The Maggots and Dead Fish

The crate should have arrived by now. The Old Man had scratched meticulous grooves into the stones of the lighthouse, tracking the sunsets, and it had been at least eight days since it should have arrived.

He tried not to think about it.

He toed sharp black pebbles as he sat on the rock facing the sea. The wind whipped through the dark, gnarled trees, biting his exposed cheeks.

Vicious tides crept up the rocky beach. Though they mellowed by the time they reached him, filtering through the rocky beach, the cold still bit, numbing the soles of his feet through his worn green galoshes. It almost hurt. In fact, he could almost hear the water hissing. Heaps of dead fish lined the bank, pale and belly-up, their mouths gaping.

There was an awful amount of them, he thought. He didn’t remember there being that many a few months ago. Then again, he didn’t remember anything about a few months ago.

The island was so loud, yet the silence was stifling. There was the howl of the wind and the water thrashing. But as he sat, alone, he felt that cold fingers were reaching around his heart and squeezing. In that moment, he could think of nothing he wanted, yet he missed something vital. His breath became shallow, and his hands shook. Just the cold.

With a jolt, he stood, ignoring the indignant crackling of his joints. Thick, milky mist had descended. He could barely see his hand before his face, let alone the ground in front of him. He spun around, trying to find landmarks, a twisted tree or lopsided boulder. It was easy to lose one’s way on the island, and steep drops marred the shores.

In the distance, a dark silhouette appeared. Fuzzy, out of focus. As it advanced, the Old Man could almost hear whispers, feel their cold breath nipping his earlobes.

What were they saying?

He strained, trying to lean closer to the source, trying to make out what she was saying.

Her. He knew her. He had heard this before, he remembered. Small, soft hands and worn green ribbon.

She was crying.

Why was she crying?

 Someone raked their fingernails across his face, and he recoiled, gasping.

The whispers were gone.

Who had whispered? Hands and ribbon? He shook his head and took a sharp breath, holding it deep in his lungs, ignoring the tremors in his hands.

He jumped as a man stepped out of the mist. He was tall, taller than the Old Man, with long limbs protruding from his balloon-like torso. His neck drooped in slick grey-tinged folds, and his oily black hair was slicked back. Small beads of sweat crept down his temples, even in cold. He wore a dark grey pinstriped suit that bulged at his swollen midsection and small, dark glasses that obscured his eyes. His gloved hand rested on a shiny silver walking stick. The Old man thought he looked rather like a pelican, crawled from an oil slick.

“The Friar is dead.” The man announced in a strangled, raspy voice.

The Old Man stared at him.

The Pelican Man doubled over, sputtering and coughing. At once, he rose to his full stature, and looking down at the Old Man, announced once again:

“The Friar is dead.”

***

The Old Man laid in bed, smothered in thin, scratchy blankets. The darkness descended at once every night. The lamp at the top of his tower produced a single sharp beam of light guiding any ships foolish enough to venture near the island, but the night pushed in at the edges. He had already trimmed the wick at poured enough oil to last till dawn. As the hour advanced, the darkness thickened, viscous like honey and dark as India ink. It oozed into eyes and throats, choking solitary stragglers in complete disorientation. The Old Man had learned years ago not to venture out after dark. Only monsters sought refuge in the shadows.

He rolled onto his side. His stomach was empty, and it twisted. He had no food left, and no more than a quarter pouch of clean water.

His fingers twitched, and he clenched his hands into whitening balls, short-nipped fingernails leaving pink crescents in his palms. He shouldn’t get out of bed. He rolled over and sighed again.

He heaved himself to his feet.

Stumbling down the stairs in the dark, something brushed against his leg. He froze.

Every breath rattled in and out of his lungs.

He jumped as it slithered past again, losing his footing. Panicked, he grasped at the walls, fingers running over hand-scratched grooves. He landed seated on the stairs, panting. Shaking, he grasped his head in his hands. The walls pressed in on him, the memories returning, each torturous day spent trapped on this accursed island, crushing. How long had he been here, toiling alone? The frantic marks on the walls seemed never-ending, a maze of feral desperation, like a trapped lion would rake at its cage till it died, frail and thin, a bag of bones. Had he even been keeping track? He didn’t remember.

With a meow, a ragged creature eased its way into his lap. The Old Man stroked the cat’s wiry back, shocked. How had he forgotten about Harrington? Of course, it was his cat brushing against his legs in the dark. Harrington, who had lived with him since the beginning. His sole companion.

His stomach twisted again, this time he wasn’t sure if it was hunger or unease.

He scooped up Harrington, holding him against his chest as he mustered himself forward and out the heavy wooden door.

The Old Man wandered the island. He knew it was dangerous, but he no longer cared. Sock-clad feet dragged over the sharp black pebbles, rustling. Gnarled, dead roots formed subterranean veins, and the silhouettes of their projections loomed in the dark. The Old Man couldn’t see, but if the moon was brighter, his vision would have been blurred, cloudy and damp. He was lost in a maze, stumbling blind and naïve as an infant in the woods.

