“The button!” observed Jennifer. “We’ve all behaved badly just now, and I’m to blame for starting it.”
Fay laughed. “Well, it seems a big fuss over getting a letter of the alphabet upside down. It’s only a black mark on a white circle, after all.”
Kitnip meowed. Before the cat had ever spoken in clear sentences, she had shown a knack for mimicking human speech, using shorter and longer sounds, and a rising emphasis that for all the world seemed like a asking a question. She made cat sounds rarely enough in this world that Fay took it as a very personal message to herself.
Fay bent down, and listened to the cat’s advice: “Perhaps you should drop this subject, Fay. I seem to remember our world has nothing to brag about. People kill each other over symbols, instead of something reasonable like food and shelter. Once I remember how your father nearly foamed at the mouth when he saw a teenager on a motorcycle wearing a T-shirt that had a white circle with a few black marks on it.”
“My goodness,” remarked Fay. She could think of nothing else to say.
There is no telling how long this conversation might have gone on had they not had their attention distracted by something far more interesting than an exercise in polemics. A red cloud appeared out of nowhere and began heading in their direction. Remembering the cloud that Malak had sent against them on the stone mountain, Fay was afraid that he was launching another attack. She began to run when Jennifer reached out and caught her by the arm.
“It’s all right,” said Jennifer, “it’s not what you think.”
The cloud fell upon them … except that it was not a cloud after all. Thousands of ladybirds surrounded them, tickling their arms and faces as they brushed past them. And all that Fay could think of was how just a short time before she had been wondering over the dearth of animal life in the Land of the Seasons.
“My goodness!” she said again, and this time with more feeling. The last of the birds fluttered away. They were identical to the terrestrial variety.
“I’ve got a great idea,” said Jennifer. Let’s go for a little dip.” She began removing her dress.
“I don’t have a bathing suit,” said Fay.
“What’s a bathing suit?” asked Jennifer, whose remarkable grasp of the English language and its rich vocabulary had failed her for the first time in her acquaintance with the girl from earth.
“Uh, it’s not important,” muttered Fay, noticing that everyone else was starting to disrobe except for the Tabrik who didn’t wear clothes. Although she hadn’t given the matter a lot of thought before now, she found her eyes irresistably drawn to the point on the Tabrik’s body were the two legs met. Her curiosity was rewarded with much of nothing. She would refer to the Tabrik as an it except there was an ineffable male quality about him. All the Tabriks seemed identical. There was nothing remotely female about any of them.
But there was no question about the sexes of Mr. Wynot and Jennifer who seemed to be in a race to see who could take their clothes off the fastest. If she’d been asked one short week ago what would be one of her most important concerns after her parents disappeared, and she and her brother were dumped in another universe, she would not rank modesty very high on the list. Which only goes to show the limitations of self-knowledge.
She thought that when she had put her top back on, she wouldn’t have to go through this again. She started undressing, but very slowly. If she could only go slowly enough, maybe she could talk herself into it. When she was a little girl she hadn’t minded taking her clothes off for baths or to change clothes no matter who was in the room.
Then had come a day when Mom put a firm stop to all that. Fay was surprised when she realized that Mom had been giving her little hints that she should start worrying about such matters. Fay wasn’t much better at picking up on hints than Dad was about a million other things. At least Fay had the excuse of being a little girl. Fathers didn’t have excuses.
And speaking of excuses, Fay was going to have to come up with one or strip down with her new friends. She did want to go swimming. Folding her top, she placed it neatly on top of her bag, and then fumbled for the buttons on her shorts. Mr. Wynot in the nude didn’t look much more ridiculous than he did with his clothes on. Jennifer was radiantly beautiful. Fay wondered if she would ever look that good. One could always hope.
Mr. Brine was still fishing. He put down his rod for a moment, removed his jacket, shook it out, then put it on again! Fay had the impression that the man was cold even though it was a warm.
