Purgatorial

The creature sat in a huddled heap on the cold stone as it stared up at the sky. Rain beat down on it, dribbling down twisted wings and dripping from its blackening feathers to the soiled floor beneath. The rain’s rhythm echoed like footsteps and the creature twitched and cringed at their fall. It was the sound of exile, of the blood of a brother spilt upon spoiled ground, of its father weeping. The water loosened the blood from the creature’s porcelain skin and it flowed with new life down the small drainage grate in the middle of the floor.

It hated the rain almost as much as it hated its prison. Smooth sloped walls surrounded it like frozen soldiers huddled around a dying fire, eternal sentinels bound to a broken beast. The creature could reach out and touch its guardians from where it sat. There was no room to lay, no room for comfort. There was no door, no way out. The slope of the walls was nearly vertical close to the creature but eased as it grew higher. The walls rose near ten meters before opening to a rim five times the size of the creature’s cage. Above that funnel of stone, the gray sky seemed to taunt the creature. Even if the creature’s wings hadn’t been made lame, there wasn’t room to spread them and the walls were too high to jump over, too slick to climb. It had long since given up on escape but desire found its way into the creature’s heart nonetheless. How long had it been since she felt the wind’s tender touch, that innocent breeze brushing through her feathers? No, it, not she. The creature sometimes forgot what it had become, but the stains surrounding it were inescapable memories of flesh and their sight forced remembrance. The prison fostered it, and soon, she feared, there would be no more she.

Wait – there – footsteps. The creature stirred.

Atop the wall stood now a man with his hands shackled together. A dirty black rag was stuffed into his mouth and a rope tied tight around his head kept it in place. The man was gaunt, dirty and mangled, but he stood straight and tall, his eyes blazing like a sword alight. The man met the creature’s gaze with an almost unbearable furiosity. Of all the men the creature had faced, only he, this ugly broken-nosed prisoner, looked at it without fear. How long would that courage hold? The prisoner broke his eyes from the creature.

Other faces, familiar faces, appeared one by one around the rim of the pit. Two soldiers in polished chainmail appeared on either side of the prisoner, long swords in ornate sheaths hung at their sides. Across from them, on the other side of the pit, ten men in violet silk robes, beads of carved jade woven into their dark flowing hair and beards, gathered close together. The creature could see the gleam of gold as the men wrung their ringed fingers together in feigned consternation. They were men of great wealth and power. They were judge and juror, but hadn’t the stomach to be executioner. It had grown used to seeing these men. It marked the passage of time by the length and color of their proud ever-growing beards, the darkest of which had now grown gray. Hate flourished in the belly of the creature at the sight of them. They had cracked her wings, stolen her sword, made her become it. He had made her to inspire these people. To show them beauty and give them wisdom. But even He had used her for violence. The grove… She hated them for making her hate them. Hate made her it, and it made her hate. A violent cycle slowly spinning out of control. The growing sound of a crowd, violent and jeering, brought the creature’s sight back to the ugly prisoner as two soldiers forced him to his knees.

“Silence!” the fattest of the ten men yelled, and only the rain kept chattering. “Juran, today you face judgment for your endeavors to bring forth an incursion against us, the council of this great city. Those of us that sit in council were chosen by the will of God. To slander us is to blaspheme God. To challenge us is to challenge God. For that most grave crime, we, in good faith and equitable charity, allow you to experience an infinitesimally small portion of Our Father’s power.” From his cloak he unsheathed a sword and raised it high above his head. “This beast, this monster, has been given to us by God to show us the horrors of Hell and to remind us that only by his Grace may we avoid this horrid fate. Awaken, devil!” The sword lit itself from within and the rain sizzled as it met the flames it ushered.

