by Paul Park
The little girl beside him kicked her legs. Her upper lip was covered with a small moustache of snot. She stroked it with her forefinger.
Thanakar got to his feet. It was night by the time he reached home. A policeman had come by when he was out, but the antinomial had killed him and dragged his body into the princess’s room, where he sat perched on the man’s buttocks, playing his glass flute. The princess lay listening on her stomach on the bed. The little notes penetrated the walls, and Mrs. Cassimer put her fingers in her ears. “I couldn’t keep the servants,” she said. “They left. They’re gone. Oh, sir, you can’t leave me here with them. Promise me. The chauffeur had a pet fish. They ate it.”
Smiling, he promised, and then he broke his promise almost instantly, for when the purge came back in force that night, Thanakar let himself be taken. He met the soldiers outside in the corridor, where the music of the flute was less. They didn’t search the house.
The soldiers weren’t authorized to touch him, but they had brought a young curate with them, who tied a silken rope around his wrists. Thanakar’s neighbor, a retired brigadier, stood in his doorway in shirtsleeves, his hands on his hips. “What’s this?” he asked.
“I’m being arrested.”
“Filthy pigs. What’s the charge?”
“Adultery.”
“Lucky dog,” said the brigadier. “Sign of the times. Never would have happened in my time. Just as well. What’s the news from the front?”
They chatted about relatives until the priest pulled Thanakar away.
* * *
At nightfall, violence overtook the day’s chaos in the streets, and gangs of armed men clashed at the street corners, under a light rain. The sky burned red, as if beyond every horizon the city was consumed. It was an illusion still; the houses were too wet to burn except where the fire had first started. That day the bishop’s council had imposed a curfew, and every shrine had announced the news that the church would confiscate the families of rioters, looters, drunks, or absentees. Nevertheless, east, west, and south the highways were choked with runaways, running nowhere and taking their families with them. In most cases they went prematurely, fire and flood still miles from their houses. But their minds were prey to rumors from their great-grandfather’s time, and his great-grandfather’s, and every spring since the birth of Angkhdt. Every spring, fire and water had destroyed the city. Panic was in the smoky air. Strange sights and miracles were reported. As the purge hurried Thanakar along the street, he saw an adventist preacher in the middle of a seething crowd, announcing some new and catastrophic portent of the second coming. Beside him stood a flagellant, naked to the waist, whipping himself till the blood ran down his shoulders. The torches shone on his dull, stupid face. All around, factions of heretics struggled in the mud: rebel angels, adventists, deserters, sodomites, spies. Beating great drums, dupes and agents of King Argon Starbridge marched under an effigy of the dog-headed prince. That at least would bring out the purge, thought Thanakar, but there was not even a policeman watching. His own guards hid their badges in their cloaks and kept to the shadows and the smaller alleyways.
“Where are you taking me?” asked Thanakar. They had paused to let a mob of heretics go by, rough men in from some farm, aimless and determined, carrying pikes and sickles and a symbol Thanakar didn’t recognize, sheaves of cut grass hanging from the ends of poles. The curate knew it. He cowered in the shadows, making the sign of the unclean. “My God,” he moaned. “How many of them are there? There’s not wood enough in all the world to burn them all. This month the Inquisition sat in shifts, even more since Lord Chrism made his proclamation. G-God help me. He’ll never, ever catch them all. Every one he traps has made a dozen converts.” The curate was a small man with a drunkard’s bloated face, a drunkard’s sniveling. “God help us all,” he said softly.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Wanhope Prison. I’m sorry, Captain. B-believe me. The case has been decided.”
“What about the other defendant?”
“The lady?”
“Yes.”
“Th-that was a mistake,” said the curate. “A cruel mistake. Since Chrism’s proclamation there have been more, I-I admit it. These are sinful times. I don’t judge you. With evil spread to such high places, how can ordinary men keep clean?”
“Is she still alive?”
The curate bit his lip. “N-no,” he said. “It was to be expected. She came from a proud family. Sister to a martyred saint.”
“A saint?”
“That’s what men say.”
“Rejoice at every death,” suggested the Starbridge catechism. Thanakar turned his face away. He too was from a proud family. “Were they burned?” he asked. The mob had passed, the street was quiet.
