Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

by M. Scott Carter

  The relief, when it came, was like a wave breaking over me. I sank onto the bed, taking those glorious fumes into my lungs. It took only a minute before I was capable of turning onto my side to look Tom in the eye. However, it took far longer before I was willing to. When I did, it was to see him looking down on me with an expression I could not even begin to read. It might have been disappointment; it might have been pity.

  "I'm sorry Tom," I said.

  "I'm sorry too," he replied.

  I looked past him, where a mirror was fixed to the wall. My features, once those of a reasonably presentable thirty-six year old, were now almost unrecognisable. My skin was grey, my cheeks hollow, my eyes watery and rheumy. Tom seemed to read what I was thinking.

  "The men are starting to talk," he said. "I think some of them have guessed."

  I knew that he was right. I knew that this could not continue. "I need to do something," I said. "I need to find something else."

  "So, Captain Daniel Getty, Master of the Reliant. How is life on board, eh?"

  John Wellan's fake geniality made my skin crawl. A sweaty little man, pompous and pudgy, his contempt for me was so plain it was hardly worth his attempts to conceal it. As was mine for him.

  "Life is good," I answered. I did not meet his eye, though, looking instead over the surrounds of the harbour. The growth of the city was phenomenal: towering, bamboo-framed structures formed the scaffolds of forthcoming buildings, or in some cases, the buildings themselves, with new floors and walls seemingly appearing day by day. How they stayed up I could not even imagine, but somehow they did.

  "All set for the journey back?" he said.

  "We will be, soon enough."

  He nodded toward the quayside, where local traders had barrels of fresh water and cured meats stacked up ready for loading. "You should try to stock up this time," he said. "It's better than having to, ah, ration yourself, you know."

  Those words seemed loaded with meaning. I looked at him directly for the first time, to see his greasy little face looking back at me with a smug expression, as if he thought he knew something I didn't.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're looking a little thin, that's all," he said. "A little drawn. My men and I were remarking on it earlier. You should try to keep yourself fed. It's a good, ah, habit to get into."

  He knew. God only could say how, but he knew.

  "Your crew’s concern touches me, Captain Wellan,” I said. “Be sure to thank them for me, won't you? Once they’ve sailed you into last place again it may be the only thing you’ll thank them for."

  Then I turned my back to him and left, walking back to the quayside where the exchange of silver for tea was currently underway.

  "This isn't the full load, Captain," Matt Jarrow said when I reached him. As First Mate he was an asset to the ship, a Lancashire lad, confident and responsible far beyond his years.

  "How much are we short by?"

  "Five hundred cases of Sichuan, a hundred of Hunan. The foreman reckons they will be here in two days, maybe three."

  I looked round at the other ships, a dozen in total, all seemingly at the same stage of their preparations. "And the others?"

  "The same as us," Jarrow said. "Rains inland have slowed the deliveries. We'll all be here for the night."

  "Good. I would hate to have to make up time." I left him to his work, and made my way back on board. My intention was to eat and then, if I could, sleep.

  As usual, it was the pain that woke me, and on this occasion it hadn't even waited for sunrise before making my continued sleep untenable. I knew, even before I sat up in that early morning gloom and wiped the sleep from my eyes, that this day was going to be a bad one, that my pre-breakfast ritual would be a necessity rather than merely a relief.

  I went up on deck after I had finished with the pipe, forcing the lethargy from my body in the hope that fresh air would clear my senses. In that, though, I was to be disappointed. The tar troughs had been lit - deep metal channels fed by fires underneath, used to melt pitch and bitumen for waterproofing hulls - and the thick acrid smell was hanging on the air. I was about to return to my cabin, but then I saw one of the dock foremen, a man named Barrington, walking toward the Reliant. He waved as if he wanted to talk to me, so I stayed where I was until he joined me on board.

  "Captain Getty," he said, looking uncomfortable, his voice barely a whisper. "I hope you'll forgive me for this, but I need to talk to you."

  "Go ahead," I said.

  "I heard what Captain Wellan was saying to you yesterday, and I have to tell you, well, there's been a lot of talk lately."

  I bridled; I couldn't help myself.

  "Please, Captain, let me finish. What I want to say is, well-" And at that, he seemed to run out of words. Instead he stood back from me, grasped the bottom of his jerkin, then bared his stomach and chest to reveal a mass of burns and scar tissue, obviously the result of some horrendous injury that had never fully healed.

  "For weeks I couldn't even move," he said. "I took to the poppy, same as, well..."

  "Go on," I said.

