Lesser Beings Read online

  CONTENTS

  Hunted

  Ari the Slave

  A Tinkers Life

  Ari and the Golden Man

  A Bad Deal

  Ari’s Challenge

  Little she-Beast

  Into the Woods

  The Fire-haired Maiden

  Yaron’s Burden

  Life in a Keep

  Sticks and Stones

  Katarin

  The Peahen’s Tale

  Night Mare

  Broken Pact

  Worrel’s Return

  Tipple Seeks the Hunter

  Change

  Pretence and Parody

  When the Nightingale Wont Sing

  The Hunter

  Beauty

  Madam Grist’s House of Paint

  The Memory of Maps

  Lesser Beings

  Suitors

  Finding the Key

  The Painted Sisterhood

  When Bailiffs go to Supper

  First Rite

  Higher Stakes

  Cottage in the Mountains

  The Hunter Closes In

  Responsibilities

  Hope

  Striking a Deal

  Farewell

  Small Wonders

  Creature of Terror

  A Change of Fortune

  The Truth

  Lesser Beings

  Ila Mercer

  Acknowledgement

  Lita’s peahen tale is an adaptation of the Japanese folktale about a white crane. It seems humans have always created stories that explore the connection between our species and species we call Beasts. Perhaps our ancestors understood, better than we do, that there are no Lesser Beings. There are just beings, and all are of value.

  Copyright

  Copyright 2018 Ilona Merckenschlager

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  Cover design by Rocio Martin Osuna

  Hunted

  Lita had forgotten to fasten the shutter outside her window, despite the fact MaKiki had repeatedly nagged her to do it, and now there would be trouble because it was too late to fix it. She could already feel the slightest pull, luring her outside, into the night and, through a gap in the curtain, Lita spied the moon. It was round and full, like a lustrous pearl. She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. She was wide awake, and the sly, probing finger of light would not be ignored.

  ‘MaKiki,’ Lita called softly – just once, and then held very still. In the bunk below, her guardian muttered drowsily. Somebody’s name: Annie, Arren? No. But something like it. Then MaKiki rolled over and began to snore.

  Well I tried, Lita told herself. If asked, she could truthfully say she’d tried to rouse MaKiki. Besides, it was stifling in the wagon. A moment or two outside couldn’t hurt, could it?

  Stealithily, Lita slid from her bunk and, when she was halfway down, she peered at MaKiki noting that the older woman’s eyes were wide open. Lita’s first impulse was to scramble back into bed but then she realised the snoring hadn’t faltered and MaKiki was indeed deeply asleep. Warily, she resumed her decent.

  With a mild thud, she landed on the boards and her whole body grew rigid again. She shot an anxious glance at MaKiki, waiting for her to stir but the snoring rhythm never wavered, though her eyes stared straight ahead. It unnerved Lita, and she wondered if she was now appearing in MaKiki’s dreams. Still, she decided to go, and, with furtive care, she crept across the wooden floor, eased the door past its squeak spot and slipped into the cool night air.

  On the top step, she paused. She knew it was foolish to leave the safety of the wagon and that there was no good reason to venture off alone. If she was wise, she would fasten the shutter and crawl back into bed. But the moon… She lifted her gaze. Oh, why did it tempt her? Making her heart ache, making her want to leap and run through the grass. The moon had turned the pasture into a silver ocean and a light breeze ruffled the seed heads into waves. Even without its insistent pull on her body, it would have had the power to ensnare her with the visions it created.

  It was strange, she mused, that moonlight lent such charm to a paddock that had been dreary by day. The moon could make things appear different, while underneath all the trickery of light they stayed, in fact, the same. Even her own mysterious Changing fit this pattern.

