EXCERPTS FROM PURGATORY
EXCERPT 1: (from THE EXORDIUM)
It was a resurrection, one of the grinning doctors said. A resurrection of
consciousness. After sixteen years,
they emphasised with wide-eyed oval-mouthed
gapes. Sixteen years of watering my vegetable state had made me a house-plant
for them. My return, murmured one of them, was as shocking as a suddenly-singing
aspidistra. And I had been lucky, confessed a young nurse, just hours before I
reanimated my doctors had been overheard contemplating pulling
the plug. Then came the reasons.
…
EXCERPT
2: (from CHAPTER 1)
What
he had actually expected I do not really know, but instead of satisfaction there
was a horrible shock on his face when I came excitedly out of my trance, gasping
as if surfacing from a deep dive, laughing, clenching his arm and proclaiming
what I called, in my excitement, a miracle.
The sensation had been wonderful. I had felt my self
floating, approaching the ceiling, then hovering there. I had tried to turn
and rolled over a few times. As I did there had been the shock of seeing my own
body below me, still on the floor, eyes open and staring back up at me on the
ceiling. Tomás and the girls were around it, rubbing. And I saw it all with
incredible clarity, even without my glasses. It had been tremendous, inspiring a
sharp electric-snap and I became a rocketing roller-coaster tripper, dipping
through long fluorescent-rainbow rods of irradiation that flashed past an
otherwise blurred and dimmed universe. Dimming universe – dimming into
blackness. A sticky pitch slowed me, tugging me into it to envelop and
immobilise me with its consistency and constancy. All was black. I tried to move
but, without a point of reference there can be no movement. I, the subject, was
fixed, still. Only my thoughts were able to confirm my existence, but even they
became clogged, as if anaesthetised, inspiring anxiety, a restrained paraplegia-panic
– the agony of the coma-victim, aware of his void-bound condition, in the hell-space
of nothingness. With only thoughts each moment became mundane. Monotonous ideas,
growing gradually more and more conscious of their own monotony, their own
absurdity: - If there is nothing to
perceive, why am I here?– But then
that anguished question received an immediate response, as if some swift Mercury-god’s
hand shot into the mire and tugged me free. There was a tremendous gush which
filled my astral-ears with cat-whining
cries over a general breaking-surf-sea whoosh: - Did
I use to live by the sea? – In any case I felt that I were being lead
somewhere important, that it really was a winged-god or angel that had me,
dragging me toward a distant end-of-the-tunnel light. A swelling circle,
becoming blinding bright then dulling as it grew massive, into reds and yellows
melting into oranges and browns, sharpened by shadows and more variegation, into
images – objects – furniture, I realised. I had returned to reality.
The tugging-god left me: - ...in a
room – I told myself, which calmed me despite the strangeness of
everything, for the room was also strange. Strange, but welcoming. Full of a
warm orange light, emanating from a flaming hearth fire. This was covered by
something metallic. A black web – a
grill – I told myself. There was a metal rod in front of it: - a
poker – I realised, rolling through grey powder: - through
ash – rolling as if blown by a fierce wind: - Impossible, such a gust would have blown the fire all over the place –
The poker’s tip near the flames was glowing red. I looked up. Above the black
grill was a large iron pot, also black, and swaying vigorously on a metal chain:
- CCould this be my mother’s kitchen? –A
staccato of popping fuel, then a scuffling undercurrent. Animated figures. Life-forms.
Small, brown bear-like creatures, but too dextrous to be beasts, had to be
human: - Two of them – I realised
– Could one be my mother? – No,
they were both men: - Strange men –
I thought at first. Bizarre attire. Long hair poked out like straw from under
pointed leather caps. Long robes, worn open at the front, wafted audibly over
the wooden floor. Billowing shirts underneath, tucked into brown-red tights.
Stockinged-legs that ran down to slippered-feet – pointed, soft-leather
slippers: - Like medieval wizards –
whose activity was also strange - busily throwing balls of what looked like
horse-manure onto the fire. When the lumps ignited, the water in the pot began
to boil.
Location? The men’s clothes gave clues, but more precise information
came from the barrels. Oil and wine barrels, with dates stamped onto them. It
was madness, but they were all roughly marked the same - the 1520s. And I was in
no ordinary kitchen. The swaying and sliding objects indicated a moving vessel:
- TThe galley of a ship?
