The Rat and the Serpent

by Stephen Palmer

  “Please answer me. I don’t want to fight. Do you?”

  The slow, yet stertorous breathing continued. Even with ordinary human hearing I could sense that the breather was moving, approaching me, perhaps from the left side...

  Then realisation struck me. This was the first part of the initiation rite. Single combat in total darkness.

  I crouched low, adopting a defensive stance with the club raised before me, still gripped two-handed. I let my hearing tell me where my opponent was. I swallowed—too noisy. Silence was necessary now, and I had given away my position by speaking. I tip-toed to my left. No wall or projection stopped me. I waited. I could hear no sound of breathing.

  Silence was all.

  Then I became aware of an odour, something musky yet with a hint of manure, and with more than a hint of soot. Something from outside, yet not human. I could not keep my imagination under control. It provided an image of a bull-headed man.

  There was a faint whup sound, then a breath of air against my face. I stood as still as I could. Then the sound again, this time louder with a breath of air that felt stronger. Then a third sound, and with it a grunt of exertion. I realised that my opponent was swinging a weapon, getting closer and closer, hoping to strike me and knock me unconscious. I moved to one side, but I heard my clothes rustle. There was a grunt, another whup, then a strong blast of air across my face. The beast had just missed.

  Time to take a risk. I ran to my right, halted, then tip-toed in silence to a new position, where I waited. There was no sound. Not even animal breathing.

  Then I heard a roar from my left, and I caught the smell of foul animal breath. I wanted to retch, but I knew that would be a fatal distraction. Again I ran, again I halted, then moved, hoping thereby to conceal my position. Now I could smell only my own sweat and hear my own breathing.

  There was silence for some time. It was impossible to tell how long. For a moment I thought of counting heartbeats, but then I realised that would stop me concentrating, and anyway it was a pointless task in an arena where the only way out was winning the struggle. It occurred to me that I should attack, but I put the thought aside at once, aware that as yet I did not know enough about my opponent.

  So I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  And I waited.

  From nowhere there came a loud whup as my left arm caught the tip of a weapon—no pain, no blow, as if the strike had been a whisker away; just the sensation of touch and a breath of stinking air. The thing was near. I ran, then ran again, then turned around and ran again. But I was confused. What if my back was turned to the beast? A blow to the back of the head would be my undoing. I had no idea where I was in the blackness, nor did I know which direction I was facing.

  I had to think of a plan, and fast. To remain passive was to increase my chances of becoming a victim.

  Heart, mind. Heart and mind? But I could not use even a hint of any rat skill. Yet one dash of intuition serving a good plan could still save me.

  What then to do?

  Immediately I crouched as low as I could, suspecting that my opponent was swinging his weapon at chest level; that meant any blows should pass over my head. I then decided that frequent short moves would benefit me; staying still, even if silent, might give my opponent an advantage, for instance if it could use an augmented sense of smell to pinpoint my position. And there was little point in aiming for total silence since the sound of breathing, of my stomach squirming, of clothes rustling would always be audible.

  I was gratified to hear the sound of air moving in a whup over my head. I listened; I estimated. Then I sprang forward and scythed my arms together, and my left hand struck a hairy ankle. I pulled it without hesitating. There was a sensation of weight shifting, and I realised that this was a heavy creature. I pulled again, then rolled and reached out, to grasp another ankle. This time I pulled it as hard as I could, but my opponent did not fall. I rolled to evade a beating. There was a thud upon the ground, the sensation of earth being thrown up, the sound of particles falling, and then a grunting, as of the recovery of a beast.

  I moved sideways as quietly as I could. I felt good. I felt I had a chance, even if it was only a slender one. Yet I had to guard against a return to rat ways, I had to concentrate my shamanic power like a reservoir into my rat limbs, that the Mavrosopolis not suspect what I was. To avoid temptation, I shifted my club into my left hand.

  There came the sound of another swipe over my head, and I grinned as I crawled away. My opponent had no advantage when it came to night sight.

  I gave thought to disabling my opponent; I did not think of killing him. I knew I was being monitored, that it would be enough to overpower my opponent, force a submission and then claim victory.

