 
## Daygo's Fury

by

John F O'Sullivan
Daygo's Fury

By John F O'Sullivan

Copyright © 2015 by John F O'Sullivan

Cover design © Carolina Fiandri, Circecorp Design.

Map © Sebastian Sanchez, Dibujos De Sebastian

John F O'Sullivan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

For more about this author please visit http://www.johnfosullivan.net/

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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First Edition

### Table of Contents

Map of Levitashand

Prologue

He is born

1.Calum

2.Sister

3.Racquel

4.Priest

5.What's worth living for?

6.The Daygo Stream

7.Daygo's Fury

8.Foreboding

9.Freedom

Epilogue

Please Review

Coming Soon

Acknowledgements

About the Author
Map of Levitashand

Prologue

His last steps dragged behind him, each one a struggle, each a last hope.

He wanted a smoke, he was dying for one. One last puff of Cynthia's tobacco, one last stay in her bed; he would pass his hand through her hair, he would brush her lips with his, run his hand slowly down to the small of her back, drop his head to the comfort of her bosom, listen to her sweet voice. A voice that understood and cared and empathised. He imagined her arms wide, running into them, embracing, caring, knowing, tears soft along her cheeks, his arms enfolding her, hers dropping close, wrapping around him, ephemeral, translucent, dust, air.

She was dead. An anguished growl escaped through his parted lips, its source deep within him, deeper than flesh.

He leaned forward, crumpling into himself, stumbling on. He walked upon dead flesh. He trod, step by step, on his companions. His legs dragged, the toes of his feet catching loose limbs and dropping into puddles of red, kicking and digging into heads of men he had once known, disturbing the flies from their lunch. The sky was cloudy overhead, a mix of dark and white, occasional bursts of blue dispensing yellow rays onto the nightmare feast below.

His ears rang, but not enough to drown out the cawing of crows, the thirsty cries of vultures and ravens, the flapping of their wings as they burst in great flocks into the air, fighting and pecking at one another for the prime morsels, even though there was more than they could ever eat. Horses neighed, calling out in pain or need, dying, like him, somehow still breathing, somehow still a part of this world, not released or allowed into sleep and slumber, into final rest, into final ending.

His foot caught and he fell lazily onto one knee and a hand. The smell was thick and fresh, and all too familiar. He stopped, head hanging, and groaned into the stained ground, spittle flapping from his lips. He blinked his eyes, a tear dangled and fell from his eyelash; no one to see it, no one to hear it fall. It sank into the earth, mixed with blood and dirt. He clasped the palm of a dead man and rose once more.

Blood trailed down his right side, holding to an established path, a thick, miniature river across the dry plains of his skin. It meandered to the tip of his middle finger, where it grew in weight, building, budding, until it dropped its seed upon the earth. Every step, another drop, nurturing the soil.

His nose was blocked, bloodied and dirty and hung limply with snot. He breathed through his mouth, but he could still _taste_ the foulness in the air, the fetid breath of the dead.

His eyes were white. He saw through a hazy, greyed mist; blurred depictions of blood, death and hideous waste. His head was a ball of pain. It bounced on his neck and swung round, looking down at each face below him as he climbed over corpses of animal, man and beast.

The religions had lied, the priests had lied; it had all been a lie. A race descended from the gods? In God's own image? Made above all others? They were not above others. He knew that now. Mankind knew that now. They had learned. They had paid for their failures, for their weaknesses. But they were not diminished as a result, not in his eyes, not ever. Never were they more deserving, never had there been more pain.

There was a superior race, but despite this, man still survived. Despite all, they persevered. There was one man who had led them to salvation. One man above all others. He had ridden at his side that day, but had disappeared in battle.

It was this man he now looked for in the ruins of the battle. It was his face that he searched for and could not find. He could not be dead. There could never be death for such a man, if he was a man at all. Had Connia any faith in the divine left within him, it would be in this man, as though he had been sent to save them. What cruel treatment by the gods if so, for he had suffered as much as everyone. He had carried humanity precariously on his shoulders.

He heard the bestial growl that still sent shivers down his spine. But not for much longer. They had made it this far. The final charge of mankind. He turned to face the beast, the superior animal. It was a hundred yards from him, its claws deep within one of his friends, feasting on the spoils of their genocidal war. Connia laughed suddenly, sending pain through his crippled chest.

Connia looked across at his leader and general. His eyes were afire, but Connia knew there was a depth of untold sadness behind that burning gaze, a depth of feeling more profound and charged than any other man he knew, like all things about Levitas; he just had more of everything than a normal man. He burned blindingly bright for all to see. He was the most inspirational and awe-inspiring man that Connia had ever come across.

He would follow him to death a thousand times over, as would the ten thousand at their backs. They rode atop the finest chargers that humanity had left to offer. He looked down at his own. Not as good as the old Tespan that he had ridden a lifetime ago, his old friend and companion and one of the finest battle horses on the Tespan continent. He was dead.

When everything had been taken from a man. His family and friends, his nation, his identity and his home. When he had been chased and tormented. When he had awoken amidst a nightmare, every day, for two years. When all he knew was aflame and destroyed. The chance of a glorious end, a final charge, where he could turn around and stop running, was all he wanted, all he needed. Finally. Finally. Finally. Those bastards would see his face, livid with righteous fury, charge them down. Although they all knew that they marched to their doom, it was, after years of torment, a very small price to pay.

Many more than ten thousand had volunteered from the bedraggled ranks of mankind's army, but Levitas had refused to take them. Ten thousand was enough, he had said, they would need no more, and he would not entertain the notion of useless deaths. He had never been wrong before, never. He would be right once more, a final time.

His five greatest generals had been left behind. There were enough experienced men in the ten thousand to do what needed to be done. The five—Keis, Haryana, Gabbon, Illinois and Saltan Heyman—would be charged with relocating most of the population, all those who had migrated south. They would build a new unified system of governance that would, if the ten thousand were successful, lead to a peaceful and unified mankind, where they would help one another and live in peace. We have all learned the horrifying scale of our mistakes. They will never be forgotten. Levitas had left clear instructions on this as well. He said it would work, he said the new unified nation of all would be better than it had ever been before. That, eventually, when they were strong again, they could reclaim the land from the beasts. He had never been wrong.

Some whispered now that he was divine. Even Connia was starting to believe.

He wheeled his horse, looking out over the rocky fields and the army that inhabited them. The smell of horse shit, steaming mounts, sweat and piss hung thick in the air; but occasionally the breeze, blowing from the north, replaced the smell with the fresh open air, the grasslands, flowers in bloom, the bark of idle trees and green leaves.

Ten thousand men and ten thousand mounts, followed by five thousand more held in reserve by a further two thousand men or so, made a large host. They snorted and stamped, churning the ground beneath their hooves to a dense mud, over open grasslands that spread wide to both sides, gently rising and falling more slightly than could be called hills.

An immense sight, belittled by its backdrop, where the great herds of humankind had gathered to construct a wall on a scale that was never before seen. And to either side of them and above, spread out from west to east, were the great Woanaan peaks, mountains of incredible size, perhaps the largest in the world, overlapping one another, snow-capped and utterly impassable. The only way through the pass they now walled up. At the edge of his vision, to the east, he could just make out the first signs of a sea, just as he knew to the west was an ocean of prodigious size. A natural wall, a natural protection, made whole by the manmade structure in its depths. It would protect them, it would save them, and cut them off from the rest of the world.

The sound of hammering, the clangs of metal, of stone cracking, of hundreds of thousands at labour echoed, distorted and conjoined, for miles around. Work had commenced weeks before, the numbers of workers increasing day on day as more crossed the border from the Dessotta plains into the Woanaan peaks, where they might be safe. What it did not lack was manpower, though how it could be organised and made efficient, Connia did not know. Levitas had faith, so he did too. Seven days, that's what they needed to finish the wall. That was why this march was needed.

It looked as though all humanity were at labour in front of him. He realised with a shock that they were. A wry smile spread across his face.

" _Quite a sight, isn't it, my friend?" Connia looked across at the sad smile on Levitas' face and met the eyes that glowed red and steady._

" _Yes. Yes, Lev, it is."_

" _Who would have thought this would be it? Do you remember being a boy, my friend?"_

" _Not really, sire."_

Levitas grunted. "Well, I doubt this would have been in your dreams for the future anyway." He laughed suddenly. "It truly is a wonder." Connia looked at the man. He was unbreakable.

" _Yes it is, my lord, yes it is. We have come a long way."_

" _Yes, so come now, no more with the titles. I am a man, just as you are. We are men here together, of a one. Let us talk as man to man, in these final moments of ours. You are a brave man, Connia."_

" _And you, Lev."_

" _Yes, I am. I have never been afraid to admit to what I am. It has always seemed too short and fragile a life to me, to behave with false modesty, to live by lies, fears or embarrassments. We are an odd mix, us humans. We behave as though uncertain about our demise. But we are certain now, aren't we, Connia?"_

" _Yes, Lev, we are."_

" _So tell me now, without our usual stupidities, what kind of man you are, Connia."_

Connia hesitated for a moment, then he realised the wisdom in Levitas' words. Yes, he thought, yes, finally, let it all fall away.

" _Yes, I am a sad man, Lev. I am broken, I have loved and lost. Things have been taken from me, I feel ... overwhelmed by the tragedy of this life and, in truth, as a result, I think that I am now able to embrace death in a way that I never thought I would have. It no longer fears me. The continuation of this life is what fears me. I am a good man, Lev. Like all I have made mistakes but through good intentions or else inner frailties. I am brave. I have always been so. I am strong, I have withstood, and I shall until my death. I threw everything I had at life, every waking moment. I tried my best. It kicked me down, again and again. Fuck it. Fuck life."_

" _We march, knowing ourselves. We march with admiration and respect for who we are." His eyes burned bright with fervour, wide, staring into Connia's. Connia did not look away. "We march with love for our species and love for ourselves, with anger at those that have taken a peaceful life from us and with relief that it will end. At least that is how I will march to my death, Connia."_

Connia nodded firmly. "Yes, my lord, yes, me too."

He turned to the assembled men behind him. The snorting and beating of hooves of ten thousand horses echoed throughout the clearing. There were far too many and the noise far too loud for the great general to be heard. He knew this, but he had prepared a speech for this day. It had been copied down to a hundred different parchments and would be read out, line after line, by the leaders of the hundred hundreds after Levitas spoke it. He had talked to each and every one of them about this. None were to break the seal until he gave the signal and were only to read each line after he had spoken them. He would pause between each.

" _Listen to me, Connia. Listen to my words!"_

He galloped from the hill. He reined in before the mass of stamping cavalry, still on a slight rise above the majority of them, still visible to most. He raised his hand, and the hundred officers opened the sealed speech. He started slowly, sitting his horse deathly still, as though impeaching all in front of him to be equally silent. There was a shuffling to attention as riders reined in their mounts, trying to follow their leader's example, show respect while he spoke.

His voice echoed over the clearing, the noise clear, the words indistinct. Those few at the front felt privileged to hear it straight from his mouth. He paused after each rousing sentence and his words were repeated a hundred times, chanted almost in unison. The effect was immense, somehow solemn and holy. There was quiet over the clearing.

" _We said we would give them a week. That is what we have promised and that is what we will give. We will give our kinsmen, we will give our species, this one week. They know what to do. Do you know what you do, this day and tomorrow and for the remainder of this week? Do you know? Today you save mankind, today you become the greatest heroes to our species that there will ever be. We have been threatened. We have been attacked and harried, but we will not give in. HUMANITY will not give in! We fight for HUMANITY!"_

" _We were once many, but now we are one. The beasts thought to separate us, drive a wedge between us, but instead they unified us! They tried to commit genocide, but today they fail! Tomorrow, they fail! For every day, from now until the end of days, they will fail! Through our terror! Through our suffering! We have created a new world of man! We have become unified! We will never separate ourselves from one another again!"_

Suddenly he started to yell, screaming out as he reared his horse erratically, pulling it back and forth among the men, galloping through some lines and out the sides of others, consuming them, filling them up with his righteous rage as he screamed at them. It built within Connia, a rage as strong as any in his life, but accompanied by a sudden feeling for life unlike any he had ever known. He was alive, he was aware; these were his last, dramatic moments and it would finally end.

" _They have killed our mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, fathers, brothers, sons. They have feasted upon them!"_

" _We will show them now a unified fist, to beat them back until one day again we have grown strong enough to come back to these lands, to reclaim these lands, and to make those Daygo cursed beasts regret ever invading these lands._

" _They will die for their sins! They will die for their crimes! They will run in terror! They will fear for their offspring! They will know torment up until the day they die!_

" _Seven days! That is what we need! Seven days! Seven days! Seven days!"_

Connia could see the hands shaking of the nearest leader as he repeated the words. His voice was loud but shook with emotion, the words cracked on his tongue and he fumbled through some, only managing to speak half. The effect seemed even more. He saw his men, switching their gaze between the far-off general and their own leader, starting to shake and batter their hands off one another almost unconsciously. There was a noise, slowly building, line after line, like a slow roar, growing and growing, almost drowning out the chant of the hundred leaders. The words were mostly the same, slightly altered, repeated over and over again, driving home the point. Connia realised that he was banging his fist against the steel of his thigh with each line and roaring along with the rest. He did not stop; he could not have stopped if he tried. Horses started to rear and snort and neigh, struggling against the reins of their masters, creating more and more animated noise. Connia realised that work had suddenly stopped on the mountain pass as a million eyes looked out over the commotion below. And then it came time to march.

There was no fear in the ten thousand, Connia knew, for they felt the same as he, filled with fanatical need to end it, a fanatical need to succeed in their final task and then to die, spitting in the eye of the beasts.

The chant and cries of Levitas grew and started to repeat themselves.

" _No! Do not chant my name, chant that of humanity. Chant the name of our species! Chant the name of us all, we here, who will save mankind." Leaders looked up from the words on the page in astonishment at that, even more fanatical fervour in their eyes as they sought out their leader, before returning to their task. "Mankind, who will not be defeated, who will not be extinct, who will not be exterminated. MANKIND! MANKIND! MANKIND!" The chant rang out, roared from ten thousand throats as they cantered their horses forward towards the far-off hordes of beasts. It was the last march. The march of the ten thousand._

"Let them come," he whispered to the wind, tears in his eyes, "let them come."

They were everywhere still, feasting on their spoils, unworried by the occasional groan or cry of those who were still alive; a scene now too familiar to Connia's eyes.

With spear, shield, sword and bow, ten thousand of the best remaining had fought. On horseback they were on a level footing, able to stare the beasts down eye to eye. Horses reared, having grown to hate, nostrils flared aggressively from their retched scent. They fought for their species too, whether they knew it or not. The finest war animals, millions of their peers already dead.

They had bought a week. Seven days of skirmishes, of false trails and sleepless nights that had culminated in this final battle when the beasts could not be evaded or misled any longer. And here they had held, for one day more. He had been unconscious for hours before awakening to this hell. Hell on Earth. It felt as though it had always been hell as opposed to Earth. Such a long journey. The sound of his blood dropping onto the cloth of the dead man below him was a background noise, present but unidentified within his brain. His eyes met those of the beast, now rising from its meal, intent written into its movements.

He realised he was laughing uncontrollably. This was it. Finally, it was over. Relief washed over him, overawing his senses, making his limbs weak as he shook with a manic edge. He could stop now, it was at an end. He fell to his knees and hunched over slightly, tears streaming down his face. He did not know if he cried or laughed, he was simply awash with too much emotion to deal with. He cried out into the sky as his limbs shook loosely.

He had done his duty, to the very end. It was finished. Sometimes it seemed as though he would never make it to this day. Sometimes it felt as though there would be no end. For so long he had thought that he could not keep going. He looked forward at the colossal beast in front of him, almost lazily galloping towards him, and he turned his head, not wanting that abomination to be the last thing that he saw. His gaze landed on a face, a familiar face. His laughter ended in escaped air. He closed his eyes tight and lifted his head. He felt himself fall backwards, the change of perspective, the whoosh of air, like a dream. He never hit the ground. So a man. A man after all. _I'm sorry Lev. I'm sorry, most of all, that you had to die here too. It was done._

### He is born

_172 years later ..._

The streets of the inner city of Teruel were quiet in the evening time, before the revelry of night began and after the store fronts were closed up. Among this subdued atmosphere, in the home of a privileged man, a disobedient whore was raped and tossed out. Not just tossed out of the house but out of her society and all she knew, kicked from the inner city, sent to the slums and told never to return for fear of death. Her face and name were known. She would never be allowed back into the society of the rich or middle class again, condemned to poverty and considered lucky not to be condemned to death.

It was no matter anyway. Eight months later she gave birth to a baby boy, a boy who exited the womb in silence. A stillborn baby, for the childbirth became complicated. The boy's cord connecting it to his mother was cut and the child wrapped in swaddling and taken away. Amidst the mother's pain, anguish added its considerable fuel to her screams. The bleeding would not stop. The makeshift midwifes of the city's poorest quarter looked at each other with well-known sadness as they tried forlornly to plug the bleeding with dirty towels and cloth. The screams, the thrashing and the pain slowly faded in energy, in vibrant life, until moment by moment the woman fell into a more peaceful slumber, before life faded completely and death's waiting embrace took her from the world.

But the boy didn't die. Inexplicably, among the quiet tears of the midwives as they tried to deal with the gruesome mess, they heard a cry, a baby's cry. The cry rang out with a strength and velocity unusual from any new born child. The cry sent a chill through the midwives, for it felt as a cry of rage. A rage, perhaps, at being entered into this harsh world, and entered in such a sad fashion.

The two midwives rushed from the room to the one adjacent, where a small baby boy sat in the swaddling and bloody gore of his birth, crying, mouth open as his tonsils vibrated with his roar. The two women looked at each other in amazement. Finally, one asked of the other "How long ...?" The question unfinished was nevertheless enough, for both women were thinking the same thing. "At least ten minutes," replied the other. Slowly, the women returned from the grasp of shock and did what they had to do. They cleaned the boy up and brought him to the place where such boys go.

In reality, though the midwives doubted their own words, the boy had been stillborn for over eleven minutes. He had experienced eleven minutes of blissful silence before life inhabited him with more ferocity than the world had ever seen. This boy was infused with a power unheard of by man. He weighed six and a half pounds.

The impossibility of his body being brought to life continued in the improbability of his survival. There was no surrogate mother at the baby orphanage that he was brought to and none to be found. So in vain hope, in consideration of his unlikely arrival, the orphan keeper persisted with feeding the baby goats' milk, convinced it was only a matter of time; even though normally, in the cruel reality of the poor in the slums, a baby in such a position would be smothered and buried somewhere as a mercy. But the baby boy was somehow possessed with a life that would not fade or dim. He survived, he continued and he grew.

This boy became a source of local folklore among the housewives and orphan keepers. His birth and survival afterwards were unprecedented mysteries. Unfortunately for the boy, his fame at birth was as small in stature in comparison to what it would become as the baby was to the later man.
1. Calum

Liam walked through the slums of Teruel slowly. He had time to take his ease. He was not due to meet up with Calum, Carrick and his men for another hour. He prowled the streets with a predator's air, despite being only thirteen.

Dust blew along his bare feet. All moisture was gone from the hard packed clay underfoot from a week of the baking hot sun. The air was thick around him. The refuse in the gutters festering with flies.

It was still relatively early in the morning, not yet noon, and the streets were busy as usual. Many eyed him suspiciously as he passed. Liam ignored them, used to the unwelcome scrutiny, as he scrutinised the pedestrians in return. He did it purely out of habit, sizing them up, placing them by their clothes, judging them by their size, gait and expression. His eyes scanned belts and the pouches, swords or knives tied to their sides. He looked at necklaces, shoes, hemlines, anything and everything that gave him information on the people possessing them. He could judge the men or women in moments, in a natural way, as his eyes darted over their bodies. It was street instinct that had been beaten into him by thirteen years in the slums. He sized everyone up by habit. Even today, when he was not looking for an easy take.

There were the farmers, easily recognisable by the straw hats they liked to wear when out in the sun, sticking out like a sore thumb, easy targets. Stupid spuds. Their problem was that they rarely had much of worth on them; most of their wealth likely stolen or cheated off them already. They wore a hunted look as they walked, head moving from side to side suspiciously but unable to identify where the real threats were.

There were the toughs, the enforcers of the gang's justice. They took to wearing leather jerkins over their chests, the tough material good for deflecting a knife, but doing nothing for a blow to the balls. They strode through the streets with an air of ownership, smug satisfaction written all over their faces.

There were the tradesmen or women going about their daily business. They were worth extra scrutiny, occasionally offering opportunity but were also natives of the slums and well used to the dangers it held and where they lay.

There were the traders, the pedlars and merchants, the housewives going about their business, the drunks, still unsteady from the previous night's drinking.

Among all of these people were foreigners of different nationalities from all across Levitashand.

There were the strange tribesmen from the north who wore a multitude of nose and ear rings. They tended to wear colourful linen tunics that were long at the arms. They were normally small, squat men with very dark skin. Sometimes there was even a man of pure black. Liam would stop and stare at these, studying their strange skin with interest. On occasion they would stare back but Liam would only give them a thumbs up, laughing at their frown.

There were the famous Haryani tradesmen in their long linen robes that draped to their ankles. The robes were finely made and tended to boast bright yellow and red colours, a symbol of their national pride. Their hands tended to be covered by the long sleeves but glimpses often showed gold and silver rings glittering from their fingers. Liam had often pondered how to slip these from the men. However, he had noticed they often had a burly guard trailing a step behind them with a large wooden club and a knife strapped to their sides. No doubt ready to club any slummer that got too close to their master without much thought. Liam preferred easier targets.

There were even some Manitobans from the west. However, these were a squat, wide people with slanted eyes that held a dangerous look about them. Liam had never harboured much thought about any hidden treasures that they might hold on their person.

But sometimes it was hard to tell nationality among the foreigners, as there was such a wide range of racial difference. This was a result of the great migration Liam had been taught as a boy.

His eyes unconsciously slid over the bums, beggars and homeless that were found on every street corner. He looked at one, wearing rags, torn and dirty. His face was covered with dust and mud and caked in drool. His hair was a greasy, lumpy mess and his expression was one of permanent desperation. He looked lost as he barely looked up to the people passing him by, a cracked wooden bowl in his hand pressed forward, hoping for the sound of a few spare klats to rattle into it.

Liam looked away again, disgusted. He felt the familiar frustration and anger at the sight of them. They were such weak, pathetic people. Why did they sit there, doing nothing while they starved to death? Why didn't they _do_ something? Even if it was just to get up and stab someone for their purse; show some guts, some fight. He could never understand them. Why were they so weak? How could they just sit there? Why? _Fucking wasters!_

Liam continued on, light of foot, and turned onto Baker's Corner where the street emptied slightly. The smell of freshly baking bread hit his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, savouring the scent. He looked lazily into the small bakery along the side of the street as he passed and stopped suddenly. A smile spread across his face. There was no sign of the baker and he had seen a freshly cooking loaf in the oven. Did he dare?

His smile widened as he turned and ran into the bakery. He leaped over the waist-high counter without hesitation, reaching instantly for the oven. He turned the latch and pulled, but the oven door wouldn't budge. He winced, letting go of the latch again as his fingers began to burn with the heat.

"There's another latch at the top." Liam jumped with fright, turning around in an instant. There, sitting in the corner of the room staring back at him, was a girl close to his own age. Liam realised that where she sat she was hidden from view from the outside. She had an oval face and sleek black hair that fell below her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with surprise but she spoke again, pointing.

"There, at the top!" she whispered urgently. Liam looked and almost laughed. He reached up in amazement and turned the other latch, opened the door and grabbed the loaf from inside. He turned again and jumped over the counter.

He stood there, looking at her for a moment. She returned his gaze. She had dark blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with gold dust. The moment seemed to last an eternity but was broken abruptly by the sounds of the baker coming down the stairs in the next room.

"Racquel! What's going on down there, girl?" he shouted. Racquel's face went wide in panic and Liam decided it was time for him to go.

"See ya," he said, smiling, and ran out the door.

"Uncle Galo ..." he heard her shout as he ran from the baker's with the prize. A couple of passersby on the street stopped and looked at him. One, glancing at the loaf, frowned and made to grab for him but Liam only laughed and skipped away. He danced around the people in the street as he made his escape, the man giving up his half-hearted pursuit.

******

Liam had half the roll eaten by the time he arrived at Fade Street. It was a street appropriately named, with an old, grimy and faded appearance. The street was wide enough to accommodate two hand-drawn carts to pass each other from between the gutters that ran on either side of it. Since it hadn't rained in days, the two-footdeep gutter was getting clogged up with shit and debris that had been thrown in by the street's inhabitants.

The heat of the midday sun ripened the stink of the gutter, but it was a scent familiar to all of the slums.

The buildings to either side of the street were a mix of brick and wood. The tavern that was Liam's destination lay halfway up. Well-built from stone and brick, it had a thatch roof and a sign hanging over the doorway proclaiming it as "Sal s", the second "l" and the "y" having been scratched off long ago by a regular patron. To one side of the tavern was a building made out of wood that looked as though it was hastily erected, and then upon its failure to collapse over the years, never replaced. The street was full of such ramshackle buildings varying in size from one to three stories. There was even a large wooden warehouse at the street's end. Liam was unsure of its contents.

As he approached the tavern, Liam spotted Calum lounging against its wall and waved his half loaf at him.

"Picked up something on the way," he shouted over as he approached, throwing Calum the loaf. Calum laughed as he snatched it out of the air and took a bite.

"Fresh," he said around a mouthful. "Where'd ye come by this?"

"Ah, I just stopped by the baker's on the way over." Liam smirked. Calum laughed again. He was of average height and build for his age, with sandy coloured hair and blue eyes. The only stand-out feature he possessed was a jagged scar that extended all the way down the left side of his face from temple to jaw. He was a year older than Liam and had been his best friend for the last seven years.

"You know what this is about?" Liam continued, nodding to the tavern door.

Calum grunted in response, raising his eyes to the sky.

"You don't wanna know!" he said in exasperation. "I'll tell ye afterwards., Carrick is waitin' for us inside, in a pissed-off mood too, so don't wanna keep 'im too long." He handed Liam back the remainder of the loaf. Liam put it into a pocket he had stitched into the side of his tunic and followed Calum in the door.

The tavern still stank of smoke from the day before. It was a square room with the bar at the centre and to the right against the wall. Bar stools encircled its three sides, and tables, benches and chairs stood along the three walls. There were two groups at the bar and another at a bench at the far right of the room. Liam spotted Carrick in one of the bar groups just as Calum turned towards him.

Carrick sat to the side of three other companions, his hand over a mug of ale. He was a man of about nineteen years and of average build. He was beginning to show the first signs of a pot belly under his faded white tunic. He had thin blond hair receding at the temples and had a sharp, bony nose contrasted by a withdrawn chin.

Liam looked over to his companions. He recognised one as Faolan but couldn't name the other two, though their faces were familiar.

The barkeep, Dave, eyed them as they came in but said nothing. Calum headed straight over to Carrick.

"Alright, Carrick!" he greeted him. The group turned to the newcomers.

"Ay, Carrick, ye bring a couple spotters to watch yer back?" spurted one of the nameless at the far end. The other two laughed and Carrick's face went red. Liam saw that he had a faded bruise over his left eye.

"Come on!" Carrick said to the boys, nodding to a table in the corner and heading over. Liam noticed that he held his left arm in close to his side as he walked. They sat down around the table, and the boys waited for Carrick to continue.

"I have a job for yehs," he said. Liam looked at Calum. _Obviously, or why would we be here?_ "Some fuckin' hard arse and his sons thou' he'd give me and the lads a beatin' down and ther'd be no consequences." Carrick rubbed his shoulder as he said it, then took a drink of ale before he continued.

"Damn near broke my arm," he muttered. "We goina get 'em back though. Me and the lads been thinkin' we just need to draw 'em out. He's a blacksmith up by Caipur Street. Needs a seein' to. That's what we want you two for, to draw 'em out." He stopped there, taking another drink of ale, then looked at them.

"Well?" he asked. Liam and Calum looked at each other again.

"Alright," Calum said tentatively. "What is it ye wan' us to do again?"

"Din't I already fuckin' tell ye!" he spluttered. "Ye'r te go into the smith's and draw 'im out. Me an' the lads'll be outside waitin' for him. Once he's outside an' we know he's alone, we goin' a beat the livin' daylights out of him!"

"Alright," Calum said again. "How we goin' a get 'im out of the smithy?"

"Well, I don't fuckin' know, do I? Fuckin' go in there and fuckin' rob somet'in' or somet'in', be out after yehs in no time."

Liam suppressed a sigh. Carrick was such a fucking idiot.

"When we doin' this?" he asked.

Carrick looked at him. "Two days," he said and stood up. "Meet yehs at the corner of Caipur Street and Laiker at noon. We go do it then." At that he walked back over to join his friends at the bar. There were a few jokes and more laughter at Carrick's expense.

Liam sat back in his chair for a moment looking across at Calum.

"We go?" he asked and Calum nodded. They got up and walked from the tavern.

"Could do with an ale after that myself," Calum said on the way out.

******

"So what's this all about?" Liam asked as they walked through the streets and back alleys of Teruel. Calum sighed.

"Carrick's rippin' after bein' made a fool of by the blacksmith and his sons and bein' handed out a beatin' as well," he said. "It all started when Carrick found out that the blacksmith wasn't payin' protection money to the matis. Reason being of course that the blacksmith didn't need protection."

The matis ran things in the slums of Teruel. Protection was something they offered all businesses in the slums. If the business paid up, they were given a red flag to fly over the doorway of their premises. If anyone was caught who had broken into or stolen from premises with the red flag above it, the punishment from the matis was severe. And they normally found the people who did it. This meant that anyone paying for protection could be fairly sure that their place would be left alone.

The protection fee wasn't mandatory, and if a business didn't pay it they weren't necessarily targeted. But it was fair game for anyone and everyone to try to steal from or extort.

"Was he payin' the king's tax?" asked Liam. The matis worked on two fronts. The king and his taxmen were not bothered dealing with the slums directly. So they allowed the matis to rule and police the slums as they saw fit so long as they met the tax bill at the end of every month. The name matis came from the gang leader Mati who first managed to set this system in place. Laughingly, instead of the king's tax it was called Mati's tax, until eventually all the gang were known as the Mati's and then eventually just the matis.

This meant that the gang ran two fundamental businesses, collecting the king's tax, for which they charged largely above what they actually paid to the king, and charging for protection. If someone paid the king's tax then they were left alone by the matis. If they paid the protection fee on top of the king's tax then they were offered protection as well—they were essentially within the law of the matis. If a business failed to pay the king's tax, the matis would break into the place and clean it out, leaving the owners with nothing. They had the manpower to do it with ease.

"He paid the king's tax alright," answered Calum. "Anyway, Carrick sized the place up, and he reckoned he could sneak in over the back wall of the place with his crew and get into the workshop from there and clean the place out. The only problem was to get into the back yard he'd have to come in from the carpenter's place that was behind the smith's. Only problem there was the carpenter paid his protection.

"So Carrick goes to the carpenter, Joe, with his idea. He says he'll split it with him two to one. The carpenter laughs in his face at this, tells 'em, 'Why'd I break into Darragh's place, isn't he a friend of mine? And if I did,' he says, 'he'd come after me with those boys of his and beat the shite out of me!'

"Carrick didn't leave it there though," Liam guessed.

"No," said Calum. "The dumb shit goes and gets his lads and breaks into the place anyway, just at the close of business, reckons that the smith's on his own, and he's got two lads with 'im. And even if he was on his own, he still probably would've beat the shit out of the three of 'em. But he wasn't. His two sons were upstairs.

"They had been tipped off already by the carpenter that somethin' was up. The smith gives a yell and his two boys come down with wooden bats. They beat the source out of the three lads. Broke a few legs and prob broke Carrick's arm too. "

"So now Carrick wants to get back at him!" Liam said, exasperated. Calum nodded.

"Can't just leave it go as it is. Can't handle the gibe that's bein' thrown at him by most everyone he knows," said Calum.

"And now we're stuck in the fuckin' middle of it too," said Liam. He sighed. Carrick was part of the matis, at the very bottom rung, but he still got a couple of jobs thrown Liam and Calum's way as spotters. It often made the difference of a full stomach at the end of the day or not. He also included them in some of his own ventures, some of which weren't so hare-brained. He was a prickly fool but usually paid what he said he would.

They walked on for a while in silence, both scanning the streets. It was after midday now but the sun was still clear in the sky, the heat bearing down on them both.

The boys patrolled the streets for the rest of the day, looking for opportunity, but outside of one failed attempt by Calum to cut a purse, they found none. Disheartened, they returned home, buying a stale meat pie each from a vender on the way with the last of their coin.

******

They lived in a one room flat on the second floor of an old dilapidated building in the middle of District 4.

The slums surrounding the outer city of Teruel were categorised into four districts based on the positions of the Great Roads and the river. Liam had lived all of his life in District 4. Calum claimed that he had been inside the outer city once but few of his fellows had ever left the place of their birth.

The area of the district they lived in was called Ratville. It was known as such because it was filled with those referred to as slum rats. Orphans, homeless, addicts, half-starved families, whores too old and spent to whore any longer; in short, the poorest of the slums.

Their street, like all the others in the area, was filled with shabby two-storey buildings that were more often made from wood than brick. The junkies and homeless and those who couldn't afford the meagre rent were often thrown out of a flat by the landlord. They would wander around on the streets until they could find another empty building to stay. They would remain there for a while until they were cleared out once more and the cycle continued. Like rats, they found the empty buildings, and once one got in, more would follow before long.

There was little in the form of commerce or entertainment in Ratville; unless watching junkies fight over a stale piece of bread counted for entertainment. Sometimes it did.

Liam used to play with some of the kids from the poor families when he was younger but stopped the practice as he saw too many die, become too weak to play or get run out of the place. Now he ignored their shouts, much as the rest of the orphans did.

There were various orphan families in the area. Mostly they stayed in flats owned by the matis. The matis was willing to accommodate this so long as the orphans remembered who they were answerable to.

Liam's own group he had known most of his life. They grew up in the same school of Levitas and had all run away from it within a few years of each other. The various groups such as his were known as orphan families for that reason.

It was late when Liam and Calum went back to their flat. They shared it with eight others, two of whom were girls. The front door had to be shoved in roughly, the timber having warped and expanded over time. Inside the door was a small hall, with a door to the right that was permanently locked and a stairway up to the second floor where the boys stayed.

Liam and Calum avoided the missing wooden slats on the stairs out of habit now, climbing to the top, the timber creaking as they went. The room they entered was rectangular in shape with three windows, two facing out to the front of the street and one at the back of the room, facing into a narrow alleyway and the back of another row of flats. The windows were bare holes, sporting no glass, but were boarded up with wooden slats nailed against the wall, some of which had been torn from the stairs. The slats helped to keep out the worst of the rain, sleet and snow in the winter time but were roughly nailed on, allowing light and cold air in. However, in the summer this posed no problem.

Five of the boys were playing knives in the corner opposite the stairs. Some of them looked up as he and Calum entered and offered a greeting. Darren, Erinin, Deaglan, Ultan and Bradan were all there, Cid the only one missing. Deaglan and Calum were of an age and the oldest staying in the flat, both close to fourteen years. None of the boys knew their age accurately and so gave close approximations, often exaggerating.

In the other corner were the two girls that stayed with them. They were both around ten and sat quietly, playing a game and whispering to each other.

Blankets and less valuable belongings lay sprawled across the floor of the room. Everyone had their own place where they slept each night and there were even a few wooden pallets, but to look at, the place was simply a mess.

"Who's winning?" Liam asked as they joined the boys. There were a collection of half klats on the ground. It was the lowest form of currency in Teruel, small half-moon-shaped copper coins. It was all the boys could afford to bet with. They had rules regarding the maximum bet.

"Deaglan," replied Darren. "Damn near took his toe off!"

Deaglan grinned. "No-one's beating me tonight!" he said. The game involved dropping a knife from shoulder height into a split in the wooden panelling of the floor, where it would stick if dropped accurately. The boy dropping the knife had to hold his foot along the split of the timber. The person to get the knife stuck closest to their own toes without moving their foot won. They had a piece of string they used to measure the distance.

They all had to use the same knife, so a different one was nominated every day they played. All of the boys had their own knives that they carried around with them. It was the one essential tool of a slum rat. Today they played with Deaglan's own.

It was Bradan's go next. He had only been living with them for a couple of years and was the youngest among the boys. He had come to live with them because Cid was his older brother. They got on well.

His hand shook slightly as he held the knife above the boards, his bare foot outstretched before him. Bradan had never won, and Liam sometimes felt bad for the boy, having to lose a half klat every time they played. Either that or face the ridicule of being too scared to play.

He dropped the knife, but his shaky hand had turned the hilt slightly as it left his fingers. The knife angled, missing the crack in the floorboards. It rattled against the ground, bouncing back towards Bradan's foot. He gave a yelp and jumped backwards to general laughter from the boys.

"Yelling like a scared spud!" Deaglan laughed. He was the cruellest of the boys in the flat, often finding animals to torture when he was not tormenting those weaker than him. He hated Calum above all, mostly, Liam guessed, for the fact that Calum held standing above him. Few who knew Calum dared to get into a fight with him, especially after the story of how he got his scar became known.

"Alright, who's next?" asked Erinin. They all looked at each other.

"Me," said Ultan, stepping over to pick up the knife, roughly shoving Bradan out of his way while doing so. He stood over the crack in the floor and held the knife out for a few moments, taking aim. His fingers released, breaking from the hilt at the same time. The knife fell true and wedged into the floorboards two inches from his foot. An average drop. Ultan cursed and moved aside, the string not needed.

Liam stepped up next. He plied the knife free and placed his foot just before where it landed the last time. He felt his heart's pace pick up as he tried to judge the distances with his eye. He gripped the knife just out in front of him, clasped between his forefinger and thumb. His leg was extended, foot placed on the floor. He drew his eye along the blade of the knife all the way to the floor, to just before his foot. He tried to force his body to do the thinking. After so many games it had become almost instinct to the boys but with their improved skill the margins had dropped as well.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, stopping with half a breath still in his lungs. He held that moment of stillness, quietly, for a moment, and released the knife. It was vital to let the knife almost slip free, the forefinger and thumb moving simultaneously a fraction apart.

The knife plummeted to the floor. Liam couldn't help but grimace as he watched it fall, bracing himself. It hit the gap with a thump. Liam blew out a breath, beginning to breathe again, calming his fiercely beating heart. His foot lay still, an inch from the knife. It was close. Darren brought out the string, measuring from Liam's big toe to the knife.

The string had been marked precisely along its side with ink that had been found by Darren in a small cup a year ago. The marks were evenly spaced and as close as could be made without distorting each other. Since Darren was the inventor of the string, he was always charged with the duty of official measurer.

"Six," Darren shouted and Deaglan cheered.

"Fuck!" said Liam, jumping away in frustration. Deaglan's had been five notches. Calum stood up next as Liam moved aside. He had a determined look on his face. Liam knew that look. They had had poor takings today and Calum would want to make up for it a little by winning the game. It would only be seven half klats but would be enough for most of a meal tomorrow.

He took position. His eyebrows narrowed into a frown as he held the dagger in front of him. He visibly steadied for a moment and released. The dagger plummeted down and hit the gap, sinking in an inch. The handle vibrated softly for a moment before becoming still.

Darren whistled softly as he bent down to measure the drop.

"Two notches!" he shouted with laughter and the boys joined in, guffawing and whistling at the closeness of it. Liam let out a yell of delight, jumping in the air with his arm upraised. He turned his smiling face to Deaglan and saw his look returned with hate.

"Suppose you'll be sharing that with loverboy!" Deaglan said, looking across to Calum, anger in his eyes. Calum was smiling now and clasped hands with Liam as he got a pat on his back from Darren.

"But not with you, Deg!" he replied, grinning across at Deaglan evilly. Their eyes met for a moment, Deaglan making fists. Liam watched him with bemusement, knowing that he was afraid of Calum and would not dare face up to him.

The momentary tension was broken as Cid appeared up the stairs, grinning broadly. He wore a wide brimmed straw hat and waddled over to the group with the exaggerated gait of a farmer. He threw a few nervous glances to either side as he approached them and the whole group burst out laughing, Darren bending double.

"What's going on here, chaps?" he asked, drawing more laughs as he stood bowlegged in front of them with hands on hips.

"Mister Spud himself!" Liam exclaimed.

"Mister Spud," Darren repeated, hooting with laughter. Deaglan was the only one who still held a sour expression. He turned and walked away, sitting down on his bedroll and rustling through his things.

******

Liam woke up the next morning at the first rays of light through the shuttered window above him. Immediately he felt a tingle in his throat and started to cough. He looked around the room from his position on the floor. He slept closest to the stairs with Calum nearest him on his right. Calum was already up and nowhere to be seen. Darren was the only other boy there, sitting up against the wall a few bedrolls to Liam's right.

He sat up, coughed again and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It took a few hours every morning to clear up his cough. The room was old, dirty and dusty, and each new morning was greeted with the coughing of the boys.

Ultan arrived up the stairs carrying the dung bucket and the bowl of water used for it. He lay them down in their corner behind the stairs and walked back out, nodding to Liam and Darren on the way. Feeling the need to relieve his bowels, Liam walked over to the bucket. Pulling down his loincloth, he lifted his tunic and squatted over the bucket.

He sighed with relief as his bowels emptied noisily.

Darren chuckled in the corner. "Ye goin' for a good one today, Liam!"

Liam laughed. "Yip," he replied, still squatting.

Darren held a broken leather sandal in his hands, leaning over it in concentration. One of the straps had come loose, and he was trying to cut a new hole at both sides of the base to pull the strap through tightly.

"Where'd you get that, Dar?" Liam asked.

"Found it in the gutter yesterday, some fool just threw it out." He looked up at Liam with a grin. "Figure all I need now is to find another one!"

Liam laughed. "You goin' to see yer ma today?" he asked, regretting his words as he saw Darren's face drop, turning his attention back down to the sandal.

"Me ma's dead," he said after a moment, "died last week."

Liam was in the middle of cleaning his ass with the water from the wooden bowl. He stopped. _Fuck._ He quickly finished and got up, pulling up his loincloth and let his tunic drop back down to his knees.

"Sorry, Dar," he said quietly. Darren continued on with what he was doing, saying nothing. His mother had been a whore working a few streets down. She was a drug addict and past the stage where any sane man would pay for her. She had never been able to take care of Darren, and so when he was still a babe she had dropped him off at the school of Levitas where they had all grown up. She used to come and visit him every now and again, normally after she had gotten fixed up and was in a happy haze.

She had never done anything for Darren but since they'd been out of the school he had gone over to visit her every now and again.

Liam sighed quietly, his good humour evaporated. He picked up the bucket and bowl, bringing the contents down the stairs.

He liked Dar, he was quick to laugh and normally in good humour. There wasn't much badness in him.

At the bottom of the stairs, he had to put the bucket down for a moment to pull the exterior door open. Walking outside into the daylight, he saw Calum playing with a couple of the kids from across the street. He carried the bucket a few yards down the street and threw the contents into the pit that lay at the end of every street. The gutters along the sides of each street were designed to flow into these pits, which were five to six feet deep, though the reality was they rarely did, unless with the help of heavy rain.

The rains couldn't come soon enough. Even with the dung collectors coming by every week to clear up all the shit and piss in the pits for use in the royal gardens, it was accumulating.

Outside the door leading up to the flat there was an old wooden barrel, half broken around the top, which still managed to collect the rainwater from the flow off from the roof. The water level was getting low. Liam half-filled the wooden bowl, throwing the water into the bucket to give it a small rinse out before bringing it back up. He filled the bowl again and went back up the stairs.

Darren was where he had left him, still trying to fix the leather sandal. Liam put the bucket and bowl back and stood for a moment looking at him before returning outside.

It was another bright and sunny day. He walked across to Calum.

"You ready to go?" Liam asked. Calum nodded and got up, saying goodbye to the kids as they walked off.

"You know Darren's mother died?" Liam asked him.

Calum nodded again. "Found out yesterday. She was sick a time, I think," he said.

"He okay?" Liam asked. Calum looked over and shrugged. _He had little choice_.

They walked to the end of their street and took a right which led them down to Badgers Burrow. This was a small square at the intersection of three streets just outside Ratville. There were some vendors here selling food. Liam nodded as he caught one of their eyes. They had an unspoken agreement here. The boys wouldn't try to steal or scam their stalls and the vendors would sell them food at a fair price as a result. "Don't shit where you eat" as Darren's ma used to say. Advice she rarely took herself, Liam guessed.

Their destination was the market that stemmed off the Great Road to Keisland and Sanhar. The road was a major trading route that went all the way into the city centre. It was made of stone and wide enough for two large horse-drawn wagons to pass abreast. They said the stone road extended all the way to the city of Darwin over a thousand miles away.

The traffic from the road helped to both supply the market and offer it custom. The packed street was generally a good place for thieving but was close to an hour's walk from the flat.

As they walked through the streets on their way to the market, they spotted, almost as one, a guardsman from the inner city. It wasn't a rare thing for a guardsman to venture out into the slums for some cheap entertainment. He walked in the same direction as them, about a hundred yards up the road. The boys smiled at one another.

From the man's gait, it looked as though he hadn't been to bed yet. His walk was a familiar drunken dance from side to side, more steps taken to keep his balance than to bring him towards his destination. His hand flicked up occasionally to hold the side of his head. Liam could almost hear his groans as he went.

The boys looked at one another, an unspoken question passing between them.

"You go," said Calum. "I'm getting a bit old to pull it off anymore."

Liam laughed. "Too old to be a wide-eyed bumpkin that never saw a sword before? Hardly!"

Calum shoved him with a grin on his face. They watched for a moment to see if the guardsman would take a turn at the end of the street and were forced to stop a while as he tried to make that decision himself. He held a hand to his head as he looked left and right at the crossroads, trying to get his bearings as he swayed unsteadily.

The boys laughed as one as he chose the wrong way, taking the street to his left.

"Right, don't be dawdling," Liam said to Calum as he darted up a back alley.

The two boys knew the neighbourhood like the back of their hands and Liam twisted and turned through the alleyways without hesitation. It wasn't long before he was peeking around a corner, looking back down the street that the guardsman had taken.

The man had made little progress, and Liam had to wait for a few moments for him to catch up. He looked further down the street beyond the man and could see Calum prowling behind him. His stride was one of a boy at ease and he looked nonchalantly from side to side, paying little attention to the man in front of him. He caught Liam's eye and nodded his head.

Liam waited a second longer, then slipped out onto the street. He walked a couple of steps looking at the ground, seemingly as glum as the guardsman. He looked up then and appeared to notice the guardsman for the first time. His face lit up and he ran over to the man.

"Hey, hey, you a guardsman?" Liam let his voice go as high-pitched as he dared, trying to seem as young as possible. The guardsman looked at him through blurry eyes, frowning.

"What do you want?" he asked with a hoarse voice.

"You really from the city, ya? What's it like working at the gate?" Liam asked, keeping pace with the man all the time. Calum was now just a step behind him. "Is that a real sword?" he said and reached to grab his sword. The man yelled and threw a backhanded fist at Liam, but Liam hopped out of its path easily.

Calum used that moment to strike.

The purse at the man's waist was double tied, sitting in a leather holster designed for this purpose and tied to the belt he wore as well. It only took Calum moments to unbutton the holster and cut the string holding the purse to the man's belt with his knife. Once the purse was in hand, he turned sharply and strolled quickly but casually in the other direction, towards the open alleyway that Liam had earlier appeared from.

Liam continued the distraction, giving Calum time to get away.

"Come on, what's the problem? I never seen a sword before!"

"You'll see its blade soon enough, boy, if you don't fuck off!" The guardsman growled at him, offering a dangerous look. Liam looked disconsolate but resigned.

"Only wanted a look," he muttered as he turned and walked away from the man. They had reached an intersection in the street and Liam turned right as the man continued on straight, oblivious to the missing purse at his side.

Once he was out of sight, Liam darted into the nearest alleyway and worked his way through the back alleys, putting distance between the man and himself.

After about ten minutes he found his way back to the original street they were on and found Calum sitting against a wall waiting for him. Liam smiled as he walked up to Calum.

"What's it look like?" he asked. Calum gave a so-so look and handed him the purse. Looking inside, Liam could see there were three copper half klats and four full ones. An average take. There was rarely more at the end of a heavy night boozing and whoring.

They split the takings, Calum taking the extra half klat. The next one would be Liam's.

Many of the slum boys wouldn't trust each other with the purse and so tried to work similar jobs on their own, but they were fools. Liam and Calum's takings on any given day were twice that which they would get on their own. Once they spotted a target, they normally succeeded in getting the prize. The plays were simple and repeated often, but they worked. There was no need for embellishment.

Liam's trust in Calum was absolute. He would have starved to death years before had it not been for him.

They spent the rest of the day in and out of the market. Calum managed to slit another purse while Liam filched a couple of dried-up apples from a stall and a meat pie. All in all, it was a good day's work.

It was late in the evening when they called it a day and walked to the public well. It was set at the end of the market where the road forked in two. As always, there was a long queue, and the boys were forced to join it.

The market workers were in constant flow to and from the well during the day, collecting water in great big pots. They used it to flavour with lemon and sell to customers in off the Great Road, or to fill barrels that they heated with stones to keep the food in their stall warm. There were even laundry women collecting the water to wash out their clothes.

The well itself was a large round wall in the ground that stood at waist height, made from stone and about six feet in diameter. There was a large bucket tied to the end of a rope that was lowered into the well and raised again by the use of a round iron pulley. It coiled and collected the rope along its rim as it was turned. It was a deep well, and it took several seconds to lower the bucket down. The bucket was weighed on the inside with stone and clay so that it would drop effectively into the waters. However, it then required tough work to draw it back up.

When it finally became their turn, the boys dropped the bucket down and drew a full load up. They drank from the rim of the bucket, the water splashing over the sides of their mouths, drenching their tunics. When their stomachs were full with water, they took turns in dumping the rest of it over their heads. Liam smiled, relishing the cooling down as his tunic got soaked. He rubbed some of the grit from his face and drew his hands through his hair, wringing out the excess water.

"I was thinking," Calum said after he had rinsed his hair out, "that we should head down to Tanya's, see if they have any leftover liquor that they might give us. Celebrate our takings." Liam's eyes lit up. He had only been drunk twice before and had loved the feeling of happy freedom that accompanied it.

"Let's go!" he said. Calum smiled. "You think there's any chance she'll have some for us?"

"There might be. I called over last week and she promised me they would keep me some if I came back again this week." Tanya's was a whorehouse not far from Sally's tavern. Calum's mother had worked there before she died when Calum was four. He had been brought up there until then but afterwards had to leave because there was no one to mind him. That's how he found himself in the school of Levitas with the rest of them.

However, Calum had kept in touch with them. Tanya herself had visited him a few times at the school until the priests had learned of her profession and ran her out. Since they had left, Calum had called over every now and again.

Some of the older whores still remembered him as a babe and sometimes kept some liquor or other treats for him when he called over. The last time Liam had gotten drunk was from liquor taken from Tanya's.

"Better go so!" Liam said. It was half an hour's walk to Tanya's. The sun had started to dip in the sky and by Liam's guess it would be dark in less than two hours.

******

The whorehouse stood at a curve in the road of Dame Lane. On the outside it looked like a normal tavern except that the brickwork was painted a dark red. The paint was peeling free in places but still gave an exotic appeal when surrounded by the dirty greys to either side. The front door was locked as it often was, but down the alleyway to the side of the brothel was another door.

Calum knocked and the boys waited to be admitted. A moment later, the door opened a fraction to a painted face. She was old and wrinkly.

"Calum!" she smiled, opening the door wider.

"Hello, Miss Lana," he said, and she laughed. Calum had told Liam earlier that she loved it when he called her that.

"Miss Lana! Look at you! And you brought Liam!" She smiled, looking at Liam. She gave him a wink and asked, "Come to pop your cherry, have you?"

Liam blushed. "No," he blurted out, suddenly unable to think of anything to say.

"Really, no interest? Do you prefer boys? Is that it?" she asked, pursing her lips.

"No," Liam blurted again and stood there. He could feel his face burning red as Lana let out a burst of laughter.

"Well, come on in," she said, smiling and stepping aside. Liam followed Calum in the door. He was amazed at what he saw. The windows in the room were shuttered closed and draped in dark red curtains. Two similar curtains hung from ceiling to floor about five meters in front of him. The first was draped from the left wall to slightly beyond the centre of the room, while the second, a few feet behind the first, extended from the right wall to inside and past where the first one stopped, creating a short tunnel, into what Liam didn't know.

The only light in the room came from four lamps that burned on both walls to either side of Liam. The room, or what Liam could see of it, was quite large. To the right of the door that Liam entered was a counter as high as his shoulder where incense burned, and to the left were two couches, made from red cloth, that were arranged perpendicular to each other at the corner of the room.

The smell of incense was strong, creating a mystical air as shadows from the lamplight played across the curtains. Liam was unable to quell the building excitement in his stomach and a stirring below as he wondered at what lay beyond the red veil laid out before him.

"Sit, sit!" said Lana, gesturing over to the couches. Liam sat down gratefully on the nearest one, Calum taking the place next to him. Lana stood in front of their couch with her hands on her hips and looked down at them, her eyes moving from one to the other.

Her face was powdered white with red blush on each cheek and red lipstick. Her eyebrows were almost plucked clear and accentuated by black eyeliner. Her eyelashes were long and black, and she had a net over her short cropped hair. She wore an ankle-length red gown that seemed to be made of many layers. Sleeves extended past her elbows but were slit to form lace that draped past her hands.

Liam's eyes flittered about the room, marvelling at the effect. Everything seemed to be bathed in a soft red glow, Lana's powdered face the only thing to stand out, slightly surreal in the dim lighting.

"So, Calum, here to see Layla again?" she asked suddenly with a smile. "I'm not surprised she has you coming back for more! She's one of our best." She turned briskly around and walked up to the curtain in front of them, pulling it over and peering in behind at the other side.

"No ..." said Calum, his blush hidden in the gloom, but he couldn't get any more words out as Lana let out a yell.

"Layla! Guess who it is? Loverboy has come back for more!" She looked back at Calum as she said it, offering him a wink. Calum smiled back at her, fidgeting with his hands. Liam could see the sides of Lana's mouth twitch upwards at the sight.

"Loverboy?" came a high-pitched voice from the other room.

Liam watched as a shadow darkened its way across the cloth of the curtain. It seemed to move with practiced slowness. He could hear the soft tread of footsteps and even caught a glimpse of slippered feet as it passed. He felt his pulse race as he watched, entranced. Lana took a step back from the opening as the shadow neared. He noticed her head turn to face the boys once more and got the sense that she was studying their reactions to everything taking place in the room.

Finally, the shadow reached the curtain's edge, and a pretty face popped out from behind it. She scanned the room for a moment, her gaze falling to rest on Calum's face. Her eyes sparkled with recognition, and Liam found himself looking over at Calum and seeing his face widen into a smile.

"Calum!" Layla exclaimed and came out from around the curtain. Liam was glad of the dimmed lighting as he felt his face blush crimson. Layla had much less on than Lana. She wore a light, voluminous sleeveless gown that ended above her knees. Underneath, she only wore a bra and black underwear with little patterns cut out of the cloth along her thighs and midriff. Her stomach and legs were bare.

Her large breasts were propped out in front of her, the gown hanging loosely down off them. Liam could see her nipples pressing through the cloth and shifted uncomfortably. He looked up and caught Lana watching him and knew she had noticed the gesture. He looked away again quickly, embarrassed.

His heart pounded in his chest as Layla swept over to sit on the hand rest beside Calum. She laid a hand on his head, running her fingers through his hair, and Liam could see Calum shifting in a similar way to him.

"Have you come back for another tumble?" she asked him sweetly. Liam couldn't help but notice how her breasts touched lightly against Calum's face again and again as she talked and found himself wishing he could trade places with him. "I knew you had more left in you after the last time!"

Liam's eyes went wide. Calum had told him how he had rode one of the girls in Lana's, how sexy she was and how her tits were huge. Liam had listened intently, hanging on every word. Even so, he had harboured some doubt that Calum was making it all up or at least exaggerating the truth. Now he knew it was true.

"I dono ..." said Calum, unsure. "Maybe."

Layla smiled brightly. "Really!" she chimed. "You'll have to pay this time, though." At that Calum's face dropped, and Layla laughed. She swooped up and swayed to the red curtain, her buttocks bouncing as her hips swished from side to side. Liam was embarrassed to look but couldn't tear his eyes away from her.

"Liam!" Lana suddenly exclaimed and he jumped, shooting his eyes away from Layla's rear, caught in the act. Lana hooted with laughter while Liam fidgeted, unsure of what to do.

"Sorry," he managed to say, almost a whimper. Layla gave him a momentary glance as she turned and looked back to Calum mischievously.

"Don't worry," she said to him. "Come back again when you have the coin and I'll be glad to welcome you back to my bed. I'll even give you a discount!" Her eyes seemed to speak of her lust for Calum's company before she turned to Lana. They shared a quick whispered conversation before she disappeared behind the curtain once more. Liam followed her shadow as it faded from view.

"Okay, boys!" Lana clapped her hands. "Business is about to start soon and I can't have you two loitering around here when the customers come." She eyed Calum for a moment.

"Since you haven't come here to see Layla," she continued, "I'm guessing you came over for what I promised you last week." She turned and went behind the counter in the corner, ducking down below it. She straightened up again with a half-empty bottle in her hand.

"This what you want?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Calum said. He went to stand up and stopped. Re-adjusting his tunic he tried again and walked over to the counter. Liam got up and followed him, hands strategically held together in front of his crotch.

As Calum reached to take the bottle, Lana pulled it back a little, holding onto it for a moment.

"This is strong stuff now, Calum! You be careful with it and don't go drinking it all on your own. Share it with Liam," she looked over at him as she said it, "although I doubt he'll need the perking up!"

Calum laughed, taking the bottle. "Will do. Thanks, Miss Lana," he said.

"Be sure to call over again now, won't you, dearie? Don't lose touch, there might even be more of where that came from," she said, nodding towards the bottle. She seemed genuine as she said it.

Calum promised that he'd be back again next week.

"And no more of this Miss Lana business! You're a boy no longer. Now go on, be gone." Lana ushered them out the door and they both walked out, happy with their prize. Liam shouted a goodbye as the door closed behind them.

******

Once outside Lana's, the boys set off for an abandoned building they had discovered at the outskirts of Ratville a week before. It was one of many collapsed buildings in the slums, where the inhabitants had either died beneath the brick and wooden beams or had abandoned their previous home in search of something still standing.

Calum took a swig from the bottle on their way, grimacing as he swallowed the murky liquid. He passed the bottle to Liam.

"What is it?" he asked, taking the bottle and putting it to his lips. The liquid burned his throat on the way down and he was left gasping. Calum laughed.

"Satti," he said. "I think. The matis brew it in big baths all around the place, but Lana told me the Kruls came up with it."

Liam passed the bottle back to Calum. "So that was the girl," he said, smiling.

"Yeah," Calum smirked back. "Nice, isn't she?"

"I thought I was goina blow in my pants. Her tits were huge!" Liam exclaimed and Calum laughed. In reality, Liam had never blown in his pants or ejaculated in any form at all. Sometimes at night he would hear some of the other boys wanking and had given it a go a few times himself but as of yet had had no luck. He was determined to do it soon though.

Calum suddenly held out a hand to his chest, stopping him mid-stride. He looked ahead of them and cursed. Ten yards up the alleyway they had turned onto were two older boys huddled together in conversation. They looked up at the sound of the boys' approach. Liam gritted his teeth, annoyed at the lack of attention they had been paying to the streets.

The alleyways and streets of the slums were always fraught with risk, and the boys were instantly on edge. It was always better to avoid those stronger than you when possible, and if Liam and Calum had been looking ahead they might have escaped unnoticed.

The boys in front of them were more young men than boys, both a few inches taller than Calum. They were slight of build and rangy.

There was a moment of silence and stillness as both parties looked at each other. Then one of the men seemed to take in what Calum was holding in his hand.

"Havin' a drink, lads?" he asked. "Sur do ye wanna come on over here and share it with us?" His friend laughed.

Liam and Calum didn't waste any time in conversation. They had been here before and knew the story. Liam turned slightly to Calum.

"We take 'em around the corner we just came from?" he muttered. Calum took a moment to think, then nodded. "I'll go down, you wait." Calum nodded again.

Over the last few years the boys had often run through scenarios with each other. Forming up ways of fighting back, stealing, escaping and scamming. They had enjoyed the thoughts of glory that they entertained, but it wasn't long before they realised the validity of such exercises. Acting together they could work.

Every time they had gotten caught out and had to take a beating, any time they had miss-stepped, they had talked over all of the mistakes they had made and worked on everything they should have done, so that if it ever happened again, they would be prepared.

They had a strong partnership worked out. Each knew and understood the other person and could predict how they would act in any given situation. This cohesion gave them an advantage well needed against the extra size and strength of older boys and men.

The decision made, they delayed no longer. Both turned in an instant and ran back down the alleyway. Liam heard a yell from the assailants behind them, no doubt a little surprised at their sudden flight. He turned at the corner, close on the heels of Calum, and risked a glance backwards as he did. Sure enough, the two men were setting off in pursuit, but Liam and Calum weren't planning on giving them a chase.

