Samurai and Other Stories (7 page)

“Yes,” he replied. “We are the egg men. All together in one huge womb that is the universe, the
macrocosm.
Alchemists were convinced that mercury transcended both states, both above and below, both life and death. It came to symbolize the transformation required to reach illumination and eternal life.”

“Illumination?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mr. Tullis said, smiling. “I just wanted you to get some idea what we’re getting into.”

He stared out at the windmills. “You know, I haven’t been happy for a long time. When I began, I truly thought that this was what I wanted. But I have seen everything I love wither and die. No matter how many platitudes I use to console myself, no matter how
cosmic
the thought that my molecules might see the death of the sun, I am lonely. I have been lonely for
so
long. But seeing these circles being drawn in the sky gives me hope.” He turned the page.

CALX
was the heading. The pictures showed a young man, bound to a burning wheel by hands and feet in a figure X. He was smiling.

“You see? More circles.
Calx
is latin for Lime,” Mr. Tullis said. “In this case, it means,
calcination
, or the process of purifying by heating. If you burn a body hot enough, it goes black, then, if you burn it even hotter, the ash turns white. Similarly, if you heat limestone, you’ll produce a white powder that the Romans called
Calx Vita
or quicklime
.
This was considered a magical material, for, if you poured water on it, it gave out heat. Effectively, giving the heat back to the giver.”

“And now I’m lost again,” Patty said.

“This one’s easy,” Mr. Tullis replied. “Look at the picture. Fire purifies. It’s also a code that says, in effect, make quicklime. It will give heat back to the giver. And, beyond that, it symbolizes the fact that the adept must purify his soul before continuing. Wheels within wheels yet again.”

He tapped at the picture.

“This is from Greek mythology.
Ixion
was punished by Zeus. He tried to seduce
Hera
, and for his presumption was bound to a perpetual wheel of fire. But Ixion had seen the face of the Goddess, and although in eternal pain, was also eternally happy. Everything can be seen from two angles. Everything has at least two meanings.”

He closed the book. “I burned on a wheel... centuries ago now. You are the first in many years that has even paused to listen. And I know why. You know all about wheels and death... don’t you Patty?”
 

“Oh, Jenny. I should never have let you play on that bike.” She started to cry, softly at first, then great heaving sobs that racked her whole body. The man merely sat and watched with eyes full of compassion.

“I could tell that you will see her again, in a better place,” he said when Patty calmed. “But I am by no means sure that is true. What I do know is that nothing is ever wasted. There
are
wheels within wheels. My own have finished turning in this meat suit I wear. I have been a ghost inside it for too long.

“I will leave you, as I myself was left, with two words, and this book. Turn again.”

Patty looked down at the book as he put it on her hands. When she looked up again he was gone.

Far out on the water the last of the turbines started to turn.

INQUISITOR

From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535

The time has come. It arrived yesterday from the New World in the hold of the
Santa Angelo
and it has been brought to the castle. The Inquisitor General has tasked me with discovering the true nature of the abomination, to make a full and careful examination and ascertain what manner of
Inquisition
might be made. It is a great honour, and one which I will fulfil with all the diligence the good Lord hands to me.

There is a certain doubt in my mind, a cloud that has hung over the proceedings since I read Juan Santoro’s journal last night. A dark evil is detailed in those pages, and although the Inquisitor General teaches us that all things are powerless before the truth of our Lord, I have grave misgivings about the thing I am about to see for the first time.

I have prayed for strength, but still my knees feel like water and there is a cold pit in my belly that nothing can assuage.

However, my duty is clear.
 

It is time for the questioning to begin.
 

From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 3rd April 1535

If there is a hell on Earth then surely it is in this place here. No God fearing man should have to face the horrors I have led my crew through on this day. I give thanks that I have brought us all back safely to the ship, and I am much afeard with the thought of the return voyage, for the cargo is most foul and ungodly. But I would be remiss in my duty to the Church if I did not report on the things that plague this new land. If the Crown wishes, as I have been told, to colonize this place, then we must know what manner of things lay claim on it at present.

In truth, I know not what we have found. The natives died bravely defending it, and for most of the day we thought that we had stumbled on a great treasure. We fought through their defences, hacking and slashing our way through the savages to the centre of that dark temple.
 

As I have said, we expected treasure. What we found was beyond our ken. I have had it sealed in a lead casket, and will take it back to Seville.
 

But the journey will be long, for already it whispers in my mind, and I fear my dreams will be dark indeed during the long months at sea ahead.
 

From the journal of Father Fernando. 16th August 1535

“Already it whispers in my mind.”
 

I had given no thought to that phrase, believing it to be the product of a sailor’s superstition. But now, having seen my new opponent, I know better.

When we opened the casket that had been brought to the chamber where the questioning was to take place, I originally bethought that we had been played false and that trickery was at work. At first glance the lead box seemed empty, its bottom a dark shadow. But as Brother Ferrer leaned over it, something
surged
within, and he was forced to step back so suddenly that he knocked over a brazier and sent coals skittering on the flagstones. The blackness that rose from the casket, a thick liquid which had the consistency of pitch, seemed to rear back at that, giving me time to slam the lid closed on the obscenity.

And that is when it happened.

There was a
tugging
in my mind, a probing of an intelligence. I knew immediately what it was doing, as it is my own profession also. Even as I sought to ascertain the form of my opponent, at the same time it was questioning me.

