Machina Obscurum

by J. Edward Neill

  “Mia,” he growled, “I’m tired of this life. This bargain…it burns in me. All these coins…all this death...I’m tired of helping. But it’s the price I paid. Seventy more years of life, he gave me. Else my tendons would be the soft carpet under your toes. My arms and legs would fashion yon table. My blood would stain these walls cherry.”

  I sank to the floor. “Who made you do this?”

  He stood over me. His shadow blocked out all the light. “Not who. It. It that poisoned Veni. It that slaughtered Tessera. It that enslaved me and made me help devour Ellerae. See those tables? That’s the mayor and his children. Feel the floor beneath your knees? That’s the hair of fifty maidens. The house they found…the one full of art…that’s from three cities before Tessera. And all the while he…it…has been walking among us.

  “And ever since Tessera, I’ve been helping him hide.”

  I couldn’t talk anymore. I just knelt and quaked and swallowed my horror.

  “And now it’s the end.” He shambled away from me. “Ellerae’s gone. But there’re more cities. More to the north. And farther east. More there, too. But I’m too tired. I won’t let it have me another hour. It wants more of me, but it won’t get what it wants. Old man, old ghoul. My bargain is up. My pain is over.”

  What happens now? I wanted to ask. You’re going to kill yourself? You’re going to kill me?

  He came to me. He took my hand, peeled my fingers open, and stared at my sweating palm. I didn’t understand the significance of his hesitation until later. Much later.

  “Take this, Mia.” He held out a black coin. “Take this blackened gold and make it yours.”

  I shivered and shook my head.

  “Take it!” he demanded.

  “No.” My voice was a whisper. “I don’t want your bargain. I don’t want to work for it. Just kill me.”

  “Foolish girl!” he roared. “This coin isn’t its’ bargain. You rejected that when you rejected my coins.”

  You bastard, I thought. You tried to trick me!

  “Do you want to live, Mia?” He pumped his jaws angrily. “You have to decide, and you have to do it now. It’s coming back soon. It’s going to make me into a statue or a bucket of paint or a new tapestry. You’ve rejected its bargain, and so it’ll do the same to you. You can’t run. You can’t hide. You either take this coin and leave in peace. Or you stay here and be made into pieces.”

  I almost screamed, ‘Just kill me!’ But with Pa standing over me, already half dead, I wasn’t so sure. “What’s so special…” I quivered, “about the black coin?”

  “It’s the first,” said Pa. “Its’ first. You take it, and it’ll have no power over you. Not now or ever. But if you dither a moment more, our skins’ll both be stretched tonight. And it’ll hurt, Mia. Oh…it’ll hurt.”

  Coward.

  I snatched the coin away and sprinted out of the tree.

  As I fled, I knew Pa had told at least one final lie. It had been in the tree the whole time. I knew when I heard Pa’s screams, when the sounds of his bones popping broke the night, and when a cloud of buzzards fled the treetops in horror of the horror.

  Sheer willpower led me back to Ellerae. Sloppy with sweat and mud, my skin torn by tree limbs and puckered with bug bites, I staggered onto Osso and collapsed beneath the streetlamp. I didn’t dream. I didn’t freeze. I just slept, dead to the world, until dawn.

  When I woke, the streetlamp’s flame was out. I stood up and shook most of the fear out of my little bones. I wasn’t cold, though I expected to be. I wasn’t even hungry, even though I’d not eaten in almost a day. Ellerae was silent. I wandered around for a short while, calling out the names of the few I knew had been alive last week. But no one answered. I knew in my heart they’d either fled, killed themselves, or been made into tables and chairs.

  Ellerae had died.

  And no matter what Pa had promised, I’d died, too.

  * * *

  And so here I sit, alone in my new house. I’m still a little girl inside, but not really. The memories of Grams and Gio cling like cobwebs to my mind, too fragile to touch without destroying. I’m not in Ellerae anymore. No one is. When soldiers from the city of Milian found it, they burned it to the ground. I think they knew what had happened. They were wiser than we’d been. They cursed the ‘Old Man’ and chased his rumor to the west, though I doubt they ever found him. The ghoul of Tessera, Ellerae, and a hundred cities before will keep killing, keep making his precious art until everyone in the world is sticks and bones.

