She hears them whisper: Who is this Princess?
She bears the Gargoulette of Nautika, and yet, she appears so…monstrous.
Could she he the oracled one? The Mother of…
The Final…!
But no! It is impossible!
Labiaxa presses on, half-swimming, half-leaping through the water. When she passes the flatware merchant, trying now to right his overturned cart, he looks at her with profound anxiety. His thoughts reach her in tangles. A question trembles on his lower lip, but he dares not give it voice.
Who is…? But no…must not ask! Must not…even…think to ask! The Code of Nautika forbids me to question a…a Princess! The punishment…castration!
In his expression she sees something of her father – his helplessness, his predestined grief – and once more the cold seed of doubt begins to germinate.
The sea shudders around her! Volcanic fires boil the sand like grains in a pot! Labiaxa is thrown painfully against a barrow of spiny whelks. For a brief instant, her lungs regress. They suck and convulse for air. Air! they seem to cry. Air! Bring back the old dry world! Bring back Papa!
Then a tiny webbed hand touches her shoulder.
Princess! Princess!
A girl child, naked and pure, embraces her from behind, pressing her lips against one of Labiaxa’s gills in a clumsy childish kiss. In a rush Labiaxa’s faith is restored. It floods her starving lungs. She inhales and imagines that she has tasted it – knows she has tasted it: the hormone-infused waters of Nautika that her father called ‘estro-wisdom’.
Estro-wisdom, he’d explained, is the elixir of femininity that suffuses Nautika. It gives strength to her women and reason to her men. The more Labiaxa drinks of it, the more familiar grows this uncanny city. She feels like a wanderer at last returned to her native land. Now even the thundering earth cannot shake her feeling of peace and, yes, arrival.
Settling the girl atop a bale of sea grass, she implores her: What happens next, child? Where do I go?
But the girl’s mind is strangely empty. Wordlessly, thoughtlessly even, she points. Labiaxa bestows a kiss upon the child’s finned brow and swims toward a darkened alley at the far end of the market.
Beyond the light of the medusa lanterns, she must feel her way through near total darkness. The alley tapers to a narrow trail, and suddenly she stands in a gloomy forest of fern trees. Under the soles of her sandals she feels the crunch of frail shells. The glow of her Gargoulette shows a path paved with oily mussels. It splays off this way and that, a puzzle tree of forking trails, a dark hand of indecision. There are no straight lines in this dim wood, no right angles, no clear options. Each trail curves as if by caprice to meet its invisible destiny.
She clings to a broad avenue until, as she passes one unremarkable footpath, the Gargoulette begins to glow with great urgency. Taking this as a sign, she follows the little path into the gloom. She winds left, veers right, seems to come full circle. Once she loses the trail altogether and must crawl on all fours to find it again amid the rhododendron. At last, she rounds a corner where the path ends abruptly at a massive white wall.
Labiaxa reaches out to touch it: glass. The wall pulsates with a soft but insistent inner light. It curves in either direction for many furlongs before disappearing into the dark. Gazing up, she sees how high it soars, almost to the fretwork of the dome itself, where it blooms into a glowing blue bulb. This is no mere wall – it is the foundation of a tower, a tower of incalculable circumference!
She follows it to the left for what must be hundreds of strokes until at last she finds herself in a vast oval courtyard. Around her loom a dozen more towers, identical to the one she has circumnavigated. They cast a ghost-white glow over the central lawn. At her feet lies a carpet of red and blue, some dizzying flora that quivers with a trillion particolored cilia. Drifting down to the ground, she wriggles her sandaled toes in the enchanted seabed.
Ha! It tickles! It stings! She laughs, winces.
Standing on her hands to get a better look, she feels the charge of pain and pleasure course up her arms. She presses her face closer to the tentacled nap and receives a strong jolt on her nose!
Careful, Princess! The voice is that of a twittering soubrette. It seems to bubble up from the region of the brain that regulates goose bumps and fits of giggling. The Lawn of the Anemones is stimulating underfoot, says the voice, but on your nose – lo, it can smart like a medusa’s kiss!