Once around the corner, Liam sank down to his heels and pressed himself against the wall just inside the alleyway. He swiftly pulled the knife out of his pocket and sat deathly still, waiting for the men to come flying around the corner. The sun was only an hour from setting and the alleyway was murky in shadow. He bunched his muscles, ready to pounce.

Calum stopped about ten yards further down, gripping his knife in one hand and the bottle in the other as he turned to face the way he had come.

A moment later, the two men burst around the corner, giving chase, fully expecting Liam and Calum to be making haste in their escape.

Liam dashed out, quick as a cat, and sank his knife into the thigh of the nearest runner. He kept a firm grip on the knife as it sliced across bone, pulling it back towards him, making sure that he didn't lose his dagger with the falling man. It was a quick and accurate thrust, in and out in a second. The man went down screaming. Blood flicked across the pathway.

The other jumped away in shock, falling to a stop a couple of yards from Calum. Liam didn't wait, darting towards him. As he turned to face the threat of Liam, fumbling for the knife he had strapped to his waist, Calum jumped forward from behind.

He came in low, keeping himself out of reach, and sank his own blade into the man's calf. The man screamed in pain like his compatriot and fell to one knee. Turning his back to the wall behind him, he finally managed to grasp his dagger and slashed out wildly twice in the direction of both boys, but they were well out of reach now. They both took a few steps back, keeping their distance from the men.

Blood spurted in quick jettisons from the first man as he held his thigh between his hands, trying to stem the bleeding with his sleeve. The second's wound was less serious; he glared about him with eyes wide in panic, one hand firmly on his knife, the other, staining red, held to his calf.

Liam looked at Calum, meeting his eyes. They nodded as one and turned, running away in different directions, leaving both men holding wounds on the ground between them. Liam knew they wouldn't follow now, wounded and stunned at what had happened to them. They had never expected such an unannounced and swift attack.

When Liam and Calum had to leave in different directions such as this, they had decided that they would always meet at the nearest intersection of the two streets closest to them.

As Liam came out from the alleyway onto a street he turned left, as Calum would have turned right. They met each other at the corner and laughed, clasping hands.

"Come on!" said Calum, raising the bottle. "We need to celebrate after that!" They both laughed.

They jogged along until they were at the edge of Ratville, finding the collapsed and abandoned building they had noticed a week beforehand.

Liam wondered idly if there were still bodies buried beneath the rubble. They climbed past the heap at the front and walked over what used to be a wall to a door in the corner of what was now a ceiling-less room. The wood of the door scraped over stone and dust as Liam dragged it open. He was just able to make an opening large enough for the two of them to squeeze past. Inside, as they had discovered before, was an enclosed, half-collapsed room. The ceiling extended just over half-way out where it was met by an inrushing of concrete and rubble.

Liam felt sure the ceiling above him was not secure but paid it no mind as he sat against the rubble in the corner, leaning back on his elbows and spreading his feet out before him. Calum found a large concrete stone and dragged it over to the side of the one good wall, where he sat upon it.

They talked for a time, passing the bottle back and forth. For some reason, Liam started to think about the girls who lived with them in the flat.

"What do you think will happen to the girls? Rai and Aibreann?" asked Liam.

Calum turned the bottle in his hands, staring into its liquid for a time. "What do you think?"

Liam shook his head, looking away. "I'm glad I'm a man."

Calum nodded, handing the bottle to Liam. He took a strong swig.

"We'll probably end up paying for them in a few years," said Calum.

"No," said Liam, shaking his head. "I wouldn't do that."

Calum shrugged. "Some girls just like them so, from the next street maybe." He took the bottle back. "Shit, we'll probably end up being their pimps." Liam looked back to him and sighed. Calum met his eyes for a moment. "There are worse jobs."

"Ya ..." Liam agreed. "How'd it go the other day?" The morning before the meeting with Carrick, Calum had been working for the gang. Looking at Calum's scar, Liam remembered the day he was initiated and repressed a shudder. Liam still had no 'in' with the gang but he knew that once Calum got a foothold within the matis that he wouldn't be long getting him in. At the moment, he mostly did the work with Carrick and himself.

"Just spotting," replied Calum. "Turns out there wasn't much to spot. Got chatting to a girl while I was sittin' around waitin' though. Nice big baps, not as good as Layla's, but I might get a go on them for free tonight if I'm lucky!"

"Really?" asked Liam, jealous. How was Calum finding all of these girls?

"Ya, she said that she was free tonight if I was around. It's a bit of a trek but I figure once I get this into me," he hefted the bottle of satti, "it'll seem like no distance. When I'm there I'll ask her if she has a friend for ye." He grinned. Liam nodded in thought.

"I met a girl yesterday," said Liam, "when I got the bread. It was weird. The baker wasn't around so I just hopped in but I couldn't open the oven door, and then this girl shouted out of nowhere and told me how to do it. Turned out the baker was her uncle or something."

"Ye should go to see her tonight, when I'm off to this Sandra, see if ye can get a grope," Calum suggested.

"Ya!" Liam agreed, reaching for the bottle of satti as his heart began to pound, and taking a big swig.

"That's it! A toast!" cried Calum, lifting the bottle into the air, "to the two of us headin' out to fuck two women all night!" Liam laughed as Calum finished the bottle. He could feel his confidence grow as he stood up.

They both stood and walked back outside. It was just after dark. The slums were lit by moonlight and the occasional flickering of candles inside shuttered windows. There was a gloomy, dangerous air to the slums at night time.

Liam figured that he would have to hurry if he was to make it to the bakery before the whole street shut up for the night. He bade farewell to Calum and broke into a slightly unsteady jog. He felt a bit tipsy, but not as drunk as he had been the last time.

Indeed, by the time he made it to Baker's Corner the street was by and large closed for business. He eyed the baker's store. The door was closed but there was still light flickering from underneath it. He settled himself on the floor across the street.

He sat a couple of feet from a homeless bum. He spared him only a short glance. The man was wrapped in his old and filthy rags. The temperature was dropping now that the sun had gone in, but it was still late summer and it would remain tepid all night. The bum wouldn't be cold this night. He sniffled and wiped his nose. Liam turned away.

The stink of the street gutters seemed to be growing each day, yet even as it did, Liam's nose adjusted, only noticing it on occasion. Perhaps it was the sight of the bum that led him to realising it at that moment.

Liam noticed three men walking down the street towards them. As they came closer, he recognised them as enforcers, the matis' men, charged with beating up anyone who went against matis rule.

They looked in Liam's direction as they strolled past but Liam only stared back. They spared him but a glance. They wore heavy wooden clubs and large knives at their sides, hanging from their belts. They walked, as one, with aggressive, cocky strides. Apart from them and the occasional bum, the street was empty.

Liam looked back towards the baker's door. Faint candle light still flickered underneath it, suggesting that they were still working inside, perhaps cleaning the room out. Candles did not come cheap and were rarely wasted.

Suddenly, the door opened slightly. Liam sat up and squinted in its direction. His vision seemed slightly unfocused, but he thought he saw a girl's face peeking out.

He was proven right as a second later the door opened wider and a slender girl appeared. She carried a large wooden bucket with a metal handle. She took a step outside and put the bucket down to close the door behind her. She gave a quick glance up and down the street before picking the bucket up once more. She seemed to struggle with the weight of it as she hauled it to the pit at the end of the street.

Liam got up, suddenly a little hesitant. He walked across the road towards her. She looked up as he came close, a challenge on her face. He put up his hands.

"It's only me," he said.

"Who are _you?_ " she asked.

Liam caught himself for a moment stupidly. "Ahh ... from yesterday. I stole the bread. You helped me."

"Oh." She paused for a moment, still holding the bucket up with her hands.

"Amm ... I wanted ... to, ah, say thanks."

"Oh, ah, alright," she said. She seemed to be struggling to hold the bucket up, so Liam hopped over to her.

"Here, I'll take that," he said and reached for the bucket. She pulled it back a little as he did so and stumbled backwards, dropping the bucket on the ground, the contents sloshing over the side. Liam laughed, and she gave him an angry look.

"What's in there?" he asked.

"Everything," she said, wrinkling her nose and rubbing at her dress where some of the liquid splashed.

"I'll take it," he said and lifted the bucket up. It was heavy and seemed to be filled with a lumpy, thick mixture, all dark grey in the dark. He waddled over to the edge of the street with it, trying to pretend that he didn't find it heavy at all. She was forced to follow behind him and he heard her laughing.

"What?" he said, dropping the bucket at the street corner and turning around with a smile.

"Nothing," she said and started laughing again. Then he noticed the swelling around her eye. It was badly bruised.

"What happen'd yer eye?" he asked. She stopped laughing then and raised a hand to touch lightly at the bruise.

"My uncle did it to me," she said.

Liam felt himself get angry. "Why?" he demanded.

She looked at him and seemed to be weighing up her answer. "I ... because I let you steal the bread." She looked apologetic for saying it and then suddenly angry.

Liam was taken aback. "Why did you help me?" The question popped out. It was something he had been wondering about for the last two days. It seemed so strange to him. No one had ever _helped_ him steal from them before.

She seemed to be cross at him but only shrugged.

"Are you going to empty the bucket too?" she asked after a moment, pointing to it.

"Ya." He turned and grabbed the bucket at the top and bottom, intending to lift it up and turn it, dumping it's contents into the pit in one smooth movement. He heaved and lifted the bucket, turning it at the same time. As he turned it, the weight shifted, pulling him along after it. He kept a hold of the bucket as he stumbled forwards. Then, at the last moment, as he realised he was going to fall, he dropped the bucket and leaped in desperation for the other side of the pit. The bucket fell into the pit, splashing up its contents.

"Oh for fuck sake!" he shouted as he landed on the other side. She burst out laughing behind him. Liam sat up and looked at her as she bent double. He found himself smiling stupidly.

"Lost me balance," he said, and she started all over again. Liam laughed as well. He looked at her and felt amazed by her. She seemed to be lacking something. That edge that everyone else in the slums had. That hard edge. That bit of anger or resentment. The ... predators' look. The sizing look, to decide if you were a friend or foe, if you were weak for the taking or strong enough to stand up for yourself. She seemed to look at him ... blankly, without judgement.

He suddenly felt full of life and excitement. He was giddy with good feeling. He jumped up on his feet and gave a bow. For once, not feeling as though he needed to be on the defensive.

"What about the bucket?" she pointed, smiling. He looked down at it and grimaced. It lay face down on the pile of waste in the middle of the pit.

"I'll hold your arm so you don't fall in," she laughed.

"Okay." Liam walked over to her side of the pit once more. He stood out on the edge and put out his arm. She grabbed it with both of her hands. Liam relished the touch. He bent down on his knees and reached in for the bucket, feeling her pull against him from the other direction. He grabbed a hold of the lid.

"Okay, pull," Liam said, looking back over his shoulder with a smile. She pulled and he pulled and they went stumbling backwards, tangling their arms around each other as they hit the ground awkwardly.

He could feel her breast press against his back as he lay uncomfortable atop her. Still, he would rather uncomfortably stay there than change position. Her leg was underneath his. He could feel the warmth of her body as she laughed against him. She started to shift and so did he, untangling themselves. Her lips brushed the back of his neck lightly as she moved and he felt the moist heat of her breath.

She put her hands on his back and pushed herself up to a sitting position. It felt as though there were warm dents left where she had pressed. He turned to the side and sat facing her. She smiled back at him.

"That was fun," he said. The bucket lay beside him, turned over on its side. She giggled for a moment as she got up and patted herself down.

"Yes," she agreed.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly as he got up too, the question popping into his head.

"Racquel." She smiled at him. "And yours?"

"Liam," he said and then felt lost for words. Looking at her, he suddenly realised she was beautiful. She had delicate features, as though her face could fracture and break if he squeezed it between his hands. He glanced at the bruise over her left eye and anger, sharp and fast, rose within him. _That bastard!_ He noticed her expression change, a frown creasing her brow, and he realised that his thoughts must have shown. He allowed his features to relax once more.

"I better go back inside," she said, glancing at the door of the baker's.

"Okay," said Liam. "Don't go yet!" he said, changing his mind. Racquel laughed.

"I have to, my uncle will give out."

"He won't hit you, will he?"

"No, I don't think so. I haven't been gone long," she said, walking over to the bucket.

"You wanna ... hang out again?" he asked on the spur of the moment. She looked at him, and suddenly he couldn't understand it. How did she look at him like that, devoid of any suspicion? It was only with her look that he realised the unconscious tension that was in his shoulders from asking the question. The edginess that he always carried didn't seem to fit with her.

"Ya, sure," she said. "I get some free time for an hour or two before it gets dark usually. Me and my friend Alison normally go down to the well around the corner. You wanna come?"

"Ya." He stood dumbfounded for a moment, not sure what else to add.

"Okay," she said, "see ya!" She picked up the bucket and ran over to the baker's door, turning and giving a half wave on the way.

He waved back. _Racquel,_ he thought, as he walked home.

******

Liam woke up the next morning with a groan. Rolling onto his side, he started coughing. His back was sore from how he had slept. He rubbed at his eyes as he lay on his side, giving himself time to wake. He had dreamed of drinking water, but no matter how much he drank he couldn't quench his thirst. He needed to take a piss too. He got up groggily and went over to the latrine bucket. Pulling up his tunic, he let loose. He yawned as he went and had a brief glance about the room. There was no one else there. It must be late. He looked out the shuttered window but all he could tell was that it was bright outside. The sun was shining as usual at this time of year.

Walking back to his bed roll, he looked over at Calum's, next to his. It didn't seem to be disturbed. He wondered if he had been back last night at all. Liam had fallen fast asleep the moment he lay down the night before. He picked up his knife from underneath the pillow, where he kept it each night, and put it into his pocket.

He descended the stairs, opening the door to the bright sunlight outside. He was blinded by it for a moment. Shielding his eyes, he scanned the street around him. There were the usual kids at play and roughly patched together people about their morning chores.

He walked onto the middle of the street and stretched, feeling the dust and grit beneath his toes. His bare feet were toughened from years of walking the streets of Teruel. They held many scars and patches of tough, worn skin.

He searched for the sun and found it glaring back at him, lying just above the buildings to the east. He had slept in. It looked to be just over an hour from noon, when he would be meeting Carrick and his gang. He guessed he'd be meeting Calum there, too.

He smiled as the memory of last night hit him. He felt good.

There was one well in Ratville and, surprisingly, it worked. It was the only thing in the area that didn't seem on the verge of collapse. It was two streets down.

He walked there at his leisure as the wind swirled dust about his feet. He could feel the dryness of the air around him.

There was a queue at the well as he got there, but he didn't have to wait long before he was able to run his head underneath the water of the bucket. The water was warm but refreshing, and he drank it greedily before washing his hands and face in it, scrubbing the dust and dirt from his skin.

He stepped aside to allow a worn-down middle-aged woman use it. She carried a clay pot that she filled up with the water. _I have to get one of those_. He looked about at the people around him. Today he felt immune to the fear that sometimes overtook him when he looked too closely; that he would end up just like them. He was determined not to. They were worn down, beaten up by life. They seemed to continue on living only because they didn't know what else to do. They had no hope, no plans for progression. They just continued on, if anything their situation deteriorating as they grew older, until some horrible disease born of promiscuity or malnutrition brought them to a slow, decaying end.

Liam felt sure, with Calum at his side, that they would break from the cycle of their birth, leave all of this filth behind, progress, improve their lives and prosper. And maybe he could marry someone like Racquel. He smiled.

He left them all behind as he walked the streets, for once allowing himself to consider the future and seeing it brightly. He was strong and so was Calum, they would work their way up through the ranks of the matis, making their own moves, running their own plays, until they had wealth behind them. Then they might even make a move from the slums.

He looked towards the distant city, covered from view by the ramshackle buildings of the slums. Perhaps they would even move inside the walls. He could only guess at the wonders that lay inside the city proper. Clean streets, clean people. A real house.

He made his way to the meeting point earlier than planned and was not surprised to see that he was the first there. He finished eating a meat pie he had bought on the way and sat down to wait.

Calum was the first to arrive. Liam smiled at him as he walked up, wondering what he had been up to the night before and why he hadn't made it back. They only had time for a routine greeting, however, before Liam saw Carrick and his crew walk around the corner to meet them.

Liam shared a glance with Calum, some of his good mood evaporating suddenly as he remembered what a fool's errand this was. He realised how much he disliked Carrick as he swaggered over to them as if he was the matis king.

"Alright, lads, ye know what to do, so let's go do it," he said.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," said Calum, spitting on the ground.

Carrick looked at him. "What's your problem?"

"That's it, is it, that's the plan?" replied Calum. "Go in there and do it!"

"What the fuck else you want?"

Calum turned away, looking at Liam. "This is fucking stupid."

"You got a fuckin' problem, Calum?" said Carrick. Calum just looked at him. "No? Then shut the fuck up and just get on with it."

Calum shook his head and spat on the ground again. "Alright," he said, turning away. Liam was surprised to see him so angry.

"We'll be waitin' outside, a few yards down the road with these boys here." He hefted a club; they all had one strapped to their waists. "You fish 'em out and send 'em towards the market, we'll get 'em before the end of the street."

"And how the fuck are we meant to do that?" Calum muttered.

Carrick pretended he didn't hear.

They all moved down the street, fanning out to either side. Liam and Calum broke off a little from the rest.

"How come you're so pissed?" asked Liam as they walked side by side. Calum looked over at him and spat for the third time.

"Dono, man, I've been thinkin' about this the last couple of days, and more and more I've been thinkin' how stupid it is. Carrick over there," he nodded his head in his direction, not bothering to cover his anger as Carrick glared back at him, "doesn't have the balls to go back in there himself. So he's sendin' us instead."

Liam frowned beside him.

"I was talkin' to a few people last night," Calum went on, "and this blacksmith is meant to be one mean son of a whore. They said Carrick was a fool to go after him and was lucky to get away with what he got."

Liam felt a small ball of anxiety build within him. He squashed it down as well as he could and tried to think of their options.

"Can we back out of it?" asked Liam.

Calum shook his head. "Carrick won't use us again if we chicken out now. And I'm not in with the gang yet."

They needed the money that working for Carrick brought in. Cutting purses and stealing from venders only brought them so far. If they wanted to get anywhere, they needed to work jobs. Carrick was an idiot and careless, but he was fairly straight with what he said. That was the only reason Liam could think of why he had anyone at all following his lead as opposed to the other way around.

He had said that after another couple of jobs he would bring Calum and Liam in proper, giving them a fair split of the earnings. At the moment, they got less than half what the rest of the crew did. Although Liam knew that a couple might end up meaning five or six, he also knew they would get there eventually with Carrick. He _thought_ he knew anyway.

"Alright," he said, "so how we goin' a do this?"

"Go in and hope for the best," said Calum. "I don't know if his sons are there or not. If they are, we're fucked. Either way, we need to get in and out fast, before he has a chance to call them out from the back or somethin'."

"So we need to go in and try to snatch somethin' quick that will draw 'em out after us." Liam took a deep breath as they approached the smith's. "Why are we doing this in the middle of the day?"

"Because Carrick thinks the smith won't be expectin' anyt'in' in daytime and he wants everyone to see what happens when you cross Carrick Flattop."

Liam almost laughed at the reference to Carrick's nickname.

"We'll go in, we'll have a look. If we can't see anything that could get him outside, we'll leave again and just tell Carrick to fuck off." Even as Calum said it, Liam knew that it would be no easy thing to do. They had to try something at least.

They were only two buildings down from the smithy, towards the end of Caipur Street. It was a busy street close to the market. The carpenter's lay behind the blacksmith's on the street parallel. The street was full of tradesmen. There was a leather worker's, a pottery, a cobbler's and even a stable. The street saw a lot of business coming from the Great Road to Darwin at the far side of the market.

Anything from a wagon needing a new wheel or a horse needing to be re-shod, tools needing to be fixed, weapons sharpened. It was often cheaper and easier for the travellers of the road to get it done here in the slums as opposed to inside the city proper.

The street was mostly filled with common slummers but there were the occasional foreigners, sometimes on their own or sometimes in small groups. A common trait that Liam had noticed about foreigners was that they generally seemed to have a look of disgust and an upturned nose when walking through the slums. It made him both dislike them and wonder about the places they came from.

Liam looked over the street and saw Carrick and his two cronies take position, trying to appear idle as they waited. He looked to Calum and they shared a moment of determination. It was time to focus on the task at hand.

He felt grim as they walked towards the entrance to the smithy.

The smithy was a solid-looking building made completely of stone. Huge wooden doors at the front opened wide, tall enough to let in a horse and wide enough for a wagon. The doors gave the building a very open feel, at odds to what Liam was used to in the slums. It made him uneasy.

Inside was a disorganised mess.

A large, rough-looking wooden table stood on the right-hand side of the room. It was made of thick chunks of wood, practical as opposed to aesthetically pleasing. The table top bore many scars from use over the years, and a large array of tools hung from metal pegs hammered into the wall above it. There must have been a dozen hammers of different shapes and sizes, tongs, metal tools that were similar in appearance to chisels and more that Liam didn't recognise.

The floor was littered with old horse-shoes, nails, pieces of discarded metal and large metal anvils.

A large furnace built from stone stood against the far wall, longer than a man lying flat on the floor. At shoulder height the stonework curved upwards in an arc, meeting from both sides to form a chimney that extended up into the ceiling above. A charcoal fire burned on the stone and metal grill in the centre of the furnace. Off to the left side was a huge wood and leather bellows, propped up on wooden supports, connected to a leather pipe that ran into a hole in the stonework of the furnace and disappeared.

The smith himself stood in front of the forge, shovelling charcoal into the fire from a pile on the floor. A boy a little older than Liam was working the bellows, pumping air up under the fire, driving the flames up in great bursts. His face glistened with sweat as he worked. He showed the beginnings of a muscular bearing from all the hard work. He must have been the smith's apprentice.

Calum and Liam stepped through the doorway and were hit by a blast of heat. Liam immediately saw their target. He breathed in deeply, not knowing whether to be relieved or deflated. There was a gold plated ornamental shield hanging up on the wall to the right of the furnace. It easily looked valuable enough to have the smith chasing their tails. Now, at least, the objective was clear. They just had to swipe the shield and get out of the room with it.

The smith looked up as they walked in. Instantly, his eyes narrowed and he stood up, leaning on the shovel. He was a huge man, wide of shoulder with a barrel chest. He wore a leather jerkin with nothing but his hairy chest underneath. His legs seemed too small for his body.

"What do you fellas want?" he asked. The bellows the apprentice stood beside was at the left of the forge, the smith was directly in front of it and the shield was hanging up on the right of it. It would only take the smith two quick strides to get across to the shield. Liam glanced across at Calum, not needing to speak to him to know he was considering the same things. They would have to pull the smith away from the furnace and towards the front of the room so that one of the boys could get behind him and take the shield from the wall.

The problem then lay in how to get back out with the smith between that person and the door. Liam reluctantly conceded that they would have to use their knives. Calum walked to the right while Liam spread to the left.

"Never seen a forge before," said Calum, trailing his hand along the table at the right side of the room. He stopped and looked at the smith with interest. "How do you make the metal?"

The smith eyed him. "We don't make metal here, boy. I'm surprised you've never seen my forge before. Where do you live, down in Ratville?" His scepticism was plain in his voice.

"Ya," replied Liam. He stood to the far left of the room. "We only heard about your place last week. Normally don't venture this far over, thought we'd come over and have a look." Liam sat on an old anvil. "Funny stool," he remarked.

"That's not a stool, boy. Tommy," said the smith, looking over at his apprentice. "Take a break from the bellows and escort these boys out."

"Well, you've seen the forge now," the smith addressed them, "and you'll be taking your leave. We've got work to do, and I don't have time to be watching over two slum rats!"

Tommy walked over to Liam as he stood up. Suddenly, Liam knew what to do. Things always became obvious once you saw things clearly, without restrictions. Liam gave the shallowest of nods to Calum. Calum took a step away from the table.

Liam waited until Tommy put a hand on him to push him towards the door. The second he did, Liam's fist lashed out, taking Tommy full force on the nose. The boy let out a gasp of shock as he fell to the floor, holding a hand up to his nose. It came away bloody. Violence always worked best when it was unexpected.

"Keep yer fuckin' hands off me," Liam said. He looked up at the smith, who gave a guffaw in disbelieve.

He dropped his shovel. "By Lev," he exclaimed as he plodded towards Liam, his face like thunder, his hands making fists. Calum backed away into the wooden table as though in fear, taking a few sidesteps towards the shield as the smith strode towards Liam.

Liam pulled his knife from his pocket, buying time. The smith pulled up short at that, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"You'd want to put that away, boy!" he growled. Calum was at the shield now, lifting it from the wall. The apprentice sat up. He glanced Calum's way, and Liam cursed quietly.

"Master!" said the apprentice.

"Not now, Tommy," said the smith, his eyes on Liam. He took a step towards him.

"The other's takin the shield!" Calum was a few steps from the wall now.

"What?" said the smith, turning to see Calum with the shield in hand. Calum stood still, trapped but waiting for his moment. The apprentice stood up and pottered towards Calum. The smith glanced at Liam, then took a step towards Calum.

Liam darted in, knife in hand, and stabbed the smith in the ass. The smith let out a yell, threw a backhand at Liam and narrowly missed. Calum made to move but the apprentice jumped in his way. He threw the shield low towards Liam. It bounced along the ground, rolling to him. Liam dashed over to it, grabbing it as Calum and the apprentice grappled.

He looked up to see the smith picking up a large, flat-headed hammer, his face red with rage.

"Leave that there!" he bellowed. The apprentice went down once more with a yell of pain, his hands going to his crotch. The smith glanced back and moved to the centre of the room, trying to watch both Liam and Calum at once, barring Calum's way once more. Liam backed to the door.

The smith looked towards Liam, and Calum sprang forward, but he slipped on charcoal dust on the floor. Liam's eyes darted towards Calum. The smith took in the gesture and lashed out with his huge left arm, hammer in hand, as Calum stumbled.

Things seemed to slow down for Liam. He felt his grip on the shield loosen and heard it hit the ground. The apprentice still groaned on the floor, the fire in the furnace still burned brightly. The smith's muscles rippled as the hammer connected with Calum's stumbling form. The crack as it hit his forehead was sickening. It drove his head backwards as his whole body fell forwards. The hammer seemed to bounce slightly before continuing past Calum's head, his neck bent. His form fell all wrong, too limply, not naturally. It seemed to collapse down on itself to the floor, twisting as it did so.

Then there was stillness, and Liam stared at Calum's lifeless face.

The shield rattled on the floor, spinning in circles as it found its balance.

Everything seemed to have slowed down and stayed the same. Sound and sight seemed to become more distinct and more muffled at the same time, as though he were less involved with it now, as though it had become objective to him, like he was withdrawn from it all, watching as an outsider. His gaze locked on Calum's face, it seemed as though he couldn't look anywhere else. Calum's forehead was caved in, almost at the angle of his nose. His brows were pushed unnaturally backwards. The left eye hung loosely off to the side, dislodged from the socket.

Liam picked up the shield.

Sickness welled up within his stomach, panic and horror overtook him, and he had to physically pull his head away from the scene, turning it, jerking it sharply so that the sight was out of range of his eyes. He stumbled and ran from the smithy, the shield dragging along in his wake, gripped in his right hand. He was distantly aware of Carrick's crew outside the entrance as his legs dragged him away. His ears registered the cries and shouts as they set upon the chasing smith but none of it seemed to reach him.

He stumbled around the corner and made it a few more yards before collapsing on his knees. He brought his arms up, resting on his elbows, shield forgotten somewhere along the way. He threw up violently on the street floor, his mind reeling in horror.

He had seen a cat like that once, its head rolled over by a passing wagon, its eyes and brains split open on the pavement. It didn't seem right, it didn't seem possible, that was Calum. His breathing became laboured, his head falling between his hands, his fringe draping in his own puke.

His chest clenched again and again, hurting his heart. He couldn't see through the tears or breathe through the sobs. He couldn't hear past the thumping of his heart.

He shut his eyes hard against the vision in his head and began to pray frantically to Levitas.

******

"There were no goodbyes. There was no farewell. His light extinguished, with the barest puff of wind, the fire blown out by a savage, careless blow. And He is still there, looking on in shock. He is still living. So He still lives, He still acts. He turns and runs. He cries, He moves on, He feels pain, He sees love. What would have happened to His life without this significant blow? The pain flourished within Him like an ever-budding flower. A living wound that grows larger yet never seems to run out of surface to spread over. There seems unlimited scale to suffering. Unlimited scale."

Writings from "Me, 'The Makings'"
2. Sister

Niisa paused for a moment, setting the head of his axe down against the earth. He looked at the monkey that sat watching him from a tree further along in the forest. She moved on top of her branch in a slightly agitated way, moving her head, dissatisfied, snorting sometimes and grumbling. He often found her following him, tracking his movements, but she never came too close.

He pondered her situation. There was clearly no motive for what she did. There seemed no reason for it and no action that she was likely to take. So why did she follow him? Why did she not let go? It was a disease of the mind, what his parents might call grief; a new thing to Niisa. Before this he had thought that humans were somehow unique in this way, somewhat of an aberration in nature. But then when he considered this, it did seem an unlikely outcome. Why would humans differ from the rest of the creatures of the world in such a way? And yet he was the one that differed from the rest. He was the aberration.

But this discovery posed a new question to him. Did this not mean that grief and such emotions were inherent within Daygo? It was something that held no logic behind it to Niisa. What was the purpose of such things, what use could it be to Daygo, or was Daygo as strangely assorted as the people of his tribe? It was such a vast question that it boggled the mind.

But he continued to ponder it as he twisted a handful of weedgrass around one hand and picked the axe up with the other. He chopped down at the root of the grasses, severing each stem until his hand pulled free. He placed them with the rest and continued until he had as much as he could carry.

Walking back towards the village, he enjoyed the unusual stir in the air of the forest. The gentle breeze created a lightness in the air that was normally lacking. Branches and leaves rustled in the layered canopy overhead where the ceaselessly climbing trees spread wide, overlapped and intersected, blocking the sky and the sun from view. He wondered if above them all the air was clear and the wind strong and the world massive to behold.

His sister Chiko came out to meet him as he reached the outskirts of the village.

"How is the woods, Brother?" she asked, her words always pronounced individually, rising and falling like the playful chirping of the birds.

He looked at her. "The woods are changed every day, but how am I to tell you how?"

"Tell me how you feel it. The woods are the woods."

"There is a breeze."

"Yes, there is!" She jumped beside him. They walked a few steps. She looked at him sideways. "Did Sikkha watch you?" Niisa nodded. Chiko placed her palm between his shoulder blades and rubbed it around in a circle, a gesture of comfort and affection she often gave him.

"Don't worry, Brother," his sister continued. "She will forget."

They passed the first hut of the village, a round dome the colour of the trees and the forest. The huts of the village were a mixture of wood, green sapling, bark, moss and mud all tied together with rope made from the same weedgrass that he held in his hands. They smeared the entrance daily with the juice of the Tulsip flower to keep ants and insects out. The floor was layered with the leather and furs of dead animals to protect them from the bare earth. The forest provided for them in every way.

His tribe had been living in the same village for the past thirteen clan chiefs. Before this, they lived two miles to the northwest, but in the time when the Earth changed, rumbled and moved they were forced to relocate and rebuild their huts. The old village was now a holy place for the Abashabi that many travelled to when they needed to find calm and perspective. Niisa, too, liked to sit amongst the old huts. They were a monument to time, the only tangible proof he had of their history.

It was late in the afternoon, after the hunt and the day's main meal, and the villagers were at their leisure for the rest of the day. Many of the men lounged on the ground or sat propped against the trunk of a tree, not so unlike the black panthers that draped themselves across the upper branches of the forest. Some picked at their teeth with loose pieces of bark, some dozed and others chatted and joked together, and some others had disappeared inside their huts with their wives. The women were much the same yet less obvious in their lounging; many sat propped against their huts, sewing new clothes or mending others, drying sheets of weedgrass, performing a multitude of small chores, but performing them slowly, lazily, almost with more purpose towards prolonging than completing as they chatted to one another. The children napped or played together in groups.

There were only two adolescent boys in the village, but in three days' time Niisa would become the third when his earlobe was filled with a flatstone. For this, his mother felt that he would need a new walothsa, so she had sent him to gather some weedgrass for drying the next day. The one he wore, that covered his loins and looped around one shoulder, was starting to tighten on him.

He heard his parents before he saw them, coming upon them halfway through their conversation.

"... chief suggested he should wait another year," his father was saying.

"He is already a year too old," said his mother, her voice strained.

"Nuru spoke up for him with me. He will be at the hunt."

"So long as he's wearing the flatstone this gathering."

"So long as he ..." His father paused with a hand from his mother as she saw him approach over her husband's shoulder. She smiled.

"How much do you think you have grown?" she asked, indicating the bundle in his hands as she stepped past Dikeledi.

"Better to have too much," said Niisa. "There is plenty in the forest for the village's needs."

She passed a hand over Niisa's as she took the bundle from him. "I'll have to weave it extra thick to make use of it all," she smiled. His father stepped around her and clasped Niisa's ear between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled.

"Feeling strong?" He grinned.

Niisa pulled his fingers clear. "The stone will fit," he said.

"It should, with the size of those lobes," his father laughed. Fumnaya slapped him.

"What about this ear?" Chiko laughed as she tugged his other one with a loose hand.

"Not unless he gets promised at the gathering." Dikeledi reached across and grabbed at Chiko's hand with a look of playful malice. Chiko snatched it away, her feet taking a quick hop with the movement.

"No, no," Fumnaya shook her head. "Far too soon yet. You can spend some more time as your mother's boy. You have years yet to find a promised."

His father smiled at her as he made another quick grab for Chiko, causing her to scream out and dash for safety at the side of the hut. But Niisa noticed a small rise of his eyebrow as he looked back at his wife.

Before he knew it, his father had reached around his shoulder and clasped the skin between his nostrils. "Or perhaps next year he'll be made a man too!" His hand was gone after the barest tug and a wink at Chiko, who squealed with laughter as she pressed against the hut.

His mother smiled. "Will you help me separate the strands, Niisa?" she asked him, freeing a hand and reaching it to his shoulder.

"Okay," he said as she led him to the side of the hut, where she sat down. He chose to sit a step away from her on the bare earth. She dropped the bundle of grass between them and patted the place next to her against the side of the hut.

"Sit down here next to me."

He shook his head. "I don't want to sit against the hut."

She looked up at him, a half smile playing across her lips. "Why not?"

"It will make my back lazy. And then I won't be able to sit without it."

She snorted. "Did I just hear my son call me lazy?"

Niisa said nothing. Taking up a blade of weedgrass, he started to pick at its tip, beginning the slow process of separating each strand of the grass for drying the next day. After a moment, Fumnaya reached out for her own piece with a small shake of her head, chuckling softly to herself as she did.

******

There was another girl in the village getting her ear stone with Niisa, the daughter of his aunt Onye. She was small, with weedy black hair and greenish eyes and a pointed nose not as wide and flat as the rest of them. Her breasts were small and her hips only recently showed some curve to them. She was halfway between woman and child. She wore a wreath of flowers that dangled from underneath her hair, behind her neck.

Her face bunched together in expected pain as the chief stepped up with the heated needle in hand. The drum beat was steady and loud amidst the forest's usual hubbub. The small fire beside the chief and the girl was an oddity, its colour strange amidst the greens, reds, yellows, oranges and browns of the natural forest surrounding it. Birds whistled in the trees, a parrot perched half-hidden in the leaves of a branch behind the chief a small distance away, staring out at the village, its sideways eye taking in the peculiar behaviours of the humans around it. Niisa knew a snake lay curled and hidden somewhere in the bush twenty yards left of the parrot, startled and on edge by the unusual beating of the drum. Animals all around them must be wondering at the noise, as Niisa did at this strange tradition; one of so many strange traditions that he'd never found an answer for. He stood waiting his turn.

The needle pierced through the skin of the lower lobe of Razi's left ear. She squirmed underneath the pressure and pain as it passed deeper through, widening sharply from its thin point. The chief rolled and pressed the needle, creating as large a hole as he dared. Withdrawing the needle, he used it to tap one of the two small, round, black stones from the little fire at his feet. He covered his fingertips with balm before picking it up gently, and with thumbs and forefingers he pushed the stone into the newly formed hole in Razi's ear. She cried as he did it and a cheer rose from the village.

Niisa looked at the stone the size of half a fingernail that now sat snugly in her ear. The flesh around it was red and sore. There was a faint burnt smell. The chief took a finger full more of the cooling paste and smoothed it over the stone and ear both. Niisa looked at Razi's face. Her lip quivered slightly, her eyes were red and watering, but she looked sheepishly around at the smiling faces surrounding her and she smiled in turn.

The chief beckoned Niisa over. The drum beat started again. The crowd hushed and watched, smiling, while some whispered their congratulations to Razi; consoling, welcoming and hugging her with hands and arms.

Niisa turned his mind inwards as the chief went to work and listened to the pain and watched for the strange sensations that passed throughout his body. His eyes remained open but he couldn't say what they saw. He lived within himself, his face flat and expressionless, until the muted cheers brought him back to the outside world. The reaction was different for him; he could sense it in the air. There were some small glances, some questioning looks, a few raised chests as they took slow breaths, but whatever it all was that made them uncomfortable, that made him seem strange to them, it remained under the surface as the village congregated around him as much as Razi, patting his back, squeezing his shoulder, offering congratulations and small jokes about hunting and manhood to him and his parents both. His mother and her sister hugged each other, small tears in their eyes. The drumming had stopped but spontaneously the crowd began to sing and make ululating music from their throats, and soon all were dancing in celebration in the middle of their village in the forest.

******

For some time in his life Niisa had tried to sneak away from the village so that no one would see him wander off on his own. It was a small area, but every action was seen within it. Now, when he wanted to leave, he just did. With some time left in the day, he walked from the village. His ear throbbed, feeling as though it were being pulled apart. The skin around the stone was red and raw, firstly from the incision and then from the burning heat of the stone. The paste helped to soothe the pain but nevertheless it was a constant presence that he knew, from his previous year's experience, would persist for some days. It was not something he had missed upon its subsequent removal the year before.

He walked until the distractions and noises of their little village were beyond his ears and eyes. Then he took a deep breath and sat amongst the leaves and vegetation with legs crossed before him and hands resting, palms down, on his knees. After something close to an hour passed he turned them up to face the sky, or at least the forest that clung to itself above his head. He watched the bark of the trees.

Night had almost fallen when his mother found him. He became aware of her presence before him without really seeing her. She stood with the backs of her hands pressed against her hips, looking down at him for too short a moment before she set about breaking his calm.

"It's nearly dark, Niisa," she said. "You can't be out here, not paying attention to anything, when the night falls. A thousand things could kill you while you sat there. Why do you sit like this? And at the night? If only you returned at a reasonable hour, it would not be so bad."

He slowly turned his head and looked up at her placidly. Feeling no need to answer, he didn't.

"He's here!" she called out, and a little time later his father appeared through the trees. Glancing at Fumnaya, he raised his head in exasperation, appearing to have grown too used to such a scenario to even voice a complaint anymore.

"Come on," he said, pressing his hands underneath Niisa's armpits and lifting him up to his feet. Niisa staggered and almost fell, his legs feeling weak and numb, but his father held on to him and steadied him. He wished they would not disturb his calm as they did. The thought was a fleeting disturbance at the edge of his consciousness that did not quite break into the tranquillity he had achieved within his mind. It was a thought laced with some anger and disquiet. But it was a thought too silly to find purchase, so it floated away again with all the others. How could he blame nature for moving and living, for being as it was? He felt in tune with it all. He felt a deep peace with all of its forms. He knew that Daygo inhabited all, that all stemmed from the same source, that all were a part of the Daygo stream.

What found purchase within him was the consideration that it was him and not them that needed to learn and improve. He needed to learn to achieve and sustain such awareness in every moment of his life, no matter what his environment required of him, so that he need not ever lose the connected state of being that he was able to achieve through stillness, focus and quiet.

He allowed his parents to lead him back into their village and their hut, where he lay down beside his sister. His trance slowly dropped into sleep and dreams.

******

They woke while the forest was still quiet, with the first grey light of dawn crawling through their open doorway. The cabin started to fill with soft groans and the sound of leather and fur creaking beneath shifting, rolling bodies. Niisa found his eyes open to the boar-skin hide beneath him. He looked into it softly for some moments as he found his breathing and felt the small aches in his body that sleep always induced. He waited quietly until his mind came awake with the yearning to stretch and open up into the day. He lifted himself onto knees and elbows. He could see Chiko's open eyes beside him, watching him, waiting until he rose and stepped from the cabin. When he did, he heard her moving to follow.

Outside the hut, he looked into the greyness of the morning and savoured its quiet. The birds still slept up in their trees. The silence was only disturbed by the smallest of breezes, the quiet movement of leaves and branches and some distant rustlings of the creatures of the night still finding their beds. Sometimes in the morning you could hear catcalls or the hooting of a round-owl, or the small screeching and cries of rodents and turret-ferrets. But this morning there was none. He stretched his arms wide and arched his back and felt the soft touch of Chiko's hand trail across his own as she stepped past him.

She gave a small stretch and, with her eyes still half-closed, they clasped hands and began their morning routine. She groaned as they swung and arched their backs, pressing their feet together as levers. Even her groans were high-pitched and musical, as pleasant as the song birds in the forest. She tossed her head lazily, letting it hang loosely behind her as she clasped Niisa's hands. It took little thought or effort. They had built a routine that they performed almost in their sleep.

Since they were children they had stretched together, as early as either could remember, loosening every muscle in their body. They rehearsed and refined their movements without ever having to speak with one another; their bodies themselves were their own form of communication, and every year their morning dance was added to.

When they were finished, his sister hugged him. "Thank you, Brother," she said, her words clipped and individual and with a residual sigh of satisfaction within them.

Their mother placed a hand on them both as she stepped from the hut. She gathered her bowls and baskets of food and filled each with their breakfast; picking nuts, seeds, berries, plants and bark from the small baskets she had filled gathering in the forest the day before, her breasts dangling below her as she worked.

The village stirred to life around them as they ate, and their neighbours called the morning to each other as they rose and left to relieve themselves in the woods. His father soon joined them. Others stood and stretched beside their huts, groaning and speaking quietly.

The forest woke slowly too, quiet rustlings of leaves, branches and feathers, an occasional catcall, early tweeting of birds. But, as with the village, the ruckus steadily grew. The monkeys and every other beast came alive and started to chatter, calling and welcoming the new day in much the same way as the people did. By the time they had finished nibbling on their breakfast, the forest was full of noise and the air was already thick with moisture.

They took their time to tidy up and prepare themselves for the day to come, men and women, children and adolescents skipping through their little village to talk and greet each other in another day. Niisa found a tree to sit beside and watched it all quietly, as he normally did. The chief finally made a shout for the hunt, and the men began to gather. Niisa stood to join them for only the second time, his ear still sore from the new stone inside it.

They met beside the chief's hut, the village's third oldest man using his station to save his legs. Niisa stayed quiet as the usual banter commenced all around him. Bold predictions were met with jokes and reminders, they poked one another and laughed together, they made outlandish bets that would never be claimed, only laughed about the following day again. The chief laughed along from a distance, an arm resting against his hut, an easy smile on his face as he was called in as mediator, as the chronicler of the histories, to settle their exaggerated claims of previous achievements. With a tilt of the head or a leaning of the shoulders he indicated enough to create cries of mirth or indignation, without ever spoiling the fun by reciting the actual, and far less adventurous, truths. Finally, they quietened and got down to business, which was easily done, so practiced was everyone in the village to their daily routine. It was only a matter of picking the place, the route and the plan, with some consideration for the time of year and the observations of the previous days. When all was done, his uncle came over and wrapped an arm around Niisa's shoulders in added friendliness to perhaps disguise the uneasiness that Niisa knew they all still felt for what he had done the previous year.

"Just stay on your toes," he said reassuringly. "There's no need to go off and do anything on your own. You're just here for the journey. Just watch how me and the rest do it. You don't need to take part in anything yourself. It's your first run out, just give it a few weeks." He looked down at him. "Arm's distance, okay?"

Niisa nodded. Nuru clapped him on the shoulder, and together the tribe moved out into the woods.

They took little care for their noise as they set off from the village, but as they neared their end destination, with only a few short hand gestures, their steps became near silent as they spread out to a long line and fell into the bush. In short time Niisa might have been alone in the forest with his uncle, cautiously treading through the underbrush. The occasional rustle of branches to either side was no more than a large bird might make and sounded no different. And only when he stared at where he thought a man must be was he able to spot glimpses of their trek through the forest.

As they came across the burrows of small creatures—birds, squirrels, snakes, capybaras—his uncle's movements grew slow and catlike, his eyes searching as he held his short spear high and poised, ready to fall with lightning accuracy at any sign of escape. As he paused and crawled with spear high, his left hand trailed low along the ground, sometimes gently tapping the earth, or vibrating a leaf, imitating prey, enticing the creature to move from its place of safety. Sometimes as he crouched low and level across the ground, he reversed the roles of his hands, using the handle of the spear to reach out and alter the small environment while his left hand hovered ready to snatch what poked out from the soil.

Every now and again a round of bird whistles came from right and left as the advance paused to wait for each man to regain position within the line. A ready whistle was called and they fell back to their steady pace. Monkeys dangled overhead as they travelled, watching with black, beady eyes, their limbs always seeming loose and lazy. They yawned and scratched and picked at one another, occasionally breaking out into chatter and play. It did not matter so long as they acted as they normally would. No creature had cause to fear a monkey.

Niisa found the whole experience fascinating, and considered regretting his impulsive action the previous year. But he found it hard to do so. The killing of the monkey allowed him to watch it die, and that was a wonderful thing to have beholden. That had been intensely fascinating. A creature that showed similar intelligence and awareness to a human, an animal that perhaps felt a similar isolation from the Daygo stream, which, it seemed to Niisa, smaller creatures did not.

To see an animal die and return to the stream was always something that caught Niisa's attention. And similarly he spent much time pondering the moment of separation, the moment of creation. He had asked on occasion if he could be allowed to watch the women of his tribe giving birth, but he had only been laughed at. They thought him silly and told him it was not something he would want to see in any case. He had often peeked through the doorways of huts but what he had seen was too far removed and abstract for him to gain any great insight into the process.

A sharp whistle from the right brought Niisa's mind back into focus. His uncle, walking before him, had a snake curled up and hung at one side of his walothsa and a large, rat-like capybara hanging from the other. He stopped and listened, checking his bearings, as more whistles echoed away into the distance. As whistles travelled faintly in the opposite direction, they came closer along the line, growing in length but holding to the same sharp pitch. They started to move forward again, slowly. Then came the whistle from the man closest to their right, just longer still than the one before. His uncle copied it, tongue to teeth, adding its own length, and broke into a dead run.

"Boar!" he shouted over his shoulder. "Keep up!"

Before Niisa knew it, he was racing after his uncle through the woods. There was no silence anymore as they ran in a wide arc around where the sound of the whistle had come from. They had a boar on the chase. Along both sides of the line they ran in ever wider loops from where the first whistle was heard, using the length of their whistles to give direction, in an attempt to trap the boar within their closing circle. It was dangerous and the boar could come bursting through the bushes at any moment. Niisa's uncle held his spear high and at the ready as he ran. The forest was still treacherous with many things that could poison and kill. But the thrill of chasing a boar seemed worth taking risks. And with the gathering in two days, Niisa knew that a boar skin would be held with high esteem for the tribe, and for the tribesman who eventually brought it down.

He pictured the scenario of the boar appearing through the vegetation and driving into his uncle with its tusks, or through him. The risk sent his heart pounding. There was speed, everything was accelerated. The unpredictable movement of Daygo seemed more pronounced, more full of life. He ran, aware of its wonder as life happened and bubbled and changed all around him. He gloried in the privilege to be there, to witness it, to be aware of it all unfolding before his eyes, within his body, pounding in his ears, whishing through his nose and mouth; he could smell the forest sharply, the scene changing, moving, assaulting his nostrils.

He imagined himself high up above, looking down at all the frantic activity happening below in the forest and trees, up and down the mountain. He wondered if such fantastic movement continued into the soil and deeper, only invisible to his eye, happening right now. Could it be even more wonderful? He laughed and waved his arms, giddy with the thrill and the joy of _life._

The boar burst through the trees. The spear flew from Nuru's hand in an instant, and missed. Its head dipped. Its horns pointed shortly out to either side. Niisa ran at full sprint, midstride, laughing, arms wide, eyes wide. He saw the collision course as it happened. He watched, witnessed, amazed, as the boar drove through him. He was flying through the air before his brain registered the hit, his legs flew high, his head cracked off the creature's back, his nose pressed deep into the fur. His body bounced, lost, somewhere, out of control, his mind blank, alive, as he lived it, complete, a witness, aware, lost in its full glory, his neck locked, his mouth hung open, spittle flying onto his face.

He landed hard on his lower back. It thudded into the soil, his feet and legs snapped into the earth, seeming to suck his upper body in before it ricocheted back and into the soil hard, knocking the wind from him a moment before his head smacked the ground in imitation of its lower part. His vision disappeared in a stupefied whiteness, his chest choked so that he couldn't move or breathe. He was trapped in that space for a moment as his body filled with a blind panic. He felt a dull second thud on his head, and a moment later his vision returned. But he continued to choke, his mouth dangled open to no avail. He saw his uncle appear over him, placing hands on him to hold him steady, and speaking. He looked up and gave a shout.

His body was full of feelings he had never experienced before, pain and confusion, he was struggling but he didn't know to what end or against what, only that his chest wouldn't work.

And then, like a river bursting, he could breathe again.

"Easy, easy," his uncle was saying softly above him, still with a hand pressed gently against his chest as he crouched above him. "Stay there a moment. Stay there a moment. Stay still."

Niisa took his advice. Panting and out of breath, he let his head fall to the ground as he lay down and took it all in, slowly starting to process what had happened, starting to slow back down into normality, even as everything was still racing within his skin.

The rest of the tribesmen started to come into view, those that were closest first. They stood about him as his uncle explained what had happened.

"What happened?" his father cried, a little frantic as he rushed to his knees beside Niisa. He placed a hand on Niisa's shoulder and clasped his hand with the other as he looked at him. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking hard at him. "What happened?" he looked to Nuru again.

"The boar clipped him," said Nuru. He placed a hand on Dikeledi's shoulder. "But I think he's okay."

His father looked down at him again. "You alright? Can you move? Niisa?"

Niisa looked up into his father's eyes, reliving the whole experience again. He started to smile. Then he was laughing. His father looked concerned for a moment until Nuru started to laugh as well, shaking his head. Then the rest of the tribesmen joined in, and his father was looking around and smiling.

"He's a hunter, alright," said Nuru, helping his father to haul him back to his feet. Niisa took a few steps and everything seemed to be working fine, except that he ached and everything was stiff.

The hunters all piled around. Soon the clearing was full of excited chatter as they all demanded to hear the story. Nuru repeated it with glee, reliving events for them step by step, even doing impressions and playing it out to large guffaws, whistles and laughter, many of them stepping forward to slap Niisa on the back and smile. His father chuckled along with them, his hand on his shoulder the whole time. Niisa thought he was shaking but then he realised that the tremor came from his father's hand. He looked at him, wondering if he was hurt in some way, but he seemed to be glowing as he followed the conversation with his eyes. Niisa wondered if it was what was called pride shining through him. He thought that it was.

******

The forest often reflected the activity of the small village. When they were very active and loud, the creatures, and sometimes it seemed the trees themselves, echoed those lively vibrations. Like an extended family, they took part in anything the humans did.

There was excitement from the moment they woke that morning, knowing that they would be leaving for the annual gathering of the tribes; where the sun was celebrated, where new life was welcomed and presented to family members that had not met in a year's time, where they chanted and danced to Daygo and new unions were made that would last a lifetime. It was the most important week of the year.

Niisa walked around their hut, checking for any frailties in its exterior with his eyes and hands, while his mother spread extra Tulsip juice across the entrance and even went so far as to spread some across the interior, hoping there would be enough to keep all invading insects out for the seven days the hut would lie empty.

"Chiko," his mother called, laughing. "It's nearly time to go."

Chiko turned her head from where she sat cross-legged in the grass. "Just a second," she called back. Fumnaya shook her head happily and glanced at Dikeledi where he stood eyeing the ceremonial cloak that he had draped over the side of their hut.

"All year she has been working on that wreath, getting flowers of all seasons, collecting, drying, and now still, moments from leaving, she's still making changes." She laughed softly and Niisa knew she was proud or happy about it in some way. She heard no response, and she looked to her husband, eyeing him sceptically with a raised eyebrow.

"Just a second for you too, I guess, is it?" she asked.

"Hmm?" said Dikeledi, glancing at her.

"You're worse than our daughter."

"Our daughter?" Dikeledi turned to where his daughter sat stooped over the wreath of flowers laid gently over her feet. "Oh." He blushed, then turned a smile on Fumnaya. "How do you think I got my daughters?" he winked. This time his mother blushed, a small smile creeping across her face even as she snorted in derision. She slapped him on the ass as she walked away, mumbling something that Niisa didn't hear.

"What do you think?" his father asked him, stepping back from the cloak proudly. Niisa stepped up beside him. The cloak was made of the skins of all the animals that his father had caught on the hunt over the previous year sewed together in some random pattern that he thought appealing to the eye. It seemed unnatural and strange to Niisa, and he found it hard to decipher between what was a good-looking cloak compared to a bad one, as the rest of the people in the village seemed capable of doing. All the men of the tribes would wear a similar cloak, bearing witness to all their triumphs in the hunt over the previous year, at the great Ijo dance that would take place around the great fire twice over the gathering.

Niisa reached out and felt the dead skin of it. It still must be alive in some way, if Daygo was in all things visible, but it was hard to see how.

"It looks good," he said.

"Really?" his father asked, raising an eyebrow to him.

Niisa nodded. "Yes."

His father clasped his shoulder. "That's my boy!" he smiled, with a short laugh and winked at Niisa. "Tell the old man what he wants to hear." He looked back at the cloak with admiration. "It's the picking for you this year," he said, eyes on the cloak and hand still on his shoulder. "How do you feel about it?"

Niisa gave a small shrug. "I guess it is the next step ... in life."

His father gave a small nod. "It is. I guess it is that." He pursed his lips, still looking ahead of him in apparent study. "Are you nervous?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

Niisa thought for a moment, still trapped by his father's hand. "I don't see what there is to be nervous about."

His father seemed to have taken a great big breath. "Okay," he said eventually, letting it out in a great rush. He turned towards Niisa, smiling. "It's looking good." He patted Niisa on the chest. "You'll do well. Now go on. Get your stuff. We must be near ready to go." He let go of Niisa and turned back towards Chiko. "Chiko! Let's go!" he called.

"A little moment," she chirped back, head buried in concentration over her flowers.

"No more little moments," he said. Then he laughed. "You've got one more little moment, then if you're not ready to go, I'm coming over there and carrying you away without those flowers!"

"Nope," he heard her mutter.

He laughed again, raising his eyebrows. "What?" he demanded in mock seriousness.

"Done!" she exclaimed and twisted to her feet, allowing her wreath of flowers to unfold from her upraised hands. Unlike the cloak, Niisa could appreciate the full beauty of the wreath of flowers. All the flowers of the forest were displayed in perfect harmony, most dried, some fresh, their colours vibrant with life and joy.

"Beautiful!" said Fumnaya, walking back to them and standing before Chiko for a moment as her daughter skipped forward to give her a closer look. She placed her hand softly on the back of Chiko's neck. "It's lovely," she said and Dikeledi echoed it.

"The chief has called it. We're off," she said in a louder voice as she turned to address the rest of them.

They set off through the trees with furtive glances backwards at their huts, as though they would disappear or come to some harm in their absence instead of simply sitting idly as they had sat full for all of the year before. But soon they were forgotten in the excitement and buzz of the upcoming gathering.

They walked through the trees, chatting freely and for once not trying to disguise their progress. They moved places on occasion, as jokes were shouted between the families and conversations started. Some of the women started to pair off, dragging their younger children with them as the men did the same. Boys followed their fathers, looking up with a little bit of wonder at the older men; girls followed their mothers and tried to decipher the meaning of the jokes and laughter between the women; for a while at least, until they gave up and became distracted in play. All were relaxed and jovial.

Niisa, as usual, walked apart from the rest, trailing the other adolescents who chatted animatedly ahead of him. He wanted to watch the forest as he passed it, not as a thousand separate parts but as something together, a growing, thriving, moving, living thing. He wanted to see the connection, the unity, the path of Daygo as he had sometimes managed to see before. On occasion he watched the activities of his peers or the rest of the tribe, but mostly he focussed on the forest. After a time he locked his gaze in the middle distance, hoping to see the peripheral as much as the focal as he walked.

He used to be often teased or jeered by the other children, but what their purpose was he didn't know, and it made no difference to him. He simply watched them with interest until eventually they let up. Now they tended to ignore him unless they had reason not to. For years his parents had tried to encourage him to spend more time at play or to take part in whatever repetitive, mindless activities the other children played at, but slowly they too had started to accept his behaviour, as most of the tribe now did.

He knew all of the behaviours of the tribe. He understood them at a distance. He could adopt them and take part in them if he so chose. But he could not feel them as they did. And so it remained a sort of mystery to him. He tried to find comparative experiences that made him feel what they discussed, but he could not. He found it difficult to understand their perspective or to create it before his own eyes. Everything they talked about and everything they did was based upon this and he could never really grasp it, and so could not with any satisfaction engage in their behaviours.

He knew he was different, but it was a puzzle to him why or how they could all differ from him, especially as he understood that all creatures and life stemmed from Daygo, that all were unified and complete together, that all were connected and inseparable in movement that was called life and time. Even as he understood this, as he felt this deeply, emotionally and completely, he sensed that they in turn were reversed, that they knew of it, had learned of it and understood it at a distance as he had human behaviour, but they could never truly become fully engaged with it, never deep down understand the truth of what life was, or what they were within it. They could not see clearly. They were caught up in their own notion of self that they could not escape. Despite being able to talk as though they knew all things were of the same, that they all stemmed as small flows of the one Daygo stream, they lived and behaved as though they knew the opposite, that they and every other person they met were separate and complete and individual apart from all other life. That they in fact were not Daygo but their own confined self that would forever be apart from all else.

And so he often found himself apart from them, alone in the woods. Isolated, as they might see it. But there was no such thing as isolation in the world that he knew.

It took them almost nine hours of marching through the woods to get to the gathering space. Niisa broke from the forest into the clearing separately to the rest. The huts of their own village were built underneath the canopy of branches, leaves and plants overhead, but the gathering space was clear of all forest and was blinding bright from the yellow heat that shone down from the far distant sun. It was filled with hundreds of huts. The sky was a clear dome of blue above them.

All along the line of the forest, the Abashabi had stopped and stood blinking at the brilliance before them. The forest rose and fell in all directions as far as the eye could see. It made Niisa wonder at the vastness of the world. Could the great forest extend into infinity in all directions, did it ever come to an end? It was told by the chiefs that it ended somewhere in the distant north and south, and beyond that were open plains of lands with no trees to be seen for hours all around, and eventually there were great masses of water that extended into oblivion. The giant rivers at the end of the world. But to east and west it was said that the forests travelled as far as these great rivers, countless hours away. He imagined making that great trek. He wondered if it were true, or if he could walk forever, just walk, for a lifetime, and die, without ever coming anywhere. Just more forest, more creatures, more of the same. What was the life that energised all of this? Did it never tire?

He knew it was a human frailty to want for understanding, to look for the wisdom behind all things, to search to understand Daygo. He knew it was the loneliness of the human spirit, separated from the stream, from unconscious knowing for the brief extent of its life. And yet it seemed that he possessed some of that same strange arrogance that the rest of them did; the arrogance to want to strive to know as Niisa, as this strange entity that he found self within. He could not explain ... but it felt like his destiny to know. And he could not escape its calling.

The clearing was alive with weeds, brush, flowers, vines and any one of a hundred plants that grew in the forest that had taken advantage of the lack of tree cover to become lush and full in the passing year. An occasional small tree still grew amongst the huts, offering some shade from the sun. It would take a full day's work from the nine tribes the next day to clear it all and make it habitable for the week. But it was late in the evening and their main task that night was to make their chosen hut safe to sleep in.

Nine tribes attended the gathering each year. The Abashabi and the Afran Kallu, Kororofawa, Langbwasse, Maschascha, Amarcocche, Tusselange, Ait-Atta and Pani-Dui. With daylight shortening, and exhaustion from the long trek kicking in, there were only brief greetings shared between them. They picked their hut amongst the Abashabi, and Niisa set to work with his family, carefully clearing every piece of undergrowth that surrounded it, carefully looking for snakes, insects, spiders and ants that could prove fatal if they went unnoticed. As the light was dying, they spread more Tulsip juice around their hut from the container his mother had brought. His father made a final check before they bedded down for the night, falling quickly into sleep after the long journey.

******

The next morning Niisa and Chiko's routine was disturbed by the underbrush pressing in upon them from all sides, the freedom of their movement was suppressed into tighter, more functional stretches, and for the morning meal they returned to the hut where their mother was already sitting up and arranging their food. Dikeledi still lay prone and grunting as they finished their meal. With a laugh, Fumnaya slapped him on the bottom.

