Mataya now had a straight shot to the main entrance of the barn. She confirmed that the guard had vacated his post, she sprinted towards the of the barn, reaching the entrance just as her wind gave out. She was close now. Somewhere, within the walls of this structure, she would find the client.
The massive wooden door, built to contain beasts of burden, mechanical horses, and heavy machinery, could not fully be closed. Over the many years, the wood had warped from constant exposure to the sea air and there was no money in the meager budget to have them replaced. Mataya sidled through the gap.
The air was warm, but foul, a mixture of moldy hay, manure, and grease. A row of torches, attached to sconces on each wall of a narrow passage at the far side of the barn, cast disfigured, dancing shadows. The ground, covered in moist hay, absorbed the light, appeared black as ink.
Running the length of the enormous structure was a thruway, wide enough to accommodate the width of three carriages. Crowded along the edges of the thruway stood rows of ghoulish mechanical corpses, upright, draped in white linen, and covered in piles of dust and cobwebs.
It was creepy place to be in the dark of night. Especially for those who knew of the unspeakable horrors and crimes against humanity that had taken place within these walls. It was a place where the echoes of pain and suffering could still be felt by those with the gift. It was harbinger of barbarity. A place where the anonymity of closed doors and silent screams brought out the monster that resides within each and every Human soul.
A chill plunged into Mataya’s spine. This was no place to linger.
As Mataya’s eyes scanned the the inside of the barn, searching for hidden danger, her head unconsciously snapped sharply to the left. Something triggered her attention. It was so slight, it was nearly imperceptible. A sound? A movement perhaps? Was it real, or a figment of her fear and imagination? She froze and held her breath, then rotated her and shoulders counter-clockwise, slowly, adjusting her field of vision, struggling to attune her perception of depth. Slowly, the shadowy outline of a solid object began to materialize as if from thin air. Objects both large and small, draped in cloth tarps, revealed their soft edges and corners, creating fuzzy impressions and distorted silhouettes. She blinked hard as the image seemed to flip upside down and then right side up. Objects that had appeared faraway were instead close, and those which appeared close were at a distance. She scanned the interior wall to her left, and in time, details of the inner geometry of the barn began to materialize. There, a curiously narrow stairway appeared that did not exist only moments before. Something, or someone, had lowered it down to the floor from the rafters above.
The staircase ran parallel to the outer wall and rose so steeply that to ascend it would be tantamount to climbing a ladder. Support for the structure was composed of scavenged materials. Hundreds of strings, threads, and strips of cloth, strung together, connected by tiny knots. The positioning of the supports were designed such that the ladder could be lowered and retracted from above, concealing its existence from below. Mataya squinted as she followed the path of the staircase upward into a jagged rectangular sheet of darkness. A ragged hole carved through the plywood ceiling. The gap was quite small, not large enough for an adult Human or even a relatively small animal to squeeze through. The edges of the gap had been chiseled and gashed in a haphazard way. Clearly, it had not been carved cleanly with the precision of Human hands wielding Human tools. It looked as if a thousands tiny mouths had gnawed their way through the wooden particulates. A flash of light illuminated the supporting crossbeam revealing scores of tiny marks engraved by sharpened teeth. From a military point of view, it was brilliantly constructed to avoid detection from unwanted Humans.
Mataya held her breath and listened, observed, and detected. The game of intrigue was afoot. Her thoughts raced, fueled by intrigue and curiosity. Who or what had constructed this stealthy staircase and why had they lowered it just as she had arrived? What was their intent and was it something nefarious? Did they plan to do her harm? In self-defense perhaps? Were they friend or foe? And why had she never seen them before?
Directly above her, something stirred. A fine mist of particulates filled the air. She bent over and lifted her fist to her mouth attempting to stifle the sound of her cough. Sawdust rained down upon her head and shoulders. She blinked her eyes to clear them of the debris. She gagged as her nose detected the odor of powdery excrement. Was this a deliberate attack from above? If indeed, it was ingenious. She felt herself in the presence of a clever intellect. What creatures so small possessed such military acumen?
Mataya’s vision blurred from watering eyes. She unraveled her scarf and used it to wipe away the particulates. The fine dust tickled the inside her nose. She succeeded in quelling the itch just in time to stifle a sneeze, one that would likely reveal her position. Then, she wiped away the debris from her face and lips. She shook out her silk scarf, then scrunched it into a ball and pressed it tightly against her nose and mouth, filtering the dusty air so that she may breathe.
