Inflictions

by John McIlveen

  The light bearer moves slowly forward, exposing a great granite crypt, eighty feet long by twenty feet wide with a comparatively low stone ceiling twelve feet overhead. Passing primordial stone pillars lined up like soldiers every fifteen feet, the light bearer comes to a halt before a ten-by-ten-foot cage, constructed of thick gold bars.

  At the center of the prison an old man drifts slowly in small arcs, suspended six inches above the floor by a thick rope tethered to the top of the cage. He is naked and ghastly thin, his knees prominent knobs that bisect the thin bones of his legs. Long-yellowed and crusted whiskers fall from his skeletal face, washing over ribs that protrude through translucent flesh like surfacing tree roots and ending whip-like at his waist. His mouth is a gaping oval revealing sparse and rotted teeth. The hanging man partially averts his head from the brilliance of the light as the stranger cautiously approaches him, yet he is interested. His head twitches in birdlike jerks as he follows the new man’s movement.

  “Ah, a guest,” the hanging man says in a tongue redolent of old Latin. His voice is gravelly and weedy from long abandonment and the constriction of the rope. Each breath is dragged in and forced out, scraping from his throat like stone upon stone.

  “That’s Greek to me, comrade! No comprende. Capice?” Henderson says. He stops two feet from the cage.

  “Please (hiss), come forward,” says the hanging man, switching to a proper English dialect. His limited breath nearly whistles from him. “What is your name?” He tries raising his head to confront the tall stranger, but it remains awkwardly canted to the left at an impossible angle.

  “That doesn’t concern you old man, but you certainly are the guy I’m looking for,” Henderson replies.

  He approaches the cage warily, an expression of disgust overwriting his unease as the hanging man comes fully into his view. Still disturbed by the light, the ancient man focuses his odd, pale eyes on Henderson. The baby-blue, nearly white irises are not reminiscent of summer skies, but of the blubbery albino creatures that reside in the deepest part of the ocean.

  “On the contrary, my greedy seeker (hiss). You have come here with a wish that (hiss) I cannot fulfill without your name.”

  “Okay. Call me Ken Smith.”

  “I call you a liar, Mr. William James Henderson (hiss) of Norton, Ohio.”

  Surprise crosses Henderson’s face, but he quickly tethers it. “Alright, then,” he says, regaining composure. “I’m looking for …”

  “Wealth and immortality,” completes the caged man. He wrestles another breath in. “It’s what they all seek.”

  “Who’re you talking about when you say all?” Henderson asks.

  “Only a fool would believe (hiss) that he is the only one who seeks wealth (hiss) and immortality.”

  Henderson walks the perimeter of the cage, feeling uncomfortable with the hanging man’s sickly eyes on him. “How many have come knocking?” he asks.

  “Scores.” The hanging man offers a shrewd grin. “Legions.”

  “And?”

  “They leave with nothing,” he promises. “They have all (hiss) come up short … as will you.”

  Henderson reaches deep into the pocket of his cargo pants and retracts a small pink pouch. He displays it to the hanging man, yet holds it well out of his reach. The old man inhales a slow and savoring breath through his nostrils and closes his eyes in reverence.

  “The flesh of a virgin child (hiss). Admirable, but you are not the first.”

  Henderson opens the bag and dumps its contents into his left hand and displays it to the caged man.

  “You bluff! Those are clearly not Naunet’s amulets (hiss),” the hanging man rasps. The task seems too extreme, yet he persists. There is a pronounced change in his demeanor. “They are the wrong hue.”

  “Who’s the liar now?” asks Henderson. “What other color do emeralds come in? I’ve done all the work with my own hands, and you know it, pal!”

  “I know I smell the blood of a saint on your hands (hiss). You reek of blasphemy.”

  “Which means I did what had to be done,” Henderson stresses with a hiss.

  The hanging man locks onto Henderson with his sickly insipid eyes. “Then you would know (hiss) what you must do next,” he says.

