Mobius

by Vincent Vale

  Orsteen moved to assist the girl, but Morion held a hand in front of his chest. Orsteen angrily pressed the hand away.

  “Why do you hesitate, Morion?”

  “Who are we to judge her situation?” said Morion. “For all we know, she’s a murderer serving her sentence. As far as I’m concerned, we have no business interfering. We’re foreigners, ignorant of the ways of this world.”

  “I agree with Orsteen,” I said. “She needs our help.”

  As we approached, the girl looked at us timidly. “Your generosity is a credit to all strangers.”

  “It’s truly nothing,” said Orsteen. “Have you been hurt in any way?”

  “Not at all, I’m fine. In fact, I’ve never been better.”

  As we untied the girl, three large metallic-mesh sacks suddenly fell from above, trapping us. I struggled to free myself from the sack. I heard cheers of triumph from all around. Moments later, a crushing blow took my consciousness.

  I woke up, no longer inside the metallic-mesh sack. A hood made of similar material was now pulled over my head. It had three holes in it—two for my eyes and one for my mouth. I tried to pull it off, but it was secured at my neck by a metal ring, clamped and padlocked.

  I peered through the holes and found myself imprisoned in a cage hanging from the ceiling of an exquisitely decorated dining room. Its walls were lined with a cherry-brown wainscoting, and the ceiling was opened to the stars by means of a large skylight. Beside my cage hung two others, containing Orsteen and Morion, who both wore matching hoods and seemed unconscious.

  Orsteen stirred. “I’ve been faking sleep so to assess our situation and our captors. The Masters of the house, as they’re called, are three fellows in ridiculously tall top hats. They’re currently refreshing themselves before the evening meal, which is being prepared by a lumbering oaf called Palook. Unfortunately, this is all I’ve learned. Why they’ve taken us captive, I don’t know.”

  In the corner of the room, I noticed four lifelike statues sitting in chairs holding stringed instruments at the ready. “They seem prepared to pluck the first notes of a great masterwork.”

  Orsteen nodded. “Bizarre, aren’t they? I’m still not sure if they’re real or wax.”

  “They’re a creepy quartet,” I said. “If they are real, they command a remarkable muscle control to maintain such a pose.”

  “They look sad and tortured,” said Orsteen.

  “Agreed.” I focused on their faces. “They have no eyes, only hollow spaces. And there are electronic implants at their temples.”

  The door leading to the kitchen swung open and the oaf Palook came lurching through. He set the dining table with fine porcelain plates, crystal goblets, clean linens, and an array of silverware.

  “We’re on an important mission,” I announced, watching Palook light a pair of candles. “Do you understand me?”

  Palook looked at me dumbly, blinked, and then, with clumsy footwork, went back to the kitchen. He promptly returned carrying three metal bowls, which he fit through feeding slots in the bars of our cages.

  “Butterbeans. Eat!” Palook grabbed a sharp piece of silverware from the dining table and poked Morion awake. “Eat!”

  Morion pulled frantically at his hood. “I’m being smothered!” He at last aligned the holes for his eyes and mouth. Once calm, he ate the bowl of butterbeans, stuffing handfuls of the gummy porridge through the hole of his hood and into his mouth.

  I pushed my bowl away defiantly. “I won’t eat your slop. I want answers!”

  The oaf Palook didn’t respond verbally, instead, he went to the far wall of the room, where a panel of switches was located. He pointed to each as if counting them, and then flipped one on.

  My cage conducted a powerful current of electricity, sending shocks through my body. “I’ll eat! No more! I’ll eat!”

  An hour passed and the Masters arrived for the evening meal dressed in fancy suits and tall top hats. They walked with a hobbling gait apparently typical for their race, given their bowed legs and underslung asses. They took their seats and the quartet of musicians came to life, plucking and strumming a serene melody.

  Morion clanged his empty metal bowl against his cage. “Is this how you greet strangers to your land? Let us go, you bastards!”

