Languid and complacent, as if the warm night had given birth to him and the specters around him were his nurses and playthings, the Muradoc lay upon a long throne. Though a male, he was pretty, like a willow changing to autumn, slender and golden, clothed in a red mantle, of sinuous soft movements and a countenance as indifferent and delicate as a star. His eyes were completely white and his skin was an epic scroll of tattoos, lightly pulsing as if alive. Behind him, in imitation of the earliest dawn, hung a thick-woven curtain sewn with discs of hammered gold, like little suns, and geometric shapes in silver and copper, small stars that caught the spare light and glinted.
Gulxán’s escorts roisterously shoved him forward and he shuffled close to the god, placing his rock to the earth. “Well, master, how do you enjoy the bracing life of the outdoors?”
Dagahlas slid up in his throne. “It suits me.”
“Ithládhis was too cloistering for you.”
“Indeed. But why have you have been avoiding your master. Tell me why.”
“Perish any such a thought. No, no, your energies are too rich and filling. They overcome me. But since you have blessed me with this invitation…?”
“You invoke practicalities.”
“Someone must.”
“It is your duty. What practicalities are those?”
Gulxán did not mention that it was Dagahlas that had summon him and mentioned, “I was only going to say: your people have practically no water.”
“But we come to your lake on the morrow. You see, the spirits provide for each of our needs.”
He chuckled and sighed, the voices of irony and poignancy, and imagined a myth that men of future days would tell of the god who died of thirst in the desert. The mœgla suspected that his character would be the comic relief.
“Then further practicalities, master: During the final crossing from Vdǽnu-Náhd…”
“Yes, pray, expand on that.”
Gulxán expanded, “The mammoth herds were roped together and when one tumbled down, they all took the plunge.”
“A pity for animal husbandry.”
“Then the Bone-Fortress is wrecked, too.”
“A perfectly fine piece of machinery wasted. But that followed an earthquake. That was a sign from Bear against the faint-hearted. The Strong One could smell weakness among us.”
“We do still have the láxudun, but they less effective in assault.” Gulxán spoke of the smaller versions of the battle-machine, waddling models of bone, cord, and skins, good for bearing light loads, that scratched around their camp like great fowls.
“The Murdágua will not be burdened. The spirit realm and the flesh realm have come together for glory and power. These are the intended destinies of both. The old world has given birth to herself. The earth is a cosmic seed that finally is breaking open and sending its shoot to the light.” Gulxán saw no connection between their losses and these nostrums and waited for him to abandon the topic like a boring toy. “With dawn we go down to the Lake and will meet your people. What a dramatic role your old tribe will have in this sacred play. And the loss you spoke of will not alter our invasion of the desert. We have the xathúthasun. They overcame the Black God, did they not?”
“Your shock troops have lost some of their voltage, master. Also, their numbers are a good deal fewer.”
“Another earthquake, then. That would frighten your fishermen.”
“A peaceful invasion might endear you more. Glass beads work wonders.”
“But we would miss the din of battle.”
“The winners usually do.”
“How often did your Black God make combat?”
“As often as the help was hungry.”
“He loved battle.”
“He loved killing.”
“But you remained with him.”
“Ours was a sick, sick relationship.”
“Dagahlas will heal you.” His demeanor changed slightly and he sighed. “The spirits are everywhere. They cram all my senses. Through them I see everything. Sensations dump on to my brain, like gold dust.”
“A nice simile.”
“But I see so much, ghost. I know, you hate to hear yourself called a ghost. If you died as a mœgla would you then become a ghost?”
“The benefit of passing from bodily existence is that one need not do it again.”
“The soul cannot die?”
“Might we, master, broach the purpose of your summons?”
“Yes. I thought that we had gone through all our booty from the Black God. But you neglected to detail this.” The Muradoc motioned and from behind his divan a tall basket like a coarse cocoon of human hair levitated into their presence and a second gesture brought it to rest upright in front of the phantom. With a soft thud it struck the floor, dumping out scores of small tavanávas that filled the air in a gnatty cloud. They bounced about orienting themselves to this dimension before assembling in a protective cluster like young invertebrates between the Muradoc and the mœgla.
Gulxán gave no sign. These were the tavanávis slaves of the Black God, his spies, tethers, and informers, responsible for enacting the sorcery that he had bound to Gulxán’s person. As tavanávas they could to dwell both independently and in small portions of the tattoos that Thula had made in his spirit skin, all over his back, and on his arms and face, so that the Black God had recourse to what the mœgla saw, smelled, and heard. Centuries before, Gulxán had broached communication with them and discovered in them hostility towards and fear of Thula, but now with a fresh, immature deity at their necks, resentment and contempt. He eyed them before turning his attentions back to Dagahlas.
The Muradoc said, “They were explaining to me their service to the Dead God.”
“The Black God,” Gulxán said.
“One spirit bemoaned that it has want of a vocation.” The Muradoc nodded and a single tavanávis flew at Gulxán, stopping before his face. Its attempt at a physical form was a distortion, and on what a mortal mind might consider its brow, large fingertips had smeared blood, more visible than the being itself, and these traces glowed.
“Who is Barac?” Dagahlas asked.
Gulxán repeated, “Who is Barac?”
The mœgla’s escort shoved him. “Answer the nice man…”
“It’s a common name,” the mœgla said.
“There was once a boy Barac whom I sent to hunt down the Crippled God. But this sprite says that it is still bound to a living man named Barac. Who is he?”
“In a nice bit of parallelism, master, do you know that the Black God used to ask, who was the Muradoc?”
“Just as I ask, who is Barac?”
“I have no idea where he is.” He imitated his drawl, “’E’s lawng gawn.’”
“Not ‘where.’ ‘Who?’”
“He was the master’s lieutenant.”
“Whose?”
“The Black God’s lieutenant.”
“There, not difficult at all. He now may become my lieutenant. But you say you do know where he is?”
“I do not know where he is at.”
“That is the purpose of this faithful tavanávis. I am sending it after this long-lost Barac, to find him and bring him to me. So, my Gulxán, show it on its way.”
The spirit skimmed away to the entrance and escaped the tent without him.
Gulxán indicated his sizable weights.
“The zeal of my strongmen is admirable but excessive. I release you from your bonds.” Dagahlas motioned and the ropes fell around his feet, but then he laughed. “But you never will escape. All the tavanávas are either my slaves or my friends, and what is the end of every creature but to dwell among the spirits?”
The phantom made an obligatory obeisance and, sauntering by his tormentors, their spirit flesh brushing against his and transmitting their ire, he departed and sped out of range of his master’s clairvoyance to find the messenger bound to Barac.
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