Fearful Symmetry

by Francis Gideon

  Otto kicked his feet back up on the table. “Are you sure?”

  “Um. Well. Can this be a trick question?”

  “I don’t know. Can it?”

  “Ugh. You fucking bastard.” Dryden slammed the table, knocking over a small tin cup that held cream for tea. Dryden’s nerves felt like a trip wire. Words suddenly came rushing forward that he could no longer hold back. “Fuck you and your weight of smoke. This is ridiculous. I don’t deserve this. You have to let me go.”

  “No,” Otto said simply. “No, I don’t have to let you go. Not until you take this seriously.”

  “But I don’t deserve this.”

  “No one ever really does. This isn’t personal, Dryden. You may want to think it is, but these are just the rules. This is the way things exist here, and no, you or anyone else may not deserve what happens to you. But it still happens to you. You can’t ignore that. So now you need to reason with it.” Otto picked up the small dish of cream and then mopped up what was spilled with a dirty handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. Dryden’s stomach churned, recognizing the fabric from the gray bin earlier. “Now. Are you going to take this seriously?”

  Dryden was quiet. His eyes darted around the room, unfocused.

  “You haven’t answered me.”

  “I know. I’m thinking. I… still don’t think you can measure smoke.”

  “Good. Is that your final answer? That this is all a trick?”

  Dryden paused. He didn’t like the way Otto tilted his head, the glint in his eyes, or the smile on his face. Otto was a predator, and anytime he was happy, it meant he got his prey. Dryden rubbed his hands over his thighs, struggling to disentangle the question. Could it be a trick? He wished he could consult with Emmons. He wished for so many things he didn’t have. But maybe he could actually solve this one on his own. Maybe that was why Emmons couldn’t remember the final answer to the question—because the question itself had been faulty, and there was no answer at all. Dryden felt his confidence surge. This had to be it.

  “Yes. That’s it. You can’t measure smoke. It’s a trick question.”

  Otto’s grin grew wider. And Dryden knew he had done wrong.

  “Sorry, that is incorrect. There is a way to measure smoke. Until you figure it out, you best be careful. You have no more room left to bargain. Three answers wrong. The next one has to be right, or else you’re all mine.”

  Dryden wanted to weep. He wanted to break down and cry for days on end. What was the weight of tears? He could answer that. He thought of the way rivers ebbed and flowed; how the earth soaked up puddles after rainstorms and how whatever was left in puddles was evaporated into the air. All water was made into clouds, only to come down as rain again. Could my tears be a part of the clouds, too? Dryden wondered. It was all a cycle, all an endless parade. Remembering this, he was sure now that Otto was telling the truth. Dryden could see the water cycle, and understood that it had weight. But how can I get the weight of smoke onto a scale? How can I measure what I cannot hold—even if I can see it?

  Otto got up from the table. He picked up the plates from breakfast but left the now cold mug of tea in front of Dryden.

  “When you have figured out the answer, I want you to show me the weight using this scale.” He moved over to the same desk he pulled out the hourglass with blue sand from and retrieved an ornate and almost blindingly golden scale. Small flecks of light—diamonds, maybe—were set against the gold middle of the scale and along each side. When the light hit each mark, it reminded Dryden of stars. Like Libra, he thought, hanging balance in the sky. Dryden’s eyes were wide, taking it all in.

  “This is not a trick scale. You can test it yourself—it works. It holds weight and gives the correct reading.” To demonstrate his point, Otto picked up a lemon from the fruit basket and dropped it onto the left side of the scale. The dial moved and numbers were displayed. Otto removed the fruit again, adjusted the second side of the scale to the first numbers he received, then placed the fruit down again. “See? All the same. This will give an accurate reading each time. Forwards or backwards, left to right, this scale is the one thing in this world I can depend on to tell me the truth.”

  Otto grinned. A large, green leaf was still stuck in his teeth. Dryden turned away from his stare and focused on the lemons in the dish.

