by P. K. Tyler
Interior: Night
"You know nothing of love!" railed the Buddha. "The ass was sweet." He patted the folds of his tunic for his flasks, even though he knew the Jackalope would have already removed them. "They are the wines of life and knowledge!" he said of the precious flasks. "Not meant to be handled by the dirty feet of beasts! Where did you put them?"
The Jackalope, busy staring at wood to create a fire, ignored him.
Buddha stood to swing at him.
The Jackalope stared at the slight man.
The Buddha sat down. “Where are we?” he asked.
“Dao-Xi,” said the beast. Very slowly. Speech, human speech, no matter the language, was laborious for it.
“I should have stayed in Cush. Look how pale I’ve become. They’re sucking me dry.”
“Have,” said the huge furry guardian, “tea.”
The Buddha ignored him. "I am done telling others their stories. Those men wanted to harm me. There was violence in their hearts.”
“I think they see now.”
“They see nothing! Umbrage. What is umbrage but self-folly? They see a huge beast pounding them, never themselves. Never. Thus, you do not exist.”
The Jackalope had no problem with that. The teacup in its thick paws was a delicate yet supremely protected thing holding hot, lightly sweetened bliss. “How many times shall we do this?” it asked around a sip.
“Until we get home.”
The beast shook its head. Despite all else about it—the clothing, the speech, its handling of their daily affairs—the Buddha found that one small motion to be the most human thing about it. “No,” said the beast. “I am done rescuing you to tell your story as well. I am done dreaming you. I am done explaining your life over tea.”
Buddha adjusted his clothing; stood a bit straighter. “I have never believed in you.”
“Nor I you.”
Without another word, the Buddha left the dining room of their dimensional ship.
The Jackalope drank its tea.
* * *
“Captain’s log,” said the human broadcasting, because she had always wanted to say that. One could tell from her intonation and facial expressions. The mental connection missed nothing. “We’ve been on this ship for twenty years, internally. Externally, I’ve seen Ramses, Shaka, a dinosaur, and Tina Turner’s last dance, in that order.”
The Jackalope came up behind the Buddha. “This is her fortieth from the beginning again?”
“I’m experiencing all of them,” said the Buddha.
“Again.”
Buddha flicked a hand of annoyance at him.
The Jackalope left him to his waste of time.
Both it and Buddha had experienced the recordings of several crews on this ship. None of the crews were around anymore. Scooped at random, deposited at random. That was the prevailing theory. The builders of the ship had left instructions on the best way to experience this synaptically-driven gift to the dimensional universe, but they had been beings of vapor.
Which meant too that the ship was vapor, the crews just hadn't thought so.
The ship was large and empty. Organic. Even the quiet footfalls of the Jackalope's pads registered as unnecessary noise within a large silent system.
Exterior: Sunday
The field it came from was as purple as a burst grape, especially under high sun. The sudden scoop of the ship that didn’t exist had confused it a moment; had it always known it had a scar on the pad of its right paw? Did it know that loving Penny Pinwiddie hurt so much? Such a bright child whom the Jackalope would have done anything to protect. Being aware of a world in which a child actually needed protection drove it inward. Downward. Love was untenable.
Fortunately, it had been alone for fifty years, for all love to have drained off. Then the great, random scoop again, and he came. The Jackalope had been around the world seeing myths and religions made real. It recognized the Buddha even if the Buddha played at being a young fool.
One hundred thirty-five internal years with him. Tens of thousands by the outside world.
No purple fields of flowers as far as the eye could see.
Internally: Tuesday
He consumed the logs again and again between sweeps, never making a single one. Only watching. He hated that he was now so unsure; if there were clues or directions in these recordings, then receiving the neurogram is where he would be. A small, ignorant village might believe he was the Buddha if he told them and spouted undeniably trenchant words until the alcohol kicked in, but he had to believe it and he no longer did. A mind that had expanded to the edges of time and space was now trapped in a foolish young body, this body itself constrained by the limits of its neural capabilities.
He hated being a fool.
He was practiced enough in medicine that he could bandage the Jackalope’s paw while still mentally viewing the ship’s engrammatic recordings. An idiot wanted for multiple murders in very smelly London had slashed the beast’s right paw. In return, the Jackalope had hit the man so hard, one of his fragile human ribs made a quick tent of his breast pocket. The rescued woman (rescued only because the Buddha had been taken with the flow of her hair as he glanced at her stumbling into the alley), this woman was aware of her station in the world: a man of fine clothing had been injured. The law already looked unfavorably on her. No point hoping it would tender a change of heart.
The Buddha had watched Jack the Ripper take a few labored breaths, then there was nothing in the alley but the Buddha, the Jackalope, and death, which left them with no reason not to return to the ship.
Buddha tied off the Jackalope’s bandage, patted the fur of his only friend, and rediverted his attention to the tales of Captain Fiona Carel. “Please be more careful,” he said before his eyes unfocused.
