The bedridden man’s hand suddenly clamped to his mouth as a shield, “What are you doing? Is that man sick? I can’t be around sick people. Get him out of here.”
There were further noises of settling the wounded man down; and at one point, Misling’s face was visible through the doorway a moment as he jaunted by to get water. Misling waved uncomfortably. It drew more reaction from the withered man as he hid his face, having recognized the tattoo of a Recorder.
“Don’t tell him my name. Get them both out. Are you listening to me? Don’t tell him my name.”
Sylhauna came to him in her ridiculous coat and looking tired, sallow and panicked. She sat on the floor by his bedside, opposite from the door and hidden from its view, trying to calm her breathing. As her adrenalin and momentum died down, she rubbed her eyes and took a bite from a fruit she held. They were each silent for a time; and though he likely didn’t notice, she was curling further into a ball as she sat trying to entirely shield herself from the sight of any who might come through the doorway.
“You’re still smelly.”
He drew in a long breath, “Why’d you bring a Recorder here? I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
She chewed again, the fruit crunching softly, “’s okay, he’s not good at it. Funny thing to worry about.”
“What happened to the other one?”
She hesitated, “A better worry. Where is Cristoffel?”
“Why?” Lennox coughed and laid his head against the mashed cushion again.
“Where is she? It’s important. Have you seen her since this morning?”
“Is he sick? I can’t be around sick people.”
“I asked you if you’d seen her.” Sylhauna lightly smacked Lennox’s hip to gain his attention to her question. When she did so, he turned angry eyes to her in reaction, an expression of ferocity.
“Don’t touch me!”
She drew back in fright, wincing like a whipped puppy accustomed to the beating, then took another bite from the fruit, pondering.
His voice was cold and direct, “What do you know about what’s happening out there? There were watchmen in tanks outside earlier, bullhorning something about Balcister and staying inside. I think they shot some people. And it smells like smoke. It’s smelled like smoke all night. Do you smell that?”
“I must be used to it.”
“What do you know about it, I said?” His tone tried to be commanding, perhaps recalling the way he used to sound before he was ill and withered and tied to yellowing linen. Yet his voice broke for lack of sufficient breath.
She turned her head up to face towards his eyes though he couldn’t see her, “I could have died tonight. A guy tried to jab me with something. Scary guy.”
“Is your friend sick? Some sort of plague breaking out? That’s why they’re shooting people; and you brought it to my sick bed?”
A pause when he didn’t acknowledge what she’d tried to tell him, “He isn’t sick.”
She examined the jumble of plaster miniatures laid alongside each other and stacked haphazardly on the dusty pine floor: elaborate buttresses and a decorative keystoned arch, an architectural wanoa humped over like a cat set to pounce, and elaborately crossed figures possibly from inset pieces such as might surround an elegant window high on an old building. She traced her finger along one of them to feel its cold texture against her skin.
“Well what happened? Do you not even know what’s going on out there? Are you that lost in your freaky little world that you don’t know what is going on when there are tanks in the street?”
She took another bite from the fruit and spoke softly, “Don’t yell at me.”
“What?!” He paused for an answer, which was not offered. Perhaps it wasn’t an answer he awaited, but rather respect or an assertion of strength. It was grotesque and sad, such harshness from his sick bed toward a girl only chewing her fruit and cowering from something that might sneak in from outside to kill them or steal their minds. She sat quietly, still afraid in her way.
“If it’s plague, you owe me aid. You’ll help me to a ferry and get me to your Cave City. You owe me for all I did for you. I’ll stay there till I get better. Fresh air. Get out of the city. That’s what you’ll do. It’s good you came. Get me away from her.” Lennox seemed to be transitioning his conversation to a monologue, satisfying himself with his plan for what she was to do for him. His voice even trailed as his thoughts went inward, having settled the matters.
“He wouldn’t like you.”
Lennox continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “Your Recorder person will have to help me to the ferry. I can’t walk more than a few steps without losing my wind. We’ll just leave at first light. Should be coming up shortly.”
“Lennox, have you seen her today?”
“Don’t need her. She doesn’t help me anyway. Wouldn’t help your friend either, if that’s what you’re doing here. Only wants to sit around staring at candles and statues and sit in the cemeteries. And she stares at me too.”
Sylhauna took his chatter as a negative and looked again to the plaster bits and pieces. He’d drawn himself into a darker thread though, one he suddenly in his spooling thoughts desired to pull.
“She stares at me.” His voice died off to silence as he appeared to decide at last she wasn’t the person with whom he wished to discuss the issue. Sylhauna waited awkwardly.
“Lennox, it isn’t safe to travel or even be outside.”
His eyes squinted; and his cheeks drew into a skull at his fury, “You’ll do what you’re told; and be glad of the chance. You’re not getting shed of me or your responsibilities. You’ll do what you’re told. You owe me. For all I did for you.”
