In the dark I watch and I wait. The others are sleeping but not me. The jungle never sleeps. It speaks to me as I stare into its black heart; a constant hum which creeps into my soul and courses through my body. I close my eyes and the sound slowly starts to bleed, to break away into its individual components. The chirping of birds high in the canopy, the hoot of monkeys scrambling through the trees, the scratching of mice moving slowly across the leafy floor and the buzz, the ever steady buzz of the innumerable insects that cloud my vision and crawl over every uncovered scrap of skin. I hear the shifting of weight behind me and turn my wrist to check the time. Floating green numbers tell me that it’s almost three; time to change watch so I can grab some sleep. Tomorrow we move.
The dappled light incessantly tickles at my eyelids and with a groan I wake. No fires burn, no clattering of pans and plates to welcome me back to the living, just the silent movement of men taking stock of their surroundings as they slowly wake. The cold seeps into my joints and the strips of meat I pull from my bag are tough but tasty all the same. I think back to last week, a world away from here, when we were inside away from the rain sipping hot steaming tea as they instructed us on the mission. They have used us for tasks like this for as long as I can remember, always secrecy is paramount; no-one can ever know we exist. The orders are passed through the men and we rise and set off towards the enemy position. We should get there just before nightfall which is when we work best.
Stretching the march out of my limbs as we reach our destination, I take a seat in the leaf litter and wait for darkness. Grabbing my knife, I start to pick the leeches from my skin, horrible sucking masses that seem to shudder with the pleasure as they drink my blood; a more primal version of our superiors sitting warm and dry miles from here. I think through my orders, step by step. I look around me, at the faces that are by now as familiar as my own, anything to try and keep at bay the anticipation that threatens to envelop me. The waiting is always the worst; we are dogs straining at the leash, waiting to be let free to run, to attack, to kill. The light is fading and the order is given to prepare. I start to undress, packing my clothes away in the waterproofed sanctuary of my Bergen for when I return. Naked, we kneel on the damp earth and look to the sky.
As always, her simple beauty astounds me. Her pale angelic silver face high in the darkness, calling me and my kind to her. I can feel her power start to trickle through my veins; the elemental voice that commands whole oceans now steadily increases until at last it crashes through me and I feel myself, my real self emerge. My screams pierce the night as my spine snaps and reforms. I feel my fingers break one by one as they elongate and nails tear through the tips curving to razor sharp points. My hip dislocates and my entire body feels like it is being hammered and twisted by giant hands. My jaw stretches to breaking point as the canines push through the bloody gums and as the skin sloughs from my body it reveals the coarse hair below. My howl joins the others as we answer her in the way he have for hundreds of years.
We can smell them now, cowering in the depths of the forest, eyes wide at the sudden new additions to the jungle chorus. Order, discipline and stealth are distant memories to us now as the rage surges within us, our only need is for blood and we crash through the undergrowth towards them. Night is our ally. Our eyes see more in this absence of light than humans could on the brightest of days and confusion reigns within their ranks as we rip and tear into their helpless bodies. The sound of gunfire and screaming fills my ears and the realisation of the inadequacy of their weapons still does not keep their fingers from triggers as they react in the only way they can. My claws rake across faces and plunge into soft bodies as we lay a spreading red carpet to welcome Her back once again. Panting, I look around at the chaos we have unleashed and the human part of me understands that for now at least, we are done and I allow my pulse to steady. I curl against one of the others and let myself fall into an exhausted sleep waiting for the Keepers to arrive.
They pull us up and cover us with blankets to keep us warm now that we once again have taken the feeble form that we are forced to endure for most of our lives. They herd us coughing and shivering into a clearing where huge metal helicopters wait to ferry us back. Many years ago, we lived alone. Each of us hidden from sight, hidden from those that did not, could not understand us. The unwanted, the demons of the moon, forced to wander alone until at last we could change and run with Her. Now we are kept together, once again hidden from view but at least with each other for company. Mothers used to warn their children to stay inside when She was full. Now, instead of hushed fearful voices, stories of us litter the world. Bring us out in the open to keep us safely tucked away.
The great metal beasts rise into the sky and we return once more to the cells where we stay until we are called.
