Bound by Rites

by Thomas Cleckler

  What do you want?

  How much did you pay for it?

  Leave me alone.

  The creature neared, body writhing. Dark, thick hairs rattled together on its belly. Its pitted face seemed to be swollen with infection. Instead of maggots, slick flies, glistening in what little starlight penetrated the gray veil, crawled out of the puckering, dripping pores. When they emerged, they buzzed around their host; bumping into his sinewy body, darting in and out of his agape mouth, crawling around his two bobbing and dripping obscenities.

  I don’t know how you entered without my authority—

  We didn’t—

  Silence!

  The gatekeeper moved unnaturally quick, taking Rhone’s soft throat in its leathery hand. Its nails dug into his spine and flies crawled along his face. The swollen and infested flesh was inches from his own and the floral miasma was replaced with the pungent aroma of carrion. Unseen arms pulled Rhone down the slope, across the cold grass, away from Nebanum. He was spread apart and felt the fiends dual members pressing between his legs, waiting.

  If you dare to enter again without paying me tribute, without asking my permission, I will crawl inside you and split you at the seams so that even Jhilrah cannot mend you.

  The heads of the nails driven into the gatekeeper’s erections scratched Rhone’s thighs. The creature, despite its slender frame, could not be bucked. Rhone felt the cords in his neck struggling to pass blood under the burning hands; his chest heaved as he fought for air. Yet another hand pressed onto his forehead as the creature leaned into his ear. Its flesh was warming by the second.

  Your next tribute is a goose feather, the finger of a virgin, the tongue of a cat, a dead man’s shoe, and a living gnat. Knock on my door only when you have your payment and only if you are prepared to be denied.

  At once the hands released. Instead of twisting flesh only cold air mounted Rhone. Where the burning hands had squeezed him, blood rushed to be chilled. He gasped in the night, still spread on the cold and dewy grass.

  Rhone and Nebanum crossed the sea of dandelions. Sun at their shoulders, Rhone related his encounter with the gatekeeper.

  “A living gnat? It’s almost a joke.”

  “It wasn’t a joke.”

  Rhone’s neck was bruised where the otherworldly hands had gripped him. Nebanum looked at these blue and purple stains.

  “To Hell with him. We don’t need to go back.”

  Rhone said nothing. It was a familiar scene: walking through a shadowed, seldom traveled path, neither speaking. Forest life was graciously uninterested in them.

  Twenty-Two

  A sparrow watched two featherless, flightless birds rub their bodies together under a yew tree. One of them had a switch and was striking the other, eliciting funny sounds. Her stomach suggested hunger and she left the odd things to their work. She soared up over the tree line, not too high, and with the sun at her side. The sky was blue and nearly cloudless. There was a stone forest that always had an easy meal ahead.

  The large, featherless and flightless birds walked about between the massive stones. The sparrow weaved around the thin black clouds that floated out of some of the stones. She spied one of the dark crevices she preferred to scrounge in and dove down. She pecked at a dried something or other as one giant bird squawked at another.

  “I don’t give a good God damn, Wallop, I want them found!”

  “Davidson, be reasonable. I understand the loss was great, but as a friend, let it go.”

  “Let it go?! I’m sending out descriptions of those two motherless bastards to every cutthroat and mercenary for a hundred miles!”

  “And your coffers? Can they support this crusade?”

  “You forget that I was in charge of the old man’s bookkeeping...”

  “Interesting. Tell me, how charitable was the old sod?”

  The sparrow’s belly was full after a few beakfuls of stiff bread. She darted up, between the short cliffs, and flew back towards the forest.

  Twenty-Three

  Nebanum rolled off of Rhone. They both lay panting in the shade. Rhone was dizzy. His flayed face had augmented pleasure more than he had anticipated. The tinny smell of his own blood, drawn with the aid of a thin branch, lulled him into sleepiness. Each scent was titillating, every touch of smooth flesh bountiful. Pinpricks of unconsciousness flickered across his view of the tree canopy. His body was still twitching from the intensity of their coupling when Nebanum sat up.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  “Yes, very,” Rhone whispered through his breaths.

