Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  Lakif casually glanced over the arching rampart. The water below was tan-colored, mottled with occasional dark streaks, suggesting pockets of doughty vegetation clogged the thinning riverbed. Pale and bulbous bellied frogs floated upside down on the water.

  A few children cavorted in the water down the river. Although they were playing well out from the bank, the water reached only their shins. This suggested that this river too was well on the way to joining its extinct forebears. But there was another telltale sign that this waterway was struggling to survive. The hiss of the vapors sounded like a deathbed confession.

  A cobblestone lane paralleled the far side of the river. It hugged so close to the water’s edge that a single step from the causeway would land a traveler in the drink.

  She lowered her eyes down to a figure near the base of the bridge. A woman crouched at the riverbank. She was washing clothes in the murky waters. A blue bonnet kept the sun out of her eyes but also prevented a clear view of her features. Bone white hair speckled in the morning sun, contrasting sharply with her coal-hued hands. An Acaanan! The distaff was diligently raking a garment over a slimy rock. The surrounding water was suffused with red, which seemed to stain the cloth as well.

  Without a word of warning, Lakif bolted across the bridge, leaving her associates to puzzle over the exit. As she reached the abutment, Lakif hopped the low wall and slid down the slope toward the bank. The slant was enveloped by a fine layer of gravel, and she slid all the way down to the base, crashing into a bolus of dust that mushroomed up.

  The woman did not break from her chore at the commotion behind her. Lakif approached the washer with a cautious, calculated pace. As she drew near, her eyes never veered from the assiduous hands that scoured and beat the garment.

  The distaff raised her weathered hands and wrung the sheet tightly. Blood-red water showered down as her bony fingers twisted ever tighter.

  “Excuse me, ma’am…” Lakif’s voice trembled. The woman dunked the stained sheet in the river and continued her labor, uninterrupted. Words fled from Lakif. Marshaling her nerve, she reached out and touched the distaff’s shoulder.

  The scrubbing stopped and the article fell on the rocks. Slowly the woman turned her head and looked up with the twisted eyes of an Acaanan. Those eyes were burdened with sorrow as much as age. White wrinkles streamed through corrugated cheeks like spider webs in the corner of a shed.

  “Can I help you?” She blinked in the sunlight.

  “I saw you doing the wash and thought I may be of help.” Had she thought of it, Lakif would have cringed at how ridiculous the offer sounded.

  “Do I know you?” the elder Acaanan asked.

  “Do you?” Lakif reflected the question back.

  “There aren’t many of our kind left…in these parts, at least.” Fortunately, she didn’t seem perturbed by the intrusion.

  “I suppose not…” Lakif stammered. A choir of voices caught her ear, the garbled sounds of children at play nearby.

  Meanwhile, the distaff turned her attention back toward the garment, which was stained pink in the sanguine waters. She began whistling a doleful tune. Lakif readied herself, wrestling with the fateful word.

  “Mother?”

  Again, the scrubbing stopped and the bonnet swung in her direction. Lakif braced herself, expecting the face to have transformed into some ghastly creature. To her surprise, she was welcomed with the same weary eyes and a faint smile.

  “Pardon?”

  “Are you my mother?” The giggling sounds of children were closer now.

  “I don’t think so, lassie.”

  “Are you sure?” Lakif knelt down next to the distaff. “Is that why you are here? To meet me?”

  “I am here to do the wash. I’m not your mother, and I would know because I’m cursed. I have never have been able to bear a child—this womb is as poisoned as these waters.”

  No sooner had she finished than a clutch of children appeared a stone’s throw off and leapt into the river. As they jumped and thrashed about, a cloud of red billowed out to suffuse the water. Lakif then realized that there must be red clay flooring the riverbed and that the woman’s laundry was not in fact weeping blood.

  “I’m sorry. I mistook you for someone else.” Lakif felt very foolish, suddenly aware of how her questions must have appeared to the spinster.

  “No inconvenience,” the aged Acaanan intoned and returned to her handiwork.

  Lakif turned to find her companions quietly observing her from above. What must they be thinking? She trudged up the slope and met up with the two.

