Hell, p.7
Hell, page 7
“A hot bath for my daughter, now.” He growled. The owner looked as if he might balk, before the expression on Yurgis’ face inspired him to relent.
“As you wish sir, I have a room prepared for you, up the stairs, last door on the left. I’ll have my wife draw your… daughter a bath.” His exotic accent was one Tat had encountered only one other time.
He was an Irishman.
Yurgis turned to her, “Go, bathe yourself. Come meet me here after.”
Without replying, she gathered up their packs and ascended the stairs. A darkened hallway, lit by a single taper in a glass lantern hanging from the ceiling. Four pairs of doors lined the hall.
Last one on the left...
The room was spartanly furnished, two single beds, a small night table bearing a thick, tallow candle on an iron plate, and a wooden tub set in the corner for bathing. A grimy window overlooked the backyard of the inn. Sneezing thrice in quick succession from stale, musty air, Tat dropped the packs in the nearest corner and opened the window. A fresh breeze caressed her face as she leaned out and looked down. A drop of seven meters onto hard packed earth. Too high to escape, not high enough to ensure death should she leap. The most she could hope for would be a broken leg, which would put her even more at her father’s mercy…
“Excuse me, lass?”
Startled, she pulled her head in, banging it sharply on the lintel of the window sash. She’d neglected to close the door behind her, and the Innkeeper’s wife had entered bearing water for her bath. With her was presumably her own daughter, also carrying a bucket; the girl looked to be about the same age as herself. As the pair openly stared, they were visually taken aback.
“My God, who would do this to a girl so young.” Muttered the mother whilst the daughter looked on in wide-eyed curiosity. The woman had obviously mistaken her markings for tattoos. For the first time in days, Tat spoke, trying her best to sound haughty and confident; ending up sounding like exactly what she was, a poor, lost girl with a broken spirit.
“No one did anything to me, I was born like this. Now please, fill the bath and begone with you, I have no desire for company.”
The woman made no reply, but in her eyes shone a deep sympathy which disgusted Tat. Mother and daughter crossed to the tub and dumped their buckets in. They made many trips, far more, in her opinion, than the modest tub should necessitate. She kept her back to them so her shame would remain hidden.
When at last the tub was filled, she peeled off her travel sodden clothes and stepped in. The hot water felt exquisite as she sighed, closing her eyes and allowing her bruised muscles to relax. She let her mind drift…
She came to, a particularly disturbing notion intruding upon her placidly morbid thoughts. Here she was, alone, in a tub filled with water. If she desired to, she could end it all right now. Drown herself and cease this unendurable heartache for good.
Entranced by the surface of the water, little ripples distorting her body beneath. Summoning all the courage she could muster, she thrust her head under. Quickly, the oxygen in her lungs depleted as she prepared to take that final breath...
Something prevented her; a memory, an image of the Falcon-god’s burning, golden eyes. Nearly out of air, iron bands tightening around her chest…
And still those eyes pierced her soul…
With a stifled cry, she broke the surface of the water sobbing, tears slightly warmer than the water dripping off her face. A dam burst, no longer structurally able to contain that which it held back. The courage it took to affect her own demise, even unsuccessful, was enough to raise her from apathy to grief and it poured out of her in unchecked waves.
For five straight minutes she wailed and railed against the injustices of the world. A damning indictment against a God who’d forgotten her. When at last she’d depleted her pent-up store of misery, instead of feeling better, somehow she felt worse, again failing at taking her own life due to sheer cowardice.
She pulled the plug, rising out of the water to let herself drip-dry before the open window. Evidently, today was not her day to die. She felt compelled to recite her favorite poem, L’infinito, the words coming easily from memory, and it helped calm her down…
“What are you doing?”
Tat, again startled by a voice behind her, scrambled for something with which to cover herself, stripping the quilt from the bed to obscure her nudity.
“You can’t just walk in here! Get out!” She cried.
It was the Innkeeper’s daughter, she must have quietly slipped in while she was reciting.