  “Have you noticed that we can’t share thoughts anymore?”

  Rhone nodded. Nebanum was somewhat envious of Rhone’s apparently enhanced capacity for physical love; he had tensed and quivered with what seemed like a nearly painful climax. And now, he lay exhausted while Nebanum felt restless. Their fields were equal but Rhone’s crop yielded more. Not that he was ungrateful for his gift—his cleared mind and ease of thought—but he wondered if he should’ve asked for something more visceral.

  “I may have spoke too soon,” he said.

  Rhone’s breathing had slowed and he was half asleep, “About what?”

  “About not going back.”

  “We need to get the stuff.”

  “What was it again? A living gnat and what?”

  Rhone laughed, “A goose feather, a virgin finger, a cat’s tongue, a dead man’s shoe, and yes, a living gnat.”

  “Shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  “No, not difficult at all.”

  Nebanum laid down next to Rhone and they both slept. After a few hours they woke and continued through the woods. The trail had eroded and they were navigating by intuition alone. When at last they did come to a road, it was not one of their preferred, seldom-traveled paths, but a stone one; wide and bustling with man and mule. They stood, concealed in the tree line.

  “I can’t go out there,” Rhone said.

  “I know. We need clothes.”

  The rags that were barely hanging onto their hips, the remnants of the white robes they were assigned at Gorenberg’s House of Love, were eye-catching and that was the last trait they wanted to own.

  There was a numb, almost content air about the men and women who hauled their goods up and down the road, traveling from city to town, village to farm. Rhone could smell the caged chickens, the ripening fruits, the sweating laborers.

  “Shall we go north or south?” he asked.

  “Let’s continue east.”

  “How am I to cross the road?”

  “We could make a dash for it.”

  “What about this?” Rhone pointed to his flayed face.

  “Hardly noticeable,” Nebanum grinned, “What are they going to do? Chase us? Look at them.”

  Rhone looked at the placated faces. Some winced under the weight of their cargo, but for the most part they all seemed focused on their own business; no conversations, no laughter.

  “Alright,” Rhone sighed.

  Nebanum darted for the road. Rhone quickly pursued, and as he did, adrenaline excited him. He took to the stone road, following Nebanum’s bald head through the monotony. When people looked at him, their eyes didn’t meet his—they dropped to his mouth. Their expressionless faces would morph into disgust, confusion, and repulsion. It became an exhibitionistic thrill and he began seeking out eyes to widen. He made a woman drop her basket, losing several apples to the stampede. A small boy, regrettably, was driven to tears. A stout, stony man was shaken to the point that he dropped the several goose cages that he held under his arms.

  The excitement was over too quickly. The other side of the road came and his flayed face didn’t shock the shrubs or terrify the trees. In the embrace of the forest, Rhone looked back to the road. The herds moved just as before, uninterested in anything other than the next step that would take them closer to their return trip.

  “See?” Nebanum leaned on Rhone’s shoulders, “Giant, wingless flies.”


  Buried in the woods, an hour from the populated roads, Rhone and Nebanum stopped at a creek. Water skipped down stones and skittered under ancient and fungus-laden logs into a small pool, where it swirled slowly before continuing through the woods. Rhone looked at himself in the tiny pool. His pale and red face shimmered in the water. His modification had been concept until now. Now, seeing his face pulled apart—the mutilation palpable—he wasn’t sure how to react. Nebanum was drinking, scooping water in his hands and carrying it to his mouth. Rhone was thirsty, but knew that he would not be able to drink without the assistance of a cup. He’d apparently sacrificed survival for carnality.

  Nebanum was not satisfied with Rhone’s dismissive attitude, however. He chastised him, cajoled him, and finally convinced him to attempt to drink. By the time Rhone’s thirst had been quenched, he had bathed himself in chilly water; lifting his bowled hands above his head and trying to aim the downpour into his throat. Nebanum laughed at him. He consoled him by tracing the marks his lashings had left with his finger.

