Thirteen Specimens

by Thomas, Jeffrey

  One rifle ran empty...then another. At last, the fusillade had ended. Candle’s ears felt muffled; it would be hours before his hearing would clear.

  Lt. Broom staggered backwards, away from the edge of the ditch – suddenly dropped his gun to the ground and collapsed onto his knees. None of the men watching him went to his aid as he reached up, gaping dazedly, to his ear and peeled the dressing from it. It came away in sticky strands. He held it before his eyes, and Candle could see that a small insect lay dead in the middle of the gummed blood. Whether the parasite had died before, during or after the killing, he would never know.

  Slowly, Lt. Broom rose, and tossed the bandage with the insect into the ditch, too. Candle watched him stagger away from the scene as if again in a stupor. He took a shot of Broom’s receding form, but he could tell from the slowed churning of its legs that his camera was less interested in the man without a gun in his hands...

  A year later, and there would be no more Mediums. And the last of the Guests’ organic machines would have died. The Guests would no longer be a presence in this world, in this dimension. As far as anyone could tell, at least.

  Without the parasite in his skull, without the Guests behind him, Lt. Broom would be brought to trial for what he had done that day, and Candle would follow the events closely in the newspapers. There was no longer TV. After these decades of dependence on Guest biotechnology, purely electrical, inorganic televisions would be several more years in coming.

  Many would revile William L. Broom. Many, many would support him. Some would call him a victim of the Guests. Others would point out that the Guests had not controlled the Mediums, merely used them as intermediaries. In a sermon, one minister would liken the martyred scapegoat William L. Broom to Jesus Christ.

  Candle’s camera began to grow ill over the weeks following the massacre, oozing brownish fluid from its rear orifice and often prematurely ejecting the loaded film cylinder.

  He had heard that several dragonfly copters had expired while in flight, crashing with their occupants still on board...and for this reason, he was glad that planes had not become organic yet. After several weeks of persistence, he had finally won in his efforts to fly home, citing mental exhaustion as one of the reasons.

  He was testily ordered to pass along his gear to a replacement photographer once he reached stateside, but his camera breathed its last on the plane carrying Robert Candle back to the USA. Though he would have to turn its carcass over to his superiors, to prove he had not killed the important creature himself, he wanted nothing more than to hurl its body from the plane while it was still in flight...as he had heard helicopter crews were fond of doing with prisoners, while high above the jungle treetops.

  * * *

  “That never happened,” said Linh, seated across from him in the restaurant. Later – soon – when she became his girlfriend and his lover, she would make it her habit to slip off one shoe under whatever restaurant table they sat at, and rub his legs or even his crotch with her sole, her eyes glinting at him mischievously. She had the most remarkable eyes; he could not separate pupil from iris in them, they were so black. And in one picture of her he took, with a mechanical camera that he had been using for two decades now, he even thought he saw himself reflected in her eyes. Sure enough, when he blew the photo up in the lab in his apartment, he could clearly see himself standing there on a pathway in a park with his camera brought up to his face, captured in both of her eyes. Later he would wonder if he had been reflected in the eyes of any of the people, dead or soon to be dead, he had photographed twenty years ago in her country. If he enlarged any of those photos now, would he discover himself secreted within them – in a way, as much a part of the photographs as the victims themselves?

  “What?” he stammered. “Don’t say that, Linh! Oh my God...of course it happened!”

  “The Viet Cong made that up,” she insisted.

  “They did not make it up. It was Americans that brought it to the public, to the newspapers, to...”

  “They were told to say that.”

  “Told by who? For what? Look, there’s proof it happened. There are photos...”

  “Bob,” she laughed helplessly, knowing she couldn’t convince him now, leaning across the table to squeeze his forearm in both her hands. “Vi-et Cong...” was all she could add, simply to excuse why she would even try to debate the issue, how she could hold her beliefs.

  But he went on, “I took photos. I was there. I took the photos.”

  She sat up straight after that, staring at him. “You did?”

