I had, from the moment I first heard the voice of Ranya when I was young and wild, lived with the belief I was chosen by a god. Sometimes I had gloried in it, when my journey had taken me across great vistas. When I watched the geysers at Tilt or saw a river of water fall into a chasm in Seerstem. When I was fed by the kindness of strangers. Other times I had cursed it, when my feet blistered for want of good shoes, when I walked alone along freezing roads, when I begged for shelter and found all doors shut against me.
Yet, to believe yourself a thing is very different to finding out you really are that thing, and not only chosen in this life, but chosen in death and many lives before. Spinning round and round and round through endless lifetimes trying to right some wrong I can neither understand nor remember.
Though moaning about it will not help, I suppose. Even if it does make me feel a little better.
Let me look at the good in my current existence: I have a body, that is a good start, or at least an awareness of a body though it has no true substance to it. Still, it is better than nothing and I have missed my body. I can look down and see myself, though I am not flesh as I understand it. I am not solid, but I have legs that walk if I think walk and arms that move if I think move. This is all a great improvement. I can also pass my hand through my body, something I found out by accident and did not enjoy. That is not an improvement at all.
Before me were the three gifts given to me by Ranya, glowing gently in the darkness. A walknut to find the way, a crownhead to travel on and a sewing kit to fix things. I have never been much for sewing, and I have never heard of anyone riding a crownhead, and though a walknut would be useful I had no pockets and would probably lose it. Gods are strange creatures, giving unto us gifts without so much as an instruction on what they are for or why or how to use them. Or maybe Ranya had told me before how to use them, many times and simply thought I knew. Or maybe Ranya was bored of telling me and of me still getting whatever I was meant to do wrong.
There was a noise, as if a hundred thousand people sighed. No one there. Only the ghosts of myself and they were poor company as they insisted on being barely seen. The walknut, the strange triangle, rocked slightly where it lay on the nothing in this nowhere. I picked it up.
“I wish I had pockets,” I told it, “or I will lose you.” A shiver. A shimmer and a twist and my shadow body was clothed, a jerkin and a long skirt with pockets. “You grant wishes?” I held up the walknut. “What a fine thing you are. I wish for a feast of rare raniri meat and forest vegetables, roasted over an open fire.” I lifted the walknut high, as if to expose it to the Light Above, although that did not exist here.
Nothing happened.
“So, you only grant some wishes?” It did not answer, magic nuts are not great conversationalists. Next I picked up the sewing kit, a simple thing of needle, thread and pins in a folded cloth. I took out the needle and it grew in to a glowing spear that vibrated softly in my grip. “I hope I am not expected to fight with you, I am not much of a fighter. Not that I have met anyone here to fight.” I looked around, hoping I was not wrong and hordes of soldiers bent on murder were about to appear, but nothing came from the darkness, no dark creatures intent on killing me.
Again.
What will happen if I die again? Another question I will ask Ranya if the great glowing star ever reappears.
I replaced the needle in the wrapping and put it in my pocket. Then approached the crownhead. It eyed me warily and apart from a gentle golden glow around its horns, and an ornate and beautiful leather pad on its back, no doubt for sitting on when riding, it was no different to any other crownhead.
“Hello,” I said to it. It blinked at me, the pupils of its eyes like tiny black stars in the whites. I wondered if this was normal for crownheads or if this one was special. Cahan would know, I wished he was here to ask. Though I suppose that was wishing him dead, which I did not. “You are to take me places,” I told it. “And as you appear to be the only other living thing here, we should be friends.” The crownhead bleated gently and I put out my hand towards its muzzle. In return it immediately snapped at me. It had a set of extremely pointed teeth. That was definitely not normal for a crownhead. “Is our relationship to be adversarial then?” It blinked at me. “I had hoped not, though I suppose I would want to bite someone if I knew they were about to ride on my back.” It let out a low bleat again and looked away. I noticed very thin chains ran from the riding pad and through the crownhead’s ears, no doubt to steer it with. “Maybe you would be friendlier if I gave you a name?” I reached out once more and it let out a warning hiss. “Cahan would be a good name for you. He is someone I knew when I was alive and a lot like you, personality wise.” It hissed again. “I agree, Crownhead, I would not want to be named after him either, though he was a good friend. And you are definitely not a Venn or a Furin. Maybe you are an Ont?” Again, a hiss. “Possibly, a name can be thought of later.” I stepped round the creature’s vicious mouth and towards its mid-quarters, where a loop of leather hung to help the rider ascend. It was definitely larger than most crownheads. As I neared, the creature shied away.
