The Soul Continuum (16 page)

The sound of something knocking against the open dungeon door draws my attention. Slivers of sunlight shine through, making sandy particles visible in the smoggy air, no doubt the remnants of a windy dawn that has churned up the endless sand layering the city streets, but I wonder why I have not woken at night as I usually do.

Jabari is silhouetted in the doorway. “You're awake,” he says. “Is it you, Diabolis, or the other one?”

“Diabolis,” I say, surprised that he has chosen to speak to me. This is only the second time I have seen him without Ninsuni present.

The guard nods. “Well, get yourself ready for the perfume baths. They'll want you nice and presentable for the festival.”

“The festival?”

“Yes, it is today. You didn't know? Why do you think everyone got drunk last night?”

“I did not know.”

“Well, you do now. Get moving.”

“But I cannot go to the festival. I already explained to Ninsuni that—”

Jabari takes two menacing strides into the room, slapping his pike into the palm of his other hand. A scowl wrinkles his grubby features as he squeezes the weapon hard so that I can hear the tight squeaking of his oily skin slide around the metal. “Baths.” He says the word very slowly and deliberately, as if it is a new piece of vocabulary he has only recently learned to roll across his fat tongue, but his threatening intent is clear.

It feels like a long time since I moved from this position,
so I roll forward to test the weight of my misshapen body on my crooked legs. Balancing would be a simple matter of stretching my arms out, but only one is free. The other has grown so long that it has to be wrapped around my torso and strapped against my chest. I waver as I try to move toward him. My right leg shakes under the strain while my extended left leg is supported by my knee, which is now acting like a foot. The remainder of my leg below the knee drags along the gritty floor, which threatens to scrape the skin off.

“Quickly!” The guard strides forward raising his pike, and I flinch away. He pauses, not following through with the threat, but he observes me, looking me up and down with obvious disgust. Then his eyes flick toward Kaliki in surprise. “Why are you still here?”

Kaliki stares back.

“Still not talking, eh?” Jabari regards the motionless mute for several seconds, then tests the point of his pike with a thick thumb. “I bet that bitch of yours has heard you whisper things when nobody else is listening.” He grins. “I could make you talk too if I tried hard enough, but not in that way. You just need a little”—he aims the hook on the end of his pike toward Kaliki's face and carefully takes hold of a large silver ring pierced through the mute's chin—“guidance.”

I expect to see some sort of resistance, or perhaps even a reaction in Kaliki's face, but without the muscular control to express himself, or the sensation of pain, he simply rises with the pike as if it is as normal as a handshake. The symbolism is not lost on me, however. The Assyrians—enemies of the Babylonians—are well known as brutal slavers. Their slaves' obedience is assured by the cruel way in which they lead them about by driving hooks through their jaws, and if they refuse to yield they are literally skinned alive. Whether the oppressors smile as they perform their callous acts I do not know, but Jabari is laughing as he drags Kaliki toward the door.

“If you do not leave him alone, I will tell Ninsuni about you.”

Jabari stops, unhooks the pike to release Kaliki, and for one moment of relief I assume my threat has carried some weight. But one side of Jabari's smile drops to create a sardonic leer as he turns to look at me, redirecting his weapon toward me.

“Ninsuni?” He laughs. “Why would I care anything about what she thinks? She's just a slave girl and I'm one of King Nebuchadnezzar's personal guard.”

It seems that my words are enough to serve my purpose anyway. His attention has been diverted from Kaliki and is now intently trained upon me as I move past him for the
stairwell. He does not know, however, that I have no intention
of going to the baths. I must escape. I cannot be part of this obscene festival in which the cruelties of Nature are exhibited for the incredulous pleasures of the public. I would suffer it without complaint, but I believe Keitus Vieta must still be looking for me, and exposed so fully outside, the risk of falling under his eye is too great. Not just to me but to everyone near. I do not know what he will do.

The guard's lazy steps echo behind me as I struggle to move my warped form up the spiral steps to the brightness aboveground. Eventually I reach the passage leading out to the courtyard, and he follows me all the way.

