Crackpot Palace (13 page)

Anyway, what's important here is that in that hallway I watched all night on the video camera, waiting for criminals to attack, the concrete floor was severely buckled in one spot. It had a huge fissure in it, and a side of the crack was raised about five inches over the other side of it. I'd see rats crawl out of that hole and scurry up and down the hallway. And, man, the stink in that grim corridor was like the Devil's farts—some kind of mutated cabbage miasma that on a bad night could make your eyes water.

One afternoon I was talking to my boss and this guy, Wes, the alarm technician, and I asked them what was going on in the hallway. The tech laughed and said, “That's the entrance to Hell.” My boss told me that the strip mall we were in was built years ago over a landfill. The only problem was, they never put in any vents to leach off the methane gas, and now it was pushing its way up to the surface. The boss, who had a mad comb-over and always wore glasses with smoky lenses, like some kind of spy/used-car salesman, shook his head, and said, “If I lose the business in my divorce settlement, I'm gonna go out in the hallway and light a cigarette and blow this whole fucking place to kingdom come.” Wes and I laughed, but the boss didn't. I didn't stick around long after that.

I was only there long enough to contemplate the idea of structures and complexes being built to cover over the sins of the past. I thought of Love Canal. I wondered, how many places must there be like this in the country that nobody remembers or cares about yet? What kind of biological or nuclear detritus of the Cold War must be lying dormant, waiting to rear its ugly head and storm the metaphorical security door of our placid lives? Those long nights in the central station, contemplating the invisible, rising evil, gave rise themselves to a nascent story concept I entertained my half-sleeping imagination with. I thought of it as “Neptune's Daughter.”

The Coral Heart

H
is sword's grip was polished blood coral, its branches perfect doubles for the aorta. They fed into a guard that was a thin silver crown, beyond which lay the blade (the heart), slightly curved, with the inscription of a spell in a language no one could read. He was a devotee of the art of the cut, and when he wielded this weapon, the blade exactly parallel to the direction of motion, the blood groove caught the breeze and whistled like a bird of night. He'd learned his art from a hermit in the mountains where he'd practiced on human cadavers.

That sword had a history before it fell to Ismet Toler. How it came to him, he swore he would never tell. Legend had it that the blade belonged first to the ancient hero who'd beheaded the Gorgon; a creature whose gaze turned men to smooth marble. After he'd slain her, he punctured her eyeballs with the tip of his blade and then bathed the cutting edge in their ichor. The character of the weapon seized the magic of the Gorgon's stare and, ever after, if a victim's flesh was sliced or punctured to the extent where blood was drawn, that unlucky soul would be turned instantly to coral.

The statuary of Toler's skill could be found throughout the realm. Three hardened headless bodies lay atop the Lowbry Hill, and on the slopes three hardened heads. A woman crouching at the entrance to the Funeral Gardens. A score of soldiers at the center of the market at Camiar. A child missing an arm, twisting away with fear forever, resting perfectly on one heel, in the southeastern corner of the Summer Square. All deepest red and gleaming with reflection. There were those who believed that only insanity could account for the vast battlefields of coral warriors frozen in the kill, but none was brave enough to speak it.

The Valator of Camiar once said of the Coral Heart, “He serves the good because it is a minority, leaving the majority to slay in the name of Truth.” The Valator is now, himself, red coral, his head cleaved like a roasted sausage. Toler dispatched evil with dedication and stunning haste. It was said that the fate of the sword was tied to that of the world. When enough of its victims had been turned to coral, their accumulated weight would affect the spin of the planet and it would fly out of orbit into darkness.

There are countless stories about the Coral Heart, and nearly all of them are the same story. Tales about a man who shares a name and a spirit with his weapon. They're always filled with fallen ranks of coral men. Some he kicks and shatters in the mêlée. There is always betrayal and treachery. A few of these stories involve the hermit master with whom he'd studied. Most all of them mention his servant, Garone, a tulpa or thought-form creation physically coalesced from his focused imagination. The descriptions of killing in these classical tales are painstaking and brutal, encrusted with predictable glory.

There are a handful of stories about the Coral Heart, though, that do not end on a battlefield. You don't hear them often. Most find the exploits of the weapon more enchanting than those of the man. Your average citizen enjoys a tale of slaughter. You, though, if I'm not mistaken, understand as well the deadly nature of the human heart and would rather decipher the swordsman's dreams than the magic spell engraved upon his blade.

