Theatre of the Gods

by M. Suddain

  Silence. The bosun waited. He could see two glinting eyes in the darkness, moving back and forward in time with the swinging silver circle.

  ‘Give it me then,’ said the voice.

  ‘I’ll swap it for the watch and the way out. It’s a good trade. The watch has only sentimental value. Show me the way out and I’ll give it you.’

  ‘But my master will be angry. He is already furious you stole those children from him. That is why he’s gone away to brood.’ The voice was moving around the clearing, thinking, pondering. ‘I could take the circle.’

  ‘Come close and see if you can take it.’

  ‘I can wait for the master to kill you.’

  ‘I’ll swallow it, the beast swallows me, the circle is vanished.’

  Silence.

  ‘Show me the path. Then the circle is yours. You can have the prize and your master’s love.’

  ‘He loves no one. Except inside his belly.’

  ‘It’s true, but what can you do? We serve who we serve.’

  Silence for a while. Then, ‘Even if I show you the way out of my master’s caves you’ll still be in too deep. This whole world is a monster. I know it! I came from the outside. And the Makatax is just a gnat compared to the worm we live within. There’s no hope for you. Foolish giant!’

  ‘There’s always hope.’ By now Jacob’s eyes had adjusted, and his accomplice had come shyly from out of the shadows. He could see that he was a very small man who spoke with a fine voice – or an average-sized girl who spoke with a normal voice, perhaps. Yes. She had a slender shape, doleful eyes. ‘The way out is impossible, giant. You’re better off here. Perhaps I can look after you, my enormous friend. Yes.’ The eyes of this creature were big, black, imploring.

  ‘Show me a way out and I’ll give you the circle.’

  The eyes blinked twice, retreated into the shadows.

  *

  Jacob Quickhatch fashioned himself a crude crutch from a branch. He felt his brain clouding with the smell of rotting flesh, and every crutch-step the pain grew worse. But he never minded pain. What disturbed him was the raw, intestinal darkness he was walking into as he set off through the caves of the Makatax, searching for the way out. ‘Wait, where are you going, giant? You’ll be lost if you go that way.’ The monster’s servant was following behind. ‘You’re doing it all wrong.’

  ‘Then show me the way and you’ll get your treasure.’

  ‘It’s this way, fool, you’re going to hell that way.’

  ‘Don’t try to trick me. I smell fresher air this way. This is the way I came in.’

  ‘Yes, the way you came in, but ho! What! You want to go back to the cannibals, the giant slugs? To get out from the great worm you must go deeper. You can only escape through the back passage. Come, I will do it for your silver circle, and perhaps … a kiss.’ Jacob hesitated. In the dimness he saw now that his companion wore a white apron, of sorts, a little like a surgeon or a butcher, and it was stained with blood, and she had furry skin, and floppy ears like a rabbit – could that be right? His mind could be playing tricks.

  ‘What? Are you afraid? Come, come!’ said the creature. She stood trembling at the junction of the tunnel leading back into the domain of the Makatax. Over the apron she wore coat-tails – surely – and she skipped away, saying, ‘Come on, come on, you’re not dreaming this, the Makatax is coming.’

  On cue, they heard the monster. His throaty roar came barrelling down the tunnels and made Jacob’s eyeballs tremble.

  ‘He is returning! Too soon! We must hurry! The back passage isn’t far.’

  Hobbling and hopping after his tiny guide, Jacob swallowed his fear and reasoned that this strange nightmare could only end in death or waking. ‘You’re getting weak, giant. Give me the circle now – for keeping!’

  ‘No!’ Jacob’s throat was raw. He needed water, medicine, rest; he felt blood oozing at his side. ‘How much further?’

  ‘Right here. The back passage. It is the passage which leads to the world outside. Now give me your circle.’

  ‘You’ve led me to a trap.’

  ‘No, no, use your brain. Feel that new air rushing up. That is the outside. You only need to crawl towards the light. It is risky. You might drown in the waste fluids, or be crushed by the walls of the beast’s bowels. And it won’t be an easy landing when you get outside, but it’s better than in here, no? The treasure?’

  ‘My watch.’

  ‘No watch. You can’t have the watch. Your life is plenty. The circle, or I’ll cry out. And, perhaps, my kiss.’ The beast roared, closer. ‘Hurry now.’

