Smell them coming. I can smell their shape, getting the contours. Three. Like horses, bigger than me. A sound—galloping—bearing down fast. I scramble down the enclosure; Sphinx grips tighter. Muffled banging from the building—the galloping closer. I throw myself over the verge of the plateau into the flowerless spears.
The galloping thud-clomps to a halt.
I hold my breath. It’s quiet.
Several minutes pass … did I not … ? I haven’t taken a breath. Maybe I don’t need to. Feel the air tinged with chlorophyll, a sensation like fingertips grazing across my neck. Diffusion like goose bumps. Clicking and metal scraping sounds come from the building. Peek up: at the entryway, three creatures face the building. Animals. They stand foolishly unbalanced on dog legs holding up hippo bodies further miscegenated with cow udders that dangle like shriveled water balloons. Pin-cushioned black and white, faces like dented cans, and ears like tulips. Long thistled horse tails swish behind as if to usher together all these randomly sorted bits of animal toys.
One of the creatures has his head inside a panel in the wall of the building … seems to be chewing. The door within the enclosure slides upward, and a person is shoved forward by unseen hands. A man with red hair—he’s short—it’s that same one, the boy. He turns to the door and bangs the sides of his fists against it and keeps banging and banging and banging and banging. Until he drops exhausted and slides to the floor, his arms dragging down the door.
The Cowdogs gather around him. He’s sobbing, gulping air as if he’s trying to eat it, fidgeting. Time passes, his breath slows, the creatures continue to observe.
He turns over, his back against the door, and looks up at them. Inaudible … what’s he saying? His voice getting louder, “… please, please, please … please, please, please”—he staggers to his feet, projects his voice louder—“… isn’t there someone out there who can help me? Someone’s out there, please!”
A rope darts from one of the creatures to the boy and hangs in the air—another rope from a second Cowdog—not rope, tongues—tongues from their mouths wrap around the boy’s wrists and arms, slam him back up against the mesh, and lift him up, his feet kicking the air. His scream slashes me.
The third Cowdog shoots his tongue out, and it wraps around the boy’s neck twice, strangling his cry. He seems surprised—his rabid eyes bulge furiously back and forth, nostrils sucking violently. Should I, can I even do anything? Would I be able to hurt them? Sphinx rustles at my neck. Can’t risk it.
The boy’s tension attenuates bit by bit … his body grows slack … quiet … still. Hung.
His body becoming tense again … swelling, muscles expand, straining arms, popping veins, skin tearing, epic steroidal muscle growth—anatomical freakshow, blood dripping down his Atlas legs; interlaced muscle fibers visible, he blows up like an inflatable doll, growing three, four times his previous size, his face turning green; muscles turning green, his face fat and bulging, his whole body turning bright green
POW
like confetti raining down, turned into slivers of green. And all that remains of him is on the floor. At the bottom of the metal enclosure in a heap, the scent of chlorophyll stronger.
The Cowdogs have retracted their tongues, and the lead Cowdog returns to the open panel, rummaging with its nose. The metal floor of the cage slides out beyond the grated area to form a trough. The three Cowdogs dip their heads into the grass and begin chomping. I drop my head down and take a slow, deep, unnecessary breath.
Their words roll across me like globs of fat.
Squirming before their hard, elongated faces and coarse hide, I roll my eyes to see Sphinx. He appears to be attentive while flexing his claws.
The middle sister fires her tongue upward and backwards: with a wet slap it lands between her eyes, now crossed and looking inward. The sister to the left shoots her tongue out, landing on the first cow’s neck, and the third sister does the same on the opposite side. They remain motionless in a V, the first sister’s eyes rolled back into her head, showing the whites. A mouth opens in her throat:
YOU HAVE NO FUTURE.
As they withdraw their tongues, I have an instinct—
I spin off my helmet, grab Sphinx, throw him straight up into the air—
their tongues are around me, wrapping my neck, slithering down my suit against my body, clamping me in place.
I look up. Sphinx, his wings flapping. He is flying up, almost to … into the clouds, and he’s gone. They each speak from a second mouth.
