Monument

by Ian Graham

  ‘Did you imagine I wouldn’t notice? Did you suppose that, like you, I am so insensible that I can suffer an indignity without realising?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ said Ballas, lamely.

  ‘Oh, come now—don’t feign innocence. You stand with my purse in your hand, my coins spread about your feet. You know fully what I speak of.’

  ‘It was a jest, nothing more—’

  ‘As is this, my friend.’ Springing forward, the stonemason swung a flagon against Ballas’s head. Dazed, Ballas staggered. A second blow landed on his cheekbone. Then the stonemason kicked him in the crotch.

  There was a heartbeat of terrible expectation—then a choking pain surged from Ballas’s testicles to his throat.

  Sinking to his knees, Ballas vomited. The stonemason ran forward and kicked him in the face. The impact knocked Ballas on to his back.

  Kneeling beside him, the stonemason punched him in the mouth. Then he brought down the flagon on Ballas’s head— again and again, until the vessel shattered.

  Then the real violence began.

  The stonemason’s friends kicked Ballas in the chest, legs and stomach. They used their fists, too, and delivered blow after muscle-jarring blow. Ballas felt like a fox set upon by hounds. His body jerked this way and that. The stonemason struck him repeatedly in the face, as if determined to disfigure him …

  Eventually, exhausted, the three men grew still.

  Silence fell.

  Then came a splashing noise. Something showered on to Ballas’s face.

  Grimacing, he cracked open his swollen eyes.

  The stonemason was urinating on him.

  ‘Is it not apt that one who belongs in a sewer should be wetted by liquid destined for a sewer? Is this fluid not your true habitat? Aren’t you as at ease in piss as a fish is in water?’

  The stonemason laughed; his companions laughed, too.

  ‘A warning, fat man. If I ever set eyes on you again, or catch your stench, you are dead. Understand? I’ve been merciful. But next time, I’ll drag down lightning, and blast you from this world into the next.’ He spat at Ballas. Then, turning, he walked away.

  His friends followed him, vanishing back into the tavern.

  Ballas sat upright. Over his body, bruises blossomed: his skin throbbed as blood spread beneath it. Tiny spasms rippled through his muscles. Lifting his fingers, he touched his nose—and gasped: it had been broken yet again. Right now it felt like nothing more than a plug of bloody gristle.

  ‘Bastards,’ he grunted. ‘Pissing bastards … But now, let me see.’ He gave a blood-clogged laugh. ‘Maybe it is not all bad news.’

  Within his left hand nestled a second purse. This one also belonged—had belonged—to the stonemason. Like the first it was stuffed full. Unlike the first it felt heavy.

  Ballas upended it. Out on to his palm tumbled twelve copper pennies. A week’s wage for an apprentice stonemason.

  ‘Well, young man,’ he said, ‘the purse hanging from your belt was a cheat. But this one … Ha! Little boys have much to learn. Treat this as a lesson.’

  Getting to his feet, Ballas limped away along the thoroughfare.

  Several hours later, Ballas clambered from a pallet-bed and pulled on his leggings.

  From the purse he rummaged two pennies, tossing them to the plump whore beneath the blankets.

  He had visited a different tavern—he could not recall its name—immediately after the beating. He had drunk a flagon of Keltuskan red. Then, his ardour roused, he had purchased a few hours of the whore’s time and taken her upstairs.

  She had expressed surprise that someone so recently beaten could possess carnal inclinations. In her experience, they flowed away with a victim’s blood. Ballas insisted that, in his case, that was not so. The whore had believed him.

  To her credit, she had treated him gently. She had performed the more strenuous motions of coupling, allowing Ballas to remain immobile, grunting like a pig happy at the trough. Contrary to the stonemason’s expectations, his sweat-odour had not offended her: on the windowsill a bowl of herbs smouldered, their fragrance filling the room and masking any other smell.

  Ballas put on his shirt and boots.

  Opening the shutters, he observed the night-cloaked Soriterath streets. He felt drunk, satisfied, tired—and thirsty. He was a stranger in the city. But he recalled that, a few streets away, there was a tavern that sold a sweet white wine, which would provide a gentle end to a trying but satisfactory day.

