Zantheus wondered whether or not he should have been surprised when in a few days’ time the fabled ‘turn in the river’ of which Leukos had spoken turned out to be real. Of course he had very much wished for it to be, longing as he did for identifiable landmarks by which to gauge just how close he was to Qereth. But the part of him that was suspicious of Leukos had been growing again since the incident with the bandits. So on the day when the trees vanished and the river swung round in a wide bend he was secretly relieved. To be fair to Leukos, he had never actually got his geography wrong; the plains, the forest and the fields had all appeared just as he had said they would. It was only his faithfulness as a travelling companion that Zantheus had really been tempted to doubt. But if they were as close to Qereth as Leukos said, that would soon cease to be an issue.

The current was strong here, and the ground rose in anticipation of the mountainous country that lay ahead. Even with all of his strength, he would not be able to paddle them forwards against it. Zantheus could see why the river was not really used as a trade route. All but the largest vessels would only ever be able to travel downstream, away from Qereth, at this bend. So he steered the boat into the right bank and hopped out to moor it as they usually did at night, only this time it happened to be the afternoon, on the starboard bank, as Leukos directed. The four travellers climbed out of the boat with their packs.

“Are we just leaving the boat?” asked Anthē.

“Yes,” said Leukos. “We could leave it to drift back down to Ubal, but it would probably get damaged on the way. Maybe one of us can come back for it later.”

“What if it gets stolen?”

“Well, then it gets stolen. Maybe it will be useful to someone. Maybe someone will need to make a quick getaway from Qereth.”

“Let us press on,” said Zantheus, impatient to be moving.

Leukos started walking up the bank, and at once his three companions resumed their habit of walking behind him. There was a strong sense of foreboding among them.

“We are close,” said Leukos. “Very close.”

As they made their way up onto higher ground some mounds of what was possibly earth came into view in the distance, still indistinct.

“I wonder what those are...” said Anthē.

Weirdly, they noticed that the grass was receding, just like it did where Avarah merged with Midbar. They found themselves walking over dead, brown earth.

“Something’s killed the plants here…” said Anthē. That was when she noticed the smell for the first time. “Urgh, what’s that?” she complained. The others smelled it too –the foulest, most putrid stench on the air, so revolting that it actually made them physically retch when they first detected it. Like all smells, it dimmed with time, but it was so repulsive that even then it made them feel ill. “What is that, Leukos?” Anthē asked again. They were getting closer to its source. The mounds were nearer now. They looked unnatural, like they were man-made.

“We are approaching Abbadon,” said Leukos at last.

“What is ‘Abaddon’?” said Zantheus, with one hand held over his mouth. Tromo insisted on holding onto the other hand.

“Qereth’s rubbish dump,” said Leukos. “Unfortunately we must pass through it to get to the Southern gate.”

Zantheus was horrified. Now they could see what the mounds were. Soon they were following Leukos through piles of rubbish. They were made out of discarded containers, paper, human waste, and other debris that the Great City had produced. Little fires smouldered here and their amongst the rubbish, sending thick black smoke up into the air, adding the smell of burning waste to the already deathly stink of the place. It was a wasteland.

“I did not know such places existed...” Zantheus said to himself. He did a double-take. He had seen something amidst the filth, something terrible. “Leukos –is that a skull?”

“Yes,” said Leukos. Then they saw something even more terrible. A little way in front of them there was a man lying in the rubbish. He wore only dirty rags, which barely covered his nakedness, was skinny to the point of dangerousness, unshaven and long-haired, and was abnormally dirty. He did not appear to notice them walking towards him. Instead, he was dragging himself over to one of the little fires.

“No!” said Anthē, and started to run towards him. She thought he was going to burn himself on the fire. But she stopped in her tracks when she saw what he did instead. Rather than throwing himself on the fire, the man put his head into the bellowing black smoke that was coming from it and inhaled deeply. Some cross between a moan and gasp came out of his lips, and he fell backwards onto the ground again, his mouth and eyes open, shuddering. Anthē knelt down next to him, distraught.

“What’s happening? Leukos, what’s happening to him? Stop! Get up! Please, stop shaking! Zantheus, do something!”

“He can’t hear you,” said Leukos.

Zantheus stared down at the man, horrified, but unable to tear his eyes away from the spectacle. Tromo clutched his hand all the more tightly.

“He’s lost in his own mind,” Leukos explained. “He’ll stay that way for another ten minutes or so.”

“Why?” asked Anthē. “What’s happening to him?”

Leukos started to explain. “He’s a dye addict. When they inhale the smoke, they get an overpowering rush of pleasure. There is a chemical in one of the tanner’s dyes, that, when burned and breathed in, has this effect on the human body. For a single moment, they lose themselves in a stab of instant pleasure, but it leaves almost as quickly as it comes, and puts them in a vacant trance, and they feel much worse afterwards.”

“Why don’t they just leave?” said Anthē. “Why doesn’t he just leave?” she said again.

“Well, that’s the problem. It takes a long long time to feel normal again after inhaling the smoke, and the process of healing is painful. While they are going through it, it is incredibly tempting to come back and take another breath of smoke in order to feel the rush of pleasure again and numb the pain. And each time they do so, it becomes a little easier to give in again next time, and so on. They become addicted, leaving the smoke only long enough to find just enough nourishment to sustain their bodies for a while longer, if they even do that.”

Anthē looked down at the man in pity. She wanted to help him, but she did not know how. He reminded her of some of the men –well, all of them, really– whom she had had to serve while working for Keleb. They were slaves to that instant, that transient instant of pleasure.

