Ink

by Hal Duncan

  The door opens and Carter has a challenge on his lips but Tamuz beats him to it, hand on his arm, pulling his aim to the side.

  “No. Is OK.”

  A figure in flowing desert robes, an apparition in the night, Carter only catches a glimpse before the man is inside and closing the door behind him, slender features of a face half shadowed, half revealed by the gaslights of the stairwell; a few details—an Arab headdress, a pencil mustache, is that a saddlebag over his shoulder?

  “Eyn Reinhardt,” says Tamuz.

  “Tamuz, some light, eh, for the love of God? And you might lower the gun, Captain Carter, please. It would be much appreciated.” “Von Strann?” “Yes. If you would point the gun elsewhere, at least…”

  Carter drops his aim and uncocks the trigger, clicks the safety back on… and pulls the linen sheet off the bed to flip over his shoulder. As he slides the gun back into its holster, there's a flicker of matchlight, muted and then replaced with the rising glow from one of the small gas lamps built into the wall; the Baron is already laying the saddlebags and his headdress down on the table. He leans on the back of one of the chairs, glances between Carter and Tamuz. With the deep tan of his skin and the dark hair, it's only the piercing gray of the man's eyes that ruins the Arabian Prince illusion—or delusion, thinks Carter. It's a ridiculous costume.

  “Reinhardt von Strann,” says the man. “You are Captain Carter, yes?”

  “Captain Jack Carter.”

  Von Strann offers a hand and they shake—quick, no nonsense.

  “If you would like to get dressed, please do,” says von Strann. “There is not much time for chitchat and I'm sure you have many questions. This might make some of them easier to formulate.”

  He pulls a sheaf of papers out of the saddlebags—the leather of them is heavily stained with blood and scorched by fire, Carter notices—flicks through them and hands one page to Carter.

  It's Hobbsbaum's scrawling longhand.

  On the 19th of March 1929, the Treaty of Istanbul was signed between the Futurist Reich and the New Ottoman Empire, and a vanguard of Turkish troops landed in Syria to begin their move south. The news spread like wildfire through the cities of Palestine. In Tell el-Kharnain, though, the battle was lost before it was even begun, the city in the control of the Turkish police even before the seizure of government buildings and official premises that night. While Jerusalem was to become, over the next few days, a bloody battleground for the British and Turkish forces, in Tell el-Kharnain the unopposed Turks simply began rounding up dissidents and undesirables. Scattered fighting did break out in the Lebanese and Jewish quarters, where opposition was strong, but the people of this city of hedonist refugees were quick to realize that the war they'd sought to escape had followed them right into the heart of their haven and made it abase of operations.

  Whether it is coincidence that von Strann arrived in the city on that night or whether his Enakite contacts had some intelligence on the movement of Turkish forces, whether von Strann returned to warn Carter or to enlist his aid, the two were thrown together in the holocaust that was to engulf the city. It is still unclear how it started but—

  “What in God's name is this?”

  “It's the truth,” says von Strann. “A truth, at least. This city will burn, and every man in it will die.”

  A CURE FOR KARMA

  “You and me, mon ami,” I say.

  The creature from the id and the slinky, silky, sylvan self, we sit across from each other on the elaborate Persian rug, me and Fast Puck, legs crossed in lotus pose, a look of horny bliss upon his face. His skatepunk T-shirt shucked, his torso glistens with traceries of visual trickery, quick colors trickling across him, gleaming with the glamour of the acid that we dropped two hours ago. Nice. On the stereo, the outlawed Lennon/Morrison collaboration starts to smooth its way in slowly, higher, higher. It's twenty years old, pre-punk experimental; it's sheer indulgence (worst excesses of them both—think Revolution 9 meets Soft Parade), but I have a mission to go on, and I need to cleanse my chakras, charge my kun-dalini, focus my chi. That mosaic of music, all the sex and death of it—the tan trie mantras—it might well be bollocks, but it's loaded bollocks. I can feel the orgone power flowing into me.

