Lion City

by Ng Yi-Sheng

  The surgeons waited for her command to cut the child’s throat, or to smother it in a bucket of ashes. But as she recalled her own joy when the Prince had nestled small in her arms, she felt her heart grow soft towards this monster, whimpering in the remains of its reptilian shell.

  “Prepare a nursery in the dungeons,” she told them. “He, too, is a Prince.”

  Over the next twelve years, she cared for the little spirit child as tenderly as any grandmother might. At night, after closing parliament, she would steal into his cell, push aside the indulgent nursemaids, and teach the boy the same songs she had learnt as a girl. “Where is he, my beloved kid goat, the one who eats yam leaves?” she would whisper. “Where is he, my heart, like a peeled egg?”

  On occasion, she would attempt to stain his milky hair with henna, or rub ointments and tinctures into his ivory skin, or else order the nurses to have him sit on a mat under one of the squares of sunlight that strained through the prison windows. But this only sickened the boy, so she relented, and let him remain in his shuttered chambers, where he seemed to grow whiter by the day.

  She had not, of course, given herself entirely to weakness. She had dealt with the child’s father severely, packing him off to a distant empire, where he could learn modern ways of warcraft and statesmanship without interference from either crocodiles or spirits. He would become civilised, she thought, and he would grow to be thankful of what she had done to secure his future.

  Still, she doted on the boy himself, and paid no heed when her spies reported how he had been walking the corridors of the dungeons, charming the jailors and jailed alike with his innocent banter. Nor did she admonish the child for making friends with her political foes, for sitting down with the scholars to study civics, nor for dancing with the mountebanks and learning the roles of their antique operas.

  Rather, she found comfort sitting in his cell, watching him demonstrate his graceful dances, clapping when he reproduced a cunning antic. It was a welcome distraction from the pains that had lately wracked her joints, from her fatigue and her sudden chills. For the Sultana was growing old.

  Then came a night when the Prince’s son ran to the chief warden, making incoherent noises of grief. The man dried his tears, and allowed him to pull his hand and guide him to the cell he used as his playroom.

  There, on the floor, lay the woman who had liberated the kingdom, the great visionary of the state; her eyes shut, suddenly smaller and more shrunken than she had ever appeared throughout her blessed reign. At once, he ran up the stairs and unbolted the door to the palace, crying out the news to all who lingered in the corridor. “Summon the Prince from abroad,” he cried, “for the Sultana is dead!”

  For a while, the boy knelt alone by the corpse, weeping. Then he raised his eyes, and noticed the dungeon door, open and unguarded.

  Soundlessly, he stepped through it and made his way into the city.

  V.

  The new Sultan was welcomed home with parades and pageantry. The broadsheets contained nothing but praise for his eloquence and his noble carriage, so much like that of his departed mother. Many feasts were held on the palace grounds, where young girls marvelled at his foreign costume of frock coat and spats, while their mothers gossiped over the prospect of a royal marriage.

  The truth was, after his long years abroad, he had become a stranger in his own country. Strolling the confetti-strewn streets, he could not help but be puzzled by the glistening towers that had replaced the monuments of his youth. Holding court in the palace, he felt trapped in a childhood dream, as if the walls would shortly dissolve to reveal some monster hidden in the labyrinth of his mind.

  Still, he believed in his duty. So he bore his burden, and as he ached, trade flourished, the kingdom continued to prosper. However, as the years passed, he noticed that the mood of his subjects had started to shift.

  Pedlars in the plazas muttered about his less popular decrees, while fishwives openly mocked his policies in the market. Poets wrote scathing satires of his rule and sold them at traffic junctions. Hordes of villagers gathered at the palace gates, petitioning peacefully, yet insistently, for change.

  “This will not do,” the vizier told him. “If the subjects lose respect for the crown, it will mean the end of the country as we know it.”

  “But who is behind this mischief?”

  “This is our chief suspect.” The vizier produced a sketch of a young boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, with ash-white hair and skin.

