Underneath the Draconian Sky

by Chatwin, Dale M.

  Screams loud enough to make the dead rise echoed through the valley.

  “I’m going to come out here every day, boy and take more skin off ya. Then when I’m done skinning you like a hog I’ll rip those nails out your feet and hang you, that’s if the vultures haven’t eaten ya first. We provide our own justice out here on the Border. You harm my girls and you’ll get the wrath of almighty ones.”

  Colin never slept that night, the pain in his feet had dulled to a throb but his arm still glared with bright distress. The Aurora made his eyes widen in awe. Suddenly there was a flash like alien lightening in his mind, the memory of what he had done to that poor girl. He had never meant to hurt her, all he wanted was to feel the tenderness of a woman’s flesh before polishing off his journey. Something had invaded his brain. Something that in dealt amaranth cards.

  The sun began its next act in the theatre of life. Its rays were like open arms that welcomed the audience to the show. Colin heard the beating of hooves, in the distance he saw a horse and a rider. A pale rider. Death.

  The bat wing doors of the saloon swung open and Vincent Claproot stepped out, stretching and letting out a deep, exulting yawn.

  “Might as well get started bright and early, think I can hear the flapping of vulture’s wings in the distance.” He approached Colin, stopped and let out a calculating hum. “I think I’ll take the skin from your left thigh today. That should be a lovely breakfast for them birds of prey.”

  “Please sir,” Colin blurted out. “You have to believe me. I wasn’t myself, I didn’t want to harm the lady. Something was controlling me, as insane as it sounds.”

  “What I understand, son is that you’re a disturbed individual. Trying to flay the skin off my poor Monica’s hand, such brutish behaviour shouldn’t be inflicted upon the innocent. If I hadn’t walked in when I did, well, I don’t like to think of the horrors that might have ensued. No sir, I must punish you.”

  Colin howled in misery as fresh pain clutched to his body. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine his cottage in the hills and the green grass covered in morning dew. Nothing could quench the discomfort of being skinned alive. When he opened his eyes he felt tears gush, he still saw the rider approaching. Getting closer.

  When the ordeal was over, Colin began to shake violently, he wanted to collapse in a heap and sleep the pain away, but he couldn’t. Vincent had seemed like a pleasant fellow when Colin first came to the Tainted Ransom, all smiles and open arms but with just the right amount of threatening demeanour so you wouldn’t cross him.

  He understood the brutality of his punishment, apart from the livery round the rear, the Tainted Ransom was the only place for miles. Its patrons and staff had to administer their own brand of the law, the desert had hardened them and living under the shadow of the Moffatt Fields couldn’t have helped their moods none. They were just out of reach of paradise.

  A vulture landed on the roof of the saloon and stared hungrily at Colin, he could feel its eyes scanning the raw flesh of his arm and thigh.

  Juicy red meat off the bone, must be my lucky day, he could almost hear it say.

  The vulture beat its wings and let out a mournful squawk, a distressing sound that would send sorrowful shivers up the spines of families at a funeral.

  “Fuck off bird, it isn’t your time yet,” said Colin, he pursed his cracked lips together and tried to whistle, what came out was air. So he blew, the only way he could ward off the bird, but it was folly. The vulture was a crooked beast, a roaring crack caught Colin unawares and the bird of prey shot off the roof in a jet of blood and feathers.

  The rider was here. He had come to claim his prize.

  2

  The corpse was like a bloated sex doll; over used and tired. A bitter sweet aroma wafted into the Guy’s nasal passages, making his face twitch in disgust. It had been 9 days since he departed from the ocean, the desert was becoming cooler and here and there the sands had clusters of green hair. He knew he would be seeing the hills of the Moffatt Fields in due time.

  The body had been resting beneath a Joshua tree, slouched and festering in sticky puddles of body waste and puss. It used to be a man, a gunman by the looks of him. Two six shooters were strapped to his waist, he wore a plaid shirt and a pair of black, leather rimmed UV goggles were strapped around his neck. That marked the uniform of a gunman.

  The dead have no need for such weapons.

