The Oracle of Maracoor Page 2
“Your future, so shut up. If you can’t manage your own infant, think of it as a sack of pomegranates—the richest pomegranates in the country. What’s our future without eating, what’s our regional cuisine without pomegranates? Here we go.”
They’d been absorbed into the last bunch to be interviewed and were summoned forward. It was nearly too late. Even now the home guard was angling the western gates to close them, readying the crossbeams for sliding into place.
“Who are you and why are you leaving?” asked a man with eyebrows like carded wool.
“I’m an old fool,” garbled the straw-hatted mastermind of this pantomime. “I live at the mercy of my son Tycheron. We’re rushing his young sister-in-law and his wife to safety before her time comes. She’s with child. As you see.”
Under her shawl Rain’s hands cradled the sack, which was starting to slip. It would be shame to give birth to a scatter of overweight pomegranates right here in the public square.
“Tycheron and father,” said the guardsman to an assistant making notes. “And wife. Who are you, ma’am?”
“We call her Pet,” said the older man. “She was born with a weak tongue and she can’t complain. Can you, Pet? Sweet Pet.”
“What’s her name?” demanded the guardsman, pointing at the child.
“I’m nobody,” said Cossy. “Nobody calls me nothing. She’s Pet, I’m wild.”
“All right then. The family Tycheron. And rural patriarch. You’re awfully hale to be fleeing for your life, young Kerr.” He was addressing the slighter fellow.
“I’ll settle them safely and come back.”
The guardsman snorted. “Oh, sure. Sure you will. What house are you from?”
Tycheron sniffed. “We’re hill people. We don’t count ourselves as houses, but as laborers. I’m a miller and this is the miller’s family. That’s it.”
“Awfully clean hands for a miller,” said the guardsman, looking over Rain’s shoulder to see who was next.
“Shows what you know. A successful miller,” said Tycheron, growing into his role, “is one who can hire other laborers to do the heavy work.”
“I should impound you for insolence, but a newborn benefits from a father, however cocky. Anyway, we’re out of time. Get through fast, there’s the gates rolling forward. Back, you lot, we’re done here!”
The old man and Tycheron, and Rain and Cossy too, lurched forward. Rain’s artificial pregnancy slowed her progress—what a bitch, this heavyweight. The older man’s grandfatherly gimp, patently false. But the quality of their performance didn’t matter now. The crowd of twenty or so remaining citizens behind them broke through the ranks of soldiers and swarmed out the closing gate, hurrying the band of four along with them.
5
Rain felt that the Goose, who’d been at her side since she’d awakened from her coma, was still nearby. She turned and looked. Yes, as he’d promised. He was strutting the top of the city walls to the south, keeping an eye on her. The flying monkeys must have found someplace less public to take cover.
That the Goose was attentive to her, when she couldn’t quite say who she was—there was something sweet about it. The Goose knew the trajectory of her life better than she did. She hadn’t wanted to interview Iskinaary for her own past for fear she would buy wholesale his interpretation of her experiences. She wanted to discover what she could about herself, to weigh it on her own scales, with her own calipers and loupe to address its substance, however mealy or corrupt.
Still—whatever might a Goose remember about the past? Was it any more reliable than what an addle-pated teenage girl could manage? Perhaps, more than his human companions, he lived in the here and now of the natural world, and less in his head.
Anyway, who could ever know what to anticipate? A matter curious to a girl bereft of the benefit of hindsight.
Iskinaary, after all, had been born a sentient and articulate Goose—not a goose. One of the fragments of Rain’s secret childhood she did recall was this: Murthy, some fragrant governess at Mockbeggar Hall, explaining it to her. “The difference in pronunciation, Rainary, is simply a matter of emphasis. ‘Look, Mama, what is that bird? Can it talk?’ ‘Oh, yes, my dear, it can; I believe that’s not a goose, darling, but a Goose.’ Watch me. The eyebrows lift, the chin inches forward; the speaking Animal is indicated by gesture and inflection in human speech. Rain, are you listening? You’ll grow up quite the fool if you’re not alert.”
