Inside was a large warm hall. Each long table seated gluttonous patrons, talking and laughing as food and drink spilled out of their mouths. The place was well lit and smelled of food. Quality was irrelevant as there seemed to be copious amounts being consumed.
In exchange for their silver, Rhone and Nebanum received a mug of beer, a chunk of unidentifiable boiled meat, and a biscuit. It was impossible to find a secluded place to sit, so they settled on a spot near some elder folk—the idea being that they may be less likely to burden Rhone and Nebanum with conversation. This was not the case.
The four or five antiques they sat near, as they informed them, had just come from the chapel where they had been worshiping.
“...and our new pastor is a real smart fellow,” a wrinkled woman told them, “he’s just so funny, that Father Wallop. So young and handsome, God bless him,” the other faithful mumbled variations of praise Him and God bless him, that Father Wallop.
Nebanum stared at the old woman gnawing at her wet hunk of meat with her toothless mouth, her head balding. Her husband sat next to her, struggling to keep a spoon full of soup on the arduous journey from bowl to mouth. She took another pause to further praise the new minister:
“He really speaks to the young folk too—he’s just so smart!”
Rhone had been so preoccupied with eating that he was able to tune out most of the drivel. Now, plate empty, he had to endure the tedious conversation as Nebanum finished his meal. The beer was a godsend.
“What I liked most,” a shrunken man with a black mustache said, “was his anin-i-lization of Cain and Abel.”
“‘Anylize-ation ,’ dear,” his wife corrected.
“Yes,” the balding woman chimed in, “he said that Cain’s biggest sin was not that of slaying his brother, but of the lack of his compassion. You must love your brother, not kill him.”
“Yes that’s it,” the shrunken man said, “that’s exactly it. You must love your brother, not kill him.”
This elicited another round of mumbling praises to God and the young cleric. The balding woman went on, compelled by the blank expressions on Rhone and Nebanum’s faces.
“I just know you boys would like him. He said that if Cain had only loved Abel, instead of being envious of him, that he would have risen himself and his brother higher in the eyes of the Lord.”
“That’s right. Makes you wonder if we’re going about this jousting hare business all wrong,” the shrunken man said. The women all gasped and quickly disagreed:
“Oh Edmond! Those heathens! No, we need to get Lord Marcus involved, that’s all there is to it.”
“Jousting hare?” Rhone asked, suddenly interested.
“This awful place,” the balding woman whispered like she was telling a secret, “a veritable house of sin.”
“We’re building a prayer hall next door,” a portly woman added.
“That’s right. How can we be expected to please God if they’re doing God-knows-what next door?”
“Don’t worry dear, Lord Marcus will straighten the whole thing out.”
“Where is this place?” Rhone asked. The woman looked at him, disgusted. “The prayer hall, I mean.”
Her face loosened, “Go to the church then head East. Oakwood Salvation.”
Rhone nodded. The apostles barraged him with more praises of the new pastor, as if he were God himself. Nebanum finished eating and they left, making hollow promises that they would see them in church next Sunday.
Outside, dusk was setting in. Orange sunlight wove through the tall buildings, throwing long shadows onto the streets.
“Maybe we should just get a room here,” Rhone said, thumbing the inn they had just left.
“No, let’s have a look around. A place right by the city gates? It’ll cost a small fortune.”
They moved deeper into the city. Nebanum lingered at a shop called Thallfoot Breads. He looked at Rhone and smirked, “That’s a coincidence,” Rhone smiled bashfully. Well, at least he’s not angry.
A lamplighter passed with his ladder. He leaned it against a tall stone building and slowly ascended each rung. His shaking hands carried a small flame to the wick of the lamp where it caught and grew. The building was the church.
Sun to their backs, Rhone and Nebanum headed east, unconsciously seeking out the sinful place that marred the Oakwood Salvation prayer hall. They rounded corner after corner, all light nearly gone (the lamplighters hadn’t visited the area yet). They came upon a shoddily built structure, dim and ominous—the source of the worshipers’ distress. However, upon further examination it appeared to be the prayer hall itself. A large sign with thick red lettering boasted that the structure was a house of God. The prayer hall was dark and lifeless, in stark contrast with the well-kept, clean, floral structure next door.
