“Who could have known our route?” Eusebio asked. “Or the timing of our journey?”
Mateo touched the hilt of his sword. “Perhaps we had a spy among us.”
“One of us?” Renato asked in disbelief.
“One of our missing brothers,” Mateo suggested. “Gaetano or Uberto. Maybe both. And what became of Ludovico?”
“Ignacio’s face — none of our brothers could inflict such monstrous wounds!” Renato said.
“Nor do men simply walk off into the desert without horses,” Eusebio added.
An unnatural hush had fallen across the desert floor. To the east, the dunes were barely discernible in the darkness. The night air, though cool, lay heavy with the anticipation of the impending encounter. Mateo could feel it.
“Check your swords!” he said. “Perhaps our brothers were met by someone with horses.”
“Gaetano and Uberto disappeared in the middle of a duststorm,” Eusebio replied. “Hardly a place for a rendezvous.”
“And Ludovico?”
“The night is like pitch!” Renato said. “How far could anyone go?”
“Cut the ropes and drop the tent poles,” Mateo ordered.
Even as Eusebio acted, he said with vehemence, “Whatever did this to Ignacio is not human, Mateo.”
“What are you saying?”
A bright flash illuminated the dunes on the eastern horizon, and a low rumbling rolled across the sky. A few seconds later came another, brighter flash, followed by a loud clap of thunder.
“I don’t like the looks of that,” Renato said. “We are too exposed here. These electrical storms can be extremely violent.”
“This whole thing is Satanic,” Eusebio said. “First we lose Gaetano and Uberto; you yourself said they should have survived the sandstorm. Then Ludovico. Now Ignacio. And what about the horses? What could cause such things?”
“Does the Church not have enough enemies without dredging up fanciful ones, Eusebio?”
“Mateo, listen to me, please! Whatever is out there … is not human! Perhaps not even of this world.”
“What, then?”
A brilliant flash lit the sky, and for a brief moment Eusebio could read the scepticism in Mateo’s face.
“I believe it’s supernatural,” Eusebio yelled above the thunder.
“The Devil? Demons?” Mateo exclaimed. “Then you had better gather up your faith and your sword, because here they come!” He pointed across the horizon, but neither Renato nor Eusebio could see anything.
A lightning strike behind the dunes cast the desert floor in an unnatural blue light. It lasted barely a second, but it was time enough for the men to see several silhouettes approaching from the east.
“These are men,” Mateo shouted. “Not the powers of Darkness; not the ghosts of the Saracen dead come back to haunt us! If you do not—”
A deafening burst of thunder drowned out the rest of Mateo’s words. Behind him, the horses, rearing and crying in blind terror, snapped their tethers. They stampeded past Mateo, who narrowly avoided being trampled by one.
“You are stiff-necked, Mateo,” Eusebio said. “Your unbelief in these things may doom us all!
“My personal convictions are not on trial here,” he replied.
For a scant second, the night was torn open by a dazzling burst of energy, revealing a dark shape crouching near Eusebio. Renato had no time for his eyes to readjust to the blue-blackness. He ran in the direction of the invisible enemy, its transient image flickering in his confused mind. Had he seen the glint of a scimitar, the peak-domed helmet of a twelfth-century Saracen warrior? He swung blindly and repeatedly until his sword sank into something firm.
Another fleeting blaze of light...but now he could see nothing apart from the continual sea of sand rolling away toward to the dunes. Between the crashes of thunder he could hear the battle cries of his brothers, both of them chopping wildly at the darkness.
Eusebio had cut down three of the marauders in the gloom, but he had yet to get a good look at what he was fighting. Whatever they were, they were solid enough to fall before the blade. But how many more were out there? How long could he continue to fight in the darkness?
He gripped the sweaty hilt of his sword, poised to swing, straining his ears to interpret the shufflings in the sand around him. Atop the dunes, three lightning strikes in swift succession revealed a huge shape looming over him. He felt the sudden pressure of its lunge, and then the wetness of his internals being poured out.
