A foul stench hung upon the cool night air. As my eyes adjusted, something large and pale flickered from side to side. Unmistakably, a mighty serpente’s tail. The mother, searching for her stolen young.
There would be no escaping her fury and retribution.
All who had eaten of her babies’ flesh would die. Instinct and terror held me still as others were smashed to messy pulp or else bitten clean in half, all the while screaming prayers, beseeching their useless, foreign god.
I was going to die for my stupidity and my greed. Die without ever clapping eyes upon my uncle’s fabled city. Not even my gnawed-on bones would be recovered.
One of the wives stumbled into the open. She had been standing with her back pressed to the enormous blackened godhead. She should have stayed there, frozen in its shadow. The serpente spat out whatever it was chewing. It lunged, body sliding at angles across the roughened sand. Her screams lingered longer than I hoped.
The full extent of the serpente’s form was now evident. Head to tail, it stretched almost as long as a Sand Road caravan.
Sweat dried upon my shivering skin. The creature was taking its time with its vengeance. It was in no hurry. So long as I had sweat, it would sniff me out.
My bent legs ached with cramp as I fixed my eyes upon the serpente’s jaw. Perhaps it would gorge itself to sleep? But serpentes did not sleep out in the open. According to my Uncle’s chronicle, they made their nests in pits or caves, emerging to feed whenever a chance was offered.
I slid my knife from its boot-sheath, gripped it tightly and waited. The creature’s snapping jaw resounded with the crunch of bone and gurgle of blood. When it finally tired of the wife’s remains, it tilted its head and rose to sniff the breeze. It had caught the scent of something fresh.
Me.
The creature swung its head around, muscles of its underbelly rippling, one by one. A stab in the eye. My only chance. Half-blind, it might not have the will to strike.
The mighty serpente swung its head, rekindled embers illuminating its full magnificence. Its gaping maw revealed twin rows of jagged, bloodied teeth. I leapt, knife raised as the beast bore down on me.
But the beast had no eyes to stab, just dark ovals where they should have been. No vulnerable place in which to plunge my blade. I swung wildly, slashing air as its head jerked out of reach. I fell, the knife slipping from my trembling hand. Scrabbling for it blindly in the sand, my fingers curled around something else. Something solid. My uncle’s chronicle.
It must have tumbled from my shirt. Without a thought, I clutched it to my heart.
The serpente backed up, poised and ready to strike. It did strike, enveloping me in rancid stench. I closed my eyes and waited for the end. Clinging to my final breath. Hoping desperately against hope.
The serpent sniffed: first my throat, then the chronicle. Sniffed again, its nostrils flaring in disgust. And then, in an instant, it coiled and fled, knocking me to the ground with a lash of its tail. Impact forced the wind from my lungs. I pushed myself to my knees while drawing deep, frantic breaths. My chest and shoulder pained me, but I was otherwise unharmed. By Kashah, why had the serpente let me live? I had eaten its babies’ flesh, like all the others. Why should my life not be forfeit too?
Hours passed before I was able to search the ruined campsite for survivors. There were none. I fed the fire with trampled scraps until it roared at full ferocity. Tomorrow I would bury them. Tonight I needed flame and stars to comfort me through solitude and darkness.
On my back beside the fire, I watched Kashah the Dog-Headed Warrior as many believed Kashah watched over them. When I’d been lost in that desert storm, the warrior had been my only friend. One bloody campsite massacre later and it was still just the two of us. Kashah striding his way across the heavens with me below, making my way on foot.
And that was when it dawned upon me. The chronicle, with its thunder-lizard bindings. Hide my uncle swore had stopped a bullet. Had the serpente smelled its ancient nemesis? Was that why it coiled its tail and fled? Beasts were driven by primal instinct. This one had been dumb enough to let me be. No point in guessing at its reasons.
When morning came I buried what remained of Getta’s family. There wasn’t much. Gnawed bones covered with bloodstained carpets.
I took as much of their water as I could carry, avoiding the remains of the serpente babies lying trampled in the fire’s ashes.
