Saul of Sodom: The Last Prophet (17 page)

  
“Wait in the upstairs room,” he said.

  
After a pause, the girl turned away without a word.

  
“Close the door, Naomi,” he added sternly, stopping her in her tracks. 

  
“… OK.”

 
 The little legs scuttled away. 

  
She scaled to the top of the spiral staircase two feet to each step at a time.  He
followed her with his stare until the sound of the closing door shut before
turning away.

  
“Naomi…” Celyn repeated with a snort.  “A civy name if ever I heard one.”

  
“I do not remember anything after Nova Crimea,” he said, finally.

  
Celyn glowered and looked away.  There was a long silence.

  
“I am sorry about Malachi…”

  
“He’s dead,” she snapped.  “He doesn’t exist.  He never existed.  That’s how it
works.”

  
“Martial order.”

  
“The world,” she corrected.  “The universe doesn’t know, doesn’t care, about
anyone or any damn thing.  We’re martials; we live, we die, we pass through the
system and when we’re gone, nobody knows; nobody ever knew or gave a damn.  The
ones who do are the ones who die first.”

  
He did not miss that same shimmer in her eyes as before, the flash of
irresolution.

  
“I know that you are not like everyone else in this place,” he said.

  
“You don’t know
shit
about me,” she scowled.

  
“Why did you save my life?”

  
She fell silent, looked away and glared ahead and into the depths of herself.

  
“You had every reason to leave me to die” he said.  “You did not.  Why?”

  
Still she remained quiet.

  
“The Commission will not…”

  
“Who – gives – a –
fuck
– about the Commission?”

  
The irresolution instantly changed to wrath.  He was silenced.

 
 “You know,” her voice took a sullen dip, “you keep talking about the
Commission as though they’re the enemy, when the only thing you really ought to
be afraid of right now is about three feet tall and hiding in your attic.”

  
“I could not leave her to die.”

  
“Why not?” She asked.  A pause followed the question.  “You’ve killed plenty of
times before…”

  
“In battles.  In warzones.”

  
“This war means no more to you than it does to me or anyone else in this world…”
She paused, smirked and laughed him to scorn.  “Every life has its price. 
Every ego has its reasons for fighting.  Maybe yours was to get the hell out of
Dodge.  Whatever the reason, we both know that that’s what another life is
worth to you.   So, what makes
her
life different?”

  
He looked away with a frown, put the cigarette out and rose to his feet.

 
 “Maybe you do not understand,” he said

  
“No, I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand.” 

  
They remained locked in a war of gazes. 

  
“Help me out here…” She probed him with her eyes, “As I recall, you hated this
world so much you wanted to get out even if it killed you –
which
it
damn near did.  So, I’m curious.  What exactly did you think you were saving
this kid from by bringing her here?”

  
“They were going to send her to a D.P. camp.  She was alone.”

  
“And now what?  You’ll both live happily ever after?” 

  
He did not answer. 

  
The small issue of the distant future had occurred to him.  Until that moment,
he had succeeded in hiding from himself his own resolution that the problem
would resolve itself.  Now that he was posed the question directly, however, he
had no answer. 

  
Celyn leaned back in her chair, tapping the table-top with her fingers. 

  
“I will find a way,” he said.

  
“No you won’t, because there is no way and you know it,” she said. “You can lie
to yourself, but you’re not fooling me.  You didn’t bring this girl here to
save her; you brought her here for you.  Whether you want to admit it or not;
she’s just a temp.  A stand-in…”

  
“For what?”

  
“…For those.”

  
Her eyes motioned toward the neural canister on the table.

  
Both of their heads turned around and up when they heard the door open at the
top of the spiral staircase.  The little golden head poked out from behind the
corner.

  
“Saul,” called a small and dry voice.  “…Can I have some water?”

  
After a short silence, he replied with a slow nod.

  
He stood up, took a glass and filled it at the tap whilst the girl descended
the spiral staircase, judiciously watching her every step, holding on to the
railing with both hands.  She tottered across the foyer and into the kitchen.  Celyn
kept her head forward, but he could see that her eyes were closely following
the girl’s every movement, even as she scuttled up to him and stretched out on
her tiptoes to take the glass. 

  
She raised the cup to her mouth like a water jug and drank, and drank.  Having
emptied half the glass, she paused for breath.

  
“What’s your name?” chirruped the girl.

