Listen: twenty-nine short conversations

by KUBOA

  When I attained my room, I looked at my face in the mirror and was aghast at what was there. A rough, stubbled face, not mine yet mine. The fuzz on my chin was white—nothing like my characteristic thick beard. And it rubbed off easily—I ran my thumb around my jaw and watched it flake away. There was also something odd about my eyes—they seemed smaller, blacker.

  In addition, my clothing was a mess—small splatters of mud, ooze, and perhaps blood. And stuck to my shirt, like a postmodern painting, were feathery daubs, as if I had been lightly tarred and feathered. My thoughts went back to what Miles Markson had said. And I knew I had to see him—right away.

  I cleaned myself up and, avoiding contact with Erzsi or her father, I slipped out and walked briskly to Professor Markson’s. His cottage was dark—odd for mid-morning. I knocked tentatively and, when that produced no results, I rapped vigorously. After a considerable wait, Markson himself opened the door. He looked haggard.

  His jaw was set when he spoke. Come in, he said, grimly. He looked at me with concern as I passed into the parlor. I hoped you might come today, he said.

  We sat in the same highbacked chairs as last time. He fixed me with his gaze. My boy, he said, this is ghastly. What? I asked, in some alarm. He seemed almost angry with me.

  You know, don’t you? he continued. About Becca Lourdes? My expression told him that I did not. She’s dead, son. Seemingly punctured to death. Her face was almost unrecognizable.

  Horror stirred in my bowels. What kind of beast—I said. My entire body roiled—I wished to be detached from it. Somehow, this grisly business was connected to me.

  My God, Professor Markson said. You don’t know, do you? You really don’t know. Larry, he laid a consoling hand on my forearm. There is talk of a birdman at large—a murderous fowl! Larry, do you remember anything about last night?

  My head felt funny. I told him what I could.

  This blackout, he said. I fear the worst, son. I fear you are the beast. He sat back in his chair, his face drained of color. When I heard the news, he said, barely above a whisper, I knew. I knew, Larry. It was that damned hen that pecked you. Son, you are a werehen!

  I was physically ill. I had to remove myself to the facilities and evil bile spilled from me in hot streams. I felt like I had to urinate but I could not. I was sick, sick.

  I returned to Professor Markson—I was as weak as a strand of rain.

  Larry, he began. He had ruminated and, instantly, he was prepared for action. I think it would be best if you stayed here with me, he said. I have a guest room. Jun will fix it up for you. You must stay here where I can observe you—care for you—restrain you, if I must. He said this last phrase with particular fervor. And trimming your—eh, beak, may be in order.

  Erzsi, I peeped. I’ll send for her, son. Now, do you need to lie down? I allowed as to how I did and he summoned Jun. The kindly, old woman looked at me with great sympathy and led me to the guest room. After fixing me up with a small daybed, she departed. I collapsed again into a sleep of turbid dreams—blood, feathers, darkness, Schrecklichkeit.

  When I woke, it was early evening. I sat up feeling 100% better, durable in limb and trunk. Just then, the door opened and Erzsi stuck her head in. I thought I heard you stirring, she said. She was as lovely as peace after vicious battle. She came and laid her head on my chest—her hair smelled of hyacinths. I kissed her fresh mouth as if drinking from a sweet rill.

  Erzsi and Professor Markson had formulated a plan, one designed to keep me from harm, from further misdeeds. What was my state of mind at this time? Dr. Kluckatt (I did not correct Larry here), I tell you, it was a capharnaum, a place of foul misalignment and dread. It was slowly dawning on me what had occurred, what foul sea-change had taken place in my body. It was like a spell, and like a spell, it was inexplicable, at least by all the laws of logic that govern our everyday lives. That I had become some kind of between-species creature seemed fantastic, yet that was what I had to accept—however beyond my former reason! Was it possible for evil to be visited upon Man in the form of some kind of possessed animal? This I had to agree was not only the possibility but also the probability. It was panic to an existential degree unprecedented: what I had to escape was myself, the cage of my own tabernacle, or body. I put myself entirely into Markson’s self-assured hands, hands that he wrung all afternoon, while pacing up and down in his own parlor. Erzsi sat next to me, as if she were my once and future wife, her arm draped over my shoulder in the vein of a protective husbandry. She had earlier attempted a joke about my being henpecked. We both laughed with a cemetery cackle, a poor performance indeed.