As I stepped through the door, I could just make out the dark figure in the corner. The embers in the fireplace cast an orange glow in the otherwise unlit room.
“Must we always engage in such theatrics?” I asked with a sigh as I crossed to light the torches on the far wall.
They blazed suddenly to life as I neared; a trick he often employed for the entertainment of the serving boys in the castle kitchen.
“It is hardly the time for such party tricks” I rebuked, the shadows melting away from the corners of the room.
With a small nod, he gestured to the empty wooden chair and as I have done many times before, I took a seat and waited.
Waited to hear who it was I would be asked to kill.
“It is madness”, I whispered once he had finished speaking. “To go against the Mongols is to go against the wind that blows through the valley beneath us; they are unstoppable”
Our leader, our Imam stood and started to pace the tiny room.
“It will be difficult yes, but God has spoken to me on this, Ashur. It is not madness but necessity which prompts this decision. I have been shown what awaits us should we hide away in our stone fortresses like eagle chicks unwilling to leave the nest and it is death for us all.”
“We made peace with the khan’s grandfather Genghis,” I implored. “Why would we choose to poke the snake now it has retreated from our lands?”
“This new khan, Möngke is crazed with power,” the Imam said. “He will not be content with what has been achieved in uniting the tribes. They wish to wipe away from the earth any that do not bow to their sky God. You will travel with two others to Karakorum with the annual tribute and you will strike down this barbarian where he believes he is most secure. His death will bring disorder and chaos as his siblings vie for control.
I sat for a while contemplating on what he had said, the brazier he had lit diffusing the hashish into the air around us. Regardless of my concerns, the Imam was God’s vassal and His word was not to be questioned. As I rose from my chair he held out his hand.
I knelt and kissed the fingers of Rukn ad-Din.
“Your will my lord.”
***
As we three rode slowly into the Mongol camp, I kept my eyes lowered as we passed through the mass of people crowding around us. I patted my horse, mouthing soft words to try and quell the unease she felt at the hands which pulled and pushed at her sweating body.
I heard a shout and glanced up to see one of my companions dragged from his horse. He half rose and began dusting himself off as the armour clad warriors hemmed him in. A large Mongol pushed through the group pulling a curved weapon from his belt. Pointing once at the fallen man and back to himself he spat on the ground and moved towards him.
“Enough”, a voice rose above the excited chattering and the crowd backed away to allow a man riding one of the short ponies these nomads favoured to come forward.
“I am Hülegü, war leader of the Mongol nation and right hand of the Supreme Khan. Come with me.”
We followed the khan’s brother through a forest of short fabric structures until we came upon a larger more ornate tent decorated with silks and animal skins. Dismounting, Hülegü gestured that we do the same and pulling the tent flap to one side he beckoned us through.
The smell as I entered almost turned my stomach. The heavy smoke which hung like a morning fog in the hot air wound around a cloying fusion of excrement, sweat and animal fat. Taking a breath, I knelt before the small wooden dais upon which sat the khan of the Mongols.
“Great Möngke, beloved of the Sky Father and Supreme Khan of the great Mongol nation, I bring for you gifts from our divine Imam, Rukn ad-Din in tribute to your honour.”
Still kneeling with my face against the hard mud of the floor, I heard muffled movements around me as I waited for the acceptance.
I received only silence.
To rise from my position of supplication would be an affront to his hospitality yet to cower in the dirt like a filthy animal was to accept my place as such. These dark skinned warriors respected strength above all else and to shrink from such a challenge would be even more dangerous.
As I raised my head, I gasped as the Mongol leader stood before me with the dripping heads of my two companions in his fists.
“You talk of tribute and honour yet come to me with death in your thoughts and treason in your blood” he spat.
“Great Khan, I beg…”
“Do not beg anything of me, worm. My shaman has spoken to the spirits and has seen the deceit that riddles your body. You speak of honour yet seek to poison me with words and then with potions as I sleep. You will take my message to your Imam and others will learn what it is to oppose me. Once again my people will march and we will devour the World.”
***
I stand alone in the rooftop garden letting the scent of jasmine caress me in her silken arms. The chants of the Mongols echo through the valley as the barbarian horde edges ever closer. I can feel the mountains themselves tremble at their approach and wrap my arms around my body against the first icy fingers of winter’s touch.