  By day no-one could tell Lita was different to other maidens. It was only by night, when bathed in moonlight, those differences came into being. In the beginning it had filled her with shame but on nights such as this, when she was far from mercenary eyes, her difference filled her with wonder. After all, who else could say they had flown above the forest canopy, hung from a tree by their tail, or hidden inside somebody’s pocket? If they could, they would never condemn it. Why, there’d be festivals across Dracodia on a full moon. Folk would admire their neighbour’s fine plumage, a father’s needle-sharp talons, the way a young boy scaled a building using the suction pads on his fingers and toes. And folk would never look at an animal in the same way again. Oh, but it was not like this. Instead it was sneaking and hiding and, worst of all, it was rumoured that the Beast slaves were also creatures of Change. So, a secret it had to be, except of course with MaKiki.

  Though MaKiki accepted Lita’s difference, she did not truly understand it. She had no idea about the temptation and how the moon began an itch deep inside you or how the feeling snuck up on you and then wouldn’t let you go. Even now, Lita’s fingers curled tight against the ladder railing and her fingernails bit the flesh of her palms.

  She let go of the railing and skipped down the hill with no clear plan until rabbits brought her to a scudding stop. At the meadow’s edge a drove of twenty, maybe more, darted through a sea of stalks.

  The Change had started to tingle through her body and she forgot any resolve to return to the wagon. She scanned the field for sign of other folk but MaKiki’s wagon was camped far from any villages or houses. Lita was alone and decided that a Change would be quite safe.

  She threw back her hood and unbuttoned her cloak to speed it along. Cool air drew her budding breasts into puckered points, it flickered over her nascent hairs and stood them all to attention. The light washed over her long, brown limbs and she could feel its power trickle through her body like sand in an hourglass. This was the good part. Pleasant, almost. And then just as she braced herself - whoosh! It was like being swept along on the rapids of a wild river. It took over, and in the way of wild water, altered the land through which it rushed.

  As the Change surged, she fell to the grass. Her ears buzzed, and it felt as though needles picked her apart. ‘A rabbit, a rabbit,’ she repeated through the pain, holding an image of a rabbit foremost in her mind. And then, in an instant, everything was different.

  Though she still thought like a girl, it was as though Lita’s senses had stretched and grown thin. She could almost see the back of her own head and yet everything appeared indistinct, as though the scene had been overlaid with a granular patina.

  Above her, kernels of ripe grain bulged from sheathes, their scent full of the sun, yeast, and brown loam. At ground level, crickets crept between the stalks, rubbing their wings together to create a cacophony of chirrups. And nearby a musky old buck rabbit thumped the earth with his foot. Lita wished she knew what it meant and edged away from him.

  The buck sat on his haunches with nose quivering and ears erect. He growled at her and dropped on all fours: poised, ready to dash through the grass. Though he barely glanced at her again, his body rippled with tension. She mimicked his stance and waited, sensing that something was about to hap
pen. She wondered if her presence had unsettled the herd. She was, after all, a stranger to them and yet they did not run or attack her. When one of the younger does began nibbling some grass, Lita realised she had won the right to stay. The buck, however, twitched his nose and whiskers as if tasting the air. Something out there had unnerved him, and Lita wondered what it could be. Then, from the woods, the answer came as a short sharp yip. The bark of a fox.

  The rabbits all turned to the old buck and, at the same time, a nearby owl hoo-hooed and flapped its wings. The old buck shook his head as if to say, ‘Where are the flesh eaters?’ But the meadow was silent. Too silent. Even the crickets ceased their song. Lita squeezed her eyes tight, willing the moon to set her free but it was no use. MaKiki had often warned her against going out alone, reminding her of the danger. She was right. Lita had very little mastery over the Change and the only course of action was to wait until the moon sank over the horizon because only then could the Change be undone. Frightened now, she wished she had listened to MaKiki.

  A light breeze brought with it a sour, carrion stink. The herd shuffled uneasily, the whites of their eyes glinting as they turned their heads this way and that. Once more, he lifted his head and sniffed. The muscles in Lita’s paws twitched with tension. This was not what she had imagined for herself when she slipped from her bunk. She had told herself that she would bask in the light only for a moment. But, in her heart of hearts, she knew that she could not resist the pull of the Change. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and now she wondered if it might be the last.