He found himself on the southern cliffs. The land jutted out over jagged boulders and the hungry sea. Rough brush grass scratched at the Old Man’s legs, clinging to his threadbare nightshirt. The wind ruffled his hair, grown thin and white, longer than he used to keep it, as he drifted, trancelike, towards the edge. He wobbled, squeezing his eyes shut and Harrington wiggled against him. When he opened his eyes, his breath hitched. Knees sputtering, he eased down, hands digging into the damp, gritty soil, and lowered himself, to the damp ground. He felt the solid earth beneath him, unwavering. The Old Man shivered, maybe from the cold. The sun was beginning to rise, diluting the night enough to make out the stars. Bracing himself, he peered over the edge. In the oppressive dark he couldn’t make out the dizzying height, let alone—

With a sharp gasp, he scrambled back from the edge. Could it be? No. There was nothing there. He couldn’t have seen a woman’s body, sprawled at odd angles across the toothlike stones. It was too far and too dark.

He snuck a glance, just to be sure. Nothing.

He remembered her, the woman; the apples of her cheeks red with excitement as she whirled around. She weaved through knots of dancers, stars gleaming in her eyes. He had watched her, swooping like a songbird, doubled over laughing, until she was next to him, tugging his hand, and then they were dancing. Her, laughing at his reluctance, him, speechless, bathing in her vibrant aura, and she looked at him, and she saw him, and they stopped for a minute, and nobody else mattered. But then she turned, calling someone else’s name, and she didn’t look back. He stood alone, dazed, surrounded by jovial chatter, and jostled by the enthusiastic gyration of strangers.

He emerged from his reverie at the Island’s sole beach, cruel and rocky, collapsing onto his rock facing the sea. The sun was almost peeking over the horizon, and in the East, the sky was bathed bloodred.

Harrington hissed and dug nails into the Old Man’s sinewy sun-roughened forearms, remnants of a bygone time. He released his death grip on the old cat, surprised it had been tolerated for so long. In fact, he didn’t remember ever cradling Harrington before.

His body shook and his abdomen was wracked with sharp, hungry pangs. He grasped at his empty belly. He couldn’t go on like this. It had been too long without food. There was nothing to eat on the island, nothing alive except himself and Harrington. He couldn’t drink the water; it was black and sizzled, angry. Even the fish in it were dead.

He stood and walked towards the shore. The sun was rising higher, and the water glinted a harsh copper. It soaked his toes, up to his ankles, his knees. He felt her hands around his neck, holding on.

“Papa!”

He turned. Her voice was high and clear. She bounced in the waves, fiery red hair whipping in the wind.

The Old Man’s eyes welled up, stinging. His ears buzzed as he stumbled towards her, arms outstretched. Without another thought, he was running, splashing in all directions.

The little girl waded deeper in the water, now her chin bobbed just above, her neck craned back. Joyous shrieks turned to screams and her curls caught on the surface of the water, pulling her down.

“Leila!” He screamed. He couldn’t reach her

“Leila Leila, Leila!” He cried and an animalistic, guttural scream escaped his throat.

Red. He remembered the red. It was everywhere, all over his hands, and it wouldn’t leave, he couldn’t scrub it off. He was soaked in copper. Guilt and desperation mingling, flowing through his fingers.

He was soaked, his nightshirt sticking to his skin. Who was that little girl? What was her name? He knew it. He could almost remember.

Leila.

How could he have forgotten. He smashed a fist against his head. How could he have forgotten? He repeated it, tasting salt on his tongue. His baby, her eyes full of fear and devotion. He had just wanted to save her. To save her from the pain he knew awaited, salivating at the tasty morsel that was a defenseless child.

A splitting pain erupted in his skull.

There was a woman.

Her hands were callused, slim fingers tracing lazy circles across his shoulders.

Her hands were so cold. Cold and gray and still. He cradled them, heart empty.

She danced in the mornings. Jumping on top of him, scattering kisses across his face as hot sunbursts pierced through the windows. Waltzing through the kitchen, clattering pots and pans, her laughter like a rushing stream.

The world was dark. He couldn’t stand, he couldn’t move. Her body was broken below, bent at disconcerting angles, a mess of scattered red and white. He vomited, sick at the sight of her. It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t be her. could she do this when she was so full of life? How could she do this to him? To Leila?

But she hadn’t been full of life. He remembered the days. Scared to leave, peering over her shoulders. She wouldn’t speak.

He burbled as water washed into his mouth, bitter, and he choked. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see. All he remembered was what he had lost, and he couldn’t—

He couldn’t go on.