They tell me the Mongol army seeps from the horizon like an endless tide swallowing all in its path.
All I see is darkness and where eyes once were, phantom tears flow down my ravaged face.
The cursor winks at me, constant, mocking.
I stare forlornly at the white virgin snow of the page awaiting the footprint that will begin the journey. I’ve been huddled in this dark stinking room for six long weeks, feeling it slowly shrink around me as I battle with myself. A paragraph here, a line there, an idea scribbled in my notebook then discarded angrily onto the overflowing pile of rancid detritus in the corner. Trying so hard to will a spark to ignite, to grasp at something from the very air around me.
Before she had left it had been so easy. I would wake, ideas pounding through my head. With steaming coffee at my side I would sit and the words would flow from my fingers as water from a tap. The ever increasing mountain in the astray marked the passing of time. She would stand quietly in the doorway, watching me at my desk, alone, as the hours passed me by. The soft tapping of keys and cigarettes the only sounds as the pages swelled before me. I would fall exhausted into her warm soft arms at night knowing that my dreams in the darkness were destined to become my words in the daylight.
The days had stretched into weeks and then months. The end was tantalisingly close, always just a hairs breadth away as I raced towards it. People were waiting for me to finish, publishers, editors, my fans. I could not stop. Meals would be taken in silence as I re-read past chapters, made notes and corrections. I never saw the tears cloud her eyes as decisions were made, the tightness of her mouth as she willed herself to act. I saw her as I saw the bed, as I saw the chair; simply blurred items that I would pass, day by day at the edge of my consciousness.
I awoke to her pain the same day I awoke to her note.
My imagination has drifted away through the open door that she left. My words are my lifeblood, they feed and clothe me. I prostitute myself for the adulation of the faceless. Without them I am nothing. The cheques that once fell like autumn leaves through my door have become as scarce as the ideas that gave them birth.
I stretch and the cracking of my back echoes off the sparse walls. I chose this place to be free of distraction, free of the phone calls, the droppers by and the endless emails all wanting to know what was next, wanting more and more. Never content with what I'd given just what I had left to give. I thought alone, unbothered I could find peace, find myself again and it would come again. But instead of a place of serenity, an oasis in the whirling maelstrom that is my life, it has become an anchor around my neck dragging me down into the depths of my own self loathing.
A lone window I have allowed myself, an only view into the needful world beyond. I peer through the murky glass to the life outside. A river snakes through the valley off into the distance. Would that I could follow? Above the hills the grey/white clouds drift slowly across the sky, icebergs floating across an endless sea. I can hear the songs of the birds as they soar overhead. A smile touches my lips as I admire the simple beauty.
A glimpse of red just above the fence line shakes me from my reverie. Squinting to counter the glare of the morning sun I make out a shape, a person, coming this way. My heart starts thundering in my chest, sweat soaks my hands and the blood rushes through my head in crashing waves. I told him I needed space, time to finish. I can’t be rushed. As he gets closer, I swallow against the dryness of my throat and try to slow my breathing down to calm myself as I realise it is a hiker, nothing more. Some company may be what I need, inspiration to smash through this mental obstruction. Wiping my hands on my trousers I pick the breadknife from the table and reach for the door.
With the staccato drip of the coffee machine in the background and the cigarette smoke billowing gently up from the crammed ashtray I glance over at the bloodied rucksack in the corner and at my silent friend. My fingers fly across the keyboard.
The scent of saffron, turmeric and cinnamon pervades the air, overlaying the acrid stench of human waste seeping through the narrow streets. The hot dusty air stings my face as I watch the orange lights twinkling in the darkness; a hellish reflection of the cloudless sky above. Warmed by the fires, their prayers carry across the plain; a melodious adoration to the God of theirs that our Pope says cannot exist. For three days they have been gathering at the base of the mountain, a sprawl of darkness that cloaks our land while we ready ourselves for the assault. We have dug our ditches, and reinforced our walls. Tomorrow they will come.
