Bound by Rites

by Thomas Cleckler

  Bound by Rites

  THOMAS CLECKLER

  One

  Rhone paced the floor in his dingy home, each impatient step kicking up dust and sending roaches scattering. He’s late, it’s half past one and he’s late.

  The night outside was quiet. The rest of the townsfolk were asleep in their straw beds, exhausted from the day’s labors, but Rhone was awake. He sat down on his hard bed and withdrew a mirror from his nightstand. He had stolen it the previous week. The act reminded him of his past: living outdoors, sleeping with livestock. The glow of the candle illuminated his features. His face was split down the middle from the top of his nose to the bottom of his chin. The skin was pulled back and fastened with string behind his head. His wet gums glistened in the flickering light of the solitary flame—his gray eyes twinkling just under the horizon of the taught flesh. His yellowed teeth stood crowded like scales on the belly of a snake. Long chestnut hair, like that of a girl’s, waved down either side of his mutilated face.

  He replaced the mirror in the wooden drawer and slid it back into the nightstand. He’s late, it’s half past one and he’s late. Two soft thuds on his door tore him from his impatience. Rhone crossed the wooden floor. A rat scurried back into its hole. He whisked open the door revealing his awaited guest: a pale man, slender with dark eyes, no hair on his head or his brow. The man smiled at his host, showcasing his only remaining teeth, four canines. The weak light from the candle glittered off the jewelry adorning his gums. The man’s name was Nebanum.

  “Ne’ah’nuh, finally, cuh in,” Rhone’s lipless mouth produced a unique, chalky way of speech that Nebanum had become accustomed to; nearly forgetting it existed at all.

  “Sorry I’m late, I had a hell of a time securing the final items.”

  “Never mind that. Quickly, begin setting it up so that we can blow out the candle.”

  Nebanum slung his large satchel on the bed where it sank considerably in the stiff straw. He began to lay out its contents. First, he withdrew a black furry ball. He searched for the end and let it unravel—it was a cat’s tail. He produced two more and laid them out on the bed. Then, a paper box that chirped when it was moved. Finally, using two hands, he raised a fresh cow’s head from the bag. He held it up in front of his own.

  “Look, I’m a cow!”

  “Shut up you fool!” Rhone hissed, “You’re wasting the blood!”

  The blood was indeed spilling out of the cow’s head and splashing viscously onto the wooden floorboards. Nebanum lowered the head and spun it upside-down to prevent any more loss.

  “Where’s the brush?” he asked, setting the massive black head down.

  “Look over in that drawer.”

  Rhone was withdrawing his materials from their hiding place beneath a false floor inside his wardrobe: a basket of eight dried mice, a rag stained with the blood from a birth occurring on a full moon (the most difficult by far of the items to gather), and a stone (the easiest). He turned to examine Nebanum’s progress.

  Nebanum stood, bent over in the center of the room, cow’s head upside-down at his feet. He dipped a long stiff brush into the great wound and reached out to the four cardinal points, marking each with an X. Rhone put the rag to his red, lipless mouth and inhaled through his skinless nose.

  “How far do you think we’ll go tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I try not to think about it. If I get excited, I’m liable to make a mistake.”

  “That’s fair.”

  “It was a girl birthed, wasn’t it?” Nebanum began painting lines connecting the X’s.

  “No, it was a boy. Was it supposed to be a girl?” Rhone felt a surge of anxiety.

  “I don’t think so. Don’t think it matters, really. The blood of the mother is what matters. Did she survive the birth?”

  “No of course not, I was there.”

  Rhone sat, gently rubbing the fabric across his gums and teeth, watching Nebanum work, alleviating his nerves via conversation.

  “Which part took longer, the cow or the cats?”

  “The cricket.”

  Rhone laughed into the cloth, “The cricket? Nebanum, Consumer of Lambs bested by a cricket. What a sight you must have been. Running around a field, pausing to listen for crickets like a mad man.”

  Still bent, Nebanum looked up, face stretched into a smile. In the places absent of teeth, small silver pins, driven down to their heads, held fine thread woven into a pattern like tracery on a rose window. Rhone spoke again after Nebanum returned to his task.

