The Physiognomy, Memoranda, and The Beyond

by Jeffrey Ford

  “This is unusual, Cley,” said Curaswani. “More than one Wraith at a time. They must be upset that we are getting the better of them.”

  “Is that good or bad?” asked the hunter.

  “Everything here, at Fort Vordor, is bad,” said the captain, rubbing tears from his own eyes.

  “The spring is only about a month and a half away,” said Cley.

  Curaswani nodded and was about to speak, when he was interrupted by another voice. He and the hunter turned to find Willa Olsen standing behind them, staring as if in a trance.

  “A ghost has taken my son,” she said.

  “What do they want with the child?” asked Cley.

  “Perhaps they want Brisden,” said the captain. “He had become very influential with the head man of the Beshanti.”

  “Get him for me,” said the hunter. Then he turned to Willa, and said, “I’ll go for the child.”

  She did not change her expression, but opened her mouth and released a sound like the howling of a wounded animal.

  Cley and Dat, armed with rifles, moved through the woods as another frozen dawn broke over the wilderness. Tied to a tether with a noosed loop around his neck was Brisden. The young soldier occasionally gave the disheveled talker a vicious kick in the rear end whenever he slowed down. The words were spewing out like the blood from Soames’s slit throat, and although they had threatened to shoot him as many times as yards they had traveled, it seemed impossible to shut him up. The hunter had reluctantly left Wood behind, the dog being too valuable to the protection of the others to risk bringing him. They had picked up the trail of the fleeing Wraith, the only set of fresh tracks moving away from the fort. What Cley meant to do when he finally met the Beshanti, he had no idea.

  After an hour of walking through the peaceful forest, the sun now fully risen, Cley noticed that the footprints of the kidnapper had disappeared. The hunter stopped in a small clearing surrounded by white birches and got down on his hands and knees.

  “What is it?” asked Dat.

  “See here,” said Cley, and pointed to the ground. “They’ve tried to cover the tracks.” He indicated a place in the snow that appeared unusually smooth in relation to the rest of the area.

  Dat pulled Brisden along with him and bent over to look. “What does it mean?” he asked.

  “They know we have come after the child,” said Cley.

  “So the village is nearby?” asked Dat.

  “I doubt it,” said the hunter. “I don’t think they will let us get anywhere near the village. Their village is probably off in the opposite direction somewhere.”

  “What do we do?” asked the young man, now standing straight and looking around nervously.

  “I don’t know,” said Cley, “my specialty is delivering babies. I believe, before too long, they will find us.”

  “If this bag of wind doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to have to kill him,” said the soldier. With this, he took the butt of his rifle and slapped Brisden lightly in the back of the head with it. “Close that bunghole of yours,” he yelled.

  The lumpen prisoner winced with the blow, but continued to jabber.

  “Easy, boy,” said Cley. “He is our commerce. We are trafficking in Brisden today, as sorry a pile of goods as he is.”

  Cley remained on his haunches for a moment, thinking about how to proceed. As he was about to stand, he heard a sharp whistling noise that seemed to pass just overhead. The constant babble abruptly stopped, and the sudden silence was deafening. The hunter looked up and saw an arrow sticking out of Brisden’s throat. Blood dripped from his mouth. There was a look of utter surprise on his face as if he had just discovered the end of language. Two more arrows flew through the air, one piercing his chest and the other lodging itself in his shoulder. He fell, in his dirty white suit, like a sack of molded flour.

  Cley turned and began crawling back toward the tree line. At the same moment, Dat opened fire.

  The hunter got to his feet, and yelled, “Run!” He heard the screams of the warriors behind him. Dat caught up to him and they had almost made it back among the trees, when the soldier fell forward with a low grunt. Cley turned to help him up, and discovered a stone hatchet wedged in the back of the young man’s head. Blood and brain matter, slivers of bone were strewn in the snow.

