Clarkesworld Issue 75

by Sandra McDonald

  As soon as she and her workers moved into the tank, I leaped up and flung enough ant-jelly on top of them to trap them in the bottom of the tank. Followed by two handfuls of mangrove muck to make sure they didn’t eat through the jelly and escape, I put the tank seals on before digging the tanks out and moving to a new place on the tidal flat.

  Nosey sniffed out a new nest for me within minutes. This one was copper-ants. I re-buried the tanks at the base of the tree where the nest was, and waited for another queen to be hatched.

  By nightfall, the sealed tank contained twenty new ant queens.

  I shouldered the tanks as the moon rose over the sea and the incoming tide lapped at the flippers on my feet. Jelly and trapped air would keep the queens alive. I had until sunrise before the earliest-caught ants, energized by the rich jelly, breached the metal of the tank.

  “You think the tank metal is a treat?” I whispered to the ants as I waded into the water, the shark-signal device strapped to my chest, already activated. “Just wait until you get to the Island.”

  I swam out to sea, green turtles lolling in the water on either side of me, mistaking me for some monstrous relative, showing no fear. We came to the surface together to breathe, emptying capacious lungs and drinking air from sweet darkness before diving again.

  There was a net.

  Muhsina had not mentioned how she’d passed it.

  In the moonlight, I’d seen the floats on the surface, forming a ring around Shark Island. I’d seen razor wire gleaming under the sweep of spotlights, mounted on the Island’s stone towers beside guns of terrible range and accuracy.

  When I went to swim under, the net caught and held me by the left arm and left leg. I hadn’t seen it. I had no shell blade with me, and if I had, it wouldn’t have been sharp enough to cut the plastic rope.

  I tried to relax my body; to behave as I might if I was caught in mangrove sludge.

  Think.

  Conserve energy.

  There will be no more oxygen unless you think of a way to get free!

  A spotlight brightened the water around me.

  For an instant, I saw the bodies of dead sharks trapped in the net.

  Shark Island.

  The totem for the Clan is the shark.

  My body felt numb; I didn’t know if it was because I was drowning or because I finally knew what I must do to escape the net. I took the glass bottle around my neck and smashed it against the metal tanks.

  I had no spare hand to catch the voice recorder as it floated away; I could only grip tight to the neck of the bottle. With the broken glass, I sheared quickly and easily through the net.

  Surfacing on the other side was like walking into the death caves. I had killed the Clan. Skink and the other young boys could never become men. There would be no more children.

  I tried my best not to bawl as I swam the rest of the way to the Island. I should never have come. Everything was ruined. The mothers had sacrificed themselves for nothing.

  When I reached the fortified shores, it was as though the shark spirit whose egg-casing had become Shark Island sought to comfort me. Swinging spotlights missed me by hand’s-breadths. By chance, I’d come aground by a concrete pipe that dribbled effluent, and was able to climb inside.

  I crawled up the pipe until I came to a plastic grate, which I smashed with the heavy weight of the tanks and passed through into a room full of glass stills, vials and wooden racks. There was a ceramic jar of sea salt and a stack of cut cane.

  The blackness was held at bay only by the red light on my shark-mimicking device which flashed when it was operational. I used the tiny guide to escape the still-room into a stairwell that led up to a walled vegetable garden.

  With the last of my strength, I buried the tanks in the brown, sewer-smelling soil of the garden, re-planted two rows of carrots on top, then crawled back into the stairwell to fall asleep in the muck at the bottom.

  “I’m sorry, Skink,” I whispered in the dark, my heart broken all over again.

  When I woke, ants were crawling on the device still strapped to me.

  Stifling a shout, I crushed out the lives of three little workers. They were my allies, but I needed the device to get home. My face was crusted with mud and still swollen from earlier bites. It felt like lifetimes since I’d brought my meager bounty back to my mother, Muhsina in tow.

  I heard voices from the still-room. Risked a look through the light-filled crack of the closed door.

  A man in a clean, white coat was pulling folded white napkins, soiled with what looked and smelled like baby-shit, from a white plastic bag. A second man was scraping the shit off the napkins with a wooden spoon.

