Midnight Echo 8

by AHWA

  I reach into the upper right quadrant of the body’s abdominal cavity. Slide the flat of the dagger’s leaf-shaped blade beneath the liver. I say a short prayer in Akkadian, for amaš the All-Seeing to guide me—Let there be truth!—and slice. Short and swift. The hepatic artery and portal vein severed. Organ freed from its fleshy bonds.

  It feels heavy as I lift it out. Vaguely triangular. Deep, reddish-brown. Peritoneal membranes smooth as silk against my hands. I raise it to my lips. Bite deep into the coppery richness of its meat. And more of the boy’s life flows in to me …

  * * *

  Mustafa is stronger now, both in body and mind. He feels excited. Prepared. His faith renewed and expanded into something that fills every cell of his being. Nine weeks of intensive training will do that. Eight hours a day with his uncle’s insurgents, learning how to strip and clean and fire a weapon. How to construct and prime an improvised explosive device. Ten exercises you can do to keep fit and clear headed while in solitary confinement. How to strap and conceal a suicide bomb. Daily waterboarding sessions, to acclimatise him to the fear-filled sensation of drowning as his sinuses fill with water. How to kill a man, or men, or women and children. Whatever it takes to successfully complete a mission.

  For a few hours each night, Mustafa sits with the Imam, listening to him speak on spiritual matters. Talks that energise and fortify him, feeding his faith until it has grown to cover the hard wall of his insurgent training.

  “Your uncle sent you here for a purpose, Mustafa,” the old man says one night after almost an hour of silence. “I think you are ready now. You have become the instrument by which Allah will write His name upon the world. But as yet, you are an empty vessel. It is time for us to fill that emptiness with purpose.”

  The Imam leans forward and presents his right fist for Mustafa’s inspection. The Imam’s skin is a soft brown, stretched tight and covered with cracks like old parchment. Most prominent is the silver ring on his middle finger. It is large and polished. Inscribed at the centre are two triangles entwined to form a star, the Najmat Dāwūd, set about with four jewels of red and green and blue and yellow.

  “Do you know what this is, boy?” The Imam thrusts his fist for closer inspection and Mustafa recoils, shaking his head.

  “Remember back to your childhood tales. I know your father read them to you. This is Khātem Sulaymān, the ring by which King Solomon was given command over the four elements and of the djinn. It was the ring with which he tore down nations and built up temples. With it, he understood the speech of the birds and of the ants, and he could command them and they became his army and marshalled before him. This ring is close to three thousand years old, Mustafa. Do you believe that? That this ring encircling a humble Imam’s finger is that ring?”

  Mustafa does not know what to think. Is the Imam testing him in some way? Could this all be true? Surely, it cannot be possible. It must be a joke. But the childish part of him wants it to be true. The very idea takes him back to those tales and suddenly he wants to believe in flying carpets and magic lamps. He shakes his head, just as much in wonder as with cautious denial.

  The old man laughs and withdraws his fist.

  “Your uncle and I are sending you to London. You must head back to Karbala immediately and say goodbye to your mother. Your first flight leaves Al Najaf for Dubai in five days. Your route will only be revealed to you in stages. It is something we must remain cautious about. Who knows where unwanted eyes and ears might be found?”

  The Imam looks hard at Mustafa, like he is looking into him, at something or someone beyond the now.

  “But there is something I must ask you to do first.”

  Mustafa watches as the Imam pulls the ring from his finger and places it into a large envelope. Mustafa accepts the envelope as it is presented to him. He feels the weight and shape of the ring through the paper, wondering if he can really be holding the fabled Khātem Sulaymān.

  “On your way to the airport, you are to stop and go into the desert south of the Sea of Salt,” the Imam says. “You must go alone and you must tell no one that you are going there. Do you understand? This is very important. Walk from sunrise until noon, and then read what I have written in the envelope.”

  Mustafa nods, excited and terrified at being chosen to deliver Allah’s revenge upon the people who murdered his father, insha’Allah.

  The Imam leans forward again, staring deeper and deeper into Mustafa’s eyes until he seems to be looking at someone else entirely. And then he smiles.

  “They think they have an advantage over us, Mustafa. But they don’t know that we know what they know.”

  * * *

  … and I’m choking. Choking on thick red blood running down my throat. I spit half-chewed liver from my mouth. How could they know? What does this mean for the project? What does it mean for me?

  I glance up at the glass booth. My superiors are watching. I can’t let on that there might be a problem. They’re expecting results. They need to know what is being planned and now I too am more curious than ever. What terror was this boy meant to deliver? Was he their only attack vector? Has his capture already thwarted an incident? A suicide bomb unleashed in London? Or is there more? Could that really be the Ring of Solomon?

  I realise I am panicking. On the verge of hyperventilating. The Bārû blade and half a liver are still clasped tightly in my hands and I don’t know where else to look for the answers. I step away from the body. Try to slow my breathing.

  That is when it comes to me.

  The Pneuma, breath of life, mediator between heart and mind. The human soul. That is where the answers will be hidden, like treasures in a cave.

