4. Betty
Night-time in London – or rather the electric dusk that passes for night in the city, where the sky develops a perpetual orange glow that conceals all but the brightest stars, and a thin haze softens everything into indistinctness.
Patches of light from the street lamps intensify the areas of shadow under the long landbridge supporting the railway line, and cast doorways and corners into obscurity. Beneath the overhang arches curve along the pavement. The shops and offices are shuttered against the night, rendered uniform by the dark outlines of graffiti etched into them. The street is littered with the debris of daytime and has that peculiar sense of isolation of the shuttered outdoor market.
Save for the dim glimmer of reflection thrown from his lens, the Photographer is near invisible in his hiding place, black coat melting into the dark stone, dark eyes dim hollows in his pale face, camouflaged in stillness, checking for cameras.
His quarry, an old drunk entering the final stages of dipsomania, is about half-way down the street bedded down for the night in the entrance to the station. Like the market and the shops it’s closed now, quiet and deserted, and she
is only just visible through the metal cage that forms the stairwell. A near shapeless bundle in the darkness, even the filth and the stink of piss and stale cider have not been enough to dissuade her from the shelter that the stairwell affords in coldest hour before dawn. Shelter, the Photographer reflects, that will provide his activities with some cover too.
Everywhere these days there are cameras watching; cameras, hidden by them, tricks and feints. Even the concealed ones might be dummies, double bluffs, no escape. Watching me? He marks her and bides his time; there’s no need to rush. Does anybody really see such people? Maybe not, but the camera catches everything.
The Photographer pictures a grand controller, seated in front of a giant switchboard, wired into a chamber studded with monitors in obscene symbiosis: a monstrous eye. Images flash on the screens, zoom shots, wide pans – from the grainy black and white of CCTV to the lurid polychrome of cheap porn.
Suddenly everything vanishes, every screen switches to a single shot, a magnified view of the very street, the very doorway where he is hiding, camera lens glinting in the streetlight, sight and senses straining. But what would
they see? Nothing. For how can they see what they’re not looking for? Blind. Blind leading the blind. Eyes closed to the patterns in the noise, fragments of the lost language. He’s been watching this one for some time now, saving her up like a banquet, waiting for the moment of significance, the confluence of signs.
Even in the dark he can form a perfect mental picture of every contour of her person – from the filthy and crusted layers of petticoats, and blouses, and skirts, and coats, and cardigans, to the bloated feet wrapped in layers of plastic; conjunctival eyes squinting from the lined and bloodshot face. He is impervious to the decay, for this face still
holds a promise of beauty for him, hints given in the high cheekbones, weathered cheeks, sockets spaced wide and eyes of an extraordinary colour.
He’s observed her in all weathers: panhandling for change or drinking Tennent’s Super on a bench by the library with
the other regulars; shouting and spitting at the pigeons, at the government, at the rain, and at the great confusing conspiracy of it all; sleeping it off on the pavement, as oblivious to the passers-by as they are to her.
How many times has he asked himself: does anybody see such people? Really see them or just register their presence
as they pass in the morning as an annoyance or obstacle or object of sudden pity, quickly forgotten? How many hundreds of pairs of eyes glance at this woman on a daily basis without ever seeing her at all? And if challenged to describe even
one small aspect of her appearance, what would they recall? Naturally this last is an important consideration.
It’s different for him, for them; he’s intimate with her, close as no other. Who else could describe, as the Photographer can describe, the colour of her eyes, the moles on her face, the deep lines carved down to the mouth? Who knows the precise number of her teeth, and which are crowns? Who traces the lines on her hands, the varicose veins marbling the back of her calves, measures the tone and tenor of her voice, when she wakes, when she sleeps, where she goes?
Who had last touched her emaciated body – as he would – filled with a kind of awe before the microcosm of humanity; the machinery of natural language latent in her cells, like some complex DNA strand waiting to unfold? She will be more than the sum of her parts, society’s discard, nameless and invisible. She exists for this, fragment of an equation
that embodies that primary relationship between the identity of the individual, and the millions of dim reflections of the original form that people the universe, the fragments of Babel that she carries within her.
And all this contingent on the cameras, the CCTV, his present concealment and his long observation of her habits: Will anybody miss her? Will anyone register her absence, and having registered it, ask questions, instigate a trace, compile footage of her haunts to establish just when and where and how she disappeared? Will they delve into the black economy of the nameless and unrecorded to discover her true identity, that long-forgotten National Insurance number, the place on the Electoral roll surely lapsed?
So much easier to suppose that she has moved on, succumbed quietly to the maw of the streets, been rescued to rot her days away in institutionalised peace....
All potential truths, all possibilities, all made concrete to confuse the pursuer – a paper trail laid for those who might be looking.
“Black and white. Clear-cut. No, there is nothing preventing this: she is nothing. Camera never lies. People do. I must remember as life is art, she is symbolism. Nearly time now: woo her with the camera; always works, black and white: Camera never lies. Fool the eye. Time. Now.”
When he was younger he relished these opportunities. Anticipation and the quick strike, snap, run. But this is only the first step in the process. Each element is deliberate, each a part of the ritual.
Above all there must be no haste in his actions.
As with each of his victims there’s an element of the lover’s nervousness in this first contact. Despite all his observation, even having seen inside them with the eye of his lens, clear
as the cross-section of a cell on a microscope, even then first contact is a shock, recognising in each of them a fragment
of the true language. Whilst others dismiss their drunken ravings, he rejoices in their deafness to the language of Babel, the speakers of tongues – Have they no ears to hear? Here, in
this dark and filthy street, shuttered for the night and watched by the blind lens of a score of CCTV cameras, here, would he hear the voice of God? Her cries could be the only remedy for the lost symmetry of his soul.
Not all of his subjects have been women: although there
have certainly been a few. Outwardly they differ from each other, but linked by a common theme; the shibboleth latent in their musculature, in the juxtaposition of cheekbone and eye socket, the grammar of the sacred language encoded in each like a cipher. Each of these individuals could be prepared and reduced to their essence, the barest equation. Each would become an elegant notation in the vast and complex calculation, the answer to which is the original word, the knowledge the first humans stole from the Garden of Eden, which was lost in the destruction of the Tower of Babel.
It was time now, painfully, to reconstruct that language
to unpick the myths and conspiracy theories of society’s remnants, living on the borders of its conscience, and rework them into his own private mythology.
Time. Strike. Thrill of fear or is it anticipation? He feels himself becoming hard, the street silent enough to hear her gently snoring in the stairwell, his measured tread as he approaches.
Softly he speaks her name, all reassurance – Betty come now dear, come with me, calming her with his mild voice and gentle hands, talking to her all the time as he gathers her up from her den. Somehow it’s easier than expected to convince her that he poses no threat. She comes quietly, holding his hand in hers, grasping his fingers like a child, despite the illusion of bulk created by her many layers. She is so light and frail she seems barely anchored to the ground.
Her hand: cracked and slightly crusted – is it exposure, or some skin complaint worsened by dirt and lack of washing? The contact is uncomfortable but necessary to reassure her; the last thing he needs is a scene in front of the cameras. He glances at her profile in the darkness, walking head-down, one foot in front of the other, and the next gets you where you’re going; how many years of the same round? Deliverer.
The rented car is around the corner, but it feels like miles, like they’re crawling, open targets on the battlefield. Finally they reach it. He opens the passenger door.
“It’s all right Betty, I’m going to help you, can’t have you sleeping on the cold street at night. Got a nice warm bed and a few ciders for you at home, come along now, in you get.”
Slow, slow talking in a gentle monotone, reassuring smile, no sudden movements; in his pocket, the solution – just in case.
Once she’s in he closes the passenger door gently and walks slowly around to the other side of the car, settling his large frame into the seat. Turns the ignition and starts the car; turns to look at Betty, already dozing, head on her chest in the comfortable seat. Good. They can drive for a while.
After half an hour or so, sure that she is deep in slumber, he slowly brings the car to a halt in a residential street beneath a large tree. What infinite patience it requires to wait for a couple more minutes. The street is quiet and dark, and she has not stirred at all. Time. Now.

