Clara Mandrake's Monster

by Ibrahim S. Amin

"We're clanless," the woman said. "Just fellow travellers who've come together for protection."

  Wood crackled. A twig snapped and sparks rose between them.

  "I'm Parmeen. Pleased to meet you."

  "Maalam," the man said. "Likewise."

  "May we?" Katrina gestured.

  After a moment, Parmeen nodded. Katrina pulled a pack off her horse and squatted by the fire. Silas crouched beside her.

  "We've just come from Hogmire. Got some of their salted meats, if you want to trade. We'd love something sweet… Maybe a honey cake?"

  "Dried dates?"

  "Sure."

  Katrina took a package from her bag and passed it over the fire. Parmeen reached out.

  "It's blessed too, if you want a bit of divine favour."

  "Oh?"

  Her fingers hovered, then withdrew.

  "The local priest cures his own. Every piece goes on his altar and gets offered to his god."

  "Actually… We've got enough meat in the wagons."

  "Ah… How about-"

  "You can just have these."

  "You're sure?"

  "Please."

  "Thank you."

  Parmeen opened a bag, turned it, and shook several black shapes into Katrina's hands. She looked at Silas.

  "Uh… Maybe just one?"

  She held the bag towards him. He plucked out a sticky, fleshy blob, popped it in his mouth, and chewed at its sweetness. Katrina masticated one of her own while she spoke.

  "Have you or your people seen anything strange on the road?"

  "Strange?" Parmeen glanced at Maalam.

  "Carcasses maybe, that don't look like the work of a wolf. Tracks halfway between feet and paws."

  "No, nothing like that."

  The two women talked a little longer. Silas and Maalam's eyes met, but the gypsy said nothing.

  "Thank you again for the dates."

  "Think nothing of it."

  "Good travels."

  "And you."

  Silas murmured a farewell and Maalam did the same. He and Katrina led their horses halfway back to the road before she spoke.

  "Had many dealings with gypsies?"

  "Not really. They sometimes camp on a corner of our estate, but…"

  "How'd their clothes look to you?"

  "Same as usual." He shrugged. "Baggy breeches, flowing shirts…"

  "Easy enough for one to pass for the other, among outsiders who don't know how the scarves should be knotted, or which order they're supposed to wear those leather bracelets in. But gypsies never turn their noses up at a blessing. They'll take their luck from any god who'll give it. Kharjis won't."

  Silas let out a low whistle.

  "Do you think…?"

  "It could be innocent enough. After what happened in Traverd, Kharji merchants might dress themselves up as gypsies so people won't shun their goods or drive them off."

  Grass whispered underfoot. The back of Silas' neck prickled.

  "Shall we ride on a bit?" he said.

  "Let's."

  ***

  Clara slid out of bed. A floorboard groaned and she winced, but Rayya didn't stir on the mattress. A wave of hair covered most of her friend's face. Yet the edge of a smile peeked out between the streams, and a shaft of moonlight framed it. Clara's own mouth curved too.

  She sat there for a while, and clouds hid the heavens. The darkness didn't deepen much. Didn't mask the glove on her hand.

  "It's the hand I killed her with…"

  Clara sighed. Rayya's eyes, her hug, had made the lie a blade. It carved Clara Mandrake's tongue right down the middle, sliced its way along her throat, split her heart. But what else could she have said? That she wore it because…?

  She took the glove off and laid it on the bedside table, undid the knot at her wrist. The bandages came away but didn't lose their shape. A phantom hand. That'd taken some practice, and Clara wished she could show her mother. Ella Mandrake would smile at her daughter's artfulness. But then she'd see what lay underneath, and she'd scream or cry…

  Scales covered the ends of her fingers, almost to the middle joints. Black bumps grew further along. Soon they'd sprout and devour the rest, all the way to the knuckles. The skin on the back of her hand had already darkened a shade. Her palm too. When those night-scales took them, what then? Would she have to bandage her whole arm? Her entire body? Wear a mask?

  And why didn't any of this frighten her?

  Clara's fingers and claws fluttered. No tightness squeezed her flesh or constricted her joints. The scales were as natural, as comfortable as her skin. She might've been born with them.

