Bats of the Republic

by Zachary Thomas Dodson

The pile of boulders was not necessary in the end and, abandoning my torch, I could just reach the end of the rope by jumping. It was not easy and many failed attempts bloodied my hands, but I finally got hold of it and pulled myself to the top, warming with relief every length of the rope. It was the way I had entered, but I was free.

  Once up top, I lay down on the hot earth and let the sun set behind me. I felt too overwhelmed to move, and indeed lay there until dusk came on. I did not think to look for it, but all at once the great whorl of bats beat to life and covered the sky above my eyes like a blanket, now somehow comforting.

  I expected them to trickle out, a few scouts emerging to test the night air, then signal the rest of the troop to move out. But that was not their way. They emerged all at once, as a group, and seemed already agreed upon which direction to fly.

  I do not know how they are alerted to the dusk. It is pitch-black in the cave, and remains so cool and steady that I cannot comprehend what sign of waning daylight could compel them to emerge so suddenly and in such great number. Perhaps they are accustomed to the rhythms of the day as birds are to the rhythms of the season, some ancient knowledge carried in their bodies, one that allows them to know when it is time to go. Were I only guided by such a force.

  I lay there and watched in growing wonderment at the duration of their emergence, which seemed like it might never end. By the path of the moon, low across the western sky, I estimate it took between two and three hours before the number of bats finally dropped off significantly enough to convince me they were finished. Their number I still can’t guess. Undoubtedly they have mastered procreation, and their underground city flourishes with an abundance of life.

  All is calm now. This was two days hence, and I watched the bats again last night. Each day I have found myself staring down into the cave, long and hard, guessing at its length and the location of the exit, which I could not discover. My imagining of the underworld has consumed my mind and become so preposterous that I have begun to have thoughts of what it would require for humans such as you and I to live in such a place. It makes for a natural shelter, and might easily be guarded from attack or inclement weather. How to get light underground seems to me the principal problem.

  My head has been so muddled and sunstruck that it took me this long to realize that I had not yet drawn a single one of the bats. They represented the perfect reason to take up again the mission I had inadvertently abandoned: the documenting of western species.

  The bats move rapidly, propelled by repeated flapping of the wings, which seem to move more circularly than those of a bird. They are rather agile in the air, able to turn and change direction according to whim. They do not glide for more than a second and never achieve much velocity. Against a darkening sky, even when seen directly above me, the bat passes like a thought, and if I try to espy the same one twice, it is gone.

  This evening, I thought of a strategy to catch one. I stood near to the maw and swung my blanket upward into the cloud that was spilling all around me. It did not take very long to strike a bat from the air and send it tumbling to the desert floor. Though I felt sorry for the attack, I leapt forward and pounced upon the bat with both hands.

  At first I gripped her tightly, bracing for the sting of tiny teeth, but presently I loosened my grip as she was curious about the warmth and smell of my hands. She crawled up my sleeve, awkwardly using thumb-like talons on the tips of her wings. The little bat hung on me for a bewitching moment and then took to the sky again, rejoining her family’s nightly migration, a communion with the dark.

  It was then that I realized what I might do until I find my way through the cave. Your father has no bats. The Museum of Flying is entirely birds and bugs. Perhaps he thinks bats are vicious, but there is no blood food out here, if that is supposed to be what sustains them. They must eat the fruits of this desert and insects or other small creatures. Were I able to capture enough specimens and document them properly, they could form the basis for a whole new collection at the museum. Or perhaps the Zoological Garden. Chicago society would surely be fascinated by these wing’d mammals, that are like little pieces broken out of the desert night sky.

  Aunt Anne herself led me to the bats. She and her Sisters would support the useful nature of such creatures and their rightful place in a museum of things that have mastered the air. Your father would beg to house my collection. Without it, his museum would be incomplete. Irion’s letter would be forgotten.

  Would not such success grant me esteem in your eyes? And even if we could not be married, my place at the museum would be secured, and I would be near to you the rest of my days.

