Nightpeople

Solid.

The mother was young, no more than sixteen or seventeen, and the birth difficult. As the sun slunk into the horizon and desert night fell across the dusty shacks of Woormra, her cries echoed through the tin-lined streets. It had been so many years since the last birthing that there were few who could remember the rituals: the boiling of water, the tearing of rags. Dreamer Wanji, summoned by the poor girl’s screams, hurried towards the hut.

The hut was like all the others, iron and tin scrounged from times before, propped and held together with whatever was available. Ducking his head through the low mantle of the empty doorway, he paused. In the centre of the room a fire flickered in a stone ring, throwing ghostly spirit-shadows on iron walls. The girl huddled, distended and sweaty, on an old blanket spread on the dirt floor, two women attending her in her agony.

‘How is she?’

One woman shrugged. ‘We don’t know. We’ve never had to do this.’

‘Will she survive?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And the baby?’

The woman’s expression told him all he needed to know. Dreamer Wanji left the smoky confines and stepped again into the twilight. Beyond the town the sands of the desert glowed primal red, as they did every night, lit from afar by the reflected light of sunset.

‘Dariand!’

A young man, not much older than the girl, stepped from between two huts across the way.

‘Yes, Dreamer?’

‘Build the fire.’

Without another word, Dariand disappeared back into the shadows.

The girl’s screams were coming closer together now and her breathing grew fast and shallow. Dreamer Wanji re-entered the hut and crouched beside her, even that simple movement difficult with his stiffening limbs.

‘Jani.’

Through tear-stained eyes, the girl turned her gaze to him.

‘Be strong now. You know what this means.’

‘Yes, Dreamer.’

Another contraction wracked her body and she grabbed his hand. The strength of her grip shocked the old man, but he said nothing until the spasm eased.

‘Dreamer?’

‘Yes, Jani?’

‘Will they come?’

‘They always do.’

‘Will there be a fire?’

‘Yes.’

The girl flopped back onto the filthy blanket and turned her head away.

‘Go now, Dreamer.’ One of the women took his shoulder and eased the old man gently to his feet. ‘This is no place for men. Go and summon the council.’

‘You must call me when it is done. We will not have time to waste.’

‘I will come immediately.’

Satisfied, Dreamer Wanji nodded and left. Already Dariand had built a large pile of precious wood, twigs and logs in the dirt clearing.

‘It seems such a waste.’

‘It is necessary.’

‘But wood?’

‘It is the only thing that will burn with enough heat. Dung burns too cold.’

‘I know, Dreamer.’

The two men stood, silent and watchful, as the countless lights of the vault started to appear in the skies. There was the Gatherer, the Listener, the Watercourse.

‘Is this a good night, Dreamer?’

The old man didn’t answer immediately, but pointed to a cluster on the daywards horizon.

‘Do you see that group?’

‘Where?’

‘Above and nightwards of the treeline, below and daywards of the Traveller.’

Dariand followed the old man’s directions, squinting to distinguish the clusters from one another. Finally he saw them: three bright vaultlights arranged in a long triangle.

‘What are they, Dreamer?’

‘They are new.’

‘New?’

‘Or perhaps old. Very old. Though I have never noticed them before. So for us, and for tonight, they are new.’

The two stood studying the three gleaming pinpricks of light. In the hut behind them the girl moaned through another set of contractions.

‘They will be called The Child.’

Dariand nodded his agreement.

‘Let us hope they will be good lights for this one.’ The girl’s cries climbed a slow crescendo to a new level. ‘You should go and get the stones.’

‘I have them already.’ The younger man produced two flat grey rocks from within the folds of his top.

‘And the bundle?’

‘Already in the hut.’

‘Then light the fire. I do not think we will have long to wait.’

Sparks flew when Dariand hit the stones against one another. These he directed into a small clump of dried desert weed. As the tiny flickers took hold and the larger twigs began to burn, he crouched low and blew, fanning the growing flames with gentle breaths.

‘There.’