  Nearby a stem snapped. The hair on her spine prickled and her nose quivered. She thought she could almost taste the fox. Where was it? Her heart beat too fast and her ears swivelled left and right. And then, with no further warning, the buck bolted, and his herd scattered in every direction, leaving Lita alone. Where were the burrows? She whipped to the right and caught a glint of movement. Was it the fox? Or was it a rabbit? Some deeper instinct moved her feet and she sprang. Stalks lashed her eyes and ripe seeds snagged her pelt and then, with a sickening in the pit of her gut, she sensed the presence of others. Two foxes. Both honing in. They saw difference in the strange rabbit that did not move with the same ease and grace as the others. Yip, yip, they barked as they veered closer, snapping their teeth. Her feet thrashed through the stalks, her body dodging, leaping, trying to confuse the foxes. Up an incline, she dashed, and then under a mat of bracken. She stopped for a moment hearing their snick and snuffle as they nosed through the growth. Were their claws sharp enough to burrow through the tangle? The bracken tremored, and she knew they were crawling over it, trying to find a way in. She could hear the scrabbling click of their claws, their breath fast and excited.

  Ahead, she spied a gap. At the same moment, something pressed against her head. The matting above sagged with the weight of a fox and then she heard it snuffling, burrowing its snout through the brittle stalks. She dashed from her hiding place, finding that she was racing down a tunnelled track. A rabbit run. She wondered if it led to a burrow and then, before she knew it, she was out in the open again, racing across the field.

  A figure leapt in front of her and sped away. Then another, and another, and she realised they were rabbits. They had been safe, crouched in careful silence until she disturbed them and now the foxes bayed to each other, dazzled by the plentitude of prey. The foxes fell off pursuing this one, then that one, and she prayed that in their greed to capture them all, they caught none.

  She raced on until she reached the stream. It was shallow at the edges where large grazers had trampled the reeds and she scrabbled across, careful to keep away from the matted ledge where swift currents surged. The foxes yipped again, their voices retreating in the dark. She crouched low, heart beating hard against her ribs. Oh moon, she prayed, sink fast tonight. At least before the foxes return.

  Ari the Slave

  ‘Gorn then,’ the bare-face snarled as he shoved Ari through the narrow doorway.

  It was fourteen days since Ari had cheerfully set forth from his village, ten days since he was ambushed, and half a morning since his feet were torn from the shores of his land and forced onto the floating cage.

  As Ari teetered on the brink of the stair, his eyes strained into the darkness and his nostrils burned from the paludal stench of flesh and excrement. His fingers found purchase on a rail and at threat of being pushed from behind, he decended the narrow stairs.

  Muttering and groans reached his ears and, in the gloom below, he could see the faintest outline of bodies. The tip of his captor’s kill-stick pressed the flesh between his shoulders when he paused.

  ‘Move it,’ the bare-face threatened.

  Ari landed on a pair of legs and the body to whom they were attached barely stirred. ‘Sorry,’ Ari said and picked a path through the outstretched limbs of his fellow prisoners. Several times he was snarled at, until the bare-face shouted at the prisoners to shut their hairy gobs.

  At first it was hard to see much but once his eyes adjusted, Ari saw men stretched out on shelves of rough-hewn planks, packed together so tightly there was little room to roll and no room at all for sitting. On the floors between the shelves more men crouched or lay listlessly. All of them wore fetters about their ankles and several wore them on their wrists as well.

  It was too close: the planks above, the bodies, the air. Never had Ari been in such a confined space and for a moment the panic that had started in his gut threatened to erupt through from his throat. He bit the inside of his cheeks to stop the escape of any noise and clenched his fists. He did not want to appear weak in front of the others.

  The bare-face steered Ari toward a stack of shelves filled with boys and men ranging in age from first whiskers to those with sleek silver beards. Many of the captives, it seemed, had not been able to shuffle to the rancid urn in the corner and dark stains soiled the boards while pools of yellow nudged the ribs of the vessel.

