Free When We Were Executioners by J. M Mcdermott Page A

universe—our unbroken one—the center of the universe is the point of strongest Will.
    I bet it’s nothing like a good bottle of wine. Do you have a corkscrew?
    Listen. Look at your hands. We of the winds and the sun do not question Will. We see it in our hands. We see that animals have feet, teeth, hair, milk, faces, shit, sex, and blood. We see that only monkeys and men have hands. Monkeys use their hands to climb trees. Men use hands to cut down trees, or plant them new.
    So, you don’t have a corkscrew?
    When I dreamcast of monsters, they are men with giant palms, all colored pink or black or red as blood. When I dreamcast of the dying men, their bodies end at the elbow. Blind men see with their hands. Deaf men talk with their hands. Men with no corkscrew use their hands. Use your hands, Jona.
    I don’t think I’m strong enough for that.
    Well, I didn’t really want any wine, anyway. I don’t want to work drunk. That place is unpleasant enough without an unharmonious mind.
    This bottle will never open without a corkscrew.
    Then, the bottle is empty of wine. It contains only the hope of wine.
    If we go to my place, we’ll have a corkscrew.
    I will stay here and sleep some more. I am not like you, Jona.
    Do you want me to go?
    Yes. Goodbye. Knock, next time. My brother might be here, you know.
    * * *
    Aggie with her sad eyes, and her face all dirty and her nose a bit crooked, and her hands reaching out for Jona’s gifts. Letters, blood pie.
    Blood pie laced with demon weed, and demon blood. She ate the pie, and opened the letter and didn’t speak to Jona. She read the letter again, while finishing the pie.
    The letter was a forgery Jona bought from a professional letter-writer who wrote what Jona told the fellow to write and made the letters romantic and hopeful and said Salvatore’s coming to save the girl.
    Then Jona took the letter to Salvatore at his café, or his ball or his tiny little rented room, and Salvatore fumbled for something to write with. Salvatore read the letter and shrugged it off and made his mark.
    And Jona took the letter here.
    “Imam, I am too grateful for this torture,” she said. She fell back to her cot, her eyes glazed and the letter pulled against her chest.
    Flies and gnats swarmed all over her filthy, thinned face. She didn’t bother knocking them away. When her mouth dangled open—while she read—flies landed on her teeth. They sucked at the thin, sick rot with their greedy little legs.
    Jona washed her face off with a bowl of water while the demon weed held her mind still.
    One time—just once—he touched her breast through her rags. He frowned at himself afterwards. He cursed Salvatore. He stood up over her. He watched her sleep, until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He walked out of the room. Her soft warmth lingered in his palm, like a rash.
    He tried not to think about the girl.
    Instead, he thought about killing Salvatore, just like he had done Lord Elitrean’s son.
    * * *
    Jona slipped into the door at evening twilight, a little juiced from the liquor and the duck sausage that was barely cooked and mostly made of bloody oats all drenched in malt vinegar. He shoved his way in, kicked his boots off in the foyer, and stretched his arms over his head.
    “Ma, I’m home!” he shouted.
    And the old woman, like a sparrowhawk, landed on her son from the kitchen hall. Spit-wet fingers scrubbed at Jona’s cheeks, and fixed his hair. Spindly seamstress fingers scurried over every wrinkle in his shirt.
    Jona winced. “What the…? Ma! Back off!”
    “Lady Ela Sabachthani is sitting in our kitchen.”
    “What?” said Jona, “What’s she doing here?”
    “Offer her something to drink. Offer her something to eat.
    She won’t accept it, because she knows we got nothing, but you have to offer, anyhow. Anyhow, behave yourself, Jona. Are you drunk? You smell like liquor. Sober up. Hold still a minute. Let me adjust your shirt. What is this, blood?”
    “It’s duck