“You get the parchment,” she says challengingly.
“Sabetha, I was joking. We’ll get some local chyldrin.”
“We can’t risk someone questioning the messages authenticity due to weak blood. It will have to be mine.”
I try to laugh it off but my tone becomes annoyed and persistent, “There are too many of us.”
She is softly forceful in her tone, “Delano. You have neither a choice, nor a say. It’s my family too. Now unless you have a better idea…”
I grit my teeth.
Corey. Where to start… Corey is a scabby old hermit who lives in the foundation of an apartment building owned by his mother, so I guess you could say he’s still living in his parent’s basement. His passion is information and secrets; all types of information, and all types of secrets. We come upon his building in an ilk section of town. The brick exterior makes it unidentifiable from the next except for a strange blue glow of kharma, bright enough that even a sensitive undarkened might notice something odd about the building while passing by.
I open the front door and walk into the foyer. Sabetha buzzes the lowest button and a voice answers almost immediately. Through the intercom, which is old and crackly, it’s hard to understand just how gravelly Corey’s voice is. That terrible exhale of his; that tar coated bronchial chuckle which comes out more like a gurgley gasp than laughter. “Waddaya want?” It sounds like he has a throat full of goo and I can’t help but cough and clear my own.
“It’s Sabetha.”
Again, almost instantly, he buzzes the door open. I’ve been staring at a crow who sits outside the door on a low tree branch. It bobs up and down looking sideways at us. Before I go in, I press my middle finger to the glass in defiance of the bird’s presence. Over the intercom I hear Corey’s cackling laughter in response.
We travel downwards into the cold, unwelcoming basement. The air stinks of mold and decay. Nicotine cases the walls so thickly it could be scraped off and smoked again. Passing an open wooden door, warped and cracked like Styrofoam, I see strands of cigarette smoke.
A fat woman between fifty-nine and sixty-two but looking seventy, with curlers in her hair and an old teal nightgown, lays wilted on a brown sofa. Her mass spills over itself, the sweat-stained and soiled robe visibly lined with folds of fat. A cigarette burns in her mouth and a television casts black and white light onto her blank stare. Her skin is pale, and face sunken and deeply wrinkled. The smell of her body, nearly as pungent as the menthol soaked room, drifts as far as the street. Her lips, hands, cuticles and scalp are dry, cracked and flaking. Ashes from cigarettes cover her and her furniture like dead snow.
She begins to turn her head so slowly that I wonder if she is going to look in our direction or if it is merely to drive the stiffness from her neck. With her head trembling slightly in effort, her sagging features make the turn from profile to direct. The erratic light from the television enhances the deadness in her eyes and her drooping lips reveals a row of rotted and jagged teeth. Indifferent to us, Corey’s mother slowly turns back to her program.
As a receiver of emotions, thoughts, and anything else floating around in the collective consciousness, I cannot help but see glimpses of this woman’s life. Her pain is so powerful and her fall from happiness so staggering that I cannot block it out. A veritable tornado of negativity surrounds her. She will die without dignity in abject misery and longing.
Such is the life of a darkened ilk.
Sabetha and I move to the door at the end of the hallway. It is perpendicular to the first and more solid. Sabetha knocks, then grips the handle and twists it. The knob clacks and clicks, the screws loose and the lock otherwise mechanically inferior. The door’s path inward is resisted by debris on the floor but is still opened to a full breadth. A column of putrid air escapes with a hot belch from the belly of the room. Amongst the mold and filth, the stench of excrement – both human and animal – is particularly potent.
I stand behind Sabetha who drapes herself in the doorway. She smiles into the darkness. “Corey?” she ventures, almost provocatively.
That terrible gasp comes again but this time un-muted by the intercom which filtered out the liquidity of his voice. “Yeah. Come on in.” It sounds like large chunks of mucus are rattling just behind his tongue and thick bubbles are forming in his mouth as he speaks to us.
