by Darren Dash
Not yet.
I’m all out of drone teeth. Used my last one four nights ago to secure the most flea-ridden cot it’s ever been my misfortune to associate with. The fuckers are still running riot behind my ears, in my hair and through my beard. I’ll be scratching from now until doomsday.
I’ve slept in abandoned buildings two of the three nights since. Uncomfortable but adequate. The inbetween night, I got chased by an irate landlord and, too tired to look for another abode, ended up beneath a bush on the bank of a canal. It’s dangerous sleeping outside – the city belongs to its army of wild animals at night – but I got lucky. I hope my luck holds. I’m sure I’ll be needing more of it.
The enemaists catch up with me every night, even when I bed down outdoors. Different crews, but they all know my name and where to find me. Most of my enemas come while I’m awake – wary of attack, my body jerks me from the murky waters of sleep at the slightest rustle of an approach – but I don’t mind. It’s nice to have someone to talk with, even if they’re not, in general, the most stimulating of conversationalists.
Another day spent on my feet, following the sun in the morning, leaving it behind in the afternoon. I’m exhausted come evening – I woke six times last night – so I find a bench and grab forty winks. A tugging sensation on my chin interrupts my snooze. Sitting up groggily, I’m amazed to discover most of my beard gone, only a thin, bristly layer left. Then I spot a chubby man fleeing with a familiar bushy bundle in one hand. I yell and give chase and, despite my sorry condition, soon catch up with the out-of-shape thief.
“What the snuff are you up to?” I shout.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cringes. “Here –” Handing me back the severed hair. “– have it. Just don’t hurt me.”
“What the snuff will I do with it now?” I roar, slapping it from his hand.
“Careful,” he squeals, falling to his knees. “If you don’t want it, I’ll keep it.”
“What for?” I gawp.
“Wigs,” he says.
Turns out there’s a booming hair-piece trade in this part of the city. Wigs are all the rage, with eleven wiggers plying their trade in the neighbourhood, and this man is one of those.
“But if people can grow hair at will,” I mutter, “why do they need wigs?”
“Oh, they’re not for humans,” he tells me. “They’re for drones.” I do a double-take but he nods earnestly. “It’s true. Many people who keep drones as servants want them to look more human, so they dress them up and stick wigs on them. Some even glue a few teeth back in their mouths.”
“How much is a wig worth?” I ask speculatively.
“Depends,” he says. “There’s the quality of the hair to take into consideration, the workmanship, the reputation of the wigger, the wealth of the customer.”
“Give me a general figure,” I grunt.
He chews his lip and thinks hard before answering. “For a standard wig, twelve drone teeth, maybe as much as fifteen.”
“Right,” I tell him, “I’ll take eight for the beard.”
He argues – the hair is scraggly, in poor condition, full of fleas – but I have him by the short and curlies. Not only does he stand to lose the hair by haggling too hard, but under the brutal city laws I’m within my rights to smash his skull for touching my hair without my permission. In the end we agree on a finder’s fee of six teeth, in return for which he takes me back to his shop, washes my hair, cuts off most of it – I feel like a change – and shaves me bare, using a special type of sharpened stone peculiar to wiggers.
“How come there are so many wiggers in this part of the city?” I ask. It’s the first time I’ve encountered any kind of a difference in a local community and I’m hoping it means I’ve wandered into a new type of zone.
“Because of Barber,” Cally – the mugger-slash-wigger – answers.
“Who’s Barber?” I ask.
“A man who lived here,” Cally says. “He taught us how to cut hair and make wigs. Until then, those were arts we hadn’t contemplated, let alone mastered.”
“Did you know Barber?” I ask.
“No,” Cally says. “That was before I became a wigger. But people have told me about him.”
“What sort of a man was he?”
“An oddball,” Cally says. “He claimed to have come from an other city, if you can believe such a thing. Constantly asking people the oddest of questions.”
