Clingling

Part 1: Eyes

His eyes were the same as mine, peering through the bars of the jail cell which, perversely, smelt of flowers from the lavish gardens through the small window above.  The window seemed far more willing to let in smell than light.  Here I was, doing my usual rounds through the central prison with enough lukewarm, boiled, grey grains to keep them alive for what time they had left, when I spotted my wide, deep brown eyes in another’s face.  I would have been mute with shock but it has been many years since any sound passed my lips.  My eyes widened as those facing me mirrored the action.  So, my brother recognises me too, after all this time I thought, strangely pleased in spite of the reduction of my personal assets since I last saw him.  Although, given his position in the cell and the sentence bestowed, both boys in the family were not doing too well.  

I suppose I can still refer to myself as a boy.

The last time I saw him he was a child, looking back briefly as he escaped from the window of our house in one of the farming enclosures.  He chose to leave rather than face a life of servitude in the Stone Garland City, a popular occupation choice for the younger or troubled sons of farmers as it offered the benefit of a generous income for the family left behind.  Neither he nor my parents realised that, to the City, there is no difference between the older or younger son; the City would demand a substitution rather than have the vacancy unfilled.

So it was that I was taken from my home, trained to be the perfect clingling, to slip through the homes of the wealthy, unseen and unheard.  To aid in this vocation, so that I could share no secrets or violate the wives and daughters of my masters, I was removed of my voice and my manhood.  This mutilation alone tends to break the spirits of most newly created clinglings but, perhaps due to my sense of injustice or shock, I regained a semblance of my former self after the change.

‘Eadrik,’ my brother sobbed, pawing his filthy hands against the jail bars to no avail.  ‘I am so sorry.’

It had been a long time since I had heard my real name.  It sounded foreign and took me a while to understand what is was and why it was familiar.  To my shame, I could not recall my brother’s name.  The tears had come quickly for him, catching on the brown stubble, running past his mouth and on to his square chin which, when I knew him, had been softer, always widened with an impish grin.  I had enough experience of the human condition to recognise that those were tears of genuine remorse and not self-pity.  However, I needed our connection to be hidden - we clinglings are very expendable when inappropriate behaviour is suspected - so I placed my finger to my lips, forced my eyes to convey reassurance and gave him an encouraging wink.  I did not want him to despair yet.

Part 2: Brain

I began working as a clingling in the outer houses of Stone Garland City, so called for the layers of circular, stone walls which alternate between accommodation and fragrant flower gardens.  The sight of the colours and variety of these gardens regularly reduced those lucky enough to see them to tears, especially given the harsh conditions outside of the safe city walls. 

If the city was shaped like a ripple, the central stone epicentre was the palace with its amphitheatre, accommodation for the Unrivalled and his wives and private gardens which were, if possible, even more beautiful than those enclosing the city segments.  Less spectacularly, there were also service tunnels beneath the entire palace so that clinglings could perform their duties without inconveniencing anyone of importance.

​It was not long before I started to grasp the potential and power my new situation had given me and I was unexpectedly aided in this task by one of my first masters.  In spite of the services rendered to me, it would be disingenuous of me to claim that my master acted out of a noble purpose.  He was more likely acting on a sense of boredom and confidence that his position would leave him unlikely to face any repercussions.  His plan started when he had invited a low level official with connections to the Unrivalled to dinner, in order to gain some influence or other.  The large dining room had been prepared with the finest table settings available, ready for a lavish meal.  My master had realised, upon his guest’s entrance, that the official had a deformed hand which would leave the use of the delicate, patterned glasses, he had spent an age choosing, impossible.  His distress upon entering the dining room soon dissipated as he faced a very different setup to the one he had left and approved; the table now held large beer jugs, plates and cutlery instead to imply a more rustic approach to dining.  As each course arrived, I ensured that the portions of both had been pre-cut so that they could be enjoyed with ease.  The meal was a resounding success with the official promising to return the invitation soon and to introduce some of his other friends.  I was not entirely sure how my actions that night would be viewed, as I was not following any orders, but my master was delighted to have found, as he called it, a ‘clever clingling.’  He decided to help me violate one of the important requirements for being a clingling.  