Chapter 4: Betty

Chapter 11 of the spoken word version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando
http://www.caposcripti.com

11. Fever

April 09–
Today I saw a striking bird & had a strange sensation of deja vue. Although it seemed new & strange, being of a genus I have not encountered before, & at same time it was strangely familiar, as though I had already seen it somewhere. & thus I am combing my Journal for a reference to it, & yes – just days ago I had sketched it & have already forgotten both that & what else?

My senses are much disordered; & I am much plagued by stomach cramps, vomiting, diarrhoea, sweats, & all the other consequences of my experiments in the edible. Each episode a painful lesson in the vocabulary of sustenance, a language I must learn soon if I am not to perish from want of food. Twould be an irony to starve in the midst of such natural plenty.

April 11–
A nasty shock today – I think my reactions slowing. Nearly stepped on a fer-de-lance – a snake of a highly poisonous variety (although I hear that the Indians make an antidote of the plant of the same name, which mashed and applied as a poultice, produces a speedy cure) This threw me off balance, the hand I threw out to catch myself landing almost dead square in a column of biting ants.

My diet is still very poor, though I have found breadfruits to eat. The mosquitoes are very plaguesome. I must keep myself covered from head-to-toe to avoid their bites. That & the bloodsucking of leaches & ticks have left me prey to recurrent fevers, which take me out of myself for days, wavering between unconsciousness & vivid hallucinations, so that I no longer know where, or who, I am. Either of those small mistakes could be fatal to me out here, & who knows if anyone will ever discover my rotted bones, the rusted remains of
a beltbuckle, the gold of my pocket watch perhaps all that remains after all else has decayed?

April 14–
I could not swear that is the correct date I see visions, and hear unexplained sounds. Flashes of coppery faces, strangely ornamented and tattooed, alternated with a speech seemingly composed of clicks and vowels, singing and whistling, the smell of smoke and headgear made of feathers. I feel another fever coming on.

Hard to tell what is dream and what reality; hallucinating caused by fever or hunger? Someone (or something?) is watching me. I feel eyes always upon my back. I hope to God they are friendly eyes, as I have become weak as a kitten.

http://www.caposcripti.com

Chapter 11: Fever

An excerpt from Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - http://www.caposcripti.com/

Chapter 12: Return to the Pueblo

An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti. Print and digital copies of this novel are available from http://www.caposcripti.com


19. Gerard

It was a greyly humid day – smog low on the pavements and the West End traffic snarling its contorted loops through Soho. The streets teemed with young and beautiful affluence, coy glances darting round the pavement cafés.
The Photographer noted careless caresses, faces and bodies strewn about with metal, fashionable clothes and coked-out eyes. He observed men in business suits, expensive cars, exclusive restaurants. He watched with interest the derelicts, the homeless and the uncared-for populating doorways and lingering on street corners.

“Got any spare change mate?”

The dull voice instantly commanded his attention. From the pavement, frayed cuffs wrapped around grimy knees, a hopeful face looked up at him. His eyes are pleading but also aloof: he’s probably asked that question a hundred times today, and his faith in human nature survived a bare week of the West End treatment.

The Photographer decides to become involved – up until this point he could have walked away, and risked nothing. But he feels a need for human contact, for games; for gambling. It has become too easy, too safe, the temptation to break some of the rules he has made for himself too strong. Or maybe it’s just that he no longer needs them. He feels attuned to them all, the lost people that he saves, the heads he steals from corpses in the morgue, from the scenes of accidents when he can get away with it. There is a poetry to events that he thinks he has the measure of – the grand controller, the
prestidigitator of reality, shaping lives like a clever illusion for motivations both obscure and subtle.

Rules are made to be broken.

“I’m sorry, I never carry change – but I’ll buy you a coffee if you want – how about it?”

“Milky, three sugars please – nice one mate”

“Oh it’s all right – come and drink it with me – there’s a very good place just around the corner.”

“I’d rather stay here if you don’t mind... I... I’m waiting for a friend; he’ll lose it if I’m not here when he gets back.”

“How long is he likely to be? Surely you’ve time for a coffee? I’m a Photographer – I’m doing research for a book on street life. I’d like to talk with you.”

“Where’s your camera then?”

The Photographer reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a pen and a small notebook.