  He left the chamber and went down a flight of steps into the common room. There was noise here: every table was occupied, and laughter shook the rafters. Ballas crossed the floor and stepped out into the night.

  Reaching back, his gaze on the darkened street, he tried to shut the tavern door. It moved a few inches—then halted.

  Grunting, he tugged harder but it would not budge.

  He glanced back.

  And exhaled.

  In the doorway stood a tall, thin figure. He had small dark eyes, a pimple-spattered chin—and freckles.

  He gripped a cudgel in his right hand.

  We have hunted you all evening,’ he said, very quietly. Your persistence amazes me. You steal from us once, and get beaten. Then you steal from us again. Truly, I believe drink has destroyed your mind. The Four preached abstinence. I always thought that it was over-pious nonsense … But now, I see the hazards of the bottle.’

  The stonemason’s friends appeared.

  Ballas opened his mouth. But the stonemason said, ‘Do not speak. At the moment of his death, a man ought to tell the truth. And you utter only lies.’ Leaping forward, he slammed the cudgel against Ballas’s cheekbone. The big man fell. Before he could move, the stonemasons were once more upon him.

  Chapter 2

  On the eastern coast, in Saltbrake town,

  A Chandler received the creator-god’s word

  And became a Pilgrim, and upon a road

  Of Suffering and Enlightenment, he would learn

  The true natures of Good and Evil …

  ‘Will he live?’

  ‘Oh—he might.’

  ‘You sound uncertain …’

  ‘Years ago, I tended a farmer who had been stampeded by a herd of bulls, and I doubt strongly he would have traded his injuries for this fellow’s.’ The voice, that of an old man, paused thoughtfully.

  There was a long sigh.

  ‘Look at him,’ the voice continued. ‘There is scarcely a square inch of flesh unbruised. From head to toe, he is caked in dried blood. I dare say many of his bones are broken—and the Four only know what more, ah, subtle damage has been done.’

  ‘Subtle damage?’ echoed the other voice—that of a much younger man. He spoke softly, but with great urgency. As if fearful a moment’s laxity would exact a terrible cost. ‘What do you mean, Calden?’

  ‘Damage to his innards,’ replied the old man. ‘To his lungs, heart, liver. They are fragile things. It isn’t always obvious when they are injured. They may bleed, and no one—neither patient nor physician—will know. And there are other maladies that do not loudly proclaim their presence. A blood-taint, for instance, kills as readily as any poison. Yet it will not be detected until it strikes.’

  ‘But you will treat him—as best you can?’

  ‘Of course. But Brethrien, observe him closely. It may be necessary—despite my ministrations—to give him the Final Blessing.’

  Ballas lay perfectly still. He had already attempted to open his eyes. But the surrounding flesh was too swollen. His body felt at once strange and familiar. Strange, because the beating had covered it with contusions—and, as the old man had suggested, many bones were probably broken. Familiar, for Ballas had been beaten many times. He had grown accustomed to the terrible foreignness of how his body felt when freshly thrashed.

  He wondered where he was. He tried opening his mouth so that he might ask. But his lips too were swollen, and stuck together with blood.

  ‘His Blessing,
’ said the younger man, ‘has already been administered. I delivered it in error. I came upon him in the street, covered in blood—and frost: I found him at dawn, and he had been outdoors overnight. I presumed he was dead.’

  ‘An understandable mistake,’ said the old man.

  ‘When the Papal Wardens tried to load him upon a cart, so that he might be taken to the city’s pyres, his wounds bled afresh.’

  ‘So his heart was still beating …’

  ‘I could scarcely believe it. I sent for you straight away.’

  Something splashed into a bowl of water.

  ‘Well, his wounds are clean,’ said the old man. ‘As for the blood covering the rest of him, we shall leave it be. It will do no harm.’

  There was a wet grinding noise, slow and rhythmic. A pestle pulverising something in a mortar.

  ‘Knitbone?’ queried the young man.

  ‘Yes, and a fine thing I brought plenty of it. A meadow’s-worth would be hardly sufficient.’ The grinding paused.

  Ballas sensed the old man leaning close.

  ‘He has been drinking. From his breath, it seems he has downed a lively mixture: whisky, ale, wine, rum … He has varied tastes.’

