This brief tale I wrote for the AbeBooks 1001-Word Short Story Competition:
Snowy grass cracked under bare feet. Frostbite was the least of his worries as he approached, one step after another, the stream and the verge of death. His right hand held a clot of blood, from which poured onto the snow steaming drops, bright and thick as rubies. In his left, he carried an even heavier weight: a black sack from which came foreign, muffled sounds of agony and anger. The keen pain in his gut grew clearer and his steps slower, but no more were needed. Exhaling a last rasping breath, he turned to gather momentum and threw the sack into the water. The expanding waves echoed the last beats of his heart, as he lay on the frozen shore...
Snowy grass cracked under bare feet. Frostbite was the least of his worries as he approached, one step after another, the stream and the verge of death. His right hand held a clot of blood, from which poured onto the snow steaming drops, bright and thick as rubies. In his left, he carried an even heavier weight: a black sack from which came foreign, muffled sounds of agony and anger. The keen pain in his gut grew clearer and his steps slower, but no more were needed. Exhaling a last rasping breath, he turned to gather momentum and threw the sack into the water. The expanding waves echoed the last beats of his heart, as he lay on the frozen shore...
“Not my fate!” gasped Tristan as he awoke from the dream that had haunted him since he returned from his voyage to Persia. During his travels, he had brought back a number of curious artifacts, but none stranger than the sculpture he chanced upon in one of the archaeological sites under his supervision. The statue depicted the head of an Arab, bearded and noble in countenance. The style was unlike any he had seen before, and most certainly unlike the Eastern art with which he'd become familiar. The sculptor had taken pains to etch every single wrinkle on the man’s face and to carve out an intricate web of hair within the man’s beard. The hardness of the stone made the artist’s skill and patience even more extraordinary, since Tristan had been unable even to scratch away a layer of dust to analyse the adamant material.
That morning was perhaps the hundredth time that Tristan examined the sculptured head. This time, his nerves betrayed him; his elbow toppled a cup of tea, which poured itself upon the table, the liquid surging under the severed, stone neck. As Tristan rummaged for tissues in his drawers, he missed the most brisk transformation. The stone absorbed the liquid like a sugar cube, turning into a dense white paste, underneath which a living, severed head lay hidden. It was the sound of speech which first alerted Tristan of this unannounced visitor. The head spoke in a strange dialect of Arabic, which Tristan could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, images slowly weaved themselves into existence within his mind as the Arab uttered his tale.
Tristan learned that before him were the scarce remnants of a man who had been ere known as the Sage Duban. His body could be restored with the aid of a mortal man, who would be rewarded with a gift beyond measure. Ink would be made to flow, fill Duban's veins again, congeal into flesh and bone, and the pulse of painted strokes would set his heart in motion. The pasted powder covering the Arab's head was all that was needed to transform ink into a living pigment.
Overcome by fevered curiosity, Tristan carefully scraped off an ounce of the paste from the Arab's hair, and cast it into his inkpot, twirling the mixture until it turned a sickly gray. As he dipped his plume into the thick paint, the image of the Arab, standing proud before an arabesque wall, filled his mind. His sketch started with the Arab's face, whose expression was taut with impatience. His pen followed his mind’s eye, building a solid body and clothing it with long, embroidered robes. As he traced the edged curve of the scimitar suspended from the Arab’s belt, the memory of his portentous dream returned to him: bright wounds bleeding into crimson snow.
If he was about to draw forth his own death, he began to ponder, he would not fall without a fight. As he finished drawing the sabre, he let his pen stray off course, adding a deep crack at the sword’s hilt. After he cast the final stroke, the paper beneath his pen lit ablaze, exuding a sallow smoke that filled the chamber for an instant and then condensed into the living substance of the Arab, standing proudly before him in the room.
Duban smiled as he spoke again in that eerie tongue, producing a curious looking pastille from within his robe, which he extended to Tristan. "Immortality” was the word reverberating in Tristan’s mind as he took the gift and cautiously chewed it.
With a satisfied grin, Duban rested his left hand on the hilt of his scimitar, but his expression was soon transfixed with pain as he felt the sharp trowel plunged into his abdomen by Tristan. He tumbled back, pulling at the hilt of his sword, but this snapped like a feeble twig as he tried to extract the blade from its sheath. Tristan laughed, proud to have outsmarted the cunning Arab and escaped death by his hand.