  Strangulation was the only answer. But with my imagination fixated on some kind of man-beast I found it impossible to consider options, until I remembered something that I was wearing. My neckscarf. With my right hand still gloved and no flapping clothes to get in the way there arose the possibility of using it as a weighted cord.

  Quickly I ran off, repositioning myself in silence. I removed the neckscarf, twisted it into a cord as long as my arm, then tied the club to its end. It was unwieldy, but serviceable. Then I ran, stopped, and ran again. I paused to listen. There came the faintest sound of breathing, as if from some distance. I knew that I would have to remain upright, and that entailed the risk of being struck. So I stood quiet and motionless, hardly breathing, shutting my eyes even though the darkness was impenetrable, that my mind be convinced that hearing was the only important sense. And I smelled again the odour of my opponent, as if it was billowing out on foul clouds of breath. It was nearing. I heard breathing, the faint rustle of cloth on leather, the pad of feet upon the ground. I raised my cord, the club in my left hand. I waited. I imagined. The effort of ignoring my shamanic potential was terrible. Then there came a whup and a rush of air. My opponent had struck out and missed.

  In my mind’s eye I saw where my opponent stood: before me. I threw with my left hand, ran left, sidestepped, then fumbled to my right. I stumbled into a hot, hairy body, and a hand grabbed my cloak. There was a deafening roar. I felt for my club; I grasped it and pulled it over the beast’s shoulder—it was a little shorter than me. Then I ducked as best I could, and as the beast turned to face me I sidestepped twice, then pulled.

  It was far from perfect. I still stood beside the creature, though the cord was around its neck. Enraged, it bellowed and jumped forward, but this gave me the chance to duck again, then position myself as best I could behind the creature’s back and pull, pull so hard that I felt myself crushed against its body.

  The thing was strong. I was being dragged around. But I put one knee against its back and tugged as hard as I could, to be rewarded with the sound of constricted breathing, and then of the beginning of a panicked, thrashing response. Now I had to cling on as best I could. I pulled, groaning and shouting, trying to second guess the creature’s moves, keeping one foot on the floor, hopping this way and that to retain my balance, and all the time tugging the cord as hard as I could.

  I dared not hope for weakness. Yet the creature’s strength seemed to be waning. I held on tight. The beast was tiring. But my arm muscles were exhausted and my back was in agony as jolt after jolt buffetted my spine.

  The beast fell to its knees. I had to put my right leg to its side in order to keep my knee against its back. It was dying.

  “Hurry up!” I shouted. “Hurry up, elitistors, and claim me!”

  I hoped that they would hear me. Perhaps mercy was a prerequisite of their cult and I would have to let go of the cord soon. But no. I could not imagine Herpetzag showing an iota of mercy.

  “I have performed the rite!” I cried. “I have passed through!”

  There came a noise like a hundred cymbals crashing, and a flood of light that made me cry and fall back. The sensation of an opponent below me was gone. The idea that I might be in a hut in a garden was gone. I saw on
ly silver light, heard only crashing cymbals, smelled hot metal. I was frightened, disorientated, but in my mind I kept firm the barrier between my shamanic limbs and my human body.

  I sensed that I remained on my feet. My skin was warm. Even with my eyes closed there was white light all around me, as if it was inside my mind. But soon I saw faces, at first out of focus, then sharper. Six people: one of them Herpetzag. They were talking, but I could not hear what they said.

  Then the radiance was sucked away and I found myself in a velvet-black room, a library in which I smelled dust and old paper. The six elitistors stood before me. I pushed my gloved right hand into my cloak, as if to hide the truth of my appearance in its folds. I took a step back.

  Silvögyur stepped forward. “So you believe that you have completed the rite,” he said.

  I heard the ambiguity of those words. I replied, “I do believe that.”

  There was no reply. The elitistors watched me.

  In turn, I watched Silvögyur’s face. The rite might not yet be complete. I had to remain on guard. The message sent by Scribe Van of Constantine returned to my mind: you have betrayed the conditions of the citidenizen test by showing insincerity in the face of the Mavrosopolis. And that, were it not for Zveratu, would have been my downfall.