“Yes. N-no. I’ve said enough,” stammered the curate. “A man must be careful, since Lord Chrism . . .”
“Damn you, what proclamation?”
The curate opened his mouth, astonished. “Y-you haven’t heard?”
“I’ve been with the army.”
“Even so.” He seemed uncertain, then he spoke. “The bishop’s secretary . . . was . . . used to be . . . Chrism Demiurge. Lord Chrism, now. He’s taken a new title, while confirmation is still coming from the emperor. The bishop’s been deposed.”
“What?”
“She’s to be burned, they say. Witchcraft.” The curate bent close. “They say she has a p-penis growing between her breasts. A man’s p-penis. Here.” He touched Thanakar’s chest. He was an alcoholic. He wore too much perfume not to be covering up some other odor. Thanakar turned away, nauseated. “He calls himself Lord Chrism,” said the curate, bringing his face still closer. “He’s searching for a wide appeal. Some of the adventists are already calling him a g-god.”
Thanakar laughed. “That’s heresy,” he said.
“He’s not responsible for what they say. In a weaker man, yes, I suppose it might be heresy. But he is a strong man. He has the council behind him.” He looked away. “It makes no difference. He was always the power in this city. It’s just a matter of a name.”
“And an execution.”
“Yes. P-poor child. A p-penis.”
They were standing in the shelter of an archway. The soldiers of Thanakar’s guard had waited patiently in the rain, but as the two men talked, ragged men with rifles had started gathering at the bottom of their street, carrying some flag, chanting some slogan. A second-lieutenant of the purge had waited patiently at Thanakar’s side, nursing a cigarette. Now he came up and saluted. “My lords,” he said, “we can’t stop here. It’s too dangerous. It’s the festival tonight, in honor of the new saint. Starting at midnight. We’ll have to be at Wanhope Prison before then, sir.”
“B-but we are on a holy errand,” said the curate. “In Lord Chrism’s name.”
“Tell it to them.” The lieutenant jerked his thumb back down the street. The crowd had gotten closer. One of their banners unfurled next to a streetlight. “October 47th,” it read. “A Festival of Faith.” Red letters on a white ground, and underneath, a phoenix rising from a nest of flame. In front of the crowd, a man and woman danced drunkenly, waving a jug. When they saw the curate’s red robes, they gave a shout.
“That’s it,” said the lieutenant. “Come on.” He set off up the street in the opposite direction. The curate followed. Thanakar tried to lag behind, but the other guards grabbed him, forgetting their manners in their fright. Some shots whistled over their heads.
The lieutenant led them cleverly, and in a few minutes they had outdistanced all pursuit. They rested and went on, but the streets around Wanhope Prison had been barricaded. The rain had gotten heavier, and they stood in the mud watching the flow of people past the checkpoint.
“Can’t we go on?” asked Thanakar. “I’m looking forward to a nice dry cell.”
The curate ignored him. He crouched down on his haunches next to the lieutenant, peering at the soldiers at the barricade. “Can you see their marki
ngs?” he asked.
“Plain red, sir. They’re parsons sure enough.”
“Yes, but what congregation? Can you see?”
“No, sir. It’s all one to me. We’ll go on.”
The curate fingered his jaw. “Well,” he said. “I-it should be. Things are so complicated since the proclamation. It’s hard to know.” He looked up at the night sky, shrugged, and stood up. “We’ll risk it,” he said. “There’s not much choice.” Behind them, another crowd was gathering, singing drunken songs.
The barricade was a haphazard structure of wooden sawhorses and cinderblocks flung across the street. Wires were strung between the houses, and bare electric bulbs burned from the tops of poles. Soldiers and priests stood under a corrugated iron shelter and warmed themselves before a bonfire. All around, the rain crackled and spattered as it hit the flames, the sugar igniting, the water putting it out. This uncertain balance made the air glow around their heads, and as Thanakar and the rest filed past the sentry box, the doctor heard a roaring in his ears. The curate stood behind him, nervously shuffling, and when he was close enough to see the man in the box, he swore and clutched the doctor by his knotted wrists, trying to pull him back into the street. But there were too many people behind them, and as the curate struggled back, soldiers crossed through the sawhorses on either side of him and plucked him out of line. They were soldiers of the purge, but Thanakar noticed that each carried an additional insignia pinned under the silver dog’s head on his collar, a sprig of lily of the valley made of paper and green wire, the bishop’s own symbol. Their officer wore a chain of it around his neck. He was a monk in the military order of St. Lucan the Unmarred, and Thanakar recognized him—Malabar Starbridge, second cousin to Charity and the prince, and a former patient. He was a small unmutilated man in a red uniform.
