Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  “Which of you is going to stay?” he asked in an impatient tone.

  “I am your guest,” I told him.

  He nodded, as though he had anticipated as much. With a jerk of his hand, he indicated for me to follow, and started for the steep flight of stairs at the back of the inn.

  Chapter 32

  My days at the Green Peacock passed with excruciating monotony. I used them to put my scattered thoughts in order. The transition from life to death, and from death to life, had done no harm to my body, but I discovered that it had unsettled my mind. From time to time images of horrifying presence flashed before my sight, gone before I was able to distinguish their contents. Whether they were memories of dreams or something more, I could not guess, but they awoke a vague terror in my heart that was difficult to placate. In their after images I sometimes thought I could distinguish the outline of the dark man.

  After the first day in my room above the drinking hall, the noises and smells of the inn passed unnoticed. I spent my time lying on my back on the bed, staring at a nest of spiders in a corner of the ceiling beam, or sitting on a wooden chair gazing down from the window into the street. I found the activities of the spiders interesting, but the comings and goings of the people on the cobblestones offered greater variation. Though my eyes looked outward, my attention was reflected inward, as though the bustling scene were no more than a mirror. From time to time I was summoned to meals in the common dining hall on the lower level of the inn, and an unwashed serving girl entered to empty my chamber pot and to replenish the water in the pitcher beside the washing basin.

  I am uncertain how many days passed. Two, at the least, perhaps three. It was characteristic of my condition that whereas my days were troubled by flashes of fearful imagery, at night I slept as soundly and deeply as a babe in its crib. If I dreamed, I retained no memory of it after waking. I found myself wondering, in an idle way, whether the Jew who owned the scroll had decided that my payment was insufficient, and had forgotten about me. It seemed unlikely that the sour owner of the inn would continue to tolerate my presence unless someone was paying for my room.

  On the afternoon of the second day—or it may have been the third—I noticed a young harlot in a green dress and green head wrap, lounging across the street on the ragged patch of browning grass in front of the ruined temple of Hermes. The lower part of her face was veiled beneath a black mesh boshiya from which hung strings of silver coins, but I judged her age to be around eighteen years from her posture. She leaned with a jutting hip against the column of the god, and made a show of flipping the hem of her dress to flash her red silk surwal and silver ankle bracelets at the merchants and ships’ officers who passed, but her location was too far back from the street to encourage conversation. It did provide an excellent view of the front door of the inn, and of the alley that led up the side to its rear yard. From time to time, she raised her head and stared directly at my window.

  The persistent presence of the harlot helped to draw my thoughts outward from the dark depths of my soul. What if Martala was mistaken about Farri? Perhaps he had merely set a watch on my house, waiting for my return before he put his plan for revenge into motion. If so, he would know of my presence in Alexandria, and might even now be in the city, drawing a net tight around Martala while I waited helpless in this pestilential inn. These fears were probably groundless, but for the first time, I felt the prick of impatience. I decided that I had waited long enough. If I was not summoned this night, in the morning I would give my regards to the innkeeper and return to my house.

  With the setting of the sun, the traffic on the street grew thin, and the harlot in her emerald dress departed like a shadow. I prepared myself for bed, my thoughts on Martala, who did the same alone and unguarded. That she could defend herself I knew well enough, but little skill availed against the attack of several street-hardened villains, well accustomed to working in darkness. They would not kill her. They would truss her in bonds like a hen for market and carry her back to their master.

  For a time, my troubled thoughts kept me alert. I heard the watch cry the tenth hour of the night. When sleep came at last, it was deep and dreamless.

  Alhazred, wake.

  I opened my eyes without moving my body on the straw-filled mattress, Sashi’s voice still echoing inside my head. The only sound in my ears was my own breathing. At the foot of the bed I saw two dark shapes. The light that came through the window was so dim, I could barely distinguish the shadowy outlines of their cloaks from the gloom. I glanced across at the chair, and wondered how I could have been so careless as to leave my sword and dagger on it. If these were Farri’s men, my resurrection had been brief.