  "Then I heard about this place, see? There's a place, here in Shanghai, where they can heal things. I went once, and I would never have believed it, but-" Again he faltered. "Here," was the only other thing he said, pressing a folded sheet of paper into my hands. Then he mumbled some indistinct apology, turned, and left.

  It had an address written on it, I saw when I opened it up, indicating a road near the old walled city some way south of the British settlement. It was not an area I was familiar with. Nor was I familiar with the name at the top of the page, written first in Chinese, with what must have been the English translation underneath. It said simply The House of the Unbending Spirit.

  For the greatest torment is reserved for those who proclaim themselves Maker, in defiance of the supremacy of the One. Three there have been, beasts of ruin, three who rendered themselves worthy of the wrath of the Maker's curse. Two chose oblivion, one remained. And through the millennia, the agony of all creation brought forth a hatred that would engulf worlds.

  (The Book of the Counting of the Stars)

  This time the pain was the worst I had ever felt. I woke suddenly, with the bed sheets twisted around me, already struggling to free myself. My leg felt as if it was screaming at me, but now every other part had joined in too. It was as if my whole bloodstream was filled with splinters of broken glass, working their way into my joints, shredding flesh and cartilage as they went. I reached for the first relief I could think of.

  I could tell as soon as I took my first draw on those fumes that something was wrong. The pain was lessening, slightly, but that wonderful rush of spreading calm to which I had developed such an attachment was almost totally absent. I must have taken twice my normal dose, but still the sensation was there, taunting me. And somehow I couldn't get the thought out of my head, that somewhere, true relief might be found.

  "Daniel, please don't go."

  Seeking out Tom had been my next course of action, though beyond giving me more of the drug, there was very little he could do. That much was no surprise, nor was the advice he was currently giving me.

  "He told me it cured him," I said. "If the opium has stopped working, what else can I do?"

  "I don't know Daniel, but something about this doesn't feel right."

  "But if Barrington said it worked?"

  "I have heard of some strange medicines in this country," he said, "and seen some too, as I travelled. Healers who diagnose disorders by the patient's smell, or who pierce the skin with needles to cure disease. But this? You have no idea what poisons these people will put into you."

  "They can only be better than the one I'm using now," I said. And for that he had no answer.

  It felt strange to leave the British settlement and head out into the truly Chinese part of the city. Not that I seriously feared for my safety; whatever animosity they might have felt for us, none would be so foolish as to attack a Brit
ish citizen, especially one with the foresight to bring his revolver. However, I could see heads turning my way as I made my slow, painful way down those increasingly narrow streets, like high-sided canyons of brick and bamboo, the roadsides lined with street vendors and food stalls whose unidentifiable aromas seemed to coil around me as I went. Red banners also lined the streets, hanging vertically from the high points of the buildings, inscribed with messages in that tight, blocky script of which I could barely read a word. Red was the colour of good luck, I knew that much, and I could not help but hope that fortune would come to my aid where medicine and the poppy had failed me.

  It was one of those rambling edifices of bamboo that I found myself facing when my agonising journey was complete. The door stood open, and led into a narrow, unlit hallway. I paused, looking for any immediate sign of danger, then made my way to the entrance.

  Then I stopped, knowing – feeling – that I was being watched.

  The eyes of the locals had been on me for every step of my journey, but this feeling spoke of something more than just curiosity: I was being studied.

  I looked back suddenly, taking in the dozens of people that filled the street, and that was when I saw her. It was the way she looked away, the way she drew back as if unwilling to be seen by me, that made her stand out from all those other watching faces. She was young, a Chinese girl of maybe eighteen years old with, to my eyes, a look of the country about her; maybe it was her clothing, maybe her face, but something didn't fit into that city scene. Her face spoke of strength though, of someone surviving in an alien world to which she had come by necessity rather than choice. At that particular moment it was a feeling with which I was only too familiar.

  Within a second she was lost from view. As a military man, I have always trusted my instincts when suspicion reared its head, and if it hadn't been for my leg I might have been tempted to go after her. However, the discomfort was too intense. Whereas before my wound had been merely shouting through the opium fog, now it was screaming. I was barely able to support myself; only the doorway, and what might lie beyond it, had any meaning for me.

  The place was a warren, humid and stinking. The long, winding corridor which led from that door seemed to run up and around the building forever. There were no signs, only unmarked doors every few yards, and the occasional junction, one branch of which would always turn out to be a dead end. I followed the route to its furthest point, hoping for some sign I might recognise. That final door, inscribed with Chinese characters identical to those on the note, told me I had found it. I knocked once, and on hearing nothing, cautiously opened the door.