The fire grew with alarming rapidity. From the surrounding huts, the other inhabitants of Woormra emerged into the night, drawn by the warmth and power of the pyre. None spoke, but all stood in a silent ring and listened as the hiss and crackle of the flames blended with the birth agonies of the girl.

Suddenly, one of the sounds ceased abruptly and Dreamer Wanji nodded to Dariand, who threw more logs into the inferno, driving the flames higher until they cast spitting, sparking tongues of light into the air, the red flickers scorching the night vault.

One of the women emerged from the hut and angled across the dirt street towards Dreamer Wanji and Dariand.

‘Yes,’ was all she said.

Without another word, the two men followed her back into the hut. A new sound had started to emanate from the dark doorway: not the agonised throes of a birthing but the high-pitched wail of a newborn. At the sound, several of those standing by the fire dropped their gazes to the sandy ground. Someone began to weep quietly. No one smiled.

The air inside was heavy with the smell of sweat, smoke and blood. On the blanket lay an exhausted Jani, a ragged bundle clutched to her breast. The dancing light from the small fire lent a warm glow to the scene. Gently the old Dreamer knelt beside the new mother.

‘What is it?’

Jani smiled. ‘A girl.’

‘Is she …’ There was no need for the old man to complete the question.

‘Yes. Perfect.’

And for the first time that night, Dreamer Wanji allowed the faintest hint of a smile to creep to the corners of his eyes.

‘I am proud of you, Jani.’

‘Thank you, Dreamer.’

‘You know what has to happen now?’

The girl nodded. The old man placed a tired hand on her shoulder.

‘Then look your last, because we do not have much time.’

The girl looked deep into the eyes of the baby in her arms, then lifted her gaze briefly to stare out through the door to where the flames of the bonfire could be seen roaring in the street outside, and then dropped her gaze again to the child. One finger traced gently around the small, blotchy face, brushing over tiny features half her own, then she bent and whispered the baby’s name into its ear before surrendering it to the waiting arms of Dreamer Wanji.

Outside, the night was torn apart by the leaping pyre. When the old man emerged with a tiny bundle clutched to his chest, all eyes turned to him. He shook his head sadly.

‘A girl, stillborn.’

A wail started and was quickly taken up until the keening of the townspeople blended with the hollow snarl of the fire to form a new sound which echoed around the tin shacks until it seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth. The old man stepped forward, moving as near as he dared to the flames, and when the searing barrier of heat prevented him coming any closer, he raised the bundle high above his head, paused, then hurled it into the inferno.

Slowly, the keening died, Dreamer Wanji stepped back, and the people of Woormra stood and kept vigil over the slow death of the fire. It was not halfway to extinction when the entire clearing was bathed in harsh white light, accompanied by a pervasive high-pitched hum. Suddenly the air was filled with movement, gleaming shadows darting behind dazzling nightsuns.

The townspeople, afraid, backed away from the embers and huddled as if the shared mass of their bodies would shield them from the shapes that slid slowly to the ground. Dreamer Wanji stepped alone to the front of the group and stood beside the doorway of the birthhouse.

In the light from the nightsuns the glow of the flames was washed into pale nothingness, and as the last of the hummers settled onto the dirt their noise dropped until it was little more than a background murmur, deep and soft, which the people felt through the soles of their bare feet rather than heard.

From out of the glare, a figure stepped forward and only Dreamer Wanji did not cower away from it.

‘Where is it?’

The voice was tinny, the language stilted. Nightpeople always sounded like that.

‘There.’ Dreamer Wanji pointed to the embers.

‘It was dead?’

As the figure moved, the light reflected shimmering colours off its silver skin.

‘Stillborn.’

‘And you burnt it?’

The Nightperson stepped closer to Dreamer Wanji, so close that the dark, opalescent smoothness of its face reflected clearly the fear written in the old man’s expression.

‘It was … impure.’

It was hard to be certain, but the creature seemed to sigh.

‘And so it was destroyed?’

Fear coursed through the old man’s limbs, running like water into his bowels and bladder, but he forced himself to stand as straight as he could and return the stare.

‘It is our way.’

‘We know.’ The Nightperson shook its head slowly. ‘We know. Where is the mother?’

‘In there.’