  ‘I found him on Vintner’s Row,’ explained the young man. ‘A place of taverns, gambling rooms and … ah …’

  ‘Brothels,’ finished the old man. As if the younger man would have problems speaking the word. ‘I know of Vintner’s Row. And that urges me to ask: what do you know of your patient?’

  ‘Know of him? Well, nothing. I merely found him, in a poor state. It was my duty to help him. I have sworn an oath. I cannot ignore a distressed soul.’

  The old man muttered something.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Be wary,’ repeated the old man, loudly. ‘No decent-minded man takes his pleasures on Vintner’s Row.’ The grinding noises stopped. ‘Unroll that bandage, will you? My thanks.’ A squelching noise followed. As of a paste being smeared.

  ‘I will grant him the benefit of the doubt.’

  The old man laughed. ‘The doubt? What is there to be doubted? You find him in one of Soriterath’s most disreputable quarters, stinking of liquor, beaten halfway to the Eltheryn Forest …’

  ‘I must grant him shelter,’ said the younger man firmly.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Until he heals. Assuming such an event …’

  ‘… Such a minor miracle …’

  ‘… Occurs,’ finished the young man.

  The squelching stopped. Something cool and sticky was draped over Ballas’s chest. A poultice. For a heartbeat the sensation was nearly pleasurable. The unguent numbed Ballas’s flesh, and cooled it.

  Then a gentle pressure was applied, to fix the poultice.

  Pain swept through Ballas’s body. He felt as if a lightning bolt had struck him. He imagined white heat crackling from rib to rib, then erupting from his pores. Every sinew tightened. Every muscle clenched.

  He gasped.

  ‘Ah, a response—did you see it?’ In the old man’s voice there was a note of surprise. ‘That is encouraging.’

  If the old man spoke again, Ballas did not hear. Garish scribbles of light sizzled behind his eyes. The pain steadily increased, until Ballas thought he would burst into flame.

  Then: a swirling numbness. A delicious resignation engulfed him. He found himself spinning gratefully into warm black oblivion.

  After a few days—because he was constantly slipping in and out of consciousness, he was unsure how many—Ballas opened his eyes. He found himself in a small white-walled room that had a single shuttered window and a fire blazing in the grate. The floor was bare stone, and there was a table laden with an array of medicinal items: bandages, swabs, yarn, and needles for stitching wounds, herbs that could be ground into poultices.

  The young man was a priest. No older than twenty-five years, he glowed with pious devotion. His fair hair was short-cropped into something resembling a monk’s cut. His dark blue robes hung loosely on a slender frame. This, coupled with his pale skin, lent him the appearance of someone recovering from a serious ailment.

  Yet he was animated by holy urgency.

  Even the smallest tasks—the bringing of food and water, the examination of Ballas’s wounds—seemed of the utmost spiritual importance.

  Often, while changing Ballas’s dressings, he asked, Who are you ? Where are you from? Will anyone be worried about you—ought I tell someone where you are?

  Ballas never replied.

  The questions irritated him; his life was his own business, not some tender-hearted priest’s.

  But if he had answered, he would have revealed only that he was a vagrant and so hailed from everywhere and nowhere. No one in Druine would be concerned about him. Not the tavern-masters who sold him wine, ale, whisky. Not the whores who caught his mouldering seed.

  The small room depressed Ballas. The persistent fire-smoke, (lie colourless walls and unguent-scent made him restless. He wanted to breathe clean, cold air. He needed to experience sensations other than warmth.

  More than anything, he needed a drink. The priest had administered many medicines—except for those he craved most strongly.

  One afternoon, Ballas felt strong enough to rise. Swinging his feet from the pallet-bed, he stood. A constricting pain seized his chest. As if an iron band was bolted tightly around it. Swearing softly, he waited for the discomfort to pass.

  He was naked, he realised. Except for dried blood. It covered his body like a second skin. Grunting, he flexed his left arm. Where the flesh creased, blood-flakes cracked loose, drifting to the floor. Where had the blood come from? he wondered. A stab wound? A bottle-slash? It did not seem so. Inspecting his body, he found no sharp-edge injuries. Only jagged tears, where blunt objects had struck forcefully enough to split his skin.

