Chapter 1
The knock on the dark door was like a knell. A big black dot on a white page. Announcing the end of a sentence and the beginning of another. He had come. An old stunted man opened the door just a crack and peered out into the freezing ink. No words were uttered, only looks exchanged. The old man opened the door and let the stranger in. The guest walked straight in without expecting to be led. He didn’t need to be. The house was lit only by enough light to see contours in black and blacker. The only hint of any color apart from a grayish yellow was a purple picture of a man and his son. The man stood with a long blade in his hand and the little boy clutched his father’s hand very timidly. The boy’s eyes were transfixed on the lowly creature in front of them, a fotham. The front of its face and its horns had been painted a dull red, redder than the rest. If purple was white in the picture, then this color was the color of blood. Minutes after that picture was taken, the little boy beheaded the fotham and puked and cried and lost sleep for a month and grew up and old and now lay in the bed in the room at the end of the dark hall in the purple house with the purple picture.
The room was lit only by one lamp, and that too was running low on oil. So the flame flickered. Anyone who walked into the room would think this was one of the long nights these men and women sat up for an infamous nizzecher performance and watched the shadows dance like black flames on the walls and got hypnotized by the yellow blurs and told their spouses every sorrow and every truth they had known since their unhappy childhoods. That would not have been very far from the truth, except that this particular nizzecher performance was coming to an end – to an end at least in this city. It would continue in another place and another time after tonight. And it was to help sing the ending credits for this place’s performance that the stranger was here.
As he walked into the claustrophobic space, he sniffed. The air smelt of blood and sweat, not of tears and sorrow. That was because this was the house of a warrior. Ever since the day he decapitated the red-headed fotham and came of age, the man lying in bed was used to the iron smell of blood and the soggy smell of flesh. And that man now lay wrapped almost completely in yellow cloth, smelling his own sogginess and iron. The squatting crowd in the room parted at the door to let the guest enter. He walked slowly and purposefully to the foot of the bed and turned around and looked at the man in the bed for the first time. The man in the bed slowly opened his eyes and looked straight ahead into the eyes of the guest and his head lolled forward so it seemed like he nodded painfully and flinched because the nod pressed out blood from his neck and it spurted out on his own chest. It was dark red blood, straight from a vein. But he only barely flinched. His ego and his race did not allow him more than that.
The stranger did not start. He stood stock still and waited. Eyes stared at his silhouette and whispers rippled around.
Another knell rent the metal air. The stunted man looked only slightly surprised. He dragged his feet out of the room and returned with another man, who entered the room with a little more speed than the stranger and he was shorter than and lacked the liquidity in movement that the stranger showed. He halted beside the first guest and nodded. For the dozen witnesses in that crack of a room, the tall man simply floated to the head of the bed and sat and in the chair set beside the lying man’s head. The whole movement seemed to take an eon but only the shorter man, who had the trained eyes, saw, with a twang of jealousy, how fast he moved. The tall man took the sick man’s heavily bandaged hands in his own and looked straight into his eyes and his lips widened into a smile. It was not a happy smile. It showed very little of his off-white teeth, but the man in the bed felt a cool warmth spread in his hands. Neither man’s eyes looked away or closed. The tall man, hunched in his chair slowly began to straighten up. The man in the bed too rose with him, never letting go of his hands. The tall man barely started to lean when he let go of his hands, one by one, and fell back into the chair. This time it felt like an eon even to the short onlooker. The chair creaked like it pained it to bear his weight. The man in bed sat up and nodded again at the man in the chair, but the man in the chair seemed to be asleep. Only his eyelids fluttered like he was in a dream of colors and noises. The man at the foot of the bed now walked over to the side of the bed opposite to the chair and sat down beside the living mummy of a man and took his hands in his. Even when he had seen his friend do the same thing he had not imagined how damaged the man may be. Now when he almost heard the torn flesh and skin squish in his grip, he almost let go. But he controlled the reflex.
The crowd in the room, with their silent shadows dancing on the yellow walls and their cloudy eyes glued to the tall man, stood like statues and props in a gothic play. The tall man, for his part, lay stiller than them because he was barely even breathing. Only the occasional flutter in his eyelids gave away any sign of life. “…like the flutter of a hunting frosthark’s heart”, they said. And they stared so at him in an unannounced contest to spy the first sign of feeling or motor response in him.