"Up! Up!" she cried, and with a growl he rose and stumbled from the hut. When he returned, he stopped underneath the entrance of the hut and spread his arms wide, his face split in a broad grin. He shook his hands in excitement and the women laughed, his mother with an amused smile and half shake of her head, his sister falling over on her side with a high-pitched giggle. Niisa watched the pantomime blankly, chewing contentedly on the last of his nuts.

They spent all of that day clearing the underbrush from the Rutendon, the name given for the clearing where the gathering was held each year. Unlike the day before, there were many greetings made and breaks taken. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters were all reunited, having been separated to their respective tribes for a year. Their wives and husbands hugged the family they had married into, knowing that this week was about them and their spouse more than anything else.

Niisa spent some time pondering the place's name as he helped with the clear-up. Rutendon was "a place of belief". Who had named it thus, and what had they in mind when they did? From the histories told from the chiefs each year, the gathering had been happening for as long as the spoken record was recalled, and its origins were mythical and folklorish, with each tribe having many tales, repeated often, full of magic and wonder, that resulted in the first gathering of the tribes.

Certainly its name seemed to have no connection with its current function. It seemed more about matchmaking now than any form of belief. It hosted the picking ceremony where adolescents could find a match whom they wished to marry. These engagements were then agreed upon by the chiefs and the parents involved, ensuring they were not close relations, and deciding which of the two would leave their tribe to join the other. The following year the gathering would host the marriage ceremony. They also celebrated the births of the previous year and marked the passing of the dead. The gathering was the fundamental of tribal life. It allowed each tribe to live in their separate areas of forest, where food was plentiful and the hunt bountiful, knowing that they would meet their loved ones each year.

While Niisa wondered at the men who had defined the layout of tribal life for centuries to follow and pondered its lack of change over that time, the rest of the tribespeople got slowly drunk on cauim. Many sacks were opened in small secrecy and handed out, having been concealed and smuggled through the journey. There were conspiratorial sips taken amongst friends and family throughout the day as wives played along and pretended not to notice, even as they engaged in a similar enterprise; the discretion adding to the joys of what could have been called the first ritual of the gathering. Amidst laughter, drinks, hugs, kisses and jokes, with many spending time to break and bask in the sunlight, the clearing was steadily brought back to being a human town. The chatter was ceaseless throughout the day. They seemed to have so much to tell each other for a year that was the same as any other, Niisa could not think of what it was.

As the light was dying, the first great fire of the gathering was set and sparked to life. Many, if not most, were quite drunk already, and traditionally the first fire did not last long into the night; the sun, the labour and the drink of the day all taking its toll on the human body. But they set that first fire, danced that first dance and they played that first song and they howled into the night in delight that the gathering was here. They smiled and laughed with one another, and for once Niisa found something enticing in the frenzy of it all.

******

They woke the next morning with heavy heads but hearts still light. Hearts that lifted them back to their feet and spread smiles across their faces, even if some were a little rueful. Today they put the final touches to the clearing and the huts, but for the most part it was a rest day, a time to lie in leisure and enjoy the quieter parts of company as they grew accustomed to seeing the sun for only the third of seven days of each year.

There was no direction to the work that was done and no obligations on Niisa or Chiko, so they could wander at their discretion. Chiko skipped away to find the girls and boys her age, only two short years from becoming an adolescent herself. Niisa walked slowly through the camp, feeling as though he were expected to do more than he would, expected to seek out and talk to and play with others wearing a right ear stone but not a left. Still, he knew his parents were too engrossed in their own celebrations to interfere with anything that he might want to do.

So, knowing that too soon he would be expected back, he walked from the clearing and into woods that were unknown and unfamiliar to him. He let his hands dangle against the vegetation, he let his toes fall into the earth, he let his eyes broaden to everything in front of him. He moved slowly, smoothly, fluidly as the wind. Everything surrounding him moved, grew, died, changed, lived. He lived in the forest until he knew it was time to return and his mind brought him back through the trees and into the clearing that man inhabited.

There he joined with the rest of them to make the many fires that would be lit that night. There was the one great bonfire where the chanting ritual would be held. There was the second bonfire, not as large or great, where the picking ceremony would be performed. Then there were the many smaller fires set throughout the clearing that the matching couples would spend their time around in privacy, to learn of each other and find interest enough to marry and spend the remainder of their lives with, in a hut in the woods, making children and continuing the life cycle of the tribes that never changed or developed into anything. He saw nothing wrong with the tribes' life and yet he felt separate to it. It did not seem to be his path. Daygo wanted more from him. Daygo needed him in some other way. He had been born for an alternate purpose, born as part of the collective intelligence of the universe, where all things were known and predicted unconsciously. There was no overarching consciousness to Daygo, it was simply pure intelligence, pure awareness, all things engaged in movement, in life.

Once the day's work was complete, Niisa returned to the forest, where he stayed until the light started to fade. On his way back to the clearing, a black panther stepped into his path. Her yellow eyes were bright in the fading grey as she turned her head to examine Niisa. He felt no fear, only wonder, as he looked back at it; tracing its beautiful black skin, its glowing eyes, considering all that lay within them, behind them; its intelligence, its knowledge, its purpose.

The woods were never safe after dark, when many of its predators came alive. Bar the seven nights of the gathering, the tribespeople lived by day. But that night the panther turned its head silently and padded on by. Niisa looked after it for some moments before he broke the bush back into the Rutendon.

In the grey, the great fire at the centre of the oval-shaped clearing, sparking to early life, was like a newly rising sun. Crackling short, small flames licked the sides of the wood in sharp and bright colour, the early birth of that same colour that painted the landscape behind him, dulled and watered out over the large, expansive sky, spread and fading and yet still beautiful in its last minutes; quiet, sombre, subdued and dignified against the encroaching dark, like an old man bowing his head to the inevitable with no loss of pride.

The young fire, the opposite, the child birthed into new life, raced up the wood, sharp and full of energy, spitting in its haste, in its confident defiance of the dark, full of young lustre, convinced of its complete annihilation of its opponent, as though it would eat up all the dark in the world with its light. The same colours, yet sharper, brighter, growing instead of fading; both sad and uplifting, as the briefly glimpsed future faded in the west, the reignited past burst forth in ignorance to the east, oblivious to its inevitable path, and yet admirable in its adamant folly. And still more behind it all the great joke, the everlasting humour to watch its pretending players, as though each one, from the smallest animal to the largest mammal were unique, new, special, separate, different, in the great rolls of the Daygo stream; none seeing the simplicity of truth, that they are miniscule and regular, and that yet they are everything that they truly wish for—not alone but united, joined to all and everything—not mortal but immortal, not limited but everlasting in what never ceases to be, life, Daygo, movement.

In their ignorance, they believe all the things they fear, and they wish forlornly for everything that is simple, unavoidable truth. And yet if they saw it so they would be unexplainably terrified, because they are not who they thought they were, they are not self but part of a whole.

It was in birth and death that Niisa felt that he could learn more, that he could see more, and he watched the catching fire and the setting sun with equal interest.

Throughout the clearing, the tribes began to gravitate towards the growing fire, breaking from their many small groupings to the one, a certain happy eagerness in the air. Niisa left the dying sun to join them.

As he moved towards the fire, he heard the first practice beatings of the drums and a few short chants as some playfully started warming up their voices. Many of the men started to shoulder on their ceremonial Agbada cloaks. Some of the chiefs already wore the bones of their forebears and carried their long wooden staffs in hand, occasionally shaking the hollowed-out orin sticks that hung from the top of the staffs, emitting a hollow noise to match the rolling vibrations of their song.

"It won't be long until you have your own Agbada now," his father had told him earlier that day, with the usual small smile on his face and a measure of anticipation greater than his own.

The chanting dance that took place each night was something that Niisa longed for perhaps more than anyone else in the Rutendon. There was something spiritual in the combined movement and noise of so many people.

As he walked closer, the light of the bonfire was blocked by the massing crowd, and he had to squeeze his way through to find his way to the fire. He recognised Tapiwa and Sekai from the Afran Kallu and Wikesa's family from the Maschascha who were his first cousins, his father's brother who had married into the Pani-Dui and left to live amongst them, his mother's brother who had stayed in his native Tusselange. His mother had left to join his father in the Abashabi. Everyone was a familiar face, in reality one large tribe, not nine separate ones. But only so many people could live in any area of the forest comfortably, so it made sense to make use of its limitless expanse. They touched him and ushered him through, directing him to where his family were, though it was not his family but the fire he wanted to get close to.

His sister collided into him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Ijo!" she squealed into his ear, smiled devilishly and ran away, dancing through the crowd. The drums took up a regular beat and the ten hundred plus tribespeople began to move in a steady rhythm.

The fire crackled and licked at the stacked wood, sending sparks into the surrounding people, still only at its infancy, only now starting to gather real heat. There would be no extra fuel added to it, the chanting and movement would match the tempo set by the fire, reaching its zenith as the heat became unbearable and the flames climbed into the sky.

Niisa joined effortlessly into the chant. The dance was free, as was his voice; ten hundred people finding their own way in the mass of noise, in the burning fire, in the pressing bodies.

The sky turned dark but the red moon watched on, almost pale in the blackness, smooth like the shiny surface of a stone, unlike its pale counterpart that showed only the barest curved line of white on its blotched face.

Niisa's mind returned to look back into the panther's bright eyes and locked to that vision as he danced and sang.

The tempo grew as the flames grew bolder and higher. What began as an out-of-sync concoction of noise and movement converged together in common, complimenting purpose.

Niisa's spirits rose with the noise, his vision dispersed, everything left in movement and song, in unity and connection and an unknown known until it seemed that it was not ten hundred tribespeople that acted but one collective intelligence and will.

In his glazed eyes, in his glazed being, Niisa felt something more than he ever had before, saw it with something more or less than his vision, with a knowing that eroded all else. Limitless, invisible connections seemed to sparkle in the night air, connections that tied all together. But more, as his eyes raised to the red moon, he felt an attraction between it and all things, a connection, a synchronicity that he could not understand but somehow knew was present.

With a final crescendo of drums and song and dance, with the fire roaring heat and crackling noise and assaulting the dark, the Ijo reached its zenith and, while still ferocious, almost imperceptibly began to slow. And like an after-image, with a light draping of feeling over his trance-like state, he knew that what he had felt and seen was real. Even though it had faded, felt surreal and could not be explained, he knew it was something, and he knew it was something astounding, an overarching truth of immense magnitude and importance.

As the Ijo wore to its gentle and subdued conclusion, Niisa found himself looking about in shock for some sign that the others had experienced the same as he, but they all seemed lost in the dreamy tranquillity that came with lasting effect at the Ijo's end. He looked up at the sky, the moons and the stars, but all sat still and silent as they always did, conspirators mocking him with their denial of involvement.

He fell to the ground and sat with his palms pressed into the soil underneath him, routing into it with his fingers and thumbs, as though there he could cling to some sort of reality and truth, so that he would not be sucked away into the universe. In ignorance, afraid and wanting.

******

The fire still crackled, bright embers floated through the night air, suspended by what was invisible, yet all around him, right in front of him. Niisa raised a hand and watched as the heat or the breeze or whatever made the embers float brought one to land on his palm. There was a soft burn as it died in his hand and became just a black piece of ash. In the skies the stars were dimmed. The night seemed darker, the fire had taken his vision and died and left him without it. The sun would rise again but that fire was dust.

The tribespeople murmured and shuffled around him, hundreds of them, trying to find some space to chat or congregate or just to breathe amidst the press and the residue heat, to clear some space between themselves and the damp and sticky bodies all around. The smell of sweat and ash and heat was strong in the air. The forest was a dark mound that rose fifty feet or more all around them, closing in the open space.

In the dark, he failed to see so much that was there. In the day, the air and more could not be seen and yet he knew it was there, by some impulse, by some understanding.

Had he been blind his whole life, had he just then seen?

The air was not ... empty ... it was somehow full. What was available beyond their sight? What existed beyond reach? What could be found? How might he see again?

Slowly, he was hoarded towards the second fire by the press of people as an excited buzz started to fill the air. Sound. Vibrations. He allowed himself to be gently prodded towards the picking fire, and noticed absently that it had already been lit. He rubbed the fingers and thumb of his left hand together, feeling the dirt roll between them, feeling it grind and fade into his palm, from when he had clasped the earth for fear of being lost to it. Touch, he knew touch. What did he not know?

The adolescents of the nine tribes were pushed together before the second fire of the night. The slow drumbeat was started and the girls lined up to one side of the fire. They began to sing. Niisa watched them as they did. He would start the dance on the second verse, with the rest of the adolescent boys, all those with the single black stone in their right ear.

He wondered at how trapped they must be, within their own little minds, to be so caught up in fear and nerves and embarrassments over this small thing, so lacking in control or wisdom or understanding over themselves. To be so ignorant and self-consumed. How could they be so caught up in the silly repetition of their lives? He was empty of all these things that he knew existed within them.

He looked at the boys around him and saw how they fidgeted with hands and shuffled feet, glancing up repetitively at the girls in song, as though afraid they would miss their mark, as though their ears deceived them and they could not tell one verse from another.

Their mark hit and he danced with the rest of them around the fire as the greater, teeming mass watched, clapped, talked and laughed in dark clusters surrounding them. They each took part in a solo dance in front of the girls, for their judgement, while the rest continued to dance around the fire.

When the dance was over, the boys lined up before the fire. Each of the girls had three sticks, with their own coloured ribbons, made with stained strips of weedgrass tied to each one and around their left wrist. When the music ended, they ran forward in one great flurry and gave their three sticks to the boys they liked the most. In order of age, the boys chose the girl to take to a fire from the sticks they had been given, matching the colours to the wrists of the girls, and handed back the sticks they had not chosen. When all the boys handed sticks had taken their girl by the hand to find one of the many small fires set in seclusion amongst the huts throughout the Rutendon, the process was started again. Since there were two more girls than boys, the last two boys to pick would take two girls each to a fire.

As his turn came, he still had two of the three sticks he had been given to choose from. He looked at the first and knew that she was the better-looking of the two. Her nose was flatter, her hips were wider, she was a little older perhaps than the other. Her shoulders were back and proud.

He turned to look at the second girl. She had brown hair, a lighter shade, like the colour of bark. Her eyes were hidden in the dark but the fire reflected there, in the moistness of them. Her nose was more pointed, less flat than normal. Her chin protruded slightly beyond her teeth. Her hair fell over her ears and was tied in a low and loose braid from between her shoulder blades to the small of her back. Clipped underneath it and framing her neck and shoulders was the flower wreath that all girls wore at the gathering. While pretty, it was nowhere near as beautiful as the one Chiko had spent the year arranging. Her breasts were small, new and firm, her nipples dark black on her brown skin and protruded slightly. Her shoulders hunched a little. She showed a slight curve from waist to hip with small rolls of fat protruding out over each side of her walothsa. Her belly was soft, her legs were sturdy, her feet small and toes smaller.

She watched him as he watched her. She held her hands cradled in front of her belly button, and he could see the effort there not to fidget with them. He noticed her tongue pass over the teeth behind her upper lip, a giveaway of her thoughts and of her nerves. She was thinking now about how she looked, obsessing over it, Niisa guessed. She wanted to be picked, she feared being shunned. Niisa glanced to the right where more boys stood, waiting their turn, shuffling feet, twitching hands, eager and afraid their choice would be taken before them, hoping they would get a reasonable match, wanting the moment of achievement to come and be over with. He smiled. He felt none of what they felt. He lived in a different world to them.

He could feel the impatience growing all around him, but it had no impact on him. Why did he continue to play a part in their stupid games? Did he need to? He only knew that he wanted to know more, about everything other than the picking ceremony or the marriage ceremony or tribal life in general. He had heard and been told promises of connection and love all of his life but he'd never felt it, not in the sense that they told it. His love was not confined. His love was open to the entire universe, full of wonder and awe and curiosity.

He walked to the second girl in the light brown hair and took her by the hand. He handed the second stick back to the girl refused and dropped the other two beside the fire. He picked up a lighting stick from the edge of the fire and walked with it until they found a set fire that offered some small seclusion. He stuck the lighting stick into the centre of the stacked wood and sat down as it sparked to life and shared its flame.

She sat down beside him too close, so he shuffled a step away. She glanced at him and then quickly back to the fire. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would be like inside her now.

"Your name is Emeka," he said.

She nodded.

"You're nervous?" he asked.

"Yes."

"This is your first picking. What else do you feel?"

She shuffled a little. "I don't know."

Niisa looked at her steadily. Her eyes couldn't stay on one thing, they flitted between him and the fire and the ground and her hands. The stupidity of her answer killed all interest he had of inner workings. She was too far beneath him and yet he knew enough to have lost interest.

"In the climax of the Ijo tonight, I ... became aware of a connection between ... the air ... the world, almost everything, and the red moon. As though the red moon was sucking against the Earth. Did you feel anything different?"

Emeka looked a little perplexed. "No," she said meekly, shaking her head.

Niisa looked off into the night and around the clearing, where small fires had sprung up all around. It was harder to hear the noise of the forest behind the low mumble of the tribes that seemed a constant filling through every day and night. A breeze swept his face, cooling him. He looked up at the stars.

"I always thought that I loved the forest, but I like this open space too. I like being able to see the stars and the moons. I like being able to feel the breeze. I wonder: does the forest confine us, constrict us? We can't see the outside world, so we never venture into it." He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Emeka was looking at him.

"What was the feeling you had at the Ijoa?"

Niisa stared straight into her eyes as he thought. She glanced down at the ground.

"It wasn't a feeling. It was more like a sense of connection. I could sense a connection in the air, that connected it all together like it was all a part of the same. I could sense ..." He paused, and slowly a feeling of elation spread over him. He smiled. "It was Daygo." He put a hand to his mouth and looked at the ground. "I can't believe. I hadn't ... It was Daygo. It must have been. I was sensing Daygo. Daygo in the air, tying it together."

Emeka looked at him with wide eyes but he hardly saw her. "Just like the priests?" she asked.

"Yes. What?" he looked at her. "What do you mean? What priests?"

"The Walolang de Kgotia."

"What do you mean, like the priests?"

"They can sense Daygo," she said.

"They can sense it?"

"Yes. Namuso from my tribe, he was taken by the priests. Before he went—"

"They took him?"

"Yes. He told me, what you said, before he went. He said he could sense the connection. He said he could sense a change in it."

"A change in it?"

"Yes. In the test. When they killed the squirrel. He sensed it change."

"Change from what into what?"

"I don't know. He said it was just, he could feel it, feel it change, when the squirrel died, he said he could feel it change. That's all. That's what the priests told us to look for, to see if we could sense a change, sense a moving of forms, or ... or energy."

Niisa sat back, shocked. "No one. No one ever told me. They said the priests just sat in their temple all day worshipping Daygo. They never said ..." The test was about patience, she had said, to see who could stare at the one spot the longest. Never had she said that true connection was possible, that the test was to test for this. If you didn't want to go with them, you just looked away. She had told him that years ago, when he was a small child. Had she been lying? Just teasing him as he had seen other parents do with their children, making them think something foolish for entertainment? Niisa had never understood what entertainment there was in fooling a child. He had never thought ... He had thought that was how to worship Daygo, to sit in the one spot, to stay quiet and to look at the one place. He had first started doing it after that. And as time passed, the more he did it, the more peace he found, the quieter his mind became, the more connected he felt with the forest and the world, where he had never before felt connected to anything, he had always felt different, separate to the other children, the other people. But Daygo belonged to him, all things, and he belonged to Daygo. That was his comfort. That was his love. He had spent the rest of his life trying to learn more about Daygo, trying to improve his worship, increase his connection, expand his knowledge. Was it all based on a lie? A stupid, child-teasing fib?

He felt torn between the anxiety of this revelation and the excitement and endless possibility of the other.

"Explain the test to me."

There was a pause before she continued. "He took three or four of us at a time. He had a bunch of bound squirrels that he had ordered the men to hunt that day. He told us he was going to kill the squirrel and that we were to watch very closely and tell him if any of us sensed anything, sensed a change, a ... just like I said. Then he opened up its chest and guts with a knife, while it was alive. That was it. Namuso said he did sense it."

"But I've killed many animals and I've never sensed a change."

"In the hunt?"

"No. Not in the hunt."

"Did you ... did you eat them?"

"No."

She quietened for a while as he continued to think.

"Why did you kill them?" she asked quietly.

"To see them die. Just like that. I wanted ... I wanted to see the change. If Daygo is in everything, then how can it change from one to another, and where is the change, where is the life? Is it only in things that are alive or is it in dead things too? And what is dead and what is not? Is a dead squirrel really dead or is it just alive in other ways? Is anything really dead? Can anything really be dead? It doesn't make sense, how can there be such a thing as dead? I wanted to see if I could see anything, if there was anything there ... but I never sensed it ..."

In the back of his head, he could hear the drum beat slowly start to pick up in the distance, signalling the end of the first picking. There would be one more after that. Emeka had stood up and started to walk away.

"Wait," he said, but the word acted like a trigger, and she started to run for the main fire. "What other girls are in your tribe?" he shouted after her, but she was gone too far. He watched her for a moment as she scuttled back to the main light, but then he turned away, lost in his thoughts.

He decided not to return for another picking. Instead, he stood and walked into the darkness, hoping to find somewhere quiet where they would not find him and would not disturb his thoughts. He had too much to consider from the night's revelations.

******

He spent the next day hunting in the forest. He killed twenty animals in twenty different ways. He sensed nothing. His anxiety grew. He didn't understand. He needed to quiz Emeka more, but that night, at the picking, she didn't pick him. Instead, he ended up with two girls from different tribes, neither of whom had seen a boy or girl taken by the priests and neither of whom knew anything more about the Walolang de Kgotia. He watched for Emeka as she left, but she was in thick company.

The next day, every time he went near to her, she turned in the other direction. Her friends told him to go away, that she didn't want to talk to him. They called him a creep. Instead, he found others of the same tribe and asked them questions, but none were as forthcoming as Emeka had been, and it did not seem like a topic of conversation anyone wanted to take part in. Her two friends were the only other adolescent girls from that tribe. He didn't know what to do. He needed more information.

His father approached him as he stood in the centre of the clearing, looking around for new people to question.

"What is all this I hear you asking about the Walolang de Kgotia?"

"Can you tell me anything about them?"

"Why the sudden interest?"

"I know that a priest will be coming this year to our tribe," he said. "I want to know what the testing will be like, to prepare."

His father looked at him for a long moment, his eyes slightly wide. "So that you can pass?"

Niisa thought it over. "So that I can fail," he lied. "I don't want them to take me away." He felt unsure about the lie. It was a guess that his father might be more open about it if he explained it this way. But then he could not be sure that his father would not want him to pass and leave the tribe, and so he might only help if Niisa asked for those reasons. After all, he must know that Niisa was different to the rest of them, and he must then wish to be around people the same as himself. It was how Niisa felt about them. But some instinct told him that the opposite was true, that he feared losing Niisa, for some reason that he could not fathom. He sometimes thought that perhaps his father feared losing Niisa more to himself, as though there was some connection between them, even though there was not, no more than Niisa was connected to the trees and all things. Niisa wondered if it was, as time went by, that he pretended less to be like them, and his father confused this with a change to who he was.

His suspicion seemed confirmed as Dikeledi gave a small sigh and smiled. He stepped up beside him and grabbed him tightly across the shoulders.

"Don't worry," he said and placed his spare hand on Niisa's chest. "Put your heart at ease. The priests have taken no one from our tribe in years." He took a large breath as he looked out over the clearing. **"** I would not let them take you," he said softly. "You are my son, Niisa. You will always be my son." Niisa glanced at his father but he had his eyes blocked from view. When he turned his head back towards him, he was smiling. "Let me tell you what these fool priests do." He stepped away from Niisa and crouched on the ground, but then he looked back sharply at him. "But I don't like it," he said with emphasis. "It is not a good thing to do."

His father confirmed what Emeka had already said about the testing process. "He, or she, will open it up like this," he said, crouched over an invisible squirrel and pulling his hands apart as though spreading the opened flesh of its stomach. "They will ask you if you sense something, if you sense a change, if you can sense the death of the animal, the shifting of its energies." He looked at Niisa. "All you have to say is 'no'. A boy from your mother's tribe claimed to have sensed it once, but the priest took him aside and questioned him for close to an hour. The priest decided in the end that the boy was lying. Later they found out that he was." His gaze was firm on Niisa's. "If you lie, they will find out. I do not know what exactly they are looking for, I have never known anyone well who was picked, and when they are picked, they have left within the day, so there is not much time to say more than goodbye. But, Niisa, if you did, if you do ... sense it ... all you have to say is 'no', and they will leave you be. You can stay with us, stay with the Abashabi."

Niisa gave a small nod. His father clapped him on the back. Dikeledi had wide grooves along the sides of his face, unusually apparent for a young man. Smiling lines, his mother called them. She sometimes placed a hand on the side of his face and rubbed them as she said what she did many times. "Most people smile with their mouths, your father smiles with his whole face." He would laugh and clasp her hand. "I've a big head to smile with." He would wink at Chiko and she would laugh. Then he would make himself busy with something. Niisa would watch him, walking about, moving things, examining the hut for holes that weren't there, wondering what he was doing. Chiko and Fumnaya would carry on as normal, his mother sparing him a smile first. The same events, replayed before his eyes a thousand times in slightly different ways, and only he not knowing what was happening, what was going on, why they all acted so strangely.

He walked away from his father.

He took a seat underneath a small tree five hundred steps south of the centre of the oval-shaped clearing. The bustle of noise never ceased; everyone was moving and talking and playing. He thought. He searched for the answers to his problems. But the answers were human ones, social ones, things that he knew nothing about. He had to ask those who would know better, those who would help him.

It was vital that he convinced Emeka to talk to him again. She was friends with the boy who had been taken. She had talked to him before he had left. She might be the only person who knew the key to passing the test, the only one who would speak to him.

He rose, enjoying the breeze as he walked. He found Chiko with a group of friends, pretend dancing around a few sticks they had arranged to look like a fire. Chiko waved her arms loosely in the air as she twirled around the fire, stopping at times to crouch and roar at the imaginary flames, her tongue out over her bottom lip.

She had a round face typical of the tribes. Her hair was braided and tied into four separate tails that climbed down her back. She wore a small wooden cross-piece through the centre of her nose, which was small and buttoned slightly at its tip. Her smile was wide, like her father's, and seemed to climb highly up both of her cheeks.

"Brother," she said when she saw him, directing her dance over to him. She opened her eyes wide. "Have you come to dance?"

"No. Can you talk to me?"

"Yes, Brother."

Niisa stepped away from the other girls, and Chiko followed him on light feet. "I need to get a girl to pick me tonight," he said.

"Who?"

"Emeka, from the Kororofawa."

"Did you talk to her, brother? Did you ask her to pick you?"

"No. She picked me once before, but she will not talk to me anymore, even when I approach her out here."

"Oh," said Chiko. "I've played with her sister." She sat down on the grass, and Niisa sat beside her. "I can go and talk to her." She looked over the gathering space as she thought, picking at the grass absentmindedly between her feet as she did. "You go and talk to mother," she said suddenly, "she knows these things. I will ask Nala to talk to Emeka." Chiko smiled at him. Her eyes seemed to catch in the light, streaks of yellow shining through the brown, echoing the excitement emitting from her every pore. "Don't worry, Brother. When we are done, she will love you like I do." She suddenly jumped to her feet and ran off, her arms flailing behind her as she went, leaving the other two girls by their fake fire, glancing after her in confusion.

His mother was sitting with three other women under the shade of a cashapona tree. Niisa stood in front of them, wondering how to approach his problem.

"What's wrong, Niisa?" asked his mother, looking up. The three women silenced and followed her gaze. "You are not yourself lately."

"Who else have I been?"

The women laughed, and his mother smiled. "Should I say you have been acting strangely?"

"I have a problem," he said.

"What is it?"

"I want to make Emeka pick me at the picking, but I don't think she will, and she won't talk to me." There was a moan of sympathy from Nikechi, his aunt, as the women turned smiling to one another.

"Is that it?" she asked, smiling at him.

Niisa nodded. She stood up, walked over to him and pressed him against her chest in a hug. "Come with me," she said and stepped away from the women, a hand resting gently against the back of his neck. "What was all this about the Walolang de Kgotia?"

"She told me about them."

Fumnaya looked at him. "What did she say?"

"She told me they took a boy from their tribe last year."

His mother sighed. "Is this what you have been worried about? That they would take you too?"

Niisa looked at her, frowning. Was this what she thought? He nodded.

She gripped him along the shoulders. "Do not worry," she said. "You spoke to your father? You know ... what the test is?"

"Yes."

"You are not worried any longer?"

"No." He could not trust what his mother might say of the test. She had already lied to him.

"But you still want to talk to this girl?"

"I like her." His mother watched him from the corner of her eye for a moment before she broke out into a wide smile.

"You do? So you do." She seemed as excited and happy as Chiko had been. "And you want her to pick you." They walked in silence for a moment. The sun shone brightly. There were people everywhere walking, talking, sitting, lounging, laughing and smiling, playing, joking, showcasing their everyday skills. There was noise in the Rutendon, human noise. His mother walked him slowly through the huts and the crowds, content in the moment. "You must be yourself, Niisa. If you are going to spend the rest of your life with a woman, then you need to show her who you really are. But that does not mean that you should not be nice, or show an interest in what she likes, to everything about her. Ask her questions. Be nice to her, Niisa. It's not all about you. Think about how she is feeling, and ... consider that before you talk. Sometimes you can be too stuck in your own head. Do nice things for her. Maybe get her a gift, some flowers on a bracelet, some sweet calapa nut. If you think you can do her a favour, then do it for her. Then she might do something nice for you in return." She smiled at him and rubbed the back of his neck.

They stopped as they saw Chiko running in their direction, weaving her way through the huts, trees and what remaining brush escaped the clear-out four days before. She slowed to a stop in front of them. They waited, but she seemed to hesitate.

"What is it, Chiko?" said Fumnaya.

She looked up at Niisa. "I know where Emeka is. She'll talk to you now if you go to her. I talked to her sister."

Niisa felt sudden hope. "Where is she?"

Chiko turned and pointed to the far side of the clearing. "Do you remember where the drooping tree is at the edge of the forest?"

"Yes."

"She is there with her friends."

"Okay." He stepped away from his mother.

"Wait, Brother," said Chiko. He looked at her. She seemed to hesitate again, then reached behind her hair. "Take this," she said, as she unhooked the wreath of dried flowers that hung there. His mother placed a hand to her mouth.

"Give her this," said Chiko, handing him the wreath. Niisa took it softly in his hands, careful not to mark its beauty.

"Chiko," said Fumnaya, stepping over and placing a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure?"

"He is my brother," she said, glancing up at Fumnaya. "She will love you like we do, Brother," she said to him.

He nodded and set off for the drooping tree.

"Niisa!" said his mother. He looked back to see her watching him from where she hugged Chiko. The warning in her eyes was command enough.

"Thank you, Sister," he said, bowing his head slightly, and continued on his way. He could feel his heart beat a little faster than usual. After two days with no progress and no further indication of why he was failing, there seemed to be a chance now to find out more before the gathering came to an end.

He found her close to where Chiko had said, chatting with three friends towards the outskirts of the forest to the north, small underneath the trees and the mountain climbing above them.

He walked straight towards her. This time her friends only looked at him sceptically and did not try to send him away. Emeka watched him, her chin slightly turned and untrusting. He stopped in front of her and raised the wreath up between them.

"This is for you," he said. She looked down at it, her mouth parting. "May I place it on?"

She looked sheepishly at her friends, who watched with interest. "Okay," she said. Niisa walked around to stand behind her. He waited as she unhooked the wreath she wore and passed it to her friends, until she raised her hair up from her neck, then he clipped the wreath in underneath, close to the hairline at the back of her neck. He stepped back and she let her braided hair fall down her back once more. The flowers created a beautiful frame around her shoulders and upper back and the mane of hair that hung to just above her hips. Niisa felt a sudden appreciation for its beauty, and hers. For a moment he stood still, and watched. Then he remembered his purpose, and walked back around her.

"It looks beautiful on you," he said. "I'm sorry for being rude to you the last time."

"That's okay," she said meekly, raising a hand to the flowers framing her neck and turning to try to see how it looked.

"Will you pick me tonight?"

She nodded. "Okay."

He gave a small smile. "Thank you." He stood a moment before he turned slowly and walked away, not wanting to spoil his chance, knowing he would have a full hour to quiz her that night when she would have no escape from him.

******

Emeka stayed true to her word. That night she placed a stick into Niisa's palm. Minutes later he took her hand in his and led her to a fire where they could privately get to know one another. He bided his time. He enquired after her family and her tribe. Then he asked after her friends. Then he asked her if she missed Namuso. She quietened.

"Were you good friends?" he asked.

"Yes."

Niisa waited. "You do not like to talk about him," he ventured, when it seemed she would say no more.

"No," she said quickly. "It's just ..." she glanced at him and stopped. "I do miss him," she said. "He ... we used to play together all the time. He didn't want to go, in the end. He said at the start he did, but then when he realised ... he was ..."

"He had no choice?"

"No. Once the priest was sure that he was not lying. It's the law. You can't refuse Daygo's call."

"Daygo's call?"

She nodded and looked up at him. "The Abashabi ...?"

He shook his head. "We never talk about the priests at home. Your chief's brother was taken?"

"Yes."

It seemed to Niisa, by her words, that there was some connection between this and why the Abashabi rarely spoke of the priests. She said it as though it were obvious, but Niisa was not sure what the significance was.

"Why did he not just say that he did not sense anything?"

"Because they made us all eat pacroot before the testing."

Niisa leaned forward intently. He noticed her eyes flicker towards him, so he made himself sit back a little again and pretended that he was just adjusting his place. "It makes you honest," she continued. "And hazy and relaxed."

"Pacroot? My father never mentioned this to me."

"That is because your chief will not allow it."

Niisa looked at her. His heart beat furiously. Why the pacroot? Was it just for honesty?

"Did the priest say why it is used?"

"He said that it helped you to see Daygo. That you needed to become separate from yourself in order to see."

Niisa thought back to the first night at the gathering. He had lost himself to music and dance, he had lost his sense of self, and once that returned, his vision was gone. It made sense now that he saw nothing in the countless animals he had examined over the past few days. He was too caught up in what he was doing.

He forced himself to bring his attention back to Emeka, knowing that this was his last chance to question her.

He tried to remain subtle as he continued their conversation, allowing it at times to diversify, but still he started to feel a reluctance from Emeka to talk about Namuso and the priests any longer. In any case, it appeared as though she had no more information to offer him, and his mind started to wander. The drums came to signal the end of their time together.

"Thank you," Niisa said, standing. She glanced at him and said nothing. He stepped forward and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed and together they walked back to the main fire. He noticed that she held her hand slightly out from her body and open, so he took it in his. They glanced at each other at the fire and separated.

The second dance commenced. Both Emeka and Niisa were required to choose someone new. Niisa tried to maintain a level of politeness through the next hour with the Maschascha girl that he shared a fire with, but it frequently fell to protracted silences. On occasion he steered the conversation towards the priests and the testing, but she had little to contribute to what he already knew. His mind frequently wandered. It made sense to him, what he had learned. Of course a person needed to achieve some level of separation from the self to commune with Daygo; how else could it be achieved? It was frustrating that he had not figured it out for himself over the preceding days, for it was something that he had already learned through meditation and stillness and the vibrational rhythm of dance and song. It was in those moments that he felt most connected to the world around him. But only once had he sensed it, only once had he achieved the commune. After the wedding ceremony of the following night, they would for the second and last time of this gathering perform the Ijo dance. He had to pass the test that night, so that if he failed when the priest came, he would know enough to be able to answer his questions and gain admittance into their tribe.

The final drums of the night sounded. He bade farewell to Tapiwa and wandered into the night. He found a comfortable seat and settled himself. He had close to a full day to prepare himself for the dance.

******

The next day was the second hunt of the gathering, and Niisa was forced to attend. They wanted an abundance of meat for the marriage feast later that day, after sixteen new couples would be declared a union. Some time after the feast and the drink, they would dance once more in the Ijo and feel the attachment to Daygo and all things, to celebrate life in its freest form.

Close to three hundred tribesmen attended the hunt, far too large a number to hunt together. They split into four groups, and each took a corner of the forest. The men had spent much of the gathering proclaiming their prowess in the hunt, and they were eager and excited at the chance to prove themselves. Today the hunt was an exhibition of skill, not the daily necessity it was the rest of the year. But to Niisa it held little interest. His own nerves worried him, and he feared the vast need he felt to succeed threatened to push him towards failure.

He trailed his uncle meekly and spent his time holding his mind open to balance and equilibrium. The noise upon their return was almost a constant, happy roar as the tribesmen slowly trickled back. They called out hasty questions and results to one another amidst high-pitched exclamations of triumph and disappointment. There were protestations of near misses and stories of valour and skill to accompany the upraised trophies that lent proof to their claimed exploits. Many eager and hopeful faces fell crunched to the bitterness of defeat while others flushed brightly in the joy of triumph. Alone among them all, Niisa's stayed flat and neutral. His calm remained.

There was an hour's rest before the wedding ceremonies began.

The sixteen couples were married together in the centre of the Rutendon. They stood in a line two steps apart from each other while the nine tribal chiefs stood spaced before them. The chiefs oversaw the marriage ritual, taking turns to say the appointed lines. The nine tribes sat cross-legged in an ever-expanding oval around them, in still silence. Amongst the even recitations of the priests could be heard the blowing of the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the gentle swaying of the trees that cascaded over hours of forest, up and down the hills and mountains and valleys, distant monkeys and cats, nearby birds, the creeping of ants and insects, spiders and flies, the wasps and the bees, the disturbances in the earth of moles, rats, mice, capybaras, the gentle hiss of a snake along the outskirts of the clearing; the sun itself seemed to leave a gentle, silent noise on their skin. The blue sky seemed to bless their quiet, the infinite space above them opened up to it. The moons dispersed, distant and meek. All was blessed, bright, holy.

When the recitations were over, the sixteen couples bent to their knees and opened their arms wide to the world, gently interlocking their fingers where their hands met. The chiefs' knelt too, silent.

Slowly, as though connected by some common feeling, the tribes began to shuffle and rustle, and then whistle and slap hands to thighs and then cry out and roar until all of the Rutendon erupted in celebratory noise. And then parents and families of the joined stood to offer their congratulations. Some more rushed to light fires and cook the hunt and open sacks of cauim to pass out and drink.

Niisa rose alongside his family as everyone in all the tribes seemed to turn instantly outwards, chatting, laughing and embracing, leaving Niisa standing still, alone within the largest crowd he had ever known. He stared straight ahead, holding to silence as all about him descended into chaotic noise. He was not alone. He was the only one there that was not alone. He would attune to the all-thing. He would bathe in the Daygo stream.

Chiko turned to him and embraced him. "I am glad I gave you the wreath," she announced. Then, as she normally did, she skipped to the next place of her attention.

He moved with his family, almost by instinct staying close to them, close enough to be associated without drawing attention. If he became separated, he would raise eyebrows and invite conversation. The best way to escape attention was to be the shy part of a group, the part that the eye skipped over. A single entity, alone, only caused notice. He had always been single, on his own, but it would not be like that anymore, he would be greater than all of them combined. He would be part of the all-thing. Daygo was his home.

His parents fell into conversation with Emeka's. Emeka herself stood slightly apart with her friends. They chatted but she seemed distracted. She looked in his direction. She seemed shy as she gave a small smile. Niisa looked over her blankly. Niisa's parents glanced back at him a couple of times. Her parents glanced at her. They looked at him. The smallest frown was on her mother's face. Niisa turned his face, as if he was simply unaware of their attention, just shy and distracted.

His parents were in fine form as they clasped hands, said "hi" to Emeka and the girls and wandered slowly onwards towards the sixteen couples. Chiko became lost and found as she darted between the maze of people, laughing and smiling and playing with other girls, playing small tricks on men and women who smiled down at her and laughed.

They made their way through the throng of people and eventually gave their congratulations to the newly-married couples. The feast was already underway; everything that the forest had to offer was cooking over nine fires. They wandered and ate different pieces and drank from sacks of cauim, never staying too long over any fire, sometimes tending to one for a time, ensuring the food did not burn. They would start the Ijo full and drunk. Niisa ate sparingly. After a time, he drifted away from the rest. He found an uninhabited hut and sat inside its doorway.

His heart seemed to want to beat from his chest, but he forced himself to remain gentle within, to keep calm. The first round of drums sounded. It was almost time.

The drums were beating solidly when he slowly came out of the trance he had fallen into. He rose to his feet. It was time. He strode from the hut. The noise had become drunken. People danced where they stood. Men pissed where they should not and some women did the same. More twirled, more kissed. This was the night of celebration, where the gathering became feral. Many called out to him, but he walked slowly past them.

"Niisa," cried his mother, stepping in front of him, clearly drunk. "My boy." His father strolled drunkenly some steps behind her. "How did you fair with Emeka last night?" She smiled down at him. "I hear you did good."

"Niisa!" his father announced, almost stumbling into Fumnaya. "Your sister," he panted. "She is drunk. We had to carry her back."

Fumnaya leaned into her husband. "Poor Chiko. She is such a good girl." She smiled at Niisa and reached out a hand, passing it through his hair. "She got too excited."

"I must go to the Ijo," said Niisa.

"Of course," proclaimed his father, smiling. He turned and waved a hand to the glowing fire at his back. "Dance like the wind!" Niisa walked past them. The press of people was thickening. The noise gained some rhythm, and Niisa began to move with it, slowly.

The dance started slowly, but it built and built. The throng of people grew, the space began to compress, bodies encroaching upon one another. The beating of drums, the singing, the whistling, the rattling of orin sticks; random, disjointed, assorted, slowly developed towards rhythm, slowly joined, slowly found commonality. The movement, brash and erratic, improvised and considered, slowly started to meld towards the one, to enact from some felt purpose, an unseen direction emitted from the very air itself. Niisa fell into it, collapsing, drifting away, disintegrating from himself to a meshed piece of a whole. He danced. He sang. He moved. He lived.

Simple life, living, expressed.

The heat rose, with his eyes, to the dark night sky. Blinded to the stars, the red moon shone, the visible round iris of the isolated watcher alone in the sky, owning the dark. The fire grew, its heat pushing the bodies back. Short, sharp shouts emitted from a thousand voices bounced across the open air as the flames soared and crackled and gave that deep, burning roar that grew like some devil ready to consume the world, like the voice of destruction.

As though unknown of it himself, Niisa distanced himself from the fire. He continued to move and chant but with each step he edged an inch further away. He could feel it again. It was almost a faint tingling on his flesh. An invisible vibration in the air around him. Though the red moon's pull was not as it was the first night.

If he could sense it in the air, he could pass the test, he could leave the tribe, he could learn from the priests, he could connect, truly and forever, with Daygo. He felt this need, even though his mind was blank, even though he was lost in the trance of the Ijo. Eventually, as the pressing presence of the fire faded to a distant glowing, he escaped to the edges of the crowd. He turned, moving fluidly, flowing like liquid to the energy in the air. He travelled away from the tribes, away towards the cabin his family had been staying in.

A ferret he had caught the night before was buried outside the hut, its limbs bound tightly to its body, and still alive. He reached the hut and scrawled the earth clear with his hands, still moving to the rhythm of the dance, his hips, his feet, his legs, humming, as his nails grew dirty, as the hole grew. He found his catch. He took him into his hands. His knife was buried beside it.

He took the ferret into the hut and sat with it resting in his hands. His gaze fell steadily on the other corner of their hut. Chiko lay facing him. The noise was thumping from outside. It was close to its peak. Niisa looked at his sister. The bottoms of her eyes seemed to shine in the moonlight. Her chest rose and fell between her arms. She snored lightly. Her legs were pulled up close to her. The hut was dark, but the moonlight shone through the door, a grey light that fell on her sleeping form, that ended across her knees, her arm and chest, as though a sign, as though an invitation, giving vision to the work that he must do. The ferret rolled softly off his fingertips, landing on the dirt floor with a soft pad. Dead. He placed the knife quietly beside it. He still hummed. He broke into a soft chant, his movements still rolled languidly as he stepped forward and stood above her. It did not take long to use the weedgrass that he had wrapped tightly around the ferret's form to tie her ankles and wrists, and to turn her onto her back. He stuffed her mouth with fur padding. He retrieved his knife. He knelt beside her. Still chanting, he raised the blade high and brought it down just below her sternum. Her screams were muffled, her eyes were wide and white as he sawed through her. Her body grew taut and shook and struggled, but he pinned her with his knees as he sought with fingers and eyes and everything for what he must sense, what he must know. His prayers were answered.
3. Racquel

He crawled along the side of the street, at the feet of the homeless. His forehead was wet, the fringe matted against his head. His mind was vacant, as were his eyes. He continued onwards, crawling. The dust and dirt pushed underneath his fingernails as his hands grasped at the ground, as though he might be thrown from it.

He stopped again, and started to cry. _Why was he crying, what was wrong?_

"Liam! What are you doing?" He heard a laugh but from a great distance. "Liam?"

He curled up in a ball on the ground and hugged his head. He felt a pressure on him. Something was shaking him. He fought against it, tightening his grip upon himself, curling up tight. He would not be pulled apart, he would stay together. Eventually the rocking stopped, the shouting in his ear ceased and he was left alone.

He was in a cocoon of protection, nothing could enter; there was nothing else but him within it and nothing outside. His tears left his face salty and moist. There was warmth from within. Warmth and safety.

******

Racquel walked side by side with Alison on the way back home from the well. Alison had plump features. She had a round face with fleshy cheeks that always seemed a little flushed and a wide nose. Her fringe lay over her forehead, feathered out just above her eyebrows. The rest of her light brown hair was tied in a ponytail that swung behind her as she walked. She was a couple of inches smaller than Racquel and almost the same age. Both girls were just shy of their fourteenth year.

She lived close to the outer wall of Teruel, three streets in from Baker's Corner, but she normally walked with Racquel until Sparrow Street before they went their separate ways. The sun had dipped below the buildings of the slums, meaning there was less than an hour until twilight. Racquel quietly withheld a sigh of annoyance as she thought of the boy Liam. _Why hadn't he shown up?_ She had made Alison wait with her for close to half an hour before her constant pestering was too much to bear and they left without him.

It had been another sunny day, though not quite as hot as it had been during the previous week. People seemed a little more relaxed as they walked the streets, probably relieved at the slight break from the oppressive heat.

"I heard Dad talkin' to one of his friends yesterday," said Alison. Racquel looked across at her as she talked. She was her best friend, though at times Racquel wondered how. They seemed to have little in common. "They were talkin' about a guy who didn't pay the tax. Said his daughters would be sorry. Dad said he was a scumbag for not payin', when he had daughters like that, not lookin' after his family." Alison glanced Racquel's way for her reaction, but Racquel had none to give, so she continued. "I think he is a scumbag. A man has to pay his way. Thank Lev I don't have a dad like that."

Racquel looked away, ignoring the gibe as she was used to doing. Alison's father was a matis enforcer and friends with her uncle Galo. That was how Alison and Racquel had met and become friends. Alison's father Damon had brought her to the bakery one day and the two of them had started talking. Damon and Galo had liked the idea of their friendship and had promoted the relationship since.

The truth was Racquel didn't really have any other friends. She used to be friends with a few girls and boys on her street, but as she grew older Galo had wanted her to help out in the bakery more and more. Anytime he had seen her out playing with other children, he would call her in and set her to a chore. Over the years she had slowly lost track of everyone but Alison. She met with her twice a week. Most other days she got a chance to leave the bakery for an hour or so before dusk. She normally spent the time out beside the well, watching people as they finished up for the day. It was a relief just to get away from the house for a while, even though sometimes she found herself lonely as she watched groups walk by, chatting amiably.

Alison continued talking, regardless of Racquel's lack of participation in the conversation. She rarely needed encouragement to talk. "Anyway, I guess Dad will be paying him a visit. What has you so glum? Still thinkin' of your slum rat boyfriend?"

"No! I'm just hoping Galo will be in a good mood when I get back. He had to leave the shop this evenin' to order a load of firewood for the oven. He normally comes back from Jessup's in a bad mood. Calls him a cheat!"

Alison looked across at her. "You afraid he'll hit you again?"

"No, he's just been very ... on edge lately." Galo hit Racquel all the time, just not normally in the face.

Racquel looked down at the dress she wore. It extended to just past her knees and was embroidered with flowery patterns. Her aunt had spent hours sewing the floral design into it. Galo had yelled at her more than once about the waste of good thread, but she had persisted, meekly forecasting how lovely Racquel would look when it was done.

It was beginning to tighten around the chest as her breasts grew. They had been on the rise for nearly two years and now represented two handfuls. She hadn't noticed at first but now felt sure that her hips had become more rounded too. She wasn't sure of what she thought of all the changes to her body over that time. She might have preferred if it was somehow more discreet. Her uncle Galo had started to take a lot more notice of her since her womanhood had begun to show. She sometimes felt his eyes follow her across the room. She had looked back yesterday and saw him glance up from her posterior angrily. He had shouted for her to find something useful to do.

"So you think your boyfriend will show up tomorrow? He prob'ly will when I'm not here. I can't believe you had me waitin' half an hour for some slum rat!"

"Don't call him that."

"Why? That's what he is, isn't he?"

"He's the same as anyone else."

"He is not! If my father found out that I was hangin' out with some rat, he'd slap me silly."

_Like the sons of enforcers are any better,_ thought Racquel, but she kept it to herself, as she so often found herself doing. Alison seemed to nod as though she had won the point.

"I went behind the barn with Fin last night!" she said, suddenly excited and eager for Racquel's opinion. The barn was a warehouse at the end of Alison's street that all the locals referred to as "the barn". Racquel looked across at her.

"Just the two of ye?" she asked.

Alison nodded. "Let him finger me as well!"

Racquel gasped a little in surprise, and Alison let a squeal, happy with the reaction.

"How ... was it?" Racquel asked shyly. She could feel herself blushing as she said it. She had only kissed one boy before. It was a short affair that Alison had set up. She had been teased for weeks until she finally agreed to kiss a boy that Alison found for her.

The next day, while out at the well, Alison had seen two boys their age walking towards the market. She had run over to them while Racquel waited awkwardly by, not sure whether to look over or pretend indifference. The first boy seemed shy and refused, but then Alison asked the second and he nodded his head vigorously. She had led him over to Racquel. They then walked hand in hand to the wall of a building and kissed right then and there. At first it had only been on the lips, but when he gave an angry look she had opened her mouth to him, their tongues meeting. After a while, his hand reached up to grab at her breast. She had allowed it to stay for a few seconds before pushing him off and running back to Alison.

The boy had returned to his friend excitedly with a triumphant grin and they had parted ways.

"Okay," Alison said. "He wasn't very good at it." She took a step closer to Racquel before she went on. "He took a while to find the hole!" she whispered fiercely and jumped away with a giggle.

Racquel was always in equal parts intrigued and embarrassed by Alison's stories. She felt as though she was less experienced than all other girls her age. Alison certainly always seemed to know a lot more than her. She was the main source of all of her knowledge about the world of boys.

They came to the edge of Sparrow Street and said their goodbyes. They would see each other again at the same time in two days. Racquel reluctantly turned for home.

It was only a five minute walk from there to the bakery. She enjoyed this time of day, when the baking heat of the sun was no longer beating down on her tanned skin but the air still held a pleasant warmth. The stink also seemed lessened, not so festering as it was during midday heat. The slums were quietening now, offering a less rushed and more pleasant air as people laughed and joked together, packing up after the day's work. No doubt enjoying these few moments between work and life in the home, where they were suddenly free to joke with their neighbouring workers, no longer trying to sell or get the upper hand. The peaceful time before returning to the household and whatever waited for them there.

Racquel felt it too. Enjoying those last few precious moments before walking up to her home above the bakery. Finally, blissfully alone and able to enjoy the ease in the slums without the lurking tension of Galo or the slightly annoying presence of Alison, even though she felt guilty to admit it.

A slight breeze blew through her hair as she walked. She inhaled, taking in the faint and familiar scent of baked bread, mixed with that of the dubious meat mixture that Dallow made for the meat pies cooked in Galo's oven. There was also the smell of the people, sweat and dirt, and the wood of the buildings. The sky was stained red behind her and to the left as she neared the door of the bakery. It was closed but not yet locked, Galo often coming up and down the stairs at the end of the evening, organising things for the following day's work. She pushed the door open, closed it after herself and slid the latch across, locking the door from the inside.

Racquel lived with her aunt and her uncle Galo. Her aunt was her mother's sister. Her mother had died when she was four from an infection she picked up while working as a nurse in an infirmary. Racquel had fleeting memories of her; the most lasting was a week of crying as she lay wasting in the bed. To this day she could remember the slowly building smell of decay.

After that her aunt took her in, and she had been living above the bakery ever since. Her aunt had proven to be barren and had had no children herself. Racquel was like an only child to her. Galo, however, had always treated her as an unwelcome guest that persisted on staying.

He hated Aunt Cara for the children she hadn't given him. As the years had gone on, Cara had become more cowed and meek, flinching every time Galo raised his voice, which was often. Her features matched her personality, as in a strange way Galo's seemed to match his. He was big and brutish, standing over six feet tall, with a doughy round face and a pig's nose. He was balding and had his brown hair cut short around his head. His chin was joined to his neck by hanging, loose fat that waggled when he moved in haste. He had a round stomach that was strangely smaller than one might expect from his facial features.

Cara, on the other hand, was the same height as Racquel even though she was still growing. She had mousy features; a lightly freckled face with small eyes that showed more wrinkles than it should for a woman not far into her thirties. Her auburn hair was streaked with grey and hung, tied back in a ponytail, to just above her shoulder blades. She looked as though she might once have been pretty but had lost all desire to be so.

Cara often told Racquel that her mother was beautiful, that her looks came from her, while her darker skin was a result of her father.

She walked past the counter and stopped for a moment, her hand resting on the counter top. She spared a glance across at the oven, remembering three days previously when the boy Liam had swooped in like a bird in flight, seeing the prize bread in the oven. And then, like the bird, he had found himself momentarily trapped in the room, unable to open the oven door.

She continued on to the next room where the dough was made. It was a small room and practical of purpose. There were three large pots of flour propped against the far wall, underneath the staircase that led to the living quarters above. Beside these was a stack of wood used for firing in the oven. To her right just inside the door was a flat wooden table where the flour was mixed with water and kneaded until ready for cooking. Sometimes seeds or dried fruit were added to the mix, though these loaves were specially ordered from some of the wealthier clients. Flour lay sprinkled across the top of it. There were various grinding utensils for turning seed into flour that were rarely used, a large roller and knife laid out on the table top.

She walked across to the foot of the stairs where she heard raised voices. She took a few steps upwards before pausing to listen, reluctant to walk into an argument.

"A whole batch ruined! I had to turn Dave away and three other customers to match. Laughing at me, they were! A baker who can't bake bread! By Lev, when I see that girl!"

A shiver ran through Racquel, a thousand pinprick-like jolts that sent her heart into a frenzied panic. _A whole batch ruined! Why? What did she have to do with it?_ She searched through her mind, recalling all of her chores that she was to have completed before leaving that evening. She ticked them off one by one in her head. She couldn't think of anything!

"Please, Galo, it wasn't her fault."

"Wasn't her fault? Well, whose fault is it so, mine?" Galo stormed. "I ask her to do one thing before swanning off with that little brat!" The oven. Oh Lev _,_ he had told her to dampen the fire down in the oven. The last batch of bread was in it and he had to collect the firewood from Jessup. She was to turn it down so the bread wouldn't burn and the oven wouldn't waste good wood. She was on her way to do it when Aunt Cara told her to go, that she would cut the air off once she had taken in the clothes from drying.

"I told her—"

"You told her what?"

Racquel wanted nothing more than to turn and flee but she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She would have to come back eventually, and Galo would be all the angrier for her tardiness. Plus she didn't want her aunt to admit what she had done. Better to be punished herself and have it over with. If Cara told him that it was she that had forgotten, it would only make the two of them accountable in Galo's eyes.

She stole her nerve, every fibre of her being trying to resist, walked the last few steps and pushed the door open. The hinges creaked and the room beyond fell into momentary silence. She couldn't meet Galo's stare as he turned to face her, instead staring into space between the two of them.

"There she is," breathed Galo. She knew pleading wouldn't do any good but she couldn't help herself.

"I ... I'm sorry," she stuttered. "I just forgot. This one time. I won't do it again. I—"

"You're damn right you won't do it again!" He strode across the room, each step a deliberate, heavy plod, reverberating through the floor. He grabbed the large wooden spoon from the table in his meaty hand.

"No, please, Galo ..." her aunt pleaded, reaching for him, but she was shoved roughly away with one sweep of his powerful arm.

"Come here!" he shouted at her, but Racquel was frozen in place, unable to move an inch and filled with terror. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along to the chair in front of the table. He sat down and dragged her across his lap after him. She couldn't help but pull away, resisting, but she was no match for his strength.

"You can squirm all you like, girl!" he said as he pushed her roughly down over his lap with his left hand, holding her in place. Her left side pressed against the warm rolls of fat of his stomach. She did squirm, wriggling for freedom, but to no avail. His left hand holding her in place, he pulled up the skirt of her dress past her waist with his right, still holding the spoon. He tucked the dress under his left, leaving her bottom, wrapped in her underclothes, exposed.

The first blow came, his body hopping in the seat as he brought his full force to bear, the spoon whishing through the air before landing with a smack. Racquel cried out in pain, a fiery mark remaining as he lifted his hand again. Another blow landed, and another. He held nothing back, and Racquel cried as she was rocked forwards and backwards on his lap, her breasts rubbing against his left leg. She heard him grunt as he continued and she forced herself to stop squirming, hoping that he would stop.

"Stop, Galo, please," cried Cara, her voice high-pitched and whiney. "It's my fault! I told her to go, I forgot to dampen the fire." His hand slowed, the last blow landing softly.

"What business do you have doing Rac's chores for her? I didn't tell you to do it, I told her to do it." His rage seemed only increased from her aunt's confession, and tears ran down Racquel's face. She sensed his attention come back to her.

"You think you're a woman now, to order your aunt around!" he brought the spoon down twice more, then seemed to find it inadequate; dropping it, he slapped her with his bare hand. He grabbed at her with his left hand, squeezing her side. She felt a hard pressure push against her from beneath his tunic. He leaned down over her, his warm breath bathing her ear as his lips moved close.

"Think you're all grown up now, do you?" he whispered harshly, breathing hard, panting into her ear. She dared not say a word, she was frozen in terror. He stopped hitting her, instead grabbing her right buttock with his hand, squeezing it hard. "Think you're a woman!" He reached his hand around, grabbing her between the legs. "You keep acting like a woman and maybe I'll start treating you like one!" He squeezed and then grabbed the back of her dress with his left hand. He heaved her up and threw her away from him. She stumbled across the floor, barely keeping her balance. She threw her palms up as she hit the wall and rested against it for a moment.

Her dress had half fallen, and she knew her bottom was red raw as it still seared with pain. She adjusted her dress quickly, covering up her legs. She wiped at her cheeks and eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears.

Galo turned his anger on Cara.

"You think you can say who does what in this household now, woman!" he shouted at her, getting up from his chair. Racquel saw that his tunic was pressing out slightly below his belly as he walked towards Cara. "Maybe you need to be reminded who's the woman and who's the man in this house." He grabbed her roughly by the arm.

"No, Galo." Cara tried to pull her arm free but his grip was iron. He slapped her hard across the face and, dragging Cara behind him, strode towards the bedroom. Racquel knew that his hand was pressing painfully into her arm. He hauled her into the room and slammed the wooden door shut behind him. Racquel heard a shriek from her aunt and the springs of the bed creak.

"Bend over!" came Galo's harsh voice. "This'll teach ye." There were scuffling noises that were soon followed by his angry grunts.

Racquel tried to close her ears. There were only three rooms above the bakery; the main living room where she was, the bedroom from which Galo's grunts came and a small room adjacent that was used as a lavatory. Seeing no alternative, she opened the door to the stairs and ran down to the bottom. Crouching on the bottom rung, she put her hands to her face and cried.

******

He eventually became aware of voices. Constant chatter. Close. Just above him. He didn't want to leave, he didn't want to change but, unwilling, his mind became more conscious, more aware.

"How long has he been here?"

"A couple of hours!" There was laughter.

"What the fuck's wrong with 'im?"

"Dono, just found 'im crawlin along the side of the street. Went over to 'im, asked him what he was at, and he just curled into a ball like that and started crying." There was another snort of laughter.

"Calum probably told 'im he wanted some time apart!" That sneer. He recognised that sneer. There was a snigger of laughter.

"There's something wrong with him ..."

"No shit."

"His face is covered in puke." There was a moment's silence.

"What are we goanna do?"

"Why the fuck should we do anythin'? Leave him here until he wakes up, I'd say."

"We can't just leave him here." _Darren. That was Darren._

"Fuck him, leave Calum to sort 'im out." Calum. _Calum._ He groaned. There was a shuffling of feet. He tried to speak but his throat was stuck. He tried again, getting a bare whisper.

"Calum ..." He couldn't continue. His face crunched together, his chest tightened, his muscles tensed. He waited for a moment until they relaxed again. He tried once more. "He's dead," his voice was a hoarse whisper.

"Dead? ..."

"You mean Calum?"

"Calum's dead?"

Liam managed the barest of nods. He unwound himself, his body stiff, resisting. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

"What happened?"

"How?"