Renato shrieked in terror. He had seen Eusebio being torn apart...as well as what had done it. Grey. Malformed. A filthy corpse leaking sand onto the desert floor. “Not like us,” he raved. “Not like us!”
He stood fixed for a moment, shaking, before charging in the direction of the attacker. Before he was halfway there something knocked him to his feet. He rolled over in the sand and tried to fend it off with his upraised sword, but the arm that brandished the blade was severed at the elbow. His mouth sprung open in pain, but a deafening peel of thunder obliterated the scream.
Renato felt himself weighed down by intense pressure, sinking into a dry abyss with the sand pouring in after him...burying his nose and mouth. He struggled for air before allowing the darkness to overtake him.
“Renato,” Mateo called in a hushed tone. “Eusebio. Are you there?”
A massive discharge of electrical energy shot into the desert floor not far from Mateo. Too close, he thought, staggering through a field of red and purple spots.
He had lost count of the number of invaders he had destroyed. He knew that at first light he’d find the desert floor littered with their bodies. Were they Saracens? And was that the last of them?
No. Something was moving toward him. He could feel it drawing closer. He raised his sword, tightly gripped in both hands. He took a slow, deep breath and held it until he thought his chest would burst open.
When it came out of the darkness he swung at it so hard the exertion forced all the wind from his lungs. The thing made a heavy thump as it fell to the sand. He couldn’t make it out, but whatever it was, he had cut it in two at mid-thorax.
The sky overhead flickered brightly several times. Mateo turned about, scanning the area for several hundred paces in every direction. To his relief, nothing moved out there now. To his shock, the desert floor was not littered with dead bodies. He could see three, at most, not far from him.
Abruptly, he was knocked to his feet by a powerful blast that threw the world into a white haze. He tried to stand, but he was overcome by a wave of dizziness making him drop again. He wiped the sand from his face and realised his forehead was bleeding.
Above him the electrically-charged sky continued to flare. Mateo could feel the static building in the air, and he dropped to his stomach. He did not want to die this way...waiting to be roasted to death while cowering in the dirt. He lifted his head and swallowed hard. Not a pleasant or even an honourable way to die.
Two seconds later came another jarring blast, not as close this time, but close enough to send electric ants scurrying down his arms and legs. The sensation was followed by a bitter chill washing over his body, for during the dazzling illumination of the second lightning strike, he had seen something rising up from the sand; something far removed from the world of men: a huge dark mass, as wide as it was tall, lumbering across the desert toward him.
Despite the darkness, Mateo knew it was coming for him; and each time an electrical discharge starkly illuminated the landscape, the thing was nearer. He caught himself praying aloud to be struck by lightning, for the thought of being electrocuted suddenly became far more appealing when compared to waiting for this unknown terror. Unexpectedly, he remembered something he’d read long ago, but dimly, as though from another life; something about a God constantly tested by his people in the desert: They have displeased me by their unbelief, so they shall become spoil and plunder for their enemies.
Swift on the heels of this vague memory came a sorrowful realisation
— and with realisation came resignation. He was to die this night, he thought bitterly. Here in the wilderness. Did it matter now whether he would be electrocuted in the storm, or torn apart by an unseen horror — one which had probably existed in the desert for centuries?
A brilliant burst of energy, a half a league away, silhouetted the hideous creature closing in upon him. Mateo dropped his face into the sand and covered his head with his hands. Another electrical discharge exploded just feet away from him, releasing a deafening concussion and bringing an abrupt end to his thoughts.
****
Human knowledge has always been limited to what can be measured with the physical senses, to what man can define by his intellect, thought Mateo as he hurriedly buried his fallen comrades. It had taken him at least an hour after the storm dissipated to recover his shattered wits, but the moment he had, he had begun scooping a shallow grave out of the sand. Time, he knew, was not on his side, so he was relieved to finish the task before the first rays of sunlight broke across the dunes.
He packed up only the things most crucial to his survival. His chances of making it out of the desert on foot were marginal, at best, but if he didn’t travel light he’d have no chance at all.