I was to learn to read and write.

Part 3: Nose

For the rest of the day I was, understandably, distracted but there were so many things to get ready for the performance that, distracted or not, I had to get moving.  There were costumes to repair from previous performances ready to adjust to fit the new players.  We were actually allowed to repair the costumes in a corner of the vast amphitheatre so we could see the stitches.  It was to be a large performance this time so there were nearly thirty of us all working with the cool air and sunlight hitting our faces every time it moved past a column. It was a vast difference from our usual underground dwellings.  On the other side of the amphitheatre, the drummers were practicing, each beat resonating around the stadium and pounding, pounding, pounding through me so each stitch on the cloak I was working on was in time to the beat mandated.  Impressive though their practice was, it was a whole different experience with the roar of the crowd, stomp of the feet and screams of terror from the part-time performers joining in with the drummers.  And then there's the smell of blood and other substances released in the simulated battle which fall onto the dirt covering the floor of the theatre.  Later that will be used as a fertilizer for the flowers which enclose the city.  The only things wasted are human lives.

In a few days time, I thought, it will be my brother who will be dressed in these costumes that we are repairing to hide the sword damage, subtly chained to a boat, prop horse or some other appropriate structure.  The Unrivalled and the rest of the full-time performers will wield their swords, always quite blunt but sharp enough to dispatch a chained, defenseless prisoner in the guise of an enemy soldier from a triumphant battle many years ago.

Not many people knew about the blunt swords but I made it my practice to read any memo that I carried across the city.  One such memo was from the head of the performance guard to the blacksmith.  It transpired that, in the previous session, one of the full-timers had been overenthusiastic in his actions and had cut off the vast majority of another performer's arm.  More importantly, he had almost injured the Unrivalled which was unacceptable.  The performances needed to be flawless as they were all we had.  Our city, our culture, our setup had been dominant in the region for so long now that the only battles fought were recreations in the amphitheatre.  Our soldiers were mainly used to recruit part-time performers, like my brother. Men caught in the wrong place and paraded to the city as if they had tried to attack our society.  They had no trial and the only protestations of innocence they could make were to people like me who couldn't speak on their behalf even if we wanted to.

I spent a moment mulling over my role in the production.  I couldn't hide away and wait for it to all be over.  I would be standing beneath one of the many trap doors in the stage ready to gather the remains of the fallen.  I would watch my brother be stabbed with a blunt sword.  And all of the flowers in the city won't hide the smell of death.

Part 4: Chest

The remaining days before the production passed in the same fashion.  I would start the day with a visit to feed my brother and the other prisoners in the jail and would then spend the rest of the day on preparations.  After our first meeting, my brother appeared to have gleaned that he was to pretend he didn't know me at all and was doing a reasonable job of acting detached in my presence, even if he did stare a bit too much.  I would sometimes wonder whether he believed that I was working to free him and, at such thoughts, the area from my rib cage to my stomach would pulsate until I forced myself to think of something else, anything else.  It really was vexing that this stranger, someone I had not seen in over a decade, who had abandoned me and my family, could cause such an emotional surge.  However there was another voice which reminded me that he would be in my place.  Would I really wish this life on anyone?

One of the days, I was told that I had to measure up the prisoners for their costumes by the foreman, who was angry about a black pudding incident in the kitchen so was dishing out the orders with a kick for each clingling.  One of my allocated prisoners was my brother.  It was a tight fit in the jail with several prisoners being measured at the same time by their respective clinglings who, though slight, were over-crowding the already full cell.  The whole measuring experience presented a real difficulty, especially when I had to measure my brother's chest which became something of a hug as I reached my arms around his broad but toned middle with the tape.  Suffice to say that it was not the most accurate chest measurement that I have ever taken.