Liam got up onto his feet unsteadily. _What was he doing?_ He felt drained. He felt emptied out inside, devoid of emotion. He looked around, taking in his bearings. He was at the edge of Ratville ... Devin Street. The flat wasn't far away. A left at the end of the street and a right afterwards.

"Liam ... what happened?" Liam looked across at the source of the voice. It was Darren. His eyes seemed wide. He held his hands in front of him as though unsure what to do with them. Beside and behind Darren were Deaglan and Erinin. Deaglan stood with his arms crossed, pretending to be uncaring and nonchalant, though Liam could see the eagerness within him to hear the answer. His shoulders were slightly pressed forward, his head cocked. Erinin looked as shocked as Darren.

Liam shook his head. Turning from them, he began to walk towards the end of the street and the flat.

"Hey!" Deaglan grabbed his arm. Liam suddenly felt a spike of fury unlike anything he had felt before. He pulled his arm from Deaglan's grasp and turned, his eyes ablaze. Deaglan took a quick step backwards but Liam stepped after him. His right arm flew out, grasping Deaglan's neck and squeezing. A guttural growl escaped from him as he pushed forward. Deaglan's arms flew up from his sides, grasping at Liam and trying to push him away but he had not been expecting the sudden onslaught and lost his footing as he stumbled backwards from Liam's advance.

Darren and Erinin jumped back a step in shock. Deaglan tripped, falling over. Liam followed him down, dropping on top of him heavily. His second hand joined his first around Deaglan's throat and he squeezed, choking him.

At last Darren and Erinin reacted.

"Liam!" shouted Darren. "Get off him!" They grabbed an arm each and pulled. Liam managed to hold on for a few moments before his grip was ripped free. Deaglan gasped for air, his hands reaching to his neck. He turned over and spluttered as Liam was lifted clear, struggling wildly in their arms.

He looked across at Darren, snarling, his lips wide around clenched teeth. Darren flinched backwards. And then, as suddenly as the rage had come, it was gone. The empty feeling returned but this time weighed down with depression and a deep sadness. He stopped struggling and the boys let him go.

He looked to the ground and turned away again, walking back to the flat. He suddenly didn't care about anything.

"Fucking Lev!" he heard Deaglan splutter. "That mad fucking bastard! I'm going to kill 'im." There was a scramble of feet and a small scuffle.

"Leave it, Deag," said Darren. "Calum's dead." Liam didn't look around, he just kept walking. His head felt a dead weight as it hung low, his chin touching his chest. Darren's words rang in his head; an empty cavern devoid of anything else, just those words, bouncing off the walls. _Calum's dead_.

******

Once Liam arrived back at the flat, he lay down on his bedroll and wrapped a blanket around himself. He rolled over to face the stairs, with the rest of the room to his back. He ignored anything and anyone around him and didn't look up when Darren, Deaglan and Erinin returned. He simply lay there until a troubled sleep overtook him.

He was slow to wake the following day, avoiding the clarity of the morning for as long as he could manage. When he finally opened his eyes, the room was bright from sunlight and he was alone. He rolled onto his back and stretched, forgetting everything for a moment. He felt refreshed and invigorated. There was a niggle in the back of his mind, _why had he been so drained?_ The answer came back to him in a rush, flooding through his body. Depression seeped into his mind, controlling and consuming it.

He remained wrapped in his blanket for much of the day, not moving, until thirst forced him out. He walked down the stairs and out the door, the sudden glare of the sunlight hurting his sleep-crusted eyes. He put a hand to his forehead and felt the dried puke there.

He walked to the well and drank greedily from it before stripping to his small clothes. He threw a bucket of the cool water straight over his head before filling another one and using it to scrub the scum and dirt from his face and body with his hands. Once he felt clean, he threw another bucket over his head to wash any lasting dirt off. He rinsed out his hair and flicked free the excess water before donning his tunic again. The fabric stuck to his damp skin but Liam could trust the heat of the summer sun to dry him. He glanced in its direction and was rewarded with a purple ring burnt into his vision.

He left the well and walked through the streets for a while. Something began to eat at him as he went. He started to feel antsy, pent up. He couldn't put a finger on it but everything seemed wrong. He looked about him, trying to place it. Everything seemed the same as it always was, everyone was going about their business as they did on every other day; every other normal day. But today wasn't a normal day. It was wrong. Why weren't the streets in turmoil, why weren't people in tears, weeping, mourning, as he was. He knew it was stupid, he understood it at an intellectual level, but on a deeper level it didn't seem right. Deep within he felt he should be able to see the result of Calum's death all around him, in wailing children, in weeping wives, in angry fathers. The slums seemed almost peaceful in the sun, but he felt as though they should be in bloody war, as his inner being was. People should be falling from the sky.

He realised that was what hit at him so hard. Inside everything was in turmoil. Yet looking about him, nothing had changed, everything was the exact same as it was every other day. The slums didn't care, Liam realised. The world didn't care, nobody cared that Calum was dead. That he had been killed by the careless blow of a blacksmith, who had been harried by Carrick's crew for no good reason. It was so stupid. It was all so stupid. And everyone was the same. The streets should be in chaos, the world should be in chaos, everything had changed and nothing would ever be the same. Yet here he stood, in a sea of uncaring calm, with people hustling and bustling about, glancing at him, as though he were the one out of place, for standing in shock and despair.

He was dead a day. And that was it? Nothing more? Carry on? _Why?_ Liam felt like screaming. Why? Why was it necessary? Why was it so? His eyes misted up as he set to walking once more.

He had turned onto Dame Lane and walked along the curvature of the street until he was opposite Lana's. He sat with his back to the building there and looked across at the whorehouse for a long time, staring at the peeling red paint on its front as though he might witness the decay in action; see the effects of time and the fading of life. He sat only ten yards from the side entrance but could not will himself any closer. A bubble of sorrow grew within him, inflating and expanding even as he tried to push it down and shove it forcefully from his body. It grew until it had filled every precipice and then, with nowhere else to go, it burst forth and Liam wept.

Once his weeping had subsided, he forced himself to his feet and stumbled away from the brothel, putting distance between it and himself as quickly as possible.

Without knowing where he walked, he found himself turning onto Fenrow Street and then Baker's Corner. He looked about desperately for Racquel. The bakery was still open, so he walked across the doorway from the opposite side of the street, peeking across to see who was inside. He saw the baker, large and fat, pulling a large tray from the oven, filled with freshly baked loaves, cakes and buns. He put the tray on the counter, turning to close the oven door behind him. He seemed to yell to someone on the inside. A moment later, Racquel appeared from the doorway to the backroom. She looked timid as he saw her answer him. Liam started to move closer, crossing the street slowly, watching the scene.

As he neared, he began to hear the edge in the baker's voice as he yelled. He started to walk menacingly towards her. Liam saw her take a step back from him in fear, her back touching against the wall. Liam's pace quickened unconsciously, reaching a full, quick stride.

"I told you twice!" the baker yelled.

"No ... I thought ..." Racquel quivered, a shake to her voice as she struggled to find words.

"What? You thought what?" The baker stepped closer, a mere yard from Racquel now. Liam started to jog and then run, racing through the doorway, reaching for the knife in his pocket. Both the baker and Racquel looked up as he did so, Racquel's face registering shock as she saw him.

"What the ..." the baker exclaimed, turning to face him. Liam hesitated a moment as his fingers grasped empty air. The knife wasn't there. He adjusted his trajectory, turning from the baker's path, and ran to the counter. Skidding to a stop, he lashed out with his right hand at the baking tray that sat leaning over the counter's edge. The tray burned his hand as he hit its edge but he relished the pain, snarling as it flew into the air, upending its contents to scatter across the floor of the room.

"Take that, you fat cunt!" he shouted at the baker, turning again. He ran for the door. The baker seemed to jerk in two directions at once, spluttering, before he managed to make up his mind and jump towards Liam. He set off with sluggish weight, pulling his bulk along after him and swiped out with his arm, trying to grab a hold of Liam's tunic. It was a close call, but his hesitation had proved enough and Liam just escaped his grasp, speeding out the door.

He ran, sprinting with all his might, not looking back. He could hear the pursuit of the baker and his yells but knew he wouldn't be caught. He ran around the corner and the corner of two more streets until he became breathless. He stopped then and kicked the wall of an opposing building in angry triumph.

He strode up and down the width of the street, panting and clenching his fists. _Take that, you fuck!_

******

Racquel knelt behind the counter with her hand clasped tightly over her mouth, shaking uncontrollably. No matter how she tried, she couldn't stop the floods of laughter that overtook her. Every time she started to calm down, the image of Galo, his face red, his eyes wide, his mouth open and spluttering for words incredulously, would pop back into her mind's eye and a new burst of laughter would overtake her.

She was gasping for breath by the time she heard Galo's heavy steps come back in the doorway. His panting breath was loud and clear. The sudden terror of being caught was enough to straighten her features and bring the laughter to an abrupt end. She hunched her shoulders and picked up the last few buns and loaves from the ground, laying them out on the tray before her.

She froze as she heard Galo behind her, leaning heavily on the counter top. She knew that her cheeks were lined with tears and feared their detection if she were to turn with the tray. She started to pray silently as the moment lengthened. She couldn't stay knelt so for long. He grunted and she heard him turn away.

"Bring them in here!" he growled roughly. Racquel sighed with relief, quickly wiping her face dry. She lifted the tray and followed him into the next room. He stood in front of the table, staring straight ahead and leaning forward slightly with his hands out to either side clasping the edge of the wood.

"Put it there," he said, giving the slightest nod, indicating the space directly in front of him. She put the tray down and pushed it across. He started to pick the buns up one by one, brushing the dirt and grit from them until they were clean-looking again, then placing them off to the side. Racquel stood awkwardly at his side, fidgeting with her hands, unsure of whether to help him or not until he turned to her and shouted.

"Be gone! Off with you." She jumped and quickly obeyed, walking out the door of the bakery. She sighed once more with relief, letting her shoulders and neck relax.

She smiled, shaking her head in disbelief. Twice now she had seen Liam run into her uncle's bakery with loose abandon. She wondered what he must have been thinking.

******

Liam climbed the stairs up to his flat. It was after dark. He had spent the rest of the day wandering the streets angrily.

He had stopped at a rare glass window, examining his reflection. He had stared back into the blacks of his eyes for minutes, taking in his appearance. His jet black hair was growing long, his fringe curled to the sides at the top of his eyebrows, the sides extended down past his ears and hung loosely, at a length with the back. He had boyish features, what he would consider a normal nose and chin. His hair was greasy and his face smudged.

The tunic he wore was of worn wool, holes and frays showing in places along its sides. He had worn that tunic for two years, every day since he had gotten it. It had been too big for him then, but looking at it in the window Liam saw how it ended well above his knees. Soon it would be stupidly short. It had rarely been washed and was of a varying grey, reflecting the many stains across it.

He wore no shoes or socks.

He was just another slum rat. Looking at the glass, he could see nothing else. There was nothing different about him; there had been nothing different about Calum.

He was tired now, worn out. It had been a long, tough day, as tough as any that he remembered. He had stopped again at the well on the way home and drank his fill. It didn't stop his belly from rumbling though. He had eaten nothing since the previous afternoon.

At the top of the stairs he found the whole gang in the room. They stopped as he entered. He walked towards them as they waited expectantly, hesitant to ask anything.

"He died yesterday," said Liam. "We were doing a job for Carrick. We had to draw a blacksmith from the forge so that Carrick could get back at him. We stole a shield but Calum didn't make it out. The blacksmith hit him across the head with a hammer." Liam said it all in a dead voice, too tired to feel anything but empty and drained. But nevertheless his voice broke as he finished. "It smashed his forehead ... dead ... straight away."

The boys listened in shock and silence. Calum had been the strongest of them. He had been the leader. It wasn't just Liam who had seen Calum as the future. Many of the other boys had hoped for his rise in the matis and to be brought up along with him afterwards. Calum had been shrewder, more disciplined, _harder_ , than the rest of the boys in the flat. He was unbreakable. And now he was dead, the first to die in their family for over a year.

They stood around awkwardly and unsure for a while, stomping feet. Liam simply stared off to the side, into the face of the wall.

"Dear Levitas," started Cid, reciting the prayer of the fallen that they had all learned at the school. "Accept our brother Calum into the flow of Daygo. Let him enter on the side of peace, to know the green beauty of the world." Liam nodded his head, unable to join in. He hoped, he prayed, that it was so. Would Calum join the flow of fresh life, tranquil, happy, bursting forth from the ground? He hoped so, with all of his heart. He deserved it. He _knew_ he deserved it. Yet he had done many things that the book quoted as evil. He had stolen from people, injured people, caused harm. He had killed. These were all things that meant you were bad. And bad people burned in Daygo's fire. Alive and livid in the explosive, burning force of an erupting volcano. Shocked and screaming in the flash of a lightning bolt. He bowed his head sadly as Darren took up the verse.

"Let him add to Daygo's beauty and bring forth life to ..."

"What the fuck, are ye a destra?" said Deaglan. Darren cut off, looking embarrassed. "I heard enough of that shit in the school." Liam looked across at Deaglan in time to see his eyes turn on him. They locked stares. "You ever come at me again and I'll stick a knife in your gut! Ye hear me? Calum's not around no longer to protect you now." Liam stayed silent, his eyes unblinking as he held Deaglan's stare. "I was sick of that fuck anyway!"

Liam could see, by his stance, that Deaglan was braced for an attack. He was goading him. The rest of the room watched nervously, the tension building in the air. But Liam was drained from the day. It had taken too much out of him. He felt a blanket of hate fall over his heart for Deaglan, but hate could be controlled and he was too tired for anger. He turned away from him and strode to his pallet. He picked the knife up from underneath his pillow and sat down against the wall. He bent his knees and twirled the blade on the floorboard between them.

There was little conversation in the room that night. Perhaps they were afraid to talk of what had happened, for fear of Liam's or Deaglan's reaction.

******

Over the following days, Racquel thought often of Liam. Every time she thought back to the incident with the tray and Galo's reaction she burst out laughing, sometimes when she was performing a chore in the bakery, drawing glances from Galo and Cara. She would pinch herself, afraid that Galo would realise the cause of her mirth. She wondered if he had any fear and thought back to herself with shame. She lived in fear of Galo and his unpredictable moods. At times, she found herself longing for Liam's freedom, to be free of such a domineering presence as Galo. But then she would feel guilt for thoughts of leaving her aunt. She had been like a mother to her, always thoughtful and caring, always trying to bear the brunt of Galo's attacks.

It hadn't always been so bad. Galo had always been surly and bad-tempered and capable of bouts of violence. But all of these things had become more pronounced, coupled with an edginess to him, a kind of pent-up agitation.

She couldn't help but feel to blame for the change in the household. She often caught him gazing at her hungrily out of the corner of her eye, as though eyeing up a particularly nice cake that he had baked for a customer and frustrated that he could not take it for himself. She found herself confused and unsettled by that look.

Her aunt seemed to find herself in the room with Racquel and Galo more and more, and at times there almost seemed to be a secret war raging between Cara and Galo, one that she didn't really understand but knew all the same that it was about her. He hit Cara often. Sometimes there seemed no reason at all, only a sudden bout of temper that he felt deserved a close target.

As she walked from the bakery the following Friday with Alison by her side she found herself watchful, glancing from side to side, hoping to see Liam walking past. She didn't know why, but there was a touch of desperation to her scouting, as though he offered her some form of escape.

******

Liam struggled through the following week. He had been working with Calum so long that he didn't know what it was like to work on his own any longer. He was hungry every day and felt strangely isolated as he walked the streets. No longer was he part of a pair. There was no more unspoken agreement or understanding. Sometimes he found himself spotting an opportunity and looking over his shoulder optimistically only to find no one there. Then he was stumped as to what to do and often watched as the chance passed and his belly rumbled angrily, his heart clenched and aching.

But the slums did not forgive. He knew he had to snap out of it and start acting. The next time he saw a chance he took it. He slit the man's purse but without the distraction he was caught with his fist clenched around the prize. He narrowly escaped his flailing arm and managed to escape only because of the man's stumbling drunkenness. This became the case more often than not. The days of smart manoeuvres and clean takes seemed to be of the past. He had to rely more and more on the swiftness of his reactions and the speed of his flight.

When he was back in the flat, Liam paid little heed to what was happening. He often sat in the corner brooding. It was unlike him. A few times Darren or Cid reached out to him, but he hadn't been receptive.

Then there was Deaglan. He had been fast to try and step into Calum's shoes as top man. Liam didn't try to stop him. His frown was clear anytime someone chose to speak to Liam. He was trying to isolate him from the group. This was fine by Liam. He felt deserving of isolation.

In his braver moments, Deaglan shot a few snide remarks and insults towards Liam. They were always disguised, not directly referring to him; he would raise his voice as he talked to the other boys, offering a sideways glance in Liam's direction and the hint of his vicious smirk.

Deaglan, Ultan and Erinin had become a unit, working together. No doubt with Deaglan pulling the strings and taking the large share of the takings. Liam started to think of them as Deaglan's dogs, lapping at his feet, laughing at his jokes.

He avoided going to the tavern, Sally's, that he and Calum normally frequented to see if the gang or Carrick had any work going for them. He was sickened by what had happened and was unsure if he wanted to go back.

He also stayed away from Lana's, not able or willing to confront Calum's death with her. His thoughts occasionally fell towards Racquel. He felt a longing for her company.

Eight days after he had knocked over the tray in the bakery, he found himself lurking outside it. He watched as Racquel and who he presumed to be Alison stepped from the front door and walked idly towards the well. He decided to follow them. He watched for a time as they sat on the wall of the well and chatted before deciding to walk over to them.

The well was the standard size for the slums. There were little variations. The soil underneath Teruel was well saturated from the nearby river. The round wall was just above waist height and the two girls were propped on top of it, their legs dangling above the ground as they chatted. It was set at the side of the road at a T junction. Directly behind it was a tavern. Liam watched a couple of men walk in the door, undoubtedly quenching their thirst after a day's work. He wondered idly if he would see them again the following morning. It was sixth day and most men of the slums spent the day off spending their earnings in the taverns and brothels, building for a bad first day.

Alison noticed him as he approached and nudged Racquel. She looked his way and hopped down from the wall as she saw him.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," Liam replied. She was wearing a faded white dress with flowers embroidered down one side. "That's nice," he said, half pointing to it.

Racquel glanced down at her dress for a moment, a slight frown on her face. "Oh," she said suddenly. "Ya. Thanks." She looked back up to him with a smile. Alison jumped down from the wall and joined her.

"Liam, is it?" She seemed to lift her chin away from him as she spoke, a look of distaste on her face.

"Ya."

"So you're the slum rat that stole the bread from the bakery?" There was a slight sneer to her high-pitched tone of voice.

"Ali!" Racquel exclaimed.

"What?" she answered. "Sure that's what he is, isn't he?"

"No," said Racquel, blushing. She turned to Liam. "So what are you doing out here?"

"Yes, he is," Alison shot back. Racquel looked at her angrily.

"I ..." Liam looked from one to the other. "I was just walkin' around and saw ye heading over here, so I followed yehs over."

"Like a rat," said Alison.

"What the fuck is your problem?" asked Liam, getting angry. He was sick of this, sick of being called a rat and being treated like one. "You think you're better than me?"

"Yeah, I do!" she replied. Liam stared at her. He felt like hitting her. She couldn't hold his gaze for long. She turned away and sat back up on the wall.

Racquel looked from one to the other. She seemed as though she was angry at Alison but didn't want to take sides either. She looked back at Liam sheepishly.

"I haven't seen you in a while," she said.

"Ya ... I ... sorry about ..." He felt stumped for words as he thought of the last time she had seen him. He didn't know what she thought of what he had done. He wasn't sure of what he thought of it himself.

"Thanks," Racquel interjected. "For ... ye know ... stopping him." Liam looked up to see her eyes on him. She was sincere, he knew. He shrugged. He didn't even know if that was what he had been doing, he had just gotten so angry. He was glad, however, that she thought kindly of it.

"Was he mad at you? After?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head and started to laugh. "He was too shocked to know what to be. He couldn't believe it. That some slum ... boy just ran in and knocked over all his stock." Liam noted the pause before 'boy' but he didn't mind. Most people would have just said it. She giggled then. "You should have seen his face!"

Liam smiled. "I did!" he said. "Almost caught me too, dono what I woulda done if he had."

"He hardly said a word the rest of the day." She smiled at him and there was a moment's silence. Liam found himself wishing that Alison wasn't there. He glanced in her direction. She was still moping on top of the well's wall, staring off into the distance, pretending not to be interested.

Racquel noticed his look, glancing back as well.

"You want to call by the bakery tomorrow again?" she asked quietly. "An hour before dusk?"

"Ya, okay."

"I could meet you at the end of the road, beside Fenrow Street?"

Liam nodded. "Okay," he said, "I'll be there." They stood awkwardly for a moment longer, then Racquel turned and walked back to Alison.

"See ye later," she said.

"Bye." Liam turned and walked in the other direction, not sure of where he wanted to go.

******

He was hungry every moment of every day. Without Calum, his takings were down and he had no income from working with Carrick or the gang.

He was considering going to Darren or Cid and offering to team up. But he was strangely discomfited by the idea. Was there such a ready replacement for Calum? He also feared a little about his own freedom. He didn't want to be tied to the hip with someone else, and he was still reluctant to break his self-imposed isolation.

Besides this, Cid had his brother, Bradan, to look out for. The two of them normally took to the streets together. That only really left Darren.

There was another girl he knew, who he and Calum had worked with on a few occasions. She lived two streets down in another family, and was nothing like the two girls that lived with them. She had breasts but Liam often forgot once he spent some time with her. She was more like them. She was tough, but she had seemed fair.

He resolved to approach one of them soon despite his misgivings.

Deaglan's ruling of the group increased as the weeks past. Whether it was dictating what game they played at night or changing the rules to suit him, he slowly, more and more, began to dominate proceedings.

Before, when Calum was alive, Liam had looked upon Deaglan with distaste. But he had been insignificant. His weak attempts to undermine Calum or usurp him were always too far from any real success for Liam to pay him much mind. He had forever held a lower profile to Calum in everyone's eyes.

Now it was as though Liam had inherited Calum's hate for him and it was slowly beginning to set into stone. He was cruel and sadistic. Sometimes it felt as though it were Liam's responsibility to put a stop to him. He sometimes entertained thoughts of stabbing him in his sleep and being done with it.

Calum had been a leader. He had often talked about his ambitions to build a group around him and work their own jobs. Many of the family had been hoping for this. Liam, however, had always been more singular of purpose. He had held a similar ambition but thought about what he could achieve on his own as opposed to what he could build with others, outside of Calum, that was. Deaglan offered the group that hope.

Over the weeks, Liam met with Racquel almost every day at the same time. Twice each week, he had to put up with the annoying presence of Alison. They would spend an hour together walking through the streets of the slums. Liam was always careful not to be seen by Galo as he waited at the end of the street. He didn't know what he would do if he found out that Racquel was meeting up with the boy who had knocked over the tray.

After a couple of days, Liam realised that the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the fist that clenched and squeezed his heart, ever present since Calum's death, dispersed when he was in Racquel's company. With her, he was consumed in the moment, able to leave the worries and pains of his life behind. Without her, they came back, all the more obvious to him but still somehow lessened.

The rest of his day, outside of her company, became a necessary chore, as though the hour he spent with Racquel was real while the rest was just a harsh and ongoing dream.

When she asked him about what he did all day, Liam was unsure of what to say, so he told her the truth. She listened with interest, asking how he managed to do things that Liam took for granted. He felt proud as he slipped into telling her of all the routines and moves that he and Calum had performed over the years, how they developed and perfected their plans. He tried to leave out some of the rougher stuff as he filled her in, things that he himself found discomforting. He almost forgot himself as he relived past events with the happy sheen of memory. They laughed together at funny stories and occurrences, lucky escapes and ridiculous performances. It was only as Liam got to talking of them that he realised how many stories he had. A lifetime spent living on the edge in the slums, there was too much of the strange and unlikely to tell.

It was on one of these days, when he was caught up in blissful memory, that she asked him where Calum was now. He stalled. He had forgotten it all amidst his words and it suddenly all came crashing down once more, like waking from a dream. He stopped short, shocked at how easily and quickly he had forgotten as he had talked to her. He felt suddenly ashamed. How could he forget? After all they had been through, after all Calum had done for him, how could he ever forget?

They had just entered Badger's Burrow. Racquel's expression had changed from curious interest to concern at his reaction. Liam looked about him sadly. Here, like everywhere else, was full of memories. He couldn't meet her eyes, afraid that the concern there would turn him into a blubbering fool.

"He's dead," he said finally.

"Oh." Racquel paused. "I'm sorry." She took a step closer to him. Liam shook his head sadly and walked across to the edge of a building to sit down. Racquel followed, sitting down beside him. He put his forearms on his upraised knees and picked at his nails between them.

The small square was quiet. The few stalls were being packed up by their owners for the night. People wandered around in less of a hurry at this time in the evening, as always. Tired, Liam supposed.

"When did he die?" Racquel asked. Liam dropped his head between his hands for a moment. He didn't know if he wanted to talk about this. He had been avoiding the subject with everyone for four weeks now.

"About four weeks ago." He sighed. "Remember the day I knocked over the tray?" He glanced over to her and saw her nod. "It was the afternoon before that."

"Oh," she said again. A brief look of disappointment crossed over her face but was replaced quickly by a little frown. She looked at him again. "How did it happen?"

Liam sighed. "A blacksmith ... A blacksmith hit him across the head with a hammer." Racquel's eyebrows rose up in shock. "We were ... we were stealing from him." Liam improvised, not wanting to tell the whole story.

Racquel sat quietly beside him, her feet stretched out before her on the ground. She held her hands clasped together in her lap. They stayed like that for a few moments. Liam looked off into the distance, just above the buildings opposite him, at the sky there and the few fluffy white clouds floating across it, where the bare outline of the red moon was visible.

"There's a story about Calum I never told you," he said after a moment. "He had a big, huge scar going down his face. From here to here," he said, tracing a finger from his temple to his jaw line.

"It used to hurt him sometimes, in the cold. He wouldn't really say anythin', but you could see that it hurt. It would break open and even get pussy." He glanced across at Racquel, who looked back at him with interest, caring.

"He got it years ago. We were both starvin'. Well, I was starvin'. He was hungry. It had kindof snuck up on us, ye know. We went through a couple of weeks of poor takings, we hadn't been eating much, and then we just started to get more tired, started going out and leaving the flat less. After a while, we realised that we were really in trouble. The other lads in the flat weren't doing well either. One of us ... one of my friends, died that year. It took months, it was horrible." Racquel watched him intensely as he talked.

"Anyway. No-one had anythin' to spare. Calum decided that we needed to take a risk, or we were fucked. He had sussed out a place over a few months. It was an easy steal. Real easy, with real good takings. We'd been tempted by it before, but we'd left it cause it had a red flag. Nothin' was worth messin' with that. But it was getting to the stage where we had nothin' to lose." Liam sighed.

"I wasn't ... any use. I was too weak. I could barely leave the flat. He had to go on his own. It was a pawn shop, of all things. Where everyone went if they had stolen some jewellery or somethin' else to get cash for it. Myself and Calum had been there a few times before. That's how he noticed the place and figured out how easy it would be to steal the takings. He could only go for the cash, he knew, or he'd be found out once he tried to sell the jewellery somewhere else. We'd never taken a place before like that, though. The money he could get from it would last us months." Liam kept his gaze on the fluffy white cloud making its way over the buildings in the clear blue sky. The beautiful sky.

"He waited until the shop closed. There was a chute out the back where the pawner used to dump all of his waste through. He did it from behind the counter in the shop, where he kept all of his money. The chute was just wide enough for a boy to climb through. Calum went in from the outside, got the box that he knew the pawner kept hidden away in the corner of the room and left back out the chute again. It was simple and easy. It was the middle of the night and he figured it was safe. He went down to the well and washed his clothes clean, then went back to the flat.

"We thought he had gotten away with it. Had the money hidden. He'd planned to spend it real slowly so no one would notice. But some little fuck had seen him leave the pawn shop. The gang got wind of it. They came for Calum. They strung him up, did it front of everyone to teach people a lesson. They had long ropes with hooks at the end of them. They threw 'em around the boards of the ceiling. Then they stuck the hooks through the sides of his hands and pulled the ropes tight. Lifted 'im straight up off the ground by his hands." Liam stopped for a moment, his eyes glazing over in remembrance. It was a scene that was vividly etched into his mind. He would never forget it. The lines of blood trailing down Calum's forearms, dripping from his elbows. His screaming and yelling and cursing, tears flowing freely down his cheeks. He was twelve, against men who were intent on torturing him. Yet he stared every one of them down, didn't give them an inch.

"They never hide what they did to people if they caught them stealin' from the wrong person. Calum was dead, he knew it, we all knew it. All that was left was for the gang to get the money back. But he wouldn't tell 'em where he had it hidden. He hadn't even told me. None of us knew." Liam remembered how one of the enforcers had grabbed him and slammed him against the wall, shouting at him to tell them where the money was. Calum had laughed. "You think he knows?" he had said.

"They hung him from the ceiling by his hands, beat him up like a boxing bag, drew the blade across his face, burned him with iron pokers that they heated in front of him. They'd even started pulling his fingernails out. But he wouldn't tell 'em where the money was. He kicked and screamed but wouldn't say a word. Then Lollan came in. He's the head of the area. Dono what he was doin' there or why he came in. Musta heard how a kid had robbed the place. Then musta been impressed by Calum not talkin' cause he offered Calum a deal. Said he'd leave 'im live if he told 'em where the money was. Lollan's known for bein' trustable. It's how he does business. Calum told 'im he was already dead unless he got the money as well. I remember Lollan laughed at him. You could see that he respected his balls but at the same time he was gettin' angry. He told 'im he'd give 'im twenty percent of the takings, or he could die right now. Calum agreed." There was a long moment's silence as it all came back to him. Liam's eyes had blurred with tears. He blinked against them and took a deep, shuddering breath. He looked down from the skies at the slums surrounding him. There was no beauty there. He finished his story.

"The box was hidden underneath the stairs of the flat. There was a hole there that was hidden away. You wouldn't see it unless you knew it was there."

"Lollan kept his word and told Calum to come stop by the tavern if he was lookin' for some work."

"I guess the matis are always on the lookout for new potential. I guess he was surprised that a kid could pull off what he did and that he had the balls to resist afterwards."

"He wasn't right for weeks afterwards. They'd nearly killed him. But we'd got the money, we were able to eat again. It lasted us a few months, and by the time it was all gone, we were both strong again. Calum started to get called for the gang soon after that, spotting and other things. And no one ever messed with him afterwards, either." Liam left out that this was how he had been introduced to Carrick. "I would have died, only for what he did."

Racquel put a hand on his arm. Liam looked at it angrily.

"All of that, ye know. All that fuckin' hardship, all that ... just to be fuckin' ..." Liam stopped. He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. He looked away. Then he had to move, he couldn't sit there any longer. He stood up.

"I'll talk to ye tomorrow, okay," he said to Racquel and walked off.

******

The next day, Liam found himself standing in front of Lana's. After his conversation with Racquel, he felt again that he had to tell her, if not for her, then for Calum. He couldn't allow him to just disappear. People should know. His memory deserved that.

It had rained the night before and the ground was wet. It was still early in the day. The whores would most likely still be asleep, having worked late into the night. But Liam didn't want to delay it any longer. He had nerve to enter now, to get it over with.

He knocked on the side door and waited. When there was no answer, he knocked again, and again. Finally, a girl opened the door. She didn't look much older than Racquel and bore a slight resemblance to her; linking the two made Liam pause, an unwelcome consideration crossing his mind. She wore a black gown tied at the waist with a sash.

"What?" she asked angrily, looking at him as he stood speechless. She had dark rings underneath her eyes and her black hair was dishevelled, stray strands falling across her face.

"Is Lana in?" he asked, gathering himself.

"Lana?" replied the girl, incredulous. "What the fuck would Lana want with you?"

Liam was caught off guard; he hadn't considered this reaction. He couldn't think of what to say. The girl started to close the door in front of him.

"No," said Liam, stepping up and laying a hand on the door, stopping her, "just ... ahhh, tell her Liam's here."

She looked at him with crossed eyebrows, clearly wishing he would just go on his way.

"She's asleep," she said, putting pressure on the door to close it again.

"Oh ... okay. Tell her when she wakes up. I'll be out here. She'll want to see me." The girl gave him a final, suspicious look as he allowed her to close the door. Liam sat down on the ground to wait. He started to worry as he did so. After a while, he stood up and started pacing, dreading the door opening. He began to think maybe the girl wouldn't tell Lana at all, that maybe he should just go. The thought struck hold. He could just leave now, no harm done. She wouldn't know he came to visit. _Just go. There's no point waiting here._

Just as he was about to leave, the door opened again. This time it was Lana's face. She had no powder or makeup on this time. Her face was old, worn and wrinkled. Her hair was cut short like a boy's, more suitable, Liam guessed, for wearing her wigs. She looked worried as she glanced in Liam's direction. Liam looked back at her, unsure. His mouth began to work but no words came out. Suddenly there were tears in his eyes and he turned away from her.

"Liam!" Her voice was sharp. "Liam, what is it, where's Calum?"

Liam walked away from her, down the alleyway a little. He put his hands on the wall, leaning against it, his head hanging between his arms. Suddenly, he was there again, he could see him moving, he could see him alive and slip and the hammer, the swing, the blacksmith's eyes, following his own. _I did it_. _I gave him away, If I hadn't of looked!_ It was so stupid! _Why? Why would I look?_

He turned from the wall again, tears streaming down his face. He paced over and across the alleyway, again and again, frantically moving as if by walking in circles he could escape.

Lana shook her head. "No," she whispered hoarsely. "No. What happened? Liam!" she shouted, stepping out from the doorway. She wore soft, cloth slippers. They were getting wet and dirty in the mud of the alley. She wore a light shawl over her shoulders, over a gown similar to the one the girl had worn. Liam continued to pace until she strode over to him and grabbed his shoulders.

"He's dead!" He shouted in her face as he was turned. "He's fuckin' dead. A fuckin' blacksmith smashed in his head because we were robbin' a shield from him! A fuckin' shield, a piece of fuckin' metal. And Carrick, that fuckin' asshole Carrick, that cunt, that fuckin' cunt!" He sobbed as he shouted, the force leaving his voice as he went on. He didn't see the slap before it smacked him across the side of the face. His face went red, as did his anger. He turned to Lana but was hit again, then again. He leaned in and shoved outwards, pushing her away from him.

She stumbled backwards, finding her balance a few feet from Liam, gasping for breath. Her face was stricken. He glared across at her, suddenly furious.

"When," she panted, "when did this happen?" Some of the anger left Liam then, and he looked away abashedly.

"Four weeks," he said. He could see her looking across at him silently as she took in the information, but he refused to look back her way. The moment seemed to go on. It felt as though minutes passed with silence between them. They both stood stock still. Liam staring at the ground where it met the wall of the brothel, Lana staring across at him.

"Follow me," she said at last, turning and walking back to the entrance of the brothel. After a moment, Liam followed. She didn't look back as she walked in the doorway. She led him past the curtains of the main room. Behind were various chairs, tables and couches laid out in an area equally as large as the reception area at the entrance. There were empty mugs and plates with scraps of food still left on them. There was the smell of stale beer, stains littered the rugs and some loose pieces of clothing lay about the floor or over pieces of furniture. Liam noticed some women's undergarments and became slightly aroused despite himself.

Lana opened a door to the right of the room and led Liam down a narrow hallway, taking the last door on the left. She left it opened for him to follow through.

"Close it," she said. He obliged her, glancing about the room as he did so. There was a desk in front of him and straight-backed wooden chairs to either side of it. There were ledger books and sheets of paper spread out over the desktop. Lana sat behind it and opened a drawer. She took out a large bottle of brown liquid and two glasses, filling both up halfway. She pushed one across the table towards Liam.

"Drink," she said as she took a long swig from hers, filling it up once more with the bottle. Liam walked over and picked up the glass and took a pull from it. He coughed, gasping as it burned his throat. He took another pull and pushed the glass out for more. Lana filled it up without comment.

"Sit," she ordered. He did so, leaning back into the chair, glass in hand. It was hard and uncomfortable but he found that this suited his mood.

"I hate soft chairs," she explained. "Spent a lifetime on pillows and cushions. I much prefer hard wood. It's more reflective of our lives." Liam didn't know what reflective meant, but he felt he got her gist.

"Tell me about the job." she asked. Liam didn't want to. He took a drink again from the glass, avoiding the question. "I know," she said, seemingly understanding his hesitancy. "Just ... oblige me."

Liam sighed. He reluctantly, in a quiet, sombre, tired voice, relayed all that had happened and why. When he had finished, she was silent for a while. She looked angry, furious.

"Why in the ass, Liam?" she said sharply. "Why in Lev's fucking name did you stab a blacksmith in the ass!" Her eyes were furious as she stared across at him. He looked back at her, trying to summon up anger or resentment.

"I ..." he stuttered, but he knew. _He knew_. Why did he stab him in the ass? Because he felt sorry for the fucking blacksmith. He could have hamstrung him, he could have taken him down then and there. Calum would still be alive. Everything would be good. The blacksmith didn't show such sympathy to Calum. Liam had only riled him up, better had he done nothing.

He couldn't say it to Lana, couldn't utter the words. His eyes slid from her gaze, glazing over once more. He took a cool drink from his glass with a shaking hand. Lana shook her head and slapped her palm down on the table. _She knew why_.

"This place," she said softly. "It makes beasts of us all." Liam looked back at her, wondering what she meant. "I sometimes wonder," she continued, "living here, was it a good thing for Levitas to have saved us? Would we be better off dead? Leave the world to the beasts. Rather than be turned beasts ourselves."

Liam was confused. Was she not from here? He didn't know much of Lana's background, only that she was the matron of this house.

"The gangs, Liam," she looked fiercely at him then. "The gangs, the matis and the kings rule. If there is anything for you to hate, if there is anything worth hating, it is that. The king killed Calum. The matis killed Calum. Not you. Not that blacksmith. Not even Carrick, that fool! If you would remember Calum, remember that instead. It is those who rule in Teruel that are to blame."

Liam didn't quite understand. How had the matis been to blame for Calum's death? They had nothing to do with what had happened. It was Carrick, working on his own. It was the blacksmith. It was himself. The matis? The king? He didn't see where they fitted in. Lana noticed his confusion and sighed.

"Drink up," she said, standing. "I must go back to sleep." She seemed tired, though Liam for some reason doubted that she would return to bed. She strode around the table to Liam as he finished his drink and put the glass on the table.

"Here." She turned his palm upwards and laid a hand on top of it. Liam felt the cold shape of coin. "Try to stay alive." She let go of his hand and pushed him towards the door.

******

As Liam left the whorehouse, he started to feel the effects of the alcohol take hold. He burped, striding out onto Dame Street.

He was tired of being angry and depressed. He wanted to have some fun. He took his bearings and decided to go towards Baker's Corner. The sun was still over the buildings; it was earlier than he normally called over.

He wandered through the streets, looking at the inhabitants in muddled thought as he went. Eventually, he took a right onto Fenrow Street and a left onto Baker's Lane which ended in Baker's Corner. The street became shrouded in shadow as a cloud rolled over the sun. It was getting cloudier day on day as the summer came to an end. Soon the autumnal rains would come, scouring the slums clean.

He winced as his bare foot fell on the sharp side of a stone and frowned as he hopped on one foot for a moment. He normally had a natural instinct for where to place his feet.

The bakery was just up ahead to his right. He normally waited for Racquel to appear at the intersection between Fenrow Street and Baker's Lane, but right then he didn't feel like waiting. He walked right up to the baker's, pressing himself flat against the wall beside the doorway. He crouched down low. Putting his hands to the edge of the entrance, he popped his head out quickly, peeping into the room. There was no one there. He pulled his head back once more, looking around to see if there was anyone watching his strange behaviour. A few passers-by looked at him quizzically but kept walking. He giggled, feeling lightheaded.

He popped his head out again. This time he saw Racquel walk into the bakery from the back room. She looked taller when he looked up at her from that height. He stifled a laugh, trying to focus his sideways vision. He tsked at her and she looked over sharply.

"Racquel!" he whispered. Her eyes opened wide as she saw his head floating above the ground.

"What—" she began.

"Come on, come on outside."

"What are you doing?" she whispered back, looking behind her nervously.

"Come on, let's go to the well."

"I ... it's too early, I still have to ..."

"Come on, forget about that, do it later." She looked at him sceptically, his head still peeping from between his fingertips.

"What are you doing?"

"Come on," he repeated, nodding his head away from the doorway. She raised her eyebrows at him, gasping in exasperation. She looked back and forth between him and the back room. "Come on, let's go!"

"Hold on a second!" she said, turning around and hurrying back into the other room. Liam withdrew his head and rested his back against the wall, waiting. He was about to pop his head back around when Racquel appeared at the doorway.

"Come on," she whispered, grabbing his arm, "before Galo sees you." Liam laughed as she pulled him away.

"I don't care what Galo sees!" he said.

Racquel looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Are you drunk?"

"What if I am?" he laughed.

"Come on." She pulled at his arm, dragging him from the street. Liam glanced backwards as he was led around Baker's Corner onto Cowper Street. He thought he caught a glimpse of Galo looking out after them from the front door but they were around the corner and out of sight before he could be sure. He grinned and lifted his arm in the air, waving his middle finger in the bakery's direction. Racquel looked at him.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he said, dropping his arm and looking back at her. He put his right arm around her shoulders happily. She laughed at him.

"How much have you drunk?"

"This much," he said, holding his hands wide apart. She laughed again.

"Where are we going?"

"The Great Road!" Liam gestured extravagantly with his left arm, leaning heavily on Racquel as he did so. She stumbled and started to giggle. "We'll go make our fortune! And then travel the world." The Great Road to Darwin was only a fifteen minute walk from the bakery.

"I'll show you how the gang makes the big money!" he said as they went. Racquel looked across at him curiously.

They could hear the bustle of activity as the Great Road came into sight. Liam loved going there; it was when all of his greatest ambitions came to the forefront of his mind. It was the only place in the slums where he could see wealth and prosperity. The streets became busier as they neared.

They walked out onto the side of the cobblestoned road, and Liam inhaled deeply, feeling free in the wide open space. To either side of the road were ten feet of the hardened clay and dirt of the slums. No buildings were allowed to breach this space. Traffic was not allowed to stop on the road. Wagons were kept moving in a constant stream, but there was space aplenty for them to pull up and for their inhabitants to take advantage of the businesses that set up each day on the road front, offering wheel repairs or food and water for animals and men. The wagons' drivers often used the slums as their point of stop, where they could rest before performing their trade within the inner city.

Liam looked to one side and pointed. In the far distance were the tops of tall, green trees, the great forest that lay to the east of Teruel.

"I love seeing the forest," he said. Turning to look far in the other direction, he could see the walls of the inner city of Teruel. "And the walls," he added. "Makes you feel like there's more than the slums." He could see Racquel looking at him and he looked back at her, taking in the delicate features of her face.

"It feels like you can breathe better out here," he said. She nodded.

"Follow me," said Liam, taking Racquel's hand. He walked her up the Great Road. There was a large warehouse at the opposite side of the road. Many wagons had pulled up and were queuing for entry. Two men were deep in discussion, standing just off the entrance.

"This is where the gang picks up all of its supplies from," said Liam. He pointed at the two men. "That's Lollan," he said, indicating the taller one. He looked up as Liam pointed, frowning, but Liam paid him no mind. "He's second in command this side of the road. There's only three men ahead of him in the whole gang."

It was six months ago since he had kissed a girl, the second kiss of his lifetime. It was great fun both times. But it felt different with Racquel. He wanted to do it but it wasn't just for the fun. It was a different feeling, strange to him. He took her hand once more.

"Come on," he said, spotting a wagon parked to the side of the warehouse. He dragged her across the road. She squealed as they ran in front of a wagon, just getting across before being trampled by the snorting horses. They slowed to a walk once they made it to the other side.

"Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly. There was no one behind the wagon, and it offered protection from the road. He turned back to her. He glanced at her lips, open slightly as she breathed through her mouth. She seemed to sense something of what he was about to do, he felt her go still in his hand. He stepped towards her and kissed her. Their lips touched and held in place. He could feel the breath from her nose on his cheek. He opened his mouth and pressed his tongue gently against her lips. She opened her mouth in response and their tongues met, tentatively at first and then finding more rhythm. He could taste her, a strange mix that wasn't unpleasant. He wondered idly what he tasted like and hoped that it was okay. After a moment, Liam was unsure of what to do with his hands. His right hand still held her left softly. He moved his left to her waist and marvelled at the curve from there to her hip. He dared to move his hand down her side, feeling the curvature. It was intoxicating to touch her so intimately, far different to how he touched anyone else. Similar actions, yet worlds apart.

She felt so tantalizingly soft. So delicate and pure.

He felt her hand rest softly against his chest, and a thrill shot through him. He could feel his heartbeat quicken. He felt at home in this gentle embrace, felt the world grow distant. It was just him and her, with a shared caring that transcended words. He didn't really understand it, but at the same time he just knew it from deep within.

They stayed there for minutes. He breathed in her scent, smelling vaguely of flour and dough. After a moment, she made a slight movement backwards and he responded, lips parting. They looked in each other's eyes for a moment. He saw into the depths of hers; the blue irises, the whites so white. Her eyelashes were long and delicate, the ones below curled softly to rest against her skin. He felt a little pressure on his hand as she squeezed. His body flooded with warmth and he squeezed back.

"What are ye doin' back there?" Liam looked up to see the wagon's owner stride around the side of it, holding the whip for his horse.

"Nothin'," said Liam. Racquel laughed and they turned and ran back around the wagon onto the side of the Great Road. They walked hand in hand down the road for a while, glancing back and forth at one another and smiling.

On the way back home, he gave her an example of how he stole. He asked her to make a slight distraction and, when she did, he swiped a pie from a stall, running around the corner with it quickly. When she followed and found him waiting, she clapped her hands in appreciation.

It was nearly dark by the time they reached Baker's Corner again. Liam didn't want it to end, and Racquel seemed reluctant to go as well. Their approach was slow. When they finally arrived at the corner, Racquel kissed him on the lips quickly and turned to go. He watched her jog to the door of the bakery and wave back at him as she entered. He lifted his hand in farewell before turning to return to the flat.

******

Racquel felt as though she was walking on air as she waved Liam goodbye. The feel of his lips on hers lingered as though they had left a vague imprint upon her. She had seen the desire within him as he had stared longingly towards the great forest. Racquel had never thought about leaving the city before. The idea had surprised her when Liam told her of it. She had thought about what she would do when she grew up, but her musings had always been limited to within the slums.

Liam seemed fearless in everything that he did. She thought back to when he had pointed out the matis boss, uncaring of the frowned attention that he received as a result. He was not scared of the big men. Racquel thought of herself and Galo. Liam wouldn't fear him. Perhaps she needed to learn some of his courage.

She was deep in thought as she walked into the bakery, bolted the door behind her and climbed the stairs. She was surprised to hear the clatter of cutlery as she reached for the door to the living room. It was early for supper, and Cara would normally wait for her.

Stepping into the room, she saw Galo and Cara sitting down opposite one another. Racquel did not at first notice the warning signs as she walked over to kiss Cara on the cheek. She thought fleetingly how much different that kiss was to the one she had shared with Liam. She picked up her bowl from her place at the table and walked over to the pot that hung above the embers of the fire to fill it with her aunt's stew.

As she picked up the ladle, some of it began to dawn on her and her hand slowed. The room had gone silent. Her aunt hadn't said a word at her entrance. Her hand had been shaking slightly, her eyes downcast as she accepted the kiss. Galo had sat back at her entrance, watching her movements instead of tucking into his food. Normally at dinner he would scarcely lift up his head until he was finished eating. _What was wrong?_

Suddenly, Racquel was afraid to turn around. She was certain something was wrong. She filled the bowl as slowly as she could. She braced her shoulders, trying to be strong. Her bowl was full. She was finished with the ladle. Her hand shook as she hooked it back on the edge of the pot with the curved end of the handle. She put it underneath the cup. Holding it with both hands, she stole herself and turned, walking slowly back to the table, her head down. She sat. Afraid to look up, she kept her eyes on the bowl's contents as she picked up her spoon and began to eat. She had to force her jaw to chew the large chunks of vegetables and potatoes. Her stomach was in knots as she swallowed it down.

The silence stretched, and Racquel became more and more nervous until her hand was visibly shaking every time she lifted the spoon.

"Where have you been?" asked her uncle. Racquel jumped a little at his voice. She put down her spoon.

"I went out by the Great Road," she said, looking straight ahead. Galo nodded all too reasonably.

"Why did you go out there?"

"I ..." Racquel tried to shrug nonchalantly, but it was a jerky motion. "Just to look at the wagons." _Did he see us?_ she wondered, nervously reliving her earlier exit.

"To look at the wagons?"

"Yeah." She found it hard to speak. Her heart was beating frantically.

"Who were you there with?"

"I ..." Racquel could feel a cold bead of sweat trail down her spine. _He knew. He had to know._ "I was there with a friend of Alison's."

"Who?"

Racquel was panicked now, and her whole body shook as she searched her mind for a name. "Ra ... Rachel," she stuttered after a moment. Her eyes blurred from the tears she was trying to hold from falling.

"Rachel? Hmm," Galo murmured. "Rachel." Racquel risked a glance up at him and saw his fist slam down on the table violently. She jumped, screaming, the tears dropped from her eyes, catching her cheeks on their journey down. Cara's hands flew to her mouth, muffling her gasp.

"Some name for a boy!" he shouted. He got up from his chair, shoving it back roughly. It fell over its back legs and bounced noisily away. He stomped around the table with the angry force of an elephant and grabbed the hair at the back of her head with a rough hand, lifting her up savagely. She cried out in pain, her hands reaching up to grab at the roots in her head, afraid her hair would pull free. He thrust his face in close to hers. She shied away from the stink of his breath.

"Out fucking a slum rat, were you? I saw you with him!" he shouted at her, shaking her head furiously, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. "The same fuckin' rat that knocked over my tray! The same, I bet, that helped steal my fuckin' bread!" He slammed her face down against the table viciously. It caught her on the top of her right eyebrow. Her head bounced away, followed a moment later by pain.

Walking back across to the counter top, he picked up the wooden spoon. Racquel was openly crying now. Cara sat at the edge of her chair, looking frantically from Racquel to Galo.

"You a whore now? You off whorin' with every rat in the slums? Off ridin' that little fuck. Helpin' him steal from honest merchants. He's off stabbin' good men, and you're bendin' over backwards for him!"

"No!" she cried. Her aunt stood up, her hands to her mouth. She raised a pleading arm towards him.

"Please, Galo," she asked. Her voice was high-pitched and tightly strung, ready to break at any moment. But he silenced her with a look.

He turned and plodded back towards Racquel.

"And I took you in. Didn't have to, never had to. Put you up and fed you. Barely ever even laid a finger on you!" He shoved her roughly against the table, a vengeful god ready to smite her for disobedience. "Well, there's where I've bin goin' wrong. Ye bin havin' it too soft here! Need to be taught a few lessons. Learn some respect for your household, for the man who's bringin' ye up."

He turned her around and shoved her over the table, his round face filled with fury, his chins wagging. Racquel cried out but she could only resist weakly, struggling futilely against him, her hands pressing against the rough, pinewood table.

"This is how you repay me!" he yelled. He lifted up her skirt, holding her hard against the table. She almost felt his arm raise up, spoon in hand. Then he seemed to stop. A moment passed with no movement. He leaned in close to her, whispering in her ear, his voice harsh and rough.

"Did he break yer seal, did he? He have his way with ye already?"

She heard Galo drop the spoon, as though he had changed his mind. It clattered against the ground. Fear, deeper and sharper than she had ever experienced before, shot through her. _What was he doing?_

"No!" cried Racquel. A distraught instinct from deep within her told her what he was going to do. "No, stop!" _Why'd he drop the spoon?_

"Well, we'll see." His mouth was open, his breathing heavy. His hand reached up her skirt and grabbed at her undergarments, fumbling awkwardly. His movements were ragged and jerky. He pushed himself up against her, leaning on her heavily.

"Well, we'll see," he repeated, his words gasping wet from his mouth. "That'll teach ye then, won't it?" He started grabbing at her more frantically, pulling her pants down. He was rushed now. She could feel his hands shaking as he moved.

"Please, please!" she pleaded desperately. "Cara!"

Cara let out a terrible cry. "Stop!" she screamed, but Galo didn't even seem to hear.

"You'll see," he panted. "You'll see what a real man's like!" He shouted the end excitedly. He was manoeuvring himself behind her. She could feel him fumbling with his own underclothes as he held her down. She started to struggle against him fiercely, wriggling, throwing her weight from side to side. Doing anything to stop him, get in his way, prevent him from doing what he was going to do. She was completely panicked, crying out, struggling for all she was worth. Her cries were a high-pitched wailing as she shook her head against what he was doing.

"No, no!"

"Lie still!" he shouted, pushing her down, forcing his weight on top of her. She felt his waist pull away. Then he was pulling up her skirt again.

"Nooo!" she cried. "Cara! Caraaa!" she screamed for help. She heard a manic scream reply and a rush of feet. She felt the blow as much as heard it. Galo's grip on her loosened. Racquel looked up to see Cara swinging a bread roller and screeching like a lunatic. Galo was dazed, holding the side of his head with one hand and throwing the other out in front of him, trying vainly to block her blows as they came down again and again. She hit him across the head, on his shoulder, on his arm. He was stunned as he threw both arms up in defence, taking blow after blow. Then he seemed to gather himself and realise what was happening. He charged forth and shoved Cara backwards. She fell awkwardly, hitting her head sickeningly off the counter as she did so. The roller fell from her hands. Galo staggered after it and picked it up. He walked over to Cara, looming above her.

She raised her hands in meek defence as he brought the roller down on top of her.

"How! Dare you! Hit! Me!" He panted between blows. Raising the roller again and again and bringing it down viciously. Racquel heard a bone break. She watched as Cara's hands fell limply to her side, as Galo's blows started to rain down on her head, as her head rocked and bounced from side to side like a rag doll's with the force of the hits, as blood started to show and drops flew to the side wall and the floor, as her nose caved in to the side. She heard Galo's crazed words, spaced out between the blows. "Mind! Your own! Business! A man! Will discipline! In his own! Household!"

Racquel's legs and arms went weak as though her energy had been sucked from her. She fell to her knees, her chest constricting. She couldn't look away, she couldn't close her ears, she couldn't get up and stop him. She watched in helpless horror.

And then it stopped. Galo stood up, leaning against the countertop, breathing heavily. He held the roller limply down by his side.

"Stupid bitch," he whispered breathlessly. "Should have minded her own fucking business."

He glanced Racquel's way. A sickening, long-winded moan escaped her lips as she took in Cara's beaten, bloodied and limp figure in the corner of the room.

"I didn't mean ..." he said. "I didn't ... Rac, come here, come over here." He gestured to her. "Come on." Racquel looked at him. He had no energy left; he seemed barely able to support himself as he took deep, heaving breaths. Racquel wasn't going anywhere near him. She stood up suddenly, she felt dazed and leeched of energy, but she turned towards the door and forced herself to run. She pulled it open and stumbled down the stairs.

"Racquel!" she heard him shout. "Where are ye goin'?" But she didn't stop. At the bottom of the stairs, she turned into the bakery and ran to the front door, pulling the latch aside and opening it wide.

"You've nowhere to go, girl! You'll be back, I tell you ..." His roaring faded away as she ran down the street.

She couldn't stop sobbing, all of the strength felt gone from her body, but she wouldn't stop running; she couldn't. She stumbled on, not knowing where she was going and hardly able to see through her tears.

******

By the time Liam reached the flat, he had begun to feel dizzy. When he lay down on his pallet to sleep his head spun, his vision jerked back and forth repeatedly even when he closed his eyes. All of a sudden, he realised that he was going to be sick. He got up and ran down the stairs, bursting out the door and vomiting onto the street. He panted, bent double as he heaved.

He spit a few times, then walked to the wall of the house and rested an arm against it. He was there for a few moments before he looked up. There was a girl at the far end of the street, looking around. She seemed to see something in his direction and started to walk his way. Her stride seemed shaken and unsure. Liam wondered idly what misery had befallen her in the slums during the night. She seemed utterly shaken.

He looked at her as she came closer. She looked familiar, recognisable. _Racquel?_ He looked again. It was her. Was this a dream? He stood away from the wall, allowing his hand to drop to his side, and walked towards her. She looked at him as he did so.

"Liam!" she cried and ran at him. He stopped, dumbfounded as she barged into him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. She started to shake with sobs. "Liam, my aunt," she managed. "Uncle Galo has killed my aunt!" Liam put his hands around her and held her softly.

"Okay," he said. His mind still fuzzy with a dull headache.

"I can't go back there!" she said. "He'll kill me, too!" She seemed to try to control her sobs as she lifted her head from his shoulder. "Can I ... Can I come stay with you?" Liam looked at her, dumbfounded. "Please?" she whispered. "I can't go back."

"Okay," said Liam uncertainly. She buried her head into his shoulder again, sobbing uncontrollably. Even muddled as he was, he knew instinctively that this was not good. She was not safe with them.
4. Priest

Fumnaya sat, her eyes bloodshot red. She stared at nothing.

Dikeledi stood at the side of the hut, one hand resting on it, looking up at the edge of the treeline, or perhaps the sky above it, his mouth open; his cheeks seemed to droop, melt from his face, his limbs loose and lost.

Hundreds of tribespeople stood in small clusters around them, lost and shaken, uncertain and scared, muttering and whispering, hoping ... that something was misunderstood.

Why was the forest making noise? Why was the breeze still blowing? Why was the morning sun still reaching over the empty space above them, cutting the trees at the far end of the clearing half in shadow, half in light? Why was the sky as blue as ever, the sun as large as ever and the red eye auspiciously missing? Why did the white moon look pale, meek and guilty?

Why were there women and girls screaming, wailing skywards? Why did men bang fists and openly weep? Why did children look so confused, so lost, so scared? Why was the gathering ended on the seventh day and not the eighth?

Why did Niisa sit, in shock, as openly distraught as the rest, his face pale, his eyes wide but unbelieving, the fingers of his hands lightly pressed against his jaw line? He was covered in blood. But innocent of the horrendous crime, of the incomprehensible act; how could anyone be guilty of such a thing? But someone had to be, the deed was done by a human hand, the knife made out of crude stone, the cuts jagged. It stank. The flies already consorted above her.

Did anyone know it was him? No one could believe it was him. Not her own brother, not the poor soul who found her parted and freshly dead. The boy who was not crazed and insane as the perpetrator must have been, but white-faced and appearing in shock, and had sat in stunned silence ever since. This was not the crime of a shocked boy.

"Noooo!" his mother screamed. "Get off her!" She swiped furiously at the little insects, who danced just before her palm and landed in the same spot as before, as though gravity pulled them there. "Get off her!" she sobbed as she changed the direction of her beating palms. "Stop." He could see that she wanted to lay her head down between her hands, to close her eyes and rest and hide. But she paused in mid-air, her eyes wide, almost falling from her head, bloodshot red, her hands suspended above the carcass at either side of her head, panting heavily, her nostrils flaring at the smell, rejecting it, as she stared down in shock at the tangled mess of her daughter's stomach. She could not lay her head down there. She could not acknowledge its existence. She held herself above the carcass there, with a strength Niisa had not thought she had, levitating without movement as she stared down. A tear mingled with snot on her nose. Slowly, Niisa watched as it held before it fell. His mother's eyes widened slightly more, which seemed impossible, when it hit her daughter. In a normal-seeming movement, she retracted from her unnatural position. She retreated back to the corner of the hut, still thick with the scent and the buzzing of flies. His father never moved.

It was funny to watch them all and see clearly their behaviours. It was funny to know and understand their reactions. It was funny to finally be free of them. His mind felt truly opened for the first time. He now was separate. He now no longer did need to associate with them, or wonder at why he was different and yet the same. He was not the same. He was chosen by Daygo, the all-thing. He could commune with Daygo, something they could only dream of doing. He had seen its inner workings. These were just creatures around him, simple creatures. He now knew who he was.

He had killed his sister. It was nothing to him. He had broken their strongest convention, their strongest belief, their strongest attachment, and it was nothing. They had nothing for him now. He could understand them now. He could finally see it all clearly, now that he knew himself, he could see others, know others, without that inner confusion plaguing him. He could watch it all unfold and know why they did what they did.

He knew better than to smile. He knew their games now and could play them. He could play the part. He could use them for his own ends. He was finally free. He breathed it in deeply. It felt as though the world had reached out and embraced him and he felt nothing but love for all things, for everything. He felt joy within the flowing life of Daygo.

******

They dug a hole and placed her within it. There was suspicion everywhere, and still nowhere. How could any one of them have done this? People whom they knew intimately. The people had grown sick. The gathering was over. There was nothing for them to do but leave and return home, with guilty, sad, sympathetic looks at the mother and the father and the brother of the deceased.

******

When they returned home, there was a massing of the tribe around the chief's hut.

"What is to be done..?"

"A daughter has been killed."

"What would you have me do?"

"We must find who did this!"

"How should we do this?" The chief addressed the whole tribe. "How should we? To what happened in the gathering. Did anyone here see anything that night to report?"

A few glanced at Niisa, but no-one said anything.

"We went through this at the gathering," continued the chief. "No one heard anything, no one saw anything. How can we act on this? I am open to suggestions."

