Other Earths

by edited by Nick Gevers; Jay Lake

  The floors of the house were of packed dirt carpeted with straw mats, and the mats were filthy with fruit rinds, empty bottles, crumbs, magazines (porn and celebrity rags), and all manner of paper trash. Center-folds were taped to the walls. A bare, queen-sized mattress took up one end of the room; at the opposite end was a mildewed easy chair without legs and two card tables with folding chairs arranged beside them; a small TV-DVD player sat on one of the tables, DVDs scattered around it, and there was also a record player of the sort high school girls used to own in the sixties to play 45s. Sitting by the record player, holding a stack of 45s in her lap, was a slim, worn-looking Vietnamese woman of about thirty wearing a print smock. The man introduced her as Bian, but he didn’t bother to introduce himself. He wedged himself into the easy chair—it was a tight fit—and sighed expansively. The sigh seemed to enrich the sickening organic staleness that prevailed in the house, and I pictured the individual molecules of the scent as having the man’s pinkish coloration and blobby shape.

  “Want a beer?” He spoke to Bian in Vietnamese. “She’ll bring us a couple.”

  She went into the back room, a thin silver chain attached to her ankle slithering behind her, anchored to a stone half-buried in the floor. The man saw me staring at it and said, rather unnecessarily, “I didn’t keep her on a leash, the bitch would be gone.”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  Bian brought the beers and stationed herself once again by the record player—taped to the wall above her head, like a dream she was having, an airbrushed redhead with pendulous breasts gazed at a porn star’s erection delightedly and with a trace of wild surmise, as if it were just the bestest thing ever.

  My initial take on the fat man, that he might be the powerful Ur-Cradle, had waned. He was a gargantuan redneck idiot, and my astonishment at his presence, at having this sorry proof of what I had previously only supposed, was neutralized by his enslavement of Bian and his repellent physical condition. On the face of things, he was a step or three farther along the path to the true Cradle than I was, a distillation of the Cradle essence. I didn’t trust him, and I let my beer sit untasted. Yet at the same time I had a sympathetic reaction to him, as if I understood the deficits that had contributed to his character.

  I asked where he had gotten the beer, and he said, “Some of the boys hijacked supply barges to get here. Hell, with what’s on them barges, a man could survive for years. I been here must be four, five months and I hardly put a dent in it.”

  “By ‘the boys,’ you mean men like us? Thomas Cradles?”

  “Yeah.” He groped for something on the floor beside his chair, found it—a rag—and mopped sweat from his face. “Not all of them look like us. I guess their daddies slept with somebody different. But they all got the same name, least the ones I talked to did. Most push on through without stopping, they’re so damn eager to get into the tea forest.”

  “Apparently you weren’t that eager.”

  “Look at me.” He indicated his massive belly. “A man my size, I’m lucky I made it this far, what with the heat and all. I was about half dead when I got here. Took me a while to recover, and by the time I did, the urge wasn’t on me no more. That was strange, you know, ’cause I was flat-out desperate to get here. But hey, maybe the animal can’t use fat junkies. Anyhow, I figured me and Bian would squat a while and make a home for the boys. You know, give them a place to rest up, drink a few beers . . . get laid.” He shifted about in his chair, raising a dust. “Speaking of which, twenty bucks’ll buy you a ride on Bian. She might not look it, but she got a whole lot of move in that skinny ass.”

  Bian cast a forlorn glance my way.

  “I’ll pass,” I said. “What can you tell me about the tea forest?”

  “Probably nothing you don’t know. Some boys been coming back through lately, ones that didn’t make it all the way to wherever. They’re saying the animal don’t need us no more. Whatever use it had for us, it’s about over with . . . Least that’s the feeling they got.”

  “The animal?”

  “Man, you don’t know much, do you? The animal. The creature-feature. It’s painted on the wall outside. You telling me you never seen it before?”

  I told him what I had seen, the murals, the creature in my opium dream, and that I had sworn off drugs for fear of seeing it again.

  “Well, there’s your problem, dude,” he said, and gave a sodden laugh. “I mean, shit! How you expect to pierce the veil of Maya, you don’t use drugs? You sure you’re a Cradle? ’Cause from what I can make out, most of us stayed stoned the whole damn trip.”