  I suppose, had the soldiers been ever smarter, they’d have come east.

  They’d have come to me, to Valai.

  It’s a pretty city, it is, and thrice as huge as Ellerae.

  I like it in Valai. I live in a mansion at the city’s edge, near a great, dark forest. I have vast empty rooms, a bottomless basement, and towers tall and sharp. I even have a streetlamp. It grows a little brighter every week.

  I didn’t use Pa’s or Ellerae’s coins to buy it.

  I borrowed from the locals.

  It’s a fresh new evening. As I sit on my rocking chair, sewing something beautiful, I wait for the sun to set. Someone knocks on my door. I know who it is. It’s the young man who’s always nosing about my courtyard. He’s an orphan, like so many children in Valai. I feel bad for him, if that’s possible. Before I answer the door, I put down my needles and pick up a silver coin from the floor. It hurts to bend over, but I manage. These old bones just aren’t as supple as they used to be. Every little movement causes me pain.

  I’ve gotten used to it.

  “Hello, young man,” I open the door.

  He looks surprised to see me. It makes sense, considering I’ve always ignored his knocks until now.

  “Evening, M’lady Mia,” he says shyly. “You know who I am?”

  “I do,” I tell him.

  “Then you know I’ve got no money, no food, no place to live. My uncle…he says I should find work. So I’ve been thinking…well…might be you need my help. You’ve lived here well on a hundred years. I could go to market for you. I could carry things. You’ve got all this space. Might be…maybe…you’d let me have a room to be your servant.”

  “You say you don’t have any money?” I swing the door open and let him peer inside. He looks nervous, but only a little.

  “No, ma’am. Not since mom and my brothers turned up missing last winter.

  I set my crabbed fingers on his shoulder and guide him across the threshold and into the stale, musty room beyond. His skin is warm. His bones are strong. It’s hard to control myself, but I do.

  “Come inside, young man. There’s silver aplenty if you’re willing to do the right kind of work.”

  He walks inside, the foolish thing.

  I wonder how strong he’ll be once he’s screaming.

  I suppose I’ll have to wait to find out. His timing is right. I need him for now. I’m an old woman anymore. I need a helper. Another set of eyes. Someone willing to take a few coins to help me hide things.

  I offer him the coin.

  He takes it with a smile.

  I stretch my ancient fingers. The little bones groan and pop. But this time it feels good.

  “So it’s a deal?” he asks.

  “Until the end.” I give him a grandmotherly look.

  And I shut the door, locking him in with me.

  He’s mine now. He’s hooked. He’s like Pa had once been: alone, hungry, and desperate.

  Just the kind of slave I need.

  Because that’s what I’ve become. I’m it. At night when I take my skin off, I’m the most horrifying thing this world has ever known. My fingers are scythes, my heart a pumping horror, and my sockets hollow as two empty graves. I don’t make paintings, tapestries, or sculptures. I sew dolls, and I sell them right back to the people whose families I’ve dissected.

  The black coin was a trick after all.

  I guess I should be angry at Pa for giving it to me.

 
I should be, but I’m not. Because Pa’s bones are a pretty work of art lying in some dark, terrible place. And me…I’ll never die.

  In cursing me to become a second it, Pa gave me a chance at vengeance. I’ll take it. I’ll relish it. I’ll love it until the end of everything. I swear I’ll kill the whole world if I have to. I’ll make a tomb of Valai and every other city within a thousand leagues. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll make enough dolls to fill the ocean. I’ll get noticed. When Pa’s master, it, finally comes to see what I’ve done and how I’ve done it better, I’ll slaughter the old ghoul. I’ll make a blanket of his skin to sleep beneath during the day. I’ll turn his bones into powder and blow him off the cliffs of Tessera.

  Because I owe him.