  Two people were in that dark little room when I looked inside, both men, both Chinese. The first was short, black haired, and of similar age to myself. He was simply dressed, in a pale yellow robe, and he was standing just inside the door as if he had been expecting me, waiting to welcome me in.

  "Please," was the only thing he said, indicating the table on the far side of the room. The table had seats for two, and sitting in the gloom on the other side of it was the second man. From here only his great age, and his complete lack of motion, were visible.

  "Who are you?" I said, trying to maintain an authoritative air despite the pain and disorientation.

  The younger man said nothing, bowing slightly instead while continuing to point to the empty chair. I weighed the two of them up, wondering whether my reduced physical state would prevent me from fighting my way out if necessary, then slowly made my way to the table, feeling the reassuring weight of my gun at my side as I did so.

  Close up, the second man showed no more sign of acknowledging my presence than he had before. He sat with his head hanging forward, his ragged grey hair and long beard touching the table, his arms loosely outstretched in front of him. Behind him was a row of a dozen or so candles, with some sweet, over-perfumed smell coming from them.

  "Please, take his hands," the first man said once I had sat down. The older man had still not moved.

  "Why? What is he going to do?"

  "He is going to help you." And that was all he would say.

  And so it was, with some hesitation, that I reached out and placed my hands on those of the old man before me.

  He tensed immediately, his empty hands clenching beneath mine, his back arching, and his face for the first time rising into view. And it was a face contorted with agonies the like of which I had never seen on a human being. The fact that he seemed to be bearing them in silence merely added to my perception of their severity, for I had a long familiarity with that variety of pain where the exertion of crying out would only add to its intensity. I let go immediately, and jumped to my feet.

  "What the hell is going on?" I said. "Answer me!" Though even as I stood there, I could feel a sense of lightness in my hands, a feeling of calm and relaxation that I had not felt in a long time.

  "He will help you," the dark-haired man said. "He will take your pain."

  "What do you mean, take my pain?"

  "He can heal you."

  I looked again at the old man, now hanging his head once more, his face hidden from view. That he was drugged, or had been rendered somehow insensible, seemed clear.

  "Please, take his hands again."

  Part of me wanted nothing to do with this vile spectacle, this trick or charlatanism or whatever those behind it had concocted. However, part of me could not ignore the lessened pain, the relief starting to spread into my leg - and the curiosity as to what more relief might yet be in store. I went over to him once more and tentatively placed one hand on his, as gently as I could. He jolted in his chair, quivering as if barely in control of his motions, and although his face was still hidden I could well imagine the grimace that must have been there. When I removed my touch, the feeling of calm was even more marked.

  "Why is it hurting him? I can't do this to him!"

  "Please, he wants you to."

  "What?"

  "He is ill, and close to death. It is his belief that he must atone for his sins before he dies. Our religion demands it. By helping you, by taking your pain, he will achieve grace before our god. Please, you must do this for him."

  And it was at that point, despite my disgust, despite my distaste, that thoughts entered my head in which I now take no pride whatsoever, nor did I then. I could not explain what had happened when I touched that man's hand, and part of me did not want to. It was enough that it had.

  He is old, I thought. He is not long for this world. If he really wants to help me, even if it is his last act, am I really so wrong in complying?

  And so it was that I returned to the table, attempted to ask forgiveness from whatever part of me was still sensible to moral considerations, then reached out and grasped the old man's hands with my own.

  His agonies defied any powers of description that I might bring to bear upon them. He almost fell from his chair, so violent were the exertions, his face twisting and contorting as before. That he was as mortally ill as I had been told was obvious as his pale, vein-ridden face and sunken eyes screwed themselves up before me into forms I had not seen since my last days in battle. This time however, he was not silent, as at first a thin, strangled noise, and then a full-blown scream, issued from his mouth. His hands felt somehow hot and cold at the same time as thin, ragged muscles knotted and tensed under my grip.

  It was hideous to sit there and watch him taking so much torment, but it was bliss, too, as I felt the pain draining from my body and into his, the relief spreading into me through my hands. I closed first my eyes and then my mind to the reality of what I was doing, and waited for it to end.

  When it was over, and I tried to reach for some money or silver as I stood back from the table, totally free of pain, the younger man reached out to stop me, saying simply "You have helped him enough," before opening the door to let me leave. The old man had returned to his previous position, slumped in his chair with his face in shadow, though I could barely bring myself to look at him.