Righting herself, Labiaxa comes face-to-face with the most lovely example of Nautikon womanhood she has yet encountered. Her slight stature and bashful eyes tell Labiaxa that she is an adolescent of the species. Yet she is clearly a person of status. Swaddled in pearl-cloth, her hairless body studded with red gem-stones, she bears in her left hand a luminous Gargoulette of her own. As the girl draws near, Labiaxa’s medusae throb excitedly in welcome.
The Nautikon bows deeply before her, and Labiaxa, not knowing what decorum requires, repeats the gesture. The woman laughs again, so awkwardly that it puts Labiaxa at ease. She smiles.
You needn’t bow before me, shouts the Nautikon, returning the smile. I know who you are! You are the Mother of the One True Man. You were shown to me in the mirror of Oooee! I knew you would come…the others would not believe me, but I insisted…yes, she will come unto us anon! The Queen has promised us a Final Mother to birth the One True Man, and now…and now…!
On and on the girl chatters, Labiaxa understanding almost nothing. The girl holds out both hands to draw Labiaxa to her breast, but when Labiaxa hesitates, the chattering stops. The Nautikon bows again, sputtering apologies.
I’m sorry…to touch you…it was a grave impertinence!… She lowers her wide-set eyes. Her blue complexion purples. I humbly beg your forgiveness…O Princess Labiaxa…!
Labiaxa gasps, her gills aflutter.
How, she thinks, how could this stranger know my name?
But the Nautikon has read her thoughts.
How could I fail to know your name? Is it an offense to mind-speak it?
The woman bows still lower, fairly scraping the tentacled ground with her cranial fin. As for her own name, she says, the Princess may call her Oôo. And though she is the youngest of the Council of Twelve, she is a confidante of the Queen…perhaps, though she does not wish to boast, Her closest adviser. Of all the Twelve, Oôo alone has prophesied the time of Labiaxa’s arrival. Though no one believed her.
Oh, but now they will have to believe me…!
The woman prattles on excitedly. Her eyes flash. Labiaxa is reminded of the girls at school in their gossipy clutches.
You appeared before me in the mirror of Oooee…I knew your arrival would be soon…and now…Mother of the One True Man! You have come…and now the prophesy may be fulfilled…your own man child shall carry estro-wisdom to the world of air…to the sacred water place atop the holy mountain…and there shall be three maidens to test Him…water and blood to purge Him of His demons…and the True Man in His infinite wisdom…He will rise above His own base urges to save mankind from itself!
Holy mountain? Blood? Mother? says Labiaxa. But I am no child’s mother! What is all this nonsense?
Forgive me…I have said too much! I always say too much! I bid you welcome, Princess! The Nautikon gestures broadly. Welcome to our Zone of Estro-Wisdom and Governance!
Labiaxa looks away from her adolescent hostess to survey the towers. Twelve are of equal stature, identical in majesty and light. But one tower, at the apogee of the elliptical courtyard, looms larger than the rest. The glass is more lustrous. The light is more vivid. And high above its companions, at the very capital of this grand spire, perch not one but two coruscating blue domes. Inside this grandest of towers Labiaxa can see a pantomime of figures haloed by the pale internal glow – hundreds of them, turning spirals and falling in clusters. They rain down and, as if magnified by the thickening glass at the base, appear to grow larger as they fall.
Labiaxa follows them with her eyes until they reach the
lowest part of the tower. There the glass is of a wholly different character. Supple, gelatinous, it ripples and throbs like matter suspended between its liquid and solid states. Now and again openings appear in this pliant wall – huge arcades and small portholes no bigger than a child – and out of these openings Nautikon children spill onto the Lawn of the Anemones. They mass confusedly about the foundation of the tower and then, as more children pour out behind them, fly off into the water like bees from a hive.
Oôo’s eyes glitter on the sides of her proud head like twin pearls.
You seem alarmed, dear Princess! But why? This is your city, she mind-speaks. These…these are your children who pour forth from the lofty Ôva. The Spires of the Twelve are your birthright. As is all of Nautika. Princess, if I may –
But suddenly there is another massive explosion. A rift tears across the Lawn of the Anemones, and black coils of stone big as cypresses reach out in all directions. A single aching red finger touches a nearby tower. Labiaxa watches in horror as the glass crazes and crackles. The water is riven by an earsplitting shriek. But the tower refuses to fall.
