The Burning Ground

3. Radio show

“Who are you?”

“You don’t need to know that. Which one of you’s the technician?” :It’-was a small room, filled with unlikely looking gadgetry, clumsy stuff she could just barely recognize from experiences in her first life. The lighting was harsh, provided by two bare bulbs in ceiling sockets. One of the turntables had a reddish-brown disk on it with an arm moving across it. She could hear a faint hiss but no other sound. One mal sat before the turntable, an earphone harness on his head, the other stood with his back against the wall, clutching a cup of congealing tea. Both of them kept glancing at the pellet rifle in her hand, then looking away.

“Why?” It was the seated mal who spoke. He shoved a phone off his ear and swiveled his chair about till he was facing her, using his body to cover the subtle move of his hand toward the standard of a microphone.

“Don’t opt for dead hero, mal. Put both hands flat on your thighs.” She waited until he complied. “Why? I want you to record some songs for me.”

“Huh?”

She could feel the surge of curiosity that almost overcame his fear. “That’s a studio on the far side of that window, right?”

“Right. What kind of songs?”

“Laments, my friend. Hohekil songs.” She glanced at the disk revolving slowly on the turntable. The business end of the pickup had progressed very little since she’d walked in. “You’ve got about an hour there, haven’t you.”

She felt his annoyance. He wanted to lie, but he didn’t quite dare. Not yet. “Just about,” he said.

“Should be plenty of time. Besides, it’s way past midnight. I doubt you’ll get many complaints about a bit of dead air. What’s your name?”

“Kushay.”

“And yours?”

“Habbel.” His voice was sullen. He was considerably younger than the other mal, an apprentice perhaps. “All right, Kushay and Habbel, I want you to listen carefully. I don’t intend harm, but I do mean to sing my songs for people to listen to, even if only the few who are out of bed tonight.”

“You’re not Impix or Pixa. Why are you doing this?”

“Say that I’m moon mad, inn?”

“What makes you think we won’t shave the master once you’ve gone?”

She laughed. “I trust my gift, Kushay. You won’t want to throw them away. I’ll give you a sample.” She repeated a few of the vocalizations she’d gone through before coming here and when she felt easy, she said, “The first song is called Thela Mal.’

“We dance at the jerk of puppet strings worked by feathered Ptakkan fingers, (her voice sobbed over fingers, putting anguish and anger in the syllables, then dropped to a hush for the next line) playing out our games of war for the watchers’ ghastly pleasure. (pleasure was soft and drawn out, controlled fury)

Oh, the joy that killing brings!

The joy the joy that killing brings… (the sibilant at the end of brings hissed then softened, melting into the next line)

But the thrill so briefly lingers

Our burning blood cries out for more.

Let us be lavish with our gore

Fill the Ptakkan purse with treasure

Inflame the watchers’ endless leisure

Kill until Pix and Imp are gone

And this song’s forever done.”

As he understood the nature of the song and her voice crept under his skin, Kushay shivered. When Shadith was finished and Habbel started to speak, he raised a hand to stop him. “You said songs.” His voice was hoarse. “Like that?”

“Yes. Like that. And the profit’s all yours. Moon mad, remember? All I want is for those songs to be heard as widely as possible.”

“Habbel, take her into the studio. Help her get set up. I’ll run the board.”

“Kush, Brother Umbula won’t like…”

“Listen to me, Hab. You have any idea how much Icisel or Gajul and the rest will pay for a voice like that? And we don’t say word one she isn’t Impix or Pixa, you hear me?”

“… and this song is called ‘Children of War.’

“Child of the hill,

Child of the city, why do you kill, with absence of pity?

Blood taints the land till only weeds grow and the only one pleased is the carrion crow.

Your children demand food you can’t find.

The farmer who tills is smoke on the wind.

Friend murders friend and families decay.

Child of the city,

Child of the hill, with half of us fled and the other half dead, who will repay the blood that you spill?”

When she’d finished the other two songs, she turned to face the window. “That’s done. Put on another master, please. I have an announcement I think you’ll need to record and pass on.”

“What’s this?” His voice came through the grill with an eerie mechanical aura to it.

“I promise you it’s important.”

“All right.”

When she got the signal, she drew in a long breath, let it trickle out.

“I am one who will not countenance what is being done here. What I say is truth, the proof will come on the night. Assassins have been sent to Linojin. These are their targets:

The Holy Brother Hafambua.

The Blessed Kuxagan the Prophet Speaker.

Noxabo, Arbiter of the Hohekil.

On the Night of the Unshelling, twelve strangers come to kill. And not just to kill but to lay blame among the factions of Linojin. Those who Fenced you here wish it said that the Prophet Speaker ordered one death and the Arbiter another two and so on till each is blamed for the other’s dying. Those who Fenced you here have sent them to destroy the peace of Linojin.

Guard yourselves. Be not alone.

Believe me or not, it does no harm to be sure. Blessed be Linojin.

May its peace endure.