“Let’s just say I’m taking verbal snapshots at the moment – now, how about that coffee?”

The young man is still suspicious, his manner aggressive. “Do you take pictures for magazines and stuff then? Any I might have heard of ?”

Deciding at this point not to reveal that magazines in fact ran features on his work (anonymity being crucial to his plan), the Photographer just smiled, nodded, and replied, “You might say that... I’m freelance – what’s your name anyway?”

“Gerard”

“OK Gerard – so – are you going to help me out with my research? Talking to people, first hand, best material... only it’s hard to write standing up in the street!”

Gerard considered this for a moment, whilst several things warred in his mind. Abandoning such a lucrative pitch was risky – but the guy might pay him; a hot coffee in a dry cafe was an enticing prospect... the guy was a bit creepy... could even be plainclothes, or on the cruise... Soho a natural stamping ground for nonces.... Still – couldn’t do any harm if he kept his wits about him and his eye open for any possibilities.

“All right then.” Gerard stood up, shook out his blanket and rolling it up, shoved it in his bag, pocketing the few coins that he kept there to give passers-by the right idea. He shrugged his shoulders, smoothed down his pants and said, “Where’s this café then?”

“Oh, not very far.” replied the Photographer “it’s this way”

The Photographer led the way, walking rapidly and with purpose, his arms swinging, and his black coat billowing around him. Gerard shuffled his feet and followed him with a loose stride, shoulders slightly hunched and hands in pockets. The Photographer turned his head to ensure that Gerard was in fact following him and slowed down a little, continuing his questioning as they walked.

“Where are you from Gerard? You’re not from London?”

“No – I’m from Bristol, originally. I’ve been down here a few months. My mate said he’d get me a sound engineer gig – I’ve had some training. You know, tape op and that. But he blew his contact with the studio. Some of the kit went missing
– so that’s out. Still I thought I’d stick around. See what’s happening.”

“You don’t like Bristol then?”

“No man, I’ve done that you know? There’s too much hardcore drugs down there, too many angry people. Anyway – the West Country isn’t going anywhere. There’s opportunities down here for someone like me – someone with a bit of smarts, knows the score – mind?”

“But what about your family, your friends – you must miss them?”

Gerard pulled up and looked at him so sharply that for a moment the Photographer thought he had blown it – that Gerard had seen through his gently probing questions, designed to elicit the maximum amount of information whilst giving away nothing about himself. He felt his stomach churn and a tight feeling in his chest, where a fist seemed to clutch and roil. But, unwittingly, he had hit upon a nerve. The fact that Gerard had not even asked the Photographer’s name suggested that he was too self-absorbed to notice the slightly clinical manner in which the Photographer was stripping him of information about his home, his background. That was fine with the Photographer. He wasn’t intending on giving much away anyway.

“I don’t have any family man. Me mam died when I were small – I grew up in a home. I never knew who me da was – not sure me mam did either. I got by. Are we nearly there yet? You said it wern far. I have to get back soon. I’ve got shit to sort out, mind.”

Gerard’s jerky voice gave away a tinge of nervousness, and suggested just the hint of a habit. Nothing too serious, but some dependency was conveyed by the way that he spoke.

“No – it isn’t – in fact here we are. Don’t worry – you’ll be recompensed for your time.” The Photographer kept his voice steady and smooth, giving no hint of the turbulent anticipation beneath. The important thing now was to gain the young man’s trust.

They had arrived at a typical Soho café – the tables in the front facing the street for maximum posing value, those at the back tucked away, to allow intimate little téte a téte’s, secretive assignations. The Photographer had been concerned that the staff might not allow Gerard – whose hands and
face were grimy, whose shoes were crusted with dirt, and who smelled none too clean – inside, but either they didn’t notice or didn’t care. At any rate no one tried to stop them. The Photographer chose a table at the back that couldn’t be seen from the street, and which was slightly cut off from the rest of the café. He seated himself with his back to the other customers, whilst Gerard took a seat against the wall, facing outwards. He told Gerard to order anything he liked. Maybe he was hungry?

Almost immediately an insouciant waiter came to take their order: an espresso for the Photographer; a hot chocolate, a large Coke, several sandwiches and a cake for Gerard, who was bent on taking full advantage of this free lunch ticket. As the waiter walked away with the order, Gerard asked sharply: “Got any fags?” The Photographer didn’t smoke – had not anticipated this eventuality. Spotting a cigarette-vending machine at the far side of the café, he dug some pound coins out of his pocket and handed them to Gerard, telling him to buy himself some cigarettes. Gerard manoeuvred himself out from around the table – nearly colliding with the waiter who had returned with their order. As he fumbled the coins into the machine and squinted at the various brands on offer, the Photographer watched him and thought about the ritual to come – not a ritual in this case, but a departure – for Gerard
was different from the others, more aware, sharper. A change from the drifting human wrecks for whom, the Photographer believed, death was a release, and the means to free the potential in their souls. Gerard had something in common with them – living as he did on the borders of society; and as such might not be missed for a while if he were to disappear, nor looked for too long. His youth made the Photographer a little uneasy, but he seemed to suspect nothing.

As Gerard came back to the table, the Photographer carefully rearranged his features so nothing of his thoughts would show. Gerard sat down and laid into his sandwiches with the gusto of someone who hasn’t eaten properly for several weeks, washing it all down with huge slugs of Coke alternating with hot chocolate. The Photographer let him eat in peace for a few minutes and then carefully, casually asked him:

“Gerard, you’ve got good bones, you could be quite photogenic. I’d like to take some pictures of you, for the series that I mentioned, on street people. I’d like you to come over to my studio. Naturally I’ll pay you for your time – what do you think?”

Gerard looked at him for a moment, considering, hand grasping the chocolate glass, his jaws still working on the sandwich. Their eyes met. The Photographer saw nothing but an interminable boredom there.

“Sure man, just say the word.”


An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti. Print and digital copies of this novel are available from http://www.caposcripti.com

Chapter 19: Gerard

An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti. Print and digital copues are available from http://www.caposcripti.com/


20. Watching the Photographer: 2

From across the street, Nina sees him stop and turn to look at a young homeless guy panhandling on the kerb. She can’t hear what they’re talking about, but after a couple of minutes the beggar gets up and follows the Photographer down Dean Street.