The Jackalope left.
Internally: Wednesday
The Buddha had found James Brown. James Brown was not the best thing for an obsessive compulsive to find.
"Bobby! Can I take 'em to the bridge?" bellowed through the corridors one more time. Someone named Regina Nevills had a recording of it when the ship scooped her up. Buddha was deep in her logs now, enthralled at such a find. Intricate, syncopated beats that merged, rose, dipped and bounced off Mr. Brown's stirring vocals.
Marvelous.
Utterly marvelous. He began his own log.
“There’s a scream out there what will solve everything. A pitch, a tone…a vibrato…”
And he was pleased with the sound of this.
Exterior: Friday
The Buddha was fat. “My life has been meaningless,” said the Buddha at their usual table outside Cafe Diem.
“What of nonattachment?’
“I can do without it."
The Jackalope’s ears no longer twitched. What did this man know of the lingering ache in a stomach from longing for a field of purple flowers from a child’s storybook? It shrugged. “This is not a world where things happen for a reason. It’s a world where things happen.”
Its stomach no longer worried it; it just was.
The Buddha looked at the newspaper that wasn’t paper. It was thin and interactive. A man in a long blue jacket spoke to a large crowd. The Buddha adjusted the volume. "There is a new world about to open up," the very rich man said. "A new way of thinking. The computer, many have said, is bored with the way we are using it." A young couple still in love with their hands took seats at an adjacent table. Buddha smiled at them and muted the volume to text only. The Blue-jacketed Man called his new software approach “Revolve.” It was time, he said, the computer decided the world revolved around it.
Fat Buddha tapped the paper. “Friday,” the Buddha said. “Twenty thirty-one.” Zero one two three. How appropriate. Basic. The lovers spoiled his contemplation with laughter. Buddha forgave them. He sighed and stretched an ache from his shoulders. “Is your tea good?”
“It is good,” said the Jackalope, ducking its head just a bit at the tip of the table’s umbrella to sh
ield its eyes from the noonday sun.
Twenty thirty-one was loud and full of concrete and plastic. Screens of information everywhere. Data overflowing but no one knowing what river it returned to. What an odd future. "This could be where it started," the Buddha said, tapping the paper. "With thinking machines."
Far out in the San Francisco Bay, a plesiosaur raised its beautifully strong neck out of the water. The Jackalope saw it. Dinosaurs fascinated the Buddha. He caught the beast's powerful strokes and undulating head before it submerged again; he set the paper on their table. It was nice here in San Francisco. The weather was agreeable, and, even here in twenty thirty-one, robed monks walked the streets hoping to bless or be blessed with random bliss.
It was a good day.
It was the only day left to them. The ship had deposited them and not returned. That was twenty years ago.
The Buddha got the attention of their young waiter. He was a lovely young man with an excellent smile. “I shall have tea too,” the Buddha said, hoping he would smile at him.
He did.
About the Author
Zig Zag Claybourne is the author of The Brothers Jetstream: Leviathan, Historical Inaccuracies, numerous essays and way too many random blogs. He enjoys the weird and the fantastic.
@zzclaybourne
www.WriteonRighton.com
Her
by Rebecca Poole
Summary: A lifetime of toil. Believe when no one else does. Remain steadfast, stay the course. The last of his kind, he’s waiting. He who serves his goddess understands when others do not. He welcomes the final act, but devotion has a price.
The shriveled little man scuttled along the thick underbrush and thorny vines, making his way up the hidden path spiraling around the mountain. Mumbling about the heretics who called him insane, he nimbly wove his way along, avoiding the razor sharp daggers the vegetation threatened to thrust into his dirty, tender flesh. The hidden path ran the entire length of the mountain, beginning at the bottom in a copse of trees, weaving in and out of the vegetation and rocks that made up the formation of the small mountain until it opened into a clearing at the top. The clearing was free of any dirt or debris. He had made certain to clear it and keep it perfectly smooth. The chamber within was free from insects and dust; everything inside sparkled when a stray ray of sunshine managed to sneak its way through.
His body, once strong and supple, had withered from age and use. His once bulging muscles, while still strong, were mere ropes holding his fragile bones together. He traversed the treacherous climb daily, making the two-hour trek without fail. It did not matter if he was sick or injured; it had not even mattered the one time his wife had been in labor. His faith never wavered and his resolve held fast. He must make the chamber ready for Her arrival.
But his time on the planet would soon come to an end; he had seen over eighty winters. Concerned that no one else would pick up where he left off, he had prepared in the best way possible. The regret of losing his only child that harsh, long-past winter washed over him for a moment. He had not meant to let Her down.
Taught from birth, his belief in Her so deeply ingrained, he had never dreamed others would doubt, would fail to understand. How could they not see Her designs everywhere in their lives? The violence and hatred that plagued humanity, the planet, were a sure sign of Her return. He was surrounded by unbelievers! Not even his wife, who had long ago left him ‘to the ramblings of a crazy person,’ believed.