I tried again.
The same.
And again. And again. And again until I was quite exasperated.
“Now listen to me, beast,” I said to it. “You were given to me by a god, and it would no doubt be a good idea to consider what such a creature will do to you if you continue to deny their will and refuse to let me ride.” It turned away and showed me its behind. I decided that, gift from a god or not, I did not like this creature much and made a wide circle around its rear as crownheads can give a vicious kick.
It definitely did not want to be ridden.
Whenever I approached it skipped away, bucking its hind legs and making a quite unpleasant screeching sound. Eventually it calmed down and stood a good distance away from me, watching me with its starry eyes.
“You are a bad creature,” I told it. The crownhead did not seem to care and began to eat invisible grass. I could not help thinking this may be some sort of test. Though why my god would test me if it also wanted me to carry out some task for it, I did not understand; it seemed unfair and annoyed me. Instead of chasing the beast I sat on the ground, which existed without being there. I could not see it but I could not pass my hands through it, which I suppose is important for something that wants to call itself ground. Though I would say it is also important for something that intends to be a body but I am not a god in charge of a strange realm beyond life, so maybe there are things I am unaware of.
Why a crownhead? This realm was not flat like the world I came from. It was left and right and forward and back as well as being up and down. A gasmaw would be far more useful. Though I knew less about gasmaws than I knew about crownheads I had never heard of them being ridden either.
A small light in my mind. I had once had a crownhead. When I was very young. Not a real one – a toy, and I played with it when I was alone. When my older brothers and sisters mocked me for being the youngest and a dreamer, when my family had no time for me. My father had burned it, told me it was a crutch to lean upon that made me weak. That I should get used to being alone and become strong, as I was from a strong family.
I did get used to being alone of course. Though he had not intended me to become an outcast. Careful what you wish for, I say. I had not thought about that toy crownhead in all the years I was alive. Even though I still remembered the pain of losing it. The way I had cried when my father put it on the fire. The beatings I got for my tears.
My crownhead had a name. A silly childish name, no more than a sound I enjoyed saying, but it had been a comfort to me and even when it had gone I had kept its feel in my mind with that name. I stood.
“Syerfu.” I shouted it into the unmaterial of this place. The crownhead lifted its great horned face and turned it towards me. “I shall name you Syerfu!” It considered this, bleated, then ran towards me, skipping and kicking out its back legs in a way that was joyful and made me want to laugh out loud. It stopped and let me use its thick fur to pull myself up onto the leather seat. I burrowed my face in its fur and found it smelled familiar, safe and soft and warm like my bed when I had been very young. “You are a link, are you not? To my past, to the world of the living.” The crownhead shivered and I felt us come closer together, become part of one another. I had thought the golden chains through its ears looked cruel but I did not need to pull on them. I held them lightly in one hand. With the other I took out the walknut and held it aloft. “Show me where to go,” I said. A light, bright and blinding grew from the walknut in my hand. It slowly became a line, pointing far ahead of me. “Go Syerfu, go!” I shouted.
We moved.
So different to how I had moved before. Such speed. The air rushed past and despite the sensation of going faster than any person ever had, I felt safe on Syerfu’s back, I felt cared for as we streaked into the darkness.