  But Silvögyur declared, “Then welcome to House Sable, Ügliy, elitistor of Zolthanahmet.”

  There was a polite ripple of applause.

  I nodded once, keeping any hint of an expression off my face. Above all, they must not know what I was thinking.

  15.12.609

  Today I perused the fourteen grey sheets that during my life I have written—written, I think, to purge deep emotion from my mind. It seems to me that I wrote because of a desire to express things important. Now I have read it all, those comparatively few words, and I am amazed at my naivete. Youth knows nothing of the ageing process. It does not even understand that there is one, until it is too late. What a tragedy. Well, in my case it is not too late. I may be forty seven but I have a very long life yet to live. And I have learned.

  What I have learned is this. There is inhumanity afoot in the Mavrosopolis on a scale so intense—I would say vast, but that is not the correct word, since mere size is not the heart of it—that no human being, however perceptive, could guess at its existence before coming face to face with it. I face it now. The counsellords are a feckless fellowship devoted to the arts of eating, drinking and so forth. I am alone as never before. There is not one of them like me. They see the poverty and gloom of the lower orders and they invent ways of exploiting them further. There is not one intellectual amongst them, let alone an artist or a poet. I might as well be dispensing justice alongside a yard of fat black pigs with their snotty noses in the dirt.

  The higher my station the more bifurcated my mind becomes. I am aware that my earlier desire for peace is now saturated with sourness. I have found peace—a calm life in clean rooms well away from the gutters—but it is at the expense of having a greater storm roiled up inside me by the injustice I see every day. The balancing act is impossible. I ascend, only to see worse things. Yet I can do nothing to move the bureaucracy of the Mavrosopolis. One man, however determined he might be, cannot move a mountain by pushing it.

  So I have to decide what to do. I cannot unlearn what I know. Therefore I must do something to mitigate the vile gloom that permeates our conurbation.

  Ah, but they have me by the balls! Were I to complain, my position would be in jeopardy. Were I to make a fuss I would be returned to the citidenizenry, perhaps even reduced to nogoth status. Street life is too harsh to return to if you have a conscience.

  And so my life is sour. I cannot enjoy the so-called privileges of counsellord status because I know it is founded on exploiting less fortunate people. I live alone, forced to enjoy fleeting citidenizen companionship or nothing at all. I am impotent, for I cannot act without ruining myself. I cannot see far because there are so many secrets above me, most notably the elitistors, like black spiders in their thick black web. I cannot bring about laws that might help the people of the Mavrosopolis because only elitistors make laws—for I am but a conduit, an explainer, a powerless director.

  I am not a selfish man. I do hear that other counsellords consider me eccentric, but I do not mind that, indeed it can be a useful screen to hide what is going on in my mind. No, I am not selfish. I have seen selfishness in a vat of raki, in cod fillets covered with cream, in the sickly grin of an old man at his trencher. You drunkards, you fools, you know nothing of purity.

  What I need is a great plan. No—I will design a Great Plan. I am now determined, despite the danger, to accept the initiation rite when the elitistor of Bazaar dies, so that I may step into his place. Then I will know more; and by then I will have created my scheme.

  This is absurd! What “Great Plan” could I devise? A collection of revolutionary texts? Who would print them? A series of brilliant lectures? They would sew my lips togther. Start a war of independence? Where would I get warriors from? The truth is, I can do nothing. Nothing at all.

  Chapter 16

  Silvögyur and Herpetzag showed me around House Sable while the other elitistors returned to their rooms. I was wary of Silvögyur and tried to ignore Herpetzag, who I felt was deliberately tracking me. Apart from the small, wall-mounted lamps of silver that provided illumination, House Sable was built all in black. The floors were black wood, the ceiling black painted, the walls covered with a fabric like dense velvet, that felt warm to the hand, like smooth animal fur. There were drawings done in ink upon pale vellum, books and scrolls, and everywhere clear glass and grey metalwork, but the predominant theme was of darkness, both inside and out. The place was quiet and sinister.