Dreamer Wanji nodded at the hut and the figure waved a gloved hand. Two more Nightpeople slid from behind the glare of the nightsuns and entered the hut, emerging a minute or two later with the prone figure of Jani suspended between them, her feet dragging lifelessly and leaving two shallow ruts in the red dirt.

‘Dreamer Wanji?’

It might have been his imagination, but Dreamer Wanji thought he heard something odd, vaguely feminine, in the tinny voice.

‘Yeah?’

‘We will be watching.’

The Nightperson slid back into its corona of light and the hummers lifted into the air. They hung suspended above Woormra, illuminating the squalid township in cold, unforgiving luminosity, and then as one they slid away nightwards.

‘Dreamer?’ someone asked hesitantly.

The old man turned to face his neighbours.

‘It is done.’

Some way outside the town, crouched low beneath a large clump of desert weed, Dariand watched the nightsuns fade into the horizon. He waited for several minutes before standing and lifting the tiny baby, swathed now in warm skins, gently from the ground beside him. The child gurgled as if to cry, but she was tired from the ordeal of her birth and quickly fell back into newborn sleep. Around him, Dariand was aware of the familiar sounds of the night desert, the click of insects.

He settled the baby girl into a soft sling made from roo-hide, slung it around his neck, and, humming to himself, he set off daywards, using the new vault cluster of the Child as his guide and leaving the dull glow of Woormra directly behind.

The shadows of late afternoon stretched long across the rocky outcrops of the valley. Already the far rim, the nightside, was in near darkness, while the dayside ridge, catching the evening rays, glowed brightly. Down by the creek, crouched between two eucalypts, Saria found the lizard.

It lay still in the lee of a cooling boulder, almost invisible in the deepening gloom. At this time of day, caught in the shadows, it was indolent and lazy, preparing to curl up in a rock hollow for the night. Saria sighed. She had been hoping to find a snake, or, even better, a warmblood, a roo or a rock-hopper. They were always more interesting, more active, but now even they were becoming rare, so the lizard would have to do.

Gently she eased to the ground, stretching to lie full length, her eyes locked always on those of the tiny reptile. The warmth of the earth, baked all day in the glare of the sun, flowed up through her thin tunic and into the bare skin of her legs and arms. The lizard stayed still and unworried and she wriggled forward slowly until she was poised just a few inches from its blunt snout.

This close she could see clearly the patterns in its scaled face, the dark, limpid pools of its eyes, the black bush ticks clinging to its neck. Saria let herself fill with earthwarmth, feeling it start to flow through her body, making her fingertips tingle and her breathing slow and deepen.

And when the energy was flowing fast and strong, Saria closed her eyes and ‘reached’.

It was hard to find. Coldbloods always were. Gently, not wanting to risk alarming the animal’s primal instincts, Saria pushed her mind slowly out, probing into the consciousness of the lethargic reptile, searching out that vague, life spark deep inside. It took some time before she realised it was right there in front of her. Lizards could be like that. Once she found it, though, it was a simple matter to stretch her mind just a little further and meld it with that tiny glowing consciousness. As she did so, Saria felt her own mind slip away and the warm energy flowing through her body become strangely remote.

Total stillness, reptilian patience. Now she was one with the lizard, its senses her senses, and finally Saria could feel the world properly, the earth around them. Riding on the lizard’s consciousness like this, she could ‘see’ herself lying there, motionless, but her touch against the reptile’s mind was so natural, so driven by earthwarmth, that her own body through the lizard’s senses seemed as normal as the rocks and trees.

The creek was so close that its gentle gurgle filled her thoughts, a constant tremor through the living dust. The lizard’s more sensitive nerves felt the growing shadows of twilight as physical fingers of cold creeping across the blood-warming land. Saria sighed and dropped in deeper.

Saria!

The call came through the earth, from somewhere far outside the valley. A tingling warmth shivered though her in a single instant, beckoning, summoning, pleading with her, so strong that her first impulse was to jump up immediately and follow it out of the valley, out into the unknown.

