Skillful Death (70 page)

Before I can ask what’s going on, they’ve jerked me to my feet and cut the ropes from my ankles and wrists. Two of them hold me under each armpit. If they didn’t, I would probably fall down. My legs are an agony of tingling. The guy with the syringes injects Bud with something and then waves ammonia under his nose. Bud moans and stirs and they lift him as well. He has his own two attendants holding him up while they cut his ropes. We’re walked out to the main hall.

I barely recognize the place.

Black streamers are draped between the beams and cascade down the walls to pool on the floor. Candles adorn every flat surface. Lines of people stand shoulder to shoulder along the walls. They’re wearing red robes with white sashes. The floor is covered with roses. Their scent hangs in the air. It’s so thick that I imagine I can feel it swirling around us as we’re led to the center of the room.

As my eyes adjust to the flickering candles, I see the dark shapes hanging from the beams. They look like flies cocooned and hung from a spiderweb. I look to Bud. His mouth hangs open and his eyes look glazed as he stares up to the ceiling.

When one of the cocooned shapes thrashes, I recognize them for what they are. The Providentials have been hung from the trusses by their feet. They’re wrapped in black cloth, like dark mummies, with only their heads showing. They’re gagged. I’m confused because I only see seven. There should be ten Providentials. I remember that some were killed in the battle.

We’re led to the center of the room and stopped. A few feet away, a white-haired man stands on a platform. He raises his arms and his red cloak spreads like wings.

“Constantine and Cornelius,” he says. I look around. Cornelius? Is that supposed to be me? “Would you be judged with the other Providentials?”

I glance up at the seven shapes hanging by their feet. I certainly don’t want whatever fate they’ve earned, and I don’t understand why I would be grouped with those men and women. I glance at Bud. He doesn’t seem up to arguing for us. It seems like an easy question, so I decide to venture an answer.

“No,” I say.

“State your reasons,” he says.

“Well, Constantine was exiled by the Constable, long ago. He was never informed of his duties, but still came back to serve his community. He deserves nothing but praise. I merely work for him. I’ve served him to the best of my ability and therefore I don’t believe that I’ve done anything wrong either. I would ask you to tell us what you perceive as our crimes.”

“You, Cornelius, are charged with murder, collusion, conspiracy, larceny, treason, and promoting delinquency. You, Constantine, are charged with aiding and abetting Cornelius,” he says.

“I’ve committed no such crimes,” I say. “And my name is not Cornelius. You have me confused with another man. I’m Malcolm, and I merely work for Bud…um, Constantine. You are confusing me for someone else.”
 

I start to move forward as I protest. It’s just natural. I’m not trying to attack the old man or anything. My two guards come after me and pull me back by my arms until I’m standing next to Bud again.

“Bud, say something. Tell them who I am,” I say.

He’s still dazed, just staring off into space.

“Is that your only defense?” he asks.

“It’s the only one I need. What evidence do you have against me? I don’t even know you people,” I say.

The man lowers his arms and his robes once more pool around his feet.

Bud and I are dragged backwards by the guards until we’re near the back of the hall. The room is whisper-silent as the old man steps down from his platform and walks to the center of the room. He kneels with difficulty, eventually descending to one knee. He puts his hands on the floor and the seven Providentials begin to lower from the ceiling. The ropes rub on the beams as the bodies descend.

When they feel themselves moving, several of the Providentials thrash and swing on their ropes. They stop when their heads are just a few inches from the floor. From the line of people making a perimeter around the room, seven people step forward. Their robed arms are crossed in front of them, with sleeves overlapping so you can’t see their hands.
 

Each person steps in front of a Providential and stops.

The old man in the center of the room speaks. “We dismiss the era of Providentials and the dark magic that has sustained us for a thousand years. We dismiss the league of wizards who once brought us prosperity but now bring us only oppression. We dismiss you and judge you unfit to walk amongst us. We dismiss you and ask you to never return. We dismiss your mortal shell.”

When he finishes his speech, the seven robed figures pull their hands apart. Each holds a shining dagger. Each stoops and thrusts their dagger forward into the chest of a Providential. Their thrashing sounds like flags fluttering in the wind. No sound passes their gagged lips. I can’t see the blood soaking through their black cocoons, but I hear it splattering, and see it pooling on the planks beneath them.

I look at Bud. He blinks several times and closes his mouth. He works his tongue over his dry lips and drops to his knees. The guards pull him back to his feet.

One of the Providentials with long hair, one of the women, is the last to stop moving.
 

“We beg that another Providential will not come to our village,” the old man says to the ceiling. “We beg,” he repeats.

The robed figures around the room repeat his prayer. “WE BEG,” they say in unison.

“Finally, let us reclaim the spirits we’ve exiled,” the old man says.

Two people move to the front doors and open them, making a path for another group to enter like pallbearers. On their shoulders they carry a huge wooden coffin, constructed of dark wood and polished to a mirror finish. At least I think it’s a coffin. As they set it down next to the old man, it looks too high. It comes up above his waist. Why would a coffin be so tall?

Bud’s guards spin him around and drag him backwards. He’s stiff as a board with his hands clasped at his stomach. When they get him to the coffin, a third person lifts his feet and they lay him down on the wood. I guess it’s not a coffin. It’s an altar.

“Amongst our sons and daughters, strange fruit grows,” the old man says.

A woman bends next to Bud’s head and unlocks a door at the head of the altar. Steps fold down out of the side. As he speaks, the old man climbs the steps so his feet are near Bud’s face.

“We nourish this fruit and send it to the world to ripen,” the old man says. “We beg it returns to bless us with prosperity. We beg.”