  It was nearly dark when they stumbled upon the village of Khraven. It was a low, shambling place. The buildings were spread far apart in the valley which it rested. Walls bulged with rough stone and moss. Grass grew from the thatched roofs. It was a village frozen in time, separated from modern architectural practices by at least half a century. The few people that wandered from house to house were reflections of the masonry: gray, sullen, silent. Before the last light of day died completely, it revealed an oncoming storm. A black rug was being pulled across the pink and purple sky, rumbling and flashing.

  It was difficult to secure lodgings. Rhone hid outside of the village while Nebanum asked the evasive and unsocial people for direction. He was finally able to get one of the tight-lipped denizens to admit that a widow Laudine had a room for rent. Had it not been for his almost mystical wit and charm—his increasingly useful gift from the seamstress—Nebanum might not have been able to convince the elderly woman to allow him and his “sickly” companion to pay before they left. He assured her that they would be coming into some money soon and that she would be thoroughly compensated for her generosity.

  The storm moved in with the darkness, blocking the stars and the last sliver of the moon. Rain fell heavy and warm, tears of the fury that roared overhead—booming and striking thunder claps. The earth flashed white with the jarring wails of storm. Nebanum held a shaking flame to the wick of the lantern in their small and low ceilinged room. A sudden shriek of thunder made him start. He moved to his bed opposite Rhone’s.

  “I never realized that storms frightened you,” Rhone observed.

  “They don’t, I just startle easily.”

  Another cacophony of the heavens shook the room, mocking Nebanum. He jumped again and cursed.

  “Do you want me to sleep with you?” Rhone asked.

  “No, I’m alright. Bed’s too small anyway.”

  “I’m going to try and sleep, then.”

  “Alright. I’m going to try to read this thing again.”

  Nebanum studied the lambskin in the glow of the lantern. The characters he knew—that Rhone had helped him decipher—filled him only with the faintest sensation of their meaning. He had difficulty concentrating amidst the random booming of the storm but was able to stay vigilant on a new symbol. It was a dark collection of thorns. He followed its ridges, climbing them carefully. The thunder drifted away with the storm. His body began to feel something, an unknown sensation. There were ridges in the ink and they deepened as he peered into them. Now the storm had passed and left only the steady chattering of rain. The valleys in the ink deepened still, dark chasms of mystery. He stood on the maroon cliff and peered down. There was nothing but the pattering of rain echoing from below, from the bowels of the infinite. His limbs were numb and when he tried to move them, they resisted. Instead of panic, he let himself submit to the paralysis, knowing that it was just a byproduct of a waking dream. He looked up from the fissure. On the other side, above his feet at the foot of the bed, a black figure stood. Though he could not see its eyes, he knew they were looking at him. The shadow did not stand tall, but the longer he looked into its infinitely dark form, the more fearful of it he became. He glanced to his side. Where Rhone’s back had been there was nothing but dry, red sands. The foot of his bed was gone, the black figure stood across from him, at the other side of the great gash. His mind swam with slow and dull thoughts, who is that? What is this? Am I asleep? Who is that?

  “Who is that?” a voice whispered to him.

  Nebanum recoiled, stumbling dangerously near the edge of the cliff. Standing in her white dress, was Fayette.

  “Fay?”

  Her face was cold, the hard gaze she’d given them when they’d first met—untrusting and mature beyond her years. She took a step towards him.

  “Fay, what’s going on?”

  Her small mouth began to pull into a smile. Her green eyes remained static, sunken beneath her freckled cheeks. Her white dress melted like snow from her pale body. On her chest the malachite amulet hung from her bruised neck, green and sinking. She was bleeding.

  “Fay, I’m sorry. I would have come sooner,” Nebanum pleaded.

  Fay’s red lips spread wider. Her smile now unnatural, skin began to swell and stretch, red lines pulling across her infantile body. As the red fissures opened, her blood flowed.

  “No...”