I walk the wall, my words and touches all that remain to aid those that stand on watch. Stefan, the youngest of us pleads to me with silent eyes to make it better, to make it go away. I clasp his shoulder and quietly remind him that with God on our side, there can be no outcome other than to hold. Do I tell him the tales my father told me? Of the heroes that stood face to face with the Saracens, always weaker in number but stronger in faith. No. Such lies can help no man now. I have seen with my own eyes what favours God bestows on men. A death is no glorious ascension, no parade of angels to carry you to Him; it is a dark and lonely place of blood and gore, of screams and pleading, a single broken stone in the pathway of bodies that praise His name. I settle with my back against the wall to sleep. To die quickly is all we can hope for now.
The thunder wakes me and for a moment, as I stare into the beauty of the still blue sky I am serene and at peace. Again the crashing in the cloudless sky and the shouts around me pull me to my feet. The seething mass that marches towards us across the once empty plain brings a hopelessness that threatens at once to overwhelm. A galaxy of crescent moons shining bright against the morning sun. Shaking away the terror, I pull on my armour and ready myself for battle. Below me, men scatter in all directions, barricading the gate, herding families to shelter away from the walls, the adrenaline a physical force that drives them forward and dams the fear from seeping to the surface.
The sunlight fades and as I turn, I see the thousands of black shafts silently gliding towards us, a brooding flock of feathers with steel beaks. Like the start of a rainstorm, a single shaft thuds into a wooden shield followed by another and another until steadily the torrent flows all around us. We shrink below wood and stone and close ourselves to the screams that echo around us. The crash of metal upon stone brings me out of cover and I shout for oil as the first of the grappling hooks bite into the parapets. The smell of burning flesh is one that leaves a residue, which clings, sticky and black within your mind for the rest of your life. Skin burnt over years by the desert sun turns red and raw as the molten liquid drips from their bodies.
A commotion from the Eastern wall turns me from the horror beneath to find that these people have learned well over the years. Towers, fully four stories high trundle towards the wall pushed by a winding snake of willing men. Tactics we employed to bring us this city now thrown against us to recoup that, which was theirs. I call the order to soak arrows and ignite and pray that God will forgive me for what I unleash. The flaming heads pepper the hide covered structure and the individual fires reach to each other with fingers of flame to join hands in a wall of heat that engulfs the wooden tower and fans billowing black smoke into the throats of those that wait upon it. Coughing and screaming they jump to the ground, shattering bones as they land burning and broken among their own.
I feel a motion beside me, and duck as the whisper of a curved blade parts the air where seconds before my neck had been. My nose explodes in pain as a shield crashes into my face and I fall to the floor face to face with what once had been Stefan; his unseeing eyes, accusing. I scramble to my feet aware that I know not from which direction the attack came. Bodies all around me struggle and hack at each other, unintelligible grunts more akin to animals than humans fill my ears and I realise that I’m screaming. Screaming with hate, fear and with something deep within me that only now I can allow to surface, to carry me through this primeval chaos. I reach for a man who has his teeth in someone’s cheek and smash my forehead into his eye, ripping him from his bloody victim. I tear at his face and thrust my sword into his stomach, pulling at the purple tubes that spew from the gaping wound. The blade catches against something within and I pull a knife from my belt, stabbing into anything that comes near. I lose myself in a world of venom and violence until finally, I see that the bodies I attack are unmoving and all around me is quiet.
I wonder whether the blood I taste is mine as I clean the mess from my face. I look around at the sea of bodies, unrecognisable from one another. Within that tangle of flesh are friends and enemies, sons and fathers, worshippers of Christ and devotees of Allah. So far apart in life they now sleep together in death.
Allāhu Akbar. God is great.
The train arrived at the station with a lurch and woke her from sunny dreams of cream teas and beaches that the next few days would bring. Only one more train to go and she’d be there, far away from him and all the arguments. Aunt Mary would be glad to see her; she had always been her favorite. Grabbing the coat from the rack above her, she slipped her bag over her shoulder and stepped onto the dark platform.
The warmth of the train was instantly a distant memory as the cold wind cut into her bare skin. Pulling up the collar on her coat she headed across to the bright lights of the platform café, pulled open the glass door and stepped inside. Silence and stares opened their arms in welcome to her. A squeaky little giggle escaped her and she could feel the heat rising rapidly through her face. As one, they turned back to what they were doing and the steady hum of conversation resumed.
