by Jeffrey Ford
The hunter stood enwrapped in visions as the body of the Sirimon rippled almost imperceptibly, tremors running its length. The serpent’s nostrils twitched, and its eyes began to vibrate. Cley became aware that the monster was waking from its nightmare of loneliness and that it hungered for the fruit.
Without warning, there was a tremendous blast of air that threw the hunter backward onto the ground. The Sirimon screamed, and this cry changed everything, like a light going out in a room without windows. Cley came to his senses. At the last second, he rolled to his right as the creature arched its back with lightning speed, curled its body over its head, and stabbed the earth with its needle tail precisely where he had just fallen.
The Sirimon coiled inward upon itself in order to strike with its fangs, but the hunter was already up and running through the trees. It released like a spring and hit the earth only inches from Cley’s heels. He stumbled and rolled and then was up and running again. He could feel the breath of the serpent on his back, and its voice was deafening.
Across the land bridge he fled and now fear uncoiled in his chest, his heart beating wildly, his pulse pounding. When he reached the opposite side, he turned to look behind. This, he told himself, was his only chance to accomplish what he had come for. The serpent slithered across the land bridge, rippling at top speed, its mouth open wide. Cley cocked his arm back and waited until he could wait no more. Just as the pink scales touched the lawn, he hurled the fruit. His aim was terribly off. The strange plum hit the ground in front of Sirimon, but as luck would have it, bounced into the cavelike mouth.
Now the hunter was sprinting, and the garden’s placid beauty mocked his terror. The exotic music was drowned out by the roar of the creature. The perfume disintegrated into the stinking breath of the serpent. Ferns and shrubs lashed at his shins and ankles as he ran. The sun moved past midday, and the shadows grew more quickly than the memories rushing back into Cley’s mind.
Just as he caught a glimpse of the blue, wavering portal and the form of Vasthasha standing on the other side of the membrane, the serpent struck, uncoiling forward with a desperate lunge. It caught Cley in its maw across his chest. The hunter felt the needle teeth sink into his flesh and heard the cracking of his own ribs. He tried to scream but blood filled his mouth. The Sirimon reared its head upward, carrying Cley’s weight into the air, and then shook him back and forth, burying its fangs deeper into his vital organs. When it was done, it flung his body onto the rocks only a few steps from the blue portal. The creature turned then, like a bullwhip rolling backward, and slithered calmly away toward the island.
The blood poured from Cley’s chest, nose, mouth, ears. When he tried to move, he could hear his bones cracking like a bag of glass shards rolling on a wooden floor. He pulled himself along with one arm and one leg, covering the distance to the portal. There was a slight rise, and he had no strength to lift his body the rest of the way. With one last effort he lurched forward so that only his hand, still holding the crystal, passed through the boundary.
His eyes closed and in his mind he saw the green veil on the wind. It flapped once, snapped everything into darkness, and he died.
“… proof of your humanity.”
I have little doubt now that not only the Beyond, but the entire world has a mind, and disbelieve me at your own peril when I say a cynical one at that. It deals in irony with all the subtle grace and sharp wit of a master storyteller, and just when you think the hero will succeed, a love might be fulfilled, a promise kept, it will flip your life like an hourglass and send an avalanche of trouble trickling down upon you.
I sit now in a jail cell, like some hairy, scribbling Brisden, at the back of the very building where only yesterday I was applauded for my veracity and goodwill. This concrete container is barely large enough for me to spread my wings, and always, everywhere, there are the vertical shadows from the bars at the doorway and the one tall window that looks out upon the town. The breeze slips in unimpeded through that back opening, carrying with it the sounds of the town I had foolishly dreamt would be my home. Thank goodness for this desk and chair. The bed in the corner is useless to me, and I will have to sleep standing up, as there are no bars on the ceiling from which to hang. What does it matter? Believe the following if you can:
Last night I was in the room that Feskin had gotten me, leaning over my manuscript, my hands covering my face, weeping uncontrollably at the loss of Cley. The very words, as if they, themselves, were snapping monsters, horrified me as I was describing my friend’s demise. For that whole tortuous journey I had traced, to end like this, broke my heart. I wished that I could somehow erase what the Beyond had dictated and have the hunter move on to the true Wenau, but that would have been as false as Cley thinking he could change Arla Beaton’s soul by changing her physiognomy. The discovery of his death was too sudden a reversal from the day’s celebration, and I was without my usual defense of skeptical fatalism to protect myself from the pain.