Thrashing, he realized he had swum far from shore, and now, at the mercy of the waves, cold, cold fingers twirled around him, pulling him under. He struggled to stay afloat; the cold weakening his limbs. A monstrous wave thrashed, forcing him under the surface, bubbles tickling his beard and water roaring in his ears. He heard her whispers, sweet nothings in the dead of night, a little giggle from a bundle on his chest, cries, cries of an all-consuming emptiness. Gasping, he reemerged, and illuminated by the rising sun, he saw a ship.

It gleamed in the morning light, reborn as the sun burnt away the fog of night. He mustered his stiff limbs forward and fought through the current. Battered by the waves, he felt her callused hands twine in his, leading him into the light, the warmth of the sun. He could no longer think, all he knew was the need to reach that ship. He had no other chance.

At last, it loomed above him, a monster of dented aluminum, roaring and spitting. With a kick, he grabbed a rope looped above the portholes and pulled himself up, bursting from the depths, weathered body gleaming. The ropes ripped his hands bloody. His whitened fingers gripped any small groove in the metal until he clambered onto the deck, dripping wet, and shaking like a scorned dog.

As he stood, tall and alone, he looked back at the island, at his lighthouse perched atop the onyx cliffs and on that rocky beach he could just make out a fiery orange cat, settled on a rock, calmly gazing out at the churning sea.

***

The Old Man was trapped in a crate, his breath came in short, panicked gasps. Well, he supposed he wasn’t trapped. He had climbed into it on his own accord. He couldn’t have remained wandering the deck, splashing in puddles. Someone was bound to emerge from the lower decks, whether to check the knots of the ropes holding down the wooden crates, or just for a breath of cold, salty air.

The wooden crates had piqued his interest. The rotted wood was stamped with big red letters; squiggles he could never understand, and a strange, twisted symbol crowned by a bird. They looked identical to the one he had been awaiting on his beach not eight hours ago. Hundreds and hundreds of them, stacked in haphazard towers, forming a near maze. He had wandered about until he found one whose rusty nails were slightly looser and pried it open with his bloodied fingers.

His gut twisted at the sight inside. Pale, wriggling maggots squirmed over remnants of dusty bread and the squishy nylon water packs. Cringing, he scooped them up, handful by handful and tossed them overboard. Finally, he stepped into the crate and closed the lid over his head, retching at explosions of the remaining critters under his soaked socks.

The Old Man had stripped off his rank socks shortly thereafter. The cold had been too much to bear. His entire body shook violently within the crate, and he was surprised it hadn’t burst apart against his cramped frame.

His mind drifted back to the Pelican Man on the island.

He had said something about a friar. The Old Man hadn’t the slightest idea of what he meant.

“The Friar is dead”

“Congratulations. The Friar has granted you asylum. You are one of many he has saved.”

Watery edges of weak, trembling lips shook with the proclamation. Yet, they held so much power. His entire life, at the feet of one spiteful man. The Friar, Saint Rafael.

The Friar, although ultimately one, was in truth, a spider in a web of men. This, the Old Man knew. He wrapped his victims in shining threads of half-truths, promises of riches and safety, warmth, and food, before sucking out their marrow, leaving naught but shells, forced to his bidding. The death of The Friar must mean the collapse of the entire network, endless connections extending far beyond the inner papacy suddenly snapped.

The House of Rafael, a web of lies, ruled by the ants that were the priests and their queen, the almighty Saint. Nobody knew if Rafael himself still lived, or even if he had existed. All that mattered was the name and the power it held.

He remembered its symbol. An eagle perched atop a twining bush of thistle. The exact meaning had been lost to time, but the thistle represented some form of penance while the eagle was the watcher.

He remembered the grotesque rolls of fatty skin, how they pooled and quivered with each spitting word, as he stood below, shaking, his ribcage inverting from weeks spent sniveling for crumbs. How they walked him, weak and broken, into the darkness once again. Where he belonged.

Someone yowled, jolting the Old Man back to the sopping, cramped cold of the crate.

“The fuck’re you doin?”

“Oh, just you know, relishing the salt of life” replied a gruff, mocking voice.

They burst out laughing.

“Ay, that’s a good one. The salt of life” exclaimed a softer voice. Not smooth, but gentler, as if meant for a life of afternoon strolls in the park before reality’s perversion.

“God, how much longer on this damn ship? I swear my legs are turnin to jelly.”

“About…. Emmm…. Fifteen hours ish”

Through the cracks, he could make out one of them was a woman. Her face was weather worn, her shorn hair a wispy white. She stood tall, as tall as she could at her impressively short stature.

Her soft voice quieted. “What if we just ran, Jo? What if we just turned this ship and sailed away, somewhere he’d never find us?”

“Oh yeah, he’d never find us, blasted to bits and scattered in the sea.”

“That’s not true. They just tell us that to scare us. We’re in control. He couldn’t do nothin without us.”

“You wanna test it? Go. Go turn the wheel and see what happens. You’ll never see The Friar again, but you’ll won’t see your Livvy either. Even if it doesn’t kill us, you know he’ll find something worse.”

