“I recall … a city.”
“Di city? Oonu lucky dey alive—ites. I dell yuh, iah. Dis, right heeya. Seem like yuh did dey homosap—stan ona plate lak dawg balls, nuh?”
“What?”
“Saahib. Ho-ehmo is funny. Yes, indid. Dhey eat dhe-ar own child’s footure. Actully like bairus. But actully lookin-gh ona you now—pleaze!—I pershive rain dat changes is slow dee homochrome espect ona your bio-elogicle pro-spec-tius. Which iza vhery goot, becaaz … I bein-gh ho-ehmo hunter-walla, is what my nem is called.”
“You’re a what?!?!” Raised my voice. Sphinx rustles his wings in the hall and looks up.
“Yes, dee same is true. I wood hunt ho-ehmos ona time to time.”
“What? Where do you do that?”
“Just I wood drive to dis ting, dee sheety. Ho-em of deh ho-ehmo, right? Not too much far. You goa witha me?”
“A city? Yeah, I’ll go but … can we just stay here for a while? Catch my breath?”
“Sheety-Shmeety, do no be in tension. Is boring-boring. Free of cost! Where you are going anyway?”
“I need to not go anywhere for once.”
“Huntin’ homos iss tough, eh vato? Jew need a coo-icka hand … jew-kno-wha’-I-mean?”
“No. I don’t know—I mean yes, I know what you’re saying—what the fuck is … what is up with your voice?”
“What you mean?”
“Nothing, nothing, nevermind. Forget it. I should know better.”
“Jew-need-to-relaaax.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Simmer down, no? For a colda blood … you sure get caliente.”
“Okay already.”
“Jew kno wha’ I’m sayin’?”
“You’re saying that you need a quick hand.”
“What it is dat?”
“Why?”
“That it is correct, what it is dat?” He points a stiletto-sharp finger at me.
“You’re saying you don’t know?”
“Pos si, I know, but I want to know if you know. No?”
“Cuz you’re shooting them.”
“How to kill someone and not take a life, mi hermano.”
“Sounds like a riddle.”
“It iss the riddle of life, issn’t it? It is eassier to take a life than to give a best one. You see, I yam notso intrrested in killin’ homos. I do dat too sometime … when deemood strike me, but killin’ iss downrigh’ borin’. Changin’ somebody’ss mind. Now that it iss interresstin’.”
“Yeah, that’s interesting, all right.”
“You e-nevuh tinking sho? You e-nevuh tink. Me show.”
Black Stalk goes to the unmoving clock with the smiling face. He turns the hands to the right, turns them to the left, and again clockwise. The nose of the face opens and a small bird pops out on a spring.
BOING!
Black Stalk pulls on the spring, and the clock swings out from the wall to disclose a small door with a horizontal handle. His fingers flow around the handle, and he pulls open a narrow metal drawer from which he removes an object: a smoky crystal conch shell. He rolls his long fingers at me like falling dominos, and I draw closer. Not exactly a conch, it has a cornucopian shape but with a hole through the center like a torus. Black Stalk tugs on the drawer handle again and an even deeper, wider second filing-cabinet-sized drawer pops out of the wall. Secrets behind secrets. Dozens of vials fill this new drawer; a hand of steam curls out, chilling my spine. We stand facing each other on opposite sides. He pulls out a vial and holds it up to my face. I feel stiff and tired.
“Dis is riquid hishtory.”
Half filled with viscous solution, the vial is labeled, “Pantera onca.” He holds up another, “Loxodanta Africana,” and a third “Balaenoptera musculus.”
“Dese words nutting mean to you, me sure. Rong elase by dee Glate Nihiwators.”
“I don’t … know. They are genus and species but I don’t know what. I could guess.” Elephant? Africana sounds like a place.
“Genius an specious. Geniis and spay-sheez. Unlemasterbate since dee Glate Unlavering. When dee waws came tumberin’ down.”
“That’s nice. What are you talking about?”
“Net shee now …” Black Stalk strikes the base of the cornucopia and a cartridge pops out onto the palm of his hand. He places it upright in the drawer. “Now, mmmh”—he squats down, looking at the sides of the vials—“tiss one”—he pulls one out and tilts it, Ursus maritimus—“an den”—Leontopithecus rosalia—“an anudder”—Mantella aurantiaca.