  A pair of fetters were locked onto Ari’s legs and then his captor left.

  Ari scrambled into his alotted shelf, noting that he shared it with a small, thin boy who faced the wall. At first Ari could not tell whether the boy was dead or alive but then noted the slight rise and fall of his ribs when he breathed. The boy brought Ari’s nephews to mind, two rough and tumble boys as fleshy as grubs. What if it was them, lying here in their own filth? Ari put a hand to the boy’s back, noting that his flesh burned with fever.

  ‘Boy,’ he said in the tongue of his people, ‘when was the last time you took water?’ The boy did not answer. Gently, Ari shook his shoulder, but the boy did not move.

  Calling to no-one in particular Ari said, ‘Who knows how long this boy has been sick?’

  Above him, a rattling voice answered, ‘You are Ertu?’

  ‘Yes, and you?’Ari replied.

  ‘Bemani. I know little Ertu. Many here Bemani, others Du. Boy is Bemani. Boy sick long time, maybe he dead soon.’

  As a youngster, Ari had picked up languages quickly and this was why he was the best trader amongst his people. For a year, he had even learned Drac when a bare-faced physician, who’d deserted his ship, found his way to Ertu shores. Knowing Drac had been handy in the last ten days. Since his capture, Ari had overheard snipets of crucial information exchanged between his captors. They spoke freely, confident in the slaves’ ignorance. Unlike his fellow prisoners, Ari learned they were not to be eaten – as he had heard others whisper - but used instead to tunnel Dracodia’s mines. He knew their journey across the sea would take forty days or so and that the port for which they were bound was Yawmouth. He had also heard terrible tales, including one about a traitor slave who warned his Drac captors of a planned uprising. If the traitor had hoped to gain favour with his captors, it did him no good. He did not survive after his countrymen tore out his tongue.

  Because of this tale, Ari had decided not to reveal his fluency in Drac – thinking it might cause suspicion amongst his fellow prisoners.

  Now that he knew
the boy was Bemani, he addressed him in his native tongue, ‘Boy, can you hear me?’

  The boy groaned.

  ‘I’ll get you water and see if you can go up on deck for air.’

  It was no easy task to climb from his shelf now that Ari was locked in fetters and when he landed it was almost impossible to shuffle through the tangle of legs and arms and torsos. Every time he scraped a body with his irons, he was rebuked with a strike or a curse. When he stumbled over another who cursed in the Ertu tongue, he halted. For the first time since his capture, happiness flared in his heart. ‘Brother,’ he said in Ertu, ‘where are you from?’

  The other raised his eyes, and a smile broke across his face. ‘Kinga. And you?’ The Ertu man who addressed Ari wore bloody sores on his ankles where fetters had rubbed his skin raw and his arms and face were dotted with angry, raised lumps.

  ‘From Fava. How long have you been on board?’

  ‘Twenty days, maybe more. I see you go to the mines,’ he added, directing his gaze to Ari’s right hand.

  ‘How do you know?’ Ari asked, rubbing the not quite healed branding scar just below his wrist.

  ‘By the brand you bear. I’m for the fields,’ he said holding up his scab.

  ‘How were you taken?’

  ‘Du warriors ambushed us on our way to the Summer Meet. They took our women for themselves and sold off the boys and men to a bare-face. From there, we marched along the Tiva River for thirty days until we were split up. Three of us were put on this vessel, the rest were taken by another bare-face.’

  ‘And what happened to the others?’

  ‘Killed when they tried to get away. What of your story, brother?’

  Ari’s skin prickled with the memory of it. ‘A tale like yours – except I was travelling alone.’ The memory brought back sudden shame, that he’d been tricked so easily by the Du traders. Glancing back at the boy on the shelf he said, ‘I’ll come by later, after I fetch clean water for the sick boy who lies beside me.’