GUD Magazine Issue 3 :: Autumn 2008 Read online

  "The daemon. Have you tried to capture it?"

  "Are you mad?” says Sor Feerah. “It will destroy all that is holy in whoever gets near it.” Dakar nods.

  "So then ... you've just let it be, ravaging the city, stealing the hopes of the Fachim,” I say, and regret it at once.

  "You give me your advice now, Adan? I sent you message after message asking for your help for the past two years, and did you reply? You say this to me now.” Dakar shakes his head. “It's taken the sinking of Isiola to bring you back to Fachi. Give me the benefit of the doubt."

  "I'm sorry,” I say to the floor. “That was wrong of me.” He's silent, and I realize it was a mistake to come back.

  But for one thing.

  "The euchomifier? Is there water to run it?"

  "There's some,” says Dakar, moving toward a closed door. “The machine is still up in the cloister.” The tone of his voice makes me wish I hadn't come back ... almost. I turn to the stairway.

  "Adan,” Dakar says from the door, his hand on the knob. Sor Feerah is following me. “So you've come. What do you plan to do?"

  "I'll tell you when I know.” It's a lie. He nods and turns to leave.

  "How many perished in Isiola?” I say; the words almost stick in my throat.

  He speaks, but it is a whisper.

  "What?"

  "Twenty-seven,” Dakar says. “Though not all washed up on shore."

  "And the rest—they're here?” Too many people around would complicate my plan.

  "No. They've gone to Chinguetti by caravan. They were afraid. They didn't want to stay near Isiola."

  I nod again, not trusting my voice.

  Dakar looks at me hard, then motions to Sor Feerah to come with him. I've turned back to the cloister stairway when I hear him say to her quietly, but not quietly enough, “It's better to let him go up there alone."

  * * * *

  The doorknob in my hand turns with startling familiarity and draws me back to when the daemon in the city was mere rumor, and I still bishop, and Fachi sound. At the center of the round chamber, a kerosene lamp casts a halo over the euchomifier—the grand onionshaped dome, the large mouth for euchoi, all the cogs and wheels,the silver drum of water, the network of channels where water moves into the heating chamber, the iron stove that changes water to steam. And there are the ivory pipes from which it emits the celestial vibration, the voice that speaks to God in His own language—for the euchomifier translates prayer, invested in bronze coins, into the tongue of the cosmos. Wishes, hopes, pleas resonate in metal as the euchomifier reworks them into the ephemeral fabric of Heaven, so God can see the images of the human tapestry.

  The frequencies were discovered by Egyptian mystics four thousand years ago, a marriage of science and religion recorded in papyrus codices, and first tested in the construction of their pyramids. Moorish technology rendered that theoretical knowledge empirical.

  Running the euchomifier is an epiphany. Seeing it, I must touch it again at once, must lay my hands on the dome, which resonates with residual grace. This is what I came back for: to be in its presence when it speaks to God.

  Some have asked me how we know the machine works. When the hand of God sweeps past and the breeze brushes you, it rearranges the inner cogwork of your being. You simply know. The machine works as surely as I breathe.

  When I can bear to take my hands from it, I stoke the fire beneath the machine. With the heat of the flames on my face, I open the spigot to the water drum. A thin stream trickles down the channel into the chamber above the fire. I pull the lever at the side of the dome, and pistons stir and cogs begin to rotate. I place a handful of euchoi from my pocket in the mouth of the euchomifier. The dome of the machine begins to vibrate. This is the moment before reality unweaves and the essence of each of the euchoi is lifted to another plane. My hands on the water channel are shaking only partly because of the reverberation of the machine.

  But abruptly the vibration ceases, and the coins drop through the dome without releasing anything through the pipes. Where a bag would have been placed had I not been so eager, they hit the stone floor with a pitiful muted clink.

  It's the sound of a city tapped dry and dropping away piece by piece, saturated with the salt of fear, without water or prayer to wet it and keep it whole.

  That sound echoes in my mind for a long time.

  * * * *

  I wake to Sor Feerah leaning over me.

  "Bishop Dakar! Frer Doctor Khatib!” she cries toward the open door.

