Rather than risk interruption again, I turned to Tika for guidance. But she didn’t look so great. In fact, it seemed like she was about to get sick.
“Tika’s not feeling well, so I’ll think we’ll be going now,” I said.
“Yeah, you will,” he said. He started mumbling to himself. “A traitor, a savior, and a fool they shall be…shouldn’t be that difficult…really shouldn’t be…”
With that, Tika and I left the prophet, closing the door behind us. We went to the nets, because I thought Tika looked like she could use a nap. Also, it was a place where we could have a more private conversation. Tika sat down beside the nets and shook her head.
“Always bad news when I see the prophet,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s…” She paused. “I have never heard the entire prophecy before. Only pieces. The situation is much worse than I feared.”
“You’ve been down here for years, and you’ve never heard all that?! What parts did you know?”
“The prophet must invite guests inside,” she said.
“Sure, fine. But which parts?”
“Only the savior. The savior must return to the arms of his mother. The king made sure everyone heard this. It was what we needed to know for our search.”
“Wait…what search?”
Tika didn’t respond. Instead, she just sat there with a very guilty expression. I replayed the line from the prophecy again. The savior will return to the arms of his mother. Then something clicked in my mind. “That’s why you were so interested in my one memory. You think that I’m seeing the arms of my mother? You think I’m the savior?”
She looked up at me. “You do not seem like a traitor,” she said.
“What about the other one?”
“Ummmm…” she said.
“Oh thanks,” I said. “You think I might be the fool? Didn’t the prophecy call him the “least of the lot?”
“Worst,” said Tika. “The prophecy said ‘worst.’”
I’ll admit it, I wasn’t exactly happy with her. But she looked sad, and it’s hard to be angry at someone who’s already unhappy.
“So what am I supposed to do?” How do I find my mother?”
“You might not be a part of the prophecy in the end,” she said. “We have had false hopes before.”
“Just tell me what to do,” I said.
“We will need to travel,” she said. “Above-ground.”
Even though I had no idea how we’d get up there, I prepared to go right away. Before we left, Tika decided she wanted to check on something in the main room, but she wouldn’t tell me what. Of course, this only made me more curious. Eventually, she admitted what she was up to: she wanted to see the king.
She crawled up to the middle door and rested her head against the knob. The entire door glowed, but there was no response from inside. After a moment, Tika crawled backwards. As she did, she pulled the door back with her, apparently with the strength of her head. It was a pretty good trick.
Tika went in. I think she wanted to go alone, but I came too. She wasn’t big enough to stop me, after all. Inside, the room was large and impressive. But in all the space, there was nothing that looked like a caterpillar.
“The king is not here,” said Tika. “We should go now. Above-ground. We may not have much time.”
“Sure,” I said. But I was caught up staring at the back of the room. There were two giant columns that went from floor to ceiling. I had no idea what purpose they served. But I swear, they looked exactly like a pair of long, skinny legs.
June 22, 2084
In a House
5.
Phone ringing in the kitchen. No doubt the incubation clinic again. The calls have become rather redundant. Always the same coquettish nurse on the other end, delivering increasingly dire news: Should’ve picked up your child a week ago, Mr. Covington, she’ll say. Where do you get off, Mr. Covington? In the bathroom, care to join? Could see the blonde hair and petite frame in my mind’s eye. Lovely when angry, a hint of pink in each cheek. Now, answer the phone, hoping to catch the melody of my minx once more. Instead, it’s a bloated, droning baritone, all the sensuousness of a toad. Informs me that I have one hour to get my child or he’ll be disposed of. How charming.
Ten minutes later, wife lumbers in. Looks like a caricature of her younger self. Always been sturdy on top, but now inflated to monstrous proportions. Bottom half remains fairly slim, same as ever. The disparity is absurd. Wouldn’t be surprised to see her topple at any moment.
“Oh Galla,” I say. “Fantastic you’re here. Another productive day at the office, I presume?”
“You want something,” she says. She does have a way of getting to the point.
“It’s just… remember our decision? To bring another life into the world?”