Wikesa looked at Niisa, and his gaze lingered a while. Mirembe followed his look.

Dikeledi, his chin almost touching his throat, turned his head towards them. "Do not look at my son," he said quietly. Wikesa glanced at him as though in shock, then turned his head quickly away.

"What about you, Niisa?" someone dared to ask. "Did you ... see anything? Or hear? Or s ...? There must be something."

"He has answered that question," Dikeledi said hoarsely.

Niisa looked at the crowd of suspicious faces as they turned in his direction, suspicion that bordered on accusation. "I only saw my sister," he said flatly.

"Did you do it?" spurted Racca. A quick flurry of words, driven, Niisa guessed, by the fear that he might not have the courage to say them.

"My son did not kill Chiko!" cried Dikeledi, his voice cracking and breaking, but still he managed to get the words out.

There were many heads suddenly turned to the ground, there was much shuffling and mutterings and apologetic gestures shyly made. A few glanced furiously at Racca, even though Niisa felt sure he asked the question they were all thinking. Some started to return to their huts.

The chief waved his hands. "Let us talk of this another time," he said desolately. "Let us go to our beds."

******

"You," she pointed. "You." Her voice was hoarse with recrimination.

Niisa just watched her. He had felt the accusation building for days. It would not do to tell the truth. There was no benefit. His father came forward. He looked at Niisa sadly and slowly.

"Fumnaya," he said softly.

"No!" she roared at him, and pointed a loose finger at Niisa. "It was him!" Many of the village stood looking at them now, shuffling uncomfortably. Some started to look away. Others looked in shock at Niisa. "He—"

Dikeledi took her pointing hand softly in his. "It was not him," his voice broke. Fumnaya crumpled into him, sobbing. His father let out a long sigh layered with pain. His right arm wrapped gently around the back of his wife's neck and shoulder, his left hand still held her right softly within its palm; it hung attached to him, but somehow it seemed a useless thing.

The villagers shuffled away to leave the family alone in its grief. Those eyes that had looked at him with shock and surprise dropped to the ground out of something like guilt. It was just the crazy grief of a mother. Niisa was still safe amongst them, though some remained frowning.

******

She watched him inside the hut now, when they were supposed to be sleeping. Sometimes he watched her back. Sometimes she turned away in disgust. The priest could not come soon enough. The villagers were all growing suspicious of him. He even caught his own father staring at him sometimes, though he never said anything, though he tried to make Fumnaya forgive, to disbelieve what it was that she was leaning towards believing.

One day he wept in front of Niisa. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry." Over and over. "I don't know why ... I know you could never have done ... you loved your sister. We all did."

One day his mother looked at him and collapsed weeping. "I'm sorry," she mumbled between sobs, turning into the wall of the hut and clutching herself. The next day there was suspicion in her eyes again. She seemed mad, crazed by grief. She did not believe or trust any of her thoughts. The next day she accused him again.

******

He continued as part of the hunt. They did not know what to do with him. When he first appeared they had looked at one another, none volunteering to be his teacher, his guide, until his uncle Nuru stepped forward.

"You will come with me," he said, firmly placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked a challenge back at everyone who shuffled their feet and looked away, though there were one or two that met his gaze. "Come with me every day from now on."

His father missed a week's hunt, but then he returned to it, trying vainly to make some case for normality, to make some light of small things, that left those nearby forcing guilty grins onto their faces.

As the weeks passed by, the village returned to some form of normality, yet suspicion of Niisa seemed to grow. Eventually, his uncle made the suggestion that he should withdraw from the hunt.

"Perhaps some time to grieve ... is what is right for you." Niisa looked him in the eye, but he knew that any further distance between them would only further their suspicion, and the priest had not yet arrived.

"No," he said firmly. "I want to hunt."

His uncle opened his mouth but then nodded resignation. "Of course."

Still, there were fewer smiles, less laughter, less happiness amongst them.

******

Time on his own was no longer hard to achieve. No longer did people come looking for him. However, when he did wake in the morning, he found himself waiting outside the hut for Chiko to follow him out, to touch his hand and signal the start of a routine that he had known all his life. He missed that routine, but what he had learned was more valuable. He had to relearn how to stretch and open himself up without Chiko's aid. He saw it as a new skill that he could hone.

But he also saw something of what grief was; it was missing, lacking, what had been known and familiar, those things that brought joy. But life was movement, it forever changed. To grieve for change was ludicrous, change was all that they were, and yet all humans he had ever met did so.

His mother carried on gathering in the forest, though she came back with small amounts. She did not rise early in the mornings, she did not lay out food for them to eat. On those first two mornings, he left early to forage his own breakfast. But his father put a hand on him as he tried to leave the third morning. He shook his head silently and filled two bowls with what his mother had collected the day before. They sat at the front of their hut eating it in silence, as they had done since. Of all of them, only his father never shunned his company. There were fewer words between them, fewer attempts at humour from him, but sometimes he placed a hand on his shoulder when there was no need.

******

One day, as Niisa sat in the forest, he overheard Abioye and Kaapo, two young men of the tribe, both only recently married in the past five gatherings. They seemed to be walking aimlessly, as though, like him, they were only in the forest to escape the confines of the village. Where Niisa sat, he was invisible to them, so they continued their conversation as though he were not there.

"His sister? How could he have done it? It must have been ... must have been some stranger," said Abioye.

"Who? What stranger? Who's a stranger? Have you ever seen one?"

"But, Kaapo, it's his sister. They used to stretch together every morning. They were as close as anyone, as strange as he is."

"Who is more likely?"

"That doesn't mean ..."

"What does it mean? Has he even denied it yet? Has anyone actually even asked him?"

"He just gives that ... dead stare."

Niisa might as well have heard them shiver in revulsion.

******

Nearly two months after Chiko's death, he sat dissecting a squirrel, its squeals muffled by the weedgrass binding and filling its mouth. A small girl from the tribe burst through the bush and stopped in front of him. Her eyes went wide as she saw the struggling squirrel in his hands. She froze. Niisa looked her in the eye. He was consumed with calm.

"You will be next if you tell anyone." She started to cry in front of him. "Don't ever tell." She turned and ran back towards the village. Niisa picked up the squirrel and took it further into the forest.

******

Two months after Chiko had been killed, the priest came to the village. One of the Walolang de Kgotia. He had seen one three times before in his memory, though the earliest was very hazy. The man arrived, as had the others, wearing a black leather coat that hung from his shoulders all the way to just above his ankles. He was of average height, his hair was black. He had a curved piece of wood hanging from a hole in the skin between his nostrils and similar U-shaped wooden ear piercings hanging from his empty earlobes.

As always, the chief greeted his arrival warmly, and they had a feast to celebrate. The priest led them through a small meditative dance once their food was digested. That night they offered each other stories, and the chief offered his own hut for the man to spend the night in.

On the following morning, the testing began. There were only ten children in the tribe of testing age, so the priest took them in two lots, as he had only two ferrets captured when he arrived in the village.

Niisa was in the second testing. They wandered into the woods, away from the village. The priest took a seat between them as they sat in half a circle around and in front of him. He placed the bound ferret in front of him. Niisa studied it; it seemed placid, almost tame.

"How come it does not struggle?" he asked the priest. The priest glanced at him and then back down to the ferret. He reached a hand and traced a thumb slowly across its stomach. The ferret hardly moved to its touch.

"I have kept it fed with ashwag berry since its capture. It is necessary to have it here, but undue suffering is never necessary, and is never our intention." Niisa slowly nodded. He had never thought of sedating any of the animals that he had taken, except Chiko, who had sedated herself before his arrival.

Niisa sat cross-legged with his palms facing upwards in his lap while the rest fidgeted nervously. The priest looked at them all, one by one, frowning as he did, until his eyes came to rest on Niisa.

"Try to find calm," he said to them all, while looking at Niisa. Niisa gave the barest of nods, and the priest echoed it.

It went as Niisa knew it would. He had performed the procedure enough during the preceding months to know what to expect and what to see. Even if he did not feel the change, he knew enough to be able to answer any of the priest's questions.

When the priest asked each of them individually if they had sensed the change, he looked them deeply in the eyes as they answered, and watched them for some time before he asked the next one. The first two said 'no'. Third in line, Niisa, said 'yes'. The priest watched him only as long as the others. The remaining two said 'no'. He seemed satisfied with all of their answers.

"You may return," he said to the others, indicating to Niisa to stay.

For a half hour the priest questioned him. Niisa answered each question with as much detail as he could. For the most part the priest stayed expressionless, but on occasion he frowned and showed some indication of surprise.

When he was finished, he simply sat in silence, leaving Niisa to guess that the last question had been asked. They sat watching each other for some time.

"You have the sense," he said, finally breaking the silence.

"Yes."

"You knew this already?"

"Yes."

"Have you done the test before?"

"Not with you."

The priest smiled. "With whom, then?"

"Just on my own."

He raised his eyebrows. "Why?"

"I want to be chosen. I belong with the Walolang de Kgotia."

"That is an unusual adherence," said the priest. "Why do you feel like that?"

Niisa frowned at him. "I ... I can commune. I can sense life itself. Why would I not want to learn more about what I can do? More about Daygo. Do you not?"

"At your age, when I was chosen, no." Niisa had nothing to say to that. "Will you not miss your family?"

Niisa paused before he answered, and then he decided not to answer at all. He could not trust this man, he did not know him. What if he chose not to take him, even after he had passed the test? "Whatever I have to do, to be chosen, I will do."

The priest tilted his head as he looked at Niisa, and tapped the tips of his fingers on his knee as he did. Finally, he said, "Once I know that you can commune, it would be a crime against my creed not to select you, to accept you into our order. There is nothing more that you need to do. You will be coming back with me."

Niisa heard the words, though he could hardly believe them. Three short months ago he was facing the possibility of living out the rest of his life amongst his tribe, amongst those he shared nothing with, ignorant of Daygo's touch. As well to live with the monkeys, with no place to learn but from within. Now he would be among his own kind, fellow humans that knew the touch of Daygo. Three months ago, Niisa did not know what that was. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Emeka had come into his life.

They walked back into the village together. Many of the villagers stood around, waiting for their return. They walked straight to the chief, who stood at the edge of his cabin.

The priest nodded. "He can commune," he said simply to the chief. The chief nodded slowly. He looked at Niisa for a long time. Niisa looked back. Without saying a word, he turned, his face flat, and addressed the rest of the tribe, who had begun to gather around them.

"He has been chosen," said the Chief. "Niisa will travel with the priest and return to their temple."

Dikeledi shook his head. He worked his mouth. Then his mouth firmed and he stepped forward.

"No!" Fumnaya screamed at him and slapped him across the chest. "No." She hit him again. At the third strike, Dikeledi caught her wrist. He looked at her, his eyes pleading. She shook her head furiously but would not meet his eyes. He let go of her wrist and looked at Niisa. He looked desperate, lost. Tears were in his eyes, they looked deep into his, imploring him to do something or to say something, but Niisa did not know what it was. He said nothing. He watched his father.

"It is better that you leave straight away," said the chief. His father seemed to collapse somehow, like his chest gave in while he stood watching helplessly, his mouth open and moving slightly, like the bare traces of words were struggling in there to get out, to be heard.

Niisa looked at the priest in time to see him glance quizzically at the chief, then at Niisa and then across the tribe and finally on his parents. He turned his head once more and looked down at Niisa for a long moment. Niisa held his gaze.

"Okay," he said simply. He nodded towards the chief and then the tribe and then he turned to Niisa. "Gather your things."

"I have nothing. Nothing that I need. I am ready to go."

The priest nodded slowly. "Okay. Then we are ready." With a final glance over the tribe, he strode away. "Follow me," he mumbled as he passed by Niisa. Niisa took a final glance over his tribe. His father stepped forward, but his mother's hand snaked out and grasped his arm. His father stopped as Niisa turned, looking as though he might fall to the ground as Niisa stepped forward to follow the priest, walking until his tribe, his parents, were out of his sight, out of his mind.
5. What's worth living for?

It was pitch black inside the door of the flat. Liam climbed the stairs slowly, his head muddled and sore, his body stiff. He heard Racquel stumble behind him and looked back.

"Watch the gaps," he said too late, "there're a few steps missing." His head appeared over the floor and he looked about briefly, wondering what to say. Cid lay on the ground to the right, his brother Bradan sitting up beside him. The two girls sat in the far corner, chatting together.

Cool air breathed through the room from the half-shuttered windows. It was hard to see in the dark, everything was gloomy. Flickers of moonlight shone through the front windows as the clouds floated across the sky. The candle was out, only being used when they were all standing around playing a late night game, which was rare.

Liam directed Racquel to Calum's bed. She lay down immediately, wrapping the blanket around herself and crunching up into a ball. Liam thought back to what he had been like when Calum had died. He watched her for a moment, pity in his heart.

He turned and walked across to Cid and Bradan. Cid barely moved from where he lay; he had been sick for the last two days and seemed to be getting worse. He gave a bare grunt after Liam told them that Racquel would be staying with them for a while. Bradan gave a nod. He looked scared, sitting vigil for his brother. Liam looked back to Cid. He didn't know if it was due to the light or not but he looked deathly pale. He offered a silent prayer to Levitas for his recovery.

He walked over to the girls. They stopped their whispered chattering as he approached. He became aware once more of how dangerously thin they appeared and felt a familiar trace of guilt that he could do nothing for them.

"Racquel's going to be stayin' with us for a while," he whispered.

"What's wrong with her?" Rai asked quietly, looking over at Racquel. Liam followed her gaze, giving himself a moment.

"Her mother died and she's tired." Both girls looked at her for a while.

"She can play with us, if she wants," whispered Aibreann.

"Okay," said Liam and he walked away, sitting down beside Racquel. He looked across at her from time to time but couldn't tell if she was sleeping. Darren returned first. He looked once at Racquel and then nodded to Liam, walking over to his pallet. Liam nodded in return, relieved that no words were necessary. A quiet scraping came from Darren's position. He was working something with his knife, but Liam couldn't see what.

A gust of wind blew from outside, rattling the wooden slates in the window and bringing more cool air into the room. There was an autumnal chill to it. Liam liked the autumn. It offered a little bit of everything. There was more balance to it.

The next gust brought with it the sound of a voice. Liam recognised it. He waited, his muscles tensing, his pulse quickening. The door below scraped open. Conversation wafted up to his ears. His eyes stared into the space where Deaglan's head would appear. Instead, it was Ultan's.

" ... tits hanging out."

" ... got what was coming to her."

"Lucky she didn't get more!" the high-pitched whine of Deaglan's laughter rang out.

"Maybe I'll give her more the next time!"

"If we could get rid of that fucking farm boy!"

"Ya ..." Ultan's voice trailed off as he appeared above the stairs and saw Liam's eyes staring back at him. He stopped in his tracks, then got a shove from behind and continued up.

"What ye waitin' for?" said Deaglan, following him up the stairs. He took a few steps before he noticed Liam. Erinin followed. Liam stood up slowly, his arms by his sides. Deaglan frowned as the three walked up onto the landing, then he noticed the sleeping form at his feet. He stopped for a moment, looking down. A slow smile spread across his face. The sneer that Liam detested.

"Have a little friend here?" he asked, his voice quiet. Liam's eyes never left Deaglan. The other two boys seemed to be waiting for Deaglan's reaction, gauging their response on his. Faithful, stupid fucking dogs!

"She'll be staying with us for a while." His voice was stony. He contained his anger.

"Will she now?" Deaglan looked up, turning his gaze from Liam to the two boys at his sides.

"Who decided this?" Erinin grinned, turning to Liam.

Liam looked his way, his expression dead of emotion, his eyes unblinking. "I did."

The grin left Erinin's face. He took a step back.

"You can't just—"

"I vouch for her," said Liam. "Same as Cid did for Bradan. There's a spare space. She's stayin."

Deaglan gave a half laugh and turned away.

"No problem here," he said.

******

Liam couldn't sleep. He didn't know if Racquel slept either. She was turned from him, her breath quiet. Sometimes she started sobbing. Liam watched as her chest shook. She was rolled up tight in a ball.

His head throbbed and his mouth was dry with thirst. It tormented him all night. Twice he thought about going down to the well but he didn't want to leave Racquel on her own. He spared a glance in Deaglan's direction every now and again, sleeping beside the two faithful hounds. He seemed to be halfway between reality and dreams. He heard Racquel sobbing, then turned and looked over, only to see her still. He was drinking from a mug of water, more and more and more, but his thirst was never filled. He groaned and reached for it beside him, but it wasn't there.

Deaglan was standing over him. He could feel him, hear him from behind. Should he turn his head? Should he get up? He was so tired. Deaglan leaned forward and stabbed him in the side. He shocked awake with a cry of panic and pain. He turned around quickly but there was no one there. He could have sworn ... The pain had felt so real. He lay back down. Racquel was gone, she was there. Calum slept beside him ...

He opened his eyes. The first light of dawn was creeping in the windows. He moaned and worked his jaw, unsticking his tongue. He needed to piss. He got up with a groan and walked over to the bucket, coughing on the way. When he was finished, he returned to his bedding and sat against the wall. Racquel hadn't moved all night. She seemed to be sleeping now and he didn't want to wake her. He dropped his head back against the wall, fighting the urge to go to the well.

After about twenty minutes, his thirst got the better of him. He reached over and grabbed Racquel's shoulder to shake her awake. She jumped up with a scream, slapping his hand away. Her eyes were wide with terror as her head turned from one side to the other. She seemed to take a while to remember where she was before she straightened sharply, pulling her knees in tightly.

"Sorry," said Liam. She stared straight ahead, at the dead space above the stairs. "Let's go down to the well." Racquel didn't respond. "Racquel!" he repeated and she shook her head slightly and looked in his direction. "Let's go down to the well."

"Okay," she replied in a whisper. Her voice seemed so meek. He picked up his knife from underneath his pillow and put it into his pocket. He noticed Deaglan roll over at the far side of the room and was glad to be leaving before he rose.

They walked down the stairs and out the door into the street beyond. Racquel stopped after a few paces.

"I ... I ... need to pee," she said. Liam stopped and looked at her. He half-pointed to the side of the street. "I can't do it there!"

"Why not?"

"It's ... everyone's looking," Liam looked around, feeling fairly certain that no one would be looking and so what if they did?

"I ..." he shrugged. "Where do you want to go?" She looked at him and then at the ground. He could see the sheen of unshed tears gather at the bottom of her eyes as she looked about like a trapped animal.

"I ... hold on, there's an alleyway around the corner, there'll be no one there, you can go there." She nodded dumbly. He led her around the corner and into the alleyway off the next street. There was a bum at the end of it. He looked up as they walked in. Racquel stopped uncertainly again.

"Just go there," Liam said irritably, pointing to the side of the alley, "it's only a bum, I'll ... stand watch over here." He turned his back to her and walked to the side of the street, fighting the urge to shake his head, confused at her behaviour.

She came back out to where he stood and they continued onwards to the well. There was a small queue. Liam noticed that Racquel still wore leather sandals. She was lucky to have gotten away with them.

They had to queue behind an old woman at the well. She wore a tunic tied at the waist like a man instead of a dress. Her chest was flat, her face leathery and worn, her feet bare like Liam's. She was probably no more than thirty-five. She had a young girl with her, perhaps six or seven. She was filthy dirty, in a threadbare woollen dress. An old man was before them, his skin a dark brown, lumpy and folded up like the melted candle wax in the flat. He struggled to heave the bucket up with the pulley, his arms shaking as he turned it piece by piece.

Liam eventually tired of waiting and walked up to help him. Putting his hands over the man's, he turned the pulley quickly until the bucket was over the edge. The man grabbed the bucket, lifting it clear without a word and put his toothless gums to its edge, tipping the contents into his mouth and over his lips, flowing down the front of his tunic, his head shaking as his hands were. Liam returned to Racquel and waited their turn.

He watched Racquel as they made their way up the queue. She seemed as though she was in a trance, so unlike herself. She was normally attentive, taking in her surroundings and sharp to pick up on things. _Was this what I was like after Calum?_ She seemed so vulnerable.

She stopped suddenly as they reached the well and Liam moved to drop the bucket.

"I don't know!" she cried. "I don't know if she's dead! Maybe she isn't. I ... I ... abandoned her," she said, horrified, as she started to cry. She turned her back to the well wall and slid down against it. Liam looked down at her, paused in action, not knowing what to say.

"I ..." he said and stopped helplessly. After a moment, she seemed to compose herself somewhat again.

"What will happen?" she asked, as though speaking to herself. "Will he be taken to court? Will he be punished at all? What will happen to the bakery?"

No, Liam wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Who would do anything? Who would care? Certainly not the king, or the gang. Her aunt had no real value to anyone, except Galo, and he had killed her. He let her questions float away emptily on the breeze. There was no good answer, so why answer at all? After a moment, he dropped the bucket and drew it back up again. Racquel stood up beside him.

"I need to go back there," she said, reaching tentatively for his arm. Liam felt broken at her touch. He looked at her as he lifted the bucket onto the edge of the wall. His mouth ached for the water. He couldn't resist, he lifted the bucket and tipped it, allowing the water to flow into his mouth as he drank, gulping it down until he could handle no more, loose tendrils crawling down from the sides of his mouth to the rim of the tunic around his torso.

He rested the bucket against the wall of the well, gasping for breath and offered it to Racquel. She had been looking at him, waiting for a response. She hesitated a moment, then took the bucket and drank more sparingly from it. There was no one behind them in the queue; they had some time with it.

"Okay," he said when she was finished. Her eyes seemed wide despite the furrow of her brow.

"I ... I just need to know ... what happened. I need to know ..." she trailed off and turned from the well. Her bunched fists came to her mouth. "I don't know if she's dead!" she said in a rush, her voice muffled between her hands. "Maybe ... maybe ... she's okay?" She looked over at Liam. He shrugged helplessly. He was still unsure of what had happened. He only knew that her uncle had beaten up her aunt for some reason and Racquel thought she was dead and that he would kill her too.

"I don't know, we can ... we can go by the ... your bakery and have a look, eh, see if anything is different or anything?"

Racquel was quiet for a moment. She nodded. Liam took another swig from the bucket before they left the well, walking towards Baker's Corner.

It was still early when they turned the corner onto Baker's Lane. The bakery was just visible at the other end. They both stopped instantly as the scene fed its way into their eyes. Racquel let out a near scream, falling to the ground, her hands reaching past her face to tear at her hair as she crunched into a ball.

Liam looked down at her helplessly. His head popped back up in a panic. _Could they hear her, could they see her?_ He crouched down and slid his hands underneath her armpits. With a great heave, he pulled her up and away. She screamed even louder and struggled against him.

"You want to be back with him?" he whispered frantically in her ear. "If he sees you, he'll send the men after you!" She stopped her struggles suddenly, almost falling limply against him. He brought her back around the wall and rested against it, holding her in his arms.

She straightened, and he let her go. She stepped aside and sank sorrowfully into the wall. Her sobs didn't cease. Liam stood next to her silently, waiting for it to end. Eventually she quietened but showed no sign of movement. Noon came and went. He crouched down beside her gently.

"We need to get some food," he whispered, still uncertain. He coaxed her up and they bought food at a stall with the money he had received from Lana the day before. Racquel ate little, woodenly chewing on the bread.

They slowly made their way back to the flat, two hours before dark would come. Liam idly thought back to the scene outside the bakery. A handcart had been drawn up, with the clear shape of a body underneath, a faded white cloth on top of it. Men and women had been queuing up to shake the baker's hand and offer him their sympathies as the destra in his blue cotton robes chanted from the Sevi Natan, the holy book of Levitas. He had pulled back the covering to reveal Racquel's aunt's face. He traced the sigil of the ten thousand over her forehead with the scented oil before setting it alight, burning it into the dead skin through blue flame, imprinting the scent upon her body until rot and decay spoiled the meat.

He was struck by a sad and glorious vision as he walked slowly home, Racquel by his side. It was an image of himself and Racquel living above the bakery. Running it. Enough bread to eat every day, freshly baked with dried raisins and apricots. Customers calling at the door. They could work hard, expand, prosper, build a good living for themselves. A simple life. The vision seemed bright in his mind, as though everything were lit up by an exceptionally sunny day. Simple and comfortable. Two rooms all to themselves upstairs, a lavatory. They could sweep the floors, keep them clean, make the bread. He didn't know how bread was made or where it came from, but it couldn't be hard, Racquel could teach him and he could keep her safe. He could be her protection and the bakery's. Why couldn't it have been so?

He looked across at Racquel, still caught up in the splendour of his vision, realising fully, sickeningly, what she had lost; not just her aunt, but her future. And he hated Galo all the more for taking it from her. He wondered if she had yet realised the same. He doubted that she had seen past her grief.

******

Liam was at a loss for what to do. He felt frustrated and angry. He stopped dead on the stairs as he looked into the flat and saw Carrick standing by the window, looking out with a bored expression on his face.

Cid was curled up in the corner, Bradan sitting beside him as usual. He seemed to be shivering slightly. Deaglan and Ultan lounged against the far wall, opposite the stairs with a clear view of everyone, chatting amiably and flicking their knives casually into the floorboards in front of them. There was no sign of Erinin.

"Liam!" Carrick said, as he turned and saw him enter. "Where the fuck have ye been? Been fuckin' waitin here for an hour for ye."

"What are ye doin here?"

"Been waitin' all fuckin' day for ye, haven't I? Think I got nothing better to do?"

"Then why aren't ye doin' it?"

"Some way to treat a friend! Where've ye been? Expected ye over at the tavern ages ago!"

"Calum was a friend, how well did ye treat him?"

"Wasn't my fuckin' fault. Gave that fucker what he had comin' to 'im though, made him sorry that he killed Calum. If I hada known, woulda killed the fuck. Din't know Calum was dead. Then you ran off. Din't know at all. Got the fucker good though, won't be messin' with us again." Liam ground his teeth and walked up the rest of the stairs. He put his hands against the wall, leaning against it. He sensed Racquel behind him.

"What do ye want?"

"What the fuck's wrong with ye! Just came over to give ye yur share of the cash from the shield. Sold it after." He put a hand in his pocket and walked over to Liam. Liam lifted his head. Racquel took a step up from the stairs and moved away, giving space for Carrick. Her steps were awkward as she found herself in the centre of the room, unsure what to do.

Liam put out his hand and Carrick dropped seven half klats onto it. A laugh burst unbidden from Liam's lips.

"Seven fuckin' half klats," he said with bitterness. "The price of Calum's life." Lana had given him five times as much yesterday for free. He could see from the corner of his eye that Carrick was getting angry. He needed Carrick, didn't he? How else was he going to get enough money to support him and Racquel both?

"Always pay my way. Never let a friend down. That's me, ye know that. Came all the way out here to give ye the money, yer share. Did good work, damn shame about Calum, but got that fucker for him. Made 'im pay for it." Out of the corner of his eye, Liam saw Deaglan approach Racquel. He knew Carrick wanted him for something, why else would he be there? He wanted to wait, make him come out and ask, to drop the pretext.

"I'm Deaglan."

"Racquel."

"I heard about your mother."

"She was my aunt."

"I'm sorry, my family are all dead too. How'd she die?"

"My ... her husband ..."

"Bastard."

Liam stood up straight and leaned against the wall, his eyes looking past Carrick's shoulder at Deaglan and Racquel. He put his arm around her and walked her to the far wall. Carrick's foot was tapping. He seemed to be waiting for Liam to say something. Good. He turned his head and followed Liam's gaze for a moment and smirked and gave a little snort of experience and knowledge. He seemed about to comment.

"Got any work goin'?" Liam burst angrily, frustrated with himself for brokering the subject but wanting to be done with Carrick. Carrick stopped short, smirking.

"Can get another job for ye, alright," he looked at Liam. Liam met his eyes, and Carrick instantly moved them on. He never made eye contact. "Come on over to Sal's tomorrow at noon, I'll tell ye what's up then. We'll be doin' it that evenin'." Liam gave the barest of nods.

"Alright," said Carrick as he sauntered past him and walked down the stairs. "Damn shame about Calum."

Liam looked across at Deaglan and Racquel, bile building up inside of him. He clenched his fist and straightened from the wall. He walked over to them. He heard the door scrape open and closed below him.

"Ye ever wanna talk about it."

"Alright, Deaglan," he said aggressively, interrupting their conversation, stopping a yard away from them.

Deaglan looked back at him. "Alright, Liam," he said, the edge of his mouth twitching upwards in that infuriating way of his. Racquel looked up. She still seemed too frail after what had happened to her. The tears that she had shed throughout the day, that he couldn't stop, were still fresh in his mind. It felt as though such a delicate face should never see such a flood of tears. "I was just havin' a chat with Racquel. It's terrible what happened."

"Fuck off, Deaglan."

"Liam ..." Racquel said quietly.

Deaglan spread his arms out wide. "Liam, I'm just tryin' to help." His gaze matched Liam's, his voice innocent, and that hint of a smile always on his face.

Liam's anger boiled within him. Perhaps this would be their showdown. It had been building for a while. Liam knew his knife was in his pocket. But could he use it? Would Deaglan use his? The rest of the boys wouldn't be happy. It was an unspoken rule, you never use your knife on your family. Dave had, two years back. Everyone had turned on him, and he had been kicked from the flat. Liam used to see him every now and again for a while, in the neighbourhood, then he disappeared.

He was uncomfortably aware of Racquel, like a weakness in his side.

"Get the fuck away from her." Liam's voice was slow and gravelly; he could feel the tension in his face, his eyebrows drawn together.

Deaglan's grin slowly slid from his face and he stood up a little straighter. His eyes narrowed.

"Remember what I told you, Liam? After that prick Calum died?"

Liam stepped in close to Deaglan, their faces inches apart. Deaglan was taller. "You think you'd have a fuckin' chance against me?" There was a cold rage growing within him. Racquel had slipped from his mind. All of a sudden the hate and anger that had been building and bubbling under the surface for Deaglan since Calum's death was coalescing and boiling within, threatening to explode outwards like a volcano of old. He knew that once it did, there would be no stopping him, no control. But he didn't care. He wanted it to happen; he wanted Deaglan to take that final step that would send him over the edge, he was waiting for it. Egging for it. His eyes looked up, filled with fury, staring into Deaglan's.

"I'll gut you like a pig!"

"You've never gutted anything that wasn't already dead, you fuckin' pussy."

Deaglan lashed out with his head but Liam saw it coming, dodging back and to the side before the blow could land. Deaglan followed up with a right-handed punch but that, too, found empty air as Liam dodged back once more. He was on the tip of his toes, about to launch an attack, his muscles bunched and filled with blind rage, when he heard a scream from behind Deaglan.

"Stop! ... Stop," Racquel cried out, crouching down on the floor. She scuttled back towards the broken railing above the stairs, tears flowing freely. She looked awful, panic-stricken. Liam was wrong-footed as he watched her. Deaglan's left fist caught him on the temple, knocking him to the floor.

He looked up and saw Cid move with sluggish slowness in front of Deaglan, his arm outstretched, his face pale and slick with sweat.

"Come on for fuck's sake, leave it." Cid put a restraining hand on Deaglan, but he shoved it off roughly. He turned and walked out of the flat. Liam looked across at Racquel from the floor. He realised that he had seen her from the corner of his eye the whole time, seen her slowly crumble, but he had been too focused on Deaglan to pay attention. Guilt overcame his anger.

He sat down against the wall and watched her as she cried, her head buried underneath her arms. Cid gave a small glance his way before returning to his place, almost collapsing back onto the floor and wrapping his blankets around himself. After a few moments, Liam stood up and walked over to Racquel. He sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder. He looked at the floor and across at the wall as everyone else watched on and Darren returned to the flat.

******

Liam lay awake beside Racquel, his mind a turbulent storm of conflicting thoughts. He couldn't sleep. Racquel snored quietly beside him, joined by the soft snoring of the rest of the room's inhabitants. He tensed as he heard the door scrape open below him. It must be Deaglan, finally returning to the flat. He lowered his eyes to slits and steadied his breathing.

Everyone could sense the danger between them now and seemed subdued as a result. It would have to come to an end, and Liam didn't see a way out.

His heartbeat thumped in his ears as the stairs creaked from the pressure of slow footsteps. He was lying on his side, facing away from the stairs. The steps reached the landing. Liam watched from the corner of his eye, straining to see. Deaglan's form appeared and stopped at the foot of his bed. He seemed to be staring down at him. Liam's whole body tensed as he fought to remain still. An age seemed to pass, Deaglan standing and staring. Liam started to consider whether to confront him. Then he turned and moved on.

Liam could hear the rustling of blankets as Deaglan lay down on his cot. He barely slept the rest of the night. He jumped awake with a shock more than once, looking about for what woke him but finding nothing .He kept a hand underneath his pillow, holding tightly to the knife there.

******

His bones were tired. He coughed and rubbed at his eyes, which were thick with sleep. His muscles ached. He pulled his arms up around himself. Dust, everywhere there was dust. He sneezed. Groaning, he shuffled up onto his hands and knees. He stretched his back out, rolling it up and down. Then he turned and sat against the wall, yawning. He rested his head back, allowing his eyes to slip closed for a moment.

The crying had been there since he had woken. It had been there while he had slept. It was quiet, muffled ... tired. The type of sobbing that had been a constant for some time. The owner of the grief was worn out, he was exhausted, yet had nothing else to do, no other purpose, but to grieve. Liam opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. He understood those sobs. He knew them. He knew their source, deep within his gut, he knew, without looking. He fought against his pounding heart and the panic welling up inside of him. He fought against the tears and the immense sorrow that threatened to overtake him. _Oh Lev, Lev ..._

He didn't want to change his gaze from the ceiling. He didn't want to look down to confirm what he already knew. A few more seconds, a few more moments of denial. To deny this life, to deny this hell. Just over a month ago ... It had all gone to shit. He dropped his head, quickly, into his arms, avoiding sight of the room. He took deep, calming breaths.

After a while, he felt that he was ready. He looked up. Bradan was crunched up on the floor, quietly whimpering. Liam's eyes glanced to the still form beside him, just to confirm. He banged his head back against the wall. Hot tears escaped and cascaded down his cheeks. His eyes moved across the room. They met Darren's. They were red-rimmed. A large growth was at the corner of his left eye, an angry red in colour. His face was dirty, his tunic worn thin and torn in places, like Liam's, except too large rather than too small. He held his gaze for a long time. They were opposite one another. At last Liam glanced down at the leather sandal that sat beside Darren, like a talisman, a silent friend that could not die.

He looked to the corner where the girls sat. They looked wide-eyed and sad. They were fucked, out of all of them they were the most fucked. He had to get out of there. He, Racquel, Darren, they all did. They had to move on. They had to find something.

Lastly, he spared a glance at Deaglan, Ultan and Erinin. They also sat quietly, propped against the wall. Deaglan looked sad, like the rest, and angry. Liam suddenly feared the day when anger was no longer there to draw upon. He fired up the furnace that was forever burning within him, building up the hate, the rage and the fury, keeping them warm and within arm's reach.

Erinin leaned in and whispered something in Deaglan's ear. He smirked, saying nothing. Liam met their gaze for a moment each. Another one was gone. Another dead. How many had there been? He started to tick them off in his mind.

He was an orphan. He had been brought to the orphan school straight from the orphanage at the age of three. He didn't remember anything but the school. It was all he knew, before leaving for the wider world of the slums.

There must have been two hundred in the whole orphan school, a large, three storey building, mainly consisting of huge dorms. It was run by three destras with the help of some older boys who had never left, cruel and weak all.

Ailbe, a kind and defenceless boy, raped and felt up by Destra Efrain for over a year, before he died from absidia, which had killed thirty or forty of the boys in the school that year. A horrific disease that caused the tongue to swell and retain fluid, turning a greenish blue in colour. It took two weeks from start to finish, the victim slowly smothering for hours before succumbing to unconsciousness and death.

Liam remembered watching Ailbe with sadness for the last, tormented year of his life. Calum and he had smothered their friend together, hoping to ease his passing. Liam had been seven, Calum eight. They had stuffed a blanket deep into his mouth and held his nose tight. It had taken longer than either had thought it would; they had been left in tears over the body.

He remembered Iona, a brave boy who had never given up against authority. He refused to be cowed, refused to be beaten, refused to give up his fight. Until one day when he had resisted too strongly and was beaten to death by Destra Adalgiso, driven into a mad rage.

How they had all dreamt of leaving, of being free and independent, like the older boys, doing work for the gangs, drinking ale out of big mugs, being free of those bastard destras who held terrible control over them and terrible fear. Heladio, Efrain and Adalgiso, all far different. Efrain had found himself there for a reason: his fondness for boys. Adalgiso was vicious and terrifying, feared the most, while Heladio was a quiet preacher. He had little respect from the boys and harboured little hate. He read from the Sevi Natan every evening for over an hour, over and over, until each boy could recite every verse from it off by heart, the only education any of them had ever been given. Every day they had to memorize another verse, and at the week's end recite all that they had learned the previous week, at the month's end recite all they had learned the previous month. Punishment was severe, but it was all they had to learn. After four or five years being taught it, each boy, no matter their aptitude, knew every line of that book off by heart.

The wind howled and whistled. Clouds amassed overhead, blotting light from the world, turning the day grey. Lighting struck outwards, high up between the clouds, and thunder rolled out over the landscape. The ground began to shake, in fits and starts, then a more permanent and despairing jerking, slow and utterly terrifying.

Great holes tore open in the ground and closed over again, like the gnashing of giant toothless gums. Buildings were swallowed whole, cities collapsed. Tornadoes ravaged the countryside. Volcanoes and mountains dormant for millennia burst open, spouting and gushing hot molten lava, firing rock, black soot and smoke high into the sky. Climbing and climbing to impossible heights before mushrooming outwards, the great swirling winds swept the roiling black masses over the landscape; thousands of tonnes of stone and ash spread wide, as though the sky were the ground and the ground the sky, and grey light became black.

The oceans heaved, disappearing for miles out and returning as though tipped, roaring over new lands. People already knocked to the ground whimpered and squirmed in this impossible, black nightmare as the great mass climbed into the sky and crushed them beneath it.

For six days, man knew the price of our sins. We saw the fiery depths of Daygo. God's eye remained, day and night, always watching. The scourge was brought upon man, and the light to show us the way ...

Liam remembered leaving the school. They weren't made to stay. There wasn't room for everyone to stay, and they didn't have to be forced out. Almost everyone left once they had worked up the courage to do so. When Liam first reached the flat, it was a different group. There were seventeen among them.

Carrig, who had tried to steal the purse from a homeless beggar, thinking him defenceless, only for the bum to stab him in the side in defence of what was his. All of the boys had dived on the bum, stabbing him in turn with their knives until he was well and truly dead. Him and Carrig both.

Gerrit, stabbed through the neck by a guardsman's sword, after getting too close to a royal passenger on the Great Road. Radha, thrown in front of a wagon, a slow death. Dave, kicked from the gang for stabbing Teo, had disappeared since. Teo died months later from sickness. Ferdia made it through to the gang. Davin disappeared. Calum, killed by a blacksmith's hammer. Cid ... dead from sickness ... Rowa, an older girl, found dead on the side of a street by Darren; murdered, probably raped. Sorcha, now working in a brothel on Dasva Street.

Liam felt that he was finally beginning to realise something as his mind brought him through the tragedies of his life and all those around him. Something that now seemed so overbearingly obvious to him, that had been right in front of his face all along. He realised in the pit of his stomach that it was something Calum had known too, before he died. Why had he been so slow? He felt drained by the sadness that overtook him, his limbs sinking towards the ground.

"Liam ... what's ... what's going on?" Racquel asked, the words seeming to drift into his ears from a distance. He looked down at her fearful eyes.

"Cid's dead," he whispered simply.

"Dead?" she looked around the room, taking in the scene again. "What? How?"

"I don't know." He was nothing but a still form now, an empty husk. He looked back to him forlornly. Racquel went silent. The room was silent but for the soft, gentle sobbing of Bradan.

Liam helped lift the body from the floor with Darren, Ultan and a weak-limbed Bradan. They carried it, a limb each, down the stairs and out onto the street, Racquel trailing behind them. They walked with it for close to half an hour until they reached the temple of Levitas, where they laid the body down in front of the entrance and knocked on the door.

It was the largest and most impressive building that Liam had ever seen, bar the walls of the outer city. He often used to stop and stare up at it in wonder as a boy. His eyes roamed over it once more as they waited for a destra to answer their lonely call. It was made entirely of stone, majestic to Liam's eyes, higher and wider than any of those surrounding it. A large singular square tower rose up from the centre of the temple, made of intricately slotted stone, a peaked cap at its top. There were stone carvings around the large oak front doors, which were made of six parts with six sets of hinges on each part, representing the six days that the world was torn apart and remade, signalling the coming of the Sekvi-Daygo plague. The stone pillars to either side of the door were nine-foot-tall depictions of the terrible beasts that came from the north after the breaking. Terrifying creatures that Liam had heard stories of all of his life; stooped over, covered in long black hair, human-like but more visceral and dangerous. They appeared built for savagery. According to the teachings of the Sevi Natan, they came ravaging and rampaging down through the lands of man, killing, disembowelling and eating all in their path. The nations of man, disorganised and recovering from six days of destruction, where the world rose up and revolted against its inhabitants, when Daygo's fury was truly known, were torn apart by the onslaught of the beasts. They wiped out entire nations, never seemed to cease in their thirst for more and seemed limitless in number and deadly beyond measure. They continued south with bare resistance, at a speed almost matching that of news of their coming. It all seemed lost until a man, Levitas, not known as divine at the time, came from the southern Woanaan lands and united all mankind in the Great War against the beasts. He masterminded the great migration south to the Woanaan lands and all that followed.

Liam felt himself caught up in the imagery as he stared at the carvings. The door started to creak open, slowly and awkwardly. As it folded, the right door caught in the rail that allowed it to slide across the floor. It was open just wide enough for a man in robes to step out. He took in the group at once, his eyes passing over each boy and resting a moment on Racquel at the back of the group. They finally dropped on the limp and spread-eagled figure of Cid on the dusty ground, lying on his back. The mouth and one of his eyelids were slightly opened.

"You know we cannot afford to administer blessings to the dead of every slum rat who dies in this district. We have to buy the chemics, the incense. The sacred oils aren't cheap to develop—"

"Please, Destra, he's my brother." The destra paused for a moment, looking down at Cid with disgust on his face. He glanced Bradan's way.

"Was he even marked before? I cannot perform—"

"He's from the school, Destra, please." The destra stared in annoyance at Bradan for a moment.

"I will give his shell the final blessing, so that none of the Sekvi beasts can desecrate his body or steal his spirit. But you must dispose of the body yourself."

"Thank you, Destra."

"I will perform the rite out here. I don't want you carrying filth into my chapel." He returned inside the doors of the church, closing them behind him.

He returned a moment later, dragging the door open once more and giving it a sour look as he walked past. He carried a glass jar of bluish oil and a lighting candle with him. He stopped in front of the corpse for a moment, looking down at the spread-eagled form.

"Arrange him in a more respectable manner," he commanded. Bradan and Darren stepped up quickly and moved him around so that his head was pointing towards the church. They pushed his arms and legs together and stepped back.

"His eyes," the destra muttered disdainfully. Darren looked at Cid's eyes for a moment with a frown. Then he stepped down and closed the left one fully.

The destra stepped up briskly. He knelt beside the corpse, dipped his thumb in the oil and drew the symbol across Cid's forehead.

Liam watched the destra blankly as he chanted the rites of passing and lit the symbol, the magical blue flame burning Cid's forehead. Once he was finished, he stood up. Glancing over the boys, he paused a moment at Liam's look before turning and returning into the temple without a word.

Liam and the boys carried Cid off, dropping him at the side of a street where the dung collectors would see and collect the body. They always brought an extra cart for this purpose. Liam told Racquel that he was going to meet Carrick in Sally's tavern and asked Darren to see her safely back to the flat. He told her he would be back before dark and left.

******

Deaglan watched the stray dog, dragging its hind legs behind it. It looked as though its back was broken, whether by the hoof of a horse or the wheel of a wagon or something else. He didn't really care. He wondered how long ago it had happened. It was hard to tell. It looked to be in bad condition, but it might have been like that before. Its fur was patchy, its face old. Boy or girl? he wondered. Perhaps it was thirsty. He looked around and saw a curved, broken piece of pottery at the side of the road. He walked over and picked it up, then filled it out of the half barrel outside the flat. He returned and put it down in front of the dog's nose. He sniffed at it and pulled himself towards it with his front legs. Deaglan laughed, edging the pottery away from his nose, watching as he crawled hopelessly after it.

Then he had a brain wave. He poured the trickle of water out on the soil in front of the dog. The soil soaked it up like a sponge. He smiled again as the dog's tongue lolled out and licked the wet ground in vain. It gave up after three or four licks, its tongue covered in dirt.

Deaglan stood up and looked around.

"What the fuck's keepin' him?" he asked Erinin beside him.

"Dono," he replied. They were waiting for Ultan to return from dropping off Cid's body. Then they were going to Market Alley to see what they could land for the day. Deaglan's mind wandered as they waited.

He thought of the girl Racquel. He had seen her whole for the first time the night before. She had graceful features, sleek black hair and gentle curves. She seemed so delicate. He wondered if she would break easily. The thought had obsessed him through the night and into the morning. His arousal seemed permanent. Liam was so protective of her. The dual opportunity to get at that fuck and teach him a lesson and to dig his teeth into Racquel, teach her a lesson, make her pay for being such a stupid bitch and hanging around with that fool, to see her delicate features bunched up in pain, to hear her high-pitched voice screaming out for help, gasping, choking.

He dropped to his haunches, trying to contain the arousal and excitement that overwhelmed him at the thought. He tried to think of something else.

"There they are," said Erinin. Deaglan looked up as Darren, Ultan, Racquel and Bradan came around the corner. He watched as Racquel and Bradan went inside the flat. Darren and Ultan broke off in their direction. Darren nodded to them as he walked past.

"Where's Liam?" Deaglan asked Ultan as he joined them.

"He's gone, he has that thing with Carrick."

A smile played across Deaglan's face. "When's he going to be back?"

"Heard him say wouldn't be till tonight."

Deaglan's eyes slipped from Ultan to the flat behind him and his smile widened. He noticed Ultan fidget nervously beside him.

******

As he approached the tavern, Liam looked across at the warehouse at the end of the street. Not for the first time, he wondered what was stored there. He knew it was owned by the gang.

A smoky haze enveloped the familiar din of the tavern as he entered. It was busy for noon with three of the encircling tables filled along with half the bar. Liam's stomach rumbled at the smell of stew. It seemed a long time since he had tasted anything as nice as Sally's Stew.

Carrick sat on a stool at one of the tables, across from two burly men Liam didn't recognise. He could see by Carrick's awkward posture that they held influence over him. Liam picked up a stool and casually strolled over to them. He set the stool down beside them and sat.

"Alright, Carrick," he greeted him, smiling inwardly, knowing that it would embarrass Carrick for Liam to be so at ease around him.

One of the men frowned at Liam. "Who the fuck are you?"

Liam smiled back at him.

"The fuck ye doin' over here, Liam? Go ... wait over at that table over there!" Carrick waved a hand vaguely at the other end of the tavern. Liam took his time getting up. The man nearest him threw a backhanded fist at him, but he saw it coming and stepped lightly away, knocking his stool down as he did so.

"Little shit!" the man said. Liam stared him down until his brows furrowed angrily, then he turned his back and walked slowly away. He felt like antagonising people. He sat down at his table and waited, idly wondering if he could convince Carrick to buy him some stew.

A while later, Carrick shook hands with the men, seeming to be more enthusiastic than they were, and walked over to the bar. He bought a fresh mug of ale before finding Liam and sitting at his table.

"What the fuck ye comin' over to me like that for?"

"What's the job?" Liam cut him short, not willing to waste time with his bullshit. Carrick stared maliciously over his ale.

"Startin' to fuckin' wonder about you, Liam!"

Liam laughed. "Really?"

"You'd wanna get some fuckin' manners!"

Liam didn't respond, instead waiting for Carrick to get to the point. After a time, he got to business.

"You know that carpenter? The one that fucked me over on the smith's job?" Liam looked up at Carrick, his eyes widening. "Been thinkin' 'bout it, it's 'bout time we got that fuck back now as well, like we got the smith. He needs to learn too. Needs to be quiet, though. Won't steal nothin' from him, so has nothin' to do with matis, or the flags; just an altercation in the street. Won't be expectin' shit."

Liam could hardly believe his ears. His heart started to pound. He could feel his face going red. He stared down at the table, boring holes into it. He shook his head slightly as Carrick continued.

"Been getting' a lad to watch 'im, we know he'll be getting' supplies later on today, we can hit 'im then, when he's away from his store. No one'll know the difference."

Liam's fingers itched for the hilt of his knife.

"Was thinkin' you'd like to get in on it, with Calum and all, get this fucker too. Teach 'im some respect. They'll know fuckin' better the next time!"

There was a force building inside of him, filling him up, growing with every word out of Carrick's mouth. His mind screamed at him to jump across the table and bury the knife in Carrick's throat. He was too pent up to speak, he couldn't move. It took all his will to stay still, his head cocked and rigid, his eyes on the table top but seeing nothing.

"You'll do the same as on the smith's job, go in there and fish 'im out, then ..."

His head seemed to be floating as he listened to Carrick prattle on. Eventually, it came to a stop. There was a moment of silence.

"You must be fuckin' kiddin' me," he said quietly.

Carrick looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "What?" he asked, his voice rough.

"You must be fuckin' kidding me?" Liam repeated, his gaze coming up from the table to bore holes into Carrick's.

Carrick looked away angrily. "What the fuck you talkin' about?"

"After Calum, after ..."

"What the fuck ye lookin' at, eh? Go look somewhere else!"

"I'll rip your fuckin' throat out," Liam whispered.

Carrick looked back at him sharply. "What the fuck's your problem, eh? You don't want the job, then fuck off!"

Liam's stare didn't drop. Carrick began to fidget, awkward and angry. Liam forced himself up. He stood, turned and walked for the door.

"I don't want to see your fuckin' face round here again!" Carrick shouted after him as he walked outside.

He was almost numb with disbelief and rage and terrible regret. _What the fuck had they ever been doing with that idiot! Calum was dead because of that fucking idiot._ It was as though his eyes had finally been fully opened. He shook his head as he walked away from the tavern and headed for home, his fists clenched tightly.

******

Racquel screamed but she knew there was no one coming. Not this time. Still she screamed, unable to contain her terror and revulsion. _Not again, not again. Why? Why were they doing this?_ She struggled, bit, scratched, kicked, knowing it was only delaying the inevitable, knowing that it would probably only make it worse. A fist collided with her jaw, causing her mind to fog. She struggled a little less. She could hear the eagerness and excitement in their voices as they pulled at her, tearing her clothes.

******

It started to rain on his walk back. His hair was flat against his forehead; rainwater ran down his face, dripping from his nose and chin onto the wooden steps as he climbed up to the flat. He left the water run its own course, undisturbed, too melancholic to wipe at it. He was only vaguely aware of Bradan in the corner of the room. _Racquel must be at the well._ He sat heavily on top of his bedclothes, not caring that they would get wet.

He didn't know what he was doing, or what he had planned. Nothing. He was unsure. What was he doing?

He was uncomfortable with the new truths that had come to him. He had been looking for another way, a new way. A way they could survive and thrive out in the slums. He had known that there was a way, that other people had done it before him, but he hadn't known how. He had wondered what it was that gave them the edge. Now he knew. He could see it clearly, for the first time, truly clearly, without restriction. It was obvious, as clear as his knees before him. But ... to do it. To become who he needed to be. What about his soul? Where would he end up in Daygo's stream? Would he live in torment for eternity?

But they were doomed. He knew it. It was just as clear. If he didn't change their course, if he didn't change his way, they had no chance. Their lives would be short, like all those who had come before him, like all those others, like Cid and Calum. Short and tormented. Full of suffering and woe. They couldn't continue the way they were, he couldn't support himself and Racquel both. He could barely support himself alone, without Calum and without the gang, with no future there ...

Racquel ... she knew nothing about real slum living. She had been sheltered within the bakery. He couldn't support them both. She would never survive. She would ... she _would_. She would survive. But it would be worse. Better to die, not to ... live like that.

There was only one way. There was only one choice. Accept it, embrace it or die. Survival or give up and die now. That was his only option, the only choice before him. He knew now that there was no point in fooling himself any longer, in foolish hope that there was some middle ground, some easy and happy way. It was either embrace it now in totality or turn from it, give in, like the homeless bums littering the streets of the slums. Like those he had always before hated. Those who disgusted him, who had given up the fight.

Only now, truly, he was unsure. For the first time he saw a reason for who they were, for what they were. At least ... at least they ... He didn't know, he didn't know which choice was better. Both seemed equally terrifying to him. But he had to choose! There was no middle ground. He had to choose now!

Where was she? He looked up from his knees, realising that he was shivering. _How come I never get sick?_ he wondered; all of the other boys do. He looked across at Bradan. There was something strange about his demeanour. He seemed nervous. Liam hadn't noticed, had thought it was just Cid, but it wasn't, it was something else. He looked around the room. His heartbeat quickened. A sudden spike of fear shot through him. Bradan gave a slight flinch as Liam's gaze fell on him once more. He stood up. _Why would she be out in the rain?_

"Where's Racquel?"

Bradan fidgeted, ignoring him.

He wouldn't ...

"Bradan! Where is she?"

"I ... I dono," he answered.

"Yes, you fuckin' do!" said Liam, striding over to him. He grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him up, slamming him back against the wall. "And you better tell me right fuckin' now."

Bradan looked up helplessly.

"She went with Deaglan," he moaned.

"Where?"

"I ... I dono ... the ... the alley, that spot ..." Liam left him go, knowing where they had gone, a million spikes pricking into the skin surrounding his body. _No!_

His body moved, racing down the stairs and out into the rain, his mind a separate, floating thing being dragged behind it. The rain had quietened to a bare drizzle. The street was empty except for a crippled dog lying yards away, whining softly. Somehow it pulled at him, drawing panic and fear forth. His eyes were reluctant to leave it as his feet dragged him past, careless of their step, water, mud and shit squishing underneath.

The alleyway wasn't far away. It was a dead end, a side alley to another alleyway, hidden from the road. The walls of the opposing buildings were close together, two storeys high and lacking windows. One side leaned inwards oppressively. A roof had collapsed outwards, creating a canopy of sorts over the end of the alleyway where the wooden timbers had slid across to catch against the opposite wall. The overall result was gloomy, dark and oppressive. It was known as a place of privacy.

His mind was closed, a desperate bubble throbbing with fear as he ran. It wasn't far. He turned up the preceding alleyway. Racquel's cries rang painfully in his ears, shocking his system. The cold hilt of his knife found its way into his right palm, gripped fiercely. He ran past a homeless man, sitting at the side wall, rainwater flowing all around him, soaking wet. His withered face didn't move but his eyes trailed Liam, dead, feeling nothing, without hope.

He didn't slow as he turned the corner. Racquel was at the end of the alleyway, underneath the wooden slats. She was upright and held tightly against the left wall. Ultan was a couple of steps back from her, looking uncomfortable. He was the first to see Liam, his eyes widening and a gasp of alarm escaping his lips. The air seemed to crackle around Liam. He could feel it, laden with moisture, heavy.

Her cries reverberated through him, her terror seeming to amplify his senses and send him into blind action. His eyes widened, ears opened, nostrils flared.

Deaglan's left hand came away from her bare chest, his right still held hers pinned against the wall. She shrieked and tried to kick at him, Erinin's right hand slammed into her throat, hitting her head against the wall and choking her. The front of her dress was torn, the skirt had been raised high. She was straddled between the two boys. Deaglan's features twisted in surprise as he raised his head. He stepped backwards, releasing Raquel's arm. Liam slammed into Erinin as he half turned, his knife sliding through his side. He pulled it out, readying for another blow. _Erinin, my brother._ A gasp of pain escaped his lips. A shiver of uncertainty passed through Liam's arm as he struck again, making the blow awkward. The blade hit bone and snapped, his wrist twisted, momentum pushing the hilt in his hand against Erinin's side, sliding slightly on the blood. He dropped the hilt with shaking fingers. _Erinin, all my life I have known you, lived with you, disliked you._

He cried out, sliding to his knees, his side growing damp with blood. Racquel pulled her arm free, Deaglan stepped backwards and swiftly took out his knife. Liam's gaze had followed Erinin, he tore it away, forcing himself to back up a few steps. Ultan's eyes were wide, shocked.

"Run," Liam whispered, barely audible above Erinin's moans. Racquel stumbled away a few steps, trying to straighten out her dress.

He saw the glint of decision in Deaglan's eyes. Horror almost prevented Liam's reaction. He jumped forward with Deaglan's knife hand, intercepting it. Grasping the wrist, he turned it from its course, away from Racquel's exposed back.

"Run!" he shouted, and this time she did. Ultan seemed to come alive, looking up from Erinin, his face turning murderous. He charged at Liam, knife slashing outwards. Liam jumped backwards, releasing Deaglan's wrist just in time. Dodging the blow, he danced backwards a few more steps, readying himself.

"You fucking bastard! You're going to pay now!"

Erinin was white-faced on his knees, on the ground, blood soaking down his right side and mixing with the water and dirt around his knee, diluted and thin. He was dead; it was just seconds in the telling.

"I should've stuck you yesterday! Only for Cid!" Deaglan took a step forward as he talked. Ultan glanced down, staring at Erinin. "You'll be joining him now!"

_I'm the only one to kill a brother._ Liam's hand shook with the realisation, empty space within his half-closed fist. He took a step to steady himself and cleared his mind.

The ground beneath their feet was wet and muddy, the walls to either side loomed in overhead. The alleyway was just wide enough for them to surround him. They knew instinctively what to do. They spaced out to either side. Any misgivings that Ultan had were now gone with the death of his friend and ally.

Deaglan came first, darting in from Liam's left, the deadly blade discreet in the gloom. Liam jumped forward, avoiding the blow. He knew Ultan was coming from behind, he knew by instinct, he knew what he and Calum would do, how they would work the odds and their advantage. He knew his opponents.

Ultan's blow was coming in low, for his hamstring, where he would struggle to dodge. He lifted his right leg, throwing it into the air and pivoted on his left, leaning into a half fall. Ultan tried to pull back, his knife arm extended having missed Liam's right leg. Liam caught his wrist with his right hand, then his left, falling on it and pulling at it with all his strength as he turned to roll, dragging Ultan to the ground below him. He left go and rolled back to his feet as Deaglan came at him, his knife slashing out wildly. Liam ducked and drove his fist into Deaglan's midriff just below the ribcage, driving the air from him. He pushed forward and away quickly, wary of the deadly blade, and kicked Ultan in the head as he was rising. Ultan let out a groan but his knife came swinging through the air in defence and caught Liam in the calf as he jumped away.

Ultan seemed groggy on the ground, struggling on his hands and knees. Liam leaped back over him towards the winded Deaglan, wincing in pain, trying to press his advantage. Deaglan backed off, struggling to breathe and lashed out wildly, missing Liam.

Liam jumped forward and slammed his fist into Deaglan's throat, but his backward movement saved him from the worst of it. He slashed out again, slicing across Liam's side. Liam ignored the pain and, grabbing the knife arm with his left hand, he drove the fingers of his right hand into Deaglan's eye. Deaglan screamed, his left hand grabbing at Liam's right, pulling at it desperately, his head flying backwards and banging fiercely into the wall behind him. Liam used his momentum, pushing forward relentlessly, his fingers viciously grasping and digging deep, scraping, trying to root in behind the eye and get a firm grip, while his left hand struggled with Deaglan's knife arm but held firm.

He didn't know how he knew. He didn't know what hidden voice inside him screamed the warning. Perhaps his ears had heard the approach but he had been consumed with his battle with Deaglan. At the very last moment he moved, pushing himself to the left with all the speed he could muster. The knife sliced through his side, and he gasped in shock and pain, but it slid past. Deep, but a flesh wound, no internal organs cut.

A grunt of surprise and shock came from Ultan as his momentum drove him into Liam. Liam used it, grasping on, he rooted Deaglan's eye from the socket, pulling and flicking it outwards, his fingers slipped clear, failing to tear it off. Ultan stabbed in viciously from his right, and again a last-second movement from Liam saved him from a fatal wound. The blade sliced along his midriff across his previous wound. Deaglan screamed hysterically. Liam heard his knife fall. He let go of his hand and backed away, grabbing at Ultan's knife. He brought his knee flying into Ultan's crotch. Ultan's head ricocheted forward, a groan of pain escaping his lips. Liam grabbed onto the back of it with his right hand and clamped his teeth around his nose. He ripped the top off, falling backwards from the force of his movement. He let go of Ultan as he did so, scampering back a few steps, his sides and calf bleeding, his strength and energy ebbing.

Ultan charged at him like a raging bull. Deaglan raved like a maniac behind him, his hands up in front of his left eye, hovering before it but making no move. The eye hung out lopsided by its string. Liam stepped to the side and forward, his hands reaching for Ultan's wrists as his head fired into Ultan's nose, ruining it further.

His knife came loose from his hands, falling to the ground as Ultan reeled backwards, stunned. Liam dived after it, grabbed it and rolled back onto his feet. His back found the side wall and he leaned against it, panting, the taste of blood strong in his mouth. He held the knife in front of him with a double grip.

