Episode 12

Previously…
 

“Hurry, hurry, the boy is here…I can smell him. The wind has changed and I have him here,” she said, pointing at her hooked nose, and looking towards the burgeoning east.

“We can’t let this one get away. Come on, come on, for Beelzebub’s sake hurry…hurry.”

“The devil’s always in a hurry,” muttered Carrapacchio under his breath. “Always seeking mischief to cool her boiling blood.” And then in a loud voice; “Why is this boy so important, oh gruelling one?” he said, more to annoy her with stupid questions than any real need to know. Who knows what madness drives this devil’s sow. He certainly did not care.

“Because he’s my ticket out of here. No more schlepping through the shit with you.”

“But how can the boy get you out of here?”

“Because he comes from the other land, you fool.”

“They all come from the other land, oh gloating one.”

“Yes, but this one’s not dead.” She hawked and spat into the morning dirt. “…………..not yet!”

A bloody red dawn spilt across the dunes as they mounted up and rode into the rising sun.

And now...

The old lady coughs, hunched over in the morning dew. This is not a good time for her. Her old bones ache from sleeping on the hard ground. She looks up at the boy. He is becoming excited by the prospect of the journey. He takes up his bag full of rock-salt, and the other of salted snakes, and stands waiting. Behind them the camel kicks up a hell of a moan. She is a spavined old creature and won’t get up easily. The messenger takes out his stick and whacks the lazy old thing on her rump, to which she gives an indignant bellow of protest and tries to bite him on the ankle, her long neck flying out with unaccustomed speed. She is a bad tempered old lady that hates to walk…and even more to run – god forbid – with her old splayed out toes. Her skin however is as soft as silk with bristly whiskers on her chin, and the longest tongue the boy had ever seen. Her big black eyes and beautiful lashes remind the boy of someone, but he can’t quite put his finger on whom.

It takes forever to get going, what with one thing and another, but finally they are walking in a single file along the ruined roads, between the broken houses with their blackened beams and shattered glass, half submerged in the encroaching desert sands. After the city walls had fallen the dust storms had swept in unopposed. Soon there would be no sign of the civilization that once existed here.

Occasionally the travelling band sees someone sitting despondently against a derelict and dusty wall – head hanging in hopelessness, or some couple doing a dirty deed in the dust. Dogs and thieves have made a home in these ruins…and whores like the old lady. Her cracked flat feet slap at the dust. She feels herself withering under the fierce glare of the sun, her torn parasol not much protection. On and on, one monotonous mile after the next they trudge, this little trio and their camel, seemingly going nowhere as the scenery never changes, broken buildings as far as the eye can see.

Sand and concrete dust cake around their lips…grit in their eyes. For the old lady it’s worse. Sand settles in her cracks and creases until she looks like a stone man. She coughs more and more with every mile. The boy is worried about her and walks close by her side.

“She isn’t well,” he calls to the messenger.

“I warned her,” he says without looking back. “This is no journey for old ladies.”

“Why don’t you let her ride on the camel?”

“The camel is weak. No water.”

“But she weighs nothing. Look at her.”

The messenger stops and surveys the old lady. She does look a sorry sight.

“Alright.” And in one movement he hoists her high onto the camel’s back, which sags dramatically.

“GAAARRRRRR,” comes the expected complaint, but the camel keeps walking.

They settle down into the sultry silence once again, but the boy is bored. He takes out a small salt rock and chews it for a while.

“How much further?” he asks.

“It is a journey’s length.”

“How long will it take?”

“It will take a measure of time.”

The boy ruminates on the wisdom of this.

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Senjur.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means nothing.”

Pause.

“My name is…..” he nearly had it then; on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t know.”

“Good. If you have no name you cannot be summoned. You are a free man.”

“You are not free.”

“No. I am not free. Everyone calls my name. I am always busy.”

The camel farts and the boy giggles.

“The camel testifies to what I say.”

They walk in silence for a while.

“Where do you come from,” he asks finally.

Senjur shrugs.

“Nowhere. I was called and I came. That is all.”

“But we saw you come out of the desert. Do you live there?”

“No one lives there. Not even me. I live only because I was called. More than that I do not know.”

“Who called you?”

“You did.”

“No I didn’t.”

The messenger doesn’t argue.

“What about your mother and father?” continues the boy, determined to get to the bottom of this matter.

“The desert is my mother and father.”

The boy looks at him with a suspicious eye, not quite sure what to make of his answers.

The camel farts again.

“You could say the desert farted me out.”

The boy laughs at the image this conjures up in his head. He knows he isn’t going to get a satisfactory answer out of him. He picks up a stone and throws it into the ruins, keeping a beady eye out for snakes and suchlike to salt and add to his collection.