And who would believe his tale? Certainly not the sober council awaiting him in Rome. No, he thought, there will be a long inquisition upon my return. It will not be easy.
He picked up his sword and approached the crystalline monolith rising from the sand; a grotesque monument to the hellish thing that had been stalking them. Whatever it had been, it wasn’t human. Not Saracen; not anything even remotely natural. There were far too many extremities, for one thing — and where there should have been a head, there was only a dense cluster of appendages. Even hunched over, it stood more than eight feet tall.
Had it been a demon taking shape in the dust? He couldn’t be sure. Whatever it had been, it was now only a misshapen mound of sand fused to glass by a bolt of lightning striking the desert floor.
He avoided touching it. Something about the slickness of its milky surface repulsed him. And beneath its cloudy shell there were dark patches of shadow stirring.
Mateo kicked it with the heel of his boot, toppling the translucent mass to the desert floor. The glazed surface crumbled. Inside, it was still mostly packed sand. For a moment he considered removing a chunk of the dark glass. Perhaps one of the broken appendages. Such a bizarre souvenir might be sufficient evidence to acquit him with even the greatest of scoffers in Rome.
Men will always seek after proof of the things they cannot see or understand; the bizarre and unexplainable things existing just outside the realm of the possible, or the probable. But such proof often comes at a terrible price.
Mateo sheathed his sword and turned away from the monstrosity. Civilization and sanity lay many leagues beyond the horizon, and the day would soon be growing hot. He picked up his food and water and contemplated his impossible walk across the dunes. Who could know for certain, he mused. Perhaps he would find one of the lost horses.
He began walking in the general direction of Damascus, leaving behind him the toppled monolith to be covered up by the windblown sand; to be reclaimed by the desert.
****
begin with water
Sharon Irwin
The man wanted her, but he still haggled over her price for most of the morning, sometimes pretending to lose interest and walk away only to return and push his dirty fingers under the few pieces of clothing she had been allowed and make crude comments about her beauty. Finally, spitting and slapping hands and shoulders, he had agreed with the slavers on her worth. The amount was pitiful. She watched them pour the coins from one purse into another and turned her face away from the insult, swirling around, taking in all the faces, every detail of the marketplace.
Since she had been stolen from the pool, she had been forced to breathe the stench of death riding the wind and settling into the grains of sand and the fabric of her clothing. Here in the marketplace it was particularly cloying. The bazaar was only a withered husk of its former vigour. The food stalls were few and widely spaced. They promised to be small islands of nourishment in a sea of sand, but closer inspection showed they had only wizened fruit, shrivelled roots, and rancid meat to offer. The open bags of grain were contaminated with rodent droppings and the dried up shells of dead insects. The breath from the traders and their beasts smelled as if their lungs were lined with excrement. They held perfumed cloths to their faces. Scented rags hung off every tent post. Spice burners also competed with the stench, but even they smelled wrong — as if there was nothing pure to burn anymore.
The man she had been sold to was hung with thick jelly-like fat beneath his robes. She felt it when he rubbed up against her. She felt a rush of nausea at the thought of how much of this rotting food it took to sustain his girth.
He leered at her as she pirouetted in a slow circle.
“Not half right in the head, is she?” he said.
“What does it matter?” said the slave-master. “All women are trouble.” She came to a halt facing him and regarded him in silence. His lie hung on the still air, adding to the stench of the decaying world. Did this slaver even know he lied? she wondered. Was there some part of him that longed to acknowledge the truth, to speak it, to sing it? He could not suffer her stare. Turning away from her, he rotated a finger near his head to indicate her madness. Then he brought his hand down to clasp it to his belly, his features stiffening into a mask of denial and fear of the unknown disease gnawing at his insides. She knew he had been feeling sick since he had captured her. She had seen the darkness spreading beneath his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks growing deeper every day. She knew what was wrong with him, knew how he could be healed — but also knew he would listen to nothing she said. Yet, she decided to make the offer now, before it was too late and he was beyond her assistance.