“I’ll finish up here in a moment,” he said in a sad voice. “I don’t want to be in your way. Besides, I must help the Tabriks count the latest harvest of Klaven eggs.”
Fay was down to her panties, hoping for a last minute reprieve. Maybe she could go swimming like this. It wouldn’t take long for them to dry out afterwards. She only hoped she wouldn’t give offense for not going all the way.
If Dad were here, he’d be teasing her to join in the fun and be uninhibited. She realized that in this he was not typical of most fathers. Mom and he had enjoyed more arguments as a result. Claire was ten years younger than Russell, and had missed what he referred to in reverential tones as “The Sixties.” Whenever he was in one of those moods, Mom would burst his balloon by throwing around words like “AIDS” and “Drugs.” She said all those things most non-reverentially.
Just thinking about her parents put a lump in her throat. She remembered the feel and smell of her mother’s hair after they’d shampooed together. She remembered helping look for one of Mom’s contact lenses and how it looked like a drop of water in the white sink. She remembered Dad’s aftershave lotion: Old Spice, and too many other things.
Better to forget, to think about anything else. Defiantly, she took off her panties and threw them with the rest of her clothes. It had to be coincidence what happened next.
The smooth surface of the water was broken by bubbles the size of small trailer homes. Simultaneously the fishing line went taut and almost pulled the rod from Mr. Brine’s hands. Then something monstrous rose from the lake.
It was the biggest living thing Fay had yet seen, a cross between a fish and a spider, looming over all of them as if a construction project by an insane insect. The fishing line ended in the monster’s jaws, dangling as if a thread. Kitnip hissed quite reasonably.
Grotesque as it looked, the worst part was how it moved — by inhaling tons of air through its horribly gasping mouth and then circulating the air through its long legs that were hollow. The whooshing sound set up a high pitched squeal that made Fay’s ears feel like they were about to burst. She clasped her hands over her ears but she couldn’t shut out the terrible sound.
Then the monster began to move. The air funneled out through the legs, churning the water beneath the abomination. There was something very odd about seeing something that size actually hovering over the water. Then it began to run right at them.
Screaming, Mr. Brine threw down his fishing rod and fled with an awkward gait not much more graceful than the monster. The others were rooted to the spot, staring dumbfounded at the sight.
“We’ve got to make something to fight it,” shouted the Tabrik leader, squatting down and plunging his long, delicate hands into one of the gray mounds of squamous material that studded the beach.
“Are you crazy?” cried Mr. Wynot, his white belly flopping as he grabbed at this clothes. They were all coming out of their trance of terror as the cause grew nearer. “There’s no time! Only Mrs. Norse or Malak could activate the special substance quickly enough!”
Fortunately for all concerned, Kitnip kept her head … and whiskers. “Use the special pine cones,” she said to Fay.
“Always listen to cats in emergencies,” agreed Jennifer, rushing over to help Fay who was already opening the sack.
“Wish I had hands,” said Kitnip. Many the time Fay had thought the cat did have a pair she kept hidden somewhere — especially when she’d open doors.
Fay and Jennifer
threw their first two cones in perfect unison. The spiny missiles curved upward in a graceful arc and connected with the target at almost the same moment.
The explosions were gratifyingly spectacular: KA-BLAAAAAM and PAH-BOOOOOOOOOM!
The monster answered with a sound of its own:
ssssssssssssssssRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The only drawback to this cacophony was that the monster kept on coming, putting Fay in mind of a landlord with an eviction notice. What she really hated was that she was screaming and couldn’t seem to stop. Jennifer was already grabbing for a new cone and Fay recovered enough to do the same.
Jennifer’s bomb seemed to fall short of the target, but this time did more damage than the previous explosions against the main body of the thing. The new explosion was near one of the legs and succeeded in throwing the monster off balance. As it tipped forward, the head became a better target and Fay connected with it on her next try. No more pine cones were needed after that.