Lennox appeared to start a lean forward again, to try and look more fierce and authoritarian than he might should he remain prone. The pain locked him into only a sort of seated position propped up by one elbow. His face paled even further in the exertion; and he locked eyes with her to complete the show.
“Everything you did.” She watched him, maybe waiting to see what emotion would swell up on his face, whether he believed what he was saying. After a moment of that, she stood up and scratched her cheek. Sylhauna tore off the last flesh of the fruit, watching him still. Then, she turned and left the room. He turned his head to direct an ear toward the doorway. When someone returned, it was Misling looking tired and disheveled.
“Lennox Weshire, is there something of importance you wish to preserve in the Record?”
He groaned a bit and turned his face away. When he’d thought better of his new circumstance, he peeked from behind his outstretched hand which shielded his face, then stuffed a folded pillow behind his back to support a seated position, motioning for the Recorder to come over and sit beside him.
When Misling was at his side, Lennox waved his pallid hands in front of the Recorder’s eyes as if shooing away scattering flies, “Can you stop that? I just want to talk to you. Just don’t remember all this. Can you stop it?”
Misling creased his forehead, “That is not how it works. This must be swift. Do you have something you wish to preserve?”
Dismissing that with a wave, “Forget that. She’s being funny. I need you to take me to the Cave City to get away from this plague. Thinking better of it now, we should start right away rather than wait till first light. That way there won’t be a lot of people on the ferry. Could be infected.”
Misling only watched, no reaction whatsoever. Seeing that was so, Lennox at last raised his voice a bit and pointed to a side closet, “I have some changes of clothing and towels in there you should pack. Might draw some water into a bottle as well, to chill my forehead on the trip up.”
When he found he’d still drawn no activity, he shouted, “Don’t just stare at me! I asked you to get started. Do what I’m telling you, I’ll explain it. Gather up the clothing and towels!”
There was a ceramic clap from the inner room possibly from near the terrace. It wasn’t clear what had sounded;
but the fellow’s reaction showed his nerves that it might be the person for whom Sylhauna waited.
“Start moving now, Recorder. There’s a satchel in the closet corner, maybe right inside on your left. Just start packing whatever’s in there. We can sort it out later. Stop staring at me; and get moving.”
The clapping sounded again, much like what a mog might sound like arriving onto the terrace. The withered man knew that and clearly thought it was so. Misling only watched him curiously, unaffected by the possible arrival. Suddenly, Lennox sealed his eyelids and threw his head back to weather a wave of pain and nausea. It drove his crown into the cherry headboard, pushing it back in a squeak as inexpertly crafted fixturing gave way to his force. There were muffled voices, conversing too low for them to understand yet clearly betraying a new voice.
“Don’t let her come near me.” Lennox at last opened round and spider-webbed eyes. He was stiffened and cold. The Recorder only watched and listened, yet with a slowly dawning solemnity. The wave of pain had not let up; and lines stood out on the fellow’s cheek as he clenched his teeth to bear it. A soft blue vein bulged from his right temple like the breathing of a lizard, inflating and dropping a number of times as he braced himself.
Whispering to secure his words from being overheard, “Take me to the Cave City. I can get better there. Sylhauna owes me that. They shot someone outside. Told somebody to get off the streets and go home; and I couldn’t understand what the others said back. I’m talking about watchmen; and they shot somebody for not going inside. It’s plague. And I’m attended by one who will murder me. You can’t let that be!”
“What have you done, Lennox Weshire?”
As voices ghosted from the inner room, Lennox shuddered, “Pack my towels.”
Misling stared; and the voices were louder. Lennox was cracking. After a moment, Misling turned to leave the room. The man in his sickbed started again to halt the Recorder’s departure.
“If you’d seen her cry in the corner, curled up and staring, you’d know what I know.”
Misling stopped.
“I never told her to squat in the corner.”
Misling squinted his eyes, though disgust would have been inappropriate and beyond his calling. He watched and listened. The withered man cast a worried glance towards his kitchen and rubbed his palm against a radiating forehead. He swallowed hard and tried to avoid the Recorder’s eyes, but decided at last to look directly into them because perhaps he wouldn’t get his help otherwise.
“I starved her and locked her up. And other things.” Lennox watched coffee brown eyes and hesitated. Misling gave nothing further.
“I’ve done worse. I’ve done much worse that I’m not going to talk about. And I can’t sit up without wetting myself and there are watchmen shooting people outside and it smells like smoke and awful things are happening and it’s coming back around to me. She’s going to murder me or stir something vile into my food. If you’re still a man, don’t let her near me. I’m so sorry for anything I did. Tell the Record I’m sorry for anything I did; but don’t let her near me. Pack my towels!”
Misling pulled away at last and turned from Lennox towards the voices behind him. He glanced only once back towards the withered man who kept up his urgency as the Recorder left the room, beckoning for aid.
