The Poems of Madam Albithurst: A Dead Passenger

The rest of the evening passed without notable event. Sir Juhrooz was, in fact, a rather dull dinner companion, of a kind with Mr. Porist. He ate very little, and spent most of his conversation speaking most shamefully about various bloody battles and bristling confrontations with any number of villainous and bestial foes. It might have indeed been a most interesting and delightful conversation, had I not heard similar from half of all the soldiers I had ever met.

But such is the delight and the burden of the Sensate. We do not allow ourselves to be satisfied with the familiar. It is the strange, the unique, and above all the novel that drives us.

So it was with great regret and concern that I soon thereafter had to admit to myself that there was four — and only four — passengers with whom I would be certain to have a fulfilling experience with. The first three of course being the Archonarchian pilgrims, who at the moment were under guard, and therefore inaccessible through any casual stopping-by. The only remaining passenger was the poor Aeolam who had, for the two days we had traveled, also locked themselves in their room and admitted no visitors.

I learned this over a shared breakfast of Yamma-egg and sausage hash with my dear Driver Skan, as we two shared no end of news, gossip, and friendly banter. I must say the meal did much to remind me how deeply I admired the man. He cut quite the dashing figure, dressed in his crisp white uniform, topped with the smooth sloping canvas hat worn by all Drivers.

Upon hearing that the Aeolam had locked itself away, I was at once grateful at the creature’s wisdom and foresight, and regretful at the poor dear’s undoubtedly painful experience. I was resolved before Driver Skan had finished talking, and so I excused myself before his plate was empty. I took the third exit which led to the central sitting room, all full of classic marble and flowering greenery.

Oh, the beautiful Aeolam! To many they are simply a reclusive folk, easily recognize-able with their skeletal bodied and elfin features. Among the Myriad Worlds there is no people more eclectic or distinct. Perhaps you know them as the impish troublemakers of the Yuling Swamps, or the wizened sages of the Spire Heights. They are the warriors of the Dunes of Infinity, and the hedonistic layabouts of Depping Forest. They are a million people in a million lands, so connected they are to the ground on which they live.

How horrible it must be for them, to travel the Velvet, to be so far from the spheres that give them shape. Like as not you have never seen an Aeolam travel the Velvet; they avoid it whenever they are able, and it is to everyone’s relief that they are often able to. When they are not, they travel in oak and cherry coffins, sleeping for weeks or months on end, to escape the Aeolam curse.

How to explain the Velvet Madness that the Aeolam are so susceptible to? Many years ago, long before I was born, an Aeolam was a member of the Glorious Guild of Sensationalists, and created a poem based on her journey through the Velvet. It is a haunting poem; chilling in its heart, gripping in its style, unearthly in its tone, and unforgettable for all who have been allowed to experience it. The poem is now kept locked in the Guild’s private vaults, available only to members of good standing and great service.

I can do no justice to the poem, nor would I wish to, save to plainly explain that the Aeolam’s kinship with nature extends beyond the proverbial green thumb or kin-like familiarity with animals. The very land itself has a personality of sorts, and as such will mold the Aeolam to their shape and custom.

What should happen, then, if one who is molded by the world have no world to mold them? Here in the Velvet, surrounded by the staring pinpoints of light that are the million hungry stars, with no whisper of wind nor caress of root, no crack of distant stone nor drip of cavernous moisture, not a speck of dirt nor dust, the Aeolam are bereft of self. Their very souls are transported, freed from the confines of definition, they are spread.

It was this Aeolam Guild-member who conveyed quite suitably the fact that this madness is never the same between Aeolam. Some collapse into sobbing and misery. Others rage and broil. Most become dangerous, though few are violent. There is pain and death when the Aeolam travel the Velvet, and while I was most fretfully concerned for the well-being of myself and my fellow travelers, I was also concerned for the Aeolam. Having read the Velvet Madness poem myself, I presumed that I alone on the vessel was capable of understanding on a visceral level the suffering this poor creature must have been going through.

So, after a careful study of the potted plants in the central sitting room, I lifted one down from its hook and ascended the broad winding staircase towards the passenger cabins. While I had no professional insight into the healing qualities of a potted plant, I did not see how having some aspect of nature nearby the poor Aeolam could do anything but help.

