The Old Races

by CE Murphy

  Amar twists. Yanks. Stands.

  Blood, and then Malik, falls to the sand.

  The bone is cracked: I have heard it, and the sand is swallowing the rain of blood. Amar looks over his shoulder, then shakes his blade free of blood. Once, twice, thrice. Then he walks to me. Says, "Your life for his. Let it be a worthy sacrifice, little girl."

  He evaporates, as does every other djinn who is not by blood my kin. I cross the sand in quick steps to catch Malik in my arms. I dissolve. Come back. Dissolve again, holding him all the time. Again. Again. Again. Until finally he whispers, "Enough," and I cry out, relief hurting my throat. I help him to his feet, shaking with gladness. The shift from corporeal to wind heals.

  But not well enough. Malik's face spasms as he puts weight on the injured leg. Only injured, no longer deadly. I catch him again, ready to take him to the wind a thousand times more. He says, "Enough," again, and I go still, heartache and confusion thrumming through my body.

  "You've saved me," he rasps. "I could not have shifted. The limp is nothing, Tahira. You've saved me."

  "For exile." My father, forgotten about but now implacable. I jerk toward him, sickness rising as he speaks again. "You will leave the deserts, Ebul Alima Malik al-Shareef di Nazmi al-Massri, never to return again. It is the law of the Old Races."

  "But he would have been honored," I cry. "Elevated, had he succeeded."

  "But he failed, and the price for trying to kill one another is exile."

  "Outside the tribes!"

  Malik puts a hand on my shoulder. Shakes his head when I look at him, and then without a word turns and limps away across the sand. I stare after him, emptiness gnawing a hole in my heart that grows ever-larger as distance takes him. Then he is gone, and I know that my brother is dead. For that cost, my future is my own.

  Salt water stains the sand.

  the end

  LEGACY

  1840, New York City

  A Germanic voice murmured, "A shame about the old church," and Richard Upjohn snorted.

  "Not at all. There was nothing extraordinary about it, nothing memorable. It lacked even the respect of age, and moreover, it was poorly enough constructed that the weight of winter snow weakened it beyond repair. My church," he said with already-significant satisfaction as he examined the enormous hole that the foundations would be laid in, "will stand for the ages." Then he glanced sideways at the man who had spoken, and fell silent in surprise.

  He was perhaps the tallest man Upjohn had ever seen, standing two meters in height, and had the breadth of shoulder to match. He was not old, but his hair glowed white even in the early evening moonlight, and his eyes were so pale as to seem colorless. His hair was unfashionably long, not coiffed at temple and top but rather smoothed back in a tail that fell between his shoulderblades, and his coat was of a cut not seen in a decade or more.

  No one, Upjohn thought, would mock him for his lack of style. Not with the height and breadth of him, nor the warning rumble in the deep voice. He found himself searching for, if not an apology, at least a moderation of his strong stance against the old church, when a smile flickered across the huge man's face. "The snow was very bad that year," he said, defending the older building, "but it is true that it lacked age. The second church on this site, I believe. I never saw the first."

  "Of course you didn't. It burned during the Revolution." The war between the colonies, Upjohn had been taught to call it in childhood: the Revolution, the Glorious Revolution, had happened more than a century earlier by English reckoning, but he had come to America by choice, and become a citizen only four years ago. In America the colonial war was the Revolution, and so too for Richard Upjohn.

  Either way, the first church had burned a quarter century before Upjohn was born, and the giant German at his side could certainly be no older than Upjohn himself.

  Another smile flickered across the tall man's face. "Yes, of course. Still, I had some fondness for the second church. I lived here, you know."

  Upjohn's gaze sharpened, then fell into puzzlement. The man was not the vicar or the reverend, nor did Trinity employ a groundskeeper that Upjohn was aware of. And he could hardly be unaware of this man, who might well cow the grounds into growing tidy hedges and short grass with no more than his size and presence. "That's absurd. I've never seen you before, and I was commissioned to work here when the old church was so badly damaged."

