by Jeffrey Ford
I nodded to him and stepped back.
“State your case,” said the constable, as he sat once more.
“We have come before you today for two reasons,” said Feskin. “One is so that my friend, Misrix, may answer the charges leveled against him by Semla Hood and others, namely that his having in his possession a certain stone knife that she believes once belonged to Cley proves he has murdered our town’s most illustrious founder. Second, and more important, we come to ask that Misrix be given a chance to prove his goodwill and be allowed an opportunity to become a citizen of Wenau and to live among us.”
“Two very distinct issues,” said Spencer. “We will not decide the latter today, but I must add that Mr. Misrix’s presence here can only improve his prospects for citizenship later on. Now, as to the charges leveled …” The constable waved toward the audience. “Come forward, Mrs. Hood,” he said.
I turned around and saw approaching the old woman who had visited me at the ruins. Three other gentlemen followed her. She carried in her hand the knife she had taken from my museum.
“I understand that you bring with you a piece of evidence,” said Spencer.
The old woman stepped up to the desk and placed the knife before the constable. “This,” she said, “is Cley’s knife. I know it, these men know it, and I am sure this creature, whom we foolishly entertain as a human being, has killed my old friend.”
“And what makes you believe this knife once belonged to Cley?” asked Spencer.
“Besides the fact that I had seen him use it on numerous occasions when he and my husband were close friends, it has a distinct design on the handle, the image of a coiled snake. In addition, the blade is made of stone, not metal. It was given to him by the Traveler, that native of the Beyond, Ea. You know your history, I should hope, Constable Spencer.”
“Yes, madam,” said Spencer, smiling. Then he turned to me, and asked, “Was this knife in your possession?”
“It was in a collection I kept; a museum I have been constructing from items I have found in the ruins of the Well-Built City,” I said, and bowed inanely when I was finished.
“And where in the ruins did you find it?” he asked.
“My recollection is vague, but I believe it was stuck in a section of remaining wall,” I said.
“And why would a knife be stuck in a wall?” he asked.
I felt I was losing ground in the investigation, and blurted out, “And why would anything be anywhere in that jumbled offspring of explosions? I once found a child’s skeleton embedded in a column of coral.”
One of the men with Semla Hood spoke up. “I too knew Cley, and that is his knife. There were no others like it in the realm until the Traveler appeared. I also know that Cley would not be separated from it, since he used it for all purposes from fishing to hunting to delivering babies. He showed me once that it cuts like a scalpel.”
The other two men behind the old woman nodded in agreement.
“I see …” said Spencer, but here, Feskin spoke up.
“If you will allow me,” said the teacher, who did not wait for a nod of approval but continued speaking. “When the Traveler was captured by Below, would he not then have been carrying a knife? He obviously would not have been allowed to keep it in his captivity. Perhaps this is the object we have before us now. It could have been left in one of the offices of a ministry and then been embedded into a wall as a result of an explosion. Ea must have made Cley a knife when they both lived in close proximity in the early Wenau.”
“Then where is Cley?” asked the old woman, directing her question to Misrix.
“I left him in the Beyond. I could not go on, but he felt he had to deliver the green veil to Arla Beaton,” I said. “We were friends. We helped each other. It was I who saved him from his addiction to the drug, sheer beauty. I saved his life. Why would I take it?”
Spencer called for quiet. He picked up the knife, one finger on the handle, one at the sharp tip, and twirled it with his thumb. A second later, a trickle of blood ran down his hand. He dropped the weapon on the desk and looked up. Taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wrapped it around the wounded finger.