  “Well, I suppose that’s all I have to say. It was a nice visit, Dryden. Wish we could have started off on a better foot.” Otto retrieved his quiver of arrows and then began to put wrapped bread from the pantry into his satchel. “I’ll be back in three days.”

  “You’re leaving me for all this time? What if I want you here sooner than that?”

  “Even if you did have an answer for me, do you really want to rush the last days here?”

  Dryden swallowed. The connotations were clear in Otto’s voice. Do you want to rush the last days alive? Because you will not answer my final question. You will not solve this.

  Not alone, Dryden told himself. He knew he couldn’t solve this riddle alone. But that was fine, because sometimes, everyone needed help. He drew his legs up on the chair by the table, and held his body close to him as he glanced back at the hourglass behind him.

  “That’s fine. I can stay here. I’ll see you at dawn in three days. I’ll have the answer by then.”

  Otto paused, his arms akimbo on his hips. He examined Dryden with the same heavy scrutiny as in the bedroom. Dryden felt the phantom lips from before over his mouth and willed the sensation away.

  “Tell you what. I’ll hunt this afternoon, and I’ll bring my carcass back here instead of where I usually am. If you have the answer by then, tell me. But if you don’t—then wait. Take the final two days and use them as much as you can. Do some experiments.” Otto moved his hands in the air dismissively toward the oven, stove, candles, and small bundles of dried herbs that were often burned in ceremonies. When he gestured toward the scale, he lingered there the longest. “Use what you can. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Dryden thought of Emmons, who probably wouldn’t risk coming close to the house in daylight hours. If Otto came back with food, then left by dusk for two days, Dryden and Emmons would know they could be alone together. They could solve the riddle without Otto’s prying eyes. Dryden nodded, now determined. “I like that plan.”

  “Good. Is it a deal?”

  Dryden’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like the thought of walking into yet another deal with a man who had him trapped. But he nodded along, figuring, what else could he do?

  “Good, good.” Otto swung his satchel over his back, then took a few steps forward to Dryden at the table. With a stiff embrace, Otto ran his fingers through Dryden’s hair and over the skin where Emmons’s hands had been the night before. Otto ended at the base of Dryden’s back, before pressing his lips against Dryden’s nape.

  “I’m excited for our meeting, Dryden. This way you get to have a nice dinner with what I catch—and I get what I always wanted.” Otto murmured a soft laugh. “Some company.”

  OTTO’S QUIET threat lingered throughout the afternoon. The only way Dryden could rid himself of the feel of his hands and the memory of them in bed together was to clean the entire cabin. He organized and reorganized the fruit on the table, the dried preserves in the pantry, and the books on the shelves. He read in between bursts of cleaning and sweeping, and racked his brain for solutions to the riddle. When he grew far too tired, Dryden flopped down in a wicker chair by the front window. The rose brambles outside Otto’s house seemed to have grown overnight and now stretched across the lawn. The pathway was still there but narrowing by the day. Dryden knew that time passed in an odd manner here—he always looked back at the hourglass to make sure his three days still counted—but seeing the vegetation grow and change in unfamiliar ways was something different. It marked the unreality of time in a way Dryden couldn’t articulate.

  The entire afternoon, Dryden also watched for Emmons. He saw no trace of him as either fox or man and figured
that nighttime was indeed a safer time to visit. It would certainly be easier to move around without Otto spotting and shooting him—even if the arrows didn’t harm him all that often. Dryden reached into his pocket and felt the cool stone of his bracelet. He rubbed his thumb against it, back and forth, and for a while, forgot his life was on the line.

  Dryden was napping when he heard a noise by the front door. He sprung to his feet, Emmons’s name on the tip of his tongue, only to see Otto coming over the pathway. Blood stained the front of his green shirt, making his skin look oddly orange as the sunlight dipped over the horizon. Dryden dropped the sacred heart jewelry piece back into his pocket and pretended he had not just woken from a nap.

