The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  I felt no passage of time. Everything merged.

  Petals were crushed and feathers rose and fell on draughts as we rolled around the floor, the couch and its blanket forgotten. I found that when I was on my hands and knees my withered leg was no drawback. She grabbed my hair in her hands and encircled my body with her legs; I caressed her and called her the names that she called me. That made her passion all the more intense. My white seed spurted over her ashen body. The hookah trailed smoke, its pipe in a steel tray on the floor beside us; and we would rest to breathe more of that incense in, before returning to one another.

  Time was nothing. The Mavrosopolis was nothing. Only the room existed, full of smoke and scent.

  And later, when Raknia was on all fours above me and I was lying eyes shut in the blossoms and feathers, I felt I might know heaven. But then I opened my eyes, and, over the twin curves of her buttocks, I saw two ghostly figures staring down at us.

  I gave a shout of fear.

  Raknia squealed, then looked up. She leaped off me as I rolled away to grab my rag shirt.

  Raknia was shouting loud. For a few moments my shock was so great I could not grasp the words.

  Then they became clear. “Get out! Get out of my room!”

  Another haunting. But it was not the masked wraith, it was two lesser shades, not so intense as a wraith, clearer, darker, yet frightening in their own way.

  She screamed at them, “Get away! You’re not wanted here, get away and don’t come back!”

  They each pointed an accusatory finger at her. “You think you can stop us haunting?” Then they pointed at me. “You think Ügliy is safe?”

  “Go away, now!”

  “You are a traitor. We will not give up.” They turned to me, drifting towards me on blurred and fading legs. “As for you—we tell you now that if you proceed to the final part of the test you will regret it for the rest of your short life. You will not take the test. You will not take it.”

  I felt both afraid and insolent. Because these beings were inferior to wraiths I wanted to retaliate, yet their ghostly power was having an effect on me, making the hairs on my body stand up, making my lip quiver, forcing me to backtrack to the door, as if to run away.

  “No...” I said. “You know I can’t pass the test.”

  They vanished, satisfied with my answer. Raknia pulled on her gown and folded her arms, as if to hug some warmth into her body. I felt cold, sick. The odour of the room was not so fresh as it had been.

  I glanced at her. “They called you a traitor,” I remarked.

  She said nothing.

  I added, “Perhaps there is an explanation for that.”

  She looked at me, a sullen expression on her face. “They implied that you might pass the last part of the test,” she said. “Have you been hiding something from me?”

  Suddenly she was fear and shadow incarnate. The room seemed smaller, colder, greyer. “No,” I said. “I don’t know what the last part is. Anyhow, I am a cripple.”

  She studied me. Then she poured a glass of raki, hesitated, shrugged, then poured me one and brought it over.

  “Traitor?” I queried.

  “I’ve no idea,” she replied. “Ask the shades. They’ll know.”

  She knew. I understood that some hidden plot had been revealed here. She knew. “It is time I went,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “I will come back.”

  A faint smile in reply, then, “Good.”

  I dressed, then departed the tower, returning to my doorway in Blackguards’ Passage, where I pondered that strange accusation.

  Traitor. To whom?

  10.8.583

  I now know the depths, the malevolent, callous depths of the thawer masters, and I will never forgive them for what they did to me yesterday.

  Oh so casually they asked us to rely upon our cimmerian helpers, knowing that later they would rip us apart for the sake of the citidenizen test. I did not love my assistant like I love my mother, but I did respect and like her, and we had formed a good, noble and true relationship—not one of equals, that could never be, but one of value. Her name was... no, I had better not set it down. I do not want to remember what it represents. If I did remember, I would spit in fury upon this sheet of paper, and the soot impregnated in it would run, and ruin my words. I will not tolerate spoiled lettering.

  She was a good woman who has been exploited by the thawers. That should not be. It is wrong. There is so much wrong in the Mavrosopolis, more than I thought possible. How come this wrong has not been recognised? Am I the only man who sees? This question, this torment, will not leave me, this constant desire to find out why nobody before me has seen the wrong in our conurbation. Why, why? Are we not all free?

