Jagannath

by Karin Tidbeck

  The Nieces stared at the quiet bodies. They stared at one another. One of them raised her knife.

  —

  As the Nieces worked, the more they removed from Great-Aunt, the clearer it became that something was wrong. The flesh wouldn’t give willingly but had to be forced apart. They resorted to using shears to open the rib cage. Finally, as they were scraping the last of the tissue from Great-Aunt’s thigh bones, one of them said:

  “I do not see a little Aunt.”

  “She should be here,” said another.

  They looked at each other. The third burst into tears. One of the others slapped the crying girl’s head.

  “We should look further,” said the one who had slapped her sister. “She could be behind the eyes.”

  The Nieces dug further into Great-Aunt; they peered into her skull, but found nothing. They dug into the depths of her pelvis, but there was no new Aunt. Not knowing what else to do, they finished the division of the body, then moved on to the other Aunts. When the last of the three had been opened, dressed, quartered, and scraped, no new Aunt had yet been found. By now, the orangery’s floor was filled with tubs of neatly ordered meat and offal. Some of the younger orange trees had fallen over and were soaking in golden blood. One of the Nieces, possibly the one who had slapped her sister, took a bowl and looked at the others.

  “We have work to do,” she said.

  —

  The Nieces scrubbed the orangery floor and cleaned the couches. They turned every last bit of the Aunts into a feast. They carried platters of food from the kitchens and laid it out on the surrounding tables. The couches were still empty. One of the Nieces sat down in the middle couch. She took a meat pastry and nibbled at it. The rich flavor of Great-Aunt’s baked liver burst into her mouth; the pastry shell melted on her tongue. She crammed the rest of the pastry into her mouth and swallowed. When she opened her eyes, the other Nieces stood frozen in place, watching her.

  “We must be the new Aunts now,” the first Niece said.

  One of the others considered this. “Mustn’t waste it,” she said eventually.

  The new Aunts sat down on Middle Sister’s and Little Sister’s couches and tentatively reached for the food on the tables. Like their sister, they took first little bites, then bigger and bigger as the taste of the old Aunts filled them. Never before had they been allowed to eat from the tables. They ate until they couldn’t down another bite. They slept. When they woke up, they fetched more food from the kitchen. The orangery was quiet save for the noise of chewing and swallowing. One Niece took an entire cake and buried her face in it, eating it from the inside out. Another rubbed marinated brain onto herself, as if to absorb it. Sausages, slices of tongue topped with jellied marrow, candied eyes that crunched and then melted. The girls ate and ate until the kitchen was empty and the floor covered in a layer of crumbs and drippings. They lay back on the couches and looked at one another’s bodies, measuring bellies and legs. None of them were noticeably fatter.

  “It’s not working,” said the girl on the leftmost couch. “We ate them all up and it’s not working!” She burst into tears.

  The middle girl pondered this. “Aunts can’t be Aunts without Nieces,” she said.

  “But where do we find Nieces?” said the rightmost. “Where did we come from?” The other two were silent.

  “We could make them,” said the middle girl. “We are good at baking, after all.”

  And so the prospective Aunts swept up the crumbs from floor and plates, mopped up juices and bits of jelly, and returned with the last remains of the old Aunts to the kitchens. They made a dough and fashioned it into three girl-shaped cakes, baked them, and glazed them. When the cakes were done, they were a crisp light brown and the size of a hand. The would-be Aunts took the cakes up to the orangery and set them down on the floor, one beside each couch. They wrapped themselves in the Aunt-skins and lay down on their couches to wait.

  —

  Outside, the apple trees rattled their leaves in a faint breeze. On the other side of the apple orchard was a loud party, where a gathering of nobles played croquet with human heads, and their changeling servants hid under the tables, telling each other stories to keep the fear away. No sound of this reached the orangery, quiet in the steady gloom. No smell of apples snuck in between the panes. The Aunt-skins settled in soft folds around the sleeping girls.

  Eventually one of them woke. The girl-shaped cakes lay on the floor, like before.

