Only doing His Job

ONLY DOING HIS JOB

As the thick leather mask was removed from his face Paul gasped
instinctively for air. There were small holes in the mask for
breathing, but he drew the dank forest air into his lungs, like a
deep-sea diver whose oxygen ran out at 20 fathoms and who never thought
he`d make the surface alive.
The man stroked Paul's neck and chest as if he were calming a nervous
animal. He was a native of the wild lands with hair heavy with pig fat,
skin the colour of ebony, and bloodshot eyes that glowed like coals. He
had no conception of cruelty. The native replaced the mask before Paul
could speak and then he left him alone.
Paul drifted off into a dreamless trance. Then, without warning, a hand
passed over his chest and shoulders, stroking, squeezing and kneading,
and then another drifted over his thighs, buttocks and genitals. They
were massaging oil into his skin, preparing him for the ceremony. The
hands seemed to take forever, repeating the same movements over and
over again.
Paul had been warned. He had translated the engravings and read 'The
Commandments of Kembu'. He tried to explain to them that he`d only been
doing his job, that he hadn`t meant to offend Kembu.
Suddenly, A vision of the fate that awaited him flashed brightly in his
mind. He`d seen it all in his dreams. The barbaric killing of a man who
had also offended Kembu, a native of another tribe who had wandered
into the Ouswa - the holy ground of the Yali. It had been an accident,
an error of judgement but the Yali were not concerned with fairness.
They had to appease their God or the Kulamong would return and they
would all die from the plague of darkness.
Suddenly, the sound of drums - that Paul hadn`t been aware of before -
stopped, and a hand rested on his shoulder. It was time for the
sacrifice.

SHIFT

Paul sat bolt upright in bed. A scream of repressed terror scorched his
throat as he struggled to breathe. Sweat ran in streams down his face
and chest. It was only a dream, his crazy dream.
The psychiatrist had told him that it would help to tell someone about
the dream but it hadn`t. In fact, the dream got worse. It became more
powerful and more graphic, with vibrant colours and distinct odours
that helped to carve the images on his inner soul. He feared that one
day he`d not be able to wake up and that he`d be stuck in the
dream.
Recently the dream had not been confined to night-time. He seemed to
kind of `shift` into the dream in the day as well. There was little
warning when the `shift` occurred. Just a sense of the place - a
feeling - a smell of pig fat - some kind of introduction. Then it
happened in a blink of an eyelid or a sharp intake of breath.

That next day Linda phoned him and invited him for lunch. She had not
contacted him since their divorce six months ago, but she said
something was worrying her and it concerned him.
They met in a small Italian restaurant, not one they`d ever been to
before so it held no memories, good or bad. Linda looked shocked when
she saw him.
'Paul, are you all right?'
'I'm fine . . . not been sleeping well, that's all.'
When the waiter had taken their order and they had exhausted their
repertoire of polite conversation Linda started to explain why she had
asked to see him.
"I know you think it`s a waste of time and money, but I`ve been to see
Mrs Metcalfe again."
'Not that charlatan?' Paul scoffed.
"I`ve been a couple of times, actually. There`s been a lot to cope with
since . . . ." Her voice trailed off and she sipped her drink
nervously.
"You know what I think of her. She's a fake. She`s just after your
money."
"Yes, I know what you think of her . . . but I had to tell you what she
said."
Paul let out a sigh. "O.K. What did she say?"
She sipped at her drink again, and then said quietly. "She says you`re
in danger."
"In danger . . . is that all she said?" He laughed softly, trying to
convince himself and her that he wasn`t worried by Mrs Metcalfe`s
revelation. "And how much did that cost you?"
Linda ignored his cynicism. "She said you`d understand. She said the
danger was somewhere else, in another place."
Just then the waiter arrived with their meals. Paul hardly acknowledged
the food in front of him. It was seafood and pasta dish, his favourite,
but he had sensed a sudden change in the atmosphere. There was a
dampness around him and a repugnant stench. He could smell pig
fat.
Linda waited until they were alone again. "She said that I didn`t need
to warn you because you already knew." She paused, waiting for him to
respond. "Well, is she right? Did you know?"
He didn't answer.
She touched his hand gently. "Paul, what`s happening to you? Even
without Mrs Metcalfe I`d know there was something wrong. Paul?"
"Can you smell it, Linda? Can you smell the pig fat?" His voice was
barely more than a whisper as he stared into her eyes, looking for some
small measure of understanding.

SHIFT.

"Move it, ANIMAL!" The priest was shouting at him, standing in front of
him, waiting for him to follow.
The leather mask had been removed and Paul was free from the chains. He
lurched from side to side in an attempt to avoid the warriors` spears.
They were guiding him towards the priest, persuading him with
unyielding brutality to walk to death on his own volition.
The men were dressed for ceremony. They were painted with lard and soot
cosmetics, bodies wrapped in yards of rattan, necks heavy with human
ears strung together like beads and yellow gourd penis-sheaths
enhancing their manhood. The priest was dressed in a magnificent cloak
of brightly coloured feathers and an excessively ornate head-dress. His
hair and naked body glistened with pig fat.
They were celebrating a sacrifice to Kembu. A human sacrifice. Paul was
going to be skinned alive, have his heart ripped out from his body
while he was still breathing, and finally, after all the praying and
singing had been done, he was to be eaten. It was the highest honour
they could bestow on an enemy fought in battle, but in his case it was
the only way to appease Kembu for the violation of the Wene
Melalek.

