The Kimota Anthology (42 page)

The old woman gestured to a chair and bent over the kettle that bubbled on the fire. Aron sat down as the woman poured tea. For the first time in many days he was not conscious of the menacing presence and it felt like stepping out into the sunshine after a week of rain.

“So, you killed the man I read for you. Well he deserved it, and you got the girl out. That puts you on the right side as far as I’m concerned, and I know your heart is clean. Now tell me your problem.” The old woman bustled around the room before she settled in her chair beside the fire. Aron recounted the sequence of events as clearly as he could remember it; the menacing presence, the shove downstairs and the other events that had nearly brought harm to him. When he had finished the woman looked hard at him, pursed her lips then stared into the fire, several breaths passed before she spoke.

“I think I have heard of something like this, though I have never dealt with it. I think I should enter the spirit world and have a look around.”

“Is this dangerous for you?”

“I think not. I think this is an enemy that threatens only you.” The woman reached into a box beside her chair and drew out a small bag. She shook some of the contents into the kettle, swirled the mixture around for a dozen breaths and then poured the murky fluid into a cup. Blowing on it to cool it for a moment she then drank the contents in one draught. She pulled a face. “Never got used to the taste of that and it doesn’t improve with age.” She sat back in the chair. “This will take a little while. Just make yourself comfortable, but keep silent.”

Aron watched as she settled herself, eyes closed, hands folded in her lap, her breathing deliberately regular. Nothing happened for a long time. Aron wondered if she had merely drifted off to sleep then she started from the chair, unfocused eyes wide open.

“I have found him. He is outside now waiting for you.” Her breathing was ragged as if she had been running.

“Who?”

“The one you killed. The Saxish warrior. His spirit lurks only a few paces from us. The wards I have set about this house keep him out, but he knows you are here so he waits.”

“How can this be?”

“His shade has been recalled to this world by a magician. I have heard of it being done, but I can’t do it. It is an Eastern trick. I don’t know of any in Oxport who would know how to do it.”

Aron thought immediately of the four Saxish riders. “Four Saxishmen passed into the city a week or so back. Few come so far west. It is most likely they are from the same mercenary band,” he said. “They will have come to avenge him.”

“Then one of them may be a wizard. It would not require one of great power because the warrior’s spirit burns for vengeance, but you have a bad enemy.”

“I know next to nothing of magic. How do I fight this spirit?”

“In this world I do not know. There are magicians of greater power and learning than I in other cities. I can tell you where to find them, but they are many weeks journey away. I don’t think you would escape the spirit’s vengeance that long.”

“What about this Saxish wizard?”

“He would know the banishing of it, but if he has summoned it he is not your friend.”

“If I kill him?”

“The spirit is like a hound unleashed to hunt you down. The wizard knows nothing of its location or progress, it will return to him only when you are slain. Slay the wizard and the spirit will still follow you.”

“Is there nothing I can do?”

“You could enter the spirit world to face it. If you kill it there it can no longer be summoned to harm you here.”

“What can I fight it with there? What powers does it have?”

“Nothing more than you bring with you from this world. You may walk in the spirit world as you are or as you were, but nothing more.”

“How do you mean?” This was important. Aron strained on her every word as his mind raced through the possibilities facing him.

“The blind may see again, the lame walk. The warrior who lost a limb in life is whole again, but that is all. You will not be a finger’s width taller. The mind remembers how you were in your prime, but it cannot make you more.”

“So I have no sword, no armour, no weapons to fight with.”

“Only your body, your skills and your courage.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then you are dead, both in the spirit world and here.”

Aron sat in thought, his stomach a tight knot of fear. He did not doubt his own courage, but his every instinct counselled against going into a fight without knowing what he faced. However, the days since he had killed the clansman had been an intolerable nightmare and he agreed with the old woman about his prospects of escaping the spirit’s vengeance for much longer. He really had no choice at all. “It is the only road open to me. If I can’t rid myself of this spirit in this world then I must in the next.”