The short man sitting on the bed was now leaning into the lying man’s face. He held his head in his hands and whispered something in his ears. But the sentence was a short one because he cringed at the smell of the man’s brain fluid and straightened up. The man in bed looked at the short man and for the first time, his eyes wore an imploring look. Any man unfamiliar to the history and tale of this city and its peoples could easily have judged that it was a victory of Death, the great leveler. But he couldn’t have been farther from the truth to think that this man, who lay in bed with his skin split and his flesh torn, his heart slowing down, one beat in a long while, letting him suffer every moment of his unwanted existence, was afraid of death. He wasn’t meant to be afraid. None of you have the right or the wisdom to judge the look right now. So, take it from me in faith – it wasn’t fear. The man in bed lay there, eyes wide open and slowly opened his mouth. His cheeks were split and wet blood still oozed out of them as he put his tongue out. Or at least whatever was left of it. It was split into three like someone put it through a shredder. The eyes remained wide open even as the tongue fell back limply and the mouth closed, squeezing more oozing blood from the cheeks. Then the short man noticed what was odd with the eyes. They weren’t imploring; or anything for that matter. They were blank. He looked at the tall man, who was still in his dream of color and ink, and sighed. Slowly he put his hand on the throat of the man with the shredded tongue and waited. He felt the half-dried blood oozing out of the rip under his finger but he waited. An hour later, the oozing stopped. The eyes of the man closed very gradually and a stink began to rise.
The crowd was still in the contest, but now it was to spy the first movement of waking. The stunted slight man was the first to notice that the flutter in the eyelids had stopped. He shuffled over to the tall man and held out the pan of hot perfumed water that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. The tall man opened his eyes very slowly and squinted like he was getting used to whatever little light there was in the room. He put out his hand and took the pan of water that was warm by now. And without any ceremony as breathing in, he put his face into the water. When he pulled it out, his eyes were completely clear. The stunted man proceeded to help the short man wrap the body of the man in bed in a black cloth. The tall man, meanwhile, pulled a pouch out of his pocket and pulled out of it a dried leaf and crushed it. Next he pulled out a stone cim and stuffed the crushed leaf into it and lit up the cim and smoked it for another eon. When the other two men were done, the stunted man showed them to the door. But he did not wait to watch them melt into the cold ink outside. He had other work in the purple house.
But the warrior had passed. He had passed without pain and he would be thanking three men for that, but the three men could not thank him. For the first time in centuries, the men had had an ulterior motive in the visit. They had chosen to commit that crime. But that motive was thwarted too. The warrior and his torn skin and his tormented flesh and cloven tongue and his blank eyes were lost to the next city. And whatever it was they wanted, was also lost with all that.
The knock on the dark door was like a knell. A big black dot on a white page. Announcing the end of a sentence and the beginning of another. He had come. An old stunted man opened the door just a crack and peered out into the freezing ink. No words were uttered, only looks exchanged. The old man opened the door and let the stranger in. The guest walked straight in without expecting to be led. He didn’t need to be. The house was lit only by enough light to see contours in black and blacker. The only hint of any color apart from a grayish yellow was a purple picture of a man and his son. The man stood with a long blade in his hand and the little boy clutched his father’s hand very timidly. The boy’s eyes were transfixed on the lowly creature in front of them, a fotham. The front of its face and its horns had been painted a dull red, redder than the rest. If purple was white in the picture, then this color was the color of blood. Minutes after that picture was taken, the little boy beheaded the fotham and puked and cried and lost sleep for a month and grew up and old and now lay in the bed in the room at the end of the dark hall in the purple house with the purple picture.
The room was lit only by one lamp, and that too was running low on oil. So the flame flickered. Anyone who walked into the room would think this was one of the long nights these men and women sat up for an infamous nizzecher performance and watched the shadows dance like black flames on the walls and got hypnotized by the yellow blurs and told their spouses every sorrow and every truth they had known since their unhappy childhoods. That would not have been very far from the truth, except that this particular nizzecher performance was coming to an end – to an end at least in this city. It would continue in another place and another time after tonight. And it was to help sing the ending credits for this place’s performance that the stranger was here.
As he walked into the claustrophobic space, he sniffed. The air smelt of blood and sweat, not of tears and sorrow. That was because this was the house of a warrior. Ever since the day he decapitated the red-headed fotham and came of age, the man lying in bed was used to the iron smell of blood and the soggy smell of flesh. And that man now lay wrapped almost completely in yellow cloth, smelling his own sogginess and iron. The squatting crowd in the room parted at the door to let the guest enter. He walked slowly and purposefully to the foot of the bed and turned around and looked at the man in the bed for the first time. The man in the bed slowly opened his eyes and looked straight ahead into the eyes of the guest and his head lolled forward so it seemed like he nodded painfully and flinched because the nod pressed out blood from his neck and it spurted out on his own chest. It was dark red blood, straight from a vein. But he only barely flinched. His ego and his race did not allow him more than that.