  There was sufficient ammo in the gunman’s knapsack, along with some withered corn cobs. Nothing else. Someone had killed this man quietly and took off with his horse and possessions, but not his weapons. The Guy looked around to make sure he hadn’t stumbled into a trap. All clear.

  It would pay me to be on my guard, it appears I am being hunted.

  He took the shooters off the corpse, before strapping them to his own waist; he pulled the guns out of the holsters to examine them. The grips were made from reptile skin, brown with a tint of green. The barrel was obsidian and the bullet chamber was alabaster.

  Ebony factory and Ivory factory. Opposites. A sign? Maybe.

  He secured the weapons to himself and decided to take the gunman’s goggles.

  A shootist’s eye wear can be very useful to a man when faced with a group of hostiles.

  3

  I am a powerful being, since I have not, since I can’t have. These pulsating thoughts are now cancelled out. It is my intention to create and manifest my destiny.

  Motions are complete, events are now in play. When I swim in the most lucid of places, all looks like it’s torn at the…on a string…when does my intention start?

  Never.

  Destiny is just another form of enslavement, a slave to the cosmos. Incapable to grasp such complex fraternities of space and time.

  I discovered this a long time ago, 1107.

  There are catalogues of broken speech patterns. To choose is to cleave one’s soul into morsels. What is insanity? Is it the ability to comprehend the quantum intricacies of the illusionary reality we inhabit, as three dimensional entities? Or is it just an imbalance of chemicals caused at birth? Maybe it is caused by trauma, incompetent doctors and midwives are responsible, for they are the ones who birth us.

  “Welcome to your life! A constant game of blackjack, you either hit or you go bust! I’m afraid, though, that you have been dealt a dud deck of cards, for you have the power to perceive this realm on a sordid level. Forever outcast. Forever lost in the sands of time.”

  I once saw the Aakmanu with mine own eyes; I lost my mind at that moment and found myself lost in an anguished world. They were nothing but shimmering cross sections trapped in a constant state of limbo. They sounded like metal scraping against granite and I had the taste of treacle in my mouth, but in my head their voices were as clear as my conscience. 11th dimensional beings shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be here, 1107. Eventually we will both go doolally tap.

  What do I know? Isn’t my wisdom just dashing? Ain’t the prize of picking my wits just dashing? Ain’t it sweet to have your perception molested? Taste me. Taste my whole being and let me taste your past.

  4

  It was a gargantuan structure, in its heyday the space elevator was a feat of scientific glamour. Now it was nothing but a wreck. The elevation tower, made from carbon Nanotubes was still intact, reaching vertically up into space, to some unknown planet. The pod, however, was a deceased mechanical leviathan, rusting and falling to pieces. The Guy gazed upon it in wonderment; his goggles scanned the structure and gave him a reading of its state. Completely dysfunctional and tragically the only one of its kind. A rare fossil of a bygone era, when the people of the Island could rejoice and thank the Gods for creating such marvellous technology. For years it ferried Humans to Planet Paradisiac, a place where they could live out their final days in peace and luxury and hopefully pass on into the realm of the Gods and serve as Angels of Ourania.

  When the Aakmanu came, the space elevator was destroyed; the only thing that remained untouched was the
indestructible tower, impotent, though, without the pod. The Guy scanned for life forms but came up empty; he could still feel the presence of his hunters. Usually he could use his mind to discover the danger and the creatures that brought it, but the Koloxic Neuros had affected his quantum judgement.

  Heliodorus had proven to be a useful beast; the gelding was a smooth ride and very obedient and had no aversions to the desert terrain, but even the most loyal of animals have their limits. Soon Heliodorus began to grow weary; food and water were becoming scarce and The Guy found himself taking on less liquid in order to support the gelding.

  The goggles began to pick up a point of interest: a saloon. The display screen showed it to be the Tainted Ransom. Food, water and rest. Decent rest.

  “Come on boy, one more hard push and I’ll treat you to a nice bed of hay,” he said as he took the reins and spurred Heliodorus on.

  On the horizon, the Guy saw green, and the faint outlines of hills. The Moffatt Fields.