  He mixed it in a large beaker with water, squeezing fresh sugar cane juice into the water, adding a pinch of salt and the yolk of an egg.

  Then, he divided the mixture amongst twenty vials, stoppered them with sugar cane pith, and packed them into the loops of a belt I had seen many times before.

  “Incubator’s down,” he said to the other man, laughing. “Body heat will do.”

  I retreated to the stairwell.

  Though it was still dark under there, I wondered that my bare hands weren’t made incandescent by my anger. It was shit; the precious vials that we bartered for were nothing but baby shit in salty sugar-water.

  The Island People said that sometimes, with children, the intestinal environment was suitable for the bacteria to breed by themselves.

  And the meaning, which had seemed so mysterious before, resolved itself in my understanding. All that I needed to save the mothers was my own guts, or the guts of the other children, the ones who had no need to drink from the vials because all the bacteria that they needed to break down the poisoned flesh of their prey was inside them.

  The Island People had been laughing at us the whole time. Using us to get metals for them.

  See how you like the wisdom of ants, I thought furiously.

  Long after the men had gone, I made a beaker of sugar-water to re-energize myself before returning, in darkness, to the sea.

  Skink and the two dogs waited for me when I staggered up the beach.

  I didn’t want to look at him. I didn’t want to talk to him. I collapsed on the sand and he built a fire beside me, bringing poison toad, poison croc and poison barramundi.

  “Nice swim?” he asked.

  I was saved from having to answer him by the whirring sound of the Island People’s heli. It would land in knee-deep water on the tidal flat.

  They always landed in water.

  “Skink,” I said, “when the Island People leave their machine, I want you to fill it with the nests of iron-ants. Nosey and Bloodmuzzle will find them for you.”

  We gazed at one another. Iron-ants were the most plentiful. I hadn’t taken any with me to the Island, because they were the fastest at stripping down steel, and they would have escaped Muhsina’s tanks long before I’d made landfall.

  “You are a good leader, Rivers-of-Milk,” Skink said, and tears came to my eyes, because he hadn’t noticed that the precious glass bottle was missing from around my neck.

  He leaped to his feet, the dogs at his heels, and ran straight towards the mangroves. I gathered myself, ready to face the two men in their white coats and the two guards with electric prods and teargas that always appeared alongside them.

  Wind from the flying machine made white water on the flat. It took the Island people a long time to find a place they liked the look of and lower the dragonfly’s spindly legs into the water. Then, they inflated a rubber boat, climbed into it and drove it into dry sand, rather than get their trousers wet.

  I waited by the little fire that Skink had made for me. Without turning my head away from their bow wave, I saw Skink pushing a floating piece of bark out towards the machine. It was covered in the broken, pulsating nests of iron ants.

  They were so confident. They were so commanding that they even commanded the full attention of themselves. They didn’t look back.

&nbs
p; “Welcome to Clan territory,” I told them when they came to a halt before me.

  “The same tree?” one of the white-coated men asked casually.

  “There will be no trade today. You will stay as our guests.”

  “No,” one of the guards said, starting to step forward, but the white-coated man was curious and unafraid.

  “Guests for how long?” he asked.

  “Permanent guests,” I said, and the guards, swearing, turned in time to see Skink flinging nests into the open hatch of their heli. They pulled out guns and fired bullets at him, but he dived into the water and swam away.

  They pointed their guns at me, but I laughed in their faces.

  “Kill me,” I said, “and the Clan will vanish into the forest. You’ll never find them. You can drink those vials under your coat for a while, but then you’ll die.”

  “Another helicopter will come from the Island,” the man said, struggling to remain calm.

  “Maybe. Maybe they’ve got ant troubles of their own, on the Island. Come with me, now. We’re going to the caves. There are some women there who will need those vials.”

  “Wait,” the second white-coated man said. “You don’t understand. We can’t stay here. Our instruments have detected a big storm approaching. There will be a wave like nothing that you’ve—”

  “Yes,” I said, grimacing, turning away from him. “I know about the wave. Put your weapons down and follow me. We’ll be going through the trees. If you bring any metals, the ants will smell it. They can taste it from very far away, and they’ll come.”