  The problem we face, Prof. Markson said, is what to do when the transformation begins. My idea—if you will accept it, Larry—is to bind you. Physically prevent you from leaving your volary. Then, we will see if we can drain your body of the avinechemical toxin that has taken it over.

  I nodded meekly. I only wanted to return to my daybed. My feeling of physical well-being—so evident only an hour before—had dissipated. I felt aching, scratchy, antsy. My left leg felt scaly. There was a distinct throbbing in the area of my prostate—I feared cancer, or some formerly unknown pullet disease. When I lay back down, I iterated my concerns to the kindly professor. He looked thoughtful and then sat next to me on the edge of the bed. Son, he said. I believe you might be trying to lay an egg. An inadvertent cluck came from my throat. The professor smiled as if in pain. Just take it easy, he said.

  I was able to eat some leafy greens and some corn meal cakes that Jun fixed. Erzsi sat by me the whole long afternoon and early evening, sipping tea, smiling with her gentle eyes. Sleep, she said, brushing my hair off my forehead. Therefore, I did.

  This evening was dissimilar—what fresh horror was I to expect each night?—I awoke and was fully mindful of an acute and excruciating metamorphosis taking place. The autumnal moon lit the room as if with hoar. My limbs fairly screamed with pain—my mind flashed extreme white light. I felt as if I were being turned inside out. Then it was all over in a burst.

  My first reaction I felt through Erzsi. She stood so quickly she turned over the chair in which she was dozing. Her face was a rigor of alarm, her eyes wide like the hands of the dead. She let out an inadvertent gasp. It is one thing to understand what was about to happen—it was quite another to witness it in all its horrific beastliness.

  My limbs were bound with heavy fabric and tied to the bed. I thrashed only once, recognizing my helplessness instantly. A mirror, I said, my voice clicking, my tongue clapping the top of my jaw, which felt unnaturally distended. Erzsi stood by in frozen fear—she clearly did not know what the right thing to do was. Professor Markson entered then—he started much as Erzsi had, but quickly gathered himself. Remarkable, he muttered as he hurried toward me. Mirror!—I repeated.

  Markson nodded toward Erzsi, who found a hand mirror nearby. She passed it to Markson, who gripped my arm tightly. Larry—prepare yourself, he said, through grit teeth. He held the mirror a short distance from my face.

  It was as corrupt as I had anticipated—horrid, vile! I was a creature out of mythology, a manticore, a harpy, an opinicus! Theriomorph! Yet, in my revulsion was also the seed of calm—almost pride. I was venturing into uncharted waters—few humans knew what I knew. Few could even dream such a thing were possible. I was staring into the black eyes of a monstrous hen! And what eyes! Almost human though the center was as cinereous as pitch and there was no top lid. But, friend, the most astonishing, the most staggering change was in my jaw, which stood out a good four inches from my chin—and came to a sharp point! It was the dreadful melding of human and fowl—right there in my lower face! As rare as hen’s teeth! Ha! I had a teethéd beak!

  I lay back, my head teeming with ideas—some malevolent, some pitifully human. I was of two worlds and welcome in neither. Yet, I was powerful, and liberated! That I felt free though bound head and foot was evidence of my authority, which coursed through my distended body, down into my scaly toe
s. My transformation had ripped the clothing from me, so that under the covers I was all flesh and feather. The pressure in my crotch had disappeared and I reached down to discover something miraculous—my first egg! I lay in silent contentedness—my time was still to come. I would be free—to range about as I wished! To be top of the pecking order!

  Erzsi still stood, her back to the wall. Her expression had been swept clean—she was spent, torn between love and terror. Poor Erzsi—it is for her I still weep. She could not get past my vileness—could not—but I get ahead of myself.

  I spoke calmly to Markson and my beloved. I told them I was in pain but resigned to my new state, as a man who has died must resign himself to being incorporeal. I assured them that I was calm and in full possession of my faculties. I was peckish. I asked for water and some grain. Professor Markson instructed Jun to wait on me—to bring me whatever I needed. They had no idea what I needed. Who has seen inside the chicken’s heart?

