Bound by Rites

by Thomas Cleckler

  “No!” she said meekly, concerned that she was the only one ignorant of the fact.

  “Close your eyes and I’ll tell you.”

  She obeyed. Rhone reached for her thigh, above her knee. He squeezed with his thumb and middle finger. She squealed and kicked, laughing and trying to push his hand away. When she began to fight for breath, Rhone relented. She sat there giggling and straightening her dress. When she had settled down, she turned to Nebanum.

  “Nettlebum—”

  “Nebanum.”

  “Nebanum, do you know how, uh... uh... a goat eats hay?”

  “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “Close your eyes and I’ll tell you.”

  Nebanum obliged. He leaned back on the couch—an excuse to offer his thigh. Rhone watched her small, pale hand reach above his knee and squeeze weakly. Her hand couldn’t reach the proper spots but Nebanum pretended to be tickled anyway. The three giggled on the couch, nudging one another and being children. In the rest of the massive building, dark games were being played; beyond the grounds God played famine, plague and war—but on the couch, among the stinging perfume and loud decorations, there was some happiness.

  “Isn’t that sweet,” a voice mused. A man was standing with his hands behind his back, watching the three on the couch.

  Their laughter stopped and they sat still when he spoke. He was tall and well-built. His brown eyes looked each one of them from head to toe, sizing them up—evaluating prospects. If he moves for her, I’ll have to stop him, Rhone thought. The man however, was not looking at the little girl.

  “And what’s your name?” he asked Rhone. Rhone said nothing, he just looked up into the man’s eyes.

  “You don’t want him,” Nebanum said.

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  Nebanum was halted. What can I say? He bites? He’s violent? He’s an animal? Those are all desired traits in a place like this.

  “I’m sick,” Rhone said.

  “Not yet. Come along,” the man offered his hand. He became agitated when Rhone left it floating.

  “What is this? Denied by a whore? Where is that little troll of a man? Davidson! Davidson!” he stormed off into the main hall.

  “Run along, Fayette,” Rhone said. She hopped down off the couch and whispered quickly:

  “If you don’t do what you’re told, they send you to the murder house.”

  The little girl exited the room as the man returned with Davidson in tow. Nebanum stood when the men approached. Rhone joined him.

  “What’s going on here?” Davidson demanded.

  “This whore is denying me!” the man said, losing his battle with composure.

  “Now, Mr. Wallop, I’m sure he’s just being coy, playing a game—”

  “I don’t come all the way down here and spend a small fortune for God damn games!”

  “Yes sir,” Davidson turned to Rhone, pointing his stubby finger at him, “escort our guest to room seven. You,” he pointed to Nebanum, “return to your room.”

  “No,” Rhone said flatly as Davidson began to leave. Shocked by the disobedience, his face flushed. He turned and pinched a phantom bug in the air with his fingers as he spoke.

  “If you do not do as you're told, you and your friend will be fed to the dogs. Do you understand?”

  One of the giants appeared behind Davidson in the doorway, alerted by the lowering of Davidson’s voice. Rhone lowered his gaze, his mind searching for an escape. A hand fell on his shoulder. It was Nebanum.

  “Just go, Rhone,” he whispered.

  Nebanum’s hard gaze broke him. I told you! the small voice in his mind cried, morbidly triumphant, I told you he’d deny you! Fool! You naive fool!

  Defeated, Rhone took the arm of the guest and made for the stairs. The giant grunted as they passed. At each step of the carpeted staircase he expected commotion: Nebanum fighting off the men and rescuing him, laughing Rhone’s doubt away. But each step yielded only the next until he was moving down the hallway. Foreshadow echoed in the hall, grunting, moaning, smoking, wailing from behind the closed doors. The brass numbers began to count.

  One.

  No... Why would he betray me?

  Two.

  What have I done? The whore from last night?

  Three.

  He’s the one who fucked her. He should be in my place.

  Four.

  I can’t do it, I can’t go alone...

  Five.

  Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.

  Six.

  Maybe he’ll—

  Seven.

