Salt, Sand, and Blood

by MarQuese Liddle

  “Who are you talking to?” Cain whimpered, though no sooner than he did, he saw the babe in her arms swaddled in a sash of silk.

  “So he can speak. We were wrong, Adnihilo. What a shame. I thought we might have been gifted a mute.”

  “Who are you?”

  The pale woman arched her back, leaning tall into her throne of yellowed bones. “Have they forgotten me so quickly, before the moon has died its ninth? Or have they been made to forget?” She lifted a bronze blade from her lap and rose on long, slender legs, towering over him as she strode closer, clutching the tarnished sword in one hand, her other arm cradling the infant to her breast. “I am Bianca, boy. Why did you come here?”

  “I want,” Cain fumbled. He wanted to run, to close his eyes and sprint crying into the black desert steppes where the cackling hounds would have him. Instead, he answered, “For someone to die.”

  Bianca’s lips curled, and she squeezed her child tighter—so tight that the babe began to whine. “No,” she spoke, “What you want is to kill, to spill blood, to watch it seep into the sand and feed the old ones. They languish beneath us, waiting hungrily for the fall of the Walls of Barzakh. And you may be the one to bloody their altar, to offer up the child and bring about the end.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The witch pressed the sword into his hands. It was heavier than he expected, and queerly formed: an arm length blade, double edged, a subtle, leading curve in its final third, a tail of tang lengthening the brass hilt. It felt like a hungry fang in Cain’s childish grip.

  “Go,” Bianca ordered him. “Kill the boy and bring me the man.”

  Cain’s memories became a blur after that. He could not recall emerging from the ruins, marching under the Walls, nor arriving home. What came after, though, was forever burned into his eyes. A body lay bloody on the dirt floor, her face like a dashed pomegranate, its juices drenching the old man’s fists. He was unconscious, stooped against the wall and clutching an empty milk-skin on his bulging belly. Peering through twilight, Cain watched the stained kumasi bag contract and expand and contract and expand, and he listened to the snores, deep and tranquil till he drove the bronze sword into his father’s entrails. The old man was so numb, he didn’t even scream as fermented milk spilled out his abdomen; but the boy did, and he retched as the stench molested his nostrils.

  †

  Kill the boy! thought Cain, recoiling from the brush of fingertips as he woke to Jezebel standing before him. “I’m sorry,” the words slipped from his lips.

  “For what?”

  He handed her the purse. “We need to stop by Shaka’s. Eabroni said he’d cut me bargain if I got him a steak.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did,” she said, counting out the chips of silver. She didn’t believe him, but it would do no good to try to address it. So instead, he asked,

  “Who’s the girl you were playing with?”

  “Trying to change the subject? That’s a new one for you.”

  His voice turned to water, slow and broken. Choking tears, he said, “You looked happy with her, the Messah girl.”

  “What are you getting at?” Jezebel snapped, no patience for weakness.

  But the pain was too sharp hide away. “It made me think,” Cain started, “of what it’d be like if we—”

  The singer hissed, “Don’t you dare. Not now, not in front of everyone.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said knowing full well it meant nothing to her, that no amount of regret could cure the singers’ curse.

  Nothing would fill the void between them, they knew that when they made the bond. But they were young and blind those years go. They could not believe a song would leave her barren nor understand what that would mean for them. He’d thanked the gods every night since then, for their mercy, for saving them from what might have been if not for the witch’s son.

  Cain was reluctant to take him on when Bianca first asked, being little more than a man himself and too in love with his reputation: the Lion of Eemah, the Witch’s Beast, the Blackened Sun—the most lust-after singer at his side. He’d not the time nor desire to train up a child and would have refused anyone else. But the sacrifice owed that woman his life, and seven years later, his debt was no less. Adnihilo had become as much their son as Bianca’s. A fledgling at the edge of his nest, nearly a man grown, soon gone off on his own. What will become of us then?