She’s been following him for a couple of hours now. A morning’s patient waiting outside his flat rewarded by his decision to use the bus to go up West; and now they’re in Soho.

Nina is surprised to see them go into a café together; the Photographer seeming very tall and spare next to the young guy who she can see now is skinny, and slightly hunched. She follows them in and takes a table near the middle with her back to them. She can’t see them, but can just hear some of what they are saying to each other.

She hears chair legs scrape, and then the homeless guy is walking past her to the cigarette machine. He passes so close she gets a noseful of the stink of him, fumbles money into the machine, and then heads back to the table. Meanwhile, a waiter comes up and takes Nina’s order of a hot chocolate, Milan style. She bends over the book she has taken from her bag and strains to hear what is going on at their table.

She can’t hear much except the clattering of cutlery and glasses; agony. She risks a quick glance. The still and upright back of the Photographer is as though graven in stone, and the homeless guy is tucking into sandwiches and an array of drinks. She looks down again, and then catches a few words
from the Photographer. He is inviting the guy back to his apartment. She hunches down further over the book as they pass her table and leave the café. Nina knows where they are headed, and makes no move to follow now.

Since Nina had started following the Photographer outside the library her dress sense has changed. She still adopts a succession of disguises from her bottomless costume trunk, but she has toned down their flamboyancy; she doesn’t want to be noticed. Her aim is to blend in; to become part of the surroundings.
A hat, of course, is required. Today: a cloche in a conservative colour; a long dark coat that conceals anything beneath; flat shoes to hide her height. Ah Nina, God love you. No one would look at you twice.

An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti. Print and digital copues are available from http://www.caposcripti.com/


Chapter 20. Watching the Photographer: 2

An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando. Print and digital copies of the book are available from http://www.caposcripti.com

21. Bringing the Stranger Home

Taypi led his companions unerringly to the place where he had left the Stranger the day before, and when they were a few minutes away from where the Stranger had pitched his camp he motioned to them to stop and wait for him to scout the situation. Since his discovery of the Stranger, and his transition from adolescent to adult, Taypi had made a pact with himself that he would take responsibility for the man and the task of healing him from his illness. With infinite care and silence he threaded his way through the vines and trees and grasses that twined thickly together around the little clearing until he could see that the Stranger was lying in his hammock just as he had left him. Taypi did not think the Stranger would be in any state to attack him, but took great care to ensure that the crack of branches or the rustle of dead leaves underfoot would not give his approach away.

As it happened, there was little need for such caution. The stupor of the Stranger was so profound, so wrapped about with hallucinations, that even had one of the giant anacondas embraced him in its tightening coils, he would probably have been smothered unawares. Taypi called softly to the others to come near. The Speaker approached the hammock with the unconscious Stranger lying in it and took his first – long and measuring – look at this intruder.

The Explorer could not at this moment have looked more different to his former self – his once strong frame rendered fragile by age and under-nourishment, his skin yellowed and translucent from the fever that was consuming him. His clothes, from his weeks in the jungle, were tattered and filthy,
and hung on his diminished frame in rags. He smelt strongly of himself and damp, and open sores covered the parts of his flesh that were visible.

Every so often he would stir and mutter – his eyes twitching behind his closed lids or opening for a short time to stare sightlessly before him. The Speaker did not at this moment doubt that he was flesh and blood like the Tribe – and that he did not have long to live. It was not just the glimpse he had had of his mind during the spirit journey: the man’s physical condition particularly convinced him, for spirits were not prey to the fevers and illnesses that killed mortals, and would not be so covered with sores and bites.

Of course, they were very cunning. A spirit could have disguised itself in this way, and let itself be carried unresisting and seemingly unaware into the heart of their land, where it could cause all kinds of mischief. However the Speaker had confidence in his ability to banish such evil spirits and strip them of their earthly manifestations or pseudo-bodies – and did not think such a creature would put itself at such risk, however cunning it might be.

No, this was definitely a man, like themselves but completely foreign to their experience. A quick glance was enough to show him that fact, taking in the strange coverings, the height and shape of him, the bags and bundles that he had strung from the trees around, that no doubt contained more strange and inexplicable objects. This man obviously came from a place entirely foreign to their experience and comprehension, yet populated by people like himself. It would be important for them to learn as much about him and about his people as possible, in case more followed this lone traveller.

Concluding his observation of the Explorer, the Speaker drew back and spoke to the others quietly.

“Taypi you were right: this before us is definitely a man, and no spirit. We have no time to waste if we are to save his life.”

Taypi and Aymara had already come to the same conclusion. Aymara handed the Speaker a gourd containing black water, which she had brought especially as the Tribe believed that black water could cure fever, and a soft piece of leather, which he dipped in the water. He dribbled some of it onto the Explorer’s lips and rinsed his face, before laying the cool leather on his forehead. The Explorer stirred a bit and mumbled, but did not wake. The Speaker continued this treatment patiently – in between settling back on his heels and looking at the man speculatively. He could not tell yet whether he would live or die. But the fact that he had survived this long told of an indomitable spirit. Time would tell, and the jungle is a great teacher in the art of waiting.



An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando. Print and digital copies of the book are available from http://www.caposcripti.com


Chapter 21: Bringing the Stranger Home

An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - read the book at http://www.caposcripti.com


23. Fever

The Stranger sweated out his fever under the care of the Speaker, Taypi and his mother, Aymara. All three were protected to the best of the Speaker’s ability by the designs that he had pricked out on their skins using a large thorn, and by special charms that he had made using the teeth and claws of caiman guardians of the spirit. It wasn’t much, but it was the best that the Speaker could do against the danger he felt but could not name.

On the third day the fever broke. Aymara observed that the Stranger’s sweat ran freely, and that his skin cooled to the touch. His brow was merely warm and somewhat damp, rather than as hot as a stone that had been left in the fire. She began to hum a song of thanks to the spirits of water and air, for healing the man whom they had all thought would soon die. The stranger would be weak for many days after the fever had abated, and it was possible that his spirit had been so drained by the fever that he would never regain his full strength; but it now appeared that he might live.

