Yarn

by Jon Armstrong

  "No," I agreed as I pushed myself up, "I call that falling." Glancing up at the sky. I thought I saw the outline of the Pacifica-a swollen grey torpedo-as it headed back down. Goodbye, Vada. Goodbye.

  Just forty feet ahead was the black stage, where in a cluster of colored spotlights, an old woman rode a large unicycle. Instead of a rubber tire, though, the wheel was made of outward pointing scissors. As she shakily clattered around in a circle, some scissors points seemed to stick into the stage while others slipped. She seemed about to topple at any moment.

  A Bunné saleswarrior in a sky-blue minidress and shiny thigh-high boots stepped to my side, eyes bright. She held out a hand. "Presence in the super executive fornication pit necessitates the Super-Core Black Platinum Pass for the Great Suicital Recital Highlights Show. Present your honor, good costumer."

  From the inside pocket of my jacket, I took out the printed woven square that Vada had given me. The woman looked it over, her small mouth tightening into a frown. I couldn't believe it. After all that, I was going to be tossed out and never even get the chance to get close to Bunné? The saleswarrior thrust the cloth back at me and produced a tiny smile. "Pain encompasses forgiving." Turning, she strode back to her post. I guessed that was warTalk for enjoy the show.

  The house voice said, "And now, the apex of the evening… the grand and the magnificent… the craft and the art… the center of our cherished being… the inventor… dancer… singer… model… designer… mathematician… the egg-mother supreme of our sex and shopping city… the slayer of men… the wise of woman… the unity… the harp… the magical… the mysterious… the wet… the impossible… the brilliant show of cause! We bring you the greatest epic creator, the most fashionable leader the world has ever seen… your love… your heart… your mind… your sex! The incomparable and unbelievable pinnacle of humanity and affection: Miss Bunné!"

  As the women around me shrieked, flailing their arms, and flung themselves into each other-many fell and were trampled-I pushed back to the glass wall so I wouldn't be knocked flat.

  A blast of lights like the exhaust of a rocket enveloped the stage. The glare was so bright I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my face with my forearm. Even so, the light reached me, illuminating an eerie veined world of red behind my eyelids. Once the brightness died down, I was left in a sea of blobby green afterimages. I heard what sounded like massive turbines and then a staccato rhythm began to hammer.

  Male dancers in dark jackets, ties, and white tutus entered the stage and flung themselves back and forth frantically. Then two voluptuous, large-eyed women in painted-on nurse uniforms and complicated gas masks wheeled out an empty gurney to the middle of the stage. The crowd seemed to know what this meant and began clapping. And then from above, a woman-Bunné I soon realized-was lowered onto the stage just twenty feet from me.

  Her neck, ears, hands, and eyelids were bejeweled with heat sapphires and particle lace. Her short, fluffy, and pure-white hair matched her long, glaring ultra-violet white wedding dress. When she moved, the diaphanous train floated behind like magnetic fog. Even from where I was, I sensed a chilling logic about the garment. It wasn't cut and sewn, but woven whole on some preposterously complicated loom that had been built to make this-and only this-exact dress. For a moment, I was overwhelmed by the geometry of such a thing-this half-woven, half-knit masterpiece of such complexity and ultimate effortlessness.

  When her solid silver pumps touched the floor, two boys in black leather shorts rushed out to attach large, pear-shaped earrings that looked like forty-pound anger diamonds. Each boy then labored to support the jewel so it wouldn't tear her lobes.

  "In the faint and tarnished vectors of our past," Bunné began, her voice soft and ethereal, "my mother groveled for ears. And when I was hatched among the kernels of despair, my father cut her down for giving him a girl." The dancing men retreated to the shadows as a woman in golden veils came forward, squatted, clenched her face, and then left a large yellow egg on the stage. "As a daughter, I was ravished a thousand chain of moon, I bled from every cut, but I lived on…" Behind Bunné, three of the tutu men came forward. One picked up the egg. For a beat he seemed mesmerized by the thing and then he rubbed it against his crotch. The others laughed, grabbed it away from him, and tried to hump it.