  “I know you are awake,” whispered a harsh voice. “Get dressed.”

  The voice of the lean man, unlovely though it was, caused me to relax. I slid the sheet off my body and went to the chair to don my garments. When I put on my dagger and sword, the brooding shadows made no objection. I glanced down through the open window. The street was black. The slanting rays of the quarter moon did not penetrate to its depths, and no lamp burned at this late hour. As I drew my face away, I thought I heard the scuff of boot leather on the cobbles, but it was faint enough that it may have been no more than imagination.

  “Give me your purse, Alhazred,” the lean shadow murmured.

  “Take it.”

  He came around the foot of the bed and took the purse Martala had entrusted to me, then poured its contents onto his palm, which he held close to the window to take advantage of the weak moon glow. By that light I saw that he wore a leather mask over the top half of his face that left his nose and mouth unobstructed. I wondered why he went masked, then reflected that he might not wish to be identified by passersby when he took me to the place the scroll was kept. After he satisfied himself as to the number of gold dinars, he grunted and slid them into a small pouch of sailcloth, then tucked the wooden knobs on the drawstring of the purse into my belt.

  “Would you leave a foreign traveler in a strange city without a single coin?”

  He opened his own purse and passed me a Sassanian dirham of the largest size. I placed the silver coin into the girl’s purse.

  “You know my name. It’s only fitting that you tell me your own.”

  He cocked his head as though considering this novel proposition. When at last he replied, his voice held a trace of dry amusement.

  “Call me Altrus. It’s as good a name as any.”

  We descended in stealth to the rear of the inn, where the proprietor waited beside the open back door. No light burned. I recognized him more by smell than by sight. He said nothing, and barely looked at me.

  “Wait.” A hand fell on my shoulder. “Put this on.”

  A piece of cloth was thrust into my hands. Feeling its edges, I found an opening.

  “Am I to be blinded like a goat staked out for wolves?”

  “If we wanted you dead, you would never have left your room.”

  The truth of these plain words caused me to draw the hood over my head. It had a rank smell of old sweat. The vague shapes around me were blotted out.

  “Put your hand on my shoulder. Walk where I walk.”

  Someone took hold of my left hand and raised it to Altrus’ bony shoulder, but whether his silent companion or the proprietor of the inn, I could not tell. I was guided forward, half stumbled on the threshold of the door, then found myself walking on the rutted ground of what I assumed was the alley that ran up the side of the inn. This surface gave way to smooth cobblestones that were easier to walk over. The journey seemed to last forever. I reflected that anyone who passed us in the street would dismiss me as no more than a blind leper, hooded to conceal the ugliness of my face. It was just as well that I had renewed the glamour before sleep. The true horror of my features would remain hidden when the hood was removed.

  At last we st
opped. There were hard stones beneath my boots, so I knew we still stood within the walls of the city.

  A knock sounded upon a door—three raps, followed by one, followed by three. A bolt rattled on the other side of the panel.

  “Now we leave you. Tomorrow night at this time we will return and guide you back to the inn. Don’t take off your hood until the door is shut behind you.”

  I reached toward the sound of his voice and caught his arm. He tried to shrug loose but I held firm, tightening my fingers into his flesh.

  “One thing you must know before you depart. If you plan to defraud or murder me, you will not enjoy the consequences. I am under the protection of a powerful man. Perhaps you have heard of him. His name is Farri al-Asadi.”

  “I know no one of that name. Release me.”

  “He leads the beggars of Bubastis and has many dangerous agents at his command. The life of your master is not worth a bronze fil if you betray me.”

  With a final jerk he pulled his arm from my grasp. I was shoved roughly across a threshold, and would have fallen had not strong arms caught me on the other side. The door banged shut in its frame, and the hood was pulled from my head.