She herself felt as weak as he looked. The last couple of days had been exhausting. Someone had had to stay awake to ensure that the Stranger did not become dehydrated, and to be ready in case he died. What sleep she had had was snatched and interrupted by his shouts and ravings; the fever made him call out and talk to people that they could not see, in his strange guttural language. At other times he thrashed loudly and had to be held down, a stick between his jaws to stop him biting off his own tongue. The Speaker said that he was arguing with the spirits who had taken his body whilst his
soul was out wandering, and who now refused to relinquish it.

One sound in particular recurred with some frequency. They took this to be the name of the spirit that was invading the man’s body, and the Speaker said that this meant that he would be likely to recover. Since he knew the name of his tormentor he had at least some power over it, and would be more likely to drive it out of his body. She saw now that the Speaker had been right, for the man lay in a deep and natural sleep, and she could afford to leave him for a little while.

With Taypi’s help she had stripped him naked, so that she could apply cotton soaked in cool water from the river to his hot flesh, and treat the ulcers and bites that festered on his torso and limbs. The clothes that they removed had astonished them – they had never seen metal or such finely woven cloth. Since they did not want to cut through the clothes, they patiently worked at the fastenings, marvelling at the workmanship of his belt buckle. Although it was basic and un-ornamented, it was nevertheless a source of wonder to a people who made any tools that they needed with palm bark, leaves, bamboo, wood and stone.
He had covered his body with many layers – beneath leg coverings they found an inner layer of soft, yellowed material, tightly encasing his calves and thighs. 

They wrinkled their noses at his smell; it seemed as though he had been wearing the same coverings for many weeks. His top half was wrapped in more layers – a continuation of the inner leg coverings covered his skin up to the neck and continued on his arms almost to the elbow. Above this he wore another, looser covering of lighter material and above that a heavier covering with many pouches, most of which were fastened. Although his face was nearly as dark as theirs, when they had removed all of his coverings they discovered the rest of his body to be of a dirty whiteness, blotched and discoloured with sores and with the marks of old scars. They were astonished to see that he grew hair on his body – his legs and arms were covered with long wiry hairs, and on his chest formed a thick curling mass over the breastbone, which was greying like the hair on his head. They guessed that he had not eaten properly for many weeks, for his body was emaciated and his ribs prominent.

The Speaker guessed a number of things about his culture that were to surprise the Explorer in the coming weeks. From the number and complexity of his coverings, the protective leather which covered his feet, the material in which he concealed his whole body, he conjectured that the stranger had a terror of coming into contact with the natural world, and that his skin must be very delicate. For this reason they had laid him in a bed of extremely soft fibre, which they had removed from the inner bark of trees and shredded so that it was as fine as raw silk. They surrounded his bed with smoking hornets nests – to drive away flies and other pests and slathered a paste made from lemongrass and termites on his skin to repel mosquitoes and sand flies. These were the same measures that they took to protect the skin of new- borns and very young children, whose tender skins and fresh blood were more susceptible and attractive to parasites.

Once the Speaker discovered the Explorer’s books, he sat and stared for many hours at the markings and small sketches that the Explorer had made. The Stranger was a fair draughtsman, and the Speaker marvelled at the washed-ink drawings that seemed to capture the very essence of birds and plants that he himself was familiar with. The tattoos of the Tribe were in some senses representative of the world around them – but in a far more ritualised and formal way. Each symbol corresponded to a system of classification of the multiple species with which they shared their land, and by which they

identified themselves from birth to death. Since their concept of time was synchronous, a person might have many different names throughout their life, to describe life stages. However, these life stages were united by the self of the individual, which was continuous.

In one of the pages of the small books the Explorer had represented ‘bird’ – but for the Speaker even his faithful renderings of the plumage of one of the innumerable species of parrot provided only the barest hint as to which he was referring to. Their own tattoos would have included the cries of the bird, the time of day or season at which it was observed and, if it was heard to utter any human tongue, of what it spoke. It seemed to the Speaker that the Stranger must have a very limited awareness of the jungle – which confirmed Taypi’s description of what he had observed in the days before the Stranger’s collapse.
The Speaker thought hard about all of these things, and spoke at length with Taypi and his mother – mulling over the old stories and essaying trances to find out what the Stranger’s arrival meant. At length he came to the conclusion that since he was far from his people, and travelling with very few possessions, the books must contain (like their preserved heads) a copy of the experiences of his ancestors. Maybe he was writing down both what he remembered as he walked, and what he observed of this new country for his descendants – both on his own skin, and on the bundled skins he carried with him. This much they could discern from memory and talk around the unconscious figure of the Stranger – but had no way of confirming the truth of their suppositions. They began to wait with increasing impatience for him to wake from his stupor, and to discuss whether they should use a stimulant to rouse him if he didn’t come to on his own. In the end they decided to be patient – even their weakest stimulants might be dangerous in his feeble state.

									* * *

The Speaker felt the moment that the Explorer decided to come back into the world. His intuition was soon confirmed by a change in the man’s breathing, and the gentle fluttering of his eyelids. The connection was still tenuous, and the Speaker knew that he was returning from far away. He could feel the effort of will the Stranger was making to open his eyes, and saw the tips of his fingers and his toes twitch, as if he were relearning the limits of his body. A tiny vein in his temple throbbed.

The Speaker sat patiently, watching the signs of returning consciousness, and was rewarded some time later when a crack appeared in his eyelids; the eyes that were revealed, for a brief moment, were as blue as the sky. They opened again, and the Stranger winced as he strained to focus in the diffuse sunlight; again they closed, and his nostrils flared, as thought the visual stimulation had proved too much and he had decided to concentrate for the moment on sound alone.
Just then Aymara returned. The Speaker turned to her and spoke quietly.
“His spirit has returned; he is back in his body. He is even now listening to the sounds of the jungle, and I sense his mind is awake.”
Aymara smiled, and they both turned back to the stranger. His blue eyes were open again, and staring fixedly at them, alight with a strange fire. The Speaker caught and held his eyes, and tried to penetrate to the man behind the gaze. He felt the Stranger trying to do the same. At length he sensed the the man becoming uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze, and dropped his eyes. When he looked again the Stranger’s eyes were shut; his slack features told the Speaker he had lost consciousness again.

