Viscera

by Gabriel Squailia

  Keep Fortune’s eyes on you—what did it even mean? He sighed, then coughed. What did Jassa say about Fortune’s fickle favors?

  That She loved a beginner, and that She loved blasphemy.

  Thus, in order to play along, all Rafe had to do was combine the two in some novel way.

  Like telling the truth.

  “I don’t believe in any of this,” he said, then flung the dice.

  Jassa stared at the board, her pale face gone white. She scribbled on the floor, then in her notebook. Cursing, she rolled quickly. “I don’t know what you’re doing, boy, but you’d better do it again.”

  He picked up the dice again, smiling. He’d finally found something he was good at. “I don’t even believe that Fortune is real. I never did. You promised me drugs, so I joined. But you don’t give me near enough, not to fake all this forever. So fuck it, Jass. I’m done pretending.”

  Rattle, tink.

  Jassa gasped, then sent her own dice tumbling in response. She wrote some more, then gasped some more. “Again. Roll again!”

  Rafe closed his fist. “Why should I?”

  She recoiled. “Wh—why? Because She’s here, She’s with us, She’s in us—She is the rolling of our dice! Now bring us home, boy, bring us to glory, before She turns Her hateful head!”

  Rafe slid the dice over into his right hand, rubbing them against each other between his fingers and palm until they squeaked.

  Jassa’s hands were shaking.

  He let them shake a while.

  “I heard them call you the Widow of Lank Street,” he said. “They say you chew through Deuces quicker than a locust chews grain. For a minute or two you were kind to me, so I didn’t want to believe, but I believe, now. You’re gaming me, and I hope She does exist, you know it, Jass?” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “So I can watch Her game you.”

  Jassa’s face went red. “Roll.”

  He shrugged and let the dice slide off a limp palm.

  The chalk snapped in Jassa’s fingers.

  “Oh, you bastard,” she whispered. “Oh, you son of a titless sow!”

  Rafe squinted at her scrawls on the floor. He was on the verge of comprehension when she stood and kicked at the board. The chalk spun over his head, the bumpers skittered into the mud, and one die struck his knee, rebounded, and landed an inch from the dead woman’s face.

  “What happened?” he said.

  The sound of his voice surprised him.

  It wasn’t a question—it was a demand.

  “You’ve no idea.”

  Her voice was cracked and thin. Was Jassa crying?

  “How could you? Beginner’s luck, they call it, but that’s not what it is.” She crushed her eyes against the heels of her palms. “It’s Fortune’s revenge! I had you on the edge. I had you! She was moving the world for me, She was, I was on the verge of ascension, and then—”

  “Wait.”

  Rafe saw, or thought he did. He pointed at his score, then at hers, the skin on his neck prickling in wonder.

  “Jass. Did I just—”

  “I am the velvet beneath the rolling of your dice,” she croaked. “You ragged little cunt!”

  “My Deuce ?” Rafe couldn’t hold back his laughter, or the swift thought behind it—Fortune will provide. “But that means—”

  “—that I’m yours to command.” Jassa lowered her head. “May the Goddess help us all.”

  —A Thousand Little Men—

  “Stew’s ready,” said the boy, poking a wooden spoon into the pot, but neither of them ate so much as a bite. He sent the woman to pick through the mud instead, where she searched for the pieces she’d kicked from their game. The storm had passed by the time she packed them up, and the two of them walked into the clearing, the boy leading with bleary pride, the woman trudging after with the satchel hanging over her shoulder, slapping against the backs of her thighs.

  He stopped at the edge of the wood, squinting up at the rafters of the farmhouse. She muttered a question, and he shook his head, then led her into the trees.

  Rain plipped from the leaves. The frogs spoke up in chorus.

  A burning log slumped, embers tinkling from its middle.

  Something scratched among the rafters.

  There came the rasp of fabric on wood.

  A tiny figure emerged, a man-shaped burlap doll who shimmied down a beam, steadying his boots on the hobnails that some long-dead homemaker had strung with dried flowers and herbs. As he landed on the countertop with a tip-tap, his breath rattled with satisfaction.