  My encounter with the bat, along with my defeat at the onset of the darkness, has loosed a new resolve in me. I am now determined, while plumbing the depths of this cave, to discover the home of the bats and the extent of their underground world. You shall come with me, always in my thoughts. I wish badly for some fox fire, or any reliable light to guide me through the black of the cave.

  In the morning I shall move my tent and make a proper camp, shielded by the mouth of the cave and hidden from view. Then I should head for the road to the east, to see if I can gain a few more supplies from some small town or passing caravan. I feel this cave is my personal discovery and new calling. I will find a way through. Perhaps this journey was meant all along to lead me to its fateful darkness.

  Yours in Great and Cavernous Love, Zadock

  BEGIN WATCHPOST TRANSCRIPT:

  E. GRAY ›› Dad?

  H. BARTLE ›› Eliza…I…

  ›› Dad, I can’t believe—You’re here—I—

  ›› Why are you…outside…Vault?

  ›› Are you OK? You—you’re covered in blood. Your hands—

  ››…shouldn’t be here…not safe. Outside of dead zones. I…looked for you. I…

  ›› Here, come sit on the plankway. Catch your breath. What happened? Why did—

  ›› I’m sorry…Eliza, sorry…for everything. I should never…left you. My daughter…

  ›› Here, put your head here. It’s OK. I can’t believe—you look exactly the same. Why didn’t you come find me? Zeke said—

  ›› I had to leave. I was forbidden to see you. They wanted to destroy our bloodline. They made you a Gray. Because I’m Queer.

  ›› Oh—oh Dad, that doesn’t matter to me. I just thought—Why—Are you hurt?

  ›› No, just…It’s not my blood. Just winded. I tried to get Zeke’s letter. It’s your chance…out. I know it’s in Daxon’s office. I waited for him. He means to…Hh…

  ›› Calm down. Take a breath. Lean back.

  ›› Yes. OK. You…you are beautiful. I have letters for you. Things you should know…

  ›› Dad, did Daxon do this to you?

  FLAG ➤ ›› I waited for him. In the corridor with a metal filing drawer. As though I was just…moving records around. When Daxon approached his door, I snuck up behind him. I hit him with all my strength. With the drawer. Over the head. He…fell. He was bleeding from the temple. I wanted to collect his blood in a phial so that I could use it to open his door. His blood ID…〈 VIOLENCE

  ›› This isn’t your blood? Dad, this is crazy. You came to Texas to do this?

  ›› It was horrible. His blood was trickling from his head into my phial. I heard someone coming down the corridor. I corked the phial and pocketed it. It was Bic. He came around the corner and discovered me hunched over Daxon’s body. He wasn’t moving. Bic drew his sabre and called out for the guards. I…

  ›› Zeke’s cousin. He wants to be Khrysalis.

  ›› More than you think. I ran down the corridor. Bic followed me. I escaped by sliding into the Vault. I lost him in the labyrinth of rows and drawers. I could hear him howling. He doesn’t know the Vault of Records like I do. He’s still inside. I’m in trouble. They’ll sound the alarm if Bic doesn’t catch me first…

  ›› We need to get away from here. He could come out that door any minute.

/>   ›› I need to go back. I don’t have the letter.

  FLAG ➤ ›› I don’t think that Daxon does. I—I reported it carbon’d. It never was. 〈 UNCARBON’D

  ›› You—

  ›› Doctored a lot of records. It was a false report. I lost it when I was fired. It will take time to see that the letter is missing.

  ›› It took me days.

  7 SECONDS DEAD AIR

  ›› I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were looking. But—we can’t think about that now. Let’s get you out of range of these watchposts. A dead zone, somewhere safe.

  ›› You are good at threading documents. I’m so proud of—

  ›› Daxon is guilty. I wanted everyone to know that. Or anyone. Especially someone who is looking at Zeke’s file.

  ›› Zeke needs to take the Senate seat.

  ›› I agree. But he can’t do that without the help of the Auspices. This is all in their hands now. They must keep both Daxon and the Deserters at bay if they intend to restore order to the Republic.

  ›› This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be…When we built the Vault—

  ›› I know. Dad, I wish you had just told me. I thought you—you didn’t care about me.