Any Goose with language must be able to make predictions. Of the flying monkeys, though, it was harder for Rain to say. These monkeys, and all their kin, were a downstream generation of what had amounted to genetic engineering by Rain’s grandmother, the famous Wicked Witch of the West. Elphaba herself. If only a so-so magician, she’d been a more competent biologist, botanist, and expert in the Life sciences. That’s Life, not just life.
Rain remembered hearing that it had been Elphaba who’d conjured up the wings on the first flying monkey—her aide-de-mischief, Chistery—and on his kin. Likely she’d been the only sorceress ever to teach a creature born animal to talk as an Animal. But the acquisition of language hadn’t evenly vested. Downstream generations of the fabricated species could talk, after a fashion, some more eloquently than others. But many didn’t have much to say. If they spoke, it was usually in the service of some chore—say, gathering firewood, or slaughtering a pineapple.
Rain hadn’t yet taken the measure of the winged monkeys who accompanied Iskinaary. Those creatures could follow orders, they could communicate. According to the Goose, they’d come from far away to find Rain and rescue her. But their language seemed weak, so their capacity for foretelling the future would remain a dusty uncertainty to her, she supposed. As would their grasp of the past. Without language, crucial coordinates might vanish.
While incarcerated, she’d been trying to assemble pieces of her own past. They appeared to her as frozen images rather than episodes of drama—portraits, not pantomimes. Her father, Liir, the only offspring of Elphaba Thropp. And Glinda, who had taken Rain in when she was young, to protect her. Mockbeggar Hall, Glinda’s country pile. Then Rain reuniting with Liir and with Candle, her mother, for a while.
Rain’s accidental crossing of paths with a boy named Tip. Tip, her fellow. A lad not yet filled out with the packed certainty of adult maleness. In her mind he wobbled within the margins; a glowing smile, and those caresses, the avowals of affection. Love, call it that. The force of the whole memory was of being cherished, but Tip—it was as if the sun was always in her eyes as she looked up from the black sack of memory; the silhouette of Tip was indistinct. She couldn’t bring him into registration. What had happened to him? Had he died, and was that why she had fled—fled from Oz?
Her ability to sequence recent memories began somewhat after the disappearance of Tip, which seemed the central darkness in her mind. Rain had only recently remembered digging up the Grimmerie, that old dangerous tome of high magic. She’d revived a flitch of Elphaba’s enchanted broomstick. In a state of foul and glassy conviction she’d flown out over the little-known Nonestic Sea to the west of Oz. Iskinaary, sent by Rain’s father to protect her, had accompanied her. Before Rain was too bone-exhausted to lose sight of her mission, she had pawed the Grimmerie out of her satchel and let it drop into the open ocean. How the Grimmerie had offended her she couldn’t yet recall, but she had taken her revenge upon it, for good.
Collapse into the sea; amnesia; exile. Now she was awake. She had escaped prison. Her memories were struggling to return. The furnace of her mind was beginning to roar, at least quietly, between her own ears. She was walking with energy despite the heaviness at her belly.
They’d slipped through the gates. She gripped Cossy’s hand a little more tightly and winced a smile sideways at her, hoping to be encouraging.
Of Cossy, hardly more could be said than what was posited of the flying monkeys or of the Goose. But it wasn’t Cossy’s fault. Raised remotely, the child had been scarcely more than a spec
imen in a controlled experiment. She seemed about ten, more or less. Old enough, no? But ignorant as clay. She’d had almost no exposure to human society. Scant weeks ago, she’d known only six females until Rain had appeared, a green and sodden castaway on island sands. Until evacuation, Cossy had seen and met only one man ever. Literally. A civil servant from the mainland called Lucikles. And Cossy had come in contact with a single boy—the son of Lucikles, a lad three years older than Cossy. His name was Leorix. And Cossy had never encountered a talking Animal until Iskinaary opened his beak and began to quawk.
Cossy, convicted of murder only that morning, was giving nothing away. She matched her pace to Rain’s. Amoral, or merely betrayed by circumstance, she stalked on, fleeing the invading army, lunging toward whatever future it was that not one of the party could possibly predict.