  Someone appears in the doorway. “What's happened?” he says.

  "Go get Frer Khatib,” Sor Feerah says. “Adan's fallen into a fit.” I try to prop myself up off the cold stone floor; euchoi press into my palms. I'm on the pile of them at the foot of the euchomifier.

  I must have fainted—I remember the machine not working, and my needing, needing it to. I can tell by the light at the window that I've been here for some time. “I've got to destroy the daemon,” I tell Sor Feerah.

  "Don't try to talk,” she says. “You're as white as a Hadez robe."

  "It's taken the prayers. It's taken the epiphany. I'm going to destroy it."

  Her eyes narrow at me. “It's the euchoi you want. You can't help yourself.” Then she frowns. “No, it's the machine you want."

  The night passes as Khatib and Dakar tend me. By morning, the fit has been replaced with determination to carry out my plan. Outfitting my camel at the stall, I'm not surprised to see Sor Feerah approach, a look of exasperation and trepidation on her face.

  "Dakar's request?” I say.

  She nods, and loads her bag onto a camel in silence.

  Since Dakar has tended the shrines on the east side of Fachi, I set out, Sor Feerah with me, toward the shrines on the west side. There we will garner the euchoi that will serve as bait for the daemon.

  We take bags for euchoi and little else, for little will protect one against a creature of dark. There is prayer, but prayer takes time.

  * * * *

  By late afternoon, sacks full of euchoi hang over the camels’ shaggy humps. We can't reach the fourth shrine, on the far side of Fachi, before twilight, so while Sor Feerah remains with the full sacks, I find a household willing to give two Yahvists shelter for the night.

  Fear of the daemon chases people into their huts and tents at twilight. Dakar told me as much in his letters, but I did not anticipate Fachi could be like this. Joyous, carefree Fachi is no more. The sun has been down only a few hours, but the west side of the city is quiet.

  Lying on a mat in the main room, with the sleep-noises of strangers around, I hear another sound, distant and strange, isolated notes of an alien wail that raises the hair on my arms and snags the breath in my throat.

  I rise without a sound and pick my way to the entrance of the unfamiliar hut. I take a step into the night-shrouded street, and another toward the sound. Soon, I am hurrying through quiet, narrow passages. Sand whispers as my feet scatter it.

  As I get closer, the wail becomes more audible, as gradually as stars coming out at night.

  Closer still, I realize with relief that it's not the wail of something daemonic, but music. I hurry toward it, toward a row of travelers’ tents at the end of the street. This, music at night: it's a shard of the Fachi I used to know.

  I'm standing outside the skin tent the music's coming from when it stops. I clear my throat. There's a rustle and the tent flap is drawn back.

  "I am disturbing you?” says a slight figure through the accent of a Berber dialect. I recognize her as the girl who was playing an imzhad near the monastery.

  "It's not safe to play at night,” I say.

  "The daemon does not come close to here,” she says, her Arabic rough but intelligible.

  "You'll attract its attention and draw it here."

  "Maybe so, but God is with me when I play, so I do not fear it.” She steps out of the tent.

  "Still—"

  "Frer, will you hear another song?” Befor
e I can say no, she's settled onto the sand with the instrument in her lap, her bow on the string. The song takes off like a flock of birds from an acacia tree. I glance around uneasily, for it's too loud and wild. I'm about to stop her when the strain changes. She integrates an eerie drone with a high phrase whirling around it again and again, hypnotic. Eyes closed, swaying, she races the bow across the string as her fingers dance on the instrument's neck.

  She is lost to me, I can see, and has forgotten me standing nearby. She's reveling—and I'm transfixed. Seeing her thus makes me recall the euchomifier. That's what she's feeling.

  She strums with sudden fervor and concludes with a flourish, her arm and bow reaching for the sky. The last note stands like the North Star in the night.

  I cannot speak. Clapping emanates from a nearby tent and across the lane.

  "Nice, no?” she says, smiling.

  "Yes.” It takes me a moment to collect myself. “But what about these other people? You can't be endangering the entire area like th—"

  "They know they are safe,” she says, waving the bow off-handedly.

