Clockwork Phoenix 4 by Mike Allen

Author:Mike Allen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: new weird, interstitial, anthology, fantasy, slipstream, horror, science fiction, short stories
Publisher: Mythic Delirium Books
Published: 2013-07-25T04:00:00+00:00

Two: Day in Night

Non Qmnis Moriar—

Behold the voiceless wordless voice proclaimed.

It flung aside the curtains of unknowing and there, before him, lay an infinite vista. But it was a view without a single image in it.

Behold…

Non Omnis—the inscription, time-gnawed or hacked away.

BEHOLD—

Corlan woke, sitting bolt upright, like a puppet yanked into position on strings. His head rang and the room cartwheeled. He was back in the bloody kitchen. He could not recall returning here. Perhaps he had never left it, only got up and eaten the food—the bowl stood empty that had held the soup … or had it held curdled blood and milk? Crumbs on the table, the decanter of gin one quarter less. So, got up, eaten, drunk, lain down again and slept, dreamed of roaming the stenchful ruins, lighting fires, while some maleficent entity fastened upon him. Utter nonsense.

Deep in his sinews he felt the horror stir. He resisted instinctively, since it did not exist.

The old woman—Teda?—was creeping into the kitchen, sparing him a solitary glance fraught with misgiving, or—could it be compassion?

Corlan rose, nodded to her, and went out into the courtyard behind the other, broken kitchen, to relieve himself, and wash his hands and face in the cleaner pockets of the rain.

These procedures did little for him. He felt like death. He had a fever, he thought. But never mind that, today he must get on. If he could buy a handful more food, some drinkable water, he could continue on his journey to the eastern borders. This was his only method now he had become an outcast. Or, he supposed, he could go back and give himself up to the army, let them strip him of all honour and shoot or hang him amid the trees.

He found Teda had brought him a cracked china cup of coffee, and his eyes filled with sentimental tears. Through them he glimpsed the crooked distortion of her hands. What was it? Old age and rheumatism, no doubt. He thanked her and drank and said, “There’s a wolf sleeps in this house.”

“Yes,” she said, softly. “That is Hris.”

“Hris—a wolf. A choice pet.”

“Not a pet. Always about. In former days.”

He downed the coffee like medicine. “You mean, do you, when your master was—alive.” If ever he was alive, Corlan added to himself. But deep within his body or his brain, the horror twitched, nearly lazily now, comfortable with him. Shake it off. “Who was this master?”

“We don’t speak of him.”

“Why not?”

“It is—” she left a long gap. She said, “There are partings, sir. Severences.”

True, he thought. Death severs people. But The Master was not people—he did not die. He remained, and drank his coffee—blood—or else dined on the flesh and skeletons—of human things.

Corlan got up again and staggered, must hold on to the table to keep himself upright. A fever. Damnation—to be ill when it was so urgent to travel far away—

“You’ve been generous,” he said, “but I’ll be off in an hour. Is there any food I might buy from you—”

She had gone.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.