"Dymodean Wanderer" by Panu Karjalainen

The stream drew unusual patterns in the leaves above. The canopy was green, and gold, but undulating, like the trees had taken a dip in rain and parodied the stream flowing underneath. The sounds of the wood were not of those after a rain, though; they were wholly quiet, almost stifled, perhaps sleeping or lost in thought. A woman emerged from the stillness, carrying an earthenware jug, slim wooden bracelets clattering on her wrists and ankles. She knelt to the stream, and the stream reflected her figure in a fragmented haze.

She was painted white, white like the absence of colour, though here and there her naked skin flamed brown where the paint had peeled. Down to her palms, lips, and lids of her doe eyes she was white, and even her hair had been smeared so that it was of a pale greyish hue. She put forward her long arms, gingerly, and drowned the jug in the stream, flinching at the splash of the water on the pottery, careful not to let the stream touch her.

She hoisted the jug on her head and rose, glancing up at the green-gold canopy, russet eyes frowning and wondering at something up in the sky. A few drops fell on her skin and ran down her thigh, but unable to mar the paint.Slim hips swayed as she took a step back to where she had come from. A rustle in the bushes stopped her.

"Excuse me," said a voice, tone harsher than the words. The girl cried out, faltered, lost her balance. The jug fell from her head. Water splashed. A pair of sunburned hands caught the urn. The girl shirked back, shielding herself with her bonewashed hands. A man had come out of the forest around her, noiseless and tranquil like the nature itself.

Then another man followed, ghost-like, owl-like, and the girl trembled, falling into a crouch, fear making a marble mask of her face. The first man offered her the jug – he was made light bronze by the sun, crowned with wavy corn-gold, with frosty eyes and a rough mouth – and she withdrew, lips parting. The fellow shrugged, lifted the jug on top of his own head, and offered his calloused hand. The girl refused it, too.

"My name is Geno Deloi," he said, hand still extended. His voice was commanding but indolent; his dress reflected it, being sturdy yet settling on his supple frame easily. "This is my brother Moraya." He nodded to the other man, a few paces behind him. The girl's eyes moved to examine the other, and she flinched.

The other was pale and frail, fluttering like an aspen in an invisible breeze. His face was cast in the exact same mold as Geno's, every line and ridge replicated with utmost care, but somehow he was smoother, calmer, with a touch fuller lips, lacking the cruel glee which rested on his brother's brow. He bowed apologetically, and a few strands of hair, black as the raven's flight, fell over his face like a curtain drawn. He spoke, too, in airy, melancholy tunes; few soft syllables.

"You can come."

The girl got up, warily, hands flowing from her cheeks to her loins, eyes never leaving the two men. The gold-haired man made no move to give back her jug. It rocked on his golden curls gaily, as if mocking her, daring her to try and snatch it. She stood still, surly, eyes dark.

"I was wondering," Geno Deloi said idly, "if you could give us some directions. We were on our way to Flameshy, but, now, seem to be lost."

She shook her head slowly.

"Can't you talk?" he asked, pointing at her white-painted lips. "Or was your tongue painted white, too, like the rest of your body?"

Again she shook her head. He laughed, and the jug perched precariously. The girl's eyes flashed.

"Are you..." she looked for words. The blonde man urged her on with curious eyes. "Are you fays?"

Geno frowned, and behind him, Moraya, the strange mirror image, blinked. Then it was his turn to shake his head, although he did it clumsily, the jug threatening to topple over. "What kind of a question is that?"

She pointed up at the trees, the play of sunlight and leaves and water, and then at the men. With both her arms, she made a gesture that encompassed the woods around, the brook and the shuffling sward, and the men, as well. With a thrust of pale palms, she left herself out.

"You look like fays," she said simply, to contrast her complex gesture. This evoked a grunt from Geno.

"Well, can you give us some directions, stubborn woman? I said we were looking for Flameshy..."

"I don't know where that is," the girl replied quickly, "but I can take you to my tribe. Grandfather knows many things."

She made to go, turning her back to the brothers. Neither of the men moved, Geno peering after her looking saturnine, Moraya absorbed in playing with a lock of black hair. Somewhere in the reeds, a robin began piping, cheerfully and loudly, trespassing on the silence of the wood. Its song was like a mockery to the twins; darkness flashed momentarily across Geno's face, as if he had realised a joke being played on him, and he called after the white girl, already vanishing among the trees.

"What did you mean by us being fays?"

She glanced over her shoulder, upper lip curling, eyes twinkling. Her fingers made a quick cross in the air before her nose. "Following a fay around, fated to die." She said nothing more, merely stole away like a forest cat. Geno grunted and went after her, keeping the jug balanced with his hands. After a while, when the sounds of the girl and the man had all but died down, Moraya, brushing down his airy robes with exaggerated care, followed them. A nervous smile tugged up lips used to laughing.