Mataya blinked rapidly to regain her blurred vision. As she struggled to regain her composure, she nearly failed to hear the gentle crescendo coming from above. The sound resembled the footsteps of a millipede with a thousand feet shod with wooden shoes. She shielded her eyes and raised her head. Through squinted eyes, she gaze upon a cadre of Calico Rats with short piebald fur rounding the corner in lock step, executing a ninety-degree turn with military discipline before promenading down the staircase with uniform precision and impeccable rhythm. The training of their red eyes failed to betray their intent. Mataya felt a combination of relief and trepidation as they proceeded to carry out their military exercise, all the while failing to acknowledge her presence.
Surely, Mataya puzzled, they must be aware of that I am here!
Yet they continued their march, undaunted and undeterred as if they were wholly unaware or apathetic to her intrusion. Yet surely her entrance had triggered this response. All Mataya could do is watch, wait, and infer as to their intentions.
As they performed their final leap to solid ground, one-by-one the rat bodies placed themselves in their proper positions within an impressive military formation while maintaining their erect posture. With the end of the rat-train now in sight and their exquisitely crafted rows and columns nearly complete, not one of them had yet to engage Mataya or even acknowledge her existence. They were a formidable force, if not by size, by their sheer number and in their capacity for coordination and skillful craft. They could prove to be the insurmountable obstacle standing between her and the success of her mission. Mataya mimicked their posture, and, despite genuine fear, she put on a brave face.
Eventually, the final participant in the impressive parade, their glorious leader, assumed his position and completed a geometrically perfect phalanx. With stiff spines and shoulders pulled up and back, they lifted their pointed chins and curled their tails into the shape of a noose. A most uncomfortable posture for creatures who spent the majority of their lives crawling on all four paws. And though they tried, they were not fully capable of straightening their arms. Physiologically constrained, their elbows remained bent and their hands cupped inward with fingers curled. This resembled tiny Human soldiers. Their uniforms, acquired from figurines, varied in color and cloth but nonetheless tailored to create the appearance of a cooperative collective. Theirs was a defensive force, one designed to show strength and resolve rather than engage and in battle. Mataya relaxed as she gathered that their intent was not to engage in hostility, but rather to parley. And with this, the negotiations for a military détente began.
In her game-world, Mataya assigned to the Rats the role of Rooks. They were the guardians of the castle. The eyes and the ears. Military intelligence was their game and their information network represented the core their strategic value. Overlooked, discounted, and underestimated, they were perfectly positioned to perform their duties. They saw themselves as resourceful creatures dedicated to the ideals of honor, devotion, and sacrifice. Mataya was impressed.
The decorated Rat officers, the largest and the strongest, occupied the first row. They exhibited a menacing air of aggressive confidence and intimidating strength. The rows further back were composed of the smaller, younger, and the meek, who failed to hide their anxiety. Among their ranks, Mataya noticed a minority of plain white mice, likely conscripted into the rat army against their will. On the ground underneath the weak-hearted mice with wobbly knees and whiskers that maniacally twitched formed small steaming puddles beneath their crouched hind legs. One particularly mealy mouse, sickly, and asthmatic, wheezed while struck with a panic. Another, borne with an unfortunate and uncontrollable facial tic, could not suppress the spasms that twisted his nose, contorted his cheek, and squeezed his eyes open and shut. As they grew fatigued, one-by-one the white mice collapsed down onto all four paws before struggling back up onto their hind legs.
The battle-hardened Rats, occupying the first row, remained reared, projecting their chests up high in the air, a display designed to convey a sense of strength, ferocity, and an appetite to fight. Yet, wishing to avoid any unprovoked aggression, they concealed their weapons: a pebble in one hand, and a toothpick sharpened on both ends in the other.
Donning a patch on on eye, the leader adorned himself in make-shift military attire including metals made from buttons, a sword from the olive of a martini, and a tightened belt tightened belt of yarn to contain his eminent paunch. The leader turned and regarded Mataya in earnest with one his one good eye. With authority, he commanded Mataya’s undivided attention. In a choreographed fashion, he displayed his tiny palms — an ancient gesture designed to communicate peaceful intentions and a signal that negotiations were now to begin.
