by Muriel Gray
To be utterly contaminated, destroyed and consumed by that which was all-powerful, all-knowing, was a desire that burned in his veins like an advanced addiction. He breathed sharply through his nostrils, mulling on the perversity of his longing, and was rewarded by a familiar stench. Fen’s head swung round quickly to face the deeper darkness of the cofferdams. He wasn’t expecting his master to stir yet. There were still things to do. He had expected to wait where he was until it was time to help prepare the girl, and that meant sitting here, patiently hidden until he was called. But now the stench told him that he was no longer alone in the darkness. Fen stood up, confused, feeling the bulkhead behind him in the darkness for support.
He waited, his mouth drying as it hung open, his breath stilled to hear the approach of the thing he both dreaded and adored. He wanted to call out his master’s name, but that name was not available to him when they were not joined in thought, and since the approach seemed stealthy, not pre-arranged, Fen knew in his heart they were not about to be joined now. He tried to contain a rising fear, and scoured his memory for even a syllable of the name, but none came. If he could just talk to his master, then his fear would melt. But why was he not being spoken to? He was always summoned, called by that voice that lived inside Fen’s skin. But this time, there was silence. Silence, that was, except for a slick ticking noise and faint rustle that Fen recognized with a sinking heart.
His fingers closed around the shoe box. Fen cleared his throat.
“Hello? Here. I’m here.”
The echo of dripping water far along the cofferdams was the only reply.
Fen swallowed and fumbled at the lid of the box. “It’s here. Ready. I have it safe.” He waited for a moment, his breathing momentarily stilled to listen more acutely, and this time was rewarded with a sound.
Its base suggested a hissing escape of gas from something wet, but the main thrust of the noise was a rasping, staccato retch. Something was laughing. As Fen Sahg turned his head towards the source of the noise, his eyes still blinking blindly in the impenetrable black, that mysterious branch-line of the senses that man calls instinct informed him of something he would rather have not known. The inhuman laughter was to be the last sound he would ever hear.
Death came not from his side, but from above. It came in the shape of bone and talon, of teeth and metal, and of a stomach-turning, putrid mesh of matter. There was no time to run, not even to fall and beg mercy. But as he screamed, the force of the scream making his nose bleed and his eyes protrude, Fen Sahg was at least rewarded with the memory of the creature’s chosen name.
But what use was it now, as his heart was ripped from his chest and his face devoured, to know that He Who Remakes The World, was no longer in need of a priest? That the leather doll, blackened by the blood of the body parts that Fen had been storing so carefully in its grotesque open belly, was not now an essential part of the glorious dark coming, and had always in fact been nothing more than a pagan symbol of devotion?
Such knowledge was of no use at all. All that mattered was that the thing that sat on top of the writhing Fen Sahg, in the inky black that echoed with the oiler’s screams, was nearly complete, and was very, very hungry.
He sat perfectly still, handset clutched in his fist, staring at the radio. The distorted hissing was still unbroken by communication, but Lloyd Skinner was not a man to make hasty judgments until all avenues had been explored. He looked at his watch and tried again.
“Lucky Lad, Lucky Lad, Lucky Lad, this is Fishing Fancy.”
His eyes never left the VHF as he released his thumb from the handset. Captain Skinner was not nervous. He could not be betrayed. The company might think itself more powerful, but they should know that he was the dangerous one, the one who called the shots. If there was any emotion that was currently overriding his inner calm, then it was one of irritation that everything was still not quite in place, that there were still crew members loose on board who had not been dealt with or secured. And the biggest irritation of all was the fact that the girl had his gun.
His jaw moved almost imperceptibly at the thought as his back teeth ground together. Other than that he was still and watchful, and when a voice mumbled through the fuzzy crackle from the speaker, Skinner’s eyes betrayed nothing at all. He pressed the handset once more.
“Lucky Lad, Lucky Lad this is Fishing Fancy, go again, please.”
The voice on the radio was indistinct, but even through the aural mire it was with some interest that Skinner discerned that it was American. So there was a company man on board amongst the South American peasant fishermen. Why? To stop them getting big ideas later? Perhaps, but Skinner didn’t think that was the only reason. His mind, tuned for survival, quickly adjusted its plans accordingly.
“Fishing Fancy this is Lucky Lad. Go to channel 23,” Skinner returned and waited.
“Fishing Fancy, we have you in sight. Are you finished fishing? Ready to come aboard? Over.”
With his mouth a thin, tight line, Skinner breathed in through his nostrils, the only physical concession to relief that any observer might note. “Catch not quite complete. I’ll contact you again in thirty minutes. Over.”
Skinner waited a long time for the reply. He didn’t like that. The delay suggested someone formulating another plan of action, changing their minds. He was about to press “talk” again when the radio crackled up at him.
“We’ll wait. Over.”
Skinner put the handset back and stared ahead into space for a moment, making plans of his own. He picked up the gun from the table in front of him, opened the chamber and slotted in the two bullets that would render it full again. There were still four people who were not in the engine room. Six bullets. Four people. It was more than enough. He snapped the gun shut, stood up and went to finish his business.