“Stop, Cousin. What’s your hurry?” he asked.
“P-p-prisoner for Wanhope,” stammered the curate. “B-b-bishop’s orders.”
Brother Malabar turned to look. “Doctor,” he said. “I hoped they wouldn’t find you. I hoped you were far away.”
“I had to come back.”
The monk looked at him and nodded. “Let me untie you,” he said. And over his shoulder, to the curate: “Have you a warrant for this man?”
The curate shuffled underneath his robe, hesitated, and drew his hands back empty. “I-I seem to have lost it,” he said.
“No, sir,” corrected his lieutenant, grinning. “It’s in your upper pocket, sir.”
The curate gave him a vicious look. “Ah, y—yes. Th—thank you.” He made as if to look for it, but Brother Malabar seized him by the front of his cassock, thrust his hand in, and drew out a crumpled paper. “Thanakar Starbridge,” he read, and flipped it over to look at the signature. “Signed by the usurper’s own hand. Chrism Demiurge. Are you familiar with this name, Doctor?”
“I know him well.”
“I always hated him. We’ll hang him higher than a bird. This signature,” he continued, turning back to the curate, “has no purchase here. Do you know your prisoner’s identity?”
“Y-yes.”
“No. Look here.” Brother Malabar pulled back his long hair to show his silver ear, miraculously curled and delicate, and the silver hinge of his jaw, melting into skin. “The doctor healed me when I was almost dead. Fighting for the bishop back when you were still sucking cocks in seminary. Back when you had a cock to suck. You heard about my cousins?” he asked Thanakar.
“No. I . . . have to know.”
“I’ll tell you. Demiurge is murdering the old families.” He turned. “You are free to go,” he told the curate. “Tell your master that I’ll tear down Wanhope stone by stone unless he lets them go. The usurper,” he said to Thanakar, “has imprisoned four brothers of my order. For photographing convicts inside the Mountain of Redemption. All relatives of ours.”
“The convicts?”
“The photographers. The convicts, too, soon enough. I tell you it’s critical.”
Thanakar’s curate had already gone. His guard, too, seemed to have disappeared, except for the lieutenant, who stood grinning. “Excuse me, sir,” he said. “You wouldn’t have an extra one of those flowers.”
“Certainly,” answered the monk, unpinning one from his own collar.
“Thank you. I gave my oath to the bishop herself, when I came of age. My old mother had a growth . . .”
“Good man,” said the monk absently. He pointed to the bonfire, where soldiers were roasting turnips on the ends of bayonets. “Are you hungry?” And without waiting for an answer, he led Thanakar across the street and through a broken shopfront window into a makeshift wardroom. Officers of various services sat smoking marijuana in small groups. It was a cheerless, cavernous place, lit with dim bulbs.
Malabar Starbridge was a forceful man, but he lacked dignity. “That piece of scum,” he remarked, lugging chairs into an empty corner. They sat down, and the monk leaned back so that his trousers rode up tight around his thighs. “That piece of scum,” he repeated, his fingers clasped behind his neck. “He means to burn her. Cosro Starbridge’s own daughter. I saw the pyre in Kindness and Repair. It’s higher than this ceiling. Witchcraft—damn!” He swiveled forward. He was constantly in motion, scratching, twisting, as if he could never find a position that was comfortable. He would contort his face into odd shapes and keep them until everyone around him was uneasy. It was a habit that made people expect him to stammer or stutter, but in fact he spoke fluidly and extremely fast. This combination of mannerisms made him a hard man to take seriously. Thanakar was grateful to him. Bad news might seem bearable from such distracting lips.