  The mannikin stood no taller than an infant, despite his platform shoes. Dusting off his three-piece suit, he surveyed the room, his button eyes shining in a face stitched from thick, burgundy cloth. Hefting the slotted spoon the boy had tossed onto the counter, he crept to the edge with an eager, flat-toothed grin, peering down at the drawers below.

  He pried them open with the spoon’s handle, each drawer wider than the one above it, until they resembled a miniature flight of stairs. Testing his weight with every step, the mannikin descended to the floor, then crept across it, tapping each floorboard in turn with the rounded end of his makeshift cane.

  He stopped when he reached the wiry woman’s body, scrunching his burlap brow to squint at the sinews cocooning her legs. Inching forward, he reached out with the spoon, probing the mass of muscle—leaping back when it shuddered in response, like the haunch of some sleeping beast irritated by a fly. Keeping his distance, he pressed on, tip-tapping, into the shadows.

  At last he reached a plank that gave a hollow knock when he rapped it. Tossing the spoon aside, he pulled up the board, muttering, “I knew those addle-pated dullards had left money on the table!” Flexing his glove-like fingers, he reached into the recess and gripped a strap of the woman’s bag. After a prolonged struggle, he cursed, then dropped down into the floor, where the sounds of buckles opening were audible, just before a gasp of appreciation. “Trinkets!” he squealed, tossing a bag of glass vials to land with a clink near the woman’s outstretched hand.

  She snatched it up immediately.

  “All right, Tiny, that’ll do.”

  The mannikin’s head popped up above the floorboards in surprise, searching the room for the source of the voice.

  Ashlan propped herself up on her elbows, and his puppet’s mouth went wide with astonishment. “You heard me,” she grunted, sliding the bag of bottles back along the floor, where it bumped against his chest and landed at his feet. The sinews cinched tight around her in protest at her sudden movement. “Get your mittens off my gear, and we still might leave here on good terms.”

  “Dear lord, girl,” he said with a laugh, “are you actually alive ?”

  “More alive than you, kid,” she said. “Your burlap’s about to bust.” The pain in her legs was incredible, but at this point in the day it was nothing but a drop in a very large bucket. “How long since you were animated, anyway? Fifty years? Sixty? I never heard of a mannikin so recent.”

  “I am ninety-nine years of age,” he said, crawling out of the floor. “But I’ve still a few surprises left before I unravel.”

  “Damn.” If the little man wasn’t lying, it was remarkable, maybe even unprecedented. Something niggled at her mind as she shooed a fly out of her belly. “Seems like a hell of a feat for someone so fragile.”

  “Well, what can I say?” Planting one hand on his hip, shoving the other into the pocket of his worsted waistcoat, he thrust his little chin into the air. “I’m tenacious.”

  “Good on you. Around here, you’re either a survivor or a maggot farm.” She searched the floor for the band that had fallen from the red bottle. There it was—a few feet from her head. “Now. Are you going to give me a hand, or do I have to do this the hard way?”

  The mannikin paused, cocking his head and examining her more deeply. “You’re—a fascinating specimen, I admit,” he said, folding his arms. “But seeing as you’ve caught me with a hand in your personal cookie jar, I’m un
able to imagine a scenario in which helping you escape your predicament would do me a lick of good.”

  Ashlan exhaled irritably, laying flat on her back. “No trust in your fellow freaks, that’s what your problem is.”

  “It’s hardly at the top of the list.”

  Slowly, methodically, Ashlan began to relax her muscles, from the top of her scalp on down. She could feel the pain more acutely this way, but then pain was so familiar a companion that she was able, as usual, to embrace it. By the time she got down to her toes, the enchantment had eased its grip, ever so slightly, in response to the lack of resistance. Then, with a motion so slow and fluid it was barely perceptible, she moved her right arm overhead, reaching for the wirework band whose runes held the enchantment’s trigger. But it was no use trying to trick the sinews; the band still lay an inch or two out of reach, and as soon as she exerted herself, the muscles squeezed all sensation from her legs, tugging her a precious inch farther from her goal.

  She slapped her palms on the floor, annoyed. “Last chance to be a helper, little fella.”