Almost under her breath, Cossy was muttering a spell.
Swift our feet
Along the street
And steer us clear
Away from here.
Of Tycheron and his uncle or boss, Rain couldn’t say. They were glancing at each other, scheming in semaphore.
6
The lucky ones who’d made it out were still scrabbling and clawing up the slope when a noise bellied out behind them, a sound of human alarm. Pivoting, they saw the scarf of saffron thrown off the wall. The wind caught it and drifted it above the palanquin, which had been jettisoned onto the rocks below the walls.
“They’ve turned on the Bvasil,” said the older man. “I can’t believe it.”
“Surely—” began Tycheron, but he didn’t seem so sure, and stopped speaking.
“This can’t be good. The citizens of Maracoor Crown have blocked the Bvasil’s royal progress and ambushed his carriage. He was only trying to boost their morale in fighting the Skedes. Look what they’ve done.”
“There’s nothing more to be seen here, Uncle,” said Tycheron. “Turn away. We’ll hide our faces from what we knew. Press on.”
At the ridge, the crowd of forty or fifty paused. Rain and her fake family listened to arguments about which route to take.
The juncture afforded several choices, Rain learned. One northern road led to trackless marshes. Fine for smugglers but total shit for the uninitiated. Other roads turning back to the sea were out of the question, frying-pan-into-the-fire options. The Skedian navy must be landing more forces along the coast.
Of the remaining tracks making for the western uplands, one was rumored to be a remote passage through the Thalassic Wood, risky at best. The more popular route seemed to be a high road, a ribbon of pitted grey marble slabs lined with tilting milestones. A track of switchbacks upon spare terrain. Easy picking for any predator: beasts, armies, spirits, or highway robbers. No traveler walked anonymously upon this road. Still, enemies could be spotted at a distance, too. Were pilgrims numerous enough, they might protect one another. Maybe.
“What do you propose?” asked Tycheron, looking not at Uncle but at Rain.
“Me? I’m a stranger here,” said Rain. She waved at Iskinaary to come nearer. “I don’t know where we’re headed, except out of danger. While there’s time.”
“Well, as we’re going west,” said Tycheron, “we’ll stay with the group on the high road. Join us or not.”
“Not,” said Cossy.
“Hang on to the pregnancy, Pet,” said the older fellow with a generous wave. “It helped you get clearance to leave. It might provide you with protection further along. Even the more savage among us won’t attack a pregnant woman.”
“It’s as heavy as sin,” said Rain. “No thank you.” She began to unclasp the buckle under her burlap shawl.
“You may never get this chance again.” With a tone of cunning. “Salvation of the nation?”
“A child of mine? I doubt it,” said Rain. “And if you mean Maracoor, all I say is: Not my nation.” The satchel was hard to unclasp; the weight seemed to fit to her belly with a magnetized seal. The burlap snood slipped off her head as she wrestled with the cincture.
The younger man stifled a gasp. “In the name of the Great Mara, has the parcel poisoned you?”
“You mean my green skin tones? No, I come by this naturally. You’ve only just noticed? You fellows don’t pay attention much to people helping you out, do you. So whichever way you’re going, we’re going the other. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m a job, not a person,” said the older peasant. “Some are called Smith, some Miller, some Archer. It’s what they do. I’m Burden, that’ll do for me. As long as you’re rejecting my gift.” With a look of resignation if not loathing he retrieved the belted satchel at last and hoisted it on his shoulders. “For helping you trick your way out of the city I might have expected a little gratitude.”
“You used me and I used you; I guess we’re even.”
“You’re the creature who flew in from the east,” said Burden. “I’ve heard tell of you. And that thing is the self-same broom, isn’t it? Looks like it couldn’t snag a cobweb from a stag’s antlers.”
“Flattery hasn’t gotten you far so far, so why start now? Where are you headed?”
“We’re making a pilgrimage in the hour of our nation’s need. We’re heading to High Chora, hoping to locate an obscurity known as the Oracle of Maracoor.”
As Iskinaary swooped down to rejoin them, Rain felt a shiver run along her shoulder blades. She put it down to her body readjusting from the weight of the leathern pregnancy, but it also seemed—portentous, maybe? Something scratched her nerves into antsy alignment, paying attention.
