The Way of Sorrows

by Jon Steele

  “Lord, the chief physician wishes you to know the child remains in stable condition following the procedure.”

  “What did he find?”

  “A microtransmitter implanted in the child’s thigh. It has been removed.”

  “The child has no pain?”

  “No, lord.”

  “He must not know pain or fear. He must remain in a state of grace until the time of his sacrifice.”

  “As you command, lord.”

  A proficient chamberlain, and pleasing to the senses as beautiful creatures should be, Komarovsky thought.

  “And the transmitter?” Komarovsky said.

  “It has been analyzed by your attendants. It appears to have pinged once when the vessel carrying the boy was opened in Alaska. They have tracked the ping to an Inmarsat communications satellite in geostationary orbit above the Pacific Ocean. Your attendants assume the ping was detected by your enemies.”

  Komarovsky lifted Cupid’s cup and sipped. “Without a doubt.”

  Of course, the chamberlain thought, the master knows all things; and all things serve the master’s purpose.

  “Yes, lord.”

  Komarovsky sipped again and closed his eyes. He longed to be reunited with his goddess. The chamberlain stood silently on the center medallion of the carpet until the master returned from his reverie.

  “Is there something else that requires my attention?” Komarovsky said.

  “The chief physician requests an audience, lord.”

  “I wish to be alone with my dreams.”

  “I have expressed your wish to him, lord. He remains most insistent.”

  “What is the issue?”

  “He believes it necessary to discuss the state of your present form, without delay.”

  “I see.”

  Komarovsky set the cup in its saucer. He turned, opened the drawer of the side table, and removed a small lacquer-painted jewelry box. He laid it on the table. The chamberlain allowed his eyes the quickest of glances to see the picture on the lid. It was a painting of a Siberian folktale: Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird, and the Gray Wolf. The chamberlain knew the contents of the box. Inside were potions of pleasure or punishment to be dispensed as the master deemed fit. The chamberlain looked away and focused on the far wall as Komarovsky turned back to him.

  “Show him in.”

  The chamberlain bowed, and in a well-rehearsed move, he stepped back nine steps to open the door without turning away from Komarovsky. On the outer platform the chief physician stood erect and resplendent in his copper-colored robe. In his right hand he held a long staff of polished wood topped with a small carving of a pterosaur skull. It was the ancient scepter of his office. The chamberlain made a gesture with his hand: You may enter.

  The chief physician paraded in in a manner befitting his high position. He passed the chamberlain without regard. He stepped onto the central medallion of the carpet and made a flourishing bow. Komarovsky studied the physician’s face as it was raised to him. He did not think the face as beautiful as it should be. But so far the physician possessed invaluable skills; allowances could be made for his imperfection.

  “Speak to me,” Komarovsky said.

  Unlike the chamberlain, the physician looked directly at Komarovsky. The knowledge that he was granted such a privilege inflated the physician with great pride.

  “My lord, I have reviewed the latest reports relating to your present form. I am obliged to come to you with a recommendation. With your permission, of course.”

  Komarovsky nodded.

  “Lord, we are concerned the particular form you occupy will reject your divine being.”

  “We?”

  “Myself, lord, and the council of physicians who attend to your well-being.”

  Komarovsky placed his hands together and bowed his head as if in prayer. “Did I not command that potions be created to prevent rejection of my form?”

  “Indeed, lord. And I did make them. However . . .” The physician searched for the proper words.

  “Yes?”

  “Lord, the potions are not performing as well as I had hoped. Their efficacy is lessening. Therefore, I am concerned.”

  Komarovsky signaled the chief physician to step closer. “Explain your concern.”

  The physician glanced at the chamberlain standing at the door with that look of one who sees nothing but hears all. Such a presumptuous little turd, the physician thought, daring to share the divine presence with me. He stepped closer to Komarovsky and spoke softly.

  “Upon your returning to the world six months ago, the clone has been subjected to physical variables. Cellular regeneration is failing to keep pace with morbidity levels. Stem cell infusions are ceasing to correct the problem.”