  “I have to hold these amulets to your eyes.”

  “And try to steal from me (hiss) as all the others have tried to steal, yet failed.”

  Henderson smiles derisively. “What good is wealth to you when you’re chained up in there?” he asks. “And why in the hell would you want immortality?”

  “You could free me (hiss) if your heart is good, but forfeit your (hiss) prize,” says the old man.

  Henderson laughs mockingly and moves cautiously to the bars of the cage.

  “Ah, I thought not,” says the hanging man, forcing a horrific smile. “What is it you fear? I am bound and decrepit (hiss). What harm can I possibly present to you?”

  “None whatsoever. I’m not afraid of you. I’m disgusted by you. You’re a fucking mess. Lean your head over here,” Henderson demands, stepping closer to the cage.

  The hanging man bows his head and waits for the kiss of the amulets to his eyes. Henderson reaches into the cage and presses the gems to the ancient fellow’s eyes. The emeralds immediately heat like coals as they sear into the old man’s eyelids, and the smell of burnt flesh fills the space between them. The old man rears his head back in pain and grabs Henderson’s arms with amazing speed. He pulls himself against the bars, jabs his legs through, and locks them around Henderson’s legs, trapping Henderson’s arms between his body and the bars of his prison.

  Shock and disgust paralyze Henderson as the hanging man closes in on him face-to-face, as if to kiss him. His breath is fetid and vile and Henderson fights to settle his rising gorge as the squalid lips brush against his. The hanging man inhales a deep and tortured breath, and Henderson feels something large and serpentine being drawn from deep within. It struggles to remain within Henderson, clinging inside of him but failing. It pulls free of him with the rending of a hundred talons, carries with it all that is Henderson: his health, his desires, and his sanity. The hanging man takes another deep breath and exhales a fetid smoke into Henderson’s mouth in a trade of breaths that tastes of death and rancid meat and jars Henderson to his core, forcing him to collapse weakly against the bars.

  The hanging man reels backward as if propelled by a huge blow. He strikes against the far bars of the cage and swings back on the rope, to and fro in gliding arcs, slowing to finally center in the cage. Absolute and abject terror radiates from his hazel eyes, and is etched into his wizened features. He claws at his throat, digging for release from the constricting rope.

  Henderson smirks at the old man, winking at him with his new baby blues.

  “Don’t look so surprised, my friend,” he says, exhaling his words freely for the first time in centuries … millennia, neither strangled nor constricted. “You have what you came for. Your wishes are granted. You wanted wealth? These gold bars weigh tons … a fortune, and they are yours. You are sole heir to this priceless cage.” He taps the bars with long, sturdy fingers … Henderson’s long, sturdy fingers. He pauses and a slight and contented smile forms on his healthy lips. “And you have your immortality, though I suspect you will opt to trade it in once … make that if the next greedy soul finds the keys and meets the demands.”

  Henderson’s form bends over to pick up the amulets from the floor. “I will do my best to hide these well, but it could make for interesting sport, a little game of hide and seek? Naunet does love her games.”

  He pauses and stares at the decrepit old man swinging in wide arcs within the cage, digging at the rope encircling his neck.

  “Well, Mr. Henderson. Oh, that’s right … I’m Mr. Henderson, now. Nonetheless, as I was saying … it’s not all bad. This is not your average prison, though there are some forgiving attributes. For one, you don’t have to stew in your own waste, because the cursed and the dead do not r
equire food, just an inclusive memory of our transgressions and a full acknowledgement of pain … we feed well on those.”

  He walks for the doorway, tossing the amulets playfully in the air and catching them like dice. He pauses when the swinging form in the cage rasps.

  “No (hiss)! Wait!”

  He pauses and chuckles softly. “I think not. I have waited eternities, and I feel no remorse … concerning you, that is. I know what you’ve done to get inside these wretched cavern walls, beneath that wretched holy city.”

  Panicking, the hanging man jerks violently and retches as the rope bites harder into his neck.