  “Afternoon,” Otto greeted. “I’ve found my spoils a bit faster than I anticipated. I bring to share. I hope this is all right.”

  Otto moved into the cabin without asking. He admired the cleaned rooms, but did not say a word of praise.

  This is how it would be, Dryden thought. If I did stay. If I used my heart instead of my head. I would clean and wait for him by the window. He would push himself inside and not ask for permission, not say a nice thing.

  “Set the table, now,” Otto said. “I have a job for you.”

  Dryden did as he was told. With forks and place mats set out, he was then told to gather the roses from the front walkway for a display. As he set foot outside, Dryden fought the urge to run. Outside of the house’s four walls, he almost forgot that there were other choices to the lives he could live. As he bent down near the roses, he felt the pain in his lower back. His body ached with the memory of his defective escape attempt the night before, where he had run and crashed into the wall. There was no way to run away, unless he solved the riddle. He felt that reality on his body, wore it as a bruise.

  When a rose’s thorn plucked his thumb, he barely noticed until he got back inside.

  “You’re bleeding,” Otto declared. Dryden still held the flowers, some of their petals now stained with a darker red. Otto walked over and took the flowers from Dryden’s hand, tossing them on the table in a quick motion. He drew Dryden’s fingers into his palm, then lifted them to his face. Otto eyed the single puncture mark from the rose, then sighed.

  “You’ve got to be more careful. The flowers bite here.”

  Dryden was about to laugh when he felt Otto’s mouth on his skin. Otto placed Dryden’s bleeding finger past his teeth, over his tongue, and sucked at the blood that flowed. Dryden gasped. His finger stung with the sudden contact—then he felt nothing at all. Otto continued to suck on the wound, sealing it rather than draining any more blood away from Dryden. Dryden continued to watch with wide eyes as a pit of desire bloomed in his stomach. When Otto’s gaze caught Dryden’s midsuck, Dryden almost forgot he was trapped.

  “How does that feel?” Otto removed the finger from his mouth and sandwiched Dryden’s hand between Otto’s own. Dryden could no longer feel the mark on his skin. He swallowed hard before leaning in to kiss Otto’s lips. There was almost no thought involved. Just a single kiss to Otto’s lips—in that moment, it was the only response to Otto’s question.

  Otto smiled against his skin. He wrapped an arm around Dryden’s waist and held him in place. When their tongues touched, Dryden could still taste the blood on Otto’s lips. As the kiss lingered, Otto grew hard against Dryden. He felt his length on his waist, and Dryden shivered as his own cock grew hard. He found his body giving in and giving over… before the jolt of fear shot through him.

  “No….” Dryden pulled away. “Not right now. I have to….”

  “Shh.” Otto pulled back and gripped Dryden’s face in his hands. “It’s fine. Time will stop if you want it to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can stop the clock if you want to be alone with me.”

  “Like a break… or a forfeit?”

  “I suppose it depends on your perspective.”

  Dryden looked past Otto toward the hourglass. Even the sand now seemed to be falling at a slower rate. His heart beat fast as he looked at Otto again. His eyes were green, not gold or brown. He looked almost human. A human that I could love? Dryden felt another shot of pain from his lower back, from the chase and his fall, and he shook his head.

  “No. I can’t. Not right now.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Otto’s hands dropped from his body. Coldness replaced them. As Otto went back to the cutting board, Dryden stared back at the hourglass. The sand fell faster and faster, his punishment evident. It’s not fair, he thought, but he didn’t dare say anything more out loud. He had already given himself away too much.

  “Have you thought of an answer yet?”

  Dryden shook his head and looked down. Blood graced the edge of his shirt, having rubbed off from Otto’s embrace. Dryden touched a finger to the stain, hoping to rub it off, but it was already hard. Sticky. His clothing was ruined, but he knew that everything here was already stained. Now it was only more evident.

  Otto glanced up from his cutting board. A stag lay across it, blood still oozing slowly from its wounds. Otto grinned slightly at Dryden’s quiet horror and lack of answer to the riddle so far.

