Bound by Rites Page 4

  “I’ll try first,” Nebanum whispered, “if I can’t get in, I’ll come around the block and tell you why. If I do go in, wait a while before coming in after me.”

  “What’re you going to say?”

  “It’s a brothel, isn’t it? Say you have money to spend.”

  “Oh... right.”

  Rhone watched Nebanum stroll to the hunched doorman. He heard him speak, but the doorman didn’t move. The dog didn’t even move and Rhone wondered if it was dead. Maybe that old man is dead too. A scarecrow. When the man said nothing, Nebanum reached tentatively for the door. Still, no reaction. Nebanum disappeared into a cloud of smoke.

  Rhone waited, rolling his cracked lip between his fingers. After some time the door opened, and in another veil of white smoke, a woman emerged, just as sluggish as the man who had left before. Rhone watched the way she moved up the corridor. There were few other reasons for a woman to be out at night unaccompanied. Yes, this is it. Rhone decided he’d waited long enough and headed to the door. He didn’t bother speaking to the hunched doorman and pushed his way inside.

  Five

  It was unlike any brothel he’d ever visited. All the patrons were strewn about the floor, limp as the pillows and blankets they mingled with. At first glance, they looked to be either asleep or dead. Occasionally one would move a long pipe to his lips and suck, producing more white smoke which drifted up to the cloud that formed in the headspace. Rhone began to doubt if the place was actually a brothel until he noticed that the act was taking place all around him, at a snail’s pace. Men caressed women, kneading their flesh; women pressed their buttocks into the groins of men, rocking their hips. Some women took the men in their mouths, something Rhone had never seen before. The erotic scenes moved slowly, like a tree bleeding sap, each one a foreign revelation. Moans of passion were also prolonged. As Rhone took in the unbelievable sights, his own member stiffened and for a moment he forgot himself and longed to be clay in the hands of the orgy.

  A warm hand slid onto his bare shoulder which sent chills down his spine. It was Nebanum. He leaned in and whispered, his breath licking Rhone’s neck, encouraging his arousal.

  “There’s an oriental man. I paid for us. He said there is room near the back. These people are all half-dead. This will be easy,” the hand slid away, and Rhone sighed, heart fluttering.

  He turned and followed Nebanum’s pale form through the dark room. Once or twice he stumbled and stepped on a hand or leg, but the owner made no complaint. They really are half-dead.

  Towards the back of the room was a clearing on the floor. Nebanum sat down on some of the flat and dense pillows and Rhone joined him. Nebanum leaned in to whisper again.

  “I think the box is in that room behind the oriental man. I don’t think there’s anyone else here. We could probably take it now.”

  “We need the cart.”

  “You’re right, we need to—”

  A small beetle-like man came shuffling over. He moved deftly around the corpses. His face was dark and flat and a long black braid hung down over his heart. Neither Rhone nor Nebanum had seen an eastern man before.

  “You pay, you smoke,” he proffered a pipe and a candle. Nebanum took them and the man stood, expecting.

  “Thank you,” Nebanum said, nodding.

  “You light now, you no keep candle. Burn place down!”

  Nebanum started the pipe with the candle and handed the candle back. Finally, the beetle man shuffled away.

  “You shouldn’t smoke that!” Rhone hissed.

  “I’m not smoking it, I was just trying to get him to leave.”

  Rhone looked around. Their immediate neighbor was a couple suspended in their love. A rat crawled across their naked bodies, dribbling urine.

  “This place is disgusting,” Rhone said.

  “These people are disgusting.”

  “So, do you want me to fetch the cart?”

  There was no response. Rhone turned to his friend. Nebanum had slumped back against the wall. His head looked as if it were going to fall off his neck. Rhone placed his hand on his shoulder.

  “Nebanum? Are you alright?”

  He looked up at Rhone, his eyelids drooping, “try this.”

  His words came out almost silently.

  “What? No, I’m not smoking that.”

  “You’ll like it,” Nebanum said slowly. He slid his hand onto Rhone’s thigh.