  One of the guards didn’t follow.

  He sloshed back through the water to the flying machine and climbed into the cockpit. I watched him struggle with the controls, twitching while the ants bit him again and again. The motor started and the machine’s mounted wings began to whir.

  In silence, the three that remained watched the heli fly crazily back towards the island.

  “The protocols,” the white-coated man whispered. “Without them, they’ll shoot it down.”

  But nobody shot it down.

  “I think they’re busy,” I said.

  The remaining guard put his weapons down shakily.

  Ants were already marching out onto the sand.

  Nosey came to me, hours later, but there was still no sign of Skink.

  “Show me where he is, Nosey,” I said, making the signal for Nosey to find people. The old yellow dog whuffed and skittered off into the mangroves.

  I followed with a sense of dread.

  The Island People had been set to building bark tents and catching toads; I was expecting many more Island People to arrive over the following days and weeks. We would not stay. They would be angry with us. There might be more shootings.

  But the Island People were not like the wireminds. They knew about the local poisons as well as the bacterial remedy, and so long as they brought their children with them, they would not die if left alone. I would let their anger cool in our absence. Maybe, one day, we would make contact with them again.

  Nosey whuffed again, excitedly.

  “Skink!” I shrieked, and ran to my future husband.

  He sat in a bloody puddle of mud, staring into the dead, filmed eyes of an enormous shark that had wriggled its way through the shallow water, desperate to get to him, but then become trapped by the gills in a snarl of stilt-roots.

  “Skink!” I cried again, shaking him by the shoulders. “Where are you hurt?”

  Skink’s dark eyes gradually focused on me.

  “A bullet went through my leg,” he said quietly. “It’s not bleeding any more.”

  “Where’s Bloodmuzzle?”

  “Inside the shark,” he said.

  He didn’t cry.

  Nosey licked the small leg wound clean, and I helped Skink return to the camp. Once he was settled, I went back to the mangroves with a long shell knife and cut the dead shark open, determined to get my mother’s dog out of its guts.

  Inside its stomach, along with poor Bloodmuzzle’s remains, I found a little black plastic package.

  The totem for the Clan is the shark.

  I held the voice of my mother’s brother in my hand. The vials had brought life back to the dead mothers in the caves. The recorder would bring life back to the whole Clan.

  “I am Rivers-of-Milk,” I said with astonishment to Nosey.

  He tilted his long face to one side. His hearing wasn’t that great.

  About the Author

  Thoraiya Dyer is an Australian writer, archer and ex-veterinarian. Her short science fiction and fantasy stories have appeared in Cosmos, Apex, Nature and Redstone SF. Fans of “The Wisdom of Ants” can get hold of the Australian-inspired stories, “Yowie” (Aurealis Award winner for Fantasy Short Story) and “Night Heron’s Curse” (Aurealis-shortlisted) from Twelfth Planet Press and Fablecroft respectively. “Asymmetry,” a collection of four original stories, will be published in 2013 as part of Twelfth Planet Press’ Twelve Planets series.

  Sweet Subtleties

  Lisa L Hannett

  Javier calls me Una, though I’m not the first. There are leftovers all around his studio. Evidence of other, more perishable versions. Two white chocolate legs on a Grecian plinth in the corner, drained of their caramel filling. A banquet of fondant hands, some of which I’ve worn, amputated on trays next to the stove. Butter-dipped petals crumbled on plates, lips that have failed to hold a pucker. Butterscotch ears, taffy lashes, glacé cherry nipples. Nougat breasts, pre-used, fondled shapeless. Beside them, tools are scattered on wooden tables. Mixing bowls, whisks, chisels, flame-bottles. Needles, toothpicks, sickle probes, pliers. Pastry brushes hardening in dishes of glycerin. In alphabetical rows on the baker’s rack, there are macadamias, marshmallows, mignardises. Shards of rock candies, brown, yellow and green, that Javier uses to tint our irises. Gumdrop kidneys, red-hot livers, gelatin lungs. So many treats crammed into clear jars, ready to be pressed into cavities, tissue-wrapped and stuffed into limbs. Swallowed by throats that aren’t always mine.

