Angela Ray - Sand

Sleep seized him in an instant, blazing up scarlet over the gray curtain of fog. Once again he saw the old house.

A white salt wind stretched towards the edge of the horizon. Above it, a procession of triangular white clouds passed in the shimmering haze of the setting sun. Mirages crowded all around, like plunderers. The sand, red in the light of the setting sun, was dragged in waves along the bottom of the dried-up riverbed. The enormous old house on the hill seemed like an apparition too, now appearing, now disappearing in wafts of scorching hot air. Not a single trace was left in the sand.

The hot bronze of the hammer burned his palm. He slowed a little, listening intently. Rustling of sand, silence of wind…

“Wake up, Ghost! It’s your turn to keep watch. You can wake me up in the morning. It looks as if they’re dog-tired too. We’ve lost them, but the devil only knows with these mercenaries. We need to make our way to the marshes; they won’t get us there.”

“What time is it? I’m not such an important bird that they should be chasing me day and night. It’s you they’re after.” muttered Ghost, who felt as though he had barely managed to close his eyes. The house still trembled in the slanting cuts of the sun’s rays. “In fog like this you couldn’t even find hell.”

His grumbling was interrupted by the steady breathing of Nort, who had fallen asleep at the word “What”. Ghost yawned and shivered. The damp dusk could barely contain its tears, and rain threatened to break out at any moment. The gray trunks of enormous trees, overgrown with dripping wet moss, resembled gloomy columns propping up the damp sky. His legs grew numb, and his stomach twisted with hunger. Ghost rummaged in the canvas bag. It was the only valuable item that remained to him after his encounter with the mercenaries and his imprisonment in the dungeon, where he had spent only a short time, having latched onto Nort. The map, drawn on thin but sturdy tracing paper, was barely detectable in the secret compartment. Fortunately, the coarse fingers of people accustomed to killing without a second thought, had not felt the light stretching of the cloth. The food situation was not so good. In the bottom of the bag there were a few stray, pale crumbs, which Ghost popped neatly into his mouth, after painstakingly collecting them with his stiff fingers.

“How I will know an hour has gone by, I wonder? What are we going to eat in the marshes, and why did Nort agree to free me, a total stranger, and take me along with him?” Frozen, Ghost continued to question the fog. “It takes all sorts, of course, but…”

The rain now began to fall rapidly and noisily, filling the thicket with a whispering, sobbing, and gurgling of bursting bubbles. Nort sat up, shaking his head.

“We’d better go further on, before we freeze completely” he proposed, rubbing his eyes. “They say that the Bony Madman, a kindly old hermit, lives in the marshes.”

“I’ve heard of him too, but to be honest, I didn’t really believe the story. It sounds strange: “a kindly madman”. A character like that might smother you in your sleep without a by-your-leave.”

“All the same, we don’t have a choice. Go back to the dungeon if you want, it’s dry there at least, and maybe they’ll even feed you.”

“Thanks a lot! They hadn’t yet got around to interrogating me, but all those contraptions on the walls… Let’s go and find the old man.”

A foul swill squelched disgustingly under their feet, icy rain poured down their collars, and their teeth chattered uncontrollably. The marshes met them like a black mouth filled with gnarled tree trunks resembling loose teeth. It smelled damp and moldy. Darkness crept in from the east.

“It’s dangerous to walk at night when you don’t know the road. We’ll get lost,” muttered Ghost, his teeth chattering.

“The road?” Nort was genuinely surprised. “Do you actually think there’s a road here?” He too was soaked and tired. Wet hair clung to his pale face. His eyes looked black and huge.

“Listen, what did you expect, when you broke out of your cell? You don’t know the terrain; you have no food, or warm clothing! It’s madness!” Ghost exclaimed. “Are you looking to die? And you freed me too! You don’t even know me; what if I were suddenly to cut you up and eat you!

Nort lowered his head, as if considering Ghost’s words. Then he stood up straight, glancing at Ghost with his cold hazel eyes.

“Eat me.”

…

On the huge estate, dozens of servants were lighting the lamps. Their snow white gloves fluttered like butterflies along dimly lit halls. From the garden it seemed as though slowly, one by one, the yellow eyes of the windows were opening. Evening drained the excess colors of sunset from the petals and leaves, leaving behind their natural tone. In the central courtyard a fountain throbbed with cheerful, shining streams of water, soaking the wings of the chubby angel, whose plump cheeks severely restricted his field of vision. This was probably why his arrows had not yet found their mark.

Time was frozen, like a mosquito trapped for all eternity in the amber eyes of the tom-cat. He was grumbling disdainfully on the knees of his owner, who tenderly pulled on his ear with her bony fingers. All the bustling about the house meant one thing only: yet another dull evening. An hour from now the guests would begin to arrive. In three, they would depart, as soon as the gossip and champagne had run dry. The cat yawned demonstratively, extending his sharp claws.

“You’re right, Momo, I’m bored with this whole routine. I will not go down to the guests today. I had another restless night. I could not sleep. My sins lie like a heavy burden on my soul. I feel dreadful. I confessed to the Holy Father, and he commanded me to pray. He looked at me with condemnation. Soon I will come before the judge… The old woman’s voice was muffled and agitated. “I will confess everything, and hope they will understand and forgive me. The future holds nothing for me but suffering.”

The tom-cat snorted and jumped down from her knees, shook his ginger mane and headed for the kitchen. He still had eight lives ahead of him, as well as white chicken meat and fresh raw egg yolk.

A young servant girl patiently awaited her orders. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly into a ponytail; her small round face retained an expression of childlike trust. Her large grey eyes shone with good sense. She pulled awkwardly at the edge of her lace apron.

“Marta, see me to my chamber, my dear,” the old woman requested, “and send Khikumo to me.”

“Very well, Madam. Only he asked not to be called that, Madam, it offends him. And at breakfast, when you said that the walls of his office are covered with the glazed eyes of corpses… I so took fright that I almost dropped the tray…”

“Enough, dear girl, that is his job, after all. He sends people from the world of the living to the world of the dead. Do you know what it means to sentence a person to death? Probably he too is troubled by insomnia.”

“He always looks as if he is seizing hold of somebody’s soul. I will go down for him now; he’s in the hall with the other guests.

…

All that remained of the castle was its tower, like a bare stump of bone. A staircase had once risen up the tower, but it had collapsed under the weight of time. The semicircular foundation had become overgrown with grass and the roots of ancient trees, and now revealed the bared grin of a grating in what had been a dark dungeon. A little round courtyard, strewn with fragments of yellow sandstone, had been rebuilt as a guardhouse: a wooden awning served as its roof and in the middle a large table made of wood darkened by age and a pair of plain benches were dug into the ground. From time to time, inquisitive, quick-moving squirrels came down to eat crumbs left on the table.