by Tara Omar
“Wow,” said David. “I never would’ve guessed it.”
Gill nodded.
“You’re sure, then?” asked David. “That Charlie is dead?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Gill. “I was there when Norbert killed him.”
C H A P T E R 2 9
Gill led David through the front yard of his house, which now looked like the aftermath of a forest fire. The soda fountains were dried up, and the trees of bottles had been whittled to mere stumps, while the great star of fires was now cold with ash. The tikihune hurried about in their frilly aprons, removing bottles and sweeping the dust. They nodded to David as he walked by.
“It will be better if you see what happened,” said Gill, opening the door to his house. “It’s still difficult for both of us, even after all these years.”
Gill pulled a small chip from a collection on the wall and pressed it into the side of the silver cone at the centre of his living room table. He clicked his remote until the scene David had just witnessed rose from the top of the cone, filling the space above the living room. David saw a younger Gill throw himself at Norbert just as a Nephil warrior released a shower of blades; Norbert fell backward, crashing into the muddy sand. As he fell Norbert lost his grip on the shield; it slipped from his hands toward the Nephil warrior, who caught it and disappeared into the sea. Norbert and Gill crashed into the mud. Gill pulled him through the scaffolds and the throngs of warriors and fallen bodies toward the barren grassland, while Imaan, who had been watching from the baobab tree, sounded the notes of victory. The ground began to roar with the shouts of a thousand tribesmen along the whole of the coastline, signalling the end, while the Nephilim shrieked and screamed, shooting long ribbons the same colours as their blades into the air before diving back into the sea. The ribbons hung in bands across the sky, floating above the land as the waves calmed.
“There’s the rainbow. They’ve surrendered. It’s over,” said Imaan.
The last veiled Nephil warrior stood near the body of the mer King, looking across the coast, his eyes hot with anger. He aimed his wrist toward the sky, ready to shoot off the final ribbon of surrender. As he fisted his hand, he noticed something, a piece of paper almost, half-buried in the sand. It was the photo of the man who had killed the King—the picture of Mildred, Norbert and Charlie that Norbert had tucked into his wetsuit with the bottle of poison. The mer picked it up and glared at it. He crumpled it in his hand as he leaned into a run, heading in the direction of the Kasbah.
“You can’t go in there,” said the young Gill, as the scene melted and reformed in front of the Kasbah. Gill stood between Norbert and the heavy wooden doors of the stronghold, his arm outstretched as he held Norbert back.
“What do you mean I can’t go in there? I want to see Charlie. I want to see my son,” said Norbert, struggling under Gill’s grip.
Two women carrying a stretcher moved through the heavy doors of the Kasbah. As they passed, Norbert could see a woman writhing under the ropes that bound her to the stretcher, her teeth grinding in agony as a glittering Nephil blade pulsed in her shoulder. Norbert beat Gill’s arm.
“Let me through!” shouted Norbert.
“They’re still moving victims to the seafront,” said Gill. “Once they’re finished, the rest will be allowed out.”
“This is ridiculous. Did they hire you to babysit me?” asked Norbert. He relaxed his arms and took a seat on the stone remnant of a nearby wall, resting his cheek on his fist as he waited. Then he looked up, his eyes wide with recognition. Gill followed his gaze across the horizon, just as Norbert darted past him. Gill spun around but Norbert was already through the heavy, wooden doors and into the Kasbah.
“Charlie, Charlie!” shouted Norbert, looking around. The hall reeked with the warm stench of too many bodies in one place, while the constant crying and moaning of people echoed off the stone walls. Norbert swallowed his disgust as he waded through the bodies, all crumpled and writhing with Nephil blades lodged deep in their flesh. A tired-looking nurse waved her arm at him.
“Hey, you can’t come in here. This is for people with stretchers only!” shouted the nurse, but Norbert ignored her. Gill followed close behind as they inched their way nearer toward the unharmed women and children at the back, still with no sign of Charlie.
