The Bells

The bells toll on the height, and in the valley below, smoke rises lazily into the warm, airy spaces of the long and slow-passing afternoon.

The precipice yawns open before me, and the void stretches out to fold me to her breast; a pebble slips from beneath my feet and drops away into oblivion as an eagle screams out its defiance of the heavens.

What is it to be brave?

“Here, your honor,” the man whispered to me, raising a bandage-shrouded limb to accept the water-jug I brought with me to tend to the cursed ones, the Lazarenes.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Mikaelis from his crevice, and wiggled his toes. He was as naked as Adam and with less shame, and he lay sprawled in his chosen place, the place from which he rarely stirred. I felt the stare of his startling blue eyes — eyes which captured the sky and condensed it into perfect irises that threatened to swallow you. He never spoke, except to laugh at some private joke all of his own.

“Thank you, your honor,” whispered the stricken man as he offered up the jug for its return, letting his ravaged arm fall limply as I took it, ignoring Mikaelis as I always did. The missing joints and fingers of his hand left it looking alien and tortured beneath the filthy linen wrapping.

I moved on to the next man.

It was hard to think of the shapeless thing which lay at my feet as having once been a man.

“Water?” I asked softly, a question which garnered no response; the thing, I began to be certain, was dead. But I stayed and spoke to it, not, I think, for it, but for myself:

“Water?” I asked the thing-which-was-dead.

“Yes,” it croaked in a dry, vaguely feminine voice, “yes, your honor, for the gods’ sake.” She raised herself up, or attempted to — her arm buckled beneath her and I reached out to take her shoulder and lift her upright.

“Thank you,” she murmured, slipping shapeless hands around the jug and drinking deeply from it.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Mikaelis from his crevice, and wiggled his toes. A man lay dead, not far from him, the corpse mangled and misshapen beneath the linen, and I sighed. Delinquent were the two brothers who today had been chosen to remove the dead, as they always were, and in this hot sun, the air in the low valley of lepers would become more fetid and poisonous by far; I met the eyes of the woman at my feet and saw there the dull certainty of inevitable death.

I wondered if she was afraid.

Was she a noblewoman — had she been a noblewoman before being tainted with such an awful curse: to see herself fall apart, piece by piece? Had she been beautiful — wrapped in lovely silks and gauzy fabric beneath the vaulted roof of her seaside villa?

Now she was wrapped in linen and rotting flesh; now she was nothing: a living corpse waiting for the inevitable consequence of death.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Mikaelis, and his voice echoed in a cacophony of empty mirth.

In the silence which followed, I turned aside and slowly ascended the steps towards the monastery; I had done my duty: the dead were another’s problem.

I stare down into the void and shake the recollection from my mind.

I wonder—

Why is life worth living? We are all lepers, in our way: simply dead men waiting to die.

I spread my hand out before me, stretching the fingers apart so that they are silhouetted against the valley floor, so far and distant below me: the first signs of the infection are clear and I curl my fingers into a fist to hide them.

I see my fingers respond but—

I feel nothing in them: no life moves them and they are as a shell.

In years past those fingers had held a sword; now all strength has left them. I look once more at the emptiness before me. I hear the echo of a madman’s laughter and turn away: not today, today I am a coward.

Who is more strong: the man who waits for death or he who rushes to claim it?

And so I wander, my feet carrying me far from the place wherein I waited for others to die. I wander, and I watch, and I wait, and I look for men who bear themselves with the same manner as those I wandered amongst as a priest and tender to the Lazarene, for I am one with them and will know them.

And as I wander I see that I have always lived in a colony of lepers, one which stretches the world over, and my eyes see the fear that consumes all those who walk the dusty roads of this benighted land.

Am I a brave man, father? You always said that a man must feel fear in order to be brave — and I am no longer afraid.

Now I find myself in a place that is itself dead, with others who are waiting to die in a curious mix of greed and fear and hope. I am myself a different man, or perhaps the same; I wear a mask and wield a broken sword with what remains of my ailing strength, and if I should die then there is perhaps some comfort in the fact that those who slay me will have killed only that which is already dead.

Keep the Fire

The flames danced dully in the suffocating darkness; the crackle and snap of the scavenged logs, the sensual experience of the fire’s life, seemed far-off and distant, as if it had become divorced from the thing which gave it presence.

She knew that she should be looking outward into the darkness, keeping watch for the creeping things which infested even these upper, more airy regions; but her eyes could not be drawn away from the fire which cast its feeble circle of light about them: a halo of divine protection.

It was a primal joy, the fire; the gods had abandoned them long ago, and uncaring winds blew restlessly through long-abandoned holy places. But fire—fire was a piece of the sublime, a radiant force, a shard of some long-forgotten god which brought light even in its destruction.