“If Cley is dead, where is the body? Where are the witnesses to this murder?” asked the constable. “What is the motive? What I find here is that you, Mrs. Hood, absconded with a piece of property that was not yours. Seeing that you truly believed it was valuable evidence used in the commission of a crime, I will not charge you with theft. As far as Misrix is concerned, he is free to go. In addition,” he said, raising his voice so that all in the room might hear him, “anyone caught harassing, threatening, or attacking this visitor to our town will suffer the severest penalties. I should hope you, Mrs. Hood, remember your history. This town was built with the idea in mind that all those of goodwill, no matter their economic or social standing in the community, be allowed to live here safely. Should we forget the lesson that was taught to us by Cley—that looks can be deceiving? Remember that Misrix came today of his own will, had saved Emilia from drowning, and that many of you have been in his company and found him to be a decent fellow. That is all.”
Need I tell you I was ecstatic? Feskin actually tried to hug me. I flapped my wings, and my tail did a dance on its own. The constable tried to hand the knife back to me, but I held up my own hands and shook my head. “For you,” I said, and he nodded, accepting the gift with a smile.
Semla Hood stormed out of the building, followed by her contingent, and I stood in the middle of a crowd of well-wishers. Somehow they all knew I would be found innocent. It was a moment I will never forget. Emilia’s mother allowed me to put her daughter on my shoulders, and we went out into the sunlight.
Later, at the inn, over drinks, Feskin told me that the constable’s word is well respected and that it will be a mere matter of weeks before I can officially join the community of Wenau. The bill was torn up by the innkeeper. As the day progressed into evening, I walked the streets of town, chatting with one and all. There were those who still shunned me, but it was obvious they were now in the minority. For the third time in my life, I was born.
Thinking about these events of today still gives me a great sense of satisfaction, and it is difficult to concentrate on Cley’s journey even though I am beginning to feel the beauty at work. Instead of showing me the Beyond, as it has, it is showing me my future—perhaps a small cottage on the edge of town. No need to rub their noses in it; I will always be different. But then I see friendship and easy, useless conversation for years to come. I will be of great help in performing feats of strength, in defending the community, and I should not forget my intellect. Maybe, with all of my reading, I could do some teaching at the school. I love Emilia and the other children. Even better, I could bring all of the volumes from the ruins and create a quiet, contemplative place where others could come to read, talk about philosophy, and tell stories. Yes, that is a stroke of genius.
I wonder now, beyond where I should, if someday, perhaps a woman of the town might learn to like me enough to be my regular companion. Can I even think it, a wife? What would the child of a woman and a demon look like? As my mind works feverishly to encompass the notion, I notice that there are ferns growing from the floor, vines hanging from the ceiling, a tree in the corner where there had been a cabinet with a clock in it. Wenau is becoming my own Paradise. What is this? The child? Pink and smooth and wriggling … But wait, it has scales instead of flesh, and, no, a horned head and a mouth of needlelike teeth. It stretches toward me, armless, legless, a terrible monster. The serpent has entered my Paradise, and I am off …
green veil on the wind
The world inside the hollow mountain was bounded by the inner slopes of granite that reached up and up to the wide opening above where the blue sky was like a distant dream of ocean. The lush garden appeared to be a nearly perfect circle, and although the circumference was predominantly in shadow, the center was bright with sunlight.
Cley was stunned by th
e beauty that surrounded him—the green of the foliage and grass almost glowing, the abundance of birds and butterflies, the brilliance of the flowers. It reminded him of the oasis in which he first met Vasthasha, but that was like a yellowed photograph in comparison to this vibrant reality. He felt a subtle breeze from above ruffle his hair and caress his body. Aromas mingled to create a perfume of fruit and blossom and earth that he believed must be the scent of life itself.
As he walked toward the center of the garden, he left behind the generously spaced trees that grew more like an orchard than a forest and came to the edge of a thick, green lawn. At a distance he saw a body of water, and at the center of this lake, an island with a narrow land bridge stretching out to it. He somehow knew that this was where he would find the serpent.