The molecular structure of the metal handrail opposite derrick, number four was weakening. It would last another six months and then a small hairline crack would appear. Black, black stench. Power in fear. The smell of young girls’ sex. Pain. That stain on the main deck, the one that was two inches in circumference, was blood that had been spilled by a deck band ten weeks ago when he snagged his arm on the untwined metal shard of a cable. There were three whales a mile and a quarter away. One had an ulcerous hole in its side. It was dying. Ripping flesh and snapping ribs. Their faces as they pulled the heart out. Smiling smug triumphant faces. Efren the electrician used to catch bats as a boy by stringing a net across his open window. Chelito Baylan had locked Cotton in the freezer. He’d wanted to stop Cotton from finding out anything that would spoil his own sacrifice, end his state of grace. Their yes, the young virgin’s eyes, now that they realize what lies on top of them, they brim with a mixture of fear and pleasure. Tenghis Maholes has a faulty heart valve. Skinner is near. The paint below her feet was stolen and sold to a company man in Hong Kong called Ingles. The remains of a Spanish ship lie crushed at the bottom of the trench beneath the Lysicrates. The water pressure has crushed the soft gold of a cross on its deck into an unrecognizable shape. Rough stone steps scraping the skin from his face. Feces, sour vomit, the mix of effluent and cooking.
“Stop… Oh God, please stop!”
Esther fell forward, her head cradled in her arms. She was soaked with sweat, and she wiped furiously at her face to clear the salt from her eyes as she tried to breathe air that was too hot and thin with lungs that were working too hard. She had only made it as far as the crew cabins on B-deck before this new attack of madness had felled her, rendering her helpless as she struggled to cope with the mental and physical assault. But holding her head was not blocking the relentlessness of the unwanted visions. Nor was crouching in a fetal position helping to slow her heart or improve her breathing. She was fighting panic, fumbling desperately for some control of her mind, when suddenly in all the mess of information a tiny memory flitted by like a petal on the wind. Esther’s mind reached up and grabbed at it. Bad dreams. Real bad fucking dreams. Apart from the gift
of life and an unsupervised childhood in which she could pretty much do what she pleased, Benny Mulholland hadn’t given his daughter much. But one thing he had given her was a trick to stop those night demons, and after a couple of successful attempts of employing his advice she had always used it, both sleeping and waking. It worked just as well, she’d discovered, to shut out other stuff. The pain of schoolyard humiliation, the agony of a stitch during a twenty-mile run, or just getting through a young girl’s broken heart. And so Esther had used the trick all her life. Now, it had come back to her in the mire, and she could hear Benny’s voice, thick with a drunk’s whisper, telling her how to make the bad things go away. Imagine a snowplough, he’d said that night in the trailer, when she lay sobbing after dreaming her recurring nightmare of the dark man in a cloak who was trying to eat her soul. Remember, he’d said, those big mothers of snowploughs we used to see up in Pennsylvania before we moved south? Remember, honey? Big yellow and black stripes on them. Huge throbbing engines behind that snout of steel. Remember how they used to drive through any old shit like it wasn’t there? Well, just imagine you got one of those can do your bidding and when you say the word, it drives on up to all that crap that’s in your head and just pushes it clean out of the way.
Esther was concentrating hard, her eyes tight, wrinkled slits. The plough in her head revved and coughed, and slowly started to move forward and push.
The coffee machine in the crew mess was burning the bottom of the empty jug… push… a percentage of the plankton beneath the hull was contaminated by radioactive waste that had been dumped at sea six hundred miles west… push… Thomas Inlatta’s body lying in the hold already had maggots in the mouth and yes… push… Matthew Cotton had switched… no, she didn’t want to see that one any more… push push push…
Esther sat up with a gasp. Her head had cleared momentarily. The feeling was like having something that had been stuck in your throat suddenly dislodge. She could breathe again.
A tear-drop of sweat fell from Esther’s chin onto the floor, and she wiped her eyes as she slumped back against the wall. It was nearly gone. All the hallucinations. All the madness. All the impenetrable fog of knowledge that her sick mind was making up. Nearly gone. Nearly. But not completely.
Esther moved the gun off her knee, and pushed it away from her. Sitting with her back against the bulkhead like a resting border guard, and staring forward into space, she let her mind cautiously examine the thing that was still there. It was a memory. Was it hers? It was dark, but now that the rest of the stuff was temporarily held at bay there was something delicious about it, tempting, familiar but forbidden. It was hard to resist. Too hard. With the delicious abandon of falling asleep, Esther Mulholland, very much awake, started to allow the thought to drift into the forefront of the consciousness she was holding hostage.