  Cain brooded over the question as they walked north toward the market’s edge. There, the faces grew dark and store fronts became pavilions. Ratholes. The only brick and mortar was Amsah’s Place, the sole brothel to survive Messaii chastity. And it thrived in isolation. Even during the day, the streets surrounding Amsah’s den wreaked of whores, drunks, beggars, and thieves. It took some effort for Cain to catch the sweet scent of smoked meat and follow the aroma to Shaka’s butchery.

  “Ten shekels, skin and skewer!” bellowed the owner under his ragged canopy. He was nearly invisible—save for his tawny teeth—behind racks of salt-cured chevon and smoked strips as thick as his knotted locks. “A shekel a strip! Get it right here!” The butcher kept talking, though no patrons approached. “Three for a steak! Come on, people, treat youselves!”

  “Three shekels?” the sacrifice shouted. “Who the fuck do you think I am?

  “You think I give a fuck who you is?” started the butcher, throwing up obscene gestures with half a right hand and the two remaining fingers on his left. Then he saw who was teasing him, and his wrinkled face stretched smooth as he said, “Cain! Why didn’t you say who you was? And Jez! How you been? I seen your mother come passed here a couple days ago. She’s worried bout you, you know. You should go see her.”

  “And intrude on her precious church service? Does she still go every day?”

  Shaka nodded. “Sol, Vent, and Lun; and she’s been working in the kitchens too. You should ask David if he still needs help. It’d be a chance to patch things up.”

  “God’s got enough harlots to suck his cock. I wish she’d just give it up and find herself a new man.”

  “You starting to sound like Cain, talking like that.”

  “And what do I sound like?” the sacrifice japed, but the butcher responded seriously.

  “Look, I been around longer then you two been babes. I seen worse, I done worse, and if I learned anything, it’s that you got to make peace.” He aimed his remaining pointer at Cain. “You can hate all you want, but the only one you hurting is you.”

  “The Old One—”

  “The Old One’s dead, Cain. He’s dead and gone, and you know why? Cause he seen that there was something more. Look around. You think we was doing better before the war? And Jez, the same goes for you. She’s you mother. You got to let go of this feud.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried. It’s her that won’t let go. How many years has it been since Father died? I’d bet she still blames me.”

  “Blames us,” added Cain.

  “Times change, youngblood; you’ll learn like I did. But enough of that. Did you two stop by just to talk, or is you going buy something?”

  “Yeah. I need a steak for—” The sacrifice started, pausing at a cracking in the distance. “Did you hear that?”

  “That?” the meat merchant replied. “I think that’s you boy and his friend. I see them practicing with sticks out behind Amsah’s all the time.”

  A wry smile slipped on Cain’s lips. He’d been waiting for this moment for nearly a year, ever since the rumors trickled down to the southern altar. The Brothers Babylon, the pastor’s and witch’s sons had become gang of two. No one knew what it meant, but they speculated: coexistence, coalescence. Worthless sentiments to Cain. For him it was a test of dominance, a contest of faiths, a chance for small revenge against their tyrants. So he’d feigned ignorance and left Adnihilo to sharpen his fangs on the Messah spawn. Now, he would finally see the cultivation of all their training. He didn’t need to convince Jezebel. She was already gushing her own elations about the half-blood�
�s secret friend, leading her lover around the bend behind Amsah’s brothel where the whores and voyeurs were roaring.

  And there they were, two youngbloods—younger than the one Cain killed that morning—shirtless, panting, and slick with sweat. The pastor’s son, Adam, stood to their left, a head taller than Adnihilo, and by the glistening-pink crucifix scarring his chest, a year older as well. That would make him sixteen—the year when Impii took to branding themselves—though without the scar, Cain would have found his age hard to believe. His head was blonde as a newborn Messah, and his neck and limbs as thin as reeds. Yet those arms seemed strong, the way he held his weapon: a four-and-a-half-foot shaft poised like the horns of an ox. Ready to charge, eyes white and sharp as sickles of ice.

  Opposite him, a step out of measure, Adnihilo circled like a leopard in the grass—arm cocked and coiled tight, a crooked stick gripped behind his back, ready to strike. He was the witch’s beast, grim-jawed and gaunt cheeked, bronze skin and red-brown curls and slashed motley irises.