  The hunter wheeled around and brought his rifle up just in time to fire at a rushing warrior. The double-barrel shot ripped half the charging attacker’s face off as if it were no more than a leather mask. As he fell dead, another charged behind him. Cley had no time to get up. He reached for his knife and secured it in time to stop, with his free hand, the enemy’s arm from bringing down a hatchet onto his own head. The weight of the body fell upon him, and the two began wrestling. Cley’s hat flew off, and the younger warrior’s grip, like the jaws of a ferocious animal, squeezed the strength out of the hunter’s fingers. The stone knife dropped uselessly into the snow. The warrior raised his hatchet to finish Cley, and just as the weapon was beginning to descend, the Beshanti stopped. He leaped off the hunter and backed away.

  Cley did not understand what had happened, but he seized the opportunity to retrieve his knife and get to his feet. When he stood, he saw that he was surrounded by a contingent of twenty or so strong-looking men wearing deer-hide tunics and leggings fashioned from beaver pelt. Their hair was long and dark and worn in braids that reached to the middle of the back. In the midst of his dilemma, Cley noticed that even in the snow, they wore nothing on their feet.

  The hunter turned cautiously, holding the knife thrust outward in as threatening a manner as he could muster. He thought to himself how pitiful he must look, and wondered which of them would finish him. A warrior stepped forward, a large man dressed in a derby hat and a maroon dinner jacket that one might wear to a party in the realm. The sight was unnerving, and Cley could not help but blink his eyes.

  The man walked slowly up to Cley, opened his hands to show he had no weapons, and then reached out and touched the hunter on the forehead between the eyes.

  “The Word,” he said, and Cley was amazed to hear the language of the realm coming from the Beshanti.

  The hunter remained silent.

  “Yes, I know your tongue,” said the man.

  “Brisden?” said Cley.

  The Beshanti nodded. “I am Misnotishul. In your language this means ‘Rain.’”

  “Why did you kill Brisden?” asked Cley.

  “We called him the pale toad. I learned from his croaking, but now he is useless to us,” said Misnotishul.

  “And me?” asked Cley.

  “You have been marked by the Word. If we had killed you, we would not have lived long,” said the Beshanti.

  “I’ve come for the child,” said the hunter.

  “I told the Shensel, the spirits, to bring me the baby so he would not be killed when we attack. Is the child yours?” asked the warrior.

  “Yes, he is my son,” said Cley, looking down so the man could not see his eyes. “He is to be marked by the Word this spring.”

  Misnotishul motioned with his left hand and pronounced a string of words in Beshanti. A man stepped out from a stand of birch trees, carrying the child still wrapped in his blankets. The bearer of the child handed him over to Cley.

  “Tomorrow, we are going to vanish those of the western realm from our land,” said Misnotishul. “No one in the fort will be left alive. You may go your way with your son and your wife, but the others, I promise you, will die.”

  “Why must they?” asked Cley.

  “They are an illness in the land. We tried to let them grow here, but they are like poisonous weeds. I am sorry, but I want the realm, the home of Brisden and yourself, to know that no more should come. Once the last of them is dead, I must undergo a ritual to forget your tongue. I wanted the power that the Word have to know all language, but the pale toad has given me a destructive knowledge.”

  “But …” said Cley, and the Beshanti waved his hand in front of him a
s if erasing the hunter’s voice. Misnotishul turned and motioned for his men to follow him.

  The hunter stood in the clearing in the birches, holding the sleeping child. He looked down at Dat and shook his head, thinking of the times they had gone hunting, the young man’s confession to him about his father, his amazing one-eyed aim.

  Cley was confused, weighed down by grief and unable to move. Then the baby woke and started to cry. The hunter picked up his hat and put it on. With his free hand, he slipped the knife back into his boot. He took a slow, weighted step, and then another, and another, until Fort Vordor came into view.

  Curaswani drew on his pipe, lifted his drink, and finished it all in one draught. “Then you will go,” he said to Cley.

  “The others, though,” said the hunter.

  “We will hold the fort,” said the captain. “Three saved is better than none. It will be our victory.”

  Cley shook his head.

  “An order,” said the captain, as he poured them each another glass.

