by Jack Dann
‘The third feeling you let into your mind. Helpless, unreasoning terror. The strongest feeling of all.’
‘Stop it. Stop trying to put the fault on me. It was the damned dust that did it. Nothing to do with feelings. The damned dust in the damned stone box. You should have warned me about that.’
‘What stone box?’ I asked. ‘What dust?’
Since Sturman was reluctant to answer, Naguib spoke up. ‘A tomb, he means, sir. A stone tomb.’
‘It was the only shelter on the whole plain!’ Sturman burst out — and was immediately overwhelmed by an explosion of coughing.
My imagination was having difficulty with this. I’d pictured an empty plain of cracked mud, and now there was a stone tomb in the middle of it. A single tomb? Even for the Kingdom of the Dead, it seemed too much like a dream.
Naguib turned to me. ‘He ran for the tomb and dived straight into it. The stone cap was half fallen away at the top, so he had space to wriggle in. His terror was stronger than anything I could do.
‘Shut up!’ Sturman sat up, gasping. ‘Shut up about terror! Shut up about it!’
He went into a truly alarming paroxysm. Coughing and clutching at his throat, as though choking. His eyes bulged out and his cheeks sucked in. I raised his shoulders from the bed and whacked him between the shoulderblades.
Naguib watched and never moved a muscle.
Alter a while, the fit passed. Sturman fell back and rolled over onto his side, face grey, breath wheezing in and out of his throat.
‘I’ll call an ambulance and take you to hospital,’ I said.
‘No ambulances,’ he husked.
Did he mean there were no ambulances in Cairo, or that he didn’t want one?
‘A taxi, then. Do you think you can travel by taxi?’
‘No taxis.’
‘He’s saying he does not want treatment in hospital,’ Naguib interpreted. ‘Why would he?’
The Egyptian’s impassive manner was starting to get under my skin.
‘Okay, I’ll find another doctor,’ I told Sturman. ‘A competent one this time. There has to be an infection in your lungs.’
Sturman’s wasted hand reached out from under the sheet and latched onto my wrist. He pulled me closer, so that he could speak in the very faintest of whispers.
‘I thought I’d be safe in that stone box. But there was a layer of dust at the bottom. So dry and fine, like ground-up chalk. Like powdered bone. I couldn’t help stirring it up in the darkness. I couldn’t help inhaling it.’
I forgot for a moment that all of this was supposed to have happened in some other world. ‘Same as coal miners and asbestos workers, then. It’s in your lungs.’
‘No. My throat. It grinds and grinds, it scrapes and scratches. I let it in and I can’t get it out. Like swallowing razor blades. Drier than dry.’
Even his voice was dry, even his breath in my ear. I freed my wrist, jumped up and headed for the door.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll find a doctor for you.’
I did find a doctor, a more professional one than the first. More compassionate too, because he was willing to come at once to Sturman’s hotel. I must have sounded desperate. But it was already too late.
When we arrived, Sturman lay covered over with his own bedsheet. My first reaction was to blame Naguib. ‘He can’t have died from a cough! Not like that! Not in half an hour!’
Dr Hurghada performed a thorough examination and announced that Sturman hadn’t died from a cough, but from a massive blockage of blood vessels in the arteries to the brain. A stroke, in other words. Naguib had to translate everything for my benefit, since Dr Hurghada spoke only Arabic.
Of course, I insisted on a further examination for other causes. According to Dr Hurghada, there were no signs of infection in Sturman’s throat or chest. Had he been asthmatic? I didn’t know and Naguib wasn’t sure, but a search of his belongings revealed no medications.
Dr Hurghada looked thoughtful. ‘A fear of being unable to breathe could trigger a panic attack. And a panic attack can be a trigger for a stroke.’ In Naguib’s translation, the explanation came across as very hypothetical, hedged with a great many maybes and possiblys.
I stayed on after the doctor had left. There were funeral arrangements to be made, and I couldn’t just leave them to Naguib. Perhaps my first step should be to contact the Australian embassy?
Naguib pulled the sheet back up over Sturman’s face. ‘What do you believe, Dr Webber?’ he asked me suddenly.