  They are cunning, the thawer masters. Every woman aspirant had a man cimmerian, while every man had a woman. They hoped, they actually hoped that carnally charged relationships would evolve, so that they could be torn apart when the moment came. For them, relationships are of secondary importance compared to the mores of the Mavrosopolis. I am sure that there is a perverted voyeurism in the games that they play with their pre-citidenizens, one that makes their life enjoyable. Enjoyable to them alone. If that is the truth of the citidenizenry, I do not want it.

  And yet I must have it. What an appalling dilemma. I must leave the gutters, the sooty streets that run like ink when there is rain, and I must become a citidenizen; yet if I become a citidenizen I enter a world of moral senility, of vile and base behaviour, and sheer wrongness. Is this the way of the world?

  I can think of only one answer to my problem. When—I say when, and I have always assumed when, but now I am thinking if—if I become a citidenizen I must become a secret artist, haunting, like a shade, the perpetually twilit alleys of the Mavrosopolis. Only a secret artist could survive the inhumane bureaucracy ofthe citidenizenry. I will become a terrorist poet, handing out my verse with a wicked club and a hidden face, demanding that people read me, telling them—in a disguised voice—that there are many other secret poets about the place. I will demand of them and they will read, and because nobody will be able to find out who I am, I will be both safe and artistically satisfied; even vindicated, if people like my work...

  That is another absurdity, surely.

  If the streets of the Mavrosopolis are thronging with secret poets, why have I not seen them or heard of them? My ear is fixed to the street, after all. There are nogoth musicians, players of the wondrous, long-necked saz, of the ney flute with its tricky dental mouthing technique, of the tambour and of many percussive items. These are artist folk, if such a concept exists amongst nogoths—really they are folk musicians with a limited vocabulary, albeit with fine technique. I have dealt with these musicians, I have spoken with them and tried to understand their persuasions and their nuances, and not one has mentioned secret citidenizen poets.

  I am forced to the conclusion that if I pass the citidenizen test I am in for a tough time. I would wish it otherwise. I hope that I am wrong, but I am so often right.

  Chapter 8

  A meeting took place that I did not expect. Two men—pale faces, crimped black hair, dark eyes and the kohl make-up of citidenizens—arrived in Blackguards’ Passage to find me and give me a message. I invited them to sit down in my doorway while I lay in the alley. It was deepest night, and the Mavrosopolis sweated silent around us.

  “What do you want?” I asked them.

  There was a hesitation, but something about their manner, some hint of insincerity, told me they were acting. They knew exactly what they wanted to say. The taller and more confident of the pair said, “You have caused us quite a problem by taking the citidenizen test.”

  “It is every nogoth’s right,” I replied.

  The man shrugged. “Once, yes. No more.”

  “I intend passing.”

  The man shook his head. “This is an informal meeting, but what we have to say applies just like any official talk. You cannot pass the test. You a
re a cripple, and imperfects are not allowed to become citidenizens. You will, in fact, fail. We are here to tell you.”

  “But I must pass.”

  The second man took up the conversation. “Didn’t you hear him? Anyone like you’s barred from entering the citidenizenry. There’s no arguing with it. It’s a fact. We came here to tell you that when you present yourself for the final part, you’ll be failed. We’re telling you so’s to give you the option of not turning up.”

  The other man nodded. “It is the civilised thing for us to do.”

  I shook my head. “I have got to get around the rule somehow.”

  Both men stood up. The taller said, “Go on then, surprise us. Walk. Walk, Ügliy, like a citidenizen does—without a crutch. Hop and jump, Ügliy. But you cannot do it, can you?”

  There was anger in their voices now, and mockery. The second man grabbed my crutch and said, “Nobody like you’s allowed in the citidenizenry, got that? You is not gonna pass, you’s never gonna pass. It ain’t possible. No imperfects. Got that? Not even one.”