The air writhes like simmering hot tar. Their tongues unwrap and release me as the Sisters’ bodies go spastic, their rear legs wriggling and growing thicker. They close their straining eyes, struggling … return to their previous appearance.
My legs burn like torn muscle and broken bone. Grip them, try to hold them in—my vision fractures, splitting, tripling, shattered exponentially into smithereens, anarchic stained-glass window of ketamine-flatspace. No shapes, just movement and colors overlapping. My legs feel bigger, my knees bend backwards, my snake feet are merging, flattening out, my thighs grow stronger like coiled springs—feeling blindly, fingers contact my helmet, grip it—
leap as high and far as I can,
sailing through the air, wind against my face like cool water,
landing on my head, rolling in a ball, skidding, dirtburn my face, stones cut,
getting my feet under me, leaping again and again and again and again
until I feel a long way off, and stop to listen.
A shallow susurrus of the sky strokes my ears, and I taste a vegetable scent. Uniform brown except the sky which is sallow. Indistinct. No, not indistinct, pixilated. Blocky pixels—my eyes—touch them, no don’t touch them—my eyes. Don’t touch them. Replace the helmet; my arms look like needles. Maybe they are.
A swinging chandelier of movement appears—I swerve to avoid it—it’s behind me—is it? Every direction is in front of me. I run, dizzy and kaleidoscopic. Nausea wells up in my guts. It’s not getting smaller—tracking me—getting larger. I close my eyes and run and run, tripping, falling,
my forearms protect me, getting up, pulling my feet free, open my eyes—impaled by knives—find the clearest, lightest colors—run. I’m running into the beige.
A tap on the back of my head.
“… iskernt?”
My brain hurts. Uhhhn. Pain. No longer running … firm cushions behind my back … and fragrance of rosewater. My body leaden. Honey on my palate.
“Cahn’t tell,” to my side, gruff and low.
Turn my head, which creaks like an old door, and open my eyes: an eye is looking back at me. A single canary-bright eye living on the side of a purple wine bottle. A hand comes into view and pokes the eye, which blinks several times and glistens. Tears roll across it and fill up inside the bottle. I look back up: perhaps twenty or thirty feet above, a white vaulted ceiling veined in lavender—large room. Turn my head the other direction: a doll—plastic bear about two feet tall. A red hat and ears like quartered avocados ornament a spherical head that sits on a shiny camel-colored body. Eyebrows are imperfectly sketched on its excessively high forehead above a black-tipped ball for a nose and dark dead eyes. The doll’s fat champagne-blush cheeks are split by a smile like a blood orange slice.
What is happening? Lying on a cushioned table, a white sheet with black trim over me. The doll hops up on my chest—weight of a sandbag. It looks from one of my eyes to the other. Fat arms a little too long for a normal teddy. Bathed in smoky light.
“Looks likees comprehendin’. Ja make shaw ’is mouf worked? Moibee ees listenin’. Could be shy or stupid.” Beardoll steps off my chest to stand by my side. He leans toward me, his face square with mine. He’s a sturdy little thing. “You awoike?” he asks me.
I feel my throat gathering strength, mouth moving, sound forcing itself out. “Yes.”
“There ya’ go. Jus’ gotta let go, release the bolus in yer caant. Relax that tight sphincta’. So owd’yah stay
smaht out there? Evry caant thass wandered in ’ere is dumb as a caant. Not as long as I remember ’as a biped made it. Which could actually be no time at all. Dunno. Can’t remember caantall. What about you?”
Untouchable grey shrouds and dull figures. “Not much.”
“Right. What I’m sayin’, arsecaant,” Beardoll grins. “What were yuh, born yesterday?”
“What do you mean?”
“I dunno. Go wiv it. Whyd’ya even ask?” he grins again. “So, what’ll we do wiv yer? And what’ll you do wiv us?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
Beardoll looks at me with raisin eyes.
“Oo are you tryna find?”
“Nothing is lost or found,” I reply. Where’d that come from? He takes a step back—a small one given two stumpy legs. Another tendril of rosewater tickles my nostrils. “Well. What are you?”