  “What will be the end result?”

  The physician hesitated.

  “The end result would be unimaginable, lord. You are our Lucifer, our only guide through the darkness.”

  Finishing his diagnosis, the physician gave an unctuous bow. Komarovsky touched the place over his own heart.

  “How wonderful your adoration is to me.”

  The physician inflated again, this time with self-satisfaction. “I am at your service, lord.”

  “Yes, you are. How long will I be able to dwell in this form given your diagnosis?”

  “Weeks, a month at the most.”

  “I need more time. I need much more time.”

  “Lord, the risk is too great. If morbidity reaches—”

  “I have heard from other members of the council that new potions could be developed to forestall any rejection. Is that not true?”

  The physician appeared uncomfortable. “Lord?”

  “Is it necessary for me to repeat myself?”

  “No, lord . . . I . . . Well, yes, that is the opinion of some. But it would require introducing the clone to more intense psychoactive potions. We are well advanced in the cloning of soulless human forms, of course, but cloning was developed for the purpose of organ harvesting. A clone, in and of itself, is not a suitable temple for your divinity. I must assert my position as your most trusted advisor and urge you to hear my voice above all others. You must abandon your current form.”

  Komarovsky stared at him. “And do what, chief physician?”

  “Lord, I have taken the liberty of selecting a new form for you to occupy. I brought him on this trip so that you may judge him yourself.”

  Komarovsky signaled the physician even closer. “What does he look like?”

  The physician turned to the chamberlain. The servant was still standing in the open door, still pretending to not notice a thing. Cretin. The physician cleared his throat, leaned closer to Komarovsky, and whispered.

  “A most magnificent specimen, lord, I must say. He will more than meet your standards of beauty. He is of noble lineage, directly descended from the Rus of Kiev. He is a true epicurean, a creature of the finest breeding and taste. I have seen to it, personally, that his desire for pleasure has been encouraged throughout his life, nothing has been denied him. He is in perfect health, gifted with an excellent physique. And he is, lord, extremely virile.”

  Komarovsky reached for the jewelry box. He pulled it closer and opened the lid. Inside were six hypodermics containing an assortment of chimeric colors. They glistened in the dim light of the parlor car; as they glistened they changed hue from one forbidden color to the next. The physician was encouraged. He had often received the gift of pleasure by catering to the master’s lust.

  “Continue,” Komarovsky said.

  “I have prepared an entertainment in my private railcar for your viewing. Four lovely women, abducted in Vladivostok, are now being induced into a state of the most exquisite craving. I selected the women myself so that the Rus’s abilities will offer their best display.”

  Komarovsky fingered the hypodermics. “Tell me more.”

  The physician wet his lips. “I am confident, lord, you will find the Rus a fitting temple for your divinity for
as long as you require. And once occupied the form will continue to experience all sensations as you know them now.”

  “Instead of all those new sensations on offer by the council.”

  “Lord?”

  “More intense psychoactive potions to suppress rejection. I must say, they do sound inviting.”

  “Yes, lord, but—”

  “But what?” Komarovsky said.

  “We are close to the place of complete and utter darkness in the workings of our craft. The things that are proposed by the council are too dangerous to contemplate. You must accept my recommendation, lord.”

  “I see. Then tell me more about your magnificent new form. What is the color of his hair?”

  The chief physician was confused for a moment. “His hair, lord?”

  “Yes, his hair. What color is it?”

  “It . . . it is brown . . . lord.”

  Komarovsky looked down at his own long, silver hair hanging to his shoulders. He lifted a handful and let it slowly fall before his eyes. He sighed.

  “I do not think I’m in the mood for brown.”

  “Lord, the color of the hair is a trivial matter compared to the many pleasurable benefits that will be available to you in the new form.”

  Komarovsky removed his fingers from the hypodermics. He touched his own face, feeling the texture of the perfect skin. “But what if I accept your recommendation and awake only to find my new face is not as beautiful as the one I have now?”

