The Soul Continuum (13 page)

Cautiously, I make my way through the doorway, and my eyes adjust to the low, flickering light of candles inside alcoves cut into a series of stone-walled chambers. The low ceiling and smoggy air add to the atmosphere of claustrophobia, and with each step, body-shaped hints of movement tell me that my entrance is being watched: a hand snatched from a nearby wall, dilated eyes blinking once before disappearing into a man-sized nook, a child-sized figure shuffling backward into a dark corner on hands and knees. There is a clearing deeper inside where a raised oval of clay bricks marks off a pool of water at its center. It is slightly brighter there, and judging by the scratched tables and stools scattered around its circumference (probably castoffs from the forgotten world above their heads), it is clearly some kind of communal focal point, but nobody is yet willing to show
his face. Skins of wine hang from hooks, bowls of fruit overflow on the tables, and various salted meats lie on dull copper
trays next to them. Blankets, rugs, and mattresses in various states of wear are strewn here and there.

I edge closer to the pool so that I can make myself visible
to my new associates, and through instinct at what or whom I may find here, I pull the cloth away from my head to reveal my deformities. The first response is quick. A misshapen figure skulks out of an alcove to my right. Though he is still enveloped by shadow and not fully visible yet, I can see wild hair and tangled rootlike shapes outlining his skinny frame. His cautious movements suggest he wants to get a better look at me before revealing himself completely.

A stern female voice that sounds like a hand has been clasped around her throat comes from my left. “He claims he was never given a name, but we call him Moss. Physicians have examined him for many years but none of them understand his condition. They conclude that Marduk wishes him to remain this way as a testament to his desire that man should be at one with nature.”

Moss ventures out a little farther so that the light of the closest candelabra brings full disclosure, and it is obvious that he has been so named because of his unique skin affliction. He is swaddled in frayed scarlet robes that cover much of him, but the visible parts of his body are marred with dark green patches, some of which have grown to look like clumps of dirty grass or knotted tree roots. Even his face is blighted by the infestation. Dark eyes that would better suit a small and frightened rodent peep out from beneath a furrowed fungal brow, and I see that Moss is a withered man, possibly quite old: jittery and flinching, as if familiar with abuse. He maintains eye contact with me for less than a second before settling on a grubby mattress near the pool, as if my presence is now accepted without question. There he pulls out a small silver box from beneath the mattress and brings it close to his face, fingering it briefly before flicking the lid open. He pulls out a wriggling insect, possibly a locust, studies it for a moment, then twitches before quickly slipping it between his lips to crunch heartily upon it. He makes a satisfied squeak as he smacks his lips, then snaps the box shut, and after glancing at me once more, crunches himself into a tight ball within his red robes like a small dog curling up to go to sleep.

Another figure comes out of an alcove behind the pool to stand facing me at its edge. At first it appears he too has a skin infestation, but as he raises a glass of dark brew to acknowledge my presence, I hear the clinking of metal as his many piercings jangle against each other. He is covered in them. Every inch of his skin is punctured, stapled, and lanced with silver adornments between straps of leather fashioned as clothing. Even his bald head is layered with several strands of silver that would look like thinning hair from a distance. Hooks and fine-link chains dangle from
his jowls; jewels sparkle on his fingers. Expressionless, he opens his mouth to slowly stretch out a tongue that is covered
completely with tiny silver beads.

“And this is Kaliki, the oldest among the Blessed Ones,” the female voice continues. “He doesn't speak, but Kaliki celebrates the fact that he feels no pain by piercing himself with new jewelry every day. In some parts of his body the muscles do not work. None work in his face at all, so he never smiles or frowns. We have to read what we can from his eyes. When the others feel the pain of their afflictions, they look to Kaliki to calm themselves.”

Another figure joins Kaliki from the same alcove.

“Phalana came here with Kaliki; she speaks for him. In truth, though, Phalana is neither male nor female, but we find it easier to relate to Phalana as a she, since Kaliki and Phalana are very much in love.” I look to my left but still cannot see the person speaking. “Come and say hello,” the strangled voice says to Phalana.