  “I’ll show you the pictures. After we eat, I’ll show you my book, at my apartment, okay?” The book was called By Candlelight: the Photographs of Robert Candle. It had been released four years ago. Some of his photos hung in a gallery in this city, as part of their permanent collection. He had never seen them there, but he knew that some of his photographs also hung in the War Remnants Museum, previously known as The Museum of Chinese and American War Crimes, in Ho Chi Minh City, formerly known as Saigon.

  “Okay, Bob...okay...I want to see that.”

  “How can you say it never happened?” he persisted. “That’s like saying the Guests never happened. But we have evidence, right? All around us. The building you and your boys live in...”

  “I know, Bob, yes...”

  “I was there, Linh.” His voice was fragmenting. Tears were blurring the lenses of his eyes. “I saw it. I was there.”

  “Poor my guy.” She reached across the table again and took his hand, held it tightly, rubbing her thumb across his. She could find no pity for the hundreds of her imagined enemy, killed on March 16, 1968, but she felt pity for her new lover. And her touch soothed him, helped stop the tears quickly, but they were the first tears he had shed over what he had seen that day. He tried to smile at her, grateful in some way for it, and she whispered again, “Poor my guy.”

  Sympathetic Identity Disorder

  It was Beclard in his Faculté de Méd. de Paris, 1815, who was the first to observe – or at least, to document – the condition that has come to be known by modern physicians as Sympathetic Identity Disorder. In the case in question, Beclard examined a seventeen-year-old Marie Lambert, who appeared to be in perfect health, but whose family insisted the raven-haired brown-eyed girl had been a red-haired and blue-eyed infant, having gradually come to resemble her deceased mother to an uncanny degree over the years.

  Subsequent cases investigated by Worbe (Jan. Et Fev, 1816) and Ward (Internat. Med. Magaz., Phila., July 1895), among others, similarly document cases in which children – significantly, in every instance born to mothers who died in childbirth – came to so greatly resemble their mothers as they matured as to suggest something more of a physical reconfiguration than simple hereditary similarity. Some have ventured that latent genetic potentialities surfaced with puberty, while others propose a more psychosomatic cause for this change in appearance (though naturally, in some of the earlier cases there were no photographs or even portraits by which a child might imprint upon their subconscious an image of the mother they never knew). In Ward’s case, the young woman had even developed a wine birthmark identical to her mother’s, though she bore not the slightest trace of this until her later adolescence.

  My own personal experience with this disorder was the most marvelous if poignant of the cases I have researched in my many years as a physician. Sixteen years ago I was called upon to examine a young woman by the name of Joan Crestfallen, whom I found to be an exceptionally lovely girl of eighteen, with a commendable figure and delicately feminine airs. Upon interviewing this young woman and her family, however, and viewing photographs of Joan as a younger child, I believed their assertion that Joan had previously been a male, then called John, who had taken on the appearance of the parent he had never seen in person. This radical alteration in form had taken its toll on the poor creature’s psychological state as well, making her (as I regarded the being) exceedingly meek, unwilling to much venture into
society for fear of ridicule. However withdrawn and melancholy Joan might have been, however, I found her to be charming and captivating to an extent that made my objective interest in the case difficult and uncomfortable.

  Despite our mutual bashfulness, Miss Crestfallen allowed me to examine her reproductive organs, which were fully and wondrously regular in formation externally, though internally, I determined that there was a complete absence of the ovaries and fallopian tubes (both anomalies quite rare) and of the uterus as well (more common an abnormality). The clitoris did present the possibility of being an atrophied penis, but there were no traces of testicles if I am to believe, as Joan insisted, that she ever possessed them (and again, her birth certificate – if authentic – bore out her claims). The mammae were remarkably and appealingly well developed. She had no facial hair, a feminine voice, would in no way have suggested any masculine trait to me were I to have met her in a purely social setting. And when I was presented with numerous photographs of her mother, I could scarcely believe they were not of Joan herself. The only difference between her mother and herself appeared to be that her mother had of course been capable of giving birth. (There is the case Worbe relates in which the patient was in fact able to become pregnant and give birth – having been a woman to begin with, however. But I mention this fact because the patient herself died in childbirth...and whether her female child came to resemble its mother, and hence its grandmother, in later years is unfortunately not documented.)