The title—the Oracle of Maracoor—maybe pompous—maybe holy. An Oracle sounded like a figurehead, as Glinda had seemed to Rain, or the Wizard of Oz had once been in Glinda’s own youth. Like impossible legend. But what was impossible these days? The seams of this nation’s folklore seemed to be splitting, with rumors of manticores and dyanis and whatnot spotted in every cave and countinghouse. Maybe the Oracle of Maracoor was another fusty old idea breathed back into life by the crack in the universe that had also brought Rain and Iskinaary to Maracoor. “Is soothsaying even true?” she asked, despite wanting to be on her way. “Or some fairy story folderol? And what do you want to find some old fortune-teller for?”
“Who knows what’s true until you stub your toe against it in the dark?” replied Burden. “Finding the Oracle will take some travel, and we have time to work out our agenda on the road. Come—Pet—Rain, is it, do I remember hearing?—shall we take the high road together? You’re a figure of some notoriety. If the Oracle is still alive, he’ll want to meet you, and make of you what he will. And tell you something, too. The few pilgrims who claim to have met such an Oracle speak of a pious simplicity in his countenance and counsel. They could be lying, of course.”
“You know a lot about it for a beast of burden,” said Rain.
“I babble a lot but I keep my ears open. That’s how I heard of you. And you could borrow back your pregnancy when it suited you.”
“Come on, Cossy,” said Rain, “Burden is right in this. I’d stick out like a gangrenous thumb on the open road. Let’s take our chances elsewhere.”
The Goose snapped, “Indeed we do have other plans. Pet. Good day to you, kind sir.” He nodded at Burden but his tone was off-putting.
“If we’re going, we should go now,” said Tycheron to Burden. He pointed to the evacuees moving ahead on the high road. “We don’t want to be alone when darkness falls. And this is getting us nowhere.”
The Goose said, “Let’s get outta here, Rain.” He scowled at Burden and Tycheron. “We’ll hunker down in the forest for a day or two till the dust settles, and then we’ll circle back to the coast to plan our evacuation from this hellhole.”
Rain raised her eyebrow but chose not to argue about their itinerary in front of the strangers.
“I vote for the forest, too,” said Cossy.
7
“Why didn’t you want us to travel together?” asked Rain of Cossy.
 
; “He’s a man, and I don’t know yet if I like men. And he lied to save his own skin.”
Rain laughed. “You lied too. You said I was called Pet.”
“Anyway, you didn’t feel like going with him. I could tell.”
“I hate to break up a bonding moment among the sisterhood,” said Iskinaary, “but may I point out that a battle for the capital city of this country is about to begin? And you have both just escaped from jail? And one of you is an immigrant who can’t pass for anything else? Perhaps we should get the hell out of here? Survive first, strategize later? Look, here come the monkeys. We’re intact. Let’s scram.”
They were now scrabbling along the track that veered toward the margin of a great woods. Rain turned to glance back at Tycheron and Burden. She marked them easily; they stood out against chalk bluffs glaring like salt in the sunlight. Dark green cypress trees, scattered about the slope, seemed to pin the rare day down to a map of the earth. The men had made up some time on the paving stones. The older one was pacing with his head lowered, his satchel like a hunch grown into the nape of his neck. Tycheron was craning to watch Rain’s party as it veered through burdocky meadows toward the cover of forest. He waved. Rain didn’t wave back.
The woods closed in around Rain and her companions. Only then did they pause for breath.
“The winged monkeys,” said Iskinaary. “If we’re going to be traveling together, you should get to know their names anyway. This is Tiotro. These two are Faro and Finistro. The smaller one is called Thilma.”
Tiotro and Thilma, the largest and smallest, nodded at their names. Faro and Finistro plodded on ahead. Hard of hearing, or maybe just not interested in niceties.
“I’m Rain,” said Rain to these winged monkeys, “and this is Cossy.”
“Thilma speaks some,” said the Goose, “but Faro, Finistro, and Tiotro are prone to silence. They’re all males.”