  For stealing my childhood.

  For making a tomb of Ellerae.

  But mostly, for stealing my little brother, Gio.

  “Come closer,” I say to the young man. “For your help, I’ve got all the coins you’ll ever need. I’ll only need one thing from you.”

  “What’s that?” His smile is so big it hurts to look at.

  “Everything,” I tell him.

  Herald of Tessera

  Part I

  An excerpt from an upcoming novel by Chad J. Shonk

  14 YEARS BEFORE THE DARK ANABASIS…

  F IRE. THIS TIME IT WAS FIRE.

  First it had been a thousand-thousand massive white wedges on the Sea.

  Then, the unblinking gaze of Twyth, burning red in the distant night sky.

  Followed by a horde of men made of bones and rotting, dripping flesh.

  This time, it was fire.

  They were not nightmares, for he never slept. They were not mirages brought on by the drink or the leaf, for he imbibed neither. They were not illusions; he could smell and taste and feel them as if they were in the room with him.

  He saw things that he did not see. Heard things he did not hear.

  Knew things he could not possibly know.

  This time it was fire.

  Unholy flames of orange and violet engulfing the city. The indestructible Castle HeartStone, aflame and crumbling. People fleeing in vain from the wall of blistering heat, stepping over the charred corpses of friends, neighbors, kin. His own hand, covered in flames, flesh and tendons peeling away, revealing and charring the bone beneath.

  He could still feel his skin smoldering.

  It had been terrifying and real, like the times before.

  Things that may happen. Things that will happen.

  He stumbled out of his front door and into the night. He had no idea of the hour, but it was dark and the street was quiet. Though he couldn’t hear them, he knew they were out there, though, the others. Sleeping soundly in their beds. Coupling with their mates. Reading to their children. They were out there, the others. In peace.

  If they had seen the things he had not seen, they would not be sleeping.

  If they had heard the things he had not heard, their pricks would be struck useless.

  If they knew the things he did not know, peace would be an impossibility.

  This time it was fire. This time it was fire.

  This time.

  The stars were hiding, but Téssera hung large and round and full in the black sky. Pale blue and glowing softly. Two of its siblings, Janu and Dinora, were also watching, but Janu was barely gibbous and Dinora, nearly invisible, showing just a tiny sliver of its golden hue. Wrae was out there, too, he knew, but this time of the month it slept soundly and out of sight.

  But Téssera was as awake as the morning cock and gazed down upon him in full. He felt its stare. It made his skin hum. It gave him power. He raised his hands to it, bathed in Téssera’s glory, and whispered with his mind:

  I am here.

  He waited for Téssera to speak to him. On nights like this, it always did.

  What did you see? it asked. The Fourth Eye had no voice; it made no sound; used no words.

  But he understood Téssera all the same.

  This time it was fire.

  What did you see?

  Fire. This time it was fire.

  You must tell them. Warn them.

  They don’t listen to me.

  Make them listen. Use your gifts.

  He pounded his temples with the heels of his hands. Over and over. Screaming without screaming just as he and Téssera spoke without speaking.

  I don’t want to. Not again.

  You have been given a purpose.

  I don’t want a purpose. I just want to--

  You thought yourself invisible. Meaningless. But now you see your import. And they will as well, long after you are gone. They fear you, unknowing of your divine necessity. You will be condemned. You will be hunted. You will die.

  But you will save them.

  I don’t want to die.

  They have given you a name that suits your purpose.

  No one is listening!

  They will. Carry on and they will have no choice.

  He collapsed to his knees and sobbed. “No. Please. Not again.”

  Go inside and retrieve your favorite brush.

  “No…” He clawed at the ground, the gravel cutting into his hands, drawing blood.

  Prepare your palette.

  “Find mercy, mighty Eye…”

  Find a clean canvas.

  “Lo help me…”

  And paint.

  THE MAN WAS TO DIE a midday, when Lo was at Its highest and brightest station, casting live-giving warmth to every end of the Valley. All such events were held at the peak of day. Justice was administered in the light, in plain view of Lo, The Skyfire, The Creator, The All. Crime and evil were the stuff of night, the time when Lo rested and the shadows reigned.