They were both women, he realized. One was shorter and stocky, the other, Jo, taller. They were both built like mules, he couldn’t describe them any other way. Their entire bodies were nothing but muscle, popping through their thin, sunned skin. Through the cracks between the planks, he saw Jo stare hard into the other woman’s eyes.

“What. What’s he gonna do?” The short woman demanded.

“You know exactly what he’ll fucking do”

The tall one, Jo, turned back towards the water.

The shorter woman spun on her heel and stomped away. The Old Man couldn’t see her face.

Jo slumped as the she left, releasing a deep, shuddering sigh.

“Stupid bitch” she remarked, dripping disdain. She hunched over the rickety railing, body wracked by a coughing fit.

The Old Man sat in his box. He was so cold and starved, his eyes were leaden and the effort of keeping them open took all his energy. His skin was red, raised in welts from the mucky water. Drifting in and out of dreams, his lungs shuddered with each breath as the cold pervaded his bones. He could hear thunder gathering in the sky rumbling long and low.

Her hands were gray, wrinkled as if part of her had evaporated, almost overnight. Her elbows protruded through creped, loose skin. Sunken eyes, rimmed red, she hardly spoke. She sat by the window, bundled in layers of rough woven blankets, lips sealed. She looked over her shoulder, as if afraid of something, someone. He found her whispering to herself.

“Lysander, Lysander” she would shudder.

At first, he was worried. He tried to make her speak, to tell him what was wrong. But without her help, the money grew thin, as did his patience. They had a life, they had needs, she was selfish not to get up.

It wasn’t really a surprise when he found her. He was disgusted, grief-stricken, but not shocked.

He had noticed them following him. Two burly men. They wore new clothes every day. Hats and scarves to hide their faces, but always thick black coats, almost blending in with the crushing swarms of workers. He knew who they were. He knew what they wanted. The threat was clear, though unspoken. He had heard what the Friar did to those who didn’t pay him, and he was terrified.

So he had paid them, handed over every last bill. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Every passing day, the price rose, and every passing day, they got hungrier, and little Leila’s ribs protruded further.

He thought of seeking a loan from a different house, Arvid or Gabriel or Prescott, anything to save them, but he was out of options. He was desperate. There was nothing else he could do.

He had sought refuge in the darkness. Where no one could see him, this shell of a man. This monster. He couldn’t tell what coated his body anymore, sweat, blood, or dew. He didn’t know where he was. Who he was. He only knew the men cloaked in dusty robes, pale faces hidden, hushed voices tittering when they thought he couldn’t hear. Their puny hands held, gently folded, over their stomachs, yet the power they held was excruciating. His bruises pulsed at every skitter of their insipid fingers.

He was so cold.

He watched her twirl in the golden light, the little girl. Swathed in airy white linen, she bounded along the alley, as if no worldly force could hold her down.

Tears welled up in her eyes.

She giggled and grabbed his hand, pulling him along, the worn green ribbon tucked into her hair swinging.

Her bottom lip trembled as she looked up at him.

Her tiny hand clenched his index finger. She beamed up at him, flashing the gaps where baby teeth used to be.

She shook in his arms. He could feel her every fluttering heartbeat against his chest.

“Leila, baby, look at me.

Look in my eyes.”

She raised her shaking head, and he gazed into her brimming brown eyes.

“I love you.”

He looked up, eyes buzzing at the sudden burst of light. A woman stood above him, mouth gaping, the lid of the crate clenched in her hand.

“Bloody hell” she managed.

His eyes widened as he recognized the short, stocky woman from earlier. For a moment, they stared at each other in dumb horror.

He shook his head slowly at her, trembling, eyes pleading.

She blinked.

Broke eye contact and took a deep breath.

“Dunno what it was” She hollered back at Jo.

She gingerly placed the lid back over the crate, then bent down and whispered.

“Let’s both hope we never see each other again. Specially not in this damned place.”

He felt the ship dock, lurching wildly, heard the buzz of beaten-down people working years of their lives away. With a grunt, he slid the lid off the crate and stood. Legs wobbling, he stepped out, bare feet numb against the rough metal deck, pitter-pattering at the fall of fat raindrops.

As he half-crept, half-stumbled around the stacks of crates, the screams started. He slid to the ground, peering out at the scene. The short woman, he didn’t even know her name, was being dragged away by two burly men while Jo stood, watching. She was utterly unmoving, save for the twitching of her left hand, fingers curling and uncurling sporadically.

He knew he wouldn´t see her again. Not that same woman who saved his life. Though, according to the Man, The Friar was dead, so who knew what would befall her.