  She went to the window. Hid her hand behind the sill, though there was no one to see. Shutters blinded the other buildings. Nobody sauntered below. People slept, and only Clara Mandrake wanted to lope through the night.

  His scent was stronger now. She sniffed it on the breeze, drew it deep inside. The monster was coming. And then? Maybe he'd tear her apart and scatter her black-scale-blood all over Lemstras. Or…

  The moon broke free and bathed her. She lifted her hand, held it to the sky. Silver flowed between her claws.

  ***

  Fahmaia opened her eyes and the camp was aflame. Purple, turquoise, emerald fire blazed above the tents, lapped at yellow skies. Scents of cinnamon, offal, lime, and her mother's perfume slapped her in the face, echoed in her ears. The children ran around the conflagration. They whooped and waved wooden swords and sang while everything burned.

  "One Goddess, One Goddess, glaring in the sky…"

  "Stop that!" The mawlana grabbed Aisha's arm. "Allat will punish you for such blasphemy."

  Aisha giggled and broke free.

  "Mawlana, mawlana, glaring on the ground…"

  Where was Barzik Khan? Why did he allow this madness? Fahmaia ran through the rainbow inferno.

  "Her brow's hot as a forge. Where's that doctor?"

  Barzik's pleasure palace shone with the jewels of a thousand reflected flames. She pushed its golden doors. They swung away, struck the walls, and thunder boomed through a hall that stretched forever. Serpent-limbed men and women slithered and entwined on cushions and couches. Their scales glistened in all the hues of the cosmos.

  "Mawlana!" The walrus sprawled upon his throne. When he opened his mouth, tusks grated on the black metal of his beard and the sound scraped Fahmaia's bones. "What's wrong?"

  "Empty the masjid, before this illness spreads. Azim and I will stay with her."

  "The camp's on fire, Barzik."

  "Then we must offer a sacrifice to appease Allat!" The walrus warlord flumped onto his feet, tottered, and waved his sword over his head. "Sacrifice! Sacrifice!"

  A hundred coils grasped daggers. The snake-people took up the cry and steel glittered on all sides.

  "Sacrifice!" The word hissed off razor edges. "Sacrifice! Sacrifice!"

  They writhed towards her and Fahmaia ran.

  "Sacrifice! Sacrifice!"

  She flew through the doorway and plummeted, into an ocean of stars that shattered into wine and voices and honey.

  "Yasmin, are they all gone?"

  "The imam's in her study, praying. I sent the others away and barred the door."

  "Good. You go too."

  "I want to stay. Please!"

  "You mustn't-"

  "Someone has to wait downstairs, and let Fatima in when she's back with the doctor."

  "Okay. But…"

  Fahmaia crested a wave and then the ocean was the sky and she was far below, atop the hill. Cities sprawled and millions screamed. She screamed with them. The idol from Traverd towered above streets and temples, but now she was flesh. So were the five totem djinn, with maws that could eat mountains. Others loomed beside and beyond them. Every false god and goddess of the non-believers. They rampaged through civilisations, shouldered one another aside, snatched at settlements, seized men, women, and children, tossed them into their mouths. Tongues thrashed. Thousands of mortals churned and wailed.


  Fahmaia clawed her cheeks, moaned prayers at the heavens. Allat would save them! The One Goddess' eyes would open and she'd-

  But the One Goddess was down there with the rest. She squatted over the minarets and masjids, drove her hands into their midst, and a million Kharjis shrieked in her fists. Her eyes shone. Her mouth gaped. Cheeks tore, saliva poured out, and villages drowned. The One Goddess crammed Fahmaia's people into her maw. Bones and souls crunched between Allat's teeth.

  The mawlana's markings flashed across the backs of her hands and lashed blasphemies into her brain.

  ***

  "Sorry." Chriki held the shop door open. "We start early at the theatre."

  Clara stepped outside and tasted the morning gloom. The sky had brightened a little, but shadows still bathed the street. They embraced her and rippled over her skin.

  "I want Beth to meet you before rehearsals start, while she's in a better mood."

  A gust blew between the shops. Motes of debris tumbled around their boots. Chriki pulled up her hood and bit her lip.

  "I have a shawl in here…" The actress unbuckled her bag.

  "Thanks, but it's okay."

