And not always for the better.
CHAPTER 25
Verity stared down from a window near the top of the lighthouse, and shivered.
The view across the strange tableau of the Shadowland reminded her of the panorama she had once seen from the top of the 15th-century Clock Tower in Saint Mark's Square, Venice: a warren of alleys between slanting rooftops, but this was higher, much higher ... and much stranger, like looking down on a surreal oil painting.
The Shadowland seemed to steal a little bit of all the worlds it intersected, the glue that binds, and then rearranged them in a bizarre mishmash. The combined hell of a thousand worlds.
Almost in the clouds that held dominion over the sky, she felt dizzy. Wondered whether it was more to do with the pain than the height.
Moments later, she turned away, walked to the middle of the room, and sat at a table covered in what might have been flesh, the faint subcutaneous image of a tattoo still visible like a stain. Indifferent to the horror, she studied the tattoo, a crude representation of Christ on the cross. Verity laughed. Most of the people here were beyond redemption, and if they weren't, then they soon would be. They lived by their own creed and their own religion, and if there wasn't one befitting, they created one. This was Sodom and Gomorrah.
Both physical and mental pain assailed her and she took deep breaths to try to quell the anguish.
The albino man told her pain was part of the process; part of the magical spell they cast, but Verity felt they just liked administering torture, and hearing her scream.
She winced as a fresh wave of agony rolled over her; absently wondered whether some of her lesions would go septic, glad that the wounds were all where they couldn't be seen. She couldn't bear for people to see her like this, butchered. Her dress adhered to some of the wounds, and she pulled it away, flinching as the action elicited another wave of pain. She must have been mad to agree to this. And for what?
The albino man had talked to her throughout the process, said the gift was one more of mind than body; a small spell.
Verity didn't understand what he meant. The only thing she knew was that while under the knife, she experienced a sort of epiphany. The pain opened doors she never knew existed, and despite the distress, she could – almost – understand why people wanted to put themselves through it. Pain could be as addictive as any drug; it was just a matter of controlling it, and not letting it control you.
She stood up, and fighting the waves of agony that crashed through her, she gripped the hem of the dress and lifted it to see what price she had paid.
She cringed, horrified by the disfigurement.
Small flaps of flesh had been cut away to leave a strange, uniform pattern that resembled hieroglyphics. During the ceremony, the albino man said, 'you have to experience pain before you can transcend it', and in some warped way, she began to understand. Mastery of the self began with the body, but to influence it, you needed to conquer the mind.
Without any more hesitation, she let her dress fall back into place, left the room, walked across a parapet and started to descend the lighthouse, taking in sights of majesty and cruelty in equal measure. It didn't seem to matter where the people came from; they all seemed to be searching for the same thing, a collective desire; even if they didn't understand what they wanted, they knew they wanted something ...
Like the habitual drug user, they were searching for their own little piece of heaven.
This, the Garden of Gethsemane, where betrayal and mistrust were skills to be honed, and then unleashed. To master life, they learned to experience all of its avenues, however dark they may be.
Now Verity felt as one with the monsters.
CHAPTER 26
Bodies littered the streets, their features wrought with pain. Strange birds buzzed overhead, flying expertly between the narrow spaces between the buildings.
Some of the bodies were too gruesome to look at, and turned Zen's stomach. A couple of buildings were ablaze, but no one seemed to be putting out the flames. Around one such building, people danced as though in celebration. Reflected firelight bathed their faces, giving them a rosy glow. At least that's what Zen thought until he realised it was blood on their cheeks.
Some of the figures dancing around the flames looked like prehistoric Pterodactyls, leathery wings scraping the ground with a papery, dry cadence. Others looked like demons with horns sprouting from their misshapen heads. Zen had never seen anything like it. And he hoped he never would again. Even his imagination couldn't conjure up things so grotesque, the reality enough to induce madness.
Keeping to the shadows as best they could, Zen and Leo crept past.
“Hurry,” Leo said when they were clear of the crowd. “We haven't got much time.”
It already looked too late to Zen, and he felt in mortal fear for his life. He experienced a similar emotion when debt collectors chased him for the money he owed, but it wasn't as acute as this. Perhaps you would lose a finger or a toe to them, but here, you risked losing your soul. His arm still throbbed, his right hand now next to useless. The knife protruded from the waistband of his trousers, and as he walked, the point of the blade occasionally stabbed him in the leg. But he didn't mind as it took his attention away from the more serious pain.
“Leo, I don't think I can do this. Let's just leave them to it.”
Leo scowled and pushed his teeth out slightly. “Look, you stupid fool. We can't go back now.” His face flushed red and he gesticulated with the walking stick. “Do you want Melantha and her people to start a war in our world? They may never know it, but people are counting on us.”
Zen wasn't convinced. He wasn't a hero. He was a gambling man in too deep. As far as he was concerned, all bets were off. Hopefully, Melantha might solve the problem for him; her campaign seemed to have produced enough casualties so far, so perhaps she might take out the albino man and his cohorts. And if she didn't, then the fire might get them.
“Have you got a coin?” Zen asked.
