Facade of Evil and Other Tales from 'Heathen with Teeth'

by Jonathan Jones

  There had been an argument outside earlier, a man and woman screaming at each other, but it wasn’t frightening. It was just part of the mad passion that made Caldair wonderful. It was good to be in a place where you could express yourself so intensely. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that it could be a dangerous place, despite the depraedor attack. That had been a one-off. Depraedor were the one nasty thing in the whole of Caldair, I’d been unlucky to meet one at all, and there would always be an Andreas around to save me.

  Two blocks from my home, following the music through pitch dark streets (the street lamps around my home hadn’t been lit for two days), I was jumped. The woman was incredibly strong, and appeared from nowhere, pinned me against a wall and bit my neck. I felt the sting of her fangs, her mouth sucking the blood from me, the rough stones of the wall scraping the skin off my back. She made slurping sobs as she drank, and trembled more than I did. For a few moments I was sure I was going to die, and then I made myself act. I reached up and around, struggling for every inch, and grabbed the sides of her head. Then I dug my thumbs into her eyes with all the strength I had left. Surely even a Fallen would feel that.

  As quickly as it started, the horror was over. The ragged, filthy woman lurched away, frantically clutching her eyes and wiping the blood off her mouth.

  “I’m sorry. I was so hungry!” she pleaded, and I actually understand. She fled into the gloom.

  I staggered back home, threw up blood and bile onto the floor and collapsed. In the middle of the night, I woke and could still hear singing, but I plugged my fingers in my ears and rocked myself back to sleep.

  *

  I kept listening for the musicians every night, but didn’t dare to search for them again. As much as I loved my new home, Caldair in darkness hid terrors.

  I didn’t step outside the next day, or the day after. The tiny round green bugs had migrated to my mattress, and every morning I woke up with circular bites over my arms. After two days of counting bites and crushing bugs and memorising every crack and patch of mould and replaying the Fallen attack over and over, I gathered the courage to go back out. But only in the daytime.

  At the end of a street full of red skips, with its entrance halfway up a rusted fire escape, I found an art gallery. And between a sculpture of a monkey-headed lizard and a painting of a red ink blot shaped like a bird or bat, I found, of all people, Sara Mathias.

  “Hello there,” she chimed. “We have to stop meeting like this!”

  “Stop following me then,” I joked back.

  She smiled at me, friendly and thoughtful. “What brings you here?” she asked. It was almost rhetorical, as if she already knew. And why shouldn’t she have figured it out? She’d seen me with paints, we were in an art gallery . . .

  “I wanted to see what art the people of Caldair like . . .” I began.

  “And see if you can create anything to match?” She finished for me.

  “You read my mind!” I laughed. “Yeah, I admit, I’m out for fame. So what kind of art do people here like?”

  “Any,” she said. “That’s the great part.”

  “So long as they like it enough to buy it.”

  Sara cast an inspecting eye over me. “Less likely, I’m afraid. You’re using money? That’s not really how things are done around here.”

  “How do you buy things then?”

  “Barter economy, sweet girl.”

  “I’ve nothing to barter. I’ll be eating my last plantroit tonight, and I’m starving.”

  “Plantroit? You are desperate. I know people who prefer eating dog. You know, there’s a simple solution to hunger. We Fallen don’t need food. If we need blood, we feed each other.”

  “Oh, yeah?!” I didn’t mean to sound confrontational, but I couldn’t help it. I brushed my hair back and lifted my chin to show my wound. “Tell that to the woman who did this.”

  Her green eyes went wide with shock.

  “Oh my World!” She gently brushing the scabs. “She must be so alone.”

  “Alone?” I asked.

  “If she had anyone who cared about her, they would give her blood.”

  *

  We met there a couple of times a week. She always wore the same black sackcloth dress, meaning she had fewer clothes than I did. But she never smelled, whereas I was becoming constantly aware of my reek. I’d tell her about what I’d painted, and she’d tell me about the latest offerings at the gallery. Sometimes she brought me food, or helped steal it from people who had plenty. To her, this wasn’t stealing at all. “Property is theft,” she said. She had an air of detached self assurance that made huge statements like that digestible. She always seemed half present, like her mind was full of private thoughts.