  “Shit, this is good,” says Puck.

  His aura's so blue he's a comic-book Krishna in combat pants hung low to show the waistband of his Calvins. Me, I'm feeling like the jewel on the lotus. Out of the corners of my eyes, the shimmering golden light surrounding me seems like a myriad of waving arms; Shiva on one side, Shakti on the other, I'm the Buddha with a hard-on. I'm a bodhisattva baby floating in a sea of bliss, an angel assassin getting charged up for the kill.

  A maze of mad Mayan hieroglyphs and Hindu carvings swirl in fractal man-dalas over the four walls of the Fox's den, illusions of gravings on reality itself, mirroring the myriad me of the Vellum. Under, over and around the sound that's coming from the stereo, noises inside my head are twisting, bells and klaxons, whirrings, chirpings, gongs, all rhythmic, syncopated. This is what I call trance music.

  “Shit, but this is good,” says Puck.

  ——

  “It does feel positively oriental,” says Guy Fox.

  He stands at the bay window, casual, cool, and sipping at his gin and tonic, strokes his pencil mustache, rakes his fingers through his crow-black flop of hair—the king of thieves, the prince of charmers, and the leader of our revolutionary cell. He's taken less than half the dose that Puck and I have … but then he has to stay on guard. This is a dangerous game we're playing and the enemy, the Empire, plays for keeps.

  I rise from my cross-legged pose to pull on a velvet robe, feel it furling round me soft and smooth. Tickling shivers surge down my serpent spine as I stretch. When I pick up the Curzon-Youngblood Mark I chi-gun that sits on the top of the dresser, it buzzes with the orgone energy pulsing into it. Ah, yes. Happiness is a warm gun.

  “Shit, this is fucking good,” says Puck.

  Guy Fox looks out the window over the Rookery, arches an eyebrow.

  “Gentlemen, I hope you're ready,” he says. “We're about to have some visitors.”

  Outside, the ornithopters of the Royal Albion Militia are approaching low over the rooftops, beams of their searchlights scything across the ramshackle tenements and ghetto squats of the Rookery. Looks like a swarm of locusts flying over Hell's shantytown.

  Fast Puck stands limberly and stretches out one hand into the air in front of him. The aura crackles round him as he slides his fingers down the shaft of his six-foot chi-lance and it buzzes into life, powered up by that mystic force, the kundalini orgone energy that flows through every deadly sexy thing.

  “Well then,” says Puck. “Looks like it's time to cure some karma.”

  Fox looks at me and raises his glass—chin-chin, old chap,

  “Operation Orpheus is go,” he says.

  A Story of a Story

  Tamuz rushes to and fro, gathering supplies, filling water bottles. He pulls a trunk out from under the bed, opens it up. Von Strann paces the room.

  “Where is Samuel?” asks Carter. “That's the only thing I want to know.” “When is Samuel?” says von Strann. “Believe me, Captain Carter, my people know many things. We know that the Turks are gathering a fleet of Prussian airships in Syria, ready to strike British Palestine. We know that your Russian friend, Major Pechorin, is also in this city, liaising with the head of the Turkish garrison.

  We know that the Turks and the Futurists are the least of your worries, Captain Carter, believe me. That we do not know where Samuel is concerns us more deeply than you can imagine.”

  “You must put this on,” says Tamuz, handing Carter a long white robe identical to the Baron's. “They will notknowyou.”

  Carter throws it onto the bed disdainfully, buckles his belt and picks his shirt up. He ignores the boy, focused entirely on von Strann.

  “Talk sense, man. Give me answers.”

  “Did Tamuz tell you of the Book? O
r did Samuel, in his letter?”

  “What book?”

  “The Book of All Hours.”

  Tamuz snorts with derision.