So this sectioned clan of barbers are the product of a man like me, a visitor who brought the barber’s arts with him when he wound up here. I’m disappointed, but at least it shows change is possible. I’d thought no man could leave a mark on this place but I was wrong. Barber – that was the only name anyone knew him by – had altered the flow of everyday life and left behind a legacy, despite the ground of the past being like so much quicksand here.
I book into a nice, clean boarding house with the teeth I got for my hair, take my time over a satisfying meal, then mount the stairs to bed, where I lie, rubbing my freshly shaven chin, waiting for sleep to come.
Broke. Shelterless. Hungry. No end in sight.
I feed on stray drones. Occasionally I waylay one as it goes about its chores but usually I can find some that have been abandoned by their owners because they’re no longer useful, having lost limbs or been drained of too much sap. (The drones grow lethargic when they’re low on sap.) The mannequins never put up a fight. They simply stand or lie there while I rip off their fingers or bite through the tough, waxy skin of their stomach walls.
I’m growing a beard again. Not for profit – I’ve left the wiggers far behind – simply because I’ve nothing better to do.
The weather has remained constant, warm and dry most of the time. I can’t remember if I asked Cheryl about seasons, if they have summers and winters here. Wouldn’t surprise me if they don’t. Nothing surprises me any longer.
As far as I’ve travelled, public car drivers still know where Franz and Cheryl live. It depresses me when I stop one of them and ask – makes me feel that I’m not making any real progress – so I only rarely do that now.
I’ve given up on map-making. There doesn’t seem to be any point. Part of me is convinced that this city goes on forever. That part believes that no matter how far I walk, I’ll always be the same distance from the non-existent end. I should turn and head back, except I’m too stubborn to admit defeat. I’ll probably die walking. Hell, maybe my body won’t notice I’m dead and will continue long after my spirit’s fled, unto eternity.
I was attacked by a wolf this morning. It charged me while I was changing my socks. (I wash and change them every few days out of habit.) If it had arrived a few minutes earlier or later, I’d have been a goner. As it was, I managed to stuff a shoe down its throat. While it was choking, I grabbed a noose and choked the bastard. Cut it open once I’d killed it and feasted on its hot, steaming entrails, not caring what people would think if they saw me. I cut the wolf’s flesh into strips and I’m carrying them draped round my neck. They won’t last long but at least I’ll have something to nibble on while I walk.
The wolf gnawed my left arm pretty bad. I wash it clean in a fountain and wrap a sock around the worst section, then carry on walking, ignoring the pain and not worrying about infection, figuring it might be for the best if I catch a fever and die in my sleep.
My wounds have healed and I’ve made a permanent switch from drones to animals. The first thing I do every morning is go on the prowl for scavengers. Yesterday I bagged a hedgehog-like animal, much tastier than I thought it would be. I caught a monkey this morning. Didn’t like the way its eyes fixed on me as I caved its head in — it looked human. I’ll be leaving my simian cousins alone in future, though I ate the one I’d killed, as it wouldn’t have been right to kill but not eat it.
One of these days I’ll target a lion. Just me and a noose, up against nature’s most lethal killer. The thought of tackling a lion thrills me. I’m not sure why, and I don’t devote much though
t to it. I just keep my eyes peeled, my teeth bared and a noose close at hand.
Weeks pass, no sign of a lion. I wonder where they hang out? Perhaps I’ll lay a trap for one. Capture a smaller animal and use it as bait. I could try locating them by their spoors, except street cleaners dispose of the dung on an annoyingly regular basis.
Here, kitty-kitty. Here, kitty-kitty. Here…
Still no lions. I thought I spotted one a couple of days ago but it turned out to be an overgrown cat/sheep hybrid. No good. I won’t settle for anything less than the king of the jungle. Newman Riplan’s never settled for second best and isn’t about to start now. I’ll find one eventually. All good things to those who wait.
My beard’s so long, I probably look a little like a lion myself. Maybe I should start crawling about on all fours and attract one that way, like calling to like.