Phalana is a woman of contrasts. With her head bowed in contrition and her shoulders hunched, her posture suggests shyness at first, but her nudity and the way she glides from Kaliki's side, tiptoeing around the edge of the pool to approach me with a confident pouting smile, says otherwise. Lean and graceful, Phalana stands directly in front of me, unafraid, oblivious to personal space. A mane of red hair gushes over her shoulders—striking against the milky skin of her featureless but muscular body. There are no sexual organs, just sleek white skin, yet her movements are sensual and flowing as she greets me by brushing my cheeks with the tips of her fingers. “Oh my,” she purrs with a deep voice, “you truly are the strangest of the strange. Welcome.”

As if jealous of the attention I am receiving, Kaliki comes to stand beside her. Heavy as he is with metal, I am surprised he does not make more noise when he moves. He crosses his arms, pressing his glass to his bottom lip before taking a long sip. His gaze stays with me as if he is studying me. With a slight upward tilt of his head, he offers Phalana a glance, then returns to the other side of the pool to claim a splash of green cushions scattered upon a dark rug.

“Kaliki likes you,” Phalana says. “But I would rather not spend the rest of our time here calling you
you
. What does you's mother call you?”

“I call myself Diabolis Evomere,” I tell her. “I have no mother.”

“That's a strange name. Which god are you aligned to?”

“I am aligned to no god.”

The skin on her pale forehead wrinkles. She has no eyebrows
to raise. “No god? Then how can your name mean anything?”

I hesitate, feeling the shame of my condition, then a deeper shame at the self-deprecation the meaning of my name would convey. I named myself using a language that has not even been spoken yet on this world, a race memory from the monks of Castor's World. Diabolis Evomere means “Devil's vomit.” There is something about the name that speaks to my suffering and origin, yet among these people, who seem to have accepted their afflictions and oddities, I suddenly feel that my shame is out of place.

“He will confess in his own time.” The owner of the female voice finally steps out of the dark, and behind her comes a nervous host of others, all with their own unique abnormalities. “I am Nitocris,” she says, “the eldest daughter of King Nebuchadnezzar, the voice of the Blessed Ones and—if you cross me—your personal angel of death.” She pauses to let the titles sink in. “Welcome to the Chambers of Veneration,” she says bitterly. “The royal house will see that you want for nothing except your freedom, but do not seek respect from me. You will never receive it.”

“Freedom is of no consequence to me,” I tell her, “and I could never be worthy of your respect, so I would never seek it.”

She huffs but does not reply. Aside from me, Nitocris has perhaps the most shocking appearance of all. It is obvious
she narrowly escaped a fiery death at some point in her past.
Her skin is a mosaic of charcoal-black flakes fused together
by angry pink veins of melted flesh. Sprouts of tightly curled brown hair cover her scalp in intermittent patches. Worse still, she is little bigger than a toddler, yet her neck manages to support a grossly bulbous head. With her black shawl clinging to her slight frame, and her wide, pale-green eyes, she reminds me of a large cat.

“Diabolis,” the others surrounding her seem to mock me. “Dee-ab-oh-lisssss.”

“Do you know why you have been brought here?” Nitocris asks.

“I assume we are an embarrassment to society and that we are being kept here for the emotional comfort of the public.”

My assumption causes Nitocris to choke, and it is only when the others behind her laugh that I realize she is doing the same.

“Sit down,” she says, directing me toward the pool. She selects a mattress, then drags another next to hers. She sits, and I sit too.

“It was my father's wish that our kind be gathered here,” Nitocris says. “When I was born the royal court saw my deformity as an evil omen, and without consulting any of the diviners, they threw me into the fire, hoping it would appease the gods.” Her eyes narrow as she stares into the pool, as if replaying the bitter memory afresh. “It was Father who rescued me from the flames, but like the others, he was afraid that people would think of my condition as a curse from Marduk—a sign that he had fallen out of favor with the gods.”

