The Ghost Tiger's Lament

Chapter Twenty-One

Water roared in her ears. She screamed, or thought she did, before all sound tore away, leaving her floating in a silent, murky pool. She gasped for breath, but no air reached her lungs. She began to sink, as if trapped in quicksand, struggling against the sudden heaviness of her limbs.

Shadows lurked at the edges of her vision, coalescing into colorless, nebulous shapes and forms before dispersing once more into darkness.

Above her she saw Kasa looming again, shining beacon upon a distant hill, waterways tracing patterns in the clouds. Fish and sinuous creatures flitted overhead; a kammrae dove past, curved horns rippling through the waves. Tall trees waved in the wind, branches reaching downward, roots curling toward the heavens.

Then came the drowned men, one after another, dancing across her vision in a susurrus, shuffling line of shredded arms: eyes hollow, bones gleaming like pearls, hair tangling like weeds.

After them came a parade of beings, monsters for which she had no name. Headless monkeys with tiny crawling things running skitter-skitter beneath translucent skin, undulating worms with gaping mouths embedded in their backs, an eight-eyed horse with hairy human legs, a dolphin with a noblewoman’s soft pliant arms, a crabman with alligator’s jaws, a giant fleshy sphere that twisted and contorted and shivered with every move.

She dared not watch; she dared not close her eyes.

There was a whisper of laughter, a distant chittering sound, real or imagined. Once more, the rush of water. And then silence and mist again, sudden and overwhelming.

Her feet found solid purchase. Mud sucked greedily at her bare soles. Before her a river materialized from the gloom, winding and stretching into the distance: darkness flowing ever forward, emptying, perhaps, into some vast false sea, while she stood waiting at its banks.

She felt for her sword, but it was no longer at her side. She felt naked and alone. A thousand gazes trained upon her from above and below. And all around her, the rancid scent of fetid swamp.

A pale pinprick of light glowed against the flow of shadows, bobbing up and down as if borne by some invisible current.

She took one step. Another.

She began to walk.

* * *

Hey, Ashne. You scared?

She shakes her head. Their bellies are hollow, their bodies little more than skin and sharp bones, here in this plentiful land where fruit grows year-round and the fields are flooded with rice. Her breath rattles whenever she tries to speak: so she remains silent.

Nothin’ scary about this, I guess. Just some dumb old mountain after all.

She clutches the other girl’s hand. The girl squeezes back.

The sun shines pale and distant overhead. Winter’s sun: little comfort in these high cold slopes.

Are you sure they won’t come after us, she whispers.

Course not. They wouldn’t dare.

But it is wrong, all wrong. The birds and frogs do not sing in this place, and the beasts do not run.

Perhaps they are all dead. Dead of hunger, like they will be soon. Or dead from some wild battle in the thickets. The clansmen spoke of war and vengeance. Of the rivers running red with blood. She cannot imagine it. Not even all the rats she could eat in a lifetime could dirty the great waters so.

Stupid, though. The Speaker is a weakling, everyone says so. They say he debased himself as a slave before his enemies! His father can’t have been much better.