As I Walk These Broken Roads

“So what are you thinking?”

He puffed his cigarette, the smoke billowing slowly in the still air. “Once you get the truck running, let’s stash her just off the road somewhere — then we’ll go have ourselves a little sneak and peek.”

Chapter 20

His thumbs ground against the stubble of his chin.

Build me an earthly throne.

One elbow rested on a grooved rotor plane. The other nestled against layers of cracked rubber housing. Under him a cycle-seat, behind him the split halves of a V4 engine block. A deep inhalation brought the smells of iron and blood. The fire in front danced orange into the night.

Pigmeat, petroleum, clutch-plate, and sweat perfumed the air. An aural cacophony meted out in sync.

Forms of flesh and machine danced, writhing against the chemical light. The Catamite’s drug curled towards him in angry, bitter wafts, its sourness energizing him. Wild bodies, freed of their inhibitions, moving for his sake and against all else. The breeze stilled, and a pure line of the drug-smoke bit deep.

His neck clenched as the line burned up to his brain and down his spine. His eyes shot open.

A flame-lit orgy. Sweat and muscle, the exhaust of machines, the burnt, shredded meats, the hollers and the challenges…

Earthly forms: in the shadows they were bent, broken and ugly, but in the flickering light they were elevated, raised up to manhood and violence. He sat silent. He was the plucked string which made all others vibrate. The imposed shame and cowardice had flaked off their bodies like rust, and tonight their tremors had reached past them, had reached back to the roots…

His thoughts retrograded with a sudden coil, forced back by the drug haze. He saw how the Catamite had once been: pathetic and sobbing, a reject dragged along by the last remaining strength in the world. Against soaken fields and moonless nights he’d trudged, the Catamite fighting, pleading… until the night they’d found the knife.

The ebony sheath still hugged discreetly against the Catamite’s hip. Two pairs of diamond-shining teeth, hidden on a single body. Slayer traced up and down the Catamite’s thigh, as he relived the memory.

The first time had been done against denial. The torn, prostrate forms of the farmer and his wife had stared accusingly at the Catamite’s sobs, even as his unforgiveable stiffness belied all tears. As the act progressed, the Catamite had quietened, first in submission, and then in exultation…

The whiteness of the climax had splattered beautifully into the pools of red.

That night had been the start of this new life, the sharp glimmer of new knowledge. The Catamite had come to believe. Slowly tempered by blood and drug, he discovered a legion of hidden predilections. In some places the diamond blade had garnered more fear than Slayer himself…

Look at the lost ones — acknowledging their pride and revelling in it! The Fathers had cast them away, terror animating their features. Latent within them was that knowledge which brought shame; for elders such as that denial was the only salve. So they’d cast them away to the winds to be broken and forgotten…

But some had sustained long enough for their souls to be rekindled.

An existential glimmer filled them now. An incendiary that either inflamed or consumed whoever dared touch it… only in tattered corners did the Faith still lie.

Action will be now.

A hand to squeeze the Catamite’s shoulder. A twitch for a response, the eyes glazed. He waited for them to clear, and when they did, nodded once — in response, the slow spread of a grin. Sweeping gorgeous hair, the Catamite rose, picking up an iron cudgel.

Only one of this merry band stood back from the flames. The others danced strong and fierce, broken forms cast away. Only one still echoed of the Faith, one shadow left for exorcising.

“Aiii-yeah!” Lithe and powerful, the Catamite swung the splined-joint, striking the hanging clutch plate — a sharp, stinging sound bit the air. Motion ceased, and the music died. Slayer’s lips curled up in anticipation. The Catamite swung the iron overhand now, pointing it straight and steady towards the one who sat alone. The gaze was fierce.

“You!”

The Shadow stood alone, trembling and naked. Dark forms rushed up from behind, gripping by all joints. The Shadow gaped as the Catamite swung the cudgel yet again, striking heavily down into the earth. Released, the iron mass fell slowly, bouncing once. Nothing was left but the diamond smile.

He remembered the first day. The Catamite had wept tears of shame over the farmer’s wife’s body — shuddering sobs, even as he forced his body back against Slayer’s lust. Tears for his past, and tears for what he was — the slits of the knife had gone both ways.

Now the Catamite fondled the ebony sheath. A flicking motion and the second diamond smile appeared.

The crowd was growing noisome. The Shadow’s fear-weak limbs had been secured to a wooden cross, hammered down into the ground. The grapplers faded into the background. Slayer stood, and the crowd drew silent. Brimming with despite, he gazed into feverish eyes.

“The words are that this one saw a child on the last venture…” the back of his wrist met to caress his own lips, “A forgiven child who was left unharmed.” The crowd waited, soft ecstasy growing within them. Slayer stepped forward until he was facing the Shadow. “What say you?”

“I… I did what must, I repent, I followed… the lamb…” the words dissolved into a pathetic mutterings. The Shadows’ eyes were locked on the ground, fearful and lost; more utterances of the forgotten shame. Disgust coiled in Slayer’s gut.

He turned towards the crowd. They stood, surrounded by machines and glory, bodies glowing blue and red. He raised his hands. “All of this — All of This! — has been wrought for you by Knowledge beyond Faith! Your Pride and Lust have granted you this Earth… yet there is one cares not for this… cares not for earthly pleasures…” He dipped his head, eyeing the audience…

Would they respond? Should they respond? Did he want them to respond?

Such questions hadn’t been asked before, and a feather brushed up against the inside of his chest. Suppressing a shudder he watched them, jaw agape in anger…

One last challenge, then.

“Who… has… forgotten you?”

“The Fathers!”

A wave of blood washed over him, suffusing his frame. As soon as it struck, a voice said you must not falter. On pilot, his body carried through, in front of a trembling mind.

“Who has loved you?”

“No one!”

“Who has known you?”

“No one!”

“Who can shepherd you?”

“No one!”

A pause now — a breath — three breaths into his heaving frame.

“…then who shall you be?”

A silent moment. They were unprepared for this one — he knew they were unprepared for this one — his heart beat a heavy bass against his ribs, as he gambled on the next line.

“Then who shall you be?” He swept his arms upwards.

“We — we shall,” a disjointed chorus, finally achieving a partial sync, “we shall — we shall be — we shall be the Adversaries!”

“And who is this one?”

Once again, the hesitation.

“And who is this one?”