“Drink this then, swallow it all. I will be waiting and I’ll lead you into the spirit world.” The old woman passed Aron a mug full of the murky fluid from her kettle. Aron sniffed at it, it might have come straight from a puddle in the street outside. He drew a long breath and then poured the contents of the mug straight down his throat. The taste was worse than the smell and Aron nearly threw the stuff straight back up. With a physical effort he swallowed then cursed in disgust. The woman held out another mug filled with clean water, Aron drained it, but the foul taste still persisted. Aron closed his eyes and sat back in the chair; his stomach churned from the brew, and his mind raced over what lay before him as he remembered all manner of childhood stories of spirits and phantoms. Gradually he managed to find calm as he focused on what he had to do and with a brief surge of vertigo he felt the potion begin to work. He opened his eyes, the room seemed to be filling with mist. He stood up and a hand reached out to take his. He looked around, at his side stood a beautiful young girl, her hand was as soft as rose petals.

“It is me, truly as I was.” Her voice sang softly in his ears. “Come with me.” Aron stepped into the mist, his hand in hers. Beyond the mist the room was the same as in the earthly world yet less substantial. He did not feel in any way different and yet the witch was so clearly changed that he could not deny the reality of the experience. He stood in wonder at the thought that he stood in the abode of the gods and spirits. Is my father out there somewhere?

“Your enemy waits beyond the door. Are you ready?” The witch’s words recalled Aron to his task. He looked about. He held no weapon. He reached for a stool and his hand passed through it. So no weapons then, hand to hand only. He took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his hands on his shirt and stepped towards the door.

“I’m ready.”

“He was standing to the right of the door about five paces distant.” Her soft voice whispered then she opened the door. Aron stepped briskly through the door looking to his right. The Saxishman stood before him, looking somewhat slimmer than the man Aron had killed, his eyes started open in surprise. Aron moved directly into the attack; pivoting on his right foot he spun and swung a kick at the man’s ribs taking him unawares. Aron’s foot sank into the warrior’s side and he fell to one knee. Aron recovered his balance, but so did his opponent. They stood and faced each other; the surprise fading from the Saxishman’s eyes to be replaced by a purposeful hatred. He bunched his shoulders and advanced on Aron, hands held low. Aron danced sideways on the balls of his feet; speed was his only advantage here, the Saxishman was heavier and stronger. Aron felt the knot of fear tighten in his stomach; this was a man in prime fighting condition. The clansman rushed forward. Aron slipped sideways, but took a glancing blow that spun him off balance. A kick followed up that thudded into Aron’s leg just above the knee. Aron half fell, but righted himself to face the next attack. The warrior surged in and, at the last moment, dodged to the right, the same way as Aron dodged. He swept his arms around Aron and pulled him close to crush him in a bear hug. The powerful arms enveloped Aron pinning his left arm uselessly between their bodies. As the blood began to roar in his ears, Aron knew he had only seconds to do something. With his free hand he sought out the man’s face buried as it was in Aron’s chest; he found the nose and pushed two fingers up the nostrils and lifting his wrist forced the man’s head up. The Saxishman snarled like a wounded dog but raised his head, loosening his grip, allowing Aron to free his left hand. Aron continued to push his head back and then struck savagely with his free hand at the man’s unprotected throat. The warrior collapsed gurgling and choking. Aron stepped clear and then struck him behind the right ear with his elbow. Moving in behind the prostrate figure Aron wrapped his right arm around his neck and then, using his legs to push, wrenched his head upwards and twisted sideways in the same motion. There was a loud crack and the Saxishman stopped moving. Aron stepped back from the body gasping for breath and another pair of arms encircled him. These arms, however, were considerably softer as were the lips that pressed themselves to his. Aron sank gratefully into the girl’s grasp and let her do her will.

“So my hero. What will you do now?” The eyes were the same, but the face was aged by about forty hard years. Aron looked about him. He was back in the chair in the old woman’s room. His ribs ached and his right leg didn’t move freely when he tried to stand. “I don’t know. I’ll need to think.”