  Bruises covered his chest; they had ripened from black to a mix of metallic greens and golds. Murmuring, he touched his face. A nose shattered still further, a grotesquely swollen jaw, lips split open like sausages left too long upon the grill—these were the things his fingertips encountered.

  Grunting, Ballas spat on the floor. A gobbet of red-tinged saliva quivered on the stone.

  A heap of clothes lay in the corner. A brown tunic, soft cotton vest and black leggings … They were not Ballas’s clothes. Yet they were intended for his use. Ballas tugged on the leggings. They were a comfortable fit. But the vest was slightly too tight. And the tunic couldn’t easily accommodate Ballas’s ale gut, which stretched the fabric almost to breaking point.

  The boots were exactly the correct size. As they should have been: for they were Ballas’s own, scrubbed clean of blood and vomit. The ripped stitching had been repaired, too.

  ‘Holy man,’ murmured Ballas, ‘what are you, eh? A conscientious soul? Or a meddling toe-rag?’

  Ballas left the room, stepping into a long corridor. At the far end stood a door, half ajar. Beyond, there was a kitchen.

  On a shelf rested wooden cups and bowls. There was a fire enclave but the stacked logs were unlit.

  The priest Brethrien sat at a table.

  Writing on a parchment, he wore an expression of rapt concentration. An illuminated edition of The Book of the Pilgrims lay open in front of him. Around his neck, he wore an elongated brass triangle: a miniature of Scarrendestin, the holy mountain.

  ‘These are not my clothes,’ said Ballas, entering the kitchen.

  His voice was naturally loud, with a growling note.

  The priest jerked, startled. A blob of ink dripped from his quill-tip, splattering the parchment. Turning his face to Ballas, he blinked.

  ‘These are not my clothes,’ repeated the big man. ‘Where are the clothes you found me in? I want them back.’

  ‘You walk very quietly,’ stammered the priest. Nervously, he fingered his Scarrendestin pendant—as if it were a protective amulet. ‘I did not hear your footfalls …’

  ‘For the last time, where are my clothes?’


  ‘They had to be burned,’ replied the priest.

  ‘Burned?’ asked Ballas darkly.

  ‘They were infested,’ explained Brethrien. ‘Every manner of crawling thing inhabited them. They were, ah, unhealthy: unless one were a blood-feasting parasite—a louse or a grip-worm, say. They were threadbare, too. I suspect only the wildlife held them together.’ He gestured to Ballas’s new apparel. ‘I apologise if I have taken a liberty. But, truly, your old clothes could not be saved. And those that you presently wear—they are of better quality. The wool is soft, yes? As soft as when it lay upon the sheep’s back. Your old tunic was as coarse as a hair shirt.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘Saint Derethine suffered many self-imposed tortures. But I dare say even he would have shrunk from your tunic.’

  Ballas stared balefully at Brethrien.

  ‘I, ah … Do you hunger?’

  ‘For days, I’ve eaten piss-all but soup,’ grunted Ballas. ‘Of course I hunger.’ His gaze alighted on a shelf of wine flagons. But my thirst troubles me more.’ Grasping a flagon, he started tugging out the cork.

  Alarmed, the priest sprang to his feet. ‘No!’

  He seized the flagon, trying to wrest it from Ballas. ‘Please—you cannot drink that! It is forbidden!’

  ‘Why so?’ Ballas lifted the flagon to the window. ‘What’s inside, holy man? I reckoned this to be wine. But perhaps it’s something else. The piss of a martyr, perhaps? Better still, that of a Blessed Master?’

  ‘Holy wine,’ said Brethrien. ‘You are holding holy wine. The Brandister monks made it; and the Masters bless it in accordance with the strictest rituals—rituals transcribed by the Pilgrims … by the Four: may they lead me safely to the Eltheryn Forest …’ He faltered. ‘Holy wine can be imbibed only as part of a church service. Morning, noon, eveningfall—it matters not which service; but the wine can be drunk then, and only then. To do otherwise is sinful, and will bring only misfortune. Please—give me the flagon.’

  ‘D’you have any wine I can drink?’ Ballas allowed Brethrien to take the flagon. ‘Unholy wine, perhaps?’

  The priest shook his head.