Oôo screams. She stoops close to Labiaxa, grasping her goatskin skirt like a child.
Papa was right, Labiaxa mind-whispers, forgetting that her companion can hear her every dreadful thought. A terrible fate shall soon befall this miraculous city. Nothing can stop the rage of Earth-Man. He will bury Nautika forever.
What? says Oôo, looking up beseechingly into Labiaxa’s eyes. Bury us…forever?
Labiaxa’s mouth draws tight across her face. She feels pity, but for whom? For Oôo? For Nautika? For herself?
I am afraid this is true, she says. My father is a very wise man. This very morning he warned me of – But here Labiaxa pauses. How can she tell this woman that her civilization is about to meet its fiery end?
Yes, it is of Aricos you speak! Father of the Mother of the One True Man. His wisdom is legendary! But please, go on, Princess. I beg you.
By day’s end, the mountain we call Etna will cast its innards upon the sea and bury your fair city – our fair city – for eternity!
Oôo extends her trembling arms toward Labiaxa. Unexpectedly she begins to speak aloud. Labiaxa hears the Nautikon tongue voiced for the first time. The words extrude from a pool of pure vowels. They come in a torrent, in a trill, like a flute played by constant wind.
“Ooooeeeaeeeoooooooaaaaaaa…”
At first all Labiaxa hears is a long lament. But gradually the wail subdivides into words, coalesces into sentences. To her astonishment she understands everything the Nautikon says.
“Please, Princess – I beg of you, follow me! Do you understand? Yes? Of course you do! I would mind-speak, but this trembling…these portents…my mind is a jumble of…And this matter, your arrival, is more urgent than I thought. You must…you must speak with the Queen now – ”
Another clap of volcanic thunder. A bright fissure races up the side of a distant minaret.
“ – before it is too late!”
Oôo fans out her flippered hands. She draws taut the webbing under her arms, seizes Labiaxa by the hand, and together they sprint across the lawn toward the highest tower. Through a throng of naked young Nautikons, Oôo drags her messianic charge. Though the city quakes and burns, these children of the sea coo and smile. They dance and laugh. They reach out to embrace Labiaxa, but Oôo shoves them roughly aside until they reach the base of the tower. An opening appears before them, and Oôo ushers Labiaxa inside.
The spire, she sees now, has no floors, no parapets or stairs, no features that Labiaxa can discern. Only those smooth cylindrical walls that taper to a vanishing point many fathoms above. At intervals that point dilates to reveal a disk of blue radiance that cascades down the tower.
The Nautikon children frolic more thickly here. They appear on all sides, stroke her hair, nuzzle her breasts. Soon Labiaxa loses Oôo in the writhing blue mass. A child lands astride her shoulders and she can feel the girl’s naked sex on the back of her neck. Another wraps its arms around a thigh, like a toddler who has at last found his mother in a crowd.
Finally a hand seizes Labiaxa by the elbow. Oôo darts upward, and the children fall away from them, giggling and cooing. Over the riot of children’s voices, she can hear Oôo sputtering on about singing spermata and mirrored halls, the fleshly straits called the Royal Vulvorum and the legion fingers of the great and awesome Ôva…
As they climb higher inside the tower, the crowd grows thin and – though this must be a trick of the mind – the children appear to grow younger. Some sort of reverse ontogeny is taking place in this magic spire. One moment Labiaxa is surrounded by adolescents; a few paces upward and she sees only toddlers, thumb-sucking and babbling; farther still and she dodges a swirl of falling infants, knees drawn and gurgling.
The hand that clutches hers has grown smaller as well. She looks up at Oôo but sees that she is holding the hand of a small girl, no more than three or four years of age. Releasing the child’s hand, Labiaxa looks frantically for her guide.
“Oôo! Oôo!”
“Silly!” the little girl shouts. “Silly, silly Princess! I’m right here!”
“Oôo?”
“I leave go down or maybe I’m a baby too!” She laughs. “Baby-baby too-too! Baby-baby too!”
“Oôo! What is happening to you? What is this place?”
In reply Oôo jabs her little index finger toward the dilating blue disk far overhead.
