The sun's red light glinted off the knife's blade. The cornered furball struggled, trying to crawl away, but even if it had succeeded, it would have only ended up in another arm's lap, with another hand tightening around its neck, and another body pressing it to the ground. The arms could do whatever they wanted with it. They pulled its head back to make it easier for the knife to work. The black hand struck, slicing into the neck, the animal bleated deafeningly, its eyes widened, and it clawed at the ground. The strength, along with the blood that kept its body moving, drained away. It couldn't even close its eyes, which remained open forever.
Careful female hands punctured and sewed the skinned hides into coats. In the black hand, the knives and cleavers continued working on the body. They struck, cut, and tore; the furball's four legs were already separate. The horns were sawed off, already adorning helmets; the skull was opened, the brain removed, then placed to rest forever in the furball's intestines.
Fortune watched the diligent work of the black hand from sunrise until he returned among the falling leaves of the lone ironwood at sunset. He counted as the shallow or deep wounds beautifully, one after another, appeared on the man's skin throughout the day. None were tended to; the blood dried on the arms, shoulders, and joints. Each one was precisely where he had cut into the furball's soft body: around the neck where he had stabbed it with the knife; on the stomach where he had removed the innards; on the legs where he had cut them into smaller pieces. The black-handed man had sliced through the bodies of hundreds of animals, hundreds of wounds grinning on his body.
Fortune smiled as he watched them. He marveled at how they mutilated and beat each other. It seemed the only reason they did it was for the pain itself. To Fortune's greatest delight, it appeared they couldn't get enough of it.
The small community of black-handed people admired and showed off their wounds to each other. They talked about how their offspring came into the world on their bodies, what they went through together. Some passing traders laughed.
One black-handed man had swollen, red patches on his bare arm and chest. The leaves of the flamma had scorched his body, and he held a handful of them in his hand. His trembling arm almost glowed red from the patches. The sight caressed Fortune's eyes, the smile on his face widening.
In the man's right hand hung the serrated-leafed, long, flexible-stemmed, entirely black plant. Fortune was sure the man was grimacing because holding it in his hand must have felt like holding a burning coal.
The other black-handed people, half-naked, kneeling, facing each other, leaning on each other, smiled and waited for their companion to strike them with the flamma. As the plant struck across their backs and wounds, the man's face overflowed with emotion, he cried with joy, his face trembling with a loving, devoted smile, while his companions wailed. Swush. Swush. Like a caring father, he raised his hand again. The wounds swelled and bled.
They looked at each other as every part of them tensed and trembled after each blow, tears streaming from their eyes, another wound bursting open, their faces turning red. Fortune licked the tiny crumbs of joy from his lips, then ran his hand along his chin as if wiping his mouth after an appetizer. He was already waiting for the main course, but it never came. The black-handed people wrapped their burst wounds in clothes, then left the tree alone. Fortune wanted to see more, he needed more than this. There had to be something else, anything. But only the guards laughed at silly things.
The wind fell silent, and the carvers on the hill were still diligently working. They were peeling the black bark off an ancient, several-man-thick ironwood tree, revealing the red flesh hidden behind it, some blurry human features beginning to emerge from the wood as they carved it. The little blood rivulet trickled, carts rattled through the village. The rivulet flowed, the carts rattled. The rivulet flowed, the carts rattled, and corpses, corpses, corpses lined the road, charred, hanging in chains on the trees. Birds pecked at them. The rivulet flowed, the carts rattled.
Fortune was back in the present, the charred corpses no longer there, only the little blood rivulet trickled. He chewed on the memory, and the bite got stuck in his throat. His ear throbbed, he would have liked to set everything around him on fire right there.
***
The tavern was filled with travelers, shepherds, and blood-handed butchers. The slave-waitresses scurried around the tables, their breasts bouncing before the eyes of the men who tried to take a bite out of them. The innkeeper had already bought a new one to replace the slave-waitress who had been stabbed to death by a customer a few days ago while enjoying the paid service. Business continued as usual. A thirsty guest now grabbed one of the women, his hand wandering to her rounded buttocks, his eyes fixed on her rain-drop shimmering breasts; they disappeared behind the red curtain.
Of course, it's not in the village. Fortune knew the answer, but it only further infuriated him. He chewed on the fragments of memory over and over. The carts, the cawing, the crackling fire, the rushing river, the crying and whining of those driven before them.
Stolen novel; please report.
All the laughter around him, the drunken revelry, and that wooden statue of the Holy Good-for-Nothing on the counter before his eyes. His fist thumped on the wooden table as he stood up. His sword trembled, a drop of saliva fell from the corner of his mouth to the floor.