“What do you want a blasted coin for?”
“Well, have you or not?”
Leo rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a pound coin and passed it over.
Zen tossed it into the air. “Call,” he said, letting the coin fall to the ground and covering it with his foot.
“Call what?” Leo frowned.
“It was a bet that got me into this mess, so ...” he shrugged.
Leo shook his head. “This is no time to gamble.”
“There's never a better time. Call.”
Leo rolled his eyes heavenward, and said, “Tails.”
Zen removed his foot, looked at the coin and shrugged. “Heads. Sorry, this is as far as I go.” He turned and started walking away.
Leo grabbed Zen’s shoulder and pulled him back. Pain flared up Zen's arm. “You can't just run away. They’ll find you wherever you go. There's no escape.”
“I'll take my chance, now just let go of me.” He shrugged Leo off, gritting his teeth against the pain. “If you want to be a hero, be my guest. You can have all the glory you want. Far as I'm concerned, this place and everyone in it can burn.”
“Do you really think it's going to be that easy?”
“I'm willing to risk it.” He walked away without looking back.
After navigating a few twisting alleys, he eventually glanced over his shoulder. Leo hadn't followed him. Despite being what he wanted, the Shadowland now looked even scarier. Leo's companionship provided security, and he wondered whether he had made the right decision.
Sounds drew his attention. A shout, a scream, a rumble like dislodged bricks, and Zen shivered.
Although able to follow the trail of destruction on the way in, it wasn't there any longer, the streets devoid of the aftermath of bloody skirmishes. He wondered whether he had taken a wrong turn somewhere, or whether some of the inhabitants removed the bodies to feast on them. Shaking off the morbid thought, he continued on, following a twisting path until he came to a dead end, a
brick wall daubed with two luminous red, spray-painted words: world’s end.
Déjà vu. He had been here before, when the police – or whatever they were –chased him and Chastity. He clenched his fists, eyes narrowed to pierce the gloom.
“Damn it,” he muttered, shaking his head and chastising himself with the whip of his dreadlocks. Leo was right. He couldn't just run away, because if he did, his conscience would haunt him. But how to find his way back when lost?
A noise whistled along the alley. It sounded like someone shuffling along (or someone dragging a body, a little voice in his head said). A small creature sitting on the window ledge of the building to his left cackled, startling him. It looked a bit like a small reptile, but with a beak and wings. His heart beat fast and he gripped the knife with his left hand and withdrew it, finding it awkward to wield.
The shuffling sounded closer.
He looked along the alley, thought he saw movement. A figure that slipped between the shadows, sticking to them like treacle.
“Who's there?” Zen said, but the words didn't come out as loud or as strong as he would have liked, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Who's there?”
Apart from the small creature, which cackled again, no one answered.
The shuffling sound inched closer, Zen's ears attuned to the resonance as though nothing else existed in the world.
Closer ...
Closer ...
His injured hand throbbed like a barometer reacting to the eerie atmosphere.
The baroque buildings on either side crowded closer, their roofs almost touching. A muddy light emanated from the high windows of the building on his left, illuminating the gables and the grotesque audience of stone sculptures on the building opposite.
The sculptures moved and then took flight. He couldn't believe they were real.
The Shadowland reminded him of something Goya might have painted, giving flesh to the secret fears of the mind. The artist might have even visited here for all he knew.
The reptile creature clicked its beak together. Zen wished he wasn't alone; that he hadn't left Leo.
Unsure what to do, and with no chance of retreat, he crept back the way he’d come, his eyes alert.
He saw movement ahead, and the sound followed, a shuffling timbre, wet and insidious. Again, he thought about someone dragging a body along the alley, leaving a bloody slug trail in its wake.
He tried to hug the shadows as best he could, but he wasn't as adept at it. He confused the real with the imagined, sure that someone or something was going to jump out at him, that the shadows into which he slipped, were already occupied by something heinous.
The winged reptile cackled, as though laughing at his timidity as he avoided a particularly ominous doorway.
Something coughed, or growled. He couldn't distinguish between the two. The sound originated behind him.
Before he turned around, something grabbed his shoulder and squeezed.
CHAPTER 27
Zen squealed, the sound a combination of shock, fear and pain. He spun around, trying to dislodge the hand from his arm. His eyes took in the grotesque figure and the squeal became a scream.
The pale green creature grinned, its mouth lined with sharp teeth stained with blood and remnants of flesh. Its head looked reptilian, a bit like a gecko, its eyes catlike. The small winged reptile alighted on its shoulder like a well-trained pet.
The hand that had gripped Zen’s shoulder looked more like a claw, the thick talons piercing his flesh.
The shuffling, dragging noise turned out to be the creature's long, lizard-like tail that whipped from side-to-side like a happy dog.
The creature made a guttural sound and lowered its mouth towards Zen's neck. Before it could bite, Zen raised the knife and sliced the back of the creature's hand. The creature roared and released him, its fetid breath emitted on a long, pink tongue from its cavernous mouth. Zen didn't wait for an invitation, he ran, his legs pneumatic pistons. His injuries were on fire. White spots danced before his eyes.