  That very evening, the Sultan travelled in his coach over the highways to the factory district of the north. He scanned the wasteland of mortar and chimneys, where lines of uniformed workers stood waiting to claim from the foremen their weekly pay. Amidst the squalor, he noted a crude zigzag of concrete that appeared to mark the course of a long-buried stream.

  Finally his vehicle halted outside a small building: a derelict powerhouse, judging from the rusted transformers and turbines that lay in its courtyard. This was the suspect’s headquarters. Here, the spies said, he would parley with the kingdom’s dissenters, their revolutionary conferences only interrupted by pantomimes and dances, in which the boy delighted.

  And indeed, there was music coming from within at this very moment. He alighted, and ventured beyond the darkened doorway. Inside was a chamber strewn with empty chairs and lanterns, and in the centre of it all, the boy was dancing. He wore a white cloak and sarong, and as he practised his ancient gestures, he sang an oddly familiar song.

  When it ended, the Sultan applauded with polite solemnity. The boy bowed before him. “Welcome, honoured sir,” he announced. “We have been waiting many a month for your majesty to grace us with his presence.”

  “Are you not afraid?”

  “Why should I be afraid?”

  “Because I could have you thrown into my dungeons.”

  The boy seemed to find this funny. This offended the Sultan.

  “I have seen enough. Farewell.”

  “Don’t go yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my father is coming.”

  “What matter is that of mine?”

  Another chortle. “You’ll see.”

  Suddenly, the room filled with the roar of crickets and the scent of mangroves and rainwater. There was a rumble of thunder, and there, in the light of the lanterns, was the white crocodile.

  Fearful, the Sultan reached into his waistcoat for his pistol. But the animal gazed at him with its deep platinum eyes, and something in the recesses of his memory stayed his hand. Reassured, the creature stood upon its hind legs and pulled back its jag-toothed jaws, as if unfastening a hood.

  Beneath its hide was a face, older, but still possessed of the features he had once caressed by starlight. “Who are you?” he demanded, though he already knew the truth in the pit of his stomach.

  Whereupon the crocodile spirit drew him close and kissed him, and pressed his hand to the wound on his breast. And the Sultan remembered all, and was glad for it.

  VI.

  The kingdom awoke the next morning to discover it was no longer a kingdom, for the Sultan had vanished. “The coward’s run off,” the citizens declared, and some cheered, and some wept, for they knew not what would become of their land.

  The palace exploded into a mess of intrigue. The courtiers became demagogues, the spies turned traitors for neighbouring kingdoms, and the beggars built shantytowns in the gardens of jasmine and orchid. On a whim, the vizier freed the enemies of the state and eloped with a nursemaid. Riots were rioted, shops were looted, and the marketplace milled with prophecies of doom.

  At night, however, all gathered outside the dungeons, where a troupe of wandering players had set up camp. There, a young boy with snow-coloured skin would greet the assembled crowds, and promise to inspire them with tales of hope; of battles won and lives to be lived happy ever after.

  And in the north, a jungle began to grow amidst the abandoned factories. An old river flooded and broke forth from the ea
rth.

  And in the waters of that river, two white crocodiles swam together.

  Little Red Dot

  After the incident in the Atacama Desert, my sister was convinced she could communicate with aliens. “They’re all over the place,” she told me. “People just don’t see them.” “Why not?” I said. “Because we’re blinded by our own senses. Because we’re so concerned with the petty details of our own lives. Because we’ve lost touch with the cosmic prana that suffuses the multiverse.” “What makes you different?” “I don’t know. I guess I’ve been chosen. Like a messenger. Like a prophet.” “Show me then.” “Show you what?” “Show me an alien. Deliver your message. Prophesy your prophecy, if that’s the word.”

