Bound by Rites

by Thomas Cleckler

  “Well, how’d we do?” she said.

  “There is no ‘we,’” Rhone snapped, “you stupid whore!”

  “You can’t talk to me like that you little bastard!”

  “If you’re calling me a bastard, I’m calling you a whore!”

  “That’s enough!” Nebanum shouted, “We did fine. Now we need to find a hand cart. Any idea where one might be?” he was addressing the room. Silence was the response.

  “What about the goat farmer?” Rhone said finally.

  “We shouldn’t bite the hand that feeds us.”

  “There’s a wheat field on the other side of the city. We can leave at dusk and it’ll be plenty dark by the time we get there.”

  “That’s a better idea. We’ll do that.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Mary said. Rhone glared at her.

  “You can come and help keep a lookout,” Nebanum said. Nebanum went over and sat in the dirty pile of rags that constituted their bed. Mary joined him. Rhone laid down on his side of the room and pulled a stiff cover over his dirty body. His eyes ached as he listened to Mary and Nebanum moan together.

  Three

  Rhone was gently shaken awake by Nebanum. He rose. The setting sun had painted the room orange.

  “Time to go.”

  The three walked along the tree line around the goat farm. The goats were still out grazing, but doing so closer to their barn. The kids had burned all their energy and were standing sleepily near their parents.

  They cut across a rode that split the forest, looking carefully each way before doing so. Though they weren’t necessarily hiding from anyone in particular, it was better to limit their exposure.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, sending its last few rays across the farmlands like fingers. In the darkness, Mary began to babble incessantly.

  “...and that’s why the Pope wears that hat. It’s a fish. Do you get it?”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Mary, why don’t you give it a rest? You’ve been running your mouth since the sun went down,” Rhone said, irritated.

  “The dark makes me nervous, alright!” She hissed.

  “I love the dark. You can hide in it.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, things hiding in the dark.”

  “Yeah, but you’re one of those things right now. It’s like you have a kinship with the other creatures in the night.”

  “What creatures?”

  “I don’t know. Snakes I guess.”

  “Both of you shut up! Look, there’s the farm.”

  He followed Nebanum’s outstretched arm towards a dark structure at the end of the swaying black wheat field.

  “Let’s cut through the field,” Rhone said.

  “Alright,” Nebanum said, moving towards it.

  “Cut through the field?!” Mary whined.

  The three filed through the dark stalks. Each step of the follower crunched the felled plants of the leader. Rhone looked up at the stars as he walked. The barn was a massive black cathedral in the night. The doors were chained shut.

  “Damn,” Rhone said, feeling the cold iron in his hand.

  “Is there a lock?” Nebanum asked. Rhone could see quite well in the dark, he always had been able to.

  “Yes.”

  “Where there’s lock, there’s key,” he produced his blade and handed it to Rhone.

  Rhone began twisting the tip of the blade in the hole. Nothing but scraping sounds came of it. He placed Nebanum’s hands on the knife and lock so he could try, but still no luck. He began rolling his lip in the dark.

  “Wouldn’t the farmer have the key?” Mary whispered.

  “No, the Fish Pope does,” Nebanum said.

  “Seems like an awful lot of risk for a hand cart,” Rhone added.

  Nebanum turned the blade over in his hand, thinking. Rhone watched him work the blade, feeling as though he could read his thoughts. His heart began to beat faster.

  “I’ll do it,” Rhone said. Nebanum looked at him; a smile flickered across his face.

  “We can always just buy one tomorrow.”

  “No, we’re here now. I don’t mind. Give me the knife.”

  Rhone’s gray eyes glistened in the starlight. Nebanum handed back the blade. They shuffled over to the house. Rhone usually didn’t enter homes at night—despite his gift—but he was desperate to make amends for his mistake in the forest.

  Rhone peered into the first window, but could see nothing—curtain. He walked around the small structure until he found another window, facing the city walls. This one was left undressed. Inside, he could see a bald man sleeping in a bed with a woman. His chest rose and fell slowly, sleeping soundly, confident in his security.