  5

  “What if dragons evolved into clouds? The movement of clouds could be the mass migration of ghostly reptiles that lost their use to humanity,” said Colin to the Vulture. It stared at him with piercing eyes, sussing out its prey. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks as the pain in his thigh bled through his body.

  It turned out the rider wasn’t pale at all, that death hadn’t arrived, yet. Instead the rider was a man with blond hair, swept back, wearing black UV goggles and a pair of guns. The rider slowed his gelding down to a stop and looked Colin up and down.

  “You look a little worse for wear,” he spoke and removed his goggles. Colin saw his emerald eyes, and his own eyes widened in both fear and hope.

  “Gods you’re him aren’t you? The man they call 1107. News of your deeds has travelled across this Island. Are you here to exterminate me?” said Colin, taking a gulp of saliva and savouring it.

  “Are you an escapee from Bachman Gardens?”

  “The asylum? No.”

  “Then my answer is also no,” the Guy dismounted and approached the entrance to the Tainted Ransom.

  “Please, you have to help me. I’m being wrongfully punished,” it was a long shot, but desperation had sunk in.

  “Men being punished the way you are, are never wrongfully accused. What did you do? Allegedly.”

  “Vincent, the proprietor, caught me flaying the skin off one of his whores, Monica. It wasn’t me though; something invaded my being while I slept. Is the potency of Human curiosity a mutation of purity? I’ve seen things within the halls of my dreams, an overhanging presence shrouded in dark robes, save for a glowing ring of amaranth. My curiosity took hold and I delved deeper into the dream, following a seductive voice, completely innocent to the reality of the situation. All was nebulous, apart from rusted metal wheels glowing like autumn leaves. It was beautiful and hideous. It was a constant contradiction of transmogrified rules. When I opened my eyes I saw her face contorted in terror.”

  The Guy could not believe what he had heard, an omen signalling his close proximity to the High Occultist’s location. He needed a drink and a whore, then he would decide what to do with this kid. He entered the saloon, ignoring the boy’s pleas for help.

  Vincent Claproot was tending the bar when the Guy entered.

  “I need a bed for the night, with a woman, a shot of whisky and a button of mescaline,” he said, pulling up a stool and resting his arms on the bar. Vincent looked him up and down with suspicion.

  “Ain’t got no whisky I’m afraid. Got desert mead and water pumped from the Fields.”

  “Desert mead?”

  “Dry, warm and sticky, don’t sound like much but it’s a nice drink.”

  “I’ll have a bottle of the mead and a bottle of water then. Can you do the rest for me?”

  Vincent laid two bottle on the bar, one was brown, the other transparent.

  “Yeah I can do the bed, woman and mescaline. Hope you ain’t going to go psychotic in my place. Had enough of that madness to last me a lifetime.”

  “I saw, don’t worry, a button helps me cleanse my mind,” the Guy uncorked the bottle of mead and took a sip; he lightly smacked his lips, nodded and drunk deep.

  “So, you a gunman? I see fancy shooters and goggles, but no plaid shirt. Care to let me know who you are before I allow you to lay in my house and lay my women?” The suspicion was written over his face like a newly printed book.

  “No I’m not a gunman, just a traveller. I came across the body of a gunman, a few days ago. I took his goggles and guns, thought I’d need them,” the Guy placed the bottle down and rolled a cigarette. He could feel Vincent’s eyes all over him.

  “I’m Vincent Claproot, welcome to the Tainted Ransom, on the border,” he offered his hand, and the Guy accepted with a smile. “Who would you like to take you to bed tonight?”

  “I’ve heard there’s a pretty lady named Monica who loves lonesome travellers.”

  “She’s not available tonight I’m afraid, had some problems, you most likely saw him on your way in here.”

  “I did, and I would still like Monica, I need to find out what happened to the boy.”

  “What’s there to find out? Son of a bitch would have killed her if I hadn’t have arrived. He been telling you stories of being possessed by the jeepers creepers? It’s psycho-babble nonsense.”

  “It’s not, believe me. He is important to my journey, and so is she,” he looked over to where Monica was sitting in a heavily shaded corner, face solemnly hung and staring at her bandaged hand.