  Nebanum watched Rhone enter the room. Before the guest closed the door, Rhone looked back. No heroic intervention; Nebanum’s face stayed cold, unmoved. The green amulet hung around his neck, a cruel joke. Now’s the time! Rhone’s mind pleaded, Now! Please! Do something!

  The door closed.

  Davidson pushed Nebanum into the next room, the one he and Rhone stayed in the previous night. He followed him in.

  “I don’t know where you think you are, but you’re in my house. Gorenberg owns the land and buys the stock, but I run this ship. In these walls I am God.”

  He turned and left, locking the door behind him.

  Nebanum sat on the bed trying to not listen. He could hear the mumbling of conversation but he couldn’t make out the words.

  For a while there was nothing, an agonizing silence painted painful images in Nebanum’s mind. Noise came and it was worse than the silence. A rhythmic rocking began. A popping sound came suddenly. The rocking continued. Another pop. Again, louder, like the crack of a whip; it pierced the wall effortlessly. The time between cracks shortened as the rocking quickened. He heard the guest begin to grunt and moan. Silence. Crack. The rocking stopped. Crack. Pop. He heard Rhone trying to suppress whimpers, squeaking and moaning. Nebanum knew Rhone liked pain. Would he like it now? From a stranger? Jealousy, guilt, helplessness—insidious emotions clashed in his mind, churning his stomach, making him ill. He put his head down and tried to block the sounds with his hands. I just want to go back, crack, pop, I want to go back there with Rhone... how can I explain to him this is the only way, crack, crack, how can I make him understand, pop, crack, we have to play along or we’ll never get back.

  The sounds of Rhone being rented echoed in the halls and mingled with the sounds of women moaning, wailing; children screaming, crying; men gasping, bleeding. Guests traveled great distances to trade their heavy sacks of gold and silver for a night alone with their wicked desires and a body with which to act on them. In room seven, Rhone was flogged. In room six, a man was tied and sodomized by four men. In room five, a little girl was fondled by a middle aged woman. In room four, a man took a woman plainly. In room three, a couple took turns slapping and abusing a woman. In room two, two women lay in bed, exhausted from their work. In room one a short, murine man drank milk from the breast of a living fertility goddess.

  In the opposite wing, eight more rooms were filled with debaucheries, all paid for, all sanctioned in the house of Gorenberg, under the watchful eye of Davidson, enforced by giants and insured by hounds.

  Somehow, Nebanum was able to sleep.

  Fourteen

  It was a few hours before dawn when Rhone was let back into room eight with Nebanum. He was naked and ragged. Nebanum sat up and lit the candle. Rhone didn’t look at him. He walked slowly to the edge of the bed and sat down. His back was scarlet ribbons, bruised and glistening.

  “Oh... Oh Rhone...” Nebanum whispered, wanting to touch him but afraid to. He laid down on his stomach. There was dried blood trailing from his rear.

  “Rhone, I am so sorry... If I’d known, I would’ve stopped it... I just thought—”

  “I just want to sleep,” Rhone sighed into the mattress. Nebanum laid next to Rhone, feeling unworthy to share the bed. The jealous thoughts surfaced in his mind. He knew how grossly inappropriate they were, but they rumbled up his throat and came anyway under a flimsy disguise.

  �
��Was it all bad?”

  Thankfully, the only response was the heavy breathing of sleep.

  That morning, Rhone did not want to rise. The pain throbbing along his back was incapacitating. With some help from Nebanum, under a barrage of threats and demands from Davidson, he was able to stand. Davidson produced a white robe.

  “Put this on and go eat your breakfast.”

  “He can’t wear that!” Nebanum protested.

  “He can and he will. If he won’t willingly, I’ll have some men put it on him.”

  Now the mystery of the stiff man from the previous morning was solved. Nebanum fetched a pillow from the day room for Rhone to sit on instead of the hard bench of the breakfast tables. When he returned, Fayette was with Rhone. Whatever she was saying was making him laugh.

  “What’s the big joke?” Nebanum asked when he returned. He was relieved, although somewhat confounded, to see Rhone smiling. He began to wonder who had suffered more last night: he or Rhone.