“Hey, Mister, I know you,” said a young boy from the crowd. “You’re the guy from the photograph. Is your son’s name Charlie?”
“Yes,” said Norbert, “do you know where he is?”
“He’s against the back wall, past all of us, but I wouldn’t—”
Norbert didn’t wait for the boy to finish. He threw himself into the huddled mass of survivors, pushing his way toward the back wall.
“Charlie?” shouted Norbert.
The crowd parted and Norbert saw Charlie, still tight in the arms of his neighbour Shirley. A Nephil blade pinned Norbert’s photograph to his chest, while another blade was stuck deep in Shirley’s forehead.
Norbert buckled forward as though someone had punched him in the gut. He lurched toward his son, but Gill caught him by the shirt and pulled him to his chest.
“Get it out of him! Someone get that thing out of him!” shouted Norbert, twisting around.
“They can’t,” said Gill, restraining Norbert in a hug. “Don’t make it worse.”
“Charlie!” shouted Norbert. The nurse approached from behind, twisting a towel in her hands.
“Get him out of here,” said the nurse.
“Yes Ma’am,” said Gill. He picked Norbert up by the waist and pulled him back toward the doors. Norbert struggled against him like a newly-hooked fish.
“Let go of me. Let go, I tell you!” shouted Norbert. “Charlie!”
The heavy doors of the stronghold slammed shut. Norbert stared at them with disbelief. Gill and the surrounding people faded out of sight. As Norbert looked at the doors, his eyes darkened with the endless days and nights of suffering that were to come.
The scene melted around him, reforming at the same spot two weeks later. He knocked on the same door. A very tired Lady Imaan answered.
“Norbert, have the Humphrites chosen a new judge yet?” asked Imaan, bidding him enter.
“I’m afraid not, Lady,” said Norbert. “We Humphrites were never much fond of meetings. Those of us left are still mourning their families. Haven’t thought much of governance yet.”
Imaan led him through the shadowy main hall, which was now filled with nothing more than a few torches to light the way. Norbert glanced fleetingly in the direction where he had first discovered his boy, swallowing the urge to cry.
“Why not you?” asked Imaan.
“Oh no, Lady, I’m a herbalist, I am,” said Norbert, clearing his throat. “Not much into politics, I’m not. I’d be like a cabbage among slugs, I would, no disrespect.”
“Very well,” said Imaan. “You may sit in as a messenger until the Humphrites have chosen a leader. It’s only fair to keep the Humphrites informed.”
“Yes, Lady,” said Norbert. He followed her into a narrow room off the main hall, where three of the tribal judges were sitting around an imposing wooden table, each with a pageboy to his left. Saladin sat alone. Norbert looked around hesitantly before taking a seat on a bench in the corner.
“Won’t you join us at the table?” asked Imaan, taking her seat at the head of the table. “You are more than welcome.”
“No thank you, Lady,” said Norbert, “I can see right near fine from here.”
“Very well,” said Imaan. “You all know each other, but as there have been some changes, I shall do a quick introduction. To my right we have Renoir of the Renaultans, followed by Baldric, head of the Octavites. To my left sits Saladin in place of his father, Cephas, on behalf of the Aaronites; next to him sits Orlando, head of the Theodites. I represent the Elites, and Norbert in the corner will be sitting in as
a messenger to the Humphrites who have yet to choose a new judge.”
“May I express on behalf of all of us our sympathies on the fall of Waldorf,” said Renoir of the Renaultans. “He was a most excellent judge.”
Norbert nodded.
“Right then,” said Imaan, straightening a pile of papers in front of her. She turned to Orlando of the Theodites, the learned tribe. “Orlando, have the Theodites found anything?”
“We have, my Lady,” said the Theodite judge. He nodded to the spindly-looking page next to him who stood up, holding rolls of paper under his arm.
“And who might you be?” asked Imaan.
“Bertie Paulus, my Lady,” said the page, adjusting his oversized glasses, “principle aetiological researcher of the Theodites.”