Within fifteen minutes, the deck was flooded with workers, hauling the crates onto dollies, and wheeling them onto the bustling dock. Many wore denim coveralls, still more wore grease-smeared trousers and old shirts. One couldn’t tell who they were or where they came from. They were nothing but rats, running in wheels that would never halt, always trying to catch up, just to stay alive. They had all seen the bloodless heaps in the alleys. The Old Man shuffled along with them, sticking out in nothing but his soggy nightshirt. The dust and silt turned to mud in the downpour, coating his feet, sinking into every cuticle. The kind of grime you could never wash away.

He dove deeper into the congested streets of the working districts, crammed with hopeless dull-eyed souls, pausing to glance at flyers pasted up on a wall. The faded ink ran in the rain, but the Old Man could make out people, bathed in bloodred, surrendering to the gleaming sun above. A motto was emblazoned across the image in harsh red lettering, a message the Old Man couldn’t understand. He remembered the image, surrender. It was burned into his mind, the scars on his knees, wrists, across his shoulders.

The Old Man was lucid with exhaustion and hunger, his body giving out. He knew it was dangerous to stick out like he did, but he had no idea where he was. Something about the streets was familiar, he almost remembered the way home. But he had no home. No food, no money, and nowhere to go.

The Old Man felt eyes on his back. He spied a figure, face hidden in an upturned collar, a thick wool coat. He wasn’t from this area, nobody here had wool like that, wool without holes. Not after the mania of weeks without food, tearing at anything in the house, stuffing their wailing mouths with strips of cotton, anything to stop the pain. There was a man following him. The Old Man took a sharp turn, and his pursuer was gone. Maybe he had imagined it. Yet still, he felt the weight of someone´s presence. 

His feet left deep prints on the grime-packed cobbled streets, slowly eroding in the rain. Within minutes, any sign that he had passed was gone, washed into the sewers. It was as if he was an apparition, no proof that he existed. Molded scraps were thrown to the curb and the plumbing was too shallow to prevent the stench of excrement from wafting through the gutters, at least in the slums. The air was rancid with thick smog, coughed up by the tightly packed factories and shipyards. The only way to stave off the cold was a coal stove, far too expensive for most, and coal was precious. Any other energy was coveted by the residents of the Southern side, where the houses spanned entire city blocks and the streets shone white.

He was almost sure someone was tailing him. There he was! With his upturned collar. No, that man was in a gray coat, the first man had been wearing black. Black, right? Yes. It was black. Without a doubt.

The Old Man opened his eyes to find himself before a looming building. Towers sliced skywards, and harsh arches punctuated the briarwood doors. To spot the tips of the spires, he had to crane his neck all the way. The Old Man practically threw himself up the crumbling steps and through the heavy brass-gilded doors, branded with and eagle perched on a twisted bush.

He tromped over the scratched porcelain tiles, leaving a trail of filthy water behind him, and collapsed in a heap on a pew. He wasn’t safe, but the cathedral was open to the public, although patrolled by musty-cloaked priests. A woman and her daughter knelt in a pew in front of him. The little girl turned and stared at him with huge dull eyes. The skin on her face was sunken and the light from the dust-coated windows cast her a shade of gray.

He stared up at the altar, a pool of salty water. According to legend, gathered by Erland the Prosperous upon discovering the first route to Antica. Back before the sea was black with who knew what and the air was black and thick with smog and all the birds had died when their feathers were coated black with soot and they fell from the skies, too heavy to stay airborne.

The Old Man heard footsteps approaching. Slow, and heavy, they stopped right behind him. He curled into a pathetic, quivering little ball and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Harald Larsen, rise.”

The Old Man froze. He hadn’t heard that name in years, perhaps decades.

“Harald Larsen, rise. Gabriel has summoned you.”

***

It had rained on his wedding day. In fact, you could hardly call it just rain. It was as if the sky had opened and released whole sheets of water, punishing any who walked without an umbrella.

Amira was bundled in holey sweaters, crushing her sunny yellow gown. She called it a gown, but he wasn’t sure the plain, stiff cotton qualified. Pure, clean cotton was a luxury. Either way, it was perfect. She was perfect. Her laughter bounced off the vaulted ceilings, echoing in the vast, empty cathedral as they stumbled up to the altar.

They were greeted by the glare of a severe old man, a priest, adorned in dusty brown robes. He looked antique, an object one would leave in an attic, collecting dust. Harald was almost sure there were cobwebs in the man’s deep wrinkles.

A few insignificant words later, and they rushed out of the musty building, man, and wife, soaked and elated together in the downpour. In his hand, he could feel her calluses, reminders of long days hauling on the docks. None of that mattered now. Not that the streets they ran down were mucky and soulless, not that their home was drafty, or they had nothing but moth-eaten bread in the cupboard. No, now was the time for unbridled life. In her hazel eyes, he saw a future. Warmth, and love.

The Old Man staggered down the polished marble halls, ahead of the Man in the Coat. The corridor was peppered with ornate, carved doorways, all closed. Neither spoke, but the delicate understanding was clear: the Old Man was walking a tightrope, strung over a pit of hungry snakes. Their footsteps echoed, bouncing off the cold alabaster, the Man in the Coat’s thick boots thumping and the Old Man’s bare feet slapping.

