The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  “It’s not all the time, sir, and it’s only been a few days.”

  They entered into a room crowded with an assemblage of curious machines, most featuring metallic view scopes and slides. Andy took his seat.

  “Did anything trigger the first dizzying event? Any strange colors or bright lights?”

  “No sir. I’m not sure what set it off, I just woke up dizzy one morning—it comes and goes.”

  The doctor paused and gave him an appraising look.

  Please believe me.

  “Have you been seeing things that aren’t there? Anything strange at all? Small creatures that shouldn’t be there, perhaps?”

  “I saw my dad pull me away from cleaning my room this morning. You might want to get him back here.”

  The doctor scowled and leaned in closely. His voice crisp and constant. “None of that now. These are serious questions; I will not have my time wasted.” Andy felt a heavy hint of disapproval in the last few words, “Answer the question, son.”

  Andy met the doctor’s gaze.

  Andy wanted to tell the doctor everything, if it meant that he could leave. He wanted to tell about the mice, the paintings, the symbols, and the dark mist. Most of all, he wanted to tell the doctor what he saw inside those flaming eyes. He wanted to ask him what they planned on doing to Letty. But Andy knew, with a strange certainty, that it would mean the end for him and likely for his family too.

  He was afraid, but he shook his head no.

  “Look into that scope, please.”

  Grateful to look away, he stared into the scope and saw numbers and letters to the left and right.

  “Now we’ll go through a few of these,” he flipped one side to a different lens. “Which looks clearer?”

  Andy went through the tests, slide by slide pointing out which was clearer. He could tell that the doctor wasn’t pleased, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  “Enough—enough, young man.” The doctor switched the light in the machine off. “Look up here.”

  Andy stared as the doctor pointed to a chart of letters on the wall.

  “Read off the letters, top to bottom.”

  Andy sounded out the letters, one by one, all the way to the bottom line.

  “Your vision is perfect. What’s more, I think you know that your vision is perfect. Why have you put your parents through all of this?”

  The doctor stood up and found a metal tube, he pulled the end off and slid out what looked like a scroll.

  Andy barely registered this as he was surprised by the question. “What do you mean? I’m dizzy, you saw—”

  The doctor stopped Andy dead in his tracks by unfurling the scroll. “What do you see here?”

  Andy’s eyes shot to the center of the scroll and saw the symbol. The doctor stared hungrily as Andy’s face bent with horror.

  Before Andy could claim that nothing was there, the doctor spoke, “Don’t lie!”

  Andy’s head throbbed at the sight of the Infiniteye, he felt his eyes flexing, and then he saw the doctor clearly.

  His flesh was purple, and the light from his burning eyes shone across the room and washed everything in a violet red that pulsed like flames. Cords of muscled flesh, each tipped with a barbed claw, hung from the sides of his face. He stood there, inhumanly rigid, holding out the scroll, his muscles tense, and all of his focus directed at Andy’s eyes, at what they saw.

  There was a bang on the door and Andy felt himself blacking out. His vision lost focus and the last thing he recalled were the voices of his parents. They were screaming.

  Chapter 6

  Sentinel’s Watch

  Andy's eyes shot open and he took in a violent gasp of air. His hands reached out, grasping in every direction. They found purchase and he pulled himself up.

  “It's okay, sweetie.” It was his mother.

  He let out a pained sigh. “Thank God it's you.” Andy realized he was in the backseat of his family’s car.

  “Does your head hurt? You fell over in the office.”

  “Where's dad?” he gasped.

  “Inside, getting your prescription.”

  “What!” Andy reached for the car door. His mother held him back.

  “It's okay—he'll be right back.”

  “No! Let me go!”

  Andy saw his father coming to the car, and he stopped struggling.

  Taking the driver’s seat, his father seemed furious. “What the hell are carotenoids, and how are they supposed to help you see?” His father asked, slamming the door and then holding up a bottle of pills.