"Had enough?" he croaked, knowing he had won. Blood was smeared over Ultan's mouth, his nose a twisted, mangled ruin. Deaglan had pushed his eye back into its socket. But it seemed swollen and too large, almost popping out, angled wrong and an angry red. A sort of pus seemed to be smeared on the skin around it, his eyes weeping, as were Ultan's. Liam had his knife now. "Want some more?"

Deaglan shook visibly, his nerve shattered. He was the first to go, stumbling for the exit. Ultan glanced at Deaglan's knife on the ground and moved towards it, but Liam stood up suddenly and he thought better of it, turning for the exit. He stumbled out after Deaglan, hand over his nose.

Liam allowed himself to fall against the wall behind him. Blood seeped from his stomach and side. He barked a laugh painfully, sliding down the wall. _What had he won?_

After a moment, he forced himself back up onto his feet and struggled out of the alleyway, heading for the street beyond. He noticed the bum's eyes once more as he passed and bared his bloody teeth at him. An animalistic growl escaped through his lips, half challenge and half roar of defiance.

He staggered from the alleyway, limping on his bad calf, stooped over, his arm pressed into his side. He walked down the street, away from the flat. _Forever_ , he thought with dull feeling. He wanted to put distance between himself and where Deaglan and Ultan might find him, even though he doubted they would be looking for him now. He made it to the end of another street then turned into a side alleyway, looking for a private place to rest. He sat down heavily against the wall, his feet falling out in front of him.

He could feel his face set in a grimace, his teeth bared angrily. _Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them. Fuck them all!_

******

Racquel's eyes were red. The rain continued its relentless downpour around her. The shelter above her head offered little protection. She sat uncomfortably at the outward edge of it. The air was damp and dark. Twilight was soon approaching. It would be her second night sleeping rough on the street. She only had what she wore, a dress that had been sewn with such loving and tender care by her aunt, now ripped, dirtied, old-looking. It barely covered her, barely offered her some discretion. _Why do I look this way!_ She wished she was more boyish, less alluring and tempting to men. She felt like prey walking the streets, surrounded by predators, sizing her up, judging their opportunity. She had never before realised. How had she missed the looks, the leers? The lust and temptation was clear to her now in their stares. They were like animals, but there was Liam. Was it just that he was younger than the rest? Would he too become one of them? She didn't dare believe it.

A flash of light lit up the street, for a moment illuminating everything, replaced by a fearful dark, dropping down. The image seemed burned into her mind, and its absence made her empty vision all the more sinister. There was a street around her that she couldn't see. A heap of a man, just down from where she sat, whom she couldn't hear. Wet splashes of water, the relentless tapping of the rain. Shadows reached out to her, the urge to fall back into her hole was overpowering. If there was not a battered, helpless form within that space, she would have succumbed to it long ago.

The ensuing thunder rolled out from overhead, encasing the street in the deep, dark rumble; the slow, ominous vibrations, a long sound for such a short flash of light. Daygo's fury. Racquel shivered as dark thoughts overcame her mind.

Who was lurking in the shadows? What was hidden by the rain's patter? She used to wake, when she was younger, with terrified screams, dreams and images of the terrible beasts coming from the dark to take her. Her aunt would rush to her side, whispering soft comfort, lying with her until she fell back asleep, safe, enfolded in her arms.

It was no longer beasts that terrified her, haunting her dreams, lurking in the shadows, threatening, but men. Cruel, uncaring, vicious, seeing nothing but meat to be devoured. All the things that terrified her about the beasts had become true, reincarnate and vibrant within the men living out there in the dark.

She wished Liam were awake and by her side. She thought back over the past few days. How he had shown such anger towards Deaglan the day before the fight. His face had been manic. It had seemed so unnecessary and unprovoked at the time; she had thought Deaglan was being kind. It had scared her. She had all of a sudden found herself in a hostile environment that she didn't understand and the boy she knew the most seemed to be acting the most erratically. But she realised now it was knowledge that had led Liam to act as he did, that he was trying to protect her as he always seemed to be doing. She thought back to when he had knocked over the tray in the bakery, what seemed a lifetime ago, and then again when he had dragged her away from the funeral, and finally ... she closed her eyes, wishing away the terrors. She felt ashamed by her doubts in him. Always, since she had known him, he had been there for her. He had shown a loyalty to her. What had she done for him? Look at everything he had been through as a result. She rested her hand gently on his shoulder, her touch as light as a feather, fearful of causing him any more hurt.

She would never abandon him, she promised herself, as she sat in the rain. Never. No matter what happened, she would always stay at his side. She would always do what she could to protect him, to help him as he had protected and saved her. Her aunt had died for her. She was determined that Liam would not do the same.

_Would he be better off without me?_ Her doubt whispered in her mind. Not now, at least. Now he needed her, after what he had done. She was to blame, she was at fault. She had to nurse him back to health. Perhaps then she should leave him; she was a dead weight for him to carry. She was useless, naive, out of her depth. She knew nothing. He understood what to do, and she only held him back. But she was scared, terrified. What would she do without him? Where would she go? What would happen to her? She didn't want ... without him, she would be defenceless. Her eyebrows came together tightly as she squeezed her face shut, tears dropped, lonely, from her eyelashes, lost in the rain as she cried at her own selfishness. She wished that her aunt was there.

_I have to learn. I have to help!_ _I won't be a dead weight. I will help him. I will do whatever it takes!_ She reached out, tentatively, behind her. Her soft hand lay down on his chest. She waited, her breath held, her eyes still closed and prayed for movement. It came. Slow, almost relaxed, his chest rose and fell, ever so slightly still alive. She brought her hand back in front of her and crouched low, continuing her silent vigil, shivering in the rain.

She had found him the night before. The vision of him, lying there, she felt would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. His legs stretched out before him, his torso had slid down the side of the wall and forward, hanging above the ground, awkwardly suspended somehow, as though an unseen force still held him from the dirt. His mouth, his teeth, painted red with blood. There was a chunk of ... flesh on his chin, sitting, half-stuck to the dried blood there. His tunic was soaked red, his legs, his side. She had cried when she had seen his wounds. She didn't understand how he could still live. There had been so much blood. A knife was gripped fiercely in his hand. She had to pry his fingers away one by one.

She had dragged him into this shelter, away from the rain and prying eyes, only yards from where he had sat. She had thought it must have been his destination. With rising panic in her heart, she had cleaned and tended his wounds as best she could, cutting pieces from his tunic and her dress to use as swaddling and bandages. She had brought him water and food, trying to make him drink. Her guilt had risen when she had taken some coin from his pocket to feed her hunger, and she swore to take no more for her own needs. He would need the money once he woke. He would wake.

He lay behind her now, sheltered from the rain, covered in a blanket that she had found earlier that day. As night came she lay down beside him, outside him, sheltering him further from the elements outside as she tried to shield her mind from the lurking shadows. She laid a shaking hand gently over his chest, praying once more that the movement there would not fade.
6. The Daygo Stream

Daygo was creation. Daygo was life. Daygo bound the Earth and all things together. One interlocking, interflowing mass of magic. One knowledge base beyond intelligence, far beyond consciousness. Daygo was inherent knowledge, inherent energy, inherent movement. To know Daygo, one had to become one with one's smallest parts. One had to bring the mind to true stillness, to true blankness, where there was nothing left. One had to understand deeply the filaments of life. Then ... sense arrived, as though it were always there, it became present. And one wondered how it was ever missed, how it was never seen, how it was never touched, because the joy was overpowering.

"How do two drops of water know to touch?" asked Raba. To illustrate his point, he poured two drops onto a flat stone, with small pebbles set out to separate them. "This is water. One drop, and another drop. Are they the same?"

"Yes," said Namuso.

Raba reached his hand into the soil and rolled the dirt between his thumb and forefinger, he dropped some into one small pool. The water soaked up the mud and became slightly brown. "Now are they the same? One is brown and one is clear. One consists of much different properties than the other. If one is drank it will make you sick. If the other, it will quench your thirst and nourish. Both live separately, individually, both inhabit their own space."

"They are different," said Namuso.

Raba pushed the pebbles out of the way with his finger. The two pools joined together, forming a colour between what each had been. "Now they are the same," he said. He moved the pebbles again, this time managing to isolate the small grouping of water into three separate pieces. "Now we have three. Each one slightly altered, each in its own way individual, each with some small lifespan in its own state." He moved the pebbles a final time. "And now they are the same," he said with finality.

"So, too, it is with us, with all life, with each human, with each monkey, with each fish, each worm, each blade of grass, each drop of water," he waved his hand lavishly, closing his fist as though to catch the very air, "each ... body of air.

"Only in the form that we take are we individual, are we separate. Some forms are more tangible than others." He waved his hand again. "The air we cannot even see, or grasp, but we can taste it, we can smell it, we can inhale it. Some air smells different than others, yet it is of the same. People, animals, are very much tangible, touchable, clearly separate, clearly apart. Different to look at, to touch," he tapped his nose, "to smell, yet we are of the same.

"We all, for a while, are separate. We all, for a while, are our own selves. Yet we, too, lose our form." He patted the ground. "We, too, like the water, become part of a larger whole. And, like the water, we too change again, where there was one, there might become part of three, parts of three new individual forms. Now imagine all the drops in the world, imagine all the dirt in the world, imagine all the humans and animals and air in the world." He mashed his hands together and rolled them around. "Imagine them all mashed together, joined, totally, as one. Only _then_ do we know Daygo's true form. Only _then_ is it whole, and is it all clear, and is it all unified and complete. Until then," he waved his hands and smiled, "we are here. What is you is me. What am I is you. We are all things, we are here together. Love all things. Love the movement. Love the Daygo flow."

******

When they found Niisa, knelt over his sister, her insides torn apart, the bloody knife discarded at the edge of the hut, Niisa was covered in her blood, red from knee to chin, his eyes bloodshot, his face white, and he was in tears. The beauty of the world, the beauty of Daygo. How could they accuse him of her murder? They had never seen him show such emotion before. He was overwhelmed.

******

The sun shone down on the twelve small huts that lay scattered in a loose circle around a central fire pit. The ground was rocky and well-worn by the feet of generations of priests. Tufts of grass and moss found purchase between the stones. The natural clearing was surrounded by trees that seemed to loom over them, as though leering into the cave mouth that offered no insight into its depths, shielded within overlapping folds of blackness. The rainwater flowed around the curls of the hill that framed the strangely falling incline into the cave mouth; he heard its passage echo and grow within the cavern, becoming a monster, a gulping maw, a falling river. Niisa searched for the red eyes of the panther within, but all was hidden, all was darkness.

A cultivated vegetable patch grew along the side and outside of the hill. The rest was wild, contained only by the tread of the priests. The forest talked in a way that was only ever fully heard from the brief respite of the clearing. Hidden within the open air, they could hear clearly. Hands and feet, palms and soles softly slapped on the wet stone and vegetation growing upon the earth. The mist of rain still coated the air, fogging noise, restricting sight, weighing on breath, creeping into lungs. Arms, heads, legs moved through the air smoothly, pausing, perfectly planned, filled with defined course, inhabited by knowledge, destiny, peace.

The Walolang de Kgotia were nine priests, and each breathed steadily through mouths closed, the air making a hollow sound at the back of their throat as it passed evenly through both nostrils. Niisa was one amongst them; Namuso another, the former friend of Emeka, the scout that forged a path for Niisa's present, that brought the light of a life of knowledge and wisdom to Niisa through the ignorant vessel of an adolescent girl. Among them were three women. They were a tribe without children or family. Their hunt was the daily commune that took place within the cave, that lived in the blackness and sparkled like luminescent water, visible yet transparent.

When their morning exercise ended, they sat in silent meditation. The mist passed slowly into the earth and the air cleared but remained heavy and humid, the clouds passed overhead and opened in places to reveal glimpses of blue sky, where stars hid for the dark to show; the moons moved somewhere up above, too, hidden behind light and cloud. A small breeze slowly fell upon them from the surrounding mountains, passing and playing upon the rooftop of changing shades, pushing waves of movement that shifted across the hours of rolling forest for what seemed like infinity in all directions. The sun traced shifting yellow circles over the greens. Some lone birds circled above it all in the sea of air between forest and cloud.

Niisa opened his eyes and sat still for some time as he re-adjusted enough to stand and prepare to descend into the caves below. His fellow priests followed suit. In order of youngest they walked down the pathway into the cave and travelled from light into darkness. There were three caverns, but one was more sacred than the others. He walked with confidence, despite being rendered blind, and passed the cavern that opened to left and right. He placed a hand on the rough, wet stone before his face as he ducked and crawled through into the third room. He took a seat on the cool floor within the cavern, and the following priests took their places around him to form a circle. They sat in the dark and found themselves still.

In the quiet, Niisa slowly found the place of pure detachment with his self. He opened himself up to his surroundings. He achieved understanding that extended to every part of his body, an understanding that extended beyond his body, that encapsulated everything in the universe, that all was one. More than learned words, but complete belief, and complete acceptance that it was so. A profound peace settled over him as Daygo suddenly became apparent, as a sixth sense activated within his consciousness, a consciousness no longer limited to the confines of his body.

Like a mesh sponge of countless fibres too thin and small to be separated in mind, it was tied together by an unaccountable number of connections. His commune, his sense, was limited to the air surrounding him, but he felt it, and felt the connection, the sameness; it was him and it was all things.

For a time, he floated in this simple, blissful knowledge and sense. Slowly, within the commune, the man that was Niisa started to re-awaken, the man that posed individual thoughts, and conceived individual considerations. It was as though the self opened his eyes to a new world, and he watched and studied in awe and amazement what he was a part of.

******

Most of each day was spent cultivating a stillness of mind and a calming and levelling off of emotions. To do this, they worked all aches and stiffness from their body. They ate and drank well. They sat for long periods of time in silent meditation. They controlled their breathing, made it long and smooth. They had already achieved a sense of peace and connection with the world before they entered the caves and attained the commune.

They held open discussion on their thoughts at the end of each day. When Niisa joined the Walolang de Kgotia, he was assigned a guru to learn from, as they all had been. Raba would remain his guru until he died and would be entrusted with, and be responsible for, his teaching. Over the first months, he explained with growing depth how the commune worked.

"Opening up to Daygo requires a loss of self. This does not necessarily mean a loss of emotion, though one often coincides with the other. Understanding is key. One can know the truth without understanding it, without adopting it to heart, without feeling it in every fibre. Sadhami is this moment of epiphany, where your whole being adopts this _knowing_ , this realisation, that you are a part of the universe, with no further attachment to who you are, to what you are, to your dreams, ambitions, emotions, thoughts, memories, past or future. You are a present being attuned completely with the universe, in complete realisation of the ties of the universe.

"It is through this moment of epiphany that the commune with Daygo is achieved, that the sixth sense becomes aware, that the gap between the self and the universe is bridged. Once it is bridged, it is then possible to maintain its connection, the commune, even with a small returning to the self thereafter. It is the moment of bliss, of Sadhami, that is the gateway to Daygo. Once the gateway is passed through, it is possible to maintain the commune for a time. It is very hard to retain Sadhami for any prolonged time, but the commune can be maintained even after its loss, though there is danger in this place, as the self tries to re-establish control. For this is not the place of the self but of the whole.

"Imagine your self, contained within your body, contained within the unit of you, as it has always been. Understanding the power that emotion can have over your self within this confined space, the difficulties in trying to control this flow of emotion, in managing it.

"Consider how an emotion can start small within you and can grow upon consideration and justification in one's own mind and how this growth can add conviction to the before shaky foundation of justification, in a growing circle of reaction that perpetuates itself. In short time it has accelerated and reached a peak of emotion that, upon later consideration and sensible and logical thought, outweighed, perhaps by far, the justifiable emotional reaction to the instigator of that original feeling. We look at ourselves afterwards abashedly and think how silly it was of us to have lost such control, to have let the reaction escalate to a level that makes little sense to us in hindsight.

"Over time, as we get older, we learn to better recognise the signs of such reactions. As children and adolescents, we are lost to them, but as adults, to various degrees and depending upon personal practice, we learn to see the signs and contain them and to react through calm, logical consideration.

"Consider every surge of almost uncontainable emotion that you have had. There has always been a limit placed upon it. A peak where it could reach or inflate no further. Think of how much real control was relinquished upon reaching this peak, how much your thoughts and actions became a slave to this emotion as opposed to sensible thought. Perhaps over time through past memory of yourself and familiarity with the experience, you can exercise some more control even within this peak experience.

"Now imagine your self is not contained but opened up, in a mass ten times the size, the volume of your self, connected to a life energy ten times that which you normally struggle to contain and manage.

"So now consider the peak at ten times the volume, ten times the energy, ten times the influence of what it normally is contained within. Imagine the speed of its growth as it feeds upon itself through thought and consideration. In this you can now understand the speed with which control can be lost.

"This is the risk we associate with the returning of self during the commune. There are two ways in which to negate this risk. One is to practice daily the calming of emotion and the calming of reaction. The other is to practice daily stillness of the mind, retention of Sadhami, and even upon its loss, which is inevitable, to lessen the level of its loss, the level to which we fall back to the self.

"These are the keys to communion, the keys to safe connection with the universe. And with these keys, we can live in blissful knowledge."

Niisa considered this for a time. All his life he had witnessed others be slaves to their emotions, become overwhelmed by them, have them dictate their behaviours and reactions. But this had never happened to him. His emotions always seemed more easily contained than everyone else's, to exist in a far milder form. And so he wondered if these same rules, if these same precautions and risks, applied to him. And if they did not, what could he achieve and learn that they were incapable of doing?

"It is possible to achieve communion without reaching Sadhami—at least not reaching it in the sense that we know it. There are different forms of Sadhami. Sometimes very strong emotional experiences can cause the oncoming of Sadhami, or moments of epiphany which fall upon us for unknown reasons. Through repetitive movement, breathing and chanting, brief glimpses of Sadhami can be attained that will allow the commune to take hold. Even sometimes if one becomes completely lost in a task, they can achieve a brief glimpse of Sadhami, and there sense the world, sense Daygo.

"The sense is only lost again through distraction, or through fatigue. To process such a large scale of information, simply being aware of it, wears strongly on the mind and the body, as you will know and feel after we break from the communal. This is why we choose to break with it, before exhaustion causes us to lose it through unconsciousness.

"We have also learned that through the drinking of pacroot that a fascination and concentration can be achieved upon a specific action, which can cause this brief communion with Daygo in those who are hyper-sensitive, bypassing the need for Sadhami. And so this explains its use in the test amongst the tribes' adolescents. Daygo, in these instances, and all instances, is most visible during times of transition; as for example, the moment an animal dies, when its Daygo flow is dispersed into countless new and separate flows of smaller consistency.

"It is my belief that all people can reach the commune, but for most it may take forty years of persistent practice and study before it is possible. For all of us, it was a natural thing, one that would have undoubtedly happened at some point in our lives inevitably. And so it is important, being hyper-sensitive, that we learn to control the commune, to gain knowledge in it and, since it is readily possible for us, to bask in the bliss of its awareness, so that we may maintain and preach the truth of our existence to the tribes."

******

After communion was over, they returned from the caves and ate sparingly around the fire pit that was rarely used at the centre of their circle of huts. Then, feeling exhausted, they retired to their huts to rest or sleep. About an hour later, they rose and had their main meal of the day. This time, as they ate together, they discussed the commune and Daygo philosophy. All thoughts, all feelings, all concepts were discussed. After this time, the rest of the evening was their own to do as they willed. The vegetable patch was tended to. Some went into the forest to gather food or other things, sometimes they went to the river, which flowed down from the mountain that rose behind the cave, to bathe. The water was cooling and refreshing. The river, which was more a stream, was clean and clear.

At night, Niisa liked to stay up, past when the rest of them fell into their huts. He sat a few steps away from his hut, his back straight, and gazed at the stars overhead. It always felt a new wonder to him to be able to do so. A whole lifetime he had spent in the forest, the sky forever forbidden to him, the night a danger to be hidden from. Here, in the clearing, there seemed little danger. He could watch the stars and the moons until light came again. He had been freed from restrictions he had never seen. He felt grateful every night that he stared at the sky.

Lost in stillness, in silent wonder, he often found his gaze land on the red moon. And there, for hours, the red eye would stare back at him. The stars would slowly move across a curved trajectory as the night wore on. The pale blotched surface of the white moon, showing itself only partly, moved from one side of the sky to the other, or did not show itself at all. But the red moon made a single, uneven circle in the night sky, its black centre invisible, showing nothing, like the crazed bad eye of a cross-eyed man, spinning evil above them. Hours into his nightly perusal, he sensed its pull.

******

He was an adolescent when he arrived. There were three grown women priests amongst them. They were no relation to him. None were from his tribe. None were married or part of a family. All were toned, fit and healthy with the bodies and faces of women of younger years. One, Onyeka, was past childbearing, and another, Bosede, must have been nearing its end. Yejide, the third woman, was still young, though likely as old as his own mother. In the tribes, she would have been married with a full family, but, at something not far past thirty years, her body was young and firm, her hair long, dark brown and silky. Her eyes were green and seemed to hold an inquisitive curiosity and told more than a face that stayed mostly flat of expression. Like the panther's eyes, it was there that the soul lay hidden, there it was brightly visible; the rest was only skin.

He grew more a man as the months passed. He had known erections and inclinations towards women before he joined the Walolang, but what had been easily dismissed before started to rise within him, causing distraction beyond what was acceptable. He started to lose calm. He started to lose perspective. He started to lose Daygo.

Would that be his lot? So easily overcome by base animal urges to mindlessly rut, sire and continue the cycle dumbly, without thought? Was it so easy for simple desire within him to overcome his mind?

As they moved in the mornings, his eye was drawn to Yejide's breasts, her hips, her ass, the tone of her legs, the texture of her skin. He forced his eyes away, only for them to fall instead to Bosede, and his mind to revealing what was underneath her walothsa as she spread her legs open or closed them tight. It was a pent-up desire that was forgotten for only small moments before glimpse of them brought it back in full fury.

His meditation stuttered. Stillness evaded him. Breathing techniques helped, but it seemed nothing could offer him release from this growing madness.

One evening it became too much. He stood and almost ran from the clearing. Finding a place by the stream, he stripped clear of his walothsa and lay, belly down, in the cool water, wishing it to wash him clean of desire.

Movement from the woods brought his head up. Yejide stood by the trees, looking down upon him from her green eyes, her face a flat mask. As she stood there, her posture perfect, his eyes unwillingly traced over her body, from the ears that pressed slightly outwards, to the nose that was small and wide on a round face framed by hair the colour of light bark that fell loosely behind shoulders held perfectly in place, in such a way that her breasts were propped up and firm, hanging temptingly in front of her. Her nipples were a darker brown upon clear, soft skin. Her spine held a perfect arch. Her navel was flat. His eyes wandered over the smooth curve from waist to hip as though it were his hands passing over the flesh to the point where it flowed underneath the walothsa that hung loosely atop her hips. His eyes continued, irrepressibly, down her toned legs to the small feet that held her in perfect balance. For a moment they rested there, until they shot back to meet her own. She slowly, pointedly, looked across the back of his own body, before returning to his eyes. The stream had turned warm beneath him, though he wished the smooth stones to turn sharp and sear his skin.

Never before had he felt hate. Never before had he felt a need towards violence. Never before had he felt such a panic rise up from underneath him, fluttering like a butterfly from his base, up through his stomach, making his heart race and his limbs go weak. It had to end, but he would never give in. He feared for his sanity, he feared for his wisdom, he feared becoming just another man, like his father and all the rest he had known. Was this how it happened? He would kill her first, and the other women.

He turned around onto his back. "Look what you do to me," he said, his voice tight, hard. He raised his hands to either side of his hips. "I can't stop this. I can't think!" He splashed his closed fists into the water and clamped his jaw shut. He closed his eyes for a moment. "I will not accept it."

There was silence. He opened his eyes. He could see Yejide standing as she was, unfazed, at the edge of his vision. For a time, most of his life in fact, he had stood as unfazed by anything put before him. In that moment, he made up his mind. He could no longer continue on his path with Yejide and the other women constantly distracting him, tempting him, driving him towards insanity. He would find a way to kill them all, and then return to Daygo, return to his path of discovery.

"You try to deny your body," she said. "To deny what you are. An animal, as everything else."

"I am more than that," he said.

"You are a mind within a body." She gestured towards his erect penis. "Make it go away."

He shook his head, filled with an overpowering hate for her. Filled with violence.

"I can make it go away," she said. He rolled his eyes up towards her, his mouth opened, he licked his lips, hungry for something. Desperate for something. Beyond reason. His heart jumped, threatening to burst free of his chest. Nails pressed deeper into the flesh of his palms.

"Shall I?" she asked. He trembled. He could not help it. A croak escaped his mouth. Was it a 'yes' or a 'no'? He forced a swallow within a dry mouth. He was consumed by her, entrapped by her, frozen by her. He watched, unmoving, as she nodded her head and slowly undid the ties of her walothsa, the walothsa that magically held atop her hips. It dropped to the ground. Naked, she stood before him. A small jerking motion encroached upon the stone-like stillness of his frame, as his gaze skipped from the uncovered flesh of her hips to the brown fuzz between her legs. He watched, tongue suspended within his mouth, as she stepped from the fallen fabric, and stepped again along the rocky grass of the stream's bank, and again upon the soft water flowing over white stone; her soft skin belonging to every place her feet touched. With delicate grace, with the languid sway of a forest cat, confident and at ease, green eyes threatening and yet impaling with the visual yet hidden beauty within their depths, she moved towards him, through moments suspended in time. Until a brown foot splashed softly above his right ear, and he watched, looking up between the legs of this mythical creature as she passed above his eyes. At his knees, she stopped and turned, depriving him the sight of her rear and rewarding him with the equally appealing opposite side. She squatted down before him and reached her right hand to grab a hold of him. "Release," she whispered, and with four, five quick jerks of her hand, he succumbed.

A moan escaped through his lips. All was gone. All was lost. Time passed. And nothing. Only a vague euphoria, a loss of mass, only a translucent warm glow, not confined or assigned to anything, no real sense, a loss that was whole, an emptiness that was full, an openness that embraced and warmed. A comfort. A piece of the fabric of existence. And then a re-awakening. A return to sense and body and mind. His body shaking, jerking still. He thought, it sat on him, he considered, it sank slowly within him and settled with a pleasant feeling that spread from his penis, his testicles, up and out through his lower torso and thighs; down even to his feet and up to his shoulders. His muscles relaxed, fell limp. His heart was steady and full, his lungs breathed deep with clean air. From loss of all to fulfilled self, he watched it, he listened to it. His eyes were open, the bright colours of the sky and the day were all around him. And then it was gone, it left him, he was normal, he was back, and he suddenly saw the terrible danger of the thing. He smiled as he felt an anger at its loss, as small tensions returned with small impatiences that danced within him. The consuming desire, the unrepenting need, the madness, had left; like smoke, dissipated into the air. He had found a return to peace, a return to control.

She squatted in her place, her hand moving softly. Then it was removed. She washed it in the stream, as he thought. She stood up and walked to her walothsa.

"Tomorrow, again, I will see you here," she said. "You have more to learn."

She returned to the woods. Niisa lay where he was. _Life_. _There was always more. More to see, more to learn, more to know._ He smiled softly, feeling finally relaxed.

******

In the days that followed, they had sex frequently, Yejide showing him how he could achieve his own relief, and how he could offer it to her. As time passed and he looked at the older women, he thought that he might like sex with them as well. He proposed it and, after some consideration, both acceded. Their different behaviours and different bodies were of some interest; all three women sought and achieved release in different ways, though similar.

As time passed, he felt content to allow their relations to dissipate to a less frequent level, though he made sure that he was tended to every day, if not by them, then by himself. He never wanted a return to the crazed, unthinking animal that for a while he had become.

******

They had all been taken from their tribe as children, when the mysterious and feared priest of the Walolang de Kgotia arrived at their village, testing for hypersensitivity to the Daygo flow. Over the years, they all spoke at some time about their terror at being picked, about their shock, and their sadness and fear at leaving the lives they knew, the families and tribes they loved, never to see them again. But they had embarked upon a holy path. The path of bliss, and wisdom, and knowledge.

They learned a path, but Niisa learned too that these priests were not as he was. They learned. He always knew, inherently. He was different. He was special. There were no others like him. Daygo, in its infinite wisdom, the ingrained knowledge of nature, had chosen him, had brought about his existence, to learn something, to change something. What it was lurked beyond his reach, but he always felt its presence, he always knew it was there, and so he followed with faith, until he would discover its true meaning and his true purpose. Since he had been a baby, he'd felt the presence of his purpose.

They sat around the empty fire pit.

"As children, we cling to lives that we knew. But now we know different. I am grateful every day that we do," said Onyeka.

"For hours I could talk about my childhood in the tribes," said Bosede. "My life since can be summed up in a small number of words."

"You wish you were not chosen?" asked Namuso.

"What's right? Two lives. Daygo flows the same. There are joys in this life. Times of peace and bliss that I never would have owned, that I find hard to imagine living without. Yet I wish I could have brought my tribe with me. Daygo flows. You should not want what is not. I am happy, and at peace, just like us all."

Yejide rarely gave insight into her mind. When she did speak, it was a practiced voice from an empty face, and always those green eyes that said more. She was the only one that he sometimes watched with interest.

"Did everyone in the tribe need the same release as me? Was everyone taught as I was?" he asked her as she sat naked beside the stream, her feet below the water. The stream passed by her ankles, looking so natural in its movements, flowing, liquid smooth as it changed path, as though destiny had forewarned it.

"I taught Namuso too. At least with sex. In this, he knew more than you. His tension was not so crazed as yours. Still, until you have had sex enough times, it is a thing that will dominate the mind of any young boy."

"How do you know?"

"Obasi is my guru. He instructed me to teach Namuso. You were more obviously in need. When I was a child, an adolescent, he taught me."

"Were you in need of teaching?" Niisa asked.

She turned her green-eyed gaze on him. After a while, she answered. "We are all in need of teaching." Her voice was firm and full as always, motherly and womanly in its richness. Her face was perfect and never changed. Her eyes watched him, long after they had finished talking, and he wondered at the meaning behind her words.

"Are we cursed?" Namuso asked as they sat around the fire pit. "Has Daygo cursed us? Were we a mistake?"

"Why do you ask?" said Jabara.

"We do not have children."

Jabara nodded slowly. "We are infertile. The Walolang de Kgotia have always been so."

"Were there not some?"

"Some," Raba nodded. "But very few."

"Why is this a curse?" asked Jabara.

"Is it not nature correcting its mistake?"

"Perhaps, as we see the truth, as we sense Daygo's full intelligence, for us to continue in movement is pointless. But why a curse? We have reached Sadhami. We have attained understanding. This is the ultimate blessing. This is the final point, as a human, that we can hope to attain. Here we can pass back, in peace."

They were infertile, and they were all unusually healthy. Through the histories of the Walolang de Kgotia that Raba recited to Niisa, almost all died of old age.

"I remember you," Namuso said one night as he sat down beside Niisa, after the rest had turned to bed. Niisa sat, as usual, gazing into the night sky. "At the gathering. Only vaguely. I had to think back for some time when you arrived, to try to place you. You were ... a little different to the rest of us." Niisa turned his head to Namuso, and Namuso paused. "I guess, I was a kid myself when you arrived. And Raba forbade talking or thinking about our old tribe and our family. When I saw how well you achieved this ... it only made me feel I was failing even worse. So ... so I never asked." He turned his eyes up from the cave's entrance and looked at Niisa. "How were my family, Niisa, at the last gathering you were at? How was my tribe?"

"A girl called Emeka spoke of you," he said after a moment. "She called you a friend. She spoke of the testing, of how you were chosen. She told me this."

Namuso's face lit up in surprise as he looked back at Niisa, and he smiled. "Was she well? Had she found a betrothed?"

"I was to be betrothed to her."

He laughed. "You? Really? What chance. How funny. And then you were chosen." His smile turned a little sad. "I hope she is not too disappointed." He paused and they sat in silence for a little while, Niisa staring up at the moon, Namuso at the hill and the cave mouth, neither really seeing what their gaze lingered on. "I miss her," he said to nothing and no one.

"You had a sister," he asked finally, "and a family. Do you miss them?"

Niisa looked to the sky. "My sister, sometimes. We used have a morning ritual, we would rise and clasp each other's hands and dance, stretch the morning from our limbs, much like we do here each day. But there was something more to what we shared. Something different to what we achieve here." He silenced for a while, wondering on it as he often had in the past. "I feel it must be something. It must touch on ... could it be ... the caring ... the ... what is called love? Of another being?" He shook his head. "I think ... I don't know ... perhaps it has something to do with this ... perhaps it is a base thing within us to crave or to ... feel its loss, upon its passing. It is just a small thing but it does cause me to wonder. There seemed something more ... connected, to what we did."

He paused in thought, and turned to Namuso. "Are you consumed by such things?"

Namuso looked at him. "By love? Does not everyone know love, and loss? Of course I am consumed by such things."

"Describe them to me."

"Describe love? What do you mean? When you care for someone ..."

"Yes. Describe it to me. Tell me what it is."

Niisa continued to look into the blackness of the sky, the blackness sparkled with light. He could feel Namuso's confused gaze upon him; but he knew that, eventually, as Namuso always did, he would do what he was told. Namuso shook his head and looked to the ground.

"How to describe such a thing? When you like someone. When they have supported you in times of need. When you needed company or a friendly ear, when you needed ... to feel cared for ... to feel loved ... to feel as though you are a good person, someone that other people can like, that person has offered that support, that comfort, that ... stability to fall back on. Perhaps the person is just a lot of fun to be around, they make you laugh, they make you happy. You love them in return. Your parents are you parents, you love them as they love you."

"But what is it? What exactly is it? Make me understand it."

"It is what you feel. It is attachment. It is ... more than that, you would do anything for this person. It doesn't even matter what they have done for you, after a point. They are in your heart. Without them ... you would be on your own."

Niisa smiled, and turned his attention back to the sky. "The fear of isolation. Is that all?" He laughed shortly and quietly. "It always seems to come down to that. What silly creatures fill up the world. It can be hard to fathom Daygo's wisdom."

After some time, Namuso stood and left. Niisa barely noticed.

******

There were three known stages to the commune. The first stage was the stage of transition, as when an animal died; when Daygo flowed from a singular stream to many. As in the test, when an animal was butchered alive, Daygo transitioned from the separate flow of the animal to the million different flows within the dead carcass. In the moment of this occurrence, if extreme focus and concentration was held at the exact point of change, communion, a sense of Daygo, could be achieved without reaching Sadhami state. The level of concentration and focus required on this specific point could be achieved artificially by the eating of pacroot, or by long hours of practice over months. And so the priests could decipher quite easily on their annual visits to the tribes if an adolescent child was worthy and in need of a lifetime's practice and study.

Part of their weekly routine was to spend hours meditating on one object until it lost all association as a separate thing. It became something of everything. It became Daygo, life, in all of its forms. It was a part of Niisa, just as he was a part of it. There was no separation between the two.

The second stage was regarded as full communion with Daygo; when sense of Daygo in the air surrounding the practitioner was achieved. All of the priests reached this level daily in the caves.

The third stage was communion with those already in commune. As they had opened themselves up to communion with the air all around them, so they, too, became accessible to those in a very advanced stage of commune. There were seven members in the history of the Walolang de Kgotia who claimed to have reached this stage and made a lifetime's study of it. What could be sensed was described by Raba as a person's aura, and it was vastly more complex than the connection with the air around them.

No one had ever reached a fourth stage of commune, according to Raba's histories. Where it might go, what was next, was only guessed at.

******

They spent the sixth day of every week in silence. They did not commune, they did not stretch or work the body. They sat and they ate and they drank and they considered all things. Sometimes Niisa would sit looking at a drop of water on a leaf for hours on end, watching its life pass by, or he would watch a flower from early morning until night, as it slowly budded and opened up to sunlight and insects, until it was fully flowered, and then, as the day waned, it slowly closed its petals once more. There was something immeasurably beautiful and stilling to watch the slow process of life in such a way. He had once thought the flower moved slowly, almost too slowly to see, but after watching it thus on occasional days he realised the incredible speed of its change, the fleeting glimpse of its life cycle, the change of Daygo, the immeasurable expanse of time before and after this tiny moment that was a day. How small and short they were living as their own singular entity, living within a separate life they had fabricated and confused into existence. The ignorance that consumed them. The blindness to the Earth and Daygo and true life; something so far greater and larger and blissful that they were a miniscule action within, like a lice or an insect or something on his palm that he could not even see that was a million times smaller than either.

There was an incredible peace, serenity and joy in those days sitting as a silent observer of life. Sometimes he wished he could live out the rest of his days so, as many priests had done before him. But he was consumed with divine purpose that he had always felt and had known to be true that first day he felt the red moon's pull. He still had to divine what it was, and to do so, he needed more knowledge. On the long nights that he watched the red moon in the sky, he sensed its evil, its distortion towards Daygo, he sensed its threat. It was hard to think something as small as he might make a difference, but he believed in his destiny to do so. He believed in the wisdom of the Daygo stream, and he would follow its wisdom until the threat of the moon was eliminated.

He came upon the third stage slowly.

As the others tried to maintain Sadhami, Niisa allowed it to leave, he allowed a complete return to the self, he watched with open eyes while the rest had theirs closed. He sensed as Niisa, while the rest strived to lose that attachment. Sadhami was indeed blissful and insightful, but Niisa had too much to learn, Niisa had a purpose to be defined. Sadhami state could be reached as he died, or as an old man. It was not what he sought now. Only through retention of the ambitions of the self could he seek out these answers, could he further his learning from a human standpoint. While the rest were slaves to their emotions and susceptible to the increased energy of the commune, Niisa felt none, he was flat, he sought with intelligent calm. Piece by piece, he ingested the connection to everything; he studied it and felt it. He tentatively reached for more.

As time passed, he started to sense more than just the mesh of air. He started to see the connective tissue of the mesh touch and reach into his fellow priests. They had achieved communion, connection, with the air, as had he. He stretched his consciousness towards that connection.

Months passed in practice, until one day, like a foetus pressing, then bursting forth from the womb of a woman into the fresh air of the outside world, he pressed inwards, against an unseen resistance, bending it before him until he, too, burst forth, softly and slowly into the soul of another man. And as it broke before him he became suddenly blinded, consumed by something like light.

Expanding before him were wheels of energy circling within Uksit too fast to dissect or separate. It was a roaring in the ears devoid of sound, a light too bright to see, a pressure consuming his whole being that he could not feel. He felt miniscule and lost, assaulted by information far greater than he. And yet there were the vestiges of understanding within it. Like a long forgotten memory, there was something familiar, and he had a small sense to try to remember, to know, to find a path through the maze to understanding. But the vague sense was fleeting and became lost, until all thought of attention and awareness melted away into simple awe for what was unfolding before him, but not before him, unfolding as part of him. He became small, he reverted to Sadhami. He dropped to nothing and lost all distinction and self. He simply was of the present, of the furious flowing tides of Daygo.

He woke out on the grass, with the blue sky turning purple above him. Were it not for that sign of passed time, he could not have said how long he had retained communion. Time had become meaningless without the human understanding attached to it. He had become simply present, charged within the movement of life, of Daygo, in simplicity and peace.

"You collapsed," said Uksit above him. Niisa turned his eyes and saw the face looking down upon him. He watched him silently. Tentatively, he reached out a hand and touched the man's ankle. Slowly, he passed his fingers around it until he held it softly, encased, solid within his fist.

Uksit looked down at his hand curiously. "Are you well?" he asked.

Niisa passed his gaze from the man's leg back up to his face. His eyes were lost in the shadow of the evening. "I am well," he said softly, releasing the man's ankle.

Uksit gave a small nod. "You must be careful," he said. "What you did was dangerous."

Niisa smiled. "Thank you," he whispered, but he did not move. After a moment, Uksit nodded and walked away.

Did he feel me invade his soul?

******

Over the following months, Uksit showed no sign that he was conscious of Niisa's presence within him. During his time outside the commune, Niisa considered what he had been taught by Raba, what had been learned by his seven predecessors in the Walolang de Kgotia who had achieved the third stage before him. He tried to match this to what he sensed, and to discern from the mass of information the collaborating evidence, to make sense of his expanded consciousness.

It seemed an impossible task, were it not for that vague familiarity that persisted; for there was no sense he knew to use, no sight or touch or smell or taste that could decipher what was a separate plane of existence newly opened to him. A higher plane that he had only before touched on in communion with the air in their small cave.

The _life_ that was all around him, the _life_ that was in the world.

Months passed, and then a year, then two. He questioned Raba and the others constantly, trying to glean some further insight, some further knowledge from them, but they were ignorant, with no personal experience to speak of; all they could achieve was to recycle words once spoken to them.

But he did progress. After a time, he seemed to develop a sense to his expanded consciousness, a sense to Uksit's aura. As though somehow, subconsciously, his mind recognised the pulsing flow within Uksit, perhaps interpreting it through the knowledge of the internal flow within his own body. Perhaps the familiarity stemmed from there.

He started to associate colours and heat and emotion to the flow of Daygo within Uksit. He visualised faint areas of shifting colour. He felt heat, cold or hot. He sensed emotion. He first knew that this held meaning when Uksit withdrew from their morning practice, citing an injury to his foot, several days after Niisa had felt a corresponding heat signature emanating from that area.

As time passed, he was slowly able to match what he sensed to what he had been taught by Raba.

Where the air was a mesh, the body was thick with energy in every pore. There were thousands of energy channels that ran through the body, interweaving, separating and intertwining through areas of convergence where they were funnelled through what he had been taught were locks within the body. These locks regulated and shaped the flow of Daygo, like a thousand, thousand knots tied in string until the resulting shape formed a body, a being that was Uksit. He could identify the seven main wheels of energy within the body, formed by hundreds, thousands of channels and locks, but the display was so complex and furious that Niisa often became lost within it.

He learned to appreciate fully the complexity of the flow that was needed to form a full being of a human's size and intelligence. Through his study there always seemed more what ifs, more hope for learning.

Niisa began to recognise shifts within these wheels of energy. He saw it change with every inhalation and exhalation of breath, every shift of the body, every twitch of an eyelid. It took some time before he realised that many of these changes preceded the breath or the movement. It was unfathomably complex, constantly shifting and changing. Most times it was impossible to decipher which shift came first, which caused the reactions and which were reactions of others. He realised that what he watched was the never-stopping flow of Daygo, within what consisted a singular life. All Daygo was moving since the dawn of existence and had been moving since without one small filament of it ever ceasing to move. Movement was life. Every small shift of energy, every small change in the flow of Daygo, in the pace of its movement, was caused by a preceding shift. Each one led to another in a process that had never stopped since the dawn of time, of life, to the end of it; since that first movement, that first action, that set the universe underway.

What started it? Could there be a start? How could movement originate from anything other than movement? But movement could still end, it could stop, the end of time, the end of existence.

Was every single signature, every single action predestined since that first one? Each leading to the next, in never-ending time, to a final point? Was there an overarching intelligence? Or was it simply motion set loose that could not stop? That only reacted as it would always react, again and again and again, changing, shifting, until its end? Was everything Niisa chose to do now inevitable? Whether he continued with his plan or not? Was he changing the future, or was he just of it? He smiled inwardly at the thought, he saw no difference.

Where might the study of aura end? If he could sense weakness in their body, could he not too sense it in their mind? In their emotions? As he grew to know their bodies intimately, might he learn their thoughts? Was anything restricted? As Daygo's chosen child, would all fall within reach of his touch?

Each day he watched his fellow priests closely, using all his five senses to analyse everything about them. He watched their behaviour, their interactions, the barest of their movements, the way they walked and ate and drank. He matched all they did with the auras that he studied in the cave each evening. And slowly, it started to knit together; slowly, every faint flicker of expression or reaction during the day started to correspond to some change in the flow of their auras that evening.

He called to Daygo, and it spoke back to him. He learned that the flow of Daygo slowed as the priests aged, that this in turn weakened the locks through which the channels passed through. He believed that this would eventually reach a final point where the flow slowed so much that the locks unravelled, relinquishing the current form within which Daygo flowed, into the thousands that followed.

Through the commune, the priests were more open even than the air surrounding them. The air retained its structure, retained its independence, but through the priests' practice they had cultivated an opening up, a surrendering of their independence. This left them exposed, open to an almost unnatural vulnerability. He felt as though he might reach out and alter them through some transcendent body that existed within the connective tissue of Daygo. Could he impose his will in some way, to enact change on another as they did unconsciously with their own bodies? Was there a fourth stage to the commune, one of manipulation?

******

He delved into Uksit's aura. He brought his attention to the command centre of the body, the wheel of energy that circled on the crown of his head. Here he found what he had come to recognise as the subconscious mind, the command system that ran almost all of the body's behaviours. He sensed the stillness of Uksit's mind and waited until Sadhami started to slip. Once it had, he committed himself totally to Uksit, he became him. He draped his consciousness over Uksit's until his body was his own, until Niisa was convinced and knew it to be absolutely true. Now, knowing his new body as he now did, after years of study, he instructed. He brought his mind to the one lock that he knew was there. He told it to close. He focused completely on its closure. A minute passed. Then a twitch. Niisa suddenly abandoned his convictions. He returned to the observer. He watched as Uksit's aura sparked, as hundreds of reactions laced through his being. For a moment he thought his system would fall into flux, but slowly it righted itself once more and returned to its natural state.

Uksit said nothing the next day, but Niisa watched him closely, and he noticed an occasional frown creep across his face. It was enough to confirm that he had recognised some change within his body.

That evening, Niisa possessed Uksit once more. He brought his will to bear, focusing all his conscious effort on expanding that same lock. This time, as he felt the twitch, he held on, expanding with all his mind, all his energy, all his power. In possession of Uksit and lost within a singular focus, he could not bear witness to the results of his effort, but he felt a resistance growing against him. He knew it was Uksit's subconscious resisting the intruder, trying to re-establish its natural stewardship of the flow.

He grew tired and his control became murky. He felt himself weaken. Then he slipped. His whole being jarred. He lost the commune. He opened his eyes, disorientated, not knowing where he was. His vision spun. He resisted the urge to puke, just. He breathed deeply for a while, his right hand on the stone beside him holding him up, before he realised where he was and remembered what he had done. His head throbbed, but he turned his eyes to Uksit.

The man was spasming furiously, but he seemed, somehow, to retain the commune. Had he noticed? Was he aware that Niisa had possessed his body? Niisa watched, fascinated even through his own pain. He wondered if the others were sensitive enough to have picked up on the disturbances in the air. As gently as he could, he returned to the correct posture and sat in silence to wait.

He watched Uksit indirectly as he broke. His head tilted slightly to the side as he opened his eyes, but he showed no other reaction as he waited for everyone to leave the cave before him.

Outside, Niisa turned to watch Uksit as he exited the cave. Uksit stopped immediately at the grassy hillside and raised a hand to his head. One of his eyes was bloodshot. He dropped to one knee as though he would retch.

"Uksit?" called Bosede in alarm as she saw him. "Are you well?" She strode towards him, followed quickly by Onyeka and Obasi, and placed a hand on his upraised arm.

He twitched at her touch and looked up at her in surprise. "What?"

"Are you well? Your eye ..."

"I'm fine," he said, his tone of voice normal, as though there were nothing unusual about his behaviour. He stood up. He looked quizzically at the two women and Obasi and walked away. They glanced at one another and then at Niisa. He shrugged and followed Uksit up the hill.

Niisa was still dizzy when they sat for commune the next day, but he managed to achieve Sadhami. He had planned to simply observe the changes in Uksit's aura, since he had failed to bear witness to it the previous day.

But as he watched, wrapped in the self, it was not enough for him. He wanted to see larger changes. He needed more. His ambition was too great to be content with further crawling progress. He possessed Uksit, and once more he focused on expanding that same lock. But this time, knowing of the resistance he would face, he made war with that resistance. He bent his will against it.

Uksit screamed. Niisa collapsed, returning to himself as though fallen from a great distance. It jarred, his head spun, he threw up on the stone beside him. The ear-wrenching sound reverberated off the walls. All around him, his fellows broke from the commune. Uksit jumped to his feet. He screamed again, high octaves rocking off the walls. He turned and ran for the exit, stumbling over and trampling on Yejide. He pulled himself through the rocky tunnel, headless of the sharp edges, and disappeared from sight.

The priests looked at one another in sudden shock, dazed to be so suddenly jerked from their worship. A final roar from outside set them to motion. Quickly, they followed Uksit out the exit, Niisa at their heels having tried vainly to settle his stomach and his mind. He stumbled as he exited the tunnel.

They found him in the centre of the camp stabbing the sharpened stone of a knife deeply in and down just above his left hip bone. Niisa counted five stabs before his leg collapsed and he fell in something close to a fit on the ground. The priests swarmed around him, pinning him down and removing the knife from his hand.

After a short struggle, he lost consciousness, the ground around him soaking deeply red. A few moments later, he was dead.

The priests looked at one another wide-eyed, shocked still and silent. Niisa felt woozy on his feet. He dropped to the ground, sitting awkwardly, and managed to refrain from reaching a hand to his head. He felt white. Goosebumps crawled across his body. He stared at Uksit's body, turning his sickness into a performance endearing towards his fellows.

Even as he wanted to retch, he felt a smile that he kept from his face. There was a fourth stage to the commune. It was manipulation.

He had surpassed all of his predecessors in knowledge. He was truly Daygo's chosen child. Born to succeed in holy work. Designed to succeed. He glanced across at his fellow priests, suddenly feeling the act was beneath him. Why pander to lesser beings?

They stood, not knowing what to do, as blood that had pooled around Uksit's thighs seeped into the ground. The knife lay discarded a few feet away, dirt stuck to the slick blood on the blade. Birds sang in the trees. Monkeys' chatter could be heard in the distance. The evening sun bathed the scene in bright yellow light. Niisa looked at them one by one, wondering if their heartbeat was still slow from the commune, even after the excitement and shock of what had just happened. Was a strange peace still settled over them? Did it make them feel odd?

Everything was as normal, as a thousand, ten thousand days before, except a member of their order lay dead, murdered by his own hand on the grass between them. What power might Niisa hold over these primitives in a future day? Could he make them dance? Could he inhabit them totally?

"What happened?" Obasi asked the air in front of him. The question fell and died to the quiet between them.

Yejide looked above the trees to her left, as though pondering the strange occurrence. Only her mind did Niisa wonder towards. Only in she did he see potential. Bosede and Onyeka had clasped hands, Onyeka looking from face to face, her features drawn, Bosede stared at the body on the ground.

Namuso was pale and white, his thumb rubbing over dried blood on his forefinger, always one to fidget, always lacking in concentration. Obasi finally looked away from the scene, his gaze turning upwards to the blue of the sky. Niisa could see tears wetting his eyes.

Raba slowly turned his head. His eyes landed on Niisa's. His eyebrows were turned up in shock and sadness, his face was white like the others, yet there seemed something in the eyes and the mouth. Eventually he looked away.

They buried the body where they buried all their dead, atop the hill of the cave. They were two days digging the grave, taking turns between them, cutting through roots and pulling large stones clear. When finally it was deep enough to stop scavenging animals from digging it up, they dropped the body into it and filled it back with the rock and root and soil that was there before. Back to the earth, as much a part of the Daygo Stream as he ever was. No loss to the world. No change to the world.

The days continued as before, returning to their normal rhythm. The sun spun around the Earth, and the moons, each following their own trajectories and timelines. The stars rose each night. The forest vibrantly continued to live.

******

"Months ago," Raba said softly, looking into the fire pit as the eight priests sat around it, "you came to me, Niisa, asking about manipulation. You asked, in the study of auras, had the seven practitioners of the third stage ever discussed manipulation. I wondered where this consideration might have come from. Afterwards, I wondered why, in the consideration of manipulation, why auras were a part of the conversation? Would it not be, that if it were possible, one might manipulate the air before one might manipulate an aura? Surely this, being the second stage, would be a more accessible point. But it was a fantastical conversation. And as such, I guessed, any manipulation would count as a fourth stage of the commune, and logic would dictate that this followed a third stage." He looked up at Niisa, meeting his eyes. Niisa sat comfortably, and looked back at him calmly. "Have you reached the third stage?"

Seven faces turned to his, questions and confusion written across them. For a moment, he said nothing. "No."

Raba stared. "Did you manipulate Uksit's aura?" he asked, his voice sharp and raw.

"No."

"Are you responsible for his death?"

"No."

"What happened to your sister?"

"What happened to my sister?" Niisa inflected a question back into his words. Raba stared at him. He would never have thought to see anything approaching hatred in Raba, but he thought he might see some as he watched him, a touch of hatred and a touch of fear. "You look like you hate me now, Raba," he said. "I am of Daygo, as are you. What have you learned in your sixty years here, if you have not learned love for Daygo? You hate me for a conversation?"

Raba looked pained, and he looked away, perhaps shamed. There was quiet over the pit. Niisa sat within it. Soon members of the circle began to leave, finding seclusion from the strange tension they felt in the air. Only Yejide stayed sitting with Niisa and the silent Raba. Niisa looked at her. She looked back at him, her face saying nothing, her seated posture calm and at ease, comfortably sitting, as she could for hours, her hands stacked between her legs, palms facing the sky. Always a witness. They continued to watch each other in silence.

As he looked into her eyes, an image of a black panther walking across his path came into mind. The panther turned her gaze onto the boy Niisa, her eyes alight in the darkness, as the great fire of the gathering started to take light behind the foliage.

He had surpassed everything that they could teach him, he had reached a level none of them had. He had nothing to learn from them anymore. They were only of use as experiments. The following day, he would focus them on Raba. He would learn and he would wait for Daygo to show him the way.
7. Daygo's Fury

Liam strolled behind the merchant, his stride leisurely and relaxed, as though he had all day to simply follow him, watch him, and wait. He was Haryani, wearing the long green and gold linen robes favoured in his country. His bodyguard was two steps behind him, as was customary. He was a huge man, dark of skin and wide of shoulder. His leather armour showed the beginnings of a belly of leisure protruding from his abdomen when he turned. Strapped to his waist was a hand-axe with a vicious-looking killing blade at its head and a large two-handed sword at the opposite side, not quite a longsword. He walked comfortably with them, as though well used to their presence. Liam smiled grimly; he wondered if this was a result of a long time wearing them or of being familiar with their use.

He had been trailing them for half a winter hour. The days had grown considerably shorter and, with them, the twelve hours of daylight. The twelve hours of night spread out ever larger, ever darker. Twice the bodyguard had turned to chase him away, shouting curses to clear off as he did so. Liam had stood still, staring back at him before jogging backwards a few steps until he gave up the chase. Liam then returned his relentless pursuit, the bodyguard glancing back angrily and cursing. The third time his Haryani master raised his hand and muttered angrily for him to stop. It was only a slum rat, only a boy of thirteen, fourteen years. What threat was he? They walked under the seal of approval of the gang, doing business openly, they had nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

They continued towards their destination, turning from street to street. It was late in the evening, the streets were becoming gloomy and were starting to empty out. A street ahead, around the next corner, was quiet. Liam knew there was no business performed there, no pubs or shops; just houses, with closed wooden shutters for windows, keeping out the winter chill. Liam lifted up the hood of his cloak, tying the strings underneath his chin. The cape was tied tightly to his waist and extended just behind and past his knees. It offered no restriction to his movements.

They turned left into the next street. Liam picked up his pace, turning after them. His head turned behind him, taking in a last look of what followed. There were two men a hundred yards behind, following in their direction at a leisurely stroll. The other side of the street offered no threat, merchants standing in a circle, chatting. He looked ahead once more as he passed into the new street. It was mostly empty as he expected, a couple of kids playing at the end of the road, slum kids that knew not to hear or see anything. A homeless man lay sprawled across the side path. He looked unconscious.

Liam's bare feet tread lightly over the dirt ground, making no discernible sound as he broke into a run. The bodyguard looked back and gave a yell of shock and surprise as Liam leaped towards him. He raised his arms in defence as Liam's blade cut through his throat, his arm a blur, making the slice with surgical precision, just deep enough to kill and no deeper; safer not to test the strength of the blade, it had more work to do. He landed on lithe feet, arm straightened behind him. A burst of blood marked his trail as he danced forward and around the Haryani diplomat as he turned. A half-formed word of questioning escaped his lips, quickly descending into a cry of shock and pain as his left kidney was pierced through. Liam sidestepped back in front of the diplomat as he turned yet again. This time his knife shot upwards and forward, like the strike of a coiled and deadly snake; it bore its fangs, then returned to its ready coil. Liam's feet never stopped. He danced around and through the men, keeping away from their flailing, shocked arms and took two steps backwards away from the scene.

He waited a moment for their pumping hearts to do the rest of the work, filling their air pipes with their own blood, turning what had given them life into their tool of death. Hands to their throats, their blood was an uncaring mess; undisturbed by the restraints it flooded every crevice and through every gap, dropping to the ground, watering the earth.

What started as gurgles, ended in coughs. Red bubbles burst from their lips and their hands lost strength and fell with their bodies to the ground. The red stains spread at Liam's feet as he bent down to do his work. He knew where the items of value were kept and he acted quickly, extracting everything of worth from the two men. He searched the bodyguard for a knife but was disappointed to find none. He shook his head at the logic of the man.

He stood up and turned without hesitation from the scene, strolling quickly for the end of the street. He unhitched his cloak and wrapped it around himself tightly. His eyes turned slowly to the three boys who had earlier been at play. They stepped back fearfully from his gaze, their eyes wide in awe and fear. Liam's face remained flat, expressionless. He looked to each one. Each glance long enough to make it understood. He would remember their faces. He would be back if they told anyone about him. It was an empty threat, mostly, but would be enough for them to keep their silence. He didn't want the matis finding out who he was. They twitched away from him as he passed.

He turned around the corner and crossed the road to the nearest alleyway. It turned out that it was easy to make money in the slums, when you truly lived with no restrictions.

******

Racquel stood with her hands lightly clasped around the isolated piece of wooden railing at the waterfront, the fresh oaken feel prickly on her fingertips. She looked out across the glistening waters with the small rowboats tied to their moorings. The festival lights danced across the surface in a thousand wavy flickers, framed in slimy black. The city walls could be seen at the end of the river to her left, a darker shadow upon the horizon of the night, locking its citizens out from the wealth and prosperity within.

Up and down the boardwalk, celebrants danced drunkenly. Street performers glided gracefully across the boarded timber, tumbling, dancing, singing, playing various and random instruments. Some watchers tried and failed to mimic them, stumbling drunkenly and sometimes falling into the shallow waters of the riverbank with a splash and a peal of laughter from onlookers.

A cacophony of sound assaulted her ears, drunken laughter and shouting, singing and playing instruments, cries of pleasure and alarm, all lost within a plethora of noise.

People were dressed in a motley collection of colours and clothes, randomly and extravagantly put together. Neckbands and bracelets were worn in abundance along with skirts and scandalously bare tops. Strange hats lay atop heads with cloth tied and dangling from their hair. Faces and arms were painted and eyes darkened, making people look fiendish in the dim light. Copulating couples stood or lay, randomly dispersed amongst the debauchery.

Racquel watched as a scantily-clad woman walked by, her large breasts threatening to bounce out of the loose multi-coloured cloth that was tied from around her neck to the back of her waist, with a string holding it together at its centre. Will she happily ride any man that gropes at her tonight? she wondered. Surely, if not, she would not flaunt herself in such a way.

Glowing red and orange beacons lit up the night sky in various directions. Bonfires were set afire at street corners and squares, and no doubt buildings would burn to the ground tonight as they did every year, but precautions had been put in place to stop unnecessary spread. It was the one planning feature that had been enacted in the slums, the Great Roads and intermediary roads off them acting as fire breaks.

It was the Day of Remembrance festival, a celebration of cultures long gone, nationalities and races now extinct, that existed before the terrible slaughter of the beasts. Dress, dance and music were to match that of these past cultures, though Racquel found it hard to believe that anyone once dressed as people did in the festivities.

There was something mystique about it, something hidden. Everyone paraded around the streets, majestic in their debauchery, in their celebration of life. There were no living remnants left of the war of the beasts, no old grey beards to tell the tale, no one within a hundred years of it, no one even that had been told an eyewitness account. It was a dead thing, part of a past that was mysterious and unlikely. Many didn't believe the tales. They thought them something that parents used to frighten their children at night-time. There were conspiracy theories behind them: that it was an invention of the Church of Levitas to manifest power, using it as a fear of real punishment within the world unless people lived as they told them; or that it was a tool used by the kings and monarchies, giving them a rightful claim to power and legitimizing their rule. Racquel had even heard it whispered that in Darwin the truth was known, that it was all an extravagant lie. But the slums were full of such rumours and suspicion, where many of the tellers of the tales secretly didn't believe what they told but enjoyed the rapt attention of their audience.

But on this day, regardless of people's thoughts, the heroes of the past, true or false, were honoured and toasted. There was a celebration, city wide. The streets of the slums were without rules. Madness took hold. A place that was dangerous by nature became unpredictable and utterly deadly. Liam seemed to revel in it, feeling at home in the madness. He had told her that Calum and he used to love festival days and that the takings were so high they would last them for weeks afterwards. But today he wasn't on the take. He was out to celebrate with everyone else, with her.

She shivered as bad memories assaulted her mind, the days spent praying and hoping, drip feeding his unconscious form water, waiting but seeing no sign of change, panicky, expecting Deaglan or Ultan or anyone to come around the corner of the alleyway and finish him off and take her ... to do as they desired. She had wept with relief when he first opened his eyes. His mouth had twitched in an attempted smile and her heart had lurched with guilt and depth and gratitude. She desperately did all that she could for him; running to the market and the well for food and water, spending all his coin, telling him that she had already eaten while her skin stretched across bone. She had tried to steal from vendors but didn't have the knack for avoiding their wary eyes. After she was caught a second time and punched across the face so that bright lights spun through her vision, she gave up.