And so . . . in the last days of summer, in the Year of the Thistle, after transforming the army of the Igridots, upon the dunes of Weilawan, into a petrified forest, Ismet Toler wandered north in search of nothing more than a cold day. He rode upon Nod, his red steed of a rare archaic stock—toes instead of hooves and short, spiral horns, jutting out from either side of its forelock. Walking beside Toler, appearing and disappearing like the moon behind wind-driven clouds, was Garone. The servant, when visible, drifted along, hands clasped at his waist, slightly hunched, the hood of his brown robe always obscuring any definitive view of his face. You might catch a glimpse of one of his yellow eyes, but never both at once.

As they followed a trail that wound beneath giant trees, leaves falling everywhere, Toler pulled the reins on Nod and was still. “Was that a breeze, Garone?”

The tulpa disappeared but was as quickly back. “I believe so,” he said in a whisper only his master could hear.

Another, more perceptible gust came down the trail and washed over them. Toler sighed as it passed. “I'm weary of turning men to coral,” he said.

“I hadn't noticed,” said Garone.

The Coral Heart smiled and nodded slightly.

“Up ahead in these yellow woods, we will find a palace and you will fall in love,” said the servant.

“There are times I wish you wouldn't tell me what you know.”

“There are times I wish I didn't know it. If you command me to reveal my face to you, I will disappear forever.”

“No,” said Toler, “not yet. That day will come, though. I promise you.”

“Perhaps sooner rather than later, master.”

“Perhaps not,” said Toler and nudged his mount in the ribs. Again moving along the trail, the swordsman recalled the frozen expressions of his victims at Weilawan, each countenance set with the same look of terrible surprise.

In late afternoon, the travelers came to a fork in the trail, and Garone said, “We must take the right-hand path to reach that palace.”

“What lies to the left?” asked Toler.

“Tribulation and certain death,” said the servant.

“To the right,” said the swordsman. “You may rest now, Garone.”

Garone became a rippling flame, clear as water, and then disappeared.

As twilight set in, Toler caught sight of two towers silhouetted against the orange sky. He coaxed Nod into a gallop, hoping to arrive at the palace gates before nightfall. As he flew away from the forest and across barren fields, the cool of the coming night refreshing him, he thought, “I have never been in love.” Every time he tried to picture the face of one of his amorous conquests what came before him instead were the faces of his victims.

He arrived just as the palace guards were about to lift the moat bridge. The four men saw him approaching and drew their weapons.

“An appeal for lodging for the night,” called Toler from a safe distance.

“Who are you?” one of the men shouted.

“A traveler,” said the swordsman.

“Your name, fool,” said the same man.

“Ismet Toler.”

There was a moment of silence, and then a different one of the guards said, in a far less demanding tone, “The Coral Heart?”

“Yes.”

The guard who had spoken harshly fell to his knees and begged forgiveness. Two others sheathed their swords and came forward to help the gentleman from his horse. The fourth ran ahead into the palace, announcing to all he passed that the Coral Heart was at the gate.

Toler dismounted and one of the men took Nod's reigns. The swordsman approached the guard who knelt on the ground, and said, “I'll not be killing anyone tonight. I'm too weary. We'll see what tomorrow brings.” The man rose up, and then the three guards, with Toler's help, turned the huge wooden wheel that lifted the moat bridge.

Inside, the guards dispersed and left Toler standing at the head of a hall with a vaulted ceiling, all fashioned from blue limestone. People came and went quietly, keeping their distance but stealing glances. Eventually, he was approached by a very old man, diminutive of stature, with the snout and mottled skin of a toad. When the little fellow spoke, he croaked, “A pleasure, sir,” and offered his wet hand as a sign of welcome.

Toler took it with a shiver. “And you are?” he asked.

“Councilor Greppen. Follow me.” The stranger led on down the vast hall, padding along at a weary pace on bare, flat feet. The slap of his soles echoed into the distance.

“May I ask what manner of creature you are?” said Toler.

“A man, of course,” said the councilor. “And you?”

“A man.”

“No, no, from what I hear you are Death's own Angel and will one day turn the world to coral.”

“What kind of councilor can you be if you believe everything you hear?” said Toler.

Greppen puffed out his cheeks and laughed; a shrewd, wet sound. He shuffled toward the left and turned at another long hall, a line of magnificent fountains running down its center. “The Hall of Tears,” he croaked, and they passed through glistening mist.

As Toler followed from hall to hall, he gradually adopted the old man's pace. The journey was long, but time suddenly had no bearing. The swordsman studied the people who passed, noticed the placement of the guard, marveled at the colors of the fish in the fountains, the birds that flew overhead, the distant glass ceiling through which the full moon stared in. As if suddenly awakened, he came to at the touch of the councilor's damp hand on his arm.