  Typical of buildings in Caldair, the gallery was practically a health hazard but you never noticed the building itself, only the wonderful and terrible creations inside it. One week, a vase full of tall transparent lilies with glowing filaments stood next to a bare skull that may or may not have been real and may or may not have been human. The skull had a hole in the crown.

  “Why . . .” I began to ask.

  “It’s called trepanation,” she said. “It’s a medical procedure, but some people do it because they think it will enhance their minds by altering the blood flow. Sort of trying to be like the Fallen, without actually becoming Fallen.”

  I peeked inside the hole, and shuddered.

  “I’m painting a landscape,” I informed Sara proudly.

  She inclined her head, considering her words. “That’s . . . nice. Traditional.”

  “Traditional?” I asked. “I don’t mean to be traditional. I don’t think that’s what I want to be. It makes me think of . . . well, traditions. Like the family gathering together to listen to Grandma tell our fortunes from the fireplace ash, then have her favourite meal and get out the traditional plates that’ve got chipped edges but we use them because it’s traditional.”

  She paused. “It’s a little . . . Realm art?” she looked like saying that hurt her more than me. “Isn’t that what they allow in the Realm? Still-lifes and portraits and landscapes?”

  “No no no!” I said. “Well, yes yes yes, but also no. This is different, because it’s nowhere I’ve ever seen. It’s nowhere anyone’s ever seen. I’m making it up. I just want to invent somewhere beautiful.”

  “Ahh, I see . . . you’re a dreamer.”

  “Yep!” I announced, proudly.

  “I know a lot of dreamers,” she said. “They wouldn’t like Realm art, but they might like yours.”

  “I hate Realm art,” I said. “And the Realm.”

  “Not many people would say that, except the Fallen. Even if they felt that way, they wouldn’t dare say so.”

  “The Realm’s evil,” I said.

  Some people passed by outside, and shouted, “Poncy artsy wankers!” We ignored them. I was getting used to the less pleasant inhabitants of Caldair.

  “I like this one,” I said. It was a painting of a tiger, with colours that changed depending on the light and which angle you looked from, making the cat change its colours like a chameleon. “This is amazing!” I stepped from side to side to see the effect.

  “Why do you like it?” Sara asked.

  “It’s like that idea that a tiger never changes its stripes. Like, people do change, but they stay the same as well,” I said. “Plus, tigers are cute.”

  *

  I didn’t work up the courage to look for the musicians that night, or the night after. I threw myself into my art. But when my painting was almost finished and I felt good about myself I found the courage to lean out the window and sing along. My voice squeaked and cracked, and I struggled to keep in tune or even in rhythm, but somehow managed to make my voice blend with their singer’s in a fairly nice way.

  One night, they passed by, drawn by my voice. A trio of sisters—Nancy, Isabelle and Darling—who wrote songs about life, with sexy rhythms. When they saw me singing out my window, Isabelle (who was env
iously tall and thin and golden haired) paused her strumming and laughed, delighted. Nancy smiled and beckoned me down.

  Nancy was the singer, the eldest sister, and wore this flowing red and black skirt and a checked shawl. She didn’t say much, but what she said was usually kind and wise. Darling, their violinist, and the youngest and plainest of the group, showed me her instrument and how to play. She said I was a natural, but I knew she was flattering me, from the looks on the faces of Nancy and Isabelle, and the yells of “shut up!” that came from nearby hab-blocks.

  From then on, the trio passed by every couple of days and I slowly got involved in playing with them and singing with them. After a few weeks, Nancy asked me if I knew any tunes. I didn’t, so I made some up.

  I started out playing guitar or violin and making slight changes to what Isabelle and Darling had been playing. Eventually I came up with some words, and tunes to go with them.

  And if I Fall, I will land,

  Safely, safely.

  Those who burn, turn to sand,

  Save me, save me.

