At the scene of my execution, Drachton Below stepped in and commuted my sentence. Instead of being executed, I was to be sent to the sulphur mines on the island of Doralice in the southern latitudes of the realm.
I arrived at Dorahce in the middle of the night, empty in both heart and head. As far as the official business of the realm was concerned, I was already deceased. My suffering in the sulphur mines was merely a formality that must run its course through the lethargic bureaucracy of torture. There was no moon, no starlight that night, so I couldn't make out any of the features of the island as we approached. I could tell from the pitching of the small ferry carrying myself and four guards that the seas surrounding my new home were angry. My keepers joked about how I would slowly, over a period of months, bake to a fine crisp and then suddenly begin to smolder, my body parts turning to salt and blowing away on the island winds.
We entered a small stone harbor that dimly glowed with torchlight. There was no welcoming committee, no soldiers to receive me. The guards helped me up onto the wharf and threw my meager bag of belongings up next to me. I was left standing there handcuffed.
"There will be someone along to get you shortly," said one of the men as the boat pulled out into the channel. "I hope you have a fondness for the smell of shit."
"He looks the type," said another as they drifted slowly away from me, waving and laughing.
I stood there on the dock that had been cut from limestone. A wind blew off the ocean and I breathed deeply to see if I could detect even the slightest molecule of the fruit of paradise. As I suspected, the place was devoid of hope.
Back in the Well-Built City, while I awaited trial in my jail cell, I had used up my prodigious reserves of self-pity, crying and discussing aloud with myself how I had been wronged and how it had led me to a state of ignorance in which I had wronged others. Now I was washed up on the shores of hell with no will left—"a blob of flesh," as I would so aptly have put it in my previous life.
I waited for ten minutes and still no one came to take me to my cell. For a moment, I entertained the idea of trying to escape but then realized that there was nowhere to go. The waters surrounding the island—I had been told by one of the guards who had brought me—were teeming with shark and kraken, and the uninhabited parts of Doralice were home to a ravenous breed of wild dog. Both possible fates seemed more appealing than the mines, but along with my loss of self had come a sense of fatalism that eschewed action.
At that moment, I heard footsteps approaching along the dock. I looked up and saw a man with shoulder-length white hair, wearing an old military coat, the left breast covered with medals and pins. He drew closer and my first inclination was to apply the Physiognomy to him. I fought that urge and simply saw a face of folds and pouches, the eyes sunken, the nose a testament to voluminous drinking. Although he carried a drawn saber in his left hand, he did not seem at all threatening. Instead, there was a certain weariness about him.
He smiled as he approached and offered his hand to shake, but then realized I was handcuffed and said, "Good thinking." He sheathed his sword and told me to turn around. I did as he said. Then he approached behind me, and I could feel that he was releasing my wrists.
"Good enough," he said as he pocketed the key and cuffs.
By the way he spoke, I did not think he would mind my turning back around. When I stood looking at him, he put his hand up and we shook.
"Corporal Matters," he said. "I am the corporal of the night watch."
I nodded.
"You are Cley," he said. "I suppose you can see now what a lot of rubbish that Physiognomy nonsense is?" He waited for a reply, but I remained silent. "Welcome to Doralice," he said with a tired laugh. "Follow me." He brandished his sword, and I followed him off the dock. We took a sandy path that led us through a thicket of stunted pine trees which reminded me of the Beyond.
"Excuse the sword," he called back to me over his shoulder, "but every once in a while one of those execrable wild dogs will be waiting for me here in the dark. Don't worry—I've gashed my share. Besides, they are usually at the other end of the island this time of year."
We continued on, clearing the pines, and then wound through a maze of enormous dunes. Beyond that, we came to a white beach where the ocean broke. We kept to the shore for about a mile and then walked up the beach, through another maze of dunes, at the center of which was a large, dilapidated inn.
"The Harrow House," he said, pointing.
I stood beside him and looked up at the ornate architecture in varying stages of decay.
"You know the expression 'Harrow's hindquarters'?" he asked, smiling.
I nodded.
"This was built by that Harrow," he said. "I could never quite figure out what that saying meant. Anyway, he built this inn here years ago, hoping that the island would attract visitors from the City. No one ever came, and Harrow swam out to sea one afternoon and was drowned or was eaten or something."
"This is the prison?" I asked.
The corporal pointed to his head and said, "This is the prison."
"Is this where I am to stay?" I asked.
"Yes. I bet you were expecting much worse," he said. "Sorry to say, at this juncture, we have no other prisoners. You can choose any room you like, though. In the morning before dawn—for one of your punishments is that you should never again see sunlight—my brother, the corporal of the day watch, will be here to roust you out of sleep and drag you off to the mine, where you will work till sundown. Is that clear?"
I nodded.
"You will meet Silencio. He is the caretaker of the inn. There is a well-stocked bar on the back porch, and he loves to play at being a bartender," said the corporal.
'Thank you," I said.
"Remember something, Cley. My brother is not so accommodating as I am. The night watch is sleep; the day watch is death." Then he smiled and waved to me, heading off through the maze of dunes.
I stumbled through the dark inn, across the main barroom, and then up a flight of stairs where I thought the living quarters might be. On the second floor there was a long hall lined with doors. Halfway down that shadowy corridor, I could see that one of the doors was open and that a soft light shone forth.
It was room number 7. I stepped inside and saw that it had been newly cleaned. The linen on the bed was uncreased and the curtains were spotless. There wasn't one grain of sand on the polished wooden floor. The light came from a gas lamp, whose light could be lowered or brightened or extinguished by turning a key like knob.
There was a bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and a closet of moderate size. Next to the closet was a small bathroom that, instead of a door, had a curtain that could be pulled across. Inside hung a mirror over the sink that was too large for my liking, but the walls were painted a soothing sea green. I lay on the bed and pushed off my boots.
The two windows had been left open, and the white lace curtains billowed. I could hear and smell the ocean cutting through everything. The salt air had sunk into me and turned me to lead. My eyes closed and I lay there for a second or two, grappling with the future.
A minute later it seemed, I felt a stick come down across my back. Someone kicked me in the rear end. There were hands on me, pushing me onto the wooden floor. It was completely dark and outside I heard birds screeching.