Tents dotted the treeline. White contrasted starkly with deep brown and blue and, here and there, drops of red. Curt calls of men, quiet, bustling, children's tapping feet. The girl led Geno and Moraya out of the wood, head drawn up. At the sight of her, and the twins, people among the tents raised their hands. The girl raised her hand, returning the greeting, and made other gestures with her fingers, which got mumbled responses, a few awkward smiles, a bark of laughter. She turned, then, and her eyes demanded Geno return her the jug of water. He did so, nonchalantly, looking around with some interest.

With a sharp gesture, the girl called one of the children playing nearby to her, a wide-eyed boy carrying a stick that by the looks of it pretended to be a spear. ”Zuzun,” the girl said, ”these two fay-men came to me in the woods and said they want to meet the chief. You must take them to the chief quickly, before they put a curse on the tribe!”'

Geno made a noise, partly amused, partly irritated. The girl mumbled a farewell and waved her thumbs before her eyes, and almost grinned. The expression was gone in an instant, as if fearing to be discovered, perhaps a veiled joke or an insult; Geno Deloi looked at her flatly. The joke was lost on the little boy. His expression was open with fear, but he could not turn away from the magic-fiends placed on his responsibility. The boy could not utter a word.

”We're not faeries or elves, little boy,” Geno said somewhat gently, dropping into a crouch. The boy stepped back. ”And even if we were, we'd not put a charm over a people that shows hospitality to us. Could you take us to the chief of the tribe now?”

Moraya dropped into a crouch besides Geno, mocking the exact poise of his brother. He was smiling, eyes closed. ”Following a fay around,” he said, ”fated to die.”

At this, the boy quickly turned on his heel and scampered off to the tent-dotted rise. Geno took his brother's hand and they followed the boy. The boy headed for a rocky mound rising among the tents, on top of which lay a tent larger than the rest, dyed with a myriad green and blue stripes. People among the tents, one and all glaring white, spots of haphazard brown here and there, watched them walk like butterflies taken human form. At the foot of the mound, their guide shot them a fearful look, and vanished.

The twins climbed the mound and came to the blue-striped tent. Two tall men stood on the hard-packed earth, paint gleaming fresh on their bodies and making them like statues carved out of limestone. One had a polished wooden tube in his hands, and the other carried a feathered staff. Both nodded and touched their necks at the brothers. Geno gave in return a roundabout bow, attention wandering lazily far and wide; Moraya stared out from the mound, away at the grassy fields running to the horizon. Geno introduced himself and Moraya with a few clipped words.

"I was told I could get some directions from you," he added. The man with the staff smirked and scratched his cheek; this caused the other to grunt a guttural laugh. The staff-bearer opened the tent flap and nodded in.

"You may enter," he said politely.

Geno strode to the flap and shot a glance at his brother. Moraya was standing rooted to the spot, gazing over the grass ocean. Geno shrugged and crouched in. The inside of the tent was as bare as the outside. There were a couple of rugs on the ground, a few fetishes made of birds lying around, and some parchment in dreary rolls. An old man, paint sinking into his wrinkled skin, drawing grey lines on tired flesh, sat on a skin in the middle of the tent. His vulture-like head jerked around shakily, concentrating blue blazing eyes at Geno.

"Greetings, old man," Geno said, dropping down in front of him, folding his legs. "I was wondering if you could help me."

The fragile creature was silent for a moment, strong eyes examining Geno, noticing the clean cut of the clothes, the skin that had endured much but still appeared fresh, unblemished, the rising and falling of a strong, fierce chest.

"The Removed go as they will, and pass between mortal lives with destructive carelessness. Who am I to deny one of your kind?"

Geno grinned an uneasy grin. "Flameshy," was all he said, and that between clenched teeth. The old man nodded and fumbled for a roll of animal hide. Geno observed his motions, the unhurried crawling of the spidery fingers, and gradually his shoulders lost tension, his posture changing from anxious to guarded, then to easy, then relaxed. A flame settled back in the orbs of his eyes, and the searing frigidity mellowed in him.

After a while he cocked his head, listening to some outside sound. A humming, wordless chant, buzzed without. Geno reached to the tent-flap and glanced outside. He saw some of the white-painted folk kneeling, rapt. The old man coughed. Geno glanced back at him, and clambered out of the tent.

The tribespeople were on their knees by their tents, some standing, all chanting, low musical humble voices moving in the same rhythm. They faced the grassy plains, the horizon, the winds. Geno turned to see what they were seeing, but his hasty eyes skimmed over the scenery, frowning, not seeing anything worthwhile. The elder came out of his tent, leaning on a stick.

"What are your people worshipping, old man?" Geno asked, still peering at the horizon.

"The Pale Man," the grandfather answered. "He wanders the plains. He is the sign of eternity."

