The Python of Caspia

by Michael Green

  Andy laughed at himself for a moment. His skepticism satisfied, he climbed the stepladder again and continued reading. He opened his sketch pad to a blank page and transcribed the message. After a few minutes, he felt his focus slipping, but he kept on.

  ‘I was deployed by the SSB in Anatolia before the war broke out. My mission took me to the mountains of the Caucuses and the lands of the Armenian peoples. During my travels I endeavored to appear as a native, but wherever I went the locals found me out. Though, to my surprise, I was never turned in to the Ottoman garrisons. Far from it, I was often spirited away and fed dark leaved plants and vegetables. On this point they wouldn’t relent. I was eventually told by a child that I matched the description of a local legend. Specifically, it had something to do with my eyes. In another town, I was told that my eyes were a special color. At this I am still perplexed, as I recall my eyes to have been green and nothing else my whole life, but then I was given a mirror, and lo, my eyes were indeed violet. Though, after heavy consumption of the prescribed foods, I was shocked to see them returned to their original state—’

  This sounds familiar.

  ‘Please, reader, you will doubt my story, and indeed, it is worth the greatest doubt, but step aside from my canvas. Take a moment and observe. Does anyone else notice the immense oddity of this work like you did? No, they will walk right past it. If, on the off chance someone does notice it, endeavor cautiously to make friends with this person, it may be a trick, but finding a companion might be worth the risk.’

  Andy skipped ahead.

  ‘I was escorted by the mice to a city called Degoskirke, an absolute madhouse that gave me a migraine the moment we passed through the gates, before even. After some time there, I suspected the population to be in the many hundred thousands, though my faculties were not about me. On reflection, however, I must add that if one considers the number of fantastic races, the population inflates to a few million residents, at least.’

  Degoskirke? I’ve heard of it. I wonder why the mice took him there.

  ‘I learned quickly that the multitude of factions there saw me as more of a political prop than anything else. Yes, the rather arcane Order Occidentalis did indeed train me, and the Argument is handier than an automatic pistol, but I barely escaped the opposition party, the so-called Vychy. They ambushed us, treacherously disguised as friendly mice.’

  Andy stopped reading for a moment. I know about the Vychy too, they are mice who want their people to stop helping seers. The bit about being a political tool—this might have happened to me. They threatened execution too.

  ‘A friendly face told me to avoid artifacts owned by one, Usurper. My attempt to learn more was dashed by a pair of guards noticing us.’

  A rush of wind whipped through the trees, causing Andy to grab hold of the tree for a moment, in fear of the ladder tipping.

  The wind abated and Andy continued.

  ‘Luckily, I was helped out of the city by a type of abomination they term an ychorite. I spent who knows how long on an exceptionally unseaworthy corvette. I recall us sailing through a peculiar portal in the sea, and, once on the other side, the spectacular colored ceiling was gone. No sky, that you or I would recognize, appeared to replace it. We were somewhere else; another part of the scape was all I could glean before we tied to a port as rickety as our vessel. At the ychorite’s prompting, I went ashore and found my own people in a wild encampment called Delta’s Drift. More about the city will appear on my next work, as I seem short of canvas. Indulge me in one final word of warning please: If you do follow the symbols, I implore you to take major cautions in the underworlds, or so-called Netherscapes. Even our supposed allies are not to be completely trusted—’

  Andy shook his head, struck by unnervingly suspicious feelings of the mice.

  I also met a helpful ychorite, Martin, but I’ve never heard of Delta’s Drift. What does he mean when he says he found his ‘own people’ there?

  Andy paused to catch up his transcription, but he nearly tipped over the stepladder when he heard his wheeled chair move.

  There was an indentation in the grass next to his sidewalk.

  Andy leaped from the ladder and rolled on the ground, still clutching his sketchpad. He saw the invisible figure leave heavy footprints as it came for him.

  “I need to finish reading that!”

  Andy threw his sketchpad away and stepped back.

  Paint!

  A torrent of orange paint splashed through the air, covering the figure, sidewalk, and chair, though gratefully missing the painting. The same bladed body stood there facing him.

  Andy raised his hand.

  Sharpened log.

  A massive, pointed log appeared and floated in the air above.

  Andy moved his hand slightly and saw that the log twitched, as if in tune with him.

  Like Pythia was trying to do on the platform.

  Andy reared back with his arm and let it fly.

  The figure shot into the air, and even stood on the log for a split-second, before it rolled to the ground and lashed out with its bladed fists.

  Andy leaned back, but its reach was too great, and he felt the claws rake his cheek. He screamed with the shock.

  His hands and feet struggled for purchase, but Andy managed to roll to his feet and run.

  My sketchpad! I can’t leave it!

  Andy stopped, and saw the figure likewise pause to consider his sketchpad.

  “No you don’t!”

  Andy motioned with his hands, and the floor beneath the figure pulled away. It fell into the pit and Andy covered the hole by motioning for the land nearby to slump over and collapse into the space.

  He ran and grabbed his sketchpad, all the while, his eyes stuck to the upturned earth.