  "And yet," the big man said idly. "Walk with me a while, Richard Upjohn. I have a favor to ask of you."

  Upjohn, curious and mystified, matched the German's steps as they left Trinity's grounds for the surrounding city. Three hundred thousand people lived there, a tenth the number in London, but its freshness was rife with potential. New York could be beautiful, if Upjohn and others like him were allowed their way.

  The German, as if hearing his thoughts, said, "I've followed your career, Master Upjohn. You have a love for the Gothic. What is it that draws you to it?"

  "I am a faithful man, Master..."

  "Korund," the German said. "Alban Korund. The pleasure is mine."

  "Korund," Upjohn echoed after a moment. "I'm a faithful man, Master Korund. I believe the Gothic churches carried the eye and voice to God, as they should. Their churches were manifestations of truth, truth made visible to purify the heart. To build and restore in their style is the work of God."

  The German--Korund's--eyebrows lifted. "How deeply do your convictions run, Master Upjohn? Do you believe, as Hamlet did, that there are more things in this world than are dreampt of in your philosophy? Or are the answers to God's mysteries all plain in the light of day?"

  "I would not presume to know all God's secrets," Upjohn replied stiffly, and Korund waved a large hand in apology.

  "I meant no offense. There are many who do seem to presume such knowledge, and who close their minds to wonders because of it. I cannot help but think a man who seeks to bring Man's voice to God is not one of them."

  Upjohn slowed, looking the length of the street they walked, up and down: Wall Street, once the city's outer wall, now swallowed by the city's expansion. Thin moonlight spilled down the long road, illuminating hand-painted signs and the home-going residents who lived at perpetual odds with the increasing business presence along the street. He had no particular sense of danger, not in such a well-populated area, but nor was it the appropriate venue for discussing religious leanings. "Master Korund," he said slowly, "you said you had a favor to ask of me. Perhaps you should ask it, and be done with these idle mutterings."

  "Trinity will have vaults beneath," Korund said without further preamble. "I would like you to dig yet another room below them, one that I might reside in."

  Long moments passed without the huge man's expression faltering in any way, no hint of humor or teasing in his countenance. Upjohn waited longer than that, even, before finally asking, "Are you mad?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  Upjohn stared at him longer still, then, thunderstruck, asked, "Why?"

  "Because there are more things in life than dreampt of in most mens' philosophies." Korund waited a moment, then spread his large hands. "I require sanctuary, Master Upjohn, and you, as architect of this new church, are peculiarly able to provide it. I would prefer not to explain in detail, but if I must, then we should retreat to Trinity's grounds, where I might have a semblence of privacy."

  "You cannot possibly imagine I would agree without a full understanding of why you ask."

  Korund's brief smile filtered across his face again. "You might have. Men do extraordinary things for the strangest reasons. I have lived at Trinity since well before the old church fell," he continued as they turned back to the church grounds. "I take care not to be noticed."

  "Forgive me," Upjohn said, fully aware his tone asked for no such thing, "but a man of your dimensions is unlikely to go unnoticed for any length of time. I find it sheerly impossible that you could live at the church and be unknown. The rector must know of you, at least."

  "No." Ko
rund said nothing more, and after a moment Upjohn realized he had no intention of explaining further. Irritation flooded him, then quieted under a sense of intrigue. A giant in need of sanctuary: that was a story suited for his children, and might entertain them a little if he had the whole of it. And there was an interest in the very idea, creating a hidden room in the heart of his first and perhaps foremost architectural gem. Trinity, with God's blessing, would stand forever: to have a secret built within it appealed.

  "Very well," he said abruptly. "Convince me of its necessity and you shall have your sanctuary, but I must know the whole story, Master Korund. I will not build a safe house for a murderer or madman."

  "I promise you that I am altogether more unusual than that." They walked together in silence to the church grounds, returning to the very spot they had begun. All lingering twilight was gone and moonlight barely grazed the foundation pit's muddy bottom. It looked more sinister than it had only half an hour earlier, and Upjohn wondered if refusing the German might find himself dead in its depths before midnight.

