The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 2003, Volume 14

by Stephen Jones

  Card No. 6

  Description: A quite imperfect and puzzling picture, with mist and fog, or perhaps steam, obscuring almost all detail. What is visible are the dim outlines of two rows of faces, some veiled, others bearded.

  Text: poured more water on the coals. By now it was quite hot, and I could no longer see Forsythe, but only hear his voice. The lack of visibility made it easier to concentrate on his words, with my eyes no longer focused on details I had found so distracting. “The incongruity of it all makes my head reel – how could they have maintained all this in the face of the changes around them? After all, a major invasion route of the past three millennia lies two valleys to the west . . .” Nodding in unseen agreement, my attention was momentarily diverted by the sound of a new arrival entering the room, and seconds later a smooth leg brushed briefly against mine; I assumed it was a woman, and durst not stir. “Not that they’ve rejected the modern at all costs – they’ve got electric generators and some lighting, a fair amount of modern goods and weaponry find their way in, there’s the museum, that Turkish photography shop, the printing press, and – oh, all the rest. But they pick and choose. And that religion of theirs! All the Jews and Muslims and Christians here are cowed completely! Why hasn’t a holy war been declared by their neighbours?” With Paul ranting on in the obscuring darkness, I grunted in agreement, and then, shockingly, felt a small foot rub against

  Card No. 7

  Description: Costumed official, perhaps a religious leader or judge, sitting on the floor facing the camera. He is bearded, greying, with a grim set to his mouth. One hand points gracefully towards a smallish, thick codex held by the other hand. From the man’s breast depends a long rectangular enamelled pendant of simple design, divided vertically into equal fields of black and white.

  Text: Sorbonne, three years of which, I suppose, could explain a lot, as for example, his overpowering use of garlic. “Pseudo-Manicheeism” he continued, “is solely a weak term used by the uncomprehending for what can only be described as perfection, the last word itself being a watered-out expression merely, for that which cannot be comprehended through the feeble tool of rational and sceptical thinking, which closes all doors it does not understand. Oh, I know that some of you” – and here he eyed me suspiciously, as if I was running muckin’ Cambridge! – “have tried to classify our belief, using the Monophysites as opposed to the Miaphysites of your religion in an analogy that neither comprehends nor grasps the subtlety of our divinely inspired thought! As if It could be explained in Eutychian terms! Our truth is self-evident and is so clear that we allow, with certain inconsequential restrictions and provisos, those of your tribe who wish, to expound their falsehoods in the marketplace, assuming they have survived the rigours of the journey here. You were better to perceive indirectly, thinking of flashing light; the colours green, and gold; the hundred instead of the one; segmentation, instead of smoothness, as metaphors that enable one

  Card No. 8

  Description: Another museum card, with several large tokens or coins depicted, which in style and shape resemble some of the dekadrachm issues of 5th century Syracuse. The motifs of the largest one shown, are, however, previously unrecorded, with a temple (see card 5) on the obverse. The reverse, with a young girl and three men, is quite frankly obscene. [Not reproduced in the catalogue]

  Text: tea. I was quite struck with the wholesome appearance and modest demeanour of Mrs Fortesque, who was plainly, if neatly dressed in the style of ten years ago – evidently, they had been out of contact with the London Society for Conversions of the Unfortunate Heathen, and the rest of Blighty since arrival! The Rev. Fortesque was holding forth on how they were, as a family, compelled by local circumstance, and frankly, the threat of force, to adhere strictly to the native code of behaviour and mores when out in public, the children not being exempt from the rituals of their fellows of like age. Calquon frowned at this, and asked “In every way, Reverend?” to which the missionary sighed, “Unfortunately, yes – otherwise, we would not be allowed to preach at all.” There was a small silence while we pondered the metaphysical implications of this. When a young and angelically beautiful girl of about twelve entered the room. “Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Alicia . . .” Mrs Fortesque smiled proudly, only to be interrupted in the most embarrassing fashion by the sudden sputtering and spraying of Forsythe, whom we thought had choked on his crumpet. Thwacking him on the back, until his redness of face receded and normal breathing resumed, I thought I saw an untoward smirk pass lightly over the face of the young girl. “What is it, old man?” I enquired solicitously. Paul, after having swallowed several times, with the attention of the others diverted, whispered sotto voce, breathlessly, so that only I could hear “Yesterday – the temple