“Diabolis. Where are you going?” Jabari says.

I had hoped he would not tail me this far. “The baths.”

“And where are they?” His tone carries mockery. He knows well that nobody has taken me there yet, and I have no idea where they are. I hesitate, then continue on my way toward the temple exit. I expect him to block my way at any moment, and sure enough, the point of his pike sticks sharp into my back. The pressure is not hard enough to pierce the
new leather strapping that has been wound around me beneath my robes, but it is firm enough to ensure I stop moving.

“Back, demon,” he whispers. There is an unexpected tremor in his voice.

“You must let me go.”

There are several others in the courtyard, all of them statues as they stare at the abomination held at the point of a pike. Through the back of my hood, my lidless eyes strain to see the guard and I can feel the second face pressing against the cloth, the lolling tongue squirming. I can see him only faintly with those eyes, but Jabari's muscular frame is rigid, the arms ready to thrust if I make the wrong move, and I can only imagine what he is thinking as he stares. The constant drool from the open mouth and searching tongue is blotting saliva across the cloth and must be
making some of these new features more visible to him. Perhaps
he can see the wide, unblinking eyes fixating on him.

Unsettling though this sight must be, I cannot believe he would harm me. Surely he will fall out of favor with the royal house if one of the Blessed Ones is harmed. But per
haps Jabari doesn't care. Fear does strange things to a person.

I am about to yield when I see a new shape shifting behind us. I twist my head to get a better look, and there is Kaliki, standing tall behind the surprised guard. One of his heavily ringed hands presses hard against Jabari's mouth
and nose to prevent him from shouting out. There are several
gasps from the onlookers as a brief struggle ends as quickly as it starts. Kaliki's free hand holds a finger-length silver needle—which I assume was one of his many piercings—between index finger and thumb. He maintains eye contact with me, and without hesitation or expression, he injects the sharp metal into the guard's temple, sliding it neatly and slowly, and makes the final push with his thumb.

There is very little blood, and all Jabari does is make a pathetic squeak as he spasms into death. Kaliki allows the body to slump heavily to the ground, stepping back out of its way. He crouches down, picks some of the guard's skin away with his sharp fingernails to access the needle, carefully slides it back out from the guard's head, then returns it to a fold of skin on the back of his hand.

Several onlookers have already run for help while others still stare in disbelief, but with his expressionless face, I cannot tell if Kaliki cares or not. I stand in shock, and he
waves me away, pointing to the exit. But as I turn to leave, I can already feel the effects of the guard's death on my hungry cells.

S
creams reverberate against the high walls of the sandy streets as I stagger out of the temple. Each shuffling step sends ripples of change through my muscles and bones, and the world is blurred like I'm looking through a greasy window. The pain is increasing too. Great waves of shock as each of my nerve endings burst and then reform dendrites in preparation for new limbs or organs. Fearful city-goers, who were bustling about their daily chores, make a wide path for me as if my condition must be a contagious disease. Some stare in horror, others cry out in terror, but none of them help me as I scream from both of my mouths.

My shuffling turns into a stumbling, faltering gait as I weave through the streets. The new appendages branching from my legs have adapted to sprout new ball-and-socket joints that my muscles instinctively know how to use, and somehow I gather speed. I almost tumble now into a wide orchard of date-palm trees, scuttling like a human-crab hybrid to find a secluded spot where I can finish this latest metamorphosis away from accusing eyes.

But there is no hiding place out here. No shadows, dark doorways, or secretive alleys in which to conceal myself, and even if there were, I could not remain hidden for long. My presence has created near hysteria among the populace, and defeated by agony and disorientation, all I can do is collapse in a heap of anarchic fleshy chaos in the dirt, struggling for breath as my efforts take their toll. A whispering crowd gathers to observe me from a safe distance as the orchard workers run from their work, and still none of them have found the courage to help me. I must be a terrifying sight.

With my convulsions comes a tearing sound at my chest. The leather straps split and fray, yielding to a disgusting fleshy stump the size of a knee, bullying its way through my robes as if straining for air. Through new wiry black hair on the stump's surface, a cluster of angry red orifices pop open like the head of a flower puffing out a spray of seeds, and a rush of warm air fills my lungs as this new organ breathes in extra air for me.

