The Nichan Smile

by C. J. Merwild

  Without making the slightest sound, Ero transformed himself, soon to be imitated by Mora. Domino felt that the slightest disturbance in the air would lead the dohor back to him. So he purposely walked in Ero’s footsteps, followed by his brother.

  A scream broke the silence. From the south. The three nichans stood still. Another scream, just as inhuman, this time from the north. Domino’s heart missed a beat, icy sweat cutting between his shoulder blades. A call crept through the vegetation, the voice of a nichan. Another. Then another. The calls came from all sides. A means to distract the creature.

  Creatures, Domino recalled.

  Being, as Ero had said, one of the dohors’ prey, his own group had to remain silent and undetected.

  If only Domino could master his transformation. He would have grown stronger, faster. But as the dohor’s cries continued to echo through the forest, he couldn’t even remember his brother’s instructions on how to proceed. Returning to their original form was no longer natural for nichans. Even though everyone knew how to metamorphose, this change required practice, both to invoke the nichan essence that coursed through their veins, and to endure the crushing frustration once the transformation refused to reach completion.

  But nothing. Domino could think of nothing but this monster defiling the corpse of this deer, banging the animal’s lifeless skull as it sought to pleasure itself.

  A knot circled his stomach. He was running out of air. If he was breathing too hard, would that thing find him faster?

  Mora’s clawed hand rested on Domino’s shoulder. If this was meant to calm Domino, it failed miserably.

  At the same moment, the scream tore the sky apart.

  The creature came out of nowhere amidst the distant cries of the nichans. As Ero stood in its way, protecting his nephews, Mora pushed his brother behind him. The Unaan charged and his claws sliced gray and black flesh repeatedly. On reflex, the dohor retreated, a huge mass of skeletal limbs. Even Ero looked small compared to this creature’s elongated figure. But the Unaan was fast and well trained. Unlike a traditional hunt in which the clan chief would have given a wild dog or a saurian time to lose blood and weaken, Ero didn’t waste a moment. The hunt could sometimes turn into a game. This was an execution.

  He charged at the monster, slashing diagonally, again and again, driving it away from Domino and Mora. The dohor’s whitish blood and flesh sprayed the trees, the ferns. But the creature didn’t give in. As if indifferent to the pain, it leaped in the air and caught up to the branches with its two arms.

  Domino took his eyes off the fight taking place in front of him. The dohor that had chased him, the dohor from the cave, had three arms. This dohor had marked him as a target, not the one Ero was now dealing with.

  “No . . . ” Domino sucked on a breath as he searched through the lines of trees for the second creature.

  Ero pulled with all his strength on the monster’s legs, and it let go of the branch and collapsed gracelessly. The nichan seized his chance. He knelt over the dohor, pinned it to the ground with his claws and knees, bent his head and ripped out its throat with his long teeth. Its flesh stretched in elastic strands, then snapped. More blood as filthy as pus gushed from the shredded throat of the dohor. After endless seconds, the creature’s bowed and splayed legs stopped shaking. Ero got up as Beïka and two other older nichans arrived on the scene. They immediately noticed the corpse at Ero’s feet. The Unaan generously spat out the blood staining his immense smile.

  “You got him,” Beïka congratulated him with a smile.

  His joy was short-lived.

  “There’s another one,” Mora said.

  “Domino, was it the one stalking you?” Ero asked through his fangs as he turned to him, but no answer came.

  Domino looked around and felt his brother’s hand—this time human—close on his wrist. “Domino, pull yourself together.”

  A new cry made them jump and transform. Domino spun around, bathed in sweat. His breathing stopped abruptly.

  A three-armed dohor. It charged at him. At Mora.

  No!

  Domino’s pulse came to a stop.

  People shouted his name over and over again.

  Someone pushed him.

  Then Domino’s vision blurred as a figure stood before him.

  He shivered from head to toe. His fingers, his feet and then the rest of his body burned. When the change in him occurred, nothing made sense. Not the sky, not the world. Even his name faded away.

