Intermission: The Hut by the Cliff
Christmas is Here!
Hello all! This brief intermission continues, for I have turned 29 on the 25th of December, and Christmas and Birthday shenanigans have meant little time left for working on this newsletter. However, I have written a short story below, set on the world of Sunlock, further to the darkward lands.
Merry Christmas to all! And to all a happy New Year!
The Hut by the Cliff:
Decahe Heyennsir smelled the apartment before he saw it. It was the smell of mildew, left to eat through wood and paper for many years. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he squeezed past the police guarding the doorway from curious onlookers. A lone camera flash intruded in from the window.
It was a studio apartment, with two windows looking out onto the street outside to his left. Several different models of camera sat on a desk to the right of the entrance. Stacks of canvas leaned against the walls, some blank and some covered with dark and shadowy paintings. An easel stood against the far wall, with a half-finished image of a figure silhouetted against a blood-red background. The sink was filled with dirty dishes. A ratty knot of blankets slouched onto the floor from the bed. In a corner, a makeshift booth sheltered by curtains had been built, clearly intended to be a dark room. The scent of chemicals wafted out.
In the center of the room, amid the small group of investigators dusting down the room for prints, Decahe saw inspector Cazuhir, standing over a body outlined in chalk. It was a young man, in his early twenties, a bushy brown mustache and a well-developed physique. He was dressed in muddy boots and trousers held up by suspenders. His white shirt and brown hair were stained dark red with blood that had flowed under him. He had a revolver in his hand and a bullet wound in his head. He was Aulan, probably of rustic origin, given his style of mustache. Decahe thought he detected a hint of darkward ancestry in his paler than normal skin, but that was so far in the past that it wouldn’t provide any leads. One had to strain one’s eyes to detect any difference in the shades of dark between the victim and the average Aulan.
The inspector turned around as Decahe pulled on leather gloves. “Ah, the Supplement has arrived.” He acknowledge Decahe’s presence with a curt nod.
Decahe joined him at the victim’s side. “I came as fast as I could. What’s the ID on the victim.”
The deputy’s voice at Cazuhir’s side rattled like a machine gun, “Victim’s name is Ehi Adzennir, twenty-three years old, bachelor, occupation was photography. Was apparently an artist in his spare time. Lived in premises for three years. Was soft-spoken according to neighbors’ testimony. Spent most of his time alone.”
Cazuhir stuck his hands in his pockets. “We’ll be running prints and residue checks on the weapon for due dilligence, but he fits the profile for suicide.”
Decahe grimly nodded while putting his hands in the pockets of his cotton trousers. “It does look like a suicide.”
The inspector chuckled. “Imagine that, a supplement agreeing with the lead.”
“It looks like a suicide, but I will be exploring alternative explanations.” Decahe said. “As any supplement would do.”
“Well, you got your work cut out for you.” Cazuhir glanced over at the paintings lining the wall. “These artists, they’ve always got something wrong with them. I would be surprised if he didn’t blow his own brains out.”
Decahe walked around the victim’s body. No signs were present indicating a struggle. There were no drag-marks. Still, it was curious the position the victim had chosen to end his own life. It was right in the center of the room, and the blood spray had reached to one of the stacks of paintings, ruining its surface with dark red blotches. The supplement reached down to feel around in the victim’s pocket, producing a pair of keys. Decahe’s eyes wandered over to the bullet hole in the far wall.
“We’ve already pulled out the bullet. It matches the caliber found in the revolver.” Cazuhir noted.
Decahe tried to reconstruct the trajectory in his mind as he examined the bullet-hole. Based on his cursory examination, he didn’t think the bullet went in at an angle. It would have been fired from the center of the room, which matched the end position of the weapon. His eyes scanned the floor. It was moldy. A set of muddy boot prints led to the center of the room and ended in the victim’s body. It was hard to make them out though, as the floor was coated in a thin layer of detritus that had been tracked in from the street. Clearly it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the victim to track mud in.
“See anything you like?” Cazuhir scratched his wrist.
“Not particularly.” Decahe racked his brain, trying to think of something more. “Usually there are notes left in these cases.”
“Maybe it was an impulsive decision?” Cazuhir offered.
