The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  There were shrugs, some muttering. One group walked away.

  Though disheartened, I continued. “D’you see my sad face? I’m sad because I’m carrying so many coins in my pocket, and a hole has worn right through. I want to change this. I want to reform our coins, every one, keeping the small ones that we use to buy mushrooms, or olives, but changing the bulky ones to paper money. Paper money would fit more easily into our clothes, and of course it’d be much lighter. This is my big plan. Money reform. And then I’d make another change, one that would considerably ease the frustrations of buying out of district. Why not have one currency for all? Why is Seraglio different? Why Bazaar, why Psamathia? If we had one currency, think how easy it would be to buy elsewhere.” I paused, clearing my throat, preparing for my final declamation. “I’d make paper money and I’d make a currency right across Stamboul. Citidenizens, think of me when you go to the Hippodrome come full moon. Think of our futures, think how much easier life would be if my reforms were put into practice.” I jumped off the podium. A few people were staring at me, as if shocked. “That’s all,” I told them, “but I intend taking my message to the other podiums.” Suddenly I was inspired. “Follow me! Tell everyone about my ideas! Let’s make some huge crowds!”

  Then I pulled my hood over my head and slipped into an alley.

  There was a note waiting for me at home that read, ‘Bathtime.’

  Bathtime... and all my old fears returned to churn my guts, the memories of words and venomous looks, the sensual paranoia of living in Raknia’s shadow. For a few seconds I decided to ignore the summons, but then I realised how foolish a mistake that might be. In this matter I had no choice. I washed the make-up off my face and dressed in a long coat. With a curse and a half-hearted kick at the door jamb I departed my home, stepping with reluctance down the steps, until, out on the street, second thoughts arrived, and I found myself dawdling outside the Hippodrome. I could not walk further. As if to mock me, the tragedy based on my affair with Raknia was still playing. I swore again, then forced myself to continue along Tulku Sok Street. Soon I was standing outside the door in the passage way.

  As before, it opened without human intervention. I shivered.

  Walking, almost creeping down the tunnel to the bath, I sensed that the place had changed; the echoes were different, as if grey mould on the walls was absorbing sound. The smell was different too, nothing of jasmine or lilies; now all was dust and decay, and stagnant water. And the light ahead came not from the ceiling lamp but from some other, lesser source.

  “Hello? Raknia, are you there?”

  I was almost at the bath chamber. This felt wrong. I took a step forward and craned my neck to peer into the chamber. I saw cracked tiles on the walls, some of which had fallen off to smash on the ground, while the pool itself was weed-filled, with dark wrack stuck to the edges like the sea-soaked hair of some appalling nereid. A glass lantern placed on the floor offered little light. I looked up to see cobwebs hanging from the ceiling, amidst the peeling plaster.

  “Hello?” I said once again.

  There came a noise from the corner to my right, and Raknia stepped out of the shadows. She wore a black leather coat and black boots with the toes sharpened to points. Her hair lay flat against her skull. Her expression was not friendly.

  “Have you managed to find my records?” she asked.

  “I have been struggling with Atavalens and his panther,” I replied. My voice had the querulous tones of an old man. “However, I have found out when and how I can get into the records chamber.” I hesitated. “It is just a matter of getting enough luck to do it—the security is very firm. But it shouldn’t be long...”

  She said nothing. The aura of the room spoke for her.

  “I really am trying, Raknia.”

  The silver light of the glass lantern faded and a shadow like soot dropped from the ceiling. I glanced up, to see the cobwebs moving as if under the influence of a breeze. I returned my gaze to the spot where Raknia stood—

  She was gone! I gasped and shrank back against the wall. The air was cold, and my flesh tingled as every hair stood on end. I looked left then right, then peered into the shadows of the far wall, but she had vanished, and in moments the bath chamber itself was as dark as a soot-filled night, with the lantern offering only dismal haze, like the moon behind cloud. There came a clicking noise from somewhere in the chamber, a rustling, accompanied by a dull thud like distant thunder, and I knew—how I could not tell—that I was hearing the heartbeat of some appalling creature.