  “You might want to mind that,” says the man wearing Henderson’s body. He points to the collar on his neck. “It only gets tighter, but never tight enough. No. Never tight enough.”

  He tosses the amulets into the air and catches them, saying, “You know, I once sold a pure and holy man for thirty pieces of silver. That was my sin. Maybe your eternity will be shorter than mine, but I doubt it.” He grabs the door handle, smiles, winks at the prisoner, and says, “Hey! See you later.”

  He closes the door. The room sinks into blackness as the latch engages with deafening finality.

  Hell to Pay

  Hello. Yes, enter, enter, please come in! Welcome to my … shop. Have a seat. Yes, they are comfortable chairs. Leather? No, no, not exactly leather, but flesh of another creature. Soft, isn’t it?

  What’s that? Ah, you need my services. But why else would you come?

  Your wife, you say? You think she has it … in for you? Gut instinct? Then it most assuredly is true. You must always trust your gut.

  You want her gone! Splendid, splendid indeed! I take it the honeymoon’s over? A little profane to balance the sacred, yes? As you wish, it is after all my specialty. Be aware though, for the best service there is always a price to pay. I will give you what you want, but I will expect my due in return.

  No problem at all, you say? Perfect! We just need to take care of a few administrative details, just a little paperwork.

  You like my desk? Yes, it’s very special. The handles? No, they’re not ivory. They’re from the same beast as the chairs. Yes, they do look like bones. Small bones, infantile, maybe?

  Why, yes, how observant you are, this is indeed a contract. I just need you to sign right here. Yes, red ink, I insist on it. Symbolism is everything, sentimental being that I am.

  Your wife’s signature is on the contract? Oh my, why yes it is, funny thing that. It must have been in the same file folder. You do both have the same last name.

  You say you can’t move? Yes, it’s bound to be the chair, if you’ll forgive the pun. A little trade humor never hurt anyone … well, it never hurt me.

  Oh, don’t fret, it’ll only be excruciating for an eternity.

  What If …

  “I am not handicapped!”

  My mother would often speak these words, and to us, her children, they were true. Blindness may have been a lifelong companion for Louise Cormier, but she had never allowed it to be a barrier. Even in our childhood, my sister Anna and I never considered Mother as such, and we were often offended by those who did.

  I’ve often wondered, what if Mother had not been born blind? Would she have been less than the remarkable woman she was?

  Her infectious personality and stalwart self-confidence betrayed her blindness, and her pride was even stronger. Beware those who would attempt to sympathize or pamper her—they would be excused with a brisk wave and with a polite ”No thank you.” Friends and family, in contrast, whom she figured should know better, would receive impetuous and often witty rebukes, like on the day of my sister’s wedding. While walking across the reception hall, flanked by my father on her right and my cousin Peter on her left, Mother had stumbled on a seam in the carpet. Peter, whose penchant for hard drink—much to Mother’s chagrin—was of some notoriety, looped his arm within hers. Mother coolly removed her arm from Peter’s and responded, “Thank you, Peter, but I stumble fine without your help.”

  Such comments would often startle people to an amused silence, or stop them in their tracks. My father, on the other hand, would glow with a jovial pride, and at other times, roar with laughter.

  “Thomas, stop your gloating!” we’d often hear Mother say after one of her rebukes, for Mother knew it was this part of her that he admired most. That is … except for her eyes.

  Mother had the most wonderful and unusual eyes. Father described them as the perfect paradox; though they were sightless and of no benefit to her, they offered others a flourish of beauty, clear windows to her character, and thermometers to her temperament, or sometimes, more aptly, warning beacons.

  They were the most stunning bouquet of blues. By this, I mean that they would change hue with her moods, from the radiance a cloudless summer sky, as comforting and warm as any blanket, to a near transparency, like ice that could cause a soul to tremble. The very eyes that revealed nothing to her showed volumes to everyone else.

  So unusual were they, we would often speculate whether her eyes were a result of her condition … or maybe her condition a result of her unique eyes.