  “I’ll pass.” The mannikin scooped up his spoon, twirling it as he circled her. “You know, most people I’ve encountered on this long, strange trip have been a bit more surprised to meet a puppet moving on his own. Yet you seem to know just what you’re dealing with.” Stopping beside her, at a safe distance from both her arms and the sinews, he leaned on the end of the spoon. “Which leaves me at a disadvantage, doesn’t it? I’ve never seen a human survive half the damage you’ve taken, and I’ve seen my fair share of damaged humans. And, dear me, would you look at that!” Laughing, he pointed into her yawning stomach. “Your organs are regrowing, all clustered in your belly like an bunch of peeled grapes! What are you, exactly?”

  “Hard to kill.” She took a deep breath, then wrenched her body, tugging her hips as hard as she could against her constricting restraints. “The rest,” she grunted, “is up for debate.”

  There was a resounding crack as Ashlan’s femur snapped in two. She couldn’t help but shout at a pain so deep and brilliant, but in the space of a single breath, she wrestled the outcry down to a whispery hiss.

  She looked down at herself, not without satisfaction. With her body twisted unnaturally around the shattered pivot of her hip, she’d bought herself a good bit of reach.

  Lunging for the wirework band, she caught it with a fingernail. Dragging it down, lifting it between her fists, she yanked as hard as she could, reducing dozens of carefully-wrought runes into a mangled silver line.

  Just as she’d thought, the enchanter had cut some corners. You couldn’t expect perfection these days.

  Cut loose from their binding, the sinews thrashed wildly, gripping floorboards at random. Some tendrils snaked out toward the edge of the farmhouse floor, while others slapped against the kitchen cabinets, where Ashlan was amused to see the mannikin leaping back with a squeal of dismay, striking the back of his head on the wood with a dull thump.

  Before he’d been caught, the mass of muscle gave out a piteous squelch, then burst in a wave of foul-smelling liquid. Crinkling her nose, she watched the potion slosh beneath her twisted legs, dripping down into the cracks between the floorboards. “Yeesh.”

  The mannikin giggled nervously, rubbing the back of his wooly head as he edged away. “I suppose I could have tossed it to you, after all.”

  “Would’ve been nice. Not that I expected it.” Ashlan tried moving her leg, but stopped when the room went dark. Her hip was broken, and even masochists had their limits.

  Then a breeze wafted the smell of the stew in her direction, and Ashlan let out a trembling moan. Though she still had only the barest vestige of a stomach, her body flooded with hunger.

  Enough to make her hands shake.

  Enough to make her mouth water.

  Enough to make her think of how much closer the mannikin was than the stewpot.

  Shaking off the thought, breathing as deeply as her fledgling lungs would allow, she flung herself onto her open belly, grunting as she landed.

  “I would’ve helped, honestly,” the mannikin was saying as he eyed the edge of the farmhouse floor. “But I got too curious, damn me! Wondering how you might escape, and precisely how much—well!—how much pain you might take to accomplish such a goal.”

  “How much you got?” she whispered. Hand over hand, she dragged herself toward the stewpot, trying to keep herself from looking directly at him.

  Taking her desperation for a lack of murderous intent, the mannikin seemed to come to a decision. “A bite to eat, is that what you’re after? Allow me,” he said, tossing his spoon aside and stepping quickly toward the hearth. “My experiment was a little childish, I’ll admit. Allow me to make amends. Perhaps it’s time I—what was it?—put some trust in my fellow freaks! A friend in need, isn’t that what the oldsters say?”

  She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “You want to be—friends.”

  “Associates, at the very least!”

  Wrestling with a welter of feelings she didn’t care to acknowledge, much less name, she peeked as he hefted up the bowl of rabbit guts and dumped it on the coals. The smoky stink was fantastic, but the mannikin didn’t recoil. They had no olfactory sense, she remembered. Taste and smell were finicky enchantments, and there was limited room for rune-work on the insides of their little hides.

  Dragging a chair to the hearth, he maneuvered his way to the lip of the pot and labored to scoop out a bowl of stew twice as heavy as his body. Somehow, he got it to the floor without spilling a drop, then slid it between her hands with the proud air of a circus tamer bringing a lion to heel.