The stranger did not start. He stood stock still and waited. Eyes stared at his silhouette and whispers rippled around.
Another knell rent the metal air. The stunted man looked only slightly surprised. He dragged his feet out of the room and returned with another man, who entered the room with a little more speed than the stranger and he was shorter than and lacked the liquidity in movement that the stranger showed. He halted beside the first guest and nodded. For the dozen witnesses in that crack of a room, the tall man simply floated to the head of the bed and sat and in the chair set beside the lying man’s head. The whole movement seemed to take an eon but only the shorter man, who had the trained eyes, saw, with a twang of jealousy, how fast he moved. The tall man took the sick man’s heavily bandaged hands in his own and looked straight into his eyes and his lips widened into a smile. It was not a happy smile. It showed very little of his off-white teeth, but the man in the bed felt a cool warmth spread in his hands. Neither man’s eyes looked away or closed. The tall man, hunched in his chair slowly began to straighten up. The man in the bed too rose with him, never letting go of his hands. The tall man barely started to lean when he let go of his hands, one by one, and fell back into the chair. This time it felt like an eon even to the short onlooker. The chair creaked like it pained it to bear his weight. The man in bed sat up and nodded again at the man in the chair, but the man in the chair seemed to be asleep. Only his eyelids fluttered like he was in a dream of colors and noises. The man at the foot of the bed now walked over to the side of the bed opposite to the chair and sat down beside the living mummy of a man and took his hands in his. Even when he had seen his friend do the same thing he had not imagined how damaged the man may be. Now when he almost heard the torn flesh and skin squish in his grip, he almost let go. But he controlled the reflex.
The crowd in the room, with their silent shadows dancing on the yellow walls and their cloudy eyes glued to the tall man, stood like statues and props in a gothic play. The tall man, for his part, lay stiller than them because he was barely even breathing. Only the occasional flutter in his eyelids gave away any sign of life. “…like the flutter of a hunting frosthark’s heart”, they said. And they stared so at him in an unannounced contest to spy the first sign of feeling or motor response in him.
The short man sitting on the bed was now leaning into the lying man’s face. He held his head in his hands and whispered something in his ears. But the sentence was a short one because he cringed at the smell of the man’s brain fluid and straightened up. The man in bed looked at the short man and for the first time, his eyes wore an imploring look. Any man unfamiliar to the history and tale of this city and its peoples could easily have judged that it was a victory of Death, the great leveler. But he couldn’t have been farther from the truth to think that this man, who lay in bed with his skin split and his flesh torn, his heart slowing down, one beat in a long while, letting him suffer every moment of his unwanted existence, was afraid of death. He wasn’t meant to be afraid. None of you have the right or the wisdom to judge the look right now. So, take it from me in faith – it wasn’t fear. The man in bed lay there, eyes wide open and slowly opened his mouth. His cheeks were split and wet blood still oozed out of them as he put his tongue out. Or at least whatever was left of it. It was split into three like someone put it through a shredder. The eyes remained wide open even as the tongue fell back limply and the mouth closed, squeezing more oozing blood from the cheeks. Then the short man noticed what was odd with the eyes. They weren’t imploring; or anything for that matter. They were blank. He looked at the tall man, who was still in his dream of color and ink, and sighed. Slowly he put his hand on the throat of the man with the shredded tongue and waited. He felt the half-dried blood oozing out of the rip under his finger but he waited. An hour later, the oozing stopped. The eyes of the man closed very gradually and a stink began to rise.
The crowd was still in the contest, but now it was to spy the first movement of waking. The stunted slight man was the first to notice that the flutter in the eyelids had stopped. He shuffled over to the tall man and held out the pan of hot perfumed water that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. The tall man opened his eyes very slowly and squinted like he was getting used to whatever little light there was in the room. He put out his hand and took the pan of water that was warm by now. And without any ceremony as breathing in, he put his face into the water. When he pulled it out, his eyes were completely clear. The stunted man proceeded to help the short man wrap the body of the man in bed in a black cloth. The tall man, meanwhile, pulled a pouch out of his pocket and pulled out of it a dried leaf and crushed it. Next he pulled out a stone cim and stuffed the crushed leaf into it and lit up the cim and smoked it for another eon. When the other two men were done, the stunted man showed them to the door. But he did not wait to watch them melt into the cold ink outside. He had other work in the purple house.
But the warrior had passed. He had passed without pain and he would be thanking three men for that, but the three men could not thank him. For the first time in centuries, the men had had an ulterior motive in the visit. They had chosen to commit that crime. But that motive was thwarted too. The warrior and his torn skin and his tormented flesh and cloven tongue and his blank eyes were lost to the next city. And whatever it was they wanted, was also lost with all that.