									* * *


“Water, please.”
Aymara heard the stranger rasp out these words, and although she didn’t recognise the sounds, the stranger’s cracked lips, the way that he ran his swollen tongue around them, told her that he was thirsty.
She gently poured a little water into the man’s mouth, and saw in his eyes a look of trust and quiet joy. Whatever the others of the tribe might say when they took him to the gathering, Aymara felt in her heart that the Stranger posed no threat.



An excerpt from the spoken word version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - read the book at http://www.caposcripti.com

Chapter 23: Fever

An excerpt from the free audio version of Caposcripti: http://www.caposcripti.com

29. Watching the Photographer: 3

She is watching him, concealed as always, and alert for any sign that would indicate he is aware of her surveillance. It has become a habit, this constant anticipation of another’s movements, or a game that they are playing. Sometimes she thinks that perhaps he has known all along of her interest in him, and is leading her a merry dance, as though to test her dedication, his every act a challenge to her intelligence and determination.

Watching the Photographer has become an escape from herself – she has become nothing more than an eye, a conduit for this clandestine and silent relationship. She has no doubt that the relationship exists, that they share something. Why else would he pretend not to notice her constant presence when it must be obvious to him? His very silence is an affirmation of their connection. Even now in the busy street he carries an air of isolation about him, an inwardness that suggests deep motives.

Nina can’t help comparing him to all these people in the street, unconscious, unreflective as sheep, going about in their herds, always following each other around. Cannon fodder. When she has let them in, tried to share some of what goes through her head, her thoughts and fantasies, they shy away, unable to take her measure. She’s seen it many times – the slightly scared look in their eyes that rapidly becomes resentment. If she met some people more on her level... but that didn’t happen, even at college. She was too far out-there for the cosy art students with their received ideas; all those protests about things that were so
fucking meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Clever but empty executions that gave rise to the kind of circular conversations that made them sound intelligent, serious – then going out and getting coked out of their heads, feeling down and dirty on speed, hanging out in trendy bars, all the right hair cuts, combats and second-hand nighties, clothes worn for their irony factor, so cool they didn’t need to care, thinking that they made a difference, ignorant gobshites. Course most of them could afford it with their Home Counties parents, the overseas students slumming it for a while in ‘gritty’ London. Thinking about it gave her a bitter taste in her mouth.

Wait – now where has he gone? Squinting (she ought to wear glasses) she spots him. He’s wandering off. She hurries, on the other side of the street, keeping up whilst pretending to check out the window displays, concealing herself behind the milling pedestrians.

Still thinking about her life, worrying at it like a sore tooth. She’d like to think she comes across as enigmatic and interesting. If she’s honest with herself she probably just appears morose or patronising. At least, where she is now, the lowest level, the lowest ebb, surrounded by the dregs of society, there isn’t much to challenge her. It’s easy to be anonymous and keep her interests to herself. To float – and occasionally to provoke – safe in the knowledge that her victims won’t remember her or will be in too much of a drug haze to be freaked by her questioning. Because there must be more. There must be more. There fucking has to be – doesn’t there? There’s a lot more to the Photographer than meets the casual glance, the average observer. She’s worked this out from watching him closely, even now beginning to gain some idea of what that is... something... repulsive – but interesting? Whatever it was it would force her into a choice. Complicity or rejection.

He’s crossing the road now – coming in her direction. With a flutter of adrenaline in the pit of her stomach she ducks into a bookshop. Was she ill? Could she stop? She told herself she could quit at any time - this strange habit, which had begun as casual observation in the library. Or was that true any more?
When she was not watching him, she devoted her energies to finding out more about his background. Every and any bit of information, no matter how trivial, was grist to her mill, once she had finally dredged his name from the rat-trap of her memory. The web supplied her with the name of his agent and finally his address.
His movements tended to the predictable. She had already remarked his clockwork visits to the library – now she discovered that the same almost fanatical punctuality extended to other areas in his life. Service washes every week at exactly the same time, for example. But no deliveries to his flat. He seemed to discourage people from going there – “a very private person” said his agent. Yet he sometimes brought people back, furtively. She didn’t see them come
out – but then it was often late at night, and she didn’t hang around that long once it looked like he had retired for the evening – not much to watch except heavily draped windows with hardly a chink of light showing. Draped in the daytime too – which was odd, but not (given the kind of people she lived with) that unusual. Probably didn’t want his neighbours knowing about his... lovers? She wasn’t sure. It didn’t quite add up.
His agent had said there were no new exhibitions in the pipeline, when she’d phoned up posing as a journalist from one of the Sunday papers – and no chance of an interview. He didn’t give them – and “what paper did you say you were calling from?”

No luck there – yet he was certainly researching... something.
This afternoon he had visited the British Museum. She had followed him from gallery to gallery, almost losing him in the maze of artefacts, as he had lingered particularly fondly over the South American collection and gone straight from there to the Egyptians, giving only the most cursory glance to what lay in between.
Dodging him in and out of the sarcophagi felt like some strange courting ritual, glimpses of him bisected by the open caskets, their occupants laid out like some anatomical display, thousand-year sleep disturbed by the rude eyes of tourists and schoolchildren. Perhaps this was the revenge of those uncounted slaves who had died constructing
the monuments that would keep the Pharaoh’s remains inviolate, hidden from mortal sight. Was it a fascination with death that sent him to study the mummified remains of these ancient Egyptians, to scrutinise the Alexandrine stones? As if satisfied that he had found what he was looking for he turned on his heel and had begun to make his way out of the museum.
He was gone now – hurrying, she caught a glimpse of his coat, heading down the back streets towards St Martin-in- the-Fields. She saw him vanishing into the Crypt, waited a few minutes: five, ten...
It had been surprisingly easy to find out where he lived. She had (briefly) worked at a photo developer’s, for the money and the free materials, and therefore knew that he must be registered with the Photographer’s Guild, and that they would need an address for the registration. She had looked him up on the register, and there he was. The ease with which she’d done it, the practised and methodical way in which she’d uncovered this and other details of his existence was slightly intimidating. It was as if she were discovering another personality – a woman who could patiently watch, and follow, and uncover and worry away at the truth until she has discovered everything there is to know about her quarry, wrung them dry. But where would it end? Everything must have a beginning, middle and an end – that’s what you’re always taught. But what happens at the end?

