Brechalon by Wesley Allison

guards. But as he stepped out into the
open, he noticed something strange. There was a shadow in the
middle of the dock where a shadow had no right to be. As he stepped
closer, he realized it wasn’t a shadow—not in the real sense of the
word. It was a man-shaped blob of shadow, occupying the same area
that a man would occupy had he been standing there, but with no
mass and no substance and completely transparent.
    “ What is that?” he
asked.
    The boys stopped and looked at him.
    “ What is that?” he asked
again.
    “ What is what?” asked one of the
boys.
    “ Where’s Drury?” he asked, his
voice rising.
    “ He’s standin’ right in front of
you, you great tosser,” the boy replied, pointing at the shadowy
blob.
    “ That’s not Drury! I don’t know
what that is!”
    Turning, Chapman ran up the stairs, oblivious
to the open-mouthed stares of the boys. He ran past the bunkroom
and down the corridor to the north wing. He ran into the door of
prisoner eighty-nine’s cell, banging it with his fist, as if she
could open it from the inside. Finally he rummaged through his
pockets for the great key and unlocked the door, rushing
inside.
    Chapman screamed. Karl Drury was hanging,
naked, upside down from the ceiling. His neck had been sliced open
and his blood had been drained into the piss pot on the floor
beneath him. His gut had been sliced open and long lengths of bowel
and a few internal organs hung down like ghastly wind chimes. He
had been castrated and his privates were shoved in his
mouth.
    Chapman screamed again, as he felt the feather
light touch of the woman on his shoulder.
    “ I needed more ink.” Her sultry
voice cut into his soul like a knife cutting through
pudding.
    She stepped past him and picked up the bucket
of blood, tip-toeing like a ballerina to the north wall of the
cell, where she dipped her fingers into the gore and began painting
strange images onto the stone blocks. As she drew, she spoke to
herself. Chapman didn’t need to hear what she was saying. It had
been bouncing around in his head since he had gotten up.
    “ One thousand nine hundred seventy
nine days.”
    “ Stop it!” he shouted. “Stop it!
Stop counting!”
    The woman turned toward him and grinned
fiercely. “Not much longer now— just a few more days. Go on back
now. Don’t want to draw suspicion.”
    He crept out of the chamber like a dog that had
been beaten. He didn’t go back to the south wing though, instead
climbing the stone stairs until he found an alcove with a small
opening to the outside world. Here he dropped to the ground and
curled up into a ball and wept.
    * * * * *
    “ That’s pretty,” said Senta. “Is
that a sunset or a rainbow?”
    She was walking down Contico Boulevard, hand in
hand with her cousin Bertice. Mrs. Gantonin who lived next door had
told Granny about a family whose boys had died and who were now
giving away their clothes. With a house full of children, free
clothes were not to be overlooked lightly.
    “ What are you talking about, you
little bint?”
    “ Up there.” Senta pointed off to
the right.
    “ Didn’t you learn that the sun
rises in the east and sets in the west? That way is south. How
could it be sunset? Besides, it’s only half past four. I’d still be
at work if they hadn’t run out of number four thread.”
    “ A rainbow, then?”
    “ There’s no rainbow. There’s not
been a drop of rain for a week. How could there be a rainbow. I
don’t see anything at all.”
    “ Well, I see something. It’s swirly
with red and yellow and blue and purple, like a storm that’s
coming, only made out of colors.”
    “ You need to get your eyes fixed,
you do,” said Bertice, giving her arm a yank.

Chapter Seven: Victories
    My Dear Miss Dechantange,
    It was with deep regret that I left your
company on the twenty-fifth, but I ease the ache within me by
recalling the week that I spent with you. Surely no other fine lady
of the Great City can equal you in hospitality,