  Rhone took the pipe. Despite Rollo’s warning, he sucked in a short breath. The smoldering tar in the bowl of the pipe glowed. For a few moments, he felt nothing. He stared out over the den of iniquity with a mild contempt—ready to get the job done and go back to the goat farm.

  The first thing he noticed was that his muscles seemed to become very tired. He leaned back against the wall. His heart slowed. His body slid over and his shoulder touched Nebanum’s, sending caressing fingers across his chest. He saw his hand float out, reaching across and touching Nebanum’s chest. Infinite warmth raced up his arm, tingling and pleasurable. A hushed moan was elicited from Nebanum.

  His head was filled with wool, muffling everything but the cries of his skin, which was relentlessly stimulated. His coarse trousers scraped the tip of his member, nearly eliciting an eruption. Rhone pulled them off and began to stroke himself. With his free hand he felt Nebanum’s chest and stomach.

  Nebanum didn’t protest. Contrarily, his member, too, stiffened. Rhone helped him remove his trousers and in the process the two fell over, parallel to the wall. Every point of contact burned their bodies with ecstasy, unlike anything either had ever experienced. The hidden fingers seemed to dive beneath the skin, massaging the soul. Buried deep in Rhone’s mind was his voice, encouraging him, praising him.

  Rhone took Nebanum in his hand, joining him with himself, drawing out more titillating whimpers. The quiet voice changed to images, reminding Rhone of the woman pushing her buttocks into the groin of the half-dead man. The thrill of that image pushed up through the dense pillows that filled his mind and Rhone rolled over, slowly and clumsily. He pressed himself to Nebanum. His entire back melted into Nebanum’s chest. Nebanum ran his hands over Rhone’s body, intoxicated. Instinct took over Nebanum’s drugged mind; he took himself and searched for Rhone. When he penetrated, the pleasure was so overwhelming—burning and shocking—that Rhone could scarcely breathe. For the duration of their union, Rhone whispered prayers for death lest his fantasy end.

  Outside, a light rain fell, widening puddles and making mud. Rhone and Nebanum continued to explore each other, tearing their mouths away from one another only to suck at the pipe.

  As the pipe ceased to offer heavenly smoke, they continued their coupling. As their minds cleared with the glowing hours of dawn, they continued their coupling. The sun rose and somewhere a cockerel cried. Rhone and Nebanum drifted, finally, to sleep in each other’s arms.

  A drowsy, painful consciousness stirred Rhone awake. He was queasy and as he sat upright felt as though he were going to vomit. With each slight movement his heart raced. A few blades of light pierced the den from around boarded up windows and the closed door. The room was still hazy and saturated with the floral smoke. A few half-dead men still lay about.

  He turned, slowly and with much discomfort towards Nebanum. He had also awoken and by the overwhelmed look on his face, he was feeling the aftereffects of the drug as well. Rhone attempted to stand, failing twice before finally rising with the aid of the wall. His heart galloped frighteningly in his chest, lightening his head and oscillating his vision. He whispered in the den.

  “Nebanum, let’s go.”

  The words came out like sandpaper through his throat. He reached down and tugged his friend to his feet, supporting him while the dizziness subsided. He looked across the sea of bedding and bodies. In a nook by the door, the eastern man sat in a chair, his eyes fixated on Rhone, teasing the anxiety and anger that was started by the painful awakening. Still naked, Rhone began to stagger towards the eastern man, stepping around the b
odies of the half-dead men and women still suspended in sex. The beetle-like creature stared at him with his squinted eyes, mouth parted with condescending amusement. As he drew near, Rhone’s physical illness faded into a general feeling of affliction.

  “You shouldn’t stare at people.”

  The eastern man said nothing. Rhone’s silver eyes were red with drug and impatience. His mouth was dry and tasted foul. The sweet floral miasma was sickening. Nebanum hung onto Rhone’s frame, sucking in the sticky air.

  Still, the eastern man said nothing—not even looking up. Rhone’s lips pulled back over his teeth and he saw his arms thrust into the sitting man, grabbing fistfuls of the silk garb. The eastern man was limp on the chair and began to slide off of it. Rhone withdrew his hands; his left was covered in blood. He looked down at the dead man slumped on the floor, rear in the air. His back was a wide stain of dark blood.