The rats, among the more honorable of the denizens of the barn, had long ago declared a silent partnership with their human counterparts. The resulting alliance, initially regarded as mutually beneficial, proved fragile. Once rat sovereignty had been established and external threats neutralized, internal forces within the Rat army eventually turned one Rat faction against the other resulting in civil war. Then, Mataya understood. This, official welcoming party was designed to determine Mataya’s allegiance.
The Rat mantra: Trust, but verify.
Mataya, familiar with proper rodent protocol, was careful not to deviate nor offend.
The Rat General began to squeak with a deep, stentorian voice. His accent, regal. His words, spartan. And his communications, uncannily charismatic.
To whom was she loyal? The General inquired.
Mataya stood tall and displayed deferential respect. She drew her shoulders back, thrust her chest forward, and raised her chin. With the palm of her hand facing outwards, she pressed the back of her hand pressed against her forehead, clicked her heels, and looked the Rat general straight into his one good eye. “Long live the revolution!” she proclaimed. Then, for good measure, she repeated the declaration in the the traditional language of war. “Viva la revolución!”
The Rat general returned her salute as his troops began to chant: “Long live our glorious and eternal leader! Long live the revolution!”
Mataya lowered her hand, widened her stance, folded one arm casually behind her back, then winked and smiled at the General. His ego gorged, The General turned and squawked the command for his troops to retreat back to camp. While the phalanx disassembled and the soldiers ascended back up the staircase, the General remained, basking in Mataya’s intoxicating display of admiration and affection.
After some pomp and circumstance, the General dropped to all fours and scurried back into the rear of the Rat procession. Their tiny toenails tapped and clicked in rhythm as they marched single file back up the stairs, straight to the top, around the corner, and back into the shadows.
Mataya breathed a deep sigh of relief. However, the unexpected encounter had disrupted her schedule. She refocused her attention on the successful completion of the mission.
Mataya made her way down the center of the thruway, ever vigilant of the menacing shadows prowling within the obscurity of ghostly clutter. She much preferred the outdoor phase of the mission where multiple escape routes were available. If confronted here, she would have no place to run, although there was no shortages of places to hide. Not that it would do her any good once the Hell Hounds were unleashed.
She shifted one foot after another, careful to stick to patches of hay that were moist and would not crunch beneath her weight. Soon, she had crossed lengthwise across the interior of the principal structure and reached the far wall. There, in each direction, lie a corridor, and with each corridor, a choice. To her left was a tunnel which held little mystery. It was familiar, yet completely devoid of light. To the right, a well-lit passage forbidden to all except security personnel. It was down this unfamiliar path where she most likely locate the client. She had received intelligence from a stableboy that the beast had been moved out of the primary stalls into solitary confinement where he would remain guarded around-the-clock. Torches and oil lamps — the source of the dancing shadows — hung from the wall. Some burned very brightly, while others had faded and merely glowed. Several gave off thick oily smoke but projected no light. He who lit these lamps had not been back to check on them.
She turned and followed the dancing light and quivering created by the sparse trail of torches and lamps. With little to no ventilation, the air was becoming difficult to breath. Mataya rewrapped her scarf to cover her mouth to filter the air, but even with her mouth tightly wrapped, smoke nonetheless penetrated, irritating her throat. She cleared it as silently as possible trying not to cough or choke.
Several dozen feet ahead, the passageway narrowed to a hole carved out a preexisting stone wall. Torches burned around circumference with an additional two placed above. Between them, a brass plate had been nailed into the stone wall. The words, both raised and painted, read:
RESTRICTED AREA
Just below, graffiti scribbled in white chalk:
The Unstables
How nice of them to clearly mark the way for me.
Mataya proceeded through the hole in the wall and followed the light, walking softly on her toes like a ballerina. She sensed a slight gradient in the path. She was slowly being led underground. She never felt more vulnerable than she did at this moment. She had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. She paused to adjust her eyes to darkness and to reflect upon the moment. She could turn back. Every fiber in her being screamed at her to turn around, but she couldn’t. She had to keep moving forward. To turn back now would mean failure.
As she penetrated into the underground lair, what light remained began to fade. The cross-sectional area of the tunnel grew smaller with each step. It felt as if the walls themselves would come to life and seize her. She reached her hand up above her and no sooner than her hand lifted over her head did she feel the rough exterior of the rock face. She could feel its immense weight hovering over her. As the volume of the chamber dwindled, the air grew cold and thin. A curve in the tunnel robbed her of the remaining light. The path in front of her was no longer illuminated. She closed her eyes and took several deep breathes. She could feel her heart pulsating inside of her chest.
