awards.
The marketing of Thursday‟s Child would seem to support this notion.
Like Zusak‟s The Messenger and Metzenthen‟s Boys of Blood and Bone,
Penguin released Thursday‟s Child wrapped in an overtly adult cover, and
with the orange spine used to denote books on their „Penguin Originals‟ list.
The blurb describes the book as „A dazzling new novel by a writer of
startling originality‟101 and nowhere on the cover or imprint page are the
words „Young Adult‟ used.
This was a deliberate decision by Penguin to try to push Hartnett off
the Young Adult shelves and into the adult marketplace. Indeed, I can recall
Hartnett commenting on the fact at the 2000 Biennial Children‟s Book
Council National Conference during a panel discussion with fellow Young
Adult writer Margo Lanagan and chaired by myself.
And yet despite its clearly adult-targeted design, the novel was entered
into the following year‟s CBCA awards where it received a great deal of
acclaim, though not selected as a winner or Honour Book. In a 2003 article
published in Magpies magazine, entitled “Crossing Over”, Robyn SheahanBright looked at the concept of readership boundaries and some of those
novels which at the time seemed to transcend them. She quoted publisher
100
101
Children‟s Book Council of Australia [pub], (2001), p.7.
Hartnett, S. (2000), back cover.
- 81 –
and current102 CBCA president Mark Macleod, who attributed the success
of Thursday‟s Child to its achievements in the CBCA awards, and
demonstrated a cautious approach to the use of „crossover‟ marketing:
…he‟s cautious about the crossover strategy because
working part-time in a bookshop he‟s watched it fail as
often as it has succeeded. Hartnett‟s Thursday‟s Child, he
observes, was sold as an adult title but achieved its real
recognition after it was short-listed by the CBCA. He
cautions that there is a resistance amongst booksellers to
recognizing some authors as anything but YA writers…103
Macleod‟s assertion would seem to be bourne out by the awarding of
the 2001 Guardian Children‟s Fiction Prize to Hartnett for Thursday‟s
Child – a prize open to books from all commonwealth countries and one of
the more internationally regarded prizes in „Young Adult‟ and children‟s
literature. There can be no doubt that Thursday‟s Child garnered a great
deal of its recognition not as an adult literary title, despite being marketed
as such, but as a consciously literary „Young Adult‟ title.
And yet, when critically considering the text of the novel, it can be
argued that stylistically Thursday‟s Child has more in common with the
writing of Steinbeck or Lee than with the other contemporary Young Adult
titles featured on that year‟s shortlist. The novel chronicles the childhood of
Harper Flute; growing up in a depression-era agricultural area. The setting
is bleak; their land barren, dry and unproductive and her father without the
will or experience to utilize it. Their house is a two-room shack abandoned
by a failed prospector and throughout the novel there prevails a mood of
grey oppression. Here there is no pastoral idyll, but rather a family
struggling to scratch out an existence from bare, unforgiving dirt. The novel
is densely written and contains multiple layers of symbolism which will
appeal to readers with a sophisticated level of interpretive ability.
Harper‟s father, Court Flute, a former soldier and alcoholic, lives in
the shadow of his father and seems destined to failure in his every venture.
Her mother Thora, is portrayed as a woman struggling to make the best of
things, but the relentlessly crushing nature of the environment in which they
102
103
As at November, 2006.
Sheahan-Bright, R. (2003) p.16.
- 82 –
live and the circumstances that surround them are slowly wearing her down.
Her older brother and sister, Devon and Audrey, well into adolescence and
far more aware of the reality of their family‟s predicament, gradually come
to fill the parental roles for Harper as the instability which hovers constantly
at the edges of the family unit slowly draw closer and Court and Thora
become less and less effectual.
Her younger brother, Tin, is the title character of the novel.
„Thursday‟s Child has far to go‟ says the poem and Hartnett‟s Tin
exemplifies this. In the opening chapters, while Thora is in labour with
another child – the baby Caffy- Harper is sent to keep Tin occupied down
by a creek, which is in flood. Tin is buried in a mudslide, but miraculously
survives, digging himself out only when he hears his panicked father trying
to rescue him. This event sets the course for Tin‟s life from that point on, as
he becomes a creature who lives underground; digging first under the house
and then further afield, until he becomes more of a ghost than a real
presence in the family.
The opening paragraphs of the novel set a clear voice and tone which
demands of the reader a high degree of philosophical reflection upon the
vagaries of time and memory and which immediately blurs the line between
childhood and adulthood:
Now I would like to tell you about my brother, Tin. James
Augustin Barnabas Flute, he was, born on a Thursday and
so fated to his wanderings, but we called him Tin for
short. He wasn‟t my youngest brother, because it‟s right
to count in Caffy, but I never saw Tin an old man or even
a young one, so he stays just a boy in my mind. Tin‟s
bound up in childhood forever, as far as my recollection
goes, although the last time I saw him he was wizened
and looking ancient as the hills. Memory is eccentric,
how it stalls when it wants to. The dogs that we owned – I
don‟t remember a single one of them ever being a puppy.
They were born antiquated and rickety, those hounds,
- 83 –
whelped under the verandah with their prime well and
truly past them.104
In terms of point of view and the novel‟s success as a work of „Young
Adult‟ fiction, this introduction, which clearly sets up the protagonist as an
adult looking back into their childhood through the vagaries of memory, is
somewhat reminiscent of the notions suggested in the opening line of
Hartley‟s The Go Between (1953): “The past is a foreign country – they do
things differently there.”105 Hartnett immediately establishes that the events
to follow should be considered, just as her narrator is doing, from the
perspective of adulthood and with the benefit of adult hindsight. Her
observation that „memory is eccentric‟ asks the reader to consider the
fragility of their own recollections of childhood when approaching the story
of Tin. In terms of the novel‟s success as a book for young adults, who are
by definition just beginning to build upon their childhood and in doing so to
layer experience upon memory, this is a sophisticated ask. Adolescence and
adulthood are blurred together here not by the world in which either the
narrator or reader currently operates, but by the way in which they consider
the events of the past and their wider implications.
This notion reflects one of the main ideas in Thursday‟s Child – the
idea of stability; the stability of family, of childhood, the security that flows
from it and the fundamental degree to which this stability and security is
something more related to childhood perception than to adult reality. In the
early chapters, the adult reader quickly realizes that Hartnett is utilizing her
narrator‟s youth to inject into the novel a sense that the world, from a
child‟s point of view, is a stable place; There is a matter-of-factness and an
unquestioning acceptance evident in the way Hartnett has Harper Flute
perceive her family and their world; there are clear gaps in the narrative
which inform the reader that all in the Flute family is not well; that
instability is lurking just below the surface, but to fill these gaps with the
requisite knowledge to perceive and accept this instability requires on the
part of the reader a high degree of mature reflection and life experience:
I knew a fair amount about babies, being almost seven
years old at this time. I knew that delivering meant
104
105
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.1.
Hartley, L.P. (1953) P.1.
- 84 –
coming into the world, not arriving on the doorstep like a
package. And I‟d experienced my share of newborns:
there‟d been one arrive between me and Tin, which I had
seen and didn‟t remember, and one between Tin and this
latest, which I hadn‟t seen and did. The first lasted only a
moment and the other not even that, so I reckoned babies
coming shouldn‟t cause all that much trouble. They either
came and stayed, or came and didn‟t.106
Despite Harper‟s assertion that „babies coming shouldn‟t cause all that
much trouble‟, it is the arrival of Caffy which sets in motion the events of
the novel and which begins the slide into instability which, the reader
senses, has up until now only just been held at bay. It is the birth of Caffy
which supplants Tin as the youngest member of the family and it is during
Caffy‟s birth that Tin is buried in the creek bank, which begins his
obsession with being underground – and it is Tin‟s subterranean wanderings
which will eventually, and literally, undermine the very foundations of the
family.
