Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #221

by TTA Press Authors

  The town was quiet after that. The pox lifted and left us, almost as if it were ashamed. I found that I was sharing Elena's bed. Every night she would sob herself to sleep, shaking, clutching at me. Sometimes she would call Ladislav to her. Sometimes he would stand in the doorway and stare. I sat up with him too. He spoke very little. I had not known the rhythms of the town before. Now there was only a broken absence.

  * * * *

  Subic came and invited me to dine with him. I ate and let him talk. The Fenicians had decided to crush the Corsairs of Omis. There was a sea blockade. They had hired an English Condotierro to ravage the Polijicans. There were reports of burnt villages, ravaged crops. His gold tooth flashed in the candlelight.

  "Thirty years ago we were at peace—then the taxes, and we run goods without paying—and the Fenicians fine us, and try to take our young for their galleys. We do not let them ... and then..."

  He would rail at the butchers of Fenice, then at their guildsman masters. “They are lied to, artist, lied to, and as you did they think we are monsters.” Then he would cry. “Aren't they men too?"

  * * * *

  Elena asked me to sketch her husband for her. After I completed the portrait she kept it close to her. Other wives came to me and made the same request. I protested that I could not draw men I had not seen. Their sad, earnest sense of loss overpowered me. I sat with them one by one. Each described her man to me, and I followed their caring, precise guidance until I had made a picture that satisfied them.

  Subic found me one day. He carried some of these drawings.

  "You burnt your Christ and Apostles and I let you, because you copied them for the men of Fenice. Now you have found your new models for them."

  "I cannot..."

  He laid the images down on the table in front of me. He pointed. “He was strong and will be Peter. He was kind and will be Andrew. I will tell you the others."

  "Captain, truly, I cannot. To be holy the apostles must be painted from the models..."

  His rage was luminous. “And what better models than these, who died out of care for those they loved? And what could be better for those they loved, than to see them set on the walls of a church, unchanging and always caring for them?"

  I thought of the figures that my master had copied. It had taken fire to make them live.

  "I will paint your church."

  * * * *

  The walls were parchment white. The nave was rectangular, with two small side chapels set into the north and south walls. A small altar—little more than a table with a crucifix mounted on it—sat in an equally modest apse. There was no choir, no space to separate the priest from his people. Windows ran down either side of the nave. The wooden roofing above looked like an upturned ship.

  Ladislav had accompanied me. “We used to sing here every Sunday.” There were dried flowers. A woman, swaddled in a black shawl, prayed out a stream of soft, indistinguishable words. Ladislav's hand was safe in mine. “These are the saints."

  The men of Omis had carved rough faces and bodies from driftwood. “This is Saint Anthony of Padova. He protects against shipwrecks.” We walked to the other side of the church. “This is the Madonna Stella Maris."

  We stood before the altar. “This is our Christ.” Sailors’ knots tied him off against the cross. A crude red line of paint had clotted against the rough, hacked at wood that was his skin.

  I taught Ladislav how to burn wood to make charcoal crayons, and then we began.

  I started by sketching historiae. I would show Christ calming the storm, then walking on water. I went to the harbour to watch the men of Omis at work in their boats.

  Spring became summer. Sagenae went out, returned; piracy so small a part of their activities. They smuggled Polijican refugees through the Fenician blockade, used night to run supplies past Fenician and Azantine tax inspectors. Occasionally they attacked a ship, but only—Subic said—for food. I am sure that there was brutality; but there was nothing to match the cruelty of the Fenicians. Our ships outran theirs.

  One evening, I was sketching by the dock. The sun had spent itself against the horizon and the light was falling away. The last blaze of the day had turned the sky to fire, the sea beneath it to gold. I turned and looked up at Omis. The glory of the moment seared itself against the white walls of the town. Everything was made flame.

  The Fenicians tightened their grip on us and I lost myself in my masterpiece. I use the word in its old sense. As I planned and drew, I realised that I was no longer an apprentice. My master, his brother, could have taught me nothing more. Thought became art and vision blazed in me.