  It was in my mind to tell him that if he was any example, most of us were serious fuck-ups; but instead I asked what he thought was going on.

  “ ’Pears we all see it a little different,” he said. “This one ol’ boy, he told me he figured what we saw wasn’t exactly what was happening. It was like a symbol or a . . . I don’t know. Something.”

  “A metaphor?”

  He didn’t appear familiar with the word, but he said, “Yeah . . . like that. Everyone I’ve talked to pretty much agrees the animal needs us to protect it from something.” His brow furrowed. “Those splinters you saw when you were high? I reckon they’re like these stick figures I saw. Every time I did up, I’d see them standing around parts of the animal, guarding it like. Fucking weird, man. Scared the shit out of me. But I kept on seeing them ’cause I couldn’t do without ol’ Aunt Hazel.”

  The reference eluded me.

  “Heroin,” he said. “I had a monster habit. First week after I kicked, it was like I caught the superflu.” He had a swallow of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now the next question you’re going to ask is, How come it chose us? Everybody’s got a theory. Some I’ve heard are fucking insane, but they all boil down to basically the same thing. Something about us Cradle boys is pure badass.”

  His prideful grin told me that he was satisfied with this explanation and would be unlikely to have anything more intelligent to say on the subject. “You said some of them came back? Are they still here?”

  He shook his head. “They couldn’t get shut of this place fast enough. If you’re after another opinion . . . way I hear it, some boys are still wandering around the fringe of the forest. They didn’t feel the urge strong enough, I guess. Or they were too weak and gave out. You could talk to them. The ones that come back used park boats, so getting to the forest ain’t nothing.”

  Bian said something in Vietnamese, and the man said, “She wants to know if you’re going to fuck her.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  He relayed this information to Bian, who appeared relieved. “You can always change your mind. Bian don’t care. She’s a regular scout . . . ain’t you, darling?” He reached out and chucked her under the chin. “You don’t know what you’re missing. She’s got a real educated pussy.” He settled back in the chair and gave me a canny look. “I bet you’re a writer.”

  Surprised, I said, “Yeah,” and asked how he knew.

  “I didn’t know. Us Cradles tend to be literary types more often than not. And seems like the boys who ain’t interested in Bian are mostly writers . . . though there’s been a couple like to wore her out. But what I was getting at, seeing how you’re a writer, maybe you can make sense of their scribbles. I got a whole bunch of their notebooks.”

  “You have their journals?”

  “Journals . . . notebooks. Whatever. I got a bunch. The boys that stop in, they figure they’re going to need food and water more than anything else. They buy provisions and leave their stuff for me to hold. If you want to check it out, it’s in the back room there.”

  It took him two tries to lever himself out of the chair. Going with a rolling, stiff-ankled walk, he preceded me into the room and pointed out the possessions of other Cradles scattered willy-nilly among crates of canned goods and stacks of bottled water and beer: discarded packs, clothing, notebooks, and the usual personal items. Copies of The Tea Fore
st could be seen poking out from this mess, as ubiquitous as Lonely Planet guides in a backpacker hotel. I squatted and began leafing through one of the notebooks. The handwriting was an approximation of my own, and the words . . . The notebooks were a potential gold mine, I realized. If this one were typical of the rest, I could crib dozens of stories from them, possibly a couple of novels. It struck me anew how odd all this was, to be seeking clues to a mystery by poring over journals that you yourself had written . . . or if not quite you, then those so close to you in flesh and spirit, they were more than brothers. Intending to make a comment along these lines, I half-turned to the fat man and caught a blow on the head that drove splinters of light into my eyes and sent me pitching forward on my stomach into a pile of clothing. If I lost consciousness, it was for a second or two, no more. Woozy, my face planted in a smelly T-shirt, I felt him patting down my pockets, pulling out my wallet, and heard his labored wheezing. My right hand was pinned beneath me, but I was able to slide my fingers down until I could grip the Colt and, when he flipped me onto my back, I aimed the gun at the blur of his torso—my vision had gone out of whack—and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. My finger was outside the trigger guard. He grabbed the barrel, tugging and jerking at the Colt, grunting with effort, dragging me about, while I hung on doggedly, trying to fit my finger into the guard.