  “Delicious,” I say as Javier jams grenadine capsules into my sinuses, a surprise for clients with a taste for fizz. “Delicious.” The word bubbles, vowels thick and popping in all the wrong places. Gently frowning, Javier crushes my larynx with his thumbs. He fiddles with the broken musk-sticks, tweaking and poking, then binds the voice box anew with licorice cords. I try again.

  “Delicious.”

  Still not right. The tone is off. The timbre. It’s phlegmatic, not alluring. Hoary, not whorish. It will put people off their meals, not whet appetites. It doesn’t sound like me.

  Javier’s palm on my half-open mouth is salty. His long fingers gully my cheeks. I wait in silence as he breaks and rebuilds, breaks and rebuilds. Concentrating on my lungs, my throat. Clearing them. Making sure they are dry. I don’t mind being hushed. Not really. Not at the moment. If anything goes wrong, if I collapse this instant, if I crack or dissolve, at least my last words will have been pleasant. Something sweet to remember me by.

  It won’t be like before, he said. There will be no weeping. No throttling chest-rattle. No thick, unbreathable air.

  On Monday, I made my latest debut—I make so many. Served after the soup but before the viande at the Salon Indien du Grand Café. My striptease was an enormous success. Fresh and unmarked, clad in edible cellophane, my marzipan dusted with peach velvet. Even the stuffiest top-hat couldn’t resist. Javier had contrived a device to drop sugared cherries onto every tongue that probed between my legs. Dozens of gentlemen laughed and slurped, delighted I was a virgin for each of them.

  “Marvelous,” they shouted, licking slick chops. “Belle Una, tonight you’re more divine than ever!”

  “Marvelous,” I say, calm and mostly clear. Mostly. Close enough.

  Sugar-spun wigs line a window ledge above Javier’s workbench. Faceless heads, all of them. Now visible, now obscured, as he bobs over me, intent on his work. The hairdos are exquisite. Some pinned up
in elaborate curls, some plaited, some styled after Godiva. Glinting honey strands. Carmine. Deep ganache. Exquisite, all of them, despite showing signs of wear.

  Between soot-streaked portraits on the walls, wooden shelves support a horde of glass molds. As one, they gape at me from across the room. Their faces as like to each other as I am to them. High brows and cheekbones, pert mouths, strong jaws, noses so straight we’d be ugly if it weren’t for our delicate nostrils. Javier insists we are identical, indistinguishable, impeccable casts of the original. We must be the same, he tells us. We must be. We must.

  Once people have well and truly fallen in love, he said, they do not want variety. They want the same Una they enjoyed yesterday, last week, last month. They want the same Una, now and always. The same Una that Javier, confectioner gourmand, is forever recreating.

  For the hauts bohème on Wednesday evening, I played the role of limonadière. Stationed behind the bar counter, I wept pomegranate jewels while spouting absinthe verses. Odes to beauty, freedom, love. Javier encouraged this crowd unreservedly. “They’ve loose clothes, loose hair, loose morals,” he said. “And loose purse-strings.” Under his guidance, the bohèmes tickled my limbs with the bows of gypsy violins. Scratched me with pen nibs. Trailed paintbrushes along my soft places. With each stroke, swirls of hippocras bled to my surface. Ale, brandy, champagne, rum. One by one, the lushes lapped it all up. They prefer drink to desserts, Javier said. Those with maudlin constitutions cannot keep anything substantial down.

  “Una, chère Una,” the bohos cried, slurring into their cups. “Promise never to leave us again.”

  Emotional drunks, I thought. Glutting themselves into confusion. Muddled on passion and wine. Can’t they see I’m here? I am forever here.

  “I feel—” I begin. Javier traps my jaw. Holds it still. Wary of what, I wonder? That it will fall off with talk, no doubt. That I’ll run out of things to say before tonight’s performance.

  I feel solid, I want to assure him. I feel settled. Take it easy now. Easy. I’m going nowhere. I’m right here.

  Friday’s connoisseurs ate with torturous restraint.