I was thankful for his guidance, though not his conversation. The streets of the town all looked alike — mud, people, and grey-and-black houses, many less luxurious than some of the ruins Quitoon and I had slept in as we'd traveled.
Quitoon! Quitoon! Why was my every second thought of him, and of his absence? Rather than free myself of the obsession, I made a game of it, reciting to the pieman a list of the most noteworthy things Quitoon and I had eaten as we'd gone on our way: dog-fish, cat-fish, bladder-fish; potato blood soup, holy water soup with waffles, nettle and needle soup, dead man's gruel thickened with the ash of a burned bishop, and on and on, my memory serving me better rather than I'd expected. I was actually enjoying my recollections, and would have happily continued to share more unforgettable morsels had I not been interrupted by a rising howl of anguish from the streets ahead of us, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of burning human flesh. Seconds later the source of both the noise and the noisome stench came into view: a man and a woman, with flames leaping three feet or more from their lushly coiffed heads, which the fire was consuming with enthusiasm, as it was their backs and buttocks and legs. I stepped out of their path, but the pieman remained there, staring at them, until I took his arm and dragged him out of their way.
When I looked at him I found that he was staring up at the narrow strip of sky visible between the eaves of the houses on either side of the street. I followed the direction of his gaze to discover that despite the brightness of the summer sky there were forms moving overhead that were brighter still. They weren't clouds, though they were as pristine and unpredictable as clouds, schools of amorphous shapes moving across the sky in the same direction that we were traveling.
'Angels,' the pieman said.
I was genuinely astonished that he could know such a thing. 'Are you sure?'
'Of course I'm sure,' he replied, not without a twinge of irritation. 'Watch. They're going to do this thing they do.'
I watched. And to my astonishment I saw them converge upon one another, until all the shapeless masses had become a single incandescent form that then began to spin counterclockwise in a spiral motion, its center growing still brighter until it erupted, spitting motes of light like a bursting seed pod. The seeds came twirling down onto the roofs of the houses, where, like a late winter snow, they went to nothing.
'Something of great consequence must be going on,' I said to myself. 'Quitoon was finally right.'
'It's not much farther,' the pieman said. 'Couldn't I just direct you from here?'
'No. To the door, pieman.'
Without further exchange, we made our way on down the street. Though there were plenty of people around, I no longer bothered to add my little grace-note grotesqueries, the lolling mouth, the snot running from my nostrils, to my general appearance. I had no need. With the dung-encrusted pieman leading, we made quite a disgusting pair, and the citizens kept clear of us, their heads down, staring at their feet as they hurried on their way.
It wasn't our presence that was causing this subtle agitation amongst the citizens. Even those who had not yet laid their eyes on us were walking with downcast gazes. Everybody, it seemed, knew that there were angels and demons sharing the thoroughfares with them, and they were doing their best to hurry about their business without having to look up at the soldiers from either army.
We turned a corner, and walked a little way, then turned another corner, each turn bringing us into streets that were more deserted than those we'd left behind. Finally, we turned into a street lined with small businesses: a seller and repairer of shoes; a butcher's shop, a purveyor of fabric. Of all the stores along the street only the butcher's seemed to be open, which was useful because my stomach was still demanding some nourishment. The pieman came in with me more, I think, out of fear of what might happen to him if I left him on his own on this uncannily empty street than out of any great interest in what the butcher had to sell.
The place was poorly kept, the sawdust on the floor gumming with blood, and the air busy with flies.
Then, from the other side of the counter came a pain-thickened voice.
'Take whatever…' the owner of the voice said, his timbre raw. 'It doesn't matter… to me… anymore.'
The pieman and I peered over the counter. The butcher lay in the sawdust on the other side, his body comprehensively pierced and slashed. There was a large pool of blood around him. Death stared out from his small blue eyes.
'Who did this?' I asked the man.
'It was one of your kind,' the pieman said. 'Torturing him like that.'
'Don't be so quick to judge,' I said. 'Angels have very nasty tempers. Especially when they're feeling righteous.'
'Both… wrong…' the dying man said.
The pieman had gone around the counter and picked up the two knives he found there beside the butcher's body.
'They're neither of them much… much use,' the butcher said. 'I thought one good stab to my heart would do it. But no. I bled copiously but I was still alive, so I stab all over, looking for some place which will kill me. I mean it was easy with my wife. One good stab and — '
'You killed your own wife?' I said.
'She's back there,' the pieman said, nodding through the door that led to the back of the shop. He went to the threshold and took a closer look. 'And he cut out her heart.'
'I didn't want to,' the butcher said. 'I wanted her dead, safe with the angels. But I didn't want to be hacking at her like she was a side of pork.'
'Then why'd you do it?' the pieman asked him.
'The demon wanted it. I had no choice.'
'There was a demon here?' I said. 'What was his name?'
'
'Today?'
'Yes. Today.'
'That's not what you said,' the pieman said to me. 'If I'd known, I would have gone back to my own family, instead of wandering around with you.'
'Just because a suicidal butcher says it's the End of the World, it doesn't mean we have to believe him.'
'We do if it's the truth,' said somebody at the door.
It was Quitoon. In some other place a nobleman must have been laying dead and naked, because Quitoon was dressed in purloined finery: an outfit of scarlet, gold, and black. His appearance was further enhanced by the way his long black hair had been coiffed with tight, shiny curls and his beard and mustache trimmed.
His changed appearance unnerved me. I had had a dream about him a few nights before in which he had appeared as he was now, in every detail, down to the smallest jewel set in the scabbard of his dagger. In the dream there'd been good reason for his fancification, though I am loathe to speak of it now. For some reason I feel ashamed, in truth. But why not? We've come so far, you and I, haven't we? All right. Here's the truth. I dreamt he was dressed that way because he and I were to be married. Such confections our sleeping minds create! It's meaningless nonsense, of course. But I still found it troubling when I woke.
Now I found the dream had been prophetic. Here was Quitoon in the flesh, standing at the doorway, dressed precisely as he had been dressed in preparation for our union. The only difference was that he had no interest in marriage. He had more apocalyptic talk in mind.
'Didn't I tell you, Mister B.?' he crowed. 'Didn't I say there was something going on in Mainz that would bring the world to an end?'
'See?' moaned the butcher at my feet.
'Hush,' I said to him. He seemed to take me at my word, and died. I was glad. I don't like to be around things in pain. Now it was over. I had no need to think of him anymore.
'Who's your new friend?' Quitoon said lazily.
'He's just a pieman. You don't need to hurt him.'
'It's the end of the world as we know it, Mister B. What does it matter one way or another if a pieman dies?'
'It doesn't. Any more than it matters that he lives.'