Without any frame of reference, Mataya could no longer gauge the rate at which moved. It felt like ages an eternity had passed until finally an orange finger of light pointed up the wall and curved around the edge of the ceiling. It gestured to her. Fetching her. Escorting her down the path. A slight turn lead her down yet another corridor. And as suddenly as it appeared, the finger of light disappeared behind her.
Despite her the darkness, Mataya had a sense of where she was. Soon, she would reach the entrance of what the guards referred to jokingly as the unstables. It was the place where problematic beasts were banished. It was the ultimate punishment. A destination for untamable animals in need of reeducation. And, it was the location of the mythical stable 101. Based on her intelligence, this would be where she would find the location of her final client.
One last job. Just one more job, Mataya repeated to herself over and over again.
Even in the pitch black, Mataya could sense that the surface of the walls and the ceiling were somehow odd. No longer lined with simple plywood or long parallel strips of wood, they were now covered with an unfamiliar material. Thick, padded, stuffed with cloth. Perhaps wool. It was lining was installed to absorb sound. Perhaps as a form of torture; or, to hide the sounds of actual torture being performed. The unearthly silence was maddening. It was as if she were in outer space. No one to hear you cry. No one to hear you scream. No one to come to the rescue. And in the absence of screams — nothing but the sound of a beating heart and air as it swished and hissed in and out of the lungs and across the lips. Evil lurked within this simple fact. It would haunt her sleep in the nights to come, but she did not have the luxury of pondering its sinister ramifications. It would however make it easier for her to approach quietly, yet this thought brought her little comfort. She was consumed dreadful foreboding.
Instinctually, Mataya froze. The silhouette of a full-bodied man appeared only several feet away. She had been standing practically on top of him. A few more steps and she would have tripped over him. Mataya recognized him. An elderly guard with unmistakable features. His name, Afonia. No, it was Afasia. A simpleton. A gentle giant bullied by the other guards and even the stable-boys. A soul too kind-hearted for the cruel world in which he was borne. Perhaps he too was being punished and given the worst assignment of all: the night watchman to the unstables.
Mataya stood very still and silent as she studied his movement. He was unconscious. Ice crystals had formed on his lips and the hairs protruding from his
nostrils. He was trembling in his sleep. His skin was white as a cotton sheet. Beside him, a corked bottle made from a thick dark glass lie on its side. Mataya picked up the bottle, uncorked it, and sniffed. Her face recoiled. She recognized the awful aroma. An unusually powerful form of alcohol called rum, fermented and distilled by the workers from leftover molasses, honey, and sugarberries. The poor old man was freezing cold and tried to keep himself warm with the noxious concoction.
Mataya removed her right glove and stroked the side of his face. The gray stubble of his beard felt like a thousand tiny thorns of a hinterberry bush. She pressed the back of her hand against the thin wrinkled skin of his forehead. He was as cold as ice. She cupped her hand around his mouth and nose, detecting warmth and moisture. He was still breathing. He was alive. Perhaps barely.
Thank Gods.
On the ground, at his side, a plaid woolen blanket had fallen off his shoulders. Mataya picked it up and wrapped it around him snugly. She leaned the bottle against the wall and placed his tin plate and fork beneath it. At his feet, discarded in the dirt, a half-eaten loaf of black bread. When she reached for it, it dissembled and scattered in all directions. Mice had gotten to it. She picked up what the mice had left, brushed it off as best she could, then placed it on top of the tin plate.
Mataya rose to one knee and took a last look. She removed his cap, kissed him on top of his oily skull, then placed the cap back on top of his head and pulled it down just enough to cover the tips of his ears. It would have to do. He was the enemy after all. A final pawn on the chessboard. Or perhaps, the feckless King.
Checkmate.
She moved down the tunnel towards unstables. The stench of filth and neglect was appalling. Her senses were assaulted by the inhumanity of abject suffering. No creature deserved this fate. With luck, the client would be in the first cell so that she need not shield her vision from the pitiful sight of other wrought faces. There was nothing she could for them. She was there for one, and only one.
Mataya traveled a mercifully short distance before reaching her destination: the notorious stable 101. The door was made of iron and covered with rust and bolts. The door was solid with the exception of a flat rectangular opening known as the “Judas-hole”, used by guards to observe the prisoner and to pass food and water. Above the Judas-hole, painted in bold thick red letters:
WARNING:
Extreme Danger!