“Don’t take too long, there’s still a wizard out there who bears you no good will. I don’t know how powerful he is, and I don’t want you drawing him to me.” 

“I have to go. How can I thank you?”

“I think you already did.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Of course you could try again before you go.”

[Originally published in Kimota 6, Summer 1997. Subsequently improved]

GOD’S FAVOURITE CREATURES

by Julie Travis

The coroner recorded a verdict of suicide on Kate Brooks, but that’s not the way it was. She had stood in the tiny bedroom of the tiny north London flat she rented, looking herself up and down in the mirror for over an hour. Then she had studied the Phrenology head she kept on her dressing table. It was old, a Fowler, a prop from a profession long since dismissed as nonsense, but Kate treated it as sacred. Finally, she’d thought about her life, the women she’d loved, and always lost. Thirty-five years of disappointments, of giving but never receiving. Of feeling too much. She had allowed herself a few tears, the last she would ever shed.

Kate was not thinking of death. She simply wanted to change. Facing the mirror once more, she had picked up a power drill. It looked like a gun, and was incredibly heavy, in contrast to the drill bit she’d chosen, which was just a few millimetres across, as delicate as a surgeon’s instrument. With the drill’s handle in her left hand, using her right to steady the front end, she’d guided it to a spot two thirds of the way to the top of her head, just a fraction left of centre. It was here that was marked ‘respect’ on the Phrenology head. And then she had pulled the trigger.

She’d found she had to push hard to get through her skull, but once through she’d felt the softness of her brain being torn away. As soon as she was sure that part of her was dead, she’d removed the drill and found the next spot, the one marked ‘benevolence’. When that part was destroyed, she’d moved on. And killed ‘friendship’, ‘sociability’ and ‘love of family’, then when she’d cleaned the mirror of flecks of blood and bone, she’d found ‘trust’ and ‘faith’ and destroyed both of those, too. It felt as if a huge pressure was lifting off of her. When Kate had moved on to ‘timidity’ she was feeling distinctly light-headed, and capable of doing anything, so she’d tried it one-handed, and the drill slipped down a couple of centimetres and buried itself in the spot marked by Fowler as ‘extermination’.

The coroner concluded that, in the absence of a suicide note, it must be assumed that Kate Brooks had felt a desperate self-loathing to have mutilated herself in such a manner. What Kate really felt, though, in that last moment before death, and for probably the only time in her life, was that she was finally in control.

Kate had always thought that death was like a light, or a tv set, being switched off. She had seen a bird die once, over a decade ago now, but she still remembered how she’d knelt down beside it as it lay on the ground and looked at its eyes as it died; just a moment, a hair’s breadth, between life and death. As the drill buried itself just behind her temple she found that death was not so much a switching off as a
re-tuning
. She was aware of a sudden pain, and could hear her body fall to the floor, but everything went black and she felt herself to be apart from her body. It was as if she - or whatever was left of her - had stepped away from the physical world. Through the blackness Kate could make out a doorway. She was suddenly aware that to go through would mean facing Heaven or Hell, whichever she was bound for. She had wanted to change herself, not in this drastic a fashion it was true, but now she was here she would experience whatever death offered her. She made her way through the doorway, and began her ascent to Heaven.

Her time there was brief. The blackness melted away and Kate could see again. It was different to when she was alive; everything had a superreal quality to it and was like a film running in very slight slow motion. In front of her was what was once a pair of beautiful, golden gates, that had been pulverised into a mangled mess. The way into Heaven was, then, barred by an assortment of pieces of wood and junk. It looked more like a barricade in a war zone than the entrance to Paradise.

A figure was waiting, a mixture of man and beast. He wore a pair of wings, neatly tucked up on his back.
This must be an angel
, thought Kate. He was furious to see Kate there.

“Get away from here,’ he hissed, “you’re a suicide, you died in sin. You’re an abomination.” The sound of his voice was out of sync with the movements of his lips, which made the scene all the more confusing.

