Before the elderly priest was able to react, or even understand that his body was in peril, Rhone and Nebanum were about him. His watery eyes looked at Rhone as he took his hand. When the scarf was removed, the expression of the man relaxed, almost as if he were expecting what lay underneath. His smooth finger slid onto Rhone’s tongue, scraping his teeth lightly. Rhone could taste the pages of an ancient tome.
He had chosen the little finger, so as not to inconvenience the man too much. The thin skin gave way and the arthritic joint split; tendons severed and snapped. Instead of a howl or cry, the priest simply gasped. His blood dribbled down onto the edge of the pew. Rhone withdrew the pale slug from his mouth and watched it lay still in his palm.
They left the old man sitting on a pew, clutching his four fingered hand with his robe, confused more than he was pained. Cool air tingled Rhone’s flayed face. The scent and taste of tart blood lingered around his tongue. They were not accosted leaving the church; not a single other soul seemed to even be out. Had they not themselves witnessed the congregation they would’ve sworn the village deserted.
Suddenly, the church bell began to ring, thundering down its booming summons to the village below. They came slow, still dressed in their drab church clothing. Shambling out of their homes, they were presented with the two strangers: one thin and pale, the other mutilated. Rhone and Nebanum tried to squeeze by, but the people blocked them. Whispering and confounded glances circulated in the forming crowd; it was a rare break in monotony and they weren’t going to let it escape. From the doors behind them, out staggered the priest clutching his bloodied hand.
“Nebanum...” Rhone whispered, surrounded.
The feeble priest’s voice sang out above the murmurings of the crowd, no doubt the same tenor he used when preaching.
“My children, behold! The devil in man-flesh!”
“Children?” Nebanum whispered, “Damn, he’s not a virgin afterall.”
“Would you be quiet?!” Rhone hissed.
The crowd murmured some more. Rhone became increasingly nervous; the last time a crowd had formed on his account he was shipped off to a brothel. The crowd peered at them, mostly taken with Rhone’s face, which he was now embarrassed of.
“These fiends feast on man, look!” he held up his fingerless hand to a gasping crowd, “They came into the house of God and dared defile it by spilling blood there. They held me, beat me, and threatened me with damnation!”
Nebanum wasn’t so preoccupied with the crowd—he was watching the bigger threat: the priest. He had grossly underestimated the man. A dirtied boy squeezed out from the church doors and joined the crowd: the bell ringer.
“The good Lord teaches us to be merciful, but should we show mercy on those who would spit in His face? Make a mockery of His house?”
The crowd knew the answer they should give, and spewed proudly the punishment that should be enacted. Again, Rhone and Nebanum’s fate was being auctioned off like in the Jousting Hare. The priest raised his hands to quiet the crowd.
“I think, despite the blasphemy, we should show mercy. Let us take them to the Tree of Forgiveness.”
Rhone wrung the mouth of the sack in his hands. A half dozen of the larger and more pious villagers came forth to escort them with the crowd. It seemed that wherever they went, there were large men waiting to follow orders.
“Nebanum, where are they taking us?” Rhone whispered.
“The Tree of Forgiveness of course.”
“Nebanum! This is no time for jokes!”
“Slap on the wrist, don’t worry. These religious towns are all the same.”
The procession led them into the woods, down a shaded path. The fog of the morning still clung around the damp trees, cool and coiling. Out of the corner of his eye, Rhone saw something move quickly behind the trees. Time seemed to be reversing; it was darkening as if the sun were setting. A hole appeared in the trees, letting in a well of light that pierced the darkness. At the edge of this clearing was an ancient tree, more lichen and moss than bark. It’s powerful limbs twisted up to heaven, praising the sun and welcoming rain. It reached up higher than the surrounding trees and had a black scar running the length of its trunk, a kiss from God. A rope, fastened into a noose, hung from one of its branches.
Dread sucked into the pit of Rhone’s stomach. Nebanum’s face stiffened, his dark eyes widening—this was more than a slap on the wrist. They were escorted to the tree. Dead eyes stared blankly at them, lingering on Rhone’s mouth.