  Every elitistor had their own chambers, and so I was shown the rooms in which I was expected to live. They occupied space on the top floor, overlooking the rear garden.

  “Here you will reside,” said Silvögyur, “meditating upon the laws that it is our function to pass on from the heart of Byzann to the counsellords and so to the citidenizens.”

  “Of where?” I said.

  “Byzann,” Herpetzag supplied. “It is the formal name for the place you used to call Constantinopolis.”

  I nodded. “Very well.”

  Silvögyur continued, “You will not need to depart House Sable, but nonetheless walking along Siyah Street is permitted. As for the rest of Byzann, I would strongly advise you not to enter it. There is nothing there for you. All is here, inside House Sable. Do you follow?”

  “I do,” I replied.

  “Are you certain?” Herpetzag asked me.

  I nodded.

  Silvögyur said, “I heard talk of you ascending to become a counsellord upon a wave of public support, following a currency reform scheme. Do you still wish to pursue that notion?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Then this is the place to convince us that such a scheme is concordant with the orthodoxy of Byzann. If we are convinced, then all is well and the laws will be passed. This is an illustration of your function here. Is that well with you?”

  “It is,” I nodded.

  “You are terse today,” Herpetzag remarked.

  “I am in shock,” I said.

  Neither man made any reply to this, though Silvögyur shot Herpetzag a glance.

  I added, “It will pass.”

  Silvögyur smiled and nodded. “I well remember my own passage through the initiation rite, thirty five years ago. I too was shocked. But the shock will pass, and your mind will return to you.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “There is one more thing to show you,” Silvögyur said. “Follow us to the ground floor.”

  We returned down the creaking central staircase to the hall. I was taken to the rear of the house, where I was shown a door set in a frame of polished jet.

  “This is a door that nobody uses,” Silvögyur began.

  “At least,” interrupted Herpetzag, “nobody in their right
mind.”

  Silvögyur gave a ghastly smile. “Herpetzag jests. This is a door to a place no elitistor wishes to confront—”

  “Very few,” Herpetzag interjected.

  Silvögyur nodded once. “As you say, Herpetzag. My point, Ügliy, is that you may not pass through this door. It is kept locked to prevent accidental opening.”

  I glanced at the small caduceus hanging on a hook beside the door. “But there is the key,” I said.

  “That is correct,” said Silvögyur. “Any of us can use the key. But we do not.”

  “Except occasionally,” Herpetzag concluded. “Never to be seen again.”

  I fidgeted with my cloak. “I won’t be going through,” I assured them.

  Silvögyur departed. I looked at Herpetzag, who had been staring at me. Then Herpetzag hissed, “You will be watched. You will be watched like no other elitistor before.”

  I was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Tell me,” I said, “was the last time an elitistor stepped through that door approximately, but not less than thirty five years ago?”

  Herpetzag glowered. “It may have been.”

  I nodded. “As I suspected.”

  Herpetzag retorted, “You have not won. And I think I know how you passed the initiation rite. If I am correct in my thinking you will soon be expelled and returned to the street, where you belong. I know how you rose, Ügliy, I know what method you used.”

  “I passed the rite by using my heart and mind in unison with the spirit of the Mavrosopolis,” I retorted, adding, “Just as you did.” I glanced at the kitchen. “Now... I am very hungry.”

  I made to walk away, but Herpetzag grabbed my sleeve. “Do not think it is over,” he said, “do not think that Byzann has accepted you. There is still everything to play for.” Then he let go of my arm and walked to the staircase. I was left alone to consider his words.

  I entered the kitchen and looked around. Rich and plentiful food lay in bowls and on trays. There was no sign of flies or decay, and I realised that this was indeed a sorcerous house. I nodded to myself. The rite was not yet over, and perhaps it was never over; perhaps orthodoxy would keep my shamanic powers forever locked away in my replacement limbs, never to be used again. Perhaps that was my fate, the price I had paid for reaching this place, just as I had paid a price, the loss of family, for becoming a citidenizen.