  The middle girl crawled out of the folds of the skin dress and set her feet down on the floor. She picked up the cake sitting on the floor next to her.

  “Perhaps we should eat them,” she said. “And the Nieces will grow inside us.” But her voice was faint.

  “Or wait,” said the leftmost girl. “They may yet move.”

  “They may,” the middle girl said.

  The girls sat on their couches, cradled in the skin dresses, and waited. They fell asleep and woke up again, and waited.

  —

  In some places, time is a weak and occasional phenomenon. Unless someone claims time to pass, it might not, or does so only partly; events curl in on themselves to form spirals and circles.

  The Nieces wake and wait, wake and wait, for Aunts to arrive.

  Jagannath

  ANOTHER CHILD WAS BORN in the great Mother, excreted from the tube protruding from the Nursery ceiling. It landed with a wet thud on the organic bedding underneath. Papa shuffled over to the birthing tube and picked the baby up in his wizened hands. He stuck two fingers in the baby’s mouth to clear the cavity of oil and mucus, and then slapped its bottom. The baby gave a faint cry.

  “Ah,” said Papa. “She lives.” He counted fingers and toes with a satisfied nod. “Your name will be Rak,” he told the baby.

  Papa tucked her into one of the little niches in the wall where babies of varying sizes were nestled. Cables and flesh moved slightly, accommodating the baby’s shape. A teat extended itself from the niche, grazing her cheek; Rak automatically turned and sucked at it. Papa patted the soft little head, sniffing at the hairless scalp. The metallic scent of Mother’s innards still clung to it. A tiny flailing hand closed around one of his fingers.

  “Good grip. You’ll be a good worker,” mumbled Papa.

  —

  Rak’s early memories were of rocking movement, of Papa’s voice whispering to her as she sucked her sustenance, the background gurgle of Mother’s abdominal walls. Later, she was let down from the niche to the older children, a handful of plump bodies walking bow-legged on the undulating floor, bathed in the soft light from luminescent growths in the wall and ceiling. They slept in a pile, jostling bodies slick in the damp heat and the comforting rich smell of raw oil and blood.

  Papa gathered them around his feet to tell them stories.

  “What is Mother?” Papa would say. “She took us up when our world failed. She is our protection and our home. We are Her helpers and beloved children.” Papa held up a finger, peering at them with eyes almost lost in the wrinkles of his face. “We make sure Her machinery runs smoothly. Without us, She cannot live. We only live if Mother lives.”

  Rak learned that she was a female, a worker, destined to be big and strong. She would help drive the peristaltic engine in Mother’s belly, or work the locomotion of Her legs. Only one of the children, Ziz, was male. He was smaller than the others, with spindly limbs and bulging eyes in a domed head. Ziz would eventually go to the Ovary and fertilize Mother’s eggs. Then he would take his place in Mother’s head as pilot.

  “Why can’t we go to Mother’s head?” said Rak.

  “It’s not for you,” said Papa. “Only males can do that. That’s the order of things: females work the engines and pistons so that Mother can move forward. For that, you are big and strong. Males fertilize Mother’s eggs and guide Her. They need to be small and smart. Look at Ziz.” Papa indicated the boy’s thin arms. “He will never have the strength you have. He would never survive in the Belly. And you,
Rak, will be too big to go to Mother’s head.”

  —

  Every now and then, Papa would open the Nursery door and talk to someone outside. Then he would collect the biggest of the children, give it a tight hug, and usher it out the door. The children never came back. They had begun work. Soon after, a new baby would be excreted from the tube.

  When Rak was big enough, Papa opened the Nursery’s sphincter door. On the other side stood a hulking female. She dwarfed Papa, muscles rolling under a layer of firm blubber.

  “This is Hap, your caretaker,” said Papa.

  Hap held out an enormous hand.

  “You’ll come with me now,” she said.

  Rak followed her new caretaker through a series of corridors connected by openings that dilated at a touch. Dull metal cabling veined the smooth, pink flesh underfoot and around them. The tunnel was lit here and there by luminous growths, similar to the Nursery, but the light more reddish. The air became progressively warmer and thicker, gaining an undertone of something unfamiliar that stuck to the roof of Rak’s mouth. Gurgling and humming noises reverberated through the walls, becoming stronger as they walked.