  “More’s the pity, I suppose. Now we get to have dinner together.” Otto drew his knife and dragged it into the front of the stag’s belly. More blood stained the fur. A sudden smell invaded the room; even Dryden knew that meant the knife had gone too far into the body. The meat, more or less, would be spoiled. Otto still smiled by his carcass, unaffected. Dryden worried he looked even more delighted now that he had ruined something. As if something rotten was better than something good.

  “I’ll be right back. I need to change.” Dryden held a hand over his stomach as if the blood on his shirt led to his own wound. Otto didn’t try to stop him. He cracked the rib cage of the animal and then began to root around inside.

  When Dryden emerged from the bedroom, he thought he had enough confidence to get through this meal. One meal. Just one. Maybe he could make himself attractive in some way so he could be let go. He wanted pity, right? That’s all he had been doing before with the roses and the blood. He had been trying to seduce the seducer, in order that he might get away himself. That was all.

  He tried to tell himself this, but he knew he was lying.

  Candles had been lit when he stepped into the kitchen. The sun had set now; darkness engulfed the cabin until the candlelight hit the copper pots and washed them in gold.

  “Dinner is almost ready,” Otto called from where he stood. His cheeks were splattered with blood.

  Dryden nodded and took a seat at the table. The roses had been set up in a vase, his dark blood still staining the petals. Dryden wondered if the blood from the animal tasted the same as his, if the two of them could be related. If he was caught at the end of these riddles, he wondered if he’d be served and skinned, so he could be learned from like the animals on the wall. Or would he be kept alive but placed under glass, like the butterfly trapped in the center of the maze? The more he thought about both realities and possible futures, the more he convinced himself that he could handle these lives. In the silence, he could be like the women with their brute husbands he had seen in the marketplace. Quiet women, hovering in huts and trying not to raise their voices. They walked on eggshells and talked in whispers, avoiding certain words or topics like trigger points. The other option was to be turned to meat, and meat was always useful. Dryden swallowed hard and shook his head. He should not be thinking of death—he should be thinking of smoke.

  He glanced out the window. No fox, no Emmons. Worry gripped his chest, but there was no other choice for the time being. Otto served them dinner in a matter of moments, greens next to the venison he had procured. Dryden didn’t ask how it had all happened so fast. He ate in silence.

  “How are you finding it?”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “If there is one thing that I’m happy about, it’s how well your mother raised you.”

  Dryden nodded.
Before, he may have talked for hours on end about the jewelry his mother made and the stories she told him. But even his memories didn’t seem like his own in this cabin.

  “Since you are so quiet, I wonder if you’ll hear one of my stories instead. From today.”

  Dryden raised his eyes to meet Otto’s. There he noticed a red puff of fur—exactly like a fox’s—on Otto’s belt. Otto’s fingers twirled in the tail, before he pulled it forward completely. The fox’s tail was attached to the fox’s hide; there was no doubt about this now. All but the animal’s face was present. The skin was the husk of the animal, peeled back from a body and then kept for a trophy.

  “What’s that?”

  “A fox. They are devilish animals. Do you know that? They will do almost anything to get away. I once saw a fox chew through its own leg in order to get out of a bear trap.”

  “You watched this?” Dryden asked. “You didn’t help him?”

  “Some foxes get into their own messes. I know they can get out—they always think they need help, but with enough time and perseverance, they get out. They will only get involved in something if it suits them.”

  “That’s not true,” Dryden said, not helping the emotion in his voice.

  “You speak like a man with experience.”

  Dryden looked down at his lap.

  “That’s what I thought.” Otto shifted in his seat but still held onto the fox skin as he spoke. “Some cultures recognize the fox as one of the greatest tricksters. I have books on it on my shelf. Have you read anything about them?”

  Begrudgingly, Dryden shook his head.

  “Ah, in that case, let me tell you a story. This is a really common one. Perhaps your mother has told it to you! Do you know about Reynard the Fox?”