  “Fayette tried that trick on some of the other children this morning. She was telling me about it.”

  Rhone leaned forward and slid the pillow underneath himself.

  “What’s that f—” Fayette began, then stopped herself.

  “I’m alright,” Rhone assured her.

  The tall man who had rented Rhone came into the room. A bizarre wave of emotion crashed and thrashed inside Nebanum. The man was smiling, walking with his hands behind his back. There were several red splotches on his neck. Nebanum was simultaneously enraged and envious. Rhone and Fayette continued their pleasantries, ignorant, apparently, to everything.

  “Where did you get that bread, Fay?”

  “They were passing them out before you came down, want half?”

  “Please.”

  Nebanum stewed throughout breakfast. He couldn’t fight it: he resented Rhone’s lack of morose.

  In the large day room, which was better described as “The Selection Room,” it was the same as the day before. The sybarites chose their numb playthings and escorted them away for a day, evening, or night of pleasure. Rhone, Fayette, and Nebanum again shared the couch.

  “That poor fellow,” Rhone said, gesturing towards one of the ghosts in the room, “his hair is starting to gray and he’s still trapped in a place like this.”

  “He’s very handsome,” Fayette said.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Rhone agreed.

  “Too bad he’s not a guest,” Nebanum said.

  Rhone thought on the words. There was an insinuation or insult there, that was evident from the tone, but he couldn’t identify the meaning.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, unsure not only of the answer he’d receive, but of his reaction to it.

  “Nothing.”

  “No, you meant something. What?” Rhone was looking at the side of Nebanum’s face; he wouldn’t look over.

  The words came. Though he watched them float out of his mouth, Rhone couldn’t believe what was said. It stung him deeply. The throbbing in his back was a butterfly’s kiss compared to the implication. He would lash out if he weren’t so stunned. All he could do, all his body could manage, was to stand and walk away.

  Fayette looked at Nebanum, her face hardened.

  “You should not have said that,” she whispered.

  “Get away from me,” Nebanum snapped.

  Fayette hopped down off the couch and disappeared in the forest of white gowns.

  Hungering guests chose their prey and the pool shrank. The day passed more slowly without company, and Nebanum had ample time to punish himself for what he had said to Rhone. The room warmed with the afternoon rays and he became fixated on a young boy, probably the age of fourteen. The boy was thin like he was at that age. Nebanum assumed there were other painful similarities between them. His heart quickened as he watched a man, a guest, a pederast, converse with the boy. The boy’s smile was a weak imitation of the man’s. If you desire a man, take a man; why must the child be punished? He thought of walking over to the man, who was now stroking the cheek of the youth, and beating and sodomizing him the way he desired to beat and sodomize, to hurt the way he wanted to hurt. But, he sat still with his anger. The man rose, hand in hand with the boy, and made for the stairs.

  Rhone sat up on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t lie down; the pain in his back was too acute for that. The words Nebanum had said to him were perplexing. Was he jealous of my abuse? Rhone wondered, what could possess him to claim that I had somehow enjoyed it? Must I really prove my loyalty is to him and not my abuser? He rose; the thoughts were too troublesome for stillness. In the hallway, as he watched the carpeted floor run towards him, lost in thought, he was accosted. The towering man with his deceptively warm eyes spoke.

  “Why, hello.”

  “Hello,” Rhone replied, minding the rug.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the day room.”

  “Why don’t you come with me instead.”

  “My back—”

  “Let me worry about your back.”

  Again, Rhone was led to room seven. Mr. Wallop closed the door behind them. He moved to the nightstand and withdrew the cat o’nine tails; leather straps hanging, knotted and still sticky with blood.

  Fayette wandered back over to Nebanum. She eyed him suspiciously, sizing him up. He relented and patted the vacant space beside him. She sat next to him, stuffing her billowing dress under her legs. One of the giants was walking around lighting the lamps.

  “I met him in a labor camp,” Nebanum said. She said nothing but he could feel her looking at him. “I had been put there for thieving and he for just being an orphan. His mother had died. He was the only one who laughed when I acted silly.”