But as is so often the case, victory is rarely neat. The monster was still moving from remaining air in the legs after Fay had removed its head. And the carcass was still headed straight for them.
The girls ran for safety not a moment too soon as the spider-fish cracked up on shore. The cracking sounds it made were like a combination of splintering lumber and ripping rubber. It didn’t smell very nice either. (At last Fay had some new odors to notice.)
Fay’s heart was beating so fast that she could hardly catch her breath. Jennifer was breathing hard, too, and gasping out short little sounds that turned out to be words when Fay’s breathing had slowed down sufficiently so that she could listen again.
“I told … you … those cones … should only … be used….”
“Against monsters,” Fay finished.
“Yuck,” observed Kitnip.
Jennifer helped Fay to stand and she again noticed they were both naked. In the heat of excitement, she had completely forgotten.
“Do we go swimming now?” asked Fay, laughing. Jennifer responded by playfully pushing her in the direction of the water.
“Oh, Mr. Brine?” came Mr. Wynot’s voice from behind one of the grayish mounds.
“Yes,” came a quivering voice from behind yet another mound.
“You’ll be able to tell everyone you caught a big one today.” ***
Meanwhile, in a black fortress hidden between two snow covered cliffs deep in the heart of Winter, Malak, the Dour One, observed all that had recently transpired in the domain of Spring. He was dressed in purple robes, in the manner of the ancient Caesars of earth, except the material of his clothing was woven of a much warmer material. It was a really smart outfit.
The way he kept up with all Four Seasons, and his home world as well, was by means of television sets; and video recorders for when he couldn’t schedule the time to see a certain event contemporaneously. But as he had just caused the visitation of the water monster, he’d watched that one live.
“Yes, dear Fay,” he said to the flickering screen, “I’ll get you, my granddaughter, and your little cat, too!”
One of his slaves nodded so vigorously that a thin line of drool fell from his mouth onto a copy of The Book of the Seasons, the same book that Mrs. Norse had shown Clive. There were only two copies of the book in all existence. They were identical in all respects except that Lord Malak’s copy now had an itty bitty little stain of saliva at the exact center of the silver design on the cover.
There was enough of Grandfather’s mind left, at least enough of the French side, to deeply regret waste. The little creature that had just drooled on his most cherished possession had required time and effort to create. He Who Was Malak thought about the effort he’d put into the little creature — he really did — as he rubbed at the wet spot on the cover of his copy of The Book of the Seasons. He watched the wet spot become larger. His eyebrow went up, the way it always did when he was trying to exercise self control, as a little bit of silver thread came a wee bit loose on his book.
Malak turned and took a good, long look at the four foot high homunculus. The little guy was of the same design as the jack-‘o-lantern men of Autumn. Only the grey material-of-making had a completely different texture here in Winter. The head was blue-grey, as if a snowman’s head. The little fella hadn’t been nearly as much trouble to make as the copy Malak had made of himself. Now that had been hard work, but he destroyed it anyway just to make a dramatic point with the old taking-the-head-off- and-throwing-it routine. The first nightmare Clive ever had was inspired by the Disney cartoon version of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, and Malak couldn’t waste that knowledge.
Still, it was one thing to destroy for a purpose and another to destroy out of spite. He carefully weighed his options and made a decision.
“Hey there,” he said, putting his arm around the creature, “I should get around to giving all of you names someday. How’d you like to be called Droopy or Grumpy or Snoopy or Snuffy, eh?”
The little guy looked up in awe at his maker and produced a touch more drool. This was not a speaking model.
“Have you performed any useful tasks for me lately?” The creature nodded. These beings were incapable of lying so Malak knew he’d gotten some use out of the thing. And there’s no doubt that it would have been more cost effective to repair the defective mouth than lead its owner over to the window with a splendid view of icy wasteland under stark blue sky … and then push the little fellow out into the abyss.