  
Celyn’s head revolved in line with her mesmerised gaze.  Her eyes flitted from him
to the girl.

  
“What’s your name?” Naomi asked a second time with the same melody.

  
A long quiet. 

  
The girl stepped forward beckoning her answer with a patient silence.

  
“…Celyn,” she replied, her voice softened to honey.

  
The smile on the girl’s face brightened and she started to giggle.

  
“Your eyes are pretty,” she said

  
Celyn’s head tilted curiously to one side. 

  
The girl suddenly toddled toward her and started running her fingers through
the long locks of her hair.  She flinched and immobilised with fright.  Her
lips loosed, the lines on her brow receded and the emerald eyes shimmered.  Her
breaths started to shake.

  
“I like your hair...”   The girl’s touch worked like a subtle hypnosis which
dispelled the instant she stopped to lift the glass back up to her lips.  She
drank the rest of the water, wiped her lips, then raised the glass over her
head and set it on the table-top.   “Thank you, Saul.”

 
 Naomi tottered off again, back up the staircase and Celyn was left staring at
the same spot.

  
The door at the top of the staircase shut.

  
After a long pause, Saul spoke: “Will you help us or not?”

  
Celyn blinked awake at the sound of his voice and faced forward.  Her brow
furrowed again. 

  
“What do you want from me?” she asked

  
“Clothes, medicine, and a few other things.”

  
“Where am I going to find clothes for...”

  
“Duke will have everything ready for you,” he said.  “You know where to find
him.  You need only pick up what we need and bring them here.”

  
“That’s what you need?  A delivery boy?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“There are amenities for that.”

  
“No one whom I trust.”

  
“Why don’t you do it yourself?”

  
“Duke is on the other side of the city.  I cannot leave her.”

  
“Why don’t you tell
him
to come?” 

  
“I promised we would keep our distance,” he said. “He has done enough for me
already.”

  
“So have I.”

  
“I know that,” he said.  “But… you are the only other person I trust.”

  
She snorted.  “I’m the only one you know.”

  
He was out of answers. 

  
He pulled open a drawer, took out the two stacks of notes amounting to 10,000 dimitars
and laid the notes on the table-top in front of her

 
 “It is one delivery every four days,” he said.  “If you want more money I will
give it to you.”

  
Celyn looked from the short stack of notes up to him.  Her frown deepened.

 
 “It won’t work,” she said.

  
He resignedly nodded, having nothing left with which to beseech her.

  
“I understand,” he said, taking the money back. “I will find another way.”

  
“I wasn’t talking about that,” she said. “I mean this … 
All
this.  You
and this girl.  Whatever it is you’re trying to do; it won’t work.  You’ll be
begging them to clean you before the end.”

  
That same contrivance from before was now noticeably absent from her voice.  It
unnerved him.

  
“That will never happen,” he determined.

  
“It already happened.”

  
“I would rather take my own life.”

  
Celyn snorted and shook her head.

  
”And there it is…”  She pushed her seat back, rose from her chair and, turning
away, said, “You can keep your money” and walked out the door.

  
   Little Naomi quickly developed a fascination for the beautiful, emerald-eyed
martial woman who came by every fourth day of the three weeks following.  When
the bell would chime at the front door, she would rush over to snatch a glimpse
of the tall, dark pillar of womanly splendour standing at the brink. Her eyes
would burst with wonder and then droop with a disappointed sigh again when the
door would close and she was gone. 

 
 He resisted the girl’s company for the most part.  Something about her
scorched like vitriol. At first he had thought it might have been the lasting
effects of the neurals, but the bizarre aversion only seemed to get worse as
time passed and a horrid doubt began to loom over him … She, meanwhile, seeming
to feel that she should keep her distance, did everything in her power to
please him.  Although, the fact that she had quickly overcome her inhibition to
converse openly with her unnamed, unseen friend, he supposed, must have been a
symptom of her sudden isolation from everything she ever knew.  Even now, he
could see her from the corner of his eye, sitting at the kitchen table,
twirling around the leftovers on her plate and peering up from time to time.  

  
The holoscreen showed a broadcast from the First Region headquarters in New
York.  The blazoned words “RUSSIAN WINTER SUMMIT” floated past the bottom of
the three-dimensional image.  The speech had something to do with warzone
proliferation, containment and some other new and wonderful legislative
measures to make war a more efficient enterprise.  But he was not as much
concerned with the subject of the latest UMC Council Summit as he was with the
woman with the sapphire eyes and chestnut hair standing at the address pulpit.