“What’re you on about?”
“Well, lucky us, the child’s ready,” I say. “They phoned us with the news. Thought you’d be anxious to see him.”
“I’ve been at work the last 10 hours,” she says. “Get him yourself.”
Try my best to look shocked. “Why, I can’t believe you’d be so heartless,” I say. She doesn’t bite; I take a different tact. “Besides,” I say, “I’m cooking.” Grab a two-pack from the freezer, throw it in a pot of boiling water. Galla less than amused.
“I think I can take care of this,” she says, pointing to the pot.
“This time, try to leave me a tiny bit, won’t you?” I say.
“What do you need another one for?” she says.
Don’t give her the satisfaction of a response. Instead, turn to leave.
“Enjoy the drive,” she calls out.
Head for the car. Once the sarcasm kicks in, a marriage is done for. Ours was over before it ever began.
On the road, mind turns to the task at hand. This makes how many offspring? Six? Seven? Enough to keep me busy. Galla holds her job over me like a cartoon anvil; I raise the least objection, she drops it. Not all of us are so fortunate to be born into wealth. Some of us have to trick others into sharing it.
Galla’s the VP for the third largest earplug manufacturer in the world. Two guesses as to who the president is. Exactly, her father. The insufferable bird. Constantly chirping in Galla’s ear, inviting her to attack me with ultimatums. Why do I need an income when we’re well off? But resentment has a volcanic build to it, the simmering, the crescendo, the explosion. She’s threatened to cut me off if I don’t make my way into the workforce. Naturally, I’ve found a way around her threats.
As long as a child’s around, I’m safe. Someone’s got to watch them, keep them nourished, and so forth. I take care of the baby, I’m taken care of. Fair trade, I suppose. If it occasionally means I have to take an unpleasant drive, so be it. And now that the road flattens out, I spot my salvation. It takes the form of the incubation clinic.
Building is in two dimensions—length and width, but no height. Looks like a severely amputated skyscraper. Walk inside, am greeted by a nurse. Hideous. Hair like a lampshade, face like a weasel. Half-expect her front teeth to be missing, but alas.
“Name is Arboss Covington,” I say.
Her smile disappears.
“You’re Mr. Covington?”
A familiar musicality in her voice…a hint of pink fills in her cheeks. Of course! It’s the nurse from the phone calls, the petite blonde of my dreams. Barely recognizable. Still much lovelier when angry, though.
“Someone else can deal with this man,” she says. Stomps off in a huff.
“Promise you’ll phone again soon!” I say. She pauses, seems to consider an obscene gesture. Decides it would take too much energy, keeps walking away.
A presence behind me, then a male voice.
“She’s quite emotional.”
Spin around, am looking at a man’s stomach. Look up, there’s his face, right by the ceiling. Wager there’s never been a larger human being.
“Yes, well, you know women,�
�� I say.
“So….umm…may I help you, Mr. Covington?”
Realize the great brute’s shy. My God. Absolutely fascinating.
“Someone seems to think I made a baby. I’m here for the grand reception. What do you say?”
“Let me check…on…on…on that for you. One moment.”
The brute goes behind the desk, then into some back room. I wait, I wait, I wait. Daydream about the hideous nurse returning. Unzips her skin like a costume, turns out to be the lovely blonde I’ve always known she was. But the nurse doesn’t return. Only the brute, a great brown box cradled in his arms.
“Now…umm…Mr. Culverson.”
“Covington,” I say. “With an “ovington.” I reach out. “The package, please.”
He hands me the box. Bulky thing, but it hardly weighs in at all. Turn for the door.
“Mr….”
“What? You need me to sign something? Identification?”
“Your child was here for a week…and that leads to risks…such as-”
“Yes, the boy’s overstayed his welcome, I left him here for too long. Don’t remind me.”
“It’s not that…”
“You want money?” I say. “I have money.”
“No, Mr. Covington.” The brute seems to resign himself. “Have a nice day.”
“Getting better every minute,” I say.
