Chapter I

  History

  The cicadas were quieter that night— not silent, but quieter. Their chirping had softened from a resounding roar to a low rumble. The relative still was appreciated by the simple herdsmen of those eastern isles called Bangye-Rua. Bangye-Rua itself is an interesting word, since it can apply variously to the archipelago of islands to the east of the continent of Remex, and to any of the singular isles within. You might say, then, that Bangye-Rua was nestled into itself.

  All the islanders were relieved that night— the festival had at last come and gone.

  Each year, the festival was held on the first day of the great rains of the wet season, but this year’s dry season had been especially long. The last week had been a cycle of preparing and rescheduling, preparing and rescheduling, waiting for the first dark clouds to appear.

  This festival was known as the Dance of Death. Not until the first great rain came could it begin. Many Islanders would begin setting up one day, sure that the rain would fall tomorrow, only to find yet more warm winds and dry air, and take down their tents in disappointment. Today had been different. The dark clouds had come at last, and the fields were buoyed by the torrent.

  Even now, two hours after the holiday had finished, the rain fell and fell. In a house near the southern point of the island, Cione was laying her son, Vito, down to bed in a house of speckled white plaster. The boy was seventeen by the three-hundred-day Remexian calendar— two years away from adulthood by the common reckoning, and five years too old for his mother’s comfort by his. She tucked him in all the same.

  “Hey kiddo, you have your examination of knowledge on history tomorrow, let’s review a bit tonight, okay? Tomorrow’s your birthday, you won’t want to do it then.” She smiled down at him resting underneath his salmon quilt. She didn’t have an infectious smile, but a sturdy one. A smile which didn’t balk, but didn’t presume to ask any reaction of a person either.

  “Can’t believe I have an examination on my birthday…” said Vito with a sigh.

  His mother chuckled. “Well, that’s how it is. You’re the one who wanted to enroll, anyway. I didn’t go to school— you wanna skip tomorrow, that’s fine with me. I need someone to take my candles to market anyway, and Inigo’s sick.”

  Vito shook his head. “No. I’ll go.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Vito knew that she really did want him to go to school, even if she didn’t understand why study drew his interest so.

  His mother left his bedroom and went away. Vito looked up, out the window above his bed, at the rain falling on the pane. His father had made this windowpane with glass he had melted and formed himself. There were ripples in it, places where it was thicker and thinner, and the rain sometimes caught briefly in these places, trapped within the imperfections.

  His mother returned with his school history book. She opened it.

  “So, what do you want to go over first?” She shifted her body so her torso faced Vito. She opened the book and carefully turned it in her hands, showing him the index:

  THE WORLD

  Alakon

  Remex

  Bangye-Rua

  Serrai-Rua

  The Inner Isles

  The Endless Isles

  THE SPIRITS

  Common spirits

  Man’a

  Ashi’man

  Religion

  Aethra

  THE HEAVENS

  The Moons

  The Sun

  The Stars

  The rumored moons

  IDEAS

  The Calendar

  The infinitude of the earth and sea

  Beasts friendly to man

  Crotuparlans

  Humanity

  The Dance of Death

  Vito looked through them, stopping when he didn’t recognize a name, or when he couldn’t adequately define the implications of one of the terms. They hadn’t gotten to THE HEAVENS or IDEAS, yet. He looked to THE WORLD first. He repeated the rhyme he had learned.

  “Alakon is the eastern continent, Remex in the west, Serrai-Rua’s in the south, and Bangye-Rua’s all the rest.”

  “Doesn’t look like you need help with those,” his mother said.

  He looked to THE SPIRITS, the only other section that was going to be covered on the exam. His confidence grew tenuous.

  “Hey mom, what’s the difference between the Ashi’man, the Man’a, and the Aethra? The a’s can give me trouble.” Vito had a good idea of the distinction already, but did not feel it was enough. He wanted complete understanding.

  Cione put her finger on the page with familiarity. The names did not seem so strange to her.

  “Well, in our religion we worship the spirits, and we divide them into a few categories.”

  Before she could continue, Vito asked a question.

  “We divide them? Don’t you mean that there are different kinds?”

  “Hmm…” said Cione, thinking of how to answer the question.

  “Some people believe the divisions are natural… but in my opinion, and you’re free to come to your own conclusions, Vito, I don’t think they are. We gave the spirits different names to describe them, but I think those differences may be more superficial than we believe.”

  Vito took in his mother’s words before she continued,

  “The Ashi-man are the most powerful spirits— the spirit-gods. They represent high concepts, like balance, or heat. The Man’a are their servants, they command smaller forces, like campfires, or confusion. The Ashi’man spirit-god He who Burned the Castles commands the domain of war and destruction. In his ward is the Wandering Warrior, the Man’a of veterans. Then there are even smaller spirits, the Common Spirits, who serve them.”

  Cione stopped a moment, and Vito saw her pondering her words. He knew her faith to be important to her, and she’d endeavor to express it well. Since his father had gone away, Vito had never spoken with his mother about the spirits, and his memories of when they had discussed them when he was a young child were foggy at best. The subject had felt too uncomfortable before to bring up. Now, the exam had bridged that barrier.

