Beasts Clothed in Beauty

THE PERFECT GOD

Hogan’s arms ached as he made his way up the ceremonial road to the temple. He had been ready for the fact that a pilgrimage would be arduous. Without struggle, it would be no proof of his faith. Dragging himself hundreds of miles on his wooden trolley, the stumps of his legs barely keeping him upright, had been the test of will he sought.

He had thought there might be some reprieve at the temple precinct. Instead there was a winding gravel avenue in which his wheels became constantly stuck, cherry blossom falling from the trees as he tried to force himself forwards.

Most of the other pilgrims looked away as they walked past, embarrassed at the sight of him. A few offered to help, and he tried to stay polite as he said no, this was his journey, and the priests had been clear that he had to make it for himself. In some ways, those conversations were worse, the pity on their faces reminding him of just how little he fitted in.

At last he reached the end of the path. With a final crunch of gravel, he rolled onto the smooth tiles of the temple forecourt. Too tired to drag himself up the steps to any of the roofed shrines, he sat staring at the statues, the places where the gods accepted prayers and offered miracles in return.

Looking around, a growing unease settled on him. Even here, he was alone. Every god was an image of bodily perfection, as judged by the eyes of sculptors and priests. All had two legs, two arms, two eyes. None were scarred or disfigured, none stooped or twisted.

He had heard stories of gods injured in battle or laid low by disease. Where were the signs of such suffering, never mind of gods born in different shapes, as Hogan was?

These statues were supposed to give everyone a sense of belonging, to open their hearts to the divine. Hogan felt nothing looking at them.

His arms had rested enough to move again, and so he rolled over to one of the blue-robed priests setting incense in a jar.

Excuse me? he said.

The priest looked down at him.

Yes, my son? she asked.

Where are the other gods? Hogan asked.

There are no other gods, she said with a tolerant smile.

But I was told there were gods for everyone, from the humble fisherman to the mighty king.

This is true.

So where are the gods for people with no legs?

She laughed, the sound like sand being ground into a wound in Hogan’s heart.

The gods are perfect, she said. So are their bodies.

But these statues... Hogan waved his hands and the incense smoke billowed around them, a sweet scent that made him want to cough. How can I feel closeness to the gods through these statues when they are nothing like me?

The priest nodded thoughtfully, and then smiled.

There are broken statues in a clearing back there. She pointed down the gravel road. You could try praying to them.

I’m not broken! Hogan had no energy left for patience. He was tired, aching and bitterly disappointed. He felt as if the whole world had betrayed him. I’m not half a person. I don’t want half a statue to pray to.

Well really. The priest folded here arms. Is that the tone to bring to the holy of holies?

Hogan gritted his teeth. She had at least been trying.

Thank you, he said, and set off back down the road.

The track leading to the clearing was made of the same thick soil from which the priests took clay for their statues. Hogan’s wheels became stuck in it, his hands filthy and slippery, but he pressed on.

At last he found the broken statues. They had been abandoned in a heap in the centre of the clearing, years of cherry blossoms rotting to a soft mulch around them. Someone had lifted a few out and set them up beneath the trees. There sat an old blind man with his young guide, as well as a woman missing half her arm. They smiled in welcome as Hogan approached.

Imperfect gods, the man said, running his fingers lovingly over one of the statues. For imperfect pilgrims.

The words snagged at Hogan’s heart. Was this really how the man thought of himself - as someone lesser than the rest? But the woman was nodding agreement. Maybe this was how they could fit in.

Hogan looked at the statues and tried to let their divine essence in, to feel the touch of faith. But there was nothing. Just a broken statue for broken people.

Trailing his fingers despondently in the clay mud, he scooped some up and rolled it idly between his hands. He had been looking at bodies all day, and almost without thinking he formed the clay into one. He gave it one leg and a whithered arm, a patch over one eye and a bent nose.

At last, something stirred in him. A feeling of recognition, and of seeing something deeper looking back at him.

He placed the figure on one of the fallen statues. The woman smiled, and as his guide described it so did the man.

The perfect god, Hogan said, for perfect people.

Together they bowed their heads in prayer, and finally Hogan felt that he belonged.

PHOENIX SEASON

The path was ash black beneath Eliza’s feet. Dust as dark as the powder in her pistol swirled around her riding boots. That pistol and her rapier, its handle reassuringly solid at her side, were her only companions on another dawn patrol. It was lonely work, being an excise woman on the Scorched Coast.

Shingle crunched beneath her feet as she reached the beach. Across the rolling waves, the sun kissed the horizon. No smuggler in their right mind would be out in daylight at any other time and place. But this was phoenix season, when all the rules changed.

A man stood on the beach. His coat and britches were those of a well-to-do shopkeeper, neat and plain. Only his solid boots and a bulge at his hip indicated a more adventurous lifestyle.