“There’s something to be said for spite,” said Malak to the stark scenery marking his domain.
Grandfather would never deliberately throw anything away. Nor was the original Malak a natural spendthrift as he was still using certain rocks as paperweights, all that remained of early opponents. But Malak was vindictive in ways that Grandfather could never approach. The more time anyone donned the guise of Malak, the more Malak he became.
“That bitch Norse can’t change the rules,” he said to the vault of heaven. “She knows it and I know it. Just because she’s defeated me every other time doesn’t mean history, or her story, will be the same this time! I only have to win one time to get what I want. She has to win every time and that will prove her undoing.”
To a casual observer flying by the castle tower, it might seem that Malak was talking to himself. In actuality, he was addressing a tremendous pile of the grey stuff out of which both he and his nemesis could create living beings. A lot had gone into making the spider-fish, a complete washout. Even before his hand touched it, the material possessed a rudimentary consciousness, pulsating and trembling at every word.
Then again, maybe he was talking to himself. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and a perfect hatred takes tender loving care,” he continued speaking to the quivering sludge. “My stupid daughter and her no good husband were on the way to a perfect divorce. They followed all the steps: love replaced by indifference, indifference mutates into intolerance, intolerance bubbles and boils until passion returns, only now we have hate instead of love. Out of their negative energy will my dreams come true!”
For a moment, Malak was almost happy. He went over to one of the telvision monitors and brought up a picture of Mr. Gurney lying on his stomach in the wheat field where the poor man had collapsed from exhaustion. An ugly looking sunburn covered his naked back. Malak let himself enjoy the picture, but just for a moment because he didn’t want to become hooked on the boob tube.
After congratulating himself on putting Dad in a world with a sun in the sky, Malak brought up a picture of Mom. She was sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the semi-transparent walls. The little male figures continued jumping up and down outside the radius of the walls. They would never grow tired, although their duration was not forever. Eventually they would simply disappear as they burned up from their exertions. By that point, she would have so internalized them that their physical presence would no longer be required.
Then he decided to tune in Clive and Fay. He
gave them both a cursory glance. Fay had recovered from the attack. Clive was safe with Mrs. Norse. He couldn’t make up his mind what to do about the kids. He had a few options, based on one simple requirement: the young Gurneys must be turned to his advantage so that Norse would regret ever bringing them here.
He turned back to his gray pile of sludge and began kneading the edges. As he worked, he resumed his soliloquy, enjoying the squishing feeling of the muddy gook between his fingers: “Where Mrs. Norse will make her mistake is in assuming I’ll try the same approach I’ve used every other time, trying to make one season obliterate the rest while still maintaining its original character. Besides, she expects I have a preference for Winter to win.”
There didn’t seem to be any talking creations around to help out at this point so he had to keep the ball rolling himself: “Ah, but isn’t that so, you might ask. Don’t I want Winter to win? That used to be true … but not any longer! Here, let me demonstrate.”
Malak had been living alone for a long time and had come to rely on himself for company. The fact that he incorporated different people in himself was a big help.
After wiping his hands, he produced a fresh leaf from inside his cloak, where it had remained unaltered since he picked it in Summer. As he held it up to the window, he concentrated on the beauty of its design. The leaf trembled in his hand, and then went through all the metamorphoses of its life cycle: from healthy green, to orange and gold as life slowly ebbed from it, to a brown caricature of its orignal vitality … and then it was a frost covered outline, turning to powder, as if all the cold outside Malak’s castle had been thrust into the heart of the leaf.
Malak talked some more: “That’s what I can do now. But when I’m through with my great experiment, the next leaf will undergo a fifth state of existence, completely different from its condition in the Four Seasons.” He laughed in a manic way that Grandfather would never have done. Grandfather never laughed.
“The Fifth Season is my great invention, not at all what Norse and her stooges expect. And after I take care of them, we’ll see about bringing back the night.”
Land Beyond Summer Page 13