  As he ran, he saw the bladed hand reach up from beneath the ground. Shaking, Andy looked away. He passed a painting and then another. Both were covered in writing.

  He tried to force himself to stop, and finally at the third painting he did.

  Is this German or Dutch writing again? German has the two little dots above vowels, right?

  He barely had a second to consider the work, a naval scene, before he copied the quicksilver letters. They were written over the sails of the ships. He tried to focus, but found himself looking around and listening every few seconds. He knew it was still out there.

  His hands shook and he erased several mistakes. Ready to leave, he realized that he had lost his camera in his tussle to escape.

  Damn! I’m going to miss so much!

  He created another camera, smaller this time, and snapped a photo before rushing off. Looking for his next target, he saw there were canvases hanging from trees in every direction. There were dozens, possibly hundreds. He could never see them all.

  That thing will climb out of the hole and kill me.

  Andy looked over his shoulder for signs of the figure.

  It’s out there somewhere; it won’t stop. Andy struggled with the urge to run. I need to keep trying.

  He picked a painting at random and charged towards it.

  “There you are!” A female voice spoke to him from behind.

  He stopped dead and turned around. The trees and all the world blurred. The borders between all he saw stretched out indefinitely as his body took ages to finish turning. When it finally did, everything was different, but somehow it all made sense.

  His sense of urgency confused him for a moment. He felt his heart beating like he was being chased.

  “We’re going to be late,” Pythia snapped, taking his hand and leading him down the platform.

  A loud whistle shocked him and he turned to see the locomotive start rolling away.

  Oh, right—wait.

  “Late for what?” He asked.

  “Lord, you can’t go ten seconds reading that paper or you’ll forget everything,” she laughed and snatched the newspaper from his other hand, before tossing it into a bin. “Here,” she said, passing him a pair of tickets.
“I still can’t believe you obliged my terrible caprice and actually bought us tickets,” her smile wilted, “yet, it is the third showing; there won’t even be a red carpet—”

  He ignored the nagging, as his head buzzed. He looked at the tickets, they were for a performance of the latest Puccini.

  I hate the opera.

  Walking through the station, he spotted a curious canvas hanging in the lobby. He stopped and stared. The painting featured a man on his knees tearing at his hair. Mice emerged from piles of clothes strewn around the floor of what looked to be a common tavern.

  “Just a moment,” he said, fumbling around in his coat pocket.

  Pythia put her hands on her hips and waited impatiently.

  He found his little notebook and a pencil.

  “I need to write this out—just a moment, please.”

  He focused on the glowing letters painted on the floorboards at the bottom right of the composition.

  ‘They were once us.’

  He wrote down the short message and looked at the characters in the composition. The mice were all unique. The artist took care to capture each face, and though, despite their surface inhumanity, their reactions underscored their individuality.

  I think I knew a mouse like them. Titus. And another, Tap—Tap tails.

  He paused, startled by shattering glass from behind. Somewhere in the station a scuffle was breaking out.

  Pythia grasped his arm with notable strength and tugged him along. “We have to go now,” she said.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw figures fighting on the platform.

  “Is that blood?”

  “Whatever has gotten into you?” She laughed and smacked his hand away. “It’s just a little wine.”

  He looked, and felt the world stretch again, the burning smell and rumbling of the trains gave way to the soft rush of water, and the tart smell of freshly corked wine. He was sitting in a boat.

  Startled, he got to his feet, and immediately felt the boat begin to tip.

  “Get back down, you idiot! You’ll ruin my hair,” she yelped, “and you’ve spilled another one!”

  “Sorry—sorry.” He sat back down and looked for a cloth to clean up the mess.

  “It’s fine, let me,” she said, pulling a napkin from her basket.

  He sat there, his face red, while she cleaned up the mess.

  “At least it’s a pleasant day,” he remarked, looking around the riverside.

  “It is absolutely glorious out,” she said with some effort, as she scrubbed away at the small puddle of wine.

  “Weren’t we supposed to go to the opera sometime soon?” He asked, as an odd memory rose in his mind.

  “You despise the opera, and you just took me a few weeks ago. I wouldn’t dream of putting you through it again, at least not until next season.”

  He cracked a smile at that, and let his concern slip away.

  “Dearest?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Does something seem familiar about all this? Anything… about me?”

  He smiled at the bobbing reeds and then at her. “I suppose it does seem rather familiar.”

  Up ahead at the river’s bend he saw an intriguing sparkle coming off a piece of statuary.

  “Look at that,” he pointed, leaning forward.

  She rolled her eyes and sighed.

  “What do you suppose it is?” he asked.

  Wringing out the spilled wine into the river, she paused for a moment and looked. “A statue. It probably belongs to the Yeolends. This is their wood after all.”

  “Really?” He said, still intrigued by the shimmering colors. “What makes it shine like that?”

  She paused again, clearly annoyed, and gave the statue a considering glance. A moment later her brow rose and she whispered, “You don’t need any more wine.”

  “What? Don’t you see it?”

  “Well, I suppose it is somewhat shiny,” she said, not wanting to press the issue.