“We have arrived,” said Greppen.

Toler looked around. He was on a balcony that jutted off the side of the palace. The stars were bright and there was a cold breeze, just the kind he'd wished for when heading north from Weilawan. He took a seat on a simple divan near the edge of the balcony, and listened as Greppen's footfalls grew faint. He closed his eyes and wondered if this was his lodging for the night. The seat was wonderfully comfortable and he leaned back into it.

A moment passed, perhaps an hour, he wasn't sure, before he opened his eyes. When he did, he was surprised to see something floating toward the balcony. It was no bird. He blinked and it became clear in the resplendent starlight. It was a woman, dressed in fine golden robes, seated in a wooden chair, like a throne, gliding toward him out of the night. When she reached the balcony and hovered above him, he stood to greet her.

“The Coral Heart,” she said as her chair settled down across from the divan. “You may be seated.”

Toler bowed slightly before sitting.

“I am Lady Maltomass,” she said.

The swordsman was intoxicated by the sudden scent of lemon blossoms, and then by the Lady's eyes—large and luminous. No matter how he scrutinized her gaze, he could not discern their color. At the corners of her lips there was the very slightest smile. Her light brown hair was braided and strung with beads of jade. There was a thin jade collar around her neck, and from there it was a quick descent to the path between her breasts and the intricately brocaded golden gown.

“Ismet Toler,” he finally said.

“I grant you permission to stay this night in the palace,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. There was an awkward pause and then he asked, “Who makes your furniture?”

She laughed. “The chair, yes. My father was a great scholar. By way of his research, he discovered it beneath the ruins of an abbey at Cardeira-davu.”

“I didn't think the religious dabbled in magic,” said Toler.

“Who's to say it's not the work of God?”

The swordsman nodded. “And your councilor, Greppen? Another miracle?”

“Noble Greppen,” said the Lady.

“Pardon my saying, Lady Maltomass, but he appears green about the gills.”

“There's no magic in it,” she said. “His is a race of people who grew out of the swamp. They have a different history than we do, but the same humanity.”

“And what is your story?” said Toler. “Are you magic or miracle?”

She smiled and looked away from him. “I'll ask the questions,” she said. “Is that the Coral Heart at your side?”

“Yes,” he said and moved to draw the sword from its sheath.

“That won't be necessary,” she said. “I see the coral from here.”

“Most people prefer not to see the blade,” he said.

“And pardon my asking, Ismet Toler, but how many have you slain with it?”

“Enough,” he said.

“Is that a declaration of remorse?”

“Remorse was something I felt for the first thousand.”

“You're a droll swordsman.”

“Is that a compliment?” he asked.

“No,” said Lady Maltomass. “I hear you have a tulpa.”

“Yes, my man, Garone.”

To Toler's left, there was a disturbance in the air, which became a pillar of smoke that swirled and coalesced into the hooded servant.

“Garone, I present to you the Lady Maltomass,” said Toler, and swept his arm in her direction. The tulpa bowed and then disappeared.

“Very interesting,” she said.

“Not a flying chair, but I try,” he said.

“Well, I also have a tulpa,” said the Lady.

“No,” said Toler.

“Mamresh,” she said, and in an instant, there appeared, just to the right of the flying chair, the presence of a woman. She was naked and powerfully built. “A warrior,” thought the swordsman. His only other impression before she disappeared was of the deep red color of her voluminous hair.

“You surprise me,” he said to the Lady.

“If you'll stay tomorrow,” she said, “I'll show you something I think you'll be interested in. Meet me among the willows in the garden after noon.”

“I'm already there,” he said.

She smiled as the chair rose slowly above the balcony. It turned in midair and then floated out past the railing. “Good night, Ismet Toler,” she called over her shoulder.

As the chair disappeared into the dark, Greppen approached. He led the swordsman to a spacious room near the balcony. The councilor said nothing but lit a number of candles and then called good night as he pushed the door closed behind him.

Toler undressed, weary from travel and the aftereffects of the drug that was Lady Maltomass. He lay down with a sigh, and then summoned his servant. The tulpa appeared at the foot of the bed.

“Garone, while the palace is sleeping, I want you to search around and see what you can discover about the Lady. A mysterious woman. I want to know everything about her. Take caution, though, she also has a tulpa.” Then he wrapped his right hand around the sheath of the Coral Heart, clasped the grip with his left, and fell asleep to dream of kissing Lady Maltomass beneath the willows.