  My songs didn’t really mean anything, but they sounded like they did and that made them daring. At that age, it was a thrill to buck the rules that had held me back. Nancy had reservations, kept telling me to change words, but the others got as carried away as I was.

  “We’re risking it,” Nancy said. “We can’t sing songs about the Fallen.”

  “It’s not about the Fallen, it’s about falling. They can’t have us for that,” I giggled, thinking I was clever. “It’s open to interpretation.”

  “And I know how the Purifiers will interpret it!”

  “We have to show the Realm they can’t push us around,” Darling said. “They can’t tell us what to sing. What’s the point otherwise?”

  “The point is, we sing, whether we’re allowed to or not. But I don’t want to blaspheme and I don’t want to sing songs about the Fallen. They’re killers.”

  “They’re not!” I retorted. “They’re clever and they’re free thinkers, and they wouldn’t be scared to sing songs. I’ve read about them. I have pamphlets . . .” I realised how silly I sounded and I lost my nerve and went quiet.

  “I’ve never even read a book,” Darling said, “never mind a whole pamphlet.”

  “Ain’t we a clever girl, knowing all about Fallen and reading all this stuff. S’pose the likes of us couldn’t possibly know what we’re talking about.”

  Isabelle put her arm round me. “She’s just making a fuss because she knows your lyrics are better than hers.” I felt so grateful to her for supporting me, and so guilty about being jealous.

  *

  We played to the whole world—Purifiers and Fallen, humans and Baneful, Exalted and Ruiner, Procurators and depraedor. We wanted everyone to hear our music. Andreas would have told me it was folly. And, blast him, he would have been right.

  Eventually, we started singing on the border of Caldair, looking across the river. It didn’t take ‘protest’ songs to anger the Purifiers. Within a couple of days, it happened. Nancy and I had worked on a song together, and we were singing on the bridge that I’d first crossed into Caldair. The suns were setting and Caldair lay in the embers of the day, while the crystal spires and Shimmer Barrier cast wisps of green and pink. It seemed like no-one had even heard. The people who passed the bridge’s entrance didn’t even look round. And then came a deep rumbling, gradually climbing in volume until our music was smothered by it. A truck emerged through the evening smog. It was a Purifier truck, made of bronze, turning green. It ran on tracks, and had weapon sponsons mounted on its sides. A gold Phoenix symbol was mounted below the windows. Everyone else froze, but my fear built up until I trembled and then, without conscious decision, I ran.

  Behind me, the rumbling stopped, doors slammed open. Gruff, angry voices shouted orders. My friends sobbed, and I ran. They struggled and screamed for help, and I ran. Blows were struck, and I ran. My friends wailed in despair as their deaths were ordered and I ran and ran and ran, with Caldair a million steps away.

  Exhaustion and guilt overcame fear and I stopped and turned to see the Purifiers, in their grey uniforms and black lizard-skin face masks, raise their weapons and set Nancy and Darling and Isabelle on fire.

  All the music went out of the World, all sound reduced to a high pitched ringing. The world turned grey and filled with snow.

  *

  I woke up on a mattress in a small cluttered room lit by a dim yellow lamp. The walls were made of wooden planks. The floor was covered in rugs. Andreas was perched on a wooden desk, one foot on the floor, the other on a chair.

  “Where am I?” I asked. “How did I get here?”

  “Relax, you are safe,” he whispered. “Sara found you.”

  “You know Sara?”

  “Yes,” he anticipated the obvious question. “She has been looking after you.”

  “You mean spying on me!” I was outraged. Had her friendship been a lie?

  He paused to choose his words, but it took him less than a heartbeat. “Looking out for you. Because we care.”

  He got down and sat on the chair, interlinking his fingers. His movements were economical, precise. He looked into empty space for a few seconds, contemplating. Then he spoke again.

  “You are a remarkable person. You are rational and confident, open minded and courageous. I noticed you because, in the society the Realm has constructed, people like you are rare. You have the capacity to become like us.”

  “Like the Fallen?”

  He looked me in the eyes. “Yes.”