Another table swam in pain wine, those around it wallowed like pigs, half-asleep, their eyes barely open. The sword continued to tremble with hunger at Fortune's side, more saliva dribbled down. In his fantasies, the little wooden statue burned in the fire, the pig’s tongue sizzled on the glowing coals, blood poured from its mouth. Fortune happily sliced off its ear, which also went into the fire; he allowed his hunger-trembling teeth to feast, allowed them to sink into the flesh. But only after every drop of life had been screamed out.
He blinked once and moved on between more tables.
At one table, they played cards, the winner's eyes gleaming with the won coins. Hands reached out in Fortune's vision, the sword trembling at his side. He stuffed the coins into the man’s mouth one by one, handful by handful, until a herd’s worth clogged his throat. Then into his nose, until red liquid bubbled out between the coins and onto the floor.
The sword still had to starve.
At the next table sat a butcher, idly scraping dried animal blood from under his long nails. Fortune grabbed a hook, stabbed its sharp end under the man’s chin, and when it emerged through his open mouth of rotting teeth, he gave it a yank, then hoisted him straight up to the ceiling. He watched as the man tried to dislodge the hook from his mouth while blood flowed to the floor.
The sword danced at his side, but he stepped out the door hungry.
The sun had just risen over the horizon. Fortune watched the grazing furball flocks, wondering how many had been slaughtered up to that day; he watched the calves, counting how many days they had left before a knife pierced their necks. He figured not many more than he did. He watched enviously as the carvers stripped layer by layer from the dead tree's body with their chisels. On the hill, a guard arranged pots, then stepped back to check the composition, adding a few more pots that waited empty for when they could be filled.
In the marketplace, a few traders argued with each other; travelers prepared to sink their feet into the mud of new lands. Fortune leaped onto his horse to leave it all behind.
He left the village gate behind. The bleating of the grazing and mating furballs quieted, the trees hid everything. Hooves clattered in the mud. He slowed. Four riders approached on the road, their gaze piercing his chest. The leaves crunched. As he moved toward them, he fantasized about their eyes. He caressed them, then scratched the surface of their corneas with his fingernail. The veins running across the eyes burst. The eyes wept and bled. His finger liked the place. It roamed within, ventured deeper, into the shadow of the eye socket. It dug out the eyeball.
He blinked once, and he was standing before them again. Another blink, and he was surrounded by his slaves, who had already encircled him. Fortune looked them over, their hands resting on their swords.
"Well, what a fortunate meeting."
"When will you pay us what you owe?"
"Patience." One of them spat on the ground.
"Patience has run out. You will lead us there right now."
"Just the four of you?"
"Move!"
***
The sun's red rays turned golden yellow, then white, piercing through the tree leaves like spears, leaving white spots in the sea of red foliage. The wind tore the leaves one by one, and they crunched like tiny bones under the hooves. Fortune stopped for the fifth time around midday, still unsure if they were any closer to their goal. He had to dismount from his horse, because after wandering for so long, his slaves would start to suspect that he had no idea where he was going.
From the branches, a bird with a serrated beak looked down at them with its black eye. It searched for worms in the hollow of the tree and, when it finally found one, happily tore it apart with its claws and beak. Far above the forest, a bloodbird flew, and at its cry, the bird dropped its prey from its beak.
Ahead of them, a group moved in two orderly lines. It consisted of at least two dozen people, including a jester and two whores. Six mercenaries in full armor; their hands on their swords, alert to every sound. Besides them, five archers walked with light, springy steps. Their limbs were strong and sinewy, and their bows seemed more valuable than all of Fortune's possessions, including his slaves. At the front, guarded from both sides, was a man in a long, light, red coat that covered his entire body. He had seen him not long ago. He had stood on the highest point of the hill at the execution. He towered over the kneeling condemned, the butchers excelling as executioners, and the guards. The crowd chanted his name, the butchers awaited his command, the sentinels watched him.
Fortune was sure that he was the one who, with his wisdom and character, rose above all weaknesses and set an example for the villagers. He must be the village’s stinking head.
Fortune licked the corner of his mouth, and as if his tongue had caught onto something tasty, he smiled. In his eyes, the hands flapped, demanding the dancing food before them. They wanted to pull down the village head from his high place, down under their hands, under their shoes, into the mud and blood, into the hungry mouths of mice.
Fortune turned around and looked over his men. The smile instantly fell from his face.
"Follow me!"
They followed the winding path of a stream cutting through the trees down the hillside. The season of blood was still too young to digest the leaves. Each crack he heard was like a snapping finger bone to him. One step, one finger bone, another step, another scream, another step, another beautiful crack.