The door’s hinges must be kept well oiled…
Mortified, the girl covered her face with her hands, her voice a melodious, lilting brogue, “Sorry, I was downstairs servin’ and your father gave me a silver piece to come see what was takin’ you so long. Please forgive me, I wasn’t going to enter but I heard you speakin’ strangely so I came in.”
“I wasn’t speaking strangely, I was reciting a poem in Italian,” even through her annoyance, Tat still felt the need to justify her actions. “It helps me relax.”
The girl, seemingly forgetting her embarrassment, sat down on the bed, a bundle of excitement. “Are you from Italy? I’ve never seen anyone like you, you’re so beautiful, you must be. I’ve always wanted to go. Anywhere really... but Mother says I’m needed here. My name is Ciara, my family is from Ireland. My grandparents moved here and opened this inn when the dark times came. I was born here and I’ve never been anywhere else…”
She hesitated before continuing, absent-mindedly twining a lock of her curly black hair around her finger.
“Sorry, Mother says I’m an awful chatterbox. I’ve been trying to change, really I have. In fact, the other day…”
Tat’s irritation began to soften as the girl carried on a one-sided conversation. Insipidly vapid though she may be, in her own way she was also quite charming, possessing an endearing, childlike innocence. This was the first time she’d spoken with a girl her own age in many years, surprised to find she was scared to death. Those flashing blue eyes, hypnotic, and that musical accent made it so easy to listen…
“Well?” Ciara asked.
The spell was broken, “What?”
“I asked your name.”
“Oh, it’s Tatiana.”
“How lovely, it reminds me of Talia, my Mother’s name…” Here she stopped, leaning in, muttering in a conspiratorial whisper, “I must warn you, The Innkeeper doesn’t trust you or your dad, says you’re heathen gypsies. Tread carefully.”
Cryptic warning delivered, Ciara sat back, resuming her conversational tone, “Will you be staying long? You must meet my friends, Karina and Beata, they’re blacksmith’s daughters, they’ll simply adore you...”
“Somehow I don’t think we will be staying more than one night,” their eyes fully met for the first time, lingering until Tat looked away shamefully, plunging them into awkward silence. “If you don’t mind, I have to dress and meet my father.”
The girl frowned, obviously crestfallen, “Alright, I should be gettin’ back down there anyway. Let’s talk later okay?” With a wistful backward glance, Ciara flounced out of the room.
Tat shut and locked the door and sat on the bed, rummaging through her rucksack for her least filthy clothes. All of a sudden a wave of sadness washed over her and she felt like crying again.
That could’ve been me. She thought to herself.
If only she’d been born in a different place, a different time, a different life. She could’ve been an innkeeper’s daughter. A pretty little chatterbox with nary a care in the world. Rather than what she was; a broken, tortured soul; a prisoner of lust and deceit; the Devil’s whore. Hanging her head in her hands, her shoulders jerked with silent sobs.
She reluctantly dressed. All she wanted to do was climb into bed and sleep off this terrible sickness, but the last thing she needed was for Yurgis to come looking for her. Before leaving the room, she took off the silver cross she wore and threw it out the window, vowing to forsake God forever.
As she descended to the commons, the tables were nearly filled to capacity, the smell of roast pig making her mouth water. Yurgis, waved her over. As she sat down he pushed a trencher of food at her.
Even in her foul mood she had to admit, the fare was wonderful. The pork, perfectly seasoned, crispy on the outside, moist and succulent within. Dripping with fat in a salty gravy of onions, turnips, and potatoes. Accompanying the meal, freshly baked bread with apple butter. Truly one of the best meals in recent memory, certainly better than anything she’d eaten since leaving the hospital.
She drank from her tankard, surprised to find it contained barley wine. Draining it in one long drink, Yurgis ordered her another which suffered a similar fate.
A burly man, whom she recognized as the blacksmith, engaged her father in idle conversation, ordering them all several rounds while she ate and drank in silence. The spirits in the room were raising, conversation deafening. A group of musicians sat upon the hearth playing rousing drinking songs. The atmosphere in the room reminded her of nightly meals shared with the troupe, triggering many old memories.