  "But…"

  "Really. It's fine. I don't get cold."

  Chriki glanced at Clara's gloves.

  "Apart from my hands…"

  "Okay. But if you change your mind…"

  The roads and alleys were still quiet. But if she focused, stretched her senses, noises buzzed all around. Lemstras woke and ate breakfast and argued with slugabed children. A mother laughed at her daughter's joke. Clara sighed, smiled, and brushed the wall of their house with her fingertips.

  "Did Vasile feed you?"

  "Yeah. He made us stuffed eggs."

  "His favourite. He must like you."

  A clamour rose in the distance and intensified with every stride. Dozens of voices and as many odours. They swept her up into a maelstrom of flesh, fish, and shouts.

  "…better than a smack in the mouth…"

  "Trout! If you don't eat enough fish, the sea god'll drown you next time you're on the water! Trout!"

  "…not beef, is it?"

  "…no, but squirrel's cheaper…"

  Chriki took Clara's arm. They squeezed among stalls, shoppers, and youths lugging crates or barrels.

  "Here's good for most things…" Chriki slid between two bruisers, and Clara popped through the gap like a stopper from a bottle. "If you want a bracelet or something, you're better off going to…"

  A trout-wielding woman moved, and a pair of eyes widened in that sliver of space. The boy held a piece of parchment with both hands, as though reading a missive. But he gazed over its edge instead. Clara's right hand tensed and her vision narrowed. He wore a Kharji shirt…

  The boy got up from the box he sat on, took a step towards her. A man banged into him and knocked him back down.

  "Watch where you're going! Bloody Kharjis…"

  Chriki pulled her onward, the crowd shifted behind them. Clara looked over her shoulder before they turned down a side street, but he'd disappeared amid the throng.

  "There are Kharjis here."

  "Oh…" Chriki squeezed Clara's left hand. "Yeah. But these ones… They aren't raiders. They're just…"

  Clara's fingers tightened. Chriki yelped.

  "Sorry…"

  "It's okay. You don't… You don't have to be scared."

  Scared? Clara's claws strained inside their bonds. She'd rip his face off and blow her nose on it…

  The theatre was just another building. Rain had worn away at the stone, and the wood smelled damp. She'd never been to one before, but she'd expected something… grander? Chriki smiled at her and Clara hoped it didn't show on her face.

  "Just wait…"

  The actress opened the door and gestured for Clara to lead the way.

  "Oh!"

  Chriki giggled.

  "Yeah."

  Painted scenes covered all four walls of the vestibule. On the left, actors performed. Three different plays took place side-by-side. It should've been cramped, cluttered, but Clara grinned and wished she could hear them all at once. On the other walls, audiences cheered and laughed and wept.

  "Look up." Chriki pointed.

  Broken edges framed it, as though a storm had torn the roof off and opened the building to the heavens. Stars twinkled. A dozen faces peered down at the stages.

  "That's Thespia. Goddess of drama."

  "All of them?"

  "She wears different faces. Different aspects. That's how she looks when she watches a farce… That's for tragedy…"

  One face roared with laughter. Another blushed. A third scowled, but not at the stage.

  "What about that one?"

  "That's Thespia the Avenger. She punishes audience members who talk during the play."

  "How?"

  "She beats them up," a woman said from the doorway opposite.

  "Really?"

  "Well, ushers wearing her mask. But they do it in her name."

  The woman's smirk was missing at least three teeth, and her nose turned one way, then the other. But the body beneath that fighter's face was soft and plump.

  "Beth, this is Clara. Clara, Beth."

  "Hmm…"

  Beth took Clara's chin. Clara resisted for an instant, but it felt like her jaw would break off, so she let the woman tilt her head upwards.

  "Not the prettiest I've seen, but if we slap enough war paint on her…"

  Clara glared. She'd plunge her fingers through the woman's flab, grab her intestines, yank them-

  "She's not an actress. You said we needed more stagehands…"

  "Right, right." Beth released her. "What can you do?"

  "What do you need me to do?"

  "Any good at slashing things?"

  Clara bit her lip.

  "We've got some old costumes. We need them mangled a bit, like they've been through the wars. Rips, tears. That sort of thing. Last girl was useless. Stabbed herself in the leg. You safe with sharp things?"

