The Flesh Endures

by Cleo Cordell

  There was a movement in a dark alley. He projected his extended vision into the gloom where two dogs fought over the corpse of a baby. One of them gave a shake of its head and tore off a piece of flesh, bolting it down in one gulp. The quick beat of canine pulses echoed in his head. He gained a sense of their muddled thoughts – hunger and red-madness; pack law ruling in the tamed gone wild.

  Near the docks, the tide was low. Ships leaned drunkenly on exposed mud banks. Leaning out to look over the edge of the harbour he found himself staring down into the white-filmed eyes of a dead woman. She was young and slender, her face a perfect oval. Garnetta. For a second his heart almost stopped.

  Suddenly the corpse surged up out of the water, waxy limbs dripping a trail of rotting flesh. The apparition hung in the air for a second before landing upright on the quayside. Like a puppet she danced, her head falling back, greenish fluid pouring from her mouth. A salt-rich smell, muddy and rotten, wafted towards him. The dead woman waved her arms, ragged fingers waggling jauntily. The Fetch tittered, the sound bubbling up out of the ruined throat.

  Despite his initial disgust, Karolan could not suppress a grin. The spirit loved to make its presence known with such showy gestures. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said dryly. ‘There’s too much misery and death here for even you to gorge on.’

  ‘Never too much, says I,’ the spirit said happily. ‘Beautiful, am I not, master? Are you not desirous of this form?’ The animated corpse shook its head. An eyeball popped free, trailing down the shredded cheek to hang like a glass marble on a thong. ‘Strong is your hunger for pleasure of late. Is it strong enough for . . . this?’ The corpse lifted its hands to cup its breasts. As the fingers squeezed, pulpy green flesh oozed between them. Shreds of skin flaked off the fingers, exposing the gleam of white bone.

  Karolan’s lips tightened with disgust. ‘Am I to appear shocked by this display?’ he said. ‘You know me better than that.’

  The Fetch gibbered with mirth, sending the corpse into a frantic spin, so that the wet hair was flung out into an arc. Abruptly, it came to a stop, facing Karolan. The facial skin had split. Trickles of sea water and slime dripped from the dead woman’s chin. The jaw came loose, dangling from rotten tendons. It lodged on what was left of the woman’s chest, hanging there like some ghastly necklace. Jerking and twitching, the corpse flopped a few steps forward, hung motionless for a fraction of a second, then collapsed onto the quayside with a liquid squelching sound.

  Invigorated and drunk with pleasure, the Fetch flowed around Karolan, its shadow form glowing with particles of phosphorescence. It exuded a smell of decay, rich and sickly sweet. ‘Lovely, lovely,’ it crooned. ‘Such delicious pain, such layers of suffering.’

  ‘Spare me your vile observations,’ Karolan said.

  The Fetch chuckled, its excitement and relish almost tangible. Now and then it gave a low-pitched trill. He felt the hot tingle of its passing as it darted through his aura. In a moment it would bargain with him. Having bathed in the pain of others it was always greedy for more sensations. ‘Stay with me a while,’ he said shortly. ‘There will be more entertainment for you.’

  ‘Stay I will,’ the spirit said sulkily, forestalled in its demands. ‘But first. Is there nothing you require of me?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Karolan snapped. ‘I am deaf to your pleas at present.’

  ‘Have not asked anything of you,’ the Fetch said sullenly. ‘Too, too cruel, you are, Master.’

  ‘Oh, stop whining! Have you discovered any trace of Garnetta?’

  The fabric of the spirit’s body pulsed faintly. ‘Not easy to smell the female with so much death. Told about the tavern did I. Men there who know. For more, time I shall need.’

  ‘You have it. All you wish for. Just remember that I will find Garnetta. Try not to be too distracted by the feast all around you.’

  The Fetch cackled at this irony, expanding into an amorphous smoke-like shape and then closing in to become a thin, black figure with attenuated limbs. It was the spirit’s equivalent of a luxurious stretch. As Karolan rounded a corner and stopped before the ramshackle shape of the Ship tavern the Fetch changed form again, fading to became a subtle rippling disturbance on the air.

  Karolan ducked under the lintel, went inside. Heads turned in the gloom as he strode across the room and took a seat. Instinctively he withdrew into himself, sending out a veil of energy to mask himself from unwanted curiosity. The men went back to their drinking. Karolan called for ale and looked around. The stub of a candle guttered in the draught from a tiny, unglazed window. Hunched shapes filled the flickering darkness. Now and then a laugh or a curse rose above the general noise. At the back of the tavern, a huddle of men were gathered around an open hearth.