SHIFT.

Paul grabbed at her arm. He was no longer in a trance. Now he was
desperate, clinging onto her as if his life depended on it. "God Help
me! I can`t stop them!" His eyes fixed on to Linda`s in a terrifying
stare and then he buried his face in his hands.
"It`s all right.. No one is going to hurt you here."
"But you don't understand. I haven`t got long before . . . ." He
stopped speaking, gulped at his wine, and then held the glass towards
Linda. "Let`s drink a toast. A toast to Paul Reese. God help the poor
bastard." His lowered his glass back down to the table. 'Aren't you
going to drink to my memory . . . for old times sake?'
There was silence for several minutes before Paul spoke again. "I
translated the engravings." He tried to explain. "I`ve read the Wene
Melalek." His voice trembled as the last two words were said.
"Engravings? Wene Melalek? Are you talking about work? Is this to do
with some project you`re on?"
"I`m uninitiated, you see? I broke the Wene Melalek."
"Paul, for heavens sake. What engravings? What did you read?"
Paul stared at her, horrified that she had asked the question. "I
can`t tell you. I mustn`t tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because you`re a woman. Kembu doesn`t accept women." He looked around,
scared that someone might be listening. Then he whispered to her: "At
first it`s just a dream and then it . . . it absorbs you. You`re there,
right in it . . . living it, breathing it, feeling everything. It
becomes real."
"If it`s only a dream then it can`t hurt you. You`ll wake up before
anything bad happens."
He shook his head, not daring to believe that she could be right. "So
why do I keep going into it? Why doesn`t it just happen when I`m
asleep?"
"You`ve just been working too hard . . . you're suffering from stress.
Perhaps you need help?'
"If by help you mean a psychiatrist, then you're a bit late with the
advice. I`ve been seeing one for the last two weeks."
"What does he think?"
"He agrees with you. It's stress, and my subconscious is working things
through."
"Well, then. All you need is a rest."
"And how do I get that if I can't even sleep?"
"You need to get away . . . have a holiday.'
"I can't right now. I haven't finished.'
'Finished what?'
He appeared to flinch at the mere thought of it. "I`ve been translating
some engravings for the British Museum. For the Irian Jaya exhibition
opening next month." A fine sweat broke out over his forehead and the
hand holding his wine started to tremble. "I read something that told
me to stop if I hadn`t been `initiated` or if I was female. It was a
warning you see, but I didn`t think . . . I would never have
believed."
She covered his hand with hers. "Go on, please. It might help to talk
about it."
"I was translating the Wene Melalek. The holy words of their God, the
laws of Kembu." He moved his hand away from hers. "I can`t tell you
what they are. I mustn`t put you in danger." He covered his eyes with
his hand, and muttered a prayer. "It`s a curse." He whispered. "It`s
some kind of . . . "

"What rubbish! What utter Rubbish!" Brian Atkins, head of the fiction
department at 'Fantasy &; Sci-Fi World' slammed the manuscript down
onto his desk in disgust. He opened the top drawer and groped around
for a packet of aspirin. "Damn headaches," he muttered under his
breath. Headaches had been a regular occurrence in the last few days
but Brian had been sleeping badly and that always gave him headaches.
He dropped two tablets into a glass of water sitting on the desk and
leant back in his chair to watch them fizz.
It was the third time he`d read the story in the last few days, a good
read his editor had said, but Brian disagreed. The story started off
with a list of rules. The Wene Melalek it was called. The commandments
of Kembu. Then the reader was plunged in to a plot that was too far
fetched even for Brian, who was a fan of fantasy and macabre
fiction.
He picked up the glass and swallowed the murky looking mixture,
grimacing as the bitterness registered, and then he flicked through the
manuscript again. An interesting idea though physically going into
dreams, a kind of curse being rekindled whenever some hapless person
read the sacred words - the words of the Wene Melalek. Brian chuckled
quietly, some writers had weird imaginations.
He glanced at his watch, vaguely conscious of the fact that he ought to
eat something soon to absorb the aspirin in his stomach. It was
lunchtime and the canteen would be open now. He stood up holding the
manuscript and stared at it for a second or two before dropping it into
the wastepaper bin. "God save me from the slush pile."
As he walked down the long corridor towards the lifts his mind drifted
to his mother`s Sunday-roasts. His father`s favourite had been pork
with crisp pork crackling that had been grilled to perfection. As he
stepped into the lift he thought he could actually smell the pork fat
under the grill. He chuckled again at himself and then shivered
involuntarily. There was a curious dampness about the lift. It wasn`t
cold exactly, just damp. The sort of dampness you find under trees just
after a summer shower.

SHIFT.

As the thick leather mask was removed from Brian's face he gasped
instinctively for air. There were small holes in the mask for
breathing, but he drew the dank forest air into his lungs like a
deep-sea diver whose oxygen ran out at 20 fathoms, and who never
thought he`d make the surface alive.
Brian was going to be skinned alive, have his heart ripped out from his
body while he was still breathing, and finally, after all the praying
and singing had been done, he was to be eaten. It was the highest
honour they could bestow on an enemy fought in battle, but in his case
it was the only way to appease Kembu for violation of the Wene
Melalek.
Brian had been warned. He had read the list of rules at the beginning
of the story. "For God's sake!" He screamed at a native, who stood
before him with hair weighed down with pig fat, skin the colour of the
darkest ebony, and bloodshot eyes that glowed like the red hot coals.
"I was only doing my job!"

The End.