  “I apologize,” I said. “What my friend intended to say was that there must be a way to negotiate our freedom. You look like a civil group of gentleman, who—”

  “Silence!” exclaimed one of the men, holding up a hand. “You’ve broken etiquette by interrupting our evening meal.”

  I tried to further reason with the men, but the most offended of the three signaled Palook, who, standing by the panel of switches, administered punishment.

  Fearing further shocks, we remained quiet as Palook began serving the three Masters course after course of culinary delights.

  Five small courses were consumed before Palook rolled out a long cart carrying the final course, which was covered by a white cloth.

  “Main course is served,” said Palook. He pulled away the cloth with a sweeping flourish, making the presentation ever more dramatic.

  Upon an oversized platter lay the body of a man cooked to a golden-brown crisp. His chest cavity had been split open and filled with aromatic vegetables, roots, and spices.

  From the sight of the main course, I now knew why we were captured. “You plan to eat us? You’re animals!”

  One of the Masters pulled a crisp of skin from the carcass and ate it. “A misguided classification. We’re not animals, but simply people who enjoy the flavor and succulence of other people.”

  “I do admit,” declared Morion, “these bones of mine probably bear many delicious and tasty cutlets.”

  All in attendance waited, expecting Morion to beg for his life or give some such appeal, but Morion had come to the end of his announcement.

  Orsteen looked to Morion as if he’d lost his mind. “Morion’s not only delusional, he’s an idiot. We’re from a polluted land of many toxins. Our bodies have become tainted, and are probably poisonous. I doubt we’ll be appetizing.”

  The Master with the tallest of top hats disregarded Orsteen’s statement. “I commend your companion’s enthusiasm. It’s not often our food appreciates its situation. I promise that when the time comes, you’ll be prepared by Palook with the utmost care and expertise. Then, unlike your friend believes...” He gestured to me. “...you won’t be devoured in snaps and gulps as if we were animals. Rather, you’ll be relished and savored. Be proud of what you’ll become.”

  I scoffed. “If we’re privileged to be your meal, then why do you conceal our faces with these hoods?” I pointed to the main course. “Even after your victims are prepared and cooked, they still wear hoods over their heads. Are you afraid you’ll relate to them on some personal level, or do you not wish the faces of your food to haunt your dreams?”

  Just then, a girl in a fashionable gown strolled into the room.

  One of the Masters tipped his hat in greeting. “You’re late, Felia. The main course grows cold. We were just being entertained by the food, which has been sharing its insights in regard to our psyches.”

  Taking her seat, she loaded her plate with a large scoop of the stuffing that bloated the main course’s chest cavity. She then cut a generous portion of thigh meat.

  She was the same girl who had lured us into this dreadful situation. Despite her charming appearance, she was no less a monster than the Masters of the house.

  I looked at them scornfully. “Am I wrong to assume that this angel-eyed devil was once on your menu? Why wasn’t she allowed the privileged fate you now give us? Was she so innocent in appearance that, out of guilt, you allowed her to live? In my opinion, she’s suffered a fate far worse than digestion.”

  One of the Masters signaled Palook, who electrified my cage.

  The meal continued, with the four cannibals eating slowly upon the victim who’d lost his life for the epicurean psychosis of three madmen an
d a child.

  Over their meal, the Masters spoke of past hunts and plotted future hunts using new and innovative luring and trapping techniques. At one point, they paused and gathered around us, examining and prodding, discussing the best ways to prepare and garnish us.

  At the end of the meal, the four diners sat in silence, apparently intoxicated by their eating binge. A yellow tinge of oil stained the perimeters of their mouths and their bellies protruded so much that they appeared pregnant.

  Palook took the leftovers of the main course to the kitchen. I could see him through the open door as he removed the metallic-mesh hood and indulged on the head meat. It made me sick.

  As the days passed, we grew tired and depressed as our bodies grew fatter from the rich butterbean porridge. To diminish our spirits further, we were forced to shit and piss into buckets attached to the bottoms of our cages. It was a level of humiliation I’d never felt before.