As Duban convulsed in agony, barely standing on hands and knees, Tristan approached him, bloody trowel still in hand, ready to finish the deed. "Fate is made" he thought as he grasped the Arab’s hair and twisted his head back to expose the neck. But before he could strike, a bright flash flew before Tristan’s face. The next thing he saw was Duban, holding the bare, curved blade in his bloodied right. Then the entire scene turned and twisted about Tristan as his head collapsed upon the floor, looking onto his own deadened body stretched beside him.
The Arab shouted curses as he slowly crawled about the room, but more than furious, his pained groans were confused and incredulous. “Betrayed!” was the dolorous sound resounding in Tristan’s head. To his own surprise, neither death nor darkness followed the excruciating throe of his beheading. He tried to scream, but only a groan left his lips.
The Arab finally disappeared from sight, but his steps returned. Before he knew it, Tristan’s hair was grasped by a moist hand and tossed into darkness. From within the sack, Tristan heard a door opening, followed by the crackling steps of the Arab upon frosted grass as they made for the river.
That morning was perhaps the hundredth time that Tristan examined the sculptured head. This time, his nerves betrayed him; his elbow toppled a cup of tea, which poured itself upon the table, the liquid surging under the severed, stone neck. As Tristan rummaged for tissues in his drawers, he missed the most brisk transformation. The stone absorbed the liquid like a sugar cube, turning into a dense white paste, underneath which a living, severed head lay hidden. It was the sound of speech which first alerted Tristan of this unannounced visitor. The head spoke in a strange dialect of Arabic, which Tristan could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, images slowly weaved themselves into existence within his mind as the Arab uttered his tale.
Tristan learned that before him were the scarce remnants of a man who had been ere known as the Sage Duban. His body could be restored with the aid of a mortal man, who would be rewarded with a gift beyond measure. Ink would be made to flow, fill Duban's veins again, congeal into flesh and bone, and the pulse of painted strokes would set his heart in motion. The pasted powder covering the Arab's head was all that was needed to transform ink into a living pigment.
Overcome by fevered curiosity, Tristan carefully scraped off an ounce of the paste from the Arab's hair, and cast it into his inkpot, twirling the mixture until it turned a sickly gray. As he dipped his plume into the thick paint, the image of the Arab, standing proud before an arabesque wall, filled his mind. His sketch started with the Arab's face, whose expression was taut with impatience. His pen followed his mind’s eye, building a solid body and clothing it with long, embroidered robes. As he traced the edged curve of the scimitar suspended from the Arab’s belt, the memory of his portentous dream returned to him: bright wounds bleeding into crimson snow.
If he was about to draw forth his own death, he began to ponder, he would not fall without a fight. As he finished drawing the sabre, he let his pen stray off course, adding a deep crack at the sword’s hilt. After he cast the final stroke, the paper beneath his pen lit ablaze, exuding a sallow smoke that filled the chamber for an instant and then condensed into the living substance of the Arab, standing proudly before him in the room.
Duban smiled as he spoke again in that eerie tongue, producing a curious looking pastille from within his robe, which he extended to Tristan. "Immortality” was the word reverberating in Tristan’s mind as he took the gift and cautiously chewed it.
With a satisfied grin, Duban rested his left hand on the hilt of his scimitar, but his expression was soon transfixed with pain as he felt the sharp trowel plunged into his abdomen by Tristan. He tumbled back, pulling at the hilt of his sword, but this snapped like a feeble twig as he tried to extract the blade from its sheath. Tristan laughed, proud to have outsmarted the cunning Arab and escaped death by his hand.
As Duban convulsed in agony, barely standing on hands and knees, Tristan approached him, bloody trowel still in hand, ready to finish the deed. "Fate is made" he thought as he grasped the Arab’s hair and twisted his head back to expose the neck. But before he could strike, a bright flash flew before Tristan’s face. The next thing he saw was Duban, holding the bare, curved blade in his bloodied right. Then the entire scene turned and twisted about Tristan as his head collapsed upon the floor, looking onto his own deadened body stretched beside him.
The Arab shouted curses as he slowly crawled about the room, but more than furious, his pained groans were confused and incredulous. “Betrayed!” was the dolorous sound resounding in Tristan’s head. To his own surprise, neither death nor darkness followed the excruciating throe of his beheading. He tried to scream, but only a groan left his lips.
The Arab finally disappeared from sight, but his steps returned. Before he knew it, Tristan’s hair was grasped by a moist hand and tossed into darkness. From within the sack, Tristan heard a door opening, followed by the crackling steps of the Arab upon frosted grass as they made for the river.