I remain on my steady, eastern setting. I only detour north or south if I run into a dead-end and then, as soon as I find a path around whatever happens to be obstructing me, it’s east again. I’m tempted to make a camp and stick to a specific area, to scout about until I chance upon a lion – or it chances on me – but I force myself to stay focused on the trek. I’ve got my priorities straight, just about. Escape first, lions second, even though part of me would rather it was the other way round.
Walking. No shoes. I got rid of them ages ago. Don’t need them. Feet are so tough, it’d take a hammer and nail to pierce the flesh. I walked along with a small stone imbedded in my left heel for three days before noticing it. My clothes hang on me in rags. Beard down to my navel. I haven’t washed since I don’t know when. People avoid me in the streets now. Some must think I’m an actual animal, a new mutation, almost human in form. The blood of many kills is stained deep into my hands, my beard, my lips. Red like the moon when the lykans run wild.
Normally I move at a fast, shuffling gait, heading rapidly east for reasons I no longer properly recall, but for the last hour or so I’ve been slowing down, pausing to glance around, treading carefully, sensing danger. I’m not sure why I’m acting this way. I’d as soon press ahead at full speed but I’ve learnt not to ignore the subtle messages of my body’s defence mechanisms, so I obey my instincts and take things slow, paying more attention to my surroundings. I even stop a few worried pedestrians and ask questions of them, but by their confused responses I assume I’m not making much sense. It’s been so long since I used my vocal cords, I guess I’ve forgotten how.
Gradually, the further I progress, the more I understand why I’m feeling so uneasy. This place is familiar. Of course the entire city looks much the same, but this particular section…
I let my feet lead me down new but old streets, over fresh but recognisable terrain. My brain rejects the nightmarish realisation as long as it possibly can, but eventually, when I come to a halt before an unmistakable boarding house, I’m forced to acknowledge the crushing truth.
I thought I was beyond surprise but the sight I’m now presented with takes my breath away, wipes understanding away, strips me of every shred of reason I’ve ever struggled to cling to. I don’t laugh or cry – I’m too stunned for such simple reactions – though I’m sure I will later, if I don’t go completely mad first.
It’s Franz’s. Flying in the face of logic, despite the fact that I’ve been walking steadily east, I’ve returned to Franz’s. After all these months or years of walking, I’ve reached the legendary end, only to find myself back at the beginning.
How’s that for a kick between the legs?
FOURTEEN
Franz eyes me suspiciously as I limp from the door to the desk. He notes the filthy footprints I leave in my wake, my Gettysburg beard, the state of my clothes, my animal-like demeanour. Yet he bravely maintains his poise, and even manages a nervous little smile as I approach. “Yes, sir? May I be of some assistance?”
I open my mouth and utter an indecipherable croak.
Franz frowns. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
I close my eyes and concentrate on the words. When I’ve got them clear in my mind, I speak. “It’s… me. Newman… Riplan. I’m… back.”
Franz frowns, then cautiously repeats my name. “Newman Riplan?” I watch his eyes, wondering if he’s forgotten who I am. “It can’t be,” he mutters, leaning in closer – in spite of the stench – for a more probing examination. “Mr Riplan!” he gasps, spotting something familiar beneath the hair and dirt. “It is you. What has happened? How did you sink so low?”
“Long story,” I sigh. “Did you keep my room as you said you would?”
Franz nods hesitantly. “But I can’t let you up there like that,” he says. “I have standards to maintain. My other guests would flee if they caught sight of you in such a state.”
I do a little twirl, pretending to be surprised by his comments. “Why, Franz, whatever do you mean?” I wink to let him know I’m joking and he chuckles.
“Tell you what,” he says, “let’s go out back and see what we can do with you.”
“Thanks,” I smile. “You’re a good friend.”
He shrugs. “You’re a good customer.” He tuts. “Or were.”
I strip naked and Franz chucks a bucket of water over me. Then another and another. After the eighth bucket he hands me a bar of rough soap and I work up a lather. He fetches more water while I’m rubbing in the soap and begins to rinse the suds out of my hair and back as I focus on my front and lower parts. When we finish, he hands me a second bar of soap and we start from the top again. By the end of the third bar I’m beginning to resemble a human being.
