Chapter 3 Maybe This Isn’t So Awful #2
“No. We… my family doesn’t celebrate things.
My parents don’t approve of frivolity.” They used that word often, frivolous, but it might not have been included in Siya’s admittedly excellent English learning.
“They think everything should be useful and practical. Parties are not useful, and neither is archaeology.”
“I see,” he said, as if he did in fact see, perhaps more than I meant him to.
“What about the pottery vessel?” I asked, changing the subject to one less personal and probably more urgent. “You said the dew were trapped in them? How are they lured or forced into the trap? Is the precise construction of the container important or only the seals?”
He held up a hand to stem my flood of questions.
“You have many questions, but I’m afraid I have few answers.
The creation of these demon-traps is a lost skill.
We have attempted to replicate them, but they did not work.
Or perhaps it is the trick of getting the spirit into the container that we lack.
I don’t know how that part was supposed to happen. ”
“So you don’t trap demons? It’s always—like Durgan?”
Siya bowed his head. “Yes. I can only kill. To cast out a demon and leave the victim alive is a very rare skill. I only know one living now who can do it. And even then, only if the contamination is new and the dew hasn’t fully taken hold of the person. I’ve let her know that she may be needed.”
I frowned, thinking about the timescale. “They must take hold very quickly. Blake only arrived today, so Durgan can’t have encountered the dew any earlier than that.”
Siya looked at me. I thought it was the expression of someone who didn’t want to deliver bad news. “More likely Blake, or another dew, killed Durgan so his body could be worn. You saw that there was very little blood?”
“Oh.” My voice sounded wobbly. “But Blake wouldn’t… why would he do that?”
He put a warm hand on my shoulder. “Some dew have powers of persuasion. We don’t know how long he was under the influence.
It’s possible he encountered one days or weeks ago, and it persuaded him to find the others and bring them here.
I’m only guessing. Some of them cooperate and plan; others are like wild beasts driven only by hunger. ”
I shivered. “It must be awful for you to have to encounter them again and again. And why is it you that has to stop them? I know you said your family, but…?”
“It’s a very old duty,” he answered, turning the dry corner of a Pop-Tart in his fingers and looking at that instead of me.
“The story, our family handed-down story, is that an ancestor asked a god for help and was given gifts, special powers, that helped them to fight the evil spirits. And in every generation, there are a few who inherit the gifts and therefore also the duty.”
“But you didn’t volunteer,” I pressed to be sure.
“No. I don’t know if anyone does. I didn’t expect—but I didn’t refuse, either.
When I started to… to feel new senses, I realized quickly what it must be.
I could have pretended it wasn’t happening, but I accepted because I wanted to help people.
And it’s not my whole life. Most of the year is not as busy with demons as the midwinter. ”
“What do you do the rest of the time?” I asked, martial arts training montages running through my head. I had a secret addiction to action movies.
“I’m a carpenter. It’s my mother’s family’s business. Furniture mostly, some cabinets.”
“That sounds nice. I mean, if you get along with them.” Getting along with your family sounded nice. And making things that normal people could appreciate when you showed them.
“You must hate my furniture,” I said.
He laughed.
He had a nice laugh, and I liked the way his eyes crinkled.
“Your furniture is pretty crap,” he agreed. “Maybe after the demons are handled, I can make you something better.”
I had never thought about furniture beyond its functional qualities, but suddenly I wanted something handmade.
Something that I’d keep for decades until it had an antique glow, and I could run my hand over the smooth surface and tell people the crazy story of how I’d acquired it. Which of course no one would believe.
I cleared my throat. “You sound pretty confident.”
“I’ve been woodworking since I was eight.”
“I meant about the demons. Handling them.”
The twitch at the corner of Siya’s mouth said he’d known what I meant. “I’ve been doing that for a long time too, and they haven’t killed me yet.”
“Obviously,” I muttered.
“Hey.” His hand was under my chin suddenly, lifting my face to look at him. “I won’t let them get you. I give you my word; I’ll die before I let that happen.”
That was somehow more distressing than reassuring. “I don’t want that! I don’t want you to—anyway, if they killed you, I wouldn’t last long, would I?”
He huffed. “Probably true. With luck, it won’t come to that.”
I swallowed. “I don’t believe in luck.”
“Of course you don’t. Reason.” He smiled. “I have right on my side. Also large muscles. You may have noticed.”
My cheeks warmed. I had noticed. “Yes. Right. Didn’t you say poetry was part of the observation of Yalda?”
Siya’s smile widened. “You would like for me to read you poetry? I can do poetry.”
I hadn’t precisely said that, had I? Well, perhaps I’d implied it. I’d rather hear Siya recite poems than talk about dying to protect me. That had been upsetting. Surprisingly so, given how recently we’d met.
“Would you like more tea?”
“Thank you, yes.”
I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. While getting the tea out of the cabinet, I noted that I had nothing left in terms of food except a single packet of instant ramen. I wasn’t used to having houseguests.
“I don’t know anything about poetry,” I admitted as I set the teapot in front of him. “Unless it was inscribed in an ancient stone monument or clay tablet, I probably haven’t read it.”
“That’s a pity. Poetry is part of the joy of life, like music and dancing and the company of loved ones.
The things that make our struggle worthwhile.
That’s what we celebrate at Yalda.” He cleared his throat self-consciously and opened his phone.
“This is a new translation. My cousin is a translator and also a demon hunter…”
I let the rhythm of his voice wash over me while the words he had spoken a moment ago resonated.
The joy of life that makes struggle worthwhile.
I certainly didn’t have much poetry or music or company.
Did research count as a joy? I loved my work, but I wouldn’t have picked that word for it… especially not this past year.
“Turn away, voyeur night, your wandering eyes.
“The stars already are too much witness for our story.
“Blindfold yourselves, staring constellations, bear no tales,” Siya read, his deep voice soft and husky.
I blushed. Blushed! At a poem. It wasn’t even obviously sexual. Maybe it was his voice. It really had been too long since I indulged in, er, joy.
I closed my eyes for a moment to block out the embarrassment, and…