  Andy looked out the window and tried to focus. “We aren't at the optometrist's anymore?”

  His mother answered, “No. We had to drive to the pharmacy. You were in and out for a while there. The doctor said you would be fine, and you're back to normal now.” Her last few words sounded more like a question.

  Oblivious, his father was fuming, “Tetrachromacy. What a joke!”

  “What do you mean, dad?”

  “There's something wrong and they don't know what it is. You're falling over in the exam room—we're lucky you didn't get a concussion. Oh, but we can check back in two weeks! What are we supposed to do?”

  Andy was frightened by the desperation in his father's voice. His hands were clutching the steering wheel; his nails pressed into the leather.

  They were silent.

  Finally, his mother spoke, “The pills might help. Maybe he doesn’t need glasses after all. It might be a new medication; we should be grateful there’s an option.” She took the bottle from his father and inspected it. Smiling she said, “Oh, I’ve been taking these for years—see, it’s no big deal. You just need to be good about taking them every day.”

  His father visibly relaxed. “Do you have this tetrachroma—thing? You said they were for your brain.”

  “Well, things go a bit weird if I don’t take them, and I don’t know the name of the condition. I was prescribed the pills in my teens. I’ve taken them ever since and had no problems,” she said, hoping to encourage Andy.

  Andy, however, heard none of this. He shivered, thinking about what he saw back in the optometrist’s office. He was certain that he’d never take those pills, and then he remembered Letty.

  Looking out the window, Andy realized they would be passing the office again, on their way home. His heart twisted and leaped at once.

  “Did either of you see Letty?” he asked, masking the desperation in his voice.

  “Who?” His parents both asked at once, one annoyed, the other frantic for something to break the silence.

  “Letty! We spoke with her mother—”

  “Lysander! You will not raise your voice to us.” His father's shoulders tensed as he spoke.

  “No, Andy, we didn't see her,” his mother answered calmly, “but her father arrived right before—well.”

  Her father showed up. They were waiting to do something to her—waiting for him to arrive.

  Andy looked out the window and saw that the car Letty’s mother drove was still parked outside the office.

  Oh God, they're going to murder me. But I have to—this is my fault. She walked through the ink because of me, they took her because of me. Even if she acts like a bully, she isn’t really, and either way, she doesn’t deserve this.

  He wasn't sure what he could do, but he knew that he had to help Letty.

  Taking a few deep breaths as they drove past the office, he slowly unlocked the back door and released his seatbelt. Neither parent noticed. He pressed his fingers firmly against the door handle. He waited for a red light and then bolted from the car.

  Racing down the street, he shook with fear. He nearly tumbled over a passing family before catching a torrent of complaints from the parents.

  “Andy!” He heard his own parents yelling after him. Car horns were blaring and he knew they had stopped in the middle of the road. He wanted to yell at them, to reassure them that he’d be fine, but he refused to look back. He knew he might su
rrender if he looked back. He might forget all about what he saw and give in to common sense if he looked back.

  I was willing to deny it all this morning, but now another person's life is at stake—because of me—I have to do something. What if I am crazy? What if Letty’s fine? Well, I am crazy—but I can't take the chance, I have to know. I have to see her cruel face before I'll quit.

  He ran up to the office and found the front door locked. The lights were out, and the sign read: “Closed,” though it was barely past noon.

  Back door?

  Andy skirted around the side of the building and spotted a door, but his eyes also sensed the painful bright and morphing colors on the periphery. He didn't want to look at whatever it was.

  It might be important.

  He sighed and chanced a look. Across the alley and behind the optometrist's office, there was a large metal gate that closed off a concrete underpass. Waves of inky steam rose from between the metal links and from under the corrugated siding interlaced with the fence. Jagged markings glowed across the metal surface. They were the unfamiliar language he had seen on the sign out front.

  He heard a rumbling as he stepped closer to the gate. Guttural voices reverberated on the other side, but they sounded far away. He noticed the lock was hanging open on the latch; the gate would swing open if he gave it a nudge. He grabbed the latch.