  "But I lived on," said Bunné, her volume rising, "because I heard the rhythm in your beast… I lived on because of the kindness in your hands… I lived on because I felt the curds of hope in your mouth…" She was surrounded by a blaze of light. "I lived on…" She raised her right hand high in the air. "I lived on…" Her palm was lit by what seemed like some internal light. She held her pose as her expression wilted from what seemed like hope to fear and anguish. The amphitheater went silent. The characters around me held absolutely still. One of the tutu men, who had been thrusting at the egg, slowed, turned, and stared at her as though waiting for her next line. Then he slipped and dropped the egg. It seemed to take several instants before it fell, but when it hit the stage with a crack that filled the space, the shell split into two large pieces. A puddle of red goo oozed out and there sat a writhing mass of painful tumor and bone.

  I stared at that thing in horror even though I knew this wasn't the truth.

  Bunné's mouth opened wide, and she screamed in terrible pain. Her knees buckled and she collapsed. The two leather boys frantically detached the earrings. One ran to the side of the stage, dragging the huge jewelry, crying. The other hovered over the crumpled body, whispering, and tentatively tapping her back as if to revive her.

  A frantic web of whispers covered the audience. Was this part of the show or had something gone wrong? Soon the murmurs grew in volume. Some called to her, and others shouted for help. I took a step closer, thinking that this might be my chance. Ahead, several women began to try to climb up on the stage perhaps imagining they were going to save her.

  In a blink, Bunné's body was gone, as were the tutu men, the cracked egg, and the sorry, broken embryo that had crawled from it. The stage darkened for a moment, then seemed to explode in a tower of sparks. From that violence and pearly smoke a man stepped forward, dressed in a feathery violet jacket embellished with lace, beads, and ruffles. His shirt was a flowerbed of violets and azure. It was Warrior Remon of Loin! He strode to the front of the stage-his muscular legs painted with the sheerest white stocking-and stood there, his shoulders wide, his chest puffed as if he were king, emperor, dictator, and CEO of the world all at once. He began to sing warTalk in a rumbling baritone.

  Once he had finished his song, he stood and surveyed the audience, his steely eyes projecting both power and angst. Cold tremors shook me as the crowd cheered. Not only did I see myself in him, but felt he connected me to something else- something I couldn't quite identify. And now I understood Kira's admiration. I wished I had truly been more like this man.

  In a flash, he held up a palm as presenting us with something- his innocence, his humanity, his potential. Music began to build. A thousand violins sawed an arpeggiated minor chord. Bass drums beat faster and faster.

  A ghostly image of Bunné stood beside him. She clutched at her abdomen as if in pain. When she took her hands away, they were covered with blood. The audience gasped and Bunné's ghostly image faded away. When she disappeared, a single red dot appeared on Remon's tights-covered crotch.

  He gazed down in horror as the spot grew larger and gradually drips flowed down his white tights. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, and when he tipped over backward, a hospital bed rose from the floor to catch him.

  From off stage, a younger looking Miss Bunné ran to his bedside. Her long, diaphanous, unsewn gown made of unfinished cloth of gold was the opposite of the wedding dress. I wondered if it was somehow symbolic that the wedding dress of hope was impossibly complex; the dress of sadness, uncompleted and never finished.

  She clutched Remon's hand and sang softly and sadly. Baffled and horrified as I was by this grotesque play, Bunné's heartfelt song touched me in a wa
y for which I had no defense. I started toward the stage, curious and leery of what I would find.

  ANTARCTICA: CRYSTAL OBSERVATION ROOM

  I met Pilla's gaze. "I know you sacrificed a lot." "You don't know shit! Do you know what happened to me when they pinned you as a Toue terrorist?"

  "I'm not a terrorist."

  "You were in a conspiracy with known Toue terrorists! You met with known terrorists and were planning terrorist crimes against the shopping city!" Her complexion had turned fuchsia. The flesh pierced by the ring was throbbing.

  "You know that's not true."

  "I was in shit!" she yelled. "I had to beg for my fucking life. It's taken me years just to get to this shithole. I have my own desk. I have a lovely private toilet. And I eat all the algae burger I want!" She shook her head slowly as she touched the pinch of flesh in the ring. "And no, Mr. Tailor, you are not going to fuck with the ring in my fucking neck with a pair of fucking scissors!"