  When the Masters of the house were not out hunting, they busied themselves by competing at a game called Demons of the Majestic Onslaught. I found it similar to chess. Its board was a large hexagon composed of many smaller hexagons. The two opponents each commanded a set of twenty figurines, all of unique character and power.

  With nothing else to do, I observed the game matches, eventually learning the rules and strategies. It proved to be my only source of entertainment.

  At night, when the household was at rest, we made our best efforts to escape. We tried to pick the locks of our cages, but were unsuccessful.

  I pled for help from the quartet of musicians who slept in their chairs: “I know you can’t see, but you can hear me. If you help us, we’ll lead you away from this awful place.” They didn’t respond. “Don’t my offers interest you? There’s more to this life than music and butterbeans!”

  “They’re zombies,” said Morion. “Those implants at their temples must be control devices.”

  “I think I’m getting through.” I continued coaxing the musicians. “There’s a fork on the floor. Bring it to me and I’ll pick our locks. In no time, you’ll be playing venues throughout this world and the next. Your music is too profound to be wasted on the ears of murderous monsters.”

  Eventually, I gave up for the night. I leaned back and gazed up through the skylight. I noticed the celestial phenomenon we’d been warned about during our travels along the deuterium pipeline.

  “Did you see that, Orsteen?”

  “See what? I’ve been busy unraveling the fabric of my shirt, which I plan to use as a grapple to capture the fork on the floor.”

  “The celestial phenomenon,” I said. “The one we were warned about. I believe it came alive for a moment.”

  “You’ve become stir crazy,” said Orsteen. “The fellow who warned us about it was only making excuses to lure us within his shack.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I swear it pulsed, becoming twice as bright. Then, like an amoeba, it consumed a cluster of stars. Doesn’t it look bigger? Morion, what of you? Did you see it?”

  Morion responded with snores as he slept soundly.

  I shook my head in wonder. “Maybe I’m having a reaction to the butterbeans. I do feel strange. Goodnight, Orsteen.”

  The next day, the Masters of the house trotted into the dining room. “We bring the three of you excellent news. You’ll soon be free.”

  “You’ve at last realized your evil ways?” said Orsteen.

  “You embrace my statement too liberally. You’ll be free from your cages, not from our bellies. We were successful in our morning hunt, giving us a surplus of food. Thus, the three of you will be prepared tomorrow morning.”

  Morion grabbed the bars of his cage and pulled back and forth, swinging the cage haphazardly about. “I curse you wretched souls with all the power of my spirit! There’s a shit-load of karma to be dealt upon you in the next life!”

  One of the Masters lifted a decorative walking cane and poked Morion’s stomach through the bars. “You’re a spicy one, aren’t you? I’ll have Palook prepare you accordingly.”

  Morion shrank back to avoid the poking and made no reply.

  The Masters left the room.

  Morion looked to me. “Why do you stare forth, as if entranced? You’re supposedly the smart one. It’s about time you devise our escape. Theron! Do you hear me?”

  “I... am...” I heard Morion’s statement but couldn’t reply. My head felt heavy and my brain burned.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Orsteen.

  “He’s broken under these conditions,” said Morion.

  “Don’t fret, Theron.” Orsteen pointed downward. “Palook hasn’t discovered the fork on the floor, and I’ve nearly completed my grapple of fabric.”

  My hearing diminished and Orsteen’s words became muted. I struggled to overcome the strange paralysis. It’s the evil incubating inside me. It’s the Fume taking control?

  The walls around me seemed to heave with each breath I took. The bars of my cage wiggled and bowed. Out of nowhere, another cage appeared next to mine. Allienora was in it, screaming and flailing. I wanted to save her, but I couldn’t move.

  It isn’t real, I thought. She isn’t there. I’m losing my mind.

  It was midday when two of the Masters came to the dining room for a game of Demons of the Majestic Onslaught. I still couldn’t move or speak. One of the Masters placed a key on the dining table. It was the key to our cages. It was our freedom. I focused on it.