  “Cheers.” Ashlan lifted the bowl to her lips and gulped half of it down at once, disregarding her burning tongue. “So how long you been following those junkies?”

  His head snapped up, a tuft of black cotton bobbing atop it. “Beg pardon?”

  “C’mon.” Ashlan swallowed another chunk of rabbit and pointed into the wood. “They are harvesting human innards. You are a talking sack stuffed with enchanted human innards. And we’re in the middle of actual nowhere, so. Not much of a stretch.”

  “Hmph.” He tucked an errant thread into his waistcoat, whose buttons, she noticed, were made of solid gold, with little dancing men on their faces. “You are awfully knowledgeable about my kind for a creature of your apparent age! I was under the impression that not many of us had been seen in quite a few generations, and given the lofty assignments given to the last of us left living, a woman roaming the countryside alone would seem ill-positioned to learn the secrets of our design. Not that I’m averse to an exchange of information, mind you! But perhaps you’d lead things off by enlightening me—just how old are you?”

  “Stopped counting a while back. Got to be close to two hundred.” She hadn’t quite finished the bowl, but her rudimentary stomach was almost bursting. Mewling, she wrangled herself into a seated position, lifting her injured leg and forcing it out in front of her. “And yeah, I’ve met a few mannikins. Used to date a girl who did the stitching on the—” She wiped sweat from her eyes onto the back of one gore-spattered sleeve. “The puppets. That’s what you look like, without the stuffing in. No offense.”

  “None taken. That’s what we are, after all, however long the strings—puppets stuffed with walking, talking guts. What a world! So you’re more than two centuries years old, are you? All that time to wander and scheme, well-nigh invincible. And yet your belongings amount to a small sack of ornamental gemstones, a handful of empty glass vials, and a few dog-eared books banned in most human societies.”

  “What else does a girl need?” An itchy wave of pain coursed through her gut as her body heat spiked.

  Her stomach had burned through all that food in an instant.

  “Hit me again.” Tossing back the last few mouthfuls of stew, she held out the bowl, glancing at him despite herself, then staring sullenly out at the wood.

  Damn if he didn’t look just like an upright game hen.

/>   Bowing without a trace of mockery, the mannikin trotted the bowl back to the hearth. “But you must’ve kept busy with something, all this while,” he said as he scooped. “What is your profession, if you don’t mind me prying?”

  “You’ve been prying,” she muttered. “What’s a little more?”

  He brought back the bowl of stew, and she all but snatched it from his hands. Another wave of prickly heat struck her as she gorged, this one bathing her hip. Even for her, this hunger was intense, and she wondered what had come over her.

  “I don’t work often,” she said, thumping on her chest as she waited for her esophagus to catch up to her mouth. “Keep to myself, mostly. Easier for everyone that way. But when I’m really hurting for coin, I have a—a healer routine. I show up at a village market, borrow someone’s knife, and do myself some damage. Cut off a finger, or what have you. And then, when I’ve got a good-sized crowd watching, I drink a vial of berry juice, and—”

  Closing her eyes, she braced herself against the floor and channeled her body’s surging heat. Her broken femur went furnace-hot, then popped, loud enough to make the mannikin jump.

  Groaning with relief, she lifted her leg into the air, wiggling its toes.

  He put a hand on his chest. “Dear girl, did you just—”

  “All better.”

  Dripping with sweat, she pointed at her midriff. Her ribs, visible only moments ago, were covered over by sheaths of muscle grasping to close the gap.

  “I show them a little of this, and next thing you know, they’re throwing money at me.”

  The mannikin whistled in appreciation. “With proof like that, what wouldn’t they pay?”

  “And there’s a little song and dance to go with it. ‘Heals everything from gout to gonorrhea. Even raises your fresher dead folk, if you’re lucky.’ ” Ashlan had to put her hands behind her back to keep them off her belly—the itching was that intense. “ ‘Unfortunately, I sold out of stock in the last town I was in, and the ingredients are rare.’ That kind of thing.” Feeling a shift inside as her organs began to blossom, Ashlan slurped down the broth at the bottom of the bowl.