Haul the package to the car. Immediately regret not asking for help. How does something so light become so heavy? Continuous pressure can overwhelm any man. Bet the brute could’ve carried the box out in his palm. Quite rude of him not to offer. My own behavior was less than graceful, though. Perhaps it was deserved. Make it to the car and nearly drop the whole thing. Would’ve been tragic. Open the trunk, the box fits nicely. Moments later, drive away with my treasure safe and sound.
Ride home seems to take half the time. Life’s strange that way. Roll into the drive, unload the box. Walk to the house, muscles screaming in pain. First lift must’ve done me in.
“Galla! Open the door! For God’s sake the-”
Door opens and bottom half of wife appears. Top half is blocked out by the box. It’s a very large box.
“Dear,” I say. “Little help?”
She sighs, grabs the back half.
“This one’s a chunk,” I say.
“Doesn’t weigh a thing,” she says. “You could’ve brought him around back. Like every other time.”
“No fun at all. Got to show him the living arrangements. He won’t be seeing these for another dozen years, after all.”
“If only the same went for you,” she mumbles.
Want to insult her, but at this point she’s lifting the entire box. Gratefulness trumps anger. We slow down at the back door, maneuver so I can turn the handle. Just like that, we’re outside. She sets the box down. Almost time for the hanging.
Backyard looks great, if I may say so. Landscaped it myself. A patch of grass, flower bed here, flower bed there, and the tree. Tree’s fantastic for its age—only twenty years old, and about three stories tall. Nearly caught up to the neighbors’. Ours has a thick base, and low, sturdy branches. What more could one ask for? Wood even has a nice, sparkling sheen. Thing cost a fortune, but it was Daddy’s money. Won’t find me complaining.
Galla unboxes, I get a drink. Feel like I’ve earned it. Pour a brandy, find a mirror in the kitchen and toast myself. Oh, you handsome devil. To another decade of freedom! Clink glass against glass a bit too hard, mirror considers shattering. Thankfully, it doesn’t. Back outside, Galla’s clearly struggling.
“Honey,” she says. “Little help?”
She’s on her knees, pulling. One flap of the lid’s open, but the other half won’t cooperate. Hands clamped around the edge, knuckles white with tension. Eyes squinted shut. Looks like she’s on a terrifying roller coaster. Easy to see where this is going.
“If you keep on like that-” I say.
Before I can finish, the lid pops free. Galla slams backward, crashes to the ground in a lump.
“That solves that,” I say. “Care for a drink?”
“Ughhh,” she says.
Galla doesn’t seem to be moving much. Implication: I’m supposed to take over. Fine with me. Glass of brandy goes on an outdoor table, and I pull out the box’s contents. A soft white bag, already nicely cinched, the child (presumably) inside. A ribbon of cord dangles off the pouch. Sling it over my shoulder and head for the tree.
At the trunk, run my hand along the tree’s birthmark. Our birthmark’s round and blue, about the size of a tennis ball. Smoothed out from all the years of touching, almost like a polished stone. Hard to imagine a more wonderful setup. Children need another’s touch to aid development. Wouldn’t want the child being born as some kind of rabid wolf, after all. Birthmark provides touch by proxy. Twice a day, I make the long walk to the backyard, put my hand on the stone, and hold for thirty seconds. Twelve years later, the child pops out, healthy and complete, and we ship ‘em out to an apprenticeship the next day. Then it’s on to the next one. A minute a day keeps Galla at bay.
She appears behind me, sees me communing with the tree.
“Maybe we just cut off your hand and glue it there,” she says. “Save you the trouble of leaving the house.”
“Never gets old,” I say.
“What are you waiting for? Finish it up, then,” she says.
Walk over to the hanging branch, child in tow. Branch is roughly twice my height, and wonderfully solid. Held three children at once for a couple years, no problem. But now the tree is bare. Unacceptable. Could easily reach the branch with a stool or ladder, but I’m much too lazy. Thank God for the tail. Whoever invented it should be on the fast-track to canonization. Take the lump in my hands, feel its soft pulse. Seems fragile, this one. Tilt it slightly upwards, and then crack the tail like a whip. It wraps tight around the branch and bonds. Starts to camouflage a bit, too—the rope hardens, becomes wood-like. My child still in hand, and now I’m thinking of filth. Swear I’ll be fantasizing about the priestess at my mother’s funeral. Can’t help myself.