That blackened godhead watched me leave, its features dull in daylight. As the sun climbed higher into the pink-streaked sky, distance grew between me and the carnage. But my bearings had become completely addled. In which direction lay Evenslough, the Sand Road or my poor camel’s bones?
Those waterskins clung damp against my back. Not enough to get me far, but maybe. . . just maybe. . . Getta and her tribe had heard of Ankahmada. That fabled city was now my only hope. Maybe fortune would grant her favour. Had Kashah been guiding me all along?
Eventually, respite from the monotony of the dunes. A cathedral of jagged ivory: the jutting ribcage of an impossibly large, long-perished beast. The petrified bones of a thunder lizard, source of the buttons poor Getta and her family had been seeking.
Two carrion birds materialised, small specks against the faded blue. I watched them enviously, safe upon high, surveying the length and breadth of their domain.
As I stood between towering ribs, admiring the dead thing’s symmetry, the surrounding sand began to boil and churn.
I froze, praying for a cruel trick of the wind, my vision, or the bright, persistent sun.
No such luck. The serpente mother. Following close. I fled for the nearest dune, its blade-thin edge carved to a crescent by sculpting winds.
Could serpentes climb? I crawled on clumsy hands and knees, soft grains clinging to my sweaty skin.
My stomach clenched as the serpente raised her head, then lunged playfully at my rough, scuffed trail. I kept still as a stone carved idol as she sniffed the breeze to gauge my whereabouts.
As shadows lengthened into afternoon, that serpente mother circumnavigated the dune’s base, making no effort to shimmy up its crescent. That big dumb animal could take me any time she wanted. It might be several weeks till she was hungry.
Those carrion birds were not indifferent to my predicament. Both perched upon the jutting bones, confident the long wait would be worth it. Perhaps they had seen what I could not: Ankahmada, blue jewel glinting in the sun. Fabled home to a god-king and his treasure.
Andras Thorn was a famous traveller and the uncle for whom I was named—but the last words in this chronicle are mine. Should you find this book, return it to Evenslough. My mother will pay good coin for it. My uncle too—if he’s not off adventuring in the taverns of Grimpiper or Fallow Heel.
The chronicles of the younger Andras Thorn took place as I have written them. My water is gone, my skin burnt raw from sun. Paper brittle and my ink run dry but at last I can see it: Ankahmada: blue-jewelled city—even if I will never reach its gates. I cradle a useless amulet in my palms while faithful Kashah watches over me.
A Prayer for Lazarus
Andrew J. McKiernan
Daddy keeps Momma chained up in the barn out back. Far enough away that visitors wont hear her moanin and screamin. Close enough so we can check on her a coupla times a day. Take her some food. Empty her bucket. Sing her a song if she aint in a mood. Emma tries to sing her hymns but she dont like those no more. She likes Neil Diamond and Don McLean, specially that one about the starry, starry night. Sometimes I just leave the radio on in there for her to listen to.
Out in the barn theres less chance Momma will hurt someone, thats what Daddy says. Less chance she’ll try do somethin to herself. Cause when Momma’s in a mood you dont never know what she’s gonna get up to. Not one of us want to do our chores on those days. We’re all supposed to take turns but Emma’s too young and upsets easy, and Jimmy’s too lazy, even though he’s oldern me. He says its a girls job anyways, which means its up to me most days.
Theres a bucket by the backdoor and Daddy always keeps it filled with slops. The sort of thing we used to feed the pig. When we had a pig. We fed that to Momma. Raw, which is the only way she’d eat it. Just a little bit each day chopped in with the vegetable peelins and apple cores and eggs shells. That pig’s all gone now and Momma’s gotta make do with possum when Daddy can catch one. We know that aint enough. We know she wants more. You can tell just by the way she looks at you.
Once our supper’s done we all put our scraps into that bucket. If there are any scraps. Daddy and Jimmy hardly ever leave nothin on their plates. Sometimes I try and sneak in a chicken bone with meat still on it if theres nobody watchin, and when thats all done someones got to take the bucket out to Momma.