The shock made her gasp and the lizard, sensing the momentary relaxation of her grip on its mind, tried to drive her out. The tingling warmth of the call faded and Saria tried desperately to reach deeper again.

But the lizard was aware of her now, the peaceful hypnotism of the connection broken and replaced with something different, something more painful, as Saria pushed her mind down harder into the lizard’s simple consciousness.

Where was it? She had to find it again!

But the call was gone. Instead something else leapt across the link between them. Somewhere far off, detected only in the deepest, most private parts of the lizard’s mind, a slow, malevolent burning echoed from deep within the ground; a fear that sent waves of black energy out through the earth.

The lizard was so cold now, so tired, that she caught only the briefest tickle of the burning before she had to rise again, into the higher levels, the more local ones. As she ceased probing, the animal relaxed again and Saria allowed herself to briefly enjoy the slow lethargy of the cooling animal, feeling the gentle, peaceful creep of darkness across from the nightwards horizon, enjoying the security of knowing that tomorrow would be another day just like today, with the same dangers, the same needs, and the same pleasures.

When it came, the jolt that screamed through the lizard’s senses hit with shocking force. There was something close by.

Then the startled creature whirled and was gone, slipping into the bushes that lined the creek, expending its last energy for the day in startled flight. Saria let it go.

She stood up, puzzled and slightly nauseated from contact so violently severed, brushing dust from the front of her tattered robe and looking carefully around. Only something big, powerful and dangerous could have intruded so clearly and rapidly into the lizard’s awareness.

Saria knew everything there was to know about the valley, knew every boulder, every precious tree, every hidden hunting path and hollow. She knew the place like no one else, not even Ma Lee. She knew it as it was known to the animals, the rock-hoppers and lizards, the snakes and birds. Once she’d even managed to reach into one of the wild dogs that lived on the nightside ridge, but its mind was too frightening, too primal, vicious and intelligent. The dog had fought her, knowing what she was doing and resisting all the way. All she’d felt from the dog was that distant, malevolent burning. She’d never tried that again.

But the lizard today had been different. That bolt of clarity, that sickening awareness just before it ran, suggested something either very close indeed or further off and very large. Even bigger than the dogs, and very dangerous. And that call – that first, initial tremulous summoning …

It was almost dark now. She’d sunk into the lizard’s mind for much longer than she’d intended and Ma Lee would be furious, but she stood quietly, listening, straining for the slightest hint of something out of place. Everything seemed normal though. The creek trickled, a couple of insects ticked across its surface, and somewhere upstream a frog murped gently in the gloom; other than that not even a breath of wind stirred the trees. Whatever had startled the lizard, Saria couldn’t locate it with only her own senses.

Thinking how useless it was to be a human, Saria finally gave up and bolted for the hut.

She knew she was in trouble. It was so late that Ma would have lit the fire herself, and that would mean a whack and possibly no food. It all depended on just how grumpy the old woman was feeling. There was no point in worrying about it now.

The hut squatted in a clearing a little way from the creek, and she fled through the growing darkness, sure-footed across the rough and uneven ground, stopping in the deep shadows where she could see the hut and the small garden behind it. The flickering glow inside told her that the fire was well and truly lit. It was too quiet, though. Ma wasn’t hollering for her or cursing as she would normally be by now.

Saria’s nose crinkled as a smell floated through the still air. A spicy, dark, foreign smell. Meat. Roasting meat. What was Ma doing over there?

Cautious, Saria slipped back behind the tree line and skirted the clearing in shadows until she could see the front of the hut. Nothing seemed out of place; the gardening tools were propped by the door where they belonged; the dung pile crouched a little way off, its festering, sweet pong attracting insects away from the hut. All seemed normal.

Except the smell. The roasting. It drifted though the night air with a richness and promise that Saria instinctively distrusted. She closed her eyes for a moment.

There were voices; not one, but two. Not the usual mutterings of Ma Lee as she bumbled about talking to herself, but the low murmer of voices in conversation. It wasn’t right. Old Dreamer Gaardi, who lived alone far up on the daywards ridge, would never come down into the valley in darkness. Saria slid onto her belly and crept across the furrows of dirt towards the hut.