  They were preparing to leave. The taller man shrugged. “It is a rule. We all follow rules during life. Your rules, Ügliy, are the rules of nogoths, of the street, and you would do well to remember that.”

  The other man flung my crutch to the ground.

  I felt anger bubbling up inside me. “I will never accept that,” I said. “I can’t believe the Mavrosopolis would be so unjust to one of its own.”

  “Nogoth’s ain’t its own,” came the cutting response. “Nogoths is accidental, nogoths is unfortunate—nothing more.”

  “Nogoths are irrelevant,” the tall man added.

  The pair turned to leave. In a loud voice I said, “I will be presenting myself at the correct time and place.”

  Without looking back, the taller man threw a card to the street. “Then prepare for disappointment,” he said.

  I retrieved the card, which had written upon it the time and place of my test: a chamber off the Forum of Tauri one evening hence.

  I sagged back into my doorway. I knew now that I could not pass the test. The rules said so, and I of all people would be subject to those rules. The citidenizens in charge of me must have hoped that I would decide not to present myself, or they would not have bothered to send out the two men. I had been staring a hopeless task in the face by ignoring the truth, but now that truth had caught up with me.

  Failed.

  I would remain a nogoth.

  I felt no tears, only bitterness in the pit of my stomach that brought bile to the back of my throat. I felt tense, yet heavy as lead: powerless. I wanted to go back to the Tower of the Dessicators and beg for another chance, but I knew I would be kicked back into the street like the detritus I was. They cared little for human feelings. They were subservient to the ways of the Mavrosopolis. At that moment, I hated what I was and what I had hoped to become. I saw no future, except as fish food lying at the bottom of the harbour.

  Atavalens’ description of me had been correct. You are the lowest nogoth in the smallest nogoth pack, who hasn’t the wit or strength to eat—on my own admission—for days on end... crippled dregs... you deserve to die.

  Why had I been so determined to succeed? It had all been madness. I sat back and let dark night wash over me, until dawn was close and I slipped into sleep.

  I dreamed. I was at the harbour: water like treacle washing up and down before me, each wave topped with white surf, grey boats like bloated corpses in the distance, as if watching, waiting for me to jump in and drown. And I was tempted. The hypnotic rise and fall of the surf sucked me in, until I could smell the salt and see the forms of creatures lurking just below the surface. I seemed to be in a slow motion dive, having jumped, now flying, now falling towards the surface, about to slip under and vanish forever. The chill feel of liquid at my chin, then choking—

  I woke up. The Mavrosopolis was silent around me. Dawn had not yet arrived. Disconsolate, I left Blackguards’ Passage and walked down to Gedik Pasa Street, from where I made for the harbour.

  It was not so different to my dream. Grey boats bobbed in the distance as the water of the Propontis lapped at their sides. Around and below me the sparkling granite blocks that here comprised the harbour wall were dull and damp. Behind me, voices sounded from an untidy cluster of taverns, whorehouses and dives. Though the water did not tempt me, I did consider how easy it would be to jump in and just let go of life...

  There was a shout from behind me. I turned to see a familiar shock of white hair. Atavalens approached as if he was lord ruler of the Mavrosopolis, with Yabghu and Uchagru like viziers at his side. “Taking the air, nogoth?” he enquired.

  I maintained an uninterested expression. “Yes,” I answered, before turning my head to gaze over the water.

  Atavalens slouched at my side. “I’m a citidenizen, you know,” he said. “I passed my test last night. Care to congratulate me?”

  I nodded once. “Congratulations,” I said. “It’s good that one more nogoth has been taken off the streets.”

  “Don’t sound so magnanimous, cripple,” came the reply. “I know you’re seething. And so you should be. The dice just didn’t fall right for you. Unlike me.”

  I said nothing as, tittering, the trio returned to their tavern. I walked back to my doorway in Blackguards’ Passage and prepared for sleep.