“WE BEG,” the group repeats.

As the old man speaks, robed figures surround Bud. At once, they kneel. Bud is naked on the altar. He hasn’t moved much since the drugging, but now he’s absolutely still. I wish he would run, but he just lays there.

Here they come with the knives. Hooded people are walking slowly towards the altar from either side and they’re both holding knives out in front of them.

“We harvest this fruit with your blessing. Do you give it?”

“I do,” Bud says.

My mouth falls open.

It’s hard to see from where I’m standing, but these knives aren’t thrust with murderous hate, like the ones into the hanging Providentials. These knives are used delicately. The hooded figures hunch over Bud and work like surgeons. As they work, they pull more tools from their robes. Again, it’s hard to see, but it looks like they have clamps and sponges, and all kinds of surgical instruments hidden in the folds of their robes.

I don’t see them spreading any ribs or sawing through his sternum, but they’re really going at his chest. Bud’s face seems calm. I hope he’s still alive.

After a few minutes of work, one of the robed surgeons hands a big lump of flesh up to the old man, who is still standing near Bud’s head.

The old man takes it in both hands and holds it up. His hands drip with Bud’s blood.

“We take back this spirit so it may enrich us all. We beg this strange fruit nourish us. We beg.”

“WE BEG.”

The old man turns with Bud’s heart held out and he crouches down. From the perimeter of the room, a woman shuffles up. She takes the heart from the old man and carries it towards the door. She exits. Hands reach up to support the old man as he descends the altar stairs.

On the table, the surgeons wrap up their procedure. They tuck all their instruments back into their robes and retreat back to the walls. They tuck their bloody hands back into their robes and lower their heads as they blend back in with the line of people.

Bud’s alone and naked on the altar.
 

“We thank you for your service,” the old man says over his shoulder towards Bud. It sounds like an afterthought; like it’s not part of the regular ceremony.

Around the altar, the kneeling people rise and many hands reach out to Bud. They lift his body and carry him from the altar. Those at his feet lower, and those at his head raise. Bud’s body is vertical and the attendants back away. To my amazement, he stays upright. To my shock, his eyes open.

He looks down at his chest, where a bloody line drips down to his belly.

Bud raises his hand and wipes at the blood, revealing intact skin. There’s no incision from the surgery.

Now, I doubt the entire ceremony. It has been one of those psychic surgeries like they perform in Brazil on desperate cancer patients. I expel a puff of breath and try not to roll my eyes. I don’t want to disrespect their religious theater right in front of them. I glance around at the hanging Providentials and wonder if even their deaths were real. They’re motionless, but who knows. It could have been another elaborate hoax with fake bags of blood.

A man approaches from Bud’s right and drapes a white robe over his shoulders.
 

A woman approaches from Bud’s left and drives a shiny dagger into his chest.

They’re only a few feet from me. I see his thick, dark blood spouting from the wound. This is real.

Bud falls to his knees. His face registers no pain, no surprise.
 

“Bud!” I strain my arms to reach forward, but the guard holds me back.

Bud falls forward, driving the knife deeper. Its tip tents the robe on his back. Blood blossoms on the white cloth.

“Amongst our sons and daughters, strange fruit grows,” the old man says.

I drag my eyes from Bud and look up. The old man is standing near the head of the altar. Two guards spin me around and I feel my body go stiff. All my muscles are tensed. No matter how hard I fight, I can’t move. My eyes see only flashing colors, and all I hear is my own beating heart and the blood flowing through my veins. When my mouth opens, I hear my own voice say two words. “I do.”

I
WAKE
TO
THE
sound of birds singing. There’s a call and response.
 

“Cheevo chree?” one bird asks.
 

“Cheevio cheat chee,” the other replies.

I open my eyes and see the shadows of dancing leaves on a white canvas tent. I lay on a firm cot. I sit up and put my feet on the floor. They have me in a white robe, like the one they draped on Bud, but mine doesn’t have any blood on it, and my chest doesn’t have a knife buried in it.

I look to the edge of the tent, thinking about Bud’s story. Perhaps I can slip under the flap and run into the forest as he did, escaping the nurses.

Just as I have the thought, a nurse enters. She’s wearing a white uniform and her smile is radiant.
 

“You look better,” she says.

“Better?”

“When they brought you in, you were whiter than that robe,” she says. “Your color looks good now.”

“Oh,” I say. “What about Bud?”

“We’re having a ceremony for all the casualties tomorrow,” she says. She looks down at her feet and folds her hands. Her eyes are swimming in tears. “So many have given us so much.”

“Some gave,” I say. “From others, it was taken.”

“We’ve
all
sacrificed,” she says. When she looks up, her face is harder.

I raise a hand to my chest and begin to feel around. I poke at my sternum, feeling for any tender spots. I wonder if they performed that same fake surgery on me. At least they didn’t top it off with a knife in my chest. At least not yet.

“Are there some clothes around here for me?” I ask. I’ll have an easier escape if I can at least get some clothes and shoes. “Maybe something to eat?”

“I’ll bring your breakfast,” she says, without a smile.

♣
   
♢
   
♡
   
♠

The food is good, and they dress me well. The nurses are my only company for a couple of hours. They don’t leave me alone for more than a few seconds at a time. I’m starting to think it might be easier to make my escape when night falls.
 

Two young men in blue uniforms show up and ask me to come with them. It’s a request, not an order, so I go along.

We walk from the cluster of white tents along a narrow path. The two men are in the lead and they allow me my own pace at the back. I’m getting a good look at the landscape, trying to pick which direction I might run tonight. If I follow Bud’s playbook, I’m looking for the misty stream.