“Kamala,” he said one day. He was in a strange mood. He had lit an incense stick in front of the household gods that morning. The scent of sandalwood still pervaded the house. It made him feel humble, virtuous, as though he was at last letting go of his ego and surrendering to the divine. “Tell me, what is it like … to have those … animals inside you …”
She smiled. Her teeth were very white.
“I hardly feel them most of the time, Ramnath,” she said. “I wish you would agree to be colonized. It would do you good and it would help them—the younger ones have been clamoring for a new world. I hear them singing sometimes, chirping sounds like crickets. It is a language I am beginning to understand.”
He thought he heard it faintly then, too.
“What are they saying?”
She frowned, listening. She sighed.
“A planet needs a sun, Ramnath,” she said evasively. “My journey is just beginning.”
After this interchange he noticed an increased restlessness in his wife. She kept going out to the garden to sun herself in the 40 degree centigrade heat, among the wilting guava trees. In the house she moved from room to room, making little chirping sounds and humming tunelessly to herself. Ramnath felt his pious resolve shatter. Irritated, he spent that evening at his club.
The next evening, remembering his duty, Ramnath dragged his wife out for a walk. She protested a little feebly but let him pull her into the street. By the time they reached the park a soft twilight had fallen. A few stars and a pale moon hung in the sky. Kamala lingered at the edge of the park.
“Come on,” Ramnath said, impatient to continue walking.
But instead his wife gave a cry of pleasure and turned into the park, where in the semidarkness a man was selling balloons. She began to run towards the balloon man, gesturing like an excited child. Embarrassed and annoyed, he followed her at a more dignified pace.
“More balloons,” he heard her say. Coins tinkled. A small crowd of street urchins appeared from nowhere. He could hear the rhythmic squeak of a swing in the semidarkness ahead.
Now she was handing balloons out to the gaggle of brats, who jumped and chattered excitedly around her.
“Me too, Auntie-ji!”
The balloons bobbed over their heads like dim little orbs in the moonlight. Ramnath pushed aside the children and grabbed his wife by the shoulder.
“Enough,” he said impatiently. “You are spoiling these good-for-nothings!”
She shrugged off his hand. She let go of one of her balloons and watched it float lazily up into the starlit sky. A sudden gust of wind came up and dislodged the free end of her sari from her shoulder, baring her blouse. The balloon man stared at her ample cleavage.
“Adjust your sari for heaven’s sake,” Ramnath said in a desperate whisper. He looked around to see if anyone else was watching this spectacle and was horrified to see the ramrod figure of Judge Pandey walking towards them on the path through the park, his cane tap-tapping. Fearful that the judge would see him and associate him with this madwoman, Ramnath retreated into the inadequate shadow of an Ashok tree. Fortunately Judge Pandey didn’t see him. He saw what seemed to be a wanton looking woman and walked quickly past her in case anyone noticed him staring. Ramnath, sweaty with relief, emerged from the shadows and grabbed the end of his wife’s sari that lay on the dusty ground. His wife had released three other balloons into the air and was watching them go up with childish pleasure. The children were shouting in their shrill voices.
“Let another one go, Auntie-ji!”
“Come home, Kamala,” Ramnath said pleadingly. “This is madness!”
But instead of answering, Kamala let go of all the balloons, some seven or eight of them. They floated up into the sky. She stretched her arms out to them, her face full of a blissful yearning. Slowly and majestically she began to rise over the ground—an inch, two inches.
“What are you doing?” Ramnath said to her in a horrified whisper.
Three feet, four feet. Ramnath’s mouth fell open. He pulled on the end of the sari he was holding but she continued to rise, turning slowly, trailing two yards, then five yards of cotton. Too late, Ramnath let go of the sari. His wife rose into the night air, her white petticoat filling with air like the sails of a ship.
“Oooh! Look what the Auntie is doing!”
Some of the urchins had drawn back. The balloon man’s face was a round circle of astonishment.
“Come back!” Ramnath shouted.