“Have you ever seen her?” demanded the monk, twisting his arm over his head to grab hold of his ear. He was talking about the bishop.
“From a distance.” Thanakar paused, then continued. “Tell me about Charity Starbridge.”
“You’re to blame for it,” exclaimed the monk severely, screwing the heel of his hand into one eye. “By God you’re to blame.” He glared at him and sat back.
“I know.”
“Don’t say that. They’re to blame. The evidence wasn’t enough to swing a cat. A washerwoman’s testimony—there was something on the sheets. A laundress—her blood wasn’t even good enough to make a deposition. Charity Starbridge never even could have been arrested on the evidence they had, not without a full confession. By that time she was a widow, for God’s sake. And she wouldn’t tell them anything. Not one word. Not her. But Chrism wanted her confession. So he lied to her. He told her you yourself had brought the charge, claiming you had been infected. Morally infected; physically . . . I don’t know. He didn’t care. It was you he wanted. He wanted her testimony so that he could hang you. But she refused to say a word against you. She poisoned herself. Two days ago.” The monk broke off, tears in the corners of his eyes. He flicked them away with his thumbnail, a gesture so unnatural that it absorbed all of Thanakar’s attention.
“And did she confess?”
“Not one word, I tell you. Not one word,” the monk repeated, a little bitterly. “She was a proud woman. But look at this. She left a note.” He pulled a paper from his sleeve. “I received it this morning. Next-of-kin. It’s tragic. The old families are almost gone.” He spread the paper out on his knee. It was filled with a complicated, beautiful, unknown script, illuminated with gold and scarlet.
“What does it say?” asked Thanakar.
The monk peered at it. “It’s the language of the prophets,” he said doubtfully. “She always was a clever girl. I didn’t think anyone still knew it.”
“What does it say?”
“It says, ‘Goodbye.’ ”
“Just . . . goodbye?” asked Thanakar, looking at the maze of paint and letters.
“Goodbye,” repeated the monk, twisting up his face. “That is a rough translation. Those prophets never meant exactly what they said.” He turned away, stroking his silver ear.
“May I have it?” asked Th
anakar.
Uncomfortable, the monk got up. He paced behind his chair, making quick, random gestures with his arms. “I’m not sure she meant it for you,” he said.
Thanakar stayed seated, looking at the floor between his feet. “This might sound strange to you,” he said. “But I didn’t know her very well.”
The monk made an irritated gesture. “Who knows women well?” he asked. “Who knows anybody well? This is not the season for sentimental friendships,” he said, tears in his eyes. “Not the weather for it. They say my grandparents loved each other. A family legend. No. Don’t flatter yourself. Charity Starbridge had a fine marriage. The commissar was like a father to her.”
“He was a good man.”
“I’m glad you thought so,” said the monk bitterly. “Did you see him die?”
“I was with him. Then I left.”
“Was it a good death?”
“Beautiful.”
“God bless him for it,” said the monk, picking his nose. “Abu, too, they say, and who could have expected that? A prince at last, they said. Blood will tell, I suppose.”
“Tell me about Abu.”
In another corner of the room, men sat talking in low voices, passing a cigarette. Brother Malabar glanced at them moodily, and gestured past them through the window, towards the glow above the town. “He’s responsible for this fire,” he said.
“Was that the charge against him?”
“No. Drunk and disorderly.”
Thanakar smiled. “That’s not a capital offense.”
The monk shrugged and sat down. “Homicide, then. I don’t know. Seven people died in the first explosion, and more than sixty beggars. I know, it’s not much of a crime, for a prince, but Demiurge is mad, I tell you. The inquisition has been sitting day and night. Ten Starbridges have been condemned, and the others in batches of a hundred. He was the first of such high rank.”
“Was it a public execution?”
“I didn’t see it. Brother Lacrima says he stood up straight. The rest all begged for mercy, but he didn’t. I’m glad to hear it. Of course, they’d locked a mask over his face and gloves on his hands. I’m not sure he could have spoken even if he’d wanted to. Unnecessary, really—everybody knew who he was. Anyway, he made a good impression. He never made a sound, even when the fire was around his legs, and God knows that’s uncommon.”