The temple was shabby in comparison to such an awesome glory; a clumsy imitation—a pitiful effort to capture in stony marble a thing which lived and breathed and glowed with the breath of a god.

There had been nowhere else to go, nowhere else to turn: the troubles of a frail orphaned girl did not stir even the dreams of the dead gods, and she had been so alone. The sun had caught on the marble of the temple, and the veins of gold which wove through the solid stone seemed to flow with a fulgent life that had stunned her and had defied her understanding.

A woman, wreathed in yellow and orange silks had stood atop the steps. She had seemed as much a part of the temple as the stone which had builded it, and for Junia she had seemed a goddess reborn in the sunlight. Barefoot, dressed in rags, and covered in grime and filth from head to toe, Junia had climbed up the grueling stairs to stand before the priestess. Their eyes had met: golden yellow and bright blue: the sun and the sky. Junia had not been able to bear the examination for long, and had let her eyes drop, so that she stood, head bowed, on the verge of the temple.

The priestess, still silent, had reached down to clasp her hand, and led her inside.

A distant howl, echoing up from somewhere in the deeping depths below them, startled Junia from her memories. She looked up, startled, and felt the fire still dulling her vision of the darkness.

“I have heard it said that the priestesses see the future in the flames.”

Junia turned her head toward the cold, calm voice, and regarded the man who had spoken. He had slept with his armor on, a wise precaution in these dark spaces, and the chainmail coif pushed back about his neck glinted dully in the firelight. The man’s face was one of those which defied aging; he was handsome, or might once have been, and his face was lined and worn, his black hair and stubble showed the creeping encroach of grey. Junia did not even know his name.

“What do you see, priestess?” he asked softly.

One day, when the orphan had grown into a long and gangly girl, two of the priestesses had come to her room, wrapped in a silk so white it had hurt her eyes to look at it. They had each taken one of her hands and led her into a part of the temple which she had never seen before: had been forbidden to even speak of. They undressed her and bathed her in cool, clear water, and then wrapped her in the harsh white silks which they themselves still wore—and then they were gone. Junia had looked around herself, at the door which had not been there a moment ago, and the wall which had once been a door. The silk glided smoothly over her skin, and she tried not to look at it.

For a long while she had not known what to do.

There was nothing else to be done. She had taken one step, and then another, through the door which had not been a door, and came to a room great and domed and filled with light. She had found herself in its center, and by some chance the sun was above her, shining down through an aperture at the very apex of the dome. She looked up and saw it: a great orb of fire that shone down in a beam of light upon her and only her; it blinded her, and she could not look away—so great was the brightness that the temple around her, which she had once thought filled with light, seemed to be in utter darkness.

And then there was fire all around her, licking and clawing at her, the heat of it was unbearable: unbearable, and each moment was as a lifetime. She was in the heart of a very star, and she was terribly and utterly alone. The white silk of her raiment had not burned but melted before the flames as they grew closer, ever closer, until Junia had screamed in agony as the liquid sunfire shrouded her body, running in streaming rivers across her skin.

And then it was over: she was Junia, and the sun had passed her over, leaving her in a temple which seemed in contrast now filled with darkness and with shadow. But she glowed, now, and her sistren too, glowed with a sunfire which wreathed them in glory undimmed, and her eyes were golden and bright as she was wrapped in the orange and yellow silks which marked her as a Vestal.

She it was thereafter who stood atop the white marble steps and watched the passerby and the rare man or woman who made pilgrimage to commune with their temple. In this way, almost unnoticed, years had passed her by as she spent them in quiet contemplation, until she found herself dull and dimmed and tired.

One day, filled with doubt, she had gone to see the reverend mother, a woman who had grown old in the temple, and who still glowed with the sunfire of her past.

At length, after a long and vocal silence, Junia had spoken, her voice wrenched by quiet doubt: “What is our purpose?”

The old woman, still tall and straight, unbent by age, had watched her closely, measuring the younger woman. “We keep the fire,” she had replied gently.

“The gods are dead,” came the answering whisper, “what reason have we to keep it?”

“Must there be a reason?”

“Yes!” Junia had whispered fiercely, “Yes, there must!”

“If the fire should die, what would be left?”

Junia hesitated and fell silent, and her eyes dropped to the stone floor. The reverend mother had stood and paused on the threshold as she walked from the room. “We carry the fire with us, Junia, into whatever darkness we may go.”

“Priestess?” the man repeated questioningly, dragging Junia once more from her remembrance.

Junia smiled at him wanly, and inclined her head; the reflected firelight glinted in her golden eyes. “People say many things,” she replied, and that was all.