  To dream again. I was in a gloomy street: the sound of pattering feet coming from somewhere near my ankles, alleys and buildings distorting around me as if seen in a mirror. And the feel of power. I looked down to see a rippling carpet of rat bodies, an energy source that I was tapping so that I could bend the Mavrosopolis to my will. I was growing, becoming a giant, faster, faster, until the Mavrosopolis was a toy beneath me and I was breathing pure soot. Choking, now—

  I woke.

  I was lying on my side as if I had writhed in my dream. The memory of rat power remained in my mind, though the images themselves vanished, and I remembered that there was another kind of sorcery in the Mavrosopolis, and that such sorcery was available to me. I was still a shaman. I wondered then if there might be a way of changing my appearance so that I could pass the test. But I would have to hurry.

  Realising that the number of people whom I could question was diminishing, I decided to first visit my mother. She chided me for my negative approach. “Nobody ever got anywhere by being sad,” she said.

  I refrained from pointing out her own situation.

  “Though that is the way of some nogoths,” she added. “Oh, no, I think you can do it. There’s ways and means, things you don’t yet know about.”

  I was curious. “Such as?”

  “You’re still only young.”

  I recognised the point she was making and forebore from arguing my case, knowing I would never overcome her stubborn opinions. “That is true,” I said.

  “You don’t know nothing about an oracle, for instance.”

  “Oracle?”

  “Yes—deep underground.”

  I took one of her hands in my own. “Where?” I asked.

  “Ah, you’re interested now.”

  It was time for manipulation. “Of course I am,” I cried. “I’ve been told that tomorrow I will be failed just because I can’t walk properly. I’ve got to be a citidenizen, I can’t stand any more of this.”

  Astarta grimaced. “Yes, yes. All right, I’ll take you.”

  I was surprised. “Take me?”

  She stared at me, saying nothing, and I caught sight of something I had never before noticed in her expression. It was wisdom—the wisdom of age, that in truth she did represent. My frustrations fell away. “You can’t just tell me where it is,” I muttered.

  “It’s not as simple as that.”

  I nodded. “Nothing ever is.”

  She glanced at me, then looked away. “I knew you wouldn’t get far with that woman in Gulhane Gardens,” she sighed.

  We ascended to Blackguards’ Passage. Astarta’s arthritis was n
ot so bad that she could not walk, but it was enough to slow her down. She walked hunched over, though without a stick, dribbling spit into the soot, her bony hands raised before her like a pair of white talons. I dawdled at her side, wondering where she might lead me.

  We passed the eastern end of the Hippodrome, walked along its great length, passed the Tower of the Bafflers, then entered a maze of passages leading towards the Propontis, until we stood side by side before a series of steps that led into nothing more than a hole torn through paving slabs.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “Only nogoths come here.”

  I considered this reply. It was impossible for me to tell where the line between the insanity of old age and the profundity of old age should be drawn. I had no clues to decide what she meant by her remark, and I could not ask because I knew she would sulk. But I caught in her tone a hint that the citidenizens of the Mavrosopolis would never—could never—come here.

  “Down there?” I asked, pointing.

  “Yes. Hold my hand.”

  “Wait. Where are we going?”

  “Don’t you listen to anything? Underground. Subterranea. Call it what you like, it’s all the same thing, as you’ll understand when you’re a bit older.”

  I led her to the first step, where we halted. A thrill of excitement passed through my body when I put my foot on the step. I could not decide if it was sorcery or apprehension, but I knew something lay at the bottom of these steps.

  “What about light?” I asked.

  She glanced at me, clicked her tongue in annoyance, then studied the hole before her. “D’you still need light?” she murmured.

  I could make no reply. I realised then that she trusted subterranea more than I did. She shook her head, then led me into the darkness of the descending steps.

  The tunnels we followed seemed endless. I smelled similar odours to those of my earlier underground journey, but also others, indicating differences in the construction of the Mavrosopolis: rotting food, animal dung, and that sharp, almost seductive smell of ancient dust. Even the stone here smelled different, and because we were in southerly quarters there was a hint of salt and ocean water. I said nothing to my mother, allowing her to lead me through the warren without distraction, knowing that if I spoke she could take a wrong turning.