“Left.”

The Old Man turned left to find a single open door. They entered a gleaming white room. The Old Man squinted. It was almost too bright. The walls were luminous, solid white stone and emitted a warm diffused light. Gilded chandeliers dripped with crystals, dangling from the soaring arched ceilings. One wall was lined with three ivory cushioned chairs, plush and uncreased. The Man in the Coat motioned the Old Man into one of the chairs, then left, shutting the door they had entered through. It sank into the wall with a sigh, leaving only a faint outline.

Everything was made of the same gleaming stone, rendering the Old Man nearly blind. Ahead of him, the Old Man could just make out a large desk. On it lay a golden name tent: LYSANDER, three long pens forming three perfect lines and a chunky object he had never seen before.

The opulence of the room was almost gluttonous. The grime coating his clammy skin was glaring, obvious in this pristine world. Who could exist here except angels?

Minutes passed.

As the Old Man sat in his chair, his shivering subsided. The room was a refuge. In the soft silence he could almost hear the chirping of birds and the warmth of the sun on his skin. He could almost sleep. His eyelids were leaden, drifting closed, soothing his bloodshot eyes.

A shrill ringing jolted him awake. It was ear-piercing, even more so as it bounced off the walls, piercing his skull. He pressed his frail hands over his ears, but still, it would not end. Grunting and tumbling, he tried to find an escape, but the door he had entered from was gone, disappeared into a flawless, smooth wall.

Through the ruckus, he heard a brisk click-clacking noise and looked up to find a woman, rather like a preying mantis, slender and loping, leaning over the desk. Her skin was smooth and milky, eyelashes long and clear. Undisturbed, she picked the chunky object off the desk, and the ringing ceased.

“Allo” She drawled into it. Her voice was luxurious, like sweetened butter. Her feet were crammed into shiny bloodred stilettos, and a form-fitting cream dress squeezed her shapely torso, shimmering in an artificial, chemical manner. Her hair was pulled back and pinned so high on her head it seemed she couldn’t move her forehead and her pencil-thin lips were lacquered to match her glossy shoes. A small gold placard pinned to her straining chest proclaimed: DELIAH.

“mhmm” She affirmed into the object, tugging down the hem of her dress. She looked unstable, legs long and spindly, her neck the circumference of the Old Man’s wrist.

“Yes, of course” She agreed, looking around, as if searching for something.  

With a hasty finality, she smacked the object back onto the desk. She peered down at the Old Man, filthy, scrunched on the floor, with distaste.

“In there.” She pointed a single slender, claw-like finger towards an outline on the wall. With that, she left, hopping away in her impossibly high heels.

Frozen, the Old Man stared at the outline on the wall, behind the desk. He crawled over to it, still too shaken to stand, and traced a single grime-caked finger over the it. It was the narrowest groove, no thicker than a fingernail and certainly no deeper. He couldn’t imagine there was a way to get through.

He sighed, resigned, and slumped on the floor when his skin began to tingle, then sting. The stone had grown hot under him. He leapt to his feet, panting, and the heat dissipated. What was he supposed to do? Clearly someone was trying to lead him, like some sort of pawn. He slammed an open palm on the outlined door, hissing at the crack of his bird-like bones.

With a soft exhalation, the outline slid sideways, into the wall, revealing a new, even brighter room.  He stepped into the room, hesitating for a moment when the door squeezed shut again, narrowly avoiding his leg. It sunk into the wall, again leaving but an outline.

The Old Man perched on the edge of the chair in the brighter room. It was hard and sharp, as if constructed from bleached elbow bones. This room had an opening, out into a hall. The Old Man had nowhere to go, so he stayed in the chair. He sat before another imposing desk, a lush armchair settled behind it. A faceted glass decanter full of a cloudy liquid sat on a tray alongside two glasses. A ginormous spotless window looked out at the grey sky, sun illuminating the dark clouds. This entire building looked as though nobody had ever wandered the halls, the Old Man thought. Nobody had ever sat at the desks; nobody had ever drunk from the glasses. He relaxed a little, utterly alone. Who would build a place like this? Where? Certainly not in his world, perpetually dusty. Homey, but dusty.

 Where would a place like this exist?

Where was he? The Old Man looked around, eyes fresh. He couldn’t recall where he was. How he had gotten here. He had been sitting in the cathedral, and then he was in that room, the waiting room, and now he was here, this room which looked like a glass model of a study. This maze. Where was he? Why was he here?

A soft melody began, tickling the Old Man’s ears, it danced like tomatoes in the summer, a rarity, popping against his palate and cascading over his tongue. He closed his eyes. It had been so long since he had heard music, he had almost forgotten the bliss.