The children were yelling and pointing and jumping with glee. She was well up now, higher than the trees and houses. The balloons scattered above her like a flotilla of tiny escort ships. People were running out of their houses now, pointing and staring. Something white and ghostly came slipping down from the sky—her petticoat! Her blouse and undergarments were next. Ramnath stood transfixed with horror while the urchins cavorted about, trying to catch the garments in the darkness. Somebody—Mrs. Jain, perhaps—began wailing. “Hai Bhagwaan, that is Kamala, Kamala Mishra!”
The cry was taken up all around. With each shout Ramnath felt his family name and honor sinking into the ground. He tried to slink away, keeping to the shadows of trees like a thief, hoping nobody would recognize him. But then, on the road, Judge Pandey tapped him on the shoulder. The veteran judge’s solemn, impassive face was the last thing he wanted to see.
“Most reprehensible, Mishra! Most reprehensible!”
Ramnath moaned and fled to his house, throwing dignity to the winds. All around people were saying his wife’s name—the neighbors, the street urchins, the servants, the man selling roasted corn at the end of the street. The house was dark and empty. No doubt the cook had gone to see the show as well. Ramnath felt he could face nobody after this. He stood in the middle of the dark drawing room, thinking wildly of escape, or suicide.
He went to the window and looked out apprehensively. There she was, a tiny, bright blob still rising into the sky. How dare she leave him like this!
It occurred to him that there was only one option—to take enough things from the house, leave by the late train and disappear. He could even change his name, he thought. Begin anew. The house was willed to his sons. He would not let his dishonor touch them. Let them all think he was dead!
She was out of sight now. For a moment he almost envied her, out there among the stars. He imagined, despite himself, the little alien creatures running over the wild terrain of her body, exploring the mountains, gullies and varied habitats of that mysterious and unknowable geography. What sun would she find? What vistas would she see? A sob caught in his throat. How would he manage now, with nobody to look after him?
A small sound caught his attention. Perhaps it was the cook returning, or the neighbors coming to feast on the remains of his dignity. There was no time. He rushed to the bedroom, turned on the light. Breathing hard, he started to pull things out of the steel cupboard, things he would need, like money, her jewelry, and clothes. It was then that he felt something on his shoulder.
He would have screamed if he had remembered how; the insectoids were already marching up his back, over his shoulder and into his terrified, open mouth.
SUSAN PALWICK
Gestella
Susan Palwick is an American writer and editor. She is also a professor of English teaching creative writing and literature. Her most recent novel is Mending the Moon. Her first published story was “The Woman Who Saved the World” for Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine in 1985. Her fiction has been recognized with numerous awards, including the William L. Crawford Award from the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts, an Alex Award from the American Library Association, and a Silver Pen Award from the Nevada Writers Hall of Fame. A female werewolf is tamed by her human lover in “Gestella.” The story explores love, exploitation, and betrayal and what must be sacrificed in order to be considered human. It was first published in the anthology Starlight 3 in 2001.
Time’s the problem. Time and arithmetic. Yo
u’ve known from the beginning that the numbers would cause trouble, but you were much younger then—much, much younger—and far less wise. And there’s culture shock, too. Where you come from, it’s okay for women to have wrinkles. Where you come from, youth’s not the only commodity.
You met Jonathan back home. Call it a forest somewhere, near an Alp. Call it a village on the edge of the woods. Call it old. You weren’t old, then: you were fourteen on two feet and a mere two years old on four, although already fully grown. Your kind are fully grown at two years, on four feet. And experienced: oh, yes. You knew how to howl at the moon. You knew what to do when somebody howled back. If your four-footed form hadn’t been sterile, you’d have had litters by then—but it was, and on two feet, you’d been just smart enough, or lucky enough, to avoid continuing your line.