She plucked the pale violet flower caught in her sandal strap and stretched out her hand indicating he should take it. The flower should have been dead by now but at night she allowed the dew that beaded on her skin to feed it. In that way she had kept it alive since the pool. The desert had ceased offering up its beauty in flowers a long time ago.
The slaver gave the flower scant respect. He rumpled up his forehead in a mockery of confusion and flicked the flower out of her hand with the side of his. It swirled up into the air and descended to get lost in the muddle of donkeys and camels, traders and slaves.
“Come on.” The fat man who had bought her thumped his elbow into her back, disturbing her concentration. She moved to retrieve the flower, to return it to the safety of her person, but he slid his hand down her arm and onto her wrist. Then he dragged her after him. Anger, white and furious, raged within her; an urge to throw herself upon him and bite and claw until his blood flowed into the dry sand. She swallowed it down, placing a hand upon her stomach, taking comfort in the act, calming herself.
“Hush now,” she whispered. “Not yet.” Her new owner, thinking she was talking to herself, laughed with delight at the craziness of his new slave.
He brought her to the women’s quarters. Forty of his wives and concubines lived there. Bound to him alone, they were fretful-eyed and anxious, their minds bent under the weight of a thousand petty squabbles. At first they all hated her. They could only see her violet eyes, her straight nose and clear skin, her beauty eclipsing theirs like the Sun chasing the stars before it. But then they came to realise how much comfort she carried in her slender frame. They came to her and sat at her feet, their faces buried in her lap and their shoulders heaving with sorrow while she stroked their hair until their tears stopped. All the women cried. They cried when they first arrived and cried when they aged and were sent away to die. They cried at the pain of childbirth and when the futures of their children were taken from them. And when these women laughed there was no joy in it. She hated the sound of their laughter and the way they laughed at what should have broken their hearts in pieces.
They asked for her name but she wouldn’t tell them. She would only laugh when they pressed her. She shook her head so her long black hair waved and danced as if there were a breeze. They could not stand for her being nameless; it made them shiver, they complained, so they made one up. Alluna, because she was as beautiful as the Moon. She liked the name that was not her name. The women were insightful, which made it all the stranger that they allowed themselves to be bred like animals.
At night he sent only for her. The women were grateful she took their place in his bed. She would return tired and wasted, her back sore from the weight of him, her legs aching and her skin stinking from his mouth.
She would be as quiet as she could, but always someone would hear her footsteps and rise out of bed to greet her. There was no water to spare for washing, but they would dip cloths into perfumed oil and help to scrub at her skin until the scent of him was gone. Some would pour the oil directly into her hair, and cleanse every rib with careful fingers until she smelled only of women and perfume and despair. Sometimes they would cry, and their tears would wake the seeds, and she would have to hush them back to sleep. The women, thinking she was losing her mind, would cry all the harder for her, but Alluna hadn’t failed to notice the relief on their faces as night after night she was hauled off to lie under him. No one cried for her then. They accepted it for her as her lot, as a woman’s lot, a fate they did nothing to escape. The women’s weakness and despair harmonized with the anger and hatred of the men. Alluna was weary of them all.
****
She made her decision. She was ready. Now she only waited for the Moon.
It was Ebouline who rose to greet her the night she decided it was time. Ebouline helped her wash, her eyes black in the day-bright Moon; eyes as deep and dark as the drying wells heralding their doom as she wiped the rag into the crevices of Alluna’s skin. Something tore at Ebouline. Her head jerked oddly, once, twice, as if she fought the urge making her bend down and kiss Alluna on the cheek, and then lower, beneath her ear. Alluna leaned back and breathed in the scent of the woman, a scent so fragile it threatened to disperse on the wind and be no more. They all longed to touch her, the men and the women, to lean into her and wrap her around them. The women were gentle, their fingers tingling with reverence and timidity. The men thought they owned her and could take what they wanted. All were alike in that none of them asked Alluna what she wanted.
Dead Souls Page 6