  "No more tonight, all right?” I say.

  "If that's what you want."

  But I want her to continue. I want to give her something. I reach into my pocket for euchoi, and hold a few of them out to her.

  "Here,” I say. This is familiar. For a moment it feels like I'm three years in the past. “There are taxes on our euchoi in Fachi. These will ease your way.” I try to drown out what Dakar and Sor Feerah said earlier; I want to give this girl something in return for her music. “There are twelve shrines in the city; you may put these at any of them."

  "Oh, Allah bless you, but no thank you,” she says.

  "What do you mean?” I say. “It's no hardship, believe me. I'm one of the monks who tend the shrines."

  "You gave me these before, yes? I do not need them."

  "You don't pray?” I say.

  "Oh, I do. But I do not need those for praying."

  "These are how God hears us."

  "You think no one can talk to God but your way? I have my own way."

  "What way is that?” There's an edge to my voice I can't keep out.

  She shrugs. “My way. That's all."

  "Tell me your way."

  "What way seems right. You choose how. Use those. Or not,” she says, waving the bow at my handful of coins.

  "You don't get to choose how to relate to God. God is what He is,” I say. “You take yourself to God. He isn't ours to command and tell when to come and g—"

  "Tafat!” interrupts a woman's call from inside the tent.

  The girl answers, “Yes, coming.” She's going back inside when she turns to me. “God can be as close as the bow on the string. But, no worry, there is no more music tonight, Frer."

  Then she's gone, and I'm left standing in the dark with a handful of empty euchoi.

  * * * *

  Maybe I believe her: she needn't fear the daemon. God is near when she plays.

  Maybe that's why I turn away from the passage leading back to where Sor Feerah sleeps and begin to close the distance between myself and the far west-side shrine. Passing palms and wizened acacias, I am vigilant for the creature of dark—what it would look like, I do not know. But for a few exhilarating moments, I go without fear.

  The shrine emerges, a black form in the moonlight. I duck inside. Cool under my hands, the altar euchoi haven't been touched by the daemon for some time. Prayers still lie in all but those at the very bottom of the dish—many prayers with which to lure the creature. I'm moving euchoi from the bowl into my pockets when a muted clicking outside the shrine freezes me mid-reach. Without moving, I look to the doorway. But the moonlit entrance is empty. Somewhere just outside is the Hadez daemon.

  I ease away from the bowl and back toward the wall, watching the open shrine door. The relentless mechanical click mingles with a low hiss like a snake's. I slump against the wall, wishing myself invisible.

  The doorway is eclipsed by a form that jerks into view. Even as it stands motionless, its body seems to writhe and shift. It clicks like a clock. Dread grips me as a tongue darts out into the moonlight, tasting the air.

  Then its body is made of tongues, a dozen tongues flicking out. Tasting for me.

  Every tongue's mouth hisses.

  The creature steps into the building. Waves of cold air wash through the shrine. Its head oscillates and stills. It clicks once, twice, again, too many times to count.

  Then it lurches back into the night. For a moment, while the silver light plays across it, I see its body shifting and sliding over itself like oil over water.

  * * * *

  I wake to sunlight, to Sor Feerah helping me back into the warm open air. She doesn't speak and she doesn't ask me how I came to be curled into a corner of the shrine. Maybe she doesn't need to ask to know.

  We make our way back to the monastery with enough euchoi for my undertaking. The entire way, Sor Feerah sings and does not look at me.

  * * * *

  Another twilight has emptied the streets and alleys of Fachi. At the monastery, there is better reason for fear this night than most others in recent memory. On the doorstep is a pile of euchoi. I have warned Bishop Dakar to not leave his chamber tonight—to bar his door, and to instruct the other monks to do the same. He did not ask me why, did not need to when he saw the euchoi of four shrines in a small cell off the hall beyond the cloister.

  "You'll need someone to help,” he said, gazing over the bags of euchoi.

  "You're the bishop. The people need you,” I told him.

  "There are others."

  I shook my head. “Too many went down with Isiola already. I won't be responsible for more.” I left him there in the cell with the light streaming from high windows across the euchoi, glinting bronze as though they were sunlight made metal, barely tangible at all.

