Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One

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Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One Page 27

by M. Scott Carter


  The search begins immediately.

  Ranging through the powdery foothills beyond the city, we encounter the entrance to one of the stately Idrl burrows. The rock-lined tunnel leading down into the ground is high enough for a man to stand upright during his descent, yet from just a few feet away it appears no more conspicuous than a natural fissure in a seam of granite. We enter, calling out the names of the missing as we navigate these labyrinthine corridors. Occasionally we find signs of occupation but no living occupants. These people have nothing. The few oxen-like beasts that survive on this desiccated globe are reared and worked to exhaustion underground, never to see the light of the pale sun. The lapis lazuli the Idrl mine for their personal use - the one commodity this barren place has left to offer - we would gladly take off their hands in exchange for food, water, and crops engineered to survive the inhospitable conditions. But that would be dishonourable, it seems. So instead they survive on a diet of insects and the coarse spiny plants that thrive out here in the desert, taking hope from the knowledge that, quite incredibly, they are almost there. The Constructor Race is gone; we could very well be next. Freedom, at any price, is almost within their grasp.

  I wonder what the Idrl will be left with once we return to space?

  An answer of sorts has arrived from an unexpected source. The search for the missing men having proved fruitless, we withdrew to the surface in pairs, myself and a private called Gosling bringing up the rear. Just prior to breaking the surface, Gosling angled his flashlight at the ceiling. The scalding white torch beam revealed a long niche carved into the rock along the top of the cavern walls, and here, stowed like so much excess firewood, lay the mummified remains of countless generations of deceased Idrl. Intrigued by the discovery, we retraced our steps, following the dusty seam of corpses to its source. The oldest, driest specimens were stored at the heart of the burrow, nearest the fire pit, which is where the Idrl sleep, cook and keep warm. It made sense for their carbon store to begin here, nearest the flames, where the dead could do their bit to sustain the living. No wonder we never found a burial site.

  Back at the entrance to the burrow, we made another discovery. Huddled next to the freshest addition to the line of shrivelled corpses crouched a juvenile female -- shivering, barely alive, no larger in my estimation than a six-year-old girl. Hunger had collapsed her face, preternaturally enlarging the eyes. But already she had learned her people’s way. When I offered my coat, her gaze drifted to the rock wall opposite and she was lost to me. Almost. But then an idea struck me. The chocolate bar was freeze-dried, vacuum packed, and perfectly fresh. When I broke the foil package and waved it beneath her nose, the child’s nostrils quivered spasmodically, and a tremor of anguish seemed to travel through that pitifully slight form. For a moment, just a microscopic sliver of a moment, her eyes betrayed all of the misery and the suffering and the longing in her tiny heart. Then all of the fight, all of the emotion, seemed to bleed out of her, and she was lost to me once more.

  “Move out,” I whispered to Gosling, and we broke the surface together in uncomfortable silence. But at least I had confirmation of that which I had suspected all along: the Idrl are not the empty vessels they pretend to be. They feel, just as we do. They hurt; they hope.

  VI

  Tang and Spritzwater are now officially missing. I reported their disappearance this morning when a second transport carrier dropped by with news, supplies and a fresh radio. After consulting the high command, it was decided we would make one last sweep and then return to headquarters for the final assessment - the one that will decide the fate of our mission entire. Already, Serpia Dornem is being discussed in terms of a washout, and that suits the men just fine. I myself retain mixed feelings on the subject.

  I think I understand the nature of the problem now. I honestly believe I am starting to comprehend the size of the dilemma the Idrl face. They are a dying species on a world that will soon expireThey have spent the last thirty-thousand years subjugated and occupied by a race who were at best indifferent to their existence, and who at worst may have enslaved them. Perhaps they no longer understand the meaning of compassion. Their lives are brief and cruel and filled with all the bitter harshness of winter, even in the warmest of months. Perhaps they need someone to show them that not all visitors to this place are hostile, and not all outsiders are to be viewed with distrust.

  All I need is a chance.

  We continue to follow the winding pathways through the foothills to the south, but few believe the deserters - if deserters they truly be - would seek refuge in exposed outlands when the corrupt monolith of Venice Falls squats so predominantly to the east. They are much more likely to be drawn by the prospect of shelter and the comforts of home, no matter how strong their initial reluctance. Still, we must be thorough and we must be sure. And the search has not proved a complete waste of time. Bit by bit, the land is giving up its secrets. We discovered a deep quarry veined with countless fractures and many millions of the tough, spiny plants upon which our hosts depend. We also discovered a broken loom near a deep, natural well. Attached to the loom was a cup filled with powdered lapis lazuli. So now the picture is somewhat complete. The Idrl eat this plant, feed it to their livestock, weave its sinewy fibres into robes that are subsequently stained blue with the crushed lapis. If you add in the not unreasonable amounts of geothermal energy generated beneath the surface, you have an entire ecosystem right there.