The music, however, was quite different. Striking in its instrumentation, accordion, clarinet, classical guitar and tambourine. Gone was the staccato strumming of Mikel’s kobza, the silky caress of Betha’s violin, the driving pulse of Ob’s doumbek. The accents of the beat structure were also unfamiliar; nevertheless, it was infectious and she found herself tapping her foot, imagining how she would dance to such a song…
Ciara was there, moving between the tables, clearing away dishes and empty glasses, deftly avoiding errant, grabbing hands, even trading bawdy remarks with the regular customers. Every so often she’d look over at Tat and smile, sometimes making a funny face or other exaggerated gesture. She was surprised to discover a growing affinity towards the girl. What would it be like to have a friend like that?
Meanwhile, drinks kept coming. The wine was strong, almost strong enough to fill the painful void within her. She was well into her sixth round when Yurgis nudged her.
“This is good, yes?”
Tat raised her eyes to meet his grinning countenance, something breaking inside her. As much as she wished to loathe him, she was drunk enough that a smile cracked the hard contours of her face.
“Yes papa, it’s wonderful.”
An epiphany came. Despite her failed attempt earlier, she would die by her own hand; it was the only path to redemption. Until such time, why not make an effort to enjoy every moment of life left to her? If there was no future, there were no consequences. Meaning there was nothing stopping her from doing anything she wanted, besides fear.
Making the choice to die unchained her from the stone of her guilt. Like the Christ, sin would be paid for with a life. If right and wrong were merely semantic constructs of the mind, as one of her old books on philosophy was so fond of stating, then if one could forget their mind they would be free. She drained the last dregs of her tankard…
The music was approaching fever-pitch. Intense, syncopated interplay between guitar and accordion forming a throbbing backdrop for the creamy, dulcet tones of the clarinet. Choosing to act on her newfound freedom, brashly giving in to her impulses, she began removing her clothes, neatly folding them on the bench beside her. This odd behavior eliciting confused looks from the nearest patrons. Down to her underwear, she vaulted up onto the table. The room recoiled into stunned silence, everyone’s attention glued to her. She addressed the musicians with a single harsh command.
“Play…”
Never before had she danced with such reckless abandon. Liberated from life in the knowledge of her imminent death. When one has nothing left to lose, all they can do is give it away. She kicked over glasses, skirting the very fringes of madness. In her mind, every eye was upon her; men gaping in open lust, women blushing with scandal and jealousy, though everyone clapped to the beat. From somewhere far away, Ciara, cheering her on…
As the song neared it’s climax, she knew she wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. She’d been drinking far too long not to know when she was lost in time. Her dance was getting sloppy, and she wasn’t paying enough attention to her surroundings. Foolishly attempting a spin, weight shifting, overbalancing, slipping, falling end over end, down, down, down…
Again with the Falcon-god, leading her down a dim passageway. Her markings, complete except for the gaps, same as she knew them from her waking life. In a cozy chamber, she was approached by a group of women with the heads of lizards who first undressed, then carefully arranged her on a massive pile of luxurious, feather-filled cushions. A ritual blade was bared, cutting deeply, yet painlessly, into her palm, collecting a pint of blood in a small basin.
A strikingly beautiful human woman entered. Pale skin under a light dusting of freckles, green eyes and fiery, red hair. Her outline seemed sharper, contrasting against the soft, liquid tones of the dream. Almost seeming to glow, she crackled with energy in a way that distinguished her from the lizard women, or even the Falcon-god himself, as if the rest of the dream faded into a fog, the Red Woman alone remaining in perfect focus.
In her wake, an entourage of stewards swept in bearing paints, brushes and an enormous canvas and easel, swiftly setting up before being driven from the room by one impatient gesture.