  “‘Panting like a farmer, I cross the sea of wheat; dancing like a gypsy, I blister on my feet,’ do you know who I heard that from?”

  Nebanum carefully stepped out of the diamond he had painted, participating in the conversation casually.

  “No, who?”

  “A man they hung last month. McKinney or something Irish like that.”

  “Where are the symbols?”

  “You don’t know them by heart?” Rhone chastised.

  “Would you rather me write them wrong? Where is the sheepskin?”

  “Same place you found the brush.”

  Rhone’s cheeks pulled up with a hidden smile behind the flaps of his split face. He scratched at the string tied behind his head. Nebanum returned with the worn scrap and began copying the symbols along the edges of his diamond, starting north and heading west. Rhone sat, quietly watching Nebanum. The cricket chirped. A soft prickling sound—like the brushing of muted guitar strings—came from Nebanum; he was strumming the weaving on the roof of his mouth with his tongue, a habit that reared itself during moments of concentration and ecstasy.

  “Keep talking so I don’t get too excited. I can feel my hand beginning to shake.”

  “I’ll recite the rest of that poem the hanged man sang...”

  Rhone cleared his throat and began moving his jaw up and down, tongue flicking around behind its toothy cage.

  “I’ll start at the beginning: ’Panting like a farmer, I cross the sea of wheat; dancing like a gypsy, I blister on my feet. Singing in the graveyard, the dead they sleep alone; working like the negro, my muscles ache and groan. My life I’ve lived in joy, for that you cannot steal; but stick me like a pig, you’ll surely hear me squeal.’”

  Nebanum was heading south now, “That’s pretty good. What was he being hung for?”

  “Sodomy,” Rhone responded flatly, “nothing exciting.”

  “Never anything exciting,” Nebanum sighed.

  Rhone ran a finger over his slick gums, tracing the swells that the bone beneath created. He felt the edges of his teeth then ran the wandering finger over the exposed underbelly of his flayed face.

  “I had a terrible feeling today.”

  “Oh?” Nebanum sat back on his knees, stretching his back and examining the characters he had painted thus far. He jabbed the brush into the cow’s head and hunched over to begin again.

  “A woman was staring at me in the market. It’s so crowded; people never look at each other, let alone a man with a covered face. It’s been cool of late, so all the more reason that I should be scarfed up. I truly looked just like I did any other day.”

  “Mhmm...”

  Nebanum listened patiently, working on a particularly complex symbol that represented the sensation of free falling.

  “She was sitting behind one of the turnip stalls—it’s going to be nothing but turnip stalls eventually—just looking at me as I was paying that aquiline man who owns the bread stall. Anyway, you know how I get when people stare at me, so I go over to her. I say, ‘You shouldn’t stare at people,’ and she just looks up into my eyes and says, ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’ and I say ‘What?’ I really had to fight the urge to touch my face and make sure my scarf hadn’t fallen or anything.
Anyway she says, ‘Carrying around that heavy heart.’”

  Rhone stared at Nebanum’s back as he worked on the western edge of the diamond, waiting for comment. His arm moved in tiny circles, applying dabs of blood in small increments, being sure to copy the symbol exactly right. For a while, the only response was Nebanum’s tongue strumming the thread in his mouth. Finally, the symbol complete, he turned back to reply.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His sallow face hung, beginning to look weary. If he’s weary now, Rhone thought, what energy will he have for later?

  “That’s what I asked her, ‘what does that mean?’ and do you know what she said?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  He had turned and moved on to the next symbol, this one a representation of the feeling a door knob has in hand. Rhone could feel something radiating from Nebanum; anxiety or impatience, he wasn’t sure. He decided to wrap the story up.

  “She said that I should stop doing the evil deeds in my life and I won’t have to be burdened by this heavy heart I’ve got.”

  Nebanum’s back began to bob as he laughed at Rhone.

  “What’s so God damn funny? I just told you that a seer warned me about tonight!” Rhone hissed, careful not to raise his voice too loud.

