"Sako Damo"

 “So, this the place, gvidi?” The place was a part of the District which is called St. Frank’s House. The question was asked by a man in a gray suit and addressed to a guide. 

This man in the gray suit had given his name as Grijs and the guide was simply known as The Jamaican.

“Yes, mistah, this the place. C’mon, the hour is getting late. I have a woman to return to. The one you seek lives there. Sako Damo, they call her.”

The Jamaican led the way through a forest of nondescript houses. The wind that blew through them reeked of poor and pestilence. The Jamaican was soon knocking on a square black door.

The door was opened by a servant who led them into a chamber devoid of anything of interest. There was a smaller door at the other end and from where Grijs stood he could see a room full of old, diseased books with jaundice of the paper. The servant returned and pointed towards the door he had come from.

It was a dining room. A humble one. A gentleman sat at the end of the table. There were no other chairs. The gentleman wore nothing but a top hat and an astonishingly curly beard. Grijs liked beards and this was a particularly fine one. 

The gentleman cleared his throat and said one word.

“Ok.”

The servant told them that they would find what they sought in the last room to the left. The Jamaican refused to come up. Grijs picked a candle and traipsed up the stairs. The staircase was one of those spiral ones that is made of shadows. Grijs counted a hundred stairs before he came to a door.

Grijs stepped out into a dimly lit corridor that had several doors along it and one door at each end. He turned left and began walking the long walk. The doors were all crumbling and incompetent shields against the general cold that pervaded the District. They were all empty. Grijs knocked on the last door. 

No one answered.

So, he went in. The room, and it is called thus loosely, was very small and it had a bad odour. An odour of age, poverty and frenezo. Everything in the room was in various stages of disrepair. The room was coloured in grey. There was one window through which Grijs could see a sliver of moon.

Near the window was a rocking chair and in that chair was a woman. The room was full of bags of all kinds and colour. Grijs had heard about this woman. She collected bags.

The woman seemed incapable of motion or speech. Her arms were bony and her fingers curved to talons. Her skin was like old leather and looked like a wrinkled spider’s web with prominent veins that are often the signs of old age. Yet, her face was young and her bosom was full. She had eye sockets but her eye sockets had no eyes.

“I am afraid you have something that belongs to me,” said Grijs. There was no reply from the lady. Grijs had come here looking for a bag.

Grijs, candle in one hand and courage in another, stepped forward. The lady did not move. He spotted his bag and picked it up. He thought it wise to open the bag and check if the contents were secure.

The moment Grijs opened the bag several things happened at once. An owl screeched, something fell with a loud thud and the lady jumped at him. Grijs was quick to avoid her but he managed to drop the candle. It landed right on one of the bags which caught fire. The lady let out a ghastly wail and attempted to put out the fire with her hands which promptly caught fire. Grijs stumbled on one of the bags and fell. 

The door opened and The Jamaican, who was already cursing fluently, caught hold of Grijs and dragged him out the door and they ran for their lives.

The fire spread soon and it spread thick. Grijs and The Jamaican observed it from a distance, crouched in a silent, dark doorway. They could never go back.

“Wow, you done screwed pretty. What were you thinking, mon?”

“Who said I was thinking.”

*gvidi = guide

frenezo = madness

sako damo = bag lady

The Food Critic

“How good could it be?” was what Harvey thought, as he regarded the food laid out in front of him. He inspected it carefully. Across the table from him sat a gnarled old woman. She smiled at him, encouragingly.

“Sir. Try. Lovely. Please. Soon, soon.” She said.

Her voice reminded him of the wind as he had walked on one of the paved streets of the District before he arrived at her shack.

“You find. It more. Than hopes. Sure. I am.” Another one of those smiles.

Harvey loved food. He had come a long way for this. A slice of the fabled moonbird. He tilted his head at her, in the manner of those who sometimes consider themselves superior to others due to matters of language and erudition, and he lifted the silver knife into the air. He watched as the light played with the sharp bone handle of the knife.

God, knows what creature became this cutlery, he thought. I have come a long way for this. I have searched long and hard for this. Joanna knows this. I will show those snobbish leatherheads, Epicurean Leaguers. I’ll be damned if I waste this moment.  The moment was to be tasted.

He raised the fork to his mouth. He first inhaled the stuff’s aroma. The scent was light. A tad sweet. And very intoxicating. Harvey waited and steadied himself. I don’t need to hurry.

Harvey had eaten everything there was to be eaten in Lungtown. Things that might make average people like you and me sick. Both literally and violently. He had written about them. He had documented their flavors and smells. He had compiled a diary on the myriad recipes. He had journeyed across the Lungs to taste.

Even the Epicurean League hadn’t laid hands on this. This.. this stuff. The legendary moonbird. Part-bird, part-legend. No one he knew had eaten the stuff. This would show those Epicurean Leaguers.

The tales he had heard were ridiculous  – but if there was even a sliver of truth to them, this would be some fine dinner indeed. He remembered the countless grubby hands he had bribed and he took a first, cautious bite –

Harvey knew that he knew things, like his name and his wife’s name, but at that very moment he forgot everything. Indescribable!

As the taste of that incandescent flesh washed over his palette, Harvey lost himself. He positively shuddered with delight.

*Nothing* In all the years he has given for tasting food, nothing had tasted quite like this. He looked up at the old woman and smiled a sluggish, content grin. He looked at his dish and was startled to find it empty. There was no way he had eaten it all and yet he felt full. He grabbed a goblet of water and drank it in a single draught.

The old woman got up and wiped his eyes with the back of her handkerchief. Harvey was not entirely sure when he had begun to cry.

“Can I have some more?” Harvey asked, like a little kid asking for toffee.

“Surely,” she said, with a motherly smile. She refilled the plate. Harvey tried but he could not. Another empty plate. Harvey licked the plate with his finger in an attempt to find some more of the stuff. Several times the plate was filled, and each time he stared at it as a starving man would but he felt that he had devoured a veritable feast. He was unable to control himself.

The old woman said something that Harvey missed. The old woman said it softly once more.

“This bird. A man. Do anything. For it. No?”

Harvey nodded without hesitation.

Looking at him, she smiled again but this time the smile took on a whole new meaning. Harvey felt the first tingles of what they called creeping, paralysing horror. He felt this fear even as he felt the animal hunger for more of the bird’s flesh.

“Yes. Yes.” The old woman grinned. Her teeth were sharp, almost like fangs. Her black eyes gleamed. She smiled that motherly smile and the floodgates of fear broke inside Harvey as he realized his fate.

“A man. Do anything. For bird. Terrible. Heinous. Jobs. You see. Soon, soon. New slave.”