He was slow, so slow in recovering. They ran out of coin by the end of the week, and he insisted that they move. It had taken all day but they crossed the Great Road and made it across to the riverfront, Racquel under his arm, lending all the strength she could muster to him. Even so, they had to stop often, Liam too weak to continue, Racquel pretending that she was fine. It had been a hellish journey added to by the gnawing in her stomach. By the time they found a place to shelter, they both collapsed with fatigue and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The next day, strangely, Liam seemed improved. Racquel had expected the journey to hinder his recovery but it seemed to do the opposite. He seemed revived and upbeat to have left their old district behind. He was able to travel with her as she hunted for food. He taught her and instructed her as to what to do and how to avoid notice, and she had moderate success while he sat at the side of the road begging, too weak to contribute anything but his knowledge.

They survived that first month, barely. But in their survival was growth and improvement. Racquel learned from Liam's vast knowledge of slum survival, and Liam gained in strength, every day getting a little closer to his old self, until he was able to partner with Racquel. Together they re-enacted old plays perfected by Liam and Calum. One day he brought her a knife and taught her how to use it, where to aim for, and more than anything else, never to hesitate. He said that the only advantage they had was the hesitation of their opponent. They were caught off guard by their size and age, or made complacent by it. That is what they had to pounce on. He told her that she had to be more ruthless than them but then seemed to hesitate and trailed off. Racquel let the conversation die. She was uncomfortable with it, though she sensed that what he said was only true. She doubted herself. How could she not hesitate? How could she cut a man or a boy? How could she hope to win?

A while later, Liam started leaving on his own during the main trading hours of the day. He told her he wanted to investigate something with the gang and that it would be better for him to be on his own. Soon after, he began returning with coin, and the stakes grew larger and larger. Finally it seemed that they might do more than barely survive, the terrible gloom and fear started to lift from them. Perhaps they would be okay, perhaps they would survive. Before it almost felt as though they were doing it for show, as though both of them knew that really it was all for nothing, that they were done, that it was only a matter of time. They were attempting survival only because they didn't know what else to do, or how else to behave.

Liam was vague about his trips away. Eventually, Racquel stopped asking, happy that whatever he was doing was saving them, happy that he could fill his stomach again and recover some of the life that she had stolen from him.

One day she realised, like a cool breeze had suddenly swept the mist from her mind, that he had had a plan for survival all along. A hundred looks over that first month, sometimes with a faraway glaze, sometimes inwards, as though scouring his soul, sometimes frowning after the merchants walking the streets, took on a whole new meaning to her. She had taken them for melancholic, hopeless looks, doomed and lost, frowning after the merchants' wealth and their ease of life, at everything they had that he never would. And she had made herself all the more desperately determined at what she thought was his despair. She promised again and again, frowning and inwardly shouting herself to sleep every night with it, refusing and battling against her own despair, that she would not let him down, that she would keep trying, that she would help him recover and give him back the life that she had taken from him, that he had given up for her. She needed to be doubly determined for both of them.

But in that moment, she had realised that he wasn't despairing, he was planning, he was thinking and when he frowned after those merchants, he wasn't resentful of what they had but studious of it, taking in every detail and learning from it. He would even drift after them from time to time, watching to see what business would they perform and where.

She knew then that he was not going to see the gang or working for them. That somehow the coin that he returned with was theirs, as was the blood. She closed her eyes against the thought, feeling a familiar pressure in her chest. How could she judge him for it? How could she hold herself above it? He just ... he knew what they had to do and he did it. She was the dead weight now that she had promised she would not be. Her head hung low, sadly, feeling a weight of responsibility drag at her.

But then she opened her eyes and saw him approach. He noticed her at the same time and his face split into a wide smile and her heart leapt, instantly filling her with joy and reassurance. He lifted a large wine bottle in his hand and shook it at her. She laughed as he tipped it towards his lips and drank deeply, making his way through the crowd towards her.

She put a hand on his shoulder as he came alongside her and leaned into him, reaching for the bottle in his hand. He smiled as he handed it to her. She lifted it to her lips and took a long drink, growing used to its bitter flavour. She loved the happy release that it gave her now, when she was safe by his side. She could laugh and be jolly, hidden away, in a soft mist, from all the torments of her life and turmoil of her mind.

"So you managed to get one!" she gasped as she handed him back the bottle.

"Ya. When do I not?"

"Never!" she smiled, looking into his face. He looked well in his new cloak. His face was clean from dirt, thin and handsome, his black hair parted.

"I got some of this too!" he fished a wooden box of face paints from his pocket. "Four colours," he smiled as he reached into it, tracing the dust with his finger. She grabbed his hand.

"It needs water to work!" she turned from him and ducked under the railing. Climbing down the bank to the river's edge, she dipped both hands wrist deep into the cool water. She splashed some onto her face and then climbed back up the bank, her wet hands carefully upheld from the dirt.

"Here," she said as she stood up from under the railing. She put both of her cold hands onto his face.

"Oi," he said, pulling back his head slightly. She laughed and pressed her hands back on his cheeks.

"Now you're wet too." She reached a finger into the dusty paint, and they both started to draw across one another's faces, giggling and laughing as they did so. Racquel's finger traced black in a wide arc around his forehead, over his temple, down to his jaw and along its fine edge to his chin, then slowly up to his lower lip. She brushed her finger softly on his chin, enjoying his touch as he rubbed the paint into her skin with equal tenderness. "Finished!" she said finally.

"Just one more ... There!" He lifted his hand with a flourish.

"What am I?"

"What am I?" he laughed back.

"Me first!"

"You're a Vavrian Princess!"

Racquel clapped.

"An ugly one!" Liam added, laughing as he examined his work.

"Well, you're an even uglier Seption overlord!"

Liam laughed again. "There was no such thing as a Seption overlord!"

"How do ye know?"

He shrugged. "Just always thought that was a story."

"What about the beasts?"

"They're real!"

"How do ye know that?"

He shrugged again. She laughed at him. They leaned close and drank more wine. They were comfortable with each other's touch now, aware of the other's body and knowing it, relishing the freedom that it gave them. They turned and walked down the boardwalk together, sharing from the bottle and watching the entertainment as they passed. Racquel occasionally leaned into him, their hands brushing together as she did so and her mind wondered to when that freedom stemmed.

For a long time after Liam had saved her, they had been too focused on bare survival and too beaten by hunger and hardship to consider anything else. It was close to two months afterwards that they started to notice one another again, when Liam was bringing in regular income and they had found their house to live in, when they finally had full stomachs every day and were able to wash themselves and clean their clothes in the makeshift bath that Racquel had built to collect rainwater. They had started to look at one another. Their gazes and glances grew shy. Racquel didn't know which one of them started it, but all of a sudden it seemed to be the only thing that occupied her mind. When she was away from him, her thoughts began to wander towards loose things that he said or when he laughed happily at something she did, or when he made her laugh. She started to look expectantly towards him when they were alone in their house. She became more aware of him as she sat close, of every touch and contact. One day as she sat beside him, their arms gently touching, her leg an inch from his, she had looked up into his eyes and tilted her face towards his. She didn't look away and waited. He had glanced away for a moment and then back and all of a sudden his mouth was on hers. His movement had been swift, as though he feared going slowly, as though he was afraid that she would change her mind. Their kiss had been short and passionate, different from the one they had shared before. They had smiled sheepishly at each other afterwards.

They didn't kiss the next night but the night after that. And soon every evening, when they found themselves alone in the house, after working through the day at the different markets, they would embrace, wrapping their arms around one another, their mouths and tongues meeting. His hands started to roam over her body and she ran hers through his hair or over his back, clinging to him tightly. As they pushed together, she sometimes felt a hard protrusion against her. At first she had thought it his knife, but as he shifted shyly away she realised what it was. She started to press tighter against him, searching for that hardness and pressing against it, her arousal heightened by his.

She allowed his hands free rein as they clasped around her breasts or slid down to her hips or over her bottom. His lust for her made her moan softly into his mouth and she dared her own hands to move. She grasped at the protrusion from his loins in excitement and curiosity, and she heard his gasp in return. Then one day they found themselves on the floor and he was raising the skirt of her dress, seeking what was underneath. She watched him as he did so, gasping in anticipated pleasure. As he freed her undergarments, she helped him to free his own. But their passion had been halted by awkwardness and embarrassment as he tried and failed to enter her. On the third attempt he finally succeeded, to her relief, but then pain lanced through her and after the second or third thrust she asked him to stop.

She had wished then that they had never gone so far. Over the following days there was a distance between them; an awkwardness over what had happened. She felt that it was her fault. A few days later, as they lay beside each other, she decided to try again. This time, as he mounted her, it was easier. She remembered how he gasped in pleasure and the frantic movements of him on top of her. She was inhabited by him, taken by him, and she hungered for more. She had felt his spasm as he finished inside her. Slowing to a stop, his weight had collapsed down onto her, his moist, panting breath warm on the nape of her neck. She had wanted more, some sort of release of her own, but even so she was intoxicated by their closeness, by the bond she felt with him. Her arms had wrapped around his back and she had kissed the side of his face and he had kissed hers.

She sighed as she pushed her mind on, hoping to cool the now familiar warmth between her legs. They had been together many times since. She relished bringing him pleasure and joy and the shy lust that came into his eyes when he looked at her in the privacy of their own little room.

His arm slid from her shoulders as they walked down the boardwalk, side by side, his eyes, as always, alert to the crowd. She always felt safe with him, knowing that he would spot the first signs of danger. They stayed close as they walked and drank, and before long she felt hazily drunk.

As they strode through the revellers of the streets they occasionally joined in when spontaneous dancing sprung forth. They linked arms and spun in circles. Racquel saw a loose, drunken joy come into Liam's face, like what she had seen in him sometimes before, but then it disappeared in an instant, all of a sudden his face went blank, and his eyes, vividly red, seemed to hold depths of confusion.

They found a bonfire and stopped to stand in front of it. Staring into the flames, wavering, slightly drunk, arm in arm as revellers danced around them. Racquel looked across at Liam and noticed that his eyes were lost in the flames, staring deep into their depths. His expression seemed worried as the red light shone, reflected in his eyes; the flames licking upwards, orange, towards his eyebrows, behind them, as though they would burn the inner recesses of his mind.

******

The streets were a mix of bright, flickering light, brightly illuminating and creating dancing shadows on top of the base, greyish glow dispensed from the full moon and stars in the clear night sky. The remembrance festival was always held on a full moon. Flaming torches were placed haphazardly along the river boardwalk and intermingled about the streets, bonfires shone brightly, lighting everything for metres around.

Much of the fuel for the bonfires scattered throughout the slums had been dragged to street corners from collapsed and abandoned buildings, helping, in a strange way, to clear the slums of excess rubble.

Lecklan stopped at one such bonfire as he came onto the river's boardwalk. The flashing flames gave the indication of a hellish feast.

Men and women danced around the fire, half-naked, to the jumbled, discordant mass of noise from pretend musicians, strumming, blowing and beating their various instruments. Their exposed flesh was painted from head to toe, their hair displayed in reckless and lavish styles. Bright flying embers joined the fray, floating upwards and drifting down amongst the outlandish citizens from centuries past.

Lecklan's mind was on the meeting he had attended earlier that day. It was strange for the gang to be conducting such business on this day but Connia had clearly had enough. Profits were down, merchants were starting to refuse to enter the district, and someone was undermining the gang's authority, specifically targeting merchants who were wearing the seal of approval of the gang. Something had to be done, and Lecklan was the man entrusted to bring the perpetrator to justice.

Connia was the head of the gang east of the Great Road. He was a squat, heavyset man with bushy eyebrows and dark brown hair. His round face belied his cantankerous nature and so Lecklan had to sit and listen as he raved about the mysterious merchant killer. Lecklan had heard previously the reports of the dead merchants; it was the talk of the streets and so he was not altogether surprised that this was the reason for the unexpected meeting.

Lecklan had thought the numbers exaggerated, had believed that too many deaths were being attributed to the one killer, but Connia dispelled that notion from him. The same scene every time, he said, with few viable witnesses. Discovered on a quiet street or alleyway with their bodyguards, only yards apart. Their possessions taken, the soil stained red, throats cut. Rarely had they any other wound, they never seemed to see it coming. Often the bodyguard had no weapon drawn.

Lecklan looked across the bonfire. There was a boy and a girl there in their mid-teens. His eyes drew first to the girl, to the untainted, unspoiled beauty there and thoughts of taking it. Some said that it was a phantom, or a beast, as though a beast could be loose in a city without anyone knowing, as though it would steal coin to buy food in a store, that's if they even existed in the first place. Some people were such fools. Lecklan smiled wryly; all the easier to play on their irrational fears, to exploit them for it.

His eyes were drawn to the boy at the girl's left, where he found bright red eyes returning his gaze. He frowned. There was a blank warning to the boy's look. _The little shit_.

There had been very few witnesses. One boy that they had found, whom Lecklan had interviewed personally and not too kindly, had claimed that it was all done by a youth not much older than he was, that he had simply been following the merchant and his man before running up behind them and slitting their throats. Lecklan had continued to interrogate him but it seemed that he was telling the truth, or at least believed so. Lecklan found it hard to believe that this could be done on such a scale by one dark-haired youth, even though it more or less matched what another witness had said.

He should teach the boy a lesson, looking at him that way. Though there was something about him that kept Lecklan back. Some strange confidence, an emptiness to his glare. Perhaps he should be questioned. Dark hair, right size and age.

Lecklan liked nothing more than dispensing justice, especially when others watched, when he could look to them and see the distaste and fear; it was like applause.

He suppressed a shudder. Not now, though. It would not be right, on festival day. He dropped his gaze, letting it wander from the boy, resting it on a shapely woman who joined the dancing around the fire. Her skirt was slit down both sides from the waist, her full thighs and legs showing through as she spun and danced. He could see the outline of her nipples through the colourful blouse that rested loosely on her breasts. He followed them with his eyes as they bounced and turned with her, his desire growing with every step. He realised that she appeared to be wearing no undergarments.

A red hot rage overcame him as he watched a well-built man grasp her and spin her laughing away. He looked back across the bonfire but the youth and his girl were gone. He strolled away, watching the man raise the woman's bare leg as he pushed her against the wall of the nearest building, pressing his tongue against hers. He felt like stabbing him in the back and taking his place, but who knew how many friends he had out with him.

He strode down the boardwalk, scanning each face as he walked, looking for a whore or a woman as good as. He knew his arousal was showing but he did not care, nor would anyone even notice. The air was hot and humid. His tunic felt clammy against his skin.

He slowed, catching the eye of a woman lurching at the edge of an alleyway. She glanced his way, catching him watching her. Her eyes flickered downwards and she smiled invitingly. He returned the smile, the muscles in his face still tensed with anger, and walked over to her. She would not get what she bargained for today.

******

He remembered watching Racquel, her smile lighting up the boardwalk. He remembered the joy within himself, unadulterated, undeserved, and the sickening feeling as he realised it, turning his stomach. He had lost himself momentarily. He had forgotten what he was. Yet his stomach was full, his clothing warm, Racquel was at his side. She seemed happy and he couldn't help but return some of that. Despite the crimes that he committed every day.

He thought back to when she had bathed and bandaged his foot months earlier. He didn't know why his mind wandered to that moment, but it often seemed to when he thought of Racquel. It was a cut from a fight, across the top of his foot, from about halfway down to the top of his ankle. It wasn't deep but was seeping blood nonetheless. He had limped back to the house. She had rushed across to him as he entered, all concern, her hands gentle and caring as she ushered him to a seat in the corner. She had hurried away to find some spare cloth that she could use as a bandage and had come back with that and a bowl of water. She used a piece of cloth to clean the wound, soaking it up with the water and wiping away the blood, carefully trying to find the cut. Her movements had been so tender, her eyes so focused on the task at hand. She had never thought to ask what had happened, she had only seen the blood and his limp and had begun to act.

Liam sat still, daring not to move, for perhaps she would take his foot from her gentle embrace if he did. Her hands were soft, somehow. How they had remained so, he did not know. Her touch was so gentle, so tender. She splashed the water over his foot from the bowl beneath it, washing it with her hands, her fingers trailing over the humps and bones. She was careful around the wound. Liam did not wince as she cleaned around it tentatively, then dabbed at the cut itself with the damp cloth.

He watched her as she worked, her eyes focused completely on the job at hand. She had told him of her dreams of becoming a nurse, of helping people. There was a strange joy brought to her from working on Liam's injuries, as though, in a small way, she was succeeding at that dream.

"You're good at this," he had said.

"My aunt taught me."

"Have you done it before?"

"Not really, not for anything as bad as this. After your fight. When you were unconscious. I bandaged your wounds then, but ..."

"I know."

" ... it was a bad job, I didn't clean them or anything. I don't know how you survived ..."

"I have a knack for it, I think."

"My mother worked in an infirmary."

"I know."

"She died ... I don't really remember her ... Do you ... remember your mother at all?"

"No."

"I remember her ... her presence. I remember her being there. I remember ... it being warm beside her, warm and safe. Cosy."

"My mother died in childbirth, I think. They used to say, back at the orphanage, that I was a miracle child. That I had been born dead and then come back to life."

"It's happened a few times now, hasn't it?"

"What?"

"That you've been dead and come back to life."

"I guess. Didn't have much to do with it, though."

"Who else does?"

"Dono. You, maybe."

She dried his foot and wrapped it in clean cloth, tying off the end of it carefully.

"Does that hurt?"

"No. Thanks."

"No problem!" She had smiled up at him, her hands still gently held over his ankle. He had wished for her never to finish.

_Remember Racquel. Just her._ Without her there would be nothing. A hinge would come loose in his brain.

His blade was bathed in blood. He crouched down and wiped it on the tunic of the merchant at his feet, drying it as best he could, lest it rust. He looked down at his bloodstained hands. How long could this go on? How long until the gang found out? Where was the end? Perhaps they should leave, move onwards again, before he was found out.

He stood up. They couldn't buy anything with the money he had stolen. They couldn't start anything. How could a boy and a girl of their age come across so much wealth? The gang would hear of it immediately. Liam didn't even know how to use it. He had never had more than what he needed for food. What ... it seemed like a waste to him, to spend it on anything. Why buy something, pay for something, when it could be stolen? How much money was in his pocket now? How many klats worth? Was it worth three lives?

He looked down at the ten-year-old boy, lying at his feet beside his father. The look ... as he had fallen. He looked away, upwards at the blue sky, clean and clear; beautiful, outside of this world, away from the slums, untouchable by it. Untainted. If he could fly, leap into the air, be surrounded by that blue, have nothing else to see. _Racquel wouldn't be there. She's down here._

He took a few steps away from the bodies and scrubbed his feet clean of blood on the dry soil. The boy had been the merchant's son. He had been waiting at the house down the street for his father. When he had seen Liam attack, he had charged out in defence of his father and he had died at his side, sharing his fate. The merchant, blood seeping out from between his fingers, had reached out, his palm open. His eyes seemed to widen even further as he watched his son die. It had seemed ... it had seemed that his own death was nothing by comparison.

Liam turned and walked away and stopped, a few yards on. He looked back for one moment, then turned his eyes downwards, onto the shaking hands upturned to his face. A single tear fell from his hanging head onto the hilt of his dagger, to mix with the merchant's blood, that of him and that of his son. He turned and left, his limbs stiff and resisting, his movements strangely jerky.

******

The sun reflected off the ground, making it bright beneath their feet. A cool breeze brought respite from the early summer heat. A pair of stray dogs padded past Liam and Racquel, their tongues lapping out over their jaws, their breath consistent, audible pants. _Just like us, a pair of stray humans._

They walked side by side on their way home from the marketplace. It had been an average day on the take there. He still spent most days with Racquel as he had used to spend them with Calum, running scams, one distracting while the other stole, keeping an eye for easy targets. Their takings were small in comparison to what Liam took from the dead bodies of merchants and their guards. On their own they would barely feed them each day.

But Liam couldn't track merchants every day. There was no reason to, no need to and a good reason not to. The more merchants found dead on the streets, the more likely the gang were going to take decisive action against it. Already Liam was puzzled that nothing seemed to have changed since he started after the merchants months ago.

What he took with Racquel was insignificant compared to the cache of money and jewellery that he had accumulated from the merchants. He only showed Racquel some of the haul, fearing what she would think if she realised the full extent of his exploits. He had found a place to hide the rest underneath the stones of a collapsed cellar, ten minutes' walk from the house in which they lived. Enough for many rainy days, and perhaps something more, something of a future.

They had discovered the abandoned building a month and a half after they had moved to the riverfront, east of the Great Road. The front walls of the building had given way, the upper story collapsing in and over the front door, making it inaccessible. Racquel had found a hole in the side wall, just large enough for them to crawl through. Within was the main room of the house, mostly still intact. It was now the only room in the house. Rainwater leaked in a thick stream through the roof and trailed its way through the damp wood and dust to pool on the floor, where it eventually found its way into the soil underneath. Racquel had built a bath-like structure using the spare timbers and blocks to catch the pool of water. She used dust and debris to seal off the cracks. The water lasted for days now before it sank away. They used it for washing their clothes and themselves.

Racquel had two dresses now, both new. She still kept the torn and ripped dress that her aunt had embroidered back at the house but never wore it. Now she wore a simple dress of faded blue. She had asked for Liam's favourite colour before she bought it, and he could think of none other than the blue of the sky, so that is what she bought. She looked pretty in it.

"What are you looking at?" she smiled across at him.

"You." He returned her smile. Meeting her eyes for a moment, he felt an urge to lean over and kiss her. "You look good in that dress."

"I know, you've told me before." She leaned against him, her hand clasping the side of his arm as she did. He tried to hold his stride against her weight, as ever not wanting to give her any reason to let go.

They turned a corner and Liam felt a sudden urge to look up. As he did so, he caught a flicker of movement to his left. A man stood there, lounging against the wall of a house, and Liam got the distinct feeling that he had been looking in their direction a moment before. At first glance he appeared relaxed, but there was something about his manner that led Liam to think otherwise.

"Do ye wanna get some food before we go home? I'm kinda hungry."

"Ya, sure." Liam responded by rote. His eyes were focused on the shadows at the end of the road, on the right side. It was hard to see within them from the sunlight, but he thought he saw a shape at the end of the street. Then it moved, taking form, as a man stepped out from his place of seclusion and placed himself in the centre of the street ahead of Liam and Racquel.

Were they going to take him here? Liam wondered. It seemed a strange place. There were others around. An old woman was carrying a bucket. There were two bums sitting side by side on the ground to his right, chatting together quietly, a couple of children at play at the end of the street, another man standing in a doorway. Was he with them too? But then the gang never liked to hide their activities. Why would they? Who had they to hide from?

They were on to him. This was where they were caught out. Liam's hand fell unconsciously to the pocket at his side, feeling the imprint of the dagger there. Racquel looked at him.

Liam slowed his pace, his gaze roaming the street.

"What's wrong?" There was a note of worry in her voice. She had slowed with him and now looked up into his eyes imploringly. He glanced down at her. He couldn't protect her. He pushed her off him quickly, taking a step away. His heart broke at the hurt and confused expression that appeared on her face. _Don't look at me like that!_

He looked at the man in front of him. His hands were by his side, there was no weapon in them yet. He seemed content to wait.

Racquel turned and looked around the street, glancing forwards and backwards. Her face filled with anxiety as she saw the man take position behind them. "Liam?" she whispered.

The third stood out from the doorway. She looked back at him sharply, looking for answers, looking for reassurance. Liam knew that often she didn't even bring her knife with her and, more than this, he knew that she would never use it. He looked sadly into her eyes. He couldn't live without her. Without her, he was dead already. Fear started to squeeze down around his heart. "Run," he whispered in return.

"What's happening? Who are they?" There was no time. Liam had to act fast. He glanced down the street. The man had started walking towards them. He noticed the one in the doorway join him. He looked back down the other end. The third man advanced from there, timing his walk with the other two. They were being careful, which was a bad sign. He needed to get Racquel out of there. But they would be too smart to let her go. "Run," he whispered once more under his breath.

"Liam, who—" He punched her hard across the face, his fist landing perfectly against her jaw, even as his mind rang out with the wrongness of the action, a shriek that shivered to his core. Her last word ended in a gasp as she went sprawling into the air.

He ran after her and took the small purse of coin from her pocket with an expert flick of his hand. He dropped it into his own pocket, trading places with his knife. He turned and ran from Racquel in the direction of the single man. The other two had stopped mid-stride, surprised at his action, but now they shuffled towards him quickly. Liam needed to take the third out fast.

There was little he could do for Racquel now. He didn't know if they would be fooled by his ploy. All he could do was try to kill them all. He charged towards the single man, who seemed taken aback by the speed of his attack. He pulled a large knife from a scabbard at his feet and held it ready above his right shoulder, his feet spaced out.

At the last moment Liam dived, rolling low below the reach of the man's swing. He slashed out with his knife as he rolled past, cutting deeply into his calf. The man cried out as Liam came back to his feet and he fell to one knee, scrambling around quickly to face Liam. Liam jumped forward, keeping to the man's left side. His blade dipped precisely into his eye and out again. He scampered backwards as the man screamed wretchedly.

The other two were upon him, spaced out, limiting Liam's movement as they closed in. He couldn't take both. He let his knife go loose in his hand and feinted towards one, stopping him in his tracks, an excuse to give his arm throwing room. The knife slipped onto his thumb and forefinger. His arm whipped forward unexpectedly at the second man. He jerked sideways in shock but too late. The knife took him in the throat by the time he had started to move, and he fell backwards. There wasn't much power in the blow and Liam felt that he would be back on his feet soon.

The third man roared angrily and charged forward, his knife slashing out towards Liam. Liam dived towards him onto one knee. Coming inside the man's swing he turned, his left hand fending off the man's knife hand as his right fist drove upwards into his groin. The man groaned in pain and Liam fell away before his flailing left arm could grasp him and pin him down. He rolled and was on his feet in a moment.

The first man was useless to the fight, wailing and beating his right fist on the ground while his left seemed to want to push his eye better, pressed up against it. The second man was back on his feet but had backed away, his hand clasped over his throat where blood seeped down his neck and through his fingers. Liam nodded his head at the flow of blood; it was a fatal blow after all.

He looked back at the third man, who had backed away a few steps. He was stooped over with his left arm held tightly above his groin. Liam charged across at the first man on his knees, intent on getting the man's knife that was discarded on the ground. The standing man holding his throat kicked out at Liam loosely but missed by inches, then he seemed to realise his situation and began to panic. The first looked towards Liam, growling viciously, a red gooey substance plastered along his cheek and nose. He tried to rise but stumbled on his torn calf. Liam leaped into the air and kicked him across the side of the head with the base of his toes. The man fell backwards and Liam allowed his momentum to take him to the ground. His palm landed on the hilt of the knife, his fingers clasped around it, pushing through the dust and grit of the ground.

The grounded man rose and swung a backhanded right fist towards Liam. Liam stepped towards it, allowing it to thump into his side, sending the wind gushing from him and a stabbing pain to rise through his kidneys but he ignored it. His arm lashed out, the knife taking the man in his one remaining right eye. The man let out an animalistic howl and Liam jumped from the reach of his thrashing. The bleeding second man was crouched on the ground, having vainly attempted to plug his bleeding throat with his upraised tunic, his right hand pressing it to his throat. He looked comical with the tunic around his neck, his smallclothes exposed underneath, but for the oceans of blood staining the cloth. He seemed to be slowly running out of energy, crouched on his knees and left hand.

The third man had circled around and stood facing Liam, ready and waiting, halfway between himself and Racquel. Racquel still seemed groggy from Liam's blow, and she was on her knees with one hand raised to her head. Liam bared his teeth at him slowly, his knife hand rising outwards of his side. It seemed to convince the man of something because he turned suddenly and ran in the other direction.

Liam sighed in relief and stepped in his wake before horror dawned on him and his foot paused in mid-air. The man's right hand came down and viciously grabbed the top of Racquel's head. Tightening onto a clump of hair, he dragged her upwards, his knife coming around to the side of her throat. Liam felt himself go white.

Time seemed to freeze for a long moment.

He had thin, sandy-coloured hair and pale, pockmarked skin, unusually pale for a native of Teruel. Thin strands of hair grew over his ears and his fringe splayed over his forehead. He had a narrow, bony face, weasel-looking and cruel. He was taller than Liam but not much, thin but wiry.

Racquel looked confused and disorientated, unable to mount much resistance. Her sleek black hair dishevelled and sprawled over her shoulders and across her face. _Why did I hit her so hard!_

Liam watched silently as he lifted his knife across her neck, bringing his arm over, ready to slit back across, as the blade slowly turned towards flesh. His head seemed like an overblown melon as he waited, wavering slightly, desperately lost. Silence resounded within Liam's head as the mad screaming and flailing of the man behind him continued and whispers traversed the street from onlookers.

The man's eyes lifted to Liam's and he smiled crookedly. _Don't do it. Please don't do it._ His heart was bursting in his chest, his knife arm had fallen down limply to his side. He dared not move an inch.

"I've got your bitch now!" the man spat. Liam kept his gaze, staring deep into his eyes. Racquel was moaning in his grip, still groggy. Her eyes seemed to flare open suddenly as though she had come awake. She began to struggle, her arms flashed up for the hilt of the knife. Liam's eyes widened in panic. The man swung her from side to side, pulling her head through the roots of her hair.

But Racquel was panicking. She started to scream. Her struggles became more agitated.

"Stop struggling, you bitch, or I'll cut your throat!" The knife pressed against her jugular, drawing a drop of blood that formed on the tip of the blade and started to roll downwards towards the hilt. She cried out in pain and pulled at the knife arm with renewed vigour.

"Racquel!" Liam screamed at her at the top of his lungs. She stopped struggling suddenly and looked around, finding him with her gaze. Liam raised his hands and faced them downwards, signalling for her to calm down. "Just ... just be still, okay?"

They were ten yards away from him. Her eyes were wide with panic, she still seemed confused. _Why did I hit her so fucking hard!_ The man backed away, dragging Racquel after him.

"That's a good girl." His voice was hoarse and crackling. "Just like that, nice and easy."

"Stop!" said Liam, stepping after them.

"You stay right there! Or I'll slit your girlfriend's throat right here now."

"No, let her go!"

The man laughed loudly. "Why the fuck would I do that?"

"Because if you don't, you're a dead man."

He laughed again, a forced bark. "You come near me and this bitch gets it. My boys willa heard of this scrap and they'll be over in no time, so you better skedaddle on out of here. I'll give this whore a good home for ye."

"I know they're comin'. You're not leavin' here with her, and you're runnin' out of time."

"The second I let her go, you're after me. Stay where you are!" The knife pressed ever harder against her throat, a second drop of blood forming on the blade. Racquel was pulling her neck from the blade as hard as she could but had no more slack to play with. Her eyes were wide, her hands, pressed against her sides, grasped at her dress, grabbing and squeezing fistfuls.

"You don't realise, do ye!" Liam shouted at him. "You harm her! You kill her! And yer fucked!" He couldn't allow him to take her away, but the risk, the chance, was terrifying to him. But he knew that the fear of forcing the issue was wrong, as fear was always wrong. His voice shook with the strain, breaking, becoming as high-pitched as when he was a boy. "Yer not leaving with her! You leave her here, you leave her here and ye can live!"

She was lost forever if he took her, and he was dead, as good as dead, without her by his side, there was no point, there was nothing for him. He couldn't allow him to do it. He started to pick up the pace, closing in on him.

"Stay there, you fuckin' shit!" Liam's heart pounded terribly, echoing through his brain, counting out his paces for him as he moved forwards, his hands shaking. He had a sudden brainwave and he screamed it out in his panic.

"Cut her, cut her so that I'll have to stay here with her. Cut her in the leg, I wouldn't leave her here to bleed; I wouldn't leave her to the gang!" The man slowed as he considered, then a certain light seemed to show on his face.

"I know a bad cut!" Liam screamed out in sudden panic, as what he said sent alarm bells ringing through his brain. He met the man's eyes. "Cut her bad and I'll know. I know! And I'll come after you first, I'll kill you before I go back to her!" The man's eyes widened. Liam had read him right. He had been about to fatally wound her. "I'll know! I'm not lyin'! Her leg! And not too deep!"

There were spectators all around the street, gathering, watching the scene before them. The man glanced around. Liam knew him, knew his type. He was embarrassed. He didn't want to be seen to be scared of a boy, to be taking orders from a boy. But his friends were dead and he knew, too, that he could well be joining them soon.

"Look at me!" Liam said to him, his gaze stony. "Do it now, or I swear to Lev, you won't die well." His voice was no louder than it had to be for the man to hear.

Suddenly, he dropped low and cut his blade across the back of Racquel's thigh. Racquel dropped to the ground screaming and Liam ran towards her. The man backed away quickly a few steps, his knife held out before him, his eyes on Liam to see if he would keep his word. Liam dropped down beside Racquel and looked up at the man, his eyes burning. The man turned and ran.

Liam took the knife hastily to the lower part of his tunic, cutting a strip from it roughly, sawing across, staining it with the blood on his hands. Once it was long enough, he tore it free. He bent down and looked at her thigh. The cut was deep, she would probably never walk right again. But it wasn't fatal, or it shouldn't be. Liam prayed that it wouldn't. He wrapped the strip of cloth around it quickly, tying it tightly, ignoring Racquel's cries of pain.

He looked up into her face and saw the confusion there, the hurt, the pain and something else, something he hadn't seen before. Distrust? Her jaw was swollen shut.

"We have to go, you hear me?" Liam looked around, "Everyone ... there's too many people, everyone saw, everyone knows now. The gang knows. He's gone," he looked up in the direction of the escaped man. "He's gone and he'll tell the gang. They'll be back. With more. We have to go now!" He grabbed her shoulders and looked into her eyes. "You hear me? We have to go. You okay? Can you walk?" He stood up from her and tried to raise her to her feet. "We need to get back to the house. Come on, it's not far now. We get our stuff, then we go. Someplace new." She got up onto her feet and he put his shoulders underneath her arm and pulled her along after him.

Liam looked about at everyone on the street, watching them. Too many eyes. What to do? How to get rid of them? He put his head down and tried to increase their pace, half dragging and half carrying Racquel after him.

To Liam's relief, no one followed them back to the house. Their alleyway was empty as they crawled through the entrance, Liam going first so that he could help Racquel through after him. The pain was clear in Racquel's face as she dragged her damaged leg behind her, trying to keep the knee from scraping on the rough rubble of the entrance. The makeshift bandage around her thigh was stained red.

Liam looked about their small space. The pang of sadness he felt at the thought of leaving it was crushed quickly by his panic to escape. They had blankets spread out over the floor, some spare clothing, a couple of bowls and spoons for eating with, some bread, wrapped tightly in cloth against invading rodents and a pair of sandals that Racquel had insisted they buy for him, which he never wore. It wasn't much. Liam made the easy decision to take it all.

"Stay in here until I get back, okay? Don't go anywhere, I won't be long, we need to leave straight away then so be ready. Grab everything here. Wrap it in a blanket and tie it off. I ... I have to go." He needed to get the money he had hidden. Get it and be gone, while he had the chance. He looked down at Racquel. She was sitting awkwardly against brick and wood, her leg spread before her, the knee slightly bent. Her jaw was swollen and bruised, her face and neck dirt-smeared along with her dress and legs. She looked back up at him, her eyes questioning, accusing. "I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't know why.

"Where are you ...?"

"I'll be back in half an hour, okay? Stay here. I'll come to get you." He ducked back out of the house; Racquel's confused expression like an afterimage on his vision. There was no time to explain to her. They needed to leave quickly.

He raced through the slums, running with all of his might. The cache was at the corner of a secluded street. There had been a small cellar basement underneath an old brick building. It was closer to the city's outer wall and was one of the older buildings in the District. The cellar had collapsed at some time in the past, though the building above had been repaired and was still in use. Liam had stumbled upon the entrance to the cellar months before.

It was located at the side wall of the building. There were three steps leading below the ground floor that were filled up with loose, collapsed stone. It was strangely located as there was no side entrance; however, this was ideal for Liam's purposes. Liam had rooted through the debris and stone and found a miniature cavern of sorts hidden away beneath the rubble. Ever since, he had been depositing his treasure within it and covering it up carefully with stone afterwards. He had never liked leaving the money out of sight but he didn't know of anywhere better to keep it.

He fell to his knees beside the cellar entrance, panting and out of breath. He looked to either side. There was a man lounging in a doorway across the street, directly opposite the alleyway Liam was in. _It doesn't matter, I'm not coming back here._ He quickly cleared away the stone. Within were two bags, one filled with silver and bronze jewellery, the other coins of the same metal. He dropped the jewellery into one pocket and the purse of coin into the other and turned to leave.

He was struck by a thought as he stepped away. How had they known what street to wait for him? Why were they there? They had men on both sides and one in the middle, there was no chance of escape. He had never worked on that street, either on his own or with Racquel. What reason would they have had to be there, waiting for him especially?

It was the main road back from the fish market. He thought of a variety of places that they might have been that day. The route to them all was through that street and the way back.

There was only one explanation, and it struck new terror in him. They knew where he lived. _Racquel!_ Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He launched himself forward, forcing and stretching every muscle to its limit. His lungs pumped, his knees rose and fell, careless of the valuables in his pockets. A summer heat was in the air, the sun relentlessly emitted its hot light, uncaring of who it fell on. Sweat poured from his skin, his toes grasped at the dirt and grit beneath his feet.

How could he be so stupid? He didn't need to come for this coin. He could have come back another time. There was no reason why he had to get it now. Racquel was back there alone. They would be back. They would be there before him. Who knew how many they would have with them this time? Too many, far too many for Liam to deal with. What would they do with her? Could he give them something for her life, her freedom? Perhaps they couldn't get into the building yet, the entrance was small, perhaps she would be safe within it for a time. He just had to find a way to get her out. Maybe they weren't there yet, he might make it in time.

He was out of breath as he turned the last corner onto his street. The smoke had been billowing up above the buildings before he reached that far, but he hadn't wanted to see it, hadn't wanted to think about it. Instead he kept running and barrelled around the corner. The flames became unmistakable as he neared his building, his knees started to buckle underneath him. He kept running, running, running as though it would help, as though there was something he could do, as though he could escape, deny the truth, change what was, change what was to be, alter the horrible course of his destiny, rescue her, refuse to believe, refuse to accept, change history. There must be a way of going back, of correcting his errors, of making new decisions. Why had everything he had ever done seemed to be wrong, why did he keep getting it wrong, keep making such awful errors and misjudgements? Calum was dead because of his mistakes, Racquel's aunt was dead and she made homeless because of his carelessness, his self-obsession, his blindness to all around him. Now she was there, burning within those flames. _She couldn't be!_

"Noooooo!" he cried out. "Noooooo!" he screamed. "Nooooo!" he shouted with all of his strength, all of his lungs, again trying to roar it out of existence, roar away the horrible truth, deny it, change it with the force of his roar, with the energy and the will behind it.

The six men were spaced out along the street. They were heavily armed and instantly recognisable as gang members. He ran through them, towards the flames, but he could see instantly the entrance was no longer there. There was no way in or out. The timbers were aflame and collapsing, crackling and thumping as they warped, split and caved in on top of one another. Their home was no more, it was an inferno. A cry burped from his lips with a piece of spittle. His chest seemed to jerk outwards and back in, his head felt loose on his neck as though it were not supported by bone at all. There were two men behind him, two in front of his building and two standing side by side just further up the street.

"'Tis nice and warm in there." The words drifted through him as he ran, their meaning clear in his head as he stared at the flames. Racquel was dead. She was dead. It couldn't be the case. It had to be something different.

One man wore a heavy broadsword at his waist, another had two vicious-looking hand axes strapped to his sides. They were details that Liam didn't take in. He fell to his knees, scraping across the ground as his body hurtled to a stop. His limbs and torso felt limp but his head continued to gaze upwards at the towering inferno as it reached for the sky; keeping his body from flopping forwards, weak as it was. His lungs exhaled; a long, broken, high-pitched sound. Sweat poured from his forehead, from all over. The heat of the fire, like a furnace, like a baker's oven, making a room unbearable on a hot day, was immense, searing his skin.

The clear, clean blue was ruined. The simple beauty that was above; painted red, orange, black, billowing upwards. The simple beauty that was below, changed to dust, smut, dirt, staining black. He felt his legs go, and his body, turning to jelly underneath him. His heart still raced from the run.

The sun on the horizon had turned the skyline a suitable red. His red eyes kept the flames' gaze, burning high, consuming the building, licking it up into the sky, transforming it into that black smoke as things disintegrated to dust underneath, the colour of destruction, of change, of loss.

Was Racquel up there? Floating away into the sky but not surrounded in blue, surrounded in that hellish black, dirty, mucky mist. Why? Why? Why? Had she burned? Had her flesh grown red? Had she screamed as it peeled back from her bones, as she cooked, as she blackened? What pain did she suffer? Why was she deserving of such a fate? Daygo's fire. Daygo's fire. Hate. Hate, suffering, destruction, pain. He would be those things now. He could bring Daygo's fire. Daygo's fury. He was such, he was nothing else, everything else was denial. A list, a long list of deaths. It would grow ever larger, but the names on that list would change, from the innocent to those most deserving. They would die, they would be torn apart.

The sweat went cold on his body, an icy hand clasped over his mind, freezing misty tendrils descended downwards, coalescing and reaching, like frozen arrows, to the soles of his feet.

"Racquel." The word escaped from his lips like the whisper of a wind, unnoticed, unknown. The six men circled around him, their faces blackened by the soot and the smoke. His eyes found one in particular. A sandy-haired man with weasel features. The man smiled back at him with vicious intention.

"Did you like that bitch, boy?" Liam looked at him, strangely empty. His stare was slow. Everything had collapsed within him, as though all substance had been scooped out by a giant spoon.

"What?" his voice was cracked, broken. The man laughed, looking about at his companions.

"Your bitch is as dead as you!" he repeated. Liam stared at him dully for a long moment. Then, slowly, his vision seemed to narrow, honing in on the man, as everything else around him went to fog. He could feel a slow shake through him. The air was dry, the smell of smoke strong, he could feel it so clearly as it passed through the hairs of his nostrils. The thumping of his heart, the panting of his breath, seemed to amplify within his ears, all other sounds receding, until all he could hear was coming from within. His touch turned inwards, away from the cloth of his tunic, away from the weight of the pouch and the dust underfoot. The soles of his feet tingled, the sensation ran up through him like a million pinpricks. The pumping of his heart seemed so large, so strong, he could feel the blood push outwards from it in great bursts, he could feel the race of it, up through the back of his neck to his head, down to his feet, out to his arms, surrounding his lungs in great waves. It slowed, then raced again, every time with new urgency, as his heart urged it on and on, never ending, never giving up, no matter how many times it was asked to pump, no matter how many beats, with no end in sight, no end goal, no ultimate purpose, it beat, it pumped, it continued on, it moved, it squeezed tightly, painfully, and he gasped, it released, and he missed the vitality of it, the urgency, the strength, it squeezed again. Life was movement. It continued, it existed. He could sense it, all around him. There was a connection, a commonality that existed in all things, the soil beneath his feet, the skin on his hands, his flesh and bone, the flames, the smoke, the air itself. It seemed most obvious there, in the air, open to him, calling out, as though it had nothing to hold it back, as though it was open, free to all, sharing its essence, free from solid form.

The flames dashed up into the sky, tearing at cleanliness, a film of dust and dirt floating outwards, coating people and buildings, muddying them, blocking nostrils, ruining taste.

He grasped for the air surrounding him, reaching out for it, and it shivered as though vibrating at his call, tingling in greeting, a private greeting, felt and shared with him while remaining obscured from all passing eyes, with no outward show. There were no words to describe it. For it was not touch, or sight, smell or taste, he couldn't hear it but it was there, unmistakable to him, calling out to him, telling him of its existence. It seemed to tingle with a billion invisible lines, always moving, changing, floating, but at the same time staying connected. It was as though his whole body could breathe in this connection, breathe through it, become part of it, connected to its movements, to its existence, almost one with it. His sense of it faded with distance, yet he knew instantly that it was out there in all things. It ebbed and flowed with the wind, it was taken away, gliding out of reach to be replaced by more of the same, the same yet different. He felt the loss of the passing air as he felt the greeting of the new, all spoke to him, all was connected to him.

This was Daygo's flow. The realisation sent momentary wonder through him. This was life, this was all things, flowing, connected, moving. Movement was life, movement was existence. He knew it in that moment, knew its truth, understood it as one with it.

He lifted a foot forward, slowly, testing. His leg responded as it had before, despite so much more awareness, despite his body being alive with sense, tingling all over with it, breathing it. He was ten times the scale.

He was held within, amidst this flowing sense all around, that seemed to be of him and yet separate, the same as him yet different, as though the encasement of his body withheld him from joining his brethren, from joining himself, from becoming whole once more.

He could feel the force of it flooding through him. He pulsed; slowly, never rushed, constant and yet at the same time too fast to recognise, too miniscule to notice, he just knew. He breathed in life's essence through every pore, and it filled him up and rushed through him, inflaming every instinct and urge and fiery emotion, magnifying it by ten, allowing it to flow free, loose, no longer restrained by the tight, constant grip of human consciousness and thought. He was free; to be, to act. Guilt lessoned and grew small. There was no guilt to life, to nature. There was only action and movement, destructive and constructive, and all things were born anew.

His emotions flooded with life, with feeling, boiling forth, free and exaggerated, unafraid, not restrained by conscious thought; allowed to roil within as they were created, allowed to take form within himself, allowed control, allowed to dictate thought as opposed to thought dictating to them. Thought became an offshoot, directed and restrained by the emotions within him, it became a tool of feeling, a tool of vibrant, destructive life, an expression like the movements of his body, no longer the dictator, the decider, the tyrant of what was within him; now it was ruled, now it was dictated to, now it could lie in chains, restrained and screaming for freedom, it could be released at the whim of emotion, at the whim of life.

And Rage was in control; turbulent, vicious, lustful rage. It looked out at the men before it. _Racquel_ , it was the whisper of thought, but thought was no longer in control. Rage knew the answer now. Thought was a bi-product. Vengeful hate, deprived for so long, repressed, boiling, crying out for freedom, crying out for expression, hungry, thirsting to be satisfied. His body seemed to shake with it, the air around him seemed to shake with his fury, not in fear but in recognition, in simple response to the force of it, the force of nature, ready to burst forth into destructive action, as was nature's call, as was its right to do. It was answerable to no one; it just was. That was it. It simply was. Unexplained, unforgiving, uncaring, indiscriminate in its expression. It was life, it was movement, it was all.

And it was confined within Liam, it was acting through Liam, it was miniscule and individual within him, it was his peace and it would act.

The men spread out all around him, circling. He could hear their voices, their taunts. They filtered through, playing their part.

Liam smiled. "You're all going to die." His arms lifted to spread wide to either side, his dagger held lightly in his right hand. They laughed at him, though some seemed nervous. It was irrelevant to Liam. Pain, terror, death; this was what he longed for, this was what he urged for and it was overwhelming within him. They began to enclose their circle, cautiously approaching him as one.

The first man moved and the air spoke to Liam, the air told him what his eyes could never do, every slight shift of weight reflected in tiny little refractions, tiny little movement, singing out to him, telling him instantly, in constant flow. Liam moved instinctively as his opponents did. He responded to their movements as they made them as opposed to after they made them. They moved and he moved. The man's body readied, it turned out and then inwards sharply for the thrust of a blade. Liam had reacted, had set himself into flow, even as the man only readied himself for the blow; by the time he made it Liam stepped simultaneously forward and to the side, his knife entering simply into his throat. Liam flowed away from the sword swinging from behind his back and stepped back in as a man's knife thrust came for his new position; he raised his knife as he moved, cutting long along the man's exposed forearm, using his strength and the man's momentum to deadly effect, moving away from the next stabbing blow as he did so, all one flowing movement. He stepped back into the screaming man, sucking in his stomach and rolled around, ducking below the downward swinging axe that buried itself into the already dying man's shoulder, his knife stabbed roughly into the axeman's thigh, just behind the protective flap of leather. He wrenched it free, turning, stepping back and then forward, dodging the panicked and awkward swing of a shortsword, his knife slit across the man's wrist as he ducked underneath his arm, coming up on the other side of him, using him as a buffer against the next charging man, a man that he had been tracking, feeling, for seconds, knowing he was coming and when he would arrive.

But his hate wasn't satisfied; after the first two fell, dying, he wanted more. He wanted more pain, he wanted more anguish, more suffering. He altered his cuts, altered his flow. He wanted to slow them, cripple them so he could elongate his own satisfaction. There could never be enough.

"Not enough," he whispered. The charging man was forced to slow and swipe his comrade's arm away, whose weakened hand lost grip of the sword. Liam was already stepping into the space created by the attacking man's clearing movements, knowing what was going to happen, able to read it, see the future before it happened, his being processing every minute detail, knowing it clearly, easily, obviously. He cut above the man's eyes with a backhanded swing, smoothly splitting the skin above his eyebrows as the short sword clattered and rang on the street amidst the cacophony of grunts and cries of his assailants. Blood instantly poured down, blinding him. Liam didn't stop for an instant, he moved with the precision of a master dancer re-enacting a set routine that had been performed to the point of it becoming second nature. He never moved too fast or too slow, never rushed; every step, duck and dive controlled, finding the right space, stopping in time, changing direction in time. Every pocket of safe air called to him as the men converged upon him, telling him of its existence.

"There will never be enough!" he shouted in rage. There was not enough to satisfy him here, to satisfy his thirst; years of torment had dug the well deep and ever deeper. It was a gaping hole that needed to be filled with blood. There was not enough blood here to fill it. He stepped forward, into the throng of stumbling men pushing at each other for space. They started to panic as his knife arm stabbed with more speed, with a frenzied lust for blood and pain and punishment. They fell away, crying out, swinging arms awkwardly thrown before them, unbalanced swipes of weapons desperately swung in his general direction, trying to fend him off, get him away as they stumbled backwards, away from one another. Liam barely had to move to avoid their careless blows. His knife dug downwards diagonally, cutting through the cloth of a man's tunic and slicing the genitals beneath.

"I need more!" Spittle flew from his mouth. They would all pay, they would all burn in his hellfire; there could never be enough to their suffering. Screams rang out through the street, some from the audience that had built to watch the gang's justice as they turned and ran in fear.

The men backed away, stumbling backwards, crawling on the ground in terror. Liam followed them, ensuring none escaped. He turned but was too late as one man found his feet behind him and started to sprint away. Liam roared in rage at the back of his sandy-coloured head. His gaze fell on a man and a boy standing in a doorway three houses up, the boy grasped firmly by the man's left arm. The man's eyes met Liam's, and he backed away in terror. Liam stepped towards them but they turned and ran.

He turned back to his three remaining subjects, too crippled to move, and set to work. Their cries and screams travelled through the empty street, reaching around corners and in shuttered windows. Sometimes eyes peeked out, but Liam would find them and once they had met his fiery gaze they returned behind their wooden protection.

As the last man eventually died, Liam fell to his knees.

"This was not enough," he whispered into the dead quiet of the street. _Not nearly enough._ All of a sudden, a force came flooding down on top of him, like a dam had broken and an avalanche of water crashed onto him, knocking him senseless, to collapse to the ground beside his dead.
8. Foreboding

Leandro sat cross-legged in front of the assembled priests. He had been allowed to pray with them in the strange humming dance that they partook in every day at sunrise. He had tried his best but simply could not perform many of the movements and postures involved in their prayer. There was a hidden strength and flexibility to the priests that was incredible.

They were the famed Walolang de Kgotia. The nearest translation that Leandro could find was "stream soothers". He thought that this meant the Daygo stream, for it was his understanding that these men were priests of Daygo, part of one of the many subsects of an ancient religion almost gone from existence, the most ancient of all. Thought by many to have been the first, the original, that all had subsequently stemmed from. Leandro could only imagine that what remained of that original was so diluted and warped by thousands of years of human interference as to be almost unrecognisable. Leandro knew of no religion that was not, in some way, based upon what was known by historians as the first religion of Daygo. Though some, such as the Levitan Church, only seemed to use this historical reference to fill in the gaps.

He had entered the forests of the Chewe people in the mountains north of Darwin six weeks previously. It had taken him since then to find the priests. The conditions, as he trekked through the rainforests, had been enough to drive him half mad. The air was hot and thick with moisture, the constant humidity becoming so bad at times that he struggled to breathe, having to stop every ten or fifteen yards for a break. Often leaning against a tree as opposed to sitting down. His every footstep was haunted by paranoia as to what may lie beneath it. Snakes and rat-like creatures had often scuttled from his path or reared their fanged heads before him, causing an agonised shriek of panic from his throat as he stumbled or jumped back. He had felt as though he was under attack from the environment and often found himself wondering how any of the tribes survived in such a place. His sense of disbelief had increased when he saw them running through the trees in their bare feet. He had more than once praised Levitas for his thick leather boots, which, while causing his feet to sweat profusely, had saved him from a poisonous snake bite and Lev knows what else since his arrival in the forests.

Some habits were hard to break. Despite his loss of faith, he still sent thanks up to Levitas after lucky escapes and found himself unconsciously beseeching Him for good luck before he realised and stopped himself. His mind seemed an empty cavern without that divine presence occupying it.

He had come across numerous and varied forest tribes on his path to the temple, managing to avoid long stints on his own. He had found them a fascinating and refreshing people. There was nothing within their lifestyle and ways that was familiar to him. They seemed utterly apart from the rest of the world. All modern medicine and scientific advances were lost to them. They had no metal, apart from a few rare pieces that they wore for decoration, picked up from what might have been left behind by the rare traveller that had passed through the woods.

This he had used to his advantage, trading the copper coins that he had on his person for food and information far outweighing their worth. He wanted to learn all that he could, ready to write about it in great detail when he returned home to write the journals of his travels. He tried to commit everything about the tribespeople to memory or write, in shorthand, on the precious paper of the diaries that he had brought with him.

Leandro had always had an affinity with languages and could speak most native tongues of the different races and cultures within Levitashand, even as many were dying. As a priest, it had been a favourite study of his. But the tongue spoken by the tribes in the Chewe forests was not documented or ever put into print, partly because the Chewe tribes had no writing to speak of and relied completely on the telling of oral histories. It was only through extensive research and quizzing of historians and language experts that he was able to acquire a smattering of words that allowed for basic conversation with the tribespeople. But as he was admitted to the tribes and spent time with them his language grew to the point that he found most things communicable.

They hunted with spears and sharpened axes made from wood and stone. They were ingenious in their use of the forest's materials around them, using stripped bark and various lengths of vines and plants to tie their weapons and clothing together. Leandro had possessed a preconceived notion that the tribes would be constantly hunting and scavenging for food in the forest and survival would be a battle for them; but he had quickly been disabused of that idea. The tribespeople spent a bare three to four hours every day providing themselves with food, and much of this time was the gentle labour of gathering fruit, nuts and herbs, amidst amiable chatter, which were in abundance in the surrounding areas. Depending on the day, they might spend an hour or two hunting a large forest boar or some other such creature that would supply more than enough meat for the entire tribe. The rest of the day they spent performing odd chores, playing with their children, hidden away in their tents or partaking in some competition or other.

For the most part, it seemed a consistent and relaxed lifestyle. Their diet was surprisingly varied and nutritious. He was also surprised at the lack of difference associated to gender. Outside of the irrefutable responsibilities of a woman to carry and deliver a child, and the hunt for meat, they shared all chores equally.

They were a small race, their average height between five and five and a half feet. They were dark of hair, normally worn to mid length, and round of face with definite and full features. Their eyes tended towards a reddish, brown colour. They had long torsos and short legs, their arms long and dangling below their waists like apes.

They dressed in their environment, with leather and furs from the animals they killed, bamboo-like grasses plucked from the ground and separated until they made a thin, cloth-like fabric that was woven together into clothing, normally to complement the leather. Their chests and lower legs were mainly bare, and they sported a multitude of tattoos in all parts of the body.

On first appearance, they had seemed a wild and dangerous race of people. Carved wooden piercings looped through the middle of their noses to exit out at either side in honed down points. Similar decorations hung dangling from their pierced ears or protruded from their lower lips. The strangest of all was the ceremonial garb of the tribal leader. He wore the bones of his ancestor, the leader before him, strapped all over his body. The spine dangled behind him from his neck, the skull sat like a crown upon his head, the jaw lay loose underneath his own. Shins were strapped to shins and the ribcage bounced on top of his chest as he chanted amidst a burning collection of herbs and plants that let off a pungent odour.

They lived in fear and respect of the Daygo stream, and though they held fear for its unpredictable actions, they also seemed to hold onto a strange sort of acceptance. Life was movement, they would say, that was all, one could never know in which way it would go.

They were honest in their conductions. There was no guile to them, although they did hold a strange sense of humour that often left Leandro the butt of jokes he did not understand. He would sit, smiling dumbly back at them, his eyebrows raised. He had grown affectionate towards the Chewe tribespeople.

However interesting they were and though he enjoyed their company, his main goal always remained to find the Walolang de Kgotia and learn from their religion and rites and what it was, precisely, that they actually did. At the end of each short stay with a tribe, or forest village, as he had come to think of them, he would ask after the whereabouts of the priests and their temple. While they had been forthcoming before this point, suddenly they would become quiet, glancing unsurely to one another or upon the ground. Eventually, he would get a loosely pointed arm and a change of mood to have done with this foreigner.

His efforts grew frustrated as he walked from tribe to tribe, following such loose directions and little else, but nevertheless he retained hope that he was, painstakingly, nearing his target. Five days previously he had entered a village where he had finally received what he took for directions to the temple itself. He had left excited and light of foot.

He had wandered unsure and lost for two days before finding the place, wondering if the deliberately vague directions were in the least bit accurate.

All of his travels had led him here, to the famed and feared priests of Daygo and their temple to the spirit of all, though he had been warned time and again to stay clear of the place as it was holy and should not be interfered with.

The temple itself was a series of caves, naturally appearing, in the side of what developed into a mountain, the forests along its side climbing spectacularly upwards. Leandro could see the inclining green through the parting of the trees above the clearing. He realised then how rarely it had been that he had seen the blue of the sky and felt the sun's light. As a result, looking up into the blue above the clearing was strangely beautiful and awe-inspiring. He was accompanied by the feeling that the world, being the forest, was encased by the gentle blue glow of Daygo. In that moment, he realised how close to holy that place must seem to the tribesmen, with its clear, circular view of the sky, mostly naturally created in the dense forest. At its highest, the sun bathed the clearing in bright yellow light, causing Leandro's eyes pain at the now unaccustomed brightness. How horrible it would be, he thought, to be denied the sun and the sky.

Their holy caverns were strange in appearance. The land of the forest seemed to drop suddenly downwards in one area, forming the gaping, dark and gloomy cavern entrance, encircled in hard, mostly bare, rock. It was as though half a hill was pushed against the side of the mountain. Grass and trees and the usual foliage of the forest grew all along the sides and up the hill, covering it as it would anywhere else. The cavern seemed to narrow within into a passageway of sorts. The ground before the cavern was mostly bare of life and sloping downwards into the gaping mouth; the small patches of foliage growing amidst the rocky floor trampled over time by the soft footsteps of the priests.

Ten steps clear of the entrance, at the top of the slope, was the first of the beehive-shaped huts of the priests. Eleven in all; they were barely long enough for the inhabitant to lie out fully within—certainly Leandro could not in any that he saw—and allowed for no rolling room. They were tall, curving constructions made from curved and warped wood, lashed together with the ropes and twines of the forest.

They were haphazardly spaced around a central area where the priests built a communal fire and did their cooking. Just outside the miniature settlement was a small garden patch that grew various different herbs and plants native to the forest. Leandro had learned that these were used for medicinal, religious and flavouring purposes. Some gave off a thick, pungent smoke when burned and when inhaled gave an uninhibited, light-headed experience that was frequently interjected by bursts of laughter and giggling. Others were used to eject and clear worms and other parasites from the body. Still more were simple flavourings. Beside this they grew vegetables and other food stuffs.

They rose and chanted in the mornings, staring up through the branches of the trees at the sky, sometimes shaking their arms up as though impeaching the sun to show or for the world to end, or for something to happen, or even their floundering arms might be asking their God the perpetual question of "why?" to some unexplained or misunderstood tragedy. Leandro would watch, fascinated, until the chanting would quieten down and eventually die out, signalling that it was time to eat.

Over the three days that he had been in their presence, he had observed their habits and routines with interest. They lived very simple and repetitive lives. They looked well fed, with some of the older priests showing paunches.

He questioned them about their lives and their beliefs. Mostly he simply received surface and vague answers. They generally deferred to their high priest, Obasi, as though unsure of what information they were allowed to part with. So Obasi answered most of his questions, a constant frown between his eyebrows.

They seemed confused over their purpose and their answers, yet they spent their whole lives dedicated to this cause that Leandro had not, as of yet, been able to fully ascertain. It was not at all what he had expected. In his experiences, when visiting extreme religious, cultish groups, their belief and purpose was fanatical, delusional in most cases. But he found that these priests seemed, if anything, to be suffering a crisis of faith.

While physically they looked healthy, their eyes looked tired and haggard, and their heads hung slightly, giving them a hounded look.