  I coughed. The sound died as it left my lips. This was not the place I knew. I turned and fled, but I tripped on a step. On my back I had a clear view of the end of the tunnel—nobody there—but then I noticed movement on the ceiling above me: a shape black against shadow, with thin stick-like fingers coming out of it. I stared. The shape was descending. It was hissing.

  I screamed and got to my feet, running up the steps, tripping again, glancing back to see a bag of a body moved by eight legs that was almost upon me; I screamed again, running, then in my blindness slamming into the outside door.

  It was shut. I hammered on it, shouting with all my breath, trying to find the handle, which seemed to have gone. I glanced back to see a twinkle of multiple eyes, but at last my fingers found the handle and I pulled the door open and flung myself into the passage. Hoarse and spasming I crawled to the wall opposite, where I sat up to look back.

  The door was shut and I was alone. I heard myself breathing as if I had run a mile. Then I looked again at the door, only to see a wall blank apart from old beams and stones, like the architectural remains of some earlier building. The door had vanished.

  I stood up. Snot and spittle covered my coat. I was still breathing like a dying man. Groaning, I stumbled down the passage to the alley at its end, where, in a doorway, I sat down to recover.

  I knew I could never go back. What remained unclear to me was whether I would meet Raknia again, but as soon as that thought occurred to me I realised the danger that any separation would put me in. I had to find her records. I could always leave a note under her door. Then, perhaps, we could be together again.

  Back at home, sleep remained a distant prospect. With the horror of the bath, the peril of document theft and the prospect of my candidacy to come, I had too much to think about for any chance of slumber.

  I returned to the Forum of Constantine on the following dawn, in a determined mood. As before there was no sign of occupation, but this time I checked some of the small chambers near the document store; and this time I used my rat hearing to pick the lock of the door that before had thwarted me. The room behind was long and thin, with many doors leading off it, but fortunately these doors were numbered, and I knew from the form of the figures that they must relate to dates. I found myself in the unusual position of thanking the Mavrosopolis for being so logical.

  I slipped the latch on the door marked with the year of Raknia’s expulsion, then entered, closing the door behind me so that from the outside it would look as if nothing had happened. As I had expected, all the scrolls, parchments and boxes were laid out with precision, labelled according to month and district. This was typical of the bureaucratic excess so enjoyed by the clerks and scribes of the citidenizenry, and again I gave thanks for it. Guessing that Raknia had been made a citidenizen in Seraglio, I began with the scrolls of that district, narrowing down the month by checking the summary of names attached to each record. It took me an hour to find the right document, but it was present.

  It was a single grey scroll. I took it to a table, where I sat down to unroll it. I found Raknia’s entry, then read.

  ‘Raknia, of Kozkopper’s Tower, Kutkugun Street, Gulhane. Record of those events surrounding the election of two counsellords.’

  I stopped breathing for a moment as I re-read this opening sentence.

  ‘Raknia and twenty eight other citidenizens of the district of Seraglio put themselves forward for the office of counsellord accordin
g to the rules of Stamboul. A contest was waged as normal. (Two places were available.) Both Raknia and the other leading citidenizen, Luto of Mimarmehmet Street, were ahead from the start, with twelve citidenizens dropping out before the final act of tallying in the Hippodrome. Luto and Raknia were noted as having the most support and they were put forward as new counsellords of Seraglio. However, a routine test on the night afterwards revealed that Raknia had used her shamanistic abilities to distort the feelings of the crowds to which she spoke, making her seem far more attractive, more entrancing, even, than was actually the case. It was judged that she had erred so much that she should be ejected from the citidenizenry (there was of course no possibility of her rising to the position of counsellord). She protested, and there was much unpleasantness. The candidate with the third largest support, Kuhgunerune of the lighthouse, ascended alongside Luto. In the end, Garakoy allocated Raknia a home in a tower at the edge of the Gulhane Gardens (see his record) where she was judged to be a nogoth. I declare this a true record of the events of the day. Vurshuner of F. Constantine.’