  Though shy in the extreme, during one of my examinations Joan rested her forehead against my shoulder, then lifted her face as if to invite me to kiss her, which I did not. She was visibly very hurt by my rejection, and I wonder to this day if I made the correct decision in not accommodating her...because I have never felt quite the same emotion of tenderness for a woman – and while I have refrained from discussing this case for many years because I felt it might call into question my professional ethics, I must at last address it, as it is one of the most unusual – and haunting – experiences of my rather singular career.

  As in many of the cases I encounter, there is no cure where there is no known cause. But I am sad to report that in a sense Joan Crestfallen cured herself of her depression and confusion as to her true identity, when a mere six months after I encountered her, I received the news that she had hung herself in the basement of her parents’ home. There is no question that her melancholy was manifold: Joan was in doubt as to the nature of own physical sexuality, her own identity, in a sense – her own soul. She mourned for a mother she never knew, except as herself. And she mourned for the second great absence in her life – myself. I can say no more on this subject, if I should even have said this much.

  American Cchinnamasta

  I saw a picture of the Hindu goddess Cchinnamasta in a book in the library, and I wish I had photocopied the drawing, or stolen the book, because now I can’t remember the book’s title or even the subject matter, and so I can not recall the drawing exactly...it’s like trying to remember a dream. But I do remember that Cchinnamasta had cut off her own head; maybe she had a sword or a long knife in one hand, maybe she had more than two arms. But I clearly remember two things. She was holding her decapitated head in one of her hands, and a stream of her own blood was arcing out of her neck stump, straight into her head’s mouth. Though she should be dead, drinking her own blood was keeping her alive, and beautiful. That’s the other thing I remember. Cchinnamasta was beautiful.

  I’ve looked for that picture on the internet and have been very frustrated. The one picture of her, supposedly of her, I could find showed her with her head attached. Though it was a lovely painting, I could not believe this was the correct goddess to go along with the brief description of her.

  Another site, with no picture but more information, helps me remember details like the two Shaktis who also drink streams of her blood. Though I am half Indian, I don’t know what a Shakti is. My ex-boyfriend Alex used to tease me that I wouldn’t know an East Indian from an American Indian any better than Columbus would.

  It says lotuses decorate her breasts. Maybe I can recall that. It says she has three eyes, like black Kali with her long wolfish tongue. Kali is easy to find. Maybe it’s because Cchinnamasta is less well known, more obscure, harder to search out and find that draws me more to her. It’s like I’m arduously climbing some mountain to meet her at last, face to face.

  She sits above the horny god of love. Why can’t I remember that part?

  A snake is tied around the jewel on her forehead, besides her having that third eye. By jewel I guess they mean bindi. I have never worn a bindi, but I have a small dark mole almost directly between my eyebrows as if Nature or some goddess wants me to acknowledge that I am half Indian even when I would rather not...which is usually. Almost always. So always, in fact, that I am sneaky and guilty about researching Cchinnamasta even though Alex has recently moved out and won’t catch me looking.

  You can get bindis online whether you’re Indian or not. Some years back Madonna and Alanis Morisette went through their Indian thing. Alanis seemed to mean it. I broke down once and bought anklets off a web site because Alex thought they looked sexy; they hooked over my second toe and around my ankles in a kind of beaded lace that from a distance looked like a henna tattoo. I don’t wear them any more, though I like to go barefoot whenever I can, I even slip my shoes off under my chair at work, and Alex reasoned this was my Indian side. I hated him talking about it, but he said it made me exotic. He wanted me to buy one of those kits and put mehndi tattoos on my hands because he thought that was sexy too but I wouldn’t. They’re too conspicuous, like these black spider webs all over your fingers. They wear them on the hands, the feet, even the bottoms of the feet and the palms and around the eyes to protect you from contact with stuff. Why do religions all seem to hate the earth and the things in it, try to buffer you from the icky touch of reality?

