Chase the Morning

The fires crackled and flared suddenly, and though he stood with his back almost squarely to them an answering gleam seemed to leap and flicker in his eyes. ‘I attained the highest power I sought – and in that timeless hour I first tasted true joy. And that, señor Esteban – all that is what I offer you – and you dare to hesitate?’

‘What –’ I was croaking. ‘What are you going to do?’

The long fingers rippled like descending rain. ‘Tonight our rites shall call down the loas – and they will come. Come to you! But not in their bland natural forms, no, to make bestial festival with fools. They shall come as I will them, in the power and the terror that we shall unleash upon that unsuspecting Inner World, you and I! And through it, all the infinite universes, all the time and times which spiral out from it! They will be our winepress, in which we tread the hearts of men and higher forces alike, tread them out to the bitter lees! From the agonies of a single child to worlds that go down in slow fire!’

He must have caught the look on my face. He made a deprecating gesture. ‘Of course, these are but mysteries to you now. You do not yet appreciate them – how could you? But I expected more – ambition, shall we say? Less mired in the passing fates of others. Still, I assure you, all will be clear to you, soon, soon. When you in turn are fulfilled. When the loa takes his place within you, when you are no longer the shell you have left yourself – then you will understand. Reach out, Señor Esteban, accept with joy the cup that is offered you! It is a great honour; but one which, if you are wise, you will not refuse.’ His voice faded to a soft crooning whisper. ‘Indeed, in all conscience I could not allow you to.’

The courtesies were an open mockery now. To begin with he’d been weaving a web around me, a net of meanings behind his words, charged with some power to persuade me, snare me into eager submission. Now it blew in the wind like ragged cobwebs. He would not take me by subtlety now; which meant, I guessed, he was going to rely on force. What kind, I couldn’t guess; but I was horribly afraid. The idea of not being me – I was shaking, and my bruises hurt. Idiotically, knowing how useless it was, I strained and kicked against my bonds; but the iron neckring clattered. It had held the strongest slaves once; and what had he done to them? I fought to stifle a whimper, and was deadly ashamed when I couldn’t.

Slowly the Knave shook his head. Again the cane tapped the ground. The numbing chill was spreading through all my limbs now; a leaden, languorous feeling that was not entirely unpleasant, as soft and relentless as that quiet voice. ‘Struggle, if you will; you but pain yourself to no purpose. In such as you, señor, there is no power to resist what comes. The door stands open, there is none within to bar it. And as for your friends, let me reassure you. Only be patient, and you will see their worries also come to an end! And now, I trust you will excuse me. Our solemn rite must not be delayed!’

Once, twice, he bobbed deep bows to me, then whirled around in a billow of cloak and strode away –

Or did he? He seemed to be walking; but he passed over the rough ground too smoothly and too fast, gliding like a wind-spun leaf. A deadly shiver shook me, a chill deeper than the ground. I’d thwarted him, somehow; and in anger and disappointment, as one does, he was letting appearances slip. ‘What the hell is he?’ I breathed.

Le Stryge let out a great spraying wheeze of a chuckle. ‘But of course, yes, you were pleading with him! So touching; but a trace too late – a century or two, maybe! How did you not see at once? From the eyes, boy, the eyes! A creature gnawed away from within, like a grub with a parasite, a walking shell. Nothing left of him but habits and memories, the real man eaten up long since. From such as that let a man keep his distance, if he wants to stay a man! Small use pleading with it!’

‘What else can I do?’ I demanded, feeling the blood sink out of my face. Don Pedro had been trying to persuade me I could go the way he went – and still stay human. What would it really be like? Being worked like a puppet from within?

Or would I even know about it? Would thoughts come to me just the way my own did? Ideas to act on, that seemed like my own most of the time – and yet, just now and again, there might be this creeping, helpless doubt. And all the time there’d be less and less that was really mine, until …

I saw only too clearly what Le Stryge had meant. In school biology class I’d kept caterpillars. Some died suddenly; and I’d found that the growing wasp larva within had eaten them away to a mere bag of skin, a living mask of flesh. And all the while they’d kept moving, kept on feeding just the same as ever, so I’d never noticed the difference.

‘I don’t want to become like him!’