  Returning to the city at noon, the men are somewhat cheered by the knowledge that the approaching storm will not hit until we have completed our projected sweep, and are on the way back to base for our final pickup. As we draw nearer, Oloman’s behaviour becomes increasingly erratic. So great is his distraction, in fact, that word of it filters up the column to me, and I am forced to drop back and confront him. The last thing I need right now is another Tang or Spritzwater.

  “What the hell is going on?” I demand. “Your attitude is making the men restless.”

  In lieu of an answer, Oloman turns on his heel so that he faces back the way we came, finger jabbing in the direction of our dusty tracks. The dry soil here is heavy with iron oxide, and our footprints describe a pinkish-red arc that trails all the way back to base camp. He then flats a hand in the direction of the old signpost that marks the way to Venice Falls. It stands perpendicular to our position, about a mile distant, and I can just make it out through the murk of late morning.

  “We’ve got company,” Oloman informs me, and then narrows his eyes. “But not Idrl.”

  Another species, perhaps? My field glasses are useless against the membranous skeins of dust that drift lazily across the intervening plain. I therefore make a decision based on instinct. Oloman may have his weaknesses, but foolishness is not one of them. “Collect Gosling and Nye and follow in my wake,” I tell him. “Send the rest of the men on into the city.”

  We reach the signpost just as the last of the forward party melts into a decaying business district on the edge of town. The little girl is no more forthcoming than on the previous occasion we met, though her whole body betrays the incredible risk she has taken in coming here. A pronounced pulse-beat bangs at her throat, and her overly large eyes dart frantically to and fro in their sockets. Not another species, then: just a smaller version of same. Now, at least, I can begin the process of redressing the balance, of showing a little kindness where before cruelty reigned supreme. Dropping my carbine in the dust, I produce the uneaten chocolate bar from my flak jacket and offer it to the girl. There is no hesitation this time: she snatches the confectionary from my hand, consumes it in six diminutive bites - chewing, swallowing, unable to disguise the terrible need that lives inside of her.

  “Rations,” I mutter, and four packs hit the dirt. There is no longer any point in offering, I merely load the pockets of the girl’s robe with food, and pat her gently on the head -- all too aware, as are we all, that it is at such moments history is made.

  Recalling the notion that the Idrl may actually
understand something of English, I call to the girl as we depart. “Tell your family we are their friends,” I cry. “Tell you tribe we mean them no harm. We are not here to hurt you, we can help. Tell them soon.”

  My words are lost in the rising moan of the wind. Perhaps it is for the best. Perhaps the gesture alone should speak for us. As long as we march towards the city, the little one remains in place -- watching, waiting, possibly savouring the taste of our friendship and the notion that not all strangers are aggressors. One can only hope.

  VII

  The storm is almost upon us. Angry thunderheads roll in from the horizon, purple-white lightning veins the clouds. We do not have much time. Sensing that the end is near, we fan out through the streets, the names of the missing echoing back at us from abandoned buildings.

  I cannot stop thinking about that little girl. With one simple gesture, one overt act of kindness, the relationship between Human and Idrl may have changed forever. If they come to us for more, we will accommodate them as best we can; if this entire people requires refugee status, we will provide it. The hardy crops and other supplies initially offered as trade items will be granted as gifts, part of a larger goodwill package that will grow in size until the Idrl can no longer deny the sincerity of our motives. We will not rest until freedom and democracy are established in this barren arm of the galaxy.

  I am already dreaming of petitioning generals and world statesmen on the Idrl’s behalf, when a call goes up from the next block. The cries are eerily faint against the overwhelming groan of the wind, but reverberate hollowly among the glass-fronted towers. I race down the sand-clogged avenue, past homely little Italian restaurants with generic-sounding names, past lofty investment houses with grandly-furnished reception areas, past diners and hardware stores, supermarkets and coffee shops - all of them empty, none of them dead because they were never alive. They are stillborn, unborn, aborted.

  Tang and Spritzwater are cowering in a walkdown when we find them. They claim to have fled into endless blank acres of parking lot after we left them yesterday morning, only to awaken hours later in the very heart of the city with no memory of how they got there. They have been trying to find their way out ever since. The story sounds contrived, I admit, but their fear is only too real. No matter. I drag them up to the sidewalk by the hair and shove them in the direction of base camp, my anger at their behaviour tempered only by the knowledge that our time here is coming to an end.

  IIX

  Trudging back through the gloom and the gathering winds, we find ourselves veering inexorably in the direction of the signpost that marks the way to Venice Falls. Is it curiosity that draws us on, or a deeper need to confirm, one final time, that this is not some vast illusion? The men are excited. Certain of them discuss the snaps they will take of themselves with the city in the background; others express a wish to take the sign home with them as a souvenir. The mood is upbeat and euphoric, and remains so despite the knowledge that we are under scrutiny from the south. For at the summit of each foothill stands a lone Idrl, robes swirling, posture unreadable. The sky has turned the colour of an old bruise, and the resulting light tinges the ground beneath their feet an ominous purple. Lightning flickers at our backs, illuminating those austere figures but revealing nothing of what resides in their hearts.

