The Caterpillar King

by Noah Pearlstone

  ***

  So he speaks. Not entirely shocking. He’d shown signs of intelligence before, after all. But now we have reason to fear him. He can escape, and he can talk. Whole thing nearly causes Galla to go mad. She decides it’s best to put him under strict observation, and traps the two of them in the bedroom together for the foreseeable future. Just so happens to give me the perfect opportunity to carry out the next stage in my plan: The Non-Affair.

  Of course, it started with Sabonne. She’s the key to Galla’s interest. Didn’t take long to isolate that variable. But information by itself is worthless. If one doesn’t take advantage of knowledge, why bother having it? My plan was devilishly simple. Step one, I’d carried out unknowingly: Introduce the threat.

  Step two: Plant the seeds. Even after Sabonne made it clear that she had no interest in my art (or person) I continued to arrange “meetings” with her. In the past week, I had three such rendezvous. I’d be heading for the door, waiting for the inevitable, “Where are you off to?” from Galla.

  “More business,” I’d say. I’d never say with who, though, and Galla was too proud to ask. Still, the mystery of it was maddening. I’d dangled the carrot in front of her, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she charged after it, helpless.

  Step 3: Slip up. This one required a bit of ingenuity. Figured the best course of action would be to leave my phone for the taking. Galla’d go through it, see incriminating messages, and all would be well. Sadly, I had no one to send me such messages. Took a bit of cleverness on my part, but I came up with a brilliant solution. Simply bought another phone and used it to message myself. Realized that subtlety would be key. Almost all messages were utilitarian- a meeting time, a place, etc., with just a handful of mistakes. Things like, “See you there, darling” worked wonders. A few affectionate terms aren’t enough to convict, but deeply incriminating nonetheless. Before my most recent meeting, I left the phone on the counter. No doubt Galla read through the whole log, while I spent the better part of two hours in a parking lot.

  After that particular meeting, her suspicions were aroused, among other things. Ended up in bed together, and stayed there for as long as Tate would sleep. She tried to be coy, but her curiosity got the best of her. Never came out and asked about it straightaway, but she wondered where my supposed earnings were. After all, I’d sold a boatload of paintings, hadn’t I? Fair enough. Had to admit that I hadn’t sold a thing. Look in her eyes was vicious. She had me cornered.

  “So,” she said. “Sabonne hasn’t done all that much for your career.”

  Wrong, I informed her. Sabonne was my inroads to the art world. She didn’t want to buy my paintings so much as “expose me to the higher classes.” We’d been negotiating all this time about much more than a single painting- Sabonne wanted to give me my own gallery show.

  “And you kept this a secret?!” said Galla.

  “Thought it might’ve fallen through,” I lied. “I wanted to be sure.”

  Galla congratulated me, a shower of kisses rained down. I lay there, stunned by my own genius. Almost too much to bear at times.

  But now, I’ve given myself quite a burden. A gallery show needs a minimum of fifteen paintings; Galla knows I only have five decent ones (all done by Tate, no less). With every free moment, I’ve dedicated myself to preparing for my nonexistent show. Partially to keep up appearances, true. But moreso, because I’d feel like a fraud if I didn’t. I am an artist, after all. It’d be nice to create something of value, whether it’s seen or not.

  Head to my new workroom: the closet. For some reason, hot water seems to have run out, so I’ve been forced to look for alternatives. Closet space is smaller, so the kettle and pot prove much more effective. Get the conditions right, and then prepare my mise en place. Been using the actual frosted panes as sketchpads. A bit reckless, I’ll admit, but why not live on the edge? I’ve got about a hundred of ‘em stored up, and they’re not doing anyone else much good.

  Closet had been for cleaning supplies, but those were hardly necessary. Didn’t take long to repurpose it. Had to drag in a lamp for light and clear off a shelf or two. Nice sitting area right on the floor. Now, settle in, pull out a plate, and prepare to create a masterpiece. Oh, who am I kidding? I need Tate.

  Break into the bedroom, see Galla sleeping. Tate’s wide-eyed and ready to go. Scoop him up, begin to hurry away. Feel like I should leave a note for Galla first. Scribble down a few words:

  Galla-

  Tate’s in closet. So am I. Don’t worry.

  -A

  Seconds later, our first time in the closet together. Soon becomes apparent that the space is a bit more restricted than the bathroom. Can barely even shut the door. Tate makes his feelings clear. He flaps his arms, splashing away at the air.

  “Sorry, no hot water,” I say. “Don’t blame me.”

  Boy lets out a throaty scream.

  “OK, OK, for God’s sake. The bathroom it is.”

  Sarcastic applause from the child. He’s won again.

  Transfer all necessary materials. Set him in the tub, and within a minute he’s got the hot water going. Unbelievable. Only two knobs, and I’m sure I’d turned them every possible direction. The boy’s making a habit of besting me. Quite obnoxious, really.

  Disregard wounded pride and get to work on new obsession. It’s a very basic portrait of a girl. I’ve scrapped the caterpillar tableau. Follow the inspiration, follow the heat. Always.

