The Kingdom of Shadows (34 page)

The last one . . . his brother. He brought his face down toward the mute object, as though he could lay his cheek against it, to comfort his grief. Still submerged in the basin, Matthi’s face, eyeless, mouth parted, watched him.

Pavli
 . . .

Beyond the roaring of the flames, trembling of the earth under the asylum; and closer, past the hissing of the liquid spilled over the heated instruments – he heard his own name spoken.

Go
 . . .
you cannot stay here
. His brother’s face, beneath the preserving fluids, gazed up at the smoke mounting against the ceiling.
You must go now
 . . .

The surgery fell to silence, the hidden walls drawing away from the dissecting table. Pavli listened but heard no more. His heart slowed from its panic. He felt as if he could close his eyes and his brother would wrap him in embrace, arms things of flesh again, rocking him to sleep in the bed they had shared so long ago.

Go
 . . .

He tilted his hands, letting the wet silk slide from them. It drifted in the water ghostlike, the motion of the fluid swelling the hollowed chest, then letting it sink once more. He turned away from the basin.

The smoke in Ritter’s office had become so dense that he could barely feel his way through. Coughing, eyes watering, he found the desk and stooped down. The object he sought was still there, left behind by Ritter. He grasped the handle of the leather bag and stood up with it.

In the surgery, the flames had grown bright enough for him to see by. He set the open bag next to the basin, then reached into the preserving chemicals. The weight of his brother’s skin, as he raised it from the fluid, surprised him. It hung awkwardly from his grasp, the torso with its rib tattoo dangling between his hands. The shoulders, neck and face at one end, and the empty legs, splayed by the incision flaps at the ankles, at the other, draped into the basin. The fluid ran down to Pavli’s elbows as he lifted the skin higher. He didn’t know how much the chemicals had already done to preserve the thin tissue; it had been only a few hours at most, since Ritter had carefully peeled it away from the flesh beneath. The fear of damaging the skin seized Pavli, a vision of it shredding to tatters in his hands, rags that bore no human resemblance.

He managed to lay the face and neck at the bottom of the bag; the preserving chemicals seeped out into the black leather. Then the shoulders, folding them toward each other to fit them into the cramped space. The flaccid arms and hands slid across his as he placed them inside. The torso, the hips and groin, followed; Ritter’s deftness had rendered the skin into a pliable substance. At last the legs, folded at the knee. The final layer came close to the top of the bag; Pavli carefully closed it up, drawing the strap across and snugging it tight with the metal buckle.

The delicate task had required all his attention. Now he turned and saw how the fire had swallowed the office, the doorway filled with smoke. He tucked the leather bag under his arm, lowered his head and ran toward the flames. His breath scalded his throat; he found the door and stumbled out into the corridor. There the walls were charred and blackened as well. He gulped in air at the broken window before pushing his way through the smoke toward the stairs.

Outside the asylum, he fell onto the muddy, snow-patched ground. The wetness cooled his singed face and hands. The buckle under the bag’s handle raised blisters on his palm; his clothes smelled like scorched wood and paper, overlaid with the chemical scent still dampening his sleeves.

Pavli raised his head and rolled onto his back. The glare from the burning asylum washed over him. Through its windows he could see the second floor, the corridor down which he had run just a few moments ago, give way. The heavy beams, crawling with flames, crashed into the darkness below with a explosion of sparks. The fire had spread through the levels above, the roof breaking open to spew out the reddening clouds of smoke.

Knees trembling, he stood upright. The gates of the barbed-wire fence had been left open; through them, he could see the shadows of the surrounding forest. In the courtyard of the asylum, the trucks and other vehicles had been left behind by the fleeing guards. The earthshaking thunder and flashes of light came from the direction in which the narrow road curved. The guards hadn’t wished to be caught between the approach of the Allied armies and whatever German divisions were still in the area. Pavli could see the guards’ bootprints in the trampled snow, heading for the refuge of the dense trees and brush.

He stood still, letting a wall of silence form around him. In it, he heard a voice whispering once more.

Yes
 . . .

His brother Matthi’s voice. He tilted his head, straining to catch every word.

Now you’ll see. I’ll show you 
. . .
I’ll show you everything
 . . .

He nodded slowly. He had waited for this, his birthright, for so long. Another time had begun.

Flames roared higher, engulfing the asylum and its empty world. He reached down and picked up the bag of black leather and started walking, following the others’ trail into the forest.

* * *

Moonlight broke through the bare trees, scattering like coins across the ground. He had come to a place where the silence was outside him. The eyes of the night creatures, owls and woken ravens, and the creatures that hid among the twisting roots, watched him without fright. They knew as well.

