The Narcomancer
N.K. Jemisin
In the land of Gujaareh it was said that trouble came by twos. Four bands of color marked the face of the Dreaming Moon; the great river split into four tributaries; there were four harvests in a year; four humours coursed the inner rivers of living flesh. By contrast, two of anything in nature meant inevitable conflict: stallions in a herd, lions in a pride. Siblings. The sexes.
Gatherer Cet's twin troubles came in the form of two women. The first was a farmcaste woman who had been injured by an angry bull-ox; half her brains had been dashed out beneath its hooves. The Sharers, who could work miracles with the Goddess' healing magic, had given up on her. "We can grow her a new head," said one of the Sharer-elders to Cet, "but we cannot put the memories of her lifetime back in it. Best to claim her dreamblood for others, and send her soul where her mind has already gone."
But when Cet arrived in the Hall of Blessings to see to the woman, he confronted a scene of utter chaos. Three squalling children struggled in the arms of a Sentinel, hampering him as he tried to assist his brethren. Nearer by, a young man fought to get past two of the Sharers, trying to reach a third Templeman — whom, clearly, he blamed for the woman's condition. "You didn't even try!" he shouted, the words barely intelligible through his sobs. "How can my wife live if you won't even try?"
He elbowed one of the Sharers in the chest and nearly got free, but the other flung himself on the distraught husband's back then, half dragging him to the floor. Still the man fought with manic fury, murder in his eyes. None of them noticed Cet until Cet stepped in front of the young man and raised his jungissa stone.
Startled, the young man stopped struggling, his attention caught by the stone. It had been carved into the likeness of a dragonfly; its gleaming black wings blurred as Cet tapped the stone hard with his thumbnail. The resulting sharp whine cut across the cacophony filling the Hall until even the children stopped weeping to look for the source of the noise. As peace returned, Cet willed the stone's vibration to soften to a low, gentle hum. The man sagged as tension drained out of his body, until he hung limp in the two Sharers' arms.
"You know she is already dead," Cet said to the young man. "You know this must be done."
The young man's face tightened in anguish. "No. She breathes. Her heart beats." He slurred the words as if drunk. "No."
"Denying it makes no difference. The pattern of her soul has been lost. If she were healed, you would have to raise her all over again, like one of your children. To make her your wife then would be an abomination."
The man began to weep again, quietly this time. But he no longer fought, and when Cet moved around him to approach his wife, he uttered a little moan and looked away.
Cet knelt beside the cot where the woman lay, and put his fore and middle fingers on her closed eyelids. She was already adrift in the realms between waking and dream; there was no need to use his jungissa to put her to sleep. He followed her into the silent dark and examined her soul, searching for any signs of hope. But the woman's soul was indeed like that of an infant, soft and devoid of all but the most simplistic desires and emotions. The merest press of Cet's will was enough to send her toward the land of dreams, where she would doubtless dissolve into the substance of that realm — or perhaps she would eventually be reborn, to walk the realm of waking anew and regain the experiences she had lost.
Either way, her fate was not for Cet to decide. Having delivered her soul safely, he severed the tether that had bound her to the waking realm, and collected the delicate dreamblood that spilled forth.
The weeping that greeted Cet upon his return to waking was of a different order from before. Turning, Cet saw with satisfaction that the farmcaste man stood with his children now, holding them as they watched the woman's flesh breathe its last. They were still distraught, but the violent madness was gone; in its place was the sort of grief that expressed itself through love and would, eventually, bring healing.
"That was nicely done," said a low voice beside him, and Cet looked up to see the Temple Superior. Belatedly he realized the Superior had been the target of the distraught husband's wrath. Cet had been so focused on the family that he had not noticed.
"You gave them peace without dreamblood," the Superior continued. "Truly, Gatherer Cet, our Goddess favors you."
Cet got to his feet, sighing as the languor of the Gathering faded slowly within him. "The Hall has still been profaned," he said. He looked up at the great shining statue of the Goddess of Dreams, who towered over them with hands outstretched in welcome and eyes shut in the Eternal Dream. "Voices have been raised and violence done, right here at Her feet."
"S-Superior?" A boy appeared at the Superior's shoulder, too young to be an acolyte. One of the Temple's adoptees from the House of Children, probably working a duty-shift as an errand runner. "Are you hurt at all? I saw that man..."
The Superior smiled down at him. "No, child; I'm fine, thank you. Go back to the House before your Teacher misses you."
Looking relieved, the boy departed. The Superior sighed, watching him leave. "Some chaos is to be expected at times like this. The heart is rarely peaceful." He gave Cet a faint smile. "Though, of course, you would not know that, Gatherer."
"I remember the time before I took my oath."
"Not the same."
Cet shrugged, gazing at the mourning family. "I have the peace and order of Temple life to comfort me now. It is enough."
The Superior looked at him oddly for a moment, then sighed. "Well, I'm afraid I must ask you to leave that comfort for a time, Cet. Will you come with me to my office? I have a matter that requires the attention of a Gatherer — one with your unique skill at bestowing peace."
And thus did Cet's second hardship fall upon him.
The quartet that stood in the Superior's office were upriver folk. Cet could see that in their dingy clothing and utter lack of makeup or jewelry; not even the poorest city dweller kept themselves so plain. And no city dweller went unsandaled on the brick-paved streets, which grew painfully hot at midday. Yet the woman who stood at the group's head had the proud carriage of one used to the respect and obedience of others, finery or no finery. The three men all but cowered behind her as the Superior and Cet entered the room.
"Cet, this is Mehepi," said the Superior, gesturing to the woman. "She and her companions are from a mining village some ways to the south, in the foothills that border the Empty Thousand. Mehepi, I bring you Cet, one of the Temple's Gatherers."
Mehepi's eyes widened in a way that would have amused Cet, had he been capable of amusement. Clearly she had expected something more of Gujaareh's famed Gatherers; someone taller, perhaps. But she recovered quickly and gave him a respectful bow. "I greet you in peace, Gatherer," she said, "though I bring unpeaceful tidings."
Cet inclined his head. "Tidings of—" But he trailed off, surprised, as his eyes caught a slight movement in the afternoon shadows of the room. Some ways apart from Mehepi and the others, a younger woman knelt on a cushion. She was so still — it was her breathing Cet had noticed — that Cet made no wonder he had overlooked her, though now it seemed absurd that he had. Wealthy men had commissioned sculptures with lips less lush, bones less graceful; sugared currants were not as temptingly black as her skin. Though the other upriver folk were staring at Cet, her eyes remained downcast, her body unmoving beneath the faded-indigo drape of her gown. Indigo: the mourning color. Mehepi wore it too.
"What is this?" Cet asked, nodding toward the younger woman.
Was there unease in Mehepi's eyes? Defensiveness, certainly. "We were told the Temple offers its aid only to those who follow the ways of the Dream Goddess," she said. "We have no money to tithe, Gatherer, and none of us has offered dreams or goods in the past year..."