  Card No. 9

  Description: An odd view, taken at mid-distance, of a low-angled pyramidal or cone-shaped pile of stones, most fist-sized or slightly smaller, standing about one to two feet high. A number of grimacing urchins and women, the last in their distinctive public costume, stand gesticulating and grinning to either side, many of them holding stones in their hands. Given the reflection of light on the pool of dark liquid that has seeped from the pile’s front, it must be – midday.

  Text: brave intervention, with dire consequence. “For God’s sake, Fortesque, don’t . . .” shouted Forsythe, as I well remember, before his arms were pinned behind him, and with a callused paw like a bear’s clamped over his mouth, in much the same situation as myself, was forced helplessly to watch the inexorable and horrific grind of events. Eager hands, unaided by any tool – such is the depth of fanaticism that prevails in these parts – quickly scooped out a deep enough hole from the loose soil of the market square. The man of the cloth, who had persevered in the face of so much pagan indifference and outright hostility for over a decade, was for his troubles and valiant intervention unceremoniously divested of his clothing and dumped in the hole, which was quickly filled – there was no lack of volunteers – immobilizing him in the same manner as Harrison, who was buried with his arms and upper breast free. They were just far enough apart so that their fingers could not touch, depriving them in fiendish fashion of that small consolation. I remember the odd detail that Fortesque was half-shaven – he had dropped everything when informed of Harrison’s situation. Knowing full well what was in store, he began singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” in a manly, booming voice that brought tears to my eyes, whilst Harrison, I am ashamed to say, did

  Card No. 10

  Description: Group portrait, of nine men. Six stand, wearing bandoliers, pistols with chased and engraved handles protruding from the sashes round their waists, decorative daggers, etc. The edges of their vests are heavily embroidered with metallic thread in arabesque patterns. All are heavily mustachioed. A seventh companion stands, almost ceremoniously, to their right, holding like a circus tent-peg driver a wooden mallet with a large head a foot or so off the ground; a position somewhat like that of a croquet player. The eighth man, wearing a long shift or kaftan, is on all fours in the centre foreground, head to the left, but facing the camera like the others. A wooden saddle of primitive type is on his back. A ninth man, dressed like the first seven, is in the saddle, as if riding the victim, who, we see, has protruding from his fundament, although discreetly draped in part by the long shift, a pole the thickness of a muscular man’s forearm.

  Text: no idea, being sure that all this was misunderstanding, and could easily be cleared up with a liberal application of baksheesh. This was our mistake, as Calquon was led from the judge’s compartments, arms bound, to a small square outside, where there was a carved fountain missed by the iconoclasts of long ago (of whom there had been several waves), with crudely sculptured and rather battered lions from whose mouths water streamed into the large circular limestone basin. We followed, of course, vehemently protesting his innocence all the while, and were studiously ignored. Poor Calquon was untied, and forced onto his knees and hands in a most undignified and ludicrous posit
ion. A crowd of people had already gathered under the hot midday sun, including many women and children. Hawkers walked through the throng that gathered, offering cold water from tin tanks on their backs, each with a single glass fitted into a decorated silver holder with a handle, tied onto the vessel by a cord. I saw, lying off to the side, on the steps of the fountain, a wooden stake, bark removed from its narrow end, smoothed and sharpened to a nasty point. A fat greasy balding man wearing the red cummerbund of officialdom came out of the crowd, with a bright knife in

  Card No. 11

  Description: A market with various stalls and their owners. A wandering musician is off to the left, and a perambulating vendor of kebabs, with long brass skewers, is on the right.