  ‘There, Master,’ came the Fetch’s voice, close at hand.

  Karolan sipped his ale and settled down to wait. After a time one of the men began singing an old campaign song, while the others kept time banging their cups of ale on the wooden table.

  ‘This one’s for Barny, God save his soul,’ one of them said. ‘Aye, and de Peyrac too, even if he was a mean bastard.’

  ‘You is maudlin, Edwin. Must be the ale,’ said another.

  Karolan focused on the man who had spoken first. He could feel the miasma of suppressed emotion rising from him – grief for a comrade lost . . . something else – guilt? Edwin moved. Karolan saw the garment which lay at his feet. Firelight threw sparks from the jewelled clasp on the red cloak. Garnetta’s cloak. The man might have stolen the cloak, or bought it from a thief, but he thought not.

  A murderous, all consuming rage bloomed within Karolan. He contained it, allowing it to sink and condense, biding his time. It was another hour before Edwin rose unsteadily and reached for the cloak. Weaving his way through the tavern, he went through the back door into the alley outside. After a moment, Karolan followed him. It was dark in the alley, but he easily picked out the shape of Edwin pissing against the wall. Bunching his muscles he sprang. Before the man had time to look up, Karolan was beside him.

  ‘God’s lights,’ Edwin ground out, starting when the long shadow fell across him. ‘Where’d you come from?’ His hand flew to his knife hilt, the weapon half drawn before Karolan wrenched it from his hand.

  At the touch of the blade Karolan felt a space open within him. The cold metal burned his skin. He saw images of blood, terror, the knife sinking into flesh. Her flesh. Garnetta. For a moment he reeled under the strength of the impressions.

  ‘What d’you want?’ Edwin slurred, staggering, his hosen hanging loose at his waist. ‘Take my purse. I’ve nothing worth stealing.’

  ‘Ah, but you have,’ Karolan said softly, throwing back the hood of his cloak so that his white skin gleamed in the darkness. ‘Your life is forfeit for what you’ve done. I shall enjoy taking it.’

  Edwin blanched as he gazed into pitiless dark grey eyes. ‘Eh? Who are you?’ he croaked, moistening dry lips. Then a clouded recognition dawned on his face. His mouth sagged open. ‘You are like her. The witch-woman . . .’

  ‘Memorable, is she not? Tell me why you killed her,’ Karolan said. ‘And don’t bother lying to me.’

  Edwin seemed frozen, then he swallowed audibly. ‘She killed my comrade,’ he whispered. ‘He . . . he were only havin’ a bit of fun. He didn’t deserve what she did to him. You should have seen the ruin . . .’ His throat worked, catching on a sob. ‘Me and Barny was closer’n brothers. But I never meant to kill her. I swear, I didn’t.’

  Karolan placed a hand on either side of Edwin’s head. ‘Of a surety, you did not,’ he said coldly. ‘Just like you never meant to watch as your comrades violated and tortured her. Like you never planned to steal her cloak.’

  Edwin trembled, held in thrall like a rat before a snake. Captured between Karolan’s hands, he could not move his head, was forced to look up into the cold fury of that impenetrable gaze. ‘Please . . .’ he croaked as Karolan began to lift him.

  The pressure on his neck was
excruciating as it supported the weight of his whole body. His spine scraped against the wattle of the building as he scrabbled desperately for a handhold. Then he found himself at eye level with Karolan and saw his death in that implacable face. He writhed helplessly as Karolan’s thumbs moved around to gently caress his eye sockets.

  ‘No! Ah, merciful God . . . No!’ His scream bubbled up in his throat, but never escaped his lips.

  As Karolan exerted an iron pressure with the heels of his hands, Edwin’s jaw bone shattered and was driven into the soft flesh of his throat, lacerating and crushing his windpipe. At the same time Karolan’s thumbs punctured his eyeballs, penetrating through the sockets and reaching deep into the brain. Edwin, shuddering with the reaction from his straining muscles, was already dead by the time his head collapsed inwards.

  Karolan let the corpse drop to the ground. As he bent to wipe the blood and brains from his hands, he felt the hot tingling as the Fetch sped through him, eager to gorge itself. Karolan felt nothing, no anger, just a certain grim satisfaction. The man was dead for his crimes, the sentence no doubt long overdue for murders past. Garnetta was avenged for the attack on her – but not for her murder, as Edwin believed. For no knife stroke could kill her.