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  “And what about the Aethra?” asked Vito.

  Cione nodded, accepting that her explanation so far had been the best she could offer. She continued,

  “The Aethra are animal spirits. They’re different from the Ashi’man, the Man’a, or the Common Spirits, in that they were once mortal beasts. There are some animals so wise, so ancient, so in tune with our world, they become timeless, walking the land far longer than a normal beast.”

  Vito nodded, enraptured.

  “A snake who reaches inner peace might live fifty years or more. A fox who has learned to speak with the trees may expect a century of life. When these great spans of years have ended, an animal becomes one of the Aethra, and is given immortality and special powers. Many monsters of legend are just Aethra that people called demons. The legendary manticore was a lion who outwitted the wind and grew wings from his back. The hydra was a lizard who conquered his fear of death, and so was rewarded with the ability to grow two heads whenever one was chopped off. The kitsune was a fox who loved humans so much that she learned to become one of them.”

  “Where did they get that power?” asked Vito.

  “Oh, I don’t know. No one knows. It doesn’t matter much to me.”

  Vito didn’t find that point of view very attractive, and said, “It matters to me.” His mother chuckled.

  “Maybe you’ll figure it out, school-boy. I think it’s nice to let the world confuse you sometimes.”

  Vito couldn’t fathom that. Knowledge was so central to his own life: knowing what answers to give on an exam, what price to sell his mother’s goods for, what he’d need to pack for journeys to town or to meet his friends. Knowing more things made his life better, and he loved to learn. He could not imagine willingly shirking that privilege. He did not tell his mother this, since he felt it might sound elitist.

  “Do you get it?” she asked him, “the Ashi’man, the Aethra, and the Man’a?”

  “Aethra— animals, Ashi’man— gods, Man’a— lesser gods.”

  She nodded. “Yes, very good! A lot of people know the names of the spirits, but most don’t really understand the categories, they just know where their patron is. That’s part of why I think the distinctions are arbitrary.”

  Vito nodded.

  “Why do you know them, mom?”

  “I try to know the spirits— it’s a good skill in this world. Even if the faith isn’t so common anymore. I don’t know if you’ll need to know this for your exam, but…” Cione laid the book down face up on the bed, turning to look into her son’s eyes.

  “The spirits are not to be trifled with. I’ve dealt with them before. They’re dangerous, Vito. Don’t let studying distance them from you, make you think they’re like words on a page. They’re dangerous. Some are friendly, but many aren’t. That’s why you should never go into the Spiritwood.”

  Vito knew this fact already, and it had always seemed contradictory to him, that the spirits were worshipped and yet feared at the same time. In everyday life it had just become normal to him, but now that his mother had brought up both aspects, he had to ask:

  “Are the spirits bad, or evil?” He couldn’t decide which was the right word, “bad” or “evil”. “Bad” had come to mind first, and he’d said it, but “evil” seemed more academic, so he’d added it after. His mother surprised him by drawing a distinction between the two,

  “Plenty are bad, but none are evil.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “If you were trying to walk somewhere, and a big rock fell in your path, you’d say that’s bad, right?”

  “Uhm-hm.”

  “But you probably wouldn’t call the boulder evil, right?”

  Vito nodded slowly, trying to connect the boulder with the spirits in his mind.

  Cione said, “The spirits are like that. They inconvenience and even harm people, but it isn’t because they’re malicious or disaffected. They simply are. They don’t have free will like humans have. They operate by different rules. They simply act according to their nature. There is no other way for them.”

  Vito had a thought which he felt was very smart,

  “But that doesn’t mean they can’t be held accountable for their actions?” he said it questioningly, unsure of whether he was pursuing the right line of thinking.

  “To blame a spirit for doing something bad would be like blaming a storm for striking a house. It’s just its nature. You get through them, or around them, like any other adversity in life.” Cione ran her fingers through her son’s hair.

  “But never go into the Spiritwood. The saying goes: ‘if you’re lucky you’ll lose your body, or your mind’.”

  Vito felt a pang of fear stab into his heart.

  “And if I’m unlucky?”

  “Both,” she said, flatly.

  Vito gulped, and there was a moment of silence when Cione’s hand stopped moving, merely resting on his head. Then she started petting again.

  “Well, I don’t want to scare you— too much.” She smiled and stood up, extricating her hand from Vito’s hair.

  Vito just then remembered the subject at the bottom of the page, the last one listed in the textbook’s index. He knew that it shared the same name as the festival which had taken place earlier today, one which he had not been allowed to attend, which no children were allowed to attend. He felt curiosity, that urge most familiar to him, to know all about it.

  “What’s the Dance of Death?” he asked Cione. His mother seemed a little taken off guard, and her smile faded.

  “The Dance of Death?”

  “The Dance of Death. That thing you went to just today, that no kids are allowed to go to. I also saw it in the book.”

  “Hmm…” she said. “Those are two different things that share the same name.” She opened Vito’s book again and flipped to a certain section. She nodded slowly as she read.

  “Yeah, they’re two different things. I’ve already probably spooked you enough about the spirits, why don’t we save this for another time?”

