[The Game] Djemma el Fna

Listen - let the words take you, paint a picture. Snatch a moment in time and frame it with a story. A way to be repeated, handed down, recalled and celebrated. Saved and shared. Embeddable content, the story moves across space like a virus. Replicating, mutating, making itself heard, known. And you in your chair, at your desk, in your home, in your bed, by the simple act of listening, reading, are now part of the story. Are you ready? Then let's begin.

Chapter 8

"Angels and ministers of grace defend us.
Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape
That I will speak to thee..."
-Shakespeare, Hamlet.

Press play.

We spin down through space, the earth revolving towards us. Satellites and space-junk burst past. With an orange flash, we break atmosphere, the clouds parting as we move. We fly down, across the Americas, the North Atlantic swirling beneath, tuna fleets glittering below the surface, over Velas and Furnas, across the Canaries to the coast of western Africa. Now a correction north, slowly sweeping along the seaboard, swerving inland across the desert, now down, down into the sands and banking up we see a city in the distance, pink and shimmering. We lurch upwards, the sky titling and levelling out, momentarily hovering above ancient streets. Marrakesh. Slowly, we pitch down, roads sharpening into focus, shapes emerging from the darkness. Streaks of light from cars and bodies moving through the night time haze. We swoop down, across the Jardin Marjorelles, east into the old city we cross the mud ramparts, over Koutoubia mosque, above the shanty houses, above the tombs of the sleeping Saadian Kings and Queens where a solitary cat keeps guard and on, to the Square of the Dead, Djemma el Fna.

From the darkness, we dip down and land on the ground. No one sees us. We spot two men moving through the mass crowd, dodging the outstretched hands and hustlling vendors. The older one points to a man standing on a step, speaking in Arabic, a small but attentive crowd gathered around him. The two men approach. Words are exchanged, the man carefully considering them. They will be allowed in.

From the hustle of the street they are taken inside, through a narrow wooden door. In the left corner, a man sits, cross-legged on the floor, mint tea before him. They sit down, waiting. The heat, the noise, drums, the laughing children with monkeys on chains, dates for sale, the music and the mayhem all fade away. The man looks at them a while, closes his eyes and suddenly seems to drift, his head lolling down and his voice undulating into a song-like tone. A light, like a direct ray of sunshine, pierces the window making the visitors cover their eyes. Slowly they adjust and wait, listening.

He begins. A tale of a man and a story. A story which has been hidden. A story which has never been told. Hidden by those that would keep us down, in the dark, with the dogs. The man who wrote this story was a soldier. A leader amongst an order of great men - timekeepers. He came from a land far away, a land of rainwater. He came here to defend us. From the ones who would take our stories, our culture. He came to fight, to stand against the will of the thieves, his words the beat of the drum against the fear of the dark. And it was here, near the Square of the Dead, where his story ended. Or began.

Listen - let the words take you, paint a picture. Snatch a moment in time and frame it with a story. A way to be repeated, handed down, recalled and celebrated. Saved and shared. Embeddable content, the story moves across space like a virus, replicating, mutating, making itself heard, known. And you, in your chair, at your desk, in your home, in your bed, by the simple act of listening, reading, are now part of the story. Are you ready? Then let's begin.

Twenty-six years ago. A late-night souk. A riot of colours and noise, spices and effluence, beggars and children, three-legged dogs and two-wheeled carts, donkeys and dimwits, poets and perverts. A Sufi song drifts through the air, echoing off the narrow street walls. A man comes into view. Pale skin. Light hair. A waist-length, black coat flapping with him as he pushes through the crowd. 'Liam' they called him. His name a gift from his parents. A name that carried the story of his family and all of their memories. He jostles and shuffles, weaving between begging hands and pleading calls. The pink city leans above him, the dust kicking up as he moves. The call to prayer begins to empty the streets; moving faster now, watching behind him, peering down the alleys. He ducks off onto a side street, holding the bag he carries closer. Turning and bending, he follows a labyrinth path, winding and twisting into the heart of the souk. He pauses, removing a silver pocket watch from his waistcoat. He opens it, looks at it carefully. Runs a finger over the surface. Squints his eyes. With his other hand, he briefly removes a picture of a child, a six-year old boy, from his pocket and looks at it. Glancing back ahead, he slips the picture back in his pocket and then looks back to the watch, checking.