 
 After a while, the speech faded into the background. 

  
He gazed intensely at the woman, at the chestnut hair swaying over the sapphire
eyes, with almost voyeur fascination.  His eyes stopped blinking.  He focused
in on the rose lips moving.  And for a moment he thought he saw the lips
pronounce: “
Ubey menya
…
Ubey menya…
”

  
“… Saul.”

   
He roused back with a jolt.  

  
The girl suddenly appeared.  When she saw that she had startled him, her face
drooped and she bashfully stepped back.

  
“Ah – s-sorry.”

  
He sighed a half-relieved sigh. 

  
“Are you tired?” he asked.

  
“Oh. Hmm…” the little face started up.  “N-no,” she stuttered, “not yet.” 

  
She lingered, looking down at the floor.

  
He’d noted that she had a peculiar habit of shuffling one foot over the other
whenever she wanted to ask for something.

 
 He shifted his weight in his seat, and as soon as he made the slightest move, she
seemed to take it as permission to scuttle forward without warning, then hop
onto the sofa and huddle up beside him before he could say a word.  He recoiled
in a turn of panic and looked down at the little head on his lap as one would
after spilling a hot beverage over oneself.

  
He remained anxiously silent. 

 
Once the initial shock subsided, he assessed his passions.  He found that he
was tempered.  It was alright.

  
His hand slowly lowered and settled over her and as soon as his fingers made
contact, she reached back over her shoulder and blanketed herself with his arm,
and the warm little hands gripped tightly, imbibing the affection out of him
and her little breaths shivered with a reprieve of affection. 

  
After a very cautious while, he tried to turn his attention back to the broadcast. 
Every so often, she would cuddle up just a little closer and eased into the
interaction until her fingers gently laced with his.  

  
About a minute later, the silvery voice called his name: “Saul…”

  
He peered down. 

  
“Saul, who’s that?”

  
He looked back up at the screen.  The media report had since shifted to a
zoomed-out view of the Council Assembly House: the crest of the UMC hanging
over the image of more than a thousand councillors seated amphitheatrically.

 
 “Who?” he asked.

  
Naomi let go of his hand and pointed an indicating finger.  “Him,” she said.

  
He followed the line of the girl’s finger, not to the image on the holoscreen,
but a book, sitting on the table in front of them.  The open pages were yellow
with age and they showed a picture of a brawny man rolling a boulder up a steep
hill.

  
“Him?” he asked, leaning forward and taking the book.

  
The girl sat up and peered over his arm at the open page.

  
“Who is he?” she asked

  
“His name is Sisyphus.”

  
The bright, curious eyes looked up.

  
“Who’s Siphisusus?”

  
A vague smile fissured on the sides of his mouth.

  
“
Sisyphus
… was a king.”

  
“Why is he pushing the ball?”

  
He paused to consider how to explain the story.

 
 “Sisyphus did many bad things,” he said.  “He… killed, betrayed and deceived
many people.  So, the gods punished him.”

  
“What did they do to him?” the girl asked, her voice timid.

  
“The gods ordered Sisyphus to raise a large rock to the top of a mountain.  But,
every day, just before Sisyphus would reach the top of the mountain, the rock
would fall back down to the bottom, and he would have to start all over again,
and again, and again…”

  
“For how long?”

  
“Forever.”

  
“For
ever
ever?”

  
“Yes.”

  
The girl looked back at the man in the picture, eyes wide and wistful.  After a
brief silence, she opened her mouth to speak, but only barely managed to
squeeze out the first syllable before she broke into a wide-mouthed yawn.

  
“I think it is time you slept, little one.” 

  
She coughed a hoarse cough and rubbed her drooping eyes.  She had fallen
slightly ill during the last week.

  
He lowered her gently to the floor.  

  
“Saul…” 

  
“What is it?” he asked, coming to his feet.

  
The girl looked down at her shuffling feet.

 
“I … I don’t like to stay alone at night,” she said, her voice brittle, eyes
forlorn.

  
He gazed at her silently.

 
“I … used to sleep with Mummy and Daddy,” she added with hesitation.

  
The celestial orbs shot up with an intense stare and he flinched and looked
away.

  
“Where do you think they are?”

  
“I do not know,” he replied.