  “Do you know her?” Bael asked. Lakif at least felt relieved that the madam was real and not another invention of her mind. She could have remained tight-lipped, but she felt obliged to explain her erratic behavior.

  “I thought that was my mother.” She hoped the simple explanation would put an end to the matter.

  “Does she live in Grimpkin?” Torkoth asked.

  “No,” Lakif stammered.

  “Then why…” Torkoth began but tapered off.

  “I thought your parents were dead,” Bael questioned her.

  “Yes. Mom died in childbirth with me,” Lakif answered matter-of-factly, as if telling a stranger the time of day.

  “No life comes without bloodshed. Ask any midwife,” Torkoth quoted an old proverb. “But that woman wasn’t dead. It’s easy to tell the difference.”

  “Is it?” Lakif looked back, certain that someone had taken unwarranted note of her sidetrack down to the riverbank. “What’s on your mind?” Bael asked.

  “I have heard stories of mothers who died in childbirth, only to appear to their child years later. They are called Bean Nighes. Their children find them washing the bloodied sheets from their fatal labor. Maybe they are ghosts or perhaps a memory frozen in time.”

  “I can’t speak of that,” Bael confessed.

  Lakif challenged her belief. “Is such a thing impossible?”

  “Ghosts don’t exist,” Torkoth stated flatly. “Death follows life. There is a natural order to things.”

  “I suppose you are right.” Lakif sighed. She couldn’t explain why she had fallen victim to such foolishness.

  XXXIII

  The Church

  AN HOUR OF BRISK WALKING LANDED THEM IN THE VICINITY OF THE CHURCH. Bael had been astute enough to ask around the previous night about prominent structures near the Lucent. In this way, when they asked locals for directions, they weren’t specifying the ancient church as their destination, which may have elicited any number of responses.

  It was past midday when they reached their destination. An avenue diverged off the promenade. It ended blindly, forming a cul-de-sac lined by disintegrating buildings.

  The area was completely deserted. In fact, it looked as if it had been abandoned for some time. Rubbish carpeted the street. A forlorn quiet presided in defiance of the noon hour. In fact, Lakif imagined that the disconcerting silence in and of itself could rival any rumors in deterring visitors.

  She looked around to see if anyone was watching their entry into the abandoned lane. The crowd had thinned out to the extent that only a few solitary hobos could be seen, and none seemed interested in the triad’s destination.

  With trepidation, they entered the dead-end lane. The buildings on either side were empty stone husks. The derelict church lay at the rear of the cul-de-sac.

  The Lucent was racked with age but also debilitated from abuse and disuse. Narrow lancet arches spanned the facade near the summit. Colored slivers of glass jutted in all directions from those window frames. The stone from which the edifice was constructed was coarse and cracking, as if it had been baked by tremendous heat. Its slanted roof consisted of slate slabs punctuated by gaping holes. As she watched, a three-winged bird came to light in a ruined section that had collapsed inward. In several spots, there were windows crisscrossed with boards or entirely bricked up—barring any view of the interior.

  A flight of steps lined with gar
bage led up to the front doors. The main entrance itself was evident only in outline, as it had long since been sealed up with brick. The walled portal looked to the Acaanan like a gaping mouth sealed shut, a crude bulwark to prevent the ghastly screams imprisoned within from spilling out into the lane. Several gothic statues lined the facade from elevated recesses. Some were demure with mournful expressions. Others, doubled forward like gargoyles, bore visages of crazed strife. These reminded the Acaanan more of leering devils.

  Whatever prestige it had boasted in its heyday, the vestigial church resonated with little ecclesiastical glory. Lakif burked a shudder. Judging solely by its appearance, the Lucent certainly was a wanton slut; it had birthed the murderous whirlwind that had ravaged the district, and that bastard child of hate had never perished. That hate lay dormant, like an ungodly tumor on the body of Grimpkin.

  Lakif had hoped that the Bard had exaggerated in his description of the place. But at the mere sight of the charnel house, she instinctively knew that the chronicler hadn’t embellished any details in order to heighten a sense of dread. Her disconcertion soared, and she immediately knew that the local reputation of this place was well warranted. Even at high noon with Bael and Torkoth at her side, she was loath to approach the dark church.