“Coffee please” she asked the red haired girl at the counter as the flush slowly receded. “Are they always like that?” she whispered with a conspiratorial smile. The scowling girl hobbled over to the kettle, poured the coffee and slammed the cup down on the counter without a word. And she thought people in the city were rude! Dropping a pound sixty on the counter, she found an empty table by the window and sat with a sigh pulling out her book. Wiping the steam from the window with her sleeve she peered out into the night. A single bulb danced in the wind occasionally lighting the platform, each blink of darkness reflecting back to her the dozens of eyes boring into the back of her head. She turned sharply almost toppling her drink. A few people looked up from their newspapers at the sudden movement but otherwise all was as it should be. Jumping at shadows, she chided herself and took a sip of the tepid sludge to steady her nerves.
She tried to concentrate on the book but the window had spooked her. She found herself peering over the top of the pages to make sure they hadn’t all stood while she was distracted with tales of passion and were lumbering towards her hands outstretched, eyes dead and glassy. Annoyed with the way her imagination was running away, she put the book away and looked around at the odd assortment trapped in the room with her. An old man with skin stretched thin across his face sat with his eyes closed, puffing on a pipe. The smoke swirling upward, sucked greedily into the bank of cloud hovering above us. A carved bird sat atop his gnarled walking stick at his side. A group of teenage boys, caps down low over their eyes were huddled together, a plastic bag at their feet. The bottles and cans spilling out onto the dirty tiled floor. A couple opposite were arguing about someone called Max and a variety of men in orange boiler suits sat in groups of two and three.
One of the teenagers eased himself up from the group and moved towards her, crouching down in front of her chair and leaned in close. She had to move her head back from the alcohol fumes that swept over her. His cracked lips parted to stained yellow teeth and she caught a fleeting sense of something hidden deep beneath the alcohol. Something sweet, something rotten. “Going somewhere nice?” he asked, eyes crawling over her chest, undoing her blouse. She crossed her arms and scraped her chair backwards on the tiled floor. “Just waiting for my husband” she said looking casually at her watch. “Tut, tut” he said wagging his finger at her. “Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out on your own. If there’s anything I can help you with…?” he ran his calloused hand up the back of her calf, higher, higher. She kicked out at him and he leapt back with a laugh. Eyes locked to hers; he sniffed at his palm and slowly ran his tongue across it. He returned to his laughing friends with a swagger.
“Did you see that?” she asked one of the men sat closest to me. “Did you see what he did?” The man just stared at her, smiling. “Anyone? Is anyone going to do anything?” she asked the room. Smiles, smiles and more bloody smiles countered her glare. Freaks, she thought grabbing her mobile to call the police. No bars. Damn the bloody countryside. She could feel the adrenaline running through her as her heart started to speed, her head ached and the heaviness grew deep in her stomach. She caught a glimpse of blue in the flicker of light on the platform and remembered the guard. He would have a radio! She picked up her stuff and ran back out into the cold. “Excuse me. Excuse me!” she shouted after him. He turned just as she caught up with him and almost toppled him over as she grabbed hold of him. “Radio. Do you. Radio?” she said looking back towards the café. “Sorry miss, out here it don’t work see. Don’t worry, though, we’ll take care of you. Nice and friendly we are, always sit down to eat together like one big family”. A long black tongue darted from his lips.
One by one she could see them leaving their seats. The old man leaning heavily on his stick, pipe still stuck in his mouth pushed open the door. The teenagers followed, the redhead at their heels giggling. They emptied out onto the platform and stood side by side in silence, watching her.
Death watches me through the thick metal bars with a curious half smile on her red painted lips. “They’re not switching it off just yet, if that’s what you’re thinking” she says as I look again at the small screen hanging above the toilet. On it I can see a man in white talking silently to Emily as she absently brushes my hair. I wish I could hear them. Her eyes are locked to his, looking for answers, looking for hope. Her eyes were what attracted me to her a lifetime ago; so blue, so captivating, they drew me across the room and into her arms in a matter of hours. Now though, they seem dull and lifeless; any remaining spark blunted by the endless hours spent at my bedside willing me to wake from the coma that has brought me here; locked up and teetering on the edge between life and death.