In no time at all, it was the day of the performance.  I had an errand to run in the kitchen to pick up a pig before I could return to place the costume upon my brother.  My emotions on the day were manifesting themselves by tensing every muscle so that walking around the clingling tunnels was as difficult as walking through the runner-bean fields as a child with my brother.  No, don’t think of that, I chastised myself.  It was no time for such thoughts.

The part-time performers were all gathered in a holding area beneath the theatre to get into their costumes.  Again, my brother was one of the people who I was assigned to dress.  I had his costume ready and assisted him into the clothes that I had spent so much time repairing.  Though shaking, he did not resist the process, unlike some other prisoners who were squirming away from every item of clothing until they were knocked out by the guards, clothes shoved onto their unconscious bodies.  There was a moment when I tightened his tunic when he jolted and stared at me intently so I gave a little nod of goodbye which was all I could get away with in the crowded environment where there was more than one guard per prisoner.

The part-time performers, about forty in total, were escorted up the stairs and through the heavy wooden door onto the stage and shackled to their prop.  The crowd screamed, jeered and started stamping on the stands when they were joined by the, well practiced, drummers.  The prisoners all squinted at the light and I remembered that they had spent the best part of two weeks underground and this was the first sunlight they had seen.  I watched through the gap as my brother was attached to a cardboard cutout of a horse.  He was playing one of the many enemy soldiers who tried to escape as the battle turned.  None of them succeeded.  I was almost directly beneath him, ready to pull the trap door when he was felled.  From where I stood, I could see his face in the gap around the trapdoor which was set with such defiance that I was really proud to be related to him, but I was also aware of the guard standing right behind me, ready to prompt me should I take too long to remove him from the arena.  One could not leave corpses near the Unrivalled for too long.  It was uncivilised.  Around me many other clinglings stood waiting to spring into action to remove the dead.

The crowd and the drums came to a natural hush when a man so tall and broad that he ought not exist in real life appeared.  His face was astute and he was impeccably groomed as per the fashion.  The Unrivalled.  It was about to begin...

Part 5: Blood

I glanced up again at my brother, who was watching the Unrivalled intently, still looking calm but I could see that he had started to shake.  His eyes moved from the Unrivalled face, to his sword, and back again.

'My fellow Stone Flowers,' the Unrivalled bellowed, his voice befitting his stature, 'I am proud to present you a performance of our triumphant battle on the hill.'  He paused as the crowd yelled, some throwing flowers onto the stage which had been woven into the women's bonnets.  'We were surrounded on that hill.  We were outnumbered on that hill.  And we triumphed on that hill.' 

With each statement, the crowd's noise swelled and I wondered whether anyone beyond the front rows could hear.  Not that they needed to, mighty as Stone Garland city is, they had long since run out of battles so they were repeated.  A few memos had even passed through my hands which dared to mention making up some battles but nothing yet had been done to put those plans into action.  Some of the prisoners were whimpering and shouting out but they were being suppressed by the nearby full-time performers.  One man was so eagerly suppressed that he had to be removed from the arena by his assigned clingling.  His battle was over.

The drums started again as the Unrivalled and other full-time performers started to move around the stage, swords in hand.  This part was carefully choreographed, a dance in battle formation.  Someone treaded heavily on my trap door and some dirt fell through the slits.  I checked that the gears of the release mechanism were clear of debris.  Wouldn’t want the door to fail.  The crowd started to whine and hum, meant to imitate bees which are so important for the flowers which cover the city.  There is no set time that the dance goes on for, it is the Unrivalled whim.  Sometimes he would do two circuits and then start the bloodshed, other times more.  I remember one time he did seven which really worked the crowd up.  This time, I did not notice how many laps he did before the action began but he span and stabbed a nearby soldier in the eye and the real battle began.  All of the men then started their work, sometimes yelling praise to the Unrivalled, which were lost in the noise of the crowd, prisoners and drums.