  Her mouth rounded. A glistening blackness began to swell from between her splitting lips. In the most profane and blasphemous display, the twin sexes of the gatekeeper burst forth in an afterbirth of blood. The puckering and festering face, infected with wriggling buds, stretched through the peachy cheeks, under the still open eyes. Oozing bore holes offered black to Fayette’s red, and the mixture dripped brown down her violently shaking legs. Her limbs also split to make way for the corded extremities of the gatekeeper. The grinning mouth, populated by the slender teeth, tore through her innocent lips. The gyrating and twitching creature, glistening and reeking of flora and sanguine, stepped towards Nebanum.

  What happens to Spring after Summer? the screeching voice spoke to his mind, it falls.

  As Nebanum fell down the chasm, his lungs vacated their air. His limbs tingled with free-fall, his bladder emptied. The jagged mouth of the chasm shrunk as the he plunged deeper and deeper into the blackness. He fell down, then back, back into bed, the mouth of the chasm becoming the jagged figure written on the soft lambskin in his hands.

  Twenty-Four

  “Rhone! Rhone, wake up!”

  Rhone rolled over. Nebanum was paler than usual. A film of dried sweat coated his body. Rhone could smell urine.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We have to get rid of this!”

  In Nebanum’s shaking fist was the lambskin. The rain still pattered outside, thudding on the thatch roof and making puddles in the streets. The flame in the lantern was nearly out, hanging onto the wick by stubbornness alone.

  “Calm down,” Rhone said, sitting upright, “what’s going on?”

  “Arborem was right, this is evil!”

  “Will you keep your voice down!” Rhone hissed, “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I saw her Rhone, Fay. I was there, in the other place. That damnable thing, it... crawled out of her.”

  “Fay’s dead Nebanum. She’s not suffering anymore.”

  Nebanum sat on the edge of his bed, panting at the floorboards. A beetle, fleeing the rising waters outside, crawled out from between two planks and bumped into Nebanum’s foot.

  “Arborem was right... Arborem was right...”

  Rhone moved and joined Nebanum, consoling him. This new weakness was unattractive and he comforted him half-sincerely.

  “It was just a dream, that’s all. It’s been a stressful week. Think about where we started; all that’s happened...”

  Nebanum said nothing. Rhone pulled the lambskin from his hand and tossed it onto his bed.

  “Here, take these off.�
��

  Rhone unwrapped Nebanum’s soiled, makeshift trousers and tossed them aside.

  “I have an idea,” Rhone began, “let’s go out into the rain.”

  “We’ll catch our death.”

  “We can dry off with my robe. There’s logs in the fire. If I start it, will you go in the rain with me?”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  Nebanum curled up on his bed. Rhone huddled behind him, pressing his face into Nebanum’s back. He breathed him in until sleep stole them both.

  The next morning, Rhone was immovable on his position that they should continue to assemble the items required for admittance into the other place, despite Nebanum’s night terror.

  “You were aggravated by the storm and by being thrown out by Arborem. Don’t you want a real gift?”

  Nebanum strummed the cords spanning the arch of his mouth. Rhone continued:

  “Besides, we’ve already got one ingredient.”

  “What?” Nebanum perked up.

  Rhone produced a long beige feather. He twirled it slowly between his fingers. His eyes squinted—his new smile.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “When we crossed the road yesterday. A man dropped his geese and fate stuck this feather in the folds of my trousers.”

  Excitement stiffened Nebanum and he moved towards Rhone, but was arrested.

  “No,” Rhone held out a hand, “you smell like piss. Go clean yourself off and find us some new clothes. Make sure to find me a scarf.”

  Nebanum smiled and slapped Rhone’s hand away. The feather floated under the bed and Nebanum lifted Rhone, spun him around, and took him.

  The storm had left the streets more mud than stone. With it, the storm had brought cold; a preview of the wet winter to come. Rhone struggled to get the damp logs lit in the leaning fireplace. When they finally did catch, the logs popped and squealed.

  Rhone paced the floor. He hated waiting. Nebanum had been gone not even half an hour yet he was ready for him to return. When they were still living at the goat farm he would’ve had Mary’s advances to parry. That, at least, helped pass the time. When he was alone, fishing for trinkets from windowsills, he was able to take comfort in the fact that Nebanum would be waiting for him that evening. Now however, as he sat near the pathetic fire, naked and cold, the solitude was torturous.