Two stools were brought out. One was set before the tree and the other beneath the rope. The priest stood on the former with the help of the dirty bell ringer. The old priest donned his preaching voice.
“It would seem our worship ended prematurely this morning...”
Rhone was chosen first. Four rough and stone hands took hold of his arms and neck, holding him as he struggled in vain. Nebanum unleashed a torrent of obscenities as he too was embraced by obedient men.
“We have been blessed with an opportunity to save two lost souls...”
Rhone’s body trembled uncontrollably. From the stool he could look down and see the gray faces of the villagers staring at him. They were blank, glistening with stupidity. The priest could tell them to detrouser and defecate and they would. Wingless flies. I see them.
Nebanum’s dark eyes were frantic. He shouted above the priest, determined to resist and disrupt his sermon.
“...and the good Lord said—”
“—you shit-eating bastard, I’ll—”
“—love thy enemy, for in our enemies—”
“—cut you from your throat to your—”
“—we see ourselves, and by loving ourselves—”
“—shriveled cock! I’ll kill you all!”
“—we love our Lord.”
The rope was mildewed and covered in a layer of moss. Its coarse fibers scratched Rhone’s gums. He tasted the years it had hung there; the dried flesh buried in its fibers of a dozen men and women hung—forgiven. An unseen hand tightened the loop to his throat.
Again, time distorted. Nebanum abandoned his cursing and Rhone’s tremors subsided. A blur came into focus between them that, when focused upon, in turn blurred the villagers and forest. Sound dulled as Rhone and Nebanum watched a gnat, so small that it might as well not even exist, twirl and hop to and fro in the air. It flew down, spiraling and unpredictable, toward the sack of horrors that sat ignored on the damp earth. The mouth of the sack lay open like a sleeping drunk. The gnat was lured into the mouth with the odor of fresh earth and blood. It disappeared into the black and the stool was kicked out from underneath Rhone. He was weightless and felt the aged rope losing slack. Before the rope could become taught and snap his neck, the gray crowd standing in the glowing mist stretched away. Grasping fingers dug into his neck and removed him from the clutches of the Tree of Forgiveness. Rhone was falling through a pink and golden sunset and though he had no lips to show it, he was smiling.
Twenty-Six
Rhone was staring at the gray sky suspended in turbulence. Warm sand sucked and nibbled at his flesh. Sandy footfalls neared and Nebanum was on top of him, running his hands over his neck and mouth.
“I thought they had us,” he whispered, hiding in Rhone’s neck.
“I saw them Nebanum, the flies. Giant, wingless flies.”
Nebanum pressed his mouth onto Rhone’s, interlocking their tongues and kissing his pink and red flesh. Rhone’s tongue strummed the threads in his mouth, tugging at the pins which rooted them. The rasping voice of the gatekeeper broke their embrace.
“Do you think yourselves clever with that display? Do you count yourselves among the blessed?”
Nebanum rolled off of Rhone and they both got to their feet. The gatekeepers face had dried and the pores were large between the papery ridges. Having evaded death, Rhone had a newfound courage.
“We got everything you asked for.”
“Did you? Or did I feel sympathy for two beaten, malnouri
shed dogs and toss them a bone? Pathetic.”
“If we’re so pathetic, why did you help us?”
One of the cracking holes on the fiends face began to drip a cloudy substance. It ran down, winding its way between the raised lips of the other pores and dripped into the mouth where a meaty tongue licked it away. The floral scent was more pungent and sharp than before.
“I do as I’m told. However, a fair question deserves an answer. Let us ask the one who speaks.”
The twitching creature turned towards the stone structure with the effaced murals. They followed him down the dark stone hallways that stretched longer than the structure could have allowed, towards the squeaking of the Spoke Man’s idle spinning. A twisting, gnarled hand motioned for them to enter the room first. The squeaking stopped.
“Well look who it is!” the yellowed head exclaimed through its forced smile, “Come in boys, sit, sit! Oh—” when the gatekeeper shambled in, the wheel was spun to the gray head, “—hello Simalla.”