  I can feel it in my mind. The cold metal. Its meager weight.

  Incredibly, the key moved in my direction. It slid slowly across the table and fell to the floor.

  The Master of the house quickly responded by snatching it up. He looked suspiciously around, attempting to locate the ghostly culprit who had knocked it to the floor.

  I emerged from my stupor, gaining full control of my faculties. Was I dreaming? Did I really force the key from the table with some tendril of thought?

  I grunted softly to gain Orsteen’s attention, making certain the Masters didn’t hear.

  “You’ve at last snapped out of it,” whispered Orsteen. “I thought we lost you.”

  “It’s begun.”

  “What’s begun?”

  Before responding, I thought about my condition. I moved my hand in front of my face. It moves by my will alone. This power is merely a side effect of the Fume’s energy in my mind. My thoughts are still my own. I shouldn’t tell them about my new ability.

  “Never mind,” I said.

  When no one was looking, I gave my full attention to the fork on the floor and attempted to summon the power to lift it off the ground and into my hands. The fork responded to my beckoning by moving only ten centimeters across the floor. I was filled with disappointment as I realized the weakness of my new telekinetic ability. Then it came to me.

  “I have a plan to escape, Orsteen. You must do as I say, when I say.”

  “Without question,” said Orsteen.

  I indicated a stray butterbean at the base of Orsteen’s cage. “When I signal you, throw that butterbean toward the lead musician in the quartet. Aim for his head.” I turned to Morion. “You do the same.”

  Morion searched his cage frantically. “I have no butterbeans! I’ve eaten them all!”

  Orsteen rolled his eyes and then handed Morion a butterbean through the bars of his cage. “Theron, we wait for your signal.”

  I watched as the Masters studied their game. I then signaled Orsteen and Morion. The butterbeans went flying. The lead musician, who was absorbed in the heavy notes of a complicated melody, became startled by the assault of butterbeans, causing his fingers to trip over the strings of his instrument, making a mess of the music.

  The Masters turned to the musicians in outrage. “What’s this dissonance that rattles our ears? If this is a prelude to your enfeeblement, you’ll all be playing your music to the flames of the oven.”

  While the Masters’ attention was drawn away from the game, I summoned the power to move a single
figurine on the game-board, and then waited.

  Once the musicians continued with their music, the Masters returned to their game, at which time one of them released a hideous cry.

  “Cheater! We’ve played this game for decades. How many times have you beaten me by the sleight of your hand?”

  “I’m speechless,” said the other Master, whose figurine had been moved to his advantage. “I can’t explain it.”

  “Come now, your stupefied reaction won’t pardon you! It only enhances your guilt!”

  The accused Master sat puzzled, wringing his hands. “Uh... well... we’ll start again and disregard this astonishing and unintentional event. It’s possible an earthquake shifted the piece—or maybe it was the collision of an insect.”

  “I’ve detected neither earthquake nor insect!” The deceived Master swept his forearm across the many figurines, scattering them across the table. “I’m done here!” he shouted, and then stormed from the room.

  I turned to the remaining Master, who stared at the toppled figurines.

  “Your thoughts spin in disarray for no reason,” I said. “You’ve fallen victim to a clever trick. May I continue?”

  The Master’s eyes widened. “Speak on. I’m listening.”

  “First, you were—and I’m sure you’ll agree—at an advantage before the piece was moved.”

  “Correct. I was at the top of my game.”

  “And then, when the musicians fumbled, your own figurine was moved. But why would you cheat? You had the advantage.”

  “You’ve hit the nail on the head. I certainly wouldn’t have. Please, continue.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I said. “Your companion himself moved the figurine. He was so confident of his own defeat that he framed and accused you of cheating before the game’s conclusion. Thus, the game was voided and he was able to escape defeat.”

  “A diabolical scheme! I may have never known!”

  I lowered my voice to intensify the weight of my words. “I’ve overheard their conversations when you’re not around. They talk as if you’re gullible and stupid.”