  Everything moved slowly, as if I were trapped beneath the surface of a dream. I recall thinking what a dumb son of a bitch he was not to knock my arm aside and use his weight against me; and I had other thoughts as well, groggy, fearful thoughts, a dull wash of regrets and recriminations. And I realized I should have known from the disorderly state of the various Cradles’ possessions that the fat man was not holding them in safekeeping, that he had simply emptied their packs on the floor while going through them, and the men whose lives they represented were probably adrift in the canal . . . and then my finger slipped inside the guard. There was a blast of noise and heat and light, a searing pain in my hand, and two screams, one of them mine.

  My eyes squeezed shut, clutching my wrist; it was all I could do at first to manage the pain. I knew the Colt had exploded, and my sole concern was the extent of my injuries. Though it bled profusely, the wound seemed minor—the explosion had sliced a chunk out of the webbing of skin between my forefinger and thumb. My ears rang, but I soon became aware of a breathy, flutelike sound and glanced at the fat man. He lay sprawled among his victims’ dirty laundry, head and shoulders propped against a crate, staring at me or, more likely, at nothing, for his eyes did not track me when I came to a knee; he continued to stare at the same point in space, whimpering softly, his pinkish complexion undercut by a pasty tone. He, too, was clutching his wrist. His hand was a ruin, the fingers missing, except for a shred of the thumb. With its scorched stumps and flaps of skin, it resembled a strange tuber excavated from the red soil of his belly. His lower abdomen was a porridge of blood and flesh, glistening and shuddering with his shallow breaths—it appeared that swollen round mass was preparing to expel an even greater abomination from a dark red cavity in which were nested coils of intestine. I’d never seen anyone’s guts before, and though it was a horrid sight, the writer in me took time to record detail. Then his sphincter let go, and revulsion overwhelmed me.

  I staggered to my feet and spotted Bian frozen in the doorway, watching the fat man die with a look of consternation, as if she had no idea how to handle this new development. Dizzy, my head throbbing, I stepped over the fat man’s legs. I could do nothing for him; even had there been something, I wouldn’t have done it. Bian had retaken her chair in the front room and was fingering her 45s, the image of distraction. I sat opposite her, removed the first-aid kit from my pack, and cleaned my wound with alcohol. A thought occurred to me. I pulled out my English-Vietnamese dictionary and found the word for key.

  “Danh tu?” I said, pointing to her chain. I went through several variant pronunciations before she grasped my meaning. She said something in Vietnamese and mimed plucking something from a hip pocket.

  “Okay, I get.” She made a keep-cool gesture. “I get.”

  I bandaged my hand, and as I secured the bandage with tape, the fat man, emerging from the safe harbor of shock, began pleading for God’s help, babbling curses, lapsing now and again into a fuming noise. Bian selected a record, fitted it onto the spindle, and his outcries were buried beneath the strings and fauxpomp of “MacArthur Park.” The music started my head to pounding, but it was preferable to hearing the fat man groan.

  The sky had opened up, and rain was falling, a steady downpour that would last a while. I saw no reason to hang around. I repacked my rucksack and nodded to Bian, who responded in kind and gazed out the door, tapping a finger in time to the beat. As I walked down a weedy slope toward the park ranger’s shack, I could find in myself no hint of the profound emotion that was supposed to come with taking a life, with having violated this most sacrosanct and oft-breached of taboos, and I pondered the question of whether I would feel the same if I had killed a non-Cradle. I’d had a bond of sorts with the fat man, yet I had a minimal reaction to his death, as if the life I’d taken were mine by rights, thus negligible . . . though he might not be dead. Another song, “Nights In White Satin,” began to play, presumably to drown out his cries; yet I thought Bian might be unmindful of his condition and was simply luxuriating in the lush, syrupy music that she had taken refuge in during her months of enslavement. I marveled at the calmness she displayed upon exchanging captivity for freedom. Perhaps it was an Asian thing, a less narcotized appreciation of what Riel had known: Someone was always using you, and thus freedom and captivity were colors we applied to the basic human condition. Perhaps what was a clich’ in our culture bespoke a poignant truth in hers.