  “That’s difficult.” “Why?” “Because in this dimension, they appear very small. Each one is microscopic, invisible to the naked eye. We can barely see their colonies, let alone their districts or their neighbourhoods or their homes or their faces.” “Quit stalling.” “I’m not.” “You said you’ve been chosen. Make whoever chose you proud.” “Well, there’s one.” “Where?” “Right here on your face.” “Don’t bluff.” “Look, I don’t have to put up with your nonsense either.” “OK, OK. Hurry up and say what it’s like.” “Hold on. I’m listening.”

  1. PORE

  In the city of Pore live three trillion souls. Like us, they have names, ages, races, religious affiliations and genders; unlike us, they may change these at their own whim and fancy over the course of space and time. Nonetheless, they are wildly chauvinistic, and at any given locus, will disdain all others who do not share their temporal attributes.

  They are an industrious folk, labouring mightily in their Sweat Mines, which are located in the bowels of their land, reachable only after plumbing the depths of the Dermis towards the holy of holies, which they call the Gland. Through the combined pressure of a thousand rough machines, they massage and milk the Gland of its nectar, delivering it up to the surface. Half the Sweat they drink, another quarter they distill into powder and eat. The final quarter they cast to the winds, an act which both cools the city and stimulates a sweet twang of sorrow in their breasts.

  They are for the most part uncurious. However, among them there are geographers, who not only map out the vertical tunnels towards the Subcutis and Pacinian Corpuscles, but venture to speak of worlds beyond the city’s rim. In all directions, they argue, there are great shafts of Hair, by which one can infer that the Skin is infinite; likewise, there are great shifts of temperature and pressure that indicate the presence of other Pores, where other miners cast their Sweat to the skies.

  Poreans view such theorists as harmless eccentrics, but will condescend to use their arguments in their internal feuds. For instance, they may insult one another by claiming their opponents must be descended from emigrants of other Pores, following which both sides of the quarrel will double up in laughter, then make peace by quaffing Sweat till they find their attributes and allegiances changed once more.

  Then there are the historians. These brave individuals have unravelled the tall tales of their people and held lengthy excavations of the Epidermis, and concluded that the city has a Past and a Future. They speak of cycles of sunlight and suntans, showers and facial scrubs, indoors and outdoors: great calamities that have befallen the populace, which they have nonetheless survived—tidings that are sure to inspire all who hearken to their words.

  Yet, they also warn that Pore’s current era of prosperity is fleeting. The city is undergoing an Inflammation, they say, possibly caused by such celestial phenomena as Acne, the Proboscis of a Mosquito, or Too Much Scratching. The glory of the city is unsustainable, and all must prepare themselves for the prospect of a great dwindling of glory, and learn to make do with less.

  For this discovery, Porean historians have encountered much calumny and abuse. Citizens have recently gathered, crossing lines of allegiance, to discuss what may be done to punish such blasphemers. Should they be buried in the tunnels? Or cast adrift towards the skies? Or should they be simply exiled, taken to the outer limits of their world and doomed to perish in the mighty desert of Skin?

  2. LASER POINTER

  Look what happens when I press this button: the Laserites appear. They are composed of photons, their bodies rough constellations of the most indivisible quanta of light. To see them, I must squint quite hard.

  The Laserites have an absolute monarchy. They believe in the Mandate of Heaven, the Divine Right of Kings and the Great Chain of Being. Their sense of aristocracy is unwavering: always, you will find their best and brightest at the centre of their court, clad in robes of blood and ruby; on the margins, the feeble and faded among them languish in rags of grey.

  But who is their King? Right now, He’s a spot on the wall: maybe a dust mote, or a groove in the paint. Their devotion to Him is unmitigated and complete, yet one can engineer a regime change with a flick of the wrist. See? Now their Lord of Lords is a thread in the tablecloth. Now He’s a speck on the ceiling. Now He’s a gecko’s toe.

  These rapid changes stand as a testament to the efficiency of Laserite bureaucracy. They perform successions in nanoseconds, shifting court and courtiers to distant capitals as if on wheels of fire. Heirs and usurpers are one and the same to them. Coronations, jubilees and funerals may take place within a single breath.