Perhaps most indicative of this is the characterization of Court Flute –
or „Da‟ as Harper refers to him. In the early parts of the novel it is evident
that, although he appears attentive to his children and loving, at least on the
surface, there is an inherent weakness and fragility in Court Flute which
will be his eventual downfall. When he is furiously digging for Tin in the
mud of the flooded creek bed, Harper overhears him muttering “Take the
new one instead, take the new one instead…”107 and when Tin is rescued
from the mud, the reader senses immediately that a sword of Damocles now
hangs over the newborn Caffy.
Court‟s affection for Tin over his other children, and part of the source
of his weakness, is revealed after Tin begins to burrow under the house,
spending all his days, and eventually nights as well, digging deeper into the
bare earth below their feet. While it worries Thora and the neighbours talk
and speculate, Court actively encourages Tin, providing him with digging
implements and water to shore up his tunnel walls. When Harper confronts
him on this he tells her of his experience during the war, when the one thing
106
107
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.4.
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.10.
- 85 –
that he wanted to be able to do was dig, down away from the fighting, until
he was safe, something he was never able to do:
I stared up at him, and he down at me. We had come to
the next snare and there was a live rabbit caught by the
toes and it was leaping up and being yanked down,
landing with a thump and a gritty plume. „Tin could have
done it, though,‟ Da said. „Tin could have dug for the
whole battalion. Tin‟s got a talent. He has a gift.‟
„Is Tin digging to get safe?‟
„I reckon he must be.‟
„Buy why? There‟s no war now. What does he need
to be safe from?‟
Da looked at the rabbit, which was pitching itself in
circles in a cloud of dirt and fur. „Maybe you don‟t need
to be safe from something, Harper. Maybe you can just be
safe – I don‟t know. I only know that, in the war, I
couldn‟t dig to save myself, and I wasn‟t safe because of
it. Maybe Tin is digging because every skerrick in him is
demanding that he do it, and that‟s what will keep him
safe...So I won‟t hinder him, if digging is what he wants,
and I won‟t let anyone else hinder him, either.”108
This short passage is arguably the most paternal and affectionate that
Court Flute is portrayed in the entire course of the novel; it is clear that of
all his children, the only one to whom he feels in any way connected is Tin,
and in encouraging him underground, Court is projecting his own
insecurities and desires onto his son. The symbol of the rabbit, snared above
ground in a frenzy of ever increasing panic is a clear pointer to the
inevitability of tragedy which Court Flute seems to feel hanging over him
and which, the reader is aware, must stem from his own barely suppressed
instability.
Having thus framed her tragedy across the course of the first few
chapters, Hartnett then proceeds to gradually unravel the Flute family, one
strand at a time, each unraveling traceable back to the day of Caffy‟s birth.
108
Hartnett, S. (2000) pp.39-40.
- 86 –
First Court‟s father, the children‟s grandfather, dies. Having been
estranged for many years, Court is written out of the will and Devon
inherits what little is left after the settlement of the estate. This he gives to
his father, who spends it on a horse for Devon – thus fulfilling his eldest
son‟s childhood dream of owing a pony - and on a number of chickens and
three red poll cows, despite having been advised to buy food crops for
planting. To water the cattle he calls upon a well sinker, but until Tin, who
by this time lives underground almost constantly, intervenes, all the wells
he digs are dry.
Then, in the first major tragedy of the novel, the family‟s shack, its
foundations undermined by Tin‟s warren of tunnels, collapses in on itself,
leaving them homeless. Faced with this, Court Flute turns to the bottle, and
it is only the charity of their neighbours which provides the family with the
materials for a new house and the labour to build it. A new house is duly
erected, made from wood provided by Mr. Vandery Cable – a local
landowner whose interest in the Flute family is portrayed from the outset as
uneasily proprietoral.
Once established in their new home, Hartnett gives her protagonist
and her family a brief period of calm and stability, broken only when
Vandery Cable brings home Tin one night, having caught him raiding beehives and set his dogs upon the boy. This event is the precursor to the next
major tragedy of the narrative.
Throughout the story, Caffy, the youngest, has been portrayed
consistently as a child; helpless and burdensome, especially to Harper upon
whom falls the task of looking after and entertaining her brother. Of all the
Flute children, he is the only one who exhibits any real signs of childhood;
Harper‟s point of view, coloured as it is by the vagaries of memory, is
distinctly adult in tone and observation. Tin, from the outset and despite his
age, comes across as a boy outside the scope of „normal‟ childhood – an
impression created in the opening paragraph quoted earlier and continually
strengthened by his silence and feral appearance. Devon and Audrey, forced
as they are to shoulder much of the burden of caring and providing for the
family, feature in Harper‟s life more as adult role models. Of all of them,
Caffy is the only one who demonstrates any sense of childhood; but this is,
in many ways, to the opposite extreme from the other children. Where
- 87 –
Harper and her older siblings demonstrate more adult characteristics than
childish ones, Caffy is all child, infantile from the outset and deliberately
maintained as such:
Caffy…was a nuggety, friendly and talkative little boy,
but he had a splash of Old Nick in him. If he wasn‟t
allowed to do a thing, he‟d go frantic needling to do it. If
the clothes-washing water was so hot that Mam had to use
a stick to stir it, Caffy‟s sole purpose in living became the
dipping of his fingers into it. If there was something
breakable sitting on the table, Caffy would find the means
to crack it over his head. Already that morning he had
caught his curls in the wringer and scalped bald a patch
the size of a penny.109
It is interesting to note that Hartnett describes Caffey as „a talkative
little boy‟ – but rarely gives him a voice in the story; like his brother Tin, he
remains largely silent to the reader, but where it is made clear that Tin
chooses not to talk and is thus demonstrating a degree of self-awareness and
decision making more associated with adult behaviour, Caffey, who it is
clear can and does communicate, is kept more or less silent by Hartnett –
his voice more often heard through Harper‟s telling of it and thus, from the
reader‟s point of view, Caffey is a character trapped in the silence of early
childhood from the outset.
This adds emphasis to the Faustian pact which Court Flute made the
morning of Caffy‟s birth, while digging Tin from under the mudslide; Caffy
is destined to never escape childhood and this sense of impending tragedy is
realized about halfway through the novel when, while in Harper‟s care and
during a game of hide and seek, he falls into one of the dry well shafts that
Court had sunk years earlier after buying his cattle. The earth, which had
almost claimed Tin years earlier, has called in its debt. Despite an attempted
rescue by the local men, finally it is Tin who appears and digs down to
recover the body of his younger brother.
With this event, the unravelling of the Flute family increases in pace;
Both parents retreat into themselves and the burden of feeding and
maintaining the family falls more and more upon the eldest children. Added
109
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.118.
- 88 –
to this, the depression is worsening and more comment is made on the
number of homeless men appearing on the roads from the city. When
Vandery Cable offers Audrey a job as his housekeeper, she is initially
talked out of it by Devon, whose previous experience working for Mr.