  “But lord . . . you have no reflection. Your face is of no consequence. All that matters is after I transplant your eyes into the new form, you will continue to rule as the divinity you are.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Lord?”

  “Are you sure I would not reign as a less beautiful divinity so that your influence within the council would grow to match mine?”

  The physician feigned a combination of surprise and grief. He lowered himself to his knees. He offered his throat to the master as was the custom. “I am your most loyal servant, lord.”

  Komarovsky stared at him, giving the physician time to see his own reflection in his master’s dark lenses. When he thought the physician fearful enough, Komarovsky leaned close to him and breathed deep.

  “Then why, dear chief physician, do you reek of mendacity?”

  The physician blanched. “No, lord.”

  Komarovsky grabbed the physician’s throat. “Look at my face. I cannot see its reflection, not even in your eyes, but it is a face of great consequence. It is the face a goddess has worshipped and adored. It is my pleasure to keep it, and I will not be seduced by your deception.”

  “Lord, I have not deceived you.”

  Komarovsky dug his fingers into the physician’s neck and found the rings of tracheal cartilage and primary bronchi. He dug deeper, searching for the man’s windpipe and larynx.

  “Confess that you find the Rus more beautiful than me, confess that you love the Rus more than me. Confess and I will be merciful.”

  The physician dropped his scepter and grabbed at Komarovsky’s hand. Komarovsky squeezed harder.

  “Confess!”

  “Lord . . . I . . . adore you.”

  Komarovsky reached into the jewelry box with his left hand and selected the hypodermic containing a shimmering black-green liquid. He stood from his armchair, and with the physician still in the clutch of his right hand, he raised him from the floor. The physician dangled and kicked. Komarovsky carried him across the carpet and held him above the central medallion.

  “Your adoration no longer pleases me.”

  Komarovsky pulled the physician close and rammed the hypodermic into the back of his neck. The physician was blinded and cast into darkness. He opened his mouth to cry out, but there was no sound.

  Lord!

  “Receive my divine judgment.”

  No, lord!

  The blinded physician heard Komarovsky chant in voces mysticae, secret words only the master was permitted to speak aloud. When he heard the words, a terrible vision unfolded in the physician’s mind. He saw himself dangling above the carpet, still grabbing at Komarovsky’s hand. Then the border of the carpet swirled clockwise and the curvilinear patterns dissolved into a fast-moving stream of indigo and green, then all color faded away. A single black thread emerged in the center of the medallion. It stretched and weaved itself counterclockwise.

  Oh, please, lord!

  As it weaved, it grew; as it grew, it weaved faster. Now the size of a coin, now the size of a plate, now absorbing the central medallion and becoming a black hole that opened down into the deepest pit of the earth. The blinded physician heard much weeping and the gnashing of teeth.

  Please!

  The physician first saw long shadows slithering up the walls of the pit. Then he saw long talons at the ends of spindly hands; then he saw grotesque beasts with hideous faces but no eyes. The beasts were covered in boils and lesions; black drool dripped from their gaping mouths. They sniffed the air and caught the physician’s scent. They wailed with hunger and swung their talons at the physician’s legs. He kicked frantically.

  No, please!

  The beasts’ talons caught the flesh of his calves and dug in.

  Ahhh, no!

  The beasts clawed their way higher. They tore through his robe, sliced into his guts, and ripped his soul from its flesh.

  I beg you, lord!

  Komarovsky crushed the physician’s windpipe at the peak of the man’s fear and the vision was ended. Komarovsky released his grip and the physician’s body fell to the floor. It convulsed atop the central medallion of carpet for a few seconds, then it did not move. It was a dead thing sprawled over the flower of life. Nearby was the scepter of office the physician had cherished with great pride. Komarovsky picked it up and held it out to the chamberlain.

  “Present this to the council. Tell them I am in need of a new chief physician. Tell them I am intrigued with the promise of new sensations to maintain my current form, then leave them to their greed. Whichever of them survives may claim the scepter.”