He must have found a seat by now. A large dark espresso and his ubiquitous notebook on the table before him. She could run the risk, now, of finding some nearby alcove where she could watch him unobserved. She walked down the steps, opened the door and stepped into a whitewashed underground café, a big self-service counter, cash desks, tables tucked away in alcoves and in between arches.

All around black and white photos, playbills and posters advertising classical concerts. A quick coffee before the opera darling?

She saw him and turned away, the movement instinctive now, his position plotted. She queued, ordered, paid, grabbed a plastic tray and found a table where she could pretend to bury her head in a magazine, watch him from an angle,
half glimpsing his notebooks over his left shoulder. She had noticed that he often sat with his back to a room – automatically denying the possibility of human contact.

Nina knew that there would come a point when they would no longer be strangers, and the following, the watching – the stalking if she was honest – would have its natural conclusion. They would have to meet, if only to confirm the complicity that already existed between them. Is complicity always unspoken? She knew that inevitably she would create some pretext, in due time things would be so arranged – by
she or the other self that was beginning to seem almost autonomous, so as to bring them face to face. How then would he represent her, a Dali with his Gala, a side of meat and a telephone?


Chapter 29: Watching the Photographer - 3

30. Headshrinking: 2
The Photographer’s kitchen was one of the smallest rooms in the apartment, more reminiscent of a laboratory or a surgery than a place for the preparation of food. It was inhumanly clean and glittering, with surfaces and cupboards sheathed in antiseptic stainless steel. Along one wall he had installed
a giant Aga some years before, modified according to his own specifications. Along the other was an unusually long drainer with deep round sinks set flush in the metal.

Hidden away behind the immaculate surface, in a myriad of drawers and cupboards, was the accumulation of several years of research, minutely organised and tucked away, catalogued and sorted, so that if you opened one of the cupboards you would find racks of glass tubes and jars filled with mysterious substances, rather than the expected ketchup, tinned soup and tea. This drawer contained
rare substances procured from his South American and Caribbean agents, this a selection of knives and scalpels, forceps and catgut; that one notes; and in yet another hanks of hair, desiccated skin layered like tissue paper with sheaves of intricately drawn designs for tattoos.

The refrigerator would not, at first glance, give you any clues as to the purpose to which he sometimes put it – its usual contents a bottle of wine, a pint of milk, a few camera films, and the inevitable gentleman’s relish, relic of some ancient hamper. The sole clue, perhaps, is the lack of a central shelf, leaving enough room to store a polythene-wrapped head in each of its stages of preparation.

The Photographer was half-way through the process that
would reduce the head to the size of an orange, and provide him with another fine piece to add to his collection. Naked of hair and minutely inscribed with characters, it rested on the stainless steel worktop in readiness for the next stage. On the Aga was a large pot that had been filled with water, and simmered for hours with roots and dried plants until it had reduced to a watery paste.

The latest subject had proved problematic, and provided little for the Photographer to work from. He had starved himself rather than eat the food prepared by the Photographer – food that had been mixed with drugs designed to intensify the effect of the dark padded chamber, of 24-hour-a-day silence and isolation, of timeless incarceration.

He had proved resistant to all these methods: the relationship stillborn, holding his secrets inside. Perhaps it had been a mistake to take him – but it was too late to go back now. There had never been any question of his release. For 28 days they had carried on an invisible battle, and finally the Photographer had won, had heard on his tapes the pleas for release gradually giving way to an endless mumbling, a litany of life whose vocabulary had become diffused until nothing but a long susurration had issued from the spinning reels. When he had opened the room he had found only Gerard’s emaciated corpse, his feather-light form, the smell of fear and faeces. In some essential way he had escaped, had stolen away, and left the Photographer no closer to the solution.

Still, they all went in the end – and perhaps even Gerard who had clung so hard to the lie had something to add to the pattern. The Photographer smiled with grim satisfaction at the thought that if nothing else he would contribute his energy to the apartment, flesh to kilowatts, body becoming a shape in ashes in the hot coals of the Aga. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes – dirt we are and to dirt will we return. The body is nothing – the mind is the temple of the self. His head will hold all that there is of him, all there already, his life
his knowledge – just waiting for the needles to bring it out. Done now.

He’s fed enough now to the hungry Aga to keep the temperature constant for a few hours under the giant cauldron that had once been used for boiling puddings. A visit to one of the catering shops in the Edgware road, armed with a set of precise instructions, had furnished his cooker with the necessary modifications, the Aga equipped with a large deep hotplate which he uses to heat black sand whilst the head is simmering on the other ring. Flesh falling from the bone. Tender as a well-broiled ham.

The Photographer lays Sabbatier knives, medical scalpels and long pins ready on the sideboard. Rolls of absorbent cotton and lint are lined precisely in front of him, behind a tripod that has been modified so that he can use it to support a head. All is ready now. Right tools for the job. Ritual observed but modernised. And why not? Is this not after all the twenty-first century? He had a feeling the old man would have approved – well, possibly.

Deftly he lifts the head out of the pot with a set of long shining tongs, and stands it on the tripod. His critical eye notes that it has survived the first stage of the process remarkably well.

Surgeon’s gloves and surgeon’s grace – the neat incision from crown to nape, the scalp rolls back easy as the skin on a Sunday joint. He lays it out on the pile of sand, which moulds to the shape of the face and supports it whilst he deftly trims the fat, razors the attachments to the bones. Gently now for the bridge of the nose, fingers trace eye
sockets, and the sharp blade follows them almost lovingly, teasing, pinching, rolling, rubbing the recalcitrant flesh. Quickly now before it cools too much. The skull comes away clean and blanched. Stack it on the shelf with the others – he’ll deal with that later.
Trim the neck, remove the flesh inside with a sharp scraper, preferably with rounded edges. Remove the fatty excess, the slight jowls. Smooth and cauterise slightly with a hot stone. He imagines describing this process. What had the old man felt the first time he watched it? The black sand packs in smoothly, hot and dry, moulding to every hollow.