  “He’s dead?” Nebanum whispered.

  “Look.”

  Past the chair was a door. It was open, resting on the latch. Rhone stepped past the corpse and pushed it open. Inside was a small room, scarcely large enough for the table that was in it. Another door was on the exterior wall, letting in more slivers of light. On the table was an opened box. The side of the box had red oriental characters, and so did the unopened one underneath the table.

  “We won’t have another chance like this. Do you feel as awful as I do?” Nebanum croaked.

  “Yes, let’s move it.”

  They both tugged on the box beneath the table. Inevitably they glanced inside the opened box above. It was half full of hundreds of small white boxes, individually wrapped and fastened with a small red string. Nebanum opened the exterior door and light flooded the small room, furious at the secrecy. The light burned their eyes but the cold that wrapped around their sensitive flesh was worse.

  “Go get your clothes,” Nebanum said, panting, leaning on the door frame, “I’ll fetch the cart.”

  Rhone nodded and headed back into the den while Nebanum stormed out into the cold morning. Rhone threaded his way back to the nest of pillow and blanket. In his throbbing head, he thought of the dead eastern man. It was disquieting. As he pulled up his trousers, his head felt dizzy. He wandered back to the small room, past the slouched corpse. He waited, body aching and threatening regurgitation. As the minutes dragged on, he became nervous. Paranoid, he walked over to the corpse and rolled it onto its side. A glint of metal came from the bloodied gut. Rhone reached and withdrew the dagger. It was heavy and crude, but obviously functional. He wiped the bloodied blade on the silks of the dead easterner and sheathed it in the lining of his trousers. A further search of the dead man’s pockets yielded four coins and a folded hide.

  Rhone pocketed the coins and took the hide into the small room where he unfolded it. It was a grid of strange symbols, written in a dark ink. They weren’t like the symbols on the crates, but they weren’t like the ones he’d seen in the few books he’d stumbled across. They were violent, frightening symbols, with jagged lines and pointed ends. Their effect on Rhone was profound, and he quickly refolded the hide and hung it over the lining of his trousers opposite the knife.

  He spread the blood from the dead man over his hand, admiring the red. He was cautiously smelling his painted hand when he heard the rumbling of the hand cart echoing up the alleyway. When Nebanum came to the door, he looked as though he had run a mile. With much effort, pain, and nausea, they managed to slide the heavy crate onto the hand cart.

  The alleyway by the rear door was too narrow to rotate the cart and retreat the way Nebanum had come in, so they were forced to leave in the direction of the arched doorman. Nebanum motioned for Rhone to take control of the cart. Nebanum walked slowly ahead. He stopped at the edge of the building and looked towards the entrance. He stood motionless for a moment, then finally turned and beckoned Rhone. The arched man and his dog were gone.

  The cart fought Rhone at every cobblestone and divot. Disheveled people crowded the narrow streets, casting questioning glances towards the two dirty youths. Occasionally a group of two or three would block a corridor completely, and Nebanum would ask them, with a subdued viciousness, to move aside. They would reluctantly move with disgusted faces and eyes which seemed to say, how dare you speak to me, let alone command me. Yet they always moved; despite whatever comment, expression, or scoff they made, they always moved.

  The cursed ruins were a welcome sight from behind a final sharp corner. The cart moved surprisingly easy over the grass as if it too was eager to leave the stagnant town.

  Rhone and Nebanum retraced the tree line, making their way towards the neglected dirt path. They moved again through the shaded woods, their sickened bodies resisting every action. The dirt path had become mud with the rain, and caked their heels and the cart’s wheels.

  Although they had only traveled a short distance—the claustrophobic town of Nettleham recently fading from view—Rhone called for rest. Nebanum helped move the cart to a less conspicuous spot than in the middle of the road. Now that they had something to steal, the winding paths were not as safe as they had been.

  “I feel like I haven’t slept in a week,” Nebanum said, sitting on a felled tree. Rhone joined him.

  “I feel like I need to vomit, but I can’t.”