Cable had proved less than satisfactory, and by Harper, for whom Audrey is
now fulfilling the role of mother. Things come to a head, however, when
the family‟s three cows and all their chickens are stolen by two itinerants;
an event which fundamentally undermines what little economic hope the
family had remaining to them and which, it is implied, occurred at the
behest of Mr. Cable, forcing the Flutes into penury and compelling Audrey
to take up his offer of work. Soon after she has gone, Devon also leaves –
striking out on his own in the dead of night to find work, selling his horse,
Champion.
The novel slowly builds to a climax as Harper is dragged, albeit
reluctantly, into premature adulthood, the last of her innocence stripped
away. Here Hartnett utilizes the adult aspect of her narrator‟s point of view
as she draws the reader into the final weeks of Harper‟s childhood, and the
conflict between the two worlds of encroaching experience and fading
innocence that are only seen clearly with the benefit of hindsight. To escape
the crushing routine of being the only child living with emotionally distant
and damaged parents, she begins to write stories – an adult behaviour,
attempting to reconcile all that is unsatisfactory in her life, and a contrast
against Caffy – where her younger brother had been denied all but the most
basic communication with his family, Harper is beginning to write; her
access to and ability with language defining her first attempts to reconcile
her position in the world of adulthood:
But between each painstakingly handwritten tale and in
between milking the cow and sweeping the floor and
scrubbing the pots and wringing the clothes and between
the sleepy evenings snuggled awkwardly across my
mother‟s lap, I whiled away the days moping and brewing
discontent. It makes me sad now, to know I let so much
time pass by unappreciated. I wasn‟t going to stay there,
in that place I‟d lived a lifetime, for very much longer. I
try to forgive myself because I didn‟t know about it, then.
- 89 –
If I had known, I would have tried to inscribe things more
deeply in my memory. And I would have made myself be
cheerful, too, because you can always make the effort to
savour the final moments of anything.110
The blurring of childhood and adulthood is clear in this passage; the roles of
the provider, the adult, are clearly being thrust upon twelve-year-old Harper
and even the one remaining pleasure of childhood – snuggling on her
mother‟s lap – has become „awkward‟.
The novel begins to come to a head in the following paragraph, when
Audrey arrives home unexpectedly, distraught and upset. Despite being sent
from the room, it is clear to Harper that something terrible has happened,
and it is clear to the reader that Vandery Cable has, at the very least,
attempted to rape Audrey. Whether or not he has completely succeeded in
this is left ambiguous but it is implied strongly that he has. Court Flute takes
his rifle and leaves to confront Cable and as Thora is comforting the
distraught Audrey, it is left to Harper to follow her father and try and
prevent him killing Cable.
At the Cable farm, however, they find the homestead deserted and the
killing shed, where three pigs have been recently butchered, awash with
blood. No sooner has she made this discovery than Harper plunges through
a hidden trapdoor in the floor and drops deep into Tin‟s subterranean
network of tunnels. Trapped in the darkness, she realizes that Tin has killed
Vandery Cable before Court Flute could manage to, dragging his body
down into the underground labyrinth and hiding the killing with pig‟s
blood. Crawling through the utter darkness she begins to wonder if Tin had
saved or killed Caffey when he reached him in the bottom of the well, and
convinces herself that the latter is true – and thus she is easily panicked
when Tin finds her and drives her forwards, relentlessly it seems, into the
darkness:
I sped, then, as if speed should save me. I plunged
headlong into the blackness, my knees slipping from
under me and limbs tangling up with each other, my chin
hitting the earth when my haste toppled me. I knew I
would not escape him, not even if I could stand and run. I
110
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.185.
- 90 –
was used to the sky over my head and rangy open spaces
and in the warren I was hampered, pathetically clumsy, a
living thing thrown into a pinched catacomb. But this
knowledge didn‟t stop me from powering feverishly
onward, colliding and collapsing and hauling myself to
my hands and knees. Pain shrilled from a hundred places
on me and I was wheezy with the dust in the air. He must
have sniggered at my efforts, as a hawk must snigger
when a mouse races for the shelter it won‟t have time to
reach. I thought I could hear him give the thinnest
subterranean laugh.”111
Far from hurting her, Tin is helping and Harper is driven out from the
underground, in a sense reborn into adulthood, finding herself suddenly
outside in the quiet evening, covered in blood that she knows isn‟t her own.
When her father finds her and she explains what has happened, he too
makes the connection between his son and the disappearance of Vandery
Cable and after reassuring Harper that Tin wasn‟t trying to hurt her, the two
of them return to the farm to fill in the tunnel from the killing shed and
protect Tin from suspicion.
Thus Hartnett concludes the substantive chapters of the novel. The
final chapter opens with lines that firmly establish the passage of time
between the events on Cable‟s farm and the present from which the reader
is observing the story:
From where I‟m sitting I cannot see the water but if I go
into the other room and kneel on the padding of the
window-seat I can see it glinting between the laced
branches of the cypress trees, a long flat line of reflective
blackish-blue.”112
From her seaside home, the now 21-year-old Harper quickly fills in
the backstory of the intervening years, relating how Court‟s actions in
defending his eldest daughter‟s honour improved his standing in the
community, how the disappearance of Vandery Cable was attributed to his
running away in shame after raping Audrey and finally, how the family‟s
111
112
Hartnett, S. (2000) pp.201-202.
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.207.
- 91 –
fortunes changed forever when Tin made his final appearance, both in the
novel and in the lives of the Flute family, delivering to them an enormous
gold nugget, before vanishing underground again. Hartnett ends her novel
with the information that Devon has gone to the front and is fighting the
second world war and that after the delivery of the nugget, Court Flute
„caught the mining bug‟113 and now spends all his time digging
underground; implicit in this is the suggestion that, like all of Court‟s
schemes, this latest is doomed to failure. Of Tin, there is no final news and
he is left as he was introduced, as a child caught forever in the vagaries of
memory and myth; “And I miss Tin, who would be a young man now but is,
in my memory, still a boy…”114
Thursday‟s Child is a remarkable choice as a short-listed title in the
Book of the Year awards. In it, Hartnett has deconstructed the barriers
separating childhood and adulthood; either thrusting her child-characters
into a world shaped and coloured by adult concerns, or trapping them as
children forever in a neverland of memory. Though her narrative
protagonist is a child for most of the events of the novel, it is her 21-yearold self who relates these events to the reader and relies upon a high degree
of adult experience and perception to fill in the deliberate gaps and silences
in the text. The style and tone of the telling is deliberately sophisticated, and
the story itself layered with symbolism and meaning which requires of its
readers a high degree of life experience to incorporate into the thrust of the
narrative.
The placing of Thursday‟s Child on the 2001 shortlist for older
readers and its receiving of The Guardian prize sent a clear message to both
readers and writers alike that the acceptable „boundaries‟ of what can be
regarded as Young Adult fiction were shifting; Hartnett‟s novel is not a
work for teenage or adolescent readers – not in the same sense that a novel
like, for example, Came Back to Show You I Could Fly is. It doesn‟t
concern itself in any way with adolescent „issues‟ and its main characters
are far from the world of contemporary 13-17 year olds. Rather, Thursday‟s
Child might be described as a work of Young Adult Literature in the far
more literal sense of the term; as a work written to and for an audience
113
114
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.223.
Hartnett, S. (2000) p.223.
- 92 –
capable of incorporating a degree of adult experience and perception into
their reading. Like Harper at the end of the novel, Thursday‟s Child asks its
readers to look back into their own memories of childhood, however recent
they might be, and to call into question the fundamental assumptions of
stability and identity that have sprung from them.
