The Fan-Maker's Inquisition by Rikki Ducornet Read Free Book Online Page B

tied into knots! And here the character of Muissin—so like the buttocks of a whore! And all just as they appear in the GrimoriumVerum.” The lid of his left eye twitches, as it always does when he is most displeased .
    “See here!” Melchor whispers, because the danger of uttering the names of demons aloud is great and because his own terror has exhausted him. “See the seal of Shax—the one who appears in the form of a dove and who, like Kukum, speaks hoarsely. And look—the crest of Zepar, who makes females mutable so that their husbands fornicate with creatures of the deep, the meadows, the forests, and the air! And here: See those very creatures!” With a filthy finger, Melchor prods all the charming animals—the deer and turkeys and hares Kukum had lovingly scattered over his map .
    “It is so. “Landa sighs deeply. “The devices are all familiar. We have found them graven on the inner side of satanic rings and gnostical gems, or as red marks occurring spontaneously during torture beside the nipples, or upon the buttocks, or behind the knees of witches.”
    “And scratched upon the surface of magical rods,” says Melchor, “and once painted on the belly of a gold-finding hen.”
    “Did the hen truly find gold?” Landa asks. “I’ve always thought such hens the fabulations of peasants.”
    “One in Salamanca did,” Melchor assures him. “The gold it found was pure but very hot. If put into a pot of water, the water boiled. This is no map,” Melchor says with loathing, “but only another pestilence among those—the ants, the spiders, the snakes, the winds, the rainstorms, the fevers, the necromancers and harlots—that taunt us by the hour in this unholy place!”
    “If our soldiers are inseminating witches,” Landa muses, “what will become of the world?” He is feeling peevish. Whenever one of these heathens comes before him there is trouble, a stench of sulphur, sleepless nights, and the conviction that the task at hand is so vast it can never be accomplished .
    “It is like pulling teeth from a shark,” Melchor says to Landa, as if reading his mind. “The teeth grow back as many and as sharp.”
    Landa looks out the window across the courtyard, where twelve Indians are hanging by their necks. Despite the burning sun, the day is dark; the heat and light only worsen his mood. The road to Mani, as all roads through the province, has been littered with human bones; the stench of death still clings to his clothes even after rigorous washings . It is the stench of my own death, he thinks , made to humble me. Taking leave of Melchor, Landa puts on a wide-brimmed hat and steps into the street .
    Now, it was a curious thing, a terrible thing and a humiliation, that whenever the Inquisitor walked the streets of Mani, a throng of little voiceless short-haired dogs appeared at his side as if conjured out of the air . Why were they attracted to him?
    —Is this a question for the Comité?
    —No! It is a question Landa asks himself.
    —[From the room:]
    Because he was a Franciscan! He stank to high Heaven!
    [The fan-maker turns. The man who has spoken stands on his chair and sings:]
    Because he was a friar,
He never scrubbed his piece.
His soul was “clean”—the liar!
His soul was like his piece.
    —Enough! Let us get on with the inquiry, citizens! Continue.
    —[Once the room has quieted, she continues:]
    As he walks, fruit falls into the dust of the street with a wet, sexual sound . The city of Mani is like a harlot in the first bloom of youth, Landa thinks , seemingly pure but harboring pestilence. The city is like a metal mirror reflecting the blurred image of a hag who, cleverly painted, taking her distance and squinting, imagines herself fresh as a maiden. The city is like an appetizing meal, delicious and poisoned. It is a prayer to Jesus uttered by a Jew when beneath the blows of the Inquisitor’s hammer he begs for his life. The city is like a lagoon reflecting stars yet harboring a