As a reminder to all subscribers and new folks who find themselves here, Inking Out Loud will be taking a break from March 2 through May 4.
On it’s return, IOL will be debuting Heart of Stone, a political fantasy of manners, in twice-weekly installments over the course of several months. Stay tuned and stay warm Inklings.
“The Spaniard” is a serialized novella.
Synopsis:
A lone gaucho traverses a barren landscape in a 1930s era alternate world, chasing a shade that took what he loved most from him. Joining him is the mysterious Gunslinger, a woman he has met only in dreams, and a trickster spirit, who may or may not have an agenda of his own.
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This week’s episode:
In the final confrontation between good and evil, the Spaniard must make a choice for the sake of the one he loves most.
Relief was nowhere in sight once he reached the last stair. Straining for any kind of sound, he was met only with the quiet ringing in his own ears, the shallow breath rattling through his chest. He couldn’t relax. Each time he surpassed a doorway, he had checked for foot soldiers, and been met, thankfully, with nothing. The silence and lack of activity unnerved him.
The Ziggurat was a silent grave, a decaying stone tomb built to some ancient god or demon that had packed up its suitcase and vacated for better locales long ago.
A rat would have been welcome at this point. The curling legs of the giant centipede killed in the tunnel in appeared in his mind, and he shuffled it away.
The last landing was dimly lit, the sigils barely emitting anything useful that could have been called luminescence. His eyes strained in the murky light to distinguish dark from shadow, and he struggled. He’d left his Tesla Torch with the Gunfighter, which still seemed a good idea in retrospect. Too much light might give his position away, especially if there were sentries stationed further ahead, or behind, sneaking up on soft feet and getting the jump on him from behind. He pressed on the memories; going right would take him directly to the front of the Ziggurat. If he continued to the left as he had been, there would be two entrances: the first lead to a shallow doorway that opened on the left side of the building; the second, further down the hall, wound around the back and would open more widely onto what would have been an altar set upon a dais with five stone steps at the center of the room. Through the first entrance, both hallways connected at the back of the structure, with each hallway running parallel beneath a twin hall above it. Those hallways had windows carved every two meters, to allow the natural light in. Once he reached the entryway to the main room, he would need to ascend another short staircase of five tall stairs. If it was more hidden, he might be able to sneak his way in. But he couldn’t be sure what he would find.
The Ziggurat, from the memories he had gleaned, was built like an ascending labyrinth, with a central column supporting the structure from the base to the top. How it supported the structure this way didn’t make sense to him, but he had not built it. He only needed to navigate it effectively to get to his son.
The shadows around him were not a comfort in the darkness. It permeated menacingly, like the cold had through his boots. There was still only silence. No matter how high up he might be in the structure, he doubted if he would hear wind blowing against the stone. There was not even a stirring of a draft. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a dim light falling onto the stone floor, ahead by fifty paces. Stealthily, he sped up and was within a few feet when he heard the rustle of someone shifting.
“I know you’re there, scuttling in the dark, like a beetle.”
The voice startled him, and he stopped, holding his breath. The voice carried from the opening ahead.
“Come out, come out, come out little beetle. I have a tasty morsel waiting for you.” The voice purred; it was deep and mellifluous, like smooth chocolate rolling off the tongue. There was a hint of a smile at the end of its words.
“They won’t bite; you can come to me and see our little family gathered here.”
The Spaniard approached the stone archway. It stood about three meters tall, giving a view of the distant ceiling of the Ziggurat’s tower. The sentries stationed on either side of the doorway did not move, save for their eyes, which watched him with vigilant interest. Their stillness unnerved him.
Then again, everything about this place, from the cold to the smell to the stone itself, felt wrong.
The chamber was a massive square, supported by eight fat, doric columns. Painted figures and lush green foliage was barely discernible in the half-light, the images cracked and paint crumbling from age. High above, a large oval had been formed in the roof of the Ziggurat, now partially obscured by some kind of shade. What light there was, reflected off of mirrors perched carefully high above their heads, shining dusty beams to the ground.
It had been a grand place once. In the corners, the Spaniard could see desiccated figures in various forms of repose where they’d fallen, or been tossed, and in varying stages of decay, based on the smell. In the center of the room the Sinaqua had built a great dais of stone, and centered upon it, a long altar at waist height. A handful of children of various ages, eight in total, were scattered around the room. Two youngsters, maybe eight or nine, played dice. The others seemed to be laying on one another against pillars, sleeping or lolling. There was little to entertain a child, from what he could see of the place.
Sentry pairs were posted at each of the four doors, eight in total. He would not be able to take them all.
In the center of the chamber, sitting in a relaxed position and leaning on one arm, sat Zalmon. The Spaniard stood between two pillars, keeping a pair of sentries within sight of either side of him. As he appeared, Zalmon lazily turned his head, eyes narrowed, like a cat sleepily observing its prey. Impossibly, he pushed himself up with the arm he’d been resting on and stood up lightly on his feet, bouncing a little as he skipped down the steps.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” he intoned, clapping his hands, giving the Spaniard a close-lipped smile. “I’d ask you how you like what I’ve done with the place, but you’ve never been here before.”