  What’s wrong with her? Somewhat shiny? It’s like sunset on water, or mercury under a spotlight.

  He readied the oars and rowed closer.

  “Oh, you are such a romantic, always mad about some piece of art or another. I suppose I should be grateful that it isn’t other women,” she said, spreading cuts of meat and vegetables onto a pair of plates.

  “Yes, yes,” he said noncommittally as he tied the boat to a small dock not far from the statue, “I’ll just be a moment.”

  “Our charming lunch is almost ready, so please rush back.”

  He stepped off the boat and onto the creaky dock, poking about in his pockets as he went.

  There it is.

  He pulled free his notepad and flipped past all the pages full of mystifying sketches, and one long, written entry, to an empty page.

  Wonderful.

  The statue featured a brazen man caught in a struggle with a tentacled beast of the sea. The man held the beast by its throat, though he was draped in the constricting fleshy tentacles, which looked like they would subdue him by force of weight alone.

  As his eyes focused, he saw changing color. There was a hint of silver over the man, and purple over the beast. Every scale had a figure drawn on it, and they hurt his eyes to see. The man was likewise ringed in the tightest bands of script, the letters so small, he could barely recognize that they were letters.

  I’d need a magnifying glass to read it.

  He stepped back and saw a brass plaque on the stone plinth beneath the statue, the artist’s name was there.

  “Come now, the food will go bad if you don’t hurry,” Pythia complained.

  “Start without me, it’ll just be a moment.”

  He made a quick sketch of the statue and wrote down the artist’s name.

  I must look into Lord Leighton, maybe he’s still alive. Either way, I must come back.

  “Who owns this land again?” he asked.

  “I’ll not answer until you get back in the boat,” she whined, waving a full glass of wine.

  “Fine,” he put his notebook down and untied the boat before stepping on.

  “Here darling, eat these,” She said, holding up a bunch of grapes, “they should improve your mood.”

  He took a few and popped them into his mouth, his knuckle brushed against his mustache as he did so. The feeling was so alien that he put the last grape down and investigated his face.

  Mustache? And a beard! When did that happen?

  Pythia saw the look on his face.

  He felt his ears pop and the back of his head hit soft ground. The world around him swirled as he blinked. The tinkling of water mixed and then gave way to bursts of schoolyard laughter.

  “Hahahah! You got him in the face!”

  He felt a hand slap his cheek a few times. “Hey buddy, you okay?”

  Several other voices laughed and conversed light-heartedly. One said, “A soccer ball can’t knock someone out—can it?”

  “Sure it can. Just last week—”

  Andy stopped paying attention and opened his eyes. He saw Dean.

  “Hey man, are you with us?” Dean asked.

  His head was spinning, but he wasn’t in any pain. “I’m fine, just help me up,” he said.

  Dean offered a hand and helped him to his feet.

  “That hit really took it out of me. I’d swear I was just in a boat, or maybe at a train station,” Andy’s face twisted with apprehension.

  “Just walk it off, Andy. I’m sure you’ll be fine in a minute,” Dean said.

  “Stop talking, there’s only a minute left!” Letty yelled.

  A whistle blew and the ball was in play again.

  He tried to keep track of what was going on, but before he could figure out what position he was supposed to be playing, the whistle blew again and the game was over.

  “What’s going on with you today?” Letty asked, as Andy walked with Dean towards the locker rooms.

  “Come on,” Dean complained, “he got hit
in the face. You saw that kick.”

  She laughed dismissively and headed towards the girl’s side with her friends.

  “How have you been, Dean? It feels like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Jeez man, you might want to see the nurse.” Dean stopped him before continuing, “Here, follow this finger,” Dean tried to test his vision, “how many fingers do you see?”

  Andy pushed past and continued to the locker room. “I’m fine; I just need lunch.”

  In the locker room he stood and stared at the combination lock on his locker.

  Spin twice to the right—then stop at nine. But what next?

  He fiddled with it, sure of failure, but was surprised when it popped open.

  Muscle memory, I guess.

  He changed into a trim, black button-down and crisp blue jeans, he instinctively tucked the shirt in and then tied his shoe laces.

  Stepping outside, he found Dean pretending not to stare at the cheer squad, who were having lunch practice on the field outside the gym.

  “They let the new girl onto second string,” Dean said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen her.” Dean grinned.

  He looked over at the girls. They were waving their pom-poms in various patterns.

  “She’s the one with, um, what do you call that color? Auburn? Yeah, that’s it, auburn hair.”

  It only took a moment to spot her.

  There she is. Tall and trim, even more so than the rest of the squad.

  “Have you ever seen hair like that?” Dean asked dreamily.

  He struggled to not burst out laughing. “What happened to you? The hormones finally take over?”

  “Tell me that she doesn’t have the best hair out there,” Dean challenged him.

  Sure, why not?

  Gawking wryly, he looked from girl to girl. None had bad hair, as far as he could judge, but the new girl’s hair was radiant. Her light curls bounced around one another in a way that was almost hypnotizing in the sunlight.