But it wasn’t as if you hadn’t had plenty of opportunities, enthusiastically taken. Jonathan liked that. A lot. Jonathan was older than you were: thirty-five, then. Jonathan loved fucking a girl who looked fourteen and acted older, who acted feral, who was feral for three to five days a month, centered on the full moon. Jonathan didn’t mind the mess that went with it, either: all that fur, say, sprouting at one end of the process and shedding on the other, or the aches and pains from various joints pivoting, changing shape, redistributing weight, or your poor gums bleeding all the time from the monthly growth and recession of your fangs. “At least that’s the only blood,” he told you, sometime during that first year.
You remember this very clearly: you were roughly halfway through the four-to-two transition, and Jonathan was sitting next to you in bed, massaging your sore shoulder blades as you sipped mint tea with hands still nearly as clumsy as paws, hands like mittens. Jonathan had just filled two hot water bottles, one for your aching tailbone and one for your aching knees. Now you know he wanted to get you in shape for a major sportfuck—he loved sex even more than usual, after you’d just changed back—but at the time, you thought he was a real prince, the kind of prince girls like you weren’t supposed to be allowed to get, and a stab of pain shot through you at his words. “I didn’t kill anything,” you told him, your lower lip trembling. “I didn’t even hunt.”
“Gestella, darling, I know. That wasn’t what I meant.” He stroked your hair. He’d been feeding you raw meat during the four-foot phase, but not anything you’d killed yourself. He’d taught you to eat little pieces out of his hand, gently, without biting him. He’d taught you to wag your tail, and he was teaching you to chase a ball, because that’s what good four-foots did where he came from. “I was talking about—”
“Normal women,” you told him. “The ones who bleed so they can have babies. You shouldn’t make fun of them. They’re lucky.” You like children and puppies; you’re good with them, gentle. You know it’s unwise for you to have any of your own, but you can’t help but watch them, wistfully.
“I don’t want kids,” he says. “I had that operation. I told you.”
“Are you sure it took?” you ask. You’re still very young. You’ve never known anyone who’s had an operation like that, and you’re worried about whether Jonathan really understands your condition. Most people don’t. Most people think all kinds of crazy things. Your condition isn’t communicable, for instance, by biting or any other way, but it is hereditary, which is why it’s good that you’ve been so smart and lucky, even if you’re just fourteen.
Well, no, not fourteen anymore. It’s about halfway through Jonathan’s year of folklore research—he’s already promised not to write you up for any of the journals, and keeps assuring you he won’t tell anybody, although later you’ll realize that’s for his protection, not yours—so that would make you, oh, seventeen or eighteen. Jonathan’s still thirty-five. At the end of the year, when he flies you back to the United States with him so the two of you can get married, he’ll be thirty-six. You’ll be twenty-one on two feet, three years old on four.
Seven to one. That’s the ratio. You’ve made sure Jonathan understands this. “Oh, sure,” he says. “Just like for dogs. One year is seven human years. Everybody knows that. But how can it be a problem, darling, when we love each other so much?” And even though you aren’t fourteen anymore, you’re still young enough to believe him.
At first it’s fun. The secret’s a bond between you, a game. You speak in code. Jonathan splits your name in half, calling you Jessie on four feet and Stella on two. You’re Stella to all his friends, and most of them don’t even know that he has a dog one week a month. The two of you scrupulously avoid scheduling social commitments for the week of the full moon, but no one seems to notice the pattern, and if anyone does notice, no one cares. Occasionally someone you know sees Jessie, when you and Jonathan are out in the park playing with balls, and Jonathan always says that he’s taking care of his sister’s dog while she’s away on business. His sister travels a lot, he explains. Oh, no, Stella doesn’t mind, but she’s always been a bit nervous around dogs—even though Jessie’s such a good dog—so she stays home during the walks.
Sometimes strangers come up, shyly. “What a beautiful dog!” they say. “What a big dog!” “What kind of dog is that?”
“A Husky-wolfhound cross,” Jonathan says airily. Most people accept this. Most people know as much about dogs as dogs know about the space shuttle.
Some people know better, though. Some people look at you, and frown a little, and say, “Looks like a wolf to me. Is she part wolf?”