Birds remain silent and still in the darkness all around us. Newspapers, soaked with their filth, provide a soggy carpet underfoot. Corey lets out a torrent of coughs, having not spoken this much in some time, I imagine. He sits in a swivel chair with flannel patchwork coverings barely containing the foam that oozes out of the frayed stitching. A network of boxy video monitors hangs from supports in the wall and ceiling. Blue light from the screens illuminates his cancerous features and brown toothed and bloody-gummed grin. Like most every ilk in Gothica, Corey has deep black circles under his eyes, but his are in different orbits, offset by about five and half degrees blank and neither one ever looks at you.
He swivels to face Sabetha and ignores me. “It’s ok,” he says after undressing Sabetha with his lazy eyes.
She speaks cordially to him. “I’m sorry. We didn’t apologize for coming unexpectedly.”
“I was talking to the birds,” he replies, then cocks his head unnaturally and continues. “They’re apprehensive of you.”
The birds suddenly begin to squawk wildly as they reveal their presence openly to us. Like a lighting cue from off stage, the birds lining the walls of the room illuminate themselves and flap their wings, tossing feathers into the air. The black daggers float lazily to the floor, a multi-angled sheen of light reflecting off each glossy surface. They calm when Corey raises his hand.
“You know crows were once gray, stupid and fat.”
I resist the urge to make a pot/kettle comparison.
“But the kharma darkened them and they became beautiful and sleek, unseen but all knowing. Did you know that there is nearly three ilk for every crow in Gothica?” He sneers. “Of course you did.”
In a startling contrast to Corey’s, Sabetha’s honey smooth voice slips through the air. “We need your help.”
Corey makes a noise which I can only assume is an invitation for her to continue.
“We will need the use of your associates to spread a message. It is of great importance.”
“Heh, competitors of information coming to me? Must be important.”
“You’re not the only guy in town, Corey.” I try to sound tough but it comes off as juvenile, and it only makes me madder to have to grovel before him.
He twitches as if trying to find me with his ears. “What’s the message, and who‘s it to?”
“We’ll give you the parchment and a list of people and addresses. Can you do it?”
“What’s in it for me?”
I answer. “A Secret.”
His stomach tightens with sweet apprehension and he leans forward. The chair, disapproving of his movements, lets out an audible creak. “Tell me,” he says quickly, short of breath.
“There’s a second route into Salt Town.”
He scoffs. “Everyone knows that. No one’s stupid enough to take it. I need a real secret.”
“They don’t know this route.” I’m not bluffing and he can tell.
He turns back to Sabetha and looks her up and down, clearly excited by this fortunate turn of events. I speak again, pressuring him before he can ask for more. Unfortunately it is hard to hide the urgency of our predicament. “Do we have a deal?”
“How many people need it?”
“Three hundred and five.”
He begins laughing which is almost instantly turned into unstable coughing. We wait impatiently for him to regain himself. “Three hundred, eh?” He pauses with a devilish look in his drooping eyes. “I’m gonna need something more. A favor.”
Coldly, and withholding a great amount of apprehension, I reply. “Name it.”
“I have some… friends who have fall
en on hard times. I want their homes and businesses in my pocket.”
“Never took you for a philanthropist.”
“Hardly,” he replies. “A roach in Solthweros, a Chicken Bucket, and a photography shop.”
Internally, I let out a sigh; he’s asking for bird feed – pardon the pun. Nevertheless, I play it nervously. “Solthweros? That’s Cassandra’s territory. You’d have to talk to her.”
“And ten-thousand dollars,” he adds greedily. “Cash.” Corey scribbles some addresses down on a piece of paper, crumples it up, and tosses it to me. I open up the paper and look at the places he wants the deeds to. With a painfully theatrical look of dejection, I turn back to him. “Deal.”
“We will be back in three night’s time,” Sabetha says.
“We’ll be waiting,” Corey smiles.
Eleven
Sabetha drives while I sit, contemplating the long ritual ahead of her.
“I’ll be ok Del,” she tries to reassure me.
“Why three nights?” I ask.