He wanted to find it, and so, stood, and floated towards the music. His toes brushed the floor and he found himself in the hall outside the room, empty save for the drifting music. The corridor continued as far as the Old Man could see, his eyes squinting at the shine. Something scuffled behind him, and he whipped around. But the hall was as empty as before. With a screech, the music stopped, then started over again. Hairs on the Old Man’s arms stood up. He was vulnerable in nothing but the petal-like armor of his wet, stained nightshirt.

He heard an off kilter clicking, uneven. Then someone humming, along with the melody. The Old Man shrunk back into the room, stumbling through the doorway. He was seized with panic at the approach of this alien person. Shaking, he peered out into the corridor just as a man rounded the corner.

This Man wore a slim, tailored suit, ink black. It hugged his narrow shoulders and slender limbs. Not so slender that he looked fragile. He waltzed down the corridor, lurching and spinning, grazing the walls as he continued his mad solo. He threw his arms above his head, swirled his gleaming, long blonde hair, and bounced his feet, like a little boy drunk on bubbly.

The Old Man backed into his stiff chair just as the man rounded the final corner and emerged, red and heaving, in the doorway. He winked at the Old Man, a teasing twinkle in his icy blue eye, and plopped himself down in the armchair behind the desk, leaning forward as if reaching towards the Old Man.

“Well, well, well.” He exclaimed. “I neever expected to see you again Harald.” He drew out the word, like a child would stretch the rubberband of a slingshot. With a pop, he opened the decanter and poured the cloudy liquid into the glasses, splashing little puddles onto the gleaming desk. He pushed one towards the Old Man. “I’ve been trying to find you. The Friar did well, hiding you away. He had noo idea who you really were. To me, at least.”

The Old Man said nothing. The Man stared silently at him, a faint plastic smile stretching his pink lips. The Old Man didn’t know what there was to smile about.

“I expect you know who I am. Well, maybe not. You don’t seeem the most observant.” Again, he stretched out his words, relishing every second it took. He leaned back in his armchair, lacing his long fingers behind his head.

“I know, I know. A summon from Gabriel himself! What a surprise! But what could he want from me?” He propped his shined black shoes on the desk, unlaced his fingers. His words were assured, they flowed oily from his pearled teeth.

“You must have been so scared. Oh! Did I owe him money? Oh! Maybe my firstborn child!” He sing-songed, snickering, placing his feet back on the floor with a harsh clack. The Old Man felt something like anger bubbling up in his veins. Who was this man to make light of his life? Yet, the steely undertones of his speech held the Old Man in place. He shrank in his seat, knees and elbows pressed together.

Was this man-child The Gabriel? The one he heard stories about on the streets.? The one who skinned overdue debtors alive? He couldn’t imagine this shiny blonde slitting throats. The Old Man cracked open his chapped mouth, but the Man shushed him, wagging a single finger.

“No, no, no, I’m speaking. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Is this man The Gabriel?” The Old Man blinked, shocked.

“No. Indeed not.” He twisted his mouth into a grotesque frown. The Man shot forwards, leaning across the desk. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” He whispered. “There is no one man, Gabriel”

The Man gasped and rolled his eyes back in his head, throwing himself against the back of his chair so hard it wobbled, pantomiming shock. He jerked his gaze to the Old Man, noticing his detached stare, and the smirk fell from his face.

“I’ll get to the point then, shall I? Harald?” The Old Man cringed at the name, and the Man’s lips rose over sharpened canines.

“I know what you did.” The Old Man’s heart skittered like a strapped deer. How could he know?

The blood was everywhere, on his hands, on his coat, in his eyes.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID” Spittle flew from his lips. His eyes bugged out, sharp cheekbones jutting like plucked wings.

Her big brown eyes were glassy, still full of hot tears.

“You monster. You killer” He clambered over the table, knocking both glasses, they shattered on the floor spraying silky liquid against the window. His slender fingers reached for the Old Man’s throat. Head tilted, he pressed his hot breath to the Old Man’s wizened cheek.

Her frizzy red curls were matted with it, the ribbon wet and brown. She wasn’t shaking anymore, but he was.

“My love, my life. I almost had her.” He whispered, breath hot and rancid. “She was in the palm of my hand, nowhere left to go.” He clenched a fist, knuckles whitening.

The rusty knife slipped from his fingers as he cradled her little body against his.

“BUT YOU. YOU KILLED HER.” He shook with rage, face swollen, a vein in his forehead pulsing. The Old Man’s eyes swam with tears. He rocked back and forth, he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop.

“Amira was mine and you fucking killed her.”

His violent tremors slowed as the Old Man paused. Amira?

He remembered. He remembered her. His beautiful, vibrant, broken, shell-of-a-wife. Callused hands and bright, rosy cheeks. Morning kisses and dancing eyes.

