Children of the Shaman

Three men appeared. They moved towards Yuste and there was a moment of hesitation, of wordless pause, before the foremost clapped his hands together and bowed. Yuste mimicked him. Annat stared at this puppet show. She was seeing a new Yuste, one who was not just her aunt, but a woman whom strangers recognised and greeted. The first man was little, mostly bald, with bright eyes dark as wine and cheeks the colour of old leather. This was Annat's first Darkman, from Ind, far in the East, and she knew his name: it was Sival, Yuste's teacher, whom she wrote to every week. They were embracing now, with the close lock of long-lost friends, ignoring the others who eyed each other with cautious glances.

Annat stood apart from Malchik. Her stomach felt hollow and queasy-sweet, full of bird's wings. One of the two other men was her father, Yuda, Yuste's twin. The two men were dressed much alike, in City clothes: black jackets with the sheen of leather, open-necked shirts of fine cotton, not like the coarse stuff that Yuste bought from the village weaver to make Annat's blouses, and dark trousers cut close to the leg, very different from a countryman's trews. She guessed which was her father at once, for his companion was dark-skinned, tall, and his shirt was red, a colour forbidden to Wanderers. He was gazing at Annat, almost smiling, but she had already fixed on her father, so small, scarcely taller than Yuste. It was the image of his shaman's power that marked him out to her inner eye, a vivid, coruscating blue that dimmed Annat's own, uncertain flame. She hardly saw his face before Yuste's warm hand took hers and brought her to Sival. Her father waited at a distance with his dark friend.

"Welcome to Masalyar, Annat and Malchik. You are tired, and a little frightened. So are we. We have been waiting for weeks to meet you."

"How do you know what I'm thinking? You're not a shaman," said Annat.

"I told you she was rude," said Yuste.

Sival smiled at Annat, and she had to smile back. He was little and leathery and full of a shy warmth that she might trust.

"I study people just as I study books. Their faces, their movements, tell a story. You are a shaman, I saw that at once."

Annat looked for her father. She was not afraid. Only that strange feeling, like fluttering below her chest, that made her a little breathless. Speak, she willed him, sending a message into the silence.

- There is One in Zyon.

It was not a voice, but clear as black script on white paper: a reply, which Yuste had never been able to give her.

Sival beckoned the two men.

"Here is your father, Yuda, and Shaka, his friend."

Both men wore their hair long, like women: Shaka's was knotted into many plaits, bound at the back with a thong; Yuda's was loose and smooth, like black feathers. Annat leant closer to Yuste, wishing she was young and small and could bury her face in her aunt's clean-scented skirts. She felt Yuste's arm encircle her shoulders.

"Hallo Yuda," Yuste said, with gentle wariness. She extended her free hand to Shaka, who bent to kiss it with a flowing gesture.