And then the Unrivalled was directly in front of my brother.  I gasped as he had moved so quickly and my view was obscured by the various wooden slabs which made up the stage.  He stared into my brother’s eyes, my eyes, for a second and then stabbed him in the stomach.  It wasn’t deep but didn’t need to be.  There was blood everywhere and it dripped through the floor to where I was.  I did my best to avoid it but couldn’t desert my post.  My brother slumped forward, his long brown hair obscuring his face, the Unrivalled moved on, and I did my job and pulled the lever.  It took a few attempts. 

As the body of my brother fell through the trapdoor awkwardly onto my cart, his front covered in so much blood, I allowed myself a sigh of relief, masked by the ongoing horror above where gloved hands, pressed jackets and precisely placed bonnets cheered for more slaughter and the Unrivalled danced around the stage, with unexpected elegance, sword still in hand.

Part 6: Hands

It was done.  All my preparation over the last few days had worked.  The forged work orders, that I had spent an age on trying to ensure the penmanship was consistent, were read out by the clingling foreman with no suspicion at all so I could stay close to my brother throughout.  The pig that I had picked up from the kitchen and shoved under my brother's tunic when I dressed him had done its job, the pig’s blood filled capsule within had exploded on contact and the Unrivalled had noticed no difference in texture.  Indeed, no one had noticed that the stocky but fit man had gained a lot of weight around his middle, an advantage which came from the collective decision of those involved in performances to ignore and dehumanise the part-timers.  The blunt blade had merely scratched his stomach and, apart from a few nicks on his arms, a twisted shoulder and a bump on his head from when he fell through the trapdoor, he would be ok.  He was alive.

My brother stayed perfectly still on the cart, and I started to wheel him out of the arena down the tunnels.  I held my brother's hand, hidden beneath my cloak, as we trundled down the tunnels towards the exit of the city where the bodies of the dead would be piled, ready for burning.  This would act as fertiliser for the flowers; another macabre cycle.  My hand was numb it was holding - or being held, I couldn’t tell - so tightly as the tunnel air became fresher and the oppressive smell of flowers dimmed.

The tunnel started to ascend and daylight hit off the curved walls, arching to freedom.  I walked to the gate which was being manned by a very grumpy soldier, no doubt sad to be missing the performance.  One look at me and my cargo and he opened the gate without comment.  I looked around as the gate closed, it was always dangerous to be beyond the walls.  To the left around the wall was a pile of bodies but I turned my cart to the right, moving as fast as I could to get out of sight of the gate.  It wouldn’t do to be discovered by one of my fellow clinglings but I did have a carving knife stashed should I have to use it.

I tapped my brother gently on the shoulder to let him know that the coast was clear and he opened his eyes, adjusting to the light.  He then stumped off the cart, kissed the ground, and burst into tears.

“I don’t...I can’t even,” my brother sniffed, barely able to breathe, let alone express his gratitude.  His chest was heaving and he kept moving as if to hug me and then would lose his nerve and instead awkwardly stroke my arm with trembling fingers.  I am slightly ashamed to say that his platitudes and contact were a bit too much after an already trying day so I gestured that I had to leave although it was unlikely I would be missed for a few more minutes in the pandemonium that followed each performance.  I knew that I had to stay as the guard would notice I had not returned and the hunt with dogs and horses would find us far before we had a chance to escape from the boundaries of the city.

Our imminent separation seemed to stun my brother into some form of comprehension and he managed to get out a gasping statement, his brown eyes again staring into their mirror image and hands grabbing my shoulders.  “I will come back for you.  I will get you out.  I will save you.  I promise.”

No, dear brother, I thought as we parted and he ventured into the dangerous, barren wilderness which surrounded the city, I will get me out.  After all, I got you out.

I continue to work in the underbelly of the city, intercepting letters, gathering information and waiting for an opportunity to influence again.  My brother, it appears, is also busy with his plans as a man matching his description has recently purchased a public house in one of the outer segments, moving in with his wife and young son, and has been taking on clinglings to assist with his business.