  Shower’s steaming, and I start the kettles, too. Figure I’ll go back to the large mirror for a bit- no point in wasting a dozen more plates if I don’t have to. Draw a quick sketch on the mirror, but it’s not right. None of the sketches have been right. Can only say something’s missing, but no idea what. Endlessly frustrating. All answers come in due time, though. When in doubt, simply wait.

  As if to prove my point, Tate fires a dart-like object at my head. Nearly decapitates me, but I manage to dodge. Always had excellent reflexes. Whatever it is tings off the mirror. Bend down, see it’s a toothbrush. Fine, decapitate might’ve been an exaggeration (though he did throw rather hard).

  “What?” I say. “I brushed today.” Feel like the boy’s teasing me. Teeth are somewhat less than pristine.

  But Tate doesn’t seem all that interested in me- he’s pointing at the mirror. Image of the girl is already fading, but on one of her cheeks, there’re dozens of impressionistic spots. Must’ve been where the brush hit.

  “She has freckles,” I say. “You genius, she has freckles!” A major breakthough. Can’t believe I didn’t see it before. My vision had been loose, undefined. With one slight change, it’s transformed, and stunningly clear. Toothbrush turns out to be the perfect tool for the job. The boy’s a good luck charm. There’s no denying it.

  Considered brushes before, of course, but never bit. If one works with the same objects as everyone else, one will get the same results. Can’t have that. Besides, I prefer painting to be a tactile art. However, I’m willing to admit when an exception is necessary. Try out the toothbrush in a couple more techniques, and find it’s quite useful. Swipe it across the background to give the portrait a sense of motion. Stillness of the girl contrasts with horizontal movement quite nicely. Yes, I think, yes yes yes. This will be spectacular. Must capture this girl with the utmost accuracy. Doesn’t have to be overly detailed, though. The key is emotional accuracy. I want others to feel exactly what I feel. That’s the highest aim.

  Finish a draft that’s halfway decent and call it a day. No reason to overexert myself. Never eat to the point of fullness. Hunger’s more valuable than satisfaction. Just about to leave the bathroom when someone knocks.

  “Be out in a minute,” I say.

  “Saw your note,” says Galla. “Can I come in?”

  She’s never entered during one of my sessions before. Always deemed them immature, etc. But I suppose there’s no harm in it.

  Open the door and let her in. She’s changed into a flowing top and jeans. Her hair’
s a bit ruffled, but I must say, it all makes me smile. She takes a seat on the old throne. Curious to hear what all this is about.

  “You can turn the shower back on,” she says.

  “You actually want to watch me work?”

  For a moment, concerned I’ll be exposed, and she’ll realize it was all Tate’s brilliance. The fraud will come to light; I’ll be revealed as the fake I am. And yet, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Can’t say I want it to happen, but if it does…so be it.

  “If you don’t mind,” she says. “I’d like to have a go.”

  Double-check her pupils for dilation. No obvious signs of drug use. Only other explanation is that she’s serious.

  “Well, I suppose it’s no trouble at all,” I say. Wait for her to burst into laughter, but she never does. On goes the shower, on goes the kettles. I take a seat at the edge of tub by Tate. Water splashes up a bit, but it’s nice. Galla stands, goes to the mirror. The glass gets covered by fog in an instant.

  “So you just…?” She swipes a wild hand across the surface. Attacks the canvas like it’s prey.

  “No, no,” I say. “Softer. Don’t try to control it.”

  She tries a second, hesitant brush.

  “Confidence,” I say. “Have confidence.”

  Can’t sit back any longer. Hop to my feet, ready to give a quick introductory lesson.

  “Like this,” I say. Start with a thin line using the fingernail. “You don’t even need to know where it’s going. Probably won’t be apparent till midway through. But whatever you do, do it with purpose.”

  “Guhhh,” says Tate, clapping. “Guhhh.”

  Decide to take the positive interpretation of his babbling. “Yes, Tate, it is good, isn’t it?”

  Galla makes another subtle line, shows slight improvement.

  “Better, but here. Elbows straight, loosen the wrist.”

  Wrap my arm around hers, guide her into another line.

  “That’s nice,” she says.

  “It is,” I say.

  Hand over hand, we paint. The lines are erased one at a time. Make a wide stroke, can see Galla’s reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are focused; they don’t give her away. But her lips are curled into a faint smile. Intrigued was never the right word for it. I knew that from the start.

  Falling in love with one’s wife is strange business. Don’t recommend it at all.

  April 11, 2007

  In the King’s Room

  19.

  Kings should be fat. This one wasn’t. He was thin and gold. He would’ve made a nice bracelet on the right woman. He sat in the center of a bed of leaves. They were arranged around him like petals. I don’t know how they got leaves to look that good down here. They must’ve been fake.

  “Please,” said the king. “Take a seat.”

  “You’re floor’s dirty,” I said.

  The king eyed me, and I could’ve sworn he smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile.

  “It’s not often we get such a distinguished visitor. You’ve traveled a very long way.”

  “I’m not much for small talk. You know why I’m here. No need to pretend.”

  The king seemed to relax.

  “You’re the girl’s father?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  “How do you know her?” he asked.

