The night had been long and without stars. The lamps burned low in their housings of rusted iron and the streets were wet from rain that had fallen without cease since the hour before dawn. The gutters were swollen with black water and rats clambered along the banks, their slick hides shining like oil. In the houses the fires burned small and the bread was thin. The people rose to labor but their steps were heavy and they moved as though pressed down by some hand unseen.
In the market the vendors laid out their wares, cabbages shorn of color, potatoes scabbed with rot, meat cut gray along the bone. The butchers wiped their knives with rags already stiff with blood and the fishmongers set their baskets down upon the stones where the fish gasped faintly though long dead. A stench rose from the place, of brine and flesh and damp wood. Still the people came, for they were bound to it as beasts to the yoke.
The bells tolled the hour. The sound carried over the city, across the roofs of slate and the chimneys leaning askew, across the river where barges sat moored in sluggish water, and into the factories whose furnaces glowed against the dim sky. Men bent to their work at the machines. Sparks leapt. The air was foul with soot and ash. A boy no more than twelve reached his hand into the cogs to clear the jam and the wheel took him to the elbow. He shrieked once before the sound was lost in the iron clatter. His fellows looked on but did not speak. They wrapped the stump in canvas and set him aside and the wheel turned again without pause.
In the taverns men drank though it was not yet noon. They sat with heads bent over their cups and the light from the windows cast them in a pallor that made them seem already corpses. They spoke of wages and of hunger. They spoke of wars that seemed always brewing yet never declared. They spoke of rulers who filled their coffers while the streets ran with filth. And in the corners some spoke of other things, things they did not name aloud, whispers of shadows moving where no lamp burned, of eyes in the walls, of a figure seen at the edge of the city who did not eat nor sleep nor speak, who only watched.
The children played in the alleys. Their games were cruel. They dragged cats by their tails and set fire to dogs. They drew lots and the loser was beaten with sticks till he bled from nose and ear. When the loser could rise no more they left him there and went to find another. The air rang with their cries yet no one came to stop them. The mothers leaned from the windows but their faces were without pity and the fathers sat indoors with bottles in their fists.
At evening the sky burned red with the last of the sun. The city seemed to glow like a forge and the smoke rose black against it. The bells tolled again. The sound was slow, funereal. The people moved along the streets in silence, their eyes lowered. And among them there walked one whose step was neither hurried nor delayed, who moved as though the stones themselves had bent to bear his weight. None knew whence he had come. None marked the hour of his arrival. He was simply there, as though he had been always.
He walked among the stalls where the vendors packed their wares. He passed the taverns where men stared from shadowed windows. He crossed the bridge where the river stank of sewage and oil. He passed through the wards where the sick lay in beds of straw, their skin mottled, their mouths foaming with cough. He looked upon them and they quailed though he did not touch them. A woman raised her hand for alms and her voice caught in her throat and she drew back shuddering.
The children ceased their games when he drew near. They did not know why. They stood in silence and the sticks fell from their hands. One boy, bold with the folly of youth, spat at his boots. The man did not turn his head nor raise his hand, yet the boy stumbled as though struck and fell against the stones, his teeth broken. The others drew him away weeping. The man continued on.
Night fell. The lamps were lit but their glow seemed frail, diminished. In the taverns the talk grew louder, voices raised against fear they would not name. They spoke of the figure. Some said he was a beggar. Some said a thief. Some said worse. An old soldier swore he had seen the same man years ago on a battlefield where the dead lay piled like cordwood, and he swore the man had walked among them unharmed, the blood drying on his boots though no wound marked him. The soldier's words drew laughter yet none could meet his eyes.
In the church the candles guttered. The priest spoke of salvation, of grace. His words rang hollow. He saw shadows shift among the pews though none sat there. He felt a presence behind him at the altar yet when he turned the place was empty. He closed the book and his voice faltered. The congregation rose uneasy and departed without benediction. The priest knelt and crossed himself yet his heart gave him no comfort.
Toward midnight the city lay still. The lamps burned low. The watchmen walked their rounds with muskets on their shoulders. They spoke to one another in whispers though they knew not why. One paused to light his pipe and when he looked up he saw a figure in the street ahead. He called out but the figure did not answer. He raised his musket but his hand shook and he lowered it again. When he looked once more the figure was gone.
The rains came again. They fell heavy and cold. The water coursed along the streets and carried with it filth and refuse and blood from the slaughterhouse drains. The people slept uneasy. They dreamed of fire and of drowning. They dreamed of voices speaking in tongues unknown. They dreamed of eyes watching from the dark. They woke shuddering yet did not speak of it, for each believed himself alone.
At dawn the bells tolled once more. The city rose to labor. The vendors laid their wares. The butchers sharpened their knives. The factories roared to life. And again the figure walked among them, silent, unyielding. He did not falter. He did not rest. He was seen in one quarter of the city and in another though the time between was too short for any man to cross such distance. The people spoke of this but not aloud, for the words curdled on their tongues.
In the square a man preached. His voice was loud and fierce. He spoke of justice, of truth, of a day when the poor would rise and the rich would fall. The crowd listened, their faces set hard. Then the figure came into the square and the preacher's voice broke. He stared, his eyes wide. He dropped the book from his hand and fell silent. The crowd turned to look but the figure was already gone, and the preacher could not speak again.
The day wore on. The factories burned. The taverns filled. The children played their cruel games. The sick groaned. The river stank. And still he walked. He was seen at the edge of the city where the fields lay barren, the soil black with ash. He was seen at the graveyard where the stones leaned and the earth had sunk about the coffins. He was seen in the alleys where men slit throats for coins and in the houses where women bore children who did not cry. He was seen at the walls where beggars huddled and at the gates where soldiers stood guard. He was seen in all these places and yet no man could say they had seen him arrive nor depart.
When night fell again the bells tolled slow. The people barred their doors. The lamps burned but the shadows grew. The taverns emptied. The market stood silent. Only the river moved, black and endless. And still he walked.
In a house at the edge of the city a child woke from dreams of fire. He cried out. His mother came to him and soothed him. She bade him sleep. He told her he had seen a man in his dream, a man who watched him from the dark. The mother hushed him. She told him it was nothing. Yet when she turned her head she saw at the window a figure standing. She clutched the child to her breast and closed her eyes. When she opened them again the window was empty.
So it was for many nights. The figure moved among them. The people whispered. They feared. They did not name him, for to name is to bind and none would dare.
But in time the whispers grew. In time the fear took shape. And one night in a tavern thick with smoke an old man leaned across the table. His voice was low. His eyes burned. He spoke a name.
He said: Heinrich Dämmerung.