Master Sommersby, isn’t it? She raised her tricorn hat, her other hand on the pistol. I gather you own the bookshop in Tenwrith.

And you must be Mistress Taylor. Sommersby’s brief flash of alarm turned into a wry grin as he doffed his hat. You seem far more charming than Colonel Grey was, though I miss his smile.

It’s Captain Taylor, Eliza said. And do you have a problem with my smile?

A fishing boat rounded the corner of the cove. Red birds the size of eagles soared around its lone sail, occasionally diving to snatch something from the sea.

There was no fishing to be had in phoenix season.

A man can enjoy many smiles. Sommersby slid his hand into his pocket, too slow to conceal the signalling flag that had hung there. Colonel Grey’s smile was warm and welcoming, one I cherished drinking with. Yours is bright and vivacious, a smile I would write poetry for.

You are a fan of poetry, Master Sommersby? Eliza asked.

Aren’t you? He raised an eyebrow.

How do you feel about the love poems of Master Delavond?

I feel that I could be arrested for importing books of them. Sommersby’s gaze flitted briefly towards the boat, which now sat expectantly a few hundred yards out. She admired his calm. Even under pressure, there was a playfulness in his eyes. I am told that they are thoroughly indecent.

Indeed they are.

Have you been reading illegal poems, Captain Taylor? And you an excise agent.

I read them on the continent, while on tour. She flushed at the memory. Delavond’s poems had stirred feelings she never knew she had.

Sommersby struggled to stifle a grin. I am told - though I have never been on tour, and therefore could not have read them - that these obscene poems are the ultimate literary expression of human passion. He turned to look her in the eye, his expression sad, his signal flag apparently forgotten. It must be difficult for you, loving Delavond’s work and yet duty bound to keep it out of the country. How do you choose between those things?

There is no choice. Unable to hold his gaze, she looked back out to sea. Flames touched the wing tips of the phoenixes. Thick black smoke descended like fog across the sea. I can love something but not let it into my life.

Then I pity you, Sommersby said.

Don’t, she snapped, vexed at the man’s impertinence. He was a smuggler. The moment he made a false move she would arrest him.

Except that she didn’t want to. And now her cheeks were flushed, her mind full of Delavond’s descriptions of bodies and passions. She knew no-one else who relished those words.

Gripping the cold, hard handle of her pistol, she forced herself to focus on her duty.

Through the swirl of black smoke and blazing wings, she saw the fishing boat approach.

Your friends have given up on waiting for the all clear, she said, making her voice cold and hard. They are bringing your books in.

I don’t know what you mean. Sommersby flicked back the corner of his coat and settled a hand on his own pistol. Only the desperate would stay out in the phoenix storm. Those birds can burn a boat up in minutes.

True. She shifted her feet, settling into a better firing stance. But its smoke can provide cover for illicit deeds.

She wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but suddenly both guns were out, pointed at each other’s faces.

Such a shame. Sommersby shook his head. What is it Delavond says? It is the greatest joy, to be united in oblivion...

And to emerge together, joyously sated, on the other side. As she finished the quote, Eliza felt her heart pounding. She drew back the hammer of her pistol, flint clicking into place, and Sommersby did the same. They looked each other in the eyes, neither wavering.

A sound like falling linen filled the cove, followed by crackling and shouts of alarm. She looked out to sea. The boat was ablaze, its burning sail visible through the dense smoke. She could just make out its crew leaping into the water.

She turned to Sommersby, expecting to see him crestfallen as his cargo turned to ash. To her amazement he shrugged, smiled, and put away his gun.

Even without books, Delavond’s passion lives on. He tapped the side of his head.

Eliza laughed and put away her own gun. Why shoot him now? Why shoot anyone over a cargo that was gone?

Turning to leave the beach, she hesitated, torn between duty and desire, then looked back at Sommersby.

Would you care to walk with me back to town? she asked. There are so few opportunities to see the phoenix in flight, I thought I might walk along the cliffs and admire the beauty of their blaze.

To watch them united in oblivion? Sommersby asked, as one of the birds vanished in flames high above his head. I would be delighted.

She took his arm, and together they walked up the ash black path from the cove.

THE ELECT

Long before they reach town I see them coming. Bright lights trail behind them as they dance along the road, between fields recently cleared of the harvest. My breath steams the tiny panes of the manor house’s leaded window as I watch in wonder. My heart beats loudly, but sadly its rhythm does not match theirs.

Come. Father takes my arm. I am far too old now for him to hold my hand, almost too old to still live unmarried under his roof.

I grab my shawl and walk with him into the street. Most people are already out and waiting, mother and the rest of the temple wardens among them. But I always want to see the Elect coming first.

The ground feels rough beneath the thin soles of my dancing shoes. I hide my discomfort. Father must not know what I have planned.

The Elect are at the edge of town now. The flaming brands along the street dim in their presence, light and warmth sucked into their magic. They are human and yet more than human, these dozen holy