Zen risked a backward glance; couldn't see it. Where’d the damn thing go?
He scanned the alley and the walls, eyes wide, features set in a horrified mask.
His footfalls sounded ominously loud, giving his position away, but he couldn't stop running, because if he did, he was a dead man. His useless hand flopped at his side, fingers like flaccid penises no longer able to rise to the occasion. He felt sick.
The shadows didn’t offer sanctuary, they were just camouflage for the monsters. He felt sure more than one of them pursued him, could hear them scuttling over the walls, leaping across rooftops, skulking along the alley, a whole damn pack of lizard creatures.
How the hell had he ended up in this mess?
He noticed a building on his left, the front door ajar, beckoning as it swung back and forth. The building leaned across the road. The black glass of an open dormer window cast a morbid reflection of a pale face from somewhere in the room, like something swimming in a deep, dark ocean. With no other option, Zen accepted the invitation and ran for the door, slamming it shut in his wake. He looked for a bolt or a lock, but couldn’t see one. He leaned against the smooth door, holding it shut with his body. He rested his one good hand on his knee, fighting to draw breath. The knife grinned up at him, mocking. He felt drained.
Sweating profusely, the damp patches under his armpits felt uncomfortable; he wondered whether the creatures could smell his fear.
He looked around what appeared to be a small, round hallway. The walls were a dreary grey, splintered with cracks, the varicose veins of the house. A winding staircase ascended into the ceiling like a strand of evil DNA. Knowing he couldn’t hold the door shut, and unable to spot any doors leading off the hallway, he had no choice but to go up, one careful step at a time, his breath held, ears pricked as he ascended the evil evolutionary ladder.
The steps of the metal staircase creaked and squealed as though disturbed from slumber. The balustrade felt cold and slimy to the touch, which made him cringe, but he held on to keep himself from falling, slipping the knife into the waistband of his trousers.
For a moment, he thought he heard a shuffling noise outside, a tail that whipped across the walls or ground, followed by the leathery beat of wings. The sound made him panic, forced him to move faster.
At the top of the stairs, he stepped onto a landing that allowed him to look back down at the hallway, where he spotted movement, a subtle realignment of nuances, and a darker patch that slipped across the ground. It froze his blood, forced him to back away, seeking shelter.
He looked around and saw three doors.
One door was black, one white, the other red.
Eenie, meenie, minie mo ...
He picked the red door, turned the handle and stepped through.
It was the wrong choice.
CHAPTER 28
Zen stared at Melantha, her green eyes unreadable. She appeared to be unarmed; Zen withdrew the knife. It hardly seemed fair.
If I ever see you again, I will kill you.
Zen gulped.
He tried to recall all the bad things that had happened to him in his life, using them to fuel his anger. Being attacked on the bus by a group of drunken louts because his face didn't fit; taunted and bullied at school because his parents were different (how ironic to now find they weren't even his parents), but none of it was enough to make him kill someone; especially not family.
He looked at Melantha with tears in his eyes and lowered the knife.
His legs felt weak, tubes of flesh devoid of bones.
He rubbed his eyes with his sleeve and sniffled. He didn't want to cry because that was a sign of weakness, but he couldn't help it. He hadn't cried in years, his heart having grown as hard as diamond, and just as precious to a man who didn't give it lightly. Now it had broken, smashed into a thousand pieces.
He snorted out a trail of snot and wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a silver trail. “Sorry,” he mumb
led.
Melantha smiled compassionately. He saw her glimpse at the knife. “I understand. A bond binds us. Even though you've not been brought up a true Roma, I can tell you've had a hard life, but now, together, we can overcome.” She walked across and hugged him, taking care to avoid his injuries.
Zen wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe everything would turn out okay, but a niggling doubt kept chewing away at him.
Even though he didn't know Melantha very well, he had already witnessed her mood swings, one minute wanting to kill him, the next to embrace him like the long lost son.
That made her dangerous, and even though it might appear he had already let her seduce him with talk of family loyalty, he wasn't going to let his guard down any further. He had to be wary. Hers was a crocodile smile.
If he could believe what he’d heard (and he had no reason not to), Melantha had killed before. He looked at her scarred face. She reminded him of a gruesome Maori warrior. He still couldn't understand how people saw something beautiful when he only saw ugly scars, but he didn't doubt for a second that she possessed a strange power. He envied those who were bewitched; they didn't have to look at the monster. They didn't see the knitted flesh, the sigils, signs and runic scarification.
He couldn't begin to comprehend what it took to go through so much pain. And for what? Revenge? Family honour? Zen suspected she must be a little unhinged. No one in their right mind allowed someone to mutilate them as much as she had.
Although having walked through a door in a house in the dead end alley, he now found himself standing in a street. Nothing was what it seemed. The houses were portals within portals, doors that led nowhere and everywhere, offering endless possibilities, ultimate nightmares, impossible dreams.
The houses lining the street were like towering cliffs, crumbling weatherworn edifices pockmarked with dark windows.
Zen still found the Shadowland overwhelming; a conundrum, built layer upon layer like a wedding cake rotten at the core.
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