He uncorks them, pops the lid off the cartridge, pours about a third of each vial into it, re-corks, and replaces the vials in the drawer. He repeats this process for two other cartridges that he pulls out of his chest before replacing them. The vapor licks his stalks like a cat’s tongue. He snatches up the first cartridge, locks the lid, and agitates it violently while giving the drawer a hip-check shut; another blast curls out. I smell the chemical crispness of dry ice and feel woozy. He slams the cartridge into the bottom of the crystal horn, slides two fingers through the hole, and spins the piece gunslinger-style. The steam crawls up Black Stalk’s body and clings to his fibers, metamorphosizing him into the burning husk of a self-immolating monk.
“Den we go ki’wus some homos.”
We are at the front door, the door is open, Black Stalk is in front of me, Sphinx just behind. The air outside is blurry. Confetti is falling.
“Holt!” calls Black Stalk.
We inhale as one, and across my tongue I taste cool enchantment.
Black Stalk motions us to stay back, and he steps outside. I can see now. Snow. Bone-colored fists of snow raining down, and Black Stalk’s rail of a profile is weaving and capering among the white globes, his line breaking up and reforming, extending and shrinking, lightning jagged and clean, dancing amid the spheres.
“Flozen watuh!”
Black Stalk stops. Bamboo against twilight. He pulls an object out of his chest (possibly one of the kernels?) and flings it into the air—it strikes a snowball—fireworks, a fireworks of limbs, of lace. It lands, and it’s a plant, already planted, immediately grown.
“Get bucket!”
The woman rushes from the door, thrusts buckets into my hands, and pulls me behind her. They’re setting buckets down. The feathers of snow drift like ideas. We pack them into the buckets. Sphinx stands with his mouth open to the sky, tongue sticking out, catching snowflakes. They melt across my cheeks. I scoop some into my mouth, and a choir sings.
The snow stops.
The woman trundles back into the house with buckets in both hands. Where did this raised ranch come from? Weathered wood stain—is it character or faux character? Black Stalk comes up beside me and remarks, “It my memento mori. Itn’i quaaaain? Now! Fowow me den.”
Bars of fog rise up on all sides toward a hazy circle like a urine stain; it’s as if I’ve tumbled down a massive well. Have to run to catch up to the strutting Stalk, who is taller by several feet. Soon a wall appears, and we are up to it. Seems a touch concave. The wall goes up so high—is there a top? Are we inside or out? Dark grey mortice lines outline rectangles of beige concrete like circuitry spreading outward and upward into impenetrable exhaustion. He stops in front of the wall, points at the unmarred surface.
“Dis heel dee wawl of tee shity. It boobytlap. Dey waw temselves in. Even wawl out a wota homos, I tole am sho. Dee corored peeper. Now dose lef be wewy mewalin chawenged. Dey wike ghose. Dare puwity is smehwls … smehwls of deaf.”
Black Stalk walks along the wall, and we follow, traveling in what seems to be a great, slow circle around his house. Seems to be the opposite side. Two steps lead up to a porch and a rocking chair while an aluminum frame containing the frazzled remains of a screen poses as a front door.
“How bwoody quickwe dee homos fehw, my deawuh chap. Ah wi’took wuda ludge, ludge, link, link. In dare hawts, dey know dee big cwock stwuck. Too cahwup, too clool—aimetty inside an shawow shurfashes. Shui-shide wishuwary by compe
hwishon.”
Before us: a vehicle up on blocks. A two-seater bobsled. At the front, two rickshaw bars project forward and a tangle of straps dangle between them. To the side: that glass cube. Next to the sled, the Bisonman with his eyes closed. “So mote it be.” Talking in his sleep?
“Hey Dion!” Black Stalk barks.
Bisonman flings his head around, “Attention!”
“Wake up. It me. Kernaw Bwack. Nee my wheews.” Kernel? Colonel Black?
Dion runs off and comes back with four large red wheels on his arms. Colonel Black slaps the tires on the sled while Dion fits himself into the straps. Colonel Black hurdles into the rear bucket of the vehicle and says, “Wet go!”
“But … I’m not sure I’m ready to go yet,” I say. For fuck’s sake, just got here.
“Ah, you nee be ahways wedy to go, fren. Go on, wet go.”
