Storytelling for Week 3: Gallery of Accusers

Gallery of Accusers

I studied the woman’s face by the faint light of the sunbeams that leaked through the crevices around the tombstone above. She was beautiful in the fashion of her people. Eyes soft and grey like smoky quartz, skin like burnished bronze. Her straight black hair was a carpet of glossy black beneath her. Recognition dawned over me, and the image of this woman walking beside her husband with a bright smile on her face briefly flitted across my mind. Pushing the memory away, I watched as the woman’s eyes met mine. I saw panic in her face, then confusion, then, as her eyes traveled to the bone that I held overhead in one hand, fear darkened her expression like clouds passing over the sun.

My lips pressed firmly together in concentration, I tightened my grasp on the smooth femur bone and swung down mutely. A single blow to the skull was enough to kill her instantly. I closed the woman’s eyes with a frail, shaky hand, my gaze lingering only briefly on her sightless grey irises.

I took the seven loaves of bread and single pitcher of water that surrounded the woman’s limp frame and crept away silently, finding my way back to the corner of the cavern that I favored by nature of the fact that it placed me far away from the stacks of dry bones and rotting bodies that littered the mass grave. I eagerly bit into one of the loaves in my arms and placed the rest atop a tattered shirt that I had taken off a man some time ago—I couldn’t be sure how long ago, for I had long since given up counting the passing of days.

The loaf I ate from was slightly burnt, and each chunk I gnawed off was tasteless and gritty as sand, but I kept eating until I had finished off half the roll. Next I drank from the pitcher, the hot water so sweet and refreshing that it took a considerable effort to stop myself from drinking too much.

I set aside the food and drink and settled into my corner, my turbaned head resting against the cool stone at my back. An image of the comely face of the woman who I had killed flashed in my mind, and my teeth gritted together as I sought to will the picture away. Six other faces joined the woman’s. I remembered every face clearly. The eyes of the men and women I had killed bore into me, every gaze burning with accusation.

My breaths grew short, and I struck my head against the stone behind me, hoping the slight jolt of physical pain would help to dispel the gallery of condemning faces. The gallery remained.  

You were going to die anyway, I insisted to the faces. I saved you from a long, painful death by hunger and thirst.

The seven pairs of eyes continued to stare at me in silent reproach.

Every death I meted out was so that I could prolong my own life, I admitted to the faces. Should I be faulted for just wanting to live a few weeks more?

The gallery of my accusers remained unsympathetic to my justifications.

Desperate, I rocked my head forward in preparation to strike my head against the rock behind me once again.

Something heavy ran across my leg. The faces disappeared as I flinched in surprise and looked down. My eyes, which had long since grown used to the darkness of the cavern, spotted the shadowy form of some manner of sizeable animal. The creature stood still for a brief moment, and then darted away from me. Crying out, I scrambled to my feet and pursued the animal. If the beast had found a way into the cavern, then it was possible that it might lead me to the place that had allowed it to enter in the first place.

My effort was rewarded as I followed the creature toward what appeared to be a sizeable cranny in the cavern’s wall. The animal passed into the crack, and I was not long in following it, my slender form squeezing eagerly into the tight passage.

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The white sun blazed brightly, its rays stinging my eyes so painfully that I could not admire the first blue sky I had seen in what felt like a lifetime. Keeping my gaze lowered, I watched as my ghostly pale feet shuffled into the sand of the shoreline that stretched out before me. Scorching pain shot up my feet the moment they touched the sand, and I leapt back with a yelp, sending a spray of the fine white powder into the air.

Lifting my eyes slightly and squinting, I stared out at the seemingly endless expanse of sea that lay beyond the shore. Suddenly the gallery of faces appeared before me again. Their faces continued to stare daggers at me, but there was something in their eyes that seemed to be slightly amused.

I smiled at my accusers, and an inexplicable laugh worked its way from my lungs to my mouth. I found myself laughing incessantly, the sound seeming mad to my ears.

You’re dead for nothing, I realized. Salvation lay in a little crack in the wall the entire time. My salvation. Your salvation. And yet I killed you. Killed you for nothing.

I laughed for a long time, long and hard. I laughed when I saw the distant white sail come into view atop the seascape. I laughed as I waved my arms to get the vessel’s attention. I laughed and wondered how long I would live having to look upon the faces of the people who I killed for nothing. I laughed and hoped that one day the faces would learn to laugh with me.


Author's Note: Sindbad's fourth journey is, in my opinion, among his darkest. In the story, Sindbad's ends up taking a wife in a society where one is expected to be buried alive alongside one's spouse should that spouse die. As you might expect, Sindbad's wife dies and Sindbad ends up being put in the same mass grave where all the unlucky spouses are placed. What transpires next is pretty shocking. Once Sindbad's provisions are used up, he starts killing the other living spouses that are lowered into the chamber after him. He ends up finding an escape route in a manner similar to how I describe in my story, but not after having apparently murdered several people in order to pilfer their provisions. What made me want to write this scene is that it deals with a pretty morally questionable deed in a shockingly light way. I read the scene honestly thinking that there's no way Sindbad can't be feeling at least some guilt for offing people so casually, especially given that I don't believe the merchant has killed a single person prior to this tale. As a result, I decided to write this scene in a way that adds a little more psychological weight to the narrative. The result is a story that is a bit darker than the original. Although Sindbad looks like he's going crazy in my version, I don't think such an occurrence is a big stretch given the fact that he has been living in near total darkness on a very spare diet for at least several weeks' worth of time, and given that his only social contact during this period comes in the form of clubbing other human beings. I know I'd certainly get a little off kilter under such circumstances.

Sindbad being lowered into what he thinks will be his permanent grave (Un-textbook)

Bibliography Information:

Title: The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments

Author: Andrew Lang

Year published: 1898

Web Source: Un-textbook