“Mama house!” she says. “Princess Mama-Baby! You go Mama house!”
Then, after giving Labiaxa a quick kiss on the brow, the diminished Oôo somersaults down into the cascade of children. She is gone.
You go Mama house!
Labiaxa looks at her own hands, at her full breasts, her downy sex, her knees and feet. She remains a woman. But as she continues upward, the transformation she undergoes is perhaps more profound. Her muscles grow stronger. The walls of her heart thicken. Her womb expands in direct proportion to her widening mind. And even as the tower rumbles around her, she feels peace and purpose. All is still unknown to her, but it feels known, and that is enough.
You go Mama house!
She swims. Labiaxa’s flesh quickens with nerves that have never before been touched. The water caresses her throat. It effervesces inside her every cell. At the core of her being she bristles with a thousand anemones of pure sensation. She groans. She shivers. Her tongue goes cold in her mouth. Just half a furlong farther, Labiaxa tells herself, and she will surely climax!
You go Mama house!
She swims. Her gills contract. The very breath is stolen from her breast. The blue light inside the tower fades to gray. She swims, and blood-red sparks spiral around the dying sun of her mind. She swims as if she were ascending an endless cataract. She swims, spiraling upward, upward, until the estro-wisdom pours so thickly into her gills that she swoons, convulses, and at long last, climaxes.
THIRTEEN
Rep. Frost: I want to pick up where we left off yesterday with the subject of the victims in the so-called Oaken Bucket incident. You are on record as saying you socialized with the Mills girls and Miss Stephens. What were the parameters of your interaction?
Agent Diaz: Suntanning, dinner.
Rep. Frost: Did you know these girls before, before your arrival at the [Censored] theme park?
Diaz: Absolutely not. And look, if you’re trying to insinuate –
Rep. Frost: Nobody’s insinuating. The House of Representatives isn’t a forum for insinuation. Now please describe your initial encounter with the victims.
Diaz: Gladly. It was the day I arrived. I’d spent the morning vetting the custodial staff, asking my usual bullet-point questions. Management was cooperative in terms of keys and schematics and whatnot. The sisters who run that place have a genuine concern for the homeland. They were sensitive to the needs of my investigation, although it was difficult at times to tell them apart.
I’d been driving all night so, man, was I
bushed. I found a chaise what-do-you-call-it on the patio and put my dogs up. The weather was unseasonably warm, I’m told, for that altitude, even in August. No sooner do I close my eyes when I hear the aforementioned young ladies enter the premises. Miss Mills number one – that would be I think Brenda – she was in a situation with her folding patio chair. Because of my expertise with my dad’s pool business, I’m intimately familiar with every make of collapsible furniture. So I offered my assistance, nothing more.
Then it was later that evening that I ran across them again in the, uh, dining area.
Rep. Frost: So you had dinner with them?
Diaz: In a manner of speaking. I got a basket of what they call Nuggets. Everything on the menu is done in a Gold Rush motif, consistent with the overall conceit of the facility. So I got Nuggets, and these girls – they were college girls, as I said, there to blow off steam. So they were maybe having some beverages.
Rep. Frost: Were you, Agent Diaz, partaking?
Diaz: In the beverages? Yes, in moderation. It was a house specialty called the Pink Mine Shaft, which come to think of it, is a suggestive name. I was off duty, so I helped them polish off a pitcher. You have to understand our directive at WATERT. It’s to blend in with the populace to whatever extent is deemed safe. I deemed the Pink Mine Shaft to be within the parameters of safe.
But circumstances quickly exceeded those parameters. I looked over and who’s sitting nearby but him – Mr. Rath. I mean the nerve, not to mention the unprofessionalism, considering the covert nature of his own operation. It was kind of, from a peer professional angle, kind of unreal. If the 9⁄11 guys had been this bold, we would have nabbed them in a heartbeat.
Rep. Frost: And yet no one, as you say, nabbed Mr. Rath.
Diaz: Well, yes, there’s that element of irony again. An element of irony that led to the endangerment of innocent life. The Patriot Act doesn’t give us authority to just detain American citizens because they share your taste in hotels. Maybe you’ll take that into consideration when the act comes up for review. With Rath I was still in a watch-and-observe mode.
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