“I’m hungry,” he complains to the messenger.

“It will soon be too hot to travel. Then we will eat.”

Without warning Clytemnestra sags to her knees and lays down in the sand. The old lady is nearly thrown over her head for she had been fast asleep in the saddle. They find some shade behind a kitchen wall and the boy falls asleep before the camel is unloaded.

The messenger and the old woman sit and talk in hushed tones by the fire. They are sharing a roll-up cigarette between them, the night a bubble over them. The boy wakes up and watches them for a long while, then he gets up and saunters over. They stop talking when he gets close, and look up at him expectantly.

“Hello, little worm,” she says, her face a beacon of love for him.

“What were you talking about?”

“Things.”

“What things?”

“How grown up you are,” she says.

He looks at her wrinkled face and her stained yellow teeth. He wants something. He doesn't like her talking alone to the messenger. He is jealous of her. All of her. She belongs to him. He needs to claim her back.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

She laughs, but stops herself quickly.

“Sorry. It’s not funny. I didn’t mean to laugh. You just surprised me. No one wants to kiss me anymore.”

“What about those men,” he says, indicating into the darkness.

“They didn’t want to kiss me. They…I am old and ugly. They only want….”

“No, you’re not. I think you’re beautiful.” He stands defiantly in front of her.

There is a pause, and she looks at him with her calm face. She holds out her hands to him. “Please come and sit with me.”

With honour partially satisfied he goes and sits at her feet. He loves her feet. He loves looking at them. He would love to dare to touch them but she is a goddess…and he is only just a little boy.

“I still want to kiss you,” he says with one eye on the messenger. But his bravado sits uncomfortably on his shoulders. He feels…artificial, but he can’t help himself.

“Maybe later,” she says in his ear and his heart does a little flip-flop.

The messenger sits unmoved by this interaction, staring deeply into the fire, as if he can read the future therein. After a while he speaks.

“It is too hot during the day. We must travel by night.”

The messenger picks up a stone and throws it at one of the lonely ones who have ventured too close. They aren’t normally dangerous, but they don’t want to take any chances.

“The mad ones are becoming restless. We must move soon.”

“I thought you called them the lonely ones.”

“There is no difference.”

They walk one behind the other in the darkness; the messenger and camel in front, then the old lady, and then the boy. He feels happy with her familiar form ahead of him.

They walk in silence for many miles through the shadowy landscape. Unidentifiable outlines of shapes rise up and subside as they go by.

 The boy notices bits of fog and mist floating by in the corner of his eye. He rubs his eyes but the floating fog bits are still there. No one else seems to notice. Occasionally a bigger blob of mist detaches itself from a house they are passing and follows them, drifting just above the ground. He can’t see them if he looks directly at them and has to look away to the side to catch a glimpse of them. He shivers. There are many of them now….still no one else notices. The clouds or swirls of fog come in all sizes. But he still can’t be sure that he’s not seeing things, and like all children he doesn’t want to say anything in case the others laugh at him, or think he’s stupid…or scared.

The rags of mist are becoming more plentiful now and pressing in closer to the trio. Then, right before his eyes, one of the blobs attaches itself to the old lady’s back. She doesn’t seem to notice and just plods on into the night, her calloused feet automatically stepping in between the rubble and broken bricks strewn in their path.

Then another sliver of mist attaches itself to her…and another. Soon she looks like a walking cloud. She stumbles and the boy can see she is struggling to keep herself upright. The fog seems to weigh her down, but the boy finds himself strangely not worried. It has a kind of luminescence that mesmerizes him into not caring…almost, for his attachment to the old lady is very strong. The boy moves forward to help but the cloud pushes him back. The old woman’s breathing is laboured now.

“Hey Mr. Messenger…”

The messenger stops and turns and the old woman nearly bumps into him. She is clearly in distress.

“Something’s wrong with her.”

The messenger runs a critical eye over her. “I told her she would slow us down. She needs to rest for a while.”

“No!” shouts the boy, instinctively knowing that this is a bad idea. This is what the cloud wants, for her to lie down so they can take her.

“There is stuff hanging from her,” he points, but the messenger sees nothing.

“What stuff?”

“Like mist. Misty blankets hanging on to her. Can’t you see?”

“No.” He thinks for a moment. “They must be echoes.”

“What?”

“They are echoes of the people who used to live here.”

“You mean like ghosts?”

“Yes. That is another word.”

“Why are they holding on to her?”

“They are trying to claim her. You are right. She must not lie down, or else she is gone.”