Pain shot through the creature’s body as its flesh began to writhe. The sword, the flame, the hate. Two new wings burst out of its back in a hail of blood and skin and jutted out to either side, slamming sickeningly into the walls. Bone pierced through flesh and the blood fell heavier than rain. The blood pooled beneath the creature as its shattered wings trembled like an animal’s death throes as it tried to cover its body. The creature howled. Fight it, fight it, she begged of herself. Her arms stiffened and the bones of her fingers burst through their tips. Her feet imploded and flesh squirmed back together in a new form. She could feel her skull twisting, breaking, reforming, faces pushing outward. Stop, stop! she cried but the words left her throat as a deep scornful roar. Her mind drifted away as the transformation ended. The creature slumped forward and grew still.

“Juran, may God have mercy on your soul,” the fat man said as the soldiers removed the prisoner’s gag and shackles.

Juran launched himself up towards the nearest soldier the moment the cuffs left his wrist. His purpose gave him conviction, but his body was thin and malnourished. He grasped for the sword on the soldier’s hip, but the soldier broke from his grasp and slammed his iron fist into Juran’s stomach. Juran stumbled and fell backwards into the pit. His back slammed the stone and he wheezed as he quickly slid further down the funnel. Further and further he went until he reached the ledge of the creature's hole and his momentum forced him over the side before he could even attempt to catch himself. He fell three meters before he landed on his feet with a devastating crunch and fell forward nearly into the creature’s lap.

Juran scrambled back until he reached the opposite wall and gazed at the creature who lay eerily still. The creature’s face was that of a beautiful woman, but the body was long and grotesque. Bloody broken wings twitched and shuttered as they tried to cover its body. Its hands lay limp at its side, great talons where fingers should be. The room was foul with the stench of unwashed animal and fresh blood. He realized then that he was covered in its blood and the thought made him nauseous. He sat there for what felt like hours as his leg and back throbbed in pain and still the creature did not stir.

“Tshepto otho!” the fat man yelled down into the pit. The rain ceased.

At once, the creature rose to its feet, its hooves clacking against the stone. It was the size of a small woman, but its footsteps were heavy and intimidating. The creature turned its head to the left and Juran saw the face of a lion snarling back at him. The head continued to turn and the beak of an eagle appeared, its steely eyes glimmering. On it went and he saw the snout and horns of an ox. And then the woman appeared again, a smile drawn taut across its face. Round and round the head turned, a spinning orb of flesh. It stepped forward and Juran yelped.

The creature stopped at the sound. She woke from her rest and the creature’s head stopped turning. She saw the fear in Juran’s eyes as he began to weep. He called out quietly using words she couldn't understand. She tried to speak to him, but the words were a hiss that burned the man’s ears. He screamed out but did not move. Stop it! she cried. Nothing. She tried to move her hands, nothing. Her wings, nothing. Her body was not her own. She felt the monster’s cruel hunger, that desire for flesh. And then she felt water at her feet again. Higher it climbed, its tendrils reaching and grasping and catching hold. Stop, feebly. It clawed at her throat and its hands pried her mouth open. The water entered her, drowning her in its violence. And then she was gone.

The monster’s head whirled once more and Juran’s screams grew louder. It stepped forward until it stood over the weeping man. Drool from the lion’s mouth dripped down onto his body. He looked up and it and his cries stifled in his throat. His body slackened until his limbs were limp and useless. He stared up at the spinning flesh, his mouth agape. The monster plunged its talons into Juran’s chest and blood oozed from the wounds. Juran remained quiet, transfixed to the monster’s ever-changing face.

Stop, a voice whispered lightly before being snuffed out entirely.

The monster tore at the flesh and devoured Juran piece by piece. The fat man’s sword extinguished itself and he sheathed it clumsily. Once it was clear Juran was dead, the council left. The thrill of the monster had lost all spectacle to them. The crowd, however, gathered around the pit eagerly and gawked and gaped at the monstrosity below their feet. They cheered for death as they always did. They loved punishment as long as it wasn’t for them. Eventually, once all trace of Juran was destroyed, the crowd dispersed. The hour had grown late, and so they found themselves in the taverns once again.

The monster always came and always went, but now it stayed. The divine becomes the creature becomes the monster. Its four faces spun as the monster walked around its empty cage, wings twitching but no longer trying to cover itself. Beauty, wisdom. Nothing but a tool.

Gone, gone, gone…