  Rhone tried the window gently, it was locked. Should have come during the day, he thought, too many locked doors and windows at night. He slid Nebanum’s knife between the frame and the windowsill searching for the latch. The window swung open quietly and smoothly as if it had something to gain from the intrusion. Rhone hoisted himself up onto his gut then slid his feet in, right before left. There was no rug and his naked foot thudded as it made first contact. He froze, watching for any change in the sleeping couple. Up and down, their chests moved, up and down. Rhone eased onto his other foot and began to scan the room with his eyes.

  The bedroom was mostly empty. There was a wardrobe and a dresser, but little else. He walked quietly through the room. A sleeping dog is easiest to wake at the beginning and the end of sleep; you have to catch him in the middle. Rhone searched his mind for the source of that advice as he left the bedroom, but he was careful to not let his mind wander too far.

  In the main room, dark shapes jutted out from the shadows; obstacles to avoid. He felt his hand along a table, feeling the smooth grain of the wood. He tried to remember the size of the keyhole. The key is probably about the length of my palm. By the door was a row of small hooks, two of which were occupied. Rhone stepped towards them and removed the first key. Out of the corner of his eye, he detected movement. He looked at the window. There was nothing but the faint glow of night between the flaps of the curtain. Slowly he turned, anxious to leave, and reached for the other key. A shadow skittered across his periphery and again he looked to the window. Where the humming light of the stars had been was now darkness. A figure was outside the window. Rhone turned and headed towards the bedroom.

  He leaned in the doorway. Up and down... up and down. One of the sleepers had acquired a slight whistle with each breath. The added noise gave Rhone confidence. He walked slowly past the foot of the bed. He dared not glance at the sleepers. He could see Nebanum’s pale, shaved head and dark eyes peering at him over the windowsill. Almost there. Idiot Mary probably went around to watch me.

  Rhone passed the keys out first, one at a time. He exited the way he entered, hands, then stomach, then right before left. The grass rustled when he stepped down, welcoming him back from his journey. Feeling brave, Rhone gently pulled the window closed.

  The three walked briskly back to the barn. When they were back at the gate, Nebanum began working the keys. He whispered as he tried the first.

  “That was great Rhone. Really great.”

  “Thanks. I hate breaking in at night.”

  “That’s when you’re supposed to break in,” Mary added, determined to slight Rhone.

  “Are you an expert now? I’ve never seen you come in with anything other than an itching crotch.”

  “Enough,” Nebanum said, “I got it.”

  The lock clanked open. Rhone and Nebanum carefully slid the chain out. It was impossible for it to not make noise, but they worked slow and paused between each suspicious clank or dropped link. The barn doors, however, were apparently designed to be as noisy as possible.

  “Jesus Christ!” Nebanum hissed. Every inch they scooted the large wooden door seemed to dislodge a noisy stone, scrape along a breaching root, squeak a rusted hinge. The opening was big enough for a body to squeeze through, so three did.


  “Rhone, do you see anything?”

  The three split up inside the barn: Nebanum searched around the sleeping horse, Mary stayed by the door and kept watch, and Rhone looked through the tools. In the back of the barn, next to a plow, was a hand cart. It waited patiently to be found.

  They nudged the doors open, making slow progress amidst the cacophony of sounds.

  “It’s just because we’re trying to be quiet,” Mary whispered impatiently, “just push them open already.”

  Eventually there was room to squeeze the cart through. Nebanum pulled the cart up the dirt road that ran next to the wheat field. Rhone and Mary followed. No one spoke almost the whole way back to the goat farm. Mary couldn’t stand it:

  “So, what is Rollo giving us for the hand cart?”

  The wooden wheels grumbled along the road. Rhone bit his tongue. There is no “us”.

  “Nothing. The cart’s for something else,” Nebanum said, sounding tired.

  “Want me to pull the cart for a while?” Rhone asked. Nebanum stopped and let Rhone get between the handles. The grumbling continued, and so did Mary.