  I got up and wandered the room, having a good look, partly out of curiosity, partly to learn where I was. “I got them killed. I thought we would be okay if our songs didn’t mean anything, if they just sounded like they did . . .”

  “When Purifiers think they see a legitimate target, they destroy that target. They are more likely to be chastised for inaction than for overzealousness. You would have done better to sing songs that didn’t sound like they meant anything, but did.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “So, you think it was my fault?”

  “Quite the contrary,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I believe in self determinism. You did not force those women to do anything. They chose to follow your example. You showed the presence of mind to escape and ensure your own survival.”

  Andreas was detached in a different way to Sara. It was more like aloof arrogance. The world was a joke that nobody else was smart enough to understand. He took to watching me again for a few moments, then said, “Sara tells me you’re having trouble finding food.”

  “It’s expensive,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound like an excuse.

  “That’s because it’s scarce.”

  He didn’t offer to solve the problem. The option went unspoken.

  Rain pattered on the roof, and dripped through.

  “What’s it like?” I asked, eventually.

  “Have you ever had a moment of total clarity? Where you feel inspired, capable, quick witted, like everything makes sense?”

  “A few times,” I answered.

  “It’s like that,” he replied. “All the time. Self doubt, superstition, paranoia, prejudices, assumptions, all get washed away by clear, rational thought. You are sharp and alert and calm at nearly all times. Your IQ increases, your cognitive functions improve, your memory becomes more precise. You feel confident and strong willed. You are seldom confused, seldom lose concentration. You never know apathy or lethargy.”

  “Why?” I asked, sceptical. “Why would being undead do that for you?”

  “Because Fallen blood alters the brain, hyper-stimulates it. Neural pathways are restructured, freeing you to re-evaluate your perceptions and opinions. Your amygdala becomes more efficient, allowing greater control over unwanted emotions, which are less potent anyway because your body is essentially dead and its vital functions, such as glands, are maintained by telekinetic energy.”

  “Telekinetic?”
I’d understood most of what he’d said, but some words, like that one, had jarred.

  “Have you heard of psychomancy?”

  It was the ability to move objects with your mind, by sheer belief. The King had demonstrated it, and there were rumours that some Procurators had the ability. I nodded.

  “To us, it is telekinesis. The human brain has the potential for it. The Fallen brain harnesses that potential, fully. In the last moment before total brain death, this energy activates and reanimates us—we literally bring ourselves back to life. The brain gains telekinetic control over every cell in your body. This telekinetic energy is what grants us our abilities, though some we control consciously and some are involuntary. You would not believe the power we have. I can levitate. I can feel what you’re feeling, right now, all the guilt, grief, fear. You’ve seen my strength.”

  “Is it true that Fallen live forever?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t reached forever yet. But I haven’t aged a day in the past eighteen years, and I’ve easily survived things that would have certainly killed a mortal. I don’t know if I can die.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sitting back down again, dropping into my seat. “I’m having trouble taking this in. It’s certainly not what school taught me.”

  “Your Realm school. The Educators taught you what the Realm wants you to believe. I expect they told you we’re like this because we have no souls.”

  I nodded slightly, dazed. There wasn’t enough air in the room. The image of Andreas, silhouetted in the lamp light, wavered and I thought I might pass out again. But then his serene, sombre voice dragged me back. “And who would have contradicted them if you had never come to Caldair? No-one. The Procurators and Educators don’t want you to think scientifically, it undermines belief in the Exalted. They want you to think that their enemies are irredeemable, so they tell you we have no souls, that anyone who disbelieves is evil. That makes you conform, to avoid being judged, and makes you reject those who threaten their ideas.”

  “I don’t believe them. They’ve told me too many lies . . . But you do drink blood.”

  “This is true. What of it? We feed off willing people or evil people, whenever possible. Is it worse than burning people alive? Worse than making people slaves or abandoning people to poverty and famine? Sara said you hate them. Do you?”

  I paused. It was as though once I’d said it to Andreas there was no taking it back. “Yes.”