  The spirit made little sounds of pleasure, like a babe suckling. Karolan left the Fetch feeding off the rapidly dispersing energies and emerged from the alley into a narrow street. He felt the need for company. The bawdy house which Jack frequented was a few minutes’ walk away. It had been almost a week since his last visit and the vial of opiate in his purse was empty. As he drew near, he saw that the door of the building hung open.

  Inside there was only an old woman, her hair tied up in a dirty cloth. She was on her hands and knees, searching for something in the wilted rushes. The room stank of sickness, death, loss of hope. Karolan bent down and laid a hand on the woman’s arm. The wrists protruding from her frayed sleeves looked as fragile as glass. ‘Know you the whereabouts of Jack Spicer?’ he asked gently.

  She looked up at him after a long pause. Her thin cheeks were sunken. Her eyes lack-lustre. Deep lines radiated outwards from her mouth. ‘I cannot find it, sire,’ she said, her voice breaking with sorrow. ‘Will you help me?’

  ‘What is it you have lost?’ Karolan said gently.

  ‘My babe,’ the woman said. ‘’Twere here when last I looked.’

  Karolan patted the old woman’s arm. She smelt as if she had been lying in her own filth for days. There was a tidemark of grease around the neck of her gown. The ravaged face staring up at him, suddenly took on a new expression.

  ‘I know thee! Lord Rakka you are, who was ever too good to lay a finger on me!’

  ‘Adeliz?’ Karolan said, only now recognizing in the strained features the shadow of the pretty young woman who had been a favourite with Jack. Did she have a child? Lifting her up as easily as if she was weightless, he carried her to the back of the room and set her down onto the wooden settle near the hearth. He found a jug of ale that smelt none too fresh, but suspected there would be nothing better in the building. Pouring a measure he lifted the cup to Adeliz’s lips.

  ‘Are you alone?’ he asked. ‘Where’s Isabeau, Sabina, the other women?’

  ‘Gone. Dead. All the world is dying,’ she said wearily. ‘Did you not know? ’Tis God’s punishment.’ Her sallow face brightened. ‘Jack’s upstairs. Come see.’ Gripping his hand she pulled him across the room. Where before she had seemed exhausted, now she was possessed of a feverish strength.

  She half-turned, flashing him a look over her shoulder. With a practised shrugging movement, she caused the neck of her gown to slip off one shoulder. One of her breasts was revealed, hanging slack and empty against the cage of her ribs. Her collar bones jutted sharply through her skin. He saw the black spots of the pestilence on her neck.

  ‘Why’d you never like me?’ she said. ‘Mayhap you favour arse over coynte? There’s many that’s fugoists. I don’t mind. Whatever your pleasure, you can have it for free.’

  The coquettish gesture was too tragic to repulse him. The smell wafting up from her skirts was like a cesspit in high summer. At the top of the stairs, she led him into a small chamber. There was a shadowed alcove against one wall, filled entirely by a box bed. The bed hangings were drawn.

  ‘He’s sleepin’. Wait you there. I’ll wake him how he likes it best.’ Her grin was confident, suggestive. She hitched up her skirts. Her shift was soiled by her body’s wastes. Brown scum caked her thin legs. Pulling the bed curtain aside, she disappeared behind it.

  Karolan heard her murmuring affectionately to someone. The bed began to creak, the curtain billowing out with the movements behind it. Karolan moved forward, the sounds of her sighs and groans in his ears. From Jack there was no sound. ‘Jack?’ he said, grasping the curtain and pulling it open.

  Adeliz looked up at him, her face beatific. Humping vigorously up and down, her stringy thighs straddling Jack’s hips, she sighed and grunted with pleasure. Karolan did not speak, but stood looking down at Jack’s bloated corpse. Jack had been dead for days. Perhaps that was the final thing that had unhinged her mind.

  ‘Loves me, he does,’ Adeliz crooned. ‘My fine Jack tar.’

  Circling her hips, she mashed herself against the discoloured flesh. Her face contorted as she gasped out her pleasure. Feeling sick at heart, Karolan put out a hand to help her off the bed, but she turned on him with a hiss. ‘Leave me, you!’

  ‘Come away, Adeliz. You can’t help Jack now.’