Heretics, all of them!
They did not deign to associate with him—an insect or worm to be crushed—and certainly did not share his belief in Her. The taunting had lessened as he grew older, perhaps because the sport of teasing an old man was looked upon poorly and in distaste. As a younger man, there had been fists, many of them. Some, they had thrown. Others, he’d thrown in defense of Her and of his belief in Her. He had received broken bones, bloody noses, and countless bruises in his devotion to She Who Rules the Blood and Night.
Never once did his faith in Her waver.
He knew She would return; perhaps not in his lifetime, but it was inevitable.
For generations, his family had prepared and guarded the cave hidden at the top of the mountain. The family had been much larger when they had first been tasked with this most important of undertakings. Their calling was much easier when they were not alone. But now, the only ones left to worship her were him and his thoughts. While he never lost faith in Her, he had felt isolated and abandoned a multitude of times. An entire world of blasphemy and dissidence surrounded him, waves of crushing disbelief and heresy trying to throw him overboard into a killing sea. He had tried searching for others like himself, even going so far as to try sharing Her gospel to the local masses, but to no avail.
He was alone. And steadfast in his daily rituals, regardless.
He had made the mistake of attempting to share Her knowledge with a small group of almost-grown children, thinking he could guide and teach them Her ways of Blood and Night. He could still hear the mocking laughter that bounced around the chamber’s smooth, glittering black walls. They had laughed as they lifted the altar stone his grandfather had carved by hand, a beautifully crafted labor of love, love they had destroyed upon the floor, pieces scattered and broken, strewn everywhere. He had been so incensed, he used the very machete that had cleared their path earlier to silence the heathen unbelievers forever. Throats were cut in movements so quick, a snake would have been in awe of the old man’s speed and precision. He purified their desecration of Her holy place of worship and buried the four bodies outside the mouth of the chamber’s cave, in the overgrown brush, easily hiding them. Their bodies hadn’t been found, and the nutrients the underbrush received provided for ampler growth, which he did not mind tending to.
Every morning, he marched along the path without fail, to begin the daily cleansing required for Her arrival. He diligently cleared away leaves that had fallen, each one a marker of the time passing until Her return. In the growing season, the brush was his marker of days, measured with his devotion until it became too overgrown for him to traverse. Then, he would hack away with a machete, friction from the leather wrapped handle blistering his gnarled hands. At times, the blisters would burst, blood slicking the handle, making each swipe of his arm flow with more purpose.
He viewed the scars on his palms as badges of honor and devotion. Sometimes, lying alone at night, he would touch the scars that decorated his body: his cause to celebrate. After all, he had received them from his preparation of Her imminent return. Wounds would heal, as he had often proven; even broken bones. Once, in his much younger years, a misstep had broken his leg. He improvised a splint made of surrounding branches and his raggedly torn shirt. His wife had sneered at his makeshift casting upon his return, thinking he would be unable to attend to his duties. It had taken him longer, but completed they were.
Moving with a grace that belied his advanced years, the withered old man mumbled prayers to Her as he paced around the chamber. His diligence never allowed time for the dust to gather or for more than a few leaves to blow inside. One day, he would see results, either in this life or the next.
This particular morning, as he cleaned the already spotless chamber, he witnessed the most miraculous sight to grace his tired but sharp eyes. There, upon the altar he had so painstakingly constructed from stone, lay the most beautiful and wondrous creation. Proof of Her existence was within his grasp. He knew if he were careful, he could carry the small chrysalis to the bottom of the mountain and silence the heretics forever. This pulsating, undulating piece of shining creation would make them regret the day they ever denied Her existence.
As his hands reached to touch the chrysalis, a thought came to him. What if his touch disturbed Her and caused Her to leave again? What if showing them how wrong they were did not have the desired effect? What if they decided they wanted to stop Her? Or what if they wanted to keep Her to themselves; even worse, what if they were to desecrate what could be Her very be
ginning?
He could not take that chance. He would have to be even more steadfast and unwavering in his crusade.
Certain that this was the beginning of something fantastical and great, he burst with pleasure and excitement. Holding back his screams of delight and wonderment made his skin feel tight and too small for his body. He did not know how long it would take for Her to finish growing, but he would wait and prepare as long as he had to, until drawing his last breath into heaving lungs.
Legs practically skipping with joy, he finished his cleansing ritual and began the long trek down the mountain. Rushing along the street, he spied his tiny home and yearned to be back in the chamber with Her, waiting, praying, and dreaming of what She would look like. How would She feel—should She grace him with that knowledge. He dared dream of how Her voice sounded, imagined the dulcet tones, those unspoken words sending quivering waves of happiness down his spine.
One of the townsfolk called out to him as he passed her walkway. “Still on your crazy quest, old man?” She laughed, her voice assaulting his ears.
He told her she would regret not believing. “Never know when She’ll arrive! She Who Rules Blood and Night! She is coming!”