The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [57]
Head pounding, he moved past the ostracon’s block, past the squalor of the surrounding ghettos, without a parting word to his estranged brothers and sisters. For a second he thought about going back to consult a senior, but this simple act seemed impossible to achieve. Would he ever be able to return?
Closer and closer to Jesthe, as if pulled through the streets, he climbed over a rickety, half-built home he was sure had not been there even the day before. He tried to recapture or at least understand past motivations in his life but could not. Within his chest, vessels carried black ichors to his spleen, and to his brain, and to his heart, flowing with a slow, relentless tide that pulled him down.
Once, he had seen Octavia’s life-fluids, leaking from a gash she had received on a jagged piece of tin, and it had been nowhere near as dark as his own. She might even have had a chance at a regular life, had she not shared a womb with him, for how could his sister possibly function and be the way she was if she ever felt like he did now? Her veins must surely supply her a more even balance or she would be crushed by this weight. Even her tattoo looked as though it hadn’t taken properly, as if it might fall from her face, revealing a hemo, or at least a person with the ability to feel some degree of contentment.
Rain began then, followed by the low rumble of thunder from somewhere above the clouds, and though Nahid normally liked to walk in storms, he sought refuge under the nearest stone arch, which was the entrance to an abandoned temple. Above him, dripping, a gargoyle representing two facets of some old god’s face—contorted on one side with aggression and on the other with orgiastic aspects—watched. He cared nothing about the hemos’ gods.
Worn rock steps beneath his feet were stained but now the rains had begun to rinse them. Heavy and warm and thick, the storm did little to clear the air. People ran for shelter but none stepped up next to him, where he stood, covertly watching. Clouds over Nowy Solum seemed to transform from amber to dark green, though that might have been an effect of the bud, wreaking its silent havoc in his system.
Shuffling noises caused Nahid to turn: an elderly man, no tattoo, was coming forth from inside the temple, holding a lantern in one hand and what appeared to be a large fragment of parchment in the other. The man squinted, either at Nahid or past him, at the weather. He did not look particularly sick or crazy, as most were who squatted in temples. Yet as he approached, Nahid considered stepping into the rain to get away. He turned his back to the stranger but knew as he did so he would be addressed.
“Kholic, are you able to read or write?”
“I can read.”
The old man grunted. He was very close now. “Then read something for me. My eyes are terrible.”
Watching the rain and the mud leaping in the streets, Nahid held out his hand.
“Will you step inside? Your kind is welcome here. You have come to the right temple.”
Nahid complied, but did not go far. Away from the raindrops, he brushed water from his face and looked into the depths of the dark temple: candles burned toward the back, where several people in robes gathered silently around an altar. Over their heads, a lantern illuminated the small foyer and arching columns. The place smelled of dampness and mould.
He took the parchment, began to read.
“‘Their head aches, misaffected. In sunlight, which cannot transform bile into choler, they watch.’”
He paused.
“Please, continue.”
When Nahid looked at the parchment again, he could not find where he had been reading. He scanned the words several times but there was nothing he could see about humours or choler. He squinted quickly at the old man, to see if this were a trick, but the old man just blinked with rheumy eyes and waited patiently. So Nahid started reading again, at random: “‘In a dwelling of modest proportion, they reside over the other dwellings, which are the homes of twelve adult men, seven women, and four surviving children. Each day, they