- 93 –
Six: Conclusions and Reflections
The works by Zusak, Metzenthen and Hartnett discussed in the
previous three chapters are by no means definitive, nor are they the only
examples of contemporary Young Adult fiction which blur adolescence and
adulthood and which are being lauded within the current awards structure –
given time there are a number of other recent novels which have appeared
on the Older Readers shortlists and which, it could be argued, are
continuing in this fashion; Bill Condon‟s No Worries (2005) and Brian
Caswell‟s Double Exposure (2005), both featured in the 2006 shortlist (the
former receiving an Honour Book award) and both feature characters
emancipated from high school and living in a world of adult concerns. The
previous year an Honour Book award went to my own novel Fireshadow
(2004), which dealt, in a similar manner to Boys of Blood and Bone with
two young men, both beyond school age, dealing with the impact of
personal tragedy and the shadow of war while struggling with questions of
identity and responsibility.
Likewise it should be remembered that in the last few years the
shortlists have also featured novels which sit comfortably within the bounds
of the „traditional‟ adolescent readership; Melina Marchetta‟s Saving
Francesca (2003) or Barry Jonsberg‟s The Whole Business with Kiffo and
the Pitbull (2004) are just two examples.
This thesis is not attempting to suggest that „traditional‟ Young Adult
writing has been supplanted. Rather, it is proposing that over the course of
the last six to eight years there can be seen a marked increase in the number
of novels with a high degree of sophistication, specifically in the way that
they utilize their characters and themes to blur and explore the world
between adolescence and adulthood, that are still considered to fall within
the scope of the Older Readers category of the awards.
In part, this falls into line with worldwide trends, as indicated by the
success of novels such as The Curious Incident of the Dog in the NightTime, and given a broader scope it would be possible to investigate the
impact that the publishing of novels such as the Harry Potter series, and
- 94 –
Phillip Pullman‟s Northern Lights trilogy have had on the acceptability of
adults reading children‟s or Young Adult literature.
In part, though, it might also be attributed, as this dissertation asserts,
to the willingness of writers such as Zusak, Metzenthen and Hartnett, all of
whom have clearly made a significant impact on contemporary Australian
Young Adult writing, to effectively blur adolescence and adulthood
together in their works and to consider the notion of a young adult
readership as exactly that – as a readership distinct from adolescence or
childhood and possessing a degree of life experience which enables them to
approach sophisticated literary texts from an adult standpoint.
It should also be noted that the three writers discussed in this
dissertation are by no means the first to do this, but I contend that their
prominence in the weighted points system used in Appendix two to this
dissertation demonstrates a recent increase in the acceptability of novels of
this kind within the definition of Young Adult literature on the Australian
writing landscape. Again, given a broader scope, it would be possible to
argue that Zusak, Hartnett and Metzenthen are building on a conception of
the Young Adult novel established over the course of the last two decades
by writers such as Wrightson, Rubinstein, Crew and Wheatley.
In terms of my own writing and in terms of the creative component of
this thesis, all three of the writers analysed in this paper, along with Crew
and Moloney, have had a great impact upon the style and execution of
Nightpeople. In 1999, when I first conceived the idea of writing a Young
Adult novel to be set in an outback Australian town that was to be the centre
of a nuclear waste processing industry, I imagined it as a dramatic realist
story with a thirteen-to-fifteen year old protagonist who was struggling to
deal with their parents‟ role in the changing face of their town. The project
was put onto the back-burner, though, while I completed the editorial work
on my first two published novels – The Darkness (2000) and A New Kind of
Dreaming (2001) and research work on Fireshadow (2004).
During this period, I became exposed firstly to the work of Hartnett,
then to Metzenthen and Zusak. All three writers had a direct impact on the
writing of Fireshadow, in which I consciously employed a more
sophisticated and more consciously „literary‟ tone and style and a more
complex approach to the structure of the narrative.
- 95 –
When, in 2004, I commenced the writing of this PhD project and I reconsidered my ideas for the „outback nuclear waste‟ story, it quickly
became clear to me that the real challenge in this project, the point of
interest, would be to write the story in such a way that it, like Zusak,
Hartnett and Metzenthen‟s works, would be accessible to both adult and
teenage readerships and that it would encompass ideas which would engage
and confront readers of multiple demographics.
Given that I had already chosen to use a 13-year-old girl as my
protagonist and that part of my PhD brief was to produce „an original work
of fiction, unlike any currently being marketed in the Australian
marketplace‟ I decided to utilize the speculative fiction genre as the key
device to carry my ideas. This was a deliberate decision based on the wide
ranging appeal of the genre to both adult and student readers and upon the
lack of contemporary speculative fiction with a specifically „Australian‟
flavour.
The added advantage of this, in terms of the novel‟s positioning in the
marketplace, was that it enabled me to construct the „world‟ of the novel in
such a way that I could achieve the same thing that Zusak, Metzenthen and
Hartnett have done in much of their work; I could take my child-protagonist
and throw her into an adult world, driven by adult concerns. The search for
identity and a sense of „self‟ is what drives Saria through the course of
Nightpeople and in exploring her emancipation from the world of her
childhood to a richer understanding of herself and her identity, I hope to
have mirrored to some degree the journeys taken by Ed Kennedy, Henry
Lyon, and Harper Flute.
Nightpeople‟s commercial and critical success, in both the adult and
Young Adult marketplaces, since its publication in late 2005 would seem to
indicate that to some extent, I have achieved this goal. In the CBCA 2006
Notable Australian Children‟s Books list, the judges of the 2006 CBCA
Awards commented that in Nightpeople:
Patient readers will savour the alluring effect of the
wordcraft in this compelling tale. The austere style echoes
the dark setting, the thorny characters and the desperation
of their condition… Though its themes are universal,
there is a very Australian sense to this novel and this
- 96 –
serves to challenge older readers to consider whether the
Darklands is a possible future for this country.115
This dissertation contends that the „shifting perception‟ of what
constitutes Australian Young Adult fiction, which was theorized by
Wheatley in 1994, has indeed continued and is continuing. The increasing
number of novels being featured in the Older Readers shortlists of the
CBCA Book of the Year prizes which draw upon and in many ways
transcend or blur the two worlds of adolescence and adulthood might be
seen as some evidence of this. It would seem that among Australian Young
Adult writers there is no longer a feeling that characters need to be bound
by the „rule‟ of having a two-year age difference between protagonist and
reader or by constraining characters to simple plot and issue driven
narratives. Rather, some Australian Young Adult writers are using their
works to explore the more existential questions of identity and action which
will engage readers of all ages and backgrounds. The fact that many of these
novels are being foregrounded by organizations such as the CBCA speaks
to a degree of acceptance of this notion, and thus lends approval to other
writers to continue to explore the boundaries of this mode of writing, not
just in terms of characters and plot, but in terms of narrative style and
substance.
115
Children‟s Book Council of Australia, 2006, p.9.
- 97 –
Appendix One:
Short-listed, Commended and Winning Titles in the Children‟s Book
Council of Australia Book of the Year – Older Reader’s category,
1982 – 2006
Notes:
The following lists do NOT include compiled anthologies of poetry.
Prior to 1982, there was no distinction made between books for children and
those for older readers.
Between 1982 – 1986, the awards were divided into Book of the Year, and
Book of the Year – Younger Reader‟s categories. Honour Books were not
introduced until 1987.