  I sat up, sipped water, and swallowed some cereal. I smiled—though I had no idea what that could resemble. I tried to reach them through my eyes. All the time, see, I was calculating. I needed them to untie me. I needed to make it so.

  And, gradually, as the night wore on, they grew soothed and more laissez-faire. We talked of many things—never touching really on what we would do, what our next step might be. Occasionally, the professor’s brow wrinkled in dismay—he was intent on overthrowing this—this nightmare—this enchantment. He spoke of leeches, antitoxins. As one day bled into another, I stirred in my manacles and asked Markson if he could loosen them. He hesitated—glanced once at Erzsi who had been silent most of the evening—and then—blessed relief—he loosed the heavy material binding me. I thanked him and sat up straighter.

  Then—Dear Doctor—I tore my shackles! Uhuru! Liberty! I was possessed of foul power. I fairly erupted from the bed—I swatted Markson with one of my massive arms as he moved toward me. Erzsi screamed and backed against the door—the door through which I had to abscond. I looked at her with hungry attention. She was not, at that moment, my beloved Erzsi—no!—she was an impediment. I moved toward her and struck her once, twice, three times about the face and neck with my beak. She screeched once more as blood burst from her chin—then fell back against the wall in syncope. I stood for a moment over her prostrate form—her swan’s neck and lovely pallid breastbones were exposed where my actions had torn her garment. It was a queer pause—I was filled with concupiscence—yet I was a female chicken. Though the etymology is strange—I have learned since—the Old English word henn, which is akin to the OE hana, or rooster. At that moment, I felt like both, a hermaphrodite. I felt like the Cock of the Walk and I was torn—only momentarily!—only briefly!

  I escaped from the professor’s house and entered the argentine night of the sleeping town. All around me were new sounds—new sensations. The Carpathian night was alive! I heard the wings of the hawk overhead, the shy prattle of a female kestrel, the mumblings from the barnyard. I was stirred in my very blood—more alive than I had ever been. I had never felt so connected to the earth—or more unbound. I was beyond guilt or justice or sentiment. As I loped, my feet lifted from the ground—I could keep myself aloft for many seconds. I made good time—leaping through the deserted lanes and byways of G. The yellowy glim through closed blinds drew me, soft voices in the public houses. It was as if the town were under the spell—not I.

  I spent a long time utilizing my senses—enjoying the force of new sight—the vigor in my self-determination.

  After an hour or more flitting here and there—enjoying the obscurity, the singular aloneness—I was drawn to some refuse near a tavern, discarded bits and pieces of foodstuff. In them I found grain and greens, as fresh as need be. I ate heartily. It was then that I encountered her.

  She stepped out of the back door of the tavern. Presumably, she was a doxy, a Magdalene, finished for the night with the commerce of the flesh. She saw me there in the alley’s dim illumination, a figure out of nightmare. She gasped and attempted to vault back inside and close the door. I was too quick. I struck her suddenly with my great pennon, felling her there in the doorway. I quickly closed the door and stood over her, now my prey.

  Pity for her—she was still conscious—she looked at me with eyes that showed dread, awe, a horrid wonder. I brought my beastly avian face close to hers. I could feel her hot breath on my feathers—she was stunned into stillness.

  She put one hand to her collar—a gesture of primness that belied her trade. I pecked the back of that hand, striking deep into vein and bone. She sucked in her breath and pulled her hand to her mouth. I took the front of her dress in my beak and ripped it away. Her ample breasts spilled out into the air—I felt—what?—a pleasure beyond desire, a need.

  Now her fear was more focused—something incomprehensible was about to happen. I saw her breasts there before me—the sweet flesh of meretricious duty—and I wanted to mar them—to destroy beauty and craving and want. I pecked downward hard, time and time again, opening spouts of fresh blood from bosom and nipple. Her sweet, warm flesh was as tender as fresh bread. Now, she squirmed, trying to crawl away. Yet, still no sound emerged from her. I pulled her back by the material of her dress, opening her to further revilement. I pecked the soft flesh of her belly—lower! She then put a hand to the side of my head—an almost tender gesture!—and took a handful of feathers in her desperate grip—and tore! I struck her once—hard!—in her neck and in a flash she was still. Her body gave up her soul to Holy Judgment.