  She looked to her friend for reassurance and was surprised to find the Kulthean reciprocating the gesture.

  “The church faces east,” Bael noted.

  “So?” Lakif failed to appreciate the significance.

  “I thought that churches customarily faced west. But I could be mistaken.”

  Lakif wasn’t in any position to dispute the Kulthean’s observation. The unorthodox position could simply be a coincidence. On the other hand, it could be a purposeful defiance of conventional dogma.

  “At least it seems deserted,” Bael noted, accentuating the positive.

  “The class of church I prefer to enter,” Lakif quipped. She couldn’t remember ever having entered a church but found the prospect distasteful.

  “What is that?” Torkoth was pointing to a section of the front wall. Lakif thought it was covered by snaking ivy, but now that the Half-man had called attention to it, she realized that green paint blemished the facade. As they approached, it was clear that the wall had been effaced by graffiti.

  “What does it say?” Torkoth asked, reminding Lakif that her deft companion couldn’t read well. Lakif wondered if he always had been so, or if the accident had stripped him of that power along with his memory. Lakif read the words aloud, which resembled an epitaph chiseled into a tombstone.

  “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” There was a symbol painted under the words, a warped swastika.

  There was no point of access through the facade. Therefore, they skirted the outside of the structure by filing down an adjacent alley, a shadowy path almost impassable due to piled-up debris. Soon, the alley opened up into a side lot bordering the church. As it was boxed in on all sides by high walls, the area was dimly lit even at this noon hour. It was an area once suited for a garden but now thoroughly choked with frosty brambles, thorn bushes, and weeds, each tenacious species vying for supremacy in the wild jungle.

  As they foraged into the thicket, a colossal cloud of insects swarmed up from the shrubbery. A tremendous buzz enveloped them, one akin to a cheering stadium. The buzzing mass was so dense that Lakif even lost clear sight of her companions. There were so many, in fact, that she feared taking a breath, lest several be sucked in her chest. She swatted wildly, but the insects stormed unchecked.

  “Who has a lighter?” Torkoth’s voice rose above the drone. Lakif saw him sprinkling a container over some shrubs.

  “I do!” Lakif had her nose and mouth covered with one hand. A bug was squirming in her eye.

  “Light that bush!” Clearly he had anointed the vegetation with oil.

  The Acaanan fished through her pocket. There were even bugs in there. She sparked her lighter at a dripping leaf and a whole branch burst into flame. Quickly the enclosed garden was filled with smoke, which succeeded in driving most of the insects off.

  “Gnats!” Bael stammered, fanning off residual pests.

  “How is that possible, I mean, in this season?” Lakif asked. She looked about expecting to find some dead animal amid the frosty brambles, which may have accounted for the armada of gnats, but saw nothing.

  “It is most unnatural,” Torkoth commented. “But look here, there are windows. We’d be best to clear a path before the smoke disperses.”

  The side wall was virtually painted over with knotted vines that curled up toward the roof. Several windows were visible under the hairy vines, and they too were barred with wooden planks.

  With agreement that this would be their point of entry, they dove into clearing away the vines and prying the boards loose. It was no mean task. But after several minutes, the window lay exposed, revealing the church’s shadowy interior.

  Torkoth seized the initiative. He grabbed the overhead awning and swung himself through. Bael stamped out the fire, lest the smoke draw attention, and then followed suit, although considerably less deftly due to his size. Lakif trailed in the rear. She was preoccupied with avoiding another injury to her recently mended ankle as she dropped down on the other side.

  The room they entered was completely bare, as if a terrific wind had blasted all its contents away. The place was dim, punctuated only occasionally by slivers of light lancing in through other boarded-up windows. An empty fireplace occupied one wall, and two openings led into other halls. It seemed they had entered the priest’s private living quarters situated abreast of the church proper. The doors had all been removed, allowing an unobstructed view to these other areas.

