The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  “There must be a way,” I muttered.

  “Turn back time, become free of decades of your totemic animal infusing itself into you like rain into earth, and then, perhaps, the initiation rite could be attempted—if you were brave enough. But no. I am sorry.” He took me by the arm and said, “You will remain a counsellord. I hope you will become a good and noble one. Now, shall we examine your new home?”

  I made no reply. I felt empty.

  Without resistance I followed Katurguter, before I was led to a house set some paces off the street. The yard before it was filled with sculptures of serpents, all small, all sooty, set on plinths of marble. The house was imposing, three storeys high, its front door constructed from black oak and steel studs. Diamond-pane windows showed no light inside.

  “This seems a glum place,” I said.

  Katurguter grunted. “Well, it has been uninhabited for some time. You will bring light and warmth.”

  “I think I have left that behind,” I murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing.”

  The door creaked when Katurguter pushed it open. But then came a shout from behind us.

  “Halt!”

  We both turned around. Standing at the gate I saw a figure that before I had only seen as an ethereal being, a ghost, a terror, yet which on this street was a man, albeit a strange one. It was the masked figure with the eye patch, the one who had insisted I return to nogoth life. It was the wraith, it was the shade, but now he was a man.

  Katurguter jerked himself straight, as if standing upright would banish any hint of slovenliness. “Why, good evening,” he said.

  I felt no anxiety. “Who’s this?” I asked, as artlessly as possible.

  The man himself answered. “I am Herpetzag. I am an elitistor.”

  “Ügliy meant no offence,” Katurguter said.

  “None was taken. Ügliy is but a novice with much to learn.”

  I found that my numbness had turned to fire. “You haunted me,” I said, “and you demanded that I stay a nogoth. Well look at me now, just one level below you.”

  “There to remain,” Katurguter added, with a ghastly leer in Herpetzag’s direction.

  “I’m not here to speak with you,” Herpetzag told Katurguter, turning to stare at me. “I’m interested in the shaman.”

  “Why are you frightened of me?” I demanded.

  “I’m not.”

  “But you were frightened when you haunted me in my tower, because there I realised the difference between sorcery and shamanism. You are frightened of me because I am a shaman and you don’t want my sort in your house.”

  Katurguter could not restrain himself. “Ügliy, I thought I had told you! Shamen cannot become elitistors. Herpetzag, I told him, honestly I did.”

  I turned to Katurguter, to say, “This is something beyond you.”

  Katurguter replied, “How can it be?”

  I returned my gaze to Herpetzag. “I don’t know. Yet.”

  “You will never know,” Herpetzag stated.

  Silence fell.

  “Well that is a relief to me,” said Katurguter. He looked across the yard at Herpetzag. “Would it be acceptable to show Ügliy his new house?”

  Herpetzag turned and departed without replying.

  When we were inside the house, Katurguter shut the door and told me, “You have just done a very foolish thing. Elitistors are the epitome of the Mavrosopolis and are not to be mocked. They are our superiors in every way.”

  In the most serious tones I could muster I replied, “I have met Herpetzag three times before, and on the last occasion I had the best of the encounter. I am no ordinary counsellord.” I beat my chest above my heart. “There are things in here that nobody knows about.”

  Now Katurguter was riled. “Such things will get you ejected from our ranks and returned to the streets,” he hissed. “There is no place for rebellion amongst the counsellords. We are functionaries of the Mavrosopolis, whose purpose is to make life here run as smoothly as possible according to the laws of the elitistors. You will be watched, Ügliy. We know how quickly you have risen.” He nodded, regaining his composure. “Yes, you will be watched, and by many people.”

  “Let them,” I replied. Suddenly a remark occurred to me that could help me make sense of the Mavrosopolis. “I have a friend no other does.”

  “Your rat?”

  “I refered to Zveratu.”

  “Who?”