“He’s cold.” A teenage girl with night black hair tied into a pony tail was knelt beside Sylhauna in the other room watching Ring. His face was not that of poor Bomar, not stretched in nightmare fashion or betraying a tortured trance. He was however bleeding and swelling and was rattling off a continuous stream of words in another language without addressing anyone, like something rehearsed or memorized beforehand.
The vortex engine of her mog was still coasting down, sounding much like a far off lonesome train speeding into the distant country. Cristoffel was shorter than Sylhauna and was caked on her arms and fingers with dried latex. Hanging loosely from a canvas toolbelt on her waist were a score of fresh rubber molds. Misling absorbed her appearance and demeanor, trying to align what he’d heard from Lennox with what he was now seeing. She only glanced up at him, then away again when she saw his tattoo. It was an instinct. Sylhauna leaned closely in to Ring’s face to the point where her eyes were only a finger’s width from his own.
“The other fellow was in some sort of trance. They said it was liquid computers. Do you know how to break liquid computers?”
Cristoffel only looked at Sylhauna without saying anything, then stood and withdrew a syringe from a well stocked nursing kit atop a rolling shelf. She jammed the needle into one of a series of neatly organized packets in the kit and drew into the syringe a viscous gray fluid which she in turn injected into the side of Ring’s neck. A tiny drop of bright red blood swelled up, then trickled down his neck.
Sylhauna tried again, “Liquid computers?”
Cristoffel shook her head, “Bone maintenance and for the swelling.”
“Is he going crazy right now?”
The quiet brunette shrugged, “’Hauna, I have no idea. What are you doing here?”
“I was doing what I’m supposed to do, fruit and biscuits. Just fruit and biscuits and no dairy. Then he said I had to go with them because they’re going to turn the world upside down. But then Balcister blew up and he-” She pointed at Misling as if he were a piece of furniture. “-he had to go find somebody with a cool blimp because he could be dying. And then the crazy street guy said he was going to make us nuts and Bomar’s face was all stretched out. Then the Red Witch guy beat the crap out of him. And they tried to stick me with the stuff; but I bounced his head off the road.”
Cristoffel’s expression was that of irritation, “Gibberish. And who is he?”
“Like we know!”
At that, the new arrival shook her head, “You shouldn’t have come here. You’ll just upset Lennox.”
“Yeah. We did that. We need a place to crash, though. Weren’t you listening?”
Misling stepped to the terrace to view the foggy streets, still misted and fuzzy in the smokey yellow lamp light. His motion caught Cristoffel’s eye; but she caught something else just out of sight and looked away as if she’d seen something.
“Weren’t there four of you?”
Sylhauna shook her head no; and Cristoffel just let it go, “Who did that to him?”
Sylhauna only watched, “If he goes to sleep, he goes crazy. Most people can’t do that; but he’s special or something. Can’t go to sleep. Ever. Till you fix it.”
Cristoffel clearly thought nothing of Sylhauna’s response, perhaps accustomed to nonsense from her, “Shouldn’t you have taken him to a hospital?”
Sylhauna showed disgust and impatience, “What if we were waiting in the crowded hospital surrounded by…hurt people and everybody was moaning and crying and looking for their brothers and wives and everything…and maybe somebody there in a big droopy hat or a mask chains all the doors and starts shooting…or even he gets a doctor and he’s laying down on the table to be worked on and then…the doctor looks down at him right before he puts him to sleep and starts…laughing with an evil laugh. That’s no good. You fix him.”
It was then the bullhorns sounded again, an amplified watchman’s voice backed by the machine hum and clanking of urban riot tanks rolling through the street below. There were too many echoes and too much muffling to comprehend what was said; but it had the sound and feel of a siege.
Each of them but for Ring quieted and only breathed silently. They waited and watched one another with fright in their eyes, each unwilling to make the sound that might draw attention to them there, huddled in the second floor room with the lights on and the terrace wide open. Cristoffel placed a hand on Ring’s chest to try and quiet him. The metallic screech of the tanks was getting louder; and the patrol was apparently headed in their direction, perhaps even below them. Misling was still at the window but had stepped back a pace, shrouding himself from view such that only a soft wrap of pastel light bathed half his face st
opping at his long nose.
Cristoffel leaned into Ring’s face to whisper, “What happened to you?”
He licked his lips and locked eyes with her, motioning to the syringe she’d just used on him, “This stuff…how long does it take?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never used it. You need real help. What happened?”
He smacked himself in the forehead a few times and rubbed his eyes harshly, “I can…I can only make out every few words you’re saying here; but I can tell you’re nice. Don’t take me to a hospital. Not now. Just don’t let me black out.”
He was trying to keep a lock on her eyes; but something kept drawing his own eyes away, like he was being summoned harshly by a cruel taskmaster just beyond her. Something cold and dark was drawing him inward; and he was fighting it and losing.
Tearing Down The Statues Page 18