  It was over in an instant. The pastor’s son thrust and the half-blood parried, pressured the bind, then ducked under the mock sword and struck his friend on the thigh. The outside. A costly mistake. Adam grabbed his pretend sword by the blade and hooked it around Adnihilo’s neck. He wrenched, sent them tangled to the ground where they fought no longer than a minute before unraveling in exhaustion.

  “Hey there, boys.” Jezebel’s voice snapped their heads around and had them both scrambling to their feet. “When Shaka told us where to find you, I thought you might be doing a different kind of playing at sticks.”

  Adam’s burnt cheeks flushed deeper pink, “Who, me?” he said. “Father would wring my neck if he—I mean—Please. Don’t tell him where you found me. I wasn’t doing anything, I swear. He’d never believe me, so please, my lady.”

  “Hmm, ‘my lady.’ I like the sound of that. Don’t you, Cain?”

  “Cain?” The pastor’s son blurted out, “Then. You must be Jezebel!” A sudden sheepishness overtook him as his face turned scarlet.

  “Someone’s been talking, I see. You’re Adam, right? David’s son?”

  “Yes, my lady. My apologies for not properly—I mean. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you and your, um, husband. But, about what I said. Please, don’t tell my father where we’ve been practicing. If he knew—”

  “That you’ve been buying Amsah’s girls in the evening?” Adam’s face turned from scarlet to beet. He might have even cried had Jezebel not sweetened her tongue. Her weakness—sympathy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, truly. A man like yourself wouldn’t even consider it.”

  The Messah’s voice cracked. “No, I’d never. I plan to be a man of the cloth one day.” Some of the pale returned to his face. He smiled, glancing toward the half-blood. “my friend here, though—”

  “Will never have to.” Cain finished. “Adnihilo.”

  The witch’s son stood with his head down and shoulders stooped. He knew a punishment was coming, even surrendered his practice sword before the sacrifice could ask for it. So when Cain planted a hand on his bony collar, it was wary relief that showed in place of pain.

  “What, you thought I was angry about the Messah, that I didn’t know?”

  Adnihilo murmured some words.

  “Up here, boy. Look me in the face.” The sacrifice waited patiently as his pupil gathered the courage to meet his gaze. It was a long wait, and no sooner did their eyes meet did Cain strike the half-blood’s inner thigh. Down he fell. “There. You’ll remember where I hit you. Inside, not out. No long struggle like you just had.” He pointed toward his pupil’s bruising leg. “And Adnihilo.”

  The half-blood climbed to his feet. Grimacing, he answered, “Kill the boy.”

  “Are we done with the lessons, yet?” Jezebel wound Cain’s arm around herself. “I’m starved, and I’m sure they feel the same.”

  Adam’s eyes lit up. “I almost forgot! We’re holding a feast tonight at the parish for the holyday. Father asked me—if I ever got the opportunity—he said he’d love it if you’d come to one. He’s wanted a chance to meet you ever since Adnihilo and I—I mean…”

  The Sacrifice spat. “You can tell the pastor that—”

  “We will absolutely be joining you for supper,” Jezebel answered faster than Cain could protest. “A feast sounds fantastic!” She hissed into his ear, “You promised.”

  The sacrifice tossed back his head and sighed. Standing, breathing, watching the vultures circle in the sky as he tried to find a way to cheat fate. He even prayed, but the gods remained silent as his eyes fell to the three hopeful faces. “Fine. We’ll eat with the Messah tonight.”

  Second Verse

  Colors poured from stained-glass portraits, bright images of men robed in silver-gold, posed before backdrops of quilted pastures and vast vistas of indigo sky. And there were beams of red as well, shafts bleeding from crimson blades hung high in the panes like crosses mounted in the clouds. Together those solar rays mingled with the dull glow of seven gilded braziers arranged in a row at the east end of Herbstfield’s chapel.

  Only a few days each year did Jael Leonhardt get to see all seven flames lit, to enjoy the sweet aroma of their burning oils, and to read their inscriptions illuminated by fire-light. In truth, she could hardly see the words from her seat amidst the central pews, though she did not need to read to recite them. They were the seven virtues hewn into Saint’s Rock when Constance founded the church. Faith, Obedience, Humility, Justice, Compassion, Suffering, and Absolution.

