Dusk in Kalevia: Chapter 7

Demyan’s apartment was smaller than Toivo had expected. When he stepped through the bathroom door on the 24th floor of the State Security Building and into Demyan’s living room, his eyes trailed over the clean, raw wood tones, all Scandinavian modern design straight from the pages of a government department store catalog. The flat felt standoffish, lacking the inherent warmth and friendly chaos of a lived-in space. A brightly colored cushion or two attempted to inject a small hint of color, but the effect was unconvincing.

Demyan cracked a half-hearted smile.

“Home sweet home,” he said, dragging himself from Toivo’s back. He stumbled over to the rug and sprawled across it with a moan, adding a few new abstract accents to its geometric pattern.

Toivo hovered over him, awkwardly trying to shepherd him to a more comfortable resting place.

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine.” Demyan waved him off, affecting a drunken bravado that failed to hide his pain.

Demyan clutched the leg of the coffee table, his knuckles white, his eyes unfocused and dull. Although his bleeding had slowed, it seemed to be taking all of his effort to remain conscious. He was so pale and cold against the rug, but still impossibly, unnaturally alive.

“Fuck, I’m thirsty…” Demyan took a rasping breath and leaned into Toivo’s hand as it supported his neck. “My veins must be dry.”

“Do you have any bandages?”

“Don’t need ‘em. Just get me a clean sheet and I’ll sleep it off.”

Toivo slid a hand under Demyan’s back and lifted him, trying to coax him out of his overcoat and jacket. Although he tried to be as gentle as possible, he felt Demyan’s muscles tense under his hands, knotted hard with suffering.

His skin was cold, too cold–like lifeless stone, like the wind that whined outside. As Toivo unbuckled his holster, Demyan kept talking in his deep, ragged voice, as though trying to distract both Toivo and himself from his shameful weakness.

“I’ve done this before, anyhow. I got shot twice during the war.” Demyan talked with his eyes closed, his teeth clenched to keep from chattering. “They were so surprised when I turned up at the station a few days later, not a scratch on me. Earned me the call sign Lucky for a while.”

The shirt was plastered to Demyan’s chest, caked with congealing blood, dark holes alluding to the horrors underneath. Toivo held his breath and began to unbutton it slowly, peeling the cloth back as gently as he could.

“Yeah, Lucky… Nobody ever saw the part where I dragged myself to some secluded safe house and spent some wretched, fevered nights putting myself back together.”

As Toivo drew the stiff cloth from the wounds, he couldn’t stop himself from flinching at the sight of the channels bored through human flesh, his instincts telling him that they could only mean death. What made them truly grotesque, however, was the way in which they pulsated ever so subtly, shifting like melting ice under his gaze.

He had wondered what would happen should a human wound him–now here was the answer before him, unreal and terrible. He rose, his head buzzing with anxiety, leaving Demyan gasping under the table.

In the little yellow kitchen, Toivo put the kettle on, and before long he returned to Demyan’s side with a bowlful of warm water, a clean dish towel, and a mug of tea. He awkwardly cradled Demyan’s head as the injured man drank, tipping the warm liquid down his throat, remembering the solace granted him by that glass of water in the dark. This day had developed a rather disturbing symmetry.

“This is strange.” Toivo began to run the damp towel gingerly over Demyan’s chest, cleaning away the gore. “Us here, like this…”

“I know.”

As Toivo’s fingers danced around the edges of the wounds, he found himself bothered by the immediate physicality of Demyan’s body–the solid sinew, the give of the smooth skin. It made him newly conscious of his own flesh in a way that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. These bodies and their mimicry of the human form, replete with blood and bone and intricate sensation, were a curse and a mystery, and he was possessed by a sudden yearning for knowledge. He felt the strange hunger return, creeping into his body and pulling him, pulling him…

He came to his senses and threw up a wall tight around his mind, blocking out all of the shadow’s aura. This was madness.

“I’ll help you to bed,” Toivo said primly, once more the nursemaid.

After he managed to lug his patient into the bedroom, Toivo lay Demyan on the mattress and wrapped his damaged body in a white sheet. As he turned to go, Demyan grabbed the rough cloth of his sleeve, barely awake.

“Thanks…for back there.”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“I was so glad…that it was you…”

There was a pause and then, without warning, Demyan reached up and gripped Toivo’s arms, pulling him down toward him. Burying his face in Toivo’s shoulder, he drew a long, deep breath, and Toivo’s body thrilled with sudden, pleasurable panic.

“You smell awful.”

Demyan sank back onto the pillows, all at once asleep.

Toivo sniffed peevishly at the sleeve of his coverall, his heart still beating a wild tattoo against his ribs.The smell of sweat and old bleach water hit his nose with a violence that caused him to gag. He was due for a shower, anyway.

In the bathroom, he let the offending suit fall to his feet and kicked it away into a pile in the corner. His blood-specked shirt followed, and he thought of the pile of ruined clothing in the living room. Today had been rough on them both.

Toivo cranked the tap to its hottest setting and stepped under the stream, finally beginning to regain his composure. Had he ever felt like this before? Was this just an unpleasant side effect of having a body? He tried to remember what it had been like without one: that feeling of being everywhere at once, of passing through people’s minds like a spring breeze, skimming the surface of the world. Everything so free and clear with none of these confounding sensations, this carnal rush that destroyed rational thought.