“Perhaps.” Decahe looked at the cameras on the desk. “I’d like to determine what the victim’s state of mind was in the lead up to the shooting.”
“I’m no art critic, but uh...” Cazuhir’s hand rested on one of the stacks of paintings. “This guy’s creativity tended a bit towards the dark. Might be indicative of his inner psyche, yes?”
“Not a bad observation, inspector.” Decahe replied. “Does he have a collection of personal portfolio photographs I could look through?”
“In the left desk drawer. Let us know when you’re done with them in case next of kin comes calling.”
***
Decahe sat at his desk, flipping through the photos. Standard portfolio material. Portraits of middle-class city residents. Street views. Gardens. Parks. All business.
He set the photos down on his desk and scratched his head. He looked out the window at the Dannsri skyline. The view from his window always blocked the sun behind the tall chimney of the nearby cloth factory. Others might miss the constant view of the sun, peering just over the hills to Dannsri’s sunward. Decahe found it useful for off-rhythms when he didn’t want to close the blinds just to sleep.
The city festered with misdeeds. Decahe liked to keep an eye on it, to feel the sounds of human and machine hitting his ears. The dull thumps in the distance from the iron-works were like a lullaby to the supplement.
He broke his reverie and returned to the photos, languidly searching for something he’d missed. A supplement’s job was to consider the path less well-trodden. To find the odd explanations for events that other investigators sometimes missed. To search out the strange angles of evidence and lines of inquiry that led to the track a criminal might disguise due to knowledge of police procedure. Nine times out of ten, a supplement’s investigation would dovetail with the lead investigator. But for every nine cases where that happened, there was the tenth in which a second opinion helped.
Decahe had a good relationship with Cazuhir. Not all supplements could claim to work well with their lead investigators. The job description led inevitably to internal conflict, but it was necessary to maintain the supplement’s role in order to avoid groupthink. Cazuhir understood that.
A portrait of a woman with a wedding tunic on. Flip. A view of the Victory Monument. Flip. A side view of an apartment building. Flip. An ancient urn…
Decahe’s brow furrowed. Flip.
A side view of an apartment building. It was unremarkable. A brick exterior with a glass storefront below. The pavement outside was cracked and broken. His eyes traveled up the photo to the second story, where a single face looked out of a grimy, rain-encrusted window. The face looked familiar, despite its ghostly appearance. Two black eyes stared back at him from the photograph.
Decahe noted the number on the front door of the building: Hazu 274, near the town center.
***
The supplement pulled open the front door with difficulty. It was heavy, with a large iron deadbolt. The Hazu neighborhood was working-class, close to the red-light district of Dannsri. The deadbolt was likely a prudent investment on the landlord’s part.
Decahe walked down the tiled hallway behind and approached the main office. The door was ajar, and he heard two older women laughing. He pushed the door open.
The two women immediately stopped their conversation and eyed him. “Can I help you sir?” said the one closest to him, standing up as she did, her gray hair pulled away from her face and fastened in an elaborate Aulan lattice-work behind her head. The orange light from the sun misted in through the window, lighting one side of her face and bouncing off a pair of dark green eyes.
“Are you the owner of these premises?” Decahe inquired, pulling out his Cen. It was a brass circle inset with the sigil of Dannsri, a medallion that carried the authority of the Dannsri police.
“I am. Ela Yecsinir at your service.” She closed the distance between them, her long khaki tunic rustling as she did so.
“Decahe Heyennisir, supplement to the Dannsri police. I’m here to ask a few questions concerning this apartment.” He produced the photo from evidence and tapped the second story window.
The landlady examined the photograph and nodded. “Go ahead.”
“When was the last time it was occupied?”
“Last week. There was a young man there who left and never returned. He’s not late on his payment, but I’m preparing my options to have him evicted in case it comes to that.”
“What was his name?”
“Adzennir, I believe?”
“How long has he been the resident?”
“About seven years.”
“Has he been the sole resident of the apartment for that time?”
“No. There was another man with him who left about four years back. He moved in with him.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know. The apartment was under Adzennir’s name. Never got a really good look at him either. I don’t tend to butt into my tenant’s business; as long as they pay their rent and don’t set anything on fire, we’re fine.”