Further
examination confirmed it. I passed through walls, flittered out from the kitchen-galley
to a tiny cabin, the captain’s quarters. A book was open on a table. Its pages
splattered with black-nebula dots of dripped ink, decorating flourishes of
serious data - scribed in antiquated Spanish, difficult to decipher, but it was
not my first experience of such calligraphy. The book was a log. I found entries
describing position: “...off the east coast of the Java
Maior,” it said: “The Great Java,” and I knew what that meant. Translated into modern
terms, that ship was sailing in the Pacific Ocean, to the north-east of New
Guinea…
EXCERPT
3: (from CHAPTER 4)
“Well
then... may we see it?!” Rodolfo spluttered.
Sarmiento
twitched. He reached down to the pile of clothes on the floor and fished out the
leather tube. This he opened and dragged out a paper cylinder, pausing to brush
some crumbs off the table-top before unrolling it there. As he spread it out he
recalled the thick hand streaked by blood and mud that had given it to him - the
rasping, gasping voice of Don Nicolás, his jacket ripped, a deep gash, his
liver poking out. Sarmiento looked away and shuddered. When he had been able to
endure his rolling stomach and turn back, Don Nicolás was already dead.
Rodolfo
saw the young man shiver and guessed why. His own eyes dazzled by an explosion
of eschatological inspiration:
“Man
is body... and soul,” he whispered: “And the soul... immortal is.”
But
instead of cheering it depressed.
Then the old man squinted and dragged a candle closer. The room filled
with prancing shadows, but the men remained completely still, momentarily frozen.
The image that had been revealed was a world-map. Rodolfo was the first to thaw.
He ran a shaky finger along some of the lines. These went every which way - some
straight, others anarchic. The finger moved south-southeast tracing a coast-line.
Quite obvious which coast it was, quite obvious to me. Chartered in minute
detail. Its angle, distorted, stretching too far, but it was still a faithful
representation:
“Ptolemy’s
Quarta Pars,” he murmured: “Catigara, in the Indian Sea.”
In
the first instance I felt a shudder of sheer amazement. Then confusion. He was
running his finger along the east-coast of Australia...
EXCERPT 4: (from CHAPTER 7)
…he
reached into the bowl and took a plum for himself: “But as for you? I’ve
been told you have something – some secret – to tempt me
with...”
Sarmiento’s
grin widened:
“Tempted
you already are, señor. Is that not why you invited us here?”
Don
Diego’s sagging lips plummeted even more:
“True
enough. I’m indeed curious. But let you not be too pleased with yourself...
after all your secret’s not so well kept. I already know that it’s in some
way concerned with some El Dorado...”
Which froze Sarmiento. His eyes, the only part of his visible anatomy
that moved, flickered slightly, each blink revealing a hurried thought.
Rodriguez paused for a moment, as if he were enjoying contemplating the distress:
“Yet, pray, so many great men have already tried and failed in this enterprise.
Even Pizarro himself, with Orellana...”
This
brought a snigger from Sarmiento and he thawed:
“I’m
not here to argue the existence of El Dorado, señor.”
The
sunbeams had angled away from the table and Rodriguez also became quite shadowy.
He smirked back. This turned into a snarl, echoed by a rumble from the mastiff’s
belly. The man crossed his fingers together and lifted them under several rolls
of compressed chin:
“No,
you’re not... Your plan, troth, is to go elsewhere. You wish to discuss a
nautical enterprise.” Sarmiento nearly slipped off his chair, while Rodriguez
coloured his insight with even more detail: “You believe yourself capable of
the most amazing things – the discovery of Ophir and Tharsis and King Solomon’s
mines.”
Sarmiento
exploded:
“What?!...”
dissipating into a nervous mumble: “Who told you this? My cousin? Or was it
these turkey-cock hosts of mine?”
Don
Diego chuckled to himself and scratched his bristly cheek:
“What
does it matter to you who told me? You’ve come - have you not? - to tell me
yourself...”
“But
how is it that you’ve already discerned the particulars?”
“I
also know you have a map.”
Sarmiento
ran his fingers along the slashes in his doublet and scratched his shirt:
“Do
I?” which faltered. An image of his cousin’s gawking face flashed through
his mind.
Don
Diego picked up a table-knife and pointed it accusingly at his nervous guest:
“Why
feign ignorance? Did you not come here to sell it?”
Sarmiento
gulped:
“No...
I came to sell an idea...” then his voiced dropped, became conspiratorial:
“My intent is to traverse the enormous gulf that Magellan and Eclano have
bridged... and in doing so visit the silver Isles of Solomon’s gold... that is
true, pray...” then the pitch suddenly rose with his excitement: “I know where that treasure is, señor, all I need’s a
ship... So if you, or someone else, will finance such an enterprise – and I’m
here because I was told you have the wealth for such patronage – if you’ll
promote the claim I’ll guide you there.... to Ophir!”