  I sat back, my mind’s eye returning to the night at the inn, where I had used a shamanistic spell to understand the desires of the people. I had made the same mistake as Raknia. If I did become a counsellord I would be returned to the streets the night after.

  Shock departed to leave me feeling sick. There was no going back on a shamanistic spell since the power to perform it came from a being immortal; the smell of its effect would be with me until I died. I had failed, then; and by accident. Suddenly I felt exhausted, as if failure allowed everything I had been holding within myself to seep out—all the effort, all the thought, all the horror and misery. Failure turned me into a tired, old man. I slumped back into the chair, the scroll left to dangle from my hand.

  I could not become a counsellord.

  I closed my eyes. Sickness changed to sadness, then to dull anger at my bad luck. All the negative thoughts that I had suppressed now welled up into my mind, shadows and shame only too happy to reduce me to the nobody that I had once been.

  But there was another voice wondering if there might be a way out of my dilemma. I would have to take a risk. I sat up, slammed both hands on the table before me and shouted, “I will be a counsellord!”

  I stood up. In moments I was back in the corridor, then out of the Forum. Divan Yolu Street was a short walk away. I pulled up my hood, flitted between shadows, took an alternative route into Blackguards’ Passage, before, with a look up and down the alley, I hurried down the metal stairs to Astarta’s cellar.

  I spoke to her about my problem without preamble. “Mother, I need your advice more than ever before. When I became a shaman...”

  “When you were a boy.”

  “Yes, when I was a boy, I remember the het-man saying that rat magic could never be undone, that you were stuck with it.”

  “All your life.”

  “Is that true?”

  She grinned, showing teeth, and holes between teeth. “There might be a way of washing off the stink of sorcery.”

  “Tell me how!” I pleaded.

  “What’s it worth?”

  I sat back. “What is it worth?”

  “You think I’m going to tell you for nothing?”

  “But I am your son.”

  Astarta chuckled, as did the other mothers, and I realised that I had not been looking at the bargain from their point of view. Somehow, the sound of their amusement was as menacing as anything I had heard in Raknia’s bath chamber.

  “But I am your son,” I repeated.

  “You’re a citidenizen, no son of mine,” Astarta replied, in as cold a voice as I had ever heard her use. “I don’t believe nogoths can have citidenizen sons, can they?”

  “Mother,” I said, “I am taking a huge risk coming here. Please tell me how to get rid of the aura of this little listening spell.”

  “For...?”

  I decided it was time to lie outright. “I will bring food here,” I said, knowing that I would have to go back on my word as soon as I left the cellar.

  “Really?”

  “Yes!”

  “What kind of food?”

  I described the last few meals I had eaten. “I will come at dawn when there is nobody about,” I added. “I won’t come in, I’ll just leave packages at the top of the steel steps.”

  The mothers seemed pleased, murmuring to themselves, whining and grinning as they imagined the feasts to come. Then Astarta took my wrist in one bony hand and whispered, “You have to bathe in the Phosphorus. It’s a sorcerous river. You have to bathe in it and let it wash away the smell of rat. Head under—everything. Don’t wear clothes.” She chuckled. “You’ll freeze, you will.”

  “How does it work?” I asked, suspicious of this answer.

  “How should I know? But that’s the way—I heard about it when I was a girl.” She sighed. “So many years ago.”

  “But this method still works?”

  “You’ll have to find out. So you used rat senses to listen, eh?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and now I wish I hadn’t.”

  Astarta laughed again, then descended into a choking cough. “Better make sure you get in a good supply of hats,” she remarked.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  Angered by her wheedling, I left the cellar. I strode down Divan Yolu Street then traversed the Gulhane Gardens to find myself on Sahil Yolu Street, which I crossed to reach the river shore. I had arrived at a place unknown to me, but here the bank was a strip of sand and gravel, perfect for bathing.