  In the distance, I heard a fieldfare, its plaintive nighttime tchack, tchack like a changeling’s squall. I was reminded of my Hungarian friend, who signed her letters: csòk csòk, that is, with kisses. In this case, they seemed to me kisses of death.

  I wandered now, drunk on murder. I stumbled; I was tired, bonedeep tired. I did not feel like flying—I only wanted sleep. Oblivion.

  Around a bend in the lane I heard voices, soused rowdies. My first impulse was to flee. Then my blood answered and I stood in the middle of the street, Ozymandias. They came around the bend, preceded by their loud revelry. They stopped as if pole-axed. Jesus, one of them said. There were four of them, substantial lads, workers or sportsmen. What in the name of all that is holy are you? one asked, emboldened by inebriate.

  I took one step toward them. They, as a group. stepped back.

  I recognized the group leader—I had that kind of instinct. The pecking order is a flimsy and mercurial thing unless you have a bird’s eye. I moved quickly toward him and pecked him once, sharply, in the middle of his forehead, right in his pineal gland, obliterating his inner perception and snuffing out his ruffian life.

  In the end, three of them were killed. The one who survived is responsible for my capture, although initially his description of the events met with a great deal of skepticism. How they tracked me back to Professor Markson’s is still a mystery to me. The next morning I woke up in the daybed in his guest room and there was Constable Stern with a set of manacles that would have held Houdini. Behind him Erzsi wept, inconsolable, and this still breaks my everloving heart. As I was led out, Miles Markson placed a warm hand on my shoulder and reassured me with his gentle ways. I spent two weeks in G—‘s fogda, awaiting my fate.

  It may seem strange now, but I did not again turn into a cockatrice while in captivity. I think, in retrospect, this may have been what they were waiting for. I do not know what held the bloody transformation in check. I only know that I sat in that fetid cell, a saddened man, a man who had lost the world, and possibly his own mortal soul.

  After two weeks they set me free. The charges were too fantastic. The district judge was queried and it was his opinion that the whole tale was too incredible, too unbelievable. This is how they settled on deportation. I never saw Erzsi again.

  They led me, shackled, to a train. At the airport, Constable Stern himself led me to the plane. Standing on the scarred and scoured tarmac, he looked at me as if I were Old Be
ndy himself. I hung my head and boarded.

  (Here, Larry stopped. He asked for some food and then fell into one of those instantaneous sleeps he is capable of—the sleep of the dead.)

  ***

  Is that all he told you? Is that the tale’s end?

  Not entirely. You know some of the details since his return to the States.

  Enlighten us.

  Of course. First, let us take care of the fee.

  The check has been cut. My assistant will present it to you right away.

  I’ll see it now, thank you.

  Joe?

  Thank you. Now.

  Larry began again the next morning. He had had an agitated night—the unburdening had awakened his own demons and he wrestled with them in his dreamland.

  Once stateside, Larry began over pastry and coffee (like a fool I offered him eggs, only to see his brow knit in repulsion and anger), once stateside, I returned to my home, miserable, shattered, feeble, a wafting smell. I started to say toothless—yet I had a practice still. I returned to work and, for a while, everything was fine. My patients missed me, they said, and I suppose I had missed them, the routine, the work itself.

  Then—it was one afternoon in November, a young woman came to me, a new patient. She was lovely, both blond and dark—I do not make it a habit to think of my patients in this way. But, there was something about her, about the way she carried herself, that was like a powerful drug. I knew immediately that I had to have this woman. It was the first emotion—the first mark of humanity—I had displayed since Erzsi. The young woman’s name was Syrie Cossen (originally Cosanzeana) and she was receptive to my unprofessional advances.

  That very evening we began to see each other. We were like two animals thrown together—we spent a large amount of time sniffing each other—circling, trying to ascertain what this was, what was happening. Syrie seemed wary of me—at first. Then, it all came out in the open the night of the blue moon.