  “I gave you easy targets, wrapped up nice and neat in my basement,” I said. “I didn’t have to do that. I could’ve let you die off. You owe me.”

  “All true,” he said. “But no need to act as if there was nothing in it for you. You played out your dark fantasies, we consumed their memories. It was mutually beneficial.”

  “I liked that,” I said. “That was just fine. Let’s keep that going.”

  The king gave me a hard look and I gave it right back to him. We weren’t getting anywhere fast. He got up from his bed of leaves and crawled to the back of the room. I followed him. I didn’t have anything better to do. We stopped in front of two large stone pillars.

  “Have you heard the prophecy?” he asked.

  “I heard you didn’t like it,” I said.

  He grinned. “Look behind me,” he said. “What do you see?”

  There wasn’t much decoration to speak of. Behind him were the two stone pillars. At the base of the pillars, there was a gap. The gap was right in the middle. That’s what I saw.

  “What do you think?” asked the king.

  “I think you’ve done some lousy construction in here.”

  “Not ‘lousy’,” he said. He smiled. “Just unfinished.”

  “That why you brought me down here? To shove the last few bricks into place?”

  “How did you put it?…Something like that,” said the king.

  I gave some thought to killing the king. It seemed like a good thought. But I needed to get out of here, and I needed the caterpillars’ help. They weren’t going to help a killer.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he said.

  “I don’t like stories,” I said.

  “Good,’ he said. “Here is how we came to this. We were not always special. We were a low life form, reliant on leaves, water, and so on for sustenance. But one year, there was a drought. It began in the wet season and lasted until winter. We were hardly able to survive the first half of it. Without food in store for winter, we would all die. That is when I met her.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “An opportunist. She offered me a deal. ‘Never again will you worry about trees,’ she said. ‘Never again will a drought harm your kind. I will make you in my image, but stronger, more intelligent.’ I could not pass up that offer.”

  “Sounds too good to be true.”

  The king nodded. “She made us dependent on memories instead of vegetation. We were at the mercy of Mother Nature before, but now we are vulnerable in other ways. The prophecy says, “A deal in the dark will be your demise,” and I am afraid that is exactly what I’ve done.”

  “That’s not all you’re afraid of,” I said.

  “Oh?’ he said.

  “That whole bit about the “true king” would worry me, if I were in your position.”

  Suddenly, the king didn’t look so sure of himself. “How did…”

  “I hear things,” I said. “What does this have to do with the girl?” I asked.

  “First, let’s talk about what this has to do with you,” he said. “You made your own deal. You feed us, we cure you.”

  “Yeah. See, that deal’s not working out so well,” I said.

  “I remember when we found you in your tiny cave, with your ropes and your weakness,” he said. “A thin metal bar holding the door in place. You stood on the chair, the rope around your neck, ready to die. And then we came out of the darkness and offered you a trade. We ended your suffering. All we require is an occasional payment.” The king laughed an ugly laugh. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s the point.”

  “Tell me: what do you think drove you to the edge? A lost love? Overwhelming grief?”

  I shook my head. “Probably nothing big. The grind of life. The boredom. The repetition. Eating alone, sleeping alone, dying alone.” I paused. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  The king didn’t respond to my question. He was making a habit of that.

  “You don’t know what you were like before,” said the king. “You just don’t know. And that’s a good thing.”

  I knew I’d heard about enough from him. “Maybe I should take a step in the wrong direction. Maybe there’ll be an accident. Or you could just tell me where she is.”

  “She means that much to you?” The king smiled. “Fine. It’s simple: Self-reliance is the goal, or at least self-sustenance. The girl’s memories are more powerful than normal ones. She has a presence which anyone can feel. If she is kept here, her memories would sustain us indefinitely. At the very least, they would sustain us until she is drained.

  “You see this?” said the
king. He nodded to the pillars. “This is where we will keep her. She will be entombed here. We will worship her. We will pray to her. She will be the light that guides our civilization.”

  I started to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I was bait. You were waiting for me to reel in a big fish,” I said.

  “You see, we can’t give her to you. She is the key to our society. She is power incarnate. She’ll keep me on the throne.” He paused. “She is the savior.”

  The king believed every word he was saying. It was a sad to see someone so delusional.

  “I’m going to make you an offer,” he said.

  “I’m on pins and needles,” I said.

  “First, you are relieved from your duties. You’ve paid your debt. You held up your end of the bargain. Now that we have the girl, we have a future. So we do not need your help anymore.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But that doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”

  “Patience,” he said. “Have patience, and I can give you a life worth living.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  “Listen. It’s very simple. In the above world, you are nothing. You are a hideous, detestable creature.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “People don’t understand you, so they fear you. You stay hidden in the day time. Night gives you cover. Up there, you are not accepted. To them, you are just like a bug.” The king paused. “It is the way things are,” he said. “The world is not suited to you, and you are not suited to it.”

  “Spit it out.”

  “This is my offer: your old life up there for a new life down here. You will be one of my top officials. Here, you will have power and respect. You will be well provided for. Occasionally, you will be sent above ground on…diplomatic missions. Otherwise, you stay here and serve me as king.”

  “That’s it?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I gave it a solid two seconds of thought. “No thanks.”