  “I hope you’re not getting taken for a ride.”

  “Don’t you ever shut up?” Nebanum snapped.

  “How do you know you’re not getting taken for a ride? Maybe the something else is a lie and Rollo just wanted some free labor.”

  “As if we’re such fools...” Rhone scoffed.

  Mary laughed in the dark, a high pitched squeal, “The biggest fools I’ve ever met were the ones who were the most confident.”

  “Keep your God damn voice down!” Nebanum whispered.

  Mary was quiet after that. The goat farm came into view. Nebanum helped Rhone get the cart off the road and behind the shack. Mary went promptly inside.

  “Nebanum, wait,” Rhone whispered, grabbing Nebanum’s arm. He pulled him close, confiding.

  “She’s got to go. Tomorrow. If she finds out where we’re going she’ll want to come, you know she will. She won’t want to wait around for two days.”

  “What’s the harm in her coming?”

  “She’ll draw attention, run her mouth, I don’t know, it’s not hard to imagine her being a problem.”

  “Look, I’ll tell her she can’t come, but I’m not kicking her out. If she doesn’t want to wait, that’s her problem. I agree with you, she can’t come.”

  Four

  “Just give me one good reason why I can’t come!” Mary hadn’t taken the news well and Nebanum was trying to calm her down.

  “It’s a delicate situation, it only calls for two.”

  “Then you and me can go and the bastard can stay!”

  “Hey!” Rhone started. Nebanum cut him off.

  “Mary, you can scream and yell all you want, but me and Rhone are going. It’s settled. I don’t understand why you can’t just wait here.”

  “Because I’ll be frightened!”

  “You’ll be fine. Here, you can keep my knife.”

  “I don’t want anything from you!” she slapped the knife from his hand. Nebanum rushed her, grabbing her by the shoulders and throwing her into the wall. The whole shack seemed to shake. Mary slumped into a pile on the floor and began sobbing.

  “Let’s go.”

  Rhone followed Nebanum outside. The cart had slept behind the shack that night and was ready for an adventure. They pulled and lifted it up onto the rutted path that led to the main road. Mary appeared in the doorway, stark naked and wild.

  “If you leave, I won’t be here when you get back!”

  Nebanum and Rhone watched her from the path, their hands feeling the worn wood of the cart. Mary’s lip quivered, her chest heaved with hyperventilation and rage. Her pale eyes seemed to bulge from her face. Her body suddenly seemed very ugly to Rhone, more so than the picture his contempt for her had painted. She was sinewy; her flesh viridescent. Her stringing hair hung down above her dark nipples, which stared out from flat and drooping breasts. The hair between her legs was thick and black, reaching up nearly towards her navel.

  Nebanum looked at her for a moment, then turned up the path, cart in tow. Rhone smiled at Mary, amused by her depravity. Her face coiled into her best sneer and she disappeared into the leaning shack.

  Like blood twisting through veins they progressed southward, following the smaller dirt roads that wove between the larger ones. Their appearance kept them safe along the course that deviated so greatly from the main road. Amongst the bandits and ne'er-do-wells that trickled up and down the shadowed paths, two dirty, malnourished young men with an empty cart were unappetizing.

  They came to a long stretch of path that pierced a clearing in the trees, sinking in the swaying grass. They were steadily walking downhill and could see that the road ahead was barren. Neither had spoken since they bade Mary a cold goodbye, and Rhone was desperate to break the silence. He paced the mostly empty shelves of his mind’s library, searching for a joke, story, anecdote, rumor—anything to say. He stared at Nebanum’s neck, imagining himself biting it.

  “Do you want me to take a turn at the cart?” he said, staving off his wandering mind. Nebanum stopped and moved aside without speaking. The path had opened up and allowed the two to walk shoulder to shoulder. Rhone gripped the warm and sweaty handles. The cart grumbled along, ridiculing Rhone’s hesitance.

  “I think you might’ve been right,” Nebanum said suddenly.

  “About?”