Sutures prepared, butterfly stitches hold the flaps together, quick tacking ready for the neat seam. Lovely bit of needlework there. Practice makes perfect.
Standing back he admires his handiwork – but only for a moment. Turning and smoothing the hot skin, flat stones heated on the back shelf of the Aga. From here on he’s entirely faithful to the ritual – even if the stones are from the beach at Brighton rather than some Amazonian riverbed, they’re suitably smooth and rounded. Soft pads of cotton absorb the sebum leaking from the shrinking pores. Lips sewn shut. Fine needles hold eyes and brows and nose in shape; redundant acupuncture. There’s a symbolism to where they’re placed. He’s done some research on Chakras. Always struck by the parallels between these ancient cultures.

The first batch of sand has already cooled, compacted and cemented slightly with the fatty juices that it has absorbed. Gently he scoops it from the shell, delicate and flexible as a deflated balloon. The head has already become somewhat smaller, but retains its shape. It’s going well so far. He gathers up more hot sand and pours it through the neck hole.

The rhythmic motion of hot stones smoothing the planes of the face, sculpting the death mask, the shibboleth. The tattoos become a black tracery of etching on the dark skin, taking a shine like mahogany, upon which rich beads of grease appear as the head desiccates, and are wiped away.

The Photographer has great faith in processes, carrying
out the most intricate plans, step by step, performing each necessary element with care, and attention – the pleasure of watching as all the elements come together to form the perfect pattern. Ideally he would like to control everything, pinpoint everything in existence with omniscient accuracy, fix it in its place in the divine order. From this perspective every situation becomes a weighing of the odds, a balancing of all parameters – a Euclidean curve of potential and possibility.

In the journals, in the Explorer’s meticulous recording of the Caposcripti’s practices and beliefs, he can sense a kindred spirit. What are the Caposcriptan tattoos if not graphs mapping the individuals’ journey from birth to death; forking lines suggesting avenues of possibility to be explored? Playing with life, and playing with patterns. Language, Logos, the word, creates and destroys. Say something and make it so. The grand author. The architect. What was there for God to fear in the tower of Babel?

And so he measures and marks, describes and makes so, weighs the odds and continues his grim business – each addition to his gallery a strategic pruning of the messy tree of life.

Within the Photographer’s plans there is no room for deviation. Because if the word is fact, is a making, it is also logic; the hard truth of the percentage. And how can it be that the Caposcripti, with their thorns and berry juice, drugged visions and wandering descriptions of the moon, the stars whose children gallop across the sky – can have grasped so complex a pattern?

Chapter 30: Headshrinking - 2

An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com



53. Invitation to a Journey

Ignatius’s enquiries in Iquitos had borne fruit, and he was able to offer Herndon a full complement of men with which to continue his journey. A team of Yagua men had agreed to row him as far as Tabbatinga, where he would be able to charter a steamer.

Herndon asked Sam if he would be willing to join their party to Brazil. They spoke in English, and Taypi could just about follow their conversation. Sam’s knowledge of the Amazon past Iquitos would be invaluable to Herndon and Sam had seen all he needed to of South America for a little while; Herndon’s invitation couldn’t have come at a better time for him.

As they made plans and negotiated terms, Taypi examined Herndon shyly, fascinated by this man that who traveled from the other side of the Andes, all the way from Chile. He was far younger, and more vigorous than the Explorer, and lacked the fanatical eye; his gaze was quantitative, sizing up everything. Taypi did not yet understand that his attention to detail was driven partly by a view to profiteering.

Though he felt himself a man, Taypi was still very young. He had youth’s blindness to mortality. He had a vague notion that money was useful in this ‘mestizo’ world – but that he had in sufficiency, having inherited the Explorer’s gold.

Taypi resolved to ask Herndon if he could accompany him on his journey to Brazil, and finally to the sea. He struggled with his conscience for a while, balancing his promise to the Speaker, but knew that in his heart the decision was already made.

In returning to his people he would be returning to an
earlier version of himself, which felt long-outgrown now.

He discovered a curiosity that was driving him on – so much easier to follow the current all the way to Brazil; through that unimaginably vast last to the sea. Taypi thought of the maps that the Explorer had given him; how he had struggled to explain the lure of places that had never been explored by his kind, full of secrets and wonders. Just a taste of the settler’s lifestyle had made him curious. What other wonders did the world contain?

He asked Herndon, in his broken English, if he could come with him. Herndon looked at the boy before him, the innocent light shining in his eyes; the excitement of youth. It filled him with sadness. He had seen too many youths leave their villages and their people to join his party, over the year he had been travelling the Amazon region. And he knew, with a certain feeling of guilt, that some of them never returned to their homes, even though he had sent back several such parties during his journey. How could he explain the sadness that this caused him to this boy, with dreams of travel and adventure shining in his eyes? He didn’t want to take him with him, but it was certainly preferable to Taypi journeying on by himself. Although it was clear he was intelligent and able he wouldn’t last long without protection. Herndon took Taypi’s hand.
“Taypi, we need another in our party, so you may come with us if you wish. Although I must have your promise that you will return to your people when we reach the mouth of the Amazon?”

Taypi had learnt much since leaving the Caposcripti... including how to lie. He looked Herndon straight in the eye.

“Of course I will return.”


Herndon allowed himself to be satisfied with that, although he would have had many more misgivings if he’d heard Taypi’s silent completion of the sentence. One day.
 										* * * 

In the pueblo the Speaker felt Taypi’s wordless question and his subsequent resolve. It was the beginning of the diaspora he had forseen. The Speaker sat and stared at the head of the Explorer. He tried to see there if there was any way that the man had not betrayed them; but the loss of Taypi was too painful for him; and he could not find any compassion or forgiveness for the man.
He took the shrunken head and sealed it into a waterproof bark case. Then he went walking to conceal it in a cave upriver, off into the jungle, and safe from the diurnal rains. It did not belong with the Caposcripti heads, but neither could he leave it to rot in the jungle. If it should be found it would be far from Caposcripti lands; and not for many lifetimes.


An excerpt from the audio version of Caposcripti by Zelda Rhiando - Print and Digital versions available at http://www.caposcripti.com



Chapter 53: Invitation to a Journey

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