  I made no reply, for this was the answer I had expected. Zveratu was not known to the counsellords. I vowed then in the silence of my thoughts that when I next saw Zveratu I would probe the mystery of my ascension until all was laid bare before me. “Let us investigate this house,” I said.

  Katurguter, troubled by my mysterious silence, showed me the house as quickly as possible, before leaving. The place was large, cold and unwelcoming. Each room had high ceilings, white walls, and floors laid with sheepskin rugs. There was food in the pantry and silver jewellery in the drawers. I took a few rings and pushed them onto my fingers, for I had been told that I had no option but to wear as much jewellery as possible. A ring for every finger.

  I sat down. I was alone again. The ephemeral acquaintances that I had enjoyed as a citidenizen were now gone. Was solitude the fate of every counsellord?

  Feeling the need for action, I jumped from my chair and departed my new home, walking along Siyah Street toward House Sable. Every tile and stone of the building was black, the mortar grey, while from its chimney a dark mist fell, so that the house was wreathed in shadow; and although the glass windows were unshuttered, there was no light inside. It sat upon the street like a smouldering lump of coal. At its front door stood Herpetzag, leaning against an ebon wall.

  “Come to see me?” he asked.

  “Is it true that because I am a shaman I can never become an elitistor?”

  “It is true.”

  I remarked, “Then why are you frightened of me?”

  “Do not overplay your hand,” Herpetzag replied. “You have yet to experience true terror. I can show you that.”

  I did not believe him, and I said so, but he offered me no reply.

  So I departed House Sable. I paced to the eastern end of the street, and there paused. I had been told to remain in Siyah Street as much as possible. Districts outside Zolthanahmet were banned.

  I thought I knew why. In moments I was running, along Hamidiye Street to its end, then south to the Tower of the Bafflers, then along Babiali Street and Divan Yolu Street, ending up at Blackguards’ Passage.

  And the streets looked different. Where before there had been inky lumps marking the positions of nogoths, now there were smudges, misted shapes, hints of people, of faces. My vision had changed and I was seeing my former kin like ghosts.

  I clattered down the steps leading to the cellar of my mother, where I shoved open the door and raced inside. I saw nobody. I looked, startled, before a hint of movement caught my eye, and then I turned. There were shadow ghosts here, five of them, yet I did not feel haunted. I saw glimpses of faces, caught expressions of horror, pale eyes and round screaming mouths, fog and mist marking movement. The smell of fear. There was a sound as of screeching from some distant shore.

  I knew then that I had lost my world. These ghosts were mothers, one of them my own, all of them forever beyond me. In horror I ran off, alternately sobbing and shouting at the heavens, adrift in a sea of rules and ties, without friends and now without even kin. I knew I could not survive for long.

  I would go mad.

  And then I thought of Raknia.

  I ran back to Divan Yolu Street and made east towards the Gulhane Gardens. Soon I was outside her tower, moments later standing at her door. I pushed the door and, though it had been shut, it opened, as if the Mavrosopolis itself was responding to my counsellord will.

  She was inside. I saw her as a misty figure, face indistinct, hands and feet blurred; and again there was an impression of movement away from me, of a twi
sted and tortured face, of screams reaching me from some distance. Haunted eyes. Fury took me as I recalled what she had done to me. I strode towards her. Next thing I knew my hands were at her neck and there were spiders crawling over my flesh, yet these were insubstantial spiders, illusions only, for I could not feel them on my skin. I drew power from the fact that she could not touch me. I reached into her neck and tried to throttle the life out of her. In moments the figure I overpowered was like an empty coat in my hands, half shadow, half pale flesh. It was like holding flayed skin. The face was empty, the eyes closed: the spiders gone, fading like ash to a breeze.

  I knew I must have frightened her to death. I ran from the tower and stumbled east until I saw the Phosphorus before me, and there, exhausted, I sat on a bench. The night sky was clear, the Phosphorus calm. The air was cool and scented with jasmine.

  “So you have become a counsellord,” said a voice behind me.

  I did not turn around. It was Zveratu. The old man sat beside me.