  As if his body was breaking in two, Domino screamed.

  Then nothing.

  X I I I

  Whispers on the right. Three—no four heartbeats. Domino’s head hurt, heavier than ever. A hot, constant twinge in the left side of his skull. And a familiar numbness in the side of his right calf. For a moment he kept his eyes closed. He felt the blanket wrapped around his body, the softness of the mattress under his weight. He also recognized the smell of old wood and herbs from the infirmary.

  He decided to wake up completely.

  Two lamps were burning without a sound on either side of the headboard. Above Domino hung garlic cloves and juniper berries. With a painful but surmountable effort, he raised his head to look around. Gus was there, on his left, leaning against the enormous table of herbal preparations, staring at him with both dark and bright intensity.

  “He’s awake,” said a woman.

  In the opposite corner of the room were Ero, Orsa, and the clan herbalist, Muran. They all stood a good distance from the bed, looking cautious. Even Gus.

  “Can you hear me?” Ero asked in a softer voice than Domino was used to from his uncle.

  What a strange question. “Of course.”

  “Good. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. My head—” Running a hand over his cheek and jaw, he noticed the loose flesh of his earlobes. The large wooden jewels that stretched his skin were no longer there. Passing his index finger through this now empty hole, Domino lay still and tried to think. “Where are—”

  “Domino?”

  He gathered himself. “Did I faint?”

  Unintelligible voices came through the small window of the infirmary. One of them seemed to be sobbing. Ero sent Gus to close the window with a forceful glance. The boy obeyed without a word, every gesture tense.

  “Domino, are you all right?” Ero insisted once Gus settled in his original spot.

  Why was he asking again? Domino felt somewhat muddy, and his skull probably wore a nice bump or a cut—even though he couldn’t tell what was to blame for it. Apart from that, he was fairly fine. He’d been through worse. He repeated this to Ero, avoiding the innuendoes that would reproach his uncle of having once marked his face with a blade. It wasn’t the right time for this, for Domino sensed that something was wrong.

  He could see a shadow mask on the faces around him. “What’s wrong? I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Ero said.

  The Unaan approached Domino. Behind him, Orsa stirred and came closer as well.

  While Domino tried to put his memories in order, his uncle continued his interrogation. “Do you remember what happened during the hunt?”

  Immediately, the gravity of the situation resurfaced, and Domino straightened up on one elbow. He was taken by vertigo, his vision clouded for a moment, but he remained in that position.

  “Tell me it’s dead. Tell me you killed the other dohor.”

  It didn’t matter that his requests sounded more like orders than pleas. In his condition, Domino barely felt the tug that accompanied a nichan’s insubordination toward his leader. He needed to know.

  Even Ero made no bones about it. “It’s dead,” the man said. “But it was you who killed the second one.”

  “What?”

  “You killed it.”

  The teenager let out a breath full of stupor. He’d killed a dohor. It was hardly believable.

  “I did? Me?” Would his uncle lie about a point of such importance? “I don’t remember that. How did
I—”

  “You transformed,” Ero cut him off before pausing, as if to measure his words. “You’ve achieved a complete transformation.”

  “I . . . You . . . ”

  “You turned into a real nichan, the shape of our ancestors, right before our eyes. A pure blood.”

  Domino barely caught up with the useless question hanging from the tip of his tongue. By the Faces! He had done it. A complete transformation, from his human camouflage to his beastly form, the one that no nichan had managed to reach since the disappearance of the Gods. Not a single one of their kind—as far as they knew—in nearly two centuries had succeeded.

  Domino swallowed heavily and passed a hand over his face.

  He had succeeded. He had it in him.

  How could one believe in this transformation? He had no memory of it. He grabbed the blanket wrapped around his waist and lifted it up. No clothes. Had they been destroyed during his transformation? At that moment all of this seemed plausible.

  “I . . . I can’t believe it.” As he inspected his bare legs under the blanket, the twisted line of a scar on his calf attracted his attention.