  Stay calm.

  As he opened the gate, he felt a cold wind across his forehead. He saw a streamer of inky mist reaching down from the arch to swing at him.

  Andy recoiled, stumbling back until he slammed into the optometrist's office. A wave of the mist arced down and swung gently in front of the gate, as if waiting for him.

  Andy suffered with the feeling that he was surrendering. He was afraid to approach the gate, and instead focused on the back door to the office. He found it open, and hoped Letty was still inside.

  He quietly slipped in and let the door slowly creak shut behind.

  He allowed himself a moment to breathe, but in those few seconds he felt a flood of common sense, personified in the voices of everyone he knew. Everybody would be screaming about this; they would be calling him crazy.

  Only the mouse might understand, if he's even real.

  Andy looked around the back room and saw two handbags and a few jackets lying on a table.

  No. Please. Don't be—

  He stepped forward and opened one of the handbags. He pulled out the wallet and found an ID inside. He read the name, Lysette Van Arndt.

  “No—” he felt tears stinging his eyes. He wiped them away viciously.

  Ink or no Ink, I'm going in there.

  He gritted his teeth, walked back out the door, and was shocked to see a man locking the gate.

  “No! I've got to get in there!”

  Surprising himself, Andy rushed the man and grabbed for the keys.

  “Get lost, you little thief!” The man struggled with Andy for the keys before he finally lashed out with his fist.

  The impact sent Andy flying into the fence. His head buzzed with pain, making it difficult to open his eyes, but he kept his footing.

  “Back off now; you don’t want to know what I can do to you.”

  Andy lunged and shoved the man, who slipped on the slick alley floor and stumbled backwards.

  “Give me the keys!” Andy demanded.

  The man got to his feet and produced a switchblade from his pants pocket. The blade snapped open.

  Andy felt his eyes flex, and for a moment he was certain that the man was as purple fleshed and red eyed as Ropt had been.

  Andy bolted.

  He slammed headfirst into a pedestrian. He tumbled back onto his feet and kept going, wiping the tears away as he ran. He raced across busy streets and was nearly struck by a car before he stopped, exhausted. His legs refused to move any further. He looked back with a sense of dread, but there was no one in pursuit, only a few people walking on the sidewalk. One stopped to look at him, but Andy ignored her.

  I left them back there. But he was going to kill me. I can't help them if—

  More people were staring. He felt a tickle at his nose. Rubbing it, he saw blood on his fingers. Looking around, Andy realized that he had run to the border of a city park. He walked down a shaded path and found a water fountain. He drank and cleaned his face as well as he could. Unsure where to turn, he continued further into the park.

  I can't go back; they'll have people guarding the gate, and it's locked—and I might get stabbed. Maybe, if I get bolt cutters and come back tonight.

  He walked up and down the paths, wanting to cry out at the faces that passed. His nose had stopped bleeding, though it throbbed, but he refused to notice the pain.

  I can bleed tomorrow and I can sleep tomorrow.

  He saw a mouse hiding beneath a park bench.

  Sure.

  He ignored it and walked on.

  If I had money I could buy bolt cutters, but I can't go back to my parents. I haven't done anything to fix this! I've just—

  Andy saw a pulsing glow at the edge of his vision. He looked closer and saw the Infiniteye painted on a brick wall, supporting a rail overpass.

  Ha! There it is again!

  He kept walking until he saw a bush rustling. He looked inside and saw a score of mice piled together, tussling. A few were familiar. The white mouse with the red face was clawing at the burgundy mouse. Several others had formed up on both sides and looked ready to pile on. All at once, they noticed him peeking in on their shrub and stopped.

  “Don't let me interrupt. It's only my brain melting.” The mice stared, shock clear on their small, pointed faces. “Well, get back to it!”