When I reached the top decks, I observed the tiny metal signs on the wall, noting their carefully carved arrows. My dear Driver Skan had informed me, after no small amount of cajoling, which cabin the poor Aeolam was housed, and the signs would take me there as quickly and surely as any escort.

The passages were small, especially for one of my fashionable fabricationary girth, and I daresay my fine morning-wear was bent quite irreparably when shifting past a large equine gentleman who was himself heading for the upper-decks. I spared little time to regret the loss, however, as I was on a mission of mercy, and such missions are often paired with costumery casualties.

Following the small metal signs, I made my way through the labyrinthine halls until I reached the thick iron door that separated me from my soon-companion.

Squaring myself for what would come, I knocked gently on the thick door, my lace gloves echoing on the smooth polish.

The door swung open, unlatched.

I found this strange indeed, and I am ashamed to say my natural instincts for self-preservation were out-matched by my carefully practiced curiosity. Pushing the door open, I stepped into the tiny cabin.

The Aeolam was on the ground, twisted about like a pile of broken twigs. Her face was blank, her broad black eyes as matte as unpolished slate. Her mouth hung open, the thin pink tube that was her tongue draping over her upper lip like a tossed-aside stocking. Her hair, her beautiful hair, was withered and gnarled. The greenish brown hue that was her blood covered the floor, poured from the slit that broke open the smoothness of her chest.

Looming over her like a hungry sepulcher, the red-hooded Archonarchian stood with ichor-stained dagger in her hand.

I should pause here to comment that it is not uncommon for those who are not experienced Sensates to have a woeful under-appreciation, to say nothing of misunderstanding, of the multitudinous methods of describing tactile things. Put another way, there are cultures where there is only one word for meat, as the local fauna is either too dangerous, to small, or too agile to be anything but an incredibly minor part of ones diet. For those who do not experience the same way that we do, using simple words can be a destructive affair, flattening what would otherwise be a rich and deep experience into a child’s drawing.

As such, I must take the next few paragraphs to discuss a point of remarkable importance to the coming moments; specifically, viscosity.

The adhesiveness, that is to say the clinging of the rich greenish-brown on the shining silver blade was of a particular nature: that of the partially dried. There is a spectrum between the fresh flowing and the solidly dry — shall we say the fluid and the solid? — which allows for all manner of shifting behavior. Time passes, and the smooth silky liquid is given weight, almost a will, yet is not yet old and tired enough to need to fight its own solidity to drip most gratifyingly to the floor. It is the wet and slimy that slides and escapes with undue speed, allowing even the slowest creature to escape danger with alacrity.

It is time that brings evaporation. The drying of the liquid ichor slowly transforms the flowing water into a tacky and glutinous substance. A transformation that required no effort apart from patience, the turning of freedom into adherence. The pull of gravity tugs gamely at the liquid, dragging it towards the silvery clothing of the dead Aeolam, but oh how it fought, struggling to remain with the familiar and friendly edge of the blade.

It is this adherence that comes with time, if one does not free ones self from the binding stickiness that collects like lint among your days. The dreams of what is to come because of what has passed. As I have insinuated before, dreaming is a lure to trap the unwary, and I have made it my personal mission to avoid such life-leeching bait.

Suffice it to say that I was not surprised at seeing the macabre display in front of me. This is not to say I was expecting it — far from it — but as I had purposefully ensured I was not particularly expecting anything, how could the bloody tableau have truly surprised me?

So, I observed the room as quickly and completely as I would have done were the Aeolam singing a tune, or a Fabrish Lepherret were dancing to their delight. I saw the corpse. I saw the blade. I saw the Archonarchian.

I must admit, while I knew it was not wise, I was besotted with the opportunity which lay in front of me. A dead Aeolam. It is difficult to describe the hunger I felt. They live for centuries. They die in silence and in secret, surrounded by a chosen cadre. Their flesh grown dry or wet, depending on their environs…and here was a corpse all for myself. A corpse of an Aeolam among the Velvet.

I set down the potted plant on the side-table next to the door and clasped my hands in front of my stomach, affecting an air of calm expectation. “Do you mind if I inspect the body?” I asked, most politely.

The stele-shaped pilgrim looked down at the corpse in the middle of the tiny cabin, and then looked up at me again with the same expressionless eyes. “No.”