  A scar . . .

  This one is new. This feel in my leg . . . Gus healed me.

  “You really don’t remember anything?” Ero insisted, forcing Domino out of his musing one more time.

  “I felt strange when the dohor jumped on us. I—Mora? The dohor didn’t touch him, right?”

  Behind his thick beard, Ero pursed his lips and breathed in and out slower than necessary. “First of all, you should know—” he began before his partner interrupted him.

  She handed him something. In the dark room, Domino recognized the twisted shape of a rope. With a shake of his head, Ero dismissed Orsa’s silent suggestion. On the other side of the infirmary, Gus stood imperceptibly. His pulse was now frantic.

  “Domino,” Ero said, “you should know that we saw the whole thing. Beïka, Anon, Garik, and me. It was an accident.”

  Domino’s heart took a turn for the worse. He wanted to sit up but was afraid he might fall out of bed. The room was spinning around him, and a burst of adrenaline rushed to his chest, tongue, and lips.

  “I don’t get it,” he said.

  “You saw the dohor, you transformed, and attacked it. But . . . your movements were messy. You could barely stand on your feet, as if you’d never learned to walk, like a child.”

  This time Domino sat up. He didn’t care where he’d throw up or which side of the bed he’d fall on if he lost his balance. He didn’t like this conversation at all. “Where’s Mora?”

  Silence. This one was heavier than the one in the forest just before the attack.

  Ero opened his mouth. “He’s dead.”

  Those words made no sense.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’m sorry, Domino. I told you. It was an accident. You deserve the truth. Beïka is devastated, and . . . I had to tell you before he did. His words wouldn’t have been so kind.”

  Still no sense.

  Domino turned to Gus. Gus wouldn’t lie to him. Gus would tell him it was all a lie. But his friend’s eyes suddenly expressed nothing but bottomless sorrow. He wasn’t crying, but his body, his stiffened muscles, his staggering breath, his hands clinging to the table he was leaning against . . . His whole being confirmed Ero’s revelations.

  “Where is Mora?” Domino asked him nonetheless, unable to pronounce any other words.

  Gus shook his head, jaw shut tight.

  That was too much. No one here was saying anything clear to him. No one was telling him what he needed to hear. Domino wanted to be told that Mora was fine, that he’d gone home after the hunt to tell Belma what had happened and to take care of his son.

  Belma.

  Natso.

  Mora.

  Domino left the infirmary bed and pushed his uncle’s hand away when the man tried to dissuade him. Domino was called repeatedly. He ignored the voices each time. Even his best friend’s. He’d apologize later. For now, he needed to talk to his brother. He needed to see Mora, desperately.

  He walked through the village square which, despite the late hour, was crowded with nichans. He ignored them too and ran to his brother’s house, holding the blanket that concealed his heavy legs in one hand. Mora had taught him to behave well, to thank people, to ask forgiveness, and also to knock on doors before entering someone’s house. Domino forgot all these rules, sliced through the crowd without worrying about the nichans he pushed, or those who suddenly retreated and jumped out of his path.

  Breathless, a dull rhythm constantly banging against his eardrums and bruised skull, Domino opened the door that blocked his way.

  Belma knelt in the middle of the dark room. The baby was asleep against her skin, in the folds of her tunic. Next to them, her great-grandmother prayed, also on her knees. In front of the two women were burning herbs and spices in the blaze, as well as candles whose pale wax would soon run out of their wicks.

  Candles reserved for the wake of the dead.

  Where is Mora? The words stuck in Domino’s throat.

  Belma turned to face the intruder. Her eyes were swollen, bloodshot. A strange emotion burdened her face as she recognized her partner’s brother. Without saying anything, Belma entrusted Natso to Dadou’s care and slowly got up. Unable to breathe, Domino looked for his lost words. Even before the shadow of a syllable came to his numb mind, a bitter slap crashed on his cheek. And another. And another.

  “You fucker! Fucker!”