  We encounter the girl one last time. She is still in the same place. The pockets of her robe still bulge with untouched ration packs, a brown smear of chocolate still decorates that delicate mouth. As ever, the blue stain of her garments flutters endlessly on the strengthening breeze. One of the men - I think it Gosling, but it could just as easily be me - allows a horrified moan to escape his throat. It appears the natives have found yet another use for the spiny plant they rely on so much. Its platted fibres creak gently back and forth as the little girl twists in the wind, the weight of the ration packs grossly elongating her already slender neck. Once and for all, the Idrl have answered our gesture of kindness with an unequivocal statement of intent.

  Only now am I beginning to comprehend our predecessors’ motives for leaving this place after investing so much in it for so very long. Victory is not a question of superior firepower, it seems. It is not even a matter of right and wrong. It is simply a matter of conviction, and of belief - and who would dispute that the Idrl’s is far, far greater than ours could ever be.

  Illustration by Jesca Marisa

  “Scission”

  INTO THE BLACK ABYSS

  by Lynne Jamneck

  The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.

  -- Robertson Davies

  17 January 1914

  Oxford, England

  I have never been good at keeping diaries. I start off eager, filled with the promise of a new year, some new project. Then my enthusiasm diminishes when I realize that I am destined to spend another year bogged down by books and research papers, trying to prove myself to the archeology department.

  I am keeping a diary this time only because I know I will have things to write. Important things. But I will not keep myself to the rigor of writing purely for the sake of entry.

  Doctor Mendelssohn was upset when I informed him I would have to postpone my thesis. I thought he would understand but maybe I expect too much. I could not relate to him the full nature of the expedition, but when I mentioned my father he refrained from asking more questions. I think he attributes my actions to feminine emotional instability.

  The lawyer gave me my father's letter the day of the funeral. I was surprised when he pulled me aside and stuffed the envelope into my hand. He made it clear I should keep it to myself.

  3 February 1914

  (at sea) HMS Astraea

  I am beginning to grasp an understanding of the mystery that has always surrounded my father. Mother never talked about his work. As children we had asked but never received satisfying answers. Like myself, he had been a student of archeology and anthropology; unlike his daughter, the rules and regulations of the university could not keep him bound.

  The Astraea will take us to Angola, on the West African coast. From there we can trek north to the Congo. There are five of us: Otto Mann is a rugged-looking German who prefers butcher knives to guns. Basil Abbot is an excellent marksman. His claim, not mine. He talks loudly and smiles too much. First-class bastard, if you ask me. Nonetheless, he came highly recommended, and I had little choice. Allister Stanley speaks several African languages and is to be our interpreter. He was a missionary and a priest when younger but at the age of forty-five he no longer feels himself bound to the Church. The fourth is a Frenchman, Lucien Malgier, an occult specialist and former lecturer at Cambridge. A man of nervous disposition, he turned down my initial request to join our party. At the mention of my father's name, however, he changed his mind.

  As soon as we found ourselves at sea, Malgier's apprehension and anxiety started rubbing off on everyone else. I have endeavored (with the help of Otto) to keep him intoxicated until we reach the mainland, a plan that seems to be going well. It helps that he does not refuse us. He stays in his bunk most of the time, sleeping or mumbling. A pity that others, like Abbot, become more obnoxious the more they drink.

  15 February 1914

  (at sea)

  There was an incident between Abbot and Malgier. Apparently the Frenchman said something the hunter didn’t like. It sparked a fistfight that could easily have spiraled out of control had Allister not intervened. Otto and I were up on deck, watching the deep, dark water swell and dip, drinking sailor's liquor and smoking cigarettes in silence. The ship has been traveling at a steady 10kts since leaving Portsmouth. I didn't mind that Otto didn't talk. He did however propose to have a "talk" with Abbot about the fracas with Malgier but I dissuaded him. Everyone is getting restless.

  I handled Abbot myself. I promised him that if there was a repeat of his performance I would have the ship's captain put him in the brig for the rest of the journey. I asked Malgier what had happened but by the time I found him in his bu
nk he was drunk again. One of the officers has informed me that we will reach Angola in roughly a week.

  23 February, 1914

  Luanda

  I am relieved to feel solid ground beneath my feet. We all are. A renewed vigor fuels our party. I think we are all looking forward to getting on horses, even if it is just to Kakenge. There we will pick up the porters who will help us with our equipment and navigation into the jungle.

  I have only ever been in a few port cities. There will be drinking tonight and even I am looking forward to the respite before the next phase of our expedition.

  5 March, 1914

  Kakenge, Belgian Congo

  The Afrikaner who runs the porter service was ruthless and charged us a fortune. Enterprising, too; his service was staffed entirely by Zulus. I didn’t wonder about it too much. After all, some would say that we didn't belong up here either.

  We managed to secure the services of three Zulus. They are tall and fit and when they smile at us I am not sure what it is they are laughing at. I think we must look ridiculous to them, dressed up in so many layers of clothing. I quite like the heat after the miserable weather we left behind.

 

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