A sign hung in the shape of a shield. On it, a white rabbit was painted wielding a lance. Men and women lingered outside, smoking pipes and drinking beer. The women’s faces were painted white, lips thick with red. Their dresses were garish and hung loose; leg and bosom alike shining with milky promise. Unlike the den of the half-dead in Nettleham, this tabernacle was lively. Without discussion or doubt, Rhone and Nebanum made for the door.
The ceiling was high and from it two large wheels hung on their sides, laden with candles. There was a jester playing a fiddle and singing a tale about a prince with a penis the size of a mule’s. The bar was congested with imbibed patrons and those who preferred the company of woman over liquor were satiated upstairs in the many rooms. Clouds of bitter smoke floated above the makeshift chandeliers among the felicity of the denizens, hooting and laughing. A droplet of wax fell from one of the candles, cooling and hardening during its plummet, and plopped into a jug of wine which was on its way to a greasy mouth.
Rhone and Nebanum were able to hide in the din like darkness, sitting ignored in a corner watching. A dozen tragic and comedic scenes were acted out in this drunken play: penniless patrons turned down by women, unconscious drunks robbed by said patrons. Worn women led ragged men up and down the staircase. Somehow, Rhone thought watching the women, they fought off exhaustion to make the beast again and again. How? He found himself rolling his lip between his fingers. For some reason, the dance of the prostitutes made him nervous; as if they were going to steal Nebanum away with their reeking gashes. A hand slid onto his thigh. Nebanum was looking at him, grinning. He shouted through the noise:
“Since you lied about where we were going, I guess I can show you this.”
He fished the corner of the lambskin from his trouser lip, withdrawing just enough so that Rhone could see what it was. Nebanum’s finger wandered across and touched the pommel of the crude dagger Rhone had in his waistband.
“Let’s try again,” Nebanum shouted. His smile spread to Rhone.
There were several women available for them to choose from: a slender girl with bright red hair, a hairy woman who seemed to be the eldest in the place by a decade, and a fatter woman with black hair. Of the three they selected the latter, figuring she was the most similar to Mary—despite the weight difference. Nebanum was nervous. His plan had been theoretical until now, as he followed the gyrating buttocks up the worn wooden stairwell. On the landing they were level with the chandeliers. Rhone watched a moth fly into a candle and become trapped in the hot wax, thinking of the Spoke Man.
The symphony of calamity dampened as they made their way to the rear of the landing. When the door closed it all but silenced.
The woman sat on the bed, expecting. She grinned, looking from one to the other. She mistook Rhone and Nebanum’s apprehension for that of inexperience and offered comfort.
“Don’t worry yerselves, I’ll take good care of ye.”
She began to undo her maroon dress. She shed it like a chrysalis. Instead of a colorful butterfly, she emerged in her sweat-stained eggshell undergarment, bulging. This too, she gradually slid out of with some effort. She was evidentially trying to move the transaction along. Her skin was whi
te and freckled. Her breasts fell out of the smock, swollen with large pink nipples so pale that it was difficult to see where they ended. Nebanum moved first, casually towards the bed. He eyed Rhone and he followed, standing so that the woman was between them. When the whore looked to Rhone, Nebanum swiftly withdrew the lambskin. Her eyes fluttered closed and she moved her mouth onto Rhone’s neck. She sucked and exaggerated the puckering sounds. Rhone felt his member flood with blood, but not from the sweating whore; Nebanum was spreading the lambskin on the stiff bed, its angry and jagged symbols hungering.
Nebanum detrousered himself. He too, bobbed with excitement. He lured the whore away with his caressing. Her breasts were too large to work with a single hand, so he suckled and groped at one. The whore moaned and dropped her stained undergarment. Surprisingly, the odor from her sex was not as overpowering as Mary’s had been and Rhone quickly stuffed the dagger under the single, flat pillow on the bed. He too, dropped his trousers. How can I be with Nebanum if she is here? Hearts and limbs throbbing, the whore pulled Nebanum with her as she lay back onto the bed, atop the runes.