The children playing on the dais scattered, stumbling and tripping over themselves to get away. Zalmon kicked at them as he came down, the spurs of his boots scraping against the steps.
“Precious little scamps. Children are the lifeblood of society, you know?”
Tilting his head, Zalmon’s face cracked open as the corners of his mouth pulled back to his lobes, revealing silver-needle-sharp fangs, tarnished from his last meal. The crust of dark red around the mouth flaked off slightly. He glanced at his shoulder and brushed it off of the black linen suit coat he wore. A fine silver watch chain glinted against the suit vest underneath. Zalmon’s hair was a forest of fine black bristles cut close to the skull, the skin taut and shiny against a skeletal face, gaunt cheeks, and sunken eyes of burning sunset and black where the whites should have been. He was impeccably dressed, despite the squalor around him.
The demon reminded the Spaniard of images he’d seen a few years before in a magazine of deep sea fish photographed and exhibited for the first time: gray and deadly, familiar yet otherworldly. The demon spread his arms wide, showboating his spoils.
“I’ve come for my son,” said the Spaniard, his voice clear and commanding, buoyed by the power of the city. He could barely feel it here, but it was there, a subtle flicker trying to hold on to whatever was left of itself.
Zalmon scoffed. It was like wind rattling over scorched bones. It was not a pleasant sound.
“I figured as much. Well, I presume you must have come a long way for your little rascal. I might as well present our dearest guest, and show you what he’s made of himself while he’s been here.”
He turned to the back corner, raising one pointed, boney index finger, and gestured.
“Dear Tano, come here to me.”
From a pile of languid bodies, a little boy, no more than two, came tottering along unsteadily. His small hands hung out at his sides, balancing him, as he gripped a small figurine. A tousle of curly dark hair as matted around his head, and he, like the others, was covered in a layer of grime and dirt that obscured the health and state of his skin.
The Spaniard’s heart skipped a beat and caught somewhere in his chest.
With large, dark, apprehensive eyes, Tano came forward into the obscured light, standing uncertainly next to Zalmon. He didn’t touch the demon, he didn’t get closer, but stood as close as he dared to the tall thing pretending to be a human man.
“Come here,” Zalmon said soothingly, picking up the boy.
He didn’t even squirm, though he did hold himself away, holding the small figurine, a small wooden dog, in front of himself protectively.
“My, doesn’t he look well? His color is really coming along.”
“Put my son down.”
“Oh, but he came along so nicely. He wasn’t so nice when I collected him from his mother.”
The Spaniard did not reply.
“Hmph. You don’t say much.”
“Give me my son, and your death will be merciful.”
“Merciful? Are you going to offer me absolution too? You know, you’re wife didn’t beg for mercy. Your foreman and his wife, though, hoo-boy. They wept, especially as we dined on their children. Not as tasty as your wife, but they were good enough.”
He clenched his jaw, his hands tight around the stock of the rifle. A pounding began in his heart and carried up to his ears. It was the only sound apart from the occasional whimper from the children at the edges.
“I was surprised when I found your wife, that there was a baby there too. It’s rare to find descendants of the Sinaqua that far out into the hinterland, especially with the level of spark that she had.” He smiled, bouncing Gaetano against his hip, but the boy stared off listlessly, unseeing.
The Spaniard now knew, and the knowledge drove a bitter, angry knife into his gut.
“So you…ate her and took my son? Why not kill him too?”
“Ate is so vulgar a term. I prefer consumed. Has a nicer ring to it. And your boy? Mmm. Better to let him ripen, develop a little more. And then…mmm tasty eatings then.”
“And the others?”
“Oh, they’re just trifling snacks. Your son is a delicacy.”
Internally, a thread snapped, and the Spaniard jerked the rifle up, aiming it right at Zalmon. It was his casual flippancy that pissed him off.
Quickly, Zalmon maneuvered to turn and put the boy between himself and the muzzle of the rifle. The Spaniard lowered it a little, but left his finger close to the trigger.
“Careful. You came all this way for the little bugger. Wouldn’t want him to get hurt in the melee. Then again, there’s no time like the present.”
Gripping the boy by the shoulders, Zalmon opened his silver-needle mouth wide, the points glittering, glistening needles in a black maw. He began to draw a breath, a sucking sound filling the air as he inhaled, a soft shimmer transferring from Gaetano to the demon. Gaetano shrieked, feet frantically kicking as he fussed and cried, his little hands stretching away. Terror filled his eyes as hot tears ran trails down his dirty cheeks, before they rolled downward and disappeared. It happened faster than the Spaniard could process.
“No!” he cried out. He dropped the rifle, fumbling for the whip handle from his side, and raising his arm, he threw all of his force and strength into the blow. The whip sliced through the air, cutting through the gray light like the tail of a black snake. It cracked near Zalmon’s feet, the tip of nine tails catching his black jeans and snagging the flesh underneath.