  “I’m hungry,” said Rak.

  Hap scraped at the wall, stringy goop sloughing off into her hand.

  “Here,” she said. “This is what you’ll eat now. It’s Mother’s food for us. You can eat it whenever you like.”

  It tasted thick and sweet sliding down her throat. After a few swallows Rak was pleasantly full. She was licking her lips as they entered the Belly.

  More brightly lit and bigger than the Nursery, the chamber was looped through and around by bulging pipes of flesh. Six workers were evenly spaced out in the chamber, kneading the flesh or straining at great valves set into the tubes.

  “This is the Belly,” said Hap. “We move the food Mother eats through her entrails.”

  “Where does it go?” asked Rak.

  Hap pointed to the far end of the chamber, where the bulges were smaller.

  “Mother absorbs it. Turns it into food for us.”

  Rak nodded. “And that?” She pointed at the small apertures dotting the walls.

  Hap walked over to the closest one and poked it. It dilated, and Rak was looking into a tube running left to right along the inside of the wall. A low grunting sound came from somewhere inside. A sinewy worker crawled past, filling up the space from wall to wall. She didn’t pause to look at the open aperture.

  “That’s a Leg worker,” said Hap. She let the aperture close and stretched.

  “Do they ever come out?” said Rak.

  “Only when they’re going to die. So we can put them in the engine. Now. No more talking. You start over there.” Hap steered Rak toward the end of the chamber. “Easy work.”

  —

  Rak grew, putting on muscle and fat. She was one of twelve workers in the Belly. They worked and slept in shifts. One worked until tired, then ate, and then curled up in the sleeping niche next to whoever was there. Rak learned work songs to sing in time with the kneading of Mother’s intestines, the turning of the valves. The eldest worker, an enormous female called Poi, usually led the chorus. They sang stories of how Mother saved their people. They sang of the parts of Her glorious body, the movement of Her myriad legs.

  “What is outside Mother?” Rak asked once, curled up next to Hap, wrapped in the scent of sweat and oil.

  “The horrible place that Mother saved us from,” mumbled Hap. “Go to sleep.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  Hap scoffed. “No, and I don’t want to. Neither do you. Now quiet.”

  Rak closed her eyes, thinking of what kind of world might be outside Mother’s body, but could only imagine darkness. The thought made a chill run down her back. She crept closer to Hap, nestling against her back.

  —

  The workload was never constant. It had to do with where Mother went and what she ate. Times of plenty meant hard work, the peristaltic engine swelling with food. But during those times, the females also ate well; the mucus coating Mother’s walls grew thick and fragrant, and Rak would put on a good layer of fat. Then Mother would move on and the food would become less plentiful, Her innards thinning out and the mucus drying and caking. The workers would slow down, sleep more, and wait for a change. Regardless of how much there was to eat, Rak still grew, until she looked up and realized she was no longer so small compared to the others.

  —

  Poi died in her sleep. Rak woke up next to her cooling body, confused that Poi wasn’t breathing. Hap had to explain that she was dead. Rak had never seen a dead person before. Poi just lay there, her body marked from the lean time, folds of skin hanging from her frame.

  The workers carried Poi to a sphincter near the top of the chamber and dropped her into Mother’s intestine. They took turns kneading the body through Mother’s flesh, the bulge becoming smaller and smaller until Poi was consumed altogether.

  “Go to the Nursery, Rak,” said Hap. “Get a new worker.”

  Rak made her way up the tubes. It was her first time outside the Belly since leaving the Nursery. The corridors looked just like they had when Hap had led her through them long ago.

  The Nursery looked much smaller. Rak towered in the opening, looking down at the tiny niches in the walls and the birthing tube bending down from the ceiling. Papa sat on his cot, crumpled and wrinkly. He stood up when Rak came in, barely reaching her shoulder.