‘What? About the stroke?’
‘About the Kingdom of the Dead, sir. Does it exist, in your opinion?’
I didn’t like being put on the spot. To tell the truth, I’d never yet settled the matter in my mind. It had existed for Sturman, that was all I knew for certain.
‘The Lords of Death and the Great River,’ he went on. ‘The tomb standing all by itself in the middle of a plain. Can you believe it?’
I shrugged. If he was playing devil’s advocate, I didn’t understand his game.
‘It’s even stranger than you think, sir. You see I had to go to the tomb and pull Mr Sturman out. He never saw it himself and I never told him. There was an inscription carved on the side of the tomb.’
With middle finger extended, he traced shapes on the sheet next to the body.
‘What’s that? Hieroglyphics?’
‘No, sir. Much older. The ancient language of the dead. Do you know what it spells, sir?’
The way he kept saying ‘sir’ wasn’t so much obsequious as subtly insulting. I felt he was toying with me.
‘Tell me.’
‘It was his name, sir. It said Gordon Sturman. That was his tomb, you see.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Impossible, yes, indeed. But time has no significance in the Kingdom of the Dead, sir. Mr Sturman was always going to die, as we know we all must die. The only difference is whether or not you let it into your mind.’
His thin-lipped smile held a hundred insinuations. In spite of his words, I had the momentary impression that he was tempting me to become another tourist in the Kingdom of the Dead.
AFTERWORD
‘A Guided Tour in the Kingdom of the Dead’ was inspired by a trip to Egypt — of course! You can’t not think about the world on the other side of death when you see how the ancient Egyptians made such incredibly careful plans for journeying there. In the words of a guide in one tomb in the Valley of the Kings, they were ‘the greatest navigators in the kingdom of death’.
The other Egyptian memory that went into the story was the absolute sandpaper dryness of the airborne dust in Cairo. Once you’ve had the taste of that dust in your mouth, it truly feels as if your throat will never get moist again.
— Richard Harland
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THIS IS MY BLOOD
BEN FRANCISO AND CHRIS LYNCH
BEN FRANCISCO and CHRIS LYNCH - fellow graduates of Clarion South 2007 - are the proverbial ‘writers-to-watch’. Chris is from Brisbane (by way of a childhood in Papua, New Guinea) where he teaches English; and Ben is an American who lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he manages programs and funding initiatives for non-governmental organisations, foundations, and government agencies. This felicitous collaboration — a first-contact story, which Chris refers to as ‘one of the many fruits of Clarion’ — is a meditation on religion and culture and, perhaps, the true nature of transubstantiation…
From the Journal of Mother Rena
24.07.2489
Stark. An apt name tor this isolated planet, hard and bleak like the prospectors who named it. I left the mining camp at first light, glad to see the backs of such men, eager for the company of souls I don’t yet understand. The Walker was expensive. I had little choice but to accept the asking price, for I wouldn’t have got far across the tundra without one. It’s spring here on the southern continent, and bitterly cold, even with the layers beneath my robe.
I’d been trudging for eight hours across drab vegetation w
hen the Suvari found me. I didn’t see them until they rose out of the ground before me, like feathery ghosts. Three of them. They’re shorter than I expected —little more than a metre tall. We’re trained not to compare aliens with the familiar, but it’s hard not to. They look like wingless eagles: bipedal, stocky and muscular, covered in a thick white coat tinged blue at the extremities. Two powerful arms end in splayed, long-fingered hands: three fingers and an opposable thumb. From each digit springs a long, wicked hook, designed for grappling.
I dismounted from the Walker to greet them. The one in the middle seemed to be the leader; a bony pendant hung around her neck, and her three-pointed leather boots were of a finer cut. They wore no clothing, other than the boots. The leader blinked slowly, then opened her mouth, a wide, jagged slash tucked beneath her beak. A tongue flicked out, tasting the steaming air.
‘Much warmth, bloodkin.’ A rich bark, high-pitched and breathy.