“Doubtless a good business practice on this side of town.” Decahe noted acerbically.
“Would you like to see the room?” Yecsinir inquired, her tone level.
Decahe nodded.
The apartment was sparse and neatly ordered. A dresser stood against one wall, filled with neat shirts and trousers. A vanity mirror, with a crack running through one corner, stood above it. The bed was a bunk bed, both sets of sheets neatly made and folded triangularly down in a rustic style. There was a table with two chairs in the middle, near the window, with a newspaper and a plate sitting on top. A chest of drawers sat at one end of the bunk bed.
The supplement pulled on a pair leather gloves. Decahe first walked over to the table and looked at the newspaper while the landlady watched him from the entrance. The Dannsri Tribune, dated from one week ago. The plate, although apparently previously containing a finished meal, was encrusted with leftover food. He flipped through the newspaper. Nothing. No highlighted sections, no cutouts, nothing.
Decahe scanned the room. It was possible there was something in among the neatly folded clothes in the dresser. He opened them one by one, his gaze flitting around the contents.
He opened the leftmost one, and paused. There was a large knife in there. He picked it up. It was a reasonably large knife, bordering on being classified as a dagger. Imperfectly balanced. Spots of rust gathered at its edge. It hadn’t been used in a while. There was a single emblem carved into its surface: an anvil.
Decahe finished his examination of the knife and turned to the chest of drawers. He walked up to it, gazing at the padlock. He paused.
The supplement pulled out the keys that had been found in the victim’s pocket. There were two of them. He tried them both. The second one clicked in and the padlock scraped open.
Decahe saw what he took to be mementos. He pulled them out one by one. A rake-head. A stuffed outraptor with a rip in its rear. A locked journal with an anvil logo on it. Decahe tried both keys on it to no avail. A pair of dice. Two boxes of cigarettes. A used checkbook. An Aulan dictionary. No birth certificates.
There was an envelope at the bottom of the chest, hidden among a variety of other junk. Decahe picked up the envelope and noted the return address: PO16, Dan-Ci-Tedri. There was no associated person. Decahe’s brow furrowed. He looked at the book.
Locksmith shops would be closing all over Dannsri by now. Off-rhythm was approaching. The trains, however, still ran through the off-rhythm.
Decahe stood up, pocketing the journal and leaving the rest of the items in the chest. He turned to leave, brushing past the landlady. “Leave your tenant’s belongings here. I will be back on the next rhythm to collect and process them as evidence.”
***
The train ride took about a half-hour. Dannsri wasn’t a large city by any means, and Dan-Ci-Tedri was a rural town just outside of the city limits, near to the large industrial quarry that pitted the surface of the scrub.
The supplement walked briskly from the train stations towards the opposite post office before pursing his lips in frustration. Closed. Early by the looks of it. The off-rhythmers were still partying at the main tavern next door. He figured he would try there.
Decahe pushed the door open to the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Raucous laughter filled the air as the dregs of society pushed, shoved and filled their troughs with liquor. The supplement approached the bar, raising his voice to be heard over the hubbub.
“Decahe Heyennisir, supplement to the Dannsri police.”
The barkeep looked him over. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you seen this man recently?” He produced a photo of the deceased.
The barkeep glanced at the photo and shook her head. “Naw. You should ask the chaplain. He’ll be down Odgyde doing his usual vigil.”
“Why would the chaplain remember him?”
“That old tree remembers everything, and everybody who used to live here.”
***
Dan-Ci-Tedri’s sole priest of the Riverrun was lighting candles and drawing prayer-lines across the town’s chapel when Decahe arrived. The supplement announced his presence after passing through the chapel doors. “Hello there, nameless one.”
The priest looked back at him briefly, before placing a last touch on the prayer-line at the chapel’s edge. He turned his attention to the intruder. “How may I help you, child?”
Decahe produced his police medallion and held up the photograph of Ehi. “Does this man look familiar to you?”
The priest stood, his eyes half-lidded as if trying to recall the details of where he’d seen the man. “Yes.” he finally answered.
Decahe lowered the photograph. “What is his name?” he tested.
“He looks like an Adzennir. But I do not recall their first names.”