  “A seer told you. I see. How big of a donation did she ask?”

  “As if I’m such a fool...”

  “How much?”

  “Not a hair.”

  “You gave her absolutely nothing? She said that to you and you left her just the way she was? No more?”

  Nebanum paused his scribing, waiting on an answer. Rhone rubbed the blood stained cloth across his teeth and gums again, inhaling the remnants of the tang. He grumbled his confession.

  “I made a donation. I gave her a turnip.”

  Nebanum continued to chuckle to himself, shaking his bald head slowly.

  “So that’s it? That old impostor made you feel uneasy all day?”

  “We haven’t done it in so long...”

  “Ah, the truth rears its soft head.”

  “What if it doesn’t work? What if we’ve waited too long?”

  “Do you really think now is the time for trepidation?” Nebanum turned, black eyes peering into Rhone’s, waiting for him to retreat. Rhone did.

  “I just wish we could blow out the candle already. I hate the light. Everyone can see you in the light.”

  Nebanum returned to his work, “We’ll be embraced soon enough. Take off your clothes.”

  Rhone stood and pulled off his shirt. Two puckering white scars lay horizontally over the place where his nipples once were. His back was rippling rows of raised tissue, remnants of passion from friend and foe. He tossed the rough tunic into the corner, sending a rat running towards Nebanum’s work.

  “Nebanum!” Rhone started.

  Nebanum saw the rat before it got too close and swatted it away with his hand, sending it scurrying towards a far corner. He turned to Rhone with a bemused look resting on his waiting face.

  Had Rhone lips, he would have smiled coyly; seductively like he used to before discovering pleasures of the spirit. The best he could do now was squint his eyes and raise his cheeks. He slid down his pants to reveal himself to Nebanum. His testicles hung below a scarred stump, ignorant to their associate’s decapitation. Despite the decapitation, the throat still worked. Rhone traced the circumference of his scar.

  “Don’t,” Nebanum grinned.

  “Why not?” Rhone’s eyes widened above his flayed cheeks.

  “I want to save my strength,” Nebanum smiled, baring his four pointed teeth and glistening silver pinheads, and returned to work.

  Rhone began to fondle himself and blood rushed to stiffen his stump.

  “I thought you looked tired. Did you eat today?”

  “I didn’t say I was tired. Yes I ate. Stop playing with those, you’re distracting me.”

  Rhone moved around and squatted next to Nebanum. He was working away from south; his tenuous arm was littered with small white scars like a star chart. Rhone resisted the urge to feel them with his fingers.

  “I’ll prepare the rest.”

  Rhone rose, in desperate need to pull himself away from Nebanum’s tempting flesh. He gathered the basket of dried mice, the rag of birth blood, and the stone. He walked them across to the bed where he laid them out. He wrapped the stone in the rag, inhaling its tart aroma one last time. He felt one of the black cat tails in his hands, amused at the thought of three cats running around tailless. I doubt they’re doing much running anymore.

  “Aren’t you going to undress?” Rhone asked as Nebanum moved past the eastern point.

  “I think I should eat. You didn’t give away your last biscuit to any fortune telling urchins did you?” Nebanum glanced up at Rhone with his black eyes.

  “Hilarious,” Rhone said, stroking one of the cat’s tails.

  He walked around to the drawer that had held the brush and lambskin and felt around in its dark bowls. He found the thread and moved back to the bed, unspooling a short length as he walked. Using his teeth, he cut the thread and began tying the ends of two tails together. Outside, in the dark and sleeping town, a crier yelled into the night “Two o’clock and all is well!”

  “What do you think ever happened to Mary?” Nebanum said suddenly, nearing north and completion of his tedious task.

  “Which Mary? There’s two: one with a cock and one without.”

  “Without.”

  “Dead probably.”

  “So soon?”

  “I see her tied up for six months, property of a shrewd businessman who lets any man with a heart to beat and money to spend have their way with her,” Rhone said, pulling the string tight on the third cat tail.