  I showed the crowd dispersing from the feeding of the five thousand. I showed the disciples among them, all men I had known—men lost to me, to their families. I drew joyful faces, made them rich with amazement at the so easy satisfaction of such basic, perpetual needs. Seek, and you will find; ask, and you shall be given.

  I showed the Christ commanding his men to take ship. I painted the sea as I had seen it, that morning on the Maria—a serene, blazing void. I showed the disciples—fishermen all—at home in their craft, the rituals of preparation, of navigation. I thought of Ladislav, teaching me to sail. I showed them as they left the safe land behind.

  I showed the Christ praying. I made them tiny on the sea beyond him. I showed him grieving for their weakness, for his terrible inability to do anything else but send them into danger.

  I showed the storm that blew up. I scraped lines in the wall, jagged and terrible, creating a violence that could not be withstood. I showed the fishermen afraid in their little boat, men who knew the sea too well to pretend that they could be saved.

  I showed the Christ walking out to them, the great storm become nothing more than a vehicle for his presence. I showed their awe, their relief, their joy. I showed Peter, stepping from the boat, laughing as he found himself safe within the tearing of things.

  I sat in that room for so long, looking at an empty space.

  Ladislav mixed up new inks, made me fresh crayons. I did not use them. I listened to reports of the burning of Polijican towns, of sagenae lost to Fenician pirates. I heard of the death of men I had known, and I consoled their wives with drawings. I helped Subic drink against his grief. I talked with the refugees. I heard tales of English mercenaries; of murder, rape and pillage.

  I would not let my apostles sink. I would not let the Christ fail them, and so I showed Peter walking, and I had the rest step into the storm and join him, and I made them all secure against the burning rages of life. I drew the women too, and made a great scene of the dead and the living, alive to each other despite all the world. I made them strong together, blazing with love for and faith in each other.

  But I could not complete my work. I could never find a face for my Christ. The figure that watched over them all was always crowned with a silent, empty oval. I could never see how to fill that space.

  And we had no pigments and no gesso; and no possibility of either, as mercenaries besieged our little town walls, and the Fenician ships grew more and more daring. And so my work was never more than lines carved in black, on brilliant white walls.

  * * * *

  On our last night in Omis—before the flight along the secret cliff paths; before the pretence of occupation, the final resistance that Subic and his volunteers would make, buying the hours needed to free us—we gathered in that little chapel.

  I had not thought that it could contain us, but it seemed to grow and embrace us all, a Misericordia made stone. I thought again of the loaves, and of the salt taste of fish, of the heresies of consolation that I had created. We sang, and prayed, and I looked at the pictures on the wall and the faces of the congregation. The candle light was soft, blurring the two together. In my memory, the dead stand amongst the living and comfort them with their presence.

  And then there was silence, and I was alone. I let the last of the candles burn out as I gathered and packed my tools. I had been working until the very last, d
ropping in small details here and there. I had sent Ladislav on ahead, with his mother. I was hidden in a corner, packing sketches into albums and styli into cases. In the soft light the empty chapel felt like a great silent cave.

  There were footsteps in the church, and I saw a tall man. He was simply dressed in a white smock. He had a dark, slightly shaggy beard, thick dark hair, ash black eyes. His nose hooked out of a taut face—skin stretched like canvas across strong bones. He did not see me. I did not reveal myself.

  He went to every face and looked at it, murmuring words to each one. Sometimes he would laugh. Sometimes I saw him cry. Then there would be a farewell touch, a kiss, and he would move on to the next one.

  I had made so many different people there, but he knew them all. The church was his little kingdom and—as the light from small flames danced around and in him—he moved through it and possessed it, at once a proud king and the humblest of servants.

  Once he had visited them all, he knelt before the altar and prayed. I listened to the soft murmur of his words. Then, there was silence.

  He had left the doors open.

  I waited to the last, and watched from the cliff path as the bluff ended and Subic fired the town. The church went quickly, blazing more fiercely than the other buildings. I had packed the pews and altars with kindling. My work was for the people of Omis alone.