A reminder that all safety precautions need be strictly observed. Below, a hanging plaque with the name of the current occupant scribbled in ink as thick and black as tar. The name of the prisoner, identified by his one word, his nom de guerre:
Diablo
Mataya lowered her head to the Judas-hole. The inhabitant, sensing her arrival, stirred. His iron chains rattled. He looked up, then, with a defeated spirit, resigned to his fate, casually turned his head away and let out a series of staccato snorts and painful grunts.
“Hello, Diablo. You knew I would come eventually. Didn’t you?”
To this, he struggled to his feet and made his way to the edge of the door before his iron chains restrained him from going any further. A giant pair of probing nostrils pushed through their way through the Judas-hole. Long wiry hairs extended from each nostril. Expanding and contracting. Sniffing. Snorting. Probing. Beseeching. An evolutionary gift to the species, Diablo’s nostrils were on one hand unusually strong — capable of crushing raw walnuts — and, on the other hand, simultaneously dexterous and prehensile, capable of sifting through the shells and extracting the fruit of the toughest of all nuts. Mataya had once witnessed Diablo untie the laces of an unobservant guard’s boots and tie them together into a knot causing the guard to trip and fall. Once on his back Diablo pounced on top of the hapless guard. He was a formidable enemy to be sure.
Even though Mataya had taken great lengths to mask the scent, the smell of pumpkin spice reached the incarcerated beast. Diablo’s reaction was ferocious and savage.
“Easy now, Diablo. Calm down. Shush.”
Even in a weakened state, starved half to death, Diablo possessed the strength to kill. With two sniffs and then a snort, an intense wind blew straight into Mataya’s face. She used her scarf to wipe saliva from her face, then tied it around her waist. She removed her wool cap and pulled a pin from her hair, then went to work picking the iron lock. Diablo stirred with anticipation.
“Relax, Diablo. Easy now, old boy. This will all be over soon.”
With a click and a clank, the tumblers turned and the lock opened and fell to the dirt.
When she opened the door, Mataya couldn’t help but feel horrified by what she saw. Diablo had cuffs and chains around all four hooves and his neck, forcing him to stand for days, possibly weeks at a time. It was barbaric and unusually cruel.
“It is time for your last meal, Diablo.”
From her satchel, Mataya removed a ripe slice of spiced pumpkin pie wrapped in wax-paper. Diablo extended his massive tongue. Mataya placed the pumpkin on top. Diablo greedily snatched the slice of pie, licked the filling, then grinded the crust with his massive molars. As Diablo devoured his snack, Mataya went to work on the remaining locks. Once freed, it would be necessary to disable the mighty animal. Using a technique she discovered during research in the library, Mataya massaged Diablo just behind each ear. Diablo moaned, closed his eyes, and lay down on top of a pile of straw.
Mataya reached into her satchel and removed a long wire. Untreated, it was thin and strong enough that it could be used to slice through a cross-section of a young fir tree. However, this wire was coated with wax, providing lubrication so that it would easily glide. With one hand, Mataya continued to disable Diablo with massage. She forced him open his eyelids and look her straight into the eye. Then, she grinned such that all her teeth were visible. Diablo mimicked her, exposing his massive teeth and pink gums. Then, Mataya took the wire, and began sliding it into the gaps between Diablo’s teeth. One by one, each gap was completely purged of crumbs. Then, she reached inside her bag and pulled out a stiff hairbrush. She coated the surface of brush with a pumpkin-flavored paste infused with a special organic compound infused with fluorine. Using the brush, Mataya thoroughly scrubbed every one of Diablo’s teeth.
Mataya lay down beside Diablo on top of the straw bed and stroked his mane. When he nuzzled her, he did so with such force that on the following day she would sport a bruise on her cheek, a black eye, and a sizable bump on top of her forehead. She made a soft kissing sound directly into his ear as she stroked the hair on his ribs against the grain. Fully sedated, Diablo lay down his head, closed his eyes, and began to snore, his massive lips burbling as he exhaled. Mataya gave him a final kiss on top of his muzzle and ruffled the spotted tuft of hair that grew between his ears.
“I love you, Diablo. I will miss you SO much.”
She placed one final gift, a sour apple, next to his mouth for him to discover after she was gone.
“I love you, Diablo. I love you.”