The artist approached and knelt before her, subtly adjusting her pose. Right elbow anchored, head resting in her hand, chin tilted back, hair spread wildly over. Left arm extended along the contour of a pillow, accentuating gravity’s effect on the curve and hang of her breasts; left leg bent sensuously at the knee. Candles placed at key points around her bathed her body in dancing shadow.
All the while her attention never wavered from the Red Woman for an instant. Something about her seemed strikingly familiar.
Like they’d known each other forever…
A small quantity of her blood was poured into each of the seven root colors. Great care was taken in mixing the tertiary hues upon her palette. She then proceeded to render Tat’s portrait in quick, practiced strokes, every few seconds peeking around the edge of the canvas to ascertain the curve of a line, the depth of a shadow. The Falcon-god, looking on in approval while the lizard-women sat in meditation, softly chanting.
After what seemed like hours, the Red Woman laid aside her brush.
It was a masterpiece; an idealized approximation of her, life-sized and perfect in every way. Recalling the renaissance-era portraits seen in the museums of her childhood. As she looked upon it, before her very eyes, her face began to distort and change...
Transforming into a falcon’s head...
Still nude, she was marched down another long passage, this one with an impossibly bright light at its end. As the light grew nearer so did her apprehension. The Falcon-god turned his predatory, golden eyes on her, only intensifying her distress. Bedeviled by delirious anxiety.
Emerging from the tunnel, a vast plain spread out before them with seven massive pyramids towering over all. Strange machines arcing across the sky, resembling flying chariots or wagons, as below, a fierce battle raged. True humans fighting against hybrids, the two armies waging a bloody and brutal battle, with the tides of war locked in an apparent stalemate.
The Falcon-god raised his arms, uttering a raptor-call that split the heavens. The battle ground to a halt, human and animal alike turning to face them, subjecting her to the creepy caress of a million pairs of eyes...
“My people, it is done. The cause of battle is ended, before you, stands the one who will deliver us unto the promised land. Return us to PARADISE!!!”
As one, soldiers fell to their knees, worshipping her as a goddess. Supplicant voices rising to an unbearable din, this cacophony joined by the Falcon-god’s own preternaturally loud call.
Without warning, the sun dimmed, as if something was blocking it out. Chanting intensified until the sun was fully eclipsed, save for a penumbra of fire scathing the land in an ambient red glow. The ground abruptly receded from under her feet as an unseen embrace seized her, levitating her into the air.
Through the gathering dark, she witnessed blood lines emerging from the hearts of all assembled. Nightmarish worms tunneling through the air. She couldn’t scream, though not for a lack of trying, even as they burrowed into her, completing her markings, filling in the gaps…
As the final rune manifested, terrible light enveloped her as a luminous beam shot forth from her crown, piercing the sky. The Earth itself shuddered and groaned, rolling over in its sleep. Pyramids crumbled as a mighty upheaval rent the land. Violent fissures, spewing forth rivers of molten stone. Hysterical multitudes swallowed in bottomless chasms…
She awoke, unable to breathe, cold steel pressed to her throat, a heavy body pinning her down. Confused and disoriented, tightly closing her eyes against a debilitating headache...
Where was she?
The last thing she remembered was eating dinner, what happened? A flash burst out in the dark as a match was struck, a candle lit. They were in their room at the inn. Before her loomed the masked face of a heavy-set man.
“Hey, she’s awake.” The voice bearing an unmistakable Irish accent...
“Well, cut her throat then. This guy’s loaded, I saw him flashing gold imperials in the commons.” Heavy German accent.
Painfully straining her eyes, she could barely make out another man with a knife to Yurgis’ throat.
Rapidly mounting waves of energy rushing up her spine…
“Wait, you said there wouldn’t be any killing.” The man restraining her stammered.
“They’re filthy gypsies. No one will miss them. We can’t have them running to the police. Now, cut her throat!”
Still the man hesitated, obvious fear in his eyes. It was the Innkeeper, Ciara’s father.
Arcs of energy, growing stronger, already nearing the breaking point. Body, going numb as unbridled power overloaded her senses…