Before penetration, Nebanum looked to Rhone. A look of disdain had replaced the smile that he had downstairs. The whore moaned under Nebanum’s labors. The malachite amulet swayed between their bodies.
Rhone’s ears burned, his back ached. An acute rage brewed in his gut. His erection fell. He withdrew the knife. The whore’s head was thrown back, counting the pumps until she could return downstairs—filling her cloth purse with the labors of her fleshy one. Nebanum withdrew when Rhone approached, eyes burning with hatred and desire. He thrust the dagger into the whore’s sex. Nebanum leapt onto her chest, sliding on her billowing breasts, hand clamped over her wailing mouth. Jealousy fueled Rhone’s assault, and he pushed deep. He fought her thrashing legs as the blood came, plentiful and flowing; coating his hands, staining the bed and pooling on the floor. He couldn’t stop—so badly he wanted to return to the carnival with Nebanum, to return to the Seamstress, to wander the red sands. Seconds with the Spoke Man were heaven compared to the banality of earthly life. Nebanum bade him to stop, and eventually he did. The whore was unconscious from shock and blood loss.
They rolled her red and white mass to the side. Rhone and Nebanum’s eyes met briefly—accidentally. Their joining, unlike the seduction of the whore, was not purely ritualistic. Their teeth dug into each other’s gums as their tongues wrestled. Again, Nebanum took Rhone over the blood stained hide.
Rhone forgot about the carnival; all that existed was he and Nebanum—the blood and mucous that ran down his legs, the tingling of his groin. He grunted, whimpered, moaned. Their climax synchronized. The hands were back, clawing at him. His orgasm continued, pulling him inwards. As the world dimmed, as he fell across the sidelong sunset, his orgasm drained him. Laying in the red sea, looking up at the bruised sky, he was overcome with joy and laughed while cool tears sliced his face and a warm pool filled on his stomach.
Rhone’s relief was short lived. The honeycomb face was inches from his own, limbless cadavers squirming in their graves. A warm finger ran along his cheek, collecting the salted tears. Another along his belly collecting the salted residue there.
“Again you offer only honey and water. You are turned away.”
Black flashed in his eyes, the fiend disappeared, the clouds faded. All too soon, Rhone was looking up at the wooden ceiling of The Jousting Hare.
“No!” he sat up. His arm and side were painted red. Nebanum rose from the floor. He too had been turned away. They stood naked near the blood-soaked bed. The whore was gone. Rhone stood, he and Nebanum both hearing it. Outside, the gaieties had been replaced by the stomping of angry footsteps, charging towards their door.
Twelve
The door was kicked in. A smattering of wild looking men, wide and muscular, charged towards Rhone and Nebanum’s thin frames. There was little resistance as they were carried downstairs. Rhone was slammed down on a long table, above him the chandelier swayed. He turned to a thud on his left. From between the guts of the men that held him in place, he saw Nebanum also splayed on the adjacent table. There were aggravated mumblings and the occasional shout, but the fiddler was silent. A voice cut across the crowd, silencing the chatter. It was sharp like spoiled milk:
“Well now, it seems we have a couple of naughty boys here with us tonight. Took it upon themselves to hurt poor Annie.”
The crowd bleated with disdain and hatred. The man spoke again.
“Took it upon themselves to cut her privates with a blade.”
He was working the crowd into a frenzy. The innocence and joviality the place had lulled Rhone and Nebanum in with was apparently a precarious state which they had disrupted.
“What should we do with them, lads? Any thoughts?”
The suggestions came pouring forth, crude and predictable.
“Hang ‘em!”
“Cut their pricks off!”
“Stab ‘em!”
From their abduction in the bedroom, to the threat, again, of castration and death, Rhone was numb. The denial of visiting the other place had hurt him deeply. For a brief moment he could feel the warm sands under his naked body, embracing him completely. He felt he may never have a chance to return, and that was more torturous than the boring promises the drunken crowd offered.