Pavli turned his head, listening. The others were nearby, concealed – for the moment – by the darkness. Ritter and the guards, making their way to some imagined safety. The clashing sounds of war had died away, the retreating army having either made its own escape or been annihilated by the advancing forces. Pavli’s nostrils flared, catching a trace of death stench, the smell of flesh burned and blackened, of bowels torn open by sudden metal. The quiet would make it more difficult for the others, to keep from blundering into the front lines. He would have to be careful, to avoid revealing himself to them; it wasn’t time for that yet. That was what his brother Matthi had told him, as he had fled the burning asylum. The guards would be on edge, raising their weapons against the slightest sound they heard around themselves; a few isolated shots had already rang out, close to him. They were not far away. They would be in reach . . .

He knelt down, setting the bag of black leather in front of him. Then undid the buckle, drawing the strap out from beneath the handle, and pushed the bag open.

Yes
 . . .

His brother’s voice no louder than before. The words breathed at his ear.

That’s right
 . . .

He lifted out the skin, taking the empty wrists in his hands and raising the glove-like hands to the height of his own shoulders. The translucent substance unfolded, the torso straightening from the cramped space. The skin was lighter now, most of the preserving chemicals having leaked through the bag’s stitching. It was still damp to the touch, clinging to Pavli’s own wrists and forearms. He stood up, carrying it with him, until it was completely revealed, a naked ghost, the tattooed wounds drawn stark upon the pale silkiness. His brother’s face lolled forward, cheek against the place where his breastbone had raised two shallow curves.

The skin lay along the ground, a shadow reversed in a photo negative. Pavli stepped back from it. Matthi had told him what he had to do next.

Beneath the trees, he found the fallen branches he needed, one taller than himself, the other a little wider than his shoulders. With a strip torn from his shirt, he bound them into a crucifix. He used the jagged point of one of the branches to dig a hole in the frozen ground, deep enough to hold the cross up when he scraped a mound of dirt and pebbles around its base.

He hung his brother’s skin upon the cross. The forearms dangled from the ends of the horizontal branch, the motion of the night air spreading the empty hands in a gesture of benediction. The hollow legs twisted and caught against the rough bark below. Matthi’s face was held upright by the wood that could be seen behind the holes of mouth and eyes.

Pavli stood before the cross, his eyes raised to meet his brother’s gaze. He closed his own eyes and listened.

Everything 
. . .
I promised I would tell you everything 
. . .

A raven passed beneath the moon. He felt its shadow upon his brow. Around him, in the forest’s silence, the small animals, the toads and winter-starved mice, crept out to watch.

His brother’s hand touched his, the silken fingers soft upon his still-mortal flesh. For a moment, one that didn’t end, as he kept himself unseeing, it was as if his brother had stepped down from the cross, freed himself of it, skin filled with a radiant flesh, bones of diamond light.

This is how 
. . . Matthi’s voice spoke stronger at his ear.
These are the secrets 
. . .

He stepped closer, his brother’s arms folding softly around his shoulders. He didn’t know if it was his hand or his brother’s, that parted his shirt, bared his chest.

Here
. Fingertips touched his unmarked ribs.
And here
. They traced unseen wounds upon his wrists.

Pavli stood half-naked in the forest’s cold and silence, listening to his brother’s voice. There would be things he must do, a great task; that would come. He stood and received his heritage, that which had been denied him, the faith of the Lazarenes.

* * *

He woke from a new dreaming. One in which he had never been before.

The birds of the night had shouted in triumph, far above the forest. He had heard them wheeling against the sky, their black wings blotting out the stars. Even before his brother had finished speaking to him, before he had felt the soft, empty hands clasp around his neck, drawing him toward his brother’s face, as though for the kiss of peace.

Pavli sat up from the ground, feeling its wetness beneath his palms. Grey morning light sifted through the trees. He shivered in his nakedness, the cold drawing ice through the centers of his bones, his jaw trembling uncontrollably. He looked to one side and saw someone else still sleeping, body sprawled across a mound of rotting-black leaves; farther away, under a thicket of close-knit twigs was another one.

He stood up, crystals of ice stinging his bare feet. With his arms tight around himself for warmth, he looked down at the nearest sleeper. It was one of the guards; he could recognize the SS uniform. Or what was left of it – the trousers and jacket had been slashed to ribbons. Blood had soaked through the ragged edges of cloth, spreading in a pool beneath the shoulders and the backs of the legs. The chest and abdomen was exposed, revealing the diagonal wound, pink coils of viscera loosened beneath the shattered ribcage. The stilled heart had been cut nearly in two, a red fist now spread open.

The other guard’s throat had been slashed, deep enough to show the hard knots of spine below the trachea. His eyes were still open, registering shock; Pavli looked down at him, remembering the same face, the same expression, from his dreaming. The guard had looked over his shoulder and had screamed, trying to raise his rifle, but it had been too late.