“Whutcha mean?”
“You look like some sort of plastic doll. Are you a robot?”
“That’s a stupid fahkin question, innit? What’s a robot caant?” he asks.
“I know the answer.” A sultry woman’s voice weaves its way to me.
I look past Beardoll and see a small woman floating upon a voluptuous red and black chaise. Numerous torches in sconces along the walls light the room—wait, she’s not small, she’s large and on the opposite side of the room. She leans her body toward us and rises from her elaborate throne. She is very tall. A glowing halo floats above her head. She’s taller than I am, and her head is disproportionate—more than four times the size it should be.
“’E’s awake, Queen.”
“Yes, I heard all that, Dumkin,” she says, walking closer.
“Y’know the shite ’e’s mouthin’?”
“Yes, I do because I can sense images of his ancestors. When I slide my senses through his spiral patterns, I get memories of perceptions … perceptions of memories, ideas represented from his past. They eddy like water currents, and I can finger through them like a finfish. I can rearrange them, flow them in different directions. Slide them apart and reassemble them. Like a zipper.” Her blue eyes sizzle my insides.
“He’s talking about historical names,” she continues. “You’ve got the words in your head too; you just can’t match them up. The pictures are buried in there. When I touch him … intriguing … reminds me of … how I came to be. Why don’t you tell me what you are able to recall, how you came to be here, and then I’ll share my history with you.”
I sit up to look at her better. Graceful, lustrous, and completely nude. A flush warms her cheeks beneath the strobing corona above her head. She’s wearing a necklace with what appears to be a calligraphic rendering of the letter “B” dangling between her breasts. Her breasts—casually present and overwhelming—candy pink nipples. As she glides forward, her crown reveals itself to be a halo of bees. And the night is in her hair.
A tic has assaulted my cheek. “Yes. Okay.”
She turns her head, her prodigious girl head as wide as me. I follow her eyes to a grand window behind her chaise. A lawn so manicured that it appears to be brushed on with watercolors cradles a sphere of sparkling blue in the distance.
“Your eyes,” a silken voice unwinds from her wide mouth, “were fairly useless, so I changed them. And your structure was poorly balanced, so I consolidated. Considering where you are likely from, I assumed you’d feel more comfortable.”
The sheet slides off as I look down at my feet: bare white and consummately sculpted. A new me has solidified this moment. Human feet. Human? I touch my feet, but I can’t quite feel them—the scales on my fingers repel the contact.
“Welcome to my demesne,” she says.
“Thank you.”
She gazes at me with cool placid possession. “Well, it’s nice to have a guest. This is Dumkin,” she gestures at Beardoll, “and I am the Snow Witch. You are surely hungry from your journey. Are you epicurean?”
At once I’m aware of how cramped my stomach is. I nod.
“Excellent!” she almost sings. “I think this will be a special occasion. We shall have waterbreather. See to it, Dumkin.” The Beardoll turns and jumps off the table.
“Yes, yer majesty.” He scampers across the room and scoots under a heavy white hemp-like tapestry hung in an archway.
“Now. Tell me your story.”
“I …”
“Take your time. What can you remember?”
My feet. Look at those feet. Are these phantom limbs? I’m wearing a fine-spun robe printed with a red and black ziggurat pattern. How’d I get here? The three cowdogs. Exploding human? Was that real? My arms, hands, chest—still scales. Careful. Don’t reveal too much and give advantage.
“I’m not really sure.”
“What were you doing before you came here?”
“I lose track of time. All I know is I’ve been wandering and searching. Heard there was a war, I think. An apocalypse party, and I missed it. Just slept through it, I guess.”
“Searching for what?”
“Guess I’m trying to figure that out. A person. A bird. Who might be in a circus. Someone that can help me … find the truth about my history.”
“How about I tell you what I think happened and you tell me if I’m right?”
I nod.
“You were a huma living in a huma city. You had to escape because of a violation of act or thought or were thrown out for poor performance. You wandered around, were caught in a vortex or two—hence the mishmash of body parts—but managed to survive, and washed up here. You are confused and cannot find your way. Am I right?”