  Belma screamed as she hit him, each slap more powerful than the last. Domino backed away step by step. Then, at the end of her tattooed forearm, Belma’s hand formed a fist. It met the teenager’s jaw, and he staggered and fell backwards, hitting the cobblestones, dropping his blanket. As he waited for the next blow to reach him, several nichans subdued the woman, but not the flow of insults.

  “You fucking monster! Fucker! You killed him! Why did you do that? Don’t you ever come near my son! Do you hear me? If you go near him, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you! You’re dead, Domino!”

  She burst into tears, and they took her home.

  Sprawled on the ground, Domino tried to get up. His legs didn’t respond to him anymore; his lungs filled and emptied at an alarming pace.

  Nichans surrounded him but remained out of reach.

  Mora.

  A sob came out of his throat. He no longer recognized the faces around him.

  Mora was dead.

  He was asked to calm down. He could no longer breathe. He grabbed his throat with both hands and squeezed to dislodge the pain festering under his skin

  He had killed Mora. He had—

  A mass hit the back of his skull. His vision swirled, turning the world upside down, then darkened.

  Gus saw the whole thing. Belma’s blows, Domino’s skin turning black, the shape of his back undulating, spreading the span of his shoulders, then Ero slamming his fist on the back of his nephew’s neck to knock him out. Everyone witnessed it. Once the teenager was unconscious, the clan chief picked up Domino, threw him on his shoulder like a sack of vegetables, and ordered his nichans to go home, stating that the situation was under control.

  This time Ero accepted the rope his partner offered him. Domino was laid in the infirmary and the tying began. Gus, who followed them closely, felt bile burning his stomach and a dull anger awakening in him.

  “No!” he cried, placing himself between the clan leader—mass of unshakeable muscles—and his unconscious friend.

  “Get out of my way,” Ero warned him.

  The sight of the rope in the nichan’s hands brought back memories Gus had been pushing away day after day for the past few years. He trembled from head to toe, as much in anger as in horror. Yet he kept his breath under control and didn’t look down. No way was he going to let Ero tie Domino up as he’d done with the human they’d massacred in the village square. Domino was one of them. He was a victim of circumstances the clan had never experienced b
efore. He wasn’t to be treated as a threat, or worse, as a criminal.

  “If he wakes up tied, he’s going to panic,” Gus said.

  He knew Domino better than anyone. This was a desperate situation. No one could have predicted how the boy would react to his most extreme emotions. He’d accidentally killed his brother, an act of such violence it had instantly put an end to Mora’s life. If Domino transformed again, would he be in full control of his strength? If not, who would be hurt? Who would be killed? No one could answer this question until it was too late. But one thing was certain: Domino needed to be reassured. He too was in mourning. To avoid another accident, it was necessary to calm his emotions, not exacerbate them. That rope would only make things worse.

  “Get the fuck out of my way,” Ero repeated, his face slowly turning grim. He seemed to have already come to the limits of his patience.

  But Gus pushed him to the other side, cold and inflexible to this man who had more than one means of pressure on him. He would defend his friend no matter what. “No.”

  Ero’s hand closed violently around Gus’s neck. He pushed the teenager against the wall. His wings and back slammed against the wood with a bang. Iron pots and jars full of plants fell from the shelves to Gus’s left.

  He couldn’t breathe. Ero was barely holding his strength.

  “You piece of shit!” The man bared his teeth, pressing the boy against the wall. “Do I need to remind you what you risk by challenging me?”

  Suffocating, his hands trying in vain to open the powerful fingers compressing his windpipe, Gus heard a familiar voice nearby.

  “Unaan Ero, I’ll take him out. He has no business being here.”

  Matta was here.

  Relief washed over Gus as air charged into his lungs in dry waves. The pressure around his throat dropped. He caught hold of what he could as his legs gave way under his weight. He felt a thick sheet between his fingers, then his right kneecap hit the floor, his wing rubbing against the wall as he lost his balance. Despite all this, despite the pain throbbing in his neck muscles, his anger was as strong as ever and his determination intact.