“You and I both know we can’t risk any more time than that.”
“It’s not enough.”
“Look, I know what I’m doing.” She pauses trying to shift the mood. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’ll be all the stronger once I recover.”
While her abilities will probably increase if she survives, there is a serious danger in her cycling so much blood through her body while performing a will-breaking ritual three hundred times.
“Just keep the ilk coming. It’ll be like an all you can eat contest.”
I silently brood for the next few minutes but shortly realize her sacrifice is not just for me, but for all the sentiners in Gothica. Finally I break the silence as we near the safe house. “I’ll call a hospital.”
Red scroll is the end result of an ancient ritual. It was performed sometime in the years of the old Faction-Republic, before conglomeratic commercetocracy became the ruling system. Chyldrin used magically encrypted messages written in their own blood to communicate clandestinely. At the time it was necessary; supernaturals were being hunted by the government and church puritanists, but since then, it has fallen out of the collective memory. Luckily though, sentiners remember it and, more importantly, can decipher it.
With the help of Nigel’s records, we make a list of what we’ll need for the ritual. Naturally, it’s an assortment of rare and mystical ingredients; crushed bat testicles and shit like that, so we draw straws to see who has to get what. I get the short one, but I guess it makes up for Sabetha having to risk her life for the ritual itself. My portion of the list will take me to West Gothica to find the majority of the items while Sabetha will head into South Gothica for the one ingredient we may not be able to obtain.
And just because I’m a nice brother I let her take Rolla. For my noble sacrifice I treat myself to an affair with a voluptuous red head. Betha drops me off on the street corner and waves goodbye. “Stay safe,” she says. “And remember… you’ve got one day.”
“You too,” I reply and then turn to face my new ride. I run my hands over her smooth sleek lines before taking a seat and twisting the key, letting her purr to life. Her v12 engine roars and her long sleek nose rises proudly into the air as we head for West Gothica.
†Sabetha †
He can be such a buffoon sometimes. Although, as I pass through the intersections, I am reminded of his hand’s absence on my shoulder, warning me about the cross-traffic. I wonder if you can be reminded of the absence of something, or is it more like the expectation is unfulfilled? Wow. What was that? I must really be taking all of this to heart if I’m slipping into such existential non-sense. Put it out of your mind Betha, focus.
Dear god I hate Central sometimes. So monotonous. Everything is the same around here. Warehouse, warehouse, warehouse, strip club, warehouse, convenient store, gas station, warehouse, vacant lot, garage, condemned warehouse… If only I could recall a time when I peered at these brick and glass grids, these dreadful square lines, interrupted only by the chaotic blemishes of broken windows, and saw something… I don’t know, interesting? – let alone beautiful. It has to be the mystery that’s lacking. The darkness holds no unknowns for me.
Instead of the darkness I suddenly have time as the unknown. How betrayed did I feel when that one turned on me after a thousand years. Why is the city so up in arms all of a sudden? And why angry at the sentiners of all people? It has to be some kind of mistake. I wonder what Delano thinks about it. I mean really thinks. He’s the king of suppressed feelings. With a couple hundred years of denial built up, not even I can get a read on what he thinks about all this.
What do I think about all this?
…Delano’s always going on and on about taking risks for fun, but not real risks. Real risks suck, especially the lingering, uncertain ones. This Sword of Delano-cles makes even the oldest, most familiar throne, the front seat of Rolla, feel lumpy. Focus Betha. Put it out of your mind. This isn’t some kind of game, either. I oughta know.
Think of something else. Corey. Ugh. Something else. The scenery has changed – that’ll do. South Gothica. There’s still some beauty left here, a little bit anyway. I guess West Gothica is the only place left with a little unknown to it. Sogot on the other hand is just a different kind of central. Instead of tenements it has row houses. Instead of warehouses it has abandoned factories. The factories, though, are unique. Each one has its own quirks. Each one has its own purpose and with that purpose comes utility, reflected in the architecture. On top of that, Sogot’s less densely populated than central so not every block is walled in, and not every street is straight. I like that. I like taking winding turns instead of just sharp corners.