  Jael’s thoughts clung to the final virtue as she and the other members of the assembly sat through Acolyte Gareth’s ceremonial greeting as well as his newly-composed holyday hymns. They were beautiful as always, yet she forgot the words no later than she heard them, so restless was she for the sermon to begin. It felt like ages, eons as she waited on the deacon to grace them with his presence.

  Where is he? Gavin’s never late, thought Leonhardt, tapping her heels as her eyes flitted between the attending families. Most were of the local gentry: landed farmers or wealthy tradesman with their distracted children done up in dress—mothers busy fussing with their young ones, fathers gazing vacantly into the golden flames. They were the ones seated toward the front, where the assembly sorted themselves by rank and wealth. The rear pews were sorted by youth: man-boys and giggling maidens jeering to one another about those less fortunate than themselves.

  And caught in the middle was Jael—dark hair, brown eyes, and skin made dun from field work. Where the others’ garments were woven roses, her wool and linens were mud. Clothing is fickle, she reminded herself, but their laughter cut vein-deep. She could escape them no more than she could her broad shoulders and bulbous nose, nor her round cheeks and oxen thighs. A maiden flowered but without a woman’s form, though the teasing began long before. “Farm-Face,” they’d called her. “Sway-Back,” and “Ox-Arms.” Over time they grew crueler. “Aberrant,” and “Heifer-Bride.” As a little girl, those names had sent her crying to her father. As a woman of sixteen, she could hide the tears welling in her eyes—for a time.

  She sighed, breathing deeply, keeping her feelings contained when finally relief arrived. The gentle creak of the deacon’s cell door crept over the crowd as Gavin rounded the transept crossing. He seemed half his forty-three years as he bounded up the platform stairs, climbing two at a time to the little lectern where his round and wrinkled face glowed in the gilded light. Jael had never seen him so excited, smiling wide under a beak of a nose with warmth enough to thaw the whole assembly and bring them clamoring to their feet.

  “Welcome, my brothers and sisters. I beg you’ll forgive this old man his belatedness; the Lord kept me at his shrine for quite some time this morning. Longer than I expected, but perhaps it was part of his plan. After all, isn’t this the dawn of our Day of Absolution?” Gavin chuckled, provoking awkward grins from the members of his flock. “Brothers, sisters, if you can find it in your hearts to forgive m
y delay, I ask that you rise with me so that we may begin our Lord’s prayer.” The deacon dragged a heavy breath.

  Lord God, we put our Faith in your word.

  Guide us, that we may act in your favor.

  Teach us to live contently with what we hold.

  Teach us to be brave in the face of sin, and empower us to stand steadfast against it.

  Teach us to love our neighbors, as you love all men in this world.

  And as a father does his child, we ask you Lord to right us when we wrong.

  That we may earn your forgiveness.

  Now and forever,

  May soon his kingdom come.

  “May soon his kingdom come,” the assembly droned along, filling the chapel with the hum of their joined voices—vibrations coursing deeper than individual faith. Immersion in the Lord’s prayer washed away Leonhardt’s pain. Like a set of strong arms, it kept her safe from harm, from the sinful tongues of her misguided peers. Then tears flowed once more—joyful ones—as was not uncommon upon “coming closer to God,” so Gavin called it. “A sensitivity to the divine.” Jael thought her condition a blessing. Others thought it madness—they were fooled, Leonhardt knew, to mistake faith and hysterics. Even the deacon had affirmed her defense, but that left her curious: why did Gavin not share her experience?

  He did, Jael realized for the first time as she saw the unmistakable gleam in the deacon’s gray-blue eyes. At once, she set to puzzling what could’ve moved the unshakable soul, what surprise might he have in store that could bring forth such emotion. She wrestled with the question while the rest of the assembly repeated the Messaii creed; but she couldn’t find her answer, not before the reaffirmation was complete and the time had arrived for the sermon to begin.