I use a knife to cut my hair and trim my beard. It’s uncomfortable and I don’t make a good job of it but it’ll do for the time being. When I can afford it, I’ll hire a public car and face the long drive to Barbersville. Right now I’ve other things to worry about.
“I can’t pay for the room in advance,” I tell Franz. “I haven’t any drone teeth.”
“I guessed as much,” he laughs.
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “I know you’re good for the teeth. Kipp hasn’t stopped talking about you since you left, whining about the drop in customers. He’ll be so delighted to see you back that you’ll be able to command double whatever you were earning before, which means I’ll be able to hike up the rent.”
It’s odd that they’ve remembered me. I was sure they’d forget. But then, the barbers remembered their otherworld mentor as well. It seems that those of us from the outside are capable of making a lasting impression on the natives, even if they themselves are swiftly forgotten once they pass.
“Have you seen Cheryl recently?” I ask as I towel myself dry.
“Only every day,” Franz replies.
“She’s still here?” I’m surprised. After our last encounter, I expected her to make a clean break.
“Still here,” Franz confirms. “Not in the same room – can’t afford it on a single salary – but in the boarding house.” He studies my naked form and purses his lips. “Would you like me to find some clothes for you before I take you to her?”
I grin. “Clothes sound like a good idea to me.”
“Yes,” Franz says, “me too.”
Cheryl’s delighted to see me. Rushes into my arms as soon as she opens her door and spots me. Drags me in and smothers me in kisses. She’s been working the night shift, she tells me, which is why she’s home at the moment.
“I missed you so much,” she sobs. “I tried coming after you but nobody knew where to find you. No public car driver could locate you. They knew who you were but not where you’d got to. It was the first time any of them had encountered such failure. Usually they can find people, even if they’re living the life of a wanderer, but not you.”
“Have you forgiven me for leaving?” I ask meekly.
“Why should I have to forgive you?” she replies.
“The last time we were together, you said you never wanted to see me again,” I remind her.
/> “No,” she gasps, “I couldn’t have.”
“You don’t recall our argument or your ultimatum?”
She shakes her head and I leave it at that. If she doesn’t remember and is prepared to accept me back as if nothing untoward has happened, so much the better. I don’t think I could handle a complicated reconciliation scene. Right now the simple life is the most attractive one. With no other worries, I can concentrate on trying to make sense of how I got back here and where I went wrong.
An evening of love-making, soft words and dim candles. Cheryl doesn’t ask if I’ve been faithful — when you’re in love in this city, you never cheat. She’d like to take the night off work but they’re busy and she’s been recently promoted.
“I’ll be back before dawn,” she promises. “We’ll have more fun then.”
“Can’t wait,” I grin and pat her bum as she scoots off. Once she’s gone, I return to my own, old room – it looks the same as ever – make myself comfortable and fall to pondering.
Try as I might, I can’t figure it out. I stuck to the same direction through the entire journey. I got pretty confused during the latter days – wanting to fight a lion with my bare hands and a noose! – but even in that wild state I stayed true to my course. Even when I’d forgotten why I was walking, I knew I had to walk east. One way, so there could be no mistakes. I’m not much of a navigator, but I know how to tell east from west. If I’d been working by compass or maps, I could put it down to faulty, misleading equipment, but the sun doesn’t make mistakes or send you the wrong way. It can’t. At least… in my world it can’t. Here? Who knows. Maybe in this place it’s a wandering, deceptive star.
I’m depressed by the failure of my quest but comforted by Cheryl’s embraces, the warm bed that I can relax in every night, the regular meals, the softening of my calluses, the slowing to normality of my mind. If I’d known life on the road would be so hellish, I might never have set forth. Once committed, I had to see it through – I couldn’t have settled for a mid-trek retreat, as I’d have been forever haunted by dreams of what might have been – but now that I understand that the city boundaries, if they exist at all, lie somewhere beyond my reach, I’m able to accept it. I feel no need to set off on another quest – west, north or south – as I’m sure I’d fare no differently.