  I sat on the shore, my chin on my knees, my hands by my ankles. Though I knew I must remove the rat spell, I did not trust my mother, who had told me what seemed a folk story from her childhood. Yet I had no other option. Looking around to see if I was being watched, I saw that I was alone. Muffled Stamboul sounds drifted over the edge of the bank; the Phosphorus lapped at its shore, while, far off, invisible to me, boats clunked together and bells tinkled. With a grunt of frustration I pulled off my boots and breeches, then my coat and my shirt. I looked down at my rat leg, then again scanned the shore for watchers. Nobody.

  I ran into the water. It was cold. For a moment I had to stop and catch my breath, then make the decision to carry on. I waded out into the black water until I was waist deep, then turned to look back at the shore. It seemed further away than it should have been, my clothes the faintest smudge of black against the moon-pale sand. I looked up. No soot tonight, just stars.

  I held my nose with thumb and forefinger, took a last breath, then submerged myself.

  Sounds deepened, became reverberated as if I was inside a hall, and yet there was illumination underwater, rays and beams spiralling up from the depths, changing ink to grey water, twinkling when they caught flakes and sand, transforming fishes into flashing streaks of silver. Then a single, dark shape rose up from the depths to circle around me at speed, so fast I could not twist around to see what it was. There was a rush of bubbles, a hint of black against grey, a touch on my head like the fingers of a mermaid, then all was gone: darkness and cold, pain in my lungs and throat. I thrashed my feet and hands to propel myself to the surface, where I broke water and gasped for breath.

  Like a child that has lost its parents I splashed towards the shore, breathing fast and swimming in random bursts, until my feet touched ground and I was able to wade back, and at last crawl out onto dry land. My clothes lay undisturbed. Nobody had seen me. I lay panting, recovering from my ordeal, before I stood up and used my shirt to dry myself. Minutes later I was dressed—though still uncomfortable—and wondering what food I had at home.

  My hearing was deadened from the water in my ears. I cocked my head to one side and tried to shake it out, then bent it to the other side. No change. I put a hand to the side of my head and patted.

  It felt different.

  I stood straight, both hands raised to the side of my head.

  My ears had gon
e.

  I stood silent in shock. I could still hear, albeit not so well as before, but my ears were missing. I turned to face the sorcerous Phosphorus. Had a bargain been set by my desire to have the spell washed away? I had listened to conversations at the inn that would be my downfall were I to become a counsellord. Now part of my natural listening had been taken away.

  An ear for an ear.

  5.9.595

  To fail is not necessarily to encounter failure. There is an ancient saying: it is not necessary to win every battle if you win the war. I despise this martial rhetoric, but it encapsulates what I now know. Failure is but a stone on the bright path, a dark one indeed, but still only a stone. Alas, however, that I tried to become a counsellord.

  Where lies my future? Some days I know peace. I walk in the wondrous Gulhane Gardens and I see the beauty of pale blooms draped like corpse hands over sooty foliage—blooms whose periods of coming and going follow the phases of the moon, is that not extraordinary?—and then I stroll on down to the banks of the Phosphorus, with my cane in one hand and a light parasol in the other, wearing my agreeable cloak and my comfortable knee-boots. At the Phosphorus I peer out into the gloom to view a serene beauty, albeit steeped in sombre tokens—the boats and ships that ply the Propontis and the Black Sea. The moon is fabulous high and the stars are bright. Only the certainty of soot to come spoils this entertainment.

  But these are all philosophical entities. Even a man as high-minded as myself cannot live on ethereal wonder forever. (I would starve!) I live in a society that I cannot ignore.

  So it is that on some days I know turmoil and frustration. I see the massive architecture of the bureaucracy that runs the citidenizenry—the bureaucracy supported and even designed by the counsellords over immense periods of time. I hate this bureaucracy, I despise it for its tedium, its mechanistic character, its unforgiving nature. I see hundreds of citidenizens going about their business—that they have been assigned to by their superiors, rather than having chosen themselves—and I hate their narrow minds.