The Brink of Darkness

by Jeff Giles

  “Are you known by any name besides ‘the Russian’?” said X. “I should have inquired years ago.”

  “Thank you asking,” said the guard. “True fact is am not Russian, okay? Am from Oo-kra-EEN.” Seeing X’s blank look, the guard added, “Ukraine. Yes? Okay? I try to explain this to Reeper but, of course, she is always pretending to be lunatic-type. When I tell her, she sing something about canary.”

  “And how did your foot come to be twisted?” said X.

  “Is nothing, is defect of birth,” said the Russian. “I overcome. I achieve master’s degree at University of Kiev, and also lucrative life of crimes.”

  The guard’s eyes went to the door. He listened for footsteps.

  “Whom do we await?” said X.

  The Russian hesitated.

  “Terrible creature,” he said. “I lie little bit about fairyland palace, okay? This place you go is not good. I think you don’t like.”

  “Tell me what you know,” said X. “Hold nothing back. The hill can be no worse than the hole where I’ve dwelt these past twenty years.”

  “Oh, very much it can,” said the guard. “You have seen just tiny, country-club part of Lowlands in your little life, okay? We are now in kind of Wild West. Is full with most serious, prodigious criminals. Genocidal maniacs and so forth. There are no cells—just bodies everywhere like worms. There is only one lord, but she is nastiest type of person. She punishes souls however she pleases, and no one says, ‘Hey, what are you doing? You must stop!’ She is called ‘the Countess.’ ”

  The Russian listened again for noises, afraid of being overheard.

  “When I was boy, my babushka tell me I will go to hell if I do this, if I do that,” he said. “She even has painting of hell hanging over expensive stereo system. I look at painting very often as boy because it contains many naked people. This new home you have? Sorry to say, but it is like painting. I will not step foot myself. When Countess comes for you, I run very fast away.”

  Before X could reply, they heard footsteps beyond the door. The door groaned open, and a wedge of light widened across the floor.

  Two men entered. They were almost absurdly muscled—and naked except for a just barely sufficient bit of animal hide at their waists. They had olive skin, curly hair, beards.

  Greeks, thought X. Boxers.

  They were indistinguishable. Their hands were wrapped in leather, which was spotty with blood.

  The Russian acknowledged the boxers nervously. They ignored him, and stationed themselves like granite columns on either side of the door. Soon, X heard the rustling of fabric, the clicking of shoes. The Countess was coming. The boxers drew themselves up taller. They were enormous, but appeared frightened now.

  The Countess swept into the chamber. She wore a burgundy velvet gown with a high white collar and a skirt that looked like an upended tulip. Her energy transformed the room. It was furious and sour, and seemed to take up physical space.

  She inspected X carefully.

  The Countess had an explosion of frizzy red hair, streaked here and there with gray; a small, sweaty nose; and protruding eyes that gave her a look of perpetual outrage. Her hands were raked with scratches.

  She addressed the Russian, all the while scowling at X and picking at an inflamed pimple at the corner of her mouth.

  “Who dost thou dangle before the Countess?”

  X had never encountered a person who talked about herself as if she were someone else.

  “He is good guy,” said the Russian. “I can verify. Will not ruffle you.”

  “It shall be his undoing if he does,” said the Countess. She continued scrutinizing X. “The Countess demands obeisance. Anyone who will not kneel is put to fire and sword. Some believe that the Countess is cruel—that her mind is disordered.” She addressed the boxers: “Such things are whispered, are they not? Answer on it!”

  The men shook their heads no.

  “Liars,” said the woman. “Cowards.” She turned back to X. “These men are called Oedipus and Rex. Do not bother addressing them—they are too dumb to pile stones. The Countess found it necessary to bite one of them here”—she pointed to an oval wound on one boxer’s side—“to tell them apart.”

  She jabbed the wound with the same sharp fingernail she’d used on her pimple. The boxer convulsed with pain, his torso twisting like a rope.

  The Russian began to edge out of the chamber.

  “Thou art too eager to depart,” the Countess told him.

