Utag said. He leant in close and stage-whispered: “You must understand, Swerna’s eyes are everywhere !” With a waft of his toga in the direction of the guard, he left.
***
They came and told us we were being ejected about twenty minutes later. I protested that I had a contract of work, but to no avail. Utag was nowhere to be seen when we were ushered back up the stairs and our papers were returned to us. We were told a boat was leaving soon and we would be on it. Our luggage reappeared and we were escorted back to the dock.
When we got to the wooden quay, we were led past Rakharion’s head. It adorned a pole, facing east. Adyl looked away but I could not. I felt like everything that had happened had been pre-ordained, foretold somehow. I don’t know why.
We were given a small cabin in steerage. Once we set off I felt the irresistible need to eject something from myself. I made my way to the shared toilets and there, standing in the stink beside the rusty, snaking pipes, hot piss tumbled out of me, making me shake like I was having some sort of seizure.
When I got back to the cabin Adyl had managed to cram herself on the small cot. She had thrown an arm over her face and would not speak to me. The boat juddered away from the dock and I went back up to the low deck, thinking that even the heavy air over the wide river would be better than the stuffy atmosphere in the cabin.
Up there, I watched Swerna slowly slip out of visibility. Smoke still lingered in the air over the red citadel. I stayed up there until the evening grew gloamy and the mosquitoes thrived in and out of the few lights along the deck.
I thought about the last time I had seen Yevariel.
I had only caught a glimpse of him as the skiff he was on slid through the water, away from Swerna. He’d been crouched between three or four horses. When he looked up, his face was black, darkened with ash, but his gleaming eyes were the same as ever. The skiff’s captain had hollered some greeting at our passing boat and the faerie-lords and the aelfes and the hobgobs had waved. Yevariel had looked at me and I had looked at him. Then he had crouched lower and became obscure to me.
Would I still call him brother? Would I still call him friend?
I went back to the cabin and took off my linen coat. Adyl was asleep, her face reposed and calm, taking up the entirety of the cot. Our bags were piled up in the tight corner by our small sink and faucet. I pulled mine out and set it on the single metal chair, intending to put on a heavier coat if I was to spend the night on deck, as it now seemed I must. Instead I found, at the top of my luggage, my long-lost corduroy jacket, neatly folded and placed above all the things I had packed for our journey to Swerna. Its wine-dark color had faded and it looked dusty, as though kept long in storage. Every badge that had ever adorned it was still affixed upon its lapels. I dusted it off and looked at it for a long time before I put it on and returned to the deck and the cool night.
I looked north where the sunset’s soft apricot did nothing to belie a bysening sense of mine that a storm was coming, one way or another.
A Satyr Once…
By David W. Landrum
A satyr once did run away . . .
—Sir Philip Sydney
Whores . . . he smiled. Lord Smart had called them “bareback riders.” This one, he thought, had been worth the money to bring from London. The room where they lay was absolutely black. In the ancient days, he could see in the dark. Back then, his eyes picked up every bit of starlight, moonlight, false fire from swamp gas, the luminescence of insects. Give him a few glowworms in those old days, and he could find his way out of a dense wood on a cloudy night.
But in the absolute darkness of his bedchamber, he saw only the black. He felt the warm body beside him, softly ran his hands over the smooth melons of her breasts, down her stomach to her soft thighs and the tangle of hair about her
***
They came and told us we were being ejected about twenty minutes later. I protested that I had a contract of work, but to no avail. Utag was nowhere to be seen when we were ushered back up the stairs and our papers were returned to us. We were told a boat was leaving soon and we would be on it. Our luggage reappeared and we were escorted back to the dock.
When we got to the wooden quay, we were led past Rakharion’s head. It adorned a pole, facing east. Adyl looked away but I could not. I felt like everything that had happened had been pre-ordained, foretold somehow. I don’t know why.
We were given a small cabin in steerage. Once we set off I felt the irresistible need to eject something from myself. I made my way to the shared toilets and there, standing in the stink beside the rusty, snaking pipes, hot piss tumbled out of me, making me shake like I was having some sort of seizure.
When I got back to the cabin Adyl had managed to cram herself on the small cot. She had thrown an arm over her face and would not speak to me. The boat juddered away from the dock and I went back up to the low deck, thinking that even the heavy air over the wide river would be better than the stuffy atmosphere in the cabin.
Up there, I watched Swerna slowly slip out of visibility. Smoke still lingered in the air over the red citadel. I stayed up there until the evening grew gloamy and the mosquitoes thrived in and out of the few lights along the deck.
I thought about the last time I had seen Yevariel.
I had only caught a glimpse of him as the skiff he was on slid through the water, away from Swerna. He’d been crouched between three or four horses. When he looked up, his face was black, darkened with ash, but his gleaming eyes were the same as ever. The skiff’s captain had hollered some greeting at our passing boat and the faerie-lords and the aelfes and the hobgobs had waved. Yevariel had looked at me and I had looked at him. Then he had crouched lower and became obscure to me.
Would I still call him brother? Would I still call him friend?
I went back to the cabin and took off my linen coat. Adyl was asleep, her face reposed and calm, taking up the entirety of the cot. Our bags were piled up in the tight corner by our small sink and faucet. I pulled mine out and set it on the single metal chair, intending to put on a heavier coat if I was to spend the night on deck, as it now seemed I must. Instead I found, at the top of my luggage, my long-lost corduroy jacket, neatly folded and placed above all the things I had packed for our journey to Swerna. Its wine-dark color had faded and it looked dusty, as though kept long in storage. Every badge that had ever adorned it was still affixed upon its lapels. I dusted it off and looked at it for a long time before I put it on and returned to the deck and the cool night.
I looked north where the sunset’s soft apricot did nothing to belie a bysening sense of mine that a storm was coming, one way or another.
A Satyr Once…
By David W. Landrum
A satyr once did run away . . .
—Sir Philip Sydney
Whores . . . he smiled. Lord Smart had called them “bareback riders.” This one, he thought, had been worth the money to bring from London. The room where they lay was absolutely black. In the ancient days, he could see in the dark. Back then, his eyes picked up every bit of starlight, moonlight, false fire from swamp gas, the luminescence of insects. Give him a few glowworms in those old days, and he could find his way out of a dense wood on a cloudy night.
But in the absolute darkness of his bedchamber, he saw only the black. He felt the warm body beside him, softly ran his hands over the smooth melons of her breasts, down her stomach to her soft thighs and the tangle of hair about her
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