  “You were right; I never should have smoked that pipe.”

  “At least we have the crate.”

  Nebanum said nothing. Rhone searched his face, finding no hint at the thoughts behind his dark eyes. Rhone continued, frightened by the silence.

  “And... it was good before. The smoke and—”

  “It wasn’t real. That sap, whatever it is, makes you do things you don’t want to.”

  “I wanted to; it was real to me.”

  “That’s enough. If you ever bring it up again I’ll kill you.”

  Nebanum rose, radiating resentment.

  “I won’t—”

  “Let’s go.”

  Nebanum started towards the cart. His face was still and unkind. What upset Rhone the most, as his eyes ached, threatening tears, was that still he was alone, despite their union. What had felt freeing and sacred was as Nebanum said, unreal. The unnamed tension he felt every time he endured Nebanum and Mary’s coupling, which had temporarily been eased, came flooding back. In unison with his trembling body and churning gut, a sorrowful malaise swept over him.

  Night was again falling. The stupor of the den had stolen time and the sky above the canopy was a medley of supple pinks and creamy oranges. They were approaching the clearing where Rhone had broken the silence before, but he dared not try again. Nebanum stopped suddenly. Rhone walked up to his side. Ahead, emerging from the opposite tree line was a group of three men, mature and dense. In the encroaching darkness, their forms seemed massive and threatening. They, too, had stopped and were gazing across to where Rhone and Nebanum were standing.

  “What are they doing?” Nebanum whispered.

  Rhone peered at the men. The tallest, who stood in front of the other two, was bald and wore a wide sash. From his belt dangled a long object, most likely a blade or club. The other two were wide men; black hair and looked almost identical. They too had swaying weapons. The three strangers resumed their pace with a gluttonous swagger. Rhone’s aching body stiffened. The strangers’ mouths stretched into nefarious grins as they neared.

  Six

  “Well hello there boys,” the tall man began. His teeth were too small for his mouth and gave him a ghoulish visage. The two stout grunts behind him, who were actual twins, echoed the last word.

  “Boys.”

  “Boys.”

  Nebanum and Rhone said nothing. Rhone stood partially behind Nebanum, his hand on the handle of the dagger.

  “Cat got your tongue?”

  “Tongue.”

  “Cat.”

  Nebanum still held the handles of the cart. The bald man glanced around.

  “What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “What you’ve
got?”

  “In the box.”

  “Wax,” Nebanum answered.

  “Wax? Bee’s wax?” the bald man started slowly off the path, peering around and looking into the cart.

  “Wax?”

  “Wax.”

  He glanced down at Rhone’s blood-stained hand resting on the blade and looked into his gray eyes.

  “What’s that for?”

  One of the twins shuffled to the side of the cart opposite of the bald man.

  “Knife.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s for opening the crate,” Rhone said, feigning coolness.

  “That wax red, is it?”

  “Wax.”

  “Red.”

  “We were expecting to get a shilling for the lot,” Nebanum began, “but I’d just as well save myself the trip and sell it to you, now, for half that,” he set down the handles of the cart.

  “This,” the bald man pulled out his sword, ignoring the proposition, “is not for opening crates. It’s for opening men, innit?”

  “Not for opening crates.”

  “Openin’ men.”

  “What? You’re going to kill us for some wax?” Nebanum asked. The bald man tapped the crate with his sword. The blade was dull and pock marked.

  “That’s some strange writing for local wax, innit?”

  “Strange.”

  Rhone talked over the other twin, “Are you going to rob us or not? We have places to be.”

  “Oh I see. Important boys with their important wax.”

  A sudden blow crashed down on Rhone’s neck and sent his ailed body crumbling to the ground. His hands were numb and his heart raced to keep him conscious. The blow had sent a surge of pain down his wracked body, dizzying him. A phantom foot kicked his hand and the dagger he had wielded disappeared. He looked sideways up at Nebanum who still stood, speaking to the bald man. His neck felt like it was pierced with long needles, but he craned over to look at the bald man, his teeth small as an infant’s toenails. The words exchanged were mumbled and distant but they became clear as the ringing in his head dimmed.