The Fall of Man

Part III chapter 13

Eve takes a horrified step backwards and feels the crunch of fine bones snapping under her feet. A hand parts the curtain of tiny teeth behind her and hovers purposefully at the small of her back.

At the centre of the palatial hall, the waves of ivory swell up to a great crescendo; a pyramid piled perhaps thirty feet high. Resting at its top is the unmistakeably yellow chassis of a JCB excavator. The soft steppes of bone settle to form a sturdy plinth around each set of tracks, and broken skulls are wedged in between the angular teeth of the drive-wheels. The long double jointed arm of the digger is festooned with vertebrae, and yet more fragments of ribcage spill from the suspended bucket.

Squeezed into the cabin of the digger is a bizarre, bloated figure, hunched like a coiled spider at the centre of an intricately crafted web. Angry red skin hangs in great rolls from his rotund form and oozes around the struts of the cab. Its surface glistens with dark beads of sweat. Thick black tattoos curve and snake across the whole of his body, in-between the creases and folds of his scarlet skin, and disappear into the worn leather chair at his back.

A thin pleated beard dangles limply from the base of his otherwise bald head. The creature’s eyes are glossy black orbs, and glisten from sockets set deep in his swollen face. They are framed by dark horns of ink that spiral about his temples. At the sound of bone clicking on bone, they turn to focus on Eve.

“What is... this?” His voice is not much more than a croak, a rasping sequence of insect clicks. It sucks the moisture out of the humid air between them.

“We found her below Lowpoint, sir. She was alone.”

“Where did it come from?”

“We… we don’t know, sir. We haven’t spoken to… it.”

The creature stretches out one long finger, festooned with a distended brown-black nail that coils full circle on itself. It beckons Eve forwards. She hesitates, and feels the disembodied hand press down on the ties at her wrists. Needles of pain shoot into her shoulders. Suppressing a shudder, she takes a step forwards and cringes as his oily gaze rolls over her. His head lolls lopsided on his shoulders, propped by rolls of angry red chin. A look of disgust settles across the wide, thin-lipped frog’s mouth.

“She has your mark, boss. Look.”

The lackey is now stood directly behind her. Swiftly, he unties the cord binding her hands together. He then grabs hold of her right wrist and twists. To Eve’s surprise, a thin blue line snakes its way from the soft skin at her elbow, across the rounded bulge of her forearm up to the heel of her hand. From there, it threads its way across her palm to the scabbed knuckle of her index finger. A moment of silence hangs significantly in the eerie hall. The monster on the throne turns and mutters to a shadow at his side, who pronounces on his behalf.

“It does indeed bear the mark. It will be put to work in the most distinguished of roles – but not until it has been thoroughly cleansed. Return it to the cells until an appointment can be made with the Madame...”

Back in the cage, hours pass; maybe a day. In between sleeping, Eve watches Old Bill and Gareth from the corner of the tiny room. They huddle around a single flickering candle. The creased old man talks away in his rambling dialect with crinkled eyelids closed, and the boy listens attentively to every word. In the thick, black air Eve wonders how they can have survived in a place that is so bereft of nutrition, stimulus or sunlight. Silently, she begs for the imprisonment to end, or for anything that will distract her from this hellish prison. She wonders whether any of the thoughts echoing over and over in her head make it to her mouth without her knowledge, but neither figure looks up from the small flame. Their slumped bodies have a sloth-like efficiency about them; limbs hang loose and still at their sides, and neither of them moves more than is necessary in the confined cell. It is as though they were made for this environment.

Eve shivers and shuffles slowly on her knees into the soft circle of candlelight. The tiny flame throws a whisper of heat towards her outstretched palms. The old man looks up at her ghostly complexion. Without speaking, he hands her a ragged blanket from his collection. Eve smiles in response to his kindness and drapes it over her legs, setting her chin on her knees. The grubby tartan fabric prickles at her neck.

“You don’ look well, girl.”

“I’m ok, thank you. Just tired.”

“The boy’s tired.” He nods at Gareth, who appears to have dozed off in a sitting position. Every few breaths a small spasm jerks his drooping head away from his chest. “You don’ look well.”

“Do you mind if I talk to you?”

“Talk away, love.”

“Where are you from?”

“You don’ want to hear about me. I’m an old man, see. Been down here for a long, long time. Too long to remember…”

“But why? How did you get here?”