his master an offering on the Night of the Demon. At first it was the freshest corpse he had collected. Initially, he had tried sneaking into the hovels of the recently deceased and stealing the bodies, but the family members who caught him—rather than have him beaten or arrested—had begged him to complete his task, with their repulsed consent.
Eventually, emboldened by his master’s acceptance of his offerings, Craven dared make one request: “Free me.”
It seemed as if his master ignored him, but Craven knew he did not. Each year, on the Night of the Demon, he gave his offering and made his request. But, as the years wore on, his master grew bored.
“Fresher, stronger, younger,” Craven had heard him say. Or maybe he heard the master think it—he was never sure.
Soon, Craven began experimenting in preservation, trying to keep the youngest bodies fresher longer, littering his abattoir with his experiments in different stages of decomposition.
The results satisfied his master for a time—too short a time—but then the demand for more potent offerings returned.
As horrified as the other slum-dwellers were, none dared approach Craven. Yet none rebuffed him when he appeared to take their deceased from them. Eventually, however, a young doctor dared visit, emboldened by the whispers that had reached him. Other doctors came later, amazed at the tales told by the first man.
All seemed impressed by Craven’s skills, if not his appearance and rancid odor. There were no complaints about his demeanor, however. In stories told around café tables, Craven’s manners were always described as unfailingly humble, soft-spoke, and polite. Soon, the doctors, too, were giving the man tasks they found too distasteful to complete.
So that year, on the Night of the Demon, Craven had brought his master a fresh fetus, taken from the corpse of a pregnant girl. For the first time his master had met his eyes, and, self-aware of his own accomplishment, Craven had taken that moment to elucidate his traditional request.
“Free me of my pain.”
His master had not answered in thoughts or spoken words, but his eyes had glimmered with understanding, and his expression had set in acknowledgement.
That had been the year before this, and, as the seasons had passed, and the Night of the Demon had approached, Craven felt as if he were about to be truly born. He had no idea what year it was, or how old that made him. He knew from how the heat and rain was diminishing that the time was coming. Then, he knew from the full moon that it was the very night.
He stood in his worn, permanently stained, robes. His feet, as always, were unshod. He took a thin canvas sack and pulled it over his shoulder, its contents across his dark, sinewy back. He didn’t bother looking around the long, thin, narrow, stone room that had seemingly been constructed around him by necessity—straw mats in one corner, stone tables in another, drains in the dirt floor that emptied fluid into the Ganges, and discolored buckets of steel and wood everywhere.
One way or another he knew he would not return to it.
When he stepped into the night, he did not see his neighbors, and they struggled not to see him. That was especially true on the Night of the Demon, when forgotten souls are remembered and charity is done though prayer. Those who were not hiding would be at Mass or doing vigilance at family graves.
Craven trudged a path that was not well-worn, but one he knew well. It was a path that stank of offal, flowers, muslin, silk, and ivory. It was a trudge through excrement, food scraps, and rubbish. But the aromas and obstructions grew few and then gave way to nature. It took him out of the residences and into the hills.
At a place where three paths met he came to a mass of seemingly impassable rocks, but, as he had many times before, found a place that left just enough room for a human to twist themselves through a fissure. Inside was another path that seemed to grow in length and height as he stepped. There was a pulsating glow from around a corner that led him, as it always had.
As Craven stepped around the outcropping, his master’s inner sanctum lay before him. The foul scent came first, long before he laid eyes on the place. In the triangular-shaped space, the walls were etched with images of an elephant, deer, goat, horse, and sheep. His master sat amid them, on a throne of stone, eating pig flesh and drinking buffalo blood with red hands painted upon his own hands, and red eyes painted above his own eyes.
He sat behind a bonfire that made the shadows of his inner circle dance. But Craven could only see the shadows. The inner circle was veiled from his still-human eyes. The only other human he could actually perceive was his master’s companion for the evening.
Each year, there had been another—always the most vital, always the most lovely—stretched out at his feet, as if in a living coma. Craven was certain that others also presented his master an offering on this night—an offering that was far out of his ability to attain.
But this year, even Craven paused, his pained eyes widening in acknowledgement. The dark-haired girl who was curled between his master’s feet and the fire was the most beautiful he had ever seen—as if her face, shape, and even her essence had been fashioned from his innermost desires.
“Yes.”
Craven could not tell whether his master’s voice appeared in his ear or in his mind. It made no difference. By causing him to form it, Craven may have cursed himself to many more years of abject servitude. He quickly and expressionlessly laid his burden down on the other side of the fire and pulled the sack from around it with no hesitation.
A thin, young, dead girl was revealed. A thin, young, dead, pregnant girl.
His master lurched in the seat, one hand reaching for her, but then he froze, his expression changing. It was not distaste, but it was clearly a memory of a flavor he had tasted from Craven’s previous offerings.
“Fresh,” Craven said softly. “No preservatives.”
His master’s eyes locked on his for the second time. “Tonight?”
Craven nodded. “Tonight,” he echoed. “Her blood may still be—” But, by the time he said it, his master was already on his offering.
Craven looked away. He always had when his master fed, and since his master had never corrected him, he didn’t dare change, no matter how impressive the offering. As he waited, however, he did dare something. He dared to dream.
He, and certainly his master, knew that he could hardly do better than this. Yes, he could bring live offerings, but his would never compare to those of the others, simply by nature of his environment. Certainly he could take younger and richer prey, and, while their terror might make them more exciting to his master, they also both knew that sort of prize would not be long in coming. As long as Craven remained in the bowels, any authority might look the other way. But once he set foot above his station, he risked exposure to everyone. And exposure was the one thing his master would not tolerate.
But now, tonight, his master might contemplate finally fulfilling his request. Tonight would be the perfect time, when Craven was certain all the circle knew that this was his crowning offering. From here it would only be repetition, or attempts to recapture previous tastes.
So Craven waited for acknowledgement, even long after the sounds of feeding had diminished—sounds that, to Craven’s ears, included both the carrier and her unborn passenger. He waited, hoping and daring, until all that remained was the crackling of the fire and the moaning of the wind.
Finally