He puts the watch away and starts to move off, carefully. Freezes. A shadow, a shape moves before him. Time slows and the sound is sucked from the air. A hiss in the dark, a body uncoiling from a wall. Another beside it, crawling and sniffing towards him. The smell of blood thickens the air, the odour of decay coming from an open mouth, sucking air in, heaving it out through holes in torn flesh. He stands his ground, slinging the strap of the bag over his shoulder. He breathes deeply, steadying his stance, finding his balance. He waits, they crawl closer, getting braver, the rage and the hunger swelling inside them. Waiting, waiting, biding his time, his training and years steadying his hand. He summons the words from deep within his memory, readies them. One raises to it's legs, moves to pounce. He speaks. The air is torn open, sound collapsing through the tear, a bubble of space and time bursts. The man has moved, faster than light, than sound, appearing behind the creature, space rippling around him with a sound that stabs the eardrums. The wraith is hurled against a wall, its bones shattering on impact. Twisted and spilling blood it slides to the ground, a gurgling coming from deep inside its rotten frame. The second one lashes out. Another word, another tear and the second creature finds a hand at it's throat. It begins to scream, its howl cut short as a word is uttered and shaft of light cuts it in half.

The man moves on, wiping the blood from his hands. Faster now, moving quicker through the bends and turns. A cat squeals as he steps on its tail. A child peers from a doorway, its brown eyes shining in the dark of the moonlight. The call to prayer echoes back into the space, juddering off the buildings as matter is reorganised around the street. A car engine whining and spluttering in the distance, skids across the ears like it's being mangled in a sky-sized blender. Across the rooftops, figures move in. Two, five, seven of them. Ten, thirteen, squadrons bearing down, smelling the blood, drawn to the rage. Willing to die. He senses them, uses a command and splits the air, appearing on the rooftop. He stands, scans, looks around, sizing up the attack. He calls up a dark curse, spits it, sends three bodies careering off a building into the darkness. He jumps, effortlessly pulling the empty space beneath him, landing with a tumble, uprights and starts to run. Ripping at the air, he moves too fast for them, their claws slashing at his feet as he flips over their reach. As his left foot slams into a set of roof tiles, a shaft of light streaks behind him, pinning one to a wall. It squeals, writhing under the sound. Two more take it's place, clambering across the space, they leap only to meet a flash of colour, their limbs disintegrating in the heat. He slides to a halt. Too many of them, circling in, closing down the space. Surrounded, he calms his mind, breathes deeply, waits. Come and get me you fuckers. Steadying his stance, he lowers his hand, a steel tube spinning open, lengthening, opening up into a blade, its edge catching the moonlight. Closer now, closer, he waits, eyes focussed on the space between them, he waits for one to make its move. And they pounce.

Slashing and stabbing, cloth and skin are torn, screams filling the air. Two down. Three down, the air ripping open, colours and sounds slapping at the night. Blood sheets across a wall and in one giant mass of flailing limbs they tumble. Over the building, sailing down to the ground. A crash, windows shattering, he staggers to his feet. A hand grabs at him, not fast enough, he twists it violently, his foot connecting with a chest. A tearing sound gives way to an inhuman scream as he rips the limb from it's socket. Another lunges, meets with a fist, its face crumbling into mush. Five down, seven down, they keep coming. Knowing now that he's going to die here, he's determined to take as many with him as he can. Fighting not to live, but fighting to damn them, he uses every part of his abilities, jumping and twisting, using the art to slow time and take them down.

He takes one by the throat, crushes until he hears a crack. Another crack. From inside. He looks down and sees a blade thrust through his chest, from behind. The air is forced from his lungs and he collpases to his knees, time slowing down to normal, his heartbeat hammering. Blood pours down his shirt, splashing on the ground below. The creatures back away, fear overcoming them, making way for something else. Someone else. As his vision starts to blur, he sees a figure walk from behind him. A leg, white suit trousers, a matching jacket. I'll take that thankyou, says the man, removing the bag from over his shoulder. Don't want any blood getting on it now, do we. Liam curses. The man crouches down, bringing his face level with his victim. A shit-eater, shark-tooth grin hoves into view, a cruel humourless smile, wrap-around mirrored glasses. My name is Mr. White he says with a giggle. I'm the one that's killed you. Just wanted you to know that, Mr. Company Man. Don't feel bad about it. We'll kill you all in the end. And you'll never see this book again. Never. No, says the dying man, I won't. But my son will. The rictus grin dissapears. He scowls. We'll see about that. Standing up and turning to walk away he barks an order over his shoulder.

Eat him, he says.

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