“Could be,” Jonathan always says with a shrug, his tone as breezy as ever. And he spins a little story about how his sister adopted you from the pound because you were the runt of the litter and no one else wanted you, and now look at you! No one would ever take you for a runt now! And the strangers smile and look encouraged and pat you on the head, because they like stories about dogs being rescued from the pound.
You sit and down and stay during these conversations; you do whatever Jonathan says. You wag your tail and cock your head and act charming. You let people scratch you behind the ears. You’re a good dog. The other dogs in the park, who know more about their own species than most people do, aren’t fooled by any of this; you make them nervous, and they tend to avoid you, or to act supremely submissive if avoidance isn’t possible. They grovel on their bellies, on their backs; they crawl away backwards, whining.
Jonathan loves this. Jonathan loves it that you’re the alpha with the other dogs—and, of course, he loves it that he’s your alpha. Because that’s another thing people don’t understand about your condition: they think you’re vicious, a ravening beast, a fanged monster from hell. In fact, you’re no more bloodthirsty than any dog not trained to mayhem. You haven’t been trained to mayhem: you’ve been trained to chase balls. You’re a pack animal, an animal who craves hierarchy, and you, Jessie, are a one-man dog. Your man’s Jonathan. You adore him. You’d do anything for him, even let strangers who wouldn’t know a wolf from a wolfhound scratch you behind the ears.
The only fight you and Jonathan have, that first year in the States, is about the collar. Jonathan insists that Jessie wear a collar. “Otherwise,” he says, “I could be fined.” There are policemen in the park. Jessie needs a collar and an ID tag and rabies shots.
“Jessie,” you say on two feet, “needs so such thing.” You, Stella, are bristling as you say this, even though you don’t have fur at the moment. “Jonathan,” you tell him, “ID tags are for dogs who wander. Jessie will never leave your side, unless you throw a ball for her. And I’m not going to get rabies. All I eat is Alpo, not dead raccoons: How am I going to get rabies?”
“It’s the law,” he says gently. “It’s not worth the risk, Stella.”
And then he comes and rubs your head and shoulders that way, the way you’ve never been able to resist, and soon the two of you are in bed having a lovely sportfuck, and somehow by the end of the evening, Jonathan’s won. Well, of course he has: he’s the alpha.
So the next time you’re on four feet, Jonathan puts a strong chain
choke collar and an ID tag around your neck, and then you go to the vet and get your shots. You don’t like the vet’s office much, because it smells of too much fear and pain, but the people there pat you and give you milk bones and tell you how beautiful you are, and the vet’s hands are gentle and kind.
The vet likes dogs. She also knows wolves from wolfhounds. She looks at you, hard, and then looks at Jonathan. “A gray wolf?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” says Jonathan. “She could be a hybrid.”
“She doesn’t look like a hybrid to me.” So Jonathan launches into his breezy story about how you were the runt of the litter at the pound: you wag your tail and lick the vet’s hand and act utterly adoring.
The vet’s not having any of it. She strokes your head; her hands are kind, but she smells disgusted. “Mr. Argent, gray wolves are endangered.”
“At least one of her parents was a dog,” Jonathan says. He’s starting to sweat. “Now, she doesn’t look endangered, does she?”
“There are laws about keeping exotics as pets,” the vet says. She’s still stroking your head; you’re still wagging your tail, but now you start to whine, because the vet smells angry and Jonathan smells afraid. “Especially endangered exotics.”
“She’s a dog,” Jonathan says.
“If she’s a dog,” the vet says, “may I ask why you haven’t had her spayed?”
Jonathan splutters. “Excuse me?”
“You got her from the pound. Do you know how animals wind up at the pound, Mr. Argent? They land there because people breed them and then don’t want to take care of all those puppies or kittens. They land there—”
“We’re here for a rabies shot,” Jonathan says. “Can we get our rabies shot, please?”
“Mr. Argent, there are regulations about breeding endangered species—”
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