Hot sun touched her face. The breeze carried village smells. Dogs barked. There was pain and humiliation. She clenched her fists, pushed the plough forward again. The pain stopped. For the first time in years, Esther allowed a large, salty tear to spill from her eye and roll down her cheek. What was happening to her? The two things she valued most in life were her health and sanity. Now she seemed to be losing both. She had work to do. The people on this ship were in big shit, and yet here she was, sitting on the floor of an empty corridor fighting with the urge to let some fever-induced piece of madness take hold of her. And, Jesus, it was insistent. She could still feel the effort of holding all the other stuff back, but the dream-thing, the imagined memory was beckoning like a release. She knew that if she just gave in to it, she could stop listening to everything else. Everything else would be as nothing compared to this. She was a curious person and all curiosity would be satisfied if she could just let it in. Esther had fought long enough. She was exhausted. Her mortal mind registered with dissatisfaction that her weapon was lying feet away from her grasp, but then her mortal mind was not in charge here any more. The immortal one was so much more appealing. She let her arms go limp, and her eyes stared forward into the middle distance, glazed like a drug addict being administered morphine. Slowly, the pupils rolled back in her head, leaving her open eyes white and sightless.
How beautiful he is. How the half-light of dawn catches the contours of his young toned body. The other priests watch him enviously as he prepares, dark hatred in their hearts that he is almost more beautiful than the sacrifice they are about to make. Tikhua, the apprentice, ties the skin of a former sacrifice around his master’s body, his trembling hands trying not to touch the firm brown flesh lest his excitement show. But with a smile that is lewd, suggestive, dark and irresistible, the master allows his own excitement to be visible. It’s impossible not to when the skin of someone so exquisite as the boy they had offered is being fastened tightly around your own living body. Cuzna, the head priest, looks across with disgust at his assistant’s erection, but talking is not permitted at this stage. From the time of the vows being spoken, when the priests crossed the threshold of their robing room, silence must be observed until the heart is removed.
The screams and pleading of the boy will be the only sound on the air in Chanquillo this day. The villagers know that death and a shamed family await anyone who will not silence their dogs and their children as the chosen one is dragged up the stone steps of the great temple. So there can be no speaking even here in the privacy of this small, square room. He will keep the rebuke for later.
Now the sun has dimmed. But it’s hot. Fiercely hot. A rainforest. Raucous birds scream murder in the canopy. A million insects chirrup under their green cloak of invisibility. The smell of cloying green life assaults the senses of the civilized priest, but makes little impact on the bestial humans who live amongst it. There’s advantage in that awareness. Those ugly, squat savages don’t recognize the power of their own rituals until he comes. If Cuzna had known where he had been for two years, they would have taken his life the moment he had returned. But they will not know. His lie will be that he had journeyed to the temples in the far north provinces to complete his service to the Sun God. But why would he go to such a mundane place when he has heard from a traveller that the true God was here, deep in the forest, amongst the decay and the green diseased growth, that strangled the life out of everything in its path on its way up to the sun? Here is where his destiny lies, amongst the ignorant savages who show him where the dark power is before they die screaming as he sacrifices their useless carcasses to that deity that pulsates in the earth, under the feces and blood that squirts from the death he makes in its honour.
A hot, dry afternoon. The boy to be sacrificed, an elfin, honey-skinned fourteen-year-old from the southern province, is in the Sun God’s final knowing state of grace. He babbles and sweats. His rant is disjointed, feverish, but Tikhua who guards him, now himself a fully-ordained priest, sits patiently listening in reverent awe to the Chosen One who knows all things.
The secrets and truths are beyond the young priest’s imaginings and his mouth is open as he drinks in all the child has to say. It is Tikhua’s job to listen, remember and relate the wonders that will be spoken until the final hour. He enters the stone room. Tikhua looks up in greeting then quickly back at the boy. The ranting increases and they listen together. The llamas belonging to the high priest are loose. The plants growing on the stone below the temple can cure blindness. The marks on the moon are great holes the size of villages. They are made when rocks from the void of space hit them. An eagle two villages distant is carrying a serpent in its talons. The ocean that breaks on our land’s shore is deeper that the mountains are high. The priest in this room is a priest of the darkest, most vile arts. He has magic far beyond the power of the Sun God’s priests. He is in love with the blackness in men’s hearts, with filth and depravity, with everything man despises. He hides from the Sun. The widow of Metikua is going to die of brain fever. There is a way to move blocks of stone the size of temples and marry them so that the hair of an infant cannot be passed between the joints.
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Tikhua is already looking up at him in horror when he strikes. The blade cuts through his throat with little effort, and then for the sake of mild curiosity he pierces the young priest’s eye to see what the viscous burst orb will look like on his cheek as he dies. The boy stares at them both, his uncontrollable stream of consciousness silenced for a moment by the murderous act, and utters only a tiny strangled cry as he is held down and has his tongue cut from his mouth.
Later, still hot in the room. Cuzna stands over Tikhua’s body and clenches his fists, angry and confused at the betrayal. A little behind the high priest, he, the happy murderer, stands nursing the self-inflicted chest-wound that is proof of the struggle he had with the mad young priest who had tried to silence and kill their sacrifice.
He enjoys the feeling of blood on his own taut brown breast and rubs it in around his nipple with a sensuous rotation when the high priest is looking elsewhere. His story is being believed. He’s safe. The boy cannot now betray him on the way up the steps to the temple. Without a tongue to tell it, all the knowingness in the universe is of little value.