  A platform had been hastily built in Greenhall’s forum. The rectangular plaza, the neighborhood’s hub of trade and gathering, was busier than normal. In addition to the merchants and their customers, a hundred people had gathered to watch the execution. Some stood on the tips of their toes to see over the taller citizens in front of them. A little boy sat on his father’s shoulders for a better view. The crowd hummed quietly and respectfully.

  The turnout was unsurprising. Things like this never happened in Greenhall. Lawful killings were traditionally performed in the Royal Forum, fifty times the size of this, in the shadow of Castle HeartStone, a shadow of such breadth and depth that visitors often came to do their business in wool coats and scarves even in the most oppressive days of Summer.

  But The Master of Order, prodded by a valued member of his constabulary, had deemed it appropriate to hold this grim deed in the district where the accused had committed his crimes. Greenhall was a neighborhood peopled with the less fortunate, those who fought for each day’s meal, who cadged and stole and sold their bodies to keep any coin in their pocket. Such was the case in most Eastern districts.

  The killing was overseen by two men. The first was a city lawbreather, dressed in the red and black vestments of his corps, and the second a tall, robed man with a scalp scraped bald and a strip of white cloth tied across his eyes. The clerics known as The Sightless believed that in order to understand Lo, you had to gaze into It as It gazed into you. They paid for this, of course, sacrificing their natural sight, but claimed that they were not blind; all they could see and ever wanted to see was Lo. A century before, Cyng Brandon, who by royal decree established a priesthood for a people who felt they did not need one, had embraced The Sightless and put them to use as the city’s executioners. Brandon’s clergy was disbanded by his successor, but The Sightless’ new occupation stuck.

  Drav Astia pulled his wide-brimmed hat down a little to further shield his eyes from the daylight. He was not used to being awake, let alone outside, at such an hour. The day was for normal folk. For good citizens and their families. For the merchants, craftsmen, and workers of ValleyHeart. It was for the Cyng and his court and the People’s Choir. For order and peace and harmony. For law and justice. Love and hope. It was fo
r the lives of nearly every man, woman, and child in the city and the rest of the Valley.

  Drav, much like crime and evil, was stuff of night and shadow.

  But he would have thought it crass to miss the death of this particular man.

  He had, after all, tracked and apprehended the monster himself.

  The constable quieted the anxious crowd with a wave of his hand and withdrew a sheet of parchment from his doublet and read, “Lo, in full view of your light, we present to you this condemned man.” The man’s name, Creno Nar, would not be spoken aloud. The Sightless was not to know the accused’s identity.

  “He stands charged with the following: primarily and most gravely, the absconding, defiling, and butchering of no fewer than seven young boys from one of the Cyng’s orphanages.”

  The charge drew hisses from the crowd. Drav knew the count to be much higher, but many of the bodies were still missing.

  “Secondly, the assault and murdering of two of the Cyng’s constables, men sworn to protect this city and its people, who in the course of their duties ran afoul of the condemned and were slain in their heroic efforts to apprehend.”

  Callum and Yonod had been neither good men nor bad. Just men who did their duty to the best they were capable. They had not deserved their fates. Drav found himself briefly more enraged at the deaths of his fellow lawbreathers than at those of the children, but then he remembered finding Ari, the third brutalized child, what was left of him, stuffed in a chest of drawers. The constables had been grown men, trained and armed. But the children…

  “Thirdly and finally, the assault and injuring of a Cyng’s constable during the course of his ultimate apprehension.”

  The back of Drav’s right shoulder still throbbed where Nar had hacked into it with a cleaver. It had been two weeks, and all the salves and salts and prayers the lifebreathers used may have stopped the bleeding, sealed up the gash, but had done little to ease the pain.

  “These are the charges,” the constable announced, putting away his list. He turned to the silent holy man beside him. “I now defer to you, Sightless one. What is the will of Lo?”