“Let us through!” A path is forced through the crowd as Ninsuni—flanked by three guards—rushes forward.

“Diabolis!” It is not quite a scream, but her cry is urgent and alarmed. “Oh, Diabolis!”

I want to tell her to leave me, to not look upon me, for I must be the most hideous thing that draws breath, but she is unperturbed, coming close even as the guards hold back. Bubbling froth leaks from the side of my head, and even though I sense it is the last stage of this latest change, I can no longer hear her voice as she speaks. The liquid fills my
ears and runs into my eyes. The world is swimming around me.

I am dimly aware of the guards as they struggle to lift me. Their grip is firm but not aggressive, and though I cannot make out Ninsuni's words, I can hear the tenderness in her tone. The crowd disperses as more guards arrive to bring order, but my wish for privacy is not granted. I am carried away from the orchard, through the disturbed onlookers, and brought before a new crowd as they take me back into the city streets. Still my senses are in disarray, but I am lucid enough to recognize that this is the traveling festival of which I was expected to be part, and the manner of the crowd here is far different from the one in the orchard. These people have already been whipped into a religious frenzy by the excitement of the parade and the curiosities the absent king has put on display.

The pain of my transformation is fading now, and Ninsuni
has me placed into a wide cushioned chariot carried on poles by more guards. It is just big enough to contain my bizarre frame, and the surprised grunts from the bearers encourage more servants to help take the weight. The shrill fluting of reed instruments and the jingle-rattle of tambourines fill the air, almost loud enough to drown out one of the priestesses as she shouts words of worship, celebrating the wondrous diversity that their god Marduk has bestowed upon the world. If I were not so troubled by the situation, I would enjoy marveling at how fickle human nature is; at one moment I am viewed with derision and horror, but now, with the right influence, I am viewed with wonder and fascination instead. It must be true to say that I am disgusting to any eye, but the attitude of each owner seems as capricious as the cells within my own body.

The parade followers throw freshly picked flowers at me, covering my lap, and some of them even try to reach out for a touch of my clothes. But I am not the only focus of attention as the festival traverses the city streets. The adula
tion of Marduk is the primary goal, and to encourage this, the temple god, brightly encrusted with gold and other precious
metals, is wheeled along on a wide plinth and flaunted in all its glory as the centerpiece of the parade. Singing servants surround it, offering out morsels of specially prepared food to eager worshippers, and temple treasures are even given to a few random fortunates—likely one of the reasons why the festival is always so popular.

Aiding the celebration from their position on a raised float, the Blessed Ones are a critical part of the festival. Moss dances to the music, plainly excited beyond his capacity to contain himself, pouncing up and down like a monkey and whining in tone-deaf exhilaration, much to the consternation of the float bearers. I am amazed at the dexterity his ailment allows; the rootlike tumors and bushy green growths are numerous.

Standing in calm contrast behind him, Phalana is clad in translucent pale blue strips of linen, revealing enough of her physique to demonstrate the sexless nature of her body. On a civilian this adornment would be shunned, but as one of the Blessed Ones, she is a curiosity—a trinket of Marduk to be treated with awe and respect. Her lover, Kaliki, is notably absent, and her expression tells me that she is worried for him.

Nitocris wears her usual scowl and a black satin dress probably designed for a child. She too is seated in a cushioned chariot and does not look comfortable. She glances at me and frowns momentarily in either disgust or surprise, then observes in her hand the piece of cured meat she was about to eat, as if it might be a chunk that had fallen from my body, and tosses it into the crowd.

I want so desperately for this to be over. My instinct to survive is as powerful as it ever was, but there is a yearning ache in my soul, even worse than the agonies of my body, and I wish I could put an end to it all. I gaze out into the crowd and wish I could somehow capture some of their zeal and euphoria, just a little to ease my pain, but it seems I am
only capable of absorbing death and translating it into further
grotesque insults to an already tainted form.