  She hoisted the guard by his tracksuit as if he were made of straw, and heaved him at the door. Then she recommenced scratching her pimple, as if nothing had happened. She scanned the length of X’s body. Her eyes felt like insects on his skin.

  She noticed that his right hand was closed.

  “What dost thou conceal?” she said.

  X hesitated, which caused the Countess’s eyes to bulge even farther from their sockets.

  “Unclench thy hand,” she demanded, “else the Countess shall paint a pretty picture with thy blood.”

  He opened his fingers, knowing everything was about to change.

  On his palm lay a crust of bread.

  “Wherefore would a dead man EAT?” said the Countess.

  Though X had told his story many times, it still shamed him. He had to push the words out.

  “I was born in the Lowlands. I am twenty years old. My name is X.”

  The Countess nodded, as if this was all ordinary, though she was obviously vibrating with rage. She leaned over the Russian, who was still in a heap on the floor.

  “Thou shalt be our guest for eternity, too,” she said. “The Countess shall not have her OWN men scurrying around the Lowlands in search of food. Thou mayest leave the hill only when this man is a hair’s breadth from starvation. Tarry longer than necessary, and the Countess shall hunt thee down and—instead of bread—feed him thy liver.”

  The black flies of her eyes settled on X again.

  “X, is it?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She reared back, and smashed his face with her forehead.

  The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was, “Thou ART NOT special, and thou hast NO NAME.”

  EIGHT

  X woke on a hill of prickly rock. He remembered the Countess’s head rushing at him, and a wet, sickening crack. He touched his forehead. It was sticky with blood.

  Someone must have carried him here—the Russian or maybe one of the boxers. He sat up woozily.

  Bodies lay strewn all around. They coughed and gasped, slithered around the slope, stared without blinking. It was hard to move without touching one of them. Even when X sat still, someone’s rubbery hand or lank, dirty hair would suddenly graze him and give him a chill. He was grateful he’d been unconscious as long as he had. Looking around his new home, he suspected that he’d never sleep again.

  How could Regent have sent him here? Was he still enraged at X for breaking the Lowlands’ laws? Was his promise to help him just a lie tossed out in the interest of getting Ripper back?

  X stood for a better view. At the top of the hill, there was a plateau about 20 feet square, on which—unbelievably—the Countess lay on a sumptuous canopied bed, idly scratching her white stockinged feet. It was the most garish display X had ever seen. He assumed it was intended to make the souls on the hill feel even more wretched. At the end of the bed, there was a wooden box, the sides of which were cut with holes. Every so often a mewling sound escaped it. The Countess, it appeared, had a cat.

  Oedipus and Rex stood immobile in front of the ridiculous bed, daring anyone to come close. There was an empty stretch of slope, about 50 feet wide, between the plateau and the mass of damned souls. It must have been forbidden ground, because the souls were careful not to cross into it. In fact, they were crammed against the invisible dividing line as if behind a wall of glass. The only other thing on the plateau was a black rectangle of rock about four feet high and eight feet long. It looked like an altar. But there w
as no religion in the Lowlands save the prayers that the damned whispered too low for the lords to hear. The rock had to have a less holy purpose.

  High above him, X saw a rough domed ceiling. Below him, the slope was lit by torches on tall iron stands, which made the hill look like a forest on fire. Dozens of guards were on patrol, kicking prisoners aside as they went. X didn’t see his friend in the red tracksuit—he must have been farther down. X would have to strategize without him. Nothing would keep him from finding his mother.

  Something stirred at X’s feet. He looked down to see a soul reach slowly into another soul’s shirt pocket. The thief was a chalk-white figure in rags; the victim, a plump, peaceful-looking Asian man in a khaki shirt and shorts, who appeared to be meditating.

  X had decided not to involve himself when he saw the thief slide a photograph out of the Asian man’s pocket. It made him think of the things he himself carried: Zoe’s letter and the objects in the silver foil. The photograph would mean nothing to the thief, but it might mean everything to the man he stole it from.

  X knelt.

  “Return the picture,” he whispered, “or I will break your hands.”

  The thief grimaced, sized X up—and put it back.