  “A story of a story. A story for children, like your Santa Claus.” “As Ab Irim said to Eliezer,” says von Strann, “the angel Enoch had a book. Inside that book is every story possible, the story of every angel, every human being, every demon. Inside that book is every story true or false, even those about the book itself, how it was written, lost, stolen, destroyed. The most important story, though, is how it will be found again one day, and the seal of it broken open, and the name of God Himself read aloud to bring Him back into the world, out of the ink with which he's bound into the vellum, bound into the book.”

  “A story,” says Tamuz. “A story for children. My mother used to tell us this each new year, at the dawn.”

  “Your mother was trying to prepare you for the truth,” says von Strann. “Your people have had the book for generations, keeping it hidden. That's why they have no books of legends, histories, why they write nothing down; they have it all written in the book already.”

  “We have no secrets,” says Tamuz. “My people have no secrets.” “When you have the book,” says von Strann, “no one has any secrets.”

  Carter shakes his head.

  “I think I'm with Tamuz on this one: a story for children.”

  “Do you have a cigarette?” says von Strann.

  Carter offers his case and the Prussian clicks it open, takes out a cigarette and snaps it shut again. He taps the cigarette on the case and looks at it for a second before putting it in his mouth.

  “These things are bad for you, you know, Captain Carter? They clog your lungs, poison the cells. Leave that, Tamuz; it's not important. Just food and water. We know many things, my people, but if the Futurists are the ones who have our friend—and believe me, whatever Samuel has done, he remains my friend—but if the Futurists have him… we thought perhaps he was going to the Turks, taking what he had learned…”

  He trails off, takes a drag. It's as if he's stalling some decision, Carter thinks, putting off the inevitable moment.

  “As Ab Irim said to his servant Eliezer,” says von Strann, “it was not God who gave Adam and Eve their suits of skin. You know the Bible story, yes, Captain Carter, how they were ashamed of their nakedness and so God gave them the suits of skin? Maybe this is so. Maybe this is one truth. Here is another. In the beginning Adam and Eve gave God the suit of skin. In the beginning, God was only an idea until we sought to bind the wild world with our words. Male and female we created our gods, in the image of humanity.”

  “Once upon a time,” says Carter. “Look, I'm not interested in your Enakite heresies. I'm sure they're very—”

  “Let me show you the Cant, Captain Carter,” says von Strann. “Let me show you just a little of the language that the book is written in, what it can do. How man might make God in his image.”

  THE COLOR OF DUST AND LEATHER

  [… Von] Strann left with his boy [… and?] the headman, as […] thought at the time, rode out of the arid sands of the western desert upon [his steed?] thundering […] The horse reared and his […?] billowed in the air. His face masked by the black linen djellaba that left only his eyes visible, narrowed against the cruel early-afternoon sun […] glinting in the light, the emerald or jade of […] green eyes […] not a Semitic people? Yet the coppery coloring of their [skin?…] and had little time to think of such things really, for […] Enakite headman [… moved?] his djellaba from his face and […] saw it was, in fact [a woman? …] her long red braided [hair? …] a scar running from her eye to her jaw. […] was astonished, […] should say, von Strann never having made even the slightest allusion to this circumstance, the rogue; trust him to insure […] first meeting with the Enakites should have adequate drama. And even in [… she?] spoke with a voice like […] a great many rivers rushing, a roaring torrent […] into my very soul […] herself:

  ——

  “I am Anat-Ashtarzi ibn Alhazred, of the blood of the poet Abdul and of the prophets Ziatsuzdra and Eliezer, of the sons and daughters of the Enaki, of the People of the True Book. We walk between the curses of the Lord and in the shadow of his Enemy, and we serve no man or god.”

  […] told her then that, as an anthropologist, […] desired only to study the customs and traditions of her people, for […] believed that they were very ancient and that much was therefore to be learned from them. As an anthropologist, of course, […] said, […] knew they would have secrets not to be shared with outsiders. At this, she laughed.