At one stage he wandered up to the hilltop that framed the entrance to the caves, where the earth was clearly disturbed. He stood, looking down at the upturned soil, wondering if this was their graveyard, when a woman priest stepped up to his side. She stood silently beside him for a moment, watching the soil where he had watched. She pointed two fingers at it.

"Two of us," she said. "Two years." She shook her head. Leandro looked across at her, at the deep sadness that lined her face, and he did not know what to say. He reached a hand out and placed it on her shoulder. What more could be said or done, for the grief of those who were lost? As a priest he had seen it often; sometimes it had seemed that he was the harbinger of death. He wondered if this was the cause of their distress. Was it the simplicity of death to crumble their faith, as it tested the faith of all? Had they thought themselves above such things, as servants to their Daygo? It seemed a lame explanation.

There were two priests that were set apart in his eyes. One was a man called Niisa, the other was a woman called Yejide. She had the most striking green eyes that he had ever seen. Green eyes that seemed to hold untold knowledge and wisdom. It felt as though she looked through him with those eyes, seeing deep into his soul. She was always still; even when moving through their complex morning routines, as they bent their bodies into impossible positions and showed a strength that conflicted with their appearance, she seemed still. She moved without ever moving at all. There was never a forced reaction, or so much as a twitch, everything was calm and slow. Sometimes her eyes were lightly closed, sometimes open as they passed over him, as though he were a feature of the forest, a leaf or a rock, or perhaps some unremarkable animal. Only from her did he get a sense of something holy, something divine. He felt strangely blessed in the silence of her company.

Niisa was a small man, even by their standards, standing just over five feet tall. Niisa's quiet seemed loaded with action, it seemed ominous, oppressive, somehow forceful, as though behind his watchful eyes was a will that could make a man break. At first, he was too consumed by the man's presence to notice, but as the first day passed to the second and the third, he started to realise that it was not just him who felt cowed by Niisa. The other priests, with the exception of Yejide, seemed in some way oppressed by his presence. He noticed their eyes linger on him at times, when they thought he was not looking, sometimes flicking quickly away as he shifted his seat or moved his head.

As he spent more time with them, he felt more and more that there was something under the surface that was not quite right.

He learned that the priests were tribespeople, taken from their families at the age of twelve or so when they had tested positive for this hypersensitivity that they talked about. They then lived out the rest of their days in worship to their god, Daygo, in isolation from the tribes, the families and friends they had known.

Leandro asked only once if the children had a choice as to whether or not to join the priesthood. The response grew flustered, angry and threatening. Obasi became animated and Leandro could not follow the tide of words that spewed from his tongue. He did not ask again.

Daygo, as Leandro knew it, was not a god such as Levitas was revered as, not a single man-like entity. Daygo was instead all of life, the energy that infused and ran all things, and caused it to move and thus to be. The priests believed time was a man-made entity, that there was only movement and life could not exist in staying still. This was why all things must be born, live and die, then change state and alter. Daygo was the interflowing and interlocking force that ran all things, that was all things. It was the movement that allowed existence to exist. It was the flow of change. Life was movement, life was action. Daygo, life, movement, it was all more or less the same thing, according to the priests.

Like all things came from the Earth's flow, all things returned to it. It was Daygo when the volcanoes exploded, when the Earth rumbled. Daygo was in the air, Daygo was in the clouds and everything that one could see with one's eyes and even things that one could not. Daygo was divine intelligence.

They believed that there was a vast disruption to the flow of Daygo that caused the breaking of the world one hundred and eighty eight years earlier.

They put different credence to different events to that of the southern world. Their calendars did start anew with the changes in the world, but they started from the arrival of the new moon as opposed to the re-unification of man. This was the significant event to them. And, upon consideration, Leandro could not fault it, for there must surely have been some connection between the red moon and the breaking of the world, and everything that followed was of consequence. Perhaps the red moon's arrival was the singular cause.

The priests disappeared through the caves every day for hours at a time. During all of his time, they had posted a guard outside of the caves to ensure he did not follow them in out of unrestrained curiosity. They were very particular about entrance to the caves and held little real trust of him. Leandro tried to spend this time in conversation with the guard, looking to soak up as much understanding and knowledge as he could before continuing on his adventures. The first day did not prove very fruitful as green-eyed Yejide sat guard. He had tried often to engage her in conversation, but she had not been forthcoming, her answers always had a strange reason to them, but also a finality that could not be questioned further, and a vagueness that made them no answers at all.

However, on the second day Niisa was on guard and was much more forthcoming, by far the most of any of the priests, and seemed at ease to answer all of Leandro's questions. They quickly built into a rhythm of mutual learning, each taking turns to ask and answer a question. He seemed to have an endless curiosity about the southern world. Leandro understood that he had never ventured from his home forest. He could see an eagerness within him to do so.

He held some strange and individual theories. Leandro enjoyed their telling, finding them interesting but no more realistic than the rest. In each religious sect that he had visited, he had heard doomsday theories and professions from one or more of the practitioners there. He found them all quite enjoyable and illuminating to their cultures and mind-sets so long as he distanced himself from them.

Niisa believed that all magical capabilities stemmed from the arrival of the red moon. Before, he said that Daygo was communicable and sensible but tied off and restricted. One could know that it was there but not physically touch it. He said that since the arrival of the red moon, it has become accessible by hypersensitive people. It has changed the world, he said. Made it more unstable. He claimed that the accessibility of Daygo has been growing steadily since the moon's existence, that Daygo is less tied to what holds it, whether that be an animal, the soil, the air, or people themselves. He claimed that this influence was growing, and more, he claimed that the red moon posed a threat to the very existence of Daygo on this planet. What did that mean? Leandro questioned and questioned him but could make no sense of his answers, as they were varied and vague.

When Leandro questioned him as to what this hypersensitiveness was, Niisa replied that some people had a heightened awareness within themselves that allowed them to connect with the Daygo that was in all living things, that allowed them to feel it, like a sixth sense. It was not something that could be described by the five senses that people possessed, for it was a sense of its own. It was separate, it was different. They believed there was some connection between all Daygo on Earth, and thus there could be feeling to those who were most sensitive to Daygo outside of the body. He said that the Daygo in air was the first and easiest to sense, because it had the least protection around it, it was the least closed off, the quickest to change, to die and be reborn again. However, Leandro felt a vagueness to his words, as though there were no set rules. Unsurprising, he thought, with something so made up and farfetched. Leandro remained very sceptical about these priests' supposed importance and the reverence that the tribesmen held them in. It was a common trait, for religious representatives, to be held in far higher esteem than they deserved. Leandro knew all too well, being a former priest of Levitas.

Leandro asked him if there was anything more to it, other than sense. Niisa went quiet with this question and eventually fobbed it off, unwilling to answer. Next, Leandro asked him how could he prove that it existed? Nissa smiled and answered, no doubt a well-rehearsed one from this particular priesthood, "How do you prove to the blind that sight is real?" It was a fair response, yet Leandro had no more faith in its existence for it.

For Niisa's part, he asked about the outside world, especially the world south of the great mountain ranges. He had a strange, haphazard understanding of the nations of Levitashand that was a collection of random and strange facts and folklore. Leandro knew that the tribespeople of these parts had been present before the breaking, in the world of old. Back then, they had no awareness of the wider world whatsoever. Since the breaking and the migration, there were sufficient travellers through the forests and disruption to their way of life for them to pick up a loose knowledge of other peoples. They tried to avoid contact with outsiders and were wary of them but not directly aggressive, as Leandro had learned.

Since Niisa's understanding was so disjointed, Leandro decided to tell him a brief history of the new world. He told him that the lands of man had been vast, stretching five or six times larger than what now remained in Levitashand. He told quickly of the coming of the red moon and the breaking of the world, six days where the ground rumbled and broke apart, where the sea flooded inland in giant waves and red plumes of fire reached for the heavens, spreading, intoxicating and destroying. He told how millions died in those days and the lands were remade to be almost unrecognisable from what they used to be, that only here, in what was then known as the Woanaan lands, did the land mass stay mostly the same. Borders were no more, some people lay isolated from others, new mountain ranges and seas appeared as though from nowhere, the geography of the land changed beyond recognition and, though the terrible assault died down after those six horrendous days, the ground still rumbled and roiled, volcanoes still spewed ash and lava from their mouths and occasional giant waves still attacked seaside areas. Though one and all would have been huge events before the breaking, compared to the six days preceding, they were mild.

Then, three weeks later, when the nations of man were still picking themselves from the dirt, the beasts came from the new lands to the north. It is now believed by some learned men that a new continent, one not before known of, where these animals had resided, had joined with that of man's during the breaking, opening up a passageway for the beasts to come south.

The survival wars came next. The southward moving tide of beasts seemed unstoppable until a man from the southern Woanaan province came north in aid, leading an army from his own nation, to unite the disassembled nations of the north under one banner in a cohesive defence of mankind. Still, it seemed doomed. The great migration was conceived as a desperate last attempt at survival, and mankind fought a fighting retreat south through the pass of the Woanaan mountains, millions dying along the way, where they built a giant wall across the only traversable pass of the mountains to keep out the hordes of beasts from the lands in the south, the fabled ten thousand charging forward to their deaths, led by Levitas himself, to allow time for its completion.

He told Niisa then of the dividing of the Woanaan lands between the surviving people. They formed what became known as the five continents and an independent state called Keisland. They were ruled over by the five great generals of Levitas' army and the Woanaan king, Levitas's uncle. Every year they were to meet as the council of six, with Keis head of the council as chief regent, and dictate policy for the world. They signed a pact that for any nation to war on another would draw the wrath of the other five. It was Levitas's great plan for peace and continued co-operation between all of mankind for the future. He told Niisa that the Chewe region, where they now resided, was the only region that had not been divided and occupied in the Woanaan lands, as it was deemed too mountainous and forested to efficiently re-home any refugees. Niisa smiled with villainous humour upon hearing it, setting Leandro to smile hesitatingly in return.

The Histories were so thick from that point to where they were, from Illinois the Insane, to Gabbon the Incompetent, Haryana the Greedy and mad King Kelios most recently, the disintegration of the council of six and the dissembling of the five continents into sixteen separate nations, all intent on personal ambitions and separatism, of the failure of humankind to stay united once the common enemy was gone and the ultimate failure of Levitas's plan and great hope for a united and peaceful mankind, that Leandro was forced to summarize swiftly, at the risk of his tale being so long that there would be no more time to extract further information from Niisa about the priests.

He finished with a brief outline of how the world and nations stood now, in precarious peace.

Leandro told it all as best he could with his limited grasp of the tribespeople's language, tracing out maps on the ground with a stick and gesturing to illustrate his story. Niisa listened intently, his eyes following the stick with the intensity of a hawk.

Despite his freedom with information and willingness to talk, something put him on edge with Niisa. There almost seemed a dark, brooding presence beneath the surface. He repressed a shiver at the thought of it. Despite himself, and their apparently peaceful ways, the priests made him nervous.

There was an eerie madness in their eyes when they left the cave, though they seemed to contain it well. They returned wide-eyed, bloodshot and antsy, prone to jerky movements and quick, paranoid-filled twists of the head, as though expecting to see someone crawling up on them from behind, though Yejide remained as she always was. They seemed to avoid speech with each other and quickly took their places for the evening chants. Leandro watched it all with fascinated interest. He considered, more than once, intercepting Obasi, the head priest, when he returned from the cave before they began their chant, but a strong instinct prevented him from action. Once they had flown through their sequence of movements and accompanying humming they seemed calmed once more, less bloodshot and returned to their contemplating glances and monotonous lifestyle and chatter.

Niisa, however, in those maddened instances, did not hold the same vibe of a wide-eyed, cornered and terrified cat that could unpredictably and illogically lash out at anything that came too near. Somehow, he seemed in control, as though he were the great puppet master of it all, and Obasi was only a front for the wandering tourist. Sometimes Leandro turned and found Niisa watching him. Far from glancing away in embarrassment, his eyes lingered, as though any discomfort Leandro felt was beneath his notice, or below his consideration. Always calculating, always aloof.

Leandro now found himself jumping in shock when he turned and found Niisa staring from some secluded corner. The longer he stayed, the more he started to attune with the nerves he sensed from the other priests.

Although he had travelled so far to learn from them, he was not able to escape himself from a growing sense of doom surrounding the clearing, as though he could see a storm approaching from the far skyline. Illogically, he thought that if he stayed he would become a victim of it, and like a monkey that clung to his back he could not shake it. So he decided to leave that evening.

Leandro had not been allowed to stay too close to the hallowed ground, and he had been forced to sleep among the trees, as he had grown accustomed to, using cloth, rope and ties to make an irregular, protective tent to lie suspended within. He gathered them up now, shook them out and tied them together in manageable bundles in a now familiar routine. He would sleep within them again tonight. As he waved his goodbyes, he sensed a reluctance to see him go.

He nodded to Niisa as he walked from the clearing and received a slight incline of the head in return. He left the huts and the temples of the priests with the itch of Niisa's eyes on his back.

******

Niisa watched the traveller go, his unblinking gaze tight to the man's back. He had learned from the man. The southern lands sounded strange, but bountiful. He longed to go there, to see the stone walls, the stone buildings, to learn about this god they called Levitas. What powers had he possessed? How had he subjugated an entire race?

The idea of leadership was new to him, but intoxicating. To have subjects below you, to have dominion over his fellow man. To be recognised and accepted as greater. No longer would he be at the whims of others, restricted by overall rule. Everyone was on an equal footing amongst the tribes. It seemed strange that these people would put themselves below another; have another think for them, do for them, decide for them. Did Leandro, too, follow the orders of another? Was his travelling the work of another? Perhaps they were wise; unlike his comrades, they recognised superiority.

That there were wars, battles, hunts between men, seemed unfathomable and wrong. But he wondered.

There were so many questions he had not asked, too many to ask, in the short space of time, and the man's language was too sparse. Niisa had thought him dense at first, only to learn that they had their own, strange tongue. Everything about them was fascinating. He wanted to learn more. He wanted to learn their language so that he could communicate with them better.

He looked behind him into the cave, where his fellows touched daily with the Daygo stream. Touched, feeling along the outside of its surface but never dipping in, never becoming one with its flow. His nose wrinkled, and for once he did not fight against his growing detest of his lifestyle and of the weakness and fear of his fellow disciples.

He would travel the world, like this Leandro. He would learn. He would not be afraid of the power deep within the Earth, of the power connecting them all, flowing through their beings.
9. Freedom

Blood is everywhere, haunting his vision. The stomach opens; a boiling, volcanic mass of thick red blood sprays from it into his eyes, clumpy, sticky, it tastes of iron and blinds him red; better than to see the tangled mess within, the ruin as he slices it open, the stench. He raises his hands up, tries to clear the blood away but cannot. His eyelids are stuck, the congealed blood acting like glue. No matter how he tries, he cannot open them, his eyeballs slide from side to side behind the black sheets. He cries out.

Things change, he is back at the start, his eyes are open. His blade sinks through a man's thigh, folding back the muscle, down to the bone, rivers of red run through the line's space, overflowing and spilling out onto its banks. Fire, all around, red and puffing black. He chokes on the smoke, coughing, it stings his eyes, he hears desperate screaming, he shouts out, "Where are you, where are you?" He must find its source, he must, but he cannot pinpoint its location, every time he turns towards it, it sounds from a different place. He cannot see with the black smoke, it is blinding him, crawling underneath his eyelids, right through to his brain. He cries out in panic, he is confused, he is useless.

The day is bright, the street is clear for the orchestral screams to sing. The dust blows red and dry through the toes of his feet. The sky is a triumvirate of red, orange and yellow; bright but everything seems to be covered in a thin film, taking the edge from the colour, everything is greyed out. It is not as bright as it should be. Her face burns through the film, brighter than everything around, delicate, exact. Her face twists into a mask of betrayal, then transforms to terror and pain, her skin starts to melt, her bones show through her skin, she screams. He screams.

His eyes opened. He stared up at the now familiar concrete ceiling inches above his head. There were four others in the cell with him. The man sitting across from him, with a grey stubble of a beard and a scar above his left eyebrow leaving it partially bald, glanced in his direction. No doubt he had been screaming in his sleep again. He did not know how long he had been here. He surmised that it must be at least a full day, if not two. He did not know how he had gotten there. He had woken up to the cell and its inhabitants, confused and with a thumping headache. It took a few moments for him to start to remember, though his memories remained shrouded and fleeting. He was unsure of their truth; whether they were feverish dreams or reality. He shivered to think of them as real. But he remembered the flames, he remembered what they meant.

The cell was three feet tall and cramped with five within it. There were at least four more above him and probably four more again above that. Liam wondered how secure the concrete floors were, if they could come crashing down on their heads from the weight of those piled above. He doubted if the guards or anyone else would care. He held little feeling towards it himself.

The floor was damp, somehow, despite there being no rain that Liam could remember in the days preceding his imprisonment. Perhaps it had rained since. So far they had been given one bowl of gruel each, more water than substance. He was hungry but thirsty more. He had noticed one of his fellow inmates sucking at the wall for moisture earlier. How long had he been there? How long would he be here?

Outside of the greybeard, there was a man with a large winding nose, clearly broken and badly reset, that emitted a loud wheezing snore when he drifted off. The man next to him, wedged between broken nose and greybeard, was a small, stocky man with a round protruding stomach and the red cheeks and nose of a heavy drinker. Opposite him was a tall man, his knees almost touching the ceiling in the uncomfortable crouched position that they all held. All were slightly spaced so that knees and feet were side by side, making the most of the space. Even though Liam's muscles were beginning to cramp, he reckoned that he suffered the least, being the smallest there.

All were manacled at the wrists, a chain roughly a foot long holding them together. The crude iron manacles, showing signs of wear and rust, chafed at Liam's wrists uncomfortably.

The drinker had woken broken nose at some point earlier in the day as his snoring began to reach new crescendos painful to the ears. An argument started that threatened to descend into fists. The other three inhabitants had looked on with trepidation, knowing the space was too cramped for a fight to end well. Thankfully, the insults and anger slowly petered out, both seeing some sense. But tensions remained high. Five criminals, cramped together in a four by six foot cell with little water or food was a place of frayed nerves and tempers.

There had been some conversation over the day. Liam had paid little attention, dropping in and out of consciousness. It appeared that two of the men were murderers.

While there was anger and fear in the room, Liam felt none of it. Strange that the youngest there would be the most steadfast. But it was not strength that had Liam this way. He was unsure if he wanted to live. He was unsure if he could carry on even if he wanted to. _Racquel ..._

And suddenly he was weeping, like the boy that he was. He couldn't stop, even as he became aware of the disdained looks turning his way from the other inhabitants. It was all too much; the emotion came flooding through him. He could not withhold it, he didn't want to. He was a supplicating victim to the sorrow that wracked his body. His limbs went weak, his chest shook, bobbing his head up and down as tears streamed down his face regardless of his body's dehydrated state, his loose fists pushed weakly against his eyes and forehead. He leaned against the wall and he didn't care what the men thought of him, or what they might do to him. He didn't care where he was or if he would ever get out. He didn't care if he lived or died. His whole body, mind, soul and being was consumed by a singular sorrow, an unremitting truth, a disgusting travesty, that was too much to bear, too much to strain against. The beautiful Racquel, an angel, found in the most unlikely of places, in the slums of Teruel, had been burned away, like something that didn't belong, viciously ousted by a hostile environment.

******

His eyes awoke. He stared at that ceiling above him for hours. Lying there, staring. The stone was hard and tough underneath him, covered in loose stone and dust; badly laid concrete, lumpy and uneven. Every now and then dust would break from the ceiling above, followed by fine stone that bounced off the knees below it. His legs were aching, bent and crumpled against the wall, his eyes forever on that ceiling, unmoving, barely blinking. Occasionally the other men spoke, but Liam didn't listen to them. Their words floated over him like a breeze over stone. The noises and shouts from outside their three-foot cell were equally ignored. Things happened around him, but he was unmoving, unchanged.

A door opened and footsteps rang out on stone, nearing all the time, increasing in volume. Two sets. There were cries for help or succour that were quickly quietened. He didn't turn his head as they stopped outside of his cell.

"That's him." There was a moment's silence. "Vicious little fucker."

"You've had problems?"

"Not much he can do in here, only lie in his own shit and piss."

"You sure this is him?"

"Aye, came in two days ago, caked in blood."

"Bring him out."

Liam lifted his head and noticed nervous glances turned towards him from the cell entrance. Broken nose, nearest the railing, wore an interested frown as he looked at Liam.

"You have a bath?"

"I'm not washin' that piece of shit."

"Get him out first, then fill it with cold water." There was a grunt and then the rattling of keys. Liam looked to the railing but couldn't see much through the press of bodies. The key turned in the lock and the gated entrance wheeled open, creaking loudly, enhanced slightly within their cave.

"Alright, you lot, out! Stretch your legs." There was a slow shuffle for the doorway, men groaning as they heaved to move their aching bodies. Some gave cries of pain as they straightened their legs for the first time in days. One by one, the men unfurled themselves and crawled from the three-foot cell out into the concrete floor beyond, needing no second telling. Liam was last out. He groaned as he rolled onto his front and pushed himself forward on his hands and knees, his muscles resisting the sudden movement after two days' inactivity. He had to haul himself through the exit, which was a foot higher than the cell.

By the time he cleared the entrance, he was panting from the pain and exertion. The prisoners were splayed out behind the doorway, having crawled away to make space. There was much moaning, grunting and heavy breathing as they found room against the wall to sit against, tentatively stretching their legs out before them.

There was only about six feet between the cell door and the wall facing it. They were in a long corridor, lined with cells, three high as Liam had suspected. Still within two yards to his four companions, who were slow to spread out, slow to move for space due to the wincing pain every movement caused, Liam looked up at the two men who had orchestrated their release, however temporary. The ceiling above them seemed strangely high to Liam, the space expansive. The gaoler was easy to distinguish, ghoulish in feature. His face was flabby and pockmarked, his skin an unhealthy pallor, and there was a sordid look to his eyes. His nose was fat and slightly upturned. His tunic was loose, tied at the waist by a belt that dangled rings of keys.

The other man was darkly foreboding and impressive. He was covered from head to toe in black. He didn't wear a tunic like was the style in Teruel, but instead wore black cotton breaches with leather knee pads, triangles of metal pointing upwards from them, and boots that were laced halfway up his calves. He had a woollen cloak, tied tightly to hang like a long braid from his shoulders and clasped to the belt at his waist. A leather codpiece was strapped in place below a leather jerkin. His arms were bare bar leather armour strapped to the sides of his forearms with metal plate sewn onto them. Three small throwing knives were sheathed on the left side of his belt while a sword hung from the right; another was strapped to his back, the hilt protruding over his left shoulder. Three more hilts were visible, stacked and horizontally pointing out from behind his back, the sheaths, unseen to Liam, must be sewn to the back of the leather jerkin just above the waist, or else incorporated in the original design. There was another large hunting knife strapped to the outside of his left boot. Everything from the steel on his forearms, to the leather, cotton, wool and even the man's hair was of the darkest shade of black.

The man himself looked to be of about thirty years and tall, above six foot. His skin was tanned brown. His shoulders were broad and his arms finely muscled, the biceps round and full even as his arms rested lightly at his side. His arms, hanging loosely, somehow didn't look in the least bit awkward but instead appeared comfortable, at ease, yet at the same time primed for action at the slightest notice, the fists half-closed. Only when Liam glanced at those hands did he see the bare metal spikes that protruded from the knuckles of the man's leather gloves.

Even his face seemed muscular and expressionless. His brown eyes were blank as they regarded Liam. His head turned the barest fraction towards the gaoler.

"Bath," he said simply, his voice like stone rolling downhill. The gaoler grimaced and glanced back across at him, his mouth half-forming a word before he seemed to stop himself. He licked his lips and turned to do as he was bid, grumbling inaudibly. He seemed nervous to Liam as his back disappeared from sight. Not so the black man, who stood stock still, silent, balanced equally on both feet as he stared down at Liam. Liam dropped his head, too tired to return his gaze; instead he rested on the floor, his legs bent and spread to his side, his hands spaced out and flat on the concrete dust to either side of his waist.

He waited, strangely not caring what this was about. The man before him was like none he had ever seen before, yet Liam did not possess the merest curiosity about him. He sat in the middle of the floor, his breathing slowing, his eyes, half closed, rested on the loose dust and rubble.

The gaoler returned after some time.

"Alright, back in the cell, ye fucks!" The prisoners looked desperately back to the hole they had come from but they started to move once the gaoler pulled the cudgel from his belt. He laid into them unnecessarily as they shuffled back inside. Liam turned his head from it, not bothered to continue watching. He noticed the stony expression of the man before him, his eyes on the gaoler behind. When the prisoners were back inside and Liam heard the rattling of the key in the lock, the black man turned.

"Bring him," he ordered simply as he walked away. He turned his head back slightly as he went. "Don't beat him, carry him."

Liam had already braced himself for the kicks that would come. Instead he heard the curses of the man as he grabbed Liam with rough hands.

"Come on, ye useless fuck, up on yer heels." He pulled Liam up onto his feet and pushed him forward. Liam stumbled, struggling to get his muscles working once more and fell on the floor. The gaoler grabbed him again, this time keeping a rough hold underneath Liam's armpit as he staggered towards the exit.

He spared a glance to his right side as he went and found eyes staring soullessly back out at him. There must have been ten sets of cells, stacked three high, each one filled with as many men as they could fit.

Even through Liam's dulled senses and emotions, he felt some vague relief at being taken from there. He dreaded to think what such a prolonged death would be like.

They walked through the open stone doorway. The gaoler stopped to pull the large metal door and lock it shut, Liam stumbled on without him, trailing the swordsman. Outside the door was a corridor perpendicular to the one they had left and much like it, except on one side were doors such as the one he had come from. Liam lurched up and down as he tried to keep up with the swordsman, his stride shaky and erratic, his stance hunched over. They walked for about thirty yards, past door after door, before they reached the concrete stairs at the end of the tunnel, leaving Liam wondering at the numbers detained there.

The steps proved too much for his weakened legs. He was forced to use his hands as a support as he half crawled up.

The general damp feel lifted as he reached the room above, and it was only then, with the fresher air, did he realise how fetid it was below. It was a small, square, whitewashed room with no furnishings. The paint was smudged and peeling, the stone beneath it showing through as often as not. There was one small window of warped glass and a single door that swung ajar. The room was scattered with loose weaponry, broken and discarded pieces of wood and furnishings, some unpleasant-looking tools—Liam could guess at their use—and spare sets of manacles and keys along with odds and ends that Liam could not place. A burst of laughter exploded suddenly from the next room, and the jokester was applauded by the curse-filled praise of rough men.

Liam looked up at the man garbed in black before him. As he stopped, Liam allowed himself to sink to the floor just past the top of the stairs. The gaoler's grumbling and heavy footsteps could be heard through the hole as he followed in their wake.

"Where's the bath?" asked the swordsman as soon as the gaoler's head appeared above the floor.

"The next room," he growled, head down as he climbed into the room. The swordsman's eyes fixed him steadily. The gaoler looked up, caught his gaze and dropped his head once more and started to fidget with his hands. "Follow me," he said in a more polite tone.

They walked into the next room, which was lying empty. It lay directly above the cells below. It was sparsely furnished. There was a table and some chairs to the left side as they entered. The door to the outside was straight in front of them in the middle of the wall. There was a window to the right side of the door but not the left. Everything was sturdily built with stone. The floor was all hard dirt. There was an open ledger, a pot of ink and a feather quill on the table. Alongside the ink was a collection of strange-looking stones. Further manacles were stacked in the corner behind the table. There was another door down from the one they had come, leading to the room adjacent.

Liam looked across at the central door as the gaoler led them to the next room. He knew the swordsman was glancing back at him, an eyebrow half raised that he ignored. Five yards from freedom, five yards from the slums. Why would he ever want to go back? He thought back to Lana. Would she look after him, give him a place to stay, a bed to sleep on? It was something that he had never had, something he had only daydreamed about. He wondered how nice it might be, how soft. He could sleep there the rest of his days, curl up into a ball.

Lana would not do it. He was not even allowed to die in that cell, roused and forced onwards. He wanted it no more. Suddenly, he envied the bums, the homeless who lay like waste at street corners.

The swordsman's eyes remained on him as he walked into the next room after the gaoler. There were three men within, lounging languidly across their chairs, playing a game of cards on the hardwood table between them. They were the source of the earlier laughter. There was a rusted metal bath in the corner about half the length of a man, showing signs of dust along its corners from lack of use. It was filled with dubious-looking water. There was a rope dangling above it looped around an iron pulley that was fastened into the ceiling, again showing signs of decay and lack of use.

The men looked up as they entered before returning to their game disinterestedly. The gaoler stood to one side awkwardly and folded his hands. The swordsman did a quick sweep of the room with his eyes.

"Clear the room," he said. The brown-haired man sitting closest to the door looked up and around at him, an eyebrow half-raised. Then he turned to the gaoler. The two at the other side of the table put down their cards and sat back, eyeing the swordsman with equal incredulity.

"How about you keep that fuckin' mouth of yours shut, and we'll continue with our game," said the black-haired man across the table to the right. A scar trailed from his forehead over his eyebrow to the cheek below the left eye. The eye gave a slight twitch every few seconds as he stared malevolently across the table at the swordsman.

The man before them grunted and turned back to his cards. "Clear the room?" he muttered disdainfully. "Yer in our fuckin' room now!"

The slow, silvery ring of a sword exiting its scabbard seemed amplified in the immediate silence that it caused. The man nearest the door shot up from his chair and turned around.

"Hey, hey!" came the shouts of the gaoler as he turned. The swordsman ignored them all, lifting his sword free. He dropped its end on the table with a thump, the sound alone telling of the weight of steel and the strength of the man who drew it, one-armed, with such ease. A few tendrils of dust rose from the table top with the thud and stuck to the shiny exterior of the blade, drawing extra attention to the well-polished gleam of a blade impeccably kept. It was as though it shone brightly and everything else was dulled as a result. Even Liam's eyes were drawn to it, a slight gasp escaping his lips unknown.

"I told your men to leave." His voice was the same tone, unchanged, as it had been the first time. The casual nature of his movement, the absence of change of tone, expression or stance, the nonchalant way that he had dropped his sword tip onto the table, seemed all to add to the danger that suddenly emanated from the man. He seemed to dwarf the other four men, as though he were a colossus, as though they were mice to tread on.

"Y—ye can't ..." the third man stuttered. "The king's rules ... the king would have ye out ..."

"The king doesn't know I'm here," replied the swordsman calmly, his eyes boring holes into the other man's. It was enough; all of a sudden, chairs were drawn and the men stumbled over themselves to get clear of the room and the domineering figure within it. The third man had to walk around the table, and around the swordsman, to get out of the room. The swordsman followed him with his gaze the whole way, as he shuffled past as quickly as he could, virtually pressing himself against the far wall to keep as much distance as possible between them.

"Dunk him into the bath," he said to the gaoler, indicating Liam, as the door swung shut behind the men. Liam stood still for a moment, glancing over at the bath and then at the swordsman who had walked away and was pulling up a chair beside the bath to sit on. He walked towards the bath, deciding to get in himself since it was inevitable, but before he could, the gaoler grabbed his filthy tunic from behind, lifted him up and dunked him into the bath. Liam, his hands manacled together, could offer little resistance.

The cool water was a welcome shock to his system. His eyes opened in the murky water, his hair fizzed in front of him and bubbles cascaded from his mouth and nose, massaging his face as they crawled upwards. In a strange moment of clarity, as the last of his breath left him and he could feel the gaoler's hands holding him down roughly, he opened his mouth wide and inhaled with all the might he could muster. Water flooded into his lungs and instinct took over. His body started to convulse wildly as he coughed and inhaled and coughed again. His body struggled even as his mind didn't want to.

Then he was out, coughing and choking violently, water, combined with saliva, hanging in long elastic drops from his mouth and pouring from his nose. His chest burned and his eyes felt as though they would pop. His heart thumped desperately in his chest, as though it could burst clear. His whole torso seemed to act with a mind of its own, convulsing uncontrollably, all the while Liam wishing that he had been held down just a little bit longer.

The swordbearer looked at him curiously. The gaoler held him up, his expression angry. He left Liam go and he dropped against the back railing. Liam rattled a cough and ducked his head underwater again, hearing the curse from the gaoler as he was grabbed and pulled back out, another lungful of water inhaled.

His vision had gone black. He could feel himself retching and coughing, his head hanging loosely as he did so, but it seemed far away, as though he were looking down on himself from above.

"Take him out," he heard, the sound entering his ears but not quite reaching his mind. He was in a bright fog, sound thumped in like a painful banging at the edges, causing vibrations outwards as it did. Sight entered ahead, brief outlines of the swordbearer and gaoler as his head rocked from side to side. Then his breathing filled his ears until it was all he could hear and his coughing, a loud, desperate panting, as though there was an exhausted dog within his head. His vision cleared and he was back in the room, staring at the concrete floor. For a moment, he thought he was back in the cell, staring back up at that crumbling ceiling above him, and there was a moment of panic before he realised that it was too bright, too dry and he was the other way round. And he remembered where he was again.

"Why did you do that?" It was the deep, rumbling voice of the swordbearer. Liam started retching, preventing him from answering, though he hadn't intended to, then he sat back against the iron bath. He coughed uncomfortably every time he breathed too deeply, so he started to take short, panting breaths. The man seemed to be waiting, but Liam saw no reason to oblige him. Eventually he looked across at the gaoler.

"Leave us," he said.

"The money. We agreed!"

"It is as I said. I want to speak with him first."

"What if you just walk out the back ..."

"A swordbearer's word is sacrosanct. Don't make me remind you of that again." The gaoler swallowed and nodded, leaving the room. The swordbearer turned back to Liam and found his gaze matched. He took off his gloves casually, tucking them into his belt.

"What's your name?" he asked.

Liam was still coughing sporadically. He looked to the side and didn't answer.

The man slapped him across the face. "I don't have all day," he said simply as Liam's cheek burned. He had seen it coming but it was too fast for him to move.

"Liam," he answered hoarsely.

"Ensio."

Liam glanced at him.

"How did you get here?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Then what did you do to be put here?"

Liam shrugged.

The man sighed. "I've come out of my way to find you. Believe me when I tell you it's in your interest to answer me."

Liam simply looked across at the door to the next room. There were muffled sounds of arguments and angry protests coming from there.

"Let me tell you what I heard. I heard that you slaughtered six grown, armed men. Matis men. I heard that you then set about dismembering them ..."

Liam glanced up at that. Finding the swordsman's steady gaze on him, he returned his eyes to the door.

"... and tortured them for a time before they died. Is this what happened?"

Liam took a deep breath. He knew there was no point in refusing to answer. He shrugged again. "I don't really know ..."

"Answer me." There was a command in his voice and a hint of impatience.

"I killed them ..."

"And the torture?"

"I don't know ..."

"That's not good enough."

Liam barked a laugh and looked at the swordsman. His mouth curled in the slightest of grins.

"Did you torture them?" he asked again. Liam shrugged. The man's eyes furrowed. "Shrug once more ..." he warned.

Liam's sardonic laugh cut him off. "And what?" he asked, looking him in the eyes.

The man clenched his jaw. "Why were they after you?"

Liam dropped his eyes. "I was ... stealing from them."

"How?"

"From merchants trading with them."

"Merchants have guards with them in the slums, no?" Liam didn't answer. "How did you steal from them?"

Liam's anger was building with the line of questioning. Who was this man?

"I killed them."

"The guards?"

"Both."

The swordsman looked at him hard. His expression seemed a mix between disgust and disbelief. "How many?"

"A lot."

"Give me a number."

"No."

"How did you kill them?"

"With my knife."

The man suppressed a sigh and clenched his fist. "But these are trained guards."

"Not well trained."

"Nevertheless." Liam simply looked at him. He shook his head. "How did you manage to kill six armed men from the gang?"

"Five."

"What?"

"Five. One ran away."

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. "Five, then. How?"

"I was faster than them."

"How? How does a boy kill five men?"

"I don't fucking know! I just did. I killed those fucking bastards and I fucking made them die screaming!"

"Why torture them?"

"Because they killed Racquel!"

"Who's Racquel?"

"Now shut the fuck up!"

The swordsman rose with the speed of an uncoiling serpent. His right hand found Liam's neck and, unaided, he lifted him up, walked across the room to the wall and slammed him against it, his grip vice-like.

"You will answer with some respect." His voice was cold and there was a promise in his eyes, but Liam held them with ease. He could barely breathe through the man's iron grip, but he managed to speak.

"Why would I fear you?" His voice was a strangled whisper.

The man frowned and, after a moment, released him. He turned and walked away. Grabbing a chair, he set it against the far wall and sat, looking across at Liam. Liam allowed himself to slide down to the floor where he sat, directly opposite the swordbearer. Time passed. The man never took his eyes from him. He seemed to be in thought. Liam's gaze lazily roamed the room.

Finally, the swordbearer sat up and leaned forward onto his forearms. "I'll give you a choice. I'll tell you how it is. You have two options. One is that you stay here. There are two things that might happen to you if you do that. You will either be left in that gaol to rot, which is unlikely, or the gang will find out you're here, which they will, and they will pay the gaoler for you, which they will. I don't think I need to tell you what the gang will do then.

"The second option is that you come with me. I'm a swordbearer from Darwin. I'm sure you have heard of us before, though not likely the truth. For the moment, I am willing to pay the gaoler's fee for your release. We are always looking for good warriors, great fighters, and by the sounds of it, you might be one. This I will have to test further myself. If you decide to come with me, you will have to swear not to run away until I release you. If you try to run away, I will kill you." He paused for a moment at that, seemingly trying to hammer home the point to Liam. But that was a threat, a danger, that Liam had dealt with all of his life.

"Do not underestimate what I offer you here. I'm giving you a new life. As a swordbearer, you will be well paid and treated with respect for the rest of your life. You live honourably. You would be apprenticed for five years during which you are well fed and there is a roof over your head and a bed to sleep on, which I would say is more than you are used to. You might not make the five years, you might not pass the tests, in which case you will be released with enough coin to last you six months and a far better education than you currently have. It is rare, also, that someone with swordbearer training would not be accepted into the army. I am offering you a life, Liam, and for that life I will be demanding loyalty. I'm offering you a way out of the slums."

Liam met the man's eyes and kept them. He looked at him for a long moment, knowing, ironically, that his prayers had been answered, yet not feeling grateful for it but incredibly bitter. It was those last words that struck a chord with him. Was this not what he had been hoping and praying for over the last year? Was this not what he had desperately needed? His prayers had been answered, amazingly, but it felt so hollow, so empty. There was no reason not to go along with it. Everything else was gone. Anything was better than going back down to those cells, or being released to the gang. He held little enthusiasm, but he acquiesced. Ensio paid the gaoler and they left, Liam burping a sickened, sardonic laugh as they did so.

******

He hobbled out into the sunlight behind Ensio, wincing from the brightness, four sets of hate-filled eyes at their backs. He looked about to get his bearings and was surprised to see the wall only a hundred yards away. Up close it was domineering. An acute angle of shadow bore down from it at a southerly angle. Vaguely, he could see a lone soldier strolling over its battlements, visible through the crenels every couple of steps. He could hear the sounds of the river front but its sight was blocked from view by the buildings lining the street. The buildings seemed more stable and developed this close to the wall, the majority of which were made from stone as opposed to wood. There was a carpenter's shop across the street with a small tavern and stables next to it. Sun-darkened men strolled in and out, some carrying large planks of wood off with them, probably roofers making repairs. Three men stood unsteadily outside the tavern, and Liam realised that it was fifth day. It was only three hours from dusk, and those men would probably be drunk until after dawn two days hence, when they would have to return to whatever job paid for their ale.

City watch gaolhouses and outposts were seldom far from the wall. They were more designed to help police entrance into the outer city than to police the slums.

Shadows floated across the street with the gentle movement of white wispy clouds overhead. It was a cool, fresh day, one of the last before the dead summer heat became consistent in Santos. A flock of Woangulls flew overhead, calling to one another in their lightly-sounding language, together like a chorus of musical chimes, unsynchronised yet complementary. Liam's head rose momentarily as he trailed them through the sky, his eyes squinted and sore from the unaccustomed light. His limbs still ached and his breathing was shallow, though he immediately felt an improvement at his release from the confines of the cell.

Ensio took the lead, striding down the street. He took the first left which led down to the riverfront. As it came into view, Liam looked across at the great arch of stone under which the river flowed through a large metal grating. He wondered idly how so much stone could be supported without ever touching the ground.

He was forced to stop suddenly as Ensio reached his destination. He greeted a man of similar age who looked over Ensio's shoulder at Liam curiously. He was introduced simply as Vara. He held two large brown horses by the reins; different to those Liam was used to seeing pulling wagons on the Great Road. Taller and leaner, they appeared more agile and energetic, tugging at the reins and occasionally clopping a hoof off the dirt floor. Liam assumed that they produced far more speed than the strong, docile animals that came with a wagon attached. Behind them, tied by the reins to the back of these saddles, were two packhorses, slightly more in line with the animals Liam was used to.

Ensio turned to attend to his horse while Vara looked Liam up and down appraisingly, wrinkling his nose slightly.

"We need to get you a bath and some new clothes first thing. I'm not having that smell follow me around."

"We can use the bath in the smith's," replied Ensio into his horse's saddle, while pushing his gloves into a pocket on its side. "Where would you ..."

"I'll sort it." Vara cut across him. Ensio chuckled softly. Liam glanced from Vara to the big man, finding his change of demeanour off-putting. _The smith's ..._

"Good, let's mount up. I want to get out of here before sundown."

His eyes dropped to the dirt as Vara led him to his mount. There was a mound of horse dung under its tail. Liam wondered which smelled worse, him or it. Vara switched two saddlebags slung across the animal's saddle to his fellow and bid Liam climb on. Liam had never been on a horse before, but he swung up easily, feeling unsteady on the saddle. The animal did no more than turn its head to inspect its new cargo.

"Hold the reins and the saddle horn here," Vara instructed. Liam nodded, ignoring the long glance that he received from Vara before he walked away.

Vara took the horse before him, Ensio the one beside that. The two men ahead dug in their heels and the pack animals followed their leaders. Liam held tightly to the saddle horn as he had been instructed.

They rounded the corner back onto the street. Travelling in the other direction was a troop of five men, clearly from the gang. They looked threateningly at Liam's party but all noticed the blacks of Ensio and kept walking past. Liam turned in his saddle to look back, but Ensio led them around another corner before he could see if their destination was the gaol.

They wound their way onto the Great Road to Darwin and Liam felt a strange sensation, though removed, to be actually travelling on it. So often he had looked up and down it, from the wall to the distant forest, wondering at the wider world and wishing to see that forest and the countryside. He had a picture in his head of great expanses of dirt with occasional weeds and green shoots of grass spurting up from it in places, and the trees; they seemed so far away and so full. He had in his mind a great ceiling of branches above the ground, intertwined to leave no gap, full of green leaves, hanging fruit and flowers, taller than two men. He imagined walking below it and looking up. He had often promised himself that when he grew older he would go to see it for himself at some point. He had thought of going to see it anyway, apparently only a few hours' walk away, but ... he just never had.

As the horses walked further along the road, he began to feel uneasy about the thought of leaving the slums and Teruel. He frowned, uncomfortable with the feeling.

He glanced left and realised where they were. A hundred yards ahead was the gang's storehouses for this side of the road. The place where he had brought Racquel, where he had first kissed her. He stared at it blankly and his heartbeat began to rise. Panic started to well up inside of him.

Then he saw the small convergence of gang members. There were seven or eight of them. Liam recognised Lollan and then, as he turned around, a familiar sandy-haired face. He stared at him as they approached, amazed to see him again. The man's eyes widened as he saw him. Liam's heart beat frantically but he did not move. He would have expected a different reaction within himself, but all he felt was a terrible sickness to the pit of his stomach. To the backdrop of the man who had killed her, the coward who had run twice, was the space where he had first kissed Racquel, where his heartbeat had quickened for a different reason; an excited, good reason.

He was tired. The slums were everywhere, like a disease-ridden carcass. It was not just this man; it was all of them, all men. All he had for the man was a tired, disgusted hate. A dead hate, a flat hate, a hate that knew no matter how many times he could take his vengeance, there were countless more like this man, it was a never ending stream. It was not one man but many. It was not many but a society, a whole species that he hated. And there, in that moment, he realised the hate was no longer personal, the desire for change, for vengeance no longer singular to one or a few individuals. He hated this place. He hated its kind. His kind, he knew. He hated it to the pit of his stomach. He did not know if there was something better elsewhere, he did not know what lay outside of this, but he did know that he never wanted to come back, for as long as he lived he never wanted to be reminded of what lay here. He could no longer deal with it, he could no longer live there, he could no longer compete.

He knew that he had been right when he was with Racquel, in what he had thought, that he could not live there without her, that she was the only reason to continue, that without her he was dead. It was true. Perhaps there was something for him outside the slums, though he held little hope for it. It did not matter. There was a blankness there, not an acceptance, simply a deflated defeat that ran so deep there was no resistance left, no hope. It might end now, it would end eventually, and he was done playing.

He felt disgust to his core, at the world, at the king, at the gang, at Deaglan and Carrick, at that one man there in front of him, amazement written on his face as he recognised Liam, but he did not move, he did not act, he watched it all go by.

The man turned as Liam and his crew passed by, talking frantically to the group behind him and pointing at Liam. He saw heads turn and look towards him. He saw Lollan's piercing gaze and then a shake of his head. And then he saw the sandy-haired man jump out onto the road and start shouting and screaming in Liam's direction. Liam turned around, making no effort to hear him. Though the words were vaguely audible, they never reached Liam's thoughts but instead were filed away in the deep recesses of his mind.

Towards the outskirts of the slums, Ensio led them to the back of an inn. They tethered their horses but left them saddled and entered the tavern. The innkeeper knew Ensio, and Liam was led to the bath room where he was given a towel and instructed to wash. When he was finished, Vara had found a new tunic and underclothes for him to change into. No sooner was Liam dressed again than they left the inn, Ensio flipping a silver coin to the innkeeper on the way out.

The slums remained much the same until their outer edges, where some streets were only half built upon and then finally there were none at all. Immediately, the slums turned to farms, wide expanses of land, separated by fencing or sometimes ditches. Liam could make little sense of it. The grass fields looked stunning to him, thick and green; he felt an urge to leap from his horse and run along them.

Cretn wandered the fields; large, lumbering beasts with three horns, sawn off by the farmer at a young age, and a large snout like that of a pig. Liam looked at them with interest. They had wide, round eyes at either side of its pig-like head, nearly completely filled by large, black pupils, giving them a stupid, dead look. Occasionally it was possible to see them flick from side to side. Liam wondered at the small amount of movement afforded them, if this meant that their vision was more limited or in fact greater than his own. Two of the horns grew from underneath these eyes, to either side of the snout, and the third grew upwards from a tilted-back forehead. They were covered in long, dark brown hair of varying shades.

Intermingled among the grass fields were large expanses of crops that Liam did not recognise. There was an occasional small patch of a vividly red flower that Liam's eye was drawn to.

They spoke little on the ride from the city. Vara seemed a quiet, sturdy man. Ensio, who had come across as so domineering and dangerous within the gaolhouse, seemed to loosen up on the open road, engaging both Vara and Liam in conversation as much as possible and steering towards light topics and silly jokes. His angular face often split wide into a smile, and he had a habit of looking at Liam from the corners of his eyes, as though seeing some hidden joke behind his words. In this roundabout, friendly manner he cajoled more from Liam than he had intended to give.

However, Liam never lost the feeling that he could turn deadly at the drop of a coin, if the situation warranted it.

Finally, Liam decided to ask Ensio how he had ended up in the gaolhouse, though he could nearly guess. Ensio looked at him from the corner of his eye, considering, before he answered, glancing across at Vara as he did so. He told Liam that he had been taken there after the city watch had been alerted. A troop of their men had happened on the scene and found Liam as the sole survivor, lying unconscious amidst the blood and torn limbs. Not knowing what else to do, they had taken him to the gaol and incarcerated him. As the city watch did not generally get themselves involved in the slums unless there is a particularly bad blood bath, as there was, they felt the situation sufficiently resolved. They would hold Liam until the gang came to pay the proper bribe for his release. Only the swordbearer had arrived first. He had been forced to pay almost three times that which he believed the gang would have had to pay. None of it really surprised Liam, though he now wished he had not asked. It confronted him with what he had done, with what had happened.

Ensio looked at him sharply as he finished, but Liam simply turned his head away silently, staring back out over the fields.

He had told Ensio that he tortured them because they killed Racquel. But in truth he did not know why. He could barely remember doing so and the memories he had seemed more like dreams than real memories, there was a surreal gloss to them. Liam still did not know if they were actually his memories or if they were nightmares he had dreamed up in the cell. Until the swordsman had told him of the torture, he was not sure if he had done it.

He remembered the flames. He remembered kneeling before them. He remembered ... what that meant to him, at that time; the terrible, terrified certainty that he had come to. He remembered the man's words, as he had walked towards him. _Your bitch is as dead as you._ The snide, cruel expression. The sadistic glee that lit up in his eyes. Then a cloud, a sense, a completeness. An openness, becoming one with all that he was, a pureness of expression, undiluted, unadulterated and unlike anything he had known.

That was all that he was left with. A sense of it, an imprint of emotion, like a red mark left on his vision without remembering the light that had caused it. A general feel of what had happened and vague, gruesome flashes; images that somehow did not seem real. And a sense of foreboding. What had happened? What had he done? What had he become?

It was a chilling thought, one that he kept from his mind, but it lurked, like a repeated, inaudible whisper of something he should not know, something that he tried not to hear, tried to ignore; afraid that if he listened too closely, he might decipher its meaning.

They were only two hours outside the city when they called a halt. They would spend the night out in the open, on top of the hill facing Teruel, with the Belvoir forest to either side. Once the horses had been unsaddled and tethered and the bedrolls spread, Ensio commanded Liam to kneel.

"Now I want your oath," he said as Liam did so. "You are a believer of the Sevi Natan, am I correct?" Liam nodded. "Then repeat after me. I swear by Levitas and by Daygo, all that is and all that ever can be, by the flow of life, movement and time, on my hope of rebirth, of contentment within the Daygo stream, on fear of fire and damnation. I swear on myself and all I hold dear, that I will not break this sacred bond. That I will pledge myself to the service of the swordbearers and the Keisland nation until so released, and that I will live in service to, and under the rule of, Ensio Fahme, until such service commences or, in the lack of, for two years henceforth." Once Liam had finished repeating the words sentence by sentence, Ensio unsheathed his sword and put the flat tip underneath his chin. "Now you have spoken the words, do you know their meaning?"

"Yes."

"And do you now, once more, under no duress, swear to abide by them?"

"Yes."

"You swear?"

"I swear."

Ensio turned the sword underneath Liam's chin so that the sharp end of the blade touched the skin. Liam could almost feel his skin splitting to the razor edge. "Then hear this, Liam. You remember what I said to you earlier today." It wasn't a question. "Every word was the truth. I did not need to come to you. I did not need to pay for your release or to take you from that despot behind you. I have given you life where there was none. You are in my debt. I will not ask of you anything that is not within your own benefit to do or which is not an honourable request. I am giving you a chance for a _real_ life, not what you had in there." His eyes flicked towards the city behind him once more. His eyes turned back to Liam with steel in them, the hard lines of his face spoke of hard and simple truth. "You betray this gift, you betray your oath. You fail to live up to your part of the bargain and I _will_ kill you, before the day is done." He paused.

"Look at me," he said, "and know that I speak the truth." Liam looked at him and knew it for true. Every muscle in the man's body spoke of stern, unbending resolve. The sword turned and spun upwards from Liam's neck with a flick of his wrist that seemed impossibly swift, and Liam had a sudden image of it coming down with equal, easy speed to slice his head from his shoulders. He glanced at the blade, wishing for a moment for it to fall, but Ensio turned the sword and sheathed it with smooth efficiency.

"Now rise," he said, with a smile that Liam found off-putting. He grasped Liam's shoulder as he stood up. "And be ready to live again."

Liam waited for him to relinquish his grip and, once he did, he turned and walked to his bedroll, uncaring of the life he had pledged himself to or any life at all.

******

His eyes shot open suddenly ... _be riding that bitch of yours ... I'll be riding that bitch of yours tonight ..._ He did not move an inch; he was frozen in terror as though he had seen a beast venture into their campsite. His body was covered in a cold sweat. _I'll be riding that bitch of yours ..._ The words echoed around and around in his head. Was this a dream or was it real? Is that what he had shouted at him, or had he just now dreamt it up? Was this his mind, playing a terrible trick on him? All of a sudden he was back there again, in front of those flames.

His heartbeat quickened. He could feel panic and anxiety bubble up within him. He had seen the flames, their home burning high into the sky. He had left Racquel within, that was the last place he had seen her. She had a badly hurt leg. She would not have been very mobile. Could she have gotten out? Would they have just set it alight without looking? Would they have set it alight with her inside? She was beautiful. She was worth more than that. Did they take her?

Why had he been so certain that she was dead, why did he think her inside, burnt alive? Did he even have time to think? It was just a gut reaction, a first instinct. He had known! He had known! And the man had said it, the words, _your bitch is as dead as you!_ That was confirmation surely, was it not? She was dead and he would be next.

But it did not fit, it did not make sense, it was not the gang's way. They used everything, they exploited everything. But he said she was dead! And the flames, the house! It was gone, it was dust!

I'll be riding that bitch of yours ...

"Noooo," he screamed out into the open night. "Noooooo!"

"Liam?"

He lifted his hands up to the side of his head and pulled at his hair and ears. It was a dream. It was a bad dream. He had not heard what he said. If he had heard, he would have heard! But the words seemed sure, they were there, right there, like a certain memory.

He turned his head to look back to the city, the slums; dimly flickering lights. He could not go back. He could not. She was dead. How could he wish for her to be dead? But she was, surely! What if she's alive? She's there, thrown in to some Lev-forsaken whorehouse, doing Lev knows what ... But he cannot go back! He can't face it. Those words were false. But they felt true.

What could he do anyway? He could never rescue her. Ensio said he would kill him. She was probably dead anyway. How could he wish that? Would she leave him—ever? He couldn't ... He couldn't ...

Get the money and be gone, get the money and be gone ...

Tears streaked down his face. His body trembled and shook. He curled up into a ball, his eyes wide, watching the flickering lights of Teruel. The inner city shone brightest, the outer city slightly dimmer, the slums barely at all, almost lost in the blackness.

******

Ensio nudged him awake with the tip of his toe. Liam's eyes opened slowly on his still body.

"Time to go," came Ensio's gruff voice. The dawn light was peeking over the horizon behind Liam. It still had not quite found the city spread out before him. The night now felt like a long, terrible dream, but Liam knew that it was not.

He was slow to rise. By the time that he did, Ensio and Vara had their small camp cleared up, their movements brisk and efficient, performed with practiced confidence. Liam took a few steps from the camp, leaving his bedrolls on the floor. He looked out over the city before him.

"Hey! We're not here to clear up after you! Roll that up or walk to Darwin!"

Liam ignored Vara's dull voice.

"Did you hear me?"

From there, he could see that the slums were easily as large as the city proper itself, spread-eagled wide and haphazardly around the walls. The Great Roads were just visible from the hill they stood on, separating the sprawling mass, the only sense of order within it.

He glanced to his side, at the forest that lay there, surprisingly sparse. There was no unbroken ceiling of leaves, branches and flowers for him to walk beneath. The trees seemed to show as much reluctance to embrace as people, shunning one another instead in their climb to the blue light overhead. If he could but climb too.

He heard rushed footsteps behind him and then a hand on his shoulder, pulling him around roughly. Liam barely glanced at the angry-faced Vara as he walked, with a push, back towards his bedroll. A flick of his eyes saw Ensio leaning against his horse's rump, watching him silently.

He rolled up his bedroll, tying it with the straw-like material sewn into its end. He hefted it onto his shoulder and walked to his pack animal, tying it onto the front of the saddle horn silently. He then lifted himself onto the wide animal and waited, teeth clenched, eyes straight ahead. Ensio stood watching him for a moment longer before he turned his head and nodded to Vara. They mounted their horses and left Teruel behind them in the dust.
Epilogue

Seventy-five generations of time, Niisa thought, as he opened his eyes and looked around the cave at the humming priests, lost within their commune. And is there no ending in Daygo? Is there no change? Niisa smiled.

"Return to nature," he said softly. "You were lost. Be found again. Your suffering is at an end."

He sat for a moment longer, staring into the green eyes of a panther.

When he left the cave, he left only peace. The water trickled tranquilly. The walls were damp, they were calm, content; they were stone. The ground was grass, rock, soil. The air was thick, warm, heavy with moisture; it was air. The leaves of the trees rustled gently on branches that swayed in the breeze, growing slowly from the trunk that rooted into the soil of the ground. It rose to the sun and grew green with its light. It was a tree. A leaf fell off and it was a leaf, no longer a tree, it would become soil, perhaps rock, or water.

Niisa smiled. He was a man, but more than a man. He held his palms out to either side of his shoulders and faced the sky. He stood open, for a time, bidding farewell to the space he had lived on.

In the southern lands, he would start a new order. An order dedicated to learning and greater knowledge, dedicated to uncovering all the mysteries of Daygo and the red moon. He looked up at the sky. He did not know how many years it would be, but he knew that Daygo would guide him to ultimate success. And then he might watch the grass grow again, until such a time as he died and was reborn. Then they could all live in silent serenity. Together, with large numbers, they could discover the fifth stage of communion, and the sixth, until wisdom and knowledge presented a solution to a problem Niisa did not yet understand.

He had changed since the killing of his sister. He was grateful for all that she had offered him, for all that he had learned through her life. He missed her on occasion, especially as he woke in the mornings and there was still a residual desire to stretch with her, to follow a routine he had known since birth. But for that, too, he was grateful, for it furthered his understanding of his fellow man. Through her death he had learned something of what loss was, what grief and the ensuing sadness was for many of his species. It was the loss of routine and habit, the loss of familiarity, the loss of company and support, the loss of things that one had become accustomed to. But to mourn change was an affliction of the self, an affliction of ignorance. Daygo, life itself, was change.

It was time. They had served their purpose. Ignorant of it, their lives, the lives of the countless forebears before them, had brought them this far, to teach him, so that he was now as he was, ready to move forward. They had brought him to where he needed to be. They could rest now. They were returned to the source, joined in peace with the all-thing, of nature.

First, he would visit that centre of learning talked of by the priest, the city of Darwin.

~~~~
Please, please, please review

Please, please, please write a review on amazon. Even just give it a star rating and write, it's good/bad/or indifferent, whatever you think. I know it's a pain in the ass, but you'd be doing me a huge favour if you did so. I'd really appreciate it. Reviews are huge for the book's success. As an indie-author it's very hard otherwise to get people to pick it up and give it a chance.

And then, if you want to, connect with me on any of the platforms listed below. Tell me you have written a review-regardless of the star rating or how you judged it- and I'll gladly send you on some bonus material, and surrounding chapters, that will not be appearing in the books of "The Daygo Stream"

Thank you!

Now to the next book!

### Connect

Please don't hesitate to get in touch, I would love to hear from you and would be glad to answer any questions or reply to any thoughts and enquiries you might have about the series or anything in particular! You can reach me on all the below platforms.

If you would like to subscribe to my mailing list on my website, please do, and I will keep you informed on all things "The Daygo Stream". I promise to only send about 3-4 emails a year. Also if you would have any interest of receiving advance, free reviewer copies of the sequel of "Daygo's Fury", let me know with an email.

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Coming Soon

The sequel to _Daygo's Fury_ , the next book of The Daygo Stream, will be out in 2016. Work is well underway and I expect to release by September 2016.

The Daygo Stream is an epic fantasy of large proportions, so expect to see many more books. Over the course of the next year, I will be updating the website and my other platforms with further snippets and information on the world of Levitashand and its histories, as well as side plot chapters and stories that will not feature in the books, so please connect with me if you want to learn more.

The scope of this series is huge and there are many major players that have yet to be introduced, which is going to be fantastic to develop as I know there are going to be many huge clashes! I believe in organic growth, so wildness will ensue!
Acknowledgements

I would like to sincerely thank my parents for all of their support. And also my Beta readers, who helped inspire me with confidence and offered some great feedback with developmental issues, plot-holes and general issues and feel of the book. My brothers Brian, Eoghan and Conor, my friends Kieran and Mitchel, and Liz.

I also received a great cover design by Carolina Fiandri, Circecorp Design,

A beautiful map by Sebastian Sanchez <https://www.facebook.com/dibujosdesebastian?fref=ts>

And a copy edit and proofread from Kevin @ <http://theprobookeditor.com/>
About the Author

I was born and raised in Ferns, Co. Wexford, Ireland, where I lived until I was seventeen and went to college/uni in Dublin, where I live now. My first love and dream, since I was eleven years old, was to write books and become a writer, but there were no creative writing degrees to speak of in Ireland so I studied Property Economics in DIT. Here I learned first-hand about the drivers of property cycles during the greatest property bust in decades.

Through school and all the way through college, I dabbled in writing, in both first person literary fiction and fantasy. And once college was over, I moved home to my parent's house for a year to make my first attempt at it, which predictably ended in disaster- it seems almost a rite of passage for any writer.

After this I spent some time living in Canada and working in Dublin before I set out my stall and decided to try again. Close to three years later, I bring you _Daygo's Fury_. I hope you enjoyed it!