Between 1982 – 1986, in addition to the winning Book, three others were
chosen from the shortlist as either Commended or Highly Commended.
From 1987, the Older Readers category was introduced, and in addition to
the winning title, two books from the shortlist were selected as Honour
Books
** Denotes Commended / Highly Commended titles (1982 – 1986)
* Denotes Honour Books (1987+)
1982
- 98 –
Winner:
Thiele, Colin; The Valley Between
Shortlist:
Wrightson, Patricia; Behind the Wind.**
French, Simon; Cannily, Cannily**
Mattingley, Christobel; Rummage**
Barnett, Gillian; The Inside Hedge Story
Fatchen, Max; Closer to the Stars
Fowler, Thurley; Wait for Me! Wait for Me!
Phipson, Joan; A Tide Flowing
1983
Winner:
Kelleher, Victor; Master of the Grove
Shortlist:
Spence, Eleanor; The Left Overs**
Laurie, Morris; Toby‟s Millions**
Wheatley, Nadia; Five Times Dizzy**
Brinsmead, Hesba; Longtime Dreaming
Manley, Ruth; The Dragon Stone
Nicholls, Bron; Three Way Street
Phipson, Joan; The Watcher in the Garden
1984
Winner:
Wrightson, Patricia; A Little Fear
Shortlist:
Klein, Robin; Penny Pollard‟s Diary**
Frances, Helen; The Devil‟s Stone**
Wilmott, Frank; Breaking Up**
Harding, Lee; Waiting for the End of the World
Klein, Robin; People Might Hear You
Southall, Ian; The Long Night Watch
1985
Winner:
Aldridge, James; The True Story of Lilli Stubeck
Shortlist:
Gleeson, Libby; Eleanor, Elizabeth**
Spence, Eleanor; Me & Jeshua**
Wheatley, Nadia; Dancing in the Anzac Deli**
Ballie, Allan; Adrift
Kelleher, Victor; Papio
Klein, Robin; Hating Alison Ashley
Klein, Robin; Penny Pollard‟s Letters
1986
Winner:
Fowley, Thurley; The Green Wind
Shortlist:
Ballie, Allan; Little Brother**
Lake, David J; The Changlings of Chan**
- 99 –
Wheatley, Nadia; The House that was Eureka**
Carr, Roger; Firestorm!
Klein, Robin; Halfway Across the Galaxy and Turn Left
Spence, Eleanor; Miranda Going Home
1987
Winner:
French, Simon; All We Know
Shortlist:
Rubinstein, Gillian; Space Demons*
Kelleher, Victor; Taronga*
Ballie, Allan; Riverman
Park, Ruth; My Sister Sif
Sharp, Donna; Blue Days
1988
Winner:
Marsden, John; So Much to Tell You
Shortlist
Gleeson, Libby; I Am Susannah*
Spence, Eleanor; Deezle Boy*
Carmody, Isobelle; Obernewtyn
Hall, Penny; The Paperchaser
Kelleher, Victor; The Makers
1989
Winner:
Rubinstein, Gillian; Beyond the Labyrinth
Shortlist:
Macdonald, Caroline; The Lake at the End of the World*
Rubinstein, Gillian; Answers to Brut*
Ballie, Allan; Megan‟s Star
Pershall, Mary; You Take the High Road
O‟Neill, Judith; Deepwater
1990
Winner:
Klein, Robin; Came Back to Show You I Could Fly
Shortlist:
Caswell, Brian; Merryl of the Stones*
Hathorn, Libby; Thunderwith*
Kelleher, Victor; The Red King
Rubinstein, Gillian; Skymaze
Wrightson, Patricia; Balyet
1991
Winner:
Crew, Gary; Strange Objects
Shortlist:
Carmody, Isobelle; The Farseekers*
Kelleher, Victor; Brother Night*
Spence, Eleanor; The Family Book of Mary Claire
- 100 –
Lisson, Deborah; The Devil‟s Own
MacDonald, Caroline; Speaking to Miranda
1992
Winner:
Nilsson, Eleanor; The House Guest
Shortlist:
French, Simon; Change the Locks*
Walker, Kate; Peter*
Kelleher, Victor; Del Del
McRobbie, David; Mandragora
Marsden, John; Letters from the Inside
1993
Winner:
Marchetta, Melina; Looking for Alibrandi
Shortlist:
Gough, Sue; A Long Way to Tipperary*
Rubinstein, Gillian; Galax-Arena*
Caswell, Brian; A Cage of Butterflies
Jinks, Catherine; Pagan‟s Crusade
Marsden, John; Take My Word for It
1994
Winners:
Carmody, Isobelle; The Gathering
Crew, Gary; Angel‟s Gate
Shortlist:
Moloney, James; Dougy*
Carter, Robert; The Collectors
Gleeson, Libby; Love Me, Love Me Not.
Klein, Robin; Seeing Things
1995
Winner:
Rubinstein, Gillian; Foxspell
Shortlist:
Moloney, James; Gracey*
Wheatley, Nadia; The Night Tolkein Died*
Clarke, Judith; Friend of My Heart
Dubosarsky, Ursula; The White Guinea-Pig
Kelleher, Victor; Parkland
1996
Winner:
Jinks, Catherine; Pagan‟s Vows
Shortlist:
Dubosarsky, Ursula; The First Book of Samuel*
Hartnett, Sonia; Sleeping Dogs*
Caswell, Brian; Deucalion
Moloney, James; The House on River Terrace
Pausacker, Jenny; Getting Somewhere.
- 101 –
1997
Winner:
Moloney, James; A Bridge to Wiseman‟s Cove
Shortlist:
Orr, Wendy; Peeling the Onion*
Metzenthen, David; Johnny Hart‟s Heroes*
Herrick, Steven; Love, Ghosts and Nose Hair: A Verse Novel for Young
Adults
Jinks, Catherine; Pagan‟s Scribe
Kelleher, Victor; Fire Dancer
1998
Winner:
Jinks, Catherine; Eye to Eye
Shortlist:
Metzenthen, David; Gilbert‟s Ghost Train*
Winton, Tim; Lockie Leonard, Legend*
Ballie, Allan; The Last Shot
Lowry, Brigid; Guitar Highway Rose
Zurbo, Matt; Idiot Pride
1999
Winner:
Gwynne, Phillip; Deadly, Unna?