Winters are worse than summers. In summer, the heat brings out the old smells of the barn. Animals and straw and the smell of warm grain. Strong smells. Memory smells. In summer, its still light enough that the sun shines through gaps in the walls and the inside lights up all golden like a church with stained glass windows. In winter, its just cold and dark. Colder than a witch’s tits, as Daddy would say, and darker than the hole between her legs. Theres a lightbulb inside, but its weak and yellow and the switch is still ten paces away from the barn door. Ten paces through the darkness, knowin Momma can see me but I cant see her. I can hear her though, snufflin and growlin. Without those warm summer smells of straw and livestock I can smell her too. Smell her so bad all I want to do is hold my breath and run outside.
On good days Momma will be just sittin in the corner. Maybe starin at the floor or maybe chewin on a mouse. Sometimes she just stares at the plaster Jesus Daddy hung up. She wont be no trouble though. I can open the stall gate and go right in and change her bucket without even worryin. If I feel darin I might turn my back as I walk out. Daddy says we’re supposed to walk out backwards. Keep our eyes on her at all times. Sometimes though, she dont even notice I’m there. Thats the times I might stay behind and sing her a song or tell her about my day. I know she aint listenin but thats okay. I just like havin someone to talk to.
On the bad days, Momma’s impossible. You can hear her long before you get to the barn, even if the doors are closed. Momma’ll be screamin and moanin and most none of it will be words. When there are words, its all cussin. Theres a sound she makes like a dog barkin too. And then theres the rattle, rattle, rattle of her chain as she tests its strength. None of us like those noises but I think they bother Daddy worst. He just rides off on a tractor for an hour or two, leaves things for us kids to look after. At night? He drinks beers until he falls asleep on the couch.
Inside the barn the sound is even worse. I just want to put my hands over my ears but the bucket is heavy. Heavy for me anyways. I always need both hands to carry it and my winter earmuffs dont even keep out the cold let alone the sounds. You just have to try get used to it. Put up with it I mean, cause you cant never really get used to it.
Momma will be in her stall, maybe tearin at her chain or bangin her head against a wall. So far she’s smashed five of Daddy’s plaster Jesuses with her head. There’ll be food everywhere and the bucket busted. Lettuce and tater peels and bits of plastic and plaster litterin the floor. There’ll be piss and shit all over the place and blood too cause Momma’s taken some of that plastic and cut herself with it. Just scratches really. Arms and legs and boobs and stomach. Her face sometimes too. There aint nothin to do but take down the hose. Clean out the stalls and give Momma a good wash too. Neither of us like it, but she tends to settle down after that.
Those are the worst days of all, summer or winter.
At least she’s stopped tryin to kill herself I guess.
* * *
I remember the first time the Lazarenes came to our door. It wasnt long after we all realised Momma was sick. Someone in town must a told them cause I know Daddy never would. I’m guessin it was Doctor Roberts.
Momma was upstairs in her bedroom. She werent so bad back then. Most days she was fine and we’d just lock the bedroom door. Only sometimes would Daddy have to tie her to the bedposts. He did this with the leather belts for his pants, the only ones he had, and on the days Momma was in a mood he’d get around havin to hitch his britches back up round his waist. Momma was okay that day though and Daddy didnt have to worry about his pants fallin down. Lucky for him, with guests at the door and all.
We dont get many visitors, livin so far out of the way. Even Mr Wallace the postman only drops by once a week, and thats only if theres mail to deliver, which Daddy says there never is except bills. So when we heard the knock we all wanted to be first to answer it. It was like someone had fired one of those starter pistols and everyone came runnin. Everyone except Emma, who was still just a baby. And Momma, who was still in her bedroom with the door locked tight.
Werent much of a race in the end. First Jimmy pushed past me and by the time either of us got close Daddy was already standin there. He waved us away. Neither of us moved. Not me, not Jimmy. We stood there and waited and Daddy did too. He didnt open the door neither. Just glared at us. The knock came again, loud and echoey in the long hallway. It made me jump and that made Jimmy jump and we both ran back into the kitchen out of sight.