The gatekeeper, Simalla, stood in the corner while Rhone and Nebanum sat at the table near the Spoke Man. Of the two, Rhone preferred him.
“It’s not often you visit me while we have guests,” the Spoke Man said off-handedly to Simalla, “Tea boys?” he asked Rhone and Nebanum.
“It’s time they knew. I’m tired of answering their questions,” Simalla rasped. More pus was dripping down his face.
The Spoke Man was leaning against the edge of the table. He moved towards the wall where a pot was now boiling. He turned and produced two cups of tea. The wall was barren again.
“You know where the milk is should you need any.”
“Go on and tell them. Jhilrah is waiting.”
Even in the rough and scratching voice of the hideous gatekeeper, the name of the seamstress excited Rhone. He glanced at Nebanum; he too was shifting his erection.
“Mustn’t keep Our Lady of the Needle waiting,” the gray head sighed.
Rhone looked at the decapitated, wired, and nailed head impaled on its spoke. Though it wasn’t the first time he’d seen it, his stomach nauseated with a primal desire to flee.
“What was the question?” the gray head said after some silence had passed.
“They’ve paid their tithe, tell them why!” Simalla snapped.
The muscular yellowed arms spun the worn wheel around, clattering and ticking. The head that was selected to rise above the shoulders was one that hadn’t spoken in the presence of Rhone and Nebanum before. What flesh remained, pulled taught without the aid of iron, was blackened and cracked. Bright red, glistening tissue was smooth beneath the seemingly burnt flesh. When it began to wake and speak, the movement of the smoothed and black lips pulled and irritated the fissures, summoning more scarlet. Muscles and tendons flexed and contracted under the sheets of black.
“Ciao amici. Non abbiamo parlato prima,” it wheezed; a forced whisper.
“English!” Simalla shouted.
“Forgive me, this mouth has a mind of its own. This poor fellow was burned rather badly.”
The voice that smoked out from behind the shriveled and black tongue was as charred and disturbing as the head that owned it. Rhone had difficulty looking at it and the urge to flee was stronger than ever.
“You see,” the wheezing voice continued, “you have made a covenant with us. You signed with blood and sealed with seed.”
“What does that mean?” Nebanum asked.
“You will worship at our temple and wear our vestments; you will eat our flesh and drink our blood.”
“I don’t understand...” Rhone whispered.
“Your lives will be dedicated to this,” the Spoke Man spread his arms, “unending pleasures rewarded for unending faith.”
“And tithes,” Simalla added.
“And tithes. When the time comes, you’ll have your own home, here in the sands. Eternities will pass and you’ll stay young. Soon, new worshipers, such as yourselves, will come to you for guidance, just as you came to us. Between preaching, you can shape your own bodies until they fit. You can’t imagine the pleasures that our neighbors can create for you; you’ve only met Jhilrah. Don’t misunderstand, she is wonderful—but she’s not the only one.”
“If they need convincing, they’re not worth enticing.”
“Don’t listen to him. Simalla resents how quickly you two have progressed. Rhone...”
Rhone looked up from his fidgeting hands at the burned face. His jaw felt locked and he knew his voice would crack if he were called on to speak.
“Remember Cardinal Alley? The sweet smell of all that pig and goat’s blood; running along the mud, painting your feet red. We can make it so that you never have a shortage of that wonderfully sticky water, red and cool in our embracing winds. You can have a lake of pig’s blood. Remember how it felt as it began to dry and pull at your skin? Imagine that all over your body.”
Rhone’s flesh crawled with the thought. It was beyond enticing; a wave of chills caressed his scalp.
“And Nebanum, what is the bane of man? Time. There is no time here. You can write a hundred books, paint a thousand pictures. You have lifetimes to spare here, you can master anything you desire, you can contemplate anything and everything, filling the void that the other place has burdened you with. Only the most interesting and worthy mortals will speak to you, and when they do, it’ll be with fear and reverence. Fill your eggshell.”
There was another wave of silence in the dense room. Rhone tried to curb his thoughts, he knew that the others might hear them. It sounded good. Better than good. I would be a God.