Not her. I didn’t kill her he said. I didn’t kill her. But nothing came out. He gaped and choked, trying to find the sounds to form words. All he felt was a stub beating against the back of his mouth, a blunt stump, hacked and healed.

His throat was closing, no sound would come out, only hoarse wheezes and that wretched, hollow thumping. What was this Man saying? It couldn’t be true.

“All those years. I told her she could have it all. All of this!” He swept his hands wide, surveying the room, eyes wide and manic at the expanse of his own territory. “But she left. Cried oh so much and left.” He scoffed. “And yet, I almost had her.”

“You know, her mother was heartbroken? Stopped speaking. As if her soul had left with her daughter.” Through his panic, the Old Man found that rather ironic, albeit dark. Hadn’t Amira been the opposite.

“I don’t know how she did it. Leaving, I mean.” The man mused, settling on the table, rage dripping from his features as frost melting in the sun. His hair stuck up in all directions, irritated by his fingers, pulling at it in agitation. “Born and raised a Gabriel, yet she could live in such filth.”

Shaking, the Old Man looked down at his muddy, bloodstained nightshirt. The dark seawater had dripped into a small puddle around his chair, leaving him damp, but mud had caked up to his ankles. It flaked onto the pearly stone.

What did he mean? Born and raised a Gabriel? Amira had grown up in the iron district, her hands and hair stained black from the age of three. He was sure. That’s what she had told him.

They sat, the Old Man gasping and fumbling, the other man perfectly poised. A rap came at the doorway and in stepped the Pelican Man, cane click-clacking against the cold stone floor. His midsection seemed more swollen, ripe to bursting, than the last time the Old Man had seen him. Hours, days ago? The Pelican Man stifled a cough, swallowing it into a wrinkled yellow handkerchief. He crossed to the shiny blonde man who was sat on the desk, and handed him a rectangular slip of paper, eyes downcast. The Old Man trembled as he watched The Man read the note, then toss it aside. The Pelican Man scurried away cane clicking like a crab.

The Man placed his feet on either arm of the Old Man’s chair, forcing him to squeeze his broad shoulders to avoid touching the smooth pressed black slacks.

“Why? Why did you do it? Was it so easy to nudge her off that cliff? Did you tell yourself she slipped?” The Old Man glanced up at his stony eyes and smooth golden skin. He looked like a monument, carved from bloodstained ivory, pupils diamond inlay.

Below him, the desk’s surface was so polished, the Old Man could see his own reflection. Face smeared with dirt, marred with deep wrinkles and sunspots. His lips flaked and his eyes were cradled in hollow circles. He was not Harald.

He heard heavy footsteps clomping down the corridor, not just one pair, many. So many, he couldn’t count them. He knew he couldn’t take them. The Man, the Old Man thought his name must be Lysander, had trapped him. Old and weak, his bones were fragile, muscles long atrophied.

He had nowhere to go. He was blind and lost in this pristine maze. He looked around, wild, eyes settling on the windowed wall. The glass looked thin; he could imagine it burying deep in his skin. Who knew where it would lead? All he knew was where this man wanted him was a fate worse than death.

He rolled out of the stiff seat and ran, as fast as his macerated legs could take him, straight through the spotless glass. It shattered, shards flying in all directions, refracting the pearly light in bright white beams. Lysander watched, expressionless, standing in the puddle of dirty water as burly men in black nylon hazmat suits filed into the study.

***

His body released a sickening crack as he hit the roof of a building below. He lay, splayed out, his limbs at odd angles, leaking dark blood. It pooled in the indent his body had pressed on the aluminum roof. Nobody came. The grey workers continued their fruitless treks, doomed to endless debt, undisturbed by yet another life snuffed out.

The Old Man groaned. His entire body radiated with pain, like someone was sticking pins into his bones. He rolled over, belly up, his tender flesh smarting against the sharp metal shingles. His head was clouded with pain, but unanswered questions screamed, beating their fists against his skull.

At once, the crushing weight of guilt fell once again upon his chest, and the air was knocked from his lungs. It oozed like a virus through his veins, tingling his fingertips, then hands, then arms, and torso. He wanted to give in, surrender. To let his bones crumble and join them, but alas, he was still here, gazing up at a cruel gray sky.

And he heard the bustle of the streets below him. The children whimpering their starvation, fighting with the roaches for food scraps. The chatter of the flies, swarming in the sewers, overflowing in the streets. The workers’ worry, incessant whispering, anxious counting and recounting. Each wheezing breath a reminder of their own ticking clock. And the whispers in the dark alleys. Those with thick wool coats. The ones with heavy pockets, but heavier consciences, dealing in debt and blood.

“Psst.”

The Old Man turned his creaking neck, and tried to focus on a face, his vision doubled.

“Come with us” They whispered. Two faces, he realized. And at once, they slipped out of sight.

He scrambled to his knees and dizzily crawled after them, entranced. He had a strange feeling, as if something new was beginning. But he knew nothing of what was to come.