  ›› I would’ve been arrested. It seems foolish to care about that now. I should’ve known it’d be inevitable. I wish I had contacted you. I’m so…happy to see you. I missed you so much. Come to Chicago-Land. Both of you. Would you ever—

  ›› We’ll talk about Chicago-Land. But first we have to get out of here. Our unit has been destroyed. I’m taking you to Leeya’s. I sent her underground, so she’s not home. No one is watching that unit. We can lie low, figure out what to do.

  ›› We have to go back. I have Daxon’s blood. The key to his office door. I was so close to getting the letter. What if it contains—

  ›› He may not even have it! He knows you’re after him now. He’ll be angry. Don’t put yourself in danger like that again. Dad, I—I haven’t seen you my whole life.

  ›› It doesn’t matter what happens to me now. As long as you and Zeke—

  ›› He wouldn’t want you to do all this. You’ll wait at Leeya’s. I’ll go find Zeke. Come on, stand up. Can you breathe?

  ›› I’ve been writing to you. All these years. I have this inheritance bundle for you. How will you ever forgive me? My blood—

  ›› It was hard, has been hard. But I love you. We have to get you out of Texas. It’s not safe for Queers here. Not after Atlantas.

  ›› It’s not safe for you either.

  ›› Zeke will know what to do. It’s going to be OK, come on, let’s go. There’s someone in that watchpost.

  E.G. INDICATES WATCHPOST TX 277

  ›› We have to get away.

  END WATCHPOST TRANSCRIPT

  FAM. TADARIDA

  GEN. BRASILIENSIS

  26.9.43, 18:15, 70 deg., 20 knots, few clouds

  Just outside the desert cave

  Cave Bat. Small, brown like surrounding desert. Body is covered with fur and its face is flat and short and indeed more alike to a human than a mouse. Folds of skin about its ears, no doubt for hearing in the cave, and its wings are formed of the same rubbery dark skin. I thought the wings hairless but, rubbing them between my thumb and forefinger, I could feel tiny follicles. Its wings are not so much formed by its arms as its hands, thin bony fingers providing the frame on which the skin is stretched. Imagine having hands so large that by their downward gesture you could be propelled up into the air! Never have hands been so vital to a creature. To hold this one in mine was a thrill unmatched.

  30/9/43

  THE CAVERN, TEXAS

  Dearest Elswyth,

  Going for supplies, I did discover a village, but I am glad to be back from it. The deeper I go into this cave, the closer I am to returning to you. Aunt Anne’s vision has renewed my confidence, and I felt buoyed returning to my camp at the mouth of the cavern. During the day, cave swallows take the place of the bats and feed tirelessly upon the buzzing insects, darting in and out of the deep shade below the great mouth, fixed in a knowing grin. There is a way back to you.

  I set out three days hence, in the evening, for the provisions required to go farther underground. The stars here are difficult for me to read. The desert heat warps the night air and seems to set them spinning. Instead, I followed the tracks of the road. Twice in the night I heard groups of mounted men, which were easily spotted in their hasty clouds of dust. Being but one man, I was able to conceal myself in the brush. I do not know if they were Indians or soldiers.

  There were no caravans, and just as I began to think I would not find a town, one appeared on the ridge of a hill at the break of day, shining like a mirage. Clusters of white buildings caught the sunlight and sparkled brilliantly. At first I thought it was a dream. I was led forward by the songs of swallows, drunk on morning’s dew.

  As I came into the town, I saw Mexican homes made of the usual mud brick, but coated in rough white sand, giving them an unusual appearance. They first seemed abandoned to me. Connected to the dwelling houses were pigsties, corncribs, and stalls for cattle. A few had cow skulls mounted on the gates. Some children spotted me and, naked as jaybirds, scurried back toward the main part of town. I joined the high road and walked past the houses. Presently men and women appeared along the side of the pathway, their sunken faces unchanging as I passed by. Meat hung from hooks: buffalo or coyote, it was impossible to tell. Dried blood pooled underneath them.