The noise and the impact startled him. He dropped Gaetano. The boy fell, crumpled to the ground, a tiny lump. He did not move.
Zalmon jumped backward, shark teeth bared in agony, and he howled a scream that caused the Spaniard to wince in pain. He yanked the whip back to him, now coiled in a pile before him. Seething through clenched teeth, Zalmon clenched his hands into fists, muscles tightened, back hunched, as he and the Spaniard began circling one another.
Cats in a dance, the two men moved on soft feet, each step controlled. The court watched. The other children had scattered, their dirty faces peering out from pillars. The few foot soldiers stood distantly, vigilantly watching with anticipation. The Spaniard wanted to look at his son. He wanted to run to Tano, scoop him up and cradle him as he had when he was first born, stroke his hair and kiss away the tears now staining lifeless cheeks.
He did not know if the boy was dead.
Don’t think about that, stay focused. Keep your eyes on him.
If he looked away, even for an instant. If he lost his focus, Zalmon would strike.
It was the rule of combat, from fencing to knife fighting; if you looked away at the wrong moment, your opponent would know where you intended to strike. Maintain eye contact, until the last possible second.
Do not break first.
Until the last possible second.
Time was precious. The longer they circled, the longer Tano lay there…
Through his peripheral vision, he saw Zalmon reach down and flick the snap open that held his revolver in place.
“Your boy tasted even sweeter than your woman, farmer,” he sneered.
Focus. Ignore him. Ignore him.
“I enjoyed devouring her. She was a little tainted, not as pure and young and fresh as little Tano. Ooo,” he shivered as he smiled silver needles. “And her cries.” He licked his crusted red lips. “Gets me excited all over again just thinking about it.”
A muscle tensed at his temple, and the Spaniard’s mouth formed into a hard frown.
Where was the bastard going to strike?
Zalmon’s eyes looked to the Spaniard’s left shoulder.
Now!
The demon lifted what looked like a large revolver, but in the ensuing fight, the Spaniard could make no more than a quick judgement. He lifted the whip and aimed it at Zalmon’s arm, the rope coiling around his forearm and the nine tails digging into his bicep. With an almighty tug, he pulled on the whip and dragged Zalmon forward. As the whip had struck, Zalmon let out a shriek of pain, hand and arm writhing as the revolver fell from his grasp.
Foot soldiers and sentries sprung forward, guns out, wildly aiming.
The Spaniard dropped the whip and pulled his own revolver from his holster, as Zalmon struggled amidst the agony to disentangle his arm from the whip, but it only bit into the skin harder. Dirty hair flopped over his face, distracted as he was with the whip.
The Spaniard dropped the handle and aimed the revolver, glinting brightly in the half-light. He coked the hammer and fired two rounds into Zalmon’s chest. The second struck where his heart would have been.
A tense stillness filled the chamber, as bodies froze mid-step, all eyes fixed on the gasping face of Zalmon. He drew a shuddering gasp in his death rattle, as he looked toward the heavens, eyes focused on the partially covered hole in the ceiling, back arched, arms reaching outward and tensed claw-like. As he suffered the death throes, a voiceless scream froze, as his face screwed up in astonishment and fear. Within a moment, he became ashen, dissipating like gray smoke. It curled upward in a pillar where he had been only a second before.
The foot soldiers withered away into smoke as well, transforming a swirling mass that rose up and out of the chamber through the mouth of the roof.
The children remained hidden, watching with apprehension, hands and forms clinging to the pillars.
Dropping his gun, the Spaniard ran to Gaetano, little Tano, turning the boy over from where he had slumped.
He was not even two now, but his face had changed so very much in these six months, all gaunt and dirty like the urchins living in every alley he’d ever seen. The little chest did not rise and fall, and his ashen lids remained half-lidded and unseeing. The Spaniard could not find a heartbeat.
He had thought he might give it all back, place his hand on the sigil and push what he had been given back into the city.
If the same blood of the Sinaqua that was in Imelda ran through Tano, had made them an irresistible meal for the likes of that terror, then maybe…
Julian cradled his son in his arms, fear clouding his features, a slim hope piercing through his heart. He took his hand, so large and warm compared to Tano’s cold little frame, and pressed it underneath the tattered shirt to his small chest. He knew he could get them back to the Gunfighter. He didn’t need the city’s memory.
He gathered all the power and energy the city had given him, focused it, and pushed it through his body and into Tano. It left, surging in the boy, as his chest rose and his limbs spasmed. Julian felt relief and exhaustion wash through him, cradling Tano, softly stroking his small face and the dirty curls framing it.
And then, he waited.
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Rachael Varca is a writer of more than fifteen years experience. She writes at Inking Out Loud, a collection of essays, poems, short stories, and home of the serialized novel, The Spaniard. To see which books she’s working on for Commonplace Thoughts, visit her at Bookshop.org.