  ‘I will put the circle upon the end of my crutch. Then pass it to you.’ The bosun began to fuss about his stick.

  ‘What’s taking you so long? Just hang it from the end. Can’t you hear my husband coming?!’

  Husband?

  ‘It is slimy with blood – the talisman won’t stay,’ the bosun said as he rushed to fashion the snare from the reed he’d pulled from the ground, leaning over his work so the creature wouldn’t see. ‘Here, it’s done.’ He held out the stick with the talisman hanging from the end, saw her hesitate.

  ‘It’s a trick. You’re trying to make me grab it, then you’ll have me.’

  ‘No trick. Don’t you want the silver?’ He saw the rabbit grind her teeth, then lunge forward to make the grab, then howl, ‘I’m caught! I’m caught! Husband, help!’ The beast roared from back down the tunnels. He was just a few bends away now. Jacob drew his prey close, took her by the throat. ‘You are caught in a snare. The more you struggle the tighter it gets. See?’ He raised the creature’s skinny wrist towards her button nose to show the trick. He had one hand around her neck. ‘Let’s not have any more yelling. My watch.’

  ‘Here, here, take the watch, just please release me!’

  ‘Why certainly.’ The giant broke the snare with a finger. Then he put another finger beneath her chin and lifted her to eye level, so close their lips were almost touching, and her whiskers, twitching madly with fear, were tickling at his face. ‘I could snap your neck now. But I won’t. It’s clear you’re already in hell.’ Then Jacob Quickhatch kissed her softly; her whiskers slackened. Then he snatched his watch up sharply in his fingers and hobbled away.

  ‘Your talisman, giant!’ The circle lay on the ground by the creature’s feet.

  ‘You keep it. It means nothing to me,’ said the bosun as he flung his battered frame into the oozy passage.

  *

  Jacob Quickhatch had fallen down through the passage, been nearly crushed by the muscled walls which pressed together tight in places, nearly drowned swimming through bladders filled with rancid liquids, finally come out the end of the giant worm’s slimy back passage in a slurry of half-decomposed matter and into a jungle flattened beneath the beast’s bulk. He’d been stunned by the sudden brightness of this new world. He’d watched in amazement as the monster rode on towards a gleaming city near some mountains in the distance. The rabbit lady had been right: the Makatax was a gnat compared to this monster. He’d lain there, unable to move, for half a day. He was stumbled over by a jungle tribe hunting smaller serpents drawn to the surface by the vibrations of the giant worm. (The hunters were surprised to see him. They thought he was a baby god laid by the worm.) They’d taken him to their village, nursed him, tended to his injuries, tested their medicine by making him fight their strongest warrior. Then, convinced that he was at least a quarter god, they’d agreed to guide him to the city. Once at the battlements, Jacob had disguised himself as a washerwoman and entered the city of Diemendääs through the eastern gate. He had witnessed the occupation of the city, the plight of his friends. He’d knocked out a papal guard, stolen his clothes, made his way aboard the ships he had worked so hard to escape. If you could talk to Jacob Quickhatch – and sadly you cannot – he’d tell you kindly, but firmly, that there is not an ounce of bravery in standing up for the weak. He’d stood among the beasts he hated most – far more than any flesh-eating plants, o
r worm-loving ogre – as they boasted about how they would slit and gut this small green girl and her mute friend as though they were fishies in the sea. Then, when the time was right, he’d stepped forward and raised his great fists for his friends, and for true good.

  GIANT

  ‘Come on then!’ said the bosun. ‘Let’s see if your gods are home!’

  The priests fell upon him, black arms swinging. ‘Is that all you have?’ cried the bosun as he took a punch from a priest. ‘You punch like a small girl. No offence, little one.’

  Lenore said nothing. She was lost in a kind of trance. She had managed to reach a friend, one who had something which belonged to her. She was running through the dark corridors, through clouds of acrid steam. The bosun threw off a pair of priests and hit the third with a single blow that sent him skidding over the deck. ‘Give me everything you’ve got! Can none of you fight?’

  ‘Fight?’ said another priest as he picked up a length of steel from the deck. ‘Well, see how you fight with your skull spli—’ Klang! The priest was collected by the flaming engine of a fighter craft and taken spinning into the Glory Hole. Two more guards crabbed forward. Cautiously.