  That night there was a party in the barracks. Captain Curaswani ordered whiskey be served, and relieved all men from guard duty. Private Dean played his harmonica, and Morgana danced with each of the soldiers. Some of the men sang old songs from the western realm while others sat about telling jokes and tall tales, smoking pipes and cigarettes. The captain was the barkeep, and he kept all drinks filled to spilling. There was venison cooking on the stove, and Morgana had, through kitchen alchemy, created a cake with icing made from melted sugar cubes and lard.

  Willa Olsen had also come downstairs, carrying the baby. She stood off to the side most of the time, staring blankly at the goings-on. She approached Cley, who was sitting on one of the soldiers’ cots, smoking a cigarette he had begged from Weems. The hunter looked up from his thoughts and took a sip of his drink.

  “Thank you,” she said in a voice that was nearly smothered by the noise of the party.

  Now it was Cley who could think of nothing to say. He reached up and touched the baby’s blanket. She began to turn away, and he called her back.

  “Get some sleep,” he said. “Early tomorrow, you and I and Wraith are leaving Fort Vordor. Say nothing to the others tonight about it. Pack whatever you can possibly carry along with the child.”

  She nodded quickly and walked away. He was uncertain as to whether she really understood what he had said.

  The captain’s voice was like thunder as he called the men to attention just before sunrise. They lifted themselves, groggy and disoriented, from the places where they had fallen but a few hours earlier. There was a lingering fog of tobacco smoke in the barracks, mixed with the smell of venison that had been left to char on the stove.

  Cley had not slept, but was fully dressed, wearing his black hat and the yellow coat. His bow and quiver were slung over opposite shoulders. In his left hand he carried a rifle, and there was a pistol in his belt. The new pack that Curaswani had given him was filled with some food, the book cover, his fire stones, and as much ammunition as he could carry. He stood in the darkness of the compound, with Wood at his side.

  As the soldiers came from the door of the barracks, limping into boots and buttoning their uniforms, Curaswani, dressed in full uniform and bearing all of his medals on his chest, issued them rifles and pistols he had gathered on the ground in a heap. He directed them to where he wanted each to take up a position on the catwalks.

  Cley saw in the young men’s faces that they knew something portentous was about to happen. One or two had tears in their eyes, and nearly all of them were trembling. No one questioned the captain, but all moved quickly to their assigned posts. On his way to the great door of the fort, Weems passed the hunter and slipped a pack of cigarettes into his hand.

  “For luck,” said the young man, and was gone.

  From the barracks came Willa, carrying Wraith in her arms and a pack on her back. Morgana walked with them, her arm wrapped around the new mother’s shoulders. They moved next to Cley in the middle of the compound.

  Once his men were in place, the captain approached the hunter and women.

  “Cley,” he said, “if I were you, I’d head east to where the settlers had their homes. I believe a few of those structures are still standing. Finish the winter out in one of them and then move on if you must in the spring. It seems you are immune from the Beshanti ire thanks to your marking. Perhaps they will not change their minds and will leave you alone until the weather gets better. If I can, I will send some men in the spring to check up on you and fetch back Mrs. Olsen.”

  The hunter nodded. He was about to speak, when one of the men up on the eastern catwalk shouted, “Beshanti at the tree line.”

  “How many?” asked Curaswani.

  “I can’t count them, sir,” came the reply.

  Then, from each of the walls came the same news, “Beshanti at the tree line.”

  The captain handed Morgana a pistol, and yelled, “Open the door.”

  Weems pulled the timbers back, unlocking the oak barrier.

  The captain reached down and petted Wood on the head as Morgana leaned over and kissed the baby.

  “Good-bye, Cley,” said Curaswani.

  “I’ll see you in the spring,” said the hunter.

  “To be sure,” said the captain.

  The sun had begun to rise as Cley and Willa walked through the entrance of Fort Vordor. Wood took up the lead. They moved quickly, saying nothing, across the field toward the eastern tree line. Ahead of them, at two hundred yards, there was gathered a veritable sea of Beshanti warriors. Cley leveled the rifle in front of him in case he needed to fire it. When they reached the middle of the field he put his free arm around Willa as a sign to the natives that she was part of him.