The unaccustomed smell of meat toyed with her nose. The thickness of it almost made her gag, bile rising in the back of her throat, nausea sliding into her in long, heavy waves. Still, she pushed herself carefully over the warm ground, knowing that the old woman inside would be listening for the slightest sound, the merest snap of a twig to tell her that Saria was nearby.

Halfway between the tree line and the open door her foot gently scraped two red stones against each other and in seconds the flickering glow of the doorway was filled with Ma’s skinny presence.

‘Saria! Where you at, girl?’

Saria froze, sinking into the dark with the stillness of a rock. She knew that the old woman hadn’t spotted her, otherwise she’d have been on her immediately, dragging her into the hut. She was probably night-blind from sitting by the fire.

‘Did you hear her?’

The speaker was a man, but his voice was strong, deep, laden with the same dark heaviness as the smell of roasting meat. The timbre of it seemed to slither into the ground and Saria made herself even more still, like the lizard, in case this man was as aware of her vibrations as she was of his. Ma Lee ignored his question.

‘GIRL! Get in here.’

The old woman’s shout echoed off the trees, but no sound answered her other than the stutter of the creek, until the man spoke again.

‘No matter. Come back and sit. She’ll turn up soon.’

Casting a final glare into the darkness, Ma Lee retreated.

Saria breathed a quiet sigh. Whatever happened she was in trouble now. She crept forward again until she was crouching below one of the hut’s narrow windows. Ma had not yet put up the shutters, so a little light escaped, throwing a long, dancing red shadow onto the ground. It cast trembling undulations of darkness off tiny ridges in the dirt. The meat smell was distracting and Saria worked to shut out the pressing queasiness it brought with it. The conversation inside carried clearly.

‘It’s bad, Ma. The council is still Dreamer Wanji’s but only just. There are movements afoot.’

‘But the girl isn’t …’

‘Shhh. We won’t speak of her yet.’

‘Have there been any more?’

‘None. Not in thirteen seasons.’

‘She is the only one, then?’

‘So it would appear.’

‘And Dreamer Wanji?’

The man sighed. ‘He grows old.’

Ma snorted. ‘He was old long ago.’

‘True, Ma. But lately there is a weariness about him I haven’t seen before.’

‘I know. Dreamer Gaardi says the same thing.’

For a while neither spoke and Saria wondered if perhaps they’d fallen asleep, until the man’s voice broke the silence.

‘It seems strange to be back here. After so long, nothing has changed.’

‘Things have changed, Dariand. They always do.’

‘You haven’t, Ma.’

The old woman laughed a guttural chuckle that Saria rarely heard.

‘You’d be surprised. Motherhood is all about change.’

‘You will miss it?’

‘Perhaps. But I’m an old woman now.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Stay here. Wait to die. Like all of us.’

‘We’re not going to die, Ma.’

‘So you tell me.’

‘The girl is proof.’

‘Dariand …’ There was unusual gentleness in Ma’s tone. Saria had never heard her talk this way before. ‘Don’t talk to me of hope. The Darkedge is still there, it will always be there. The Nightpeople still fly and our Dreamers get older and older.’

‘But Saria …’

‘The girl is an aberration. You know that as well as I do.’

‘Dreamer Wanji says …’

‘Dreamer Wanji is an old man who was lying to himself and council when he sent her to me. He has as little hope as the rest of us.’

Again there was silence. Now when the man spoke it was more hesitant, more thoughtful.

‘There are those who believe now is the time to bargain.’

‘With the Nightpeople?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’ll do no good. She’s not enough.’

‘We will see.’

‘Dariand?’

‘Ma?’

‘Don’t do it to her. She can live here in safety and peace. Tell them she’d gone, or you couldn’t find us, or tell them – I don’t know, anything.’

‘I can’t, Ma. You know that. Dreamer Wanji needs her.’

‘She’s still a child.’

‘She’s …’

Saria sneezed. The noise exploded from her, violent, unexpected, uncontrolled. The smell of the meat had worked its way deep into her nose and head and, engrossed as she was in the conversation, the buzzing tingle had gone too long unnoticed.