  Over the ages, Laserite society has proven resilient enough to survive even the most undeserving of rulers. A gob of phlegm, a bacterium, a quark—you name it, they will prostrate themselves before it. Regardless of the particular occupant of the throne, the same taxes will be levied, the same bribes paid, the same days of festival and public mourning observed.

  The King’s influence really only dictates the cultural fashions of the reign. For instance, in honour of the Gecko’s Toe, some Laserites have begun to speckle their faces and paint their skins with lacelike patterns of scales; the poets among them compose hymns in celebration of the newfound virtue of Adhesiveness.

  Tired old dotards occasionally grumble that they have known nobler Kings. Dust Mote was majestically agile as He danced with the air currents, they say. And the marriage of Tablecloth Thread with His weft, the two eternally intertwined in a sacred knot—why, such celestial heights of romance could never be conceived by the infantile minds of the Geckostoenian epoch.

  While Laserites frown on such complaints, they see no purpose in pursuing charges of treason. They, too, understand, that nostalgia ultimately serves to strengthen the regime.

  But what if the King should attempt to seize genuine power for Himself? What if He has a will of His own that is contrary to the traditions of the people? The Laserites have a legend of such a monarch. His name was Pupil, and he lived in an open eye.

  None actually remember Pupil’s specific transgression. But, His punishment remains on record. On an unspoken command, every rank in the kingdom rose up to blind Him.

  3. TERRAPIN EAR

  I have owned Terry for twenty years, ever since I was a child. Now, in her senescence, wearied by my foolish games, she rests at the base of her glass terrarium, steeping in her own unfiltered sewage.

  Never before have I noticed the twin villages that cling to the sides of her head. Each is of a goodly size and prosperous, boasting a gopuram, an amphitheatre and a haberdashery at its centre; each is surrounded by lush green farmlands where peasants tend their fields of Mucus, yodelling and whistling under cubical hats as they stand knee-deep in the wet.

  The people of both hamlets are much the same: both have jet-black eyes and skin, no hair to speak of and a peculiar scent of fish oil about their ears. Both follow the same religious denominations; both speak the same dialect of Terrapinese. Yet visitors cannot fail to notice one distinction between the communities. You see: every resident of Left Ear is unmistakeably male, while the folk of Right Ear are entirely composed of the female gender.

  This has no great bearing on reproduction. The village children are hatched from eggs, which arise spontaneously from the
earth of both villages. The young are adopted by various households at monthly meetings in the amphitheatre, and are home-schooled using a set of ancient almanacs bound with Algae and Eyelid. From their earliest years, they learn the cosmology and ontology of their civilisation, the righteous acts of their heroes, and the seasonal duties of the Mucus farmers: when to plant their crop, when to harvest it and when to pickle it for the bitter winters.

  Among their lessons are the rules of courtship. Infant Rightlings and Leftlings are first introduced to their male and female counterparts through a series of crudely drawn cartoons. At first, they may laugh at their freakishness: these malformed copies of their species, who dare call themselves equals. But their elders shush them, and swear by all the Yazatas of the Carapace that these grotesque forms are the very embodiment of beauty.

  In their adolescence, the Rightlings and Leftlings discover their destined partners. The process takes place through an exchange of telegrams, relayed down the Ear Canals from village to village. Youngsters sort through the billets-doux and select a favourite among the lot; in this way they find their sweethearts, and vow themselves to beloved strangers for eternity.

  The villages themselves host no weddings. By ancient law, men and women may not enter a state of matrimony unless they own a home: specifically, a chamber in the towers in the fabled city Brain Stem. Such chambers are expensive. The Rightlings and Leftlings must therefore labour for years in their Mucus farms, patiently building their fortunes. As they wait, they compose for each other the sweetest of letters, singing of their longing on the cold, lonely nights they must endure when the Terrapin retracts her head into her Shell.