The Physiognomy by Jeffrey Ford Read Free Book Online

that swept me across town to the academy. During the ride I had given myself up to being sent to the sulphur mines or, at best, executed on the spot.
    I was shaking and my mouth was incredibly dry as the four silent agents and the dog ushered me down into the basement where the labs were located. We entered a hallway I had never seen before and from that hallway entered a large stone chamber with metal doors fitted into the walls.
    The agent who had spoken to me at my apartment said, “The Master, Drachton Below, has taken a special interest in your progress and has decided to grant your request.” He then walked over to one of the doors, pulled on its metal latch, and slid out a table holding the body of my love. “You requested her name?” said the agent. “She is number two forty-three.”
    â€œBut she’s dead,” I said, tears coming to my eyes.
    â€œOf course she’s dead,” he said. “They are all dead. This one was a suicide, distraught over the indictment of her parents in court by Physiognomist Reiling. Her body has been hollowed out and preserved and then fitted with special gear-work and the grafted neurons of dogs—all of the Master’s invention.”
    He leaned over and touched her behind the head, turning her on. She opened her eyes and sat up. “Sing,” he said to her, and she began to grunt pitifully. The other agents laughed. “Now go home and don’t speak a word of this to anyone,” he said. As I hurried toward the door of the chamber, I looked back and saw the men gathered round her, removing their black coats. The dog, free of its leash, was madly running in circles.

5
    The architecture of the church at Anamasobia elicited two initial reactions in me, neither of which I allowed myself to act on. The first was to laugh uproariously at the absurdity of its conception; the second, to light a match and burn it to the ground. Composed of that horrid gray wood, the structure had been built to resemble the outline of Mount Gronus. Had Arla not been with me to explain, I would have thought it just an enormous pile of splintered lumber that came, somehow, to a point. As on the summit of the true mountain, there were representative crevices, cliffs, and sheer drops. None of the steps that led to its crooked doors was the same width or height; there was no symmetry to the placement of the windows, which were paper-thin slices of spire rock engraved with holy scenes. Set atop its highest peak was what appeared to be a miner’s axe forged from gold.
    â€œWho is responsible for this mess?” I inquired.
    â€œIt was entirely conceived of by Father Garland the first year he appeared in Anamasobia. He swore God had controlled the hand that drew the plans for it,” Arla said.
    I took her slender hand, pretending to help her up the steps, but before we reached the door, it was I who stumbled and momentarily leaned against her. She surprised me with her strength, and the smile she gave in helping me drained all of mine.
    â€œYou must be more careful,” I told her before pulling back the taller of the two doors.
    â€œThank you,” she said, and we entered into the darkness.
    The bad joke that was the exterior of the building was drawn out to nauseating proportions within, for to enter the church was to enter an underground cavern. There were splintered wooden stalactites and stalagmites affixed to the ceiling and floor. Shadowy constricting pathways led off from the entrance to the right and left of us into utter blackness, while directly in front was a rope bridge that traversed a miniature ravine. Across the bridge and through the sharp outcroppings, like the partially open mouth of a giant, I could make out a large cavern lit only by candlelight.
    â€œIsn’t it incredible?” asked Arla as she led the way across the bridge.
    â€œIncredibly insipid,” I said, feeling the surrounding darkness like a weight