  Cchinnamasta’s six mantras are 1: Shrim Aim Klim Sauh Shrim Hrim Klim Aim Haum 2: Om Krim Strim Krom 3: Im Hum Phat 4: Shrim Klim Hum Aim Vajravairochaniye Hum Hum Phat Svaha. 5: Shrim Hrim Hum Aim Vajra Vairochaniye Shrim Hrim Aim Phat Svaha and 6: Shrim Aim Klim Sauhm Shrim Hrim Klim Aim Haum Om Shrim Klim Hum Aim Vajra Vairochaniye Hum Hum Phat Svaha. Jesus Christ. Maybe my sister Parina would be able to understand or even say all that, but I can’t. Parina is fully Indian. We have the same father, different mothers.

  Well, at least I looked up Shakti just now on the web and it has something to do with the creative power of male Hindu gods taking the tangible form of goddesses called Shakti. I guess that’s kind of neat. At least Hinduism isn’t as patriarchal as some religions. But I’m no more a Hindu than I am a Mormon, no matter what Alex wanted me to be; I’m not like that woman Anna Kashfi that Marlon Brando married because he thought she was this exotic Indian only to find out she was just from Wales or whatever. I can’t be who I’m not. I’m not your little Parina; sorry, Dad. Can you believe Alex bought the Kama Sutra and wanted to try every position? All that sticking my sweet stamen in your honeyed garden crap. Fuck that.

  * * *

  Parina’s mother is Indian, so she has the dark skin I don’t. There is a resemblance between us, though, and we’re only two years apart (she’s younger). We both have the long black hair. We’re both short and on the curvy side; I guess she’s a little less curvy than me. Both have the full lips, and these funny shaped ears with big lobes that stick out, ugh, good thing for the thick hair. My left eye turns in a little; Alex said it was cute. We both have big dark eyes like the girls in Japanese anime but something about her lids makes them look more Indian than mine. We first met when I was eighteen and she was sixteen and surprisingly we hit it off, even though I was prepared to hate her. She stayed with us through the summer while Dad was back in New Delhi on business, with his wife. I didn’t want to know Parina but by the time she left we were both in tears and I wanted her to stay with me forever. We’ve seen each other a few times since, for not as prolonged a visit. Maybe
I shouldn’t say this but one night we kissed and felt each other’s breasts a little. We’d had a few beers. But I love her as my real sister, I really do, even though I disown my Dad as my Dad.

  My Mom won’t talk about him much but he wasn’t with her long, never married her, and I can tell it wasn’t much more than an affair. He wanted some Wasp ass, but he ended up marrying an Indian woman, making his family from more familiar cells, raising Parina as his daughter but not even bothering to see me until I was ten and then when I was twelve, fourteen, sixteen, and only briefly...maybe because he thought every two years he’d have another chance of sleeping with Mom. The last time I saw him was when I was twenty and I’m twenty three now so I figured he must have given up on Mom. But I missed Parina, even though she had a Dad like I should have had except he wasn’t into me or was even ashamed of me because I wasn’t this perfect and pure little brown Shakti that jumped out of his forehead, this manifestation of himself.

  Parina is going to school to be a doctor like Dad. I’m a telemarketer. At least I don’t have an Indian accent at all; that might put off the people I call up, who get annoyed enough as it is.

  I had a dream a few weeks ago, the same night I heard Parina and our Dad and her Mom (who I’ve never met) would be in Massachusetts this summer for a few weeks. My Mom said they’d probably drive by to see us. In my dream, I saw Dad come in the doorway after Parina, who was in a sari this time even though when she stayed with me that summer she liked tight jeans and tube tops, and I felt disappointed that her hair was all tightly braided instead of hanging down hippie style like mine all crazy twisty snakes, and her little quiet smugly smiling Mom was in a sari too, but Dad was in a three piece suit and he had a briefcase. When he was in our hall, he set the case down on the hallway table, opened it up, and took out this big chopper-like knife that he used as a doctor, I figured. He raised it up and I screamed because I thought he was going to hack my Mom.