Decahe probed. “‘Their’ names?”
“Yes. The family used to go to chapel services here. They lived further on the street, close to the edge of the quarry.”
“How many were there?”
“Mother and father, and two boys. The children were always fussy during services, never could sit still. One of them was stronger than the other, despite their other similarities.” The chaplain folded his hands in front of himself.
“How were they similar?”
“Well, they were twins. But they weren’t exactly alike. Both of them wanted to make it big in the city. The smaller of the two wanted to be an artist. The more athletic one wanted to work in the abattoir. Very strange child. I do think the one bullied the other. The other would always flinch when his brother spoke.”
“Did they leave?”
“Yes. Both parents died in the same day, falling off the cliff into the quarry near their house. The two boys left soon afterwords for Dannsri. Left in a hurry I might add.” The chaplain stroked his beard. “They left the house keys in my possession in case they were to return. Would it help your investigation if I could produce them for you?”
The supplement nodded. “Yes it would.”
The chaplain nodded and gestured towards the rectory. As Decahe followed him, he continued to ask questions. “You say they left in a hurry?”
“Yes. It was much remarked upon in the town. Suspicions were raised, but no evidence of foul play was found.”
Decahe sniffed. “Did they at least attend the funeral?”
“Briefly. The stronger one delivered some remarks. The slighter one remained quiet throughout.” The chaplain breathed in. “It doesn’t surprise me that trouble seems to have followed them.”
“Is there a reason you say that?” Decahe asked.
“Yes. There were other rumors going through the town. The stronger one seemed to pay no attention to the young girls. He was always out with the young lads. The slighter was often dissuaded from pursuing any significant romantic relationships by the stronger. Rumors flew. I knew enough not to trust them, but I still felt there was something wrong about their relationship.”
Inside the rectory, the chaplain searched through a number of keys on a nearby keyrack. Decahe breathed in the incense from the room, his mind growing increasingly disquieted.
The chaplain finally pulled a pair of keys off the rack. One large and one small. Decahe tried the smaller on the journal. It opened.
He scanned the inside contents.
After a few minutes, the chaplain interrupted his increasingly horrified perusal. “A young man passed by here on the road towards their former residence not so long ago. I couldn’t see his face all that well, but there could be a chance you will find the man in your photograph there by the cliffside.”
***
The supplement ran up the slope to the hut by the cliff. The quarry loomed ominously on his right as he sprinted.
Slowly, the hut came into clearer view. A store sign with an anvil embossed into the surface swung in the gentle wind. Grasping black vines had grown over the hut in the intervening years since it was abandoned. Decahe saw a lone figure sitting on the edge of the cliff, looking downward over the edge. The orange sun half-lit the quarry, leaving one part in eternal shade and the other in perpetual orange sunlight.
Decahe ran as fast as he could, the winds from the desert ahead whipping past his ears and sounding like a howling storm. When he was close enough he yelled, “Adzennir!”
Ehi Adzennir slowly looked back at him, tears streaming down his face silently.
Decahe stood there, not knowing what to say. Finally he blurted out, “Dannsri police! Stay where you are!”
The wind picked up, this time whipping in brief gales before calming down. The two men remained motionless. Ehi blinked.
Decahe’s hands went to his side, briefly fingering his gun, before deciding against it.
He began walking towards Ehi slowly and deliberately.
Ehi stood up, with one foot on the edge of the cliff.
The supplement stopped in his tracks.
Ehi’s voice cracked as he spoke. “I’ll never know what he took from me.”
Decahe raised his hands. “I know.”
Ehi looked down at the floor of the quarry below before looking back at Decahe.
The supplement spoke softly, “Listen, I can get you help. There are public defenders in Dannsri that would gladly take on your case once they heard what your brother did to you. To your parents.” He held up the journal. “We have proof here.”
Ehi trembled.
Decahe resumed walking towards the victim.
“Is it worth it?” Ehi said, looking over the edge of the cliff again.
“You have to answer that for yourself. I can promise you that we can bring your brother’s crimes to light. You can have your day in court.”
The victim paused.
“Don’t let this become a bigger tragedy than it already is.” Decahe pleaded.
Ehi stood there, paused between the world of the living and the dead.