  Blinking owlishly, I saw by the light of an oil lamp burning on a long oak table in the middle of the room two men who had the appearance of scribes. Their hair was cut so short, it was little more than a fuzz upon their scalps, and their shaven faces had the pallor of those unaccustomed to the harsh rays of the sun. Both were thin, with sunken cheeks and bloodless lips. They may have been brothers—there was a similarity in the shape of their dark eyes and hooked noses. One was my own height, the other considerably shorter. On top of their tan linen robes they wore leather belts around their hips that supported the scabbards of short, broad-bladed swords.

  The taller scribe who had caught me released his grasp on my forearms and moved around me to set a wooden bar into place in iron brackets in the door through which I had entered. On the opposite end of the room I noticed a second door, shut. His less imposing companion removed my sword and dagger, and carried them through this rear door, which he locked behind him with a key hanging around his neck when he emerged.

  The room was not large. Tight-fitted boards shuttered the only window on the inside, making it impossible to see either out or in. There were three oak chairs with the heads of lions carved upon their arms, one at the side of the table just beneath the shuttered window, and one on each end. A stack of blank papyrus leaves had been set on the table in front of the middle chair, beside a reed pen and an open inkwell. A corner of the room was occupied by a gray earthenware chamber pot. Against an otherwise vacant wall stood an ebony sideboard, its polished surface supporting rolled sheets of papyrus that were tied with green silk ribbons, two unlit brass lamps, an assortment of new reed pens, and several bottles of ink. In the front of this elegant piece of furniture, two shallow drawers with brass pull rings occupied the space above a closed cupboard. I wondered what the cupboard might contain.

  “Where is the book of the Old Ones?” I asked in Greek.

  “Before you may see the scroll, there are certain formalities,” murmured the scribe by the door in a surprisingly mellow voice.

  He gestured with a finger to his companion, who went to the sideboard and took from the drawer on the right a piece of parchment covered with writing. This he spread on the table. He returned to the drawer and extracted from it a miniature dagger of the sort that court women use to carve fruit and cheese when dining. I leaned over the table to examine the parchment. It was lettered in Greek, and had the appearance of a legal contract. Red sealing wax impressed with a geometric design occupied the lower-right corner of the sheet. The seal exhibited a disquieting animation when I looked at it, so that I found it prudent to remove my gaze.

  “This is an agreement stating that you will in no way and under no circumstance disclose to any other human being the contents of the scroll you will copy, or cause copies to be made of your own copy. The penalty for deliberate violation of these terms is death.”

  I laughed lightly, drawing a sharp glance from the man with the knife.

  “It is well for you to know that I enjoy the protection of a powerful man. His name is Farri al-Asadi, and he has the appearance of a gray-bearded beggar, but this is merely a deception. No man of greater authority dwells in the city of Bubastis.”

  “That is of no concern to us. Do you accept the terms of the agreement?”

  “Very well, I agree. Where do I sign?”

  “You do not sign,” the tall scribe murmured.

  “What mark do you wish of me, then?”

  His silent companion grasped my left hand, and before I could react, used the needle-like point of the knife to prick my index finger. I cursed and snatched my hand away. The other man made a placating gesture and caught both my hands. He applied the drop of red blood welling from my left finger to the ball of my right thumb and covered it with wetness, then pressed my thumb firmly down upon the parchment beside the animated seal of red wax. When he withdrew my hand, a perfect impression of the ridges on the face of my thumb were left upon the sheet.

  I wiped my bleeding finger on the rough camelhair of my coat. The prick was shallow. No more than a drop had welled forth. Already the blood began to clot.

  “A signature would have been easier,” I muttered with a trace of annoyance that I could not repress.

  “The agents who enforce this agreement require blood,” the taller scribe said.