Shortly after arriving I saw Emily talking to my father and pleaded for sound to accompany the images informing me of what I’d left behind. “It would upset the others” Death said simply and walked away to deal with the constant stream of bewildered souls trudging down the wide central corridor towards the light. They, the dead at least have somewhere to go; Death welcomes them in and moves them on in a matter of minutes but not us. We who are imprisoned in Death’s waiting room awaiting sentence have no direction, no final destination. Trapped in an incorporeal airport; not left yet not arrived; the Terminal terminal if you will. The room that holds me is stark, the television and cracked porcelain the only nods to an age later than steam. The bars reach round on all sides interrupted only by the two doors that wait at either end.
I was hit by a bus. It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud like that, but there it is. The reason I’m here watching my wife sit by my motionless body is because of a f***ing bus. I was half way across the road when my phone went. As I think back on it now, it seems to have taken an age although I’m sure it would have been but a fraction of a moment. I can remember the flashing numbers on the phone being suddenly replaced by the large stationary ones above the word STATION as I turned my head. It didn’t hurt. One second I was surrounded by people and wondering what she was calling for and the next I found myself alone and imprisoned; looking down on my mechanically assisted self.
The people in the cells around me change every few minutes so I can’t really get to know any of my neighbours. They arrive terrified and lost, no idea where they are or why they’re here. I try to explain but as I said, time is of the essence and no sooner do I get them to calm a little than they fade away to be replaced by another screaming wreck. I’ve stopped bothering now. They’re young for the most part as I guess the older ones tend to struggle less when the time comes. I did see a guy yesterday who must have been in his eighties though. He appeared two or three times as the team in the hospital brought him back over and over again. I think he was relieved more than anything when they finally let him go. Me, I’ve been here for almost a month and seeing the resignation etched onto my wife’s face I don’t believe I’ll be moving on anytime soon.
I’m surprised at how attractive Death actually is; the individual rather than the state that is. She glides rather than walks; a gothic angel with pale white skin and eyes as dark as her soul must be. The black hooded robe at least gives a sense of familiarity to the figure that I see now coming towards me, my heartbeat quickening at her approach. She pauses a few feet from me, her eyes alternating from one locked door to the other. “Which one will it be?” she whispers. “The one back to her and the fleeting taste of time that you call life or the other where I and eternity wait?” Her hand reaches through the bars towards my face and I feel my skin pucker and blister as her nails sink into my cheek; watching with a repulsed exhilaration as she brings her fingers back to her mouth and slowly sucks them dry. The unnatural reaction of my body fills me with horror and an overwhelming hatred of what I am. I love my wife and long to be back in her arms but Death’s touch brought with it a craving and an arousal that resonates within me. Laughing, she drifts away.
My stomach clenches and I throw up, coughing and spitting as I eject the acrid stench all around me. Wiping my mouth with my sleeve I fall onto my knees as the hopelessness of my situation is finally realised. I look around at the hordes of people shuffling forward towards oblivion and a searing anger starts to boil at their resignation. There are no sounds of protest as they march toward their deaths. No tears for loved ones, no screams of anguish, just a weary acceptance of why they’re here and where they must go. I look to the screen and watch Emily as she sits with her head in her hands, the sobs racking her body and wonder what dice have been thrown, what wheel has been spun that has decided that she must suffer so. The anger bursts to the surface and I run at the bars pulling and screaming at them to let me loose, let me go, LET ME LIVE.
The sound of a bolt drawing back puts pause to my fury and I hear the creak as one of the doors slowly opens.
In the dark I watch and I wait. The others are sleeping but not me. The jungle never sleeps. It speaks to me as I stare into its black heart; a constant hum which creeps into my soul and courses through my body. I close my eyes and the sound slowly starts to bleed, to break away into its individual components. The chirping of birds high in the canopy, the hoot of monkeys scrambling through the trees, the scratching of mice moving slowly across the leafy floor and the buzz, the ever steady buzz of the innumerable insects that cloud my vision and crawl over every uncovered scrap of skin. I hear the shifting of weight behind me and turn my wrist to check the time. Floating green numbers tell me that it’s almost three; time to change watch so I can grab some sleep. Tomorrow we move.