  “Yes, lord.” The chamberlain gestured toward the body. “Shall I dispose of it, lord?”

  Komarovsky searched the high corners of the train car. Not yet, but soon.

  “Leave it.”

  “Of course, lord.”

  Komarovsky returned to his armchair; the chamberlain bowed to leave.

  “The Rus from Kiev,” Komarovsky said, “have you seen him with your own eyes?”

  The chamberlain felt his mouth go dry with fear; he could barely breathe.

  “Earlier, I served him a light supper in the chief physician’s private car, lord.”

  Komarovsky looked at the remaining hypodermics in the jewelry box. He lazily touched them one by one. The chamberlain watched from the corner of his eye; he felt the master’s gaze return to him.

  “And is he as described? A remarkable specimen? A worthy temple for my divinity?”

  Cold sweat dripped down the back of the chamberlain’s neck.

  “I do not consider him as beautiful as described . . . lord.”

  Komarovsky closed the jewelry box. The chamberlain calmed.

  “Where is he now?” Komarovsky said.

  “Presently, he is taking champagne, lord. He awaits to be entertained by the four women abducted in Vladivostok.”

  “Ah, yes, the entertainment.”

  Komarovsky turned to his tea service. He opened the sugar bowl and scooped out a teaspoon of brown sticky liquid. He let the liquid drip into the teapot. He set the pot under the samovar and opened its valve. Boiling water poured out and clouds of steam ascended to the ceiling of the parlor car. Komarovsky closed the valve, covered the teapot, and poured the potion into Cupid’s cup. He lifted the cup to his face and inhaled the fumes.

  “Are the women beautiful?”

  The chamberlain nodded. “I have no doubt they would offer your divinity immense pleasure, lord.”

  Komarovsky sipped slowly
and dreamed a moment.

  “The women are not to be touched by the Rus or anyone. Continue to induce them with craving potions until we reach the dacha. They may attend to me there.”

  “As you command, lord. But what shall be done with the Rus? He himself is already in a heightened state of craving.”

  “Deliver him to my attendants to be flayed alive. Tell them they may feast. You may join them if you wish.”

  The chamberlain bowed. “You are most generous, lord.”

  The chamberlain slowly exited the parlor car without turning his back on Komarovsky. On the outer platform he bowed once more before closing the door. Komarovsky drank from his teacup until it was empty. He replaced it in its saucer and settled into his armchair. While waiting for the potion to affect him, he heard a fluttering sound. He removed his dark glasses and rested them on the side table.

  “Adjust.”

  Light levels in the parlor car lowered to moonlight.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the physician’s soul flutter about the passenger car, searching for a place of safety like some confused and frightened bird. Yes, he thought, that’s the sound. They were all that way when torn from their flesh; like frightened birds, hearts bursting in their breasts.

  As the train reached the southern shore of Lake Baikal and turned north into the Irkutskaya Oblast, Komarovsky sensed the soul was beginning to understand its fate. It would see the dead body on the carpet and know “there was the place I once lived,” but now it was lost and adrift.

  “Now it begins,” he whispered to the soul.

  Komarovsky kicked back his head and squeezed his eyelids tighter to release the full force of the potion. There was a burst of dead black in his mind. His hands clutched the arms of the chair, and his entire body became rigid. Delightful, how delightful! To add to his joy Komarovsky summoned the night spirits from the forests. He commanded them to dance with the soul, to chase it from corner to corner, to spin it in dizzying circles, to batter it with torment. And so it was as the black train raced unseen through the sleeping land.

  At dawn the train passed Yekaterinburg and was not far from kilometer 1776 of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Komarovsky released the night spirits and listened for the fluttering sound again. When he heard it, he smiled. He opened his eyes to see the frightened thing tremble before him. It was exhausted and falling into despair. Komarovsky raised his right hand and pointed to it as he had done in the beginning two and a half million years ago, when he first created the soul of man.