  The other man returned the knife to the drawer, and bent to remove from the cupboard a glazed blue bowl and a white pitcher of water. While the tall scribe unlocked the rear door with a key that hung on a chain around his neck, and carried my oath of silence into the room that lay beyond it, his companion washed my hands with care, using a soft linen cloth scrupulously white. The sureness of his touch showed that he had performed this curious act numerous times in the past. After patting dry my skin, and turning my hands back and forth to assure himself that

  all traces of dirt had been removed from around my nails, he rubbed and gently squeezed the cut on my finger. It did not bleed. This seemed to reassure him. He methodically placed the cloth, pitcher, and basin back into the cupboard.

  When the tall scribe returned empty-handed and locked the door shut behind him, the other nodded, and they exchanged a look laden with significance. I watched with bemusement, wondering what other tricks or trials they would impose upon me. Together they went to a trunk of dark oak bound with iron straps that rested on the floor in the corner. It had the appearance of a strong box. With difficulty, for it was quite heavy, they each grasped an iron ring and lifted it to one end of the table. Taking a second key from the chain around his neck, the taller man unlocked the brass padlock that hung from the iron hasp of the trunk and opened it, then withdrew from its dark interior a small carved box.

  My interest quickened as I studied it in the flickering shadows cast by the flame of the lamp. It had the dull sheen of polished ivory, but its color was a green tending to pink, like no form of ivory I had ever seen. Deeply carved upon its lid and all four of its sides were unearthly creatures, beasts that could only be found in the darkest of nightmares. They twisted and writhed over the surface of the box as though alive, showing glaring eyes and gleaming teeth amid the riotous confusion of their limbs. The only thing I had ever seen remotely like it was a nest of vipers.

  I reached out to touch its surface, and paused. Its two attendants did not hesitate. They grasped the box and with sure fingers unlatched the three clasps of beaten and tarnished silver that held it shut, then opened it on its silver hinges. Its interior was filled with red silk embroidered with golden thread. Together, with reverential care, they unfolded the cloth like the petals of a rose, and from the middle of this rich nest took out a scroll of papyrus. The taller scribe extended it to me.

  Taking it
from him with some impatience, I laid it upon the table and unrolled a cubit of its length. Its roller was not ivory, as I first assumed, but bone. I recognized it as part of a human thigh bone, much yellowed with age. The scroll itself appeared in remarkable preservation, in view of its antiquity. That it was genuine, I had no doubt. During my time at the palace in Sana’a I had gained good experience at recognizing forged books and documents. Many traders had mistaken my youth for credulity, though they only made this mistake once. At the top of the scroll the figure of a dragon, in red and green inks edged with gold leaf, looped back upon itself, its serpentine tail extended down the left side next to the text, which was all in Greek, lettered in a small yet precise hand, with few scribal contractions.

  “You may begin to make your copy,” the tall man murmured.

  His silent companion went to the chair at one end of the table and sat with his back straight, watching me while I positioned myself on the seat before the lamp and prepared to begin my transcription of the text. It was long since I had done this kind of work, but I found that my hands remembered it well enough. After the passage of an hour, my eyes began to water, and I asked that a second lamp be lit. This was done promptly. The brighter illumination made the work easier. For a time the tall scribe stood behind my right shoulder with his hands clasped at his groin, watching me work with evident interest. Eventually, he sat upon the remaining chair. Each time I glanced at either attendant, I found his eyes fixed unwaveringly upon me.

  When I had completed several hours of the work, I examined the length of the scroll, and saw that the span of a day was just long enough to copy all of it, for a quick worker who did not pause to read its contents. Half the lines were meaningless, and could not be understood, although it was possible to sound them out since they were written in Greek letters. The alternate lines were penned in an antique but perfectly clear Greek poetic meter that had the rolling grandeur of Homer’s epics. What little I read stirred coldness in the depths of my soul, and it was with difficulty that I broke my gaze away from the narrative and continued my lettering. At the left edge of my vision, the sinuous green and red tail of the dragon endlessly undulated.