Kate was shocked. Surely here they would know what she had been trying to do, would have sympathy with her plight. “It wasn’t suicide,” she said, “I just wanted to make myself like other people. So I could get along. Be happy.”

“Change the way God made you, you mean! It is an insult, and you deserve to burn in Hell for it. See what you have done to your loved ones.”

Kate was confronted by a series of images,
of her mother weeping uncontrollably at her funeral
, being carried along by her sister and father,
of her father, alone
, endlessly pacing his living room, drink in hand, then screaming and tearing at the walls,
of her own body
, dead on the floor, in a pool of blood.

“What gave you the right to do that? If you were unhappy, then it was God’s will for you to be that way. How dare you try to be as God is!” screamed the angel. He unfurled his wings and took to the air, circling Kate, a look of contempt on his face. “Get away from here. You’ll never have a place at God’s side. Deviant! Even Hell won’t have you!” He spat at her.

Darkness enclosed her again and she had a sensation of falling. In panic, she realised her next stop would be Hell, although after her run-in with the angel she really couldn’t decide whether she’d rather be allowed in or turned away.

Two figures watched the scene, with some amusement, it must be said. Two cheers rang out when the angel turned Kate away from Heaven’s gates. Her confusion only added to their fun.

“She’s floundering,” said one. “Shall we let her go to Hell? I don’t think they’ll let her in, either, though. She just hasn’t got it.”

“Shut up, Aleph, give her a chance. Her body’s barely cold.”

Aleph raised his eyebrows. “What’s got into you, then? Oh, I know, you think she’s
cute
, don’t you? Even with a head full of holes. I worry about your taste sometimes.”

Cory pretended to be annoyed and turned away so he wouldn’t see the smile on her face.

Aleph sighed. “Oh, let’s go get her. Someone’s got to help her out.”

Kate found herself in a graveyard. It was dark and there was a slight fog, so she assumed it must be cold, although she could not feel it. She felt frightened, then nearly laughed out loud; what had she to be afraid of - the dead? Unsure as to what would happen next, she waited. Looking around, she couldn’t be sure if she’d ever been to this place before, but she was back on Earth, that much she did know - everything was three dimensional, natural, again. When the wind blew the trees, the leaves rustled in time to the boughs moving. It was almost reassuring.

She heard a polite cough behind her, and turned to see a man step out from behind a monument, a tall stone angel weeping into her hands. Kate saw immediately that he was not human; he had a slight aura around him, as if he was lit from behind, and when he walked his feet made no impression on the grass. He held up his hands in mock surrender.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “You looked like you needed some help, so we brought you here.”

He stopped a few feet from her. Kate stared at him; he looked part animal, like the angel. What did he want? Could she trust him? He put his hands down, then held one out.

“I’m Aleph. Pleased to meet you, newcomer.”

He seemed quite genuine. Kate took his hand, only then realising she was in human form. “I’m Kate. You said we...” Aleph pointed. “That’s Cory, a friend of mine.” Kate could see a woman sitting on a bench. Aleph walked down to join her. Kate stood where she was for a moment, then realised she was meant to follow.

The three sat for a while and talked. Kate wanted to know as much about them as about herself. Aleph told her to slow down. “Kate, the one thing you have now is time. You were alive for thirty-five years, you have been dead for ten days. Take it easy.”

Kate asked why they were there, in the graveyard.

“It does seem a little corny, doesn’t it?” said Cory, smiling. “But it was logical to bring you here. This is where you’re buried, you see.”

They walked over to her grave. It was untidy, a mound of mud covered on one side with flowers. Kate bent down to read the cards, then realised she couldn’t go through with it and stood again. Instead she pointed at the ground. “How do I look?”

She could suddenly see herself in her coffin; peaceful, clean, and totally bald. The drill holes had been tidied up and there was a cut all around the top of her skull. Of course, she thought, there would have been an autopsy. It seemed ridiculous that anyone would need to investigate the cause of death. She’d been found with a drill buried in her brain, how much more straightforward could you get? No, she thought, they spent all that effort establishing how she died so they wouldn’t have time to think about
why
. The image faded.