Literary

24 May 1891

I have spent the past week largely in consideration.  Rebecca has decided to take a trip across the Unterzee to visit a friend in the colonies.  Societal opinion be damned, she said, and I agree.  She and Lisa were once very close, and I am glad that they will have an opportunity to reconnect.  I fear, however, that she may be shocked to see what condition her friend is now in.  The tomb colonies are forbidding places even for the stout of heart.

I offered to convey her there aboard the Zub, but Rebecca insisted on buying a ticket aboard a steamer; once was enough, apparently, and who could blame her?  Even I only go aboard the vessel when necessary; certainly less often than I did only two years ago, when I was a younger and much more foolish man.  I will miss Rebecca, however.  Yet the Zee calls to me, promising things I have forgotten, and rumors of wonders I have not seen: the obsidian crowds and ivory armies, the spirềd cities, the orchards of savage apples, the jungles teeming with serpent-dreams, the places where the world is broken by time and doubt.  Damn, that would make a good book…  I am not as foolish as I once was, however, and will not now willingly brave the black Unterzee without a rutter as I once routinely did, only a few short years ago.

Outside her company, I have few friends, and I am ashamed to admit that I have allowed my acquaintance with those I do have to lapse shamefully.  I took the time to call on a few contacts, as well as The Wry Functionary, who still holds court at the palace.  We even played a game of cards with some of his bureaucratic friends.  They did not measure up, I’m afraid, but they were good for a handful of amber.  After the game, we took a walk, the airs being unnaturally light, and visited our mutual acquaintance The Repentant Forger, who seems in good health.  We talked well into the night after sharing a bottle of port, and he exhibited his latest work for the both of us: an exceptional piece.  His skill improves markedly with each painting, and I encouraged him to submit it to the gallery, but he demurred.  Perhaps he fears his legacy will haunt him even there.  I still have a fair amount from the last commission – perhaps I shall start my own gallery?  I have not been active enough lately, and I think Rebecca suffers from it.  Perhaps she might enjoy running a gallery together?

Sisyphus has taken to attacking visitors who pass through my door by dropping onto their hair and chittering at them.  I would find it terrifying myself if their reactions weren’t so hilarious, and I might otherwise put a stop to it, but I simply cannot bring myself to crush his efforts at individuality.  I believe he and the sorrow-spider are waging some sort of war over my affections, and I have more than once caught them facing each other down with terrifying aggression.  The Raven, as always, is above such pedestrian activity, and seems content to sit atop my bust of Athena and simply observe.  He eats seeds now exclusively, and I find the expense aggravating, but a man in my position deserves a few luxuries, and he is my fastest friend, however odd that may sound.  I confess that at this point my home is only a few cages short of a menagerie, but they largely take care of themselves, and they are very useful.  The Ocelot and The Dog have a playful rivalry, but they restrain themselves; Rebecca dotes on the Ocelot, but The Dog and I have been through many trials together, and he guards my home faithfully – whatever Sisyphus does not run off, The Dog will handle.

I have also taken a commission to write a serialized short-story for The London Magazine – the Masters be damned – but prose was never my strong suit, and I confess that my ham-handed attempt at a patriotic adventure did not go over particularly well.  I have lately been mocked as old-fashioned, in certain circles, for my set of Epic poems of the Middle Ages, but their quality is undeniable.   The Raven has just suggested that we compose a book of philosophy together. An idea worth considering, certainly.  He is a wise creature, and I feel the philosophy of age creep upon me with each passing year.  Perhaps once the short-story is complete.  

 

 

 

Memories

13 May, 1891

As I passed through Veilgarden this evening, I felt the airs of the ‘Neath cling to my coat, weighing it down so that I was forced to make an almost conscious effort to continue forward.  It shocks me, sometimes, to realize how accustomed I have become to life here in this place.  I have dwelt here for too long, here in this wretched city: so long that the memory of what drove me from the surface dwindles and fades; I long for the feel of wind on my cheek and starlight on my brow.

I dreamt last night of the rain of my homeland, of sheets and torrents of water pouring down upon a grassy field, and I emerged the next morning to the beauty of new-fresh air and sun-dappled leaves green with life.

I woke to the darkness of London with tears in my eyes, and could not bring myself to leave the comfort of my house.  I long for my true home, but I dare not leave — I cannot leave: too many acts have been set in motion; too many threads remain unraveled.

I have sat idle for so long, and lost the count of years I have spent consigned to this hellish place.  I became content and I forgot so many important things.  I have returned to my old haunts, and now the memories come flooding back to me: The Masters, The Correspondence, The Mirrors.

I do not know what the future holds — the Bishop believes that he shall triumph, but I am not sure.  I have fought many wars, and this one seems as hopeless as any — for masters as worthless as any.  But there are yet things to do here, in this hollowed skull, for my own self and for others, and I will see them through no matter the cost.