  In my excitement to get back to the body, I almost stumble over the intestines still coiled upon the floor. I grab the edge of the slab. Steady myself. I lean in over the boy.

  “Open sesame,” I say and place a firm hand upon his chin, parting his lips. I lean closer, one hand upon his chest, my own mouth touching his. It is like a kiss. A sharing.

  I push down slowly upon his chest and the boy’s last foetid breath flows out. I let it drift past my lips, over my tongue, filling my mouth until all I can taste is death. And then, calmly, I breathe his soul deep into my lungs …

  * * *

  Mustafa leaves the car his uncle has lent him beside the road and walks into the desert, the sun not yet risen and dawn but a smear of colour against the horizon. Barely has he walked five minutes before the first heat of the day strikes his back. His shadow appears suddenly before him, stretched out across the sand, guiding the way.

  The day moves on and his shadow shortens, as if retreating from the heat. Only when Mustafa’s shadow disappears beneath the soles of his shoes does he stop.

  He stands upon the crest of a dune, sun beating hard upon his head. Far off to the north-west, a sandstorm is stirring. Dust-devils rise up around it, dervish dancing until the larger storm sucks them in, absorbs them. Mustafa opens the envelope and tips it over his cupped hand, careful that the ring does not fall to the sand. There is a small note with the ring. A sheet of paper folded into quarters. He unfolds it as the first winds blow across the face of the dune, whipping up fine particles that make the paper crackle and hiss. On it are written three lines in the Imam’s flowing script.

  REMEMBER THE STORIES OF YOUR CHILDHOOD

  YOU ARE A VESSEL EMPTY OF PURPOSE

  FILL YOURSELF WITH THE FIRE OF ALLAH

  Mustafa looks up. He is certain the storm will pass him by. He thinks back to the stories of his childhood. Of sitting on his father’s knee, listening to the hypnotic cadence of the man’s voice. Tales of wonder. The downfall of princes and the redemption of bandits. Treasures and magic. Sulaymān’s Ring.

  He takes the ring and places it upon his finger. Clenches his fist and points it at the sandstorm. He doesn’t know the rig
ht words to say, so he just thinks them. Mentally commands the storm to bend to his will.

  The sandstorm trembles. Staggers in its path. An enormous dust-devil separates from its sandy flank, tearing up the desert floor, rushing in the boy’s direction.

  Mustafa stands resolute. Terrified of what is coming, but determined to succeed. For the Imam and for his uncle. For his father.

  The dust-devil stops at the foot of the dune; a pillar of sand spinning only metres from Mustafa’s face. Swirling heat and dust scour his skin and the Imam’s note blows from his free hand. Ball lightning sparks and flares within the pillar’s core, like the birth and death of stars, and all around the air begins to speak.

  It is in the howling of the wind. The grating of grain against grain. The electric crackle of passed charges. It isn’t a language Mustafa knows, but he understands it.

  “I am Ephippas who dwells in Arabia,” the dust-devil says. “Wheresoever I will, I alight and set fire and do death, and only the power of the One God commands me.”

  Mustafa keeps his eyes and mind firmly upon the churning form of the djinni. He unclenches his fist, white knuckles filling with pain as blood flow returns. Carefully he slips the ring from his finger. Holds it up to the air between his fingers. A glittering ‘O’ like a gun sight. The demon’s red eyes staring back from the depths of swirling sand.

  “In the name of Sulaymān, and by the power of Allah, I command you,” he screams into the wind, remembering the tales of his childhood. Sulaymān’s ring and the small boy who used it to capture a djinni within the empty vessel of his water bottle.

  “Demon!” he cries. “I command you to pass through this ring.”

  The dust-devil’s spinning shudders to a halt and the sand falls away, leaving only a column of seething fire. Slowly the column bends to the ring, flames scorching away the downy hair on Mustafa’s arms and fingers. Heat burns his face. He brings the ring to his lips. Opens his mouth and breathes deep. Fire sears his throat. Burns his lungs. But still he inhales, filling himself with Allah’s fire.

  * * *

  … and I pull away. Coughing. Spluttering. Trying to expel the thing that has entered me with the boy’s breath. But I am too late. Already I can feel it inside of me. Crawling through my veins. A million burning suns filling me with their fire.

  In an instant, I understand their plan. I know the target. The time and the place. I have just enough time to glance up at my superiors behind their blast-proof window.

  “They know!” I want to scream. “They know, and I’m the target.”

  And I am engulfed, seared to my soul by the most beautiful light.

  Insatiable

  Stuart Olver

  I am Desire.

  You found me as dawn slammed the sun’s rays across the dry-throated city.

  When flame trees shuddered their revulsion and stained the pavements red and raw.

  And carpet pythons, driven mad with thirst, laid their skulls beneath the tyres of passing trucks.

  We clung to one another in the underpass,

  (as if each might quench the other’s thirst),

  and prayed for rain to make us

  slippery,

  elusive,

  untraceable.

  * * *

  I am Synaesthesia.

  I took you to a gig, in that metal-sharp, beer-sour bar, where we bounced off the walls like marbles shaken in a bag,

  And the pulse of the bass and drums made lights flash behind your eyes.