But
Diego Rodriguez laughed raucously and stabbed the knife he was holding into the
table-top. The thump startled the dog underneath. It raised its head. The master
pointed aggressively at his guest:
“You,
guide me...” and his chin twitched: “Diego Rodriguez follows no mendicants...
If you want my silver you’ll have to make yourself worthy of it. Show me your
map, sirrah,” and he thrust an open palm across the table. Sarmiento
contemplated it carefully and silently. Its lines were deep and dark, but not
long. This seemed to calm him. He reached into a bowl on the table and took a
handful of nuts. Then he leaned back again in his chair:
“I
don’t think I can take you, señor... You’d not survive such a journey. Your
heart’s feeble.”
Don
Diego was puzzled at first, but recognising his own open-palm gesture he quickly
made the necessary association. He spat into the hand and wiped it across the
table-top:
“I’ve
heard of your professed wizardry, your charlatan sharking sorcery... I have
friends in Tlaxcala... your enemies..” and he yanked the table-knife back out
again to jab a tomato, lifting the dripping fruit straight to his mouth. He bit
it, oblivious to the red mess that spurted over his ruff and down his white
shirt: “You make enemies very quickly, Pedro... As for your friends – what
protection can you expect from them?... these wanton nephews of the Bishop –
what power do they possess?... or do you expect that cousin of yours to protect
you? – a rather pathetic aspiration I would say... To obtain power a purse
full o’ gold is requisite... A treasure map’s not good enough, you have to
have it locked away... build a castle or a palace around your wealth to protect
it... and pay handsomely for loyalty... Until you have that, you have nothing...”
and he plastered the rest of the tomato on the table-top, leaving an almost
gelatinous mixture of juice and seeds: “As for your secret... it’s no secret...”
and then leaning forward again: “ I don’t want your map... But I know
someone who does, someone who’ll pay handsomely for it...”
The
last phrase hammered into Sarmiento, like a ripping thrust from a beast’s horn.
But he bounced back, rose to his feet and grabbed the front of Rodriguez’s
shirt, just under his frilled neck:
“You’re
doing deals with the Portuguese...”
Don
Diego wrenched the hand away, ripping the shirt, but he was oblivious to that.
He seemed more interested in a slight shiver that ran across the surface of a
large grey curtain which covered the wall behind Sarmiento. His voice was calm.
Cold:
“I’m
talking economies, not politics,” Pedro Sarmiento rubbed his thumb across the
iron ring on his index finger, polishing the symbol of Mars. He looked down to
the table-top - a pair of shivering wasps had gathered around the pools of
tomato-traces. Don Diego did not notice: “And even but it were treason, should
a shark like you accuse me I have no fear of it... Your faker’s tongue will
turn no man in my contrary...” I was drawn to the wasps - feelers twitched
while mandibles jerked horizontally, gathering lumps of red juice: “As for
your situation...” the grey curtain behind Sarmiento shivered again. Don Diego
thumped his fist against the heavy mahogany table and the dog jumped up: “If I
were you I’d be wondering how I was ever going to get out of these doors...”
But
the blow had also alerted the wasps. Wings were stretched and they lifted,
darting towards the landowner’s face. He tried to wave them away with his arm.
Sarmiento did not flinch. He had deduced the trap that had been prepared, and so,
while Don Diego was occupied with the hornets and his own barking mastiff, he
suddenly twisted around and flung his entire weight onto the heavy curtain at
his back. There was an audible rip then a thud as the mass of cloth avalanched
upon the figures behind it. Figures which only became discernible to me as
wriggling bulges under the fabric. The most prominent of these humps obviously
belonged to a pair of heads. Sarmiento stood back and then swung a leg. The kick
connected with one of the head-lumps and there was a dull clomp indicating that
this had crashed against its neighbour and the curtain sagged.
Don
Diego, confused through the canine din and vespine attack in front of him, was
slow to realise what had happened. When he did he roared, but Sarmiento had
already advanced and had his sword under the ruff, pricking his throat. The
mastiff growled. Sarmiento’s head tilted slightly, catching the dog’s stare.
This cowered, slowly turned, and almost crawled away to a corner. Sarmiento
lifted a dagger to replace the sword and gently stroked Don Diego’s Adam’s
apple:
“Stay
quiet,” and bit his bottom lip before almost spitting: “There were two
behind the curtain... and there are two more of them... Why don’t you indicate
where?”
But
there was no need. The men he had been expecting suddenly burst into the room.