The grass was like velvet against his bare feet, and now that he was in full sunlight he felt as if he could lie down and sleep forever. He yawned and when he exhaled the silver-backed leaves of the trees across the lake seemed to sway with his breath. His thoughts no longer dwelt on Wood or Wraith or Willa or Wenau. The image of Arla Beaton dissolved as did all his memories and self-recriminations from the past. Now there was but one thought in his mind and that was to tempt the serpent. He heard a sound like music, very faint chimes and voices, and he could not tell if it was oozing out of the air or coming from within his own ears.
Cley proceeded across the land bridge, holding the dark fruit in one hand and the crystal in the other. The weight of these objects in his palms was all that prevented him from drifting off into flight or sleep. Sunlight glittered on the clear water—a million sparks forming and reforming geometric patterns before his eyes. Beneath the surface there were fat, orange fish, kissing out bubbles that burst into the air like notes from a flute.
Through the trees on the small island, at the very axis of the garden, he came upon the enormous, sleeping form of Sirimon. It was four times the size of any of those skeletons he had discovered in the Beyond. This one was as long and wide as the smoke serpent created by the body scribe—large enough to encircle an entire village. Its scales were a resilient pink, as if made of metal, like armor. The body of the creature was as thick as Cley was tall and the head nearly as wide as the Olsens’ house. The horns were sharpened-bone tree trunks, and the mouth could easily devour a horse in one pass.
There was no fear in the hunter. He stepped up to the side of the great serpent and rubbed his hand along the length of its body. Its breathing was measured and altogether relaxing. Cley walked to the head and held the fruit forward, close up to the flaring nostrils. He watched the lidless eyes for signs of cognizance, but they remained fixed, like prodigious concave windows with yellow curtains inside opened just barely in vertical slits.
As he stood, swaying before the incredible entity, the hunter saw in his mind’s eye flashes of scenes from the ancient war in the Beyond. Foliates and dwellers of the inland ocean clashed in combat. Great black mollusks without shells, organic machines draped with seaweed, moved through the forests devouring trees. Vines ensnared some of these juggernauts, and flocks of crows swept out of the sky to tear at their flesh. Fleets of swelled leviathan bladders blocked the sun, pouring liquid fire that melted meadows into dry waste. Pa-ni-ta sent swirling clouds of poisonous insects into the Palishize, and the Water People countered with a dozen different plagues.
Cley saw the Sirimon dying in great numbers, saw the Beshanti suffering, the Word, speechless in the face of destruction, and then an extraordinary thought entered his mind. “If the wilderness had consciousness, a will, then why did it turn upon itself? The inland ocean was as much a part of the Beyond as were the forests and the meadows and marshes. It did all of this to itself and now needed to be rescued.”
The hunter stood enwrapped in visions as the body of the Sirimon rippled almost imperceptibly, tremors running its length. The serpent’s nostrils twitched, and its eyes began to vibrate. Cley became aware that the monster was waking from its nightmare of loneliness and that it hungered for the fruit.
Without warning, there was a tremendous blast of air that threw the hunter backward onto the ground. The Sirimon screamed, and this cry changed everything, like a light going out in a room without windows. Cley came to his senses. At the last second, he rolled to his right as the creature arched its back with lightning speed, curled its body over its head, and stabbed the earth with its needle tail precisely where he had just fallen.
The Sirimon coiled inward upon itself in order to strike with its fangs, but the hunter was already up and running through the trees. It released like a spring and hit the earth only inches from Cley’s heels. He stumbled and rolled and then was up and running again. He could feel the breath of the serpent on his back, and its voice was deafening.
Across the land bridge he fled and now fear uncoiled in his chest, his heart beating wildly, his pulse pounding. When he reached the opposite side, he turned to look behind. This, he told himself, was his only chance to accomplish what he had come for. The serpent slithered across the land bridge, rippling at top speed, its mouth open wide. Cley cocked his arm back and waited until he could wait no more. Just as the pink scales touched the lawn, he hurled the fruit. His aim was terribly off. The strange plum hit the ground in front of Sirimon, but as luck would have it, bounced into the cavelike mouth.