  Disgusted, he walked away from the bush. A dozen paces later, Andy stopped and sighed. As absurd as it was, the mice were his only option.

  He sighed and turned back to the bush.

  Looking in at the mice, he said, “So what about the symbol on that wall back there? I’m pretty sure it means something.”

  The mice clamored again. The red face ran towards him and pulled on his pant leg, pointing to the rail bridge, while others tried to stop him.

  “Andy—” The red-faced mouse called his name, but was immediately silenced by a dozen paws clamping his mouth shut.

  “Hey, play nice.”

  They ignored him, and a mass of mice grabbed the one with the red face and swarmed deeper into the shrubbery.

  “Sure thing, guys. I've already heard you talk before, so there’s no use in pretending you can't.”

  Andy continued down the path towards a round, cobbled plaza ringed with benches. He saw a familiar bald head and large round face, which appraised him with a wary look. It was the man he had bumped into in the gallery, sitting on a bench, glaring in his direction.

  Andy felt uncomfortable. Then, as if unprompted, he remembered the painting. He saw the painting moments after bumping into this man.

  The Night Watch. Rembrandt was right the first time in the Windmill: Avoid eye physicians. The second painting—the second message said: The symbol guides our steps.

  Andy turned on his heel and headed back towards the bridge with the Infiniteye.

  Rembrandt hasn't led me astray yet. I should have listened to him in the first place.

  He found the symbol and followed the path beneath the bridge. Moments later, he spotted another symbol scrawled next to a heavy metal door.

  Andy grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed. He almost fell off balance when the door opened smooth and silently. Incredulous, he saw the hinges had been well greased, and, though large amounts of garbage littered the path ahead, the space just behind the door was clear.

  Andy closed the door behind him and headed down the brickwork service tunnel.

  I’m under the rails.

  The passage was dark and damp but he spotted the symbol again. It faintly lit the way with its quicksilver sheen.

  Andy paused at a slight sound. He heard angry voices somewhere up ahead.

&n
bsp; As he inched forward, the voices became clearer. He had the urge to turn back. The echo of their words was so grating, he felt goosebumps rise up his spine and arms, but he kept pushing forward.

  This is it, Andy. It doesn't get any crazier.

  “The boy isn't ready! He's too young!”

  “It doesn't matter how old he is. He sees! We know he sees!”

  “So he has a marginal gift, it doesn't mean his mind is capable of tolerating the full breadth of—”

  “It's too late to argue, he's in their sights now. We might have already lost one to your over-cautious stance. If we don't educate him now, he'll be at great risk every day of his life!”

  “If it’s not the purple, the Usurper will have his way!”

  Andy kept inching forward, careful of the empty cans and bottles.

  Are they talking about me?

  The voices were suddenly gone. Andy wondered if they had heard him. He froze and held his breath.

  While waiting, he realized how dark it was. He knew that he shouldn't be able to see, but tufts of lichen growing on the brick gave off a faint blue-green glow. The broken bottles and piles of old leaves looked as if they had been blown by gusts of wind into erratic waves like dunes of swirled sand. He sidestepped the debris, and pushed the leaves out of his way, with his feet, instead of crunching them.

  He had come to a turn in the path and was sure that the voices were just beyond. He peeked around the corner and saw his own eyes staring back. He nearly jumped.

  A mirror? Oh—look at me.

  About twenty feet up the hall, something reflective stood in his path. Even in the dim light he saw the bruise across the left side of his face. The mirror was a flat plane and, as he stared, it gave the impression of fluid glass, but he felt that what he was seeing must be impossible. His eyes tensed and he saw a sheer surface of brick, much like the rest of the wall.

  He blinked and tried to focus.

  My eyes are broken; they can’t decide what’s there.

  The wall seemed to meld between brickwork and waves of glass. He saw no sign of the mice.

  He advanced, alert for the slightest sound. He reached out and laid his palm against the wall. It felt vaguely warm, and responded like liquid smoke, swirling around his fingers.