  ‘How goes it, little one?’ said the bosun as he smashed a priest with each of his fists.

  He took a quick glance up at the girl, and quickly stole another. Lenore was now enveloped in a sparkling blue electric haze. The bosun saw a chunk of metal glance off it. He traced the source of the energy from the haze, down a thin tendril, to Roberto. The boy was over at a maintenance panel on the deck of the platform. He was trying to divert enough power to the engines to stop the palace from sliding into the black hole while also keeping magnetic bubbles around himself and his friend. A guard raised a steel bar and brought it down on Roberto’s bubble, but it bounced off as if it were made of rubber and the guard went stumbling back.

  A great fist struck Jacob in the jaw. A steel bar landed on his broad shoulders and dropped him to all fours, then a rain of kicks and punches fell upon him.

  Lenore caught a whiff of his blood and terror, woke briefly from her trance to say: ‘Bosun! What is happening? Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not me, lovely,’ said the bosun before the breath was kicked from his lungs. His arms quaked as he drew breath. ‘This is a Sunday walk for me, my sweet, my pretty green treat.’

  ‘So you side with devils instead of us,’ said a guard. ‘You’ll answer for that in hell.’

  Jacob took another steely blow across his back, fell to the floor and felt the blood trickle from his nose.

  The terrible blows continued before finally the Pope’s goons, thinking the watchmaker’s son finally dead, stepped back and threw away their steel bars, clapped each other on the shoulder and roared with laughter. ‘Let’s kill the children and be done,’ said one. ‘I have me a powerful thirst.’

  They were most surprised when their opponent shook the stars from his head, and lifted his giant frame to its feet. ‘Now, if we’ve finished play-fighting,’ said the watchmaker’s son, ‘I’ll show you how a real man conducts himself.’

  HUNTER

  It would be fair to say that the Black Widow had not met many adversaries as worthy as Fabrigas. She had faced a pantheon of great assassins: the Eel, a contortionist who could twist his way down narrow pipes and attack his victims while they sat on the toilet; the Meccanaught, who had an encyclopedic knowledge of every martial art devised, even the silly ones. She’d killed them all. But Fabrigas understood, from his observations of the natural world, that timing was the art of hunting. He had the patience of a super-alligator, the eyes of a night-hawk, the ears of a Sweety. He trod the iron planks, eyes gleaming in the misty gloom. Beside him, the powerful vacuum tubes roared, and his beard rose and sank as he passed each one. By day the catwalks would have been full of stooped figures hurling bails of linen into the tubes. Swish – Klang! An iron bar used for poking stubborn bails flashed lazily past the old man’s nose and hit the iron railing; sparks flew. Laughter floated up from below: ‘Careful, she has a pole!’ The Black Widow had ditched her boots so she could move in silence. The old man saw her shadow quiver across the iron rails and he raised the dart tube to his lips, aiming a few yards in front of her. They heard a yelp from the darkness. ‘A singing dart, how very dull. If you really want to know where she is I can tell you.’ And from the darkness above, Fabrigas heard the slap of a hand upon a cheek, followed by a thin yelp.

  ‘Now find her, kill her, make me proud!’

  As the dart’s weird toxin took effect they heard her sing, involuntarily, in a high clear voice,

  ‘Bridegroom, dear to my heart,

  Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet.

  Lion, dear to my heart,

  Goodly is your beauty, honeysweet.’

  Fabrigas found her in a bay for linen carts; he picked up her song, then her scent: a mix of expensive hand cream, manly shampoo and leather. He saw her wide eyes shining like ponds in the darkness where she cradled her song, and when she sprang for the edge of the platform the old man shot out an arm, caught her hair and dragged her back to the deck. There she lay, quivering like a sparrow, saying, ‘No, my friend, no, no, no. Please, you don’t want to.’ Laughter drifted from the darkness below; the Well Dressed Man rose slowly up on a laundry lift, Dray and his camera beside him. ‘Yes, yes, he does want to. He wants to murder you, O beautiful assistant,’ said the assassin. ‘What good is a magic show without the mortal blow?’ Then in the glare of the cine lamps, within the rolling volleys of fiery light through the windows, the old man took her by the throat and raised her effortlessly to face him.