  I stood silent, letting her anger ebb. "How did what happened to me matter to you? You were just sponsoring me in fashion and the last thing was: I never went back to that sad haberdashery."

  Her shoulders sagged disappointedly. "I worked for Bunné. I was one of her top assassins."

  I wanted to laugh, but her sour expression worried me. She couldn't be an assassin! Sure, I'd heard stories about cloaked ninjakos wielding deadly knots, plam needles, and satin throwing pins, it all sounded like a pinkomic Pheff might read. It was not Pilla.

  "You didn't kill people."

  "Not people." Swiping her screen from the desk, she turned and hurled it at the wall. It spun through the air, hit the glass, and smashed. Bits littered the floor. The glass wall was unharmed. "I killed Bunné's enemies." Her eyes traveled from my shoes to my hair and back down. "You are one of her enemies."

  "I wasn't one of her enemies. And as for what happened, I was just caught in the middle of-" I stopped. In that dusty hallway on floor 888 in the Parfum building where I was to make my last rip for Withor, I had seen a ghost kill Izadora with a Xi scarf. The ghost then pushed me to the floor, hesitated, and ran. "You killed Izadora. You were the one in the Parfum!"

  "There's no visual record." She eyed me slyly. "And that dark-knot cloaking suit I wore does not even officially exist."

  "You were supposed to kill me."

  She nodded and lowered her head, down at the debris across the floor.

  "Why didn't you?"

  She peered up at my face. "Your eyes."

  I didn't doubt her at all now, and maybe the sadness I had always seen in her was some reflection of her horror at her own deeds. I watched as she now fingered the top of her desk. I spoke softly and with as much angst as I could muster. "I'll never forget when you first came to Kira's."

  She laughed bitterly. "I haven't thought about that ridiculous skivvé looper for years! She must be dead!"

  "Actually, I heard she's still in Seattlehama teaching warTalk."

  Pilla rolled her eyes. "Useless cut."

  "You were different than those saleswarriors. There was always an incredible depth and power to you, but also a warmth and vulnerability."

  "Don't shit me."

  "Remember how we fashioned in those Pearl River tights?" I asked, shifting lanes again. "You introduced me to those. And of course Xi. I'll never forget that." I whispered, "We had a lot of good times together, Pilla. That's what I remember. I know things didn't end well, but that wasn't our fault. Now, I'm sure we can work something out about this Xi and what you might need."

  Her brown eyes narrowed. "You know what you can do for me?"

  I hoped she wasn't going to suggest we don some of those love tights. "I'd love to help."

  She held out her right hand, palm up like a magician starting a trick. "You could help fix things for me."

  Was she asking for a handout? "Sure! What do you need?" I started to go for my wallet again.

  With her other thumb, she pressed firmly on the tendons in her arm. A five-inch-long, white knitting needle-more like a spike-with a point as sharp as a satin pin, stabbed out of the base of her wrist. She smiled a cockeyed smile. "You can die."

  "Shit!" I stepped back.

  She started around the desk. "I had this installed years ago. I almost used it once." She gazed longingly at my face. "These days, no one gets close enough."

  Retreating, I felt for the door handle behind my back, but found it locked. "Pilla, I'm very sorry about leaving you in Seattlehama! It wasn't what I wanted. You know that, right?" I tried wrenching open the door, but it wouldn't budge.

  She stepped closer. Blood flowed where the needle had stabbed through her skin. "You're locked in."

  "Killing me doesn't get you anything! I'm rich now, Pilla! I must have something you need. Something you want!"

  Her mouth tightened to a pucker. "Look at you, talented tailor to the world-a cringing cut!"

  If I screamed, I doubted the guard could hear. Even if he did, he was not about to come running. Worse, I was defenseless. The empty water-shears that I might have used as a knife were back in the car. The Mini-Air-Juki sewing machine in my pocket was designed expressly not to puncture skin. The crochet hook and snips hardly seemed worthy opponents to her needle. The only other tools I had were the two tiny yarn pulls under the nails on my middle fingers. I couldn't think what to do or say! "I don't need the Xi yarn." My voice had lost power. I strained like I was shouting, but barely made a sound. "I'll just go."