Aleph broke the silence. “So how do you feel about not getting into Heaven?” There was an air of amusement in his voice.

“I don’t know. It was odd - the gates looked like a bomb had hit them, and there was someone there - an angel, I suppose - who was furious with me, because he thought I’d killed myself. He wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say. It was horrible, really. Not quite what I’d been expecting.”

“So much for God being all forgiving,” said Aleph. “But you’re right; those gates have been under attack. Heaven and Hell are continually at war.”

As the night wore on, Aleph and Cory told amazing stories of the dead.
Nobody ever really dies, they said. Everything, everyone, goes somewhere. Most find their place in Heaven or Hell, but some - those that were unhappy, or disaffected, in life - don’t fit in either place and are simply left in limbo
.

“So that’s why I’m here?” asked Kate.

“You have unfinished business,” said Cory. “Your death was an accident, you have much to resolve. You can’t rest, not yet.”

“And you...?”

“Aleph and myself are partners. We were both in Hell, for a short time, but they couldn’t keep us there. Neither of us were disciplined enough for the war against Heaven, but neither were we going to accept the lot of rest of the population there -”

“Hell is everything you hated on Earth,” said Aleph. “Drudgery, banality, triviality. The ultimate torment,
forever
.”

“We are not foot soldiers nor inmates,” said Cory, proudly. “We chose our own path. We are demons.”

Later, when it became light, the three retreated to the gloom of the catacombs. Kate was assured that sunlight wouldn’t hurt her, but she found the brightness uncomfortable. Of her two new friends she could not form an opinion. Demons, Cory had said, and the word had frightened her, but they seemed to have no intention of harming her. On the contrary, they were concerned that she should find her way. They certainly didn’t look anything other than ordinary - Aleph reminded her of a college boy; clean cut and easy going. Cory was something else, something special. Though young when she died, having just turned twenty-five, she was extremely self-assured. They had both died less than a decade ago - Cory in an automobile accident, Aleph in a drunken brawl - but were more than happy to be where they were, neither having been particularly comfortable with their lives. They’d escaped from Hell and found their way back to Earth, and in the process had become powerful, capable of making their bodies physical and of possessing most living things. And they intended to spend eternity doing exactly what pleased them. Next to them, Kate felt almost useless, a simple ghost who had her life to sort out before she was allowed to die properly. Kate thought about her last moments of life, how she had let everything happen to her, for decades. She realised how crazy her thoughts had been at the end, although there had been a certain logic to them. What if she had succeeded, what then? If she had killed off all her emotions, what would the rest of her life have been?

“
A darn sight better than it was before
.” Cory had been reading her thoughts. “Sorry to intrude on your privacy, but we need to get a few things straight. Or, rather, you do. We could have let you get turned away from Hell, too, you know. You could’ve been wandering around on your own for centuries without sorting yourself out. But I thought you deserved a chance to find your own way to wherever you’re going. Though I don’t think you belong anywhere but here. With us. With me.”

Kate could see Cory’s eyes shining in the gloom. They were sitting together on the platform of the winch that took the coffins from the chapel above down to the catacombs. Of Aleph there was no sign. Kate felt a touch on her shoulder, and looked down to see Cory’s hand holding her. Her touch was warm and solid, not like shaking hands had been earlier, which had felt like touching sponge. As Cory caressed first her arm and then her waist, Kate felt her physical sensations flooding back, not even realising they’d been gone until now. Kate wondered briefly if she should worry - was Cory trying to seduce her or possess her? - but found she didn’t care, and when Cory leaned forward to kiss her, Kate couldn’t have stopped her if her soul depended on it. As Cory kissed her face and neck, Kate could hear her murmuring, “Think about your life, think about why you were so unhappy.” And she did; as Cory laid her down and began to undress her, she found herself awash with both desire and memory.