‘Much warmth,’ I replied, tripping over the unfamiliar sounds. No matter how good, automated lessons are never the same as speaking with real people.
She stepped forward and offered her mouth to me, like a bird feeding a chick.
‘I give of my blood,’ she said.
‘I drink of your blood,’ I said without hesitation. I leaned down, allowing our mouths to touch. Blood gushed from her mouth into mine. If I hadn’t practised drinking artificial blood on the voyage here, I’m certain I would have gagged. Their blood tasted salty, not very different from my own. I swallowed three more times, then stepped back, licking my lips. I gingerly wiped my chin, praying I was doing it right, that I wouldn’t cause offence. I waited for her to speak again, the fluid pooling uneasily in my stomach.
‘I am Shay,’ she said. ‘You’re the new missionary?’
‘Yes, I’m Mother Rena. Is Father Marcelo still with you?’
Shay’s shoulders hunched and her fingers twitched. That gesture had not been in the database — they are never complete. ‘No,’ Shay said. ‘He left some time ago, with the nomads.’ She paused for a moment and added, ‘Come with us. It’s getting late, and we want to speak with you.’ The three of them pivoted, their knobbly tails swinging round behind them, and I followed them into the fading light.
Shay, I learned, is the village shaman, their spiritual leader. She must have spoken a great deal with Father Marcelo, because she mentioned Christ several times in conversation with me and is interested to learn more about the faith. She seems to have appointed herself my personal guide, and I’m glad to have connected with her so soon.
Shortly after we arrived at the village, Shay showed me to my quarters. From the outside, the yurt looked so large that I was worried the Suvari had displaced an entire family on my account. I almost objected that I could make do with something much smaller.
I had to crouch to get through the low door. I was surprised to find at least a dozen Suvari in the single room, lit only by the coals of the central hearth. Some were resting on small mats on the floor; others were gathered in small groups, playing a game with stones and string. The room quieted as we entered, and a dozen beaks swung in my direction.
The Suvari hurried over to me with excitement. It was odd to be surrounded by these creatures, who stood only as tall as my waist. I sat down, pulling back my hood, and one of them reached out to gently claw my greying blond hair. I resisted the urge to pet them, reminding myself that paternalism is the missionary’s deadliest sin. They were filled with curiosity, asking me about everything from my home planet to my journey to Stark. They were particularly curious about my light tan skin, hair, and breasts — all of which marked me as different from Father Marcelo. They seemed confused when I said I looked different because I was female, no doubt because for them gender is a characteristic associated only with the young. I tried to explain that I was a fully grown human, despite my sex, but it only increased their bewilderment. (Interesting that I refer to them as ‘she’ when they should really be ‘it.’ They just seem female.)
Once the excitement died down, I ushered Shay into the corner and asked, ‘Do all of you live here together in one room?’
She clawed at her ear, a Suvari expression of confusion. ‘This is where I live,’ she said. ‘I wanted to welcome you into my hearth-group, as I did with Father Marcelo. But if you prefer to stay with the chieftain’s hearth-group, I will take no offence.’
I was making far too many errors on my first day. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I would be honoured to be part of your hearth-group. It’s just that among my people —’ I tried to remember the word for privacy, realised that if there was such a word in their language, I had yet to learn it. ‘Sometimes my people prefer to have time alone. We enjoy being with others, but also value time alone, especially when we sleep.’
Shay clawed at her ear again. ‘Father Marcelo never mentioned this,’ she said. She chattered away with her hearth-mates, and within ten minutes they had partitioned a corner of the yurt for me with a flap of the rough bloodcow leather they use for a multitude of purposes.
‘Will this be all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This is lovely. Thank you so much for accommodating my strange ways.’ They’d been so kind, and seemed to have so little sense of physical boundaries, that I kissed her on the beak. ‘This is a kind of blood-sharing among my people,’ I explained.
‘Yes!’ she said. ‘Let us all share blood as hearth-mates for the evening meal.’ The entire group gathered around the hearth, and a young Suvari fetched blood from the icebox to the rear. Rather than cups, they drink from thin, pliable sacks, shaped like sausages and tied off at one end. They heated them for a couple of minutes in a pot of boiling water and passed them around, waiting for Shay to puncture and suck from her sack before doing the same.