Shortlist:
Clarke, Judith; Night Train*
Walker, Sarah; Camphor Laurel*
Disher, Garry; The Divine Wind
Hartnett, Sonia; All My Dangerous Friends
Herrick, Steven; A Place Like This
2000
Winner:
Earls, Nick; 48 Shades of Brown
Shortlist:
Barnes, Helen; Killing Aurora*
Feinberg, Anna; Borrowed Light*
Hartnett, Sonia; Stripes of the Sidestep Wolf
McRobbie, David; Tyro
Metzenthen, David; Stoney Heart Country
2001
Winner:
Clarke, Judith; Wolf on the Fold
Shortlist:
Condon, Bill; Dogs*
Zusak, Markus; Fighting Ruben Wolfe*
Hartnett, Sonia; Thursday‟s Child
Herrick, Steven; The Simple Gift
Moloney, James; Touch Me
- 102 –
2002
Winner:
Hartnett, Sonia; Forest
Shortlist:
Horniman, Joanna; Mahalia*
Zusak, Markus; When Dogs Cry*
Brugman, Alyssa; Finding Grace
Hirsch, Odo; Yoss
Wild, Margaret; Jinx
2003:
Winner:
Zusak, Markus; The Messenger
Shortlist:
Bateson, Catherine; Painted Love Letters*
Brugman, Alyssa; Walking Naked*
Aldridge, James; The Girl from the Sea
Bone, Ian; The Song of an Innocent Bystander
McDonald, Meme and Pryor, Boori; Njunjul the Sun
2004:
Winner:
Marchetta, Melina; Saving Francesca
Shortlist:
Metzenthen, David; Boys of Blood and Bone*
Nix, Garth; Mister Monday (Keys to the Kingdom, Book 1)*
Gardner, Scott; Burning Eddy
Moloney, James; Black Taxi
Murray, Martine; How to Make a Bird
2005:
Winner:
Bauer, Michael Gerard; The Running Man
Shortlist:
Eaton, Anthony; Fireshadow*
Herrick, Steven; By the River*
Horniman, Joanne; Secret Scribbled Notebooks
Jonsberg, Barry; The Whole Business with Kiffo and the Pitbull
Lanagan, Margo; Black Juice
2006
Winner:
Burke, J.C; The Story of Tom Brennan
Shortlist:
Condon, Bill; No Worries*
Moloney, James; Lost Property*
Caswell, Brian; Double Exposure
Crowley, Cath; Chasing Charlie Duskin
Jonsberg, Barry; It‟s Not All About You, Calma!
- 103 –
Appendix Two.
Statistical Significance and Impact of Authors in the CBCA Book of
the Year Awards – Older Reader‟s Category, 1982 – 2006
Years Since
Most Recent
listings
wins
Win Year/s
Hon books
1982
24
1982
1
1
1982
0
1982
24
1990
3
1
1984
1
1982
24
1982
1
0
0
0
1982
24
1982
1
0
0
0
1982
24
1982
1
0
0
0
1982
24
1986
2
1
0
1
1982
24
1983
2
0
0
0
1983
23
1997
9
1
Spence,
Eleanor
1983
23
1991
5
Lurie,
Morris
1983
23
1983
1
Wrightson,
Patricia
Mattingley,
Christobel
Barnett,
Gillian
Fatchen,
Max
Fowler,
Thurley
Phipson,
Joan
Kelleher,
Victor
Wheatley,
Nadia
Brinsmead,
Hesba
Manley,
Ruth
Nicholls,
Bron
Klein, Robin
Francis,
Helen
Wilmott,
Frank
1986
wins+Hons
First listing
Thiele, Colin
Hons years
Name
Table 2.1 - Raw Data: Short-Listings, Honour Books, and Wins sorted
by Year of first Short-Listing.
1
1982
2
2
1987,
1991
3
0
3
1983,
1985,
1988
3
0
1
1983
1
1983,
1985,
1986,
1995
4
1983
1983
23
1995
4
0
4
1983
23
1983
1
0
0
0
1983
23
1983
1
0
0
0
1983
23
1983
1
0
0
0
1984
22
1994
8
1
1984
22
1984
1
1984
22
1984
1
1990
1
1984
2
0
1
1984
1
0
1
1984
1
- 104 –
Harding,
Lee
Southall,
Ian
Aldridge,
James
Gleeson,
Libby
1984
22
1984
1
0
0
0
1984
22
1984
1
0
0
0
1985
21
2003
2
1
0
1
1985
21
1994
3
0
2
1985,
1988
2
Ballie, Allan
1985
21
1989
5
0
1
1986
1
Lake, David
1986
20
1986
1
0
1
1986
1
Carr, Roger
French,
Simon
1986
20
1986
1
0
0
1987
19
1992
2
1
1987
1
1992
2
1987
19
1995
6
2
1989,
1995
3
1987,
1989,
1993
5
Park, Ruth
Sharp,
Donna
Marsden,
John
Carmody,
Isobelle
Hall, Penny
MacDonald,
Caroline
Pershall,
Mary
O’Neill,
Judith
Caswell,
Brian
Hathorn,
Libby
1987
19
1987
1
0
0
0
1987
19
1987
1
0
0
0
1988
18
1993
3
1
1988
0
1
1988
18
1994
3
1
1994
1
1988
18
1988
1
0
0
1989
17
1991
2
0
1
1989
17
1989
1
0
0
0
1989
17
1989
1
0
0
0
1990
16
2006
4
0
1
1990
1
1990
16
1990
1
0
1
1990
1
Crew, Gary
1991
15
1994
2
2
1991
15
1991
1
0
1992
14
1992
1
1
1992
14
1992
1
0
1
1992
14
2000
2
0
0
0
1993
13
2004
2
2
0
2
1993
13
1993
1
0
1993
13
1998
4
2
1996,
1998
0
1994
12
2006
7
1
1997
2
Rubinstein,
Gillian
Lisson,
Deborah
Nilsson,
Eleanor
Walker,
Kate
McRobbie,
David
Marchetta,
Melina
Gough, Sue
Jinks,
Catherine
Moloney,
James
1985
1991,
1994
1992
1993,
2004
0
1991
2
0
1989
1
0
2
0
0
0
1
1
1992
1993
1
1
2
1994,
1995
3
- 105 –
Carter,
Robert
Clarke,
Judith
Dubosarsky,
Ursula
Hartnett,
Sonya
Pausacker,
Jenny
1994
12
1994
1
0
1995
11
2001
3
1
1995
11
1996
2
0
1996
10
2002
5
1
1996
10
1996
1
0
0
Orr, Wendy
1997
9
1997
1
0
1
1997
1
Metzenthen,
David
1997
9
2004
4
0
3
1997,
1998,
2004
3
Herrick,
Steven
1997
9
2005
4
0
1
2005
1
Winton, Tim
1998
8
1998
1
0
1
1998
1
Lowry,
Brigid
1998
8
1998
1
0
0
0
Zurbo, Matt
1998
8
1998
1
0
0
0
1999
7
1999
1
1
0
1
1999
7
1999
1
0
1
1999
7
1999
1
0
0
0
2000
6
2000
1
1
0
1
2000
6
2000
1
0
1
2000
1
2000
6
2000
1
0
1
2000
1
2001
5
2006
2
0
1
2001
1
2001
5
2003
3
1
2
2001,
2002
3
2002
4
2005
2
0
1
2002
1
2002
4
2003
2
0
1
2003
1
2002
4
2002
1
0
0
0
2002
4
2002
1
0
0
0
2003
3
2003
1
0
1
2003
3
2003
1
0
0
0
2003
3
2003