  “Mary. I expect she’ll be gone when we get back.”

  “At least there’s nothing she can take with her.”

  “I hid the amulet behind the shed, under a piece of rotting wood. I don’t think she knows about it.”

  Rhone looked over at Nebanum’s bare chest. In his mind, he ran his tongue over the protruding ribs. His coarse trousers scratched him and he looked away. Nebanum spoke again, his voice trailing above the quiet rustling of the swaying grass.

  “We should move on after we get back. Find someplace new.”

  “We’ll have to find a new fence.”

  “I don’t want to be a thief anymore. No fences, no hiding.”

  “We can join the church?” Rhone grinned.

  “Maybe. Maybe something like that.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, probably not the church. But maybe a church. Something that could be fulfilling.”

  “For the time being, I’m worried about filling my stomach. We never did get food.”

  “We’ll be in Nettleham by dusk. We’ll eat then.”

  The clearing ended and so did the conversation. Reentering the shaded forest seemed to cast a spell over the two, preventing speech. They traveled back and forth along the winding dirt paths, pulling the cart over neglected and stony obstacles. A cool breeze came snaking through the trees, coating their exposed skin in gooseflesh. They encountered no other travelers as they wound their way south; the only other living creature they saw was a large deer who watched them with its glassy, dead eyes.

  Darkness began to fall and as it did the lamps in Nettleham were lit. The yellow light reached out through the trees, dancing in the back of Rhone and Nebanum’s eyes. They circled the town, hiding in the tree line. On the east side of the town were the husks of four burned down homes. All that remained were piles of charred wood, too brittle to be reused. The fires had evidently left the area tainted; no attempt to rebuild had taken place. Any stone that remained had already been pillaged. They hid the cart behind the furthest ruin and headed into Nettleham.

  Nettleham was, at best, a fifth the size of Warwick. The buildings, despite having ample space, were crowded closely together so that every street was a veritable alleyway. The smells of dinner and sewage saturated these tight spaces, confusing Rhone and Nebanum’s hungry stomachs. They came upon an inn whose faded sign read, “Morose Place.”

  Inside, it was almost darker than it was in the corridors. Four lamps illuminated the entire room, flames standing still in their glass cages. After some light interrogation
from the ladle-wielding matron, they exchanged coin for cup and sat with their meals. The only other supper was a man slumped over the table asleep, snoring loudly with an empty mug still clenched in his hand.

  “We need to find the place,” Nebanum whispered over his tepid soup.

  “I didn’t see any guttersnipes. It’s strange. They’re usually a wealth of information.”

  “It would probably be best not to ask that woman. We could ask him but I’m not one to wake a drunk,” Nebanum nodded at the snoring man.

  “No... no. After we’ve eaten, we’ll take a more thorough look around. This town isn’t very large, shouldn’t take long. Do you want to try tonight or wait for tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know if I want to stay here another day. On the other hand...” Nebanum took another sip of the soup and swallowed with a wince, “I don’t want to make a mistake due to exhaustion.”

  “I think we should strike while the iron’s hot. In and out; quick and easy. I’m not tired, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  “Okay. You’re right.”

  After finishing their meals they made their way through the dark streets. Their bare feet slapped in cold puddles and against wet stones. There never seemed to be a main road; all paths were short and ended by running into another corridor. Still, there was no activity in the streets. Rhone voiced his concern about being out, that perhaps there was a curfew and that they would be accosted. But, as they rounded a jutting corner, identical to a dozen others, they finally saw some activity. In a sparsely lit corridor a single lantern burned. Under it, a man and a door. His back was arched with age and a large black dog lay at his feet, connected to him via cord. Rhone and Nebanum watched from their obscure vantage point, both confident that this was the place. The door beside the elderly hound-master sunk back slowly and a plume of white smoke bellowed out and dispersed into the night sky. A man came walking out, slow and methodical, carefully selecting the place he would set his next step. The doorman said nothing to him and made no acknowledgement of any kind as the man walked slowly away.