“Good,” said Imaan. “Please continue.”
“After much examination and rumination, my research team has pinpointed the indisputable, principle mechanism for the causation of affliction amongst our combatants,” said Bertie, unrolling one of the papers. On it was drawn the circulatory system of an arm and a Nephil blade.
“Is he right in his head?” asked Baldric of the Octavites.
“I beg your pardon?” asked Bertie.
“Speak modestly, son. I’m afraid these last days have wearied our ears,” said Renoir, smiling.
“Yes, Sir,” said Bertie. He followed the diagram of the arteries with his finger. “It appears the action of the Nephil blade mimics the rapid emergence of dissolved gases from the plasma in decompression by continuously inflating the plasma. Or in the vernacular, it blows bubbles into the blood.”
“What?” asked Saladin.
“The Nephil blade is constantly blowing bubbles into the blood and tissues,” said Bertie, “causing severe pain, paralysis, convulsions, nausea, difficulty breathing and shock.”
“You mean to tell me that the tribesmen are afflicted by bubbles?” asked Baldric.
“Yes, Sir,” said Bertie.
“Those fussies be damned,” said Saladin.
“So how do we make it stop?” asked Imaan.
“We don’t know, my Lady,” said Bertie.
“You don’t know?” asked Baldric.
“No,” said Bertie. “It seems the blade hooks itself into the bone and cannot be removed. As long as the person is alive, the blade acts almost as a living thing; we cannot interrupt its function.”
“Will it cut?” asked Saladin, looking at the diagram.
“No, Sir. The craftsmanship is actually quite brilliant,” said Bertie, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“Except that it’s torturing people,” remarked Orlando.
“Yes, Sir,” said Bertie, looking to the floor.
“Great, so now we know how it’s killing us, but can do nothing about it,” said Baldric, crossing his arms.
“How long until it kills the victim?” asked Imaan.
“It doesn’t, my Lady,” said Bertie.
“What?” asked Imaan.
Bertie unrolled another paper on top of the first; it was a diagram of the brain and nervous system.
“It seems the blade is also pulsing an electromagnetic current through the body, sustaining brain activity even when a body should be dead,” said Bertie.
“So you are saying the humans have been assaulted with indestructible blades that will torture indefinitely, and also sustain the body so it can continue doing so?” asked Renoir.
“I’m afraid so, Sir,” said Bertie.
“Of course,” said Imaan, sitting back in her chair. “It’s heinously perfect. The legends say mers cannot kill, and they haven’t.”
“Then what can we do?” asked Saladin.
“Nothing,” said Baldric.
“There is one thing that seems to work,” said Bertie.
“What is it?” asked Lady Imaan.
He looked at Orlando.
“Speak, Son,” said Imaan. Orlando nodded.
“Death by a human sword,” said Bertie. “Once the body is dead, the blade becomes a harmless crescent of iron.”
Everyone fell silent, deep in thought. Baldric knocked on the table.
“Then what are we waiting for?” asked Baldric, looking to the other judges. “Let’s get rid of these blades.”
“Are you mad?” asked Saladin. “That will mean murdering our own people.”
“What else can we do?” asked Baldric.
“We could wait for more research,” said Orlando.
“Wait for more research?” asked Baldric incredulously. “You have spent too much time in your studies, Orlando; have you walked among the dying? Sixty-thousand people are lying from the coast through to the savannah, begging for mercy as these relentless blades torture them. Grown men, fierce warriors, are lying there, all crying like infants, all living corpses desperate for relief. They still lie there mad with fear and pain, while you do research. The suffering cannot be endured.”
“I agree with Orlando. Avinoam did not will us victory simply to slaughter ourselves,” said Imaan.
“Did not will?” asked Baldric, standing up. “Did Avinoam will us to be so unprepared for this battle? Because the last I heard, the Divine Mediator also preached that the Nephilim were figments of our imaginations. We were told we shouldn’t worry about figments and wives’ tales, and we were almost slaughtered for it. So if you’ll forgive me, I think I’ll be deciding for myself what is Avi’s will.”