I heard Daddy open the door, then the voice of a man I didnt know. His words came out soft and slow like he didnt have quite enough breath. He didnt sound happy or sad or nothin, just sort of empty, and I didnt understand the words he said neither. Not what they meant. Daddy must of though.
Would you like to offer a prayer to Lazarus? Thats what the man said, and when he said it Daddy went wild. Started cussin worse than Momma ever did. I never heard the man say nothin back though.
I tried to squeeze past Jimmy to get a look but he was takin up most the doorway. By the time I’d got through, Daddy was slammin the door shut so hard the photos on the walls shook and settled again all crooked. I ran into the front room and looked out through the big bay windows.
There were two of them shufflin away down our path. They both wore white, not fancy suits and not robes but somethin in between. Their heads were shaved too, the skin thin and bluish and scarred.
Just as they got to the gate, one of them turned and I will never forget it. His face was all bluish too, specially his tight thin lips. He had sunken hollow cheeks and temples, and dark holes for eye sockets. And the eyes in those sockets? They were cloudy and dead and I wasnt sure if they were lookin up at Momma’s bedroom window or if they were starin right at me.
Demons! my Daddy screamed and I nearly jumped out my skin. He held the Bible tight to his chest, Momma’s Bible, and he was tremblin. Stay away from my wife, he shouted, this is a House of the Lord and you cant have her, and his spit flew and gathered and on the window glass.
Whether the Lazarene heard him or not I dont know. He turned away and they both continued on up the road and didnt look back again.
* * *
We couldnt take Momma to church no more on a Sunday so Daddy brought the Reverend Stevens home to her.
At first this worked out well. The Reverend would come every Sunday right after Mornin Service. He’d spend an hour alone with Momma. Always insisted she never be tied down while he was there. He prayed for her, talked to her, retold his sermon. Always finish up right about when Daddy had dinner fixed too. I reckon the smells must a wafted upstairs like some sort of timer. Smells good, sermon’s over.
Back then Momma was mostly calm when Reverend Stevens was there. If she wasnt before she would be soon as she heard his deep voice comin up the stairs singin Amazing Grace or The Lord Is My Shepherd or And Let This Feeble Body Fail. Hymns always settled her back then. Well except that last time. The Sunday after the Lazarenes came, that is.
All week since their visit Momma had been playin up a treat. Twice she had to be tied down for tryin to get out the window. First time was just for bangin on it so hard she broke the glass. Second time she almost got out on the ledge before Jimmy saw her and we dragged her back in. All the time she was c
ussin too, mainly at Daddy. By the time the Reverend arrived though she was untied and quiet as a mouse.
We all except Emma followed The Reverend up the stairs. He was singin I Know Not The Hour as he went and he stopped singin at the top and opened Momma’s bedroom door and went in and closed the door behind him. You could hear him greetin Momma and offerin her up a prayer. I dont think the door was locked while he was in there cause that could only be done from the outside and Daddy had the key. He hadnt turned no lock that I could see. Just sat on a chair opposite, his head down in his hands like he was prayin too.
Jimmy and I retreated to the bottom of the staircase. Tryin to listen but tryin to keep an eye on Emma in her playpen too cause that was our job. We couldnt see much from where we were. Just the top of Daddy’s head pokin up over the last stair. We could hear the Reverend clear enough though. His prayers and his borin old sermon too.
I have no idea how it all started. Nobody does except Momma and The Reverend. I dont even remember who started screamin first. It might a been Momma, but the Reverend’s got a pretty high pitched holler too. Either way, the bedroom door burst open and the Reverend come rushin out. His black shirt and white collar were near torn through and there was blood all over his face.
That woman has the Devil in her, the Reverend shouted and slammed the door behind him. Daddy got up from his chair. First thing he did was lock the bedroom door with his key. By the time he was done the Reverend was almost at the bottom of the stairs. Jimmy rushed past to be with Emma but I held my ground.
Is Momma gonna be alright? I asked the Reverend and he stopped and looked at me. Half his nose was just a big red flap of skin hangin down over his lips. There were scratches and bite marks all along his arms and neck. Blood dripped from the left side of his head and I think he might have been missin an ear.
The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2014 (Volume 5) Page 28