“I may have a use for them.”
The voice was low, but it silenced the rest. There was some clanking of wooden soles as the agitator stepped down off of whatever he was perched on.
“Mr. Gorenberg. They’ve ruined one of our girls.”
“They are young aren’t they?”
A cold hand swam up Rhone’s thigh, squeezing in a manner that was unnerving.
“We’ll need restitution,” the man with a voice like soured milk continued, “we can’t let this go unpunished!”
Some light murmuring from the crowd agreed. Rhone lifted his head to catch a glimpse at the man whose hand had wandered over to inspect Nebanum. He wore a black cap and had white hair, wispy like spider’s web, hanging down over his black coat. His hands were nearly stark white, splotched with age. Great blue and purple veins coiled and moved under his papery skin like earthworms. He turned to address the rabble-rouser who was out of sight. His face was in the same state of his hands: corpselike. He smiled, his teeth long like those of a horse, his nose bony and pointed, his eyes glaring from red sockets. A chill ran along Rhone’s flank.
“You summon me to sell me ale, and yet you neglected to tell me you’d have such fine specimens for sale.”
“Wasn’t expecting them Mr. Gorenberg. Make me an offer.”
“Oi! They’s ain’t getting’ off, juss like that?” a drunken voice came from the crowd. It stirred the rest to agitation.
“Men, men!” the rabble-rouser hollered, “Don’t you know who this is?” They did not, so he told them, “This is Mr. Gorenberg—he owns that big house outside of town... the one with the trees...”
This was evidently the magic phrase. The crowd was quite pleased with this, and some even began to laugh.
“Ten shillings for this one,” the corpse touched Rhone’s flesh, causing it to twitch, “and nine for the other one.”
The crowd murmured. It was a good price.
“You’ll still buy the ale?”
“Oh yes, but I want these boys tonight. Load them into my carriage.”
“You heard him lads, load them in Mr. Gorenberg’s buggy!”
Rhone and Nebanum were lifted up, handled roughly, whisked out into the cold night and stuffed into a black carriage. Nebanum tried for the door on the opposite side but there was none. Mr. Gorenberg moved smoothly into the seat across from them, smiling with his long teeth, his aquiline face heavy with shadows. Rhone heard the driver whip the horse. The cart began to move, the shoutings of the mob faded with each turn the cart made, replaced by the clopping of the horse. The street lamps were all lit and glimmered in the window. Rhone sat thigh to thigh with Nebanum, both still n
aked and covered in blood. The smiling corpse looked them up and down, saying nothing.
The buggy wove through the tall buildings, orange lights of the city lanterns dancing across the dark windows. It was dim inside the buggy but occasionally a splash of light would land on Mr. Gorenberg’s face, revealing him still grinning in the dark. Rhone wanted to speak but something about the man was unnerving, even in darkness. Despite all he’d seen recently, the man frightened him. They passed through the city gates. There was no light save for the stars, and even those were mostly hidden by clouds. How can the driver see where he’s going?
“Where are you taking us?” Nebanum asked suddenly.
“You belong to me now; you will work in my home.”
“And if we refuse?”
He said nothing. Rhone could feel his smile in the dark.
Outside of town there was nothing but moonlight; it cast an ethereal hue against the black and swaying trees. They travelled further still, winding deep into the woods outside of town. After a while the cart slowed to a stop. The door was opened and Mr. Gorenberg stepped out. Two burly men reached in and removed Rhone and Nebanum.
They stood before a large, black structure as wide as three houses. It was surrounded by massive trees, their full plumes jostling in the frigid breeze. The windows were mostly dark. Those that were lit had the shades drawn.
They were escorted to the front doors, led by Mr. Gorenberg. There were several horses and carriages in front of the building and the sound of barking dogs came from the rear.
Gaudy artifacts, gold-leafed and jeweled, littered the foyer. A lavish staircase rose to the second story.
Bound by Rites Page 8