  Those eyes so enraptured my father that he endured two years of undeviating refusals before Mother finally accepted his proposal for marriage. This was a feat, he alleged, that ranked with the conquering of Everest.

  Again, I wonder. What if Mother had not been blind? Would she have been so alluring to Thomas Cormier? Would they have married?

  Even the words we used, Mother included, contradicted her affliction. Comments like, “I’d love to see the children, could you watch Bobby for a while,” and “See you later,” were commonly and instinctively used. I never really noticed the extent of this until Anna was married and had mothered three children.

  Mother’s love for her grandsons was unlimited. She would sit on the porch glider for hours, telling them flamboyant tales, or simply listening to them play. At times she would even join them, chasing their laughter and footsteps around the yard with delighted passion. The joy of these times was memorable and infectious.

  When it came to “watching” the children, Mother’s acute hearing was far more reliable than Anna’s and my eyes and ears combined. Anna would depend on presumption to figure if it was Mike, Robby, or David who called to her. Mother computed sounds with uncanny accuracy. Simple footsteps or breathing could spawn remarks like, “Robby, please don’t run on the porch,” and “If it’s cookies you’re looking for, David, ask, don’t sneak.” So often I wished Mother would be granted sight, if only for a moment, so she could see the children that brought her so much joy.

  Again, what if she had been able to see? Would things have been different? Would sight have made her a less loyal grandmother?

  When I graduated college, I was pushing thirty, and Mother was quite worried about my lack of romantic involvement.

  “You’ve finished school,” she would say. “You’re now a certified surgeon, Stephen, and we’re very proud of you. Now, how about finding yourself a nice little French woman and making us a granddaughter?” To this I habitually replied, “There is no such thing as a ‘little’ French woman, Mother.”

  My parents, to some extent, accepted that my career held little time for romance, so one could imagine their delight when I brought Carol home to meet them, or their ecstatic joy two years later when we told them we would be marrying. However, none of that could compare to Mother’s nearly manic delight when Carol’s pregnancy test proved positive. Her vibrant blue eyes practically burned with life-fire, reflecting joyous tears.

  By this time I was thirty-six, Mother was sixty-seven, and Anna’s oldest son, Mike, was twenty-two and engaged. At least Mother could no longer joke about becoming a great-grandmother before I became a father.

  A little over seven months later, the awaited day arrived. We had a daughter four hours after Carol went into labor. The beautiful granddaughter my parents so longed for. I rushed to the telephone and called them immedia
tely after her birth.

  “A daughter!” my father trumpeted. “You finally gave us our granddaughter!”

  “You bet, and a beauty at that!” I replied, thinking of Mother. How those eyes would shine when she finally held little Renée. I believe I hung up on my father in my haste to see my daughter again.

  We just celebrated Renee’s third birthday. That day, three years ago, was the most emotional day in my life. Mother never got the chance to hold her granddaughter. I was to learn later that evening that a sudden heart attack took her while Carol was in labor. I had telephoned as father was leaving for the hospital. For this reason, Renée has become twice as special to me. She is a memorial to my mother, especially with those fascinating blue eyes that change with her moods. The way they glow contentment with the warmth of a summer sky, or shine ice-fire in moments of anger, exactly like Mother’s.

  When I look at my daughter, I again find myself wondering …

  What if …

  What if Mother can finally see?

  Devotion

  Devotion.

  What a concept! All want it, few get it, and many who get it neglect it.

  I have a little story to tell you about devotion, something that happened to me a few years ago.

  It was a night I remember all too well. I was driving home after shift change at the hospital. The thirty-minute back-road drive from Laconia to Franklin, New Hampshire, was good and welcomed therapy after a fourteen-hour work day. That half hour of silent solitude between the hospital and my husband was a necessity. Don’t get me wrong, I love him dearly, but he does like to ramble. It was one of those relentlessly typical nights, the kind you have to literally slap your own face to keep your eyes open and your wheels on the road.