  Text: painful for everyone concerned, particularly George. A guard in crimson livery, decorated with gold thread, was sitting smoking his hubble-bubble a short distance away from our gloomy group, every now and then looking up from his reverie to make sure that things were as they should be. Perhaps it was the smoke from the pipe, or sheer bravado – I have never known, to this day – but Calquon, poor George, asked for a cigarette, which Forsythe immediately rolled and put on his lips, lighting it, since this was impossible for our fellow, whose arms were bound. He took a puff, as cool as if he were walking down Regent Street to Piccadilly, and then, for the first time noticing the women and children seated at his feet, asked us in a parched voice what they might possibly be doing there. I shuffled my feet and looked away, while Paul told him in so many words that they were waiting for his imminent departure, for the same purpose that women in the Middle Ages would gather around criminals about to be executed, in hope of obtaining a good-luck charm that was powerful magic, after the fact of summary punishment was accomplished. This, as we were afraid, enraged our unfortunate en brochette companion, who became livid as we tried to calm him. Writhing, in his stationary upright position, would after all do him no good, given that out of his shoulder (from whence I noticed a tiny tendril of smoke ascending) there was already protruding

  Card No. 12

  Description: A public square, photo taken from above at a slant angle, from a considerable distance. Some sort of framework or door, detached from any structure, has been set up in one corner. A couple of dark objects, one larger than the other, appear in the middle of that door or frame which faces the viewer, obscuring what is going on behind. A large agitated crowd of men of all ages – from quite young boys to bent, aged patriarchs, all wearing the truncated local version of the fez, are milling around the rear of the upright construction. A number of local police, uniformed, are in the thick of it, evidently to maintain order.

  Text: wondering what the commotion was about. I was therefore shocked to see in one tight opening the immobilized head of a young woman of about twenty-five, and in the other her right hand. Instead of the ubiquitous veil, she had some sort of black silk bandage that performed the same function, closely wrapped around her mouth and nose. She was plainly emitting a sullen glare – easily understood, given the circumstance. There was no join or seam; for the life of me, I still do not understand the construction. Every now and then the frame and the woman contained by it would violently shake and judder. The expression under her shock of unruly red hair remained stoic and unperturbed. Walking to the other side (make sure that Mildred doesn’t read this!!) I saw the crowd of men – there were about 80 to 100, including about twenty or so of the few negro slaves found in these parts – with more pouring into the square – jostling in the attempt to be next: those nearest had partially disrobed, and had taken “matters” in hand, fondling themselves to arousal, for taking her in the fashion preferred here, which is of that between men and boys, from behind. Desponded as I was, I had no intention other than to continue, when I was suddenly shoved forward into the midst

  Card No. 13

  Description: A view down a narrow street, with the high tenements and their overhanging wooden balconies blocking out much of the light. The photographer has done well to obtain as much detail as is shown here. A cupola or dome, and what is perhaps a minaret behind it, are just visible at the end of the lane. Three young (from the look of their figures as revealed by the traditional dress, cf card 2) women in black, each with a necklace from which hangs a single bright large pendant, stand in the middle of the way, at mid-distance. They appear to be approaching the camera. Surprisingly, for all that they are bare-headed, etc., they are wearing veils that conceal their features utterly. There are no others in the street.

  Text: said to Forsythe that there was no point to it, that we would have to, at some moment, accept our losses and the futility of going any further. With the others gone, I argued, it was extremely unlikely that we could continue on our own; we should swallow our pride, and admit that we had come greatly unprepared for what we had in mind. It was best, in other words, that we make our run as soon as backs were turned. Forsythe disagreed vehemently, and urged that on the contrary, we were obliged by the sacred memory of our companions to carry on, an odd turn of phrase, considering what we had hoped to accomplish and obtain, by any means. And then he said cryptically, “It doesn’t matter in any case – the deed is done.” I immediately took this as admission that the object of our expedition had been somehow achieved without my knowledge; that was the likely cause of the troubles we had experienced, and the growing agitation of the populace I had uneasily witnessed the past few days. As we discussed our dilemma outside the carpet shop, one of many lining the street, I became aware of a silence, a hush that had descended. People turned to face the wall, in fear, I thought, as I saw three females approaching. These

  Card No. 14

  Description: A poor reproduction of the second state of plate VII of Piranesi’s Carceri. In fact, the ascription is given on the verso of the card, the artist’s name (G.B. PIRANESI) appearing in Latin capitals inserted amongst the Arabic and Kyrillic letters.