They were dressed identically. Black cloaks, faded and worn, were draped over
equally black doublets. The pitch of this cloth was only relieved by the
brilliance of their baldrics, which had been worked in gold, and the shining
steel of the rapiers and daggers that hung from them. They froze when they saw
the knife at Don Diego’s neck. Sarmiento manoeuvred Rodriguez in front of him
to act as a shield, then slowly edged forward. His sword poked and swayed in
front of them like a wasp’s feeler, while he whispered his plan into his
hostage’s ear:
“A
most vile dilemma we are facing, señor... Most vile for you... A knife to your
throat... I cut it, you die... and the world’ll be told that you were killed
by these Portuguese assassins...” and he noticed that one of them had a black
scarf supporting his arm in a sling. The one he had already faced and wounded:
“They, in turn, are about to have their lives most bravely terminated by your
valiant Galician guest...” The wounded one blinked, slow and heavy, and gulped.
But his face was one enormous snarl. This increased in intensity when Sarmiento
caught his eye. Sarmiento felt the man in his arms move and jabbed the knife,
just hard enough to draw a drop of blood, before whispering again: “And even
should one of them, or both, flee, then who’ll they tell the true story to?
Who’ll believe a Portuguese assassin?” The other one had a pale face,
highlighting a pair of black piercing eyes. His nose was a huge puffin-bird’s
beak under which grew a wispy line of grey moustache. Sarmiento’s words
continued to blow into Rodriguez’s ear: “What good will all your gold and
power do now? Have you confessed today, Don Diego?” his captive’s hefty
frame trembled: “Let’s see your black dogs cower, just as your mastiff did,
and let’s have them back into their kennels...” insisted the alchemist:
“You’ve built a fine palace here, why don’t we go and inspect the dungeon?
Surely you didn’t forget to build some miserable cell where you can torture
your lazy Indians in... ummm?” Rodriguez rolled his eyes, which seemed to
confirm it: “And I’m sure these Portuguese know where it is too, don’t
they?”
The
prisoner repeated the gesture, gasping when Sarmiento released the dagger’s
pressure. Just enough to inspire a response from Rodriguez. A fat hand darted
up, grabbing the alchemist’s wrist to shake it. Sarmiento groaned with the
effort of maintaining his hold. A sharp pain ran down his arm, and he gasped as
he watched the dagger fly from his fist. He tried to reel around with his sword
arm. Don Diego let the wrist go and reached for the same limb. Then they were
all whirling-windmill arms. Sarmiento’s free hand shot like a claw, searching
desperately for the throat between chin and ruff. Finding this impossible he
made himself content to catch hold of the neck of the big man’s shirt. He
yanked this, pulling the huge man, who pulled him back, which caused a spinning
whirling-dervish dance, until Sarmiento let go and pushed at the same instant,
sending Rodriguez flying across his table. Clay dishes crashed to the floor.
Some of these hit the mastiff, which yelped.
Sarmiento
turned. The man with the arm in the sling was almost on him, wheeling his own
slashing blade with his left arm. The alchemist lifted his own, just in time to
shield the blow, which was more clumsy than hard. Pushing under the assailant’s
blade he was quite easily able to flick it away and surprise threw the attacker
off balance. As he slipped down Sarmiento slashed his sling, scratching another
gash in his bad arm. The victim squealed and dropped to his knees, his free hand
darting to the fresh wound.
But then it was the puffin-beak-nosed one’s turn to lunge. Sarmiento span around to dodge the new blade, too fast, he became unbalanced and toppled. The new assailant, realising that his prey was exposed, reeled back and lifted his sword high before bringing it down with such a force that it would have split the alchemist’s head like a watermelon. But luckily there was a black, marble pedestal, supporting an icon of the immaculate and blue mother of Christ, which fell just within the arc of the blade’s trajectory, catching the cutlass. The stone cracked on contact and a pulverised indentation was chopped out. There was powder and flying black wedges of shrapnel, even a flash of sparks as the metal of the blade submitted to some physical law and snapped. The upper part twisted and turned over itself, hurtling back towards the swordsmen, back to his head, slashing the bridge of his puffin-beak nose. Sarmiento rolled. The pedestal wobbled under the impact, then came crashing down, the image of the virgin bouncing on its aureate edges over the floor. The alchemist twisted himself in the direction of his assailant and kicked his legs back, catching his attacker’s ankles and bringing him down with a closing-scissors like twist. Collapsing face-forward, the puffin-beak nose smashed into the bottom stair, cracked, and the grimacing face reeled back and up, only to receive another blow from a kicking foot. A fat foot, Dionisio’s foot. The twin, after his climax, had descended in search of a bed-pan. Saturnino who had heard his brother’s squeals also stood aghast on the stair-case above the scene, contemplating the carnage and Sarmiento’s grin. Their accidental return had most certainly decided the battle in his favour...