“Looks good,” says Galla.
Well, something here has to. I let go of the child, the bag bounces softly and then settles. Head back to the birthmark, hold my hand there for a solid minute. Figure a head start never hurt anyone. Galla and I are both spent. We go back towards the house, stop at the patio. Another day’s work complete. The sun shines, the birds chirp….and the cow moos.
“First decent hanging you’ve done,” she says.
Too happy to be bothered. A summer breeze blows in, the bag rotates a bit. Seems to be a dark spot near the bottom. Hadn’t noticed that before. Step forward, give it a closer look. Then horror. Absolute horror.
“Galla,” I say.
“Yes?”
“The bag,” I say, pointing. “The bag is ripped.”
6.
I joke, I tease, I laugh, but in truth, I’d prefer not to have a dead child on my hands. Unfortunately, it appears I’m well on my way to a first. Galla’s in hysterics, I’m nearly as bad. We put on a good show, pretending not to care, yet when faced with the possibility of disaster, we fall to pieces. The gods called our bluff. Can’t blame ‘em. Fact is, the child means more to us than we realized.
What to do in case of emergency? We stand and we watch. As if an indiscreet step might trigger a land mine, blowing the whole scene to bits. It is not a catastrophe, I remind myself. Not yet. And then, very quietly, a small, white leg pokes through the hole in the bag.
“Oh no oh no oh no,” says Galla, like some kind of brain-damaged parrot.
“Amazing,” I say. “The thing’s almost as pale as you.”
“You’re joking?”
“Well, I could start SCREAMING TO SIGNAL DISTRESS,” I say. “Lot of good that would do.”
“You’ve never taken anything seriously,” she says. “Never.”
“Not about to start now,” I say.
“If you…” She keeps ta
lking, but I can’t be bothered to listen.
Back at the tree, the action’s getting good. The leg seems to be growing by the second. Of course, it’s not. The thing’s merely revealing more of itself to the world. It kicks around, looking for solid ground to land on. No such luck. The child’s a good meter and a half up.
“Don’t just stand around,” says Galla.
“Right,” I say, “That’s your job.”
Absolutely infuriates her. I know how to get a reaction, no denying that.
“I’ve let you stay here for our entire married life, fooling around with your “steam art.” I slave away, you stand around. So no, this is not my job. You ass.”
Galla’s interrupted by the child. All its kicking has torn the bag further, carving out a decent-sized hole. The leg sinks completely out. His bare behind is exposed. What? I think. That’s it? Felt like a cement block when I was carrying it a minute ago. Once a little comes out, the rest follows smoothly. The fall happens in double time. First a chest, then an arm, then a couple frames are skipped. And suddenly there is a living creature sitting on our lawn. God knows how much longer it’ll stay living, but I’d rather avoid that thought.
Galla’s hand finds mine, seems almost natural. We approach the lump as a united front. It’s not making any noise, but it has eyes that are popping out of its head. Strange looking thing. Hair pattern of an old man, face of a cartoon, eyes of an alien, about the size of a fat little dog. Seems like a regular fellow who’s been trapped under a very heavy rock for 100 years. Everything’s been compacted, miniaturized…including a certain endowment. Still, clearly a boy.
“Hello there?” I offer.
Galla retreats at the sound of my voice.
“What?” I say. “He’s not going to breathe fire. Look at the rascal. Pure innocence.”
“We need to get him to the clinic. They’ll know what to do,” says Galla.
“Let’s not be rash,” I say. “They’ll probably throw him to the wolves. Easier than caring for a lost cause like him. Now,” I turn my attention to the boy. “What name would you like to go by? CAN YOU UNDERSTAND ME?”
The Caterpillar King Page 3