  “You escaped?”

  “One night a sound woke me. I wandered through the dark towards it. Normally I’d have been beaten if a guard caught me up at night, but there were none around. There were two guards, grown men with families—wives, children—taking turns... hurting him. When I was young, my father hurt my sister the same way. Hurt her so bad that one night she died. When I saw those men hurting this boy, my friend, I went mad. The next thing I remember was washing off my hands in a creek, with Rhone.”

  Fayette had gotten very still during Nebanum’s reminiscence. Nebanum changed the subject:

  “He can see in the dark, you know.”

  “Rhone?” she looked up, free from the trance, relieved to change the subject.

  “Yes. With his silver eyes he can see in the dark almost as well as he can during the day.”

  She contemplated the fact, playing with the edge of her dress. Nebanum became acutely aware that he wasn’t very good with children.

  “So, you said yesterday that you knew everything about this place?”

  “I guess so,” she squeaked.

  “Well, suppose I did need something... a gift for Rhone, do you see this?” he held out the green amulet. Fayette studied it, desire agitated her fingers but she restrained herself.

  “Rhone gave me this. I gave him something too but I’m afraid Mr. Gorenberg has forgotten to return it to me. I know Rhone would be awfully happy if he got it back.”

  “What was it? The gift...”

  “It doesn’t seem like much, just a piece of sheepskin. There’s these funny dark red letters on it that don’t make any sense. Don’t ask me why, but he really loves it.”

  She said nothing, transfixed by the amulet Nebanum held in front of her. Her green eyes made it look dull in comparison.

  “Do you like this?” he took it off and held it against her chest. She looked down at it sitting against her white dress, taking in the yellow light of the lamps and transforming it into a viridescent halo. She nodded—she liked it very much.

  “If you found that present for me—for Rhone—I might be persuaded to give it to you.”

  Her childish desire was replaced with her signature cold gaze and a smirk that seemed too mature for a young girl. The proposition was understood a
nd accepted.

  Fifteen

  Rhone was in bed when Nebanum returned to his room at the end of the hall. A single flame was trying to keep from drowning in wax; its pathetic glow flickered and danced on Rhone’s hair. A noise at the door made him start. It was someone locking it from the outside. It had woken Rhone too.

  “How’s your back?” Nebanum asked after Rhone had rolled back over. The bruises ran diagonally across his soft skin.

  “It hurts.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “You can lay with me.”

  Nebanum got into the bed and eased carefully behind Rhone. He reached around and took his hand.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Rhone said nothing, but Nebanum could feel the static from a forthcoming comment.

  “The worst part is that I would have enjoyed it if it had been you—I imagined it was you,” he said at last with some difficulty. “He had to compensate with the whip,” Rhone exhaled a tired laugh.

  “Fay is going to go after the lambskin for us.”

  “She is? What a sweet girl.”

  “Don’t tell her I told you though. She thinks it’s a surprise.”

  “We have to get her out of here, Nebanum.”

  “I know.”

  The next morning, Fayette beckoned Nebanum from his breakfast. She was standing in the shadows, casting furtive glances all around.

  “Good morning, Fayette.”

  “Tonight after everyone goes to sleep. Here,” she slid a warm key into his hands, “it’s the room at the end of the hall on the other side.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Make sure Rhone is with you.”

  “Won’t it be safer if I just come?”

  “Please just bring him!”

  Her tiny face was coiled with distress. She ran off without another word. Nebanum returned to Rhone. He showed him the key and told him the plan.

  “Is Fay alright? I saw her run off. She looked like she was about to cry...”

  Rhone was not accosted that day. Apparently Mr. Wallop’s purse had run dry. Time passed slowly in the day room. The impending excitement of the night made the hours tedious and painful to endure. Fayette did not come to join them. Rhone worried about her. How long can a child last in a place like this? Was this the kind of childhood that gave the world its Mary’s? Rhone rolled his lip between his fingers. The forest of ghosts thinned. Night came and the overlooked were ushered to their rooms.