1
0
0
0
2004
2
2004
1
0
1
2004
2
2004
1
0
0
Gwynne,
Phillip
Walker,
Sarah
Disher,
Garry
Earls, Nick
Barnes,
Helen
Feinberg,
Anna
Condon, Bill
Zusak,
Markus
Horniman,
Joanne
Brugman,
Amyssa
Hirsch, Odo
Wild,
Margaret
Bateson,
Catherine
Bone, Ian
McDonald
and Pryor
Nix, Garth
Gardner,
Scott
0
2001
2002
1999
2000
2003
0
1
1999
2
1
1996
1
1
1996
2
0
1999
2003
2004
1
1
1
0
- 106 –
Murray,
Martine
Bauer,
Michael G
Eaton,
Anthony
Jonsberg,
Barry
Lanagan,
Margo
Burke, J.C
Crowley,
Cath
2004
2
2004
1
0
2005
1
2005
1
1
2005
1
2005
1
0
1
2005
1
2006
2
0
0
0
2005
1
2005
1
0
0
0
2006
0
2006
1
0
0
0
2006
0
2006
1
0
0
0
2005
0
0
0
1
2005
1
- 107 –
Table 2.2 - Overall Success (unweighted): Data sorted by „Success
Rating‟
„Success Rating‟= (L*1)+(C*3)+(W*6)
Hons years
wins+Hons
2
1989
1995
3
1987
1989
1993
5
27
2
Moloney,
James
1994 12 2006
7
1
1997
3
1994
1995
4
22
3
Kelleher,
Victor
1983 23 1997
9
1
1983
2
1987
1991
3
21
4 Klein, Robin 1984 22 1994
8
1
1990
1
1984
2
17
4
2
1996
1998
0
2
16
4
1983
1985
1986
1995
4
16
2001
2002
3
15
5
Jinks,
Catherine
Wheatley,
6
Nadia
1993 13 1998
Success
Rating
Hon books
6
listings
wins
1987 19 1995
First listing
Rubinstein,
Gillian
Name
1
Rank
Win Year/s
Most Recent
L = Number of short–listed books
C = Number of commended / Honour Books
W= Number of winning books
Years Since
Where:
1983 23 1995
4
0
2001
2003
3
1
2003
2
8 Crew, Gary
1991 15 1994
2
2
1991
1994
0
2
14
Marchetta,
Melina
1993 13 2004
2
2
1993
2004
0
2
14
10
Hartnett,
Sonya
1996 10 2002
5
1
2002
1
1996
2
14
11
Spence,
Eleanor
1983 23 1991
5
0
3
1983
1985
1988
3
14
12
Metzenthen,
1997
David
2004
4
0
3
1997
1998
2004
3
13
13
Wrightson,
Patricia
1982 24 1990
3
1
1984
1
1982
2
12
14
Carmody,
Isobelle
1988 18 1994
3
1
1994
1
1991
2
12
15
Clarke,
Judith
1995 11 2001
3
1
2001
1
1999
2
12
7
9
Zusak,
Markus
5
9
- 108 –
16
French,
Simon
1987 19 1992
2
1
1987
1
17
Marsden,
John
1988 18 1993
3
1
1988
0
18
Gleeson,
Libby
1985 21 1994
3
0
19
Fowler,
Thurley
1982 24 1986
2
1
1986
20
Aldridge,
James
1985 21 2003
2
1
1985
21 Ballie, Allan 1985 21 1989
5
0
1
22 Condon, Bill 2001
2006
2
0
2
23 Thiele, Colin 1982 24 1982
Caswell,
24
1990 16 2006
Brian
1
1
4
0
1992 14 1992
1
1
1997
9
2005
4
0
1999
7
1999
1
1
1999
2000
6
2000
1
1
2005
1
2005
1
1
2006
0
2006
1
1989 17 1991
2
11
1
9
2
9
0
1
8
0
1
8
1986
1
8
2001
2
8
1
7
1
7
1
7
1
7
0
1
7
2000
0
1
7
2005
0
1
7
1
0
1
7
2
0
1
1989
1
5
1995 11 1996
2
0
1
1996
1
5
2002
4
2005
2
0
1
2002
1
5
2002
4
2003
2
0
1
2003
1
5
1983 23 1983
1
0
1
1983
1
4
1984 22 1984
1
0
1
1984
1
4
Wilmott,
Frank
1984 22 1984
1
0
1
1984
1
4
38 Lake, David
1986 20 1986
1
0
1
1986
1
4
1990 16 1990
1
0
1
1990
1
4
1992 14 1992
1
0
1
1992
1
4
41 Gough, Sue
1993 13 1993
1
0
1
1993
1
4
42 Orr, Wendy
1997
9
1997
1
0
1
1997
1
4
43 Winton, Tim 1998
Walker,
44
1999
Sarah
8
1998
1
0
1
1998
1
4
7
1999
1
0
1
1999
1
4
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
Nilsson,
Eleanor
Herrick,
Steven
Gwynne,
Phillip
Earls, Nick
Bauer,
Michael G
Burke, J.C
MacDonald,
Caroline
Dubosarsky,
Ursula
Horniman,
Joanne
Brugman,
Alyssa
Lurie,
35
Morris
Francis,
36
Helen
34
37
Hathorn,
Libby
Walker,
40
Kate
39
5
2
1982
1985
1988
0
1
1992
1992
1990
0
1
2005
- 109 –
45
Barnes,
Helen
Feinberg,
Anna
Bateson,
47
Catherine
48 Nix, Garth
46
Eaton,
49
Anthony
2000
6
2000
1
0
1
2000
1
4
2000
6
2000
1
0
1
2000
1
4
2003
3
2003
1
0
1
2003
1
4
2004
2
2004
1
0
1
2004
1
4
2005
1
2005
1
0
1
2005
1
4
50
Phipson,
Joan
1982 24 1983
2
0
0
0
2
51
McRobbie,
David
1992 14 2000
2
0
0
0
2
52
Jonsberg,
Barry
2005
2006
2
0
0
0
2
53
Mattingley,
Christobel
1982 24 1982
1
0
0
0
1
54
Barnett,
Gillian
1982 24 1982
1
0
0
0
1
55
Fatchen,
Max
1982 24 1982
1
0
0
0
1
1983 23 1983
1
0
0
0
1
1983 23 1983
1
0
0
0
1
1983 23 1983
1
0
0
0
1
1984 22 1984
1
0
0
0
1
1984 22 1984
1
0
0
0
1
61 Carr, Roger
1986 20 1986
1
0
0
0
1
62 Park, Ruth
Sharp,
63
Donna
64 Hall, Penny
1987 19 1987
1
0
0
0
1
1987 19 1987
1
0
0
0
1
1988 18 1988
1
0
0
0
1
56
57
58
59
60
Brinsmead,
Hesba
Manley,
Ruth
Nicholls,
Bron
Harding,
Lee
Southall,
Ian
1
65
Pershall,
Mary
1989 17 1989
1
0
0
0
1
66
O’Neill,
Judith
1989 17 1989
1
0
0
0
1
67
Lisson,
Deborah
1991 15 1991
1
0
0
0
1
68
Carter,
Robert
1994 12 1994
1
0
0
0
1
1996 10 1996
1
0
0
0
1
1998
8
1998
1
0
0
0
1
1998
8
1998
1
0
0
0
1
1999
7
1999
1
0
0
0
1
2002
4
2002
1
0
0
0
1
69
70
71
72
73
Pausacker,
Jenny
Lowry,
Brigid
Zurbo, Matt
Disher,
Garry
Hirsch, Odo
- 110 –
Wild,
Margaret
75 Bone, Ian
McDonald
76
and Pryor
74
2002
4
2002
1
0
0
0
1
2003
3
2003
1
0
0
0
1
2003
3
2003
1
0
0
0
1
77
Gardner,
Scott
2004
2
2004
1
0
0
0
1
78
Murray,
Martine
2004
2
2004
1
0
0
0
1
79
Lanagan,
Margo
2005
1
2005
1
0
0
0
1
80
Crowley,
Cath
2006
0
2006
1
0
0
0
1
- 111 –
Table 2.3 – Recent Impact: Data weighted towards recent listings,
commendations and wins, sorted by Recent Impact.