  "They say that every needle eventually loses its point." She tested the tip with a finger and drew a red dot. "But this one is still very sharp."

  Flattening myself against the glass door, I balled my right hand. "Pilla, please, this is crazy. Just let me go. I never meant to hurt you. I had no idea."

  She stepped closer. "What I should have done was killed you in the Parfum building. That's where I went wrong. I had a job, and I didn't do it."

  As hard as I could, I smashed my fist against the door. The glass shook but didn't break. My knuckles screamed in agony.

  "The glass is very strong." She smiled.

  "Pilla, listen to me: Don't you want out of here? Who's keeping you here? I'll get you out! I've got money."

  She raised the needle toward my chest. "I don't want your money. I want to mend my ways."

  SEATTLEHAMA: RIP

  Warrior Remon died while Bunné kissed his jacket, shirt, shoes, and slowly worked her way toward the bloody center of his crotch. Just as her lips touched the bloody material, the amphitheater went dark. After a long moment of complete silence and pure black, the crowd stood, and screamed.

  When the lights came back up, Bunné, now surrounded by saleswarriors-armed with long shears-and purple satins, stood with the others from the show and smiled and waved. Her precisely tailored navy jacket-exactly like the design Vada had showed me on the Pacifica-gave off a shimmer like a school of silvery fish.

  The audience, me included, stormed the stage. Soon a hundred surrounded Bunné, and when I saw that the saleswarriors were letting her fans greet her one at a time, I knew this was my chance. I pushed through the wools and sheers, grasped the edge of the stage, and hauled myself up.

  Slipping between two Black Dead Breeders, I saw that one had on a skivvé and was rubbing the tube furiously. Farther back, a Magnificent Wasp Female with a ten-inch corseted waist let out a wobbly exaltation and fainted, caught by a Warrior Remon in violet frill. While I didn't feel the same lust and love as the others, I had been captivated, even mesmerized, by the show, and standing there, waiting my turn, I studied Bunné closely, hoping to understand how this one woman could be the ruling celeb of the city, the inventor of M-Bunny, Vada's sister, the most talented seamstress I'd ever seen… and the castrator and killer of millions of men.

  "Truth is a gingham parasol!" said Bunné, hugging a Sorry-Girl in torn rags. A moss-green WaterButtie stepped before her. "A lumen of hope," she said with a kiss. To the next she said, "A flock of history." A Pricilla Filth, nude below her fl
owing gown, wept as Bunné whispered, "A single kernel of myth."

  She was a heavy warTalker. I don't know why that surprised me. After all, this was where Kira and all the other saleswarriors got it.

  "Three seconds," said one of the satins guarding her. "Three-second hugs only."

  "Left arm up… right low," said a saleswarrior demonstrating. "No more than five words or ten syllables."

  "One air kiss," added another satin. "Off her right cheek!"

  "Keep moving," growled another. "Say your line, give respect, and move on."

  Bunné spoke with two Blackwitch Breaths. "The heart of the infinite!" she said with a laugh, and then her expression fell. "Crushed by the swooping fall of a lone Chesapeake leaf."

  "Once you greet and hug," said a saleswarrior, pointing to stage left, "release and travel."

  A Commander Sheppard in a worm jacket stepped before Bunné, but couldn't remember which arm went where.

  "Right arm down! Right arm down!" barked a tall satin.

  "I'm sorry," sputtered the man, "I'm nervous… I just wanted to say-"

  "Time's up! Move on!" One of the satins grasped his arm. "Only five words!" He dragged Commander Sheppard away.

  "I'm sorry!" he called to Bunné. "I'm terribly sorry. I love you dearly!" By then, half of the real worms on his jacket had been squished.

  "Next," a satin intoned.

  Bunné seemed not to hear or notice her guards and handlers. She smiled at a woman dressed as Reginald Ball Fairy and said, "I am a new humanity." It was as if she had a special phrase for each of them. When Bunné hugged the woman, her luminous blue eyes met mine.

  I shouldn't have been looking at her. I should have been gazing down at the stage or the tops of my Jacque 24 chameleon sneaks, trying to remain unseen and invisible. But I couldn't look away from her, even as every nerve in my body screamed to do so.