  “Rak, is it?” he said. He reached up and patted her arm. “You’re big and strong. Good, good.”

  “I’ve come for a new worker, Papa,” said Rak.

  “Of course you have.” Papa looked sideways, wringing his hands.

  “Where are the babies?” she said.

  “There are none,” Papa replied. He shook his head. “There haven’t been any…viable children, for a long time.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Rak.

  “I’m sorry, Rak.” Papa shrank back against the wall. “I have no worker to give you.”

  “What’s happening, Papa? Why are there no babies?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it is because of the lean times. But there have been lean times before, and there were babies then. And no visits from the Head, either. The Head would know. But no one comes. I have been all alone.” Papa reached out for Rak, stroking her arm. “All alone.”

  Rak looked down at his hand. It was dry and light. “Did you go to the Head and ask?”

  Papa blinked. “I couldn’t do that. My place is in the Nursery. Only the pilots go to the Head.”

  The birthing tube gurgled. Something landed on the bedding with a splat. Rak craned her neck to look.

  “But look, there’s a baby,” she said.

  The lumpy shape was raw and red. Stubby limbs stuck out here and there. The head was too big. There were no eyes or nose, just a misshapen mouth. As Rak and Papa stared in silence, it opened its mouth and wailed.

  “I don’t know what to do,” whispered Papa. “All the time, they come out like this.”

  He gently gathered up the malformed thing, covering its mouth with a hand until it stopped breathing. Tears rolled down his lined cheeks.

  “My poor babies,” said Papa.

  As Rak left, Papa rocked the lump in his arms, weeping.

  —

  Rak didn’t return to the Belly. She went forward. The corridor quickly narrowed, forcing Rak to a slow crawl on all fours. The rumble and sway of Mother’s movement, so different from the gentle roll of the Belly, pressed her against the walls. Eventually, the tunnel widened into a round chamber. At the opposite end sat a puckered opening. On her right, a large round metallic plate was set into the flesh of the wall, the bulges ringing it glowing brightly red. Rak crossed the chamber to the opening on the other side. She touched it, and it moved with a groaning noise.

  It was a tiny space: a hammock wrapped in cabling and tubes in front of two circular panes. Rak sat down in the hammock. The seat flexed around her, molding itself to her
shape. The panes were streaked with mucus and oil, but she could faintly see light and movement on the other side. It made her eyes hurt. A tube snaked down from above, nudging her cheek. Rak automatically turned her head and opened her mouth. The tube thrust into her right nostril. Pain shot up between Rak’s eyes. Her vision went dark. When it cleared, she let out a scream.

  Above, a blinding point of light shone in an expanse of vibrant blue. Below, a blur of browns and yellows rolled past with alarming speed.

  Who are you? a voice said. It was soft and heavy. I was so lonely.

  “Hurts,” Rak managed.

  The colors and light muted, and the vision narrowed at the edges so that it seemed Rak was running through a tunnel. She unclenched her hands, breathing heavily.

  Better?

  Rak grunted.

  You are seeing through my eyes. This is the outside world. But you are safe inside me, my child.

  “Mother,” said Rak.

  Yes. I am your mother. Which of my children are you?

  The voice was soothing, making it easier to breathe. “I’m Rak. From the Belly.”

  Rak, my child. I am so glad to meet you.

  The scene outside rolled by: yellows and reds, and the blue mass above. Mother named the things for her. Sky. Ground. Sun. She named the sharp things scything out at the bottom of her vision: mandibles and the frenetically moving shapes glimpsed at the edges: legs. The cold fear of the enormous outside gradually faded in the presence of that warm voice. An urge to urinate made Rak aware of her own body again, and her purpose there.

  “Mother. Something is wrong,” she said. “The babies are born wrong. We need your help.”

  Nutrient and DNA deficiency, Mother hummed. I need food.

  “But you can move everywhere, Mother. Why are you not finding food?”

  Guidance systems malfunction. Food sources in the current area are depleted.

  “Can I help, Mother?”

  The way ahead bent slightly to the right. Mother was running in a circle.