“But how do we get them off her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know much about echoes.”

The old lady’s eyes are closed and her head hangs limply on her chest. Once again the boy tries to approach her but the fog pushes him away. He sticks out his hand to grab her but it just turns numb and he withdraws it.

“Why do they want her?”

“Maybe she is close to death. Maybe she is dead already and refuses to go,” he shrugs. “I don’t know. There are many stages of death.”

“But they can’t have her,” says the boy frantically. “I need her.”

The camel makes a ‘Garrrrr’ noise in agreement. The old lady is on her last legs. It is all that she can do to remain standing.

“Water,” she croaks.

“We have no more,” says the messenger.

The boy stares at her, appalled at what is happening. But he has to save her. He just won’t lose her.

Then he does the only thing that little boys know how to do. He drops his pants and urinates on her.

As the drops of urine fall on her parchment-like skin, there is a flurry and flapping of ghostly forms desperately trying to detach themselves, first from the urine soaked parts of her body, and then altogether. Within a short while they have all fled in disgust. The boy stands looking at her…not quite sure what to do now.

The old lady’s breathing becomes easier and her eyes open. The boy walks to her and puts his arms around her. She doesn’t often touch him, because he doesn’t belong to her – so it’s a thrilling feeling when he puts his arms around her. They stand forever in the moonlit ruins. He doesn’t want to let her go. She infuses him with warmth and sensuality…and happiness – his body yearns for her

“You are right,” says the messenger. “They don’t like water. We must find some soon, for they will be back. We must also travel by day now, for they cannot touch us then, and sleep by night. They will not be able to find her when she is asleep – for our souls go elsewhere when we dream. I think we should rest for the remainder of this night. They will not bother us as you have anointed her so liberally, and as I say, they will not find her once she is asleep.” The messenger shakes out a blanket and places it on the ground. “We must also not speak of them anymore or they will be drawn to us. Echoes are very sensitive things.”

The next day, once they are on their way, the boy cannot help but talk about them again.

“Why do they want to take her away,” asks the boy again. The incident has upset him. He feels anxious and worried about the old lady now.

There is no answer from the messenger. The boy tugs at the old lady’s rags.

“Why do they want you?”

The old lady looks at him sadly.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m dead.”

“But you’re not dead,” says the boy.

“The messenger has told you that there are many levels of death. Maybe I am half dead.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe I have unfinished business. Maybe I am alive because I have been sent to help you…I don’t know.”

“What unfinished business?”

“Something I didn’t do when I was alive. Perhaps I’m getting a second chance. Maybe you’re my second chance.”

“And the messenger? Is he also dead?”

“No – not in that way. He doesn’t live here…in the land. He only comes when he is called.”

“And what about the lonely ones? The ones like you, who live here in the ruins?” He wanted to say ‘the ones you fuck for your food and tobacco’ but that would have hurt her. He still feels jealous of them though and it hurts him to think of her lying with them.

“They look alive to me.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they are also waiting for their second chance. Maybe they also have unfinished business. Maybe the desert will send them someone to look after…like you.”

“And am I dead too?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she says after some deliberation.

“Then why am I here? And why can’t I remember my mother…and my family…and friends. Where are they?” The boy looks around him. “I didn’t always live by the gate.”

Still the old lady remains silent.

The messenger looks at him and begins speaking.

“You are at death’s door,” he says with finality. “Death cannot decide whether you are to enter the gate – or whether he will send you back to where you came from.”

At the mention of death the camel gives a snort and rolls her eyes rather wildly.

“All I know for sure, is that if that woman following us catches you, you will never go home again. So come. We must hurry now. Clytemnestra has caught a whiff of something ugly in the air.”

“And what about her…the demon lady?”

Once again it is the messenger who answers.

“She is a feeder – she stays alive, in a manner of speaking, by feeding on the energy left behind by the people who have died…like the echoes.”

“Then why is she after me?”

“Because you are in no man’s land and are fair game…and you have plenty of energy. If she taps you she will be very powerful. With all your energy she could live forever.”

This is also one of the reasons why the old lady refrains from touching the boy too much, especially when she needs comfort. It is alright if he touches her, but she knows that every time she touches him in need, she takes energy away from him – his life force. Skin touching skin is the most powerful way of exchanging or transferring energy – especially the palms of the hand and the lips where all the nerve endings are. One kiss from that demon lady and the boy would die within moments.

“GAAARRRRRRRRRR,” roars the camel, and begins to prance around as if she’s on hot coals.

“Mount up,” says the messenger to the old lady. “We must move swiftly now, she is closer than we think. The echoes have been speaking to her, and giving her directions.”