Now the hunter was sprinting, and the garden’s placid beauty mocked his terror. The exotic music was drowned out by the roar of the creature. The perfume disintegrated into the stinking breath of the serpent. Ferns and shrubs lashed at his shins and ankles as he ran. The sun moved past midday, and the shadows grew more quickly than the memories rushing back into Cley’s mind.
Just as he caught a glimpse of the blue, wavering portal and the form of Vasthasha standing on the other side of the membrane, the serpent struck, uncoiling forward with a desperate lunge. It caught Cley in its maw across his chest. The hunter felt the needle teeth sink into his flesh and heard the cracking of his own ribs. He tried to scream but blood filled his mouth. The Sirimon reared its head upward, carrying Cley’s weight into the air, and then shook him back and forth, burying its fangs deeper into his vital organs. When it was done, it flung his body onto the rocks only a few steps from the blue portal. The creature turned then, like a bullwhip rolling backward, and slithered calmly away toward the island.
The blood poured from Cley’s chest, nose, mouth, ears. When he tried to move, he could hear his bones cracking like a bag of glass shards rolling on a wooden floor. He pulled himself along with one arm and one leg, covering the distance to the portal. There was a slight rise, and he had no strength to lift his body the rest of the way. With one last effort he lurched forward so that only his hand, still holding the crystal, passed through the boundary.
His eyes closed and in his mind he saw the green veil on the wind. It flapped once, snapped everything into darkness, and he died.
“… proof of your humanity.”
I have little doubt now that not only the Beyond, but the entire world has a mind, and disbelieve me at your own peril when I say a cynical one at that. It deals in irony with all the subtle grace and sharp wit of a master storyteller, and just when you think the hero will succeed, a love might be fulfilled, a promise kept, it will flip your life like an hourglass and send an avalanche of trouble trickling down upon you.
I sit now in a jail cell, like some hairy, scribbling Brisden, at the back of the very building where only yesterday I was applauded for my veracity and goodwill. This concrete container is barely large enough for me to spread my wings, and always, everywhere, there are the vertical shadows from the bars at the doorway and the one tall window that looks out upon the town. The breeze slips in unimpeded through that back opening, carrying with it the sounds of the town I had foolishly dreamt would be my home. Thank goodness for this desk and chair. The bed in the corner is useless to me, and I will have to sleep standing up, as there are no bars on the ceiling from which to hang. What does it matter? Believe the
following if you can:
Last night I was in the room that Feskin had gotten me, leaning over my manuscript, my hands covering my face, weeping uncontrollably at the loss of Cley. The very words, as if they, themselves, were snapping monsters, horrified me as I was describing my friend’s demise. For that whole tortuous journey I had traced, to end like this, broke my heart. I wished that I could somehow erase what the Beyond had dictated and have the hunter move on to the true Wenau, but that would have been as false as Cley thinking he could change Arla Beaton’s soul by changing her physiognomy. The discovery of his death was too sudden a reversal from the day’s celebration, and I was without my usual defense of skeptical fatalism to protect myself from the pain.
When I could weep no longer, and had finally resigned myself to the fact that I would have to go on alone without the nighttime visions of Cley and Wood, there came a knocking upon my door. The hour was very late, but I thought nothing of it since my mind was a tangled skein of confusion and sorrow.
“Just a moment,” I called, and tried to compose myself. Wiping the last of the tears from my eyes, I opened the door and pulled it back. There stood Feskin, and behind him Constable Spencer, and behind him a half-dozen men with rifles aimed around the heads of the two in front and directly at my heart.
“Glad you could stop by,” I said, thinking nothing of the rifles, since whenever I was in the presence of a human, there were usually weapons in sight. I stepped back in order to let my friends enter.
“Bad news, Misrix,” said Feskin, and he looked down at the floor as if unable to go on.
“What?” I asked, as the men with the guns came in and surrounded me. I sensed that they were very nervous, and this was my first indication that something had gone terribly wrong.