  ‘Oh no, friend. You can’t … you don’t …’ She spoke in a strangled voice.

  ‘You do, old man. Remember how she betrayed you. Remember how you trusted her.’

  Outside, the void was a whirlpool of fire and debris.

  ‘Kill her,’ said the Well Dressed Man. ‘Give the dagger to her heart.’

  Fabrigas held the Black Widow in one great hand. She hung like a rat in the talons of a weary old eagle. He had the knife in his left hand. The real knife. Do not think it could be any other way. Don’t let your mind consider any other possibility. Outside, the battle was coming to a terrible climax. There was a bright flash as a battle station flared and crumbled. The old man’s eyes flared too, and his brow split and twisted like the bark of an old, old tree. And then, as another great ship gave way outside, crumpled like a paper lantern and soaked the features of our fighting figures in terminal light, outshining for a second even the hard glow of cine lamps, he said a word that could not be heard by anyone and plunged the knife into the Black Widow’s chest.

  ‘Fabrigas!’ The Black Widow sighed as the tears bubbled in the cauldron of her eyes, and were drawn across her cheek by the vacuum force of the laundry tubes, and, ‘Fabrigas,’ she whispered one last time, the word catching like a dry leaf in her throat, and, ‘No,’ she said with her final, trembling breath. The old man, expressionless, withdrew the knife and let it fall to the ground with a ka-sklatter, leaned down towards her, his face dwarfing hers, then he let her fall too. She crumpled upon the iron floor.

  Outside, the Fleet of the Nine Churches announced its counterattack with a subsonic blast from its horns so powerful that some of the damaged ships fell clean to pieces; the Diemendääs commanders gasped as the steel parts slowly separated like a handful of leaves dumped upon the black still surface of a pond.

  On the platform by the Glory Hole the fighting stopped briefly, and all the people on it raised their eyes to the skies.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the Well Dressed Man from the shadows, ‘that sounds like the siren of death for you and your friends. Such a pity.’

  Then, from the depths came a response. Initially it seemed to be an echo of the Pope’s siren call bouncing and returning from the planet, but it soon grew much louder, and much, much deeper, and when the pressure wave arrived it was a wall of power and fury, popping sails, extinguishing fires, taking the air from l
ungs, stopping the entire battle in its track.

  The galaxies seemed to hold their breath.

  ‘What … in the Holy Sea … was that?’ said the Pope in his bath, and as if to answer him a curling black shape came from the depths, a tentacle uncoiled from the darkness, passing over the Klaxon fleet, lightly brushing aside the wall of wreckers as it slammed into the battle station from which the papal siren call had come, smashing it apart like a piñata, reducing it in a few seconds to a merrily twinkling cloud of rubble. The explosion was so huge, so bright, that every pilot turned away. Only the Pope kept his eyes wide open and fixed upon the merrily disintegrating castle.

  There was a pause of a good minute before the Klaxon commander turned to Descharge, wrinkled his nose and whispered, ‘I think the Sweety might have followed us through.’

  I AM, I AM THE TALISMAN

  Fabrigas stood enchanted as he watched the vanishing cloud of dust and debris that used to be the battle station. There was a shape emerging from the darkness now, dwarfing the planet, the moon and the assembled fleets. The creature swam towards them, a greenish blob with hazy edges. Its cry shook the heavens.

  The Well Dressed Man, too, emerged from the shadows, alarmed to no longer be the most terrifying monster in the universe. ‘Well, there is something I didn’t expect. Time to go, I think. That was certainly quite a show, though.’ The explorer turned to face him and the assassin took a small step back, suddenly alarmed by the way the old explorer towered over him, the calm fire in his eyes. ‘OK. Give me the knife now, handle first, there’s a good man.’ Fabrigas stooped to pick the blade up from the floor. He held it up to the light and the Well Dressed Man squinted. ‘No blood. Well, how on earth could …? Impossible!’

  Fabrigas pressed his finger to the tip of the knife and said, ‘Not unpossible, sir, quite possible indeed, in fact.’ There was a mousy squeak as the blade descended. The Well Dressed Man let his disbelieving eyes move slowly from the tip of the knife to the old man’s face. Then he said a single word. It was the worst insult he could possibly have thought to call the old explorer, but this time the ancient face showed no signs of anger.