  
The wave of unfathomable dread rushed over him again.  When he tried to look
back up at her, he recoiled as though her eyes were suns. 

  
“Is it OK to leave the light on?” she asked.   “…Saul?”

  
“Yes,” he muttered.  “The flame should give enough light.”

  
The little head nodded.

  
There was a long pause.  Then, just as he was about to turn away, she stepped
forward and put her arms around him. 

  
His eyes flared and his limbs went rigid as rigor mortis.  His breaths became a
quivering hyperventilation.  He withdrew from her embrace and gently held her an
arm’s length away, his hand shaking over her as he receded from her stare, his
chest rising and falling.

  
“Do not do that,” his voice shook.

  
The little face wilted.

  
“…OK,,” she whispered. 

  
Without a further word, she climbed onto the sofa and curled up, burying her
head into the bedding.  He heard the sniffles peppering her quiet sobs as he
walked away. 

  
He staggered into his room, stopping himself on the brink against the door frame. 
His brow leaked sweat and the heat poured from him, congealing him from the
inside out.  He besought the morass of disembodied voices swirling and railing
in his mind to stop, exhaling agitated nothings between breaths.  He staggered
out to the middle of the room, under the beams of light from the full moon, running
his hands over his soaking brow.  When he looked down, the moonlight shone
crimson over his open palms. 

  
He stumbled into the
en suite
, bowed forward, hands on the edge of the
basin, lifted his hung head up to the mirror and gazed into the bloodshot
eyes.  The slider over the drug shelf slid back.  The black neural canister sat
in the middle.  He’d meant to dispose of them, their procurement having been a
mere formality to avert suspicion from the Commission.  Now, his desperately
shuddering hand reached out for the canister.  His fingers fumbled when the lid
came off, and the tablets spilled all over the basin counter, the floor and
down the drain.  He grabbed a handful of tablets from the counter and a rigid
fist shook with restraint. 

  
No!
 He flung the tablets aside with a growl.

  
He pried off his clothes and stepped under the running water.  The blood would
not wash off. 

  
“Go away … Go away…” he started to mutter. 

  
An ache rose from deep inside his chest and locked painfully onto his throat. 
Visions started to flit through his mind’s eye: Nova Crimea, the writhing eyes
of the dying woman – the sapphire eyes. The screams of the nightmares assailed
him in unison, and all of it seemed to come full circle … back to the girl.

 
 He formed a tight, drenched fist and beat it against the wall.

 
 Again. And again. 

  
With each bang of his fist, the tares on his knuckles opened, until his hand
settled against the wall with a final bang, and his fingers quivered loose.  A
stream of blood seeped from the bashed knuckles and streaked the shower wall,
mingling with the water, and when he regarded his trembling hands again, the
blood was washing off.  The pain gave him relief sweeter than any pleasure and
his mind was momentarily clearer.  A name surfaced in his thoughts:

  
“Vincent,” he mouthed.

  
That name…

  
“Vincent.”

  
Where had he heard the name before?

  
“Vincent…”

   
Nothing.

  
The water stopped running. 

  
He dried off, the gauze soaked red with blood from his ruined fist.  His
knuckles crunched. 

  
After crudely bandaging his hand, he laid down on the bed, gauze ends loose and
unwinding underneath him.  His eyes narrowed with each blink until they shut…

  
Just as he felt sleep about take him, his eyes opened again. 

  
The rush of dread now transitioned to vexation, and then, incomparable fury. 
The longer he obsessed, the deeper the lines in his scowl furrowed: insomniac
eyes bulging like squids.  And all the furious obsession converged on the girl.

  
The girl…

  
Unyielding torment
;
the
only reward for a spared life.

 
 
Nova Crimea…
 

  
The screams of the falling dead railed at him.  Was perdition the only
recompense of righteousness?  Malachi was right.  Pope was right.  There is
only martial order.  Sanity is the foundation of order.  Anything that
threatened either was the enemy.   The girl was the enemy. 

  
She is the enemy
.

  
“Enemy,”
he mouthed.

  
He slowly rose from his bed. 

  
He plodded like a sleepwalker across the room to the open door, over the
threshold, into the elongated corridor.  Dizzy with rage, he crutched his way
along the corridor walls, his withered hand hanging at his side.  The space
around him swirled in a tunneling vortex which narrowed right until he reached
the end of the corridor and turned the corner. 

  
There she was, sleeping.