  “Our truth is older than your history, habiru. You who came with us out of Chaldea, out of Ur of the Chaldees, you should know the truth behind your Torah; of the one who died so that your people might live. You are welcome, habiru. You will come with us, listen to our tales, take them back to your people. Secrets? Secrets are for those with shame. If your people do not know our tales it is because you have never asked. Come.”

  She reached down to offer […] her hand, lifted […] up onto the horse with easy strength, as if […] were the woman and she the man.

  “Where will we go?” […] asked.

  All around us the harsh, hot sands of the desert swirled, scouring skin, stinging eyes. Where could a people live in such a place as this?

  “We go to” [… she] said.

  At that point […] thought von Strann had left […] with a madwoman. […] thought myself in a delirium, […] thought…[…] cannot say exactly what […] thought. The idea was insane. But now […] know, for […] have seen it, and […] have seen the Book. It is the world that is insane.

  […] into the hills, many days. A range of mountains not on any map […]ever seen, impossibly rugged […] out of the mundane world entirely? […] know this region well and this was entirely unfamiliar. When […] asked of this, she merely laughed […] until we came to the camp. It was like a city in itself, a city made of tents and banners. Vast canopies of stitched-together hides soared high into the air and swept across it, more like circus tents or sails than the traditional Bedouin style, and more barbaric for they were not the multicolored textiles of the Arabs but rough hide. And as we drew closer still, […] saw that the great poles that held these intricate structures aloft, and which […] had, at a distance, taken for wood bleached purest white by desert sun, were in fact carved out of bone. Bone they were, or ivory but from what animal […] could not say for surely no creature alive today had bones or tusks the size of these great rods and staffs. […] knew that […] was looking at something unique, a way of life that should have died out millennia ago. […] shuddered in […] heart, for there was something that it brought to mind. The tents and banners seemed for all the world like the heraldry of some great medieval army gathering to do battle. A grim heraldry the color of dust and leather.

  The headman looked at […] with her penetrating eyes and said, as if she had read […] very thoughts:

  “Do not fear us, habiru. We walk between the curses of the Lord and in the shadow of his Enemy, but we kneel to neither. Their war is not ours. Not yet.”

  The Stranger in the Mirror

  “Jack,” says von Strann.

  He exhales a plume of formless smoke with this quiet mutter, just this single word under his breath, but it's as if that word has punched a hole right through the cloud, shattering it into shapes, into folding furls of curling worlds, and the smoke is black against the white of the room instead of white against the darkness. Carter staggers back, one of von Strann's prints flapping against his hand—a negative image, no, an image seen in negative—as he bats at the smoke unwhirling around him, drifting into lines and spirals, sigils carved in the flesh of human skin, scars inked with Siddim ink in the earliest days, the days of those men and women standing round him now, stories written on their skins, their loves, their losses, how they lived and died. And the same story is told in him, a vein in his arm a root of a tree, the power of oxen in a shoulder blade, the dart
of a fish in a curve of muscle, swoop of a flock in the whorl of a fingerprint, one groove of it turning like the stars beneath his feet, stars falling like grains of corn down into blades of grass between his toes, like drops of rainfall from above, and the ripple from the drip of a word splashing into water, flashing like light on water, spreading out into everything around him.

  “Jack.”

  Jack leans over the sink, looking at the image of a stranger in the mirror, a doppelganger with the same history but with a million other histories to boot. The world is normal now, and it'll never be normal again. It'll just be vellum and ink, and him as a fucking scratch, a blot on the page. He pulls his shirt closed over the scars across his chest, starts to button it up. Von Strann—Reinhardt, Reynard, whatever his fucking name is—stubs the cigarette out on the table. Tamuz sits on the edge of the bed. Thomas, thinks Jack. He can't look at the boy now without seeing that other face, without seeing his own hands on the smooth throat, grabbing dog tags, soft hair brushing across his naked chest, that face looking up at him as Puck uses his stomach as pillow and Jack flicks a finger at a horn; Christ, he can see the boy now with iridescent wings stretched out across the grass, eyes like a cat and bright green hair.