  As they approached the vast war party, Wood ran forward and the warriors fled from him with shouts of fear as if he was some kind of evil spirit. This created an opening in their ranks. Cley whispered to Willa, “Don’t look at them. Just keep walking.”

  The hunter was overwhelmed by the great number of men he continued to pass, even though they had made the tree line and were now moving into the forest. Finally, after another fifty yards, they were alone among the birches.

  Minutes later, there suddenly arose from behind them a deafening shout, like the very shout of the earth. Wraith woke and screamed at the noise. Soon after, there was the sound of gunfire in the distance. Cley made for a hill he had often seen from the eastern catwalk of the fort, peering over the tops of the forest trees. He and Willa and the dog climbed the gentle slope. When they reached its peak, they turned and look back.

  The fort was under attack. There was the distant report of rifle fire, and the hunter saw puffs of smoke appearing everywhere along the battlements. Dozens of bodies lay strewn on the field between the tree line and the walls of Vordor. Some of the Beshanti were scaling the walls with long ladders made of tree branches. He looked for Curaswani and found him on the catwalk, his sword blade catching the sunlight, his white hair and beard making him look at that great distance like the image of Father Time.

  “Enough,” said Willa. She took Cley by the hand and pulled him toward the other side of the hill. As he descended back into the Beyond, he felt himself leaving behind a great sorrow. He remembered how much he truly was a man of the wilderness. As the sounds of the battle faded, a new emotion grew inside of him. It was neither joy nor grief. He could not describe it, and he was content that he had no word for it.

  the knife

  Tomorrow I return to Wenau under dubious circumstances, and because I have been too busy in recent weeks to revisit my vision of the Beyond, I feel I had better take this time tonight to recount another chapter in Cley’s journey. The future, it seems, a phenomenon which had for so long been a certainty of dusty books and quiet, solitary contemplation, has become an empty page, itself waiting to be marked by those events that have yet to transpire. Its perfect blankness fills me with trepidation and at the same time pleases me with its enigmatic po
ssibilities. I go to town as a sign of good faith in my humanity and hope to find, in return, a similar sign from the citizens there. As the beauty slowly percolates my mind toward transcendence, I will explain.

  After my initial visit to the schoolhouse, word had apparently gotten around that I was not such an angry monster as had been advertised for so long. Those who had been present that night, Feskin and his friends, had obviously convinced more of their neighbors that I was to be trusted. Because of this, as soon as two days following, I began to receive guests at the ruins. On the first day, there were only a few, but I was pleased to find that these folks were not among those I had met at the schoolhouse. Yes, they also brought their weapons in order to ameliorate their fears, but they came in good humor and were inquisitive and friendly. I led them around the ruins and entertained them with snatches of historical, architectural, and technological information.

  Every day following, more and more visitors came, on foot, on horseback, in wagons. As the days progressed, they did not bother with the weapons. They conversed with me openly without fear and told jokes, and I came to see that it was a mark of status for those who could engage me in conversation or make me laugh out loud. That part of me that loves myself grew beyond all measure with this realization, causing me to act more flamboyantly the role of scholar and raconteur. It also dawned on both myself and the visitors that the ruins were a large part of their lives, too—the shattered remains of the eggshell that had given birth to their present culture and community. The distance of time now allowed them to look upon the Well-Built City with more curiosity than dread.

  Each day, I improved the tour I would give and honed my store of anecdotes. Instead of writing at night, I spent my time wandering the ruins in search of more and more interesting locations to which I might guide my visitors. Early on, I added a trip through the underground, which culminated at the site of the wrecked dome of the false paradise. I also no longer hesitated to show them the corpse of Greta Sykes, Below’s original werewolf. Having dispatched her with my bare hands years ago when ridding the ruins of those onerous creatures, I had had the wherewithal to preserve her carcass in a glass vat of formaldehyde in a laboratory on the remaining second-floor structure of the Ministry of Science.