  Text: less than the Carceri! What everyone had once thought the malarial fever dreams of a stunted, perverse genius, I saw now only to be honest reporting. I was absolutely astounded, once the dragoman, smelling of garlic and anisette, had removed the blindfold from my eyes. A lump came to my throat, and tears threatened to engulf me, when I thought of the others done away with through treachery, foul ignorance and intolerance. I suppose rumours regarding the disappearance of the sacred entity of the valley had much to do with the situation, too. Controlling my emotions – here, for a man to weep is a sign of weakness, with all the consequences such a perception entails – I looked around me. A number of individuals, male and female, nude or partly so, were being ushered along the spiral staircase wrapped around an enormous stone column down which I myself must have descended only a few minutes before. Natural light played through a number of cleverly placed oculi in the invisible ceiling, concealed by the complex bends and angles of the place. Turning,

  Card No. 15

  Description: Another crude reproduction of a Piranesi “Prisons” plate, this time number VIII, ascribed as above.

  Text: I saw yet another vista of the Italian artist before me, and began to understand, for the first time, that the plan of all his mad, insane engravings was a coherent whole, either taken from the actuality before me, or perhaps plotted out from his prints, and converted to reality, by some unsung architectonic genius. The Venetians had been here, I knew, during the mid-1700s, when things had settled down. Perhaps one of their workmen was given the book, and told to produce, or . . . With my glance following the staircase from its beginning, flanked by gigantic military trophies, with plumed helmets much larger than any human head, I traced the turn upwards to the left, and saw, between two enormous wooden doors opening on an arch, a large rack. A series of ropes hung down from the supporting wall, and I could see the faint glow of a brazier and hear the distant screams of the poor women and men, white bodies glistening with the sweat of fear, who hung

  Card No. 16

  Description: Tinted, clearly a display of gemstones, perhaps fr
om a museum of natural history or local geology. One of the larger groups, arranged separately from the others, with green colouring obviously meant to indicate emeralds, appears to be the fragments, longitudinally shattered, of what must have been a single enormous stone.

  Text: subincision being the technical expression. As you can imagine, I was straining wildly against my bonds, in fact, you could say I was struggling to the point of extreme violence, to, as it turned out, no avail. In spite of all my agitated effort, I was clamped to some sort of heavy metal framework or stand that immobilized me more or less completely. Naked, helpless, dreading whatever was in store, I saw the same three young women approach into the torchlight from the encircling darkness. Without a word, my gaolers and the others left, and I was alone with the unholy trio. As if at a signal, they simultaneously removed their veils, and I was momentarily stunned, almost drugged, by the sight of their incredible beauty. Remember, this was the first time I had ever seen one of the local women unmasqued – if these were representative of the rest, it would easily explain any number of puzzling local rituals and customs. In spite of my extreme situation, I could not help myself – the ravishing faces, the fulsome breasts with their shapely crimsoned nipples, the long black glistening hair

  Card No. 17

  Description: A market place, with many and various stands and displays. An ironmonger, a merchant of brass teapots, a seller of cured leather are all easily discerned. In the centre, arms like a Saint Andrew’s cross before his chest, holding a large knife in the one hand, a two-pronged fork in the other, is a seller of grilled and roasted meats. On the small portable gridiron in front of him, a number of sizeable sausages are warming, split neatly lengthwise.

  Text: darted out with the tip of her tongue, and then slowly extended it again. To my horror, I saw it was no tongue: it was a long razor-sharp dagger or splinter of green glass or stone; a smaragd dirk that was somehow attached or glued to the root of what remained of her tongue. The other two, kneeling close on either side of her, reverentially held each, both with two hands, the one heavy breast nearest them of their chief colleague, as if ritually weighing and supporting these at the same time. This observation was made on the abstract, detachedly, as if I were outside my own body. More mundanely, I was screaming and thrashing – or attempting uselessly to thrash. Praise to the gods that be, I passed out completely, and awoke with the foul deed done, blood running down me and pooling on the cold flagging, and the three dark sisters gone. Looking down, as my original captors re-entered the chamber, I saw that the operation had been carried out, just as had been described to me by the temple priest, and I fainted once more. When