I am not the only inquisitor here.
 

And there was something else, something I am loath to relate here lest it is discovered and my sanity is brought into question. I only caught but a fleeting glimpse, just as the lid of the lead casket dropped back into place, but it was unmistakable. As the black thing
oozed
to the bottom of the box a single eye, pale and smooth as a duck’s egg, opened... and blinked.

From the journal of Juan Santoro, Captain of the Santa Angelo, 29th May 1535

Calamity has overtaken us, as I feared it might.
 

The thing has plagued our dreams since the start, and the crew has been without sleep for many days. There have been mutterings of mutiny since the beginning of the month, and last night matters came to a head. Three crewmen took it upon themselves to rid us of our tormentor.
 

At least, they tried.
 

Their screams in the dark alerted me to their plight and I was first to enter the hold. It is hard to describe the fear that gripped me as I saw the carnage the thing had wrought on my men. It was obvious that they had lifted the casket, probably intending to throw it overboard. But someone had dropped their end—that much is also obvious from the dent in the leftmost edge. I can only surmise that the jolt opened the casket—and let the beast out.

What did not need conjecture was the fate of the men after that.
 

The black ooze lay over the bodies like a wet blanket—one that seethed and roiled as if boiling all across the surface. Pustules burst with obscene wet
pops
and flesh melted from bone even as the men screamed and writhed in agony.
 

Their pain did not last long. All too soon the blackness seeped in and through them until even their very bones were liquefied and, with the most hideous moist
sucking,
drank up by the beast, which was now three times larger than previously. It opened itself out, like a black crow spreading its wings, the tips touching each side of the hold walls.
 

All along the inside surface of the
wings
wet mouths opened, and the air echoed with a plaintive high whistling in which words might be heard if you had the imagination to listen.

Tekeli-Li. Tekeli-Li.

My every instinct told me to turn and flee. But there was nowhere to escape to except the sea itself, and that was a choice no sailor would make. Instead I stood my ground while Massa, stout coxswain that he is, brought forth some firebrands. Only then did the thing seem to cower and retreat, and only then did I remember the circles of burning oil which we had crossed on entering the black temple in the jungle.

I called for a barrel of pitch and tried to hold the beast at bay with a brand until aid might arrive. My adversary had ideas of its own. Now that it was free of the casket its powers had increased. It probed at my mind, searching for my weaknesses, taunting me with my dreams. I saw things no man should have to see as I was shown the atrocities that had been committed in this thing’s name by the savages in the temple.
 

The grip on my mind grew stronger.

I saw vast plains of snow and ice where black things
slumped
amid tumbled ruins of long dead cities.

My head swam, and the walls of the hold melted and ran. The firebrand in my hand seemed to recede into a great distance until it was little more than a pinpoint of light in a blanket of darkness, and I was alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness.
 

A tide took me, a swell that lifted and transported me, faster than thought, to the green twilight of ocean depths far distant.

I realized I was not alone. We floated, mere shadows now, scores—nay, tens of scores of us, in that cold silent sea. I was aware that other sailors were nearby, but I had no thought for aught but the rhythm, the dance. Far below us, cyclopean ruins shone dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumbled in a non-Euclidean geometry that confused the eye and brooked no close inspection. And something deep in those ruins knew we were there.

We dreamed, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulfed the stars, of blackness where there was nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while our slumbering god dreamed, we danced for him, there in the twilight, danced to the rhythm.

We were at peace.

A flaring pain jolted me back to sanity. I smelled burning skin, but took several seconds to note that it was my own hand that had seared. The coxswain, stout man that he is, had broken the hold on me by touching his firebrand to my skin.
 

I had no time to thank him, for the beast had encroached closer to me while I dreamed, and even now threatened to engulf me.
 

Once again I held the firebrand ahead of me, and with the aid of the coxswain I held the beast at bay, struggling to keep its grip from settling on my mind. Indeed, if the barrel of pitch had not been brought, I might have succumbed.

Burning the pitch enabled the recapture of the beast to proceed more rapidly. The heat from the flames threatened to set fire to the deck of the hold itself, but I refused to allow the men to put it out until we had driven the beast back into the casket.
 

I have ensured that the box is sealed completely, and it is now stored at the furthermost end of the hold. All I can do is keep the crew as far away from it as is possible on this small vessel.

That, and hope that in our dreams we do not fall again under its spell.

But it is hard. For every time I close my eyes I dream, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet. And while my slumbering god dreams, I dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.

In dreams I am at peace.

From the journal of Father Fernando. 17th August 1535

Captain Santoro’s journal has at least given me a place to start. I already knew that s
trapado
would not be an option for this particular miscreant. Nor would I be able to utilise the rack or the maiden. But fire would be more than sufficient for my purposes. It took little work to prepare the cell for
Inquisition
, as matters are already set up amply for the ordeal. I ensured that the lead casket was placed inside concentric circles of oil such that they could be lit immediately in the event of an attempt to escape. I also had a brazier full of coals at hand to my right side and three needle-pokers burning white hot in a small oven to my left.
 

Even before I opened the casket I felt the
tickle
in my mind but I pushed it away. My God is stronger than any heathen devil. I mouthed the
Pater-Noster
as I lifted the lid.

Once again the black ooze surged, and the tickle in my mind turned to an insistent probing. Memories rose unbidden in my thoughts; of summer days in warm meadows, of lessons learned in cold monastery halls, of penance paid for sins.