Without another word, I sank to my knees. I had never seen an Aeolam in the Velvet before, and I had no reason to believe her shape was common to her kind. Free from the spheres, I saw her skin was rough and porous, her eyes wide and her teeth sharp. Was her hair as dead as straw because of the Velvet, or because of her death? I had never seen a dead Aeolam before, nor had I heard of such a poem ever gracing the halls of the Guild. The chance, the opportunity to sample, to taste, to sense this creature’s death was the most intoxicating drought.

So I slipped my lace gloves from both my hands, and lay them on my shoulders, a fitting place to lay them until I required their protection once more. Preparing myself both physically and mentally, I began to taste.

Her skin was rough, but steady, a pebbled beach washed smooth over time and tide. Her every strand of hair lay separate, twisted and meshed into a net of finest silk. Her smell was musty and slick, like fermented mushrooms in the deepest summer. Her black and bulbous eyes were staring at nothing and everything, no sheen or shine to suggest what she was looking at now, or what she had been looking at then. They were at once pools of permanent depth, and boundaries with no further meaning or substance to them than a plaster wall. Her neck was smooth and graceful like a swan’s egg, her tendons pushing out against her skin like tent-poles. How the curve arced even in death, like wind and ivy swaying in perfect asynchronicity. Her shoulders were clean, broken only by a single strap on each with which to hang her dress about her lithe form. Not an angle to be found, even among the joints. Her arms hung light. Fingers curled ever so gently, as a hand tracing the side of her lover’s cheek. The skin smooth and free from callouses, half-encircled by a chitinous layer that was more finger-nail than claw, more claw than a finger-nail. Her breasts were firm as clay, her hips as strong as steel. Her open mouth was like a deep grotto in the silent waters of the Yelthan Shores. A liquid glistened in the dark places, a shining light in the depths. As I watched, the moisture fled into the air, the cave dried, the dust settled. Her gossamer dress was as gentle as a spring shower, save where her black blood stuck the threads together; a crusty callus, a blackened scab where once only breezes blew.

Every scent, every taste, every sensation I embraced, suckling at her corpse like a piglet at a sow. I cannot say how long I knelt, nor how long the pilgrim stood over me, watching my observance. If you wish to know, I have written a short poem on the experience, and placed it in the Guild’s Library.

At last I was satiated, and took to my feet again. My lace gloves were replaced, and my poise regained. I turned my attention once more to the Archonarchian, who had not moved an inch.

With my mind now clear of my obligation and obsession, I addressed my attention to the situation at hand. After a quick glance about the room, I spoke as calmly as I could, considering the state of the large knife in the dark pilgrim’s hand. “I doubt you are the one which killed this poor thing, no? I am quite attentive to detail, you understand, and there are a great many clues which suggest you did little more than enter this room and pull the knife from her chest. Am I correct?”

She looked at me, and I looked at her. I could see behind her eyes a decision being made, and I am not ashamed to say I too was considering what to do. Had I wished it, I could have screamed most suitably and ran from the towering grave-stone, shrieking for help with ‘Murder! Murder!’ But I had no desire for haste, and running from a murderer is not an uncommon sensation of the poems in the Guild. I did not see how this particular murder would in any way enrich the shelves in the Guild’s larder, much less my own chances for survival.

Again the Archonarchian looked down, this time that the knife that she gripped in her hand. A single drop of ichor, finally overcome by the innate draw of the universe, exhausted with its efforts to remain complete with the stain on the blade, fell to the rug with a sound as silent as a prayer. She looked again at the Aeolam’s form, pitiful and twisted on the floor. Then she looked up once more to answer my question. “Yes.”

“Good,” I said as I stood, adjusting my dress and replacing the strands of hair that had shaken from their place. “Thank you for allowing me my observation. I know it may seem odd to one of your ilk, but me and mine have our own ways of dealing with situations like this.”

“You ere e Vempire,” she said.

To be called something unfamiliar was remarkably refreshing, to say nothing of novel, though the blank tone in which she said it was familiar. “I am afraid I don’t know what that is,” I said. “Some title from your homeland?”

“Deed things thet live by sucking life from others,” the Archonarchian said, by way of explanation. Now, when I returned from my jaunt I was able to study the legends of Archonarchian vampires a bit more carefully, and was able to note the peculiar details which made my next comment amusingly ironic:

“I assure you, I am no such thing,” I wiped my mouth with my handkerchief. “I merely experience things at a different intensity than most. May I ask a possibly impertinent question? Why did you come here, to this poor thing’s room?”