  "I must have your word," Korund said to the pit. "That you'll speak of what happens here tonight to no one. If you decide against me, I assure you, you will not find me to prove the story you'd want to tell, but it would be easier--more reassuring--if you would make the promise regardless."

  "If no harm will come of keeping the secret, I shall keep it."

  "No harm will come of it." Korund, as if it were a natural thing to do, began removing his clothing.

  Upjohn gawked, then turned away in a rush of embarrassment and offense. "What, sir, do you imagine you are doing!"

  "The transition is hard on clothing," Korund said, as naturally as he undressed. "It can be done without destroying it, but my preference is to do without. Master Upjohn, I require sanctuary because although I appear as a man, I am not one. I was born in the same year as your Queen Elizabeth, and I have lived at Trinity Church since I fled France's revolutions in the 1780s. My family name is reminiscent of your corundum, the stone sapphire is made of, and I am a gargoyle, one of the last remaining Old Races."

  A soft explosion accompanied the last words, and Korund's voice, already deep, dropped noticeably. Upjohn spun toward him, staggered back, and said with utter conviction, "Good God."

  Korund awaited him in a crouch, his clothing set neatly to one side and his wings, his wings, wrapped loosely around himself in their lieu. He might have been carved of the pale stone he looked to be, save his yellow gaze following Upjohn's stagger. There was nothing remotely human about him, not from chiseled bone structure to a size that belittled his human height and breadth.

  Upjohn, backing away, took one wrong step, and fell into the foundation pit.

  A massive hand snapped out so smoothly it belied the necessary speed to catch his wrist and pull him effortlessly back to safety. Korund had not otherwise moved, nor did he once he was certain Upjohn had his feet under him again, only released him without ceremony. "My people are bound by stone in daylight hours," he rumbled, the sound of granite on granite, "and as such need daytime sanctuary. I have hidden myself--"

  "In the graveyard." Upjohn's voice was thin and hoarse. "I've seen--you. I thought you were a...monument." He passed his hand over his eyes, unsurprised to find it trembling. He sat, shaking, and gazed wide-eyed at the pale thing before him. "I had never noticed it missing at night."

  "Why would you," Korund murmured. "Most visitors are during the day, and no one thinks to look up when they come through at night. But the city grows larger, and I am--uncomfortable," he said, choosing the word carefully, "with the graveyard's exposure. When the decision was made to rebuild the church, when the architect was a man of Gothic inclinations, well. How could a gargoyle resist asking?"

  "I might destroy you."

  "No." As before, Korund gave no sign of intending to continue, though as silence stretched, this time he did. "You might at worst try, but I am stronger and faster than you, and can escape to the sky if I must. I have made Trinity my home, but will find another if I have to." The thin-skinned wings rustled, then settled again. "I would prefer the chamber beneath the new church, though."

  "I could..." Words failed Upjohn, quavering voice disappearing into nothing. Thoughts disappearing into nothing: it was all he could do to not gape like a country child, not to shake like a leaf from a tree. "I do not dream?" he finally whispered, and Korund's smile, it seemed, was similar from one countenance to the other.

  "You do not dream. I am as you see me, and I am confident of my secrets." Korund shrugged, a massive shift of absurdly wide shoulders. "You, after all, can tell no one, because they would think you mad."

  "I think I may be mad."

  "No."

  Again silence, until Upjohn rubbed his face and nodded. Dreams were more accommodating, shifting and slipping to feel believable, while the thing before him sat solid and uncompromising; madness might present itself with such physicality, but if it did, he was lost already, convinced of Korund's reality. Whether he was God's wonder or the Devil's work: that was the question he barely dared to wonder. "Are you a creature of faith, Master Korund?"

  Korund said, "No," so forthrightly it made Upjohn laugh.

  "How is that? You must be God's beast or the Devil's, and so must believe in one or the other."

  "Can one," Korund wondered, "believe in one without the other? I believe in something else, Master Upjohn. I believe that my people came into this world before it had settled on the form its multitudes would take. My people are six-limbed, not four," he shuffled his wings in demonstration, "and we are few to your many. You are taking this very well."