  Now they are dull and heavy in the gloom of the foyer. Their faint metallic smell mingles with the uncanny silence of the monastery. Gathered into a few grain sacks upon the stone floor are these thousands of tender prayers, pleas, last hopes. I place one sack inside the foyer and another at the bottom of the staircase up to the cloister.

  The thought that these will be sacrificed to the daemon makes me ill, but I am afraid it will not dare the monastery for less. My only consolation is that not all of them will be lost. At least I can hope for that. I can pray.

  So I take one of the euchoi from the bag just inside the cloister door—there isn't time to pay the fee. I stoke the fire in the euchomifier and turn the spigot that releases the water. Holding the coin in my right hand, over and over I whisper the invocation. I focus my hope into a pinpoint and exhale a sharp breath. I can feel it warm in my hand, an otherworldly heat.

  I toss it into the broad mouth of the euchomifier dome. The single coin alone in the enormous mouth is disquieting. A handful from the nearby bag scattered in the metal mouth is better. These few will be spared the daemon's appetite.

  I pull the lever. Subtly at first, the machine trembles, and then the vibration spreads from this plane out, up. The world around the machine unravels. I stand bare as the eye of God looks upon the tapestry woven for Him.

  A long time after, I lie panting, insensible. But I draw myself up; I must go on with the plan.

  The machine is ready. I damp down the fire, gather what I'll need, and kneel inside the cloister doorway.

  And wait.

  * * * *

  The daemon is sifting through the bag at the bottom of the stairs, scattering euchoi across the stone floor. Finding no sustenance in the shrines, it has made its way to the center of Fachi, to the monastery. Its ticking, its chorus of hissing and flicking tongues, raises the hair on the back of my neck. From the impermanent mouths on its body come tiny shrieks. Ever-crescendoing, high, piercing, they finish in sudden gruesome silence.

  The daemon is devouring prayers.

  More hissing and the incessant clicking as it scatters more euch
oi—then another chorus of shrieks.

  I listen as it climbs slowly up the stairs until it is just outside the cracked door. It's so close now, if I were to reach through the door, I might touch it in the dark. But that would be premature.

  It eases into the chamber, bringing with it a nimbus of cold; a shiver scuttles across my back. It creeps toward the euchomifier, where a pile of euchoi lies.

  It's but a few steps from me.

  I take a breath. I light the match under the stove, and the black form flares before me; the edges of it writhe, mouths opening and closing, disappearing and reappearing elsewhere on its body. It turns, but I'm on my feet, ready to push it.

  I hit the daemon full-on and collide with cold machinery. Ephemeral mouths close upon me, gnawing, licking. We careen forward—

  a door in me closes; my light is put out—

  and it falls partway into the mouth of the euchomifier. It struggles beneath me, and I try to hold it while I reach for the lever ... reach ... and pull, and the pistons begin to bob, the wheels begin to turn. I can feel the euchomifier vibrating, so I know it must be working, but I have no sense at all that the machine is working. Struggling, the daemon hisses with transient mouths. My skin sears with cold where I touch it, holding it in the machine. The smell of burning fills the air.

  The euchomifier lurches, and an explosion in the dome knocks me away. As I hit the stone floor, a chorus of ethereal screams comes from the pipes at the top of the machine. They evanesce into a wisp of sound, a hiss, a sigh. The euchomifier's wheels and pistons slow to a stop.

  I sit up painfully and crawl through scattered euchoi to the machine. The bowl of it is cracked. A pile of cogs and wheels rests in its mouth.

  I cannot bear to look at the fractured euchomifier. I turn from it and gather euchoi up in my hands.

  I can't feel a damn prayer in a single one of them. I can't feel anything at all.

  * * * *

  For weeks after, I dream of being on Isiola as it sinks into an ocean of empty euchoi. The clinking roar as they roil in waves blots out Feerah's and Dakar's cries from shore.

  I dream of the daemon devouring the hallowed fabric of me, so that when I crawl into the euchomifier to reach God, all I hear is Him saying, There's nothing here, there's nothing here, there's nothing here.