  Santa Fe was filthy with life, but this town seemed a city of ghosts. The few Mexicans here, in dirty clothes and limp rabosas, regarded me with flat black eyes. I tried a nod or raised hand in greeting and received no discernible response. One skeletal man suckled at a small cigarrita, the smoke tracing shapes into the cloudless sky. Bony dogs lay panting against white walls. It was as though the village was in suspended animation, and might start moving again once the sun crested. I felt watched and unwelcome. Only the naked children moved about, scattering just ahead on the periphery of my sight.

  I thought I caught a smile on the face of a young girl. I turned in time to see her whip around and skirt back under black fabric hung in the doorway of her hut. My mind was playing tricks, but I was sure for a moment her face was Abril’s. I found myself fixed on the doorway, floating into memories of Los Padillas, then, bitterly, Santa Fe.

  At the center of the village I discovered a well. I cranked the handle to send the bucket down and back up, and it was returned full of a strange dark water, much to my surprise. I dug through my pack, intending to fill my canteen, and came across your fated telegram. Though your words were harsh, I decided I would conquer that impossible date. Drawing my sabre, I speared the note. Then, reaching out with the weapon, I dipped the telegram into the bucket of water, stirring it so that the ink started to run and the paper dissolve. The water would not consume the document entirely and, frustrated, I swung my sabre and chopped the rope, sending the bucket and the whole cursed thing crashing to the bottom of the well.

  A great bell rang and I startled. Still nothing around me moved, despite the alarm. It was then that I began to feel very uneasy and an ominous dread descended on me. I gathered my things and beat a retreat, retracing my path back through the town. Some elder townsfolk, adorned in dark robes, emerged from the deep shadows, and I could feel their eyes burrowing into my back.

  As I tried to duck through between two houses, a pair of hands grabbed me, pulling me into an open doorway. A man spun me around and put his finger to his lips to signal silence. His eyes were full of concern and, understanding his gesture, I obeyed.

  His rooms were cool and dusty, and wholly undecorated. The man sat me in a rough chair. He pointed at me and then drew his finger across his neck, which I understood as a sign of danger. The mood outside gave me no reason to doubt him. He had all the affects of the Indian men I had traveled with, but even lighter skin. He was dressed in the uniform of a Mexican soldier, though I saw he was
not. He wore moccasins on his feet and a single feather in his hair. His face seemed trustworthy and serious despite one pink eye, likely from albinism. It contrasted neatly with his darker eye. The Indian was squat, with a close crop of thick black hair. His cap looked to be government-issued and he wore a decorated sabre by his side, one that he couldn’t have purchased himself, guessing from how his hovel was appointed.

  He brought me a little cheese made of thin milk, pan de maíz, and some nuts. He sat on the floor and watched me eat. I grew restless at being studied, sitting in his chair. I asked if he knew the cave.

  The Indian ignored my question. We sat there for a long time, and if I made a motion to leave he barred the way to the door, again making the sign for danger. I became impatient and bored, and began to long for some English conversation or even a book to read.

  The idle time, however, allowed a brilliant thought. A book!

  It is certainly within my ability to construct a field guide consisting of previously undiscovered species from these lands, especially the bats. My discoveries at the cave could be published and yield a fame wider than a display in Chicago would allow. I should find a publisher and make my fortune independently. I could issue subscriptions for plates, as others have done. Texas is large. I could make many explorations and uncover all the species of bat that make their homes here.

  Why should I be a mail courier? Would this other task not suffice to win your father’s approval and your hand in marriage? With my heart dedicated to you, I could dedicate my mind to the bats, and you could read my care for you in my work and marvel at what I have seen.

  I am set on it now! One day we will return with a full complement of naturalists and equipment to this remote corner of the Earth. I became animated at the idea and began to pace. The Indian only put out his palm, asking me to wait.

  Finally, when the sun was at its apex, he opened the wooden door and crept up to the main street, peering left and right. He then fixed a serape over my shoulders. I allowed him to put a brimmed hat upon my head, and he tucked your phial of blood into my shirt folds. I had not even noticed that it had been out on display. Once thusly arranged, the Indian hooked his elbow into mine and led me out into the street.