  “Wasn’t gonna keep it,” he said in a dry voice. “Was only gonna hold it a minute. Is it a crime now to hold something?”

  The Asian man’s eyes fluttered open. He patted his pocket to make sure the photograph was still there, then looked at X and the thief. He knew instantly what had gone on.

  “Have you been at it again, Bone?” he said. X was surprised by how warm his voice was, how forgiving. “There’s so much suffering here. Let’s not compound it by turning on each other. Let’s aspire to be the lotus flower that grows out of the mud. All right? All right.”

  “Blah blah blah,” Bone said bitterly. “Easy for you to act holy. You’ve got a picture.”

  He crawled down the slope on his stomach, hissing at everyone in his way.

  “I’m grateful to you, friend,” the Asian man told X. “Not many souls would have troubled themselves to do what you did, and the photograph is dear to me.” He checked to see that no guards were watching, then offered his hand to X. “I’m called Plum.”

  “Plum,” X said, liking the sound. “I’ve never known the Lowlands to bestow so genial a name.”

  “Neither have I,” said Plum. “I’ve become fond of it. But truth be told, I believe it refers to my belly.”

  He patted his stomach happily.

  Plum had been sitting with his knees folded in front of him. He stretched them out now, and tried to touch his toes. Because of his size, they remained quite out of reach.

  “I’m X.”

  “Well, that’s very mysterious,” said Plum. “Please don’t think too badly of Bone. The Countess treats us as though we’re less than human, so some of us become less than human. You’ve met her, I assume?”

  “Yes,” said X. “She assaulted me with—with her forehead.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Plum. “That woman can make a weapon out of anything.”

  “She seemed incensed about a blemish near her mouth,” said X.

  “Ah, yes, the pimple,” said Plum. “It’s her mortal enemy. I got here thirty years ago, and she had it even then.”

  X gestured toward the plateau.

  “Does she lie abed all day like that?” he said.

  Alarmed, Plum pushed X’s hand down.

  “Please don’t point at her—it’s like summoning a dragon,” he said. “The Countess likes to be unpredictable, to answer your question. Sometimes she lets us jabber all day, sometimes she punishes us for the slightest sound. Sometimes she naps, sometimes she prowls. The only constant is that sooner or later, she will find a reason to torture somebody. She feeds on our sins. I mean that literally. It’s like she’s some mythological creature. The worse our crimes, the stronger she grows when she persecutes us. She has a knife. I can’t tell you the things I’ve seen her do with it.” Plum shivered. “But let’s not talk about her any longer. She seems distracted at the moment. I could show you my photograph, if you’d like?”

  “Please do,” said X. “I carry a few tokens with me, too. Sometimes they are all that can calm me.”

  Plum took the picture from his pocket. It appeared to be a picture of himself when he was a younger man.

  “Don’t be alarmed, I’m not so vain as to carry a picture of myself around,” he said. “That’s my twin brother, Hai. We grew up near Lào Cai, in north Vietnam.” Plum was quiet a moment. “I did a lot of horrific things when I was alive. You wouldn’t know it from looking at me now. But in my day I was infamous. Hai suffered terribly as a result, not just because he was my brother but because everywhere he went, they thought he was me. I carry Hai’s picture to remind myself of the wreckage I caused—and because I loved him, though I was too crippled inside to say so.” Plum closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he gave X a faint, apologetic smile. “I certainly talk a lot, don’t I?” he said. “You’ll never make the mistake of sitting near me again.”

  X smiled back to ease his mind. Plum sat waiting for him to share his own story. There was something so peaceful about the man. X felt comfortable in his presence, even though they sat in a sea of bodies and breathed air that was foul in a dozen different ways.

  “You said you carry some things yourself?” said Plum.

  “Yes,” said X, grateful for a way to begin his tale.

  He extracted Zoe’s letter from his coat. It was in the plastic bag now, safe as an ancient artifact. X set it on the tiny bit of ground between himself and Plum.

  “My name is X,” he said. “It is the only name I have ever had, for I was born in this place.”