Nitocris snaps out of her memory and reaches for an apple in one of the bowls closest to us, then takes a large bite right into its core. She must have told this story many times, but her green eyes narrow again as she chews, and I can see by the moisture in them that she is fighting emotional pain. The apple is simply a device to distract herself from the tears.

Phalana speaks up for her instead, moving in to kneel down behind her and massage her neck. “King Nebuchadnezzar decided that the best way to distract everyone from his daughter's condition was to find others with even stranger problems than hers and celebrate them instead of persecuting them. That's why he loves his festivals so much.”

Nitocris stands again, slapping Phalana's hands away and spitting chewed apple into the pool. Her eyes are a little
wider and wilder than before, her choked voice much louder.
“Let us parade the freaks to the masses and be thankful we are not like them. Let us laugh and leer at the monsters and patronize them with our coins and offerings.”

Phalana crosses her arms and smiles at Nitocris as if this display is nothing new. “Now, now, sweetness, we wouldn't like to give Diabolis the wrong impression, would we? They do take good care of us, after all.”

“We're freaks. Nothing more,” Nitocris retorts.

Then a terrible thought comes to mind. “Do you think I will be displayed at this festival?”

“Why, of course you will,” Phalana says. “But don't be frightened. You will be treated like a king. The people will love you like an angel.”

“This is something I cannot allow,” I tell Phalana. “I cannot be revealed to the public. It is too dangerous.”

Phalana puckers her lips, widening her eyes as she looks down at the floor, as if my comment deserves nothing more than a facial acknowledgement of my naivety. Moss, who until this moment had snatched the occasional nervous glance at each of us as we spoke but had remained preoccupied with his silver insect box, now shoots a look at me with his tiny terrified eyes and laughs. It sounds like a slow drawn whine, not the sound of amusement.

“How is it dangerous?” Nitocris asks. Though still agitated, she seems to have calmed a little. At least for the moment.

“I am being hunted by someone. A very dangerous . . . man.”

“Hunted?” Nitocris looks surprised. “Why would anyone hunt you?”

“It is difficult to explain.”

“Well,” Phalana says, tracing a pattern in the dirt with a toe, “hunted or not, there is no safer place to be than the Temple of Marduk, literally under the care of the chief priest, and in the company of the king's daughter.”

I observe each of their faces as they anticipate my agreement, and eventually I nod. I do not try to explain further. For any of them to understand that Keitus Vieta has come from somewhere outside the known universe, that he is a warped gestalt consciousness formed from the totality of human death, and that I was the last surviving hybrid offspring of his misguided organic experiment, they would
have to know far more about the nature of the universe than most advanced cultures would struggle to come to terms with.

“I am tired,” I say. “Is there somewhere I can go to sleep?”

Nitocris nods behind me, her eyes showing me the way to go, and I head for my new home, hoping that I will be left alone. With sleep comes the indefinite slumber of my sentience, and I will be mostly unaware of anything until my next awakening.

“We will look after you,” Phalana calls after me with another pouting smile.

I want to believe her, but the mournful whine of Moss's laugh follows, as if he knows that I do not.

I
must have fallen asleep quickly after separating myself from the others. With my mentally impaired human side having conscious control, the time between when I settled into my alcove and this new moment of awakening is veiled to me; I witness it as if viewed through thick fog. My strongest impression is of their disappointment at my dim alter ego. I know I was beaten by Jabari the guard, then stripped and bathed, scrutinized by my new family, and dressed in clean new scarlet-colored robes matching the ones Moss wears. I assume these garments were chosen because they will easily allow for the unpredictable growth to which our bodies are prone.

Ordinarily I would remain in this state of semiconsciousness for months, perhaps even years, reemerging only when death touches me, but awareness is resurfacing far
sooner than I would have expected this time. This episode of new growth is not as violent in its beginnings as the last, but it is just as unpleasant, like waking up at the bottom of a deep lake and thrashing to reach the surface to take a breath.