  "Yeah." Otherwise you'd be picking up your guts, she thought.

  "Good. I'll give you a try. Lots to get done. If you do cut yourself, you can bleed on them as much as you want. A bit of blood'll work well on these…"

  "Great…"

  Beth turned on her heel, strode away, and called back over her shoulder.

  "Show the kid where to go, then get yourself ready. That crazy cow of a playwright's made another change…"

  ***

  Fatima hissed between her teeth.

  "Are you strong enough to carry me?" the doctor said.

  "No, but-"

  "Then stop complaining."

  Doctor Zubeida's cane tapped the ground. One shoe stepped, the other dragged. Fatima's fingers whitened around the medic's bag. Goddess… She wanted to take her by the shoulder and propel her down the street like a battering ram.

  Two infidel women laughed and staggered towards them. Wine jugs dangled from their hands.

  "So I grabbed him by the bits and gave them a good hard squeeze!"

  "You didn't!"

  "I did! He squeaked like a-"

  She stumbled, bumped into the doctor. Fatima growled and shoved her. The woman's arms windmilled. Her heels kicked at the ground then flew out from under her. She sat down, the jug shattered, and she roared.

  "Oi! I'll have you for that! I'll-"

  Fatima grasped the handle of her knife.

  "Stop!" Doctor Zubeida moved between them. "This foolishness won't help your friend, will it?"

  The upright drunkard helped the other woman to her feet. Neither met Fatima's eyes, and they hurried off. The two Kharjis continued to the masjid.

  "Take my arm, child."

  Fatima bristled, but helped the doctor up the stairs to the entrance. She pushed the door but it didn't budge.

  "Hey!" She hammered on it. "Let us in!"

  Wood and iron grated. There was a thunk. The door opened, and the doctor shuffled inside.

  "W
hy was that locked?" Fatima stormed past Yasmin. "Where is everyone?"

  "I sent them home. Jasmina said to."

  "Very wise." Doctor Zubeida followed them across the prayer hall. "We don't want everyone getting sick, if it's contagious."

  She gripped the banister, hobbled up the staircase, then tapped and shuffled her way to the sickroom door. Jasmina and Azim sprang up when it opened, a pair of tigers. Swords hung from their belts.

  "Those won't help a sick woman." The doctor moved around Jasmina, to the bed. "Not unless she needs amputation."

  Azim's eyes glinted.

  "If anyone comes for the mawlana, even death itself, they'll have to fight us first."

  Doctor Zubeida snorted and muttered something under her breath, then spoke out loud.

  "Bring me my bag."

  Jasmina stood aside and Fatima crossed the room. The mawlana's body shuddered on the blanket. Her face glistened. Droplets trickled over script that stalled, sped, and juddered.

  "So the tales are true." The doctor touched Fahmaia's cheek, then her brow. "Open the bag."

  "Are you a believer?" Jasmina said.

  "She comes to the masjid." Fatima unbuckled the satchel, pulled its sides apart, and held it out. "Her mother did too."

  "For the Eids. The One Goddess doesn't need me every day, but my patients do."

  Zubeida leaned over the mawlana, as though she intended to kiss her. She sniffed her lips instead. Then she whirled round, and Fatima flinched. The doctor reached into her bag.

  "Did anyone share her last meal?"

  "We all ate with her," Jasmina said.

  "And no one else got sick?"

  "No. You-"

  The doctor shushed her, took a green leaf from a pouch, and pressed it against the inside of the mawlana's mouth. Fahmaia twitched, shook. Azim moved towards them but Jasmina waved him back. After a few seconds, Zubeida removed the leaf and turned it between her fingers.

  "Has she thrown up?"

  "No." Jasmina nudged a bucket with her boot. "Only drool."

  "Ink. Quill. Parchment." She knelt before the bedside table. "Hurry up, girl."

  Fatima pulled them out of the satchel. Doctor Zubeida licked the tip of the quill, dipped it, and scribbled. She looked over at Jasmina but didn't stop writing.

  "Do you know where Zarabanov's is?"

  "This is our first time in Lemstras."

  "I know it," Yasmin said.

  "Give Vasile these notes." She held the parchment by its edges. "He'll know what to do."