I took the blood sack and attempted to imitate them. My teeth, though, weren’t sharp enough to puncture it, and I fumbled for several minutes as they looked on patiently. Eventually Shay kindly offered to help. She made a small slit in the sausage and passed it back to me. It tasted different from the Suvari blood I’d had earlier, much heavier and harsher, though tempered by the addition of various herbs. My stomach bubbled, bloated with so much liquid. But I appreciated the opportunity to show I was part of the hearth, especially after I’d already created a wall between us.
At the end of the meal, we chewed some grass to cleanse the palate, and then everyone traded Suvari blood between their mouths, an intimate ritual they seem to use as a greeting, a farewell, and on nearly every other occasion. I wonder, is the constant blood-sharing a substitute for sex — their alternative way of building intimacy?
I settled into my makeshift room and logged on to my gopher. I sent a brief note to the Archbishop’s office that I’d arrived safely. For a moment, I felt the urge to send another note. But Kelly has made it clear he has no interest in hearing from me, and I’m certainly not about to get in touch with my family. I feel so rootless, always preparing for the next mission, leaving a piece of me behind in every place but never quite finding a home on any world.
The Suvari are already sleeping. They make a soft sound in their sleep, an odd combination of purring and chirping. I should be tired after such a long day, but I don’t feel sleepy. The inhuman snores keep me awake, reminding me of all the new things I will experience in this unknown place. It’s s familiar feeling, the excitement tinged with loneliness, when you’re alone and far from home and everything is new. What does God have in store for me here?
26.07.2489
This morning, Shay showed me around one of the bloodcow farms on the outskirts of the village. At three metres tall, the bloodcows are easily ten times the mass of their keepers. They’re a bit like a buffalo, with a red, woolly coat and two tusks. Their hind legs are significantly shorter than their front legs, which almost makes it appear as if they’re squatting when they’re standing up straight. The Suvari saw off their tusks and keep them in large grassy areas enclosed by stone walls. They were surprisingly do
cile, despite their ferocious appearance. It’s difficult for me to imagine the little Suvari hunting the wild cousins of these gigantic creatures.
A small Suvari ‘milked’ one of the bloodcows while we were there. She plunged her beak into its neck and sucked for several minutes, then regurgitated the blood into a leather sack sealed with a bony cork. I asked Shay, ‘You take blood from them every day?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
‘How long can they live like that, losing blood daily?’
‘Their natural lifespan,’ she said. ‘We feed them well, and take just the right amount of blood from them each day so that their health doesn’t suffer. The Lifeblood flows.’
I’d heard that saying several times in the past three days. ‘And what is the Lifeblood?’
‘The Lifeblood is within all living things,’ she said. ‘It’s what makes the blood flow. The cycle of the Lifeblood guides our destinies, determines the seasons of bloodtaking and bloodgiving, and, in the end, our final bloodletting.’
I lifted my head and made three clicking sounds, my attempt at a Suvari nod. It’s interesting that the Suvari seem to have a nascent pantheistic philosophy. In many ways, their thinking is more sophisticated than most primitive cultures, which tend toward polytheistic mythologies.
Walking back into the village, I noticed a large yurt, the doorway painted with the same designs of concentric red circles as on Shay’s pendant. I asked to go inside, and in the gloom discovered what appeared to be a fish farm: two large, perfectly round pools filled with steaming water. The pools were swarming with what looked like over sized albino tadpoles, but with a stalk sprouting from the front of their bodies and ending in a beak. They weren’t much larger than my hand. Some of the stalks waved blindly in our direction as we approached.
Through the gloom, I searched for Shay’s eyes. ‘Do you feed on these as well — or are they pets?’
Shay jabbed at her ear. ‘Oh, no,’ she answered. ‘These are spawn.’ I’d read of their unique reproductive cycle, but still had trouble picturing it. The spawn are a sort of larval stage for the Suvari, the only time in their life cycle when they have sex — in both senses of the word, I suppose.