When I could weep no longer, and had finally resigned myself to the fact that I would have to go on alone without the nighttime visions of Cley and Wood, there came a knocking upon my door. The hour was very late, but I thought nothing of it since my mind was a tangled skein of confusion and sorrow.
“Just a moment,” I called, and tried to compose myself. Wiping the last of the tears from my eyes, I opened the door and pulled it back. There stood Feskin, and behind him Constable Spencer, and behind him a half-dozen men with rifles aimed around the heads of the two in front and directly at my heart.
“Glad you could stop by,” I said, thinking nothing of the rifles, since whenever I was in the presence of a human, there were usually weapons in sight. I stepped back in order to let my friends enter.
“Bad news, Misrix,” said Feskin, and he looked down at the floor as if unable to go on.
“What?” I asked, as the men with the guns came in and surrounded me. I sensed that they were very nervous, and this was my first indication that something had gone terribly wrong.
Constable Spencer, no longer the affable purveyor of righteousness, stepped forward with a grim look on his face. “Tonight, at precisely eight thirty, Horace Watt, and those remaining from his expedition to the Beyond, returned to Wenau. With them they brought a corpse and also convincing evidence that you, Misrix, did indeed murder Cley.”
It took a moment for Spencer’s words to register, and even when they did, I was struck dumb by their message. “Impossible,” I finally whispered.
“That will be decided in the court,” said Spencer. “For the time being, you will have to come with us.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Jail,” said Feskin, still unable to make eye contact with me.
My wings lifted, my tail snapped the air threateningly, and the men cocked the hammers on their rifles.
“Wait!” said Feskin, holding up his hands. “He will come peaceably, I know it. Allow him a moment.”
“Will you?” asked Spencer.
Such was my frustration that for a brief moment I had considered tearing off a few heads and slicing the constable down the middle. I knew and they knew they could not have pumped enough bullets into me before I had killed at least half of them. Then I caught myself from falling back into the abyss of my discarded animal nature.
“Yes,” I said. “It is the civilized thing to do.”
“I will help you,” said Feskin.
I nodded to him, then made a move to fetch my papers and pen and ink. Luckily I had already returned the sheer beauty paraphernalia to its hiding place beneath my wing or I’m sure more charges would have been leveled on the spot.
The guards would not let me pass.
“I’m bringing my manuscript with me,” I said.
“What is it worth to you to have him come without incident?” Feskin asked Spencer.
The constable nodded. “Let him gather his things,” he told the guards.
And so, here I am, a prisoner, falsely accused
of a crime I did not commit. Feskin accompanied me to the cell and told me he would represent me against the charges. I thanked him but admitted that I had little hope of battling those prejudices that had, in hours, blazed up from a dying ember.
“Conspiracy,” I told him through the bars.
“Not exactly,” he whispered, so that the armed man sitting on the stool down the hallway could not hear him. “Watt has real evidence that could convince a jury. Not only did they find Cley’s remains only two days into the Beyond, but they found a diary, kept in his handwriting, the last entry of which states that he is in mortal fear of you. He writes that you had already made one attempt on his life while he was sleeping, and he believes you will eventually kill him as he suspects you have already done to the missing dog.”
“I don’t recall Cley even keeping a diary,” I said.
“Well, they all know he was a scribbler,” said Feskin. “Think of the two manuscripts he left that recount his history. They have the artifact.”
“A fake,” I said.