  Writers tend to romanticize the sordid. They like to depict a junkie’s world, say, as edgy, a scraped-to-the-bone existence that permits the soul of an artist to feel life in his marrow and allows him to peer into the abyss. Many of them believe, as did Rimbaud, or at least tout the belief, that derangement of the senses can lead one to experience the sublime; but for every Rimbaud there are countless millions whose senses have been deranged to purely loutish ends, and I am inclined to wonder if le poete maudit achieved what he did in spite of drugs and debauchery, not because of them. Whatever the case, I was convinced, thanks in part to the example set by my gargantuan pod brother, that the sordid was merely sordid. I might be disagreeable and sarcastic, but my efforts to bring forth my inner Cradle had been pretty feeble: kinky sex and a smattering of mean-spirited thoughts. Those were minor flaws compared to murder and enslavement. If the trait for which the “animal” needed us had anything to do with our innate repulsiveness, that might explain why I felt its call less profoundly than the others.

  It was midafternoon when I set out for the tea forest in a motor launch left by (if the fat man were to be believed) one or another returning Cradle, with the rain falling hard, drenching my clothes, and the sky as dark as dusk. Rain pattered on the launch, hissed in the reeds, and had driven to roost the birds that—so my guidebook attested—normally stalked the wetlands. I followed a meandering watercourse through marshes toward a dark jumbled line in the distance. My head was bothering me. I felt cloudy, vague, gripped by a morose detachment, and assumed I had suffered a mild concussion. Images of Kim, of Lucy and Riel (most of them erotic in nature), were swapped about in my head, as were concerns about the new novel, about my health, about what would happen now that the end of the journey was at hand, and a belated worry that Bian would report me for killing her captor. However, as I drew near the forest, a feeling of glory swept over me. I was on the brink of doing something noble and essential and demanding self-sacrifice. The feeling seemed to come from outside myself, as if—like mist—it surrounded the forest in drifts through which I was passing, emerging now and again, returning to my confused state.

  At the verge of the forest, I cut the motor and glided in, catching hold of a trunk to stop myself. The
melaleuca tea trees (there must have been thousands, their lovely fan-shaped crowns thick with leaves, extending as far as the eye could see) were between twenty and thirty feet high, and I estimated the depth of the water to be about four feet, lapping gently at the trunks. They cast an ashen shade and formed a canopy that shielded me from the worst of the rain. A smell of decomposition fouled the air—I wrapped a T-shirt about the lower half of my face to reduce the stench. Peering through the gloom, I spotted other boats, all empty, and bodies floating here and there, bulking up from the dark gray water, their shirts ballooned taut with gasses. The trees segmented my view, offering avenues of sight that were in every direction more or less the same, as if I were trapped in some sort of prison maze.

  I restarted the motor and had gone approximately two hundred yards into the forest when I noticed a thinning of the trees ahead and a paling of the light that might signal a clearing; but I could not discern its extent or anything else about it. The bodies that islanded the water near the boundary of the forest were absent here, and this gave me; pause. I cut the engine again and surveyed the area, I could discern no particular menace, yet I had an apprehension of menace and reacted to every sound, jerking my head this way and that. Unable to shake the feeling, I decided a retreat was in order. I swung the boat around and was about to restart the engine, when I spotted a gaunt, bearded man sitting in the crotch of a tree.

  At first I wasn’t sure the figure was not a deformity of the wood, for his hair and clothing were as gray as the bark of the tree, and his skin, too, held a grayish cast; but then he lifted his hand in a feeble salute. He was lashed in place by an intricately knotted system of rags that allowed him a limited range of motion. His features were those of a Cradle, yet whereas the Cradles I had met with previously were of the same approximate age as me, he appeared older, though this might have been the result of ill usage. “How’s it going?” he asked. His voice, too, was feeble, a scratchy croak. I asked why he had lashed himself to the tree.