Fuck. Got to see this city anyway. Find some humanity. Maybe I don’t need to find a circus, just some sanity. I pet Sphinx on the head. Into the car. We roll off the blocks with a thud and continue smoothly and rapidly up to the wall. Just in front of it: a pit able to swallow me lengthwise three times across. Drops a few feet straight down and then slopes under the wall. Dion steps down into the hole with his front legs—we jerk forward, rolling down. I crane my head back but can see nothing. Dirt-dark. The tunnel levels off, and Dion trots along at a modest clip. The light has vanished behind, and pitch-blackness fills all the crevices. Detached, enclosed in cotton balls of blackness, alone, and alien. Time disappears in the up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down. My body, what’s happened to it? I can’t feel anything. When a light appears in the distance, my body returns; a candle grows to a window and becomes a rocky cave mouth. Disgorged from the cave mouth into the wan light at the top of a hill, we halt among head-sized stones before heading down the slope of blue grass. Why am I continually blindsided by this sky that hangs like a noose overhead? In the distance, another grey wall forces its way upward and to the left into the pea soup. The city must form a ring and this is the outer edge. To the right, the wall butts up against a bright blue forest. A river is visible along the bounds of the forest. Seems familiar … was I … three small animals, creatures on pedestals. A bird. A bird? Slaughtered? Did that happen? This does not bode well.
Dion pulls us beeline for the intersection of the river and the wall; the forest comes into focus across the yeasty suds. Pot roast mates with diarrhea against the roof of my mouth; static tickles my eardrums. The static amplifies and separates as we roll up, becomes moaning, moaning like thousands of creatures in pain. Or pleasure.
Once up to the wall, I notice a stream of black shit spewing from the city (or is it a sheety, as Black Stalk called it?) and melting into the rose-hued river. The odor is overwhelming. I feel woozy, and my pores tighten.
“Mek yu no torch dem wol, Akata. Se yu torch-am na kil dem go kil yu, na so e bi for dis ples.”
Don’t torch … touch … the wall. “Got it. What is this? Garbage?”
“Yes, dem dey shit. You wit mi go rait insaid dia shithole.”
“Oh. That’s sounds about right.”
“Put leg for rod, broda.”
“No. Wait. What about Sphinx?”
“Hea’ mi. Im fit swim insaid-am.”
Take that as yes. “But is it dangerous?”
“Noting no dey sef.”
Nothing no … day … they safe … nothing is safe? “Dammit, come on. Could he burn or melt or get eaten?”
“Aks-aks. Ah sabi sey dem tings hed no koret, atol. Bon troway … e no get sens … go hia-go-dia. Dem no fit sey mek a chop yu.”
I get out of the sled and walk to Sphinx. Behind me Colonel Black says, “Go!”
Get right up to the side of his head so he can hear me over the caterwaul. “I think I should go into this place. There may be … people … I don’t know. From my memories I have. Of beings like … like …”
A face. White wings.
“I have pieces of memories. Half-memories. I want to go in there and talk to them. I need to keep looking. Maybe the past will catch up with me.”
The bisonman runs back in the direction we came but without the sled.
“But I don’t want to go without you. Would you be willing to … dive into this? You’d have to swim under. It’s pretty much a river of shit. Errh, sucks. Totally sucks. If you do, we could both be inside.”
He trains his ardent eye on me, opens and closes his beak, and caws. Seems like a “yes.”
“Waka! Go kom no dey!” calls Colonel Black, “D kwik. Shain ai.”
“Okay. I have no idea what’s going on. I have no idea what’s going to happen. Just … follow us,” I tell Sphinx, petting his neck again.
Get back into the vehicle. A small dome rolls over my head and with a click seals me in. Look behind to see one is over Colonel Black’s head, too. The car drops nose-forward, and I bang my head against the dome. We roll off the embankment and dive into the river.
Grease flows brown and yellow and tan. Bloated intestines covered in fungus swarm after slicks and bladders of sewage and gas, glue and snot, dribbles of pudding. Gaping, ruptured bodies expose grotesque, tortured organs. Organic slime and bubbles of liver sway like undersea fauna. Muddy sage gruel spreads glum and suppuration.