  I imagined the completed face of the Christ, shining out within flames—blazing out from void and loss to console us all, amidst the crackling, burning shocks of life.

  * * * *

  I have not been back to Omis. There is nothing to return to. Now, I am an artist. I travel through the small towns, the fishing ports and the shepherd villages, the little hamlets of this world, and I give what I can and move on.

  I take their faces, their small lives, and set them onto the empty walls. I cast them into the great tale of that caring, forgiving, angry man, remaking the stories where I need to, and show them the life that sustains them against life. Every man has the right to live.

  The faces of the apostles always change. Here a sailor, here an innkeeper, here a shepherd, here a cook. Sometimes, I find myself painting a dead fisherman. For a moment he flares in my mind; then, I finish my work, and he will live beyond memory, for as long as his image glows on that wall.

  There are always children. I tell them the stories of these remembered men, and make sure they know not to forget them. Ladislav laughs at me for this, but then he is young. His mother understands. He will find his own faces to treasure, and he will make them live again, in his turn. I see the mastery in him now; sleeping lightly, awaiting the soft touch of loss to kindle it to life.

  The face of the Christ never changes. He is a man with sharp eyes and a dark, shaggy beard. I paint him burning with life on the cross, looking out at his people. He is their master; he is their servant. I no longer see a distinction. I have seen him die for them, and so now he is immortal.

  I tell his story too, and the children spread it. And so the blazing face of the pirate Christ looks out on all those he gave himself for; and because the guildsmen of Fenice slandered him, and then came to destroy him, he rises again, time after time, the living, golden, human flame of every work I make.

  Copyright © 2009 Al Robertson

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  SAVING DIEGO—Matthew Kressel

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  * * * *

  Illustrated by David Gentry

  * * * *

  Matthew Kressel's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Naked City: New Tales of Urban Fantasy (edited by Ellen Datlow), Electric Velocipede, Apex Science Fiction & Horror Digest, Abyss & Apex, and elsewhere. He is also the publisher of Sybil's Garage magazine. In April of 2008 he took over from Gavin Grant as the co-host of the KGB Fantastic Fiction reading series in New York City. Matthew is a member of the Altered Fluid writing group where, he says, he is continually humbled by his talented peers ... His website is matthewkressel.net.

  * * * *

  I had traveled twelve thousand, seven hundred and sixty light-years to see my friend, but the hardest part of the trip was the last seventy one flights of stairs. Goddamn the Nefanesh and their ass-backwards ways! I struggled to catch my breath as I moved down a dim hallway covered with dust. Oil lamps flickered from high places, and the doors sported knobs and hinges, like some virt park for kiddies, a rehash of a dead era. But, no, the Nefanesh preferred their realtime antique, the fucks. Why Diego had come all the way out here, to this world at the edge of the galaxy where the planet-munching numens roam, I could only guess. I hadn't seen my friend in six years.

  At the end of the hallway a door leaned open, and I pushed it aside. An emaciated man sat cross-legged in the corner with his back against the wall, smiling like the Buddha. He wore nothing but a pair of ripped shorts, and the room was as bare as him, a single lamp burning at his feet.

  "Mikal!” he said in a voice weary and slow, so different from the one I remembered. “I've been waiting forever for you."

  Diego had always been thin, scruffy, two days past a shower. But now his ribs jutted from his chest, and his face was as thin as the dead. A mop of greasy gray hair hung to his shoulders, and his beard was long and shaggy. Diego, I knew, was thirty one years old, by Earthcal. Whatever had happened to him in the last six years, it hadn't been kind. “Diego?” I said, skeptically. Was this really the same man I had known?

  "It seems so long since we've seen each other, Mikal,” he said. “But also like yesterday.” He stared at me with the starry, probing look of a mystic. But he looked so disgusting, so different than the man I remembered, I had to look away.

  "You must be exhausted, Mikal. Don't worry, I have a meal prepared."

