The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [140]
The Gutter Sees the Light That Never Shines
ALISTAIR RENNIE
THE GUTTER MOVES AMONG MEN like the waft of a deadly chemical that has assembled itself in human form. He stinks primarily of brine. But there are other smells that fortify his breath; and his body, too, reeks powerfully of dreadful odours.
There is no telling the liquids with which he has soiled himself, but the oddity of their collective hue on the front of his smock is as ominous as it is filthy. Yet it is more than repulsion that causes people to maintain their distance. His face is a living image of nastiness, with a perpetual scowl that could easily be mistaken for a deformity. And there is a hunger in his eyes ― more feral than human ― that betrays an insatiable need for satisfactions that lie far beyond the tastes of ordinary men.
The Gutter walks the streets of the City of Thrills, the second city of the Republic of Noth. On his back he wears some kind of apparatus: a leathern harness holding what looks like a milk churn. A thick, heavy slosh accompanies his steps, the sound of something fleshy and fetid. On more than one occasion a City Arbiter, tapping a studded cosh on the side of his leg, has thought about stopping the Gutter and investigating the contents of the churn. But the stench of the Gutter has convinced him otherwise.
The Gutter is aware of this, which is one of the reasons why he allows himself to smell so badly. The violence of his aroma is an excellent deterrent against the curiosities of linear men.
The City of Thrills is an aborted geometry of narrow streets, decaying arcades and dim-lit porticos. A shambles of buildings lean simultaneously in all directions. The mangled brickwork and shoddy masonry interact as if by accident rather than design. Depictions of naked revellers, cosmic symbols and chimerical beasts adorn the lower portions of each edifice, adding an unexpected life and colour to the amplitude of disrepair. It is the custom of artists that inhabit the city to embellish its walls with expressions of beauty over uttermost states of dereliction.
The walkways under the porticos are abuzz with wineries and debating chambers, artists' missions and fetish clubs, drinking studios and pleasure galleries. There are few establishments equipped for catering for practical needs. Artisans and ironmongers are outnumbered by craftsmen working with soft metals and precious stones. Butchers and bakers are diminished by gastronomic deviants capable of producing absurdly delicate pastries and marinated meats. An illustrious drapery of precious cloths hangs ragged over the entrances of the numerous guilds.
And the Gutter fucking despises the place.
He passes through one district to another, of which there are three: the Carnal District, the Cymbeline District, and the Cerebral District. The Gutter is on the edge of the Carnal District. He passes several girls attired in reptilian sex-suits whose hair is braided with live snakes. When he passes them, even the snakes recoil at the sudden blast of the stench he bears.
It makes him smile: and, when he smiles, you can see how he has removed his teeth with a set of tongs for the purposes of sucking up his foodstuffs with greater efficiency.
But now the Gutter is growing restless, his glances darting like sparks from his eyes, and his gums chaffing with slavers on his lips. He is looking for a particular door with a particular sign carved upon its lintel, but not so visibly as anyone might see.
Within two or three hours of conducting his search, he discovers the sign ― a cleft circle ― over a heavy door made of parched oak. It is the sign of the Information Syndicate. The Information Syndicate have offices throughout the entire continent, but finding them isn't so easy. It is often said that the whereabouts of the Information Syndicate is their most precious commodity. But, if and when you find them, they will sell you information at a price that is equal to the value of whatever it is you wish to know.
But the Gutter doesn't think he'll have to