  ‘Too good fer me still, eh? Didn’t want to sully yourself with a whore. Well here’s summat for you anyways!’ Adeliz’s teeth sank into his hand. She shook her head, worrying at him like a dog, her teeth grinding past flesh to grate on bone. Karolan gave a cry of pain, wrenched his hand away. It hurt like hell, but that did not bother him. In a few hours there would be no trace of the injury. His concern was for her. His blood coloured her lips, the false rouge of it enlivening the grey of her haggard face. ‘And now you!’ she said. ‘Meet your Maker. Death’s kiss for all!’

  For a second he saw her as she had once been, smooth and lovely with bright yellow hair. Then she heaved, clutching at her throat. Her eyes started from her head as her flesh burned and dissolved, the ruined tissue of her throat trickling down into her belly to set up its fire there too. He made no move to help her. She had chosen the manner of her death. It was no worse than that other, which faced her soon enough. Had she begged him for help, he would have given her the same end, and with his blessing. Retching and coughing, Adeliz slumped forward. A rush of blood-stained vomit, bright with shreds of raw tissue, spewed out of her, covering Jack’s face and upper body. She gave a sigh, stopped breathing. Karolan took hold of the bed curtain, yanking it from its pole. Covering both bodies, he turned to leave the room.

  A disturbance in the air heralded the Fetch. Its shadow form was rounded, gleaming and sleek from its previous encounter. He did not need to look to know that the spirit had slipped under the cover and was rapturously imbibing its favoured humours. ‘Blessed pain,’ it crooned. ‘Generous you are, Master. Ah, it is too, too sweet.’ Karolan ignored the rustlings and the wet slobbering noises of the spirit’s enjoyment.

  Downstairs, he sat beside the hearth, staring into the cold ashes. The manner of Adeliz’s dying seemed to him to encapsulate the suffering of the many. It became easier with passing time, as others aged and he did not, to feel contempt for lesser beings with their little lives and petty quarrels. Perhaps he also despised them because he could never possess what the meanest of them took as God-given – a woman to love and children of his own.

  All that had changed with Garnetta. His world had been a sweeter place when she inhabited it. He stroked his chin pensively and poured himself a cup of stale beer. It tasted flat and sour, but he drained the jug anyway. Crossing the room, he leaned against the frame of the door leading into the street and he gazed out at the thickening light of evening. The surface of the river, rippling with the
current of the incoming tide, ought by rights to have been flecked with the glow of ships’ lanterns, but all was dark. A stillness hung over the docks.

  He wondered where Garnetta could be. It might take weeks, months, to find her. The one thing which gave him comfort was the fact that she could come to no physical harm. Had she discovered that fact yet? He smiled thinly, remembering the exultation he had felt on finding out that his body mended faster than other men’s. Then too, he had discovered that no wound, however mortal, was fatal to him. He felt pain like any man; he could be cut and would bleed, but something about his transmuted flesh was enduring. Only prolonged burning or beheading might destroy him, but that he had not put to the test.

  Upstairs, the Fetch emerged from the frowsty bed curtains, gleaming with the surfeit of pleasure. Golden lights danced within its shadow-form. It felt warm all the way through, ready for new sensation. Want to be inside skin. Want to breathe. Want to look out of human eyes. Its need was all encompassing, driving out all else from its devious and half-formed mind. The shifting matter of it changed shape as it considered in which form to appear before Karolan.

  Would his master prefer a woman or a young man? It hesitated, partially transformed. Pale excrescences bulged from the grey shadow-shape of it, flowing into breasts and buttocks, then withdrawing and re-forming into sleek and elegant curves. It remembered the female. How sweet it had been to tease her, to awaken the fright within her and drink deeply of fear’s essence. It thought of exploring more of the female – even of being allowed to enter her skin, run up the insides of her veins, seep into the warm, wet cavities within her. Yes. Oh, yes. Want to. Want to. Want to. Karolan would not know. And if the time came when its master found out that the spirit had betrayed him, the female would have sunk too far into the syrupy web of pleasure to emerge easily.

  The Fetch began to glow and lengthen. In a few moments it was transformed into an elegant winged creature, with the face of a handsome young man. The limbs were long and clean, muscled and shimmering with motes of silver and pearl. The shoulders were broad, the waist slender. ‘Behold,’ it said, its voice rippling with sibilant notes of pride. ‘The angel of the Lord is nigh and brings a message to the chosen one.’ With an animal yelp of eagerness, it launched itself out of the physical world and into the realm of the Astral which it used as a vehicle to travel in time or distance.