“Why do you esk?” the women’s voice was steady and cold. The ringing of the Gongs provided amusingly apt counterpoint.

“Well,” I tapped a lace finger to my chin, “if you were summoned here by letter or personal request, it is possible you were brought here to be framed. There are many on board this vessel who would not be so attentive as I, and take any excuse to hurtle you and yours into the Velvet to die. If it is mere coincidence,” I shrugged, “then it is indeed poor fortune, and little more.”

The pilgrim looked at the knife once more, and then at the body.

“I ceme here to kill her,” she said.

I am not the slightest bit ashamed to admit that I did not know how to respond to such an answer. I daresay I stood stock still, gaping like a fish for several minutes as the Archonarchian stared back, her cold eyes and green lips betraying not the slightest hint of her inner thoughts. I had not expected such brutal honesty when the truth in question was so remarkably unfortunate. Nonetheless, I soon recollected my wits and resumed my conversation.

“You must be a Archonarchian assassin, then? You managed to slip out of your room without an escort and get all the way here…only for someone to have beat you to your target,” I said, opting for some measure of levity. “She must have been a great villain to have two separate daggers aching for her blood.”

“No,” the pilgrim said. “Erchonerchien egents do not use bledes. We use poison or wire. We do not spill blood if we cen evoid it.”

“How kind of you to share that with me,” I said, already starting to feel flush. “Well, it appears we have a murderer on board — or another murderer, no offense meant. Do you mind my asking why you wanted this poor thing dead in the first place?”

Looking down at the body once more, the pilgrim muttered to herself, then more clearly: “She wes one of the Twelve Hends.”

“Twelve Hands?” I cocked my head. “I have never heard of such an organization. Who are they?”

“No organization. Code neme. Twelve enemy egents, working together to prevent the greet construction.”

I did not know what she meant by that, but before I could reply, she looked up at me again and took a single step forward. “You ere not Erchonerchien. You will tell the Driver whet you heve seen. Others will know. They will kill us.”

“Certainly not,” I protested. “I would never let anything happen to an innocent, even if they are only innocent by chance. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done nothing wrong. Now, why don’t you leave the knife here with me, I’ll put it back in the body, and you can go back to your cabin.”

“No,” the pilgrim dropped the knife to the rug with a dull thud. “We hed e job. We heve feiled. Now we return behind the door, to fece punishment.”

“That seems harsh,” I admitted. “The poor thing is dead, whether you killed her or not. Surely that is not a failure deserving of punishment.”

“It is,” the pilgrim said. “You do not know whet it is like behind the door.”

“Perhaps not, but I can still say it seems a fate that is neither fair nor necessary.”

She looked at me then, with dark eyes behind the pale mask: “When the construction is done, everything will be different.”

This was the second time she had mentioned this ‘construction,’ and as such I presumed this was sufficient suggestion to allow me to ask without being rude. Unfortunately, no sooner had I opened my mouth to ask for an explanation, a loud crash echoed through the walls and floors, and the entire Howdah shook with a shuddering lurch. I fell to the floor, as did the pilgrim, and in seconds the entire deck was heaving left and right.

“Is this your doing?” I asked, unwilling to be played for a fool.

“No,” the pilgrim said. “We do not etteck Golden Howdehs. We need to leeve, return behind the door.”

Her piece said, the Archonarchian regained her footing and vanished out of the dead Aeolam’s cabin. I pulled myself after her, finally managing to settle my feet underneath me in the outer passageway. Of course, no sooner had I done so than the floor rolled again, sending the pilgrim crashing into the bulkhead. Screams and cries from distant passengers filtered through the air, while the groaning and snapping of the Golden Howdah provided counterpoint.

My head met metal. The world spun in opposition to the Howdah. Darkness flooded my mind, only to be driven away again by the pain. When I looked up, I could see the Archonarchian, rolling about on the floor as the ship pitched and yawed.

When I looked again, the other two pilgrims were picking her up, stiff as a board, and walking slowly down the passage. “Yes,” one said. “Dencing.”

I tried to push myself up, but the floor was gone. I was leaning against a wall, with hands grabbing at my side. The distant voice of Mr. Porist drifted to my ear, as did the gruff voice of dear Driver Skan.

Then a warm and soft tendril of silk caressed my face.

Then darkness.