“Close,” the burned head wheezed, “very close. I was like you once, if you can believe it. Stuck with a dull, empty, boring head. Now look at me. I’m five times the man I was. Even our dear Simalla was like you.”
Rhone stole a glance at the grimacing fiend in the corner. It was suppressing a convulsion and fondling its dual erections. It’s hard to believe that thing used to be a plain man.
“Not a man, a woman. Do you see how wonderful our skills are? Now, I’ve given you much to turn over in your minds. Go to Jhilrah, she’s waiting for you. She’s quite taken with you two. Arrivederci, a presto.”
The charred head died as it fell from the throne above the shoulders. Strong arms spun the wheel slowly, whining and squeaking. Again, Rhone and Nebanum followed Simalla through the dark halls, his scent filling the stone walls.
Simalla said nothing when they emerged from the Spoke Man’s home. He headed off into the sands, twitching and spasming, in a gait that promised collapse—but none ever came. Rhone and Nebanum made their way towards the exploded home of Jhilrah.
She stood at her table, body supple and lascivious. To their surprise, she embraced them, one at a time, pulling them into her abundant body. Her skin was sweet with sweat; her lover’s voice massaged their arousal.
“I want to give you something that will convince you to stay. A special gift to show you that we do care for you. Galeazzo is good at explaining the facts, but some things can only be felt.”
“Galeazzo?” Nebanum whispered.
“Now I want you two to each hold onto a thought. More than a thought, a feeling. A feeling about your partner. A part of them that you thirst for; a part that burns you in your love making. A look in their eye, the smell of their skin, the warmth of their body. Hold it deep in your mind.”
Rhone was confused. Compounded with the pressure that apparently he was first to be altered made it difficult for his mind to focus. Jhilrah’s presence was intimidating. The coarse sack concealing her head stared at him. He could hear and see her breathing: breathy and hushed whimpering at each rise and fall of her heavy chest. It was hypnotic. The spell calmed him. He let his eyes flutter closed. He was pulling back from the superficial darkness his eyelids provided into a tranquility of mind. He thought of his couplings with Nebanum. Each scene played through his mind, his body remembering each eruption and ecstasy. He salivated thinking of taking Nebanum into his mouth
, the scent of his flesh, its texture. His thoughts began to dwell and become consumed with his pale, hairless skin. His skin, he thought, his skin...
The seamstress moved to Nebanum. Her breasts swung slowly, her hips and buttocks seemed to undulate and breath along with her swelling ribcage. Rhone’s eyes blinked open. He watched Nebanum fall into the trance. Minutes passed before his eyes opened again. Jhilrah moved and took Rhone’s hand, leading him to her floating stone table. She motioned for Rhone to remove the stolen clothes. He sat naked on the warm slab. Jhilrah laid him down and swam above him. She pressed her heavy body into him, consuming him in her sexuality. He felt his member slide inside of her heat. Rhone’s breaths were shallow and instinct thrust his hips. Jhilrah removed her cowl. Her angelic visage infected his mind, his hands groped her buttocks. Into her he thrust, harder and quicker. His mind was flooded with visions of he an Nebanum in new and bizarre scenes. The face above him began to rot. The eyes clouded and dripped onto his cheeks, gums pulled from teeth, rutted cheeks paled and split. He could feel his eruption approaching. He tried to focus on the images of Nebanum but the carrion inches from his face demanded attention. His member was burning as it was sucked at and gripped by her sex. A discharge of regret, embarrassment, and fear flushed through his body as his abdomen convulsed with orgasm. He felt the viscousness spill from him, pulling into Jhilrah’s heat. The rotting face pressed to his chest and a sharp pain radiated from one nipple and then the other as the teeth cut them free. All Rhone could do was gasp as an unnatural pressure circled the base of his penis. It was dull, then acute. Rhone felt his hands push at the billowing flesh, his legs kicking to be free but the sex held him still. His throat dried and pained with his yelling, his screaming, his pleading. Jhilrah’s sex was consuming his.
Rhone sat, childlike, in the chewing sands. He stared at the singed stump above his testicles. It was shocking and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. It’s too much, his mind reeled, it’s too much.
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