  Vito felt a sour taste enter his mouth. He wanted to know now.

  “What if it’s on the exam?” he said, knowing it would not be. It was the last subject in the book, and they were only doing the first half. He had seen the section many times when opening the tome in class, but never gave it any special interest. Now that it had become topical, however, he felt an unquenchable desire to know about it. Vito knew his mother, and he doubted that he would really get to hear about it “another time”. She would forget about it and so might he. Later, when he might need this information, his negligence here could betray him. He had to know now.

  “…alright. I don’t want you to get a bad grade. I have to get another book, hold on.”

  Vito felt instant regret, mixed with exhilaration. He’d done it. He’d opened the lock to secret knowledge— and deceived his mother. Cione returned with a little booklet with scuffed edges. It looked old and had strange letters on the front that Vito couldn’t read. Cione sat down on the bed and opened the little thing carefully, and Vito saw that one of the pages had a ginkgo leaf tucked inside. It was an ancient thing too, brown and flattened against the pages. She carefully flipped it onto the opposite page, saying as she did,

  “This was your dad’s favorite poem. He loved this ancient Crotuparlanti stuff.” She could see that Vito was about to ask, so she preemptively answered: “I don’t know that much about it, they were ancient people, and they had some kind of religion called the Dance of Death I guess. That’s the poem’s title. It’s kind of creepy, you promise you’re not going to be too scared?”

  Vito’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like being treated like a child.

  “Of course, mom.”

  Cione either didn’t catch his acrimony or didn’t acknowledge it.

  “Okay.” She cleared her throat.

  “He who seeks finds naught his mark

  He who rests finds a peace in the dark

  When breath is drawn, no offense is meant

  Till Horror comes the way that Beauty went.

  Seeking, seeking, under every moon

  All through the night till the roosters croon

  Dreams of avoiding each coming breath

  To sneak a glance at the Dance of Death

  Life is wound tight, like an iron chain

  And to escape is as a smile, marked with a stain

  Consider ending the search, and the mind is kept

  But Horror laughed as Beauty wept.

  Withered flowers under pale moonlight

  Drift on island breezes into endless night

  Leave this safe fortress, feel the shortness of breath

  Drawn by the rumor of the Dance of Death.”

  Neither said anything. Cione slowly closed the book with the leaf still inside. Vito tried to appear as though he was not examining the corners of his room, checking if anyone was there.

  “I wish your father could be here to read it to you. He knew just how to say poems to make them sound like magic.” Cione ran her finger along the scar over her son’s left eye, causing Vito to close it.

  The boy was still speechless from his concealed terror at the poem. He didn’t want to reply, lest his voice warble and give him away to his mom. There was only one thing which could trump this caution— curiosity. She still hadn’t told him about the festival. He had the poem as a starting point for whatever the Dance of Death as a concept was. He did not think his mother would have any other information about it from that standpoint, but the festival of the same name? She would know about that— she’d just been.

  He expected that this last piece would complete the puzzle; unravel the mystery of the poem and its ominous portents. “I have to keep going,” thought Vito. Even if he was scared, he had to go on, he had to discover. He desired to one day be an educated man. School, he felt, was paramount to this, as was constant questioning. If he quit now and gave into his fear, he’d regret it later, he was sure.

  He attempted to control his voice as he spoke,

  “What… about the festival, mom?” He’d managed to say it, but there’d been a problem. He had successfully controlled his tone and seemed unafraid to his own ear, but in his focus on that, he had mispronounced “festival” as “festevil”. He had still been thinking about the distinction between “bad” and “evil” in the back of his mind, and the word evil had infiltrated his mouth and worked its way into the word festival! “Festevil”! All was lost!

  Cione raised an eyebrow at his question. She immediately ascertained what had happened.

  “I’m not allowed to tell you about that, Vito, you’re too young,” she said. “You can see for yourself when you’re old enough.”

  “But mom, I’ll have to wait until I’m nineteen!”

  “Well you’ll be eighteen tomorrow, so it won’t be long.”

  “But mom, what if it’s on the—”

  “No. You’re too young.” This time she was serious. Vito would’ve asked further, but his courage had been spent on his earlier question, and he dared not push his luck further. He knew that when his mother said no, the chances of changing her mind lay somewhere between zero and zero.

  Cione regarded him with suspicion.

  “That’s not going to be on the exam, honey, and I think you know that.” She waited for Vito to respond, but he didn’t say anything.

  “I know you’re curious about the world, but don’t use tricks. Once you’re willing to see things in terms of ‘will I learn something or not,’ you’re not a scholar, you’re a thug.”

  Vito said nothing.

  Cione leaned down, kissing him on the forehead. Vito felt both humbled and angered from that gesture.

  “I’m going to go get your cake ready. Go to sleep. I love you.” She stood, looking back at him as she went for the door.

  She stared for a long second. Vito considered what she might be thinking about. Then she closed the door, and the sound of the rain carried Vito to sleep. In the distance, amongst the trees, one of the cicadas emerged from its shell, and, sheltered by the thick canopy of the forest above, spread its wings, and flew for the first time.