  “I liked it when she lived with us, by that goat farm, do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. I remember all the sleep I lost listening to you two at night.”

  Jealousy came creeping up Rhone’s back, tickling the area around his numb scars.

  “Oh, we weren’t that noisy,” Nebanum dismissed Rhone’s comment, shaking his head, working on the final symbol next to his first on the northern point. It was very similar to his first symbol, in that it represented consciousness leaving the body in death, while the first was consciousness entering the body at birth. Rhone tossed down his cat tail rope irritably.

  “You couldn’t so much as look at her without her moaning like the whore she was,” he hissed in the dim room, gray eyes furious to be on the subject of cockless Mary, “you had the luxury of falling asleep after your brief performance while I laid awake listening to her finish herself off again and again, sometimes all the way until morning! She was born on her back and she’ll die on her back!”

  “Would you keep your voice down! I didn’t mean to salt your wound.”

  Nebanum’s black eyes peered into Rhone’s jealous gray ones.

  “What of her anyway? Are you finished yet?”

  “Just now done.”

  Nebanum stood and stepped away from the inscribed diamond, the bloody scripture on the worn wooden floor. The cow’s head looked up at them, oblivious. Rhone walked over and stood next to Nebanum, examining the work. He did good, very good.

  “Nothing of her,” Nebanum started, “her face flashed across my eyes while I was writing the final word.”

  “Take your clothes off. I’ll lay out the mice.”

  Nebanum pulled off his stiff, coarsely threaded clothing, revealing his skeletal and pale form. From neck to heel his body was covered in thousands of small, circular scars. Rhone took the tiny basket containing the dried mice to the diamond and laid one at each cardinal point, and one in-between. He tossed the basket onto the bed and slid his naked body against Nebanum’s. The stippling of Nebanum’s flesh sent tingles throughout Rhone’s body, but the most excruciating were from anus to navel. He buried his flayed face into Nebanum’s neck, rubbing his raw flesh across the titillating fleshy pinheads.
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br />   “You don’t have any energy for me? It’s been over a month,” he whispered into the scrawny neck, biting the flesh gently.

  “I had scarcely a morsel to eat today; I don’t want to drain myself.”

  Nebanum was not beheaded, and his member stiffened, pressing Rhone’s groin.

  “I knew you were lying. You never can eat when you’re anxious.”

  Rhone began to run his hand down Nebanum’s emaciated frame, towards the fleshy bone, when his hand was arrested.

  “Soon my love,” Nebanum smiled kindly, pulling Rhone’s face to his own, nose to skinless nose, “after we’re done, we’ll never be apart again.”

  “I’ve missed you...” Rhone groaned, stroking Nebanum’s member like he did the cat tail.

  Nebanum pressed his mouth onto Rhone’s, his four canines clinking against Rhone’s teeth. Their tongues darted across the gap, eager to explore the domain of the other; teeth drawing blood in the enthusiasm. Rhone lingered at each silver pinhead and followed the tracery above and below. Nebanum would pull away for an unbearable moment, licking and sucking the gums, the flayed cheeks. Their arms wrapped around each other, nails digging into the scarred flesh, starting to lose themselves in the rare opportunity.

  Nebanum pushed Rhone off of him, “If we get started we won’t be able to stop. We need to hurry.”

  “Fine. But if I have to endure without you again I’ll slide a piece of iron into my throat.”

  “And I shall slide one into mine, then we’ll never be able to wear scarfs again.”

  Rhone chuckled and sauntered over to the bed and took the wrapped stone. As he bent near Nebanum to place it at the center of the diamond, Nebanum stepped back to avoid temptation. Rhone rose and reached for the cat tail rope. He carefully laid it across the diamond from west to east and sat on the eastern side, legs crossed, rope in hand.

  “Are you ready? Get the cricket before you blow out the candle,” Rhone said, looking up. Nebanum walked through a sheet of sudden fear as he picked up the box, which chirped. He took one last glance at his lover in the light, sitting on the floor like a child, and blew out the candle. He stumbled over the cow’s head on his way back and Rhone giggled in the dark.