  “Well done indeed,” Zveratu said.

  “You’ve got a lot to explain,” I said, putting all the bitterness I felt into my voice.

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  I choked. “Of course.”

  “Everything?”

  “Why not?”

  Zveratu said, “But Herpetzag thinks knowledge is dangerous.”

  “Ignorance is worse.”

  “Of course you are correct when you say that.”

  “Then perhaps you could tell me why you’ve pulled me up so high.”

  Zveratu sat back and stretched, raising his arms to the air, extending his legs and wriggling his feet. “Is that really how it happened?”

  “It seems so to me.”

  “Perceptions can betray. Not so long ago you were Raknia’s lover, body to body. Tonight she saw you as an immaterial shade. Is that reality or perception?”

  “The Mavrosopolis is using its sorcery to change me.”

  “Ügliy, have you ever wondered what lies beyond the Mavrosopolis?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Do you think any nogoths ponder that question?”

  I considered. “I doubt it. No, probably none. Why?”

  “What about citidenizens?”

  “Possibly some, the more intelligent ones. Why?”

  “Counsellords?”

  “Yes. Me!”

  “And one is enough,” said Zveratu. “For there is a world outside the sooty confines of the Mavrosopolis, a wide and wonderful world, albeit one full of peril. One of my many tasks is to seek a counsellord suitable for the role of elitistor. I believe you to be one such. I am here to encourage you.”

  “But you always say that.”

  “How many elitistors are there?”

  I thought back to what Katurguter had told me. “Six, apparently.”

  “And districts in the Mavrosopolis?”

  “Seven.”

  “And which district do you suppose is presently lacking an elitistor?”

  “I don’t know, how could I know?” I thought for a moment, then, as the answer fell into my mind, I laughed and said, “Zolthanahmet.”

  “Again you are correct.”

  “So this is what it is all about? But I don’t understand why you can’t let one of the other counsellords take the initiation rite.”

  “Perhaps they just aren’t good enough,” Zveratu replied in a dry voice.

  “But why me?”

  “Ask, rather, why not you?”

  “I don’t have anything the others haven’t got,” I said.

  “Indeed. You are ordinary.”

  “Except that I am a shaman.” Thinking again of Katurguter, I added, “You do know that I can’t become an elitistor because the sorcery of the Mavrosopolis will not seep into me?”

  “Citidenizenship was impossible to Ügliy the cripple, yet look at you now.”

  That was true.

  “You have no fate, Ügliy,” Zveratu continued, “and no destiny. Those concepts are illusions devised by the selfish. Rather, there is a range of possibilities open to you. Imagine what you might do if you became the elitistor of Zolthanahmet.”

  “I would have to live in House Sable,” I muttered.

  “If you got through the rite, yes.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  “Isn’t everything in life?”

  I leaned back against the bench and gazed up at the stars. “I was told that my shamanic powers would stop me taking the initiation rite. You need an ordinary, free man, not a shaman.”

  “Do I?”

  “What is the answer then? How do I perform the impossible?”

  “I don’t think that’s for me to say.”

  “And what would happen if I did become an elitistor?” I asked. “What is the next level up?”

  “The existence of elitistors is all you need to know at present.”

  “That is not a good enough answer for me.”

  Zveratu got to his feet. “Then devise a better one.”

  “Don’t go!” I cried, suddenly frightened of losing him.

  “We will meet again.”

  “But I need to understand what is going on!”

  “Never assume I am your best source of knowledge,” Zveratu said, “or indeed your only one. The Mavrosopolis is a place where nothing is forgotten. Wisdom is all around you.”

  I uttered a single, bitter laugh. “So is soot,” I said.

  Zveratu leaned over me, and there was a gleam almost fanatical in his eyes. “Exactly.”

  I shrank back, appalled at the intensity of his gaze.

  “I consider myself something of a poet,” he said in a milder voice. “But in three words, Ügliy, you have outdone me... and that is good.”