“Perhaps something else, but I know Watt. He is not a dissembler. And besides, he just arrived this evening. He had no time to be inculcated into any plot. There are seven other men with him, who all attest to the discovery and its veracity,” said the teacher.
“How could they find Cley in the Beyond?” I asked.
“They took bloodhounds and some of Cley’s possessions from his house. The dogs followed the scent. Listen, Misrix, this looks bad. If I am going to help you, you must assure me that you had no part in Cley’s death,” said Feskin.
“I have proof that I did not kill him,” I said.
“What?” he asked.
“My writings,” I told him.
He shook his head. “I hope that you are right,” he said.
“If I did not believe in my own innocence, then tell me why I am putting up with this charade. You know as well as I know as well as they know that I could bend these bars apart with my hands and fly away from here. Not to mention the fact that I could slay quite a few in the process if I so desired.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “There is definitely goodness in you. I will do all I can to help.”
Then he left, and I was alone with my torment. Last night lasted almost forever. The first thing I did was slough off the ridiculous clothes. They were uncomfortable to begin with and now they were torturing me with an extra confinement beyond the most obvious one. There were tears and cries of pain, I will admit. There is no anguish worse than being falsely accused and having the entire world believe you are guilty. I paced as well as I could around this mausoleum, banged on the concrete walls, and tested the metal of the bars.
Finally, near dawn, I fell into a fitful sleep in which I was visited by dreams of Cley and me in the Beyond. It was wonderful to be with him again, to speak of books and notions about life. He was recounting for me the story of when he and Calloo and Bataldo had first ventured into the wilderness. He spoke of his old friends with great passion as we sat next to a fire at night, listening with one ear for sounds of predators. Then I dreamt of Wood and how bravely he had fought against the other demons. I tell you it was as if I was there. In the midst of this recollection, though, came sudden bursts of a vision of Cley lying disemboweled beneath me. Three times this scene flashed and as quickly passed, and then I woke up, shivering.
It took me a few minutes to clear my head. At first, I was disoriented by finding myself in the cell when a moment before I had been in the limitless Beyond, but once I had my wits about me, I realized that the ugly, momentary nightmares were a result of unfounded guilt at the false accusations against me and the recent discovery in my writing that Cley had been savagely killed by the Sirimon. Still, the experience had been unnerving.
There was only one thing to do. I did my contortionist act, and retrieved from its hiding place the sheer beauty. It was a comfort to see that I had enough left for at least two more bolus doses. Carefully, I prepared the injection, and the intricacy of the work took my mind off my troubles for a few minutes. I needed fast relief, so I went for a spot under my tongue that I had seen Drachton Below access in times of great stress.
As my luck would have it the guard had just woken up and come down the hall to check on me. He saw what I was doing and his eyes went wide.
“You can’t do that,” he said.
I pulled the needle out and told him, with a partially numb tongue, “Stop me.” I suppose I shouldn’t have smiled in the way I did, as if daring him to take action.
He grew red in the face and went for his keys. I bobbed my tail toward the bars, flexed my arm muscles, and laughed my true laugh, showing every ripping fang in my mouth. As I knew he would, he thought better of it.
As he walked away, he said, “You’ll soon be dead.”
“Likewise,” I told him, knowing he would not tell anyone about my having the drug. If he did, he would have to explain why he did not take it from me.
Some time passed before the beauty began to do its work, but slowly I felt its caress, easing the tension in my back muscles. I had taken quite a bit, and it brought with it colors and memories and far-flung philosophical notions that crowded the anger right out of me.
When I looked up once, I saw my father, Drachton Below, before me. He was inside the cell, sitting on the edge of the bed in the corner. There was a wry smile on his face, and he was shaking his head.
The sight of him brought tears to my eyes, and I feared his anger, as I had when newly born into consciousness.
“Misrix,” he said. “What is this ridiculous turn of events? Haven’t I taught you to comport yourself with more dignity than this?” He closed his eyes as if unable to face his disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “But I did nothing wrong.”