In seconds Ma Lee was outside, dragging Saria to her feet.

‘Listening from the dark, were you, girl? Like a night spirit? I’ll teach you to pry into business that’s not your own.’

Inside, the foggy smell of the cooking was so close that Saria retched onto the dirt floor This earned her a stinging slap.

‘Now look! You couldn’t do that outside? How long have you been listening out there?’

Saria stared sullenly into Ma’s blotchy, skinny face. The old woman’s slitted eyes seemed more wrinkled with anger than usual. Even though she appeared thin and weak, she could still pack a wallop, as Saria knew from experience. Ma’s fingers gripped deep into the soft flesh at the top of Saria’s arms.

‘Tell me, girl! How long?’

Saria shrugged. Ma Lee shook her roughly.

‘Tell me, or you’ll get a worse thrashing than you’re already in for.’

‘Not long.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Nothing.’

The old woman delivered another whack.

‘That’ll do, Ma.’

For the first time Saria looked at the man, who had risen from his place by the fire. She gasped. He was the largest creature, human or animal, that she had ever seen. He had to duck so as not to hit his head on the roof.

‘Let her go.’

‘Stay out of this, Dariand. She needs to learn respect.’

‘Ma.’ The man’s stare hardened. ‘Let her go.’

The man held the old woman’s gaze until, grudgingly, she released Saria. The girl resisted the urge to rub her arm, on which Ma Lee’s finger marks showed clearly in the firelight. Instead, taking a small step away from the old woman, Saria took a proper look at the man.

The strangest thing was his clothing. He wore a long, loose robe, grubby and stained, stitched together from heavy cloth unlike any Saria had ever seen. From a belt hung a water-skin and several other objects Saria didn’t recognise. Around his feet were small bags of thick animal hide, lashed tightly at his ankles.

‘What are those?’

The man smiled and the look reminded Saria of the glittering expression of the wild dogs. She stepped back.

‘Shoes. They protect my feet.’

‘What are they made of?’

‘Animal skins.’

She edged slowly towards the door while he spoke, but Ma Lee, knowing full well what would happen if Saria got within bolting distance, manoeuvred herself between the girl and her only escape, delivering a not-too-gentle shove in the middle of her back.

‘Would you like something to eat?’

The man gestured at a pile of burnt meat on a bark plate by the fire. At the thought, her stomach heaved.

‘She won’t eat meat. Don’t waste your time.’

‘Saria, come and sit. I won’t hurt you.’

The girl shook her head, but was shoved forward again.

‘Do as you’re told, girl.’

Coming only as close as she had to, Saria sank to the ground.

‘My name is Dariand.’ The man also sat, arranging his robe around him. ‘I don’t imagine you remember me.’

Saria was puzzled. She’d never met anyone other than Ma and Dreamer Gaardi. She’d heard Ma speak of other people, of course, but they lived outside the sheltering walls of the valley, in a world which for Saria was as remote as the vaultlights.

‘No.’ She tried to make her voice strong, but it came out tentative.

‘I didn’t think you would.’ His smile was disturbingly confident. ‘I knew you when you were very little, but only for a few days.’

Saria studied him, not answering. She didn’t trust the way he smiled, the way he spoke; his accent was strange and his black hair long and lank and greasy. As she watched, he picked up a shank of meat, tearing at the greasy flesh with his teeth. A dribble ofjuice ran across his lips and down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a slick, shiny smear across his cheek.

‘It was long ago. When I was much younger.’

Saria thought the man looked young now, certainly compared with Ma Lee and Dreamer Gaardi. She said nothing, though, simply watched as he continued to eat. Finally he put the bone aside and took a long swig from his water-skin before sitting back and studying her again.

‘I never thought I’d see anything like her, Ma.’

A grumbled ‘hmph’ was all the reply he drew from the old woman, who had now also settled herself by the fire, being careful to stay between Saria and the doorway. For a long time no one spoke, while the man appraised Saria.

‘She looks well.’

‘She should. She gets the best of the garden and spends all her time running around doing nothing.’

Saria would have protested that she did as much as