63rd of Fall, 511AV
Night, night, it rhymes with spite.
Ulric wasn’t amused by his japery, grimacing as he reclined against the oblong statuary and took another pull of the harsh, vinagery red from his dangling skin. Night had fallen, though. Inky veil braided by pearls, winking from a periphery of onyx. The ruddy glow had faded over the gulf. The swell of whitecaps rumbled over the faraway, pebbly strand, while gannets wheeled over tiled rafters, horking at their cadres. Fringed by opiate delusion, dingy pubs sprouted from the chimerical lanes, wildly festooned with neon fungi, their caps in turn fuzzed by bluish flames. Behind him, a flinty boar yielded to the cuddle of a flirty gomorrah. Brassy inlay plaited over the spout of a fountain, which gurgled intermittently before discharging. Bizarre it plunged from the circle of granite blocks, tokening a kind of quiet dignity.
By now, they’ll be puffing on their water pipes. Ulric lifted his flute, blew a few, clumsy bars before laying it on the fountain’s rim. Raised the distended bladder and squirted a trickle into his gullet, idly surveying the string of paper-cased lamps guiding to quilted compounds. Already the dandies were out, skewing and veering as they nestled bottles against damask, parroting the dregs with their babble. They gave him a wide berth. That left him to mull the night.
Invariably, he fidgeted.
Moths flitted around lanterns, mesmerized yet afraid of the molten flares. Impulsively, they died. They’re like us, he frowned. Snails slimed over lopsided rocks. Crickets weren’t out yet, or if they were, they didn’t inhabit this quarter. Instead, the clatter of mugs intruded, jars pouring. That he’d picked out these noises surprised him, unpleasantly. To make them depart he reached for the flute.
Ulric guided it under his lip, blowing softly, axially as clumsy fingers worked the holes, trying to recall a ditty. The pitch was off, but he didn’t hesitate, drifting deep and luxuriant. The flute defied him, but maybe he, in turn, defied it. The night crowded him.
Existing in murky obscurity, cupped by the rocky lip of effigies and their volatile fountain, he persisted until an untidy squawk ruptured his spell. Irritably, he regarded a pair of beady gimlets. “Can’t hide from you, can I?”
Caw, caw, replied the crow, raggedly unfurling inky wings to flay its grisly, sardonic way to a steeple.
Ulric sighed. They’d claimed him, it seemed. The tawdry cadre, disdaining the glint of silver to pick at yellowy mandibles. They liked the feasting, really. All voracious, clacking beaks ripping at skin. Pyres didn’t sit with them. Piling up rocks only profited the worms. Either way, we’ll return to the mud, he grunted.
Ulric lifted his flute.