“I know you are innocent,” he said. “I know how it feels to be misunderstood. You are a good boy. No,” he smiled, “you are a good man. Think of this—since you have been arrested, since you have been charged with a crime, since you have decided to argue your case, this is proof of your humanity. Do they arrest beasts? If a horse goes wild and tramples its master, do they bring it to court? These trying times, though regrettable, are conclusive proof of your humanity.”
He stood up from the bed, and his image wavered slightly in the breeze from the window. When he was solidly before me again, I saw that he had opened his arms.
“Come closer, my son,” he said.
I stepped up to him, and I could feel his arms close around me. I could smell the horseradish on his breath as I had when I was a child. He rested his head upon my chest.
“I love you,” he said. “I am proud of you.”
I closed my arms around him too late, for he had vanished at the sudden sound of some commotion in the hallway.
“You can’t go down there,” I heard the guard calling.
“Okay,” said a child’s voice.
I turned, with tears still in my eyes and the beauty coursing through me, to see Emilia standing outside my cell. She, I knew, was real, but the drug had affected my vision so that I saw a faint golden glow around her figure. She was smiling, and for her sake, I smiled back.
“Misrix,” she said, “I know you could never have done what they say. I wanted to tell you.”
The guard stepped up behind her. “Come miss, you cannot be here. It is against the law.”
“Okay,” she said again, but remained where she was. She lifted her arm and put her hand between the bars. In it, she held a stick of candy. The guard tried to pull her away.
“Touch her, and I will kill you,” I shouted.
The man backed off.
“Try not to be afraid,” said Emilia, as I looked at her offering. When I reached down to take the candy, something very peculiar happened. Her hand appeared to be that of a man, and the candy transformed before my eyes into a clear stone, a crystal. My own hand was no longer hairy and clawed, but had somehow changed into a mitt of twisted root and foliage.
>
As the guard ushered her out of the hallway, a series of events flashed before my eyes in rapid succession. All I could think was, “How will I remember all of this?” But I do. I remember it all. Considering its fantastic nature, I don’t think I will ever forget.
“go to the door.”
The foliate stepped closer to the blue membrane and reached out his leafy hand as if to grab Cley by the wrist but, at the last second, he stopped and looked back at Shkchl, the dweller from the inland ocean. The red-scaled being twisted the very end of his antennae mustache with webbed fingers, stared for a lengthy spell through the portal at Cley’s corpse, then nodded. With this sign, he moved next to Vasthasha and together they grabbed the arm of the dead hunter and pulled his bleeding, wrecked body into the cave.
Once Cley was inside, Vasthasha rolled him over so that his blank eyes stared at the rock ceiling. The foliate got down on his knees next to the body so that he was leaning over the mordant face and began to make quiet choking sounds. Shkchl shook his head.
A long, thin stick, twice thinner than the stem of a rose, was slowly growing straight out of Vasthasha’s mouth. Its end was needle-sharp, and it did not stop until it was as long as a man’s hand. The Water Being averted his gaze as the foliate thrust his head downward, the end of the probe piercing Cley’s left eye to lodge in the brain. The process took less than a second, and then with a quick zip, like the sound of a fly buzzing past your ear, the stick retracted back into Vasthasha’s mouth.
“Do you have it?” asked the Water Being.
The foliate nodded.
“Then go, quickly,” said Shkchl.
But Vasthasha was already gone, out of the cave, running along the trail that wound down around the side of the mountain. Loose blossoms flew off him as he sprinted in the heat of late afternoon. He had to reach his destination before the cold winds of mid-autumn brought snow. His thatched legs were powered by the knowledge that if he stopped to slake his thirst for more than a heartbeat at a time, took the wrong path once, was forced to delay to battle some creature, or even gave himself over to memory too often, he would never arrive. What waited for him at the end of this impossible race, he knew full well, was Death.