  Do you feel what I feel when I’m cracked open and the sun roars into my veins?

  Do you believe that colours can hurt me?

  Pull me,

  squeeze me,

  pinch me?

  * * *

  I am Mischievous.

  At midnight, we broke into the council pool and undressed. The clothes fell off your body,

  And the scales fell off your eyes,

  And together we watched the shadows move under the water.

  I took your hand and we jumped in, somersaulting to stand on a liquid floor under a concrete sky.

  Water flooded our lungs with life-giving oxygen, and we stroked the skins of those who circled us;

  The demigods,

  and nymphs,

  and sharks.

  * * *

  I am Murderer.

  I laid you down on the wet grass beside the pool and folded myself over you.

  I gripped your arms, and my nails penetrated to the bone.

  You screamed as I rammed down on you, and you detonated inside me.

  As my insides turned to liquid I grasped your head with both hands and ripped it from your neck.

  You spasmed and gushed into me.

  I heaved and pitched until you were sucked dry; buried my face in your ragged neck stump and lapped up your

  blood,

  glistening,

  oily.

  * * *

  I am Insatiable.

  I watched your wife as she cursed your name, struggled with the slippery infant in the bath.

  As she fumbled for the nappies on the change table, groped for the box that was empty; and the baby gurgled and pissed in a high, golden arch.

  I watched as your wife slumbered exhausted across the bed, still grasping the cradle which she had rocked

  till her wrist ached.

  But my attention was on your child, soft and pink in its swaddling cloth. With eyes like slits it hovered between sleep and wakefulness.

  Sensing that I was there.

  Let him drink his full; suck the warm milk out of his mother’s breasts till she can give no more.

  So that like you he may grow

  plump,

  shiny,

  lusty.

  I am Waiting.

  Pix & Panels

  Mark Farrugia

  It’s a short little word, but no other more accurately describes a story told in words and pictures.

  Comic.

  Plain and simple.

  And comics are set to become an even bigger part of Midnight Echo. In addition to featuring the serialised story The Key to His Kingdom (the result of my partnership with artist Greg Chapman), starting with this issue of Midnight Echo, each edition will feature a comics-related column, Pix and Panels. What you are reading here is it, by the way. But that’s just the beginning. Midnight Echo also plans to recreate some of Australia’s most obscure pulp and colonial short fiction as comics in future editions; so comics will soon be an even more integral part of the magazine.

  Exciting times, indeed!

  Exactly how this column is presented will be a shifting landscape. We’ll have interviews with writers and artists, and at some stage we will present ideas on how to produce a comic, tracing the process from script to concept drawings and eventually the final product. There might even be an occasional review or a section on industry news.

  First up, it’s an interview with one of Australia’s best known horror comic writers, Christian Read. Christian has written for Dark Horse, Phosphorescent Comics and Gestalt. He has worked on the Star Wars series and within the Cthulhu mythos in Dunwich, and has just released a new piece of fiction illustrated by Michael Maier, The Eldritch Kid.

  * * *

  Mark Farrugia: Christian, can you tell us what makes comics different to other forms of storytelling?

  Christian Read: The famous quote, attributed to a dozen people, is “Comics is just words and pictures. You can do anything with words and pictures.” And it’s sodding true! Film can’t touch the mélange experience of a comic. Prose can’t give you the warm sluice of lovely artjuice washing your eyes. And nothing touches comics for its ability to manipulate time and space. A
comic flows in ways nothing else does. Creates imagery and symbolism in ways nothing else can touch. It’s the basis of human alphabets for a reason.

  MF: How do you interact with artists to produce the final product?

  CR: Depends on the artist. Some people like you to proof everything from roughs, which are quick sketches of layouts they’ll do for themselves, through to the final art, asking for input at every level. Some just want to be left alone to do the work without some nervous, chattering writer looking over their shoulder like some demented magpie.

  My preferred method is just to have a chat or an email conversation at the start of the project and check in now and again. I’m lucky that I work with pros who know how to slice up the page. I’m just there to answer questions or give ideas on storytelling once they say ‘yes’ to the script.

  MF: So how different is that final product from the original look you envisaged when you started writing?

  CR: When I was first starting out, I had a very firm look in mind for the books. But then I discovered that artists are better at imagining and creating art than I am. There’s a hint in the name …

  So now, aside from controlling very specific bits of storytelling, which I need control of for pacing or for information the reader requires, or an experiment I want to try, I leave it up to the artist. If it’s a person I’ve worked with before, I’m capable of making some pretty good guesses of how they’ll interpret the script. I can envisage a Scott Fraser page particularly well, which is why he works on my personal auto-bio stuff.

  This means that I’ve stopped fretting and just learn to be as excited and interested as the reader when they turn the page.

  I think that the key for writing comics is being aware that you give up some control at the same time as you give up certain, potentially onerous, responsibilities a film-maker or novelist works under. Artists aren’t just a pair of hands for the writer. If you’re thinking of writing comic scripts, disabuse yourself of that notion quickly, my friends.