Geno strained his eyes. In the distance, a figure moved. There was a flash of naked, snowy flesh; a streak of freewheeling hair, colourless, limp. From beyond the capability of human eyes, somehow carried through light and wind, the glance of eyes, shallow, melancholy blue. The tribespeople seemed to follow the every move of that distant stranger, who showed no sign that it knew them, or cared about them.

"The tribe paint their skin white to identify with the Pale Man. None follow." The grandfather made a sign in the air, a solemn twirl of the forefinger. Geno snorted.

"Very interesting," he said, and went back to the tent.

Moraya lay in the grass. The tents of the white-painted folk were a hundred yards behind him; the chants were growing dim and slow and inaudible. Moraya rose, readjusted his flowy tunic and skirt, brushed his air-skimming hair. The reeds swayed, batting his legs, crunching under his sandals. He shuffled forward eagerly. Somewhere ahead of him, a pale snowy shadow momentarily appeared and then vanished, offered by the meandering hips of the steppes, sometimes gone in the vales, sometimes visible on the hills. Moraya panted, face darkened by deep concentration, eyes upturned.

There were glimpses at first. Moraya's feet drummed the earth. Then the figure grew more distinct; the pale stranger who was unknown but beautiful, perhaps a reminder of some lost place. Moraya stopped, only for the briefest of moments, to shade his ever-wandering eyes and see the stranger more clearly. Skin like paper, colourless and fragile, fell limbs, hair made of straw-coloured snow; then, half-imagined, half-real, the eyes, glancing over one bony shoulder: the free wind blowing over tundra, the ice and glee, the exotic power of a land far away. Moraya leaped, brows laughing, and dashed after the entity.

He rolled down and up the plain like a horse. The pale stranger strode on, in quietness and peace, much like the wind wanders over a trackless expanse of land, unhindered by human will. The distance between them was less and less. A gladness broke on Moraya's face, and got greater and greater as he ran. Memories like living stars swam in his expression; it was like things of the past were welling up on his very skin, making him fresh and alive. The line of his thin mouth was frozen in a grin. Puffs of breath wheezed between the teeth.

The pale stranger stopped; sunlight seemed to shine right through him, making his skin and flesh like paper, transparent and frail. His head was poised, eyes staring somewhere between heaven and earth, halfway turned over his shoulder. Shadows escaped along his spine. The slim, naked torso seemed too weak to contain something within, a feeling or a scenery – Moraya slowed his steps, raised his hand, brow furrowing – desire, curiosity, recognition – and the pale stranger snapped erect, became electrified and haughty, broke into a run like a quiet thunder-stroke.

Moraya recoiled, a smile wavering on a hesitant face. Then he, too, started to run. Delight made his body glow; there was the eager want to catch this colourless creature, to gently take it, explore it, discover the elusive feeling shimmering on the edges of the mind... the wind blew roughly, it tried to push back the invading man, coiling protectively around the pale stranger, a glimpse of a feather in the current... and Moraya threw himself at the wind, resisted it with the splendid glee of a fighter, his entire being finding the resistance exhilarating.

He reached one steel-fingered hand, quivering determined silver. He was suddenly through the air, conqueror and dominator. The game was now over. Moraya laid a hand on the shoulder of the pale stranger. What was it? ...and the mystery died under his fingers.

The pale stranger was gone. The wind did not blow. The plains were very empty, very alone, forlorn and dark. Moraya stared around, disbelieving at first, then, bewildered. The pale stranger was gone, snapped to nothingness, as if he had never existed. Moraya spun around, again and again, desperate eyes filling with tears. All there was to see was the endless grass. As if strength itself was abandoning his body, Moraya sunk to the ground. Shivers wracked his body. Tears splashed into the uncaring soil.

He wailed out. The pale stranger was gone – he had never existed – what had been had been an illusion, the vague dream of someone far-away. The illusion had been there to torment him, the idle free child. Moraya wailed. There was betrayal in his voice, and something worse – the shattering of a hope, the memory of a long-gone home. Moraya wailed. Anguish tore at his throat.

Then the gentle spirit was there. Warm arms caught Moraya, and locked his body in a cage of comfort. A soft mouth spoke nonsensical words to his ear, like to a baby, or a whimpering pet. Geno Deloi was there, sudden and strong. He would not let go. He did not say anything, not anything that had meaning in it; it was simply enough that he was there. Little by little, the tremors whipping Moraya ceased, melding away. Tears were dried on the harsh fabric of Geno's sleeve. A smile of forgetfulness broke through the clouds of strife on his face.

"Shall we go?" Geno asked his brother, helping him up tenderly. Moraya nodded, tears gone and forgotten. The twins strode in the vanishing light, quickly disappearing in the tall grass. Only the sky remembered the wails of the lost boy any more.