  Plum’s eyes went wide.

  “And this?” he said, gesturing at the plastic bag.

  “It is a letter from the girl I love,” said X.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything else, if it’s too painful,” said Plum. “Your story is your own. All right? All right.”

  “Her name is Zoe,” said X, “and I am always willing to talk about her.”

  “You met a girl here in the Lowlands?” said Plum. “It’s not the most romantic place I can think of.”

  “I met her in the Overworld,” said X. “I am a bounty hunter—or I was, until I broke every law they put in front of me.”

  “I take back what I said,” said Plum. “I must hear your story.”

  The words rushed out of X like water from a burst pipe.

  Plum listened, rapt. Sometimes, he got so excited that he rubbed his hands together. He frowned when X described Dervish, and laughed when he recounted Ripper’s wild run from the Lowlands. He blushed when X—surprising even himself—told him about lying with Zoe in the boat, about the glow he’d made in the hull and how it lit up her body.

  “I was always a disaster with girls,” said Plum. “When I was twelve or thirteen, I used to write them letters. ‘Dear So and So: Would you be interested in kissing me on Wednesday afternoon at 3:30 by the ironwood trees? Please circle YES or NO.’ One girl—she was called Thien—taped my letter high up on a wall at school, so everybody could see it. She must have stood on a chair. I couldn’t reach the thing, though I embarrassed myself by jumping up and down. Then I made the whole thing worse by walking uninvited into Thien’s classroom and shouting, ‘Excuse me for liking you!’ ” Plum sighed. “But I’m talking too much again. What else do you carry?”

  X took out the silver foil packet, and unfolded it.

  “May I?” said Plum.

  He picked each thing up and examined it in turn, beginning with the comb and the bracelet reading Vesuvius, then placed them back in the foil. He was as gentle with X’s things as X himself would have been.

  “A lord named Regent gave me these when I was a boy,” said X.

  He was interrupted by a commotion farther up the slope. X and Plum turned toward the noise, and saw an elderly man wandering through the thicket
of bodies. The man was stumbling, and wiping his glasses on his shirt. He had sparse, bluish-white hair that stood up in tufts like seagrass. He was perilously close to the forbidden area.

  Oedipus and Rex descended, waiting to see if he’d be foolish enough to cross over. The crowd cheered the man on, though he seemed addled, disoriented. They were eager to see the boxers beat him. Even the Countess sat up in bed, ready to be entertained. The cat cried unhappily in its box.

  “Oh, the poor man,” said Plum.

  The old soul fumbled his glasses. They fell to the ground. He bent down to search for them, a hand on his lower back which seemed to pain him, but he was too late: three ghastly looking souls were already fighting over them like children.

  “Please stop this, all of you!” said the man. “My glasses are fragile and already terribly scratched!”

  A woman won the struggle for the spectacles. The man held his hand out to her, but she just laughed, and threw them over his head to Oedipus.

  The elderly man hung his head, his neck elongating like a turtle’s, and began to cry. He pleaded with Oedipus for his glasses. His eyesight must have been terrible because he wasn’t even facing the boxer as he spoke to him, not quite. It seemed to X that neither Oedipus nor Rex wanted to hurt him. But when Oedipus went to return the spectacles, the Countess bellowed from up above, “Let him fight thee for them, if they be so precious!”

  The old man smoothed his few tendrils of hair. X could hear his sobs even a hundred feet away. The crowd cheered louder, and pushed him up the hill. He collapsed to his knees in the forbidden borderland, just a few steps from Oedipus.

  “I can’t watch this,” said Plum. “I won’t.”

  But X couldn’t look away.

  Oedipus pummeled the old man as if it were a regrettable chore. He left him facedown on the slope.

  And then the Countess rose from her bed.

  She didn’t even put her shoes on—she just padded down from the plateau in her stockings.

  The Countess took her knife from her belt, and sliced open the back of the elderly man’s thighs, severing his hamstrings. The man reared up as if he’d been electrocuted. X knew he would never walk again. When Oedipus tried to hand him his glasses, the old man couldn’t even open his hand to take them.