  Vincent also turned his gaze upon Monica, there was a long pause, then he sighed and said:

  “Okay, I’ll allow it, only because I think I know who you are, it’s those eyes. Monica honey, you have another customer, someone who you can help and who will help you.”

  She slowly rose and beckoned the Guy upstairs making sure not to draw attention to herself. He took his drinks and mescaline; before he disappeared upstairs he looked into Vincent’s eyes.

  “Sylvester was a good man. I’m glad his brother is the same,” he said, and took his leave.

  Vincent Claproot closed up the saloon and wept in silence as he mopped the floors.

  6

  “Can I see it, even in a never ending state of insomnia? Are the bells ringing for my return? Or will there be a mourning crowd dressed in leather rags? It is like an elongated prism of ornate glass. It seems wherever I am the laws of physics morph into lies. I’m surrounded by bitter apathy and seductive logic. Weaving a tapestry of identifications and emancipating those who’ve yet to encompass their own mortal being. Too many bodies lie in my wake and I have grown fond of this Island and its complications. I prefer it here, in stillness. It’s a state of being I have not returned to in a very long time. A time when things existed in a state of flux. A time that actually existed. Do we all remain ignorant of dimensional syntax? Are words really just ripples in a reflective lake?” the mescaline flowed with psychedelic lucidity. Monica had taken him inside her, grinding against his body with a sensual roughness. The Guy ate the button of medicine and winced at the dry, sour sensation in his mouth. He lay on his back and took Monica into his arms, both naked, without the sheets. Bodies glistening in the flickering candle light. The flames bopped up and down as if they were dancing to the beat of reggae. His speech was a river of consciousness, bending to the will of nature and carrying the sediment of memories through a never ending stream of thought.

  “That amaranth glow, it makes the roots of my teeth twitch. There has been an evolution within this abomination and 2 people have fallen victim to this malevolence,” he stroked Monica’s hair. “It quivers in your bones and turns your veins into tunnel networks, carrying his particles. You dubbed a fire once in the name of men who burned you. Love burned through life into the night of lost innocence and from then all there was were fumes. Distorted silence, with static. All it was meant to be. We both tread the path of damnation now, our lot in life has been tainted.”

&nbs
p; Her eyes were closed, but beneath the thin skin was movement. Remembrance.

  “He haunted me while I slept, he took on the form of the man I was with, Colin, but there was that halo, fluctuating with heinous elegance. He told me of a man with eyes of Emerald, of you. I was his experiment, to show you how far his powers had come since he first met you on the coastline of your dreams,” her tears flowed and the Guy kissed her forehead.

  “Nancy,” he whispered, “how I have changed, in spirit. Do not remember pain, do not remember old dreams. Tear out the pages and burn them in the fires of clarity. Our souls were formed in the nebulas. Our womb was a cloud of dead stars and our birth was a moment of graceful chaos. We can only be what the cosmic forces created us to be; Human. I would like you to open your eyes, kiss me and lay with me.”

  Monica did just that, all night they were entwined, the sex was gentler to previous; she smiled and drank his eyes like she was supping from a Grail of Stars.

  Both Colin and Monica had been used as experiments by the High Occultist, the Guy received the message, but tomorrow he would need to talk to the boy, assuming he was still alive.

  There was a burgundy oak table in the centre of the room, it was oblong in shape with helter skelter legs that spiralled serpentine to the carpet. The discoloured surface was scarred with cigarette burns, streaks of grey ash formed canyons from used cancer sticks and the spirits of coffee mug rings cried out to be cleansed and put to rest. On it were the guns he had taken from the dead gunman. The Guy stared and saw them metamorphose into two komodo dragons, both were brown with a hint of green, their scales glimmered in reptile magnificence. One had eyes, pearl white and the other had eyes of onyx, and together they flanked the bed. The Guy could feel their tongues flickering against his face; turquoise tongues that poisoned his thoughts.

  I am beneath the Dragon’s lair, the dark place where its children hunger for the threadbare remains of emotions left over by their master.