Midnight comes and the night is full, and so is the moon stuck behind the cottony sky. It’s cool but the air is humid and dew is already collecting. Maybe it just rained. If Delano was here, I’d ask him…
Focus Betha.
†Delano †
Each of the four boroughs has its own distinct look. West Gothica, however, has always been a city unto itself. Geographically, it’s the largest borough, but demographically the second smallest, and it’s where the city got its name. West Gothica was built on what was once a mountain range. Bulldozers and dynamite rounded it off, but what remains is a hilly spine of bedrock more than half the length of Gothica, North to South. Rising up from the rocks are an infinite number of churches. The buildings are so tightly packed together that their architecture interlocks and forms square miles of sloping peaks and flying buttresses. From the rooftops all you can see is an undulating forest of steeples, towers, and turrets. You can’t even see a street unless you’re on a ledge and looking straight down. As to why so many churches were built, and all right next to each other – there are only theories.
The churches and cathedrals form Upper City where the largest, undisturbed supernatural presence exists, many of the churches being homes to wealthy chyldrin and gazers.
But I’m not going to Upper City.
Far below the churches and even below the winding streets that weave through the cobblestone hills is a whole other submerged city full of narrow stone paths, markets and homes etched into the bedrock itself. In some places, the paths are only a shoulder’s width wide and a man’s height deep, while in others, they go down fifty-feet below street level. Occasionally, the walkways expand, opening up into plazas where vendors and peddlers sell their crafts, but for the most part it’s just gutters with bits of churches crisscrossing overhead. It is in these gutters, where the vast majority of the borough lives.
To go to Lower City is like going back in time; people pull carts full of goods behind them and dress in long drapery and eat off rock tables. It’s not for my taste really, but whenever you need to find something that you don’t think exists, you have a chance to find it in the markets of Guttertown.
Once I cross into West Gothica, I join the ranks of the elite few and the supremely stupid who drive the streets. One wrong turn and I
’m tumbling into a Lower City ditch or driving through the front doors of a church. Despite the danger, I push my new vehicle to her limits, throwing myself around the cab with needlessly dangerous stunts and last second turns. Finally I come to a suitable spot and slow down to find the best place to park.
There’s a wounded church just ahead. Half its side wall is missing and rain is pouring down the edges of the hole and into the interior like a waterfall. I slowly inch over the rubble, passing under the sheet of water, and nudging some pews out of the way with the bumper. Inside, and out of the rain, but most importantly, hidden from view, I marvel at the vehicle. Her sleek crimson aerodynamics dripping with water along with her modernity, make for an odd but visually pleasing juxtaposition against the ancient, dusty, pious apse. Above her is a blossoming flower of stained glass and it glows with the flash of distant lightning.
I grab some things out of the back seat and sling a bag over my shoulder, then push the remote button on my key chain. Now all I have to do is find a way down into Lower City without breaking my legs.
†Sabetha †
The old factory is dilapidated and sad looking, like it used to be a proud beast but all that’s left is a skeleton. Time seems to slip away as I make my way through the dirty interior, wandering the assembly lines in utter darkness. It’s eerie, but I enjoy it, pretending at any minute that a shift of men in overalls with grease stains on their cheeks will burst through the doors and work their craft on the machines.
“Israfel?” I whisper into the darkness. If he’s alive, he isn’t in here. I move on to another room. “Israfel? Israfel?” No answer. With my hopes beginning to weaken and the possibility of finding another raven by morning looking rather poor, I take a seat on a crate in the upper most storeroom. City light bathes the wooden boxes in pale yellow and I take a moment to look at my shadow and smooth my hair in the black silhouette.
A seductive male voice, full, deep and vibrant, speaks from the shadows. “If truth be vein and darkness bliss, then seal your fate with an ignorant kiss.” It was something I wrote once… Something I sang.
Manifest (The Darkening Trilogy) Page 9