  He struggled to his feet, grabbed the metal lamp, and crept like an old man into an adjoining room. I resisted the urge to help him; I didn't want to touch his pasty skin. When he wasn't looking, I shivered.

  The next room was bare too, except for a small table that rose a few inches above the floor. It had been set with fine glasses, plates and silverware, and looked very out of place in this empty apartment. A pot steamed beside it, smelling delicious; I hadn't eaten since I left the highliner many hours before.

  "Sit, Mikal! Eat!"

  I threw my bag down and devoured chunks of a meaty stew while Diego watched. Behind him, the windows of Hasriyu flickered like stars. In a universe filled with flits and slipstreams, these people had chosen candles over electric light.

  Diego poured me some tea. “I knew you'd come,” he said.

  "Anything for a friend,” I said.

  "Mikal, you look great."

  "I suppose,” I said, though I couldn't say the same for him. I studied my friend, the empty apartment. It took me a while to build up the courage and ask him, “Are you sick, Diego?"

  "It's all relative,” he said. “My body doesn't look healthy, I know, but my mind is sharper than ever."

  I looked down at the food, a table prepared for two. I didn't see a kitchen, and I doubted Diego had cooked this meal himself. Maybe a bot? “Are you here alone?” I said.

  "Most of the time."

  "Diego, why am I here?"

  Diego pulled out a long, curving pipe from his pocket, and lit it. He puffed it slowly, making little arabesques of smoke that twirled up to the ceiling. It reeked like a dead rat caught in a furnace.

  "That shit smells awful,” I said. “What is it?"

  "It's called the sweet jisthmus. The Nefanesh use it to reach transcendent states of consciousness."

  "And you?"

  "I've found it to be the most introspective of all the herbs. It helps me think."

  "Why am I here, Diego?"

  He pulled his pipe from his lips. “Because, Mikal, I need you to help me stop smoking it."

  I looked at his withered body and understood. He had become addicted, and it was killing him.

  "I need to start over,” he said. “A new life. But I need help."
>
  "Are you selling?” I didn't want to get caught up in that scene again.

  "No,” he said.

  "How did you get the money for my ticket out here?"

  "I do favors for someone. In return, she provides for me."

  I didn't want to imagine what kind of favors he meant. “Why didn't you ask her?"

  "Well, she's pretty particular about what she does for me."

  "And no one else here could help you? There's no rehab for junkies?"

  "To these people, jisthmus is a godsend. They don't understand my need to stop smoking it. But you and I, we've shared so many trips together. You get me, Mikal. You know when to push and when to let go. And you're the only one I trust. I thought we might—when I get clean—start a little business. We used to work so well together, Mikal."

  "You want to sell again?"

  "Nothing illegal. We could sell custom virts, or blandybanes, or lumps of dirt. It doesn't matter. I know anything we do together will succeed."

  "I have a job now,” I said. “A real job.” I didn't mention that I had quit so I could heed Diego's call, nostalgia for my former life pulling me across the galaxy.

  "But does it make you happy?"

  I looked away from his probing eyes.

  "C'mon, Mikal. Let's live again! Remember what we had together? That was bliss, man. So you got clean. Now it's my turn. I just need a little help."

  I'd spent years trying to get sober. I could navigate that slipstream blindfolded. And Diego was right. The past few years had been the dullest of my life, nothing but the same monotonous routine day after day after day. The thought of hanging out with Diego again filled me with an excitement I hadn't felt in years. “Yeah, I'll help you, you old bag of shit,” I said.

  "I knew you would, Mikal. I just knew it!"

  * * * *

  Six years ago, Diego and I were squatting in an abandoned Seoul co-op, dropping tabs of virginize and fucking virts in VR. We had a good connection down in Andong, a vestie with a cock and breasts who brought us shit once per week, and we'd sell tabs to junkies with a huge markup. We dropped almost as much as we sold, so even though we were making gobs of cash, money was always scarce. But Diego and I, we made it work somehow. And, man, those were some of the best times I've ever had. The stories I could tell.