We pass between the thick, rusty bars of a metal grate and break through the surface into darkness. The dome slides back, and gloom dances across the jagged underbelly of a festering metal leviathan. Colonel Black is holding up a burning bundle of sticks, and in the fidgety light I can see sheets of scum stream off the sides of our vehicle into the aqueduct of filth below. Ahead of us a narrow channel continues into darkness, and on either side are steps and ledges and obelisks of iron. A maze of protruding bars and bulkheads. Sphinx. I panic. His head breaks through the surface like a feathered periscope, and I’m calmed. Take a deep breath—the smell is outrageous! Bile burns in my throat—spew over the side.
“Come, no incourage dem,” says Colonel Black.
Not going to breathe for a while.
Sphinx has clambered up and onto the selvage, dripping with excrement. He shakes like a wet dog, and the dome slams back into place—Colonel Black must be controlling it—shit flying everywhere, spattering against the sled and our shields. Eventually Sphinx gives up, and the dome retracts. Colonel Black has looped the end of a rope around a cleat in the middle of the sled, and he throws the other end to shore. Sphinx clamps his beak on the rope and pulls us to the side. We climb out, and Colonel Black ties the sled to a bolt protruding from a rusting I-beam.
“Hia di smel-smel wota-wota shit from im bele, di bortom pot, dorti-dorti mes-mes,” he intones.
We thread a course among the planes and platforms and beams of metal beside the oily, black channel. Dirty and foul, Sphinx pads along with sodden smacks among the creaks, groans, and moist splats of the sewer. A buoy bobs just ahead in the canal: an icy, celery-colored jellyfish dancing in the flitting firelight. Closer … around its side … two lights, candle flames dance in deep gouges. I freeze. Sphinx tenses beside me, air whistling from his nostrils, whistling faster—
THUD
He’s fallen to his side, wings askew, legs thrashing.
“He’s hurt!”
“Ye kpa! Na baba jiga bi dat.” says Colonel Black.
“WHAT??? No!”
I step toward Sphinx, but he goes into a seizure, claws striking out, wings beating wildly—can’t get close.
“YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING!!”
I turn to see Colonel Black silhouetted against an immense gelatinous monster risen from the canal—a dripping, colorless capsule teeming with chihulyesque cilia. It falls toward us.
“LOOK OUT!”
Sprouting like branches from a wicked tree, its phlegm-coated arms catch it gracefully, and it ripples forward. Colonel Black turns, sees the thing right next to him, leaps to the
side—the torch sails up into the air
BANG against a metal platform,
the torch winks out.
I inhale frenetic air charged with ions.
It rises from the dark: a mammoth gob of a head, two empty sockets lit from inside. A gross mouthless, noseless face comes toward me. Sphinx’s claws screak against metal; I’m paralyzed as it closes—it skims past me toward Sphinx. I throw myself sideways, between its many stiff colloidal arms, to wrap my arms around its body—yelling and screaming, beating on it, punching, clawing—I’m pounding a mound of rubber. I’m powerless and drop to the floor. I am powerless and drop to the floor.
The torch winks back ON, and the monster is hovering over Sphinx, running its many arms over him, its cilia sliding into Sphinx’s nose, up his nostrils, and into his mouth. Metal bar, weapon? What can I grab? Tug uselessly at a post. The thing separates from Sphinx—and he’s clean. The black slime has vanished.
It glides toward the canal, its legs like the tines of a music box, but stops before me. It swivels as its bell-shaped head sinks down into its body until its burning eyes are level with mine. I look in, and the flame is hungry, opening wide to take me. I can see myself dancing in the flame. It flicks at me like a lizard tongue. I am Gad; did I just hear that in my head? A hole appears: mucilage disgorges all over my chest and hands.
Gad continues to the sewer channel, ignoring Colonel Black, and sinks beneath the surface.
The scent on my gloves creeps into my mouth: yeast. I lick the goo, but not much comes off on my tongue. I lick harder and break off a small lump—press it against the roof of my mouth. Bland. Like oatmeal. Sphinx’s paroxysm has ended. I’m next to him, scooping the secretions with my cupped fingertips and shoveling them into his mouth, drool down his chin. Colonel Black is next to me.
Sphinx moves his head and opens his eyes. He looks at me, and I feel a surge of adrenaline. He gets to his feet unsteadily and continues licking goo off my hand.
“God don bota ma bred! Yu do wel-wel,” says Colonel Black. “Mek you hori.”
A Greater Monster Page 15