“No, you will not,” said Saladin.
“Excuse me?” asked Baldric.
“Self-rule by the judges has already once plunged the humans into darkness. We should not return there,” said Saladin.
“I will not be ruled by a woman who has proved her ignorance,” said Baldric.
“It was in her ignorance that the Lady also counselled us to overcome our fear of water. Had we listened less selectively, we would have been better prepared for battle,” said Saladin. “Indeed, you are lucky that one of us did heed the Lady’s advice, or you would not have had the pleasure of detracting her.”
“Is this truly the Aaronites’ new choice for a judge, a boy that still longs to cling to the breast?” asked Baldric, glancing at Imaan’s chest. “You should be weaned properly before you sit at this table.”
“Then perhaps you would like to challenge me?” asked Saladin, staring him down. “It should be rather easy for you, if I am only a boy.”
Baldric glanced at the other judges, but they sat undisturbed and unwilling to challenge the Aaronite. Baldric sat back down.
“There are more pressing matters at hand than governance; we shall save this talk for another time,” said Baldric. “Please, continue, though I advise you to consider the living. It is not agreeable for life to wallow in such death. We need to begin putting the war behind us, and put to rest the immense evil that has befallen us, not cling to it with a false hope that a cure will make things right and good again.”
Renoir and Orlando nodded.
“We shall take it to a vote,” said Imaan. Norbert, who had until this point been quietly listening in the corner, jumped off his bench.
“No!” said Norbert, approaching the table. “Lady, please. How can you even consider this? You’ll be murdering your own people, you will! Spouses… friends… neighbours… children! My child! When there’s still hope to be had! Have I saved your highfalutin faces just to watch you slaughter my baby, when a cure may still be out there? I will not have it, I won’t!”
“What happened to your son is unfortunate; however, a bit of luck with poisons does not compensate for a lack of intelligence in tribal matters,” said Baldric. “You are not qualified to make decisions on behalf of your tribe. I will not hear it.”
“Why, you ungrateful leaf-eater,” said Norbert. “I have a right mind to wallop you, I do.”
Baldric roll
ed his eyes.
“As I have spoken,” said Baldric.
“Baldric, that’s enough,” said Imaan. She turned to the page sitting next to Renoir. “Gilgamesh, would you please escort Norbert outside? We do not wish to cause him any more pain.” Gill nodded.
“This is ludicrous. You’re ludicrous,” said Norbert. He spat in Baldric’s direction as Gill led him out the room.
“All a bunch of ludicrous louses, the lot of them,” said Norbert. He took a seat outside in the great stone hall.
“I’ll let you know what happens,” said Gill, smiling weakly.
“Just like a cabbage among slugs,” said Norbert to himself.
Almost an hour passed before the door opened again. Gill emerged slowly; the colour had drained from his face.
“And?” asked Norbert.
“In an effort to relieve suffering, the judges have voted for a mass execution of the victims, to be effected immediately,” said Gill.
Norbert threw his hand over his mouth.
“Anything else?” asked Norbert.
“In an effort to maintain unity, they have made it clear that any resistance will not be tolerated,” said Gill.
Norbert took a deep breath. His eyes filled with remorse.
“Well, I’m going to have to do it, then,” said Norbert, nodding. “Quickly, without fuss. I must get him a monarch butterfly to hold, maybe bring Lucy along, too.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Gill.
“Damn it, I’m just as capable as anyone else to draw a sword, even if I am a Humphrite,” said Norbert, throwing his arm up. “Let us not forget that in the end it was a Humphrite who saved their asses, not a Renaultan, Aaronite, Elite or anyone else, and I’ll be damned if my son has that cold metal stuck into his belly by some unfeeling stranger, as if he’s an animal.”
“I just thought… I’m sorry,” said Gill.
“You’re darn tootin’ sorry, you are,” said Norbert, folding his arms.