What was it about Solas that frightened and captivated him at the same time?

Truce or not, he’s still your enemy. Remember that.

Toivo found a robe hanging on the back of the door. When he returned to the bedroom, Demyan’s breathing was labored, and a film of sweat shone on his brow. Unseen shadows danced around him and Toivo could feel them coursing throughout the room, licking like chill black flames at his heart. Feeling its sorrowful appetite, Toivo had a flash of inspiration.

What if he did to the darkness what he did to normal humans–met it with his own power?

He opened up, just a little, and light tangled with the shadows, branches and vines entwined. He felt like he was playing with a wild animal–ready for it to snap at any point–but the shadows seemed to respond tamely to his touch.

Let me in, he thought at Demyan, and then remembered what he had felt in the prison–the sudden, terrifying burst of memories. The fear. Toivo recoiled and the light vanished back into his mind.

Demyan opened his eyes a tiny bit and sighed.

“Don’t stop…”

“N-no. There’s something there, some memory…”

“You don’t remember the last time we met, do you?” Toivo was startled to hear a catch in Demyan’s voice.

“Then show me,” Toivo replied, swallowing the lump in his throat.

He placed his hand on Demyan’s temple, and together they fell into the past.

**

December, 1890

The horses’ breath rose up into the sky like locomotive plumes. First Sergeant Damien Blackwell reached up to feel his nose, gone numb in the wind that tore across the plains. He was reminded of his lingering distaste for this assignment. Too much roughing it, out in the Dakotas.

“We taking all their guns, then?” he asked, slapping the neck of his bay gelding and knowing the answer already.

“Every last one,” Captain Charles Varnum answered around his wad of chaw. “Say they gon’ have a peaceful little Pow-Wow, but I don’t trust ‘em fer shit.

“Wire said that they gone plum crazy, all out dancin’ in the snow.” Varnum spat, punching a red hole of steaming tobacco juice into the white of the ground. “Now we round up the rest of ‘em, stick ‘em on the train, teach ‘em a thing or two about good behavior.”

The captain avoided looking at Damien; he just kept pulling on the corner of his mustache as he chewed, his eyes glued to the bobbing head of Colonel Forsyth as the man led them back to the Lakota encampment.

Damien recognized the behavior; Varnum hiding the anxiety that they’d all been feeling since the week before, when the marshals had shot Sitting Bull. The men would never meet Damien’s gaze when they were like this–all wound tight, preparing for what lay ahead of them in the cold morning.

Forsyth led the regiment, but Damien knew who occupied the men’s thoughts during the heat of battle: Sergeant Damien Blackwell, the quiet sharpshooter who had a canny sense for Indian ambushes, who knew when and where the Lakota would ride into battle on their painted ponies. Rumor of his preternatural tracking skills had spread like wildfire among settlers and Indians alike; the men of the cavalry watched him with fear and confusion as he stared up at the stars every night, bringing back his eerily accurate predictions to camp.

Damien loved knowing how they all feared him, deferred to him, desperately wanted to be him despite his inferior rank. Lording his secret power over them was the one thing he enjoyed in this whole wretched enterprise.

We’re getting near the end, anyway, he thought. How much longer can the enemy dance for their pointless dream?

Soon they were by the ravine, surrounding the cluster of teepees. The Oglala Lakota stood in small groups in front of their homes, clearly called out by the rattle and clank of the approaching cavalry, steeling themselves for the inevitable.

The cavalry came into the camp on foot, their confidence bolstered by the presence of rapid-fire Hotchkiss guns they had installed during the night. Stiff greetings were exchanged. Damien remained mounted at the periphery, in a position to make a swift getaway should the need arise. Anyone who glanced at him, uniformed and still on his tall horse, shuddered and turned away.

Forsyth spoke to the Indians and gestured imperiously. One by one, the Lakota submitted to the confiscation of their rifles, setting each firearm gently on the ground before the troops. Even from his far-off vantage, Damien could sense the twinge of pain each man and woman felt as they relinquished their odds of survival onto the pile. One woman looked up as she set her old muzzle-loader on the ground, caught eyes with Damien, and lost her will to carry on.

She had seen the ground littered with buffalo bones bleaching white in the sun and had despaired at hunting anything to eat this winter. And now this…this…

The troops began to search the tribe members in small groups, going through their belongings to make sure no one was keeping anything back. Out came bows and axes, hunting knives, even tent stakes tossed together in the center of camp. Then their suspicions were confirmed: under a young man’s blanket was hidden one last rifle.

With a shout of accusation, the soldiers tried to wrench it from the man, shouting at him; he shook his head and held the gun above him. Why had he not brought it out when Forsyth had ordered? Was he just a rebellious fool? He couldn’t have possibly thought this through: his resistance seemed less violent than confused, since he looked askance at his friends gesturing frantically toward the pile.

He’s deaf, Damien realized, in the moment before he heard the shot.

When the man fell, there was a momentary stillness–and then everyone joined in a mad scramble for the guns. There was a brief clash over the pile as the Lakota turned upon the cavalry with one last burst of pent-up rage, raw with every indignity visited upon them over the years. Then the Hotchkiss guns fired.

Proceed to Chapter 7, page 3–>