  Although nothing overtly alarmed her, Lakif felt that an oppressive silence impeded further progress. The others seemed to feel it as well. It was almost a tangible net drawn up before them. Torkoth drew his sword from its scabbard. It was the shaman’s blade. The brandishing steel twinkled from the narrow streaks of light filing in. He waved it, as if to sever the invisible net in twain. Lakif wasn’t convinced it succeeded, and even Bael looked apprehensive.

  At the end of the hall was another room. The broken remains of a table and chairs were heaped in the center. Nearby, a dented metal coffee pot lay under a table leg. Lakif assumed this was the former kitchen.

  A short entry hall led to a vacant doorway. Beyond, the church opened up. Broken kindling in the hall testified to the force that had battered the door down. As they approached the portal, wood splinters crackled underfoot like insect husks. Lakif noticed that faded brown spots stained the walls near the door. She wondered if it could be dried blood.

  They exited out of the private quarters and entered into the eastern arm of the church, popularly known as the nave.

  The church, shaped like a cross, had an orthodox floor plan. Its long axis included the nave, where they now stood. The front entrance, facing the east, lay to their right. The narthex, or vestibule, was sealed up with bricks. On both sides above, overlooking the nave, stretched the clerestory. Its outer walls were punctuated by rows of arches along the raised arcade. Some of these they had seen from the front. To their left, the nave continued to a domed area where three other halls, forming the remaining arms of the cross, converged.

  At their intrusion, a hellish cry rattled forth from above. A creature lumbered along the railing lining the clerestory. A massively distorted erinye ogled them. It didn’t appear capable of flight due to its warped wings. But a moment later it hopped off the railing and, thrashing around frantically, took to a crooked flight. Up in the rafters Lakif spotted other creatures lurking in dark niches, all silently observing the infidels. One was feathered with a beak shaped like a scimitar. Another was scaly with rough horns protruding at all angles, while across the choir a furry bat-like predator eye-beamed them. Indeed, the most wretched birds of prey were attracted to the Lucent. Fortunately, none seemed overtly hostile.

  Having absorbed its general fea
tures, Lakif was now in a position to study the nave in more detail. The Bard hadn’t overstated the scope of the destruction rained down upon the church. Although the edifice’s exterior had suffered the scourges of time and the elements, the church’s interior was assailed in a manner that only the hand of man could muster. Remains of broken pews were scattered around as if a typhoon had swept through the nave. The splintered boards reminded the Acaanan of wooden ships broken on the reefs. Occupying the lion’s share of the nave were the remains of a massive fire. A mountain of charred husks rose high. Scattered wood surrounding the pyre was the only vestige of the smashed pews that had been tossed to fuel the conflagration. The pitched ceiling was blackened where it had been licked by the flames. The ash formed a sheet across the floor. The lack of any disturbance in the ash confirmed that the church had been abandoned since the rioting.

  The destruction was not limited to the demolition and torching of the pews. The walls and pillars themselves were marred by chips and gashes as if subject to an outright assault. The southern wall was sprayed with various paints. The graffiti could have either been a treasure map or a glyph of warding to any who might dare enter. Numerous pedestals lay haphazardly strewn around, their dadoes chipped and cracked, suggesting they too had suffered a butchering. All around the floor were what looked like shriveled black leaves, which on closer inspection proved to be burnt shreds of papyrus. Perhaps these were the remains of the church’s hymns.

  Within the arched portals of the clerestory, fragments of stained glass jutted out, the only remaining evidence of the colored windows that had once dazzled the congregation. The slivers of glass reminded the Acaanan of poor stitching on a series of gaping wounds. Although the sun was high outside, little illumination filtered in through that row of windows. Lakif felt that light itself was contraband in the church’s interior.

  As the others wandered off to meditate on the depredation privately, Lakif perused the pyre’s roasted remains. Mingled amid the charred debris were blackened metal objects that she assumed were once holy decorations. Rounding the far side, she stumbled upon a nest of bones along the perimeter of the bonfire. At first, she imagined they had been unfortunate victims of the terrible blaze. But she drew back in disgust as she spotted the moldering, intact skeleton of an infant amid the bony array. Most of the other bones were too small to be adults as well.