“Ah, that sounds about right.” Not really.
“Mmmh,” she murmurs. “Poor fellow. I can fix you up in the fashion you want to be. I’m not sure where you get this idea of a war. Your species didn’t destroy itself in battle. It just became … obsolete. According to my book, which is true history, it starts in a time—or perhaps a distant place—when humas worshipped stories. Stories of the past. Beings lived and died for them. They exalted the stories and the interpreters of the stories. Until one day, a creature of story was born. The Chimera, who was able to perform acts more astonishing than those in any story ever worshipped, exerting will through his seventh chakra. Or so I call it. And the Chimera was able to breed, and many of us were born, and they called us the Children of the Chimera. This much I remember. We touch things and re-write them. We can heal or end life. We were stories manifest. Spellcasters. Bodies were shallow surfaces to us. We walked the double helix. We plucked chromosomes. We ladled RNA. The primordial protein soup. There was a time worshipers lined up for miles. All the old stories erased like so much advertising. Unfortunately, after some long duration had passed of continuous editing of forms (long after time had ended), we created vortices of alteration. Cast too many spells and … they wouldn’t stop. We induced magical resonances. Altered the fabric of the chromosphere. Bonds just would not commit. An example: Dumkin’s mud. Squirreled up patterns that don’t fit any living creature. The structures could not be rebuilt as they had been. But … at least it was thrilling for a while.”
She draws her finger contemplatively down her neck, her eyes cast upward. “I used to be able to direct it, but now every time I change him he becomes … not quite what I wanted. I think I’ve become a bit forgetful what different forms feel like. It will be nice to have you here. Someone solid. I can get my senses in order again. I can harvest your structure, and it will all come into focus. Shape, mold, and pinch patterns, rearrange, insert”—she takes a deep breath—“messaging beyond death, good or evil. Unusual combinations stir me. Playing can be addictive. The ability you see is very … arousing. I can make you into anything I want, truly anything. And I can be anything I want. But we’ve got forever, so we can take our time.”
I step off the table and back away.
“Don’t be scared,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’ll make you stronger and healthier. More interesting.”
Farther away.
In the guttering torchlight, her eyes tremble like flames of blue gas—warm my cheeks, sear my eyes, and trace fire down my throat and into my stomach. She toys with her crown and causes the insects to flow around her fingers like a river rushing past a jutting twig. Where can I go? I drop my arms.
She strolls sinuously up to the table and hefts the Bottle of the Eye. She pinches the neck between her thumb and index finger as she tilts it back and pours some of the tonic into her mouth. The Bottle waggles in her hand, and she flicks it hard in the eye. It goes limp, blinks a few times, and tears collect inside.
“I have … an incunabulum I wish to bring to your attention,” she says as she holds the bottle toward me. The velvety fragrance of roses crosses my lips. With a clenched fist, I grab the neck; it drops—heavy!—catch it. Doesn’t look as heavy as it is. Use both hands and swallow rosewater and tears.
“The book I told you about. It might lead you to this circus that you seek.” She drops her arm over my shoulders, and my penis stirs. A chill runs through me. Movement outside. Steel myself and walk out from under her arm to the window. The effort feels like yanking out a tooth. Long shadows nuzzle the sumptuous royal chaise sitting on a platform of polished wood. The picture window behind the dais is framed in stone adorned with gilted images of trees bearing fruits and seeds; flowers; birds of all kinds: hawks and sparrows, crows and doves; and insects of many stripe: bees and dragonflies, beetles and weevils. Outside, a creature like a warthog on horse legs gallops toward the ball suspended like a water planet. When this Clydes-hog gets to the blue marble, it rears up on its hind legs—at full height its front hooves just touch the sphere—and paws at it until a hose of gleaming liquid jets from the puncture. The creature is carrying some kind of saddlebag on its back, and the stream spurts into the open bag. The leak becomes a trickle and stops altogether. As Clydes-hog drops to all fours, the bag swings down, and it gallops back toward us, to this—what is it? Castle?
A Greater Monster Page 12