  "What choice have I? An acceptance of your reality or an acceptance of my own instant descent into insanity, and I do not feel insane. You frighten me," he whispered, then took a deep breath to allow himself the other admission: "And I am fascinated. I depend on planes and angles and perfect joinings for my livelihood, and you are those things made manifest. If you are the Devil sent to tempt me, you are..." Upjohn opened a hand and closed it again, knowing it to be a gesture of helpless admiration. "You are perfect."

  Korund's mouth quirked. "As well for you, then, that I don't believe in your devil, much less come from him. Will you help me?"

  "You said there are others," Upjohn said after a moment.

  "Yes." This time the silence had humor in it, and Korund finished, almost apologetically, "But no, I won't tell you any more, only that they have their own sanctuaries. It's against the laws of my people to have told you this much, to have shown myself to you, but I am already exiled and they can do no more to me."

  "Exiled? Why?"

  Korund breathed laughter. "For keeping secrets, Master Upjohn. My people are the memory of the Old Races, and look poorly upon keeping secrets. Exile was the only way I could."

  "Exiled by choice, then," Upjohn said, and for some reason found reassurance in that. Perhaps because he'd left England as a form of self-imposed exile, though in truth he was running from debts. Still, it seemed a commonality, if such a thing could be found between a creature such as Korund and a human man. "A room beneath the vaults would be all but airless. Dark. And ventilation would need to feed out at a distance, so you might have light and air without drawing notice."

  "Darkness does not bother me, though light to read by would be welcome."

  "You read?"

  Korund's eyebrows, as white as his hair, shot upward, and he grinned, showing more fang than Upjohn expected. "I do. Books are an especial weakness, and I have a small collection that is dear to me. I will need," he added thoughtfully, "a bookcase. What a splendid thought. It's been most of a century since I've had a library of my own." He straightened as he spoke, and the air around him erupted again, leaving a man where the monster had been. As unconcerned for his natural state as before, he began to dress while Upjohn found somewhere else to look. "More important than a bookcase, though, is a bolt-hole. There are storm tunnels below the city, you know this?"

&n
bsp; "Their depth determines the vaults' depth," Upjohn replied, then frowned. "And will determine the size of your chamber. I fear it will not be large, Master Korund."

  "It needn't be. I spend my nights in the city, and largely only require solitude and safety for the daylight sleeping hours. Room for a single bed, a bookcase and a chair will be enough."

  "My workers will know of the chamber's presence. Your secret will not be mine alone."

  "My secret will be," Korund said with certainty, and came to stand beside Upjohn fully dressed. "The chamber may not be, but I doubt you'll mention the reason for it. Call it a flood room," he suggested. "Space to swallow water should it rise, so the vaults will have time to be emptied of precious contents."

  "You're devious, Master Korund."

  "Not particularly. One does tend to be quick at excuses after three centuries of needing them, though."

  "You were really born the same year as the Virgin Queen?"

  "I was. I knew Shakespeare in passing, and Kit Marlowe better."

  "And did they know--?"

  "No." Korund's grin flashed again, full and bright. "No, or all the world would know of the Old Races in allegory if not in fact. Kit kept secrets, but William could not resist the slightest sniff of a story."

  "And yet you trust my discretion."

  "You," Korund said, "are an architect, not a playwright. Litter your creations with gargoyles and no one will think anything of it."

  "I shall," Upjohn said dourly, and did.

  1849, Trinity Church

  The lad sent to deliver the letter thought the sender mad, but put it where he'd been instructed, atop John Atkinson's grave marker in one of the Gothic church's outer nooks. It was raining, but the letter was wrapped three times in waxed paper and the paper sealed along its outer edges. It could be thrown in the river, the lad reckoned, and would come out a century hence still dry.

  He sat around for as long as he dared, watching the letter and the grave, half hoping a ghostly hand would reach up and seize it, but nothing so exciting happened. Finally, as it grew darker, he sighed and went back to the scolding he deserved for idling an hour away instead of couriering more letters across town.