„Recent Impact‟ = L(n)+C(n)+W(n)
Where:
L(n) = ((L1*1)+(L2*3)+(L3*5)+(L4*7)+(L5*9))
C(n) = ((C1*3)+(C2*5)+(C3*7)+(C4*9)+(C5*11))
W(n) = ((W1*6)+(W2*8)+(W3*10)+(W4*12)+(W5*14))
And Where:
L1, C1, W1 = No. of Short-Listings (L), Commendations (C) and wins (W) 1982 – 1986
L2, C2, W2 = No. of Short-Listings (L), Commendations (C) and wins (W) 1987 – 1991
L3, C3, W3 = No. of Short-Listings (L), Commendations (C) and wins (W) 1992 – 1996
L4, C4, W4 = No. of Short-Listings (L), Commendations (C) and wins (W) 1997 – 2001
L5, C5, W5 = No. of Short-Listings (L), Commendations (C) and wins (W) 2002 – 2006
Thus points values are weighted as follows:
Win Points
Hon book
7
47
1
1997
12
2
2001
2003
3
25
1
2003
14
2
0
3
1994
1995
2001
2002
1997
1998
2004
Recent Impact
Win Year/s
2006
Hons Points
wins
1994
Hons year/s
List points
W
6
8
10
12
14
listings
2
C
3
5
7
9
11
Most Recent
1
Name
Moloney,
James
Zusak,
Markus
L
1
3
5
7
9
First listing
Rank
Years
1982-1986
1987 – 1991
1992 – 1996
1997 – 2001
2002 – 2006
14
73
20
59
29
59
3
Metzenthen,
David
1997
2004
4
30
0
4
Rubinstein,
Gillian
1987
1995
6
22
2
1989
1995
18
3
1987
1989
1993
17
57
1996
2002
5
34
1
2002
14
1
1996
7
55
1983
1997
9
31
1
1983
6
2
1987
1991
10
47
1993
1998
4
24
2
1996
1998
22
0
0
46
1997
2005
4
30
0
0
1
2005
11
41
1995
2001
3
19
1
12
1
1999
9
40
5
6
7
8
9
Hartnett,
Sonya
Kelleher,
Victor
Jinks,
Catherine
Herrick,
Steven
Clarke,
Judith
2001
- 112 –
10
11
12
13
14
15
Marchetta,
Melina
Horniman,
Joanne
Brugman,
Alyssa
Crew, Gary
Caswell,
Brian
Carmody,
Isobelle
1993
2004
2
14
2
2002
2005
2
18
2002
2003
2
1991
1994
1990
24
0
0
0
1
18
0
0
1
2
8
2
20
0
2006
4
22
0
0
1
1988
1994
3
11
1
10
16
Condon, Bill
2001
2006
2
16
0
17
Klein, Robin
1984
1994
8
13
1
18
Wheatley,
Nadia
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
French,
Simon
Bauer,
Michael G
Spence,
Eleanor
Marsden,
John
Bateson,
Catherine
Nix, Garth
Eaton,
Anthony
Gwynne,
Phillip
Earls, Nick
Ballie, Allan
Jonsberg,
Barry
Aldridge,
James
Gleeson,
Libby
Dubosarsky,
Ursula
Orr, Wendy
Winton, Tim
Walker,
Sarah
Barnes,
Helen
Feinberg,
Anna
Nilsson,
Eleanor
1993
2004
1991
1994
1994
1990
0
38
2002
11
29
2003
11
29
0
28
1990
5
27
1
1991
5
26
0
1
2001
9
25
8
1
1984
3
24
0
4
1983
1985
1986
1995
16
24
1992
7
24
0
23
11
21
0
21
1983
1995
4
8
0
1987
1992
2
9
1
1987
8
1
2005
2005
1
9
1
2005
14
0
1983
1991
5
10
0
0
3
1988
1993
3
13
1
8
0
2003
2003
1
9
0
0
1
2003
11
20
2004
2004
1
9
0
0
1
2004
11
20
2005
2005
1
9
0
0
1
2005
11
20
1999
1999
1
7
1
1999
12
0
0
19
2000
1985
2000
1989
1
5
7
15
1
0
2000
12
0
0
1
0
3
19
18
2005
2006
2
18
0
0
0
0
18
1985
2003
2
11
1
6
0
0
17
1985
1994
3
9
0
0
2
1985
1988
8
17
1995
1996
2
10
0
0
1
1996
7
17
1997
1998
1997
1998
1
1
7
7
0
0
0
0
1
1
1997
1998
9
9
16
16
1999
1999
1
7
0
0
1
1999
9
16
2000
2000
1
7
0
0
1
2000
9
16
2000
2000
1
7
0
0
1
2000
9
16
1992
1992
1
5
1
10
0
0
15
1988
1985
1992
1983
1985
1988
1986
- 113 –
39
Wrightson,
Patricia
1982
1990
3
5
1
40
Walker, Kate
1992
1992
1
5
41
Gough, Sue
McRobbie,
David
MacDonald,
Caroline
Hirsch, Odo
Wild,
Margaret
Bone, Ian
McDonald
and Pryor
Gardner,
Scott
Murray,
Martine
Lanagan,
Margo
Burke, J.C
Crowley,
Cath
Fowler,
Thurley
Hathorn,
Libby
Thiele, Colin
Lowry,
Brigid
Zurbo, Matt
Disher,
Garry
Carter,
Robert
Pausacker,
Jenny
Lurie, Morris
Francis,
Helen
Wilmott,
Frank
Lake, David
Park, Ruth
Sharp,
Donna
Hall, Penny
Pershall,
Mary
O,Neill,
Judith
Lisson,
Deborah
1993
1993
1
1992
2000
1989
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
1984
6
1
1982
3
14
0
0
1
1992
7
12
5
0
0
1
1993
7
12
2
12
0
0
0
0
12
1991
2
6
0
0
1
5
11
2002
2002
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2002
2002
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2003
2003
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2003
2003
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2004
2004
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2004
2004
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2005
2005
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2006
2006
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
2006
2006
1
9
0
0
0
0
9
1982
1986
2
2
1
6
0
0
8
1990
1990
1
3
0
0
1
5
8
1982
1982
1
1
1
6
0
0
7
1998
1998
1
7
0
0
0
0
7
1998
1998
1
7
0
0
0
0
7
1999
1999
1
7
0
0
0
0
7
1994
1994
1
6
0
0
0
0
6
1996
1996
1
6
0
0
0
0
6
1983
1983
1
1
0
0
1
1983
3
4
1984
1984
1
1
0
0
1
1984
3
4
1984
1984
1
1
0
0
1
1984
3
4
1986
1987
1986
1987
1
1
1
3
0
0
0
0
1
0
1986
3
0
4
3
1987
1987
1
3
0
0
0
0
3
1988
1988
1
3
0
0
0
0
3
1989
1989
1
3
0
0
0
0
3
1989
1989
1
3
0
0
0
0
3
1991
1991
1
3
0
0
0
0
3
1986
1982
1989
1990
- 114 –
78
Phipson,
Joan
Mattingley,
Christobel
Barnett,
Gillian
Fatchen,
Max
Brinsmead,
Hesba
Manley,
Ruth
Nicholls,
Bron
Harding, Lee
79
Southall, Ian
1984
1984
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
80
Carr, Roger
1986
1986
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
1982
1983
2
2
0
0
0
0
2
1982
1982
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
1982
1982
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
1982
1982
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
1983
1983
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
1983
1983
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
1983
1983
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
1984
1984
1
1
0
0
0
0
1
- 115 –
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