“It reminds me of the Hamartia plant,” said Zantheus. He had been thinking.

They were both surprised when Leukos said “Yes, it’s the same thing.”

“What?” said Anthē. “What do you know about Hamartia plants?” Leukos had not been there for that part of their journey, Conn and Feanna had been guiding them. “Oh, I fell into one once,” he said. “It took me a long time to get out.”

“Really?” said Anthē. “Zantheus fell into one in Choresh.”

Leukos did not show the least sign of surprise. Instead, he asked “How did you get out, Zantheus?”

Zantheus did not have a ready answer. “I...I’m not sure. It was extremely difficult.”

“What do you mean you’re ‘not sure’?” said Anthē. “You climbed out, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Zantheus, but not resolutely. “Though...I do not remember it very well. It took a large toll on my mind...but I seem to remember someone helping me…”

“What, you do?” asked Anthē, remembering her conversation with Sophia. She had not heard this before.

“As I say, I cannot remember it very well. All I recall is the feeling that someone was helping me...”

“In any case,” said Leukos, “it is the same thing here. These people need help. They cannot get out on their own.”

“How did you get out, Leukos?” Anthē asked, still puzzled. But before Leukos could give an answer another voice spoke.

“Spare any shekels?” it said. Anthē turned in surprise. The voice belonged to a woman, maybe somewhere in her forties, though it was hard to tell. Much like the man who lay in a stupor on the ground, she was startlingly thin. Her torn rags hung off her lean body like leaves on twigs. And her face, her face was sort of stretched, so that you could see the outline of her skull under the bedraggled dark hair. She could possibly be as young as twenty, but looked much older, her body prematurely aged by malnutrition and dye-addiction. She looked out from two blue eyes, the light in them almost extinguished, and said again “Spare any shekels?”

Anthē noticed she was carrying something. Not knowing what to reply to her begging, she asked “What have you got there?”

The woman thrust her package forward madly, a perverse mixture of pride and desperation on her face, and said “My little one, my little one!”

Anthē stepped back in horror. It was a child, a baby.

“Careful with that!” said Zantheus. He was at a loss for what else to say to her. All he could manage was “This is no place for a child.”

“Spare any shekels?” the woman repeated.

“Here, take this,” said Leukos, handing her some money. The woman grabbed the coins and scarpered away with her baby, not even pausing to thank him.

“Why did you do that?” asked Zantheus.

“Why not?” said Leukos.

“You said it yourself. She will only go to buy food and then return here to inhale more smoke.”

“That’s probably true,” said Leukos. “But that’s up to her. Would you rather she starve? At least this way she gets a chance to change.”

Zantheus was about to respond, but he refrained when Anthē said “Please, no arguing, let’s just get out of this place, we’re so close...” She was still shocked from having had the woman thrust her child at her. She tried to put it out of her mind, but she found that very difficult.

They moved on, pressing through the mounds of rubbish. It was not long before they came across another waif hooked on the fumes. This man was also about to inhale his latest breath of the smoke. He was clearly experienced, working up his breathing so that he was taking big, long lungfuls of air, and looking greedily into one of the columns of black smoke just in front of him. They could only look on in horror at the terrible sight of one of the addicts about to indulge his addiction. Save for Anthē, who, overcome with grief, spoke quietly to him.

“Please, don’t do it.”

The man must have heard her because he twitched visibly, though his eyes were not drawn away from the smoke. Startlingly, they heard a voice, though the man’s mouth did not move.

“Yes, please listen to her, Psuchē.”

Now they saw who had spoken. Another man moved into their sight. He had previously been obscured by the dark pillar of smoke. This man was clearly not an addict. He was middle aged and quite portly, as opposed to hideously thin, and he was dressed properly in sandals and a light brown poncho. His round, clean-shaven face shone with warmth towards them, but he did not address them yet. His attention was focused on ‘Psuchē’, to whom he spoke once more.

“You know this won’t do you any good. You’ll get the rush, but then you’ll feel worse afterwards. Come back with me.” Come back where? Who was this man, what was he doing here? “You can have a better life than this, you know you’re better than this.”

At this, the addict snapped momentarily and spoke, though it was more of a snarl, and he did not turn his head. “I’m not better than this, Krestotes, otherwise I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

‘Krestotes’ had an instant response. “But this is not who you really are, is it Psuchē?”

“Yes, yes this is, this is who I am, this who I want to be.” Psuchē’s words sounded like growls.

“Really?” Krestotes asked him. “Is it really?”

“If it isn’t, why do I keep doing this? I want the smoke, Krestotes. I don’t want to come back with you again, I want the smoke.”

“Not you don’t, not with who you really are. Who you really are doesn’t want the smoke. I know that. Come back with me and you can be healed.”

“I can’t!” Psuchē shook with anger. All the while his eyes were still fixed on the smoke. “I’ve damaged myself too much! I’ve wrecked myself beyond repair!”

“That’s not true. You can be healed. It’s happened to many others before. But that’s irrelevant. You know you can be healed, Psuchē. It will be painful and slow at first, but you can be healed.”

For a brief moment, it looked as though Psuchē was going to tear his eyes away from the smoke. He had started to sweat, maybe because of the heat, maybe because he was under enormous internal stress. For a moment his set, angry expression dropped and hope flickered across his face. But then the moment passed. He stuck his head in the smoke, breathed in, and then fell back, writhing, on to the floor.

“Come, my friends, you don’t want to see this,” Krestotes said to them sorrowfully.