  With that, he departed.

  I watched him go. I felt deflated and I felt used.

  I returned to my new home, found the smallest, most intimate room in the house, and there set up my bed, where I slept.

  When I awoke and strolled into my yard to take the air I discovered an invitation attached to my door, a black-edged card that read, ‘The new counsellord is invited to a celebratory meal at midnight.’

  I was unhappy at this request, but nonetheless, ten minutes before midnight, I found myself walking along Siyah Street to the house at its eastern end where the meal was to take place, number six, which turned out to be the home of Katurguter. The man himself was waiting at his open door, but from inside came the sound of conversation, of laughter; the clink of cutlery against porcelain, of goblets against goblets.

  “Welcome,” Katurguter said, opening his arms as if for a hug.

  “Thank you,” I murmured in reply. I refrained from touching the man.

  “We always celebrate the arrival of new counsellords in Zolthanahmet. It has been some time, you know. Do come inside.”

  I walked in, and the door was shut behind me. Immediately I noticed the luxurious style in which Katurguter furnished his home—black bearskin rugs on chessboard floors, marble pillars, silver-edged mirrors, and from the white ceilings a host of silver lanterns arranged like doves in mid-flight. The air was warm, scented with lily perfume. The contrast with my own house, freezing and unfurnished, could not have been greater, but then something Katurguter had said passed through my mind: You are a counsellord now... counsellords take what they want.

  Sudden disgust at Katurguter’s profligacy made me squirm. However I kept my expression neutral, guessing that the rules of counsellord life that I was supposed to follow would favour such waste. Yet I could not help but wonder from whom these furnishings and trinkets had been stolen.

  I was led into a banqueting chamber in which was set an immense table laden with food and drink. Around this table sat the eighteen other counsellords, most of them old, half of them men and half women; the youngest man I could see was twice my age. I would be a freak in this company. I grimaced. Already anger welled up insid
e me. With Katurguter at my side I strode around the foot of the table, as eighteen pairs of eyes watched me, and the conversation fell from hubbub to chatter to silence. The sound of my boot heels against the floor tiles was a click-clack that reverberated around the chamber.

  I examined what lay on the table. All was finery: squid-ink pasta with feta cheese and mushrooms, puffballs fried in clear oil, parsnips and white onions, cod in cream, black beans in rice, aubergines and shaggy-cap fungi, all set amidst plates of lokum, sherbet, and jug after jug of ayran, coffee and raki.

  In one corner sat a group of musicians playing soft music on the ney, saz, tambur and kudum.

  I could not restrain the fury inside me. I faced the counsellords and said, “Don’t you see what you’re doing to the Mavrosopolis? You’re stealing from people who deserve better. It’s theft. Isn’t there a law against theft? Isn’t it wrong to take things from people who need them? What happened to justice?”

  With horrified faces they sat in silence, some staring at me, others looking away, and I knew they were all appalled.

  Somebody said, “It’s Constantinopolis, not Mavrosopolis.”

  I sagged. My anger, though intense, had been dissipated by this single outburst. I felt tired once again, exploited and burned out.

  Katurguter took a few steps away, before murmuring, “Are you sure you mean that?”

  I could stand no more. I ran from the chamber into the entrance hall, then, sobbing, though there were no tears in my eyes, I fled the house and returned to my own, where I locked myself in and shuttered all the windows. I knew that I had made a mistake, yet I knew I had done the right thing. Once again the collision between what I felt and what I was told to do had brought me to the edge of disaster.

  There was a knock at my front door. With a heavy heart I went to answer it. I expected a counsellord, but it was Herpetzag.

  I wanted to berate the vile man for gloating. Instead I said in a meek voice, “What can I do for you?”

  Herpetzag said nothing.

  And then, though the yard in which we stood lay in shadow, I saw every sculpted snake turned its head to fix its gaze upon me, as if to deny my new position by the force of their collective will. “What are those things?” I whispered.

  “They are called dracunculi.”